4-8, Girolamo is in love with Salvestra

NOVEL VIII. 

Girolamo is in love with Salvestra, and is obliged by his mother to go to Paris; on his return he finds her married; and getting privately into her house, he breathes his last by her side. On his being carried thence to a church to be buried, she dies likewise upon his corpse. 

Emilia's novel was concluded, when, by the king's order, Neifile began as follows: - There are some people, most worthy ladies, who think they know more than other folks, and yet know less; and who upon this presumption not only oppose their opinions to the general sense of mankind, but even to the very nature of things; whence proceed frequently great inconveniences, and never any good. Amongst natural causes, that which the least brooks any advice or opposition is love, the nature of which is such, as more easily to wear away of itself, than to be removed by any admonition. I intend to relate a story of a lady, who, being willing to appear wiser than she really was, or than the thing, in which she would have shewed her good understanding, required; by endeavouring to drive away that passion from a heart, in which it was firmly implanted, deprived her son both of life and love at the same time. 

In our city, as it is reported, there lived a great and wealthy merchant, whose name was Lionardo Sighieri, who by his wife had an only son called Girolamo. Lionardo died soon after his son was born, and the infant's guardians along with his mother took all possible care both of him and his affairs. As he grew up, amongst the other children of the neighbourhood, he used to play with a tailor's daughter much about the same age; in time that acquaintance changed into love, which became so vehement, that he was never easy unless he was in her company, and certainly her love was no less warm for him. His mother observed this, and would frequently reprimand and chastise him for it. Finding that ineffectual, she complained to his guardians; and thinking, on account of his wealth, that she might work impossibilities, she said to them, "This boy of mine, who is but fourteen years old, has taken such a fancy to a tailor's daughter, and unless we remove him he will marry her privately some time or another, which will be death to me; or else he will pine and consume himself away, if he sees her married to another person; for which reason I think it best to send him a distance off, to some of our factors, in order by his absence to put her out of his thoughts, and afterwards we may provide a more suitable wife for him." They agreed with her that it would be right to do so, and promised her all the service that lay in their power. Calling him then into the counting-house, one of them spoke kindly to him in this manner: 

"Young gentleman, as you are now of considerable years, it is fit that you should begin to look after your own affairs; for which reason we consider it proper that you go and reside some time at Paris, where you will see how a great part of your trade is carried on; besides, you will have greater opportunities there of improving yourself than you can have here, and after you have conversed with persons of quality and distinction, of whom there are great numbers at Paris, and learned their breeding and elegant accomplishments, it will then be time for you to return." He listened very attentively, and replied in a few words, that he would not consent, because he thought it full as^ell to stay at Florence. They reproved him a little for it; but finding they could get no other answer, they acquainted his mother. She was in a violent passion, and gave him hard words, not on account of his refusing to go, but for his love affairs; and this availing nothing, she began to use gentler means, entreating him in the mildest terms that he would oblige his guardians; and she prevailed so far, that he consented to go and stay one year there, and no more, and accordingly he went. 

Being sent thus to Paris, over head and ears in love, his return was put off from one day to another, until he was kept there at last two years; when coming home, more enamoured than ever, he found, to his bitter grief, that his mistress was married to a young man, a tent-maker. Seeing, however, that the thing could not be remedied, he endeavoured to bear it patiently; and finding out the place where she lived, he began, as is usual with young lovers, to walk frequently by the house, supposing that she could no more have forgotten him, than he had forgotten her. But the case was otherwise: she remembered him no more than if she had never seen him, at least it seemed so by her behaviour, which gave him great trouble; yet, notwithstanding, he tried all means to make her call him to mind; but, finding it in vain, he resolved to speak to her, though it cost him his life. Having made himself acquainted, through a neighbour, with the interior arrangement of the house, he got into it privately one night, when the husband and wife were gone to spend the evening with some friends, and hid himself in their chamber, behind some sail cloths, where he waited until they returned and were in bed; and when he thought the husband fast asleep, he went softly to her side, and laying his hand upon her breast, said gently to her, "My dear life, are you asleep?” She, happening to be awake, was going to cry out, when he immediately added, "For God's sake make no noise; I am your old lover, Girolamo." She, hearing this, replied, all in a tremble, "Dear sir, go about your business; the time when we might love one another is past; you see I am married, and therefore am only to regard my husband; I entreat you, then, to depart; for if he should know of it, supposing nothing worse to happen, I should be miserable as long as I live, and our lives hitherto have been very comfortable together." The youth was extremely troubled at these words, and though he put her in mind of past times, and used many arguments and fair promises to persuade her, yet it was all in vain. At last he desired, that, as a recompense for all his love, she would only let him lie by her side till he had warmed himself a little, for that he was quite chilled while waiting for her, promising neither to speak or touch her, and when he grew warmer, go away. She, having some compassion left for him, gave leave upon those conditions. He then lay down by her, and calling to mind his long passion, and her inflexible cruelty, as one destitute of all hope, he resolved to die; and holding his breath strongly, he clenched his hands, and expired by her side. 

