than described; the bitter tears that were shed at their parting, under
the impression they never should meet again, would have melted a heart
of stone; and, in their last embrace, they both seemed expiring in each
other’s arms. At length Marriotto tried to comfort his mournful bride,
by intimating a hope that, by some fortunate event, he might return to
his country. He, at last, determined not only to absent himself from
Tuscany, but to fly from Italy altogether, and go over to Alexandria
to an uncle, named Mignanelli, he had there, a great merchant. After
settling with his wife on the best means of carrying on a correspondence
between them, the unhappy couple parted in tears. The distracted
Marriotto made his way to the nearest port, to set sail for Alexandria,
after leaving a letter for his brother, to inform him of the whole
secret. He most pressingly entreated him carefully to watch over the
safety of his dear Gianozza, and to protect her. In due time he arrived
at Alexandria, was kindly received by his uncle, and related his
misfortunes to him; Mignanelli was much grieved, not so much at the
murder of the man, as on account of the offence given to the relations
of the lady by this secret union, and whose power was much to be
dreaded; but thinking it was useless to reproach him for things past,
they endeavoured to quiet each other’s minds. The uncle initiated him
in trade, and having every month letters constantly from his beloved
Gianozza, and now and then seeing his brother, he was comparatively
happy. In the interim, the father of Gianozza being solicited and
importuned by many to marry his daughter, she continually objected to
one, then to another; being at last pressed by her father to choose
a husband, and, in such a manner, that it would have been needless to
resist, she became almost distracted; to tell the truth would have but
added fuel to fire. In this dreadful situation, a thought struck her,
not only dangerous and cruel, but, perhaps, never yet heard of. She told
her father she was ready to obey his commands, and immediately went
to the friar Augustin, who had favoured their scheme, and cautiously
imparted to him her project, and entreated his assistance; upon which he
assumed that modest caution and timidity natural to the cloth, and, by
some, highly admired; and humm’d and hah’d, but the enchanting powers of
a well lined purse soon emboldened him, and he manfully entered into
the scheme. He hastened home and made up (for he was an adept in the
science) a draught, that not only would send a person to sleep for three
days, but would give the real appearance of a corpse; having made up
this draught, he sent it to the lady, with proper directions. Gianozza
wrote a letter to Marriotto, to inform him of every particular the friar
had done by her express command; then swallowed the draught, which, in a
short time, threw her into a stupor, and she fell as if dead amidst her
women; their cries soon brought her father and all the family into the
room; the distracted old man sent for medical assistance, but nothing
could avail; she was to all appearance dead, and the doctors were of
opinion it was from the gout that had seized the chest.
[Illustration: 272]
The next day, and the succeeding one, she was carefully watched, to
see if any signs of life appeared, but none being visible, to the great
grief of her aged parent, and amidst the tears and lamentations of
friends and relations, she was buried in the church of St. Augustin.
About midnight the friar, assisted by one of his trusty brethren, took
her out of the coffin into his room, and at the hour when the operation
of the draught must be nearly over, they, by friction and other means,
restored her to life. Being completely revived to sense and feeling in a
few days, dressed in a friar’s garment, she set forth with the Augustin
friar to port Pisano, where they found the galley Aquamorta, that was
to touch at Alexandria in her voyage. Having taken their passage, they
embarked forthwith, but as navigation is very precarious, and merchant
vessels are often detained by landing, or freighting goods, contrary
winds, and other casualties, they did not arrive till some months later
than they expected.
