styled Master Stefano. He was, in fact, a Mantuan, but he had dwelt so
long at Arezzo, that most people considered him an Aretine. He was a
handsome fellow, about thirty, extremely bold, and eloquent, and, as
most of the preaching friars are, I mean the wickeder part of them,
inclined to trick his best friend out of his wife’s affections. Although
in the pulpit they preach up chastity, reprobate the sin of disturbing
the happiness of married life, and dwell upon the merit of alms-giving,
all this is in order to be more securely admitted into families, and to
gain a character for sanctity, by which people may be induced to leave
their property to the church, and deprive their rightful heirs of their
due. Thus they enrich themselves, and laugh in their sleeves at the
fools who are deluded by their hypocrisy.
Instead of paying regard to the divine precept, which directs all those
of their profession not to provide food for the morrow, they are for
ever begging, and grasping at every thing within their reach; and if
perchance they should confess a dying person, who has detained that
which was not his own, they will make him believe it is more meritorious
and good for his soul, to give it to the church, than restore it to its
owner. This Master Stefano was one of these fine fellows. He fell in
love with a beautiful and virtuous lady, named Emilia, who was married
to as worthy a man, Girolamo de Brendali. The lady, who thought that
Stefano led so pure and holy a life, never suspected that he could
entertain such unworthy intentions, and received him every day with the
greatest marks of kindness, both on account of her husband’s partiality
to him, and, moreover, because for two years past he had been her
confessor. The friar, however, being unable to moderate the ardour of
his passion, determined to make her acquainted with it, having that
opportunity at command every day. Still he thought it would be better
to wait awhile, because it was carnival time; after which she was in
the habit of going to church to confess, thinking it much more safe
on account of the sanctity of the place, in case any thing should be
suspected, rather than her own house.
About eight days after the carnival, the lady, as was her custom,
went to the church. The friar hastened to lead her to the remotest
confessional he could pitch upon. After a few words of civility had
passed, he began to interrogate her cursorily and lightly, touching
the mortal sins, except that of incontinence, upon which he long
dwelt, being highly delighted with an opportunity of expatiating on
the subject, after the manner of too many confessors, who, under the
pretence of interrogating, gratify their own prurient imaginations with
indecent explanations, and circumstantial detail. Thus did the friar
dwell on his favourite subject as long as he could, in order to forward
the discovery of his passion to the lady. At last, breathing a deep
sigh, he said, “Lady, heaven knows I have many a time hesitated to give
you absolution, because I have from your confession found you so chaste
and free from the sin of incontinence.”
“How, father,” said she, “is it then a sin to be faithful to one’s
husband, and to be chaste?”
“The reason is,” said the friar, “because so beautiful as you are, I
cannot believe but you must have numbers of admirers, and surely you
cannot have resisted them all. I have often thought, that through shame
you have not told the truth, perhaps for fear (though heaven forbid that
I should ever do such a thing) lest I should tell your husband, or lest
I should refuse you absolution, of which, however, you would be unworthy
only by disguising from me the truth. Therefore, speak to me with
sincerity, let no fear prevent you, for I promise you, that instead of
the reproof you might expect, you will find praise and approbation;
for I think it a much greater sin to let a poor unfortunate fellow of a
lover die, than to break through that which has been prescribed merely
to make us live a little more regularly, than if all things were in
common; or, perhaps, because we set less value upon those things which
we can obtain with ease.” The lady was greatly astonished at hearing
these words, and being a virtuous and sensible woman, she began to
suspect what the hypocritical friar was driving at; but resuming
her serenity of countenance, which had been a little ruffled by his
discourse, she resolved to answer him, without giving him the least
suspicion that she understood his meaning, in order not to check him
from saying what he had in his mind. So with a smile she said, “alas!
father, saidst thou that thou dost not believe I am the honest and
virtuous woman which I am?”
“Nay, it is quite the reverse,” quoth the friar, “I do think you a more
worthy lady than you would seem, and that you would not be so cruel, as
to suffer any one to languish and die for the sake of preserving that
virtue.”
“Heaven preserve you,” said the lady, “who do you think would die on my
account? who would cast on me a look of tenderness?”
