The book of the ladies

The Contes et Nouvelles of the Queen of Navarre have nothing, as we can readily believe, that is much out of keeping or contradictory with her life and the habitual character of her thoughts. M. Genin has already made that judicious remark, and an attentive reading will only justify it. Those Tales are neither the gayeties nor the sins of youth; she wrote them at a ripe age, for the most part in her litter while travelling, and by way of amusement – but the amusement had its serious side. Death prevented her from concluding them; instead of the seven Days which we actually have, she intended to make ten, like Boccaccio; she wished to give, not an Heptameron, but a French Decameron. In her prologue she supposes that several persons of condition, French and Spanish, having met, in the month of September, at the baths of Cauterets, in the Pyrenees, separate after a few weeks; the Spaniards returning as best they can across the mountains, the French delayed on their way by floods caused by the heavy rains. A certain number of these travellers, men and women, after divers adventures more extraordinary than agreeable, find themselves again in company at the Abbey of Notre-Dame-de-Serrance, and there, as the river Gave is not fordable, they decide to build a bridge. “The abbé,” says the narrator, “who was very glad they should make this outlay, because the number of pilgrims would thus be increased, furnished the workmen, but not a penny to the costs, such was his avarice. The workmen declaring that they could not build the bridge under ten or a dozen days, the company, half men, half women, began to get very weary.” It became necessary to find some “pleasant and virtuous” occupation for those ten days, and for this they consulted a certain Dame Oisille, the oldest of the company.

Dame Oisille responded in a manner most edifying: “My children, you ask me a thing that I find very difficult, namely: to teach you a pastime which shall deliver you from ennui. Having searched for this remedy all my life, I have found but one, and that is the reading of Holy Epistles, in which will be found the true and perfect joy of the soul, from which proceeds the repose and health of the body.” But the joyous company cannot keep wholly to so austere a system, and it is agreed that the time shall be divided between the sacred and the profane. Early in the morning the company assembled in the chamber of Dame Oisille to share in her moral readings, and from there they went to mass. They dined at ten o’clock, after which, having retired each to his or her chamber for private affairs, they met again about mid-day on the meadow: “And, if it please you, every day, from mid-day till four o’clock, we went through the beautiful meadow, on the banks of the river du Gave, where the trees are so leafy that the sun cannot pierce the shadows, or heat the coolness; and there, seated at our ease, each told some story he had known, or else heard from a trustworthy person.” For it was well understood that nothing should be told that was not true; narrators must be content to disguise, if necessary, the names of both persons and places. The company numbered ten; as many men as women, and each told a story daily; so it followed that in ten days the hundred tales would be completed. Every afternoon, at four o’clock, a bell was rung, giving notice that it was time to go to vespers; the company went, – not, however, without sometimes obliging the monks to wait for them; to which delay the latter lent themselves with very good grace. Thus rolled the time away, no one believing that he or she had passed the limits of sanctioned gayety or committed any sin.

The Tales of the Queen of Navarre have nothing absolutely out of keeping with this framework and design. Each story has a moral, a precept, either well or ill deduced; each is related to support some maxim, some theory, on the pre-eminence of one or other of the sexes, on the nature and essence of love, with examples or proofs (often very contestable) of what is advanced. Prudery apart, there is not much in these tales that is really charming. The subjects are those of the time. At moments we exclaim with Dame Oisille: “Good God! shall we never get out of these stories of monks?” We are made aware that even the honourable men and well-bred women of those days were contemporaries of Rabelais. However, it all turns to a good end. There is wit and subtlety in the discussions which serve as epilogue or prologue to the different tales. Most of the histories, being true, are without art, composition, or dénouement. The Queen of Navarre has been very little imitated in the tales and verses made since her day; in fact, she lends herself poorly to imitation. Only once does La Fontaine put her under contribution, but then in what is, as I think, the most piquant of her writings, namely: the tale of La Servante justifiée. In Marguerite’s story a merchant, a carpet-dealer, emancipates himself with another than his wife, and is discovered by a female neighbour. Fearing that the latter will gabble, the merchant, “who knew how to give any colour to carpets,” arranges matters in such a way that his wife is induced of her own accord to walk to the same place; so that when the gossiping neighbour comes to tell the wife what she has seen, the latter replies, “Hey! my crony, but that was I.” This “that was I” repeated many times and in varying tones, becomes comical, like the sayings of the farce called Patelin, or a scene of Regnard; there are, however, not many such sayings in Marguerite’s Tales.

