Margaret, Queen Of Navarre - The Tales Of The Heptameron, Vol. IV. (of V.)

M >> Margaret, Queen Of Navarre >> The Tales Of The Heptameron, Vol. IV. (of V.)

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

The poor lady, believing him to be a virtuous man, begged him to be
kind enough to correct her daughter, which he at once agreed to do, and,
going up a narrow wooden staircase, he found the girl all alone in bed.
She was sleeping very soundly, and while she slept he lay with her by
force. The poor girl, waking up, knew not whether he were man or devil,
but began to cry out as loudly as she could, and to call for help to her
mother. But the latter, standing at the foot of the staircase, cried
out to the Friar--"Have no pity on her, sir. Give it to her again, and
chastise the naughty jade."

When the Friar had worked his wicked will, he came down to the lady and
said to her with a face all afire--"I think, madam, that your daughter
will remember my discipline."

The mother thanked him warmly and then went upstairs, where she found
her daughter making such lamentation as is to be expected from a
virtuous woman who has suffered from so foul a crime. On learning the
truth, the mother had search made everywhere for the Friar, but he was
already far away, nor was he ever afterwards seen in the kingdom of
France.

"You see, ladies, with how much security such commissions may be given
to those that are unfit for them. The correction of men pertains to men
and that of women to women; for women in the correction of men would be
as pitiful as men in the correction of women would be cruel."

"Jesus! madam," said Parlamente, "what a base and wicked Friar!"

"Say rather," said Hircan, "what a foolish and witless mother to be led
by hypocrisy into allowing so much familiarity to those who ought never
to be seen except in church."

"In truth," said Parlamente, "I acknowledge that she was the most
foolish mother imaginable; had she been as wise as the Judge's wife, she
would rather have made him come down the staircase than go up. But what
can you expect? The devil that is half-angel is the most dangerous of
all, for he is so well able to transform himself into an angel of light,
that people shrink from suspecting him to be what he really is; and it
seems to me that persons who are not suspicious are worthy of praise."

"At the same time," said Oisille, "people ought to suspect the evil that
is to be avoided, especially those who hold a trust; for it is better to
suspect an evil that does not exist than by foolish trustfulness to fall
into one that does. I have never known a woman deceived through being
slow to believe men's words, but many are there that have been deceived
through being over prompt in giving credence to falsehood. Therefore I
say that possible evil cannot be held in too strong suspicion by those
that have charge of men, women, cities or states; for, however good the
watch that is kept, wickedness and treachery are prevalent enough, and
the shepherd who is not vigilant will always be deceived by the wiles of
the wolf."

"Still," said Dagoucin, "a suspicious person cannot have a perfect
friend, and many friends have been divided by suspicion."

"If you know any such instance," said Oisille, "I give you my vote that
you may relate it."

"I know one," said Dagoucin, "which is so strictly true that you will
needs hear it with pleasure. I will tell you, ladies, when it is that
a close friendship is most easily severed; 'tis when the security of
friendship begins to give place to suspicion. For just as trust in a
friend is the greatest honour that can be shown him, so is doubt of him
a still greater dishonour. It proves that he is deemed other than we
would have him to be, and so causes many close friendships to be broken
off, and friends to be turned into foes. This you will see from the
story that I am minded to relate."

[Illustration: 193.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 195a.jpg The Young Man beating his Wife]

[The Young Man beating his Wife]

[Illustration: 195.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XLVI.(B)_.

_Concerning a Grey Friar who made it a great crime on the
part of husbands to beat their wives_. (1)

In the town of Angouleme, where Count Charles, father of King Francis,
often abode, there dwelt a Grey Friar named De Valles, (2) the same
being a learned man and a very great preacher. At Advent time this Friar
preached in the town in presence of the Count, whereby his reputation
was still further increased.

