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.] 

//

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!”

3-8 Ferondo, drug, buried, dead, abbot, dungeon, purgatory

NOVEL VIII. 

Ferondo, by taking a certain drug, is buried for dead, and the abbot, who has an intrigue with his wife, takes him out of the grave and puts him into a dungeon, where he is made to believe that he is in purgatory. Being raised up again, he rears a child as his own, which the abbot had got by his wife. 

Emilia's long novel (though it did not appear long to the company, on account of the variety of incidents with which it was stored) was now brought to a conclusion, when the queen gave a nod to Lauretta, who began in this manner: - I am going to relate a thing which has more the appearance of fiction than of truth, and which I call to mind from what has just been told us, of one person's being mourned for, and buried instead of another. I purpose, then, to tell you how a living person was buried as though he had been dead; how, afterwards, it was believed by himself, as well as other people, that he was risen from the dead, and not actually living all the time; and how another obtained the name of a saint upon that score, and was adored as such, when he deserved rather to have been severely punished. There was in Tuscany, and is still, an abbey situated in a retired spot, as is commonly the case with such establishments. Its newly appointed abbot was a man of holy life in every respect, save in the matter of woman, and this he managed so well, that he was never suspected; therefore was he universally regarded as godly, pious and righteous in all points. Now it happened, that among the abbot's many acquaintances was a rich countryman, named Ferondo, a gross blockhead, whom the abbot admitted into his society only to make sport of the dullard's simplicity. In the course of their acquaintance, the abbot found that the rustic had a very handsome wife, with whom he grew so violently in love, that day or night he could think of nothing else; but being informed that Ferondo, however stupid in other things, was cunning enough in watching over her, he almost despaired of success. He managed, however, so artfully, that he prevailed upon Ferondo to bring her sometimes for their amusement to his gardens at the abbey, when he would discourse to them of the beatitudes of eternal life, and of the pious works of many righteous people departed hence. This had such an effect upon the lady, that she had a great desire to confess to him, and asked leave of her husband, which was granted. Coming, then, to confession, greatly to the abbot's satisfaction, and sitting at his feet, she began, before she entered upon her subject, to this effect - "Sir, if God had given me a different sort of a husband, or if he had given me none at all, perhaps with your instruction it would be easy for me to pursue the path which you have pointed out to eternal life: but when I consider what sort of a person I am tied to, I must look upon myself as a widow, and yet worse than married, in respect that I can have no other husband as long as he lives. Besides, he is so unreasonably jealous, that I live in constant misery with him: therefore, before I proceed to confession, I must beg a little of your advice in this particular; for till I find some remedy in this respect, confession or any other good work, will be of little effect." 

This touched the abbot in the most sensible part; and now thinking that fortune had opened a way to what he had so long aimed at, he replied: - "Daughter, I can easily believe how grievous it is for a pretty young lady, as you are, to have a fool for her husband, and it is worse to have a man that is jealous; therefore, you must suffer extremely, that have both one and the other. But, to be plain with you, I see no advice that can avail, or remedy, but one; namely, to cure Ferondo of that jealousy. The remedy, in such a case, I know well how to apply, provided you will keep it a secret. - "Father," quoth the lady, "never fear; I would die before I would make a discovery contrary to your injunction; but how is it possible?" The abbot replied, "If we desire he should be cured, it will be necessary for him to go first into purgatory." - "What, go there alive?" - "He must die first, and then go thither; and when he shall have suffered quite enough to cure him of his jealousy, we shall use a few prayers to bring him to life again, and it shall be done." - "Then I must remain a widow?" - "For a time, and you must be exceedingly careful not to be prevailed upon to marry elsewhere, for that would be a very bad thing, and as you must return to Ferondo when he comes to life again, he would be more jealous than ever." - "Well, so long as there is a cure, and I am not to be a prisoner all my life, do as you will, I am content." - "But," said the abbot, "what reward shall I have for this service?" - "Father, whatever lies in my power to give; but what can such a one as myself offer worthy the acceptance of a person like you?" - "Madam, it is in your power to do as much for me, as it is in mine to do for you. As I am ready, then, to perform what shall be for your ease and comfort, so should you be mindful of me in a point where my life and welfare are both concerned." - "If it be so, I am ready and willing." - "Then you must grant me your love, for which I entirely languish." 

