4-5, Isabella's brothers put her lover to death

NOVEL V. 

Isabella's brothers put her lover to death; he appears to her in a dream, and shows her where he is buried. She privately brings away his head, and, putting it into a pot of basil, and other sweet herbs, laments over it every day. At length they take it away from her, and she soon after dies of grief. 

Eliza having concluded her novel, which was commended by the king, Filomena was then ordered to begin. Full of pity for the two unhappy lovers last mentioned, she heaved a deep sigh, and said: - "My novel will not be concerning people of such high rank as those of whom Eliza has spoken, but perhaps it may be equally moving; and I am led to it from her mentioning Messina, where the thing happened. 

There lived at Messina, three young merchants, who were brothers, and left very rich by their father: they had an only sister, named Isabella, a lady of worth and beauty, who, whatever was the reason, was yet unmarried. Now they had in their employ a young man of Pisa, called Lorenzo, who managed all their affairs. He was a young man of very agreeable person and manners, and being often in Isabella's company, she loved him, and he forsook all others for her sake; nor was it long before their mutual desires were consummated. This affair was carried on between them for a considerable time, without the least, suspicion; till one night it happened, as Isabella was going to Lorenzo's chamber, that the eldest brother saw her, without her knowing it. 

This afflicted him greatly; yet, being a prudent man, he made no discovery, but lay considering with himself till morning, what course was best to take. He then related to his brothers what he had seen, with regard to their sister and Lorenzo, and, after a long debate, it was resolved to seem to take no notice of it for the present, but to make away with him privately, the first opportunity, that they might remove all cause of reproach both to their sister and themselves. Continuing in this resolution, they behaved with the same freedom and civility to Lorenzo as ever, till at length, under a pretence of going out of the city, upon a party of pleasure, they carried him along with them, and arriving at a lonesome place, fit for their purpose, they slew him, unprepared as he was to make any defence, and buried him on the spot. Then, returning to Messina, they gave it out, that they had sent him on a journey of business, which was easily believed, because they frequently did so. 

After some time, Isabella, thinking that Lorenzo made a long stay, began to inquire earnestly of her brothers concerning him, and this she did so often, that at last one of them said to her, "What have you to do with Lorenzo, that you are continually teazing us about him? If you inquire any more, you shall receive such an answer as you will by no means like." This grieved her exceedingly, and fearing, she knew not why, she remained without asking any more questions; yet all the night would she lament and complain of his long stay; and thus she spent her life in a tedious and anxious waiting for his return; till one night it happened, that, having wept herself to sleep, he appeared to her in a dream, all pale and ghastly, with his clothes rent in pieces, and she thought that he spoke to her thus: "My dearest Isabel, thou grievest incessantly for my absence, and art continually calling upon me; but know that I can return no more to thee, for the last day that thou sawest me, thy brothers put me to death." And, describing the place where they had buried him, he bade her call no more upon him, nor ever expect to see him again; and disappeared. 

Isabella woke up, implicitly believing the vision, and wept bitterly. In the morning, not daring to say anything to her brothers, she resolved to go to the place mentioned in the dream, to be convinced of the reality. Accordingly, having leave to go a little way into the country, along with a companion of hers, who was acquainted with all her affairs, she went thither, and clearing the ground of the dried leaves, with which it was covered, she observed where the earth seemed to be lightest, and dug there. She had not searched far before she came to her lover's body, which she found in no degree wasted; this informed her of the truth of her vision, and she was in the utmost concern on that account; but, as that was not a fit place for lamentation, she would willingly have taken the corpse away with her, to give it a more decent interment; but, finding herself unable to do that, she cut off the head, which she put into a handkerchief, and, covering the trunk again with mould, she gave the head to her maid to carry, and returned home without being perceived. She then shut herself up in her chamber, and lamented over her lover's head till she had washed it with her tears, and then she put it into a flower-pot, having folded it in a fine napkin, and covering it with earth, she planted sweet herbs therein, which she watered with nothing but rose or orange water, or else with her tears, accustoming herself to sit always before it, and devoting her whole heart unto it, as containing her dear Lorenzo. 

The sweet herbs, what with her continual bathing, and the moisture arising from the putrefied head, flourished exceedingly, and sent forth a most agreeable odour. Continuing this manner of life, she was observed by some of the neighbours, and they related her conduct to her brothers, who had before remarked with surprise the decay of her beauty. Accordingly, they both reprimanded her for it, and, finding that ineffectual, stole the pot from her. She, perceiving that it was taken away, begged earnestly of them to restore it, which they refusing, she fell sick. The young men wondered much why she should have so great a fancy for it, and were resolved to see what it contained: turning out the earth, therefore, they saw the napkin, and in it the head, not so much consumed, but that, by the curled locks, they knew it to be Lorenzo's, which threw them into the utmost astonishment, and fearing lest it should be known, they buried it privately, and withdrew themselves thence to Naples. The young lady never ceased weeping, and calling for her pof of flowers, till she died: and thus terminated her unfortunate love. But, in some time afterwards, the thing became public, which gave rise to this song - 

Most cruel and unkind was he, 

That of my flowers deprived me, etc. 

