Part 4

At the time when the king, Don Fernando, peaceably ruled the kingdom of Castile, there was at Salamanca, a noble and ancient city of that kingdom, a grey friar, called Maestro Diego of Revolo, who, being no less famous in the _Thomist_ than the _Scotist_ doctrines, was deservedly chosen, with no mean salary, to be a lecturer at the schools of the famous university of the above-mentioned city. This man obtained the greatest fame throughout the whole kingdom, and sometimes gave the most pious and useful sermons. Being young, handsome, and rather of a warm and inflammable constitution, it happened one day, that whilst he was in the pulpit he cast his eyes on a beautiful young lady, named Catherine, the wife of one of the principal cavaliers in the town, whose name was Roderigo Dangiagia. At first sight of this lady our hero was vanquished, for Cupid had shot a keen dart in his already contaminated heart. Descending from the pulpit, he dismissed all theological reasonings and sophistical arguments, and gave his whole soul to the thought of that divine object, and although he knew the high rank of the lady, whose wife she was, and what a mad undertaking it would be, and tried to persuade himself not to venture, yet he sometimes thought, where love asserts its empire it cares not for rank, for if that was the case princes would not so often course on our lands, therefore love must have that same privilege with us. “No one foresees the wounds love inflicts, they come suddenly and unexpectedly; therefore, if Cupid, whose arrows are resistless, has found me unarmed and incapable of resistance, it must be that I am fairly conquered, and as his vassal I will enter the lists, and if I am to die, I shall be freed from this torture, and in the next world my spirit will proudly glory in having placed its affections on so high an object.” Thus saying, without recurring to former nugatory arguments, he, with burning tears, took pen, ink, and paper, and wrote an elegant epistle to his beloved; first extolling her as more than divine, and speaking of her immortal charms; then telling her she had so captivated him that he must either obtain her favours or die; and, lastly, as he knew he could not presume, from her high rank, to be admitted in her house, yet he most earnestly entreated that she would condescend to appoint a time and place, when he might secretly visit her, or at least permit him to be her devoted servant, as he had chosen her for the only mistress of his life, adding numberless tender expressions; he, lastly, kissed the letter over and over, sealed it, and gave it to a little friar of his, telling him whom to carry it to, and at the same time giving him his directions. Away went the friar according to order, and when arrived at the house, he found the lady surrounded by her women. Making a profound obeisance, he said, “My master, Madam, sends his most dutiful respects to you, and entreats you to give him a little of your finest flour to make hosts with, as you will find better explained in that little letter.” The lady, who was sagacious enough, on seeing the letter, pretty nearly guessed at the purport of it. Upon reading it, although very virtuous and honest, yet she could not help being a little pleased at his falling in love with her, and knowing herself to be so very great a beauty, she delighted in perusing it, and hearing her charms so praised, being one of those who strongly feel that innate passion of females--the love of praise--and who place their whole fame, honour, and glory in being loved and exalted for their beauty, and who would rather be considered handsome, though wanting in chastity, than ugly, though with the highest reputation. The lady, however, having an extraordinary dislike to friars (and not without reason), determined, not only not to condescend to his wishes, but not even to favour him with an answer. She likewise made up her mind, for this time, not to mention it to her husband, and turning to the little friar, without seeming in the least agitation, “tell thy master,” said she, “that the master of my flour will have it entirely to himself, and therefore he must get some elsewhere, and as to the letter, it requires no answer, but that should he wish for one, he must let me know, because when my husband comes home I will direct him to answer it as it ought,” The friar, though he received so severe an answer, was not discouraged; on the contrary, his love and ardent desire were the more increased, and instead of withdrawing himself from this undertaking, as his convent was close to her house, he so pursued her every where, that she could not go to her window without meeting his eyes; to church, or out of the house, but he was ever at her heels; insomuch, that not only the neighbours, but the very town took notice of it: upon which she then reflected it was no longer proper to conceal it from her husband, who, if he should hear of it from another quarter, would conceive a very bad opinion of her virtue, and more serious consequences might ensue. Thus determined, she one night related the whole transaction to her husband. He, who was not less courageous than honourable, was so dreadfully enraged that he had nearly gone and set the whole convent in a blaze, and thus destroyed the whole brotherhood; yet growing a little cooler, after praising the conduct of his wife, he desired her to let the gallant know, he might come the following night, and introduce him in the best manner she could in the house, at a particular hour, in order that he might revenge his honour, without