SOURCE: Conway, Megan. “Classicism and Christianity in Hélisenne de Crenne's Les Angoysses douloureuses qui procedent d'amours.” Journal of the Rocky Mountain Medieval and Renaissance Association 18 (1997): 111-31.

[In the following essay, Conway examines de Crenne's combining of the traditions of classical mythology and Christian doctrine in Les Angoysses douloureuses.]

Although Renaissance philosophers and theologians like Marsilio Ficino strove mightily to show Plato and Plotinus compatible with Saint Paul, writers of popular prose and poetry suffered no such qualms. While it appears curious and often shocking to modern readers to find references to the apostles and Apollo in successive paragraphs, many Renaissance writers followed Dante's example in The Divine Comedy and saw nothing incongruous in embracing classical mythology while espousing Christian doctrine. A fascinating example of this combination of traditions is the popular French work of a female author of the early Renaissance—Hélisenne de Crenne's Les Angoysses douloureuses qui procedent d'amours¹ (The Sorrowful Anguish That Proceeds from Love), published in Paris in 1538. In it, Hélisenne uses pagan imagery to accentuate the sensual passions of her lovers and Christian references to advocate chaste love and moral rectitude. Furthermore, I would argue that the continual twining of the two traditions provides a tension and cohesion that serve to unify the disparate elements of the work.

Hélisenne de Crenne is the pseudonym of one Marguerite de Briet, a wealthy, upper-middle-class native of Picardy who spent extensive periods of time residing in the French capital. That she was well educated and extremely well read is aggressively demonstrated in her works. Les Angoysses is a virtual tour de force of well-known and nearly obscure classical and Christian allusions, the sheer number of which is almost overwhelming to the modern reader. Her contemporary audience, however, must have found her style much to its taste. Les Angoysses, her first novel, met with such immediate success among the literate that the publisher, Denys Janot, printed a foreword the following year in the first edition of Hélisenne's next work, Les Epistres familieres et invectives (The Familiar and Invective Letters), requesting exclusive publication rights. In addition, his request to the Provost of Paris asks that editions from any other printing house be confiscated and the house fined if it should issue her work within two years of the request for privilege. Janot's belief in his new author was certainly justified over time. By itself and printed as part of Marguerite's collected works, the novel went through nine editions between 1538 and 1560 from several different publishing houses in Paris and Lyon.

Les Angoysses has the distinction of being the first sentimental novel in France and the first French novel written by a woman. The entire work is composed of three parts followed by an “Ample narration,” all written in first-person narrative. Book one is sometimes considered France's first modern novel (Fritz Newbert qtd. in Cottrell, 5). In this part, the voice is that of a young noblewoman possessed of an incredibly beautiful body and a not-quite-so-perfect face (I,i,3) who shares the name Hélisenne with the author.² Parts two and three differ radically in content and approach from the first section of the work and remind the reader strongly of the Spanish romances of chivalry that enjoyed tremendous popularity in France during the first half of the sixteenth century. These two sections are told by the questionable hero of the tale, one Guénélic, and lack the introspective musing that characterizes Part one.³

In short—which the novel is not (it contains some four or five hundred unnumbered pages)—this is the story of a young lady of high social standing who has been married for several quite contented years to a much older man when she suddenly, inexorably falls for a handsome young man named Guénélic, whom she happens to see one day in the window of a house across the street. This love is neither Petrarchan nor Neoplatonic, for the lover belongs to a lower social class (I,iii,7) and is distinctly lacking in manners and virtue. It is also obstinately non-Christian since it is in direct opposition to the heroine's marriage vows. Although Marguerite's style of writing is often “modern,” the strong sense of fatality surrounding Hélisenne's love links it to the medieval tradition of courtly love. Hélisenne refuses to give up her love despite desperate anxiety and serious illness. Nor does she yield to the passionate pleas, threats, or, finally, the physical violence of a long-suffering husband. In the end, this love is indeed fatal and causes the deaths of both Hélisenne and her lover Guénélic.

The plot itself then is neither Christian nor pagan, but the author introduces the juxtaposition of the two currents even before the novel begins. Part one is prefaced by a dizaine, then a dedicatory letter, both of which are addressed to female readers. The first line of the poem—and indeed of the whole work—reads “Dames d'honneur et belles nymphs” (Ladies of honor and beautiful nymphs), a melding of virtue and mythology. The poem continues with a warning against the power of the “blind archer” and mythology dominates. In the letter that follows, any classical allusions are conspicuously absent. It is addressed to “honest women” and reads as a frank appeal for Christian charity and pity on the part of the readers. The last line of this dedicatory epistle, which exhorts honest women to profit from the author's sad example and avoid vain and impudique love, is a plea to Mary for aid in remembering and writing down this story. The very next line, that is the first line of chapter one, refers to the goddess Cybele. The mother of God and the mother of the gods thus occur in two successive sentences. From the very beginning, Marguerite establishes these two currents in Les Angoysses and clearly indicates that within the work they are coexistent and not conflicting. Equally important but not immediately obvious is the fact that although Marguerite deliberately uses a Christian framework to package the book and much of its action, Hélisenne herself is not particularly religious.

