#mathurine

When I consider my life, I find it seasoned with many useful moments. Albeit, the little children squark: “Aga! Mad Mathurine!” at me as I pass through the streets. They are right: It is true that I’m tainted by this disease: my senses can be rancid and my imagination becomes mouldy and dislocated. This came to me from a rifle shot I received to the head at a ballet of Caresme-prenant. Baste! 

Even if I am mad, there is one occasion I was able to seize so bravely that I am reminded of it more every year in the form of twenty and thirteen jacobus of rent, without counting the trick of the stick.

There are those who believe they are made of cloth, and there are also ‘clever people’ who are more foolish than I am a beast by half past seven. Consider (if you please) that I spend my time with cheer and without melancholy. If something turns me to boredom, I simply visit my good friend, who makes me eat his hissope [fragrant] soup - that’s as fat and bacon yellow as golden thread; and in the end I can fall back on my lecherous shield: “Until goodbye, Mathurine.” However, I am always ready for commands in the service of gallant men, whether in peace or war, at all hours. The armour of my costume is always in good condition as I often have it polished. This is with a whimple made for the occasion, as there are furred parts at the front.

By Jove! Tabarin makes more profit from two or three buffoonish questions, shitty riddles, or silly jokes than his master does with his holy, disease curing remedies because the world wants nothing more than to banter. [Quack doctors often had clowns travel with them, Tabarin is one such, and a famous one, I believe] So he ends with slapstick, so that people will remember him and want to return. 

The wisdom of this world is madness before God, which makes me hopeful that (in this country) I will be rewarded for double food, for I am doubly mad! If all the madmen and madwomen in Paris  wore cruppers, many would be walking around with their ass skinned, for there are all sorts of madmen, of all ages, qualities and sexes. But they are mad in the fashion that trots, and, as Master Guillame says:

Some are mad and others strange

As marvellous as beautiful angels

Brand new descended from heaven

And those are glorious madmen

There are qualities which are farce and serious; they carry proud arrogance. You would think, by the air pursing their lips like a new bride, that they were Socrates himself! Therefore, about this kind of madmen, Master Guillaume says: According to our good devout doctors, we call them wise fools.

And of course, they find nothing well done if they have not done it themselves. Lord give me faith if they noticed someone on someone. They’d set us to leaf through all the approaches of Aretinus father than find fault with theirs; perhaps they would like to inform against them, claiming that this one is not in fashion yet this one is. I am weary for this list of reproaches! Good people, we create in all fashions, and we have already achieved this quite well as there are more than fourteen jubilees. You other readers, have you heard of a certain jumble of pamphlets called ‘the Caquet de l’Accouchee? Doubtlessly you have, for more copies have been sold than of the familiar epistles, or oration of the saints.

A certain person presented me with a copy the other day, and reading it greatly heated me. Judging by the temper in its words, I immediately saw that it was written by another malcontent, who was above plundering no lip. These people have no wit to conduct themselves, and would wish to be given the world in their palm. It is pure ambition to envision oneself as one day canonized by Master Pierre du Coignet. But the chapter on Notre-Dame is full of the reformation of the priests who sing about the defeat of the Huguenots and death of the Grand Turk in the taverns. I’m sure you know well that the narrator of the Caquet is a fashionable fool. He says that he has been ill at the beginning of his litany - no doctor can tell, but he is in grave danger of death as he no longer knows what he is saying.

Whoever plays the chatterbox did not have a good influence on him, and he boasts about his heritage just as he does his mind. I think he may have gnawed, like a viper, at his mother’s stomach to get out had he not found the plughole at the base of the womb. Maybe she made him kiss her ass as he passed (which he found dirty at the time) and this is the reason he wants to take the whole female sex in his pocket? I heard Pierre Dupuy claim he is the bastard son of a Pasquin, yet I know nothing of him other than that he is known for his caquet and that he is considered the brother of Merlin of England. Notice, ladies, how he flirts about the street women, old young, puny, qualified, public and of all conditions who have not thought on his flirting any more than I have of being a soldier of Babylon.

Do you notice that he is like the monkey who pulls chestnuts out of the fire with the paw of the greyhound? I perceive that he would like all woman to be an echo of his stupidity, and charlantary the subject of his state reforms. For less than a hundred crowns, I will tell you some reasons.

For the first item, let us begin with the Isle du Palais [a prison on an island]. His curiosity made him approach Tabarin: “Are you ill?” Tabarin said. “Yes,” replied the chatterbox, “but my illness is not contagious, it is but of the mind.”

“I addressed myself to you with credit from your master, who is thought to know marvellous, marvellous things. And he was never stingy with his knowledge. You can look about whatever you want. But I will provide what you desire, I am no less a scholar than he,” he said boldly. “I would like, honest lord,” he said bravely, “if your benevolence obliges, to learn your means of telling the virginity, or lack of, of a girl. Because, besides avoiding being a cuckold, it would benefit me among company.”

Then Tabarin replied, “is that all? I will satisfy that desire - one must know these things before loving. Go to Cormier’s and have dinner prepared, and we will get better acquainted. In the mean time, I will ponder my most exquisite secrets, and will return to you in an hour.”

“I will wait for you there,” said the chatterbox.

“I will go and find you,” said Tabarin, “have the wine put to cool.” Both made it to the place, and dined deeply.

After dinner, Tabarin said, “sir, these are not day to day questions of the chaffaut. Moreover, all work requires pay, as I’m sure you know.”

“I know it well,” said the curious one, “so I beg you to put this couple of pistoles in your pocket.”

“Good,” said Tabarin, “listen… when you wish to know the virginity of a girl, put one of your hands on her cunt - do you hear me well? Then, at the same time, blow into her ass. If you feel the wind on your hand, she is undoubtedly pierced. And there, that’s for your money. Farewell, sir.”

