Part 11

Don Nimagri finding that the enemy were fled, did not think it necessary to follow them, but turned his attention to the lady. They rode up to the carriage as fast as they could, and found the lady in the greatest terror; she eagerly enquired whether her brothers were safe, for cruel as they were, she could not but feel as a sister. Don Nimagri assured her they had both run away safe and sound. There being no time to be lost, lest they might have run off under the idea of getting assistance, he ordered the postillion to proceed to the next post, where they rested some time, the lady being overcome by the fright, fatigue, and distress of mind. As soon as she was recovered they set off, and arrived safe at Benevento, but although it was in the middle of the night, no entreaty or remonstrance could prevail on the lady to remain there till morning; she was so alarmed at the idea of being surprised, and carried away by her brothers, whom she had reason to fear were still pursuing, or perhaps some more powerful dread in the breast of a virtuous female, now she was discovered, that with tears she entreated Don Nimagri to proceed to the convent she had mentioned, to which he reluctantly agreed, apprehending the consternation and fright such an arrival, and at such an hour, would create. The sisterhood of the convent, as he conjectured, when they arrived, had just retired again to rest after their midnight prayer, and were scarcely fallen into a doze, when they were terrified by the violent ringing of the great convent bell. What could be the matter? was the general cry. The alarm spread like wild-fire; some fell on their marrow-bones, praying to St. Jenajo; some ran with half their garments into the chapel; some concealed themselves in the vaults, while the poor ab-bess lay trembling in her bed, counting her beads. At last the porteress came to the gate and through the little grating enquired what was the matter. Don Nimagri said Donna Colomba, the abbess’s relation, was pursued, and begged protection. While the good nun went up to deliver the message, the gates were opened, and the chaise drove in. But poor Gasparo was shut out, and thereby exposed to his fate, had there been any one at their heels; but luckily for him, they had been too much terrified to venture a second attack. Shortly after the fugitives were introduced into the chapel, for the abbess seeing the girls running helter-skelter in every direction, did not dare to introduce a man into any room, lest some of them might have sought refuge there. Therefore, into the chapel they went; two or three of those innocent creatures, who had run into it in their fright, now scampered away as fast as they could, at sight of a man, and at that time of the morning. When the abbess had heard Donna Colomba’s account, she thanked Don Nimagri for his very kind and humane attention, expressed great regret at not being able to allow him to stay the night, but offered to send to a neighbouring farm, and obtain accommodation for him and his servant; entreated him to come in the morning that they might have an opportunity of giving him some testimony of the gratitude they felt for his kind protection to her relation. Don Nimagri, highly pleased at his success in saving the lady, departed. Receiving a message from the abbess in the morning, he attended her, and was presented to the whole sisterhood as the saviour of Donna Colomba’s life and honor, and much gratified with the blessings and thanks of all these pretty creatures, who vied with each other in little presents of relics, sweet-meats,&c. The lady abbess presented him with a very handsome crucifix set in diamonds. Donna Colomba could not find words to express herself, but requested his acceptance of a beautiful diamond ring in remembrance of her; and loaded him with blessings. Gasparo, I must say, was not neglected by the inferior nuns. Although not a very prepossessing parsonage, the account he gave of his glorious exploits so delighted them, for ladies are fond of valour, that he did not lack wine, cakes, and the good things usually met with in convents. After a few hours Don Nimagri took leave of the ladies and sisterhood, and arrived safe and sound at Rome.

THE FRIAR ENTRAPPED

At Arezzo, a city of Tuscany, there formerly lived a friar, who was styled Master Stefano. He was, in fact, a Mantuan, but he had dwelt so long at Arezzo, that most people considered him an Aretine. He was a handsome fellow, about thirty, extremely bold, and eloquent, and, as most of the preaching friars are, I mean the wickeder part of them, inclined to trick his best friend out of his wife’s affections. Although in the pulpit they preach up chastity, reprobate the sin of disturbing the happiness of married life, and dwell upon the merit of alms-giving, all this is in order to be more securely admitted into families, and to gain a character for sanctity, by which people may be induced to leave their property to the church, and deprive their rightful heirs of their due. Thus they enrich themselves, and laugh in their sleeves at the fools who are deluded by their hypocrisy.

