Transcriber’s Note
In the following transcription, italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Small capitals in the original text have been transcribed as ALL
CAPITALS.
Superscripts in the text are denoted by a prefixing caret symbol (^).
A letter (as in 8^o), or letters in curly braces (as in I^{er}), that
follow the caret symbol are to be read as superscripts.
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—————————————— Start of Book ——————————————
Lives of
Fair and Gallant Ladies
————
VOLUME I
[Illustration: BRANTÔME]
Lives
Of
Fair and Gallant Ladies
By
The Seigneur De Brantôme
TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL
————
VOLUME I
————
The Alexandrian Society, Inc.
London and New York
1922
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY
THE ALEXANDRIAN SOCIETY, INC.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
_This work is strictly limited to twelve
hundred and fifty numbered sets, which are
for sale only to subscribers. The type has
been distributed on publication and no more
will be printed._
_Copy No._ ....
[Illustration: Decorative scrollwork above chapter start]
FOREWORD
This very fine and accurate translation of _The Lives of Fair and
Gallant Ladies_ was made by Mr. A. R. Allinson and because of its
merit must be considered one of the great English translations,
equalling in every quality those of the 16th and 17th centuries. The
text of Brantôme’s great work is given practically complete in these
volumes and the only modifications are based upon good taste and not
on any fearful prudery. A few of Brantôme’s examples that illustrate
his points belong more in a treatise on abnormal pathology than in a
book of literary or historical interest and value, so nothing of any
value is lost by omitting them. The rare charm, shrewd wisdom, amusing
anecdote, literary merit and historical and social information will be
appreciated by intelligent readers.
The cover design used on this book was made by C. O. Czeschka.
[Illustration: BRANTÔME’S HANDWRITING.
(From a fac-simile page of the manuscript
_Recueil des Dames_. Biblio. Nat: Mss. Nouv. fses.
No. 20-474, folio 163.)]
[Illustration: Decorative scrollwork above chapter start]
DEDICATION
TO MONSEIGNEUR LE DUC D’ALENÇON
OF BRABANT AND COUNT OF FLANDERS
SON AND BROTHER OF OUR FRENCH KINGS[1*]
MY GRACIOUS LORD,
Seeing how you have full often done me the honour at Court to converse
with me in great privity of sundry jests and merry tales, the which
are so familiar and ready with you they may well be said to grow apace
before men’s very eyes in your Lordship’s mouth, so great your wit is
and so keen and subtile, and your speech the same, and right eloquent
to boot,—for this cause have I set me to indite these discourses, such
as they be, to the best of my poor ability, to the end that in this
wise some of them may please you, making the time to pass lightly and
reminding you of me in your conversations, wherewith erstwhile you have
honoured me as much as any gentleman of all the Court.
To you then, my Lord, do I dedicate this present book, and do beseech
you fortify the same with your name and authority, till that I may find
leisure to attend to discourses of a more serious content. Of such I
pray you note one in especial, the which I have all but finished,
wherein I do deduce a comparison of six great Princes and Captains
that be to-day abroad in this our Christendom, to wit: the King Henri
III. your brother, Your Highness’ self, the King of Navarre your
brother-in-law, the Duc de Guise, the Duc de Maine, and the Prince
of Parma, making record for each one of you of your noblest deeds of
valour and high emprize, of your excellencies and exploits, the full
tale and complement whereof I do resign to others better qualified than
I to indite the same.
Meanwhile, My Lord, I do beseech God to bless you always more and more
in your greatness, happiness and nobility.
And I am for all time
Your very humble and very obedient subject and very loving servant.
BOURDEILLE.[2]
[Illustration: Decorative scrollwork above chapter start]
REGRETTING
THE DEATH OF THE DUC D’ALENÇON
I had already dedicated this second Part of my Discourses on Women
to the aforesaid my Gracious Lord d’Alençon, the while he yet
lived,—seeing how he oft did me the honour to be my friend and to
converse very privily with me, and was ever right curious to be
informed of mirthful tales. Wherefore, albeit his generous and valorous
and most noble body hath fallen on the field of honour, I have not
thought good for that to recall my erstwhile dedication; but I do
repeat and renew the same to his illustrious ashes and noble spirit, of
the valorousness whereof and of his great deeds and high achievements
I do treat in their turn among those of the other great Princes and
Captains. For of a truth he was indeed a great Prince and a great
Captain, if such an one there was ever,—the more so considering he is
dead so untimeously.
Enough of such serious themes; let us discourse a while of merrier
matters.
