Zayde: A Spanish Romance (The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe)

Z AY D E

A Series Edited by Margaret L. King and Albert Rabil Jr. RECENT BOOKS IN THE SERIES M A R I A G A E TA N A A G N E S I E T A L I A

LOUISE LABÉ

The Contest for Knowledge: Debates over Women’s Learning in Eighteenth-Century Italy

Complete Poetry and Prose: A Bilingual Edition

Edited and Translated by Rebecca Messbarger and Paula Findlen

Edited with Introductions and Prose Translations by Deborah Lesko Baker, with Poetry Translations by Annie Finch MADAME DE MAINTENON

FRANCISCA DE LOS APÓSTOLES

The Inquisition of Francisca: A Sixteenth-Century Visionary on Trial Edited and Translated by Gillian T.W. Ahlgren L A U R A B AT T I F E R R A D E G L I A M M A N N AT I

Laura Battiferra and Her Literary Circle: An Anthology

Dialogues and Addresses Edited and Translated by John J. Conley, S.J. JOHANNA ELEONORA PETERSEN

The Life of Lady Johanna Eleonora Petersen, Written by Herself: Pietism and Women’s Autobiography in Seventeenth-Century Germany Edited and Translated by Barbara Becker-Cantarino

Edited and Translated by Victoria Kirkham M A D E L E I N E D E S C U D É RY GIULIA BIGOLINA

Urania: A Romance Edited and Translated by Valeria Finucci VITTORIA COLONNA

Sonnets for Michelangelo Edited and Translated by Abigail Brundin

Selected Letters, Orations, and Rhetorical Dialogues Edited and Translated by Jane Donawerth and Julie Strongson JUSTINE SIEGEMUND

The Court Midwife Edited and Translated by Lynne Tatlock MADAME DE VILLEDIEU

Epistle to Marguerite de Navarre and Preface to a Sermon by John Calvin

(Marie-Catherine Desjardins) Memoirs of the Life of Henriette-Sylvie de Molière: A Novel

Edited and Translated by Mary B. McKinley

Edited and Translated by Donna Kuizenga

MARIE DENTIÈRE

Marie-Madeleine Pioche de La Vergne, Comtesse de Lafayette

Z AY D E A Spanish Romance

Edited and Translated by Nicholas D. Paige

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS

Chicago & London

Marie-Madeleine Pioche de La Vergne, Comtesse de Lafayette, 1634–1693 Nicholas D. Paige is associate professor of French at the University of California, Berkeley, and the author of Being Interior: Autobiography and the Contradictions of Modernity in Seventeenth-Century France (2001). The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2006 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. Published 2006 Printed in the United States of America 15 14 13 12 11 10 09 08 07 06 1 2 3 4 5 ISBN: 0-226-46851-8 (cloth) ISBN: 0-226-46852-6 (paper) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data La Fayette, Madame de (Marie-Madeleine Pioche de La Vergne), 1634–1693. [Zayde. English] Zayde : a Spanish romance / Marie-Madeleine Pioche de La Vergne, Comtesse de Lafayette ; edited and translated by Nicholas D. Paige. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-226-46851-8 (cloth : alk. paper) —ISBN 0-226-46852-6 (pbk.: alk. paper) I. Paige, Nicholas D. II. Title. PQ1805.L5A7813 2006 843'.4—dc22 2006012415

⬁ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences— Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments vii Series Editors’ Introduction ix Volume Editor’s Introduction 1 Volume Editor’s Bibliography 23 Note on Translation 29

Zayde Part 1 35 Part 2 114

Series Editors’ Bibliography 195

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

K

arl Britto, Juliette Cherbuliez, Rebecca Curry, Lynn Festa, Paula Paige, and Pierre Zoberman read all or part of the present translation and have saved me from repeated errors and infelicities. (Those that remain are all of my own manufacture.) Terence Cave, Joan DeJean, and Janine Kreiter offered me their expertise at moments of perplexity. Research assistants Chloe Mead and Gia Wong jump-started the project at an early stage with their work on romance and on Zayde’s 1678 English translation. Órlaith Creedon checked the entire book against the original edition, while expert editorial help was provided by Susan Tarcov. A grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities supported the timely completion of the project. And Becky made it all worth doing in the first place. My sincere thanks to everyone involved for their time and effort and encouragement. Nicholas D. Paige

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THE OTHER VOICE IN E A R LY M O D E R N E U R O P E : INTRODUCTION TO THE SERIES M a r g a r e t L . K i n g a n d A l b e r t R a b i l J r.

THE OLD VOICE AND THE OTHER VOICE

I

n western Europe and the United States, women are nearing equality in the professions, in business, and in politics. Most enjoy access to education, reproductive rights, and autonomy in financial affairs. Issues vital to women are on the public agenda: equal pay, child care, domestic abuse, breast cancer research, and curricular revision with an eye to the inclusion of women. These recent achievements have their origins in things women (and some male supporters) said for the first time about six hundred years ago. Theirs is the “other voice,” in contradistinction to the “first voice,” the voice of the educated men who created Western culture. Coincident with a general reshaping of European culture in the period 1300–1700 (called the Renaissance or early modern period), questions of female equality and opportunity were raised that still resound and are still unresolved. The other voice emerged against the backdrop of a three-thousandyear history of the derogation of women rooted in the civilizations related to Western culture: Hebrew, Greek, Roman, and Christian. Negative attitudes toward women inherited from these traditions pervaded the intellectual, medical, legal, religious, and social systems that developed during the European Middle Ages. The following pages describe the traditional, overwhelmingly male views of women’s nature inherited by early modern Europeans and the new tradition that the “other voice” called into being to begin to challenge reigning assumptions. This review should serve as a framework for understanding the texts published in the series the Other Voice in Early Modern Europe. Introductions specific to each text and author follow this essay in all the volumes of the series.

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Series Editors’ Introduction TRADITIONAL VIEWS OF WOMEN, 500 B.C.E.–1500 C.E.

Embedded in the philosophical and medical theories of the ancient Greeks were perceptions of the female as inferior to the male in both mind and body. Similarly, the structure of civil legislation inherited from the ancient Romans was biased against women, and the views on women developed by Christian thinkers out of the Hebrew Bible and the Christian New Testament were negative and disabling. Literary works composed in the vernacular of ordinary people, and widely recited or read, conveyed these negative assumptions. The social networks within which most women lived—those of the family and the institutions of the Roman Catholic Church—were shaped by this negative tradition and sharply limited the areas in which women might act in and upon the world. G R E E K P H I L O S O P H Y A N D F E M A L E N AT U R E . Greek biology assumed that women were inferior to men and defined them as merely childbearers and housekeepers. This view was authoritatively expressed in the works of the philosopher Aristotle. Aristotle thought in dualities. He considered action superior to inaction, form (the inner design or structure of any object) superior to matter, completion to incompletion, possession to deprivation. In each of these dualities, he associated the male principle with the superior quality and the female with the inferior. “The male principle in nature,” he argued, “is associated with active, formative and perfected characteristics, while the female is passive, material and deprived, desiring the male in order to become complete.”1 Men are always identified with virile qualities, such as judgment, courage, and stamina, and women with their opposites—irrationality, cowardice, and weakness. The masculine principle was considered superior even in the womb. The man’s semen, Aristotle believed, created the form of a new human creature, while the female body contributed only matter. (The existence of the ovum, and with it the other facts of human embryology, was not established until the seventeenth century.) Although the later Greek physician Galen believed there was a female component in generation, contributed by “female semen,” the followers of both Aristotle and Galen saw the male role in human generation as more active and more important.

1. Aristotle, Physics 1.9.192a20–24, in The Complete Works of Aristotle, ed. Jonathan Barnes, rev. Oxford trans., 2 vols. (Princeton, 1984), 1:328.

Series Editors’ Introduction In the Aristotelian view, the male principle sought always to reproduce itself. The creation of a female was always a mistake, therefore, resulting from an imperfect act of generation. Every female born was considered a “defective” or “mutilated” male (as Aristotle’s terminology has variously been translated), a “monstrosity” of nature.2 For Greek theorists, the biology of males and females was the key to their psychology. The female was softer and more docile, more apt to be despondent, querulous, and deceitful. Being incomplete, moreover, she craved sexual fulfillment in intercourse with a male. The male was intellectual, active, and in control of his passions. These psychological polarities derived from the theory that the universe consisted of four elements (earth, fire, air, and water), expressed in human bodies as four “humors” (black bile, yellow bile, blood, and phlegm) considered, respectively, dry, hot, damp, and cold and corresponding to mental states (“melancholic,” “choleric,” “sanguine,” “phlegmatic”). In this scheme the male, sharing the principles of earth and fire, was dry and hot; the female, sharing the principles of air and water, was cold and damp. Female psychology was further affected by her dominant organ, the uterus (womb), hystera in Greek. The passions generated by the womb made women lustful, deceitful, talkative, irrational, indeed—when these affects were in excess—”hysterical.” Aristotle’s biology also had social and political consequences. If the male principle was superior and the female inferior, then in the household, as in the state, men should rule and women must be subordinate. That hierarchy did not rule out the companionship of husband and wife, whose cooperation was necessary for the welfare of children and the preservation of property. Such mutuality supported male preeminence. Aristotle’s teacher Plato suggested a different possibility: that men and women might possess the same virtues. The setting for this proposal is the imaginary and ideal Republic that Plato sketches in a dialogue of that name. Here, for a privileged elite capable of leading wisely, all distinctions of class and wealth dissolve, as, consequently, do those of gender. Without households or property, as Plato constructs his ideal society, there is no need for the subordination of women. Women may therefore be educated to the same level as men to assume leadership. Plato’s Republic remained imaginary, however. In real societies, the subordination of women remained the norm and the prescription.

2. Aristotle, Generation of Animals 2.3.737a27–28, in Complete Works, 1: 1144.

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Series Editors’ Introduction The views of women inherited from the Greek philosophical tradition became the basis for medieval thought. In the thirteenth century, the supreme Scholastic philosopher Thomas Aquinas, among others, still echoed Aristotle’s views of human reproduction, of male and female personalities, and of the preeminent male role in the social hierarchy. R O M A N L AW A N D T H E F E M A L E C O N D I T I O N . Roman law, like Greek philosophy, underlay medieval thought and shaped medieval society. The ancient belief that adult property-owning men should administer households and make decisions affecting the community at large is the very fulcrum of Roman law. About 450 B.C.E., during Rome’s republican era, the community’s customary law was recorded (legendarily) on twelve tablets erected in the city’s central forum. It was later elaborated by professional jurists whose activity increased in the imperial era, when much new legislation was passed, especially on issues affecting family and inheritance. This growing, changing body of laws was eventually codified in the Corpus of Civil Law under the direction of the emperor Justinian, generations after the empire ceased to be ruled from Rome. That Corpus, read and commented on by medieval scholars from the eleventh century on, inspired the legal systems of most of the cities and kingdoms of Europe. Laws regarding dowries, divorce, and inheritance pertain primarily to women. Since those laws aimed to maintain and preserve property, the women concerned were those from the property-owning minority. Their subordination to male family members points to the even greater subordination of lower-class and slave women, about whom the laws speak little. In the early republic, the paterfamilias, or “father of the family,” possessed patria potestas, “paternal power.” The term pater, “father,” in both these cases does not necessarily mean biological father but denotes the head of a household. The father was the person who owned the household’s property and, indeed, its human members. The paterfamilias had absolute power— including the power, rarely exercised, of life or death—over his wife, his children, and his slaves, as much as his cattle. Male children could be “emancipated,” an act that granted legal autonomy and the right to own property. Those over fourteen could be emancipated by a special grant from the father or automatically by their father’s death. But females could never be emancipated; instead, they passed from the authority of their father to that of a husband or, if widowed or orphaned while still unmarried, to a guardian or tutor.

Series Editors’ Introduction Marriage in its traditional form placed the woman under her husband’s authority, or manus. He could divorce her on grounds of adultery, drinking wine, or stealing from the household, but she could not divorce him. She could neither possess property in her own right nor bequeath any to her children upon her death. When her husband died, the household property passed not to her but to his male heirs. And when her father died, she had no claim to any family inheritance, which was directed to her brothers or more remote male relatives. The effect of these laws was to exclude women from civil society, itself based on property ownership. In the later republican and imperial periods, these rules were significantly modified. Women rarely married according to the traditional form. The practice of “free” marriage allowed a woman to remain under her father’s authority, to possess property given her by her father (most frequently the “dowry,” recoverable from the husband’s household on his death), and to inherit from her father. She could also bequeath property to her own children and divorce her husband, just as he could divorce her. Despite this greater freedom, women still suffered enormous disability under Roman law. Heirs could belong only to the father’s side, never the mother’s. Moreover, although she could bequeath her property to her children, she could not establish a line of succession in doing so. A woman was “the beginning and end of her own family,” said the jurist Ulpian. Moreover, women could play no public role. They could not hold public office, represent anyone in a legal case, or even witness a will. Women had only a private existence and no public personality. The dowry system, the guardian, women’s limited ability to transmit wealth, and total political disability are all features of Roman law adopted by the medieval communities of western Europe, although modified according to local customary laws. C H R I S T I A N D O C T R I N E A N D W O M E N ’ S P L A C E . The Hebrew Bible and the Christian New Testament authorized later writers to limit women to the realm of the family and to burden them with the guilt of original sin. The passages most fruitful for this purpose were the creation narratives in Genesis and sentences from the Epistles defining women’s role within the Christian family and community. Each of the first two chapters of Genesis contains a creation narrative. In the first “God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them” (Gn 1:27). In the second, God created Eve from Adam’s rib (2:21–23). Christian theologians relied

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Series Editors’ Introduction principally on Genesis 2 for their understanding of the relation between man and woman, interpreting the creation of Eve from Adam as proof of her subordination to him. The creation story in Genesis 2 leads to that of the temptations in Genesis 3: of Eve by the wily serpent and of Adam by Eve. As read by Christian theologians from Tertullian to Thomas Aquinas, the narrative made Eve responsible for the Fall and its consequences. She instigated the act; she deceived her husband; she suffered the greater punishment. Her disobedience made it necessary for Jesus to be incarnated and to die on the cross. From the pulpit, moralists and preachers for centuries conveyed to women the guilt that they bore for original sin. The Epistles offered advice to early Christians on building communities of the faithful. Among the matters to be regulated was the place of women. Paul offered views favorable to women in Galatians 3:28: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” Paul also referred to women as his coworkers and placed them on a par with himself and his male coworkers (Phlm 4:2–3; Rom 16:1–3; 1 Cor 16:19). Elsewhere, Paul limited women’s possibilities: “But I want you to understand that the head of every man is Christ, the head of a woman is her husband, and the head of Christ is God” (1 Cor 11:3). Biblical passages by later writers (although attributed to Paul) enjoined women to forgo jewels, expensive clothes, and elaborate coiffures; and they forbade women to “teach or have authority over men,” telling them to “learn in silence with all submissiveness” as is proper for one responsible for sin, consoling them, however, with the thought that they will be saved through childbearing (1 Tm 2:9–15). Other texts among the later Epistles defined women as the weaker sex and emphasized their subordination to their husbands (1 Pt 3:7; Col 3:18; Eph 5:22–23). These passages from the New Testament became the arsenal employed by theologians of the early church to transmit negative attitudes toward women to medieval Christian culture—above all, Tertullian (On the Apparel of Women), Jerome (Against Jovinian), and Augustine (The Literal Meaning of Genesis). T H E I M A G E O F W O M E N I N M E D I E VA L L I T E R AT U R E . The philosophical, legal, and religious traditions born in antiquity formed the basis of the medieval intellectual synthesis wrought by trained thinkers, mostly clerics, writing in Latin and based largely in universities. The vernacular literary tradition that developed alongside the learned tradition also spoke about

Series Editors’ Introduction female nature and women’s roles. Medieval stories, poems, and epics also portrayed women negatively—as lustful and deceitful—while praising good housekeepers and loyal wives as replicas of the Virgin Mary or the female saints and martyrs. There is an exception in the movement of “courtly love” that evolved in southern France from the twelfth century. Courtly love was the erotic love between a nobleman and noblewoman, the latter usually superior in social rank. It was always adulterous. From the conventions of courtly love derive modern Western notions of romantic love. The tradition has had an impact disproportionate to its size, for it affected only a tiny elite, and very few women. The exaltation of the female lover probably does not reflect a higher evaluation of women or a step toward their sexual liberation. More likely it gives expression to the social and sexual tensions besetting the knightly class at a specific historical juncture. The literary fashion of courtly love was on the wane by the thirteenth century, when the widely read Romance of the Rose was composed in French by two authors of significantly different dispositions. Guillaume de Lorris composed the initial four thousand verses about 1235, and Jean de Meun added about seventeen thousand verses—more than four times the original—about 1265. The fragment composed by Guillaume de Lorris stands squarely in the tradition of courtly love. Here the poet, in a dream, is admitted into a walled garden where he finds a magic fountain in which a rosebush is reflected. He longs to pick one rose, but the thorns prevent his doing so, even as he is wounded by arrows from the god of love, whose commands he agrees to obey. The rest of this part of the poem recounts the poet’s unsuccessful efforts to pluck the rose. The longer part of the Romance by Jean de Meun also describes a dream. But here allegorical characters give long didactic speeches, providing a social satire on a variety of themes, some pertaining to women. Love is an anxious and tormented state, the poem explains: women are greedy and manipulative, marriage is miserable, beautiful women are lustful, ugly ones cease to please, and a chaste woman is as rare as a black swan. Shortly after Jean de Meun completed The Romance of the Rose, Mathéolus penned his Lamentations, a long Latin diatribe against marriage translated into French about a century later. The Lamentations sum up medieval attitudes toward women and provoked the important response by Christine de Pizan in her Book of the City of Ladies. In 1355, Giovanni Boccaccio wrote Il Corbaccio, another antifeminist manifesto, although ironically by an author whose other works pioneered

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Series Editors’ Introduction new directions in Renaissance thought. The former husband of his lover appears to Boccaccio, condemning his unmoderated lust and detailing the defects of women. Boccaccio concedes at the end “how much men naturally surpass women in nobility” and is cured of his desires.3 The negative perceptions of women expressed in the intellectual tradition are also implicit in the actual roles that women played in European society. Assigned to subordinate positions in the household and the church, they were barred from significant participation in public life. Medieval European households, like those in antiquity and in nonWestern civilizations, were headed by males. It was the male serf (or peasant), feudal lord, town merchant, or citizen who was polled or taxed or succeeded to an inheritance or had any acknowledged public role, although his wife or widow could stand as a temporary surrogate. From about 1100, the position of property-holding males was further enhanced: inheritance was confined to the male, or agnate, line—with depressing consequences for women. A wife never fully belonged to her husband’s family, nor was she a daughter to her father’s family. She left her father’s house young to marry whomever her parents chose. Her dowry was managed by her husband, and at her death it normally passed to her children by him. A married woman’s life was occupied nearly constantly with cycles of pregnancy, childbearing, and lactation. Women bore children through all the years of their fertility, and many died in childbirth. They were also responsible for raising young children up to six or seven. In the propertied classes that responsibility was shared, since it was common for a wet nurse to take over breast-feeding and for servants to perform other chores. Women trained their daughters in the household duties appropriate to their status, nearly always tasks associated with textiles: spinning, weaving, sewing, embroidering. Their sons were sent out of the house as apprentices or students, or their training was assumed by fathers in later childhood and adolescence. On the death of her husband, a woman’s children became the responsibility of his family. She generally did not take “his” children with her to a new marriage or back to her father’s house, except sometimes in the artisan classes. Women also worked. Rural peasants performed farm chores, merchant wives often practiced their husbands’ trades, the unmarried daughters of the urban poor worked as servants or prostitutes. All wives produced or W O M E N ’ S R O L E S : T H E FA M I LY.

3. Giovanni Boccaccio, The Corbaccio, or The Labyrinth of Love, trans. and ed. Anthony K. Cassell, rev. ed. (Binghamton, N.Y., 1993), 71.

Series Editors’ Introduction embellished textiles and did the housekeeping, while wealthy ones managed servants. These labors were unpaid or poorly paid but often contributed substantially to family wealth. W O M E N ’ S R O L E S : T H E C H U R C H . Membership in a household, whether a father’s or a husband’s, meant for women a lifelong subordination to others. In western Europe, the Roman Catholic Church offered an alternative to the career of wife and mother. A woman could enter a convent, parallel in function to the monasteries for men that evolved in the early Christian centuries. In the convent, a woman pledged herself to a celibate life, lived according to strict community rules, and worshiped daily. Often the convent offered training in Latin, allowing some women to become considerable scholars and authors as well as scribes, artists, and musicians. For women who chose the conventual life, the benefits could be enormous, but for numerous others placed in convents by paternal choice, the life could be restrictive and burdensome. The conventual life declined as an alternative for women as the modern age approached. Reformed monastic institutions resisted responsibility for related female orders. The church increasingly restricted female institutional life by insisting on closer male supervision. Women often sought other options. Some joined the communities of laywomen that sprang up spontaneously in the thirteenth century in the urban zones of western Europe, especially in Flanders and Italy. Some joined the heretical movements that flourished in late medieval Christendom, whose anticlerical and often antifamily positions particularly appealed to women. In these communities, some women were acclaimed as “holy women” or “saints,” whereas others often were condemned as frauds or heretics. In all, although the options offered to women by the church were sometimes less than satisfactory, they were sometimes richly rewarding. After 1520, the convent remained an option only in Roman Catholic territories. Protestantism engendered an ideal of marriage as a heroic endeavor and appeared to place husband and wife on a more equal footing. Sermons and treatises, however, still called for female subordination and obedience.

THE OTHER VOICE, 1300–1700

When the modern era opened, European culture was so firmly structured by a framework of negative attitudes toward women that to dismantle it was a monumental labor. The process began as part of a larger cultural movement

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Series Editors’ Introduction that entailed the critical reexamination of ideas inherited from the ancient and medieval past. The humanists launched that critical reexamination. T H E H U M A N I S T F O U N D AT I O N . Originating in Italy in the fourteenth century, humanism quickly became the dominant intellectual movement in Europe. Spreading in the sixteenth century from Italy to the rest of Europe, it fueled the literary, scientific, and philosophical movements of the era and laid the basis for the eighteenth-century Enlightenment. Humanists regarded the Scholastic philosophy of medieval universities as out of touch with the realities of urban life. They found in the rhetorical discourse of classical Rome a language adapted to civic life and public speech. They learned to read, speak, and write classical Latin and, eventually, classical Greek. They founded schools to teach others to do so, establishing the pattern for elementary and secondary education for the next three hundred years. In the service of complex government bureaucracies, humanists employed their skills to write eloquent letters, deliver public orations, and formulate public policy. They developed new scripts for copying manuscripts and used the new printing press to disseminate texts, for which they created methods of critical editing. Humanism was a movement led by males who accepted the evaluation of women in ancient texts and generally shared the misogynist perceptions of their culture. (Female humanists, as we will see, did not.) Yet humanism also opened the door to a reevaluation of the nature and capacity of women. By calling authors, texts, and ideas into question, it made possible the fundamental rereading of the whole intellectual tradition that was required in order to free women from cultural prejudice and social subordination. A D I F F E R E N T C I T Y. The other voice first appeared when, after so many centuries, the accumulation of misogynist concepts evoked a response from a capable female defender: Christine de Pizan (1365–1431). Introducing her Book of the City of Ladies (1405), she described how she was affected by reading Mathéolus’s Lamentations: “Just the sight of this book . . . made me wonder how it happened that so many different men . . . are so inclined to express both in speaking and in their treatises and writings so many wicked insults about women and their behavior.”4 These statements impelled her to detest herself “and the entire feminine sex, as though we were monstrosities in nature.”5

4. Christine de Pizan, The Book of the City of Ladies, trans. Earl Jeffrey Richards, foreword by Marina Warner (New York, 1982), 1.1.1, pp. 3–4. 5. Ibid., 1.1.1–2, p. 5.

Series Editors’ Introduction The rest of The Book of the City of Ladies presents a justification of the female sex and a vision of an ideal community of women. A pioneer, she has received the message of female inferiority and rejected it. From the fourteenth to the seventeenth century, a huge body of literature accumulated that responded to the dominant tradition. The result was a literary explosion consisting of works by both men and women, in Latin and in the vernaculars: works enumerating the achievements of notable women; works rebutting the main accusations made against women; works arguing for the equal education of men and women; works defining and redefining women’s proper role in the family, at court, in public; works describing women’s lives and experiences. Recent monographs and articles have begun to hint at the great range of this movement, involving probably several thousand titles. The protofeminism of these “other voices” constitutes a significant fraction of the literary product of the early modern era. T H E C ATA L O G S . About 1365, the same Boccaccio whose Corbaccio rehearses the usual charges against female nature wrote another work, Concerning Famous Women. A humanist treatise drawing on classical texts, it praised 106 notable women: ninety-eight of them from pagan Greek and Roman antiquity, one (Eve) from the Bible, and seven from the medieval religious and cultural tradition; his book helped make all readers aware of a sex normally condemned or forgotten. Boccaccio’s outlook nevertheless was unfriendly to women, for it singled out for praise those women who possessed the traditional virtues of chastity, silence, and obedience. Women who were active in the public realm—for example, rulers and warriors— were depicted as usually being lascivious and as suffering terrible punishments for entering the masculine sphere. Women were his subject, but Boccaccio’s standard remained male. Christine de Pizan’s Book of the City of Ladies contains a second catalog, one responding specifically to Boccaccio’s. Whereas Boccaccio portrays female virtue as exceptional, she depicts it as universal. Many women in history were leaders, or remained chaste despite the lascivious approaches of men, or were visionaries and brave martyrs. The work of Boccaccio inspired a series of catalogs of illustrious women of the biblical, classical, Christian, and local pasts, among them Filippo da Bergamo’s Of Illustrious Women, Pierre de Brantôme’s Lives of Illustrious Women, Pierre Le Moyne’s Gallerie of Heroic Women, and Pietro Paolo de Ribera’s Immortal Triumphs and Heroic Enterprises of 845 Women. Whatever their embedded prejudices, these works drove home to the public the possibility of female excellence.

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Series Editors’ Introduction T H E D E B AT E . At the same time, many questions remained: Could a woman be virtuous? Could she perform noteworthy deeds? Was she even, strictly speaking, of the same human species as men? These questions were debated over four centuries, in French, German, Italian, Spanish, and English, by authors male and female, among Catholics, Protestants, and Jews, in ponderous volumes and breezy pamphlets. The whole literary genre has been called the querelle des femmes, the “woman question.” The opening volley of this battle occurred in the first years of the fifteenth century, in a literary debate sparked by Christine de Pizan. She exchanged letters critical of Jean de Meun’s contribution to The Romance of the Rose with two French royal secretaries, Jean de Montreuil and Gontier Col. When the matter became public, Jean Gerson, one of Europe’s leading theologians, supported de Pizan’s arguments against de Meun, for the moment silencing the opposition. The debate resurfaced repeatedly over the next two hundred years. The Triumph of Women (1438) by Juan Rodríguez de la Camara (or Juan Rodríguez del Padron) struck a new note by presenting arguments for the superiority of women to men. The Champion of Women (1440–42) by Martin Le Franc addresses once again the negative views of women presented in The Romance of the Rose and offers counterevidence of female virtue and achievement. A cameo of the debate on women is included in The Courtier, one of the most widely read books of the era, published by the Italian Baldassare Castiglione in 1528 and immediately translated into other European vernaculars. The Courtier depicts a series of evenings at the court of the duke of Urbino in which many men and some women of the highest social stratum amuse themselves by discussing a range of literary and social issues. The “woman question” is a pervasive theme throughout, and the third of its four books is devoted entirely to that issue. In a verbal duel, Gasparo Pallavicino and Giuliano de’ Medici present the main claims of the two traditions. Gasparo argues the innate inferiority of women and their inclination to vice. Only in bearing children do they profit the world. Giuliano counters that women share the same spiritual and mental capacities as men and may excel in wisdom and action. Men and women are of the same essence: just as no stone can be more perfectly a stone than another, so no human being can be more perfectly human than others, whether male or female. It was an astonishing assertion, boldly made to an audience as large as all Europe. T H E T R E AT I S E S . Humanism provided the materials for a positive counterconcept to the misogyny embedded in Scholastic philosophy and law

Series Editors’ Introduction and inherited from the Greek, Roman, and Christian pasts. A series of humanist treatises on marriage and family, on education and deportment, and on the nature of women helped construct these new perspectives. The works by Francesco Barbaro and Leon Battista Alberti—On Marriage (1415) and On the Family (1434–37)—far from defending female equality, reasserted women’s responsibility for rearing children and managing the housekeeping while being obedient, chaste, and silent. Nevertheless, they served the cause of reexamining the issue of women’s nature by placing domestic issues at the center of scholarly concern and reopening the pertinent classical texts. In addition, Barbaro emphasized the companionate nature of marriage and the importance of a wife’s spiritual and mental qualities for the well-being of the family. These themes reappear in later humanist works on marriage and the education of women by Juan Luis Vives and Erasmus. Both were moderately sympathetic to the condition of women without reaching beyond the usual masculine prescriptions for female behavior. An outlook more favorable to women characterizes the nearly unknown work In Praise of Women (ca. 1487) by the Italian humanist Bartolommeo Goggio. In addition to providing a catalog of illustrious women, Goggio argued that male and female are the same in essence, but that women (reworking the Adam and Eve narrative from quite a new angle) are actually superior. In the same vein, the Italian humanist Maria Equicola asserted the spiritual equality of men and women in On Women (1501). In 1525, Galeazzo Flavio Capra (or Capella) published his work On the Excellence and Dignity of Women. This humanist tradition of treatises defending the worthiness of women culminates in the work of Henricus Cornelius Agrippa On the Nobility and Preeminence of the Female Sex. No work by a male humanist more succinctly or explicitly presents the case for female dignity. While humanists grappled with the issues pertaining to women and family, other learned men turned their attention to what they perceived as a very great problem: witches. Witch-hunting manuals, explorations of the witch phenomenon, and even defenses of witches are not at first glance pertinent to the tradition of the other voice. But they do relate in this way: most accused witches were women. The hostility aroused by supposed witch activity is comparable to the hostility aroused by women. The evil deeds the victims of the hunt were charged with were exaggerations of the vices to which, many believed, all women were prone. The connection between the witch accusation and the hatred of women is explicit in the notorious witch-hunting manual The Hammer of Witches THE WITCH BOOKS.

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Series Editors’ Introduction (1486) by two Dominican inquisitors, Heinrich Krämer and Jacob Sprenger. Here the inconstancy, deceitfulness, and lustfulness traditionally associated with women are depicted in exaggerated form as the core features of witch behavior. These traits inclined women to make a bargain with the devil— sealed by sexual intercourse—by which they acquired unholy powers. Such bizarre claims, far from being rejected by rational men, were broadcast by intellectuals. The German Ulrich Molitur, the Frenchman Nicolas Rémy, and the Italian Stefano Guazzo all coolly informed the public of sinister orgies and midnight pacts with the devil. The celebrated French jurist, historian, and political philosopher Jean Bodin argued that because women were especially prone to diabolism, regular legal procedures could properly be suspended in order to try those accused of this “exceptional crime.” A few experts such as the physician Johann Weyer, a student of Agrippa’s, raised their voices in protest. In 1563, he explained the witch phenomenon thus, without discarding belief in diabolism: the devil deluded foolish old women afflicted by melancholia, causing them to believe they had magical powers. Weyer’s rational skepticism, which had good credibility in the community of the learned, worked to revise the conventional views of women and witchcraft. W O M E N ’ S W O R K S . To the many categories of works produced on the question of women’s worth must be added nearly all works written by women. A woman writing was in herself a statement of women’s claim to dignity. Only a few women wrote anything before the dawn of the modern era, for three reasons. First, they rarely received the education that would enable them to write. Second, they were not admitted to the public roles— as administrator, bureaucrat, lawyer or notary, or university professor—in which they might gain knowledge of the kinds of things the literate public thought worth writing about. Third, the culture imposed silence on women, considering speaking out a form of unchastity. Given these conditions, it is remarkable that any women wrote. Those who did before the fourteenth century were almost always nuns or religious women whose isolation made their pronouncements more acceptable. From the fourteenth century on, the volume of women’s writings rose. Women continued to write devotional literature, although not always as cloistered nuns. They also wrote diaries, often intended as keepsakes for their children; books of advice to their sons and daughters; letters to family members and friends; and family memoirs, in a few cases elaborate enough to be considered histories.

Series Editors’ Introduction A few women wrote works directly concerning the “woman question,” and some of these, such as the humanists Isotta Nogarola, Cassandra Fedele, Laura Cereta, and Olympia Morata, were highly trained. A few were professional writers, living by the income of their pens; the very first among them was Christine de Pizan, noteworthy in this context as in so many others. In addition to The Book of the City of Ladies and her critiques of The Romance of the Rose, she wrote The Treasure of the City of Ladies (a guide to social decorum for women), an advice book for her son, much courtly verse, and a full-scale history of the reign of King Charles V of France. W O M E N PAT R O N S . Women who did not themselves write but encouraged others to do so boosted the development of an alternative tradition. Highly placed women patrons supported authors, artists, musicians, poets, and learned men. Such patrons, drawn mostly from the Italian elites and the courts of northern Europe, figure disproportionately as the dedicatees of the important works of early feminism. For a start, it might be noted that the catalogs of Boccaccio and Alvaro de Luna were dedicated to the Florentine noblewoman Andrea Acciaiuoli and to Doña María, first wife of King Juan II of Castile, while the French translation of Boccaccio’s work was commissioned by Anne of Brittany, wife of King Charles VIII of France. The humanist treatises of Goggio, Equicola, Vives, and Agrippa were dedicated, respectively, to Eleonora of Aragon, wife of Ercole I d’Este, Duke of Ferrara; to Margherita Cantelma of Mantua; to Catherine of Aragon, wife of King Henry VIII of England; and to Margaret, Duchess of Austria and regent of the Netherlands. As late as 1696, Mary Astell’s Serious Proposal to the Ladies, for the Advancement of Their True and Greatest Interest was dedicated to Princess Anne of Denmark. These authors presumed that their efforts would be welcome to female patrons, or they may have written at the bidding of those patrons. Silent themselves, perhaps even unresponsive, these loftily placed women helped shape the tradition of the other voice. T H E I S S U E S . The literary forms and patterns in which the tradition of the other voice presented itself have now been sketched. It remains to highlight the major issues around which this tradition crystallizes. In brief, there are four problems to which our authors return again and again, in plays and catalogs, in verse and letters, in treatises and dialogues, in every language: the problem of chastity, the problem of power, the problem of speech, and the problem of knowledge. Of these the greatest, preconditioning the others, is the problem of chastity.

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Series Editors’ Introduction T H E P R O B L E M O F C H A S T I T Y. In traditional European culture, as in those of antiquity and others around the globe, chastity was perceived as woman’s quintessential virtue—in contrast to courage, or generosity, or leadership, or rationality, seen as virtues characteristic of men. Opponents of women charged them with insatiable lust. Women themselves and their defenders—without disputing the validity of the standard—responded that women were capable of chastity. The requirement of chastity kept women at home, silenced them, isolated them, left them in ignorance. It was the source of all other impediments. Why was it so important to the society of men, of whom chastity was not required, and who more often than not considered it their right to violate the chastity of any woman they encountered? Female chastity ensured the continuity of the male-headed household. If a man’s wife was not chaste, he could not be sure of the legitimacy of his offspring. If they were not his and they acquired his property, it was not his household, but some other man’s, that had endured. If his daughter was not chaste, she could not be transferred to another man’s household as his wife, and he was dishonored. The whole system of the integrity of the household and the transmission of property was bound up in female chastity. Such a requirement pertained only to property-owning classes, of course. Poor women could not expect to maintain their chastity, least of all if they were in contact with high-status men to whom all women but those of their own household were prey. In Catholic Europe, the requirement of chastity was further buttressed by moral and religious imperatives. Original sin was inextricably linked with the sexual act. Virginity was seen as heroic virtue, far more impressive than, say, the avoidance of idleness or greed. Monasticism, the cultural institution that dominated medieval Europe for centuries, was grounded in the renunciation of the flesh. The Catholic reform of the eleventh century imposed a similar standard on all the clergy and a heightened awareness of sexual requirements on all the laity. Although men were asked to be chaste, female unchastity was much worse: it led to the devil, as Eve had led mankind to sin. To such requirements, women and their defenders protested their innocence. Furthermore, following the example of holy women who had escaped the requirements of family and sought the religious life, some women began to conceive of female communities as alternatives both to family and to the cloister. Christine de Pizan’s city of ladies was such a community. Moderata Fonte and Mary Astell envisioned others. The luxurious

Series Editors’ Introduction salons of the French précieuses of the seventeenth century, or the comfortable English drawing rooms of the next, may have been born of the same impulse. Here women not only might escape, if briefly, the subordinate position that life in the family entailed but might also make claims to power, exercise their capacity for speech, and display their knowledge. T H E P R O B L E M O F P O W E R . Women were excluded from power: the whole cultural tradition insisted on it. Only men were citizens, only men bore arms, only men could be chiefs or lords or kings. There were exceptions that did not disprove the rule, when wives or widows or mothers took the place of men, awaiting their return or the maturation of a male heir. A woman who attempted to rule in her own right was perceived as an anomaly, a monster, at once a deformed woman and an insufficient male, sexually confused and consequently unsafe. The association of such images with women who held or sought power explains some otherwise odd features of early modern culture. Queen Elizabeth I of England, one of the few women to hold full regal authority in European history, played with such male/female images—positive ones, of course—in representing herself to her subjects. She was a prince, and manly, even though she was female. She was also (she claimed) virginal, a condition absolutely essential if she was to avoid the attacks of her opponents. Catherine de’ Medici, who ruled France as widow and regent for her sons, also adopted such imagery in defining her position. She chose as one symbol the figure of Artemisia, an androgynous ancient warrior-heroine who combined a female persona with masculine powers. Power in a woman, without such sexual imagery, seems to have been indigestible by the culture. A rare note was struck by the Englishman Sir Thomas Elyot in his Defence of Good Women (1540), justifying both women’s participation in civic life and their prowess in arms. The old tune was sung by the Scots reformer John Knox in his First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment of Women (1558); for him rule by women, defects in nature, was a hideous contradiction in terms. The confused sexuality of the imagery of female potency was not reserved for rulers. Any woman who excelled was likely to be called an Amazon, recalling the self-mutilated warrior women of antiquity who repudiated all men, gave up their sons, and raised only their daughters. She was often said to have “exceeded her sex” or to have possessed “masculine virtue”—as the very fact of conspicuous excellence conferred masculinity even on the female subject. The catalogs of notable women often showed those female heroes dressed in armor, armed to the teeth, like men. Amazonian heroines romp through the epics of the age—Ariosto’s Orlando

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Series Editors’ Introduction Furioso (1532) and Spenser’s Faerie Queene (1590–1609). Excellence in a woman was perceived as a claim for power, and power was reserved for the masculine realm. A woman who possessed either one was masculinized and lost title to her own female identity. T H E P R O B L E M O F S P E E C H . Just as power had a sexual dimension when it was claimed by women, so did speech. A good woman spoke little. Excessive speech was an indication of unchastity. By speech, women seduced men. Eve had lured Adam into sin by her speech. Accused witches were commonly accused of having spoken abusively, or irrationally, or simply too much. As enlightened a figure as Francesco Barbaro insisted on silence in a woman, which he linked to her perfect unanimity with her husband’s will and her unblemished virtue (her chastity). Another Italian humanist, Leonardo Bruni, in advising a noblewoman on her studies, barred her not from speech but from public speaking. That was reserved for men. Related to the problem of speech was that of costume—another, if silent, form of self-expression. Assigned the task of pleasing men as their primary occupation, elite women often tended toward elaborate costume, hairdressing, and the use of cosmetics. Clergy and secular moralists alike condemned these practices. The appropriate function of costume and adornment was to announce the status of a woman’s husband or father. Any further indulgence in adornment was akin to unchastity. T H E P R O B L E M O F K N O W L E D G E . When the Italian noblewoman Isotta Nogarola had begun to attain a reputation as a humanist, she was accused of incest—a telling instance of the association of learning in women with unchastity. That chilling association inclined any woman who was educated to deny that she was or to make exaggerated claims of heroic chastity. If educated women were pursued with suspicions of sexual misconduct, women seeking an education faced an even more daunting obstacle: the assumption that women were by nature incapable of learning, that reasoning was a particularly masculine ability. Just as they proclaimed their chastity, women and their defenders insisted on their capacity for learning. The major work by a male writer on female education—that by Juan Luis Vives, On the Education of a Christian Woman (1523)—granted female capacity for intellection but still argued that a woman’s whole education was to be shaped around the requirement of chastity and a future within the household. Female writers of the following generations—Marie de Gournay in France, Anna Maria van Schurman in Holland, and Mary Astell in England—began to envision other possibilities. The pioneers of female education were the Italian women humanists who managed to attain a literacy in Latin and a knowledge of classical and

Series Editors’ Introduction Christian literature equivalent to that of prominent men. Their works implicitly and explicitly raise questions about women’s social roles, defining problems that beset women attempting to break out of the cultural limits that had bound them. Like Christine de Pizan, who achieved an advanced education through her father’s tutoring and her own devices, their bold questioning makes clear the importance of training. Only when women were educated to the same standard as male leaders would they be able to raise that other voice and insist on their dignity as human beings morally, intellectually, and legally equal to men. T H E O T H E R V O I C E . The other voice, a voice of protest, was mostly female, but it was also male. It spoke in the vernaculars and in Latin, in treatises and dialogues, in plays and poetry, in letters and diaries, and in pamphlets. It battered at the wall of prejudice that encircled women and raised a banner announcing its claims. The female was equal (or even superior) to the male in essential nature—moral, spiritual, and intellectual. Women were capable of higher education, of holding positions of power and influence in the public realm, and of speaking and writing persuasively. The last bastion of masculine supremacy, centered on the notions of a woman’s primary domestic responsibility and the requirement of female chastity, was not as yet assaulted—although visions of productive female communities as alternatives to the family indicated an awareness of the problem. During the period 1300–1700, the other voice remained only a voice, and one only dimly heard. It did not result—yet—in an alteration of social patterns. Indeed, to this day they have not entirely been altered. Yet the call for justice issued as long as six centuries ago by those writing in the tradition of the other voice must be recognized as the source and origin of the mature feminist tradition and of the realignment of social institutions accomplished in the modern age.

We thank the volume editors in this series, who responded with many suggestions to an earlier draft of this introduction, making it a collaborative enterprise. Many of their suggestions and criticisms have resulted in revisions of this introduction, although we remain responsible for the final product. PROJECTED TITLES IN THE SERIES Isabella Andreini, Mirtilla, edited and translated by Laura Stortoni Tullia d’Aragona, Complete Poems and Letters, edited and translated by Julia Hairston

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xxviii S e r i e s E d i t o r s ’ I n t r o d u c t i o n Tullia d’Aragona, The Wretch, Otherwise Known as Guerrino, edited and translated by Julia Hairston and John McLucas Francesco Barbaro et al., On Marriage and the Family, edited and translated by Margaret L. King Francesco Buoninsegni and Arcangela Tarabotti, Menippean Satire: “Against Feminine Extravagance” and “Antisatire,” edited and translated by Elissa Weaver Rosalba Carriera, Letters, Diaries, and Art, edited and translated by Catherine M. Sama Madame du Chatelet, Selected Works, edited by Judith Zinsser Vittoria Colonna, Chiara Matraini, and Lucrezia Marinella, Marian Writings, edited and translated by Susan Haskins Princess Elizabeth of Bohemia, Correspondence with Descartes, edited and translated by Lisa Shapiro Isabella d’Este, Selected Letters, edited and translated by Deanna Shemek Fairy-Tales by Seventeenth-Century French Women Writers, edited and translated by Lewis Seifert and Domna C. Stanton Moderata Fonte, Floridoro, edited by Valeria Finucci and translated by Julia Kisacki Moderata Fonte and Lucrezia Marinella, Religious Narratives, edited and translated by Virginia Cox Catharina Regina von Greiffenberg, Meditations on the Life of Christ, edited and translated by Lynne Tatlock In Praise of Women: Italian Fifteenth-Century Defenses of Women, edited and translated by Daniel Bornstein Lucrezia Marinella, L’Enrico, or Byzantium Conquered, edited and translated by Virginia Cox Lucrezia Marinella, Happy Arcadia, edited and translated by Susan Haskins and Letizia Panizza Chiara Matraini, Selected Poetry and Prose, edited and translated by Elaine MacLachlan Alessandro Piccolomini, Rethinking Marriage in Sixteenth-Century Italy, edited and translated by Letizia Panizza Christine de Pizan, Debate over the “Romance of the Rose,” edited and translated by David F. Hult Christine de Pizan, Life of Charles V, edited and translated by Nadia Margolis Christine de Pizan, The Long Road of Learning, edited and translated by Andrea Tarnowski Oliva Sabuco, The New Philosophy: True Medicine, edited and translated by Gianna Pomata Margherita Sarrocchi, La Scanderbeide, edited and translated by Rinaldina Russell Gabrielle Suchon, “On Philosophy” and “On Morality,” edited and translated by Domna Stanton with Rebecca Wilkin

Series Editors’ Introduction Sara Copio Sullam, Sara Copio Sullam: Jewish Poet and Intellectual in Early SeventeenthCentury Venice, edited and translated by Don Harrán Arcangela Tarabotti, Convent Life as Inferno: A Report, introduction and notes by Francesca Medioli, translated by Letizia Panizza Laura Terracina, Works, edited and translated by Michael Sherberg

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VOLUME EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION

THE OTHER VOICE

W

hen most readers today think of “the” novel, that distinctive jewel in the crown of European literature, it is in fact a certain type of novel that comes as if naturally to mind—the realist novel that, we have been taught, “rose” triumphantly over the course of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and that aimed at setting characters in and against the material world that grounded their existence. This view is not so much wrong as incomplete: other vibrant fictional genres were practiced before and alongside the developing realist novel; romance, gothic, and sentimental novels had their own plots, their own lexicon, their own codes, and they often were even more popular than their realist rivals. The omission of such traditions from most modern thinking about the novel is not just a matter of the oversimplification that dogs any attempt to define the novel or chart its evolution, for recent scholarship has underlined how persistently these now-denigrated traditions were associated with women. From its very beginnings, realism— taken to be sober, serious, and male—was founded on the rejection of novelistic genres maligned as formulaic, escapist, emotional, and thus female.1 Zayde was one of the victims.2 Here was a book whose popularity remained

1. Ian Watt’s The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1957) represents the foundational account of realism’s triumph. For more recent examinations of the gender politics behind the critical marginalization of other novelistic traditions, see William B. Warner, Licensing Entertainment: The Elevation of Novel Reading in Britain, 1684–1750 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998); and Margaret Cohen, The Sentimental Education of the Novel (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999). For a closer look at the French women writers whose contributions to the early novel were subsequently written out of literary history, see Joan DeJean, Tender Geographies: Women and the Origins of the Novel in France (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991); for the English situation, see Ros Ballaster, Seductive Forms: Women’s Amatory Fiction from 1684 to 1740 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992). 2. I have adopted Lafayette’s original spelling of the title and the name of her eponymous heroine, both usually modernized as “Zaïde.”

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Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n high for a century following its publication, a book lauded by thinkers otherwise hostile to novels—Bayle, La Bruyère, Voltaire. A book, moreover, written by a woman, Marie-Madeleine Pioche de La Vergne, comtesse de Lafayette, who alone among women authors of Old Regime France had a work accepted into the canon of world literature—The Princess of Clèves, variously referred to, depending on context, as the first psychological novel, the first historical novel, even the first realist novel, and at any rate as the epitome of classical style. Yet Zayde, which came from the same pen as The Princess of Clèves but which appealed to an alternate (and endangered) conception of what novels should be, subsequently fell from favor, and its loss of prestige speaks volumes about how the realist prejudice has rewritten our conception of what the novel is and made it nearly impossible to appreciate the other novelistic genres to which early modern women made a particularly active contribution. Zayde is perhaps the best possible introduction to the genre that the nascent realist novel was to compete with and then to stigmatize, romance. During most of the seventeenth century, France was the leading producer of romance, often called the heroic or Baroque novel—“heroic” because its idealized characters behaved courageously and virtuously in the face of adversity, “Baroque” because the genre was replete with tales within tales, disguises and ruses, and a never-ending series of plot twists. These books were heir to the Hellenistic novels of Xenophon, Heliodorus, and others, which were wildly popular upon their rediscovery in the Renaissance and remained so well into Lafayette’s day. (Jean Racine, her contemporary, was said to have known Heliodorus’s much-loved third-century Aethiopica by heart.) They also grew out of chivalric romances such as the fourteenthcentury Spanish Amadís of Gaul—a volume so foundational that even Cervantes spared it the flames he reserved for the rest of Don Quixote’s library. Indeed, Cervantes’s renowned parody of chivalric romance, popular as it was, did nothing to stem the tide of the Baroque fictions of Honoré d’Urfé, Gautier de Costes de La Calprenède, Marin Le Roy de Gomberville, and finally Madeleine de Scudéry. These new romances were respected as virtual manuals of civility: Louis XIII’s minister Richelieu declared, on the subject of d’Urfé’s best-seller, “that he was not to be admitted into the academy of Wit, who had not been before well read in Astrea.”3 And they were spectacularly successful, translated into Dutch, English, Spanish, Italian, and German. These sprawling, many-volumed works did not acquire such 3. Richelieu’s remark is reported in the introduction to John Davies’s 1657 translation of L’Astrée and cited by Margaret Anne Doody, The True Story of the Novel (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1996), 269.

Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n cultural dominance by being mere escapist love stories: in its heyday, the Baroque novel formed, in the critic Mikhail Bakhtin’s words, “an encyclopedia of all the types of literary language of the epoch,” collecting and organizing a mass of philosophical, historical, political, and geographical knowledge.4 Precisely at the moment Lafayette was giving her own twist to the romance tradition, however, it was about to be lost. Whatever the causes of this literary extinction—and it surely can be laid at the door of numerous social, political, even epistemological changes—romances, once so central, were increasingly dismissed as fodder for idle and uncritical women readers.5 Don Quixote, that archetypally idealist and naïve reader, was of course a man, but by mid-century one can see the first signs of a conflation of romance and the gullible female imagination that will persist until Flaubert’s Madame Bovary and beyond: in The Precious Damsels, from 1659, Molière made a name for himself by satirizing women who spend too much time with the romances of Madeleine de Scudéry; the self-appointed policeman of classicism, Nicolas Boileau, would also level his wit against Scudéry in his Dialogue on Romance Heroes (composed in 1664–65). This derogatory gendering of romance would not carry the day until the nineteenth century, but contemporary readers did nonetheless start to express impatience with the genre, rejecting exotic locales and distant historical settings, unbelievable coincidences, martial bravery, idealized virtue and fidelity, and all those multiple plotlines unfolding over thousands of pages. The last volume of Scudéry’s Clélie appeared in 1661, but in spite of its success, both she and the most talented young writers of the next generation—Lafayette, but also Marie-Catherine Desjardins, known as Madame de Villedieu—cast about for ways to update romance, primarily by making it shorter. The result was a number of “mini” romances, of which I will have more to say presently. Nearly all of these, however, were commercial and critical failures—all 4. M. M. Bakhtin, “Discourse in the Novel,” in The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, ed. Michael Holquist, trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981), 396. For detailed examinations of the influence of the Greek novel in early modern England and France, see Laurence Plazenet, L’Ébahissement et la délectation: Réception comparée et poétiques du roman grec en France et en Angleterre aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles (Paris: Honoré Champion, 1997); and Georges Molinié, Du roman grec au roman baroque: Un art majeur du genre narratif en France sous Louis XIII (Toulouse: Services des publications de l’Université de Toulouse-Le-Mirail, 1982). 5. For general accounts of the decline of romance, see Lennard J. Davis, Factual Fictions: The Origins of the English Novel (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983); and Michael McKeon, The Origins of the English Novel, 1600–1740 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987). For a look at the French situation especially, see English Showalter, The Evolution of the French Novel, 1641–1782 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1972), 11–37. The stigmatization of romance as feminine is explored by Doody, True Story of the Novel, esp. 251–300.

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Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n except Zayde, which acquired a lasting prestige, and which would never be equaled in both its compression and subtle subversion of romance structures and motifs. Still, Lafayette’s work was unable to stave off the fate that had already befallen the rest of romance; after a hundred years of being mentioned approvingly in the same breath with The Princess of Clèves, it became another casualty of the realist prejudice. The Princess of Clèves was the book late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century critics would retain for the edification of France’s schoolchildren, praising it somewhat backhandedly as miraculously exempt from the supposed feminine excesses of the period’s fiction—the exception that proved the rule that women write bad novels, as it were. But Zayde, that “funerary monument”6 to an impeccably pedigreed form of fiction nearly two thousand years old, remains what just might be the most savvy and evolved representative of romance, the novel’s long-suppressed “other voice.”

L A FAY E T T E ’ S L I F E A N D W O R K S

Lafayette’s origins may not have been impeccably aristocratic, but she did have the good luck to be born into a family that recognized the interdependence of intellectual matters and social status.7 It was in early 1633 that her parents, Isabelle Péna and Marc Pioche, wedded. Both were from roughly the same social stratum: Péna’s father was a court physician; Pioche exercised with some success the profession of architect before starting a military career. (Somewhere along the way, and like so many, he would enhance his respectability by adding the noble tag “de La Vergne” to his surname.) Before their marriage, the couple already enjoyed connections with a place known as the chambre bleue, or blue room—the first French salon, created in the second decade of the century by Catherine de Vivonne, the marquise de Rambouillet. Péna counted among her friends a number of women who were regulars of the chambre bleue; and, back in 1618, when Rambouillet had decided to rebuild her residence to make it more conducive to the gatherings that were rapidly becoming a successful alternative to hierarchical court life, she called on the architectural talents of Pioche, who himself frequented the salon. Rambouillet’s blue room provided a space where members of the nobility could perfect their social refinement, notably through literary discussions; and one of the favorite 6. DeJean, Tender Geographies, 65. 7. I have relied on the authoritative biography of Roger Duchêne, Madame de Lafayette, 2nd ed. (Paris: Fayard, 2000), for the bulk of the following information on Lafayette’s life.

Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n activities of this new Parisian intelligentsia was actually acting out the work that inaugurated the reign of the Baroque novel, d’Urfé’s L’Astrée, whose thousands of pages were published between 1607 and 1627. Members of the Rambouillet salon would dress up as d’Urfé’s shepherds, mimic their amorous predicaments, assume their names. From this point on, until the moment Isabelle Péna’s first daughter, Marie-Madeleine, would sum up and put to rest the tradition with Zayde, romance would be the mirror of France’s cultural elite. Salon life was part and parcel of a social strategy for success that involved parlaying existing connections into new ones. Indeed, Lafayette’s parents had both been hangers-on to the family of Cardinal Richelieu: Pioche de La Vergne had managed to secure a position as tutor to one of Cardinal Richelieu’s nephews, while Isabelle Péna was in the service of Madame de Comballet, Richelieu’s niece and the future duchesse d’Aiguillon. When the new couple’s first daughter was born, Comballet assumed the role of godmother, holding Marie-Madeleine over the baptismal font on March 18, 1634, in the church of Saint-Sulpice. From this point on, the couple pinned their ambitions on the child, who received a solid education and, as firstborn, the dowry that made possible an advantageous marriage. (Her two younger sisters, as was the custom, were sacrificed to convent life.) Marie-Madeleine’s early years were spent in Paris, in the two residences that her father and mother built near Saint-Sulpice, on the corner of the rue de Vaugirard and the rue Férou, facing the palace and gardens belonging to François de Luxembourg. Later, in 1648, the family moved to Le Havre, where Pioche was named lieutenant. This was the beginning of the Fronde, a prolonged aristocratic and parliamentary revolt against the regency of Anne of Austria and her minister Mazarin; Pioche maintained loyalty to the crown, was awarded a brevet de maréchal for his trouble, but died soon after, in 1649. Returning to Paris, Marie-Madeleine’s mother quickly remarried. This time, she was able to marry up: her new husband was René-Renaud de Sévigné, a member of the military and cultural elite. Sévigné’s involvement in the Fronde was in keeping with his nobility— unlike Péna’s first husband, he sided with the antimonarchical forces. Unfortunately, this turned out to be the losing side; he was exiled, at the end of 1652, to his family estate in Anjou; his wife and stepdaughter visited him for some months over the next two years, but their main residence continued to be Paris, where an excellent marriage, to François de Lafayette, was arranged for Marie-Madeleine in early 1655. Isabelle’s long social ascension had reached its apogee.

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Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n These first twenty years provided Marie-Madeleine Pioche de La Vergne, now the comtesse de Lafayette, with the irreplaceable foundations for her subsequent social and literary success. She served as maid of honor to the Queen Mother, Anne of Austria; she was tutored by a friend of the Pascal family; the scholar Gilles Ménage took an early interest in her education; her stepfather’s family was also that of the author of the most respected correspondence in French literary history, Marie de RabutinChantal, marquise de Sévigné, and the two women became lifelong friends. Her marriage initially took her away from Paris: in accordance with the (legal) custom of the Old Regime, she followed the comte de Lafayette to his family’s estate in Auvergne, in central France. During this time Ménage would send her books from Paris, among which were the first volumes of Scudéry’s best-seller Clélie. Soon, however, and unusually for the time, the Lafayettes began to divide their time between his estate and hers, in Paris. This allowed Lafayette to frequent the salons of Rambouillet and Scudéry, where she met figures of the cultural elite who would figure prominently in her development as a writer—La Rochefoucauld and Sévigné, but also intellectuals less familiar to modern readers, such as Jean-Regnauld de Segrais and Pierre-Daniel Huet, both of whom played key roles in Zayde. The couple, who soon had two children, kept up their trips between Paris and Auvergne until around 1661, when the comte de Lafayette returned to his family estate alone. After this point, though apparently on good terms with her husband, Lafayette did not leave Paris. It was a good time to be smart, privileged, and Parisian: salon culture was at its zenith. Being called a précieuse—and early testimony singled out the young Lafayette as one of the most charming and brilliant—was not yet an insult, and Lafayette participated in the literary games that flourished in Paris. Her first work—and the only one she would sign her name to—was in the genre of the verbal portrait, popularized by Scudéry in Clélie.8 It appeared in a luxury edition edited by Anne-Marie-Louise d’Orléans, duchesse de Montpensier, known as the Grande Mademoiselle, granddaughter of Henri IV and Louis XIV’s cousin; it was of her friend Sévigné, whose portrait in Clélie had not been to Lafayette’s liking. That Lafayette should start her writing in the Grande Mademoiselle’s portrait collection seems fitting, for portraits were often exercises in literary ventriloquism. Contributors could and did simply 8. Scudéry used portraits to introduce the heroes of her novels; they delineated a character’s physical and psychological traits in a way that induced readers to pin the character to a member of Scudéry’s circle. On Scudéry’s portraits and their wider cultural context, see Erica Harth, Ideology and Culture in Seventeenth-Century France (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983), 68–128.

Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n offer a third-person sketch of a friend or celebrity; many portraits, however, were in fact simulated self-portraits, in which the writer pretended to speak with the presumed voice of the person depicted. Lafayette’s portrait of Sévigné gave another twist to such ventriloquism, since she took on a masculine first-person voice, while nonetheless signing her own name: “Portrait of Madame the marquise de Sévigné, by Madame the comtesse de Lafayette under the name of an unknown man [un inconnu].” The formulation is odd to say the least, and hints that from the very beginning, Lafayette was highly practiced at stepping into the skin of narrators from whom she retained, however, an ambiguous authorial distance. The question of Lafayette’s signature is an important one, since all of the works on which her fame now rests were published anonymously or, in the case of Zayde, under the name of someone else. The standard explanation for her silence one might term the “aristocratic modesty” hypothesis, according to which, however much they played literary games together in private, nobles recoiled from actually being considered writers. Writing was an activity stamped with “the robe,” that is, with the educated but bourgeois class of lawyers; these intellectuals served the highest aristocracy, who would be lauded as patrons in dedication after dedication. The explanation has undeniable value, but perhaps fails to account for the peculiarly complex nature of Lafayette’s relation to literary publicity, a relation that could best be described as one of mistrust.9 Consider, for instance, the next major episode in her literary life—the publication of her historical novella The Princess of Montpensier, in 1662. The Princess of Montpensier was an outstandingly original entry on the literary scene in many ways—for its pessimistic portrayal of adulterous love, its lapidary brevity, its documented use of a recent historical setting. Yet its most distinctive feature may be an element foreign to the narrative itself: the novella was preceded by a crafty notice, purporting to be from the bookseller, stating that the contents of the book, in spite of its historical trappings, had been invented by its anonymous author. Lafayette could have simply published anonymously; she chose, however, to intervene in a way that complicated greatly the precise status of the printed work. The author was not merely using a notice—whose existence itself was highly unusual at the time—to claim the right to remain anonymous; rather, she was placing the normally invisible bookseller in the spotlight, and having this (anonymous!) figure assert the author’s anonymity. 9. Many of my remarks here on Lafayette’s relation to authorship have been inspired by Joan DeJean, “Lafayette’s Ellipses: The Privileges of Anonymity,” PMLA 99 (1984): 884–902, who sees in Lafayette’s work, especially The Princess of Clèves, a wary response to a developing commerce in women’s secrets.

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Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n The effect was to suggest layers of opacity separating literary creator from literary consumer—a far cry from the coterie atmosphere that had infused the project of the Grande Mademoiselle’s portrait book, in which writing and reading were one big insider game of encoding and decoding.10 Lafayette’s elaborate feint attested to her awareness that everything regarding literary production seemed to be in the process of upheaval: by 1662, it was clear that a new cultural system was coming into existence, one that would put to rest the old salon society and the types of fiction it supported. Gone were the powerful independent patrons such as Nicolas Fouquet, whose chateau at Vaux had been, along with the salons of Paris, an important center of intellectual life and literary production. In works like Molière’s The Precious Damsels, salon women were characterized as ridiculous and passé. Aside from their evident misogyny, attacks like these were motivated by the need to destroy these bastions of a proud independent aristocracy and to pull everyone who counted into the ambit of the monarchy. What took their place was a vast web of royal academies, court entertainment, and official pensions—of which Scudéry, significantly, received one.11 The great days of the salon, that locus amoenus where fiction circulated according to long-standing rules of decorum and social exchange, were slowly fading. Lafayette’s posture of anonymity was well suited to this new environment, one in which the circuit linking writer and reader had been profoundly unsettled. Such developments did not, of course, mean that all cultural activity outside the court had ceased: salons, though more fragmented and less hegemonic, never died out entirely, and Lafayette continued to pursue her 10. One can instructively compare Lafayette’s notice to the one that had appeared the year before in Scudéry’s Célinte (1661): the latter contains coy advice to the reader not to be too curious about the author, while at the same time pointing out that clues provided in the work will nonetheless permit an educated guess as to her identity. Scudéry’s notice still smacks of the closed circle of the salon, while Lafayette’s suggests something more like a literary market. Although it is impossible to attribute with any certainty this type of notice, the fact that few novels at the time contain one—notable exceptions being Célinte from the year before and the later Princess of Clèves—suggests that Lafayette is responsible. 11. For an overview of the consolidation of Louis’s court system, with special attention to the control of culture, see Peter Burke, The Fabrication of Louis XIV (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992). The standard account of the misogynist construction of preciosity has been provided by Domna Stanton, “The Fiction of Préciosité and the Fear of Women,” Yale French Studies 62 (1981): 107–34. For broad looks at seventeenth-century salons, see Carolyn Lougee, Le Paradis des femmes: Women, Salons, and Social Stratification in Seventeenth-Century France (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976); Erica Harth, Cartesian Women: Versions and Subversions of Rational Discourse in the Old Regime (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992); and Myriam Maître, Les Précieuses: Naissance des femmes de lettres en France au XVIIe siècle (Paris: Honoré Champion, 1999).

Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n intellectual interests outside of Louis XIV’s new system of entertainments. In the years between The Princess of Montpensier and Zayde (whose first volume, dated 1670, actually appeared at the end of 1669), she met with her friends and intellectual mentors, both at her home on the rue de Vaugirard and at other private residences in and outside of Paris. Big salons or no, this was still a time that knew nothing of the romantic ideal of the solitary author of genius, and Lafayette’s writing remained something of a communal undertaking—to what extent, however, remains unclear. Involved in The Princess of Montpensier was the poet-scholar Gilles Ménage, Lafayette’s close friend in these years; he taught her Latin, and even sent her a Greek grammar, but aside from seeing to it that the novella was brought out by his usual publisher, we know next to nothing of his actual contribution. A break with Ménage—who seems to have fallen in love with the much younger Lafayette and been rebuffed—led to the deepening of her relations with a different set of collaborators, all of whom frequented Lafayette during the years leading up to Zayde and played a role in its composition. Jean-Regnault de Segrais, under whose name the novel would appear, was introduced to Lafayette by Ménage in 1659; he was the former secretary of the Grande Mademoiselle, with whom he had written, in 1656, The French Novellas, one of the first attempts to invent a shorter literary form that might take the place of the Baroque novel, something more along the lines of the Spanish novellas popular at the time. As in the case of Ménage with The Princess of Montpensier, the extent of his contribution to Zayde is unknown: in one text he claimed to be responsible only for the “layout” (disposition) of the novel, while in others he referred to “my Zayde”; the mystery is deepened by the fact that many of these documents are of doubtful authenticity.12 At any rate, no seventeenth-century sources at all suggest that anyone doubted his authorship, and indeed throughout the eighteenth century the work continued to appear under his name. In 1702, however, another of Lafayette’s collaborators, Pierre-Daniel Huet, who also met Lafayette through Ménage, took pains to attribute the novel to the countess, recently deceased; he went further, furnishing precious details on the precise method of composition adopted. Notably, it appears that Lafayette sent Huet parts of the manuscript, asking him for his advice, and telling him specifically to mark it in red pencil, rather than black, for legibility. Huet 12. See Geneviève Mouligneau, Madame de la Fayette, romancière? (Brussels: Éditions de l’Université de Bruxelles, 1980), 71, 72. Mouligneau’s overly polemical thesis—that Lafayette is not the person responsible for most of the works printed under her name—has not attracted much adhesion and should be treated with caution, but her book reproduces and carefully reviews all extant documents regarding the authorship of Lafayette’s fiction.

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Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n was well placed to be in on the secret of Zayde’s authorship, since he himself contributed to its first volume a lengthy erudite preface, or treatise, in which he explored the long history of romance, and of which I shall say more presently. The last, and best known, of the potential collaborators is François, duc de La Rochefoucauld. He and Lafayette met in 1656, but became close only toward the beginning of the 1660s; it is very likely that she, along with Huet, Segrais, and others, was involved in the long, slow elaboration of La Rochefoucauld’s famous Maxims, which did not appear in print until 1664.13 Naturally, literary activity did not take up all of Lafayette’s time: the 1660s was also a decade of friendship with Henriette d’Angleterre (known in the English-speaking world as Henrietta Anne). Henriette’s mother was Henriette de France (Henrietta Maria), herself daughter of Henri IV. The international dynastic trade in royal blood had seen the latter married off to King Charles I of England, but when, in 1649, the parliamentary revolution led by Cromwell resulted in the monarch’s execution, the widowed Henriette de France fled back to Paris with her young daughter. The mother-daughter exile was for a time difficult, financially and socially, for people accustomed to being situated at the center of court life. Lafayette befriended the younger Henriette d’Angleterre around 1653 or 1654, during a brief period of residency in the Chaillot convent; they became close, in spite of their ten-year difference in age. Eventually, the friendship opened up a social world that even to Lafayette was unknown, for in 1661 Henriette wed Louis XIV’s brother, Philippe d’Orléans. Thanks to the efforts of her parents, Lafayette had comfortably become part of the aristocracy, but this courtly entourage was something else entirely. And yet, as a reader of The Princess of Clèves—the celebrated fiction she would write some two decades later about the seductive but destructive nature of court life— might suspect, Lafayette remained distant from this social world, even as she retained advantageous contacts with it: she preferred to spend much of her time on the estates of friends of similar social status. Her friendship with Henriette continued until the latter’s untimely death in 1670; she chronicled the princess’s life in a memoir entitled The Life of Madame Henriette d’Angleterre, which was not published until 1720.14 13. One of these maxims is, in fact, commonly attributed to Lafayette. It is a staple of Lafayette criticism to note that the prevalence of themes of pessimism and self-delusion in her work betrays the influence of La Rochefoucauld’s description of the ruses of vanity (amour-propre). 14. Though this text is widely accepted as hers, there is more reason to doubt the attribution than in the case of her fiction; see Geneviève Mouligneau, Madame de la Fayette, historienne? (Brussels: Palais des académies, 1990).

Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n Aside from her health—it had always been fragile—Lafayette was leading, then, an enviable life. She was not of the court but she had its ear; she was widely known as the author of The Princess of Montpensier, a great popular and critical success which, during her lifetime, would be republished more than any of her other works. Zayde, as I have mentioned, appeared under Segrais’s name, and Lafayette’s authorship does not appear to have been suspected. Nevertheless, her reputation as one of the kingdom’s principal femmes d’esprit, or women of wit, is amply attested in contemporary documents; it was secured not only on the basis of her conversation and past work, but also by things like the short pastiches of the period’s jargon circulated in manuscript. These short texts—fake letters written in various identifiable styles of the day—demonstrate once again Lafayette’s ability to seize language from the outside, as its observer: one thing that separates a book like Zayde from similarly themed works of the 1660s is precisely this sense that the author is not simply providing another example of a popular genre and obeying literary custom but reflecting actively on that custom. This is equally true of her masterwork, The Princess of Clèves, whose genesis seems to date to the completion of Zayde. (A royal privilège, or license, is taken out at the end of 1671 for a book entitled The Prince of Clèves.) Perhaps because of the various infirmities (migraines, fevers, pains) that dogged the author until the end of her life, the book itself did not appear for six years. When it did, however, it confirmed Lafayette’s mastery of the genre she helped to create, historical fiction, which since her novella of 1662 had become widely practiced. To this production, though, she was able to add a meditation on the dangerous circulation of true stories in a culture increasingly obsessed with gossip. Clèves, published in 1678, was set over one hundred years previously, under Henri II, but it seemed to speak of the atmosphere of the Sun King’s court, and especially of a particular type of sociability in which reputations were constantly in danger of being discredited. The result, then, was not just one more historical fiction that celebrated court pomp and intrigue, but one that subverted the genre itself, notably by making the heroine conduct herself in a manner that did little to meet the expectations of the contemporary reading public—by refusing the court entirely. The Princess of Clèves was a great success, in part because of the publicity campaign mounted in the monthly gazette Le Mercure galant. This campaign, perhaps the first modern effort at book promotion, was conducted without identifying Lafayette as the work’s author; as with the earlier Montpensier, Clèves was published anonymously, with another note from the bookseller stating that the author wished to remain unknown. Again, the notice seems odd. So many works were published anonymously that the practice needed

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Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n no justification. Why, then, would the author deliberately encourage readers to think about that anonymity? And why would Lafayette herself, in her daily social life, seem both to encourage and to discount persistent rumors that she was responsible for the book? At any rate, speculation on her authorship came even before the book’s publication, and from a seemingly reliable inside source. Scudéry wrote in a letter of December 1677: “Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld and Madame de Lafayette have written a novel about courtly manners ( galanterie) at the court of Henri II, one that is said to be admirably composed.”15 La Rochefoucauld was indeed a likely potential collaborator: they had grown increasingly close—eyebrows were repeatedly raised over the precise nature of their relationship—and it is perfectly plausible that he gave Lafayette advice. Lafayette would write no more. Her silence, over the last fifteen years of her life, may appear odd. But the fact is that the environment that had nurtured her literary endeavors had changed bit by bit, as she lost her friends to disease and old age. She had personally watched Henriette d’Angleterre die young; Madame du Plessis-Guénégaud, who had hosted an active salon with her husband during the 1660s, passed away in 1678; and the worst was yet to come with the death of La Rochefoucauld in 1680, soon after the publication of The Princess of Clèves. For someone already in chronic bad health, this last death was a bad blow; Sévigné confided her worries over her friend’s future in a number of letters. Still, Lafayette rallied. Sévigné, after all, remained, as did others—Ménage, for instance, now in his seventies, and with whom she renewed her relations after the death of her husband in 1683. Yet writing, apparently, was no longer of interest to her. Instead, she saw to worldly matters, establishing her sons (the firstborn married, the second joined the army), or intervening with one of Louis’s ministers, Louvois, on behalf of a friend. Presumably somewhat dissatisfied with her success, or perhaps simply curious, she started a spiritual correspondence with the abbé Armand de Rancé, renowned for his austere reform of the Trappist order. Lafayette’s religiosity had always been moderate, and nothing indicates any deathbed conversion on her part, only simple acceptance of the inevitable: “Alas, my dear, all I have to report on my health is bad news,” Lafayette said in her last letter to Sévigné, about a year before her death. “In a word, neither day nor night brings me any rest, neither for the body nor for the mind. I am no longer a person, in the one or in the other. I am withering away. One must end one’s days when God wills it, and to this I am resigned.”16 She died 15. Quoted in Mouligneau, Madame de la Fayette, romancière? 44. 16. Lafayette, Oeuvres complètes, ed. Roger Duchêne (Paris: Éditions François Bourin, 1990), 660.

Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n on May 25, 1693, after falling into a coma four days earlier. Huet and Segrais were still alive and would shortly reveal the secret of Lafayette’s authorship of Zayde.

Z AY D E : A S P A N I S H R O M A N C E

Zayde is the last great French romance. Romance themes and structures would certainly persist for a century more, alongside or against the developing codes of realism: eighteenth-century novelists could scarce do without healthy doses of chance meetings and recognitions, mysterious family origins, and elaborate tales told to strangers. Usually, however, these devices served as an uncomfortable reminder of the fundamental implausibility of fiction; writers poked gentle fun at their utter conventionality, while not knowing quite what to do without the conventions. This is the affectionately parodic afterlife of romance, epitomized by works such as Marivaux’s The Life of Marianne (1731–41) or Fielding’s Tom Jones (1749). One could argue as well that many of the devices of romance were taken up and rejuvenated by the gothic and sentimental novels of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries: a novel such as Germaine de Staël’s Corinne (1807), baffling if read as a precursor to Balzac, seems completely familiar to a reader steeped in romance. (And such readers there still were, at least until around Staël’s time: François-René de Chateaubriand is sometimes cited as Scudéry’s last noteworthy fan.)17 Zayde, by contrast, marks the last time a writer took the reader on a tried and true Mediterranean tour resembling those of Xenophon and Heliodorus—from Catalonia to Cyprus and back, with battles, prophecies, and shipwrecks along the way. Lafayette gives romance devices free rein to function without shame and to jewel-like perfection. Yet if Zayde was the last French romance, this is not only to say that none came after it. It is also the last because Lafayette set out to subvert the genre from the inside: her work is both a romance and a pastiche of romance, if we understand by that word a self-conscious revisiting of a form perceived as dead. One must picture the situation in the late 1660s. It was already sufficiently clear that the vast prose romances that had been the international glory of the French tradition were a thing of the past. La Calprenède, unheedful of the change in tastes, pushed ahead with his twelve-volume Faramond (1661–70) and, confronted with indifference, left it unfinished. Villedieu made her literary debut with the romance Alcidamie 17. DeJean, Tender Geographies, 181.

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Tarragona

Lemnos

Alexandria

Figure 1 The geography of romance. A contemporary map of the Mediterranean, with the key locations of Lafayette’s Zayde. From Nicolas de Fer, Petit et nouveau atlas, 1705. Courtesy The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

Tunis

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Tarsus

Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n (1661) but abandoned it after one volume and quickly busied herself with shorter forms. Scudéry herself, the reigning queen of the genre, but more mindful of new tastes, tried repeatedly to update the old structures, shortening them, tightening the plots, and reducing the number of characters. Much was different here—no in medias res beginning with its attendant intercalated flashbacks, for instance—but a book like Mathilde (1667), whose action takes place in fourteenth-century Spain and Provence, was still based on the schema that had always worked for Scudéry, to wit, the rivalry of two virtuous noblemen for the heart of a pure and principled princess, set against a vague historical background. It was an honest if commercially unsuccessful effort to combine old and new elements, but in no way did it approach the savvy of Lafayette’s meditation on the passing of romance.18 The fact that Zayde was preceded in its original editions by a treatise entitled “On the Origin of Novels” is a further indication that Lafayette was indeed in a position to think of romance as something of a dead object. Pierre-Daniel Huet’s long erudite essay (it took up about a fifth of the first volume) was an effort to establish the pedigree of prose fiction. For the roots of the genre, it reached back to ancient Egypt, Arabia, and Persia; from there, Huet wrote, romance developed in Hellenistic Italy, and then in medieval Europe; seventeenth-century France perfected the form. Huet’s treatise was not absolutely original—there had been a number of attempts to give prose fiction the historical and especially theoretical prestige that a genre such as tragedy had always enjoyed19—but it did mark the penetration of essentially academic speculation into the consciousness of a broader reading public. The result was paradoxical, for at the same time Huet dignified romance, he also reified it—that is, he made it seem like an artifact that could be studied, isolated as an object of knowledge. The price of legitimizing the novel was the relegation of all its previous forms to the status of infancy.20 It was as if it were no longer possible to write by obeying half-acknowledged codes: “On the 18. For a more detailed look at Scudéry’s efforts to remake the romance, see Nathalie Grande, “Du long au court: Réduction de la longueur et invention des formes narratives, l’exemple de Madeleine de Scudéry,” Dix-septième siècle 215 (2002): 263–71. 19. Many treated it as an outgrowth of epic, and thus subject to the rules of Aristotle. Huet’s historical essay, however, largely follows the trajectory laid out by Claude de Saumaise in the preface to his 1640 edition, in Greek and Latin, of Achilles Tatius’s Leucippe and Clitophon; see Doody, True Story of the Novel, 258–61, for a comparison of the two. 20. I follow McKeon, who has argued that the invention of the modern novel depended upon people’s ability to conceive abstractly of its purported opposite, romance; see McKeon, Origins of the English Novel, esp. 19–21. McKeon further notes that the question is complicated by the fact that much early modern romance—French examples, but also the Renaissance

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Figure 2 The splendor of Moorish Spain. The palace and gardens of the Alhambra, in Granada, which was constructed in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and served as the seat of the Nasrid dynasty, the last Muslim rulers in Spain. Pieter van den Berge, Theatrum hispaniae, 1700, plate 37. Courtesy of the Environmental Design Library, University of California, Berkeley.

Origin of Novels,” which dated in fact from 1666 and which Lafayette must have read before or while writing Zayde, virtually guaranteed that the work it introduced would arrive too late for the age of innocence it described. For the future author of The Princess of Clèves was not content to tinker, however playfully, with an inherited tradition. Lafayette treated her reader to an enigmatic in medias res beginning, and to a picture-perfect wedding finale—but in between, nothing is quite what one would expect. The basic story of Zayde is fairly simple, and unfolds during the long struggle between Christians and Moors for control of the Iberian Peninsula. This was a popular choice in the 1660s and 1670s: Scudéry had set her last, old-style romance, Almahide (1660–63), in the last days of Arab control of Granada, when the city was torn by warring families (among which were the famous Abencerrajes) and the continued assaults of King Ferdinand V of Castile; Villedieu did the same in her Gallantry in Granada of 1673.21

romanzo—had already incorporated critique of medieval romance (56). My remarks here are an inevitable simplification of the intricacies of generic evolution, but one that nonetheless concurs with the reports, exaggerated but widespread in the 1660s, that romance was dead. 21. Neither work would meet with any success: both are left unfinished. Almahide is probably, in fact, the work of Scudéry’s brother Georges, less heedful than his sister of the change in the

Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n Lafayette, as usual, did things differently, for instead of basing her novel on the tremendously popular Civil Wars of Granada, in which Pérez de Hita described this fifteenth-century strife, she made use of two histories of medieval Spain and Islam in order to set her novel during a completely different moment of the Reconquista—in early tenth-century Leon.22 From these works, she took conflicts, coups, and battles, and some of her most historically noteworthy characters. Consalve, a brave nobleman, has been deceived in love and betrayed by his protector Don Garcie, heir to the throne of Leon in northwest Spain. Disgusted with the treachery of his friends, he decides to leave court and to set out for a far-flung Greek island; while waiting for a boat, he meets first Alphonse, who is living a hermit’s life after an amorous disappointment of his own, and then Zayde and Felime, two mysterious women who wash up on the beach after a shipwreck. Who are these beauties, who speak neither Spanish nor Arabic? And why does Zayde seem to pine for someone else, when she also appears interested in Consalve, by now desperately in love with her? Such is the basic situation, the enigma. And yet already something seems subtly wrong with this beginning—wrong in the sense of not quite being what the reader of romance would expect. Most obviously, the opening is simply too slow. For the modern reader, romances of the Scuderian type may be interminable, but not because nothing happens in them; on the contrary, their action moves incredibly fast, as if the characters would evaporate into thin air if even for a moment they ceased to do something. Romance of this type begins with a perplexing initial event or series of events, which then give way to flashbacks explaining how this came about; subsequently, new enigmatic events happen within the main narrative, and they too are shown to be the consequence of a different set of previous literary climate; see René Godenne, Les Romans de Mademoiselle de Scudéry (Geneva: Droz, 1983), 299–339. Contemporary interest in the struggle between Christians and Muslims can be seen as part of France’s attempts at self-definition in the seventeenth century; see Michèle Longino, Orientalism in French Classical Drama (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), esp. 14–28. Of a number of readings of Zayde’s use of the Orient, see especially Harriet Stone, “Reading the Orient: Lafayette’s Zaïde,” Romanic Review 81, no. 2 (1990): 145–60. 22. Pérez de Hita’s work, which was in fact a historical novel, was originally published in 1595; it was issued in Paris, in the original Spanish (with notes for French readers), in 1606, before it was translated two years later. Pérez de Hita’s work seems to have been popular in the first half of the century but would become even more so in Lafayette’s formative years: in 1660, three separate editions of the original translation were brought out. (A novelist of the generation following Lafayette’s, Anne de La Roche-Guilhen, who herself wrote a Moorish novella entitled Almanzaïde [1674], would retranslate it in 1683.) Lafayette, meanwhile, worked from real histories: Juan de Mariana’s General History of Spain (original Latin edition, 1592; Spanish edition, 1601): and Luis del Mármol Carvajal’s General Description of Africa (1573–99; French translation, 1667).

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Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n actions.23 Here, though, the pace is different: by the standards of romance, virtually nothing is happening in these opening pages. Consalve is lost, he is asking some fishermen for directions to the port whose boats will take him to Greece; a stranger takes an interest in him and offers him lodging; they both hint at the painful affairs of the heart they carry within. The reader of romance recognizes the codes, certainly: here are two noblemen, drawn to each other as are all “people of quality”; they are clearly about to unburden themselves of their life stories. And yet there is something odd: the situation is a bit too carefully drawn (Consalve, for instance, is lost because he took a geographically verifiable wrong turn); and the stranger he meets tells him his name, but withholds, for the time being, his story. Even the shipwreck that strands the book’s heroine on the sands of Catalonia is viewed from an unaccustomed angle and fails to provide the jolt of action expected: Consalve doesn’t see the boat go down and rush in to save the woman soon to be identified as Zayde, but instead finds her one morning among the strewn debris of a boat whose sinking has already taken place. In a sense, he, like Lafayette herself, has arrived too late to behave properly. And since Zayde speaks an unknown language, she is far from being any more ready than Alphonse to tell her story. Eventually, the past adventures of Zayde, Consalve, and others come out, in accordance with romance practice of embedded narratives. But Lafayette’s careful beginning hints at the fact that she is proposing a tighter structure than usual, and not only by drastically restricting the amount of action and number of incidental characters in the embedded stories. First, the four main stories told (those of Consalve, Alphonse, Alamir, and Zayde and Felime) are thematically linked, in that they all provide distinct variations on the ways lovers meet with frustration. Alphonse is tortured by the thought that his beloved Belasire may have had feelings for another man at one time or another; Alamir needs to ascertain whether Elsibery loves him or merely his princely status; Felime’s unrequited and unspoken passion for Alamir leads her, in a twist of masochistic perversion, to become confidant to his equally unrequited love for Zayde. We have, then, a sort of taxonomy of unhappiness in which heroes and heroines are separated not by real, external obstacles— 23. This device is modeled on Heliodorus’s Aethiopica; for a look at how Heliodorus influenced early modern use of literary suspense, see Terence Cave, Pré-Histoires: Textes troublés au seuil de la modernité (Geneva: Droz, 1999), 129–41. The flashback structure had other uses as well: traditionally, the main action of both romance and epic was restricted to events covering one year, and flashbacks permitted further temporal development, not to mention a potentially infinite deferral of the book’s ending.

Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n an earthquake, a father’s interdiction, an uncertain birth, a rival’s challenge— but rather by different psychological bents. As she will do so famously in intercalated stories of The Princess of Clèves, Lafayette explores alternate uses of embedded narrative, ones that bear only a superficial resemblance to the endlessly proliferating stories of traditional romance. Second, Zayde’s coherence comes from the fact that the longest of these stories, that of Felime and Zayde, is carefully calculated to provide interpretive closure. As I have noted, traditional romance set up some sort of basic enigma that gave way to a narrative explanation, but this did not imply an act of interpretation on the part of characters or reader. Either people know the story behind the enigma or they do not; if they do not, they are informed by a character who does (and romance narrators are invariably reliable, in complete control of all the details of their story).24 Zayde’s enigma is of a totally different sort: Consalve cannot comprehend the heroine’s behavior after her shipwreck; to all her actions he continually ascribes meanings unfavorable to his own love for her, until finally Felime’s narrative provides alternate, and correct explanations—ones that other characters, whose interpretive skills were less blinded by jealousy, had surmised all along. Lafayette replaces romance’s two-poled play of ignorance and knowledge with something akin to a cognitive drama. Everything in Zayde indicates that twists like these are the result of an astonishingly canny reflection on the devices of romance, whose tropes the novel systematically subverts. Rivalry for the love of the heroine, first of all: Consalve, I have just indicated, is a bad reader of signs, but more to the point, he reads signs as if he were in a romance, because he assumes he must have a rival. Yet rivals, here, have a remarkable propensity to be figments of the desiring imagination.25 Or take the theme of confidants, who are equally omnipresent in romance: normally it is they who serve as those loyal and reliable narrators of the heroes’ trials and triumphs. In Lafayette’s hands, however, confidants are not only corrupted, falling victim to the desire that intimacy stimulates; people become, horribly, confidants to love affairs in which they themselves are a party.26 24. As notes Thomas Pavel, L’Art de l’éloignement: Essai sur l’imagination classique (Paris: Gallimard, 1996), 251, whose essay provides a good general introduction to what he calls the “Kingdom of Romance” (219–68). 25. See John Lyons, “The Dead Center: Desire and Mediation in Lafayette’s Zayde,” L’Esprit créateur 23, no. 2 (1983): 58–69, which is perhaps the best brief treatment of the novel available in English. 26. This is a trait that Lafayette developed in The Princess of Montpensier and would treat masterfully in The Princess of Clèves, where neither the heroine nor her husband can resist the drive to make him confidant to her illicit love.

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Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n Numerous other building blocks of romance are marshaled only to be diverted from or emptied of their usual function—portraits, prophecy, recognition scenes, and so on.27 Perhaps the most frequently remarked change involves what commentators, usually noting the influence of La Rochefoucauld’s view of man, inevitably call Lafayette’s pessimism: romance gives us heroes, while Zayde is filled with characters whose undeniably heroic military exploits are coupled with a curious ineptitude in love, as if the battles of the sword and of the heart were no longer perfectly homologous. Georg Lukács once remarked that the novel, in contrast to epic, arises out of the consciousness of “the separation between interiority and adventure,” and it is as if Lafayette’s work were enacting the drama of this painful disjunction.28 Indeed, a whole register of heroic vocabulary that formed the backbone of romance, including words like “constancy” and “generosity,” has but isolated occurrences in Zayde. Heroic traits like these are replaced by a bevy of words expressing frustration and impotence—“uncertainty,” “doubt,” “jealousy,” “capriciousness,” to cite but a few. Romance, too, had its share of characters dominated by these emotions, but they always held down one side of an exemplary opposition between those who do and do not know how to love; moreover, these characters were viewed from the exterior, with what we might call comic distance. Perhaps more than simple “pessimism” is responsible for Zayde’s generally antiheroic tone: Lafayette is, rather, effecting a revolution in genre, in that traits that formerly were the stuff of comedy—cuckoldry and jealousy, foremost—are now exploited to serious effect, lived from the inside, as it were. Later geographers of the self-torturing heart—Crébillon in The Wanderings of the Heart and Mind (1736–38), or the Prévost of The History of a Fair Greek (1741)—owed Lafayette an obvious debt; the obsessively jealous lovers of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past walk in the footsteps of these Old Regime ancestors. Zayde is, in fact, one of a number of great French works of the period that strive to make the viewer or reader adopt the point of view of characters whose behavior would have previously been merely ridiculous.29 27. On Lafayette’s play with motifs such as these, see especially Kathleen Wine, “Tokens of Recognition in Zaïde,” Papers on French Seventeenth-Century Literature 18 (1991): 49–62. 28. Georg Lukács, The Theory of the Novel, trans. Anna Bostock (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1971), 88. 29. Molière’s The Misanthrope (1666) and George Dandin (1668) both give us strangely sympathetic or at the very least ambiguous renderings of jealous lovers; in plays like Britannicus (1669) and Mithridate (1673), Racine elevates jealousy to the level of tragedy and makes his viewers enter into the obsessed minds of his characters. Shakespeare, of course, beat all these writers to the punch, but Othello, as well as the rest of his work, was unknown to French writers of the period.

Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n Lafayette’s obsessive personalities tell their own stories, make the reader understand the perverse logic of their own behavior; in that sense, what has made for Lafayette’s pessimism is nothing less than the introduction of psychological perspective. What permits, in both normal romance and in comedy, the distancing of negative examples (the jealous lover, the unfaithful lover, the braggart) is a firm sense of correct, heroic ideals; the perspective provided is always that of the group, and this is the lens through which aberrant behavior is instantly objectified and held at a distance. By contrast, the use of first-person narration in a number of Lafayette’s embedded tales nearly overwhelms the perspective of the frame narrative: a number of characters certainly suspect the error of the hero’s ways—and the voice of the omniscient narrator even intervenes on occasion to clue in the reader— and yet the frame narrative follows Consalve in his self-defeating ratiocination. Ultimately, Lafayette does restore correct perspective, and Consalve and Zayde realize they have been destined for one another all along; the novel ends with a wedding, symbolic not only of one couple’s love but also, since even divisions between Christian and Muslim are healed, of the triumph of community itself. One thinks, however, of the curiously ambiguous endings of some of Molière’s great comedies: the final marriage barely masks the fact that so many have been left out of this resolution and that the royal road of romance was now strewn, once and for all, with the bodies of love’s victims. This, then, is what I mean when I say that Zayde needs to be viewed as a pastiche of romance: all the elements of the old genre are there, and they are recognizable as such, but they no longer function as they once did. To judge how Lafayette’s pastiche was received, we do not have at our disposal the lengthy critical reflections inspired by The Princess of Clèves. Much, however, can be deduced from publication history and isolated remarks. First, all of the attempts by Scudéry, Villedieu, or others to “shrink” the old romances were commercial failures—all except Zayde, whose first edition was immediately pirated.30 Furthermore, when the eighteenth century looked back on the seventeenth century’s production of fiction, Zayde 30. Seventeenth-century editions of Zayde were not, however, especially common (after the initial Barbin edition, which exists in two printings, and the pirated copy of 1671, probably printed in Amsterdam, there were editions in 1679 and 1699). This evidence needs to be weighed, however, against the large number of eighteenth-century editions (1700, 1705, 1715, 1719, 1725, 1764, 1766, 1770, 1780, 1786), and ample remarks which suggest the prestige of the work. A notable exception to the failures of the mini-romances of the time was Villedieu’s Exiles of the Court of Augustus (1672), republished a number of times and translated into English. Significantly, Villedieu seems to have learned from Zayde, in that she too makes the embedding of stories into an interpretive process.

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Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s I n t r o d u c t i o n appeared to constitute something quite different from the heroic romance—something, in fact, totally akin to The Princess of Montpensier or The Princess of Clèves. That the romance was losing its hold on readers’ imaginations by the 1660s was a commonplace even in the 1660s, as I have said, and by the end of the century, Clèves and Zayde were both seen as the agents of this reading revolution. Voltaire—who even seems, on occasion, to suggest a preference for Zayde over the work we now accept as Lafayette’s masterpiece—is the foremost exponent of this thesis, but his opinion is a general one. “Her Princess of Clèves and her Zayde,” he wrote, “were the first novels that portrayed the behavior of people of worth [les moeurs des honnêtes gens], and natural adventures described with grace. Before her, people wrote implausible things in an overblown [ampoulé] style.”31 Strangely, however, when The Princess of Clèves reemerged as a cornerstone of the literary canon promoted by the educational reforms of the Third Republic after a century of relative neglect, its companion Zayde was nowhere to be seen. Indeed, the novel has remained relatively difficult to procure in French, with its only commercially common full-text edition being in the Garnier collection of Lafayette’s works.32 As I have noted, it is the realist prejudice that is most responsible for Zayde’s change in status between the eighteenth and the twentieth centuries. The fact is that retrospectively, The Princess of Clèves, with both its historical and its psychological innovations, not to mention the tightness of its structure and its “oppositional” heroine, simply looked like an ancestor of both the nineteenth-century realist novel and the inwardly-gazing modernist novel. And while eighteenth-century readers remained familiar with romance conventions and could sense that Zayde was a very idiosyncratic romance indeed, modern readers did not have the same expertise: by the early twentieth century, the “other voice” could not be heard over the din produced by what literary historians saw as the steady march to modern realism. 31. Voltaire (François-Marie Arouet), Le siècle de Louis XIV (Paris: Garnier-Flammarion, 1966), 2:237. Similar judgments came from across the Channel, where Lafayette’s innovations were equally appreciated: “Madame de la Fayette led the way to novels in the present mode. She was the first who introduced sentiments instead of wonderful adventures, and amiable men instead of bloody heroes. In substituting distresses for prodigies, she made a discovery that persons of taste and feeling are more attached by compassion than wonder” (Henry Home Kames, Sketches of the History of Man, 2 vols. [Edinburgh: W. Creech, 1774], 1:107). For further information on reception, see Maurice Laugaa, “Réception des romans et nouvelles de Madame de Lafayette au dix-huitième siècle (en France) (1700–1789),” Oeuvres et Critiques 12, no. 1 (1987): 121–32; and J. W. Scott, Madame de Lafayette: A Selective Critical Bibliography (London: Grant and Cutler, 1974). 32 Marie-Madeleine Pioche de La Vergne, Comtesse de Lafayette, Romans et nouvelles, ed. Alain Niderst (Paris: Garnier, 1970).

VOLUME EDITOR’S BIBLIOGRAPHY

P R I M A RY S O U R C E S

Kames, Henry Home. Sketches of the History of Man. 2 vols. Edinburgh: W. Creech, 1774. Lafayette, Marie-Madeleine Pioche de La Vergne, Comtesse de. Oeuvres complètes. Ed. Roger Duchêne. Paris: Editions François Bourin, 1990. ———. The Princesse de Clèves. Trans. Terence Cave. Oxford World Classics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992. ———. Romans et nouvelles. Ed. Alain Niderst. Paris: Garnier, 1970. ———. Zaïde, histoire espagnole. Ed. Janine Anseaume Kreiter. Paris: Nizet, 1982. ———. Zayde, histoire espagnole. Paris: Claude Barbin, 1670–71. ———. Zayde, A Spanish History, or Romance. Trans. P. Porter. London: William Cademan, 1678. Mariana, Juan de. Historia general de España. Toledo: Pedro Rodriguez, 1601. Mármol Carvajal, Luis del. Descripción general de Africa. Granada: Rene Rabut, 1573–99. Pérez de Hita, Ginés. Historia de los bandos de los Zegries y Abencerrajes caballeros moros de Granada. Saragossa: M. X. Sanchez, 1595. Voltaire (François-Marie Arouet). Le Siècle de Louis XIV. 2 vols. Paris: GarnierFlammarion, 1966.

S E C O N D A RY S O U R C E S

Achour, Christiane. “Tradition française et influence hispano-mauresque dans Zaïde de Mme de Lafayette.” Cahiers algériens de littérature comparée 2, no. 2 (1967): 55–65. Albert-Galtier, Alexandre. “Alamir ou le double travesti dans Zaïde de Madame de Lafayette.” In Doubles et dédoublement en littérature, ed. Gabriel-A. Pérouse. SaintEtienne: Publications de l’Université de Saint-Etienne, 1995. 59–69. ———. “Madame de Lafayette et le portrait perdu. Une lecture de Zaïde.” In Le Portrait littéraire, ed. K. Kupisz, G.-A. Pérouse, and J.-Y. Debreuille. Lyon: Presses universitaires de Lyon, 1988. 131–40. Backer, Dorothy. Precious Women. New York: Basic Books, 1974. Bakhtin, M. M. “Discourse in the Novel.” Trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. In The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, ed. Michael Holquist. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981. 259–422.

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Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s B i b l i o g r a p h y Ballaster, Ros. Seductive Forms: Women’s Amatory Fiction from 1684 to 1740. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992. Bazin de Bezons, Jean de. Bibliographie des oeuvres de Madame de La Fayette. Paris: Nizet, 1971. Beasley, Faith E. “Un Mariage critique: ‘Zayde’ et ‘De l’origine des romans.’ ” Dixseptième siècle 45, no. 4 (1993): 687–704. ———. “The Voices of Shadows: Lafayette’s Zaïde.” In Going Public: Women and Publishing in Early Modern France, ed. Elizabeth Goldsmith and Dena Goodman. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995. 146–60. Burke, Peter. The Fabrication of Louis XIV. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992. Carrier, Hubert. “Une Image de l’Afrique barbaresque dans le roman classique: Les Maures de Zaïde.” In Afriques imaginaires: Regards réciproques et discours littéraires, ed. Philippe-Joseph Salazar and Anny Wynchank. Paris: L’Harmattan, 1995. 31–39. Cave, Terence. Pré-Histoires: Textes troublés au seuil de la modernité. Geneva: Droz, 1999. Cazenave, Jean. “Le Roman hispano-mauresque en France.” Revue de littérature comparée 5 (1925): 594–640. Cherbuliez, Juliette. “Exile and the Spaces of Intimacy in Zayde.” In Classical Unities: Place, Time, Action, ed. Erec R. Koch. Tübingen: Narr, 2002. 79–88. Cohen, Margaret. The Sentimental Education of the Novel. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999. Davis, Lennard J. Factual Fictions: The Origins of the English Novel. New York: Columbia University Press, 1983. DeJean, Joan. Ancients against Moderns: Culture Wars and the Making of a Fin de Siècle. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997. ———. “Lafayette’s Ellipses: The Privileges of Anonymity.” PMLA 99 (1984): 884–902. ———. “No Man’s Land: The Novel’s First Geography.” Yale French Studies 73 (1987): 175–89. ———. Tender Geographies: Women and the Origins of the Novel in France. New York: Columbia University Press, 1991. Delhez-Sarlet, Claudette. “Les Jaloux et la jalousie dans l’oeuvre romanesque de Madame de Lafayette.” Revue des sciences humaines 115 (1964): 279–309. Doody, Margaret Anne. The True Story of the Novel. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1996. Douthwaite, Julia. “From Romance Heroine to No Man’s Heroine: East Meets West in Mme de Lafayette’s Zaïde and Prévost’s Histoire d’une Grecque moderne.” In Exotic Women: Literary Heroines and Cultural Strategies in Ancien Régime France. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992. 24–73. Duchêne, Roger. Madame de Lafayette. 2nd ed. Paris: Fayard, 2000. Force, Pierre. “Doute métaphysique et vérité romanesque dans La Princesse de Clèves et Zaïde.” Romanic Review 83, no. 2 (1992): 161–76. Francillon, Roger. L’Oeuvre romanesque de Madame de Lafayette. Paris: José Corti, 1973. Gambelli, Delia. “Progetto e disdetta: Per una lettura di Zaïde.” In Il romanzo barocco tra Italia e Francia: Studi, saggi, bibliografie, ressegne, ed. Massimo Colesanti. Rome: Bulzoni, 1980. 239–57. Gevrey, Françoise. L’Esthétique de Madame de Lafayette. Paris: SEDES, 1997. Godenne, René. Les Romans de Mademoiselle de Scudéry. Geneva: Droz, 1983.

Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s B i b l i o g r a p h y Grande, Nathalie. “Du long au court: réduction de la longueur et invention des formes narratives, l’exemple de Madeleine de Scudéry.” Dix-septième siècle 215 (2002): 263–71. Green, Anne. Privileged Anonymity: The Writings of Madame de Lafayette. Oxford: Legenda, 1996. Grisé, Sister Magdal. “Madame de Lafayette’s Presentation of Love in Zaïde.” French Review 36 (1963): 356–64. Harth, Erica. Cartesian Women: Versions and Subversions of Rational Discourse in the Old Regime. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992. ———. Ideology and Culture in Seventeenth-Century France. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983. Hautcoeur, Guiomar. “Zaïde de Madame de Lafayette ou les hésitations du genre romanesque au XVIIe siècle.” In Formes et imaginaire du roman: Perspectives sur le roman antique, médiéval, classique, moderne et contemporain, ed. Jean Bessière, Daniel-Henri Pageaux, and Eric Dayre. Paris: Honoré Champion, 1998. 49–64. Kamuf, Peggy. “The Gift of Clothes: Of Mme de Lafayette and the Origin of Novels.” Novel 17, no. 3 (1984): 233–45. Kaplan, David. “The Lover’s Test Theme in Cervantes and Madame de Lafayette.” French Review 26 (1952): 285–90. Kreiter, Janine Anseaume. “Fonctions dialogiques des personnages de Zaïde.” Romanic Review 87, no. 1 (1996): 21–33. ———. “Fonction singulière de deux actants des récits de Madame de Lafayette.” Seventeenth-Century French Studies 15 (1993): 231–42. ———. “Le Jeu signifiant des structures de Zaïde.” Romanic Review 75, no. 4 (1984): 414–23. ———. Le Problème du paraître dans l’oeuvre de Madame de Lafayette. Paris: Nizet, 1977. ———. Zaïde, histoire espagnole: Index et relevés statistiques. Paris: Nizet, 1984. Kuizenga, Donna. “Zaïde: Just Another Love Story?” In Madame de Lafayette, La Bruyere, la femme et le théâtre au pouvoir (Actes de Davis), ed. Claude Abraham. Biblio 17 (40). Paris: Papers on French Seventeenth-Century Literature, 1988. 21–28. Lassalle-Maraval, Thérèse, and Christine Faliu. “Zaïde: Du poncif mauresque à ‘l’incommunicabilité.’ ” Littératures 21 (1974): 149–64. Laugaa, Maurice. “Réception des romans et nouvelles de Madame de Lafayette au dix-huitième siècle (en France) (1700–1789).” Oeuvres et Critiques 12, no. 1 (1987): 121–32. Longino, Michèle. Orientalism in French Classical Drama. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Lougee, Carolyn. Le Paradis des femmes: Women, Salons, and Social Stratification in Seventeenth-Century France. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976. Lukács, Georg. The Theory of the Novel. Trans. Anna Bostock. Cambridge: MIT Press, 1971. Lyons, John D. “The Dead Center: Desire and Mediation in Lafayette’s Zayde.” L’Esprit créateur 23, no. 2 (1983): 58–69. ———. “Marie de Lafayette: From Image to Act.” In Exemplum: The Rhetoric of Example in Early Modern France and Italy. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989. 196–236. ———. “Speaking in Pictures, Speaking of Pictures: Problems of Representation in the Seventeenth Century.” In Mimesis: From Mirror to Method, Augustine to Descartes,

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Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s B i b l i o g r a p h y ed. John D. Lyons and Stephen G. Nichols Jr. Hanover: University Press of New England, 1982. 166–87. Maître, Myriam. Les Précieuses: Naissance des femmes de lettres en France au XVIIe siècle. Paris: Honoré Champion, 1999. McKeon, Michael. The Origins of the English Novel, 1600–1740. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987. Molinié, Georges. Du roman grec au roman baroque: Un art majeur du genre narratif en France sous Louis XIII. Toulouse: Services des publications de l’Université de Toulouse-LeMirail, 1982. Moreau, Isabelle Trivisani. “Zaïde et l’altérité, histoire méditerranéenne.” In Les Méditerranées du XVIIe siecle, ed. Giovanni Dotoli. Tübingen: Narr, 2002. 77–92. Mouligneau, Geneviève. Madame de la Fayette, historienne? Brussels: Palais des académies, 1990. ———. Madame de la Fayette, romancière? Brussels: Editions de l’Université de Bruxelles, 1980. Niderst, Alain. “L’Exil dans les romans de Mme de Lafayette.” Papers on French Seventeenth-Century Literature 21 (1994): 357–62. O’Callaghan, Joseph F. A History of Medieval Spain. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1975. Pavel, Thomas. L’Art de l’éloignement: Essai sur l’imagination classique. Paris: Gallimard, 1996. Plazenet, Laurence. L’Ébahissement et la délectation: Réception comparée et poétiques du roman grec en France et en Angleterre aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles. Paris: Honoré Champion, 1997. Rieger, Dietmar. “Tradition du genre littéraire et réalité socio-historique: Zayde de Mme de Lafayette dans le contexte du roman français du XVIIe siècle.” In Dynamique sociale et formes littéraires: De la société de cour à la misère des grandes villes. Tübingen: Narr, 1997. 37–56. Sarlet, Claudette. “A propos de ‘Zaïde’: Corps romanesque et corps social.” Rivista de letterature moderne e comparate 39, no. 3 (1986): 191–211. Scott, J. W. Madame de Lafayette: A Selective Critical Bibliography. London: Grant and Cutler, 1974. Shoemaker, Peter. “Lafayette’s Confidence Game: Plausibility and Private Confession in La Princesse de Clèves and Zaïde.” French Forum 27, no. 1 (2002): 45–58. Showalter, English. The Evolution of the French Novel, 1641–1782. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1972. Stanton, Domna. “The Fiction of Préciosité and the Fear of Women.” Yale French Studies 62 (1981): 107–34. ———. “The Ideal of ‘repos’ in Seventeenth-Century French Literature.” L’Esprit créateur 15 (1975): 79–104. Stone, Harriet. “The Refracted Gaze: Zaïde and La Princesse de Clèves.” In The Classical Model: Literature and Knowledge in Seventeenth-Century France. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996. 130–69. ———. “Reading the Orient: Lafayette’s Zaïde.” Romanic Review 81, no. 2 (1990): 145–60. Thomas, Francis-Noël. “Recent English Translations of La Princesse de Clèves.” EMF: Studies in Early Modern France 8 (2002): 268–83.

Vo l u m e E d i t o r ’s B i b l i o g r a p h y Warner, William B. Licensing Entertainment: The Elevation of Novel Reading in Britain, 1684–1750. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998. Watt, Ian P. The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1957. Wine, Kathleen. “Le Portrait et la boîte: Problèmes d’identité dans Zaïde et La Princesse de Clèves.” Dix-septième siècle 45, no. 3 (1993): 465–79. ———. “Tokens of Recognition in Zaïde.” Papers on French Seventeenth-Century Literature 18 (1991): 49–62.

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N O T E O N T R A N S L AT I O N

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iven Zayde’s strange status as romance pastiche, it is small wonder that the problems involved in its translation start with its subtitle—histoire espagnole. Should we call this “A Spanish History,” given the work’s precisely drawn historical setting, and thereby nudge it closer to the historical novella, or nouvelle historique, the term coined in 1672 by Saint-Réal to describe the genre of which The Princess of Clèves will be the most famed example? Or remembering that the full title of Scudéry’s best-selling romance was Clélie, histoire romaine, should we call it “A Spanish Romance”? Or should we go the opposite route and efface its romance roots entirely by calling it “A Spanish Novel”? The truth is that there is no right answer, for the simple reason—and Zayde attests precisely to this fact—that the divisions between history, romance, and novel were completely up in the air in 1669. “[S]eventeenth- and early eighteenth-century writers often use the terms ‘romance,’ ‘history,’ and ‘novel’ with an evident interchangeability that must bewilder and frustrate all modern expectations,” writes Michael McKeon after an examination of English booksellers’ catalogs.1 Indeed: P. Porter, who first translated Zayde in 1678, availed himself of all three designations to describe Lafayette’s book.2 Faced with such foggy categories, I have decided to call Zayde “A Spanish Romance”: this is the genre with whose codes Lafayette plays. The reader should keep in mind, however, 1. McKeon, Origins of the English Novel, 25. 2. Porter’s translation was issued in at least two editions in 1678; the title page of one reads Zayde, A Spanish History, being a Pleasant and Witty Novel, while the second gives Zayde, A Spanish History, or, Romance, and the running titles throughout both give Zayde, A Romance. This confusion might be an effect of the work’s generic play, but it might also merely reflect the general terminological flux remarked by McKeon; after all, The Princess of Clèves, the archetypal modern novel, was initially subtitled in its English translation “The Most Famed Romance.” One might

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N o t e o n Tr a n s l a t i o n that the original subtitle is a mark of the generic uncertainty that dominated the moment of its creation. The inevitable question facing the translator of a work over three centuries old is that of accessibility: is one to give the impression of archaism felt by the modern French reader of the original, or else try to render some approximation of the easy familiarity with which the reader of 1669 must have approached the initial volume of Zayde? It bears pointing out that much of Zayde does not, in fact, sound archaic to the modern French ear; the language of intimate conversation especially is often of a sort one might conceivably overhear in a café today. In this respect, Lafayette’s language has aged with considerably more grace than what one finds in the original English translation, now hopelessly stilted. Compare, for instance, the direct simplicity of “Consalve avait souvent de pareilles conversations avec Alphonse” (“Consalve often had such conversations with Alphonse”) with the 1678 English version, “Consalvo did often entertain Alphonso with such like discourses.” It is safe to say, however, that Zayde does not always confirm received opinion about the classical ideal of clarity and order.3 What Terence Cave says about the language of The Princess of Clèves—that, “[a]t the level of the sentence, . . . the style is often tortuous and repetitious”4—is equally true of Lafayette’s earlier novel: Zayde astonishes the modern reader both by its frequently convoluted syntax and by what one might call its lexical poverty. These two issues, however, deserve some elaboration. Lafayette’s vocabulary is, by modern standards, restricted. In itself, this is not unusual: the reforms of poets like Malherbe (1555–1628) aimed at eliminating foreign borrowings and neologisms from literary French, with such success that Lafayette’s contemporary Racine was able to write verse tragedies of immense power and subtlety with a famously small lexicon. I have thus done my best to keep the vocabulary of the translation as simple as that of the original, notably by note that, as far as Lafayette’s own usage is concerned, her title is almost certainly modeled on that of Clélie, whose emphasis on history can be seen as one of the ways romance tried to remake itself in the wake of criticism directed against the genre’s inherent fancifulness (cf. McKeon, Origins of the English Novel, 53–55). Aside from Scudéry’s romance, and Heliodorus’s, known in French as Histoire éthiopique, hardly any works of prose fiction before Zayde use the subtitle histoire, which will remain relatively uncommon next to the dominant generic form nouvelle. 3. Opinion of the type that leads a recent reviewer of English translations of The Princess of Clèves to measure them all against “a thoroughly French conviction that writing an awkward or an ugly sentence is a crime for which mere accuracy is no defense.” Francis-Noël Thomas, “Recent English Translations of La Princesse de Clèves,” EMF: Studies in Early Modern France 8 (2002), 280. 4. Lafayette, The Princesse de Clèves, trans. Terence Cave, Oxford World Classics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), xxviii.

N o t e o n Tr a n s l a t i o n resisting the urge to interpolate either words that Lafayette could have used but did not (for instance, the verb séduire, “to seduce,” is always bypassed in favor of se faire aimer, literally “to make oneself loved”) or else those that did not come into common use until later (e.g., “identity,” “nervous,” “to detect”). On those occasions I have been unable to find convincing alternatives, I explain in footnotes my use of anachronistic terms. Still, in addition to this basic lexical simplicity, one must reckon with the extent to which the writer is willing, and clearly eager, to repeat words within the same sentence or paragraph. More than once, for instance, a character will notice that another character is sad, whereupon this sadness makes him equally sad. Lafayette’s syntax, too, conspires to enhance this echo effect. A single given event tends to produce parallel or inverse effects in two different characters: “Zayde felt acutely [her separation from Consalve], which was depriving her of the only consolation she sought just as surely as it deprived her lover of the only favor she had ever shown him.” The compositional principles of Lafayette’s prose—symmetry, parallelism, and antithesis—though stiff to the modern ear, are part of the stylistic achievement of the author, and intimately reflective of a highly rhetorical genre in which language is not, as it will be in the modern realist novel, referential or empirical, but ceremonial and ornamental.5 Hence the sentences of Zayde seem almost to generate one another through an elegant recombination of preceding elements. I have done my best to preserve these repetitions and echoes, for they are part of the languorous rhythm of the romance. Related to this rhythm is the technique of accretion, whereby phrases pile onto one another with less articulation or hierarchy than is customary in modern English. Lafayette will typically add verb phrases to one another through the use of conjunctions instead of creating subordinate clauses: “She fell silent, and wanted to say no more out of fear of being overheard by the women around her.” (We would tend to make a gerund phrase of the second verb to suggest that it was because the character wanted something that she fell silent.) Lafayette’s punctuation as well adds to this feeling of accretion: in keeping with much prose fiction of the time, Lafayette uses an array of colons and semicolons to graft clause to clause and phrase to phrase. This technique too produces a cascading rhythm that was certainly intentional—in particular, Lafayette’s use of short sentences linked together by semicolons is much more pronounced than what one finds in other 5. Ian Watt notes the shift to referential language—language that strives to mirror accurately the complexity of a world “out there”—as a hallmark of the eighteenth-century realist novel (Rise of the Novel, 28).

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N o t e o n Tr a n s l a t i o n works of the period. Throughout the translation, I try to follow Lafayette’s lead wherever possible, so as to reproduce this original rhythm. Nonetheless, some modification is frequently required, for the punctuation and conjunctions used in the original text to suggest varying degrees of connection and consequence are not always in keeping with modern use of those same symbols and terms. Repunctuation is, therefore, inevitable, and if it helps flow and comprehension, I have not hesitated to add conjunctions and conjunctive adverbs (e.g., “thus,” “whereas,” “for,” “while”), or even to change a “but” to an “and” or vice versa, when the meaning seems to demand it. (The original English translator needed to make similar adjustments.) On the other hand, Lafayette’s particular affection for blurring the antecedents of personal pronouns—a characteristic of her prose familiar to readers of The Princess of Clèves, and which was remarked by her contemporaries—I have attenuated only in the most extreme instances, always indicating any clarification with brackets. The result is an English which, I hope, will seem by turns familiar and strange: unlike The Princess of Clèves, whose more unified tone rarely leaves the extremely formal register of court diction, Zayde’s language has two distinct registers. When characters are at ease with one another, or in the throes of passion, and Lafayette deploys the acutely modern psychological acumen for which she is known, the reader may forget that the romance is over three hundred years old—just as the characters themselves have forgotten the sense of decorum that usually informs their speech. (It is at times like these that I allow contractions, for instance, so as to signal the more informal register.) But sooner or later the reader is bound to be reminded of the work’s age: the formal diction used at court, the occasional descriptions of military heroics, and the syntactical and lexical particularities I have mentioned all bring us back to the fact that, Lafayette’s psychological genius aside, this is not a realist novel after all. Similarly, no rendering can make certain of its aspects—the repeated recourse to slippery concepts such as merit and fortune, or to roles such as the royal favorite and the confidant—seem natural to the modern reader. This is, after all, a romance, and romance is simply not peopled with the types of modern fiction— social climbers, dandies and bohemians, men and women leading a meaningless or difficult existence. But the reader should also remember that romances were, intentionally and for their original audiences, tinged with a charming archaism: the whole point, after all, of the Arcadian loves of shepherds or the bravery of Roman lovers was that readers knew they no longer lived in such a world. There is, therefore, reason to believe that some of the book’s stiffer passages seemed that way to its earliest readers.

Cordoba

Oropesa and Talavera de la Reina

Zamora

Pamplona (Court of Navarre)

Figure 3. A contemporary map of Spain, with cities mentioned in Zayde indicated. From Nicolas Sanson, L’Europe en plusieurs cartes, 1683. Courtesy The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

Leon

Tortosa

Tarragona

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N o t e o n Tr a n s l a t i o n The original 1678 Porter translation, like all French editions until 1780, was issued under Segrais’s name. It was reprinted in 1690, 1729, and 1737, then revised by Elizabeth Griffith in 1780; Zayde has had no other English editions since then.6 As I have mentioned, Porter’s version, though a complete rendering of the original, has aged particularly badly in terms of vocabulary and syntax; it also repunctuates abusively, to the extent of changing Lafayette’s rhythms, and bursts into the present tense at moments of tension. I have occasionally taken hints from it, but the present translation is in no way a revision of Porter’s. Because of the problems of punctuation I have noted, the original Paris edition, dated 1670 and 1671 (Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal 8˚ BL 18288 [1–2]) has served as my base text; all of the recent French editions of the text repunctuate to some extent, and repunctuating an already repunctuated text brings one remarkably far from the original.7 I have retained Lafayette’s use of italics, while modernizing her inconsistent capitalization. A final detail, also related to the work’s original layout. Lafayette’s thorough and deliberate use of paragraphs to establish shifts in subject matter is somewhat unusual for her time: Antoine Furetière’s The Bourgeois Novel of 1666 is often noted as one of the first works to feature them, but they will remain haphazard over this entire period. Naturally, then, I respect them. Lafayette does, however, present dialogue in the period’s customary way, that is, without quotation marks and integrated into paragraphs of third- or first-person narration. Our own habits, which demand quotation marks and the separation of different speakers’ contributions into individual paragraphs, are done no small violence by such a practice, and have therefore trumped respect of Lafayette’s own paragraphing in the case of conflict. I have also added quotation marks throughout the long embedded narratives.

6. The first edition did not include Huet’s “On the Origin of Novels,” which in fact had already been translated separately in 1672. Jean de Bazin de Bezon’s Bibliographie des oeuvres de Madame de La Fayette (Paris: Nizet, 1971) lists five more contemporary editions of the translation that I have been unable to locate. 7. There are three commonly available French editions, with those of Janine Anseaume Kreiter (Paris: Nizet, 1982) and Roger Duchêne (in the Oeuvres complètes) having the advantage of accuracy over Alain Niderst’s, which suffers from a number of misprints and errors.

Z AY D E

PA RT O N E

S

pain was beginning to free itself from Moorish domination. Some of its peoples, having withdrawn to the Asturias, had founded the kingdom of Leon; those who had withdrawn into the Pyrenees had proclaimed the kingdom of Navarre; counts of Barcelona and Aragon had asserted their power. So it was that, one hundred years after the arrival of the Moors, more than half of Spain had been delivered from their tyranny.1 Of all the Christian princes ruling in Spain at the time, none was so formidable as Alphonse, King of Leon, called the Great.2 His predecessors had added Castile to the kingdom. Initially, this province had been administered by governors, but over time they had made their rule hereditary, and there was now some fear that they might seek sovereignty. They all referred to themselves as counts of Castile; the most powerful were Diego Porcellos3 and 1. Muslim power in Spain dates to 711, when the defeat of King Rodrigo by the troops of the governor of North Africa led to the disintegration of Visigoth rule. Several decades later, an independent Muslim state, the emirate (later caliphate) of Cordoba, would be founded by Abd al-Rahman I, who fled to Spain after finding himself on the losing side of a major dynastic revolution in Syria. Meanwhile, Christian Spain consisted mainly of the fragmented power centers Lafayette names. Yet the reconquest of which she speaks as a foregone conclusion would take centuries to realize: the early tenth century of Zayde marked a bright moment for Christian Spain, but not a particularly enduring one. See Joseph F. O’Callaghan, A History of Medieval Spain (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1975). Lafayette relied for her historical documentation on Juan de Mariana’s General History of Spain and Luis del Mármol Carvajal’s General Description of Africa, both late sixteenth-century works she read either in Spanish or in French translation. 2. Alfonso III (later known as “el magno”) ruled the kingdom of Leon, in northwest Spain, from 866 to 909 or 910, with brilliant results. He had three sons, one of whom, Garcia I, will be the Prince Don Garcie of Zayde. I have retained Lafayette’s spellings of her characters’ names, while adopting accepted English spellings for places. 3. Diego Porcellos succeeded his father as governor of Castile in 873.

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Zayde Nugnez Fernando.4 The latter was noteworthy for both his great estate and his greatness of wit;5 his children were instrumental in consolidating and expanding his fortune.6 He had a son and a daughter of extraordinary beauty. Nothing in all of Spain could compare to his son, whose name was Consalve;7 both his wit and his person had something so admirable8 about them that it seemed as if the heavens had made him differently from other men. Important reasons had made him flee the court of Leon, and the deep offense he had suffered there had given rise to his plan to leave Spain and retreat into some sort of seclusion. He thus came to the tip of Catalonia planning to take the first ship to set sail for any one of the Greek islands. He was paying so little attention to everything around him that he would often take routes other than those he had been advised: instead of crossing the river Ebro at Tortosa, as he had been told, he followed its banks almost to its delta. At that point, he noticed that he had gone quite out of his way; he inquired after a ferry; he was told that none could be had right there, but that if he wanted to go to a little port nearby, he would find one that would take him to Tarragona. He continued on to this port; he dismounted and asked some fishermen if there were any launches ready to leave. 4. Lafayette’s sources describe Nugno Fernandés (or Nuño Hernandez), a count of Castile who schemed with his son-in-law the prince and the queen to force Alfonso III to abdicate. Modern historians give his name as Muño Fernandez. 5. “Wit,” the standard translation of esprit, should be understood not as humor but as a type of intelligence, at once social and political, that implies presence of mind, alertness, and the ability to say the right thing at the right time; it complements a character’s physical “person” (personne), as in the sentence that follows. On occasion, when Lafayette uses esprit to refer to the thought processes of a character, “mind” will be a better choice. 6. Fortune occurs quite often in Lafayette’s text, in a variety of contexts. One cluster of meanings ranges from “fate” to “luck”; as Fortune’s wheel turns, it generates the “misfortune” (malheur, literally, “bad fate”) that will dog all the main characters of the novel. (For this meaning, I have retained “Fortune,” capitalizing it in the case of personification–something that Lafayette does only occasionally.) But the word has connotations of economic and social success as well, and here has a meaning that most likely includes ideas such as influence, status, and, by implication, wealth; in some other cases, royal favor will also go into “fortune.” As with so many other terms, “fortune” is automatically bound up with nobility (known as “quality”): fate cannot elevate someone whose noble birth does not already predispose him or her to success; spin as it may, Fortune’s wheel will never make a prince of a pauper. 7. Mariana describes a certain Count Fernando Gonzales, a cultivated and well-liked prince; he may be the Consalve of Lafayette’s novel, but was not the son of the historical Muño Fernandez. 8. Admirable in Lafayette’s day combined the modern sense of “worthy of esteem” with something close to astonishment; much like the “surprise” that is always taking hold of her characters at the sight of another, it indicates that the observer is dazzled by an excellence that ultimately derives from aristocratic identity. It was, in addition, a staple feature of narrative plotting since antiquity: ekplêxis is the term Aristotle uses to suggest the sudden awe or amazement that accompanies unexpected plot twists. “Wonder(ment)” is the most frequent translation used.

Part One As he was speaking, a man walking sadly by the sea, surprised by his beauty and noble bearing,9 stopped to look at him; and, overhearing what he was asking the fishermen, he spoke up and said that all the boats had left for Tarragona, that they would not return until the next day, and that he could not, therefore, leave until the day after that. Consalve, who had not noticed him, turned to see where this voice, seemingly unlike that of a fisherman, was coming from. He was struck by the noble bearing of this stranger,10 just as the stranger had been struck by his. [Consalve] saw in him something noble and great—and even beautiful, though it was obvious the man was past the prime of youth. Consalve was hardly in a state to bother himself with anything but his own thoughts; meeting this stranger in such an isolated place, however, made him take notice; he thanked him for telling him what he wanted to know; he then asked the fishermen where he might be able to spend the night. “There are only those cabins you see over there,” said the stranger, “and you would not be comfortable in them.” “That shall not keep me from getting rest,” responded Consalve; “I have been traveling days without any, and I can feel that my body is in need of more than my mind has been willing to allow.” The stranger was touched by the sad way he pronounced these few words; he had no doubt that here was an unhappy man. The evident similarity of their fortunes gave him the kind of inclination for Consalve that we have for those who seem to be of the same disposition as we. “You will find no lodging11 worthy of you around here,” he said, “but, if you were willing to accept what I can offer you, behind that grove of trees,12 you would be much more comfortable than in those cabins.”

9. “Beauty” tends to be a gender-neutral term in Zayde, applying to men and women alike; as with all terms designating physical excellence, it—and the accompanying bonne mine (noble bearing)—implies a corresponding excellence of birth. 10. Inconnu is used at the beginning of the novel to present characters whose identity is (as yet) uncertain; a trope of both romance and the Spanish novella involves introducing mysterious strangers whose past adventures and illustrious identities soon come to light. 11. Retraite here clearly means something like lodging, but in other contexts (indeed, immediately below) implies something like “refuge.” As such, it is part of a cluster of words indicating a type of retreat far from the difficulties of (courtly) society: désert (isolation, remote spot) and solitude (seclusion) are others. Retreats like these allow characters to live out the contemporary ideal of repose (repos, which will figure as well in the novel, and which I usually translate as “peace of mind”); the standard source of information on this is Domna Stanton, “The Ideal of ‘repos’ in Seventeenth-Century French Literature,” L’Esprit créateur 15 (1975): 79–104. 12. The earliest printing of the first Paris edition contains, in place of “behind that grove of trees,” proche d’ici, “near here”; there are few such variants (mostly just omissions), and none of any real importance.

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Zayde

Figure 4. (Left, right) A view of Tortosa and the river Ebro, by Anton Van den Wyngaerde, 1563. Courtesy Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Wien.

