072m
After a deep sigh from his heart, “Heaven help me,” said he. Getting out of bed, and dressing himself, he took the key of the shop and went to it, and on opening it he saw all the shop in the greatest disorder, at which he stared with wonder. While he was setting them all to rights, and in their proper places, the two brothers of Matteo came in, and finding him so busy, seeming not to know him, one of them said, “Good morning, friend.” Grasso turning round, looked at them, and recognizing them, said, “Good morning, good morning, what are you come for?”
“I will tell you,” said one of them. “You know we have a brother called Matteo, who within a few days, owing to his being imprisoned for debt, has fallen into such a melancholy fit, that it has almost made him mad; and among other foolish things, he has got it into his head that he is not Matteo, but the master of this shop, who it seems is called Grasso. Upon which, having talked to him on the subject, and likewise the priest of the parish, who is a very good sort of man, he had promised the latter he would give up this foolish whim. He went to bed last night very cheerful while we were at supper, but, this morning, without our hearing him, he went out, nor do we know where he is gone; for this reason we came to see if perchance he had come here, or you could tell us if you know any thing of him.” Grasso, while the man was speaking, was bewildered; at last, turning towards them, he said, “I know not what the devil you are talking about, or what all this nonsense means. Matteo has not been here, and if he said he was I, he is a great rascal, and, by my soul, if I meet with him I’ll have a brush at him: I’ll know whether he be I, or I am he. What the deuce has happened within these few days?” and, in a great rage, he took up his mantle, and pulling the shop-door after him, he left them and went towards St. Maria del Fiore, swearing all the way.
077m
The brothers went about their business, and Grasso having entered into the church, walked up and down raging and fuming like a lion, so provoked and perplexed was he at all that had occurred. While he was in this state of confusion, there arrived at Florence one who had been his comrade, and who had been in Hungary, and had there made money by means of the protection of Signor Filippo Scolari, formerly called Spano, one of the citizens of Florence, who was then captain-general in the army of Gismondo, son of Charles, King of Bohemia. This Spano received and protected all those Florentines who had any particular talent, mechanical or intellectual, being a very worthy man who loved his nation very much, and did a great deal of good to his countrymen. This person had as it happened, come to Florence for the purpose of engaging some able and clever mechanics to complete some work he had taken in hand. He had often talked to Grasso on this subject, begging of him to go with him, and telling him that in a very few years he would become rich.. As soon as Grasso saw him coming, he thought of going with him; therefore, walking up to him, he said, “you have often advised me to go to Hungary with you, and I always refused; now, in consequence of a certain event that has befallen me, and on account of some little difference between my mother and me, I am willing to go with you, if you are willing I should, and I must be gone to-morrow morning, for if I delay my departure will be prevented.” The young man said, that he was very glad of this, but that he himself could not set off tomorrow on account of some business, but that he might go forward and wait for him at Bologna, and he would be there in a few days. Grasso was delighted, and having settled matters, he returned to the shop, packed up some of his best tools, his clothes, and a little money he had; this being done he marched off to Borgo St. Lorenzo, and hired a pony as far as Bologna, and the next morning, mounting his palfrey, rode towards that city, and left a letter directed to his mother, in which he desired her to dispose of the shop to her advantage, and said that he was going to Hungary. Thus did Grasso depart from Florence, and, after waiting for his companion at Bologna, they departed for Hungary. There they did so well, that in a very few years they became quite rich considering their station, through the protection of the above-mentioned Spano, who made Grasso an engineer under the name of Manetto of Florence. Grasso returned several times to Florence, and being asked by Philip of Brunelesco to tell his story, he related this tale.
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 theThomistthan theScotistdoctrines, 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.
092m
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.
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 lastNovellaof 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.
