His hat was of black silk, and to it was fastened a rich medal on which
by way of device was engraved the god of Love subdued by Force, the
whole enriched with precious stones. His sword and dagger were no
less handsomely and choicely ordered. In a word, he was most bravely
equipped, while so skilled was his horsemanship that all who saw him
left the pleasures of the chase to watch the leaps and paces of his
steed.
After bringing the Queen in this fashion to the place where the nets
were spread, he dismounted from his noble horse and went to assist the
Queen to alight from her palfrey. And whilst she was stretching out her
hands to him, he threw his cloak back from before his breast, and taking
her in his arms, showed her his corselet-mirror, saying--
“I pray you, madam, look here.”
Then, without waiting for her reply, he set her down gently upon the
ground.
When the hunt was over, the Queen returned to the castle without
speaking to Elisor, but after supper she called him to her and told him
that he was the greatest liar she had ever seen; for he had promised to
show her at the hunt the lady whom he loved the best, but had not done
so, for which reason she was resolved to hold him in esteem no more.
Elisor, fearing that the Queen had not understood the words he had
spoken to her, answered that he had indeed obeyed her, for he had shown
her not merely the woman but the thing also, that he loved best in all
the world.
Pretending that she did not understand him, she replied that he had not,
to her knowledge, shown her a single one among her ladies.
“That is true, madam,” said Elisor, “but what did I show you when I
helped you off your horse?”
“Nothing,” said the Queen, “except a mirror on your breast.”
“And what did you see in the mirror?” said Elisor.
“I saw nothing but myself,” replied the Queen.
“Then, madam,” said Elisor, “I have kept faith with you and obeyed your
command. There is not, nor ever will there be, another image in my heart
save that which you saw upon my breast. Her alone will I love, reverence
and worship, not as a woman merely, but as my very God on earth, in
whose hands I place my life or my death, entreating her withal that
the deep and perfect affection, which was my life whilst it remained
concealed, may not prove my death now that it is discovered. And though
I be not worthy that you should look on me or accept me for your lover,
at least suffer me to live, as hitherto, in the happy consciousness that
my heart has chosen so perfect and so worthy an object for its love,
wherefrom I can have no other satisfaction than the knowledge that my
love is deep and perfect, seeing that I must be content to love without
hope of return. And if, now knowing this great love of mine, you should
not be pleased to favour me more than heretofore, at least do not
deprive me of life, which for me consists wholly in the delight of
seeing you as usual. I now have from you nought but what my utmost need
requires, and should I have less, you will have a servant the less, for
you will lose the best and most devoted that you have ever had or could
ever look to have.”
The Queen--whether to show herself other than she really was, or to
thoroughly try the love he bore her, or because she loved another whom
she would not cast off, or because she wished to hold him in reserve to
put him in the place of her actual lover should the latter give her any
offence--said to him, with a countenance that showed neither anger nor
content--“Elisor, I will not feign ignorance of the potency of love, and
say aught to you concerning your foolishness in aiming at so high and
hard a thing as the love of me; for I know that man’s heart is so little
under his own control, that he cannot love or hate at will. But, since
you have concealed your feelings so well, I would fain know how long it
is since you first entertained them.”
Elisor, gazing at her beauteous face and hearing her thus inquire
concerning his sickness, hoped that she might be willing to afford him
a remedy. But at the same time, observing the grave and staid expression
of her countenance, he became afraid, feeling himself to be in the
presence of a judge whose sentence, he suspected, would be against him.
Nevertheless he swore to her that this love had taken root in his heart
in the days of his earliest youth, though it was only during the past
seven years that it had caused him pain,--and yet, in truth, not pain,
but so pleasing a sickness that its cure would be his death.
“Since you have displayed such lengthened steadfastness,” said the
Queen, “I must not show more haste in believing you, than you have shown
in telling me of your affection. If, therefore, it be as you say, I will
so test your sincerity that I shall never afterwards be able to doubt
it; and having proved your pain, I will hold you to be towards me such
as you yourself swear you are; and on my knowing you to be what you say,
you, for your part, shall find me to be what you desire.”
Elisor begged her to test him in any way she pleased, there being
nothing, he said, so difficult that it would not appear very easy
to him, if he might have the honour of proving his love to her; and
accordingly he begged her once more to command him as to what she would
to have him do.