[Keats's beautiful poem, "The Pot of Basil,” has made this story familiar to the English reader.] 

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bartleby pot of basil

I.

FAIR Isabel, poor simple Isabel!

  Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love’s eye!

They could not in the self-same mansion dwell

  Without some stir of heart, some malady;

They could not sit at meals but feel how well         5

  It soothed each to be the other by;

They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep

But to each other dream, and nightly weep.

 

II.

With every morn their love grew tenderer,

  With every eve deeper and tenderer still;         10

He might not in house, field, or garden stir,

  But her full shape would all his seeing fill;

And his continual voice was pleasanter

  To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;

Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,         15

She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.

 

III.

He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,

  Before the door had given her to his eyes;

And from her chamber-window he would catch

  Her beauty farther than the falcon spies;         20

And constant as her vespers would he watch,

  Because her face was turn’d to the same skies;

And with sick longing all the night outwear,

To hear her morning-step upon the stair.

 

IV.

A whole long month of May in this sad plight         25

  Made their cheeks paler by the break of June:

“To morrow will I bow to my delight,

  “To-morrow will I ask my lady’s boon.”—

“O may I never see another night,

  “Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love’s tune.”—         30

So spake they to their pillows; but, alas,

Honeyless days and days did he let pass;

 

V.

Until sweet Isabella’s untouch’d cheek

  Fell sick within the rose’s just domain,

Fell thin as a young mother’s, who doth seek         35

  By every lull to cool her infant’s pain:

“How ill she is,” said he, “I may not speak,

  “And yet I will, and tell my love all plain:

“If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears,

“And at the least ’twill startle off her cares.”         40

 

VI.

So said he one fair morning, and all day

  His heart beat awfully against his side;

And to his heart he inwardly did pray

  For power to speak; but still the ruddy tide

Stifled his voice, and puls’d resolve away—         45

  Fever’d his high conceit of such a bride,

Yet brought him to the meekness of a child:

Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!

 

VII.

So once more he had wak’d and anguished

  A dreary night of love and misery,         50

If Isabel’s quick eye had not been wed

  To every symbol on his forehead high;

She saw it waxing very pale and dead,

  And straight all flush’d; so, lisped tenderly,

“Lorenzo!”—here she ceas’d her timid quest,         55

But in her tone and look he read the rest.

 

VIII.

“O Isabella, I can half perceive

  “That I may speak my grief into thine ear;

“If thou didst ever any thing believe,

  “Believe how I love thee, believe how near         60

“My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve

  “Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear

“Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live

“Another night, and not my passion shrive.

 

IX.

“Love! thou art leading me from wintry cold,         65

  “Lady! thou leadest me to summer clime,

“And I must taste the blossoms that unfold

  “In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time.”

So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold,

  And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme:         70

Great bliss was with them, and great happiness

Grew, like a lusty flower in June’s caress.

 

X.

Parting they seem’d to tread upon the air,

  Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart

Only to meet again more close, and share         75

  The inward fragrance of each other’s heart.

She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair

  Sang, of delicious love and honey’d dart;

He with light steps went up a western hill,

And bade the sun farewell, and joy’d his fill.         80

 

XI.

All close they met again, before the dusk

  Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,

All close they met, all eves, before the dusk

  Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,

Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk,         85

  Unknown of any, free from whispering tale.

Ah! better had it been for ever so,

Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe.

 

XII.

Were they unhappy then?—It cannot be—

  Too many tears for lovers have been shed,         90

Too many sighs give we to them in fee,

  Too much of pity after they are dead,

Too many doleful stories do we see,

  Whose matter in bright gold were best be read;

Except in such a page where Theseus’ spouse         95

Over the pathless waves towards him bows.

 

XIII.

But, for the general award of love,

  The little sweet doth kill much bitterness;

Though Dido silent is in under-grove,

  And Isabella’s was a great distress,         100

Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove

  Was not embalm’d, this truth is not the less—

Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers,

Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

 

XIV.

With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt,         105

  Enriched from ancestral merchandize,

And for them many a weary hand did swelt

  In torched mines and noisy factories,

And many once proud-quiver’d loins did melt

  In blood from stinging whip;—with hollow eyes         110

Many all day in dazzling river stood,

To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood.

 

XV.

For them the Ceylon diver held his breath,

  And went all naked to the hungry shark;

For them his ears gush’d blood; for them in death         115

  The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark

Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe

  A thousand men in troubles wide and dark:

Half-ignorant, they turn’d an easy wheel,

That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel.         120

 

XVI.