Philip, full of this thought, and extremely anxious, used to remain long in the sick chamber, noticing with particular attention every movement of the patient. He then said to the king, that in order to divert the youth, it was necessary that the queen, and some other ladies of the court, should go at least once a day to see him, and afford him some little amusement. Upon which the king ordered that it should be attended to. The doctor, seated by the patient’s bed, held his left arm, applying his fingers to his pulse, in order to notice any sudden change that might take place. By this prudent and wise conduct, he discovered the disease of the youth; for although, when many beautiful ladies came in to pay him a visit, the doctor never observed the least variation in the feeble pulse of his patient; yet, when the queen entered the room, he felt an extraordinary and strong palpitation, and struggle of nature; and when the queen had sat down near the youth, and soothed him by her kind conversations, the pulse seemed to grow still and regular; but when she arose and left the room, the pulsation grew so violent, that the doctor began to fear some dreadful consequences. The physician, looking in the face of his patient, found melancholy seated in that countenance, where but a moment before happiness had seemed peaceably to dwell; upon which the doctor became more convinced that the disease was seated in the heart, but he would not determine, till he had tried three or four times the same experiment. When he found it produced the very same effects, he determined to speak to the youth, and acquaint him with what he had discovered. Having taken a proper opportunity, and sent every body out of the room, he thus addressed him:—“I thought, Antiochus, that you had so much reliance in me, that not only you would confide in me in a medical capacity, where your very existence depended, but even in any other affair, private or public, and that you would not disguise any occurrence that should concern you; but now I find I have been egregiously mistaken, and that my faithful services have not merited this proof of esteem, the which I cannot help complaining of, considering that in other respects, though you might have kept me in the dark, yet, in my profession, and in what concerned your immediate health, you ought not to have deceived me thus. Know, that the root of thy disease, which from false shame thou hast concealed, is perfectly evident to me; what it is, and by whom caused, is well known to me, nor am I so unfeeling not to be aware that youth is subject to the frailties of love, and often deprived of the object of its affection; but take comfort, and you will find to a certainty that my medicine will prove an effectual cure to your disease: not by means of pills or draughts, but by inducing your father to yield his wife to you, rather than lose his son.”
Whilst the doctor spoke, the youth burst into a flood of tears, and sobbing violently, entreated the doctor to let him die quietly, and thus end his sorrows; for which the doctor strongly reproved him, pointing out to him the grief his death would cause to his afflicted father, and the regret that the people, indeed the whole kingdom, would feel at the loss of him—they who had conceived such hopes of him, and of his virtues. The prudent doctor pointed out to him, that this was not a circumstance that ought to make him wish for death, particularly as there was an easy remedy; that he was convinced of it, and bade him be comforted, and rely on him. In such a manner did the doctor afford every consolation he could to his patient; and after making him take such nourishing food as he thought necessary in his debilitated state, he went forth to the king. The moment the doctor entered, the king anxiously inquired how his son was, and whether he had hopes of him. The doctor humbly begged to speak in private to his majesty, and having both retired to the king’s closet, the doctor thus addressed him:—“My liege, I have discovered the disease of your son, which we all have sought in vain; yet I certainly Wish I had not, since it has no cure.”
“How!” said the king; “is it such as admits of no remedy?”
“Thus it is, my liege, and there are no means to cure it.” The king insisting on knowing the case, the doctor replied, “the passion of love it is, and she whom he loves is my wife, and I will keep her to myself, and would suffer every torture rather than resign her; therefore, there are no hopes, although I am certain that possessing her would save his life.” Upon which the king, weeping bitterly, said, “Oh, Philip! wilt thou be so hardhearted as to suffer me to lose such a son for the sake of thy wife? Dost thou think, that in parting with her thou wilt not be able to meet with another equally handsome, nobly born, and as pleasing to thee as she? Thou knowest that a divorce may take place under various causes and circumstances, nor could there be, perhaps, a better reason for dissolving your marriage than the present. I therefore pray thee, by the trust I repose in thee, by the honours and benefits thou hast received at my hands, the which I mean greatly to increase to thy full satisfaction, that thou wilt make up thy mind to consent to the restoring of this son of mine, my only hope, and that of my kingdom; for thou must be aware what my fate would be should he die, and how I must hereafter feel towards thee; how look upon thee! With what face wilt thou be able to approach me, when thou recollectest that for the sake of a woman, where thousands might be found to charm thee, thou wilt have been the cause of such a son’s death, and my everlasting misery.” In proportion as the king’s reasons and entreaties were irresistible, the greater was the delight of the doctor; as the very pressing reasons he urged would avail the more against himself. Therefore, as soon as the king had ceased to speak, still looking towards the doctor, in hopes he had persuaded him, the doctor said, “My liege, your reasons are such and so conclusive, that had I ten wives, however dear to me, I would part with them to preserve your son’s life; but I must needs use the same powerful and convincing arguments with you, my sovereign, and inform you of the real and true state of the case, which is, that your son has no other disease but that of a violent and unconquerable passion, and the object of which is Stratonica, your wife. Now, if I, who am not his father, ought to give up my wife and seek another, ought you not, my lord, who are his father, doubly to feel you should yield yours to save your own son’s life?”