[Illustration: Decorative scrollwork above chapter start]
CONTENTS
PAGE
HISTORICAL NOTE. BY HENRI VIGNEAU xiii
FIRST DISCOURSE
OF LADIES WHICH DO MAKE LOVE, AND THEIR HUSBANDS CUCKOLDS 3
SECOND DISCOURSE
ON THE QUESTION WHICH DOTH GIVE THE MORE CONTENT IN LOVE,
WHETHER TOUCHING, SEEING, OR SPEAKING 213
1. OF THE SENSE OF TOUCH IN LOVE 215
2. OF THE POWER OF SPEECH IN LOVE 226
3. OF THE POWER OF SIGHT IN LOVE 233
THIRD DISCOURSE
CONCERNING THE BEAUTY OF A FINE LEG, AND THE VIRTUE THE
SAME DOTH POSSESS 273
FOURTH DISCOURSE
CONCERNING OLD DAMES AS FOND TO PRACTISE LOVE AS EVER THE
YOUNG ONES BE 293
BIBLIOGRAPHY 341
APPENDIX A. BRANTÔME, BY ARTHUR TILLEY 345
APPENDIX B. BRANTÔME, BY GEORGE SAINTSBURY 351
NOTES 355
[Illustration: Decorative scrollwork above chapter start]
HISTORICAL NOTE
Pierre de Bourdeille, Abbé de Brantôme et d’André, Vicomte de
Bourdeille, was born in Périgord, in 1527, in the reign of François I.
He early took up the career of arms, serving under his friend François
de Guise, Duke of Lorraine, as his Captain, the same who was killed
before Orleans by Poltrot de Méré. Afterwards he came up to Court,
and was Gentleman of the Bedchamber under Charles IX., who showed him
much favour. On the King’s death he retired to his estates, where he
composed his Works. These are: _Vies des hommes illustres et des grands
capitaines françois_; _Vies des grands capitaines étrangers_; _Vies des
dames illustres_; _Vies des dames galantes_; _Anecdotes touchant le duel_;
and _Rodomontades et jurements des Espagnols_.—All that really concerns
us here is the _Vies des dames galantes_. It is especially from this
point of view that we propose to speak of Pierre de Bourdeille, known
almost exclusively to posterity under the name of Brantôme. As to his
Essays in the manner of Plutarch, these do not come into our purview at
all. Besides which, I am of opinion, it is in this book that Brantôme
appears under his most characteristic aspect, and that it is here we
may best learn to know and appreciate his genius.
A gentleman of family, acknowledged and treated as kinsman by Queen
Margot, wife of Henry IV., living habitually in the society of the most
famous men of his time, a contemporary of Rabelais, Marot and Ronsard,
a sincere but unbigoted Catholic, a man of exceptional literary
endowments, Brantôme is one of the happiest representatives of the
French mind in the XVIth Century.
It is the period of the Renaissance,—the days when Europe resounds with
the fame of our gallant King Francis I. and his deeds of prowess in
love and war, the days when Titian and Primaticcio were leaving behind
on French palace walls immortal traces of their genius, when Jean
Goujon was carving his admirable figures round the fountains of the
Louvre and across its front, when Rabelais was uttering his stupendous
guffaw, that was the Comedy of all human life, when Marot and Ronsard
were writing their graceful stanzas, when the fair “Marguerite des
Marguerites,”—the Queenly Pearl of Pearls,—was telling her delightful
tales of love and adventure in the _Heptameron_.—Then comes the death
of Francis I. His son mounts the throne. Protestantism makes serious
progress in France, and Montgomery precipitates the succession of
Francis II. This last wears the crown for one year only, succumbing to
a fatal inflammation of the ears. Then it is Mary Stuart leaves France
for ever, and with streaming eyes, as she watches the beloved shores
where she has been Queen of France fade out of sight, sings sad and
slow:
Adieu, plaisant pays de France!
And now we find seated on the throne of France a young Monarch of a
strange, wild, unattractive exterior. His eye is pale, colourless
and shifty, seeming to be void of all expression. He trusts no man,
and has no real assurance of his power as Sovereign; he looks long
and suspiciously at those about him before speaking, rarely bestows
his confidence and believes himself constantly surrounded by spies.
’Tis a nervous, timid child,—’tis Charles IX. History treats him with
an extreme severity; and the “St. Bartholomew” has thrown a lurid
light over this unhappy Prince’s figure. He allowed the massacres on
the fatal nights of the 24th and 25th of August, and even shot down
the flying Protestants from his palace roof. Without going into the
interminable discussions of historians as to this last alleged fact,
which is as strongly denied by some authorities as it is maintained
by others, I am not one of those who say hard things of Charles IX.
It is more a sentiment of pity I feel for him,—this monarch who loved
Brantôme and Marot, and who protected Henri IV. against Catherine
de Medici. I see him surrounded by brothers whom he had learned to
distrust. The Duc d’Alençon is on the spot, a legitimate object of
detestation by reason of the subterranean intrigues he is for ever
hatching against his person; while his other brother Henri (afterwards
Henri III.), Catherine’s favourite son, is in Poland, kept sedulously
informed of every variation in the Prince’s always feeble health,
waiting impatiently for the hour when he must hurry back to France to
secure the crown he covets. Then his sister’s vicious outbreaks are
a source of constant pain and anxiety to him; and last but not least
there is his mother Catherine de Medici, an incubus that crushed out
his very life-breath. He cannot forget the tortures his brother Francis
suffered from his mysterious malady, and his premature death after a
single year’s reign.
