Storytelling in Sixteenth-Century France: Negotiating Shifting Forms 9781644532393

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Storytelling in Sixteenth-­Century France

The Early Modern Exchange s eri e s e d i tor s Gary Ferguson, University of ­Virginia, author of Same-­Sex Marriage in Re­nais­sance Rome: Sexuality, Identity, and Community in Early Modern Eu­rope Meredith K. Ray, University of Delaware, author of ­Daughters of Alchemy: ­Women and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Italy s eri e s e d i tor i a l b oa r d Frederick A. de Armas, University of Chicago Valeria Finucci, Duke University Barbara Fuchs, University of California, Los Angeles Nicholas Hammond, University of Cambridge Kathleen P. Long, Cornell University Elissa B. Weaver, University of Chicago SERIES ti tl e s ­ ngland’s Asian Re­nais­sance, edited by Su Fang Ng and Carmen Nocentelli E Performative Polemic: Anti-­Absolutist Pamphlets and Their Readers in Late Seventeenth-­Century France, Kathrina Ann LaPorta Innovation in the Italian Counter-­Reformation, edited by Shannon McHugh and Anna Wainwright Milton among Spaniards, Angelica Duran The Dark Thread: From Tragical Histories to Gothic Tales, edited by John D. Lyons ­Women Warriors in Early Modern Spain: A Tribute to Bárbara Mujica, edited by Susan L. Fischer and Frederick A. de Armas Retelling the Siege of Jerusalem in Early Modern ­England, Vanita Neelakanta Advertising the Self in Re­nais­sance France: Lemaire, Marot, and Rabelais, Scott Francis The ­Enemy in Italian Re­nais­sance Epic: Images of Hostility from Dante to Tasso, Andrea Moudarres Involuntary Confessions of the Flesh in Early Modern France, Nora Martin Peterson

Storytelling in Sixteenth-­Century France Negotiating Shifting Forms

Edited by Emily E. Thompson

Newark

 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Thompson, Emily E., editor. | Isidore Silver Memorial Colloquium on Storytelling in Sixteenth-Century France: Medicine, Literature, and the Arts (2016 : St. Louis, Missouri) Title: Storytelling in sixteenth-century France : negotiating shifting forms / edited by Emily E. Thompson. Description: Newark, DE : University of Delaware Press, [2022] | Series: The early modern exchange | Based on the Isidore Silver Memorial Colloquium held at the Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri in April 2016. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021015691 | ISBN 9781644532362 (paperback) | ISBN 9781644532379 (hardback) | ISBN 9781644532386 (epub) | ISBN 9781644532393 (pdf ) Subjects: LCSH: French literature—16th century—History and criticism— Congresses. | Narration (Rhetoric)—History—16th century—Congresses. | Storytelling—France—History—16th century—Congresses. Classification: LCC PQ239 .S76 2022 | DDC 840.9/2309031—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021015691 A British Cataloging-­in-­Publication rec­ord for this book is available from the British Library. This collection copyright © 2022 by the University of Delaware Individual chapters copyright © 2022 in the names of their authors All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact University of Delaware Press, 200A Morris Library, 181 S. College Ave., Newark, DE 19717. The only exception to this prohibition is “fair use” as defined by U.S. copyright law. References to internet websites (URLs) ­were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Rutgers University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared. The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—­Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992. udpress​.­udel​.­edu Distributed worldwide by Rutgers University Press Manufactured in the United States of Amer­i­ca

Contents

Introduction Emily E. Thompson

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Part I  Putting the Real into Words 1 The Memorialist and the Historian: A Tale of Two Storytellers Amy Graves Monroe

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2 “Ceste histoire veritable”: ­Women’s Narrative and Truth-­Telling in the Comptes amoureux and the Angoisses douloureuses 32 Kathleen Loysen 3 The Queen’s Quandary: Storytelling in Jeanne d’Albret’s Ample Déclaration 57 Marian Rothstein 4 Telling the True and the Real in the Canards Sanglants 74 David LaGuardia Part II  Playing with Expectations 5 Urania in Physician’s Robes, or Poetry in the Ser­vice of Medicine: Girolamo Fracastoro, Syphilis sive morbus gallicus (1530) Colette H. Winn 6 Storytelling at the Crossroads of Diplomacy, History, and Poetry: “The Story of the Death of Anne Boleyn, Queen of ­England,” by Lancelot de Carle JoAnn DellaNeva 7 In Defense of Stories: Henri Estienne Reclaims the Story Collection for a New Readership Emily E. Thompson

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8 Recasting the Heptaméron Novellas in Brantôme’s Vie des dames galantes 170 Dora E. Polachek Part III  Repurposing Stories through Shifting Forms 9 Sex, Salvation, Extermination: Contrafacta and the French Wars of Religion 195 Cathy Yandell 10 Storytelling in Tapestry: Examples for a French Queen Sheila ffolliott

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11 The Night before Geology: Fossil Stories from Early Modern France 240 Phillip John Usher Contributors 265 Index 271

Storytelling in Sixteenth-­Century France

Introduction Emily E. Thompson

Storytelling appears central to our con­temporary preoccupations. Philippe Roussin calls it the “­grand narrative of the pre­sent.”1 Evidence of the resurgence of storytelling as a way of making sense of dif­fer­ent realities abounds on both sides of the Atlantic. The denigrating term “fake news” treats all reporting as just another form of fictional storytelling. In the spheres of business2 and medicine,3 the “power of storytelling” has gained ground in a more positive way as a strategic tool for success. Ted Talks and StoryCorps are examples of dif­fer­ent media that embrace storytelling’s ability to relay information in a compelling way, capturing both the uniqueness of each storyteller and the under­lying humanity of each individual story. French marketing specialist Philippe Lentschener goes beyond the individual to ask how France can tell its story to the world (se raconter).4 A related lexicon peppers commonplaces in both En­glish and French,5 while a “narrative turn” has characterized academic theories across disciplines since roughly the 1980s.6 At the same time, storytelling is a basic function of h ­ umans, an intrinsic part of most cultures, a practice common to all eras. For historian Hayden White, storytelling remains “a h ­ uman universal.”7 Its value to society has been debated at least since Plato sought to ban poets from the Republic. Con­temporary associations of storytellers propose this atemporal ­human activity as a way of finding meaning in our global, technological pre­sent. Yet storytelling remains 1

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firmly entrenched in historical and cultural contexts, determined by changing power dynamics. One way in which this volume contributes something new to the study of storytelling is to examine it through a specific cross-­cultural, historical lens. Carlo Ginzburg reminds us that narratives are amalgams of the true, the false, and the pos­si­ble, and as such reveal much about the epistemic paradigms of the socie­ties that create them.8 During the sixteenth c­ entury in France, a period of dramatic social, cultural, technological, and po­liti­cal transformation, ­people turned to storytelling to define and redefine specific communities and identities and to attempt to negotiate with opposing communities and ideas as well as with prevailing master narratives. The contributors in this volume bring a novel understanding of what can be understood as a story in a twenty-­ first-­century context to bear on analyses of sixteenth-­century French stories. As psychologist Jerome Bruner has suggested, “Life is not ‘how it was’ but how it is interpreted and reinterpreted, told and retold.” 9 Through our own storytelling, inflected and informed by con­temporary concerns, we can uncover new ­angles on epistemological practices that ­were evolving in the sixteenth ­century and thus enhance our understanding of French society in this period. The correlation between ­these two periods of history is not arbitrary. The transition between the twentieth and twenty-­first centuries, during which time technological discoveries revolutionized the way information was shared, gave rise to a concern with pro­cessing and evaluating unpre­ce­dented amounts of information; the early modern period provided a similar challenge with the explosion of print culture. Confronted with an overwhelming volume of often contradictory narratives, contemporaries (then and now) resorted to storytelling to try to order this information and make sense of their lives. Similarly, globalizing forces in t­ oday’s world put pressure on national identities and agendas and question traditional cultural and religious narratives, giving new voice to minorities and dissenters within socie­ties. The globalization of the twenty-­first ­century is hardly the same as that which took place during the sixteenth, but the questioning of geographic and po­liti­cal borders ­today can make us as readers more sensitive to ways in which stories ­were used to construct national identity and negotiate power in early modern France. In that period of French history, storytelling pervaded all domains of knowledge. So to identify common patterns that transcended disciplines and genres, the contributors in this volume explore storytelling as it was linked to dif­fer­ent types of knowledge. As Pléiade poetry gave a new life to story-

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telling by rejuvenating many mythological stories, fictional prose was establishing its legitimacy. Early modern authors discovered the implications of a crucial transformation from collective reading to an increasingly private, individual consumption of books. In their development of a more secular early modern historiography, historians of all types, and in par­tic­u­lar writers of memoirs, incorporated the anecdotal to depict personal experience and adapted storytelling techniques to serve their moralizing and po­liti­cal objectives. In the sermons and propaganda lit­er­at­ ure of this period of religious ­d isruption, preachers and pastors used stories to persuade and convert. ­Pedagogues, aided by increasingly affordable books, relied on storytelling to pass on wisdom and inspire f­ uture generations. Physicians and midwives resorted to storytelling as well to rec­ord and justify their empirical discoveries in health care, yet another domain undergoing radical change during this period. Storytelling also flourished in visual arts, such as through tapestries, stained glass panes, architectural designs and decorative features, paintings, and woodcuts, and reflected shifting esthetic standards. Some of ­these art forms, in addition to demonstrating the unique way of telling stories associated with each medium, also include text, thus suggesting ways in which two systems of signifying (pictorial and textual) can intersect to create still other techniques of narrating. Perhaps the most daunting challenge in examining sixteenth-­century French stories in light of a twenty-­first-­century understanding of storytelling lies in the very word “story” itself. It is difficult enough to define this type of narrative in e­ ither French or En­glish; centuries of critical lit­er­a­ture on storytelling have not led to a concise, accepted definition. The word evokes at once specific genres with their literary rules and par­ameters and a more general expression that defies such restrictions. Compounding the difficulties is the prob­lem of writing in En­glish about a French phenomenon. The French lexicon related to stories has evolved in strikingly dif­fer­ent ways than the En­glish one. The noun “storytelling” in En­glish facilitates an analy­sis of the act of narrating itself, since the gerund form directs our attention to a pro­cess. No equivalent noun exists in French, and the French verb that describes the pro­ cess (raconter) more clearly evokes an oral tradition with a par­tic­u­lar type of short traditional story (conte) that could be told over and over again. To begin with the word “narrative,” however, places the emphasis on the decisions inherent in structuring a story and on the perspective from which it is told. Another alternative, récit (meaning “the pre­sen­ta­tion of events”), conjures the

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notion of per­for­mance, but not of exchange. The persisting ambiguity in French between the notions of history and story (histoire, in both cases), for its part, lends itself well to a study of the significant overlap between historical narratives and fictional storytelling. Sixteenth-­century French texts reveal yet another shift in storytelling terminology: The terms histoire, conte, compte, nouvelle, discours, exemple, fable, récit, and chronique ­were sometimes used interchangeably in a linguistic flux that no longer exists ­today. In other texts of the period, t­ hese terms w ­ ere used to juxtapose dif­fer­ent types of stories, their functions, and their reception. In early modern En­glish, historie and storie existed as separate words, but they continued to be used interchangeably as well. “Story” existed as a verb as well as a noun. The noun “relation,” expanded the En­glish options for synonyms and privileged the act of relating and the connections it establishes. In both French and En­glish, the terms that referred to stories also retained a connotation of mendacity and frivolity (fable, tale, ­etc.), inflections that are difficult to gauge from our historical distance. ­These terms likewise privileged verbal storytelling, although the words “history” and histoire could also refer, in the sixteenth c­ entury, to visual forms. Related terms used to evoke narrative, like “framing” (le cadre) or “narrative thread” (le fil conducteur) further orient us ­toward tangible forms of storytelling, such as ­those used in painting and tapestry. To choose a single term or definition of “story” would inevitably limit a complex and rich subject of inquiry and fail to convey the exploratory and fluid nature of sixteenth-­century storytelling, both in the theorization of stories and in the dif­fer­ent forms they assumed.10 By adopting a cross-­cultural, cross-­ linguistic approach, this volume opens up the discussion of storytelling beyond the terms that have defined it in theories from both sides of the Atlantic. The articles included reflect both the polysemy of ­these terms and the recurrence of par­tic­u­lar terms in par­tic­u­lar contexts. The refusal to restrict language and definitions from the outset permits both a general analy­sis of terminology and a theorization of narrative forms at the micro level. More importantly, this approach facilitates the identification of significant patterns in storytelling that transcend t­ hose implied by literary terms and generic categories, complicated by layers of literary associations over the centuries. The essays in this volume adopt a relational approach to storytelling. It is striking, for example, that all of the essays evoke the notion of interaction: between writing and orality, storyteller and audience, past and pre­sent read-

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ers, dif­fer­ent modes of expression, utility and plea­sure, art and truth, the common and the exceptional. The volume itself was born out of a form of interactive storytelling—­a journée d’étude or­ga­nized by Colette H. Winn and Emily Thompson at Washington University in April 2016. They invited scholars from dif­fer­ent disciplines to look to storytelling for insight into the ways that men and ­women in sixteenth-­century France chose to relate the society around them. Ten scholars came to St. Louis to share their perspectives and to engage in conversation about storytelling choices. What commonalities existed between dif­fer­ent expressions, media, and functions of storytelling? Did they share rules, figures, and codes? Did par­tic­u­lar storytelling techniques pass from one domain to o­ thers? Can we speak of hierarchies of storytelling? And, most importantly, how did key changes during the c­ entury (like printing or the confrontation with new religious communities, for example) impact both the practice and the perception of storytelling? At the end of the day of pre­sen­ta­tions, the scholars gathered for a concluding session during which they identified a series of recurring tensions and storytelling techniques that appeared to hold par­tic­u­lar significance in the context of sixteenth-­ century France. Focusing on storytelling rather than on the story—on the connections between related stories and between stories and their tellers more than on the internal structure of any single story—­brings dif­fer­ent techniques to the fore. Most notably, it is not the sequential nature of events that seems central in storytelling; instead, it is the veritable web of interrelated narratives and ele­ ments. The type of reading that this web implies, of course, evokes the way the internet is currently modifying the act of reading. The same lexicon, however, also recalls older forms of visual storytelling, like tapestries and other weaving arts that have given us the fil conducteur—­the thread of the story, interwoven plot lines, and so on. Likewise, the cutting and pasting of interchangeable parts is not just a virtual exercise but one that was practiced quite literally by compilateurs of the sixteenth ­century.11 ­These storytelling techniques draw the attention of the reader to the borders, to the seams that might be located throughout the story and not just to the moments highlighted by chronological sequencing. Another technique heavi­ly used by the storytellers examined in this volume is layering. Palimpsests functioned both intentionally and unintentionally, as storytellers built upon traditional stories and readers recalled multiple preceding versions. What became apparent, too, was the significance of the sheer volume of story versions. Proliferation as a

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technique emphasized creative possibilities and helped undermine a sense of hierarchy in storytelling. Freed from the physical constraints of an oral storytelling setting, stories in the era of printing assumed a dif­fer­ent relationship to notions of authority and origin. If the wider dissemination of stories also meant that individual storytellers could no longer effectively anticipate the interpretative context in which their stories might be received, it incited them to exploit the emotional dimension of storytelling in order to manipulate readers as best they could without being physically pre­ sent. The techniques of proliferation, layering, interchanging and reintegrating story ele­ments, and redirecting readerly responses seem to have been common techniques to achieve this effect. The essays in this volume suggest three axes along which to analyze early modern French storytelling: the transformation of a historical event into a narrative, the negotiation with an implied reader, and the decision to repurpose older story forms. Each of ­these axes explores tensions that arise around the storytelling seams, where storytellers and readers, past and pre­sent versions, and a web of collaborators and overlapping references come together. Putting the Real into Words The first of ­these axes is the most familiar. The transformation of history into story and the choices that this pro­cess implies are necessarily affected by the historical era and social context. To wit, the term historier succinctly captures this in an early modern lexicon. Randle Cotgrave defined this French term as “to write, to compile Histories,” but also to “flourish and beautifie . . . ​with Histories.”12 He specified that what is thus enhanced can be “wainscot or tapiseries.” According to the Analyse et traitement informatique de la langue française (ATILF) Dictionnaire du moyen français, the French term could ­either mean “to write,” “to decorate,” or “to represent” (as in theatrically).13 And the Larousse du moyen français defines historier as “mettre en récit” or “broder une histoire.”14 Captured thus in this single term is the pro­cess of how to represent history, how to embellish it, and what forms to choose in order to tell it. Four of the contributors focus on this act. In chapter 1, “The Memorialist and the Historian: A Tale of Two Storytellers,” Amy Graves Monroe examines the identity and the authority of the storyteller in order to distinguish between types of written history that developed through the early modern era: histories, memoirs, and historical nov-

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els. She considers the notion of impartiality as a goal for storytellers in the writing of history, evoking the tensions between loyalty to a specific community or ideology, on the one hand, and the desire to convey broad truths and to re­spect mimesis, on the other: a tension between the vraisemblable and the vrai. In so ­doing, she points us t­ oward an alternative neutrality, one closer to an in-­betweenness, an ever-­adjusting ­middle position. While Graves Monroe insists on the significance of the specific social identity of the storyteller in establishing the authority of the story, in chapter 2, “ ‘Ceste histoire veritable’: ­Women’s Narrative and Truth-­Telling in the Comptes amoureux and the Angoisses douloureuses,” Kathleen Loysen looks at associations with one par­tic­u­lar kind of storyteller, coded as feminine. She, too, describes a type of balancing of perspectives in order to attain a shared truth. In the literary examples she analyzes, the Comptes amoureux and the Angoisses douloureuses, the structure of the texts ensures a multiplicity of voices through reenacted storytelling and other forms of reported speech. The tension h ­ ere is not so much between dif­fer­ent generic conventions, but between oral speech and written text. The emphasis on the act of storytelling itself underlines the significance of exchange and transaction in order to create meaning and a recognizable truth. If a common identity and shared ideology are helpful in creating a story that ­will seem credible, then narrators of the fictional works that Loysen examines are driven to generate more and more stories in order to convince an “obstinate reader,” who is s­ ilent but omnipresent. In chapter 3, “The Queen’s Quandary: Storytelling in Jeanne d’Albret’s Ample Déclaration,” Marian Rothstein evokes another such looming, resistant reader. Although much of this text and the par­tic­u­lar story that Rothstein examines seem to address d’Albret’s coreligionists, Rothstein suggests that Catherine de’ Medici is the reader whom d’Albret hopes to sway with her writing. Rothstein reminds us not only of the “epistemological and emotional paradigms” necessary to interpret and believe the simplest of stories, but also of the didactic and po­liti­cal intentions b­ ehind such stories. Like the other authors in this section, she looks at stories that seek not just to describe, but also to justify events. Fi­nally, in chapter 4, “Telling the True and the Real in the Canards Sanglants,” David LaGuardia turns our attention to a specific genre, the canard, and the dif­fer­ent kinds of realities that t­hese violent stories bring to light: social, religious, national, and economic identities. ­Here again, the exchange

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of story between storyteller and implied reader is based on a shared understanding of social signifiers and Christian ideology. The canards structure ­these stories in language that is never neutral but always already part of a fight for domination in establishing the real through storytelling. Playing with Expectations The second section of the collection assem­bles analyses of sixteenth-­century authors who deliberately chose a form that seemed incompatible with the message they wished to convey. The narrativization of medical theory (in the case of Girolamo Fracastoro), of diplomatic news (in the case of Lancelot de Carle), of the moralizing of ancient history (in the case of Henri Estienne), or the re­orientation of serious stories into comic ones (in the case of Brantôme) all force dif­fer­ent generic conventions to intersect. ­These surprising stylistic choices lend themselves well to equally paradoxical content. Dora Polachek writes of the readers’ “cognitive dissonance,” while Emily Thompson refers to imposed, alternate readings. The kind of active, critical reading that is triggered by t­ hese unexpected narrative forms correlates with the didactic objectives of Fracastoro, Carle, and Estienne, who seek to inform but reject moral and po­liti­cal dogmatism. This kind of pedagogic approach also procures what Brantôme terms un double plaisir for the reader, for whom the literal meaning is at odds with other readings the tension generates. The combination of surprising form and content liberated from a generic reading constitutes a creative catalyst that engenders disruptive readings. All of the texts in question champion a certain kind of literariness that has the power to astonish readers and provoke their curiosity. Despite the association of stories with fiction and artifice, the authors claim to be aiming for a deeper truth, not accessible through conventionally serious genres. They strug­gle to make sense out of complex materials through their own personalized storytelling as well as by tapping into the emotions of their readers. They tread a fine line between harnessing what Winn refers to as readers’ “­will to believe” and an active skepticism. To rely only on the verisimilar, as Estienne warns his readers, is to miss truths that do not neatly comply with conventions. The astonishing event requires an astonishing form of narration to challenge readers in their understanding of truth. All four of ­these sixteenth-­century authors (Fracastoro, Carle, Estienne, and Brantôme) likewise targeted a wider readership though the story form.

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Using eyewitness accounts, dialogue, and direct appeals to emotion, they created an immediacy in their work that defies the apparent timelessness of the story form. Even a recognizably “ ‘retro’ aesthetic choice,” as JoAnn DellaNeva (in chapter 6) calls Carle’s poetic rendering of Anne Boleyn’s story, emphasizes the deliberately subjective and personal approach of this dispatch, thus widening its appeal. With its deceptive familiarity, the story lures more readers but engages them in an uneasy reading experience, wherein their expectations, beliefs, and temporal frameworks are all thrown into question. In chapter 5, “Urania in Physician’s Robes, or Poetry in the Ser­vice of Medicine: Girolamo Fracastoro, Syphilis sive morbus gallicus (1530),” Colette Winn analyzes ­these dynamics in Fracastoro’s frequently translated, multibook exploration of the ­causes, cures, and significance of syphilis. Fracastoro integrates my­thol­ogy, medical case histories, and religious and moral teachings to tell the story of syphilis from several dif­fer­ent perspectives. His innovative use of poetic storytelling provides us with one of the first examples of narrative medicine and so belies the uniqueness of ­today’s popu­lar narrative medicine. In chapter 6, “Storytelling at the Crossroads of Diplomacy, History, and Poetry: ‘The Story of the Death of Anne Boleyn, Queen of E ­ ngland,’ by Lancelot de Carle,” JoAnn DellaNeva examines a sixteenth-­century account of the death of Anne Boleyn and the significance of the diplomatic secretary Carle’s choice to tell it in verse and through the words of dif­fer­ent “storytellers.” Carle’s narrative makes the shocking events surrounding Anne’s beheading intelligible for a French readership while highlighting his own poetic talents and authority as an eyewitness to parts of the story. The liberties he takes with conveying this event to a French readership recall more recent retellings of the Anne Boleyn story that weave together known facts with ­imagined motivations, to the delight of curious readers. In chapter 7, “In Defense of Stories: Henri Estienne Reclaims the Story Collection for a New Readership,” Emily Thompson focuses on the printer and humanist Henri Estienne and his self-­conscious defense of stories used in the Apologie pour Hérodote to prove the relevance of Herodotus to sixteenth-­ century readers. Estienne’s many self-­contradictions reveal a complex strategy to appeal to distinct types of readers and to address several key humanist paradoxes. Like all the modern contributors to this volume, he reflects upon the difficulty of reading stories from the past in light of con­temporary preoccupations.

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To conclude this section, Dora Polachek (chapter 8) turns our attention to another reader-­turned-­writer who recognized the potential of the story form in “Recasting the Heptaméron Novellas in Brantôme’s Vie des dames galantes.” She demonstrates the way in which Brantôme exploits well-­known stories in his Vies des dames galantes and recasts them in a dramatically dif­ fer­ent frame. She, too, suggests the power of certain readings that can continue to filter a text for readers centuries ­after publication. Repurposing Stories through Shifting Forms The essays in the final section force a reconsideration of the definition of “story” and the limits not just of genres, but also of material and immaterial forms. In their analyses of stories woven into tapestries, musical contrafacta, and fossils, the contributors reveal many similarities with the written, textual stories explored in the previous sections. ­These stories also signify with their form alone, separate from the events they recount. They reinforce larger cultural messages and are agents, too, in the production of culture and ideologies. Particularly striking for the interests of this volume, t­ hese disparate forms of storytelling often rely on the same reading practices. They are used to explain, inform, remind, and legitimate, and as such can be viewed as part of the proliferation of stories of all forms that signify in part through repetition and compilation. The material and musical stories also share a flexibility with textual stories, consisting of interchangeable parts, physical mobility, and the ability to adapt to dif­fer­ent contexts. Context, however, is deeply questioned by all of ­these stories. B ­ ecause they adapt to contexts that are sometimes completely contradictory to their initial ones, and ­because of their surprising longevity, we can won­der, along with Phillip John Usher, ­whether a focus on narrow historical contexts is the most fruitful way to consider storytelling. The woven, sung, and fossilized versions leave us with stories that, despite their parallels with textual narratives, suggest ways in which stories can no longer, or not yet, be fully intelligible to us. ­These shifting forms, adapting to con­temporary readers, also contain traces of ­earlier forms that are more difficult for us to access. In chapter 9, “Sex, Salvation, Extermination: Contrafacta and the French Wars of Religion,” Cathy Yandell studies the way that secular tunes w ­ ere refashioned into religious propaganda during the Wars of Religion. Yandell concludes that, beyond the effects of the rhythm and retained words that re-

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call the e­ arlier secular context, the contrafacta provide us with “a vital sensory entry into the polemic worlds of the past,” despite the diminishing auditory sensitivity of modern readers who privilege other senses. In chapter 10, “Storytelling in Tapestry: Examples for a French Queen,” Sheila ffolliott considers vari­ous sensory experiences. She details the ways in which a tapestry border or the cartoons used to prepare a tapestry allowed for a single, basic visual story to be repurposed. Other parts of the storytelling pro­cess are not so easy to reproduce, however. She describes the rooms and lighting that helped tapestries tell their stories in the sixteenth ­century, conditions that are rarely re­created ­today when displaying surviving tapestries. In describing the metallic thread and shiny objects that protrude from the surface of tapestries, ffolliott evokes, too, the interplay of “an enlivened surface and a mimetic illusion that ­today’s observer may find difficult to reconcile.” The fossil stories that Phillip John Usher examines in chapter 11, “The Night before Geology: Fossil Stories from Early Modern France,” explore an even more radical tension between continuity and rupture in storytelling. His inquiry confronts a culturally determined historical context with the “geological now” in order to tell a story that includes the material world and its shifting forms. The fossil stories that he asks us to consider hold the promise of new stories, as yet undiscovered within each familiar one, as well as a novel link to the physical environment that can connect us to the lost sixteenth ­century in yet other ways. Although this volume examines storytelling through three dif­fer­ent lenses, the essays ­here overlap in multiple meaningful ways. Stories call for the ordering and reordering of narrative ele­ments out of an indiscriminate ­jumble (described alternatively as tas, ramas, or balayures) in which the con­temporary reader might encounter them. Verbs and their synonyms, like “astound,” “legitimate/justify,” and “proliferate,” recur in the study of very dif­fer­ent stories. The contributors examine ways in which the structure of stories ­either produces meaning, as it is appropriated and reappropriated by dif­fer­ent storytellers, or resists specific functions. Beyond the material forms that they assume, ­these early modern stories reflect the deliberate shaping of a distinctly French identity. Although the contributors closely study the structural and literary qualities of specific stories, they do so within a specifically defined social context. Several contributors remind us of material and economic contexts that cast the more familiar biblical and literary stories into a new light.

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Emily E. Thompson

The essays in this volume comment extensively on specific markers of class, gender, and religious identity that can enhance our understanding of a story and its reception. As older epistemic paradigms ­were challenged, sixteenth-­century storytellers turned to a form of expression that remained intelligible, but that also permitted them the flexibility to transform familiar material to comment on new realities. Beneath the veneer of entertainment, they tackled controversial issues in diverse areas (po­liti­cal, religious, social, scientific). Authors sought to inform, comfort, unsettle, and manipulate readers, and they did so by appealing to their emotions, but also by engaging dif­fer­ent senses. The storytellers w ­ ere cognizant of an ethical dimension to their practice and often sought explic­itly to legitimize their stories in moral terms. Hanna Meretoja’s understanding of the ethics of storytelling sheds light on both the sixteenth-­ century stories examined in this volume and the articles analyzing them: “Lit­ er­a­ture can expand the culturally available repertoire of narrative models in relation to which we can (re)interpret our experiences and lives. It can also function as a form of alternative historiography that provides us with experiential access to the past, thereby helping us imagine both what has been and what could be.”15 This volume attempts to reimagine what was in sixteenth-­ century France, using narrative models from the twenty-­first c­ entury. Thinking through early modern stories enables con­temporary critics to move beyond constricting master narratives of our own time, offering us alternate ele­ments and perspectives with which to reconstruct the stories of ­today. As Graves Monroe states in the opening essay, storytelling was and remains a “craft with consequences.” Notes Many thanks to Kathleen Loysen, who provided invaluable help in organ­izing and editing this introduction. 1. Philippe Roussin, “What Is Your Narrative? Lessons from the Narrative Turn,” in Emerging Vectors of Narratology, ed. Per Krogh Hansen, John Pier, Philippe Roussin, and Wolf Schmid (Boston: De Gruyter, 2017), 399. 2. Roger Dean Duncan, “Tap the Power of Storytelling,” Forbes, January 4, 2014, https://­w ww​.­f orbes​ .­c om​ /­s ites​ /­r odgerdeanduncan​ /­2 014​ /­01​ /­0 4​ /­t ap​ -­t he​ -­p ower​-­of​ -­storytelling​/­#75f82bad614a; Steve Denning, “Telling Tales,” Harvard Business Review, May 2004, https://­hbr​.­org​/­2004​/0 ­ 5​/­telling​-­tales; “Le Storytelling: Raconter une histoire pour valoriser son cabinet,” Les Echos, May 10, 2018, https://­www​.­com​-­experts​.f­ r​/­le​-­blog​ -­communication​-­des​-­experts​/­le​-­storytelling​-­raconter​-­une​-­histoire​-­pour​-­valoriser​-­son​ -­cabinet.

Introduction

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3. Consider, for example, Alexander C. Kafka, “Why Storytelling ­Matters in Fields beyond the Humanities,” Chronicle of Higher Education 65, no. 6 (2018): 1; Rita Charon and Sayantani DasGupta, The Princi­ples and Practice of Narrative Medicine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016). 4. Philippe Lentschener, “Comment la France peut-­elle se raconter au monde,” filmed December 14, 2015, in Paris, Tedx Talks video, 8:40, https://­w ww​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​ ?­v​=­Re8yzqnadaM. 5. Consider ­these examples: “that’s a likely story,” “to make a long story short,” “it’s the same old story,” “that’s the story of my life,” “to live to tell the tale,” “an old wives’ tale,” “raconter n’importe quoi” (to talk nonsense), “raconter des salades” (to spin yarns), “ne pas raconter des histoires” (not to invent stories), “en faire une histoire” (to make a big deal out of something), and “c’est toute une histoire” (it’s a long story). 6. See Roussin, “What Is Your Narrative?,” or Hanna Meretoja, The Ethics of Storytelling: Narrative Hermeneutics, History, and the Pos­si­ble (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017). 7. Hayden White, The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Repre­ sen­ta­tion (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990), 1. 8. Carlo Ginzburg, Threads and Traces: True False Fictive, trans. Anne C. and John Tedeschi (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), 57. 9. Jerome Bruner, “Life as Narrative,” Social Research 54, no. 1 (1987): 31. 10. Philippe Roussin, for example, claims that an emphasis on form makes way for an interest in function with the narrative turn away from structuralism (“What Is Your Narrative?,” 385). 11. Ann Blair, “Reading Strategies for Coping with Information Overload, ca. 1550–1700,” Journal of the History of Ideas 64, no. 1 (2003): 25–28. 12. Randle Cotgrave, ed., A Dictionarie of the French and En­glish Tongues (London: Adam Islip, 1611), http://­w ww​.­pbm​.­com​/­~lindahl​/­cotgrave​/­. 13. Analyse et traitement informatique de la langue française (ATILF), Dictionnaire du Moyen Français (DMF) (2015), http://­w ww​.­atilf​.­f r​/­dmf​/­. 14. Algirdas Julien Greimas and Teresa Mary Keane, Dictionnaire du moyen français: La Re­nais­sance (Paris: Larousse, 1992), s.v. “historier.” 15. Hanna Meretoja, “On the Use and Abuse of Narrative for Life: T ­ oward an Ethics of Storytelling,” in Life and Narrative: The Risks and Responsibilities of Storying Experience, ed. Brian Schiff, A.  Elizabeth McKim, and Sylvie Patron (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 83.

cha p te r on e

The Memorialist and the Historian A Tale of Two Storytellers Amy Graves Monroe

History is a genre that overlaps with literary and traditional approaches to storytelling, particularly in its textual forms. As a recording of acts and events, early modern history writing owed debts to the classical traditions of epic and history, but also to the annals, chronicles, and chansons de geste of the Eu­ro­ pean tradition. The most significant commonality between history and storytelling is the shared reliance on narrative, along with a confidence that t­ here exists something to relate to the reader. The modern critical theory of history writing has considered this association between storytelling and historical narrative at length. Indeed, closer observation suggests that history’s dependence on narrative inspires suspicion ­because of its proximity to fiction; the possibility of multiple versions of a story compromises claims to be authoritative. The insistence on distinguishing Histoire from histoire(s) (i.e., in the plural and with a lower-­case h) runs parallel to the heightened awareness of the Genettian structuralist distinction between histoire (chronology of events) and récit (story). In a structuralist manner, Hayden White exposed the literary conventions that put the lie to the myth of objectivity and showcased the idea of emplotment, or putting the events of history into a narrative, as the literary foundation of historiography.1 The earliest historians of the Annales School wondered if deep structures might tell a dif­fer­ent story—­a total history over the longue durée that eschews a narrative of events to reach what lies under­neath. Paul Ricoeur’s work, from his earliest thoughts on time 17

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and narrative to his return to writing history before his death, assumes that history is a type of storytelling, but with a difference in kind. The move t­ oward poststructuralist genealogies charts a trajectory ­toward the multiplicity of origins, a polysemic real­ity to account for, and an inability to fully locate power and its exercise.2 Even the act of recounting history became a practice enmeshed in power for Michel Foucault, Pierre Bourdieu, and Michel de Certeau.3 A shared frustration unites the writer of history and the literary storyteller when faced with the inability to grasp or seize the object of their craft. All of the theories mentioned above rely on ideas of narrative—or at least on the assumption of the existence of a structure of emplotment as the historical mode of discourse. Consequently, the récit d’histoire sits as the bedrock of historical form, and “recounting history” and “telling stories” are associated as analogous activities that each involve expressing events (and frequently their ­causes) over time. Whereas fiction nurtures a playful relationship to mimesis, ­there remains an implicit claim to referentiality embedded in history, where developing the correspondence between occurrences and their translation into narrative events is taken to be the ultimate pursuit. This assumption of referentiality persists despite the effort of critical theory to unmask history writing as proximate to narrative fiction, effectively dismantling its claims to truth and authority. The premise of referentiality in history also survives comparison to a literary conceit of veracity that is used to make a story more vibrant or immediate to the audience, or more “real.” This type of narrative strategy in fiction founds a trustworthy true-­to-­life narrative on the storytelling “contract” and can attribute any lack of identifiable detail to the abundance of caution that discretion requires. In an early modern example, the Heptaméron’s famous formula of “dont je tairais le nom pour l’amour de sa famille” (whose name I w ­ ill conceal in the interest of the f­ amily) allows the lack of mimetic relief or specificity in description, and sets up an essentially literary experience that is ­designed to instruct and delight and that ­favors didactic content that is liberated from the constraints of referential specifics. No text of history—­ even one that knowingly pre­sents with ele­ments of legend or lore—­can survive this lack of naming (geo­g raph­i­cal, temporal, personal) without compromising its status. As Barthes has suggested in his discussion of the “effet de réel,” 4 the introduction of referential details into fiction that maintain no attachment to the symbolic hermeneutics of the story is remarkable.



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I  would also argue that the presence of ­those indicators of brute real­ity marks an incursion into fiction, one that highlights a permeable wall between genres that merits exploring in order to locate the frontier between fictional storytelling and historical narrativization. A purely historical account does not register referential details as a disturbance or as a disruption in the fictional economy. Conversely, a fictional text (conte, nouvelle, histoire tragique, roman, ­etc.) can support the quality and number of departures from fact that generic expectations allow per the storytelling contract. An uneasy relationship between the Aristotelian domains of the true (necessity) and the verisimilar (plausibility) lies at the heart of the prob­lems of truth claims and narrative status in storytelling. Using history writing and historical memoirs, and taking a glance at the historical novel, in a sweeping approach that synthesizes multiple modes of storytelling, this chapter proposes to explore the troubled and uncertain nature of the frontier between history and fiction. It means to argue that the emerging distinctions between recounting history and telling stories are themselves a useful fiction, being both inherently unstable and the object of playful experimentation that capitalizes on ­those very distinctions. The shift from the sixteenth to the seventeenth c­ entury represents an impor­tant moment of richness and invention in the development of the art of storytelling. It also, perhaps unsurprisingly, witnesses the emergence of history as a discipline and history writing as an art with a method of its own. Yet, it is telling that the hybrid genres, such as memoirs and the historical novel, reveal the most about an effervescent climate that continued to test the limits of truth claims and narrative discourse. This chapter ­will focus first on how memorialists and their memoirs use idiosyncratic viewpoints to challenge hegemonic historical discourses and subsequently on how writers of the earliest novels performed the same exercise by using the récit to blur the lines between history and fiction in their novellas. The Histoire No m ­ atter how ­great the difficulty for historical narrative to seize the w ­ hole truth, it nevertheless claims to remain close to real events. Indeed, that (relative) proximity is its most recognizable characteristic. Expectations for the genre include assumptions about history’s superior accuracy in depicting events, access to proper chronology, and a connection to fact. ­These all seem to be lurking, unannounced and largely unacknowledged, as the histoire ­behind

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the récit in Gérard Genette’s narratology.5 The existence of a referential object of narrative description suggests what history writing and fictional storytelling share. But is ­there a histoire? Was ­there ever such a ­thing? For history writing, the fact that the histoire (event) and the histoire (text) are homographs seems to suggest a more natu­ral connection. It is an idle exercise to critique the effectiveness of narrative or debunk the authority of its truth claims as pretension; more productive is to challenge the centrality that narrative itself occupies in ­those same critiques. We can instead speak of “historical storytelling” as the creating and sustaining of an affective relationship to events. In short, history writing is as much a rapport between the speaker and the listener as the product of a rhetorical reconstruction. Both the literary and traditional conventions of storytelling are more capacious than any narrower technical expression in narrative, particularly when we consider the affective engagement that establishes the context of recounting. So too it is with history, which has its own past of oral traditions, chansons de geste, and hagiographies. In this past, the expectation of truth value lies primarily in the word as it is invested with the teller’s presence, whereas verisimilitude is constructed within a relationship that is largely external to the individual story, and the exemplum, if pre­sent, stands at the core of didactic function. The principal responsibility is to memory. Indeed, narrative itself is not even the sine qua non of history; the event-­focused genres like chronicles and annals demonstrate no proper narrative emplotment and show ­little regard for the systematic establishment of causal relationships. It would seem, then, that the context of recounting is to be taken seriously as a choice, one that emerged in the early modern period as a defining characteristic of diverse types of history. The types of texts run from memoirs to historical essays, from journalistic sketches to universal history, and from martyrologies to ecclesiastical histories. The registers and modes of recounting vary widely: the Mémoires of Philippe de Commynes; the Recherches de la France of Etienne Pasquier; the Historiarum sui temporis libri of Jacques Auguste De Thou; the sketchy impressions of the Registres Journaux of Pierre de l’Estoile, or the Histoire de France of Lancelot de La Popelinière; the Histoire universelle of Agrippa d’Aubigné; the Histoire des martyrs of Jean Crepin; the Dictionnaire historique et critique of Pierre Bayle; and the Histoire des variations of Jacques-­Bénigne Bossuet—­the variety of texts defies classification. Yet, when all the histories have been digested, all of the statements on method perused, all of the critiques and the recriminations evaluated, and all of the



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attempts to describe (and even to write) a “perfect history” accounted for, we can fully appreciate that not one of ­these proj­ects seeks to dissociate the writer of history from their text. The storyteller remains the constant value of ­these stories that is never completely abandoned. Tellers and Truths The sustained presence of the storyteller is significant, for although ­there are anonymous or pseudonymous histories that see print, the position of the teller of the history is never so thoroughly veiled as to obscure the speaker completely. This is by design. The teller of the tale can hide b­ ehind a name like “Abraham H.” (La Popelinière) or in an alphabet soup of initials so common to clandestine texts, or be highly vis­i­ble on the title page, as it is with Agrippa d’Aubigné. Yet the writer of history, and particularly the memorialist, leaves solid hints as to his milieu, intellectual affinities, or religious convictions. As history emerges as an activity that is built not so much on raw events (i.e., the res) as on the documents and documentary testimony that bear witness to them (mémoires), the expectations of historical testimony in the sixteenth ­century map more consistently onto l­egal paradigms of evidence—­and the early modern values of social credit contribute significantly to this pro­cess.6 The relater of history becomes tethered to the justifications for the testimonial prise de parole, and he never r­ eally leaves the gravitational orbit that offered him that authority in the first place. To go a bit beyond what the most impor­tant critics underscore as a critical function of the jurisconsulte in the elaboration of historical method,7 the narrative emerges not as a tale but as the product of an inquest. History’s new lens resembles the kind of scrutiny characteristic of an autopsy or dissection,8 and a threshold for inclusion in the narrative thread depends on the establishment of truth value. Events, developments, and other happenings undergo scrutiny, upon which interpretation can only be an overlay that tacitly acknowledges its inferiority. Not coincidentally, this press for veracity as specific to history squares nicely with the texts that the Latin and Greek tradition offered as models for sixteenth-­and seventeenth-­century humanists and moralists.9 The aspiring sixteenth-­century historians listened to Polybius’s warnings about pathos and provincialism in universal history, admired the scope and clever irony of Livy, enjoyed the incisive and lively portrayals of Thucydides, and digested the accounts of the disabused and pragmatic Sallust. They understood, as Ronsard

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did, that a distinction between poetry and history meant that the latter sank to the level of the true and the necessary.10 The obvious remaining creative route available u ­ nder ­those conditions is the exploration of c­ auses, instrument, and manner. History in the sixteenth c­ entury is an ablative exercise11 b­ ecause it fixes events in time and space and with re­spect to one another. The requirement of history as a “true story” (and not an absurd history like Lucian’s that mocks its own truth value)12 sits ­behind the question of ­whether Herodotus is the “­Father of History” or the “­Father of Lies.”13 In order to be the Ciceronian magister vitae, history must be tethered to the real world and its intractable prob­lems of decision-­making. In this tradition, it is no won­der that Machiavelli uses the text of Livy to stage choices and their consequences as a pragmatic question of statecraft in the Discorsi. Niccolò Machiavelli’s Prince and Etienne Pasquier’s Pourparler du Prince stage historical narrative as a vicarious experience to nurture wisdom; the narrative must itself be an experience and, more importantly, be fully felt as an experience. Storytelling, particularly in the form of the exemplum,14 configures memory in a public that did not have access to a direct experience. The use of history is didactic in much the same sense that the literary text must please and instruct—­and the practice of historical telling is consequently embedded in a moral (and po­liti­cal) utility. Moral and medical meta­phors that surround descriptions of the reading and digestion of history attest to the power of the story to form experience for a fully engaged and pre­sent audience. When Simon Grynaeus insists in his De utilitate legendae historiae that the profit in the reading of history is like consuming a healthy meal or taking the right prescription medicine, he makes claims for the therapeutic effects of the texts on personal well-­being.15 Adrian Johns has shown that ­these physical and psychological effects belong more generally to beliefs about reading practices;16 however, the special nature of the content of history affords the genre a unique status in the early modern period. Like heterodoxic religious texts, bad history contains lurking dangers. The history writer as physician or pharmacist shows us the face of a storyteller with ethical and therapeutic responsibilities, the practitioner of a craft with consequences. La Popelinière took ­those responsibilities seriously enough to formulate working methods for the practice of history. Unsurprisingly, La Popelinière begins with the posture of the storyteller and attempts to get at the princi­ples of neutrality: our history writer must provide a truthful narrative. For his “De l’excellence de l’histoire,” a short encomium placed among the



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front ­matter of the Histoire de France, La Popelinière lifts entire passages from Grynaeus; he too believes that the historian occupies a delicate and influential position with ­great potential to cause harm. La Popelinière sees in the narrative form the source of History’s superiority to Philosophy: “D’avantage n’estant l’histoire qu’un vray narré de plusieurs exemples particuliers: ils sont beaucoup plus propres à esmouvoir et enseigner que les argumens, regles, preceptes, ny autres sortes d’enseignemens imperieux des Philosophes. D’autant que les exemples sont particuliers, arrestez sur chacun fait, accompagnez et esclarcis par la lumiere de toutes leurs circonstances . . .”17 (Moreover, history being but a true narration of many individual examples, they are more suitable to move and instruct than the arguments, rules, precepts or other types of haughty teachings of the phi­los­o­phers. Inasmuch as the examples are ­specific, attentive to each fact, accompanied and elucidated by all of their circumstances . . .). The “narré” contains the kind of emotional content that is a more expedient teacher in what he calls the escolle de sagesse (school of wisdom) of history. Wisdom and ethical teaching are consequently the product of an interaction with a story or narrative, one that is emotionally power­ ful and didactic ­because it is true and close to the par­tic­u­lar and the individual. The true story of history performs its work far from the universal remove and “imperious teachings” of philosophy. La Popelinière’s confidence in “true narrative” to move and educate was not, in practice, enough to satisfy his fellow Protestants, who considered his historical narration in the Histoire de France too dispassionate.18 “Nous sommes ennuyés de livres qui enseignent, donnez nous en pour esmouvoir” (We are annoyed by books that instruct, give to us ­those that move us), Agrippa d’Aubigné famously cried in his Tragiques—­but the Huguenot poet obviously meant something dif­fer­ent by ­those two terms than did La Popelinière. D’Aubigné reproached the Histoire de France as “de la prevarication achetee” (mercenary lies) and made it his mission to correct, with righ­teous indignation, the detached treatment by La Popelinière that infuriated him: “Sur toutes ces connaissances j’ai fait courage de colere, et mon estat de remplacer les defaus de la suffisance par l’effort de ma fidelité” (In all ­these subject ­matters I have demonstrated the courage of anger, and my mission to replace the defects of presumption by my efforts to be faithful).19 For d’Aubigné, the objective horror of the events pre­sents a moral imperative of repre­sen­ta­tion that cannot be abandoned without committing an ethical transgression. Instead, d’Aubigné’s claims to impartial observation belong to his gifts as an

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accurate painter of his time, a meta­phor that graces the preface of his Histoire universelle. La Popelinière, for his part, sought instead a studied circumspection that he attempted to justify in a letter to Theodore of Beza: “J’ay pratiqué un nouveau moyen de representer les desseins et actions d’une part et d’autre comme neutre et indifférent aux partis; tel doibt estre l’historiographe” (I applied a new manner of representing the intentions and actions on each side as neutral and indifferent to both parties; such is the way the historiographer must be).20 The work of repre­sen­ta­tion lies at the heart of history writing, and cultivating indifference emerges as a goal: neutral, evenhanded treatment poses the foundation of best practices. The teller of the story must undertake the negotiation between positions and parties at the level of motivations and actions. This infighting among illustrious Huguenot humanists centers on the optimal position of the storyteller, who becomes an essential figure in an evolving understanding of the stakes of repre­sen­ta­tion during the early modern period. La Popelinière suggests that the historical narrator be neutral—­but that is by no means “objective,” if by that term we mean an effort to hold something at arm’s length to better contemplate it, f­ ree of attachment or feeling. What La Popelinière describes belongs instead to the meaning of impartial or neutre in the early modern epistemè. Impartiality does not hold something at a distance to facilitate detachment; rather, it holds the ­middle ground between two antagonistic positions. The in-­betweenness that characterizes this way of viewing the mean requires expending g­ reat energy to maintain neutrality. “Neutral” is therefore not “inert”—on the contrary, it is always moving. The ideal of the mediocritas sits within the realm of the achievable; the search for the m ­ iddle ground relies on the establishment and cultivation of an optimal position that is knowable, ­because it is calculated from two already extant positions. Th ­ ere is consequently a dialectical model for creating this vray narré, a model that stakes out princi­ples for the position of the storyteller and suggests modes of expression that recognize the difficulties when repre­ sen­ta­tion is held to standards of accuracy and fidelity. Differences of opinion arise from diverging ideas of fidelity and the nature of the affective engagement that is appropriate for the text. Memorialists and Memory Work The narrative position of history writing can also be tied to a persona, and memoirs pose the prob­lem of storytelling in a novel way that exploded in pop-



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ularity between the Re­nais­sance and the ­Grand Siècle. History, when in the first person, as it is in memoirs, performs memory work that aims at self-­ apologetics, expressing an individual truth, or providing personal testimonial. Blaise de Monluc calls his Commentaires “mes faits” (my facts, my acts) to justify his proj­ect.21 Memoirs often follow po­liti­cal, military, or courtly action as the testimony of personal decision-­making within an environment of more general historical interest. In other words, history has not dis­appeared, but rather the actor has emerged from within it and our storyteller doubles as an actor in the play. The genre of memoirs, both as documentary collections and personal narratives, saw an astounding increase in prac­ti­tion­ers at the same time that theoreticians strove for universal histories and more scientific working methods. Is ­there room for Caesar and Monluc among the relaters of perfect history? Could the Prince de Condé and the Duc de Sully deliver insights into ­matters of state from inside historical events? Are Marguerite de Valois and La Grande Ma­de­moi­selle also writers of histories and tellers of revealing stories of power and influence in affairs of state? Marc Fumaroli long ago noted the anxiety caused by the perceived absence of a proper history of France, which was a “situation qui n’est pas sans analogie avec celle de l’épopée” (situation not without similarity to that of the epic). In other words, it was felt as a cruel deficit to match another prestige genre that was missing from the literary landscape. The appearance of a histoire regulière was impeded by the lack of a sober judge capable of the necessary perspective: Et on comprend bien pourquoi: dans un pays aussi profondément divisé, et dont les querelles présentes se nourrissent du souvenir des querelles passées . . . ​l ’Historien idéal, le Juge idéal à la façon de Tite Live ou de Polybe, est impossible. Même la Monarchie est partie, et non juge dans ce conflit généralisé. . . . ​Même sous Louis XIV, en dépit des espérances du Père Rapin, subsiste l’impossibilité d’écrire une Histoire de France qui ait la majesté et l’impartialité de l’antique. Restent les Mémoires, pour servir à cette Histoire ­future.22 (And we can easily understand why: in a profoundly divided country, whose con­temporary quarrels are drawing upon the memory of ­those of the past . . . ​the ideal Historian, the ideal Judge in the manner of Livy or Polybius, is impossible. Even the Monarchy is implicated, and not a judge, in this larger conflict. . . . ​Even ­under the monarchy of Louis XIV,

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in spite of the hopes of Père Rapin, the impossibility of writing a History of France that had the majesty and impartiality of ancient history persisted. ­There remained but the Mémoires, to serve this ­future History.) The mémoires are a territory of multiple subjectivities, multiple vantage points, and multiple situations and contexts. If ­these texts and testimonies of aristocratic and parliamentarian writers can be characterized as handmaidens to serve some ­future history with their contributions, they are nonetheless far too sophisticated to brush aside as a rough draft of history. The patchwork that emerges from the proliferation of personal and po­liti­cal memoirs seems attributable to a lack of the very impartiality that La Popelinière tried so hard to demonstrate and that d’Aubigné and Beza ­were so reluctant to embrace.23 History Tellers What could be the glue that keeps the texts of the memorialists together? Some sense of being close to the action and in the privileged position of giving a firsthand testimony of events returns often in early modern characterizations of the texts. But readers also want judgment, savvy, and voice, so we return again to the identity, character, and style of the storyteller. Nadine Kuperty Tsur entitles her work on sixteenth-­century memoirs Se dire à la Re­ nais­sance and categorizes texts according to the motivations or the purposes of the text. The difficulties she encounters in providing a taxonomy for her corpus provides ample proof of the curiosity of this genre that is half fish, half fowl; the texts are as creative as they are chaotic and defy attempts to tame them. The history is the self, a self-­recounting that puts the subject at the center of an autobiographical text, using history as a backdrop against which individual action can meaningfully unfold. But are all of ­these vari­ous testimonies just fictions of the self, an autofiction? It would be a ­mistake to limit the historical import of the memoirs, for despite their scope and par­tic­ u­lar perspective, they do pre­sent events and make claims of truth-­telling. Like history, they are still tethered to the happening and thereby to the world of ­things—­“ce que j’ay sçu et connu” (what I learned and experienced), as Commynes would say. The texts of memoirs destroy as many myths as they make.24 The type of storyteller that we have at work ­here in the memoirs is one of personal experience, which Nadine Kuperty Tsur helpfully describes as a



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framing or alternating interdependence: “L’écriture mémorialiste se compose d’un discours historique dans lequel s’inscrit le discours personnel: ces deux discours s’égrènent au fil d’une chronologie à la fois historique et affective”25 (The writing of the memorialist is composed of an historical discourse inside which is inscribed a personal discourse: t­ hese two discourses spread out over a chronology that is both historical and affective). This back-­and-­forth of historical intersection brings us close to two histories and could be i­ magined as the encounter of one storyteller (the author of the memoirs) with the larger history that ­will be told by another (the historian). The memorialist recounts the story through the viewpoint of the observer and at the level of the events themselves. Understanding is produced by engagement, and meaning is fundamentally relational. The stories of memoires are pe­tite histoire, but they are not a footnote. Instead, memoirs can be thought to test the limits of narrative in the context of the vray narré: the alternation or nesting of memoires within history pushes the bound­aries of what counts for a happening. What aspect of personal experience emerges as worthy of general memory and perhaps even how eventhood might develop within the context of an affective response to occurrences belong in the laboratory of early modern memoirs. In this sense, the Registres Journaux of Pierre de l’Estoile can be instructive, for his approach regularly blends the newsy details of the quotidian anecdote and the larger concerns for the historical. The two histoires26 in the text of Pierre de l’Estoile intersect as he assem­bles his documentation; the exchanges, transcriptions, anecdotes, and documents are interspersed with observations and judgments of his own that offer a more sweeping pa­norama. The story of the storytellers of history returns to a distinction between the grande Histoire and the pe­tite histoire, but the position of the teller remains the most recognizable and anchors the text to its context. Historical Fictions, Fictions of History Thinking about memoirs in this way—as the challenge of histoire and Histoire—­allows us to see opposition between history and the exemplum as a parallel prob­lem that opposes the universal to the par­tic­u­lar. It also allows for a better understanding of a story like Madame de Lafayette’s historical novel La Princesse de Clèves. I would argue that the novel is a culminating moment of the unresolved questions regarding the status of events and narrative: the

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story forces the uneasy coexistence of dif­fer­ent types of storytelling narrative. Does the story re­spect history? Critics have disagreed about ­whether this is even a good criterion for evaluation.27 The novella juxtaposes fictional storytelling, memoire-­style narratives, and factual backstory gathered from the history of the court of Henri II.28 Each of the so-­called digressions offers a distinct type of storytelling. Mme de Chartres offers the historical telling: she paints the picture of royal court life as being full of real p­ eople who w ­ ill subsequently interact with Lafayette’s fictional creations. When she takes up the description of the duchesse de Valentinois, the death of Henri II, and the reshuffling of court influence by Catherine de’ Medici, Mme de Chartres is a historical storyteller, producing an oral history where the context of recounting is as crucial as the facts she relates. Her job is to create the backdrop of the Histoire with a capital H. The second digression is another type of narrative entirely: M. de Clèves offers the readers a moral tale. As told by M. de Clèves, the fate of poor Sancerre is the stuff of the moral exemplum and typical fare for personal memoirs that recount life b­ ehind the scenes. De Clèves is an eyewitness who spins his anecdote as pe­tite histoire that never ­really reaches the level of palace intrigue with any po­liti­cal import. It ressembles a histoire tragique more than any other storytelling genre. The third digression leads us to another type of text that blends historical storytelling into La Princesse de Clèves: Mary Stuart fills the role of the female author of memoirs with public and po­liti­cal responsibilities—of the type of Marguérite de Valois or the Grande Ma­de­moi­selle. Mme la Dauphine tells la princesse de Clèves the history of ­England as the ultimate memorialist—­Mary Stuart is uniquely qualified to do the historical recounting where being involved in events and personally witnessing them as a player in history overlap. As such, the historical storytelling ­here differs appreciably from the type that Mme de Chartres offered in the first part of the novel. The final digression is the one offered by the sad and defeated Vidame de Chartres. He sits at the very verge of disgrace in the eyes of Catherine de’ Medici, whose trust he betrayed with his dalliances. He stands as the figure of a memorialist at the decisive moment of motivated memoires with the goal of self-­justification and rehabilitation. We can easily imagine that he ­will soon engage in the self-­fashioning apol­o­getics that characterize the memoir text—­but h ­ ere we are treated (rather extraordinarily) to the unvarnished truth and shame that ­will sit under­neath it. All of ­these digressions sit within a literary text with an in­de­pen­dent fictional story of its own, told by a narrator who could, in turn, figure within a



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massive memoir—­much as Manon Lescaut ­will exist within the Abbé de Prévost’s framing narrative, the Mémoires et aventures d’un homme de qualité. Understanding the connection between histoire and Histoire as fundamentally contingent, and, more precisely, as directly related to the affective rapport that the storyteller creates, brings us to a fuller appreciation of the creative and intellectual stakes of mixing historical narrative and literary narrative as they evolve into the seventeenth ­century. We can see the place of historical storytelling in La Princesse de Clèves, for example, as being more than a quaint question of décor, and we can see the truly serious esthetic prob­lem that it formulates: an attempt to blend the vrai and the vraisemblable. Gérard Genette had it only half right: the question of verisimilitude is not simply a question of motivation in the structure of the tale but an evolving inquiry into the limits of mimesis. In this sense, La Princesse de Clèves is an audacious effort at sorting out questions of events and similitude and is a more experimental novel than critics conventionally give it credit for. The im­mense stress that the tale metes out to multiple threads of storytelling is obviously perceived by its contemporaries, who unleashed a polemic regarding verisimilitude on the level of coherence in feminine character and action and in storytelling continuity.29 ­These animated debates reflect the speculative daring in Lafayette’s narrative economy, where historical storytelling and fictional storytelling collide and where memoirs transition into the novel. Notes 1. For an examination of the structuralist influence on Hayden White, see Wulf Kansteiner, “Hayden White’s Critique of the Writing of History,” History and Theory 32, no. 3 (1993): 273–295. Roland Barthes and Northrup Frye ­shaped White’s earliest notions of structure and literary theme within the historical narrative. 2. For an account of how this slide t­ oward poststructuralism happened in early attempts at structuralism, see Hans Kellner, “Narrativity in History: Post-­Structuralism and Since,” History and Theory 26, no. 4 (1987): 1–29; and François Dosse, The History of Structuralism: The Sign Sets, 1967–­Pre­sent, vol. 2, trans. Deborah Glassman (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), chap. 24. 3. Hayden White, The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Repre­ sen­ta­tion (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987); Paul Veyne, Writing ­History: An Essay on Epistemology (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1984); Paul Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, trans. Kathleen McLaughlin and David Pellauer, 3 vols. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984, 1985, 1988); Paul Ricoeur, History and Truth, trans. Charles A. Kelbley (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1965); Paul Ricoeur, Memory, History, Forgetting, trans. Kathleen Blamey and David Pellauer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004); Michel Foucault, Discipline and ­Punish:

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The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Vintage Books, 1995); Michel de Certeau, The Writing of History, trans. Tom Conley (New York: Columbia University Press, 1992). 4. “L’effet de réel,” Communications 11, no. 1 (1968): 84–89. All translations in this chapter are my own. 5. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method, trans. Jane Lewin (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1983). 6. By this, I intend the idea of credit as a social and cultural construction that appears most notably in how knowledge and authority w ­ ere made in the age of the printing press. Adrian Johns, The Nature of the Book: Print and Knowledge in the Making (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998). 7. Donald Kelley, The Foundations of Modern Historical Scholarship: Language, Law, and History in the Re­nais­sance (New York: Columbia University Press, 1970); Philippe Desan, Penser l’Histoire à la Re­nais­sance (Caen: Editions Paradigme, 1993); Marie-­ Dominique Couzinet, Histoire et méthode à la Re­nais­sance: Une lecture de la Methodus de Jean Bodin (Paris: Vrin, 1996). 8. François Hartog, “Le témoin et l’historien,” Gradhiva no. 28 (2000): 1–14; Andrea Frisch, The Invention of the Eyewitness: Witnessing and Testimony in Early Modern France (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004). 9. Anthony Grafton, What Was History? The Art of History in Early Modern Eu­rope (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 10. Daniel Ménager, Ronsard: Le roi, le poète et les hommes (Geneva: Droz, 1979); Phillip John Usher, Epic Arts in the French Re­nais­sance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); and Pierre de Ronsard, The Franciade (1572), ed. and trans. Phillip John Usher (New York: AMS Press, 2011). 11. Post tenebras lex: Preuves et progagande dans l’historiographie de Simon Goulart (Geneva: Droz, 2012). 12. Lucian of Samosata, A True Story, in Lucian, vol. 1, trans. A. M. Harmon (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1913), and How to Write History, in Lucian, vol. 6, trans. K. Kilburn (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1959). 13. J. A. S. Evans, “­Father of History or F ­ ather of Lies: The Reputation of Herodotus,” The Classical Journal 64, no. 1 (October 1968): 11–17. 14. Timothy Hampton, Writing from History: The Rhe­toric of Exemplarity in Re­nais­ sance Lit­er­at­ ure (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1990). 15. De utilitate legendae historiae, in Artis historicae penus, octodecim scriptorum tam veterum quam recentiorum monumentis, vol. 2 (Basel: Petrus Perna, 1579). In a similar vein, the hidden benefits of the “boîte de Silènes” in the prologue to Rabelais’s mock epic Gargantua is far more than a playful exploration of hermeticism; it is an analogy that is more generally indicative of the spiritual power of texts and storytellers like Alcofribas Nasier to transform. 16. Johns, The Nature of the Book. 17. Histoire de France, vol. 1 (La Rochelle: Haultin, 1581), 8r°. 18. George Huppert, The Idea of Perfect History: Historical Erudition and Historical Philosophy in Re­nais­sance France (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1974); George Wy-



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lie Sypher, “La Popelinière’s Histoire de France: A Case of Historical Objectivity and Religious Censorship,” Journal of the History of Ideas 24, no. 1 (1963): 41–54. 19. Agrippa d’Aubigné, Histoire universelle, vol. 1, ed. André Thierry (Geneva: Droz, 1981–2000), 3. 20. Correspondance de Théodore de Bèze (1581), vol. 22, ed. Alain Dufour, Béatrice Nicollier-de Weck, and Hervé Genton (Geneva: Droz, 2000), 19. 21. Commentaires, ed. Pierre Courteault (Paris: Gallimard, 1964), 21. 22. Marc Fumaroli, “Mémoires du XVIIe siècle au carrefour des genres en prose,” XVIIe siècle 94–95 (1971): 13. 23. For this reason, one can legitimately won­der if the Vie à ses enfants is not d’Aubigné’s more successful text. For the relationship between the Histoire universelle and the Sa Vie à ses enfants, consult Kathleen P. Long, “­Fathers and Sons: Paternity, Memory, and Community in Agrippa d’Aubigné’s Histoire universelle,” in Memory and Community in Sixteenth-­Century France, ed. David LaGuardia and Cathy Yandell (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2015), 87–96; and Jean Raymond Fanlo, Tracés, Ruptures. La composition instable des Tragiques d’Agrippa d’Aubigné (Paris: Garnier, 1990). 24. Jean Dufournet, La destruction des mythes dans les Mémoires de Philippe de Commynes (Geneva: Droz, 1966). 25. Nadine Kuperty Tsur, Se dire à la Re­nais­sance: Les mémoires au XVIe siècle (Paris: Vrin, 1997), 21. 26. Myriam Yardeni, “Histoire et pe­tite histoire chez Pierre de l’Estoile,” in Ecritures de l’histoire (XIVe–­XVIe siècle): Actes du colloque du Centre Montaigne Bordeaux, 19–21 septembre 2002, ed. Danièle Bohler and Catherine Magnien-­Simonin (Geneva: Droz, 2005), 193–202. 27. On this question, it is instructive to compare the historical perspective of H. Chamard and G. Rudler, “La Couleur Historique dans La Princesse de Clèves,” Revue du XVIe siècle 5, no. 1–2 (1917–1918): 1–20, and the literary and esthetic consideration of Jean Mesnard, “La couleur du passé dans La Princesse de Clèves,” in Création et recréation: Un dialogue entre littérature et histoire; Mélanges offerts à Marie-­Odile Sweetser, ed. Claire Gaudiani and Jacqueline van Baelen (Tubingen: Gunter Narr, 1993), 43–51. 28. H. Chamard and G. Rudler, “Les Sources Historiques de La Princesse de Clèves,” Revue du XVIe siècle 2 (1914): 92–131; William Ray, Story and History: Narrative Authority and Social Identity in the Eighteenth-­Century French and En­glish Novel (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1990), 24–49; Faith Beasley, Revising Memory: W ­ omen’s Fiction and Memoirs in Seventeenth-­Century France (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1990); Ann M. Moore, “Temporal Structure and Reader Response in La Princesse de Clèves,” The French Review 56, no. 4 (March 1983): 563–571. 29. Valincour, Lettres à Madame la Marquise sur la Princesse de Clèves (Paris: Garnier Flammarion, 2001).

c ha p te r t wo

“Ceste histoire veritable” ­ omen’s Narrative and Truth-­Telling in the W Comptes amoureux and the Angoisses douloureuses Kathleen Loysen

Je dy pour aussi vray comme euvangile.1 —­Les Evangiles des quenouilles . . . ​vertueusement confuter la faulse et non veritable opinion, qu[e Cebille] a mise en avant.2 —­Les Comptes amoureux . . . ​en une chose différente de Bocace: c’est de n’escripre nulle nouvelle qui ne soit veritable histoire.3 —­L’Heptaméron

With this sampling of quotations we see the repeated and insistent concern with truth in w ­ omen’s storytelling in early modern France. With a lexicon composed of variations on vrai (true), verité (truth), veritable (au­then­tic), jurer (to swear), témoigner (to testify), témoignage (testimony), expérience, manifestes demonstrances (obvious demonstrations), and exemple, alongside their negative counter­parts, such as faux, faulse (false), non veritable (untrue), fainctise (dissimulation), faulx relateurs (reporters of falsehoods), detracteurs, and the much-­maligned rhétorique, a picture begins to develop wherein the status of truth—­how it is defined, what constitutes it, where and how it is to be located, and which moral and exemplary uses its language (written or oral) is 32



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to be put to—­becomes central. Furthermore, we see this concern not only in works known to be authored by w ­ omen, but also in works by authors of unknown gender, in which fictional w ­ omen storytellers are i­magined as speaking with one another. For known w ­ omen authors, for supposed w ­ omen authors who may or may not actually have been men, for anonymous authors who may have been ­either men or ­women, it seems to be a recurring topos that when fictional interlocutors identified as ­women speak, truth (and its ramifications) is one of their primary concerns. We can see this operating in a wide variety of texts that contain written inscriptions of ­imagined speech among ­women. French w ­ omen authors in the early modern period paid special attention to the role of truth-­telling in what they wrote; and both men and ­women authors seemed to portray this truth-­telling impulse as integral to representing w ­ omen’s speech. That is, w ­ omen ­were characterized as unadorned, nonrhetorical, plain and s­ imple truth-­tellers, even while within the Querelle des femmes, w ­ omen ­were si­mul­ta­neously denigrated as ­daughters of the duplicitous Eve, incapable of higher learning, apart and isolated from the realms of philosophical reasoning. ­Women, ­these authors seemed to say, tell the truth about what they see and experience, a truth that belongs to the communal, the quotidian, the emotional. In this light, I ­will examine two concurrent ­angles: the status of truth in the sixteenth-­century French nouvelle and the engagement of w ­ omen authors/ represented ­women storytellers in the very quest for truth. ­Women authors (or anonymous/male authors writing about ­women speakers) often used the storytelling form in order to enact the difficult search for moral certainty in this age of epistemological transition.4 The resulting multivoiced nature of their texts allowed the authors and readers to confront vari­ous competing ­versions of the “truth,” as I w ­ ill show by examining two case studies: the Comptes amoureux and the Angoisses douleureuses.5 My analy­sis ­will elucidate a central paradox: while so many ­women authors, so many fictional female storytellers, insist within their texts upon the literal truthfulness and truth value of the tales they proffer as exemplary, at the same time they also recognize the impossibility of arriving at universally applicable truths. I turn first to Jeanne Flore’s Comptes amoureux, an early sixteenth-­century text that plays with the notion of truth and the speakers and sources from which it emanates. The role of represented speech in such framed short story collections based on the model of Boccaccio’s Decameron (1349–1351) is a crucial one. This was an extremely popu­lar genre over an extended period of time

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in France, remaining in vogue from the late fifteenth c­ entury u ­ ntil the early seventeenth c­ entury, when literary tastes turned away from the short story ­toward novels several volumes in length. The explicit intention of many authors of short story collections was to create the “French Decameron,” seeking to imitate and outdo the Italian master at a time of much intercultural exchange between France and Italy. ­These collections are constructed such that the stories themselves are told via a depicted group of storytellers, who gather together for conversation and storytelling in diverse social contexts. In this way, the authors w ­ ere able to create a text that veritably speaks: all of the written words on the page represent utterances meant to be understood by the reader as being orally exchanged. This very focus on represented speech is deployed in a text such as the Comptes amoureux to express a per­sis­tent concern with the accessibility and reliability of truth, and it constructs verisimilar scenes precisely in order to lend an air of authenticity to the depicted oral exchange. Moreover, the text claims to enter upon the path ­toward a single, universal truth to be ultimately embraced by each of the characters pre­sent. However, that very path is destabilized through multiple means, such as the polyphony of opposing voices, the multiplicity of divergent opinions, and the act of conversation itself. Like other framed nouvelle collections in sixteenth-­century France, including, most notably, Marguerite de Navarre’s Heptaméron, it exemplifies a tight interweaving of discursive and narrative speech patterns, and from within this structure emerge mixed signals as to the work’s intended message: does it speak for the liberation of ­women from the constraints of arranged marriages and for their ability to choose their amorous partners? Or, on the contrary, does it merely want to “liberate” ­women from their husbands only to subjugate them to the sexual desires of their lovers, once again leaving no room for the ­woman’s own ­will to assert itself? While questions of authorial identity may indeed be pertinent in order to contextualize critics’ assumptions about authorial intent and textual meaning, I ­will instead examine what we can learn from the Comptes amoureux’s structure. Indeed, as Nancy Frelick has shown,6 any conclusions that we draw about the work’s meaning based solely on the supposed gender of the author may have much more to do with our own assumptions about masculinity and femininity than with anything inherent to the text itself. Therefore, I have chosen to ask another question altogether: why did the author known as Jeanne Flore choose not merely to tell stories on the topic of love and desire,



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but to show t­ hose stories in the pro­cess of being told, received, and interpreted? By focusing on this narratological aspect of the work, I w ­ ill analyze how the text itself operated within the literary landscape of the time, so immersed as it was in explorations of the potentialities and limits of the narrative form. Indeed, this text has not just one narrator, but multiple levels of narrators—­a primary frame narrator as well as a circle of secondary narrators, the members of the depicted storytelling circle. The seven ­women storytellers of the circle in the Comptes are set in a nonspecific locus amoenus7 ­after the fall grape harvest. The w ­ omen’s stated purpose is to tell stories about the power of Eros, the god of love; about Venus; and about how ­women should not remain closed to love, lest they be severely punished for their hard-­heartedness. A second theme is that of the mal ­mariée, the young w ­ oman married against her ­will to an inappropriate and unattractive older man. Both situations go against the laws of nature: w ­ omen, they say, should not defy the power of Eros or Venus, and their erotic desires should be satisfied only with compatible partners. The work opens with an octet, “Madame Egine Minerve aux nobles dames amoureuses” (Madame Egine Minerve to Noble Ladies-­in-­Love),8 written in the voice of one of the internal storytellers. The poem is a warning to young ­women not to offend the god of love, for, contrary to popu­lar opinion, he is not blind. Instead, he w ­ ill render blind t­ hose who have hard hearts, and therefore all ­women should be open to being servants of Amour. The octet is followed by a title page containing a similar message—­“Comptes amoureux par Madame Jeanne Flore, touchant la punition que faict Venus de ceulx qui contemnent et mesprisent le vray Amour” (Tales and ­Trials of Love, by Madame Jeanne Flore, Concerning Venus’s Punishment of Th ­ ose Who Scorn True 9 Love and Denounce Cupid’s Sovereignty) —­and then by a letter, purportedly from the text’s “author,” Jeanne Flore (whoever he or she may be),10 to a character within the book, Flore’s cousin Madame Minerve, the represented author of this very same opening octet. The letter lays out how the book came to be, giving a full accounting of the transformation from original oral scene to eventual written rec­ord: “Ma cousine, suyvant la promesse, que je vous avois faicte l’autre jour de vous transmettre les comptes de la punition de ceulx qui contemnent et mesprisent le vray Amour, lesquelz comptes bien à propos furent racomptez en vostre compagnie à ces vendanges dernieres . . . ​j ’avois prinse la plume en main pour le vous mettre par escript”11 (My cousin, following the promise that I made to you the other day to give you a copy of some

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stories [­these stories concern what happens to ­those who condemn and scorn true love], I took the quill in hand to write them out for you. You witnessed the telling of ­these very pertinent stories at the recent wine harvest).12 We see h ­ ere the pairing of je and vous (“I” and “you”) lending an air of immediacy and presence to the exchange, with an almost verbatim repetition of the theme of the book—­that ­women should be openhearted servants of Amour. Moreover, the reader is led to understand that the tales themselves ­were previously recounted aloud by the storytelling circle. This book, therefore, pre­sents itself as the written rec­ord of that prior oral storytelling event. The reader then learns that the author de­cided that even more young amoureuses (ladies-­in-­ love) could read the tales if she ­were to have them printed “si je les faisois tout d’ung train gecter en impression”13 (if I w ­ ere to have ­those stories printed at 14 once). From the beginning of the first tale, we are immediately plunged into the frame context, as if in medias res. The first line, proferred by the frame narrator, refers to a tale that does not in fact appear in the collection: “Madame Melibée après que la jeune Salphionne eust mist fin à son compte, où receut assez plaisir toute la compaignie, print la parolle, et dit . . .”15 (­After young Salphionne had finished her story, which the w ­ hole group enjoyed very much, Madame Melibée took the floor and said . . .).16 ­Others have tried to track down this purportedly missing tale or have taken this reference as an indication of the author(s)’ sloppiness.17 ­Whether this tale was lost or was never written, it nonetheless points to a purportedly ongoing cycle of storytelling and conversation. We have a momentary intervention of the primary narratorial voice to indicate to the reader the conversational link between prior story and subsequent story; and then we pass directly to the direct discourse of the first devisante—­who remains both conversationalist and narrator throughout the entirety of her storytelling turn, a pre­sent, speaking je, which persists through both the discursive and the narrative portions of her speech. It is, indeed, the conversation of the devisantes that surrounds and gives rise to the stories; the stories, then, exist to prove a suasive point in the ongoing, overarching conversation, serving as exemplary anecdotes with a very specific rhetorical purpose. That is, Madame Melibée makes it clear that she is telling a story in order to pre­sent her version of the truth and to si­mul­ta­neously ­counter the (in her view, false) opinion18 of the one resistant member of the circle: Dame Cebille. Dame Cebille is indeed the internal narratee of each of the storytellers; she apparently is of the opinion that ­women need not be loyal



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servants of Venus: they should, on the contrary, remain chaste and virtuous—­ either, depending on one’s point of view, subservient to a traditional code of morality, or, à la Christine de Pizan, in order to remain a self-­determined and in­de­pen­dent ­woman. Madame Melibée’s stated aim is to “vertueusement confuter la faulse et non veritable opinion, qu[e Cebille] a mise en avant”19 (vehemently refute [Cebille’s] faulty and completely unwarranted stance).20 What is most paradoxical is that we never actually hear this allegedly erroneous opinion of Cebille from her own mouth; throughout the Comptes, we only hear it characterized and referred to by the other members of the circle. She is in fact entirely s­ ilent throughout the entire work; she remains a narrated and mediated presence, never having the power of speech conferred directly upon her. Madame Melibée uses the expression “ je vous racompte ung faict . . . ​pour demonstrer . . .”21 ([I wish] to tell you about one par­tic­u­lar deed . . . ​to demonstrate . . .)22 to introduce the illustration of her own counteropinion, that is, the story which she is about to tell, her elucidatory example to demonstrate her position that w ­ omen should participate in the game of Love. Such contextualizations of the storytelling scene—­highlighting speaker and addressee in the pre­sent tense—­serve ­here to show stories in the pro­cess of being told, received, and interpreted, precisely so that we can witness the stories’ effect on the internal story recipients, and furthermore so that we can explore the pro­cesses by which reader reception and interpretation may happen: h ­ ere, all in the pursuit of a true worldview to which all the w ­ omen pre­sent should subscribe. Jeanne Flore’s ­actual external readers, however, ­will be unknown, unseen, and ­silent readers—­perhaps figured internally by Madame Cebille herself. And so to guide them in their interpretation of the stories, each of the secondary narrators w ­ ill enclose her story with a pair of significance statements.23 They each state what they w ­ ill prove or have proven, as in the opening significance statement of tale 1: “pour demonstrer que la bonne déesse [Vénus] . . . ​ est tousjours nuyct et jour en continuelle veille pour ayder à son peuple sans qu’elle le vueille laisser cheoir en perilleux desordre”24 (to demonstrate that . . . ​ the g­ reat goddess Venus tirelessly and continuously maintains a vigil (both day and night) so that she may help her subjects, hoping to avert any potentially perilous mischance).25 Madame Melibée follows this with a statement to demarcate the passage from conversation to storytelling: “Venons a mon compte, lequel il vous plaira toutes en silence diligemment escouter et

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congnoistre”26 (Let us have quiet, please, so that you all may listen carefully and contemplate what I am about to say).27 This declaration also instructs her audience on proper listening: they should be ­silent, diligent, and attentive listeners. Furthermore, they should not only listen to the story (“escouter”) but become familiar with it (“congnoistre”): that is, they should hear it, receive it, and interpret it in order to learn how to properly apply their new knowledge to their life’s path. As a guide to her audience and a fully pre­sent storyteller, Madame Melibée ­will remain in the forefront throughout her tale, never fading into the background as an invisible, purely bookish narrator might. In the 855 lines of the first tale t­ here are no less than twenty-­two interventions of a first-­person singular je addressing a second-­person plural vous in the pre­sent tense, calling attention to the “live” communicative link between narrator and narratee. Such reminders of the conversational circle perform two functions. First, they contextualize the act of storytelling, replacing it in its social context, by focusing the reader’s attention on the speaking source of the narrative discourse and her attempts to engage her audience in the pro­cess of receiving and interpreting the tale itself.28 Second, by exploiting markers of direct discourse to spur the conjuring of a speaking and listening presence in the reader’s mind, they serve to remind the reader that all that appears on the page is represented speech. In each of ­these ways, the reader is reminded that the purpose of the storytelling is not to exchange pleasantries regarding distant ­others but precisely to convince Dame Cebille, and by extension any reader, of ­these storytellers’ version of the truth, as it pertains to love and female desire. Very often ­these narratorial interventions are accompanied by indications of that narrator’s own emotional response to the material she is recounting: “de sorte, Amoureuses Compaignes, que encores me prent il pitié et grande compassion”29 (to the point, my ladies-­in-­love, that it still inspires g­ reat pity and compassion in me),30 attempting to prevail upon the reader’s or the listener’s own reception of the tale.31 Indeed, the narrators never render themselves absent from their tales or neglect the presence of their addressees; again, the addressee is what makes the storytelling both worthwhile and purposeful, since the story takes on an illustrative purpose only within the context of the overarching conversation. ­After the close of Madame Melibée’s tale, the primary narrator returns— to tell us of Cebille’s regretful consternation: “Icy madame Melibée faisoit fin à son compte, et comme lassée de parler reprenoit son haleyne, quand elle veit



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Madame Cebille attaincte du remort de sa conscience, et espouventée des justes et rigoureuses punitions d’Amour, paslir et muer couleur, et prendre tel visaige consterné de je ne sçay quelle paour panique”32 (With that, ­Madame Melibée’s story was drawing to a close, and, as if speaking had made her weary, she was stopping to catch her breath when she caught sight of Madame Cebille, who was growing pale, all the color draining from her face. Overcome with remorse and horrified by Cupid’s just and severe punishments, Cebille’s face took on a strange expression of alarmed dismay and fear).33 We the readers are therefore witness to the visceral effect the story had on this listener. Madame Cebille is momentarily moved by what she has just heard; she seems almost convinced, but as Gabriel-­André Pérouse has noted, she then quickly returns to her “attitude blasphématoire” and “persistoit en son maulvais vouloir”34 (persisted in her unwillingness) (my translation); this, in turn, generates the remainder of the storytelling contained in the Comptes amoureux. To persuade Cebille (ultimately unsuccessfully), Madame Melibée is therefore forced to engage in an extended interpretation of her own tale: Doncques, mes cheres compaignes, assez vous pouvés veoir que jamais celle qui de bon coeur et perfaict s’adonne au devot et sacré ser­vice Amoureux, qu’il n’y a si griefve oppression, ne si dangereux danger, duquel on ne puisse sortir et eschapper par l’ayde et secours du sainct Amour. La damoiselle Rosemonde fut longuement opprimée de son jaloux mary: et vous en avez veu l’issue, certes bonne et heureuse, et telle que je luy prie devotement de toute mon affection tousjours donner à ses bonnes et loyalles devotes. . . . ​Or apporte icy ores ses froides allegations, ses mensongiers argumens madame Cebille pour vous, mes chieres compaignes, attirer à sa conjuration. Certainement si bien je vous congnois touttes, jà rien n’en ferez, ains patiemment attendrez pour veoir quelle sera la peine, en quoy je la veoy encourir, la miserable!35 (Thus, my dear friends, you have heard enough to know that for anyone with a good and pure heart, and who devotes herself fully to Cupid’s holy ser­vice, ­there is neither so ­great oppression nor so perilous a danger from which Cupid is unable to deliver her; he ­will always come to her aid and rescue. Lady Rosemonde was long oppressed by her jealous husband, and you heard the felicitous, happy end to that tale. And I pray fervently and w ­ holeheartedly that Cupid may grant the same to

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all of his good and loyal devotees. . . . ​Now, my dear friends, Madame Cebille may pre­sent chilling allegations and faulty arguments in order to draw you into her conspiracy. Certainly, if I know all of you as well as I believe that I do, you w ­ ill do nothing save patiently wait to see what ­will be her punishment, and I am sure that the wretched w ­ oman ­will receive one.)36 This is her concluding significance statement, the counterpart to the opening one cited above. She wishes to direct her readers’ interpretation of her tale and succeed in convincing them of the truth of her position; and yet, t­ here remains an “obstinate listener”—­one who ­will not go along with how Melibée intends her tale to be understood. Despite being harshly punished and publicly humiliated at the end of the work for her re­sis­tance to Amour and Venus, this obstinate listener w ­ ill continue to refuse to go along with the consensus opinion. ­A fter six more tales, each structured in a similar fashion—­a brief introduction by the frame narrator, introductory commentary by the secondary narrator, the narration itself, and then concluding commentary—­Madame Cebille remains entirely unconvinced, and it is her “obstinacy” that in fact generates further tales. Each storyteller then recounts her exemple in turn, in order to counteract the opinion of Cebille—­the figure of the reader—­while Cebille remains ­free to disagree. The preponderance of individual examples is not proof enough to convince her that any sort of universal truth is being approximated by the storytellers. In utter frustration, the teller of tale 4, Madame Minerve, exclaims, “En voulez vous plusieurs exemples? Quants en y a il doloreux advenuz et loing et près! Quantes dolentes compaignes en cestuy nostre temps ont desjà Dido, Philis, Oenone, Phedra, Adrianne, et Medée!”37 (Do you care to hear more examples? Can you imagine how much pain he has caused both far and near? How many miserable ­women of our time may share the plight of Dido, Phyllis, Oenone, Phaedre, Ariadne, and Medea?)38 Nonetheless, despite this multitude of examples, Cebille remains unconvinced. Curiously, Madame Minerve herself even undermines her own argument ­here with a parenthetical admission that perhaps we cannot always trust what we read: “s’il est vray ce que [c]es escripvains en dient”39 (if what the writers say is true).40 Authors, indeed, do not always tell the truth; or maybe ­there is not ever merely one truth; perhaps books do not lie, but are unable to paint a complete picture of a w ­ hole truth, applicable everywhere and to every­one at



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all times. ­After tale 5, we get the closest yet to hearing the voice of Cebille: “Madame Cebille seule demeuroit sans s’esbayr, tournant le tout à fable et à mensonge: et se rioit de ses compaignes pour tant qu’elles monstroient une maniere paoreuse et puerille” 41 (Only Madame Cebille remained unmoved. Judging the ­whole to be mere fable and lies, she laughed at her companions, believing them to be timorous and childish).42 Cebille’s is a divergent voice, a less-­than-­completely narrated and represented voice, and yet it is the voice that generates all the tales. She is the only one who chooses a dif­fer­ent interpretive path, who receives and understands the tales freely, refusing to go along with the prevailing point of view. Despite being punished, she is steadfast in her refusal to compromise and in her commitment to her own freedom of individual interpretation, unfettered by group opinion or orthodoxy: we see h ­ ere a value that is reflected in much of the lit­er­at­ ure of the period, through the text’s skillful staging of narrative play and ambiguity.43 My second example of the sixteenth ­century’s experimentation with the par­ameters and possibilities of the narrative form in the ser­vice of truth-­telling is Hélisenne de Crenne’s Angoisses douloureuses (1538). ­Here, too, we see an insistence on truth-­telling and witnessing, leading in the end to a destabilization of the very status of truth. I ­will consider ­here the narrative structure of the Angoisses douloureuses and specifically the extent to which Hélisenne incorporates dialogue into the narrative discourse. The resulting intersection of the storytelling and conversational impulses results in a highly oralized narrative text, which was one of the main sites of literary experimentation of the period. It might at first blush seem surprising to speak of multiple voices in a text that emanates, unlike the Comptes, from a single narratorial voice and does not initially appear to participate in the conventions and techniques of the Boccaccian paradigm. However, even in this text made to appear by the author as if it ­were an unmediated, narrator-­less product—­a facet that has led many a researcher to attempt to reconstruct the historical Hélisenne de Crenne’s / Marguerite de Briet’s biography on the basis of the reported events in this and o­ thers of her works44—it nonetheless has a fully operational narrative screen, scaffolding its construction of the fake memoir. It uses many of the techniques recognizable from other texts of the period, such as the embedding of multiple discursive agents within one narratorial instance, leading to an oralized printed page; the extensive use of reported speech, in both

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direct and indirect discourse; the apparent address of an exclusively female readership; and a narratorial insistence on truth-­telling and witnessing that leads, paradoxically, to a destabilization of the status of truth, highlighting the unfixed nature of meaning and opening up multiple interpretive possibilities. Through an examination of ­these features, I ­will demonstrate the extent to which this seemingly anomalistic text is in fact firmly rooted in the narrative trends and larger epistemological interrogations of its period. First and foremost, the Angoisses douloureuses is another in the long line of “speaking books” of the Re­nais­sance;45 that is, books that depict “original” scenes of oral exchange in writing. While the text does not depict an oral storytelling circle, as in the Heptaméron or the Comptes amoureux (or any number of other con­temporary texts), it is nonetheless storytelling that contains reported conversations of all types. Even lacking any depiction of a storytelling circle or “live” story exchange, or of conversations among devisantes on the frame level, the diegesis itself is mainly comprised of reported conversations, giving rise to a multiplicity of oral instances and thereby participating in dynamics similar to t­ hose considered in the Comptes amoureux. Nonetheless, Hélisenne’s work is dif­fer­ent from the typical framed narratives of the period, which display their authors’ impulse t­ oward collecting disparate stories ­under a single frame; ­here, ­there is one continuous story, separated into three parts and several chapters. At the same time, her storytelling is talk-­like. In the sixteenth ­century’s experimentation with the balance between narrative and discursive or conversational impulses, ­others lean more ­toward the conversational (as in Noël Du Fail’s Propos rustiques); the Heptaméron may be seen as a perfect equilibrium between the two; and ­here, while Hélisenne apparently leans more ­toward the narrative, her text is nonetheless a conversational narrative; instead of a conversation conteuse, in the words Gisèle Mathieu-­Castellani used to describe the Heptaméron,46 perhaps we could say we are dealing with un conte conversationnel. And, as Madeleine Jeay has reminded us, the sixteenth-­century prosateurs delighted in creating vehicles for reporting speech and the sound of the ­human voice;47 she sees a “mouvement vers l’actualisation de la dimension dialogique du texte à travers la production d’échanges de paroles mis en contexte.” 48 While Hélisenne does not provide a framed narrative replete with a storytelling circle and multiple embedded tales, she does fill her narrative fabric with long dialogues and extended passages of reported speech, with the narratorial interventions seeming only to link one passage of reported speech to the next.



