passion, but there are some, nevertheless, who would rather die than
that their mistresses should, for their delight, do aught against their
consciences.”
“To die means a great deal,” said Geburon. “I would not believe that of
them were it uttered by the lips of the austerest monk alive.”
“Nay, I believe,” said Hircan, “that there is none but desires the very
opposite. But they make pretence of disliking the grapes when these hang
too high to be gathered.”
“Still,” said Nomcrfide, “I am sure that the Prince’s wife was very glad
to find that her husband was learning to know women.”
“I assure you it was not so,” said Ennasuite. “She was very sorry on
account of the love that she bore the lady.”
“I would as soon,” said Saffredent, “have the lady who laughed when her
husband kissed her maid.”
“In sooth,” said Ennasuite, “you shall tell us the story. I give place
to you.”
“Although the story is very short,” said Saffredent, “I will still
relate it, for I would rather make you laugh than speak myself at
length.”
[Illustration: 036.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 037a.jpg The Lady watching the Shadow Faces Kissing]
[The Lady watching the Shadow Faces Kissing]
[Illustration: 037.jpg Page Image]
_TALE LIV_.
_Thogas’s wife, believing that her husband loved none but
herself, was pleased that her serving-woman should amuse
him, and laughed when in her presence he kissed the girl
before her eyes, and with her knowledge_.
Between the Pyrenees Mountains and the Alps, there dwelt a gentleman
named Thogas, (1) who had a wife and children, with a very beautiful
house, and so much wealth and pleasure at his hand, that there was
reason he should live in contentment, had it not been that he was
subject to great pain beneath the roots of the hair, in such wise that
the doctors advised him to sleep no longer with his wife. She, whose
chief thought was for her husband’s life and health, readily consented,
and caused her bed to be set in another corner of the room directly
opposite her husband’s, so that they could neither of them put out their
heads without seeing each other.
1 We are unable to trace any family named Thogas, which is
probably a fictitious appellation. Read backwards with the
letter h omitted it forms Sagot, whilst if the syllables be
transposed it suggests Guasto, a well-known Basque or
Navarrese name.--Ed.
This lady had two serving-women, and often when the lord and his lady
were in bed, they would each take some diverting book to read, whilst
the serving-women held candles, the younger, that is, for the gentleman,
and the other for his wife.
The gentleman, finding that the maid was younger and handsomer than her
mistress, took such great pleasure in observing her that he would break
off his reading in order to converse with her. His wife could hear this
very plainly, but believing that her husband loved none but herself, she
was well pleased that her servants should amuse him.
It happened one evening, however, when they had read longer than was
their wont, that the lady looked towards her husband’s bed where was the
young serving-maid holding the candle. Of her she could see nothing but
her back, and of her husband nothing at all excepting on the side of
the chimney, which jutted out in front of his bed, and the white wall of
which was bright with the light from the candle. And upon this wall
she could plainly see the shadows both of her husband and of her maid;
whether they drew apart, or came near together or laughed, it was all as
clear to her as though she had veritably beheld them.
The gentleman, using no precaution since he felt sure that his wife
could not see them, kissed her maid, and on the first occasion his wife
suffered this to pass without uttering a word. But when she saw that the
shadows frequently returned to this fellowship, she feared that there
might be some reality beneath it all, and burst into a loud laugh,
whereat the shadows were alarmed and separated.
The gentleman then asked his wife why she was laughing so heartily, so
that he might have a share in her merriment.
“Husband,” she replied, “I am so foolish that I laugh at my own shadow.”
Inquire as he might, she would never acknowledge any other reason, but,
nevertheless, he thenceforward refrained from kissing such shadow-faces.
“That is the story of which I was reminded when I spoke of the lady who
loved her husband’s sweetheart.”
“By my faith,” said Ennasuite, “if my maid had treated me in that
fashion, I should have risen and extinguished the candle upon her nose.”
“You are indeed terrible,” said Hircan, “but it had been well done
if your husband and the maid had both turned upon you and beaten you
soundly. There should not be so much ado for a kiss; and ‘twould have
been better if his wife had said nothing about it, and had suffered him
to take his pastime, which might perchance have cured his complaint.”
