“‘Tis a rude way of returning what one has borrowed, for I thought the
house was coming down.”
In this way did the parson save himself at the expense of the goodman,
who discovered nothing to find fault with except the rudeness with which
the fan had been returned.
“The master, ladies, whom the parson served, saved him that time so that
he might afterwards possess and torment him the longer.”
“Do not imagine,” said Geburon, “that simple folk are more devoid of
craft than we are; (3) nay, they have a still larger share. Consider the
thieves and murderers and sorcerers and coiners, and all the people of
that sort, whose brains are never at rest; they are all poor and of the
class of artisans.”
“I do not think it strange,” said Parlamente, “that they should have
more craft than others, but rather that love should torment them amid
their many toils, and that so gentle a passion should lodge in hearts so
base.”
“Madam,” replied Saffredent, “you know what Master Jehan de Mehun has
said--
“Those clad in drugget love no less
Than those that wear a silken dress.” (4)
3 In MS. No. 1520 this passage runs--“that simple and
humble people are,” &c.--L.
4 This is a free rendering of lines 4925-6 of Méon’s
edition of the _Roman de la Rose_:--
“Aussy bien sont amourettes
Soubz bureau que soubz brunettes.”
_Bureau_, the same as _dure_, is a kind of drugget;
_brunette_ was a silken stuff very fashionable among the
French lords and ladies at the time of St. Louis. It was
doubtless of a brown hue.--B, J. and M.
Moreover, the love of which the tale speaks is not such as makes one
carry harness; for, while poor folk lack our possessions and honours,
on the other hand they have their natural advantages more at their
convenience than we. Their fare is not so dainty as ours, but their
appetites are keener, and they live better on coarse bread than we do on
delicacies. Their beds are not so handsome or so well appointed as ours,
but their sleep is sounder and their rest less broken. They have no
ladies pranked out and painted like those whom we idolise, but they take
their pleasure oftener than we, without fear of telltale tongues, save
those of the beasts and birds that see them. What we have they lack, and
what we lack they possess in abundance.”
“I pray you,” said Nomerfide, “let us now have done with this peasant
and his wife, and let us finish the day’s entertainment before vespers.
‘Tis Hircan shall bring it to an end.”
“Truly,” said he, “I have kept in reserve as strange and pitiful a tale
as ever you heard. And although it grieves me greatly to relate anything
to the discredit of a lady, knowing, as I do, that men are malicious
enough to blame the whole sex for the fault of one, yet the strangeness
of the story prompts me to lay aside my fear. Perhaps, also, the
discovery of one woman’s ignorance will make others wiser. And so I will
fearlessly tell you the following tale.”
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[Illustration: 191a.jpg The Young Gentleman embracing his Mother]
[The Young Gentleman embracing his Mother]
[Illustration: 191.jpg Page Image]
_TALE XXX_.
_A young gentleman, of from fourteen to fifteen years of
age, thought to lie with one of his mother’s maids, but lay
with his mother herself; and she, in consequence thereof,
was, nine months afterwards, brought to bed of a daughter,
who, twelve or thirteen years later, was wedded by the son;
he being ignorant that she was his daughter and sister, and
she, that he was her father and brother_.(1)
In the time of King Louis the Twelfth, the Legate at Avignon being then
a scion of the house of Amboise, nephew to George, Legate of France, (2)
there lived in the land of Languedoc a lady who had an income of more
than four thousand ducats a year, and whose name I shall not mention for
the love I bear her kinsfolk.
1 This story is based on an ancient popular tradition
common to many parts of France, and some particulars of
which, with a list of similar tales in various European
languages, will be found in the Appendix, D.--En.
2 The Papal Legate in France here alluded to is the famous
George, Cardinal d’Amboise, favourite minister of Louis XII.
His nephew, the Legate at Avignon, is Louis d’Amboise,
fourth son of Peter d’Amboise, Lord of Chaumont, and brother
of the Grand-Master of Chaumont. Louis d’Amboise became
bishop of Albi, and lieutenant-general of the King of France
in Burgundy, Languedoc and Roussillon, and played an
important part in the public affairs of his time. He died in
1505.--See _Gallia Christiana_, vol. i. p. 34.--L. and R. J.
While still very young, she was left a widow with one son; and, both
by reason of her regret for her husband and her love for her child, she
determined never to marry again. To avoid all opportunity of doing
so, she had fellowship only with the devout, for she imagined that
opportunity makes the sin, not knowing that sin will devise the
opportunity.
