The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 24

In the household of the King and Queen of Castille—the names of them I know not, for they were not told me—there was a gentleman so excellently endued with all comeliness of mind, body, and estate, that there was none equal to him in all the coasts of Spain. All men admired his virtues, but still more the strangeness of him, for none could show any lady he loved or ever had loved. And though there was many a dame at Court fit to have set ice on fire, not one was there who could take, hold on this gentleman, whose name was Elisor.

The Queen, who was a woman of much virtuousness, but not altogether free from that flame which burns the more the less it is perceived, seeing this gentleman that he loved none of her ladies, marvelled thereat, and one day asked him if it were possible that he loved as little as he seemed to do. He replied that if she could behold his heart as plainly as his face, she would not ask him that question. She, anxious to discover his intent, pressed him so hard that he acknowledged to loving a lady whom he thought the best in Christendom. All her endeavour, both by prayers and commandments, did she use that she might know who the lady was, but 'twas of no avail; whereupon she made pretence of anger, and swore she would no more speak to him if he did not name her he loved. At this he was so troubled that he said he would rather die than be obliged to name her; but seeing that he would lose the Queen's favour by not telling her a thing so honourable that it ​

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Nouvelle XXIV ​ought not to be taken in bad part by any one, he said to her in great fear: "Madame, I have not boldness sufficient for the telling of it, but the first time you go a-hunting I will show you the lady, and sure am I that you will esteem her to be the prettiest and the loveliest lady in all the world." For the sake of this the Queen took good care to go earlier a-hunting than she would have done, and Elisor being advertised of this made himself ready, as was his wont, for the attending of her. And this was the manner of his preparation: he made him a great mirror of steel after the fashion of a cuirasse, and having put it on him, covered it well with a cloak of black frieze all welted with purflew and gold galloon. His mount was a jet-black horse, caparisoned with a perfect harness, and whatsoever of this was metal was worked with gold and black enamel after the fashion of the Moors. His hat was of black silk, and on it was fixed a cockade which had been devised of a love held back by force, and all made rich with precious stones. Sword and dagger were not less fine nor worse devised; to be short, he showed most bravely, and rode his horse to admiration, so that all who saw him left the chase to watch the paces and the leaps which Elisor made it accomplish. After bringing the Queen to the place where the toils were set in the fine fashion I have told you, he got down from his horse and went to help the Queen dismount her palfrey. And as she stretched out her arms to him he threw open his cloak, and taking her between his arms he showed her his mirror cuirasse, saying: "I beseech you look here." And without waiting any reply he set her gently on the ground. The chase being ended, the Queen returned to her castle without speaking with Elisor; but after supper she called him to her, saying he was the greatest liar she had ever seen, for he had promised to show her at the hunt the lady whom he loved most, and had not done it, wherefore she was determined to take no more account of him. Elisor, fearing she had not heard what he had said, replied that he had by no means failed to fulfil her commandment, for he had shown her both the woman and the thing he loved more than all the world. She, feigning not to understand him, answered that she did not know him to have shown her a single one of her ladies. "It is true," said Elisor, "but whom did I show you while I helped you off your horse?" "Nothing," ​replied the Queen, "but a mirror on your breast." "And what did you see in that mirror?" "Nothing but myself," answered the Queen. "Then," said Elisor, "have I kept the promise I made to you, for there is no other image within my breast than that you saw outside it, and that image alone I am fain to love, worship, and adore, not as a woman, but as my God on earth, into the hands of whom I commit my life and my death. And my prayer to you is that this my great and perfect love, that was my life concealed, may not be my death revealed. And though I be not worthy that you should look upon me or accept me as your lover, at least suffer me to live, as I have been accustomed, in the contentment which I have for that my heart has dared to bottom its love on so perfect and worthy a rock, from which love I can have no other delight except that it is perfect, seeing I must be content to love, though I may never be loved. And if it be not to your liking, since you have discovered my great desire, to use me so familiarly as heretofore, do but continue to me my life, which stands alone upon my seeing of you. For from you I have now nothing but what suffices for my extreme necessity, and if I have less you will have one servant the less, for you will lose the best and most devoted you have ever had or ever will have." The Queen, either to show herself other than she was, or to make long trial of the love he bore her, or because she had another lover whom she would not leave for the sake of him, or to hold him as a reserve to take the other's place when he should commit some fault, said with