Among the three principal characters of Book one, the figure of the husband is used to represent what is morally upright, socially acceptable, and, by extension, Christian virtue. Despite the fact that critics such as Paule Demats and Tom Conley refer to him respectively as being “tyrannique et brutale” (preface, x) and guilty of “torture” (323, 327), Marguerite paints the husband as a surprisingly sympathetic character. By contrast, in Book one, Guénélic has no redeeming qualities other than his good looks (which the fair-minded husband even remarks upon) and his slick style. Since he represents the temptations of “impudique amour,” he of course is aligned with non-Christian elements in the text, and it is not surprising that the author uses mythological allusion when referring to Hélisenne's passion for him and in his speech—both written and oral. Hélisenne, who suffers the anguish of being torn between these two impulses, uses both sets of images to portray her suffering and to emphasize the depths of her passion as she turns further and further from the Christian path and learns to lie, connive, deceive, and even attempt suicide to assuage her desires.

In the beginning of Part one, Hélisenne makes the previously chaste and virtuous—Christian—nature of her married life quite clear. Her husband is both kind and generous, and she loves him very much despite the fact that she did not know him at all before they were married, at which time she was only eleven. When Hélisenne first sees Guénélic—an incident for which Fortuna is responsible, not God—she and her unnamed husband have been happily married for seven years. Hélisenne tells us that up to this point, he was her only happiness and that when he had to go away on business, she missed him so much that her health suffered.

Even after Hélisenne falls in love with Guénélic, her husband tries repeatedly and with great patience to coax her out of her infatuation. He says that he will give her anything within his power and that he loves her enough to die for her (I,iii,2). Although her husband is tender, he is neither weak nor contemptible; he bluntly tells Hélisenne that should she think about “kissing”⁴ Guénélic, within three days he—the husband—will make her friend “kiss death” (I,v,5). If the husband is jealous, he is not unreasonably so. For example, one night when Guénélic has their lodgings serenaded, the husband wakes to remark, “I truly think it is your friend” (I,v,1) and then rolls over and goes back to sleep. He puts up with repeated serenades without resorting to anger. He even copes with his young wife's declaration of love for her lover, which she does, ranting like a fishwife, tearing her hair and face, taunting him to run her through with his sword or to strangle her, and finally knocking herself out with her own fist. It is only when Guénélic's behavior begins to threaten Hélisenne's reputation and honor that the husband loses control. At this point, Hélisenne goes to great lengths to show the reader how her behavior in response to those situations is deliberately provocative. The contrast between lover and husband is marked: the husband is caring, concerned, and virtuous; the lover, none of these. Obviously, Hélisenne (and Marguerite) believes it important to establish that her spouse is not some nasty, cruel, pox-ridden old man who drives her to look for consolation elsewhere. On the contrary, she makes it clear that her previously chaste, virtuous, contented, Christian love has been fatally supplanted by one that is unchaste, malign, unquiet, and pagan, against which she stubbornly declares herself completely powerless. Her laments to Fortuna are numerous and, at least in Book one, underscore the separation of her love for Guénélic and her resulting duplicituous behavior from the Christian code.

Despite the impure nature of her new passion, it is curious that the majority of Hélisenne's encounters with her lover take place in church. Marguerite's use of the word temple instead of the traditional église reflects a distinction made in Italian as well as French and seems to indicate an affiliation with the reformed church rather than a traditional Catholic institution, although she makes no further comment whatsoever on the subject. The heroine and her husband attend divine offices with pious regularity. The religious aspect of the service, however, is never mentioned. They attend in order to show off Hélisenne's beauty and sumptuous clothes, to meet important people, and, once Hélisenne's husband realizes her new passion, to test Guénélic's behavior and her reactions to him.