She was startled at this, and said, "Alas! my father, what is it you would have? I took you always» for a saint. Do holy men request such favours of ladies who come to them for advice?" - "My dearest life, let not this surprise you," replied the abbot; "my sanctity is not the less on this account, because that abides in the soul, and what I now ask of you is only a sin of the body. But be that as it may, the force of your beauty is such that it constrains me to do thus: and I tell you, that you may be proud of it above all other women, since it captivates the saints, who are used to behold the beauties of heaven. Besides, although I am an abbot, I am a man, like others, and as you see, not old. Nor should you think much of this matter, but rather be desirous of it, for all the time Ferondo is in purgatory I will supply his place, and it will never be so much as suspected, because every one has the same opinion of me that you yourself just now declared. Do not refuse the grace that heaven sends you; there are enough that would be glad of what you may have, and shall have, if you wisely follow my advice. Moreover, I have jewels both rich and rare, which I intend shall all be yours. Do, therefore, my dearest love, what I would willingly do for you." 

The lady had her eyes fixed on the ground, not knowing how to deny him, and yet to grant the favour seemed not so well. The abbot, perceiving that she had listened and did not immediately reply, considered the conquest half made, and continued using such arguments as before, till he had convinced her that it would be a good action. So, at last, she said, with a blush, that she was willing to comply, but not till her husband was sent to purgatory. The abbot was well enough satisfied with this, and replied, "He shall go thither directly; all you have to do is to see that he comes hither tomorrow, or next day, to make some stay with me." Saying this he put a fine ring on her fìnger, and dismissed her. She was overjoyed with the present, supposing she should have many more such; and returning to her friends, related wonderful things of the abbot's great sanctity, after which her husband and she went home together. A few days afterwards Ferondo went to the abbey, and as soon as the abbot saw him he prepared a drug, which had been given him in the Levantine countries by a great prince, who assured him it was the very powder which the Old Man of the Mountain was in the habit of using whenever he had a mind to throw any one into a trance, in order to send him into his paradise or take him out of it. By giving more or less he could, without doing them any harm, make them sleep as long as he pleased: insomuch, that, whilst its effect lasted, you would never imagine but that they were dead. Of this drug the abbot took as much as would operate for three days, and mixing it up with a glass of wine, without Ferondo perceiving it, gave it to him to drink. He afterwards walked with him into the cloisters with several of the monks, and they began to be merry together as usual. In some little time the drug began to work; Ferondo was taken with a sudden drowsiness, he nodded as he stood, and at last fell down in a profound sleep. The abbot seemed much concerned at the accident, making them unbutton his collar, and throw cold water in his face, in order to bring him to himself, as though it had been occasioned by some fumes from his stomach, or such like disorder: but when they found all was in vain, and perceived, on feeling his pulse, no signs of life remaining, it was concluded by all that he was certainly dead. Accordingly they sent to acquaint his wife and relations, who came immediately, and after they had lamented over him for a time, he was buried by the abbot's direction, with his clothes on, in one of the abbey vaults. His wife went back to her own house, giving out, that she resolved never to stir a step from a little son that she had by Ferondo; and continuing there, she took upon herself the management of the child, as well as of the estate he had left behind. The abbot, when night came, took with him a monk of Bologna, whom he could trust, and who was just come thither upon a visit; and together they carried Ferondo out of the vault into a dungeon, which served as a prison for the monks when they had committed any fault. Then, stripping him of his clothes, they dressed him in the habit of a monk, and left him upon a bundle of straw, till he should come to himself; whilst the monk, being instructed by the abbot, as to what he would have done, was to wait there without anybody's knowing anything of the matter, till the sleeper came to his senses. 

The next day the abbot went, attended by some of his monks, to pay his visit of condolence to the widow, whom he found in her weeds, very sorrowful; and, after a little consolation, he put her softly in mind of her promise. She, finding herself now at liberty, and seeing another valuable ring on his finger, gave her consent, and it was agreed that he should come the next night. When that time came, therefore, he put on Ferondo's clothes, and taking his faithful monk along with him, went thither, and stayed till the morning; and this practice he followed so long, that he was frequently seen passing backwards and forwards by the neighbours, who all agreed, that it was Ferondo who walked there, doing penance; and many strange stories were reported among the simple country people about it, and were carried to the lady, who knew full well what kind of ghost it was. 

