The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 22

In the town of Paris there lived a prior of the monastery of St. Martin in the Fields, of whose name I will make no mention for the friendship that I bore him. His life up to the age of fifty years was so austere, that the fame of his holiness was blazed abroad throughout the whole realm, in such wise that there was neither prince nor princess who did him not great honour when he came to see them. And no monastery was put into a state of reformation but that he had a hand in it; wherefore men called him the father of true monkery. He was made visitor of the great convent of The Ladies of Fontevrault; and was held by the nuns in such awe that, when he came among them, they all trembled for the fear they had of him. And to the end that they might soften his great severities, they entreated him all as if he had been the King, which at the first he refused; but at last, being hard upon his fifty-fifth year, he began to find the treatment he had at first despised mighty pleasant; and esteeming himself the one support of all monkery, desired to have a better care for his health than had been his custom. Wherefore such good cheer did he make him, that from a very lean monk he became an exceeding fat one; and changing his fare changed also, his heart, so that he began henceforth to look upon faces with pleasure, which afore he had but done as matter of duty, and beholding the graces that the veil only made more desirable, began to covet them. So, to satisfy this covetousness, he used such means that at last from shepherd he turned wolf, and if among any of the nuns he found an innocent he failed not to deceive her. But after that he had for a long while continued in this wicked manner of living, the Divine Goodness, taking pity on the poor wandering sheep, would not longer endure the exaltation of this wretch, as you shall shortly see.

One day, as he held a visitation in a convent named Gif, hard-by Paris, it happened that while he confessed all the nuns, there came to him one called Marie Heroet, whose speech was so soft and pleasant that it gave good promise of a heart and countenance to match. So at the very hearing of her voice he conceived a passion for her which surpassed any he had for ​other nuns; and while he spoke he lowered his head to look at her, and saw such cherry lips that he could not restrain himself from raising her veil to see whether her eyes were to match, as indeed they were. And at this his heart was filled with a consuming fire, so that he left off to eat and drink, and the manner of his countenance was altered, though he was fain to conceal it. And when he was returned to his priory he found there no rest; wherefore his days and nights were spent in great disquietude, as he sought for means to accomplish his desire and do to her even as he had done to many others. But this he feared might be a difficult matter, inasmuch as he had found her prudent in speech, and of so keen a wit that he could have no great hopes; and on the other hand, he saw himself that he was old and ugly, and so was resolved to say nothing to her, but to strive to win her by fear. To which intent he soon afterwards went to the convent of Gif, and showed himself more austere a man than he had ever done, speaking wrathfully to all the nuns, and reproving one, that her veil was not low enough, another that she carried her head too high, and a third that she did him not reverence in the manner proper to a nun. In all these small matters so severe was he that they feared him as if he had been God sitting in assize. And he, having a defluction of rheum in the feet, grew so weary in visiting the usual places, that towards evensong-time, as was his design, he found himself in the dormitory. The abbess said to him: "Reverend Father, it is time to sing evensong." And he replied: "Go then, mother, to evensong, for I am so weary that I will remain here, not for rest, but to speak with Sister Marie, of whom I have heard a very bad report, for they tell me that she gossips like a woman of the world." The abbess, who was aunt to her mother, prayed him scold her heartily, and left her all alone with him, save for a young monk he had in his company. When he found himself alone with Sister Marie, he began by lifting her veil, and bade her look at him. She replied that her rule would not have her look at men. "'Tis well said, my daughter," said he, "but you must by no means consider us monks as men." Wherefore Sister Marie, fearing to be in fault through disobedience, looked him in the face, and found him so ugly that it seemed to her more of a penance than a sin. The good father, after discoursing some ​while on the great friendship he bore her, would fain have put his hand on her breasts, but she, as was her duty, repulsed him. At this enraged, he said to her: "Is it befitting in a nun to know that she has breasts?" She replied: "I know well that I have breasts, and that neither you nor any other shall lay a hand upon them; for I am not so young and ignorant as not to understand what is sin and what is not." And when he saw that this manner of talk would not win her, he resolved to try another, saying: "Alas! my daughter, I must declare to you the necessity of my case—namely, that I have a sickness which all the physicians deem incurable, unless I have pleasure of some woman for whom I have a great love. For my part, I would not, to save my life, do mortal sin, but when it comes to that I am well assured that simple fornication is as nothing in comparison with self-murder. Wherefore, if you love my life, you will both do good to your conscience and also to me." She asked him what manner of pleasure he would have of her; to which he answered that she could give her conscience into his keeping, and that he would do nothing which could be imputed against either of them. And to show her how to begin the pastime he asked of her, he cast his arms around her and essayed to throw her on the bed; but she, perceiving the wickedness of his intent, so well defended herself with arms and voice that he could touch nothing save her clothing. Then, seeing all his plans and endeavours turned to nothing, as a madman not only wanting in conscience but in natural reason, he drove his hand underneath her dress, and so furiously scratched whatever he could touch with his nails, that the poor girl, crying aloud, fell full length on the ground in a dead swoon. At this cry the abbess came into the dormitory, for she, while at evensong, recollected that she had left this nun, her niece's daughter, alone with the good father; at which her conscience taking some scruple, she left evensong and listened at the door of the dormitory, and hearing her niece's voice, pushed open the door that was held of the young monk. Now when the prior saw the abbess come in, he showed her the nun lying in a swoon, and said: "Without doubt, mother, you did great wrong in that you did not certify me of Sister Marie's complexion; for ignorant of her weakness, I when chiding her made her stand before me, and as you see she has swooned ​away." And while they were reviving her with vinegar and other medicaments proper to the occasion they found that her head had been hurt by the fall. And the prior, fearing lest she should tell her aunt the reason of it, spoke to her all apart, saying: "My daughter, I charge you, by your obedience and hope of salvation, that you by no means speak to any of what I have done to you, for you must understand that I was constrained by the vehemence of my love. But since I see you have no desire to love, I will speak to you no more on it, but I do assure you that, if you will consent, I will have you chosen abbess of one of the best convents in the kingdom." But her reply to him was to the intent that she would rather die in perpetual imprisonment than have any for lover save Him who died for her on the cross; affirming that with Him she had rather suffer all the evils that the world could give than be endowed with all its blessings without Him. And she would have no more talk of this kind from him, or else would tell the abbess of it; but if he kept silence so also would she. So went forth this wicked shepherd; but that he might show himself to be what he was not, and that he might again look upon her whom he loved, he returned to the abbess, and said to her: "Reverend mother, I pray you make all your nuns sing a Salve Regina to the honour of that virgin in whom I place my trust." And while this was being performed, the fox of a prior did nothing but weep, not for devotion but for regret that he had not gained his end. And all the nuns setting this down to his love for the Virgin Mary, esteemed him as an holy man; but Sister Marie, knowing his wickedness, prayed in her heart that he might be confounded, who held virginity in such contempt.