“Nay,” said Parlamente, “she was afraid that the end of the pastime
would make him worse.”
“She was not one of those,” said Oisille, “against whom our Lord says,
‘We have mourned to you and ye have not lamented, we have sung to you
and ye have not danced,’ (2) for when her husband was ill, she wept, and
when he was merry, she laughed. In the same fashion every virtuous
woman ought to share the good and evil, the joy and the sadness of her
husband, and serve and obey him as the Church does Jesus Christ.”
2 “They are like unto children sitting in the market-place,
and calling one to another, and saying, We have piped unto
you, and ye have not danced; we have mourned to you, and ye
have not wept.”--_St. Luke_ vii. 32.--M.
“Then, ladies,” said Parlamente, “our husbands should be to us what
Christ is to the Church.”
“So are we,” said Saffredent, “and, if it were possible, something more;
for Christ died but once for His Church, whereas we die daily for our
wives.”
“Die!” said Longarine. “Methinks that you and the others here present
are now worth more crowns than you were worth pence before you were
wed.”
“And I know why,” said Saffredent; “it is because our worth is often
tried. Still our shoulders are sensible of having worn the cuirass so
long.”
“If,” said Ennasuite, “you had been obliged to wear harness for a month
and lie on the hard ground, you would greatly long to regain the bed of
your excellent wife, and wear the cuirass of which you now complain.
But it is said that everything can be endured except ease, and that
none know what rest is until they have lost it. This foolish woman, who
laughed when her husband was merry, was fond of taking her rest under
any circumstances.”
“I am sure,” said Longarine, “that she loved her rest better than her
husband, since she took nothing that he did to heart.”
“She did take to heart,” said Parlamente, “those things which might have
been hurtful to his conscience and his health, but she would not dwell
upon trifles.”
“When you speak of conscience,” said Simontault “you make me laugh. ‘Tis
a thing to which I would have no woman give heed.”
“It would be a good thing,” said Nomerfide, “if you had a wife like one
who, after her husband’s death, proved that she loved her money better
than her conscience.”
“I pray you,” said Saffredent, “tell us that tale. I give you my vote.”
“I had not intended,” said Nomcrfide, “to relate so short a story, but,
since it is suited to the occasion, I will do so.”
[Illustration: 042.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 043a.jpg The Servant selling the Horse with the Cat]
[The Servant selling the Horse with the Cat]
[Illustration: 043.jpg Page Image]
_TALE LV_.
_A merchant’s widow, whilst carrying out her husband’s will,
interpreted its purport to the advantage of herself and her
children_. (1)
In the town of Safagossa there lived a rich merchant, who, finding his
death draw nigh, and himself no longer able to retain possession of his
goods---which he had perchance gathered together by evil means--thought
that if he made a little present to God, he might thus after his death
make part atonement for his sins, just as though God sold His pardon for
money. Accordingly, when he had settled matters in respect of his house,
he declared it to be his desire that a fine Spanish horse which he
possessed should be sold for as much as it would bring, and the money
obtained for it be distributed among the poor. And he begged his wife
that she would in no wise fail to sell the horse as soon as he was dead,
and distribute the money in the manner he had commanded.
1 Whether the incidents here related be true or not, it is
probable that this was a story told to Queen Margaret at the
time of her journey to Spain in 1525. It will have been
observed (_ante_, pp. 36 and 42) that both the previous tale
and this one are introduced into the _Heptameron_ in a semi-
apologetic fashion, as though the Queen had not originally
intended that her work should include such short, slight
anecdotes. However, already at this stage--the fifty-fifth
only of the hundred tales which she proposed writing--she
probably found fewer materials at her disposal than she had
anticipated, and harked back to incidents of her earlier
years, which she had at first thought too trifling to
record. Still, slight as this story may be, it is not
without point. The example set by the wife of the Saragossa
merchant has been followed in modern times in more ways than
one.--Ed.
