4-6, Andrevuola, Gabriotto

NOVEL VI. 

A young lady, named Andrevuola, is in love with Gabriotto; they relate to each other their dreams, and he falls down dead in her arms. As she and her maid are carrying him out, they are apprehended by the officers of justice; she relates how the affair happened, and afterwards, the magistrate would force her, but she resists; at length her father hears of it, and as her innocence is clear, has her set at liberty. From that period she grows weary of the world, and becomes a nun. 

The ladies were all pleased with Filomena's novel, because they had often heard the song, but were unacquainted with the reason of its being made. The king laid his next commands on Pamfilo, who began thus: - The dream in the preceding story puts me in mind of another, in which mention is made of two different dreams, that shewed what was to happen, as the last did what had already come to pass; and which were no sooner related than the effect as suddenly followed. You must know, then, that it is a general passion in all people to see many things in their sleep, which appear real at that time, and when we wake we judge some of them to be so, some to be barely probable, and others to be utterly false, many of which do yet come to pass. For this reason we see many persons pay the same regard to a dream, as they would do to anything which they saw whilst they were really awake; insomuch, that they find constant matter of joy or trouble therein, according to their different hopes or fears; on the contrary, there are others who will believe nothing of that kind, until they fall into the very danger of which they have been in that manner forewarned. Of these, I commend neither the one nor the other; for, as all dreams are not true, neither are they all false. That all are not true, we may each of us have frequently observed; and yet that all are not false, appears from Filomena's novel, and will be farther shown by mine. Therefore, I am of opinion, that in a virtuous life and a good cause you need regard no dream, so far as to forego any good intention; and, on the contrary, that in bad actions, although your dreams seem to be favourable, and to promise success, yet should you give no credit to these any more than to the others. But to proceed with my story. 

In the city of Brescia there lived a gentleman, called Signor Negro da Ponte Carraro, who, besides his other children, had a daughter named Andrevuola, a young and beautiful lady. Now she had taken a fancy to a neighbour, whose name was Gabriotto, a man of mean extraction, but excellent qualities, as well as graceful person; and, by her maid's assistance, she had managed so, that he was not only made acquainted with it, but they had frequent interviews together in her father's garden, to- the mutual satisfaction of both parties. And, that nothing but death should part their affection, they were privately married. 

Continuing their meetings in this manner, it happened one night, that she dreamed they were in the garden together, and, as she had him in her arms, she thought she saw, arising out of his body, something black and frightful, the form of which she could not well comprehend, which took him by force from her, and went with him under ground; and from that time she could neither see the one nor the other. This caused her the utmost distress, and glad she was, upon waking, to find it otherwise: yet she had some dread still upon her on account of the dream. The next night, therefore, on her husband's desiring to meet her, she endeavoured all she could to excuse herself: but seeing him resolute, and fearing to disoblige him, she received him as usual. After they had diverted themselves with gathering flowers, and had sat down by a fountain side, he inquired the reason why she would have prevented his coming that night. She then related her dream, and the apprehensions it had occasioned; which made him laugh, and tell her that it was a folly to mind dreams, which proceeded, for the most part,- from the stomach being either too full, or too empty, and which we every day see to be of no significancy: "But," added he, "had I showed any regard to dreams, I should not have come here, not so much for the sake of yours, as one of my own last night, which was this: I thought I was hunting in a most delightful forest, and that I had taken a beautiful young hind, as white as snow, which in a little time became so tame that it never left me; and I, fearing I might lose it, put a collar of gold about its neck, which I held by a golden chain in my hand. Afterwards, as it couched down by me, with its head in my bosom, on a sudden came rushing upon us, but whence I could not imagine, a greyhound, as black as jet, apparently half starved, and monstrously ugly. At me it made full speed, thrust its snout into my bosom, on my left side, and griped me to my very heart, which I thought it tore away from me, and which gave me such pain, that I instantly awoke, clapped my hand on my side, to feel if anything was amiss; and could not help laughing afterwards at my own weakness for doing so. What can be said, then, in such cases? I have had as bad or worse dreams, and nothing ever happened to me: then let us think of something else." 

The lady was still more dismayed at hearing this, but concealed her thoughts as much as possible, for fear of giving him uneasiness; yet every now and then would she cast her eye down the garden, to see if anything monstrous appeared. 