This young widow, then, gave herself up wholly to the service of God,
and shunned all worldly assemblies so completely that she scrupled to
be present at a wedding, or even to listen to the organs playing in a
church. When her son was come to the age of seven years, she chose for
his schoolmaster a man of holy life, so that he might be trained up in
all piety and devotion.
When the son was reaching the age of fourteen or fifteen, Nature, who is
a very secret schoolmaster, finding him in good condition and very idle,
taught him a different lesson to any he had learned from his tutor.
He began to look at and desire such things as he deemed beautiful, and
among others a maiden who slept in his mother’s room. No one had
any suspicion of this, for he was looked upon as a mere child, and,
moreover, in that household nothing save godly talk was ever heard.
This young gallant, however, began secretly soliciting the girl, who
complained of it to her mistress. The latter had so much love for her
son and so high an opinion of him, that she thought the girl spoke as
she did in order to make her hate him; but, being strongly urged by the
other, she at last said--
“I shall find out whether it is true, and will punish him if it be
as you say. But if, on the other hand, you are bringing an untruthful
accusation against him, you shall suffer for it.”
Then, in order to test the matter, she bade the girl make an appointment
with her son that he might come and lie with her at midnight, in the bed
in which she slept alone, beside the door of his mother’s room.
The maid obeyed her mistress, who, when night came, took the girl’s
place, resolved, if the story were true, to punish her son so severely
that he would never again lie with a woman without remembering it.
While she was thinking thus wrathfully, her son came and got into the
bed, but although she beheld him do so, she could not yet believe that
he meditated any unworthy deed. She therefore refrained from speaking
to him until he had given her some token of his evil intent, for no
trifling matters could persuade her that his desire was actually a
criminal one. Her patience, however, was tried so long, and her nature
proved so frail that, forgetting her motherhood, her anger became
transformed into an abominable delight. And just as water that has been
restrained by force rushes onward with the greater vehemence when it is
released, so was it with this unhappy lady who had so prided herself on
the constraint she had put upon her body. After taking the first step
downwards to dishonour, she suddenly found herself at the bottom, and
thus that night she became pregnant by him whom she had thought to
restrain from acting in similar fashion towards another.
No sooner was the sin accomplished than such remorse of conscience began
to torment her as filled the whole of her after-life with repentance.
And so keen was it at the first, that she rose from beside her son--who
still thought that she was the maid--and entered a closet, where,
dwelling upon the goodness of her intention and the wickedness of its
execution, she spent the whole night alone in tears and lamentation.
But instead of humbling herself, and recognising the powerlessness
of our flesh, without God’s assistance, to work anything but sin, she
sought by her own tears and efforts to atone for the past, and by her
own prudence to avoid mischief in the future, always ascribing her sin
to circumstances and not to wickedness, for which there is no remedy
save the grace of God. Accordingly she sought to act so as never again
to fall into such wrongdoing; and as though there were but one sin that
brought damnation in its train, she put forth all her strength to shun
that sin alone.
But the roots of pride, which acts of sin ought rather to destroy,
grew stronger and stronger within her, so that in avoiding one evil she
wrought many others. Early on the morrow, as soon as it was light, she
sent for her son’s preceptor, and said--
“My son is beginning to grow up, it is time to send him from home. I
have a kinsman, Captain Monteson, (3) who is beyond the mountains with
my lord the Grand-Master of Chaumont, and he will be very glad to admit
him into his company. Take him, therefore, without delay, and to spare
me the pain of parting do not let him come to bid me farewell.”
3 Monteson was one of the bravest captains of his time; as
the comrade of Bayard, he greatly distinguished himself by
his intrepidity in Louis XII.’s Italian campaigns. Some
particulars concerning him will be found in M. Lacroix’s
edition of _Les Chroniques de Jean d’Anton_.--B. J.
Respecting the Grand-Master of Chaumont, also mentioned
above, see _ante_, vol ii., notes to Tale XIV.
So saying, she gave him money for the journey, and that very morning
sent the young man away, he being right glad of this, for, after
enjoying his sweetheart, he asked nothing better than to set off to the
wars.
The lady continued for a great while in deep sadness and melancholy,
and, but for the fear of God, had many a time longed that the unhappy
fruit of her womb might perish. She feigned sickness, in order that she
might wear a cloak and so conceal her condition; and having a bastard
brother, in whom she had more trust than in any one else, and upon whom
she had conferred many benefits, she sent for him when the time of
her confinement was drawing nigh, told him her condition (but without
mentioning her son’s part in it), and besought him to help her save her
honour. This he did, and, a few days before the time when she expected
to be delivered, he begged her to try a change of air and remove to his
house, where she would recover her health more quickly than at home.