A question which arises on the reading of these Nouvelles, the image and faithful reproduction of the good society of that day, is on the singularity that the tone of conversation should have varied so much among honourable persons at different epochs before it settled down upon the basis of true delicacy and decency. Elegant conversation dates much farther back than we suppose; polished society began much earlier than we think. The character of conversation as we now understand it in society, and that which specially distinguishes it among moderns, is that women are admitted to it; and this it was that led, during the finest period of the middle ages, to charming conversations in certain Courts of the South, and also in Normandy, in France, and in England. In those castles of the South where troubadours disported, and whence the echo of their sweet songs comes to us, where exquisite and ravishing stories were composed (like that of Aucassin et Nicolette), there must have been all the delicacy, all the graces one could wish for in conversation. But taking matters as they appear to us at the end of the 15th century, we notice a mixture, a very perceptible struggle between purity and license, between coarseness and refinement. The pretty little romance Jehan de Saintré, in which the chivalric ideal is pictured from the start in the daintiest manner, and which assumes to give us a little code in action of politeness, courtesy and gallantry, – in a word, the complete education of a young equerry of the day, – this pretty romance is also full of pedantic precepts, essays on minute ceremonial, and towards the end it suddenly turns into gross sensuality and the triumph of the monk, after Rabelais.

The vein of license and wanton language never ceased its flow from the time it originated, disguising itself in brilliant moments and noble companies only to again unmask at the beginning of the sixteenth century, when it seems to borrow still further audacity from the Latin Renaissance. This was the time when virtuous women told and openly discoursed of tales à la Roquelaure. Such is the tone of the society which the Nouvelles of Marguerite of Navarre represent to us, all the more naïvely because their intention is in no way indecent. Nearly a century was needed to reform this vice of taste; it was necessary that Mme. de Rambouillet and her daughter should come to reprimand and school the Court, that professors of good taste and polite language, like Mlle. de Scudéry and the Chevalier de Méré, should apply themselves for years to preach decorum; and even then we shall find many backslidings and vestiges of coarseness in the midst of even their refinement and formalism.

The noble moment is that when, by some sudden change of season, intellects and minds are spread, all of a sudden, in a richer and more equal manner over a whole generation of vigorous souls who then return eagerly to that which is natural, and give themselves up to it without restraint. That noble moment came in the middle of the seventeenth century, and nothing can be imagined comparable to the conversations of the youth of the Condés, the La Rochefoucaulds, the Retzes, the Saint-Evremonds, the Sévignés, the Turennes. What perfect hours were those when Mme. de La Fayette talked with Madame Henriette, lying after dinner on the cushions! Thus we come, across the greatest of centuries, to Mme. de Caylus, the smiling niece of Mme. de Maintenon, to that airy perfection where the mind without reflecting about it, denies itself nothing and observes all.

In the second half of the seventeenth century no one but Mme. Cornuel was allowed to use coarse language and be forgiven because of the spicy wit with which she seasoned it. At all times virtuous women must have heard and listened to more than they repeated; but the decisive moment (which needs to be noted) is that when they ceased to say unseemly things and fix them in writing without perceiving that they themselves were lacking in a virtue. This moment is what Queen Marguerite, as a romance-writer and maker of Nouvelles, had not the art to divine.

As a poet she has nothing more than facility. She imitates and reproduces the various forms of poesy in use at that date. It is told how she often employed two secretaries, one to write down the French verses she composed impromptu, the other to transcribe her letters.

