Magdalen's skull
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Magdalen's skull[1] is novella 32 of Marguerite de Navarre's 16th-century book Heptameron. It tells the story of a Frenchman, Bernage, dispatched to Germany on a diplomatic journey. While there he sees a beautiful young woman whose husband, incensed by her adultery, compels her to drink from her dead lover's skull. This macabre story borrows much of its iconography from the gospel accounts of Mary Magdalen, also a comely adulteress who becomes the object of pity and forgiveness.
Brantome mentions the story in Les vies des dames galantes in the chapter on cuckolded husbands, Of Ladies Which Do Make Love, and Their Husbands Cuckolds.
- "In the Cent Nouvelles of the Queen of Navarre will be found the most touching and saddest tale that can be read on this matter, the tale of that fair lady of Germany the which her husband was used to constrain to drink ever from the skull of her dead lover, whom he had slain. This piteous sight did the Seigneur Bernage, at that day ambassador in the said country for the French King Charles VIII., see and make report thereof."
Full English translation
- translated by George Saintsbury
- Bernage, learning in what patience and humility a German lady submitted to the strange penance laid upon her for her unchastity by her husband, so persuaded the latter that he forgot the past, showed pity to his wife, and, taking her back again, afterwards had by her some very handsome children.
King Charles, eighth of the name, sent into Germany a gentleman called Bernage, Lord of Sivray, near Amboise, (1) who to make good speed spared not to travel both by day and night. In this wise he came very late one evening to a gentleman's castle, where he asked for lodging, a request which was not granted him without great difficulty.
However, when the gentleman came to know that he was servant to so great a King, he went to him and begged him not to take the churlishness of his servants in bad part, since he was obliged to keep his house thus closed on account of certain of his wife's kinsfolk who sought to do him hurt. Bernage then told him the nature of his mission, wherein the gentleman offered to serve the interests of the King his master, so far as in him lay; and he forthwith led Bernage into the house, where he lodged and entertained him honourably.
It was the hour for supper, and the gentleman led him into a handsome room, hung with beautiful tapestry, where, as soon as the meats were served, he saw come from behind the hangings the most beautiful woman it were possible to behold; though her head was shorn and she was dressed in black garments of the German fashion.
After the gentleman had washed his hands with Bernage, water was borne to the lady, who also washed hers and then sat down at the end of the table without speaking to the gentleman, or he to her. The Lord de Bernage looked very closely at her, and thought her one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, except that her face was very pale, and its expression very sad.
After eating a little, she asked for drink, which was brought to her by a servant in a most marvellous vessel, for it was a death's head, the eyeholes of which were closed with silver; and from this she drank two or three times. When she had supped, the lady washed her hands, made a reverence to the lord of the house, and retired again behind the tapestry without speaking to any one. Bernage was exceedingly amazed at this strange sight, and became very melancholy and thoughtful.
The gentleman, who perceived this, then said to him—
"I perceive that you are astonished at what you have seen at this table; but for the sake of the excellence that I find in you I will explain the matter, so that you may not think I could show such cruelty without reasons of great weight. The lady whom you saw is my wife; I loved her more than ever man loved woman, insomuch that in order to marry her I forgot all fear, and brought her hither in defiance of her relations. On her part, she showed me so many tokens of love that I would have risked ten thousand lives in bringing her hither, to her delight and mine. And here we lived for a while in such peace and gladness that I deemed myself the happiest gentleman in Christendom.
"But it came to pass, upon my undertaking a journey which my honour compelled me to make, she forgot her honour, conscience and love for me to such a degree as to fall in love with a young gentleman whom I had brought up in this house, and this I thought I could perceive when I returned home again. Nevertheless, the love I bore her was so great that I was not able to mistrust her, until at last experience opened my eyes and made me see what I dreaded more than death, whereupon my love for her was turned to frenzy and despair in such wise that I watched her closely, and one day, while feigning to walk abroad, I hid myself in the room in which she now dwells.
"Thither she withdrew soon after my departure, and sent for the young gentleman, whom I saw come in with such familiarity as should have been mine alone. But when I saw him about to get upon the bed beside her, I sprang out, seized him in her very arms, and slew him. And as my wife's crime seemed to me so great that death would not suffice to punish it, I laid upon her a penalty which she must hold, I think, to be more bitter than death; and this penalty was to shut her up in the room to which she was wont to retire to take her greatest pleasures in the company of him for whom she had more love than she had for me; and there I further placed in a cupboard all her lover's bones, hanging there even as precious things are hung up in a cabinet.