“Elisor,” she replied, “if you love me as much as you say, I am sure
that you will deem nothing hard of accomplishment if only it may bring
you my favour. I therefore command you, by your desire of winning it and
your fear of losing it, to depart hence to-morrow morning without seeing
me again, and to repair to some place where, until this day seven years,
you shall hear nothing of me nor I anything of you. You, who have had
seven years’ experience of this love, know that you do indeed love me;
and when I have had a like experience, I too shall know and believe what
your words cannot now make me either believe or understand.”
When Elisor heard this cruel command, he on the one hand suspected that
she desired to remove him from her presence, yet, on the other, he hoped
that this proof would plead more eloquently for him than any words he
could utter. He therefore submitted to her command, and said--
“For seven years I have lived hopeless, bearing in my breast a hidden
flame; now, however, that this is known to you, I shall spend these
other seven years in patience and trust. But, madam, while I obey your
command, which robs me of all the happiness that I have heretofore had
in the world, what hope will you give me that at the end of the seven
years you will accept me as your faithful and devoted lover?”
“Here is a ring,” said the Queen, drawing one from her finger, “which we
will cut in two. I will keep one half, and you shall keep the other, (3)
so that I may know you by this token, if the lapse of time should cause
me to forget your face.”
3 This was a common practice at the time between lovers, and
even between husbands and wives. There is the familiar but
doubtful story of Frances de Foix, Countess of
Châteaubriant, who became Francis I.’s mistress, and who is
said to have divided a ring in this manner with her husband,
it being understood between them that she was not to repair
to Court, or even leave her residence in Brittany, unless
her husband sent her as a token the half of the ring which
he had kept. Francis I., we are told, heard of this, and
causing a ring of the same pattern to be made, he sent half
of it to the Countess, who thereupon came to Court,
imagining that it was her husband who summoned her. Whether
the story be true or not, it should be mentioned that the
sole authority for it is Varillas, whose errors and
inventions are innumerable.--Ed.
Elisor took the ring and broke it in two, giving one half of it to the
Queen, and keeping the other himself. Then, more corpse-like than those
who have given up the ghost, he took his leave, and went to his
lodging to give orders for his departure. In doing this he sent all his
attendants to his house, and departed alone with one servingman to
so solitary a spot that none of his friends or kinsfolk could obtain
tidings of him during the seven years.
Of the life that he led during this time, and the grief that he endured
through this banishment, nothing is recorded, but lovers cannot be
ignorant of their nature. At the end of the seven years, just as the
Queen was one day going to mass, a hermit with a long beard came to her,
kissed her hand, and presented her with a petition. This she did not
look at immediately, although it was her custom to receive in her own
hands all the petitions that were presented to her, no matter how poor
the petitioners might be.
When mass was half over, however, she opened the petition, and found in
it the half-ring which she had given to Elisor. At this she was not
less glad than astonished, and before reading the contents she instantly
commanded her almoner to bring her the tall hermit who had presented her
the petition.
The almoner looked for him everywhere, but could obtain no tidings of
him, except that some one said that he had seen him mount a horse, but
knew not what road he had taken.
Whilst she was waiting for the almoner’s return, the Queen read the
petition, which she found to be an epistle in verse, written in the best
style imaginable; and were it not that I would have you acquainted
with it, I should never have dared to translate it; for you must know,
ladies, that, for grace and expression, the Castilian is beyond compare
the tongue which is best fitted to set forth the passion of love. The
matter of the letter was as follows:--
“Time, by his puissance stern, his sov’reign might,
Hath made me learn love’s character aright;
And, bringing with him, in his gloomy train,
The speechless eloquence of bitter pain,
Hath caused the unbelieving one to know
What words of love were impotent to show.
Time made my heart, aforetime, meekly bow
Unto the mastery of love; but now
Time hath, at last, revealed love to be
Far other than it once appeared to me;
And Time the frail foundation hath made clear
Whereon I purposed, once, my love to rear--
To wit, your beauty, which but served as sheath
To hide the cruelty that lurked beneath.
Yea, Time hath shown me beauty’s nothingness
And taught me e’en your cruelty to bless,
That cruelty which banished me the place
Where I, at least, had gazed upon your face.
And when no more I saw your beauty beam
The harsher yet your cruelty did seem;
Yet in obedience failed I not, and this
Hath been the means of compassing my bliss.
For Time, love’s parent, pitiful at last,
Upon my woe commiserate eyes hath cast,
And done to me so excellent a turn,
That, if I now come back, think not I yearn
To sigh and dally, and renew the spell--
I only come to bid a last farewell.
