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Tale 64 of the Heptameron
In the city of Valencia there lived a gentleman, who for the space of
five or six years had loved a lady so perfectly that the honour and
conscience of neither of them had taken any hurt; for his intent was
to have her as his wife, and this was reasonable, seeing that he was
handsome, rich and of good descent. But, before he became her lover, he
first inquired concerning her own mind, whereupon she declared herself
willing to marry according to the counsels of her kinsfolk. The
latter, being come together for the purpose, deemed the marriage a very
reasonable one provided that the maiden was herself disposed to it; but
she—whether because she thought to do better or because she wished to
hide her love for him—-made some difficulty, and the company separated,
not without regret at having failed to conclude a match so well suited
to both parties.
The most grieved of all was the poor gentleman, who would have borne
his misfortune with patience had he thought that the fault lay with the
kinsfolk and not with her; but he knew the truth, and the knowledge was
to him worse than death. So, without speaking to his sweetheart or to
any other person, he withdrew to his own house, and, after setting his
affairs in order, betook himself to a solitary spot, where he strove to
forget his love and change it wholly to that love of our Lord which were
truly a higher duty than the other.
During this time he received no tidings of his mistress or her kindred,
and he therefore resolved that, since he had failed to obtain the
happiest life he could hope for, he would choose the most austere and
disagreeable that he could imagine. With this sad intent, which
might well have been called despair, he went and became a monk in the
monastery of St. Francis. This monastery was not far from the dwellings
of divers of his kinsfolk, who, on hearing of his desperate condition,
did all that in them lay to hinder his purpose; but this was so firmly
rooted in his heart that it was not possible to turn him from it.
Nevertheless, as the source of his distemper was known to them, they
determined to seek the cure, and so repaired to her who was the cause
of his sudden devoutness. She was greatly astonished and grieved by this
mischance, for, in refusing for a time, she had thought only to test his
affection, not to lose it for ever. Seeing now the evident risk that she
ran of doing this last, she sent him a letter, which, ill-translated,
was as follows:—
"Since love, if tested not full needfully,
Steadfast and faithful is not shown to be,
By length of time my heart would that assay
Whereon itself was set to love alway—
To wit, a husband with that true love filled
Such as no lapsing time has ever killed.
This, then, was the sole reason that I drew
My kin to hinder for a year or two
That closest tie which lasts till life is not,
And whereby woe is oftentimes begot.
Yet sought I not to have you wholly sent
Away; such was in no wise my intent,
For none save you could I have e'er adored
Or looked to as my husband and my lord.
But woe is me, what tidings reach mine ear!
That you, to lead the cloistered life austere,
Are gone with speech to none; whereat the pain
That ever holds me, now can brook no rein,
But forces me mine own estate to slight
For that which yours aforetime was of right;
To seek him out who once sought me alone,
And win him who myself has sometimes won.
Nay then, my love, life of the life in me,
For loss of whom I fain would cease to be,
Turn hither, graciously, those eyes of pain
And trace those wandering footsteps back again.
Leave the grey robe and its austerity,
Come back and taste of that felicity
Which often you desired, and which to-day
Time has nor slain, nor swept away.
For you alone I've kept myself; and I,
Lacking your presence, cannot choose but die.
Come back then; in your sweetheart have belief,
And for past memories find cool relief
In holy marriage-ties. Ah! then, my dear,
To me, not to your pride give ready ear,
And rest of this assured, I had no thought
To give, sweetheart, to you offence in aught,
But only yearned your faithfulness to prove
And then to make you happy with my love.
But now that through this trial, free from scathe,
Are come your steadfastness and patient faith,
And all that loyal love to me is known,
Which at the last has made me yours alone,
Come, my beloved, take what is your due
And wholly yield to me, as I to you!"
This letter, brought by a friend of hers with every remonstrance that it
was possible to make, was received and read by the gentleman friar with
such sadness of countenance, such sighs and such tears, that it seemed
as though he would drown and burn the poor epistle. But he made no
reply to it, except to tell the messenger that the mortification of his
exceeding passion had cost him so dear as to have taken from him both
the wish to live and the fear to die. He therefore requested her who
had been the cause of this, that since she had not chosen to satisfy
his passionate longings, she would, now that he was rid of them, abstain
from tormenting him, and rest content with the evil which was past. For
that evil he could find no remedy but the choice of an austere life,
which by continual penance might bring him to forget his grief, and, by
fasts and disciplines, subdue his body, till the thought of death should
be to him but a sovereign consolation. Above all, he begged that he
might never hear of her, since he found the mere remembrance of her name
a purgatory not to be endured.
