No sooner did bright day appeare, butThebaldoarose, having acquainted her with such matters as were to be done, and once more earnestly desiring her, to conceale (as yet) these occurrences to her selfe. So, in his Pilgrimes habite, he departed from her house, to awaite convenient opportunity, for attending on the businesse belonging toAldobrandino. At the usuall houre appointed, the Lords were all set in theSignioria, and had received full information, concerning the offence imputed toAldobrandino: setting him at liberty by publique consent, and sentencing the other malefactors with death, who (within a fewe dayes after) were beheaded in the place where the murther was committed. ThusAldobrandinobeing released, to his exceeding comfort, and no small joy of his daughters, kindred and friends, all knowing perfectly, that this had happened by the Pilgrimes meanes: they conducted him home toAldobrandinoeshouse, where they desired him to continue so long as himselfe pleased, using him with most honourable and gracious respect; but especiallyHermelina, who knew (better then the rest) on whom shee bestowed her liberall favours, yet concealing all closely to her selfe.
After two or three dayes were over-past, in these complementall entercoursings of kindnesse,Thebaldobegan to consider, that it was high time for reconciliation, to be solemnely past betweene his brethren andAldobrandino. For, they were not a little amazed at his strange deliverance, and went likewise continually armed, as standing in feare ofAldobrandinoand his friends; which made him the more earnest, for accomplishment of the promise formerly made unto him.Aldobrandinolovingly replied, that he was ready to make good his word. Whereupon, the Pilgrime provided a goodly Banquet, whereat he purposed to have present,Aldobrandino, his daughter, kindred, and their wives. But first, himselfe would goe in person, to invite them in peace to his Banquet, to performe this desired pacification, and conferred with his brethren, using many pregnant and forcible arguments to them, such as are requisite in the like discordant cases. In the end, his reasons were so wise, and prevailing with them, that they willingly condiscended, and thought it no disparagement to them, for the recoverie ofAldobrandinoeskindnesse againe, to crave pardon for their great error committed.
On the morrow following, about the houre of dinner time, the foure brethren ofThebaldo, attired in their mourning garments, with their wives and friends, came first to the house ofAldobrandino, who purposely attended for them, and having layd downe their weapons on the ground: in the presence of all such, asAldobrandinohad invited as his witnesses, they offered themselves to his mercy, and humbly required pardon of him, for the matter wherein they had offended him.Aldobrandino, shedding teares, most lovingly embraced them, and (to bee briefe) pardon whatsoever injuries he had received. After this, the sisters and wives, all clad in mourning, courteously submitted themselves, and were graciously welcommed by MadameHermelina, as also divers other Gentlewomen there present with her. Being all seated at the Tables, which were furnished with such rarities as could be wished for; all things else deserved their due commendation, but onely sad silence, occasioned by the fresh remembrance of sorrow, appearing in the habites ofThebaldoesfriends and kindred, which the Pilgrime himselfe plainely perceived, to be the onely disgrace to him and his feast. Wherefore, as before hee had resolved, when time served to purge away this melancholly; hee arose from the Table, when some (as yet) had scarce begun to eate, and thus spake.
Gracious company, there is no defect in this Banquet, or more debarres it of the honour it might else have, but onely the presence ofThebaldo, who having beene continually in your company, it seemes you are not willing to take knowledge of him, and therefore I meane my selfe to shew him. So, uncasing himselfe out of his Pilgrimes clothes, and standing in his Hose and Doublet: to their no little admiration, they all knew him, yet doubted (a good while) whether it were he or no. Which hee perceiving, hee repeated his bretherens and absent kindreds names, and what occurrences had happened betweene them from time to time, beside the relation of his owne passed fortunes, inciting teares in the eyes of his brethren, and all else there present, every one hugging and embracing him, yea, many beside, who were no kin at all to him,Hermelinaonely excepted, which whenAldobrandinosaw, he said unto her. How nowHermelina? Why doest thou not welcome homeThebaldo, so kindely as all here else have done?
She making a modest courtesie to her Father, and answering so loude as every one might heare her, said. There is not any in this assembly, that more willingly would give him all expression of a joyfull welcom home, and thankfull gratitude for such especiall favours received, then in my heart I could afford to do: but only in regard of those infamous speeches, noysed out against me, on the day when wee wept for him, who was supposed to beThebaldo, which slander was to my great discredit. Goe on boldly, repliedAldobrandino, doest thou thinke that I regard any such praters? In the procuring of my deliverance, hee hath approved them to be manifest liers, albeit I my selfe did never credit them. Goe then I command thee, and let me see thee both kisse and embrace him. She who desired nothing more, shewed her selfe not slothfull in obeying her Father, to do but her duty to her husband. Wherefore, being risen; as all the rest had done, but yet in farre more effectual manner, she declared her unfeigned love toThebaldo. These bountifull favours ofAldobrandino, were joyfully accepted byThebaldoesbrethren, as also every one else there present in company; so that all former rancour and hatred, which had caused heavy variances betweene them, was now converted to mutuall kindnesse, and solemne friendship on every side.
When the feasting dayes were finished, the garments of sad mourning were quite layde aside, and those, becomming so generall a joy, put on, to make their hearts and habites suteable. Now, concerning the man slaine, and supposed to beThebaldo, hee was one, that in all parts of body, and truenesse of complexion so neerely resembled him, asThebaldoesowne brethren could not distinguish the one from the other: but hee was ofLunigiana, namedFatinolo, and notThebaldo, whom the two brethren Inne-keepers maliced, about some idle suspition conceived, and having slaine him, layde his body at the doore ofAldobrandino, where, by the reason ofThebaldoesabsence, it was generally reputed to be he, andAldobrandinocharged to doe the deede, by vehement perswasion of the brethren, knowing what love had passed betweene him and his daughterHermelina. But happy was the Pilgrimes returne, first to heare those words in the Inne, the meanes to bring the murther to light; and then the discreete carriage of the Pilgrime, untill hee plainely approved himselfe, to be trulyThebaldo.
When the long discourse of MadameÆmiliawas ended, not displeasing to any, in regard of the length, but rather held too short, because no exceptions could be taken against it, comparing the raritie of the accidents, and changes together: the Queene turned to MadameLauretta, giving her such a manifest signe, as she knew, that it was her turne to follow next, and therefore shee tooke occasion to begin thus. Faire Ladies, I intend to tell you a Tale of trueth, which (perhaps) in your opinions, will seeme to sound like a lye: and yet I heard by the very last relation, that a dead man was wept and mournd for, in sted of another being then alive. In which respect, I am now to let you know, how a living man was buried for dead, and being raised againe, yet not as living, himselfe, and divers more beside, did beleeve that he came forth of his grave, and adored him as a Saint, who was the occasion thereof, and who (as a bad man) deserved justly to be condemned.
InTuscaniethere was sometime an Abby, seated, as now we see commonly they are, in a place not much frequented with people, and thereof a Monke was Abbot, very holy and curious in all things else, save onely a wanton appetite to women: which yet hee kept so cleanly to himselfe, that though some did suspect it, yet it was knowne to very few. It came to passe, that a rich Country Franklin, namedFerando, dwelt as a neere neighbour to the said Abby, hee being a man materiall, of simple and grosse understanding, yet he fell into great familiarity with the Abbot; who made use of this friendly conversation to no other end, but for divers times of recreation; when he delighted to smile at his silly and sottish behaviour.