"That she may not lose the memory of this villain I cause her to be served with his skull, (2) in place of a cup, when she is eating and drinking at table, and this always in my presence, so that she may behold, alive, him whom her guilt has made her mortal enemy, and dead, through love of her, him whose love she did prefer to mine. And in this wise, at dinner and at supper, she sees the two things that must be most displeasing to her, to wit, her living enemy, and her dead lover; and all this through her own great sinfulness.
"In other matters I treat her as I do myself, save that she goes shorn; for an array of hair beseems not the adulterous, nor a veil the unchaste.
"For this reason is her hair cut, showing that she has lost the honour of virginity and purity. Should it please you to take the trouble to see her, I will lead you to her."
To this Bernage willingly consented, and going-downstairs they found her in a very handsome apartment, seated all alone in front of the fire. The gentleman drew aside a curtain that hung in front of a large cupboard, wherein could be seen hanging a dead man's bones. Bernage greatly longed to speak to the lady, but durst not do so for fear of the husband. The gentleman, perceiving this, thereupon said to him—
"If it be your pleasure to say anything to her, you will see what manner of grace and speech is hers."
Then said Bernage to her—"Lady, your patience is as great as your torment. I hold you to be the most unhappy woman alive."
With tears in her eyes, and with the humblest grace imaginable, the lady answered—
"Sir, I acknowledge my offence to have been so great that all the woes that the lord of this house (for I am not worthy to call him husband) may be pleased to lay upon me are nothing in comparison with the grief I feel at having offended him."
So saying, she began to weep bitterly. The gentleman took Bernage by the arm and led him away.
On the following morning Bernage took his leave, in order to proceed on the mission that the King had given him. However, in bidding the gentleman farewell, he could not refrain from saying to him—
"Sir, the love I bear you, and the honour and friendship that you have shown me in your house, constrain me to tell you that, having regard to the deep penitence of your unhappy wife, you should, in my opinion, take compassion upon her. You are, moreover, young and have no children, and it would be a great pity that so fair a lineage should come to an end, and that those who, perhaps, have no love for you, should become your heirs."
The gentleman, who had resolved that he would never more speak to his wife, pondered a long time on the discourse held to him by the Lord de Bernage, and at last recognised that he had spoken truly, and promised him that, if his wife should continue in her present humility, he would at some time have pity upon her.
Accordingly Bernage departed on his mission, and when he had returned to his master, the King, he told him the whole story, which the Prince, upon inquiry, found to be true. And as Bernage among other things had made mention of the lady's beauty, the King sent his painter, who was called John of Paris, (3) that he might make and bring him a living portrait of her, which, with her husband's consent, he did. And when she had long done penance, the gentleman, in his desire to have offspring, and in the pity that he felt for his wife who had submitted to this penance with so much humility, took her back again and afterwards had by her many handsome children. (4)
"If, ladies, all those whom a like adventure has befallen, were to drink out of similar vessels, I greatly fear that many a gilt cup would be turned into a death's head. May God keep us from such a fortune, for if His goodness do not restrain us, there is none among us but might do even worse; but if we trust in Him He will protect those who confess that they are not able to protect themselves. Those who confide in their own strength are in great danger of being tempted so far as to be constrained to acknowledge their frailty. Many have stumbled through pride in this way, while those who were reputed less discreet have been saved with honour. The old proverb says truly, 'Whatsoever God keeps is well kept.'"
"The punishment," said Parlamente, "was in my opinion a most reasonable one, for, just as the offence was more than death, so ought the punishment to have been."
"I am not of your opinion," said Ennasuite. "I would rather see the bones of all my lovers hanging up in my cabinet than die on their account. There is no misdeed that cannot be repaired during life, but after death there is no reparation possible."
"How can shame be repaired?" said Longarine. "You know that, whatever a woman may do after a misdeed of that kind, she cannot repair her honour."