Consalve had so much aversion for human contact that at first he refused the offer, but the stranger’s insistence and his own need for rest forced him to accept. He followed him, and after having walked for a while, he came upon a house, rather low and built in a way that was plain, yet refined and wellproportioned. The courtyard was closed off by a single row of pomegranate trees, in the same way that the garden was separated from a grove by just a little stream. If Consalve could have derived pleasure from anything, it would have been the pleasant location of this house. He asked the stranger if this place was his usual residence, and whether chance or choice had brought him here. “I’ve been here for four or five years,” he responded; “I only go out to walk along the shore, and I would say that you’re the only reasonable person I’ve seen in the area since I’ve been living here. Storms smash lots of ships along this coastline, which is rather dangerous; I’ve saved the lives of a few unfortunate souls I’ve taken in, but the only ones whom chance has guided here have been foreigners, incapable of conversation even if I had wanted it. You can tell from where I’m living that I don’t. But I admit I’m not immune to the pleasure of seeing a person such as yourself.” “As far as I’m concerned,” said Consalve, “I avoid people entirely; and I have such good reason to do so that if you knew, you wouldn’t find it strange that I hesitated so much before accepting your offer. On the con-

Part One

trary, you’d agree that after the unhappiness they’ve caused me, I should forever give up any and all company.” “If your only problem is the fault of other people and you have nothing to blame yourself for, then you’re not as unfortunate as you think: some misfortunes are greater still. True misery,” he exclaimed, “is to have oneself to blame, to have laid one’s own trap, to have been unjust and unreasonable; true misery is to be the cause of one’s own crushing misfortunes.” “I can readily see that you yourself suffer from the troubles you describe—but also that they are different from those afflicting someone undeservedly deceived, betrayed, and abandoned by all he held dearest.” “From what I can tell,” said the stranger, “you have abandoned your native land13 so as to flee people who have betrayed and hurt you. But imagine your suffering had you been forced to keep constant company with the very people who had ruined your life. Believe it, this is my situation: I’ve ruined my own life, and I can’t separate myself from myself—a person I hate, and rightly so, not only because of the suffering I’ve caused myself, but also because of the suffering I’ve caused someone I loved more than anything else.” “I wouldn’t complain if I had only myself to complain about,” said Consalve. “You think you are unhappy because you have a reason to hate 13. Patrie—literally, “fatherland,” and which I also translate as “place of birth”—might be thought of roughly in the sense of the modern “nationality.” Strictly speaking, however, nationality (the idea that all individuals belong legally to one or another sovereign country) does not yet exist in word or concept. Lafayette also commonly uses the word pays, “country,” and occasionally, nation. All suggest a sense of belonging that is social, cultural, and sentimental, but never legal.

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Zayde yourself; but if you were faithfully loved by the person you loved, how can you deny having actually been happy? Maybe you did lose that person through your own fault; but at least you had the consolation of thinking that she loved you, and that she’d still love you if you hadn’t done something to anger her. If this thought alone is not enough to dispel your unhappiness, you understand nothing about love. And you love yourself more than your mistress,14 if you would rather have reason to complain about her than about yourself.” “It must be because you’ve had such a small part in your own misfortunes,” answered the stranger, “that you cannot understand that having contributed to them makes for so much more pain still. But believe me and my cruel experience—losing what you love through your own fault is a type of distress you feel more acutely than any other.” As he was finishing these words, they entered the house, which Consalve found as pretty inside as out. He spent the night in a very anxious state; in the morning, he came down with a fever that in the next few days became so serious that people feared for his life. The stranger was visibly upset, and upset still more because of the admiration that all Consalve’s words and actions stirred in him. He could not keep himself from wanting to know who this seemingly extraordinary person was. He asked the person serving Consalve a number of questions; the man’s own lack of knowledge about his master’s name and quality, however, left the stranger’s curiosity unsatisfied. All he was told was that the man went by the name of Theodoric and that this was probably not his real name. Finally, after several days of continuous fever, both medicine and the strength of youth removed Consalve from danger. The stranger tried to keep his mind off the sad thoughts he could see were preoccupying him; he did not leave his side, and though they spoke only of general matters—not knowing each other yet—the noble wit of each man took the other by surprise. Since going into seclusion, the stranger had hidden his name and birth, but he was willing to tell Consalve. He said that he was from the kingdom of Navarre, that his name was Alphonse Ximenes,15 and that his misfortunes 14. Maîtresse, and the masculine amant (lover), neither imply nor exclude sexual relations; they only indicate, respectively, a woman courted or loved by a man, and the man who loves or courts her. I will occasionally use “suitor” for the latter, to avoid confusion. 15. Contemporary sources once again provided Lafayette a sketchy genealogy—the Ximénès family did indeed claim the title of king of Navarre—but the character Alphonse has no other historical reality. On the other hand, as Godenne (Romans de Mademoiselle de Scudéry, 50 n. 2) has pointed out, his first name indicates a likely borrowing from Scudéry’s romance Ibrahim, where another Alphonse finds himself in the odd position of being jealous of a dead man, just as Lafayette’s will be.

Part One had impelled him to seek out a refuge where he could have the freedom to mourn what he had lost. The name Ximenes took Consalve by surprise; he knew it to be one of Navarre’s most illustrious, and he was deeply touched by the confidence Alphonse showed in him. In spite of all the reasons he had for hating mankind, he could not help having feelings of friendship for him that he had come to believe impossible. Meanwhile, his health was returning, and when he was well enough to set out again he could tell that it would be difficult to say good-bye to Alphonse. He spoke to him of their separation and of his own intent to withdraw, like Alphonse, into some sort of seclusion. Alphonse was surprised and upset; he had become so used to his comforting conversations with Consalve that the idea of losing him was painful. First he told him that he was not yet in any condition to leave, and then he tried to persuade him not to seek out a spot lonelier than the one that chance had already supplied him. “I have no hope of possibly making these accommodations less tedious,” he said, “but it seems to me that, given the length of your intended withdrawal, there is some comfort in not being alone. My own misfortunes were inconsolable, and yet I imagine that I would have found some relief if, from time to time, I had had someone to share my grief with. You will find here the same seclusion you could hope for anywhere else, and have the convenience of being able to talk whenever you want to a man with extraordinary admiration for your merit, and as much sensitivity to your misfortunes as he has to his own.” Alphonse’s words did not immediately persuade Consalve, but bit by bit they made an impression on him, and the idea of a retreat totally lacking in company, plus the friendship he already had for [Alphonse], made him decide to stay on in this house. The only thing that bothered him was the fear of being recognized. Alphonse offered his own example as reassurance, telling him that the place was so far from all worldly affairs16 that in the years he had been here, he had never seen anyone who could have recognized him. Consalve had to concur, and after having exchanged with Alphonse words suited to the most well-bred of men who have decided to live together, he sent some of his jewels off to a merchant in Tarragona so he could procure for himself the things he might need. So it was that Consalve immersed himself in a seclusion he vowed never to leave; and so it was that he gave himself over to reflecting upon his misfortunes, with for sole consolation the idea that he had known the last of them. But Fortune would show him that she searches even the remotest wilderness for those whom she is bent on persecuting. 16. Commerce designates the social exchange or interaction that goes on at court; I have rendered it with a number of different expressions, depending on context.

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Zayde Toward the end of autumn, when the winds start to make the ocean dangerous, he went out a little earlier than usual for his morning walk. There had been a fearful storm the night before, and the sea, still rough, added quite agreeably to his reverie. With the same type of reflection he normally brought to bear on his luck, he contemplated for a time the element’s fickleness;17 he then glanced at the shore; he saw numerous traces of debris from a launch, and he looked to see if anyone might still be in need of rescue. The sun, which was rising, made something glimmer that at first he could not discern and that made him merely curious to move closer. He started toward it, and while approaching, he realized that it was a magnificently dressed woman lying on the sand, as if cast up by the storm. She was turned in such a way that he could not make out her face. He lifted her to see whether she was dead—but how great was his astonishment when, in the midst of death’s horrors, he laid eyes on the greatest beauty he had ever seen. Such beauty added to his compassion and made him hope that the woman was not beyond being rescued. At just this moment, Alphonse, who had followed him by chance, came up and helped in the rescue. Their efforts were not in vain, for they saw that she was not dead; they judged, however, that she needed more help than they were able to give her there. Since they were relatively close to their house, they decided that was where they would carry her. Having done so, Alphonse sent for medicine to revive her and women to attend to her. After the women had arrived and had the time to lay her in bed, Consalve came back into the room and looked at this stranger with greater attention. He was impressed at the proportion of her features and the delicacy of her face; he gazed with astonishment on the beauty of her mouth and the whiteness of her bosom; and he was so charmed by all he saw in this stranger that he was almost ready to believe that she was not even mortal. He spent part of the night unable to leave her side. Alphonse advised him to go and get some rest, but he answered that he was so used to trying in vain to sleep that he was happy to have a reason not to. At daybreak, they noticed that the stranger was beginning to come to; she opened her eyes and, since the brightness was painful, turned them languidly in the direction of Consalve, revealing to him big dark eyes of a beauty so particular that it seemed they were made to inspire both respect and love at the same time. After a while it was clear that she was regaining consciousness, that she could distinguish objects, and that she was astonished by the ones she saw. Consalve could not express in words the wonderment she made him feel; he pointed out her beauty to Alphonse with the type of enthusiasm we have for things that surprise and charm us. 17. Inconstance, “inconstancy,” characterizes the ocean, but also friendship and love. It is the mark of a human world ruled by Fortune.

Part One 18

The foreigner did not, however, regain her speech; Consalve, judging that she might remain in this state for a while, went back to his own room. He could not help reflecting on his adventure.19 “It is truly cause for wonderment,” he said,20 “that Fortune has made me cross paths with a woman whose condition not only prevents me from avoiding her but on the contrary, in the name of compassion, obliges me to care for her. And I wonder, too, at her beauty. But be that as it may, as soon as she is healthy I shall regard her charms as but a means by which she will betray more men and make them miserable. Good God! How many will she betray? And how many has she already betrayed? What eyes, what a gaze! How I pity those who might be vulnerable to them, and how happy I am, even while unhappy, that my cruel experience of women’s infidelity will keep me from ever falling in love.” After these words, he had a lot of trouble sleeping, and his sleep was short; he went to check on the foreigner’s condition, which he found improved, but she still was not speaking, and that evening and the next day went by without her pronouncing a single word. Alphonse could not help telling Consalve that he was astonished by how much attention he was giving her. Consalve himself was starting to find it astonishing; he realized that it was now impossible for him to leave this lovely woman’s side, since he felt some major change in her condition would take place during his absence. Once, with him there, she pronounced a few words, and this both gladdened and troubled him; he moved closer to hear what she was saying; she spoke again, and he was surprised to discover that she was speaking a language unknown to him. Certainly, he had already surmised by her clothing that she was a foreigner, but since the clothes seemed those of the Moors and he knew Arabic well, he was sure he would be able to make himself understood. He spoke to her in this language and was even more surprised to see that she did not understand him at all. He spoke to her in Spanish and Italian; none of it, though, was any use, and he could well see by her 18. The text now refers to the inconnue as an étrangère (foreigner)—even though all evidence of foreignness is withheld until the next paragraph—and will not revert to the previous term. 19. Aventure is a mainstay of romance: main characters all have an aventure that will come to light. The word—etymologically, something that comes to be or that happens—has strong links with fortune, and retains associations with ideas of chance, fate, and destiny. Aventures usually provoke surprise, since they also imply a wondrous and unexpected event. I usually translate the word as “adventure”: although it is true that it did not have quite the “Jules Verne” associations it does today, ever since the Middle Ages the French aventure has connoted some extraordinary experience that mixes danger and discovery, and modern adventure novels have often been seen as a development of ancient and medieval trial narratives. On many occasions, however, “event,” “episode,” or “circumstances” will be much closer to the mark. 20. In keeping with practice that will not alter substantially until the middle of the nineteenth century, Lafayette uses the same verbs to report interior monologue—“to say,” “to exclaim”— as she does to describe real, audible conversations

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Zayde attentive and confused look that she still could understand him no better. Yet she herself kept speaking, pausing now and then, as if waiting for a response. Consalve listened to each word; it seemed to him that by listening hard he would be able to understand her. He called to all those serving her, to see if they might not understand. He held out a Spanish book to see if she recognized the characters; he thought she did, but that she didn’t know the language itself. She was sad and anxious,21 which added to Consalve’s own sadness and anxiety. This was how they were when Alphonse came in the room leading an attractive woman dressed the same way as the stranger. As soon as the women saw each other, they embraced with much display of friendship. The woman who had just come in pronounced a number of times the word “Zayde” in a way that made it clear that this was the name of the person she was speaking to; and Zayde too pronounced the word “Felime” enough so that it was understood that this was what the other foreigner was called.22 After they had spoken some time, Zayde started to cry in a way that indicated great distress, and she motioned for everyone to go. Everyone left the room; Consalve went off with Alphonse in order to ask him where this other foreigner had been found. Alphonse told him that fisherman living nearby had found her on the shore, the same day and in the same state that he had found her companion. “Being together will give them some consolation,” Consalve continued; “but, Alphonse, what do you think of the two? Judging by their clothes, they are of a rank well above commoners. So why did they venture out to sea in such a small vessel? It wasn’t in a big ship that they ran aground. The woman you brought to Zayde told her news that pained her greatly. At any rate, there is something extraordinary about their fortune.” “I agree,” replied Alphonse, “I find their whole adventure astonishing, and their beauty as well. You may not have noticed Felime’s, but it’s quite something, and would have taken you by surprise had you not seen Zayde.” With these words they separated, and Consalve was even sadder than he was used to being; he realized, moreover, that his sadness came from the 21. The standard modern meaning of inquiétude—“worry”—is usually not quite strong enough to render the idea of torment suggested by the term. Often in Lafayette’s usage (this will be true of The Princess of Clèves), inquiétude designates the awakening of jealousy, acknowledged or unacknowledged by the character who feels it; the word will recur frequently, for example, in Alphonse’s story of his obsessive love for Belasire. I have used the word “anxiety,” which was in use in both French and English moral philosophy of the time, and which still retains this dimension. 22. Like many characters in the novel, Zayde and Felime have no verifiable historical existence, though the name of the heroine appears in Pérez de Hita’s Civil Wars of Granada. Lafayette, like Villedieu, whose Alcidamie (1661) contains an Almanzayde, simply dipped into the prose repertory of the time for names with exotic consonances.

Part One distress of not being able to make himself understood by the stranger. “But what do I have to say to her?” he continued to himself; “and what do I want to learn from her? Do I intend to tell her all about my misfortunes? Do I want to know hers? Can curiosity really exist in a man as unlucky as myself? What interest can I possibly take in the misfortunes of someone I don’t know at all? Why is it that I must be sad when I see her distressed? Is it that the wrongs I’ve endured have taught me to pity other people’s? No,” he continued, “it must be that my deep seclusion makes me take notice of an adventure which, however extraordinary it may be, wouldn’t have interested me long if I had been distracted by other matters.” In spite of this conclusion, he spent the night sleepless, and most of the following day anxious, because he was still unable to see Zayde. When evening came, he was told that she had got out of bed and had just gone off in the direction of the ocean. He followed, and found her sitting on the shore, eyes wet with tears. When he approached, she came forward with much civility and gentleness; he was impressed to find in her stature and comportment23 all the charms he had already found in her features. Showing him a small boat in the water, she said “Tunis” several times, as if asking him to ensure she be taken there. Pointing to the moon, he indicated that she would have her wish when that planet had twice finished its course. She seemed to understand what he was saying and soon afterward started to cry. The following day she was taken sick; he was not able to see her; no day since the beginning of his seclusion had seemed so long and tedious. The next day, without really knowing why, he gave up the unkempt appearance he had been maintaining since his withdrawal; and given that he was the most nobly built24 man imaginable, simple neatness adorned him more than magnificent dress would someone else. Alphonse came upon him in the woods and was astonished to see him so different from usual. He could not help smiling and telling him how glad he was to see, judging by his clothes, that his afflictions were on the wane and that he was finally finding in this isolation some relief from his troubles. “I understand you perfectly,” responded Consalve. “You think that I’ve found relief from my difficulties in the sight of Zayde, but you’re wrong: any compassion I might have for Zayde doesn’t go beyond what her misfortune and beauty deserve.” 23. Sa taille et ses actions. One’s physical being (in both the face and the body as a whole) blends with one’s actions to produce the impression of a person of quality—the ineffable but irrepressible guarantee that noble identity cannot be lost. 24. Bien fait, a description particularly well known to readers of The Princess of Clèves. It implies attractiveness, certainly, but also a physical make-up that is, again, indicative of aristocratic birth.

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Zayde “I have as much compassion for her as you do,” said Alphonse; “I pity and would love to help her. But I don’t tend to her so assiduously; I don’t observe her with your care; I’m not so upset about not understanding her; I don’t have such a strong urge to speak with her; yesterday I was no sadder than usual because she wasn’t receiving visitors, and I’m no more or less unkempt today than I ever am. So, since I feel as much pity as you and yet we’re still so different, it follows that you must feel something more.” Consalve did not interrupt Alphonse, and he seemed to be looking within himself to see whether what he had been told was true. Just when he was about to answer, someone came to inform him, in accordance with his directions, that Zayde had left her room and was taking a walk by the sea. Straightaway, without considering the fact that he was going to confirm Alphonse’s suspicions by doing so, he left him to go after Zayde. From a distance, he could see her sitting with Felime in the same spot as two days previously; he could not help being curious to observe their actions; he believed he might deduce something about their fortunes. He saw that Zayde was crying, and he guessed that Felime was trying to console her; Zayde was not listening, but instead kept looking to the sea in such a way that Consalve surmised she was mourning someone who had been shipwrecked with her. He had seen her before crying in the same place; but since she had not done anything to indicate the cause of her grief, he had assumed she was crying only because she was so far from her country. Yet now he imagined25 that the tears he was seeing her shed were for a lover who had perished, and that maybe it was a lover whom she had ventured out to sea to follow. And so he thought he knew for certain, just as if she had told him herself, that her tears were caused by love. One cannot begin to express what these thoughts produced in Consalve’s soul, nor the disturbance that jealousy brought to a heart whose love was still unacknowledged. He had already been in love; he had never, however, been jealous. This new unfamiliar passion26 made itself felt within

25. Lafayette uses a cluster of verbs, along with s’imaginer, to denote (often mistaken) acts of thought—sembler (to seem [to someone]), paraître (to appear [to someone]), se flatter (to flatter oneself [with some thought]), croire (to believe), juger (to judge), and trouver (to find or to think) are others. I have tried to follow Lafayette’s own usage as much as possible. 26. Passions correspond to what we now in English refer to as emotions; jealousy, hatred, even ambition fall within the term’s purview. When Lafayette uses it in the singular, passion usually— but not always—has the familiar modern meaning of “(erotic) love.” On the evolving vocabulary of the emotions in seventeenth-century French culture, see Joan DeJean, Ancients against Moderns: Culture Wars and the Making of a Fin de Siècle (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997).

Part One him for the first time, and with such violence that he thought himself struck down by a kind of suffering unknown to other men. It seemed to him that he had experienced all the trials life had to offer, and yet now he felt something crueler still. No longer reasoning freely, he left his post and advanced toward Zayde with the intention of learning directly from her the cause of her distress; and even though he was sure she could not answer, he asked her the question. She was far from understanding what he meant; wiping her tears, she started to walk with him. The pleasure of seeing her, and of being seen by her beautiful eyes, calmed his agitation; now he noticed how disturbed he had become and composed himself as best he could. She pronounced “Tunis” again a number of times with much insistence and many signs of wanting to be taken there. He understood only too well what she was asking of him; the thought of seeing her leave already deeply pained him. Thus it was only the pangs of love that woke him up to the fact that he loved, and jealousy and fear of loss had started to torment him even before he knew he was in love. Merely realizing he was in love would have given him enough to complain about. But finding in himself love and jealousy all at once, not being able to understand the woman he loved or to make himself understood, knowing nothing of her but her beauty, having only prospects of eternal loss before him—it was impossible not to succumb to so many difficulties at once. While he was absorbed by these sad reflections, Zayde continued on with Felime; and after walking for some time, she went to sit on the rocks and again started to cry while looking out toward the sea, presenting it to Felime as if accusing it of the misfortune responsible for the shedding of so many tears. To distract her, Consalve pointed out some nearby fishermen. In spite of his sadness and agitation, the sight of his beloved incited in this new lover a joy that restored his real beauty; and since he had taken more care with his appearance than previously, he was perfectly deserving of anyone’s gaze. Zayde started to examine him first with attention, then with astonishment; and after having considered him for a good while, she turned to her companion and motioned to Consalve while saying something. Felime looked at him and answered Zayde with a gesture that demonstrated approval of what she had just said. Zayde looked again at Consalve and said something else to Felime; Felime did the same; and all this made Consalve judge that he resembled someone they knew. At first the thought made no impression; but he found Zayde so preoccupied by this resemblance, and it seemed to him so clear that even in the midst of her sadness she took some sort of joy in contemplating him, that he imagined he looked like the lover she seemed to pine after.

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Zayde Throughout the rest of the day Zayde would act in ways that confirmed his suspicion. When evening came, she and Felime started hunting around for something in the debris from the shipwreck. They hunted with such care, and Consalve saw such signs of chagrin27 at not having found what they were looking for, that new causes of anxiety arose in him. Alphonse could clearly see the disquiet in his friend’s mind, and after they had accompanied Zayde to her chambers, he lingered on in Consalve’s room. “You may not have told me all about your past troubles,” he said, “but it’s time to confess the troubles that Zayde has started to make for you. A man as in love as you appear to me to be always finds comfort in talking about his love; and even if your difficulties are great, it’s always possible that my help and advice might be of some use.” “Ah, dear Alphonse, how miserable I am, how weak, how desperate! And you’re so wise to have seen Zayde and not to have fallen in love!” “So my guess that you loved her was correct—you didn’t want to admit it.” “But I didn’t know it myself,” Consalve interrupted. “Only jealousy made me realize that I was in love. Zayde is mourning some lover who was shipwrecked; this is why she goes to the water’s edge every day; she goes to weep at the spot where she thinks her lover perished. So yes, I love Zayde and Zayde loves someone else, and of all possible misfortunes, this is exactly the one that seemed to me the most awful, but also the most unlikely. I flattered myself that maybe it wasn’t a lover that Zayde was crying over; she’s obviously too disturbed, though, to leave the matter in doubt; moreover, I’m also persuaded by the care I saw her take searching for something which must come from that fortunate lover. And finally, worse than anything I’ve just told you, I resemble, Alphonse, the man she loves; she noticed it while out for one of her walks; I could see the joy in her eyes at having someone to remind her of him. She pointed me out to Felime twenty times, and she had her examine all my features; she spent all day looking me up and down. But it’s not me she sees, and it’s not me she’s thinking of when she looks at me; I remind her of the only thing I wish I could make her forget. So I’m even robbed of the pleasure of seeing her lovely eyes turned on me, since she can’t so much as look at me without making me jealous.” Consalve uttered all these words so quickly that Alphonse could not interrupt; but when he had stopped talking, he said, “Can everything you’re 27. In classical French, chagrin suggests the ill humor, bitterness, and frustration that come from thwarted desire of any sort. Lafayette uses the word with particular frequency whenever a character’s love encounters an obstacle.

Part One saying really be true? Or mightn’t the sadness you have become accustomed to have made you conceive of a misfortune so extraordinary?” “No, Alphonse, I’m absolutely sure. Zayde is weeping over a lover I remind her of. Fortune herself keeps me from conceiving of misfortunes beyond those she really causes by exceeding anything I could possibly imagine. She invents special ones for me, ones otherwise unknown to man; and if I told you the details of my life, you’d be obliged to admit that I was right when I claimed that I was more unfortunate than you.” “I hardly dare point out that unless you had some important reason for concealing it, you would make me happy indeed if you told me who you are and what sort of misfortunes you judge more serious than my own. Of course I know that I have no right to ask this of you without also informing you of my own troubles. But you must excuse this of an unhappy man who has concealed neither his name nor his birth from you, and who wouldn’t conceal his past adventures either if he thought they could be of any use to you, or if he could utter them without renewing the suffering that many years have only started to efface.” “I will never ask of you anything that causes you suffering,” replied Consalve, “but I do blame myself for not telling you who I am. Even though I resolved not to let anyone know, both the extraordinary merit I can see in your person and the gratitude I owe you for your efforts on my behalf oblige me to confess that my real name is Consalve, and that I am the son of Nugnez Fernando, count of Castile, a man whose reputation must have reached your ears.” “Do you mean to tell me that you are the Consalve celebrated since his very first battles for the rout of countless Moors? For deeds whose valor has inspired the admiration of all of Spain? I’m well familiar with your early exploits: before withdrawing to this lonely spot, I had already been astonished to learn that in the famous battle won by the King of Leon over Ayola, the Moors’ greatest captain, you alone turned the tide of victory to the Christians and made the Moors beg for peace by leading the attack on Zamora.28 Since then, my seclusion has not allowed me to learn what followed this auspicious beginning, although I’m sure the rest is equally impressive.” “I didn’t think my name would be known to you,” said Consalve; “and I’m glad that you’re predisposed to me, though by a reputation that is perhaps undeserved.” Alphonse lent all his attention as Consalve began with these words. 28. Moors and Christians struggled repeatedly over Zamora, in Leon; the battle referred to occurred in 901 (according to modern sources) or 886 (according to Lafayette’s contemporaries).

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Zayde Consalve’s Story “My father was the most renowned man in the court of Leon when he introduced me with a pomp proportionate to his fortune. My inclination,29 my age, and my duty put me in the service of the Prince Don Garcie,30 the King’s eldest son. The Prince is young, handsome, and ambitious. His good traits far outweigh the bad, and it is fair to say that the latter come from amorous passions alone. I was lucky enough to be in his good graces without having really done anything to deserve it, and I endeavored to be worthy of such trust by my allegiance. During the first war against the Moors, it was my good fortune to be close enough to the Prince to rescue him from dangerous circumstances that his heedless bravery had got him into. This service increased his kindness toward me. He loved me more as a brother than as a subject. He never hid anything from me, he never denied me anything, and he made it clear to all that in order to be loved by him, they would have to be loved by Consalve as well. Such a display of favor, added to my father’s renown, raised our house to heights that threatened to eclipse the King himself, and that made him fear that we had grown too strong. “Among the infinite number of young men who befriended me because of the favor I enjoyed, I had singled out Don Ramire. Though one of the most illustrious of the court, his fortune was nevertheless nowhere near my own. I did all I could to improve it: every day I’d use my father’s credit, and my own, for his advancement. I carefully arranged for him to share in the Prince’s favor; and he himself, by his gentle and engaging behavior, did so much to second my own efforts that he became, next to me, the person at the court whom Don Garcie treated best. I took great pleasure in their friendship; both of them had already experienced the power of love, so they would often tease me about my indifference, taking me to task for never having been in love, as if it were some sort of defect. “For my part, I took them to task for never having known true love. ‘You love,’ I told them, ‘the type of gallantry that has become the custom in 29. Inclination, an omnipresent term in the vocabulary of the sentiments propagated by salon culture, had a primarily amorous meaning: it could either refer to an initial romantic attraction or serve as a euphemism for love itself. Notably, one spoke of “marriages of inclination,” considered the opposite of arranged marriages or “marriages of convenience.” The romantic sense of the word was still current both in French and in English well into the nineteenth century. As with many other terms that apply to both love and social relations, however, it can also indicate any sort of harmony of interests or desires, as is the case here. 30. Garcia was the eldest of Alfonso III’s three sons and ruled from 910 to 913 or 914. He married the daughter of Muño Fernandez (Lafayette’s Nugnez Fernando).

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Spain. But you don’t love your mistresses. You’ll never convince me that you’re in love with women whose faces you hardly know, and whom you’d never even recognize if you saw them someplace other than the window where you are accustomed to seeing them.’ “‘You exaggerate our lack of knowledge32 of our mistresses,’ the Prince responded, ‘but at any rate we know their beauty, and in love, that is what counts. We judge their wit first by their physiognomy, and then by their letters; and when we get closer still, we’re charmed by the pleasure of discovering things we don’t yet know. Every word they pronounce has the grace that comes from novelty; their manner is always surprising; surprise awakens and stimulates love. Whereas those who know their mistresses well before loving them are so used to their beauty and wit that when they are finally loved, they’ve become inured to them.’ “‘That is one misfortune,’ I answered, ‘that you will never have to suffer. But I shall leave you free, sir,33 to love any and everyone you don’t know, as long as you’ll allow me to love only a woman I’ll know well enough to esteem, one in whom, once she loves me, I can be sure of finding my happiness. I would say, though, that I’d prefer her not to be predisposed toward another suitor.’ “‘As for me,’ interrupted Don Ramire, ‘I’d take more pleasure in conquering the defenses of a heart already in love than in touching one that had never been touched.34 It would be a double victory, and I’d be far more 31. The seventeenth-century concept of galanterie is notoriously difficult to translate into modern English. It had connotations ranging widely from simple elegance and politeness to the coded atmosphere of flirtation and seduction common in court society. This elasticity may explain why, in Zayde, Lafayette will portray Moorish culture as both emblematic of galanterie (in the sense of elegance) and inimical to it (because men and women did not mix socially). I render these meanings with the English cognate. In cases in which the word serves as a euphemism for the specific amorous dalliances of a character, I translate it as “love affair.” The word is relatively uncommon in Zayde, where it has not yet assumed the critical importance it will have in The Princess of Clèves. 32. “Familiarity” might be a more idiomatic translation here for the French connaissance (knowledge), but the passage, and the novel as a whole, is shot through with variants on the root word “know” (connaître and connaissance, but also reconnaître [to recognize] and un inconnu [an unknown person, a stranger]). 33. The only two terms of address appearing in Zayde are Seigneur and Madame; sir and madam are the terms used in the novel’s English translation at the time, as well as in other English novels of the period. 34. “To touch” in the modern sense of “to move someone to sympathy” was current in the seventeenth century, and occurs elsewhere in Zayde. But toucher implied any sort of stirring of emotions and often had clearly romantic overtones, especially when combined with the word “heart,” as in this passage. I have decided to conserve this whole register of sentiment in which romantic and nonromantic sympathy share the same vocabulary.

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Zayde persuaded of a true inclination for me if I saw it arise in a woman already passionately in love with someone else. In the end, both my pride and my love would find satisfaction in stealing a mistress from a rival.’ “‘Consalve is so astonished by your opinion, and finds it so wrong, that he doesn’t even want to respond,’ said the Prince. ‘And I actually take his side against yours; only I am also against him when he speaks of wanting some special knowledge of his mistress. I’d be incapable of falling in love with someone I had been used to seeing; and I can’t be touched if I’m not surprised first. I believe that natural inclinations are first felt at the beginning; whereas passions that develop over time don’t really deserve to be called passions at all.’ “‘One can then be quite certain,’ I concluded, ‘that you’ll never love someone you haven’t loved from the outset.’ Laughing, I added: ‘I must introduce you to my sister now, sir, while her beauty is not yet fully developed, so you will get used to seeing her and she will never touch your heart.’ “‘So that is your fear, is it?’ said Don Garcie. “‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘I would even say I fear it as if it were the greatest misfortune that could befall me.’ “‘But what misfortune is there in that?’ said Don Ramire. “‘The misfortune,’ I replied, ‘of not being able to second the Prince’s feelings. For if he wanted to marry my sister, in the interest of his own rank I’d have to object; and if he didn’t want to marry her, and yet she loved him—as she no doubt would—I would be dismayed to see my sister the mistress of a master whom I couldn’t despise even though I ought to.’ “‘Please, then, show me your sister before she can inspire my love,’ said the Prince, ‘for I would so hate to have feelings that might offend you that I cannot wait to see her—just to be sure that I shall never fall in love with her.’ “‘Sir,’ said Don Ramire to Don Garcie, ‘it’s now perfectly clear why you’ve never fallen in love with all the lovely women raised in the palace, whom you’ve been used to seeing from childhood. I admit that up till now I’ve always been surprised that not one has made you fall in love, not even Nugna Bella, daughter of Don Diego Porcellos, who seems to me so capable of inspiring it.’ “‘It’s true enough,’ answered the Prince, ‘that Nugna Bella is lovely. She has wonderful eyes; she has a beautiful mouth and a fine and noble air. Indeed, I might well have fallen in love, had I not been used to seeing her nearly from the moment I was born. But why,’ he continued, addressing Don Ramire, ‘haven’t you yourself fallen in love with her, since you find her so beautiful?’

Part One “‘Because she’s never been in love: I wouldn’t have anyone to drive out of her heart, and I’ve just told you that’s what is capable of touching my own. You should ask Consalve instead why he hasn’t been in love with her, since I know he finds her beautiful. She doesn’t have feelings35 for anyone, and he has known her for quite a while.’ “‘Who told you I don’t love her?’ I said, smiling and blushing at the same time. “‘I can’t recall,’ said Don Ramire. ‘But seeing how you blush, I suppose that they were wrong.’ “‘Could it be possible that you’re in love?’ exclaimed the Prince, turning to me. ‘If you are, kindly confess it at once, for it will give me considerable pleasure to see you fall victim to a sickness for which you have so little sympathy.’ “‘In all seriousness,’ I replied, ‘I am not in love. But just to please you, sir, I will confess that I could love Nugna Bella if only I knew her a bit better.’ “‘If all that’s needed is for you to get to know her better,’ said the Prince, ‘then rest assured you’re as good as in love already. I’ll never visit my mother the Queen without you; I’ll get into more arguments than usual with the King, just so we’ll have to spend extra time with my mother patching things up. By the end of it all, I’ll have given you so many opportunities to talk to Nugna Bella that you’ll be thoroughly in love. You’ll find her completely charming; and as long as her heart is as exceptional as her wit, all your wishes will be granted.’ “‘I beg of you, sir,’ I said, ‘don’t go to so much trouble just to make me unhappy; and most of all, find some pretext other than arguments with the King for your visits to the Queen; you know that he often blames me for the things you do that he doesn’t like, and that he thinks my father and I, for the benefit of our family, are behind whatever resistance to his will you show from time to time.’ “‘I won’t be as careful as you’d like,’ answered the Prince, ‘given how eager I am to make Nugna Bella fall in love with you. I am going to avail myself of any pretext I can to take you to the Queen’s apartment; in fact, 35. Elle n’a point d’attachement. Like inclination, the words attachement and s’attacher à quelqu’un (literally, “attachment” and “to attach oneself to someone”) occur frequently in Zayde and other romances and novellas of the period. The words suggest some sort of romantic relationship, and I translate this cluster of expressions variously as “fondness,” “to develop feelings for,” and on occasion “relationship” and “to become involved with.” (The surviving English use of the expression, “to become attached to someone,” connoting a [usually platonic] fondness developing slowly over time, interferes with any attempt to translate with a simple cognate.) Once again, the romantic meaning is an offshoot of a term that at its most general indicates any sort of social or political devotion and obedience.

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Zayde even though I don’t have any reason to, I’ll go right now, and just for the pleasure of making you fall in love, I’ll sacrifice an evening I had intended to spend under the very windows where you seem to think I don’t know a soul.’ “I wouldn’t have recounted this whole conversation,” said Consalve to Alphonse, “if it weren’t for the fact that it was a kind of presage of what was to come, as you will see by the following.36 “The Prince went off to see the Queen; he found that she was receiving only the ladies of her intimate circle. Nugna Bella was one of these: she was so beautiful that evening that it was as if chance were favoring the Prince’s designs. The conversation remained general for a time; and since the ladies had more freedom than at other times, Nugna Bella spoke more, and surprised me by showing much more wit than I had previously known her to have. The Prince asked the Queen to follow him into her study,37 without, however, knowing what he would say to her. While they were gone, I remained with Nugna Bella and a number of others, and I steered her bit by bit into a separate conversation; and even though we spoke only of inconsequential matters, it seemed more gallant than ordinary conversations. We both expressed disapproval of the sheltered way women in Spain were made to live, as if sensing from our own situation that we were losing something by not having complete freedom to speak together. Though I could feel, from that moment, that I was falling in love with Nugna Bella, from what she admitted later, she started to notice that she wasn’t indifferent to me either. Given her character,38 winning my heart couldn’t be unpleasant; there was something so dazzling about my fortune that even a person less ambitious than she would have found it arresting. She did her best to make a favorable impression, though without doing 36. Conversations on matters of love and courtship are emblematic of Scuderian romances: characters routinely get together to discuss these questions galantes—e.g., Is love more worthy than ambition? Is friendship compatible with love?—with each weighing in on one side or another. (The subject of this particular conversation is inherited directly from the first volume of Scudéry’s Clélie.) Zayde is more economical in its use of the conversation, in that there is only one, which then provides the permutations that govern the behavior of the novel’s characters. 37. The word cabinet refers to a private room, usually off the bedroom, which was used for reflection, reading and writing, and intimate conversation. (Everyday receiving of visitors was done in the bedroom itself.) In contemporary English, the room was known as the “closet.” 38. Humeur can refer either to a passing mood or to the durable temperament that, according to both Hippocratic and Galenic physiology, was caused by the humors, or fluids, circulating in various proportions in the human body. Not only was the theory of the humors still medically credible in Lafayette’s day, but the term also designated in common parlance what we would think of as a person’s “character” or “constitution.”

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anything contrary to her natural pride. Guided by the insight that growing love inspires, I soon let myself be flattered by the hope of winning her over, and this hope was as liable to goad me on as the thought of having a rival was to put me off. “The Prince was overjoyed to see that I was developing feelings for Nugna Bella; every day he gave me some chance to speak with her; he even asked me to bring up the subject of his tensions with the King and to indicate to Nugna Bella the course of action the Queen should adopt to get him to do as the King desired. Nugna Bella did not fail to transmit these messages to the Queen; and when the Queen followed the instructions, they did not fail to produce the desired effect either. Eventually, the Queen did nothing regarding the Prince without first telling Nugna Bella, who then told me. This was how we came to have long conversations, during which I saw in her such abundant wit, prudence, and charm—and she imagined finding in me so much merit, while in truth finding so much love—that there started to burn a passion that ended up becoming quite violent.40 The Prince wanted to serve as confidant in this exchange. I didn’t usually hide anything from him; I was afraid, however, that Nugna Bella might be offended at my revealing that she was showing some favor toward me. Don Garcie assured me that given her character, she wouldn’t take offense. He spoke to her about me; at first she was ashamed and bothered by the topic, but, as he had predicted, this confidant’s great stature made up for the initial confiding. She got used to his speaking to her of my passion; and it was through him that she received the first letters I wrote her. “For us love had all the grace of novelty, that secret charm you find only in your first passion. Since my ambition had been fully satisfied even before falling in love, the latter passion was in no way weakened by the former. My soul gave itself over as if to a previously unknown pleasure, one that for me infinitely surpassed anything that grandeur can bestow. It wasn’t the same for Nugna Bella; these two passions arose in her heart simultaneously, laying nearly equal claims. Her natural inclination no doubt made her more prone 39. Fierté, from the Latin ferus, “ferocious,” denoted in classical French both an aristocratic pride and a type of standoffishness, a reluctance to be courted or to let oneself fall in love. Whether seen, then, as good (in the case of the courageous warrior) or as bad (by lovelorn suitors), it does not correspond to the Christian sin of self-love, famously castigated by Lafayette’s contemporary and collaborator La Rochefoucauld under the term amour-propre. 40. Passions of all types, even love, were frequently called “violent,” as if their operation disturbed a person’s self-mastery, balance, or repos. This idea, reflected in Lafayette’s ubiquitous recourse to words such as agitation and trouble, stretches back to Plato; only in the eighteenth century would certain emotions such as love or sympathy start to be thought of as a positive, enriching part of human experience.

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Zayde to ambition than love; but since I satisfied both, I still found in her all the ardor and intensity I could hope for. Which is not to say that sometimes she wasn’t just as preoccupied with the Prince’s affairs as with our love. And for me, wholly consumed by my passion, the recognition that Nugna Bella was capable of other thoughts was painful. I complained to her about it, but I noticed that my complaints either were fruitless or else led to a sort of awkward discussion that made it clear her mind was elsewhere. Still, because I had heard that happiness is no more perfect in love than in life in general, I endured these difficulties with patience. Nugna Bella did love me with scrupulous faithfulness, and as far as I could tell she had only scorn for men who dared look at her. I was thus persuaded that she was exempt from the weaknesses that scared me in other women—a conviction which rendered my happiness so complete that I could wish for nothing more. “Fortune had placed me by birth into a rank worthy of the envy of the most ambitious: I was the favorite of a prince whom I loved by natural inclination; I was loved by the most beautiful woman in Spain, whom I adored; and I had a friend, whom I thought faithful, and whose fortune I was able to improve. The only thing that troubled me was seeing Don Garcie’s unjustified impatience to wield power, and the anxiousness of my father, Nugnez Fernando, who was as eager as the King suspected to climb higher than everyone else. I was worried about being duty-bound, by gratitude and nature, to men who might want to involve me in affairs I thought unjust. And yet since any such difficulties were still less than certain, the thought of them troubled me only from time to time; I found consolation as well in being able to discuss it all with Don Ramire, in whom I had so much faith that I recounted even my fears about matters ranging from the significant to the unlikely. “What preoccupied me most in those days was my plan to marry Nugna Bella. I had already been in love with her for quite a while without daring to propose: I knew the King would disapprove of the marriage, for Nugna Bella was the daughter of one of the counts of Castile whose revolt was feared as much as my father’s, and political prudence dictated that two such powers not be united by marriage. I also knew that even though my father was not opposed in principle to my plan, he wouldn’t want an actual marriage proposal out of fear of increasing the King’s suspicions. So I was forced to wait for a more favorable moment; in the meantime, however, I didn’t conceal my fondness for Nugna Bella one bit. I spoke with her as much as possible. The Prince spoke with her very often as well. The King noticed all these discussions and mistook for an affair of state what was really only an affair of the heart. He thought that his son was seconding my

Part One designs on Nugna Bella so as to bring the two counts of Castile together and win them over to his own interests; he thought he wanted to form a powerful faction and thereby balance out his own authority. He was sure the counts of Castile would join such a faction in the hopes of having their sovereignty recognized. All things considered, the union of the two houses appeared to him such a cause for concern that he publicly declared that I was to give up my designs on Nugna Bella and prohibited the Prince from favoring our marriage. “The counts of Castile, who may well have had some of the intentions the King suspected, but without being ready to reveal them, ordered us not to think of each other any longer. The interdiction caused us much suffering. The Prince promised us that he’d soon change his father’s mind; he made us promise each other eternal fidelity and took upon himself the task of furthering our exchanges while hiding our intrigue. The Queen approved of the Prince’s plan and did her part to further it, knowing full well that far from pushing him to revolt, we were trying to lead the Prince in the opposite direction. “Since we could no longer speak in public, we sought out the means to speak in private. I had the idea that Nugna Bella should change her quarters, that she should move, with some other ladies of the palace, to the main part of the building where the windows all looked onto a back street and were so close to the ground that through them one could easily speak with a man on horseback. I proposed as much to the Prince; he obtained the Queen’s approval, and under some plausible pretext we had it done. Almost every day I would come to this window and wait for the moments that Nugna Bella would be able to talk with me. Sometimes I’d leave charmed by the feelings she had for me; and sometimes I’d leave in despair over seeing her so preoccupied by tasks the Queen was giving her. Up until this point, Fortune hadn’t shown me her fickleness, but soon she made it clear that she stood still for no man. “Aware of the King’s suspicions, my father wanted to demonstrate how groundless they were with a further gesture of obedience: he decided to bring to court my sister, whom he had previously insisted on keeping in Castile. Vanity had a part in his decision: he was more than willing to show off a woman he deemed among the most beautiful in all of Spain. Never had a father been more sensitive to the beauty of his children; the vanity it gave him could indeed be thought a weakness in a man such as he. So he brought her to court, and she was received into the palace. “Don Garcie was out hunting the day she arrived; that evening, without having spoken with anybody who might have informed him of her

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Zayde arrival, he came to the Queen’s apartment. I too was there, but off in a corner where he didn’t see me. The Queen introduced him to Hermenesilde (such was my sister’s name); her beauty took him by surprise, and it was a surprise in which one could detect wonderment. He announced that such magnificence, majesty, and attractiveness had never been seen together in the same person, nor black hair combined with such a wonderful complexion and eyes so blue; and that she was serious and poised while still in the flower of youth. Thus the more he looked at her, the more he sang her praises. Don Ramire noticed this eagerness to praise Hermenesilde; it wasn’t difficult for him to surmise that I was thinking the same thought; and, seeing me at the other end of the room, he came over to speak to me of my sister’s beauty. “‘I wish you were the only one praising her,’ I said. Just as I spoke these words, Don Garcie accidentally passed by; he seemed startled to see me. Still, he regained his composure; he brought up Hermenesilde and told me that I hadn’t described her as being as beautiful as he himself found her to be. That evening, as he was retiring,41 nothing was spoken of except her. I observed him carefully, and I took as confirmation of my suspicions the fact that he didn’t praise her as boldly in front of me as with the others. In the next few days, he couldn’t stop himself from speaking with her; it was clear to me that his inclination for her was sweeping him away like an irresistible torrent. I endeavored to discover his thoughts without bringing up the subject openly. One evening when we were leaving the Queen’s apartment, where he had spoken awhile with Hermenesilde, I said, ‘May I be so bold as to ask you, sir, if I waited too long to show you my sister, and if she might not already be beautiful enough to have caused one of those surprises I was worried about?’ “‘I was indeed surprised by her beauty,’ answered the Prince; ‘but while I believe that one cannot fall in love without being surprised, I also believe that one can be surprised without falling in love.’ “Don Garcie’s intention was to answer me no more seriously than I had spoken; but since he was uneasy with what I had said, and noticed his own uneasiness, his response had a tinge of chagrin to it that let me know I hadn’t been wrong. For his part, he guessed that I had noticed his feelings for my sister; he still cared for me enough to make it difficult to embark on something he knew would be objectionable to me, but on the other hand, he already loved Hermenesilde too much to give up on his goal of making her 41. That is, at the coucher of the Prince, a highly ritualistic ceremony attended by his gentlemen. Clearly Lafayette is modeling the behavior of her tenth-century Spaniards on customs that obtained during the early modern French monarchy.

Part One love him. Thus I couldn’t pretend that his friendship for me would cause him to give up his love for her. I merely intended to prepare my sister for what she should do if the Prince made a declaration of his love, and I told her to follow scrupulously the advice of Nugna Bella. This she promised me, and I confided my worries about Don Garcie’s love to Nugna Bella. I told her all the disturbing consequences I feared from the affair; she was of the same opinion, and assured me that she would spend so much time with Hermenesilde that the Prince would have little chance to speak with her. And indeed, without betraying anything that might indicate they were doing it on purpose, they became so inseparable that Don Garcie could never find Hermenesilde without Nugna Bella. This difficulty caused him such chagrin as to render him scarcely recognizable; and since he usually told me all his thoughts yet said nothing of the ones now preoccupying him, I soon noticed a huge change in his behavior toward me. “‘Don’t you wonder at people’s unfairness?’ I said to Don Ramire. ‘The Prince hates me because he feels in his heart a passion which rightly upsets me; and if my sister loved him back, he’d hate me even more. I easily foresaw the problems I’d have if she proved to his liking; and if his feelings for her don’t change, I won’t be his favorite for long, even in the eyes of the court—for in his heart I no longer am anyway.’ “Like me, Don Ramire was sure that the Prince was in love, but to put this cause of suffering out of my mind, he said, ‘I don’t know what grounds you have to think that Don Garcie is in love with Hermenesilde. True, he praised her at first, but I’ve seen nothing since that suggests a man in love; and what if he did love her?’ he added. ‘Would that be such a bad thing? Why couldn’t he marry her? He wouldn’t be the first prince to marry one of his subjects; he couldn’t find one more worthy of him; and if he did marry her, what an honor for your house it would be.’ “‘That is precisely why the King would never consent to the marriage. Without his consent, I wouldn’t agree to it; and it’s even possible the Prince wouldn’t want it either, or wouldn’t want it badly enough or long enough to make it come to pass. In the end it’s just not feasible, and I don’t want everyone at court to think that I’d risk my sister’s reputation on the ill-conceived hope of a rank that will never be ours. If Don Garcie remains in love with Hermenesilde, I shall take her away from the court.’ “Don Ramire was surprised at my resolve; afraid that I might fall out with Don Garcie, he decided to apprise him of my sentiments; and he thought he could do so without my consent, since it was ultimately in my best interest. Yet the desire to do the Prince a service and obtain his trust must also have played a good part in his decision.

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Zayde “He took his time so that he might speak to him alone; he told him that he was apprehensive about betraying me by informing him of my thoughts without my consent; his devotion to the Prince’s interests, however, necessitated informing him that I believed him to be in love with my sister and that I was so upset about it that I had vowed to take her away from court.42 Don Garcie was so struck by Don Ramire’s words and the thought of seeing Hermenesilde leave that he couldn’t hide his initial reaction. He then reasoned that since Don Ramire could no longer have any doubt as to his interest in my sister, he needed to admit it openly, inciting him, by this mark of trust, to continue to provide information about my intentions. He took some time to come to this conclusion, and then, making up his mind quickly, he embraced him and admitted that he was in love with Hermenesilde. He said that he had done what he could to avoid it out of consideration for me, but that it was impossible for him to live without her; he was now asking, he said, for his help in concealing his passion and avoiding Hermenesilde’s departure. Don Ramire’s heart was not of a temper that could resist the flattering proposals of a prince whose favorite he could see himself becoming. Friendship and gratitude proved no match for ambition: he promised the Prince to keep his secret and to intervene with Hermenesilde on his behalf. The Prince embraced him a second time, and they went over together how they were going to conduct the enterprise. “The first obstacle that occurred to them was Nugna Bella, who never left Hermenesilde’s side. They decided to win her over; and in spite of the obvious difficulties, considering her close ties with me, Don Ramire took responsibility for finding a solution. At the same time, he said that the Prince himself would need to work toward eliminating my suspicions; he suggested telling me with a laugh that he had been more than willing to throw a scare into me in order to get even for my initial suspicions, but that it had gone too far and he didn’t want to keep up the pretense of having sentiments with which I might find fault. “This strategy seemed fine to Don Garcie; he followed it with no difficulty, and since he knew from Don Ramire the causes of my suspicions, it was both easy for him to claim that he had done these things on purpose, and nearly impossible for me not to be persuaded. And so I was, completely; I fancied myself closer to him than ever. I couldn’t help thinking 42. Reported speech in Lafayette’s day frequently took the form of an extended list of things said: “He said that . . . ; that . . . ; that . . . ; and finally that. . . .” In order to alleviate some of the stiffness of such passages, I have rephrased contents through recourse to free indirect discourse. Lafayette’s original text, however, contains no unambiguous examples of this style, used to great effect by her contemporary, Jean de La Fontaine.

Part One that he had indeed felt some stirring in his heart that he wasn’t admitting, but I imagined that it had been a fleeting inclination quickly overcome; and I even felt indebted to him, as if for some favor he had done me. So I was perfectly content with Don Garcie. Don Ramire was more pleased still to see me in the frame of mind he desired, and he started to think about how he might engage Nugna Bella in the intrigue in which he wanted to involve her. “After having more or less thought out his plan, he looked for a chance to speak with her; she gave him many, since she knew I kept no secrets from him and she could discuss with him anything that concerned us. He started by speaking of how glad he was to see the reconciliation between the Prince and myself. “‘I’m as glad as you,’ she said. ‘I was afraid that Consalve was so sensitive about his sister that a falling out with Don Garcie was likely.’ “‘Madam, if I could be sure that you were the sort of lady capable of concealing something from her lover if it was in his own interest, it would be a huge relief to me to be able to talk to someone as concerned about Consalve as you are. I see things ahead that trouble me; you are the only one I can talk to about them—but on the condition, madam, that you not tell Consalve himself about it.’ “‘I promise,’ she said. ‘You will find me as secretive as you could possibly desire. I am well aware that it is just as dangerous never to hide things from one’s friends as it is always to hide them.’ “‘You will see, madam, how important it is to hide what I am about to tell you. Don Garcie has just given renewed marks of friendship to Consalve; he assured him that his sister is no longer in his thoughts; yet I am very much mistaken if he’s not still passionately in love. Given the Prince’s character, he will not be able to hide his love for long; likewise, given Consalve’s own character, he is not liable to suffer it gladly. It is inevitable that he will have a falling out with the Prince and completely lose his favor.’ “‘I confess that I had the same suspicions. Judging by what I have seen, and some things that Hermenesilde has told me—things I told her not to tell her brother—I found it hard to believe that Don Garcie’s actions were just an act he was putting on to scare Consalve.’ “‘You have done wisely,’ said Don Ramire, ‘and I think that in the future you would do just as well, madam, to prevent Hermenesilde from telling her brother anything concerning the Prince. It would be useless and dangerous. If the Prince has only a moderate passion for her, he will be able to hide it without any problem, and with your help in guiding Hermenesilde, she will

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Zayde easily be able to cure him of it. Consalve will be none the wiser, and you will have kept him from worrying himself to death, and in the Prince’s favor as well. If, on the contrary, Don Garcie’s passion is strong and violent, how could he be prevented from marrying Hermenesilde? And how could we be doing Consalve a disservice by keeping a secret, if what we hide ends up giving him the Prince for a brother-in-law? Most assuredly, madam, we should think twice about trying to discourage Don Garcie’s love for Hermenesilde, and you more than anyone should think about it, since eventually it would be in your interest for the person who will probably be your sister-in-law to be Queen as well.’ “These last words opened Nugna Bella’s eyes to something she had not yet thought of, and the hope of becoming sister-in-law to the Queen made her find Don Ramire’s reasoning better than it really was. So he led her in the direction he wanted, and they agreed that they would say nothing, but instead inquire into the Prince’s feelings, and only then would they act on whatever knowledge they could glean. “Don Ramire, overjoyed at such early success, reported to the Prince what he had achieved. Don Garcie was quite happy, and he gave him full power to tell Nugna Bella whatever he needed about his feelings. Don Ramire soon sought her out again; he told her a long story about the way in which he managed to get the Prince to confess his love for my sister. He added something to the effect that he had never seen a man so overcome by passion, that he was amazed at the Prince’s efforts to curb feelings that would upset me, and that even though one could expect anything of a man so much in love, they still needed to give him some hope that would keep his love alive. Nugna Bella was thoroughly persuaded of the truth of Don Ramire’s words, and she promised to intervene with my sister on Don Garcie’s behalf. “Don Ramire took this news back to the Prince; the latter received it with incredible joy; he flattered Don Ramire over and over; he never tired of speaking with him and really would have liked to speak to no one else. He realized, however, that he couldn’t very well change his behavior or cease his usual relations with me. For his part, Don Ramire was careful to conceal his newly acquired favor; his remorse over his betrayal, moreover, made him continually fearful of my suspecting it. “Don Garcie soon spoke with Hermenesilde; he declared his passion for her with as much ardor as he could, and since he was truly in love, he had no trouble convincing her. She was quite willing to receive his declaration favorably, but after what I had told her, she didn’t dare follow her heart. She reported her conversation with the Prince to Nugna Bella.

Part One Nugna Bella, advancing the same pretexts Don Ramire had offered her, advised my sister not to tell me anything and to endeavor to increase the Prince’s love and keep his esteem. In addition, she said that whatever repugnance I showed for Don Garcie’s love, she was still sure that something so to my advantage would be bound to make me happy; it was just that for certain reasons I would be unwilling to cooperate until matters were further along. Hermenesilde, who deferred completely to Nugna Bella’s judgment, was easily drawn to the course of action she suggested, and her inclination for Don Garcie was considerably reinforced by a prospect as enticing as that of a crown. “Excepting those first few days when it was noticed that he found Hermenesilde attractive, the Prince’s passion was cultivated with such dexterity that no one even suspected he was in love. He never spoke with her in public, for Nugna Bella furnished him the opportunity to speak with her in private. I did notice some slackening in the friendship of Don Garcie, but I attributed it to the usual fickleness one sees in young people. “Such was the state of things when Abdala, King of Cordoba, with whom the King of Leon had been observing a long truce, went to war again.43 By right of his office, Nugnez Fernando had the command of the army; and even though the King was reluctant to put him in charge of his troops, he couldn’t very well take the command away from him without first accusing him of a crime and arresting him. It would of course be possible to make Don Garcie his superior-in-command; the King, however, distrusted his son even more than the Count of Castile, and he feared seeing them united with great power at their disposal. On another front, Biscay was starting to revolt. He decided to send Don Garcie there and to have Nugnez Fernando fight the Moorish army. I would have been quite happy to serve with my father, but the Prince wanted me to accompany him to Biscay, and the King preferred that I go with his son rather than with the Count of Castile. So I had to do as asked and watch Nugnez Fernando leave before us. He was quite dismayed not to have me at his side: out of all the considerable reasons for him to want me in his army, friendship was the most important. The tenderness he felt for my sister and me was infinite: he took our portraits with him so that he’d have the pleasure of seeing us all the time and of showing off the beauty of his children, something that quite preoccupied him, as I think I have mentioned. He marched against Abdala with considerable forces, but many fewer than the Moors 43. Abd Alla ruled from 888 to 912. The battle described here is that of Zamora, already alluded to by Alphonse as the source of Consalve’s reputation for bravery.

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Zayde had; and instead of simply trying to use the fortifications that had been dug in order to stop their advance, the desire to do something extraordinary made him risk battle in a plain which provided him no advantage. He was so routed that he barely escaped with his life; his whole army was cut to pieces, all their equipment was lost, and never, perhaps, have the Moors won such a great victory over the Christians. “The King learned of the great loss with much sorrow, and he laid the blame, rightly, on the Count of Castile. But since he had been hoping to bring him down, he took advantage of the occasion; and when my father tried to come defend himself, he sent him word that he never wanted to see him again, that he was stripping him of all his offices, that it was lucky for him that he wasn’t taking his life as well, and that he was ordering him to retire to his own estate. My father obeyed and went back to Castile with all the despair of an ambitious man whose reputation and fortune had just been decimated. “The Prince, held back by a serious illness, hadn’t yet set out for Biscay. The King himself went off to fight the Moors with whatever forces he could assemble; I asked for permission to go with him, and he acquiesced— though unwillingly. He really wanted my father’s disgrace to taint me. Since, however, I hadn’t had any part in his mistake, and since the Prince continued to show me friendship, the King didn’t dare try to banish me to Castile. So I followed him, and Don Ramire remained at Don Garcie’s side; Nugna Bella seemed extremely touched both by my misfortune and by our separation, and I set off at least with the consolation of believing myself truly loved by the person I loved most in the world. “The Prince not being in any condition to leave, Don Ordogno, his brother, set out for Biscay. He turned out to be as unlucky in his travels as the King would be lucky in his. Don Ordogno was defeated and thought himself as good as dead, whereas the King routed the Moors and made them beg for peace. It was my good fortune to be able to render substantial service; the King, however, treated me no better. The reputation I earned myself did nothing to remove the pall of disgrace, and when I returned to Leon, I understood clearly that glory’s luster is no match for that of royal favor. “Don Garcie had used my absence to see more of Hermenesilde, and did so with such discretion that no one noticed a thing. He carefully sought out all possible means of winning her over. He gave her hopes of one day sitting on the throne of Leon, and he demonstrated so much love that in the end her heart was completely his. “Since Don Ramire and Nugna Bella were directing this intrigue, they had committed themselves to seeing each other often, and Nugna Bella’s

Part One beauty was of the sort that becomes dangerous with frequent exposure. Don Ramire’s admiration for her grew every day, and for her part she admired Don Ramire’s wit, which was indeed charming. Between her private dealings with him and taking care of the business between the Prince and Hermenesilde, she was able to bear my absence with less chagrin than she had expected. “Upon his return, the King gave Don Ramire’s father the offices and honors44 that had been Nugnez Fernando’s. Faced with this, my conduct went beyond what one would expect even from a true friend. Given the services I had rendered in the last two wars, I had a legitimate claim to the offices my father was being stripped of. Nevertheless, I made no objection to the way the King chose to dispose of them. I went to see Don Ramire; I told him that in my distress over seeing my family lose such important honors, my only consolation was made possible by the resulting gain for him. Even with all his considerable wit he couldn’t respond; he felt awkward receiving evidence of a friendship he so little deserved; at the time, though, I gave such an advantageous interpretation45 to his awkwardness that any words on his part wouldn’t have proved any more persuasive. “The transfer of my father’s offices to another family led the whole court to believe that his disgrace was irreparable. The honors his own father had just acquired, and the Prince’s favor, meant that Don Ramire had more or less taken my place. This favor was quite obvious, in spite of the care they both took to hide it, so little by little everyone looked to the new favorite and abandoned me. Nugna Bella’s passion wasn’t solid enough for her soul to remain unaltered by such a change. My success had been responsible for her fondness every bit as much as my person; now I was disgraced; mere love was now her only link to her lover, and this was not enough for a heart like hers. Consequently there was in her behavior a hint of coldness that was soon obvious to me. I complained about it to Don Ramire; I spoke to Nugna Bella about it too; she assured me that she hadn’t changed a bit; and since I had no specific grounds for complaint and was only hurt by something undefinable in her behavior, she had no trouble 44. Charges et établissements. The elaborate system of hierarchic honors perfected by Louis XIV in order to domesticate the feudal nobility is once again anachronistically projected back onto medieval Spain. 45. Although it suggests itself readily to the modern speaker, the word interprétation never appears in Zayde. (It was fairly rare at the time, and usually limited to the domain of exegesis— the interpretation of texts or laws.) Instead, Lafayette has her characters “ascribe meaning,” donner un sens, and I generally try to preserve her epistemological vocabulary. A literal translation in this specific instance, however, would be unnecessarily cumbersome.

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Zayde defending herself. And she did so with such dissimulation and craftiness that for a while she reassured me. “Don Ramire spoke with her about my suspicions regarding her change of heart—in order to get to the bottom of the matter and no doubt with the desire to find out that I was not mistaken. “‘I haven’t changed at all,’ she said. ‘I love him as much as I loved him before; yet even if I should love him less, it would be unfair of him to complain. Do we have any control over the way our passions begin or end?’ She uttered these words while looking at Don Ramire in a way that convinced him she didn’t love me anymore; and this conviction, bolstering his hope, completely opened his eyes to the beauty of this unfaithful woman. And so touched at that instant was he that, losing control of himself, he said: “‘You are right, madam, we are helpless in the face of our passions; I feel carried away by one right now, and I cannot do anything about it; so at least keep in mind that you agree that it is not in our power to resist.’ “Nugna Bella understood clearly what he meant; she appeared ill at ease, and he was ill at ease as well. Having spoken without premeditation, he was astonished at what he had just done. What he owed to my friendship came back to him in all its magnitude; it troubled him; he lowered his eyes and remained in a profound silence. Nugna Bella, for about the same reason, said nothing. They separated without speaking. Don Ramire regretted what he had said; Nugna Bella regretted not having responded; and Don Ramire left so troubled and so agitated that he was beside himself.46 After recovering a bit, he reflected on his feelings; but the more he did so, the more he knew that his heart was committed.47 He realized then the peril to which seeing Nugna Bella so often had exposed him; he realized that the pleasure he had taken in conversing with her was of a different sort than he had thought; finally, he realized he was in love, and that he had already waited much too long to fight it. “The conviction he had just formed that Nugna Bella now loved me less took away the last bit of his power to defend himself. He found it excusable to become involved with her when she was becoming uninvolved with me. It charmed him to attempt to become master of a heart that was 46. Hors de lui-même, literally, “outside of himself.” The term is a strong but relatively common way of referring to a momentary lapse of one’s mastery of the passions. 47. Engagé, literally, “engaged.” The word has a meaning different from that of attaché, going beyond feelings of attraction to imply some sort of commitment or mutual obligation; it is a key element in a number of the novel’s individual stories. (The verb also has a nonromantic meaning, for example, engager quelqu’un à faire quelque chose, “to enlist [or convince] someone to do something.”)