Upon this his private frequentation with the Abbot, at last he observed, thatFerandohad a very beautifull woman to his wife, with whom he grew so deepely in love, as hee had no other meditations either by day or night, but how to become acceptable in her favour. Neverthelesse, he concealed his amorous passions privately to himselfe, and could plainely perceive, that although Ferando (in all things else) was meerely a simple fellow, and more like an Idiot, then of any sensible apprehension: yet was he wise enough in loving his wife, keeping her carefully out of all company, as one (indeede) very jealous, least any should kisse her, but onely himselfe, which drove the Abbot into despaire, for ever attaining the issue of his desire. Yet being subtill, crafty, and cautelous, he wrought so on the flexible nature ofFerando, that hee brought his wife with him divers dayes to the Monasterie; where they walked in the goodly Garden, discoursing on the beatitudes of eternall life, as also the most holy deedes of men and women, long since departed out of this life, in mervailous civill and modest manner. Yet all these were but traines to a further intention, for the Abbot must needes bee her ghostly Father, and shee come to be confessed by him; which the fooleFerandotooke as an especiall favour, and therefore he gave his consent the sooner.
At the appointed time, when the woman came to confession to the Abbot, and was on her knees before him, to his no small contentment, before she would say any thing else, thus she began: Sacred Father, if God had not given me such an husband as I have, or else had bestowed on me none at all; I might have beene so happy, by the meanes of your holy doctrine, very easily to have entred into the way, whereof you spake the other day, which leadeth to eternall life. But when I consider with my selfe, what manner of manFerandois, and thinke upon his folly withall; I may well terme my selfe to be a widdow, although I am a maried wife, because while he liveth, I cannot have any other husband. And yet (as sottish as you see him) he is (without any occasion given him) so extreamely jealous of me; as I am not able to live with him, but onely in continuall tribulation & hearts griefe. In which respect, before I enter into confession, I most humbly beseech you, that you would vouchsafe (in this distresse) to assist me with your fatherly advise and counsell, because, if thereby I cannot attaine to a more pleasing kinde of happinesse; neither confession, or any thing else, is able to doe me any good at all.
These words were not a little welcome to my Lord Abbot, because (thereby) he halfe assured himselfe, that Fortune had laid open the path to his hoped pleasures, whereupon he said. Deare daughter, I make no question to the contrary, but it must needes be an exceeding infelicity, to so faire and goodly a young woman as you are, to be plagued with so sottish an husband, brain-sick, and without the use of common understanding; but yet subject to a more hellish affliction then all these, namely jealousie, and therefore you being in this wofull manner tormented, your tribulations are not only so much the more credited, but also as amply grieved for, & pittied. In which heavy and irksome perturbations, I see not any meanes of remedy, but onely one, being a kinde of physicke (beyond all other) to cure him of his foolish jealousie; which medicine is very familiar to me, because I know best how to compound it, alwayes provided, that you can be of so strong a capacity, as to be secret in what I shall say unto you.
Good Father (answered the Woman) never make you any doubt thereof, for I would rather endure death it selfe, then disclose any thing which you enjoyne me to keepe secret: wherefore, I beseech you Sir to tell me, how, and by what meanes it may be done. If (quoth the Abbot) you desire to have him perfectly cured, of a disease so dangerous and offensive, of necessity he must be sent into Purgatory. How may that be done, saide the woman, he being alive? He must needs die, answered the Abbot, for his more speedy passage thither; and when he hath endured so much punishment, as may expiate the quality of his jealousie, we have certaine devoute and zealous prayers, whereby to bring him backe againe to life, in as able manner as ever he was. Why then, replyed the woman, I must remaine in the state of a Widdow? Very true, saide the Abbot, for a certaine time, in all which space, you may not (by any meanes) marrie againe, because the heavens will therewith be highly offended: butFerandobeing returned to life againe, you must repossesse him as your Husband, but never to be jealous any more. Alas Sir (quoth the woman) so that he may be cured of his wicked jealousie, and I no longer live in such an hellish imprisonment, doe as you please.
Now was the Abbot (well neere) on the highest step of his hope, making her constant promise, to accomplish it: But (quoth he) what shall be my recompence when I have done it? Father, saide shee, whatsoever you please to aske, if it remaine within the compasse of my power: but you being such a vertuous and sanctified man, and I a woman of so meane worth or merit; what sufficient recompence can I be able to make you? Whereunto the Abbot thus replyed. Faire Woman, you are able to doe as much for me, as I am for you, because as I doe dispose my selfe, to performe a matter for your comfort and consolation, even so ought you to be as mindfull of me, in any action concerning my life and welfare. In any such matter Sir (quoth shee) depending on your benefit so strictly, you may safely presume to command me. You must then (saide the Abbot) grant me your love, and the kinde embracing of your person; because so violent are mine affections, as I pine and consume away daily, till I enjoy the fruition of my desires, and none can help me therein but you.
When the woman heard these words, as one confounded with much amazement, this shee replied. Alas, holy Father! what a strange motion have you made to me? I beleeved very faithfully, that you were no lesse then a Saint, and is it convenient, that when silly women come to aske counsell of such sanctified men, they should returne them such unfitting answeres? Be not amazed good woman, saide the Abbot, at the motion which I have made unto you, because holinesse is not thereby impaired a jot in me; for it is the inhabitant of the soule, the other is an imperfection attending on the body: but be it whatsoever, your beauty hath so powerfully prevailed on me, that entire love hath compelled me to let you know it. And more may you boast of your beauty, then any that ever I beheld before, considering, it is so pleasing to a sanctified man, that it can draw him from divine contemplations, to regard a matter of so humble an equalitie.
Let me tell you moreover, woorthy Woman, that you see me reverenced here as Lord Abbot, yet am I but as other men are, and in regard I am neither aged, nor misshapen, me thinkes the motion I have made, should be the lesse offensive to you, and therefore the sooner granted. For, all the while asFerandoremaineth in Purgatory, doe you but imagine him to be present with you, and your perswasion will the more absolutely be confirmed. No man can, or shall be privy to our close meetings, for I carrie the same holy opinion among all men, as you your selfe conceived of me, and none dare be so saucie, as to call in question whatsoever I doe or say, because my wordes are Oracles, and mine actions more then halfe miracles; doe you not then refuse so gracious an offer. Enow there are, who would gladly enjoy that, which is francke and freely presented to you, and which (if you be a wise Woman) is meerely impossible for you to refuse. Richly am I possessed of Gold and Jewels, which shall be all yours, if you please in favour to be mine; wherein I will not be gaine-saide, except your selfe doe denie me.
The Woman having her eyes fixed on the ground, knew not wel how shee should denie him; and yet in plaine words, to say shee consented, shee held it to be over-base and immodest, and ill agreeing with her former reputation: when the Abbot had well noted this attention in her, and how silent shee stood without returning any answer; he accounted the conquest to be more then halfe his owne: so that continuing on his formall perswasions, hee never ceased, but allured her still to beleeve whatsoever he saide. And shee much ashamed of his importunity, but more of her owne flexible yeelding weakenesse, made answer, that shee would willingly accomplish his request; which yet shee did not absolutelie grant, untillFerandowere first sent into Purgatory. And till then (quoth the Abbot) I will not urge any more, because I purpose his speedy sending thither: but yet, so farre lend me your assistance, that either to morrow, or else the next day, he may come hither once more to converse with me. So putting a faire gold Ring on her finger, they parted till their next meeting.
Not a little joyfull was the Woman of so rich a gift, hoping to enjoy a great many more of them, and returning home to her neighbours, acquainted them with wonderfull matters, all concerning the sanctimonious life of the Abbot, a meere miracle of men, and worthy to be truely termed a Saint. Within two dayes after,Ferandowent to the Abbye againe, and so soone as the Abbot espyed him, hee presently prepared for his sending of him into Purgatorie. He never was without a certaine kinde of drugge, which being beaten into powder, would worke so powerfully upon the braine, and all the other vitall sences, as to entrance them with a deadly sleepe, and deprive them of all motion, either in the pulses, or any other part else, even as if the body were dead indeede; in which operation it would so hold and continue, according to the quantity given and drunke, as it pleased the Abbot to order the matter. This powder or drugge, was sent him by a great Prince of the East, and therewith he wrought wonders upon his Novices, sending them into Purgatory when he pleased, and by such punishments as he inflicted on them there, made them (like credulous asses) beleeve whatsoever himselfe listed.