"I pray you," said Ennasuite, "tell me whether the Magdalen has not now more honour among men than her sister who continued a virgin?" (5)
"I acknowledge," said Longarine, "that we praise her for the great love she bore to Jesus Christ and for her deep repentance; yet the name of sinner clings to her."
"I do not care what name men may give me," said Ennasuite, "if only God forgive me, and my husband do the same. There is nothing for which I should be willing to die."
"If the lady loved her husband as she ought," said Dagoucin, "I am amazed that she did not die of sorrow on looking at the bones of the man whom her guilt had slain."
"Why, Dagoucin," returned Simontault, "have you still to learn that women know neither love nor even grief?"
"Yes, I have still to learn it," said Dagoucin, "for I have never made trial of their love, through fear of finding it less than I desired."
"Then you live on faith and hope," said Nomerfide, "as the plover does on air. (6) You are easily fed."
"I am content," he replied, "with the love that I feel within myself, and with the hope that there is the like in the hearts of the ladies. If I knew that my hopes were true, I should have such gladness that I could not endure it and live."
"Keep clear of the plague," said Geburon; "as for the other sickness you mention, I will warrant you against it. But I should like to know to whom the Lady Oisille will give her vote?"
"I give it," she said, "to Simontault, who I know will be sparing of none."
"That," he replied, "is as much as to say that I am somewhat given to slander; however, I will show you that reputed slanderers have spoken the truth. I am sure, ladies, that you are not so foolish as to believe all the tales that you are told, no matter what show of sanctity they may possess, if the proof of them be not clear beyond doubt. Many an abuse lurks even under the guise of a miracle, and for this reason I am minded to tell you the story of a miracle that will prove no less to the honour of a pious Prince than to the shame of a wicked minister of the Church."
Notes
- 1 Bernage, Bernaige, or Vernaiges, as the name is diversely written in the MSS. of the Heptameron, was in 1495 equerry to Charles VIII., a post which brought him an annual salary of 300 livres.—See Godefroy's Histoire de Charles VIII., p. 705. Civray, near Chenonceaux, on the Cher, was a fief of the barony of Amboise. In 1483 we find a certain John Goussart doing homage for it to the crown.—Archives Nationales, Section Domaniale, côte 3801.—L.
2 It will be remembered that the Lombard King Alboin forced
his wife Rosamond to drink his health out of a goblet which
had been made from the skull of her father Cunimond,
sovereign of the Gepidæ. To revenge herself for this
affront, Rosamond caused her husband to be murdered one
night during his sleep in his palace at Pavia.—Ed.
3 John Perréal, called "Jehan de Paris," was one of the most famous painters of the reigns of Charles VIII. and Louis XII. At the end of 1496 we find him resident at Lyons, and there enjoying considerable celebrity. From October 1498 to November 1499 he figures in the roll of officers of the royal household, as valet of the wardrobe, with a salary of 240 livres. In the royal stable accounts for 1508 he appears as receiving ten livres to defray the expense of keeping a horse during June and July that year. He is known to have painted the portrait and planned the obsequies of Philibert of Savoy in 1509; to have been sent to England in 1514 to paint a portrait of the Princess Mary, sister of Henry VIII., who married Louis XII.; and in 1515 to have had charge of all the decorative work connected with Louis XII.'s obsequies. In his Légende des Vénitiens (1509) John Le Maire de Belges praises Perréal's skill both in landscape and portrait painting, and describes him as a most painstaking and hardworking artist. He had previously referred to him in his Temple d'Honneur et de Vertu (1504) as being already at that period painter to the King. In the roll of the officers of Francis I.'s household (1522) Perréal's name takes precedence of that of the better known Jehannet Clouet, but it does not appear in that of 1529, about which time he would appear to have died. Shortly before that date he had designed some curious initial letters for the famous Parisian printer and bookseller, Tory. The Claud Perréal, "Lyonnese," whom Clement Marot commemorates in his 36th Rondeau would appear to have been a relative, possibly the son, of "Jehan de Paris."—See Léon de La Borde's Renaissance des Arts, vol. i., Pericaud ainé's Notice sur Jean de Paris, Lyons, 1858, and more particularly E. M. Bancel's Jehan Perréal dit Jean de Paris, peintre et valet-de-chambre des rois Charles VIII. Louis XII., &c. Paris, Launette, 1884.—L. and M.