The unfortunate Marriotto had, however, received, by several
merchants, letters from Gargano his brother, who anxious to keep up the
correspondence he had promised, had written to him every particular of
the melancholy event, adding, that the afflicted and broken-hearted
old father had died with grief. On the other hand, the vessel by which
Gianozza’s letter had been sent was carrying corn to Alexandria, and
was taken by pirates. Having no other information than his brother’s,
he concluded it was all as stated in his letters. Reader, if thou hast a
heart, thou wilt easily picture to thyself the distraction of Marriotto;
so overpowering were his sorrows, that he determined not to outlive
his misfortune, and in spite of his uncle’s entreaties, he resolved to
return to Siena, to conceal himself in disguise, and there, where he
thought his dear Gianozza lay, to bathe her tomb with his tears, and
die. He embarked in a Venetian galley that was sailing to Naples; being
arrived there, he went by land into Tuscany, entered Siena unknown, in a
pilgrim’s dress, and without going to any of his relations, went to the
church of St. Augustin, where his beloved had been buried; there he wept
and lamented, and would fain have buried himself with her in the tomb.
The following evening he provided himself with an iron tool and wrench,
and had nearly succeeded in opening the tomb, when the sexton, who was
come to ring the bell for midnight prayers, hearing a noise, hastened to
the place, and found the unfortunate Marriotto hard at his work; taking
him to be a robber of the tombs, he halloed lustily, “_stop thief, stop
thief!_” that all the fraternity were soon down into the church, some
in their night-caps, others in their shirts; and although he was in
tatters, he was immediately recognised to be Marriotto Mignelli. Here
he was kept fast till the morning. It was soon divulged in Siena, and
reaching the ears of the magistrates, they instantly sent the sbirri to
seize him. They brought him before the judge, and he had scarcely felt
the first torture, when he confessed, rather than endure more torments,
the cause of his desperate resolution to return home. Although he was
universally pitied, and more particularly by the fair sex, who looked
upon him as a phenomenon of true love, and wept bitterly for his fate,
yet the magistrate ordered that on the first execution day he should
be hung. Thus, the interposition of his friends being unavailing, he
submitted to his fate. After some months had elapsed, Gianozza, and her
conductor arrived, after great sufferings, at Alexandria, enquired for
Niccolo Mignanelli, and having found him made herself known to him, and
told him all her misfortunes, and the purpose of her voyage. The good
uncle was petrified with amazement, and grieved to the heart. After he
had made her take her usual woman’s garments, and kindly treated the
friar, he then related to the distressed Gianozza how Marriotto, led
away by despair, had left him, and had gone back, without giving him the
least intimation, fully determined to die, and how much he had grieved
at his departure, knowing that such was his fixed resolve. Reader, you
will surely conceive that this last misfortune outweighed every past
suffering, and almost overwhelmed the unfortunate widow. After the
bitterness of her sorrow was alleviated by scorching tears, Niccolo
advised that they should both immediately take shipping, go to Siena,
and find out Marriotto, dead or alive, and use every means to clear the
honour of the lady. Having settled some little business, he made her
take men’s clothes, embarked her, and after a prosperous voyage they
arrived at Leghorn, and went from thence as speedily as they could to a
little estate near Siena, which Niccolo possessed. Having enquired into
many particulars, they were informed, to their very great grief, that
Marriotto had three days before been executed. This fatal news was,
indeed, a last stroke of cruel fortune. This was too much; tears
could no longer flow; death and despair were indelibly traced in her
countenance. Niccolo tried to comfort her, and at last determined, as
secretly as possible, to place her in a convent, where, without
making her known to the abbess, she might be taken care of. In this he
succeeded; but intense grief, which totally deprived her of sleep and
food, in a few days relieved her from all her sorrows, and she expired
calling on her beloved Marriotto.
THE COUNTERPARTS
Messer Basilio, of Milan, who had fixed his residence in Pisa, on his
return from Paris, where he had pursued the study of physic, having
accumulated, by industry and extraordinary skill, a good fortune,
married a young woman of Pisa, of very slender fortune, and fatherless
and motherless; by her he had three sons, and a daughter who in due time
was married in Pisa; the eldest son was likewise married, the younger
one was at school; the middle one, whose name was Lazarus, although
great sums had been spent upon his education, made nothing of it; he was
naturally idle and stupid, of a sour and melancholy disposition; a man
of few words, and obstinate to such a degree, that if once he had said
no to any thing, nothing upon earth could make him alter his mind. His
father, finding him so extremely troublesome, determined to get rid of
him, and sent him to a beautiful estate he had lately bought at a small
distance from town.