Part One no longer so completely in my possession that he had no hope, but that I still possessed enough so as to give him some satisfaction at winning it from me. Still, when he came to consider that it was from Consalve that he wanted to win that heart, the same Consalve to whom he owed such true friendship, his feelings made him ashamed, and he fought them to the point of thinking them overcome. He decided not to speak to Nugna Bella of his love anymore and to avoid all chance of talking with her. “Nugna Bella, whose only regret was not having responded to Don Ramire in the way she should have, didn’t do so much reflecting. She imagined that she had been right to pretend not to hear what he had said; she thought that it was normal to have some fondness for a man with whom she was involved in such important business; she told herself that he had spoken without thinking, in spite of the fact that she had already readily remarked his inclination for her some time ago. So, lest she feel shame, or be obliged to treat Don Ramire coldly, she refused to believe something that in fact she had no reason to doubt. “Don Ramire followed his plan for a while—but how to bring it to fruition? He saw Nugna Bella every day; she was beautiful; she didn’t love me anymore; she treated him well; it was impossible to resist so many things. He thus resolved to follow the movements of his heart, and as soon as he had made the resolution his remorse vanished. The first time he had betrayed me made the second easier to take. He was used to deceiving me, and used to hiding from me what he was telling Nugna Bella; he finally told her he loved her, and he did so with all the signs of true passion. Exaggerating his pain over having betrayed our friendship, he gave her to understand that he was being swept away by the most violent inclination that had ever been known. He assured her that he didn’t assume he was loved in return; he knew, he said, the advantages I had over him and the impossibility of removing me from her heart; but he was asking her only the favor of hearing him out, of helping him recover, and of hiding his weakness from me. Nugna Bella promised him this last thing, as if it were something she thought she needed to do lest a rift arise between us two. But she told him very gently that she could not grant him the rest, since she would feel complicit with his crime if she were to allow its continuation. Nevertheless she did indeed continue to allow it; his love for her, and the Prince’s friendship with him, completely won her over to his side. In her eyes I was now less worthy of love; she didn’t see anything advantageous in a relationship with me; all she could see was certain exile in Castile; she knew that the King was still bent on sending me away and that the Prince objected only as a point of honor. Moreover, she saw no likelihood of the

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Zayde latter’s marrying Hermenesilde; she was still confidante to his love for her; and because of this love, and Don Ramire’s, her credit with Don Garcie was still intact. She thought the King less disposed than ever toward our marriage; he had no reason to prevent her from marrying Don Ramire; she found in him all the same things she had liked in me. So she fancied that both reason and prudence authorized her change of heart, and that she had to leave a man who could never become her husband for another who most surely would. The fickleness of women hardly needs the support of such good reasons. Nugna Bella therefore decided to commit herself to Don Ramire. And yet she was already committed, by word as much as by feeling, even as she believed she was making a decision. At the same time, whatever her resolutions, she didn’t have the strength to let me know that she was abandoning me in the moment of my disgrace. Nor for that matter could Don Ramire resolve to admit his treachery. Between them they therefore agreed that Nugna Bella would continue to behave toward me as she always had, and they judged it easy to prevent my noticing any change: since I had been informing Don Ramire of even the most minor of my suspicions, Nugna Bella, alerted by him, would be able to thwart them easily. They also decided to admit to the Prince how things stood between them and to get him to further their interests. Don Ramire took on the responsibility of speaking to him; it wasn’t something he could do without difficulty; shame and fear of disapproval hindered him; yet because he was confidant to Don Garcie’s love for my sister, he had a power over the Prince that ultimately reassured him. And indeed, he was able to win over the Prince as he intended. He even got him to agree to speak to Nugna Bella on his behalf; and thus this new favorite had his master for confidant, just as he was the confidant of his master. Nugna Bella, initially apprehensive that the Prince would condemn her change of heart, was overjoyed to find him in favor of it. The relation between the two grew in intensity; they took steps to keep their intrigue well concealed; they decided that since any conversation between the Prince and Don Ramire was bound to make me suspicious (given that there was no logical reason for them to be keeping secrets from me), Don Ramire would visit the Prince only via a hidden staircase when no one else was around, and never speak in public. This was how I was betrayed and abandoned by those I loved most, all without being able to suspect anything. “The only thing that troubled me was that I had noticed some sort of change of heart in Nugna Bella. I would complain about it to Don Ramire; Don Ramire would warn her so that she could better pretend. But when I seemed at ease, he would worry, fearing that it might be Nugna Bella’s real

Part One feelings that were giving me reassurance. In such instances he’d insist that she not fool me quite so well. She would obey and neglect me more than usual; he therefore had the pleasure of seeing his rival come to complain of the ill treatment received on his own orders. Sometimes he was even overjoyed to discover from my complaining that she had not even been as nice to me as he had instructed. So flattering was it for his pride and love to have destroyed the rival he thought I was, and to see my peace of mind depend on the slightest word from his mouth, that if it weren’t for being disturbed by jealousy, he would have been the happiest man in the world. “Just as I was preoccupied with my love, my father was preoccupied with his ambition. So many conspiracies and intrigues did he weave during his exile that he thought himself on the point of being able to stage an open revolt. First, however, he had to start by taking me away from the court, for I was too dear and important a hostage to be left in the grip of a king on whom he was about to wage war. My sister didn’t worry him as much; her sex and her beauty would protect her from anything that might befall her. He sent me one of his men to inform me of what was happening, and to order me to come to him at once and to quit the court without taking leave of the King or the Prince. The emissary was certainly surprised to learn that I was of a quite different opinion than my father. I told him that I would never agree to so unjust a rebellion; it was true that the King had mistreated Nugnez Fernando by stripping him of his offices, but he had to accept a disgrace that in some sense he had deserved; for my part, I was resolved to remain at court and would never take up arms against the King. The emissary took my answer to my father. The latter was desperate at seeing such elaborate plans, whose success was certain, upended by my disobedience. He sent me back word (even though it was not in fact his plan) that he would continue what he had started; and that since I had so little respect for his orders, he would persist in his resolve even if the King of Leon were to have me beheaded. “Meanwhile, Don Ramire’s passion for Nugna Bella was growing stronger, and he could no longer bear the way she was supposed to behave toward me. One day, after she had spent a good while in conversation with me, he said to her, ‘Listen, you look at him the same way you used to; you speak the same words; you write the same things; who can guarantee that it’s not with the same feelings? You found him to your liking before, madam, and that’s enough for you to like him now.’ “‘But you know perfectly well that I’m only doing what you ask.’ “‘True enough,’ he replied; ‘and that is what makes my position even more unbearable—that, in order to be safe, I must ask you to do things that

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Zayde drive me to despair when you do them. It’s completely unheard of, madam, for a lover to have agreed to his mistress’s treating his rival well; I can’t bear your seeing him any longer. I would go to any extreme to see him perish, rather than continue in my present state; for after having taken your heart away from him, taking his life won’t mean much to me.’ “‘You are letting yourself become so carried away that I doubt you will carry through on your threats,’ Nugna Bella said. ‘You will soon understand how many important matters you will disclose if you strike out against Consalve, as well as the shame you will bring upon yourself.’ “‘I realize all there is to realize, madam; but I can also see that if one has to be half out of his mind to do what I have proposed doing, one would have to have lost it completely in order to accept your speaking secretly with an attractive man to whom you once took a liking. If I were unaware this was going on, I’d have the cruel comfort of being deceived. But I am aware: I see you talking to him; I’m the one who brings him your letters; I’m the one who reassures him when he doubts your love. Ah! Madam, I can’t continue to do myself such violence! If you want to give me peace of mind, get Consalve to leave the court—get the Prince to send him to Castile, just as the King has been demanding.’ “‘Please, I beg of you,’ replied Nugna Bella, ‘look at what you’re asking of me!’ “‘I can see it very well, madam,’ said Don Ramire; ‘but after all you’ve done, it’s no longer the time for compromise; and if you try to compromise on sending Consalve away, I’ll be sure of having even more reason than I think to want to keep him away from you. I repeat, madam: how can I be sure you don’t still love him? You see him, you speak to him, you know he loves you; your heart, you claim, has changed—but your behavior hasn’t. So nothing, madam, can reassure me, unless you try to have him sent away; and as long as I am under the impression that you’re against this, I’ll think that you don’t have to force yourself a bit when you tell him you love him.’ “‘Well,’ said Nugna Bella, ‘I’ve committed enough betrayals already out of love for you, and now I must commit this one as well. But you need to give the means to do so, because the Prince has consistently refused to let the King banish Consalve, and nothing suggests that he will grant his permission on account of a request as unreasonable as mine.’ “‘Broaching the subject with the Prince will be my responsibility,’ said Don Ramire. ‘As long as you make it clear that you consent to it, I’m sure he’ll give in.’ “Nugna Bella promised; and that very evening, Don Ramire, alluding to mutual interests, suggested to the Prince that he banish me and take credit

Part One for it with the King. The Prince had no difficulty agreeing; he was so ashamed over what he had been doing to me that my presence was a constant reproach for his weakness. Nugna Bella spoke to him as she had promised Don Ramire. They decided that at the earliest opportunity the Prince would let the King know that he no longer objected to my exile, and that he was quite willing for me to be banished from the court, provided that it would appear to everyone that it was without his approval. “The opportunity soon presented itself. The King became angry at his son for something he had done without his permission and that he accused me of being behind. The Prince, not daring to go see the King, pretended to be sick and stayed in bed for several days. The Queen, as was her wont, worked to reconcile them; on the King’s behalf, she went to inform her son of his father’s cause for complaint. “‘Madam, this is not the source of the king’s irritation,’ he answered. ‘I know the real reason: He has an invincible aversion to Consalve; he accuses him of everything he dislikes; he wants to send him into exile; he will always be dissatisfied with me as long as I don’t agree. I love Consalve tenderly, but I can see very well that I’m going to have to force myself to do without him, since that is the price to pay for the King’s good graces. So then, madam, please go tell him that I consent to his banishment—but on the condition that no one learn of my consent.’ “The Queen was surprised at the words of the Prince her son. ‘It is not my place to think it strange that you would defer to the King’s will,’ she said; ‘but I confess that I am astonished by your consenting to Consalve’s banishment.’ The Prince gave some bad excuses and changed the subject. “While they were talking, one of the Queen’s maids,48 who was a friend of both Nugna Bella and myself, was by chance so near the bed that she heard everything the Queen and the Prince had said about me. She was so surprised and absorbed by the thought of what might have caused such a change of opinion on the part of the Prince that I had come into the bedchamber and started to speak to her before she even noticed. I teased her for her absentmindedness. “‘You should thank me,’ she said. ‘I just heard something so astonishing that I cannot understand it.’ Elvire (this was the name of the young lady) then recounted everything she had heard, surprising me more than she had 48. Fille (literally, “girl”) designates a young lady of noble birth in service to the Queen; in Lafayette’s novel, most of the main female characters have some such servants. Similarly, in addition to the gentlemen who serve as officers (officiers) of Don Garcie’s personal guard, the principal male characters have gentlemen (hommes) to serve them. It should be remembered that the upper nobility of Lafayette’s time was rarely left unattended, that is, alone.

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Zayde been surprised herself. I made her repeat the whole thing all over again. As she was finishing, the Queen left, interrupting our conversation. I left with her, being in no state to stay by the Prince’s side, and wandered off alone in the palace gardens to muse on so strange an episode. “I had trouble imagining that a prince who treated me so well wanted to drive me from court without cause; I couldn’t understand what made him desire my banishment; I couldn’t guess what was making him show friendship toward me when he no longer felt any; and, finally, I couldn’t believe that what I’d just learned was true, and that Don Garcie had been so weak as to abandon me. Since I cared about him so much, his change of heart cut me to the quick. Unable to bear the pain I was feeling, I thought of looking for Don Ramire, so I might have the relief of grieving with him. “With this in mind I approached the palace; I came upon one of the officers of Don Garcie’s chamber, someone whom I had placed with the Prince and who was closer to him than anyone else. I told him to check and see if Don Ramire weren’t with the Prince and to ask him on my behalf to come see me right away. The officer replied that he wasn’t there yet and that he would probably arrive only after everyone else had left, as he always did. I was extremely surprised at this; at first I thought I hadn’t heard right. Still, his words made an impression on me; quite a few things came back to me that caused me to suspect that Don Ramire might have some doings with the Prince that he wasn’t telling me about. In other circumstances I wouldn’t have formed such suspicions, but what I had just learned about Don Garcie’s disloyalty was forcing me to think that anyone was capable of fooling me. I asked the officer if Don Ramire often went to see Don Garcie at times when no one was around. He replied that coming from me the question surprised him, and that he thought I was aware of both their meetings and the subject of their discussions. I said I wasn’t aware of either and that I found it quite odd that he hadn’t warned me. He believed I was pretending not to know anything so as to see if he would tell the truth; and wanting to show that he was incapable of hiding anything from me, he recounted the Prince’s love for my sister and Don Ramire’s role in it. He told me that many times he had heard them speaking when they thought they were not being overheard, and that he learned about the rest from the man to whom the Prince entrusted his letters for Hermenesilde. So it was that I learned about everything that was going on, save Nugna Bella’s part in it. “‘So now I know how Don Garcie’s change of heart came about!’ I exclaimed, completely overcome with rage. ‘It is because he has betrayed me that he can’t bear my presence. So, Don Garcie is in love with my sister! My sister indulges him, and Don Ramire is their confidant!’ I stopped there, not

Part One wanting to reveal to the officer my resentment, and I ordered him not to tell anyone about what he had just told me. I returned home in such disarray that I no longer knew who I was. When I was finally alone, I let rage and despair take me over; I made a thousand plans to go over and stab the Prince and Don Ramire; I thought all the angry, vengeful thoughts that extreme fury can produce. Finally, after calming my mind a bit and taking my time to select the means of my revenge, I decided to fight a duel with Don Ramire, persuade Nugna Bella to follow me to Castile, get her father’s permission to marry her, and then—since he had the same plans for revolt as my father—join them both, inciting them to declare war on the King of Leon and to overthrow the throne Don Garcie was destined to sit upon. I decided once and for all on this course of action even though it was against everything I had ever believed; but I was carried away by the sheer violence of my despair. “I was supposed to see Nugna Bella that same evening; I waited for the meeting with impatience, [for] the hope of finding her receptive to my misfortune was the only thing capable of giving me some relief. As I was getting ready to go out, a man whom she trusted and who often brought me her letters delivered one from her, and told me she was quite sorry she couldn’t receive me that evening, but it was impossible for reasons I would learn of from her letter. I told him it was absolutely necessary that I speak with her, and that I was going to write her back and would he please wait. I went into my study, opened the letter, and found the following words: Letter

I am not sure whether I should thank you for your permission to show Consalve regret over his departure. I would have been happier if you had ordered me not to, so that I would have a reason for not doing something that will cost me so much effort. In spite of the fact that you have suffered from my behavior with him since his return, I have suffered still more than you. This you would not doubt, if only you knew how difficult it is to tell a man I do not love anymore that I still do, when all the while I am in despair over having loved him in the first place, and when I would give my life in order never to have spoken to anyone but you alone all those words I have to say to him. When he is gone, you will realize your unfairness, and the joy you will see in me at his departure will persuade you more than any of my words. Hermenesilde is angry with the Prince for having spent a while talking to someone over whom she had already shown some jealousy; this is why she did not come with the Queen to his apartment. He must not tell her he knows anything of this; I promised him not to say anything; she loves him so truly that he . . . My letter was interrupted here by something that is now worrying me to death: one of my companions overheard today everything the Prince told the Queen about

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Zayde Consalve; she immediately told him all about it, and has just come to inform me about it too, thinking that I would find it upsetting as well. It’s impossible for Consalve not to suspect that you know something about the Prince’s plans, and for him not to figure out the better part of the truth. Imagine the problems this may cause; the thought of it disturbs me so much I don’t know what I’m doing; I’m going to write him, telling him I can’t see him this evening, for I can’t risk seeing him if you haven’t seen him first; you need to tell me what I have to say. Farewell. You can imagine how worried I am. “I was so beside myself when I had finished reading the letter that I couldn’t see straight or tell what I was doing. My fury and rage had been pushed to extremes by the betrayals I had uncovered, but these were feelings too weak and ordinary for the betrayal that pure chance had just uncovered for me. I was stunned, struck dumb; and I remained in this state for a long while, with only confused thoughts running through a mind overcome with pain. “‘You’ve been unfaithful to me, Nugna Bella!’ I cried out suddenly. ‘You add to your change of heart the insult of deceiving me and allowing the people I loved best next to you to deceive me too! This is too much misfortune at one time, and of a sort which would make it more shameful to try to struggle than to let oneself succumb. In the face of the cruelest fate ever to persecute a man, I give up. Against an ungrateful Prince and an unfaithful friend, I had strength, and plans for revenge, but I can do nothing against Nugna Bella. She made me happier than anything in the world; since she’s abandoning me, nothing else means anything to me, and I’m giving up on my plans for a revenge that will never make me happy now. Not long ago I was the most prominent man in the kingdom, thanks to my father’s station, to my own, and to the Prince’s favor; I thought myself loved by those I held dearest. Now Fortune has forsaken me; I’ve been abandoned by my master, deceived by my sister, betrayed by my friend—the same friend responsible for the loss of my mistress! Nugna Bella, is it really possible you’re leaving me for Don Ramire? Is it really possible that Don Ramire sought to take you from a man who loved you so passionately, and who loved Don Ramire himself so tenderly? Was it really necessary that I lose each of you through the actions of the other, and that I be left with not even the minimal consolation of having one of you to grieve with me?’ “Such cruel thoughts deprived me of all reason. The least of the day’s misfortunes would have been enough to sicken me to death. So many misfortunes together were driving me out of my mind, and I didn’t know which one to start with. The man who had brought me Nugna Bella’s letter sent word he was waiting for a response; I came to as from a dream when the

Part One servant came into my study; I said that I would send my answer the following day, and I left orders not to be disturbed. “Again, I started to compare my previous state with the one I was in now. Experiencing so cruelly fortune’s inconstancy and mankind’s faithlessness gave me the idea of forever renouncing all worldly affairs and of living out the rest of my life in some lonely spot. My suffering made it clear that this was the only choice possible. Otherwise, I had nowhere else to go but my father’s; I knew, however, his plans to take up arms, and I could not convince myself to rebel against a king who had done me no wrong. If Fortune alone had abandoned me, it would have been a pleasure to put up a struggle and to show that I had really deserved what she had given me outright. But after having been deceived by so many I loved and trusted so much, what hope was left? ‘Can I better serve a master,’ I said, ‘than I served Don Garcie? And can I ever have more love for a mistress than I had for Nugna Bella? And yet they betrayed me! Only total withdrawal, then, can save me from both the treachery of men and the dangerous power of women.’ “As I was making this vow, I saw enter my study a man of quality and merit named Don Olmond, who had always been fond of me. He was the brother of the same Elvire who had warned me of the Prince’s treachery, and she had just informed him of what Don Garcie had told the Queen. He was extremely surprised to see such extraordinary agitation and pain in my features. He knew me well enough to find it difficult to imagine that misfortune alone could so trouble me. Still, he concluded that it must have been the Prince’s betrayal that had hurt me, and he set out to console me. I had always liked Don Olmond and on several occasions had done him service, even though I had preferred Don Ramire in every way. The latter’s ingratitude made me feel what an injustice I’d done to Don Olmond. To make up for it, or perhaps to have the relief of expressing my grief, I revealed to him the state I was in and the many ways I had been betrayed. He was as surprised as he should have been, but not quite as surprised as I expected about Nugna Bella’s unfaithfulness. He told me that his sister, in telling him about the Prince’s unfaithfulness, also told him that without a doubt Nugna Bella had changed and was hiding many things from me. I showed Don Olmond Nugna Bella’s letter and said: “‘Look, you can see here how she has changed and all the things she’s been hiding from me. She sent me this letter instead of the one she had written for me, and it’s plain to see that this letter is intended for Don Ramire.’ “Don Olmond was so touched by my state, and my misfortune seemed to him so cruel, that he didn’t even try to console me. He let me relieve my sorrow with words of grief.

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Zayde “‘Wasn’t I right to have insisted on knowing Nugna Bella before loving her? But that was asking for something impossible; no one knows women; they don’t even know themselves, and their feelings are dictated by circumstances. Nugna Bella thought she loved me; she just loved my fortune;49 maybe that’s all she loves in Don Ramire as well. Still!’ I exclaimed. ‘All this time she’s only been telling me what he allowed her to say! I was complaining to my own rival about a change that he caused himself! He was talking with her on his own behalf when I thought he was talking to her on mine! Is it possible for me to have been the object of a more flagrant act of deception? And did I deserve it? The traitor was betraying me with Nugna Bella, then, just as he was betraying me with Don Garcie! I entrusted my sister to them, and they put her in league with the Prince! The closeness I saw between them, and that gave me only happiness, was merely intended to fool me! Oh God!’ I exclaimed again, ‘for whom are you saving your wrath, if not for people so unworthy of living!’ “After this violent outburst of sorrow, the thought of an unfaithful Nugna Bella, which made me indifferent to all my other misfortunes, returned me to a sadness of calm despair. I told Don Olmond of my intention to renounce everything. He was surprised; he argued against it. But I made it so clear that I was set on it that he thought it useless to object, at least for the time being. I got together all the jewels I could find, and we mounted our horses, so that I could leave before the King’s order for my departure could reach me. We rode until sunrise. Don Olmond led me to the house of a gentleman who used to be in his service and in whom he had great trust. I wanted him to leave me there, letting me wait until nightfall to start out on the route I planned to take. After many objections, he said that he would agree to leave me, as I wished, so long as I promised to wait there; he would then go to Leon, he said, to find out what effect my departure had had, and perhaps something had happened that would make me give up my grim vow. I agreed, on the condition that he tell no one he had seen me or that he knew where I was. If I agreed to this, however, it was more out of an involuntary curiosity to know what Nugna Bella was saying about me than with the thought that something might have happened to ease my misfortune. “‘Go ahead, my dear Olmond,’ I said. ‘Go see Nugna Bella, and, if possible, find out her feelings via your sister. Try to learn how long ago she 49. Once again, “fortune” here designates a state of favor that is primarily social: Consalve is accusing Nugna Bella not so much of wanting his money but of seeking the general status and recognition that association with him could provide.

Part One stopped loving me and if she abandoned me just because fortune forsook me.’ Don Olmond assured me he would do everything I wished; and two days later, he came back with a sadness that made it clear to me that he had nothing to report that he thought capable of changing my mind. “He informed me that no one knew the cause of my departure; that the Prince, as well as Don Ramire, was pretending to be distressed about it; and that the King was under the impression that I had left with his son the Prince’s consent. He said that he had seen his sister; that everything I suspected was true; that the details he’d learned would only increase my suffering; and that he was therefore asking me not to make him tell the whole story. In my state I was in no fear of increasing my woes, and what he wanted to keep from me was the only thing that was still capable of making me curious. I thus requested that he not hide anything from me. I will not repeat to you everything he said, because to give my narrative some order I’ve already told you most of it. It was through him that I learned everything that I was unaware of while it was still happening, as you have well been able to see. I will only add that his sister told him that the night before my departure, returning from the Queen’s, she went to look for Nugna Bella, who had not put in an appearance. She found her in her chamber, bathed in tears, with a letter in her hands; they were both surprised, for different reasons. After a long silence, Nugna Bella closed the door and said that she was going to entrust her with her life’s secret, and that she begged her to pity and comfort her in the cruelest position a woman had ever been in. She then told her of everything that had happened between the Prince, Don Ramire, my sister, and herself, just as I have told you; and then she said that Don Ramire had just returned the letter she was holding, because it was not for him; it was the one she had written me; I had received the one for Don Ramire, thus learning of everything they had been hiding from me for so long. “Elvire told her brother that she had never seen anyone as troubled and distraught as Nugna Bella, who was afraid that I would tell the King of the intrigue between my sister and the Prince and have Don Ramire, and herself as well, driven from court. Above all, Elvire reported, she feared the shame of my reproaches; and her own betrayals became the source of her extraordinary hatred for me. “You can well imagine that everything Don Olmond had told me neither relieved my dismay, nor induced me to change my plans. With extraordinary demonstrations of friendship, he persisted in wanting to come with me and in pledging to keep me company in my future seclusion. This I opposed so strongly that at last we went our separate ways. He left, on the condition that wherever I went, I would write him. He returned to Leon,

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Zayde and I set off with the idea of taking a boat at the first port I’d find. Yet as soon as I was left alone to dwell on my misfortunes, my life ahead seemed so full of suffering that I vowed to seek death in the war the King of Navarre was waging against the Moors. I was known only by the name of Theodoric, and I was unlucky enough to find glory, which I wasn’t seeking, instead of the death that I was. A truce was signed; I decided to pursue my original plan; and then meeting you transformed the dismal solitude I was headed for into a pleasant retreat. “Here, I found the peace and tranquillity that I had lost. Not that ambition didn’t awaken in my heart from time to time; what I had experienced of Fortune’s inconstancy, however, led me to hold it in contempt; and the love I’d felt for Nugna Bella had been so completely effaced by the contempt she herself had provoked in me that I could rightly say I had no passion left, though there still was a lot of sadness. The sight of Zayde has just deprived me of the grim tranquility I was enjoying and is leading me on to new misfortunes, ones even crueler than those I’ve already experienced.” Alphonse was both surprised and charmed by Consalve’s story. “I had already formed some conception of your merit and valor,” he said; “but I confess that what I have just learned goes far beyond what I had imagined.” “I ought to be afraid,” answered Consalve, “of ruining your good impressions of me by showing how easy I was to deceive. But I was young; I didn’t know anything about the treachery of court life; I was incapable of such conduct; Nugna Bella was the only woman I had ever loved; my love for her kept me from imagining that passions might end. So nothing predisposed me to be mistrustful of either friendship or love.” “You couldn’t ensure that you were not being deceived,” said Alphonse, “unless you had been naturally suspicious; even then, your suspicions, wellgrounded or not, would have seemed to you unfair, since you had never before had any reason to mistrust the people who were deceiving you. Moreover, their deceit was carried out with such skill that it would have been illogical even to suspect it.” “Let’s not talk about my old misfortunes,” said Consalve. “They don’t bother me anymore; Zayde has erased even the memory of them, and I’m amazed I’ve even been able to recount them all. But consider this: I never thought beauty alone could make me fall in love, nor that a woman with feelings for another could affect me. And yet I adore Zayde, about whom I know nothing, except for the fact that she is beautiful and predisposed to someone else. Since I was wrong about Nugna Bella, whom I knew, what might I expect from Zayde, whom I don’t know at all? Indeed, what can I expect, and what claim can I possibly have on Zayde? She is completely

Part One unknown to me; chance tossed her up on this shore; she is dying to leave; I cannot very well prevent her from going without being both unjust and uncivil. And even if I did retain her, would that make me any happier? Every day I’d see her mourn a man she loves and remember him every time she looks at me. Ah! Alphonse, what sickness jealousy is! Ah! Don Garcie, you were right, the only real passions are the ones that stun us, taking us by surprise all of a sudden! The rest are just affairs we choose to involve our hearts in. True inclinations tear out your heart in spite of yourself, and my love for Zayde is a torrent, carrying me away without giving me the feeblest chance of resistance. But Alphonse, I’m keeping you up all night with my troubles, and I should let you rest.” After these words, Alphonse went to his room, and Consalve spent the rest of the night without sleeping at all. The next day, Zayde still seemed preoccupied with finding what she had already been looking for—but all her efforts were in vain. Consalve did not leave her side; a thousand times a day he would forget that she could not understand or answer him. He questioned her on the cause of her suffering with the same circumspection and fear of offending her as he would have shown had she really understood him. When he came to his senses, dismayed to see that she could not answer, he took comfort in telling her everything his passion inspired in him. “I love you, beautiful Zayde,” he would say, looking at her. “I love you, I adore you; at least I have the pleasure of being able to say the words to you without stirring your anger. Everything you do persuades me that no one would dare tell you as much without offending you. But the lover you mourn must have spoken to you of his love, and you must have become used to listening to him. Lovely Zayde, how many doubts you would dissipate with just one word.” When he was speaking to her like this, she would turn sometimes to Felime in astonishment, and as if to make her take note of a resemblance that continually surprised her; it hurt Consalve so much to imagine that he was bringing back to her the memory of his rival that he would have easily given up all the benefits of his beauty and noble bearing just to rid himself of such a resemblance. The pain was so unbearable that he could barely manage to be in her sight; he preferred depriving himself of her company to representing, for her, the image of the one she loved. And when her glances seemed encouraging, he could not endure them, so sure was he that they were not addressed to him. He would take leave of her and spend entire afternoons in the woods. On returning, he would think her cooler and more chagrined than usual. After episodes like this, he even believed he noticed an unevenness in the way she treated him; since he could not guess

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Zayde why this might be, however, he imagined that the dismay of being in an unknown land was responsible for the changes evident in her mood. Nevertheless, he could well see that the distress of the first days was starting to lessen. Felime was in fact sadder than Zayde, but it was a constant sadness. She appeared overcome; it seemed as if she wanted only to be alone with her brooding. Amazed, Alphonse sometimes discussed this with Consalve; and he was surprised that her great melancholy did not tarnish her beauty. For his part, however, Consalve could think only of pleasing Zayde and of giving her all the distractions that walking, hunting, and fishing could provide. She too busied herself with distractions: she spent several days making a bracelet of her hair, and upon finishing it, she fastened it about her arm with the enthusiasm one has for projects just finished. The very day she did so, it happened that, by chance, she dropped it in the woods. Consalve, who had watched her leave, went to look for her; and walking in her steps, he found the bracelet, which he had no trouble recognizing. He felt deep joy at the discovery. The joy would have been even greater if he had received it from Zayde’s own hands; as this had not been his hope, however, he considered himself lucky to owe it to fortune. Zayde, already having noticed her bracelet was missing, had come back to look for it along the path she had taken. She made it clear to Consalve what she had lost, and what is more, showed a good deal of chagrin because of it. Notwithstanding the pain he felt over causing her worry, he could not bring himself to return something he held so dear. He pretended to look for it with her and then finally made her cut short her useless search. As soon as he was alone in his room, he kissed the bracelet a thousand times, attaching it to a valuable jeweled clasp. Sometimes he went for a walk before Zayde was awake; and when he got to a place that seemed out of sight, he would undo the bracelet so he could better gaze at it. One morning thus absorbed, seated on some rocks jutting out into the sea, he heard someone behind him. He turned quickly around and was very surprised to see that it was Zayde. All he could do was to hide the bracelet—but not quickly enough to prevent Zayde from seeing that he was hiding something. He fancied that she had seen what it was; he noticed on her face such coldness and chagrin that he had no doubt she was angry at him for not giving her back her bracelet. He did not dare look her in the eye; he was afraid she would make it clear that she wanted it back, but he could not bring himself to return it. She seemed sad and uneasy, and without looking at Consalve, she sat down on the rocks and turned toward the sea. Without her noticing it, the wind carried off a veil she was holding. Consalve moved to pick it up, but in the process, he

Part One dropped the bracelet that out of fear of being seen he had not refastened. Hearing the noise, Zayde turned around; she saw her bracelet and picked it up before he even noticed. He was extremely troubled to see it in her hands, both out of despair of losing it and fear of her anger. And yet he took heart at seeing her face free of both chagrin and resentment; on the contrary, he thought he saw some semblance of kindness, and he was no less moved by the hope Zayde’s expression gave him than he had been by the fear of having offended her. She admired the beauty of the jeweled clasp; then she undid it, returned it to Consalve, and held onto the bracelet. When Consalve saw that Zayde had given him back only the jewels, he turned in the direction of the sea and tossed them in with a brooding and saddened look, as if he had dropped them by accident. Zayde cried out and leaned forward to see if they could be recovered. But he gestured that it was useless; and not wanting her to think further about what he had done, he offered her his hand in order to lead her away from the spot. They walked without looking at each other and slowly returned to the path that led to Alphonse’s, both so awkward that it seemed as if each wanted to take leave of the other. As soon as Consalve had showed her to her room, he went off to muse on his adventure. Even though Zayde did not seem as angry as he had feared, he imagined that it was the joy of finding her bracelet that had calmed her initial chagrin; he was, therefore, no less dismayed. However eager he was to get the bracelet back, he thought he would offend Zayde if he showed it, and he was overcome with the sorrow that comes from a love divorced from hope. His only consolation was to grieve with Alphonse and blame himself for the weakness of loving Zayde. “You’re wrong to think you’re responsible,” Alphonse would say periodically. “It isn’t easy, in the middle of such solitude, to defend oneself against a beauty as great as Zayde’s. It would be all one could do even at court, where other beautiful women would distract you, or where at the very least ambition would claim a share of your heart.” “But can one love without hope?” Consalve would answer. “And how can I hope to be loved if I can’t even tell her I love her? How can I persuade her, if I can’t say it? Since she is the only one around here, by what actions can I assure her that I prefer her to everyone else? And how to efface the man she loves from her mind? This would be possible only if she found me attractive, whereas misfortune would have it that my face actually preserves the memory of her lover. Ah! dear Alphonse, don’t flatter me: I must have lost my mind to be in love with Zayde, to love her as much as I do, and not even to remember having loved someone else, who then deceived me.”

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Zayde “I’d also venture,” Alphonse said, “that she is the only one you have ever really loved, given that you’ve known jealousy only since falling in love with her.” “Nugna Bella was so good at deceiving me that I had no reason to be jealous of her.” “Jealousy needs no reason, when you’re really in love,” said Alphonse. “Your own experience shows you as much: think about the pain that Zayde’s tears bring you; and notice how it’s jealousy that makes you imagine she’s mourning a lover rather than a brother.” “I’m all too convinced of loving Zayde more than I ever did Nugna Bella: the latter’s ambition, plus her concern with the Prince’s affairs, often diminished my love; whereas everything I notice about Zayde that goes against my nature—like thinking she loves someone else, or the fact I know nothing of her heart or thoughts—has no effect on my passion. So, Alphonse, I’m all the more unreasonable for loving Zayde so much more than I loved Nugna Bella. The outcome of my love for Nugna Bella was cruel, certainly; and yet the same can happen to any man in love. Loving her wasn’t an act of blindness: I knew her well; she loved no one else; she liked me; I might well have married her. But Zayde, Alphonse, Zayde: Who is she? What can I hope for? Doesn’t everything about her, aside from her admirable beauty, put me in the wrong?” Consalve often had this sort of conversation with Alphonse. In the meantime, his love grew daily; he could not help speaking so loudly with his eyes that he thought he saw in Zayde’s own that their language had been understood; and he sometimes found in her an awkwardness that confirmed his belief. Given that she could not make herself understood through words, it was almost through glances alone that she explained to Consalve a bit of what she had to say; there was something so beautiful and passionate in these glances, however, that Consalve was struck to the core. “Lovely Zayde,” he would say, “is that how you look at men you don’t love? If so, what do you keep in reserve for the lucky lover I’m unlucky enough to remind you of?” If he had not been so predisposed toward this manner of thinking, he would never have thought himself so unlucky; and Zayde’s actions ought not to have persuaded him that all she felt for him was indifference. One day, having left her for a while, he went for a walk on the shore, then doubled back to a fountain in a pleasant part of the woods where she often came. Coming closer, he heard a noise, and he saw through the trees Zayde sitting with Felime. Consalve’s surprise at the meeting was as joyful as if chance had returned him to Zayde’s side after a year’s absence. He

Part One started to approach the spot where she was. Even though he made some noise, she was talking with such intensity that she did not hear him. When he was in front of her she seemed awkward, like someone who had just spoken loudly, who feared having been overheard, and who had forgotten that Consalve could not understand her. The turmoil that the surprise caused in her had somehow increased her beauty; and Consalve, who had sat down next to her, no longer able to control himself, threw himself at her feet and started speaking of his love in so passionate a way that there was no need to understand his words in order to know what they meant. It seemed to Consalve that she understood him only too well; she blushed; and after making a sign with her hand as if she were pushing him away, she got up with a kind of cold courtesy, as if to encourage him to get up from a spot he might find uncomfortable. At just this moment, Alphonse walked by, and she went up to him without looking at Consalve. He stayed where he was, without the strength to stand up. “So that’s how I’m treated,” he said to himself, “when I’m not seen as being the portrait of my rival. When my face reminds you of his, lovely Zayde, you turn your gaze on me in a way that could set the whole world on fire; but if I dare tell you I love you, not only do you look on me with anger, you find me unworthy of being looked at at all. If only I could tell you that I know you are mourning a lover, I’d be happy, and I admit that your resentment at hearing me say so would be revenge enough for my jealousy. On the other hand, maybe I want you to think that I’m sure you’re in love with someone else just so I can have the joy of your assuring me you’re not. Ah! Zayde, my revenge is hardly disinterested, since more than hurting you, it’s really supposed to provide an opportunity for you to satisfy me.” Deep in these thoughts he followed the path back to the house, so as to leave the spot where Zayde was and to be alone in a colonnade where he would sometimes stroll. There he spent some time dreaming up how he might communicate to Zayde that he suspected her of loving someone else. This was difficult, however, for it was not something that could be understood without words. Tired of dreaming and walking, he was about to leave the colonnade when a painter, working on some paintings that Alphonse was having made, asked him with some urgency to look at his work. Consalve could have done without this, but so as not to offend the painter he stopped and looked at what he was doing. It was a large piece in which Alphonse had wanted him to represent the sea as seen from his window; and to make the painting more pleasing, he had had a storm painted. On one side could be seen ships sinking in high seas; on the other, boats breaking up on the rocks. One could make out men trying to swim to safety, and

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Zayde others, already dead, thrown up on the sand by the ocean. This storm reminded Consalve of Zayde’s shipwreck and gave him an idea of how he might communicate his thoughts about her distress. He told the painter that a few more figures were needed in the picture, and that he should put in, on one of the rocks, a young and beautiful woman bending over the body of a dead man stretched out on the sand. She had to be crying while looking upon him; there had to be another man at her feet, trying to pull her away from the dead man. This beautiful woman, without looking at the man speaking to her, was to push him away with one hand, while wiping away her tears with the other. The painter promised Consalve that he would do as he directed and started to draw it all in. Consalve was happy with it and begged him to work quickly. He then left the colonnade; he went to find Zayde, for he was unable, in spite of his bitterness, to remain away from her any longer. He found out, though, that after returning from her walk she had retired to her room, and he was not able to see her at all for the rest of the day. This made him sad and anxious, and he was afraid that she had deprived him of her presence to punish him for what he had dared to say. The next day she did appear more serious than usual; but then in the days after this he found her just as she always was. Meanwhile the painter was working on Consalve’s request, and Consalve waited impatiently for the piece to be done. As soon as it was, he brought Zayde to the colonnade, pretending that seeing the painter at work would be a pleasant distraction. First, he had her look at all the finished paintings, and then he had her examine more attentively the one of the sea still being worked on. He pointed out the young woman grieving over a dead man; and when he saw that her eyes were riveted and that she seemed to recognize the rock where she went so often, he took the painter’s charcoal pencil and wrote the name Zayde above the beautiful woman, and the name Theodoric above the kneeling young man. Zayde, reading Consalve’s writing, blushed when he finished; and after looking at him with eyes full of anger, she took a brush and completely effaced50 the dead man, whom she understood Consalve was accusing her of mourning. Even though it was easy for him to see that he had angered Zayde, he could not help feeling overjoyed at seeing her efface the man he thought she loved. True, he was free to imagine that Zayde’s gesture was more a sign of her pride than proof that she did not actually mourn anyone; yet 50. In a work in which characters continually attempt to obliterate past and present feelings that are in fact beyond their control, the verb effacer, “to efface” or “to erase,” furnishes an important thematic thread, which I have preserved even though one would tend to describe Zayde’s action here as “painting over.”

Part One he judged that after the love he had professed, she was doing him a favor by not wanting to let him believe she loved someone else. The little hope he got from this thought, however, was unable to dispel all the causes for apprehension he thought he had. Alphonse, whose reason was not clouded by passion, judged the feelings of the lovely foreigner quite differently from Consalve. “In my opinion you are wrong,” he said, “to think yourself unlucky: you may well be unlucky to have developed feelings for someone you’re unlikely to be able to marry; but you’re not unlucky in the way you think, for if Zayde doesn’t truly love you, then appearances must lie.” “It is true,” responded Consalve, “that if I were to judge her feelings by the way she looks at me, then I might flatter myself with some hope. But as I told you, she looks at me only because of the resemblance that is the source of so much jealousy for me.” “I don’t know if all you say is correct; if I were in the place of the man you think she is mourning, however, I wouldn’t be happy that my resemblance made her look at someone with such favorable eyes; moreover, it is impossible for the thought of someone else to produce the feelings Zayde has for you.” Hope is natural in those who love; if certain of Zayde’s actions had already given some to Consalve, then Alphonse’s words gave him still more. He believed he saw that Zayde did not in fact hate him, and felt an extraordinary joy because of it; yet the joy did not last long. He imagined owing her penchant for him to the resemblance with his rival; he thought that after losing one man she had loved so much, she simply had a favorable disposition toward another who looked like him. His love, his jealousy, and his pride could not be satisfied with an inclination that he had not created and that derived only from a previous one for someone else. He believed that even if he were loved by Zayde, it would still be only his rival she loved in him; in short, he thought that he would be unhappy even if he were assured of being loved. Still, he could not help but be pleased at remarking in this lovely foreigner’s behavior a very different air than she had had at the outset; and his passion for her was so strong that whatever he believed he owed her inclination to, it was impossible for him to see its signs without a transport of joy. One day when it was nice out, seeing that she had not left her room, he entered to inquire whether she might not want to go for a walk. She was in the process of writing; and even though he made noise coming in, he came up to her without her noticing, and stood watching her write. By chance she turned her head, and seeing Consalve, she blushed and hid what she was writing with

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Zayde an agitation that caused no small disturbance in Consalve. He imagined that she could never be so absorbed, and then surprised, if the letter had not had something mysterious about it. This idea made him anxious; he left and went to look for Alphonse so that together they could go over51 an event that gave him impressions so different from previous ones. After looking in vain for him for some time, a feeling of jealousy made him return to Zayde’s chamber. He entered, but he did not find her there; she had gone into an adjoining study where Felime usually was; upon the table Consalve saw a half-folded piece of paper with writing on it; he could not keep himself from wanting to look at it; he opened it and had no doubt it was the same one he had seen her writing a moment before. He found in the piece of paper the bracelet of hair she had taken back from him. As he was holding the paper and the bracelet, Zayde returned; she came up to take them back; Consalve took a few steps backward, as if wanting to keep them—but with a submissive gesture that seemed to be asking her permission to do so. Zayde made clear she wanted them back, and with a look of such authority that it was impossible for a man as in love as he not to obey. Nevertheless, it was with greater suffering than he had ever felt that he placed in Zayde’s hand things he thought she intended for another. He could not control his chagrin; he quickly left the room and went back to his own. There he met Alphonse, who, having been told Consalve was looking for him, had come to find him. As soon as they were seated, Consalve said, “I’m far more unlucky than I thought, my dear Alphonse; the rival of whom I was so jealous even when I believed him dead is definitely not dead after all. I just now found Zayde writing to him; I just now found that bracelet she took away from me and that she is sending to him; she must have got news from him; there must be someone hiding around here who is bringing him news from her. So all my hopes of happiness were just imaginary after all and came from a poor explanation of Zayde’s actions. She was right to efface that dead man I told her she was mourning—she knew perfectly well that the man for whom her tears flowed was alive. She was right to be angry at seeing her bracelet in my hands and to be so happy at getting it back, since she had made it for someone else. Ah! Zayde, there was cruelty in letting me conceive of any hope— because you really did, and your beautiful eyes never told me otherwise.” Consalve’s suffering was so intense that he could hardly finish these words. After giving him time to collect himself, Alphonse asked him to recount how he knew all this, and whether Zayde had all of a sudden found 51. The verb raisonner sur (to reason about), which occurs just this once in the novel, suggests reasoned analysis, as does the more common term examiner; I translate both with “to go over.”

Part One a way to communicate. Consalve told him what he had just seen of Zayde’s disarray when he surprised her writing, how he found the bracelet in the very same paper she had been writing on, and how she snatched it back from him. “Come now, Alphonse,” he added; “one isn’t so troubled by an inconsequential letter. Zayde has no acquaintances here, no dealings at all; the only thing she can be writing with such concentration is what is happening in her heart, and she’s not writing it to me. So what do you suggest I think about what I’ve just seen?” “I suggest that you not think such unlikely thoughts, and thoughts that hurt you so much. Just because Zayde blushes when you surprise her while writing, you believe she’s writing to your rival; I, on the other hand, believe that she loves you enough to blush every time she is surprised at seeing you come near her. Perhaps she was writing with no other goal than to distract herself. She didn’t give it to you because there was no way you would understand it; and if she took her bracelet back, I confess I’m not surprised, since even though I am persuaded she loves you, I think she is discreet enough not to want to give a lock of hair to a man whom she doesn’t know at all. What I don’t see are the reasons that persuade you that she wants to send it to someone else. We’ve hardly left her side since she has been here; no one has spoken to her; those in a position to speak to her don’t understand her. How do you propose she got news of this lover who makes you so jealous, or managed to send him word?” “I’ll admit that I’m torturing myself more than necessary, but the state of uncertainty I’m in is unbearable. Other men have merely ordinary uncertainty—they think themselves more or less loved—whereas I go from the hope of being loved by Zayde to the thought that she loves another man, and I’m never once sure if what I see in her should make me happy or miserable. Alphonse,” he continued after a pause, “you must really enjoy misleading me; say what you will, she can only be writing to a lover; and actually I’d consider myself fortunate if I could still be in a state of uncertainty concerning what I have just seen, even though I’ve been treating that state as the worst possible misery.” Alphonse went on giving him so many persuasive reasons why his worry was ill-founded that he ended up reassuring him a bit; and Zayde, whom they came upon while they were setting off for a walk, completed the cure. She saw them from far off and approached them with such kindness, and with such obliging looks for Consalve, that she soothed some of the cruel anxiety she had just caused him. The day he had told this beautiful stranger she could leave—it was when the great ships were leaving Tarragona for Africa—was fast approach-

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Zayde ing, and it saddened him to death. He could not bear to deprive himself of Zayde, and no matter how unjust he found the idea of detaining her, it took all his reason and valor to prevent him from doing so. “But how can I deprive myself of Zayde forever?” he said to Alphonse. “It would be a farewell without hope of return: I wouldn’t know where on earth to look for her. She wants to go to Africa, but she isn’t African, and I have no idea in what corner of the globe she was born. I shall follow her, Alphonse,” he continued, “even though in following her I cannot hope to have the pleasure of seeing her again; even though I know that neither her virtue nor African customs will allow me to stay by her side, at least I shall go live out my sad days where she will be living, and I’ll find some comfort in breathing the same air as she. So I am now a wretched man without a country; chance has kept me here, and love shall make me leave.” Consalve grew increasingly committed to this resolution in spite of all Alphonse’s efforts at dissuasion. He was more tormented than ever over not being able to understand Zayde or to be understood. Reflecting on the letter he saw her writing, it seemed to him that it was written in Greek characters. Notwithstanding the doubts he had, his desire to find out more gave him the idea of going to find someone in Tarragona who could understand Greek. He had already, several times, sent there for foreigners who could serve as translators; since he did not know what language Zayde spoke, however, it was difficult to know what foreigners to ask for; and all the trips of those he had sent having amounted to nothing, he therefore decided to go himself. It was, however, a decision that was hard to make; he would, after all, have to risk exposure in a big city where he might be recognized, and would have to leave Zayde’s side; yet the desire to be able to communicate with her overcame such factors. He tried to make her understand that he was going to find a translator, and set off for Tarragona. He disguised himself as well as possible; he frequented the spots that foreigners did; he met with many, but their language was not at all that of Zayde. Finally, he asked if there was no one who understood Greek. The man he was talking to answered, in Spanish, that he himself was from one of the Greek isles. Consalve asked him to speak his native tongue; he did, and Consalve knew that it was Zayde’s. Luck had it that no business detained this foreigner in Tarragona; he was perfectly willing to go with Consalve, who gave him for his help greater compensation than he would have dared ask for. They left at daybreak, and Consalve reckoned himself luckier to have the translator by his side than the crown of Leon on his head. As they rode, he started his study of the Greek language; first he learned I love you; and when he thought of being able to say it to Zayde, and

Part One that she would understand him, he thought that he could never be unhappy again. In good time he arrived at Alphonse’s house; he found him taking a walk; he shared his joy with him and asked where Zayde was. Alphonse said that she had left a while ago for a walk by the sea. He followed the path with his interpreter; he went to the rock where she usually could be found; he was surprised not to find her there; he was not, however, worried; he went as far as the port, which she visited sometimes, looking for her; he came back to the house; he returned to the woods: his efforts were fruitless. He sent to all the places she might be; but as she was not found anywhere, he started to have an inkling of his misfortune. Night fell without his learning anything new; he was in despair over losing her; he feared that she had had some accident; he blamed himself for having left her. In a word, there was no pain as great as his. With torches, he searched the fields the whole night long; though without even the hope of seeing her again, he could not stop looking. Several times already he had returned to the fishermen’s cabins to see if anyone had seen her, and he learned nothing. At daybreak, two women, returning from the place they had spent the previous night, told him that leaving their cabins they had seen from a distance Zayde and Felime walking along the shore. While they were walking, they said, a launch had anchored off the coast; men from the launch came ashore; Zayde and Felime had started to withdraw upon seeing them; hearing the men call to them, however, they reversed their steps; and after having spoken a long while, and making gestures that showed they were glad to see them, they got into the launch and set out to sea. At this, Consalve gave Alphonse a look that expressed his suffering better than any of his words could have. Alphonse did not know what to say to comfort him. When all those attending them had withdrawn, Consalve broke the silence: “I’ve lost Zayde, and lost her just when I was able to make her understand me. I’ve lost her, Alphonse, and it is her lover who has taken her from me: it’s easy to see as much from the women’s account. Fortune has refused to leave me in ignorance of the only thing capable of making the pain of losing Zayde even worse. So I’ve lost her forever, and she’s in the hands of a rival—what’s more, a rival she loves. She must have been writing to him when I surprised her, and it was to inform him of the place she could be found. It’s all too much!” he cried out all of a sudden. “It’s all too much: you could make a hundred men miserable with my misfortunes alone. I admit it, I can’t bear them anymore, and after having forsaken everything, I can’t stand the fact that I’m more tormented in the middle of this solitude than I was in the middle of the court. So yes, Alphonse, I’m a thousand times more

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Zayde unhappy because of the loss of Zayde alone than from all my other losses combined. Is it really possible that I can’t hope to see Zayde again? If only I knew whether she liked me, or whether she was indifferent, my misfortune wouldn’t be unbearable, and I would know what sort of sorrow to give myself over to. But if Zayde did really like me, how can I think of forgetting her? Shouldn’t I spend my life searching the four corners of the earth for her? And if she loves someone else, mustn’t I do all I can to forget her? Alphonse, take pity on me; either help me believe Zayde loved me, or persuade me that she was indifferent.” He went on: “What! Am I supposed to be loved by Zayde, and yet accept never seeing her again? Such a misfortune would be worse than being hated. And yet, no, I can’t be unfortunate if Zayde loved me. Alas! I was about to find out just when I lost her; and whatever her efforts to disguise the truth, I would have figured out her feelings; I would have learned the cause of her tears; I would have learned her country, her fortune, her adventures, and I’d know right now if I had to follow her, and where to find her.” Alphonse had no idea how to answer Consalve, finding it impossible to decide on the words that might soothe his pain. Finally, after pointing out that he was in no frame of mind to make any resolution one way or the other, and that bearing up under his misfortune would require the use of reason, he made him go back to his quarters. As soon as Consalve was in his room, he sent for his translator in order to have a few words explained that he had heard Zayde say and that he remembered. The translator explained a number of them, among which were those that Zayde addressed to Felime while looking at Consalve. He explained them in a way that convinced Consalve that he had not been wrong in thinking she was referring to a resemblance, and he could no longer doubt, therefore, that it was Zayde’s lover whom he resembled. With this thought, he sent for the two women who had seen the lovely foreigner leave, so that he might know if there was someone among all the men who had sailed away with her who looked like him. His curiosity went unsatisfied: the women had been too far away to notice any resemblance, and only told him that there was one man whom Zayde had embraced. Consalve could not listen to these words without despairing, nor without deciding to pursue Zayde so as to kill her lover before her very eyes. Alphonse pointed out that the plan was both unjust and impossible: he had no rights over Zayde; she had been committed to this lover before ever seeing him; he might well be her husband; he didn’t know where in the world to look for her; even if he found her, it would obviously be in a place where his rival would have enough power to prevent him from executing a plan conceived in anger.

Part One “What do you want me to do, then?” replied Consalve. “Do you think it is possible for me to remain in the state I’m in?” “I would like you to bear up under this hardship, which is a matter of love alone, just as you did when faced with hardships of both love and fortune.” “I’ve suffered too much to suffer any further; I want to go look for Zayde, see her again, learn from her mouth that she loves another man, and then die at her feet. Wait, no,” he continued; “I’d be deserving of my misfortune if after the way Zayde left me I went looking for her. The respect and adoration I felt for her at the very least obliged her to send me word she was leaving. Gratitude alone dictated this much; and since she didn’t bother, it must be that she has added contempt to indifference. I was flattering myself to imagine that she didn’t hate me; never more must I think of following her or looking for her. No, Zayde, I won’t ever follow you. Alphonse, I give in to your arguments; I can see very well that all I have left to aspire to is finishing as soon as I can the remainder of my miserable life.” Consalve seemed determined in his resolution, and this calmed his mind. He was nonetheless in a pitiable state of sadness; he would spend whole days in the places he had seen Zayde, as if looking for her still. He kept his translator so that he might learn Greek; and even though he was persuaded that he would never again see Zayde, he found some comfort in assuring himself that if he were to see her again, at least he would be able to understand her. He learned quickly what others learn in years. But when he could no longer busy himself with something that had to do with Zayde, he found himself even more distressed than before. Often he would reflect on the cruelty of a destiny that, after having burdened him with so many misfortunes in Leon, made him endure yet another one, incomparably more affecting, by depriving him of a woman who alone was dearer to him than the fortune, friend, and mistress he had already lost. In measuring the grim difference between past and present misfortunes, he remembered the promise of sending news he had made to Don Olmond. Whatever the difficulty in thinking about something other than Zayde, he judged that he owed this mark of gratitude to a man who had shown him such friendship. He did not wish to tell him precisely where he was; he just sent word requesting that he be written to in Tarragona, and that his retreat was not far from there. He had lost, he wrote, all ambition; he had no more resentment against Don Garcie, nor hate for Don Ramire, nor love for Nugna Bella; and yet he was unhappier still than when he left Leon. Alphonse was deeply touched by the state in which he saw Consalve; he did not abandon him and as much as possible tried to ease his distress.

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Zayde “You may have lost Zayde,” he told him one day, “but you had no part in the loss; however unfortunate you may be, there is at least one misfortune that you have been spared by your destiny: being the cause of one’s own misfortune is unknown to you, and it is also what will be my unending torture. If you can find any consolation in learning from my own example that you could be more unfortunate than you are,” he continued, “I will be happy to recount the events of my life, however painful such sad memories are.” Consalve could not help betraying so much desire to know what had caused him to confine himself to this remote spot that Alphonse, both in order to satisfy his curiosity and to demonstrate that he was the more unfortunate of the two, started as follows the story of his sorrows. The Story of Alphonse and Belasire “You know, sir, that my name is Alphonse Ximenes, and that my family, being descended from the first kings of Navarre, is of some distinction in Spain. As my intent is to tell you just the story of my most recent misfortunes, I will not trouble you with that of my whole life. It is indeed made up of some remarkable things; up until the time I want to tell you about, however, I knew misfortune solely by the fault of others, not my own, so I shall pass over it in silence, save for telling you that I had already experienced the most painful treatment that the unfaithfulness and inconstancy of women could inflict. I was, therefore, quite far from wanting to love anyone. Relationships seemed to me torture, and so even though several of the most beautiful ladies of the court would have accorded me their love, all I had for them were the feelings of respect that their sex is due. My father, who was still alive at the time, wished—out of that fanciful dream all men entertain of wanting to perpetuate their name—to see me married. I had no aversion to marriage, but my knowledge of women was such that I had vowed never to marry a beautiful one: after having suffered so much from jealousy, I didn’t want to put myself in the dangerous situation of having the jealousy of a husband and the jealousy of a lover all at once. This was my frame of mind, when one day my father told me that Belasire, daughter of the Count of Guevara, had arrived at court, and that she was a good match by both wealth and birth, someone he wished very much to have for his daughter-in-law. I said that he wished in vain: I had already heard about Belasire, and I knew that no one had as yet won her over. I added that I knew she was beautiful, and that that alone was enough to keep me from thinking of marrying her. He asked if I had seen her; I answered that every time she had appeared at court, I happened to be away in the army, and that I knew her only by reputation.

Part One “‘Pray take a look,’ he answered. ‘If I were as sure of your being able to win her over as I am of her being able to break your vow never to marry a beautiful woman, I would have no doubt at all about your marriage.’ “A few days later, I found Belasire with the Queen; I asked her name, suspecting it was indeed she, and she asked me mine, also sure that I was Alphonse. We each guessed what the other had asked; we each answered; and we spoke with one another in a freer manner than apparently we should have in a first conversation. I found Belasire’s aspect altogether charming, and her wit far superior to what I had thought. I told her I was ashamed not to be better acquainted with her yet, but that at the same time I would be quite happy not to become further acquainted, since I knew well enough that it was as useless to try to win her affections as it was difficult to keep from wanting to. I added that whatever the difficulty involved in touching her heart, I could not help but try, were she to stop being beautiful—but that as long as she was the way I saw her, I would not think of it for all the world. I begged her assurance that it was indeed impossible to make her love, out of my fear that some false hope would make me break my vow never to develop feelings for a beautiful woman. The conversation, which did have something extraordinary about it, proved to Belasire’s liking; afterward, she spoke of me favorably, and I spoke of her as a woman in whom I found a merit and attractiveness greater than that of other women. I inquired with more care than I had previously about the men who had had feelings for her. I was told that the Count of Lara had loved her passionately; the passion, it seemed, had lasted a good while; he was killed in the army when he put himself in harm’s way after losing all hope of marrying her. I was also told that several others had tried to interest her, but in vain, and that, thinking it impossible to succeed, no one gave the matter any more thought. This impossibility everyone referred to made me imagine that overcoming it would be a pleasure. Nevertheless, such was not my intention, though I did see Belasire as much as I could; and since the court of Navarre is less austere than the court of Leon, I easily found these opportunities. Still, there was nothing serious between us; laughing, I spoke to her of everything that separated us, and of how glad I’d be if only she could change her countenance and her feelings. It was apparent to me that she didn’t find my conversation a bother, and also that my wit was on the contrary to her liking, because she thought that I appreciated hers so well. Since she so trusted me that I had complete freedom to speak with her, I requested that she tell me what reasons she had for having so stubbornly refused all the men who had tried to interest her.

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Zayde “‘I shall answer you sincerely,’ she said. ‘I was born with an aversion for marriage; its ties have always seemed to me harsh, and I think that passion alone is capable of making one so blind as to cancel out all the reasons against such a commitment. You,’ she added, ‘do not want to marry out of love, whereas I do not understand how one could marry without love, and a violent love at that; but far from having known passion, I myself have never even had an inclination for anyone. So, Alphonse, if I have never married, it is because I have never loved.’ “‘Madam, you mean to say that no man has ever piqued your interest? Your heart has never been touched? Never troubled at the mention and sight of those who adored you?’ “‘No,’ she told me, ‘I have never known a single feeling of people in love.’ “‘What, not even jealousy?’ I said. “‘Not even jealousy.’ “‘Ah! If that is indeed the case, then I am sure that you have never had any inclination for anyone.’ “‘It is true,’ she responded; ‘no one has ever interested me; moreover, I have never even found a wit that I deemed pleasant or suited to my own.’ “I do not really know what effect Belasire’s words had on me; I do not know if I was already in love without knowing it; but the thought of a heart like hers, on which no impression had ever been made, seemed to me such an admirable and new thing that I was at that moment seized by the desire to win her over and to earn the distinction of touching a heart that everyone thought impervious. No longer was I the man who had first spoken without design; I went over in my mind all she had just told me; I believed that while she was telling me she had never found anyone able to pique her interest, I could see in her eyes that she was excepting me. So in the end I garnered enough hope to fall thoroughly in love: from this moment on, I started to love Belasire more than I had ever loved anyone else. I won’t go into how I declared my love for her. I had started to speak to her jokingly, since it was difficult to talk to her seriously; but this joking gave me occasion to tell her things that I wouldn’t have dared to for quite a while still. Thus I loved Belasire, and I was lucky enough to touch her inclination—but not lucky enough to persuade her I loved her. She had a natural mistrust of all men: even if she did think more highly of me than of any man she’d ever seen—and therefore more than I deserved—she had no faith in my words. Nevertheless, in her dealings with me she adopted a course of action completely different from that of other women; and for me there was something so noble and so sincere about this that it took me by surprise. She didn’t put off for long confessing her inclination for me; from this point she would

Part One keep me up to date on the progress I was making in her heart; since she made no effort to hide what worked to my advantage, however, she also informed me of what did not. She told me that she did not believe I truly loved her, and that as long as she wasn’t more sure of my love, she would never consent to marriage. I cannot express the joy I found in touching this heart that had never been touched, and to see the awkwardness and disarray that a passion unknown to her brought with it. How charming it was for me to discover Belasire’s own astonishment at no longer being in control of herself, at finding in herself feelings she had no power over. In these first stirrings I experienced delights I couldn’t have imagined; and he who has never felt the pleasure of causing a violent passion in a woman who has never known even an ordinary one has no notion of the true pleasures of love. If, however, the knowledge of Belasire’s inclination for me gave me great joy, I was also cruelly chagrined, both because of her doubting my passion and because of the apparent impossibility of persuading her. When this thought bothered me, I would recall my previous sentiments on marriage; I would think I was about to succumb to the misfortunes I had been fearing; I thought that not being able to convince Belasire of my love would be painful, or that if I did convince her, and she really loved me, then I would be at risk of her ceasing to love me. I told myself that marriage would diminish her feelings for me, that she would love me only out of duty, that she might fall in love with someone else. All in all I pictured so well the horror of being jealous that whatever the esteem and passion I felt for her, I nearly vowed to give up on my plan; I preferred the unhappiness of living without Belasire to that of living with her without being loved. For her part, Belasire was having more or less the same doubts as me; she didn’t hide her feelings from me any more than I hid mine from her. We talked about our reasons for not wanting to agree to any commitment. More than once we resolved to break off our relationship: we said farewell, intending to keep our resolutions; but our farewells were so tender, and our inclination so strong, that as soon as we had left each other all we could think of was seeing each other again. Finally, after numerous hesitations on both our parts, I overcame Belasire’s doubts; she dissipated mine; and she promised she would agree to marriage as soon as our parents had taken care of all preliminary arrangements. Her father was forced to leave before finishing matters: the King sent him to the border to sign a treaty with the Moors, and we had to wait for his return. Still, I was the happiest man in the world; loving Belasire was my only concern; she loved me passionately; I had more esteem for her than for all the other women in the world, and I believed myself to be on the verge of possessing her.