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Thematically, the work builds upon and borrows many ele­ments that are familiar from medieval romance and poetry: the plight of the mal mariée (the character Dame Hélisenne is married to a jealous, violent man many years her se­nior, who eventually locks her in a tower to keep her from her lover); the relationship between Dame Hélisenne and her lover Guénélic, which recalls several of the courtly love conventions (love at first sight; a lady of higher social status taken with a younger, less power­ful jouvenceau; a sexless love affair; the inaccessibility of the dame au piédestal; Guénélic declaring in part I that he deserves physical recompense for his faithful ser­vice to his lady and his adventurous search for her in parts II and III).49 At the same time, the work has also been called the first sentimental or psychological full-­length novel in France, prefiguring Honoré d’Urfé’s L’Astrée (published between 1607 and 1627) as well as Madame de Lafayette’s Princesse de Clèves (published in 1678).50 Within the work, the external author “Hélisenne de Crenne” creates a single persona for the primary narrator, who is the storyteller the external reader witnesses writing down and recording the events; she is si­mul­ta­neously the character of “Hélisenne” implicated in the plotline—­all of which correspond to the author’s name on the title page.51 In this way, Hélisenne embeds multiple voices, or discursive agents, within one par­tic­u­lar narratorial instance, leading to the creation of an oralized printed page. The entirety of part I emanates from a speaking/writing je, Dame Hélisenne, who tells the story of her life—­she is confiding in her “amy[s] fidele[s]” (faithful friend[s]),52 the “lisantes” (female readers) of the prefatory poem “Dames d’honneur et belles nymphes / Pleines de vertu et doulceur” (Noble dames and fair maids / Full of virtues and sweetness).53 Despite her insistence on the pro­cess of writing—­“ la recente memoire rend ma main debile et tremblante, en sorte que par plusieurs foys y laissay et infestay [laisser] la plume; mais pensant qu’il me seroit attribué à vice de pusillanimité, je me veulx efforcer de l’escripre”54 (the recent memory . . . ​makes my hand so weak it ­trembles, and several times I ­stopped writing and broke my quill. But since this might cause me to be thought pusillanimous, I ­shall try to write them down)55—­and her repeated references to her exclusively female audience as a community of readers, the verbs Hélisenne utilizes to refer to the act of narrating her story derive more from the oral realm, such as reciter (“pour reciter la premiere de mes infortunes”)56 (to recount the first of my misfortunes),57 racompter, and declarer: “Long seroit à racompter et difficile les pensemens que j’avoye; car je croy

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veritablement que jamais amoureuse ne fut si cruellement traictée en amours. Mais je m’efforceray d’en declarer le plus qu’il me sera pos­si­ble”58 (It would be tedious as well as difficult to recount my thoughts, for I truly believe no ­woman in love ever suffered so cruelly. But I ­shall try to tell as much about them as I can).59 Elsewhere, curiously, she uses the verb narrer to refer to the act of conversing with someone: when she is confessing the sins of her heart to a priest, it is reported to the reader in direct discourse that she says to him, “si seroit il difficile de narrer les insupportables passions dont mon ame est continuellement agitée et persecutée” 60 (It would still be difficult to [narrate] the unbearable passions which continually agitate and persecute my soul).61 ­Later, young Guénélic is reported as having referred to her speech to him as a narration: “Ma dame, diserte et accommodée est vostre narration, et de telle efficace que je me persuade de le croire” 62 (Madame, your [narration] is eloquent and well suited to the occasion, and so efficacious that I am persuaded to believe it).63 ­There are several types of reported speech in the work, and they could be grouped into the following categories: Dame Hélisenne reports long conversations with her husband;64 she also reports conversations with her lover Guénélic;65 she reports ­imagined conversations with Guénélic;66 she reports her own internal monologues;67 she reports overhearing what ­others say about her;68 she reports hearsay;69 and she reports confessions, prayers to God, and addresses to the Furies.70 Very often t­ hese vari­ous types of reported conversations take up entire paragraphs, pages, or chapters, with the return of the primary narrating voice seeming to function only to fill the spaces between the characters’ internal, external, and overheard conversations; the narration seems to be an interlude, linking one portion of reported speech to another. However, I contend that their function is to establish the chain of transmission, linking all of ­these words back to their original source, in order to impart greater credibility to her “real” and “true” account of the events she experienced. Hélisenne de Crenne seems particularly concerned with bolstering the exemplary status of her tale by providing her reader with reliable witnesses of true events. This exemplary function is also seen in the “significance statements”71 that Hélisenne attaches to the reported conversations (again, statements that declare the moral import and the intended meaning of her tale, in order to direct her reader’s interpretive activity). The significance statement of the entire work is explic­itly laid out on the title page: “Les Angoysses douloureuses qui procedent d’Amours—­Contenantz troys parties,



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composees par Dame Helisenne laquelle exhorte toutes personnes a ne suyvre folle Amour” (The Torments of Love. Containing three parts, composed by Lady Helisenne: Who exhorts every­one not to pursue mad Love).72 Then, the prefatory poem that opens the work, “Helisenne aux lisantes,” makes clear that Hélisenne is addressing an exclusively female reading audience. She likewise declares that the overarching purpose of her own story is to serve as a cautionary tale: Soyez tousjours sur vostre garde, Car tel veult prendre, qui est pris. Je vous serviray d’avantgarde73 (Be always on your guard, for one Who would snare is often snared! I ­shall serve as your vanguard)74 This same sentiment is repeated in the “epistre dedicative,” which states that the ladies to whom her work is addressed “pourr[ont] eviter les dangereulx laqs d’amour”75 (­will be able to avoid the dangerous snares of love)76 if they pay attention to her “extremes douleurs”77 (extreme suffering).78 ­These pre­ sen­ta­tions of her significance statement give the reader the thesis around which the entire work w ­ ill be centered and which w ­ ill be repeated throughout. The entire story that then follows is the illustration of that stated position, which w ­ ill again be summed up in the final line of the work: “Et pource, mes Dames, je supplie et requiers l’altitonant Plasmateur qu’il vous octroye à toutes la continence de Penelope, le conseil de Thetis, la modestie d’Argia, la constance de Dido, la pudicité de Lucrece, la sobrieté et espargnée hilarité de Claudia, affin que par les moyens de ces dons de grace puissiez demourer franches et liberes, sans que succumbez en semblables inconviens”79 (And so, my ladies, I beg and beseech the creator who thunders on high that he grant you all the continence of Penelope, the wisdom of Thetis, the modesty of Argia, the constancy of Dido, the chastity of Lucretia, and the sobriety and frugal happiness of Claudia, so that, by means of ­these gifts of grace, you may remain ­free and unfettered, without succumbing to similar misfortunes).80 Laid over this chain of direct discourse are both the division into chapters and the titles given to ­those chapters, which allude to a “frame,” an imposition from outside the diegesis itself, proffered by an unknown source. We are

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led to ask several questions: Whose voice is it in such chapter titles as “Helisenne surprinse d’amours est apperceue de son mary” (chap. 3) (Helisenne, whom love has taken by surprise, is espied by her husband); “Lettres que la dame escript a son amy” (chap. 10) (A letter the lady wrote to her beloved); or “Helisenne fut enclose en une tour et eut en sa compaignie seulement deux damoyselles” (chap. 25) (Helisenne was imprisoned in a tower, and had with her only two maids)? Who is telling Dame Hélisenne’s story in t­ hese third-­ person, past tense summaries? Moreover, in addition to the conversational passages reported in direct discourse, which constitute the vast majority of the work, t­ here are passages of reported speech, s­ haped and mediated via indirect discourse,81 and transcriptions of entire letters between Dame Hélisenne and her lover—­letters that ­will serve as indisputable proof to the husband of the illicit love between them: “O meschante femme, presentement est venue l’heure que tu ne pourroys aulcunement nyer ta lubricité et non moderée affection! . . . ​approche de moy, et regarde tes lettres, que tu ne sçauroye nyer, et me deis, sans me servir d’une artificiele mensonge dont tu scez maintenant user, qui est le personnage à qui tu pretends commettre telz escriptz?”82 (O wicked ­woman, the time has now come when you can no longer deny your lasciviousness and your immoderate affection. . . . ​But come h ­ ere and look at this letter of yours, which you cannot deny, and tell me, without the clever lies you now know how to use, who is the person to whom you intend to send such writing?)83 The proof of her sin, then, lies in the textual artifact she has created out of the “deceptives parolles”84 (deceiving words)85 of her love affair with Guénélic; her speech can lie, but the letters do not; the letters become another witness to her sin, as she says to herself: “Helas, je ne me sçauroye excuser, car ma lettre de ma main escripte rend cler tesmoignage de ma vie”86 (Alas! I can hardly excuse myself, for a letter in my own handwriting testifies very clearly to what I have been ­doing).87 ­Here, then, we see that text serves as a more reliable witness to truth than reported speech. ­Later in part I, Guénélic accuses Dame Hélisenne of lending more credence to a “faulx relateur” (reporter of falsehoods),88 an unnamed party spreading vicious lies about him, than to him; against ­these calumnies, he has no method by which to prove his innocence: “ne sçavoir mon innocence purger ne demonstrer”89 (I was not able to clear myself or demonstrate my innocence).90 And at the end of part I, Dame Hélisenne is betrayed to her husband by one of her own lady-­servants who had been a personal witness to her sufferings and torments, but who,



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when relating the story to the husband, bolsters her accusations with written proof, the letters that serve to authenticate her story: Ceste servante dont je ne prenoye garde, et en sa presence ne differoye de jecter mes contumelies [imprécations], souspirs, et former mes doloureuses complainctes, pour ce qu’elle avoit esté presente à toutes mes infortunes et adversitez: mais la perverse et inicque conspira contre moy telle trahyson que de toutes mes gestes et contenances, et mesmes des parolles qu’elle avoit bien notées et retenues, elle fut à mon mary annunciatrice. . . . ​Et pour donner plus evidente preuve de ma vie, luy dist que par mes escriptures en pourroit estre certioré.91 (I took no precautions with this servant, and in her presence did not hesitate to express my anger and sighs, and to formulate my painful complaints, b­ ecause she had been pre­sent at all my misfortunes and adversities. But this perverse and iniquitous person conspired against me with such treachery that all my acts and be­hav­ior, and even the words which she had carefully noted and retained, ­were conveyed by her to my husband. . . . ​And in order to give the clearest proof of what I was ­doing, she told him that what she said could be verified through my own writings.)92 The text then takes this interrogation of the truth status of written examples a step further, questioning ­whether they can indeed be taken as incontrovertible evidence of any par­tic­u­lar claim. This is seen in the character of Hélisenne herself, who has read countless textual examples of other w ­ omen whose lives ­were ruined by giving themselves over to passion: Raison dominoit encores en moy, car une bonne pensée m’en amenoit une aultre, et commençay à considerer et recogiter plusieurs hystoires, tant antiques que modernes, faisans mention des malheurs advenus par avoir enfrainct et corrumpu chasteté en excedent les metes de raison, et me vint souvenir de la Grecque Helene. . . . ​Puis comparut en me memoire le ravissement de Medée. . . . ​Après il me souvint et Eurial et la belle Lucresse. . . . ​Plusieurs aultres se representoient en mes tristes pensées, comme Lancelot du Lac et la royne Genevre . . . ​et en ce mesme temps, Tristan de Cornouaille et la royne Yseul. . . . ​Après avoir en mon imagination considéré toutes ces choses, j’estois deliberéee de me desister

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d’amours, quand l’appetit sensuel me vint livrer ung tresdur assault, me voulant persuader de le suyvre en accumulant en ma triste memoire innumerables pensées toutes dissemblables aux premieres.93 (Reason was once again dominant within me, for one good thought brought me another, and I began to consider and think over several stories, both ancient and modern, that mentioned the misfortunes that had come about from having infringed and corrupted chastity by exceeding the bounds of reason. I remembered the Greek Helen. . . . ​ Then Medea was summoned to my memory. . . . ​Next I remembered Eurial and the beautiful Lucretia. . . . ​Several ­others entered my sad thoughts, such as Lancelot of the Lake and Queen Guenevere . . . ​ and in that same time, Tristan of Cornwall and Queen Iseult. . . . ​­After considering all ­these ­things in my imagination, I had de­cided to refrain from love affairs, when sensual appetite attacked me with enormous force, trying to persuade me to follow it by accumulating in my wretched memory countless thoughts entirely dif­fer­ent from the first ones.)94 Even in the face of this enumeration of the literary and mythological examples of ­women (and men) whose lives w ­ ere ruined by giving in to passion, Hélisenne finds herself unable to resist. She is writing her story with the express purpose of adding to that list; and yet, if ­these prior examples w ­ ere not enough to deter her from being ensnared by passion, does she have confidence that she ­will be any more successful at deterring anyone ­else? Throughout the book, the reader ­will come upon many such lists of examples, contained within a book presenting itself as yet another such illustrative example; and yet, the character Hélisenne herself proved to be another “obstinate reader,” like Dame Cebille, unconvinced and undeterred by the stories of ­others’ sufferings. Perhaps Hélisenne is uncovering for her own potentially obstinate readers the difficulties involved in locating truth (does it reside more in speech or in writing?) and in finding reliable conduct models for one’s own life. This is despite her repeated protestations to the contrary, and despite seemingly grounding her tale in the “­here and now” and the exemplarity of lived experience. By pointedly inquiring ­whether examples can be taken as proof and models of ­future conduct, the Angoisses douloureuses constitutes yet another text that participates in the sixteenth-­century crisis of exemplarity, where the status of the example, exemplarity itself, and the very locatability and verifiability of truth are all called into question. In this, as with the many narratological tools



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she deployed, Hélisenne de Crenne fits squarely within the narrative world of the sixteenth ­century. Julie Campbell’s notion of a literary or written inscription of an oral debate is at the very heart of my argument. For Campbell, the “literary circles” depicted in the texts I have analyzed ­here can be seen as “liminal rhetorical spaces that facilitated w ­ omen’s involvement in the humanist play of ideas.” 95 She continues: “the literary circle . . . ​holds a privileged place in social life where events of social and po­liti­cal importance occur. The literary circle pre­ sents a venue for debate and critique of social, po­liti­cal, and philosophical concerns by both sexes.” It is a means of establishing a writer’s, or a fictitious storyteller’s, sense of her own “authority and purpose as . . . ​she brings the philosophical issues of interest at large in society into the controlled spaces of . . . ​her own arguments.” 96 I contend that the purpose of such literary depictions of ­these sorts of circles and oral storytelling scenes is to call to mind lit­er­a­ture’s social context, demonstrating that stories belong to the rituals of social exchange, in which the autonomy of each individual is a constitutive ele­ment in a larger interpretative pro­cess. Such texts, through their portrayal of a multiplicity of storytelling agents embedded within conversational rhythms, provide a study in the art of narration.97 By reenacting on the page the pro­cess of reading, interpreting, and truth-­seeking and -­telling, they may even have constituted instructive models for early modern readers concerning ways that the readerly-­interpretive transaction might take place.98 For all ­these reasons, I suggest that we see ­these two texts, the Comptes amoureux and the Angoisses douloureuses, as sites of narrative play and ambiguity, wherein the represented ­women insist upon the literal truthfulness of the stories they relate, while also recognizing the difficulty of situating the very truth value they posit. They assess the relative value of written, oral, and experiential exempla, and assume a multiplicity of authorial and authoritative roles. Via t­ hese sorts of transactions, t­ hese ­women, both the real and the imaginary ones, show that they are motivated by a desire for truth; they explore methods of establishing a speaker’s or a text’s credibility, even while recognizing the inherent limitations of such a proj­ect.99 The sixteenth-­century crisis of exemplarity, then, is a crisis of the very notion of exemplarity: ­these tellers, as o­ thers, such as the devisant(e)s of the Heptaméron, foreground this crisis by paradoxically continuing to implement a mechanism—­telling purportedly true stories as a means of convincing ­others of the right conduct in the world—­while si­mul­ta­neously undermining and questioning that very

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mechanism’s potential for success.100 The authors of the Comptes amoureux and the Angoisses douloureuses, along with the speakers they contain, share a concern for purported truth-­telling via story by exploring multiple viewpoints without, in the end, privileging any of them; they thereby call into question the very feasibility of the truth-­seeking and -­telling enterprise they have undertaken. Notes 1. “I say that it is as true as the gospel.” Les Evangiles des quenouilles (c. 1470s), vol. 1, ed. Madeleine Jeay (Montréal: Presses universitaires de Montréal, 1985), 220; The Distaff Gospels, trans. and ed. Madeleine Jeay and Kathleen Garay (Petersborough, ON: Broadview Press, 2006), 81. 2. “. . . ​vehemently refute [Cebille’s] faulty and completely unwarranted stance.” Jeanne Flore, Les Comptes amoureux (c. 1540s), ed. Gabriel-­André Pérouse (Lyon: Presses universitaires de Lyon, 1980), 101; Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love: A Bilingual Edition and Study, ed. and trans. Kelly Digby Peebles, poems trans. Marta Rijn Finch (Toronto: Centre for Reformation and Re­nais­sance Studies, 2014), 65. 3. “. . . ​like Boccaccio, with, however, one exception—­they would not write any story that was not a true one.” Marguerite de Navarre, L’Heptaméron (1540s), ed. Michel François (Paris: Garnier, 1967), 9; Marguerite de Navarre, The Heptameron, trans. George Saintsbury (London: Society of En­glish Bibliophilists, 1894), https://­www​.­gutenberg​.­org​ /­files​/­17701​/­17701​-h ­ /​ 1­ 7701​-­h.​ ­htm. 4. Anne Larsen concurs: “Con­temporary w ­ omen writers’ search for applicable con­ temporary models is related to a decline in the use of ancient exemplars in humanist texts. Recent critics have described this decline as a late Re­nais­sance ‘crisis of exemplarity.’ Late humanist writers, they argue, questioned the applicability and universality of ancient exemplars, given the diversity and unpredictability of ­human actions.” See “A ­Women’s Republic of Letters: Anna Maria van Schurman, Marie de Gournay, and Female Self-­ Representation in Relation to the Public Sphere,” Early Modern ­Women 3 (2008): 120n8; see also François Rigolot, “The Re­nais­sance Crisis of Exemplarity,” Journal of the History of Ideas 59, no. 4 (1998): 557–563. I also heard Richard Regosin give a marvelous talk on the topic, entitled “History, Form, and Subjectivity in Montaigne’s Essays” (paper presented at the annual meeting of the Sixteenth C ­ entury Society, Montreal, Canada, October 14–16, 2010). 5. I have elsewhere considered the Evangiles des quenouilles (c. 1466–1474) and the Heptaméron (1540s), which exemplify similar dynamics. See Kathleen Loysen, Conversation and Storytelling in Fifteenth-­and Sixteenth-­Century French Nouvelles (New York: Peter Lang, 2004), chaps. 1 and 3. Additionally, I note in passing that Marie de Beaulieu, in the dedicatory letter to her Histoire de la Chiaramonte, published in 1603, refers to the work as a “histoire veritable” (a true story), according to Julie Campbell, “in the style of Marguerite de Navarre before her.” See Campbell, “Marie de Beaulieu and Isabella Andreini: Cross-­Cultural Patronage at the French Court,” Sixteenth ­Century Journal 45, no. 4 (2014): 863.



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6. Nancy Frelick, “Attribuer un sexe à Jeanne Flore?,” in Actualité de Jeanne Flore, ed. Diane Desrosiers-­Bonin and Eliane Viennot (Paris: Champion, 2004), 240. 7. The concept of the locus amoenus, or the classical literary topos of the idyllic natu­ ral setting, is explained in detail in Ernst Robert Curtius, Eu­ro­pean Lit­er­a­ture and the Latin ­Middle Ages, trans. Willard R. Trask (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1953). See, in par­tic­u­lar, chapter 10, “The Ideal Landscape.” 8. Flore, Tales and T ­ rials of Love, 61. All translations of the Comptes amoureux are taken from Peebles’s edition. 9. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 59. 10. See, for example, Diane Desrosiers-­Bonin and Eliane Viennot, eds., Actualité de Jeanne Flore (Paris: Champion, 2004); Carolyn M. Fay, “Who Was Jeanne Flore? Subversion and Silence in Les Contes amoureux par Madame Jeanne Flore,” ­Women in French Studies 3 (Fall 1995): 7–20; Claude Longeon, “Du nouveau sur les Comptes amoureux de Madame Jeanne Flore,” Bibliothèque d’humanisme et re­nais­sance 44, no. 3 (1982): 605–613; Gabriel-­André Pérouse’s introduction to his edition of the Comptes (Lyon: Presses universitaires de Lyon, 1980); and Régine Reynolds-­Cornell, “Madame Jeanne Flore and the Contes amoureux: A Pseudonym and a Paradox,” Bibliothèque d’humanisme et re­nais­sance 51, no. 1 (1989): 123–133. 11. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 97 12. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 63. 13. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 97. 14. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 63. 15. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 101. 16. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 65. 17. See Floyd Gray, Gender, Rhe­toric, and Print Culture in French Re­nais­sance Writing (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 32–34. 18. On the importance of a cycle of exemples and opinions, see John D. Lyons’s work on the exemplum: Exemplum: The Rhe­toric of Example in Early Modern France and Italy (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1989). 19. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 101; emphasis added. 20. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 65; emphasis added. 21. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 102. 22. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 65. 23. The term belongs to the linguist and discourse analyst Alan Ryave; see “On the Achievement of a Series of Stories,” in Studies in the Organ­ization of Conversational Interaction, ed. Jim Schenkein (New York: Academic Press, 1978), 113–132. 24. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 102. 25. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 65. 26. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 102. 27. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 67. 28. See Terence Cave, “The Mimesis of Reading in the Re­nais­sance,” in Mimesis: From Mirror to Method, Augustine to Descartes, ed. John D. Lyons and Stephen G. Nichols Jr. (Hanover, NH: University Press of New ­England, 1982), 149–165; and Steven Rendall, “Reading in the French Re­nais­sance: Textual Communities, Boredom, Privacy,” in

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Reading the Re­nais­sance: Culture, Poetics, and Drama, ed. Jonathan Hart (New York: ­Garland, 1996), 35–43. 29. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 103. 30. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 67. 31. Other attempts to influence the reader’s interpretation: “la pauvre Damoiselle” (106) (the poor young lady) (Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 73); “c’estoit horrible chose à veoir luy commencer son ire” (105) (its anger was horrible to witness) (Tales and ­Trials, 71); “Puis bassement en son coeur va prier la grande Venus . . .” (113) (Then, she prayed quietly to herself that the g­ reat Venus . . .”) (Tales and ­Trials of Love, 85); “Suyvoit aussi le venerien chariot ung homme qu’on eust bien dit à le voir en son marcher estre de hault pouvoir . . .” (116) (Also following the venerable chariot was a man, whose stride gave the impression of someone of ­g reat importance) (Tales and ­Trials of Love, 89); “Mais la belle dame Rosemonde plus joyeuse qu’on ne sçauroit penser . . .” (122) (the beautiful Lady Rosemonde, happier than one could imagine) (Tales and ­Trials of Love, 99); “Le pauvre dolent se teust . . .” (128) (the poor, pained man grew s­ ilent) (Tales and ­Trials of Love, 109); and many o­ thers. 32. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 128–129. 33. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 109–111. 34. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 129–136. 35. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 129. 36. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 111. 37. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 169–170. 38. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 173. 39. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 170; emphasis added. 40. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 173; emphasis added. 41. Flore, Les Comptes amoureux, 192. 42. Flore, Tales and ­Trials of Love, 211. 43. No less than Rabelais extols the role of the reader in the creation of meaning in the prologue to Gargantua; it is also the point, I contend, of the divergent opinions expressed in the conversations of the Heptaméron. 44. See, for example, Verdun-­Louis Saulnier, “Quelques nouveautés sur Hélisenne de Crenne,” Bulletin de l’Association Guillaume Budé 23, no. 4 (1964): 459–463. 45. Hope Glidden, “The Speaking Book of the French Re­nais­sance” (paper presented at the annual meeting of the Sixteenth ­Century Society, Montreal, Canada, October 14–16, 2010). 46. Gisèle Mathieu-­Castellani, La Conversation conteuse: Les Nouvelles de Marguerite de Navarre (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1992). 47. Madeleine Jeay, “Esthétique de la nouvelle et principe de la mise en recueil au Moyen Age et au XVIe siècle,” in La Nouvelle de langue française aux frontières des autres genres, du Moyen Age à nos jours, ed. Vincent Engel and Michel Guissard (Ottignies: Quorum, 1997), 74. 48. Donner la parole: L’Histoire-­cadre dans les recueils de nouvelles des XVe–­XVIe siècles (Montreal: CERES, 1992), 207 (. . . ​a move t­ oward the actualization of the dialogi-



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cal dimension of the text via the production of contextualized verbal exchange) (my translation). 49. Paul J. Archambault and Marianna Mustacchi Archambault, “Helisenne de Crenne,” in French ­Women Writers, ed. Eva Martin Sartori and Dorothy Wynne Zimmerman (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1991), 100. 50. Kittye Delle Robbins-­Herring, “Hélisenne de Crenne: Champion of ­Women’s Rights,” in ­Women Writers of the Re­nais­sance and Reformation, ed. Katharina M. Wilson (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1987), 188–189. 51. Regarding the intricacies of the title page, with its interplay of the author’s name, Dame Hélisenne, an unknown Hélisenne de Crenne figure mysteriously disconnected from Dame Hélisenne, and the publisher Janot, I refer you to the stunning work undertaken in this regard by Leah Chang, Into Print: The Production of Female Authorship in Early Modern France (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2009). 52. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 32. 53. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 28. 54. Crenne, Les Angoisses douloureuses, 34. 55. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 56. 56. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 2. 57. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 34. 58. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 9. 59. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 39. 60. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 42. 61. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 61. 62. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 69–70. 63. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 80. 64. The passage from narration to direct discourse is indicated in modern editions by the addition of quotation marks; in the original printed versions, available t­ oday through a 1977 Slatkine reprint, we do not have the aid of the quotation marks, and yet ­there is a consistent move from a reporting narrator je, using the past tense in the narrative portions, to an acting and speaking character je (­whether herself or her husband), using the pre­sent tense in the reported conversations and being consistently introduced with a reporting clause: “me vint à prononcer aulcunes parolles qui me semblerent merveilleusement acerbes. Il se tourna vers moy, et en soubzriant me dist: ‘Mamye, ce jeune homme là vous regarde fort, il a ses yeulx immobilement sur vous, je sçay que c’est d’amour, comme celluy qui l’a experimenté; mais je jugeroys et seroys d’opinion, selon ses gestes et contenances, qu’il est surprins de vostre amour’ ” (10) (he happened to speak some words that seemed to me remarkably sharp. He turned ­toward me and, smiling, said: “My love, that young man ­there is looking at you very hard; he keeps his eyes fixed on you. I know he is in love, for I know what love is. I would judge and believe, by his gestures and expressions, that he has been captured by your love”) (Torments of Love, 39–40). 65. “Après que je l’euz escouté, et bien recueilly ses parolles, je luy ditz: ‘O Guenelic, soyez certain que je suis fort marrye de vous veoir en ces fascheux et ennuyeuz termes’ ” (61) (When I had heard him out and listened carefully to what he said, I said

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to him: ‘O Guenelic, be assured that I am very sorry to see you in such a distressing and painful state’) (Torments of Love, 74). 66. “Je commençay à dire en moymesmes, comme si j’eusse parlé à luy: ‘Certes, mon amy, vous estes fort diligent, aulcune negligence ne vous doibt estre attribuée ou improperée. Parquoy vous estes digne et meritez d’avoir recompense; pour le moins vous doibt estre imparty ceste privaulté d’avoir audience’ ” (12) (I began to say to myself, as if I ­were speaking to him: “Certainly, my friend, you are very diligent. No negligence must be assigned or reproached you, and therefore you are worthy of being rewarded. At least you must be granted the privilege of being heard”) (Torments of Love, 41). 67. “En ces considerations raison me venoit à corroborer, me conseillant d’estre ferme et ne me laisser vaincre, et me disoit: ‘Comment, veulx tu prendre le vilain chemin, ord et fetide, et laisser la belle sente remplye de fleurs odoriferentes? Tu es lyée de mary; tu peux prendre ton plaisir en mariage, c’est beau chemin, lequel suyvant tu te peux saulver. O pauvre dame, veulx tu preferer amour lascif à l’amour matrimonial qui est chaste et pudicque, que tu as en si grande observation conservé?’ ” (5) (Considering t­ hese ­things, reason corroborated me, counseling me to remain firm and not allow myself to be conquered, and said to me: “Why do you want to take the low road, filthy and fetid, and leave the beautiful path full of fragrant flowers? You are bound to your husband; you can take your plea­sure in marriage. It is a fair road, and by following it you can save yourself. Oh, poor lady, do you want to choose lascivious love over the chaste and modest matrimonial love you have maintained ­under such close observation?”) (Torments of Love, 37). 68. “Quand me trouvoye en quelque lieu remply de g­ rand multitude de gens, plusieurs venoient entour moy pour me regarder comme par admiration, disans tous en general: ‘Voyez là le plus beau corps que je veis jamais.’ Puis après, en me regardant au visaige, disoient: ‘Elle est belle, mais il n’est à accomparer au corps’ ” (3) (When I found myself in a place where t­ here ­were a ­g reat many p­ eople, many of them would gather around to look at me, as if to admire me, and they all said to each other: “That is the most beautiful body I have ever seen.” Then, afterward, looking at my face, they said: “She is beautiful, but her face cannot compare with her body”) (Torments of Love, 35). 69. For example, she reports what one of her friends heard Guénélic say to one of his friends: “il publioit et divulgoit noz amours. Et oultre plus, j’en fuz certaine par l’une de mes damoyselles, laquelle l’ouyt en devis, et disoit ainsi à l’ung de ses compaignons: ‘Ceste dame là est merveilleusement amoureuse de moy. Voyez les regards attrayans de ses yeulx; je presuppose qu’en continuant de poursuyvre, facilement en pourray avoir jouyssance.’ Quand ce propos me fut recité, tout subit defaillit la vigueur de mon cueur” (15) (it was he who divulged our love and made it public. Moreover, I was assured of it by one of my ladies-­in-­waiting, who heard ­people talk about it. And he said this to one of his companions: “That lady is amazingly in love with me. Just look at the way she flirts with her eyes. I think that by continuing my pursuit, I s­ hall easily be able to enjoy her.” When this remark was repeated to me, my heart’s strength ebbed away) (Torments of Love, 42–43). 70. Chapter 12, for example, is her plea to the Furies to help her kill herself, reported entirely with all the usual markers of direct discourse.



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71. See Ryave, “On the Achievement of a Series of Stories.” 72. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 27. 73. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 2. 74. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 33. 75. Crenne, Angoisses douleureuses, 2. 76. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 33. 77. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 1. 78. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 32. 79. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 96–97. 80. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 99. 81. For example: “nous nous transportasmes au t­ emple où je trouvay mon amy, lequel persevera ses importunitez, en sorte que je fuz contraincte de changer trois foys de lieu; mais tousjours il me suyvoit, en tenant propos de moy à ses compaignons. Et par conjecture je pensay qu’il parloit de mon mary, lequel continuellement estoit avecq moy, car j’entendis l’ung de ses compaignons qui lui disoit que par ce qu’il pouvoit comprendre en regardant ma face, qui me demonstroit si anxieuse, qu’il y aoit de la suspition; et quand mon amy ouyt ces motz, il commença à rire. Et voyant cela, et aussi memorative du commendement de mon mary, je m’absentay, pensant que quelque foys trouveroys lieu plus commode et opportun pour exprimer l’ung à l’aultre les secretz de noz pensées” (23) (When I was ready, we went to the t­ emple where I found my beloved, who persisted in his importunities, so that I was forced to move away three or four times; but he always followed me, talking about me with his friends. I guessed that he was talking about my husband, who was continually with me, for I heard one of his companions say to him that from what he could tell by looking at my face, which showed my anxiety, my husband suspected something. When my beloved heard t­ hese words, he began to laugh. Seeing that, and remembering my husband’s command, I went away, thinking that I should sometime find a more appropriate and opportune place where we could both express our secret thoughts) (Torments of Love, 49). 82. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 31. 83. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 52–54. 84. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 31. 85. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 52. 86. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 31–32. 87. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 53. 88. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 85. 89. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 75. 90. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 85. 91. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 82; emphasis added. 92. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 89; emphasis added. 93. Crenne, Angoisses douloureuses, 5–6. 94. Crenne, The Torments of Love, 36–37. 95. Julie Campbell, Literary Circles and Gender in Early Modern Eu­rope: A Cross-­ Cultural Approach (Hampshire, UK: Ashgate, 2006), 11. 96. Campbell, Literary Circles, 13–14.

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97. Loysen, Conversation and Storytelling, 167. 98. I am indebted to conversations with B. Christopher Wood for this concept. 99. Francis Goyet has called this a “cacophonie des points de vue” (a cacophony of viewpoints) (Les Audaces de la prudence: Littérature et politique aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles [Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2009], 412), and contends, “Le débat montre l’impossibilité de parvenir à l’unanimité, à l’unilatéral d’une pensée unique” (417) (The debate demonstrates the impossibility of achieving una­nim­i­t y, a unilateral singular thought). Yet he maintains, as do I, that such devisants are “divisés mais unis. Ils sont divisés comme l’humanité est divisée. Mais ils sont aussi unis par un désir d’absolu, d’achèvement, d’apaisement, de paix effectivement conciliante” (457) (divided yet united. They are divided as humanity is divided. But they are also united by a desire for the absolute, for completion, for calm, and for truly conciliatory peace) (my translation). 100. Many thanks to my colleagues at the Journée d’études, or­ga­nized by Colette Winn and Emily Thompson (“Storytelling in Sixteenth-­Century France: Medicine, Lit­ er­a­ture, and the Arts,” Washington University, Saint Louis, MO, April  2016), especially David LaGuardia, Amy Graves Monroe, and Emily Thompson, for shedding valuable light on ­these questions during our many fruitful discussions.

c ha p te r three

The Queen’s Quandary Storytelling in Jeanne d’Albret’s Ample Déclaration Marian Rothstein

The historian Carlo Ginzburg, famous for situating his work on the borders of history and narrative, invites us to consider historical narratives as “amalgams of the true, the false, the pos­si­ble,” a combination revelatory of the epistemological and emotional paradigms of the socie­ties that created them.1 Another paradigm of storytelling, understood in a specifically po­liti­cal context, is offered by Christian Salmon, writing in Le Monde about Barack Obama’s first presidential campaign in 2008. Salmon identifies four essential qualities of a story: it gives the protagonist a narrative identity, has an ele­ ment of continuity, frames a broader message that the protagonist wishes to convey, and keeps the attention and sympathy of the target audience(s).2 The word “storytelling,” as Salmon uses it in his French text, however, is less innocent and more ­limited than its En­glish sense; in this French usage, it designates a narrative, generally in a po­liti­cal setting, intended to bend ­those receiving it to specific partisan ends. It may be helpful to keep both t­ hese observations about the intentions of storytelling in mind while considering a story the Queen of Navarre, Jeanne d’Albret, includes in her Ample Déclaration (Full Declaration).3 D’Albret pre­sents this work of about a hundred pages as an explanatory appendix to the second edition of the Queen of Navarre’s letters to the king; the queen ­mother; the king’s ­brother; the Cardinal de Bourbon; and her coreligionist, the Queen of E ­ ngland. The Déclaration is so subordinated to the 57

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letters that the Queen of Navarre seems not to have given it much of a title of its own; rather, it is to be understood as an expanded explanation of the events, forces, and motives laid out in the letters. It also echoes the aims of the slightly ­earlier Ample Déclaration, published by Jeanne’s brother-­in-­law, Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Condé in 1562: Ample Déclaration faite par Monsieur le prince de Condé, pour monstrer les raisons qui l’ont contraint d’entreprendre la defence tant de la religion qu’il maintient comme bonne et saincte, que l’autorité du Roy, et repos de ce Royaume, avec la protestation sur ce requise4 (Full Declaration made by the Prince de Condé to declare the ­causes constraining him to undertake the defense of both the religion he considers good and holy, the authority of the King, and the peace of the Kingdom, along with the necessary declarations). The Queen of Navarre’s letters w ­ ere first written during her scramble to safety in La Rochelle, in September 1568.5 The Ample Déclaration itself was composed in late 1568 when she was settled in that Protestant stronghold.6 ­After two editions in La Rochelle, in 1569 and 1570, it did not resurface ­until 1893, edited by the Baron Alphonse de Ruble who, giving it pride of place in his collection of the work of the Queen of Navarre, now titled it Mémoires.7 In his 2007 edition, Bernard Berdou d’Aas restored the label found in the sixteenth-­century editions, fitting for what he terms a libelle justificatif (a small work supplying evidence).8 Ample Déclaration evokes a more accurate category than the personal sounding mémoire, especially given its echoes of Condé’s work and its focus on the time following Jeanne’s public conversion to Calvinism in December 1560, along with her consequent need to be understood as an in­de­pen­dent public figure. Written when new hostilities, termed the Third War of Religion (1568– 1570), w ­ ere underway, much of the text recounts events as they occurred. It makes no real pretense of being an impartial historical account, bearing many marks of preaching to the choir.9 That is a realistic stance, given that the very place of its printing, La Rochelle, would have at once drawn some readers sympathetic to the Reformed cause and repelled ­others. So we may suppose that, aside from the queen ­mother, Catherine de’ Medici (who may be the reader Jeanne most hoped to move), the authorial audience (the readers Jeanne ­imagined or intended) generally shared her religious sympathies. They might well have listened to the Ample Déclaration read aloud, in noble or bourgeois circles that had access to such a book, just as Jeanne supposed her letter to Catherine would be read aloud to ­others at court. The sense of partisanship



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is enhanced by passages like ­these, where the Queen of Navarre addresses her readers directly or assumes their complicity:10 Je ne vous scauray exprimer la joye et la douleur ensemble que je senti, la joye de voir la miraculeuse délivrance, que Dieu, par sa bonté infinie, avoit faicte d’eux et la douleur de voir les princes du sang et si proches de mon fils ainsi vagabonds par la France.11 (I felt both joy and sorrow beyond expression—­joy at seeing the miraculous deliverance that God by his infinite goodness had granted them, and sorrow at seeing princes of the royal blood, such close relatives of my son, wandering thus across France.)12 Elle [la reine mère] parloit d’estrange façon contre nous.13 (We w ­ ere disparaged in a curious fashion.)14 C’est pour monstrer comme Dieu sçait descouvrir les choses que l’on pense tenir les plus secrettes, comme il feit ceste lettre; par où la Royne peut cognoistre l’intelligence que l’on avoit en Espaigne de ceux de la Religion, la belle façon et les beaux termes en quoy ces Messieurs faisoyent escrire Sa Majesté de nous.15 (All this is to show how God reveals the ­things that we believe are kept most secret, as he did with this letter, by means of which the queen can recognize what covert information Spain had about t­ hose of the faith, and the cunning way and “seemly” terms in which ­those gentlemen forced her majesty to write about us.)16 Jeanne supplies a po­liti­cally charged account of events intended to justify her own actions and the Protestant cause. At the same time, the Ample Déclaration is also marked by a continuing concern that its patriotism, that of the Queen of Navarre, be understood as beyond question. From her point of view, by God’s grace, the Reformed had found the path to true faith that He had laid out for them, a path from which no reasonable person could expect them to diverge. At the same time, they w ­ ere certainly still French—­still, within the limits pos­si­ble, loyal to the Crown even while ranged against the king’s army in the battlefield.17

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The inherent contradiction contained in this paradigm is allayed by naming the real e­ nemy of France, the ultra-­Catholic House of Lorraine, especially its chief, who in the late 1560s was Charles, Cardinal de Lorraine.18 The wickedness of the Guises is among the leitmotifs of the Ample Déclaration. In Jeanne’s eyes they w ­ ere princes étrangers (foreign princes) who, despite their claims to a ­family tree that could be traced to Charlemagne, ­were nonetheless, in the final analy­sis, not French but Lothringian, prepared to undermine France at ­every turn—in short, they ­were a danger to the Crown.19 Jeanne expected the reader to know that she, in contrast, was herself the niece of François I; her late husband, her son, and at the time of her writing, his b­ rother Louis de Condé, head of the Protestant troops, ­were princes du sang (princes of the blood) in the direct line of accession to the throne. This leads to the recurrent refrain of the Ample Déclaration that all the Queen of Navarre’s actions ­were motivated by the special trinity of the Reformed nobility: la Religion, le ser­vice du Roy, et le devoir au sang (their religion, their ser­vice to the king, and the duty they owed their blood).20 If in her worldview the Guises w ­ ere evil incarnate, then Catherine de’ Medici, ­earlier as regent and, by 1568, as queen ­mother, was an expression of the king’s power. ­Here, in a text composed well before the fraught negotiations for the marriage of Jeanne’s son Henri de Navarre to Marguerite de Valois or the accompanying Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of 1572, Catherine is depicted as a reasonable person within the bounds allowed her by her position, even capable of being openly sympathetic, as, for example, when Jeanne recounts that it was the queen ­mother who warned Antoine de Bourbon of a Guise plot to assassinate him.21 All ­these ele­ments have a role to play in the episode I propose to examine ­here, one of several places in the course of the Ample Déclaration where the Queen of Navarre stops to tell a story; that is, to recount an ­earlier incident quite distinct from the ­matters of the moment, something that—­with the names of the principal characters prudently removed—­would not have been out of place in her m ­ other’s collection of nouvelles, the Heptaméron.22 The story in question is what Emily Thompson, thinking along just t­ hese lines, has called the tale of the “purloined letter,” a term David LaGuardia also used in his insightful examination of this incident.23 Given its context, the story is, of course, presented as entirely true. Given that “entirely true” is generally recognized t­ oday as being beyond h ­ uman capacities, however, my analy­sis w ­ ill instead aim to demonstrate that the story inevitably contains that precise narrative amalgam of the true, the false, and the pos­si­ble that Ginzburg pro-



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posed. It w ­ ill examine how ­these categories are negotiated and what that suggests about the world from which they emerged, including the situation of the author and the authorial reader. The story’s inherently po­liti­cal intentions also shape it along the lines suggested above by Salmon, helping to forge Jeanne’s narrative identity by revealing her embattled position (surrounded as she was by the e­ nemy Guises) and so serving to focus the reader’s sympathy on her. This may be why Jeanne places the story relatively early in her Ample Déclaration, before her account of her perilous flight from Nérac to La Rochelle, when she was pursued by Montluc, who was hoping to take control of her body, and hounded by the honey-­tongued La Mothe-­Fénélon, who was ­hoping to control her mind. The incident involving the purloined letter is presented as having taken place at a precise time and place during the twenty-­ seven-­month-­long royal Tour de France, which was intended to bring the young Charles IX and his subjects into contact with each other. In terms that again remind us of her m ­ other, the Queen of Navarre echoes the words of Paul (1 Cor. 1:27–29), presenting the story as an example of “la providence de ce ­grand Dieu, qui, pour surprendre les fins en leur finesse et les sages du monde en leur sagesse, s’aide de moyens extraordinaires et foibles pour vaincre les forts”24 (the providence of Almighty God; he catches up the clever in their cleverness and the wise of this world in their wisdom by using means both surprising and feeble to vanquish the strong).25 Fortunately, this exemplary tale is short enough that much of it can be quoted as a close reading that ­will best allow its author’s techniques of pre­sen­ta­tion and persuasion to emerge. It begins by placing the protagonist, Jeanne, in the traveling French court at a specific time and place:26 “Estant donc la cour au dict Rossillon au mois de juillet 1564, j’estoy logée en une fort pe­tite chambre, où un jour l’une de mes femmes osta des lettres à une pe­tite chienne que j’avoy, qui s’en jouoit: et me les bailla, pensant qu’elles me fussent tumbées”27 (In Roussillon, where the court was staying in July 1564, I had been given a very small chamber. One day one of my ­women took some letters away from my ­little dog who was playing with them. She gave them to me, thinking that I had lost them).28 Having just been alerted to the workings of Providence—­which lays low the high and raises the oppressed—­the reader is sensitized to the fact that the court has provided the Queen of Navarre with a room that is very small (une fort pe­tite chambre), suggesting that she is not being accorded all the consideration due her rank.29 From this small room comes her—­again small—­female dog

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(chienne), playing with papers, including a letter that the queen’s loyal servant carefully returns to her mistress.30 Jeanne immediately recognizes the handwriting as that of the queen m ­ other and supposes that the letter had somehow fallen from one of the chests in which Jeanne stored and transported impor­tant papers. The reader, if at all familiar with court etiquette, is reminded of Jeanne’s rank and lineage. Only a high noble would be in a position to recognize the queen ­mother’s handwriting; Jeanne was among ­those few who would receive correspondence written by Catherine’s own hand. Certainly a letter from Catherine to the king of Spain would have been such a holograph. To most ­others, even to the G ­ rand Duke of Tuscany, a secretary wrote the letter itself, although Catherine might add a postscript in her own hand.31 Jeanne now looked at it more closely, puzzled by what she saw before her, still assuming that the letter had come from her own collection of correspondence: “Et pour voir si elle estoit de conséquence pour la serrer ou la rompre, je leu le premier mot qui disoit: ‘Monsieur . . .’ et lisant le dessus, je vey qu’elle s’addressoit au Roy d’Espagne”32 (In order to decide ­whether it was impor­tant so as e­ ither to lock it up or to destroy it, I read the first word, “Monsieur,” and reading the address, I saw that it was intended for the king of Spain).33 When she understands who the intended recipient of the letter is, she tells us her first thought is that the letter had been planted to make her look untrustworthy: “Je fu fort entonnée, car je craignoy que quelqu’un ne l’eust jectée en ma chambre pour me barbouiller avec ladicte Majesté”34 (I was very surprised, for I feared that someone had planted it in my chamber in order to turn her majesty against me).35 How could it have come to be t­ here? Only her most trusted entourage and her lapdog had been in her room. She allows the reader to understand how threatened she feels at court, in a situation where only her personal staff and her lapdog are to be trusted, and how readily her patriotism might be questioned: “Aussi je regardoy qu’il n’estoit entré que bien peu de mes gens ou quelques uns de mes amys en ma chambre, parce qu’à cause de l’extrême chaleur, après avoir mangé en une autre, je m’y retiroy l’après dinée avec seulement deux ou trois de mes femmes. Je ne pouvois descouvrir d’où ceste lettre estoit venue, sinon que ma pe­tite chienne s’en jouoit en ma chambre”36 (Also, I considered that only a few of my ­people and a handful of my friends had come into my chamber. A ­ fter eating in another room, I retired to my chamber b­ ecause of the excessive heat with only two or three of my ­women. I could not figure out where the letter had come from; all I knew



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was that my ­little dog was playing with it in my chamber).37 Reading on, she judges from the contents that it had been written a few years e­ arlier, at the first outbreak of hostilities, so prob­ably in 1562. She summarizes the letter for her readers: the Queen of France, then regent, asked the King of Spain for aid against seditious rebels, who she feared sought to take the crown from her son the king, presumably the more vulnerable as he was then still a minor. While the content certainly disturbed Jeanne, for the moment, she was most upset by the thought that she had nothing to parry the queen ­mother’s likely suspicion that she had acquired the letter by illicit means. The effect of laying her quandary out this way to a sympathetic audience is to make it apparent that Jeanne is, at that juncture, doubly wronged—by being part of a group unjustly accused in the letter itself and by having this letter fall into her hands without knowing how it came to be t­ here. All the while, what is conveyed to the reader is that Jeanne herself is as innocent and trustworthy as her lapdog. As the story progresses, she seems enveloped in a cloud of machinations whose source she is unable to imagine; the innocent actions of her faithful l­ittle dog merely served to reveal the menace. Carefully considering her options, she concludes that the safest path is to trust Catherine: “A la fin m’asseurant qu’elle me faisoit bien cest honneur que me croire véritable, je me résolu de la luy porter”38 (Fi­nally, I resolved to deliver it to her, convinced that she would do me the honor of believing me honest, and I took the letter to her chamber).39 Although her choices at this juncture do seem ­limited, Jeanne’s inclination to trust Catherine is based on sound judgment and pre­ce­dent as well as necessity. Th ­ ere ­were numbers of indications over the years that Catherine might have had Reformed sympathies.40 More substantively, in the fall of 1563, when Pope Pius IV threatened to excommunicate Jeanne on grounds of her public adhesion to Calvinism, Catherine, motivated by po­liti­cal rather than religious considerations, reacted decisively, using the full power and prestige of France to block any such action, thereby effectively saving the Crown of Navarre. The French court defended Jeanne in the interest of preserving Gallican liberties and limiting the pope’s intended encroachment on secular powers. The threat to Navarre was very real and the more strongly felt since, as a result of just such a papal judgement half a ­century e­ arlier, which the French crown did not c­ ounter, Navarre was split in 1512, the greater part of its territory devolving to Spain. Catherine immediately sent for Claude de L’Aubespine (1510–1567), long one of her most trusted advisors.41 In keeping with Jeanne’s declared hopes

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and expectations, in this situation Catherine emerges from this account as a sympathetic figure whose first response is to apologize: “elle fit bien cest honneur à ceux de la religion, par honnestes excuses des paroles qui estoyent en cette lettre, d’asseurer qu’elle ne nous avoit jamais estimez ne tenuz pour séditieux et rebelles; mais que l’on luy faisoit escrire ainsi; et qu’en ce temps-­là de guerre beaucoup de choses s’estoyent dictes et escriptes, qu’il ne falloit plus ramentevoir” 42 (She honored t­ hose of the faith by courteously apologizing for the words used in the letter. She assured me that she had never believed us to be subversives or rebels, but she had been forced to write that way, and in time of war many t­ hings had been said and written that should no longer be recalled).43 Rather than speaking in the first person, the honor h ­ ere is accorded not to Jeanne personally, although she was pre­sent, but to the w ­ hole body of French Protestants (ceux de la religion), including Jeanne (nous). Many of Catherine’s surviving letters fail to rec­ord the year in which they ­were written, even when they note the day and the month, leaving Jeanne and o­ thers to surmise the exact time of its composition. This letter was written during a period still vivid in the memories of many in July of 1564, when the scene Jeanne recounts took place, and perhaps still for some by around 1570, when her readers encountered it in print. The words Jeanne attributes to Catherine h ­ ere, what she chooses to tell us, bespeak a degree of mutual trust and re­spect. The Third War of Religion began in September 1568, ending August 8, 1570. It seems likely that most of the readers of the Ample Déclaration read it during a time when ongoing conflicts would have colored their reception. As a consequence, within the framework of her story, Jeanne can seem to accept Catherine’s explanation without any of the rhetorical flourishes she rejects at the start of the Ample Déclaration while at the same time counting on her readers to treat it with a degree of caution. Catherine is shown coming as close to an apology as one could hope for from the queen, providing tacit support for the Reformed position that they w ­ ere fighting as French patriots. L’Aubespine is named twice h ­ ere, insisting on his presence. He had been secretaire d’état since the reign of Henri II. His participation in this gathering would have been the more welcome to Jeanne as he was known to be an adversary of the Guise faction. Given the contents of the missive the dog found as Jeanne relates them, ­there may have been exceptional circumstances associated with the moment of the composition of this letter, causing L’Aubespine to recollect this par­tic­u­lar letter among so many ­others. ­There ­were indeed many letters, and Catherine’s reputation as a tireless correspondent is well de-



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served: her epistolary output, based largely on what has survived, is estimated to have averaged close to two letters a day from the death of Henri II in 1559 to her own death thirty years ­later.44 Readers might well conclude that this letter was memorable b­ ecause it was written u­ nder special circumstances, such as the alleged coercion, an assumption that would add to the accusations Jeanne’s text openly directs against the Guises. As the scene continues, at ­every turn it seems ­there are more participants engaged in the queen m ­ other’s chambre. In addition to the three ladies named (Catherine, the Duchess of Savoy, and Jeanne) and L’Aubespine, t­ here is at least one other person pre­sent, perhaps one of the queen’s ladies, who is able to read her handwriting—­not a trivial assignment.45 Perhaps ­there are also unnamed o­ thers. It may be well to consider the physical setting. Jeanne’s fort pe­tite chambre was among ­those in the aîle ouest (west wing) where each room had a win­dow and an adjoining garderobe with a smaller win­dow.46 All t­ hose rooms ­were accessed via a long corridor r­ unning along the west wall. It was in that corridor that the l­ittle dog presumably found the letter. Catherine’s rooms w ­ ere far off in the east wing, which afforded her much more capacious quarters. The group gathered in the queen’s chamber proposes vari­ous ways in which the letter might have come to the lapdog’s possession, revealing some of the forces at play in court: “Et sur cela, scelon leurs diverses opinions, jugeoyent d’où elle estoit venue. Les uns disoyent que quelques Huguenots l’avoyent faict desrober; les autres que c’estoyent des catholiques; aucuns que quelque ambassadeur estranger, pour nous mettre en pique, l’avoient recouvrée” 47 (Whereupon they speculated about where the letter had come from: some said that some Huguenots had stolen it, o­ thers said that it was Catholics who had done so, and still o­ thers said that some foreign ambassador had procured it in order to incite us to distrust one another).48 The variety of ­these opinions shows the reader how right Jeanne was to suppose that mere possession of the letter might impugn her motives. At this point, it is perhaps appropriate to pause in our consideration of the anecdote to reflect on its veracity. The flow of the story depends on the detail that the purloined letter in question was written in a hand that Jeanne recognized instantly. This then provides the proximate cause of her reading it: it was in Catherine’s own handwriting. It was common for royal secretaries not only to write but also to make copies of letters for the sender’s archives. In this case, a letter exchanged between sovereigns, the original was prob­ably

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in Catherine’s own hand, and ­there might well have been a copy in the queen ­mother’s archives and another made in Madrid; indeed, at e­ ither end one might have been made to be sent to the Guises. But how or why the original might have landed in the lapdog’s mouth is harder to imagine. The authorial readers, as we have remarked, ­were partisan and could be counted on not to ask such a question—in the unlikely event that they knew about such minutiae of court life. Even while it risks testing the limits of the verisimilar, the detail of the handwriting is vital to Jeanne’s telling of the story: it makes it instantly apparent that the letter was impor­tant at the same time as it excuses Jeanne’s reading it once it falls into her hands. Only on the following day does the truth become apparent to Jeanne: “Mais nul ne touchoit au blanc, comme le lendemain je le descouvri, car l’ayant portée à la Royne, en la mesme heure que je la trouvay, je n’avoy eu loisir de m’en enquérir d’avantage” 49 (However, none of them was on the mark as I discovered only the next day; I had not the time to make any more enquiries before that ­because I delivered the letter to the queen the very hour I found it).50 In her eagerness to protect herself from unwarranted accusations, she had headed straight to the queen m ­ other without pausing to conduct further investigation at the scene of the discovery. Only when she did so did she learn that the dog had taken the letter from a pile of other ­things removed from the rooms of Madame de Guise, her next door neighbor: “Estant donc de retour en ma chambre, l’on me dit que, lorsque ma chienne avoit apporté ceste lettre, l’on luy avoit veu prendre, comme souvent elle faisoit, d’autres papiers et choses que l’on balie dans un monceau de balieures devant la chambre de Madame de Guyse qui estoit lors logée tout joignant de moy; et nos chambres sortoyent en une galerie longue, d’où ceste pe­tite chienne avoit apporté la dicte lettre”51 (Once back in my chamber, I was told that someone had seen my dog pick up the letter from a pile of sweepings in front of Madame de Guise’s chamber which was next to mine, as the dog often did with papers and other debris. Our chambers exited into a long gallery from which my ­little dog had brought the letter).52 Cotgrave renders balieures first as “sweepings” and then goes on to add “any trash, outcast trifles, or t­ hings of no value,” suggesting a judgement. The implication may be that Madame de Guise had so ­little re­spect for the affairs of France that she counted the queen m ­ other’s correspondence, w ­ hether holograph or not, as trash. With no further comment, Jeanne continues: “Je le dy à la Royne, qui, avec d’autres raisons, ne doubta nullement qu’elle [la lettre] ne fust venue de là et que l’on l’avoit peu envoyer au cardinal de Lorraine”53 (I told this to the



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queen who, for a number of reasons did not doubt that the letter had come from ­there, and that it could have been sent to the Cardinal de Lorraine).54 Jeanne reports Catherine’s accord, so now the reader understands that she had indeed put her fin­ger on the truth: an undefined someone, who might be ­either the King of Spain or a member of the pro-­Guise forces, then dominant in France, might very well have sent the letter on to the Cardinal de Lorraine, then head of the Guise faction, whence it came into Madame de Guise’s hands.55 The riddle of the letter’s origins is solved, and solved in such a way that the story becomes another lesson illustrating Jeanne’s basic princi­ ples, as she concludes: “C’est pour monstrer comme Dieu sçait descouvrir les choses que l’on pense tenir les plus secrettes, comme il feit ceste lettre; par où la Royne peut cognoistre l’intelligence que l’on avoit en Espaigne de ceux de la Religion, la belle façon et les beaux termes en quoy ces Messieurs faisoyent escrire Sa Majesté de nous”56 (All this is to show how God reveals ­things that we believe are kept most secret as he did with this letter, by which the queen can recognize what covert information Spain had about t­ hose of the faith and the cunning way and “seemly” terms in which ­these gentlemen forced her majesty to write about us).57 Jeanne the storyteller offers a coherent, appealing, and riveting account of an apparently trivial incident that, ­were it not for the good sense of the queen m ­ other, might have had nontrivial repercussions. ­Here again, her conclusion would not bear strong scrutiny since, if Catherine indeed wrote the letter ­under duress, she would have learned l­ ittle new about the evil ways of the Guises from this incident. Still, it is a tidy story with a charming beginning (a l­ittle dog appears with something in her mouth), a suspenseful m ­ iddle (where did this letter come from? what danger might lie in its discovery?), and a reassuring end (the forces of evil, the Guises, are revealed to be b­ ehind it all and are at least temporarily neutralized). The concluding clause drips with irony: “les beaux termes en quoy ces Messieurs faisoyent escrire Sa Majesté de nous” (the cunning way and “seemly” terms in which t­ hese gentlemen forced her majesty to write about us). Jeanne fully accepts and repeats Catherine’s explanation—­that she wrote some letters u ­ nder duress—­and goes further, linking sa Majesté to nous. So we return to Jeanne’s introduction to the story, which promises to show that providence is visibly on the side of the Reformed, implying that the queen ­mother, like the Reformed, was threatened or oppressed by the Guises. As suggested e­ arlier, Jeanne’s companion animal, her pe­tite chienne, in her vulnerability and innocence (­there is no hint of wrongdoing on the animal’s

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part) is very close to the image of Jeanne herself as she paints it in this tale. Dogs ­were long associated with fidelity; and ­here, like Jeanne, the pe­tite chienne is a faithful and vulnerable female. The threatening nature of the court is shown by the unaccountable emergence of what, in Reformed eyes, was a (coerced) libelous letter; by the multiplication of bodies and voices in the queen ­mother’s chamber; and by Jeanne’s imposed proximity to Madame de Guise. For all t­ hese reasons, Jeanne’s tale of the purloined letter becomes memorable and moving. It also tells us much along the way about the society within which it was created. We have no reason to doubt its basic truth: that her dog ­really did appear with an impor­tant piece of official diplomatic correspondence. Beyond that, as the Baron de Ruble too noted in his edition, it is quite unbelievable: “ll est difficile d’émettre un jugement critique sur le récit d’un fait tellement invraisemblable. D’une part l’autorité du narrateur inspire la confiance. D’autre part il est difficile d’admettre que la duchesse de Guise laissât traîner “parmi les balayures” les plus impor­tants documents. Peut-­être y eut-il une manœuvre arrangée pour faire tomber, fortuitement en apparence, une lettre sous les yeux de Jeanne d’Albret. Nous n’avons pas le secret de cette intrigue et nous ne nous chargeons pas de l’expliquer”58 (It is hard to formulate a critical judgement of this account of so unbelievable an incident. On the one hand, the narrator inspires confidence. On the other hand, it is hard to imagine that the Duchess de Guise would have allowed such impor­tant documents to fall into her trash. Perhaps this was a scheme intended to have the letter fall, seemingly by accident, into the hands of Jeanne d’Albret. We do not know what prompted this stratagem, and we cannot undertake to explain it) (my translation). Ruble’s hesitations, although echoing Jeanne’s distrust of Guise intentions, might perhaps be placed alongside that proposed ­here: the extreme improbability that the King of Spain would have sent the Guises the original holograph letter rather than a copy—­the very detail upon which Jeanne’s story turns. Its timing depends on her instant, shocked recognition of Catherine’s handwriting, her immediate decision to tell the queen ­mother what she has found, that adds an ele­ment of suspense by delaying the discovery of the letter’s likely source ­until the next day, setting Catherine in a sympathetic light when she agrees with Jeanne’s supposition. It seems likely that an essential kernel of the story is true; that parts of it, when carefully considered in detail, are likely to be false; and that some of it skirts the limits of the verisimilar. So much for history. The story supports the narrative themes of the Ample Déclaration, presenting the Guises as the villains; por-



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traying Catherine, the royal authority, in a positive light; and depicting Jeanne herself as the beset, courageous, and resolute heroine whom the reader cannot help but admire. As po­liti­cal storytelling, it marshals all the requisite ele­ ments to its aims. As a story, a story well told, memorable and moving, it is a ­great success. Se non è vero è ben trovato. Notes 1. Carlo Ginzburg, Threads and Traces: True False Fictive, trans. Anne C. Tedeschi (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012). This observation was cited in the organizers’ invitation to participate in the journée d’études, from which this chapter originated. I am grateful to them for the invitation and for drawing my attention to this text. 2. “Ces fonctions sont les suivantes: 1. Raconter une histoire capable de constituer l’identité narrative du candidat (Storyline). 2. Inscrire l’histoire dans le temps de la campagne, gérer les rythmes, la tension narrative tout au long de la campagne (timing). 3. Cadrer le message idéologique du candidat (framing), c’est-­à-­dire encadrer le débat comme le préconise le linguiste Georges Lakoff, en imposant un ‘registre de langage cohérent’ et en ‘créant des métaphores.’ 4. Créer le réseau sur Internet et sur le terrain, c’est-­ à-­dire un environnement hybride et contagieux susceptible de capter l’attention et de structurer l’audience du candidat (networking).” Christian Salmon, “Le Carré magique d’Obama,” Le Monde, October 17, 2008, http://­w ww​.l­ emonde​.­f r​/i­ dees​/­article​/­2008​/1­ 0​ /­17​/­le​-­carre​-­magique​-­d​-­obama​-­par​-­christian​-­salmon​_­1108146​_­3232​.­html#28​OmXm​ 48x0IIzeP6​.­99​-­. 3. The title page reads: “LETTRES DE || LA ROYNE DE NAVARRE, || AV ROY, A LA ROYNE SA MERE, || à Monsieur frere du Roy, à Mon-­|| sieur le Cardinal de Bour-­|| bon son beau-­f rere, & à || la Royne d’An-­|| gleterre. || Auec vne ample declaration d’icelles, conte-­|| nant les occasions de son partement auec || Monseigneur le Prince & Madame Ca-­|| therine ses enfans, pour se venir ioindre à la || cause generale auec Monsieur le Prince de || Condé son beau-­f rere. || Ausquelles on a adiousté vne lettre escrite de la || Cour par l’agent du Cardinal de Crequy, || à son maistre, le neufiesme d’Aoust, || mil cinq cens soixan-­|| te huit. || A LA ROCHELLE, || De l’Imprimerie de Barthelemy Berton. || M. D. LXIX” (emphasis added). (Letters of the Queen of Navarre to the king, the queen m ­ other, my lord the King’s ­brother, my lord the Cardinal of Bourbon, his brother-­in-­law, and to the Queen of E ­ ngland. Along with a full declaration of the reasons for her departure accompanied by my lord the prince and my lady Catherine, her ­children, to join the undertaking of my lord the Prince of Condé, her brother-­in-­law. To which has been added a letter written from court by the agent of the Cardinal of Crequi to his master. August 9, 1568. In La Rochelle, Printed by Barthelemy Berton. 1569) (my translation). 4. This work was published in Geneva and in Lyon. Both editions claim, in the extension of their title, to be a revised and expanded version of a shorter Déclaration printed ­earlier that same year (see ref. 34056, Universal Short Title Cata­logue [USTC], accessed January 16, 2021, https://­w ww​.u ­ stc​.a­ c​.u ­ k​/e­ ditions​/3­ 4056). It is not clear that the e­ arlier version survives.