The king, upon hearing this, was struck with amazement, and desired the doctor to tell him how he had come to the knowledge of these things, and being assured that the queen knew nothing of the fact, and the youth, through shame and reverence for his father, had resolved rather to die than reveal his unlawful passion, moved by pity, and being unable to refute his own arguments, he determined, for the sake of his son, to part with his wife. In consequence, the separation having taken place, he most kindly and generously bestowed the lady on his son. The youth, who at first was in the utmost despair, as soon as he heard the kind intentions of his father, and saw the pleasure he seemed to feel at the happiness he blessed him with, soon began to cheer up, and in a few days was restored to health and spirits; and having received the hand of Stratonica, lived with her in the greatest happiness, and soon had a son and other children. The father, beholding his son saved from threatening danger, and himself surrounded by his grand-children, which secured the succession of his race, lived perfectly happy, daily thankful to Providence for the resolute step he had taken, and particularly grateful to the doctor who had been the means, by his judgment and prudence, to effect so great a purpose. Thus the humanity and tenderness of the Grecian king, who saved the life of his son, and secured happiness to himself, presents a striking contrast with the conduct of Tancredi.
At a time when Languedoc was not as yet under the power of thefleur-de-lis, there was at Toulouse a certain count, by name Benato, who, besides being endowed by nature with numberless advantages, was blessed with the most beautiful children that any prince could boast of; besides two sons, he had a daughter younger than either, who according to every body’s opinion was the most handsome, modest, and agreeable lady that was ever known. In one thing alone heaven seemed unpropitious to him, for while he was living most happily with his wife, a sister of the count of Provence, she died before she had attained her thirty-fifth year, to his very great grief, and that of the country around. Being on the point of death, she called the count, her husband, and after humbly requesting his forgiveness of such neglect, or omissions, she might have been guilty of towards him, she recommended earnestly, with tears in her eyes, her dear children to him; but above all, her daughter, whose name was Bianca, adding, that as a last favor which he would grant her in this world, she begged he would make her a solemn promise, and with full determination never to violate it; which was, not to marry her daughter to any one, although it were even the king of France himself, unless after seeing him, and becoming acquainted with him, she should like him; adding, that to a young woman there was no blessing equal to the full liberty of selecting him who is to be her companion through life, and to whom she is to be true until death. The count having heard the kind and motherly entreaties of his beloved wife, considering these were the last words she would probably utter, and the last favor he could bestow, after many sorrowful tears, promised her solemnly that her wishes should be fulfilled, and that all should be as she desired. He then tried to soothe her last moments, though he himself was, perhaps, in greater need of consolation; he received her expiring breath, and with due honors had her interred in the cathedral of Toulouse, as may be yet proved by the tombstone.
