The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 19

In the time of that Marquis of Mantua, who had for wife the sister of the Duke of Ferrara, there lived in the house of the marchioness a maiden called Pauline. And she was loved in such wise by a gentleman in the service of the marquis that all men were amazed at the greatness of his love, inasmuch as though of poor estate he was handsome, and should, through ​the love his master bore him, have espoused some lady of wealth. But he, being assured that the greatest treasure in the world was Pauline, trusted to gain her for his own in marriage. The marchioness, wishing that by her countenance Pauline might make a more profitable match, looked with disfavour on the scheme, often charging them not to speak to one another, and warning them that if they were wed they would be in all Italy the poorest couple and the most wretched. But to these counsels the young gentleman paid no heed, and Pauline, though she strove to conceal the love she bore him, yet none the less had him in her thoughts. And this fellowship of theirs lasted for a long while, their only hope being that time would bring them better fortune. But it chanced that war broke out, in which the young gentleman was taken prisoner, together with a Frenchman, whose love for a lady in his own land was as great as the other's love for one in Italy. And these, finding themselves partakers of the same fate, began to tell their secrets one to the other, the Frenchman confessing that his own heart was a fast prisoner, though he told him not the name of its prison-house. But since they were both in the following of the Marquis of Mantua, the Frenchman was well assured of the love his comrade bore to Pauline, and out of the friendship he had for him advised him to banish her from his thoughts. But this, the young Italian swore, lay not within his power, saying that if in recompense of his good service and captivity his lord would not give him the maid to wife, he would presently turn monk, and do suit and service to no master save God. This his comrade could not believe, discerning in him no devotion nor sign of devotion, except it were that which he bore to Pauline. At the end of nine months the French gentleman was enlarged from his captivity, and by his efforts procured likewise the freedom of his friend, using also his good offices with the marquis and marchioness in the matter of the marriage of Pauline. But from this the two lovers gained nothing save warnings of the poverty in which they would both have to live; their parents moreover on both sides were against the match, and forbade him to speak to her any more, to the end that his great love might be overcome by absence and want of opportunity.

And so this man, seeing that he was obliged to obey, prayed ​of the marchioness to let him take leave of Pauline, and promised that after he had done so he would never speak to her again. This was granted him, and at the appointed time, being come into her presence, he spoke as follows: "Since, Pauline, it seems that heaven and earth are against us, not only in prohibiting us to wed, but what is worse, in disallowing us sight and speech of one another—an order which our lord and lady have laid so strictly upon us that they may truly boast of having broken two hearts with a single word, hereby showing mighty well that they neither have nor have had bowels of love nor compassion—I am well advised that their aim in this is to marry each of us honourably and to advantage, for they know not that contentment is the only true riches; yet with so much misfortune and unhappiness have they affected me, that I can no. more heartily do them any service. I know also that if I had never spoken of marriage they would not have been so careful as to forbid us to speak together, but I promise you I would rather die than follow a less honourable love than that with which I have loved you, from whom I have won that which I would defend from all. Since then, if I continued to see you, I could not restrain myself from speech; and if I saw you not, my heart, unable to remain empty, would be filled with some awful despair; I have determined, and this for some time, to enter the religious life, for though I know that salvation may be gained by all sorts and conditions of men, yet I would have more leisure in which I may contemplate the Divine Goodness and implore it to have pity upon the sins of my youth, and so to change my heart that it may love spiritual things no less than it has hitherto loved temporal things. And if by grace I obtain grace, my task shall be to pray without ceasing to God for you. And by that strong and loyal love which has been between us, I implore you to remember me in your prayers to our Lord, entreating Him to give me a resolution not to see you, as great as the delight I took in seeing you. Moreover, since throughout my whole life I have hoped to gain from you in marriage that which both honour and conscience allow, and have been satisfied with hope, now, since that is lost to me, and I shall never have from you that which a wife gives to her husband, this one thing I ask, that in bidding me farewell you will treat me as a brother and give me a kiss." Poor Pauline, ​whose favours had always been few and far between, perceiving the bitterness of his grief, and his honour in making so reasonable a request in all his great despair, without saying another word threw her arms around his neck and wept after such a grievous fashion that words, voice, and strength failed her, and she fell between his arms in a swoon. Whereupon her lover, overcome by pity, love, and grief, must needs do the like, and falling one one way, the other another, they lay for dead till one of Pauline's companions saw them and came to the rescue.