4 Brantôme refers to this tale, as an example of marital
cruelty, in his Vies des Dames Galantes, Lalanne's
edition, vol. ix. p. 38.—L.
5 Martha, sister of Lazarus and Mary Magdalen.—M.
6 This popular error was still so prevalent in France in
the last century, that Buffon, in his Natural History, took
the trouble to refute it at length.—B. J.
Full French text
Bernage, ayant connu en quelle patience et humilité une damoyselle d'Allemagne recevoit l'estrange penitence que son mary luy faisoit faire pour son incontinence, gaingna ce poinct sur luy, qu'oublyant le passé, eut pitié de sa femme, la reprint avec soy et en eut depuis de fort beaulx enfans.
Le Roy Charles, huictiesme de ce nom, envoya en Allemaigne ung gentil homme, nomé Bernage, sieur de Sivray, près Amboise, lequel pour faire bonne dilligence, n'epargnoit jour ne nuyct, pour advancer son chemyn, en sorte que, ung soir, bien tard, arriva en un chasteau d'un gentil homme, où il demanda logis: ce que à grand peyne peut avoir. Toutesfois, quant le gentil home entendyt qu'il estoit serviteur d'un tel Roy, s'en alla au devant de luy, et le pria de ne se mal contanter de la rudesse de ses gens, car, à cause de quelques parens de sa femme qui luy vouloient mal, il estoit contrainct tenir ainsy la maison fermée. Aussi, le dict Bernage luy dist l'occasion de sa legation: en quoy le gentil homme s'offryt de faire tout service à luy possible au Roy son maistre, et le mena dedans sa maison, où il le logea et festoya honorablement.
Il estoit heure de soupper; le gentil homme le mena en une belle salle tendue de belle tapisserye. Et, ainsy que la viande fut apportée sur la table, veid sortyr de derriere la tapisserye une femme, la plus belle qu'il estoit possible de regarder, mais elle avoit sa teste toute tondue, le demeurant du corps habillé de noir à l'alemande. Après que le dict seigneur eut lavé avecq le seigneur de Bernaige, l'on porta l'eaue à ceste dame, qui lava et s'alla seoir au bout de la table, sans parler à nulluy, ny nul à elle. Le seigneur de Bernaige la regarda bien fort, et luy sembla une des plus belles dames qu'il avoit jamais veues, sinon qu'elle avoit le visaige bien pasle et la contenance bien triste. Après qu'elle eut mengé ung peu, elle demanda à boyre, ce que luy apporta ung serviteur de leans dedans ung esmerveillable vaisseau, car c'estoit la teste d'un mort, dont les oeilz estoient bouchez d'argent: et ainsy beut deux ou trois foys. La damoiselle, après qu'elle eut souppé et faict laver les mains, feit une reverance au seigneur de la maison et s'en retourna derriere la tapisserye, sans parler à personne. Bernaige fut tant esbahy de veoir chose si estrange, qu'il en devint tout triste et pensif. Le gentil homme, qui s'en apperçeut, luy dist: "Je voy bien que vous vous estonnez de ce que vous avez veu en ceste table; mais, veu l'honnesteté que je treuve en vous, je ne vous veulx celer que c'est, afin que vous ne pensiez qu'il y ayt en moy telle cruaulté sans grande occasion. Ceste dame que vous avez veu est ma femme, laquelle j'ay plus aymée que jamais homme pourroit aymer femme, tant que, pour l'espouser, je oubliay toute craincte, en sorte que je l'amenay icy dedans, maulgré ses parens. Elle aussy, me monstroit tant de signes d'amour, que j'eusse hazardé dix mille vyes pour la mectre ceans à son ayse et à la myenne; où nous avons vescu ung temps à tel repos et contentement, que je me tenois le plus heureux gentil homme de la chrestienté. Mais, en ung voiage que je feis, où mon honneur me contraingnit d'aller, elle oublia tant son honneur, sa conscience et l'amour qu'elle avoit en moy, qu'elle fut amoureuse d'un jeune gentil homme que j'avois nourry ceans; dont, à mon retour, je me cuydai apercevoir. Si est-ce que l'amour que je lui portois estoit si grand, que je ne me povois desfier d'elle jusques à la fin que l'experience me creva les oeilz, et veiz ce que je craingnois plus que la mort. Parquoy, l'amour que je luy portois fut convertie en fureur et desespoir, en telle sorte que je la guettay de si près, que, ung jour, faingnant aller dehors, me