Time, the revealer, hath not failed to prove
How base and sorry is all human love,
So that through Time, I now that time regret
When all my fancy upon love was set,
For then Time wasted was, lost in love’s chains,
Sorrow whereof is all that now remains.
And Time in teaching me _that_ love’s deceit
Hath brought another, far more pure and sweet,
To dwell within me, in the lonely spot
Where tears and silence long have been my lot.
Time, to my heart, that higher love hath brought
With which the lower can no more be sought;
Time hath the latter into exile driven,
And, to the first, myself hath wholly given,
And consecrated to its service true
The heart and hand I erst had given to you.
When I was yours you nothing showed of grace,
And I that nothing loved, for your fair face;
Then, death for loyalty, you sought to give,
And I, in fleeing it, have learnt to live.
For, by the tender love that Time hath brought
The other vanquished is, and turned to nought;
Once did it lure and lull me, but I swear
It now hath wholly vanished in thin air.
And so your love and you I gladly leave,
And, needing neither, will forbear to grieve;
The other perfect, lasting love is mine,
To it I turn, nor for the lost one pine.
My leave I take of cruelty and pain,
Of hatred, bitter torment, cold disdain,
And those hot flames which fill you, and which fire
Him, that beholds your beauty, with desire.
Nor can I better part from ev’ry throe,
From ev’ry evil hap, and stress of woe,
And the fierce passion of love’s awful hell,
Than by this single utterance: _Farewell_.
Learn therefore, that whate’er may be in store,
Each other’s faces we shall see no more.”
This letter was not read without many tears and much astonishment on the
Queen’s part, together with regret surpassing belief; for the loss of
a lover filled with so perfect a love must needs have been keenly felt;
and not all her treasures, nor even her kingdom itself, could hinder the
Queen from being the poorest and most wretched lady in the world, seeing
that she had lost that which all the world’s wealth could not replace.
And having heard mass to the end and returned to her apartment, she
there made such mourning as her cruelty had provoked. And there was not
a mountain, a rock or a forest to which she did not send in quest of the
hermit; but He who had withdrawn him out of her hands preserved him from
falling into them again, and took him away to Paradise before she could
gain tidings of him in this world.
“This instance shows that a lover should never acknowledge that which
may do him harm and in no wise help him. And still less, ladies, should
you in your incredulity demand so hard a test, lest in getting your
proof you lose your lover.”
“Truly, Dagoucin,” said Geburon, “I had all my life long deemed the lady
of your story to be the most virtuous in the world, but now I hold her
for the most cruel woman that ever lived.”
“Nevertheless,” said Parlamente, “it seems to me that she did him no
wrong in wishing to try him for seven years, in order to see whether
he did love her as much as he said. Men are so wont to speak falsely
in these matters that before trusting them, if indeed one trust them at
all, one cannot put them to the proof too long.”
“The ladies of our day,” said Hircan, “are far wiser than those of past
times, for they are as sure of a lover after a seven days’ trial as the
others were after seven years.”
“Yet there are those in this company,” said Longarine, “who have been
loved with all earnestness for seven years and more, and albeit have not
been won.”
“‘Fore God,” said Simontault, “you speak the truth; but such as they
ought to be ranked with the ladies of former times, for they cannot be
recognised as belonging to the present.”
“After all,” said Oisille, “the gentleman was much beholden to the lady,
for it was owing to her that he devoted his heart wholly to God.”
“It was very fortunate for him,” said Saffredent, “that he found God
upon the way, for, considering the grief he was in, I am surprised that
he did not give himself to the devil.”
“And did you give yourself to such a master,” asked Ennasuite, “when
your lady ill used you?”
“Yes, thousands of times,” said Saffredent, “but the devil, seeing that
all the torments of hell could bring me no more suffering than those
which she caused me to endure, never condescended to take me. He knew
full well that no devil is so bad as a lady who is deeply loved and will
make no return.”
“If I were you,” said Parlamente to Saffredent, “and held such an
opinion as that, I would never make love to woman.”
“My affection,” said Saffredent, “and my folly are always so great, that
where I cannot command I am well content to serve. All the ill-will of
the ladies cannot subdue the love that I bear them. But, I pray you,
tell me on your conscience, do you praise this lady for such great
harshness?”
“Ay,” said Oisille, “I do, for I think that she wished neither to
receive love nor to bestow it.”
“If such was her mind,” said Simontault, “why did she hold out to him
the hope of being loved after the seven years were past?”
“I am of your opinion,” said Longarine, “for ladies who are unwilling
to love give no occasion for the continuance of the love that is offered
them.”