The Bolognese monk, as soon as he perceived Ferondo growing a little sensible, come in, making a most terrible noise; and having a bundle of rods in his hand, began to chastise him severely. Ferondo, crying and howling, could say nothing but, "Where am I?" The monk replied, "Thou art in purgatory." - "How!" said Ferondo, "and am I dead then?" - "Most surely," answered the monk. Thereupon Ferondo began to lament for himself, his wife, and child, uttering the strangest things in the world. The monk then gave him something to eat and drink, which Ferondo seeing, "What!" said he, "do dead people eat!" The monk replied, "Yes; and what I now bring, thy wife sent this morning to church, to have mass said for thy soul." - "God bless her!"quoth Ferondo, "I was very fond of her before I died, to that degree that I hugged her all night in my arms, and did nothing but kiss her, and sometimes the other thing when I had a mind." Then, finding himself hungry, he began to eat and drink, and the wine being very bad, he said, "God confound her! why did she not give the priest some wine from the cask next the wall?" No sooner had he filled his belly than he had the same discipline over again; when, roaring out amain, he said, "What is all this for?" The monk answered, "Because thou art jealous of thy wife, who is one of the best of women." - "Alas! you say true; she was a most dear creature: but I did not know that it was a sin to be jealous, or I would not have been so." - " Oh! you should have taken care of that whilst you were in the other world; and if it should happen that you return thither, remember what I now say, and be jealous no more." - " Then, do people ever return thither again, after they have been dead?" -"Yes, if God so pleases." - "Oh! " quoth Ferondo, "if that should be my case, I would be the best husband in the world; I would never beat her, or say an angry word, unless it were for the bad wine she has sent me, and letting me have no candles, that I am forced to eat in the dark." - " She sent candles enough," answered the monk, "but they are all burnt out at the mass." - "Well," quoth Ferondo, "you say very true, and when I go back she shall do as she pleases: but pray tell me who you are that do all this to me?" The monk replied, "I am now dead; but I was of Sardinia, and am condemned to this penance, to give you food and drink, and two whippings a day, because I formerly commended a certain master of mine for being jealous." - "But," said Ferondo, "is there nobody here besides us two?" - "Yes, thousands; but you can no more see or hear them, than they can hear or see us." "Then," quoth Ferondo, "how far may we be distant from our own countries." - "Many millions of leagues." "Why truly that is far enough," quoth Ferondo, "then we must certainly be out of the world." 

In this manner was Ferondo kept there for ten months, whilst the abbot continued his visits to the wife; till at last she proved with child, when it was thought convenient that her husband should be delivered out of purgatory, that he might father the child. The next night, therefore, the abbot went into the dungeon, and called upon Ferondo, with a counterfeited voice, saying, "Take courage, Ferondo; it is now the will of God that thou return into the other world, when thou shalt have a son by thy wife, whom thou shalt name Benedict; because, through the prayers of thy holy abbot, and thy most virtuous wife, and the intercession of St. Benedict, this favour is granted thee." Ferondo was overjoyed at hearing this, and said, "Thanks be to God and to St. Benedict, and to the abbot and to my precious wife." In the next wine that was sent him, the abbot mingled as much of the former drug as would make him sleep four hours; and then they put his own clothes upon him, and carried him into the vault where he had been interred. 

By break of day Ferondo came to himself, and seeing through a crevice of the vault a glimmering of light, which he had been utterly deprived of for ten months, he began to think himself alive, and shouted, "Let me out, let me out." At the same time he lifted up the cover with his head, it being of no great weight, and was making his way out, when the monks, having just ended their morning service, ran thither, and knowing Ferondo's voice, and seeing him rise out of the vault, they were so terrified that they fled to tell the abbot. The holy man, who seemed to them to be just risen from prayer, said, "Fear not, my sons; take the crucifix and holy water, and follow me, that we may see what kind of miracle this is." Ferondo was quite pale, as might be supposed, having been so long confined without seeing any light; but as soon as the abbot appeared, he fell at his feet, saying, "Your prayers, most holy father, as it has been revealed to me, and those of St. Benedict, and my wife, have delivered me out of purgatory, and brought me to life again, for which I pray God to send you all sorts of good luck now and always." - "Blessed be the power of God!" quoth the abbot; "go, then, my son, as this mercy is bestowed upon you, and comfort your wife, who has been in the utmost trouble ever since you departed from us; and be henceforth a faithful servant of God." - "That's very good advice your reverence gives me," said Ferondo. "Never fear but I'll kiss her ever so much when I see her, I'm so fond of her." Away then he went, and the abbot, left alone with his monks, affected to regard this miracle with great veneration, and ordered them devoutly to sing the Miserere.

In the meantime, Ferondo returned to his house, where every one that saw him fled, as if they had beheld some terrible sight, affirming that he was risen from the dead. His wife also expressed the utmost consternation. In some little time, however, after they were convinced of his being alive, they began to ask him all sorts of questions, which he was never at a loss to answer, for he seemed to have come back quite a clever fellow from the other world; he told them news concerning the souls of their departed friends, and strung together out of his own head the finest stories in the world about purgatory, not forgetting to relate to them, in full assembly, what had been revealed to him by the mouth of the Hangel Bagarel just before his resurrection. In fulfilment of that prediction Ferondo's wife bore him a son whom they called Benedict Ferondi. Ferondo's resurrection, and what he himself reported about it, every one giving entire credit to his words, added greatly to the renown of the abbot's extraordinary sanctity. Ferondo also remembered the many sound whippings he had got for his jealousy and was cured of it for ever, as the abbot had promised he should be; and his wife lived very happily with him from that time forth, and had the pleasure of the abbot's company, as often as they could conveniently meet together.