So went this hypocrite to St. Martin's, where the evil flame that was at the heart of him ceased not to burn day or night, nor to seek for some means of obtaining his desire. And since above all he stood in fear of the abbess, who was a virtuous woman, he sought means to send her away from her convent. Wherefore he betook himself to Madame de Vendosme, then living at La Fère, where she had built and founded a convent of the rule of St. Benedict, calling it The Mount of Olivet. And the prior, as the very prince of reformers, giving her to understand that the abbess of the aforesaid Mount Olivet was not fit for the governing of so large a community, ​the good lady entreated him to find her another whom she could meetly set over it. And he, asking nothing better, counselled her to take the abbess of Gif as the best that was in France, so Madame de Vendosme forthwith sent for her, and made her abbess of the Convent of Mount Olivet. And the prior of St. Martin's, who held the whole of monkery in his hands, made choose abbess of Gif a woman to his liking. This done, he went to Gif to try again a second time if, by prayers or gentle persuading, he could gain Sister Marie Heroet. But having no hope of success he returned in despair to his priory of St. Martin, and there, to accomplish his ends and to be avenged on her who had been so cruel to him, he caused the relics that were at the aforesaid convent of Gif secretly to be conveyed away by night, and accused the confessor of the convent, an old and good man, that he had stolen them, and for this cause clapped him up in prison at St. Martin's. And whilst he held him captive he stirred up two witnesses, who out of ignorance did what the prior ordered them, and they bore witness that they had seen the said confessor and Sister Marie committing a foul and scandalous act in a garden; and this the prior was fain to make the old man confess for truth. But he, knowing the failings of the prior, entreated that he might be brought into chapter, where before all the monks he would tell the truth of the matter. The prior, fearing lest the confessor's justification should be his condemnation, would by no means entertain this request, and finding him not to be moved from his resolve, entreated him so evilly in prison that some said he died there, others that he was constrained to unfrock and quit the realm; but howsoever this be no man saw him again.