Thither she went with but a very small following, and found there a
midwife who had been summoned as for her brother’s wife, and who one
night, without recognising her, delivered her of a fine little girl. The
gentleman gave the child to a nurse, and caused it to be cared for as
his own.
After continuing there for a month, the lady returned in sound health
to her own house, where she lived more austerely than ever in fasts and
disciplines. But when her son was grown up, he sent to beg his mother’s
permission to return home, as there was at that time no war in Italy.
She, fearing lest she should fall again into the same misfortune, would
not at first allow him, but he urged her so earnestly that at last she
could find no reason for refusing him. However, she instructed him that
he was not to appear before her until he was married to a woman whom he
dearly loved; but to whose fortune he need give no heed, for it would
suffice if she were of gentle birth.
Meanwhile her bastard brother, finding that the daughter left in his
charge had grown to be a tall maiden of perfect beauty, resolved to
place her in some distant household where she would not be known, and
by the mother’s advice she was given to Catherine, Queen of Navarre. (4)
The maiden thus came to the age of twelve or thirteen years, and was so
beautiful and virtuous that the Queen of Navarre had great friendship
for her, and much desired to marry her to one of wealth and station.
Being poor, however, she found no husband, though she had lovers enough
and to spare.
4 This is Catherine, daughter of Gaston and sister of
Francis Phoebus de Foix. On her brother’s death, in 1483,
she became Queen of Navarre, Duchess of Nemours and Countess
of Foix and Bigorre, and in the following year espoused
John, eldest son of Alan, Sire d’Albret. Catherine at this
time was fourteen years old, and her husband, who by the
marriage became King of Navarre, was only one year her
senior. Their title to the crown was disputed by a dozen
pretenders, for several years they exercised but a
precarious authority, and eventually, in July 1512,
Ferdinand the Catholic despatched the Duke of Alva to
besiege Pamplona. On the fourth day of the siege John and
Catherine succeeded in escaping from their capital, which,
three days later, surrendered. Ferdinand, having sworn to
maintain the _fueros_, was thereupon acknowledged as
sovereign. However, it was only in 1516 that the former
rulers were expelled from Navarrese territory. “Had I been
Don Juan and you Donna Catherine,” said the Queen to her
pusillanimous husband, as they crossed the Pyrenees, “we
should not have lost our kingdom.” From this time forward
the d’Albrets, like their successors the Bourbons, were
sovereigns of Navarre in name only, for an attempt made in
1521 to reconquer the kingdom resulted in total failure, and
their dominions were thenceforth confined to Beam, Bigorre,
and Foix on the French side of the Pyrenees. Queen Catherine
died in 1517, aged 47, leaving several children, the eldest
of whom was Henry, Queen Margaret’s second husband.--M., B.
J., D. and Ed.
Now it happened one day that the gentleman who was her unknown father
came to the house of the Queen of Navarre on his way back from beyond
the mountains, and as soon as he had set eyes on his daughter he fell
in love with her, and having license from his mother to marry any woman
that might please him, he only inquired whether she was of gentle birth,
and, hearing that she was, asked her of the Queen in marriage. The Queen
willingly consented, for she knew that the gentleman was not only rich
and handsome, but worshipful to boot.
When the marriage had been consummated, the gentleman again wrote to
his mother, saying that she could no longer close her doors against him,
since he was bringing with him as fair a daughter-in-law as she could
desire. The lady inquired to whom he had allied himself, and found that
it was to none other than their own daughter. Thereupon she fell into
such exceeding sorrow that she nearly came by a sudden death, seeing
that the more she had striven to hinder her misfortune, the greater had
it thereby become.
Not knowing what else to do, she went to the Legate of Avignon, to
whom she confessed the enormity of her sin, at the same time asking
his counsel as to how she ought to act. The Legate, to satisfy his
conscience, sent for several doctors of theology, and laid the matter
before them, without, however, mentioning any names; and their advice
was that the lady should say nothing to her children, for they, being
in ignorance, had committed no sin, but that she herself should continue
doing penance all her life without allowing it to become known.
Accordingly, the unhappy lady returned home, where not long afterwards
her son and daughter-in-law arrived. And they loved each other so
much that never were there husband and wife more loving, nor yet more
resembling each other; for she was his daughter, his sister and his
wife, while he was her father, her brother and her husband. And this
exceeding love between them continued always; and the unhappy and deeply
penitent lady could never see them in dalliance together without going
apart to weep.