When the burial was over and the first tears were shed, the wife, who
was no more of a fool than Spanish women are used to be, went to the
servant who with herself had heard his master declare his desire, and
said to him--
“Methinks I have lost enough in the person of a husband I loved so
dearly, without afterwards losing his possessions. Yet would I not
disobey his word, but rather better his intention; for the poor man, led
astray by the greed of the priests, thought to make a great sacrifice to
God in bestowing after his death a sum of money, not a crown of which,
as you well know, he would have given in his lifetime to relieve even
the sorest need. I have therefore bethought me that we will do what
he commanded at his death, and in still better fashion than he himself
would have done if had he lived a fortnight longer. But no living person
must know aught of the matter.”
When she had received the servant’s promise to keep it secret, she said
to him--
“You will go and sell the horse, and when you are asked, ‘How much?’
you will reply, ‘A ducat.’ I have, however, a very fine cat which I also
wish to dispose of, and you will sell it with the horse for ninety-nine
ducats, so that cat and horse together will bring in the hundred ducats
for which my husband wished to sell the horse alone.”
The servant readily fulfilled his mistress’s command. While he was
walking the horse about the market-place, and holding the cat in his
arms, a gentleman, who had seen the horse before, and was desirous of
possessing it, asked the servant what price he sought.
“A ducat,” replied the man.
“I pray you,” said the gentleman, “do not mock me.”
“I assure you, sir,” said the servant, “that it will cost you only a
ducat. It is true that the cat must be bought at the same time, and for
the cat I must have nine and ninety ducats.”
Forthwith, the gentleman, thinking the bargain a reasonable one, paid
him one ducat for the horse, and the remainder as was desired of him,
and took his goods away.
The servant, on his part, went off with the money, with which his
mistress was right well pleased, and she failed not to give the ducat
that the horse had brought to the poor Mendicants, (2) as her husband
had commanded, and the remainder she kept for the needs of herself and
her children. (3)
2 The allusion is not to the ordinary beggars who then, as
now, swarmed in Spain, but to the Mendicant friars.--Ed.
3 In Boaistuau’s and Gruget’s editions of the _Heptameron_
the dialogue following this tale is replaced by matter of
their own invention. They did not dare to reproduce Queen
Margaret’s bold opinions respecting the clergy, the monastic
orders, &c., at a time when scores of people, including even
Counsellors of Parliament, were being burnt at the stake for
heresy.--L. and Ed.
“What think you? Was she not far more prudent than her husband, and
did she not think less of her conscience than of the advantage of her
household?”
“I think,” said Parlamente, “that she did love her husband; but, seeing
that most men wander in their wits when at the point of death, and
knowing his intentions, she tried to interpret them to her children’s
advantage. And therein I hold her to have been very prudent.”
“What!” said Geburon. “Do you not hold it a great wrong not to carry out
the last wishes of departed friends?”
“Assuredly I do,” said Parlamente; “that is to say if the testator be in
his right mind, and not raving.”
“Do you call it raving to give one’s goods to the Church and the poor
Mendicants?”
“I do not call it raving,” said Parlamente, “if a man distribute what
God has given into his hands among the poor; but to make alms of another
person’s goods is, in my opinion, no great wisdom. You will commonly see
the greatest usurers build the handsomest and most magnificent chapels
imaginable, thinking they may appease God with ten thousand ducats’
worth of building for a hundred thousand ducats’ worth of robbery, just
as though God did not know how to count.”
“In sooth,” said Oisille, “I have many a time wondered how they can
think to appease God for things which He Himself rebuked when He was on
earth, such as great buildings, gildings, pictures and paint. If they
really understood the passage in which God says to us that the only
offering He requires from us is a contrite and humble heart, (4) and
the other in which St. Paul says we are the temples of God wherein He
desires to dwell, (5) they would be at pains to adorn their consciences
while yet alive, and would not wait for the hour when man can do nothing
more, whether good or evil, nor (what is worse) charge those who remain
on earth to give their alms to folk upon whom, during their lifetime,
they did not deign to look. But He who knows the heart cannot be
deceived, and will judge them not according to their works, but
according to their faith and charity towards Himself.”
4 “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and
a contrite heart, O God, thou will not despise.”--_Psalm_
li. 17.--Ed.
5 “For ye are the temple of the living God; as God hath
said, I will dwell in them and walk in them,” &c.--2
_Corinthians_ vi. 16.--Ed.