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Zayde “I saw her with the freedom enjoyed by a man about to marry her. One day it was my misfortune to ask her what her other suitors had done for her. I was pleased to measure the difference between her behavior with them and her behavior now with me. She listed by name all those who had loved her; she told me everything they had done to win her affections; she said that it was the most persevering among them for whom she cared the least, and that the Count of Lara, who had loved her up until his death, had never interested her in the slightest. I don’t know, given what she was saying, why I had more curiosity about the Count of Lara’s case than the others. His long perseverance was striking; I asked her to repeat everything that had happened between them; she did so; and even though she told me nothing that should have bothered me, I felt a kind of jealousy. It seemed to me that if she hadn’t shown him any inclination, she had at least shown him a good bit of esteem. The suspicion entered my mind that she might not be telling me all her feelings for him. I didn’t want to show her what I was thinking; I returned home more irritated than usual; I slept little, and I could not rest until I saw her the following day and made her tell me all over again what she had told me the day before. It was impossible for her to have told me every single detail of a passion that had lasted several years; she told me some things that she hadn’t yet told me; I thought she had hid them on purpose. I asked her a thousand questions, and on my knees I begged her to answer sincerely. But even when her responses were exactly what I desired, I thought she was saying so only to please me. If she told me something slightly advantageous for the Count of Lara, I thought she was hiding much more still. And so jealousy, with all the horrors associated with it, took hold of my mind. I kept after her; I could no longer show her any passion or tenderness; I was incapable of talking about anything save the Count of Lara, and yet making her remember him and everything he had ever done for her reduced me to despair. I vowed to say nothing more to her about it, but it always seemed that I had forgotten to have some detail explained, and as soon as I broached the subject, it was like a labyrinth, I couldn’t find my way out. And so talking to her about the Count of Lara, or not talking about him, caused me equal despair. “Whole nights I spent without sleep; Belasire no longer seemed to me to be the same person. ‘So!’ I said, ‘the charm of my passion lay in believing that Belasire never loved anything, never had an inclination for anyone; and yet, according to everything she herself has been telling me, she could not have been averse to the Count of Lara. She showed too much esteem toward him; and she treated him with too much civility. If she hadn’t had at least some love for him, his tireless pursuit—and that of his family—would

Part One have made her hate him. No,’ I would say, ‘Belasire, you’ve deceived me; you weren’t what I thought you were; I adored you as someone who had never loved anyone, never loved anything; that was the basis of my passion; it’s now nowhere to be found; it’s only fair that I take back all the love I had for you. But if she is telling me the truth,’ I would counter, ‘what an injustice would I be doing her, and what harm would I be doing myself by robbing myself of the very pleasure I found in being loved by her.’ “It was in this frame of mind that I would resolve to speak yet again with Belasire; it seemed to me as if I would be able to talk about the cause of my pain better than I had, and that I would get to the bottom of the matter with her in a way that would eliminate all suspicion. I did what I had resolved; I would speak with her, but never for the last time; and the next day I’d take up the same subject more heatedly than the day before. In the end, Belasire, who had been up till then admirably patient and gentle in putting up with my suspicions, and who had tried her best to free me from them, began to get tired of still more of such a violent and unfounded jealousy. “One day, she said to me: ‘Alphonse, I can see clearly that the obses52 sion that has got into your head will end up destroying your passion for me; but you must also know that it will inevitably ruin my own. I beg of you, just think about what you are tormenting me with, what you are tormenting yourself about—about a dead man whom you cannot possibly imagine I loved, since I never married him. For if I had loved him, my parents backed our marriage, and there were no other obstacles either.’ “‘It is true, madam,’ I answered. ‘I am jealous of a dead man, and this is what reduces me to despair. If the Count of Lara were alive, I could judge now by the way you behaved together the way you were before; everything you do on my behalf, moreover, would convince me that you did not love him. In marrying you, I would have the satisfaction of depriving him of the hope you must have given him, in spite of all you have claimed. But he is dead, and maybe he died persuaded that you would have loved him had he lived. Ah! Madam, there is no way I can be happy as long as I can still think that someone other than myself has been able to flatter himself with the thought of being loved by you.’ 52. The French caprice usually suggests, like “capriciousness,” a whim or fancy, by nature passing and unpredictable. Alphonse’s caprice, however, is quite tenacious, so I have substituted the somewhat anachronistic “obsession.” (Obsession in a psychological sense was rare in Lafayette’s day and, like the related possession, limited to a demonological context.) Other words used to qualify Alphonse’s particular brand of jealousy will include bizarrerie (strange notions), extravagance (folly), folie (madness), and dérèglement (derangement).

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Zayde “‘But, Alphonse,’ she repeated, ‘if I loved him, why wouldn’t I have married him?’ “‘Because you didn’t love him enough, madam, and your aversion for marriage could not be overcome by a merely ordinary inclination. I know full well that you love me more than you loved the Count of Lara; but as long as you loved him but a little, all my happiness collapses; I’m no longer the only man to have interested you; I’m not the first to make you feel love; your heart has been touched by feelings other than those I gave you. In a word, madam, this is not what made me the happiest man in the world, and you just don’t seem to have the same value I first saw in you.’ “‘But, Alphonse,’ she said, ‘how have you ever been able to live in peace with the other women you’ve loved? I’d certainly like to know if you found in them hearts that had never felt passion.’ “‘That is not what I was looking for,’ I answered, ‘and I hadn’t hoped to find it in them: I didn’t regard them as people unable to love anyone but me; I was content to believe that they loved me much more than the men they had loved before. But your case, madam, is not the same: I always regarded you as a woman above love, who would have never felt it without me; I thought myself at once lucky and proud to have been able to win such an extraordinary victory. For pity’s sake, don’t leave me in this state of uncertainty; if you have hidden anything about the Count of Lara, confess it to me; the confession itself, and your sincerity, will perhaps console me for what you will confess. Clear up my suspicions, and don’t let me value you above what I should, or below what you deserve.’ “‘If you hadn’t entirely lost your mind, you would see well enough that since I haven’t yet persuaded you I won’t ever persuade you. But if I might add something to what I’ve already said, it would be that infallible proof53 that I never had any inclination for the Count of Lara lies in the fact that I assure you I didn’t. For if I had loved him, nothing would make me deny it; I would think it a crime to let go of the feelings I had for a dead man who had been worthy of them. Therefore, Alphonse, please be assured that I’ve had no feelings that could upset you.’ “‘So persuade me, madam!’ I exclaimed. ‘Tell me a thousand times over; write it all down for me; just give me the pleasure of loving you as I did 53. Most often Lafayette uses the term marque (and the similar témoignage) to refer to physical signs, both voluntary and involuntary, truthful and mendacious, of inner emotions or qualities (e.g., distress, love, friendship, valor); the individual is seen to be readily readable, as it were. Translations range from “mark” or “sign” to “evidence” or “indication,” depending on context. At a number of other times, however, marques are what serve to demonstrate the truth of things that characters otherwise refuse to believe, as in this sentence; I render this sense as “proof.”

Part One before; and above all forgive me the torment I am putting you through. It hurts me more than you, and if it were possible to atone for the state I am in, I would give my life to do so.’ “These last words made an impression on Belasire; she saw clearly that I was not in control of my feelings; she promised to put everything she had ever thought about and done for the Count of Lara in writing. And even though these were things she had already told me a thousand times, it gave me pleasure to think that I would see them written in her own hand. The next day she sent along what she had promised me; I found a very precise account of all the Count of Lara had done to win her over, and everything she had done to cure him of his passion, all of it with reasons capable of persuading me that what she was saying was true. The account was of a sort that should have cured me of my notions—but it had the opposite effect. I started by being mad at myself over having forced Belasire to spend so much time thinking about the Count of Lara: the parts of her narrative in which she went into detail were unbearable; it seemed to me that she had great recall indeed for the actions of a man she was indifferent about; the parts she passed over quickly persuaded me that there were other things she hadn’t dared tell me. So I turned everything I read into poison, and I went to see Belasire filled with more despair and anger than I had ever felt before. Knowing how much reason I had to be satisfied, she was offended to see me being so unfair; this she let me know more forcefully than she ever had; I excused myself as best I could, in spite of my anger—I could see how wrong I was, but being reasonable was out of my power. I told her that my sensitivity over her feelings for the Count of Lara was a sign of the passion and esteem I had for her, and that it was only because of the infinite value I attached to her heart that I feared so much that someone else might have had the least share of it. I did, then, all I could think of to make my jealousy more excusable. Belasire didn’t think much of my reasoning. She told me that some passing chagrin might well be caused by what I had adduced, but that an obsession as enduring as mine could come only from some defect and disturbance in my constitution. I was making her fear for her life, she said, and if I kept this up she would be obliged to change her opinion of me. These threats made me tremble; I threw myself at her feet; I assured her that I would say no more about my chagrin, and I really believed that I could control it—but this lasted for only a few days. Soon I started tormenting her again; often I would say I was sorry; often, though, I made it clear to her that I still thought she had loved the Count of Lara and that this thought would make me eternally unhappy.

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Zayde “It had been quite some time since I had become good friends with a man of quality named Don Manrique, who was one of the few men on earth who had as much merit as gracefulness. The same ties that brought us together had brought Belasire and him together as well. Their friendship had never upset me; on the contrary, I took pleasure in furthering it. He had noticed a number of times the irritation that I had been feeling; even though I was completely open with him, the shame over my obsession kept me from admitting it. He came to Belasire’s one day when I was being even more unreasonable than usual, and when she was also more tired than before of my jealousy. Don Manrique could tell by the change in our faces that we had had some quarrel. I had always asked of Belasire that she not speak to him of my weakness; I repeated my request when he came in; but she wanted to make me ashamed, and so without giving me the chance to prevent her, she told Don Manrique the reasons for my chagrin. He appeared so stunned, found it so unjustified, and so criticized me, that in the end he clouded my reason. You be the judge, sir, whether it was not clouded, and what jealous tendencies I had. It seemed to me that given the way Don Manrique had condemned me, he must have some feelings for Belasire. I could well see that I had passed the limits of reason; I also thought, however, that only someone in love with Belasire could completely condemn me. I then imagined that Don Manrique had already been in love for some time, and that for him I was so lucky to be loved by her that he thought I shouldn’t complain even if she loved someone else too. I even got the idea that Belasire must have noticed that Don Manrique felt something more for her than friendship; I thought that she must be happy to be loved (as all women usually are), and without suspecting her of actually being unfaithful to me, I was jealous of the friendship she had for a man she believed to be in love with her. Belasire and Don Manrique, seeing me so troubled and agitated, were far from imagining the cause of my mind’s unrest. With all the reasoning they could muster, they tried to set me right, but everything they said only made me more troubled and bitter. I left them, and when I was alone, I pictured the newest misfortune I thought I was facing as infinitely surpassing the one I had faced before. At that moment, it was clear that I had been unreasonable to fear a man no longer in any position to do me ill. Don Manrique seemed to me more dangerous in every way. He was worthy of love; Belasire had a good deal of esteem and friendship for him; she was used to seeing him; she was tired of my chagrin and obsessions; it seemed to me that she was looking to console herself with him, and that without really realizing it, she would give him the place I once had in her heart. All told, then, I became more jealous of Don

Part One Manrique than I had been of the Count of Lara. I was well aware that he had been in love with another woman for a great while, but this woman was so inferior in all respects to Belasire that this love didn’t reassure me in the least. Since it was my destiny not to surrender entirely to my obsession, always keeping in reserve enough reason to prolong my state of uncertainty, I was not so unfair as to believe that Don Manrique was actually trying to take Belasire away from me. I told myself that he had fallen in love without noticing and without wanting to; I thought that because of our friendship he was trying to struggle against his passion, and that even though he had never said anything about it to Belasire, he was still making it plain enough that he was hopelessly in love. It seemed to me, then, that I couldn’t complain about Don Manrique, since his consideration for me had kept him from declaring his love. In short, I discovered that just as I had been jealous of a dead man without knowing if I should be, now I was jealous of my friend, whom I believed to be my rival, without actually thinking I had good reason to hate him. There’s no use going into what feelings as extraordinary as mine made me suffer, since it is easy enough to imagine. Upon seeing Don Manrique, I did apologize for having concealed my chagrin about the Count of Lara, but I said nothing about my new jealousy. Nor did I say anything about it to Belasire, fearing that any knowledge she’d have of it would make her break things off completely. Still persuaded she loved me very much, I thought that if I could manage through my own efforts to show no more signs of unreasonableness, she wouldn’t leave me for Don Manrique: in the interests of my jealousy itself, then, I had to keep it hidden. I asked yet again for Belasire’s forgiveness; I assured her that my reason had completely returned. She was glad that I was of her opinion—even though she could easily guess, since she knew my character so well, that I wasn’t as calm as I wanted to appear. “Don Manrique continued to see her as he always did—and even more, because of their mutual knowledge of my jealousy. Since Belasire had seen that I had taken badly the fact that she had told him about it, she would no longer bring up the subject in my presence; but when she noticed that I was irritated, she would complain to him, begging him to help her cure me. It was my misfortune to notice two or three times that she had stopped talking to Don Manrique the moment I entered the room; imagine the effect such a thing could have on a mind as jealous as my own. Nevertheless, I perceived so much tenderness toward me in Belasire’s heart, and she seemed to me to show such joy when my mind was at ease, that I could not believe that she loved Don Manrique enough to be in collusion with him. Nor could I believe that Don Manrique, whose every thought went toward

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Zayde keeping me from quarreling with her, might think of getting her to fall in love with him. I could, therefore, no more figure out his feelings for her than hers for him. Very often I didn’t even know what mine were. In short, I was in the most miserable state a man had ever been in. One day when I came in the room and she was whispering to Don Manrique, it appeared to me that she didn’t care whether I saw her talking to him or not; I then recalled what she had told me a number of times when I was pestering her about the Count of Lara—to wit, that to cure me of my jealousy of a dead man, she would make me jealous of a living one. I got the idea that it was to make good on this threat that she was treating Don Manrique so well, and that she was letting me see that she and he had their own secrets. This thought calmed me down; for a few days afterward I didn’t speak to her about it, but finally I made up my mind to say something. “With this intent I went to find her, and throwing myself at her feet, I said: ‘I readily confess, madam, that your plan for tormenting me has succeeded. You have made me as anxious as you could have wanted, and just as you promised, you have made me feel that it is indeed a crueler thing to be jealous of the living than the dead. I deserved punishment for my madness, but I have been punished too harshly; and if you knew how much I suffered from even the things that I felt you were doing on purpose, you would clearly see that it is easy for you to make me unhappy whenever you want.’ “‘What do you mean, Alphonse?’ she countered. ‘You think that I was of a mind to make you jealous? Don’t you know that I was too upset about a jealousy I had no part in to want to inspire any more?’ “‘Ah! Madam, stop feeding my anxiety. I repeat, I have suffered enough; and although I understand that the way you have been behaving with Don Manrique is aimed only at making good on your threats, it has still made me sick to death.’ “‘You have lost your mind, Alphonse,’ replied Belasire, ‘or else you are tormenting me on purpose in the same way you think I am tormenting you. You will never convince me that I have tried to make you jealous, nor will you convince me that it could have worked. According to you,’ she said, looking straight at me, ‘after your being jealous of a dead man I never loved, I wanted to make you jealous of a living man who doesn’t love me!’ “‘What, madam? So it was not your intention to make me jealous of Don Manrique? You’re just following your own inclination for him, then, treating him as you do? It wasn’t to make me suspicious that you stopped whispering to him, or that you changed subjects when I came near? Ah! Madam, if that is the case, I’m much more unfortunate than I thought—I’m even the most unfortunate man in the world.’

Part One “‘You are not the most unfortunate, but you are the most unreasonable. And if I were to listen to my own reason, I would break it off with you and never see you again.’ She continued: ‘But is it really possible, Alphonse, that you are jealous of Don Manrique?’ “‘How could I not be, madam, when I see you and he have some intrigue you’re hiding from me?’ “‘I’m hiding it,’ she answered, ‘because you took offense when I spoke to him about your strange notions, and I didn’t want you to see that I was still talking to him about your chagrin and the pain it’s causing me.’ “‘So, madam! You complain to my rival about my moods, and you still think I’m wrong to be jealous!’ “‘I complain to your friend,’ she answered, ‘but not to your rival.’ “‘Don Manrique is certainly my rival, and I can’t believe you can keep from admitting it.’ “‘As for myself, I can’t believe you dare suggest he is, knowing as you do that he spends entire days talking to me about nothing else but you.’ “‘It’s true,’ I said, ‘that I don’t suspect Don Manrique of deliberately trying to undermine me, but that doesn’t mean he’s not in love with you. On the contrary, I think that though he hasn’t said as much yet, given the way you’ve been treating him, he will soon, and the hope your behavior has given him will make him overcome easily enough any scruples our friendship might have caused him.’ “‘Is it possible to lose one’s mind as much as you’ve lost yours?’ responded Belasire. ‘Are you listening to what you’re saying? You’re telling me Don Manrique talks with me on your behalf; that he’s in love with me; and that he doesn’t say anything on his own behalf. Where do you get such unlikely ideas? Is it not true that you believe I love you, and that Don Manrique loves you too?’ “‘I believe both things, that’s true.’ “‘Well, if you believe it,’ she cried, ‘how can you think that I love you and that I love Don Manrique? Or that Don Manrique loves me and that he still loves you? Alphonse, seeing your derangement is hurting me enormously; I can well see that it’s an incurable disease, and that for me to decide to marry you, I would have to decide at the same time to be the unhappiest person in the world. I certainly love you very much, but not enough to pay such a price for you. The jealousy of lovers is merely troublesome, but the jealousy of husbands is both troublesome and injurious.54 54. Offensant, literally, “offensive.” In classical French, however, the meaning of offenser was often much stronger, serving as a virtual synonym for blesser, “to injure” or “to hurt.”

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Zayde You are making everything that I would have to put up with if I married you so clear that I don’t believe I ever shall. I love you too much not to be deeply hurt to see that I will not spend the rest of my life with you, as I had hoped. Leave me alone, I beg of you—seeing and hearing you will only increase my sorrow.’ “With these words, and without wanting to hear me out, she got up and went into her study, whose door she kept shut no matter how I begged. I was forced to return home in such despair and uncertainty over my feelings that I am astonished now that I didn’t lose the little bit of reason that I still had. The next day I came back to see Belasire; I found her sad and upset; she spoke to me without bitterness, and even with sweetness, but without saying anything to make me fear her leaving me. It was obvious to me that she was trying to make the decision to do so. Since we easily flatter ourselves, however, I believed that this state wouldn’t last long. I asked her to forgive my obsession, as I already had a thousand times; I requested that she not speak of it to Don Manrique; and on my knees I begged her to change her behavior toward him and to stop treating him so well that she made me anxious. “‘I will not discuss your madness with Don Manrique,’ she said, ‘but neither will I change the way I behave toward him. If ever he really were in love with me, I would never see him again, whether you were anxious or not. But he feels only friendship; you even know that he loves other women; I have esteem for him, I love him, you have agreed that I should; so the chagrin he is causing you is sheer madness and derangement. If ever I were able to give you satisfaction, you would just start up about someone else all over again. So don’t get it in your mind to make me change my behavior, for I most certainly won’t.’ “‘I’m ready to believe that all you are saying is true, and that you don’t think Don Manrique loves you. But I think so, madam, and that is enough. I know you love him only as a friend. But the friendship is so tender and full of trust, esteem, and pleasure that even if it can’t lead to love, I’m still justified in being jealous and in fearing that it might take up too much of your heart. Your refusal to change your behavior toward him makes me see that I’m right to be afraid of him.’ “‘What should prove to you,’ she said, ‘that my refusal has nothing to do with Don Manrique, and everything to do with your obsession, is the fact that if you asked me to stop seeing the man I had the most contempt for in the world, I would still refuse, just as I refuse to break off my friendship with Don Manrique.’ “‘I believe you, madam,’ I responded, ‘but I’m not jealous of the man you have the most contempt for in the world, I’m jealous of a man you love

Part One enough to prefer him to my peace of mind. I don’t suspect you of being weak or fickle, but I confess I cannot bear for you to have feelings of tenderness for someone other than myself. Furthermore, I confess that I am hurt to see that you don’t hate Don Manrique even though you know full well he loves you, and even though I was under the impression that I alone had the advantage of loving you without being hated in return. Therefore, madam, grant me what I’m asking of you, and take good note of how far my jealousy is from being injurious.’ I added to this everything I could think of to get what I wanted; it was all completely useless. “Much time passed during which I became ever more jealous of Don Manrique. I had enough control over myself to be able to hide it from him; Belasire was wise enough not to tell him, and she made him believe that my chagrin was still caused by my jealousy of the Count of Lara. Nonetheless, she made no change to her behavior toward Don Manrique; since he had no knowledge of my feelings, he carried on with her as always; my jealousy, therefore, just got worse, increasing to the point where I was constantly pestering Belasire. “After this pestering had gone on some time, and this lovely woman had tried in vain to cure me of my obsession, I was told two days straight that she was ill and not even in a state for me to see her. On the third day she sent for me; I found her very weakened, and I assumed it was because of her illness. She asked me to sit down next to the small bed she was lying on, and after remaining a few minutes without speaking, said: “‘Alphonse, I think you can see that I’ve been trying for a long time to make the decision to leave you. Whatever good reasons have made this necessary, I don’t think I would have been able to do it if the incredibly odd notions you’ve displayed hadn’t given me the strength. If these strange notions had been minor, and if I could have believed that it would be possible to cure you of them through good behavior, however austere, I would have gladly embraced the task out of my passion for you. But since I see that your derangement is incurable, and that the day you no longer have any reasons to torment yourself will be the day you’ll simply make up others that never existed and never will, I’m obliged, for your peace of mind and my own, to inform you that I have completely resolved to break things off and never to marry you. I want to add at this time, which will be the last time we have a private conversation, that I never had the least inclination for anyone but you, and that you alone were capable of inspiring passion in me. But since you have only confirmed my opinion that loving someone makes happiness impossible, you—the only man I ever found worthy of being loved—can rest assured that I will never love again, and that the

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Zayde impressions you have left in my heart are the only ones it has known and the only ones it ever will. Nor do I want you to be able to think that I have too much friendship for Don Manrique: I refused to change my behavior with him only to see if you wouldn’t recover your reason and to give myself the opportunity of coming back to you if I did find out that your mind was capable of healing. I wasn’t so lucky, but this was the only reason I did not satisfy you on that matter. This reason is no more; I’m sacrificing Don Manrique on your account; I’ve just requested that he no longer come to see me; I apologize for telling him about your jealousy, but I couldn’t have done otherwise, and our breakup would have let him know anyway. My father arrived last night; I informed him of my decision; he has gone, at my request, to inform your father. Therefore, Alphonse, don’t think of making me change my mind: I did everything to make sure this was the proper course of action before telling you; I put it off as long as possible, and maybe more out of love for myself than for you. Believe me, no one will ever be so uniquely or faithfully loved than you have been.’ “I don’t know if Belasire continued talking—but since I was so stunned from the moment she started that I was unable to interrupt her, my strength gave out at these last words; I fainted, and I don’t know what Belasire or her servants did, but when I came to, I found myself in my bed, and Don Manrique at my side showing all the signs of a man in as much despair as I was. “When everyone else had withdrawn, he omitted no detail that might defend him against my suspicions and demonstrate his despair over being the innocent cause of my misfortune. Because he loved me very much, he was, in fact, extremely affected by my state. I fell ill, and my illness was violent; I learned then, but too late, of the wrongs I had done my friend; I begged him to forgive me and to go see Belasire to ask forgiveness on my behalf and try to change her mind. Don Manrique went to her house; he was told she couldn’t be seen; he went back every day during my sickness, but just as fruitlessly. I went myself as soon as I could walk; I was told the same thing; and when I went back a second time, one of her maids came out and told me on her behalf not to come back anymore, and that she wouldn’t receive me. I thought I would die when I saw that there was no hope of seeing Belasire. I had always believed that if I were able to speak with her, her strong inclination for me would make her come back; seeing, however, that she refused to speak with me, I lost all hope; and you must admit that losing hope of possessing Belasire was a cruel thing for a man who had been so close to his goal and who loved her so desperately. I sought out every possible way of seeing her; she so carefully avoided me, and led such a withdrawn life, that it was completely impossible.

Part One My only consolation was to spend nights under her windows; I did not even have the pleasure of seeing them open. One night, just as I was leaving, I thought I heard them open; the next night I thought the same thing; and so I flattered myself with the thought that Belasire wanted to see me without being seen, and that she went to her window when she could hear me leaving. I decided to pretend to leave at my usual time and to double back quickly to see if she wouldn’t be there. I did as I had decided; I went to the end of the street, as if I had withdrawn; I distinctly heard the window open; I hurried back; I thought I got a glimpse of Belasire, but coming closer I saw a man creeping along the wall under the window, as if he were trying to hide. I don’t know how, in spite of the darkness, I thought I recognized Don Manrique. The idea troubled my mind; I imagined that Belasire loved him, that he was there to speak to her, that she was opening her windows for him; I believed, in short, that it was Don Manrique who was stealing Belasire from me. In the fury that gripped me, I drew my sword; we started to fight heatedly; I sensed that I had wounded him in two places, but he continued to defend himself. At the noise made by our swords, or on Belasire’s orders, some people came out of her house to separate us. Don Manrique recognized me by torchlight. He took a few steps back; I stepped forward to take his sword away, but he lowered it and said with a weakened voice: “‘Is that you, Alphonse? Is it really possible that I’ve been so unfortunate to fight with you?’ “‘Yes, traitor,’ I said, ‘and I am the one who will take your life, since you have stolen Belasire and spent your nights beneath her open windows, whereas they are kept shut for me.’ “Don Manrique, who was leaning against the wall with the help of a few people who could see he was nearing his end, looked at me with eyes wet with tears. ‘I am most unlucky,’ he said, ‘to be still causing you anxiety, but at least my cruel fate is my consolation for the loss of the life you have taken from me. I am dying,’ he added, ‘and my state must convince you of the truth of my words. I swear to you that I never thought of Belasire in any way that might upset you; my love for someone else, which I never hid from you, made me come out tonight; I thought I was being watched; I thought I was being followed; I quickened my pace; I took a number of different streets; finally I stopped where you found me, without knowing that this was Belasire’s house. That is the truth, my dear Alphonse; I beg of you not to be distressed over my death; I forgive you from the bottom of my heart,’ he went on, stretching out his arms to embrace me. Just then his strength gave out and he fell upon the people holding him up.

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Zayde “Words, sir, cannot represent the way I felt, or the rage I had against myself; twenty times I was on the point of running myself through with my sword—especially when I saw Don Manrique expire. I was taken away from his side: the Count of Guevara, Belasire’s father, who had come out on hearing Don Manrique’s name and my own, led me home and entrusted me to my father. Because of my despair, they would not leave me alone; their caution, however, would have served no purpose had my religion given me the freedom to take my own life. The grief I knew Belasire was being caused by the accident, which happened on account of her, as well as the rumors it engendered at court, made my despair complete. When I thought of how all the pain she was feeling, as well as the pain I myself was overcome with, had happened through my fault alone, I was in an unimaginable fury. The Count of Guevara, who still had considerable feelings of friendship for me, came to see me often, and attributing the scandal I had caused to my passion for his daughter, forgave me. I learned through him that she was inconsolable and that her grief exceeded the bounds of reason. I was familiar enough with her character and her sensitivity to her reputation to know without being told everything such a distressing event would make her feel. A few days after the accident, I was told that an equerry of Belasire’s wished to speak with me on her behalf; I was rapt at the mention of Belasire, whose name was so dear to me; I called in the gentleman; he handed me a letter in which I found the following words. Letter from Belasire to Alphonse

Our separation had made the world so unbearable for me that I could no longer derive the least pleasure from continuing to live in it, and this recent accident has now so harmed my reputation that I can no longer stay on with any honor. I am going to withdraw to someplace where I will not have the shame of seeing the various judgments people are forming about me—your own were the cause of all my misfortunes. And yet I could not resolve to leave without saying farewell and without confessing to you that I love you still, however unreasonable you may be. All I will have to sacrifice to God when I give myself to him will be the feelings I have for you and the memory of yours for me. The austere life that I am about to embrace will seem to me sweet. Nothing can possibly seem trying once you have experienced the pain of tearing yourself away from someone who loves you, someone you’ve loved more than anything. I am also willing to confess that only this choice I have made is capable of protecting me from my inclination for you, and that since our separation, never once have you come back to this place where you wreaked such havoc without my being on the point of speaking with you and telling you that I could never live without you. I am not even sure if I was not about to tell you as much the night you attacked Don Manrique and gave me the latest signs of the suspicions that have

Part One caused all our misfortunes. Farewell, Alphonse, remember me now and then, and for the sake of my peace of mind, pray that I never again remember you. “The only thing my misfortune had been lacking was to learn that Belasire still loved me, that she might well have come back to me if not for the final effect my folly produced, and that the accident in which I killed my best friend also deprived me of my mistress and forced her to make herself unhappy for the rest of her life. “I asked the man who had brought the letter where Belasire was; he told me that he had accompanied her to a convent of austere nuns who had come from France only recently, and that upon entering, she had given him one letter for her father and one for me. I rushed to this convent, I asked to see her—but in vain. I ran into the Count of Guevara who was just coming out; all his authority and all his entreaties had been useless in getting her to change her mind. Shortly thereafter she took the veil. During the year she was still allowed to leave,55 her father and I made every effort to get her to do so; I refused to leave Navarre as I had planned until I had lost every last hope of seeing Belasire again. But the day I learned that she had at last taken her final vows, I left without a word. My father was dead, and I had no one to keep me there. I came to Catalonia, planning to board a ship and to go finish out my days in Africa. By chance I slept once in this house; I liked it; I found it isolated and exactly as I wanted. I bought it; it has been five years that I have been leading a sad life befitting a man who killed his friend, made the most worthy woman in the world unhappy, and lost through his own fault the pleasure of spending his life with her. Now, do you still think, sir, that your misfortunes are comparable to my own?” With these words Alphonse went quiet, and he seemed so stricken with sadness on account of the renewed pain brought on by the memory of his misfortunes that Consalve thought him more than once on the verge of expiring. He said whatever he thought capable of offering some consolation, but he could not help but admit to himself that the misfortunes he had just listened to might actually be comparable with the ones he himself had suffered. Meanwhile, the pain he felt over Zayde’s loss grew greater every day; he told Alphonse that he wanted to leave Spain and go serve the Emperor in his war against the Saracens,56 who having conquered Sicily were mak55. The novitiate, which could last from one to three years, preceded the profession of one’s solemn vows; novices were not bound by the strict rules of closura, or enclosure, that applied to those who had taken their vows. 56. This is the only occurrence of Sarrasins in the novel, the name given in the Middle Ages to the Muslim populations of Spain, Africa, and the Near East. It had been all but supplanted by Lafayette’s time by the word she uses elsewhere, Maures.

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Zayde ing continuous raids into Italy. Alphonse was deeply moved by this resolution; he made every effort to dissuade him, but his efforts were in vain. The anxiety that love causes prevented Consalve from staying in this seclusion; he was compelled to leave, moreover, by some secret hope, unknown even to him, of being able to find Zayde. He thus decided to leave and to say good-bye to Alphonse. Never had there been a sadder separation; they talked about all their lives’ misfortunes; they added to these the misfortune of no longer seeing one another; and after promising each other to write, Alphonse stayed on in his seclusion, while Consalve went off to spend the night in Tortosa. He found a place to stay near a villa whose gardens were one of the city’s greatest attractions; he spent the evening, and even on into the night, walking on the banks of the river Ebro. Tired of walking, he sat down at the foot of one of this beautiful garden’s terraces; it was so low that he overheard the talk of the people walking above. At first, the noise did not distract him from his reverie; but finally he was distracted by a voice that sounded to him similar to Zayde’s and that made him attentive and curious in spite of himself. He got up so as to be closer to the edge of the terrace; at first he heard nothing, because the path where these people were walking led to the edge of the terrace, and once they were at the edge they turned around and went back. He waited in the same spot to see if they would return. They did, just as he had hoped, and he heard the same voice that had surprised him before. “The things that are capable of making me happy,” it was saying, “are so contradictory that I cannot very well hope for happiness; but I would have less to complain about if I had only been able to make him understand my feelings and to be sure of his.” After these words, Consalve could not make out any more, because the woman speaking was starting to move away. She came back a second time, still speaking. “True, the power of the first inclinations a person ever feels may well excuse the one I allowed to grow in my heart—but what an odd effect of chance, if it happens that this inclination, seemingly in accordance with my destiny, should one day make that destiny so painful to follow.” This was all Consalve could hear. The strong resemblance between this voice and Zayde’s astonished him, and perhaps he would have suspected it was she, had this person not been speaking Spanish. Although he did notice something foreign in the accent, he took no account of it, since he was in a distant part of Spain where people do not speak the same as in Castile. He merely felt pity for the woman speaking, and her words made him think that there was something extraordinary in her fortune.

Part One The next day he left Tortosa on his way to board a ship; after riding for some time he saw, in the middle of the Ebro, a richly decorated boat, covered with a magnificent tent, whose flaps were pulled up all around, and under which there were a number of women, among whom he recognized Zayde. She was standing, as if better to view the river’s beauty, but it seemed at the same time that she was deep in thought. One would have to have lost a mistress without hope of seeing her ever again, as Consalve had done, in order to express what he felt upon seeing Zayde again. His surprise and joy were so great that he no longer knew where he was or what he was seeing. He looked at her closely, and while recognizing all her features, he was still afraid of being mistaken. He could not imagine that the person from whom he thought himself separated by so many seas was only a river’s breadth away. Still, he wanted to go up to her; he wanted to speak to her; he wanted her to see him; he feared angering her and did not dare call attention to himself or show his joy in front of the people with her. Such an unexpected happiness, and so many different thoughts, deprived him of the freedom to make a decision; but finally after recovering a bit and assuring himself he was not mistaken, he decided not to reveal his presence to Zayde and to follow her boat to the port. There, he hoped to find some way to speak to her in private; he believed that he would learn where she was born and where she was going; he even imagined that he would be able to tell, if he saw the people in the boat, whether the rival he thought he looked like was with her. In sum, he thought that he was near the end of all his uncertainties, and that at the very least he was going to be able to demonstrate to Zayde his love for her. He would have been glad had her eyes been looking in his direction, but she was so lost in thought that her gaze remained focused on the river. In the midst of his joy he remembered the woman he had overheard in the garden of Tortosa—and even though she had been speaking Spanish, the foreign accent he had noticed, added to the sight of Zayde so close to that spot, made him believe that it could only have been her. This thought troubled the pleasure he derived from seeing her again; he recalled what he had heard her say about a first inclination, yet whatever our penchant for flattering ourselves, he was too persuaded that Zayde was mourning her lover actually to believe that he could have anything to do with that first inclination. But the other words that she had pronounced, and that he could recall, did leave him some hope. He imagined that it was not impossible that they might contain something to his advantage; then he went back to doubting that it was Zayde he had heard, for he did not find it very likely that she would have learned Spanish in so little time.

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Zayde The disarray resulting from his uncertainties soon dissipated; he gave himself over to the joy of having found Zayde; and thinking no more of whether he was loved or not, he thought only about the pleasure he would soon have of being gazed upon by her beautiful eyes. Meanwhile, he rode along the river’s edge, following the boat; and even though he was moving at a good speed, some men coming behind him on horseback passed by. He moved aside to keep himself from being recognized; but since one of the men rode alone some way back from the others, his curiosity to learn something about Zayde made him forget his efforts not to be seen, and he asked this horseman if he knew who those people in the boat were. “They are people of importance among the Moors who have been in Tortosa for a few days, and who are planning to take a great ship to return to their own country.” While pronouncing these words, he looked Consalve up and down, and galloped off to join his companions. Consalve was very surprised by what he had just learned, and he no longer doubted that since Zayde had spent the night at Tortosa, it was she whom he had overheard in the garden. Just then, a bend in the river and a steep path along the bank made him lose sight of Zayde. At the same time, the men on horseback who had passed him came back; he then had no doubt that he had been recognized; he tried to move off in another direction, but they surrounded him in such a way that he saw he could not avoid them. He recognized the man in charge as Oliban, one of the chief officers of the Prince of Leon’s guards, and he was deeply pained to see that [Oliban] recognized him as well. His pain worsened considerably when this officer told him that they had been looking for him for several days, and that at the Prince’s order he was to bring him to court. “So,” cried Consalve, “the Prince is not content with his treatment of me, he wants to take away my freedom as well! This is the only thing of value I have left, and I shall sooner perish than let it be taken away.” With this, he drew his sword, and heedless of the number of men surrounding him, he attacked them with such extraordinary bravery that two or three were already out of action by the time they could get their bearings. Oliban ordered the guards just to seize him and to spare his life. They obeyed the order only with difficulty, for Consalve ran at them with such fury that they could hardly defend themselves without attacking him. Finally, their chief, amazed at Consalve’s incredible exploits and afraid of not being able to fulfill the Prince of Leon’s order, dismounted and with one thrust killed Consalve’s horse. Falling, the horse so entangled its master that he was unable to get loose. His sword broke; all his attackers surrounded him; and Oliban, with much civility, reminded him of the large number of men he was facing alone and of the impossibility of disobeying. This was only too clear to Consalve, but he

Part One found being taken to Leon to be such a huge misfortune that he could not resign himself to it. Zayde, whom he had just found and whom he was about to lose, brought his despair to a head; and he was in such a strange state that Don Garcie’s officer imagined that it must be the thought of the mistreatments he expected from the Prince that was causing his great reluctance. “Sir,” he said, “you must be unaware of what has been happening recently in Leon if you are so afraid of going back there.” “I am unaware of everything,” replied Consalve. “All I know is that I would rather you kill me than take me back to the Prince of Leon.” “I would tell you more,” said Oliban, “if the Prince hadn’t explicitly forbidden me to do so; I can content myself, however, with assuring you that you have nothing to fear.” “I hope,” said Consalve, “that the pain of being led back to Leon will prevent me from arriving in any state to satisfy Don Garcie’s cruelty.” As he was finishing these words, he caught sight again of Zayde’s boat, but he could no longer see her face: she was seated and turned the opposite way. “What is this destiny of mine?” he said to himself. “I’m losing Zayde the very moment I find her. When I was able to see and speak to her in Alphonse’s house, she couldn’t understand me. When I met her in Tortosa and she might have understood me, I didn’t recognize her. And now that I see her, I recognize her, and she can understand me, I can no longer talk to her or hope to see her again.” He remained absorbed in these various thoughts for a while, then, turning suddenly to the men leading him, said: “I do not think that you are afraid of my escaping; I am asking you the favor of allowing me to go closer to the river’s edge, so that I might speak a few moments with some people I see in that boat.” “I am most sorry,” answered Oliban, “to have orders preventing what you desire; I am forbidden, however, to let you speak with anyone, and you must excuse me if I execute those orders.” Consalve felt this refusal so keenly that the officer, noticing the violence of his feelings, and fearful that he might call for help to the people in the boat, ordered his men to lead him away from the river. They did so immediately and brought Consalve to the most convenient place to spend the night. The next day they headed off in the direction of Leon, riding so fast that they arrived in just a few days. Oliban sent one of his men to inform the Prince of their arrival and waited a couple of hundred paces from the city for him to come back. The man he had sent brought back the order to lead Consalve to the palace by a secret route and to bring him into Don Garcie’s study. Consalve was so distressed that he let himself be led away without even asking where he was being taken.

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Zayde PA RT T W O

As soon as Consalve entered the palace of Leon, the sight of the spot where he had been so happy brought back thoughts about his fortune and renewed his hate for Don Garcie. For a few moments, pain over the loss of Zayde gave way to impulsive feelings of anger, and all he desired was to show this prince the contempt he had for the ill treatment he had received at his hands. While absorbed in these thoughts, he saw Hermenesilde come in, followed only by the Prince of Leon. The sight of these two people together in such a private spot, and in the middle of the night, caused him such surprise that he was powerless to hide it. He took a few steps back, and his astonishment made the thoughts crowding in on his imagination so obvious in his features that Don Garcie spoke up. “Am I mistaken, my dear Consalve, or don’t you know about the changes that have taken place in this court? Are you still in doubt about whether Hermenesilde legitimately belongs to me? She does,” he added; “and as far as my happiness is concerned, the only thing that has been lacking is for you to consent and bear witness to our union.” Pronouncing these words, he embraced him; Hermenesilde did the same; and both asked him to forgive the misfortunes that they had caused. “It is I, sir,” said Consalve, throwing himself to his knees, “it is I who must ask your forgiveness for having shown suspicions I confess I was unable to resist. But I hope that you will show the same forgiveness toward both my initial feelings of extraordinary surprise and my past doubts about your ever showing my sister such favor.” “Given her beauty and my love, you should have known that anything was possible,” replied Don Garcie; “but I beg you to forget what she did without your consent for a prince whose feelings she understood perfectly.” “The outcome, sir, has so justified her conduct,” responded Consalve, “that it is she who has the right to complain about the obstacle I wanted to put in the way of her happiness.” After these words, Don Garcie told Hermenesilde that it was already so late that she might be eager to retire, and that for his part he was quite eager to spend a little more time with Consalve. When they were alone, he embraced him, making many demonstrations of friendship. “I hardly dared hope,” he said, “that you would be willing to forget what happened. The only thing I ask of you is to remember the friendship that was once ours and to realize that I failed you only on account of the kind of passion that makes those in its grasp lose all reason.” “I am so surprised, sir,” replied Consalve, “that I do not know what to

P a r t Tw o say; I can hardly believe my eyes, or that I am lucky enough to find in you the very same kindness that I once enjoyed. But, sir, allow me to ask to whom I owe this happy return.” “You are asking quite a bit,” answered the Prince, “but even though I would need more time to tell you everything, I can summarize it in a few words—for I would not want to delay for one more instant what might serve to justify me in your eyes.” At this point he started to speak of the beginnings of his passion for Hermenesilde and Don Ramire’s part in it; in order to spare him the effort, however, Consalve told him that he had already learned about everything that had happened up to the day he left Leon, and that all he needed to know was what had happened since his departure. The Story of Don Garcie and Hermenesilde “You must have left,” continued Don Garcie, “on learning that I had been so weak as to consent to your exile; and Nugna Bella’s mistakenly sending you a letter that she had written for Don Ramire revealed everything that had been so carefully hidden from you. Don Ramire received the letter intended for you and had no doubt that you had indeed received the one for him. He was extremely disturbed about this; I was equally so; we were both guilty, although not in the same way. Your departure made him happy, and I was too, at first; but when I reflected on your state and considered that I was its cause, I thought I would die of pain. I realized that I had lost my mind when I so carefully hid from you my love for Hermenesilde; it occurred to me that the feelings I had for her were not at all of a sort that might warrant disapproval. Several times I felt like sending after you, and I would have done so if I had been the only guilty party. But the interests of Nugna Bella and Don Ramire were immovable obstacles to your return. I hid my feelings from them, and I tried as best I could to forget you. Your departure provoked many rumors, and everybody gave his own version of events. As soon as I was no longer kept in check by your advice and instead followed Don Ramire’s, whose own self-interest made him want me to be more powerful, I fell out entirely with the King, who knew at that point that he had been wrong in thinking that it was you who were leading me to do things he didn’t like. Our difference of opinion came to a head; the efforts of my mother the Queen were of no use, and things got to the point that no one had any doubt that I intended to mount a challenge to his authority. Still, I don’t think that I would have made this decision if your father the Count (who learned of my love for your sister through people he had placed in her service) hadn’t sent me word that if I wanted to marry her, he would provide me a sizable army, fortifications, money, and most anything needed to

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Zayde force the King to cede part of his crown to me. You know how susceptible I am to the passions and the extent to which love and ambition rule my soul. These last were both satisfied by the propositions made to me; my virtue was too weak to resist, and you were no longer there to bolster it. I accepted the propositions with joy; before committing myself entirely, however, I wanted to know who was going to be in this faction I was going to lead. I learned there were a number of important people involved, including Nugna Bella’s father, one of the counts of Castile, and I found out that he and Nugnez Fernando were asking that I recognize their sovereignty. This proposal took me by surprise, and I had some shame about doing something so harmful to the state out of hasty impatience to rule; Don Ramire, though, out of his own self-interest, helped me make a decision. He promised the emissaries of the counts of Castile that he would get me to do as they wished, provided that they promised to give him Nugna Bella. He then got me to ask them for her; I happily did so; they granted the wish, and in short order our agreement was sealed. I could not resolve to wait for the end of the war in order to enter into possession of Hermenesilde, and so I sent word to Nugnez Fernando that I was determined to take his daughter with me when I left court. He consented, and all that remained was for me to find the means to do so. Don Ramire took the same interest as I did in the affair, since Diego Porcellos thought it a good idea to take Nugna Bella along with Hermenesilde. We decided to choose a day when the Queen was going for a ride outside the city, then to force the man driving Nugna Bella and Hermenesilde’s carriage to fall back from the Queen’s and to carry them off to Palencia, which was under my control, and where Nugnez Fernando was supposed to be waiting. “Everything I have just told you was carried out more successfully than we had hoped: I married Hermenesilde the very evening of our arrival. Both propriety and my love demanded as much; moreover, I needed to do so in order to win the Count of Castile completely over to my interests. In the midst of the joy we both felt, we spoke of you with much pain. I admitted to her the real cause of your departure; together we grieved over the misfortune of not knowing in what corner of the world you were in. I was disconsolate over your loss, and I looked upon Don Ramire with horror as being the cause of my offense. His own marriage was delayed because Nugna Bella wanted to wait for Diego Porcellos, who had stayed behind in Castile to assemble the troops that had been gathered. “Meanwhile, most of the kingdom declared allegiance to me. Still, the King had a sizable army and engaged mine. There were a number of battles, and in one of the earliest Don Ramire was killed. Nugna Bella seemed

P a r t Tw o quite grieved; your sister watched over her in her grief and consoled her. In two months I had made such considerable progress that my mother the Queen, knowing that it was useless to resist, suggested a compromise to the King and made him see its necessity. She came to the place I was staying. She told me that the King had decided to pursue a more restful life,57 that he was resigning the crown in my favor, and that he would be retaining sovereignty only over Zamora, so he could finish out his days there, and over Oviedo, so he could give it to my brother. It would have been difficult to refuse such an advantageous proposal; I accepted; everything necessary was done for the execution of the treaty; I came to Leon; I saw the King; he resigned his crown and left the same day for Zamora.” “Allow me, sir,” interrupted Consalve, “to express my astonishment.” “Just wait until I have told you about Nugna Bella,” continued Don Garcie. “I don’t know if what I am about to say is going to cause you joy or pain, since I know nothing of your feelings for her.” “Feelings of indifference, sir.” “Then you will be able to listen painlessly,” replied the King. “Immediately after peace had been declared, she came to Leon with the Queen; it seemed to me that she wished for your return; I spoke with her about you, and I could see her violent guilt over her unfaithfulness to you. We decided to send for you, even though this was rather difficult, given that we had no idea where you had gone. She told me that if anyone knew, it would be Don Olmond. I sent for him straightaway; I begged him to give me news of you; he answered that since my wedding and Don Ramire’s death, he had often thought of speaking to me about your case, given that he could well see that the factors that had led to your departure no longer existed. But he told me that not knowing where you were, he thought it would be of no use. He had, finally, received a letter from you; you didn’t say where you were staying, he continued, but you were asking him to write you in Tarragona, which made him judge that you had not left Spain. Straightaway I dispatched a number of officers of my guard to go look for you. The letter you had written to Don Olmond led me to think you didn’t know anything about the changes that had occurred; I gave them orders to say nothing about the state of the court or my feelings, and I imagined the extreme pleasure of informing you about both. A few days later Don Olmond also left to look for you, thinking he would find you sooner than the men I had already sent. Nugna Bella seemed to me very happy at the 57. Chercher du repos. Once again, the ideal invoked is that of a retreat far from courtly and political agitation.

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Zayde prospect of seeing you again. But her father, to whom I had granted the same sovereignty I had granted yours, sent word asking for the Queen’s permission to recall her. However pained the two women were over the separation, Nugna Bella couldn’t avoid it; she left, and as soon as she arrived in Castile, her father married her, against her wishes, to a German prince whose piety had brought him to Spain. He thought he discerned extraordinary merit in the man and so chose to give him his daughter; this foreigner may well be courageous and wise, but his character and appearance are unpleasant—and so Nugna Bella is very unhappy. “Now you know,” said the King, finishing his story, “what has happened since your departure. If indeed you no longer love Nugna Bella, and you still feel some love for me, then I can ask for nothing more: you will be just as happy as you always were before, and my own happiness will be complete as well, since I will have your friendship back.” “I am overwhelmed, sir, by your kindness,” answered Consalve; “I fear not being able to express sufficiently my gratitude and joy. But my misfortunes and isolation have so accustomed me to sadness that some still remains, obscuring the feelings of my heart.” On this Don Garcie withdrew, and Consalve was shown to an apartment that had been readied for him in the palace. As soon as he was alone and could reflect on how little joy he derived from such a change for the better, he spared himself no recrimination over having surrendered himself so completely to love. “It is you alone, Zayde,” he said, “who prevent me from appreciating my newfound fortunes, fortunes even better than what I had lost. My father is a sovereign prince, my sister is Queen; and I have been avenged on all those who betrayed me. Yet still I am unhappy, and I would gladly give back all these advantages for the chance, now lost, to follow you and to see you again.” The next day the whole court learned of Consalve’s return. The King could not show his friendship for him enough; moreover, he took care to let everyone see it so as to somehow make up for what had happened. Such manifest favor did nothing to console this lover for the loss of Zayde; concealing his distress was not in his power. The King noticed it and so insisted that he confess its source that Consalve had to give in. After having recounted his passion for Zayde, and everything that had happened since leaving Leon, he said: “So that, sir, is how I was punished for daring to assert, against your own opinion, that one should only love after really knowing the other person. I was betrayed by a woman I thought I knew; and yet this experience was still not enough to protect me from Zayde, whom I didn’t then know,

P a r t Tw o

Figure 5. View of Talavera de la Reina, by Anton Van den Wyngaerde, c. 1563. Courtesy Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Wien.

whom I still don’t know, and who nevertheless disturbs the happy state you have made possible.” The King was too sensitive in matters of love, and too sensitive in matters concerning Consalve, not to be touched by his misfortune. He went over with him everything that could be done to obtain some news of Zayde; they decided to send to the villa in Tortosa where he had overheard her speaking, so as to try to get some information about what country she belonged to and where she had gone. Consalve, who had been intending to let Alphonse know what had happened to him since leaving his seclusion, used the occasion to write to him and renew his assurances of friendship. Meanwhile, the Moors had taken advantage of the unrest in the kingdom of Leon: they had made surprise attacks on several cities and continued to expand their control without, however, declaring war. Prompted by his natural ambition and fortified by Consalve’s valor, Don Garcie vowed to invade their territory and take back everything they had usurped. Don Ordogno,58 his brother, joined him, and between them they put together a powerful army. Consalve was its general; in a short time he made considerable progress; he took cities; he won a number of battles, and finally laid siege to Talavera, militarily important for its size and position. Abderame, King of Cordoba, successor of Abdallah, came in person to engage the King of Leon.59 He marched on Talavera in the hopes of breaking the siege. Don Garcie, with Prince Ordogno his brother, took most of the army to go meet him and left Consalve with the remainder so that the siege might be continued. Consalve happily took this on, and the assurance of either succeeding or being killed left him with no fear of a bad outcome. He

58. Ordogno II, second son of Alfonso III, succeeded his brother. The battle of Talavera occurred in 914; it is not clear whether Garcia I was actually present. 59. Abd al-Rahman III reigned from 912 to 961, succeeding Abd Allah as caliph of Cordoba; seventeenth-century historians dated his succession to 907.

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Zayde had had no news of Zayde; he was more tormented than ever over the passion he felt for her and by the desire to see her again. Notwithstanding his fortune and reputation, therefore, all he could envision was a life so unpleasant that he gladly ran headlong into any situation liable to end it. The King for his part marched on Abderame; he found him encamped in an advantageous position a day’s ride from Talavera. Several days passed without any fighting; the Moors did not want to leave their position, and Don Garcie did not think he was strong enough to attack. In the meantime, Consalve judged that it was impossible to keep up the siege, since without enough troops to seal off the whole town, every night help made its way in, and this help could eventually make it possible for the besieged army to make sallies he would be unable to sustain. Since he had already made a considerable breach, he decided to risk a general assault and to try by this bold attempt to succeed in the face of a seemingly desperate situation. He carried out his decision; and after giving all necessary orders, he attacked the town before daybreak, with so much bravery and hope of winning that he inspired these same feelings in his soldiers. They all performed incredible deeds, and in less than two hours Consalve had control over Talavera. He did what he could to prevent pillage, but it was impossible to stop troops who had been motivated by the hope of spoils. As he was personally patrolling the town to prevent potential disorder, he saw a lone man defending himself with wondrous courage against a number of others and trying, in his retreat, to make it to a castle which had not yet surrendered. The attackers were in such hot pursuit that they would have run him through several times if Consalve had not thrown himself upon the group and ordered them to stand down. He shamed them for the act they were about to commit. They excused themselves by telling him that the man they were attacking was Prince Zulema, who had just killed an infinite number of their own men and who was trying to take refuge in the castle. This name was too celebrated, because of the Prince’s rank and his position of command in the Moorish army, to be unknown to Consalve. He went up to him, and this valiant man, seeing that he could no longer defend himself, handed over his sword with so noble and bold an air that Consalve did not doubt a bit that he was worthy of the great reputation he had acquired. He placed him in the guard of some of his officers and marched toward the castle, summoning those in it to surrender. He promised to spare the lives of the people within; the doors were opened; on entering he was informed that many Arab ladies had taken refuge there. He was led to where they were. He entered a superb apartment, decorated with all the refinement of the Moors. Propped up on cushions were a number of ladies

P a r t Tw o whose sad silence was the only thing that betrayed their pain over being captive. As if out of respect, they were a slight distance from a magnificently dressed woman seated on a daybed. Her head was resting on one of her hands; with the other, she wiped her tears and hid her face, as if to put off just a little longer the sight of her enemies. Finally, at the commotion made by the men accompanying Consalve, she turned, enabling him to recognize Zayde—but Zayde more beautiful than he had ever seen her, in spite of the pain and disarray evident in her features. Consalve was so surprised that his own disarray appeared greater than Zayde’s; and Zayde seemed to take heart and lose some of her fears at the sight of Consalve. They went toward one another; and, each one starting to speak, Consalve used Greek to ask her forgiveness for standing before her as an enemy, just as Zayde started to tell him in Spanish that she no longer feared the misfortune that she had been dreading, and that this would not be the first peril he had saved her from. They were so amazed to hear their native tongues spoken by the other, and their surprise reminded them so completely of the factors that had made them learn them in the first place, that they both blushed and stood for a moment in deep silence. Finally Consalve spoke again and, continuing to use Greek, said: “I know not, madam, if I was right in wanting so badly for you to be able to understand me. Perhaps I will be no less unhappy for it; but whatever happens, since I have the joy of finding you again after having lost hope so many times, I shall not complain anymore about my fortune.” Zayde seemed ill at ease with what Consalve said; and looking at him with beautiful eyes that nonetheless showed only sadness, she spoke. “I do not yet know,” she said (in her own tongue, no longer wanting to speak Spanish),60 “if my father was able to escape from the dangers he faced today; you must allow me to refrain from responding in order to ask you what has happened to him.” Consalve called to some men nearby to inquire into what she wanted to know. He had the pleasure of learning that the prince whose life he had just spared was in fact Zayde’s father; and she seemed very glad indeed to find out by what happy means her father had been saved from death. At this point Consalve was obliged to pay his respects to all the other ladies in the castle. He was quite surprised to come across Don Olmond as well, about whom there had been no news since he had set out from Leon looking for him. After having thanked such a faithful friend for everything he owed him, he returned to the spot where Zayde was. Just as he was starting to talk 60. This somewhat odd (and unusual) parenthesis is in the original text.

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Zayde to her, someone came to inform him that the disorder in the town was now so great that only he could stop it. He gave the orders he thought necessary to calm both the turmoil caused by the soldiers’ greed and the terror of the inhabitants. Then he sent a messenger to the King with word of the taking of the town, and with impatience returned to Zayde’s side. By coincidence, all the ladies around her had drifted off; he wanted to take advantage of the few moments he could speak with her; but since he intended to talk to her about his passion, he felt extraordinarily agitated, and recognized clearly that the ability to make oneself understood was not always enough to impel one to do so. He was afraid, though, of losing a chance he had wished for so badly; and after he had expressed his wonder at the oddness of their adventure, in which they had spent so long together without knowing one another or speaking, Zayde said: “We are far from falling victim to the same difficulty, since now I know the Spanish language, and you know mine.” “Not knowing yours made me so unhappy,” answered Consalve, “that I learned it even without any hope of its being able to make up for what I had suffered by not understanding it.” “For my part,” said Zayde, blushing, “I learned Spanish because it is hard not to learn the language spoken in the country where one resides, and one is constantly having difficulties when one cannot make oneself understood.” “I often understood you, madam; and even though I did not know your language, there were many hours indeed when I could have given an exact account of your feelings; moreover, I am convinced that you can see mine even better than I can see yours.” “I assure you,” answered Zayde, “that I am less resourceful than you think— and that all that I could make out was that sometimes you were very sad.” “I told you why that was,” said Consalve, “and I believe that even without knowing what my words meant, you could still understand me. Do not deny it, madam, you answered me without words, and with a severity of which you can be justly proud. But since I was able to recognize your indifference, how could you not have recognized feelings that are so much more visible than indifference, and that make themselves clear in spite of ourselves? Still, I admit that sometimes I saw your lovely eyes turned toward me in a way that would have made me glad, if I hadn’t believed that I owed whatever favor they showed to the resemblance I bore to someone else.” “I am not going to deny thinking that you resembled someone; you would have no cause for anger, however, were I to tell you how often I wished for you to be the man you resemble.”

P a r t Tw o “I cannot tell whether what you are saying is to my advantage; unless you explain things to me a bit more clearly, I will not be able to offer you proper thanks.” “In order to explain things I have already said too much,” replied Zayde, “and my last words oblige me to keep the matter secret from you.” “Truly, I must be doomed to the misfortune of not understanding you,” said Consalve, “for even when you speak to me in Spanish I have no idea what you are saying. But, madam, how can you be so cruel as to add to the uncertainties that I have been living with for so long? Either I die here at your feet, or you tell me whom you were mourning in Alphonse’s retreat, and whom my fortune or misfortune would have it that I resemble. No doubt my curiosity would not stop there if my respect for you were not keeping it in check; I will wait, however, until both time and your goodness allow me to ask further questions.” Just as Zayde was about to answer, some Arab ladies who were in the castle asked to speak with Consalve; and then so many other people came that, given the care the Princess took to avoid speaking to him privately, it was impossible for her to find another chance. He shut himself up alone so that he might give himself over to the pleasure of having found Zayde, and found her, no less, in a place where he was master. He even thought he had discerned some joy in her eyes at seeing him again; he was quite happy she had learned Spanish, and she used the language with such ease, as soon as she saw him, that he flattered himself about having had some part in the care with which she had learned it. In sum, the sight of Zayde, and the hope of her not hating him, gave Consalve as much pleasure as a lover unsure of being loved can feel. Don Olmond returned from the castle where Consalve had sent him to station some troops and interrupted his reverie. Since Consalve had found him in the same place as Zayde, he thought that he might be able to provide some information about the birth and past adventures of the beautiful Princess. He was apprehensive, however, about his possibly being in love with her, and the fear of discovering yet another rival in a man he believed his friend held his curiosity momentarily at bay; he was unable, however, to get the better of it. And so after asking Don Olmond what circumstances had brought him to Talavera, and learning that he had been taken prisoner while searching for him in Tarragona, he brought up the subject of Zulema, so as then to talk about Zayde. “You are aware,” said Don Olmond, “that he is the nephew of the Caliph Osman, and that he would occupy the spot of Caïmadam, who is

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Zayde currently ruling, if his fortune had been as good as he deserved.61 He holds considerable rank among the Arabs; he came to Spain to serve as general in the armies of the King of Cordoba, and he has been living here with an honor and a dignity that surprised me. Upon my arrival here I found a very pleasant court; Belenie, wife of Prince Osmin, Zulema’s brother, was present. This Princess is no less revered for her virtue than for her birth. She had with her Princess Felime, her daughter, whose wit and countenance are full of charm, even if in both there is much languor and melancholy. You yourself saw the incomparable beauty of Zayde, and you can judge my astonishment at finding in Talavera so many people worthy of admiration.” “It is true,” replied Consalve, “that Zayde is the most perfect beauty I have ever seen, and I have no doubt that there are a great number of suitors here courting her.” “Alamir, Prince of Tarsus,62 loves her passionately,” said Don Olmond; “he fell in love with her in Cyprus, and they left there together. Zulema was shipwrecked off the coast of Catalonia; since then he has come to Spain, and Alamir has come to Talavera seeking Zayde.” Don Olmond’s words dealt Consalve a deathly blow; he found in them confirmation of all his suspicions and saw in an instant that all he had been imagining was true. The hope of being mistaken, with which he had flattered himself so many times, deserted him for good; and the joy derived from the conversation he had just had with Zayde only made his sorrow worse. He was no longer in any doubt that the tears she had shed at Alphonse’s were for Alamir, that it was he whom he resembled, and that it was he who had spirited her away from the shores of Catalonia. These thoughts pained him so cruelly that Don Olmond worried for a moment that Consalve was sick, and said as much. Consalve did not want to tell him the cause of his distress; he found it shameful to admit that he still loved when love had so mistreated him. So he told him that his illness would soon pass and asked if Don Olmond had ever seen Alamir, if he was worthy of Zayde, and if she loved him. 61. The caliphate referred to here is no longer that of Cordoba, but the Abbasid dynasty of Baghdad, whose founding had led Abd al-Rahman I to flee to Spain in the mid-seventh century. The title of caliph, indicating the civil and religious head of Islam, was borne by Mohammad’s successors; according to Mármol, Ozmin was the twenty-third, and Caym Adam the twenty-fourth. (Mármol gives their dates of rule as 865–873 and 873–908; modern histories corroborate neither these names nor these dates.) 62. Mármol mentions an Alamir, prince of Tarsus; Lafayette will reveal later that her character is this prince’s son. Tarsus, near the coast of what is now southern Turkey, and birthplace of Saint Paul, was at this time under Arab rule but would soon be brought into the Byzantine Empire. More important for the city’s significance in Zayde is the fact that Tarsus was a standard stopping point on the Mediterranean circuit of Hellenistic romance.