cachay en la chambre où maintenant elle demeure, où, bientost après mon partement, elle se retira et y feit venir ce jeune gentil homme, lequel je veiz entrer avec la privaulté qui n'appartenoyt que à moi avoir à elle. Mais, quant je veiz qu'il vouloit monter sur le lict auprès d'elle, je saillys dehors et le prins entre ses bras, où je le tuay. Et, pour ce que le crime de ma femme me sembla si grand que une telle mort n'estoit suffisante pour la punir, je luy ordonnay une peyne que je pense qu'elle a plus desagreable que la mort: c'est de l'enfermer en la dicte chambre où elle se retiroit pour prandre ses plus grandes delices et en la compaignye de celluy qu'elle aymoit trop mieulx que moy; auquel lieu je lui ay mis dans une armoyre tous les oz de son amy, tenduz comme chose pretieuse en ung cabinet. Et, affin qu'elle n'en oblye la memoire, en beuvant et mangeant, luy faictz servir à table, au lieu de couppe, la teste de ce meschant; et là, tout devant moy, afin qu'elle voie vivant celluy qu'elle a faict son mortel ennemy par sa faulte, et mort pour l'amour d'elle celluy duquel elle avoit preferé l'amityé à la myenne. Et ainsy elle veoit à disner et à soupper les deux choses qui plus luy doibvent desplaire: l'ennemy vivant et l'amy mort, et tout, par son peché. Au demorant, je la traicte comme moy-mesmes synon qu'elle vat tondue, car l'arraiement des cheveulx n'apartient à l'adultaire, ny le voyle à l'impudicque. Parquoy s'en vat rasée, monstrant qu'elle a perdu l'honneur de la virginité et pudicité. S'il vous plaist de prendre la peyne de la veoir, je vous y meneray."
Ce que feit voluntiers Bernaige: lesquelz descendirent à bas et trouverent qu'elle estoit en une tres belle chambre, assise toute seulle devant ung feu. Le gentil homme tira ung rideau qui estoit devant une grande armoyre, où il veid penduz tous les oz d'un homme mort. Bernaige avoit grande envie de parler à la dame, mais, de paour du mary, il n'osa. Le gentil homme, qui s'en apparceut, luy dist: "S'il vous plaist luy dire quelque chose, vous verrez quelle grace et parolle elle a. Bernaige luy dist à l'heure: Madame, vostre patience est egalle au torment. Je vous tiens la plus malheureuse femme du monde." La dame, ayant la larme à l'oeil, avecq une grace tant humble qu'il n'estoit possible de plus, luy dist: "Monsieur, je confesse ma faulte estre si grande, que tous les maulx, que le seigneur de ceans (lequel je ne suis digne de nommer mon mary) me sçauroit faire, ne me sont riens au prix du regret que j'ay de l'avoir offensé." En disant cela, se print fort à pleurer. Le gentil homme tira Bernaige par le bras et l'emmena. Le lendemain au matin, s'en partit pour aller faire la charge que le Roy luy avoit donnée. Toutesfois, disant adieu au gentil homme, ne se peut tenir de luy dire: "Monsieur, l'amour que je vous porte et l'honneur et privaulté que vous m'avez faicte en vostre maison, me contraingnent à vous dire qu'il me semble, veu la grande repentance de vostre pauvre femme, que vous luy debvez user de misericorde; et aussy, vous estes jeune, et n'avez nulz enfans; et seroit grand dommaige de perdre une si belle maison que la vostre, et que ceulx qui ne vous ayment peut-estre poinct, en fussent heritiers." Le gentil homme, qui avoit deliberé de ne parler jamais à sa femme, pensa longuement aux propos que luy tint le seigneur de Bernaige; et enfin congneut qu'il disoit verité, et luy promist que, si elle perseveroit en ceste humilité, il en auroit quelquefois pitié. Ainsi s'en alla Bernaige faire sa charge. Et quant il fut retourné devant le Roi son maistre, luy feit tout au long le compte que le prince trouva tel comme il disoit; et, en autres choses, ayant parlé de la beaulté de la dame, envoya son painctre, nommé Jehan de Paris, pour luy rapporter ceste dame au vif. Ce qu'il feit après le consentement de son mary, lequel, après longue penitence, pour le desir qu'il avoit d'avoir enfans et pour la pitié qu'il eut de sa femme, qui en si grande humilité recepvoit ceste penitence, il la reprint avecq soy, et en eut depuis beaucoup de beaulx enfans.
"Mes dames, si toutes celles à qui pareil cas est advenu beuvoient en telz vaisseaulx, j'aurois grand paour que beaucoup de coupes dorées seroient converties en testes de mortz. Dieu nous en veulle garder, car, si sa bonté ne nous retient, il n'y a aucun d'entre nous qui ne puisse faire pis; mais, ayant confiance en luy, il gardera celles qui confessent ne se pouvoir par elles-mesmes garder; et celles qui se confient en leurs forces sont en grand dangier d'estre tentées jusques à confesser leur infirmité. Et en est veu plusieurs qui ont tresbuché en tel cas, dont l'honneur saulvoit celles que l'on estimoit les moins vertueuses; et dist le viel proverbe: Ce que Dieu garde est bien gardé. - Je trouve, dist Parlamente, ceste punition autant raisonnable qu'il est possible; car, tout ainsy que l'offence est pire que la mort, aussy est la pugnition pire que la mort." Dist Ennasuitte: "Je ne suis pas de vostre opinion, car j'aymerois mieulx toute ma vie veoir les oz de tous mes serviteurs en mon cabinet, que de mourir pour eulx, veu qu'il n'y a mesfaict qui ne se puisse amender; mais, après la mort, n'y a poinct d'amendement. - Comment sçauriez-vous amender la honte? dist Longarine, car vous sçavez que, quelque chose que puisse faire une femme après ung tel mesfaict, ne sçauroit reparer son honneur? - Je vous prye, dist Ennasuitte, dictes-moy si la Magdelaine n'a pas plus d'honneur entre les hommes maintenant, que sa sœur qui estoit vierge? - Je vous confesse, dist Longarine, qu'elle est louée entre nous de la grande amour qu'elle a portée à Jesus Christ; et de sa grand penitence; mais si luy demeure le nom de Pecheresse. - Je ne me soulcie, dist Ennasuitte, quel nom les hommes me donnent, mais que Dieu me pardonne et mon mary aussy. Il n'y a rien pourquoy je voulsisse morir. - Si ceste damoiselle aymoit son mary comme elle debvoit, dist Dagoucin, je m'esbahys comme elle ne mouroit de deuil, en regardant les oz de celluy, à qui, par son peché, elle avoit donné la mort. - Cependant, Dagoucin, dist Simontault, estes-vous encores à sçavoir que les femmes n'ont amour ny regret? - Je suis encores à le sçavoir, dist Dagoucin, car je n'ay jamais osé tenter leur amour, de paour d'en trouver moins que j'en desire. - Vous vivez donc de foy et d'esperance, dist Nomerfide, comme le pluvier, du vent? Vous estes bien aisé à nourrir! - Je me contente, dist-il, de l'amour que je sens en moy et de l'espoir qu'il y a au cœur des dames, mais, si je le sçavois, comme, je l'espere, j'aurois si extresme contentement, que je ne le sçaurois porter sans mourir. - Gardez-vous bien de la peste, dist Geburon, car, de ceste malladye là, je vous en asseure. Mais je vouldrois sçavoir à qui madame Oisille donnera sa voix. - Je la donne, dist-elle, à Symontault, lequel je sçay bien qu'il n'espargnera personne. - Autant vault, dist-il, que vous mectez à sus que je suis ung peu medisant? Si ne lairray-je à vous monstrer que ceulx que l'on disoit mesdisans ont dict verité. Je croy, mes dames, que vous n'estes pas si sottes que de croyre en toutes les Nouvelles que l'on vous vient compter, quelque apparence qu'elles puissent avoir de saincteté, si la preuve n'y est si grande qu'elle ne puisse estre remise en doubte. Aussy, sous telles especes de miracles, y a souvent des abbuz; et, pour ce, j'ay eu envie de vous racompter ung miracle, qui ne sera moins à la louange d'un prince fidelle, que au deshonneur d'un meschant ministre d'eglise."