exposing his wife to any rudeness, and leave the rest to him. The lady felt rather embarrassed, considering the consequences that might follow, yet to obey the will of her lord, she engaged to do so, and as the little friar was continually coming on the same errand, she said to him one day, “commend me to your master and tell him that the tender affection he professes to me, and the burning tears which he writes me word he constantly sheds in thinking of me, have at last softened my heart towards him, and made me sensible of his love, and that as fortune would have it, Messer Roderigo being gone this morning into the country, and being likely to remain till next day, that he must come as soon as the clock struck three, as secretly as possible; that I will admit him, but that I particularly desire he would bring no one with him, not even his most intimate friend.” The little monk, happy beyond measure, brought this good news to his master, who thought himself the happiest fellow in the world, and every moment of the intermediate time appeared to him whole ages. The hour coming at last, dressing and perfuming himself in order that he might not smell of the friar, and providing himself with a large store of sweetmeats, &c. he went to the lady’s house; there finding the door open, went in, and was led in the dark by a little girl to the dining-room where he expected the lady would kindly receive him, instead of which he found the husband and a faithful servant of his; they having seized him, very coolly strangled him. Master Diego being dead, the cavalier repented that he had so disgraced himself, by killing a contemptible friar; but seeing that repentance was unavailing, and being in fear of the king’s displeasure, he determined to get the corpse out of the house, and carry him to his convent. The servant taking him on his shoulders, they went towards the garden of the convent, and having got in, they soon carried him to the privy, where there being but one seat left, the rest being totally destroyed, as it often happens in convents, where every place is more like a cavern or den of thieves, than the habitation of the servants to the Deity, they placed the body on it and there left him, and went home. As Messer Diego sat there in that natural attitude, a young and stout friar having occasion, in the middle of the night, to go to the privy, he lighted a taper and ran to the place where the defunct Diego sat; being recognised by the young friar, and not suspecting he was dead, he withdrew, waiting till he would have come away. Now there had been a monastical jealousy, envy, and hatred between these two, so that being much pressed, and seeing he did not move, he said to himself, “This fellow certainly sits there to spite me, and shews, even in this mean act, his contempt for me; but I declare I will wait as long as I can, and though I might go somewhere else, if he does not quit the place I’ll make him.” Diego, who long since had crossed the Styx, of course never moved. “By heavens,” said the young friar at last, unable to wait any longer, “I will not bear with this insult,” so saying, he picked up a large stone, threw it at the deceased’s breast, and tumbled him backwards without his moving a limb. The friar perceiving the strength of the blow, and seeing him fall, suspected he had killed him; after waiting in hopes of seeing him rise, between fear and hope, he got closer to him: looking at him with the taper, he perceived he was really dead, and conceiving that their former enmity being known, he would be suspected to have killed him, he was on the point of hanging himself, yet, thinking better of it, he resolved to carry him out of the convent, and lay him down in the street to avoid any suspicion falling upon him. While he was deliberating upon this, the public and scandalous courtship of the master to Donna Catarina occurred to his mind; upon which he said to himself, “where can I carry him more easily, and with less suspicion attached to me than before Messer Roderigo’s door; besides, its being nearer at hand, it will certainly be believed that the fellow going to court his wife, he had got some one to kill him?” Having fixed on this course, he, with some difficulty, at last brought him to the very door, from whence, but a few hours before, he had entered alive and in high spirits. This being done without any one seeing him, he ran as fast as his legs would carry him to the convent; he thought he was pretty safe from suspicion, but yet considered it would be better to absent himself for a few days; he therefore went immediately to the prior and said, “Reverend Father, the other day, for want of mules, I left the greater part of our gatherings at Medina, at the house of one of our fraternity; I therefore, with your holy permission, would like to take the mare of the convent, and, with God’s help, I hope to return the day after to-morrow.” The prior not only gave him permission, but greatly praised his forecast. The young friar having obtained leave, prepared his little travelling materials, and having the mare, was anxiously waiting for the dawn to set off. Messer Roderigo, who had scarcely closed his eyes all night thinking upon the events that had occurred, and still a little afraid of the consequences, got up, and sent his servant to inquire about the convent, and find out whether the friars had discovered the deceased Diego; the servant, on going out, found Diego right before the door, looking as if holding an argument, the which caused him no small fright, as such things generally do; he ran up to call