Marguerite died at the Castle of Odos in Bigorre, December 21, 1549, in her fifty-eighth year; in yielding her last breath she cried out three times: “Jesus!” She was the mother of Jeanne d’Albret.

Such as I have shown her as a whole, endeavouring not to force her features and to avoid all exaggeration, she deserves that name of gentil esprit [charming spirit] which has been so universally awarded to her; she was the worthy sister of François I., the worthy patron of the Renaissance, the worthy grandmother of Henri IV., as much for her mercy as for her joyousness, and one likes to address her, in the halo that surrounds her, these verses which her memory calls forth and which blend themselves so well with our thought of her: —

“Spirits, charming and lightsome, who have been, from all time, the grace and the honour of this land of France – ye who were born and played in those iron ages issuing from barbaric horrors; who, passing through cloisters, were welcomed there; the joyous soul of burgher vigils and the gracious fêtes of castles; ye who have blossomed often beside the throne, dispersing the weariness of pomps, giving to victory politeness, and recovering your smiles on the morrow of reverses; ye who have taken many forms, tricksome, mocking, elegant, or tender, facile ever; ye who have never failed to be born again at the moment you were said to have vanished – the ages for us have grown stern, reason is more and more accredited, leisure has fled; even our pleasures eagerness has turned into business, peace is without repose, so busy is she with the useful; to days serene come afterthoughts and cares to many a soul; – ’tis now the hour, or nevermore, for awakening; the hour to once more grasp the world and again delight it, as, throughout all time, ye have known the way, eternally fresh and novel. Abandon not forever this land of France, O spirits glad and lightsome!”

Saint-Beuve, Causeries du Lundi (1852).

DISCOURSE VII.

OF VARIOUS ILLUSTRIOUS LADIES. 22

1. Isabelle d’Autriche, wife of Charles IX., King of France [daughter of the Emperor Maximilian II.]

We have had our Queen of France, Isabelle d’Autriche, who was married to King Charles IX., of whom it is everywhere said she was one of the best, the gentlest, the wisest, and most virtuous queens who reigned since kings and queens began to reign. I can say this, and every man who has ever seen or heard of her will say it with me, and not do wrong to others, but with the greatest truth. She was very beautiful, having the complexion of her face as fine and delicate as any lady of her Court, and very agreeable. Her figure was beautiful also, though it was of only medium height. She was extremely wise, and very virtuous and kind, never giving pain to others, no matter who, nor offending any by a single word; and as to that, she was very sober, speaking little, and then in Spanish.

She was most devout, but in no way bigoted, not showing her devotion by external acts too visible and too extreme, such as I have seen in some of our paternosterers; but, without failing in her ordinary hours of praying to God, she used them well, so that she did not need to borrow extraordinary ones. It is true, as I have heard her ladies tell, that when she was in bed and hidden, her curtains well-drawn, she would kneel on her knees, in her shift, and pray to God an hour and a half, beating her breast and macerating it in her great devotion. Which they did not see by her consent, and then not till her husband, King Charles, was dead; at which time, she having gone to bed and all her women withdrawn, one of them remained to sleep in her chamber; and this lady, hearing her sigh one night, bethought her of looking through the curtains and saw her in that state, and praying to God in that manner, and so continuing every night; until at last the waiting-woman, who was familiar with her, began to remonstrate, and told her she did harm to her health. On which the queen was angry at being discovered and advised, and wished to conceal what she did, commanding her to say no word of it, and, for that night, desisted; but the night after she made up for it, thinking that her women did not perceive what she did, whereas they saw and perceived her by her shadow thrown by the night-lamp filled with wax which she kept lighted on her bed to read and pray to God; though other queens and princesses kept theirs upon their sideboards. Such ways of prayer are not like those of hypocrites, who, wishing to make an appearance before the world, say their prayers and devotions publicly, mumbling them aloud, that others may think them devout and saintly.

