Abstract
This book offers a critical edition of Les Quinze Joies de Mariage (The Fifteen Joys of Marriage; c. early fifteenth century) with a translation into modern/contemporary French. It is prefaced by a sixty-page comprehensive introduction by the editor, Jean Rychner, and a thoughtful second introduction, subtitled “Pourquoi et comment lire les Quinze joies de mariage aujourd’hui?” [Why and How to Read the Fifteen Joys of Marriage Today?] by the translator, Jean-Claude Mühlethaler, who makes a convincing case for its timelessness. The edition also accommodates extensive endnotes, a glossary, and an index of proper names. The full text is prose, not poetry. Its depictions of conflicts in marital life are remarkably realistic; such complaints and concerns can easily be recognized in today's advice columns.
For those of us who struggle with “old” French, this modern translation is extremely valuable. The book is arranged so that the modern edition faces the requisite pages of the earlier critical edition, so for specialists (as well as intrigued non-specialist readers) it is easy to evaluate and compare both texts. The annotated critical edition itself is based on the careful study of four extant manuscripts (Rouen, Chantilly, Leningrad [once again St. Petersberg], and Phillipps), plus three printed editions (two from the late fifteenth century and the 1734 edition Le Duchat). The modernized text reads like a novel; in fact, it is a thoroughly entertaining read.
As a historian who has worked for decades retrieving texts from the French debates on both sides of the so-called woman question, my primary interest is in the contents of the text, though it has to be said that Rychner has done a splendid job of summarizing scholarly efforts to date it, place it in locale (western France), and sleuth out the identity of the author (no consensus has been reached on this point), as well as to determine who might have read it (in manuscript).
As it turns out, Christine de Pizan—who in 1405 was the first woman writer to defend the honor of French women against the misogynistic insults of two earlier writers—Jean de Meung and Matheolus—apparently had not read Les Quinze Joies de Mariage when she penned her Book of the City of Ladies in response to the other two writers. By the end of the fifteenth century, though, the manuscript of Les Quinze Joies was among the earliest published texts and was reprinted from time to time over the next few centuries. It has always fascinated and troubled me to find that misogynous and simply antifeminist tracts seemed to command more attention from publishers than those that either defended women from insults or advocated their emancipation.
Les Quinze Joies de Mariage is not, strictly speaking, misogynist. I would call it misanthropic, insofar as its still-anonymous French author seems to be equally critical of the stupidity of men who willingly give up their liberty to dive into the “trap” (la nasse) of marriage, and of wives, usually younger, who continually try to outwit the husbands, to defy their subordination through ruse and other perverse and malign behaviors. Some of the dialogue attributed to these women suggests that they are not only extremely clever but also that they have very sharp tongues, which they weaponize to admonish their husbands. The book can thus be read (according to an earlier analyst, Monique Santucci, cited by Mühlethaler, lxxxv) as a book of advice to wives (victims of the feudal marriage system) about how to manipulate husbands in a male-dominated world.
The fifteen “joys” are presented as short novellas, laced with rich and convincing dialogue between husbands and wives. Each treats a different aspect of the “trap” that marriage, as then configured by the Roman Catholic church, embodied. Only 150 years later, in 1563, in response to the opposing views of Protestant reformers, did the Council of Trent affirm marriage as one of the seven sacraments, though ranking it below virginity and celibacy. Practically speaking, spouses (however miserable) were tied to one another for life. Divorce was impossible; separation difficult to achieve in court, and if granted, required both former spouses to live apart in complete celibacy.
The text raises issues that are still with us today. Attitudes toward marital and extramarital sex are frankly discussed in these dialogues; young wives who “discover” what marriage is “all about” in bed rue the day they married in ignorance; widows lust after younger men to fulfill their fleshly desires. Mothers and their women friends (les commères) arrange quick marriages for young, as yet unmarried daughters who have been impregnated by an ardent lover. Young men become smitten with women's beauty, ignoring to probe their character in advance of a commitment to marry. Older men degenerate physically and mentally under the constant abuse of their hostile wives and cannot escape from the trap they have willingly fallen into. These joys of marriage do not present a pretty picture; there is no “lived happily ever after” scenario in this text.
The author is obviously a cleric, highly literate and a nuanced writer at that. His narrator is portrayed as a man of long experience, perhaps a priest who has “heard it all” in confession. He is jaded, sardonic, occasionally sarcastic, deeply pessimistic, yet in some respects sympathetic to the trials and tribulations of these unfortunate beings, his “bons hommes” and the wives and young women he depicts. Especially toward the end of the book, he actually acknowledges celebrating women (292) by claiming that they always get the upper hand.