In one striking passage, the couple attends a morning service where both are relieved at the young man's circumspect behavior. After the service, they return home and spend several hours “passing the time in recreation and voluptuous pleasures” (I,vi,6)—an odd reminder to the reader that they are the lawfully married couple and that Hélisenne's illicit passion has not completely interfered with their sex life.⁵ Then they go back to church for vespers at which time Guénélic is incredibly rude. He makes a public spectacle by pointing at Hélisenne and passionately staring in such a way that he draws all eyes. As he leaves the church, he approaches her so closely that he steps on her underdress thereby publicly insinuating an intimacy that does not exist. (At this point in their relationship, they have not even spoken to each other.) Hélisenne remarks to the reader that despite the fact she loves her clothes very much (and we already know that this is one of her finest outfits) this act of intrusion does not displease her but gives her a desire to grab the place where his foot had touched. Not unnaturally, the husband is furious that Hélisenne has been made the object of gossip and he forbids her to be anywhere Guénélic is even if it be the service of Holy Communion (I,vi,6-7). At this point, the husband gives his second ultimatum, and in it his suffering is apparent. He states that he has decided to separate from her if she cannot manage to stay away from Guénélic. Furthermore, although she has more “worldly goods, lands and holding” than he has, he will not retain anything, for he does not want to profit from the goods of a “lascivious woman” (I,vi,7).

For several days, Hélisenne follows her husband's commands, not because she wishes to please him but in the belief that by obeying him to the letter he will be fooled into allowing her more freedom. Where she was honest while enjoying virtuous love, this new, illicit passion has taught her how to lie and be devious. She is correct in her assumption about her husband and as soon as he relents, Hélisenne, accompanied by one attendant, goes back to church on a daily basis, not out of devotion or repentance but in the hope of seeing her lover. Guénélic finally does show up looking for her. He is never associated with any kind of virtue in Book one, and not even Hélisenne assumes he is there seeking religious inspiration. Between the two of them, church has become a cover for further deceit. After a few days of exchanging passionate looks in the main sanctuary, Guénélic makes his move and goes into the chapel. Trembling with excitement at this untoward act, Hélisenne follows. Both sit through the entire service—stressing their obliviousness or imperviousness to the religious aspect of their surroundings—and only then does Guénélic come over to her, bow, leer slyly, and finally speak. He begs her to be willing to accept a letter. She makes no audible reply, merely an affectionate glance, and at church the next day Guénélic presents her with a letter and asks her to write back. Any hope on the part of the reader for the evidence of a true love that could excuse the sinful nature of Hélisenne's passion is quickly dashed. Guénélic makes it clear that the reason he has written to her is that he is “marveously afraid” (I,viii,2) of her husband and does not want to be caught talking to her. Only at this point does Hélisenne speak, and it is her single verbal response to the lover for the next seven chapters. She tells him not to worry about her husband because he has no suspicions about her. Both Hélisenne and the reader know that this is far from the truth. We must draw the same conclusion as Hélisenne: that Guénélic is so lacking in character that the least danger or impediment would scare him off completely. We should never forget that, in Book one, Hélisenne loves him because of fate, not because he is worthy of love.

Guénélic's short speech in the church and his letter require our attention. Human nature has changed little, and Hélisenne's picture of the young man, drawn with his own words, is startlingly clear. In a few sentences, the reader sees that Guénélic is a smooth-talking coward. Our eighteen-year-old heroine, however, hears only the honeyed words and the thumping of her heart burning with “Venerial fire” (I,viii,3). The letter itself—the complete text is included—is glib and calculated to turn the head of an innocent girl suffering from a bad adolescent crush, which is exactly how Hélisenne is acting despite seven years of marriage. The language is hyperbolic and clever. For example, he states that since the most valuable thing he has is his person, this is the gift he wishes to bestow upon her (I,ix,3). Unlike the husband, whose reported language is usually moderate, sincere, and relatively quotidian, Guénélic, like Hélisenne, uses classical imagery to dress up his sentiments. In the letter we are allowed to share, he spices up the contents with references to the “son of Venus,” Jupiter and Phaeton, Mercury, and an ancient religious custom among the Persians. The husband, as a representative of what is lawful, virtuous, and Christian, is never allowed access to mythology and classical allusions. Guénélic, on the other hand, uses them as part of his seductive strategy. Hélisenne employs both traditions to successfully portray her turmoil but relies heavily on mythological examples to illustrate the depth of her passion and the inescapability of Fortuna.

When the husband discovers and reads the love letters—both Guénélic's and the copies Hélisenne has made of her own—the incontrovertible evidence so infuriates him that “against [his] custom” and the moderation he has exhibited until now, he slaps his wife (I,xi,3). He then tells his wife that her lover has been flaunting her letters around town in an effort to destroy her reputation. Even this does not dampen her passion. In an effort to avoid the resulting scandal, the husband does not allow Hélisenne to leave the house or stand at the windows for three weeks. When Guénélic serenades the house, the couple once again moves to new lodgings. The husband finally relents and allows Hélisenne to go to church on the condition that she behave circumspectly. Since church has been the lovers' meeting ground, both the reader and Hélisenne expect to find the lover there and are not disappointed. Hélisenne's resulting joy is such that, despite fervent promises to the contrary, she cannot prevent herself from “looking very affectionately” upon him in a most blatant manner. Her passion incenses her husband to violence; this time he knocks her down, breaking two of her teeth.