Thus prayed our queen for the soul of the king, her husband, whom she regretted deeply, – making her plaints and regrets, not as a crazed and despairing woman, with loud outcries, wounding her face, tearing her hair, and playing the woman who is praised for weeping; but mourning gently, shedding her beautiful and precious tears so tenderly, sighing so softly and lowly, that we knew she restrained her grief, not to make pretence to the world of brave appearance (as I have seen some ladies do), but keeping in her soul her greatest anguish. Thus a torrent of water if arrested is more violent than one that runs its ordinary course.

Here I am reminded to tell how, during the illness of the king, her lord and husband, he dying on his bed, and she going to visit him; suddenly she sat down beside him, not by his pillow as the custom is, but a little apart and facing him where he lay; not speaking to him, as her habit was, she held her eyes upon him so fixedly as she sat there you would have said she brooded over him in her heart with the love she bore him; and then she was seen to shed tears so quietly and tenderly that those who did not look at her would not have known it, drying her eyes while making semblance to blow her nose, causing pity to one (for I saw her) in seeing her so tortured without yielding to her grief or her love, and without the king perceiving it. Then she rose, and went to pray God for his cure; for she loved and honoured him extremely, although she knew his amorous complexion, and the mistresses that he had both for honour and for pleasure. But she never for that gave him worse welcome, nor said to him any harsh words; bearing patiently her little jealousy, and the robbery he did to her. She was very proper and dignified with him; indeed it was fire and water meeting together, for as much as the king was quick, eager, fiery, she was cold and very temperate.

I have been told by those who know that after her widowhood, among her most privileged ladies who tried to give her consolation, there was one (for you know among a large number there is always a clumsy one) who, thinking to gratify her said: “Ah, madame, if God instead of a daughter had given you a son, you would now be queen-mother of the king, and your grandeur would be increased and strengthened.” “Alas!” she replied, “do not say to me such grievous things. As if France had not troubles enough without my producing her one which would complete her ruin! For, had I a son, there would be more divisions, troubles, seditions to gain the government during his minority; from that would come more wars than ever; and each would be trying to get his profit in despoiling the poor child, as they would have done to the late king, my husband, when he was little, if the queen-mother and her good servitors had not opposed it. If I had a son, I should be miserable to think I had conceived him and so caused a thousand maledictions from the people, whose voice is that of God. That is why I praise my God, and take with gratitude the fruit he gives me, whether it be to me myself for better or for worse.”

Such was the goodness of this good princess towards the country and people to which she had been brought by marriage. I have heard related how, at the massacre of Saint-Bartholomew, she, knowing nothing of it nor even hearing the slightest breath of it, went to bed as usual, and did not wake till morning, at which time they told her of the fine drama that was playing [le beau mystère qui se jouoit]. “Alas!” she said quickly, “the king, my husband, does he know of it?” “Yes, madame,” they answered her; “it was he himself who ordered it.” “0 my God!” she cried, “what is this? What counsellors are those who gave him such advice? My God! I implore thee, I beg thee to pardon him; for if thou dost not pity him, I fear that this offence is unforgivable.” Then she asked for her prayer-book and began her orisons, imploring God with tears in her eyes.

Consider, I beg of you, the goodness and wisdom of this queen in not approving such a festival nor the deed then performed, although she had reasons to desire the total extermination of M. l’amiral and those of his religion, not only because they were contrary to hers, which she adored and honoured before all else in the world, but because she saw how they troubled the States of the king, her husband; and also because the emperor, her father, had said to her when she parted from him to come to France: “My daughter, you will be queen of the finest, most powerful and greatest kingdom in the world, and for that I hold you to be very happy; but happier would you be if you could find that kingdom as flourishing as it once was; but instead you will find it torn, divided, weakened; for though the king, your husband, holds a good part of it, the princes and seigneurs of the Religion hold on their side the other part of it.” And as he said to her, so she found it.