Then Pauline, who had wished to conceal her love, was ashamed, because she had made manifest how strong it was, but yet her pity for the poor gentleman served as a good excuse. For he, not able to endure the saying of that everlasting farewell, went forth from her presence and going unto his own house flung himself upon the bed, and passed the night in such pitiful complaining that his servants thought that he had lost his parents, and his friends, and whatsoever he had on earth. In the morning he commended himself to our Lord, and after he had divided amongst his servants what little worldly gear he possessed, and taken with him a small sum of money, he charged his people not to follow him, and departed by himself to the religious house of the Observance, to demand the cowl, being well determined never to go from that house for the rest of his life. The warden, who had formerly known him, thought at first that he was either being laughed at or that he was in a dream, for in all that land there was none who did less resemble a Grey Friar, since in him was found every honour and every virtue which one could desire in a perfect gentleman. Yet the warden, on hearing of his words, and beholding the streams of tears that flowed (for what cause he knew not) down his face, took him in and entreated him kindly. And soon after, marking his perseverance, he gave him the monastic dress, which having been received by this gentleman with great devotion, the thing was brought to the marquis and marchioness, who, greatly astonished, could scarce believe it possible. Pauline, to hide her love, concealed as well as might be the regret she felt for him, and in such wise that all men said that she had soon forgotten her loyal lover and his devotion for her. And so were passed five or six months, and she gave no sign of the ​grief that was in her soul. But it fell out that one day she was shown by some monks a song which her lover had made a short while after he had taken the cowl. As to the air 'tis an Italian one, and ordinary enough, but I have tried to English the words as nearly as I can, and this is the manner of it: but first the burthen:

And when, being by herself in a side-chapel, she had carefully read through these verses, so plentifully did she weep that all the paper was wetted with her tears. And had it not been for the fear she was in of too evidently manifesting her affection, she would straightway have turned hermit, and looked her last on the face of mankind. But the prudence to which her mind was attempered made her for some time conceal her intent, and though she was steadfastly purposed to leave the world behind her, she feigned the very opposite of this, and so joyous was she become in company that she would hardly have been known for her former self. For five or six months she ​kept this secret covered in her heart. But having one day gone with her mistress to the Church of the Observance to High Mass, she saw, as the celebrant, deacon, and sub-deacon came from the sacristy to the high altar, her poor lover, who had not yet completed the year of his noviciate, preceding them as server, carrying in his hands the two flagons covered with silk-cloth, and with eyes bent on to the ground. When Pauline saw him in this sad weed, that did but increase his grace and beauty, she was in such trouble and affray that, simulating a rheum in the throat, she coughed so as to hide the blushes of her face. And her lover, who knew that sound better than his monastery chimes, turned not his head, but as he passed in front of her could not restrain his eyes from going the road they had so often gone before. But at that most piteous regard of his he was seized in such wise by the fire he thought to have extinguished, that striving to conceal it more than he was able, he fell full length before his mistress. Yet for the fear he had of the cause being known, he professed that in the place where he fell the floor was broken and uneven. And Pauline, perceiving that though his dress was changed his heart was the same as it had been, and likewise that such a time had gone by since he had become a monk that all men would deem, she had forgotten him, set herself to bring that to pass which she had desired—namely, to make their two lives as like one another in dress, estate, and manner of living as they had been aforetime when they abode in the same house under the same master and mistress. And since she had for more than four months before taken such order as was necessary previous to becoming a nun, she one morning entreated leave of the marchioness to hear mass at St. Claire's, which the marchioness, not knowing what was in her mind, freely granted. But as she passed the Grey Friars she asked the warden to let her see her lover, whom she called her kinsman, and when they had met in a side-chapel by themselves, Pauline thus spoke to him: "If my honour had allowed me to put on this dress as soon as you I would presently have done it, but now, since I have, by not doing so, silenced the slanders of those who are always more ready to think evil than good, I am determined to take upon myself this robe, estate, and life of yours without inquiring of what kind they are. For if you are ​happy, I shall partake in your happiness, and if you are unhappy, in that too I am fain to have my share, for by whatsoever road you fare to Paradise I too would follow. For I am assured that He, who alone is worthy to be called the true and perfect Love, has drawn us to his service by a reasonable and honourable friendship which He, by the operation of his Holy Spirit, will turn wholly to himself. And I beseech you, forgetting this vile and perishable body, to put on that of the true Bride who is Jesus Christ." Her monkish lover was filled with such delight to hear her holy wishes that, weeping with joy, he strengthened her therein to the utmost of his power, telling her that since the pleasure of hearing her speak was the only one left to him, he deemed himself happy to live in a place where he might always see her; and that they, trusting in the goodness of God, in whose hands no one is suffered to perish, should pass the rest of their lives in a state of holy love. And with these words, weeping with joy, he made as if to kiss her hands, but she lowered her face to her hands, and in true love they gave to one another the kiss of peace. So in this joyful wise Pauline departed, and was received into the nunnery of St. Claire, where she took the veil.

