had his wishes conveyed to her. But great, noble and allied with the
Queen Mother as he was, she did refuse the match, excusing herself in
seemly terms. Yet what a strange humour, after all, to be beautiful,
honourable and a very rich heiress, and finish out one’s days over
a pen or a solitary seam, lone and cold as ice, and spend so many
widowed nights! Oh! how many dames there be of a very different
complexion,—though not a few also of the like! But an if I were for
citing all these, I should never have ended; and especially if I should
include among our Christian ladies those of pagan times. Of these was
that right fair, and good and gentle Roman lady of yore, Martia, second
daughter of Cato of Utica, sister to Portia, who after losing her
husband incessantly bewailing the said loss, being asked when would be
the last day of her mourning, did make answer ’twould be only when the
last day of her life should come. Moreover being both very beautiful
and very rich, she was more than once asked when she would marry again,
to which she replied: “’Twill be when I can find a man that will marry
me rather for my merits than for my wealth.” And God knoweth she was
both rich and beautiful, and no less virtuous, than either, nay! far
more so; else had she not been Cato’s daughter nor Portia’s sister. Yet
did she pass this rebuff on her lovers and suitors, and would have it
they did seek her for her wealth and not for her merits and virtues,
albeit she was as well furnished with these as any. Thus did she
readily rid her of these importunate gallants.
Saint Jerome in a letter he wrote to one Principia, a virgin, doth
celebrate the praises of a gentle Roman lady of his time, which was
named Marcella, of a good and noble house, and sprung from a countless
line of consuls, pro-consuls, Praetors, and one that had been left a
widow very young. She was much sought after, both for her youth and
for the antiquity of her house, as well as for her lovely figure, the
which did singularly entrance the will of men (so saith Saint Jerome,
using these very words; note his observation), and her seemly mien
and virtuous character. Among other suitors was a rich and high-born
Roman Lord, likewise of Consular rank, and by name Cerealis, which did
eagerly seek to persuade her to give him her hand in second marriage.
Being something far stricken in years, he did promise her great wealth
and superb gifts as chiefest advantage in the match. Above all her
mother, Albina by name, did strongly urge her to the marriage, thinking
it an excellent offer and one not lightly to be refused. But she made
answer: “An if I had any wish to throw myself in the water and entangle
me in the bonds of a second marriage, and not rather vow me to a
second chastity, yet would I fain prefer to get me an husband rather
an inheritance.” Then, the lover deeming she had said this with an eye
to his advanced age, he made reply: that old folk might very well live
long, and young ones die early. But she retorted: “True, the young may
die early, but an old man cannot live long.” At which word he did take
umbrage, and so left her. I find this fair lady’s saying admirable and
her resolve most commendable.
Not less so was that of Martia, named above, whose behaviour was not
so open to reproof as that of her sister Portia. For the latter, after
the death of her husband, did determine to live no longer, but kill
herself. Then all instruments of iron being removed, wherewith she
might have taken her life, she did swallow live coals, and so burned
all her inwards, declaring that for a brave woman means can never be
lacking whereby to contrive her death. This hath been well told by
Martial in one of his Epigrams, writ expressly on this lady’s fate, and
a fine poem it is. Yet did she not, according to certain philosophers,
and in especial Aristotle in his Ethics, (speaking of courage or
fortitude) show herein any high degree of courage or magnanimity in
killing herself, as many others have done, and her own husband; for
that, to avoid a greater ill, they do throw themselves upon the less.
On this point I have writ a discourse elsewhere.
Be this as it may, ’twould surely have been better, had this same
Portia rather devoted her days to mourning her husband and avenging
his death than in contriving her own. For this did serve no good end
whatsoever, except mayhap a gratification of her own pique, as I have
heard some women say in blame of her action. Natheless for myself, I
cannot enough commend her, and all other widows, which do show their
love for their dead husbands as lively as in their lifetime. And this
is why Saint Paul hath so highly praised and commended them, holding
this doctrine of his great Master. Yet have I been taught of some of
the most clear sighted and most eloquent persons I know, that beautiful
young widows which do remain in that condition in the very flower of
their sweet age and heyday of their life, do exercise an over great
cruelty upon themselves and nature, so to conspire against their own
selves, and refuse to taste again the gentle joys of a second marriage.