This queen having become a widow, many persons, men and women of the Court, the most clear-sighted that I know, were of opinion that the king, on his return from Poland, would marry her although she was his sister-in-law; for he could have done so by dispensation of the pope, who can do much in such matters, and above all for great personages because of the public good that comes of it. There were many reasons why this marriage should be made; I leave them to be deduced by high discoursers, without alleging them myself. But among others was that of recognizing by this marriage the great obligations the king had received from the emperor on his return from Poland and departure thence; for it cannot be doubted that if the emperor had placed the smallest obstacle in his way, he could never have left Poland or reached France safely. The Poles would have kept him had he not departed without bidding them farewell; and the Germans lay in wait for him on all sides to catch him (as they did that brave King Richard of England of whom we read in the chronicles); they would surely have taken him prisoner and held him for ransom, and perhaps worse; for they were bitter against him for the Saint-Bartholomew; or, at least, the Protestant princes were. But, voluntarily and without ceremony, he threw himself in good faith upon the emperor, who received him very graciously and amiably, and with much honour and privilege as though they were brothers, and feasted him nobly; then, after having kept him several days, he conducted him himself for a day or two, giving him safe passage through his territory; so that King Henri, by his favour, reached Carinthia, the land of the Venetians, Venice, and then his own kingdom.

This was the obligation the king was under to the emperor; so that many persons, as I have said, were of opinion that King Henri III. would meet it by drawing closer their alliance. But at the time he went to Poland he saw at Blamont, in Lorraine, Mademoiselle de Vaudemont, Louise de Lorraine, one of the handsomest, best, and most accomplished princesses in Christendom, on whom he cast his eyes so ardently that he was soon in love, and in such a manner that (nursing his flame during the whole of his absence) on his return to France he despatched from Lyon M. du Gua, one of his prime favourites, to Lorraine, where he arranged and concluded the marriage between him and her very easily, and without altercation, as I leave you to think; because by the father and the daughter no such luck was expected, the one to be father-in-law of a king of France, and the daughter to be queen. Of her I shall speak elsewhere.

To return now to our little queen, who, disliking to remain in France for several reasons, especially because she was not recognized and endowed as she should have been, resolved to go and finish the remainder of her noble days with the emperor and empress, her father and mother. When there, the Catholic king being widowed of Queen Anne of Austria, own sister to Queen Isabelle, he desired to espouse the latter, and sent to beg the empress, his own sister, to lay his proposals before her. But she would not listen to them, not the first, nor the second, nor the third time her mother the empress spoke of them; excusing herself on the honourable ashes of the king, her husband, which she would not insult by a second marriage, and also on the ground of too great consanguinity and close parentage between them, which might greatly anger God; on which the empress and her brother the king urged her to lay the matter before a very learned and eloquent Jesuit, who exhorted and preached to her as much as he could, not forgetting to quote all the passages of Holy and other Scripture, which might serve his purpose. But the queen confounded him quickly by other quotations as fine and more truthful, for, since her widowhood, she had given herself to the study of God’s word; besides which, she told him her determined resolution, which was her most sacred defence, namely, not to forget her husband in a second marriage. On which the Jesuit was forced to leave her without gaining anything. But, being urged to return by a letter from the King of Spain, who would not accept the resolute answer of the princess, he treated her with rigorous words and even threats, so that she, not willing to lose her time contesting against him, cut him short by saying that if he meddled with her again she would make him repent it, and even went so far as to threaten to have him whipped in her kitchen. I have also heard, but I do not know if it be true, that this Jesuit having returned for the third time, she turned away and had him chastised for his presumption. I do not believe this; for she loved persons of holy lives, as those men are.

Such was the great constancy and noble firmness of this virtuous queen, which she kept to the end of her days, towards the venerated bones of the king her husband, which she honoured incessantly with regrets and tears; and not being able to furnish more (for a fountain must in the end dry up) she succumbed, and died so young that she was only thirty-five years old at the time of her death. Loss most inestimable! for she might long have served as a mirror of virtue to the honest ladies of all Christendom.