So the prior, thinking to have Sister Marie altogether in his hands, went to the convent, where the abbess, chosen by him to this intent, opposed him in nothing. Thereupon he began to use his authority as visitor, and made all the nuns, one by one, come before him in a chamber after the manner of visitation. And when it came to the turn of Sister Marie, who had lost her good aunt, he said to her: "Sister Marie, you are advised of the matter of your accusation, and that for all your cloak of chastity you are well known to be the very contrary thereto." But Sister Marie, with a steadfast face, replied: "He that accuseth me let him come before me, and you will ​discover if he persist in his wicked position." He answered: "We have no need of further witness, insomuch as the confessor has been found guilty." "I esteem him too good a man," said she, "to have acknowledged such a lie for truth; but, be it so, and let him come before me that, I may prove the contrary to his words." The prior, seeing that in no manner could he affray her, said: "Forasmuch as I am your spiritual father, and desirous that your honour be preserved, I put this before your conscience, and to your words I will give belief. I therefore demand and conjure you, under pain of mortal sin, that you tell me truly whether or no you were a maid when you came hither?" She replied: "My age, father, that was five years, should pass as a safe witness to my maidenhood." "And since that time," said the prior, "have you not lost this flower of your virginity?" She swore she had kept it safe, having had no hindrance thereto but from him. To this he answered that he could not believe it, and that the matter wanted proof. "What proof," said she, "would be to your pleasure?" "The same," said he, "as I use with others; for as I am visitor of souls, so am I of bodies also. Your abbesses and prioresses have all passed through my hands, wherefore fear not for your maidenhood but throw yourself upon the bed and lift your clothes over your face." It was in wrath that Sister Marie replied to him: "You have spoken in such wise of your wicked lust after me, that I am persuaded you wish not to look for, but to take away my virginity; but understand that I will never consent thereto." Then he said he would have her excommunicated, for that she had refused him monastic obedience, and that he would shame her in full chapter by the evil he wot of betwixt her and the confessor. But she, no whit afraid, answered: "He that knoweth the hearts of His servants shall give me as much honour as you before men shall give me shame. And since it has come to this, I had rather you accomplished on me your cruelty than your lust, for I know God, that he is a just judge." Forthwith was gathered together all the chapter, and before them was brought Sister Marie, kneeling on her knees, to whom the prior spoke very dispiteously: "Sister Marie, it is to my displeasure that the good admonitions that I have made to you are found altogether of none effect, and that you are in such case that, contrary to ​my custom, I am constrained to lay a penance on you. Now your fault is, that your confessor, having been examined as touching certain crimes imputed to him, confesses to have abused your person in the place where the witnesses affirmed they had seen him. Wherefore, since I have placed you in the honourable estate of mistress of the novices, I ordain that not only shall you be the last of all, but, kneeling on the ground, shall eat bread and water before the sisters till your repentance be of a sort to merit pardon." Sister Marie, being advertised by one of her fellows, who knew the whole matter, that if she answered in a fashion displeasing to the prior he would put her in pace—that is, in perpetual imprisonment—patiently endured this sentence; raising her eyes to heaven, and praying Him, who had been her resistance against sin, to be her patience against tribulation. Furthermore, the prior of St. Martin's enjoined that, when her mother or her kinsfolk might come to the convent, she should not be suffered to speak with them, nor to write any letter to them, save only such letters as were written in community.

So this wretched man went his way, and returned there no more; and the poor maid was for a long time in the pitiful case you have heard. But her mother, loving her above all her children, and seeing that she no more had any news of her, marvelled thereat, and said to one of her sons, the same being a man of prudence and virtue, that she thought her daughter to be dead, and that the nuns, so as still to have the yearly payment, had concealed it from her. And she prayed him to hit upon some means of seeing his sister, if she were yet alive, whereupon he went forthwith to the convent, and was received with the accustomed excuse—namely, that it was now three years that his sister had not stirred from her bed. But with this he would not be content, and swore if he did not see her that he would climb the walls and take their convent by storm. Thereupon, in much fear, they led his sister to the grate, but with the abbess following so hard on her that Sister Marie could say nothing that was not fit for her ears. But of her prudence she had put in writing all that is set down here, with a thousand other devices of the prior for her deception, of the which I omit relation, because of the length of time thereto required. Yet I will not forget that, when her aunt was abbess, thinking her refusal proceeded from his ugliness, he ​had made her to be tempted by a young monk and a handsome; Sloping that, if she obeyed the monk for love, she would do the same by him for fear. But the poor girl ran from the garden, where the monk tempted her and used gestures so shameful that I blush to remember, to the abbess, saying: "Mother, they who come to visit us are no monks but rather devils!" Whereupon the prior, fearing to be discovered, said with a laugh: "Doubtless, reverend mother. Sister Marie is in the right." And taking Sister Marie by the hand, he said to her before the abbess: "I had heard that Sister Marie spoke so well and readily that she was esteemed worldly, and on this account I constrained myself against the grain to address her after the fashion that men of the world use with women, as I had found it in books; for as to experience, I am as naked of it as the day I was born. And deeming my ugliness and old age caused her to make such virtuous answers, I charged a young monk of mine to make love to her, whom you see she hath likewise virtuously resisted. Wherefore, so good and prudent do I esteem her, that I command that from henceforth she be first after you and mistress of novices, to the end that she may always increase more and more in virtue."