“Oh!” groaned the friar, “who is it can look on you and not lose his
heart. As for my part, (and pray pardon me if I offend you), since I
have been blessed with a sight of you, there has not been a day or
night that I have spent without thinking of your beauty, or without
petitioning mighty Love to afford me an opportunity (though at the
risque of my life) of telling you how great is the tender affection I
bear you. Should my ill-fate order it so that my passion should offend,
lay the blame not on me, but on those transcendent charms and noble
manners which have brought me to such a crisis, that I can no longer
live unless you take pity on me. Should you delay this compassion, lady
too long, perhaps it may come too late, for I must surely die.” Besides
that Emilia was a virtuous woman; she was doubly offended at the friar’s
speech, on account of the friendship which her husband bore him, and for
this reason resolved on his punishment. She told him she could not
give credit to such wonderful things; neither did she believe in his
affection, nor in the charms he alluded to. Having parted from the
friar, the lady went home, and related every word to her husband
Girolamo, having previously made him solemnly swear that he would not
meditate any serious revenge, but merely inflict some slight punishment
on him, and let him go. Girolamo considering what he could do to the
worthy preacher, which should not be a serious injury, and yet a great
disgrace, he hit upon a plan which will soon appear. He told his wife to
contrive to let the friar come to her some night, and related to her his
plan. To this she agreed, and, in consequence, to prevent the friar
from having any suspicion, and in order that the plot might the better
succeed, she sent the friar some little trifling presents by her
maid--perfumes, flowers, and green and black ribbons, such as ladies are
used to send their lovers.
Our innamorato accepted every thing with joy and rapture, and had no
scruple in sending as many back by a little convenient brother. The
friar, now thinking he was at home to a peg, determined one Saturday to
pay her a visit, for, on that day, it was his custom to rest from his
duty; therefore, taking with him the little friar, on the Saturday
before the Sunday of St. Lazarus, he marched off to the Lady Emilia. It
so happened that, exactly as he wished it, Girolamo had gone out; he
joyfully went up stairs, and sent word to Emilia that he had waited upon
her; the lady received him with very great kindness and affection; upon
which our worthy friar, after a few sweet words, reminded her of his
anguish and his hopes; to which Emilia, who had been taught by her
husband what to say, replied, “holy father! heaven knows I have always
thought infidelity to my husband a great crime, but as you have assured
me that there is no sin in it, and that you bear me such great love, I
have determined to reward your passion, but on condition of inviolable
secrecy; indeed, to shew you that I am in earnest, I would say that,
were not to-morrow the Sunday of Lazarus, when you are to preach, you
might come this very evening between eleven and twelve o’clock, my
husband being gone to Villa Cavalca; I would not fail to open the door
to you, at that time all the servants will be gone to bed and fast
asleep.” The worthy friar, who wished for nothing more ardently, and to
whom every minute seemed an age, said, “dear lady, if this be your kind
intention, do not let my preaching prevent you, for if you will let me
out a little before day-light, I will preach a sermon to-morrow that
shall delight and melt the hearts of my hearers.” He departed, and, in
order to make himself the more agreeable to the lady, he went to refresh
and perfume himself; the lady, meanwhile, related all the particulars to
her husband, who, after telling his lady how she should act, left the
house, and went to sup with an intimate friend. At the hour appointed,
the friar tapped at the door, which was opened to him, and he was led
gently up stairs to the bedchamber where Girolamo and his wife usually
slept; here she left him, desiring him to undress, saying that she would
come to him as soon as she had arranged some trifling matters. Scarcely
had our amorous lover stripped himself to his shirt, when Girolamo, who,
with the friend with whom he had supped, had watched the friar, knocked
furiously at the door. Emilia, on hearing this, rushed into the room,
threw open the window, and demanded who was there, pretending to be in a
dreadful fright. Girolamo answering, desired to be admitted, saying it
was her husband. Emilia began to call out that she was undone, ran up to
the father, who was more dead than alive through fright, bid him get up
quick, and said, “we are as good as dead; I cannot think how it is, but
my husband, whom I thought ten miles off, is now knocking at the door.”
“For heaven’s sake,” said she, “slip into that chest,” shewing him a
large one in the room, “and lie there until I see what may be done;
meanwhile I will hide your clothes somewhere or other as well as I am
able; heaven knows, I fear more for your holy person than I do for my
own life.” The unfortunate wretch, seeing himself reduced to such a
pass, did as the lady desired. Meanwhile the servants awoke, got up, and
let their master in, who, pretending that he had been attacked, along
with his companion, when put of Arezzo, by some banditti, said he had
caused the city gates to be opened by giving a crown to the guard; the
which had delayed him for more than three hours, on account of his being
obliged to go to the castle to get the keys. After ordering a bed for
his companion, he went into bed to his wife, while the poor fellow
remained in the chest. Day-light coming, the church bells began to ring
for prayers, which greatly annoyed our captive, who was to preach at the
cathedral.
Girolamo and his friend having risen, ordered two servants to carry
the chest to the church, and place it in the middle, saying they were
ordered to do so by the preacher; and that unlocking the chest without
raising the lid, they should leave it there; all which the fellows did
very neatly: every body stared, and wondered what all this could mean,
some said one thing, and some another. At last the bell having ceased
to ring, and no one appearing in the pulpit, or any other part of the
church, a young man rose and said, “really this preacher of ours makes
us wait too long; pray let us see what he has ordered to be brought
in this chest,” having said thus much, he, before all the congregation,
lifted up the lid, and looking in, beheld the friar in his shirt, pale,
almost frightened to death, and certainly appearing more dead than
alive, and as if buried in the chest.
[Illustration: 235]
He, however, finding himself discovered, collected his mind as well as
he could, and stood upright to the great astonishment of all present;
and, having taken his text from the Sunday of Lazarus, he then addressed
his congregation:--“My dear brethren, I am not at all astonished at your
surprise and amusement in seeing me brought before you in this chest,
or rather at my ordering myself to be brought thus: ye know that this is
the day in which our holy church commemorates the wonderful miracle our
Lord performed on the person of Lazarus, in raising him from the dead
who had been buried four days. I was desirous in your favour to present
myself to you, as it were, in the form of Lazarus, in order that seeing
me in this chest, which is no other than an emblem of the sepulchre
wherein he had been buried, you might be moved more effectually to
the consideration of what perishable things we are, and that seeing
me stripped of all worldly decorations, thus, in my shirt, you may be
convinced of the vanity of the things in this world, the which if duly
considered, may tend greatly to the amending of our lives. Will you
believe that, since yesternight, I have been a thousand times dead,
and revivified as Lazarus was; and, considering my dreadful situation,
remember that we must all die, and trust to Him who can bestow upon us
life eternal; but first ye must die to sin, to avarice, to rapine, and
all those sinful deeds to which our nature prompts us; and, above all,
avoid seducing the wives of others, as none who so act can be saved.”
In such language, and in this manner did the friar continue his sermon.
Much praise did the Aretines heap upon him, more especially Girolamo
and his friend, who had come to see how the trick would succeed, and who
were astonished at the extraordinary presence of mind which the friar
displayed, and laughed heartily at his success in persuading his
audience of his wonderful chastity in respect of other men’s wives.
Girolamo, in consideration of the adroitness of the culprit, did not
attempt any other revenge, but took very good care to shut his door in
future against all such double-faced hypocrites.
ANTONIO AND VERONICA.