a countenance nor sad nor glad: "Elisor, since I know not the strength of love, I will say nothing to you of your foolishness in aiming at so high and hard a thing as the love of me; for I know man holds his heart so little at command, that he is not able to love or hate where he pleases; but since you have so well concealed the matter, I wish to know how long you have been in this case." Elisor, looking at the beautiful face of her, and seeing that she made enquiry concerning his sickness, hoped that it might be to her liking to furnish the remedy. But seeing that while she asked him she still looked gravely and prudently, he was afraid, seeming to himself to be before a judge, whose sentence he feared would be against him. But he swore to her that love had taken root in his heart while he was very young, but he had not felt the pain ​till the last seven years, or rather no pain but a sickness, giving such contentment that to be cured of it would be death. "Since you have so long and so steadfastly kept the matter secret," said the Queen, "I must be as slow to believe as you to tell. Wherefore, if it is as you say, I am fain to put you to such a proof as cannot be doubted, which accomplished, I will esteem you to be towards me even according to your oath, and in like manner you shall find me such as you desire." Elisor entreated her to make what proof she pleased of him, since there could be nothing so difficult as not easily to be borne, if by it she would believe the love he bore her, and prayed her instantly to command him according to her pleasure. She therefore said to him: "Elisor, if you love me even as you say, I am well assured that to have my favour nothing will be hard for you to endure. Wherefore I charge you by all the desire you have to win me, and all the fear you have to lose me, that to-morrow, without again seeing me, you depart hence and betake yourself to some place where you shall have no tidings of me, nor I of you till this day seven years. You, since for seven years you have felt this love, are well persuaded of it; and I, when I have had equal experience, shall believe what your word alone cannot make me to believe nor understand." Elisor, hearing this cruel command, on one part doubted whether she was not desirous of estranging herself from him, on the other part hoping that the proof would speak better than words, accepted it, and said to her: "Being that I have lived these seven years without any hope, and keeping this fire concealed; now that it is known of you, I shall spend these other seven in a better hope and patience. But if I obey your command, by which I shall be deprived of all the good I have in the world, what hope do you give that when they are overpast you will accept me for your faithful and loyal servant?" The Queen, drawing a ring from her finger, said to him: "Behold this ring I give you, let us cut it into halves, I will keep the one and you the other, to the end that, if length of time have power to take away my memory of you, I shall be able to recognise you by this half-ring fitting with mine." Elisor took the ring and broke it into two, giving one-half to the Queen and keeping the other himself. And having taken leave of her, more dead than they who have given up the ghost, he went to his lodging to take order for his ​departure. This he did in such sort that, putting all in train at his house, he betook him with but one servant to so solitary a place that none of his kinsfolk or his friends heard tidings of him for seven whole years. As to the life he led during this time, or as to the grief he bore for this absence, none knew of it, but they that loved him could not be ignorant of it. And when the seven years were accomplished, as the Queen went to mass there came to her a hermit with a mighty long beard, who, kissing her hand, gave her a supplication, which she did not forthwith read, though it was her custom to take all supplications given into her hand, however poor might be the petitioner. But about the middle of mass she opened the packet, and found in it the half of the ring she had given Elisor, at which she was astonished and not a little glad. And before the reading of it she commanded her almoner that he should straightway bring before her the hermit-like man who had given her the supplication. So the almoner made search for him on all sides, but could have no tidings of him, save that a certain one affirmed that he had seen him mount his horse, but knew not the road he took. And while that her almoner was gone the Queen read the supplication, the which was indeed a letter written as well as might be. And were it not that I desired you should understand it, I would not have translated it, since, ladies, you must know that the Castilian far better sets forth this passion of love than any other. And this was the manner of it:

This letter was not read without much weeping and lamentation, accompanied by a regret passing all belief. For the losing of a servant, filled with so perfect a love, deserved to be esteemed so great, that no treasure, no, not her very kingdom, could deprive her of her right to be called the poorest and the most wretched woman in the world, since she had lost what all the blessings of the world were not able to recover. And having heard mass to the end and returned to her chamber, she grieved exceedingly even as her cruelty deserved. And no mountain, rock, or forest was there, that she did not search for this hermit; but He who had borne him from her hands had a care he should not fall into them again, and took him to Paradise, before that she could gain tidings of him in this world.