Hélisenne realizes that she will no longer be allowed any opportunity to see her friend, for she has gone too far, and again she resorts to examples from mythology to illustrate her rage and despair and to convince herself of the advantages of suicide. She is thwarted in her attempt by the maid's cries, which bring her husband running. Still using his character to represent a Christian side of the conflict, Marguerite again chooses to portray a certain magnanimity on his part. She underscores the anguish he is suffering because of the “excessive love” he feels for his wife. Hélisenne's torment converts his “ire” to “compassion,” and he tries to reason with her, reminding her that suicide is a sin. His own distress is increased by the fact that, according to his own code of honor, he cannot seek revenge for his wrongs on the person of his wife's lover because Guénélic's social class is inferior. So, once again, he tells Hélisenne that she must “live … honestly” or they must separate, for he cannot bear her behavior. In desperation, he follows the counsel of a faithful servant and takes Hélisenne to a “devout monastery” to meet with a “scientific person” of considerable renown or, as Hélisenne calls him, an “authentic monk” (I,xii[sic], 2-3).⁶

Their interview is not felicitous. Hélisenne makes it clear to the reader that she is there under duress, “without the least devotion, … contrition nor repentance” (I,xii,3-4) and with no desire to confess her love. Then she is struck by the fact that all she might say is under the seal of the confessional and that this is her one opportunity to speak openly and without restraint about her passion and her lover. Yet this is not really what she does. In a verbal tour de force, she states her passion, gives examples of sinful passion in great figures from the Bible and philosophy, brilliantly argues that a just God would not condemn her to hell for her sins since she is currently suffering so much, and rationalizes her suicide attempt saying that separation from her lover will alienate the soul from her body, which will cause it to die anyway.⁷ The monk definitely comes off the worse in the exchange. He offers pious counsel yet, in a careful counterpoint, all his examples of model women—Penelope, Oenone, Lucrece—are drawn from mythology and Roman history rather than the Bible as one would expect from a holy man and are quite unconvincing. Judging from Hélisenne's reaction (she wishes him between Scylla and Charybdis) his platitudes must have seemed as hackneyed to her as they do to the modern reader. To hasten their departure from the place, Hélisenne decides to lie to her husband, saying she is cured. This deception is short lived, however, for she immediately goes into a decline for which her husband urges her to try “several sorts of medicines” (I,xv,9-10). After the failure of the priest, that is, the failure of religion and Christian precepts, Hélisenne no longer meets the lover at church. The scene of their brief encounters shifts to the law courts, where Hélisenne's husband has a case pending.

Guénélic's behavior becomes more and more importunate until he threatens to announce publicly that they are having an affair if she does not give in to him. Although Hélisenne torments her husband by telling him of her love for Guénélic, she has never breathed a word of her feelings to her lover for she is afraid that such an admission would kill his interest. Her lack of confidence in his character is justified, and he finally causes enough scandal that Hélisenne's husband decides to carry her off to the country and sequester her within one of their castles. To relieve her sorrow, Hélisenne decides to write the story of her unfortunate love in order that it might serve as a warning to other women. Book one ends with a prayer to God to grant the readers various virtues belonging to a long list of illustrious Greek and Roman women, thus closing with the same mixture that marked the work's opening.

With books two and three, the shift in narrative voice, narrative style, perspective, plot, characters, and point of view is so abrupt that it brings about a sense of dislocation on the part of the reader. The intimate style of a lady's personal journal is swept away after the opening letter, and the reader is suddenly left in the unfamiliar territory of chivalric romance. The narrative voice now belongs to Guénélic, whom we are expected to accept as the ready-to-be rehabilitated hero of the piece. To this end, the husband is essentially eliminated as a character and his role as Christian spokesperson is assumed by a new player, a noble and courageous young man named Quezinstra, who appears as Guénélic's friend, mentor, and traveling companion during the latter's quest to become a better man and to find the imprisoned Hélisenne. Hélisenne herself virtually disappears from the action until the very end of Book three. Her role of tormented lover torn between the dictates of virtue and the pains of desire is given to Guénélic. Although he repeatedly speaks of his sadness and suffering, his character is perforce very different from that of Hélisenne, and the fascinating self-analysis that characterizes Book one is missing in these books, much to the disappointment of many readers and critics.

