The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 35

In the town of Pampeluna there lived a fair and virtuous lady, as chaste and devout as any in the land. So well did she love and obey her husband that he entirely put his trust in her: at divine service and at hearing of sermons she was always to be found, and would persuade her husband and children to go there with her. And on a certain Ash-Wednesday, she having come to the age of thirty years, when ladies are content to put by the name of fair for that of discreet, she went to church to take the ashes which are for a memorial of death. And the preacher was a Grey Friar, a man held by all the people as holy on account of the great goodness and austerity of his life, which, though it had made him to be thin and pale, yet hindered him not from being as comely a man as one could desire to see. The lady listened to his sermon, with eyes fixed upon his venerable person, and eyes and mind ready to hear what he said. And the sweetness of his words passed through her ears even unto her soul; and the comeliness and grace of his body passed through her eyes and smote her so at heart, that she was as one in a dream. When the sermon was finished she was careful to look at what altar the preacher was to say mass, and there she presented herself to take the ashes from his hand that was as fine and white as any lady's. And to this hand the devout woman paid more attention than to the ashes it gave to her. So being assured that this manner of spiritual love and certain pleasures she felt therein could do her conscience no harm, she failed not to go every day and hear the sermon, taking her husband; and so great praise did both of them give the preacher that at table or elsewhere they spoke of nought else. Then did this fire named spiritual become so carnal that it burnt up first the heart and next the whole body of this poor lady; and as she was slow to feel it, so swift was it to spread, and, before she knew she was in love, she felt all love's delights. And as ​one altogether surprised by Love her enemy, she resisted none of his commands; but it was sore grief to her that the physician for all her sickness was not so much as ware of it. Wherefore, setting aside all fear of showing her foolishness to a man of wisdom, and her wickedness and vice to a man of virtue and goodness, she set down as softly as she could the love she bore him in a letter, and gave it to a little page, telling him what he had to do, and above all enjoining him to have a care lest her husband should see him going to the Grey Friars. The page, seeking for the shortest way, passed through a street where was his master sitting in a shop; whereupon the gentleman, seeing him go by, came out to discover whither he was going, and when the page saw him, much affrighted, he hid himself in a house. At this his master followed him, and taking him by the arm asked whither he went, and finding no sense or meaning in his excuses, and the face of him terrified, he threatened to beat him shrewdly if he would not say whither he was going. The poor page said to him: "Alas, sir, if I tell you the dame will kill me;" so the gentleman, suspecting that his wife was treating for some commodity in which he should have no share, assured the page that if he told the truth he should have no evil but rather all good, but if he lied he should be put in gaol for life. The little page, so as to have the good and avoid the evil, told him the whole matter, and showed him the letter his mistress had written to the preacher, which gave the husband as much astonishment as anger, since he had altogether trusted his whole life in his wife's faithfulness, and had never found in her any fault. But being a prudent man, he concealed his wrath, and entirely to discover what his wife was minded to do, he counterfeited a reply as if the preacher had written it, thanking her for her goodwill towards him, and declaring that on his side there was no less. The page, having sworn to conduct the matter discreetly, carried to his mistress the counterfeited letter; and so great gladness did it give her that her husband plainly perceived the manner of her countenance to be altered, since in place of being thin, as is fitting in the Lenten Fast, she was fairer and more ruddy than in the Carnival.

And now it was Mothering Sunday, yet did she not cease to send the preacher by letters her mad ravings, nor for the matter ​of that during Passion and Holy Week. For it seemed to her, when he turned his eyes to that part of the church where she was, or spoke of the love of God, that love of her was at the bottom of it; and as far as her eyes could tell him her mind, she did not spare them. And to all these her letters the husband failed not to reply after the same sort, and after Easter he wrote to her in the preacher's name praying her to devise some means of speaking with him privily. She, who for this hour waxed weary, counselled her husband to go see some lands he had in the country, to which he agreed, and went and hid himself in the house of one of his acquaintance. The lady failed not to write to the preacher that the time was come for him to see her, since her husband was in the country; and the gentleman, willing to sound his wife's heart to the very bottom, went to the preacher, praying him for the love of God to lend him his habit. But the monk, who was a good man and an honest, told him his rule forbade him, and by no means would he lend it for masquerading in; yet the gentleman, assuring him that he would make no ill use of it, and that it was necessary to his wellbeing, the friar, who knew him for a good and devout man, lent it him. And putting the habit on him, and drawing the hood over his face so that his eyes could not be seen, the gentleman got him a false beard and a false nose like to the friar's, and with cork in his shoes made himself of the fitting height. In this gear he betook himself, when evening was come, to his wife's room, where she awaited him with much devotion. And the poor fool stayed not for him to come to her, but, as a woman out of her wits, rushed to throw her arms around him. He, with his face lowered, so as not to be known, began to draw away from her, making the sign of the cross, and saying the while only one word: "Temptation! temptation!" The lady said: "Alas, father, you are in the right, for there is none stronger than what comes from love. But since you have promised to be the cure, I pray you now we have time and leisure to have compassion upon me." So saying she strove by force to throw her arms around him, but he, flying round the room, making great signs of the cross, cried all the while: "Temptation! temptation!" But when he saw she pressed him hard, he took a stout stick he had under his habit, and so entreated her with it that her temptation was overcome, ​and he not known of her. This done he forthwith gave back the habit to the preacher, assuring him he had done him a great kindness.

