Kenny Rogers and the First Edition -- "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town" (1969)

She's leaving now 'cause I just heard 
The slamming of the door

The way I know I heard it slam 
One hundred times before

The last 2 or 3 lines told the sad tale of the famous 12th-century French lovers, Abélard and Héloïse.

Click here if you missed it.

I learned about the unhappy couple from Marilyn Yalom's scholarly history of amour, which is titled How the French Invented Love: Nine Hundred Years of Passion and Romance.

After telling the story of Abélard and Héloïse, Marilyn Yalom spins a more contemporary tale of French romance, which also didn't end well but at least didn't involve any males getting neutered:

My French friend Marianne married Pierre in 1977, soon after a divorce . . . . She was 29 at the time, and Pierre was 49.  Pierre's sister, Jeanne, warned him that with such an age difference, he was likely to become a cuckold.  Pierre responded that if that time were to come, he would survey the field of available men and choose a lover for his wife.  

Big talker, this Pierre guy.

Marianne's favorite American wine?

Pierre should have listened to his sister.  But he was a 49-year-old guy who was about get some 29-year-old buns, and the little head was telling the big head what to do.  So he married her despite Jeanne's warning, and you can guess what happened next.

Marianne did not wait for Pierre to find her a lover.  Some 15 years into their marriage, she fell in love with Stéphane, a Frenchman of her own age.  Stéphane and Marianne did their best to keep their affair secret, but she was seen once too often exiting his apartment, and word got back to Pierre, who was at first incredulous and then enraged.  

Jules et Jim

Pierre must have been tempted to find some henchmen to do an Abélard on Stéphane, but that sort of thing is frowned upon in these more civilized times.  Instead, he confronted his wife, demanding that she choose between him and her lover.  

According to Yalom, Marianne was "deeply attached to Pierre . . . but madly in love with Stéphane," and didn't want to give either one up.  So Marianne pleaded with her sister-in-law to help her negotiate a deal with her husband.  Eventually, they worked out an arrangement:

[Marianne] would stay in the marriage until death, if she were allowed to be out of the house with no questions asked, from four to seven o'clock, every day except Sunday. . . . Pierre swallowed his pride and accepted her terms.  They stayed married for another 12 years, until Pierre became terminally ill, whereupon Marianne nursed him faithfully until he died.  She grieved him sincerely and then moved in with Stéphane.

Casablanca

I'm guessing she "grieved him sincerely" for just as long as it took for her to drive to chez Stéphane and get out of her knickers.

Let's review the bidding here.  Pierre was 49 and Marianne 29 when they were wed.  That means he was 64 and she was 44 when she started bumping uglies with Stéphane.  So Pierre was 76 when he kicked the bucket, allowing the 56-year-old Marianne to play hide the salami morning, noon, and night if she wished (assuming Stéphane was able).

I can't believe that Pierre lasted 12 years knowing what was going on between quatre heures et sept heures every day of the week (except Sunday).  I'm surprised he didn't either have a fatal stroke or take out Marianne within a year or two.  

I love the "except Sunday" detail.  Maybe Marianne was religious enough to fear getting struck by lightning if she committed blatant adultery on Sundays as well as every other day of the week.  Or maybe her kit-and-kaboodle just needed a break from its daily labors.  ("And on the seventh day, Marianne rested," etc.)  

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

The author concludes her account of Pierre, Marianne, and Stéphane with these words:

It is, I believe, a quintessentially French story.  Since I knew all the parties involved, I can say that they carried it off with great dignity. . . . Although most of the people in their circle knew that Marianne and Stéphane were lovers, no one mentioned it.  Everyone kept up appearances following the etiquette of their upper-bourgeois social class.

The story is certainly "quintessentially French," if by "quintessentially French" you mean "quintessentially disgusting" or "quintessentially sleazy" or "quintessentially dishonest."

Reality Bites

But it appears that it's perfectly OK to be disgusting and sleazy and dishonest in France if you do so "with great dignity" and follow proper bourgeois etiquette.

When I read this story, I immediately thought of Kenny Rogers and the First Edition's 1969 hit, "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town."

Of course, Ruby was no upper-bourgeois -- she sounds more like good old American trailer trash.  I doubt that our French friend, Marianne, "painted up" her lips and "rolled and curled" her dyed hair before heading over to her little love nest -- she wouldn't have wanted to look like a little slut (although she certainly behaved like one).

I also get the feeling that Ruby didn't have a steady beau like Stéphane.  The song leaves the impression that Ruby heads off to town each night ready to take pot luck when it comes to male companionship.

Star Wars

The song ends with the singer (a paralyzed Vietnam vet) expressing the sentiment that he would like to  could get out of his wheelchair, walk over to where his gun is, and fill little ol' Ruby with lead.  

As we learned from the Pierre-Marianne-Stéphane story, that's not a very French solution to the problem of adultery.  Emptying the contents of a high-capacity magazine into your cheating Mrs. is hardly an example of carrying anything off "with great dignity," is it?  It clearly violates upper-bourgeois etiquette.  And it is completely lacking in je ne sais quoi.  

In other words, it is pas du tout French.   

"Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town" was written by country singer Mel Tillis.  Tillis, who stuttered when he spoke but not when he sang, had started out writing hit songs for other country-western singers but eventually became a star recording artist in his own right.  Tillis had a winning personality, and was a popular guest on the television talk-show circuit, as well as appearing in a number of movies.  