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5. David Bryson vividly recounts the adventures of Jeanne and her c­ hildren making their way from Nérac, which they left on September 6, 1568, to La Rochelle as she repeatedly slipped past the forces of Monluc, who w ­ ere hoping to take her prisoner. On the way, her troops took the town of Eymet, perhaps her first action as military commander, reaching Bergerac on the other side of the Dordogne on September 12, and fi­ nally arriving in La Rochelle on September 28. David Bryson, Queen Jeanne and the Promised Land: Dynasty, Homeland, Religion and Vio­lence in Sixteenth-­Century France (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 188–204. See also Anne-­Marie Cocula, “Eté 1568: Jeanne d’Albret et ses deux enfants sur le chemin de La Rochelle,” in Jeanne d’Albret et sa cour, ed. Evelyne Berriot-­Salvador et al. (Paris: Champion, 2004), 33–57. 6. Bruno Tolaïni argues that the composition of her text must have taken place during the short time between Jeanne’s arrival in La Rochelle and the text’s publication, ­after the decisions against her by the Parlements of Toulouse and Bordeaux in November 1568 and before the start of real hostilities at the end of December of that year. Tolaïni, “Écrit de soi et combat politique: Les Mémoires de Jeanne d’Albret, reine de Navarre,” Revue italienne d’études françaises 5 (2015), http://­rief​.r­ evues​.o­ rg​/­1023. 7. Quotations in this chapter are taken from Jeanne d’Albret, Mémoires et poésie, ed. Baron Alphonse de Ruble (Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1970), http://­gallica​.­bnf​.­f r​/­ark:​ /­1 2148​ /­b pt6k4467k​ /­f 3​ .­i mage​ .­r ​ = ­memoires%20et%20poesies%20de%20Jeanne%20 d’albret. Page numbers for the French edition cited in this chapter are ­those on the top of the page of the Slatkine reprint, available on Gallica. The Bernard Berdou d’Aas’s edition makes no substantive changes to the text given in the nineteenth-­century edition: Jeanne d’Albret, reine de Navarre et vicomtesse de Béarn, Lettres, suivies d’une Ample Déclaration, ed. Bernard Berdou d’Aas (Biarritz: Atlantica, 2007). 8. Albret, Lettres, suivies d’une Ample Déclaration, 36. 9. Nadine Kuperty-­Tsur remarks that Jeanne always pre­sents herself as an impartial judge, certain of the truth. See Kuperty-­Tsur, “Jeanne d’Albret ou la persuasion par la passion,” in Jeanne d’Albret et sa cour: Colloque de Pau 17–19 mai 2001, ed. Evelyne Berriot-­Salvadore, Philippe Chareyre, and Claudie Martin-­U lrich (Paris: Champion, 2004), 259–280, 263. 10. En­glish translations are from Letters from the Queen of Navarre with an “Ample Declaration,” ed. and trans. Kathleen M. Llewellyn, Emily E. Thompson, and Colette H. Winn (Toronto: Iter Academic Press, 2016). This translation does not always reflect the presence of the authorial reader Jeanne evoked in her text. 11. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 77; emphasis added. 12. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 78. 13. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 33; emphasis added. 14. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 63. 15. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 35–36; emphasis added. 16. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 64. 17. This is a position repeatedly evoked in recent scholarship. See Bryson, Queen Jeanne, or Claudie Martin-­Ulrich, “Catherine de Médicis et Jeanne d’Albret, la reine-­ mère et la reine conteuse,” in Devenir roi: Essais sur la littérature addressée au Prince, ed. Isabelle Cogitore and François Goyet (Grenoble: Editions de l’Université de Grenoble,



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2001), 223–234. See also ­Hugues Daussy, Le Parti Huguenot: Chronique d’une désillusion (1557–1572) (Geneva: Droz, 2014), esp. 770. Martin-­Ulrich’s essay also points out the importance of the narrative or storytelling aspects of the Ample Déclaration. 18. As Henri duc de Guise, born in 1550, was still an adolescent at this time, his ­uncle the cardinal was acknowledged as the moral head of the ­family. 19. Jeanne echoes standard Huguenot convictions since the death of Henri II. See Daussy, Le Parti Huguenot, 171, for example. 20. This trinity is by no means unique to Jeanne. It occurs regularly in the writings of the prince de Condé and other leaders of the Protestant party. Condé used it forcefully in a 1562 pamphlet, Discours des choses faictes par Monsieur le prince de Condé, preceded by two verse epistles in which he expressed his dual loyalty to the cause and to the monarch: Si je puis par mon sang te [à la France] donner delivrance . . . Mais si je dois mourir en si haulte entreprise, Fay que sur mon tombeau ceste lettre soit mise: Pour l’Eglise de Dieu, le Roy, et son pays. (If by my blood I can f­ ree you . . . but if I am to die in this noble undertaking Write on my tomb For God’s church, the king, and his country.) Cited from Daussy, Le Parti Huguenot, 308. Daussy points out that as such texts ­were sent to the Parlement de Paris, this was an impor­tant ele­ment in their “publication,” as they would be read aloud to the assembled body and to the queen ­mother (316). See Condé’s text on Gallica: http://­gallica​.b­ nf​.­fr​/­ark:​/­12148​/b­ pt6k134955d​/­f1​.­item, accessed Sep­ tember 29, 2016. 21. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 5–11. Paul Van Dyke questions the historical accuracy of this anecdote. If it was to any degree Jeanne’s invention, then the anecdote is all the more impor­tant as an indication of her intent to paint Catherine as a sympathetic figure. Van Dyke, “Les Prétendus Mémoires de Jeanne d’Albret,” Revue Historique 129, no. 1 (1918): 76–88, 80. On more historically solid ground, Catherine’s ­earlier sympathy for the kind of Evangelical reform embraced a generation e­ arlier by Marguerite de Navarre is well documented, although this is likely better interpreted as a movement urging Gallican reform within the Catholic Church. See, for example, Daussy, Le Parti Huguenot, 769–771, and note 23 below. 22. See Emily Thompson, “The Novellas in the Ample Declaration,” in the introduction to d’Albret, Letters from the Queen, 20–26. Thompson reminds us that Jeanne was involved in the posthumous publication of the Heptaméron. Echoing her ­mother’s tendency not to give characters names (la muletière [the ­woman mule driver], une dame de bonne maison [a lady from a good ­family], un gentilhomme [a gentleman], e­ tc.), the dog remains nameless in this account, although surely she must have had one. Nameless, she becomes a vulnerable appendage to her vulnerable and righ­teous mistress. 23. David P. LaGuardia, “Two Queens, a Dog, and a Purloined Letter: On Memory as a discursive Phenomenon in Late Re­nais­sance France,” in Memory and Community in

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Sixteenth-­Century France, ed. David P. LaGuardia and Cathy Yandell (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2015), 19–36. 24. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 32. 25. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 62. 26. On the château, see Jean-­Pierre Babelon, Châteaux de France au siècle de la Re­ nais­sance (Paris: Flammarion, 1989), 471–472; and François Michel, Le Cardinal François de Tournon (Paris: Boccard, 1951). François, Cardinal de Tournon, expanded the medieval core of the building by adding two wings during the years 1543–1558. The plans for ­these additions are attributed to Sebastiano Serlio. The château was deeded to the cardinal’s nephew, Juste II de Tournon, in 1541, although the cardinal kept the usufruct ­until his death in 1566. 27. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 32. The French plural, lettres, does not imply that more than one document was involved, as all subsequent references to it are in the singular; if it is des lettres at the start, that is to alert the reader to its quality as official correspondence. See Randle Cotgrave, A Dictionarie of the French and En­glish Tongues (London: Adam Islip, 1611), s.v. “lettres”; or see the Dictionnaire de l’Académie, 4th ed. (http://­www​ .­cnrtl​.f­ r​/d ­ efinition​/­academie4​/­lettre) for examples of lettres as a singular. 28. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 62. 29. Accommodations at the itinerant French court w ­ ere generally tight. A room anywhere in the palace itself rather than somewhere in the surrounding area was reserved for t­ hose of the highest rank. See Monique Chatenet, La Cour de France au siezième siècle (Paris: Picard, 2002). 30. Visual repre­sen­ta­tions of Jeanne herself are scarce, but a similar image of her ­mother with such a lapdog can be seen at https://­commons​.­w ikimedia​.­org​/­w iki​ /­C ategory:Marguerite ​ _­d e ​ _ ­Navarre ​ _­b y​ _ ­Fran%C3%A7ois ​ _­C louet#​/­m edia​ /­File:​ Clouet​_ ­Marguerite​_­d%27Orleans​.­jpg, accessed September 18, 2016. The choice to have herself drawn with the dog is itself suggestive of the close domesticity that this story also implies. 31. Th ­ ere are holograph letters from Catherine to Jeanne in Catherine de’ Medici’s published correspondence. See Lettres de Catherine de Médicis, ed. Hector de la Ferrière, 11 vols. (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1880–1943); for an example of a letter from early September 1560, see esp. 1:148. She also always wrote to Anne d’Este, duchesse de Guise, and to King Philip of Spain in her own hand. The exception among royal personages to whom she did not write holograph letters is Queen Elizabeth I. Letters to the Queen of ­England ­were always from the hand of a secretary, perhaps ­because Catherine’s idiosyncratic spelling make her holographs difficult to decipher and ­there was the chance that Elizabeth might herself read the letter, whereas it was presumed that Philip would have his correspondence read to him and sight-­translated. Although Catherine’s published correspondence for the period does not contain a letter to Philip with contents similar to what Jeanne describes h ­ ere, it is difficult to draw conclusions from that absence. Not all letters survived; ­there may be signs of it in the Spanish archives, but most of Philip’s correspondence has not been collected for publication. 32. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 33. “Le dessus”: letters ­were generally written on one side of the page, folded most commonly into thirds and sealed; then the verso was in-



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scribed with the name and any other necessary details of the addressee. Envelopes ­were a ­later convention. 33. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 63. 34. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 33. 35. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 63. 36. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 33. 37. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 63. 38. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 33. 39. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 63. 40. ­Toward the end of the reign of Henri II, Catherine was known to have allowed the royal ­children to pray using Marot’s translations of the Psalms. ­After the start of hostilities, such equivocation was harder, and yet, as late as 1564, we find Catherine complaining in a letter (February 26, 1564) to Jean Ebrard, sieur de Saint-­Sulpice, French ambassador to Madrid (1562–1565), that rumors are being spread by the Spanish ambassador that she and the king are secretly among the Reformed (Catherine dei Médici, Lettres, 2:149). This was prob­ably idle propaganda with only the slim roots in real­ity suggested by her be­hav­ior well before the start of hostilities. 41. See Arlette Jouanna et al., La France de la Re­nais­sance (Paris: Laffont, 2001), 901. Matthieu Gellard, following Nicola Sutherland, states that L’Aubespine remained among Catherine’s closest advisors ­until the end of his life. Gellard, Une Reine épistolaire: Lettres et pouvoir au temps de Catherine de Médicis (Paris: Garnier, 2015), 98–99. 42. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 34; emphasis added. 43. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 63. 44. Gellard, Une Reine épistolaire, chap. 1. 45. The duchesse de Savoie, Marguerite de France, was the d ­ aughter of François I. 46. It should be understood that a garderobe is a smaller adjoining room in which traveling courtiers, in this case Jeanne, stored clothing, documents, and other necessities, and where some of her ladies would sleep on cots, keeping them close to their mistress. 47. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 34–35. 48. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 63. 49. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 35. 50. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 63. 51. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 35. 52. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 64. 53. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 35. 54. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 64. 55. The cast of characters in this scene reminds the reader of the close alliances between members of the Guise f­ amily, even including t­ hose like Madame de Guise, Anne d’Este, whose ­mother, Renée de France, had made her inclination to the Reform well known, so that one might have hoped for sympathetic sentiments from her ­daughter. 56. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 35–36. 57. Albret, Letters from the Queen of Navarre, 64. 58. Albret, Mémoires et poésie, 36n.

cha p te r four

Telling the True and the Real in the Canards Sanglants David LaGuardia

While it may seem straightforward at first glance, the act of telling a “real” or “true” story proves quite complicated once one begins to cata­logue a story’s diverse ele­ments. In theory, this act requires that the narrative account presented in a given medium corresponds to the facts or events that actually took place at a specific time and location, involving actors or agents who can be identified or whose stories can be verified by witnesses (“the story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent”). Questions of veracity, verisimilitude, and verifiability seem to have been particularly relevant in late Re­nais­sance France, a fraught historical context in which the truth of almost all narrative statements had to be proven beyond the shadow of a doubt in order to be accepted. Even then, given the partisan nature of the social sphere in this time and place, stories believed to be irrefutably true by one faction could—­and normally would—be called into question by members of rival groups. ­There are countless stories told in sixteenth-­century France, in which the narrator claims to be telling a true story that he or she heard from ­people who ­were dignes de foi (worthy of belief or faith), as Marguerite de Navarre famously phrased it in the prologue of her Heptaméron. According to Jean-­Pierre Seguin, who assiduously cata­ logued the canards that he found in the Bibliothèque nationale, the par­tic­u­ lar and peculiar type of narrative that t­ hese pamphlets contained was primarily concerned with recounting true, a­ ctual, and real events and stories, which a 74



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reading and listening public would recognize as factual. He wrote succinctly: “Précisons la définition du canard, tel que nous l’entendons, pour cette période: le canard est un imprimé vendu à l’occasion d’un fait divers d’actualité, ou relatant une histoire présentée comme telle” (Let’s give a definition of the canard as we understand it for this period: the canard is a printed text sold concerning an a­ ctual current event, or telling a story presented as such).1 The expression at the heart of this definition—­un fait divers d’actualité—­ pre­sents an in­ter­est­ing prob­lem of translation, since in En­glish we have no exact equivalents for e­ ither of ­these terms. A good translation of faits divers might be “short news items” or “current events,” which are both periphrases rather than direct renderings of ­these expressions. The Trésor de la langue française defines the term in the plural as “Menus événements du jour rapportés par la presse”2 (minor events of the day, reported in the press), which brings together many ele­ments: a fait divers is a reported story describing an event that has a very ­limited scope. In both Spanish and French (sucesos is an exact equivalent of faits divers), this term is used to describe sections of usually local newspapers that recount stories of petty (and perhaps even not-­so-­petty) crimes, curiosities, strange weather events, explosions, accidents, and so on. For example, the website www​.­faitsdivers​.­org gives its list of topics as follows: “Retrouvez l’actualité des faits divers: meurtres, crimes, enlèvements, disparitions, accidents, insécurité, justice”3 (­Here you’ll find topical current events: murders, crimes, kidnappings, disappearances, accidents, insecurity, justice). On any given day, the site ­will provide headlines for such stories. For example, the headlines on August 22, 2016, read as follows: “Un chien sacrifie sa vie pour sauver un bébé des flammes; Gironde: un homme disparaît en faisant du pédalo avec sa femme et sa fille; Il drogue et étouffe son fils de 5 ans: cinq ans de prison; C ­ ouple de Français tué sur une plage de Madagascar . . .” (A Dog Sacrifices Its Life in Order to Save a Baby from a Fire; Gironde: A Man Dies While Pedal Boating with His Wife and ­Daughter; He Drugged and Smothered His Five-­Year-­Old Son: Five Years in Prison; A French ­Couple Killed on a Beach in Madagascar . . .). We would need a modern-­day Vladimir Propp to do a morphology4 of the fait divers d’actualité to delineate the types of this kind of narrative, which paradoxically seem limitless yet contained within a recognizable range of possibilities. The idea of l’actualité accentuates this notion of limitations—­these stories have to have happened right now, in the pre­sent, in the world in which we live. In the age of social media and smartphones, we have an expression

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for this: “what’s trending now” is perhaps what is of most concern to a generation of p­ eople raised on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat. A quick glance at the canards of sixteenth-­century France convinces us that the obsession with trending topics and stories is nothing new. From Maurice Lever’s collection Canards sanglants: Naissance du fait divers, we learn that at least since the invention of the printing press, readers and listeners have always been avid to hear stories that fit into this category.5 The question remains as to why readers and consumers of faits divers felt that they needed to buy ­these l­ittle narrative bursts of a certain kind of “real­ity,” since, as Seguin remarked in his definition, the canard was a story that was printed in order to be sold. As in ­today’s world, ­there is an unavoidably technical, technological, and economic aspect to the sudden appearance of canards sanglants in France, which had transformative effects on the art of storytelling in the age of art’s mechanical reproduction, to paraphrase Walter Benjamin.6 What has to be examined, then, is the conjunction of the component parts of ­these texts: the true and the real; the current and the ­actual; the violent and the transgressive; the mercantile; and above all, for our purposes in this volume, the mode of storytelling of the narrators who produced t­ hese stories and who called upon their listeners to pay a par­tic­u­lar kind of attention to them. One of the earliest criminal pamphlets cata­logued by Seguin, the Histoire horrible et espoventable d’un enfant, lequel, apres avoir meurtry & estranglé son pere, en fin le pendit (The horrible and frightful story of a son, who, a­ fter having killed and strangled his f­ ather, fi­nally hanged him), printed in 1574, begins with a direct address by the printer, named Jean de Lastre, to his potential readers or listeners: “J’ay esté en doubte (Lecteur François) si je te devois communiquer ceste Histoire de Suysse, touchant un cas de parricide . . .” (I was in doubt, French reader, if I should tell you this story from Switzerland concerning a case of parricide . . .).7 In nearly all of the examples from this period in which a text claims to tell a true story, a contract or pact is established between the narrator and the audience, in which a justification for the desire for telling this kind of brutal story has to be given. The introduction continues with an explanation of the narrator’s doubt, as the ancients proclaimed that the type of crime recounted ­here was unthinkable and hence could never, in fact, have taken place. Nonetheless, faced with the real­ity of its occurrence, the printer and bookseller feels compelled to offer this story to clients as a kind of merchandise. Moreover, the buying public was specifically conceived of in terms of its national and cultural identity. From this period on, the



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French ­were collectors or curieux of all kinds of objects, among them strange stories from foreign lands.8 This sense of the word is impor­tant for the analy­ sis of the next canard that I ­will consider. The assemblage of the knowledge gained from this collecting contributed significantly to the formation of an increasingly “national” identity, which is a sentiment that is shared h ­ ere in the parenthetical address to the reader.9 A second canard from the same year repeats this gesture in a much more complex manner. In its introduction, a named author addresses himself directly to a bookseller (libraire), whom he also names in the text, but who is not the printer of the text itself. This direct address delineates a historically contingent set of concepts that defined the social and po­liti­cal world of this period’s noble class, concepts that also made the language of the canards comprehensible. The text opens as follows: Guillaume de la Taissonniere, Gentil-­homme Dombois, à Benoist Rigaut, marchand Libraire de Lyon. Partant dernierement de Lyon pour suivre Monsieur de Perès, Ambassadeur pour Monseigneur le Duc de Savoye en France, en son voyage de Piedmont, & ailleurs où l’honneur de ses commandemens me tireroit: je vous promis librement, comme vostre bon amy de long temps, vous donner advis de tout ce que je trouverois par deçà digne d’estre communiqué à noz François: pourveu que ce ne fust au prejudice d’aucun Prince. Suivant laquelle promesse, estant venue en ceste court la certaine nouvelle d’une des plus piteuse & la­men­ta­ble histoire [sic] du monde, fraischement advenue au Royaume de Naples, j’ay bien voulu desrober un quart d’heure à mon exercice courtizan pour la vous tourner en François, afin que vous en faites [sic] part aux curieux de nostre France, à laquelle je suis tant affectionné, pour l’honneur & bien que j’y ay receu & espere y recevoir, que je n’oublieray jamais telle obligation & redevance. Sur ce faisant fin je vous diray à Dieu. De Turin ce 26 de Febvrier, 1574. Vostre affectionné amy à jamais, G. DE LA TESSONNIERE.10 (Guillaume de la Taissonniere, a gentleman from the Dombes, to Benoist Rigaut, bookseller in Lyon: Lately having left Lyon in order to follow Monsieur de Perès, Ambassador of My Lord the Duke of Savoy in France, on his voyage to Piedmont, and wherever ­else the honor of his ­orders might lead me. I promised you freely, being your good friend for a long time, to let you know every­thing that I would see down ­there that

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would be worthy of being communicated to our Frenchmen, as long as it ­were not prejudicial to any prince. Following that promise, having reached this court the certain news of one of the most pitiful and la­men­ta­ble stories of the world, which newly occurred in the Kingdom of Naples, I wanted to steal away a quarter of an hour from my exercises as a courtier in order to translate it into French for you, so that you may allow the curious men of our France, to which I am so affectionately attached, know about it, for the honor and goods that I have received and hope to receive ­there, which is an obligation and debt that I ­will never forget. On this note, I bid you Godspeed from Turin this 26th of February 1574. Your affectionate friend forever, G. DE LA TESSONNIERE.) The first intriguing ele­ment in this introduction to a horrifying story that is supposedly true and reliable is the notion of a nobleman traveling abroad who is concerned about sending stories back to his countrymen. Accounts of early “tourism” in French Re­nais­sance lit­er­a­ture often express this same sentiment: “I have been abroad, my friends and countrymen. I have heard ­these true yet unbelievable stories, and it is impor­tant for me to communicate them to you.” More specifically, the text is addressed to a named friend of the author, who himself is involved in the vibrant book trade of the period. Second, ­there is a linking together of the ideas of travel, court duties, and the telling of true stories. What we call the French Re­nais­sance was given a decisive impetus by a constant movement of ideas between Italy and France. H ­ ere, the “author” of the text describes his precise relationship with a traveling nobleman who leads him into the Piedmont region of the neighboring country. In a formula that highlights the distance of this conceptual world from our own, Tessonière claims that it is an “honor” for him to obey the commandments of his master, the ambassador of the duc de Savoy. This text is hence marked by two complementary demands: that of the bookseller to his traveling friend for material concerning his trip to Italy and that of the ambassador to his courtly companion, who requires that the author perform certain duties. As Pierre de L’Estoile notes, booksellers and printers at this time ­were always in search of new material that they could produce quickly and sell on the streets of France’s cities.11 ­There was hence a certain amount of pressure to collect and disseminate stories as commodities in this historical context, fueled by technological innovations and demanding at least a kind of gesturing t­ oward the idea that ­these stories ­were true and real. The concepts of truth and real­ity ­were integral parts of a narrative economy composed of several interworking



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ele­ments that functioned within or as a complex material volume. The concrete components of this system (books, pamphlets, texts, spoken sounds) worked within both literal spaces (the streets, bookshops, and courts of the kingdom) and conceptual “spaces” (ideas, affects, perceptions) to produce narrative subjects who performed their identities in relation to a set of shared concepts of the true and the real. This liminal text provides a cogent example of how this system of producing meaning operated and participated in structuring the po­liti­cal and social worlds within which canard writers lived. One of the ele­ments of this system is the idea of “internationality” itself, which has at its foundation the interrelated phenomena of travel and translation. For Re­nais­sance noblemen, frequent travel was a fact of everyday life, despite the difficulties and enormous expenses involved in moving from country to country. As we know from Castiglione, Blaise de Monluc, and numerous other sources, the education of ­these gentlemen was devoted essentially to the arts of war. Nevertheless, the necessity of having to fight in foreign lands also meant that they w ­ ere proficient in other languages, and in some cases, as in that of Tessonnière, they ­were fluent enough in ­those tongues to render what they had seen and heard into their native French. The claim that t­ here is something inherently valuable in the transmission of stories from other lands, especially for the elaboration of what it means to be French, is particularly striking. At the same time, ­here the role of storytelling in the maintenance and propagation of this collective identity is subordinate to the support of an aristocratic order of rank. A ­triple idea of duty marks the transmission of this par­tic­u­lar story: the honor of obeying the ­orders of one’s superior and master; the duty to transmit stories that are “worthy” of being communicated to one’s compatriots, as part of the formation of their shared identity; and the duty of maintaining a social hierarchy by adequately performing one’s role within it. Perhaps what is implicit in this insistence upon the veracity and the real­ity of ­these seemingly unbelievable stories—­and in this context, the unbelievably horrifying, grotesque, shocking, and immoral usually come from abroad—is the idea that they should be accepted as true if they are transmitted via the conduit of an authorized witness, courier, scribe, or storyteller, whose trustworthiness is moreover guaranteed by his belonging to several categories (class, nationality, rank, courtly position, e­ tc.). At times, this belonging to an acceptable category of witness is expressed entirely by the discursive mode ­adopted by the speaker, as we ­will see shortly in the analy­sis of another canard. Interwoven with t­ hese duties is the obligation of friendship, expressed

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in the request or demand for stories that the bookseller had apparently made to his traveling friend. This kind of narrative contract intersects with the fortuitous appearance of an astounding bit of news (nouvelle) from Naples, which the writer qualifies with a number of modifiers. The first is the adjective certaine, which reassures readers that, despite the difficulties one might have in accepting the veracity of this tale of horrors, it is nonetheless an accurate account of events that occurred in the Italian city in 1574. The next is the hyperbolic expression regarding the “most la­men­ta­ble and pitiable story in the world.” An impor­tant part of the canards sanglants is this kind of exaggerated promise of an affective investment in the stories on the part of the reader or listener. Elsewhere I have discussed the “tragic” aspects of ­these pamphlets, especially in terms of the names and titles used to characterize ­these stories.12 In the two texts that I have been discussing thus far, the words horrible, épouvantable (frightful), and admirable are employed by the writer to describe their contents. As I remarked on that other occasion, the generic terms histoire and discours, which dominate the title pages of the canards, are complemented and modified in two ways. First, when t­ hese terms are not used, their titles often contain a description of their contents rather than a generic term that refers to their narrative form, as in cruautés, meurtres, massacres (cruelties, murders, massacres), and so on. Second, the main noun used to name the text itself may be modified by a slew of seemingly interchangeable adjectives: sanguinaire, cruelle, émerveillable, épouvantable, effroyable, horrible, vray, véritable, tres-­veritable, merveilleux, admirable, la­men­ta­ble, pitoyable, prodigieuse, and mémorable (bloody, cruel, marvelous, horrifying, frightful, horrible, true, truthful, very truthful, marvelous, admirable, la­men­ta­ble, pitiful, prodigious, and memorable). The real­ity of ­these tales hence seems to be accepted and has to be accentuated hyperbolically as a given despite the at-­times-­almost-­overwhelming horror of their subject ­matter, which nearly always has to be understood within the frame of an implacable Christian moral code. In this case, as in most of the canards, the texts have clear and biased didactic intentions. One of the most fascinating moments in this authorial preface is the claim that Tessonnière “stole” a few moments from his courtly duties in order to translate the story into French. In a modern context, it would of course be impossible for a writer to translate a text without giving their source. I have searched in vain for an Italian printed original for this case of multiple hom­



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i­cides in a single f­amily, which leads me to believe that, as Tessonnière implies, the anecdote was disseminated orally across the Italian peninsula from Naples to the Piedmont. As Roger Chartier has so remarkably demonstrated, the oral, print, and scribal cultures of the sixteenth c­ entury all overlapped and interacted with one another.13 What we have h ­ ere is hence a prime example of how “news” could circulate orally and fi­nally be pinned down as a commodity to be printed and sold, which was something that happened for the first time during the ­century ­after the invention of the printing press. Nevertheless, and in stark contrast to how news works and sells in the modern world, the telling of unbelievable stories from elsewhere that w ­ ere nonetheless purported to be true and real seems to have fulfilled a multifaceted “cluster” of functions: the communication and “posting” of news about one’s travels abroad; the fulfillment of a promise made to a friend and the offering of a narrative gift to him; the reinforcement of given notions of collective or national identity; the affirmation of a hierarchy of rank; the dissemination of a didactic moral code; the study of dif­fer­ent conceptions of cultural otherness; and the promise of a strong emotional reaction in exchange for the purchase of the story as a commodity. What perhaps remains a mystery is why ­these functions should have, at their core, the per­sis­tent and terrifying vio­lence that seems always to have been lurking at the very foundations of Re­nais­sance culture. The framing of the Tessonnière pamphlet is perhaps unique, though it reflects practices from other genres, such as a direct address to a named recipient, a comment on the appropriateness of the text for its French readers, a moralizing statement about the utility of reading the story, and so on. Like the vast majority of the other canards, this text is structured according to the didactic concerns that w ­ ere thought to be essential to the telling of ­these kinds of anecdotes. The extant canards are often introduced by a kind of homiletical harangue, which pre­sents a given moral theme and moves ­toward its illustration. As is so often the case in didactic lit­er­a­ture, this kind of homily usually takes the form of an extended exemplum, the rhe­toric of which varies drastically from text to text. At times the moral message of such a retelling is merely implied, or it is contained in minimal comments that appear in the narrative of the crime and its punishment, as in the Tessonnière text. In other examples, the introductory material rivals the telling of the story itself and nearly becomes the primary focus of the canard.

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A particularly intriguing example of this latter phenomenon is provided by the Histoire sanguinaire, cruelle et émerveillable d’une femme de Cahors en Quercy (The bloody, cruel, and marvelous story of a ­woman from Cahors in Quercy) of 1583, which describes the case of a ­woman who murdered her two sons and her husband a­ fter he lost all of their money gambling. The opening salvo of the canard is a poem addressed directly to the reader, who is asked to “look upon” the scene of “carnage” that the work represents: Si tu veux voir, lecteur, le mal qu’en toute sorte De cartes et de dés le jeu maudit apporte, Vois cette histoire-ci, et la goûte à part toi. Tu y verras la perte, la faim et la rage Dont s’ensuit par après si horrible carnage, Que quatre par la mort finiront leur émoi.14 (If you want to see, reader, the evil of all kinds That the damned games of dice and cards bring, Look upon this story, and enjoy it [when you are] by yourself. You ­will see in it the loss, the hunger, and the rage That are followed by such horrible carnage That four ­people pay for ­these emotions with their lives.) This brief introductory poem calls out to the pamphlet’s potential readers, implying that it is a spoken text that may be used as a kind of advertising for the canard itself, conceived of as a commodity for sale. It also states that this product is meant to be “consumed” and, strangely, “enjoyed” (goûté), in private and perhaps in silence, which is somewhat unusual compared to the public reading practices that I have been describing ­ here. For centuries, Chris­tian­ity was obsessed with images of brutal physical suffering, hence it comes as no surprise that this type of story was thought to be of interest to readers living through the Reformation and its bloody, protracted aftermath. This tale of loss, hunger, rage, and “horrible carnage” is offered to its readers as an example of the truth upon which they are invited to meditate as a visual, even emblematic, object. Consequently, despite the relative newness of its format and material characteristics, it could be argued that the canard may be understood in relation to a centuries-­old practice of contemplating suffering bodies and martyrdom for didactic purposes. In this sense, the opening apostrophe to the reader invites him to contemplate this bloody, cruel, and



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“marvelous” story visually in order to understand a moral lesson, which is the point of the story’s telling and transmission. As in the last canard, the telling of the true and the real h ­ ere has several aspects. For both Catholics and Protestants, the true world was that of the afterlife and the immortal soul, associated with the necessary suffering that was the consequence of mankind’s sinfulness. On the other hand, the true was also a factual account of the a­ ctual consequences of sinful transgressions of the dominant Christian codes that ruled and structured the social and cultural order of the late Re­nais­sance. This par­tic­u­lar tale, like so many ­others, involves a fundamental paradox that is at the heart of early modern storytelling. On the one hand, it claims that a situation in which a ­woman feels compelled to commit the ultimate crimes of killing her husband and c­ hildren is exceptional and unpre­ce­dented. On the other hand, the pamphlet merely repeats the ancient story concerning the wages of sin, which in the case of the gravest sins, inevitably results in horrifying suffering and the perdition of the sinner. As we have already seen, late Re­nais­sance printers and booksellers ­were always on the lookout for new and astounding stories that they could print hastily and sell on the streets. Nevertheless, while ­there is usually a hyperbolic quality to the claims of novelty that ­these texts make, they are almost always retold with the aim of enunciating the eternal truths that ­were the foundations of the Christian faith. ­Because of the syntactic complexity of its language, the second introductory frame to this canard makes it almost impossible for us to imagine how this story might have been “looked upon” as a ­simple object of religious contemplation. Its long sentences, burdened by an almost impossible series of subordinate clauses, signal this discourse as a clerical harangue.15 The end of the pamphlet confirms this impression when it affirms that the text was “vu et visité par Messieurs Les Docteurs de la Sorbonne” (examined and reviewed by the Doctors of the Sorbonne).16 This rhetorical mode of storytelling served as a linguistic signifier of the dominant religious thinking of the period, associated with authoritative ideas of the true and the real. In arguing for preconceived notions of the truth, this form of address undermines the idea that we can know what the actuality of any given story was in this context, especially since a ­great deal of the news that circulated at this time was mediated in discourses such as this one, which had didactic ends. The object of this canard is more to teach a moral lesson than to tell a story that can be verified as factual; moreover, t­ here are numerous ele­ments of the telling of this story

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that prove the opposite; that is, that this version of events could not possibly correspond to what actually happened in the case of Marguerite Haldebois, who, at least according to this pamphlet—­which may be the only source of her story—­killed her husband and c­ hildren in Cahors in 1583.17 This is especially true of the quotations depicting what she said while committing her crimes and of the remonstrance, or moralizing statement, that she supposedly enunciated before suffering the brutal sentence imposed upon her.18 Th ­ ese supposed quotations resemble the clerical style of the polemical introduction to such an extent that it is unlikely that they are exact quotations of what she actually said at her execution. An analy­sis of the first sentence of the canard reveals the characteristics of the text’s rhe­toric, which ­were deeply embedded in the dominant power structure of the late Re­nais­sance. To a certain extent, power resided in the capacity of the ruling class to enunciate a specific kind of speech, a skill that was unavailable to t­ hose who did not belong to that class. As mentioned, the belonging of this speaker to the clerical class is signaled by his mode of speaking and does not require him to announce his name and rank as Tessonnière does. The text’s first sentence provides a stunning example of this exclusionary verbal skill: Ce n’est sans cause que les Anciens, tant législateurs et jurisconsultes que poètes et orateurs, ont par leurs édits et écrits limité les jeux honnêtes et iceux borné[s] des bornes de raison, les séparant et distinguant des autres jeux litigieux, pipeurs et abominables, pour montrer que les jeux qui gisent seulement au plaisir honnête et vertueux et l’exercice du corps, nourricier de la vie humaine, sont d’autre étoffe et maniement que les jeux hasardeux, irrévérents, prohibés et défendus, comme sont les jeux de dés, cartes, quilles et autres semblables, qui outre [ce] qu’ils ne consistent qu’au sort damnable et réprouvé de Dieu, et que cela ne serve qu’à la perdition des biens des corps et des âmes sans aucun licite exercice, sont ordinairement falsifiés pour exercer telles pilleries et défroques, sous ombre de feindre de jouer équitablement, qu’il n’y a volerie qui soit plus grande que telles piperies, où les plus rusés sont pris le plus souvent et demeurent pauvres et misérables, étant tout d’un coup dénués et dévalisés de plusieurs biens qu’à grande peine et labeur leurs prédécesseurs avaient amassés ou qu’ils avaient gagné de tout temps à leurs états et facultés.19



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(It is not without cause that the Ancients, both legislators and jurists as well as poets and orators, l­ imited in their edicts and writings honest games, and t­ hese ­were bounded by the bounds of reason, separating and distinguishing them from other litigious, loud-­mouthed, and abominable games, in order to show that games that reside only in honest plea­ sure and the virtuous exercise of the body, nourishing ­human life, are of another fabric and practice than the risky, irreverent, prohibited, and forbidden games such as dice games, cards, darts, and other similar ­things, which, aside from the fact that they consist only of a damned luck that is disapproved by God, and since they lead only to the perdition of the goods of both body and soul, without any licit exercise, are ordinarily falsified for the sake of pillaging and defrauding, while one feigns to play fairly, that ­there is no thievery that is greater than such cheating, in which even the most clever are caught, and more often than not are rendered poor and miserable, being suddenly stripped and robbed of many of the goods that with ­great effort and ­labor their pre­ de­ces­sors had amassed, or that they had always earned to their estate and their faculties.) The anonymous orator or preacher who wrote this text begins with a Re­nais­ sance “move” that appeals to initially unnamed ancient authorities for the verification of the truth that he wants to pre­sent. This highlights the fact that sixteenth-­century prédicateurs belonged to the learned class that could cite Greek and Latin classics as well as the Bible. The erudition of ­these men seems to have been demonstrated not only by this consistent referentiality, but also by the syntactic complexity within which the rather ­simple idea presented ­here is expressed. This leads one to won­der why this kind of diction was necessary for this message or story, especially since we can imagine that this text was destined for a popu­lar audience, rather than a learned one, given the format in which it was sold on the streets. I would argue that this mode of address was intended to reinforce the order of rank associated with the Christian conception of the eternal truth, whose enunciation or “telling” was increasingly a requirement of speakers in the public realm during the Wars of Religion, especially a­ fter the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of 1572.20 Orators of this kind often couched their references and quotations in a truncated or shorthand form, assuming that their listeners would recognize the rest of the quotation. H ­ ere, for example, the writer/speaker reinforces his

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claims about the dangers of gambling as follows: “Et c’est pourquoi ce bon Caton, voulant enseigner aux enfants de fuir et éviter tels jeux illicites et ni s’y amuser quand ils deviendraient g­ rands et mûrs d’esprit, disait Alea fuge, ­etc.”21 (And this is why the good Cato, wanting to teach c­ hildren to flee and to avoid such illicit games and not to amuse themselves with them when they would be grown and mature of spirit, said Alea fuge, ­etc.). The “­etc.” at the end of this passage signals the kind of fragmented quotation used ­here, which was quite common during this period in lit­er­a­ture and apparently meant for an oral pre­sen­ta­tion before an audience.22 This practice implies that ­there was a shared body of knowledge that circulated orally in the form of commonplaces and served to disseminate doctrinal thinking. The reference to Cato, in fact, serves as a pivot, shifter, or index that points ­toward a vast intertext devoted to the dangers of gambling, and it reveals the extent to which this story, far from being a factual account of a crime, is a kind of shorthand ­referral to a body of commonplace thinking about this par­tic­u­lar sin or transgression. The quotation follows a long and circuitous route before appearing in the canard of 1583. The first version of the maxim, aleam fuge, is distich number 47 from a book that was spuriously attributed to Cato and was quite successful throughout the M ­ iddle Ages and the Re­nais­sance. The title of the work itself is also uncertain.23 The Latin text gives the original maxim in conjunction with a complementary one: “Trocho lude / Aleam fuge,” which Wayland Johnson Chase renders as “Play with the hoop / eschew the dice.”24 ­There ­were numerous translations of this anonymous text between the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries, as well as noteworthy commentaries by scholars as illustrious as Erasmus, who wrote of this aphorism in 1513: “Trocho lude. Aleas [sic] fuge. Trochus conuenit pueris. Alea infamis erat & apud gentileis. Nunc principum Christianorum lusus est, imò quorundam etiam sacerdotume delitiae” (Play with the hoop. Flee from dice. Playing is appropriate for boys. Dice games ­were vile and among the Gentiles. Hence they may be amusements for the Christian prince, but on the contrary they ­were sinful for priests).25 The ­great humanist’s interpretation of Cato’s aphorisms seems quite worldly and tolerant compared to readings by both e­arlier and l­ater commentators. In contrast, t­here is a fifteenth-­century En­glish translation of an unnamed French source printed by William Caxton in 1484 that offers a long commentary on Cato’s maxim and foreshadows the Histoire sanguinaire, cruelle et émerveillable of 1583:



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Troco lude Thou oughtest to playe wyth the toppe / For the playe of the toppe is good and vtyle and wythout fylthe and wrathe / For by the same playe one may doo his excersyse / and amodere or restreyne in hym self all Illycite or euyl cogytacions or thoughtes / Aleas fuge Thou oughtest to flee and to eschewe alle manere of playeng wyth the ­tables and dyse / For by suche playes Illicitees and dyshonestees cometh homy|cydes / Rancoure and brawlyng / Item also comynly by suche gamynges one maketh of hys frende hys enemye / Item thou must knowe that ­there been foure thynges wher|fore men oughte to eschewe alle the playeng wyth ­tables and dyse and all other Illycyte and euyl playes / The fyrst is for the grete multitude of synnes whyche ensueth and cometh the¦rof / The second is for the grete trybulacion and malenco|lye that the parentes and frendes of hem that playe / haue & take therfore / . . . ​ Item yf the player playe wythin his hows / his parentes and frendes ben therof wroth and trowbled / And yf he be maryed and haue chyldren he is wrothe wyth hym self and with hys wyf and chyldren wherfore his ­children ben ofte tyme dysheryted by suche play¦ers / and ofte ben cause and occasyon to put theyr wyues and doughters to grete dyshonoure and shame26 From the perspective of this lengthy intertextual tradition, it is clear that the canard’s didactic introduction paraphrases a well-­known body of commonplace thinking to which the reader / listener is referred by the truncated Latin quotation and that it merely repeats an idea that was accepted as common wisdom: gambling leads to sin and even hom­i­cide. In terms of the telling of true stories about the real world, intertexts of this kind and the received wisdom of commonplace and proverb books constituted a conceptual frame that conditioned the understanding of any given event. If we are looking for accounts of the a­ ctual world of late Re­nais­sance France in t­ hese canards, which often purport to tell true stories, we may be able to see only highly subjective and culturally contingent repre­sen­ta­tions of what the learned class of the period was able to understand about the real world, based on preconceived notions of right and wrong, good and evil, order and chaos, and virtue and sin. Even when we seem to get a glimpse of the real social world in which ­these writers lived and worked, we cannot be

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certain that the information being communicated to us corresponds to an ­actual situation. This canard essentially says the same ­thing as the maxims from Cato’s Distichs, but in the most convoluted manner pos­si­ble: gambling is a terrible sin that has you enslaved, and this truth should enable you to f­ ree yourself from it. Curiously, however, in the enunciation of this truth, the orator seems to describe an ­actual social real­ity (i.e., that of the prevalence of gambling in sixteenth-­century urban life), which had drastic consequences for poor ­people, if we are to believe this account. The essential pessimism of Chris­tian­ity is clearly in evidence h ­ ere: the moral truth that w ­ ill set us f­ ree is known and available to us, but all of us, being sinners, ­will continue in our debauchery ­until we reach a state of misery. Nevertheless, within this pessimism, one might glimpse the a­ ctual social conditions in which ­people lived in France’s large cities at the end of the Re­nais­sance, as in the following descriptions: Les vertueux juges politiques ne veulent accorder qu’aucun débiteur soit tenu de payer à son créancier ce qu’il lui pourrait devoir à cause du gain provenu de tels jeux de hasard, et selon le droit et la loi, condamnent le demandeur et le défendeur en grandes amendes avec confiscation de la somme principale, aumônée aux pauvres; et quelquefois et communément envers les pipeurs ordinaires, il y va de punition corporelle et exemplaire. Lesquelles réprimandes sont si utiles que si elles n’avaient lieu et n’étaient bien et dûment observées, les cités et les villes serviraient de plus ­grands brigandages (pour le nombre infini qui se trouve de tels abuseurs et porteurs de faux dés et fausses cartes) que les déserts et forêts.27 (Virtuous po­liti­cal judges do not want to grant that any debtor ­shall be held accountable to pay his creditor that which he may owe him b­ ecause of gains arising from such games of chance, and both the code and the law condemn the plaintiff and the defendant to pay heavy fines, along with the confiscation of the principal sum, which ­will be given as alms to the poor; and sometimes and commonly, in the case of habitual cheaters, ­there is also a corporeal and exemplary punishment. ­These repri­ ere not enforced and w ­ ere not well mands are so useful that if they w and duly observed, the cities and towns would be places of greater thievery (­because of the infinite number of such cheaters and ­those who carry with them false dice and fake cards) than the deserts and forests are.)



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This passage makes an outrageous claim about the status of crimes in the cities of the French kingdom. Its almost absurd hyperbole makes one think that it cannot be an accurate account of the “infinite” number of cheaters and crooks roaming the streets of France’s major towns. This impression is confirmed by the continuation of the passage: Le peuple est si acharné à tels jeux qu’il laisse, et le ser­vice divin, et le devoir qu’il doit à ses supérieurs et magistrats, son trafic et son ménage même, pour assister aux jeux de brelan, et là perdre, ou du moins exposer à tout hasard en une heure tout ce qu’il a gagné en une année, avec tant de blasphèmes exécrables que le ciel et la terre même en ont horreur. Et pour la conclusion, s’ensuit une querelle enragée où l’hom­i­cide est plus prompt que le défi et la menace, et telles façons de faire s’exercent et continuent principalement par crocheteurs, maçons, charpentiers et gens mécaniques, lesquels n’ont sitôt reçu un denier, qu’au beau milieu d’une rue, sur une tronche ou pierre, ils plantent trois dés carrés pour essayer à qui emportera l’argent de son compagnon, et qui mieux pipera, reniant et blasphémant sans aucune raison le nom de Dieu tout puissant (ô chose digne de punition!) près le pot et le verre plein de bon vin, sans considérer toutefois cependant que leurs pauvres femmes et petits enfants sont misérablement à jeûner et à languir, criant à la famine en leur maison, où la désolation est si extrême qu’il y a plus trois fois de dettes que de bon rapport.28 (The ­people are so fierce in their devotion to such games that they abandon the divine ser­vices and the duty that they owe to their superiors and magistrates, their business, and even their homes in order to play games of chance, and to lose in them, or at least to expose themselves to losing in an hour every­thing that they have made in a year—­and with so many execrable blasphemies that both heaven and earth are horrified by them. And in the end, t­ here follow such enraged arguments in which hom­i­cide is likely to happen sooner than challenges and threats. ­These ways of ­doing ­things are continued mainly by deliverymen, masons, carpenters, and mechanics who have no sooner received a penny than they plant, in the ­middle of a street, on top of a tree trunk or a stone, three square dice, in order to see who w ­ ill take the money of his fellow worker and who ­will be better at cheating, denying, and blaspheming the name of almighty God for no reason (oh, what a t­hing worthy of punishment!). They do so near the b­ ottle, and the glass full

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of good wine, without considering that their poor wives and l­ittle ­children are miserably fasting and languishing, crying out in their famine in their ­houses, where the desolation is so extreme that ­there are three times as many debts as ­there are good revenues.) This text is something like a sensationalist report concerning social evils of the kind that we might watch on tele­vi­sion ­today, one that exaggerates the details of supposedly degenerate be­hav­ior in order to titillate its audience. What strikes me h ­ ere, however, is the specificity of the details in this passage, which reveal the writer’s intimate knowledge of the social realm in which he lived. For example, the knowledge that dice games w ­ ere played with three dice in the ­middle of the street on tree trunks or blocks of stone; that crocheteurs, or deliverymen, who ­were notorious for their bad be­hav­ior,29 as well as masons, carpenters, and mechanics, ­were prone to gambling; that ­these games ­were accompanied by pitchers and cups of “good wine” and by loud cursing and swearing. The description is vivid and allows us to imagine a vibrant street scene that could easily degenerate into vio­lence.30 Moreover, this widespread usage of public space spilled over into domestic ­house­holds, which ­were strictly separated from the collective realm and which segregated activities by gender. The text hence seemingly describes the inevitability of domestic vio­lence, which is a consequence of gender and class distinctions, as well as of ste­reo­ typical per­for­mances of contingent versions of masculinity: real men from the tiers état ­gamble, cheat, drink, swear, starve their wives and c­ hildren, and so on. We should not imagine that this harangue is a critique of a social system that rests upon the strict maintenance of class and gender distinctions. On the contrary, it examines what is presumably a true case of hom­i­cide as an example of the abuses that may occur when the rules and dictates of this system are not obeyed to the letter. On the w ­ hole, the speaker of ­these lines has an ambivalent relation to the idea of vio­lence: he condemns its eruption in the social and domestic spheres that he describes, but he heartily condones its usage for the sake of maintaining the po­liti­cal order, especially when the punition corporelle et exemplaire (corporal and exemplary punishment) is necessary for the sake of instructing the populace to obey the divine dictates intended to generate order in the social realm. What exactly is the “real­ity” that is delineated by texts such as the ones I have considered ­here? Is it the notion of a relation or contract between the speaker and listener (“J’ay été en doute, lecteur français . . .”) (I was in doubt,



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French reader . . .); the material conditions that allowed for the production of ­these canards; the vio­lence of the events and acts described in them; the moral/religious universe in which each story is situated; or the enormous, didactic intertext on which this kind of knowledge was based? All of ­these ele­ments contribute to the notions of the true and the real that ­were the foundation of this particularly ephemeral form of narrative. During the Wars of Religion in France, t­ here are perhaps no neutral, factual, and ­simple accounts of anything. Narratives that relate stories of supposedly true crimes show their biases and their agendas as clearly as polemical harangues do. In fact, as we saw in the case of the Histoire sanguinaire examined h ­ ere, at times ­there is essentially no difference between the two. This perhaps means that the states of affairs, events, and ­people depicted in the canards sanglants do not represent any kind of in­de­pen­dently verifiable truth or real­ity, especially since, in most cases, they are the only sources of the anecdotes that they recount. It might be argued that t­ hese intriguing texts depict a certain state of actuality in an ambiguous sense that combines both the French and En­glish meanings of the word. In the former sense, ­these pamphlets give us a vivid impression of what the current situation was in France in the 1570s and 1580s. The pre­sent real­ity of a culture is such an enormous entity that it is impossible to describe it. Nevertheless, an impor­tant ele­ment involved in the elaboration of what that real­ity may have been consists of the prejudices and intellectual and spiritual preconceptions that structure how an event or an act in a given context may be understood and communicated to o­ thers. The Wars of Religion in France ­were a period of almost unimaginable conflict and strife, during which rival factions w ­ ere mercilessly pilloried, satirized, and misrepresented in the name of competing perceptions of the true and the real. In actuality, then, in the En­glish sense, the world of late Re­nais­sance France was dominated by the real putting into action of conflicting sets of ideas. If the canards from the 1570s and 1580s insisted so much on the evils of sin and required examples from the real world to prove that truth, it was perhaps the Protestant challenge to Catholicism’s hegemony over the social and po­liti­cal realms, along with the resulting conflicts, that made many commentators feel as though they w ­ ere witnessing the end of the world.31 Both Catholics and Protestants enlisted the technical innovation of the printing press in order to ensure that their biased stories would be disseminated on a large scale, despite the sometimes relatively small numbers of print runs for pamphlets and propaganda. (It has to be remembered that a single pamphlet might serve as the basis for

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a street per­for­mance that could reach a potentially large crowd of listeners.) Storytelling in this context was hence a ­matter of life and death, since it was one of the primary media through which given ­causes could be advanced and defended. That the canards sanglants w ­ ere concerned most often with cases of murder and execution is testimony to the fact that the real world of France nearing the end of the sixteenth ­century was a bloody place, where the right to live one’s beliefs and to impose them on o­ thers was affirmed and reaffirmed continuously through manipulative storytelling that claimed to represent the true and the real. The truths and realities of crime and sin w ­ ere a small but significant part of the larger story of humanity’s fate, which was being told and retold in a wide variety of texts, and they served to reinforce the idea that perhaps the Day of Judgment was at hand. Notes 1. Jean-­Pierre Seguin, L’Information en France avant le périodique: 517 canards imprimés entre 1529 et 1631 (Paris: Maisonneuve et Larose, 1964), 8. All translations in this chapter are my own u ­ nless other­wise indicated. 2. Trésor de la langue française, s.v. “divers,” accessed January 24, 2021, http://­stella​ .­atilf​.­f r​/­Dendien​/s­ cripts​/t­ lfiv5​/s­ earch​.e­ xe​?­25;s​=­3726710505;cat​=­1;m​=­faits+divers. 3. Faits Divers, JM Media, accessed January 24, 2021, https://www​.­faitsdivers​.­org. 4. Vladimir Propp’s Morphology of the Folktale, translated by Laurence Scott (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1968), is an examination and classification of dif­fe r­ent kinds of folktales according to the formal functions that are presented within them. 5. Maurice Lever, Canards sanglants: Naissance du fait divers (Paris: Fayard, 1993). All quotations from the Canards in this chapter are from this edition. 6. Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Its Mechanical Reproduction,” in Illuminations, ed. Hannah Arendt, trans. Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken Books, 1969), 217–252. 7. Histoire horrible et espoventable, d’un enfant, lequel apres avoir meurtry et estranglé son père, en fin le pendit: Et ce advenu en la ville de Lutzelflu, païs des Suysses, en la Seigneurie de Brandis, pres la ville de Berne, le iii jour du mois d’Avril. 1574 (Paris: Jean de Lastre, n.d.), reprinted in Lever, Canards sanglants, 55–59 (55). 8. One of the titles that Pierre de L’Estoile gives to one of his enormous manuscripts, Ms F. Fr. 6678 in the Bibliothèque nationale, is Registre-­journal d’un curieux de plusieurs choses memorables advenues et publiées librement à la françoise pendant et durant le regne de HENRI IIIè Roy de France et de Pologne . . . ​I would argue that the word curieux ­here means “collector” or “amateur,” as the Trésor de la langue française informs us: “Curieux: Amateur désireux de connaître et/ou de posséder, notamment des choses rares” (Curieux: A collector who desires to know and/or to possess t­ hings, notably rare objects), which seems to be a perfect description of L’Estoile himself. 9. Martial Martin makes a similar argument in “ ‘L’information nationale’ dans les occasionnels et les libelles des guerres de religion,” Le Temps des médias 20, no. 1 (2013): 9–21.



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10. Histoire du plus espouventable et admirable cas qui ait jamais esté ouy au monde, nouvellement advenu au Royaume de Naples, par laquelle se void l’ire de Dieu n’estre encore appaisee, & nous tous humains subjets à son juste jugement (Paris: Jean Ruelle, 1574). The text is reprinted in Lever, Canards sanglants, 49–53 (49–50). 11. See the description of this situation in Pierre de L’Estoile, Registre-­journal du règne de Henri III, vol. 6, ed. Madeleine Lazard and Gilbert Schrenck (Geneva: Droz, 2003), 174–175. 12. David LaGuardia, “The Real of the Tragic Tale in Sixteenth-­Century France,” in The Dark Thread: From Tragical Histories to Gothic Tales, ed. John D. Lyons (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2019), 45–64. 13. For the latest iteration of this argument, see Roger Chartier, La main de l’auteur et l’esprit de l’imprimeur (Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 2015). 14. Lever, Canards sanglants, 80; Histoire sanguinaire, cruelle et émerveillable d’une femme de Cahors en Quercy, qui désespérée par le mauvais gouvernement et ménage de son mari, et pour ne pouvoir apaiser la famine insupportable de sa famille, massacra inhumainement ses deux petits enfants (Paris: Jacques Columbier, 1583). This canard is reprinted in Canards sanglants, 78–86. For the sake of con­ve­nience, citations ­w ill be from Lever’s transcription. 15. The style of Catholic sermons during the Reformation in France has not been studied in any detail in recent years. Larissa Taylor’s Soldiers of Christ: Preaching in Late Medieval and Reformation France (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992) contains only a brief section on clerical style and the usage of exempla in sermons (67–73). The convoluted syntax used in this canard might perhaps be compared to what Taylor calls “the elaborate, or ornate style” of Catholic preaching (71). For a l­ater summary of Taylor’s argument, see “Dangerous Vocations: Preaching in France in the Late M ­ iddle Ages and Reformation,” in Preachers and ­People in the Reformations and Early Modern Period, ed. Larissa Taylor (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 91–124. Taylor says the following regarding the prevalence of preaching, especially during the ­later de­cades of the sixteenth ­century: “As we speak of the inflammatory rhe­toric that dominated the pulpit, especially in the last years of Henri III and the period before Henri de Navarre converted to Catholicism, we must bear in mind that that is the preaching that made ‘news’ ” (113). The language of the Histoire sanguinaire, cruelle et émerveillable may be understood in terms of its relation to this kind of “inflammatory rhe­toric.” 16. Lever, Canards sanglants, 60. 17. On the improbability of the accounts given of true crimes in the canards, see Sara Beam, “Les canards criminels et les limites de la vio­lence dans la France de la première modernité,” Histoire, Économie et Société 30, no. 2 (June 2011): 15–28, esp. 18. 18. “O vous, hommes que Dieu a faits à son image et semblance, et par même moyen établis supérieurs et gouverneurs de la femme, réfrénez-­vous, je vous prie, des jeux de dés, cartes et autres qui gisent seulement au sort. Otez vos cœurs de telles vilenies, qui non seulement sont réprouvables et condamnées de Dieu et des lois humaines, mais aussi vous rendent pauvres et misérables et vous attirent à une méchante et pernicieuse fin,” and so on (Lever, Canards sanglants, 85). (Oh you, men whom God made in his own image and appearance, and whom he established as the superior governors of ­women,

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refrain, I beg you, from dice, card games, and other games that rely solely on luck. Remove from your hearts t­hese vile t­hings, which are not only reproachable and condemned by God and by h ­ uman laws, but also ­will render you poor and miserable, and ­will lead you to a wicked and pernicious end.) 19. Lever, Canards sanglants, 80. 20. Larissa Taylor’s remarks on the shift in preaching style ­after this major event of the Wars of Religion are particularly pertinent h ­ ere; see “Dangerous Vocations,” 111–119. 21. Lever, Canards sanglants, 80. 22. For a similar argument made concerning a propaganda pamphlet by the Catholic Ligue, see David LaGuardia, “ ‘Dites-­moy un peu, pourquoy est-il femelle?’ Representing Po­liti­cal Heresy at the End of the Valois Monarchy,” in Representing Heresy in Early Modern France, ed. Lidia Radi and Gabriella Eschrich (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2017), 235–256. 23. According to Antoine Le Roux de Lincy, Cato’s Distichs ­were first rendered in French in the thirteenth c­ entury, with a number of translations and adaptations coming in the following three centuries. Especially noteworthy is the dissemination of the text ­after the invention of the printing press. ­There are at least six medieval French translations mentioned by Le Roux de Lincy, two manuscript translations from the fifteenth ­century by Jean Lefèvre and Jean Ackeyman, and several other versions printed between 1480 and 1492. See Antoine Le Roux de Lincy, Le Livre des proverbes français, vol. 1 (Paris: Paulin Éditeur, 1842), 43, 45. Wayland Johnson Chase noted that, during its “many centuries of ser­vice,” the collection “has borne a ­g reat variety of names such as Dicta Catonis, Dicta M. Catonis ad filium suum, Libri Catonis Philosophi, Dionysii Catonis Disticha de Moribus ad Filium, Disticha Moralia D. Catonis, Parvus Cato et Magnus Cato, The School of Cato, e­ tc.” Dionysius Cato, The Distichs of Cato: A Famous Medieval Textbook, trans. Wayland Johnson Chase (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1922), 2–3. 24. Chase, The Distichs of Cato, 14–15. 25. Catonis, Disticha moralia cum scholiis Des: Erasmi Rot (Seville: Alonsum Escrivanum, 1576), 484. Erasmus’s preface to this l­ ater edition is dated from Louvain in 1513. 26. Cato, ­Here begynneth the prologue or prohemye of the book callid Caton whiche booke hath ben translated in to Englysshe by Mayster Benet Burgh, late Archedeken of Colchestre and hye chanon of saint stephens at westmestre . . . (London: William Caxton, c. 1484), digital edition available through the University of Michigan’s Text Creation Partnership, http://­name​.­umdl​.­umich​.e­ du​/A ­ 18233​.­0001​.­001. The verses in the fifteenth-­century edition are presented exactly as they appear in the transcription from the University of Michigan database, using slashes instead of line breaks or periods. 27. Lever, Canards sanglants, 80–81. 28. Lever, Canards sanglants, 81–82. 29. In modern French, a crocheteur is a thief who specializes in picking locks; in archaic French, however, a crocheteur is a worker who delivers merchandise by using a hook, according to the Trésor de la langue française: “Portefaix, commissionnaire qui porte les fardeaux avec des crochets” (Porter: Agent who carries his load with hooks). Apparently ­these men had a very bad reputation well into the nineteenth ­century, as one example in the Trésor attests: “les crocheteurs de Lyon sont aujourd’hui ce qu’ils furent toujours,



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ivrognes, crapuleux, brutaux, insolents, égoïstes et laches” (The delivery men of Lyon are ­today what they have always been: drunkards, villains, insolent, selfish, and cowardly). 30. The realities of vio­lence associated with taverns and street scenes are described in Michel Nassiet, La Vio­lence, une histoire sociale: France, XVIe–­XVIIIe siècles (Paris: Champ Vallon, 2011). Chapter 3, “De l’affrontement à l’hom­i­cide” (From confrontation to hom­i­cide), 93–122, is particularly relevant ­here and reveals that, despite its exaggeration, this pamphlet provides a glimpse of the prevalence of vio­lence at this time, which Nassiet claims diminished significantly in the following centuries. Beam, “Les canards criminels,” also has a useful discussion of the relation between real vio­lence and the versions of events included in the canards. 31. On the eschatological dimensions of vio­lence and its depiction during the Wars of Religion, see Denis Crouzet’s monumental Les Guerriers de Dieu: la vio­lence au temps des Trou­bles de Religion (vers 1525–­vers 1610) (Paris: Éditions Champ Vallon, 1990), esp. chap. IV, “Le temps du jugement de Dieu: De la sacralité des vio­lences collectives,” 233–317.

cha p te r five

Urania in Physician’s Robes, or Poetry in the Ser­vice of Medicine Girolamo Fracastoro, Syphilis sive morbus gallicus (1530) Colette H. Winn

Written between 1510 and 1512 during a syphilis epidemic in Verona, Girolamo Fracastoro’s Syphilis sive morbus gallicus (Syphilis, or the French Disease) circulated in manuscript form for several years before being printed.1 In 1530 the poem was expanded from two songs to three on the occasion of a first edition, which appeared in Verona without a publisher’s name. The following year, a second edition appeared in Rome, by Antonio Blaso, and in Paris, by Ludovicus Cyraneus. More than a hundred editions followed in the course of the sixteenth ­century, sometimes accompanied by other works.2 Since the second half of the eigh­teenth c­ entury, Syphilis sive morbus gallicus has received continuing critical attention.3 Its editorial success can be attributed to the fact that Fracastoro shed fresh light on several aspects of syphilis. He was one of the first to provide an overall study (theoretical, clinical, and therapeutic) of the new disease.4 Equally new was the theory of contagion that he advanced in this work and that he developed more fully in 1546 in his three volumes on contagion (De contagione et contagiosis morbis et eorum curatione).5 Syphilis sive morbus gallicus also drew attention by virtue of the form that Fracastoro chose to pre­sent his discoveries: a poem in dactylic hexameter that serves as the setting for seven stories. It is ­these embedded narratives that interest me ­here, but before examining their particularities and the functions they fulfill within the poem, let us pause for a moment to consider the medical and literary context of this work. 99

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A Foreign Disease The historical context is conveyed to us from the outset by the title of the poem: Syphilis sive morbus gallicus evokes early sixteenth-­century debates in scientific circles as syphilis raged over all of Eu­rope. The new epidemic was initially considered as a “foreign” disease. Many believed that syphilis had been brought to Eu­rope by the crew accompanying Christopher Columbus.6 But a concurrent event (the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492–1493) and the association of syphilis and the disease known as the “marrano plague” gave rise to another theory attributing the illness to Spanish Jews.7 Another theory pointed to the circulation of soldiers during the Italian Wars. The French assumed that Charles VIII’s army brought syphilis back from Italy ­after the conquest of Naples in 1495, hence the term mal de Naples (Naples’s disease), by which it was known. In turn, the Italians blamed the French for bringing the epidemic to Italy. As each nation used the name of its adversary to designate the new illness, it went from the “Portuguese disease” to the “Spanish disease” to “Naples’s disease,” and next became known as the “French disease.” Whereas the title indicates Fracastoro’s argument, the poem pre­sents the conclusions he drew. Noting that the epidemic was pre­sent in both the Old and the New World, Fracastoro discarded the thesis of New World origins. Although he recognized the highly contagious nature of syphilis, he proposed a new theory whereby the disease, as the result of a conjunction of the planets,8 was transmitted by intermediary pathogenic agents in the air (semina or seminaria contigionis). He also argued that this “French disease” was l­imited to h ­ umans. Furthermore, Fracastoro, who subscribed to a cyclical view of history, classified syphilis among diseases that reappear periodically. The Defense of Poetry Aside from the medical context, the title reveals the spirit in which the poem was written. The convergence of two levels of meaning is immediately apparent. Syphilis h ­ ere is a common noun designating the disease9 as well as a proper noun, more specifically the name of the shepherd Syphilus in Song III. As such, the term syphilis carries undertones of both the epidemic and the literary device known as antonomasia. Another source of ambiguity is the conjunction sive (or), which draws attention to both Fracastoro’s position in the



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debate over the geographic origin of the epidemic and the disparate ele­ments in the title: a scientific subject approached by way of poetry. The equivocation and the alliance of apparently incompatible ele­ments are reminiscent of the humanists’ jocoseria (the quality of being at once comic and serious) and the Re­nais­sance paradoxical tradition.10 The poetico-­scientific tone of the title also takes us to the heart of the debate that had, since antiquity, divided intellectuals over the proper place of poetry in the hierarchy of knowledge.11 Starting with the first lines of Song I, Fracastoro makes his position clear. He strongly opposes the detractors of the Muses, arguing that poetry is not merely a source of plea­sure and delectation12 but also, and above all, a means of bringing us into contact with the spectacular nature of the world and of grasping the Truth:13 “I s­ hall now begin to sing and through the liquid air and through the stars in vast Olympus I ­shall search for c­ auses far hidden: since Nature’s quiet gardens with their fragrant flowers and the Muses who love won­ders invite me, gripped by a sweet love of this strange event.”14 In Fracastoro’s view, poetry and medicine not only complement each other but also have a common interest in “marvels.”15 Poetry brings plea­sure, which makes it an efficacious teaching tool, and it is a means of scientific investigation b­ ecause it has the power to astonish.16 Medicine enables poetry to expand from its traditional subjects and speak of the theoretical advances of science (exposed in Song I) as well as its practical accomplishments (discussed in Song II). In sum, by their close collaboration, poetry and medicine contribute to ­human pro­gress. To make his point stronger, Fracastoro invokes the authority of Apollo, god of both medicine and poetry. At the beginning of Song II, Fracastoro pre­sents his argument from a new ­angle, but his aim is unchanged: he seeks to plead the cause of poetry and its suitability to his goals. This is also the point at which he distances himself (in terms of humility, as a captatio benevolentiae requires) from the poet who is his model (Giovanni Pontano)17 and from the poet and friend for whom his poem is intended, Cardinal Pietro Bembo: “While o­ thers . . . ​make poetry of his [Pope Leo X’s] famous deeds, . . . ​let us, whom the fates call to tasks which are not so g­ reat, continue with this amusement we have begun, as far as our slender Muse allows.”18 What seems most impor­tant to Fracastoro is poetry’s power to triumph over time and thereby to preserve scientific knowledge and its transmission to f­uture generations: “May the Muse have the power to allow me to accomplish this ­g reat work, and may Apollo, who

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unrolls the long history of time and cares for poetry, be willing to protect it so that t­ hese memorials of mine last many a day. For perhaps in the f­ uture our descendants ­will find plea­sure in reading them and recognising the plague’s symptoms and shape.”19 While the epidemic was spreading, poetry seemed all the more valuable as a way of reaching a larger audience. In Song III, Fracastoro no longer seeks to justify the persuasive force of poetry. Instead, he calls upon the Muse to sing “the sacred tree brought from an unknown world,”20 as follows: “With your hair bound in a crown of this new leaf, be pleased to pro­cess through Italy in your doctor’s gown, showing the sacred boughs to the ­people, and be pleased to tell of ­things never previously seen in the time of our forefathers or never recorded by anyone.”21 In Songs I and II, Urania was portrayed as an ancilla Philosophiae (helpmate to Philosophy). In Song III, she is the spokesperson of Knowledge (Scientia). Disease Turned into Tale Song I pre­sents Fracastoro’s reflections on the origins of the epidemic, expounds the theory of contagion by intermediary infectious germs transported through the air, and offers a detailed description of the disease’s symptoms. Song II discusses the way to live a healthy life (the need for a good dietary regimen, physical activity, sleep, being bled, e­ tc.) and provides information on current available drugs, ranging from the most harmless to the most drastic. ­These two songs are directed to Fracastoro’s colleagues and patients as well as to Bembo. The importance accorded to prob­lems and methods in Song I, the demonstrations of inductive reasoning, the insistence on the importance of observation in scientific investigations, and the repeated directives to the reader are reminiscent of Practicae:22 “Observe how. . . . ​And now contemplate . . . ​examine. . . . ​Look at . . . ​you ­will see.” Song II is modeled on consilia (books of advice)23 and regimina sanitatis (regimens for good health)24 and is intended especially for ­those afflicted with syphilis. Song III, added in 1530 against Bembo’s advice, is entirely devoted to the praise of the New World’s lignum vitae resin or guaiacum, a treatment competing with mercury. Fracastoro returns to his initial idea (the geographic origin of the epidemic) only to show that the New World, instead of being the source of syphilis, offers the Old World a miraculous cure for it. Seven tales are spread over the three songs. Their presence in a medical treatise shows how much early modern learned circles valued the power of



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narrative. “Re­nais­sance prac­ti­tion­ers seem to have developed more interest than most of their scholastic forebears in recording narratives about individual patients and their diseases. No doubt both the new attention devoted to all forms of describing and collecting and a general shift t­oward more self-­ expressive writing apparent in many fields may have been partially responsible.”25 Six of ­these seven tales pre­sent a basic scenario—an offense against the gods followed by a series of ­trials or sacrifices by means of which the hero attempts to appease the gods’ anger—­which perpetuates the idea that disease is God’s punishment.26 Far from being merely ornaments designed to please the reader, t­ hese tales serve to illustrate a fact, to instruct, or to support a par­tic­u­lar position. The two tales contained in Song I are condensed and totally subordinated to the argumentation. Their approaches and their ends are similar: the precision of the descriptions, the pre­sen­ta­tion of proofs, and the value attached to observation all aim to demonstrate a scientific truth. Furthermore, they are presented as true stories drawn from the memory and the experience of the narrator. Tale 1 comes immediately ­after Fracastoro’s explanation of the determining ­factors of syphilis and its mode of transmission. It describes how a kind of plague decimated first a herd of goats, then a flock of sheep, and appears to be based on the physician narrator’s e­ arlier research: “I myself remember having seen . . .”27 This story’s functions are multiple: it demonstrates that scientific inquiry starts with observation and, in par­tic­u­lar, with what can be observed among animals. Second, it illustrates the infinite variety of diseases found in nature and serves as a proof of the theory just explained, concerning the origin of the epidemic and its coincidence with an exceptional weather pattern: “I myself remember having seen an excess of growth one year which proved malignant and a wet Autumn with a strong south wind prevailing, from which all the goat-­born race, and only they of all living creatures, straightway collapsed. . . . ​But yet in the following spring and summer (astonishing to say) a horrifying plague accompanied by a nasty fever removed sickly ­cattle and almost the ­whole pitiful population of bleating sheep.”28 Fi­nally, it provides a description of one of the multiple forms syphilis can take (fever, cough, convulsions, vomiting) and in that way prepares the reader for the following section on the symptoms of the disease: “Now I s­ hall teach you all the conditions and symptoms of this sad contagion.”29 This section includes a series of observations that the physician narrator made in his practice: “­Those afflicted ­were burdened by an unusual lethargy

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and, feeling a languor with no apparent cause, performed their tasks with increasing weariness and tried to keep themselves ­going although their ­whole body felt sluggish.”30 Clearly, the information concerning the vari­ous stages of the disease and the symptoms accompanying each is based on a large number of cases Fracastoro observed over a period of time: “We ourselves have seen limbs stripped of their flesh and the bones rough with scales, and mouths eaten away yawn open in a hideous gape while the throat produced feeble sounds.”31 The list of clinical signs shows that syphilis alone pre­sents all that is terrifying in other diseases. Three aspects of the disease are considered: its painful and debilitating condition (“ joints, arms, shoulder-­blades and calves ­were tormented by intolerable pains”32); its metastatic potential (“clung . . . ​to the nerves and muscles . . . ​spread in the joints . . . ​made for the surface of the skin and the limbs’ extremities . . . ​gnawed deep and burrowed into the inmost parts, feeding on its victims’ bodies”33); and its monstrous appearance34 (“unsightly sores . . . ​made the face horrifying ugly, and disfigured the breast”).35 An example, likely to strike the early modern reader’s imagination, is given to emphasize this last aspect. At a time when the h ­ uman body was admired for its harmonious form and its muscular tone, what could be more disturbing than the sight of the weakened, deformed, skeletal body of a young syphilitic? “So someone sighing over the springtime of his life and his beautiful youth, and gazing with wild eyes down at his disfigured members, his hideous limbs and swollen face, often in his misery railed against the Gods’ cruelty, often against the stars.”36 The outrage attributed ­here to the patient may well also be that of the physician narrator, faced with his impotence before this unknown evil. Following ­these observations, Tale 2 recounts the death of an Italian practitioner, carried off by syphilis in the prime of life, thus showing that no one can escape the terrible scourge striking Italy; neither young nor old are spared, nor even physicians. The story is filled with emotions, but the most compelling one is horror at the inequity of the situation. The list of the young man’s physical and intellectual gifts reads like so many promises of a fine ­future that ­will never be fulfilled. Verbs of action (“striking,” “gnawing,” “devouring”) used in the imperfect tense give the image of destruction a greater immediacy and underline the brutal way with which the disease strikes youth “too self-­assured, and unaware of ­these g­ reat dangers.”37 It is suggested that sex had something to do with the young man catching the disease,38 but clearly the narrator chooses not to dwell on the m ­ atter, as he did e­ arlier: “Keep away



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from Venus, and above all ­things avoid the soft pleasures of love-­making—­ nothing is more harmful.”39 Instead, we are made to feel (see, touch, taste) the hideous, repugnant, and hideous marks that the disease leaves on the ­human body: “The wasting sickness with its filthy scabs (sheer horror) covered his sorry limbs, and, deep within, his bones began to swell large with hideous abscesses. Ugly sores (ye gods have pity) began to devour his lovely eyes and his love of the holy light and to devour his nose, which was gnawed away, leaving a piercing wound.” 40 Exclamations (“sheer horror, ye gods have pity”) and other signs of subjectivity, quite unexpected in a medical case history, point to the fact that this is the story (although it is never explained) of Fracastoro’s departed friend, the physician and poet Marcantonio della Torre, who died at the age of thirty, most prob­ably of syphilis, during the 1511 epidemic: “We saw you, alas, Marcantonio, snatched from the sweet embrace of the Muses before your time by cruel death, falling in the first flower of youth.” 41 Tales 1 and 2 deal with the ­causes of the disease, the dif­fer­ent forms it may take, and its symptoms. Tales 3 and 4 concern the drugs recommended at the time: mercury and lignum vitae resin. In the version that Fracastoro sent Bembo in 1525, Tales 3 and 4 w ­ ere included in Song II. By 1530, Tale 3 re42 mained in its original place, whereas Tale 4 was moved to Song III, where it became Tale 7. Tale 3 tells of a young syphilitic who was miraculously cured by mercury. This treatment comes at the end of a long list of remedies including bleeding, decoctions, fumigations, frictions, and so forth ­because it is supposed to be the most effective remedy, but also is recommended “if . . . ​your strength and spirits feel brave for strong mea­sures.” 43 This tale is exceptional in many ways. First, it takes individual suffering into account, as opposed to the typical epidemic narratives, which are concerned with collective be­hav­ior. Then, it allows us to hear the voice of the patient and to imagine his feelings: “Gods, whom I have long worshipped, and you most noble Callirhoe, who by your holy power are wont to drive out gloomy diseases . . . ​if, Gods, you ­will grant me in my misery to be rid of this cruel plague, which distresses me night and day, I ­shall myself gather from the garden the purple and white first-­flowers of spring . . .” 44 Testimonies directly emanating from patients w ­ ere most exceptional at the time. Fi­nally, suffering is presented as the punishment of sin and as the way to salvation. Illness is both an ordeal and a sign of having been chosen by God. This idea is reinforced by the “spiritual” turn that this story takes. To sum up the facts, as punishment for having killed a stag, an animal

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sacred to Diana, Ilceus is condemned by Diana and Apollo to endure the terrible torments of an unknown illness.45 On the verge of despair, he does not rebel against divine providence but rather implores the pity of the goddess Callirhoé.46 She casts him into a profound sleep, and in this state of semi-­ unconsciousness Ilceus receives a revelation. He learns all the steps necessary to find a cure for what ails him. When he wakes up, Ilceus sets out in search of the miracle cure. He has to descend into the bowels of the earth to find it. One recognizes the recurring motif of the descent into Hades from religious and mythological tales. Although this ordeal is usually terrifying, the strange voyage leading Ilceus to the depths of the earth does not inspire any fear in him. Rather, he is fascinated by all that he finds on his way: “He followed on her [Lipare’s] heels, awestruck at the ­great yawning openings in the earth.” 47 Moreover, Ilceus is guided by a nymph who has divine powers:48 “I ­shall be by your side and my divine power ­shall be on hand to lead you.” 49 Ilceus’s “deliverance” is also presented as a miracle.50 Connected to the forgiveness of sin, it has all the characteristics of a purification ritual. The baptismal theme, especially striking in the following description, removes the repulsive connotations associated with syphilis at the time. The cure itself is ­free of the pain connected with the mercury treatment. “Holy” ­water ­causes all signs of the illness to dis­appear, and the original beauty and youth of the body is restored ­under the astonished gaze of the young man: Lipare “thrice bathed him in the silver fount of salvation, thrice with her virgin hands she scooped the river ­water over his limbs, thrice cleansed the body of the youth in its entirety: he marvelled at the old dishonoured skin sloughed off, his frame stripped of its malignant stain and the plague left beneath the flood.”51 Comparing this description with the one provided immediately ­after the description of treatment with mercury makes clear how far this is from real­ity: “It ­will be hard: but what­ever the treatment brings must be borne. Be bold in spirit. Salvation as she stands right on the threshold w ­ ill give you sure signs: you ­will constantly see the filthy liquified excretions of the disease pouring from your lips in the dirty spittle and you ­will be amazed at the large stream of corrupt ­matter before your feet.”52 The physician narrator admits that this is a fabulous story but notes that it has the power to satisfy the ­human ­will to believe: “The strange tale received belief and the infallible treatment made its way through all the nations: at first pig grease began to be mixed in the liquid silver, then resin from the Orician turpentine tree and from the lofty larch was added.”53 As he sees it, the



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question is not ­whether poetry can be offered as proof of a scientific truth (the successful transmission of this fable from culture to culture is sufficient evidence) but ­whether one can deprive ­humans of the truths that only poetry can convey: “For who would pass over the admirable gifts of the Gods in silence?”54 Fracastoro and the Syphilis Treatment Controversy When Fracastoro told Bembo that he intended to add a third song entirely devoted to the praise of lignum vitae resin (the guaiac wood), Bembo tried to discourage him. He considered this addition unnecessary and feared that it would undermine the unity of the first two songs. In his view, the fable of Ilceus should be eliminated, whereas the fable of Syphilus should be maintained. T ­ oday’s reader still won­ders about Fracastoro’s decision to add a third song. Does it bring something new in content or form? What are its connections to the two preceding songs? Regarding the content, let’s recall a few facts about the discovery of lignum vitae resin. In 1504, the Spaniards discovered the guaiac wood in Santo Domingo.55 In 1516, they ­were importing it to all of Eu­rope. As early as 1517, guaiac was administered to syphilitics in Augsburg. At the same time, Nicolas Poll’s De cura morbi gallici per lignum guaiaeum, a treatise devoted to the cure of syphilis by means of a decoction of guaiac wood and the methods of producing it, was circulating in scientific circles, although it was not printed ­until 1535. The first publication of a Spanish ­recipe using the wood to cure syphilis, Lucubratiuncula de morbo gallico et cura ejus noviter reperta con ligno indico, by the Salzburg physician Leonard Schmaus, appeared in 1518. However, the best promoter of the guaiac treatment was the mercenary soldier Ulrich von Hutten who, in 1519, published a sort of medical diary, De guaiaci medicina et morbo gallico liber unus, recounting his own cure by the guaiac wood. This work was widely appreciated and translated into several languages. When Fracastoro wrote his poem, between 1510 and 1512, the guaiac treatment was still relatively unfamiliar, but by 1530 that had changed. Why, then, did Fracastoro think it necessary to devote a ­whole song to the praise of lignum vitae resin at that l­ ater date? If we can agree that the subject is not new, perhaps the novelty lies in the form. The staging at the opening of Song III creates a certain degree of surprise. On the one hand, the sequence of events is in reverse chronological

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order: praise of the guaiac wood precedes the account of its discovery. On the other, we hear a new narrative voice, that of the Muse Urania, who is dressed in the physician’s garb and speaks in his place. The encomium consists of two parts: the first is reminiscent of the poetic blazon and the second is related to consilia, thus forming a link with Song II. In the first part, the ventriloquist effects are successful: the voice of the Muse and that of the physician perfectly merge. The narrative techniques—­the exhaustivity of the descriptions and the diversity of perspectives envisaged (size, shape, color)—­are characteristic of both scientific discourse and the poetic blazon. The emphasis placed on the physical appeal of the tree (“it could equal the rainbow with its varied colours”56), specific to encomiastic poetry, can also be understood in the context of the medicine of opposites, according to which diseases are cured by their contraries (hence, hideous syphilis is treated by the attractive guaiac wood). In the second part of the encomium, the Muse’s voice fades b­ ehind that of a first-­person narrator, in which one can easily recognize the voice of the learned and reassuring physician that prevails in Song II: “A marvellous feature also which I should above all mention is the slender diet and the ­great fasts they impose on themselves . . . ​ah do not fear ­these g­ reat t­ rials; immediately that sacred draught, like ambrosia, restores and nurses your strength and the fasting limbs allow it to carry nourishment into the secret places.”57 The categorical affirmation at the beginning of Song III leaves no doubt about Fracastoro’s position with re­spect to the guaiac wood: “I must now sing of the Gods’ ­great gifts and of the sacred tree brought from an unknown world, which alone, has moderated, relieved and ended suffering.”58 However, the ventriloquist-­Muse speaking in the place of the physician-­ narrator gives the impression of a certain reticence to commit directly. In addition, every­thing that is said about the guaiac wood is based on the testimonies of the indigenous p­ eople. The value they attribute to the guaiac wood (to the point of preferring it to gold and cultivating it everywhere) and the experience they have had with its use against the disease are offered as irrefutable proofs of its efficacy. Instructions regarding the preparation and administration of decoctions and advice regarding precautions to be taken during treatment all come from the indigenous ­people’s statements and travelers’ reports.59 The absence of a personal declaration is all the more astonishing given that the two case histories in the first song w ­ ere based on the physician narrator’s own observations.