Why were they proud? Because their marble founts

  Gush’d with more pride than do a wretch’s tears?—

Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts

  Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs?—

Why were they proud? Because red-lin’d accounts         125

  Were richer than the songs of Grecian years?—

Why were they proud? again we ask aloud,

Why in the name of Glory were they proud?

 

XVII.

Yet were these Florentines as self-retired

  In hungry pride and gainful cowardice,         130

As two close Hebrews in that land inspired,

  Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies,

The hawks of ship-mast forests—the untired

  And pannier’d mules for ducats and old lies—

Quick cat’s-paws on the generous stray-away,—         135

Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay.

 

XVIII.

How was it these same ledger-men could spy

  Fair Isabella in her downy nest?

How could they find out in Lorenzo’s eye

  A straying from his toil? Hot Egypt’s pest         140

Into their vision covetous and sly!

  How could these money-bags see east and west?—

Yet so they did—and every dealer fair

Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare.

 

XIX.

O eloquent and famed Boccaccio!         145

  Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon,

And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow,

  And of thy roses amorous of the moon,

And of thy lilies, that do paler grow

  Now they can no more hear thy ghittern’s tune,         150

For venturing syllables that ill beseem

The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme.

 

XX.

Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale

  Shall move on soberly, as it is meet;

There is no other crime, no mad assail         155

  To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet:

But it is done—succeed the verse or fail—

  To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet;

To stead thee as a verse in English tongue,

An echo of thee in the north-wind sung.         160

 

XXI.

These brethren having found by many signs

  What love Lorenzo for their sister had,

And how she lov’d him too, each unconfines

  His bitter thoughts to other, well nigh mad

That he, the servant of their trade designs,         165

  Should in their sister’s love be blithe and glad,

When ’twas their plan to coax her by degrees

To some high noble and his olive-trees.

 

XXII.

And many a jealous conference had they,

  And many times they bit their lips alone,         170

Before they fix’d upon a surest way

  To make the youngster for his crime atone;

And at the last, these men of cruel clay

  Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone;

For they resolved in some forest dim         175

To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him.

 

XXIII.

So on a pleasant morning, as he leant

  Into the sun-rise, o’er the balustrade

Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent

  Their footing through the dews; and to him said,         180

“You seem there in the quiet of content,

  “Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade

“Calm speculation; but if you are wise,

“Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies.

 

XXIV.

“To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount         185

  “To spur three leagues towards the Apennine;

“Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count

  “His dewy rosary on the eglantine.”

Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont,

  Bow’d a fair greeting to these serpents’ whine;         190

And went in haste, to get in readiness,

With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman’s dress.

 

XXV.

And as he to the court-yard pass’d along,

  Each third step did he pause, and listen’d oft

If he could hear his lady’s matin-song,         195

  Or the light whisper of her footstep soft;

And as he thus over his passion hung,

  He heard a laugh full musical aloft;

When, looking up, he saw her features bright

Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight.         200

 

XXVI.

“Love, Isabel!” said he, “I was in pain

  “Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow:

“Ah! what if I should lose thee, when so fain

  “I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow

“Of a poor three hours’ absence? but we’ll gain         205

  “Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow.

“Good bye! I’ll soon be back.”—“Good bye!” said she:—

And as he went she chanted merrily.

 

XXVII.

So the two brothers and their murder’d man

  Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno’s stream         210

Gurgles through straiten’d banks, and still doth fan

  Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream

Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan

  The brothers’ faces in the ford did seem,

Lorenzo’s flush with love.—They pass’d the water         215

Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.

 

XXVIII.

There was Lorenzo slain and buried in,

  There in that forest did his great love cease;

Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win,

  It aches in loneliness—is ill at peace         220

As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin:

  They dipp’d their swords in the water, and did tease

Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur,

Each richer by his being a murderer.

 

XXIX.

They told their sister how, with sudden speed,         225

  Lorenzo had ta’en ship for foreign lands,

Because of some great urgency and need

  In their affairs, requiring trusty hands.

Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow’s weed,

  And ’scape at once from Hope’s accursed bands;         230

To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow,

And the next day will be a day of sorrow.

 

XXX.

She weeps alone for pleasures not to be;

  Sorely she wept until the night came on,

And then, instead of love, O misery!         235

  She brooded o’er the luxury alone:

His image in the dusk she seem’d to see,

  And to the silence made a gentle moan,

Spreading her perfect arms upon the air,

And on her couch low murmuring, “Where? O where?”         240

 

XXXI.

But Selfishness, Love’s cousin, held not long

  Its fiery vigil in her single breast;

She fretted for the golden hour, and hung

  Upon the time with feverish unrest—

Not long—for soon into her heart a throng         245

  Of higher occupants, a richer zest,

Came tragic; passion not to be subdued,

And sorrow for her love in travels rude.

 

XXXII.

In the mid days of autumn, on their eves

  The breath of Winter comes from far away,         250

And the sick west continually bereaves

  Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay

Of death among the bushes and the leaves,

  To make all bare before he dares to stray

From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel         255

By gradual decay from beauty fell,

 

XXXIII.

Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes

  She ask’d her brothers, with an eye all pale,

Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes

  Could keep him off so long? They spake a tale         260

Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes

  Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom’s vale;

And every night in dreams they groan’d aloud,

To see their sister in her snowy shroud.

 

XXXIV.

And she had died in drowsy ignorance,         265

  But for a thing more deadly dark than all;

It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance,

  Which saves a sick man from the feather’d pall

For some few gasping moments; like a lance,

  Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall         270

With cruel pierce, and bringing him again

Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain.

 

XXXV.

It was a vision.—In the drowsy gloom,

  The dull of midnight, at her couch’s foot

Lorenzo stood, and wept: the forest tomb         275

  Had marr’d his glossy hair which once could shoot

Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom

  Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute

From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears

Had made a miry channel for his tears.         280

 

XXXVI.

Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake;

  For there was striving, in its piteous tongue,

To speak as when on earth it was awake,

  And Isabella on its music hung:

Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake,         285

  As in a palsied Druid’s harp unstrung;

And through it moan’d a ghostly under-song,

Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among.

 

XXXVII.

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright

  With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof         290

From the poor girl by magic of their light,

  The while it did unthread the horrid woof

Of the late darken’d time,—the murderous spite

  Of pride and avarice,—the dark pine roof

In the forest,—and the sodden turfed dell,         295

Where, without any word, from stabs he fell.

 

XXXVIII.

Saying moreover, “Isabel, my sweet!

  “Red whortle-berries droop above my head,

“And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet;

  “Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed         300

“Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat

  “Comes from beyond the river to my bed:

“Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom,

“And it shall comfort me within the tomb.

 

XXXIX.

“I am a shadow now, alas! alas!         305

  “Upon the skirts of human-nature dwelling

“Alone: I chant alone the holy mass,

  “While little sounds of life are round me knelling,

“And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass,

  “And many a chapel bell the hour is telling,         310

“Paining me through: those sounds grow strange to me,

“And thou art distant in Humanity.

 

XL.

“I know what was, I feel full well what is,

  “And I should rage, if spirits could go mad;

“Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss,         315

  “That paleness warms my grave, as though I had

“A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss

  “To be my spouse: thy paleness makes me glad;

“Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel

“A greater love through all my essence steal.”         320

 

XLI.

The Spirit mourn’d “Adieu!”—dissolv’d, and left

  The atom darkness in a slow turmoil;

As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft,

  Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil,

We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft,         325

  And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil:

It made sad Isabella’s eyelids ache,

And in the dawn she started up awake;

 

XLII.

“Ha! ha!” said she, “I knew not this hard life,

  “I thought the worst was simple misery;         330

“I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife

  “Portion’d us—happy days, or else to die;

“But there is crime—a brother’s bloody knife!

  “Sweet Spirit, thou hast school’d my infancy:

“I’ll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes,         335

“And greet thee morn and even in the skies.”

 

XLIII.

When the full morning came, she had devised

  How she might secret to the forest hie;

How she might find the clay, so dearly prized,

  And sing to it one latest lullaby;         340

How her short absence might be unsurmised,

  While she the inmost of the dream would try.

Resolv’d, she took with her an aged nurse,

And went into that dismal forest-hearse.

 

XLIV.

See, as they creep along the river side,         345

  How she doth whisper to that aged Dame,

And, after looking round the champaign wide,

  Shows her a knife.—“What feverous hectic flame

“Burns in thee, child?—What good can thee betide,

  “That thou should’st smile again?”—The evening came,         350

And they had found Lorenzo’s earthy bed;

The flint was there, the berries at his head.

 

XLV.

Who hath not loiter’d in a green church-yard,

  And let his spirit, like a demon-mole,

Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard,         355

  To see skull, coffin’d bones, and funeral stole;

Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr’d,

  And filling it once more with human soul?

Ah! this is holiday to what was felt

When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt.         360

 

XLVI.

She gaz’d into the fresh-thrown mould, as though

  One glance did fully all its secrets tell;

Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know

  Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well;

Upon the murderous spot she seem’d to grow,         365

  Like to a native lily of the dell:

Then with her knife, all sudden, she began

To dig more fervently than misers can.

 

XLVII.

Soon she turn’d up a soiled glove, whereon

  Her silk had play’d in purple phantasies,         370

She kiss’d it with a lip more chill than stone,

  And put it in her bosom, where it dries

And freezes utterly unto the bone

  Those dainties made to still an infant’s cries:

Then ’gan she work again; nor stay’d her care,         375

But to throw back at times her veiling hair.

 

XLVIII.

That old nurse stood beside her wondering,

  Until her heart felt pity to the core

At sight of such a dismal labouring,

  And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar,         380

And put her lean hands to the horrid thing:

  Three hours they labour’d at this travail sore;

At last they felt the kernel of the grave,

And Isabella did not stamp and rave.