This much doth divine law no less than human allow them, as well as
nature, youth and beauty; yet must they needs abstain in obedience
to some vow and obstinate resolve, the which they have fantastically
determined in their silly heads to keep to the vain and empty simulacra
of their husbands, that standing like sentinels forgot in the other
world, and dwelling yonder in the Elysian fields, be either altogether
careless of them and their doings or mayhap do but deride the same.
On this question generally all such dames should refer them to the
eloquent remonstrances and excellent arguments the which Anna doth
bring forward to her sister Dido, in the Fourth Book of the Aeneid.
These be most excellent for to teach a fair young widow not over
sternly to swear a vow of never altering her condition, rather out of
bigotry than real religion. An if after their husbands’ death, they
should be crowned with fair chaplets of flowers or herbs, as was the
custom of yore, and as is still done with young maids in our day, this
triumph would be good and creditable while it lasted, and not of over
long duration. But now all that may be given them, is a few words of
admiration, the which do vanish into air so soon as spoken and perish
as quick as the dead man’s corse. Well then, let all fair young widows
recognise the world and its claims, since they be of it still, and
leave religion to old women and the strait rule to perpetual widowhood.
7.
Well! enough said of widows which go fasting. ’Tis time now to speak
of another sort, to wit those which detesting all vows and abnegations
against second marriages, do wed again and once more claim the aid of
the gentle and agreeable God Hymen. Of such there be some which, over
fond of their admirers during their husband’s life, be already dreaming
of another match before these be well dead, planning aforehand betwixt
them and their lovers the sort of life they will lead together: “Ah,
me! an if mine husband were but dead,” they say, “we would do this,
we would do that; we would live after this pleasant fashion, we would
arrange it after that,—and all so discreetly none should ever suspect
our bygone loves. A right merry life we would have of it then; we
would go to Paris, to Court, and bear us so wisely naught should ever
do us hurt. You would pay court to such and such a great lady, I to
such and such a great nobleman; we would get this from the King, and
that. We would get our children provided with tutors and guardians, and
have never a care for their property and governance. Rather would we
be making our fortunes, or else enjoying theirs, pending their coming
of age. We would have plenishing enough, with that of mine husband to
boot; the last for sure we could not lack, for I wot well where be the
title deeds and good crown pieces. In a word, who so happy as we should
be?”—and so on and so on.
Such the fine words and pleasant plans these wives do indulge in to
their lovers by anticipation. Some of them do only kill their husbands
in wishes, words, hopes and longings; but others there be that do
actually haste them on the way to the tomb, if they be over laggard.
Cases of this sort have been, and are yet to-day, more plenty before
our Courts of Law and Parliaments than any would suppose. But verily
’tis better and more agreeable they do not as did a certain Spanish
dame. For being ill treated of her husband, she did kill him, and
afterward herself, having first writ this epitaph following, which she
left on the table in her closet, indited in her own hand:
Aqui yaze qui a buscado una muger,
Y con ella casado, no l’ha podido hazer muger,
A las otras, no a mi, cerca mi, dava contentamiento,
Y pore este, y su flaqueza y atrevimiento,
Yo lo he matado,
Por le dar pena de su pecado:
Ya my tan bien, por falta de my juyzio,
Y por dar fin à la mal-adventura qu’yo aviô.
(Here lieth one which did seek a wife, yet could not satisfy a
wife; to other women, but not me, though near me, he would give
contentment. And for this, and for his cowardice and insolence, I
have killed him, to punish him for his sins. Myself likewise I have
done to death, for lack of understanding, and to make an end of the
unhappy life I had.)