Thus, in my view, this book resists the label of misogyny; its standpoint is more complex. This anonymous author portrays his female characters (dames; thus, upper-class) as intelligent, cagey, feisty, sometimes malevolent, and often conspiratorial. They are never characterized as docile or as types to submit meekly to suffering in silence. Sometimes they feign illness, develop headaches, won't eat with—or sleep with—their husbands, refuse to keep the household in good order, etc. They are determined to have their way, to gain authority in the household and to get what they want, whether it's fine clothing or jewelry “suitable to their rank” or something else. Wives want to go on pilgrimages to sacred sites— without their spouses. They also want to go to church, possibly to exchange words and plan rendezvous with suspected lovers. Their female servants often aid and abet their efforts to achieve their objectives. Doesn't this sound familiar? Except for having servants, that is.
There is clearly a sexual division of labor in place in this early-fifteenth-century world. The husbands are responsible for acquiring—or shepherding—the family fortune in one way or another. The wives are consigned to making the household work and raising the children (wives are blamed if the children turn out badly). But it is clearly the husbands who are expected by society to enforce their authority in the family. When they don't, they are portrayed as emasculated and they become the butt of community jokes.
The author repeatedly underscores the proposition that the men who enter the marriage “trap” get what they deserve. Each chapter ends with an observation on a man's fate—for example, L’homme de bien fait ainsi sa péntinence, pleure ses péchés, pris dans la nasse qu’il avait tellement désirée et où il s’était évertué à entrer. Il n’en sortira jamais; et s’il n’y était pas, il ferait tout son possible pour s’y jeter. Et voilà comment il dépiréra et finera misérablement ses jours. (Neuvième joie, 196)
I find it intriguing that, with reference to religion, there is no mention by this author of Purgatory or Hell. The trapped man is simply depicted as stewing in his own juice in the present. Even so, God (Mon Dieu) is constantly invoked by the speakers in the dialogues, with an occasional saint thrown in for good measure (for example, Saint Jean, 24; Sainte Catherine, 52). Sometimes devils are invoked in oaths, such as “par tous les diables” (82) or “Par Dieu” [I swear to God, 96).
One remarkable feature of this text (3–4), which is introduced at the outset (though not addressed in the earlier introductions by the editor or translator), is the author's political remarks on liberty and the status of France. “La nature humaine,” he says, “recherche naturellement la liberté et l’indépendance. Ainsi, plusieurs grandes seigneuries ont été perdues, parce que leurs princes ont porté atteinte à la liberté de leurs sujets.” After summarizing how the French have broken with the Holy Roman Empire, he asserts that “toutes les personnes réduites en esclavage ont désiré venir en France pour y vivre libres; ainsi, la France est devenue la terre la plus noble du monde, la plus opulente, la plus peuplée et la mieux garnie en édifices, florissante en richesse, science et sagesse, éclairée par la foi catholique et autres vertus.”
Another point of interest is the author's awareness of changes in fashion, both for women and men. The author refers to a husband's out-of-date spurs, “éperons du temps du roi Clotaire” (74), or states explicitly that since the wars in Flanders (1380s?), “la coupe du vêtements a entretemps changé” (74).
To conclude, I will note that the author offers no proposals for changing the prevailing system of marriage: it is what it is—a trap. Nowhere does he offer, for example, a vision of harmonious partnership in wedlock (à la John Stuart Mill, in his landmark 1869 book On the Subjection of Women, which was immediately translated into French and many other European languages) in contrast to his view that there is an eternal war between the sexes, even though his depiction of husbands and wives in dialogue indicates that they refer to one another as “Mon ami” and “Mon amie”. The anonymous author does not critique the Church's monopoly on sanctifying marriage, nor does he propose that a prince's government would or could do better by his subjects, who (in the author's view) are mainly useful for fighting the prince's wars and for paying taxes. Certainly, he has no intent whatsoever of authorizing women's emancipation, or even their better character “education,” much less schooling. It seems to be too early in the history of French civilization for any of that. In sum, the text exudes a fatalistic view of the human condition, of how men and women must necessarily be at odds, which some of us no longer share today. And yet, in conclusion, and despite his depiction of the ostensible “joys” of marriage, the author acknowledges that men cannot get along without women.