“Why is it, then,” said Geburon, “that these Grey Friars and Mendicants
talk to us at our death of nothing but bestowing great benefits upon
their monasteries, assuring us that they will put us into Paradise
whether we will or not?”
“How now, Geburon?” said Hircan. “Have you forgotten the wickedness you
related to us of the Grey Friars, that you ask how such folk find it
possible to lie? I declare to you that I do not think that there can
be greater lies than theirs. Those, indeed, who speak on behalf of the
whole community are not to be blamed, but there are some among them who
forget their vows of poverty in order to satisfy their own greed.”
“Methinks, Hircan,” said Nomerfide, “you must know some such tale, and
if it be worthy of this company, I pray you tell it us.”
“I will,” said Hircan, “although it irks me to speak of such folk.
Methinks they are of the number of those of whom Virgil says to Dante,
‘Pass on and heed them not.’ (6) Still, to show you that they have not
laid aside their passions with their worldly garments, I will tell you
of something that once came to pass.”
6 _Non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa_ (Dante’s
_Purgatorio_, iii. 51). The allusion is to the souls of
those who led useless and idle lives on earth, supporting
neither the Divinity by the observance of virtue, nor the
spirit of evil by the practice of vice. They are thus cast
out both from heaven and hell.--Ed.
[Illustration: 049.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 051a.jpg The Grey Friar introducing his Comrade to the
Lady and her Daughter]
[The Grey Friar introducing his Comrade to the Lady and her
Daughter]
[Illustration: 051.jpg Page Image]
_TALE LVI_.
_A pious lady had recourse to a Grey Friar for his advice in
providing her daughter with a good husband, for whom she
proposed making it so profitable a match that the worthy
father, hoping to get the money she intended for her son-in-
law, married her daughter to a young comrade of his own. The
latter came every evening to sup and lie with his wife, and
in the morning returned in the garb of a scholar to his
convent. But one day while he was chanting mass, his wife
perceived him and pointed him out to her mother; who,
however, could not believe that it was he until she had
pulled off his coif while he was in bed, and from his tonsure
learned the whole truth, and the deceit used by her father
confessor_.
A French lady, whilst sojourning at Padua, was informed that there was
a Grey Friar in the Bishop’s prison there, and finding that every one
spoke jestingly about him, she inquired the reason. She was told that
this Grey Friar, who was an old man, had been confessor to a very
honourable and pious widow lady, mother of only one daughter, whom she
loved so dearly as to be at all pains to amass riches for her, and to
find her a good husband. Now, seeing that her daughter was grown up, she
was unceasingly anxious to find her a husband who might live with them
in peace and quiet, a man, that is, of a good conscience, such as she
deemed herself to possess. And since she had heard some foolish preacher
say that it were better to do evil by the counsel of theologians than
to do well through belief in the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, she
had recourse to her father confessor, a man already old, a doctor of
theology and one who was held to lead a holy life by the whole town,
for she felt sure that, with his counsel and good prayers, she could not
fail to find peace both for herself and for her daughter. After she had
earnestly begged him to choose for her daughter such a husband as he
knew a woman that loved God and her honour ought to desire, he replied
that first of all it was needful to implore the grace of the Holy Spirit
with prayer and fasting, and then, God guiding his judgment, he hoped to
find what she required.
So the Friar retired to think over the matter; and whereas he had heard
from the lady that she had got five hundred ducats together to give to
her daughter’s husband, and that she would take upon herself the charge
of maintaining both husband and wife with lodgment, furniture and
clothes, he bethought himself that he had a young comrade of handsome
figure and pleasing countenance, to whom he might give the fair maiden,
the house, the furniture, maintenance and food, whilst he himself kept
the five hundred ducats to gratify his burning greed. And when he spoke
to his comrade of the matter, he found that they were both of one mind
upon it.