This lady was named Donna Madallena de Soria, the which, in the
judgment of some, did a fine thing to kill her husband for the wrong he
had done her; but did no less foolishly to slay herself,—and indeed she
doth admit as much, saying “for lack of understanding she did herself
to death.” She had done better to have led a merry life afterward,
were it not, mayhap, she did fear the law and dread to get within its
clutches, wherefore she did prefer to triumph over herself rather than
trust her repute to the authority of the Judges. I can assure you,
there have always been, and are yet women more astute than this; for
they do play their game so cunningly and covertly, that lo! you have
the husband gone to another world, and themselves living a merry life
and getting their complaisant gallants to give ’em no mere artificial
joys with _godemiches_ and the like, but the good, sound, real article.
Other widows there be which do show more wisdom, virtue and love toward
their late husbands, with never a suspicion of cruelty toward these.
Rather they do mourn, lament and bewail them with such extremity of
sorrow you would think they would not live one hour more. “Alackaday!”
they cry, “am not I the most unhappy woman in all the world, and the
most ill-starred to have lost so precious a possession? Gracious God!
why dost not kill me straight, that I may follow him presently to the
tomb? Nay! I care not to live on after him; for what is left me in
this world or can ever come to me, to give me solace? An it were not
for these babes he hath left me in pledge, and that they do yet need
some stay, verily I would kill myself this very minute. Cursed be the
hour ever I was born! If only I might see his ghost, or behold him in
a vision or dream, or by some magic art, how blessed should I be e’en
now! Oh! sweetheart, sweet soul! can I in no way follow thee in death?
Yea! I will follow thee, so soon as, free from all human hindrance,
I may be alone and do myself to death. What could make my life worth
living, now I have had so irreparable a loss? With thee alive I could
have no other wish but to live; with thee dead, no wish but only to
die! Well, well! is’t not better for me to die now in thy love and
favour and mine own good repute and satisfaction, than to drag on so
sorrowful and unhappy a life, wherein is never a scrap of credit to be
gotten? Great God! what ills and torments I endure by thine absence!
what a sweet deliverance, an if I might but see thee soon again, what
a crown of bliss! Alas! he was so handsome, he was so lovable! He was
another Mars, another Adonis! and more than all, he was so kind, and
loved me so true, and treated me so fondly! In one word, in losing him,
I have lost all mine happiness.”
Such and an infinity of the like words do our heart-broken widows
indulge in after the death of their husbands. Some will make their
moan in one way, others in another, but always something to the effect
of what I have set down. Some do cry out on heaven, others curse this
earth of ours; some do blaspheme God, others vent their spleen on the
world. Some again do feign to swoon, while others counterfeit death;
some faint away, and others pretend to be mad and desperate and out of
their wits, knowing no one and refusing to speak. In a word, I should
never have done, if I were to try to specify all the false, feigned,
affected tricks they do use for to prove their grief and mourning to
the world. Of course I speak not of all, but of some, and a fine few
these be and a good round number.
Good folk of either sex that would console suchlike doleful widows,
thinking no ill and supposing their grief genuine, do but lose their
pains and none is a whit the better. Others again of these comforters,
when they see the poor suffering object of their solicitude failing to
keep up the farce and make the proper grimaces, do instruct them in
their part, like a certain great lady I wot of, which would tell her
daughter, “Now faint, my pet; you don’t show near enough concern.”
Then presently, after all these wondrous rites performed, just like
a torrent that after dashing headlong down its course, doth anon
subside again and quietly return to its bed, or like a river that hath
overflowed its banks, so you will see these widows recover them and
return to their former complexion, gradually get back their spirits,
begin to be merry once again and dream of worldly vanities. Instead of
the death’s-heads they were used to wear, whether painted, engraven
or in relief, instead of dead men’s bones set crosswise or enclosed
in coffins, instead of tears, whether of jet or of enamelled gold, or
simply painted, you will see them now adopt portraits of their husbands
worn round the neck, though still adorned with death’s-heads and tears
painted in scrolls and the like, in fact sundry little gewgaws, yet
all so prettily set off that spectators suppose they do use and wear
the same rather by way of mourning for their deceased husbands than
for worldly show. Then presently, just as we see young birds, whenas
they quit the parental nest, do not at the very first make very long
flights, but fluttering from branch to branch do little by little
learn the use of their wings, so these widows, quitting their mourning
habits and desperate grief, do not appear in public at once, but taking
greater and greater freedom by degrees, do at last throw off their
mourning altogether, and toss their widows’ weeds and flowing veil to
the dogs, as the saying is, and letting love more than ever fill their
heads, do dream of naught else but only a second marriage or other
return to wanton living. So we find their great and violent sorrow
hath no long duration. It had been better far to have exercised more
moderation in their sorrow.