Like Part one, Part two opens with a letter addressed to “noble and virtuous ladies.” Nearly four times as long as the first prefatory letter, this epistle endeavors to explain the changes the reader will encounter in the next two books. Hélisenne writes that, having rendered an account of the sufferings of amorous ladies, she will now show how indiscreet love causes young men to suffer. What is problematic for most readers is the sudden transmutation of Guénélic as rude and low-class rascal into Guénélic as hero. Critics have offered a variety of explanations and condemnations. Gustave Reynier, who rescued the novel from centuries of obscurity by discussing it in his groundbreaking Le Roman sentimental avant l'Astrée⁸ of 1908, is dismissive of parts two and three, saying that Part one is “the only which interests us” (111) and that the story could have stopped there. He also notes a lack of coherence between the parts (122), an opinion that Henri Coulet echoes sixty years later. Various dissertations make the argument that, for slightly differing philosophical reasons, Marguerite broadens the action because with Hélisenne locked away in her chateau there was no other option if the novel were to continue. Martine Debaisieux and Tom Conley offer more interesting and debatable theses. Debaisieux cites Marguerite's frequent use of dédoublement and argues that Guénélic is the object—and the creation—of Hélisenne's desire. Therefore, in Part two when Hélisenne cedes the narrative voice to Guénélic, Debaisieux interprets the change as corresponding to this Narcissistic reflection between the characters as well as the fulfillment of the isolated and imprisoned Hélisenne's desire to hear the story, an “echo of the same desire” (38), recounted by her lover. Conley takes this view even further. He too sees Guénélic as Hélisenne's creation, “a male puppet.” Alone in her tower, Hélisenne can “fabricate a lover finally worthy of her condition, a man who will prove himself to her through combat and knightly condition” (328).

These arguments do allow for a cohesive reading of the text and are rather convincing, particularly when considered in respect to Marguerite's subtitle to parts two and three which reads “composed by Lady Hélisenne speaking in the person of her friend Guénélic.” Unfortunately, they cannot account for Guénélic's strikingly untraditional characterization in the last two books: he is cowardly, moody, surly, and a constant whiner. Although Demats briefly mentions the lover's unknightly demeanor in the preface to her edition of 1968 (xxxi), the subject is all but ignored until M. J. Baker gives this problematic point her considered attention and addresses the issue of Guénélic's lack of heroism.⁹ Even the briefest study of Guénélic's behavior in these books will cause the reader to question Conley's notion of worthiness. Certainly, Hélisenne/Marguerite is attempting to rehabilitate the lover; she tells us in the prefatory letter to Book two that she overstated the difference in their social class (if it were too low, he would not be eligible for knighthood) and that much of Guénélic's despicable behavior was a matter of hearsay rather than fact. Even so, no one can claim that Guénélic ever becomes the perfect knight.

Curiously enough, his traveling companion, Quezinstra, is the perfect knight. A true hero in the traditional sense, Quezinstra is noble, courageous, strong, and upright. It is he who is always ready with a rational argument or a courteous answer to their hosts when Guénélic falls prey to the sulks, melancholia, or cowardice. Obviously, if Hélisenne/Marguerite were interested only in creating a worthy lover, Guénélic would have been drawn according to a similar pattern. Instead, Quezinstra's heroism and virtue serve as a foil to highlight Guénélic's flaws. Baker's explanation of this dichotomy also supplies a unifying theme for the whole work. She proposes that the key to Guénélic's cowardice is his failure to dominate his appetite for sensual love and that this condemnation of sensual love is “an important thematic link between book one” and the rest of the work (41-42). I suggest that her argument be carried a step further and that the reader consider the pervasive condemnation of sensual love as a part of the ever-present ebb and flow between pagan and Christian motifs.

Guénélic's persistent bewailing about his suffering allows Marguerite full rein to show off her not insignificant knowledge of mythological lore. Quezinstra, on the other hand, as the mouthpiece for reason and traditional Christian views, has ample opportunity to remonstrate. While Guénélic's love is undeniably in the spotlight, Marguerite is careful to include enough reminders so the reader does not forget that, at least ostensibly, the aim of this novel is didactic.

Part two's mixture of Christianity and mythology is played out predominantly according to character while the two men are traveling to many countries where they take part in numerous tournaments and battles. Guénélic uses mythological examples to illustrate his anguish and bemoans his fate in long apostrophes to dozens of gods and goddesses.¹⁰ Quezinstra's role is not preachy; he attempts to help Guénélic be a better man, but his main function in this book is keeping his friend from succumbing to despair and a resulting death. He cajoles and chides Guénélic, reminding him that his “sensual appetite is an incurable infirmity from which is born oblivion of God and one's self, loss of time and diminution of honor” (II,ii,7). It is not at all surprising that while Quezinstra talks to and about God, Guénélic addresses the gods and, like Hélisenne in Book one, blames Fortuna for his ills. Quezinstra remarks on this propensity, drawing Guénélic's attention—and the reader's—to this folly early in the book: “The fault that should be attributed to them [lascivious lovers], they accredit it to fortune or to love, which by ignorance they esteem a God” (II,ii,8). Later, after winning a tournament, Quezinstra humbly gives thanks to God and remarks to Guénélic that he need “no longer fear Fortune” (II,x,8). Despite his efforts, Fortune and God remain on relatively equal footing due to Guénélic's persistence.