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This reluctance to take a position is also apparent in the silence surrounding the connections between Song II and Song III, such as the deleterious side effects of the mercury treatment (intoxication, loss of teeth, gingivitis, ­etc.) which might induce a physician to inquire into the virtues of lignum vitae resin.60 Fracastoro illustrates the efficacy of mercury in Song II, then devotes Song III to praising the virtues of lignum vitae resin without providing a word of explanation. Equally surprising are the descriptions of the competing treatments. The description of treatment with mercury in Song II (“It quickly gathers our body heat to itself and, ­because it is very concentrated, it breaks up the humours and acts on them with greater force, just as a white-­ hot flame makes iron glow more fiercely . . . ​and burn out the seeds of the plague”),61 compared to the description of treatment with guaiac wood in Song III (“At the same time the plague vanishes into the vacant air, and astonishing to say blisters no longer appear; and now all the ulcers are gone, now the pain has gone, leaving the limbs strong, and youth in its first flower returns”),62 clearly shows the difference between the effects of aggressive medicines like mercury and more gentle ones like guaiac. In the latter description, the extremely aggressive disease is s­ topped by guaiac, and the body regains all its vitality and even its youthfulness. Oddly, this description recalls the one given in Song II of Ilceus cured by mercury. The echo invalidates the opposition established elsewhere between the two treatments, so one is no longer sure of what Fracastoro is trying to prove. This lack of scientific rigor is surprising when compared to the reasoned approach and the concern for clarity that prevail in Song 1. In short, the fact that the guaiac treatment was well known in the 1530s, along with Fracastoro’s reluctance to implicate himself in the scientific debate of the time regarding treatments for syphilis,63 lead us to believe that guaiac was a pretext and that the true motivation ­behind the writing of Song III is to be sought elsewhere. Storytelling and the Transmission of Knowledge Let’s return to the opening of Song III and consider the mission entrusted to ­ hole Urania.64 The Muse is expected to go all over Latium to announce to the w ­people of Italy “la bonne nouvelle”: “be pleased to tell of ­things never previously seen in the time of our forefathers or never recorded by anyone.” 65 The emphasis placed on the novelty of the message both by the repetition and the parallelism (whereas the guaiac was far from new), the presence of Christian

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symbolism (“of the sacred wood”),66 and the use of terms with spiritual resonance (“adore” 67) all point to the evangelical nature of this campaign. From the opening of Song III, then, it is clear that the perspective has changed and that syphilis is no longer seen only as a scientific prob­lem, but also as an illness of the soul. Fracastoro now takes the position of the Duke of Ferrara who, three de­cades ­earlier, as syphilis appeared at the court of Ferrara,68 addressed his subjects, enjoining them to behave like good Christians to appease the wrath of God. ­Today, the presence of a religious point of view in a medical work would be surprising, but this was not uncommon in early modern times. Rather, the opposite was more likely to seem extraordinary at the time, as Roger French and Jon Arrizabalaga explain: “We do not now think in religious terms about disease. In the fifteenth and sixteenth ­century, in contrast, the divine origin of the disease was fundamental to perceptions and reactions to it. The doctors had a professional reason for declaring that their own business was only with secondary ­causes, but nothing they wrote could be construed as denying the real­ity of the first cause.” 69 Song III includes three tales, two of which are embedded in the travel narrative (Tale 4) that follows the encomium of the sacred tree. This narrative is based on historical fact: it recounts Christopher Columbus’s first Atlantic crossing and Spanish sailors’ arrival on the island of Hispaniola, also known to the sailors as Ophir, where they discovered the new disease and the holy wood.70 The events are related with references to the travelers’ emotional responses to the dangers they encounter, and the use of reported speech allows us to hear the voice of the “valiant hero.”71 ­These narrative choices create the illusion that this is a testimony relating the perspective of the homo viator, who could be one of the men of the crew.72 At this point, Tale 5 is inserted into the text.73 It relates the travelers’ arrival and their won­der at the sight of the island’s flora and fauna. The young navigators (“the bands of young men”74) are especially attracted by the exceptional beauty of the birds that abound on this island, but they cannot resist shooting at them. The carnage ends when the voice of a bird “filled the men’s ears with terrifying words.”75 Through the voice of this bird is delivered the message of Apollo, who predicts to the travelers the punishment awaiting them for having attacked heaven’s birds. Ventriloquism, used in ancient times as a medium for an oracle, h ­ ere serves to remind readers of the evils associated with the conquest of the New World: ­trials on land and sea that preceded the discovery, the wars and the loss of ­human lives, the discord among the sailors, and the new disease. One might



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think that Fracastoro expresses h ­ ere the view of ­those who considered the epidemic as the price to be paid for the enrichment that came from trade with the Indies, but the end of the prophecy turns to palinode. All the evils are forgotten at the mere thought that the New World may be the source of a miraculous cure: “A day lies in wait for you, close at hand, when your bodies filthy with an unknown disease, you ­will in your wretchedness demand help of this forest.”76 On this positive note, another embedded tale (Tale 6) follows, describing the encounter between the sailors and the natives of the island. On the occasion of a festival in honor of the avenging sun, the sailors learn about the new disease and its miraculous cure thanks to the holy wood. At the sight of the syphilitics set to one side and the shepherd covered with animal blood who is among them,77 the sailors’ captain questions the Indians’ king, who recounts the fable of the shepherd Syphilus (Tale 7), the first to be stricken with syphilis (hence the name attributed to the disease). The embedding technique used to introduce Tales 5 and 6 creates an ele­ment of surprise and allows the reader to follow the Eu­ro­pe­ans’ discovery step by step as they learn about the “bonne nouvelle” announced at the start of Song III. The two embedded tales (Tales 5 and 6) depict the emotions of the Eu­ro­ pe­ans at the discovery of the New World and ­those of the natives at their encounter with the Eu­ro­pe­ans. Both won­der at what they are seeing for the first time78 and fear that which they do not comprehend. The Eu­ro­pe­ans find ­great plea­sure at the sight of the vivid colors of both fauna and flora as they set foot in the New World. Their plea­sure is paralleled by the natives’ reaction to the sight of the Eu­ro­pe­ans’ caravels, clothing, and shining armor. The young sailors are terror-­stricken when they hear the bird’s prophecy and when they encounter the syphilitics, for they are immediately able to connect the horrible sight before them to the disease predicted by the bird. At first, they are appalled by the horrific sacrificial rituals. But confronted with the same fear of syphilis, they immediately understand that the horror of the sacrifices is commensurate to the terror the natives feel at the threat of God’s wrath. In short, the stories of the encounter between the Eu­ro­pe­ans and the islanders highlight, on the one hand, the profound similarities that exist between them beyond physical appearances,79 namely the fact that they are all h ­ uman and consequently given to sin, and on the other hand they highlight a fundamental difference: the natives, contrarily to the Eu­ro­pe­ans, have learned the lesson contained in the punishment sent by their gods.

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This positive pre­sen­ta­tion of the islanders serves another purpose: it favorably predisposes the reader ­toward the narrator (the indigenous king) who is about to recount the story of Syphilus (Tale 7). (As one knows, the oratory image largely determines the persuasive force of the tale.) To place the final word in the mouth of a native, even if he is a king, in other words, is to suggest that the New World has a lesson to offer the Old World, to expose an ideological position that surely was not shared by all.80 Tale 7 begins with the story of the tragic disappearance of the Atlantides, whose descendants are the natives of Hispaniola,81 and reveals the ­causes of the curse that has afflicted the islanders ever since. When the story of Syphilus is fi­nally told, it becomes obvious that sin as the cause of divine anger and punishment in the form of syphilis is a recurrent motif in each of the tales. Pride is given as the cause of the disappearance of the Island of Atlantis and of the calamities that struck the residents of that island and their descendants; namely, Alcithous, his subjects, and the natives (Tale 7). The young physician in Tale 2 is also perceived as guilty of the sin of pride, having rejected all the ­women who desired him: “Perhaps one who had been spurned called on the avenging powers above, not in vain, and moved by her prayers the divine w ­ ill 82 to pity.” In Tales 3 and 7, Ilceus and Syphilus are punished for their insubordination to the laws of the gods. Ilceus not only decapitated a holy stag, but he also erected its head as a trophy on the trunk of a tree. Syphilus raged against the gods b­ ecause of the excessive heat that decimated his flocks. He was the first to render to man the honors due the gods. This sin, which surpassed all o­ thers in gravity, caused him to be the first to “display disfiguring sores over his body.”83 In Tale 5, the motivations of the sailors who killed the “birds of the Sun, his sacred flying creatures”84 is kept s­ ilent to emphasize the gratuitousness of their actions and to remind the reader of ­humans’ predisposition to sin. ­These echo-­effects invite the reader to make other connections with regard to the punishment awaiting t­ hose who offend the gods. Only the young physician (Tale 2) actually dies of syphilis. His death in the prime of life shocks ­those who are still incapable of seeing the same evil in their own actions. Ilceus (Tale 3) sinned twice against the gods. In addition to his refusal to submit to their ­will, he showed pride, as the trophy proves. When he begins to feel in his flesh the ills inflicted by the gods, he turns to them and begs for mercy. By his endurance, although it is not as remarkable as that of Job, Ilceus earns the gods’ forgiveness and regains his health. The attitude of



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Syphilus is just the opposite. He curses the indifferent gods when his flock dies of thirst ­under the crushing heat of the sun: “Why, Sun, do we call you ­Father and God of all ­things and why do we, the ignorant masses, lay out sacred altars and worship you with sacrifice of ox and casket rich in incense, if you have no concern for us and the king’s flocks do not touch your heart?”85 Syphilus’s impiety is severely punished. Being the first of his ­people to turn away from God, he is the first to suffer from “an unknown pollution . . . ​ flood[ing] the blasphemous earth.”86 Many o­ thers follow, and not even the king, Alcithous, is spared. But in the depths of this misfortune, the voice of Amer­i­ca (the interpreter of the gods) is heard to reveal both the meaning of the curse and the path to salvation: “But the plague which he has brought on is eternal and can never now be revoked. Whoever is born on that soil w ­ ill feel it; . . . ​But if now you desire a sure treatment, offer a white heifer to mighty Juno, . . . ​the Earth ­will train up a green wood from the happy seed: whence your salvation.”87 The green wood symbolizes the triumph over sin required for eternal salvation. It also announces forgiveness.88 At the verge of becoming the first sacrifice to the gods,89 Syphilus is pardoned by the gods themselves, who accept in his place “a bullock, a more appropriate life.” 90 Beyond ­these echoes, the fable of Syphilus must be connected to the first tale in order for its true sense to become apparent. (The circularity of the poem, emphasized by the echo-­effect, reinforces the thesis of the cyclical return of syphilis set out in Song I.) In Tale 1, a shepherd sees his flock d ­ ying, one by one, before his eyes as the consequence of torrential rains. All we know of the protagonist is that he failed to watch over his flock as a good shepherd should. It is b­ ecause of his negligence that his flock is struck. “While carefree beneath the deep shade he sang and on his slender reed charmed his flock, behold a restless cough would suddenly gain hold of one of them.” 91 In Tale 7, Syphilus is also held responsible for the loss of his flock. The good shepherd protects his flock by using the knowledge he has gained from observing the sky, the sun, and the stars to predict bad weather: “Sirius was scorching the thirsty fields, was scorching the groves; and the woods offered no shade to shepherds, the wind offered no relief.” 92 Worse yet is that Syphilus blames the gods for his incompetence. None of ­these shepherds is a good shepherd. However, the fact that the shepherd in Tale 1 does not fall ill suggests that he is not considered guilty. His escape from the torrential rain is a sign of his election. In the fable of Syphilus, the unbearable heat evokes the fires of hell and recalls the descent into Hades whereby Ilceus found salvation.93 Ilceus’s

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redemption lets us anticipate that of Syphilus. From t­ hese echo-­effects, which seem to multiply as we read on, emerge the central idea motivating Song III and the “bonne nouvelle” revealed t­ here. Syphilis is a manifestation of divine anger at ­human sins. The stress placed over and over on youth “too self-­assured, unaware of ­these g­ reat dangers”  94 as the preferred target of the disease is a way of recalling the importance of fearing God. A Few Remarks in Conclusion Songs I and II seek to identify the natu­ral ­causes of syphilis and the therapeutic means to stop the spread of the epidemic. In Song III, the question is no longer simply the mortal body, but the salvation of the soul. As early as Song I, the thesis of the American origin of the illness is discarded. The tales throughout the three songs support Fracastoro’s position by emphasizing the simultaneous occurrence of the disease on several continents. Song III goes even further by depicting the New World as the site of scientific discovery95 (the new syphilis treatment) and of the revelation of “la bonne nouvelle” (lignum vitae, also known as holy wood) as it is assimilated to the true cross.96 In this setting, it is the natives who remind the Eu­ro­pe­ans, through their actions of seeking grace and their sacrifices to a vengeful God, of the importance of being God-­fearing; and it is from the mouth of their king that the path to salvation is revealed to the Old World.97 The change of perspective in Song III is also apparent at the narrative level: the case histories found in Song I are replaced in Songs II and III by poetic fables.98 In Tale 7, storytelling and poetry are shown to be the most effective means by which to transmit “la bonne nouvelle” (the cure for both body and soul) from the New World to the Old, from one generation to another, abolishing geo­graph­i­cal distances and the effects of time. It is clear that Fracastoro is aware of the universal aspects of a tale as an essential means of ­human communication. Five centuries before our own, he understood the interest narratives can pre­sent in the medical field, as much for the transmission of scientific knowledge as for the relationship between patient and physician. Fracastoro’s religious perspective conforms to early modern beliefs. His scientific curiosity, on the other hand, earned him the title of ­Father of Modern Epidemiology; however, the value he placed, ahead of his time, on h ­ uman communication in all its forms qualifies him for the title of F ­ ather of Narrative Medicine.



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Notes 1. Francesco Pelligrini published four holograph fragments, which, in his opinion, represent the version sent to Bembo in 1525. See Scritti inediti di Girolamo Fracastoro, con introduzione, commenti e note (Verona: Accademia di agricoltura, scienze e lettere, 1955). On the successive versions of this work, see Jérôme Fracastor, La syphilis ou le mal français / Syphilis sive morbus gallicus, ed. and trans. Jacqueline Vons et al. (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2011), 46–51. 2. On the publication tradition, see Fracastor, La syphilis ou le mal français, 93–96. 3. For the first French translations of this poem, see Fracastor, La syphilis ou le mal français, 88–91; l­ ater translations are discussed by Alexandre Wenger, “Poésie et médecine au XIXe siècle: Les traductions françaises de Syphilis (1530) de Fracastor,” in La poésie scientifique, de la gloire au déclin, ed. Muriel Louâpre, H ­ ugues Marchal, and Michel Pierssens (electronic edition, January 2014): 171–188, https://­w ww​.­epistemocritique​.­org​ /­p oesie​-­e t​-­medecine​-­au​-­x ixe​-­siecle​-­les​-­t raductions​-­f rancaises​-­d e​-­syphilis​-­1530​-­d e​ -­f racastor​/­. Five recent bilingual critical editions are worthy of note, three Latin/French and two Latin/En­glish: “Syphilis ou le Mal français de Jérôme Fracastor, Livre 3,” ed. and trans. Brigitte Gauvin, Latomus, Revue d’Études latines 62, no. 2 (2003): 397–418; Jérôme Fracastor, Syphilis sive morbus gallicus, ed. and trans. Christine Dussin (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2009); Fracastor, La syphilis ou le mal français; Fracastoro’s Syphilis, introd. and trans. Geoffrey Eatough (Liverpool: Francis Cairns, 1984); and Girolamo Fracastoro, Latin Poetry, intro. and trans. James Gardner (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013). Citations of Fracastoro’s text in this chapter refer to the Eatough edition. 4. According to Claude Quétel, the very first descriptions appeared around 1495– 1498. The oldest printed work on syphilis is Joseph Grünpeck’s Tractatus de pestilentiali Scorra Sive mala de Franzos (1496). He also published an account of his own illness: Libellus Josephi Grunpeckii de mentalagra, alias morbo gallico (1503). See Claude Quétel, Le mal de Naples: Histoire de la syphilis (Paris: Seghers, 1986), 9–26. 5. For lack of experimental basis, this study did not have the impact that its novelty seemed to promise. See Vivian Nutton, “The Seeds of Disease: An Explanation of Contagion and Infection from the Greeks to the Re­nais­sance,” Medical History 27, no.  1 (1983): 1–34; and Nutton, “The Reception of Fracastoro’s Theory of Contagion: The Seed that Fell among Thorns?,” in Re­nais­sance Medical Learning: Evolution of a Tradition, ed. Michael R. McVaugh and Nancy G. Siraisi (Philadelphia: Science History Society, 1990), 196–234. 6. The Spanish historian J.-­G. Fernández de Oviedo (author of Relatio sumaria de la natu­ral historia de las Indias, published in Toledo in 1526) was the first to suggest that the epidemic originated in Hispaniola ­after having spent several years on that island. See Christine Dussin, Syphilis ou le mal français by Jérome Fracastor (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2009), 34n3; and Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 24–25. On this debate, see Francisco Guerra, “The Dispute over Syphilis: Eu­rope versus Amer­i­ca,” Clio Medica 13, no. 1 (1978): 39–61. On the Americanists’ arguments, see E. H. Hudson, “Christopher Columbus and the History of Syphilis,” Acta Tropica 25, no. 1 (1968): 1–16; F. E. Rabello, “Les origines de la syphilis,” Nouvelle Presse Médicale 2, no.  20 (1973): 1376–1380; Henri

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Gabriel Dutour, “Les contacts entre les marins de Colomb et les femmes d’Hispaniola au cours du premier voyage,” in L’origine de la syphilis en Eu­rope avant ou après 1493?, Actes du Colloque international de Toulon, November 25–28, 1993, ed. Olivier Dutour et  al. (Toulon: Éditions Errance, Centre archéologique du Var, 1994), 242–243. The proponents of this view saw the epidemic as the price of the wealth brought by commerce with the Indies. For an overview, see Quétel, Le mal de Naples, 9–58; and Jon Arrizabalaga, John Henderson, and Roger French, The ­Great Pox: The French Disease in Re­nais­sance Eu­rope (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997), 1–19. 7. See Henry Friedenwald, The Jews and Medicine, vol. 2 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1944), 531. 8. In one of his lectures, Doctor Jean Riolan of the University of Paris noted that the astrologer Paul von Medelburg predicted a syphilis epidemic in 1483. See Robert Benoît, “La syphilis à la fin du XVIe siècle, d’après les cours de Jean Riolan, de la faculté de médecine de Paris,” Histoire des sciences médicales 32, no. 1 (1998): 39–50 (40n11). Eatough suggests that the shepherd Syphilus may stand for Luther. His horoscope showed that his birth corresponded to the astral conjunction of 1484, associated with the appearance of the epidemic. See Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 27 and 35n174. 9. The term syphilis, to designate the disease, did not become common in the medical lit­er­a­ture before the seventeenth ­century. In sixteenth-­century French, other expressions w ­ ere more frequently used: claveau or clavel (infectious disease), éléphantiasis (elephantitis), gorre (pox), grosse verole ou verole (smallpox), impétigo (impetigo), mal privé or maladie secrete (private disease), entagra or pudendagra (venereal disease), morbus magnatus (the g­ reat disease), peste (plague), rogne or roigne (scurvy), and so on. See Jacques de Béthencourt, Nouveau carême de pénitence et purgatoire d’expiation à l’usage des malades affectés du mal françois, ou mal vénérien . . . ​suivi d’un Dialogue où le mercure et le gaïac exposent leurs vertus et leurs prétentions rivales à la guérison de ladite maladie (1527), trans. and annotated by Alfred Fournier (Paris: V. Masson et fils, 1871), 31. Vesalius and l­ ater André du Laurens attributed another explanation to the name syphilis based on its etymology: philia (“love” in Greek) and sus (“sow” in Latin, a term used for prostitutes). See Leo Spitzer, “The Etymology of the Term Syphilis,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine (1955): 269–273; and Jaqueline Vons, introduction to Jérôme Fracastor, La Syphlis ou le mal français/Syphilis sive morbus gallicus (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2011), 15–36. 10. See Jean-­Claude Margolin, “Le paradoxe, pierre de touche des ‘ jocoseria’ humanistes,” in Le paradoxe au temps de la Re­nais­sance, ed. M. T. Jones-­Davies (Paris: Jean Touzot, 1982), 59–84. On the rhetorical and philosophical tradition of ancient paradox and its popularity in the sixteenth ­century, see V.-­L . Saulnier, “Proverbe et paradoxe du XVe au XVIe siècle,” in Pensée humaniste et tradition chrétienne, Actes du Colloque de Paris, ed. Henri Berarida (Paris: Boivin et Cie, 1950), 87–104; and Rosalie L. Colie, Paradoxia Epidemica: The Re­nais­sance Tradition of Paradox (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1966). 11. On the pro­g ress of this debate from the Trecento to the seventeenth ­century, see Teresa Chevrolet, L’idée de fable: Théories de la fiction poétique à la Re­nais­sance (Geneva: Droz, THR CDXXIII, 2007); and Anne Duprat and Teresa Chevrolet, “La bataille des fables: Conditions d’une émergence d’une théorie de la fiction en Eu­rope (XIVe–­XVIIe



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siècle),” Vox-­poetica, May 1, 2011, http://­w ww​.­vox​-­poetica​.­org​/­t​/­a rticles​/­duprat​.­html#​ _­f tnref24. 12. “Urania . . . ​play with me among the peaceful shades” (41). 13. In his Naugerius sive de poetica dialogus (1540), Fracastoro declares that poetry has the power to convey all sorts of beauty and, therefore, to go well beyond the mere goal of instruction. See Naugerius, trans. Ruth Kelso, intro. Murray W. Bundy, University of Illinois Studies in Language and Lit­er­a­ture 9, no. 3 (1924): 68. And yet, in his De contagione (1546), Fracastoro states that he needs to revisit certain points that he was unable to discuss in his Syphilis b­ ecause of its poetic form. See Douglas Biow, “Fracastoro as Poet and Physician: Syphilis, Epic, and the Won­der of Medicine,” in Doctors, Ambassadors, Secretaries: Humanism and Professions in Re­nais­sance Italy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), 73. On Fracastoro’s poetic works and his conception of poetry, see Spencer Pearce, “Fracastoro on Syphilis: Science and Poetry in Theory and Practice,” in Science and Lit­er­a­ture in Italian Culture from Dante to Calvino, ed. Pierpaolo Antonello and Simon A. Gibson (Oxford: Legenda, 2004), 115–133. 14. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 39. “Hinc canere, et longe secretas quaerere causas / Aera per liquidum, et vasti per sydera Olympi / Incipiam: dulci quando novitatis amore / Correptum, placidi Naturae suavibus horti / Floribus invitant, et amantes mira Camoenae” (1:10–14). In the interest of readability, I provide the En­glish translation in the text and the original Latin in the endnotes. Eatough does not preserve the verse form in his translation, but I provide book and line numbers and backslashes to indicate verse breaks in the Latin. 15. See Biow, “Fracastoro as Poet and Physician,” 75–76: “What linked poetic and medical discourse in Fracastoro’s writings, and made them equally pleas­ur­able and instructive, was not just their use of meta­phor as a figure of speech and thought but their shared interest in the passion of won­der. Won­der in the sixteenth ­century was as much a ­matter of epistemological as of aesthetic concern.” 16. Fracastoro is inspired ­here by Aristotle, for whom philosophical awakening begins with astonishment (Metaphysics, A, 2, 982b 11–12, 19–20). 17. H ­ ere Fracastoro is using the ideas of his astrological poem, Urania. Composed between 1475 and 1494, this work was not published u ­ ntil 1505. 18. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 65: “. . . ​dumque illius acta / . . . ​Inclyta component . . . / Nos, quos fata vocant haud tanta ad munera, lusus / Inceptos, quantum tenuis fert Musa, sequamur” (2:61–65). 19. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 53. “Musa queat, tantumque velit defendere Apollo, / Tempora qui longa evolvit, cui carmina curae, / Haec multas monumenta dies ut nostra supersint. / Forte etenim nostros olim legisse nepotes, / Et signa, et faciem pestis novisse juvabit” (1:309–313). 20. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 87: “. . . ​ignoto devecta ex orbe . . . ​/ Sancta arbos” (3:5–6). 21. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 87: “. . . ​crinesque revinctam / Fronde nova, juvet in medica procedere palla / Per Latium, et sanctos populis ostendere ramos: / Et juvet haud unquam nostrorum aetate parentum / Visa prius, nullive unquam memorata referre” (3:8–12).

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22. Chiara Crisciani defines the genre as “the texts used by both students and prac­ ti­tion­ers to acquire command of medicine as an ars operativa.” See “Histories, Stories, Exempla, and Anecdotes: Michele Savonarola from Latin to Vernacular,” in Historia, Empiricism, and Erudition in Early Modern Eu­rope, ed. Gianna Pomata and Nancy G. Siraisi (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005), 308. 23. Consilium should be understood in the medical sense, as consulere, that is, designating medical prescriptions following a visit by the practitioner to a patient. For an overview, see Jole Agrimi and Chiara Crisciani, Les consilia médicaux (Turhout: Brepols, 1994); and Biow, “Fracastoro as Poet and Physician,” 50–57 and 65–70. 24. This genre and its evolution are discussed in Danielle Jacquart and Marilyn Nicoud, “Les régimes de santé au XIIIe siècle,” in Comprendre le XIIIe siècle, ed. Pierre Guichard and Danièle Alexandre-­Bidon (Paris: PUF, 1995), 201–214; and Pedro Gil Sotres, “Les régimes de santé,” in Histoire de la pensée médicale en Occident, vol. 1, ed. Mirko D. Grmek, with the help of Bernardino Fantini (Paris: Seuil, 1995), 257–281. 25. See Nancy G. Siraisi, The Clock and the Mirror: Girolamo Cardano and Re­nais­ sance Medicine (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1997), 196. 26. The idea that disease was a divine punishment was quite common at the time. See Françoise Hildesheimer, Fléaux et société: de la Grande Peste au choléra, XIVe–­XIXe siècle (Paris: Hachette, 1993), 107–114. 27. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 51: “. . . ​Memini ipse . . . ​vidisse” (1:269–270). 28. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 51, 53: “. . . ​Memini ipse malignam / Luxuriem vidisse anni, multoque madentem / Autumnum perflatum Austro, quo protinus omne / Caprigenum genus e cunctis animantibus unum / Corruit. . . . ​/ Vere autem (dictu mirum) atque aestate sequenti / Infirmas pecudes, balantumque horrida vulgus / Pestis febre mala miserum pene abstulit omne” (1:269–282). 29. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 53: “Nunc ego te affectus omnes, et signa docebo / Contagis miserae . . .” (1:307–308). 30. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 55: “. . . ​insolito torpore gravati, / Sponteque languentes animis et munera obibant / Aegrius, et toto segnes se corpore agebant” (1:325–327). 31. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 55, 57: “. . . ​ipsi / Carne sua exutos artus, squallentiaque ossa / Vidimus, et foedo rosa ora dehiscere hiatu, / Ora, atque exiles reddentia guttura voces” (1:356–359). 32. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 55: “. . . ​tum vellier artus, / Brachiaque, scapulaeque, gravi, suraeque dolore” (1:338). 33. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 55: “Haerebat membris exanguibus, atque lacertis. / Inde graves dabat articulis . . . ​/ Summa cutis pulsa, et membrorum extrema petebat. / . . . ​ erodens alte, et se funditus abdens / Corpora pascebat misere” (1:345–356). 34. On the repre­sen­ta­tions of the disease, see Gilles Boetsch and Olivier Dufour, “La syphilis, une position-­clé entre Éros et Thanatos: Pour une anthropologie des représentations du corps malade,” in Dutour et al., L’origine de la syphilis en Eu­rope, 249–254. 35. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 55: “. . . ​informes achores / Rumpebant, faciemque horrendam, et pectora foede / Turbabant . . .” (1:348–351).



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36. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 57: “Unde aliquis ver aetatis, pulchramque juventam / Suspirans, et membra oculis deformia torvis / Prospiciens, foedosque artus, turgentiaque ora, / Saepe Deos, saepe as­tra miser crudelia dixit” (1:365–368). 37. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 55, 57: “Nam nimium fidentem animis, nec tanta timentem” (1:397). 38. The emphasis on the physician’s youth and physical appeal and the young w ­ omen’s sexual attraction seems to invite this reading: a youth “with a handsome frame. . . . ​All the goddesses of the Oglio desired him, all the maidens of the Po, the Goddesses of the woods, and the maidens of the countryside, all sighed over the marriage they desired” (57); (corpore pulchro). . . . (Illum omnes Ollique Deae, Eridanique puellae / Optarunt, nemorumque Deae, rurisque puellae: / Omnes optatos suspiravere hymenaeos) (1:387, 392–394). Moreover, the sexual transmission of the disease was generally known at the time. B ­ ecause it coincides with a period of heightened sexual activity, youth was seen as a f­ actor increasing the likelihood of contracting the disease. See Boetsch and Dufour, “La syphilis, une position-­clé entre Éros et Thanatos,” 253–254. 39. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 67: “Parce tamen Veneri, mollesque ante omnia vita / Concubitus, nihil est nocuum magis” (2:113–114). 40. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 59: “. . . ​tum squallida tabes / Artus (horrendum) miseros obduxit, et alte / Grandia turgebant foedis abscessibus ossa. / Ulcera (proh divum pietatem) informia pulchros / Pascebant oculos, et diae lucis amorem, / Pascebantque acri corrosas vulnere nares” (1:401–406). 41. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 61: “. . . ​ereptum Musarum e dulcibus ulnis / Te miserum ante diem crudeli funere MARCE / ANTONI, aetatis primo sub flore cadentem / Vidimus . . .” (1:457–460). 42. Anecdotes are infrequent in consilia. See Siraisi, The Clock and the Mirror, 202–203. 43. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 75: “Si . . . ​/ Aut vires animique valent ad fortia quaeque” (2:250–251). 44. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 77: “Dii quos ipse diu colui, tuque optima tristes / Callirhoe, quae sancta ­soles depellere morbos, . . . ​/ Dii mihi crudelem misero si tollere pestem / Hanc dabtis, quae me afflictat noctesque diesque, / Ipse ego purpureas, ipse albas veris et horti / Primitias . . .” (2:291–298). 45. Geoffrey Eatough understands this as a symbol of sexual aggression; see Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 159n293. 46. The confidence Ilceus places in the gods invites the reader to compare him to Job. 47. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 81: “Ille subit, magnos terrae miratus hiatus” (2:372). 48. ­Here and in the fable of Syphilus, the idea is that healing is achieved through the mediation of ­those who have access to divine powers, such as the physician-­poet. 49. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 81: “. . . ​ipsa adero, et praesenti numine ducam” (2:370). 50. A natu­ral miracle, like the serpent shedding its skin. As Eatough notes, the image is well chosen (22) to describe the cure of the “serpentine illness”; for the name, see Rodrigo Diaz de Isla, Tractato contra el mal serpentino, 1539.

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51. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 83: “Sic fatur, simul argenti ter fonte salubri / Perfundit, ter virgineis dat flumina palmis / Membra super, juvenem toto ter corpore lustrat / Mirantem exuvias turpes, et labe maligna / Exutos artus, pestemque sub amne relictam” (2:412–416). 52. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 85: “Durum erit: at quicquid tulerit res ipsa, ferendum est. / Aude animis. Tibi certa salus stans limine in ipso / Signa dabit: liquefacta mali excrementa videbis / Assidue sputo immundo fluitare per ora, / Et largum ante pedes tabi mirabere flumen” (2:444–448). Fracastoro clearly knew the risks of mercurial treatment, but he thought, or perhaps hoped, that his healthier patients (i.e., young ­people who have more re­sis­tance) could be saved by this medicine: “Rejoice in your imminent salvation, you are victorious.” On the rise and fall of mercury as a treatment, see Gérard Tilles and Daniel Wallach, “Le traitement de la syphilis par le mercure: Cinq siècles d’incertitudes et de toxicité,” Revue d’histoire de la pharmacie 84, no. 312 (1996): 347–351. 53. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 83: “Accepit nova fama fidem, populosque per omnes / Prodiit haud fallax medicamen: coeptaque primum / Misceri argento fluitanti axungia porcae. / Mox etiam Oriciae simul adjuncta est terebinthi, / Et laricis resina aeriae” (2:424–428). 54. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 77: “. . . ​Quis enim admiranda Deorum / Munera praetereat?” (2:282–283). 55. This information comes from the summary provided by Pierre Julien, “Grandeur et décadence du gaïac au XVIe siècle,” Revue d’histoire de la pharmacie, 57e année, no. 202 (1969): 448–449, and from Jean Chatelux’s article “Le bois de gaïac au XVIe siècle, ou de Hutten au Pantagruélion,” Études rabelaisiennes 8 (1969): 29–50. See also Robert S. Munger, “Guaiacum or the Holy Tree of the New World,” Journal of the History of Medicine 4, no. 2 (Spring 1949): 196–226. 56. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 89: “Jam poterat variis aequare coloribus irim” (3:46). 57. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 91: “Quid mirandum aeque memorem super omnia victum / Quam tenuem, quam magna sibi jejunia poscant? . . . ​Ne tamen ah ne tanta time, sacer ilicet haustus / Ille modo ambrosiae, vires reficitque fovetque, / Inque occulta gerit jejunis pabula membris” (3:75–81). 58. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 87; emphasis added: “. . . ​M ihi nunc magna Deorum / Munera, et ignoto devecta ex orbe canenda, / Sancta arbos, quae sola modum, requiemque dolori, / Et finem dedit aerumnis” (3:4–7). 59. As Fracastoro was writing Syphilis, he had no personal experience with lignum vitae. According to G. H. Hendrickson, he drew his information from Hutten’s De morbo gallico. See “The Syphilis of Girolamo Fracastoro,” Bulletin of the Institute of the History of Medicine (John Hopkins University) 2 (1934): 515–546. By 1546 (in his De contagione), however, Fracastoro had observed relapses and adverse effects as a result of taking guaiac decoctions and then recognized the superiority of mercury. See Munger, “Guaiacum or the Holy Tree of the New World,” 216. 60. Munger, “Guaiacum or the Holy Tree of the New World,” 216n42, shares this point of view.



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61. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 75, 77: “. . . ​unde in se nostrum cito contrahit ignem, / Quodque est condensum, humores dissolvit, agitque / Fortius, ut candens ferrum flamma acrius urit . . . ​et semina pestis inurunt” (2:273–279). 62. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 91: “Interea vacuas pestis vanescit in auras: / Et (dictu mirum) apparet jam pustula nulla: / Jamque nomae cessere omnes, jam fortia liquit / Membra dolor, primoque redit cum flore juventa” (3:85–88). 63. In his Tractatus de pestilentiali (1496), Grünpeck expressed his preference for mercury ointments. Another proponent of mercury, Jacques de Béthencourt (Nouveau carême de pénitence et purgatoire d’expiation, 1527), considered the guaiac treatment “genuinely barbaric” b­ ecause of the excessive rigor of the regimen imposed on the patient and ­because of the slowness of its action in relation to that of mercury. Francisco Lopez de Villalobos (Tratado sobre las pestiferas bubas, 1498) was one of the first to object to mercury ointments. In 1515, in a report to Emperor Charles V, the governor of the West Indies, J.  G. Fernandez de Oviédo, pointed out the salutary effects of guaiac wood in closing open wounds. In 1519, Hutten (De guaiaci medicina et morbo gallico) claimed that he was cured by guaiac wood. Jean Fernel (Du meilleur traitement du mal vénérien, 1550) was one of the last defenders of guaiac. Some, like Jean de Vigo, suggested combining the two treatments for greater effectiveness. Guaiac wood was eventually supplanted by other trees and roots from the New World, like sarsaparilla, sassafras, and squire, a member of the lilac f­ amily. On the discussion of treatments, see Georges Barraud, “Le traitement héroïque du mal vénérien,” Revue d’histoire de la pharmacie 41, no. 139 (1953): 179–182; Antoine Marmottans, “Les traitements anciens de la syphilis,” in Dutour et al., L’origine de la syphilis en Eu­rope, 255–259; Arrizabalaga, Henderson, and French, The ­Great Pox, 137–142; and Medicine from the Black Death to the French Disease, ed. Roger French et al. (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 1998), 261–273. 64. Brigitte Gauvin suggests that Urania may represent “an image of the Virgin, also a heavenly figure to whom syphilitics gave thanks in churches by leaving her branches of lignum vitae when they had been cured.” Gauvin, “Syphilis ou le mal français, Livre 3,” 411n2. 65. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 87; emphasis added: “Et juvet haud unquam nostrorum aetate parentum / Visa prius, nullive unquam memorata referre” (3:11–12). 66. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 91: “sacrae . . . ​sylvae” (3:92). On the meaning of ­these symbols, see Jean Chevalier and Alain Gheerbrant, Dictionnaire des symboles (Paris: Éditions Robert Laffont, 1969), 134–135, 800–801. 67. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 89: “colit” (3:47). 68. See Arrizabalaga, Henderson, and French, The ­Great Pox, 38–55. 69. Roger French and Jon Arrizabalaga, “Coping with the French Disease: University Prac­ti­tion­ers’ Strategies and Tactics in the Transition from the Fifteenth to the Sixteenth ­Century,” in French et al., Medicine from the Black Death to the French Disease, 249. 70. Hispaniola was the name given to the island of Haiti; it also evoked Ophir, the biblical island of I Kings. The last was the name Columbus used in his letter to Luis de Santagel in order to conceal his uncertainty that the island contained any gold. See Dussin, Syphilis ou le mal français, 75–76.

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71. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 99: “heros fortissime” (3:258). 72. This tale is based on the abundant travel lit­er­a­ture, especially the work of Pierre Martyr d’Anghiera, De orbe novo de­cades, Oceana decas (Décades du Nouveau Monde), ed. and trans. Brigitte Gauvin (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2003). Pierre Martyr had never been to the New World. On Fracastoro’s sources, see Dussin, Syphilis ou le mal français, 70–74, and Brigitte Gauvin, “Le corps de l’Autre: De l’altérité à la ressemblance. Deux points de vue européens sur la découverte du Nouveau Monde,” Kentron 19, no. 1–2 (2003): 71–87. On the motif of the perilous adventure, the storm at sea, or the terrestrial paradise in discovery lit­er­a­ture, and on the emphasis on the singular and the exceptional, see Marie-­Christine Gomez-­Géraud, Écrire le voyage au XVIe siècle en France (Paris: PUF, 2000). 73. We know how much Eu­ro­pe­ans like ­these vivid-­colored parrots. Gauvin suggests that “le meurtre des perroquets [. . . ​serait] la représentation métaphorique de la destruction des populations indigènes et de l’incapacité des Européens à contempler la beauté ou le bonheur, sans les détruire ou les souiller” (the slaughter of the parrots was a meta­ phor for the destruction of indigenous p­ eoples and Eu­ro­pe­ans’ inabilty to contemplate beauty or happiness without destroying it). See “Syphilis ou le mal français, Livre 3,” 416n16. 74. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 93: “Has juvenum ma­nus” (3:155). 75. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 95: “. . . ​et aures / Terrificis implet dictis” (3:172–173). 76. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 95: “. . . ​nec serat manet vos / Illa dies, foedi ignoto quum corpora morbo / Auxilium sylva miseri poscetis ab ista” (3:189–191). 77. A classic image in Virgil, Homer, and Dante of the souls waiting in Hades for their crossing of the Acheron. In the Christian tradition, t­ hese souls are eternally set in their punishment. The man struck by syphilis would then be an emblem of a man hardened in sin. 78. Won­der is the source of discovery. Intended or not, the mise en abyme supports the Aristotelian view proposed ­earlier by Fracastoro. 79. Physical differences (such as the color of the natives’ skin and hair) are compensated for by a reminder of their peaceful disposition: “A new race, with black face and hair . . . ​a singular ­people without weapons, all bare-­chested, with garlands around their foreheads to signal peace . . . ​[the] two camps are reassured by a pact of friendship . . . ​ one wears a light tunic that covers his thighs, . . . ​, his face is black. . . . ​The other is dressed in a coat woven of gold, . . . ​[against] a white neck . . .” (Dussin, Syphilis ou le mal français, 180–181). 80. Brigitte Gauvin notes that Fracastoro defended the natives: “Il dédie Syphilis à Léon X, sous la protection duquel sont placés tous les habitants du Nouveau Monde; et c’est aussi une manière d’inciter les Européens à voir dans les insulaires non des hommes différents d’eux, des sauvages, mais leurs prochains” (He dedicated Syphilis to Leo X, protector of all the inhabitants of the New World; and this was also a means of encouraging Eu­ro­pe­ans to see the natives not as dif­fer­ent from themselves, but as fellow ­humans). See “Le corps de l’Autre: de l’altérité à la ressemblance,” 86. 81. On interpretations of Plato’s myth of Atlantis, see Timée, 19a–27c, and Critias, 108e–121c; and on interest in it in the Re­nais­sance, see Dussin, Syphilis ou le mal français,



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75–76, and Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 22–26. On Fracastoro’s interpretation of this myth and his use of myths in Syphilis, see Isabelle Pantin, “Poetic Fiction and Natu­ral Philosophy in Humanist Italy: Fracastoro’s Use of Myth in Syphilis,” in Fiction and the Frontiers of Knowledge in Eu­rope, 1500–1800, ed. Richard Scholar and Alexis Tardié (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2010), 17–29. 82. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 57: “Forsan et ultores superos neglecta vocavit / Non nequicquam aliqua, et votis pia numina movit” (1:395–396). 83. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 103: “Primus . . . ​ostendit turpes per corpus achores” (3:327–329). 84. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 95: “Solis . . . ​aves, sacrasque volantes” (3:174). 85. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 101: “ ‘Nam quid, Sol, te,’ inquit, ‘rerum patremque Deumque / Dicimus, et sacras vulgus rude ponimus aras, / Mactatoque bove, et pingui veneramur acerra, / Si nostri nec cura tibi est, nec regia tangunt / Armenta?’ ” (3:296–300). 86. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 103: “. . . ​illuvies terris ignota profanis / Exoritur” (3:326–327). 87. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 103: “Quam tulit, aeterna est, nec jam revocabilis unquam / Pestis erit: quincunque solo nascetur in isto, / Sentiet . . . ​/ Sed enim, si jam medicamina certa / Expetitis, niveam magnae mactate juvencam / Junoni, magnae nigrantem occidite vaccam / Telluri: illa dabit foelicia semina ab alto: / Haec viridem educet foelici e semine sylvam: / Unde salus” (3:343–351). 88. This is the meaning of the olive branch brought by the dove to announce the end of the Flood. See Chevalier and Gheerbrant, Dictionnaire des symboles, 800–801. 89. The figure of Christ is easily recognized in the man offered as a sacrifice for humanity’s salvation. According to Rebekah Anne Carson, sacrifice in Syphilis should be read as a revalorization of the Eucharist as a means of purification. Eatough argues that Fracastoro’s Eucharistic piety should be understood in the context of the Eucharistic controversy between Catholics and Protestants in the early sixteenth ­century. See Rebekah Anne Carson, Andrea Riccio’s della Torre Tomb Monument: Humanism and Antiquarianism in Padua and Verona (unpublished thesis, University of Toronto, Department of Art, 2010); Geoffrey Eatough, “Fracastoro’s Beautiful Idea,” in Poets and Teachers: Latin Didactic Poetry and the Didactic Authority of the Latin Poet from the Re­nais­sance to the Pre­ sent, ed. Yasmin Haskell and Philip Hardie (Bari: Levante Editori, 1999), 105–124. 90. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 105: “meliorem animam pro morte juvencum” (3:367). 91. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 51, 53: “. . . ​tum forte, alta scurus in umbra / Dum caneret, tenuique regem mulceret avena, / Ecce aliquam tussis subito irrequieta tenebat” (1:274–276). 92. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 101: “. . . ​urebat sitientes Sirius agros: / Urebat nemora: et nullas pastoribus umbras / Praebebant sylvae: nullum dabat aura levamen” (3:291–293). 93. The summer solstice, also known as “dog days,” is the hottest time of the year. 94. Eatough, Fracastoro’s Syphilis, 57: “Nam nimium fidentem animis, nec tanta timentem” (1:397).

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95. Some argue that such an excellent remedy confirms that lignum vitae’s occurrence in the same land where the disease first appeared is providential. ­Others treat syphilis as the poisoned gift of the New World and see it as the price of greed for conquest and riches. 96. Gauvin, “Syphilis ou le mal français, Livre 3,” 413n7. 97. ­There is a double ventriloquism at play ­here: the voice of the natives’ king transmits that of Amer­i­ca, whose voice, in turn, transmits the message of the gods. 98. On the importance humanists accorded fables, see Isabelle Pantin, La poésie du ciel dans la seconde moitié du seizième siècle (Geneva: Droz, 1995), 271–284.

c ha p te r six

Storytelling at the Crossroads of Diplomacy, History, and Poetry “The Story of the Death of Anne Boleyn, Queen of ­England,” by Lancelot de Carle JoAnn DellaNeva

Such desire as you have had to such tales have brought you to this. —­Lady Boleyn to Queen Anne in the Tower of London, May 15361

Surely one of the most sensational stories to emerge in the sixteenth c­ entury was that of the execution of Anne Boleyn, second wife to King Henry VIII of E ­ ngland, who was accused of committing adultery with five men, including her own ­brother, and convicted of high treason. While this is, of course, a true story that figures in multiple historical accounts of the period, it also has become the stuff of numerous artistic and literary works, some of which, such as Philippa Gregory’s novel (and the subsequent film) The Other Boleyn Girl or the popu­lar tele­vi­sion series The Tudors, play fast and loose with the facts. ­These flights of fancy are not strictly a modern phenomenon, for several accounts written in the close aftermath of ­these events distorted the facts while retelling the story, quite often in order to fit a po­liti­cal or religious agenda. Shakespeare’s Henry VIII, which, admittedly, deals only with the ­earlier events of Anne’s marriage and not with her execution, is a famous case in point, despite its provocative alternative title, All Is True. One of the first and most complete contemporaneous accounts of Anne’s rise and fall clearly partakes of both the literary and historical worlds: L’Histoire de la mort d’Anne de Boulan, written by the minor French poet Lancelot de Carle, who just happened to be serving as secretary to the resident 125

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French ambassador in London in May 1536, the moment of Anne’s trial and execution.2 The long narrative poem, consisting of over thirteen hundred verses, bears the date of June 2 of that year, a mere two weeks a­ fter Anne’s death.3 The ostensible purpose of the text is to inform the French court of recent news: the unpre­ce­dented events that the ambassador and his secretary have just witnessed regarding the demise of an anointed queen. At the same time, however, it clearly advertises its literary nature, since it is written in verse form. This text, then, is uniquely situated at the crossroads of diplomacy, history, and poetry, and as such is replete with unresolved tensions generated by the varying conventions of ­these diverse genres. This chapter ­will examine ­those tensions and, further, ­will discuss how Carle’s narrative poem partakes of a complex interplay of stories within the story and, particularly, of stories that are prohibited and tales that are told, ­either freely or hesitatingly, with authority or without. It w ­ ill also consider how Carle’s story is ultimately about signs that are read and potentially misread, which further f­ actor into an assessment of the story at hand. The most overarching and basic tension that emerges from this text is that which is generated by the author’s decision to send the news to France in the form of a verse epistle rather than through a prose letter, the normal medium for diplomatic dispatches. Indeed, the question is even more complicated than that, for what we have ­here is not, strictly speaking, the report of the resident ambassador, Antoine de Castelnau, then Bishop of Tarbes, but that of his secretary, Carle. We have no way of knowing why Castelnau would have entrusted his secretary with composing this dispatch in the secretary’s own voice rather than following the more standard procedure of dictating, or at least shaping, the ambassador’s official version of events, which he would expect his secretary to rec­ord and send off to court back home. Th ­ ere are precious few extant exchanges between Castelnau and the French court, yet none of ­these other dispatches displays evidence of the intervention of the secretary’s voice, though they may well have been penned by the secretary’s hand. Furthermore, the French archives provide no evidence of any other dispatch from a French ambassadorial representative in London that gives an account of Anne Boleyn’s death. We are left to assume that the text at hand was intended to serve as the official notification of the events of May 1536 on the part of the French embassy and that, for some reason, Castelnau permitted (or even encouraged) Carle to compose the missive himself and to do so in the form of a poem.



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Certainly, the execution of Anne Boleyn was widely reported by other foreign diplomats to their own courts in a timely fashion. But ­those letters—­ the best known and most complete of which ­were written by the imperial ambassador, Eustace Chapuys—­while often expressing a sense of astonishment at the events, clearly make no claim of literariness but conform fully with the expectations of the genre of diplomatic dispatch as a medium for the conveyance of news.4 Indeed some reports, particularly on the part of the Italians, are quite brief, just a few sentences in length, and provide few details about the ­matter.5 ­Whether brief or detailed, t­ hese foreign diplomatic reports, which attempt to recount the facts accurately, clearly, and expeditiously, are far more typical of this genre. Rhetorically, they are aligned more closely with chronicles or histories than with literary stories. Indeed, for modern historians, Chapuys’s letters in par­tic­u­lar have become a critical piece of historical evidence for the events of Henry’s reign, despite the diplomat’s unmitigated and unapologetic sympathy ­toward Henry’s first wife, Catherine of Aragon (aunt to the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, whom Chapuys served) and her d ­ aughter Mary. But while a diplomat might interject opinion and display a certain amount of bias in his reporting (as Chapuys did repeatedly), he would not—or at least should not—­under any circumstances be less than fully truthful when writing to his master. As Timothy Hampton has noted, this point was made quite clearly by Torquato Tasso, who, in his dialogue on diplomacy titled Il Messaggiero (1580), maintained that “ just as a doctor may lie to his patient but the patient should never lie to the doctor, so must the subject always speak the truth to his prince.” 6 Yet the diplomat’s requirement of veracity sits uneasily with the poet’s need to accommodate ­matters of rhyme in casting the story. For, as Adrian Armstrong and Sarah Kay demonstrate in their work on l­ ater medieval verse as a medium for the transmission of knowledge, t­ here is an inherent tension between poetry and truth that was recognized and commented upon by poets themselves at this time.7 Given that Carle was writing in the years immediately following the success of the Rhétoriqueurs tradition that Armstrong and Kay examine, it is profitable to consider their analy­sis at some length to provide a sense of what was at stake when Carle made his decision to write in verse. Armstrong and Kay open their study with an intriguing quotation from one little-­known medieval French writer, Nicolas de Senlis, who noted that it has long been believed that “nus conte rimés no es verais” (no rhymed story

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is true). They immediately follow this with a reference to an anonymous French poet who stated (somewhat ironically, in a poem) that telling a story in verse form is an invitation to contaminate it with “mançonge por fere la rime” (a lie for the sake of the rhyme).8 It is for this reason that the latter poet maintains that he w ­ ill tell his story in the manner of the Prose Lancelot, “ou il n’a de rime un seul mot” (where t­ here is not a single word that rhymes), so that he too might better tell the truth without falsehoods.9 As Armstrong and Kay show, this common assumption that rhyme is full of lies led to a major shift ­after the thirteenth ­century, which saw prose becoming the medium of choice for vernacular histories and, therefore, the realm of fact, whereas verse was coded as “artificial, unreliable, and falsifying,”10 and therefore better suited for the realm of the literary arts. Choosing to write in verse, as Carle did, therefore, might be seen as a subversive act, a sign of the author’s desire to mislead his reader by distorting the truth, if not, to put it more bluntly, by embellishing it with lies. This would, of course, have been in direct conflict with the diplomat’s need never to lie to his prince. At the very least, Carle’s decision to deliver his news in verse form hints that the author was not content with merely conveying facts in a dispassionate manner but that he had other goals in mind. Indeed, as Armstrong and Kay remind us, once prose became firmly associated with history, the decision to revert to verse was akin to choosing black-­and-­white film once color photography became ubiquitous: it was a deliberately “retro” aesthetic choice that advertised the author’s concerns with art and artifice.11 While color film might rec­ord events more realistically, black-­and-­white film encourages artistic interpretation and a more controlled, personal pre­sen­ta­tion of real­ity. In a similar vein, Armstrong and Kay continue, ­those late medieval histories, or stories, that are recounted in verse describe events that are explic­itly presented as t­ hings experienced and remembered—­that is, as filtered through the lens of the author and other witnesses. Clearly, texts that are characterized by personal reminiscence and other eyewitness reports are subject to other forms of distortion, even if ­these are not deliberate, for memory can fail and witnesses can produce conflicting accounts of what has tran­spired.12 Indeed, at times the subjective, authorial hand ­behind texts of this kind is barely concealed and, on the contrary, is often revealed through the frequent intrusion of moral or philosophical commentary. The narrative “I,” which guides the reader through the text, does not hesitate to express opinions regarding the action described. This recourse to moral commentary, which characterized



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poetic narratives at the end of the fifteenth ­century, further helped “to give a heightened definition of verse,” as opposed to prose, “as a medium of reflection and enlightenment.”13 Carle was no doubt aware of ­these f­ actors when he made his decision to recount this story in verse. Indeed, traces of this self-­conscious deliberation are vis­i­ble in what one might describe as the prologue of the poem, occupying verses 1–36. This is not surprising, for, as Victor Brombert has reminded us, words located at the threshold of a text acquire a privileged status; they reflect the author’s anx­i­eties in beginning his narration, but, at the same time, they provide a key to the interpretation of the text that is to follow.14 Carle opens his poem thus: Les cas nouueaux & choses merueilleuses, Tristes aux vns & aux autres ioyeuses, Qu’aduenus sont en ce loingtain pays, Ont mes espritz tellement esbahiz Que tousiours suis en pensee profonde. (1–5) (The unpre­ce­dented events and wondrous ­things, Sad to some and to others joyous, That have occurred in this distant country Have so astounded my wits That I am still in deep thought about them.) From the very beginning of his poem, Carle acknowledges that this unsettling story is one that he continues to reflect upon, in part ­because of its unpre­ ce­dented, “new” nature: he simply does not know what to make of it, but he continuously tries to make sense of it by turning it over in his mind. He also insists on the personal nature of his story, stating that he writes what he himself has seen or what o­ thers have witnessed and conveyed to him: I’en escriray ce que i’ay entendu Par les raisons que plusieurs m’ont rendu, Puis, mon Seigneur, ce que i’ay retenu Depuis le temps que suis icy venu. (25–28) (I ­shall write about what I have heard, Through the insights that several ­people have provided me,

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And then, my lord, about what I have remembered Since the time that I arrived ­here.) By interjecting the temporal adverb “puis” at this critical juncture, Carle is also providing a key to the structure of his narration. He ­will first give Anne’s “backstory,” describing her life in France and the events leading to her courtship and marriage, culminating in the baptism of her d ­ aughter, Elizabeth, all of which occurred prior to Carle’s arrival in ­England (prob­ably in late 1535 or early 1536) and for which he must rely on the reports of ­others. Only then ­will he move on to narrating the events he has personally witnessed since coming to this foreign land. Although Carle alludes to the fact that he is conveying “news” that needs to be dispatched to the court in France, he makes it clear that he is no mere dispassionate reporter but rather has been im­mensely affected by ­these events. Carle’s personal investment in the story and its outcome is revealed in passages where he comments on ­these events, interjecting his own moral judgments and giving his own reading or interpretation of the story. This is most clearly seen through his repeated allusion to the mutability of fortune and the vanity of life’s pleasures: Mais ie vouldrois que les nouuelles fussent Telles que point de facheries n’eussent, Et que du ieu le triste acheuement Fust respondant à son commancement. . . . Mais bien scauez qu’on ne scauroit choisir Aucun plaisir en ce monde muable Qui longuement y puisse estre durable: Car toute chose, en sa mutation, D’vne autre faict la generation, Et plus souuent nous produyt son contraire, Comme en ce cas pourrez iugement faire, Qui de ioyeuse & belle comedie Fut conuerti en triste tragedie. (11–14, 16–24) (But I should wish that the news ­were such That it brought no dis­plea­sure at all, And that the sad conclusion of this play ­Were in keeping with its beginning. . . .



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But you know very well that one cannot choose Any plea­sure at all, in this changeable world, That might be long-­lasting: For every­thing, in changing, Gives rise to some other ­thing, And most often produces for us its opposite, As you ­will be able to judge in this case, Which, from a joyous and fine comedy, Was turned into a sad tragedy.) The movement from comedy to tragedy reflects the continuous mutation of all earthly t­ hings: nothing endures in its same shape but, rather, all ­things eventually become their opposites. The motion described ­here is that of the Wheel of Fortune, a favorite image of medieval and early modern writers, pop­ u­lar­ized by Boethius in his Consolation of Philosophy: ­those at the peak of good fortune w ­ ill eventually find themselves at the bottom of despair.15 Carle says that he would like the end of this story to be more like its beginning; that is, that it would end, as comedies do, with marriages and births and renewed hope embodied in succeeding generations. Yet he knows that the story of Anne Boleyn is ultimately a tragedy, one that ends with the death of this queen and the five men accused with her. Carle’s moral reflections, located in the early verses of the text, function as a key to decoding the meaning of his version of the story, which is frequently interrupted by the narrator’s interjection of similar remarks as the tale unfolds. Th ­ ese often take the place of pithy maxims such as the following, which describe Anne’s triumphant return from France as a young w ­ oman blessed with certain natu­ral assets and benefitting from other learned accomplishments that make her exceptionally attractive to all men who encounter her: Heureuse estoit, mais encor plus heureuse S’elle eust suyuy la voye vertueuse, Et du chemin eust sceut tenir l’addresse Que luy monstroit sa prudente maistresse. Mais les honneurs & grans exaulcemens Changent souuent les bons entendemens, Et plusieurs fois altere la nature Le changement de bonne nourriture . . . (81–88)

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(Happy was she, but happier still would she have been If she had followed the virtuous way And if she had been able to stay the course On the path that her prudent mistress had shown her. But honors and ­great exaltation Often change one’s good judgment And, many times, a change from one’s good upbringing Alters one’s character . . .) Anne’s change from her good upbringing—­her straying from the straight and narrow path showed to her by her royal mistress, Queen Claude of France, whom she served as a lady-­in-­waiting—­changes her very character. Instead of following this linear road to happiness, Anne allows the circular movement of Fortune’s wheel to come into play and determine the outcome of the story. That the poem’s early readers recognized and appreciated Carle’s interjection of moral maxims can be confirmed by a marginal note inscribed in one of the surviving manuscripts of this text now h ­ oused in the municipal library at Soissons, France. Th ­ ere, the reader writes the words “Mot doré” (A golden saying) and encases verses 85–86 in quotation marks to note the aptness of Carle’s pithy judgment.16 Clearly, ­here and throughout, Carle is not content just to narrate what has happened but rather endeavors to explain why this story ended the way it did. All t­hese references to personal reflection, judgment, and point of view near the beginning of the poem verify Armstrong and Kay’s observations regarding the peculiar attributes of historical narrative delivered through the medium of verse composition in an age of prose. But if further proof is needed that Carle was very self-­conscious in his deliberate choice to write this missive in verse instead of prose, it, too, can be found in the early verses of his poem, where he provides his own explicit explanation of why he made this choice: Ie l’escriray en vers mal composez, Pour ce que mieux me semblent disposez, Et que par eux moins gref vous pourra estre Le long discours de la presente lettre, N’estimant point que de cest’ escripture Aultre que vous en face la lecture, Et que vouldrez par vostre humanité En ce couurir mon imbecilité. (29–36)



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(I ­shall write it in verse [albeit poorly composed], ­Because it seems more suitable to me, So that, through my rhyme, the long discourse of this pre­sent letter Might be less troubling to you, By no means supposing that anyone other than you ­Will read what I am writing, And that, in your kindness, you ­will wish To cover up my feebleness in this task.) Carle makes two claims for his choice in this passage. First, he suggests that ­there is something in the nature of this par­tic­ul­ ar story—­perhaps its universality as a morality tale?—­that lends itself to poetry. Second, and perhaps more importantly, he states that he has made this choice for the benefit of his reader, who ­will find the story less troubling if rendered through the aesthetically pleasing medium of rhyme. The implication is that the inherent plea­ sure of reading verse ­will render the awful, violent, and pitiful story that he ­will recount more palatable. Indeed, l­ater in his ­career, Carle would say the same ­thing in his preface to his paraphrases of the Book of Ecclesiastes. Echoing the modesty topos he also used in the poem on Anne Boleyn, Carle acknowledges his inadequacies in undertaking such a work, which challenges his poetic talent. Yet he justifies his choice of writing the paraphrase in rhyme ­because he wishes to “temperer la severité des sentences avecques la douceur des nombres” (temper the severity of the pronouncements with the sweetness of meter).17 Thus, although the diplomat cannot alter Anne’s story, with its brutal ending, he can at least frame it in such a way that makes the story easier to read. One could imagine, too, that t­ here prob­ably ­were more personal reasons that explain Carle’s unique choice. For one, Carle arrived in E ­ ngland fresh from his participation in one of the premier poetic “contests” of the time: the so-­called Concours des Blasons, which was instigated by Clément Marot in 1535 and culminated in a series of poems written by vari­ous authors on female body parts. Carle produced at least two poems, namely “le blason de l’esprit” (blason on the spirit) and “le blason du genoux” (blason on the knee), which w ­ ere included in this collection.18 Thus, it is not too surprising that this young man, who fancied himself a successful poet, having rubbed elbows with the poetic élite of his time, would want to continue his practice of writing rhyme during his time of serving the resident ambassador. And certainly

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Carle, who clearly had an eye for a good story, was also aware that this choice would render his text unique in the realm of diplomatic correspondence (certainly with re­spect to this event, and quite likely on any subject at any point in time). It was a way to ensure that this story, as seen through his eyes, would be read by more than the French king and his courtiers, despite his combined use of the traditional modesty topos with the equally traditional disclaimer that the text at hand was not meant for a mass audience. ­There are several other observations one can make about the inherent tension between truth and fiction that poetry traditionally has generated and how this is manifested in Carle’s poem. First, the verse form chosen—­ decasyllabic rhyming couplets—is one that is, in some sense, closest to prose and certainly was the form of choice for anyone wishing to produce a verse narrative at this time. Like its medieval counterpart, the octosyllabic rhyming couplet, it was, as Armstrong and Kay remind us, the “degré zéro of versification . . . ​and the form least likely to be sung”;19 thus, while Carle’s poem advertises its literary nature, it certainly could not be construed as lyric poetry in the strict sense of that term. More to the point, rhyming couplets would be less vulnerable to the exigencies of rhyme to the detriment of truth than would be more intricate lyric genres, such as a rondeau or a sonnet. This observation can be proved, for example, by looking at a well-­known example from the pen of Pierre de Ronsard that purports to reveal the date of his encounter with his beloved Cassandre at Blois. In the incipit of the sonnet, Ronsard declares that this fatal date occurred in “L’an mil cinq cent contant quarante & six,” that is, in 1546.20 Now, it is a known fact that the French court was not in residence at Blois in 1546 and that the fateful encounter between Ronsard and Cassandre actually took place in 1545.21 But the placement of the date in the rhyming position of the incipit requires Ronsard to find three other rhymes in composing t­hese quatrains; and, as any poet would know, t­here is no rhyme in French for the word “cinq.” Thus, as François Rigolot has argued, historical accuracy gives way to poetic expediency, as Ronsard displays no compunction in changing the date to 1546, which opens the door to a host of more easily achieved rhymes in his sonnet.22 However, while similar exigencies could motivate Carle in his poem, his choice of employing rhyming couplets, which are less arduous to compose than other forms, may be a bit more likely to inspire confidence in the truth of the tale. Indeed, ­there is no doubt that the events described in this poem are for the most part verifiably true: that is, ­there are in­de­pen­dent sources, such as



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letters and other historical documents, which happily confirm the veracity of Carle’s tale, with only a few minor exceptions. One could justifiably claim, as well, that Carle’s position in the diplomatic corps not only required accuracy but also permitted him a degree of freedom in truth-­telling that En­glish writers on this subject could not enjoy: for in composing a document that was destined to make its way to the continent, rather than remain in the British Isles, Carle could give testimony to ­things of which o­ thers might not dare to speak.23 By its very status as a dispatch, sent from a foreigner to ­others abroad, the poem enjoys a certain “diplomatic immunity,” so to speak, and can relate the truth in a more direct manner than any En­glish letter could do at that time. This could explain why it is the sole extant source for certain details in the story of Anne Boleyn’s demise. The most impor­tant of ­these m ­ atters not told in other letters, chronicles, or dispatches about this event centers on the crucial incident of how the story of Anne’s infidelity became known to the king. In Carle’s telling, the queen’s downfall comes about through a private conversation that took place between one of Anne’s ladies-­in-­waiting and this lady’s ­brother, who happened to be a close advisor to the king.24 The ­brother, in turn, shares the story with two other close advisors, and all three men become storytellers in their own right when, together, they relate the tale to Henry. Additionally, we are told that other tales are related about Anne and her lovers—­specifically by Mark, a court musician, though we do not hear his stories firsthand. This quick succession of multiple overlapping stories creates the impression that the En­ glish court is a haven for storytellers: it is rife with gossip, ­whether based on fact or merely on rumor, which ­will turn out to have fatal consequences. The first of ­these stories begins when the b­ rother who is councilor to the king wishes to admonish his ­sister for showing signs of inappropriate amorous be­hav­ior and entreats her to mend her ways before her reputation is ruined: De celles dont la Royne se seruoit, L’vne estoit seur d’vn seigneur qui auoit Cest honneur d’estre au conseil plus estroict, Qui, la voyant qui mainctz signes monstroit D’aymer aucuns par amour deshonneste, Par bon conseil fraternel l’admonneste Qu’elle acqueroit vne honteuse fame De mal viuante & impudicque femme,

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Et grandement son honneur blesseroit, Si de péché tost ne se retiroit. (341–350) (Among ­those ­women in ser­vice to the queen, ­There was one who was the ­sister of a gentleman who held The honor of being a close advisor to the king, Who, upon seeing that his ­sister was showing many signs Of loving some men with an impure love, Admonishes her, with good brotherly counsel, That she might acquire a shameful reputation As a lewd and immodest ­woman And might greatly injure her honor If she ­didn’t soon withdraw from sin.) ­ ere is much that is unsaid ­here. First, we do not know what signs prompted Th the ­brother to warn his ­sister about her bad be­hav­ior and the potential ruin of her reputation. Many readers have assumed that the obvious sign of the ­sister’s dissolute living was a belly swollen in pregnancy—­one that, presumably, resulted from an affair outside of marriage.25 But it is impor­tant to note that this is never stated explic­itly within the poem. Indeed, a closer look at the text shows that the warning is given in the conditional mode: the lady would be apt to acquire a bad reputation if she d ­ oesn’t soon stop misbehaving. It would be hard to see how withdrawing from sin in the f­ uture would save this lady’s pre­sent “shameful” reputation if she w ­ ere already visibly pregnant: the damage, presumably, has been done and her reputation can no longer be sal­vaged. Now, this could simply be Carle’s awkward or inept poetic and narrative ability coming through; but perhaps it can be viewed more charitably, and more intriguingly, as a way for the poet to trap us into thinking that we know the story when indeed we ­really ­don’t. The ­brother’s unheard accusatory words are not answered directly by the ­sister. Instead, she deliberately changes the subject, diverting attention from her sins to another’s so as to diminish the importance of her own faults and erase her lesser sin from their conversation (and from this text): Ainsi vouloit ses faultes amortir Pour ses pechéz en aultruy conuertir, Pensant qu’vn mal plus ­grand effaceroit Vn plus petit quand declairé seroit. (363–366)



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(And so she wished to deaden the impact of her faults By changing the subject from her sins to another’s, Thinking that a greater evil would efface A lesser one when it was openly declared.) This swerve, or diversion, in the intimate dialogue between ­brother and ­sister opens up a space for the story of the queen’s misbehavior to emerge: Puis, commença asseurer son excuse, En luy disant que la plus malheureuse Qui oncques fut femme dessoubz les cieulx Estoit la Royne . . . (367–370) (Then she began to defend herself By telling him that the most wretched ­woman ­There ever was ­under the sun Was the queen . . .) As Carle makes clear, the queen’s story is told as a substitute for the ­sister’s own tale of misbehavior: though she does not deny the ­brother’s accusations, she can offer no defense for her own actions but accuses the queen of worse sins instead of explaining her own. The s­ ister’s “excuse” thus slides directly into another story that is not r­ eally her own to tell. The specific accusation uttered by the s­ ister is precisely the one that carries the most shock value, that of Anne’s incest with her ­brother, George: . . . ​ie ne veux oublier à vous dire Vn poinct de tous qui me semble le pire. C’est que souuent son frere eut auec elle, Dedans son lict, accoinctance charnelle. (373–376) (. . . ​I ­don’t want to forget to tell you One point that seems to me to be the worst of all, Which is that her ­brother has often had Carnal knowledge of her in her own bed.) The words that came tumbling forth from this lady are shocking, not only b­ ecause of the treacherous and sinful be­hav­ior they describe, but also ­because they are themselves an example of forbidden discourse and subversive speech.