He therefore returned to the lady and said--“I verily believe that God
has sent his angel Raphael to me as he did to Tobit, to enable me to
find a perfect husband for your daughter. I have in my house the most
honourable gentleman in Italy, who has sometimes seen your daughter and
is deeply in love with her. And so to-day, whilst I was at prayer,
God sent him to me, and he told me of his desire for the marriage,
whereupon, knowing his lineage and kindred and notable descent, I
promised him to speak to you on the matter. There is, indeed, one defect
in him, of which I alone have knowledge, and it is this. Wishing to save
one of his friends whom another man was striving to slay, he drew his
sword in order to separate them; but it chanced that his friend slew the
other, and thus, although he himself had not dealt a blow, yet inasmuch
as he had been present at a murder and had drawn his sword, he became
a fugitive from his native town. By the advice of his kinsfolk he came
hither in the garb of a scholar, and he dwells here unknown until his
kinsfolk shall have ended the matter; and this he hopes will shortly
be done. For this reason, then, it would be needful that the marriage
should be performed in secret, and that you should suffer him to go in
the daytime to the public lectures and return home every evening to sup
and sleep.”
“Sir,” replied the worthy woman, “I look upon what you tell me as of
great advantage to myself, for I shall at least have by me what I most
desire in the world.”
Thereupon the Grey Friar brought his comrade, bravely attired with a
crimson satin doublet, and the lady was well pleased with him. And as
soon as he was come the betrothal took place, and, immediately after
midnight, a mass was said and they were married. Then they went to
bed together until daybreak, when the bridegroom told his wife that to
escape discovery he must needs return to the college.
After putting on his crimson satin doublet and his long robe, without
forgetting his coif of black silk, he bade his wife, who was still in
bed, good-bye, promising that he would come every evening to sup with
her, but that at dinner they must not wait for him. So he went away and
left his wife, who esteemed herself the happiest woman alive to have
found so excellent a match. And the young wedded Friar returned to the
old father and brought him the five hundred ducats, as had been agreed
between them when arranging the marriage.
In the evening he failed not to return and sup with her, who believed
him to be her husband, and so well did he make himself liked by her and
by his mother-in-law, that they would not have exchanged him for the
greatest Prince alive.
This manner of life continued for some time, but God in His kindness
takes pity upon those that are deceived without fault of their own, and
so in His mercy and goodness it came to pass that one morning the lady
and her daughter felt a great desire to go and hear mass at St. Francis,
(1) and visit their good father confessor through whose means they
deemed themselves so well provided, the one with a son-in-law and the
other with a husband.
1 The church of the Grey Friars’ monastery, St Francis
being their patron.--B. J.
It chanced that they did not find the confessor aforesaid nor any other
that they knew, and, while waiting to see whether the father would
come, they were pleased to hear high mass, which was just beginning. And
whilst the young wife was giving close heed to the divine service and
its mystery, she was stricken with astonishment on seeing the Priest
turn himself about to pronounce the _Dominus vobiscum_, for it seemed
to her that it was her husband or else his very fellow. She uttered,
however, not a word, but waited till he should turn round again, when,
looking still more carefully at him, she had no doubt that it was indeed
he. Then she twitched her mother, who was deep in contemplation, and
said--
“Alas! madam, what is it that I see?”
“What is it?” said her mother.
“That is my husband,” she replied, “who is singing mass, or else ‘tis
one as like him as can be.”
“I pray you, my daughter,” replied the mother, who had not carefully
observed him, “do not take such a thought into your head. It is
impossible that men who are so holy should have practised such deceit.
You would sin grievously against God if you believed such a thing.”
Nevertheless the mother did not cease looking at him, and when it came
to the _Ite missa est_ she indeed perceived that no two sons of the same
mother were ever so much alike. Yet she was so simple that she would
fain have said, “O God, save me from believing what I see.” Since her
daughter was concerned in the matter, however, she would not suffer it
to remain in uncertainty, and resolved to learn the truth.
When evening was come, and the husband (who had perceived nothing of
them) was about to return, the mother said to her daughter--
“We shall now, if you are willing, find out the truth concerning your
husband. When he is in bed I will go to him, and then, while he is not
thinking, you will pluck off his coif from behind, and we shall see
whether he be tonsured like the Friar who said mass.”
As it was proposed, so was it done. As soon as the wicked husband was in
bed, the old lady came and took both his hands as though in sport--her
daughter took off his coif, and there he was with his fine tonsure. At
this both mother and daughter were as greatly astonished as might be,
and forthwith they called their servants to seize him and bind him fast
till the morning, nor did any of his excuses or fine speeches avail him
aught.