1 This is the tale inserted in Gruget's edition in lieu of
the previous one.--Ed.

2 We had thought that Friar Valles might possibly be Robert
de Valle, who at the close of the fifteenth century wrote a
work entitled _Explanatio in Plinium_, but find that this
divine was a Bishop of Rouen, and never belonged to the Grey
Friars. In Gessner's _Biographia Universalis_, continued by
Frisius, mention is made of three learned ecclesiastics of
the name of Valle living in or about Queen Margaret's time:
Baptiste de Valle, who wrote on war and duelling; William de
Valle, who penned a volume entitled _De Anima Sorbono_; and
Amant de Valle, a Franciscan minorite born at Toulouse, who
was the author of numerous philosophical works, the most
important being _Elucidationes Scoti_.--B. J.

It happened also that during Advent a hare-brained young fellow, who had
married a passably handsome young woman, continued none the less to
run at the least as dissolute a course as did those that were still
bachelors. The young wife, being advised of this, could not keep silence
upon it, so that she very often received payment after a different and
a prompter fashion than she could have wished. For all that, she ceased
not to persist in lamentation, and sometimes in railing as well; which
so provoked the young man that he beat her even to bruises and blood.
Thereupon she cried out yet more loudly than before; and in a like
fashion all the women of the neighbourhood, knowing the reason of this,
could not keep silence, but cried out publicly in the streets, saying--

"Shame, shame on such husbands! To the devil with them!"

By good fortune the Grey Friar De Valles was passing that way and
heard the noise and the reason of it. He resolved to touch upon it the
following day in his sermon, and did so. Turning his discourse to the
subject of marriage and the affection which ought to subsist in it, he
greatly extolled that condition, at the same time censuring those that
offended against it, and comparing wedded to parental love. Among other
things, he said that a husband who beat his wife was in more danger, and
would have a heavier punishment, than if he had beaten his father or his
mother.

"For," said he, "if you beat your father or your mother you will be sent
for penance to Rome; but if you beat your wife, she and all the women of
the neighbourhood will send you to the devil, that is, to hell. Now look
you what a difference there is between these two penances. From Rome a
man commonly returns again, but from hell, oh! from that place, there is
no return: _nulla est redemptio_" (3)

After preaching this sermon, he was informed that the women were making
a triumph of it, (4) and that their husbands could no longer control
them. He therefore resolved to set the husbands right just as he had
previously assisted their wives.

3 This was the Pope's expression apropos of Messer Biagio,
whom Michael Angelo had introduced into his "Last
Judgment."--M.

4 The French expression is _faisaient leur Achilles_, the
nearest equivalent to which in English would probably be
"Hectoring" It is curious that the French should have taken
the name of Achilles and we that of Hector to express the
same idea of arrogance and bluster.--Ed.

With this intent, in one of his sermons he compared women and devil
together, saying that these were the greatest enemies that man had, that
they tempted him without ceasing, and that he could not rid himself of
them, especially of women.

"For," said he, "as far as devils are concerned, if you show them the
cross they flee away, whereas women, on the contrary, are tamed by
it, and are made to run hither and thither and cause their husbands
countless torments. But, good people, know you what you must do? When
you find your wives afflicting you thus continually, as is their wont,
take off the handle of the cross and with it drive them away. You will
not have made this experiment briskly three or four times before you
will find yourselves the better for it, and see that, even as the devil
is driven off by the virtue of the cross, so can you drive away and
silence your wives by virtue of the handle, provided only that it be not
attached to the cross aforesaid."

"You have here some of the sermons by this reverend De Valles, of whose
life I will with good reason relate nothing more. However, I will tell
you that, whatever face he put upon the matter--and I knew him--he was
much more inclined to the side of the women than to that of the men."

"Yet, madam," said Parlamente, "he did not show this in his last sermon,
in which he instructed the men to ill-treat them."

"Nay, you do not comprehend his artifice," said Hircan. "You are not
experienced in war and in the use of the stratagems that it requires;
among these, one of the most important is to kindle strife in the camp
of the enemy, whereby he becomes far easier to conquer. This master
monk well knew that hatred and wrath between husband and wife most
often cause a loose rein to be given to the wife's honour. And when that
honour frees itself from the guardianship of virtue, it finds itself in
the power of the wolf before it knows even that it is astray."