Catherine hated Mary Stuart, his young Queen, whose only fault was to
have exaggerated in herself all the frailties together with all the
physical perfections of a woman; and dreadful words had been whispered
with bated breath about the Queen Mother. An Italian, deprived of
all power while her husband lived, insulted by a proud and beautiful
favourite, yet knowing herself well fitted for command, she had brought
up her children with ideas of respect and submission to her will they
were never able to throw off. The ill-will she bore her daughter-in-law
was the cause of all those accusations History has listened to over
readily. But Charles, a nervous, affectionate child, whose natural
impulses however had been chilled by his mother’s influence and the
indifference of his father Henri II., was thrown back on himself, and
grew up timid, suspicious and morose. The frantic love of Francis
for his fascinating Queen, the cold dignity of Catherine in face of
slights and cruel mortifications, her bitter disappointment during
her eldest son’s reign, her Italian origin (held then even more than
now to imply an implacable determination to avenge all injuries), her
indifference to the sudden and appalling death of the young King, the
insinuations of her enemies,—all combined to make a profound impression
on Charles, giving a furtive and, if we may say so, a haggard bent to
his character. Presently, seated on the throne of France, Huguenots and
Catholics all about him, exposed to the insults and pretensions of the
Guise faction on the one hand and that of Coligny on the other, dragged
now this way now that between the two, yet all the while instinctively
drawn toward the Catholic side by ancestral faith and his mother’s
counsels no less than by reasons of state, Charles signed the fatal
order authorizing the Massacre of the Saint Bartholomew.
* * * * *
Was the young King’s action justifiable or no? It is no business of
ours to discuss the question here; but much may be alleged in his
excuse. Again whether he did actually fire on the terrified Protestants
from the Louvre is a point vehemently debated,—but one it in no way
concerns us here to decide. There is no doubt however that, dating from
those two terrible nights, a steady decline declared itself in his
health and vitality. In no long time he died; and his brother Henri,
Duke of Anjou and King of Poland, duly warned of his approaching end,
arrived in hot haste to take over the crown to which he was next in
succession.
This period of political and religious ferment was no less the period
_par excellence_ of gallantry. In its characteristics it bears
considerable resemblance to the days of the Empire. At both epochs
love was quick, fierce and violent. Hurry was the mark of the times.
In the midst of these everlasting struggles between Huguenot and
Catholic, who could be sure of to-morrow? So men made it a point to
indulge no attachment that was too serious,—for them love was become
a mere question of choice and quantity; while women avoided a grand
passion with a fervour worthy of a better cause. If ever a deep and
earnest passion does show itself, it is an exception, an anomaly; if
we find a woman stabbing her faithless husband to death on catching
him in the arms of another, let us not for an instant suppose ’tis
the fierce stirring of a loving heart which in the frenzy of its
jealousy avenges the wrong it has suffered,—to die presently of sorrow
and remorse, or at the least to suffer long and sorely. This act of
daring,—so carefully recorded by the chroniclers of the time,—is only
the effect of strong self-love cruelly wounded. But powerful as this
feeling may be, it would scarcely be adequate to explain so energetic
an act, if we did not remember how frequently ladies in the XVIth
Century were exposed to scenes of bloodshed. The dagger and the sword
were as familiar to their eyes as the needle; and Brantôme has devoted
a whole Discourse,—his Fifth, to courageous dames, and seems positively
to scorn weak and timid women! How opposite is this to the sentiment
of the present day, where one of the charms of womanhood is held to
consist in her having nothing in common with man and being for ever
in need of his protection. A few isolated cases then excepted, there
existed between men and women nothing better than what Chamfort has
wittily defined as “l’échange de deux fantaisies et le contact de deux
épidermes,”—in other words gallantry pure and simple.
This then was the atmosphere our Author breathed. His life offers
nothing specially striking in the way of incident. No need for me
to take him from the arms of his nurse, to follow each of his steps
through life and piously close his eyes in death. He served his time
without special distinction or applause at the Court of Charles
IX. In all he did, he showed so modest a reserve that, but for his
Works, his very existence would have remained unknown. He is not like
Bussy-Rabutin, the incidents of whose wild and wicked life filled and
defaced a big book, or like Tallemant, whose diary, if diary it can
be called, was written day by day and recounted each day’s exploits.
Brantôme’s life and work leave little trace of his own personality,
beyond the impression of a genial, smiling, witty man of the world. I
will be as plain and discreet as himself, and will make no effort to
separate the Author from his book.
Brantôme possesses one of those happy, gentle, well ordered natures,
which systematically avoid every form of excess and exaggeration.
His book _Des Dames Galantes_ is from beginning to end a protest
against immoderate passion. It is above all a work of taste. Its seven
Discourses are devoted exclusively to stories of love and passion,
yet a man must be straightlaced indeed to feel any sort of repulsion.
Another extraordinary merit! in spite of the monotony of the subject
matter, everlastingly the same, the reader’s attention never flags, and
one tale read, he is irresistibly drawn on to make acquaintance with
the next.
Such praise, I am aware, is very high; and especially when we possess
such masterpieces in this _genre_ as the Tales of Boccaccio, of Pietro
Aretino, some of those of Ariosto, those of Voltaire, the short stories
of Tallemant des Réaux and the indiscretions of the _Histoire amoureuse
des Gaules_. I name only the most familiar examples. Of course all
these works do not offer a complete resemblance to the _Vies des Dames
Galantes_, but they all belong to the same race and family. I propose
to say a few passing words of each of these productions.