And on the morrow, making a pretence of returning from afar, he came to his house and found there his wife in bed, and, as if he knew it not, asked what ailed her, and she replied that it was a rheum, and, moreover, that she could not stir hand nor foot. The husband, though exceeding desirous to laugh, feigned to be much grieved; and, as a matter of consolation, told her he had bidden the good preacher to sup with them that very evening. But to this she instantly answered: "Be it far from you, sweetheart, to ask such folk hither, for they work ill in every house they enter." "Why, sweetheart, how is this?" said the husband; "you have always mightily praised this man. I, for my part, think that if there be a holy man on this earth it is he." The lady replied: "They are good at the altar and in the pulpit, but in houses they are Anti-Christ. Prithee, sweetheart, let me not see him, for with this my sickness it would be the very death of me." The husband said: "Since you wish it not you shall not see him, but for all that he must sup with me." "Do as you will," said she, "so long as I do not see him, for I hate the monks like the devil." The husband, having given the good monk his supper, said to him as follows: 'Father, I esteem you so beloved of God that He will not refuse you anything you ask Him, wherefore I entreat you have compassion on my poor wife, who these eight days hath been possessed of an evil spirit, in such sort that she endeavours to bite and scratch whomsoever she sees. Of cross or holy water she makes no account, but I firmly believe that if you put your hand on her the devil would come out; and this I pray you to do." The good father said: "My son, to a believer all things are possible. Do you steadfastly believe that the goodness of God refuses no grace to him who asks it faithfully?" "I do believe it, father," answered the gentleman. "Be then also assured, my son," said the friar, "that God is able to do what He wills, and is as all-mighty as He is good. Let us go, then, strengthened by faith, to resist this roaring lion, and snatch from him his prey, that God hath won for Himself by the blood of His dear Son, Jesus Christ." So the husband led the good man to the room where his wife lay on a small bed; and she, ​thinking she saw him who had beaten her, fell into great astonishment and wrath; but for that her husband was also present, lowered her eyes and was dumb. Then said the husband to the holy man: "While I am with her the devil no longer tormenteth her, but as soon as I am gone forth, do you cast holy water upon her, and you will see the evil spirit do his work." So saying he left the friar alone with his wife, but stayed by the door, so as to observe the fashion of their discourse. And when she saw herself alone with the friar, she began as one mad, to cry out at him, calling him wretch, villain, murderer, deceiver. The good father, thinking that of a very truth she was possessed of an evil spirit, would have taken her by the head to say his exorcisements over it, but she scratched and bit him in such wise that he was fain to parley with the devil from afar; and while he cast the holy water on her very plentifully, said many a devout orison. And the husband, thinking him to have done his duty, entered the room and thanked him for the pains he had taken, and as he came in his wife ceased her cursing and abuse, and for her fear of her husband, kissed the cross with much meekness. But the holy friar, who had seen her before so furiously enraged, firmly believed that by his prayer to Our Lord the devil had come out of her, and went his way praising God for this mighty work. The husband, seeing his wife to have been well chastised for her brainsick folly, would not declare to her what he had done; for he was content to have conquered her desire by his wisdom, and to have taken such order with her that she mortally hated what aforetime she had loved, and so gave herself up more than before to her husband and her household.

"Herein, ladies, you can discover the good sense of a husband, and the frailty of a woman of fair repute and I think that, when you have well looked in this glass, in place of trusting in your own strength, you will learn to return to Him who holds your honour in the hollow of his hands." "I am well pleased," said Parlamente, "that you are become preacher to the ladies, but still better would it be if you made these fine sermons for all the ladies to whom you speak." "Always when you hear me," said Hircan, "you shall have discourse no less virtuous." "The intent of that is," said Simontault, "that when you are not by he will speak after another sort." "He ​must talk as he pleases," said Parlamente, "but I am fain to believe, for my content, that he talks always so. But at the least the example he has given will stand them in good stead who believe that this spiritual love is not dangerous, for methinks it is of all kinds the worst." "Yet it appears to me," said Oisille, "that to love a good man and a virtuous, and a fearer of God, is no matter of contempt, but rather of edification." "Mistress," answered Parlamente, "I pray you believe that nothing is more foolish nor more easy to deceive than a woman who has never loved. For in itself love is a passion that takes hold on the heart before one is ware of it; and 'tis such a pleasant thing that if it can borrow the cloak of virtue hardly can it be discovered before some harm come of it." "What harm can come," said Oisille, "of loving a good, honest gentleman?" "Mistress," replied Parlamente, "many a man is esteemed good, but to be good with respect to ladies, to have a care for their honour and conscience—I am well assured that up to this time no such man hath ever been found. And those women who put their trust in men, and believe otherwise, will find themselves at last to have been deceived; and, entering on this manner of friendship with God beside them, will go out of it with the devil for their fellow. For I have seen many women begin under pretext of speaking about God, and when at last they wish to make an end they cannot, for that the cloak is so honourable a one. Now a vicious love fails by reason of its own imperfection, and cannot long endure in a chaste heart, but what they call a virtuous one hath such dainty silken chains, that we are taken before we see them." "So then," said Ennasuitte, "you would have a woman take no man for her lover? But your law is so harsh that it cannot be long kept." "I know it well," answered Parlamente, "but for all that I cannot but desire that every wife would be content with her husband, as I am with mine." Ennasuitte, who felt herself pricked by this, changed colour, and said: "You ought to think the hearts of other wives no worse than your own; or are you of opinion than you are more perfect than all others?" "Well," said Parlamente, "lest we dispute together, I would fain know to whom Hircan will give the vote." "I give it," said he, "to Ennasuitte, so that she may cry quits with my wife." "If, then, it has come to my turn," said she, "I will spare nor man ​nor woman, and in this manner treat all alike, and you shall see that it will be a hard thing for you to confess the virtue and goodness of men. So I shall answer the last story by one like unto it."