I knew once a very fair lady, which after her husband’s death was so
woebegone and utterly cast down that she would tear her hair, and
disfigure her cheeks and bosom, pulling the longest face ever she
could. And when folk did chide her for doing such wrong to her lovely
countenance, “My God!” she would cry, “what would you have? What use is
my pretty face to me now? Who should I safeguard it for, seeing mine
husband is no more?” Yet some eight months later, who but she is making
up her face with Spanish white and rouge and besprinkling her locks
with powder,—a marvellous change truly?
Hereof I will cite an excellent example, for to prove my contention,
that of a fair and honourable lady of Ephesus, which having lost her
husband could find no consolation whatever in spite of all efforts of
kinsmen and friends. Accordingly following her husband’s funeral, with
endless grief and sorrow, with sobs, cries, tears and lamentations,
after he was duly put away in the charnel-house where his body was to
rest, she did throw herself therein in spite of all that could be done
to hinder, swearing and protesting stoutly she would never leave that
place, but would there tarry to the end and finish her days beside her
husband’s corpse and never, never abandon the same. This resolution
she did hold to, and did actually so live by the space of two or three
days. Meantime, as fortune would have it, a man of those parts was
executed for some crime and hanged in the city, and afterward carried
forth the walls to the gibbets there situate to the end of the bodies
of malefactors so hanged and put to death should there remain for an
example to others, carefully watched by a band of officers and soldiers
to prevent their being carried off. So it fell out that a soldier that
was guarding the body, and was standing sentry, did hear near by a
very lamentable voice crying and approaching perceived ’twas in the
charnel-house. Having gone down therein, he beheld the said lady, as
fair and beautiful as day, all bathed in tears and lamenting sore; and
accosting her, set him to enquiring the reason of her pitiful state,
the which she told him gently enough. Thereupon doing his endeavours
to console her grief, but naught succeeding for the first time, he did
return again and once again. Finally he was enabled to gain his point,
and did little by little comfort her and got her to dry her eyes; till
at length hearkening to reason, she did yield so far as that he had her
twice over, holding her on her back on the very coffin of her husband,
which did serve as their couch. This done, they did swear marriage,
one with the other; after which happy consummation, the soldier did
return to his duty, to guard the gibbet,—for ’twas a matter of life
and death to him. But fortunate as he had been in this fine enterprise
of his and its carrying out, his misfortune now was such that while he
was so inordinately taking his pleasure, lo! the kinsfolk of the poor
dangling criminal did steal up, for to cut the body down, an if they
should find it unguarded. So finding no guard there, they did cut it
down with all speed, and carried the corpse away with them swiftly, to
bury it where they might, to the end they might rid them of so great
dishonour and a sight so foul and hateful to the dead man’s kindred.
The soldier coming up and finding the body a-missing, hied him in
despair to his mistress, to tell her his calamity and how he was ruined
and undone; for the law of that country was that any soldier which
should sleep on guard and suffer the body to be carried off, should
he put in its place and hanged instead, which risk he did thus run.
The lady, who had but now been consoled of him, and had felt sore need
of comfort for herself, did quick find the like for him, and said as
follows: “Be not afeared; only come help me to lift mine husband from
his tomb, and we will hang him and set him up in place of the other; so
they will take him for the other.” No sooner said than done. Moreover
’tis said the first occupant of the gibbet had had an ear cut off; so
she did the same to the second, the better to preserve the likeness.
Next day the officers of justice did visit the place, but found naught
amiss. Thus did she save her gallant by a most abominable deed and
wicked act toward her husband,—the very same woman, I would have you
note, which had so grievously deplored and lamented his loss, so that
no man would ever have expected so shameful an issue.