“Perhaps,” said Nomerfide, “she loved some one else less worthy than
that honourable gentleman, and so forsook the better for the worse.”
“‘T faith,” said Saffredent, “I think that she meant to keep him in
readiness and take him whenever she might leave the other whom for the
time she loved the best.”
“I can see,” said Oisille, (4) “that the more we talk in this way, the
more those who would not be harshly treated will do their utmost to
speak ill of us. Wherefore, Dagoucin, I pray you give some lady your
vote.”
4 Prior to this sentence the following passage occurs in
the De Thou MS.: “When Madame Oysille saw that the men,
under pretence of censuring the Queen of Castille for
conduct which certainly cannot be praised either in her or
in any other, continued saying so much evil of women, that
the most discreet and virtuous were spared no more than the
most foolish and wanton, she could endure it no longer, but
spoke and said,” &c.--L.
“I give it,” he said, “to Longarine, for I feel sure that she will
tell us no melancholy story, and that she will speak the truth without
sparing man or woman.”
“Since you deem me so truthful,” said Longarine, “I will be so bold as
to relate an adventure that befel a very great Prince, who surpasses
in worth all others of his time. Lying and dissimulation are, indeed,
things not to be employed save in cases of extreme necessity; they are
foul and infamous vices, more especially in Princes and great lords,
on whose lips and features truth sits more becomingly than on those of
other men. But no Prince in the world however great he be, even though
he have all the honours and wealth he may desire, can escape being
subject to the empire and tyranny of Love; indeed it would seem that
the nobler and more high-minded the Prince, the more does Love strive to
bring him under his mighty hand. For this glorious God sets no store
by common things; his majesty rejoices solely in the daily working of
miracles, such as weakening the strong, strengthening the weak, giving
knowledge to the simple, taking intelligence from the most learned,
favouring the passions, and overthrowing the reason. In such
transformations as these does the Deity of Love delight. Now since
Princes are not exempt from love’s thraldom, so also are they not free
from its necessities, and must therefore perforce be permitted to employ
falsehood, hypocrisy and deceit, which, according to the teaching of
Master Jehan de Mehun, (5) are the means to be employed for vanquishing
our enemies. And, since such conduct is praiseworthy on the part of a
Prince in such a case as this (though in any other it were deserving
of blame), I will relate to you the devices to which a young Prince
resorted, and by which he contrived to deceive those who are wont to
deceive the whole world.”
5 John dc Melun, who continued the _Roman de la Rose_ begun
by Lorris.--D.
[Illustration: 130.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 131a.jpg The Advocate’s Wife attending on the Prince]
[The Advocate’s Wife attending on the Prince]
[Illustration: 131.jpg Page Image]
_TALE XXV_.
_A young Prince, whilst pretending to visit his lawyer and
talk with him of his affairs, conversed so freely with the
lawyer’s wife, that he obtained from her what he desired_.
In the city of Paris there dwelt an advocate who was more highly thought
of than any other of his condition, (1) and who, being sought after by
every one on account of his excellent parts, had become the richest of
all those who wore the gown.
1 In five of the oldest MSS. of the _Heptameron_, and in
the original editions of 1558, 1559, and 1560, the words are
“than nine others of his condition.” The explanation of this
is, that the advocate’s name, as ascertained by Baron Jerome
Pichon, was Disome, which, written Dix-hommes, would
literally mean “ten men.” Baron Pichon has largely
elucidated this story, and the essential points of his
notice, contributed to the _Mélanges de la Société des
Bibliophiles Français_, will be found summarized in the
Appendix to this volume, B.--Ed.
Now, although he had had no children by his first wife, he was in hopes
of having some by a second; for, although his body was no longer hearty,
his heart and hopes were as much alive as ever. Accordingly, he made
choice of one of the fairest maidens in the city; she was between
eighteen and nineteen years of age, very handsome both in features and
complexion, and still more handsome in figure. He loved her and treated
her as well as could be; but he had no children by her any more than by
his first wife, and this at last made her unhappy. And as youth cannot
endure grief, she sought diversion away from home, and betook herself
to dances and feasts; yet she did this in so seemly a fashion that her
husband could not take it ill, for she was always in the company of
women in whom he had trust.
One day, when she was at a wedding, there was also present a Prince of
very high degree, who, when telling me the story, forbade me to discover
his name. I may, however, tell you that he was the handsomest and most
graceful Prince that has ever been or, in my opinion, ever will be in
this realm. (2)