The Anatomy of Melancholy

Jocundo in Ariosto found his wife in bed with a scoundrel, both asleep, went away, and would not even wake them, much less reproach them. A good fellow, similarly discovering that his wife had cheated at backgammon and borne one man too many, drew his dagger and swore that, had the man not been his very friend, he would have killed him.

Another man, hearing that someone had done for him what no man wants done by a deputy, pursued him in a rage with his sword drawn. Having caught him, he accused him of adultery. The offender, so hotly pursued, admitted that it was true. Satisfied with this confession, the husband left him, swearing that if he had denied it, he would not have put up with it.

How much better to act like this than to torment oneself, rave and rage impatiently, or bring a lawsuit—as Arnoldus Tilius did in the court of Toulouse against his fellow soldier Martin Guerre, for impersonating him and being too familiar with his wife—and thus make one’s own shame public and remain a cuckold on record for ever! How much better to be Cornelius Tacitus than Publius Cornutus: to condemn it in such cases, or take no notice of it!

“Better to err in this way,” says Erasmus, “than to consume oneself with the anxieties of jealousy”: better to be a knowing cuckold and put up with it than to trouble oneself to no purpose. And though he will not “sleep for everyone”—be an ass as well as an ox—still, to close his eyes to it, as many do, is not amiss at certain times, in certain cases, with certain people, if it serves his advantage or some great man’s wishes: his landlord, patron or benefactor. So Calbas the Roman, says Plutarch, acted towards Maecenas; and Phayllus of Argos towards King Philip, when the king promised him an office on condition that he could sleep with his wife. And so let it pass:

By Pollux, I have no regret, Indeed, at sharing half the good fortune with Jupiter.

“It never troubles me,” said Amphitryon, “to be cuckolded by Jupiter.” Then do not let it distress you: be reconciled with her.

Return to your old good relations With your wife Alcmena.

Let it, I say, cause no break in the love between you. In any case, the best course is to disregard it, as Henry II, king of France, advised a courtier who was jealous of his wife and complained of her unchastity: dismiss it and take comfort. For a man who suspects his wife’s infidelity and fears the pope’s curse will never enjoy a cheerful hour or sleep a peaceful night. There is no remedy but patience. When all is said and done, follow Nevizzano’s counsel: “If the wife’s fault cannot be corrected, it must be endured.” If it cannot be helped, it must be borne.

“Forgive, and bear it in silence”: that is Sophocles’s advice. Keep it to yourself, and accept what Chrysostom calls “a wrestling ground of philosophy and a household gymnasium,” a school of philosophy. There is no other cure but for time to wear it away: “The remedy for injuries is forgetfulness,” as though they had drunk a draught of Lethe in Trophonius’s cave. To conclude, age will deprive her of it; “time lessens sorrow.” Time and patience must bring it to an end.