Unlike the husband of Book one, who never makes use of classical imagery, Quezinstra occasionally employs examples of virtue from Roman history and mythology or refers to Aristotle, Homer, and Vergil in order to make a point. It is quite clear, however, that he avoids mentioning any pagan gods in marked contrast to Guénélic, who rambles on and on in an often frenzied manner leading to frequent swoons and tears. Although unwilling to give up his debilitating passion and emotional storms (II,viii,9), Guénélic openly and repeatedly recognizes his friend's virtues, citing his “discretion and modesty” (II,iv,5), his “discreet and benign reason” (II,xii,6), and his prowess at arms in every combat. Like Hélisenne,¹¹ Guénélic clings to his anguish and, on occasion, gets “outrageously irritated” by his friend's efforts at consolation (II,xii,8). At various points during the pair's journey, several princes and nobles try to convince Guénélic to give up his love and his search. They meet with no more success than Quezinstra, but they do help to prove that Guénélic's love is as obstinate and fatal as his lady's. If he is short on other virtues, he must be granted that of constancy.

Although critics rarely give more than a passing mention of Part three, its function in a perception of the work's unity is critical. While pagan imagery just held in check by a counterpoint of Christian doctrine dominates parts one and two, Part three exhibits a significant strengthening of Christianity that will culminate in the redemptive deaths of the lovers. After pages and pages of classical references used to illustrate nearly any idea or action mentioned in Part two, the reader is astonished to find the author actually citing the Bible¹² without a single classical allusion in the preface of Part three. Part two's seemingly endless cycle of journey, battle, Guénélic's complaints, Quezinstra's response (in varying order) is broken.

Like Hélisenne, Guénélic begins to suffer a physical decline as a result of emotional torment. He becomes quite ill (III,i), and when he begins to recover, he and Quezinstra retreat to an island where Guénélic can recuperate. There they seek out a “religious person,” a sort of prophet known for his counsel, who endeavors to reason Guénélic out of his unseemly passion. The saintly hermit's long discourse is well meant and well reasoned. Laden with biblical references (III,ii,2-5)—Jesus Christ, Saint Augustine, Saint Paul, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Sodom and Gomorra, David, Saul, Goliath, Daniel, Judith, Shadrach, Meshac and Abednego, Mary Magdalene, and the Good Samaritan—his speech is strikingly reminiscent of the long lists of pagan gods and goddesses enumerated so often in Part two. Unfortunately, Guénélic, as obdurate in his passion as Hélisenne, is not inclined to listen. In a wonderful piece of casuistry using both Christian and pagan examples, he talks of other, blacker sins (seven in fact: pride, boredom, anger, avarice, laziness, gluttony, luxury) that his love has taught him to avoid. Seeing that the young man is obstinate and that his sermon has fallen on deaf ears, the religious man uses a different tactic. He foretells Guénélic's doom by reading his horoscope.¹³ Evidently, even saintly hermits can mix a little paganism with their Christian beliefs when necessary.

Although not totally absent, classical imagery in Book three is significantly muted. Marguerite no longer uses example after example but simply a name here and there to grace the narrative. Undoubtedly, this is due to an acceleration of the action and the author's moving towards Hélisenne's last-minute repentance. In chapter four, Guénélic finally discovers Hélisenne's whereabouts. At Quezinstra's insistence Guénélic writes his beloved a letter (no mythological allusions) asking for a plan. Hélisenne answers with an idea (there is one mention of Diane as the moon used as a timing reference), and through bribery, cunning, and strength Guénélic and Quezinstra kidnap her. Unfortunately, she is so weakened by illness, passion, and frustration that she dies in his arms not much more than four miles from her chateau but not before delivering a long speech informing Guénélic and the reader of her sudden change of heart. For the first time since the opening of Book one, Hélisenne (as character not narrator) addresses God (III,viii,6), admitting that she has displeased him and asking for charity. In her final words, she urges an unrepentant Guénélic to change his ways: “If until now you have loved me with a sensual love, desiring the fulfillment of your juvenile desires, you must now desist in these vain thoughts” (III,viii,7-8). Distraught over her demise, Guénélic pays no heed to her request and, railing against life, he decides to die also. Even in his passion, however, Marguerite does not allow pagan references to intrude in these climactic moments—there is only the mention of one historical Greek prince. Obviously, it is the author's intention to let Christian values dominate through the voice of Quezinstra, who argues against Guénélic's sinful desire for death.