The most remarkable among all these chroniclers of the frailties of
the female heart is undoubtedly Boccaccio. Pietro Aretino has done
himself an irreparable wrong by writing in such a vein that no decent
man dare confess to having read him. Ariosto is a story-teller only
by the way, but then he is worthy of all imitation. The _Heptameron_
is a collection of stories the chief value of which consists in a
sensibility and charming grace that never fail. Tallemant tells a
tale of gallantry between two daintily worded sentiments. Voltaire
in this as in all departments shows an incontestable superiority of
wit and _verve_. There is nothing new in La Fontaine; ’tis always the
same wondrous charm, so simple in appearance, so deep in reality. As
to Bussy, a man of the world and a gentleman, but vicious, spiteful
and envious, his _Histoire amoureuse_ is his revenge on mankind, a
deliberate publication of extravagant personalities flavoured with wit.
Boccaccio, to say nothing of his striking originality, possesses other
merits of the very highest order. The sorrows of unhappy love are told
with genuine pathos, while lovers’ wiles and the punishments they meet
with at once raise a smile and provoke a resolve to profit by such
valuable lessons. True Dioneo’s quaint narratives are not precisely fit
for ladies’ ears; yet so daintily are they recounted, the most _risqué_
episodes so cleverly sketched in, it is impossible to accuse them of
indelicacy. An entire absence of bitterness, a genial indulgence for
human weakness, a hearty admiration of women and a doctrine of genial
complaisance as the only possible philosophy of life, these are the
qualities that make the _Decameron_ the masterpiece of this kind of
composition.
Brantôme has not the same preponderating influence in literature that
Boccaccio possesses, but he comes next after him. The “Lives of Gallant
Ladies” are not, any more than the _Novelli_, inventions pure and
simple; they are anecdotes, reminiscences. The great merit of these
Tales of Boccaccio is the same as that of Balzac’s Novels or Molière’s
Comedies,—to fix a character, to define a phase of manners in the life
of the Author’s day; in a word to create by induction and analogy a
living being, hitherto unnoticed by every-day observers, but instantly
recognized as lifelike. This is the true spirit of assimilation and
generalisation,—the work of _genius_. Well! as for Brantôme, he is a
man of talent and wit, not genius. We claim no more; genius is not so
common as might be supposed, if we hearkened to all the acclamations
daily raised round sundry statues,—but plaster after all, however
cunningly contrived to look like bronze.
Brantôme’s fame is already firmly established. To live for two
centuries and a half without boring his readers; above all to be a
book that scholars, men of sober learning and of literary taste,
still read in these latter days, is a success worthy of some earnest
thought. This chronicle of gallantry, this collection, as the Author
himself describes it, of happy tricks played on each other by men and
women, possesses a quite exquisite flavour of youth and freshness,—the
whole told with a good nature, a _verve_, an unconventionality,
that are inexpressibly charming. You feel the characters living and
breathing through the delicate, pliant style. You see the very glance
of a woman’s eye; you hear her ardent, or cunningly alluring, words.
For such as can read with a heart unstirred, the book is a series of
delicious surprises.
Strong predispositions, nay! positive prejudices, stand in the way
of the proper appreciation of our Author. Such is the Puritanism of
language and prudery of manners in our day, it would seem _prima
facie_ an impossible task to popularize Brantôme. By common agreement
we speak of the _esprit français_ as distinguished from the _esprit
gaulois_, the latter term being used to denote a something more frank
and outspoken. I heartily wish the division were a true one; for I
can never forget I belong to this mighty Nineteenth Century. But for
my own part, on a careful consideration of the facts, I should make a
triple rather than a twofold classification. There would be the _esprit
gaulois_, the _esprit français_, _not_ the spirit of the age one
atom, I must be allowed to observe, _and_ thirdly a certain spirit of
curling-irons and kid gloves and varnished boots, a sort of bastard, a
cross between French and English, equally shocked at _Tristram Shandy_
and the _Physiologie du Mariage_ as coarse and immoral productions.
_This_ is our spirit, if spirit we have.
The two first types have a real and positive value; but the third
is the sole and only one nowadays permitted or current as legal
tender,—the others are much too outspoken. Well! I will hold my tongue,
and mind my own business. An epoch is a mighty ugly customer to come to
blows with. I remember Him of Galilee.
The genius of Rabelais was all instinct with this same _esprit
gaulois_—a big, bold, virile spirit, breaking out in resounding
guffaws, and crude, outspoken verities, equally unable and unwilling
to soften down or gloss over anything, innocent of every species of
periphrasis and affectation. It is genius in a merry mood rising above
the petty conventionalities of speech,—often reminding us of Molière
under like circumstances. Let fools be shocked, if they please;
sensible men are ashamed only in presence of positive immorality and
deliberate vice. The _esprit gaulois_ is the spirit of primitive man
going straight to its end, regardless of fetter or law. The _esprit
français_ is equally natural; but then it has acquired a certain degree
of civilisation. It has less width of scope; it has learned the little
concessions men are bound to make one another, having associated longer
with them. It has left hodden grey, and taken to the silken doublet and
cap of velvet, and rubs elbows with men of rank. It has lost nothing of
its good sense and good temper; but it feels no longer bound in every
case to blurt its thought right out; already it leaves something to
be guessed at. It is all a question of civilisation and surroundings.