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For, as the attentive reader would surely know, remembering what Carle had said less than two hundred lines previously, this lady’s words violate an ordinance that Henry passed in 1534 (about a year and a half a­ fter his marriage to Anne) that prohibited citizens from impugning the legitimacy of this marriage or its issue. More broadly, Carle maintains, this ordinance had the effect of silencing all of Anne’s critics, whose numbers w ­ ere legion: Pour comprimer du peuple la fureur, Le Roy voulut que qui mesdiroit d’elle Seroit puny d’vne peine mortelle. Donc, close fut la bouche aux mesdisans, Qui bien estoient en nombre suffisans, En vn besoing, pour remplir vne armee. (214–219) (In order to hold the ­people’s rage in check, The king willed that whoever spoke badly of her Should be punished by pain of death. Thus, closed ­were the mouths of her detractors, Who ­were quite sufficient in number To fill an army, if need be.) This ordinance was unique in En­glish law, for it radically redefined a given criminal offense to include not only an action but mere words.26 For the first time in En­glish history, a citizen of any rank could be hanged for merely telling a story.27 Although previously, the poet tells us, En­glish citizens spoke only in whispers about Anne (209–213), they w ­ ere now forced into silence on all m ­ atters pertaining to the queen: “Car qui scauoit ce qu’on ne doit celer / Contrainct estoit de le dissimuler” (221–222) (For whoever knew something that one ­ought not conceal / Was forced to disguise it). Thus, what is remarkable about the disclosure of this lady-­in-­waiting to her b­ rother is that, unlike ­others, she dares to speak openly, defying the law and risking her very life. Since ­these are the first examples of quoted speech in the poem, they also call attention to themselves just through that fact. But the reader must acknowledge that ­these words are problematic: for how can it be that the poet has heard them himself and is able to rec­ord them faithfully? Given its risky subject m ­ atter, the dialogue presented ­here must have occurred b­ ehind closed doors. Accepting this story as altogether true, therefore, requires accepting the poet as the most proficient of eavesdroppers. Some historians have, for



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this reason, seized on this fact to discredit the historical accuracy of the entire poem.28 ­There is no doubt that the dialogue between b­ rother and ­sister, with its highly theatrical quality, should not be read as if it w ­ ere a transcript of a­ ctual utterances. Indeed, the literariness of this discourse is signaled early on by the maxim proffered by the ­sister that her ­brother and other gentlemen of the court are ready to “condemn doves and p­ ardon infamous ravens”: “Mais vous, messieurs, iugez les collombeaux, / Et pardonnez aux infames corbeaux” (361–362) (But you, gentlemen, condemn doves, / And ­pardon infamous ravens). This maxim is, in fact, a reworking of a quotation taken from the Latin poet Juvenal and thus is a literary allusion that perhaps came more easily from the pen of Carle, the humanistically trained poet, than from the mouth and mind of this ordinary lady-­in-­waiting.29 By showing his authorial hand in this way, Carle is reminding his reader that this work occupies a space between truth and fiction insofar as it partakes equally of the divergent genres of diplomatic missive and verse narrative. In other words, what we see h ­ ere, then, is a prime example of the unresolved tensions between the expectations of diplomatic (or historical) discourse and narrative fiction, or between what is true and what is merely vraisemblable. Carle thus invites his readers to accept ­these words as true, knowing that they must be, at least to some extent, imaginative, and thus a fiction. Doubtless, the existence of re­created or imaginative dialogue is a hallmark of this text; it is also a hallmark of the genre we have come to call “historical fiction.” By choosing to write his dispatch as a narrative poem that incorporates imaginative dialogue, Carle has anticipated a technique of the modern historical fiction writer. As Stephen Greenblatt said in his review of Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, such a text “offers the dream of full access, access to what went on ­behind closed doors, off the rec­ord, in private, when no one was listening or recording”; the reader is struck by this “vivid sensation of lived life,” “best summed up in exclamations like ‘Yes, this is the way it must have been’; ‘This is how they must have sounded.’ ”30 Although Carle does not need to bridge a gap created by the passage of time, as does the modern historical novelist, he still is required to convey this sense of vivid believability to an audience that is removed by geo­graph­i­cal distance. And so, it is no won­der that he makes frequent use of the tool of i­ magined dialogue to drive home his point. To return to the text and its unfolding drama, the reader is next allowed to delve into an internal dialogue within the mind of the high-­ranking

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b­ rother—­the immediate hearer of this story. For this b­ rother, upon hearing his s­ ister’s tale, is confronted with a dilemma that Carle exquisitely pre­sents in ­these verses: Le frere, apres auoir bien escouté Ce dont iamais il ne se fust doubté, Tant se troubla de ces propos entendre Qu’il ne scauoit quel conseil deuoit prendre. Car, d’vne part, s’il faisoit ce rapport Au Roy, & qu’il ne vint pas à bon port De faire croire effectz & entreprises, Il se liuroit aux grandz peines promises Aux mesdisans par la Loy apprestees, Que ie vous ay cy deuant recitees. Ne le faisant, le deuoir l’assailloit Qu’envers le Roy desloyaulment failloit, Et si par temps on s’en fust aperceu, Cruelle mort il eust aussi receu. (379–392) (The ­brother, ­after carefully listening to That which he would never have suspected, Was so troubled in hearing t­ hese words That he ­didn’t know what course of action to take. For, on the one hand, if he made this report To the king, and he ­didn’t successfully arrive At making ­these undertakings and developments believable, He would open himself up to the serious penalties promised To the queen’s detractors, as provided by the law, And which I told you about ­earlier. But in not d ­ oing so, he would be beset by his Treacherous failure of duty ­toward the king, And, if in time, the ­matter became evident, He, too, would receive the penalty of a cruel death.) The b­ rother well knows that if he repeats his s­ ister’s words to the king—if, in effect, he becomes a storyteller in his own right—he ­will himself be subject to this treason law and could conceivably lose his head. But if he remained ­silent, and if the story was somehow revealed in another manner to the king—­ that is, if it becomes someone e­ lse’s story to tell—­then he could still be con-



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victed of treason. Furthermore, the ­brother is keenly aware that, should he decide to tell the story himself, he w ­ ill be assuming a role very similar to that of the poet: his main concern is to make this outrageous story seem plausible, indeed to make it believable (“de faire croire effectz et entreprises”). Thus, ­after weighing t­ hese options, the ­brother decides to speak. Before telling the king, however, he enlists the help of two unnamed men who are also close to the king and to whom he has repeated the ­sister’s forbidden discourse: Deslibera de le faire scauoir À deux amiz les plus fauorisez Du Roy, afin que plus authorisez Fussent ensemble, & que plus de creance Receust de troys que d’vn seul l’asseurance. (394–398; emphasis added) (He resolved to make it known To two of the most favored friends Of the king, so that together they might hold more authority And that the testimony of three men Might be given greater credence than that of one man alone.) Once again, Carle reveals that the ­brother is concerned about believability and, furthermore, about the ­matter of authority in storytelling. Th ­ ere is much at stake h ­ ere, more so than in Carle’s own retelling of the tale for a French audience. The solution, for the ­brother, thus lies in multiplying the potential storytellers: the more who participate in revealing this tale, so his logic goes, the more believable it w ­ ill be. And by involving t­ hese par­tic­u­lar storytellers, he can address the ­matter of authority by invoking the proximity, intimacy, and favored status enjoyed by t­ hese two other men with re­spect to the king. The tale that is told by the b­ rother, however, differs from that told by the ­sister in significant ways. The s­ ister has named only one lover—­the queen’s own ­brother, George—­and has implicated Mark, the musician, as one who has more stories to tell. In the b­ rother’s retelling of this story to the king, the accusations are broadened to include a vast number of men—­too many to tally, he claims. ­These now include not only George but also Henry Norris, the king’s groom of the stool (and thus his most intimate associate), as well as Mark himself, who is once again cited as a potential source of further corroboration of this tale. And more details are added: the queen is said to be the one who has pursued ­these men, offering them pre­sents and other

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gestures of welcome. Yet, ­there is even more to tell, which the ­brother resists telling himself, but which he knows Henry ­will eventually hear about: “Car par le temps vous entendrez les choses / Qui de pre­sent sont en silence encloses” (441–442) (For, in time, you w ­ ill hear about ­things / That are, at pre­sent, shrouded in silence). Henry is, understandably, shocked by the allegations—or, rather, by this “tale,” for Carle self-­consciously uses the word “récit” ­here (449)—­yet he o­ rders an investigation, reminding the in­for­mants that the story had better turn out to be true or their lives would be at risk. Embedded in the accusations against Anne made by the ­sister to her ­brother and the ­brother to the king is thus another untold version of the story: the one that would be told by Mark Smeaton, a Flemish musician. The ­sister twice refers her b­ rother to Mark, who is clearly harboring knowledge about the ­whole sordid affair which, she predicts, he ­will readily recount to the ­brother, giving the speech of a lifetime: “Si ne voulez mon asseurance croire, / De Marc scaurez” (dit elle) “ceste histoire” (371–372) (“If you ­don’t wish to take my word for it, / You can learn about this story” [she says] “from Mark”); “Du demeurant Marc vous en comptera, / Et le discours de sa vie fera” (377–378) (“Mark ­will recount the rest to you, / And ­will make the speech of his life”). It is impor­tant to realize that the s­ ister is not explicit about any details except for the accusation of incest between Anne and her ­brother, George. Thus, Mark is, at that point, not specifically accused and is invoked only as a witness who w ­ ill confirm the ­sister’s story. Indeed, it would be hard to imagine that the ­sister could be so confident that Mark would readily incriminate himself by confessing his own involvement with the queen. Yet, history does indeed inform us that Mark was the only one of the five men to have confessed to the crime, apparently implicating o­ thers in the pro­cess. Mark’s confession has always been a bit troubling to t­ hose who believe in Anne’s innocence. Some have assumed that the confession could have been offered only in the course of unspeakable torture. But Carle’s poem hints of a dif­fer­ent possibility: that Mark was perhaps somewhat proud of having “served” or, to put it more coarsely, “ser­viced” the queen on three separate occasions: Et ce pendant Marc estoit en prison, Que l’on faisoit desia rendre raison Du cas estant contre luy imposé, Et sans tourment, d’vn sens bien reposé,



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Dit que d’amour la Royne a poursuyuie, Et que trois fois à couuert l’a seruie. (479–484) (And meanwhile, Mark was in prison: They ­were already making him account for The charges imposed against him, And, without duress, and with a sense of ­great calm, He says that he pursued the queen in love And that three times he ser­viced her in secret.) ­ ere was no need for torture, for Mark willingly engaged in what can be read Th as a naïve but sadly dangerous act of braggadocio on the part of a foreigner who might not have fully realized what was at stake. It is perhaps for this reason that the s­ ister was so sure Mark would corroborate her story even if it meant he would incriminate himself: the tale itself bestowed on him a certain stature that he did not enjoy in ­actual fact. Indeed, a historical text indicates that this had been made painfully obvious to Mark a few days before his arrest. As Anne ­later told her jailor, William Kingston, she had recently publicly reminded the musician, who, we are to presume, was infatuated with the queen, that she could not speak to him as she would to a gentleman, for he was “an inferior person.”31 By claiming intimacy with the queen—­whether in truth or in mere wishful thinking—­Mark could now establish himself as equal to the gentlemen who stood accused with him; his story, which ultimately cost him his life, thus bought him a mea­sure of standing as nothing ­else could. Other stories, however, remain untold in this poem. A ­ fter the king hears of Mark’s confession, he is persuaded of the veracity of the accusations. Yet before he imprisons his faithful servant Norris, he gives him the opportunity to tell his story personally, with the promise that he ­will not be harmed should he tell “the truth,” by which the king presumably means a confession of guilt. Norris refuses to admit any wrongdoing or, as he puts it, to say anything about which he knows nothing. Norris is thus summarily locked in the Tower of London where he is l­ater joined by several other men who are, by now, also suspected of committing adultery with the queen. ­Things left unsaid also play a significant role in the scaffold speeches delivered by Anne and her ­brother just before their executions, as recorded in this poem. George was the first of the accused men to be beheaded, and, as

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such, he plays the role of spokesman for all five alleged lovers. Scaffold speeches are rather formulaic: prisoners are expected to accept the justice of the law that condemned them, praise the king, ask ­others to pray that the monarch be granted a long life, ask for forgiveness of their sins, and request prayers for their own soul.32 This George does, but he omits another crucial component of the standard speech: namely, he does not admit his guilt in the crime for which he is charged. This lacuna is noted by the poet: “Ainsi fina ses propos, & ne dit / Qu’enuers le Roy eust meffaict ne mesdit” (1113–1114) (Thus he ended his speech, and he d ­ oesn’t say / That he had wronged or spoken ill of the king). Similarly, in her scaffold speech just before her execution, as the poet also notes, Anne refuses to relate to the spectators why she is in this predicament: “De vous narrer pouquoy ie suis icy / Ne seruiroit pour moy, ne vous aussi” (1239–1240) (To recount for you why I am ­here / Would serve neither me nor you). The verb the poet assigns to Anne—­“narrer”—is no doubt chosen to bring home the point that this component is a story left untold. By refusing to tell their own stories—­that is, by maintaining an unconventional and transgressive silence—­both Anne and George cast doubt on the veracity of the tales told by their accusers. So, are ­those stories true? This is a far more complex question than one might think at first blush. Indeed, ­there are vari­ous layers of truth or fiction that need to be examined h ­ ere. Did the “story” of Anne’s infidelity break in the way that Carle describes, through a conversation between b­ rother and ­sister? As noted, this par­tic­u­lar event is in fact unique to Carle’s poem among con­temporary sources (although it was re­imagined in a ­later short story). While some might be tempted, for this reason, to be suspicious of its veracity, at least one historian, namely George Bernard, believes that it is absolutely true. ­There is no reason to believe, he claims, that Carle in­ven­ted this episode, for “the details of how Anne’s alleged adulteries came to light are . . . ​incidental” to his purpose; but it is “­because of that very marginality that they are the more credible.”33 Nor does Bernard believe t­ here is reason to suspect that Carle (or the French ambassador) was deliberately fed misinformation by highly placed members of the En­glish court, which they would expect him to convey to France. The story does indeed coincide nicely with the “official” version that Henry’s right-­hand man and the chief prosecutor in the affair, Thomas ­Cromwell, tells to the En­glish diplomats stationed in France.34 Other historians, such as Eric Ives, assert, however, that this coincidence proves merely



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that ­Cromwell was himself the ultimate source of the accusations and that Carle was duped into believing this story as true.35 But Bernard pointedly won­ders why ­Cromwell would have wanted “to give him this story if it ­were not true”36 (emphasis added). ­Wouldn’t it have been more damning to Anne, he asks, if ­Cromwell had stated that she had been caught in flagrante dilecto rather than resort to this kind of hearsay? As for the possibility that Carle himself made up the entire episode, with or without C ­ romwell’s help, it is pos­si­ble to entertain a tertium quid that neither Ives nor Bernard has pursued: that is, that Carle learned from some source that one of the queen’s ladies made ­these accusations but that, for the purpose of adding interest to his story, he in­ven­ted the highly dramatic moment of confrontation between b­ rother and s­ ister. Certainly, as we have already noted, the precise wording of the confrontation could not have been known to anyone but the two ­people involved in this conversation. Moreover, the literary allusion that opens the ­sister’s discourse points to this conversation as being the handi­work of Carle, who embellished it with a sense of dramatic intensity as well as literary devices of his own design. Indeed, ­these passages are so dramatic that they appear not unlike a theatrical dialogue that begs to be performed. Thus, while ­there may have been an accusation originating in Anne’s inner circle of ladies-­in-­waiting, it may well not have come about through an encounter between a s­ ister and ­brother in quite this dramatic a fashion. Yet, the scene remains a plausible one and does not contradict any facts known to historians. And, indeed, it would not have been the only dramatic scene to have been played out in the Tudor Privy Chamber, for, as Seth Lerer asserts, “ruses, lies, and dramatic irruptions are the currency of early Henrician power,” lending a certain theatricality to much that took place amid courtiers during Henry’s reign.37 However, even if this dialogue w ­ ere totally accurate, ­there is still another layer of truth to be unraveled, and that is precisely this: Is the s­ ister herself a reliable narrator or was this accusation made, as Carle himself implies, in the heat of the moment, to divert attention from her sins to another’s? Despite being an admitted sinner, can the ­sister be a credible witness to another’s be­ hav­ior, or is she merely a good storyteller herself? It is tempting to believe that the ­sister’s moral failings deprive her of any credibility, but one must remember that such a tale would have been considered high treason, in light of the ordinances forbidding negative speech about the queen. Cleverly sidestepping this brotherly admonishment for bad be­hav­ior could certainly have been

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achieved by pursuing a less dangerous route. And Mark’s corroborating testimony, which she invited her b­ rother to seek, might have gone in yet another direction and have had a far from favorable outcome, from her perspective. The story, if it w ­ ere not true, would thus have been quite a risky one to tell. From this perspective, it is the very transgressive nature of this speech that serves to guarantee its authenticity. Perhaps a more intriguing possibility to consider h ­ ere is that the s­ ister’s story was not a deliberate fabrication but rather a misreading of signs that ­were ultimately ambiguous. Bernard himself raises this possibility, saying that no one, not even one of Anne’s ladies, would have actually witnessed illicit sexual intercourse between the queen and one of her accused lovers.38 Instead, what many may have seen is simply a series of unusual comings and ­goings in the queen’s chamber at odd times. The lady in question, then, has merely drawn inferences from t­hese signs that she herself thought w ­ ere reasonable and presented them to her b­ rother as ­actual facts. If this w ­ ere the case, we once again find ourselves in a m ­ iddle ground between truth and fiction. Looking at Carle’s poem more broadly, one might say that t­ here is much ­here that points to reading and misreading signs as a structuring princi­ple of the text. As we have seen, the very encounter between the siblings begins by invoking the presence of a sign of dissolute be­hav­ior—­and one that is ultimately unnamed and thus ambiguous. So, ­there is a sense in which that ­whole episode serves as a cautionary tale regarding the interpretation of signs that may or may not lead to the truth. Elsewhere in the poem, Carle indeed alludes to several other “signs” whose interpretation—­that is, the story they generate—is problematic. Of course, on the one hand, t­here are conventional signs with unequivocal meaning, such as the ceremonial axe that is turned away from the defendants before and during the trial but that is abruptly turned t­ oward them if they are condemned. While this sign might require explanation in order to be properly interpreted—­especially by foreigners who would not be familiar with this ritual of En­glish law—it is never ambiguous and can never be misinterpreted. On the other hand, Carle’s text is replete with other signs that are inherently ambiguous and whose interpretation can be correctly judged perhaps only in hindsight. H ­ ere, one thinks of Carle’s reference to signs that should have forewarned Anne of the tragedy about to befall her—­signs, Carle says, that came from God but that she ignored to her peril—­namely, a fire that broke out in her chambers and, more tragically, a miscarriage that she suffered upon hearing the news that Henry had taken a



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serious fall from his ­horse. Had she known how to interpret ­these signs, Carle implies, she might have been able to repent from her sins, and this conversion, or turning ­toward God, would result in a diversion from the tragic course on which she had embarked, ultimately leading to a far dif­fer­ent outcome. But Anne—­unlike the poet himself (who admittedly benefits from hindsight)— is unable to read signs properly and doomed to follow her road to perdition. As can be seen from this analy­sis, Carle has taken an active role in shaping and interpreting the events of May 1536. Like many verse histories of the late M ­ iddle Ages and early modern period, Carle’s poem demonstrates “a preoccupation with themes of chance, change, and destiny.”39 It is ultimately “a moral lesson to display God’s hand in determining the affairs of man.” 40 But, unlike many other historians, Carle admits, at the beginning of his poem, that he is perplexed by what he has just witnessed: the world has not seen the likes of this story, which, as he realizes, defies literary convention by beginning as a comedy and ending as a tragedy. To convey this story to his French audience back home, Carle has thus had to construct an unpre­ce­dented text that bridges the worlds of diplomacy and poetry, truth and fiction. It is a text whose form and content thus fittingly convey the nature of ­these “cas nouueaux & choses merueilleuses” (unpre­ce­dented events and wondrous t­ hings) that make up the story of the life and death of Anne Boleyn. Notes 1. As recorded by William Kingston in Ecclesiastical Memorials, Relating Chiefly to Religion, and the Reformation of It . . . ​­Under King Henry VIII . . . ​, ed. John Strype, vol. 1, pt. 1 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1822), 435. 2. For more on Carle, see L.-­C . Harmer, “Lancelot de Carle: Sa Vie,” Humanisme et Re­nais­sance 6, no. 4 (1939): 443–474; and François Rouget, “Un Évêque lettré au temps des Valois: Lancelot de Carle (vers 1500–1568),” Seizième Siècle 11 (2015): 119–134. 3. The poem, which carries no uniform title, survives in multiple manuscripts and one early modern printed edition (which is unreliable). In this paper, quotations ­will be drawn from the manuscript ­housed in the British Library [Additional MS 40662], with necessary emendations. Translations into En­glish are my own. For a complete edition and translation, see The Story of the Death of Anne Boleyn: A Poem by Lancelot de Carle, trans., ed., and essays by JoAnn DellaNeva (Tempe, AZ: Arizona Center for Medieval and Re­nais­sance Studies Press, 2021). Subsequent references to the manuscript w ­ ill be made by line number, in parenthetical notation in the text. The author gratefully acknowledges permission from ACMRS Press to quote from this edition and translation and to rework material from its essays. 4. Chapuys’s letters are summarized in En­glish in J. S. Brewer, J. Gairdner, and R. H. Brodie, eds., Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, of the Reign of Henry VIII

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(London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1846–1932) (hereafter cited as LP). Electronic access is available at British History Online, http://­w ww​.­british​-h ­ istory​.­ac​.­uk​/­search​ /­series​/­letters​-p­ apers​-­hen8. For letters pertinent to the fall of Anne Boleyn, see ­those reprinted in The Anne Boleyn Papers, ed. Elizabeth Norton (Stroud, UK: Amberley Press, 2013). The original letters are written in French (since Chapuys was a native Savoyard) and ­housed in the Vienna Archives. 5. See, for example, British Library Add. MS 8715, fols. 248v–249r (summarized in LP 10.838) and BL Add. MS 8715, fols. 252r–254v (summarized in LP 10.956), both of which are letters written by the bishop of Faenza to Mons. Ambrogio, dated May 10 and May 24, 1536, respectively. See also Viscount Hannart to Charles V, May 26, 1536, BL Add. MS 28588, fols. 281r–283v (summarized in LP 10.973); Dr. Ortiz to the Empress, Isabella of Portugal, June 2, 1536, BL Add. MS 28588, fols. 284r–285r (summarized in LP 10.1043); and Hannart to Isabella of Portugal, June 2, 1536, BL Add. MS 28588, fols. 286r–288r (summarized in LP 10.1044). 6. See Timothy Hampton, Fictions of Embassy: Lit­er­a­ture and Diplomacy in Early Modern Eu­rope (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2009), 51. ­Here Hampton is paraphrasing Tasso, “Il Messaggiero,” in Prose, ed. Ettore Mazzali (Milan: Ricciardi, 1959), 69. 7. See Adrian Armstrong and Sarah Kay, Knowing Poetry: Verse in Medieval France from the “Rose” to the “Rhétoriqueurs” (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011). 8. Armstrong and Kay, Knowing Poetry, 1. Nicolas de Senlis’s contention is found in his Chronique dite Saintongeaise, ed. André de Mandach (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1970), 256. The second, anonymous quotation is found in Paul Meyer, ed., “Prologue en vers français d’une histoire perdue de Philippe-­Auguste,” Romania 6 (1877): 494–498; see esp. 498 for this quotation. 9. The original quotation is “Por mielz dire la verité / & por tretier sans fauseté.” See Meyer, “Prologue en vers français,” 498. 10. Armstrong and Kay, Knowing Poetry, 1. 11. Armstrong and Kay, Knowing Poetry, 2–3. 12. For more on texts purporting to give this type of report, see Andrea Frisch, The Invention of the Eyewitness: Witness and Testimony in Early Modern France (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004). 13. Armstrong and Kay, Knowing Poetry, 2–3. 14. See Victor Brombert, “Opening Signals in Narrative,” New Literary History 11, no. 3 (1980): 489–502. 15. For an En­glish translation of that text, see Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy, trans. and intro. Victor E. Watts (1969; reprint, London: Penguin Books, 1999); see esp. bk. 2.1 for this image. 16. This is Soissons MS 201; see fol. 19r for this marginal annotation. 17. For ­these statements regarding Carle’s inadequacies and his choice of the verse form, see L’Ecclésiaste de Salomon, paraphrasé en vers françois, par Lancelot de Carles (Paris: Nicolas Edoard, 1561), “Au Roy,” Aij and B. 18. For a modern edition that includes t­ hese poems by Carle, see Blasons du corps féminin, ed. Jean-­Clarence Lambert (Paris: Union générale d’Editions, 1996). 19. Armstrong and Kay, Knowing Poetry, 2.



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20. Pierre de Ronsard, Les Amours (1552), ed. Paul Laumonier (Paris: Nizet, 1982); this is poem 98. 21. Laumonier makes it clear in his footnote to this sonnet: “d’après les Actes de François Ier et L’Itinéraire de Francçois Ier, la Cour ne passa pas un seul jour de 1546 à Blois” (according to the Acts of Francis I and the Itinerary of Francis I, the Court did not spend a single day of 1546 at Blois) (97n2). 22. François Rigolot, Poétique et onomastique: L’Exemple de la Re­nais­sance (Geneva: Droz, 1977), 204: “Si la date 1545 n’est pas retenue dans le texte alors que c’est à cette date que la cour séjourna à Blois, c’est sans doute parce qu’en rimeur averti Ronsard savait que la rime en cinq est impossible et qu’en ajoutant une année il s’ouvrait le champ beaucoup plus riche da la qua­dru­ple reprise en ‘six’ ” (If the date 1545 is not retained in the text although it was at that date that the court stayed in Blois, it is undoubtedly ­because, as a savvy poet, Ronsard knew that a rhyme with “cinq” (five) is impossible and that in adding one year he would open up for himself a far richer field for the qua­dru­ple rhyme with the word “six”). 23. See, for example, the claim made by Charles-­Hugues Le Febvre de Saint-­Marc in his preface to Histoire d’Angleterre par M. Rapin de Thoyras, nouvelle édition augmentée des notes de M. Tindal, vol. 1 (The Hague, 1749), 63: the author of L’Histoire de Anne de Boulant (known in this work via an anonymous manuscript) “pouvoit écrire tout librement, puisqu’il envoioit son ouvrage au delà de la mer et qu’il . . . ​nous auroit sans doute appris . . . ​des choses que les Historiens Anglois de ce tems-­là n’ont pas osé dire” (could write quite freely, ­because he was sending his work overseas and . . . ​he could undoubtedly have apprised us . . . ​of ­things which the En­glish historians of that time did not dare say). 24. While Carle is the only con­temporary historical source that speaks of this conversation between a b­ rother and a s­ ister, a similar scenario is evoked in a somewhat l­ ater novella by Matteo Bandello. See “De le molte mogli del re d’Inghilterra e morte de le due di quelle, con altri modi e varii accidenti intervenuti” (novella 62), in La terza parte de le novelle, ed. Delmo Maestri (Turin: Edizioni dell’Orso, 1995), 287–293. For an En­ glish translation, see “Of the Many Wives of the King of ­England and the Death of Two of Them,” in The Novels of Matteo Bandello . . . ​Now First Done into En­glish . . . ​by John Payne, vol. 6 (London: Villon Society, 1890), 103–113 (­here, 107–109). Bandello’s story was shortly afterward adapted into French. See François de Belleforest, “Mort Miserable de deux amans, ausquels le Roy d’Angleterre Henry defendit de se marier ensemble, & autres choses sur la vie dudict Roy” (story 36), in Le second tome des Histoires Tragiques, extraites de l’italien de Bandel (Paris: Robert le Mangnier, 1566), 433–462. 25. See, for example, George Bernard, who says, “What the poet meant by ‘showing many signs of loving ­others by dishonest love’ can only be that the countess was pregnant. In what other ways does sleeping around affect someone’s appearance?” In Anne Boleyn: Fatal Attractions (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2011), 154; emphasis added. 26. The Treason Law of 1534 spelled out the pos­si­ble offenses and punishments already implied in the Act of Succession (formally passed in 1534): “If any person or persons . . . ​do maliciously wish, ­w ill or desire by words or writing, or by craft imagine,

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invent, practice or attempt any bodily harm to be done or committed to the King’s most royal person, the Queen’s or their heir’s apparent, or to deprive them or any of them of the dignity, title or name of their royal estates, or slanderously and maliciously publish and pronounce, by express writing or words, that the King our sovereign lord, should be heretic, schismatic, tyrant, infidel or usurper of the crown . . . ​­shall be adjudged traitors; and that ­every such offence . . . ​­shall be reputed, accepted and adjudged high treason,” the penalty for which would be death. See G. R. Elton, ed. and intro., The Tudor Constitution: Documents and Commentary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960), 61–63. 27. On this point, see Sharon L. Jansen, Dangerous Talk and Strange Be­hav­ior: W ­ omen and Popu­lar Re­sis­tance to the Reforms of Henry VIII (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996), 77; see also Rebecca Lemon, Treason by Words: Lit­er­a­ture, Law, and Rebellion in Shakespeare’s ­England (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2006), 5. 28. See for example Eric Ives, who states, “­Because of . . . ​the immediacy of his writing, de Carles’s account has been assumed to have original authority. Caution should, in fact, have warned other­wise. How could de Carles report events not accessible to the public?” See Ives, The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn, “The Most Happy” (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 60. Similarly, Retha M. Warnicke points to discrepancies between Carle’s rendition and the a­ ctual facts (such as a change in the chronological order of the ­trials, which, it is assumed, was enacted for dramatic effect) and won­ders “why the entire poem should not be viewed from the perspective of poetic license.” See Warnicke, “The Fall of Anne Boleyn Revisited,” En­glish Historical Review 108, no. 428 (1993): 653–665; see esp. 660 for this quotation. 29. See Satires, 2.63, in Juvenal and Persius, ed. and trans. Susanna Morton Braund (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), 154–155: “Dat veniam corvis, vexat censura columbas” (That’s a judgment that acquits the ravens and condemns the doves). The maxim also made its way into the Adages of Erasmus, so it is certainly pos­si­ble that the lady-­in-­waiting could have been familiar with the proverb as a part of popu­lar wisdom. Nevertheless, given its classical origin, it may well be h ­ ere to serve as a reminder of authorial presence, especially in this re­created dialogue. 30. Stephen Greenblatt, “How It Must Have Been,” New York Review of Books, ­November  5, 2009, http://­w ww​.­nybooks​.­com​/­articles​/­2009​/­11​/­05​/­how​-­it​-­must​-­have​ -­been​/­. 31. In Anne’s words, as quoted by Kingston, she “found him standing in the round win­dow in my chamber of presence. ‘And I asked him why he was so sad. And he answered and said it was no m ­ atter.’ And then she said, ‘You may not look to have me speak to you, as I would do to a nobleman, ­because ye be an inferior person.’ ‘No, no,’ said he, ‘a look sufficeth me: and thus fare you well.’ ” See Ecclesiastical Memorials, vol. 1, bk. 1, 436. I have added punctuation h ­ ere for further clarity. The letters have subsequently been transcribed, with lacunae indicating where the letters ­were ­later damaged by fire, in Henry Ellis, ed., Original Letters Illustrative of En­glish History, vol. 2 (London: Harding, Triphook, and Lepard, 1824). For this par­tic­u­lar exchange, see p. 58. See also Norton, The Anne Boleyn Papers, 334–335, for a transcription.



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32. For more on the expectations of scaffold speeches, see Nadia Bishai, “ ‘Which ­ ing Had Not before Been Seen’: The Rituals of Rhe­toric of the Execution of Anne Th Boleyn, E ­ ngland’s First Criminal Queen,” in The Rituals and Rhe­toric of Queenship, Medieval to Early Modern, ed. Liz Oakley-­Brown and Louise J. Wilkinson (Dublin: Four Courts, 2009), 171–185. Also consult Katherine Royer, The En­glish Execution Narrative 1200–1700 (London: Routledge, 2016), 61–84. 33. Bernard, Anne Boleyn, 160. 34. C ­ romwell writes that the queen’s “abomination both in incontinent living and other offences . . . ​was so rank and common that the ladies of her privy chamber could not contain it within their breasts. It came to the ears of some of his grace’s council, that with their duty to his majesty they could not conceal it from him.” See BL Add. MS 25114, fols. 160r–161r (­here 160r–­v), paraphrased in LP 10.873. 35. See E. W. Ives, “The Fall of Anne Boleyn Reconsidered,” En­glish Historical Review 107, no. 424 (1992): 651–664, esp. 659: “De Carles is effectively ­Cromwell with literary embellishments.” See also Ives, The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn, 61. 36. Bernard, Anne Boleyn, 158–159. 37. See Seth Lerer, Courtly Letters in the Age of Henry VIII: Literary Culture and the Arts of Deceit (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 37. 38. Bernard, Anne Boleyn, 191. 39. Armstrong and Kay, Knowing Poetry, 50. 40. Lacey Baldwin Smith, Anne Boleyn, The Queen of Controversy: A Biographical Essay (Stroud, UK: Amberley Press, 2014), 13. The author is ­here speaking of the early modern conception of history in general and not in par­tic­u­lar about Carle’s text.

c ha p te r sev e n

In Defense of Stories Henri Estienne Reclaims the Story Collection for a New Readership Emily E. Thompson

The debate over the value of Herodotus’s Histories is not unique to sixteenth-­ century France. Indeed, historians t­oday continue to argue about w ­ hether 1 Herodotus the storyteller was the f­ ather of history or of lies. However, the printing of multiple editions of the Histories and translations of this text throughout the sixteenth c­ entury indicate an interest specific to the period.2 Henri Estienne played a central role in the rehabilitation of Herodotus and in the trans-­European debate over his approach to history. In addition to a Latin and a Greek edition of the Histories, Estienne published three defenses of Herodotus, two in Latin and one in French, in the span of four years (1566– 1570). The significance of Herodotus for Estienne was multifold, as Estienne leveraged the Greek historian, for example, to promote the superiority of the French language and the truth of Reformed religion. The main thrust of Estienne’s defense, though, is to depict Herodotus as a model for mining oral and literary traditions in order to tell the story of one’s times. The Histories, then, become a kind of “laboratory of narrative possibilities and techniques”3 for Estienne as he explores the way French literary and oral traditions can be used to reflect his own era. The “history” that Estienne praises and imitates is more of an inquiry—­one of the pos­si­ble translations for the ancient Greek word historia—­into the potential of storytelling. In the longest of his defenses, the 1566 Traité preparatif à l’Apologie pour Herodote (hereafter referred to as Apologie) Estienne claims that Herodotus’s 152



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Histories are unjustly maligned by French readers, who lack the context and the humility to understand them properly. In order to convince readers of Herodotus’s credibility, Estienne compares ancient examples of vice to con­ temporary French incidents. The French stories overwhelm the text, however, far outnumbering references to the Histories themselves.4 A year ­later, Estienne published a new edition of the Apologie that included an Avertissement responding to criticism of his work. The Avertissement renders Estienne’s con­ temporary focus even more explicit, articulating a new defense no longer of Herodotus’s Histories, but now primarily of Estienne’s own narratives. The decision to publish vernacular stories of any kind seems an odd one for Estienne. In his address explaining the Apologie to “un sien amy” (a friend), Estienne reveals an ambivalence about having chosen this kind of text: “Donnant le premier traict de plume à ce livre, auquel je descry plusieurs actes merveilleux, j’ay bien pensé que ceste mienne entreprise seroit mise la premiere du comte des merveilles, par ceux qui sçavent en quelles occupations je suis ordinairement emprisonné dont le public (j’enten la communauté des amateurs des letters) peut recevoir moins de plaisir, mais plus de proufit que de cest oeuvre”5 (With the first stroke of the pen for this book in which I describe multiple marvelous acts, I realized that my own enterprise would be the first to be counted among the marvels by ­those familiar with the activities that ordinarily keep me tied up [imprisoned]. From ­these, the public—­that is to say, lovers of letters—­will derive less plea­sure, but more profit, than from this work).6 Estienne had inherited the print shop and its Geneva setting from his f­ ather, along with a serious Calvinist and humanist agenda consisting of pedagogic and religious texts as well as ancient Classics. The Apologie was only the second published work by Estienne in the French language.7 In a time of religious propaganda and war, convivial exchanges among oral storytellers w ­ ere largely supplanted by the printing press as a means of transmission, and yet Estienne’s text is peppered with French stories relayed in a style that intentionally evokes the oral tradition. As the citation above suggests, Estienne was seeking a way out of his professional “prison.” Indeed, since 1562, he had been overtly changing the orientation of his publications and si­mul­ta­neously seeking to widen his potential readership. The paratext for the Apologie reveals not only Estienne’s envisioning of dif­fer­ent categories of readers, but also his castigation of vari­ous kinds of bad readers (ignorant, hypocritical, ­etc.) at whose hands his text has suffered. The paratextual material reflects multiple attempts to frame and to explain Estienne’s work, thus

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enumerating con­temporary “misreadings” that Estienne c­ ounters and re­ orients. The contested readings suggest ways in which collections of tales and their reception had evolved since their e­ arlier wave of French popularity in the 1540s. Estienne likewise comments on the way the writing of tales has evolved. He cites two authors who ­were part of the French tradition (Marguerite de Navarre and Bonaventure des Périers) and positions his storytelling in relation to theirs. Many of the criticisms leveled at prose narratives as described by Estienne in the Avertissement could be summed up ­under a single damning term—­that of contes, or stories denigrated as frivolous and vulgar and associated with the oral tradition. Estienne starts his Avertissement by rejecting this characterization of his own stories, proposing instead the term histoires8 (histories). In so d ­ oing he perpetuates two traditions of French storytelling collections. First, he focuses on nomenclature as one way of clarifying his authorial intention. Second, he undermines that very clarity by inconsistently naming the short prose narratives he integrates into the larger text. The choice of histoire recalls, of course, Herodotus’s Histories with which Estienne is drawing an intentional parallel. The association with history would appear to privilege education over entertainment. Right a­ fter distinguishing between the inadmissible conte and the more respectable and intellectually demanding histoire, however, Estienne returns to the term conte to refer to his stories and alternates between the two terms for the rest of the Avertissement. More confusing still, he refers to his authorship with modifiers that reinforce the link to the oral storytelling tradition of the disparaged contes: “les contes par moy recitez” 9 (the tales told by me). Estienne’s entire defense not only fails to make the reader forget the delightful, fictional tale of oral tradition, but it in fact subliminally recalls it at regular intervals. At the same time, Estienne redeems contes by matching ­every critique with an opposing endorsement. In the end, the reader is uncertain ­whether Estienne’s stories are too much like the contes, or not enough so. Estienne seems to be making two defenses, one for serious, didactic tales in a carefully controlled frame and the other for titillating and popu­lar stories scattered throughout his work. This two-­pronged defense situates his text at the crossroads of dif­fer­ent French traditions of literary tales. The similarity with ­earlier collections of French tales might not be immediately apparent. Certainly, Estienne takes pains to distance himself from vernacular fiction in general. When he alludes to examples of French lit­er­a­



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ture, it is usually to distance himself from them, for example by denouncing “des trais Rabelaitiques”10 (Rabelaisian barbs). But this did not prevent him from ­later being called the “Pantagruel de Genève”11 (Geneva Pantagruel). And Estienne himself made a point of adding Rabelais to his index.12 His explicit rejections of authors of fiction, in fact, follow a pattern of French sixteenth-­ century authors who “cannibalized” their literary models, since “le combat idéologique functionne sur le mode de l’appropriation, de l’assimilation”13 (ideological combat functions through appropriation, through assimilation). One might think of Marguerite de Navarre’s devisants, contrasting their storytelling proj­ect with that of Boccacio’s overly estheticized one, for example, before closely following his model. Indeed, Estienne refers to Marguerite de Navarre as well as to her secretary and fellow conteur Bonaventure Des Périers. Des Périers’s Nouvelles Récréations et Joyeux Devis is cited as the anti-­model par excellence for story collections.14 Estienne is more respectful of Marguerite, whose credibility as an irreproachable authority figure is exploited to reinforce the veracity of the tales Estienne chooses to tell. But h ­ ere, too, Estienne is careful to circumscribe her influence. He promises to abridge her excessively long stories and corrects her on minute details, attributing neither religious nor stylistic significance to her work. While he ostensibly rejects the Nouvelles Récréations et Joyeux Devis and denies any structural or ideological indebtedness to the Heptaméron, ­these references surreptitiously reveal Estienne’s literary models. From the Nouvelles Récréations, he borrows both diegetic topoi, like that of the sympathetic pickpocket, and the adversarial tone of Des Périers’s narrator. But he also adopts central themes like the championing of the French vernacular in all of its regional diversity and an under­lying warning against credulity. Estienne lifts several specific stories and a gendered social analy­sis from the Heptaméron.15 He relies most heavi­ly on Marguerite de Navarre, however, as an example of a respectable moral figure who authored a collection of stories, thus ennobling the form. If Estienne takes special care to denigrate Des Périers, it is ­because Calvin had depicted the author as particularly pernicious, guilty of spreading “le venin de [son] impieté”16 (the venom of his impiety). Estienne needed, therefore, to forestall any rapprochement between their texts. How, then, should we interpret the undeniable similarity between their storytelling? Estienne would have needed compelling reasons to adopt this par­tic­u­lar literary orientation and to risk his reputation and publishing f­ uture in Geneva.

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Madeleine Jeay’s study of fifteenth-­and sixteenth-­century French story collections can perhaps point us ­toward a pos­si­ble explanation. According to her, ­these collections constituted “un laboratoire d’expérimentation de l’écriture narrative”17 (an experimental laboratory of narrative writing). As such, they would have offered Estienne a structure, at once familiar to readers and flexible enough to adapt to Estienne’s authorial ambitions and to con­ temporary concerns. The structural ele­ments that Estienne retained from the French story collections from the past—­a narrative frame, a repre­sen­ta­ tion of polyphony, and alternating narratives and commentary—­lent themselves particularly well to Estienne’s authorial proj­ect. Let us first consider the significance of the narrative frame for Estienne. In his theoretical study of stories, Thomas Leitch identifies their defining quality as their dependence on context: “narratology must begin by recognizing the fundamentally transactional nature of stories.”18 Certainly French conteurs realized the transactional nature of stories as they created modified frames to recontextualize older narratives and give them new meaning. What better a literary form for Estienne to adopt, then, in his defense of Herodotus, whose histories he believed had been misunderstood ­because they ­were ripped out of their linguistic, historical, and cultural contexts: “Aucuns, sans avoir esgard au ­grand changement qui est presque en toutes choses entre ce temps là et le nostre, veulent que le naturel et la maniere de vivre des hommes d’alors se rapporte tellement aux nostres, qu’ils n’ayent pris plaisir qu’à ce qui nous plaist. Et ne se contentans de ceci, veulent trouver convenance entre l’estat des republiques et des royaumes d’ailleurs, et autres gouvernemens de peuple, avec ceux que nous voyons aujourd’hui”19 (Some, without consideration of the significant changes that have occurred in almost every­thing between that period of time and our own, believe that the natu­ral state and way of living of men before us coincides so neatly with ours that ­these men would only have found plea­sure in that which pleases us. And, not content with this, they seek conformity between other republics, kingdoms, and governments of ­peoples and ­those that we see ­today). Estienne criticizes the same kind of acontextual reading of con­temporary material.20 By belaboring the importance of his own frame for the interpretation of stories whose significance could only be controlled by this device, Estienne both preaches contextualized reading in his metatext and practices it in his own storytelling. All the while, however, he is transposing ele­ments borrowed from other French story collections and forcing them into a new frame.



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The framing of stories also figures centrally in the criticism of the Apologie that Estienne addresses in the Avertissement. He seems anxious to establish that the stories in his text resulted from a deliberate and thorough se­lection pro­cess: “Il y a grande difference de faire un ramas de contes pour seulement donner du passetemps, ou d’en trouver de propres et convenables pour confirmer et comme signer ou cacheter un si g­ rand nombre de tels discours”21 (­There is a big difference between gathering a hodgepodge of tales solely to pass the time and finding appropriate and suitable ones to confirm and, as it ­were, to give a stamp of approval to such a large number of ­these discourses). The word ramas (hodgepodge) condemns both the arbitrary assemblage and the worthlessness of the stories thus joined together. Estienne claims, in contrast, that his choice was further legitimized by the approbation of unnamed additional authorities: “Car entr’un ­grand nombre de contes appartenans à chacun point que j’avois à traiter, j’ay choisi ceux qui par l’opinion de plusieurs juges competens se trouvoyent les plus admirables (j’excepte seulement quleques endroits où je n’avois si bien à choisir)”22 (Since from among a ­great number of tales linked to each point that I was to treat, I chose t­ hose judged the most admirable according to the opinion of multiple competent judges [with the exception of only a few areas where I did not have much to choose from]). Estienne denounces critics, on the other hand, for their arbitrary and often partisan objections. He contests the fairness of doctors, for example, who condemn his decision to include stories denouncing dishonest physicians. According to Estienne, their oversensitivity led them to disregard the overarching thesis of the book and, instead, to interpret discreet cases as a statement about the practice of medicine as a ­whole. Estienne takes responsibility for stories embedded in a specific context, not for the selective reading of his critics. The frame is also closely linked to the second structural feature of the French nouvelle tradition that Estienne exploits. The frame ensures a strong narrative voice in addition to the voices of characters in the individual stories. In their imitation of the oral storytelling tradition, French nouvelles capture a multiplicity of voices with the differentiation necessary for a verbal exchange. Nelly Labère, in fact, sees the story collection’s function as that of “thésauriser et transmettre une parole menacée par la perte”23 (collect[ing] and transmit[ting] a spoken word threatened with extinction). In Estienne’s case, that parole is double: on the one hand, the Greek language of Herodotus that is understood by so few and then, in his view, poorly translated; on the other, the colorful French of the oral tradition, disappearing in a new world of print.

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Starting in 1565, Estienne’s oeuvre gravitated more and more ­toward ­these linguistic preoccupations. The popularizing of Herodotus in accessible modern editions represents an attempt to convey for less-­well-­educated readers the qualities of the Greek language through informed translations: “Plusieurs auteurs, et principalement les Grecs, qui estans leus en leur language naturel par ceux qui en ont congnoissance suffisante, ont la meilleure grace du monde, et donnent contentement non seulement à l’oreille, mais aussi à l’esprit, sont traduits si pietrement en François, en Italien, en Espagnol, qu’il y a autant de difference de lire leurs livres Grecs ou telles traductions d’iceux, qu’il y auroit de voir le visage d’une mesme personne, quand elle seroit en tresbonne disposition, ou quand après fort longue maladie elle commenceroit à rendre les derniers souspirs”24 (Several authors, and principally Greek ones, when read in their natu­ral language by t­hose with a sufficient understanding of it, are among the most elegant and give satisfaction not only to the ear but also to the spirit. But they are so poorly translated into French, Italian, and Spanish that ­there is as much dif­fer­ence between reading their Greek books and translations of ­these as ­there would be in seeing the face of a person in an excellent state of health or ­after a very long illness and breathing their last). In the Apologie, Estienne did not set out to translate Herodotus’s Greek, however, but instead his own Latin version of a defense of the Histories. He explains that this translation did not go as he had planned. Instead of communicating the ideas from his Apologie, he writes a completely dif­fer­ent text, swept along, he claims, by new ideas.25 Rather than well-­developed ideas, however, the text is a proliferation of colorful French examples that amplify his “translation.” In ­these vernacular anecdotes, Estienne recognizes a profound link to Herodotus’s own Greek: “C’est qu’outre ce que nostre language retient plus du Grec generalement qu’aucun autre . . . ​, je di et maintien que particulierement il n’y a auteur Grec de ceux qui sont jusques à pre­sent venus en lumiere . . . ​qui s’accorde si bien avec nostre language, voire à l’intelligence duquel la congnoissance de nostre language soit si proufitable”26 (Besides the fact that our language retains more Greek in general than any other language does, I declare and maintain that t­here is no other specific Greek author among ­those who have come to light thus far, who is in such perfect concordance with our language and with the understanding that the knowledge of our language advances). He openly admits that playing with language, using the flexibility of French to create new words, procures ­great satisfaction for him: “On voit bien que je les ay forgez à plaisir”27 (One can easily see that I molded them accord-



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ing to my own whims). Estienne admires linguistic dexterity, even when it takes the form of pickpockets’ jargon.28 The polyphony, the dialogism of a collection of stories, thus empowered Estienne to experiment with the French language, to revel in its dif­fer­ent registers, all the while maintaining a coherent and acceptably scholarly authorial voice when defining the purpose of his text. This attempt to recall the spoken vernacular attracted specific censure. The Geneva Council reproached Estienne for indulging in unnecessary colloquialisms that w ­ ere vulgar both in style and content.29 What they deemed obscene, Estienne terms a question of style. Although admitting his occasional vulgarity, Estienne situates his excesses in the context of a new literary tendency: “Combien que je sçache qu[e] . . . ​la coustume soit aujourdhuy en tels escrits de s’en eslongner [d’un style sobre] le plus qu’il est pos­si­ble”30 (Although I am well aware that . . . ​the custom ­today in such writings is to distance oneself as much as pos­si­ble [from a sober style]). He thereby counterbalances the Council’s rebukes with t­ hose that other readers could level at him. Accustomed to piquant oral tales and dicey fiction in the vernacular, they would find his work dull rather than scandalous. Estienne seems almost wistful as he distinguishes between the liberating oral storytelling mode and the limiting expectations for text: “Mais on est contraint de se gouverner autrement à l’endroit des lecteurs qu’on ne feroit à l’endroit des auditeurs”31 (But one is constrained to conduct oneself differently with readers than one would have done with an audience). Written lit­er­a­ture, he argues, must re­spect strict generic rules about linguistic registers, and only in dialogue or comedies can authors permit themselves to delight in a colorful vernacular.32 ­Behind this unseemly language, the Council suspected ideas that similarly lacked religious gravitas.33 This kind of criticism recalls an accusation leveled at story collections from their literary beginnings. The defense of the ludic side of storytelling had, by 1567, become almost a generic ele­ment of the prefaces to such collections. Estienne’s response in the Avertissement appears at first conventional. The Horatian defense of plea­sure and utility punctuates all of Estienne’s original paratextual material: the four lines of verse on his title page, the pages entitled “Au Lecteur” (To the Reader) and “A Un Sien Ami” (To a Friend), and the preface. He returns to this topoi in the Avertissement but displaces the profitable instruction to his greater corpus rather than reiterating the usefulness of the Apologie itself. He refers to the Apologie as “un ­grand bastiment imparfaict”34 (a large and imperfect construction) with only the “ jeu de paumes et quelques galeries pour se pourmener”35 (ball court

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and several galleries for strolling) as yet completed. Th ­ ese spaces of leisure would represent the Apologie, whereas “le plus necessaire”36 (the most necessary) presumably refers to the editions of the Histories themselves or perhaps to the “autres ouvrages tant Grecs que Latins”37 (other works in Greek as well as in Latin) that have split his time and attention. From the latter, Estienne promises that “les hommes lettrez peuvent tirer autant de proufit qu’il reçoivent de plaisir de cestuy-­ci”38 (learned men can derive as much profit as they procure plea­sure from this one). Nonetheless, Estienne adamantly denies that he wrote the Apologie for pure entertainment value, presenting its popu­lar style as a way of accomplishing a didactic aim.39 More open to the notion of serio ludere (serious play) than the Genevan syndics and ministers, twenty-­first c­ entury scholars of French lit­er­a­ture have brought critical attention to early modern satirical texts. Proposing readings that confront the irreverent with the devout, the recreational with the po­liti­cal, they have uncovered serious intellectual balancing ­behind the recurring Horatian reference. Nicolas Le Cadet, for example, adopts this approach in his analy­sis of evangelical fiction, which includes Marguerite de Navarre’s novella.40 According to him, an alternating reading, an embracing of opposites, articulates a specific religious tension. He pre­sents the authors of evangelical fiction as eschewing dogmatism in belief and in language, all the while maintaining faith in the possibility of approaching the divine Log­os through ­human language. He puts it thus: “l’évangélisme est en effet une spiritualité inquiète, partagée entre une humilité épistémologique fondamentale et un désir de chercher voire d’affirmer des verités spirituelles” 41 (Evangelism is, in fact, an uneasy spirituality, torn between a fundamental, epistemological humility and a desire to seek, even to affirm, spiritual truths). Le Cadet terms this approach enquête (inquiry), a word choice that yet again evokes the Histories. In his own stories in the Apologie, Estienne exploits the alternation between often comic narrative and moralizing commentary, the proliferation of popu­lar stories and a didactic frame, not only to convey his own pos­si­ble religious questioning,42 as Le Cadet describes Rabelais and Marguerite de Navarre as d ­ oing, but to conduct an inquiry into still other con­temporary tensions. One of the paradoxes explored in the Apologie concerns the bridging of ancient civilizations and the Christian Eu­rope of the early modern period. Rather than promote pat exempla from ­either antiquity or more recent French history, Estienne encourages his readers to reflect on moral values through a



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comparison of stories from both periods. While Estienne blames readers for judging other cultures and texts too hastily according to their own paradigms, he nonetheless urges them to seek commonalities with Herodotus’s Greece, hoping that this exercise ­will allow them to “confronter les histoires anciennes avec les modernes, et à considerer la conformité d’icelles, et l’analogie” 43 (confront ancient histories with modern ones and consider their conformity and correspondence). Estienne’s strategy is to make Greek history seem less unbelievable and alien by taking the familiar recent French history and bringing out its strangeness. In disrupting facile understandings of the true and the marvelous, the ancient and the modern, Estienne thus permits his readers to make their own connections and to create a new perspective from which to consider their values. Although Le Cadet’s analy­sis of evangelical lit­er­a­ture offers insight into the kind of moral and intellectual inquiry that Estienne could engage in through the reinterpretation of French stories, this anti-­dogmatic narrative structure posed obvious prob­lems in the Geneva of the 1560s. ­After the death of Calvin, theological censorship became more rigid and ­little tolerance was shown to ambiguity, to flirtation with fideism, and to cultural relativism.44 If, for Madeline Jeay t­ oday, attempting to identify a clear moral statement “c’est tracer une arbitraire dichotomie là où il n’est pas pos­si­ble de trancher, compte tenu des affinities qu’entretiennent l’ironique et le didactique” 45 (is to trace an arbitrary dichotomy where it is not pos­si­ble to make a separation, given the existing affinities between the ironic and the didactic), the members of the Geneva Council had no trou­ble demanding this very separation when they read Estienne’s text. Following the printing of the Apologie, Estienne’s relations with the Council worsened, and in the 1570s and 1580s he would seek support from Henri III to flee the repressive atmosphere that restricted his printing ambitions. In 1566, however, Estienne’s strategy remained textual, using a hybrid text to echo Reformist positions while also angling for readers more open to questioning. On the title page of the 1566 edition, Estienne addresses two categories of readers with ­these verses: Tant d’actes merveilleux en cest oeuvre lirez, Que de nul autre apres esmerveillé serez. Et pourrez vous sçavans du plaisir ici prendre, Vous non sçavans pourrez en riant y apprendre.46

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(You ­will read about so many marvelous acts in this work That nothing more ­will astonish you afterwards. You, the learned, ­will be able find plea­sure ­here, While you, the non-­learned, ­will be able to learn through laughter.) This split readership emerges again in Estienne’s dedications: one to a reader, the other to his friend. The tone used to address the generic reader is didactic; the one for his friend, more confidential. The address to both scholars and non-­scholars was certainly not unique to Estienne, but he offers a new incentive to the scholar—­that of plea­sure unfettered by utility. As this is the reading that the two types of readers can share, plea­sure thus assumes a new preponderance.47 Estienne protests, of course, that plea­sure is not his only expectation for readers and highlights the didactic value of his text. Even Calvin had, ­after all, at one time accepted the use of laughter as a didactic strategy, and Pierre Viret was ­adept at using popu­lar stories in his orthodox texts. ­Here, too, however, Estienne fails to conform to conventional practices. The lessons he offers his less educated readers (perhaps the students for whom he regularly published pedagogic texts) are not fixed. As we have seen, Estienne sees the under­lying weakness in ­these readers as being their strict adherence to the verisimilar, which restricts their appreciation to ­those stories that conform to their own paradigms. He urges them instead to question Herodotus’s text (and implicitly his own) through additional reading, leaving them ultimately to reach their own conclusions. By choosing critical and comparative reading as the didactic purpose for his text, Estienne resurrects another tension inherent to the French story collection: that of veracity. So common is this theme in the prefaces of story collections from the fifteenth-­century Cent Nouvelles nouvelles onward, and so obviously is the concept of truth then problematized in ­these same collections, that a modern critic might legitimately question w ­ hether by 1567 any reader still expected stories to be held to some kind of mea­sur­able standard of truth. For Estienne, the veracity claim functions both as a marker of storytelling and as a question essential to the lesson he imparts to his less educated readers. He promises true merveilles (marvels), which w ­ ill test readers’ cultural and historical assumptions and force them to question the text while also keeping their minds open to the possibility of new truths. Estienne proposes confirmation as a method of maintaining a healthy skepticism t­ oward any single source while si­mul­ta­neously allowing for the discovery of unlikely



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truths. As a guarantee for the truthfulness of his own stories, he explains to his reader friend, un sien amy, that he only retains the overlapping parts of any story for which t­ here exist conflicting versions.48 Establishing truth for Estienne, then, is not a question of trustworthy sources or one’s own acumen but a time-­consuming comparative study of textual testimonies—­another inquiry. The significance of a text is determined, then, not by the sincerity of the author (Herodotus or Estienne), but by the assiduousness of the reader. In the Avertissement, Estienne blames the criticism that his work has received on readers who failed to live up to t­ hese standards, who derived the wrong kind of plea­sure from his stories without learning the lesson of critical reading. Estienne’s Avertissement identifies two specific examples of bad readers: Claude Ravot, an editor who published a pirated version of Estienne’s Apologie, and the Geneva censors to whom Estienne retorts but dares not denounce. Estienne’s textual attack on Ravot, although couched in a humorous tone, barely conceals an unsettling vio­lence.49 Ravot’s negligent editing not surprisingly enraged his more conscientious fellow printer, but the crime upon which Estienne focuses most of his disdain is the index Ravot added to his edition of the Apologie. Estienne rails against an editor who does not understand the very function of an index: “[je] viendray a monstrer comment ce Claude Ravot a trouvé des nouveaux moyens de faire des t­ ables ou indices . . . ​ [A]u lieu qu’une ­table doit renvoyer au livre, il semble qu’en plusieurs lieux du livre il vueille renvoyer à la ­table”50 (I ­will demonstrate how this Claude Ravot found new ways to make t­ ables, or indices . . . ​[I]nstead of having a t­ able refer back to a book, it seems that in several parts of the book, he wishes to refer back to the ­table). He goes on to mock the headings chosen for the index entries—­secondary words rather than key words—­which he says would make it impossible to use the index to find specific information in the text. An index of this sort only serves as a kind of advertisement, to be read separately; it in no way empowers the reader to select topics and stories and to construct a personal reading. As controlling as Estienne seems to be about fixing the meaning and truth of his work—­first through the Latin apology, then the Apologie in French, then the corrective Avertissement, and through his insistence on the significance of his narrative frame—­the genre he has chosen requires a certain openness that he ultimately espouses. The index that Estienne created to correct that of Ravot reveals the kind of reading that he wished to enable, one replete with choice and agency in which the engaged

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reader could identify specific passages to verify through complementary readings. The Geneva syndics and ministers defended Ravot as an ally in disseminating Calvinist lit­er­a­ture in France and reproached Estienne, as we have seen, for the popu­lar tone of the Apologie. If the Council disapproved of his way of appealing to common readers, they w ­ ere no more accepting of the role he offered scholars. To this second, more capable reader, epitomized by the sien amy, Estienne focuses on the plea­sure of writing instead of on the benefits of reading. To justify having written his text, Estienne cites the plea­sure it has afforded him; he writes “pour rendre mon esprit content”51 (to content my spirit) and to indulge in a host of other passions: his “amour”52 (love) for the Greek language and history, the “­grand contentement” and “­grand plaisir”53 (­great satisfaction and ­great plea­sure) he feels when reading Herodotus, and the “ardeur”54 (ardor) with which he wishes to defend the Greek historian. ­Here, too, he adopts a lexicon of passivity when describing the authorial pro­ cess: “ je me trouvay incontinent porté en pleine mer”55 (I suddenly found myself swept out to sea) and “ je pourray m’estre oublié en quelque endroit”56 (it is pos­si­ble that I forgot myself in certain passages). It is this passion, this sacrificing of the authorial intention to the plea­sure of writing, that the Geneva Council reproved. They required a text with a controlled message and purpose. They w ­ ere right, therefore, to be suspect of the very form of the story collection with its potential for multiple levels of reception and its transfer of agency to the reader. Estienne’s defense of stories, both his explicit, paratextual arguments and the implicit arguments readers can glean from the stories and structure of his Apologie, suggest that the short story collection offered him a flexible form for stylistic and intellectual experimentation. Through stories and narrative interventions, his collection served to preserve certain forms of language and the spirit of dialogism. Fi­nally, the marriage of narrative and commentary allowed for alternate readings that ­were both philosophically and, no doubt, commercially advantageous to him.57 The structure entailed certain constraints, however. As a hybrid form (in register, genre, and targeted readership), it perpetually triggered debates about truth and deception, plea­sure and utility. It is worthwhile to consider one final example of a resistant reader, one never cited by Estienne in print: Galiot du Pré II. This Pa­ri­sian printer and bookseller reprinted nine of Estienne’s stories in a 1568 compilation of tales



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­ nder the title of Des Périers’s Nouvelles Récréations et Joyeux Devis reveües et u augmentées. ­There is no historical evidence to indicate that Estienne, so furious at Ravot for his indexing of the Apologie, made any public denunciation of this egregious theft and recontextualization of his stories. It is tempting to see this not as a mere gap in the historical rec­ord, but perhaps as an acknowledgement that Du Pré was practicing what Estienne himself had done; that is to say, borrowing raw narrative material to reframe it, exercising his rights as one of Estienne’s f­ ree readers. This association with the supposedly libertine Des Périers would, of course, have been problematic in Estienne’s Geneva setting. But Estienne’s own appreciation of Des Périers’s cele­bration of the French vernacular is evident throughout the Apologie. The subjective plea­sure that Estienne dismisses as the founding motivation of his text (“comme si la reste estoit forgée à plaisir”58) (as if the rest was molded on a whim), he nonetheless embraces in the manipulation of the French vernacular in all of its potential: “Il est bien vray que j’ay moymesme usé d’aucuns mots nouveaux en ce livre, . . . ​je les ay forgez à plaisir, pour parler ridiculement des choses ridicules . . .”59 (It is true that I have myself made use of some new words in this book . . . ​that I molded on a whim to talk in a ridicu­lous manner about ridicu­lous t­ hings . . .). Although he has created a new frame adapted to dif­fer­ent readers, Estienne retains the plea­sure he finds in an uncontainable, Des Périers-­like cele­bration of the vernacular. The story collection that is the Apologie maintains a tension between an ideological frame necessary to make sense out of disparate narratives, on the one hand, and the disruptive force of laughter and linguistic experimentation that challenges the same frame on the other. In the Apologie, Estienne set out to pop­u­lar­ize Herodotus for ­those unable to read or understand him in Greek while challenging scholars to see in Herodotus’s elevation of oral tales the possibility of transforming France’s vernacular tradition into a serious, moral, con­temporary history. Although he failed to negotiate a place in the restricted environment of Geneva, he captivated readers far beyond this Republic and its social and religious spectra who responded to the ethnographic, historical, and literary inquiries that the Apologie enabled. Notes 1. See, for example, the concluding chapter of Jennifer T. Roberts, Herodotus: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 99–112, where she feels obliged to revisit the debate for modern students of Herodotus, even if she ultimately moves beyond this reductive opposition.

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2. On the sixteenth-­century rehabilitation of Herodotus, see, for example, Bénédicte Boudou, “La Réception d’Hérodote au XVIe siècle,” in Grecs et Romains aux prises avec l’histoire: Représentations, récits et idéologie, ed. Guy Lachenaud and Dominique Longrée (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2003), 729–743; Jean Eudes Girot, “Hérodote, ses détracteurs et le Traité preparatif à l’Apologie pour Herodote [1566] d’Henri Estienne,” in Hérodote à la Re­nais­sance, ed. Susanna Gambino Longo (Turnhout: Brepols Publishers, 2012), 45–65; and Benjamin Earley, “Herodotus in Re­nais­sance France,” in Brill’s Companion to the Reception of Herodotus in Antiquity and Beyond, ed. Jessica Priestley and Vasiliki Zali (Boston: Brill, 2016), 120–142. 3. This is Dennis Looney’s appraisal in regard not to Henri Estienne’s use of Herodotus, but to that of Matteo Maria Boiardo: “Herodotus and Narrative Art in Re­nais­ sance Ferrara: The Translation of Matteo Maria Boiardo,” in Priestley and Zali, Brill’s Companion to the Reception of Herodotus, 234. 4. One reference to Herodotus for e­ very thirty pages, according to the calculations of Jean Eudes Girot, “Hérodote,” 49n7. 5. Henri Estienne, Traité preparatif à l’Apologie pour Herodote, vol. 1, ed. and intro. Bénédicte Boudou (Geneva: Droz, 2007), 131. All references to this text are to volume and page numbers of the Boudou edition. 6. All translations in this chapter are my own u ­ nless other­wise indicated. 7. Estienne published Traité de la conformité du language françois avec le grec in 1565. 8. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:85. 9. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:89. 10. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:86. 11. Paul Ristelhuber cites a May 13, 1580, entry in the registers of the Geneva Council in the introduction to his edition of Deux Dialogues du Nouveau Langage François, vol. 1 (Paris: Alphonse Lemerre, 1885), 26. 12. Two entries (one u ­ nder “François” and the other u­ nder “Rabelais”) are included in the index that Estienne added to his second edition of the Apologie. Significantly, t­ hese are among the few entries that Estienne added to the Claude Ravot index that he used as a starting point for his own. See also Hope Glidden on Rabelais’s use of Herodotus and his own lost translation of part of the Histories in “From History to Chronicle: Rabelais Rewriting Herodotus,” Illinois Classical Studies 9, no. 2 (1984): 197–214. 13. Frédéric Tingely, “Polémique et polyphonie dans le discours humaniste,” Modern Language Notes 120, no. 1 (2005): 26. 14. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:292. 15. Estienne divides his discussion of thieves, for example, into gendered categories. This is not necessarily indicative of a more woman-­f riendly perspective, however. Estienne classifies adulterous ­women as thieves who give away what belongs to their husbands. 16. Jean Calvin, Des Scandales qui empeschent aujourd’hui beaucoup de gens de venir à la pure doctrine de l’Evangile, & en desbauchent d’autres (Geneva: Jean Crespin, 1550), 75. 17. Madeleine Jeay, Donner la parole: L’Histoire-­cadre dans les recueils de nouvelles des XVe et XVIe siècles (Montreal: CERES, 1992), 16.



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18. Thomas Leitch, What Stories Are: Narrative Theory and Interpretation (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1990), 24. 19. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:111–112. 20. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:85, 90. 21. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:85. 22. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:89. 23. Nelly Labère, “Cueillir, Garder et Augmenter: L’ordre du recueil dans la nouvelle,” in “De vrai humain Entendement”: Hommage à Jacqueline Cerquiglini-­Toulet, ed. Yasmina Foehr-­Janssens and Jean-­Yves Tilliette (Geneva: Droz, 2005), 116–117. 24. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:103. 25. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:132. 26. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:134. 27. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:130. 28. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:316–317. 29. “Il y a certains feuilletz où il y a des propos vilains” (­There are certain pages that contain vulgar language), in the Archives d’Etat, Registre du Conseil, 61:109v, as cited by Bénédicte Boudou in her introduction to the Traité preparatif, 1:63. A chastised Estienne admits to having occasionally forgotten the necessity of a discrete written prose, failing “s’abstenir des vocables et façons de parler qui tiennent de la gosserie trop vulgaire, et approchent des mots de gueux, ou des trais Rabelaitiques” (to abstain from terms and ways of speaking that resemble vulgar mockery and approximate obscenities, or Rabelaisian barbs) (1:86). 30. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:86. 31. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:86. 32. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:86. 33. See for example, two of the questions asked of Henri Estienne by the Council during his trial: “S’il n’a pas esté adverty que l’on s’en scandalisoit en France et ailleurs, à cause mesmes de plusieurs propos escriptz oudit livre et à cause qu’il avoit esté imprimé en ceste Eglise reformée selon la parolle de Dieu?”; and “Si, en ladite t­ able, il y a pas telz poinctz concernans la Vierge Marie que les papistes et aultres gens de bien et moqueurs prendront en occasion de blaspheme” (Had he not been warned that in France and elsewhere p­ eople ­were scandalized [by his book] specifically b­ ecause of several words written in this book and b­ ecause it had been printed in this Reformed Church in accordance with God’s word?”; and “In the said t­ able, w ­ ere ­there not such arguments regarding the Virgin Mary that papists and other well-­established scorners would see as a license to blaspheme?”); cited by Boudou in her introduction to Traité preparatif, 1:68–69. 34. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:84. 35. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:84. 36. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:84. 37. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:84. 38. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:84–85. 39. See the answer to the ninth question asked of Estienne during his interrogation; Boudou, introduction to Traité preparatif, 1:68.

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40. Nicolas Le Cadet, L’Évangélisme fictionnel: Les Livres rabelaisiens, le Cymbalum Mundi, l’Heptaméron (1532–1552) (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2010). 41. Le Cadet, L’Évangélisme fictionnel, 142. 42. Although Henri Estienne strongly denied the accusations of atheism that the Council leveled at him, the central themes in the Apologie revolve around the credulity and faith of readers, and ­these questions are ultimately left to their discretion. The distinctions between secular texts and the Bible are further blurred by the comic tales of blasphemy that he recounts (Traité preparatif, 1:606). 43. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:133. 44. Although Pierre Viret had also sought to recuperate Herodotus for Reformation teachings, censorship of books printed in Geneva became stricter ­after the death of Calvin in 1564. Robert Kingdon suspects that a provision in Estienne’s ­father’s testament (making city charities beneficiaries of his estate if Henri Estienne w ­ ere to leave Geneva) may have resulted in a particularly close regulation of Henri Estienne’s printing press: Robert M. Kingdon, “The Business Activities of Printers Henri and François Estienne,” in Aspects de la Propagande religieuse (Geneva: Droz, 1957), 260, 272–273. 45. Jeay, Donner la parole, 106. 46. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:97. 47. See Hope Glidden’s analy­sis of Guillaume Bouchet’s popularizing of erudite culture in The Storyteller as Humanist: The Serées of Guillaume Bouchet (Lexington, KY: French Forum, 1981). Glidden describes what she sees as Bouchet’s strategy for addressing both scholarly readers and merchants with the same stories. It is in­ter­est­ing to note, too, that in the “Discours de l’Autheur sur son livre des Serées” that introduces the first book of the Serées, Bouchet specifically cites Estienne’s double dedication to scholars and non-­scholars. Guillaume Bouchet, Serées (Poitiers: Jacques et Guillaume Bouchet, 1585), n.p. 48. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:134. 49. Estienne denounces Ravot by name in his Avertissement, thus identifying him as an editor of Protestant material in Lyon. The Council members view this as endangerment: “Si par cela il a pas mis cestuy-­là et l’imprimeur en dangier des peines des edictz de France qui defendent l’impression de tells livres” (By this had he not put this man and the printer at risk of the punishment prescribed by the edicts in France that forbid the printing of such books?); Boudou, introduction to Traité preparatif, 1:69. They question Estienne, too, about the veiled threat with which he ends his Avertissement: “ je luy garde encore deux petis mots à dire en l’oreille (pour son proufit) quand je le rencontreray: qui sera quand il plaira à Dieu” (I reserve two more l­ ittle words to whisper in his ear (for his benefit) when I meet up with him: which w ­ ill be when God so wishes); Traité preparatif, 1:95. 50. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:94. 51. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:132. 52. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:133. 53. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:133. 54. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:135. 55. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:132.



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56. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:135. 57. It is perhaps revealing that Estienne accuses Ravot of having pirated his text out of “avarice” (1:95), thus suggesting that he, too, saw the market potential of this work. The Greek dictionary that Estienne continued to work on during this time was, on the other hand, a costly investment with ­little chance of finding numerous buyers. He eventually published the Thesaurus graecae linguae in 1572 in four volumes, in folio format. 58. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:87. 59. Estienne, Traité preparatif, 1:130.

c ha p te r e ig ht

Recasting the Heptaméron Novellas in Brantôme’s Vies des dames galantes Dora E. Polachek

We should not be surprised about the significant role that Pierre de Bour­ deille, seigneur de Brantôme, plays in the way the Heptaméron has been read and continues to be read by some. What is surprising, however, is how relatively ­little critical focus has been devoted to this topic. In the first part of this chapter I ­will review the kinds of pronouncements made by Brantôme that continue to have purchase ­today. I ­will then focus on an aspect of Brantôme’s contact with the Heptaméron that, remarkably, has escaped analy­sis up to now: his references and responses to specific Heptaméron novellas. My goal is to open new ave­nues of exploration that deal less with Marguerite de Navarre’s personal and autobiographical obsessions in her novellas and more with Brantôme’s literary and social preoccupations in his own literary creation. More specifically, in the second part of the chapter I ­will focus on how the Heptaméron surfaces in Brantôme’s Second livre des dames, more popularly known as his Vies des dames galantes.1 While I can understand why some have concentrated on how Brantôme furthers some readers’ interests in the roman à clé aspect of the Heptaméron, I want to demonstrate that Brantôme was a discerning reader of Marguerite’s work and had specific objectives in his se­lection pro­cess. A ­ fter indicating which stories Brantôme cites and in what context, I ­shall examine Novellas 26 and 43 in order to show how they serve Brantôme’s par­tic­u­lar authorial goals as he delineates them. I ­will discuss the uses to which he puts t­ hese tales, focusing on four aspects: 170



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first, their amusing, comic dimension; second, their generative potential; third, their capacity to enable Brantôme to become the eleventh devisant; and last, their ability to provide us with an intimate view of how the tales appeared and ­were mobilized in the Valois court. Brantôme’s Legacy In one way or another, ­whether we are conscious of it or not, virtually all of us who have undertaken studies of Marguerite de Navarre’s Heptaméron have been exposed to and even influenced by Brantôme’s pronouncements on the work. The reason is relatively easy to explain: to my knowledge, Brantôme is the only author who specifically addresses questions related to the Heptaméron. Indeed, his intimate knowledge of the personal life of Marguerite and her court provide him with a unique vantage point that invites us to believe his pronouncements about how the work was composed and received as well as about who some of the fictionalized characters w ­ ere in real life. In the eleven volumes that constitute the Ludovic Lalanne annotated edition of the Oeuvres complètes de Brantôme, we see how Brantôme boasts about the illustriousness of his lineage, both maternal and paternal, and concomitantly, about his direct contact with the nobility of his day.2 Understandably, he takes ­g reat pride in his f­ amily’s connection with the royal f­ amily. His maternal grand­mother, Louise de Daillon du Lude, was raised at court with Anne de Beaujeu, the ­daughter of Louis XI. Brantôme is quick to tell us that King Francis I personally chose his grand­ mother (“ma ­grand’mere, Madame la Seneschalle de Poictou”) to succeed Blanche de Tournon, duchesse de Chastillon, to become Marguerite’s maid of honor.3 Brantôme is careful to indicate her relation to him (“ma ­grand’mere”) but makes sure to qualify this with the nobiliary title attached to her before her new position in the court (“Madame la Seneschalle de Poictou”).4 The king’s direct relationship with the grand­mother thus added a special place for Brantôme and his entire ­family in the royal ­house­hold: “et la donna de sa main à la Reyne sa soeur, pour la cognoistre très-­sage et très-­vertueuse Dame, aussi l’appelloyt-il ‘mon chevalier sans reproche’ ”5 (and gave her with his own hand to his ­sister the Queen because he knew her, [Louise de Daillon] to be a wise and virtuous Lady, and he used to call her “my irreproachable knight”). Much of Brantôme’s knowledge of the goings-on in the court came from his grand­ mother, whom he and his ­mother, Anne de Vivonne, joined at the court of

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Marguerite shortly ­after the death of Brantôme’s f­ ather, where they then lived for several years. The king’s high regard for Louise de Daillon gives credence to what Brantôme recounts concerning not only the court, but also personal ­matters relating to Marguerite’s writing enterprise. How many times, and in how many dif­fer­ent literary histories, have we read references to how Marguerite wrote her novellas, all of which have their origin in a picturesque scene where Brantôme’s grand­mother plays a key role in making the writing pos­si­ble?6 Specifically, Brantôme’s description underlines the fa­cil­i­ty with which Marguerite composed the tales. It paints a portrait of a busy queen who uses the ­little f­ ree time she has while riding to engagements to come up with stories on the fly, as it ­were, while Brantôme’s grand­mother holds Marguerite’s writing desk: “Je l’ay ouy ainsin conter à ma grand-­mere, qui alloyt tousjours avecq’elle dans la lityère, comme sa dame d’honneur, et luy tenoit l’escritoyre dont elle escrivoit”7 (I have heard it recounted this way by my grand­mother who always went with her in her litter, as her lady of honor, holding the writing desk while she wrote). Brantôme’s encomiastic portrait of Marguerite emphasizes the merits of Les Nouvelles de la Reyne de Navarre, both in form and content, describing them as having a “stile si doux et si fluant” (such a pleasant and flowing style) and “plain de si beaux discours et belles sentances”8 (filled with such beautiful discourses and beautiful maxims). He offers us another detail about the Heptaméron’s reception that adds to its noteworthiness: besides the fact that Marguerite’s talent manifested itself in the speed with which she composed her stories, the tales’ appearance inspired a similar drive to create in other impor­tant royal members of the Valois court, namely Catherine de’ Medici and King Francis I’s d ­ aughter, Marguerite de Savoie: “ j’ay ouï dire que La Reyne Mere et Madame de Savoye estant jeunes, se voulurent mesler d’en escrire des nouvelles à part, à l’immitation de la dicte Reine de Navarre . . . ​ mais quand elles eurent vu les siennes, elles eurent si ­grand despit des leurs qui n’aprochoyent nullement des autres, qu’elles les jettarent dans le feu et ne voulurent les mettre en lumiere” 9 (I have heard it said that the queen m ­ other and Madame de Savoie, being young, wanted to engage in writing novellas, in imitation of the Queen of Navarre . . . ​but when they had seen hers, they ­were so disappointed with theirs, which came nowhere near hers, that they threw them into the fire and refused to have them see the light of day). Clearly,



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Marguerite’s novellas, which w ­ ere circulated in the court, w ­ ere admired and ­were found worthy of imitation.10 In addition to Brantôme’s remarks concerning the Heptaméron’s composition and reception, his willingness to attach names to some of the characters has led to studies that focus on the work’s historical and autobiographical import. Besides the prominence he gives to his grand­mother, Brantôme also privileges his ­mother’s position, indicating that her close relationship with Marguerite, as her dame d’honneur, resulted in her knowing the identities of some of Heptaméron’s fictional characters and in being the model for one of the storytellers in the frame story. Speaking of Anne de Vivonne, Brantôme tells us: “. . . [elle] . . . ​sçavoit quelques secrets de ses Nouvelles, et . . . ​en estoit l’une des devisantes”11 (. . . ​She . . . ​knew some secrets of the Nouvelles and . . . ​ was one of its storytellers). This detail has proved significant in opening what has become a well-­trodden path in Heptaméron studies aimed at identifying all ten storytellers of the frame story, with researchers often questioning conclusions of ­earlier findings.12 To be sure, Heptaméron studies have taken remarkably dif­fer­ent turns in the last twenty years, but as a type of corollary of the game of who’s who, we also find that studies that have received significant attention focus on speculation about the relationship between thematics and personal trauma in the life of Marguerite. Let us take, for example, the theme of rape. Once again, the cornerstone of this line of inquiry has its origins with Brantôme and, in this case, with his commentary on Novella 4, dealing with a thwarted rape of a princess of Flanders. ­Here is what Brantôme tells us: “Et si voulez sçavoir de qui la nouvelle s’entend, c’estoit de la Reyne mesme de Navarre, et de l’Admiral de Bonivet, ainsi que je tiens de ma feu g­ rand’mère”13 (And if you wish to know, this story is about the Queen of Navarre herself and Admiral Bonivet, as I have heard it told by my grand­mother). In her 1991 book-­length study, Patricia Cholakian explained the proliferation of so many rape and seduction stories in the Heptaméron as a result of the trauma suffered by Marguerite, a purportedly real-­life incident that she fictionalized in Novella 4, an incident that “originally compelled Marguerite de Navarre to collect and write stories about sexual assault.”14 While stating that it is impossible to ascertain the validity of Brantôme’s claim, Cholakian went on to make her case for veracity based on what she termed “a more fragile piece of evidence”: the religious crisis experienced by

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Marguerite, as evidenced in her 1520s correspondence with her ­brother and with her spiritual advisor Briçonnet, the Bishop of Meaux.15 Once again underlining that ­there is no external proof that the despair expressed by Marguerite in t­hese letters is linked to a near-­rape experience, Cholakian nevertheless opines that the large number of sexual-­violence tales in the Heptaméron is proof enough that Marguerite was a victim of a sexual assault “that left an indelible mark on her psyche (and her text).”16 The next leap of faith leads to the assertion that writing about rape enabled Marguerite to work through (in t­ oday’s parlance) the trauma and find her voice as a female writer. The conclusion to all ­these speculations based on a passing remark made by Brantôme is the following: “­Later, the fondness for the pastime of storytelling and her interest in the Decameron led her to envision an ambitious collection of tales that would be to the French language what Boccaccio’s was to Italian.”17 All this from an unsubstantiated remark made by Brantôme! In other words, it i­sn’t a desire to produce a French Decameron that lies at the heart of the Heptaméron, but rather the trauma of near-­rape that leads Marguerite to obsessively tell and retell variations of sexual vio­lence, and then, ­because of a confluence of forces—­her “fondness” for passing the time by telling stories coupled with the fortuitous appearance of the Decameron—­the Heptaméron came into existence. In short, a personal trauma found a literary space to have its voice heard. In her 1999 critical edition of the Heptaméron, Renja Salminen indirectly casts doubt on the real-­life sexual assault experienced by Marguerite, referring to the identification of the protagonists in Novella 4 as being “d’après une légende tenace initiée par Brantôme”18 (according to a tenacious legend initiated by Brantôme). By its very nature, a legend has a long life. To wit, in the most recent biography of Marguerite, published in 2006, Marguerite’s near-­rape seems to enter the realm of unquestionable certainty: “The evidence is unimpeachable, for both Brantôme’s grand­mother, Louise de Daillon, and his ­mother, Anne de Vivonne, had been ladies in waiting in Marguerite’s entourage, and witnessed some of the events he ­later described in his gossipy memoirs.”19 A legend, as it is repeated and embellished over time, has a tendency not to be questioned and thus becomes taken as truth. But it is impor­ tant to note that Brantôme’s grand­mother was not the lady-­in-­waiting who gave the princess of Flanders (Marguerite’s character) the advice of safeguarding her reputation by keeping s­ ilent instead of asking her b­ rother the king to punish the would-be rapist. According to Brantôme, the lady-­in-­waiting was



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Madame de Chastillon. Since Louise de Daillon replaced her a­ fter her death, was this story told directly to Brantôme’s grand­mother before Madame de Chastillon died, or was it recounted to her afterward, for reasons we w ­ ill never know, and was recalled by Brantôme as a fitting story to include in his “gossipy memoirs”? ­Whether we want to go as far as Cholakian does in her hypothesis is not an issue that I ­will address ­here, but I think it is impor­tant to note how a few sentences written by Brantôme can lead to pronouncements that circulate and develop a life of their own, even to this day. No other con­temporary of Marguerite ever mentioned this attempted rape, nor did any other proof surface to corroborate it. On the other hand, since no mention is made of it elsewhere, one can also make a case that the claim has never been refuted and that, given Brantôme’s having spent some of his youth in Marguerite’s entourage, what he says about the Heptaméron could be correct. With proj­ects to digitize the humanities, ­there is always a possibility that new evidence ­will be found to ­either verify this speculative thinking or to definitively put it and its corollaries to rest. While such historical and psychoanalytical approaches to the Heptaméron have yielded significant insights, my goal is to examine a facet of Brantôme’s work that brackets questions of identification in f­ avor of uses to which an early modern author puts the writings of another early modern author. What does Brantôme’s writing proj­ect aim to do, and how does the Heptaméron meet the needs of that proj­ect? Which Stories, Where, and Why? Seventy-­t wo stories comprise Marguerite de Navarre’s Heptaméron. In the Vies des dames galantes, we find the following ten: 3, 4, 16, 18, 20, 26, 32, 43, 49, and 57, with two (4 and 26) appearing in more than one place. As Brantôme makes apparent in his dedicatory letter to François, duc d’Alençon (­brother of King Henri III), the Vies des dames galantes aims to bear witness to the everlasting friendship that linked him to the duc d’Alençon, a friendship that involved a mutual enjoyment of “plusieurs bons mots et contes”20 (many bons mots and stories), more often than not erotic in nature, characteristic of the sexual banter and play typical in the court, and best illustrated by the silver goblet engraved with Aretino-­inspired pornographic images, to which I w ­ ill return l­ater. Brantôme’s goal then, as he explic­itly states, is to “parler des

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choses gayes”21 (speak of jovial ­things), and he sets out to do so in seven discourses. The light-­heartedness of the intended goal is easily discerned in the titles Brantôme gives to them. If discourse is usually understood in the sense of a serious discussion of an impor­tant topic, the subjects of Brantôme’s musings and anecdotes surprise us, for they hardly fit into what we would consider topics about which to philosophize. If the dedicatory letter has not served as a tip-­off, the following titles of the chapter divisions and the topics they address give a good sense of the literary and philosophical send-up that Brantôme is up to:22 1. Discours sur les Dames qui font l’amour et leurs maris cocus [3, 18, 26, 32] 2. Discours sur le sujet qui contente le plus en amours, ou le toucher, ou la veue, ou la parole [43] 3. Autre discours sur la beauté de la belle jambe, et la vertu qu’elle a [57] 4. Discours sur les femmes mariées, les vefves et les filles, à sçavoir desquelles les unes sont plus chaudes à l’amour que les autres [4, 20, 26, 49] 5. Sur l’amour des Dames vieilles et comme aucunes l’ayment autant que les jeunes 6. Discours sur ce qu’il ne faut jamais parler mal des Dames et la conséquence qui en vient 7. Discours sur ce que les belles et honnestes Dames ayment les vaillants hommes, et les braves hommes ayment les Dames courageuses [16] 1. Discourse on Ladies who make love and their husbands cuckolds [3, 18, 26, 32] 2. Discourse on the subject of which satisfies most in love: touch, sight, or speech [43] 3. Another discourse on the beauty of a comely leg and the power it has [57] 4. Discourse on married ­women, ­widows and maidens, with regard to which are hotter at love than ­others [4, 20, 26, 49] 5. Discourse on the love of old Ladies and how some love it as much as young ones 6. Discourse on how one must never speak badly about Ladies and the consequence that results from this 7. Discourse on how beautiful and upstanding Ladies love valiant men, and how brave men love courageous Ladies [16]