This deed, and many more like to it, did the holy man, during the three years in which he was amorous of the nun. And she, as I have said, gave her brother through the grate the whole matter of this pitiful history. And it having been borne by him to her mother, she in great despair came to Paris, where she found the Queen of Navarre, only sister to the King, to whom she showed the thing, saying to her: "Madam, put no more trust in these hypocrites; I thought I had put my daughter hard-by Paradise, or on the way to it, and lo! it is the road to hell, and she in the hands of worse than devils, for the devils do but tempt us when it is our pleasure to be tempted; and these, if love be wanting, are fain to have us by force." At this the Queen of Navarre was mightily distressed, for entirely had she put her trust in the prior of St. Martin's, and had given into his hands the abbesses of Montavilliers and Caen, her sisters-in-law. On the other hand the greatness of the crime was an abomination to her, and filled her with the desire of avenging the innocence of the poor girl, in such sort that she made the matter known to the King's ​chancellor, the same being also legate, who summoned the prior to appear in his court, and there was found no excuse at, all in him, save only that the number of his years was three-score and ten. And to the Queen of Navarre he spoke, praying her, by all the good she had ever wished to do him, and by all he had done for her, and all he had wished to do for her, that she would be pleased to make an end to this case, since he confessed and declared that Sister Marie Heroet was a very pearl of honour and of maidenhood. The Queen of Navarre, hearing this, was so astonished that she knew not what to reply to him, and so without a word left him there; and the poor man returned to his monastery covered with shame, and from henceforth would see no one, and only lived a year after. But Sister Marie Heroet, esteemed according as she deserved for the virtues that God had implanted in her, was removed from Gif, where she had suffered so much tribulation, and made abbess, by the King's mandate, of Giy-juxta-Montargis. This convent she reformed, and lived for the rest of her days as one fulfilled with the Spirit of God, praising him always for that he had been pleased to give back to her both honour and rest.

"Here, ladies, is a relation well according with that Scripture: That God by the weak confounds the strong, and by those of no account in the eyes of men brings to the ground the glory of folk who think themselves to be something, but are in truth nothing. And consider that, without the grace of God, there is no good at all in man, and with this grace no temptation that cannot be overcome, as is manifest by the manner in which he was confounded, to whom was imputed righteousness, and she was exalted whom he would have all men esteem a miserable sinner. In this is fulfilled the saying of Our Lord: 'Whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased, and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted.'" "Alas," said Oisille, "how many honest folk this prior deceived! For I have seen men who put more trust in him than God." "I would not have been one of them," said Nomerfide, "for I so hate the very sight of a monk that I could not confess to one; since indeed I hold them far worse than other men; and no house do they inhabit but that they sow the tares of shame or strife in it." "There are good ones," said Oisille, "and it were not right that they should be judged alone by the bad; ​but the best are those who are least found in the company of laymen and women." "You say truth," said Ennasuitte, "for the less one sees them the less one knows of them, but familiarity shows what kind of men they are." "Enough of it," said Nomerfide, "let us see to whom Geburon will give his vote." Geburon, to make amends for his fault, if fault it were, to have manifested the abominable life of a wicked monk, to the end that they might be on their guard against the cozenage of men like to him, gave his vote to Oisille, thinking her to be a gentlewoman as temperate in telling the evil as she was ready to exalt and publish the good she knew of any one. "And of this story the intent shall be," said Geburon, "to the praise of the monks." To this Oisille replied: "So great oaths have we sworn to tell alone the truth, that I should not know how to accomplish the telling of such a tale. And in making your relation you have reminded me of so pitiful a story that I am constrained to relate it. And by it, ladies, you shall take warning lest the hypocrisy of those who esteem themselves more religious than other men do not charm your understanding in such sort that your faith be turned from the right way. And beware. lest you think to find salvation in any creature other than Him who willed not to have a fellow in his work of creation and redemption, and in whom is all power to save us to life eternal; and in this life temporal to comfort us and deliver us from all tribulations. And know also that Satan often doth transform himself into an angel of light, to the end that the eye of sense, blinded by the outward show of holiness and devotion, may dwell on those things from which it ought to flee. Wherefore it seems good to me to tell you this story, which indeed took place in our own times."