The argument, which goes on for pages and pages, demonstrates an impressive knowledge of the Bible and is crammed with biblical citations—from the Psalms, Philippians 1, 2 Corinthians 12, Acts 9, the Gospel of Matthew, the eighth sermon of Saint John, Romans 11, Isaiah 53—and several references to Saint Augustine's City of God, chapters one through five. The reader is quite convinced that the author has decided to end the novel on wholly Christian terms in an effort to contradict the decidedly immoral nature of the lovers' passion and in fulfillment of Hélisenne's last wish. In effect, Guénélic's last words are also humbly addressed to God and, if he does not exactly ask for forgiveness for his sins, at least he begs that he will not be punished for them. Thus, the disappearance of pagan allusions in Book three prefigures the renunciation of the lovers' illicit passions and their last moments bring them back to the Christian fold.

This is not the end of the work, however. Such a simplistic conclusion was evidently not to Marguerite's taste nor would it account within the frame for the transmission of the story to the reading audience. The “Ample narration” that follows Book three adds yet another twist to the narration and to Marguerite's use of pagan and Christian imagery. With the death of the lovers, it is up to Quezinstra to continue the story and he assumes the narrative voice. Since he can no longer serve as a foil for the wayward Guénélic and there are no more battles to be fought, the knightly paragon's role is subtly altered. Although no less virtuous, he is no longer our Christian spokesperson. In fact, in marked contrast to Book three, the “Ample narration” contains no biblical references at all and it is Jupiter who speaks against the dangers of love.

The only warning we are given of this abrupt change is a notice in the title of this section that it “will be declared with decoration of poetic style.” Even so, after the intensely Christian end of Book three, when a brilliant figure with golden wings appears to Quezinstra in a “lofty, supernatural and divine” vision on page one of the narration, it seems logical to conclude that this is an angel. Not so. This figure is Mercury, who has come to transport the souls of the lovers to the kingdom of King Minos! Suddenly the novel plunges into mythology just as completely as it did Christianity on the immediately preceding pages.

Quezinstra is blinded and stunned by Mercury's appearance, but as soon as he recovers his tongue he asks if he can accompany the god—a rather surprising request given Quezinstra's earlier role as mouthpiece of Christian virtue. Mercury agrees but first he anoints the bodies of the lovers with “ambrosia and nectar” to preserve them and, as he does so, he notices a little book wrapped up in silk by Hélisenne's side. When Quezinstra tells him what it is, the winged god is delighted and says that he will give it to Athena, who loves reading. Then with an incantation to Hecate, they take off.

At this point, the author tosses in all manner of mythological decoration: Charon who does not want to take Quezinstra across the Styx, the three-headed dog, the three Furies, Tantalus, Tityus, Ixion, and the forty-nine daughters of Danaus, among others. After the souls of our two lovers have been examined, Minos judges them worthy of the Elysian Fields¹⁴ and they are led off to drink of the river Lethe before entering the fields where they will wait to get their bodies back again. Quezinstra is then transported back to earth. In a paradoxical echo of the book's climax, Quezinstra (in Guénélic's former role) also decides to die, but now it is the non-Christian Mercury (in Quezinstra's former role) who has the task of persuading him to live and build a temple in memory of the lovers.

Leaving Quezinstra on earth, Mercury returns to a huge banquet attended by all the gods, a banquet where he presents Hélisenne's book to Athena. Venus sees that it is about love and chides Mercury that she should have it. When a quarrel threatens, Jupiter intervenes and, appropriating the Christian purpose of the work, decides that the best solution is to have the book printed in Paris that it might “show to the world the pains, travail and sorrowful anguish that can come from love” (AN,xii,5-6). Mercury comes back to Quezinstra, who is happy to undertake the completion and publishing of the book—both for Guénélic's sake and (returning to his Christian role) as a warning to readers so that they will not let “sensuality dominate reason.”

The statements of virtuous intention that open and close the novel often seem to be frankly contradicted by the hundreds of pages of text that lie between in which Christian and pagan images constantly vie with each other for dominance.¹⁵ Undeniably, Marguerite's use of these two currents provides a framework that unifies the different parts of the work despite significant changes in plot structure, narrative voice, and perspective. As for the sometimes seemingly paradoxical nature of the author's Christian and mythological trappings, we must remember that Renaissance readers were much more conditioned to this pairing than we are today. Her sixteenth-century readers obviously loved the combination—eight editions in just over thirty years attest to the book's popularity. For modern readers, these seeming contradictions can often be astonishing and even humbling considering the tremendous breadth of Marguerite's classical erudition. Despite the claimed intention of moral edification and the final victory of Christian principles, the reader would be well advised to keep a dictionary of mythology close at hand while perusing this remarkable work.