So much of this powder had the Abbot provided, as should suffice for three dayes entrauncing, and having compounded it with a very pleasant Wine, callingFerandointo his Chamber, there gave it him to drinke, and afterward walked with him about the Cloyster, in very friendly conference together, the silly sot never dreaming on the treachery intended against him. Many Monkes beside were recreating themselves in the Cloyster, most of them delighting to behold the follies ofFerando, on whom the potion beganne so to worke, that he slept in walking, nodding and reeling as hee went, till at the last hee fell downe, as if he had beene dead.
The Abbot pretending great admiration at this accident, called his Monkes about him, all labouring by rubbing his temples, throwing cold water and vinegar in his face, to revive him againe; alleaging that some fume or vapour in the stomacke, had thus over-awed his understanding faculties, and quite deprived him of life indeede. At length, when by tasting the pulse, and all their best employed paines, they saw that their labour was spent in vaine; the Abbot used such perswasions to the Monkes, that they all beleeved him to be dead: whereupon they sent for his Wife and friends, who crediting as much as the rest did, were very sad and sorrowfull for him.
The Abbot (cloathed as he was) laide him in a hollow vault under a Tombe, such as there are used in stead of Graves; his Wife returning home againe to her House, with a young Sonne which shee had by her Husband, protesting to keepe still within her House, and never more to be seene in any company, but onely to attend her young Sonne, and be very carefull of such wealth as her Husband had left unto her.
From the City ofBologna, that very instant day, a well staide and governed Monke there arrived, who was a neere kinsman to the Abbot, and one whom he might securely trust. In the dead time of the night, the Abbot and this Monke arose, and takingFerandoout of the vault, carried him into a darke dungeon or prison, which he termed by the name of Purgatory, and where hee used to discipline his Monkes, when they had committed any notorious offence, deserving to be punished in Purgatory. There they tooke off his usuall wearing garments, and cloathed him in the habite of a Monke, even as if he had beene one of the house; and laying him on a bundle of straw, so left him untill his sences should be restored againe. On the day following, late in the evening, the Abbot, accompanied with his trusty Monke, (by way of visitation) went to see and comfort the supposed widow; finding her attired in blacke, very sad and pensive, which by his wonted perswasions, indifferently he appeased; challenging the benefit of her promise. Shee being thus alone, not hindered by her Husbands jealousie, and espying another goodly gold Ring on his finger, how frailety and folly over-ruled her, I know not, shee was a weake woman, he a divelish deluding man; and the strongest holdes by over-long battery and besieging, must needes yeeld at the last, as I feare shee did: for very often afterward, the Abbot used in this manner to visit her, and the simple ignorant Countrey people, carrying no such ill opinion of the holy Abbot, and having seeneFerandolying for dead in the vault, and also in the habite of a Monke; were verily perswaded, that when they saw the Abbot passe by to and fro, but most commonly in the night season, it was the ghost ofFerando, who walked in this manner after his death, as a just pennance for his jealousie.
WhenFerandoessences were recovered againe, and he found himselfe to be in such a darkesome place; not knowing where he was, he beganne to crie and make a noyse. When presently the Monke ofBologna(according as the Abbot had tutured him) stept into the dungeon, carrying a little waxe candle in the one hand, and a smarting whip in the other, going toFerando, he stript off his cloathes, and began to lash him very soundly.Ferandoroaring and crying, could say nothing else, but, where am I? The Monke (with a dreadfull voyce) replyed: Thou art in Purgatory. How? saideFerando; what? Am I dead? Thou art dead (quoth the Monke) and began to lash him lustily againe. PooreFerando, crying out for his Wife and little Sonne, demanded a number of idle questions, whereto the Monke still fitted him with as fantasticke answers. Within a while after, he set both foode and wine before him, which whenFerandosawe, he saide; How is this? Doe dead men eate and drinke? Yes, replyed the Monke, and this foode which here thou seest, thy Wife brought hither to their Church this morning, to have Masses devoutly sung for thy soule; and as to other, so must it be set before thee, for such is the command of the Patrone of this place.
Ferandohaving lyen entranced three dayes and three nights, felt his stomacke well prepared to eate, and feeding very heartily, still saide; O my good Wife, O my loving Wife, long mayest thou live for this extraordinary kindnesse. I promise thee (sweete heart) while I was alive, I cannot remember, that ever any foode and wine was halfe so pleasing to me. O my deare Wife; O my hony Wife. Canst thou (quoth the Monke) prayse and commend her now, using her so villainously in thy life time? Then did he whip him more fiercely then before, whenFerandoholding up his hands, as craving for mercy, demanded wherefore he was so severely punished? I am so commanded (quoth the Monke) by supreme power, and twice every day must thou be thus disciplinde. Upon what occasion? replyedFerando. Because (quoth the Monke) thou wast most notoriously jealous of thy Wife, shee being the very kindest woman to thee, as all the Countrey containeth not her equall. It is too true, answeredFerando, I was over-much jealous of her indeede: but had I knowne, that jealousie was such a hatefull sinne against Heaven, I never would have offended therein.
Now (quoth the Monke) thou canst confesse thine owne wilfull follie, but this should have beene thought on before, and whilest thou wast living in the World. But if the Fates vouchsafe to favour thee so much, as hereafter to send thee to the World once more; remember thy punishment here in Purgatory, and sinne no more in that foule sinne of jealousie. I pray you Sir tell me, replyedFerando, after men are dead, and put into Purgatory, is there any hope of their ever visiting the World any more? Yes, saide the Monke, if the fury of the Fates be once appeased. O that I knew (quothFerando) by what meanes they would be appeased, and let me visite the World once againe: I would be the best Husband that ever lived, and never more be jealous, never wrong so good a Wife, nor ever use one unkind word against her. In the meane while, and till their anger may be qualified; when next my Wife doth send me foode, I pray you worke so much, that some Candles may be sent me also, because I live here in uncomfortable darknesse; and what should I doe with foode, if I have no light. Shee sends Lights enow, answered the Monke, but they are burnt out on the Altar in Masse-time, and thou canst have none other here, but such as I must bring my selfe; neither are they allowed, but onely for the time of thy feeding and correcting.
Ferandobreathing foorth a vehement sigh, desired to know what he was, being thus appointed to punish him in Purgatory? I am (quoth the Monke) a dead man, as thou art, borne inSardignia, where I served a very jealous Master; and because I soothed him in his jealousie, I had this pennance imposed on me, to serve thee here in Purgatory with meate and drinke, and (twice every day) to discipline thy body, untill the Fates have otherwise determined both for thee and me. Why? saideFerando, are any other persons here, beside you and I? Many thousands, replyed the Monke, whom thou canst neither heare nor see, no more then they are able to doe the like by us. But how farre, saideFerando, is Purgatory distant from our native Countries? About some fifty thousand leagues, answered the Monke; but yet passable in a moment, whensoever the offended Fates are pleased: and many Masses are daily saide for thy soule, at the earnest entreaty of thy Wife, in hope of thy conversion; and becomming a new man, hating to be jealous any more hereafter.
In these and such like speeches, as thus they beguiled the time, so did they observe it for a dayly course, sometime discipling, other whiles eating and drinking, for the space of ten whole moneths together: in the which time, the Abbot sildome failed to visiteFerandoeswife, without the least suspition in any of the neighbours, by reason of their setled opinion, concerning the nightly walking ofFerandoesghost. But, as all pleasures cannot bee exempted from some following paine or other, so it came to passe, thatFerandoeswife proved to be conceived with childe, and the time was drawing on for her deliverance. Now began the Abbot to consider, thatFerandoesfolly was sufficiently chastised, and hee had beene long enough in Purgatory: wherefore, the better to countenance all passed inconveniences, it was now thought high time, thatFerandoshould be sent to the world againe, and set free from the paines of Purgatory, as having payed for his jealousie dearely, to teach him better wisedome hereafter.