his master, and scarcely having the power of articulation, shewed him the dead body of Messer Diego. The cavalier stared with astonishment and fear, yet comforting himself in the idea of the justness of his case, he determined quietly to wait the issue, and, turning round to the dead man, he said, “thou art then determined, dead or alive, to haunt my house, but to spite me; whoever brought thee here, thou shalt not have the power of returning again except on a beast, as thou wert once thyself in the world,” so saying, he ordered his servant to get from a neighbouring stable a stallion which he kept for breeding. The servant went immediately and brought the stallion, with saddle and bridle, and, as the cavalier had intended, put good Master Diego on his back; sticking him upright, and binding him tight, they put a lance in his hand on the rest, as if they were sending him to the tilt; thus equipped, they led him to the church gates, tied the horse there and went home. Scarcely had this been done than the young friar, thinking it was time to begin his journey, unlocking the gates, then mounting his mare, was stalking out, when, to his great terror, he beheld Master Diego equipped as before mentioned, and who with his lance seemed to threaten him with instant death. He was near falling dead with affright, from thinking that his spirit had returned into its terrestrial abode, and was perhaps intending thus to pursue him every where. While he was thus fixed to the spot, the stallion, whose instinct told him he had a female beside him, began to move, and, neighing, tried to get at her, which added to the poor friar’s alarm; however, wishing to drive the mare on her way, as she turned her rump towards the stallion, she fell a kicking. The friar, who was not one of the best riders, was nearly thrown, and unwilling to meet with another shock like the first, he pressed and spurred the flanks of his mare, holding fast the pummel of the saddle, and letting loose the bridle, he suffered the mare to go where and as she pleased. The stallion, seeing his prey gallop off, struggling and foaming, broke the slight rope that bound him, and stoutly pursued her; the poor quaking friar, hearing his enemy close behind, turned his head and saw him with his lance fixed like a fierce justler; seized with deadly fright he began crying out, “Help, help!” At this outcry, and the stamping of those furious horses, the people all came looking out at the doors and windows, for it was now broad day-light. Every one was ready to die with laughing, seeing the chase of the two friars thus mounted, who both looked more dead than alive; the mare leaped from one side of the road to the other, and the enraged stallion after her, and of course the poor friar was often in danger of being wounded, as may well be imagined.

The crowds followed close, holloing and hooting; some threw stones, others sticks at the stallion; every one endeavoured to part them, not indeed through pity for the friars, but from curiosity to know who they were, for their race was so swift that they could not recognise them; they, however, luckily ran towards one of the city gates, where they were stopped, and the quick and the dead were both taken and recognised, to the great astonishment of all the multitude. They were both brought on horseback to the convent, and received with great grief by the friars; they buried the dead, and the living ordered for torture. The poor fellow, when bound, rather than suffer torture, confessed he had killed him on account of what has been previously related; they, however, could not account for his being mounted as he was. In consequence of his confession the young friar was not put to the rack, but was to be confined in a dark dungeon until he could be sent to the minister of state, that he might be stripped of his orders by the bishop of the place, and to the lord chief justice to condemn him, and execute him as a murderer according to law. King Fernando did perchance arrive at Salamanca at that time; the story having been related to him, although a very chaste prince, and much distressed at the sequel, and the loss of so great a man, he could not refrain from laughing heartily, when with his barons, at the very ludicrous adventure. Near the time when the friar was to be executed, Messer Roderigo, who felt some compunction at what had happened, and still more for the fate of the innocent friar, and that his silence on the subject certainly would occasion his death, being a favourite with the king, determined on divulging the whole truth, even at the peril of his own life; therefore, presenting himself before the king and his barons, he said, “My liege, the unjust and rigid sentence pronounced against the innocent friar, induces me to explain the circumstances of the accident, and if it please your majesty to pardon him who has most justly killed Messer Diego, I will bring him forth instantly, and he will truly relate what has happened.” The king, who by nature was inclined to mercy, and anxious to know the truth, most generously promised a pardon, upon which the cavalier minutely related every circumstance, produced the letter of Diego, and the king having previously heard the friar’s story, and perceiving it to agree with Don Roderigo’s, he summoned the judge and friar before him, and after relating every thing before the barons and the people, immediately ordered the poor friar to be released and forgiven, being cleared from the crime and all imputation of guilt. The happy friar went merrily back to his convent, thanking his stars.