But above and beyond this, it must be allowed to be conditioned by the
essential distinction between genius and talent. The former does what
it likes, ’tis lord and master; the latter is, by its very nature, a
creature of compromise.
Brantôme possesses all the _verve_ and brightness of a genuine
Frenchman. All the conditions of life are highly favourable for him; he
is rich and noble, while intelligence and wit are stamped on his very
face. He wins his first spurs under François de Guise, whose protégé he
is; when he has had enough of war, he comes to Court. There he receives
the most flattering of receptions, every Catholic Noble extending him
the hand of good fellowship. His family connections are such, that on
the very steps of the throne is a voice ready to call him cousin, and a
charming woman’s lips to smile on him with favour. ’Tis a good start;
henceforth it is for his moral and intellectual qualities to achieve
the career so auspiciously begun.
As I have said already, Brantôme is the finished type of a Frenchman
of quality. Well taught and witty, brave and enterprising, capable
of appreciating honesty and worth whether in thought or deed,
instinctively hating tyrants and tyrannical violence, and avoiding them
like the plague, blessing the happy day on which his mother gave him
birth, light-hearted and sceptical, he unites in himself everything
that makes life go easy. Be sure no over-bearing passion will ever
disturb the serenity of his existence. He has too much good sense to
let his happiness depend on the chimerical figments of the imagination,
and too much real courtesy ever to reproach a woman with her frailties.
The world and all its ways seem good to him. In very truth, he is not
far from Pangloss’s conclusion,—Pangloss, the perfect type of what a
man must be so as never to suffer,—“Well! well! all is for the best in
this best of possible worlds.” If woman deceive, she offers so many
compensations in other ways that ’tis a hundred times better to have
her as she is than not at all. Men are sinners; again most true, as an
abstract proposition, but if only we know how to regulate our conduct
judiciously, their sinful spite will never touch us. Easy to see how,
with this bent of character and these convictions, Brantôme was certain
to find friendly faces wherever he went. The favourable impression his
person and position had produced, his good sense completed.
The King took delight in the society of this finished gentleman
with his easy and agreeable manners. In the midst of the numberless
vexations he was surrounded by, one of his greatest distractions was
the gay, lively conversation of this noble lord, from whom he had
nothing to fear in the way of hostile speech or angry words. The Duc
d’Alençon was another intimate, who putting aside for a moment his
schemes of ambition, would hear and tell tales of love and intrigue,
laughing the louder in proportion to the audacity and success of the
trick played by the heroine. And so it was with all; the result being
that Brantôme quickly acquired the repute of being the wittiest man
in France. All men and all parties were on friendly terms with him.
The Huguenots forgot he was a Catholic, and made an ally of him.
Without religious fanaticism or personal ambition, honoured and sought
after by the great, yet quite unspoiled and always simple-hearted and
good-natured, equally free from prejudice and pride, he conciliated the
good will of all. Throughout the whole of Brantôme’s career, we never
hear of his making a single enemy; and be it remembered he lived in the
very hottest of the storm and stress, political and religious, of the
Sixteenth Century. Let us add to complete our characterisation, a quite
incalculable merit,—a discretion such as cannot be found even in the
annals of Chivalry, a period indeed when lovers were only too fond of
making a show of their ladies’ favours. This is the one and only point
where Brantôme is inconsistent with the true French type of character,
mostly as eager to declare the fair inamorata’s name as to appreciate
the proofs of love she may have given.
Francis I. is but just dead, we must remember. His reign has been
called the Renaissance, and not without good reason. Under him begins
that light, graceful bearing, that elegance of manner, that politeness
of address, which henceforth will make continuous advances to greater
and greater refinement. Rabelais is the last expression of that old,
unsoftened and unmitigated French speech, from which at a later date
Matthieu Regnier will occasionally borrow one of his picturesque
phrases. In the same reign costume first becomes dainty. Men’s minds
grow finical like their dress; and a new mode of expression was
imperatively required to match the new elegance of living. The change
was effected almost without effort; ’twas a mere question of external
sensibility. The body, now habituated to silk and velvet, grows more
sensitive and delicate, and intellect and language follow suit. The
correspondence was inevitable. So much for the mental revolution. As
for the moral side, manners gained in frankness no doubt; but otherwise
things were neither better nor worse than before. It has always seemed
to us a strange proceeding, to take a particular period of History, as
writers so often will, and declare,—‘At this epoch morals were more
relaxed than ever before or since.’
* * * * *
Now under Francis I., and by his example, manners acquired a happy
freedom, an unstudied ease, his Courtiers were sure to turn to good
advantage. A King is always king of the fashion. Judging by the two
celebrated lines[3] he wrote one day on a pane in one of the windows
at the Castle of Chambord, Francis I., a Prince of wit and a true
Frenchman, could discover no better way of punishing women for their
fickleness and frivolity than that of copying their example. Every
pretty woman stirred a longing to possess in the ample and facile heart
of this Royal Don Juan. They were easy and happy loves,—without remorse
and without bitterness, and never deformed with tears. So far did he
push his rights as a Sovereign, that there is said to have been at
least one instance of rivalry between him and his own son. He died, as
he had lived, a lover,—and a victim to love.
Under Henri II., Diane de Poitiers is the most prominent figure on
the stage; following the gallant leadership of the King’s mistress,
the Court continues the same mode of life and type of manners which
distinguished the preceding reign.
Of the reign of Francis II., we need only speak _en passant_. During
the short while he and Mary Stuart were exhausting the joys of a brief
married life, there was no time for further change.
But now we come to a far more noteworthy and important period. While
the Queen Mother and the Guises are silently preparing their _coup
d’état_; while the Huguenots, light-hearted and unsuspecting, are
dancing and making merry in the halls of the Louvre; while Catholics
join them in merry feasts at the taverns then in vogue, and ladies
allow no party spirit to intrude in their love affairs; while the
Pré-aux-Clercs is the meeting-ground where men of honour settle their
quarrels, and the happy man, the man who receives the most caressing
marks of female favour, is he that has killed most, at a time like
this the wits are keen and the spirit as reckless as the courage.
With such a code of morals it was a difficult matter for any serious
sentiment to survive. Women soon began to feel the same scorn of life
that men professed. The strongest were falling day by day, and emotion
and sensibility could not but be blunted. Then think of the crowd of
eager candidates to seize the vacant reins of Government, and the
steeple-chase existence of those days becomes intelligible and even
excusable.
In all this movement Brantôme was necessarily involved, but he
kept invariably in the back-ground, in a convenient semi-obscurity.
But we must by no means assume that this prudence on the Vicomte
de Bourdeille’s part proceeded from any lack of energy; this would
be doing him a quite undeserved injustice. He had given proofs of
his courage; and Abbé as he was, his sword on hip spoke as proudly
as the most doughty ruffler’s. But a man of peace, he avoided
provoking quarrels; he was a good Catholic, and Religion has always
discountenanced the shedding of blood.
The best proof of the position he was able to win at Court is this Book
of Fair and Gallant Ladies which has come down to us as its result.
Amid all the gay and boisterous fêtes of the time, and the thousand
lights of the Louvre, men and women both smiled graciously on our
Author. His perfect discretion was perhaps his chief merit in the eyes
of all these love-sick swains and garrulous young noodles. The instant
a lover received an assignation from his fair one, his joy ran over
in noisy fanfaronnades. A happy man is brim full of good-fellowship,
and eager for a confidant. Well! if at that moment the gallant Abbé
chanced to pass, what more natural than for the fortunate gentleman
to seize and buttonhole him? Then he would recount his incomparable
good fortune, adding a hundred piquant details, and drunk with his own
babbling, enumerate one after the other the most minute particulars
of his intrigue, ending by letting out the name of the husband at
whose expense he had been enjoying himself. Love is so simple-minded
and so charmingly selfish! Every lover seriously thinks each casual
acquaintance must of course sympathise actively in his feelings. A
bosom friend he must have!—no matter who, if only he can tell him,
always of course under formal promise of concealment, the secret he
should have kept locked in his own bosom. Nor should we look over
harshly on this weakness; too much happiness, no less than too much
unhappiness, will stifle the bosom that cannot throw off any of its
load upon another. ’Tis the world-old story of the reeds and the secret
that must be told. Self-expansion is a natural craving; without it, men
grow misanthropes and die of an aneurism of the heart.
This brings us to the book of the _Dames galantes_. When eventually
he retired to his estates, Brantôme took up the pen as a relief to
his ennui. Among all the works he composed, this one must certainly
have pleased him best, because it so exactly corresponds with his own
character and ways of thought. But to write these lives of Gallant
Ladies was an enterprise not without its dangers. A volume of anecdotes
of the sort cannot be written without there being considerable risk
in the process of falling into the coarse and commonplace vulgarities
that surround such a subject. Style, wit, philosophy, gaiety, all in a
degree seldom met with, were indispensable for success; yet Brantôme
has succeeded. This book, of the _Vies des Dames galantes_, offers
a close analogy with another celebrated study in the same _genre_,
viz., Balzac’s _Physiologie du mariage_. Both works deal with the same
subject, the ways and wiles of women, married, widow and maid, under
the varying conditions of, (1) the Sixteenth Century, and (2) the
Present Day. But the mode of treatment is different; an this difference
made Brantôme’s task a harder one than the modern Author’s. His short
stories of a dozen lines, each revealing woman in one of those secret
and confidential situations only open to the eye of husband or lover,
might easily be displeasing, or worse still tiresome. Brantôme has
avoided all these shoals and shallows. Each little tale has its own
interest, always fresh and bright.
Moreover a lofty morality runs through the narratives. At first sight
the word morality may seem a joke applied to such matters; but it is
easy to disconcert the scoffer merely by asking him to read our Author.
To support my contention, there is no need to quote any particular
story or stories; all alike have their charm, and the work must be
perused in its entirety to appreciate the truth of the high praise I
give it. Every reader, on finally closing the book, cannot but feel
a genuine enthusiasm. The delicate wit of the whole recital passes
imagination. On every page we meet some physical trait or some moral
remark that rivets the attention. The author puts his hand on some
curiosity or perversity, and instantly stops to examine it; while at
the same time the propriety of his tone allures the most sedate reader.