In those times, when Catalonia had not yet fallen into the hands of the king of Arragon and Castile, one Don Fernando, who was count of Barcelona, from the proximity of the states, and their rivalship in glory, had long waged war against the count of Toulouse, with mutual injury to one another; the one being aided by the king of Spain, and the other by the king of France; nevertheless, as we very often see it happen, that wars entered upon by princes, from vain and ambitious views, come to an end, either from weariness, or poverty of the parties; they at last, though late, having considered that their warfare was nothing more than ruining themselves to enrich their neighbours, and affording satisfaction to their enemies, came to the determination to make such a peace as would be most honourable and least injurious to the mediators; and in order the better to cement the peace entered upon, it was said, that it would be highly desirable that the families so long divided, and now at peace, should be more closely united by an alliance, seeing that the count of Toulouse had but one daughter among his three children, and the count of Barcelona only one son among his. It therefore did not become necessary to argue long on the subject of this marriage, Salse and Perpignan, as some say, being the dowry, and, as others say, plenty of gold, the which was lent him, upon a mortgage of some possessions near Arli and Terrascone, by the count of Provence, who greatly had enriched his estates by the excellent government of Romeo. These things concluded, there remained nothing more to do, than for the Count of Toulouse, remembering the solemn promise made to his wife, to say all should be done, provided the manners of the young count should meet with his daughter’s approbation, in favour of whom he had pledged himself never to marry her without her full approbation. This appeared to all a very trifling circumstance, and by no means likely to thwart their hopes, inasmuch as this youth, besides ample possessions, noble birth, and equality of rank, possessed an elegant form, great talents, and gentlemanly manners. It was scarcely to be credited that he should have been born at Barcelona; but it was so, and is still considered as a wonder, for the like was never seen there since, or ever will be.
The young count was then sent by his father to the said nuptials, so earnestly wished for by both countries, in great pomp, and attended by a suitable retinue to Toulouse, where he was received with that cordiality and honour which was due to the favourite son of so great a lord, blended with French politeness and Spanish dignity, which from their proximity to each other, they were well acquainted with. These first ceremonies having been attended to, the beautiful daughter of the count, elegantly dressed, was presented to him. The lady, who had spared no pains to adorn her natural charms in every possible way, received him in so courteous and fascinating a manner, that the young count was amazed, enraptured, and totally subdued by love and admiration; and, if at first by reports he was ambitious of possessing her, he now was inflamed, and scarcely able to command his feelings. The lady, previously informed of every thing by her father, now eyed him with scrutiny from top to toe, narrowly watched all his movements, as well as he did those of the lady, only she with that timidity and modesty befitting a female, while he gazed at her with all the ease and freedom of an enamoured prince. After this introduction, the dinner room was thrown open, where a table was spread, covered with all the delicacies that the season and country could afford.
Dinner being over, pomegranates were brought in golden vases, according to the custom of that country, where they are remarkably fine, to clear and sweeten the mouth and breath from the taste of the various viands. The count having taken some, how it happened none can tell, but he dropt one single seed, which he dexterously caught up before it reached the ground, the which he did, as he said himself, and others affirmed, merely to shew his quickness and dexterity, and put it in his mouth. The lady, whether fate ordained it so, or that the action appeared to her unseemly, or ungentleman-like in a person of his rank, was much vexed and disgusted at it, and thus argued in her own breast:—This is what I have often heard said by those who certainly have means of judging; that the Catalonian people are the most sordid, miserly, and covetous set of our western countries. Although I have not perceived in him, as yet, any of the Catalonian ways, yet he may have put on this countenance, according to the practices of the Catalonians, to deceive people. Poor, indeed, is he in address, that cannot, for a short time, assume the manners and language of a cavalier, at least till he has encompassed his object; but avarice, as I have often heard one of my tutors say, as it is the mother and nurse of every vice, so it has this particular property, that it cannot totally be disguised or concealed, even by the greatest hypocrite, because he, who is by nature of such a disposition, begrudges not only his own property, but feels as much annoyed in seeing even that of his enemy’s wasted, as a liberal man would feel in seeing his taken from him; and if this knight is such, and I verily believe him to be so, considering that amidst plenty he cannot bear to lose even one single seed, how much more will he be avaricious of his own gold;—what then would be my case?—can there be a more distressing thing for a generous and noble spirited woman, than to have a sordid and avaricious husband? This would be heavy sorrow to me, and the sport of others. Heaven forbid it should ever be my case. I would sooner die an old maid, than live with such a being in continual wretchedness and sorrow for my own folly. Let my father do what he pleases, I know that she must be a fool indeed, who suffers herself to be persuaded to what would make her miserable.