"However that may be," said Parlamente, "I could not love a man who had
sown such division between my husband and myself as would lead even to
blows; for beating banishes love. Yet, by what I have heard, they [the
friars] can be so mincing when they seek some advantage over a woman,
and so attractive in their discourse, that I feel sure there would be
more danger in hearkening to them in secret than in publicly receiving
blows from a husband in other respects a good one."

"Truly," said Dagoucin, "they have so revealed their plottings in all
directions, that it is not without reason that they are to be feared;
(5) although in my opinion persons who are not suspicious are worthy of
praise."

5 From this point the dialogue is almost word for word the
same as that following Tale XLVI. (A).--Ed.

"At the same time," said Oisille, "people ought to suspect the evil
that is to be avoided, for it is better to suspect an evil that does not
exist than by foolish trustfulness to fall into one that does. For my
part, I have never known a woman deceived by being slow to believe
men's words, but many are through being too prompt in giving credence
to falsehood. Therefore I say that possible evil cannot be too strongly
suspected by those that have charge of men, women, cities or states;
for, however good may be the watch that is kept, wickedness and
treachery are prevalent enough, and for this reason the shepherd who is
not vigilant will always be deceived by the wiles of the wolf."

"Still," said Dagoucin, "a suspicious person cannot have a perfect
friend, and many friends have been parted by bare suspicion."

"If you should know any such instance," thereupon said Oisille, "I will
give you my vote that you may relate it."

"I know one," said Dagoucin, "which is so strictly true that you will
hear it with pleasure. I will tell you, ladies, when it is that close
friendship is most readily broken off; it is when the security of
friendship begins to give place to suspicion. For just as to trust a
friend is the greatest honour one can do him, so is doubt of him the
greatest dishonour, inasmuch as it proves that he is deemed other than
one would have him to be, and in this wise many close friendships are
broken off and friends turned into foes. This you will see from the
story that I am now about to relate."

[Illustration: 201.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 203a.jpg The Gentleman reproaching his Friend for his Jealousy]

[The Gentleman reproaching his Friend for his Jealousy]

[Illustration: 203.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XLVII_.

_Two gentlemen lined in such perfect friendship that for a
great while they had everything excepting a wife in common,
until one was married, when without cause he began to
suspect his companion, who, in vexation at being wrongfully
suspected, withdrew his friendship, and did not rest till he
had made the other a cuckold_.

Not far from the province of Le Perche (1) there dwelt two gentlemen who
from the days of their childhood had lived in such perfect friendship
that they had but one heart, one house, one bed, one table, and one
purse. They continued living in this perfect friendship for a long time,
without there ever being between them any wish or word such as might
betray that they were different persons; so truly did they live not
merely like two brothers but like one individual man.

1 Between Normandy and Maine. Its chief town was Mortagne.

Of the two one married, yet did not on that account abate his friendship
for his fellow or cease to live with him as had been his wont. And
whenever they chanced to lodge where room was scanty, he failed not to
make him sleep with himself and his wife; (2) though he did, in truth,
himself lie in the middle. Their goods were all in common, so that
neither the marriage nor aught else that might betide could impair their
perfect friendship.

2 To do honour to a guest it was then a common practice to
invite him to share the same bed as one's self and one's
wife. In this wise, long after Queen Margaret s time, we
find Louis XIII. sharing the bed of the Duke and Duchess of
Luynes. Tale vii. of the _Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_
(imitated in Malespini's _Ducento Novelle_ and the _Joyeuses
Adventures et nouvelles recreations_) relates what befell a
Paris goldsmith who took a carter to bed with him and his
spouse, and neglected to follow the usual custom of sleeping
in the middle. In Queen Margaret's time, it may be added,
the so-called "beds of honour" in the abodes of noblemen and
gentlemen were large enough to accommodate four or five
persons.--B. J. and Ed.

But after some time, worldly happiness, which is ever changeful in its
nature, could no longer abide in this too happy household. The husband,
without cause, lost the confidence that he had in his friend and in his
wife, and, being unable to conceal the truth from the latter, spoke to
her with angry words. At this she was greatly amazed, for he had charged
her in all things save one to treat his friend as she did himself, and
now he forbade her to speak with him except it were before others. She
made the matter known to her husband's friend, who did not believe her,
knowing as he well did that he had never purposed doing aught to grieve
his comrade. And as he was wont to hide nothing from him, he told him
what he had heard, begging him not to conceal the truth, for neither in
this nor in any other matter had he any desire to occasion the severance
of the friendship which had so long subsisted between them.