Instead of paying regard to the divine precept, which directs all those of their profession not to provide food for the morrow, they are for ever begging, and grasping at every thing within their reach; and if perchance they should confess a dying person, who has detained that which was not his own, they will make him believe it is more meritorious and good for his soul, to give it to the church, than restore it to its owner. This Master Stefano was one of these fine fellows. He fell in love with a beautiful and virtuous lady, named Emilia, who was married to as worthy a man, Girolamo de Brendali. The lady, who thought that Stefano led so pure and holy a life, never suspected that he could entertain such unworthy intentions, and received him every day with the greatest marks of kindness, both on account of her husband’s partiality to him, and, moreover, because for two years past he had been her confessor. The friar, however, being unable to moderate the ardour of his passion, determined to make her acquainted with it, having that opportunity at command every day. Still he thought it would be better to wait awhile, because it was carnival time; after which she was in the habit of going to church to confess, thinking it much more safe on account of the sanctity of the place, in case any thing should be suspected, rather than her own house.

About eight days after the carnival, the lady, as was her custom, went to the church. The friar hastened to lead her to the remotest confessional he could pitch upon. After a few words of civility had passed, he began to interrogate her cursorily and lightly, touching the mortal sins, except that of incontinence, upon which he long dwelt, being highly delighted with an opportunity of expatiating on the subject, after the manner of too many confessors, who, under the pretence of interrogating, gratify their own prurient imaginations with indecent explanations, and circumstantial detail. Thus did the friar dwell on his favourite subject as long as he could, in order to forward the discovery of his passion to the lady. At last, breathing a deep sigh, he said, “Lady, heaven knows I have many a time hesitated to give you absolution, because I have from your confession found you so chaste and free from the sin of incontinence.”

“How, father,” said she, “is it then a sin to be faithful to one’s husband, and to be chaste?”

“The reason is,” said the friar, “because so beautiful as you are, I cannot believe but you must have numbers of admirers, and surely you cannot have resisted them all. I have often thought, that through shame you have not told the truth, perhaps for fear (though heaven forbid that I should ever do such a thing) lest I should tell your husband, or lest I should refuse you absolution, of which, however, you would be unworthy only by disguising from me the truth. Therefore, speak to me with sincerity, let no fear prevent you, for I promise you, that instead of the reproof you might expect, you will find praise and approbation; for I think it a much greater sin to let a poor unfortunate fellow of a lover die, than to break through that which has been prescribed merely to make us live a little more regularly, than if all things were in common; or, perhaps, because we set less value upon those things which we can obtain with ease.” The lady was greatly astonished at hearing these words, and being a virtuous and sensible woman, she began to suspect what the hypocritical friar was driving at; but resuming her serenity of countenance, which had been a little ruffled by his discourse, she resolved to answer him, without giving him the least suspicion that she understood his meaning, in order not to check him from saying what he had in his mind. So with a smile she said, “alas! father, saidst thou that thou dost not believe I am the honest and virtuous woman which I am?”

“Nay, it is quite the reverse,” quoth the friar, “I do think you a more worthy lady than you would seem, and that you would not be so cruel, as to suffer any one to languish and die for the sake of preserving that virtue.”

“Heaven preserve you,” said the lady, “who do you think would die on my account? who would cast on me a look of tenderness?”

“Oh!” groaned the friar, “who is it can look on you and not lose his heart. As for my part, (and pray pardon me if I offend you), since I have been blessed with a sight of you, there has not been a day or night that I have spent without thinking of your beauty, or without petitioning mighty Love to afford me an opportunity (though at the risque of my life) of telling you how great is the tender affection I bear you. Should my ill-fate order it so that my passion should offend, lay the blame not on me, but on those transcendent charms and noble manners which have brought me to such a crisis, that I can no longer live unless you take pity on me. Should you delay this compassion, lady too long, perhaps it may come too late, for I must surely die.” Besides that Emilia was a virtuous woman; she was doubly offended at the friar’s speech, on account of the friendship which her husband bore him, and for this reason resolved on his punishment. She told him she could not give credit to such wonderful things; neither did she believe in his affection, nor in the charms he alluded to. Having parted from the friar, the lady went home, and related every word to her husband Girolamo, having previously made him solemnly swear that he would not meditate any serious revenge, but merely inflict some slight punishment on him, and let him go. Girolamo considering what he could do to the worthy preacher, which should not be a serious injury, and yet a great disgrace, he hit upon a plan which will soon appear. He told his wife to contrive to let the friar come to her some night, and related to her his plan. To this she agreed, and, in consequence, to prevent the friar from having any suspicion, and in order that the plot might the better succeed, she sent the friar some little trifling presents by her maid--perfumes, flowers, and green and black ribbons, such as ladies are used to send their lovers.