After some little time, she being surprised at his lying so still, and fearing lest her husband should wake, began to say to him, "Alas I sir, why do you not go away?" Perceiving that he made no answer, she supposed he was asleep, and putting her hand out to jog him, found him quite cold; being greatly amazed at this, and shaking him more strongly, she perceived he was certainly dead. Affected beyond measure, she lay a considerable time, not knowing what course to take. At length she resolved to sound her husband, by making it another person's case; awakening him, therefore, she proposed it to him, as having happened to somebody else, and then asked him what he would do in such an affair. The honest man replied, that he would have him carried privately home, without the least resentment to the woman, because she seemed to be in no way in fault. "Then," said she, "we must do so now: "and taking hold of his hand, laid it upon the dead body. He arose in a great fright, and, lighting a candle, immediately took the corpse upon his shoulders, having first put all its clothes upon it and relying upon his innocence, carried it to the mother's door, and left it there. When it was found in the morning there was a great uproar about it, and the body was examined all over, and no wound or bruise appearing, the physicians declared that he had died for grief, and such was really the case. The corpse was then carried to the church, attended by the sorrowful mother, and other friends and relations to lament over it, according to the custom of our city; and whilst this was doing, the honest man, in whose house he had died, said to his wife, "Go, veil yourself, and hasten to the church, and hear among the women what they say about it, and I will do the same amongst the men, by which means we shall know whether they have any suspicion of us." The woman, who had some pity for him when it was too late, grew desirous of seeing him dead, to whom, whilst living, she would not vouchsafe the favour of one kiss, and went directly thither. 

Wondrously inscrutable are the powerful workings of love. That heart which was proof against the prosperous fortune of Girolamo, was now pierced by his adversity; and the old flames of love, which were revived, had such an effect upon her, that, veiled as she was, she still pressed forwards to the corpse, when uttering a most terrible shriek, and falling down with her face upon it, she shed but a few tears, for the very instant almost that she touched it, grief deprived her of life, as it did Girolamo. Instantly the women began to comfort her, not knowing who she was, and to desire her to rise, but perceiving that she did not stir, they lifted her up, when they knew her to be Salvestra, and beheld that she was quite dead. Overcome, then, as it were by a double compassion, they set up a greater lamentation than before. The news being carried through the church, soon came to the cars of Salvestra's husband. He was deeply affected, and having related to some that stood by the whole affair of the preceding night, the cause of both their deaths plainly appeared, and they were generally lamented. They then took the dead lady, and laid her by his side upon the same bier, and they were buried with the greatest lamentations in the same grave. So this pair, whom love could not join together in their lifetime, were united inseparably by death. 

3-4 Felix, scholar, Puccio

NOVEL IV. 

A young scholar, named Felix, teaches one Puccio how he may be saved, by performing a penance which he shows him: this he puts into execution, and in the meantime Felix amuses himself with his wife. 

When Filomena had finished her story, which was much commended by Dioneo, the queen, casting her eyes on Pamfìlo, said: "Continue this amusement by some agreeable story." He replied, that he was very willing, and began thus: 

- Some people there are, who, whilst they endeavour to get to heaven themselves, inadvertently send others thither, which was the case of a neighbour of ours, as you shall hear. Near to St. Brancazio, as I am informed, there lived an honest man, and one of good substance, whose name was Puccio di Rineri, who, being spritually (spiritually) minded, and having much converse with the Franciscans, was usually called Friar Puccio. 

This man, I say, regarding only his religious affairs, and having no family besides a wife and a maid-servant, used constantly to be at church, spending his whole time in saying Pater Nosters, hearing sermons, and going to masses; and for fasting, and all kinds of holy discipline, he was as devout as the best. What with his devotion, and perhaps his age, his wife, whose name was Isabella, a lady of about twenty-eight years of age, as fresh and fair and plump as an apple, had a great deal more fasting than she thought good for her, and many a time would gladly have been asleep or otherwise employed, when he was recounting to her the holy life of our Lord, the preachings of Father Anastasius, the lamentations of Mary Magdalen, and so forth. 

Now at that time there returned from Paris a monk belonging to he convent of St. Brancazio, a comely young man, of good parts and learning, with whom our Puccio contracted an acquaintance; and as he was able to solve all his scruples, and appeared to be very religious, Friar Puccio would frequently invite him to his house, both to dine and sup, whilst his wife shewed him great civility on her husband's account. 