P a r t Tw o “I’ve never seen him,” said Don Olmond; “he went off to join Abderame before I was brought to this town. His reputation is excellent; I don’t know if Zayde loves him or not, but I think that it would be difficult to have contempt for a prince as worthy of love as I have heard Alamir described; and he seems so fond of her that it is equally difficult to believe that she could have total disregard for him. Princess Felime, with whom I have become close friends in spite of the seclusion women of her nation and birth live in, has often spoken to me about Alamir; and judging by what she told me, no man could be more well-bred or in love.” If Consalve had followed his feelings, he would have put still more questions to Don Olmond, but he was held back by the fear of disclosing what he wanted to conceal. He asked only what had become of Felime. Don Olmond answered that she had followed the Princess her mother to Oropesa, where Osmin was in command of a division. Consalve withdrew after this, on the pretext of getting some rest; but in reality, it was only so that he could give himself over to his distress in peace and reflect on the stubbornness of his misfortune. “Why,” he asked, “did I have to find Zayde again before learning she loved Alamir? If I had been sure of this when I lost her, I would have suffered less from her absence: I wouldn’t have so given way to the joy of seeing her again, nor would I feel the deep pain of having the hopes she has just given me dashed. What is this destiny of mine, when even Zayde’s kindness does nothing but make me unhappy? Why show me that she countenances my love, while she approves of Alamir’s? And what might her wish that I be the man I resemble really mean?” Reflections such as these made his sadness still worse; and the next day, which he should have awaited with so much impatience and found so pleasant because he was sure of seeing Zayde and speaking to her, seemed to him the most frightful of his life—especially when he considered that in seeing her he had nothing to hope for but the confirmation of his misfortune. Around midnight the messenger who had taken the news of the town’s capture to the King returned with orders for Consalve to leave straightaway and go with the whole cavalry to meet the army. Don Garcie knew that the Moors were waiting for substantial reinforcements; and when he learned of Consalve’s capture of Talavera, he thought he must take advantage of the victory and gather his troops so as to attack the enemy before reinforcements could arrive. Whatever difficulty Consalve found in carrying out the King’s order—given the problem of making soldiers still tired from the previous night’s work march—the desire to fight caused him to act with such diligence that in a short time he had readied them; and he did himself the

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Zayde cruel violence of leaving Zayde without a word to her. He ordered that Zulema be brought to the same castle as the Princess, and he told the man guarding her to inform her of the reasons that made such a sudden departure from Talavera necessary. At daybreak, he took his place at the head of the cavalry and started to march with a sadness proportionate to the reasons he thought he had for being sad. Approaching camp, he met the King, who was coming from the opposite direction. Consalve dismounted and went to report to him on what had happened during the capture of Talavera. After telling him of matters of war, he told him of the matters of his heart. He informed him that he had indeed found Zayde, but that he had also found the rival whose mere idea had caused him so much anxiety. The King expressed the interest he took in whatever concerned Consalve, and how satisfied he was with the victory he had just won. Consalve then went to set up camp with his troops and to ready them, by means of a few hours’ rest, for the intended battle. The final decision had been put off; the advantageous position of the enemies, their number, and the route necessary to get to them made the decision a difficult one, and perilous to put into action. Consalve was, however, of the opinion that the battle should be waged, and the hope of finding Alamir in the fighting made him argue this opinion with such force that the attack was decided for the next day. The Arabs were encamped in a plain in sight of Almaraz.63 Their camp was surrounded by a great woods, so that the only way to reach them was through a passage so dangerous that the enterprise seemed unwise. Nonetheless, Consalve, at the head of the cavalry, set out to cross the woods first and emerged in the plain followed by several squadrons. The Arabs, surprised to see their enemies so close, used up the time they should have been fighting with deciding what to do, and thus gave the Spanish the time to bring across all their troops and array them for battle. Consalve charged straight toward them with the left wing, beat back their squadrons, and caused them to retreat. He paid no attention to chasing after those retreating; and looking everywhere for the Prince of Tarsus and new victories, he cut off the Arabs’ infantry. Meanwhile, the right wing had had a more difficult time of it. The Arabs had broken through and pressed forward as far as the reserve corps, commanded by the King of Leon; the latter did, however, put a stop to their victory and pushed them all the way back to the gates of Almaraz, so that all they had left was Abderame’s infantry, which Consalve had just attacked. The infantry stood its ground, 63. Almaraz is a small town about thirty miles west of Oropesa.

P a r t Tw o and splitting its battalions to the right and left, the archers had such a prodigious effect on the Spaniards that their troops had to pull back. Consalve rallied his men and charged them a second and third time; finally, he surrounded the infantry on all sides, and moved at the thought of seeing such brave men perish, ordered that quarter be given to all. The Arabs laid down their arms, and crowding around him, they seemed to want only to marvel at his clemency now that they had experienced his valor. At this moment, the King of Leon came to join Consalve and gave him all the praise his valor deserved. They learned that King Abderame had escaped during the last battle and had retreated into Almaraz. The glory Consalve earned that day should have given him some joy; but he felt only the pain of not having lost his life and of not having been able to find Alamir. He learned from the prisoners that this prince was not in the army, that he was in command of the reinforcements that the enemies were expecting, and that it was the hope of these reinforcements that had made them delay the battle. Since the Arabs had rallied part of their army, been reinforced by Alamir’s troops, and were protected by a large city which could not be put to siege because of their presence, the only gain the King of Leon could hope to derive from his victory was the glory of having won it. Still, Abderame, under pretense of burying the dead, did ask for a truce of a few days, time enough to permit him to start peace negotiations. During this truce, one day when Consalve was passing from one quarter of the army to another, he saw on a small elevation two of the enemy’s horsemen who were defending themselves against a group of Spanish horsemen and who in spite of their efforts were about to be overcome by the number of their attackers. He was astonished to see such fighting during the truce and to see such unfair odds. He sent one of his men galloping off to stop them and to discover the cause of the fight. He was brought back word that these two Arab horsemen had tried to pass by the outermost sentries; they were rudely stopped, whereupon they drew their swords and the nearby cavalry attacked them. Consalve ordered an officer to go offer his apologies to the two horsemen and to accompany them to the camp’s edge in whatever direction they wanted to go. He then resumed his tour of the quarters, ending up at the King’s, so that it was quite late by the time he returned to his own tent. The following day the officer who had accompanied the two Arab horsemen came to find him. “Sir,” he said, “one of the men you ordered us to escort told us to tell you that he was very sorry that important business having nothing to do with the war kept him from coming to

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Zayde thank you; and that he was happy to inform you that Prince Alamir now owed you his life.” When Consalve heard Alamir’s name, and when he thought how this rival, whom he had so wanted to hunt down anywhere on earth even without knowing his name or birthplace, had just passed through camp under his very eyes, no doubt on his way to find Zayde, he stood as if thunderstruck, and had only enough strength to ask what route Alamir had taken. When he was told that it was the route for Talavera, he dismissed everyone in his tent and gave himself over to the despair of not having recognized the Prince of Tarsus. “So,” he said, “not only did he escape my vengeance, but I even cleared the way for him to go see Zayde! As I speak he is seeing her; he is at her side; he is telling her about how he passed through this camp; and it was only to add insult to my misfortune that he wanted me to know that he was Alamir. It may just be that he won’t be enjoying himself for long at the expense of my bad luck, however, for I shall relieve my pain with the pleasure of revenge.” At this very moment he made the resolution to steal away from camp, to go to Talavera to break in on Alamir and Zayde’s meeting, and then either to take his rival’s life or die before the eyes of the Princess. As he was thinking of the means to execute his resolution, someone came to inform him that enemy troops had appeared a few leagues64 from camp and that the King was ordering him to go on reconnaissance. He could only obey and thus delay putting his plan into action. He got on his horse, but after having ridden some time, and upon emerging from a wooded area, he realized that the troops spotted were merely some Arabs coming back from having escorted a convoy. He ordered the cavalry with him to head back to camp, and followed by a few of his men, he started to ride slowly, so that he could stay in the woods and take the route for Talavera as soon as his troops had gone some distance. This being a major road, he came upon an Arab horseman of quite noble bearing who was following, rather sadly, the same path. The men with Consalve uttered his name by accident. At the mention of Consalve’s name, this horseman, previously immersed in a deep reverie, started and asked the group if the man riding alone was Consalve. As soon as they replied that indeed it was, the man spoke up loudly: “I would be happy indeed if I could lay eyes on a man of such extraordinary merit and thank him for the favors he has done me.” While speaking 64. A lieue, or league, was approximately two and a half miles and indicated the distance one could travel in an hour; it was the standard measure of distance until replaced by the kilometer during the Revolution.

P a r t Tw o these words, he advanced toward Consalve, touching the visor of his helmet with his hand so as to greet him. But as soon as he caught sight of his face, he cried out, “Oh God! Can this possibly be Consalve?” and examining him closely, sat immobile, like a man dumbstruck, locked in struggle with conflicting feelings. After having remained in this state for a few moments, all of a sudden he cried out, “Alamir must not let the man to whom Zayde is destined65 survive, the man to whom Zayde has destined herself!” Consalve, who though astonished by the man’s initial words and behavior was calmly waiting for what would happen next, was in turn dumbstruck on hearing the names of Zayde and Alamir, and he judged that he had now before him the formidable rival he had been seeking out with such hate and thirst for revenge. “I do not know,” he responded, “if Zayde has been destined for me; but if you are the Prince of Tarsus, as you give me reason to believe, do not expect to possess her as long as I am alive.” “I can say the same to you,” said Alamir; “and your words make it all too clear that you are the man who has caused my misfortune.” Consalve heard these last words only confusedly; he backed up a few steps and restrained his urge to fight so that their battle would not be interrupted. He ordered the men with him to leave him; he did this with such authority that they did not dare disobey but instead sped off so as to call back some of the ranking officers who had just left and who could not be too far away. At the same time Consalve and Alamir started a fight in which valor and courage appeared in all their wondrous glory. Alamir was wounded in so many places that his strength started to fail; and though Consalve was wounded too, the prospect of his impending victory gave him a renewed fervor that soon had the Prince’s life at his mercy. The King, who happened to be close to the woods, attracted by the shouting of the men Consalve had sent away, rode in and separated the two combatants. He learned from Alamir’s equerry, who came up at the same time, the name of his master. And Consalve, seeing the blood streaming out of the Prince, gave order that he be helped. If the King had been following his own sentiments, he would have given orders to the contrary; nevertheless he let it be known that he would guarantee the safety of the Prince of Tarsus and then turned his thoughts to caring for his favorite. He had him transported back to camp. Alamir was 65. Destinée might better be translated in this context as “promised” or “intended”; the term will recur, however, throughout the novel, which clearly plays with the imbrication of destiny, prophesied event, paternal will, and personal choice.

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Zayde in no state to be carried so far, so was brought to a castle nearby. As soon as Consalve arrived, the King wanted to get the doctors’ opinions on his wounds: they assured him that his life was not in danger. Don Garcie refused to leave him without learning from his own lips the reason behind the fight. Consalve, who never kept anything from him, admitted the truth; and the King, apprehensive about damaging his health through too much conversation, wanted to let him rest. Consalve, however, called him back: “Sir, don’t leave me to the disorder and confusion of my thoughts: I need help untangling the difficulties raised by what Alamir has just done and said. He meets me without seeming to be looking for me; he comes up to me like a man wanting to thank me, and then suddenly I see him surprised, troubled, and ready to draw his sword. What did he learn on seeing me that made him change his mind? Who put it into his head that Zayde has been destined for me, either by Zulema or of her own accord? He can only have learned from her own lips that I am his rival; but if she was the one who informed him of my love, how could it be in a way that would give him grounds to fear me? Moreover, he knows full well that it’s not Zulema who has destined her for me, since he doesn’t know me at all, nor my feelings for his daughter, and his religion is completely opposed66 to mine. What basis, then, can his words have, and why is it my face, rather than my name, that provokes his wrath?” “The affair, my dear Consalve,” answered the King, “is indeed difficult to untangle; I’ve been thinking about it seriously but have not been able to come up with anything I can settle on.” Then, suddenly, he continued: “Might it not be that Alamir saw you in Alphonse’s retreat, when you went by the name of Theodoric, so that it was only at the sight of your face that he recognized you for his rival?” “Ah, sir,” said Consalve, “I already had the same thought; but I found it so cruel that I couldn’t bring myself to face it. Is it really possible that Alamir was hiding out in that remote spot? Is it possible that the joy I perceived from time to time in Zayde’s eyes, and which made for all my happiness, was just the remains of what the sight of Alamir had produced? For after all, sir,” he continued, “I hardly left Zayde’s side; I would have seen that prince had he been at Alphonse’s. And what’s more, the Princess knows who I am; he has just seen her; she must have told him as much; he was, therefore, under the impression that Consalve was Zayde’s lover when he met 66. Opposée. Islam, Lafayette suggests, is not simply one of a number of religions “different” with respect to Christianity; it is both Christianity’s main opponent and its mirror opposite. The adjective was frequently used by Protestants and Catholics as well to qualify each other’s religion and beliefs.

P a r t Tw o me. I cannot understand what caused such a sudden change, and everything I come up with seems to me impossible for some reason or another.” “Are you really sure,” asked the King, “that Alamir has seen Zayde? He came through camp rather late yesterday; you met up with him this morning; it seems to me that going to Talavera and returning so soon would be difficult. But,” he added, “it’s easy enough to clear this matter up; two of my officers said that they spent the night in the same place as this prince, and so we’ll know from them where they met him.” The King immediately had the officers summoned; and when they had come, he ordered them to say when and where they had come upon Alamir. “Sir,” responded one, “we were returning yesterday from Ariobisbe,67 where we had been sent; in the evening we crossed a wooded area three or four leagues from camp. We dismounted and went to sleep in the middle of the woods. I heard noise; I woke up, and rather far off I saw, through the trees, the Arab Prince, speaking to a magnificently dressed woman. After a long conversation, the woman left him and came over to sit with another woman not far from where I was. They spoke rather loudly, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying, since they were speaking a language I didn’t know and which is not that of the Arabs. They pronounced Alamir’s name several times; and even though they were turned in a way that did not allow me to see their faces, it seemed to me that the woman who had spoken to the Prince was weeping uncontrollably. Finally they left; I heard wagons and a good number of horses move off in the direction of Talavera. I woke up my friend; we continued our route, and we saw from a distance Alamir lying at the foot of a tree like a man taken ill. His equerry asked me if he could reach the Arab camp before nightfall. I told him no, and they spent the night in the same village we did.” The King regretted having had these officers tell their story; and as soon as they had withdrawn, Consalve said: “Now you can see, sir, if I was wrong to think that Alamir had seen Zayde.” “But do you really find it possible that she left Talavera,” responded the King, “given that she is kept prisoner there?” “My misfortune is such that I never miss an opportunity to do myself harm. Before leaving, I gave orders that Zayde would be free to go for walks outside the town whenever she wanted; she was waiting for Alamir in those woods; he was right to send word to me saying that important business that had nothing to do with war kept him from coming to the camp; so he saw 67. Lafayette’s editors have been unable to locate this town.

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Zayde her yesterday; she was crying after she left him. So it is true that Zayde loves Alamir, and I have no more doubts at all. Let me die, sir; and give up caring for a man too persecuted by fortune to deserve your generosity; I am ashamed of the fact that even though you love me I am still miserable.” Don Garcie was deeply touched by the state in which he saw Consalve, and he tried to comfort him with assurances of his friendship. The next day it was learned that the Prince of Tarsus’s wounds were in fact dangerous, and in the following days such a violent fever gripped him that there was little hope of recovery. Consalve imagined that Zayde could never learn of the danger the Prince was in without sending for news of him: he ordered a trusted gentleman in his service to go each day to the castle where Alamir was being kept and to find out if anyone was coming by to try to see him. Moreover, he certainly would have liked to elucidate this resemblance that had so provoked his curiosity; the extremity to which the Prince was reduced, however, had made his true features difficult to discern.68 The gentleman with orders to go to the castle did as directed. He informed Consalve that since Alamir had been sick, no one had asked to speak with him; some unknown persons, however, were coming every day to learn about his condition, without saying who had sent them. Even though Consalve had no doubt that Alamir was indeed loved by Zayde, each new thing that assured him of the fact caused him additional pain. The King came into his tent while he was still upset by this recent cause for distress; and fearing that so much sorrow might endanger his health, he forbade anyone who came near him to speak of Alamir or Princess Zayde. Meanwhile, the truce had ended, and the two armies sprung to action. Abderame laid siege to a small town whose weakness led him to believe there would be no resistance; nevertheless, it happened that the Prince of Galicia, a close relative of Don Garcie who had withdrawn to the town to nurse some wounds received in battle, vowed with more rashness than courage to defend it. Abderame was so indignant over this that when the town had finally been forced to surrender, he had the Prince beheaded. This was not the first time that the Moors had taken unfair advantage of a victory and treated the greatest nobility of Spain with unparalleled inhumanity. Don Garcie was extremely angered by the death of the Prince of Galicia. The Spanish troops were as well: they loved this prince, and 68. Lafayette’s plot, which turns upon resemblance, requires that Consalve not be able to verify whether he actually looks like his presumed rival, whence this somewhat unlikely explanation. (Similarly, during Consalve’s fight with Alamir, the latter’s face was hidden by his helmet, while the former, who needed to be recognized for reasons which will become clear, wore none.)

P a r t Tw o already tired of so many cruelties that had gone unavenged, they formed a riotous assembly and asked the King that Alamir be treated in the same manner as the Prince of Galicia. The King agreed; it would have been dangerous to refuse anything to troops so riled; he sent word to the King of Cordoba for him to have the Prince of Tarsus beheaded as soon as his condition had improved and his wounds healed enough to make a public spectacle of him, so that his life could be taken without any appearance that they had been trying to hasten his death. By the King’s orders, Consalve was to know nothing of the matter concerning this prince. A few days later Don Olmond’s equerry asked to see him. Consalve ordered that he be sent in, and the equerry, after having told him that his master quite regretted being retained in Baragel69 on the King’s order and thus unable to come in person, gave him a pair of letters. Consalve opened the one addressed to him and read these words: Letter from Don Olmond to Consalve

If I did not know how much you enjoy performing great deeds, I would not be sending you the letter that I am, and I would think it useless to speak on behalf of your enemy. But I know you too well to doubt that the request I have been asked to make will make you happy. Whatever the justice in treating the Prince of Tarsus exactly as the Prince of Galicia was treated, it would be a deed worthy of you if you were to save a man of Alamir’s quality and merit. It also seems to me that you should have some pity for a passion that is not unknown to you. The name of Alamir, as well as the way the letter ended, disturbed Consalve greatly. He asked Don Olmond’s equerry to explain what his master meant about the Prince of Galicia; and even though the equerry had no reason to think that Consalve did not already know what had happened, he quickly told him all about it. Consalve then read the letter that Don Olmond had sent along; it contained only these words: Letter from Felime to Don Olmond

You have great influence with Consalve; have him save Alamir from the King of Leon’s wrath. In sparing him the death being prepared for him, he will not save his life, for his wounds will take it soon enough; and Consalve should find sufficient revenge in the fact that we are reduced to imploring him to intervene on the Prince’s behalf. Make every effort, I beg of you: you will save more than one life by saving Alamir’s. 69. It is not clear to what town Lafayette is referring.

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Zayde “Ah! Zayde,” exclaimed Consalve, “Felime is writing only on your orders, and you are ordering me, by this letter, to spare Alamir. What is this inhumanity of yours? And what extremity are you trying to reduce me to? Is it not enough that I manage to bear up under my misfortunes? Do I have to do my best to spare the man who has caused them? Should I oppose the King’s decision? It is just; he was obliged to make it, and I had nothing to do with the matter. I ought to let Alamir perish even if I didn’t know he was my rival and loved by Zayde. And yet I do know it; and this reason alone, as cruel as it may be, prevents me from allowing him to die. On the other hand,” he continued, “what law am I trying to subject myself to? And what generosity obliges me to spare Alamir? Because I know he has taken Zayde from me, must I really save his life? Do I have any reason to think that the King should run the risk of his army’s revolt just to grant me such a wish? Should I give up supporting Don Garcie’s interests, only to deprive myself of the sweet hope that Alamir’s death has revived in me? This prince alone stands between me and Zayde; and however inclined she may be in his favor, if she were never to see him again, I could be sure of being happy.” After these words, he spent a long while seemingly buried in a deep silence; then he got up suddenly, and in spite of his extraordinary weakness, he had himself taken to see the King. The latter was very surprised to see him—and he was even more so, once he learned of the request he was there to make. “Sir,” said Consalve, “if you have any consideration for me, you must grant me Alamir’s life; I cannot live if you allow his death.” “What are you saying, Consalve?” answered the King. “By what turn of events has the life of a man responsible for your unhappiness become necessary for your peace of mind?” “Zayde, sir, orders me to have his life spared; I must live up to the good opinion she has of me. She knows I adore her and that I must hate this prince; still, she has enough esteem for me to believe that far from agreeing to his death, I will endeavor to save him from the fate he has in store. She is willing to owe me her lover’s life, so in the name of your goodness I beg you to grant it.” “I must not take heed,” said the King, “of the feelings inspired by a blind generosity and by a love that has deprived you of all reason. I need to act according to my interests and according to your own. The Prince of Tarsus must die, in order to teach the King of Cordoba to better respect the rules of war, and to calm my troops, who are on the point of revolt; he must die as well in order to leave you sole possessor of Zayde, and so that he will no longer trouble your peace of mind.”

P a r t Tw o “Ah! Sir,” said Consalve, “what peace of mind would there be in seeing Zayde angry at me and in despair over the death of her lover? There is no way I can give another thought to challenging Alamir for Zayde, be he alive or dead. One mustn’t make oneself worthy of fortune’s mistreatment out of unreasonable obstinacy. I want Zayde to take pity on me for not having loved me; what I don’t want is for her to be able to despise or hate me.” “Take some time to examine what you are asking of me, and then decide if it is right to do so.” “No, sir, I don’t want to have the chance to change my mind, or risk having to fend off for a second time the false and flattering hopes that the thought of Alamir’s death have already incited in me. I don’t even want Zayde to be able to think for a moment that I am uncertain about the necessary course of action, and I am therefore asking you the favor of making public immediately that you have granted me the life of this prince.” “I promise,” responded the King, “to leave his fate to you—but wait a bit more to make this public. You know about the plans regarding Oropesa; tonight the inhabitants are to open the gates; if the plan succeeds, joy over the happy outcome may put the army in a mood that will give us less to fear. And Felime will be in our hands: she can tell you if Alamir is indeed loved. Find out more about just what your destiny is before deciding that of this prince, and wait until you are in a position to make a decision you will not have to regret.” “But, sir, perhaps Felime will not want to inform me about Zayde’s feelings.” “To oblige her to,” interrupted the King, “send word to Don Olmond that you will not do as she desires unless you are told the true motives behind this considerable effort to spare Alamir’s life. Don Olmond is the one in charge of entering Oropesa, and he will tell you everything you need to know.” “Very well, sir, on the condition that you allow me to make the soldiers themselves come ask you to spare Alamir the moment the word gets out about the taking of Oropesa. Since Felime will be a prisoner, Don Olmond will be able to conceal from her the favor you have granted me until she has told him all about the Prince. So Zayde shall know that I obeyed her orders the very instant I received them, and my blind obedience will make it clear to her that even if I am renouncing all claim on her heart, I was not in fact unworthy of its possession.” The King agreed to everything Consalve wanted, but at the same time he made him write Don Olmond about their decision. This prince spent part of the night with his favorite, who was starting to sink under the weight of these efforts, sacrificing to a strict generosity from which he expected no advantage all hopes for the passion that gripped his soul.

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Zayde The next day Don Garcie received news of the attack on Oropesa, which had succeeded as hoped. He sent word of it to Consalve, and at the same time told him that he was now free to try to save Alamir’s life. With the fervor he would have had if the conquest of Zayde depended on it, he had himself brought to camp; and with the same expression and tone of voice that he had used to give the soldiers the courage to follow him, he made them see the shame they would call down upon him by seeking to take the life of a prince who was in their hands only because he had attacked Consalve. By this death, he said, a death of which he would forever be seen as the cause, they would make him lose the honor he had acquired over so many battles with them. He was, then, prepared to resign command of the army and leave Spain immediately. They had to choose between seeing him take leave of the King or else going straightaway to ask for the Prince of Tarsus’s life. The soldiers hardly let him finish what he had planned to say: as if to keep him from abandoning them, they thronged about him and followed him to see Don Garcie, so excited by the words of their general that now refusing them Alamir’s life would have been as dangerous as refusing them his death would have been just a few days earlier. Meanwhile, Don Olmond, notwithstanding the efforts required to fortify the town he had just taken, thought that Consalve’s interests obliged him to speak with Felime. He asked to see her with the same respect he would have used had the rules of war not already given him complete freedom to do so. He found her plunged in deep sadness: the day’s events, combined with the fact that her mother had been seriously ill the last few days, seemed to be the cause. As soon as they were able to speak without being overheard, she said to him: “Well, Don Olmond, have you prevailed upon Consalve, and will you save Alamir?” “The Prince’s destiny is in your hands, madam,” he responded. “In my hands!” she exclaimed. “Alas, by what chain of events could I possibly have any control over Alamir’s fate?” “I will answer for his life, but in order to enable me to keep my word, you must tell me the reasons behind your urgent concern over his welfare, as well as everything concerning the Prince’s story—and it must be the exact truth.” “Ah! Don Olmond, what are you asking of me?” said Felime. With these words she sat for several moments without speaking; then suddenly she continued: “But you know, don’t you, that he is a relative of Osmin and

P a r t Tw o Zulema, that we have known him for a great while, that he is a person of extraordinary merit—isn’t that enough to be concerned for his life?” “Your concern, madam, has more pressing causes; if it costs you too dearly to inform me of them, that is entirely your choice; but then you will also allow me to retract the promise I have just made you.” “So this, Don Olmond, this is the price of Alamir’s life? What good will it do you to learn what you are asking of me?” “I do regret not being able to tell you, but once again, madam, I am powerless otherwise, and the choice is yours.” Felime sat for a long while, her eyes lowered, and in a silence so deep that it took Don Olmond by surprise. Finally, making her decision all at once, she said to him: “I am about to do for you something that I would have believed nearly impossible for me. In addition to the need to save Alamir, both my good opinion of you and the trust I place in your friendship no doubt make the decision easier. This must be an inviolable secret,” she added. “Listen to the account I am about to give with patience, for it is necessarily a bit long.” The Story of Zayde and Felime “Cid Rahis was brother to Caliph Osman and by birthright could have contended with him for the empire, if he hadn’t had the misfortune of being abandoned by the very people who had led him to believe they would back him; he was thus forced to give up on his claims and to agree to be sent away to the isle of Cyprus, under pretense of overseeing its control.70 Zulema and Osmin, whom you know, were his children; they were young, nobly built, and had given many indications of their bravery. They fell in love with two women of extraordinary beauty and noble birth; they were sisters and had descended from a line of princes who had governed the island before it had been conquered by the Arabs. One was called Alasinthe, the other Belenie. Since Osmin and Zulema knew Greek well, they were able to communicate easily with the women they loved. They were Christian, but the difference of religion didn’t make for any difference in their feelings; all were in love, and as soon as the Cid Rahis’s death left them free to do so, Zulema married Alasinthe, and Osmin Belenie. The men agreed to raise their children as Christians and gave the women hope that soon they too would embrace their religion. I was born to Osmin and Belenie, and Zayde to Zulema and Alasinthe. Zulema and Osmin spent several years in Cyprus because of their passion. After a while, however, the 70. Cid Rahis is not mentioned by Mármol, Lafayette’s source for information on the Abbasid caliphate. Incorporated into the early Byzantine Empire, Cyprus was frequently under Arab rule.

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Zayde desire to find an advantageous way to reassert the claims of their father called them back to Africa.71 “At first they had great expectations, for against all rules of political prudence the caliph who succeeded Osman gave them such eminent posts that Alasinthe and Belenie could hardly complain about their being away. Yet after five or six years of absence, they did start to complain about it and became distraught. They learned that their husbands had other occupations apart from war, for they did receive some news; since they didn’t return, however, the women thought they had been abandoned. Alasinthe busied herself with Zayde, who at any rate deserved all her attention; and Belenie occupied herself with raising me with great care. “When we were nearly out of childhood, Alasinthe and Belenie withdrew to a castle on the edge of the sea; they led a life that corresponded to their sadness, although caring for Zayde and myself obliged them to live with a certain grandeur and magnificence that they might well have given up if they had been left to their own inclination. Among us there were a number of young women of quality, and we were lacking in nothing that might contribute either to our education or to whatever distractions were possible in such a secluded place. Zayde and I were bound no less by friendship than by blood. I was two years older than she; there was also some difference in our character. Mine was less inclined to gaiety; this, as well as Zayde’s superior beauty, was easy to tell just by looking at us. “One day shortly before the Emperor Leon ordered the invasion of Cyprus, we were out by the shore.72 The sea was calm: we begged Alasinthe and Belenie to let us go out for a boat ride. We took a number of young ladies with us and had our men row toward some great ships anchored in the roads. As we were approaching these ships, we saw several launches leave them, and we surmised that they carried Arabs who wanted to come ashore. The launches headed for us just as we were heading toward them. In the first one there were a number of men in magnificent dress, and among these one especially who, by his noble air and the attractiveness of his bearing, set himself apart from those around him. This encounter took us by surprise; we decided that we had better not venture further, and that we should not give the men in the launch reason to believe that we had sailed in their direction out of curiosity to see them. We had our boat veer off toward the 71. In fact, the Abbasid caliphs ruled from Baghdad; Lafayette was probably misled from the title of Mármol’s work. 72. According to Mármol, Leo VI, emperor of Byzantium from 886 to 911, was in frequent military conflict with Caliph Caym Adam, Ozmin’s successor (see note 61). The invasion of Cyprus took place around 895.

P a r t Tw o right; the launch that we were trying to avoid turned as well; the others headed straight for shore. The first one followed us, coming close enough so that we could see that the man we had noticed was looking at us intently—perfectly happy, even, to have us take note of the pleasure he took in following us. Zayde found the adventure amusing and had our boat turn again so as to see if he would keep following. For my part, I was ill at ease without being able to say quite why. I looked attentively at the man who seemed to be the leader of the others, and seeing him from closer up, I found in his face something so fair and attractive that I thought I had never seen anyone more charming. I told Zayde that we needed to head back toward Alasinthe and Belenie, and that it was clear that when they had given us permission to go sailing, they were far from imagining that we might happen upon such an adventure. She agreed; we had the boat turn back toward shore; the boat that was following passed us and went to land where the other launches had already come ashore. “As soon as we landed, the man we had noticed, followed by a number of others, came up and offered his hand in a way that led us to believe he had already learned who we were from the people on shore. My astonishment, and Zayde’s, was extreme; we were not used to being approached so forthrightly, especially by Arabs, for whom we had been taught a great dislike. We thought the man coming up to speak with us would be quite surprised indeed to find out that we didn’t understand his language; but we were the ones surprised when we heard him speak our own tongue with all the refinement of the ancient Greeks. “‘I am aware, madam,’ he said, addressing Zayde, who was walking ahead of the others, ‘that an Arab should not be so bold as to approach you without first having asked your permission; but that which would be criminal for someone else, I think, can be forgiven a man who has the honor of being allied with Princes Zulema and Osmin. Feeling the desire to see the most beautiful parts of Greece, I thought I could not better satisfy my curiosity than by starting with the isle of Cyprus; and it is my good fortune to find upon arrival what I would have searched the four corners of the earth for in vain.’ “Pronouncing these words, he fixed his gaze alternately on Zayde and myself—but with so many signs of true admiration that we could scarcely doubt that he really believed what he said. I’m not sure whether I was already prepossessed, or if our state of seclusion made this whole adventure seem more pleasant; I admit, however, that I have never been so surprised by anything I have seen. Alasinthe and Belenie, who were rather far off, started toward us, while at the same time sending ahead to learn the name

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Zayde of the man who had just arrived. They were told that he was Alamir, Prince of Tarsus, son of the Alamir who laid claim to the title of caliph and whose power the Christians regarded as so formidable. They knew about the alliance between this prince and Zulema, so the respect due this man on account of his birth, added to their desire to get news of their husbands, caused them to receive him with less aversion than they would normally have for an Arab. The words Alamir spoke made them still more disposed to receive him favorably; he talked about Zulema and Osmin, whom he had seen not long before; and he found fault with them for having abandoned two women so deserving of their continued attentions. The conversation on the shore went on so long, and Alamir seemed so charming even to Alasinthe and Belenie, that contrary to their usual custom of avoiding all company, they couldn’t help offering him lodging in their own residence. Alamir made it clear that he was well aware that civility required that he turn down such an offer, yet he made it equally clear that the pleasure of lingering a bit longer in this wondrous company made it impossible to refuse. So he came with us and introduced us to a man of quality for whom he had much respect, whose name was Mulziman. That evening Alamir confirmed our initial opinion of him; I was constantly surprised by the gracefulness of his wit and person; and my astonishment so took hold of me that I should have well suspected that I felt something more than just surprise. I was under the impression that he was looking at me with a great deal of attention, and that certain words of praise he had for me showed that my person was at least as pleasing to him as Zayde’s. “The next day, instead of leaving, as in all likelihood he should have done, he got Alasinthe and Belenie to ask him to stay. He sent for some fine horses he had brought with him; he had them ridden by a number of his men and rode them himself with that special grace that those of his nation possess. He was able to spend three or four days with us and to so win over Alasinthe and Belenie that they agreed he could pay them further visits during his stay in Cyprus. As he was saying goodbye, he told me that if I had been importuned by his presence, and if it happened again in the future, I had only myself to blame. Yes, I had noticed that his eyes had been fixed on Zayde; but at the same time I often saw them fixed on me in a way that seemed so natural that, taken together with a number of things he had said to me, I was persuaded that I had made some impression on his heart. Oh God! the impression he had made on mine was certainly real enough. As soon as I had lost sight of him I felt a sadness I had never before known. I left Zayde; I went off to dream; I found in me only confused thoughts; I became weary of myself; I went to find Zayde again, and it seemed to me that I was

P a r t Tw o looking for her so that I could talk about Alamir. I found her with her maids, busy making garlands of flowers; to all appearances she didn’t even remember having laid eyes on this prince. I was astonished to see her so involved with her flowers, and I found myself so unable to take any amusement from such an occupation that I tore her away. We went for a stroll; I spoke to her about Alamir. I said that it was my impression that he had looked at her quite a lot; she answered that she hadn’t noticed. I tried to figure out if she had taken any notice of the feelings he had shown toward me; it seemed as if she hadn’t given the matter a single thought, however, and I was so astonished and confused at the difference between what the sight of Alamir had wrought in Zayde and what it had wrought in me that I concluded, only too accurately as it turned out, that I was to blame. “A few days later Alamir returned to see us; the day he came back, Alasinthe and Zayde73 had gone off somewhere and were to return only that evening. Alamir seemed more charming than ever to me: given that Zayde wasn’t present, my misfortune was such that I was seeing him without his having anything else to do but look at me, and he appeared to be so inclined to do so that my own inclination for him persuaded me fully that he liked me as much as I liked him. He left us before Zayde was supposed to return, and in a way that gave me grounds to flatter myself with the idea that he had no intention of seeing her. She returned quite a while later, and I was completely astonished when she and Alasinthe told us that they had found him not far from the castle and that he had accompanied them to the gate. It appeared, given the hour he had left, that he should already have been far away by the time they got home, and that without having actually waited for them, he would have never crossed their path. This thought did make me a bit anxious; still, I believed that mere chance could be responsible for what I was imagining, and so I was left waiting to see Alamir again with an impatience I had never felt. He came a few days later with news for Alasinthe about the war that the Emperor Leon was planning on waging in Cyprus. This piece of news, which was of such importance, served as a pretext for several visits; and when he visited, he continued to show the same feelings he had shown before. I had to use every ounce of reason I possessed to keep him from seeing my disposition toward him. Perhaps my reason 73. The original French and English editions, as well as all modern ones, read “Alasinthe and Belenie.” There are, however, several grammatical clues in the following sentences that make it clear that only two people were gone (one of whom needed to be Zayde), and more than one remained behind; in addition, it is unlikely that Felime would entertain Alamir without her mother present. Hence I propose the substitution: Zayde and her mother left for the day, while Felime and hers stayed behind.

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Zayde would have been for naught if the attention I could see him sometimes paying Zayde hadn’t helped me restrain myself. Yet I attributed his efforts at pleasing her only to some natural politeness, and his own skill was enough to conceal anything that might have given me other ideas. “We were warned that the Emperor’s fleet was not far from our coastline. Alamir persuaded Alasinthe and Belenie to leave the place we were staying; and although because of our religion we had nothing to fear from the Emperor’s troops, our alliance with the Arabs, along with the normal confusion of war, was reason enough to follow Alamir’s advice and go to Famagusta. I was overjoyed, since I thought that I’d be in the same place as Alamir and that Zayde and I would no longer share quarters. Her beauty made me so apprehensive that I was quite happy at the thought of Alamir’s seeing me without seeing her. I believed I would be able to become completely certain of his feelings for me and that then I would be able to judge whether or not I should give myself over to my feelings for him. The moment when I still had power to dispose of my own heart, however, was long past. Still, even now I remain persuaded that if I had known then what I have learned since about Alamir’s character, I would have been able to fight the inclination pulling me toward him. But since all I had seen was the pleasant side of his wit and his person, and since he seemed fond of me, resisting such a violent and natural inclination was difficult.

Figure 6. The city of Famagusta, in Cyprus. From Georg Braun and Franz Hogenberg, Civitates orbis terrarum, 1572–1617. Courtesy of the Environmental Design Library, University of California, Berkeley.

P a r t Tw o “The day we arrived in Famagusta he came to meet us. Zayde that day was looking so beautiful that she made the same impression on Alamir as she made on me—to wit, that she was the only woman worth loving. I noticed the extraordinary attention with which he looked at her. When we had arrived at our destination, Alasinthe and Belenie separated; Alamir followed Zayde without even looking for a pretext to take leave of me. I was overcome by the greatest suffering I had ever felt; its violence made my real feelings for the Prince plain to me. This knowledge increased my sadness; I took full measure of the horrible misfortune that through my own fault I found myself in; after much distress, however, a ray of hope returned; like anyone in love, I flattered myself with the idea that causes unknown to me were responsible for the episode that had just upset me. This feeble hope didn’t last long; for a while Alamir was willing to let us believe that he loved us both, so as to be able to make his choice later according to how each of us would treat him; but even without encouragement, Zayde’s beauty was enough to win him over completely. He even forgot that he had wanted to try to persuade me of his fondness for me; henceforth I hardly saw him at all; he came looking for me only when he was looking for Zayde; he loved her with a burning passion; and in the end I saw that he was behaving with her the way I would have behaved with him, if only propriety had permitted me to show the way I felt. “I don’t know if I really need to tell you how I suffered, or the different feelings tearing my heart apart; I couldn’t stand seeing him with Zayde or seeing him so in love; and yet on the other hand I couldn’t live without him. I would sooner see him with Zayde than not see him at all. Nevertheless, my passion, instead of being weakened by his attention to her, only increased. Each of his words and actions was so to my liking that if ever I had been able to inspire something in a suitor, I would have wanted him to behave just like Alamir did with Zayde. It’s true, too, that love is so dangerous to behold that it even inflames people it’s not directed at. Zayde told me all about his feelings for her, and of her own aversion for him. When she did so, I was sometimes on the verge of confessing my state, so that my confession would commit her to refusing to put up with the Prince’s love; I was afraid, though, of making him seem more worthy of love by showing her just how much he was loved. I vowed nonetheless not to render any disservice to Alamir. I knew so well the horrible misfortune of not being loved that I didn’t want to contribute to making a man I loved so truly feel the same way. Perhaps it was Zayde’s lack of inclination for him that helped me keep my resolution. “The Emperor’s troops were so formidable that there was no doubt Cyprus would soon fall under his control. With news of the siege, it was impossible for Zulema and Osmin to remain as thoroughly forgotten as

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Zayde they had been for so long. The Caliph began to fear them and seemed intent on sending them away; they tried to prevent this by asking for command of the troops being sent in support of Cyprus, and we saw them arrive when we least expected it. This overjoyed Alasinthe and Belenie; it would have done the same for me if I had been able to feel any joy, but I was weighed down by a sadness Zulema’s arrival only increased, since I feared that he might favor Alamir’s designs. My apprehensions proved correct; Zulema, whose religious commitment had been strengthened by the time he spent in Africa, was keen on having Zayde change hers; he had left Tunis planning to take her back with him and then to marry her to the Prince of Fez, of the house of Idris; the Prince of Tarsus, however, seemed to him so worthy of his daughter that he gave his approval to his feelings for her. I then realized that even if I didn’t want to keep Zayde from loving Alamir, seeing him happy with her was what I feared most in the world. “The Prince’s passion had become so violent that those who knew him were completely amazed. Mulziman, whom I have mentioned, and with whom I had occasional conversations on account of his friendship with Alamir, seemed in such a state of amazement that I concluded that the Prince had until then never known any violent passions. Alamir informed Zulema of his feelings for Zayde, and Zulema told Zayde that it was his wish that she marry Alamir. As soon as she learned of something that had been causing her such apprehension, she came to tell me about it in a way that clearly indicated how anxious she was. I admit that I was hard pressed to understand her ill humor and that it seemed to me difficult to be so upset over being destined to spend the rest of her life with Alamir. This unfaithful man had so thoroughly forgotten the feelings for me he had once expressed that, upon learning from Zulema of Zayde’s aversion to him, he came to me for pity and begged for my help. All my reason and steadfastness were on the point of deserting me; I felt so troubled and agitated that he would have noticed had he himself not been troubled by the very passion that was causing my own distress. Finally, after a silence that was perhaps only too eloquent, I said: “‘I am more amazed than anyone at the aversion Zayde has shown over Zulema’s decision, but I am also the person the least likely to make her change her mind. It would contradict my own feelings on the matter, for the misfortune of becoming involved with someone of your nation is so well known to me that I could never advise Zayde to expose herself to such a risk. From my earliest days Belenie has always made this clear to me; and I think that Alasinthe has raised her daughter well enough to make getting

P a r t Tw o her to consent to your wishes difficult indeed; and for my part, I repeat that I would be less capable than anyone.’ “Alamir was very upset at finding me so ill-disposed to his wishes; he hoped to win me over by showing me all the suffering and passion Zayde had inspired in him. Everything he told me was driving me to despair; and yet, because of the conformity existing between his misfortune and mine, I couldn’t help but commiserate with him. I didn’t have a single feeling that wasn’t contradicted by another: Zayde’s aversion for him certainly gave me some comfort, because such is the pleasure of revenge; but seeing scorned a man I adored hurt my pride. “I resolved to confess the state of my heart to Zayde; before doing so, however, I pressed her to examine for herself whether she was really capable of continued resistance to Zulema’s plan of marrying her to Alamir. She told me that there was no extreme she wouldn’t go to rather than agree to marry a man whose religion was so opposed to her own and whose law permitted men to take as many wives as they fancied; at any rate, she didn’t believe, she said, that Zulema would force her; and even if he did, Alasinthe would find some means of preventing him from doing so. Zayde’s words made me as happy as I could ever be, and I was on the point of telling her what I had resolved to confess. I found the task more painful and difficult than I had thought, however. I finally overcame the feelings of pride and shame that were stopping me from keeping my resolution, and in tears I told her all about the state in which I found myself. She was completely astonished, and moreover seemed as touched by my misfortune as I could have possibly wanted. “‘But why in the world,’ she said to me, ‘have you so carefully hidden your feelings from the man who caused them? I have no doubt that had he known of them from the outset, he would have loved you; and I think that now still, if he were told something about them, the hope of being loved by you, added to my treatment of him, would in no time induce him to leave me alone. Don’t you want,’ she added, embracing me, ‘for me to try to make him understand that he needs to develop feelings for you rather than me?’ “‘Ah, Zayde!’ I answered. ‘Don’t deprive me of the only thing that is keeping me from dying of sorrow. I could never live through it if Alamir learned about my feelings; I would be inconsolable not only in the interest of my pride but also on account of my passion. I can at least flatter myself that he would love me if he knew I loved him; I know full well that loving doesn’t ensure one is loved in return, but it is still a hope, and however feeble it is, I don’t want to give it up, for it’s all I have left.’ I gave Zayde so many other reasons for not telling Alamir about my feelings that she ended

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Zayde up agreeing with me, and I took much solace in having opened my heart and expressed my sorrow to her. “Meanwhile, the war was raging, and it was plain to see that we would not be able to hold out much longer. The entire low country had been conquered, and Famagusta was the only city that had not surrendered. Alamir risked his life daily with a bravery in which one could sense despair. Extremely distressed, Mulziman spoke to me about this; he hinted so often at how surprised he was by the Prince’s feelings for Zayde that I couldn’t help asking him why, and pressed him to tell me whether Alamir had ever been in love before laying eyes on Zayde. He was somewhat reluctant to admit the source of his astonishment; but I begged him with such insistence that finally he recounted to me the Prince’s past adventures. I will not go into too much detail, for it would take too long; I will just tell you what you need to know in order to understand Alamir and my own misfortunes. The Story of Alamir, Prince of Tarsus “I have already described to you the Prince’s birth; what I’ve told you about his person and my own feelings must have convinced you that he is as worthy of love as a man can be. So it was that from his earliest youth he made being loved his goal; and even though the manner in which Arab women live is totally incompatible with gallantry, Alamir’s skill, along with the pleasure he took in overcoming difficulties, made easy what would have been impossible for someone else. Since the Prince is unmarried and his religion allows men to take several wives, there wasn’t a single young woman of Tarsus who didn’t flatter herself with the prospect of wedding him. He was glad enough that he was treated with indulgence on account of these expectations, but by his own inclination he steered well away from making any commitment he couldn’t break. The only thing he sought was the pleasure of being loved; he knew nothing of the pleasure of loving. He had never experienced any real passion; even so, however, he still so well mastered the art of demonstrating passion that he persuaded all the women he thought worthy that he was in love with them. True, in the moments he was intent on being charming, his desire to be loved imparted to him a kind of ardor that could be mistaken for passion. Yet as soon as he made someone fall in love, both because he had nothing further to desire and because he wasn’t enough in love to take pleasure in a feeling uncomplicated by difficulties or mystery, all he could think of was breaking off with that woman and making another fall for him. “Selemin, one of the Prince’s favorites, was confidant to all his passions and enjoyed similarly superficial ones himself. Arabs celebrate certain feast

P a r t Tw o days, and it is the only time of year that women have some freedom; they are allowed to go about town and stroll in the public gardens; they go see— always veiled, however—the public performances74 that are put on over a number of days. Alamir and Selemin would wait impatiently for these times of the year: not one would go by without their discovering some young beauties they had never seen, or without their managing to talk their way into some intrigue with them. “During one of these feasts, Alamir saw a young widow named Naria, whose beauty, wealth, and virtue were extraordinary. Chance had it that he saw her unveiled while she was addressing one of her slaves; the charm in her face took him by surprise; for her part she was troubled by the sight of the Prince and stood looking at him for a few moments. This he noticed; he followed her and tried to make her notice he was following her. In short, he had seen a beautiful woman, she had looked at him, and this itself was enough to kindle his love and hope. What he then learned about Naria’s virtue and wit compounded his desire both to make her fall in love with him and to see her again. He carefully sought her out; he would constantly go by her house without being able to catch sight of her and without, he thought, being seen; he arranged to be along the route she took to the baths. Several times he was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of her face; and each time he was so touched by its beauty that he believed Naria was destined to put an end to his inconstancy. “A number of days went by without the Prince’s receiving any sign that might make him think that Naria might approve of his love, and he began to notice a chagrin troubling his usual gaiety. Not for this, though, did he give up plans to make two or three other beautiful women fall in love with him, especially a young lady named Zoromade, noteworthy on account of both her father’s rank and her own beauty. The difficulty of seeing her surpassed, as if this were possible, that of seeing Naria. He was certain, however, that this beautiful maiden would have overcome it if she hadn’t been subject to the control of her mother, who watched over her with utmost care. This was why he was not as eager to surmount these obstacles as he was Naria’s resistance, which came from her alone. He had tried several times, but in vain, to entice her slaves to tell him which days she went out and where he might catch sight of her; finally, one of the slaves who had proven most stubborn promised to keep him abreast of everything she would do. Two days later, he informed him that she would be going to a 74. Jeux publics. The term is extremely vague, and Lafayette will not specify what kind of performances—theater, dance, music, military displays—she ascribes to Arab celebrations.

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Zayde very fine garden of hers outside of town, and that if he cared to walk around the garden’s walls, there were some elevated spots from which he might see her. Alamir put this knowledge to use without fail; disguised, he left Tarsus and spent all afternoon walking around the garden walls. “Toward evening, as he was ready to head back, he saw a door open; he saw the slave he had won over motion to him to come closer; he was under the impression that Naria was taking a walk and that he would catch sight of her from this door; he approached and found himself in a sumptuous arbor containing every possible decoration that might add to its beauty. None, however, made such an impression on him as the sight of Naria sitting on some cushions under a magnificent canopy, exactly as the goddess of love is usually depicted. A few of her maids were off in the corner of the arbor. Alamir couldn’t keep from throwing himself at her feet with such evident rapture and astonishment that he added to the modest agitation already visible in this lovely woman’s features. “‘I am not sure,’ she said to him, motioning to him to rise, ‘if after hiding it for so long I should really reveal, all at once, the inclination I have had for you. I do believe that I would have kept it hidden forever, if you hadn’t so assiduously demonstrated your own for me. I admit that I cannot resist a passion that has so little hope of success. You made a favorable impression on me from the first moment I laid eyes on you; I tried to see you without your seeing me, more assiduously than you sought me out; I wanted to know more about your passion, after all, and have you confirm it in words just as you had already demonstrated it through your actions.’ “Good God! What assurance could Naria possibly find in Alamir’s words! She knew next to nothing about their deceptive and inevitable charm. He more than fulfilled the hopes she had conceived about his love, and with his flattering and insinuating wit he completely mastered the heart of this lovely woman. She promised a second meeting in the same place. He returned to Tarsus persuaded that he was more in love than anyone on earth, and he nearly persuaded Mulziman and Selemin of as much too. He saw Naria again a number of times, and she showed him the greatest inclination and the sincerest feelings that anyone had ever had. She told him, however, that she was aware of his fickle character and that she was incapable of sharing his heart with someone else; if he wanted to keep hers, she said, he must have eyes for her alone, or else she would break things off at the very first cause for jealousy. In response, Alamir swore eternal fidelity with such skill that Naria was persuaded. But the mere thought of such an exacting commitment pained him; and since there were no more obstacles or difficulties to prevent him from seeing her, his love started to flag. He showed her nev-

P a r t Tw o ertheless the same passion as always. For her part, since her mind was set on marrying him, she could see no remaining obstacle, given that she loved him and was loved in return. So she broached the subject of their marriage. This talk took Alamir by surprise; his skill, though, kept it from showing, and Naria believed that her marriage to the Prince was not far off. “From the moment his love for her started to lessen, he had intensified his pursuit of Zoromade; and with the help of one of Selemin’s aunts, supportive of the Prince’s passions because of her nephew’s favor, he found means to write to her. The impossibility of seeing her hadn’t changed, however, which served only to continually increase his passion. “His only hope was a feast held toward the start of the new year; tradition has dictated the exchange of magnificent gifts during this feast, and so the streets are full of slaves laden with the rarest of objects. Alamir sent gifts to a number of women. Since Naria had pride and a sense of honor, she wouldn’t think of accepting anything imposing—the Prince gave her, therefore, Arabian perfumes of such rarity that he alone had them, and he sent along with them all the finery capable of enhancing the pleasure they gave. “Never had Naria been more deeply touched by her passion for the Prince, and if she had given in to her heart’s feelings, she would have stayed at home with him alone in her thoughts and given up any entertainment where she wasn’t likely to see him. Nevertheless, invited by Zoromade’s mother to a holiday banquet, she could not decline. She went, and entering a large side room,75 she was surprised to smell the same perfume that Alamir had given her. In astonishment, she stopped to ask the source of such a sweet smell. Zoromade, who was quite young and unaccustomed to hiding things, blushed awkwardly. Her mother, seeing that she wasn’t answering, spoke up and said what she believed to be the truth—to wit, that it was Selemin’s aunt who had sent them to her daughter. This answer left no doubt in Naria’s mind that the present came from the Prince: she saw the same finery that she had received with her own, and even more still. This knowledge caused her such deep pain that she pretended to be taken ill and returned to her home as sick in reality as she had wanted to appear. She was proud and sensitive; the thought of being deceived by a man she adored plunged her into a piteous state; yet before giving herself over to despair, she decided to find out more about this prince’s unfaithfulness.

75. Here, and again in the bathhouse scene that follows, cabinet, usually meaning “study,” seems to refer to any room adjoining the main space of social exchange. It is safe to assume that it has to do less with the actual architecture of palaces in Tarsus than with the need to provide characters with the means to interact independently of courtly protocol and observation.

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Zayde “She sent word to him that she was sick and that she would not be able to attend any of the public events held during the feast. Alamir came to see her; he assured her that he too would give up going to the events, since she herself wouldn’t be there. In sum, he spoke to her in such a way that she almost thought her suspicions were unfair to him. Still, as soon as he had left, she got up and disguised herself so that he would not be able to recognize her. She went to all the spots she thought she was likely to find him, and the first thing she saw was Alamir himself in disguise—though no disguise could hide him from her. She recognized him following Zoromade, and she saw that he never left the lovely maiden’s side throughout the performances going on around them. The next day she followed him again; but instead of seeing him looking for Zoromade, this time she found him in a different disguise and courting someone else. At first her suffering diminished, as she was glad to think that Alamir spoke with Zoromade only by accident, or else as a diversion. She mingled with the women accompanying the young lady Alamir was following about; and she got close enough so that at a bend in the street where this lady had paused, she could hear Alamir speaking to her in exactly the same tone and terms that had so convinced her of his love. You can well imagine what Naria underwent and the pain she so cruelly felt. At that moment she would have deemed herself fortunate indeed were it only still possible to believe that Zoromade was the only other woman with whom Alamir was involved; at least she would have thought that some inclination for the lovely young lady had caused his change of heart. She could have flattered herself with the thought that he really had loved her before his involvement with Zoromade. But seeing that he was capable of giving the same attention and saying the same words to two or three women at once, she saw too that she had occupied only his mind, never his heart, and that she had made only for his amusement, not his felicity. “So cruel was this episode that she didn’t have the strength to bear it. She returned home overcome with pain and distress; waiting for her she found a letter from Alamir assuring her that he had shut himself up in his house, since he couldn’t stand the sight of anything if he wasn’t able to see her. This deception made her see what all of Alamir’s past gestures had been worth, and she was dying of shame for having founded her happiness for so long on a relationship that was nothing but betrayal. She soon decided on her course of action: she wrote him the most intense and impassioned things that suffering, tenderness, and despair can inspire; and without telling him what she was going to do, she bid him an eternal farewell. He was surprised by the letter, and upset even. Naria’s beauty and wit were such that her loss was troublesome even to someone whose character was as fickle as Alamir’s.

P a r t Tw o “He went to tell Mulziman about his adventure, and the latter tried to shame him for his behavior. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said, ‘if you think that the way you treat women is not opposed to the feelings a well-bred man should have.’ “Alamir was sensitive to this reproach. ‘I do want to defend myself,’ he answered, ‘for I respect you too much to want to leave you with such a bad opinion of me. Do you really think that I would be unreasonable enough not to faithfully love a woman who truly loved me?’ “‘But do you really think you can defend yourself,’ Mulziman interrupted, ‘by blaming the women you’ve loved? Has any one of them deceived you? And didn’t Naria love you with sincere and true passion?’ “‘Naria thought she was in love with me, but she was in love with my rank and the rank I could give her. I’ve never found anything but vanity and ambition in women; they have loved the Prince, but not Alamir.76 The desire to make an impressive conquest, and to better their situation, and to escape the difficult life they are made to live—this is what inspires in them the thing you call love, just as the pleasure of making them fall in love and my desire to overcome difficulties inspire in me what they perceive as passion.’ “‘I think you are doing Naria an injustice,’ said Mulziman, ‘and that she truly loved you.’ “‘Naria spoke of marrying me just as every other woman has, and I have no way of knowing if her passion was any more real.’ “‘So! You want women to love you and yet never think of marrying you!’ “‘No, I don’t want them to think of marrying me when I am above their station. I’d want them to have such thoughts only if, not knowing who I really am, they thought that by marrying me they’d be doing something they shouldn’t. But as long as they see me as a prince who will raise them up and give them some freedom, then I’ll feel no obligation to have great respect for their designs on me, and I’ll never mistake that for love. You would see,’ Alamir added, ‘that I am not at all incapable of loving faithfully, if only I could find a woman who would love me without knowing who I am.’ “‘As a condition of showing your faithfulness you ask for the impossible,’ responded Mulziman; ‘and if you were capable of constancy, you would be constant without waiting for such extraordinary circumstances.’ “Alamir’s impatience to know what had become of Naria brought this conversation to an end. He went to her house; he learned she had left for Mecca and that no one knew either the route she had taken or when she 76. In keeping with the ironies and paradoxes that characterize the fates of the lovelorn in Lafayette’s romance, the Prince’s desire to separate himself from his social rank is pure folly, since his very name, in Arabic, means “the Prince.”

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Zayde would return. This was enough to make him forget Naria; all his thoughts were now for Zoromade, who was watched over so carefully that his talent was all but useless. No longer having any idea what he could do to see her, he decided to take the most dangerous risk imaginable, that is, hiding in one of the women’s bathhouses. “Baths are taken in magnificent palaces; women go three or four times a week. They take pleasure in showing their station by having an infinite number of slaves, carrying everything they need, march in front and in back of them on their way there. Entry to the bathhouses is forbidden to men on pain of death, and no power can save those discovered there. Alamir’s quality did give him immunity to ordinary laws, but his rank made him liable to revolt and sedition, which in the end would take both his life and his kingdom just as surely. “Important considerations like these were incapable of restraining him; he wrote to Zoromade; he told her what he had vowed to risk in order to see her and begged her to tell him how they might speak. Zoromade had difficulty agreeing to the risk Alamir was intent on taking; in the end, however, carried away by her passion for him, and forced by the unbearable constraints Arab women live under, she wrote to tell him that if he could find a way of entering the bathhouse, he needed to know which suite of rooms she usually frequented. In this apartment, she told him, there was a small side room where he could hide; she would refrain from bathing, and while her mother was taking her bath she would be able to speak with him. Alamir felt great pleasure at having such a difficult task before him; he bribed the master of the baths with substantial presents; he learned what day Zoromade was supposed to go; he entered under cover of darkness; he was led to the suite with the side room and waited there for morning with all the impatience that a man truly in love might have felt. “Around the time Zoromade was supposed to arrive, he heard the noise of some women entering the suite; after a little while the noise subsided, and the door of the side room opened. He expected to see Zoromade; instead, he saw a woman he didn’t know at all, magnificently dressed, in whose beauty there was all the bloom and innocence of youth. The young woman was as surprised at seeing Alamir as Alamir was to see her; by his attractiveness and the beauty of his clothes, he was no less able to cause astonishment than she; seeing a man there, moreover, was such an extraordinary occurrence that if Alamir hadn’t gestured to the young lady not to say anything, she would have cried out in a way that would have brought those in the adjoining room running. She approached Alamir, who was charmed by the whole adventure, and asked him how he happened to be in

P a r t Tw o this place. He answered that it would take too long to explain, but that he begged her to say nothing, and not to ruin a man who cared nothing about a danger that brought with it the pleasure of seeing the most beautiful woman in the world. She blushed with an air of innocence and modesty that would have touched even a heart less receptive than Alamir’s. “‘I would be quite sorry,’ she answered, ‘if I were to do anything to cause you harm; but you have risked a lot by entering here, and I am not sure you are aware of the danger you are running.’ “‘Yes, madam,’ he said, ‘I am well aware of it, but it is not the worst danger threatening me today.’ After these words, whose meaning he clearly saw she would grasp, he begged her to tell him who she was and how she came to enter the side room. “‘My name is Elsibery; I am the daughter of the governor of Lemnos.77 My mother has been in Tarsus only for the last two days and knows the city no better than I do. Right now she is having her bath; I did not feel like bathing, and I came in here by chance. But I beg you, too,’ she added, ‘to tell me who you are.’ “Alamir was quite happy to find a young lady who didn’t know who he was: he told her that his name was Selemin (it was the first name that came to mind). As he was speaking he heard noise; Elsibery walked over to the door of the room to prevent anyone from entering. Alamir followed her a few steps behind, forgetting the danger he was running. “‘Might one dare have hope of seeing you again, madam?’ “‘I don’t know,’ she answered, seeming agitated, ‘but it seems to me that it might not be impossible.’ With these words, she left and shut the door. “Alamir was thoroughly charmed by his adventure: never had he seen anything as beautiful or worthy of love as Elsibery; he thought he had noticed that he was to her liking as well; she had no idea he was the Prince of Tarsus. And so he found in all this everything needed to touch him, and he waited until night in that side room, so full of thoughts of Elsibery that he forgot having come to see Zoromade. “Zoromade was not so content: she truly loved Alamir; the danger she knew he was running was worrying her to death, and it hurt her greatly not to be able to take advantage of it. Her mother had taken sick; she hadn’t wanted to go to the baths, and the suite she usually occupied was given to the mother of Elsibery. On his return Alamir found a letter from Zoromade waiting, informing him of what I’ve just explained, and informing him as well that the question of marrying her to someone else had come up. She 77. A Greek island in the northeast Aegean.