The married gentleman assured him that he had never thought of such a
thing, and that those who had spread such a rumour had foully lied.

Thereupon his comrade replied--

"I well know that jealousy is a passion as insupportable as love, and
were you inclined to jealousy even with regard to myself, I should not
blame you, for you could not help it. But there is a thing that is in
your power of which I should have reason to complain, and that is the
concealment of your distemper from me, seeing that never before was
thought, feeling or opinion concealed between us. If I were in love with
your wife, you should not impute it to me as a crime, for love is not
a fire that I can hold in my hand to do with it what I will; but if it
were so and I concealed it from you, and sought by demonstration to
make it known to your wife, I should be the wickedest comrade that ever
lived.

"As far as I myself am concerned, I can truly assure you that, although
she is an honourable and virtuous woman, she is the last of all the
women I have ever seen upon whom, even though she were not yours, my
fancy would light. But even though there be no occasion to do so, I ask
you, if you have the smallest possible feeling of suspicion, to tell me
of it, that I may so act as to prevent a friendship that has lasted so
long from being severed for the sake of a woman. For, even if I loved
her more dearly than aught in the world beside, I would never speak to
her of it, seeing that I set your honour before aught else."

His comrade swore to him the strongest oaths he could muster, that he
had never thought of such a thing, and begged him to act in his house as
he had been used to do.

"That will I," the other replied, "but if after this should you harbour
an evil opinion of me and conceal it or bear me ill-will, I will
continue no more in fellowship with you."

Some time afterwards, whilst they were living together as had been their
wont, the married gentleman again fell into stronger suspicion than
ever, and commanded his wife to no longer show the same countenance
to his friend as before. This she at once made known to her husband's
comrade, and begged that he would of his own motion abstain from holding
speech with her, since she had been charged to do the like towards him.

The gentleman perceived from her words and from divers tokens on the
part of his comrade that the latter had not kept his promise, and so
said to him in great wrath--

"If, comrade, you are jealous, 'tis a natural thing, but, after the
oaths you swore to me, I must needs be angered that you have used such
concealment towards me. I had always thought that neither obstacle nor
mean intervened between your heart and mine, but to my exceeding sorrow,
and with no fault on my part, I see that the reverse is true. Not only
are you most jealous of your wife and of me, but you seek to hide your
distemper from me, until at last it must wholly turn to hate, and the
dearest love that our time has known become the deadliest enmity.

"I have done all I could to avoid this mishap, but since you suspect me
of being so wicked and the opposite of what I have always proved towards
you, I give you my oath and word that I will indeed be such a one as you
deem me, and that I will never rest until I have had from your wife
that which you believe I seek from her. So I bid you beware of me
henceforward, for, since suspicion has destroyed your friendship for me,
resentment will destroy mine for you."

Although his comrade tried to persuade him of the contrary, he would no
longer believe him, but removed his portion of the furniture and goods
that had been in common between them. And so their hearts were as widely
sundered as they had before been closely united, and the unmarried
gentleman never rested until, as he had promised, he had made his
comrade a cuckold. (3)

3 The idea developed in this tale, that of bringing to pass
by one's own actions the thing one fears and seeks to avoid
or prevent, has much analogy with that embodied in the
"novel of the Curious Impertinent" which Cervantes
introduces into _Don Quixote_ (Part I. chaps, xxviii.,
xxix). In this tale it will be remembered Anselmo and
Lothario are represented as being two such close friends as
the gentlemen who figured in Queen Margaret's tale. Anselmo
marries, however, and seized with an insane desire to test
the virtue of his wife, Camilla, by exposing her to
temptation, urges Lothario to pay court to her. Lothario at
first resists these solicitations, pointing out the folly of
such an enterprise, but his friend entreats him so
pressingly that he finally consents, and in the sequel the
passion which he at first simulates for Camilla becomes a
real one and leads to his seducing her and carrying her
away, with the result that both the wretched Anselmo and his
wife soon die of grief, whilst Lothario betakes himself to
the wars and perishes in battle.--M. & Ed.