Late in the dead time of the night the Abbot himselfe entred into the darke dungeon, and in an hollow counterfeited voyce, called toFerando, saying. Comfort thy selfeFerando, for the Fates are now pleased, that thou shalt bee released out of Purgatory, and sent to live in the world againe. Thou didst leave thy wife newly conceived with childe, and this very morning she is delivered of a goodly Sonne, whom thou shalt cause to be namedBennet: because, by the incessant prayers of the holy Abbot, thine owne loving wife, and for sweet SaintBennetssake, this grace and favour is afforded thee.Ferandohearing this, was exceeding joyfull, and returned this answere: For ever honoured be the Fates, the holy Lord Abbot, blessed SaintBennet, and my most dearely beloved wife, whom I will faithfully love for ever, and never more offend her by any jealousie in me.
When the next foode was sent toFerando, so much of the powder was mingled with the wine, as would serve onely for foure houres entrauncing, in which time, they clothed him in his owne wearing apparell againe, the Abbot himselfe in person, and his honest trusty Monke ofBologna, conveying and laying him in the same vault under the Tombe, where at the first they gave him buriall. The next morning following, about the breake of day,Ferandorecovered his sences, and thorow divers chinkes and crannies of the Tombe, descried day-light, which hee had not seene in tenne moneths space before. Perceiving then plainely, that he was alive, he cried out aloude, saying: Open, open, and let mee forth of Purgatory, for I have beene heere long enough in conscience. Thrusting up his head against the cover of the Tombe, which was not of any great strength, neither well closed together; hee put it quite off the Tombe, and so got forth upon his feete: at which instant time, the Monks having ended their morning Mattins, and hearing the noyse, ran in hast thither, and knowing the voyce ofFerando, saw that he was come forth of the Monument.
Some of them were ancient Signiors of the house, and yet but meere Novices (as all the rest were) in these cunning and politique stratagems of the Lord Abbot, when hee intended to punish any one in Purgatory, and therefore, being affrighted, and amazed at this rare accident; they fled away from him running to the Abbot, who making a shew to them, as if he were but new come forth of his Oratory, in a kinde of pacifying speeches, saide; Peace my deare Sonnes, bee not affraide, but fetch the Crosse and Holy-water hither; then follow me, and I will shew you, what miracle the Fates have pleased to shew in our Convent, therefore be silent, and make no more noise; all which was performed according to his command.
Ferandolooking leane and pale, as one, that in so long time hadde not seene the light of heaven, and endured such strict discipline twice everie day: stood in a gastly amazement by the Tombes side, as not daring to adventure any further, or knowing perfectly, whether he was (as yet) truly alive, or no. But when he saw the Monkes and Abbot comming, with their lighted Torches, and singing in a solemne manner of Procession, he humbled himselfe at the Abbots feete, saying. Holy Father, by your zealous prayers (as hath bin miraculously revealed to me) and the prayers of blessed S.Bennet; as also of my honest, deare, and loving Wife, I have bin delivered from the paines of Purgatory, and brought againe to live in this world; for which unspeakable grace and favour, most humbly I thank the well-pleased Fates, S.Bennet, your Father-hood, and my kinde Wife, and will remember all your loves to me for ever. Blessed be the Fates, answered the Abbot, for working so great a wonder heere in our Monastery. Go then my good Son, seeing the Fates have bin so gracious to thee; Go (I say) home to thine owne house, and comfort thy kind wife, who ever since thy departure out of this life, hath lived in continual mourning, love, cherish, and make much of her, never afflicting her henceforth with causelesse jealousie. No I warrant you good Father, replyedFerando; I have bin well whipt in Purgatory for such folly, and therefore I might be called a starke foole, if I should that way offend any more, either my loving wife, or any other.
The Abbot causingMiserereto be devoutly sung, sprinklingFerandowell with Holy-water, and placing a lighted Taper in his hand, sent him home so to his owne dwelling Village: where when the Neighbours beheld him, as people halfe frighted out of their wits, they fledde away from him, so scared and terrified, as if they had seene some dreadfull sight, or gastly apparition; his wife being as fearfull of him, as any of the rest. He called to them kindly by their severall names, telling them, that hee was newly risen out of his grave, and was a man as he had bin before. Then they began to touch and feele him, growing into more certaine assurance of him, perceiving him to be a living man indeede: whereupon, they demanded many questions of him; and he, as if he were become farre wiser then before, tolde them tydings, from their long deceased Kindred and Friends, as if he had met with them all in Purgatory, reporting a thousand lyes and fables to them, which (neverthelesse) they beleeved.
Then he told them what the miraculous voice had said unto him, concerning the birth of another young Sonne, whom (according as he was commanded) he caused to be namedBennet Ferando. Thus his returne to life againe, and the daily wonders reported by him, caused no meane admiration in the people, with much commendation of the Abbots Holynesse, andFerandoeshappy curing of his jealousie.
Now there remained no more (to preserve the priviledge granted toDioneusuninfringed) but the Queene onely, to declare her Novell. Wherefore, when the discourse of MadamLaurettawas ended, without attending any motion to bee made for her next succeeding, with a gracious and pleasing disposition, thus she began to speake. Who shall tell any Tale heereafter, to carry any hope or expectation of liking, having heard the rare and wittie discourse of MadameLauretta? Beleeve me, it was verie advantageable to us all, that she was not this dayes first beginner, because few or none would have had any courage to follow after her, & therefore the rest yet remaining, are the more to be feared and suspected. Neverthelesse, to avoid the breach of order, and to claime no priviledge by my place, of not performing what I ought to do: prove as it may, a Tale you must have, and thus I proceed.
There lived sometime in the kingdom ofFrance, a Gentleman namedIsnarde, being the Count ofRoussillion, who because hee was continually weake, crazie and sickly, kept a Physitian daily in his house, who was called MasterGerardofNarbona. CountIsnardehad one onely Sonne, very young in yeares, yet of towardly hope, faire, comely, and of pleasing person, namedBertrand; with whom, many other children of his age, had their education: and among them, a daughter of the fore-named Physitian, calledJuliet; who, even in these tender yeares, fixed her affection upon yongBertrand, with such an earnest and intimate resolution, as was most admirable in so yong a maiden, and more then many times is noted in yeares of greater discretion. Old CountIsnarddying, yongBertrandfell as a Ward to the King, and being sent toParis, remained there under his royall custodie and protection, to the no little discomfort of yongJuliet, who became greevously afflicted in minde, because shee had lost the company ofBertrand.
Within some few yeeres after, the Physitian her Father also dyed, and then her desires grew wholly addicted, to visiteParisher selfe in person, onely because she would see the yong Count, awaiting but time & opportunitie, to fit her stolne journey thither. But her kindred and friends, to whose care and trust she was committed, in regard of her rich dowrie, and being left as a fatherlesse Orphane: were so circumspect of her walks and daily behaviour, as she could not compasse any meanes of escaping. Her yeeres made her now almost fit for marriage, which so much more encreased her love to the Count, making refusall of many woorthie husbands, and laboured by the motions of her friends and kindred, yet all denyed, they not knowing any reason for her refusalles. By this time the Count was become a gallant goodly Gentleman, and able to make election of a wife, whereby her affections were the more violently enflamed, as fearing least some other should be preferred before her, & so her hopes be utterly disappointed.