The discussion of each point, in which the _pros_ and _cons_ are always
balanced one against the other in the wittiest and most thorough
manner, is interesting to the highest degree. In one word the book is a
code and compendium of Love. All is classified, studied, analysed; each
argument is supported by an appropriate anecdote,—an example,—a Life.
The mere arrangement of the contents displays consummate skill. The
Author has divided his _Vies des Dames galantes_ into seven Discourses,
as follows:
In the First, he treats “Of ladies which do make love, and their
husbands cuckolds;”
In the Second, he expatiates “On the question which doth give the more
content in love, whether touching, seeing or speaking;”
In the Third, he speaks “Concerning the Beauty of a fine leg, and the
virtue the same doth possess;”
In the Fourth, he discourses “Concerning old dames as fond to practise
love as ever the young ones be;”
In the Fifth, he tells “How Fair and honourable ladies do love brave
and valiant men, and brave men courageous women;”
In the Sixth, he teaches, “How we should never speak ill of ladies,—and
of the consequences of so doing;”
In the Seventh, he asks, “Concerning married women, widows and
maids—which of these be better than the other to love.”
This list of subjects, displaying as it does, all the leading ideas of
the book, leaves me little to add. I have no call to go into a detailed
appreciation of the Work under its manifold aspects as a gallery of
portraits; my task was merely to judge of its general physiognomy and
explain its _raisin d’être_; and this I have attempted to do.
I will only add by way of conclusion a few words to show the especial
esteem we should feel for Brantôme on this ground, that his works
contain nothing to corrupt good morals. Each narrative is told simply
and straightforwardly, for what it is worth. The author neither
embellishes nor exaggerates. Moreover the species of corollary he
clinches it with is a philosophical and physiological deduction
of the happiest and most apposite kind in the great majority of
instances,—some witty and ingenious remark that never offends either
against good sense or good taste. If now and again the reader is
tempted to shy, he should in justice put this down to the diction of
the time, which had not yet adopted that tone of arrogant virtue it
nowadays affects. Then there was a large number of words in former days
which connoted nothing worse than something ridiculous and absurd.
Then as to beauty of language, we must go roundabout ways to reach many
a point they marched straight to in old days. Brantôme at any rate is
a purist of style,—one of the most striking and most correct writers I
have ever read. It is a great and genuine discovery readers will make,
if they do not know him already; if they do, they will be renewing
acquaintance with an old friend, at once witty and delightful. In
either case, ’tis a piece of luck not to be despised.
H. VIGNEAU.
LIVES OF FAIR AND
GALLANT LADIES
[Illustration: Decorative scrollwork above chapter start]
FIRST DISCOURSE
Of Ladies which do make Love, and their Husbands
cuckolds.[4]
1.
Seeing ’tis the ladies have laid the foundation of all cuckoldry, and
how ’tis they which do make all men cuckolds, I have thought it good to
include this First Discourse in my present Book of Fair Ladies,—albeit
that I shall have occasion to speak therein as much of men as of women.
I know right well I am taking up a great work, and one I should never
get done withal, if that I did insist on full completeness of the
same. For of a truth not all the paper in the Records Office of Paris
would hold in writing the half of the histories of folk in this case,
whether women or men. Yet will I set down what I can; and when I can
no more, I will e’en give my pen—to the devil, or mayhap to some good
fellow-comrade, which shall carry on the tale.
Furthermore must I crave indulgence if in this Discourse I keep not due
order and alignment, for indeed so great is the multitude of men and
women so situate, and so manifold and divers their condition, that I
know not any Commander and Master of War so skilled as that he could
range the same in proper rank and meet array.
Following therefore of mine own fantasy, will I speak of them in such
fashion as pleaseth me,—now in this present month of April, the which
bringeth round once more the very season and open time of _cuckoos_;
I mean the cuckoos that perch on trees, for of the other sort are to
be found and seen enough and to spare in all months and seasons of the
year.
Now of this sort of cuckolds, there be many of divers kinds, but of
all sorts the worst and that which the ladies fear above all others,
doth consist of those wild, fierce, tricky, ill-conditioned, malicious,
cruel and suspicious husbands, who strike, torture and kill, some for
true cause, others for no true reason at all, so mad and furious doth
the very least suspicion in the world make them. With such all dealings
are very carefully to be shunned, both by their wives and by the lovers
of the same. Natheless have I known ladies and their lovers which
did make no account of them; for they were just as ill-minded as the
others, and the ladies were bold and reckless, to such a degree that
if their cavaliers chanced to fail of courage, themselves would supply
them enough and to spare for both. The more so that in proportion as
any emprise is dangerous and difficult, ought it to be undertaken in a
bold and high spirit. On the contrary I have known other ladies of the
sort who had no heart at all or ambition to adventure high endeavours;
but cared for naught but their low pleasures, even as the proverb hath
it: _base of heart as an harlot_.
Myself knew an honourable lady,[5*] and a great one, who a good
opportunity offering to have enjoyment of her lover, when this latter
did object to her the incommodity that would ensue supposing the
husband, who was not far off, to discover it, made no more ado but left
him on the spot, deeming him no doughty lover, for that he said nay to
her urgent desire. For indeed this is what an amorous dame, whenas the
ardour and frenzy of desire would fain be satisfied, but her lover will
not or cannot content her straightway, by reason of sundry lets and
hindrances, doth hate and indignantly abominate above all else.