 

XLIX.

Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance?         385

  Why linger at the yawning tomb so long?

O for the gentleness of old Romance,

  The simple plaining of a minstrel’s song!

Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance,

  For here, in truth, it doth not well belong         390

To speak:—O turn thee to the very tale,

And taste the music of that vision pale.

 

L.

With duller steel than the Persèan sword

  They cut away no formless monster’s head,

But one, whose gentleness did well accord         395

  With death, as life. The ancient harps have said,

Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord:

  If Love impersonate was ever dead,

Pale Isabella kiss’d it, and low moan’d.

’Twas love; cold,—dead indeed, but not dethroned.         400

 

LI.

In anxious secrecy they took it home,

  And then the prize was all for Isabel:

She calm’d its wild hair with a golden comb,

  And all around each eye’s sepulchral cell

Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam         405

  With tears, as chilly as a dripping well,

She drench’d away:—and still she comb’d, and kept

Sighing all day—and still she kiss’d, and wept.

 

LII.

Then in a silken scarf,—sweet with the dews

  Of precious flowers pluck’d in Araby,         410

And divine liquids come with odorous ooze

  Through the cold serpent pipe refreshfully,—

She wrapp’d it up; and for its tomb did choose

  A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by,

And cover’d it with mould, and o’er it set         415

Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet.

 

LIII.

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,

  And she forgot the blue above the trees,

And she forgot the dells where waters run,

  And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;         420

She had no knowledge when the day was done,

  And the new morn she saw not: but in peace

Hung over her sweet Basil evermore,

And moisten’d it with tears unto the core.

 

LIV.

And so she ever fed it with thin tears,         425

  Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew,

So that it smelt more balmy than its peers

  Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew

Nurture besides, and life, from human fears,

  From the fast mouldering head there shut from view:         430

So that the jewel, safely casketed,

Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread.

 

LV.

O Melancholy, linger here awhile!

  O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!

O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle,         435

  Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh!

Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile;

  Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily,

And make a pale light in your cypress glooms,

Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs.         440

 

LVI.

Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe,

  From the deep throat of sad Melpomene!

Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go,

  And touch the strings into a mystery;

Sound mournfully upon the winds and low;         445

  For simple Isabel is soon to be

Among the dead: She withers, like a palm

Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm.

 

LVII.

O leave the palm to wither by itself;

  Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!—         450

It may not be—those Baalites of pelf,

  Her brethren, noted the continual shower

From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf,

  Among her kindred, wonder’d that such dower

Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside         455

By one mark’d out to be a Noble’s bride.

 

LVIII.

And, furthermore, her brethren wonder’d much

  Why she sat drooping by the Basil green,

And why it flourish’d, as by magic touch;

  Greatly they wonder’d what the thing might mean:         460

They could not surely give belief, that such

  A very nothing would have power to wean

Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay,

And even remembrance of her love’s delay.

 

LIX.

Therefore they watch’d a time when they might sift         465

  This hidden whim; and long they watch’d in vain;

For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift,

  And seldom felt she any hunger-pain;

And when she left, she hurried back, as swift

  As bird on wing to breast its eggs again;         470

And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there

Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair.

 

LX.

Yet they contriv’d to steal the Basil-pot,

  And to examine it in secret place:

The thing was vile with green and livid spot,         475

  And yet they knew it was Lorenzo’s face:

The guerdon of their murder they had got,

  And so left Florence in a moment’s space,

Never to turn again.—Away they went,

With blood upon their heads, to banishment.         480

 

LXI.

O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away!

  O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!

O Echo, Echo, on some other day,

  From isles Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh!

Spirits of grief, sing not your “Well-a-way!”         485

  For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die;

Will die a death too lone and incomplete,

Now they have ta’en away her Basil sweet.

 

LXII.

Piteous she look’d on dead and senseless things,

  Asking for her lost Basil amorously:         490

And with melodious chuckle in the strings

  Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry

After the Pilgrim in his wanderings,

  To ask him where her Basil was; and why

’Twas hid from her: “For cruel ’tis,” said she,         495

“To steal my Basil-pot away from me.”

 

LXIII.

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,

  Imploring for her Basil to the last.

No heart was there in Florence but did mourn

  In pity of her love, so overcast.         500

And a sad ditty of this story born

  From mouth to mouth through all the country pass’d:

Still is the burthen sung—“O cruelty,

  “To steal my Basil-pot away from me!”

THE FOURTH DAY. NOVEL I. Tancred, Prince of Salerno,

THE FOURTH DAY. 

The sun had now driven all the stars from the heavens, and dispelled the vapours of the night from the earth, when Filostrato arose, and ordered all the company to be called. They walked then into the garden, and dined, when the time came, where they had supped the preceding night. Taking a nap afterwards, whilst the sun was at its height, they returned at the usual time to the fountain side. Here Filostrato commanded Fiammetta to begin, who spoke in a soft agreeable manner, as follows. 