Notes

1. This edition is a photographic reproduction of the Parisian edition of 1560. It contains Les Angoysses douloureuses qui procedent d'amours, Les Epistres familieres et invectives, and Le Songe de Ma Dame Hélisenne. This is the only modern edition of the work that contains books two and three. Unfortunately, the pages in this edition are unnumbered. I will therefore refer to chapter numbers and count the pages from the first page of the chapter text in question. Since no English translation has ever been made of the entire work, the translations herein are my own.

   I will henceforth refer to Les Angoysses douloureuses qui procedent d'amours as simply Les Angoysses.

2. To avoid confusion, I will refer to the heroine of Les Angoysses as Hélisenne and to the author as Marguerite.

3. The undeniable allure of psychological musings narrated by a female voice is undoubtedly responsible for the fact that there are two modern critical editions of Book one of Les Angoysses and none of the male-voiced adventures of books two and three.

4. The verb used is baiser and it carries the same connotation of sexual intercourse as it does today, but such a translation would lose the supple verbal play of the text.

5. The exact words are first used to describe their relations the day before Hélisenne's first glimpse of Guénélic: “Ce jour se passa en toutes recreations et voluptueux plaisirs” (the day was spent in all sorts of recreation and voluptuous pleasure) (I,ii,2). This is the first occasion (that we know of) since the appearance of Guénélic that Hélisenne has not rejected her husband's advances. She mentions her evasion of his desires several times.

6. In the Slatkine reprint edition, there are two “Chapter XII”s but no Chapter XIII. This reference and the following one refer to the second Chapter XII.

7. Hélisenne's attitude towards suicide is significantly nontraditional. Rather than worry that it might put her soul in a state of mortal sin, she is strongly motivated to attempt it by the fact that, after death, her soul could frequently visit her lover and allow her to enjoy his company! (I,xii,4).

8. Reynier is also responsible for identifying Marguerite de Briet as the author behind the pseudonym.

9. Baker sees Guénélic's cowardice as the result of his sensual love for Hélisenne.

10. For example, one aside near the beginning of Chapter II addresses Jupiter, Saturn, Titan, Venus, Mars, Apollo, Mercury, Juno, Pallas, Lachesis, Clothos, and Atropos (II,ii,5).

11. See Jerry Nash's article for an analysis of Hélisenne's rage in the Epistres.

12. Hélisenne specifically mentions the prophet Hosea and Chapter five of Saint Paul's letter to the Galatians.

13. Nor is this a jumbled concoction of signs and planets but a coherent reading. I have this on the authority of Linda Carroll (Tulane University), an expert in astrology, who was kind enough to examine this passage.

14. Far from being a common name, Hélisenne seems to have been created by Marguerite and thus it is worth noting that Elysian Fields in French (“champs Hélisiens”; AN,9) is quite similar to the masculine form of Hélisenne.

15. While the book is touted by the author and her characters as a lesson to be heeded, the modern reader cannot help but wonder just what that lesson is. The declaration that the book will warn women to beware of impious love is considerably weakened by the fact that neither Helisenne nor Guénélic regret their passion or evince the least twinge of remorse until they are moments away from death. Moreover, they are welcomed to paradise because of it. How bad can that be?

References

Baker, M. J. “France's First Sentimental Novel and Novels of Chivalry.” BHR 36 (1974): 32-45.

Bergal, Irene. Hélisenne de Crenne: A XVI^th-Century Novelist. Ph.D. diss., University of Minnesota, 1968.

Conley, Tom. “Feminism, Ecriture, and the Closed Room: The Angoysses douloureuses qui procedent d'amours.” Symposium 27 (1973): 322-32.

Cottrell, Robert. “Female Subjectivity and Libidinal Infractions: Hélisenne de Crenne's Angoisses douloureuses qui procedent d'amours.” French Forum 16 (1991): 5-19.

Coulet, Henri. Histoire du roman avant la Révolution. Paris: Colin, 1968.

de Crenne, Hélisenne. Œuvres. Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1977.

Debaisieux, Martine. “‘Des Dames du temps jadis’: Fatalité culturelle et identité féminine dans Les angoysses douloureuses.” Symposium (Spring 1987): 28-41.

Demats, Paule. Preface. Les angoysses douloureuses qui procedent d'amours (1538) Premiere Partie. Paris: Belles Lettres; Annales de l'Université de Nantes, 1968.

Nash, Jerry. “The Rhetoric of Scorn in Hélisenne de Crenne.” French Literature Studies 19 (1992): 1-9.

Reynier, Gustave. Le Roman sentimental avant l'Astrée. Paris: Colin, 1908.

Waldstein, Helen. Hélisenne de Crenne: A Woman of the Renaissance. Ph.D. diss., Wayne State, 1964.