In the time of Charles the Second, there was at Salerno a noble knight,
of an ancient family, called Messer Mazzeo, a chief justice, extremely
rich both in money and lands, whose wife being rather old, died, and
left an only daughter, whose name was Veronica, youthful, handsome, and
very virtuous. Her father, whether from affection, or that he wished to
marry her advantageously, kept her single at home, though she had many
offers. It happened that a youth, named Antonio Marcello, of noble
birth, who had been familiar in the house from his infancy, under the
sanction of a certain relationship between him and Messer Mazzeo’s lady,
became so enraptured with Veronica, that he was almost mad. Antonio,
although reserved and virtuous, and dearly beloved as a worthy son could
be, yet unable to resist all powerful love, and having opportunities
which his weak resolution could not withstand, this pair of youthful
lovers forgot what was due to their father and themselves. Though they
continued, with the greatest caution, this guilty intercourse, yet their
utmost care could not guard them from the cruel storm which fate was
raising against them. One night being together, and not suspecting any
thing, it happened that one of the servants espied them, and immediately
went to his master, and having related the fact, the former, full of
indignation, went with some of his servants to the place where the
couple were, who, being thrown into the utmost consternation, were
both seized, but Antonio being very strong and courageous, disengaged
himself, and, sword in hand, rushed forth and made his escape, unhurt
and unseen, and went home. Messer Mazzeo, grieved to death on seeing how
matters stood, insisted on knowing from his daughter who the young man
was. She very prudently, knowing the temper of her father, and that the
death of her lover must be the consequence, determined rather to expose
her own life than his, and finally told her father that she would suffer
every torment, and even death itself, rather than let the youth’s name
be known. The father, in the greatest rage, after having tortured her in
various ways, seeing her obstinately determined to be silent, although
parental feeling moved him at times, determined upon her death, and,
without seeing her more, he commanded two of his trusty servants
immediately to drag her into a boat, and throw her overboard, when they
should be some miles from shore. The men, though most unwillingly, bound
her hands, and forced her to the sea side, and while they were making
the boat ready, one of them being moved to compassion, sifted the other,
who was equally sorry at the cruel circumstance, and talking over
the matter, they agreed not only to spare her life, but to set her at
liberty; and having unbound her, they told her that being strongly
moved to pity, they could not execute the cruel sentence her father had
ordered, and begged of her, as a return for the liberty they restored to
her, that she would expatriate herself, so that her father might never
hear of their having saved her. The poor young lady finding she received
life through the humanity of her own servants, and that she was unable
to reward them sufficiently, poured forth her prayers to heaven to send
them blessings equal to the inestimable gift they bestowed upon her; and
after recovering from-her fright and terror she swore to them, by
that life they had saved her, that she would conduct herself in such a
manner, that not only her merciless father, but no living soul should
ever be apprised of the circumstance.
After having cut her hair, and dressed her up as well as they could with
their own clothes, and giving her what trifle of money they had about
them, they directed her on the way to Naples, and left her with tears;
and having returned home with her clothes, they asserted, that with a
large stone tied to her neck, they had plunged her into the sea about
ten miles off. The noble lady, who had never before been out of the
city, felt herself nearly fainting at every step she took; the thoughts
of leaving her poor Antonio without the hope of ever seeing him again,
together with many other tender thoughts, nearly induced her to turn
back; but recollecting the kindness she experienced, and the solemn
promise she had made to them, gratitude, that blossom of every virtue,
had such power over her feelings, that every such thought was dismissed.
She therefore went on, not knowing where, and praying to heaven to help
her, she walked the remaining part of the night. About dawn, being near
Nocera, she was overtaken by a party who were going on to Naples, and
joined company with them; among these was a Calabrian gentleman, who was
taking some sparrow hawks to the Duke of Calabria. The youth (for so the
lady appeared) seeming to him a pleasant young man, he asked her what
countryman he was, and whether he wanted employment? Veronica, who in
sport had learned in her youth to imitate the language of an old woman
of Apulia, who was in her father’s house, thought she would make use of
those Pugliese words which she recollected, as often as she could in
the course of her conversation with him, and answered, “I am a native of
Apulia, and came forth from home only to get a situation, but, as I am
the son of a noble father, I would not wish to undertake too menial a
place.” To which the Calabrian said, “would you like to be keeper of the
hawks?” This question highly delighted Veronica, having at her father’s
house had the care of several; she answered, that from her infancy she
had been accustomed to the care of them. After some conversation as they
went along, she took the care of one, and being arrived at Naples, and
clad so that she appeared a very neat and elegant little squire, whether
fate had so decreed it, or that her likely appearance captivated him,
the duke would have both the hawks and the young Pugliese keeper who
managed them so well, and, consequently, he was installed in the family
with a young Neapolitan. She so carefully fulfilled her duty, and was
so exact in her attendance, that in a short time she became the greatest
favourite, and was much valued by the duke; insomuch that she remained
with him till fortune directed another course for her.