NOVEL I. 

Tancred, Prince of Salerno, puts his daughter's lover to death, and sends his heart to her in a golden cup; she pours poison upon it, which she drinks, and dies. 

Our king has given us a most melancholy subject for this day's discourse; considering, that we who came hither to be merry, must now recount other people's misfortunes, which cannot be related without moving compassion, as well in those who tell, as in those who hear them. Perhaps it is designed as an alloy to the mirth of the preceding days. But whatever his reason may be for it, I have no business to make any alteration in what he has been pleased to decree. I shall, therefore, mention an unhappy story to you, worthy of your most tender compassion. 

Tancred, prince of Salerno, was a most humane and generous lord, had he not in his old age defiled his hands in a lover's blood. Through the whole course of his life he had only one daughter; and happy had he been not to have possessed her. No child could be more dear to a parent than she was, and so loath was he to part with her, that she had been many years of marriageable age before he could bring himself to bestow her on a son of the Duke of Capoa. But she was soon left a widow, and came home again to her father. She was a lady of great beauty and understanding, and continuing thus in the court of her father, who took no care to marry her again, and it seeming not so modest in her to ask it, she resolved at last to have a lover privately. Accordingly she made choice of a person of low parentage, but noble qualities, whose name was Guiscard, with whom she became violently in love, as he did with her. Such being their secret feelings, the lady who desired nothing so much as to be with Guiscard, and did not dare to trust any person with the affair, contrived a new stratagem in order to apprize him of the means. She wrote a letter, wherein she mentioned what she would have him do the next day for her; this she put into a hollow cane, and giving it to him one day, she said, pleasantly, "You may make a pair of bellows of this, for your servant to blow the fire with this evening." He took the cane, supposing very justly that she had some covert meaning, and, opening it at home he found the letter, which filled him with the utmost joy; and he immediately took measures to meet her in the manner she had directed him. 

On one side of the palace, and under a mountain, was a grotto, which had been made time out of mind, and into which no light could come but through a little opening dug in the mountain, and which, as the grotto had been long in disuse, was grown over with briars and thorns. Into this grotto was a passage, by a private stair-case, out of one of the rooms of the palace, which belonged to the lady's apartment, and was secured by a very strong door. This passage was so far out of every one's thoughts, having been disused for so long a time, that nobody remembered anything about it: but love, whose notice nothing can escape, brought it fresh into the mind of the enamoured lady. To keep this thing entirely private, she laboured all alone some days before she could gee the door open; when, having gone down into the cave, and observed the opening, and how high it might be from the bottom, she acquainted Guiscard with these details. He then provided a ladder of cords; and casing himself well with leather, to defend him from the thorns, he fixed one end of the ladder to the stump of a tree which was near, and slid down by the help of it to the bottom, where he stayed, expecting the lady. The following day, therefore, having sent her maids out of the way, under pretence that she was going to lie down, and locking herself up alone in her chamber, she open the door and descended into the grotto, where she met her paramour to their intense mutual satisfaction. Thence she shewed him the way to her chamber, where they were together the greatest part of the day, and, after they had taken proper measures for the time to come, he went away through the cave, and she returned to her maids. He did the same the next night; and he followed this course for a considerable time, till fortune, as if she envied them their happiness, thought fit to change their mirth into mourning. 

Tancred used sometimes to come into his daughter's chamber, to pass away a little time with her. Going thither, quite unperceived, one day after dinner, whilst Ghismond (that was the lady's name) was with her maids in the garden; and, not wishing to take her from her diversion, finding also the windows shut, and the curtains drawn to the feet of the bed, he threw himself down in a great chair, which stood in a corner of the room, leaned his head upon the bed, drew the curtain before him, as if he concealed himself on purpose, and fell asleep. In the meantime, Ghismond, having made an appointment with her lover, left the maids in the garden, and came into her chamber, which she secured, not thinking of any person being there. Then she went to meet Guiscard, who was in the cave waiting for her, and brought him into her chamber; when her father awoke, and was a witness to all that passed between them. This was the utmost affliction to him, and he was about to cry out, but upon second thoughts he resolved to keep the matter private if possible, that he might be able to do more securely, and with less disgrace, what he had resolved upon. The lovers stayed together their usual time, without perceiving anything of Tancred, who, after they were departed, got out of the window into the garden, old as he was, and went, without being seen by any one, very sorrowful to his chamber. 

