The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 30

In the time of King Lewis the Twelfth, and while a lord of the house of Amboise, nephew to Georges the legate of France, was legate of Avignon, there lived in the land of Languedoc a gentlewoman of better than four thousand ducats a-year, whose name I will conceal for the love I bear her family. And she, when the mother of an only son, became a widow very early, and, as much for the sake of her husband as her son, determined never to marry again. And to fly the occasion of so doing, she would thenceforth only see devout folk, thinking that the opportunity makes the sin, though the truth is that the sin will find an opportunity. So this young widow gave herself entirely to the service of God, fleeing all worldly assemblies, in such sort that it was only as matter of duty that she would be present at weddings, or hear the organs playing in church. And when her son was come to the age of seven years she chose a man of holy life for his schoolmaster, so that by him he might be disciplined in all piety and devotion. But when her son's years were fourteen or fifteen. Nature, who keeps a school in the heart, finding him full-fed and exceeding idle, taught him lessons somewhat different to his tutor's, so that he began to look upon and lust after the things he thought fair, and among the rest a wench who slept in his mother's chamber. But of this they had no suspicion, for they held him but as a child, and in that house was heard nothing but godly talk. The young gallant began to pester the girl in privity, and she told her mistress of it, who loved and esteemed her son so much that she thought the girl told it to make her hate him; but so strongly did she affirm the truth to the gentlewoman, that at last ​she said: "If I find him to be as you say, he shall by no means lack chastisement; but if this accusation of yours is no true one, have a care to yourself." And that she might by experience know the truth of the matter she commanded the wench to fix him a time and place to go to bed to her—namely, midnight, in the room of her mistress, where she slept all alone in a bed by the door. The girl obeyed this command, and when the evening drew nigh the gentlewoman lay down in the servant's bed, determined, if she spoke the truth, to take such order with her son that he would never again lie with a woman without having it in remembrance.

And while she pondered wrathfully over this, her son came to bed to her, and she, for all that she saw him come, would not believe that he had in his mind to do any shameful deed, and so delayed speaking to him till that she had for certain some sign of his evil intent. For she would not be convinced by small things that his was a criminal desire, but so great was her long-suffering, and so frail her nature, that her anger was converted into an abominable delight, and she forgot that she was his mother. And even as water that has been kept back by force rushes the more vehemently when it is let go, so was her boasting in the constraint she put on her body turned unto her shame, for when she had descended the first step to dishonour she found herself on a sudden at the bottom of the ladder. And in that night she was made great with child by him whom she would have kept from fouling others. No sooner was this sin accomplished than the tooth of conscience began to gnaw her with such remorse that her whole life was one repentance, and so sharp was it at the first that, rising from beside her son, who always thought he had had the wench, she went into her closet, and there calling to mind the goodness of her design and the wickedness of her act, passed all the night in weeping and lamentation. But in place of humbling herself and considering the frailty of our carnal nature, which without the help of God doeth nothing that is not sin, she endeavoured by her own tears and by her own power to make satisfaction for the past, and by her orethought to avoid all evils in the future. So she always made the occasion an excuse for her sin, and made no account of her own wickedness, for which God's grace was the sole relief, and thought so to order herself as never to sin any ​more after that fashion. And as if there were but one sin that could bring to pass her damnation, she put out all her strength to flee from that alone. But the pride that was rooted in her heart, which the conviction of her sin should have plucked out, increased more and more, so that in avoiding one pitfall she fell into many others. And on the morrow, very early, as soon as it was light, she sent for, her son's tutor, and said to him: "My son is near that age when it is no longer fit for him to be at home. I have a kinsman, named Captain Monteson, who is with my lord the grand-master of Chaumont across the mountains, and he will be well content to take him into his company. To which end take him thither this very hour, and so that I may not sorrow the more have a care that he come not to me to say farewell." So saying she gave him the monies necessary for the journey, and the young man set out that very morning, for, after enjoying his sweetheart, he desired nothing else than to go to the wars.

For a long while the gentlewoman continued to be very sad and melancholic, and, were it not for the fear of God, she would many a time have desired the unhappy fruit that was in her womb to perish. She made a pretence of sickness, to the end that she might go in a cloak, and thereby conceal that she had sinned. And when the time drew near for her to be delivered, she pondered within herself that there was none in the world whom she so trusted as her bastard brother, to whom she had given much of her substance, and she told him her ill-hap, but named not her son as the author of it. So she prayed this brother to give her his aid, and a few days before her time he would have her take a change of air, saying that she would get back her health in his house sooner than in any other place. Thither she went, and with a mighty small following, and found there a midwife come as if for her brother's wife, who knew her not, and one night delivered her of a fine maid child, whom the gentleman gave to a nurse under the name of being his own. And when his sister had stayed with him a month, she returned whole to her house, and there lived in stricter sort than before, keeping fasts and austere observances. But her son having come to manhood, there being no longer any war in Italy, sent to his mother entreating her to permit him to come back to his own home. She, fearing to fall again into ​the same ditch, was fain not to grant him leave, but at last so strongly did he press her that she, having no reason to assign against his coming, gave way. Yet she would by no means have him appear before her till that he had taken to wife one he heartily loved, telling him to take no thought for her substance so long as she came of gentle blood. During this time the bastard brother, seeing the girl that was in his charge growing up into a perfect beauty, thought fit to put her in some house a long way off, where she should be unknown, and, using his mother's counsel, he gave her to Catherine Queen of Navarre. And the girl, being now twelve or thirteen years old, was so comely and good withal, that the Queen of Navarre had a great liking for her, and was very desirous that she should be honourably married to one of high estate. But, by reason of her poverty, she had many lovers, but no husband. It fell out that one day the gentleman who was her unknown father, having journeyed across the mountains, came to the house of the Queen of Navarre, where, as soon as he saw his daughter, he loved her. And since he had leave from his mother to marry whomsoever he would, he made no inquiries concerning her, save as to whether she was of gentle blood, and being told that it was so, he asked her in marriage of the Queen, who gladly gave him her, since she knew the gentleman that he was rich and also handsome, and of a noble house.