But when my lady the marchioness heard all this matter, she was much amazed, and fared on the morrow to the convent, and endeavoured to turn Pauline from her purpose, who replied that she must rest content with having deprived her of her husband in the flesh, that man whom of all men she best loved, and not endeavour to sunder her from that spouse who is immortal and invisible, for it lay not within her power, nor that of any creature upon earth. Whereupon the marchioness, perceiving her intention was sincere, kissed her, and with a great grief left her. And for the rest of their days Pauline and her lover lived in such holiness and devotion, each one faithfully obeying the rules of the Order, that we cannot doubt that He whose law is Love said to them at the end of their lives, as to the Magdalen, "Your sins be forgiven you, for you have loved much."

"You cannot deny, ladies, that the love of this man was greater than that of his mistress, nevertheless so well was he recompensed that I would all true lovers were in case like his."

​"Then," quoth Hircan, "there would be more foolish men and maids than there are now." "Call you those foolish," said Oisille, "who in their youth love with an honourable love, and end by turning it all to God?" Hircan, with a laugh, replied: "If black choler and despair are worthy of praise, then indeed Pauline and her lover stand beyond compare." "Is it not true," said Geburon, "that God draws us to himself by ways which seem evil at the first, but the end whereof is good?" "Still do I persist in the opinion," said Parlamente, "that no man loveth God who has not loved with a perfect love one of his creatures." "What do you call a perfect love?" said Saffredent. "Do you mean those chilly souls that adore their ladies from afar, without discovering their thoughts?" "I," said Parlamente, "call those men perfect lovers who, when they love seek for some perfection, be it beauty, goodness, or gracious ways; always striving towards virtuousness, and with hearts of such high aim that death is sweeter by far to them than the doing of a deed of shame. And this because the soul, which was created for nothing but to return to its sovereign good, while it is shut within the body, is ever longing to return thither. But seeing that the senses, through which we obtain our knowledge, can show us nothing nearer perfection than visible things (for through the sin of our first parent they are dull and heavy), the soul pursues these, thinking to find in a visible grace, and in the moral virtues, the ideal beauty, grace, and virtue. But having curiously gone through all these external things, and finding not amongst them that which it really loves, it passes on to others, even after the manner of a child, who, being young, loves dolls and other trifles, the prettiest that it happens to see, thinking a heap of pebbles to be great wealth. But as the child becomes a man he loves dolls that are alive, and veritable riches with which to purchase the goods of this world. So the soul, discovering by hard experience that there is no kind of perfection or happiness in things terrestrial, passes on from these and seeks Him from whom proceeds all perfection and happiness. All the same, did not God grant unto the seeker the eye of faith, it were likely that from being ignorant he should become an atheist; for it is faith alone that doth enable carnal and sensual man to apprehend the idea of the highest good." "Do you ​not perceive," said Longarine, "that the uncultivated soil that brings forth everything luxuriously is valued by men because, though what grows thereon is of no profit, they hope that when it has been tilled it will bear good fruit? But that man who hath no love for carnal things will never attain to the love of God by the sowing of his word, since the soil of his heart is barren and will bring forth no fruit of love." "And what is the reason?" said Saffredent. "Is it not because the greater part of our teachers are not spiritual, but lovers of strong drink and nasty serving-maids, not trying what it is to love honourable ladies?" "If I could speak Latin," said Simontault, "I would read you that lesson of St. John's: 'How shall he who loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, love God whom he hath not seen?' For, from the love of visible things, one is drawn to that of the invisible." "But," said Ennasuitte, "quis est ille so perfect as you say, et laudabimus eum." "There have been lovers," said Dagoucin, "who have loved with a love so strong and pure, that with them death itself were better than the feeling of the smallest desire against the honour of their ladies, and they do not even wish them to be advised of their love." "Then," said Saffredent, "they have the nature of a chameleon, that feeds on air. For there was never man born of a woman that desired not to declare his love, and to know if he is beloved; and be this love-fever never so hot, if it be not returned, it will presently pass off. And of this I have seen with mine own eyes miraculous proofs." "Prithee," said Ennasuitte, "do you take my place and tell us some story of a lover who was brought from death to life by finding in his mistress the very contrary of that he wished." "All my fear," said Saffredent, "is that I may displease the ladies, whose faithful servant I always have been and always will be, by exposing in my tale their failings; yet I will obey, and conceal nothing of the truth."