It was noysed abroad by common report, that the King ofFrancewas in a very dangerous condition, by reason of a strange swelling on his stomacke, which failing of apt and convenient curing, became a Fistula, afflicting him daily with extraordinary paine and anguish, no Chirurgeon or Physitian being found, that could minister any hope of healing, but rather encreased the greefe, and drove it to more vehement extreamitie, compelling the King, as dispairing utterly of all helpe, to give over any further counsell or advice. Heereof faireJulietwas wondrously joyful, as hoping that this accident would prove the meanes, not only of hir journey toParis, but if the disease were no more then shee imagined; shee could easily cure it, and thereby compasse CountBertrandto be her husband. Heereupon, quickning up her wits, with remembrance of those rules of Art, which (by long practise and experience) she had learned of her skilfull Father, shee compounded certaine hearbes together, such as she knew fitting for that kinde of infirmity, and having reduced hir compound into a powder, away she rode forthwith to Paris.
Being there arrived, all other serious matters set aside, first shee must needs have a sight of CountBertrand, as being the onely Saint that caused her pilgrimage. Next she made meanes for her accesse to the King, humbly entreating his Majesty, to vouchsafe her the sight of his Fistula. When the King saw her, her modest lookes did plainly deliver, that she was a faire, comely, and discreete young Gentlewoman; wherefore, hee would no longer hide it, but layed it open to her view. When shee had seene and felt it, presently she put the King in comfort; affirming, that she knew her selfe able to cure his Fistula, saying: Sir, if your Highnesse will referre the matter to me, without any perill of life, or any the least paine to your person, I hope (by the helpe of heaven) to make you whole and sound within eight dayes space. The King hearing her words, beganne merrily to smile at her, saying: How is it possible for thee, being a yong Maiden, to do that which the best Physitians in Europe, are not able to performe? I commend thy kindnesse, and will not remaine unthankefull for thy forward willingnesse: but I am fully determined, to use no more counsell, or to make any further triall of Physicke or Chirurgery. Whereto faireJulietthus replied: Great King, let not my skill and experience be despised, because I am young, and a Maiden; for my profession is not Physicke, neither do I undertake the ministering thereof, as depending on mine owne knowledge; but by the gracious assistance of heaven, & some rules of skilfull observation, which I learned of reverendGerardofNarbona, who was my worthy Father, and a Physitian of no meane fame, all the while he lived.
At the hearing of these words, the King began somewhat to admire at her gracious carriage, and saide within himselfe. What know I, whether this virgin is sent to me by the direction of heaven, or no? Why should I disdaine to make proofe of her skill? Her promise is, to cure mee in a small times compasse, and without any paine or affliction to me: she shall not come so farre, to returne againe with the losse of her labour, I am resolved to try her cunning, and thereon saide. Faire Virgin, if you cause me to breake my setled determination, and faile of curing mee, what can you expect to follow thereon? Whatsoever great King (quoth she) shall please you. Let me bee strongly guarded, yet not hindred, when I am to prosecute the businesse: and then if I doe not perfectly heale you within eight daies, let a good fire be made, and therein consume my bodie unto ashes. But if I accomplish the cure, and set your Highnesse free from all further greevance, what recompence then shall remaine to me?
Much did the King commend the confident perswasion which she had of her owne power, and presently replyed. Faire beauty (quoth he) in regard that thou art a Maide and unmarried, if thou keepe promise, and I finde my selfe to be fully cured: I will match thee with some such Gentleman in marriage, as shal be of honourable and worthy reputation, with a sufficient dowry beside. My gracious Soveraigne saide she, willing am I, and most heartily thankful withall, that your Highnesse shal bestow me in marriage: but I desire then, to have such a husband, as I shal desire or demand by your gracious favour, without presuming to crave any of your Sonnes, Kindred, or Alliance, or appertaining unto your Royall blood. Whereto the King gladly granted. YoungJulietbegan to minister her Physicke, and within fewer dayes then her limited time, the King was sound and perfectly cured; which when he perceyved, hee sayd unto her. Trust me vertuous Mayde, most woorthily hast thou wonne a Husband, name him, and thou shalt have him. Royall King (quoth she) then have I won the CountBertrandofRoussillion, whom I have most entirely loved from mine Infancy, and cannot (in my soule) affect any other. Very loath was the King to grant her the young Count, but in regard of his solemne passed promise, and his royal word engaged, which he would not by any meanes breake; he commanded, that the Count should be sent for, and spake thus to him.
Noble Count, it is not unknowne to us, that you are a Gentleman of great honour, and it is our royall pleasure, to discharge your wardship, that you may repaire home to your owne House, there to settle your affaires in such order, as you may be the readier to enjoy a Wife, which we intend to bestow upon you. The Count returned his Highnesse most humble thankes, desiring to know of whence, and what shee was? It is this Gentlewoman, answered the King, who (by the helpe of Heaven) hath beene the meanes to save my life. Well did the Count know her, as having very often before seene her; and although shee was very faire and amiable, yet in regard of her meane birth, which he held as a disparagement to his Nobility in bloud; he made a scorne of her, and spake thus to the King. Would your Highnesse give me a Quacksalver to my Wife, one that deales in drugges and Physicarie? I hope I am able to bestow my selfe much better then so. Why? quoth the King, wouldst thou have us breake our faith; which for the recovery of our health, wee have given to this vertuous virgin, and shee will have no other reward, but onely CountBertrandto be her husband? Sir, replied the Count, you may dispossesse me of all that is mine, because I am your Ward and Subject, and any where else you may bestow me: but pardon me to tell you, that this marriage cannot be made with any liking or allowance of mine, neither will I ever give consent thereto.
Sir, saide the King, it is our will that it shall be so, vertuous she is, faire and wise; she loveth thee most affectionately, and with her mayest thou leade a more Noble life, then with the greatest Lady in our Kingdome. Silent, and discontented stoode the Count, but the King commaunded preparation for the marriage; and when the appointed time was come, the Count (albeit against his will) received his wife at the Kings hand; she loving him deerely as her owne life. When all was done, the Count requested of the King, that what else remained for further solemnization of the marriage, it might be performed in his owne Countrey, reserving to himselfe what else he intended. Being mounted on horseback, and humbly taking their leave of the King, the Count would not ride home to his owne dwelling, but intoTuscany, where he heard of a warre betweene theFlorentinesand theSenesi, purposing to take part with theFlorentines, to whom he was willingly and honourably welcommed, being created Captain of a worthy Company, and continuing there a long while in service.
The poore forsaken new married Countesse, could scarsely be pleased with such dishonourable unkindnes, yet governing her impatience with no meane discretion, and hoping by her vertuous carriage, to compasse the meanes of his recall: home she rode toRoussillion, where all the people received her very lovingly. Now, by reason of the Counts so long absence, all things were there farre out of order; mutinies, quarrels, and civill dissentions, having procured many dissolute irruptions, to the expence of much blood in many places. But shee, like a jolly stirring Lady, very wise and provident in such disturbances, reduced all occasions to such civility againe, that the people admired her rare behaviour, and condemned the Count for his unkindnesse towards her.
After that the whole countrey ofRoussillion(by the policy and wisedome of this worthy Lady was fully re-established) in their ancient liberties; she made choise of two discreet knights, whom she sent to the Count her husband, to let him understand, that if in displeasure to her, hee was thus become a stranger to his owne countrey: upon the return of his answer, to give him contentment, shee would depart thence, and by no meanes disturbe him. Roughly and churlishly he replied; Let her doe as she list, for I have no determination to dwel with her, or neere where she is. Tell her from me, when she shall have this Ring, which you behold heere on my finger, and a sonne in her armes begotten by me; then will I come live with her, and be her love. The Ring he made most precious and deere account of, and never tooke it off from his finger, in regard of an especial vertue and property, which he well knew to be remaining in it. And these two Knights, hearing the impossibility of these two strict conditions, with no other favour else to be derived from him; sorrowfully returned backe to their Ladie, and acquainted her with this unkinde answer, as also his unalterable determination, which wel you may conceive, must needs be verie unwelcome to her.
