Mimesis (45 page)

We have from this period a number of literary representations of a night conversation between a married couple. Of those which I know, a particularly characteristic one is the scene from the first of the
Quinze Joyes de Mariage
, in which the wife wants a new dress. I quote it from the Bibliothèque elzévirienne edition (2nd ed., Paris, 1857, pp. 9ff.):

Lors regarde lieu et temps et heure de parler de la matière à son mary; et voulentiers elles devroient parler de leurs choses especialles là où leurs mariz sont plus subjets et doivent estre plus enclins pour octrier: c’est ou lit, ouquel le compagnon dont j’ay parlé veult atendre à ses délitz et plaisirs, et lui semble qu’il n’a aultre chouse à faire. Lors commence et dit ainsi la Dame: “Mon amy, lessezmoy, car je suis à grand mal-aise.—M’amie, dit-il, et de quoy?—Certes, fait-elle, je le doy bien estre, mais je ne vous en diray jà rien, car vous ne faites compte de chose que je vous dye.—M’amie, fait-il, dites-moy pour quoy vous me dites telles paroles?—Par Dieu, fait-elle, sire, il n’est jà mestier que je le vous dye: car c’est une chose, puis que je la vous auroye dite, vous n’en feriez compte, et il vous sembleroit que je le feisse pour autre chose.—Vrayement, fait-il, vous me le direz.” Lors elle dit: “Puis qu’il vous plest, je le vous diray: Mon amy, fait-elle, vous savez que je fuz l’autre jour à telle feste, où vous m’envoiastes, qui ne me plaisoit gueres mais quand je fus là, je croy qu’il n’y avoit femme (tant fust-elle de petit estat) qui fust si mal abillée comme je estoye: combien que je ne le dy pas pour moy louer, mais, Dieu merci, je suis d’aussi bon lieu comme dame, damoiselle ou bourgeoise qui y fust; je m’en rapporte à ceulx qui scevent les lignes. Je ne le dy pas pour mon estat, car il ne m’en chaut comme je soye; mais je en ay honte pour l’amour de vous et de mes amis.—Avoy! distil, m’amie, quel estat avoient-elles à ceste feste?—Par ma foy, fait-elle, il n’y avoit si petite de l’estat dont je suis qui n’eust robe d’écarlate, ou de Malignes, ou de fin vert, fourrée de bon gris ou de menu-ver, à grands manches, et chaperon à l’avenant, à grant cruche, avecques un tessu de soye rouge ou vert, traynant jusques à terre, et tout fait à la nouvelle guise. Et avoie encor la robe de mes nopces, laquelle est bien usée et bien courte, pour ce que je suis creue depuis qu’elle fut faite; car je estoie encore jeune fille quand je vous fus donnée, et si suy desja si gastée, tant ay eu de peine, que je sembleroye bien estre mere de telle à qui je seroye bien fille. Et certes je avoye si grant honte quand je estoye entre elles, que je n’ousoie ne savoye faire contenance. Et encore me fit plus grand mal que la Dame de tel lieu, et la femme de tel, me disrent devant tous que c’estoit grand’honte que je n’estoye mielx abillée. Et par ma foy, elles n’ont garde de m’y trouver mès en pièce—Avoy! m’amie, fait le proudomme, je vous diray: vous savez bien, m’amie, que nous avons assez affaire, et savez, m’amie,
que quant nous entrames en nostre menage nous n’avions gueres de meubles, et nous a convenu achapter liz, couchez, chambres, et moult d’autres choses, et n’avons pas grant argent à present; et savez bien qu’il fault achapter deux beufs pour notre mestoier de tel lieu. Et encore chaist l’autre jour le pignon de nostre grange par faulte de couverture, qu’il faut reffaire la premiere chouse. Et si me fault aller à l’assise de tel lieu, pour le plait que j’ay de vostre terre mesme de tel lieu, dont je n’ay riens eu ou au moins bien petit, et m’y fault faire grand despence.—Haa! sire, je savoye bien que vous ne me sauriez aultre chose retraire que ma terre.” Lors elle se tourne de l’aultre part, et dit: “Pour Dieu, lessés moi ester, car je n’en parleray ja mais.—Quoy dea, dit le proudomme, vous vous courroucez sans cause.—Non fais, sire, fait-elle: car si vous n’en avez rien eu, ou peu, je n’en puis mais. Car vous savez bien que j’estoye parlée de marier à tel, ou à tel, et en plus de vingt aultres lieux, qui ne demendoyent seullement que mon corps; et savez bien que vous alliez et veniez si souvent que je ne vouloie que vous; dont je fu bien mal de Monseigneur mon père, et suis encor, dont je me doy bien haïr; car je croy que je suy la plus maleurée femme qui fust oncques. Et je vous demande, sire, fait-elle, si les femmes de tel et de tel, qui me cuidèrent bien avoir, sont en tel estat comme je suy. Si ne sont-elles pas du lieu dont je suy. Par Sainct Jehan, mieulx vallent les robes que elles lessent à leurs chamberieres que celles que je porte aux dimanches. Ne je ne scey que c’est à dire dont il meurt tant de bonnes gens, dont c’est grand dommage: à Dieu plaise que je ne vive gueres! Au moins fussés vous quite de moy, et n’eussés plus de desplesir de moy.—Par ma foy, fait-il, m’amie, ce n’est pas bien dit, car il n’est chose que je ne feisse pour-vous; mais vous devez regarder à nostre fait: tournez vous vers moy, et je feray ce que vous vouldrez.—Pour Dieu, fait-elle, lessés moi ester, car, par ma foy, il ne m’en tient point. Pleust à Dieu qu’il ne vous en tenist jamès plus que il fait à moy; par ma foy vous ne me toucheriez jamès—Non? fait-il.—Certes, fait-elle, non.” Lors, pour l’essaier bien, ce lui semble, il lui dit: “Si je estoie trespassé, vous seriez tantoust mariée à ung aultre—Seroye! fait-elle: ce seroit pour le plaisir que g’y ay eu! Par le sacrement Dieu, jamès bouche de homme ne toucheroit à la moye; et si je savoye que je deusse demourer après vous, je feroye chouse que je m’en iroye la premiere.” Et commence à plorer. …

