10-4, Signor Gentil de' Carisendi

NOVEL IV. 

Signor Gentil de' Carisendi takes a lady out of her grave, whom he had loved, and who was buried for dead. She recovers, and is brought to bed of a son, which he presents along with the lady to her husband. 

It seemed strange to them all for a man to be so lavish of his blood, and it was agreed that Nathan had outdone both the king of Spain and the abbot of Cligni. The king then signified his will to Lauretta that she should begin, which she did to this effect: - Great, as well as beautiful, most noble ladies, are the incidents which have been already related, nor does anything seem wanting, in my opinion, to bring our argument home to the subject, but that we take in the affair of love, which affords matter enough for discourse upon any question whatever. For this reason, then, and as it is always an agreeable topic to youth, I shall mention the generosity of an enamoured young gentleman, which, all things considered, will appear, perhaps, no way inferior to the others: if it be true that people give away their wealth, forget animosities, run a thousand risks of their lives, and, what is more, their fame and honour too, and all to come at the thing desired. 

In Bologna was a knight, of great consequence and worth, called Gentil Carisendi, who was in love with Catalina, the wife of Niccoluccio Caccianimico, and meeting with no return, he went, in a kind of despair, to Modena, whither he was called as Podesta. In the meantime, Niccoluccio being absent from Bologna, and his lady at a country-house about three miles distant, where she was gone to stay, being with child, it happened she was taken with an hysteric fit, which quite extinguished all signs of life, so that her physician declared her dead. And because her acquaintance said, they had been informed by her that she was not quick with child, she was immediately buried in a vault belonging to a neighbouring church. This was soon signified by a friend to Signor Gentil, who, though, he had never received the least mark of her favour, grieved extremely, saying at last to himself, "Behold, my dear Catalina, you are dead! living you would never deign me one kind look; now, however, that you cannot prevent it, I will please myself even with a kiss." 

So, giving orders that his departure should be a secret, towards evening he mounted his horse, and taking a servant along with him, he rode directly to the vault where she was buried, which he opened, and lying down by her, he put his cheek to hers, and wept. At length, laying his hands for some time upon her bosom, he thought he felt something beat, when, throwing all fear aside, and attending more nicely to the circumstance, he was convinced she had a small spark of life remaining in her; therefore, by the help of his servant, he took her out of the vault as gently as possible, and, laying her upon the horse, he brought her privately to his house at Bologna. There his mother, a worthy good lady, having the whole account from him, by warm baths and other means, soon brought her to herself; when, after fetching a deep sigh, she said, "Alas! where am I!"The good lady replied, "Make yourself easy, you are in a very good place." Looking then all round, and seeing Signor Gentil before her, her astonishment was great, and she desired his mother to inform her by what means she had come thither. He then related everything to her, at which she was greatly affected, and, after giving due thanks, she requested of him, by his love and generous deportment, to attempt nothing contrary to her honour and that of her husband, and that, when it was daylight, he would suffer her to go home. "Madam," he replied, "whatever my love has been heretofore, I promise both now and hereafter, seeing I have been so fortunate to bring you to life, to use you with the same regard as I would do my sister: but, as I think myself entitled to some reward, I must insist upon your granting me one favour." - "sir," said she, "you may command anything from me consistent with modesty." He made answer, "Madam, your relations and all the people of Bologna are assured of your being dead; therefore I insist only upon your staying here with my mother till I return from Modena, which will be very soon. My reason is, that I would then, in the presence of the principal inhabitants here, make a valuable and solemn present of you to your husband." The lady, knowing her obligations to the knight, and that his demand was honourable, consented, and gave her word to abide by it, notwithstanding she longed extremely to gratify her relations with the news of her being alive. And whilst they were talking, she felt labour-pains come upon her, when she was soon delivered of a son, which added greatly to their joy. Signor Gentil ordered that she should have the same care taken of her as if she had been his own wife, and then returned privately to Modena. There he continued till the expiration of his office, and the morning he was to come home, he ordered a great entertainment to be made at his house, to which Niccoluccio Caccianimico, with many of the principal citizens were invited; and after he had dismounted, and found the company waiting for him, understanding too that the lady and child were both very well, he received them all with a great deal of joy, and dinner was immediately served up in the most magnificent manner possible. 

Towards the end, having concerted everything beforehand with the lady, he addressed himself to his guests in the following manner: "Gentlemen, I remember to have heard of a pretty custom in Persia, that when any one has a mind to show the greatest respect in his power to any of his friends, that he invites them to his house, and produces that thing, be it what it will, wife, mistress, or daughter, that is most dear to him, declaring thereby that he would, if he was able, lay his very heart before them. This custom I mean to introduce at Bologna. You do me honour with your company at this feast, and I will return it, by showing that thing which is the most dear to me of all that I have now in the world, or ever shall possess. But I must beg your solution of a difficulty which I am going to start to you. A certain person had a very honest and trusty servant, who was taken extremely ill, whom, without more to do, he sent out into the street in that condition, when a stranger, out of mere compassion, took him into his house, and with a great deal of trouble and expense, had him restored to his former health. 