"Ruby" was originally a top ten country hit for Johnny Darnell in 1967.  It has been covered by a wide variety of performers, including not only country singers (Waylon Jennings, Roger Miller, Bobby  Bare and the Statler Brothers, just to name a few) but also Cake, the Killers, Greek songstress Nana Mouskori (who recorded it in French), Walter Brennan (who talked it more than sang it), and  -- last and probably least -- Star Trek's Leonard Nimoy, who recorded five albums between 1967 and 1970.  (If you bought one, I'm sure you're still regretting your decision.)

Here's Kenny Rogers and the First Edition's version of "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town":

Click here to buy the song from Amazon:

Freda Payne -- "Band of Gold" (1970)

But that night on our honeymoon
We stayed in separate rooms

You may think it's just a coincidence that I'm following up a post featuring "This Diamond Ring" with one featuring "Band of Gold."  You may also believe it's a coincidence that this post is appearing on a Friday the 13th.  

But in the seamless web that is the world of 2 or 3 lines, is anything truly just a coincidence?

The British actor and author Heron Carvic once said that "If there were no such thing as coincidence, there would be no such word."  Apply that reasoning to this word, Mr. Carvic: "unicorn."

I much prefer what science-fiction novelist Emma Bull had to say on the subject of coincidence:   "Coincidence is the word we use when we can't see the levers and pulleys."  You may not be able to see the levers and pulleys behind 2 or 3 lines, boys and girls, but trust me: they're there.  And yours truly is pulling each and every one of them.

After a steady diet of Scandinavian crime novels over the last month or so, I recently decided to refresh my reading palate with Marilyn Yalom's How the French Invented Love: Nine Hundred Years of Passion and Romance, which one reviewer has described as "an exploration of desire, romance, sex and passion à la française."

Author Marilyn Yalom

Yalom is a scholarly type, and her book thoroughly explores French history and literature in order to explain the Gallic culture of amour.  She begins at the beginning by telling the story of Abélard and Héloïse, two medieval lovers who rank right up there with Romeo and Juliet or Jack Dawson and Rose DeWitt Bukater when it comes to unhappy romances.



Abélard was a thirty-something philosopher and teacher -- one reference work calls him "the keenest thinker and boldest theologian of the 12th Century" -- when he fell in love with Héloïse d'Argenteuil, a brilliant student of his.  

Many sources say Héloïse was 16 or 17 when her affair with Abélard began, although others believe she was more likely a decade or so older than that.

Héloïse's uncle was a canon at the great cathedral of Notre-Dame.  Abélard told the uncle that he could not afford his rent, and persuaded him to allow Abélard to move into his house in exchange for Abélard's tutoring Héloïse.

Héloïse and Abélard

My grandmother would have described this as letting the fox guard the chicken coop.  A medieval scholar might have said "Ovem lupo commitere," which can be translated as "To set a wolf to guard sheep."

In any event, much hanky-panky ensued.  In no time at all, Héloïse had a bun in the oven.

Abélard sent Héloïse to live with his family in Brittany, and she eventually gave birth to a son whom she named Astrolabe (after the astronomical instrument -- which is exactly the kind of thing a medieval brainiac like Héloïse would do).

A statue of the lovers

The couple were then secretly married because they feared that disclosure of the marriage would damage Abélard's career.  After the wedding, Abélard persuaded  Héloïse to go to a convent in order to protect her from her angry uncle.

Abélard should have dressed himself up in a habit and hidden out in a convent, too.  Because shortly after Héloïse left to live with the nuns, her uncle sent his henchmen to Abélard's room one night to castrate him -- "effectively ending Abélard's romantic career," according to Wikipedia.  (That's one hell of an understatement, Wikipedia.)

I continued reading Yalom's account of the rest of the unhappy couple's lives -- he entered a monastery, and she became a nun for real -- but it was hard concentrating with that image of Abélard being transformed from a stallion to a gelding in my mind.  (Shakespeare called what Brutus did to Julius Caesar "the most unkindest cut of all."  He didn't know the half of it.)

The couple's Parisian tomb

Our featured song, "Band of Gold," was a 3# hit for Freda Payne in 1970.  

If you're like me, you've always wondered just what happened to cause the newlyweds to end up in separate rooms on the night of their honeymoon.  

There are almost as many theories about that as there are theories about what Billie Joe McAllister threw off the Tallahatchie Bridge and who Carly Simon was singing about in "You're So Vain."

The singer of "Band of Gold" hopes that her new husband will walk into her nuptial bedchamber and "love me like you tried before."  So what went wrong when he tried before?  I'm guessing that the young lady resisted her man's first attempt to storm the citadel, causing him to walk out in frustration.

I base that theory on these lyrics, which seem to indicate that the singer is an innocent young thing: 

You took me from the shelter of my mother

I had never known or loved any other

Some people are confused by Payne's phrasing here, which makes it sound like she is saying this:

You took me from the shelter of a mother I had never known

That makes no sense, of course.  How can someone be taken from the shelter of a mother she has never known?

The alternate theory is that the young lady was raring to go, but the unfortunate fellow was unable to perform.

If that's what happened, let's hope he was able to eventually overcome his problem -- unlike poor Abélard, who would have needed a lot more than Viagra.

 

Here's Freda Payne lip-synching "Band of Gold" on Soul Train:

Click here to buy the song from Amazon: