Part 9

“I do not know,” he replied, “but, as I have never seen him before, is it strange that I should ask?”

“No, by St. John,” said she; “but he is our son.”

“How can that be?” said her husband. “You were not pregnant when I left.”

“Truly I was not, so far as I know,” she replied, “but I can swear that the child is yours, and that no other man but you has ever lain with me.”

“I never said so,” he answered, “but, at any rate, it is ten years since I left, and this child does not appear more than seven. How then can it be mine? Did you carry him longer than you did the others?”

“By my oath, I know not!” she said; “but what I tell you is true. Whether I carried it longer than the others I know not, and if you did not make it before you left, I do not know how it could have come, unless it was that, not long after your departure, I was one day in our garden, when suddenly there came upon me a longing and desire to eat a leaf of sorrel, which at that time was thickly covered with snow. I chose a large and fine leaf, as I thought, and ate it, but it was only a white and hard piece of snow. And no sooner had I eaten it than I felt myself to be in the same condition as I was before each of my other children was born. In fact, a certain time afterwards, I bore you this fair son.”

The merchant saw at once that he was being fooled, but he pretended to believe the story his wife had told him, and replied;

“My dear, though what you tell me is hardly possible, and has never happened to anyone else, let God be praised for what He has sent us. If He has given us a child by a miracle, or by some secret method of which we are ignorant, He has not forgotten to provide us with the wherewithal to keep it.”

When the good woman saw that her husband was willing to believe the tale she told him, she was greatly pleased. The merchant, who was both wise and prudent, stayed at home the next ten years, without making any other voyages, and in all that time breathed not a word to his wife to make her suspect he knew aught of her doings, so virtuous and patient was he.

But he was not yet tired of travelling, and wished to begin again. He told his wife, who was very dissatisfied thereat.

“Be at ease,” he said, “and, if God and St. George so will, I will return shortly. And as our son, who was born during my last voyage, is now grown up, and capable of seeing and learning, I will, if it seem good to you, take him with me.”

“On my word”, said she “I hope you will, and you will do well.”

“It shall be done,” he said, and thereupon he started, and took with him the young man, of whom he was not the father, and for whom he felt no affection.

They had a good wind, and came to the port of Alexandria, where the good merchant sold the greater part of his merchandise very well. But he was not so foolish as to keep at his charge a child his wife had had by some other man, and who, after his death, would inherit like the other children, so he sold the youth as a slave, for good money paid down, and as the lad was young and strong, nearly a hundred ducats was paid for him.

When this was done, the merchant returned to London, safe and sound, thank God. And it need not be told how pleased his wife was to see him in good health, but when she saw her son was not there, she knew not what to think.

She could not conceal her feelings, and asked her husband what had become of their son?

“Ah, my dear,” said he, “I will not conceal from you that a great misfortune has befallen him.”

“Alas, what?” she asked. “Is he drowned?”

“No; but the truth is that the wind and waves wafted us to a country that was so hot that we nearly died from the great heat of the sun. And one day when we had all left the ship, in order that we each might dig a hole in which to shield ourselves from the heat,--our dear son, who, as you know was made of snow, began to melt in the sun, and in our presence was turned into water, and ere you could have said one of the seven psalms, there was nothing left of him. Thus strangely did he come into the world, and thus suddenly did he leave it. I both was, and am, greatly vexed, and not one of all the marvels I have ever seen astonished me so greatly.”

“Well!” said she. “Since it has pleased God to give and to take away, His name be praised.”

As to whether she suspected anything or not, the history is silent and makes no mention, but perhaps she learned that her husband was not to be hood-winked.

*****

STORY THE TWENTIETH -- THE HUSBAND AS DOCTOR.

By Philippe De Laon.

_Of a young squire of Champagne who, when he married, had never mounted a Christian creature,--much to his wife’s regret. And of the method her mother found to instruct him, and how the said squire suddenly wept at a great feast that was made shortly after he had learned how to perform the carnal act--as you will hear more plainly hereafter._

It is well known that in the province of Champagne you are sure to meet heavy and dull-witted persons--which has seemed strange to many persons, seeing that the district is so near to the country of Mischief. (*) Many stories could be told of the stupidity of the Champenois, but this present story will suffice.

(*) _Mal-Eugen_ in the original. The author probably means Picardy or Lorraine.

In this province, there lived a young man, an orphan, who at the death of his father and mother had become rich and powerful. He was stupid, ignorant, and disagreeable, but hard-working and knew well how to take care of himself and his affairs, and for this reason, many persons,--even people of condition,--were willing to give him their daughter in marriage.

One of these damsels, above all others, pleased the friends and relations of our Champenois, for her beauty, goodness, riches, and so forth. They told him that it was time he married.

“You are now,” they said, “twenty-three years old, and there could not be a better time. And if you will listen to us, we have searched out for you a fair and good damsel who seems to us just suited to you. It is such an one--you know her well;” and they told him her name.

The young man, who cared little whether he was married or not, as long as he lost no money by it, replied that he would do whatever they wished. “Since you think it will be to my advantage, manage the business the best way you can, and I will follow your advice and instructions.”

“You say well,” replied these good people. “We will select your wife as carefully as though it were for ourselves, or one of our children.”

To cut matters short, a little time afterwards our Champenois was married; but on the first night, when he was sleeping with his wife, he, never having mounted on any Christian woman, soon turned his back to her, and a few poor kisses was all she had of him, but nothing on her back. You may guess his wife was not well pleased at this; nevertheless, she concealed her discontent.

This unsatisfactory state of things lasted ten days, and would have continued longer if the girl’s mother had not put a stop to it.

It should be known to you that the young man was unskilled in the mysteries of wedlock, for during the lifetime of his parents he had been kept with a tight hand, and, above all things, had been forbidden to play at the beast with two backs, lest he should take too much delight therein, and waste all his patrimony. This was wise of his parents, for he was not a young man likely to be loved for his good looks.

As he would do nothing to anger his father or mother, and was, moreover, not of an amorous disposition, he had always preserved his chastity, though his wife would willingly have deprived him of it, if she had known how to do so honestly.

One day the mother of the bride came to her daughter, and asked her all about her husband’s state and condition, and the thousand other things which women like to know. To all of these questions the bride replied that her husband was a good man, and she hoped and believed that she would be happy with him.

But the old woman knew by her own experience that there are more things in married life than eating and drinking, so she said to her daughter;

“Come here, and tell me, on your word of honour, how does he acquit himself at night?”

When the girl heard this question she was so vexed and ashamed that she could not reply, and her eyes filled with tears. Her mother understood what these tears meant, and said;

“Do not weep, my child! Speak out boldly! I am your mother, and you ought not to conceal anything from me, or be afraid of telling me. Has he done nothing to you yet?”

The poor girl, having partly recovered, and being re-assured by her mother’s words, ceased her tears, but yet could make no reply. Thereupon, her mother asked again;

“Lay aside your grief and answer me honestly: has he done nothing to you yet?”

In a low voice, mingled with tears, the girl replied, “On my word, mother, he has never yet touched me, but, except for that, there is no more kind or affectionate man.”

“Tell me,” said the mother; “do you know if he is properly furnished with all his members? Speak out boldly, if you know.”

“By St. John! he is all right in that respect,” replied the bride. “I have often, by chance, felt his luggage as I turned to and fro in our bed when I could not sleep.”

“That is enough,” said the mother; “leave the rest to me. This is what _you_ must do. In the morning you must pretend to be very ill--even as though your soul were departing from your body. Your husband will, I fully expect, seek me out and bid me come to you, and I will play my part so well that your business will be soon settled, for I shall take your water to a certain doctor, who will give such advice as I order.”

All was done as arranged, for on the morrow, as soon as it was dawn, the girl, who was sleeping with her husband, began to complain and to sham sickness as though a strong fever racked her body.

Her booby husband was much vexed and astonished, and knew not what to say or do. He sent forthwith for his mother-in-law, who was not long in coming. As soon as he saw her, “Alas! mother!” said he, “your daughter is dying.”

“My daughter?” said she. “What does she want?” and whilst she was speaking she walked to the patient’s chamber.

As soon as the mother saw her daughter, she asked what was the matter; and the girl, being well instructed what she was to do, answered not at first, but, after a little time, said, “Mother, I am dying.”

“You shall not die, please God! Take courage! But how comes it that you are taken ill so suddenly?”

“I do not know! I do not know!” replied the girl. “It drives me wild to answer all these questions.”

The old woman took the girl’s hand, and felt her pulse; then she said to her son-in-law;

“On my word she is very ill. She is full of fire, and we must find some remedy. Have you any of her water?”

“That which she made last night is there,” said one of the attendants.

“Give it me,” said the mother.

She took the urine, and put it in a proper vessel, and told her son-in-law that she was about to show it to such-and-such a doctor, that he might know what he could do to her daughter to cure her.

“For God’s sake spare nothing,” said she. “I have yet some money left, but I love my daughter better than money.”

“Spare!” quoth he. “If money can help, you shall not want.”

“No need to go so fast,” said she. “Whilst she is resting, I will go home; but I will come back if I am wanted.”

Now you must know that the old woman had on the previous day, when she left her daughter, instructed the doctor, who was well aware of what he ought to say. So the young man carried his wife’s water to the doctor, and when he had saluted him, related how sick and suffering his wife was.

“And I have brought you some of her water that you may judge how ill she is, and more easily cure her.”

The doctor took the vessel of urine, and turned it about and examined it, then said;

“Your wife is afflicted with a sore malady, and is in danger of dying unless help be forthcoming; her water shows it.”

“Ah, master, for God’s sake tell me what to do, and I will pay you well if you can restore her to health, and prevent her from dying.”

“She need not die,” said the doctor; “but unless you make haste, all the money in the world will not save her life.”

“Tell me, for God’s sake,” said the other, “what to do, and I will do it.”

“She must,” said the doctor, “have connection with a man, or she will die.”

“Connection with a man?” said the other, “What is that?”

“That is to say,” continued the doctor, “that you must mount on the top of her, and speedily ram her three or four times, or more if you can; for, if not, the great heat which is consuming her will not be put out.”

“Ah! will that be good for her?”

“There is no chance of her living,” said the doctor, “if you do not do it, and quickly too.”

“By St. John,” said the other, “I will try what I can do.”

With that he went home and found his wife, who was groaning and lamenting loudly.

“How are you, my dear?” said he.

“I am dying, my dear,” she replied.

“You shall not die, please God,” said he. “I have seen the doctor, who has told me what medicine will cure you,” and as he spoke, he undressed himself, and lay down by his wife, and began to execute the orders he had received from the doctor.

“What are you doing?” said she. “Do you want to kill me?”

“No! I am going to cure you,” he replied. “The doctor said so;” and Nature instructing him, and the patient helping, he performed on her two or three times.

When he was resting from his labours, much astonished at what had happened, he asked his wife how she was?

“I am a little better than I was before;” she replied.

“God be praised,” said he. “I hope you will get well and that the doctor told me truly:” and with that he began again.

To cut matters short, he performed so well that his wife was cured in a few days, at which he was very joyful, and so was her mother when she knew it.

The young man after this became a better fellow than he was before, and his wife being now restored to health, he one day invited all his relations and friends to dinner, and also the father and mother of his wife, and he served grand cheer after his own fashion. They drank to him, and he drank to them, and he was marvellous good company.

But hear what happened to him: in the midst of the dinner he began to weep, which much astonished all his friends who were at table with him, and they demanded what was the matter, but he could not reply for weeping scalding tears. At last he spoke, and said;

“I have good cause to weep.”

“By my oath you have not,” replied his mother-in-law. “What ails you? You are rich and powerful, and well housed, and have good friends; and you must not forget that you have a fair and good wife whom God brought back to health when she was on the edge of the grave. In my opinion you ought to be light-hearted and joyful.”

“Alas!” said he, “woe is me! My father and mother, who both loved me, and who amassed and left me so much wealth, are both dead, and by my fault, for they died of a fever, and if I had well towzled them both when they were ill, as I did to my wife, they would still be on their feet.”

There was no one at table who, on hearing this, would not have liked to laugh, nevertheless they restrained themselves as best they could. The tables were removed, and each went his way, and the young man continued to live with his wife, and--in order that she might continue in good health--he failed not to tail her pretty often.

*****

STORY THE TWENTY-FIRST -- THE ABBESS CURED [21]

By Philippe De Laon.

_Of an abbess who was ill for want of--you know what--but would not have it done, fearing to be reproached by her nuns, but they all agreed to do the same and most willingly did so._

In Normandy there is a fair nunnery, the Abbess of which was young, fair, and well-made. It chanced that she fell ill. The good sisters who were charitable and devout, hastened to visit her, and tried to comfort her, and do all that lay in their power. And when they found she was getting no better, they commanded one of the sisters to go to Rouen, and take her water to a renowned doctor of that place.

So the next day one of the nuns started on this errand, and when she arrived there she showed the water to the physician, and described at great length the illness of the Lady Abbess, how she slept, ate, drank, etc.

The learned doctor understood the case, both from his examination of the water, and the information given by the nun, and then he gave his prescription.

Now I know that it is the custom in many cases to give a prescription in writing, nevertheless this time he gave it by word of mouth, and said to the nun;

“Fair sister, for the abbess to recover her health there is but one remedy, and that is that she must have company with a man; otherwise in a short time she will grew so bad that death will be the only remedy.”

Our nun was much astonished to hear such sad news, and said,

“Alas! Master John! is there no other method by which our abbess can recover her health?”

“Certainly not,” he replied; “there is no other, and moreover, you must make haste to do as I have bid you, for if the disease is not stopped and takes its course, there is no man living who could cure it.”

The good nun, though much disconcerted, made haste to announce the news to the Abbess, and by the aid of her stout cob, and the great desire she had to be at home, made such speed that the abbess was astonished to see her returned.

“What says the doctor, my dear?” cried the abbess. “Is there any fear of death?”

“You will be soon in good health if God so wills, madam,” said the messenger. “Be of good cheer, and take heart.”