THE SKILFUL PHYSICIAN

Some few years ago, being in company with a large party of noble ladies and cavaliers, the novel of Gismonda, daughter of Tancredi, Prince of Salerno, was read by one of them, and the catastrophe having damped the spirits of most of the guests, a gentleman present, in order to enliven the company, began his tale in the following terms:--

It has always seemed to me, noble lady, that the ancient Greeks have surpassed our Italians in nobleness of heart and humanity, and having heard in the last _Novella_ of the cruelty of Tancredi, Prince of Salerno, who had bereft himself of every sort of happiness, and condemned his daughter to death, a story of a Greek nobleman occurs to my mind, who was much more humane and wise than Tancredi. You must know, that among the successors of Alexander the Great, there was a very powerful baron, called Seleucus, who was afterwards king of Syria. When young, he took to his wife a daughter of Ptolomæus, king of Egypt, by name Cleopatra, by whom a short time after he had a son named Antiochus, and several daughters, whom I will not now mention. When Antiochus was about fourteen, it happened that Cleopatra, his mother, fell ill and died, consequently his father Seleucus remained a widower. Being advised and stimulated by his friends, he took another lady, the daughter of Antipater, king of Macedonia, called Stratonica, whom after the usual festivities on those great occasions, he brought home to his court, and lived most happily with her. Stratonica’s person was beautiful, and her conversation, surpassed every thing one can conceive. Being very accessible in her court, she often was in company with the young Antiochus, sometimes sporting, riding, and sharing other amusements with him, and without being conscious of it, or having even a thought about it, she excited an ardent passion in the youth, which daily increased. Antiochus, then about eighteen, but of a very reserved character, and of a noble-minded disposition, knowing that his love was not allowable on account of his father, kept his passion so secret, that no one ever suspected it. In proportion as the flame was kept under, the more it consumed him and increased; so that in a very few months he grew quite pale, and his person, which formerly was stout and vigorous, became weak and emaciated, in so much that he was often asked by his father and friends, what could be the matter with him? whether he was ill? to which the youth answered first one thing, then another, ever misleading them as to the true cause. At length he got some one to beg his father to send him to the army, saying, that bearing arms, and the toil of a military life, would be a cure for his illness; that too much ease and idleness had brought it on. This and other arguments induced his father to send him to the army, attended by old men, veterans in arms. The remedy might have proved efficacious, had the youth been able to bear his heart with him; but that being fixed in its attachment to the divine features of the beautiful lady, it may truly be said, his body followed the army, but his soul dwelt at home; nor could he bestow a thought on arms, but only thought of her, and sleeping, even, he thought he was with her, and often wept at his folly in having left her. In the course of two months, such was his afflicted state, that he was taken dangerously ill, became unable to quit his bed, and was obliged to be carried home in a litter, to the no small grief of all his father’s subjects, who had great hopes in the virtues of the youth, expecting, at his father’s death, to have a worthy successor to the throne. A consultation of the medical men was held upon his complaint, and although they were men of the first rate talents, and used every means in their power, they were unable to do him any good, because the root of the evil was perfectly unknown to them, nor could they heal the secret wound which love had made, but merely aimed at the cure of the body. At last, weary with useless medical assistance, they found they could not remove this unknown cause of disease. Among them was a very learned and judicious physician, by name Philip, he was the king’s doctor, and a citizen of the place. As he was zealously endeavouring to find out the youth’s complaint, it occurred to his mind, and this suspicion grew upon him, that it might be the passion of love, which the others called consumption.