Needs must we commend this lady for her doughtiness, and many another
of her kidney, who fear naught, if only they may content their
passions, albeit therein they run more risks and dangers than any
soldier or sailor doth in the most hazardous perils of field or sea.
A Spanish dame, escorted one day by a gallant cavalier through the
rooms of the King’s Palace and happening to pass by a particular dark
and secret recess, the gentleman, piquing himself on his respect for
women and his Spanish discretion, saith to her: _Señora, buen lugar, si
no fuera vuessa merced_ (A good place, my lady, if it were another than
your ladyship). To this the lady merely answered the very same words
back again, _Si, buen lugar, si no fuera vuessa merced_ (Yes, Sir, a
good place, if it were another than your lordship). Thus did she imply
his cowardliness, and rebuke the same, for that he had not taken of her
in so good a place what she did wish and desire to lose, as another and
a bolder man would have done in like case. For the which cause she did
thereupon altogether pretermit her former love for him, and left him
incontinently.
I have heard tell of a very fair and honourable lady, who did make
assignation with her lover, only on condition he should not touch her
(nor come to extremities at all). This the other accomplished, tarrying
all night long in great ecstasy, temptation and continence; and thereat
was the lady so grateful that some while after she did give him full
gratification, alleging for reason that she had been fain to prove his
love in accomplishing the task she had laid upon him. Wherefore she
did love him much thereafter, and afforded him opportunity to do quite
other feats than this one,—verily one of the hardest sort to succeed in.
Some there be will commend his discretion,—or timidity, if you had
rather call it so,—others not. For myself I refer the question to such
as may debate the point on this side or on that according to their
several humours and predispositions.
I knew once a lady, and one of no low degree, who having made an
assignation with her lover to come and stay with her one night, he hied
him thither all ready, in shirt only, to do his duty. But, seeing it
was in winter-tide, he was so sorely a-cold on the way, that he could
accomplish naught, and thought of no other thing but to get heat again.
Whereat the lady did loathe the caitiff, and would have no more of him.
Another lady, discoursing of love with a gentleman, he said to her
among other matters that if he were with her, he would undertake to do
his devoir six times in one night, so greatly would her beauty edge him
on. “You boast most high prowess,” said she; “I make you assignation
therefore” for such and such a night. Nor did she fail to keep tryst at
the time agreed; but lo! to his undoing, he was assailed by so sad a
convulsion, that he could by no means accomplish his devoir so much as
once even. Whereupon the fair lady said to him, “What! are you good for
naught at all? Well, then! begone out of my bed. I did never lend it
you, like a bed at an inn, to take your ease forsooth therein and rest
yourself. Therefore, I say, begone!” Thus did she drive him forth, and
thereafter did make great mock of him, hating the recreant worse than
the plague.
This last gentleman would have been happy enough, if only he had been
of the complexion of the great Baraud,[6*] Protonotary and Almoner to
King Francis, for whenas he lay with the Court-ladies, he would even
reach the round dozen at the least, and yet next morning he would say
right humbly, “I pray you, Madam, make excuse that I have not done
better, but I took physic yesterday.” I have myself known him of later
years, when he was called Captain Baraud, a Gascon, and had quitted the
lawyer’s robe. He has recounted to me, at my asking, his amours, and
that name by name.
As he waxed older, this masculine vigour and power somewhat failed him.
Moreover he was now poor, albeit he had had good pickings, the which
his prowess had gotten him; yet had he squandered it all, and was now
set to compounding and distilling essences. “But verily,” he would say,
“if only I could now, so well as once I could in my younger days, I
should be in better case, and should guide my gear better than I have
done.”
During the famous War of the League, an honourable gentleman, and a
right brave and valiant soldier, having left the place whereof he was
Governor to go to the wars, could not on his return arrive in garrison
before nightfall, and so betook himself to the house of a fair and
very honourable and noble widow, who straight invited him to stay
the night within doors. This he gladly consented to do, for he was
exceeding weary. After making him good cheer at supper, she gives him
her own chamber and bed, seeing that all the other bed-chambers were
dismantled by reason of the War, and their furniture,—and she had good
and fair plenishing,—under lock and key. Herself meanwhile withdraws to
her closet, where she had a day-bed in use.
The gentleman, after several times refusing this bed and bed-chamber,
was constrained by the good lady’s prayers to take it. Then so soon as
he was laid down therein and asleep most soundly, lo! the lady slips in
softly and lays herself down beside him in the bed without his being
ware of aught all the night long, so aweary was he and heavily asleep.
There lay he till broad daylight, when the lady, drawing away from
him, as the sleeper began to awake, said, “You have not slept without
company; for I would not yield you up the whole of my bed, so have I
enjoyed the one half thereof as well as ever you have the other. You
have lost a chance you will never have again.”
The gentleman, cursing and railing for spite of his wasted opportunity
(’twere enough to make a man hang himself), was fain to stay her and
beg her over. But no such thing! On the contrary, she was sorely
displeased at him for not having contented her as she would have had
him do, for of a truth she had not come thither for only one poor
embrace,—as the saying hath it, one embrace is only the salad of a
feast. She loved the plural number better than the singular, as do
many worthy dames.