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As we can see, seven out of the ten Heptaméron stories find themselves embedded in Discourses 1 and 4, whose very titles inspire laughter. We would be hard-­pressed to find a model for a serious inquiry into which category of ­women is the most likely to be the hottest in bed. Such a topic would be fitting for a stand-up comedy routine in t­ oday’s world, designed to elicit laughter ­because of the taboo nature of the subject. Furthermore, to talk of Ladies who make love and their husbands cuckolds creates an unexpected infiltration of the low into the high. That is, to talk of noble Ladies—­the high—­and to introduce a be­hav­ior that is unseemly—­the low—­immediately triggers laughter ­because of the cognitive dissonance such a title introduces. Laughter is noticeably what Brantôme aims at creating. In his first dedicatory letter to the duc d’Alençon, Brantôme juxtaposes the work at hand with the “discours sérieux” that he is in the pro­cess of writing elsewhere.23 In the second letter, the dedication remains the same, even though the duc was no longer alive. A ­ fter speaking of the duc’s death, Brantôme ends with “C’est assez parlé des choses serieuses, il faut un peu parler des gayes”24 (Enough of serious m ­ atters; we need to speak a bit of jovial ones). However, ­those familiar with Brantôme’s dames galantes know that the hundreds of tales he intercalates to flesh out the subject of a par­tic­u­lar discourse sometimes veer off his comic path. ­There is one particularly illustrative moment in the first discourse where Brantôme, in a self-­conscious move similar to the one we have just seen in the two dedicatory letters, realizes that the associative links he is creating in his choice of cuckold stories risk compromising his overarching goal of amusing his ideal reader. As one bloody tale of male jealousy follows another, with a spitefully unfaithful husband slaughtering both his wife and her lover a­ fter finding them d ­ oing the same ­thing that he was d ­ oing in the room below with another ­woman, Brantôme short-­circuits this trajectory. He seems to realize that by dealing with tragic endings, he is undermining his objective of “parler des [choses] gayes”—so he redirects himself into the path he has chosen by writing, “Or laissons-­là ces diables et fols enragez cocus, et n’en parlons plus, car ils sont odieux et mal plaisants . . . ​le sujet n’en est beau ny plaisant. Parlons un peu des gentils cocus, et qui sont bons compagnons, de douce humeur, d’agréable fréquentation et de sainte patience, debonnaires, traittables, fermans les yeux et bons hommenas”25 (Now, let’s leave b­ ehind ­these dev­ils and crazed, enraged cuckolds, and let’s not speak any more of them, ­because they are odious and unpleasant . . . ​and the subject is neither pretty nor pleasant. Let’s speak a l­ittle of agreeable cuckolds, who are good

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fellows, mild-­mannered, of pleasant com­pany and saintly patience, debonnaire, manageable, blind, and g­ reat ninnies.) This desire to stay in the realm of the comic is clearly articulated in statements such as ­these where esthetic considerations come into play. The cuckold that Brantôme wants to focus upon is in direct contrast to the typical cuckold, who more often than not has no qualms about d ­ oing away with his unfaithful wife and her lover. The entertaining cuckold is a buffoon, and the adultery stories that Brantôme and his ideal reader found amusing ­were designed to become part of farce scenarios. What may surprise us, then, is the choice of Heptaméron tales that Brantôme selected, which for the most part, are far from comic, even though Marguerite included a significant number of such comic tales.26 I claim that it may be precisely the choosing of Heptaméron tales that are not meant to be comic that enables Brantôme to create laughter. The title of the discourse ­under which he embeds a novella is certainly one strategy he uses to amuse, b­ ecause of the disparity between a reader’s perception of a tale as tragic as number 26, dealing with the Dame de Pampelune and seigneur d’Avannes, and its being subsumed ­under the rubric of Discourse 4 “Sur les femmes mariées, les veuves et les filles a scavoir desquelles les unes sont plus chaudes à l’amour que les autres.” When it comes to describing the married Dame de Pampelune, the epithets that proliferate in Marguerite’s tale are designed to heighten our re­spect for her. ­Because of her husband’s affection for d’Avannes, in whom he sees the son that he never had, the wife is obliged to live in close proximity to this young man, for whom she develops an unrequited love. Saffredent, the storyteller, repeatedly emphasizes that God and honor always guided her actions and that seeing d’Avannes and speaking with him contented her, “où gît la satisfaction d’honnêteté et bon amour27 (for in ­these resides the satisfaction of a love that is honest and good). Her love is described as “vertueuse” (virtuous).28 Her keeping her desire for him ­under control is in direct contrast with the actions of the other married ­woman in the tale (whom Brantôme does not mention in his retelling). Whereas the adjective “sage” (wise) is repeatedly used to describe the Dame de Pampelune, the other married ­woman, who gives in easily to the advances of the young d’Avannes, is described as “la folle dame”29 (the crazed lady) or “la plus belle et folle dame du pays”30 (the most beautiful and crazed lady in the land). Marguerite’s tale cites the words spoken by the wise Dame de Pampelune as she tries to teach the young d’Avannes to value and love virtue over folly as much as she does. Marguerite’s inclusion of direct discourse is designed



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to give her agency and to heighten the reader’s re­spect and admiration of the Dame de Pampelune, particularly at the end of the narrative, where she confesses to d’Avannes the feelings that she has kept hidden from him, which she can now reveal for she is ready to die, thanking God for allowing her to leave this world with her conscience and honor intact. This internal ­battle between love and honor is the cause of her death, a death she welcomes, certain that heaven w ­ ill embrace her with open arms: “car je sais que la porte de paradis n’est point refusée aux vrais amants, et qu’amour est un feu qui punit si bien les amoureux en cette vie qu’ils sont exempts de l’âpre tourment de pur­ gatoire”31(for I know that the doors of paradise are never refused to true ­lovers, and that love is a fire that punishes lovers so much in this life that they are exempt from the ­bitter torment of purgatory). Her confession of love, with its insistent references to a spiritual realm where her sacrifice of worldly pleasures ­will be looked on favorably, is meant to burnish our opinion of her. The eloquence of her language and sustained use of meta­phors become markers of a w ­ oman who, even on her deathbed, is committed to seeing the value of her suffering ­because of the high value she places on her honor. If ­there is any “hotness” in her love, it is figured in the tale meta­phor­ically as a burning fire that c­ auses pain and not plea­sure (“un feu qui punit”). In Marguerite’s tale, then, the love she has for d’Avannes leaves the realm of the carnal and becomes an exemplum of parfaite amitié. Unlike the relationship between d’Avannes and the other sex-­obsessed married ­woman at the beginning of the tale, which left d’Avannes physically weak and virtually close to death, the Dame de Pampelune offers a purificatory vision of love that goes beyond the physical. Her trial by fire, as it ­were, leaves her triumphant, never hav­ ing cuckolded her husband (Brantôme misleadingly references this novella ­under Discourse 1, which deals with adulterous wives who cuckold their husbands) and having provided a moral lesson to d’Avannes, enabling her to leave the world with her honor and conscience intact. It would be difficult to find a more eloquent portrait of a refined noblewoman. As we have seen, in Novella 26, the qualifiers used by Saffredent, along with the elegance of the direct discourse of the Dame de Pamplune, create an image of a ­woman who has managed to transcend the carnal ­because of her devotion to a higher moral order. When we turn to Brantôme’s retelling, however, we see how the Heptaméron’s refined language is quickly transformed. His thumbnail sketch of what the story is about begins with a compliment of sorts to w ­ omen like the Dame de Pampelune, but within that

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compliment, we find the first signal of what w ­ ill provoke laughter—­the unexpected bringing together of the high and the low: “Telles belles Dames, putes dans l’ame et chastes du corps, meritent d’eternelles louanges”32 (Such beautiful Ladies, whores in their souls and chaste of body, deserve eternal praise). Brantôme’s use of such a qualifier when speaking of the soul of the Dame de Pampelune immediately underscores the presence of a physical desire that Marguerite’s tale certainly does not ignore but shows as being admirably transcended. Furthermore, by making this kind of generalization, Brantôme insinuates that ­there is something inherently slut-­like in w ­ omen’s nature and that ­women like the Dame de Pampelune deserve praise ­because they are able to resist the temptation to succumb to the baseness that lies at their core. The epithet of “whore,” then, is designed to elicit a strong reaction, perhaps even stronger in t­ hose familiar with Marguerite’s version, ­because the term is the farthest from what we would use to describe the virtuous Dame de Pampelune. It shocks, surprises, and in this way elicits laughter in Brantôme’s ideal reader. Furthermore, the label “whore,” of course, brings attention not only to the body, but also to a specific body part that, in the realm of the comic, has been known to elicit laughter from time immemorial. Laurent Joubert’s 1579 Traité du ris (Treatise on Laughter) makes clear why and ­under what circumstances the “parties honteuses” (the shameful parts) should trigger such a response.33 But perhaps more in­ter­est­ing is the specific way that Brantôme mobilizes his synechdoche (part for the w ­ hole) close-up, as it ­were, of the shameful parts in developing the-­Lady-­as-­whore line of reasoning. For Brantôme, the Dame de Pampelune could have easily and blamelessly given in to her desires, and he explains the reason why with what he tells us is an old French proverb (“un antien proverbe françois”): “D’une herbe de pré tondue, et d’un con foutu, le dommage en est bientost rendu”34 (Just as with field grass that is mowed, so it is with a fucked cunt: the damage is soon undone). A proverb, a­ fter all, is defined as something that has been passed down through the ages, a kind of shorthand for received wisdom that is easy to remember and use in one’s own life. Once again, the cognitive dissonance between the expectations raised when we hear “proverb” juxtaposed with the surprising “wisdom” that this par­tic­u­lar proverb is designed to impart provokes laughter. With the proverb also comes a further spiraling down of the language register, a spiraling down from which translators consistently continue to shy away.35



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The comparison found in the proverb also implies that, just as nature restores grass that has been mowed, so nature ­will leave no discernible changes in a w ­ oman’s private parts. Thus, t­ here is no harm done, since they w ­ ill retain their natu­ral properties if she chooses to engage in an extraconjugal affair. Furthermore, the nature of space and place where this activity ­will occur—­private in all senses—­further assures no harm since, excluding the ­woman and her lover, no one e­ lse w ­ ill know, and thus honor w ­ ill be preserved. In other words, given that nothing is physically impaired, particularly since the Dame de Pampelune is a married ­woman, and that no vis­i­ble mark remains, why die when no one w ­ ill know? We see unmistakably, then, with this first example, how Brantôme’s goals are diametrically opposed to t­ hose we find in the Heptaméron. The tension in Marguerite’s Novella 26 is metonymic of the tension characteristic in the tales as a w ­ hole, where the ­battle between the earthly and the spiritual colors virtually ­every novella, ­either within the story or, if not ­there, then certainly within the space of the discussion that follows among the devisants. In Novella 26, both spaces contain the presence of the religious injunctions. For Brantôme, no such strug­gle exists, since his goal is to entertain. To do so, he paints a picture of a realm where love is strictly a game of physical satisfaction. As he puts it in his discussion of the Jambique story (Novella 43) “le fruit de l’amour mondain n’est autre chose que la jouissance”36 (the fruit of wordly love is nothing but delectation). In the realm of the comic, the moral compass gives way easily to the ascendancy of the plea­sure princi­ple. The Heptaméron Tale as Generative Catalyst In this light, Marguerite’s story of Jambique (Novella 43) assumes an impor­ tant position in Brantôme’s second discourse. In the Heptaméron, Geburon’s introductory remarks to the story indicate that its purpose is twofold: first, to paint a portrait of a w ­ oman who, mistakenly, is more concerned with how ­others judge her than with ­matters relating to God or the codes of love or honor. Believing that God ­can’t be both­ered with what ­humans do on earth, she acts hypocritically, more preoccupied with how she is perceived by ­others than by any moral code. Second and most impor­tant, Geburon wants to illustrate that her hy­poc­risy and dissimulation ­will be exposed in this story. The truth, then, is designed to punish her and to expose to every­one what

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she is hiding (Heptaméron, 353–354). In the tale, Jambique becomes an example of a deceitful married Lady who is held in high esteem by the princess reigning over the court. All the while condemning and publicly exposing the romantic dalliances that she witnesses, Jambique herself engages in an extraconjugal tryst, but with a twist. Lusting a­ fter a gentleman in the court, she invites him to become her partner in a sexual arrangement reminiscent of the Cupid and Psyche myth, only in this case she wields the agency that Cupid had, relegating the gentleman to the passive place that Psyche occupied. More specifically, Jambique w ­ ill make herself available to the gentleman only ­under certain conditions: first, that they engage in their sexual tryst when she gives the signal; second, that he never know who she is (made pos­si­ble by the cover of darkness u ­ nder which they ­will meet); and last, that should he ever try to discover her identity, their meetings ­will end. The man can put up with this mystery for only so long, however, and his pleas to demonstrate his worthiness are summarily dismissed; Jambique insists that her rules be obeyed. Fearing that ­there might be some kind of demonic force at work, he violates the rules and engages in his own type of subterfuge, marking the back of her cloak with chalk so he can identify her afterward, when she enters the palace room. When he discovers her identity, he confronts her. Not only does she deny his claim, making the sign of the cross as she does so, but she threatens to do him harm if he continues to invent such falsehoods. Nevertheless, he continues by offering concrete proof of who, what, when, and where, “Dont elle fut si outrée de colère qu’elle lui dit qu’il était le plus méchant homme du monde, qu’il avait controuvé contre elle une mensonge si vilaine qu’elle mettrait peine de l’en faire repentir”37 (which caused her to be so outraged that she told him he was the most wicked man on earth and that, b­ ecause he had contrived such a malicious lie about her, she would see to have him punished in such a way that he would regret it). The punishment is severe: g­ oing to her mistress, princess of the court, Jambique succeeds in having the gentleman banished, never to be seen again for as long as Jambique continued to be t­ here. The condemnatory reaction of the devisants is unan­i­mous, each offering another reason why Jambique’s be­hav­ior was outrageous and shameful. God’s name is invoked twice, her actions are characterized by Oisille as “une vilenie inexcusable”38 (an inexcusable villainy), and Parlamente insists that ­those who are controlled by plea­sure (“celles qui sont vaincues en plaisir”39) should not be called w ­ omen but rather men. Invoking the power of the double standard, where conquest and extraconjugal sexual plea­sure are acceptable male



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practices, Parlamente claims that “l’honneur des femmes a autre fondement: c’est douceur, patience et chasteté” 40 (­woman’s honor has another foundation: gentleness, patience, and chastity). What happens to such univocal moralistic pronouncements when the tale surfaces in Discourse 2? As my previous observations have made clear, in ­order to entertain, Brantôme replaces an ethical compass with a pleasure-­ seeking one. Brantôme may be incorporating Heptaméron tales, but he purposefully changes their direction. As Etienne Vaucheret puts it, “Brantôme n’a pas cependant cherché à analyser les conceptions de la reine sur la problématique de l’amour et du mariage qui en constitue la thématique essentielle. Ce livre lui a plutôt servi à illustrer ses propres thèses” 41 (Brantôme, however, did not look to analyze the queen’s conceptions regarding the problematics of love and marriage, which constitute the essential theme of her work. This book served him rather as a means of illustrating his own ­theses). Subsuming Novella 43 ­under the rubric of the second treatise (the discourse on the subject of which contents most in love—­touch, sight, or speech), Brantôme repurposes Novella 43. First of all, true to the title of the discourse, he uses Tale 43 as a way to discuss the relative merits of each of the senses when it comes to amatory satisfaction. The story, then, stimulates his own talent of creating new stories, which he links with a series of associative moves focused on sight and speech as sources of sensual plea­sure. The moralizing agenda that we often find in the Heptaméron, and unanimously in the Jambique tale, is replaced by the overarching theme of his discourse: what similar strategies are available to men and w ­ omen to heighten their plea­sure, and what is lost or gained in a sexual encounter if one or more of the three senses he highlights is missing. Novella 43, then, becomes one of the most productive, as Brantôme, through a series of “J’ay ouy parler, j’ay ouy conter, j’ay ouy dire, j’ay connu une Dame” 42 (I heard it spoken, I heard it told, I heard it said, I knew a Lady), expands the discourse with at least six other stories of the Jambique variety. Whereas Geburon focuses on the moral lesson of a tale in which a ­woman refuses to let her lover see—­and therefore know—­ who she is, Brantôme wants to demonstrate another lesson: when it comes to plea­sure in lovemaking, all the senses have an impor­tant role to play, and anyone who limits the purview to skin-­to-­skin contact is sorely mistaken. With ­these prefatory remarks, he recounts the main ele­ments of Heptaméron 43 as a means of generating similar stories, and, as we ­shall see in the next section of my analy­sis, also as a way of offering his own commentary on the

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tale. In short, his tales are triggered by Marguerite’s, but they hold a decidedly dif­fer­ent flavor and focus. This is precisely what I mean when I see the Heptaméron being used as a catalyst for creativity. To my mind, the Heptaméron stories serve the same purpose as that famous objet d’art that graced the sideboard of a prince in the court (most likely the duc d’Alençon) and was its showpiece. Its importance is highlighted by Brantôme’s devoting three pages to its description and function,43 and this in a work that abounds in short, paragraph-­length anecdotes. The inside of the gilded silver goblet was filled with delicately engraved images inspired by Aretino and the I Modi illustrations accompanying his sonnets, published around 1527. Whereas the I Modi showed ­human heterosexual coupling, the goblet’s commissioner and/or its artisan went a step further: the goblet’s images show not only men and w ­ omen in vari­ous sexual positions but also dif­ fer­ent animal species engaged in the same sort of activity.44 The cup becomes first a source of male bonding, through voy­eur­is­tic plea­sure, for the men who know the prince well and who are in on the joke watch eagerly as the sommelier, instructed to do so by the prince, offers unsuspecting female guests a drink from the goblet. The men delight first in observing the variety of reactions that drinking from the cup produces in the maidens and ladies. Some ­women appear dumbfounded, not knowing what to say, while o­ thers are ashamed, and the men see the blood rush to their f­ aces. Unbeknownst to the ­women, the men eavesdrop and derive plea­sure as they hear one ­woman ask another what it was that was depicted inside the cup. The second source of plea­sure for the males derives from speaking to t­ hese ­women, asking them erotically charged questions, such as what it was that they saw in the cup, ­whether they found more plea­sure in drinking or in looking, which one of the images they would like to have in their own beds, and w ­ hether they felt any tickling sensations in the ­middle of their bodies.45 As in the Jambique story, the senses of sight and speech are foregrounded as sources of plea­sure. The cup, then, becomes a generator of stories, recounting the reactions of both the unknowing participants—­the ­women—­and the apprised men. It also becomes a source of ­table talk at the prince’s festivities. As Brantôme puts it, “Bref, cent mille brocards et sornettes sur ce sujet s’entredonnoyent les gentilhommes et Dames ainsi à t­able, comme j’ay veu que c’estoit une très-­ plaisante gausserie et chose à voir et à ouïr. . . . ​Voilà les effets de cette belle coupe si bien historiée” 46 (In short, t­ here w ­ ere a hundred thousand jibes and jests exchanged among the gentlemen and the Ladies at ­table about the gob-



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let, and as I saw it, it was a very pleasant frolic and t­ hing to see and hear. . . . ​ ­There you have the effects of that richly embellished, beautiful goblet). Becoming the Eleventh Devisant It is impor­tant, and possibly surprising, that Brantôme never alludes to the discussions of the Heptaméron’s devisants; neither does he make use of their reactions to each of the tales that he includes. However, he is never at a loss in offering judgments and interpretations other than the ones we find in the Heptaméron. As I have shown, t­ here is a univocal condemnation of Jambique by all the devisants, each one propounding a dif­fer­ent reason for the blackness of her soul. Geburon, as devisant, wants to demonstrate a moral lesson, but Brantôme, ever faithful to the subject of his discourse, takes on the role of what could be seen as the eleventh devisant, wanting to teach another lesson: that touching and kissing in lovemaking are pleas­ur­able, but according to some (and Brantôme places himself in this category), “ce plaisir est fort maigre sans la veue et la parole” 47 (this plea­sure is quite meager without sight or speech). In this way, he offers his own commentary on the tale, a commentary that differs radically from what we find in Marguerite’s tale. He also cleverly manages to introduce ­others’ reactions to the Jambique tale. Just as Marguerite does, he creates a universe of devisants, but t­ hese devisants differ fundamentally in their makeup and preoccupations, for virtually all their reactions as recounted by Brantôme highlight the desire to add more ways of intensifying plea­sure. In Brantôme’s deconstruction of the tale, t­ here is no scorn directed against Jambique and her be­hav­ior. His reading offers an unexpected new object of scorn and a surprising reason for it: it is no longer Jambique, but rather the chalk-­wielding male lover, who revealed to her what he had discovered as a result of having marked her cloak. For Brantôme, the lover’s newfound knowledge should never have been made known to her. Not only did the lover lose the plea­sure of continuing his tryst with Jambique, but he also blew his chance at doubling his plea­sure: the double plea­sure (“double plaisir” 48) comes from the memory’s ability to summon up two realities—­ the one currently being witnessed and the one that took place in the past—­and from savoring the delicious disjunction between the w ­ oman wearing the social mask, designed to deceive the world, and the same ­woman, in the heat of passion, unmasked in a way known only to the lover who has been with her in private: “. . . ​parce qu’elle faisait de la sucrée, de la chaste, de la prude, de la

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feinte; en cela il pouvoit avoir double plaisir: l’un pour cette jouissance si douce, si bonne, si délicate; et le second, à la contempler souvent devant le monde en sa mixte, cointe mine, froide et modeste, et sa parole toute chaste, rigoureuse et rechignarde, songeant en soy son geste lascif, follastre maniement et paillardise, quand ils estoient ensemble” 49 (. . . ​­because she acted so sweet, chaste, proper, and upright in public, he could have derived a double plea­sure: the first from that delectation that is so sweet, so good, so fine; and the second from surveying her when she was out in the world, so pretty, prim, and proper, recalling to himself her lewd actions, her lascivious and sensual movements and carryings-on when they ­were together). The plea­sure is strictly of the sensual kind, but it has the potential to be amplified by extending it into the realm of the imagination, thus doubling it by mentally superimposing on Jambique’s outward appearance of modesty her be­hav­ior in private, which is just the opposite: “lascif,” “follatre,” and “paillard.” Having the opportunity of being a partner in plea­sure as well as being a par­tic­u­lar kind of invisible voyeur adds an ele­ment of titillation in Brantôme’s universe. On a deeper level, Brantôme’s perspective on the Jambique tale proposes to his male readers a strategy for restoring agency to what, in Marguerite’s tale, is a portrait of an emasculated male, stripped of his power to control what is ­going on in the bed as well as what is ­going on in the eyes of the court— he is, ­after all, banished at the end of the tale.50 In Brantôme’s interpretation, the gentlemen holds all the cards. Just as Jambique hid her hand in Marguerite’s tale, now the gentleman does the same. His trump card, unbeknownst to her, allows him to continue his physical plea­sure with her, but she does not derive the double plea­sure that he reserves only for himself. His secret double knowledge (the disparity between her controlled public face and her passion-­crazed private be­hav­ior) feeds a masturbatory male fantasy where the lover is able to stimulate himself mentally—­anytime, anyplace—by si­mul­ta­ neously seeing the chaste image the ­woman wishes to proj­ect in society and the wild, libidinally driven body that she hides from ­others and that he alone witnesses b­ ehind closed doors. The Heptaméron Tales in Court Society Brantôme’s inclusion of Heptaméron novellas in his dames galantes also allows us a vantage point into how ­these tales ­were used in the Valois Court. They may have intimidated o­ thers from creating their own (bringing us back to



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Brantôme’s initial remarks about the queen m ­ other’s attempts to do the same, as well as Marguerite de Savoie’s), but they did not impede debates about the novellas’ characters and their choices of action. In relation to the Dame de Pampelune of Novella 26, Brantôme concludes that when it comes to desire, “. . . ​il n’y a plus belle vertu ny victoire que de se commander et vaincre soy-­meme”51 (. . . ​­there is no greater virtue or victory than to be able to command and triumph over one’s self). But this evaluation is not unan­i­mous. Brantôme includes another viewpoint, shared by both men and ­women of the court, who condemn the Dame de Pampelune by summoning up an interpretation that is based on religious grounds but is very dif­fer­ ent from the ones we found expounded in Novella 26. In Brantôme’s social circle, the Dame de Pampelune is criticized for ­dying b­ ecause the nature of her death showed clearly that it was self-­willed and therefore an act of suicide: “Mais, de ce que j’ay ouy discourir là dessus à quelques honnestes Dames et Seigneurs c’était une sotte, et peu songneuse du sallut de son ame, d’autant qu’elle-­mesme se donnoit la mort, et qui estoit en sa puissance de l’en chasser”52 (But from what I’ve heard in discussions among esteemed Ladies and Lords, she was a fool, with ­little regard for the salvation of her soul, ­because she herself caused her death, which was in her power to avoid). In other words, the Dame de Pampelune ruined her chance for salvation. She would have been better off—in the next world as well as in this one—by giving in to her desire, a conclusion that ­couldn’t be more antithetical to the one offered in Marguerite’s tale, in which the Dame de Pampelune rests assured that her actions ­will guarantee her entry to paradise. Besides offering a religious-­based justification for adultery, Brantôme also shows the other practical, creative uses to which ­these stories ­were put. Given the nature of keeping up appearances of virtue in the court, the Jambique story inspired a lady of the court to engage in a similar strategy. As Brantôme tells it, “J’ay ouy conter d’une Dame de la Cour . . . ​que je connois, laquelle, estant amoureuse d’un fort honneste Gentilhomme de la Cour, vouloit imiter la façon d’amour de cette Dame pre­ce­dente”53 (I heard tell of a Lady of the Court . . . ​whom I know, who, being in love with a very distinguished Gentlemen of the Court, wanted to imitate the lovemaking method of this other Lady). Our first surprise is that, instead of serving as a cautionary tale, as it does in the Heptaméron, the Jambique story becomes an exemplum worthy of imitation! Knowing how the story ends for Jambique, however, this Lady, ­after each encounter, had her cloak checked for pos­si­ble chalk markings. The

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fact that she always had this inspection performed and that she was, indeed, marked on the ninth meeting indicates that not only had the ­woman read or heard the Jambique story but that the man had as well. When the Lady in Brantôme’s tale ends the encounter ­after this ninth marking, for fear of being discovered, this newly generated tale elicits in its court listeners another reaction that we would not normally expect and that thus engenders another kind of laughter, based on an i­ magined scenario of one-­upmanship, where the male trickster is tricked: “il eust mieux valu, ce dit quelqu’un, qu’elle lui eust laissé faire ces marques tant qu’elle eust voulu, et autant de faites les deffaire et effacer; et pour ce eust eu double plaisir”54 (it would have been more valuable, according to someone, if she had allowed ­these marks to be made for as long as she desired, and as soon as they w ­ ere made to have had them erased; and in this way, her plea­sure would have been doubled). The double plea­sure ­here would arise not for the man this time, but for the w ­ oman. The first plea­ sure would come from the physical plea­sure of continuing the encounters, and the second from the heightening of this first plea­sure by the added stimulation of knowing that her cleverness was consistently thwarting her lover’s desire to uncover her identity. In conclusion, Brantôme’s work pays tribute to the richness and open-­to-­ interpretation nature of Marguerite’s novellas. Unlike ­those who had been inhibited by Marguerite’s skills, Brantôme rises to the challenge. By skillfully and subtly choosing and modifying the tales, he reshapes the novellas through his new context—­“parlons des choses gayes.” As we have seen, this context reflects a dif­fer­ent agenda (to entertain) and a dif­fer­ent ideology (to promote pleasures both physical and ­mental, tangible and ­imagined). Instead of infidelity being condemned on moral and religious grounds, it becomes instead a practice that elicits praise and admiration. In a court society where wit and easy repartee are prized, the ability to deceive is construed as a way to hone one’s intellectual capabilities. In Brantôme’s universe, nature has provided both animals and h ­ umans with the drive to copulate. What makes h ­ umans superior is the ability to augment the physical drive with a mind-­driven dimension. Plea­sure is heightened by the ability to cuckold one’s husband without his knowledge, to dissimulate so that the most suspicious in society are blind to your infidelity, to surmount impediments that nature alone does not have the power to overcome. What is more surprising is that this is the viewpoint of a “fort honneste et belle Dame de bonne part”55 (a very estimable and beautiful Lady of high extraction) whom Brantôme knows. The fictionalized



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story that she is writing, she has told him, recounts her own adventures and philosophy, with the names changed to protect the reputation of all. Still quoting the noblewoman’s words, Brantôme tells us that the power of nature alone is incapable of devising all ­these ruses and strategies. Creativity, then, a capacity of the mind, is what heightens plea­sure: “. . . ​l ’esprit fournit le plaisir et bastit plus de cornes que le corps qui les plante et cheville”56 (. . . ​the mind provides the plea­sure and constructs more horns than the body that plants and affixes them [on the cuckold’s forehead]). As demonstrated in my analy­ sis of the reaction of Brantôme and his devisants to Marguerite’s Jambique tale, the plea­sure is driven more by the imagination than by the mere sexual act. Brantôme adds his own reflections on the noblewoman’s words. Without mentioning who she is, he recalls how maladroit she was in society before engaging in amorous affairs. But once she put her mind to it, “elle devint l’une des spirituelles et habiles femmes de France, tant pour ce sujet que pour d’autres”57 (she became one of the most ingenious and clever w ­ omen in France, as much in this domain as in o­ thers). Becoming an expert in extramarital affairs provides an education that pays off both in private and in public. With Brantôme’s revectoring of Heptaméron novellas and with the addition of his own perspective, no longer do we see the tension between the divine and the terrestrial. By virtually eclipsing God’s word—­a word that questions Marguerite’s secular creation at e­ very turn—­Brantôme offers us a vision of an earthly garden of delights, whose goal is univocal: to push pleasure—­and laughter—to the limits. Notes 1. For an informative summary of the publication history of Brantôme’s Recueil des dames, from manuscript to print, and for the question of who created the title of the work and why, see Robert D. Cottrell, Brantôme: The Writer as Portraitist of His Age (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 1970), esp. 9–22. 2. Ludovic Lalanne’s edition is the most extensive and annotated version available. See his Œuvres complètes de Pierre de Bourdeille, seigneur de Brantôme, ed. Ludovic Lalanne (1882; reprint, New York: Johnson Reprint Corporation, 1968). 3. Etienne Vaucheret, ed., Brantôme: Recueil des Dames, poésies et tombeaux (Paris: Gallimard, 1991), 15–16. All translations in this chapter are my own ­unless other­w ise indicated. 4. Vaucheret, Brantôme, 554. 5. Vaucheret, Brantôme, 554. 6. See, for example, Madeleine Lazard, Pierre de Bourdeille, seigneur de Brantôme (Paris: Fayard, 1995), 37.

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7. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 183. 8. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 183. For an analy­sis of Brantôme’s laudatory portrait of Marguerite de Navarre, see Dora E. Polachek, “Brantôme’s Dames Illustres: Remembering Marguerite de Navarre,” in Memory and Community in Sixteenth-­Century France, ed. David LaGuardia and Cathy Yandell (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2015), 137–148. 9. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 183. 10. This is a far cry from the myth that gained ground in the nineteenth ­century, launched by Charles Nodier in “Bonaventure Desperiers,” Revue des deux mondes 20, ser. 4 (1839): 348. Nodier debased Marguerite’s writing style by characterizing it as “lâche, diffus, embarassé, tendu,” and “lourd, mystique” (weak, redundant, muddled, rigid, heavy, mystical). How to explain, then, the Heptaméron tales, whose style he characterized as just the opposite: “abondant, facile, énergique, pittoreseque et original” (rich, supple, energetic, picturesque, and original)? For Nodier and ­others who followed suit, this disparity in style was s­ imple to explain: the stylistically superior stories w ­ ere clearly not written by Marguerite, but by Bonaventure des Périers, who abandoned his creations to the “volontés de sa royale maitresse” (the desires of his royal mistress), implying that Marguerite plundered and appropriated the writings of the male authors of whom she was a patron. For my theoretical speculations examining what motivates, and what is at stake when launching, such an attack on a ­woman writer’s talent, see Dora E. Polachek, “The Heptaméron Then and Now” and “Save the Last Laugh for Me: Revamping the Script of Infidelity in Novella 69,” in Heroic Virtue, Comic Infidelity: Reassessing Marguerite de Navarre’s Heptaméron, ed. Dora E. Polachek (Amherst, MA: Hestia Press, 1993), 8–12, 154–169. 11. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 392. 12. Critics have identified Anne de Vivonne as devisante Ennasuite. For a thorough chronological summary of the critical work done to identify the ten devisants, and for the problematic issues raised by this kind of line of inquiry, see Nicole Cazauran, L’Heptaméron de Marguerite de Navarre (Paris: Société d’édition d’enseignement supérieur, 1976), esp. 28–32. 13. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 554. 14. Patricia Frances Cholakian, Rape and Writing in the Heptaméron of Marguerite de Navarre (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1991), 216. 15. Cholakian, Rape and Writing, 10. 16. Cholakian, Rape and Writing, 10. 17. Cholakian, Rape and Writing, 216. 18. Marguerite de Navarre, Heptaméron, ed. Renja Salminen (Geneva: Droz, 1999), 685. 19. Patricia Frances Cholakian and Rouben C. Cholakian, Marguerite de Navarre, ­Mother of the Re­nais­sance (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 2. 20. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 235. 21. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 236. 22. The bracketed numbers a­ fter a discourse’s title refer to the Heptaméron novellas that are included in that discourse.



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23. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 236. 24. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 236. 25. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 289–290. 26. Comic tales can be found in each of the seven days of the Heptaméron. For editions that foreground the popularity of such tales and include t­ hese tales almost exclusively, see, for example, Jean Lescar, ed., Marguerite de Navarre: Contes licencieux (Paris: France-­Edition, n.d.); and Marguerite de Navarre, Tales from the Heptaméron of Marguerite de Navarre, illustrated by Norman Lindsay, intro. A.  D. Hope (Melbourne, Australia: Melbourne University Press, 1976). Hope offers the following explanation for the se­lection of tales in this collector’s edition: “Norman Lindsay’s personal taste dictates the se­lection . . . ​he did take care to pick t­ hose tales which seemed to him the best, with a predilection for t­ hose he thought the funniest” (4). 27. Marguerite de Navarre, Heptaméron, ed. Simone de Reyff (Paris: Flammarion, 1982), 260. All of my citations ­will be from this edition. The primary novellas that I ­will be analyzing ­will be 26 and 43, found respectively on pages 257–272 and 353–366. The most complete critical edition remains Renja Salminen’s 1999 edition. For ­these tales in the Salminen edition, see Heptaméron, 255–271 and 359–365. 28. Navarre, Heptaméron, 263, 264. 29. Navarre, Heptaméron, 261. 30. Navarre, Heptaméron, 262. 31. Navarre, Heptaméron, 269. 32. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 373. 33. For a cogent summary, see Gregory de Rocher, Rabelais’ Laughers and Joubert’s Traité du Ris (Birmingham: University of Alabama Press, 1979); for a discussion of Joubert’s theory of laughter inspired by an unexpected glimpse of the shameful parts, see esp. 22–25. 34. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 463. 35. To my knowledge, no literal En­glish translation of quotes such as ­these in Brantôme exists. I have seen the following translation strategies: the inclusion of the French proverb only, but in an expurgated form; the avoidance of any translation of “con” or “foutu” at all; the use of just the first letter, followed by dashes. See, for example, the following: “D’une herbe de pré tondue et d’un c . . . ​f . . . ​, le dommage est bientôt rendu,” in Lives of Fair & Gallant Ladies: The Seigneur de Brantôme, trans. A. R. Allinson (New York: Liveright, 1933), 356. The Lowell Bair translation’s first page bills it as a “sparkling, brand-­new, uncensored translation into modern, readable En­glish.” The claim is not entirely accurate, as witnessed by his bowdlerized translation of this proverb: “With mowed grass or a seduced ­woman, the damage is soon repaired” in Tales of Fair and Gallant Ladies by the Abbé de Brantôme: A New and Vivacious Translation by Lowell Blair, Condensed and Adapted for the Modern Reader (New York: Bantam Books, 1958), 236. Alec Brown’s translation amuses through the cleverness with which he retains the rhyme, but the c-­word still remains just that, and the f-­word is avoided by the rhyming scheme: “Grass mown and c—­explored / Damage l­ittle, soon restored.” See Alec Brown, The Lives of Gallant Ladies by Pierre de Bourdeille (Seigneur de Brantome) (London: Elek Books, 1961), 227.

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36. Brantôme, Receuil des Dames, 390. 37. Navarre, Heptaméron, 358. 38. Navarre, Heptaméron, 359. 39. Navarre, Heptaméron, 359. 40. Navarre, Heptaméron, 359. 41. Etienne Vaucheret, “ La g­ rand’mère de Henri IV,” in Brantôme mémorialiste et conteur (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2010), 56 42. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 390–396. 43. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 263–265. 44. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 263. For the history and importance of Giulio Romano’s I Modi (drawings of sixteen sexual positions), Raimondi’s transmission of them as engravings, and their appearance as illustrations in Aretino’s scabrous sonnets in 1527, see Betty Talvacchia, Taking Positions: On the Erotic in Re­nais­sance Culture (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1999). 45. The dynamics of power and control that are at stake in this kind of sexual joking can best be understood by returning to Freud’s analy­sis of the smutty joke: “Smut is like an exposure of the sexually dif­fer­ent person to whom it is directed. By the utterance of the obscene words it compels the person who is assailed to imagine the part of the body . . . ​in question and shows her that the assailant is himself imagining it.” See Sigmund Freud, Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious, trans. and ed. James Strachey (New York: Norton, 1963), 98. 46. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 265. 47. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 390. 48. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 391. 49. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 391; emphasis added. 50. For an incisive analy­sis of the crisis of masculinity, see David LaGuardia, “­Toward Unstable Masculinity in Brantôme’s Recueil des dames,” in his Intertextual Masculinity in the French Re­nais­sance: Rabelais, Brontôme, and the Cent nouvelles nouvelles (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2008), 181–225. 51. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 372. 52. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 462–63. 53. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 392. 54. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 392; emphasis added. 55. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 374. 56. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 375. 57. Brantôme, Recueil des Dames, 376.

c ha p te r n ine

Sex, Salvation, Extermination Contrafacta and the French Wars of Religion Cathy Yandell

The sixteenth c­ entury spawned a flurry of m ­ usic production and distribution that had never before been pos­si­ble, thanks to the emergence of printed ­music collections and broadsheets. ­Music formed a quin­tes­sen­tial part of Re­nais­ sance court culture, from the traveling courts of François I to the royal entries of Charles IX and Henri III. As the Franco-­Flemish Latin motet slowly withdrew its forces, the very French chanson conquered the Eu­ro­pean continent.1 Pontus de Tyard and other humanists celebrated ­music’s power to heal, incite, and calm, and phi­los­o­phers ratiocinated on the harmonies of the spheres. The Reformation, too, generated new musical developments, most notably the democ­ratization of song in worship. ­Music in the Catholic Church had previously been furnished by the schola (cantorum), or specialized cantors, and worshippers often had no role in the musical practices of the congregation. With the advent of Protestant churches, congregants began to sing in the vernacular rather than in Latin, using s­ imple melodies. Singing for Catholics and Protestants served not only as a means of worship, but also as a uniting or galvanizing force for each religious community. Further contributing to polemical ­music in the public sphere, criers and colporteurs sometimes sang the words of the pamphlets they ­were peddling. Orality, musicality, and print culture thus became commingled, both literally and temporally, since songs could precede as well as outlive their printed manifestations.2 The 195

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longevity of melodies was also extended by appending new words to them in refashioned songs, or contrafacta. The setting of religious lyr­ics to popu­lar songs can be found in the French tradition as early as when the trouvères and the troubadours ­were prevalent,3 but the practice proliferated in sixteenth-­ century France, both preceding and during the Wars of Religion. Contrafacta prove to be fascinating cultural artifacts: functioning much like palimpsests, the melodies contain “layers” of lyr­ics, beginning with secular lyr­ics for which religious, polemical, or subversive texts are ­later substituted. ­These chansons nouvelles also raise impor­tant theoretical questions concerning authorship. Michel Foucault postulated the relative anonymity of literary texts in the French ­Middle Ages, as well as the historical progression ­toward the idea of a unified text with a single author,4 but Olivia Holmes has illustrated the emergence of lyric authority beginning with the troubadours.5 In the [modern] Western aesthetic imagination, Umberto Eco observed, a work of art is an individual production that “maintains a coherent identity” and displays the imprint of its maker.6 Given t­ hese shifting notions of authorship, how are we to understand an original musical composition in which new lyr­ics are substituted for the old, in some instances several times? As an unintended collaboration? As societally condoned plagiarism? As a legitimate improvement? The sixteenth c­ entury seems not to have been concerned with ­these questions, yet each iteration of a song tells a dif­fer­ent story, and each played a new role in the religious conflicts of the time. The appropriation of melodies for a new cause, no ­matter how distant from their original context, forms an impor­tant part of the cultural landscape of the period. Even a cursory glance at titles in the Chansonnier huguenot du XVI e siècle (Huguenot Songbook of the Sixteenth C ­ entury) reveals the nature of the songs’ transformations in the Reformers’ lexicon: Claudin de Sermisy’s “C’est à ­grand tort que moi pauvrette endure” (It is wrong for poor me to suffer) becomes in Eustorg de Beaulieu’s adaptation “C’est à ­grand tort que le peuple murmure / [contre Luther]” (It is wrong for ­people to complain [about Luther]), the traditional “Dame d’Orléans ne plourez plus” (Lady of Orléans, cry no more) becomes “Paovres Papistes retournez vous / A Jesus” (Poor Papists, return to Jesus), and “Sus debout, Beuvons d’autant” (Rise up, let us drink abundantly) becomes “Sus debout, ne musons tant” (Rise up, let us not dawdle so much).7 But how, exactly, do ­these contrafacta function? I propose to explore constitutive ele­ments of the sixteenth-­century French contrafac-



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tum and its palimpsestic effects and to examine specific polemical uses of the form by both Protestants and Catholics during the religious conflicts. In so ­doing, I hope to show that while t­ hese musical pieces are often conceived of as cultural productions, they are in fact themselves producers of culture and of cultural identity. I ­will conclude by suggesting the potential relevance of the contrafactum to the polemics of t­ oday. Before examining the principal characteristics of contrafacta, it ­will be useful to establish that French sixteenth-­century contrafacta—­even though some French historians might imply other­wise—­are not yet another example of French exceptionalism. Indeed, during the same period in Italy, carnival songs w ­ ere transformed into laude (praise songs) during Lent.8 In Spain, the melodies of Judeo-­Spanish folk songs became piyyutim (liturgical sung poems),9 and in Germany, Hans Sachs appropriated traditional Catholic melodies and transformed the songs into manifestos of Protestant doctrine.10 Perhaps the example of a contrafactum best known to us is the tune “Greensleeves,” which appears in sixteenth-­century broadsides and lute books with several sets of words—­Shakespeare refers three times to the tune in his Merry Wives of Windsor, with Falstaff proclaiming, “Let the sky rain potatoes, Let it thunder to the tune of Greensleeves” (Act 5, Scene 5). In at least one iteration of this lengthy saga, Lady Greensleeves is a prostitute, so the tune’s origins share more with French contrafacta than what first meets the ear. Christmas carols began to be sung to the tune of Greensleeves as early as 1686,11 with the most popu­lar version, “What Child Is This?,” emerging two centuries ­later. ­Today, the tune has come to be associated with ice cream trucks in Australia b­ ecause it has been the theme song for “Mr. Whippy” since the 1960s.12 The signification of at least one contrafactum has thus evolved for over five centuries. The melodies or timbres, designated by “sur le chant” (to be sung to the tune of), are usually characterized by rhythmic and melodic repetition as well as conjunct motion, involving a step between notes as distinguished from larger intervals. The rhythm of a song in both the original and the contrafactum often contributes to its story or message, in both mnemonic and affective dimensions, as Claudin de Sermisy’s celebrated setting of Clément Marot’s “Tant que vivray en aage florissant” (As long as I live in the prime of life) affirms (figure 9.1):13

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Figure 9.1. Claudin de Sermisy, Trente et sept chansons musicales a quatre parties, 1528. Paris: Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Original: Contrafactum: Tant que vivray en aage florissant Tant que vivray en eage florissant Je serviray d’amour le roy Je serviray le Seigneur tout  puissant  puissant, En fais, en dits, en chansons En faicts, en dictz, en chansons   par accordz.   et accordz Par plusieurs fois m’a tenu Le vieil serpent m’a tenu  languissant  languissant, Et apres deuil m’a fait Mais Jesus Christ m’a fait  resjouyssant  resjouissant Car j’ay l’amour de la belle au En exposant pour moy son sang   gent corps.   et corps. Son alliance Son alliance C’est ma fiance. C’est ma fiance. Son coeur est mien. Il est tout mien, Le mien est sien. Je suis tout sien: Fy de tristesse, Fy de tristesse, Vive liesse, Vive liesse, Puisqu’en amours a tant Puisqu’en mon Dieu a tant   de bien.   de bien14



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(As long as I live in the prime (As long as I live in the prime of life   of life [in the flourishing age] [in the flourishing age] I ­will serve the power­ful king I ­will serve the power­ful Lord   of love In deeds, in words, in In deeds, in words, in songs and  harmonious songs.  harmonies. For some time, he kept me The old serpent kept me  languishing  languishing ­After mourning, he made But Jesus Christ made me rejoice   me rejoice ­Because I have the love of the In giving his blood and body for me.   beautiful lady. Her commitment His commitment Is my assurance. Is my assurance. Her heart is mine, He is all mine, Mine is hers I am all his. Begone, sadness Begone, sadness Long live joy, Long live joy, ­Because in love t­ here is so ­Because in my God ­there is   much good.)   so much good.)15 In the contrafactum, the mythological “king of love” (the “god of love” in some versions) is replaced by the theological God, with the verb “serviray” (­will serve) modulating from the lexical field of the amorous courtly lover to the vocabulary of a postlapserian world of sin, as suggested by the “vieil serpent” (old serpent) in line 4. In line 5, the beautiful body of the beloved becomes the blood and body of Christ. The synecdochic “coeur” (heart) of the amorous speaker in line 9 is replaced by the entirety of the Christian believer. In both versions, truncated verses lend a dance-­like, lilting quality to the refrain, especially given the pronunciation of the final mute e in sung verse, as in lines 7–8, “son alliance / c’est ma fiance” (her commitment / is my assurance), with syllables of 5/5, 4/4, 5/5 continuing ­until line 12. The final octosyllabic verse, set in a ten-­count, homophonically textured line, produces a syncopated rhythm, again suggesting levity and joy (“Puisqu’en mon Dieu a tant de bien” [­because in my God ­there is so much good]).

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In contrast to Marot’s original piece, the progression of the story in the contrafactum is rather jarring: in the space of four lines, the speaker moves from the serpent of Eden to Jesus’s body and blood to the lilting “son alliance / c’est ma fiance,” which, although technically the same lyr­ics in ­these lines as ­those of the original, invite a quite dif­fer­ent sort of reflection. The contrafactum thus functions as a palimpsest, with the words of the secular love song still e­ tched in the singer’s memory. In addition to this intriguing potential blurring of meaning, t­ here ­were other excellent reasons to write contrafacta. As Luther purportedly said, “The devil c­ an’t have all the good tunes.”16 Indeed, well-­known secular songs undoubtedly served as accessible mnemonics for the public, including illiterates and “demi-­lettrés” (half-­literates).17 Furthermore, by rescuing ­these pleasing tunes from their sinful, profane lyr­ ics, spiritual writers refashioned the songs for a higher moral purpose, as Jean Pasquier wrote in his preface to the Mellange d’Orlande de Lassus of 1575: “J’ay pensé que je ferois devoir de Chrestien, si repurgeant ces tres gracieux et plaisans accords de tant de villenies et ordures, dont ilz estoyent tous souillez, je les remettois sur leur vray et naturel suject qui est de chanter la puissance, sagesse et bonté de L’eternel”18 (I thought that I would do my Christian duty if, by purging t­ hese graceful and pleasing compositions of so much vileness and filth that defiled them, I restored their true and natu­ral purpose, which is to sing the power, the wisdom, and the goodness of the Eternal). Similarly, in his settings of Ronsard’s poems dedicated to Henri III, Guillaume Boni underscores that he has not chosen to produce the foolish, lascivious songs currently in circulation (“un tas de chansons folles et lascives”).19 Boni’s reference to “un tas de chansons” (a pile of songs) is not metaphorical— as Kate van Orden has observed, ­music part books often did end up in piles (in trunks, on shelves, or in bags).20 Among the most delightful of ­those lascivious songs is Clément Janequin’s “Il estoit une fillette” (“­There once was a girl”) of 1540,21 in which the speaker undertakes the task of introducing a willing young w ­ oman to carnal pleasures. The original and the contrafactum (in italics) are juxtaposed below to illustrate the m ­ ental overlay that singers no doubt experienced: Il estoit une fillette / Qui vouloit scavoir le jeu d’amours, Il estoyt une fillette / Que le filz de Dieu voulut aymer Ung jour qu’elle estoit seullette / Je luy en aprins deux ou trois tours, Ung jour qu’elle estoyt seulette / Grâce il a faict en elle imprimer,



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Apres avoir senty le goust / Elle me dit en soubzriant Et luy fit dire et exprimer / Par un messager triomphant, “Le premier coup me semble lourd / Mais la fin me semble friant.” Que sans son honneur opprimer, / Ell’ concepvrait de Dieu l’enfant. . . . Je luy dis “vous me tentez” / Elle me dit “recommencez” Le petit enfant nacquit, / La Vierge fist son acquit, Je l’empoingne, je l’embrasse, /Je la fringue fort. Joseph doulcement l’embrasse, / Et le baisa fort, Elle crie “ne cessez” / Je luy dis “vous me gastez” Il y prenoit son deduict, / La Virge [sic] luy fist son lict, Laissez moy, pe­tite garse, / vous avez grant tort. L’asne et le bœuf en la cresche / Ne luy firent tort. . . . Mais quant ce vint a sentir le doulx point / Vous l’eussiez veu mouvoir si doulcement Eux arrivés en si honneste point / Vous eussiez ouy chanter si doulcement, Que son las cueur luy ­tremble fort et poingt / Mais, Dieu mercy, c’estoit ung doulx tourment. En musettes, flustes et contrepoint, / Chacun avait porté son instrument.22 (­There once was a girl / Who wanted to learn about the game of love ­There once was a girl / Whom God’s son wanted to love One day when she was alone / I taught her two or three tricks One day when she was alone / He filled her with grace ­After having developed a taste for it / She said to me, smiling, And had a triumphant messenger announce to her “The first part was a bit heavy / But the end was enticing.” That without harming her honor, / She would conceive the child of God. I said to her, “­You’re tempting me”/ She said, “Start over.” The ­little child was born, / The Virgin accomplished her work I grab her, I kiss her, / I frisk her heartily. Joseph ­gently embraced the baby and kissed him warmly.

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She cried, “­Don’t stop,” / I tell her, “­You’re undoing me, And took delight in him / The Virgin made his bed, Leave me alone, girl, ­you’re in the wrong.” The donkey and the ­cattle in the manger / Did him no harm. . . . But when it came to feeling the sweet moment, / You should have seen her move so sweetly, When they [the visitors] arrived in fine condition, / You should have heard them sing so sweetly, Her tired heart trembled and stirred, / But thank God, it was sweet torment. With musettes, flutes, and harmony, / Each one had brought an instrument) Thus the “fillette seullette” (girl alone) visited by her first suitor is replaced in the contrafactum by another “fillette seullette,” the Virgin Mary visited by the angel Gabriel. A lighthearted sexual escapade becomes the Annunciation, and Joseph’s gentle kissing of the baby Jesus substitutes for the young lover’s frisky, amorous embrace. Since so many of the exact rhyme schemes have been maintained, and even in some cases the identical last word of the line (“fort” [strong], “tort” [wrong], “point” [point, instant, state, health], “doulcement” [sweetly]), it is all the more likely that singers of the contrafactum would recall the original lyr­ics as they sang the new ones. Much like an antanaclasis, the word “point” takes on strikingly dif­fer­ent meanings in the two poems, signifying the apogee of the sexual encounter in the first instance and the felicitous state of the Christ child’s visitors in the second. The chansons involve tone painting in the final mea­sures, echoing the lyr­ics in both cases: the secular song ends in a contented climax, whereas the carol concludes with all gathering to sing and celebrate the birth of Jesus. While the transformation from bawdy song to Christmas carol may seem abrupt, the rhythmic cadences and the associations with joyful carnal love in the original chanson lend both physicality and humanity to the contrafactum. Even more than Christmas carols, sung psalms became a vehicle for coherence in Calvinist communities beginning in the 1540s, following Marot’s French translations and their settings by Pierre de Certon, Claude Goudimel, and numerous ­others. Marot’s translation of the Psalms first appeared without controversy, and indeed François I presented Marot’s work to the emperor Charles V in 1540. But as Protestants w ­ ere increasingly persecuted, the French



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psalms that Protestants sang and memorized became a sign of their distinct beliefs—so much so that the theologians of the Sorbonne condemned Marot’s versification of the psalms in 1543. This interdiction seems not to have produced the desired effect, however: the volume was printed in twenty-­five editions in Paris between the years of 1545 and 1550 alone.23 Psalms first became polemical less ­because of the stories they told than ­because of the language in which they w ­ ere recited and sung, since for Catholics it was considered heresy to translate God’s Word into the vernacular. But the rallying effect of the psalms went beyond this ­limited transgression. In the early 1550s, psalm-­ singing was permitted in the city of Lyon u ­ ntil, according to at least one report, t­ hings got out of hand. Paul Baduel, a Protestant minister temporarily living in Lyon, wrote a series of letters to Calvin in 1551 describing the events: On one occasion, over a hundred Protestants began singing psalms “à tue-­ tête” (at the top of their lungs): “Le nombre et l’entrain des chanteurs se sont tellement accrus, qu’on a vu un groupe de plus de cent personnes partir de l’Athénée, au confluent de la Saône et du Rhône, et se diriger vers l’intérieur de la ville en chantant à tue-­tête. Tout cela m’a paru dangereux, propre à susciter contre nous la malveillance . . . ; tout cela a aussi, par le temps qui court, un faux air de conjuration détestable”24 (The number and excitement of the singers grew so much that we saw a group of over a hundred ­people come out of the Athenaeum, at the confluence of the Saône and Rhône Rivers, and go ­toward the m ­ iddle of the town, singing at the top of their lungs. All of it seemed dangerous to me, likely to engender bad ­will; in the current times, it also has a false air of detestable conspiracy). Baduel’s fears that such spirited psalm-­singing would be linked to conspiracy w ­ ere likely well founded. As a result of such events, Henri II forbade the public singing of psalms in 1558. However, this edict, much like the condemnation of the psalms themselves, seems to have met with l­ ittle success. Psalm-­ singing became progressively entwined with religious activism and persecution, as Protestants of Bourges, Montargis, and Sancerre demonstrated on successive occasions.25 Agrippa d’Aubigné recounts that in Montargis, in 1569, hundreds of Protestants who had been ambushed by the Catholic army knelt in the road and recited Psalm 31, “Mon ame en tes mains je vien rendre” (Into thine hand I commit my spirit).26 In his Memoires de l’estat de France (History of the State of France), Simon Goulart describes the Reformed citizens of Sancerre singing Psalm 144 to mark an initial victory, “pour rendre grâces à Dieu de ceste delivrance admirable non attendue” (to thank

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God for this miraculous and unexpected deliverance).27 ­These stories of psalm-­ singing no doubt strengthened the Protestants’ solidarity, and each event deepened the songs’ significance. Although the Psalms themselves contain stories of David’s suffering and eventual triumph over his enemies, which undoubtedly resonated with the Reformers, their singing in unison for a common cause seems to have held even more meaning than the Psalms themselves. Songs thus accompanied the Protestants’ persecution, but they also provided a vehicle for satire and derision of Catholic practices, as elucidated in the contrafactum “Harri bourriquet” (Giddy-up, donkey). The timbre, originally written by Claudin de Sermisy in 1531, was retrofitted to become a “chanson nouvelle” (new song), or more precisely a “Noël nouveau” (new Christmas carol) with the incipit “Si l’on sonne une cloche” (If a bell is rung) in 1562. The fifteen-­stanza song traces the dif­fer­ent sections of the Mass and parodies the role of the priest therein: the ringing of the bells, the Introit, the Kyrie Eleison, the Credo, the Eucharist, and so on: . . . Du Credo, il chante En le prononçant, De croire, il se vante Au Dieu tout puissant, Mais rien il n’en faict, [Refrain] Harri bourriquet, Bourriquet, bourriquet, Et harri bourriquet. Un morceau de pâte Il fait adorer, Le rompt de sa patte, Pour le dévorer, Le gourmand qu’il est, [Refrain] Puis chante et barbote, Quelque chapelet, Puis souffle et rote



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Sur son goubelet, Puis à sec le met . . . (He sings the Credo While uttering it, He boasts that he believes In Almighty God, But he ­doesn’t act like it at all. [Refrain] Giddy-up, giddy-up, donkey! He blesses A lump of dough, Breaks it with his paw So that he can devour it, Like the glutton he is, [Refrain] Then he sings and ­mumbles A bit of “Our ­Father” Then he blows and burps On his chalice, Then drinks it all down.) ­ ese verses function as satire, certainly, but also as propaganda. The Eu­ro­pean Th historian Norman Davies has usefully outlined five defining characteristics of propaganda as follows:28 simplification (good and bad, friend and foe), disfig­ uration (discrediting by calumny or parody), transfusion (manipulating con­ sensus values of the audience for one’s own ends), una­nim­i­ty (“psychological contagion”), and orchestration (repeating the same message in dif­fer­ent variations). The chanson form proves to be perfect for t­ hese propagandistic designs: the priest’s hy­poc­risy is described in Manichean terms beginning in line 3: “De croire, il se vante / Au Dieu tout puissant, / Mais rien il n’en faict” (He boasts that he believes / In Almighty God, / But he ­doesn’t act like it at all). The reduction of Catholic communion to “a lump of dough” in line 1 of the second stanza shown constitutes another common simplification of the complex theological question of transubstantiation. What Davies calls

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“disfiguration” is enacted through the demonstration of the priest’s debauchery, as in the final lines of the third stanza shown: “Puis souffle et rote sur son goubelet, / Puis à sec le met” (Then blows and burps on his chalice, then drinks it down). Fi­nally, the repeated refrain “orchestrates” and reorchestrates a mockery of the priest, serving to crystallize the opinions of readers and listeners alike. “Harri bourriquet” is often translated as “giddy-up,” but Randle Cotgrave pre­sents the expression with a bit more color: “braying out in a lewd or harsh accent, such as the French Millers use in the driving of their Asses.”29 Thus the metonymic and onomatopeic “harri bourriquet” auditorily situates the priest in a world of donkeys and their peasant masters, as each verse tells a dif­fer­ent aspect of the story, ridiculing a dif­fer­ent aspect of the mass. Beyond their satirical function, songs also contributed to the escalating conflicts by celebrating victories in ­battles, notably among Catholic forces. In the year 1569 alone, the titles of numerous ­battle poems evoked the name of a sung musical form: Ronsard’s “Chant triomphal pour jouer sur la lyre” (Triumphant air to be played on the lyre),30 Louis Dorléans’s “Cantique de victoire, par lequel on peut remarquer la vengeance, que Dieu a prise dessus ceux qui vouloient ruyner son Eglise & la France” (Hymn of victory, through which can be seen the revenge that God has taken against ­those who wanted to destroy his Church and France),31 Amadis Jamyn’s “Ode, sur la bataille de Jarnac” (Ode on the ­Battle of Jarnac) and his “Cantique de la victoire de Monseigneur le duc d’Anjou” (Hymn of the victory of the Duke of Anjou),32 Jean Dorat’s “Paean ou chant triumphal sur la victoire de Charles Neuviesme Roy de France” (Song of praise or triumphant air on the victory of Charles IX, King of France) and his “Paean ou hymne de victoire” (Song of praise or hymn of victory),33 Rémi Belleau’s “Chant de triomphe sur la victoire en la bataille de Moncontour” (Triumphant air on the victory of the ­battle of Moncontour), and Jean de Baïf ’s “Ode au Roy, sur la victoire gaignée contre les rebelles par l’armée de sa Majesté” (Ode to the King on the victory against the rebels by the army of his Majesty).34 Even if the musical forms w ­ ere not necessarily sung in t­hese cases, the titles demonstrate the increased association between war and song during the crucial period between the Second and Third Wars of Religion (1567–1570). Also celebrating Catholic victories, but far more pernicious and terrifying, are the contrafacta that became ­battle cries during the Wars of Religion, notably a series of songs known by their incipits “Tremblez, tremblez Huguenotz” (­Tremble, ­tremble, Huguenots),35 “Tremblez, tremblez, vous Rochelois” (­Tremble, you inhabitants of La Rochelle),36 and “Tremblez, tremblez,



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Sancerre et La Charité” (­Tremble, Sancerre and La Charité).37 Th ­ ese songs reproduce not only the stories of Catholic conquest but also their justifications, disseminated in quickly produced pamphlets and other polemical texts, such as the Discours sur les c­ auses de l’execution faicte és personnes de ceux qui avoyent conjuré contre le Roy & son Estat (Discourse on the ­causes of the execution of ­those who conspired against the King and his State) of 1572.38 This Discours narrates the treachery of the Huguenots and argues that the massacres w ­ ere admirable insofar as they protected the king. Another pamphlet published in 1572, Brieve Remonstrance sur la mort de l’Amiral, et ses adherans (Brief Remonstrance on the death of the Admiral and his followers), appears in the form of a peroration (much like t­ hose of the contemporaneous court academies, as Jessica Herdman points out), offering justificatory ancient and biblical antecedents for the murders.39 Yet another apparent apology for the massacres was published in 1572 by the Lyonnais Michel Jove: a reprinted edition of Ronsard’s Remonstrance au peuple de France (Remonstrance to the p­ eople of France) written ten years ­earlier (December 1562).40 During the early years of the Wars of Religion, the Remonstrance had sought to rally all French subjects b­ ehind the young Charles IX and to unite the kingdom in a single faith u ­ nder the Valois monarchy, “A fin de maintenir le Sceptre des François” (in order to maintain the scepter of the French), in Ronsard’s words.41 Republished ten years l­ ater in a pirated edition (only Gabriel Buon in Paris had the privilège [right to publish]), in the wake of the Saint Bartholomew Day’s Massacre, the Remonstrance becomes a dif­fer­ent poem, implying Ronsard’s cele­bration of the carnage. As readers of Ronsard know, however, the “Prince of Poets” remained audibly ­silent ­after the massacres, with scarcely another polemic poem to his name for the remainder of his ­career. But his own words, reappropriated and imbued with dif­fer­ent meaning, functioned in this context much like a contrafactum. Similarly, the song “Tremblez, tremblez Huguenotz” and its variants further contributed to the violent aftermath of the Saint Barthomew’s Day Massacre.42 First published in Lyon by Benoist Rigaud as a pamphlet in 1572, the song relives a ritual purification meant to cleanse Paris (and ­later other cities) of heretical pollution. Natalie Zemon Davis has identified this notion of purging as the principal justification for the massacres, noting that while Protestants tended to target Catholic symbols and icons, Catholics directly attacked Protestants’ bodies.43 The first pamphlet, “Chanson à l’encontre des / Huguenotz” (Song against the Huguenots) to be sung to the tune of “Noble

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ville de Paris” (Noble city of Paris) appeared shortly ­after the massacre and enumerated the events in Paris, evoking dead bodies being thrown into the Seine. Part of its appeal was the rhythm of the timbre: a bransle, or dance rhythm. The original contrafactum spawned other contrafacta adapted to vari­ ous ­battles and sieges to such an extent that, by 1573, the label “se chante sur” (sung to the tune of) was no longer listed as “Noble ville de Paris” but simply “Tremblez, tremblez Huguenotz”—it became a timbre in its own right.44 ­Another version of this contrafactum narrates the siege of La Rochelle in 1562–1563: “Coq à l’asne récreatif nouvellment composée contre les Huguenots de La Rochelle” (Delightful satire newly written against the Huguenots of La Rochelle): Tremblez, tremblez, vous Rochelois, maintenant, Faites votre testament, Voicy la fin de vos jours; Tu n’auras plus des orgueilleux Absalons Deçà ny delà les monts Aucun [sic] aide ny secours. Vive les Valois! Mais à propos des Angloys Sont-­ils pas amys de la France? Couverte est la mer De canons et gros vaisseaux Pour foudroyer les pourceaux. . . . Le cœur me rit d’un compagnon cuisinier Qui preparoit le disner De monsieur, sans dire mot. En accoustrant un brochet puissant et gros, Il y trouva dans le corps La fesse d’un huguenot, Quel morceau friand! Ceux qui mordent en riant Sont souventes fois à craindre . . .45 (­Tremble, ­tremble, citizens of Rochelle, now Draw up your testament, This is the end of your days; You ­will no longer have haughty Absaloms



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Neither below or beyond the mountains, No help nor succor. Long live the Valois! But about the En­glish, Are they not friends of France? The sea is covered With cannons and large ships To strike down the swine. . . . My heart laughs at a fellow, a cook, Who was preparing the gentleman’s dinner, Without saying a word. And dressing a big, strong pike, He found within it The arse of a Huguenot What a tasty morsel! ­Those who bite into it, laughing, Are often to be feared) The song makes clear from the outset that the intent is not to win a ­battle, but quite simply to annihilate the Protestants: “faites votre testament / voici la fin de vos jours” (draw up your testament / this is the end of your days). This version of the song is perhaps the most virulent of all ­because of its context: in 1572, La Rochelle was a thriving port city, a Protestant mini-­Republic, with close trading ties to ­England. When the city refused entry to the troops sent by the king following the Saint Bartholomew Day’s Massacre, the royal army laid siege to the city. The Protestants successfully fought off Catholic forces for several months before eventually capitulating. Twenty-­four thousand royal soldiers w ­ ere killed, according to Brantôme,46 whereas De Thou claimed forty thousand 47 (much like a po­liti­cal rally or a presidential inauguration—it depends on who is counting). But what­ever the exact number of deaths may have been, the temporary defeat of the royal Catholic forces clearly intensified their desire for vengeance. In the “Coq à l’asne” (Satire), the image of Protestants as Absaloms, or the rebelling c­ hildren of King David, is all the more fitting, since the Reformers identified with the Psalms, as we have seen. Dramatizing the Rochellois’ re­sis­tance to the siege of their town by Catholic forces, the verses beginning in line 7 recount the tale of French troops surrounding La Rochelle by land

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and sea, intercepting the En­glish ships that had come to the aid of their ­fellow Protestants. The last verses in this section evoke the motif of cannibalism, a recurring trope during the Wars of Religion, with Protestants and Catholics accusing one another in both symbolic and literal terms. What astounds in this context, however, is that Catholic cannibalizing of Protestant flesh is not only acknowledged but also humorously celebrated. The epithet “pourceaux” (swine) in line 12 serves effectively to dehumanize the enemies and thus to attenuate the horror of their slaughter, much like another stanza from “Tremblez, tremblez vous Rochelois, maintenant”: Il est ­grand bruit par tous les pays chrétiens Que les levriers courans Se sont d’un lieu emparez. Quand me souvient du jour Saint Barthélemy, Nos ­grands mortels ennemis Furent bientôt séparez: Ce fut un ­grand bien, Holà! ne parlons de rien.48 (It is widely rumored in all Christian countries, That the ­running hounds Seized an area. When I think of Saint Bartholomew’s Day, Our ­great mortal enemies ­Were soon put asunder. It was a fine ­thing— But enough! Let’s not talk about it.) Painting the Protestants as ­running hounds, this stanza explic­itly praises the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre with “ce fut un ­grand bien.” The last line, “Holà! ne parlons de rien,” then forms an apophasis (that is, a refusal to speak of something while speaking of it) and once again attempts to lighten the tone with a wink to the (presumed Catholic) reader. Both Luc Racaut and Jean Vignes have argued that the demonization of Protestants—­identifying them as animals or monsters, distancing them from the h ­ uman race—to some extent explains the widespread vio­lence and the cruelty of urban mobs throughout the French Wars of Religion.49



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Other musical texts corroborate this desire to decimate the animalistic rebels, notably the work of Artus Désiré, who in a dedicatory letter preceding his Contrepoison des cinquante chansons de Clement Marot (Counterpoison of fifty songs by Clément Marot) calls for the extermination of Protestants, who are again not depicted as ­human, but rather as mastiffs: Et de ma part je supply humblement Nostre seigneur, qu’il vous doint telle grace Que vous puissiez exterminer la race Des Chiens mastins obstinez et mauvais Afin que tous nous puissions vivre en paix.50 (For my part, I humbly pray Our Lord to grant such grace That you ­will be able to exterminate the breed Of obstinate and malicious mastiffs So that we all may live in peace.) By imagining the Protestants as stubborn dogs, as a dif­fer­ent “race” to be exterminated, Désiré rhetorically simplifies the complex po­liti­cal and theological differences among the warring factions. As Antonia Szabari argues, “Repeatedly, [Désiré] depicts the religious other as a corrupt version of the self, whose otherness has to be represented through images that provoke condemnation and debase him into a being to be expulsed or destroyed.”51 Echoing and expanding on this sentiment, the much-­adapted “Coq à l’asne . . . ​ contre les / Huguenotz,” the taunt calling for annihilation, serves to trigger anger in the persecutors and fear in the victims with each new incarnation of the song. The anaphoric “tremblez, tremblez” metonymically evokes recent events in which many Protestants had already been murdered. This palimpsest—­song upon song, lyric upon lyric—­heightens the affective intensity, which becomes prolonged, “reinforced and re-­embodied”52 with each singing of the song throughout the kingdom. ­These Catholic and Protestant contrafacta, some of which had their origins in sexy popu­lar songs that belonged to French cultural history, thus served to unite adherents of each religious group. Not only did the songs ­solidify their own community of faith, but they also mocked, challenged, and refuted the other. In the most extreme examples, t­ hese songs inspired

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vio­lence, even to the point of inciting the genocide of an entire population, as we saw in “Tremblez, tremblez, Huguenotz.”53 What is so power­ful about ­these sung stories, and what unfortunately has impor­tant repercussions in the twenty-­first c­ entury, is their ability to escalate fear and anger in a given population. As a case in point, t­ oday, a well-­known terrorist group’s anthem bolsters the recruitment of new members by employing many of the techniques we have discussed. The Arabic song functions much like a contrafactum—­ although the words evoke the rather anodyne dawning of a new day, its catchy melody and syncopated rhythms can be heard in violent jihadist videos and even on the battlefield, thereby serving to unite recruits on several continents. During the French Wars of Religion, print and visual cultures had not yet come to dominate public consciousness as they have ­today, and thus the significance of auditory knowledge in that period should not be underestimated. The chansons we have examined, of course, arise from their specific historical context, but they also transform that context as producers of stories, identity, and culture. Indeed, as t­ hese songs remind us, aural and oral considerations also demand our utmost attention, revealing as they do a vital sensory entry into the polemical worlds of the past. Notes 1. Whereas the motet is a polyphonic choral piece, originally sung in Latin and set to biblical or liturgical texts, the French chanson (song) draws largely from secular themes and is driven by lyric. 2. See Jessica Herdman, “Musical Affective Economies and the Wars of Religion in Lyon” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 2015), 5; Kate van Orden, “Cheap Print and Street Song following the Saint Bartholomew’s Massacres of 1572,” in ­Music and the Cultures of Print, ed. Kate van Orden (New York: Garland Publishing, 2000), 306–308. 3. Jean Vignes, “Chansons spirituelles, pratique du contrafactum et mise en recueil: Les paradoxes de La Pieuse alouette avec son tirelire,” in L’Unique change de scène: Écritures spirituelles et discours amoureux (XIIe–­XVIIe siècle), ed. Véronique Ferrer, Barbara Marczuk, and Jean-­René Valette (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2016), 331. I am indebted to the literary scholar Jean Vignes, the musicologists Kate van Orden and Jessica Herdman, and the historian Tatiana Debaggi Baranova for their pioneering work in the area of French contrafacta. 4. Michel Foucault, L’ordre du discours (Paris: Gallimard, 1971), 29–30. 5. Olivia Holmes, Assembling the Lyric Self: Authorship from Troubadour Song to Italian Poetry (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2000). 6. Umberto Eco, The Open Work, trans. Anna Cancogni (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), 20.



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7. Henri-­Léonard Bordier, Le chansonnier huguenot du XVIe siècle (Geneva: Slatkine, 1870), 105, 97, 35. 8. See Patrick Macey, Bonfire Songs: Savonarola’s Musical Legacy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998); Patrick Macey, ed., Savonarolan Laude, Motets, and Anthems (Madison, WI: A-­R Editions, 1999); Joseph J. Gallucci, ed., Florentine Festival ­Music 1480–1520 (Madison, WI: A-­R Editions, 1981). I am grateful to Gerry Hoekstra for t­ hese references. 9. Edwin Seroussi, “The Turkish Makam in the Musical Culture of the Ottoman Jews: Sources and Examples,” Israel Studies in Musicology 5 (1990): 48–49. 10. James Van Horn Melton, Religion, Community, and Slavery on the Colonial Southern Frontier (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 70–71; Chiara Bertoglio, Reforming M ­ usic: ­Music and the Religious Reformations of the Sixteenth C ­ entury (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2017), 255–256. 11. John M. Ward, “ ‘And Who But Ladie Greensleeues?,’ ” in The Well Enchanting Skill: ­Music, Poetry, and Drama in the Culture of the Re­nais­sance: Essays in Honour of F. W. Sternfeld, ed. John Caldwell, Edward Olleson, and Susan Wollenberg (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), 193. 12. For further information on this commercial anthem, see the video “Mr. Whippy ­Won’t Be Frozen Out of Mosman Park,” Perth Now, August  23, 2017, http://­w ww​ .­p erthnow​ .­c om​ .­a u​ /­n ews​ /­western​ -­a ustralia​ /­m r​ -­w hippy​ -­wont​-­b e​ -­f rozen​ -­o ut​-­o f​ -­mosman​-­park​/­news​-­story​/­48c1932411d778bfa11ca0dbb26d7eaf. 13. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, ark:/12148/btv1b550071389. RISM B/I, 1 1528 (8) [Identification number from the Répertoire international des sources musicales]. Claudin de Sermisy, “Tant que vivray en aage florissant,” in Trente et sept chansons musicales a quatre parties nouvellement et correctement imprimées à Paris par Pierre Attaingnant demourant à la rue de la Harpe pres l’eglise saint Cosme (Paris: Pierre Attaignant, 1528), 16v. See also Francis Higman, Lire et découvrir la circulation des idées au temps de la Réforme (Geneva: Droz, 1998), 74. 14. The contrafactum is reprinted in Bordier, Le chansonnier huguenot, 22–23. Virtually ­every library of Re­nais­sance ­music holds a recording of the original chanson. The Ensemble Clément Janequin’s rendition of Sermisy can be found on Fricassées parisiennes: Chansons de la Re­nais­sance (Paris: Harmonia Mundi, 2008), and the contrafactum on Psaumes et chansons et de la Réforme (Paris: Harmonia Mundi, 2000). Most of the contrafacta referenced in this article can be heard on the videorecording of the concert by the Ensemble Clément Janequin, “Polémique en chansons,” June 12, 2015, at the Bibliothèque nationale de France, http://­www​.­bnf​.f­ r​/­fr​/e­ venements​_­et​_c­ ulture​/­anx​_c­ onferences​_­2015​ /­a.​ ­c_ ​ ­150612​_­polemique​_­chansons​.­html. 15. All translations in this chapter are my own. 16. While this par­tic­u­lar formulation is undoubtedly apocryphal (variations of the quotation figure in many recent works on Luther, but without specific references), Luther is quoted in an En­glish translation of the Colloquia mensalia (1652), in a section entitled “The ­Music of David,” as saying the following: “How is it that in carnal ­things, we have so many fine poems and verses, but in spiritual ­things, we have such cold and rotten compositions? . . . ​We ­ought not to contemn ­Music. Whoso contemneth ­music (as

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all seducers do), with them (said Luther) I am not content; next unto Theologica I give the place and highest honour to Musica. For thereby all anger is forgotten, the devil is driven away.” Colloquia mensalia; or, the Familiar Discourses of Dr. Martin Luther at His ­Table, vol. 2, trans. Henry Bell (London: W. Bennett, 1840), 304–305. 17. The term “demi-­lettrés” comes from Roger Chartier, Lectures et lecteurs dans la France d’Ancien Régime (Paris: Seuil, 1987), 118. 18. Jean Pasquier, preface to Mellange d’Orlande de Lassus contenant plusieurs chansons, à quatre parties des quelles la lettre profane a este changée en spirituelle (La Rochelle: P. Haultin, 1575). Isabelle Garnier points out that the lexical shift t­ oward the term “L’Eternel” for God was a Protestant innovation in “La récriture protestante du Psautier de Baïf: Les Pseaumes en vers mezurez d’Odet de La Noue sur une musique de Claude Le Jeune (2e partie),” Studia Litteraria Universitatis Iagellonicae cracoviensis 7 (2012): 31. The first occurrence of the term appears in a translation of the Bible by Calvin’s cousin, Pierre-­Robert Olivetan: La Bible qui est toute la saincte scripture: En laquelle sont contenus le Vieil Testament et le Nouveau, translatez en francoys: Le Vieil, de Lhebrieu; Et le Nouveau, du Grec (Neuchâtel: Pierre de Vingle, 1535). Regarding other polemical distinctions between Protestant and Catholic theological vocabularies, see Tatiana Debbagi Baranova, “Combat d’un bourgeois parisien Christophe de Bordeaux et son Beau recueil de plusieurs belles chansons spirituelles (vers 1569–1570),” in Médialité et interprétation contemporaine des premières guerres de Religion, ed. Gabriele Haug-­Moritz and Lothar Schilling (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014), 137; and Cathy Yandell, “Cannibalism and Cognition in Jean de Léry’s Histoire d’un voyage,” in Memory and Community in Sixteenth-­Century France, ed. David P. LaGuardia and Cathy Yandell (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2015), 195–196, 203–204. 19. Boni dedicated the first edition of Sonetz de P. de Ronsard to Henry III: “Je me suis enhardi (non sans g­ rand crainte & timidité) de vous présenter tres-­humblement quelques Sonets de Ronsard (& non un tas de chansons folles & lascives) que j’ay mariés et joints à ma Musique, le moins mal dont je me suis peu adviser” (I was so bold (not without g­ reat fear and timidity) as to offer you very humbly some sonnets by Ronsard (and not a pile of foolish and lascivious songs) that I set to my ­music, to the best of my ability). Guillaume Boni, Sonetz de P. de Ronsard, mis en musique à quatre parties par Guillaume Boni (1576), ed. Frank Dobbins (Paris: Éditions Salabert, 1987), 38. 20. Kate van Orden, ­Music, Authorship, and the Book in the First C ­ entury of Print (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013), 133. 21. RISM [Répertoire International des Sources Musicales] B/I, 1541/8. Clément Janeqin, “Il estoit une fillette,” in Huitiesme Livre contenant XIX chansons nouvelles (Paris: Pierre Attaingnant, 1540); the 1541 designation comes from the collection Le parangon des chansons, Neufviesme livre contenant. xxxi. Chansons nouvelles au singulier prouffit: & delectation des Musiciens (Lyon: Jacques Moderne, 1541). For modern notation, see (among ­others) François Lesure, Anthologie de la chanson parisienne au XVIe siècle (Monaco: Édition de l’Oiseau, 1953), 29–30. 22. The contrafactum is found in Noëls et chansons ou vaudevires (1581), ed. Jean Porée, ms. BnF, NAF [Nouvelles Acquisitions Françaises] 1274,14r, transcribed by Armand Gasté in “Les Noëls du manuscrit de Jehan Porée,” Bulletin de la société des antiquaires de Normandie 12 (1884): 239–276 (245–247).