Coming often to the house in this manner, he soon cast his eye upon Puccio's wife, and perceiving that he was nowise disagreeable to her, he took the first opportunity of making a discovery of his inclinations; but, though he found her disposed to compliance, he could in no way contrive the means, for she would go nowhere out of her own house, and there it could not be, for Puccio was never far from home, which threw the young monk into a kind of despair. At last it came into his head how the thing might be carried on in the house, without any suspicion, though the husband was there all the time. Being one day alone with Puccio, he began in this manner: "I understand. Brother Puccio, that all your desire is to become holy, but it seems to me as if you took quite a round-about way, whilst there is a much shorter path, which the pope and the other great prelates know and follow, yet they are unwilling it should be divulged, for the sake of the clergy, because they live chiefly on the charities of the people, who in that case would have no further need to give them alms. Now as you are my friend, and have entertained me well at your house, if I thought you would tell nobody, and would practise this way I am speaking of, I would reveal it to you." Puccio was extremely impatient to know the secret swearing, by all that was sacred, never to divulge it without the monk's consent, and promising, if possible, to observe it; "As you make this promise," quoth the other, "I will tell you." "You must understand, then, that the holy doctors of the church maintain, that penance in the manner I am going to lay down, is necessary to saintly beatitude. But take notice, I do not say that, after this penance, you will be no more capable of sinning. No; but all the sins committed before that time will be forgiven, and the sins committed afterwards will not be numbered to your damnation; but you may wash them away with holy water, as now you may do by venial sins. A man, then, must begin this penance by a strict confession of all his sins; after which fasting and abstinence are necessary for forty days; during which space you must refrain, not to say from women only, but even from your own wife. Besides this, you must have some place in your own house where you may look towards heaven all night long. Thither you are to go in the evening, and there you must have a very large table fixed in such a manner, that, as you stand upon your feet, the small of your back may lean upon it, whilst your arms are extended like a crucifix; and if you can make them reach to any peg of wood, so much the better. In this manner you are to gaze towards heaven, without altering your posture till the morning. If you had been a scholar, you should have repeated some prayers which I would have taught you; but as you are not, you must say three hundred Pater Nosters, with as many Ave Marias, in honour of the Trinity; and, fixing your eyes upon heaven, you are still to remember God, the Creator of heaven and earth, and to bear in mind Christ's passion, standing in the manner that he was nailed to the cross; and, when the bell sounds in the morning, you may throw yourself upon your bed to sleep. You must afterwards go to church, and hear three masses at least, and say fifty Pater Nosters, and the like number of Ave Marias; and when this is done, you may go fairly and honestly about any business you may have to do; afterwards get your dinner, and be at church in the evening, where you must say a few prayers which I shall give you in writing, without which all would signify nothing; and in the evening return as before. If you follow this method, as I have formerly done, I hope, before the expiration of your penance, that you will perceive wonderful things of the eternal beatitudes; supposing, at the same time, that you are thoroughly devout." 

Friar Puccio replied: "This is no such long and grievous affair, and with God's permission I will begin next Sunday;" and leaving his friend, he went and related the whole to his wife. She knew well enough what the monk meant by that standing still in one spot till the morning, and thinking it a very good plan, she told her husband that she was satisfied with that, or anything else that he should do for the good of his soul; and, to render his penance more effectual, she meant to keep him company with fasting, but with nothing else. So far they were agreed: and when Sunday came, he entered upon his course, whilst the monk came every evening to sup with her, bringing with him plenty of meat and drink, and he stayed with her always till morning, when it was Puccio's time to come to bed. 

Now the room he had fixed upon for his penance was next to that where the lady lay, and divided from it only by a very thin partition. One night, when he had just got through a hundred of his Pater Nosters, he heard a noise in the next room; and, making a full stop, he called out to his wife, to know what she was doing. The lady, who was full heartily, as well she might; "have not I heard you say a thousand times that there is no resting in bed with an empty stomach?" Poor Puccio imagined that her not sleeping was really occasioned by her going to bed without her supper, and said to her, in the simplicity of his heart, "I told you, my dear, not to fast; but since you would do it, even try and rest as well as you can: you make the very floor shake under my feet." - "Never mind: attend to what you are about, and I will do as well as I can." Puccio said no more, but resumed his Pater Nosters. 

After that night the lady and the monk found out another part of the house, where they diverted themselves as long as the penance lasted. In the morning, when the monk was gone, Isabella used to return to her own bed, before her husband came to lie down. Things continuing in this way during the time that Puccio was qualifying himself for saintship, Isabella often said to the roguish monk, "Is it not a good joke, that you have put Puccio upon a penance by which we have gained paradise?" She liked it, indeed, so well, and was so fond of the good cheer supplied her by the monk, after the long time she had been kept on low diet by her husband, that even when the forty days of penance were out she found means to meet the monk elsewhere, and feast with him without stint. Thus I have made good the truth of what I said at the beginning of my story, for you see that whilst poor Friar Puccio thought of winning paradise by his hard penance, he only opened its doors to his wife and to the monk who had shown him the short cut thither.