After she had an indifferent while considered with her selfe, her resolution became so undauntable; that she would adventure to practise such meanes, whereby to compasse those two apparant impossibilities, and so to enjoy the love of her husband. Having absolutely concluded what was to be done, she assembled all the cheefest men of the country, revealing unto them (in mournfull manner) what an attempt she had made already, in hope of recovering her husbands favour, and what a rude answer was thereon returned. In the end, she told them, that it did not sute with her unworthinesse, to make the Count live as an exile from his owne inheritance, upon no other inducement, but only in regard of her: wherefore, she had determined betweene heaven and her soule, to spend the remainder of her dayes in Pilgrimages and prayers, for preservation of the Counts soule and her owne; earnestly desiring them, to undertake the charge and government of the Countrey, and signifying unto the Count, how she had forsaken his house, and purposed to wander so far thence, that never would she visiteRoussillionany more. In the deliverie of these words, the Lords and gentlemen wept and sighed extraordinarily, using many earnest imprecations to alter this resolve in her, but all was in vaine.
Having taken her sad and sorrowfull farewell of them all, accompanied onely with her Maide, and one of her Kinsmen, away she went, attired in a Pilgrims habite, yet well furnished with money and precious Jewels, to avoide all wants which might befall her in travaile; not acquainting any one whether she went. In no place stayed she, untill she was arrived at Florence, where happening into a poore Widdowes house, like a poore Pilgrim, she seemed well contented therewith. And desiring to heare some tydings of the Count, the next day she saw him passe by the house on horse-backe, with his company. Now, albeit shee knew him well enough, yet she demanded of the good old Widdow, what Gentleman he was? She made answer, that he was a stranger there, yet a Nobleman, called CountBertrandofRoussillion, a verie courteous Knight, beloved and much respected in the City. Moreover, that he was farre in love with a neighbour of hers, a yong Gentlewoman, but verie poore and meane in substance, yet of honest life, vertuous, and never taxed with any evill report: onely her povertie was the maine imbarment of her marriage, dwelling in house with her mother, who was a wise, honest, and worthy Lady.
The Countesse having wel observed her words, and considered thereon from point to point; debated soberly with her owne thoughts, in such a doubtfull case what was best to be done. When she had understood which was the house, the ancient Ladies name, and likewise her daughters, to whom her husband was now so affectionately devoted; she made choise of a fit and convenient time, when (in her Pilgrims habit), secretly she went to the house. There she found the mother and daughter in poore condition, and with as poore a family: whom after she had ceremoniously saluted, she told the old Lady, that shee requested but a little conference with her. The Ladie arose, and giving her courteous entertainment, they went together into a withdrawing chamber, where being both set downe, the Countesse began in this manner.
Madame, in my poore opinion, you are not free from the frownes of Fortune, no more then I my selfe am: but if you were so well pleased, there is no one that can comfort both our calamities in such manner, as you are able to do. And beleeve me answered the Lady, there is nothing in the world that can bee so welcome to mee, as honest comfort. The Countesse proceeding on in her former speeches said: I have now need (good Madame) both of your trust and fidelity, whereon if I should rely, and you faile me, it will be your owne undooing as well as mine. Speake then boldly, replied the olde Ladie, and remaine constantly assured, that you shall no way be deceived by me. Heereupon, the Countesse declared the whole course of her love, from the verie originall to the instant, revealing also what she was, and the occasion of her comming thither, relating every thing so perfectly, that the Ladie verily beleeved her, by some reports which she had formerly heard, and which mooved her the more to compassion. Now, when all circumstances were at full discovered, thus spake the Countesse.
Among my other miseries and misfortunes, which hath halfe broken my heart in the meere repetition, beside the sad and afflicting sufferance; two things there are, which if I cannot compasse to have, all hope is quite frustrate for ever, of gaining the grace of my Lord and Husband. Yet those two things may I obtaine by your helpe, if all be true which I have heard, and you can therein best resolve mee. Since my comming to this City, it hath credibly bene told me, that the Count my husband, is deeply in love with your daughter. If the Count (quoth the Ladie) love my daughter, and have a wife of his owne, he must thinke, and so shall surely finde it, that his greatnesse is no priviledge for him, whereby to worke dishonour upon her poverty. But indeed, some apparances there are, and such a matter as you speake of, may be so presumed; yet so farre from a very thought of entertaining in her or me; as whatsoever I am able to do, to yeeld you any comfort and content, you shall find me therein both willing and ready: for I prize my daughters spotles poverty as at high a rate, as he can do the pride of his honour.
Madam, quoth the Countesse, most heartily I thanke you. But before I presume any further on your kindnesse, let me first tell you, what faithfully I intend to do for you, if I can bring my purpose to effect. I see that your daughter is beautifull, and of sufficient yeares for mariage; and is debarred thereof (as I have heard) onely by lack of a competent dowry. Wherefore Madame, in recompence of the favour I expect from you, I will enrich her with so much ready money as you shall thinke sufficient to match her in the degree of honour. Poverty made the poore Lady, very well to like of such a bountifull offer, and having a noble heart she said: Great Countesse say, wherein am I able to do you any service, as can deserve such a gracious offer? If the action bee honest, without blame or scandall to my poore, yet undejected reputation, gladly I will do it; and it being accomplished, let the requitall rest in your owne noble nature.
Observe me then Madam, replyed the Countesse. It is most convenient for my purpose, that by some trusty and faithfull messenger, you should advertise the Count my husband, that your daughter is, and shall be at his command: but because she may remain absolutely assured, that his love is constant to her, and above all other: shee must entreate him, to send her (as a testimony thereof) the Ring which he weareth upon his little finger, albeit she hath heard, that he loveth it dearly. If he send the Ring, you shal give it me, & afterward send him word, that your daughter is readie to accomplish his pleasure; but, for the more safety and secrecie, he must repaire hither to your house, where I being in bed insted of your daughter, faire Fortune may so favour mee, that (unknowne to him) I may conceive with childe. Uppon which good successe, when time shall serve, having the Ring on my finger, and a child in my armes begotten by him, his love and liking may bee recovered, and (by your meanes) I continue with my Husband, as everie vertuous Wife ought to doe.
The good old Ladie imagined, that this was a matter somewhat difficult, and might lay a blamefull imputation on her daughter: Neverthelesse, considering, what an honest office it was in her, to bee the meanes, whereby so worthy a Countesse should recover an unkinde husband, led altogether by lust, and not a jot of cordiall love; she knew the intent to be honest, the Countesse vertuous, and her promise religious, and therefore undertooke to effect it. Within few dayes after, verie ingeniously, and according to the instructed order, the Ring was obtained, albeit much against the Counts will; and the Countesse, in sted of the Ladies vertuous daughter, was embraced by him in bed: the houre proving so auspicious, andJunobeing Lady of the ascendent, conjoyned with the wittyMercury, she conceived of two goodly Sonnes, and her deliverance agreed correspondently with the just time.
Thus the old Lady, not at this time only, but at many other meetings beside; gave the Countesse free possession of her husbands pleasures, yet alwayes in such darke and concealed secrecie, as it was never suspected, nor knowne by any but themselves, the Count lying with his owne wife, and disappointed of her whom he more deerely loved. Alwayes at his uprising in the mornings (which usually was before the breake of day, for preventing the least scruple of suspition) many familiar conferences passed betweene them, with the gifts of divers faire and costly Jewels; all which the Countesse carefully kept, and perceiving assuredly, that shee was conceived with childe, she would no longer bee troublesome to the good old Lady; but calling her aside, spake thus to her. Madam, I must needs give thankes to heaven and you, because my desires are amply accomplished, and both time and your deserts doe justly challenge, that I should accordingly quite you before my departure. It remaineth nowe in your owne power, to make what demand you please of me, which yet I will not give you by way of reward, because that would seeme to bee base and mercenary: but onely whatsoever you shall receive of me, is in honourable recompence of faire & vertuous deservings, such as any honest and well-minded Lady in the like distresse, may with good credit allow, and yet no prejudice to her reputation.