The next night, according to his orders, Guiscard was seized by two men as he was coming out of the cave, and carried by them in his leathern doublet to Tancred, who, as soon as he saw him, said, with tears in his eyes, "Guiscard, you have ill requited my kindness towards you, by this outrage and shame which you have brought upon me, and of which this very day I have been an eye-witness." Guiscard made no other answer but this: "sir, love has greater power than either you or I." Tancred then ordered that he should be kept in secret custody. The next day he went to his daughter's apartment as usual (she knowing nothing of what had happened), and, after locking the door, said to her, weeping, "Daughter, I had such an opinion of your modesty and virtue, that I could never have believed, had I not seen it with my own eyes, that you would have violated either, even so much as in thought. The recollection of this will make the pittance of life that is left very grievous to me. As you were determined to act in that manner, would to Heaven you had made choice of a person more suitable to your own quality; but this Guiscard is one of the very meanest persons about my court. This gives me such concern, that I scarcely know what to do. As for him, he was secured by my order last night, and his fate is determined. But with regard to yourself, I am influenced by two different motives; on one side, the tenderest regard that a father can have for a child; and on the other, the justest vengeance for the great folly you have committed. One pleads strongly in your behalf; and the other would excite me to do an act contrary to my nature. But, before I come to a resolution, I would hear what you have to say for yourself."  And when he said this, he hung down his head, and wept like a child. 

She, hearing this from her father, and perceiving that their amour was not only discovered, but her lover in prison, with difficulty refrained from breaking out into loud and grievous lamentations, as is the way of women in distress; but she conquered this weakness, and putting on a settled countenance, resolved firmly in her own mind not to outlive her Guiscard, who she supposed was already dead. With the utmost composure, therefore, she spoke to this effect: "Father, it is not my purpose either to deny, or to entreat; for as the one can avail me nothing, so I intend the other shall be of little service. I will by no means bespeak your love and tenderness towards me; but shall first, by an open confession, endeavour to vindicate myself, and then do what the greatness of my soul prompts me to. It is most true that I have loved, and do still love, Guiscard; and whilst I live, which will not be long, shall continue to love him; and if such a thing as love be after death, I shall never cease to love him. To this I was induced, not so much by female frailty, as by his superior worth, and the little care you took to marry me again. It ought to have been plain to you that, as you are made of flesh and blood, your daughter was not stone or iron, and you should have remembered, though now you are old, what is the nature and force of youthful passions; and as your best years have been spent in part in the toils of war, you should the better have known what are the effects of ease and indulgence, not alone on the young, but even on the old. I am then a creature of flesh and blood; I am still young; and for both reasons possessed with desires which have become the more intense because having been married I have known the pleasure derived from gratifying them. Unable, then, to resist their force, I determined to obey their impulse; and, with all the power of my soul, I resolved, that so far as in me lay, no shame should befall you or me from that to which a natural weakness impelled me. In this I was favoured by Love and Fortune, who showed me a very secret way by which, unperceived by any one, I attained my wishes; and this, whoever disclosed it to you, or however you came to know"it, I do not deny. I did not take up with Guiscard by accident, as many do, but I chose him deliberately before all others, admitted him to my chamber with settled forethought, and with resolute perseverance on his part and mine, I long enjoyed my desires. It appears from what you say, that you would have been less incensed if I had made choice of a nobleman, and you bitterly reproach me for having condescended to a man of low condition. In this you speak according to vulgar prejudice, and not according to truth; nor do you perceive that the fault you blame is not mine, but fortune's, who often exalts the unworthy, and leaves the worthiest in low estate. But, not to dwell on such considerations, look a little into first principles, ancl you will see that we are all formed of the same materials, and by the same hand. The first difference amongst mankind, who are all born equal, was made by virtue; they who were virtuous were deemed noble, and the rest were all accounted otherwise. Though this law, therefore, may have been obscured by contrary custom, yet is it discarded neither by nature nor good manners. If then you regard only the worth and virtue of your courtiers, and consider that of Guiscard, you will find him the only noble person, and the others a set of poltroons. With regard to his worth and valour, I appeal to yourself. Who ever commended man more for everything that was praise-worthy, than you have commended him? and deservedly, in my judgment; but if I was deceived, it was by following your opinion. If you say, then, that I have had an affair with a person base and ignoble, I deny it; if with a poor one, it is to your shame, to let such merit go unrewarded. Now, concerning your last doubt, namely, how you are to deal with me, use your pleasure. If you are disposed to commit an act of cruelty, I shall say nothing to prevent such a resolution. But this I must apprize you of, that unless you do the same to me, which you either have done, or mean to do to Guiscard, my own hands shall do it for you. Leave tears then to women; and if you mean to act with severity, cut us off both together, if it appear to you that we have deserved it." 

The prince knew full well the greatness of his daughter's soul; yet he could by no means persuade himself, that she would have resolution enough to do what her words seemed to threaten. Dismissing, then, all thoughts of doing her hurt in person, and intending to wean her affection from her lover by taking him off, he gave orders to the two men, who guarded Guiscard, to strangle him privately in the night, and to take his heart out of his body, and bring it to him.