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23. Higman, Lire et découvrir, 138. 24. M. J. Gaufrès, “Baduel à Lyon,” Bulletin de la société française d’histoire du protestantisme français 23 (1874): 402. 25. For a more detailed analy­sis of ­these and other instances of psalm-­singing by Protestants, see Barbara  B. Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross: Catholics and Huguenots in Sixteenth-­Century Paris (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 136–144; Barbara B. Diefendorf, “The Huguenot Psalter and the Faith of French Protestants in the Sixteenth ­Century,” in Culture and Identity in Early Modern Eu­rope (1500–1800): Essays in Honor of Natalie Zemon Davis, ed. Barbara B. Diefendorf and Carla Hesse (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1993), 41–63. 26. Agrippa d’Aubigné, Histoire universelle, ed. André Thierry, vol. 3, bk. 5, ch. 13 (Geneva: Droz, 1981–2000), 95–96. 27. Simon Goulart, Memoires de l’estat de France (Meidelbourg [Geneva?], 1576–1577), 103. 28. Norman Davies, Eu­rope: A History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 500. I am grateful to Jessica Herdman for this reference in the context of polemical songs. 29. Randle Cotgrave, A Dictionarie of the French and En­glish Tongues (London: Adam Islip, 1611). 30. Pierre de Ronsard, “Chant triomphal pour jouer sur la lyre: Sur l’insigne victoire qu’il a pleu à Dieu donner à Monseigneur, Frere du Roy,” in Sixième livre des poëmes (Paris: Jean Dallier, 1569); Ronsard, Œuvres complètes, vol. 2, ed. Jean Céard, Daniel Ménager, and Michel Simonin (Paris: Gallimard, 1993–1994), 512–515 (­under the title “Hynne du Roy Henry IIIe, Roy de France, pour la victoire de Moncontour”). 31. Louis Dorléans, Cantique de victoire, par lequel on peut remarquer la vengeance, que Dieu a prise dessus ceux qui vouloient ruyner son Eglise & la France (Paris: Robert Le Mangnier, 1569). 32. Amadis Jamyn, Les Œuvres poetiques (Paris: Mamert Patisson, 1575), 26r–27r (“Ode”), 27r–28v (“Cantique”). On Jamyn’s “Ode,” see Florence Dobby-­Poirson, “Entre Ronsard et Desportes: Amadis Jamyn,” Albineana, Cahiers d’Aubigné 22 (2010): 131. 33. Jean Dorat, “Paean ou chant triumphal sur la victoire de Charles Neuviesme Roy de France, & le Poëte chantent par refrain” and “Paean ou hymne de victoire,” in Paeanes sive Hymni (Paris: J. Charron, 1569); also in Œuvres poétiques, ed. Charles Marty-­ Laveaux (Genève: Slatkine, 1974), 32–35 (“Paean ou chant triumphal”) and 35–39 (“Paean ou hymne”). 34. For a more complete rec­ord of victory songs from 1568 to 1596, see Nicolas Lombart, “ ‘Ce que les vieux n’avoient sceu, / Tu l’as peu / Parachever en une heure . . .’: l’heure triomphale dans les hymnes de victoire catholiques du XVIe siècle,” in L’Instant fatal, ed. Jean-­Claude Arnould (2007), http://­ceredi​.­labos​.­univ​-­rouen​.­f r​/­public​/­​?­ce​-­que​-­les​ -­vieux​-n ­ ​-­avoient​-­sceu​-­tu​.­html. Tatiana Debbagi Baranova notes that Christophe de Bordeaux’s “Chanson nouvelle de la deffaite de l’armée des Huguenots” is also based on the ­battle of Moncontour of October 1569: A coup de libelles: Une culture politique au temps des guerres de religion (1562–1598) (Geneva: Droz, 2012), 234–235. 35. “Tremblez, tremblez Huguenotz” is the incipit of Chanson nouvelle à l’encontre des Huguenotz: Avec une chanson nouvelle des triomphes et magnificences qui ont esté faictes

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au Mariage du Roy de Navarre et de tres-­illustre Princesse Madame Marguerite, sœur du Roy (Lyon, 1572). 36. “Coq à l’Asne recreatif, nouvellement composé contre les Huguenots de Rochelle” (incipit: “Tremblez, tremblez vous Rochelois”), in Sommaire de tous les recueils des Chansons, tant Amoureuses, Rustiques que Musicales (Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, 1579), 70r–72r. 37. “Coq à l’Asne de Sancerre et de la Charité” (incipit: “Tremblez, Tremblez, Sancerre et la Charité”), in Sommaire de tous les recueils des Chansons, 73v–76v; reprinted in Antoine Le Roux de Lincy, Recueil de chants historiques français depuis le XIIe jusqu’au XVIIIe siècle, vol. 2 (Paris: C. Gosselin, 1842), 328–333. 38. Discours sur les ­causes de l’execution faicte és personnes de ceux qui avoyent conjuré contre le Roy & son Estat (Lyon: Michel Jove, 1572). 39. Brieve Remonstrance sur la mort de l’Amiral, et ses adherans: Au peuple François (Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, 1572). On the relationship between this peroration and ­those of the court academies, see Herdman, “Musical Affective Economies,” 124–129. 40. See Ronsard, Œuvres complètes, 2:1584. 41. Ronsard, Œuvres complètes, 2:1031. 42. See notes 35–37 above. 43. Natalie Zemon Davis, Society and Culture in Early Modern France (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1975), 179. Luc Racaut further notes that “protestant vio­lence is pedagogic and demonstrative whereas Catholic vio­lence is more purgative”: Hatred in Print: Catholic Propaganda and Protestant Identity during the French Wars of Religion (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2002), 25. See also Denis Crouzet, Les guerriers de Dieu: La vio­lence au temps des guerres de religion, vers 1525–­vers 1610, vol. 1 (Seyssel: Champ Vallon, 1990), 625–626. 44. See Herdman, “Musical Affective Economies,” 140. 45. Le Roux de Lincy, Recueil de chants historiques français, 308–310. 46. Pierre de Bourdeille and Seigner de Brantôme, Œuvres complètes, vol. 4 (Paris: Jules Renouard, 1868), 90. 47. Jacques-­Auguste de Thou, Histoire universelle, vol. 6 (London, 1734), bk. 56, 666. 48. Le Roux de Lincy, Recueil de chants historiques français, 309. 49. Racaut, Hatred in Print, 37. Jean Vignes, in a probing paper delivered at the Bibliothèque nationale de France on June 12, 2015, titled “Chansons à massacrer? Coq-­à-­ l’âne et chansons catholiques autour de la Saint-­Barthélemy,” analyzes the animal imagery describing Protestants in the “Coq a l’asne des Huguenotz tuez et massacrez à Paris le XXIIII jour d’Aoust 1572,” positing that the form of distancing and de-­dramatization therein allowed for the other­wise unthinkable massacre of Protestants. I am grateful to Jean Vignes for sending me this as-­yet-­unpublished work. 50. Artus Désiré, “A TRES HAULT, TRES-­PUISSANT ET MAGNANIME Seigneur, Monseigneur le Prince de Piédmont, Duc de Savoye,” in Contrepoison des cinquante chansons de Clement Marot, Faussement intitulées par luy Psalmes de David, Fait & composé de plusieurs bonnes doctrines, & sentences preservatives d’Heresie . . . (Lyon: Michel Jove, 1562; reprint, ed. Jacques Pineaux, Geneva: Droz, 1977), A5r. 51. Antonia Szabari, Less Rightly Said: Scandals and Readers in Sixteenth-­Century France (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2010), 137.



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52. Herdman, “Musical Affective Economies,” 145. 53. As Richard Freedman reminds us, contrafacta “serve as an example of an obvious but often unsettling condition faced by any attempt to understand the ­music of a dif­fer­ent time or place, namely that the meanings or emotional connotations that we attach to sounds ‘themselves’ are rarely fixed, but instead vary according to the assumptions and attitudes of the listeners who encounter them”: The Chansons of Orlando di Lasso: M ­ usic, Piety, and Print in Sixteenth-­Century France (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2001), 187. Analyzing the sounds of the Wars of Religion more broadly, Amy Graves Monroe convincingly argues, “Sound not only seems to demarcate a location for the expression of dissonance and tension during the conflict, its presence helps navigate the impasse of visual perception and diffuses some of the theological difficulties posed by touch”: “Soundscapes of the Wars of Religion: Sensory Crisis and the Collective Memory of Vio­lence,” in LaGuardia and Yandell, Memory and Community, 57. ­These studies also implicitly argue for further examination of the sometimes neglected but often crucial role of m ­ usic and sound in literary and historical scholarship.

cha p te r te n

Storytelling in Tapestry Examples for a French Queen Sheila ffolliott

Precepts . . . ​must be impressed, crammed in, inculcated, . . . ​now by a suggestive thought, now by a fable, now by analogy, now by example, now by maxims, now by a proverb. They should be engraved on rings, painted in pictures, appended to the wreaths of honor, and, by using any other means by which that age can be interested, kept always before him [the prince].1 —­Erasmus, Institutio principis Christiani

Erasmus (1466–1536) regarded diverse genres and repre­sen­ta­tional forms as equally and collectively effective in delivering a message. His era, the Re­nais­ sance, witnessed the production and display of numerous types of visual message-­bearing narratives. Emily Francomano has described how a viewer could encounter them: “To enter a richly appointed room in a late fifteenth-­ or sixteenth-­century h ­ ouse­hold was to be immediately surrounded by, and immersed in, stories. ­Every domestic surface, from tabletop and plate, chest and chairback, to wall and bed-­curtain, could be the site for a narrative, for the intertwining of material and literary cultures. This meeting of lit­er­a­ture and domestic decoration is particularly clear in large narrative tapestries . . . ​ designed to hang from ceiling to floor and wrap around the interior of one or more rooms.”2 Tapestry was the medium of prestige in this textile-­savvy age. Before examining some of the ways in which tapestries told stories, one must consider the materiality of the medium itself and its resonances at the Re­ nais­sance court, especially in France. Start with two particulars: tapestries could be very large and they flaunted their cost. Production was labor-­intensive and involved expensive materials; 218



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silk and metallic threads occasionally enhanced the basic wool and linen comprising the warp and weft.3 Tapestries figured among the goods considered essential to establishing a princely identity, and patrons paid dearly for them.4 An inventory indicated that Francis I (1494–1547) had 408 tapestry ensembles (indicating the possibility of many more individual pieces).5 He inherited Flemish-­designed and woven examples, but he spent vast sums commissioning new tapestries from designs by Italian artists, for example paying eighty-­ five times the annual salary of an impor­tant court artist, Francesco Primaticcio, for a twenty-­three-­piece set of the Deeds and Triumphs of Scipio ­after designs by Giulio Romano.6 Tragically, revolutionaries burned most of his collection in 1797, attempting to extract the gold and silver for their monetary value. His con­temporary and rival, Henry VIII, possessed fourteen palaces and over 2,700 tapestries. Now only about thirty remain, including an Abraham set on display at Hampton Court, the former residence of Cardinal Wolsey, whose collection Henry seized.7 A Venetian ambassador reported that on his frequent visits to the cardinal, he never saw the same item twice.8 Perhaps an exaggeration, the statement nevertheless indicates how ­these big, vibrant textiles ­were meant to astound. In the world of the elite, tapestries fundamentally established a domestic décor as appropriate to the privileged (on occasion, even for ­those in prison). They ­were displayed in a variety of ways, but most w ­ ere sets elucidating a narrative. Laura Weigert, among the few scholars who have directed a theoretically informed vision of narrative operations in tapestry, has pointed out how the vocabulary regarding tapestries, found in inventories, w ­ ills, and account rec­ords, helps clarify their necessary correlation with architecture.9 Wall-­sized sets, described as “chambres,” lined small rooms like wall­paper, and mirrors and pictures might hang on top. Th ­ ese tapestries defined the more intimate aristocratic domestic spaces. Such suites w ­ ere changed from time to time, with newer tapestries installed in rooms of greater prestige replacing older ones, which ­were moved to less impor­tant locations.10 Unlike mural paintings, significantly, tapestries w ­ ere portable. The peripatetic court carried tapestries in their baggage, together with plate, jewelry, and other movables. Th ­ ose sets in larger dimensions, called salles, colorful and forceful statements of wealth and power, speedily rendered empty halls or temporary structures palatial.11 In some instances, their very presence—­regardless of subject m ­ atter—­ratcheted up the scale of splendor at impor­tant events.12 ­Because of the uses to which textiles ­were put, it is easy to see why surviving examples are so rare.

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Royal collections comprised both inherited and newly commissioned tapestries: Francis I possessed many examples belonging to his pre­de­ces­sors and ancestors.13 The impact of such legacies was apparent in the décor chosen for the abdication ceremony of Charles V Habsburg in Brussels in 1555. The Story of Gideon, an eight-­piece set celebrating the deeds of the patron of the chivalric Order of the Golden Fleece, made for the emperor’s Burgundian ancestor Philip the Good, its founder, draped the hall for that event.14 On special occasions, tapestries illustrating the Acts of the Apostles enhanced the fresco decoration of the Sistine Chapel in Rome, creating a continuity of church history from the earliest, Genesis, on the ceiling, through the lives of Moses and Christ on the upper side walls, to the Apostles figured in the tapestries lining the chapel space at the level where their successors assembled to pray and to choose a new pope. Indeed, the ostensible interpenetrability of space between woven narrative and ­those observing the tapestries or performing within the spaces they lined was a clear expectation for ­these textiles, a point to which I ­shall return. The most prestigious tapestries comprise sets with several episodes—­ typically four to twelve. Often existing in multiples that w ­ ere made for dif­ fer­ent patrons, t­ hese tapestries illustrate stories from the Bible, for example Joshua, David, Abraham, Noah, or The Life of Christ; my­thol­ogy, such as The Fables of Ovid or The Story of Diana; ancient history, as in The Trojan War, The Foundation of Rome, or The Stories of Queen Artemisia (to be discussed below); and lit­er­a­ture, with Amadis de Gaule or Gerusalemme Liberata. Other suites ­were allegorical, such as Petrarch’s Triumphs, Los Honores, The Months, The Twelve Ages of Man, or The Cité des Dames, in which personified qualities enact the stories. The narratives mentioned above illustrate texts that would be familiar to most viewers, but patrons also commissioned sets to celebrate their own recent achievements, for instance The Legend of Nôtre Dame du Sablon for the Thurn und Taxis ­family, The Conquest of Tunis for Charles V, or The Valois Tapestries (to be discussed below).15 To examine storytelling in French Re­nais­sance tapestries, I s­ hall focus on two sets conceptualized around Catherine de’ Medici (1519–1589), left a ­widow with young sons by Henri II’s accidental death from a jousting accident in 1559. One involves the composition of a new narrative about an ancient queen, Artemisia, while the other recounts Catherine’s own renowned court fêtes and features portraits of her ­children. For the former, we have as evidence a manuscript biography, model drawings with accompanying sonnets, and some



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a­ ctual tapestries, woven at a l­ater date.16 For the latter, known as the Valois Tapestries, we have the tapestries themselves, but very l­ittle pertinent documentation. In 1562, Nicolas Houel composed a lengthy manuscript, L’Histoire d’Arthèmise, which he presented to Catherine, queen ­mother and regent for the young Charles IX.17 Seeking patronage, he proposed that the ancient widowed queen Artemisia was the perfect prototype for the situation in which Catherine found herself—­a ­widow trying to assert her ruling authority.18 Houel was trained as an apothecary, and as Artemisia describes a plant genus (including mugwort and wormwood), no doubt his métier exposed him to its properties and surrounding lore. Other queens had a­ dopted the image of Artemisia, as she was celebrated as the inconsolable w ­ idow who not only ruled but who also demonstrated her undying devotion to her deceased husband, Mausolus, by building him a funerary monument at Halicarnassus so famous that “mausoleum” became the generic name for the building type. In terms of storytelling, Histoire very con­ve­niently elides the En­glish “history” and “story,” for Houel cobbled together details from vari­ous ancient and modern sources, claiming to imitate a model of royal pedagogy, Xenophon’s Cyropedia. His biography of Artemisia, as the acknowledged prototype for Catherine, traces her husband’s funeral and the design and building of his monument, turns to her supervision of the education of their son, the young king, and then to her ruling on his behalf. Houel stated that the examples he provided would serve Catherine well in her new role and that he would, for her plea­sure, supply illustrations to accompany his biography that she could have enlarged into tapestry, thereby furnishing her with a legitimating backdrop for the duties she performed as regent. While Francis I used the set of tapestries extolling the military victories of the Roman General Scipio Africanus and the ensuing triumphal pro­cessions to enhance his position, b­ ecause of her gender, this imagery would not have served Catherine. Turning designs into tapestries required the preparation of full-­scale preparatory drawings called cartoons to use as guides for the weavers. B ­ ecause of their repeated use in the weaving pro­cess, very few tapestry cartoons survive. In line with Erasmus’s precepts, from the outset Houel envisaged telling Artemisia’s story in multiple forms: as a prose text to read privately, as perusable illustrations (15 × 21 in.) glossed by sonnets (to examine in com­pany and possibly read aloud), and eventually as large-­scale tapestries. Tapestry production was always a collaborative effort as weavers interpreted preparatory

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drawings and cartoons made by ­others.19 In this case, several artists prepared drawings, illustrating around seventy dif­fer­ent episodes, which ­were bound in the eigh­teenth ­century, together with sonnets by Houel’s own hand.20 Clearly this indicates the multipurpose function of his narrative ensemble, as no tapestry series incorporates so many episodes. Tapestries had long incorporated texts, both inscriptions and verse; thus Houel was simply fitting his new Histoire into an established pattern. Image and text then cohabited and, as Francomano has demonstrated, it is fitting to adopt W. J. T. Mitchell’s formulation of “imagetext” to escape from the word/image dichotomy that did not r­eally pertain to the reading of tapestries in Re­nais­sance culture.21 With this in mind, let’s turn to the compositions, which the artists worked out and supplied in highly finished drawings. Antoine Caron (1521–1599), court painter to Catherine de’ Medici, produced the lion’s share of ­these designs. ­Because of the popularity of Italian art at the court of Francis I and Henry II, Caron had the opportunity to view the figural and compositional inventions of Raphael and other artists whom Francis collected, as well as the work in situ of Rosso Fiorentino and further Italians who worked in France. This shows in some aspects of the drawings he prepared for the Artemisia series, although he kept his own distinctive style. In one drawing, The Riding Lesson (figure 10.1), Artemisia (at left) supervises her son’s instruction in one facet of his princely education, which, following the period’s models, emphasized both ­mental and physical exercise. The action in the central narrative transpires within a recognizable ancient setting featuring an amphitheater, a serpent column on a pedestal (a monument in the hippodrome at Constantinople), and a colossal statue of Hercules on the right balancing the queen at the left. As Hercules frequently symbolized the French king, the statue stands in for the deceased but ever-­exemplary Henri II. Artemisia is pre­sent, but as her back is turned, the male figures dominate the action. Extensive ornamental borders generally embellished tapestries, and although draughtsmen did not always furnish them, this drawing provides them in detail.22 Significantly in this case, the border does impor­tant work, attaching the current queen to the ancient prototype. The crossed Ks (Greek for “Catherine”) at the upper corners, her coat of arms at the top center, the motto, “ardorem testantur extincta vivere flamma” (the glow lingers though the flame is gone) in flanking cartouches, and devices referring to her inconsolability as a w ­ idow (scythes and quicklime that smokes even when doused



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Figure 10.1. Antoine Caron, The Riding Lesson, c. 1563. Paris: Bibliothèque ­nationale de France, rés. AD 105, 15.75 × 21.7 in.

with w ­ ater) appear along the edges. From a practical standpoint, borders, woven separately, could easily be changed as new ­owners adapted a set to their own uses or as other patrons ordered tapestries from existing cartoons. Despite their astronomical cost, tapestries, ironically, could be made in multiple sets and thus be “mechanically reproducible,” as ­were the significantly less expensive forms like woodcut.23 The Artemisia prototype was l­ater appositely redeployed for a new referent: woven when Marie de’ Medici was queen.24 The image’s antique setting establishes the authenticity of the queen herself, while the space at the bottom accommodates the sonnet that links this episode with prior action, explains its significance, and provides many additional details not in the illustration proper: Estant Instruict le Roy, es meilleures sciences, La Royne desi[r]unt qu’il fut autant guerriere Comme es Arts les meilleurs Il estoit le premiere Luy feit faire en cela bien mille experiences.

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Premier, en luy monstra en toutes occurrences Comme on peult adextrir, et conduire, & manier Les plus facheux Chevaux, & comme dans l’estrier Les piedz se doivent mettre avec leurs asseurances. On luy monstra comment a courbette, & a bond, En arriere, en galop, en petit pas, en rond, On ses [sic] doibt gouverner pour vallamment combattre, Quand la necessité le vouldroit requerir, Et pour asseurement ses ennemys abbatre, Quand il seroit besoing de les faire mourir. (The King was educated in the best sciences, The Queen, desiring him to be as ­great a warrior As he was first in the best arts, Made him perform a thousand martial exercises. First, he was shown at ­every event How adroitly to lead and manage The most difficult ­horses, and how in the stirrups His feet must be placed with confidence. He was shown how, while bowing and jumping, ­Going backwards, galloping, making small steps, circling, One must be in control of oneself to fight valiantly, When necessity demands it, And to bring down his enemies with confidence, When it proves necessary to kill them.) In this case, the sonnet draws upon the familiar meta­phor that connects equestrian proficiency to competence in other ­matters pertaining to a well-­ trained king. Another illustration (figure 10.2) depicts Artemisia (at left) accompanied by her son, observing the completed Mausoleum, conventionally cut away to reveal the tomb inside. ­Here too the setting features recognizable ancient buildings, known to Caron and his contemporaries through engravings, although the Mausoleum h ­ ere takes the form of the Pantheon in Rome. ­These two examples, among many, serve to illustrate that, as the Artemisia story develops, the central narratives change (can we call them the verses?), while the borders remain fairly constant (similarly, can we call them the refrains?). Since apprehending the changes and continuities relies upon a reading of in-



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Figure 10.2. Antoine Caron, The Completed Mausoleum, c. 1563. Paris: Bibliothèque nationale de France, rés. AD 105, 15.75 × 21.7 in.

dividual narrative sections, this storytelling system relates to methods more common to poetry and ­music. Note how t­ hese drawings display compositions similar to t­ hose found in manuscript illuminations, prints, and book illustrations—­a narrative surrounded by framing—­indicative, it would seem, of shared expectations that all would be read.25 In contrast with Erasmus, quoted at the outset, who combined expressions in dif­fer­ent media and formats, art historians have tended to isolate and privilege monumental narrative painting, the istoria, or history, deemed by Re­nais­sance theoreticians starting with Leon Battista Alberti (1404–1472) as the highest form of painting.26 Recent scholars, however, have emphasized the importance of small (connoting precious) objects at the Re­ nais­sance court. It should r­ eally not be a surprise to find that the objects the Re­nais­sance elite enjoyed for personal perusal or private sharing (like books, drawings, or prints) and the monumental mural decoration (like tapestry and

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fresco) that surrounded them share compositional forms and can be seen as echoing one another within the era’s viewing experience. As stated above, tapestries from the Story of Artemisia series seem not to have been made during Catherine de’ Medici’s lifetime. It is unclear if she ­didn’t like the imagery, or if its message was no longer relevant when the drawings w ­ ere complete, or if resources w ­ ere lacking (which seems not to have prevented her from spending on architecture and festivals).27 Although t­ here is no direct patronage link, a set now in the Uffizi, referred to as the Valois Tapestries, produced in the 1570s, images Catherine directly. Depictions of ­battles, ballets, and tourneys Catherine staged during the 1560s and 1570s are at the centers of ­these eight tapestries, flanked by large-­scale full-­length portraits of major Valois ­family members and connections. Much remains unknown about the origins and production of this set, but unlike the Artemisia series, the Valois Tapestries (any original name seems not to have been recorded) illustrate current events, thus resembling Charles V’s lavish Conquest of Tunis suite. Unlike the emperor, Catherine did not participate in ­actual combat, so what could she show? Triumphal entries and similar extravagant ceremonies had long served to show a ruler’s power; thus Catherine’s fêtes demonstrate her vision of how acutely orchestrated per­for­mance combined with repre­sen­ta­tions in a large and colorful medium could serve specific interests of diplomacy, principally strengthening the Valois monarchy, now resting in the person of young kings, and bringing peace to a realm torn by religious strife. The fêtes themselves ­were to impress foreign dignitaries with the magnificence of the monarchy and to demonstrate to courtiers the benefits of reconciliation between Protestant and Catholic factions. Brantôme extolled ­these fêtes as her most magnificent achievement but per­ for­mances, although costly, are ephemeral; and festival publications, some illustrated, disseminated and lengthened their effects.28 In this unique case, tapestries historicized the series of “Magnificences” as Catherine’s “res gestae” for posterity.29 The queen ­mother’s writers, including Ronsard, and scenographers in­ven­ ted ideal worlds through chivalric stories and per­for­mances. Some of ­these multiday fêtes featured mock b­ attles (with performers costumed as knights, Turks, Amerinds, Greeks, and Trojans) that ended in reconciliation, a clear reference to the ongoing strug­gles between Protestant and Catholic factions, representatives of which ­were participants. In other instances, the audience was treated to per­for­mances (e.g., at Fontainebleau in 1564, sea gods and si-



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rens paid tribute to the monarchy). In all cases, Catherine’s ­children and their spouses featured prominently. ­There is no external evidence that the queen ­mother commissioned them, and Frances Yates produced a major iconographic study of the suite, relating its genesis to another patron and situation.30 Pascal-­François Bertrand has cogently argued that ­because of the imagery, the tapestries must implicate Catherine and her concerns for the Valois dynasty, for what is at the center are impor­tant cele­brations, almost diplomatic coups, that she herself had planned.31 A recent exhibition of some pieces in the set at the Cleveland Museum of Art supports Bertrand’s argument.32 Antoine Caron, moreover, the very artist who produced the designs for the Artemisia set, made drawings of the central scenes for ­these tapestries as well. In terms of symbolism, the borders would be much less significant ­here, as the occasions represented ­were well enough known from recent memory and from festival books. In addition, the flanking figures, not drawn by Caron, are recognizable portraits. If we examine one tapestry, Fontainebleau, c. 1576 (figure 10.3), we note that two figures in the foreground on the right mediate between the represented Magnificences and us. They are portraits, based upon models used to provide replica portraits at court; in this case of Henri III, who gestures ­toward the center, and his wife, Louise of Lorraine. Similar figures frame the other festival depictions, and the complete series bears portraits of Catherine’s living ­children and related members of the court. Tapestry may seem a strange, nonmimetic choice for portraits, but this is hardly a unique example.33 Con­temporary documents indicate that vari­ous Habsburgs w ­ ere portrayed “from life” in the Hunts of Maximilian series, produced in the late 1520s.34 The Valois suite, in total, represents key moments and personages of the sixteenth-­century Valois. How does the inclusion of ­family portraits relate to the stories being told? Genealogy is another impor­tant story and its display, including portrayals of kinship, was widespread in this period; major public examples include the grandiose tomb of Maximilian I Habsburg in the Hofkirche, Innsbruck, surrounded by life-­size Habsburg portraits, and the French Royal tombs at Saint-­Denis, also including ­family members. The arrangement of f­ amily portraits in the residence of Margaret of Austria, Governor of the Netherlands, represents a more private example.35 Scholars have argued that such a display reminded impor­tant visitors that they ­were dealing not just with a ­woman ruler but with her extended and very influential Habsburg ­family as well.

Figure 10.3. Tapestries of Caterina de’ Medici: Festival on the ­Water. Designed by Antoine Caron, cartoons by Lucas de Heere, 1582. W ­ oven by Joos van ­Herseel and Franchoys Sweerts, or Francois Spiering, before 1585. Woven of silk, gold, silver, and wool; lined with canvas. 158.661 × 133.465  in. Uffizi. Photo Credit: Scala / Art Resource, New York.



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Catherine de’ Medici herself had a huge number of portraits on display in her Pa­ri­sian ­hotel, no doubt for similar reasons.36 For larger and more portable uses, tapestries also displayed genealogies, a well-­known example being the Nassau Genealogy, a set made c. 1528–1530 ­after drawings by Bernaert van Orley, illustrating members of the Orange-­Nassau f­ amily from the thirteenth through the sixteenth ­century.37 What the Valois Tapestries do, consequently, is combine repre­sen­ta­tions of Catherine’s fêtes—­her deeds—­with the power gained through dynastic marriage, thereby encapsulating her mode of diplomacy ­toward peacemaking. Although difficult to assess in a photo­graph, when we turn to a physical examination of a tapestry itself, we should immediately note how its texture affects perception. The newly fash­ion­able perspectival “win­dow” mode of repre­sen­ta­tion asked the viewer to ignore the appearance of the medium on the surface in f­avor of a fictive world beyond. Oil painting, as practiced by some in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, enhanced this illusion, as it could almost eliminate the appearance of the paint, which transmogrifies itself into depicted ­things beyond. Tapestry, however, calls attention to its medium: its surface studded with ­things that stuck out and shimmered. The Valois Tapestries insist on having it both ways: an enlivened surface and a mimetic illusion that ­today’s observer may find difficult to reconcile. The modern viewer is further disadvantaged in trying to recapture the full effect of the potential for tapestry display. T ­ oday’s viewers experience tapestries in a museum or historic ­house setting, most of which do not replicate the practices of e­ arlier periods. When museums exhibit tapestries, they may relegate them to the basement or to a lower-­status (by ­today’s standards, which privilege painting) “decorative arts” department, where they are often hung in isolation and above floor level.38 Extensive exposure to light has, in addition, caused colors to fade, lessening contrasts and weakening contours. As Marina Belozelskaya summarizes, “­Today we find it difficult to read and admire ­these seemingly convoluted and confusing scenes.”39 Straightforward storytelling is not, therefore, the chief purpose. Unlike some tapestries, which combine multiple episodes or disparate events with an analogical relationship, the Story of Artemisia and the Valois Tapestries tell their stories through a perspective system that creates a focus on a central event. Theorizing how large visual works convey narratives has concerned many art historians. Randolph Starn and Loren Partridge identified three modes of viewer engagement with the decoration of a frescoed room

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that can serve in the consideration of tapestry: the scan (“a sweeping way of seeing that traces out the logic of a design”), the mea­sured view (a perspective system regulates the positioning of an ideal spectator), and the glance (a represented figure looks directly into the viewers’ space).40 Apropos tapestry, Emily Francomano, in a sense, combined Starn’s and Partridge’s notion of the scan and the mea­sured view, asserting that “a viewer may stand and contemplate an entire panel, his or her gaze progressing through the scenes from center to margins, from right to left, or in any other fashion. Nevertheless, the panels’ designs work to draw the eye back to center.” 41 A visual artist cannot presume that a viewer starts at the top of page one and follows a preset narrative order. Formal ele­ments in a composition, aided by perceptual conventions, must try to regulate viewing. The magnet-­like force of the vanis­hing point in a perspective system, ­adopted more frequently in mid-­sixteenth-­ century tapestries, heightens focus, but figural scale, movement, and color, inter alia, interrupt to create alternative points of interest. Telling the complete Artemisia/Catherine story employs several repre­sen­ta­tional modes, something similarly expected in smaller-­format narratives, as discussed ­earlier. The Valois Tapestries, on the other hand, retell the dynasty’s greatest recent events, framed by Valois portraits.42 As Pascal-­François Bertrand has pointed out, it is the tapestry medium itself that brings the disparate parts together, linking the foreground and distance depicted in ­these textiles.43 In addition to its distinctive features, tapestry possesses compositional aspects in common with monumental decorative schemes in other media that covers walls or entire rooms, all of which involve storytelling. A primary issue is scale. While one can absorb an easel painting on its own, large-­scale decorative ensembles, like the Sistine Chapel, the Gallery of François I at Fontainebleau, or a room cloaked in tapestries, require an orga­nizational framework so that the viewer does not face a kind of transposed comic book effect of chock-­a-­block narrative scenes (as Phillip John Usher described a set of small narrative enamels from the Aeneid in the Metropolitan Museum).44 To help in reading them, large complexes adopt framing components to serve as punctuation, cueing viewers to distinguish among ele­ments in order to modify their perceptions and observe changes in genre, ranging from the main narratives (usually larger) to smaller subplots to expressive additions sometimes in symbolic language. At the Sistine, fresco simulates an architectural framework, enhanced by illusionistic textiles, fictive bronze medallions, and human figures, while at Fontainebleau, three-­dimensional stucco figures and



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strapwork divide the narratives, mainly complex allegories about Francis himself. Reading such complexes requires moving in space. We know that the king enjoyed showing his entourage (including Catherine de’ Medici when Dauphine) around his Galerie. Spectators would proceed along its length, their glances moving up and down the lateral walls, taking in both the w ­ hole and its parts. Ambassadors reported on ­these per­for­mances b­ ecause they revealed, inter alia, who said or did what to whom and therefore who might have been in f­ avor and who not. Francis in fact commissioned tapestries to replicate the Galerie’s décor so he could take it on the road. In sum, the walls told their stories, the king elaborated in per­for­mance, and the ambassadors, in turn, told their own stories about what they saw on the story-­fi lled environment. How Re­nais­sance audiences experienced tapestries on specific occasions is difficult to pin down, but can we hypothesize? At most social occasions, viewing took place by candlelight.45 As Belozelskaya so eloquently put it, such a “mode of illumination—­warm and mobile torch and candlelight—­brought out the shimmer of silk and the glitter of gold and silver threads.” 46 With this in mind, tapestry observers might have had difficulty in taking in the entire expanse, so they would have, by necessity, concentrated on isolated parts, moving over the surface. In the Valois series, the portraits are life-­sized and, when hung at ground level, the spectator could immediately interact with them, or vice versa. In this case, Starn’s and Partridge’s concept of the “glance” recapitulates Alberti’s advice about the advisability of including what he called an “admonitory figure” in a narrative: someone who looks directly at the viewer and at the same time points out the significant action.47 While this was hardly new in the sixteenth ­century, the tapestry medium puts a dif­fer­ent spin on it ­because its enveloping presence at eye level suggests the permeability of the spaces. Frescoes in the Papal palace rooms decorated by Raphael and his assistants in the first quarter of the sixteenth ­century, generally referred to as the Vatican Stanze, tell stories about impor­tant events in church history. Some scenes (the Mass at Bolsena) have con­temporary figures anachronistically witness an ­earlier event from the sidelines. ­Others insert portraits of known individuals into the ­faces of historical personages: the features of the then pope, Catherine’s ­great ­uncle, Leo X Medici, appear as Leo I in the Repulse of Attila (1514) and as Pope Clement I in the Sala del Costantino (1520–1524). The frescoed narratives in that Sala, incidentally, take the form of tapisseries

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feintes, or illusionistic tapestries, indicative of the greater prestige of the textile medium for wall decoration.48 It is probable that young Catherine visited ­these rooms in her youth, specifically to view ­these portraits historiés of her relatives.49 ­These insertions connect an impor­tant past event—in the case of Bolsena, the miracle of the host that bled affirming transubstantiation—­with the con­temporary pope who witnesses and assures the continuity of this key dogma. The spectator, in turn, perceives both the event and the pope’s witnessing. In t­ hese narratives, however, the observers do not glance out at the spectator. Laura Weigert problematized how life-­sized figures, set similarly in an ­earlier tapestry, affect spatial ambiguities with regard to the viewer.50 Regarding the Valois Tapestries, Bertrand distinguished between what he calls the “portrait space” and the “space of the historiated scene.”51 He notes that terraces, railings, or other means constitute the “portrait space” in which Catherine’s living c­ hildren and other impor­tant court figures stand. In addition, he points out that the “historiated scenes” often appear closed from the front, as the spectators participating in the events turn their backs to the viewer.52 While compositional devices distinguish foreground and background spaces, the tapestry medium challenges that separation. Unlike the Vatican Stanze, many of the portrayed Valois do look directly out. Weigert has argued, regarding some medieval examples, that tapestries and mystery plays “engaged their audiences in a similar way.”53 She makes this argument both b­ ecause of the permeability of tapestry and viewer space and b­ ecause viewers of plays and tapestries w ­ ere conditioned to go about their viewing in the same way. Viewing is an active pursuit.54 Weigert has further demonstrated how multi-­ episodic tapestries as originally displayed in an architectural setting inundated or enveloped viewers: speaking of one set in par­tic­u­lar, she argued that as we view a “chambre with all of its architectural implications, we must imagine the tapestries constituting the space they enclose.”55 This drawing (figure 10.4), by Antoine Caron, the artist who, as we have seen, made many designs for tapestries as well as for festival decorations, shows Catherine de’ Medici receiving two men in what looks to be a chambre enveloped in hangings.56 Note how one man enters the room at left by pushing back a tapestry. Although the specificity of what story ­these tapestries tell is not apparent, we can imagine how the life-­sized figures in the Valois set would confront a viewer standing nearby. Using art as evidence is tricky, but the per­for­mance potential of what seems to be a relatively small room covered in tapestry appears



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Figure 10.4. Antoine Caron, Catherine de’ Medici Receiving Etienne and Pierre Dumonstier. Paris: Bibliothèque nationale de France, inv. B6a 1 rés, n.5.

in the background of Velázquez’s Las Hilanderas (The Weavers) (Madrid: Prado). A ­woman with her back turned plays a viol; a helmeted figure declaims ­toward a w ­ oman standing before a tapestry, based on a well-­known painting by Titian depicting The Rape of Europa (Boston: Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum); and ladies in finery watch or participate. One even glances in the viewer’s direction. Velázquez shows the potential for figures to interact with the tapestries that surround them. The enveloping installation of tapestries was complicit in another kind of storytelling. In his manual of advice to Cardinals on how to furnish their palaces, the sixteenth-­century humanist Paolo Cortese recommended that the antechamber be hung with tapestries, not only to produce splendor, but also to provide a hiding place for spies to overhear gossip (whence Polonius).57 The En­glish ambassador reported that in 1582 Henri III hid ­behind a tapestry to hear the interrogation and torture of a suspected Spanish agent.58

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If Catherine did indeed commission the Valois Tapestries, she may have had a par­tic­u­lar audience in mind for this tapestry story. She gave the Valois Tapestries to her grand­daughter, Christine de Lorraine, upon her engagement to G ­ rand Duke Ferdinando de’ Medici I in 1589.59 By that year, when only a miracle could have produced a Valois-­sired heir to continue the dynasty on the French throne, Catherine was assembling items of value to form her grand­ daughter’s dowry, and tapestries would fill the bill. She may well have envisaged the set as an heirloom; one that could function like the Gideon set did for the Habsburgs. Bertrand drew the following conclusion: that the Valois set “pre­sents a dignified image of the royal f­amily, thereby glossing over the ­family discord . . . ​placing Catherine with her ­children at her side next to the festivals of the previous reign, which symbolically recalled the moral princi­ples in which the queen m ­ other believed.” 60 More significantly, perhaps, as Ewa Kociszewska has pointed out, they illustrate a truly royal ­family partaking in “staged b­ attles, tournaments, and naumachiae . . . ​reminiscent of the chivalric ancestry and quintessentially French military orientation of noble culture.” 61 Catherine de’ Medici’s gift to her grand­daughter provided the f­ uture Tuscan g­ rand duchess with stories for her to tell about her f­ amily, in par­tic­u­lar key events planned by her Medici grand­mother. Christine far outranked her husband in terms of royal lineage. Her French grandparents ­were the king and queen of France and her Lorraine grand­mother was the ­daughter of the king and queen of Denmark. In fact, like both grand­mothers, Christine would go on to serve at length as regent. No evidence has come to light indicating where or if or upon what occasions the Valois Tapestries ­were displayed in Florence during the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In 1959, Yates argued that one reason might be the fact that they include portrayals of Catherine’s d ­ aughter Marguerite, married to the heir presumptive, Henri de Navarre, at Catherine’s death in 1589.62 But in 1599, Navarre, now King Henri IV, childless, divorced her and the next year married Catherine’s second cousin twice removed, Maria. Maria’s ­mother, however, died when the f­ uture queen of France was five: her ­father died when she was twelve. Perhaps following her grand­mother’s model, Christine then took Maria u ­ nder her wing and conceivably she imparted a re­spect for Henri IV’s first wife, her aunt for, once Maria was in France, she developed a connection with Marguerite, her pre­de­ces­sor and close relation. The two sets of tapestries ­under discussion, ­those illustrating the life of the ancient queen Artemisia, but referring to Catherine de’ Medici (and ­later



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woven ­under Maria de’ Medici), and ­those illustrating the Magnificences staged by Catherine de’ Medici herself, represent two kinds of narrative threads in sixteenth-­century French mural decoration. In the first, episodes from the life of an historical figure, with texts in the borders expanding on the visual narrative, provide an ideal exemplum for a con­temporary person. Only symbols in the borders link the narrative to a precise context. The second rec­ords ephemeral events from the recent past and includes full length portraits of significant individuals. The borders contain neither texts nor coats of arms. Both types provided settings for courtly life and ceremony depending upon the situation. The stories found in the Artemisia set provided a validating backdrop for a queen regent in a country where the Salic Law prohibited w ­ omen from rule. The genesis of the Valois Tapestries arose from a dif­fer­ent circumstance. Catherine de’ Medici, the probable patron, included the set in the gift she gave her grand­daughter Christine de Lorraine as part of her marriage portion. In this case the story that needed to be told was about how Catherine, the last Medici of the old ­family line, had through marriage been raised to the rank of royalty. Catherine had no way of predicting that Christine would, in fact, be called upon ­later to serve as a regent, so the Artemisia set would not have carried the same force and something dif­fer­ent was required. As her grand­daughter was marrying the Medici ­Grand Duke, ­these tapestries would make clear to the Florentines that she had achieved royal status, as had her ­children, and the brilliant court fêtes she had staged. ­These two sets of tapestries required the participation of many working in dif­fer­ ent media—­draughtsmen, poets, weavers, and for the fêtes, musicians, choreographers, dramaturgs, and stage designers—to convey a message. And ­those who saw the tapestries or the Magnificences received the information they conveyed via several dif­fer­ent media over time. To return to Erasmus, they exemplify, in sum, his admonition to tell your story (to the prince), in what­ever medium pos­si­ble, as often as pos­si­ble. Notes 1. Desiderius Erasmus, The Education of a Christian Prince, trans. Lester K. Born (New York: Columbia University Press, 1936), 144–145. 2. Emily C. Francomano, “Reversing the Tapestry: ‘Prison of Love’ in Text, Image, and Textile,” Re­nais­sance Quarterly 64, no. 4 (2011): 1059. 3. Thomas P. Campbell, Tapestry in the Re­nais­sance: Art and Magnificence (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2002), 3–12, provides a good general introduction, as does Marina Belozerskaya, Luxury Arts of the Re­nais­sance (London: Thames and Hudson,

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2005), 89–133. For tapestry in France in par­tic­u­lar, see Henri Zerner, Re­nais­sance Art in France: The Invention of Classicism (Paris: Flammarion, 2002), 273–280. 4. Edith Standen, “Some Tapestries at Prince­ton,” Rec­ord of the Art Museum, Prince­ ton University 47, no. 2 (1988): 3–18, describes the collecting habits of nineteenth-­century American millionaires who sought tapestries, based on how much their original o­ wners had paid for them, to decorate the interiors of their large ­houses. 5. Janet Cox-­Rearick, The Collection of Francis I: Royal Trea­sures (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1996), 363; see also Laura Weigert, “Chambres d’Amour: Tapestries of Love and the Texturing of Space,” Oxford Art Journal 31, no. 3 (2008): 325, where she includes quotations from French royal inventories indicating the number of individual tapestries comprising par­tic­u­lar sets. 6. Cox-­Rearick, The Collection of Francis I, 366. 7. Thomas P. Campbell, Henry VIII and the Art of Majesty: Tapestries at the Tudor Court (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007); Belozerskaya, Luxury Arts, 3. See also Sheila ffolliott, “Tapestries,” in The Cambridge Guide to the Worlds of Shakespeare, vol. 1, ed. Bruce R. Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 456–462. 8. Edward Potts Cheyney, “Description of Wolsey by Sebastian Gustiniani to the Venetian Senate, September 10, 1519,” in The Early Reformation Period in ­England, ed. Edward P. Cheyney (London: P. S. King & Son, 1895), 560. 9. Weigert, “Chambres d’Amour,” 325; see also Francomano, “Reversing the Tapestry,” 1059. 10. Zerner, Re­nais­sance Art in France, 273. 11. Cox-­Rearick, The Collection of Francis I, 365, describes the numerous luxurious textiles that Francis I brought to his meeting with Henry VIII, known as the “Field of the Cloth of Gold.” For a con­temporary description of that occasion, see “Venice: May 1520, 21–25,” in Calendar of State Papers Relating to En­glish Affairs in the Archives of Venice, vol. 3, 1520–1526, ed. Rawdon Brown (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1869), 14–34. See British History Online, accessed January  8, 2021, http://­www​.­british​-­history​.­ac​.u ­ k​ /­cal​-s­ tate​-p­ apers​/v­ enice​/v­ ol3​/­pp14​-3­ 4, which, in turn, quotes from the Diaries of Marin Sanuto, May  21 to July  14, 1520–1521, vol. 29 (Venice: F. Visenti, 1890), 210–239; Jeffrey Chipps Smith, “Portable Propaganda—­Tapestries as Princely Meta­phors at the Courts of Philip the Good and Charles the Bold,” Art Journal 48, no. 2 (1989): 123–129. 12. Laura Weigert, “ ‘ Theatricality’ in Tapestries and Mystery Plays and its Afterlife in Painting,” Art History 33, no. 2 (2010): 225, mentions how in 1461 Pa­ri­sians “stared in amazement at Philip the Good’s tapestries, stacked one above the other,” lining a pro­ cessional route. Andrea Sacchi’s painting representing The Visit of Pope Urban VIII to the Roman Church of Il Gesù, c. 1640 (Rome, Galleria Nazionale) shows the church interior bedecked with tapestries, some of which are identifiable and are not sacred subject ­matter. 13. Elizabeth L’Estrange, “Le Mécénat d’Anne de Bretagne,” in Patronnes et Mécènes en France à la Re­nais­sance, ed. Kathleen Wilson-­Chevalier (Saint-­Etienne: Université de Saint-­Etienne, 2007), 169–194. See also Cox-­Rearick, The Collection of Francis I, 363, for what he inherited from his m ­ other, Louise de Savoie.



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14. Belozerskaya, Luxury Arts, 100; Smith, “Portable Propaganda,” 123–129. Gideon (Judges 6:36–40) provided a suitably religious substitute for the mythological hero Jason, the ­actual pursuer of the Golden Fleece. 15. Campbell, Tapestry in the Re­nais­sance, 288. Four tapestries w ­ ere commissioned for the Taxis ­family funerary chapel (Musée de la Ville de Bruxelles), their design attributed to Bernaert van Orley, 1516–1518. For the Conquest, see “The Conquest of Tunis Series,” Tapices flamencos en España, accessed August  12, 2016, http://­tapestries​ .­flandesenhispania​.o­ rg​/­index​.­php​/­The​_C ­ onquest​_o­ f​_­Tunis​_ ­series. Commissioned to commemorate the Emperor’s 1535 victory, this twelve-­piece set, made ­after drawings by Jan Cornelisz Vermeyen, retained its propagandistic force for l­ ater Habsburgs. See also Belozerskaya, Luxury Arts, 89–92. 16. Candace J. Adelson, Eu­ro­pean Tapestry in the Minneapolis Institute of Arts (Minneapolis: Minneapolis Institute of Arts, 1994), 161–280. See also relevant essays in the exhibition cata­logue ­Women in Power: Caterina and Maria de’ Medici: The Return to Florence of Two Queens of France, ed. Clarice Innocenti (Florence: Mandragora, 2008). 17. Nicolas Houel, L’Histoire de la Royne Arthémise contenant quatre livres, recueillie de plusieurs autheurs, en laquelle sont contenues plusieurs singularitez dignes de remarque touchant l’antiquité (Paris: Bibliothèque nationale de France, ms. fr. 306); Sheila ffolliott, “Catherine de’ Medici as Artemisia: Figuring the Power­ful ­Widow,” in Rewriting the Re­nais­sance, ed. Margaret Ferguson, Maureen Quillian, and Nancy Vickers (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986), 227–241. 18. Sylvie B. Davidson, “Patronage in Paris in the Sixteenth ­Century: The Case of Nicolas Houel,” in The Search for a Patron in the M ­ iddle Ages and the Re­nais­sance, ed. David G. Wilkins and Rebecca Wilkins (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 1996), 137–144. 19. Art history privileges the artist-­genius who might function as a master ­running a workshop of assistants, but true collaboration d ­ oesn’t fit this model, nor can it account for a tapestry produced in Brussels from a drawing made in France or Italy. Tapestry production requires “translation” from one medium to another. 20. Bibliothèque nationale de France, rés. A.D. 105. This kind of compilation of model drawings is not unique: see Barbara Brejon de Lavergnée and Séverine Lepape, “An A ­ lbum of Sixteenth-­Century French Tapestry Designs of the Life of St.  Bartholomew,” Master Drawings 46, no. 3 (2008): 322–352. 21. Francomano, “Reversing the Tapestry,” 1063. 22. Campbell, Tapestry in the Re­nais­sance, 301, notes that in general the composition of borders was left up to the cartoon makers. 23. Francomano, “Reversing the Tapestry,” 1061. 24. Adelson, Eu­ro­pean Tapestry in the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, 161–280. 25. Myra D. Orth, “What Goes Around: Borders and Frames in French Manuscripts,” The Journal of the Walters Art Gallery 54 (1996): 189–201. 26. Patricia Emison, “Istoria,” Oxford Art Online, http://­www​.­oxfordartonline​.­com​ /­g roveart​/­v iew​/­10​.­1093​/­gao​/­9781884446054​.­001​.­0001​/­oao​-­9781884446054​-­e​-­70000​ 42646, accessed January 21, 2021.

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27. Sheila ffolliott, “ ‘La Florentine’ or ‘La bonne Françoise’? Some Sixteenth-­Century Commentators on Catherine de’ Medici and her Patronage,” in Artful Allies: Medici ­Women as Cultural Mediators, ed. Christina Strunck (Milan: Silvana Editoriale, 2011), 17–37. 28. Cited by Frances A. Yates, The Valois Tapestries (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1959), 53; Pierre de Bourdeille, seigneur de Brantôme, “Discours sur la Royne Mere,” in Oeuvres Complètes, ed. P. Mérimée (Paris: Jannet, 1890), 72–76. 29. Laurent Odde, “Politic Magnificence: Deciphering the Per­for­mance of the French and Spanish Rivalry during the Entrevue at Bayonne,” Sixteenth ­Century Journal 46, no. 1 (2015): 29–52. 30. Yates, The Valois Tapestries. 31. Pascal-­François Bertrand, “A New Method of Interpreting the Valois Tapestries, through a History of Catherine de Médicis,” Studies in the Decorative Arts 14, no.  1 (2006–2007): 27–41. 32. Elizabeth Cleland and Marjorie E. Wieseman, Re­nais­sance Splendor: Catherine de’ Medici’s Valois Tapestries (Cleveland, OH and New Haven, CT: Cleveland Museum of Art and Yale University Press, 2019). 33. Fray Juan Bautista Maino, in The Recapture of Bahia in 1625, 1634–35 (Madrid, Museo del Prado), illustrates an episode from Lope de Vega’s play El Brasil Restituido in which a tapestry portrait of King Philip IV is displayed u­ nder a canopy in Brazil as a surrogate/simulacrum for the king. 34. Campbell, Tapestry in the Re­nais­sance, 333. 35. Dagmar Eichberger and Lisa Beaven, “­Family Members and Po­liti­cal Allies: The Portrait Collection of Margaret of Austria,” The Art Bulletin 77, no. 2 (1995): 225–248. 36. Alexandra Zvereva, Portraits dessinés de la cour des Valois: Les Clouets de Catherine de Médicis (Paris: Arthena, 2011), 120–123; Chantel Turbide, “Catherine de Médicis, mécène d’art contemporain: L’hôtel de la Reine et ses collections,” in Wilson-­Chevalier, Patronnes et Mécènes, 511–526. 37. Cambell, Tapestry in the Re­nais­sance, 299–300; Laura Weigert, “Performing the Past: The Tapestry of the City and its Saints in Tournai Cathedral,” Gesta 38, no. 2 (1999): 154–170, discusses the repre­sen­ta­tion of genealogy in a religious context. 38. Laura Weigert, “Tapestry Exposed,” The Art Bulletin 85, no. 4 (2003): 784–796. 39. Belozerskaya, Luxury Arts, 92. 40. Randolph Starn and Loren Partridge, Arts of Power: Three Halls of State in Italy, 1300–1600 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 118–130. 41. Francomano, Reversing the Tapestry, 1089. 42. See Bertrand, “New Method,” 30, for portrait identifications. 43. Bertrand, “New Method,” 35. 44. Phillip John Usher, Epic Arts in the Re­nais­sance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 5. 45. Although the Galerie was not decorated with tapestry, Benvenuto Cellini’s narration of his pre­sen­ta­tion in that space of his silver Jupiter, made upon commission from Francis I, gives an idea of such a per­for­mance: Autobiography, bk. 41. 46. Belozerskaya, Luxury Arts, 95.



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47. Noted by Bertrand, “New Method,” 35. 48. Ursula Reinhardt, “La Tapisserie Feinte, un genre de décoration du Maniérisme romain au XVIe siècle,” Gazette des Beaux-­Arts 84 (1974): 1270–1271. 49. Sheila ffolliott, “The Italian ‘Training’ of Catherine de’ Medici: The Portrait as Dynastic Narrative,” The Court Historian 10, no. 1 (2005): 36–54. 50. Weigert, “Chambres,” 317–336. 51. Bertrand, “New Method,” 35. 52. Caron, actually, used ­ t hese same closing-­ off devices in the Artemisia compositions. 53. Weigert, “Theatricality,” 225. She even cites an example in which city officials w ­ ere dispatched to see a set of Nine Worthies tapestries in a neighboring town in order to stage a mystery play at home. 54. Weigert, “Theatricality,” 230. 55. Weigert, “Chambres,” 326. 56. Zvereva, Portraits dessinés, 117; the participants are identified by inscriptions on the drawing itself. 57. ffolliott, “Tapestries,” 1:462. 58. Calendar of State Papers, Foreign, Elizabeth, vol. 16, May–­December 1582, ed. Arthur John Butler (London: His Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1909). See also British History Online, entry for November 4, http://­w ww​.­british​-­history​.­ac​.­u k​/­cal​-­sate​-­papers​ /­foreign​/­vol16. 59. Ewa Kociszewska, “Woven Bloodlines: The Valois Tapestries in the Trousseau of Christine de Lorraine, ­Grand Duchess of Tuscany,” Artibus et Historiae 37, no. 73 (2016): 335–363 (344); Kerrie-­Rue Michahelles, “Contextualising the 1589 Inventory of Catherine de Médicis’ Inter-­Vivos Donation to Christine de Lorraine,” French History 32, no. 3 (2018): 350–367. 60. Bertrand, “New Method,” 37. 61. Kociszewska, “Woven Bloodlines,” 359. 62. Yates, The Valois Tapestries, 128.

cha p te r e lev e n

The Night before Geology Fossil Stories from Early Modern France Phillip John Usher

Our entrance into the Anthropocene, the proposed new geological epoch in which h ­ umans are said to have become the major geological force on the planet, brings daily reminders that stories are written not just in human-­scale timelines and not just in words, but also at other much longer chronological scales and in other materials, such as stone.1 As we stumble into this new epoch, we have unwittingly become authors of large-­scale fossil stories, as Jan Zalasiewicz, among o­ thers, discusses in The Earth a­ fter Us.2 Such a situation of h ­ uman entanglements with the geological, as Dipesh Chakrabarty has argued, leads necessarily to a progressive collapsing, across the humanities, of that age-­old distinction between natu­ral history and ­human history.3 Whence, as countless critical works affirm and confirm, a widespread nonhuman turn in critical thought has occurred.4 The ­human and the nonhuman have, in a sense, caught up with each other: whereas ­human timelines and stories of ­human agency ­were more or less irrelevant to geology, geology is now.5 As readers and scholars, we have the opportunity—­and indeed the obligation— to allow the realities of, and theoretical affordances born from, the Anthropocene to influence the concepts and methodologies that we bring to bear on literary texts and art historical artifacts, for history and stories are, more and more, and necessarily, geostories and fossil stories.6 However, whereas Jane Bennett argues—in my view, rightly—­that we live in a moment when ­human culture has become “inextricably enmeshed with 240



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vibrant, nonhuman agencies,” and further that if nature “has always mixed it up with self and society,” this “commingling has [of late] intensified and become harder to ignore,” it would also be true to say that our pre­sent awareness of such entanglements also makes us more able to perceive and to learn from premodern versions thereof.7 In medieval and early modern studies, a number of scholars, most especially thinkers from En­glish departments, such as Jeffrey Jerome Cohen and Tiffany Werth, have made substantial contributions to the integration of the geologic, the lithic, the stony, and the fossil into our collective understandings of what a medieval or early modern story is or might be, and what this might mean for living now.8 So far, ­little attention has been paid to such questions with regard to the corpus of sixteenth-­ century French lit­er­a­ture. Within the wider lines of inquiry laid out so far—­and that we might call, via shorthand, the geologic turn in literary studies in the Anthropocene—­the pre­sent chapter thus sets out to explore the availability of a geologic now sensibility “in” early modern France.9 As such, I want to open up a discussion about this geologic now in the c­ entury or so—­ the night before—­Ulisse Aldrovandi coined the term “geologia” in 1603. I aim not to draw a direct line between sixteenth-­century France, Aldrovandi, the ­later foundation of modern scientific geology (Georges Cuvier, ­etc.), and the Anthropocene, but to seek out fossil stories and formulations of the geologic now that anticipate some of the ways in which the geologic now inhabits “the realms of everyday actions, movements, and associations among ­humans and nonhumans.”10 What follows comes in two parts: a discussion of verse stories about stones w ­ ill be followed by a discussion of a­ ctual stony masses that tell multiple kinds of stories. Fossil Poems Let us first turn our attention to Rémy Belleau’s Amours et nouveaux eschanges des pierres précieuses (Love Poems and New Exchanges about Precious Stones, 1576).11 Based in large part on Marbode of Renne’s eleventh-­century poetic lapidary De Gemmis (a.k.a. Liber de Lapidibus),12 and also drawing on other works, especially Ovid’s Metamorphoses,13 Belleau’s Pierres précieuses is made up of twenty-­one poems, some written in alexandrines, most of the ­others in octosyllables. Eleven of the poems are dedicated to vari­ous female members of Madame de Retz’s salon vert (Green Salon).14 From our twenty-­first-­century vantage point, it thus appears that we are dealing with a set of texts that

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belong both to the history of lit­er­a­ture and to the history of science; that is, to the history of lapidaries in par­tic­u­lar and to the history of natu­ral history in general. From a premodern perspective, ­things look a ­little dif­fer­ent. For one ­thing, the passage from Marbode’s eleventh-­century text to Belleau’s sixteenth-­ century one stretches over several centuries, during which the bound­aries between, and specificities of, prose and verse ­were being redefined. Only in the year 1260 did Brunetto Latini make the verse/prose distinction a meaningful one; and when he did, that only renewed the association between poetic production and knowledge.15 In other words, con­temporary readers of Marbode’s poetic lapidary would have been unlikely to bracket it off as “lit­ er­a­ture” (i.e., fiction) simply ­because it was in verse; however, by the time that Belleau produced his Pierres précieuses, ­things had clearly changed ­because the status of prose had evolved. Prose may have become the privileged medium for reporting facts, but poetry had less lost this perceived ability than added to its powers of fashioning the affective reception of that which it communicates. In other words, as we read each of Belleau’s poems, which tell stories about dif­fer­ent kinds of precious stone—­starting with the amethyst, the diamond, the lodestone (i.e., the “magnet stone”), the pearl, the peridot, the ruby, the opal, and ­others, and ending with the carchedonia (“ruby of Carthage”)— we should remain open to the idea that t­ here is no obvious hierarchy between poem (as form and medium) and stone (as nonhuman agent and medium). Belleau announces the uncertain status of his collection in the opening “Discours des Pierres precieuses” (Discourse on Precious Stones): “Je ne doute point qu’aucuns ne trouvent estrange la façon dont j’ay usé en la description [des pierres]” (104–106) (I have no doubt that some p­ eople ­will find my way of describing stones rather strange), he states, adding that even ­those who do find ­these texts strange ­will derive more plea­sure from them than “[s’il les avait] simplement descriptes, sans autre grace et sans autre enrichissement de quelque nouvelle invention” (107–109) (if he had described them simply, without grace and without another form of newly in­ven­ted enrichment).16 In other words, he could have provided a ­simple description of stones (in prose) but instead delivers this (poetic) version. The term “nouvelle invention” recalls the title of Philibert de l’Orme’s slightly ­earlier architectural treatise, the Nouvelles inventions pour bien bastir (New Inventions for Good Building, 1561), but the inventions ­here are poetic, not practical. I should like, then, to examine two of Belleau’s poems to explore how both the described stones and the poems themselves function as fossils.



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The first fossil story to be examined ­here is that of Bacchus and Amethyst, the story that opens Belleau’s collection. As in the opening “Discours,” in “L’Amethyste ou Les Amours de Bacchus et d’Amethyste,” Belleau places emphasis on the newness of his poems, appealing to his muse via a variety of meta­phors to help him embark on “quelque sentier nouveau” (3) (some new path). He says that he rejects the models of e­ arlier poets—­Homer, Ovid, Aratos, Theocritus, Pliny—in order to reinvent what a story is or might be. Following this, Belleau moves on to the story proper: the pagan gods descend from Mount Olympus to Earth in order to embrace and to reassure Earth ­after the Titanomachia, so as to bring Olympian order (“A fin de les pollir dessous les loix civiles”) (105; So as to burnish them ­under civil laws). Each god and goddess teaches his or her par­tic­u­lar skills: Jupiter teaches building, Mercury trade, Pallas how to dress, Mars war, Apollo how to sing, Ceres how to farm, e­ tc. Bacchus, for his part, takes a dif­fer­ent path: he falls in love with Amethyst, but that love is denied him: le Destin cruel ne vouloit pas Qu’il jouist bienheureus des allechans appas D’Amethyste la belle, ayant pour ennemie Diane au chaste sein le secours de s’amie, Et les Astres aussi (195–199) (Cruel destiny did not wish That he happily enjoy the pretty charms Of Beautiful Amethyst, having as ­enemy Chaste-­breasted Diana, who sided with his lover As did the Stars) Enraged by this, and accompanied by equally maddened maenads, Bacchus sets off in his tiger-­drawn and richly decorated chariot, intent on revenge: “Je veux que le premier qui tiendra ceste voye / Vous soit mis en curée et vous serve de proye” (245–246) (I want that the first to take this road / Be killed and served up to you as prey). What comes to pass, as the perspicacious reader prob­ably expects, is that the first person upon which the rabid tigers and their master happen is no other than Amethyst. The chaste maiden, scared for her life, invokes Diana and finds herself turned into stone: Amethyst becomes an amethyst. The story closes with Bacchus announcing two points about the newly fabricated stone: First, that henceforth the stone’s wearer w ­ ill never

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become inebriated, and instead, his or her character ­will become “Sobre, honneste [et] courtois” (288 (sober, honest, and courteous); and second, that the stone ­will henceforth take on the color of Bacchus’s red grapes: “en vertu de ce germe divin / N’eut le visage teint que de couleur de vin” (299–300) (by virtue of this divine gem / Would have a face the color of wine alone). ­There are many ways to read this story. We can see the transformation of Amethyst as the story’s culmination. We can choose to remain in the domain of the symbolic or the allegorical: scholars have spoken about how the stone becomes a “symbole religieux” (religious symbol) and about the newly colored stone being a “témoignage symbolique” (symbolic witness).17 In Claude Faisant’s words, ­there is “un renversement inattendu” (an unexpected reversal) in which the stone, the “symbole du Mal, va devenir l’instrument du Bien” (symbol of Evil, comes to be the instrument of good, i.e., Amethyst, created by and testament to Bacchus’s fury), ends up embodying sobriety and honnêteté.18 But we would be wise to pause at the use ­here of the words “symbol” and “symbolic,” for they tend to take our attention away from the material. They tend to obscure the geologic, to bury the fossil. What if—­such is my proposal h ­ ere—we put authorial intent and symbolic readings to one side, so as to focus on reading this story as an enlivening account of fossil production? Indeed, the poem itself puts much more emphasis on the material than on the moral significance of the transformation. Regarding Amethyst’s transformation into stone, we read as follows: . . . ​une morne rigueur Luy fait cailler le sang, les poumons et le cueur, Une froide sueur luy bagne le visage, Par trois fois essaya de marcher, mais l’usage Des piez est engourdy, par trois fois essaya De retourner le col qui jamais ne ploya Aussi dur qu’un rocher, ses larmes espandues Sur le gravier Indois en pierres sont fondues. (255–262) (. . . ​a dull stiffness ­Causes her blood, lungs, and heart to clot. Her face is washed with cold sweat. Three times she tried to walk, but she has lost the Use of her benumbed feet; three times she tried To turn around the never-­bending collar



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As hard as a rock. Her tears spilt upon the Indian shore are turned into stone.) On first reading, what jumps out from t­ hese verses is Amethyst’s d ­ ying into stone: a deadening occurs that c­ auses her blood, lungs, and heart to change to a solid state (fait cailler), her feet to become numbed (engourdy), her neck to stiffen ­until it becomes as hard and unmovable as a rock (aussi dur qu’un rocher), and her spilt tears to become stones (en pierres sont fondues) on the shore. The verses tell of a transformation in which m ­ atter previously located in the category of the ­human is displaced into the category of the mineral. But on a second reading, we notice that the transformation is anything but clear-­cut. The origin of the transformation is a heavy/dulling rigor (une morne rigueur), which spreads, liquid-­like, through Amethyst’s body. Its impact is neither immediate nor unequivocal. Amethyst, as if holding on to the ­human as the mineral strives to take her over, attempts to stall the advancement and efficacy of the morne rigueur—­not once, but twice three times: “Three times she tried to walk,” “. . . ​three times she tried / To turn her neck that would not turn.” The transformation is thus less a change of state, which can be tied down to a specific moment, than an enlivened b­ attle between coexisting states that suggests how, in the amethyst (with a small a) Amethyst (with a capital A) continues to live on. To appreciate the full power of this doubly articulated t­ riple hesitation, we should definitely hear echoes of similar ­triple feminine hesitations that abound in classical and early modern lit­ er­a­ture alike—we might think of Clymène as she hesitates writing to Francus in Ronsard’s Franciade: “Trois fois la plume elle prist en ses dois / Et de la main luy tomba par trois fois” (Three times she took up the pen in her hand / And from her hand three times it fell).19 Countless similar ­triple hesitations could be given. In Belleau the changing-­into-­mineral Amethyst is as alive as ever was a (classical/early modern literary account of a) ­woman in love—­and Amethyst is specifically a ­woman loved, not a ­woman in love—­trying to find the right words to her lover. The story, so far, is thus as much about the ongoing livingness or vibrancy of the transformed Amethyst as it is about a clear-­cut transformation from ­human to mineral. Just as Jane Bennett refuses Aeschylus’s pre­sen­ta­tion of Prometheus’s chains “as fixed ­matter,” as “uniform and homogenous,” by focusing both on metal’s polycrystalline structure and on metallic vitality, so Belleau’s amethyst stops looking quite so inert, quite so dulled.20 Even the

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word morne (used in the above verses in the formula “morne rigueur”) is not quite so definitive as meets the eye. Cotgrave defines it as “sad, heauie, lumpish, lowting; pensiue, a-­greeued, in a melancholie mood, all in dumpes; also, dull, stupide, sottish, sensleβe, blockish.” A morne rigueur is thus dulling, but also hesitant and in-­between, via a certain pensiveness and nostalgia. This hesitancy between ­human and mineral, between vibrant and inert, is also expressive of that which we might call the emergent causality of the stone’s new agency vis-­à-­vis ­those who carry it: if the newly created amethyst engarde son porteur De jamais s’enyvrer de [la] douce liqueur, Attirant les vapeurs qui d’haleines fumeuses Vont troublant le cerveau de passions vineuses (383–386) (prevent its ­bearer From ever getting drunk on my delicious wine, By attracting ­those vapors that with smoky breath Trou­ble the mind with wine-­driven passions), it is ­because the stone possesses a new and very real agency. One could of course write this off as pure fantasy or reinscribe such a belief into its longer history, from antiquity to the early modern period—­but this would be to not see that Belleau’s poem is (also) a story about (1) the production of a vibrant fossil, which w ­ ill continue to tell a story—­the stone’s color w ­ ill keep that story alive “en memoire eternelle” (301) (for eternal memory)—­and (2) a stone that possesses a potential agency (causing sobriety). What does it mean, h ­ ere, to talk about a fossil story? To start responding, let us recall that the meaning of the term “fossil” has evolved over time. According to the Oxford En­glish Dictionary (OED), in modern usage, a fossil is “something preserved in the ground, especially in petrified form in rock, and recognizable as the remains of a living organism.” We might think of fossilized plants or animals, such as the fossilized poplar leaf pictured in figure 11.1. A fossil, since roughly the eigh­teenth c­ entury, is thus suspended between dead inertness and living liveliness. It is petrified storytelling. In this modern sense, Belleau’s story of the metamorphosis of Amethyst is very much a fossil story: both the Bacchus-­produced stone and the poem that tells of the transformation emphasize that which remains of something living within a stony relic. The stone’s grape-­like color harkens back to the story itself, and



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Figure 11.1. Fossilized poplar leaf, from Saint-­Bauzile (Ardèche), Miocene Epoch. Muséum d’histoire naturelle, Paris. Photo­graph by Phillip John Usher.

its new agency continues to act. The living lives on, so to speak, in the assumed property that the stone now possesses, in line with the kind of stone agency/ property described inter alia by Raymond of Sabund in his Liber naturae sive creaturarum or Theologia Naturalis (c. 1434–1436). Montaigne’s French translation of Sabund, on the topic of ­those t­ hings “qui s’engendrent dans le ventre de la terre” (that are born in the Earth’s stomach) evokes in par­tic­u­lar how “precious stones” are called thus, “non par leur grandeur, mais par leurs proprietez singuliares” (not ­because of their size, but ­because of their singular properties).21 The early modern sense of the word “fossil,” however, was more restricted, closer to Sabund’s mention of ­things “qui s’engendrent dans le ventre de la terre,” which I refer to elsewhere as exterranean.22 The early modern term “fossil” referred more simply then to a “rock or mineral substance . . . ​ dug out of the earth” (OED). Etymologically, all goes back to fodio, fodere (to dig, bury, mine, quarry, ­etc). For the early modern fossil, we could of course

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turn to Georgius Agricola’s De natura fossilium (1546), in which the vari­ous types of minerals that can be dug out of the Earth are set out according to color, taste, odor, and other categories. Of striking interest ­here then is that Belleau’s book of poems about stones pushes the sense of “fossil” from its early modern restricted sense (something taken from the ground) to our post-­ eighteenth-­century sense (of something taken from the ground that carries a trace of something formerly living). A second moment in the story of Amethyst describes the coloring of the stone, which it is worth considering in more detail: . . . ​[Bacchus] arracha de la fueille pamprée, Qui couronnoit le front de sa teste sacrée Le raisin pourprissant, et dans sa blanche main L’espreignant et froissant, en pressura le grain: Dont sa sainte liqueur escoula rougissante Sur l’Amethyste encor de frayeur pallissante, Qui depuis en vertu de ce germe divin N’eut le visage teint que de couleur de vin, Violette, pourprine en memoire eternelle Du Dieu qui pressura de la grappe nouvelle Le moust qui luy donna la couleur et le teint, Dont l’Amethyste encor a le visage peint. (293–304) (. . . ​[Bacchus] snatched from the vines That encircled the top of his sacred head The purpling grape; and in his white hand, He squeezed and pressed and burst the grape. Its divine liquor, red and reddening, escaped Onto the Amethyst still paling from fright. In virtue of this divine seed, its face henceforth Is now uniquely colored by the color of wine, Violet, purple, in eternal memory Of the god who squeezed from the new bunch The must that gave it its color and hue—­the Amethyst’s face is still painted by it.) As the color is poured, the stone is clearly vibrant (“paling in fright”). The pairing of adjectival pre­sent participles (“reddening,” “paling”) moreover brings



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out the liveliness of this chemical experiment. Belleau’s account of the color of the amethyst offers a very concrete genealogy: the “purpling grape” (­later called a “divine seed”) plucked from the “vine leaf ” is “squeezed” and “crushed,” producing a “sacred liquor” (a.k.a. “must”) that “dies” or “paints” the face of Amethyst. We note that in this w ­ hole explanation, the emphasis is entirely material: grape > grape juice > stone. The material emphasis h ­ ere appears even more clearly if we compare Belleau’s account to that of Georgius Agricola in his De natura fossilium (On the Nature of Fossils, 1546), where we read—in quite a dif­fer­ent register—­that amethyst “has the color of wine before it is tested, while it still retains a certain shade of violet, according to Pliny.” And Pliny, says Agricola, “writes that [the amethyst] was named b­ ecause of the ignorance of some learned men who believed that it would prevent drunkenness (derived from ἀ, not; μεθύειν, to be drunk).”23 Agricola’s explanation of the similarity in color is on the level of etymology—­and the connection with grapes and Bacchus is ascribed to “ignorance.” ­Matter gets lost. Belleau, when compared to Agricola, thus reasserts stony agency and asks his readers to appreciate the fossil potentiality of the amethyst. Moreover, if the verses about transformation studied above describe a hesitant shifting between ­human and mineral, ­here Belleau further blurs ontological categories by introducing the vegeta(b) l(e) into the already confused human-­mineral mix. This violet variety of quartz becomes a recording device—­just as it would be for Darwin and for Charles Lyell.24 Belleau’s text not only tells the story of a metamorphosis; it also tells the story of how a stone stops being just a stone to become a medium—­ what I have called elsewhere a geo-­medium, or a fossil (in the modern sense).25 A second of Belleau’s fossil stories, “Les Amours d’Iris et d’Opalle,” w ­ ill serve to nuance and confirm some of what is being advanced h ­ ere. This time, the poem is about Opal and Iris. Once again, it is a love story: Iris, resting near a river, falls in love with Opal—­but Juno, of whom Iris is an agent on Earth, is jealous and angry and turns Opal into an opal: D’Opalle jeune et beau (ha cruelle Junon!) Fist ceste pierre encor qui porte son beau nom: Mesme entre les deux bras de sa belle Maistresse Le jarret s’engourdit, une morne paresse Gelle et morfond les nerfs, boit et suce le sang, Le poulmon retiré ne s’estend plus au flanc.