(Then she considers time and place and hour to talk of the matter to her husband. And prone they are to talk of their personal matters where their husbands are most submissive and inclined to grant; that is in bed where the companion I have mentioned wants to attend to his joys and pleasures, and he thinks there is nothing else for him to do. Then the lady begins and says: “My dear, leave me alone, for I am greatly troubled.” “My dearest,” says he, “but why?” “Indeed,” says she, “I have good reason to be, but I will not tell you of it, for you pay no attention to anything I say.” “My dear,” says he, “tell me why you say such words to me?” “By God,” says she, “it is useless to tell you; for it is a thing that, after I had told you about it, you would not bother about it, and you would think that I did it for another reason.” “Now truly,” says he, “you shall tell me.” Then she says: “Since you wish it, I will tell you. My dear,” says she, “you know that the other day I was at that party where you had sent me, although I didn’t like it at all. But when I was there, I think there wasn’t a woman, no matter how low in rank, who was dressed as poorly as I was. I don’t say it to boast, but, thank God, I come from as good a place as any lady, damsel, or townswoman who was there. I appeal to those who know something about lineage. I don’t say it for my sake, for it makes no difference to me how I look, but I am ashamed for your sake and the sake of my friends.” “Indeed!” says he. “My dear, what did the women wear at that party?” “Faith,” says she, “not one of any condition, not even the least, who did not have a dress of scarlet or Malines or fin vert trimmed with bon gris or menu-ver, with big sleeves and a hat to match … with a red or green veil down to the floor and quite in the newest style. But I still had my wedding dress which is all worn and much too short because I have grown since it was made. For I was still a young girl when I was married to you, and yet I am already so run down with all the worry I have had that I look like the mother of many a woman whose daughter I could be. And truly, I was so ashamed when I was among them that I lost heart and did not know how to behave. And it troubled me still more when Lady Soandso, and Soandso’s wife, told me before all the others that it was a great shame that I was not better dressed. But I swear they won’t lay eyes on me in that place again.” “Come, come, my dear,” says the good man, “I’ll tell you: You know very well, my dear, that we have enough on our
hands, and you know, my dear, that when we set up housekeeping we had hardly any furniture, and we had to buy beds, bedding, and many other things, and now we have not much cash. And you know well that we must buy a team of oxen for our tenant at Soandso. And the other day the gable of our barn came down because it was not roofed and that will have to be fixed the first thing. And then I have to go to court at Soandso because of the suit I have on account of your land in Soandso which has not brought me in a thing or at least very little, and that again will be a great expense.” “Ah, I knew you would not think of anything to come back at me with but my land.” Then she turns the other way and says: “For God’s sake, leave me in peace, I won’t ever mention it again.” “Now, now,” says the good man, “you get all excited without cause.” “I do not,” says she, “for if the land brought you nothing, or little, that isn’t my fault. For you know very well that I could have married Soandso and Suchandsuch and twenty others, all of whom asked for nothing but my body. And you know that you came to the house so often that I finally wanted no one but you, and because of that I quarreled with my father, and we haven’t made up yet, which is a heavy burden on my conscience. I think I am the most miserable woman who ever lived. And I ask you,” she says, “if the wives of Soandso and Suchandsuch, who were so eager to get me, are in such a state as I. Yet they don’t come from as good a family as I. By Saint John, the dresses they give their maids are better than my Sunday best. I don’t know why so many good people die, which is a great pity; please God I shall not live much longer! At least then you would be rid of me and would have no further trouble from me.” “Faith,” says he, “my dear, you must not talk that way, for there is nothing I would not do for you. But you must consider our affairs. Turn around now, and I will do what you ask.” “Oh God,” says she, “leave me in peace, for I don’t feel like it. Might it please God that you never felt any more like it than I do; faith, you would never touch me again.” “Wouldn’t I?” says he. “Certainly not,” says she. Then, to put her to the test, as he thinks, he says to her: “If I were dead, you would soon be married to another,” “Would I?” says she, “I suppose because of the fun I got from it! By God, never again would a man’s mouth touch mine, and if I knew I had to live beyond your time, I would do something to pass on before you.” And she falls to weeping. …)