They executed his commands, and the next day Tancred called for a golden cup, and putting the heart into it, he had it conveyed by a trusty servant to his daughter, with this message: "Your father sends this present to comfort you with what was most dear to you; even as he was comforted by you in what was most dear to him." She had remained unshaken in her resolution since her father left her, and therefore had prepared the juices of some poisonous plants, which she had mixed with water, to be at hand if what she feared should come to pass. When the servant had delivered the present, and the message, she took the cup, without changing countenance, and seeing the heart therein, and knowing by the servant's words that it must be Guiscard 's, she looked steadfastly at the man, and said, "My father has done very wisely; such a heart as this requires no worse a sepulchre than one of gold." Then she lifted it to her mouth and kissed it, saying: "All my life long, even to this last period of it, have I found my father's love most abundant towards me; but now, more than ever: therefore return him in my name the last thanks that I shall ever be able to give him for such a present." Looking then towards the cup, which she held fast in her hand, she said: "Alas! dearest end and centre of all my wishes! Cursed be the cruelty of him, by whom these eyes now see you; although my soul hath long viewed and known you. You have finished your course; such a one indeed as fortune has thought fit to allot you; you are arrived at the goal to which we all tend; you have left the miseries of this world far behind, and have obtained such a sepulchre from your very enemy, as your merit required. Nothing remained to make your obsequies complete, but the tears of her who was so dear to you whilst you were living; and which, that you should not now want, Heaven put it into the mind of ray relentless father to send you to me. And you shall have them, though I had purposed to die unmoved, and without shedding a tear; and when I have done, I will instantly join my soul to yours; for in what other company can I go better and safer to those unknown regions, where, I doubt not, your soul is now expecting mine." 

When she had done speaking, she shed a flood of tears, kissing the heart a thousand times; whilst the damsels who were about her knew neither what heart it was, nor what her words imported; but being moved with pity they joined with her, begging to know the cause of her grief, and endeavouring all they could to comfort her. 

After she had lamented as long as she thought fit, she raised up her head, and wiping her eyes, said, "Thou heart most dearly beloved! All my duty is now performed towards thee; nothing more remains, but for my soul to accompany thine." Upon this she bade them reach the vessel of water, which she had prepared the day before, and pouring it into the cup with the heart, which she had sufficiently washed with her tears, she drank it all off without the least dread or apprehension, and threw herself upon the bed with the cup in her hand, composing her body as decently as she could, and pressing her lover's heart to hers, she lay without uttering a word more, expecting death. 

The maids, when they saw this, though they knew not what it was she had drunk, sent to acquaint Tancred, who, fearing what had really happened, came into the room soon after she had laid herself down, and finding it was too late, began to lament most grievously. "sir," she said to him, 'save those tears against worse fortune that may happen, for I want them not. Who but yourself would mourn for a thing of your own doing? But If any part of that love now remain in you, which you once had for me, the last request I shall make is, that since you would not suffer us to be happy together whilst living, our two bodies (wherever you have disposed of his) may be publicly interred together when dead." Extreme grief would not suffer the prince to reply. Presently finding herself drawing near her end, she strained the heart strongly to her breast, saying, "Receive us. Heaven, I die!" Then closing her eyes, all sense forsook her, and she departed this miserable life. Such an end had the amours of Guiscard and Ghismond, as you have now heard; and the prince, repenting of his cruelty when it was too late, had them buried in one grave in the most public manner, amid the general grief of all the people of Salerno. 

[No tale of Boccaccio has been so often translated and imitated as this one. It was translated into Latin prose, by Leonard Aretine; into Latin elegiac verse, by Filippo Beroald, the commentator on Apuleius; and into Italian ottava rima, by Annibal Guasco de Alessandrus. It forms the subject of not fewer than five Italian tragedies; one of which, "La Ghismonda," obtained a momentary fame by being falsely attributed, by its real author, to Torquato Tasso. An English drama, by Robert Wilmot, which is also founded on this story, was acted before Queen Elizabeth, at the Inner Temple, in 1568 (Dodley's "Collection of Old Plays," vol. ii). The story appeared in French verse, by Jean Fleury; and in the English octave stanza, by William Walter, a poet of the reign of Henry VII. In this country it is best known by the 'sigismunda and Guiscardo" of Dryden. 

The old English ballad of "Sir Cauline and the Daughter of the King of Ireland,” has a strong resemblance to this ballad of Boccaccio, in the secret meeting of the lovers, and the discovery of their transgression; the catastrophe, however, is entirely different. 

The fine arts have also added lustre and celebrity to the tale. There is a beautiful painting attributed to Correggio, in which Sigismunda is represented weeping over the heart of her lover. It was this picture that Hogarth tried to copy and rival, an attempt for which he was severely ridiculed. "The "sigismunda" of Hogarth," says Horace Walpole, "is the representation of a maudlin strumpet, just turned out of keeping, with eyes red with rage, tearing off the ornaments her keeper had given her." See also Churchill's "Epistle to Hogarth.”]