- Now I would gladly know whether the first master has any right to complain of the second, for keeping him in his service, and refusing to restore him." This occasioned a great deal of argument, and all agreed at last in opinion, leaving Niccoluccio Caccianimico, who was an elegant speaker, to report it. He, therefore, after commending the Persian custom, said, "they were all persuaded that the first master had no farther right, after he had not only abandoned his servant, but thrown him away as it were; and that, on account of the kindness done to him, he justly belonged to the second, who offered no violence or injury to the first in detaining him." The rest of the company, being all wise and worthy persons, declared that they joined in opinion with Niccoluccio. The knight, pleased with the answer, and having it too from Niccoluccio, declared that those were his own sentiments, adding, "It is now time for me to honour you according to promise." 

He then sent two servants to the lady, whom he had taken care to have very gaily dressed, desiring her to favour his guests with her company. Accordingly, she came into the hall, followed by the two servants, with the little infant in her arms. And after she had seated herself, he said, "Behold, this is what I value beyond everything else; see if you think I am in the right." The gentlemen all praised her extremely, pronouncing her worthy of his esteem; and, after looking more nicely at her, many of them were going to have owned her, had it not been that they thought her dead. But none gazed upon her so much as Niccoluccio, who (the knight having stepped a little aside) grew impatient to know who she was, and, unable any longer to contain himself, demanded of her if she was a citizen or a stranger? The lady, hearing this from her husband, could scarcely refrain from giving him an answer, yet, in regard to her injunctions, she held her peace. Another inquired whether that was her child; and a third, whether she was wife, or any relation, to Signor Gentil. Stili she made no reply to any. So when the knight returned, one of the company said, "sir, this is really a pretty creature, but she appears to be dumb: is she actually so?" - "Gentlemen," he replied, "her silence is no small argument of her virtue." - "Tell us then," quoth one, "who she is." - "That I will," said the knight, "with all my heart, if you will promise me in the meantime that none of you stir from your places till I have made an end." 

This being agreed, and the tables all removed, he went and sat down by her, saying, "Gentlemen, this lady is that good and faithful servant, about whom I proposed the question: who, being set at nought by her friends, and thrown into the street, as it were, as a thing of no account, was by me with great care taken up, and redeemed from death; and from so terrible an object as she once was, brought to what you now see. But, for your more perfect understanding of what has happened, I will make it plain to you in few words." So he began from his being first enamoured, and related everything particularly that had happened, to the great amazement of the hearers; adding, at last, "For these reasons, if you stick to what you said just now, and Niccoluccio especially, the lady is mine, and nobody has any right to demand her from me." No reply was made to this, but all stood expecting to hear what he had farther to say. In the meantime, Niccoluccio and the rest of the company, as well as the lady, were so affected, that they all wept. But Signor Gentil arose, and taking the child in his arms, and the lady by the hand, he went towards Niccoluccio, and said, "Rise, my friend, behold, I do not give you your wife, whom you and your relations had thrown away, but I bestow this lady upon you, as an acquaintance of mine, along with her little son, which is yours, and whom I have called by my own name; and I entreat you not to have the worse opinion of her, for having been three months in my house; for I call Heaven to witness, that though my love was the cause of her being preserved, she has lived with the same honour in my house, along with my mother, as she could have done with her own parent." Then, turning to the lady, he said, "Madam, I now acquit you of your promise, and give you up freely to your husband. So giving him the lady and the child into his arms, he returned, and sat down. Niccoluccio received them with joy, the greater, as it was the more unexpected, loading the knight with infinite thanks, whilst the company, who could not refrain from weeping, highly commended his generosity, as did every one also that heard it. The lady now was brought to her own house with great demonstrations of joy, and the people all beheld her with the same wonder as if she had been raised from the dead. Moreover, the knight was in the greatest esteem ever after, both with her and Niccoluccio, as well as all their relations and friends. 

What will you say, then, ladies? Is a king's giving away his crown and sceptre, an abbot's reconciling a malefactor to the pope, or an old man's offering his throat to an enemy's dagger, anything like this action of Signor Gentile, who, being in the bloom and heat of youth, and seeming to have a good title to that which other people's carelessness had thrown away, and he by good fortune happened to pick up, not only restrained his desire, much to his honour, but generously resigned what he had entirely coveted, and sought at all events to possess. To me they seem no way comparable. 

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.