Although poverty might well have tutored the Ladies tongue, to demand a liberall recompence for her paines; yet she requested but an 100 pounds, as a friendly helpe towards her daughters marriage, and that with a bashfull blushing was uttered too; yet the Countesse gave hir five hundred pounds, beside so many rich and costly Jewels, as amounted to a farre greater summe. So she returned to her wonted lodging, at the aged widdowes house, where first she was entertained at her comming toFlorence; and the good old Lady, to avoide the Counts repairing to her house any more, departed thence sodainly with her daughter, to divers friends of hers that dwelt in the Country, whereat the Count was much discontented; albeit afterward, he did never heare any more tidings of hir or her daughter, who was worthily married, to her Mothers great comfort.
Not long after, CountBertrandwas re-called home by his people: and he having heard of his wives absence, went toRoussillionso much the more willingly. And the Countesse knowing her husbands departure fromFlorence, as also his safe arrivall at his owne dwelling, remained still inFlorence, untill the time of her deliverance, which was of two goodly Sonnes, lively resembling the lookes of their Father, and all the perfect lineaments of his body. Perswade your selves, she was not a little carefull of their nursing; and when she saw the time answerable to her determination, she tooke her journey (unknowne to any) and arrived with them atMontpellier, where shee rested her selfe for divers dayes, after so long and wearisome a journey.
Upon the day of all Saints, the Count kept a solemne Festivall, for the assembly of his Lords, Knights, Ladies, and Gentlewomen: uppon which Joviall day of generall rejoycing, the Countesse attired in her wonted Pilgrimes weed, repaired thither, entering into the great Hall, where the Tables were readily covered for dinner. Preassing thorough the throng of people, with her two children in her armes, she presumed unto the place where the Count sate, & falling on her knees before him, the teares trickling abundantly downe her cheekes, thus she spake. Worthy Lord, I am thy poor, despised, and unfortunate wife; who, that thou mightst returne home, and not bee an exile from thine owne abiding, have thus long gone begging through the world. Yet now at length, I hope thou wilt be so honourably-minded, as to performe thine own too strict imposed conditions, made to the two Knights which I sent unto thee, and which (by thy command) I was enjoyned to do. Behold here in mine armes, not onely one Sonne by thee begotten, but two Twins, and thy Ring beside. High time is it now, if men of honour respect their promises, that after so long and tedious travell, I should at last bee welcommed as thy true wife.
The Counte hearing this, stoode as confounded with admiration; for full well he knew the Ring: and both the children were so perfectly like him, as he was confirmed to be their Father by generall judgement. Upon his urging by what possible meanes this could be broght to passe: the Countesse in presence of the whole assembly, and unto her eternall commendation, related the whole history, even in such manner as you have formerly heard it. Moreover, she reported the private speeches in bed, uttered betweene himselfe and her, being witnessed more apparantly, by the costly Jewels there openly shewn. All which infallible proofes, proclaiming his shame, and her most noble carriage to her husband; hee confessed, that she had told nothing but the truth in every point which she had reported.
Commending her admirable constancy, excellency of wit, & sprightly courage, in making such a bold adventure; hee kissed the two sweete boyes, and to keepe his promise, whereto he was earnestly importuned, by all his best esteemed friends there present, especially the honourable Ladies, who would have no deniall, but by forgetting his former harsh and uncivill carriage towardes her, to accept her for ever as his lawfull wife: folding her in his armes, and sweetly kissing her divers times together, he bad her welcome to him, as his vertuous, loyall, & most loving wife, and so (for ever after) he would acknowledge her. Well knew he that she had store of better beseeming garments in the house, and therefore requested the Ladies to walke with her to her Chamber, to uncase her of those pilgrimes weeds, and cloath her in her owne more sumptuous garments, even those which she wore on her wedding day, because that was not the day of his contentment, but onely this: for now he confessed her to be his wife indeede, and now he would give the King thanks for her, and now was CountBertrandtruly married to the faireJulietofNarbona.
Dioneushaving diligently listened to the Queens singular discourse, so soone as she had concluded, and none now remaining but himselfe, to give a full period unto that dayes pleasure: without longer trifling the time, or expecting any command from the Queene, thus he began. Gracious Ladies, I know that you do now expect from me, some such queint Tale, as shall be suteable to my merry disposition; rather savouring of wantonnesse, then any discreet and sober wisedom; and such a purpose indeed, I once had entertained. But having well observed all your severall relations, grounded on grave & worthy examples, especially the last, so notably delivered by the Queene: I cannot but commend faireJulietofNarbona, in perfourming two such strange impossibilities, and conquering the unkindnesse of so cruel a husband. If my Tale come short of the precedent excellency, or give not such content as you (perhaps) expect; accept my good will, and let me stand engaged for a better heereafter.
The Annales ofDenmarkedo make mention, that the King of the said country, who was first set downe as Prince, contrary to the ancient custom and lawes observed among theDanes, namelyHunguinus; had a son calledSiwalde, who succeeded him in the estates and kingdome, belonging to his famous predecessors. That age, and the Court of that Royall Prince, was verie highly renowned, by the honour of faireSerictha, Daughter to the saydeSiwalde; who beside her generall repute, of being a myracle of Nature, in perfection of beautie, and most compleate in all that the heart of man could desire to note, in a body full of grace, gentlenesse, and whatsoever else, to attract the eyes of everie one to beholde her: was also so chaste, modest, and bashfull, as it was meerely impossible, to prevaile so farre with her, that any man should come to speake with her. For, in those dayes, marriages were pursued and sought by valour, and by the onely opinion, which stoute Warriours conceived, of the vertuous qualities of a Ladie. Notwithstanding, never could any man make his vaunt, that she had given him so much as a looke, or ever any one attained to the favour, to whisper a word in her eare. Because both the custome and will of Parents then (very respectively kept in those Northerne parts of the world) of hearing such speak, as desired their daughters in marriage; grew from offering them some worthy services; and thereby compassed meanes, to yeeld their contentation, by some gracious and kinde answers.
But she, who was farre off from the desire of any such follies, referring her selfe wholly to the will and disposition of the King her Lord and Father; was so contrary, to give any living man an answer, that her eye never looked on any one speaking to her, appearing as sparing in vouchsafing a glance, as her heart was free from a thought of affection. For, she had no other imagination, but that Maides, both in their choise & will, ought to have any other disposition, but such as should bee pleasing to their parents, either to graunt, or denie, according as they were guided by their grave judgement. In like manner, so well had shee brideled her sensuall appetites, with the curbe of Reason, Wisedome, and Providence; setting such a severe and constant restraint, on the twinkling or motions of her eyes, in absolute obedience to her Father; as never was she seene to turne her head aside, to lend one looke on any man of her age.
A worthy sight it was, to behold Knights errant, passing, repassing toDenmarke, and backe againe, labouring to conquer those setled eyes, to win the least signe of grace and favour, from her whom they so dutiously pursued, to steale but a silly glimpse or glance, and would have thought it a kind of honourable theft. But this immovable rock of beauty, although she knew the disseignes of them which thus frequented the Court of the King her Father, and could not pretend ignorance of their endeavour, ayming onely at obtaining her in mariage: yet did she not lend any look of her eye, yeelding the least signall of the hearts motion, in affecting any thing whatsoever, but what it pleased her Father she should do.