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Comme un chancre malin, s’avançant insensible, Rampe de nerf en nerf d’une alleure invisible: D’Opalle tout ainsi une froide rigueur Rendurcit peu à peu les tendons et le cueur. Un Hyver eternel entre dans les jointures, Une glace, une horreur, jusqu’aux ongles s’estend Un long sommeil ferré jusqu’au foye descend, Qui luy bouche soudain le chemin de la vie. (87–101) (Young and beautiful Opal—­Oh, Cruel Juno!— Is turned into this stone that still carries that fine name. Even between the two arms of his beautiful mistress Opal’s knee joint becomes numb, a dull laziness Freezes and deadens the nerves, drinks and sucks at blood, The shrunken lung no longer reaches the flank. Just as an awful canker, advancing without feeling, Spreads from nerve to nerve invisibly, So Opal by a cold stiffness Was hardened bit by bit, tendons then heart. An eternal winter enters into his joints, Ice, horror, spreads right to his nails. Long and stubborn sleep descends down to the liver, Suddenly ending the path of his life.) ­ ese verses propose an anatomization of Opal’s becoming a fossil, enuTh merating the member-­by-­member takeover: the knee joint (jarret) grows numb, the nerves are frozen and stilled, blood is removed, the lung no longer inflates, tendons and heart are hardened, joints seize up, nails are frozen, the liver is put to sleep—­all culminating in the removal of the possibility of life (le chemin de la vie). The multiple agents of chance ­here—­“une morne paresse,” “une froide rigueur,” “Un Hyver eternel,” “Une glace, une horreur,” and “un long sommeil”—­are semantically interwoven, pointing t­ oward sloth/laziness, coldness, and sleep, and emphasizing long timelines. The first of ­these named agents (“une morne paresse”) perhaps says more than first meets the eye: certain early modern texts that deal with the notion of the scala naturae (or “­g reat chain of being”)—­for example Charles de Bovelle’s Liber de sapiente (Book of Knowledge, 1510) that Montaigne would himself take up in his “Apologie de Raimond Sebond” (Apology of Raymond Sebund)—­make explicit



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comparisons between the mineral state and that of h ­ umans falling into acedia (i.e., sloth, apathy, paresse).26 Bovelle’s scala naturae, which builds on Aristotle, assigns being (“Est”) to all four realms (mineral, vegetable, animals, and ­humans), life (“Vivit”) only to the latter three, sentience (“Sentit”) only to animals and h ­ umans, and rational thought (“Intelligit”) to ­humans alone—­ but ­humans can also lose one or more of ­these privileges as they fall from virtue to lust, gluttony, and sloth (acedia). Belleau’s story of the fossilized Opal/ opal thus suggests a sliding down the scala from ­human back to mineral—­ but to assert this is more than to agree with Belleau’s editor, who speaks of this transformation as “une déchéance” (a fall) and as “le symbole des limites et de la fragilité de la condition humaine” (the symbol of the limits and fragility of the h ­ uman condition).27 We are dealing with a shift through/down the scala, not (just) a punishment, and with the creation of a fossil medium. It is worth noting one final point, namely that this production of opal is followed by further stony productions: Iris en ce Malheur Ne le pouvant cherir de plus riche faveur, Soudain la larme à l’œil passe l’onde pourprée Pour revoler au Ciel, de la rive Erythrée, Du crystal de ses pleurs fait la pierre de pris Qui maintenant encor porte le nom d’Iris. (107–112) (Iris in this misfortune, Unable to offer any richer ­favor, suddenly, With a tear in her eye, passes over the purple ­waters, To fly back up to heaven from the Eritrean shore. With her crystal tears she makes this prized stone Which still now carries the name of Iris.) In other words, as Iris looks on at her en-­stoned lover, she too begins to produce stone tears. For both stones, it is a question of carry­ing a name: “ceste pierre encor . . . ​porte son beau nom” (this stone still . . . ​carries her fine name), says Belleau of the opal; and of the iris that it “maintenant encor porte le nom d’Iris” (still now carries the name of Iris). Name is literally transformed into stone. Stone becomes not just the subject of the story, but the product and the medium. Comparison with Pliny brings this message home. Pliny writes that the rock is “known as ‘iris’ in token of its appearance and colors of a rainbow

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on the walls nearby, continually altering its tints and ever causing more and more astonishment ­because of its extremely changeable effects.”28 He adds that the “best kind [of iris] is that which produces the spectra that are the largest in size with the closest resemblance to a rainbow.”29 Belleau’s explanation is clearly dif­fer­ent, both more “story” and more material. ­There remain, of course, nineteen other poems in Belleau’s collection, and I ­shall not examine them h ­ ere. What we see already is that, before Aldrovandi’s invention of the term “geology” in 1603, Belleau’s poems anticipate not only geologic sensibility but also the post–­early modern sense of the fossil as a recording medium. They collectively put the reader before that “newness” of geology that surrounds us in the Anthropocene—­but whereas Pliny and Agricola (among o­ thers) situate the fabrication and naming of precious stones in an undisclosed past, in some absolute and other moment, Belleau shows fossil formation happening now, in the pre­sent tense and in the pre­sent tout court. As the Anthropocene makes us aware of our fossil ­futures, so Belleau pre­sents just such a sensibility.30 Fossil Statues In the second part of this chapter, I should now like to start not with verses-­ as-­fossil-­stories, but with some stony ­matter into/upon which a story or stories has or have been cut. The questions—­media, the geologic now, and so on—­are largely the same, but we must approach them from a dif­fer­ent end. The stony ­matter to be examined ­here takes the shape of a sixteenth-­century statue of David, slayer of Goliath, to be found in the Normandy town of Caen (figure 11.2). Most accounts of this stony ­matter go something like this: In 1531, Nicolas Le Valois d’Escoville (born in 1475) buys a ­house that belonged to the late Jean de la Bigne, Seigneur de Londel, in order to have it demolished. On the site of that former ­house, Escoville sets about having his new Hôtel d’Escoville constructed, which would become in ­later centuries first the Académie des Sciences, Arts et Belles-­Lettres (in 1652), the Town Hall (in 1754), and fi­nally, despite suffering massive damage during the Second World War, the town’s tourist office.31 The internal courtyard, both in the sixteenth century and now, is a veritable éloge (praise) of the kinds of Italianate Re­nais­ sance architecture familiar from any one of the more celebrated Loire Valley palaces.32 Glancing around, the visitor sees such features as a loggia, a somewhat busy Chambord-­style roof, lots of rinceaux (rinceaux) and guir-

Figure 11.2. Statue of David, Aile des statues, Hôtel d’Escoville, Caen. Photo­ graph by Phillip John Usher.

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landes ­(garlands), and fine, sculpted dormer win­dows (lucarnes). It is within this three-­dimensional frame that we find the statue of David, situated in what has come to be known as the aile des statues (statue wing). Both the statue of David holding Goliath’s head and a second statue situated to the visitor’s right, this time of Judith holding the head of Holofernes, have been said to be “en quelque sorte allégoriques pour Nicolas Valois et sa femme” (in some way allegories for Nicolas Valois and his wife).33 To further this traditional account of the statue of David in Caen, one might look in more detail at the ways in which early modern viewers might have understood the story of David and Goliath in terms of con­temporary publications. In other words, ­there would be vari­ous ways to situate the stony reception of the story of David. The well-­known story of a meek shepherd boy taking down a ­giant (from 1 Samuel 17) was frequently taken up, translated, illustrated, and allegorized in Re­nais­sance Eu­rope. One might think of the roughly con­temporary Icones historiarvm Veteris Testamenti (Images Showing Stories of the Old Testament) (1547) that featured engravings designed by Hans Holbein and French verse translations by Gilles Corrozet (figure 11.3). Corrozet’s French verses summarize the story—in an obvious reading of the biblical source—as follows: David occit Goliath d’une pierre, Sans estre armé, en Dieu se confiant. Par un enfant le geant mis par terre, Des Philistins l’ost retourne fuyant (David killed Goliath with a stone Without being armed, putting all trust in God. By a child the ­giant was brought to the ground, The guest of the Philistines flees away)34 In other words, David is the story’s hero ­because (1) he is unarmed, whereas his opponent is (as in the woodcut) heavi­ly armed; (2) he is a child, taking on a ­giant; and (3) he believes in God, whereas the Philistine does not. We might surmise then that the allegorization that Escoville sought had to do with strength that relies on intelligence and specifically Christian faith, not just physical strength. A similar story issues forth from Du Bellay’s “Monomachie de David et  de Goliath” (Monomachia of David and Goliath) (1552),35 a poem that



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Figure 11.3. Hans Holbein, David and Goliath, from Icones historiarvm Veteris Testamenti, 1547. Image used with the kind permission of Columbia University.

equally emphasizes the opposition between unchecked rage and reason, beginning: Celuy en vain se vante d’estre fort, Qui aveuglé d’ire outrecuidée Ne voit combien peu sert un ­grand effort, Quand de raison la force n’est guidée” (He boasts in vain of being strong Who, blinded by unrestrained anger Sees not how ­little his ­great efforts serve If force is not guided by reason)36 When we look at the statue in the courtyard of the Hôtel d’Escoville, we thus might see a story about faith, strength, and good government, all wrapped up as an allegory for ­those same qualities in the building’s own­er.37

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Such an account of this story told in stone is, in many ways, satisfying. This kind of reading is that of iconology, a method employed especially by cultural historians and historians of art working in the tradition of Aby Warburg, Erwin Panofsky, and o­ thers. As a method, iconology privileges histor­ icism—­understanding the sculpture by turning to contextual information­— and synthesis (i.e., a preference for cohesion and coherence).38 The story told by the statue, then, is privileged over the stony mass itself into which form has been carved. We are firmly in the domain of culture and dealing with the symbolic and the allegorical rather than focused upon the materiality of that stony mass. We are, thus, firmly rooted in the ­human and in human-­scaled timelines: the (informed) viewer sees—­and thinks of—­a specific individual, Nicolas d’Escoville, who lived from 1475 to 1541 (i.e., sixty-­six years). The story, then, would seem ­limited to this very short chronology. What if, however, we take a few steps back? What if we focus instead on the stone itself that becomes the support for form and story? How does the story change? What other stories emerge? We might say, in a first instance, that the statue of David, almost certainly fashioned (according to the current state of research) by (alas anonymous) Italian artisans, belongs to a bigger cultural history, namely that of France’s relationship to—or some might say inheritance of—­the Italian Re­nais­sance. In such a reading, it is a cultural shift that is the story. But again, the timeline h ­ ere is human-­sized, perhaps covering a period of a hundred or so years at most. What if we step back even further? As media archeologist Jussi Parikka has surmised—­and his comment is a particularly useful conceptual jolt ­here—it is all too easy for our “notions of temporality” to become “human-­obsessed,” whereas we might instead “enter into a closer proximity with the fossil.”39 The fossil, Parikka notes, as a “material monument” signals “a radical challenge to prevailing notions of time.” 40 To see the fossil is to reckon with the “body of the earth [as] a compilation machine.” 41 Another way to put this would be as a question: Why, when faced with the statue of David at the Hôtel d’Escoville, do we privilege, in our attempts to understand, even to construct, a story, such short timelines? Why do we see David, David’s allegorical meanings and their transfer to the biography of a given individual, and also the Italianism of the interior court, rather than the stone itself? What if we state, radically, that we are looking at stone? I should like to suggest that the kind of immateriality that Parikka detects in much of how we relate to the digital realm—­despite the



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very concrete “grounded and . . . ​territorialized” realities of that realm (i.e., server farms, electricity, undersea cables, etc.)—is equally upheld in the iconological methods of reading stone stories like that of the statue of David in Caen.42 What, then, if we try to look at the stone of which David is hewn, and not the figure of David? To start with, we must propose, for a moment, that we concentrate our attention on the fact that, as we look at the statue of David, we are looking at a big block of sedimentary rock, more specifically a block of limestone, most likely composed of dead marine organisms (coral, mollusks, foraminifera, ­etc.). We are looking at a fossil, then. The story of David—­and its potential allegorical connections vis-­à-­vis Escoville—­are inscribed into, and depend upon, dead sea creatures. But only we—­living a­ fter the birth of modern geology—­can assert this. ­There is a split in views. On the one hand, we who live a­ fter the invention of modern geological sciences can articulate with scientific bravado as follows: Caen’s (­human) history is rock-­bound (i.e., inscribed in/upon local Normandy limestone in the form of statues and architectural façades), ­because about 165 million years ago, long before Normandy was synonymous with apple trees and cider, it was home to mangroves and crocodiles. We can say that warm seas used to wash limestone-­rich mud (i.e., full of dead sea organisms) onto the shores, which slowly deposited m ­ atter that would eventually be extracted, beginning in antiquity, from mines in and around Caen, in the form of a creamy-­yellow limestone. We can say that Caen’s geology, its rich oolitic veins, determined the town’s architectural landscape, with its par­tic­u­lar yellow-­white color, and beyond a fair chunk of Eu­ro­pean history.43 We can assert this connection between deep time, geology, and history, between mangroves and quarries, and between the Jurassic and the early modern/modern, ­because in 1817 a fossilized crocodile skeleton was discovered in a block of recently mined Caen stone (figure 11.4).44 On the other hand, early modern inhabitants of Caen would have known none of this—­their deep time was shorter and biblical. A sixteenth-­century viewer of the David statue in Caen would, of course, have known nothing of the marine organisms, the crocodiles, and the mangroves that made that statue pos­si­ble—­but they would, as I show in more detail elsewhere, have possessed other stony and geologic sensibilities. For one, inhabitants of Caen in the 1530s would have been very aware of the fact that the limestone statue (and indeed the limestone used to build the Hôtel d’Escoville) was extracted from

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Figure  11.4. Drawing of fossilized crocodile found in Caen in 1817. Artist unknown.

the earth (i.e., of its exterranean status) ­because the sites of extraction ­were, at that point, situated very close by. While, for example, the quarries of the Saint-­Julien district of Caen now survive only on street signs, h ­ ouses now built where quarries once ­were, in the early modern period they would have been just a short walk from the town center. Similarly, Western Eu­rope’s largest ­castle (i.e., William the Conqueror’s château in Caen), hewn in limestone, sits next to the quarries from which its stony m ­ atter was extracted—as twenty-­ first ­century visitors to the town can still see. Early modern inhabitants would thus have been cognizant—­perhaps more than us—of the material origins of the statue before them, even if they did not think of fossils. They would too, arguably, have thought about the fragility of that ­matter: on the one hand, both the huge c­ astle and the new bourgeois h ­ ouses loomed over the cityscape; on the other, both the 1562 mass Protestant destruction of many local limestone buildings and attempts to keep rec­ords of ­those buildings would have foregrounded limestone’s fragility, forcing upon the town’s inhabitants something of the geologic now.45



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One way to apprehend the choice that we face h ­ ere—­seeing David, or seeing the stone into which David is carved—is to appeal to the recently coined notion of the “plastiglomerate,” a new kind of stone or fossil that is “an indurated, multicomposite material made hard by agglutination of rock and molten plastic.” 46 Such stones are particularly common on the beaches of Hawaii—­most well-­known is Kamilo Beach on the southeast coast—­where waste plastic is washed ashore from the G ­ reat Pacific Garbage Patch. One report says that in a single bag of Hawaiian sand, 90 ­percent proved to be plastic.47 As Bruno Latour has put it, with such a “stone” it becomes quite simply impossible to “distinguish [départager] man from nature.” 48 Only seeing the David inscribed in the limestone and not the limestone, as the found­ers of Re­nais­sance Studies would have wished—­both Burckhardt and Michelet saw the Re­nais­sance as the moment Man is separated from Nature—we see only the ­human imprint, not the ­human entanglement with the exterranean.49 By choosing to see both, we look on with eyes from the Anthropocene, which see how stories are not just like fossils, but indeed are sometimes written in/ upon them. In other words, we can thus see both the fossil proper (i.e., limestone as created from very old organic m ­ atter) and the new fossil story, a composite of human/nonhuman origin, which is the story of David. ­There would be much more to say about fossil stories in sixteenth-­century France and Eu­rope. ­Here, we looked at Belleau’s Pierres précieuses and a statue of David, both fashioned not only before the invention of modern geology, but indeed before the word even existed. As noted briefly above, the Italian naturalist Ulisse Aldrovandi would invent that term in 1603, drawing on years of reflecting upon the origin of fossils (dug up ­things) via his large collection: the word geologia was, as one historian has put it, “a natu­ral outgrowth of [Aldrovandi’s] lifelong taxonomic and comparative study of the largest collection of fossils ever assembled before in a museum of natu­ral history.” The term, for Aldrovandi, referred to a “science dealing with dug and outcropping fossils.”50 But as I hope to have shown ­here, both Belleau and our anonymous sculptor created, in dif­fer­ent ways, fossils in a more modern sense, bringing geology into the now of ­human time. Belleau fashions poems that tell stories of fossil creation in the geologic now; and the statue of David, hewn from ­actual fossils, tells an allegorical story while suspending access to the statue’s geology u ­ ntil l­ ater times—­apart from the glimpses that might have arrived from the threat posed to limestone by the Wars of Religion. What is clear in any case is that, before Aldrovandi’s coining of the term “geologia”

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on the night before geology, and before “fossil” took on its modern meaning, poets and artists created fossil stories not unlike t­ hose that we, as a geologic force, are fashioning in the Anthropocene. Notes 1. For this term and its implications, see especially Paul Crutzen and Eugene Stoemer, “The ‘Anthropocene,’ ” IGBP Newsletter 41 (2000): 17–18; W ­ ill Steffen, Jacques Grinevald, Paul Crutzen, and John McNeill, “The Anthropocene: Conceptual and Historical Perspectives,” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society 369, no.  1938 (2011): 842–867 (847–848); Donna Haraway, “Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene: Making Kin,” Environmental Humanities 6, no.  1 (2015): 159–165. 2. J. A. Zalasiewicz, The Earth a­ fter Us: What Legacy ­Will ­Humans Leave in the Rocks? (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 3. Dipesh Chakrabarty, “The Climate of History: Four ­Theses,” Critical Inquiry 35, no. 2 (Winter 2009): 197–222 (201). 4. Richard Grusin, ed., The Nonhuman Turn (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2015). 5. Chakrabarty, “The Climate of History,” 206. See also Alfred W. Crosby Jr., “The Past and Pre­sent of Environmental History,” American Historical Review 100, no. 4 (October 1995): 1185: “This was a basic tenet of geological science: that h ­ uman chronologies ­were insignificant compared with the vastness of geological time; that ­human activities ­were insignificant compared with the force of geological pro­cesses. And once they ­were. But no more.” 6. The work of Jussi Parikka in media studies and media archaeology is an urgent reminder that stories are written in stone, in waste, and in pollution; Bruno Latour and Jane Bennett have demonstrated why and how we must account for nonhuman actants in how we tell stories. See Parikka, A Geology of Media (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2015); Latour, Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-­Network-­ Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); and Bennett, Vibrant ­Matter: A Po­liti­cal Ecol­ogy of Th ­ ings (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010). 7. Bennett, Vibrant ­Matter, 108, 115. 8. Tiffany Werth, “A Heart of Stone: The Ungodly in Early Modern E ­ ngland,” in The Indistinct ­Human in Re­nais­sance Lit­e r­a­ture, ed. Jean E. Feerick and Vin Nardizzi (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 181–204; Werth, “Loving London Stone,” Upstart: A Journal of E ­ ngland Re­nais­sance Studies, February 14, 2014, https://­upstart​.­sites​.­clem​ son​.e­ du​/­Essays​/­london​_ ­stone​/­london​_ ­stone​.­xhtml; Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, Stone: An Ecol­ogy of the Inhuman (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2015). 9. I put the word in in quotes ­here to suspend its meaning, to make uncertain ­whether I am talking about the availability of such a sensibility to early moderns or to us within early modern texts and artifacts. 10. Elizabeth Ellsworth and Jamie Kruse, “Evidence: Making a Geologic Turn in Cultural Awareness,” in Making the Geological Now: Responses to Material Conditions of



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Con­temporary Life, ed. Elizabeth Ellsworth and Jamie Kruse (Brooklyn, NY: Punctum Books, 2013), 6–26 (14). 11. Throughout, I w ­ ill quote from Remy Belleau, Œuvres poétiques, vol. 5, ed. Jean Braybrook, Guy Demerson, and Maurice-­F. Verdier (Paris: Champion, 2003). Henceforth I s­ hall refer to this edition as Belleau, Pierres précieuses, and provide parenthetical line references in the text. Th ­ ere exists a sizable body of secondary criticism about this work, most compellingly Jean Braybrook, “Remy Belleau and the Pierres precieuses,” Re­ nais­sance Studies 3, no. 2 (1989): 193–201; Braybrook, “Remy Belleau and the Figure of the Artist,” French Studies 37, no. 1 (1983): 1–16; Braybrook, “The Curative Properties of Remy Belleau’s Pierres precieuses,” Explorations 16, no. 1 (1990): 111–125; Guy Demerson, “Poétique de la métamorphose chez Belleau,” in Poétiques de la metamorphose, ed. Guy Demerson (Saint-­Étienne: Publications de l’Université de Saint-­Étienne, 1981), 125–142; Demerson, “Remy Belleau et la naissance du monde,” in Naissance du monde et l’invention du poème, ed. Jean-­Claude Ternaux (Paris: Champion, 1998), 193–215; Claude Faisant, “Gemmologie et imaginaire: Les Pierres précieuses de Rémy Belleau,” in L’invention au XVIe siècle, ed. Claude-­Gibert Dubois (Bordeaux: Presses Universitaires de Bordeaux, 1987), 83–106; Marcel Tetel, “La poétique de la réflexivité chez Belleau,” Studi Francesi 29, no. 85 (1985): 1–18; and Eveline Chayes, “Tromper les plus clair-­voyans: The Counterfeit of Precious Stones in the Work of Rémy Belleau,” in On the Edge of Truth and Honesty: Princi­ples and Strategies of Fraud and Deceit in the Early Modern Period, ed. Toon van Houdt et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 183–222. 12. I have consulted the following edition: Marbode, Bishop of Rennes, Libellvs de lapidibvs preciosis (Viennae Pannoniae: Per Hieronymu[m] Vietorem, Philouallem, 1511), at Harvard University’s Houghton Library (*FC M3292 511ℓ). 13. A total of seven editions of Marbode of Rennes’s lapidary w ­ ere published between 1511 and 1579. For an analy­sis of ­these editions, including the Christianizing commentary of Alardus of Amsterdam, whose edition of Marbode’s work was titled De gemmarum lapidumque pretiosorum formis, naturis, atque viribus (1539), see the first three chapters of Eveline Chayes, L’Éloquence des pierres précieuses: De Marbode de Rennes à Alard d’Amsterdam et Remy Belleau; Sur quelques lapidaires du XVIe siècle (Paris: Champion, 2010). 14. On the salon vert, see Henri Chamard, Histoire de la Pléiade, vol. 3 (Paris: Didier, 1940), 156–157, and especially Christie Ellen St. John, “The Salon Vert of the Maréchale de Retz: A Study of a Literary Salon in Sixteenth-­Century France” (PhD diss., Vanderbilt University, 1999). 15. The history of poetry as a site of knowledge production is studied by Adrian Armstrong and Sarah Kay, Knowing Poetry: Verse in Medieval Poetry from The Rose to the Rhétoriqueurs (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011). 16. All translations in this chapter are my own u ­ nless other­wise indicated. 17. Belleau, Pierres précieuses, 132n42; Faisant, “Gemmologie et imaginaire,” 104, 103. 18. Faisant, “Gemmologie et imaginaire,” 103. 19. Pierre de Ronsard, La Franciade, book 3, verses 1175–1176, in Œuvres complètes, vol. 16, ed. Paul Laumonier (Paris: Nizet, 1982). For commentary on t­ hese lines, see Ronsard, The Franciad (1572), ed. and trans. Phillip John Usher (New York: AMS Press,

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2010), 156. Clymène similarly hesitates three times when she arrives at her s­ ister’s door (Ronsard, La Franciade, 3:967–969). For a pre­ce­dent of writing’s power to force written expression from a heroine, we might, of course, look to a similar hesitation and final abandonment to Love’s sweet illness in the ninth book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses (9:446–665), where Byblis writing to Caunus (her lover but also her ­brother), first writes meditata verba (carefully thought-­out words) only to erase her tablet before she once again grabs up the tablet and writes with abandon. 20. Bennett, Vibrant ­Matter, 58–59. 21. Raymond of Sabund, La Théologie naturelle, trans. Michel de Montaigne (Paris: chez Guillaume Chaudière, 1581), 7. 22. See Phillip John Usher, Exterranean: Extraction in the Humanist Anthropocene (New York: Fordham University Press, 2019). 23. Georgius Agricola, De natura fossilium (Textbook of Mineralogy), ed. and trans. Mark Chance Bandy and Jean A. Bandy (New York: Geological Society of Amer­ic­ a, 1955), 130–131. 24. John Durham Peters, “Space, Time, and Communication Theory,” Canadian Journal of Communication 28, no. 4 (2003), http://­w ww​.­cjc​-­online​.­ca​/­index​.­php​/­journal​ /­article​/­view​/1­ 389​/1­ 467. 25. Usher, Exterranean, chap. 4 (“Geomedia”). 26. See Dominique Brancher, Quand l’esprit vient aux plantes: Botanique sensible et subversion libertine (XVIe–­XVIIe siècles) (Geneva: Droz, 2015), chap. 1 and esp. 38–40. 27. Belleau, Pierres précieuses, 168n17. 28. Pliny, Natu­ral History, vol. 37, ed. and trans. D. E. Eichholz (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, Loeb Classical Library, 1962), 52. 29. Pliny, Natu­ral History, 52. 30. See Parikka, A Geology of Media, chap. 5 (“Fossil F ­ utures”). 31. Principal sources ­here include Bernard Beck, “Les monuments civils de la Re­nais­ sance caennaise,” in L’Architecture de la Re­nais­sance en Normandie: Actes du colloque de Cerisy-­la-­Salle, ed. Bernard Beck et  al. (Caen: Presses universitaires de Caen, 2003), 139–152, esp. 145–149; Andreas Förderer, “L’hôtel d’Escoville à Caen: Essai de restitution de l’état originel,” in Beck et al., L’Architecture de la Re­nais­sance en Normandie, 163–174; Philippe Lenglart, Caen—­Architecture et Histoire (Condé-­sur-­Noireau: Corlet, 2008), 124–133. I also draw on observations from my own visit to the site in June 2015. 32. For specific features thereof, and details on the relationship between Italian and French models, see Frédérique Lemerle and Yves Pauwels, L’Architecture à la Re­nais­sance (Paris: Flammarion, 2005), esp. 73–90 on “Les débuts de l’italianisme en France.” 33. Förderer, “L’hôtel d’Escoville,” 141. 34. Icones historiarvm Veteris Testamenti, ad viuum expressue, extremáque diligentia emendatiores factaæ, gallicis in expositione homœoteleutis, ac versuum ordinibus (qui prius turbati, ac impares) suo numero restitutis (Lyon: apud I. Frellonium, 1547), no pagination, quote from page for “1 Regum XVII” (i.e., 1 Samuel). The Latin text that Corrozet rends into French reads, “DAVID Saulis armis reictis, ac solius Dei potential confisus, lapide funda iacto Goliath interficit. Philisthaeos in fugam vertit.” Quote and image from a copy



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held at Columbia University Rare Book and Manuscript Library, call number ­BOOKART NC251.H69 1547 H69. 35. On this poem see Richard A. Sayce, The French Biblical Epic in the Seventeenth ­Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1955), 35–37; Phillip John Usher, Epic Arts in Re­nais­ sance France (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 4. 36. Joachim Du Bellay, La Monomachie de David et Goliath, ensemble plusieurs qutres œuvres poétiques, ed. E. Caldarini (Geneva: Droz, 1981), 41, verses 1–4. 37. For a longer and quite differently emphasized discussion of early modern appropriations of the story of David, see Phillip John Usher, Gigantology for the Anthropocene, forthcoming, chap. 2. 38. See especially Erwin Panofsky, Studies in Iconology: Humanistic Themes in the Art of the Re­nais­sance (New York: Oxford University Press, 1939); Keith Moxey, “Panofsky’s Concept of Iconology and the Prob­lem of Interpretation in the History of Art,” New Literary History 17, no. 2 (Winter 1986): 265–274. For a glimpse at the lasting impact of Panofsky’s approach, see Irving Lavin, ed., Meaning in the Visual Arts: Views from the Outside—­A Centennial Commemoration of Erwin Panofsky (1892–1968) (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1995). A renewal and profound re-­theorization of iconology, in which the relationship between text and image is figured as a dialectic, is provided by W. J. T. Mitchell, Iconology: Image, Text, Ideology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987). 39. Parikka, A Geology of Media, 135. For an introduction to media archaeology, see his What Is Media Archaeology? (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2012). 40. Parikka, A Geology of Media, 109. 41. Parikka, A Geology of Media, 110. 42. Parikka, A Geology of Media, 111. On the question of the (im)materiality of the digital realm, see inter alia Jussi Parikka, A Media Archaeology of Computer Viruses (New York: Peter Lang, 2016). 43. See Olivier Dugué, Laurent Dujardin, Pascal Lerous, and Zavier Savary, La Pierre de Caen: Des dinosaures aux cathédrales (Condé-­sur-­Noireau: Editions Charles Corlet, 2010), chap. 1, “Géologie du Calcaire de Caen” (11–36). 44. Dugué et al., La Pierre de Caen, 24. Image reproduced from Eugène Eudes-­ Deslongchamps, Notes paléontologiques, vol. 1 (Caen: Le Blanc-­Hardel and Paris: Savy, 1863–1869), plate XII. The village where the stone was mined is now called Fleurysur-­Orne. 45. See Usher, On the Exterranean, chap. 6, “GeoMedia.” 46. Patricia L. Corcoran, Charles J. Moore, and Kelly Jazvac, “An Anthropogenic Marker Horizon in the F ­ uture Rock Rec­ord,” GSA T ­ oday 24, no. 6 (June 2014): 4–8 (5). 47. Chris Maser, Interactions of Land, Oceans, and H ­ umans: A Global Perspective (London: CRC Press, 2015), 147. 48. Bruno Latour, Face à Gaïa (Paris: La Découverte, 2015), 159: “[impossible de] départager l’homme de la nature.” 49. ­There would be much to say about the role placed by nineteenth-­century scholarship in establishing the Re­nais­sance as a historical moment in which Man is separated

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from Nature, a wholly mistaken understanding of what early modern thinkers and writers actually did. For now, let us note that Burckhardt, for example, stated that the beginning of modernity coincided with the story of “man’s separation from nature,” made pos­si­ble by the Re­nais­sance “awakening of the mind”: Christophe Bonneuil and Jean-­ Baptiste Fressz, L’Événement Anthropocène: La Terre, l’histoire et nous (Paris: Le Seuil, 2013), 45–46. 50. Gian Battista Vai, “The Scientific Revolution and Nicholas Steno’s Twofold Conversion,” in The Revolution in Geology from the Re­nais­sance to the Enlightenment, ed. Gary  D. Rosenberg (Boulder, CO: Geological Society of Amer­i­ca, 2009), 187–208 (189–190, 190). On Aldrovandi’s invention of the term geology, see also D. R. Dean, “The Word Geology,” Annals of Science 36, no. 1 (1979): 35–43; Gian Battista Vai, “Aldrovandi’s ­Will: Introducing the Term Geology in 1603,” in Four Centuries of the Word Geology: Ulisse Aldrovandi 1603 in Bologna, ed. Gian Battista Vai and W. Cavazza (Bologna: Minerva Edizioni, 2003), 64–111; and The Origins of Geology in Italy, ed. Gian Battista Vai and W. Glen E. Caldwell (Boulder, CO: Geological Society of Amer­i­ca, 2006).

Contributors

JoAnn DellaNeva earned her doctorate from Prince­ton University and is professor of romance languages and lit­er­a­tures at the University of Notre Dame, where she has served as associate dean for undergraduate studies in the College of Arts and Letters and as chair of the Department of Romance Languages and Lit­er­a­tures. Most recently, she was named academic director of Notre Dame’s London Global Gateway. Her scholarship on Re­nais­sance lit­ er­a­ture principally explores questions of Franco-­Italian literary relations and imitation theory and practice within the context of Petrarchism, focusing on the poetry of Marot, Scève, Du Guillet, Du Bellay, Magny, Ronsard, and Desportes. She is the editor of Ciceronian Controversies (2007), a set of Neo-­ Latin treatises on imitation. In 2009 she authored a monograph, Unlikely Exemplars: Reading and Imitating beyond the Italian Canon in French Re­nais­ sance Poetry, published by the University of Delaware Press. She has recently completed an edition, translation, and analy­sis of Lancelot de Carle’s poem on the death of Anne Boleyn and is working on a broader study of imaginary portrayals of Henry VIII and his court in early modern Eu­ro­ pean lit­er­a­ture. Sheila ffolliott, professor emerita in the Department of History and Art History at George Mason University, Fairfax, ­Virginia, has spoken and published widely on Re­nais­sance ­women as patrons and collectors—in par­tic­u­ lar, Catherine de’ Medici—­and on Re­nais­sance and baroque ­women artists. She was the guest curator at the Minneapolis Institute of Art from 1991 to 1993 for the exhibition Images of a Queen’s Power: The Artemisia Tapestries. In 2014 she won the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Society for the Study of Early Modern ­Women. Her recent and forthcoming publications include 265

266 Contributors

“La Miniatrice di Madama: Giovanna Garzoni in Savoia,” in La Grandezza dell’Universo nell’arte di Giovanna Garzoni, exhibition cata­logue, edited by S. Barker; “Cosimo de’ Medici and Catherine de Médicis: Making the Po­ liti­cal Personal,” in A Companion to Cosimo I de’ Medici, edited by Alessio Assonitis and Henk Th. van Veen; “Juana de Austria and Her Peers: Queens, Regents, and Patronage in Sixteenth-­Century Eu­rope,” in Juana, edited by Noelia García Perez; and, with Saskia Beranek, “The Agency of Portrayal: The Active Portrait in the Early Modern Period,” in Agency and Early Modern ­Women, edited by Merry Wiesner-­Hanks. Amy Graves Monroe is associate professor of French in the Romance Languages and Lit­er­a­tures Department at the University at Buffalo. Her book Post tenebras lex: Preuves et propagande dans l’historiographie engagée de Simon Goulart explores the effects that religious propaganda and pamphlet lit­er­a­ ture had on testimony, documentary proof, and history writing during the French Wars of Religion. She has worked in the areas of the Reformation(s) in the early modern period, print culture and ephemera, po­liti­cal thought and sovereignty, Montaigne, early modern sensory perception and affect, martyrs, neo-­stoicism, and satire. Her current proj­ect studies the early modern perception of the “event” as ideas of prediction and probability evolve ­toward the threshold of modernity. David LaGuardia is professor of French and comparative lit­er­a­ture and chair of French and Italian at Dartmouth University. He is the author of Intertextual Masculinity in French Re­nais­sance Lit­er­a­ture: Rabelais, Brantôme, and Les Cent nouvelles nouvelles. With Cathy Yandell, he is the author of Memory and Community in Sixteenth-­Century French Lit­er­at­ ure. With Todd Reeser, he ­coedited Théories critiques et littérature française de la Re­nais­sance: Mélanges ­offerts à Lawrence  D. Kritzman, and, with Gary Ferguson, he coedited ­Narrative Worlds: Essays on the French Nouvelle in Fifteenth-­and Sixteenth-­ Century France. He has published numerous articles on the French collections of nouvelles; on Montaigne, Rabelais, and Pierre de L’Estoile; and on early modern masculinity. He is currently finishing a book about memory and memorial writing in Re­nais­sance France. Kathleen Loysen is associate professor of French in the Department of Modern Languages and Lit­er­a­tures at Montclair State University in New Jersey.

Contributors

267

Her primary area of research is the narrative fiction of the early modern ­period in France. She is the author of Conversation and Storytelling in Fifteenth-­ and Sixteenth-­Century French Nouvelles, along with articles on the Cent  nouvelles nouvelles, Marguerite de Navarre, the anonymous Caquets de l’Accouchée, Jacques Tahureau, and Mme Galien. Her current book proj­ ect involves notions of ­women’s authorship and authority, as represented through storytelling in early modern France. Dora E. Polachek is visiting associate professor of French and director of undergraduate studies in the Department of Romance Languages and Lit­er­a­ tures at Binghamton University. Her publications include the edited volume Heroic Virtue, Comic Infidelity: Reassessing Marguerite de Navarre’s Heptam­ éron and articles on Montaigne, Marguerite de Navarre, and women’s roles in the French Wars of Religion. She has also written articles that are part of a larger proj­ect on Brantôme and ­women, which have appeared in the Romantic Review and in the MLA volumes Approaches to Teaching Marguerite de Navarre’s Heptameron and Teaching ­Women Writers of the Re­nais­sance and Reformation, edited by Colette Winn. Her work has also appeared in Mediaevalia, Medieval Feminist Forum, Montaigne Studies, Sixteenth C ­ entury Journal, Re­nais­sance et Réforme, and L’Esprit Créateur. Marian Rothstein is professor emerita of modern languages at Carthage College, continuing her research from a base in New York City. She is the author of The Androgyne in Early Modern France: Contextualizing the Power of Gender. Among other recent work is the essay “Memory and Forgetting in Louis Le Roy’s Pre­sen­ta­tion of the Androgyne,” which appeared in Memory and Community in Sixteenth-­Century French Lit­er­a­ture, edited by David LaGuardia and Cathy Yandell; “Les effets de réalité: Le lecteur et le cœur de François Ier,” in Actes du Colloque François Ier, edited by François Rouget; and “Forgery as Authority: The Reception of Annius of Viterbo’s Spurious Antiquities in France,” Re­nais­sance Quarterly 71, no. 2 (2018). At the time of writing she is concurrently working on two proj­ects: a study of privacy in early modern France, drawing primarily on evidence from architecture and the Heptaméron, and depictions of Dido in fifteenth-­and sixteenth-­century France. Emily E. Thompson is professor of French and global studies in the Department of Global Languages, Cultures, and Socie­ties at Webster University.

268 Contributors

Her work focuses on the evolution of the novella in the sixteenth c­ entury and, in par­tic­u­lar, on the role that editorial genres played in t­ hese changes. She has published on the works of Marguerite de Navarre and Bonaventure Des Périers and has contributed an article on Pierre Boaistuau’s edition of Histoires des Amans fortunez to Pierre Boaistuau ou le génie des forms. She cotranslated and coedited Jeanne d’Albret’s Ample Declaration with Kathleen Llewellyn and Colette Winn. She and Colette Winn or­ga­nized the Isidore Silver Memorial Colloquium on Storytelling in Sixteenth-­Century France: Medicine, Lit­er­a­ture, and the Arts at Washington University in April 2016, where Storytelling in Sixteenth-­Century France first took shape. Phillip John Usher is professor of French lit­er­a­ture, thought, and culture, and of comparative lit­er­a­ture at New York University. He is the author, editor, or translator of nine volumes, most recently Exterranean: Extraction in the Humanist Anthropocene, and he worked with Pauline Goul on Early Modern Ecologies: Beyond En­glish Ecocriticism. Colette H. Winn is professor of French at Washington University in Saint Louis. She specializes in early modern ­women writers and the history of medicine. Her most recent publications include vari­ous scholarly editions, special issues, and a translation: with F. Rouget, ­Album de poésies des Villeroy: Manuscrit français 1663 de la BNF; with G. Postolache, Débats scientifiques autour de la jeûneuse prodige du XVIe siècle: La querelle de l’abstinente (1566– 1602); with H. C. Martin and Jean Bauhin, Histoire notable de la rage des loups, advenue l’an MDXC; with C. Trout, Correspondance féminine de la Grande Guerre: Jeanne de Flandreysy à Folco de Baroncelli: Tome I (1914–1915): Sauver le ­g rand homme, réhabiliter l’image de la pe­tite patrie; with C. Skenazi, “Altérité et différences à l’aube des temps modernes,” French Forum 43, no. 2 (Fall 2018); with A. R. Larsen, “Writing/Creating in the Feminine in Early Modern France,” L’Esprit Créateur 60, no. 1 (Spring 2020); and (trans.) with L. King, The Huguenot Experience in Early Modern France: Three ­Women Stories. Cathy Yandell is the W. I. and Hulda F. Daniell Professor of French Lit­er­a­ ture, Language, and Culture at Carleton College. The author of Carpe Corpus: Time and Gender in Early Modern France and coeditor of Vieillir à la Re­nais­sance and Memory and Community in Sixteenth-­Century France, she has

Contributors

269

published chapters and articles on gender, the body, sexuality, visual culture, and the French Wars of Religion. Her recent publications include articles on Ronsard’s po­liti­cal and Hellenistic poetry in Yale French Studies (2019) and L’Année ronsardienne (2020). Her current proj­ect examines the Re­nais­sance body and corporeal knowledge from Rabelais to Descartes.

Index

Note: Page numbers in italics indicate figures. Ackeyman, Jean, 94n23 admonitory figure, 231 adultery, 125, 143, 176–178, 187, 189 agency, 163–164, 179, 182, 186, 240, 246–247, 249 Agricola, Georgius, 248–249, 252 Albret, Jeanne d’, 7, 57–69, 70nn5–6 Aldrovandi, Ulisse, 241, 252, 259, 264n50 allegory, 220, 244, 255, 256–257, 259 Amours et nouveaux eschanges des pierres précieuses (Belleau), 241–252, 259 Ample déclaration (Albret), 7, 57–69 anachronism, 231 anaphore, 211 Angoisses douloureuses qui procedent d’amours, Les (Crenne), 7, 33, 41–50 animal. See nonhuman Anthropocene, 240–241, 252, 259–260 antonomasia, 100 Apollo, 101, 106, 110, 243 apology, 3, 7, 10, 11, 24–25, 59, 102, 163–164, 207. See also defense apophasis, 210 architecture, 72n26, 219, 221–222, 224, 226, 242, 252, 258 Aretino, Pietro, 175, 184, 192n44 Aristotle, 19, 117n16, 251 Arrizabalaga, Jon, 110 Artemisia II of Caria, 220–224, 223, 225, 226–227, 229–230, 234–235 astonishment, 8, 101, 111, 117nn15–16, 162, 180, 252

atemporality, 9, 114 Aubespine, Claude de L’ , 63–65, 73n41 Aubigné, Agrippa d’, 20–21, 23, 26, 31n23, 203 authenticity, 32, 34, 47, 146, 223 author, 3, 27, 139, 159, 240; identity of, 6, 34, 43, 53n51, 61, 77–78, 196; intention of, 12, 34, 128, 154, 156, 160, 164, 170, 244; relation to other authors, 155, 158, 171, 175; reliability of, 33, 40, 163; ­women, 28, 33, 34–35, 49 authority: in the age of the printing press, 30n6; of Apollo, 101; of eyewitness, 9; of narrative fiction, 18, 20; of royalty, 58, 69, 155, 221; of storyteller, 6, 7, 21, 49, 126, 141, 155; of troubadours, 196 autofiction, 26, 43 Bacchus, 243–244, 246, 248–249 background, 38, 232–233 Baduel, Paul, 203 Baïf, Jean de, 206 Bandello, Matteo, 149n24 Barthes, Roland, 18 Beaulieu, Eustorg de, 196 belief: confirmation of, 92; conventional, 114; in language, 160; of Protestants, 203; questioning of, 9; worthy of, 74, 106 Belleau, Rémy, 206, 241–243, 245–246, 248–249, 251–252, 259, 261 Belozerskaya, Marina, 229, 231 Bembo, Pietro, 101–102, 105, 107 Benjamin, Walter, 76 Bennett, Jane, 240, 245

271

272 Index Berdou d’Aas, Bernard, 58 Bernard, George, 144–146, 149n25 Bertrand, Pascal-­François, 227, 230, 232, 234 Beza, Theodore of, 24, 26 Bible, 11, 85, 168n42, 207, 220, 255, 257. See also Chris­tian­ity; Evangelism Blaso, Antonio, 99 blason, 133 Boccaccio, Giovanni, 33, 174 Boleyn, Anne, 9, 125–147, 151n34 Boni, Guillaume, 200 “bonne nouvelle, la,” 109, 111, 114 Bonnivet, Guillaume Gouffier de, 173 bookseller, 76–78, 80, 83, 164 borders, 2, 5, 11, 222–224, 227, 235, 237n22 Bouchet, Guillaume, 168n47 Bourbon, Antoine de (King of Navarre), 60 Bourbon, Charles de, cardinal, 57 Bourbon, Louis de (Prince de Condé), 25, 58, 60, 71n20 Bourdieu, Pierre, 18 Bovelle, Charles de, 250–251 Brantôme, Pierre de Bourdeille, seigneur de, 8, 10, 170–189, 209, 226 Briet, Marguerite de. See Crenne, Hélisenne de Bruner, Jerome, 2 Buon, Gabriel, 207 Burckhardt, Jacob, 259, 264n49 Callirhoe, 105 Calvin, Jean, 155, 161, 162, 164, 203 Calvinism, 58, 63, 153, 202 Campbell, Julie, 49 canards sanglants, 7–8, 74–92 captatio benevolentiae, 101 Carle, Lancelot de, 8–9, 125–147 Caron, Antoine, 222, 223, 224, 225, 227, 228, 232, 233 Carson, Rebekah Anne, 123n89 cartoons, 11, 221–223, 237n22. See also tapestry Castiglione, Baldassare, 79 Catherine de’ Medici (Catherine de Médicis), 232, 233, 234–235; influence of, 28, 57–60, 226–227; as reader, 7, 172, 186–187, 231, 232; as regent, 220–222, 228, 229; relationships

of, 62–69, 72n31; religious politics of, 71n21, 73n40 Catholicism, Catholics: armies of, 203, 206, 209; beliefs, 83; and contrafacta, 197, 207, 210, 211; and factions, 65, 226; in families, 60; and Gallican reform, 71n21; and hegemony, 91; practices of, 123n89, 204, 205; propaganda for, 91; and reading practices, 210; song, 195, 197, 203; style of preaching, 93; symbol, 207; victories, 206, 207; vio­lence, 207, 210, 216n43. See also religious identity Cato, Dionysius, 86, 88, 94n23 causality, 20, 246 cautionary tale, 45, 146, 187 Caxton, William, 86 censorship, 161, 163, 168n44 Certeau, Michel de, 18 Certon, Pierre de, 202 Chakrabarty, Dipesh, 240 chambres, 219, 232. See also tapestry chanson de geste, 17, 20 Chansonnier huguenot du XVIe siècle, 196 chansons, 195–217 Chase, Wayland Johnson, 86 Charles V, 127, 202, 220, 226 Charles VIII, 100 Charles IX, 61, 195, 206, 207, 221 Charles de Lorraine, cardinal, 60, 66–67, 71n18 Chartier, Roger, 81, 214n17 Chris­tian­ity: adherents of, 110, 199, 210; and faith, 83, 255; ideology of, 8, 85, 88, 122n77; and moral code, 80, 83, 160, 200; and prince, 86, 218; symbolism in, 82, 109–110. See also Bible; church history; Evangelism Christine de Lorraine, 234–235 Cholakian, Patricia Frances, 173–175 chronology, 17, 19, 27, 240, 250, 256 church history, 220, 231. See also Chris­tian­ity Claude de France, 132 clerical language, 83–84, 93n15 cognitive dissonance, 8, 177, 180 Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome, 241 Coligny, Gaspard II de, 207 collaboration, 19, 101, 196

Index collections: of blasons, 133; of canards, 76; of fossils, 259; of historical documents, 25; of letters, 62; of maxims, 86; of ­music sheets, 195; of poems, 242–243, 252; of stories, 33–34, 36, 60, 152–165, 174; of tapestries, 219–220; of works, 58 colporteurs, 195 Columbus, Christopher, 100 comic book, 230 commerce, 7, 11, 76, 164 commonplaces, 1, 86–87 community, 7, 43, 195, 211 Commynes, Philippe de, 20, 26 Comptes amoureux (Flore), 7, 32–42, 49–50 Condé, Louis de. See Bourbon, Louis de (Prince de Condé) conformity, 114, 127, 156, 161–162 contes, 3–4, 19, 42, 127, 154–157, 175. See also stories context: affective, 27; change of, 10–11, 20, 26, 156, 165, 196, 207, 212; of dialogue, 37, 42; economic, 11; historical, 2, 10, 28, 74, 78, 80, 92, 100, 153, 156, 209; interpretative, 6, 20, 38, 91, 156, 256; literary, 159, 170, 188; medi­ cal, 99–100, 108; po­liti­cal, 57; as proof of veracity, 60; social, 34, 38, 49; specificity of, 4–5, 11, 34, 79, 83, 157, 210, 235 contract, storytelling, 18, 19, 76, 80, 81, 90 contrafacta, 10–11, 195–217 controversy, 107–109 conversation, 5, 34–56, 135–136, 144–145 correspondence: between event and narrative, 18; between histories, 161. See also letter Corrozet, Gilles, 255 Cortese, Paolo, 233 Cotgrave, Randle, 6, 66, 72, 206, 246 court, 25, 77–78, 127, 188, 195, 218, 219, 225; art at, 222, 225–227, 235; duties ­toward, 79–80; En­glish, 135, 139, 144–145; of Ferrara, 110; fictional, 182, 186–187; French, 28, 61–63, 65–66, 68, 126–127, 130, 171–173, 218, 232; norms at, 28, 62, 66, 72n29, 73n46, 175, 195, 219 credibility: of narrative, 7, 44, 49, 74, 140–141, 144; of person, 68, 79, 145, 153, 155, 161, 171

273

credulity, 155, 168n42, 249. See also ­will to believe Crenne, Hélisenne de, 41–55 criers, public, 195 crime, 75–76, 81–86, 88–92, 138, 142, 144, 155, 207, 211 Crisciani, Chiara, 118n22 ­Cromwell, Thomas, 144–145 Cupid. See Eros current events, 2; definition of, 75–76; as news, 80–81, 83, 126–128, 130; partisan repre­sen­ta­tion of, 91, 226 Cyraneus, Ludovicus, 99 Cyropedia (Xenophon), 221 Daillon du Lude, Louise de, 171–175 Dante (Dante Alighieri), 122n77 Daussy, ­Hugues, 71n20 David (biblical character), 204, 209, 220, 252–257, 253, 256, 259 Davies, Norman, 205 Davis, Natalie Zemon, 207 Decameron, The (Boccaccio), 33–34, 174 dedication, 45, 162, 175–177, 200, 211, 241 defense, 9, 58, 100, 137, 152–154, 156, 158–159, 164. See also apology DellaNeva, JoAnn, 9 Della Torre, Marcantonio, 105 Désiré, Artus, 211 Des Périers, Bonaventure, 154–155, 165, 190n10 devisant, 36, 42, 56n99, 171, 173, 181, 182, 185, 189, 190n12 dialogue, 9 41, 42, 127, 137–139, 145, 159 Diane de Poitiers (Duchess de Valentinois), 28 didacticism: as function, 20, 22–23; as objec­ tive, 7, 8, 18, 80–83, 87, 91, 154, 160–162 Dido, 40, 45 diplomacy, 125–128, 133–135, 139, 144, 147, 226–227, 229 discourse: direct, 36, 38, 44–46, 53n64, 54n70, 178–179; indirect, 42, 46 discretion, 18 discursive mode, 34, 36, 41–43, 79 disorder, 11, 66, 157, 200

274 Index disruption, 8, 19, 165 distortion, 128 dogmatism, 8, 160–161 domestic setting, 61–63, 65–66, 145–146 Dorat, Jean, 206 Dorléans, Louis, 206 Du Fail, Noël, 42 Du Pré, Galliot, II, 164–165 Eatough, Geoffrey, 119n50, 123n89 Eco, Umberto, 196 economic considerations, 7, 11, 76, 115–116n6, 169n57, 218, 223, 226 “effet de réel,” 18 Elizabeth I (queen of ­England), 57, 72n31, 130 emotion: depiction of, 110–111; and interpre­ tation, 7, 20, 23–24, 27, 29, 57, 217n53; manipulation of, 6, 8–9, 12, 80–82, 211, 242; of narrator, 38, 104; and rhythm, 197; and ­women, 33 encomium, 22, 108, 110 engagement: of reader, 9, 20, 24, 38, 163–164; of viewer, 27, 229, 232 entertainment. See plea­sure epistemology, 2, 7, 33, 42, 57, 117n15, 160 Erasmus, Desiderius, 86, 218, 221, 225, 235 Eros, 35, 39, 182, 199. See also love Este, Anne d’ (Duchess de Guise), 66–68, 72n31, 73n55 Estienne, Henri, 8–9, 22, 152–165, 168n44, 168n49, 169n57 Estienne, Robert, 153 ethics: as justification for narrative, 3, 12, 23; and responsibilities, 22–23. See also morality Eucharist, 123n89, 204 Evangelism, 71n21, 110, 160–161. See also Chris­tian­ity event: chronology of, 5, 17, 22, 58, 107, 130, 231; commemoration of, 226, 230–231, 234, 235; context of, 49; evocation of, 41, 204, 208, 211; firsthand testimony of, 25–26, 27, 28, 130; interpretation of, 87, 91, 147; justification of, 7, 58, 59; linking of, 229, 232; real­ity of, 19, 21, 29, 44, 74, 84, 91, 125, 134–135; recording of, 17, 23, 43, 80, 126–127;

relationship to narrative, 20, 26; repre­sen­ ta­tion of, 3, 6, 8–9, 10, 18, 36, 110, 128, 134; tapestry’s role in, 219–220; status of 27, 75; vio­lence of, 91 execution, 84, 92, 125–127, 143–144, 207 exemplarity, 32, 48, 88, 90, 222; crisis of, 49, 50n4 exemplum, 20, 22, 36, 44, 61, 81, 179, 187, 235; claims of, 33; and history, 27 experience: of author, 174; distortion of, 128; exemplarity of, 48; instead of, 120n59; interpretation of, 12; literary, 18; narrative as, 22; personal, 3, 26–27; sensory, 11; and truth, 32–33, 44, 103, 108 experimentation, 19, 41–42, 156, 164–165 eyewitness. See testimony fable, 4, 41, 107, 111, 113, 114, 218, 220 fact: absence of, 135; as base for narrative, 9, 110; and commonplaces, 83, 86; context for, 28; contradiction of, 134, 145, 150n28; as defense of narrative, 25; distortion of, 125, 146; and emotion, 128, 242; and generic expectation, 19, 74, 127–128; partisan view of, 74–75, 91 Faisant, Claude, 244 faith, 59, 74, 83, 207, 211, 255 Fernandez de Oviedo, J.-­G., 115–116n6 festivals, 111, 226–227, 228, 232, 234 fêtes, courtly, 220, 226, 229, 235 ffolliott, Sheila, 11 fiction: characters in, 171, 173; evangelical, 160; and female storyteller, 33; historical, 27, 28–29, 139; or history, 17, 19–20, 28–29; and mimesis, 18; models of, 154–155; of self, 26; and truth, 134, 139, 144, 146–147; in vernacular, 154, 159; and verse, 242 Flore, Jeanne, 33–41 Florence, 234 foreground, 227, 230, 232 form: choice of, 6, 8, 99, 126, 128, 134; flexible, 164, 205; and function, 13n10, 147, 156; hierarchy of forms, 23, 225–226, 231–232, 242; and history, 18; hybrid, 3, 126, 164, 172; limits of, 35, 117n13, 128; material, 3–4, 5, 6, 10–11, 104, 218, 231, 246, 256–257; multiplicity of, 4, 10, 218, 221, 223; novel,

Index 107; reading of, 91, 218, 230–231, 244; or story, 256; in titles, 80, 206 fortune, 113, 130–132 fossil, 10, 11, 240–260; symbolism of, 246, 249, 251, 259–260 Foucault, Michel, 18, 196 Fracastoro, Girolamo, 8–9, 99–114, 117n13, 120n52, 120n59, 122n80 François I (Francis I), 60, 171, 172, 195, 202, 219, 220, 221, 222, 231 Francomano, Emily C., 218, 222, 230 Freedman, Richard, 217n53 French, Roger, 110 French exceptionalism, 197 French identity, 1, 11, 59–60, 64, 78–79, 81, 100, 153, 207 French language: cele­bration of, 155, 165; choice of, 153; and En­glish, 1, 3, 91; evolu­ tion of, 4, 6, 94n29, 116n9; experimenta­ tion with, 134, 158–159, 165; illustration of, 152, 174; oral tradition of, 157; as transla­ tion, 94n23, 158, 202 Freud, Sigmund, 192n45 Fumaroli, Marc, 25 function of storytelling: cautionary, 35, 45, 48; didactic, 82, 162, 200; as entertainment, 159, 162, 181; experimental, 164; and form, 13n10; genealogic, 229, 234; generative, 183–184; informative, 126; linguistic, 157; in literary circle, 49; to mislead, 144; multiple, 5, 12, 81, 103, 196, 222, 242; to persuade, 37–38, 112; propagandist, 205, 212; and reported speech, 44; re­sis­tance to, 11, 40; satirical, 205–206 funerary monument, 221 gambling, 82, 86–90 Gauvin, Brigitte, 121n64, 122n73, 122n80 gender, 12, 33–34, 90, 155, 166n15, 221 genealogy, 227, 229, 249 Genette, Gérard, 20, 29 Geneva Council, 159, 161, 164, 167n33, 168n42, 168n49 genre, 2, 7, 10, 17, 22, 25, 33, 118n22, 134, 163, 218, 230; conventions of, 3, 8, 19–20, 127; hybrid, 19, 26, 28, 81, 126, 139, 164 geographic setting: across borders, 2, 34, 77–78, 80–81, 114; in Caen, 252–254,

275

256–258; distant, 79, 139; in France, 5; in Geneva, 153; in Germany, 197; in history, 18; in La Rochelle, 209–210; in Naples, 80–81; in Paris, 207–208; in Spain, 197. See also Italy; New World geology, 252, 257, 259–260 Ginzburg, Carlo, 2, 57, 60 Glidden, Hope, 168n47 globalization, 2, 79 gossip, 135, 174–175, 233 Goudimel, Claude, 202 Goulart, Simon, 203 Graves Monroe, Amy, 6–7, 12, 217n53 Greenblatt, Stephen, 139 Grynaeus, Simon, 22–23 guaiac wood, 102, 107–109, 120n59, 121n63 Guise, Henri de, 71n18 hagiography, 20 Haldebois, Marguerite, 84 “Harri bourriquet,” 204–206 Henri II, 28, 64–65, 203, 220, 222 Henri III, 161, 175, 195, 200, 227, 233 Henri IV, 60, 234 Henry VIII, 125, 127, 135, 138, 142, 144, 145, 146, 219 Heptaméron, L’: characters in, 173, 190n12; comic tales in, 191n26; editions of, 191n27; and exemplarity, 49; as model, 10, 60, 71n22, 155, 175, 188; and naming, 18; and narrative-­discursive balance, 42, 185; and narrative frame, 34; Novella 43 of, 181–184; and rape, 173–175; and reader, 170–173, 175, 177–179, 186; style of, 190n10; transformation of, 181, 183–184, 187–189; and truth, 32, 74 Hercules, 222 Herdman, Jessica, 207 Herodotus, 9, 22, 152–154, 156–158, 160–166, 166n4, 168n44 Hispaniola, 110, 112, 115–116n6, 121n70 histoire: as confession, 142; and exemplum, 27–29; and history, 17–18, 19–20, 75, 154, 221; idioms with, 13n5; impartiality of, 25; juxtaposition of, 161; meanings of, 4; subjectivity of, 23; and truth, 32, 80 Histoire d’Arthémise, L’, 221

276 Index histoire tragique, 19, 28 historier, 6, 184, 232 historiography, 3, 12, 17 history: of Anne Boleyn, 125–147; comparative, 2–4, 152, 156, 160–161; and destiny, 147; and fiction, 154, 221; geological, 256–257; of Hispaniola, 110; ­human, 240, 256–257; as inquiry, 152; and memoirs, 24–27; mor­ alizing of, 8–9, 165; narration of, 6–7, 17–21; natu­ral, 240, 242; in painting, 225; of Re­nais­sance, 263–264n49; specificity of, 10–11; of syphilis, 100; in tapestries, 220; truth of, 21–26, 152; versions of, 149n23. See also ­under fiction, historical Holbein, Hans, 255, 255 Holmes, Olivia, 196 Homer, 122n77, 243 homo viator, 110 honor, 27, 78–79, 136, 178–179, 181, 183, 201 Hope, A. D., 191n26 Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus), 159, 160 Houel, Nicolas, 221–222 Huguenots. See Protestants hyperbole, 89 “Il estoit une fillette” ( Janequin), 200–202 illusion, 11, 110, 229, 230, 232 illustration, 184, 221, 223, 224, 225 imagetext, 222 impartiality, 7, 23–26, 58, 70n9 index, 86, 155, 163, 165, 166n12 in media res, 36 intertext, 86–87, 91 inventories, 219 Italy, 34, 78, 100, 102, 104, 109, 197 Jamyn, Amadis, 206 Janequin, Clément, 200 Jeay, Madeleine, 42, 156, 161 jocoseria, 101. See also serio ludere Johns, Adrian, 22 Jove, Michel, 207 Judith (biblical character), 254 justice, 75, 88–89, 149n26; attitudes ­toward, 90, 143–144; through narrative, 21, 25

justification: of adultery, 187; of Catholic vio­lence, 207; of events, 7; of expertise, 3; of poetry, 102; of self, 25, 28, 59; of story­ telling, 11, 21, 24, 76, 164 Kociszewska, Ewa, 234 Kuperty Tsur, Nadine, 26 Lafayette, Madame de (Marie-­Madeleine Pioche de la Vergne), 27–29, 43 LaGuardia, David P., 7 Lalanne, Ludovic, 171 La Mothe-­Fénélon, Bertrand de Salignac de, 61 La Popelinière, Lancelot Voisin de, 20, 21, 22–24, 26 La Rochelle, France, 58, 61, 70nn5–6, 206, 208–209 Latour, Bruno, 259 L’Aubespine, Claude de, 63, 64–65, 73n41 laughter: and plea­sure, 162, 189; as re­sis­tance, 41, 165; at the unexpected, 177–178, 180, 188; and vio­lence, 163, 209–210 Le Cadet, Nicolas, 160–161 legitimization, 12, 157 Leitch, Thomas, 156 Leo X, pope (Giovanni di Lorenzo de’ Medici), 231 Le Roux de Lincy, Antoine, 94n23 L’Estoile, Pierre de, 20, 27, 78, 92n8 letter: addressees of, 58–59, 62, 203; dedicatory, 175–177, 211; descriptive, 203; diplo­ matic, 62, 64–65, 126–127; explanatory, 24, 57–59; fictional, 35, 46–47, 65–68; as proof, 46–47, 67–68, 134–135, 173–174; purloined, 60–68 Lever, Maurice, 76 lexicon, 1, 3, 5, 6, 32, 164, 196 lies, 4, 22, 23, 41, 46, 128, 145, 152 lignum vitae resin. See guaiac wood limestone, 257–259 Lindsay, Norman, 191n26 Livy (Titus Livius), 21, 22, 25 Locus amoenus, 35 Log­os, 160

Index love: betrayal of, 54n69; Christian, 199–202; comic, 176–178; courtly, 43; dishonest, 54n67, 136, 143, 149n25; game of, 37; hesi­ tating, 245; jealous, 53n64, 249; letter, 46; models of, 187; narration of, 34, 36–38, 44; sensual, 181, 183, 185; and syphilis, 116n9; unrequited, 243; victims of, 48; virtuous, 178–179; warnings about, 45. See also Eros Loysen, Kathleen, 7 Lucian, 22 Lucretia, 45, 47–48 Luther, Martin, 116n8, 196, 200, 213–214n16 lyr­ics, 196, 200, 202, 211 Machiavelli, Niccolò, 22 magnificences, 226–227, 235 mal mariée, 35, 43 Marguerite de France (Duchess de Savoie), 73n45, 172, 187 Marguerite de Navarre. See Navarre, Mar­ guerite de Marguerite de Valois, 25, 28, 60, 234 Maria de’ Medici (Marie de Médicis), 223, 235 Marot, Clément, 73n40, 133, 197, 200, 202–203 martyrology, 20, 82 marvelous, the, 80, 82–83, 101, 106, 108, 153, 161–162 masculinity, 34, 90 Mathieu-­Castellani, Gisèle, 42 Medea, 40, 47–48 Medici, Catherine de’. See Catherine de’ Medici Medici, Ferdinando de’ (Grande Duke of Tuscany), 234–235 medieval lit­er­a­ture, 43, 127–128, 131, 134, 232, 241 mediocritas, 24 medium, of storytelling: aesthetics of, 133, 229; as connection, 230, 237n19, 249; for conveying news, 126, 127–129, 132; for diplomacy, 126–127, 226; interaction with, 229, 231, 251; multiple, 3, 235; prestige of, 218, 232, 242, 251–252; recording, 249, 251–252

277

memoirs, 3, 6, 19–21, 24–29, 41, 58, 174–175, 203 memory, 103, 128, 185, 197, 200, 203, 227, 246, 248 mercury, as cure for syphilis, 102, 105–106, 109, 120n52, 120n59, 121n63 Meretoja, Hannah, 12 metamorphosis, 246, 249 meta­phor, 22, 24, 117n15, 122n73, 179, 200, 224, 243 mimesis, 7, 18, 29 Mitchell, W. J. T., 222 Montaigne, Michel de, 247, 250 Montluc, Blaise de, 61 morality: absence of, 79; as certainty, 33; as code, 37, 80–81, 161, 179, 181, 188; as com­ mentary, 128, 130–132, 160–161, 183, 185, 188; in context, 91; in exemplum, 28, 133, 147; as function, 32, 81, 83–84, 161, 179; significance of, 44. See also ethics murder, 75, 80, 82, 92, 122n73, 177, 207, 210–211 ­music, 10, 195–212, 213–214n16, 217n53, 225, 235 mystery plays, 232 my­thol­ogy, 3, 9, 48, 106, 220, 237n14, 243–252. See also Apollo; Callirhoe; Dido; Eros; Syphilis; Urania; Venus naming, 3, 18, 60, 154, 252 narratee, 6, 8, 36, 37, 38 narrative: bias of, 91; connections between, 5; critique of, 153–154; economy of, 29, 78, 219; ele­ments of, 2, 34, 42, 60, 128–129, 139, 156, 164, 224–225, 230–231, 235; embedded, 99, 110, 126; emplotment of, 18, 20; form, 4, 8, 13n10, 23, 75–76, 80, 91, 126, 134, 139, 230, 231; frame of, 29, 42, 156–157, 163, 165, 225; historical, 1–2, 4, 6, 17–29, 57, 110, 132; limits of, 27, 34, 41; manipulation of, 136, 161; model of, 2, 12, 42, 49; persuasiveness of, 23, 57, 102–103, 114; subject of, 57, 61, 79; technique of, 108, 110, 114, 152, 156; tension in, 2, 28, 49, 69, 126, 160; theme of, 68; truth of, 18–19, 21–22, 74, 139; visual, 4, 10, 218–235. See also order, narrative

278 Index narrative medicine, 9, 103, 105, 114 narrative turn, 1 narratology, 20, 156 narrator: credibility of, 49, 68, 74, 79, 106, 108, 141, 145; diegetic (internal), 28, 34–35, 36–38, 40, 43, 112, 135, 178; emotions of, 24–25, 29, 38, 76, 104, 155; frame, 27, 36, 38, 40, 41–42, 43, 53n64, 67, 108; interventions of, 38; judgment of, 26, 108, 128, 131; multi­ plicity of, 9, 35, 135, 141; as observer, 103; ­women, 28, 32–50 Nassiet, Michel, 95n30 national identity, 2, 11, 76–77, 79, 81 Navarre, Marguerite de, 34, 72n30, 74, 154–155, 160, 170–175, 178–181, 184–189, 190n10 neutrality, 7, 17, 22, 24 news, 1, 8, 27, 75, 78, 80–81, 83, 126–128, 130 New World, 100, 102, 110–112, 114, 124n95 noble culture. See social class Nodier, Charles, 190n10 nomenclature. See naming nonhuman: agency, 240–242, 246; animal, 61–63, 65–68, 72n30, 75, 103, 111, 113, 246; distinction with ­human, 188, 240, 242, 246, 251; symbolism of, 68, 72n30, 105, 122n73, 184, 210, 211, 216, 246. See also fossil; stone novel, historical, 19, 27–29, 125, 139 novellas: adaptations of, 149n24, 170–189; history and fiction in, 19, 28; interpretation of, 159–165; as model, 33–34, 154–157; and truth, 32–41, 60 objectivity. See neutrality observation, 23, 27, 102–104, 108, 113, 230–231 Old Testament, 255 orality: and exchange, 34, 42; and history, 20, 28; limitations of, 6, 159; sensory dimension of, 212; tradition of, 3, 152–154, 157; and writing, 4, 7, 81, 86, 195; as writing, 34, 35–36, 41–42, 43, 49 order, narrative, 5, 11, 107, 150n28, 230 orthodoxy, 41, 162 Ovid, 220, 241, 243, 262 painting, 3, 4, 225, 229, 230, 233 palimpsest, 5, 196–197, 200, 211

pamphlets, 71n20, 74, 76, 79, 80–84, 91, 195, 207 Panofsky, Erwin, 256 paradox, 8, 9, 42, 49, 83, 101, 160 paratext, 153; address to reader, 153, 159; Avertissement, 155, 159–165; chapter divisions, 176, 178; index, 163, 166n12; preface, 24, 35, 43–45, 80–81, 133, 159, 162, 200. See also dedication; title page partisanship, 57, 58, 66, 74, 91, 157, 195–197, 203, 207 Partridge, Loren, 229–231 Pasquier, Etienne, 20, 22 Pasquier, Jean, 200 pathos, 21 patron, 219–223, 226–227, 235 perception: of readers, 178, 241; by society, 5, 79, 91, 110, 181; visual, 217n53, 229–230, 232 per­for­mance, 4, 79, 90, 92, 145, 220, 226, 231–232 permeability, 231–232 peroration, 207 perspective: alternate, 12, 110, 114, 161, 189; balancing of, 7; diversity of, 108; historical, 31n27; masculine, 186; narrative, 3; neces­ sary, 25–26; premodern, 242; religious, 114; system of, 229–230 philosophy, 23, 33, 49, 102, 128, 164 Pius IV, pope, 63 Pizan, Christine de, 37 Plato, 1 play, 19, 41, 49, 84–87, 89–90, 158–160, 175 plea­sure: double, 185–186, 188–189; honest, 85; Horatian, 5, 153, 159–160, 162–165; of ­others, 156; poetic, 101–102, 133, 242; sensual, 105, 179, 181–183, 185, 200; vain, 130–131; visual, 111; voy­eur­is­tic, 184, 186 Pliny (Gaius Plinius Secundus), 243, 249, 251–252 plot, 5, 17, 18, 20, 230 poetry: and diplomacy, 126–147; and history, 22; and knowledge, 242; and limitations, 117n13; and medicine, 101–102, 107, 108, 114; Pléiade, 2; and rhyme, 134; and rhythm, 199; spiritual, 213n16; and tapestries, 222, 225 Polachek, Dora E., 8, 10

Index Polybius, 21, 25 polyphony, 7, 34, 41, 156, 157, 159 Pontano, Giovanni, 101 portraits: of ­family, 220, 226, 227, 229, 230, 231–232; full-­length, 226, 231, 235; literary, 172; space of, 232 preaching, 3, 85, 93n15 pride, 112 Primaticcio, Francesco, 219 Princesse de Clèves, La, 27–29, 43 printing press, 76, 81, 91, 94n23, 153, 168n44 proliferation, 5–6, 10–11, 26, 158, 160, 173 propaganda, 3, 10, 91, 153, 205 Propp, Vladimir, 75 Protestants (Huguenots): beliefs of, 83; de­ monizing of, 206–212, 216n49; destruc­ tion by, 258; and French Crown, 58–60, 63–65, 71nn20–21; and historical per­ spective, 23–24; and printing press, 91, 168n49; reconciliation with, 226; and song, 195–197, 202–204, 211. See also religious identity proverb, 87, 150n29, 180–181, 191n35, 218 punishment: divine, 103, 105, 110–113, 122n77, 251; by love, 35, 40–41, 179; for printing, 168n49; for rape, 174; and revenge, 181–182; for social order, 81, 88–90; for treason, 138, 149n26 Querelle des femmes, 33 Rabelais, François, 30n15, 52n43, 155, 160, 166n12, 167n29 Racaut, Luc, 210, 216n43 rape, 173–175, 233 Ravot, Claude, 163–165, 166n12, 168n49, 169n57 reader: active, 38, 52n43, 160, 161, 163–165, 168n42, 186; con­temporary, 2, 11, 240; expectations of, 7–8, 26, 60, 156, 159, 161–162, 178, 242–243; guided, 5–6, 37–38, 44–45, 87, 102–103, 111–112; identity of, 43, 58–59, 70n10, 153, 158, 161–163, 168n47, 210; named, 10, 77, 81, 163–164; reception, 49, 64, 80, 82–83, 104, 132–133, 160–164, 180; resistant, 6–7, 40, 48, 153–154, 164–165; significance of, 17

279

reading practices, 10, 22, 82 real­ity: of Anthropocene, 240; and commonplaces, 87; effect of, 18, 19; establishment of, 7–8; and fiction, 28, 49, 173–174; and history, 22; justification of, 44; materiality of, 257; moral dimension of, 83; multiple versions of, 185; purchase of, 76; repre­sen­ ta­tion of, 128; shared notion of, 78–81, 88–92; telling of, 74; vio­lence of, 95n30 récit, 3–4, 6, 17–19, 20, 68, 142. See also nar­ rative; stories réciter, 48, 140, 154, 203 reconciliation, 226 redemption, 114 referentiality, 18–20, 85, 223 Reformation, 82, 93n15, 195 refrain, 199, 204–206, 224 regent, 60, 63, 221, 234, 235 religious identity, 5, 7, 12, 21, 58, 195, 203, 211. See also Catholicism, Catholics; Protestants Renne, Marbode de, 241–242 represented speech, 7, 33–34, 36, 38, 41, 42, 44, 46, 138 rhe­toric, 20, 33, 36, 64, 81, 83–84, 93n15, 127, 211 Ricoeur, Paul, 17 Rigaud, Benoist, 207 romance, 43 Romano, Giuliano, 219 Ronsard, Pierre de, 21–22, 134, 149n22, 200, 206, 207, 226, 245 Rothstein, Marian, 7 Roussin, Philippe, 1, 13n10 Ruble, Alphonse de, baron, 58, 68 Sachs, Hans, 197 Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, 60, 85, 207, 209, 210 Salic Law, 235 salle, 219. See also tapestry Sallust (Caius Sallustius Crispus), 21 Salminen, Renja, 174 Salmon, Christian, 57 salon vert, 241 salvation, 10, 105–106, 113–114, 187 satire, 204–205, 208, 209

280 Index scaffold speeches, 143–144 scale, 91, 219, 221, 226, 230, 240, 256 scan (viewing technique), 230 scandal, 159, 167n33 Schmaus, Leonard, 107 Sebund, Raymond, 250 Seguin, Jean-­Pierre, 74, 76 sensory experiences, 11–12, 42, 79, 104–105, 111, 176, 183–185, 212, 217n53, 248 sequence. See order, narrative serio ludere, 160. See also jocoseria Sermisy, Claudin de, 196–198, 198, 204 Shakespeare, William, 125, 197 signs: ambiguous, 146; distinguishing, 104, 203; divine, 105, 106, 113, 146; inappropriate, 135, 136, 146; literary, 128, 139; misread, 126, 146–147; subjective, 105 skepticism, 8, 162 social class: and authority, 21, 77–79, 84–85; and books, 58; and correspondence, 62; and humor, 177; and interpretation, 87–88, 90; in love, 43, 143, 150n31, 179 solidarity, 202, 204 space: conceptual, 79, 137, 139; controlled, 44; domestic, 218–219, 233; historical, 22; of ­leisure, 160; permeability of, 220, 231; por­ trait, 232; private, 181; urban, 79, 90; of viewer, 230, 232 spectators, 144, 230–232 speech: absence of, 37; authority of, 84; for­ bidden, 145; ­imagined, 33; reliability of, 46; represented, 7, 33–34, 36, 38, 41, 42, 44, 46, 138; at scaffold, 143–144; as source of plea­sure, 176, 183–185; subversive, 46, 137, 146; of ­women, 33 Starn, Randolph, 229–231 stone, 240–260 stories, 1–12; collections of, 33–34, 154–157, 159–160, 162, 164–165, 173–175, 252; defi­ nition of, 57, 154, 243, 246; embedded, 60–61; ending of, 67, 132–133; environment of, 231–233; generation of, 39–41, 130, 146, 171, 181, 183–184, 212; personal, 129–130; reading of, 126, 131, 133–134, 136, 163–164, 244; scale of, 230, 240; transmission of, 33–50, 79, 101, 107, 135, 140, 153, 234; truth of, 22, 68–69, 74–75, 90–92, 106–107, 125,

127–128, 138–139, 144–145, 162–163; untold, 143–144, 240–241, 256. See also histoire; narrative; récit Story of the Death of Anne Boleyn, Queen of ­England, The (Carle), 9, 125, 147 storyteller, 1, 4, 5–9, 11–12, 18, 21–22, 26–27, 67; affective rapport with, 29, 38; in group, 34–35, 40, 49, 141, 153; historical, 28; iden­ tity of, 26, 46, 173; internal, 35–36, 135, 140, 178; position of, 24–25, 27; trustworthiness of, 79, 141, 145, 152; ­women, 33. See also narrator style, 26, 84, 93n15, 153, 159–160, 172, 190n10, 222 subjectivity, 9, 26, 87, 105, 128, 165 symbolism: in fiction, 18; of Hercules, 222; or materiality, 256; religious, 109–110, 113, 123nn88–89, 244, 251; sexual, 119n45; in tapestries, 227, 230, 234, 235; violent, 210 Syphilis (character), 100, 107, 111–114, 116n8, 119n48 syphilis (disease), 99–114, 116n9 Syphilis sive morbus gallicus (Fracastoro), 9, 99–114 system, of storytelling, 3, 79, 225 Szabari, Antonia, 211 taboo, 177 “Tant que vivray en aage florissant,” 197–200 tapestry, 4, 11, 218–235, 237n19 taxonomy, 26, 259 Taylor, Larissa, 93n15 temporal framework, 1, 9, 18, 28, 130, 185, 195, 256 Tessonnière, Guillaume de la, 77–81, 84 testament, 168n44, 208–209, 219 testimony, 9, 21, 25–26, 28, 32, 128, 135, 141 texture, 199, 229 theatricality, 6, 139, 145, 230–232, 236n12, 239n53 therapeutic effect, 22 Thompson, Emily, 5, 8–9, 60, 71n22 Thucydides, 21 timelessness. See atemporality timeline. See chronology title: descriptive, 80, 183, 196; provocative, 125, 164–165, 176–178; significance of, 45–46, 57, 58, 100–101, 206, 242

Index title page, 21, 35, 43–44, 161–162. See also paratext Tournon, Blanche de, 171 Traité préparatif à l’Apologie pour Hérodote (Estienne), 9, 152–165, 166n12, 168n42 transaction, 7, 49, 156 transformation: of Amethyst, 244–246, 249; of context, 12, 179, 196–197, 202, 212; cul­ tural, 2–3, 76; into narrative, 6, 35, 165; of Opal, 249, 251 translation: challenging, 3–4, 75, 152; con­ troversial, 73n40, 202; of media, 237n19; multiple, 86, 94n23, 115n3, 152, 254–255; quality of, 158, 191n35 travel, 61, 73n46, 78–81, 108, 110, 195, 219 treason, 125, 140–141, 145, 149n26 troubadours, 196 trouvères, 196 truth: certainty of, 174; Christian, 83, 85, 88, 101, 152, 160; definitions of, 32, 143; and fiction, 5, 8, 18–20, 127–128, 134, 139, 144–147; questioning of, 22, 48, 50, 74, 145–146, 162; scientific, 103, 107; social, 7, 33, 78, 80, 91, 163; subjective, 20, 22, 25, 28, 36, 38, 40, 49, 107; telling of, 26, 28, 33, 41–42, 49–50, 135; uncovered, 21, 66–67; universal, 7, 33, 34, 92; written, 46–48, 82 universality, 1, 23, 27, 33, 34, 40, 50n4, 114, 133 Urania, 102, 108, 109, 121n64; in Urania, 117n17 Urfé, Honoré d’, 43 Usher, Phillip John, 10–11, 230 Van Dyke, Paul, 71n21 van Orden, Kate, 200 variation, 32, 205, 174

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Vaucheret, Étienne, 183 ventriloquism, 110, 124n97 Venus, 35, 37, 40, 105 verisimilitude, 7–8, 19–20, 29, 34, 66, 74, 139, 162 vraisemblance. See verisimilitude Vie des dames galantes (Brantôme), 10, 170, 175–181, 183–189 Vignes, Jean, 210, 216n49 vio­lence, 81, 90–91, 95n30, 163, 174, 210–212, 216n43 Virgil, 122n77 Virgin Mary, 121n64, 167n33, 201–202 virtue, 43, 87, 178, 187, 251 Vivonne, Anne de, 171, 173, 174, 190n12 von Hutten, Ulrich, 107 von Medelburg, Paul, 116n8 voyeurism, 184 Wars of Religion, 10, 85, 91, 195–212, 216n43, 217n53, 259 Weigert, Laura, 219, 232 Werth, Tiffany, 241 White, Hayden, 1, 17 ­wills. See testament ­will to believe, 8, 44, 106. See also credulity Winn, Colette, 5, 8–9 Wolsey, Thomas, 219 ­women authors, 32–50 Xenophon, 221 Yandell, Cathy, 10 Yates, Frances, 227, 234 Zalasiewicz, Jan, 240