Our innamorato accepted every thing with joy and rapture, and had no scruple in sending as many back by a little convenient brother. The friar, now thinking he was at home to a peg, determined one Saturday to pay her a visit, for, on that day, it was his custom to rest from his duty; therefore, taking with him the little friar, on the Saturday before the Sunday of St. Lazarus, he marched off to the Lady Emilia. It so happened that, exactly as he wished it, Girolamo had gone out; he joyfully went up stairs, and sent word to Emilia that he had waited upon her; the lady received him with very great kindness and affection; upon which our worthy friar, after a few sweet words, reminded her of his anguish and his hopes; to which Emilia, who had been taught by her husband what to say, replied, “holy father! heaven knows I have always thought infidelity to my husband a great crime, but as you have assured me that there is no sin in it, and that you bear me such great love, I have determined to reward your passion, but on condition of inviolable secrecy; indeed, to shew you that I am in earnest, I would say that, were not to-morrow the Sunday of Lazarus, when you are to preach, you might come this very evening between eleven and twelve o’clock, my husband being gone to Villa Cavalca; I would not fail to open the door to you, at that time all the servants will be gone to bed and fast asleep.” The worthy friar, who wished for nothing more ardently, and to whom every minute seemed an age, said, “dear lady, if this be your kind intention, do not let my preaching prevent you, for if you will let me out a little before day-light, I will preach a sermon to-morrow that shall delight and melt the hearts of my hearers.” He departed, and, in order to make himself the more agreeable to the lady, he went to refresh and perfume himself; the lady, meanwhile, related all the particulars to her husband, who, after telling his lady how she should act, left the house, and went to sup with an intimate friend. At the hour appointed, the friar tapped at the door, which was opened to him, and he was led gently up stairs to the bedchamber where Girolamo and his wife usually slept; here she left him, desiring him to undress, saying that she would come to him as soon as she had arranged some trifling matters. Scarcely had our amorous lover stripped himself to his shirt, when Girolamo, who, with the friend with whom he had supped, had watched the friar, knocked furiously at the door. Emilia, on hearing this, rushed into the room, threw open the window, and demanded who was there, pretending to be in a dreadful fright. Girolamo answering, desired to be admitted, saying it was her husband. Emilia began to call out that she was undone, ran up to the father, who was more dead than alive through fright, bid him get up quick, and said, “we are as good as dead; I cannot think how it is, but my husband, whom I thought ten miles off, is now knocking at the door.”

“For heaven’s sake,” said she, “slip into that chest,” shewing him a large one in the room, “and lie there until I see what may be done; meanwhile I will hide your clothes somewhere or other as well as I am able; heaven knows, I fear more for your holy person than I do for my own life.” The unfortunate wretch, seeing himself reduced to such a pass, did as the lady desired. Meanwhile the servants awoke, got up, and let their master in, who, pretending that he had been attacked, along with his companion, when put of Arezzo, by some banditti, said he had caused the city gates to be opened by giving a crown to the guard; the which had delayed him for more than three hours, on account of his being obliged to go to the castle to get the keys. After ordering a bed for his companion, he went into bed to his wife, while the poor fellow remained in the chest. Day-light coming, the church bells began to ring for prayers, which greatly annoyed our captive, who was to preach at the cathedral.

Girolamo and his friend having risen, ordered two servants to carry the chest to the church, and place it in the middle, saying they were ordered to do so by the preacher; and that unlocking the chest without raising the lid, they should leave it there; all which the fellows did very neatly: every body stared, and wondered what all this could mean, some said one thing, and some another. At last the bell having ceased to ring, and no one appearing in the pulpit, or any other part of the church, a young man rose and said, “really this preacher of ours makes us wait too long; pray let us see what he has ordered to be brought in this chest,” having said thus much, he, before all the congregation, lifted up the lid, and looking in, beheld the friar in his shirt, pale, almost frightened to death, and certainly appearing more dead than alive, and as if buried in the chest.