At length her husband, fetching a deep sigh, embraced her, and said, "Alas, my life, help me, I am dying! "and, having said that, he fell upon the ground. She immediately drew him into her lap, and weeping, said, "My dearest love, what is it that you feel?"He made no answer, but gasping vehemently, and perspiring inordinately, he soon expired. It is easy to conceive how grievous this was to the lady, who loved him more than her own life. She called upon him by name, over and over again, and wept for a considerable time; but, seeing that he was certainly dead, and not knowing what to do, she ran, all in tears, to call her maid, who had been intrusted with the secret, and, after they had lamented over him for some time together, she said to her - 

“Since Heaven has taken away my love from me I mean to live no longer myself; but, before I put my design into execution, I would take the most effectual means to preserve my honour, by concealing the affection that has existed between us; I desire then to have this body first interred, whose dear soul is now departed." "My dear lady," the maid replied, "do no talk of destroying yourself; for, by doing an act of that kind, you will lose him in the other world also: a soul like his must be happy, and you would send yours to endless misery: you had better compose yourself, and think how you may be of service, by offering up some few prayers in his behalf, if by chance he should stand in need of them, for any sin he may have committed. With regard to his interment, that may easily be done in this garden, because it was never known that he came hither; or, if you will not agree to that, we will carry him out, and leave him there: he will be found in the morning, and conveyed home, when his relations will take care to bury him." 

The lady, though she was overwhelmed with grief, listened attentively to the maid's advice; and not approving of the former part of it, she said, with regard to the latter, "Heaven forbid that I should ever suffer a youth so dearly beloved by me, and my husband too, either to be buried like a dog, or left in the street: he has had my prayers, and shall have those of his friends and relations. I am now resolved what to do." And immediately she sent the maid for a piece of rich silk she had in her cabinet, which being brought, she spread it upon the ground, and they laid the body upon it, with the head on a pillow; and closing his eyes and mouth, with abundance of tears, putting a garland of roses on his head, and strewing others over his body, she said to her maid, "It is not far to his house, whither we can easily carry him, as he now is, and we will lay him before the door; it will soon be day, and then he will be found; and though it will be a sad sight to his friends, to me, in whose arms he died, it will be a satisfaction." Having said this, she hung down her head over him, and wept for a considerable time; till, being reminded by her servant that daybreak was at hand, she raised herself up, and taking the ring from her finger, with which he had espoused her, she put it upon his, saying, "My dear lord, if thy soul has any knowledge of my tears, or if there be any sense or understanding left after that is departed from the body, receive this last gift from her who was once so dear to thee: "and at these words she fell down in a swoon. In some little time she came to herself, when they took up the silk, on which the body was laid, and went with it out of the garden, towards his house. 

As they were going along, it happened that they were met by some of the provost's officers, who were out upon another affair, and who seized them as they were carrying off the corpse. Andrevuola, coveting death at that time more than life, said freely to them, "I know who you are, and that it would be in vain to think of escaping; I am ready then to go before the magistrates, and to relate all I know concerning this matter; but let none of you dare to touch me, because I offer no resistance; nor touch anything belonging to this body, under pain of being accused himself." Accordingly it was carried untouched to the provost's hall, and, when notice of it was given to him, he arose, and she being brought before him he began to question her how, and by what means, this thing had happened. Physicians also were sent for to give their opinions, whether it was done by poison, or any such way: they all declared the contrary, affirming that some vein near the heart had burst, which had suffocated him. The provost hearing this, and perceiving her innocence, pretended to make a matter of favour of it, and told her that he would set her at liberty, upon condition that she would yield herself to his pleasure, which she refusing, he was base enough to try force. But she, fired with a noble disdain, defended herself with great courage and resolution. 

It being now broad day, and the news being carried to Signor Negro, he went, full of grief, to the hall, attended by many of his friends, and, being informed of his daughter's innocence, he demanded her from the provost, who, choosing rather to mention himself what had happened, than to allow her to accuse him, began, with great commendation of her constancy and virtue, owned his designs towards her, and offered to marry her, notwithstanding the meanness of her former marriage, if it was agreeable to her father and herself. Whilst he was speaking, Andrevuola entered, and falling down on her knees before her father, said, "My dear father, I suppose I need not tell you either of my boldness or of my misfortune, as you must certainly have heard of both: therefore I most humbly beg your forgiveness for having married without your knowledge, the person whom I most loved; and this I do with no view to a pardon, but that I may die as your daughter, and not as an enemy." 

Signor Negro was advanced in years, and, being one of a courteous and gentle disposition, could not refrain from tears at these words, and, raising her tenderly from the ground, he said, "Daughter, I should have been more glad if you had taken such a husband as I had approved of; yet, if you married to please yourself, this ought to please me. But to conceal it entirely, gives me concern for the little confidence you repose in me; especially as he died before I knew anything of the matter: but since it is so, the respect, for your sake, that I would have showed him, as my son-in-law, whilst he was living, I mean to express now he is dead." Then, turning to his children and friends, he ordered them to get everything in readiness for a solemn and magnificent funeral. 

By this time Gabriotto's friends and relations had assembled, as well as great crowds from all parts of the city; and, the corpse being set in the middle of the court in the manner she had before adorned it, great lamentation was made over it, by all the relations and others present; and thence it was carried to the grave with the utmost honour and respect, not like that of an ordinary citizen, but as of a person of quality, upon the shoulders of some of the most eminent citizens. A few days afterwards, the provost renewed his request, and Signor Negro recommended it to his daughter, who would hear nothing of it; and he, willing to content her, sent both her and her maid into a monastery of great devotion, where after a long course of time, they ended their lives. 

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.