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Zayde said that she wasn’t worried, though, since all he needed to do to prevent this was to speak to her father about his intentions. He showed the letter to Mulziman so as to make him see that women really were animated only by the desire to marry him. He recounted the adventure he had had in the bathhouse; he expounded on Elsibery’s charms and his joy at the thought of her being interested in him without knowing he was the Prince. He swore that he had finally found a woman worthy of his heart’s commitment and that it would soon be clear enough that his feelings for Elsibery were true. And in fact he did vow to renounce all further love affairs so as to concentrate on making this lovely woman fall in love with him. It was nearly impossible, however, for him to see her, especially having vowed not to make himself known as the Prince of Tarsus. His first thought was to hide again in the bathhouse; he learned, however, that Elsibery’s mother was sick and that her daughter never left home without her. “Meanwhile, plans for Zoromade’s marriage were advancing, and her despair over being abandoned by the Prince made her agree to it. Since her father was an important man, as was the man she was going to marry, great festivities were planned for the wedding. Alamir learned that Elsibery was supposed to attend. Arab wedding customs left him no hope of actually seeing her, since women and men are entirely separated both in the mosques and at the feasts. He nonetheless decided to risk something as dangerous as what he had done for Zoromade. The day of the wedding, he pretended to be sick, so that he wouldn’t have to be present for all to see; he dressed in women’s clothes, put a large veil over his head, as all women who leave the house do, and went to the mosque with Selemin’s aunt. He saw Elsibery come in; and although she was veiled, her bearing had something so particular about it, and her dress was so different from that worn by the women of Tarsus, that he feared no mistake. He followed her up to the spot the ceremony was to be performed; but he was now so close to Zoromade that, driven by some remnant of his natural character, he couldn’t help letting her know who he was and speaking to her as if he had disguised himself precisely to see her. The sight of him so shocked Zoromade that she had to take several steps back; and turning to Alamir, she said: “‘There is something inhuman in coming to disturb my tranquility by a deed that might have convinced me of your love had I not already been sure of the contrary. I do hope, however, that I will not have to endure the trials you have put me through for much longer.’ She could not go on, and Alamir could not respond. The ceremony came to an end, and all the women returned to their places. “Alamir hadn’t a single thought for the suffering he had just witnessed in Zoromade, and all his attention was brought to bear on how he might

P a r t Tw o talk to Elsibery. He kneeled down next to her and started to say his prayers loudly, in the Arab manner. The confused hum of voices that comes from a great many people speaking at the same time makes it difficult to be understood except by the people one is immediately next to. Without turning toward Elsibery or changing the tone of his prayers, he called out her name several times. She turned toward him; since he saw that she was looking, he dropped a book; and while picking it up, he lifted his veil slightly so that Elsibery alone could notice him, displaying a face whose beauty and youth did not in the least belie a woman’s dress. It was clear to him that the disguise hadn’t made him unrecognizable to Elsibery’s eyes, but still he asked her if he was so fortunate as to be remembered; Elsibery, whose veil wasn’t completely lowered, turning her eyes toward Alamir without turning her head, said: “‘I remember you only too well, but I tremble on account of the danger you are running.’ “‘There is nothing I would not risk to see you,’ he said. “‘It was not to see me that you ventured into the bathhouse; and perhaps you did not come here on my account either.’ “‘On your account alone, madam,’ he replied, ‘and you shall see me risk the same every day if you do not give me some means of speaking with you.’ “‘Tomorrow I am to go with my mother to the Caliph’s palace. Be there with the Prince; my veil will be raised, since it will be my first time there.’ She fell silent, wanting to say no more out of fear of being overheard by the women around her. “Alamir found the rendezvous she proposed quite awkward indeed. He knew well enough that the first time women of quality are taken to the Caliph’s palace, if the Caliph or his sons should come out to greet them, they do not lower their veil; save this one first time, however, they are always veiled. So Alamir was sure of being able to see Elsibery; yet to see her, he would need to make himself known as the Prince of Tarsus, which was precisely what he could not allow. The pleasure of being loved for the attractiveness of his person alone touched him so strongly that he couldn’t bear giving it up. On the other hand, losing an opportunity to see Elsibery, especially an opportunity she herself was according, was equally bothersome. That slight jealousy she had shown on finding him in the bathhouse to visit someone else committed him to do everything in his power to convince her of the sincerity of his feelings. The awkwardness of his position delayed his response; finally he asked her if he mightn’t write her. “‘I hardly dare trust anyone,’ she answered; ‘but if you can, try to win over a slave who goes by the name of Zabelec.’ “Alamir was satisfied with these words; everyone left the temple; he

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Zayde went to change his clothes and reflect on what he needed to do the following day. Whatever the difficulties he saw in hiding his quality from Elsibery, and whatever the suffering caused by avoiding the woman he most wanted to meet, he vowed to do so, for he wanted to see if he would be truly loved without the help of his birth. After deciding on his course of action, he wrote the following letter to Elsibery. Letter from Alamir to Elsibery

If I had already done something deserving of your favor, or if you had given me some cause for hope, I might not be asking of you what I am about to ask, even though I would have more right to make the request itself. But, madam, you hardly know me; I do not dare flatter myself by thinking that I have made the least impression on your heart; neither by word nor by sentiment have you committed yourself to anyone; and yet tomorrow you are going to a place where you will see a prince who has never laid eyes on beauty without falling in love. Is there anything I need not fear, madam, from such a meeting? I have no doubt that Alamir will fall in love with you; and although it may be capricious of me to be as apprehensive as I am about your seeing this prince, and about his chances of winning your affections, I can only beg you not to see him. What cause have you to refuse me, madam? It is not a favor I am asking of you, and I am perhaps the first man in the world to ask such a thing. I know very well that it must seem to you bizarre; it seems that way to me even more than to you; but do not deny this request to a man who has just risked his life simply to tell you he loves you. “The letter written, he disguised himself so that he might go, along with a few trusted men, to try to learn who the slave mentioned by Elsibery was. He searched around the house of the governor of Lemnos with such diligence that finally he was able to bribe an old slave to bring Zabelec to him. From a distance he saw the young slave approaching; he was surprised by the beauty of his bearing and the delicacy of his features. Alamir was hiding in the shadow of a doorway; and the young slave, coming closer, looked at Alamir as if he knew him. Finally, when he was next to him, the Prince, without showing himself, began to speak of Elsibery. The slave, hearing this voice he did not recognize, immediately changed his countenance, and after letting out a great sigh he lowered his eyes and stood without uttering a word, so sadly that Alamir couldn’t help asking him what was wrong. “‘I thought I knew the man who was asking for me,’ he answered; ‘and I didn’t think that it was to talk about Elsibery that I was being summoned. But do go on; whatever concerns Elsibery touches me deeply.’ “The way the slave was speaking surprised Alamir and made him

P a r t Tw o uneasy; still, he finished what he had began and gave him a letter, identifying himself only as Selemin. The sadness and beauty of the slave made the Prince imagine that he must be some suitor of Elsibery’s who had disguised himself in order to be near her. Having noticed how disturbed he was by the suggestion that he give her some letters, he could hardly doubt it; but he also thought that if Elsibery had known this slave was a suitor, she never would have chosen him to carry letters from a rival. All told, this episode made him uneasy, and whatever Elsibery’s own feelings, this slave seemed too attractive and too far above his supposed condition for Alamir to bear without difficulty his being near her. “It was with a mix of different apprehensions that he waited for daylight to come; the first thing in the morning he went to see the Princess his mother. Never has a lover been as impatient to see his mistress as Alamir was averse to seeing his own, and never has a lover had such cause not to want to. For he thought that if Elsibery did not in fact come to the palace, then she would indeed have granted the favor he had asked, and that it would be proof that she had received the letter he had entrusted to Zabelec; and if this slave had given it to her, then he could not well be his rival. Not seeing Elsibery with her mother, therefore, would mean that he now had established communication with her, that he had no rival, and that there was hope of his being loved. He was busy with these thoughts when it was announced that Elsibery’s mother had arrived, and he had the pleasure of seeing that her daughter was not with her. Never has anyone known such rapture. He withdrew, not wanting his face to become known even to his mistress’s mother, and went to his quarters to wait for his next meeting with Zabelec. “The handsome slave came to him with a face as sad as that of the day before and brought him Elsibery’s answer. The Prince was charmed by the letter; he found in it a modesty mixed with a deep inclination. She assured him that she would indeed be so obliging as to refuse to see the Prince of Tarsus, and that granting him other such wishes would never be an unwelcome task. Furthermore, she asked him not to take any risks to speak with her, because both her natural shyness and the way she was being watched made useless anything he might undertake. Though perfectly satisfied with this letter, Alamir still could not get used to the beauty and sadness of the slave; he asked him a number of questions about how he might get to see Elsibery, but the slave reacted only with coldness. This increased the Prince’s suspicions; and since he now found himself more touched by Elsibery’s beauty than he had ever been by anyone else’s, he feared being put in the position he had obliged all the women he had ever loved to occupy, that of committing himself to someone with feelings for someone else. In the

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Zayde meantime, however, he wrote her daily; he made her tell him where she went, and because of his love he was as careful to avoid any public place in which she might recognize him as the Prince as he was assiduous about finding the means to see her alone. So thoroughly did he examine the area surrounding the house where she was lodging that he noticed that the roof, which formed a terrace, had a sort of balcony that gave onto a small street, one so narrow that it was possible to exchange words with someone in the house opposite. Soon he had discovered a way to come into possession of that house; he wrote to Elsibery begging her to go up to the terrace at night so he could talk to her. She came; Alamir could easily speak to her without being overheard; and the darkness was not so complete as to deprive him of the pleasure of making out the beauty that touched him so deeply. “They entered into a long conversation about their feelings for one another. Elsibery wanted to find out more about the adventure that had brought him to the bathhouse. He admitted the truth and told her all about what had occurred between Zoromade and himself. Young ladies are too touched by sacrifices of this kind to fear the consequences in their own case. Elsibery was drawn to Alamir by a violent inclination; in the course of this conversation she committed herself completely, and they decided to meet again in the same spot. Just as he was about to withdraw, by chance he turned his head and was surprised indeed to see, in a corner of the terrace, the handsome slave who had already given him such cause for worry. “Unable to hide his chagrin, he spoke up. ‘Given that I showed some jealousy that first time I wrote to you, do I dare, madam, during our first conversation, show any more? I know that ladies of your rank are always surrounded by slaves, but it does seem to me that they are not at all of the same age and appearance as the one I now see by your side. I admit that from what I know of Zabelec’s person and wit, he is every bit as dangerous to me as the Prince of Tarsus could be.’ “Elsibery smiled at his words; and, calling to the handsome slave, said: “‘Come here, Zabelec, come cure Selemin of the jealousy you are causing him: I wouldn’t dare do it without your permission.’ “‘I only wish, madam,’ answered Zabelec, ‘that you had the strength to let him remain jealous. It is not in my interest that I wish this, it is in your own, and out of fear for the misfortunes I can see you exposing yourself to.’ Addressing the Prince, whom she78 knew only as Selemin, she added: ‘Nonetheless, sir, it would be unfair to allow you any suspicions about Elsibery’s virtue. “ ‘I am an unfortunate woman, placed in her service by chance alone: 78. This is the first time the text uses the feminine pronoun in referring to le bel esclave.

P a r t Tw o I am Christian, Greek, and from a family whose rank is far superior to the condition you see me in now. A little beauty, which by now may be impossible to perceive, had attracted a number of suitors when I was young; I found in them so little faithfulness, and so much treachery, that I came to look upon them with nothing but scorn. One of them, more unfaithful than the rest although better able to disguise it, won my love. It was because of him that I broke off marriage plans that would have assured my fortune; my parents hounded us; he was forced to make arrangements to flee; he married me; I disguised myself as a man and followed him. We set sail; it happened that in our ship there was a young woman obliged, through an adventure as extraordinary as my own, to cross into Asia. My husband fell in love with her; we were attacked and taken prisoner by Arabs; they divided up their new slaves; they gave my husband and one of his relatives the choice of being among slaves who would belong either to the lieutenant of the boat or else to the captain. It was my lot to be awarded to the latter, and I got to see my husband, with unparalleled ungratefulness, choose to go with the lieutenant, so as to stay with this woman he loved. My presence, my tears, everything I had done for him, the state he was leaving me in—none of this moved him. Imagine my suffering. I was led here; good luck had it that I was entrusted to Elsibery’s father. Even having seen my husband’s unfaithfulness, I still cannot completely give up hope of his eventual return, and this is what caused those changes you saw on my face the first day I went to speak with you. I was hoping that it was he who was asking for me, and however unjustified the hope, it hurt me to see it die. I won’t fight the inclination that Elsibery feels for you—cruel experience has taught me how useless it is to fight feelings like these—but I do pity her and foresee the deep suffering you will eventually cause. She has never known passion; for you she will have a devotion both sincere and true, the kind that a man who has already loved can never deserve.’ “When she had fallen silent, Elsibery told Alamir that her father and mother were well aware of her quality, sex, and merit, but that because of her need to remain unknown, they pretended to treat her like a slave. Zabelec’s wit and virtue surprised the Prince, and he was very happy indeed to learn how groundless his jealousy was. From that moment, he found such charm and sincerity in Elsibery’s feelings that he was persuaded he had never been loved but by her alone. She loved him for no reason but that she loved him; and without giving a thought to where her passion would lead, she asked nothing about his fortune or intentions; she would risk anything to see him and blindly did whatever he wished. Another

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Zayde woman would have found something constraining in the behavior he asked of her, for given that he still wanted her to think he was Selemin, he was obliged to keep her from going to certain public celebrations where he had to appear as prince; if it meant pleasing him, however, nothing seemed too difficult. “For a while Alamir thought himself happy to be loved for his own sake alone; finally, though, it occurred to him that even though Elsibery fell in love with him without knowing he was the Prince of Tarsus, she might nonetheless leave him for a man she thought was. He decided to test her heart by having the real Selemin pass for the Prince of Tarsus and court her, and then to see with his own eyes how she would treat him. He informed Selemin of his plans and together they thought up the means to carry them out. Alamir held a horse race and told Elsibery that in order for her to take some part in the entertainment, he would have the Prince and all his men march by under her windows. Both the Prince and he would be in the same dress, he said; he would be marching next to him; and even though he had always been apprehensive about her seeing Alamir, he had become too certain of her love to fear the Prince’s being able to attract her gaze, especially in a situation where he himself would be close by enough to share it. Elsibery was thoroughly convinced that the man she would see next to her lover was the Prince of Tarsus; and the next day, seeing the real Selemin next to Alamir, she had no doubt that he was the Prince: she even found that her lover had been wrong to describe Alamir as so impressive, and it seemed to her that he was not as attractive as the man she believed to be his favorite. Although she did inform Alamir of her opinion on the matter, this was not enough to satisfy him. In addition, he wanted to test to see whether this supposed prince might not win her over in the event he appeared in love with her and proposed marriage. “On the occasion of an Arab festival in which the Prince did not have to appear in public, he told Elsibery that he would appear at her side in disguise. He did so, bringing Selemin with him. They approached the spot where Elsibery was standing, and Selemin called to her a few times. Since her thoughts were full of Alamir, she had no doubt that it was he, and taking advantage of a moment no one was looking, she raised her veil to show her face and speak with him; she was altogether surprised, however, to find next to her the man she knew as the Prince of Tarsus. Selemin expressed how surprised and touched he was by her beauty; he tried to speak with her, yet she refused to listen; and troubled by this episode, she moved closer to her mother, which prevented Selemin from approaching her for the rest of the day. That night Alamir came to speak with her on the

P a r t Tw o terrace; she told him what had happened in so much truthful detail, and with such fear of his being suspicious that she had done something to provoke this, that he should well have been satisfied. And yet still he was not content; he bribed the old slave who had already proved susceptible to gifts to take Elsibery a letter from the Prince. When the slave tried to deliver it to her, she refused to take it and severely reprimanded him. This she told Alamir, who knew already, and who took pleasure in his deception. To finish what he had begun, he took Selemin to the terrace where he usually spoke with Elsibery and hid in a place where she couldn’t see him but where he could still hear everything they said. Elsibery’s surprise at seeing on the terrace the man she thought to be the Prince was extreme. Her initial reaction was to leave, but the suspicion that her lover was sacrificing her to the Prince, along with her desire to clear up the matter, kept her from doing so right away. “‘I will not reveal, madam,’ said Selemin, ‘whether I stand before you because of my own ingenuity or by permission of the man you expected to meet. Nor will I even tell you if he knows about my feelings for you; you yourself can answer that, given both the likelihood of it and the power bestowed by the rank of prince. I want simply to inform you that through one sole glimpse you have done something to me that long love affairs never have: although I have never wanted to commit myself to anyone, now my only joy lies in having you accept the rank that is mine. You are the only woman to whom I have ever offered it, and there shall be no other. Think more than once, madam, before you turn me down; and remember that in refusing the Prince of Tarsus, you would be refusing the only thing capable of freeing you from the eternal captivity that is your lot.’ “Elsibery heard no more of what the man she thought was the Prince said. As soon as he had made it clear that her lover was sacrificing her to his ambition, and without responding to what he had just said, she told him: ‘I know not, sir, by what circumstances you are here; regardless, however, I shall not allow this conversation with you to continue, and I beg your permission to withdraw.’ With these words she left the terrace with Zabelec, who had followed her there, and went off to her room as anxious as Alamir was happy and calm. It was with pleasure that he saw how she scorned the offer of such fortune even as she had cause to think that he had deceived her; and he could no longer doubt that she was impervious to the ambition he had feared. The next day he attempted once again to have a letter from the Prince delivered to her, to see if spite hadn’t made for a change of heart; but the old slave who tried to give it to her was as poorly received as he had been the first time.

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Zayde “Elsibery suffered incredibly that whole night: to all appearances her lover had betrayed her, for he alone could have revealed their intrigue and their meeting place. But the tenderness she felt for him still did not permit her to condemn him without a hearing. She saw him again the next day, and he was so good at persuading her that he had been betrayed by someone in his employ, and that the Caliph, under his son’s instructions, had kept him on into the night so as to prevent him from coming to the terrace, that he completely justified himself to Elsibery, even persuading her of his deep dismay over the Prince’s passion. The lovely slave was not so easily persuaded as Elsibery, and her experience of men’s deceit kept her from having any faith in the words of the fake Selemin. In vain she tried to show Elsibery that he was deceiving her; but shortly thereafter, chance offered an opportunity to convince her. “The real Selemin was not so taken up by the Prince’s love affairs that he had no time to pursue his own. The woman he was currently in love with had for confidante a young slave girl with a violent passion for Zabelec, who she thought was a man. She told the latter all about the love between Selemin and her mistress and how they managed to see each other. Zabelec, who knew Alamir only under the name of Selemin, had the slave girl recount anything more that might help convince Elsibery of her lover’s unfaithfulness and went off immediately to tell her. It is impossible to be more deeply distraught than this lovely woman was; yet she gave herself over to her distress without anger for the man who was its cause. Zabelec spared no effort to persuade her to put a complete stop to her visits with Alamir and to refuse to listen to justifications that would only amount to more deceit. Elsibery would have liked to follow her advice, but she lacked the strength. “That very evening Alamir came to the terrace, and he was astonished when Elsibery started off their conversation with a flood of tears, followed by reproaches so tender that even men not in love with her would have been touched. He had no idea what he was being accused of, or what odd twist of fate was responsible for her being about the only woman to ever accuse him of unfaithfulness when in fact he had never been faithful to anyone but Elsibery. He defended himself with all the strength that truth can inspire, but in spite of Elsibery’s predisposition to believe his innocence, she could muster no faith in his words. He pushed her to name the woman he was accused of loving; she did so, and told him all the details of their meetings. Alamir was surprised indeed when he realized that Selemin’s name was responsible for his apparent guilt and found the problem of justifying himself to be quite an awkward one. He couldn’t decide right away on a course of action, so omitting any other explanations, he made do with new protes-

P a r t Tw o tations of innocence. Both his awkwardness and the vagueness of his words left Elsibery in no doubt of his unfaithfulness. “Meanwhile, the Prince came to tell Selemin of his misfortune and to find a way in which they might together show his innocence. ‘I would break things off with the woman I love,’ said Selemin, ‘if it would do you any good; but even if I stopped seeing her, Elsibery would still think you had been unfaithful for at least a time, and thus would no longer be able to trust what you say. If you want to cure her completely of her suspicions, I think that you need to confess who you really are, and who I am. She has loved you without your rank’s contributing to her passion; she thought that I was the Prince of Tarsus and scorned me out of love for you; it seems to me that that’s as much as you could possibly wish for.’ “‘You are right, my dear Selemin,’ exclaimed the Prince, ‘but there is no way I can resign myself to apprising Elsibery of my true birth; in telling her, I would lose what made for the charm of my love in the first place; I would put the only real pleasure I’ve ever known at risk, and I’m not sure I wouldn’t lose my passion for her.’ “‘Then consider as well, sir,’ responded Selemin, ‘that if you continue to go by my name, you will indeed lose Elsibery’s heart, and by the same token you will lose in reality the very pleasures that at present you only wrongly imagine yourself losing.’ “Selemin spoke so forcefully that he finally convinced Alamir to admit the truth to Elsibery; this he did that very evening, and never has a woman gone so quickly from a state so pitiful to a state of such happiness. In everything that had seemed deceitful she found the signs of the sincerest and most delicate passion, and she had the pleasure of having persuaded Alamir of her feelings for him without knowing him to be the Prince. Her heart, therefore, could barely contain the joy she felt. She let Alamir see as much, but for him this joy was cause for suspicion: he thought that the Prince of Tarsus had something to do with it and that Elsibery was touched by the pleasure of having such a man for a lover. He did not, however, say as much, and instead kept up his assiduous visits. Zabelec was surprised to have been wrong to mistrust men’s passion, and she envied Elsibery the happiness of having found one who was faithful. Yet the cause of her envy was shortlived. It was impossible that deeds as extraordinary as the ones Alamir had done for Elsibery not renew the vivacity of her passion; the Prince noticed as much; this redoubling of her love seemed to him unfaithfulness and caused him just as much chagrin as a decrease would have. In the end, he so persuaded himself that the Prince of Tarsus was more loved than Alamir had been while under the name of Selemin that his own passion started to

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Zayde diminish even without developing feelings for someone else. He had already known so many different kinds of love, and the one he had just experienced had been at first so exciting that he found himself inured to any other. Elsibery saw his love and attention drop off little by little; and even though she tried to deceive herself, she could no longer doubt her misfortune when she learned, even before he told her, that the Prince was planning a trip through Greece. Weariness of being in Tarsus had inspired the idea, and the entreaties and tears of Elsibery did nothing to keep him from leaving. “So the beautiful slave discovered that her destiny was no more unhappy than Elsibery’s after all, and Elsibery took whatever consolation she could in grieving with her. Her husband was killed; she learned of it, and it hurt her deeply in spite of his horrible unfaithfulness. Since his death put an end to her reasons for hiding, she asked Elsibery’s father for the freedom he had offered so many times. He granted it, and she decided to return to her country to spend the rest of her life far from the affairs of men.79 Many times she had spoken to Elsibery of Christianity; and this beautiful lady was so touched both by what she had heard and by Alamir’s fickleness, which had left her disconsolate, that she decided to become a Christian and to follow Zabelec into a life of complete disregard for all earthly attachments. She went away without a word to her parents, save a letter she left behind. “Alamir had already set out on his trip, and only via a letter from Selemin did he learn what I’ve just told you about Elsibery. Wherever she may be, perhaps she would find consolation in learning that the violent passion caused by Zayde’s beauty has avenged her for Alamir’s unfaithfulness. “He arrived in Cyprus and fell in love with this princess, as I’ve said, after having hesitated a while between her and myself; but he loved her with a passion so different from those he had known before that he could scarcely recognize himself. He had always declared his love as soon as he felt it, never apprehensive about offending the ladies he was declaring it to, and yet he hardly gave any hint of it to Zayde. This change itself was surprising to him. But when, finally forced by his own passion, he declared his love to Zayde, and he discovered that her indifference to him only increased his love for her; when he saw that this treatment reduced him to despair while neither diminishing his love nor giving cause for thinking that it ever would diminish—then he suffered more than one can possibly represent. 79. Eloignée du commerce de tous les hommes. Although the expression tous les hommes commonly designates “mankind,” Lafayette may intend a more explicitly gendered reading of the phrase, given the context.

P a r t Tw o “ ‘So!’ he would say to Mulziman. ‘In the past love had no power over me that I didn’t accord it in the first place; even when it did completely take me over, in each and every case it still brought me only happiness; but now, through the only woman in whom I’ve ever found any resistance, its empire over me has become so absolute that I am powerless to extricate myself. I was never able to love any of the women who loved me; Zayde has only scorn for me, and I adore her. Is it her wondrous beauty that has produced so extraordinary an effect? Or is it possible that the only means of binding me was by not loving me? Ah! Zayde, will you really never allow me to know whether or not your severity is in fact what binds me to you?’80 “Mulziman didn’t know how to answer, such was his surprise at seeing him in this state. Still, he tried to console him and calm his anxiety. Since the arrival of Zayde’s father, when she so forcefully vowed that she would never marry the Prince, his despair only increased and inspired him to seek out his own death gladly. “Such is more or less what I learned from Mulziman,” continued Felime; “it may be that I’ve provided too much detail, but you must forgive the charm that those who know real passion find in talking about the person they love, even when the subject is unpleasant.” Don Olmond let the Princess know that, far from her needing to excuse herself for the length of her account, it was he who needed to thank her for informing him of Alamir’s past adventures. He begged her to finish what she had begun to tell him, and she continued in the following manner. “You can imagine that what I discovered about Alamir’s adventures and character left me no hope at all, since I learned that the only way to earn his love was not to love him. And yet for all that I still loved him no less. The dangers he risked every day caused me terrible worry: it seemed to me that every blow was meant for his head alone and that he was the only one in any real danger. So overcome was I that I believed my difficulties could 80. This passage is the only one for which there exists a manuscript fragment—a fragment, moreover, which gives credence to the collaborative composition of the novel. The manuscript, in the hand of La Rochefoucauld, reads: “I always stopped loving the women who loved me, and I adore Zayde, who has only scorn for me. Is it her beauty that has produced such an extraordinary effect, or does her severity bind me to her? Could it be that I have such strange feelings in my heart, and that the only means of binding me was by not loving me? Ha! Zayde, will I never be fortunate enough to know whether it is your charm or your severity that binds me to you?” (The other side of the sheet reads: “M. de La Rochefoucauld submits this for judgment.”) Another sheet gives a third version of this last sentence: “Ha! Zayde, will you really never allow me to know that it is your charm and not your severity that has bound me to you?” (Bibliothèque Nationale, ms. fonds français 17045, folios 162 and 163).

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Zayde get no worse; Fortune, however, held in store for me a sort of suffering crueler than anything I had ever felt. “Several days after Mulziman had recounted Alamir’s adventures, I spoke about them with Zayde, and so sad were my reflections on the cruelty of my destiny that my face was completely bathed in tears. One of Zayde’s maids walked through the room we were in and, unbeknownst to me, left the door ajar. ‘I must admit that I am most unfortunate,’ I was saying to Zayde, ‘to have developed feelings for a man so completely unworthy of them.’ Just as I uttered these words, I heard someone in the room; I thought it was the same woman who had just passed through; but how surprised and distressed I was to see Alamir, so close to me that I could have no doubt that he had heard my last words. My distress, and the tears flowing down my cheeks, deprived me of any possibility of hiding the truth of what I had just said. My strength failed me; I could not speak; I wanted to die. In short, my condition made itself felt with a violence no one has ever known. To add to the cruelty of the episode, Princess Alasinthe arrived with a number of ladies who started to converse with Zayde, so I was left alone with Alamir. “The Prince looked at me in a way that made clear his fear of adding to my obvious awkwardness. “‘I am much dismayed, madam,’ he said to me, ‘to have come by at a moment when you apparently intended to be heard by Zayde alone. However, madam, since chance had it otherwise, please allow me to ask you how it is possible that a man fortunate enough to have charmed you could also bring you to the point of declaring that he is unworthy of your feelings. I know very well that no man is worthy of the least of your favors, but who could possibly give you cause to complain about his feelings for you? Do not be angry, madam, if I have some share in your secret; you will not find me unworthy of it, and no matter how carefully you have hidden from me what I have just learned, I will always be most grateful for a gift I owe to mere chance.’ “Alamir would have continued on for quite a long time had he waited for me to have the strength to interrupt: I was so beside myself, and so racked both by the fear of his learning that he was the man I was complaining about and by the pain of seeing him persuaded I loved someone else, that it was impossible for me to answer. You might think that having hidden my passion from him so carefully, and seeing him so taken with Zayde, I would not care if he imagined there was someone else who had charmed me. But love is already so constrained by the need to hide itself from the person who is its source that it cannot bear the additional cruelty of his thinking that it has been kindled by someone else. Alamir attributed

P a r t Tw o my awkwardness to chagrin over his being sure I had feelings for someone. ‘I can well see, madam,’ he continued, ‘that it pains you for me to be your confidant, but your chagrin is unjustified. Could anyone possibly have more respect for you than I, or be more interested in pleasing you? You have complete power over the lovely Princess on whom my destiny depends. Tell me, madam, the name of the man who gives you cause for complaint, and if I have as much power over him as you have over the woman I adore, you shall see soon enough if I am able to make him understand his luck and render him worthy of your favor.’ “Alamir’s words made me more troubled and flustered still. Again he urged me to tell him who was the source of my complaints, but the reasons behind his wanting to know made him seem unworthy of my telling him. Finally, without my being able to utter a single word, Zayde, realizing how uneasy I was, broke in. I left without so much as a look in his direction; my body could not bear up under the agitation of my mind; that very evening I fell ill; and my illness was long indeed. “Given the number of men of quality on the isle of Cyprus, it would have been difficult to avoid having some of them courting me and seeing to it that my health did not worsen. I learned of their eagerness to know how I was faring; I reflected on how little difference their love meant to me, and when I thought of how my feelings wouldn’t have made any more impression on Alamir, if he had learned of them, than the passion of my suitors made on me, I deemed myself happy to be certain that he knew nothing of them. But still I must admit that this made only my mind happy—my heart had nothing to do with it. When I was for the first time in a condition to see people, I put off as long as possible any opportunities to see Alamir; and when I did see him again I noticed that he was observing me attentively, so as to learn by my behavior about whom I had cause for complaint. The more I saw him observing me, the worse I treated the men courting me. Though there were a number of them whose merit and rank would have brought me no shame, all of them, I found, hurt my pride. I couldn’t bear his thinking that I loved without being loved in return; it seemed to me that in his eyes this made me less worthy of him. “The Emperor’s troops were putting so much pressure on Famagusta that the Arabs judged that they had to give up the city. Zulema and Osmin decided to put us in a boat with Princesses Alasinthe and Belenie. Alamir too made the decision to leave Cyprus, both to follow Zayde and to quit a place where his bravery was of no more use. He was still just as curious to know of whom he had heard me speak; and when we were ready to leave and he saw that my sadness had grown no greater, he said:

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Zayde “‘In spite of the fact that you are leaving Cyprus without showing any new signs of distress, it is nonetheless possible, madam, that you are feeling the effects of this departure; please do me the favor of telling me which man you are concerned about. There is no man among all those here whom I would not gladly order to come with us to Africa, and you would have the pleasure of seeing him without his even knowing that you had wanted it so.’ “‘Until now I have resisted attempting to disabuse you,’ I answered, ‘of an opinion formed on the basis of relatively plausible appearances; but I assure you nonetheless that these appearances are misleading. I have no concern whatsoever for anyone left behind in Famagusta; and this has nothing to do with any change of heart on my part.’ “‘I quite understand you, madam: the man fortunate enough to have charmed you is not here at all. I was wasting my time by looking for him among your suitors; no doubt he had left Cyprus before I even had the honor of meeting you.’ “‘It was neither before you met me nor since your arrival,’ I replied, rather abruptly, ‘that someone was fortunate enough to charm me; and I beg you to say no more of a matter that I find offensive.’ “Seeing that I had answered angrily, Alamir said no more and assured me that he would never speak of it again. I was quite relieved to have put an end to conversations in which I was always in danger of showing what I so earnestly wished to hide. Finally we set sail, and our trip was at first so pleasant that we had no reason to believe it would end in a shipwreck as unfortunate as the one we had on the coast of Spain, as I shall tell you presently.” Felime was about to continue her account when someone came in to tell her that her mother’s condition had worsened. “Although I still have a lot to tell you,” she said to Don Olmond as she left, “I’ve told you enough to make you realize that my life is bound to Alamir’s, and to make you keep the promise you made me.” “And I shall, madam,” he answered; “but please remember, too, that you still must inform me about the rest of your adventures.” The next day he went to see the King, who no sooner saw him than he sought to ease the impatience and anxiety visible in Consalve’s features; and leading them both into his study, he ordered Don Olmond to tell him if he had seen Felime and learned the cause of her interest in Alamir’s health. Don Olmond, without showing that he had guessed the reason behind the King’s great curiosity over that prince’s adventures, gave a precise account of everything he had learned from Felime about her passion for Alamir, Alamir’s passion for Zayde, and everything that had occurred

P a r t Tw o up until their departure from Cyprus. Upon finishing, it was clear to him that the King and Consalve did not feel entirely free to speak in front of him; in order to give them that freedom, he pretended that he was needed in Oropesa. As soon as he was gone, the King, with a look that showed his feelings for his favorite, said, “So do you still believe that Alamir is loved by Zayde? Can you really believe that she is the one who made Felime write? Don’t you see how unjustified your fears have been?” “No, sir,” answered Consalve, sadly; “everything that Don Olmond has just said has not yet convinced me that my fears are groundless. Zayde may not have loved Alamir from the start, or maybe she hid it from Felime, seeing how in love she herself was; but whom was Zayde mourning when she was shipwrecked off the coast of Spain, if not Alamir, whom she believed dead? Whom can I resemble, if not that prince? In her account, Felime mentioned him and no one else; either Zayde has deceived her, sir, or else she revealed her feelings for him only since leaving Alphonse’s. Nothing I have learned has destroyed my previous opinions, and I do fear that whatever remains to be learned will confirm rather than destroy them.” It was so late when Consalve left the King that he should have thought only of getting some rest, but his anxiety prevented him from finding any; Felime’s account only increased his curiosity, leaving him in the same state of cruel uncertainty he had been in for so long. When morning came, an army officer returning from Oropesa brought him a note from Don Olmond; he opened it and found the following words: Letter from Don Olmond to Consalve

Felime kept her word and told me the rest of her adventures. Her love for Alamir alone was responsible for her concern for his life. Zayde has no interest in the matter, and if anyone were in fact interested in Zayde, it would not be of Alamir that he should be jealous. This note presented new difficulties and made Consalve think that he had been mistaken only in thinking that Alamir was loved, not that Zayde was indeed in love. The letter he had seen her writing at Alphonse’s, what he had overheard in Tortosa about some initial inclination, and now the note from Don Olmond dispelled all doubts about the matter. It seemed to him that he was still as unfortunate as before, since Zayde’s heart had been touched. Nevertheless, out of some feeling whose origin he could not untangle, he was somewhat relieved to learn that at least it was not by the Prince of Tarsus.

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Zayde Meanwhile, the Moors were proposing terms of peace so advantageous that they seemed difficult to turn down. Both sides named plenipotentiaries to negotiate the details, and a new cessation of hostilities was agreed upon. Consalve participated in all the meetings, but however preoccupied he might have been by the significance of the affairs the King had entrusted to him, he was still more preoccupied by his impatience to learn who this rival was whom he had never heard mentioned before. So anxiously did he await Don Olmond that he could get no rest; and finally he begged the King either to summon him to camp or to let him go find him in Oropesa. Don Garcie, who was curious to learn about the rest of Zayde’s adventures, wanted to be present when Don Olmond recounted them, so he sent for him with orders to come immediately. When Consalve saw him arrive, and looked upon him as the person who was going to inform him of Zayde’s true feelings, he was nearly on the point of preventing him from speaking, so much did he fear being made certain of a misfortune he nonetheless wanted to elucidate. With his customary discretion, and without showing Consalve that he could see how uneasy he was, Don Olmond recounted as follows what he had learned from Felime in their final conversation, as soon as the King gave him the order to do so. The Story of Felime and Zayde, Continued “Princes Zulema and Osmin had left Cyprus with the intention of going to Africa and landing in Tunis. Alamir went with them, and their trip was going well until a storm wind drove them back toward Alexandria. Seeing himself so close to the city, Zulema had the idea of putting to shore so as to visit Albumazar, the great astrologer so renowned in all of Africa who was also an old acquaintance of his. The Princesses, unaccustomed to the rigors of sea travel, were glad to set foot on land and rest themselves. The travelers were unable to put back to sea right away, for the wind continued to blow from the wrong direction. “One day when Zulema was showing Albumazar a number of rare items he had brought back from his travels, Zayde noticed in a box the portrait of a young man whose beauty was extraordinary and physiognomy quite attractive. His clothing, identical to that worn by Arab princes, made her think that it was a portrait of one of the Caliph’s sons. She asked her father if this were indeed so. He did not know, he answered, for whom the portrait had been painted;81 he had purchased it from some soldiers and kept it 81. In most instances the text refers to the portrait not as being of its subject, but rather as having been painted for its subject. While the notion of mimetic resemblance between image and person dominates the novel’s plot, Lafayette also emphasizes the metonymic function of the portrait: it looks like the specific person who commissioned it.

P a r t Tw o because of its beauty. Zayde seemed taken by surprise at the attractiveness of the painting. Albumazar noticed the attention she paid to it; he teased her, saying that he could easily see that any man with a resemblance to this portrait might well have hopes of winning her affections. Because the Greeks hold astrology in high esteem, and since young ladies are always very curious about the future, Zayde asked the famous astrologer at a number of different times to say something about her destiny. He would always turn her down, however; the little time he did not spend studying was reserved for Zulema, and he seemed to want to avoid making a show of his extraordinary knowledge. One day, finding him at last in her father’s room, she asked him more insistently than she ever had to consult the stars about her fortune. “‘I have no need of consulting them,’ he said, smiling, ‘in order to assure you, madam, that you are destined for the man whose portrait Zulema showed you. Few princes in Africa are his equal; you will be happy if you marry him; take care not to commit your heart to someone else.’ “Zayde took Albumazar’s words as a rebuke for the attentiveness with which she had looked upon the portrait; with all the authority of a father, however, Zulema told her that she should have no doubt as to the truth of the prediction; he himself had none, he said, and the only man she would marry with his permission was the one for whom this painting had been made. “Zayde and Felime could scarce believe that Zulema’s words reflected his true feelings, but doubt was no longer possible when he told the Princess his daughter that he was no longer thinking about marrying her to the Prince of Tarsus. Felime felt no small joy when she learned that Zayde was no longer destined for Alamir; she imagined the deep pleasure of informing that prince of the fact, and she flattered herself with the hope that he would come back to her if he had no more hope of winning over Zayde. She asked her lovely friend for permission to tell Alamir about Albumazar’s prediction and Zulema’s feelings. Permission was easy to obtain; without difficulty Zayde agreed to anything that might cure the Prince of Tarsus of his passion for her. “Felime found an occasion to speak with this prince, and without showing her joy over what she had to tell him, she advised him to stop courting Zayde since she was now destined for someone else and Zulema no longer favored him. She then told him why that prince had changed his mind and showed him the portrait that was to decide Zayde’s fortune. Alamir appeared overwhelmed by Felime’s words, and, surprised by the beauty of the portrait before him, he stood for some time without speaking; finally,

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Zayde raising his eyes in a way that showed all his sorrow, he said, ‘I do believe, madam, that the man I see here is destined for Zayde, for his beauty makes him worthy of her; but she shall never be his, and I will take his life before he can even try to take Zayde from me.’ “‘But if you go about attacking any man who might bear some resemblance to this portrait, you may well attack quite a few without finding the one for whom it was painted.’ “‘I am not so fortunate,’ said Alamir, ‘as to be at risk of making a mistake. In this portrait there is a beauty so great and so particular that few people can possibly look like it. On the other hand, madam,’ he added, ‘this attractive physiognomy may hide a wit so unbecoming, and customs so opposed to those liable to please Zayde, that whatever this supposed rival’s beauty, he may still not win her love; and however favorably fortune and Zulema may look upon him, if he fails to touch Zayde’s inclination, I will not consider myself completely unhappy. Seeing her belong to a man whom she does not love would cause me less despair than seeing her love someone else to whom she cannot belong. And although this portrait may well have made an impression on me that will not easily be effaced, I beg of you, madam, to leave it with me for a while so I may examine it at length, imprinting it in my memory.’ “Felime was so troubled to see that her words had done nothing to diminish Alamir’s hopes that she let him keep the portrait; and several days later the Prince returned it, in spite of his desire to remove it forever from Zayde’s sight. “After some time in Alexandria, the winds changed, allowing their departure. Alamir received news from his father that forced him to leave Zayde and return to Tarsus; since he did not think he would be needed there more than a few days, however, he told Zulema that he would be arriving in Tunis about the same time as they would. Felime was as distraught over their separation as she would have been had he really loved her. She was used to all the suffering love can cause, but she had never known the kind caused by absence; and she felt it so acutely that she realized that the simple pleasure of seeing the man she loved gave her the strength to withstand the misfortune of his not loving her. “Alamir left for Tarsus, and Zulema and Osmin, in different boats, set off for Tunis. Zayde and Felime did not want to leave one another and remained together in Zulema’s boat. After several days of sailing, a terrible storm arose; the boats were separated, the one carrying Zayde lost its main mast, and Zulema judged matters hopeless. Since he knew they were not far from land, he decided to use the launch. He had his wife, his daughter, and Felime get in, and gathered his most precious possessions; but just as he was

P a r t Tw o about to get in the launch himself, a gust of wind broke the rope fastening it to the ship, and the launch was carried off and dashed against the coastline. Zayde was thrown half dead upon the shores of Catalonia, and Felime, who had grabbed hold of a plank, was driven to the same spot after having seen Princess Alasinthe perish. When Zayde came to, she was quite astonished to see herself surrounded by people she did not know and whose language she could not understand. “Two Spaniards walking on the beach had found her in a faint and had had her carried to their house. Some fishermen soon brought Felime. Zayde was very happy to see her; she was, however, extremely upset to learn from her the death of the Princess her mother. After having shed many tears over the loss, she had the idea of leaving this place and expressed her desire to go to Tunis, where she hoped to find Osmin and Belenie. “While looking at the younger of these Spaniards, whose name was Theodoric, she realized that he resembled the portrait she had found so attractive. The resemblance took her by surprise and made her look at him still more attentively. She went up and down the shoreline searching for the box containing the portrait, which she thought she had seen being loaded into the launch just before the accident. Her efforts were to no avail; she felt an extraordinary irritation at not being able to find what she was looking for. For several days it seemed to her that Theodoric felt some passion for her; even though she could not judge as much from his words, he had a way of acting that made her suspect it; these suspicions, moreover, were not unpleasant. “Some time later, she thought herself wrong about this; she saw that he was sad when she had done nothing to make him so; she could see that he would often leave her to go off to dream; in the end she imagined that some other passion was making him unhappy. She was taken by surprise at how troubled and chagrined she was at this thought, and this made her as melancholic as Theodoric seemed to her. Even though Felime was quite absorbed by her own thoughts, she knew love far too well not to notice Theodoric’s feelings for Zayde, and Zayde’s inclination for Theodoric. She brought up the subject a number of times, and however reluctant the lovely Princess was to admit it to herself, she couldn’t keep from admitting it to Felime. “‘It’s true,’ she told Felime, ‘I do have feelings for Theodoric that are beyond my control; but, Felime, isn’t he the one Albumazar was referring to? And mightn’t that portrait we saw have been painted for him?’ “‘That would be unlikely,’ answered Felime. ‘Nothing in Theodoric’s fortune or birthplace corresponds to what Albumazar said. I would point out, madam, that after having first refused to believe in that prediction, now

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Zayde imagining that Theodoric might be the one you are destined for has started to change your mind; you can judge from that your feelings for him.’ “‘Up until now,’ said Zayde, ‘I hadn’t taken what Albumazar said as a real prediction; but I admit that since seeing Theodoric, it has begun to make an impression. I thought it quite extraordinary to have both found a man who resembled the portrait and felt an inclination for him. It surprises me when I think of the fact that Albumazar forbade me to let my heart become committed; it appears that he foresaw my feelings for Theodoric; and I find his person so charming that if indeed I am destined for a man who resembles him, then what should have made for my happiness will end up being my life’s greatest misfortune. This resemblance has fooled my inclination, which is now drawn to someone I do not belong with, and perhaps so prepossessed that I will no longer be able to love the man I am supposed to. In order to avoid these difficulties,’ she continued, ‘the only solution is to flee this dangerous place, which decency, moreover, demands we leave.’ “‘Leaving isn’t up to us,’ answered Felime; ‘we are in an unknown country where even our language can’t be understood. We have to wait for the ships to come; and remember, however careful you are about leaving Theodoric behind, you won’t easily efface the impression he has made on your heart. I see in you exactly what I myself felt when I began to fall in love with Alamir, and how I wish Heaven had allowed me to perceive in him what you do in Theodoric.’ “‘You’re mistaken,’ Zayde said, ‘in thinking that he feels any inclination for me; it must be for someone else, and the sadness I see in him comes from a passion that I never caused. In the midst of my misfortune, at least I have the consolation, owing to the fact that I have no way of speaking to him, of not being so weak as to tell him I love him.’ “A few days after this conversation, Zayde observed from a distance Theodoric looking carefully at something he was holding in his hands. Jealousy made her imagine it was a portrait. She resolved to find out more and crept up on him as softly as possible. This still could not be done without his hearing it; he turned around and hid what he was holding in such a way that she could see only the glimmer of some jewels. She now had no doubt that this was a portrait case, which is what she had already suspected; what she thought was her certainty over the matter pained her so greatly that she could neither hide her sadness nor look at Theodoric; and she remained deeply pained to feel such an intense inclination for a man enamored of another woman. Chance had it that Theodoric dropped what he was hiding; she saw that it was a jeweled clasp attached to a bracelet made of her hair that she had lost a few days before. Her joy at being mistaken

P a r t Tw o kept her from showing any anger; she took her bracelet and returned the jewels to Theodoric, who immediately threw them into the sea so as to show her that he cared nothing for them once they were separated from her hair. This act convinced Zayde of this Spaniard’s love and magnificence, and had no small effect on her heart. “After this, using a painting in which he had had represented a beautiful woman weeping over a dead man, he gave her to understand that he was convinced that her severity toward him came from her feelings for this man she was mourning. It pained Zayde greatly to see that Theodoric thought she loved another man; she scarcely had any doubt now about his love for her, and she loved him so tenderly that she no longer tried to overcome it. “The day of her departure was drawing closer, and, incapable of resolving to leave him without his knowing at least that she had loved him, she told Felime that she had resolved to write down for him all her feelings and not give him what she had written until they were about to set sail. ‘I will tell him of my inclination for him,’ she added, ‘only at the moment when I am sure of never seeing him again. I shall take some consolation in his learning that I was thinking only of him when he thought that I was entirely preoccupied by the memory of someone else. It will be infinitely delightful for me to explain to him all my actions and to let myself tell him how much I loved him. And this delight will be mine without my betraying my duty: he doesn’t know who I am; he will never see me again; and what does it matter if he knows that he has touched the heart of the foreigner he saved from shipwreck?’ “‘You’ve forgotten,’ Felime said, ‘that Theodoric doesn’t understand your language, so that anything you write will be useless to him.’ “‘Ah, madam,’ answered Zayde, ‘if he feels passion for me, he will eventually find the means to have my words explained; if he feels none, I’ll have the consolation of his not knowing that I love him. What’s more, along with the letter I have resolved to leave the bracelet of hair that I snatched from him so cruelly and that he truly deserves.’ “The very next day Zayde started to write the letter for Theodoric; he surprised her while writing, and she could see very well that the letter was making him jealous. If she had followed the feelings of her heart, she would have immediately made it clear that she was writing for him alone; yet her prudence, as well as her lack of knowledge regarding this stranger’s quality and fortune, bound her to do nothing that he might take as a commitment on her part and to hide what she so wanted him to know once she was out of his sight once and for all.

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Zayde “A short time before she was to depart, Theodoric took leave of her and gave her to understand that he would come back the next day. The following morning, and not without impatience for Theodoric’s return, she went for a walk with Felime on the seashore. Her impatience made her more pensive than usual, so that when she saw a launch put to shore, instead of being curious about who was aboard, she headed in another direction; she was much surprised, however, to hear someone calling to her and to recognize the voice as being that of her father the Prince. She ran to him joyfully, just as he too felt extremely joyful to see her. After she had recounted how she had escaped from the shipwreck, he briefly told her how his ship had run aground on the coast of France, where he was unable to leave until a few days before, and how he had come to Tarragona to wait for a ship to set sail for Africa. In the meantime, he said, he had decided to row up and down the coast where Alasinthe, Felime, and she had been shipwrecked, in order to see if by chance someone hadn’t escaped. Hearing Alasinthe’s name, Zayde could not help crying; her tears revealed to Zulema the loss that was indeed his; and after spending some time in grief, he ordered the young princesses to get into the launch and go back to Tarragona with him. Trying to persuade her father not to take her away immediately was quite awkward for Zayde. Hoping that he would allow her to go bid them farewell, she told him of her obligations toward the Spaniards who had welcomed her into their home. Whatever reasons she alleged, however, he didn’t think it seemly for her to find herself under the Spaniards’ control for a moment longer, and in spite of her resistance he forced her to embark. She was so touched by the opinion that Theodoric would surely form about the ungratefulness of leaving him in such a way, or by the idea, rather, of leaving him without any hope of seeing him again, that, unable to control her suffering, she had to say that she was ill. The only relief she could find from her distress came from seeing that her father had saved from the wreck the portrait she had found so pleasing and which had become the portrait of her lover. But this consolation was not enough to help her bear Theodoric’s absence: unable to withstand it, she fell dangerously ill, and for many days Zulema lived in fear of watching die a perfect young woman who was still in the first flush of her beauty. After a time her life was no longer in danger, though she remained weak enough not to be exposed to the fatigue of sea travel. She devoted all her time to learning Spanish; and since she had translators and saw only Spaniards, she learned it easily in the space of the winter spent in Catalonia. She wanted Felime to know it as well, and she found a certain pleasure in speaking to her only in that language.

P a r t Tw o “Meanwhile the great ships had left Tarragona for Africa; and although Zulema did not know what had become of Osmin after the storm had separated them, he wrote to tell him of the shipwreck and the reason he was staying on in Catalonia. The ships returned from Africa before Zayde had recovered. Osmin sent word to the Prince his brother that he had arrived safely; he had learned, he wrote, that the Caliph still meant to keep them at a distance, but on King Abderame’s request for generals to command his armies, he had picked them to pass into Spain;82 he was sending on these orders. Zulema could plainly see that it would be dangerous to disobey the Caliph; he decided to take a brigantine and go by sea to join the King of Cordoba in Valencia; and as soon as his daughter had started to recover, he had her taken to Tortosa. He stayed with her there for a few days so as to give her the chance for some rest; she was, however, far from getting any. Since she had fallen ill, and especially since beginning to recover, both her desire to send word to Theodoric and the difficulty of doing so had put her in a cruelly anxious state of mind. She could not forgive herself for having taken with her on the day of her departure the letter she had written for him, instead of having left it somewhere he would have come upon it by chance. Finally, the day before leaving Tortosa, she could no longer resist the desire to send it to him; she entrusted it to one of Zulema’s horsemen and informed him of where he could find Theodoric by giving him the name of the closest port. She forbade him to say who had given him the letter and told him to make sure he was neither followed nor recognized. Even without any hope of seeing Theodoric again, she nonetheless felt renewed suffering at having to leave the country where he was, and she spent part of the night expressing her grief to Felime in the beautiful gardens of the house where she was staying. The next day, just as she was getting ready to set sail, the horseman, who had left before dawn, returned saying that he had been to the place she had indicated, but only to learn that Theodoric had left the day before with no intention of returning. Zayde was acutely affected by an oddity of chance that was depriving her of the only consolation she sought as surely as it deprived her lover of the only favor she had ever shown him. She embarked with deep sadness and arrived in Cordoba in a few days’ time. Osmin and Belenie were waiting for her; the Prince of Tarsus was there as well, for having learned in Tunis that she was in Spain, he used the war as a pretext to come find her. Seeing Alamir again gave Felime no sense that separation had cured her of her passion for 82. Lafayette’s plot, which requires that Zulema end up fighting in Spain, supposes a panMuslim alliance that did not, in fact, exist: the Abbasid caliphate and the caliphate of Cordoba were completely different entities.

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Zayde him. Alamir found Zayde more severe than ever; and Zayde felt only that her aversion for Alamir had grown deeper still. “The King of Cordoba entrusted to Zulema the general command of his troops, along with control over Talavera, and he gave control of Oropesa to Osmin. Shortly thereafter, these two princes had some cause for disagreement with Abderame, and not wanting to show it, they returned to the towns they controlled on the pretext of inspecting their fortifications. Alamir went with Zulema so as to be near Zayde; soon, however, he had to join Abderame on account of the war. I left at the same time to go find Consalve; I was taken prisoner by the Arabs and brought to Talavera. Belenie and Felime went to Oropesa, but Zayde chose to remain with the Prince her father. “After Consalve had taken Talavera and a truce was proposed, Alamir sent word to Zulema that he would be taking advantage of the truce to come see him, via Oropesa. Zayde, learning of all this from the Prince her father, wrote to Felime, telling her that she had finally found Theodoric, and that since she didn’t want him to think she had been crying over the Prince of Tarsus when she had been at Alphonse’s, she was begging her now to keep Alamir from going to Talavera. “Felime had no difficulty deciding to give such an order to Alamir. The day after the truce was proclaimed, Belenie, who was not feeling well, wanted to take advantage of the right to leave the city by going for a walk83 in a woods nearby. As she was walking with Osmin and Felime, they were glad to see the Prince of Tarsus approaching; and after having spoken at length, Felime found a way to have a word with Alamir separately. “‘I am sorry,’ she said, ‘to have to tell you something that will make the journey you intended impossible, but Zayde requests that you not go to Talavera; she does so, moreover, in a way that you may well take for an order.’ “‘By what excess of cruelty, madam,’ exclaimed Alamir, ‘does Zayde want to deprive me of the only joy her severity has left me—that of seeing her?’ “‘I believe,’ answered Felime, ‘that she wants to put an end to the passion you keep showing her. You are aware of her aversion to marrying a man of your religion. You even know that she has reason to believe you are not the one for whom she is destined, and, furthermore, that Zulema has changed his mind.’ 83. The word promenade can be interpreted as either a “walk” or a “ride.” Here, in the absence of any indications of horses, I have used the former translation, though it is certainly possible that the party is on horseback.

P a r t Tw o “‘All these obstacles make no difference to me, no more than the fact that Zayde remains as severe as ever; and in spite of both destiny and the way she treats me, I will never give up hope of her loving me.’ “Felime, more touched than usual by the stubbornness of Alamir’s passion, spent a long time repeating the arguments that should have brought him to his senses; seeing, however, that her words were to no avail, a rage started to burn within her, and for the first time no longer able to control herself, she said, ‘If both the decrees of Heaven and Zayde’s own severity don’t make you lose hope, then I don’t know what will.’ “‘Only, madam, the sight of another man having touched her heart.’ “‘Then hope no more,’ said Felime, ‘for Zayde has found a man who has indeed won her affections and who loves her.’ “‘What? Who is the lucky man, madam?’ cried Alamir. “‘A Spaniard,’ she answered, ‘who resembles the portrait you saw. In all likelihood he is not the one for whom it was painted, nor the man Albumazar spoke of; but since you really fear the men who interest Zayde, and not those who are to marry her, it’s enough for you to know that she loves him, and that it is out of fear of making him jealous that she does not want to see you.’ “‘What you say can’t be true; Zayde’s heart is not so easily touched. If someone had touched it, you wouldn’t tell me. Zayde would have sworn you to secrecy, and you have no reason for letting me know.’ “‘I have only too many reasons,’ she answered, ‘and you . . .’ She was about to continue, but suddenly she returned to her senses; stunned, she saw everything she had just said; she became troubled by it; she realized she was troubled; this knowledge compounded her awkwardness; she remained for a while without speaking and nearly beside herself. At last she looked at Alamir, and thinking she saw in his eyes that he was figuring out part of the truth, she made an effort to assume a countenance that showed more tranquillity than there really was in her soul. “‘You are correct,’ she said, ‘in believing that if Zayde were in love, I would not tell you; I only wanted to make you fear the possibility. It is indeed true that we met a Spaniard who is in love with Zayde and who bears a resemblance to the portrait you have seen, but you have made me realize that I may have been wrong to tell you as much; now I am quite concerned that I may have offended Zayde by doing so.’ “There was something so natural about what Felime was saying that she thought her words might have had some of their intended effect; nonetheless, her awkwardness had been so great, and what she had said so unusual, that if it were not for the fact that the Prince of Tarsus appeared troubled, she would not have been able to delude herself with the hope of having not

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Zayde betrayed her feelings. Osmin came over at this point, interrupting their conversation. Felime, overcome by sobs and tears she could no longer control, went into the woods to hide her suffering, [as if] to relieve it by telling someone in whom she could have complete trust.84 The Princess her mother called to her so that they could head back to Oropesa; she could not bear to look at Alamir out of fear of seeing in his features either the pain caused by her remarks about Zayde, or else the understanding of what she had disclosed about herself. She did notice, however, that he was headed back toward the camp, and so she at least had the pleasure of thinking that he was not going to see Zayde.” The King could not help interrupting Don Olmond’s narrative at this point. “Now I am no longer surprised,” he said to Consalve, “at the sad state Alamir was in when you saw him after leaving Felime. It was she whom those horsemen had seen speaking to him in the woods; he recognized you because of what she had just told him, and so now we are in a position to understand the Prince’s words on drawing his sword, words that seemed to you so obscure and that so provoked our curiosity.” Consalve answered the King of Leon only with his eyes, and Don Olmond continued his tale. “One can easily surmise Felime’s state that night and the many kinds of suffering that occupied her mind. She felt she had betrayed Zayde; she feared having caused Alamir to despair, and in spite of her jealousy she was distraught at having made him so unhappy. Nevertheless, she had wanted him to know that Zayde had felt an inclination for someone else; she was afraid that perhaps she had too successfully dissuaded him from thinking what she had initially wanted him to; and above all she feared having made him take notice of her passion for him. The next day a new source of suffering effaced all previous ones: she learned of Alamir’s fight with Consalve and could feel only her fear of losing him. Every day she sent to the castle where he was staying for news, and just when she started to have some hope of his recovery, she learned of what the King had decided about his life as revenge for the death of the Prince of Galicia. You have seen the letter she wrote me the other day to make me intervene on his behalf; I told 84. This is an odd sentence, since nowhere does the text suggest who such a person might be. Lafayette has told us only that Osmin, Felime, and her mother, Belenie, were originally out for the walk. There is no one in whom she could thus confide, since all the characters are accounted for; moreover, Felime has no customary confidant. The difficulty is compounded by the fact that the original edition contains en qui elle se confie, which can be rendered as either “in whom she has trust” (present indicative) or “in whom she might have trust” (present subjunctive). Given the context, the choice of the subjunctive seems to me the more likely explanation (although one would expect the imperfect, not present, subjunctive), so I have reinforced the sense of the hypothetical in the translation.