There he lived contented, more proud of the society of clowns and
clodpoles, than the acquaintance of civilized people. While Lazarus was
thus living quietly in his own way, there happened about ten years after
a dreadful mortality in Pisa; people were seized with a violent fever,
they then fell into a sleep suddenly, and died in that state. The
disease was catching; Basilio, as well as other physicians, exerted
their utmost skill, as well for their own interest as the general good;
but ill fortune would have it that he caught the infection and died. The
contagion was such that not one individual of the family escaped death,
except an old woman servant. The raging disease having ceased at last,
Lazarus was induced to return to Pisa, where he inherited the extensive
estates and riches of his father. Many were the efforts made by
the different families to induce him to marry their daughters,
notwithstanding they were aware of his boorish disposition; but nothing
would avail. He said he was resolved to wait four years before he would
marry; so that his obstinate disposition being well known, they ceased
their importunities. Lazarus, intent upon pleasing himself alone, would
not associate with any living soul. There was, however, one poor man,
named Gabriel, who lived in a small house opposite to him, with his wife
Dame Santa. This poor fellow was an excellent fisherman and birdcatcher,
made nets, &c. and what with that, and the assistance of his wife, who
spun, he made shift to keep his family, consisting of two children, a
boy of five, and a girl of three years old. Now it happened that this
Gabriel was a perfect likeness of Lazarus; both were red haired, had the
same length of beard, every feature, size, gait, and voice so perfectly
alike, that one would have sworn they were twins; and had they both been
dressed alike, certainly no one but would have mistaken the one for
the other; the wife herself would have been deceived, but for the
clothes--those of Lazarus being fine cloth, and her husband’s of coarse
wool of a different colour. Lazarus, observing tins extraordinary
resemblance, could not help fancying that there must be something in
it, and began to familiarise himself with his society, sent his wife
presents of eatables, wines, &c. and often invited Gabriel to dinner
or supper with him, and conversed with him. Gabriel, though poor and
untaught, was shrewd and sagacious, and knew well how to get on the
blind side of any one; he so humoured him, that at last Lazarus could
not rest an instant without his company. One day, after dinner, they
entered into conversation on the subject of fishing, and the different
modes of catching fish, and at last came to the fishing by diving with
small nets fastened to the neck and arms; and Gabriel told him of the
immense numbers of large fish which were caught in that manner, insomuch
that Lazarus became very anxious to know how one could fish diving, and
begged of him to let him see how he did it. Upon which Gabriel said he
was very willing, and it being a hot summer’s day, they might easily
take the sport, if he too were willing. Having risen from table, Gabriel
marched out, fetched his nets, and away they went. They arrived on the
borders of the Arno, in a shady place surrounded by elders; there he
requested Lazarus to sit and look on. After stripping, and fastening
the nets about him, he dived in the river, and being very expert at the
sport, he soon rose again with eight or ten fish of terrible size in his
nets. Lazarus could not think how it was possible to catch so many fish
under water; it so astonished him, that he determined to try it himself.
The day was broiling hot, and he thought it would cool him. By the
assistance of Gabriel he undressed, and the latter conducted him in at
a pleasant part of the shore, where the water was scarcely knee deep.
