‘Alas, Dame Fortune, I am caught upon your wheel. You have trapped me unawares, and there is no escape. There is no conclusion for me but death or dishonour. I must choose one or the other. The truth is that I would rather forfeit my life than my honour. Death would be preferable to the loss of virtue and the loss of name. I would be quiet and sinless in the grave. Have not many noble wives, and young maidens, killed themselves rather than sacrifice their bodies? I know many examples.
‘When the thirty cursed tyrants of Athens slew Phidon at a feast, they ordered his daughters to be stripped naked and brought before them. They were forced to dance and perform like prostitutes, slipping in their father’s blood, so that the foul lust of the tyrants could be satisfied. God curse the wicked men! The poor maidens were filled with shame and horror and, rather than lose their virginity, they broke away and rushed to a well in a nearby courtyard. They plunged in, and drowned themselves.
‘Then the old books report the tale of the fifty Spartan virgins, captured by the people of Messene so that they might violate them. Of course the maidens all willingly chose to die rather than to assent. They would rather suffer death than dishonour. Why should I not join their company? The tyrant Aristoclides desired a young virgin, Stymphalides, and ordered her father to be killed one night; the maiden went at once to the temple of Diana, where she clung to the statue of the goddess and refused to move. No one could release her grip from the sacred image, and so she was killed on the spot. If these young girls died gladly for the sake of their chastity, why should not a wife follow their example? Why should I not defend myself from the foul desires of a man? Can I not learn from the example of the wife of Hasdrubal, who killed herself within the walls of Carthage? When she realized that the Roman enemy were about to take the city, she took her children and walked willingly into the fire. She would rather be burned alive than ravished by Roman soldiers. Did not Lucrece kill herself after she was raped by Tarquin? She could not endure the loss of her good name. That was too great a shame for her. The seven virgins of Miletus sought self-slaughter rather than submit to the men of Galatia. I could repeat more than a thousand stories of this kind. Let me see. When Abradates was killed his beloved wife cut her wrists, letting her blood mingle with the blood and wounds of her husband; as she did so she called out, “I have made sure, at least, that my body will not be defiled.”
‘But why should I provide more examples, when it is obvious to me that many women decided to kill themselves rather than risk dishonour and degradation? There is only one conclusion. I will die like them. I will be true to my husband, Arveragus. I will embrace my fate with the courage of the daughter of Demotion. Do you remember her, Dame Fortune? And then there were the two daughters of Cedasus. That was another sad story. The Theban virgin killed herself when under threat from Nicanor. Oh yes, and another Theban maiden did the same thing. She was raped by a Macedonian soldier, and took her own life to redeem her virginity. It was not too high a price. What shall I say about the wife of Niceratus, who slit her wrists for the same reason? The lover of Alcibiades chose to endure death rather than to leave his body unburied. And what a wife was Alcestis! She agreed to die in order to save her husband’s life. What does Homer say of Penelope, too? She was known throughout Greece for her chastity. I could go on and on.
‘When Protheselaus was slain at Troy, his wife could not endure another day. Noble Portia could not live after the death of Brutus. She had given him her heart, and now she offered him her life. Artemisia, famous for her faithfulness, was honoured throughout the lands of Barbary. Oh Teuta, queen of Ilyrica, your married chastity is an example to all wives. I could say the same thing of Billia, Rhodogune and Valeria.’
So Dorigen wept and lamented for a day or so, with the fixed intention of killing herself at the end. But then, on the third night, her husband came home unexpectedly. Of course he asked her why she was crying, at which point she cried all the more. ‘Alas,’ she replied, ‘I wish that I had never been born! I have made a promise. I have sworn an oath.’ Then she told him the whole story.
There is no need for me to repeat it here. He listened to her with good grace, and answered cheerfully. ‘Is that all?’ he asked her. ‘Is there no more to tell me, Dorigen?’
‘No. That’s it. Isn’t it enough?’
‘Well, wife, you must know the old saying: “Let sleeping dogs lie.” All may yet turn out well. Of course you must keep your promise to Aurelius. That goes without saying. So great is my love for you that I would rather die than allow you to break your word. Honour is the highest good of humankind.’ But then he began openly to weep. ‘Upon pain of death, Dorigen, I forbid you ever to mention one word of this to anyone. I will cope with my grief as well as I can. Don’t show your feelings, either, to the world. A sad face will provoke comment and rumour.’ Then he called for a squire and a servant-girl. ‘Accompany your mistress,’ he told them. ‘You will soon find out where to go.’ So they took their leave, and attended Dorigen. They did not know where they were going, and Arveragus himself said not a word about his intentions.
No doubt many of you would consider him to be a simpleton for placing his wife in such a compromising situation. But listen to the story before you come to any conclusion. She may have more luck than you imagine. Wait until the end.
It so happened that Aurelius, head over heels in love with Dorigen, happened to meet her in the busiest street of the town. She had to go that way in order to make her rendezvous with him in the garden. He happened to be going in the same direction. He had kept watch on her, and checked on her movements whenever she left the house. Whether by accident or design, therefore, they encountered one another in the high street. He greeted her warmly, as you would expect, and asked her where she was going. She replied, in a distracted and almost mad fashion, ‘I am going to the garden. Where else? That’s what my husband has told me to do. He has ordered me to keep my word.’
Aurelius was astonished by her reply. Yet he felt pity for her guilt and obvious grief. He also felt sorry for Arveragus, who believed so strongly in the sanctity of the oath that he was unwilling to allow his wife to break it. So he felt compassion, and perhaps shame. He weighed up the matter, and decided that it was far better for him to forgo his lust than to perform a wretched deed. Principle came before pleasure. So he addressed Dorigen with a few well-chosen words. ‘Ma dame,’ he said, ‘send my greetings to your husband. Tell him from me that I recognize his graciousness towards you. I see your distress as well. I understand it. He would rather endure any shame than see your oath violated. In turn I would rather suffer any woe, however great, than come between you. I release you from your promise, ma dame. I renounce any claim I have upon you. I tear up any pledge or covenant there ever was between us. You have my word upon it. I will never take issue with you. I will never remonstrate with you, or rebuke you. And now I must say farewell to the noblest and truest wife in the world. Yet I will say this before I leave. Every wife must beware of large promises. Remember the plight of Dorigen. And I know this much. A lowly squire such as myself can be as honourable as the truest knight. Goodbye.’
She fell down on her knees, and thanked Aurelius for his generosity. Then she went back to her husband, and told him what had happened. You can be sure that he was pleased. He was so gratified that I cannot put it properly in words. What can I add, in any case? Only this. Arveragus and Dorigen spent the rest of their lives in married bliss. There was never a word of anger between them. He treated her like a queen. She was always loyal and faithful. I will say no more about them.