It is one of Tabarin’s old tricks, which turned the man green again. And so the laughter remained refined. Nevertheless, he vowed to have revenge on the jester and affronter. That is one reason he is angry at women. 

The second reason is that (by Saint Barbara!) no one has cared to listen to him, or to make a point of his flirting except for an old picardy woman, who was going to shout the mustard. Still he could not enjoy it.

Also, it is a very empty defence. Jan Vouaire, though they say I am ugly and mad, I would not have lent him my ass to kiss. [some joke about Saint Fiacre that is beyond my translation capabilities]. Necessity has dragged him so low that he has made a profession of lending money, and was forced to approach all sorts of women of a fine sort, which he has now exchanged in the office of a pimp. You should have seen him going door to door like the pig of saint anthony! He asked the ladies authority, the damsels for courtesy, the presidents and mistresses of requests, counsellors, favours; to the lawyers council, to the clerks coppies, to the procurators care, to the clergywomen writing, to the solicitors diligence, to the financiers money, to the bourgeois lodging, to the merchants estoffs, to the bakers foüace, to the roasters flesh, to the tavern keepers wine, to the chambermaids service, to the artisans credit: on which was founded the strongest of all his hopes. But knowing himself doomed, he drank as if he were castrated…

Further, having introduced himself to an old woodswoman who’s got the reputation of having experience and knowing deep secrets of nature, who can tell you a good story property and finely draws the coin from the hands of the daft ones like him. Now he found himself lovesick to the third degree and resolved to seek help in this old woman and a pitiful place full of mortal sins, where he fell for almost the same trick that Tabarin had played on him. Upon entering, he greeted this nymph of Pluto, “my gossip, is it not obvious, from my face, that I am ill?”

“Yes,” she said, “I have a remedy for everything, except death. What is your illness? There are several. It’s not the plague, at least?"

“No,” he said.

“Well!” she said, “is there not a problem with the head, stomach, arms legs and all else?”

“No, my illness is worse than all that,” he said.

“I wish to withdraw from you,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “it is not contagious. How to say… it is a woman’s illness.”

“Is it,” she said, “an illness of the womb?”

“No,” he said, “I mean the illness is caused by women.”

“I see, so be it,” she said, “well, there are chancres, colts, pisse-chaude, pox, crystaline and other types too. What kind is your disease?”

“None of those, none of those,” he said, “no, the evil that works on me is love-sickness.”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” cried the Adade, “have courage! You will not die from it, and I’m the expert on that. Why, you have found the shoes to fit your foot: there is no one in the world quite like me; ready for anything, like a minister’s chambermaid, expert in the woman’s trade. I know how to erase freckles and wrinkles from the face; I make talcum oil to perfection, I know how to make a joint tighten so that a runner might be taken for a virgin.” In short, she showed him a multi tiered box full of ointments, on the lid of which was written:

The medicine here

Is good for curing urine

And for taming thrushes,

Mares cure farcin;

It makes many thefts,

It makes rebirths sing,

It makes young ladies crave love.

“Now… what you seek is another item. Let us speak softly… I have brought a certain little root from Egypt which will make you loved by the virgins. Is that not what you seek?”

“That is it,” said the man, “it would bring me great happiness if, by your means, I could experience this science and achieve my dreams!”

“You want to know, don’t you sir?” replied the woman, “I honour the archbishops; I do not walk in front of the cross.”

“So I understand, my friend,” said the chatterbox.

 Now, here is something to laugh at. “Yawn, sir: which one do you want? Tell me her name, and I will just force her to come and sleep with you.”

Our man, half ecstatic and rubbing his arms, names the woman to her. She begins to plot to take one of her comrades, hideous, deformed and capable of killing a delicate person, to his bed. He had his way with her, then, the next day (wanting to look upon his beautiful subject in the daylight) he was overcome with fear and shame, believing that it was Prosperpine.

He wanted to flee, but she followed him saying, “Pay me! Dear Lord! Is this how you thank the world after you’ve used it?”

And three!

Also, near the same time, the doctor promised him a certain drug to make him robust in the game of love. In effect, his prescription was sent to an apothecary, who made a grave mistake; for instead of giving him the correct medicine, he was given one ordered for one Franciscan for the purpose of releasing his belly. This was also given to his father-in-law, and they both found themself very astonished when the time of the medicine came. And, not knowing who to blame for his misfortune, our man raised his shield.

My mind turns when I think of this business, and I will go completely mad if he is not chastised like a true villain. Sus! Sus! Let every woman smear his face with cow dung! Let every girl spit on his moustache! And let them all curse him so many times that he can only defecate which whips and run from a beast the rest of his life! He is a villain, and knows not one secret of women: we are too wise as to babble in the way he says we do, not one of us is so foolish (if she had let the cat go to the cheese) to speak of it to even her closest confidant. Together, we keep this oath quiet; there is no young girl who would not rather do it twenty times than speak of it once. 

It would satisfy you to know that I have discovered the subject of the Chatterbox’s discontent: It was consulting and old Sibyl, whose tripod now serves to support my piss pot.

This makes me seem, when I want to, wiser than thirty-five Diogenes’ [philosopher]. Until goodbye! I cannot talk any longer on this; especially as Count Mansfeld [commander in reformation war] makes me lose my chatter. We must disperse all this chatter and leisure that influence this drunkard to hoax the women he drags around, for fear he will come to prevent the continuation of work in the hostel of my good friend - eat our melons and drink our wine. I will find out if he hasn’t returned from his trip to Notre Dame, and I will send you word by this same messenger.

Sanita et Guadaigne.

Read french the original here.