The first time ever I heard this history, ’twas told by M.
d’Aurat,[119*] which did relate it to the gallant M. du Gua and sundry
that were dining with him. M. du Gua was not one to fail to appreciate
such a tale and to profit thereby, no man in all the world loving
better a good anecdote or better able to turn the same to account.
Accordingly soon after, being come into the Queen’s chamber, he saw
there a young, new-made widow, but just bereaved and all disconsolate,
her veil drawn half way down her face, sad and pitiful, with scarce
a word for any man. Of a sudden M. du Gua said to me: “Dost see
yonder widow? well! before a year be out, she will one day be doing
as the lady of Ephesus did.” And so she did, though not altogether so
shamefully; but she did marry a man of base condition, even as M. du
Gua had foretold.
The same story I had also of M. de Beau-Joyeux, valet of the chamber to
the Queen Mother, and the best violin player in Christendom. Not only
was he perfect in his art and music generally, but he was likewise of
an amiable disposition, and well instructed, above all in excellent
tales and fine stories, little known and of rare quality. Of these he
was by no means niggardly with his more intimate friends, and beside
could relate sundry from his own experience, for in his day he had both
seen many good love adventures and had not a few of his own; for what
with his noble gift of music and his good, bold spirit, two weapons
very meet for love, he could carry far. The Maréchal de Brissac had
given him to the Queen Mother, having sent him to her from Piedmont
with his company of violins, the whole most exquisite and complete.
He was then called Baltazarin, but did after change his name. Of his
composition were those pretty ballets that be always danced at Court.
He was a great friend of M. du Gua and myself; and we would often
converse together. On these occasions he had always some good tale
ready to tell, especially of love and ladies’ wiles. Among such he did
tell us that of the lady of Ephesus, already heard from M. d’Aurat,
as I have mentioned, who said he had it from Lampridius. Since then I
have read it also in the _Book of Obsequies_ (des Funérailles), a right
excellent work, dedicated to the late M. de Savoie.
The author might surely have spared us this digression, some may
object. Yea!—but then I was fain to make mention of my friend
hereanent, which did oft bring the story to my mind, whenever he beheld
any of our woe-begone widows. “Look!” he would exclaim, “see yonder one
that will some day play the part of our lady of Ephesus, or else mayhap
she hath played it already.” And by my faith, ’twas a mighty strange
tragi-comedy, an act full of heartlessness, so cruelly to insult her
dead husband.
At the massacre of the Saint Bartholomew was slain the Seigneur de
Pleuviau, who in his time had been a right gallant soldier, without a
doubt, in the War of Tuscany under M. de Soubise, as well as in the
Civil War, as he did plainly show at the battle of Jarnac, being in
command of a regiment there, and in the siege of Niort. Some while
after the soldier which had killed him did inform his late wife,
all distraught with grief and tears,—she was both beautiful and
wealthy,—that an if she would not marry him, he would kill her and make
her go the same way as her husband; for at that merry time, ’twas all
fighting and cut-throat work. The unhappy woman accordingly, which was
still both young and fair, was constrained, for to save her life, to
celebrate wedding and funeral all in one. Yet was she very excusable;
for indeed what could a poor fragile, feeble woman have done else,
unless it had been to kill herself, or give her tender bosom to the
murderous steel? But verily
Le temps n’est plus, belle bergeronnette,
(Those days be done, fair shepherdess;)
and these fond fanatics of yore exist no more. Beside, doth not our
holy Christian faith forbid it? This is a grand excuse for all widows
nowadays, who always say,—and if ’twere not forbid of God, they would
kill themselves. Thus do they mask their inaction.
At this same massacre was made another widow, a lady of very good
family and most beauteous and charming. The same, while, yet in the
first desolation of widowhood, was forced by a gentleman that I know
well enough by name; whereat was she so bewildered and disconsolate she
did well nigh lose her senses for some while. Yet presently after she
did recover her wits and making the best of her widowhood and going
back little by little to worldly vanities and regaining her natural
lively spirits, did forget her wrongs and make a new match, gallant and
high-born. And in this I ween she did well.