The gentleman went back with this mournful reply, and reported it to the
maiden who did not hear it without intolerable sorrow. But Love, which
will not suffer the spirit utterly to fail, gave her the thought that,
if she could see him, her words and presence might be of more effect
than the writing. She therefore, with her father and the nearest of her
kin, went to the monastery where he abode. She had left nothing in her
box that might set off her beauty, for she felt sure that, could he but
once look at her and hear her, the fire that had so long dwelt in both
their hearts must of necessity be kindled again in greater strength than
before.
Coming thus into the monastery towards the end of vespers, she sent for
him to come to her in a chapel that was in the cloister. He, knowing not
who it was that sought him, went in all ignorance to the sternest battle
in which he had ever been. When she saw him so pale and wan that she
could hardly recognise him, yet filled with grace, in no whit less
winning than of yore, Love made her stretch out her arms to embrace him,
whilst her pity at seeing him in such a plight so enfeebled her heart,
that she sank swooning to the floor.
The poor monk, who was not void of brotherly charity, lifted her up and
set her upon a seat in the chapel. Although he had no less need of
aid than she had, he feigned to be unaware of her passion, and so
strengthened his heart in the love of God against the opportunities now
present with him, that, judging by his countenance, he seemed not to
know what was actually before him. Having recovered from her weakness,
she turned upon him her beautiful, piteous eyes, which were enough to
soften a rock, and began to utter all such discourse as she believed apt
to draw him from the place in which he now was. He replied as virtuously
as he was able; but at last, finding that his heart was being softened
by his sweetheart's abundant tears, and perceiving that Love, the cruel
archer whose pains he long had known, was ready with his golden dart to
deal him fresh and more deadly wounds, he fled both from Love and from
his sweetheart, like one whose only resource lay, indeed, in flight.
When he was shut up in his room, not desiring to let her go without some
settlement of the matter, he wrote her a few words in Spanish, which
seem to me so excellent in their matter that I would not by translating
them mar their grace. These were brought to her by a little novice,
who found her still in the chapel and in such despair that, had it been
lawful, she too would have remained there and turned friar. But when she
saw the words, which were these—
"Volvete don venesti, anima mia,
Que en las tristas vidas es la mia," (1)
she knew that all hope was gone, and she resolved to follow the advice
of him and her friends, and so returned home, there to lead a life as
melancholy as that of her lover in his monastery was austere.
"You see, ladies, what vengeance the gentleman took upon his harsh
sweetheart, who, thinking to try him, reduced him to such despair that,
when she would have regained him, she could not do so."
"I am sorry," said Nomerfide, "that he did not lay aside his gown and
marry her. It would, I think, have been a perfect marriage."
"In good sooth," said Simontault, "I think he was very wise. Anyone who
well considers what marriage is will deem it no less grievous than
a monkish life. Moreover, being so greatly weakened by fasts and
abstinence, he feared to take upon him a burden of that kind which lasts
all through life."
"Methinks," said Hircan, "she wronged so feeble a man by tempting him
to marriage, for 'tis too much for the strongest man alive; but had she
spoken to him of love, free from any obligation but that of the will,
there is no friar's cord that would not have been untied. However, since
she sought to draw him out of purgatory by offering him hell, I think
that he was quite right to refuse her, and to let her feel the pain that
her own refusal had cost him."
"By my word," said Ennasuite, "there are many who, thinking to do better
than their fellows, do either worse or else the very opposite of what
they desire."
"Truly," said Geburon, "you remind me—though, indeed, the matter is
not greatly to the point—of a woman who did the opposite of what she
desired, and so caused a great uproar in the church of St. John of
Lyons."
"I pray you," said Parlamente, "take my place and tell us about it."
"My story," said Geburon, "will not be so long or so piteous as the one
we have heard from Parlamente."
Footnotes:
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"Return whence thou earnest, my soul,
for among the sad lives is mine."'
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