"Thus, ladies, may it fare with those who wrongfully suspect their
wives of evil. Many men make of them what they suspect them to be, for
a virtuous woman is more readily overcome by despair than by all the
pleasures on earth. And if any one says that suspicion is love, I give
him nay, for although it results from love as do ashes from fire, it
kills it nevertheless in the same way."

"I do not think," said Hircan, "that anything can be more grievous to
either man or woman than to be suspected of that which is contrary to
fact. For my own part, nothing could more readily prompt me to sever
fellowship with my friends than such suspicion."

"Nevertheless," said Oisille, "woman is without rational excuse who
revenges herself for her husband's suspicion by her own shame. It is
as though a man should thrust his sword through his own body, because
unable to slay his foe, or should bite his own fingers because he cannot
scratch him. She would have done better had she spoken to the gentleman
no more, and so shown her husband how wrongly he had suspected her; for
time would have softened them both."

"Still 'twas done like a woman of spirit," said Ennasuite. "If many
women acted in the same way, their husbands would not be so outrageous
as they are."

"For all that," said Longarine, "patience gives a woman the victory in
the end, and chastity brings her praise, and more we should not desire."

"Nevertheless," said Ennasuite, "a woman may be unchaste and yet commit
no sin."

"How may that be?" said Oisille.

"When she mistakes another man for her husband."

"And who," said Parlamente, "is so foolish that she cannot clearly tell
the difference between her husband and another man, whatever disguise
the latter may wear?"

"There have been and still will be," said Ennasuite, "a few deceived in
this fashion, and therefore still innocent and free from sin."

"If you know of such a one," said Dagoucin, "I give you my vote that you
may tell us about her, for I think it very strange that innocence and
sin can go together."

"Listen, then," said Ennasuite. "If, ladies, the foregoing tales have
not sufficiently warned you of the danger of lodging in our houses those
who call us worldly and consider themselves as something holy and far
worthier than we, I will give you yet a further instance of it, that you
may see by the errors into which those fall who trust them too much
that not only are they human like others, but that there is something
devilish in their nature, passing the ordinary wickedness of men. This
you will learn from the following story."

[Illustration: 211.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 213a.jpg The Grey Friars Caught and Punished]

[The Grey Friars Caught and Punished]

[Illustration: 213.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XLVIII_.

_The older and wickeder of two Grey Friars, who were lodged
in an inn where the marriage of the host's daughter was
being celebrated, perceived the bride being led away,
whereupon he went and took the place of the bridegroom
whilst the latter was still dancing with the company_. (1)

1 We have already had an instance of a friar stealing into
a wife's bed at night-time, in the husband's absence (see
_ante_, vol. iii., tale xxili.). For a similar incident see
the _Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_, No. xxx.--Ed.

At an inn, in a village of the land of Perigort, there was celebrated
the marriage of a maiden of the house, at which all the kinsfolk and
friends strove to make as good cheer as might be. On the day of the
wedding there arrived at the inn two Grey Friars, to whom supper was
given in their own room, since it was not meet for those of their
condition to be present at a wedding. However, the chief of the two, who
had the greater authority and craft, resolved that, since he was shut
out from the board, he would share the bed, and in this way play them
one of the tricks of his trade.

When evening was come, and the dances were begun, the Grey Friar
continued to observe the bride for a long time, and found her
very handsome and to his taste. Then, inquiring carefully of the
serving-woman concerning the room in which she was to lie, he found that
it was close to his own, at which he was well pleased; and so good a
watch did he keep in order to work his end, that he perceived the bride
being led from the hall by the old women, as is the custom. As it was
yet very early, the bridegroom would not leave the dance, in which he
was so greatly absorbed that he seemed to have altogether forgotten his
wife.

Not so the Friar, for, as soon as his ears told him that the bride was
in bed, he put off his grey robe and went and took the husband's place.
Being fearful of discovery, however, he stayed but a very short time,
and then went to the end of a passage where his comrade, who was keeping
watch for him, signed to him that the husband was dancing-still.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12