BEYOND THE MARK.[1]
Of a shepherd who made an agreement with a shepherdess that he should mount upon her "in order that he might see farther," but was not to penetrate beyond a mark which she herself made with her hand upon the instrument of the said shepherd—as will more plainly appear hereafter.
LISTEN, an it please ye, to what happened, near Lille, to a shepherd and a young shepherdess who tended their flocks together, or near together.
Nature had already stirred in them, and they were of an age to know "the way of the world," so one day an agreement was made between them that the shepherd should mount on the shepherdess "in order to see farther,"[2]—provided, however, that he should not penetrate beyond a mark which she made with her hand upon the natural instrument of the shepherd, and which was about two fingers' breadth below the head; and the mark was made with a blackberry taken from the hedge.
That being done, they began God's work, and the shepherd pushed in as though it had cost him no trouble, and without thinking about any mark or sign, or the promise he had made to the shepherdess, for all that he had it buried up to the hilt, and if he had more he would have found a place to put it.
The pretty shepherdess, who had never had such a wedding, enjoyed herself so much that she would willingly have done nothing else all her life. The battle being ended, both went to look after their sheep, which had meanwhile strayed some distance. They being brought together again, the shepherd, who was called Hacquin, to pass the time, sat in a swing set up between two hedges, and there he swung, as happy as a king.
The shepherdess sat by the side of a ditch, and made a wreath of flowers. She sang a little song, hoping that it would attract the shepherd, and he would begin the game over again; but that was very far from his thoughts. When she found he did not come, she began to call: "Hacquin! Hacquin!"
And he replied: "What wantest thou?"
"Come hither! Come hither! Wilt thou?" said she.
But Hacquin had had a surfeit of pleasure and made answer:
"In God's name, leave me alone. I do naught. I enjoy myself."
Then the shepherdess cried:
"Come hither, Hacquin; I will let thee go in further, without any mark." "By St. John," said Hacquin, "I went far beyond the mark, and I do not want any more."
He would not go to the shepherdess, who was much vexed to have to remain idle.[3]
- ↑ Les Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles: "now first done into the English tongue by Robert B. Douglas, (One Hundred Merrie and Delightsome Stories)": Paris, Charles Carrington, 1899 (?): 82nd story. The editors of Anthologica Rarissima have taken slight liberties with Mr. Douglas' translation, deeming archaic phraseology more fitting to the atmosphere of the narrative.
- ↑ The phrase has passed into use as an accepted slang term for the sexual act.
- ↑ Songs of the Groves: Records of the Ancient World, (The Vine Press: Steyning, Sussex: 1921), has a singularly charming account of a rustic courtship. The Wooing, the poem to which we refer, is a rendering from the Greek of Theocritus, and is remarkable for the vivid picture conjured up before our eyes in a few lines of verse. Daphnis, a young sheperd, and a maiden, discourse of love and marriage; eventually she yields to his passion:—
"Remove your hand, you satyr; do not seek my blossoms so!"
"Just a first glance! Oh! I must see those snowy flowers of mine!"
"O Pan! Pan! I'm fainting! Take away that hand of thine!"
"Darling, look up! Don't tremble so! Why fear your Lycidas?"
"Oh, Daphnis! I shall spoil my robe; it's filthy on this grass."
"But—just see here!—the softest fleece over your robe I've thrown."
"Ah me! Oh! Don't undo my belt! Why do you loose my zone?"
"Because the Paphian Queen must have it for an offering."
"Some one will come! I hear a noise! Leave off, you cruel thing!"
"A noise? My cypresses: they murmur how my darling weds."
"Oh, I am bare! You've torn my robe into a string of shreds!"
"A better robe I'll give you soon; a larger robe I'll buy."
"Oh, yes! You'll give me all, when soon salt even you'll deny"
"Oh, I could pour my soul into you for your dear delight!"
"Forgive, O Artemis, forgive your faithless acolyte."
"Venus shall have an ox; a calf for Cupid I will burn."
"A virgin came I hither, but a woman shall return."
"The nurse, the mother, of my babes, now never more a maid."
So with young limbs entwined in love all joyously they played,
Soft-murmuring each to each; then from their secret couch they leap:
She, when she had arisen, went away to feed her sheep;
Shame was in her eyes, but her heart beat high above:
Joyous, he went to feed his flocks, glad from the bed of love.