Sericthaliving in this strange and unusuall manner, it mooved manie Princes and great Lords, to come and court her, contending both by signes and words, to change her from this severe constancie, and make knowne (if possible it might be) whether a woman would or could be so resolute, as to use no respect at all towards them, coming from so manie strange countries, to honour her in the Courts of the King her father. But in these dayes of ours, if such a number of gallant spirits should come, to aske but one looke of some of our beauties; I am halfe affraide, that they should finde the eyes of many of our dainty darlings, not so sparing of their glances, as those ofSericthawere. Considering, that our Courtiers of these times, are this way emulous one of another, and women are so forward in offering themselves, that they performe the office of suters, as fearing lest they should not be solicited, yea, though it bee in honest manner.
The King, who knew well enough, that a daughter was a treasure of some danger to keepe, and growing doubtfull withall least (in the end) this so obstinate severity would be shaken, if once it came to passe, that his daughter should feele the piercing apprehensions of love, & whereof (as yet) she never had any experience; he determined to use some remedy for this great concourse of lovers, and strange kinde of carriage in the Princesse his daughter. For, hee apparantly perceived, that such excelling beauty as was inSerictha, with those good and commendable customes, and other ornaments of his daughters mind, could never attaine to such an height of perfection; but yet there would be found some men, so wittily accute and ingenious, as to convert and humour a maid, according to their will, and make a mockery of them, who were (before) of most high esteeme. Beside, among so great a troope of Lords, as daily made tender of their amorous service, some one or other would prove so happy, as (at the last) she should be his Mistresse. And therefore forbearing what otherwhise he had intended, as a finall conclusion of all such follies: calling his daughter alone to himselfe in his Chamber, and standing cleere from all other attention, hee used to her this, or the like Language.
I know not faire daughter, what reason may move you to shew your selfe so disdainfull towards so many Noble and worthy men, as come to visite you, and honour my Court with their presence, offering me their love and loyall service, under this onely pretence (as I perceive) of obtaining you, and compassing the happinesse (as it appeareth in plaine strife among them) one day to winne the prize, you being the maine issue of all their hope. If it be bashfull modesty, which (indeede) ought to attend on all virgins of your yeares, and so veyles your eyes, as (with honour) you cannot looke on any thing, but what is your owne, or may not justly vouchsafe to see; I commend your maidenly continencie, which yet neverthelesse, I would not have to bee so severe; as (at length) your youth falling into mislike thereof, it maybe the occasion of some great misfortune, either to you, or me, or else to us both together: considering what rapes are ordinarily committed in these quarters, and of Ladies equall every way to your selfe; which happening, would presently be the cause of my death.
If it be in regard of some vow which you have consecrated to virginity, and to some one of our Gods: I seeke not therein to hinder your disseignes, neither will bereave the celestiall powers, of whatsoever appertaineth to them. Albeit I could wish, that it should bee kept in a place more straited, and separate from the resort of men; to the end, that so bright a beauty as yours is, should cause no discords among amorous suters, neither my Court prove a Campe destinied unto the conclusion of such quarrels, or you be the occasion of ruining so many, whose service would beseeme a much more needfull place, then to dye heere by fond and foolish opinion of enjoying a vaine pleasure, yet remaining in the power of another bodie to grant. If therefore I shall perceive, that these behaviours in you do proceede from pride, or contempt of them, who endeavour to do you both honour and service, and in sted of granting them a gracious looke, in arrogancie you keepe from them, making them enemies to your folly and my sufferance: I sweare to you by our greatest God, that I will take such due order, as shall make you feele the hand of an offended Father, and teach you (hencefoorth) to bee much more affable.
Wherefore deere daughter, you shall do me a singular pleasure, freely to acquaint me with your minde, and the reasons of your so stricte severity: promising you, upon the word and faith of a King, nay more, of a loving and kinde Father, that if I finde the cause to bee just and reasonable, I will desist so farre from hindering your intent, as you shal rather perceive my fatherly furtherance, and rest truly resolved of my help and favour. Wherefore faire daughter, neither blush or dismay, or feare to let me understand your will; for evidently I see, that meere virgin shame hath made a rapture of your soule, beeing nothing else but those true splendours of vertue derived from your Auncestors, and shining in you most gloriously, gracing you with a much richer embellishing, then those beauties bestowed on you by Nature. Speake therefore boldly to your Father, because there is no law to prohibit your speech to him: for when he commandeth, he ought to bee obeyed: promising uppon mine oath once againe, that if your reasons are such as they ought to be, I will not faile to accommodate your fancy.
The wise and vertuous Princesse, hearing the King to alledge such gracious reasons, and to lay so kinde a command on her; making him most lowe and humble reverence, in signe of dutifull accepting such favour, thus she answered. Royall Lord and Father, seeing that in your Princely Court, I have gathered whatsoever may be termed vertuous in me, & you being the principall instructer of my life, from whom I have learned those lessons, how maides (of my age) ought to governe and maintaine themselves: you shall apparently perceive, that neither gazing lookes, which I ought not to yeelde without your consent, nor pride or arrogancie, never taught me by you, or the Queene my most honourable Lady and Mother, are any occasion of my carriage towards them, which come to make ostentation of their folly in your Court, as if a meere look ofSerictha, were sufficient to yeeld assurance effectually of their desires victory.
Nothing (my most Royall Lord and Father) induceth mee to this kinde of behaviour, but onely due respect of your honour & mine owne: and to the end it may not be thought, that I belye my selfe, in not eying the affectionate offers of amorous pursuers, or have any other private reserved meaning, then what may best please KingSiwaldemy Father: let it suffice Sir, that it remaineth in your power onely, to make an apt election and choise for me; for I neither ought, nor will allowe the acceptance of any suters kindnesse, so much as by a looke (much lesse then by words) untill your Highnesse shall nominate the man, to be a meete husband forSerictha. It is onely you then (my Lord) that beares the true life-blood of our Ancestors. It is the untainted life of the Queene my Mother, that sets a chaste and strict restraint on mine eyes, from estranging my heart, to the idle amorous enticements of young giddy-headed Gentlemen, and have sealed up my soule with an absolute determination, rather to make choise of death, then any way to alter this my warrantable severity.
You being a wise King, and the worthie Father ofSerictha, it is in you to mediate, counsell, and effect, what best shall beseeme the desseignes of your daughter: because it is the vertue of children, yea, and their eternall glory and renowne, to illustrate the lives and memories of their parents. It consisteth in you, either to grant honest license to such Lords as desire me, or to oppose them with such discreete conditions, as both your selfe may sit free from any further afflicting, and they rest defeated of dangerous dissentions, according as you foresee what may ensue. Which yet (neverthelesse) I hold as a matter impossible, if their discord should be grounded on the sole apprehension of their soules: and the onely prevention thereof, is, not to yeeld any signe, glance of the eie, or so much as a word more to one man then another: for, such is the setled disposition of your daughters soule, and which shee humbly entreateth, may so be still suffered.
Many meanes there are, whereby to winne the grace of the greatest King, by employing their paines in worthy occasions, answerable unto their yeeres and vertue, if any such sparkes of honour doe shine in their soules; rather then by gaining heere any matter of so meane moment, by endeavouring to shake the simplicity of a bashfull maide: Let them cleare the Kings high-wayes of Theeves, who make the passages difficult: or let them expell Pirates from off the Seas, which make ourDanishcoasts every way inaccessible. These are such Noble meanes to merit, as may throw deserved recompence uppon them, and much more worthily, then making Idols of Ladies lookes, or gazing for babies in their wanton eyes. So may you bestowe on them what is your owne, grantingSericthato behold none, but him who you shall please to give her: for otherwise, you know her absolute resolve, never to looke any living man in the face, but onely you my gracious Lord and Father.