This text, probably composed a few decades before the
Réconfort
, is obviously from an entirely different sphere of events and is consequently written on a level of style entirely different from that of the scene between the Seigneur du Chastel and his wife. In the latter, the issue is the life of an only child; in the
Quinze Joyes
it is a new dress. In the
Réconfort
there is true accord, a real partnership between man and wife; in the
Quinze Joyes
there is no trust between them, but each follows his own instincts, each observes the instincts of the other, not in order to understand them and meet them halfway but merely to exploit them for selfish purposes. The woman proceeds with great though childishly ingenuous skill; the man is cruder and less aware of what he is doing. But he too lacks the feeling which is an essential element in genuine love: the feeling for what can gladden the partner’s heart. The way he reacts to her concern over clothes might well irritate a less foolish woman, however much he may be in the right so far as the facts go. Finally, in the story of the du Chastels, the wife is the heroine. In the
Quinze Joyes
she is too, but not through the greatness and purity of her heart but through the superiority of her deceitfulness and energy in the eternal struggle which marriage is represented to be. The level of style differs correspondingly: the
Quinze Joyes
lacks any claim to an elevated tone; the dialogue between man and wife does not seek to render anything but the tone of an everyday conversation, and it is only in the introductory statements that an element of moral didacticism is present, which, however, derives much more from practical psychology and concrete experience than is usual in medieval moralizing. The ceremonious and ostentatious elevation which constitutes the class character of the
Réconfort
is in marked contrast to the frankly intermediate, bourgeois forms of expression and behavior in the conversation on the subject of the new dress.

And yet the historical approach shows that here two kinds of style are coming together. We said above that feudal literature in its heyday has nothing to show which is comparable in realism and domestic intimacy with the scene between the Seigneur du Chastel and his wife. A tragic problem, presented in a conversation at night between husband and wife, is something so direct that the old-fashioned ostentatious ornateness of the class-determined language, rather than lessen the impression of the human and the creatural, touchingly enhances it. On the other hand the subject which is treated in our scene from the
Quinze Joyes
—a woman who, at night in bed, talks her husband into a new dress—is really material for farce. But here the theme is
taken seriously; and not merely in its crudity and generality, by way of illustration and example, but in a concrete representation which is precise in its rendering of the nuances and details of the material and psychological situation. For although the author gave his work the form of a collection of exempla, it yet has nothing to do with the earlier, wholly unrealistic, purely didactic collections of exempla in the manner of the
Seven Wise Masters
or the
Disciplina Clericalis
; it is much too concrete for that. Nor has it anything to do with the farces; for that, it is much too serious. The little work, whose author is not known to us, is a very significant document in the history of the antecedents of modern realism. It renders everyday life or at least one of its most important spheres, that of marriage and family life, in all its sensory reality, and it takes this everyday subject seriously and indeed problematically. This seriousness, to be sure, is of a special type. In earlier times the misogynous and anticonnubial tendencies of clerical ethics had produced a kind of realistic literature which, with sullen and morose didacticism, enumerated all the miseries and dangers of marriage, family life, bringing up children, etc., tricking out its presentation with allegories and examples. These themes had been handled especially impressively, and at times most concretely, by Eustache Deschamps, who died at the beginning of the fifteenth century. From this tradition the author of the
Quinze Joyes
derived not only almost all the individual motifs of his work but also his half-moralizing, satirical, and more sullenly carping than tragically serious attitude toward his subject.