P a r t Tw o her about what Consalve had done at her request, and I have nothing left to say, save that I have never seen so much love, reason, and suffering in one person.” With this, Don Olmond brought his relation to a close; from beginning to end, the story had brought Consalve inexpressible pleasure. To learn that Zayde loved him, to discover signs of tenderness in what he had taken for signs of indifference—this made for an excess of happiness that transported him out of his senses, and that let him taste all at once the pleasures that other lovers know only intermittently, in isolated moments. The King was about to reveal to Don Olmond that Consalve and Theodoric were one and the same person, when word was brought that the peace negotiators were asking to speak with him. He left the two friends together, whereupon Don Olmond said to Consalve: “I’m well within my rights to complain about having had to learn for myself who Theodoric was, given that I might well have hoped that, out of friendship, you would have told me yourself. The only thing that surprises me is that you thought you could hide it from me while at the same time showing so much curiosity about Zayde. From the very first day you brought up the subject I knew you loved her, and I was surprised that what I thought to be a first glimpse could have already produced such a violent passion. Since then, Felime’s story convinced me that a man fitting her description of Theodoric could only be Consalve. My sole revenge for your secrecy was the note I wrote you in the hopes of making you anxious. I consider myself avenged, and moreover the pleasure my relation has just given you makes me forget my initial disappointment. However,” he added, “I don’t want you to be happier than you should be: I must tell you that unless your last meeting produced some huge change of heart in Zayde, she has vowed to struggle against her inclination for you and to follow the wishes of the Prince her father.” Consalve’s soul had given way to too deep a joy even to conceive of cause for apprehension. What Don Olmond was saying thus gave him none, and after having assured him that shame alone had made him hide his love, he went off to reflect on everything he had learned and to relate it to Zayde’s past behavior. Now it was easy to understand what he had heard her say in Tortosa about the strangeness of her destiny, and he saw that he was indeed right to be happy about her wishing him to be the man he resembled. The certainty of being loved inspired in him such a violent desire to see the Princess that he begged the King to allow him to go to Talavera. Don Garcie joyfully agreed, and Consalve left hoping at the very least to

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Zayde find in Zayde’s fair eyes the confirmation of everything he had learned from Don Olmond. On arrival at the castle he learned that Zulema was indisposed; Zayde came to greet him at the entrance to her father’s suite, bringing his regrets over not being in any condition to receive him. Consalve was so surprised and dazzled by the stunning beauty of the Princess that he could neither move nor keep his wonderment from showing. She noticed as much; she blushed because of it and stood with a modest awkwardness that only contributed further to her charms. He led her to her lodgings and spoke of his love with less apprehensiveness than in their first conversation; seeing, however, that she was answering with a discretion and reserve that would have rendered her heart’s dispositions unknowable if it were not for Don Olmond’s account, he decided to disclose that he knew something about her feelings. “Madam,” he said, “won’t you ever explain the reasons behind your wish that I be the man I resemble?” “Don’t you know,” she answered, “that that is a secret I cannot reveal to you?” “Is it possible, madam,” he said, looking at her, “that my passion for you, as well as the obstacles you deem to be in the way of my happiness, cannot even inspire enough pity to let me know that you would have preferred my destiny to be a happy one? This mere wishing for my happiness is what you are taking such care to hide from me. Ah! Madam, as a matter of wishing only, is it too much for you at least to prefer a man who adored you at first glance to some African you have never seen?” Zayde was so surprised by Consalve’s words that she could not answer. “There is no need for astonishment, madam,” he said to her, fearful that she might accuse Felime of having revealed her feelings, “there is no need for astonishment at the fact that chance informed me of what I have just told you; I overheard you in the gardens where you walked on the eve of your departure from Tortosa, and I learned from you yourself what you have been so cruel as to hide from me.” “What, Consalve?” Zayde exclaimed. “You overheard me in the gardens at Tortosa; you were near me, and yet you didn’t say anything?” “Ah, madam,” answered Consalve as he threw himself to his knees, “how happy you are making me by your reproaches, and how charming it is to see you forget that I listened in on you while remembering that I failed to speak. Have no regrets, madam,” he continued, seeing just how troubled she was to have let her heart’s feelings show, “have no regrets about giving me this joy, and allow me to believe that you are not totally indifferent to me. And yet, to defend myself against your reproaches, I must say, madam, that I over-

P a r t Tw o heard you back in Tortosa without knowing it was you; and my imagination was so struck at the thought of the oceans separating us that even though I was hearing your voice I couldn’t believe I was so close to you, all the more because it was night, because I couldn’t see you, and because you were speaking Spanish. The next day I did see you in a boat. But by the time I saw you and recognized you, I was no longer in any condition to speak to you, being under the power of the men the King had sent to find me.” “Since you overheard me,” said Zayde, “it would be useless to try to impart some other meaning to my words; but I beg of you, ask no more of me, and be so good as to let me take leave of you now. For I admit that shame both over what you heard without my knowing and over just now saying more than I meant to has made me so confused that, if I have any power over you at all, I am beseeching you to leave.” Consalve was so happy over what he had just seen that he did not want to pressure Zayde into making a more sincere avowal of her feelings. He left her, as she asked, and returned to camp fully hoping to get her to change the resolutions she had made. So formidable were Don Garcie’s armies and Consalve’s own bravery that the Moors agreed to the terms of peace proposed by the King of Leon. The treaty was signed by both sides, and since the Moors were to give up some remote outposts, it was decided that as a guarantee Don Garcie would hold onto the prisoners he had until the terms of the treaty had been completely fulfilled. In the meantime, he decided to spend some time in the cities he had won, and he went to Almaraz, which the Moors had ceded. The Queen, who passionately loved her husband the King, had since the beginning of the war almost always followed him wherever he went; at the siege of Talavera, she had been staying in a nearby town; being slightly indisposed, she was in fact still there, but she was soon supposed to meet up with the King again. Consalve, impatient to see Zayde, asked Don Garcie to tell the Queen to pass through Talavera, supposedly in order to see the newly conquered city, and from there to bring along to Almaraz all the Arab ladies who were being held prisoner. The Queen knew the interest her brother took in Zayde, and she was quite happy to make up now for the difficulties she had caused him with Nugna Bella. She went to Talavera, and all the ladies gladly agreed to spend in her company their remaining time in Spain. Zulema, still prisoner in Talavera, was disinclined to let Zayde leave his side. Moreover, the rank that had always been his made it painful to realize that the Princess his daughter was obliged to follow the Queen just like all the other ladies. He consented nonetheless, and Consalve was overjoyed to learn that soon he would lay eyes on the won-

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Zayde drous beauty that had inspired in him so much love. The day of the Queen’s arrival the King rode out two leagues to meet her. He came upon her on horseback with all the ladies of her train. As soon as she was near enough, she introduced Zayde, whose beauty was further enhanced by the care with which she had dressed, perhaps inspired by the desire to appear before Consalve at her most charming. Her physical grace, her modesty, and the pleasure of her wit surprised everyone. She was treated in a fashion befitting a princess of her birth, merit, and beauty, and in a few short days she had become the chief source of wonder and enjoyment at the court of Leon. Each time Consalve gazed at her it was with rapture, and being sure of her love made him forget the obstacles still standing in the way of his happiness. If just the sight of her had made him love her in the first place, discovering her wit and virtue added adoration to his love. He put as much care into finding opportunities to speak with her in private as she put in avoiding them. Finally, finding her one evening in the Queen’s study when few others were present, he begged her with such ardor and respect to tell him her feelings that she could not refuse. “If it were possible for me to conceal them from you,” she said, “I would, notwithstanding the esteem I have for you; and I would spare myself the shame of showing liking for a man I am not destined to be with. Since, however, you have learned of my feelings anyway, I might as well confess them and explain what you have been able to learn only confusedly.” And so she told him everything he already knew through Don Olmond about the predictions of Albumazar and Zulema’s resolutions. “So you see,” she added, “that all I can do is to grieve with you, since you are too reasonable to ask me not to follow my father’s wishes.” “At least, madam,” he said, “let me indulge in the belief that if he were ever able to change his mind, you would not be opposed to it.” “I cannot say whether I would be opposed or not,” she answered, “but I think that I ought to be, given that my life’s happiness is at stake.” “If, madam, you think that making me happy would reduce you to unhappiness, then you are indeed right to keep the resolutions you have made; I might well object, however, that if the feelings you flatter me with having inspired were real, then nothing could possibly persuade you that you could in fact be unhappy. You must be mistaken, then, madam, in thinking you have kind feelings for me; and I too must have been mistaken at Alphonse’s, when I thought I saw you favorably disposed toward me.” “Let us speak no further,” responded Zayde, “of what you or I may have had a basis for believing back then, in our isolation. And there is no need to remind me of all the reasons I had for thinking that you were preoccu-

P a r t Tw o pied by chagrin that had nothing to do with me; since I saw you in Talavera, I learned about the reasons behind your leaving the court, and I have no doubt that the time you spent by my side was devoted to memories of Nugna Bella.” Consalve was happy to have the occasion to reassure Zayde about her past doubts regarding his passion; he informed her of the true state of his heart at the moment he had met her; then he told her all he had suffered at not being able to understand her, and everything her distress had made him imagine. “And yet, madam,” he added, “I was not entirely mistaken in thinking I had a rival, for I have since learned of the Prince of Tarsus’s passion for you.” “It is indeed true that Alamir confessed as much to me, and that my father was intending to marry us until he saw the portrait he still keeps with such extraordinary care, persuaded as he is that my happiness depends on his marrying me to the man for whom it was painted.” “Well then, madam, I can see that you intend to go along with this idea, and to give yourself to a man who you think looks like me. If indeed it is true that you are not averse to me, then to all appearances you will not be averse to him either. In which case, madam, any assurance I might have about your caring for me also makes me certain that you will wed my rival without the least aversion. This is a misfortune that no man before me has ever suffered, and I have no idea how you manage not to take pity on the state I am in.” “Don’t blame me, blame the fact that you were born Spanish: even if I did feel for you the way you want me to, and even if my father had no other plans, your birthplace would still be an invincible obstacle to your desire, since Zulema would never consent to my belonging to you.” “At least allow me, madam, to inform him of my feelings. The aversion you have expressed for Alamir must have made him despair of your marrying a man of his religion; maybe he is not as attached to Albumazar’s words as you think. Please, Madam, allow me to do everything in my power to achieve a happiness I can no longer live without.” “Very well,” said Zayde, “I give you my consent, and I will go so far as to tell you that my fear is that your attempts will be in vain.” Consalve went immediately to find the King in order to beg his help in sounding Zulema’s feelings and in trying to win his favor. They decided to entrust the mission to Don Olmond, whose skill and friendship with Consalve made him more likely than anyone else to succeed. Via Don Olmond, the King sent Zulema a message requesting that he accord Zayde’s hand to Consalve, just as if he had been asking for it himself. Don Olmond’s trip, and

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Zayde Don Garcie’s letter, were of no use. Zulema responded that the King did him too much honor; Don Garcie did have control over his daughter and so could do as he wished, but never, he said, would he give his consent to her marrying a man of a different religion. This answer made Consalve suffer more than he ever had; loved by Zayde, he did not want to give her such a bad piece of news out of fear that the certainty of never being his would cause her to change the feelings she showed toward him. He told her only that he still had some hope of winning over Zulema and obtaining what he so ardently wanted. Princess Belenie, mother of Felime, who was left behind ill at Oropesa, died a short time after peace had been declared. Osmin was sent to Talavera with Zulema, in preparation for the moment agreed upon for the release of the prisoners, and Felime was brought to court. Her appearance was not accompanied by all her usual charms: her sickness of mind had so affected her body that her beauty was diminished. But it was easy to observe that it was her poor health that was to blame for this change. The Princess was quite surprised to discover that the Consalve whom she did not think she knew, and whose mere mention caused her to suffer on account of what he had done to the Prince of Tarsus, was the very same Theodoric she had seen at Alphonse’s, and who had managed to charm Zayde. Her affliction redoubled at the thought that her words to Alamir in the woods of Oropesa had revealed that Consalve was his rival and thus were the cause of their fight. This prince had been carried to Almaraz; Felime had the consolation of getting daily reports on his condition and of not having to hide her affliction, which people attributed to the death of her mother. Alamir, whose youth had sustained his life for a time, was finally so weakened that the doctors began to despair of his recovery. Felime was with Zayde and Consalve when word was brought that an equerry in the service of this unfortunate prince was asking to speak with Zayde. She blushed, and after a moment of confusion she had him brought in and in front of the others asked him what the Prince of Tarsus wanted. “My master is about to expire, madam,” he answered. “He requests the honor of seeing you before he dies, and he hopes that his present state will keep you from refusing him this favor.” Zayde was touched and surprised by the man’s words; for some time she did not respond; finally, she looked off in Consalve’s direction, as if to ask him what he would have her do. Seeing, though, that he said nothing, and concluding from the look on his face that he was apprehensive about her seeing Alamir, she said, “I am indeed sorry to be unable to grant the Prince of Tarsus’s wish. If I thought my presence might possibly contribute to his recovery, I would happily see him; but since I am convinced that it

P a r t Tw o would be to no avail, I beg him to excuse my absence, and ask you to give him my assurance that I am most upset over the state he is in.” At this response the man withdrew. Felime sat plunged in a suffering whose only sign was her silence. Zayde was saddened by Felime’s own sadness and felt pity as well for the miserable fate of the Prince of Tarsus. Consalve was torn between the joy of seeing the accommodation Zayde had shown for feelings he had not even voiced and the pain of having deprived the dying Prince the sight of this Princess. While all these people were taken up with their various feelings, Alamir’s equerry came back and told Felime that his master was asking to see her and that there was no time to lose if she wanted to grant him this favor. Felime stood up; the only reason one would take her for a living being at all was that she had the strength to walk. She gave her hand to the equerry, and accompanied by her maids she went to the place the Prince of Tarsus was staying. She sat at his bedside, and without saying a word she watched him, motionless. “I am so fortunate, madam,” said the Prince, “that Zayde’s example has not inspired in you the cruel refusal of your consoling presence. It is the sole consolation I could hope for, being deprived of the one I was bold enough to request. I beg you, madam, to tell her that she was right to judge me unworthy of the honor that Zulema had sought to bestow on me. My heart had burned with so many different loves, profaned itself by so much false adoration, that indeed it did not deserve to touch hers; but if my inconstancy, which ended the moment I laid eyes on her, could ever have been redeemed by a passion that made me the very opposite of what I once was, by the most respectful devotion ever known, then I do believe, madam, that I would have been able to expiate the crimes of my previous life. Assure her, I beg of you, that I adored her as one adores the gods, and that I am dying less from the wounds dealt by Consalve than from the sorrow of knowing that she loves him. You told me the truth back in the woods of Oropesa, when you said that her heart had been touched; it was all too believable, even though I told you that I didn’t believe it. I had just left you, thinking of nothing but that fortunate Spaniard, when I crossed paths with Consalve. The resemblance he bore to the portrait I had seen, and what you had just told me, so struck me that I had no doubt that he was indeed the man you had spoken of. I announced that I was Alamir; he attacked me with all the animosity of a man who knew I was his rival. Since then I learned that I had not been mistaken in believing him to be the one who had won Zayde’s affections. He deserves to have touched her heart: I envy his happiness without thinking him unworthy of it. I die in full acceptance of my crushing

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Zayde misfortunes; if I dared, I would complain only about the inhumanity of Zayde’s depriving a man about to lose her forever of one last meeting.” It is easy to imagine the deathly pain in Felime’s heart, pierced by Alamir’s words. A few times she wanted to say something, but her sobs and tears kept her from speaking; finally, in a voice broken with sighs, and carried away by a tenderness she could no longer contain, she said, “Believe me, if I had been in Zayde’s place, no man would have been preferred to the Prince of Tarsus.” In spite of her sorrow she could feel the full force of what she was saying, and she turned her head so as to hide the abundance of her tears and to avoid Alamir’s gaze. “Alas, madam,” said the dying Prince, “can it be possible that what you have revealed to me is true? I admit that the day I spoke to you in the woods, I thought for a moment a bit of what I am so bold as to think right now. But I was so troubled, and you were so good at ascribing another meaning to your words, that only a slight impression to that effect remained. Please excuse, madam, the boldness of such a thought; and excuse me, as well, for having caused a misfortune still greater for me than for you; I didn’t deserve happiness, but I would have been only too happy if . . .” Exhaustion kept him from continuing: he lost all use of speech and turned his eyes toward Felime, as if to bid her adieu; then he closed them for the last time and at that same moment died. Felime’s tears ceased to flow; she sat immobilized with sorrow; she watched the Prince die with unmoving eyes. Her maids, seeing that she was not stirring from her seat, led her out of the now funereal place. As she was escorted she uttered not a single word. Once in her own room, however, the sight of Zayde made her sorrow more bitter and gave her the strength to speak. “You must be happy, madam,” she said to her in a rather weak voice, “Alamir is dead. Alamir is dead?” she continued, as if learning as much from herself. “So I shall never see him again? So I’ve lost all hope of being loved by him? For him to ever feel fondness for me is now beyond the power of love. My eyes will never again meet his; I shall never again recover the gift of his presence, which soothed me amidst all my misfortunes. Ah! Madam,” she said to Zayde, “is it really possible for someone to have charmed you, when Alamir could not? How could you show such inhumanity? Why didn’t you love him? He adored you; what did he lack that would have made him worthy of love?” “But,” replied Zayde softly, “you know quite well that I would only have increased your own suffering if I had loved him, and that it was what you feared most in the world.”

P a r t Tw o “This is true, madam, this is true, I didn’t want you to make him happy— but I didn’t want you to take his life. Ah! Why did I hide my passion so carefully from him?” Felime continued. “Maybe it would have touched him; maybe it would have had some effect on his doomed love for you. What was I afraid of? Why didn’t I want him to know that I adored him? My only consolation is that he suspected something of it. True, if he had known for sure, he might have pretended to love me and so deceived me; but what difference would it have made had he deceived me, as he did at the outset? Those precious moments when he at least made me believe he loved me—those moments live on in my memory. Can it be that after all the misery I have endured, still more remains for me to endure? All I can hope is that my suffering will be such that I’ll never have the strength to bear it.” As she was pronouncing these words, Consalve appeared in the doorway; thinking that she was in another room, he had come to find out how she was upon her return from Alamir’s. He withdrew immediately so as not to irritate her suffering by his presence, but not so quickly that she did not see him, thus prompting such painful wailing that the most hardened heart would have been touched. “I beseech you, madam,” she said to Zayde, “keep Consalve out of my sight. I cannot bear seeing the man responsible for Alamir’s death, the one who robbed him of the one thing dearer to him than his own life.” The violence of her suffering deprived her of speech and she lost consciousness; and since her health had already been quite weak, it was plain that she was at great risk. The King and Queen, notified of her condition, came to see her and sent for anyone capable of bringing her relief. After five or six hours in a sort of lethargy, and a large quantity of medicine, she came to. The only person she could recognize around her was Zayde, crying by her side with much grief. “Do not lament my loss,” she said to her, so softly that she could hardly be heard. “I wouldn’t have been worthy of your friendship anymore, nor would I have ever been able to love someone who had caused Alamir’s death.” She could say no more; she fell back into the state she had been rescued from; and the next day, and at the exact hour she had watched the Prince of Tarsus die, she ended a life which love had made so very unhappy. The deaths of two people of such exceptional merit seemed so worthy of compassion that the entire court of Leon was distraught. Zayde’s grief was inconceivable; she loved Felime tenderly, and the manner of her death added further to her distress. A number of days went by without Consalve’s care and entreaties bringing any relief to her sadness. Finally, however, apprehension over leaving Spain and losing Consalve gave some respite to her tears and brought on a different sort of suffering. The King returned to Leon, and there

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Zayde was so little left to do to carry out the last terms of the peace treaty that Zulema’s departure for Africa seemed imminent. Nevertheless, he was in no condition to travel; he had been dangerously ill when Felime had died, although the seriousness of his illness had been hidden from Zayde so as not to burden her all at once with so much cause for sorrow. Consalve was sick with worry and could only think of how he could either convince this prince to grant his happiness, or else induce Zayde to stay in Spain with the Queen, since propriety would allow for not following a father who to all appearances was set on her religious conversion. One evening a few days after everyone’s arrival in Leon, Consalve went to the Queen’s study; Zayde was there, but so absorbed in gazing at a portrait of Consalve that she did not see him come in. “Jealousy of a portrait, madam,” he said to her, “truly must be my lot, since I am jealous even of my own and envy the attention you pay it.” “Of your portrait?” responded Zayde with complete astonishment. “Why yes, madam, of my portrait. I can see that because it is so handsome you can hardly believe this to be the case, but I nonetheless assure you that it was painted for me.” “Consalve, mightn’t some other portrait similar to this one have been painted for you?” “Ah! Madam!” he exclaimed, with the kind of confusion caused by stilluncertain joy. “Should I really believe what you are letting me guess, and what I cannot even dare say? Yes, madam,” he continued, “other portraits like this one have been painted for me, but I don’t dare let myself believe what I can see you are thinking—something I too would have thought a long time ago if I had believed myself worthy of those predictions you received, and if you hadn’t always maintained that the portrait with the resemblance to me was that of an African.” “The dress had led me to believe as much,” answered Zayde, “and Albumazar’s words had persuaded me of it. You know how much I wished for you to be the man you resembled,” she added, “but what I find astonishing is that in spite of all my wishes, I was so predisposed that I was unable to believe it. I discussed it with Felime as soon as I saw you at Alphonse’s. When I saw you again at Talavera and was informed of your birth, the thought returned—and yet I held it to be a result of my own wishing. But how difficult it will be,” she sighed, “to convince my father of the truth of the matter! And how I fear that the predictions that seemed to him so truthful when he thought they concerned a man of his own religion will seem false once they concern a Spaniard!” As she was speaking, the Queen came into the room; Consalve shared his new joy with her; she did not want to put off for a single moment telling

P a r t Tw o the King. She went off to tell him what they had just discovered, and the King came immediately to ask Consalve what he could do to make his happiness perfect. After having gone over for some time the ways in which they might win over Zulema, they decided to bring him to Leon. A man was dispatched to Talavera to inform the Prince that the King desired his presence at court, and since his health was now completely restored, he arrived shortly thereafter. The King greeted him with signs of great esteem and led him into his study. “You would not grant me Zayde,” he told the Prince, “for the man I admire the most. I hope, however, that you will not refuse her hand to the man in this portrait here, a man to whom I know full well she is destined by the predictions of Albumazar.” With these words, he showed him Consalve’s portrait and then presented Consalve himself, who had been standing off to the side. Zulema looked at one, then the other, and appeared to be sunk in deep meditation. The King thought his silence must be due to his uncertainty. “If resemblance alone does not convince you that this portrait is indeed of Consalve,” he told him, “we have enough other proof to dispel any doubts you may have. The portrait that is in your possession, and which is identical to this one, can only have fallen into your hands after the battle that Nugnez Fernando, father of Consalve, lost to the Moors. It was made by an excellent painter who had traveled the world, and to whom African clothes had seemed so beautiful that he included them in all his portraits.” “It is true indeed, sir,” replied Zulema, “that I have had the portrait only as long as you say; it is equally true that because of what you have just been so good as to tell me, as well as the perfect resemblance, one cannot doubt that it is indeed of Consalve. This is not, however, the cause of my silence and astonishment. I am marveling at the decrees of Heaven and their providential effects. No, sir, no predictions were made to me, and Albumazar’s words, which I see you know about, were in fact understood improperly by my daughter. But since you have done me the honor of taking interest in her fortune, pray let me inform you, sir, of things that only I can tell you, and of the beginnings of a life whose happiness now depends entirely on you. “The just pretensions my father had to the Caliph’s empire caused him to be sent away to Cyprus. I accompanied him; I fell in love with Alasinthe and married her. She was a Christian: I decided to embrace her religion, which seemed to me the only one fit to be observed. Its austerity nonetheless gave me pause and delayed the execution of my plan. I returned to Africa; there, pleasure and the moral corruption of the place entangled me more than ever in my religion and renewed my aversion for Christians. For

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Zayde a number of years I forgot all about Alasinthe; finally, however, touched by the desire to see her once more, and to see Zayde, whom I had left an infant, I decided to go find them in Cyprus so that I could convert my daughter and marry her to the Prince of Fez, of the house of Idris. He had heard of her; he passionately desired her, and his father had a particular friendship for me. The war in Cyprus caused me to accelerate my plans. When I arrived, I found the Prince of Tarsus to be in love with Zayde; he seemed to me worthy of being loved; I had no doubt he must be loved in return. I thought my daughter would be easily persuaded to marry him. I hadn’t given my final commitment to the Prince of Fez. His mother was Christian, and so I was apprehensive about her objecting to my plans for Zayde’s conversion. I therefore backed Alamir’s feelings for her, only to be extremely surprised at the dislike she showed for him; nothing I tried throughout the siege of Famagusta, moreover, could convince her to take the Prince for her husband. It occurred to me that stubbornly trying to surmount an aversion that appeared to be part of her nature would be useless, so I decided to marry her to the Prince of Fez as soon as we returned to Africa. He had written to me since my arrival in Cyprus; he told me that his mother had died. There were, then, no more obstacles to the marriage. We left Famagusta; we landed in Alexandria, and I saw Albumazar, whom I had once met a long time before. He noticed that my daughter was gazing attentively and with some pleasure at a portrait identical to the one I have just seen. The next day, while discussing with this learned man the aversion she had shown toward Alamir, I told him of my decision to marry her to the Prince of Fez regardless of her feelings. “‘I doubt that she would have any dislike for his person,’ replied Albumazar. ‘The portrait that she found so much to her liking looks so much like that prince that I do believe it must be his.’ “‘Since I have never seen him,’ I said, ‘I have no way of knowing. It is not impossible that it is his portrait, but I don’t know whose it is, and it came into my hands only by chance. What I want is for Zayde to take an interest in the Prince, and if she doesn’t, I won’t be as understanding as I was in the case of the Prince of Tarsus.’ “A few days later, my daughter asked Albumazar to read her fortune. Since he knew all about my plans, and because he thought the portrait she had seen was that of the Prince of Fez, he told her, without any intention of having his words taken as a prediction, that she was destined to be with the man whose portrait she had seen. I pretended to believe that Albumazar’s words were based on some special knowledge of things to come, and in front of Zayde I continued to say so. As I was leaving

P a r t Tw o Alexandria, Albumazar gave me his assurance that my plans for her would never succeed, but this did not stop me from trying. During my recent illness, however, my old ideas about embracing the one true religion came back to me with such force that after my recovery all I could think about was strengthening my commitment. I do admit that this felicitous decision wasn’t yet as firm as it should have been; now, however, I must yield to what Heaven has worked in my favor; the same path I had hoped to take to marry my daughter to a man of my religion has led me to marry her to a man of her own. The same words that Albumazar pronounced because of a mistaken resemblance have become, without his intending it to be so, a real prediction; and this prediction has come to pass only because of the fact that my daughter is happy to marry a man who is the wonder of his time. I have nothing more to say, sir, if not to beg the honor of being counted as one of your subjects, and the permission to end my days in your kingdom.” So surprised and touched were the King and Consalve by Zulema’s tale that, unable to find words for their feelings, they embraced him in silence. At last, after having expressed their joy, they marveled for some time over the many incidents that made up such a strange adventure. And yet Consalve could hardly be surprised that Albumazar had been fooled by the Prince of Fez’s resemblance to him; he knew very well that a number of others had also been fooled, and he told Zulema that this prince’s mother was in fact the sister of Consalve’s own father, Nugnez Fernando; abducted during a Moorish raid, she had been brought to Africa, where by dint of her beauty she became the legitimate wife of the Prince of Fez’s father. Zulema went off to inform his daughter of what had just happened, and by the way she received the news it was easy for him to see that she was not unreceptive to the merit of Consalve. Shortly thereafter, Zulema made public profession of the Christian faith, after which no one could think of anything but the wedding, which was celebrated with all the gallantry of the Moors, and all the refinement of Spain.

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SERIES EDITORS’ BIBLIOGRAPHY

P R I M A RY S O U R C E S

Alberti, Leon Battista (1404–72). The Family in Renaissance Florence. Trans. Renée Neu Watkins. Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1969. Arenal, Electa and Stacey Schlau, eds. Untold Sisters: Hispanic Nuns in Their Own Works. Trans. Amanda Powell. Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 1989. Astell, Mary (1666–1731). The First English Feminist: Reflections on Marriage and Other Writings. Ed. and Introd. Bridget Hill. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986. Atherton, Margaret, ed. Women Philosophers of the Early Modern Period. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Co., 1994. Aughterson, Kate, ed. Renaissance Woman: Constructions of Femininity in England: A Source Book. London and New York: Routledge, 1995. Barbaro, Francesco (1390–1454). On Wifely Duties. Trans. Benjamin Kohl in Kohl and R. G. Witt, eds., The Earthly Republic. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1978, 179-228. Translation of the Preface and Book 2. Behn, Aphra. The Works of Aphra Behn. 7 vols. Ed. Janet Todd. Columbus, OH: Ohio State University Press, 1992–96. Boccaccio, Giovanni (1313–75). Famous Women. Ed. and trans. Virginia Brown. The I Tatti Renaissance Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001. ———. Corbaccio or the Labyrinth of Love. Trans. Anthony K. Cassell. Second revised edition. Binghamton, NY: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1993. Booy, David, ed. Autobiographical Writings by Early Quaker Women. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2004. Brown, Sylvia. Women’s Writing in Stuart England: The Mother’s Legacies of Dorothy Leigh, Elizabeth Joscelin and Elizabeth Richardson. Thrupp, Stroud, Gloceter: Sutton, 1999. Bruni, Leonardo (1370–1444). “On the Study of Literature (1405) to Lady Battista Malatesta of Moltefeltro.” In The Humanism of Leonardo Bruni: Selected Texts. Trans. and Introd. Gordon Griffiths, James Hankins, and David Thompson. Binghamton, NY: Medieval and Renaissance Studies and Texts, 1987, 240–51. Castiglione, Baldassare (1478–1529). The Book of the Courtier. Trans. George Bull. New York: Penguin, 1967; The Book of the Courtier. Ed. Daniel Javitch. New York: W. W. Norton and Co., 2002.

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Series Editors’ Bibliography Christine de Pizan (1365–1431). The Book of the City of Ladies. Trans. Earl Jeffrey Richards. Foreward Marina Warner. New York: Persea Books, 1982. ———. The Treasure of the City of Ladies. Trans. Sarah Lawson. New York: Viking Penguin, 1985. Also trans. and introd. Charity Cannon Willard. Ed. and introd. Madeleine P. Cosman. New York: Persea Books, 1989. Clarke, Danielle, ed. Isabella Whitney, Mary Sidney and Aemilia Lanyer: Renaissance Women Poets. New York: Penguin Books, 2000. Crawford, Patricia and Laura Gowing, eds. Women’s Worlds in Seventeenth-Century England: A Source Book. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. “Custome Is an Idiot”: Jacobean Pamphlet Literature on Women. Ed. Susan Gushee O’Malley. Afterword Ann Rosalind Jones. Chicago and Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2004. Daybell, James, ed. Early Modern Women’s Letter Writing, 1450–1700. Houndmills, England and New York: Palgrave, 2001. Elizabeth I: Collected Works. Ed. Leah S. Marcus, Janel Mueller, and Mary Beth Rose. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. Elyot, Thomas (1490–1546). Defence of Good Women: The Feminist Controversy of the Renaissance. Facsimile Reproductions. Ed. Diane Bornstein. New York: Delmar, 1980. Erasmus, Desiderius (1467–1536). Erasmus on Women. Ed. Erika Rummel. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996. Female and Male Voices in Early Modern England: An Anthology of Renaissance Writing. Ed. Betty S. Travitsky and Anne Lake Prescott. New York: Columbia University Press, 2000. Ferguson, Moira, ed. First Feminists: British Women Writers 1578–1799. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1985. Galilei, Maria Celeste. Sister Maria Celeste’s Letters to her father, Galileo. Ed. and trans. Rinaldina Russell. Lincoln, NE and New York: Writers Club Press of Universe.com, 2000; To Father: The Letters of Sister Maria Celeste to Galileo, 1623–1633. Trans. Dava Sobel. London: Fourth Estate, 2001. Gethner, Perry, ed. The Lunatic Lover and Other Plays by French Women of the 17th and 18th Centuries. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann, 1994. Glückel of Hameln (1646–1724). The Memoirs of Glückel of Hameln. Trans. Marvin Lowenthal. New Introd. Robert Rosen. New York: Schocken Books, 1977. Harline, Craig, ed. The Burdens of Sister Margaret: Inside a Seventeenth-Century Convent. New Haven: Yale University Press, abr. ed., 2000. Henderson, Katherine Usher and Barbara F. McManus, eds. Half Humankind: Contexts and Texts of the Controversy about Women in England, 1540–1640. Urbana, IL: Indiana University Press, 1985. Hoby, Margaret. The Private Life of an Elizabethan Lady: The Diary of Lady Margaret Hoby 1599–1605. Phoenix Mill, Great Britain: Sutton Publishing, 1998. Humanist Educational Treatises. Ed. and trans. Craig W. Kallendorf. The I Tatti Renaissance Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002. Hunter, Lynette, ed. The Letters of Dorothy Moore, 1612–64. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2004. Joscelin, Elizabeth. The Mothers Legacy to her Unborn Childe. Ed. Jean leDrew Metcalfe. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000.

Series Editors’ Bibliography Kaminsky, Amy Katz, ed. Water Lilies, Flores del agua: An Anthology of Spanish Women Writers from the Fifteenth Through the Nineteenth Century. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Kempe, Margery (1373–1439). The Book of Margery Kempe. Trans. and ed. Lynn Staley. A Norton Critical Edition. New York: W.W. Norton, 2001. King, Margaret L., and Albert Rabil, Jr., eds. Her Immaculate Hand: Selected Works by and about the Women Humanists of Quattrocento Italy. Binghamton, NY: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1983; second revised paperback edition, 1991. Klein, Joan Larsen, ed. Daughters, Wives, and Widows: Writings by Men about Women and Marriage in England, 1500–1640. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1992. Knox, John (1505–72). The Political Writings of John Knox: The First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment of Women and Other Selected Works. Ed. Marvin A. Breslow. Washington: Folger Shakespeare Library, 1985. Kors, Alan C., and Edward Peters, eds. Witchcraft in Europe, 400-1700: A Documentary History. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000. Krämer, Heinrich, and Jacob Sprenger. Malleus Maleficarum (ca. 1487). Trans. Montague Summers. London: Pushkin Press, 1928; reprinted New York: Dover, 1971. Larsen, Anne R. and Colette H. Winn, eds. Writings by Pre-Revolutionary French Women: From Marie de France to Elizabeth Vigée-Le Brun. New York and London: Garland Publishing Co., 2000. de Lorris, William, and Jean de Meun. The Romance of the Rose. Trans. Charles Dahlbert. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971; reprinted University Press of New England, 1983. Marguerite d’Angoulême, Queen of Navarre (1492–1549). The Heptameron. Trans. P. A. Chilton. New York: Viking Penguin, 1984. Mary of Agreda. The Divine Life of the Most Holy Virgin. Abridgment of The Mystical City of God. Abr. by Fr. Bonaventure Amedeo de Caesarea, M.C. Trans. from French by Abbé Joseph A. Boullan. Rockford, IL: Tan Books, 1997. Mullan, David George. Women’s Life Writing in Early Modern Scotland: Writing the Evangelical Self, c. 1670–c. 1730. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. Myers, Kathleen A. and Amanda Powell, eds. A Wild Country Out in the Garden: The Spiritual Journals of a Colonial Mexican Nun. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999. Russell, Rinaldina, ed. Sister Maria Celeste’s Letters to Her Father, Galileo. San Jose and New York: Writers Club Press, 2000. Teresa of Avila, Saint (1515–82). The Life of Saint Teresa of Avila by Herself. Trans. J. M. Cohen. New York: Viking Penguin, 1957. Travitsky, Betty, ed. The Paradise of Women: Writings by Entlishwomen of the Renaissance. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1981. Weyer, Johann (1515–88). Witches, Devils, and Doctors in the Renaissance: Johann Weyer, De praestigiis daemonum. Ed. George Mora with Benjamin G. Kohl, Erik Midelfort, and Helen Bacon. Trans. John Shea. Binghamton, NY: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1991. Wilson, Katharina M., ed. Medieval Women Writers. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 1984. ———, ed. Women Writers of the Renaissance and Reformation. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 1987.

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Series Editors’ Bibliography ———, and Frank J. Warnke, eds. Women Writers of the Seventeenth Century. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 1989. Wollstonecraft, Mary. A Vindication of the Rights of Men and a Vindication of the Rights of Women. Ed. Sylvana Tomaselli. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Also The Vindications of the Rights of Men, The Rights of Women. Ed. D. L. Macdonald and Kathleen Scherf. Peterborough, Ontario, Canada: Broadview Press, 1997. Women Critics 1660–1820: An Anthology. Edited by the Folger Collective on Early Women Critics. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1995. Women Writers in English 1350–1850: 15 published through 1999 (projected 30-volume series suspended). Oxford University Press. Wroth, Lady Mary. The Countess of Montgomery’s Urania. 2 parts. Ed. Josephine A. Roberts. Tempe, AZ: MRTS, 1995, 1999. ———. Lady Mary Wroth’s “Love’s Victory”: The Penshurst Manuscript. Ed. Michael G. Brennan. London: The Roxburghe Club, 1988. ———. The Poems of Lady Mary Wroth. Ed. Josephine A. Roberts. Baton Rouge, LA: Louisiana State University Press, 1983. de Zayas Maria. The Disenchantments of Love. Trans. H. Patsy Boyer. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1997. ———. The Enchantments of Love: Amorous and Exemplary Novels. Trans. H. Patsy Boyer. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1990.

S E C O N D A RY S O U R C E S

Abate, Corinne S., ed. Privacy, Domesticity, and Women in Early Modern England. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. Ahlgren, Gillian. Teresa of Avila and the Politics of Sanctity. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1996. Akkerman, Tjitske and Siep Sturman, eds. Feminist Thought in European History, 1400–2000. London and New York: Routledge, 1997. Allen, Sister Prudence, R.S.M. The Concept of Woman: The Aristotelian Revolution, 750 B.C. – A.D. 1250. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1997. ———. The Concept of Woman: Volume II: The early Humanist Reformation, 1250–1500. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2002. Amussen, Susan D. And Adele Seeff, eds. Attending to Early Modern Women. Newark: University of Delaware Press, 1998. Andreadis, Harriette. Sappho in Early Modern England: Female Same-Sex Literary Erotics 1550–1714. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001. Armon, Shifra. Picking Wedlock: Women and the Courtship Novel in Spain. New York: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., 2002. Backer, Anne Liot Backer. Precious Women. New York: Basic Books, 1974. Ballaster, Ros. Seductive Forms. New York : Oxford University Press, 1992. Barash, Carol. English Women’s Poetry, 1649–1714: Politics, Community, and Linguistic Authority. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996. Battigelli, Anna. Margaret Cavendish and the Exiles of the Mind. Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky Press, 1998.

Series Editors’ Bibliography Beasley, Faith. Revising Memory: Women’s Fiction and Memoirs in Seventeenth-Century France. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1990. Becker, Lucinda M. Death and the Early Modern Englishwoman. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. Beilin, Elaine V. Redeeming Eve: Women Writers of the English Renaissance. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987. Benson, Pamela Joseph. The Invention of Renaissance Woman: The Challenge of Female Independence in the Literature and Thought of Italy and England. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1992. ——— and Victoria Kirkham, eds. Strong Voices, Weak History? Medieval and Renaissance Women in their Literary Canons: England, France, Italy. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2003. Berry, Helen. Gender, Society and Print Culture in Late-Stuart England. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. Bicks, Caroline. Midwiving Subjects in Shakespeare’s England. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. Bilinkoff, Jodi. The Avila of Saint Teresa: Religious Reform in a Sixteenth-Century City. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989. Bissell, R. Ward. Artemisia Gentileschi and the Authority of Art. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2000. Blain, Virginia, Isobel Grundy, and Patricia Clements, eds. The Feminist Companion to Literature in English: Women Writers from the Middle Ages to the Present. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990. Bloch, R. Howard. Medieval Misogyny and the Invention of Western Romantic Love. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991. Bogucka, Maria. Women in Early Modern Polish Society, Against the European Background. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2004. Bornstein, Daniel and Roberto Rusconi, eds. Women and Religion in Medieval and Renaissance Italy. Trans. Margery J. Schneider. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996. Brant, Clare and Diane Purkiss, eds. Women, Texts and Histories, 1575–1760. London and New York: Routledge, 1992. Briggs, Robin. Witches and Neighbours: The Social and Cultural Context of European Witchcraft. New York: HarperCollins, 1995; Viking Penguin, 1996. Brink, Jean R., ed. Female Scholars: A Traditioin of Learned Women before 1800. Montréal: Eden Press Women’s Publications, 1980. ———, Allison Coudert, and Maryanne Cline Horowitz. The Politics of Gender in Early Modern Europe. Sixteenth Century Essays and Studies, V.12. Kirksville, MO: Sixteenth Century Journal Publishers, 1989. Broude, Norma and Mary D. Garrard, eds. The Expanding Discourse: Feminism and Art History. New York: HarperCollins, 1992. Brown, Judith C. Immodest Acts: The Life of a Lesbian Nun in Renaissance Italy. New York: Oxford University Press, 1986. ——— and Robert C. Davis, eds. Gender and Society in Renaisance Italy. London: Addison Wesley Longman, 1998. Burke, Victoria E. Burke, ed. Early Modern Women’s Manuscript Writing. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2004.

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Series Editors’ Bibliography Bynum, Carolyn Walker. Fragmentation and Redemption: Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion. New York: Zone Books, 1992. ———. Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987. Cambridge Guide to Women’s Writing in English. Edited by Lorna Sage. Cambridge: University Press, 1999. Cavallo, Sandra, and Lyndan Warner. Widowhood in Medieval and Early Modern Europe. New York: Longman, 1999. Cavanagh, Sheila T. Cherished Torment: The Emotional Geography of Lady Mary Wroth’s “Urania.” Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 2001. Cerasano, S. P. and Marion Wynne-Davies, eds. Readings in Renaissance Women’s Drama: Criticism, History, and Performance 1594–1998. London and New York: Routledge, 1998. Cervigni, Dino S., ed. Women Mystic Writers. Annali d’Italianistica 13 (1995) (entire issue). ——— and Rebecca West, eds. Women’s Voices in Italian Literature. Annali d’Italianistica 7 (1989) (entire issue). Charlton, Kenneth. Women, Religion and Education in Early Modern England. London and New York: Routledge, 1999. Chojnacka, Monica. Working Women in Early Modern Venice. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001. Chojnacki, Stanley. Women and Men in Renaissance Venice: Twelve Essays on Patrician Society. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000. “Cholakian, Patricia Francis. Rape and Writing in the “Heptameron” of Marguerite de Navarre. Carbondale and Edwardsville, IL: Southern Illinois University Press, 1991. ———. Women and the Politics of Self-Representation in Seventeenth-Century France. Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2000. Christine de Pizan: A Casebook. Edited by Barbara K. Altmann and Deborah L. McGrady. New York: Routledge, 2003. Clogan, Paul Maruice, ed. Medievali et Humanistica: Literacy and the Lay Reader. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2000. Clubb, Louise George (1989). Italian Drama in Shakespeare’s Time. New Haven: Yale University Press Clucas, Stephen, ed. A Princely Brave Woman: Essays on Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. Conley, John J., S.J. The Suspicion of Virtue: Women Philosophers in Neoclassical France. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2002. Crabb, Ann. The Strozzi of Florence: Widowhood and Family Solidarity in the Renaissance. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000. Crowston, Clare Haru. Fabricating Women: The Seamstresses of Old Regime France, 1675–1791. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001. Cruz, Anne J. and Mary Elizabeth Perry, eds. Culture and Control in Counter-Reformation Spain. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992. Datta, Satya. Women and Men in Early Modern Venice. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. Davis, Natalie Zemon. Society and Culture in Early Modern France. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1975. Especially chapters 3 and 5.

Series Editors’ Bibliography ———. Women on the Margins: Three Seventeenth-Century Lives. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995. DeJean, Joan. Ancients Against Moderns: Culture Wars and the Making of a Fin de Siècle. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997. ———. Fictions of Sappho, 1546–1937. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989. ———. The Reinvention of Obscenity: Sex, Lies, and Tabloids in Early Modern France. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002. ———. Tender Geographies: Women and the Origins of the Novel in France. New York: Columbia University Press, 1991. ———. The Reinvention of Obscenity: Sex, Lies, and Tabloids in Early Modern France. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002. Dictionary of Russian Women Writers. Edited by Marina Ledkovsky, Charlotte Rosenthal, and Mary Zirin. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1994. Dixon, Laurinda S. Perilous Chastity: Women and Illness in Pre-Enlightenment Art and Medicine. Ithaca: Cornell Universitiy Press, 1995. Dolan, Frances, E. Whores of Babylon: Catholicism, Gender and Seventeenth-Century Print Culture. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999. Donovan, Josephine. Women and the Rise of the Novel, 1405–1726. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999. Encyclopedia of Continental Women Writers. 2 vols. Edited by Katharina Wilson. New York: Garland, 1991. De Erauso, Catalina. Lieutenant Nun: Memoir of a Basque Transvestite in the New World. Trans. Michele Ttepto and Gabriel Stepto; foreword by Marjorie Garber. Boston: Beacon Press, 1995. Erdmann, Axel. My Gracious Silence: Women in the Mirror of Sixteenth-Century Printing in Western Europe. Luzern: Gilhofer and Rauschberg, 1999. Erickson, Amy Louise. Women and Property in Early Modern England. London and New York: Routledge, 1993. Ezell, Margaret J. M. The Patriarch’s Wife: Literary Evidence and the History of the Family. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1987. ———. Social Authorship and the Advent of Print. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999. ———. Writing Women’s Literary History. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993. Farrell, Michèle Longino. Performing Motherhood: The Sévigné Correspondence. Hanover, NH and London: University Press of New England, 1991. The Feminist Companion to Literature in English: Women Writers from the Middle Ages to the Present. Edited by Virginia Blain, Isobel Grundy, and Patricia Clements. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1990. The Feminist Encyclopedia of German Literature. Edited by Friederike Eigler and Susanne Kord. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1997. Feminist Encyclopedia of Italian Literature. Edited by Rinaldina Russell. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1997. Ferguson, Margaret W. Dido’s Daughters: Literacy, Gender, and Empire in Early Modern England and France. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003. ———, Maureen Quilligan, and Nancy J. Vickers, eds. Rewriting the Renaissance: The Discourses of Sexual Difference in Early Modern Europe. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987.

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Series Editors’ Bibliography Ferraro, Joanne M. Marriage Wars in Late Renaissance Venice. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Fletcher, Anthony. Gender, Sex and Subordination in England 1500–1800. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995. French Women Writers: A Bio-Bibliographical Source Book. Edited by Eva Martin Sartori and Dorothy Wynne Zimmerman. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1991. Frye, Susan and Karen Robertson, eds. Maids and Mistresses, Cousins and Queens: Women’s Alliances in Early Modern England. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Gallagher, Catherine. Nobody’s Story: The Vanishing Acts of Women Writers in the Marketplace, 1670–1820. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994. Garrard, Mary D. Artemisia Gentileschi: The Image of the Female Hero in Italian Baroque Art. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989. Gelbart, Nina Rattner. The King’s Midwife: A History and Mystery of Madame du Coudray. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998. Glenn, Cheryl. Rhetoric Retold: Regendering the Tradition from Antiquity Through the Renaissance. Carbondale and Edwardsville, IL: Southern Illinois University Press, 1997. Goffen, Rona. Titian’s Women. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997. Goldberg, Jonathan. Desiring Women Writing: English Renaissance Examples. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997. Goldsmith, Elizabeth C. Exclusive Conversations: The Art of Interaction in SeventeenthCentury France. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1988. ———, ed. Writing the Female Voice. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1989. ———, and Dena Goodman, eds. Going Public: Women and Publishing in Early Modern France. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995. Grafton, Anthony, and Lisa Jardine. From Humanism to the Humanities: Education and the Liberal Arts in Fifteenth- and Sixteenth-Century Europe. London: Duckworth, 1986. Grassby, Richard. Kinship and Capitalism: Marriage, Family, and Business in the EnglishSpeaking World, 1580–1740. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Greer, Margaret Rich. Maria de Zayas Tells Baroque Tales of Love and the Cruelty of Men. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2000. Gutierrez, Nancy A. “Shall She Famish Then?” Female Food Refusal in Early Modern England. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. Habermann, Ina. Staging Slander and Gender in Early Modern England. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. Hackett, Helen. Women and Romance Fiction in the English Renaissance. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Hall, Kim F. Things of Darkness: Economies of Race and Gender in Early Modern England. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995. Hampton, Timothy. Literature and the Nation in the Sixteenth Century: Inventing Renaissance France. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001. Hannay, Margaret, ed. Silent But for the Word. Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 1985. Hardwick, Julie. The Practice of Patriarchy: Gender and the Politics of Household Authority in Early Modern France. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1998. Harris, Barbara J. English Aristocratic Women, 1450–1550: Marriage and Family, Property and Careers. New York: Oxford University Press, 2002.

Series Editors’ Bibliography Harth, Erica. Ideology and Culture in Seventeenth-Century France. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983. ———. Cartesian Women. Versions and Subversions of Rational Discourse in the Old Regime. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992. Harvey, Elizabeth D. Ventriloquized Voices: Feminist Theory andEnglish Renaissance Texts. London and New York: Routledge, 1992. Haselkorn, Anne M. and Betty Travitsky, eds. The Renaissance Englishwoman in Print: Counterbalancing the Canon. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1990. Hendricks, Margo and Patricia Parker, eds. Women, “Race,” and Writing in the Early Modern Period. London and New York: Routledge, 1994. Herlihy, David. “Did Women Have a Renaissance? A Reconsideration.” Medievalia et Humanistica, NS 13 (1985): 1–22. Hill, Bridget. The Republican Virago: The Life and Times of Catharine Macaulay, Historian. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992. Hills, Helen, ed. Architecture and the Politics of Gender in Early Modern Europe. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. A History of Central European Women’s Writing. Edited by Celia Hawkesworth. New York: Palgrave Press, 2001. A History of Women in the West. Volume I: From Ancient Goddesses to Christian Saints. Ed. Pauline Schmitt Pantel. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992. Volume 2: Silences of the Middle Ages. Ed. Christiane Klapisch-Zuber. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992. Volume 3: Renaissance and Enlightenment Paradoxes. Ed. Natalie Zemon Davis and Arlette Farge. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993. A History of Women Philosophers. Ed. Mary Ellen Waithe. 3 vols. Dordrecht: Martinus Nijhoff, 1987. A History of Women’s Writing in France. Ed. Sonya Stephens. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. A History of Women’s Writing in Germany, Austria and Switzerland. Ed. Jo Catling. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. A History of Women’s Writing in Italy. Ed. Letizia Panizza and Sharon Wood. Cambridge: University Press, 2000. A History of Women’s Writing in Russia. Edited by Alele Marie Barker and Jehanne M. Gheith. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Hobby, Elaine. Virtue of Necessity: English Women’s Writing 1646–1688. London: Virago Press, 1988. Horowitz, Maryanne Cline. “Aristotle and Women.” Journal of the History of Biology 9 (1976): 183–213. Howell, Martha. The Marriage Exchange: Property, Social Place, and Gender in Cities of the Low Countries, 1300–1550. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998. Hufton, Olwen H. The Prospect Before Her: A History of Women in Western Europe, 1: 1500–1800. New York: HarperCollins, 1996. Hull, Suzanne W. Chaste, Silent, and Obedient: English Books for Women, 1475–1640. San Marino, CA: The Huntington Library, 1982. Hunt, Lynn, ed. The Invention of Pornography: Obscenity and the Origins of Modernity, 1500–1800. New York: Zone Books, 1996. Hutner, Heidi, ed. Rereading Aphra Behn: History, Theory, and Criticism. Charlottesville, VA: University Press of Virginia, 1993.

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Series Editors’ Bibliography Hutson, Lorna, ed. Feminism and Renaissance Studies. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999. Italian Women Writers: A Bio-Bibliographical Sourcebook. Edited by Rinaldina Russell. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1994. Jaffe, Irma B. with Gernando Colombardo. Shining Eyes, Cruel Fortune: The Lives and Loves of Italian Renaissance Women Poets. New York: Fordham University Press, 2002. James, Susan E. Kateryn Parr: The Making of a Queen. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 1999. Jankowski, Theodora A. Women in Power in the Early Modern Drama. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1992. Jansen, Katherine Ludwig. The Making of the Magdalen: Preaching and Popular Devotion in the Later Middle Ages. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000. Jed, Stephanie H. Chaste Thinking: The Rape of Lucretia and the Birth of Humanism. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1989. Jones, Ann Rosalind and Peter Stallybrass. Renaissance Clothing and the Materials of Memory. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Jordan, Constance. Renaissance Feminism: Literary Texts and Political Models. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1990. Kagan, Richard L. Lucrecia’s Dreams: Politics and Prophecy in Sixteenth-Century Spain. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990. Kehler, Dorothea and Laurel Amtower, eds. The Single Woman in Medieval and Early Modern England: Her Life and Representation. Tempe, AZ: MRTS, 2002. Kelly, Joan. “Did Women Have a Renaissance?” In her Women, History, and Theory. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984. Also in Renate Bridenthal, Claudia Koonz, and Susan M. Stuard, eds., Becoming Visible: Women in European History. Third edition. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1998. ———. “Early Feminist Theory and the Querelle des Femmes.” In Women, History, and Theory. Kelso, Ruth. Doctrine for the Lady of the Renaissance. Foreword by Katharine M. Rogers. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1956, 1978. Kendrick, Robert L. Celestical Sirens: Nuns and their Music in Early Modern Milan. New York: Oxford University Press, 1996. Kermode, Jenny and Garthine Walker, eds. Women, Crime and the Courts in Early Modern England. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1994. King, Catherine E. Renaissance Women Patrons: Wives and Widows in Italy, c. 1300–1550. New York and Manchester: Manchester University Press (distributed in the U.S. by St. Martin’s Press), 1998. King, Margaret L. Women of the Renaissance. Foreword by Catharine R. Stimpson. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991. Krontiris, Tina. Oppositional Voices: Women as Writers and Translators of Literature in the English Renaissance. London and New York: Routledge, 1992. Kuehn, Thomas. Law, Family, and Women: Toward a Legal Anthropology of Renaissance Italy. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991. Kunze, Bonnelyn Young. Margaret Fell and the Rise of Quakerism. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994. Labalme, Patricia A., ed. Beyond Their Sex: Learned Women of the European Past. New York: New York University Press, 1980.

Series Editors’ Bibliography Lalande, Roxanne Decker, ed. A Labor of Love: Critical Reflections on the Writings of MarieCatherine Desjardina (Mme de Villedieu). Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2000. Lamb, Mary Ellen. Gender and Authorship in the Sidney Circle. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1990. Laqueur, Thomas. Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990. Larsen, Anne R. and Colette H. Winn, eds. Renaissance Women Writers: French Texts/American Contexts. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 1994. Laven, Mary. Virgins of Venus: Enclosed Lives and Broken Vows in the Renaissance Convent. London: Viking, 2002. Lerner, Gerda. The Creation of Patriarchy and Creation of Feminist Consciousness, 1000–1870. 2-vol. history of women. New York: Oxford University Press, 1986, 1994. Levin, Carole and Jeanie Watson, eds. Ambiguous Realities: Women in the Middle Ages and Renaissance. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1987. Levin, Carole, Jo Eldridge Carney, and Debra Barrett-Graves. Elizabeth I: Always Her Own Free Woman. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. Levin, Carole, et al. Extraordinary Women of the Medieval and Renaissance World: A Biographical Dictionary. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2000. Levy, Allison, ed. Widowhood and Visual Culture in Early Modern Europe. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. Lewalsky, Barbara Kiefer. Writing Women in Jacobean England. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993. Lewis, Jayne Elizabeth. Mary Queen of Scots: Romance and Nation. London: Routledge, 1998. Lindenauer, Leslie J. Piety and Power: Gender and Religious Culture in the American Colonies, 1630–1700. London and New York: Routledge, 2002. Lindsey, Karen. Divorced Beheaded Survived: A Feminist Reinterpretation of the Wives of Henry VIII. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley Publishing Co., 1995. Lochrie, Karma. Margery Kempe and Translations of the Flesh. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992. Longino Farrell, Michèle. Performing Motherhood: The Sévigné Correspondence. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1991. Lougee, Carolyn C. Le Paradis des Femmes: Women, Salons, and Social Stratification in Seventeenth-Century France. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976. Love, Harold. The Culture and Commerce of Texts: Scribal Publication in Seventeenth-Century England. Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press, 1993. Lowe, K. J. P. Nuns’ Chronicles and Convent Culture in Renaissance and Counter-Reformation Italy. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003. MacCarthy, Bridget G. The Female Pen: Women Writers and Novelists 1621–1818. Preface by Janet Todd. New York: New York University Press, 1994. (Originally published by Cork University Press, 1946–47). Maclean, Ian. Woman Triumphant: Feminism in French Literature, 1610–1652. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977. ———. The Renaissance Notion of Woman: A Study of the Fortunes of Scholasticism and Medical Science in European Intellectual Life. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980. MacNeil, Anne. Music and Women of the Commedia dell’Arte in the Late Sixteenth Century. New York: Oxford University Press, 2003.

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Series Editors’ Bibliography Maggi, Armando. Uttering the Word: The Mystical Performances of Maria Maddalena de’ Pazzi, a Renaissance Visionary. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998. Marshall, Sherrin. Women in Reformation and Counter-Reformation Europe: Public and Private Worlds. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1989. Masten, Jeffrey. Textual Intercourse: Collaboration, Authorship, and Sexualities in Renaissance Drama. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Matter, E. Ann, and John Coakley, eds. Creative Women in Medieval and Early Modern Italy. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1994. (sequel to the Monson collection, below) McGrath, Lynette. Subjectivity and Women’s Poetry in Early Modern England. Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2002. McLeod, Glenda. Virtue and Venom: Catalogs of Women from Antiquity to the Renaissance. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991. Medwick, Cathleen. Teresa of Avila: The Progress of a Soul. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2000. Meek, Christine, ed. Women in Renaissance and Early Modern Europe. Dublin-Portland: Four Courts Press, 2000. Mendelson, Sara and Patricia Crawford. Women in Early Modern England, 1550–1720. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998. Merchant, Carolyn. The Death of Nature: Women, Ecology and the Scientific Revolution. New York: HarperCollins, 1980. Merrim, Stephanie. Early Modern Women’s Writing and Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 1999. Messbarger, Rebecca. The Century of Women: The Representations of Women in EighteenthCentury Italian Public Discourse. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2002. Miller, Nancy K. The Heroine’s Text: Readings in the French and English Novel, 1722–1782. New York: Columbia University Press, 1980. Miller, Naomi J. Changing the Subject: Mary Wroth and Figurations of Gender in Early Modern England. Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky, 1996. ———, and Gary Waller, eds. Reading Mary Wroth: Representing Alternatives in Early Modern England. Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press, 1991. Monson, Craig A., ed. The Crannied Wall: Women, Religion, and the Arts in Early Modern Europe. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1992. Moore, Cornelia Niekus. The Maiden’s Mirror: Reading Material for German Girls in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1987. Musacchio, Jacqueline Marie. The Art and Ritual of Childbirth in Renaissance Italy. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999. Newman, Barbara. God and the Goddesses: Vision, Poetry, and Belief in the Middle Ages. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003. Newman, Karen. Fashioning Femininity and English Renaissance Drama. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1991. O’Donnell, Mary Ann. Aphra Behn: An Annotated Bibliography of Primary and Secondary Sources. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2nd ed., 2004. Okin, Susan Moller. Women in Western Political Thought. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979. Ozment, Steven. The Bürgermeister’s Daughter: Scandal in a Sixteenth-Century German Town. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1995.

Series Editors’ Bibliography ———. Flesh and Spirit: Private Life in Early Modern Germany. New York: Penguin Putnam, 1999. ———. When Fathers Ruled: Family Life in Reformation Europe. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983. Pacheco, Anita, ed. Early [English] Women Writers: 1600–1720. New York and London: Longman, 1998. Pagels, Elaine. Adam, Eve, and the Serpent. New York: Harper Collins, 1988. Panizza, Letizia, ed. Women in Italian Renaissance Culture and Society. Oxford: European Humanities Research Centre, 2000. Parker, Patricia. Literary Fat Ladies: Rhetoric, Gender and Property. London and New York: Methuen, 1987. Pernoud, Regine and Marie-Veronique Clin. Joan of Arc: Her Story. Rev. and trans. Jeremy DuQuesnay Adams. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998 (French original, 1986). Perry, Mary Elizabeth. Crime and Society in Early Modern Seville. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1980. ———. Gender and Disorder in Early Modern Seville. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990. Petroff, Elizabeth Alvilda, ed. Medieval Women’s Visionary Literature. New York: Oxford University Press, 1986. Perry, Ruth. The Celebrated Mary Astell: An Early English Feminist. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986. Rabil, Albert. Laura Cereta: Quattrocento Humanist. Binghamton, NY: MRTS, 1981. Ranft, Patricia. Women in Western Intellectual Culture, 600–1500. New York: Palgrave, 2002. Rapley, Elizabeth. A Social History of the Cloister: Daily Life in the Teaching Monasteries of the Old Regime. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2001. Raven, James, Helen Small and Naomi Tadmor, eds. The Practice and Representation of Reading in England. Cambridge: University Press, 1996. Reardon, Colleen. Holy Concord within Sacred Walls: Nuns and Music in Siena, 1575–1700. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Reiss, Sheryl E. and David G. Wilkins, ed. Beyond Isabella: Secular Women Patrons of Art in Renaissance Italy. Kirksville, MO: Turman State University Press, 2001. Rheubottom, David. Age, Marriage, and Politics in Fifteenth-Century Ragusa. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Richardson, Brian. Printing, Writers and Readers in Renaissance Italy. Cambridge: University Press, 1999. Riddle, John M. Contraception and Abortion from the Ancient World to the Renaissance. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992. ———. Eve’s Herbs: A History of Contraception and Abortion in the West. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997. Roper, Lyndal. The Holy Household: Women and Morals in Reformation Augsburg. New York: Oxford University Press, 1989. Rose, Mary Beth. The Expense of Spirit: Love and Sexuality in English Renaissance Drama. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988. ———. Gender and Heroism in Early Modern English Literature. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002.

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Series Editors’ Bibliography ———, ed. Women in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance: Literary and Historical Perspectives. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1986. Rosenthal, Margaret F. The Honest Courtesan: Veronica Franco, Citizen and Writer in Sixteenth-Century Venice. Foreword by Catharine R. Stimpson. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. Rublack, Ulinka, ed. Gender in Early Modern German History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Sackville-West, Vita. Daughter of France: The Life of La Grande Mademoiselle. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1959. Sánchez, Magdalena S. The Empress, the Queen, and the Nun: Women and Power at the Court of Philip III of Spain. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998. Scaraffia, Lucetta and Gabriella Zarri. Women and Faith: Catholic Religious Life in Italy from Late Antiquity to the Present. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999. Schiebinger, Londa. The Mind has no Sex?: Women in the Origins of Modern Science. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991. ———. Nature’s Body: Gender in the Making of Modern Science. Boston: Beacon Press, 1993. Schutte, Anne Jacobson, Thomas Kuehn, and Silvana Seidel Menchi, eds. Time, Space, and Women’s Lives in Early Modern Europe. Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2001. Schofield, Mary Anne and Cecilia Macheski, eds. Fetter’d or Free? British Women Novelists, 1670–1815. Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 1986. Schutte, Anne Jacobson. Aspiring Saints: Pretense of Holiness, Inquisition, and Gender in the Republic of Venice, 1618–1750. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001. ———, Thomas Kuehn, and Silvana Seidel Menchi, eds. Time, Space, and Women’s Lives in Early Modern Europe. Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2001. Seifert, Lewis C. Fairy Tales, Sexuality and Gender in France 1690–1715: Nostalgic Utopias. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Shannon, Laurie. Sovereign Amity: Figures of Friendship in Shakespearean Contexts. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002. Shemek, Deanna. Ladies Errant: Wayward Women and Social Order in Early Modern Italy. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998. Smith, Hilda L. Reason’s Disciples: Seventeenth-Century English Feminists. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1982. ———. Women Writers and the Early Modern British Political Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Sobel, Dava. Galileo’s Daughter: A Historical Memoir of Science, Faith, and Love. New York: Penguin Books, 2000. Sommerville, Margaret R. Sex and Subjection: Attitudes to Women in Early-Modern Society. London: Arnold, 1995. Soufas, Teresa Scott. Dramas of Distinction: A Study of Plays by Golden Age Women. Lexington, KY: The University Press of Kentucky, 1997. Spencer, Jane. The Rise of the Woman Novelist: From Aphra Behn to Jane Austen. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1986. Spender, Dale. Mothers of the Novel: 100 Good Women Writers Before Jane Austen. London and New York: Routledge, 1986. Sperling, Jutta Gisela. Convents and the Body Politic in Late Renaissance Venice. Foreword by Catharine R. Stimpson. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999.

Series Editors’ Bibliography Steinbrügge, Lieselotte. The Moral Sex: Woman’s Nature in the French Enlightenment. Trans. Pamela E. Selwyn. New York: Oxford University Press, 1995. Stephenson, Barbara. The Power and Patronage of Marguerite de Navarre. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2004. Stocker, Margarita. Judith, Sexual Warrior: Women and Power in Western Culture. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998. Stretton, Timothy. Women Waging Law in Elizabethan England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Stuard, Susan M. “The Dominion of Gender: Women’s Fortunes in the High Middle Ages.” In Renate Bridenthal, Claudia Koonz, and Susan M. Stuard, eds. Becoming Visible: Women in European History. Third edition. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1998. Summit, Jennifer. Lost Property: The Woman Writer and English Literary History, 1380–1589. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. Surtz, Ronald E. The Guitar of God: Gender, Power, and Authority in the Visionary World of Mother Juana de la Cruz (1481–1534). Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991. ———. Writing Women in Late Medieval and Early Modern Spain: The Mothers of Saint Teresa of Avila. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995. Suzuki, Mihoko. Subordinate Subjects: Gender, the Political Nation, and Literary Form in England, 1588–1688. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2003. Teague, Frances. Bathsua Makin, Woman of Learning. Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 1999. Thomas, Anabel. Art and Piety in the Female Religious Communities of Renaissance Italy: Iconography, Space, and the Religious Woman’s Perspective. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Tinagli, Paola. Women in Italian Renaissance Art: Gender, Representation, Identity. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1997. Todd, Janet. The Secret Life of Aphra Behn. London, New York, and Sydney: Pandora, 2000. ———. The Sign of Angelica: Women, Writing and Fiction, 1660–1800. New York: Columbia University Press, 1989. Tomas, Natalie R. The Medici Women: Gender and Power in Renaissance Florence. Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate Publishing Co., 2004. Traub, Valerie. The Renaissance of Lesbianism in Early Modern England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Valenze, Deborah. The First Industrial Woman. New York: Oxford University Press, 1995. Van Dijk, Susan, Lia van Gemert and Sheila Ottway, eds. Writing the History of Women’s Writing: Toward an International Approach. Proceedings of the Colloquium, Amsterdam, 9–11 September. Amsterdam: Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences, 2001. Vickery, Amanda. The Gentleman’s Daughter: Women’s Lives in Georgian England. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998. Vollendorf, Lisa, ed. Recovering Spain’s Feminist Tradition. New York: MLA, 2001. Walker, Claire. Gender and Politics in Early Modern Europe: English Convents in France and the Low Countries. New York: Palgrave, 2003. Wall, Wendy. The Imprint of Gender: Authorship and Publication in the English Renaissance. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993.

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Series Editors’ Bibliography Walsh, William T. St. Teresa of Avila: A Biography. Rockford, IL: TAN Books and Publications, 1987. Warner, Marina. Alone of All Her Sex: The Myth and Cult of the Virgin Mary. New York: Knopf, 1976. Warnicke, Retha M. The Marrying of Anne of Cleves: Royal Protocol in Tudor England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Watt, Diane. Secretaries of God: Women Prophets in Late Medieval and Early Modern England. Cambridge, England: D. S. Brewer, 1997. Weaver, Elissa. Convent Theatre in Early Modern Italy. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Weber, Alison. Teresa of Avila and the Rhetoric of Femininity. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990. Welles, Marcia L. Persephone’s Girdle: Narratives of Rape in Seventeenth-Century Spanish Literature. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2000. Whitehead, Barbara J., ed. Women’s Education in Early Modern Europe: A History, 1500–1800. New York and London: Garland Publishing Co., 1999. Wiesner, Merry E. Working Women in Renaissance Germany. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1986. Wiesner-Hanks, Merry E. Christianity and Sexuality in the Early Modern World: Regulating Desire, Reforming Practice. New York: Routledge, 2000. ———. Gender, Church, and State in Early Modern Germany: Essays. New York: Longman, 1998. ———. Gender in History. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2001. ———. Women and Gender in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1993. ———. Working Women in Renaissance Germany. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1986. Willard, Charity Cannon. Christine de Pizan: Her Life and Works. New York: Persea Books, 1984. Winn, Colette and Donna Kuizenga, eds. Women Writers in Pre-Revolutionary France. New York: Garland Publishing, 1997. Woodbridge, Linda. Women and the English Renaissance: Literature and the Nature of Womankind, 1540–1620. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1984. Woodford, Charlotte. Nuns as Historians in Early Modern Germany. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002. Woods, Susanne. Lanyer: A Renaissance Woman Poet. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999. ———, and Margaret P. Hannay, eds. Teaching Tudor and Stuart Women Writers. New York: MLA, 2000.