He, however, finding himself discovered, collected his mind as well as he could, and stood upright to the great astonishment of all present; and, having taken his text from the Sunday of Lazarus, he then addressed his congregation:--“My dear brethren, I am not at all astonished at your surprise and amusement in seeing me brought before you in this chest, or rather at my ordering myself to be brought thus: ye know that this is the day in which our holy church commemorates the wonderful miracle our Lord performed on the person of Lazarus, in raising him from the dead who had been buried four days. I was desirous in your favour to present myself to you, as it were, in the form of Lazarus, in order that seeing me in this chest, which is no other than an emblem of the sepulchre wherein he had been buried, you might be moved more effectually to the consideration of what perishable things we are, and that seeing me stripped of all worldly decorations, thus, in my shirt, you may be convinced of the vanity of the things in this world, the which if duly considered, may tend greatly to the amending of our lives. Will you believe that, since yesternight, I have been a thousand times dead, and revivified as Lazarus was; and, considering my dreadful situation, remember that we must all die, and trust to Him who can bestow upon us life eternal; but first ye must die to sin, to avarice, to rapine, and all those sinful deeds to which our nature prompts us; and, above all, avoid seducing the wives of others, as none who so act can be saved.” In such language, and in this manner did the friar continue his sermon. Much praise did the Aretines heap upon him, more especially Girolamo and his friend, who had come to see how the trick would succeed, and who were astonished at the extraordinary presence of mind which the friar displayed, and laughed heartily at his success in persuading his audience of his wonderful chastity in respect of other men’s wives. Girolamo, in consideration of the adroitness of the culprit, did not attempt any other revenge, but took very good care to shut his door in future against all such double-faced hypocrites.

ANTONIO AND VERONICA.

In the time of Charles the Second, there was at Salerno a noble knight, of an ancient family, called Messer Mazzeo, a chief justice, extremely rich both in money and lands, whose wife being rather old, died, and left an only daughter, whose name was Veronica, youthful, handsome, and very virtuous. Her father, whether from affection, or that he wished to marry her advantageously, kept her single at home, though she had many offers. It happened that a youth, named Antonio Marcello, of noble birth, who had been familiar in the house from his infancy, under the sanction of a certain relationship between him and Messer Mazzeo’s lady, became so enraptured with Veronica, that he was almost mad. Antonio, although reserved and virtuous, and dearly beloved as a worthy son could be, yet unable to resist all powerful love, and having opportunities which his weak resolution could not withstand, this pair of youthful lovers forgot what was due to their father and themselves. Though they continued, with the greatest caution, this guilty intercourse, yet their utmost care could not guard them from the cruel storm which fate was raising against them. One night being together, and not suspecting any thing, it happened that one of the servants espied them, and immediately went to his master, and having related the fact, the former, full of indignation, went with some of his servants to the place where the couple were, who, being thrown into the utmost consternation, were both seized, but Antonio being very strong and courageous, disengaged himself, and, sword in hand, rushed forth and made his escape, unhurt and unseen, and went home. Messer Mazzeo, grieved to death on seeing how matters stood, insisted on knowing from his daughter who the young man was. She very prudently, knowing the temper of her father, and that the death of her lover must be the consequence, determined rather to expose her own life than his, and finally told her father that she would suffer every torment, and even death itself, rather than let the youth’s name be known. The father, in the greatest rage, after having tortured her in various ways, seeing her obstinately determined to be silent, although parental feeling moved him at times, determined upon her death, and, without seeing her more, he commanded two of his trusty servants immediately to drag her into a boat, and throw her overboard, when they should be some miles from shore. The men, though most unwillingly, bound her hands, and forced her to the sea side, and while they were making the boat ready, one of them being moved to compassion, sifted the other, who was equally sorry at the cruel circumstance, and talking over the matter, they agreed not only to spare her life, but to set her at liberty; and having unbound her, they told her that being strongly moved to pity, they could not execute the cruel sentence her father had ordered, and begged of her, as a return for the liberty they restored to her, that she would expatriate herself, so that her father might never hear of their having saved her. The poor young lady finding she received life through the humanity of her own servants, and that she was unable to reward them sufficiently, poured forth her prayers to heaven to send them blessings equal to the inestimable gift they bestowed upon her; and after recovering from-her fright and terror she swore to them, by that life they had saved her, that she would conduct herself in such a manner, that not only her merciless father, but no living soul should ever be apprised of the circumstance.