“What! has not the doctor ordered me any medicine?” said the Abbess.

“Yes,” was the reply, and then the nun related how the doctor had looked at her water, and asked her age, and how she ate and slept, etc. “And then in conclusion he ordered that you must have, somehow or other, carnal connection with some man, or otherwise you will shortly be dead, for there is no other remedy for your complaint.”

“Connection with a man!” cried the lady. “I would rather die a thousand times if it were possible.” And then she went on, “Since it is thus, and my illness is incurable and deadly unless I take such a remedy, let God be praised! I will die willingly. Call together quickly all the convent!”

The bell was rung, and all the nuns flocked round the Abbess, and, when they were all in the chamber, the Abbess, who still had the use of her tongue, however ill she was, began a long speech concerning the state of the church, and in what condition she had found it and how she left it, and then went on to speak of her illness, which was mortal and incurable as she well knew and felt, and as such and such a physician had also declared.

“And so, my dear sisters, I recommend to you our church, and that you pray for my poor soul.”

At these words, tears in great abundance welled from all eyes, and the heart’s fountain of the convent was moved. This weeping lasted long, and none of the company spoke.

After some time, the Prioress, who was wise and good, spoke for all the convent, and said;

“Madam, your illness--what it is, God, from whom nothing is hidden, alone knows--vexes us greatly, and there is not one of us who would not do all in her power to aid your recovery. We therefore pray you to spare nothing, not even the goods of the Church, for it would be better for us to lose the greater part of our temporal goods than be deprived of the spiritual profit which your presence gives us.”

“My good sister,” said the Abbess, “I have not deserved your kind offer, but I thank you as much as I can, and again advise and beg of you to take care of the Church--as I have already said--for it is a matter which concerns me closely, God knows; and pray also for my poor soul, which hath great need of your prayers.”

“Alas, madam,” said the Prioress, “is it not possible that by great care, or the diligent attention of some physician, that you might be restored to health?”

“No, no, my good sister,” replied the Abbess. “You must number me among the dead--for I am hardly alive now, though I can still talk to you.”

Then stepped forth the nun who had carried the water to Rouen, and said;

“Madam, there is a remedy if you would but try it.” “I do not choose to,” replied the Abbess. “Here is sister Joan, who has returned from Rouen, and has shown my water, and related my symptoms, to such and such a physician, who has declared that I shall die unless I suffer some man to approach me and have connection with me. By this means he hopes, and his books informed him, that I should escape death; but if I did not do as he bade me, there was no help for me. But as for me, I thank God that He has deigned to call me, though I have sinned much. I yield myself to His will, and my body is prepared for death, let it come when it may.”

“What, madam!” said the infirmary nun, “would you murder yourself? It is in your power to save yourself, and you have but to put forth your hand and ask for aid, and you will find it ready! That is not right; and I even venture to tell you that you are imperilling your soul if you die in that condition.”

“My dear sister,” said the Abbess, “how many times have I told you that it is better for a person to die than commit a deadly sin. You know that I cannot avoid death except by committing a deadly sin. Also I feel sure that even by prolonging my life by this means, I should be dishonoured for ever, and a reproach to all. Folks would say of me, ‘There is the lady who ----‘.

“All of you,--however you may advise me--would cease to reverence and love me, for I should seem--and with good cause--unworthy to preside over and govern you.”

“You must neither say nor think that,” said the Treasurer. “There is nothing that we should not attempt to avoid death. Does not our good father, St. Augustine, say that it is not permissible to anyone to take his own life, nor to cut off one of his limbs? And are you not acting in direct opposition to his teaching, if you allow yourself to die when you could easily prevent it?”

“She says well!” cried all the sisters in chorus. “Madam, for God’s sake obey the physician, and be not so obstinate in your own opinion as to lose both your body and soul, and leave desolate, and deprived of your care, the convent where you are so much loved.”

“My dear sisters,” replied the Abbess, “I much prefer to bow my head to death than to live dishonoured. And would you not all say--‘There is the woman who did so and so’.”

“Do not worry yourself with what people would say: you would never be reproached by good and respectable people.”

“Yes, I should be,” replied the Abbess.

The nuns were greatly moved, and retired and held a meeting, and passed a resolution, which the Prioress was charged to deliver to the Abbess, which she did in the following words.

“Madam, the nuns are greatly grieved,--for never was any convent more troubled than this is, and you are the cause. We believe that you are ill-advised in allowing yourself to die when we are sure you could avoid it. And, in order that you should comprehend our loyal and single-hearted love for you, we have decided and concluded in a general assembly, to save you and ourselves, and if you have connection secretly with some respectable man, we will do the same, in order that you may not think or imagine that in time to come you can be reproached by any of us. Is it not so, my sisters?”

“Yes,” they all shouted most willingly.