"The more my goods, the more my sorrow grows;
The more my honors, less is my content;
For one I gain, a hundred I desire.
When nought I have, for nothing I lament;
But having all, the fear doth me torment,
Either to lose it or to make it worse.
Tired, full well may I my misery mourn,
Seeing I die of envy but to have a good.
Which is my death and I esteem it life."
The most important writer in France at this time, however, was undoubtedly Francis' sister, Margaret of Navarre or Angoulême. Her "Heptameron" has been widely read in practically every generation since her own, and though some doubt has been thrown on her authorship of it, it is probable that the age-long attribution to her must remain. The book is about as evil in its influence as any that was ever written. Its author was undoubtedly a saint. She had the best of intentions, and her work illustrates how easy it is for good intentions to go wrong. Hell was paved with good intentions then as now. As I have suggested in the chapter on Some Great Women of the Century, a corresponding mistake is being made by many good women now in the crusade of providing sex information as a protection for the young. Margaret's work is one of the best specimens of French prose of the time. Saintsbury, in his volume on "The Early Renaissance," calls it a very remarkable book which has, as a rule, been undervalued, "presenting almost equal attractions for those who read for mere amusement, to those who appreciate literature as literature, and to those who like extra literary puzzles of various kinds from authorship to allusion."
Margaret's reputation has suffered more than was deserved from the condemnation of the "Heptameron." Her personality merits to be judged rather from the charming poetry of a [{466}] mystical character which she wrote. Her book, "Les Marguerites de la Marguerite des Princesses," is too well known to be much more than mentioned here. It has a charming grace and an exquisite delicacy. It is the true index to her character. As Imbert de Saint-Amand has said in his "Women of the Valois Court," "Poetry and religion were her two consolers." Her resolution when she looked at her crucifix and burst into poetry was:
"It is my will and firm intent
To be no more what I have been,
Nor to amuse myself in this poor world.
Seeing the griefs that reign there and abound.
And which by day and night torment my heart."
There are bursts of piety in her collection worthy of her great mystical contemporary, St. Teresa. The following would almost remind one of St. Teresa's cry, "I die that I may die."
"Lord, when shall come the day
I long to see,
When by pure love I shall
Be drawn to Thee?
That nuptial day, O Lord,
So long delays.
That no content I find
In wealth or praise.
Wipe from these sorrowing eyes
The tear that flows,
And grant me Thy best gift,
A sweet repose."
The French poetess, Louise Labé, la cordière, the cord-wainer's wife, as she was called, in reference to her husband's occupation, deserves a place because she represents at once the opportunities even of the lowly born of her sex for the higher education at this time, and her writings exhibit a natural grace and ardent passion that place them in a high rank of lyric poetry. Poetesses of passion there have been a-plenty since, [{467}] yet it is doubtful if many of them have surpassed much the French lady of the Renaissance from the middle classes. The sonnet form would seem highly unsuitable to us for such passionate expression, but it was the fashion to use it, and Louise Labé anticipates by some three hundred years Mrs. Browning's use of this form for a very similar purpose. One of her sonnets may very well be read beside some of those of Mrs. Browning.
"As soon as ever I begin to take.
In my soft bed, the rest which I desire,
Forth from my frame does my sad soul retire,
And hastes toward thee its eager way to make.
Then in my tender heart, ere I awake.
The bliss I gain to which I most aspire.
The bliss for which to sigh I never tire.
For which I weep as though my heart would break.
A kindly sleep, O sleep to me so blest,
Happy repose, full of tranquillity.
Grant that each night I may renew my dream.
And if my sad heart, by all love possest.
Must ne'er be happy in reality.
Yet while I sleep so let me falsely seem."
The humor of the end of Columbus' Century is very well illustrated in some of the epigrams of Melin de Saint Gelais, like Marot, the son of a poet and brought up in poetic circles, who knew how to write elegant trivialities, or who was, as the French say, maître en l'art de badiner avec élégance. Curiously enough, it was he who imported the sonnet from Italy. It had been hitherto unknown to French poets, but was unfortunately, as it must seem to most of us, destined to eclipse the ballades, rondeaux, virelais and other poetic forms that had been for so long in vogue in France. I prefer to quote here two of his shorter epigramatic poems which serve to show how old the new is in wit and humor:
"You find great fault with me, my friend.
Because your neighbor I commend,
And yet from you all praise withhold: [{468}] But say, why should I waste my time
Praising your merits or your rhyme?
You do it best a hundredfold."