“You see, ladies, what befalls those who think that by their own
strength and virtue they may subdue Love and Nature and all the
faculties that God has given them. It were better to recognise their own
weakness, and instead of running a-tilt against such an adversary, to
betake themselves to Him who is their true Friend, saying to Him in the
words of the Psalmist, ‘Lord, I am afflicted very much; answer Thou for
me.’” (5)
5 We have failed to find this sentence in the Psalms.
Probably the reference is to _Isaiah_ xxxviii. 14, “O Lord,
I am oppressed; undertake for me.”--Eu.
“It were impossible,” said Oisille “to hear a stranger story than this.
Methinks every man and woman should bend low in the fear of God, seeing
that in spite of a good intention so much mischief came to pass.”
“You may be sure,” said Parlamente, “that the first step a man takes in
self-reliance, removes him so far from reliance upon God.”
“A man is wise,” said Geburon, “when he knows himself to be his greatest
enemy, and holds his own wishes and counsels in suspicion.”
“Albeit the motive might seem to be a good and holy one,” said
Longarine, “there were surely none, howsoever worthy in appearance, that
should induce a woman to lie beside a man, whatever the kinship between
them, for fire and tow may not safely come together.”
“Without question,” said Ennasuite, “she must have been some
self-sufficient fool, who, in her friar-like dreaming, deemed herself so
saintly as to be incapable of sin, just as many of the Friars would have
us believe that we can become, merely by our own efforts, which is an
exceeding great error.”
“Is it possible, Longarine,” asked Oisille, “that there are people
foolish enough to hold such an opinion?”
“They go further than that,” replied Longarine. “They say that we ought
to accustom ourselves to the virtue of chastity; and in order to try
their strength they speak with the prettiest women they can find and
whom they like best, and by kissing and touching them essay whether
their fleshly nature be wholly dead. When they find themselves stirred
by such pleasure, they desist, and have recourse to fasts and grievous
discipline. Then, when they have so far mortified their flesh that
neither speech nor kiss has power to move them, they make trial of
the supreme temptation, that, namely, of lying together and embracing
without any lustfulness. (6) But for one who has escaped, so many have
come to mischief, that the Archbishop of Milan, where this religious
practice used to be carried on, (7) was obliged to separate them and
place the women in convents and the men in monasteries.”
6 Robert d’Arbrissel, the founder of the abbey of
Fontevrault (see ante, p. 74), was accused of this
practice.--See the article Fontevraud in Desoer’s edition of
Bayle’s Dictionary, vi. 508, 519.--M.
7 Queen Margaret possibly refers to some incidents which
occurred at Milan in the early part of the fourteenth
century, when Matteo and Galeazzo Visconti ruled the city.
In Signor Tullio Dandolo’s work, _Sui xxiii. libri delta
Histories Patrice di Giuseppe Ripamonti ragionamento_
(Milano, 1856, pp. 52-60), will be found the story of a
woman of the people, Guglielmina, and her accomplice, Andrea
Saramita, who under some religious pretext founded a secret
society of females. The debauchery practised by its members
being discovered, Saramita was burnt alive, and
Guglielmina’s bones were disinterred and thrown into the
fire. The Bishop of Milan at this time (1296-1308) was
Francesco Fontana.--M.
“Truly,” said Geburon, “it were the extremity of folly to seek to
become sinless by one’s own efforts, and at the same time to seek out
opportunities for sin.”
“There are some,” said Saffredent, “who do the very opposite, and flee
opportunities for sin as carefully as they are able; nevertheless,
concupiscence pursues them. Thus the good Saint Jerome, after scourging
and hiding himself in the desert, confessed that he could not escape
from the fire that consumed his marrow. We ought, therefore, to
recommend ourselves to God, for unless He uphold us by His power, we are
greatly prone to fall.”
“You do not notice what I do,” said Hircan. “While we were telling
our stories, the monks behind the hedge here heard nothing of the
vesper-bell; whereas, now that we have begun to speak about God, they
have taken themselves off, and are at this moment ringing the second
bell.”
“We shall do well to follow them,” said Oisille, “and praise God for
enabling us to spend this day in the happiest manner imaginable.”
Hereat they rose and went to the church, where they piously heard
vespers; after which they went to supper, discussing the discourses they
had heard, and calling to mind divers adventures that had come to pass
in their own day, in order to determine which of them were worthy to be
recounted. And after spending the whole evening in gladness, they betook
themselves to their gentle rest, hoping on the morrow to continue this
pastime which was so agreeable to them.
And so was the Third Day brought to an end.
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