Having thus resolved, she ceased to bestow a thought more on the subject. All the fetes and rejoicings having ended, the count of Toulouse, one day craving the permission of the Catalonian knight, took his daughter by the hand and led her into another room, and here, with all the tenderness of a kind father, asked her what were her sentiments respecting this young Catalonian. She firmly and deliberately told him, she would rather live single all her days, than be united to a man whose principles and manners were so directly opposite to her own. On hearing this, the old man was sorely grieved, considering that this match having been proposed for the advantage of the whole country, by not having effect, it might be the cause of ruin and eternal quarrels between the rival states. Having asked his daughter the cause of her dislike, and being answered, he thought it so very trifling a circumstance, that he could not help laughing. He several times attempted to dissuade her, but she protested that if, contrary to the sacred promise made to her mother, any attempt should be tried to force her inclinations, she would, rather than consent, destroy herself with her own hands. The old count, remembering his promise to his dying wife, and moved by the love he bore his daughter, said, with tears in his eyes, “if thou art so firmly fixed, be it even as thou wilt; nor shall there be any persuasion used with thee by me.” Having left the room, he endeavoured, in the politest and best way, to excuse himself with the count, observing on the dispositions of women, and particularly girls, and how often they were bent on that which was most against their own happiness, and at last told the count of Barcelona, that she was totally averse to the match. This was a most grievous disappointment to the count, more particularly as the possibility of such a thing had never entered his head, and that he considered the thing as done in his own mind. However, concealing his wrath and disappointment, he said, smiling, this is not an extraordinary case, and many a greater man than myself has before now been the sport of a woman’s caprice, but, that since that was the case, he would press no further, but take his leave, and depart for Barcelona on the morrow He only begged, in consideration for the trouble he had had in coming, and the disappointment he had met with, that the count would tell him what it was that his daughter so mightily disliked in him. The old man was ashamed to tell it, or to keep the secret; at length, however, he told him; nor could the Catalonian help laughing, and he replied, “well, for the future when I pay my court to the ladies, I will go when pomegranates are out of season, since, as Ceres was deprived of a daughter, I am of a wife.” He praised the count for so piously attending to the promise he had made his wife, and his love for his daughter, in abstaining from using compulsion towards her, and assured him this circumstance should not cause any dissension or alteration in their late friendly intercourse. They then entered into conversation on other subjects during the rest of the day; the count, concealing the rancour of his heart against the lady, took leave of her and others as kindly as he could, and departed, making the speediest journey to Catalonia, and having arrived on the confine of his territories, he dismissed his retinue, giving them to understand he meant to go on a pilgrimage not many leagues off, (by some thought to have been to our Lady of Monserrato) and, as on such occasions all pomp and shew are dismissed, he took with him only two of his most intimate friends; and informed them of the whole scheme he had planned; they left their horses, and journeyed on foot to Toulouse, being each of them in disguise, the count in the habit of a pedler, carrying before him a box of trinkets and jewels strung to his shoulders, for he had bought many valuable jewels, and intermixed among them some precious stones of his own, which he had brought with him as presents to the bride. He did not include those of greatest value, lest he should be found out by having so much rich property, and having taken off his beard, which was then worn very long among the great in Catalonia, he entered Toulouse alone, having despatched his two friends to Barcelona, considering that was the best means whereby he might have the good fortune of seeing and speaking to his lady. Thus he used to go, morning and evening, about Toulouse, selling his commodities to such as chose to buy them, but he mostly took care to place himself facing the palace where the count of Languedoc dwelt, in hopes of speaking to the lady, whom at first from love, and now from spite, he constantly dwelt upon. It was not many days, before that one evening the day having proved intensely hot, he beheld his lady, beautifully dressed in white, sitting with many of the first ladies at her door; he humbly bowing to them, asked whether any of the company chose to purchase some of the trinkets he had; offering his fine goods at a very cheap rate. The countess and other ladies agreeing, as is the custom of the country, to look at them, called him to them, and asking him what he had to sell, they all got around him, some looking at one thing, others at another. He, unaccustomed to the trade, was scarcely able to answer them; and ever endeavouring to answer the countess, evaded many answers to the others. After selling many articles they had chosen, he went his way, vesper time being near. He continued his attendance thus for several days, and became a very great favourite, to the annoyance of the other pedlers, who whenever they offered their goods, were answered, “No! no! we will be true to our Navarro,” for he had told the ladies he was of Navarre, not being able so to disguise his language, as to appear a Frenchman, yet he would not be known for a Spaniard.