"Learning by this example the lover can hardly say what is for his good and what for his evil. Still less, ladies, ought you to be thus hard of belief as to demand a proof so difficult that getting your proof you lose your lover." "Of a truth, Dagoucin," said Geburon, "I had all my life esteemed the lady of your tale the most virtuous in the world, but from henceforth I shall hold her the most cruel." "Nevertheless," said Parlamente, "it seems to me that she did him no wrong in wishing for seven years to try if he loved her; for men are so accustomed to lie in like cases that before one trusts them (if trust them one can) one cannot make too long a trial of it." ​"The ladies," said Hircan, "are by far wiser than afore, for they are as well assured of a lover in seven days as the others were in seven years." "Yet in this company," said Longarine, "there are they who have been proved to the extremity for more than seven years, and have not yet gained their desire." "You say truth," said Simontault, " but they should be put among the ladies of old time, for in the new age they would not be received." "Yet," said Oisille, "was not the gentleman well treated by the Queen, since by her means he gave his heart altogether to God?" "In a fortunate hour," said Saffredent, "he found God upon the way, for in the grief he was in I marvel he gave himself not to the devil." Ennasuitte asked him: "And when you are evilly entreated of your lady, is it to such a master that you render yourself?" "Thousands and thousands of times have I given myself to him," answered Saffredent; "but the devil, seeing all the torments of hell cannot make me fare worse than does my lady, disdains to take me, knowing himself to be more easily borne than a woman well-beloved and who loves not in return." "If I were like you," said Parlamente to Saffredent, "with such opinions as yours, I would be the servant of no woman." "So great," he replied, "is my love and my foolishness that where I cannot rule I am content to serve, for the ladies' ill-will cannot overcome the love I have for them." "But, prithee, tell me, on your conscience, do you praise the Queen for this her great severity?" "Ay," said Oisille, "for I believe that she neither wished to love nor be beloved." "If this was her intent," said Simontault, "wherefore did she give him any hope after the seven years were overpast?" "I am of your opinion," said Longarine, "for let them who wish not to love give no occasion to the continuance of love." "Perchance," said Nomerfide, "she loved some other who was not to be compared with this honest gentleman, and so for a worse left the better." "Oddsfish!" said Simontault, "I think she held him for future use, to take him when she left her present lover." Oisille, seeing that, under cover of blaming in the Queen of Castille that which in truth is praiseworthy in none, the men let themselves out to speak ill of women, and that the most wise and virtuous fared as badly with them as the mere strumpets, could not endure it any longer, and said: "I am persuaded the more this talk continues the worse shall ​we come off at the hands of those who like not harsh treatment; wherefore, prithee, Dagoucin, give your vote to someone." "I give it," said he, "to Longarine, being assured that her tale will be no sad one, and that she will speak the truth, be it against man or woman." "Since you esteem me so truthful," said she, "I will make so bold as to tell you a case that befell a very great prince, who surpasses all others in valourousness. And take heed that lying and cozenage are only to be used in matters of great necessity, seeing that such are abominable and beastly vices, notably in princes and great lords, on whose face truth has a more becoming seat than in any other place. But in this round world there is no prince so great, though he have all the honours and wealth that he can desire, who is not subject to the empire and tyranny of Love. And the more noble and mighty the heart of the prince, the more does Love seem to strive to bring him under his hand. For this god of renown makes no account of common things, and to His Majesty the only delight is a continual working of wonders; as to make weak the strong, to strengthen the weak, to give knowledge unto the simple, to take it away from the learned, to show favour to the passions and to bring reason down to the ground. And as princes are not exempt from love, but are compelled by it to desire to serve, it is permitted them to use lying, cozenage, and deceit, which, according to the teaching of Master Jehan de Mehun, are the means whereby we may overcome our enemies. And since in this estate of love, all these, worthy of blame in others, deserve praise in a prince, I will tell you of the inventions of a young prince, by the which he deceived those who are accustomed to deceive all the world."