And when the marriage was consummated, he wrote to his mother, saying that henceforth she could not deny him her house, seeing that he would bring with him as pretty a daughter-in-law for her as one would wish to see. The gentlewoman, having inquired with whom he had allied himself, found it was the very daughter of herself and him, and fell thereby into such grievous despair that she was like forthwith to have died, since the more she put hindrances in the path of her sin the further it journeyed onwards. And, knowing not what else to do, she went to the legate at Avignon, and to him confessed the greatness of her sin, and asked counsel as to the manner in which she should order herself. The legate, to satisfy her conscience, sent to several weighty doctors of the schools, to whom he opened the affair, without naming the persons. And their counsel was that the gentlewoman should never say a word of it to her children, for as to them, since ​they were in ignorance, they had done no sin, but as to herself all her life should be spent in penance. So the poor woman went back to her house, and soon her son and daughter-in-law arrived there. And so great was their love towards one another that never were there husband and wife who loved one another better, or were more nearly allied; for she was his daughter, his sister, and his wife; and he was her father, her brother, and her husband. And this love of theirs always continued, so that the poor gentlewoman, of her great repentance, could not see them so much as kiss without going apart to weep.

"See, ladies, how it fares with them who, trusting in their own strength and their own virtuousness, think to overcome love and nature, and all the powers God hath implanted in them. But the better way would be, knowing one's frailty, not to play at jousts with such enemies, rather betaking oneself to Him who is true love, and saying with the Psalmist, 'I am afflicted very much: quicken me, O Lord, according unto Thy word.'" "It is not possible," said Oisille, "to hear a stranger case than this. And methinks every man and woman ought to humble themselves in the fear of God, seeing that by one whose mind was to do well, so much ill was brought about." "Be persuaded," said Parlamente, "that the first step taken by a man trusting in himself is likewise the first step from God." "He is wise," said Geburon, "who knows himself for his chiefest enemy, and who holds in suspicion his own will and inclinations." "Howsoever great," said Longarine, "was the appearance of goodness and holiness, there is no appearance of such sort as to make it right in a woman to lie beside a man, near akin though they be, since tow hard-by to fire is in no safe keeping." "Without any manner of doubt," said Ennasuitte, "she was a vain-boasting fool, who by the dreams of the Grey Friars believed herself so holy that she was not able to do any sin. But many of those same Friars would have us believe that we of ourselves can be sinless, the which is a monstrous error." "Is it possible, Longarine," said Oisille, "that there are any foolish enough to believe this?" "Ay, and much more," answered Longarine, "for they maintain that one should accustom oneself to chastity; and to make trial of their strength they parley with the prettiest women they can find, and the ones they like the best, and so by kisses and touching of them they ​try whether the carnal nature is altogether dead within. And when they feel themselves stirred by these toyings they get them gone, and betake them to fasting and mortification. And when they have so far brought the flesh that kissing or talking are as nothing to them, they make trial of a strong temptation—I would say lying together and embracing one another—without any evil concupiscence. But for one pair who have come off scot free there have been so many fallen into scandal, that the Archbishop of Milan, in whose see this devotional exercise is common, was constrained to separate the monks and nuns, and put the men in a monastery and the women in a nunnery." "Truly," said Geburon, "'tis the extremity of folly to endeavour to render themselves sinless by seeking out all the occasions of sin." "There are others," answered Saffredent, "who do the contrary to this; for they fly all occasions, but yet does concupiscence follow hard upon them. And the holy St. Jerome, after scourging himself and hiding him in the wilderness, confesses that he could not escape this fire that burnt up his inwards. Wherefore we must commend us to God, for if he uphold us not with his arm, we shall fall very low—ay, and take delight in so falling." "But," said Hircan, "do you not see that while we were telling our stories the monks behind the hedge did not hear the bell for evensong, and when we began to talk about God they vanished, and are even now ringing the second bell." "We shall do well in following them," said Oisille, "and in praising God for that we have so joyously passed this day, even to admiration." So saying they arose and went to the church, where they heard evensong with due devotion. And afterwards they fell to supper, discoursing on the matters that were overpast, and calling to mind many another case, so as to see which were the most worthy of relation. And when the evening had been gaily spent they betook themselves to sweet rest, hoping on the morrow to continue this undertaking that was so much to their contentment. And so the third day came to an end.