‘But why should I provide more examples, when it is obvious to me that many women decided to kill themselves rather than risk dishonour and degradation? There is only one conclusion. I will die like them. I will be true to my husband, Arveragus. I will embrace my fate with the courage of the daughter of Demotion. Do you remember her, Dame Fortune? And then there were the two daughters of Cedasus. That was another sad story. The Theban virgin killed herself when under threat from Nicanor. Oh yes, and another Theban maiden did the same thing. She was raped by a Macedonian soldier, and took her own life to redeem her virginity. It was not too high a price. What shall I say about the wife of Niceratus, who slit her wrists for the same reason? The lover of Alcibiades chose to endure death rather than to leave his body unburied. And what a wife was Alcestis! She agreed to die in order to save her husband’s life. What does Homer say of Penelope, too? She was known throughout Greece for her chastity. I could go on and on.
‘When Protheselaus was slain at Troy, his wife could not endure another day. Noble Portia could not live after the death of Brutus. She had given him her heart, and now she offered him her life. Artemisia, famous for her faithfulness, was honoured throughout the lands of Barbary. Oh Teuta, queen of Ilyrica, your married chastity is an example to all wives. I could say the same thing of Billia, Rhodogune and Valeria.’
So Dorigen wept and lamented for a day or so, with the fixed intention of killing herself at the end. But then, on the third night, her husband came home unexpectedly. Of course he asked her why she was crying, at which point she cried all the more. ‘Alas,’ she replied, ‘I wish that I had never been born! I have made a promise. I have sworn an oath.’ Then she told him the whole story.
There is no need for me to repeat it here. He listened to her with good grace, and answered cheerfully. ‘Is that all?’ he asked her. ‘Is there no more to tell me, Dorigen?’
‘No. That’s it. Isn’t it enough?’
‘Well, wife, you must know the old saying: “Let sleeping dogs lie.” All may yet turn out well. Of course you must keep your promise to Aurelius. That goes without saying. So great is my love for you that I would rather die than allow you to break your word. Honour is the highest good of humankind.’ But then he began openly to weep. ‘Upon pain of death, Dorigen, I forbid you ever to mention one word of this to anyone. I will cope with my grief as well as I can. Don’t show your feelings, either, to the world. A sad face will provoke comment and rumour.’ Then he called for a squire and a servant-girl. ‘Accompany your mistress,’ he told them. ‘You will soon find out where to go.’ So they took their leave, and attended Dorigen. They did not know where they were going, and Arveragus himself said not a word about his intentions.
No doubt many of you would consider him to be a simpleton for placing his wife in such a compromising situation. But listen to the story before you come to any conclusion. She may have more luck than you imagine. Wait until the end.
It so happened that Aurelius, head over heels in love with Dorigen, happened to meet her in the busiest street of the town. She had to go that way in order to make her rendezvous with him in the garden. He happened to be going in the same direction. He had kept watch on her, and checked on her movements whenever she left the house. Whether by accident or design, therefore, they encountered one another in the high street. He greeted her warmly, as you would expect, and asked her where she was going. She replied, in a distracted and almost mad fashion, ‘I am going to the garden. Where else? That’s what my husband has told me to do. He has ordered me to keep my word.’
Aurelius was astonished by her reply. Yet he felt pity for her guilt and obvious grief. He also felt sorry for Arveragus, who believed so strongly in the sanctity of the oath that he was unwilling to allow his wife to break it. So he felt compassion, and perhaps shame. He weighed up the matter, and decided that it was far better for him to forgo his lust than to perform a wretched deed. Principle came before pleasure. So he addressed Dorigen with a few well-chosen words. ‘Ma dame,’ he said, ‘send my greetings to your husband. Tell him from me that I recognize his graciousness towards you. I see your distress as well. I understand it. He would rather endure any shame than see your oath violated. In turn I would rather suffer any woe, however great, than come between you. I release you from your promise, ma dame. I renounce any claim I have upon you. I tear up any pledge or covenant there ever was between us. You have my word upon it. I will never take issue with you. I will never remonstrate with you, or rebuke you. And now I must say farewell to the noblest and truest wife in the world. Yet I will say this before I leave. Every wife must beware of large promises. Remember the plight of Dorigen. And I know this much. A lowly squire such as myself can be as honourable as the truest knight. Goodbye.’
She fell down on her knees, and thanked Aurelius for his generosity. Then she went back to her husband, and told him what had happened. You can be sure that he was pleased. He was so gratified that I cannot put it properly in words. What can I add, in any case? Only this. Arveragus and Dorigen spent the rest of their lives in married bliss. There was never a word of anger between them. He treated her like a queen. She was always loyal and faithful. I will say no more about them.
Yet what of poor Aurelius? He had lost everything. So he cursed the day he was born. ‘Oh God,’ he cried, ‘I owe a thousand pounds of gold to the magician! What am I going to do? I am ruined. I will need to sell everything I own, and roam the streets as a beggar. I cannot stay here and be a source of perpetual shame to my family. My only hope is that he will be merciful towards me. I will suggest to him that I pay the debt by instalments, year by year, on a certain day. If he is kind enough to agree, I will never let him down.’
So with aching heart he went to his strongbox, unlocked it, and took out about five hundred pounds of gold. He presented the money to the magician, and asked him if he could pay the rest at a later date. ‘I have never broken a promise in my life, sir,’ he said. ‘I will repay my debt to you. Even if I have to go begging in my bare tunic, you will get your money. I swear it. If you can give me two or three years, I would be very grateful. Otherwise I will have to sell my patrimony, house and all. There is nothing else I can tell you.’
The philosopher listened silently and solemnly. ‘Did I not make an agreement with you?’
‘Yes, sir, you did. Most certainly.’
‘Did you not enjoy the lady, as you wished?’
‘No. Alas, I did not.’
‘Why not? Tell me the whole story.’
So Aurelius went through the entire sequence of events. There is no need for me to repeat them, is there? ‘Arveragus,’ he said, ‘is such a worthy knight that he would rather die of shame and distress than allow his wife to break her oath.’ Then he told the magician all about the anguish experienced by Dorigen at the thought of being unfaithful to her husband. She would rather have lost her life. She had made her original promise quite innocently. She had no knowledge of magic and illusion. ‘So I felt sorry for her, sir. Arveragus sent her to me without conditions, and I freely returned her to him. That is the gist of it.’
The scholar answered him very gently. ‘Dear brother, both of you acted with honour and magnanimity. You are a squire. He is a knight. I hope to God that a scholar can act just as wisely. A magician can also be a gentleman, you know. So, sir, I acquit you of the thousand pounds. It will be as if we had never met or made an agreement. You are as new to me as that flower, rising out of the earth. I won’t take a penny from you for my work. You have paid me for my meat and drink. That is enough. So farewell. Good day to you!’ And, with that, he mounted his horse and went on his way.