There he left him with nets, giving him charge not to go farther than
the stake which he pointed out to him. Lazarus, who had never before
been in the water, was delighted at its coolness, and observing how
often Gabriel rose up with nets full of fish, bethought himself one must
see under as well as above water, otherwise it would be impossible to
catch the fish in the dark, therefore, in order to ascertain the point,
without thinking of consequences, he put his head under water, and
dashed forward beyond the stake. Down he went like a piece of lead; not
aware he should hold his breath, and knowing nothing of swimming, he
struggled hard to raise himself above the surface. He was almost stifled
with the water he had swallowed, and was carried away by the current
so that he very shortly lost his senses. Gabriel, who was very busy
catching a great deal of fish in a very good place, did not care to
leave it; therefore, poor Lazarus, after rising half dead two or three
times, sunk at last never to rise again. Gabriel, after he had got as
much fish as he thought would do for him, joyfully turned round to show
Lazarus his sport; he looked round and did not see him, he then sought
him every where, but not finding him, he became quite alarmed, and
terrified at the sight of the poor fellow’s clothes that were laid on
the bank. He dived, and sought the body, and found it at last driven
by the current on the beach; at the sight he almost lost his senses;
he stood motionless, not knowing what to do, for he feared, that in
relating the truth, people would think it was all a lie, and that he had
drowned him, himself, in order to get his money. Driven thus almost to
despair, a thought struck him, and he determined to put it in instant
execution. There was no witness to the fact, for every one was asleep,
it being the heat of the day; he, therefore, took the fish, and put
them safe in a basket, and for that purpose, took the dead body on his
shoulders, heavy as it was, laid him on some grass, put his own breeches
on the dead limbs, untied the nets from his own arms, and tied them
tight to the arms of the corpse. This done, he took hold of him, dived
into the water, and tied him fast with the nets to the stake under
water. He then came on shore, slipped on Lazarus’s shirt, and all
his clothes, and even his fine shoes, and sat himself down on a bank,
determining to try his luck first in saving himself from his perilous
situation, and next to try whether he might not, from his extreme
likeness to Lazarus, make his fortune and live at ease. Being a bold
and sagacious fellow, he immediately undertook the daring and dangerous
experiment, and began to cry out with all his might and main, “Oh! good
people, help! help! run and help the poor fisherman, who is drowning.”
He roared out so, that at last the miller, who lived not far off, came
running with I know not how many of his men. Gabriel spoke with a gruff
voice, the better to imitate that of Lazarus, and weepingly related that
the fisherman, after diving and catching a good deal of fish, had gone
again, and that as he had been above an hour under water, he was afraid
he was drowned; they, enquiring what part of the river he had gone to,
he shewed them the stake and place. The miller, who could swim very
well, rushed in towards the stake, and found the corpse, but being
unable to extricate it from the stake, rose up again and cried out, “Oh!
yes he is dead sure enough, but I cannot get him up by myself,” upon which
two others stripped, and got the body out, whose arms and limbs were
lacerated by the nets, which (as they thought) had entangled him, and
caused his death. The news being spread abroad, a priest came, the
corpse was put in a coffin and carried to a small church, that it might
be owned by the family of Gabriel. The dreadful news had already reached
Pisa, and the unfortunate wife, with her weeping children, came to the
church, and there beholding her beloved husband, as she thought, she
hung over him, wept, sobbed, tore her hair, and became almost frantic,
insomuch that the bystanders were moved to tears. Gabriel, who was a
most loving husband and father, could scarce refrain from weeping,
and seeing the extreme affliction of his wife, came forward, keeping
Lazarus’s hat over his eyes, and his handkerchief to his face as it were
to wipe away his tears, and approaching the widow, who took him, as well
as others, for Lazarus, he said, in the hearing of all the people, “good
woman, do not give, way to such sorrow, nor weep so, for I will, not
forsake you; as it was to oblige me, and afford me pleasure, that he
went a fishing to-day against his inclination, methinks it is partly
to me he owed his death, therefore I will ever be a friend to thee
and thine; all expenses shall be paid, therefore return home and be
comforted, for while I live thou shalt never want, and should I die
I will leave thee enough to make thee as comfortable as any of thy
equals.” Thus he went on, weeping and sobbing, as if regretting the loss
of Gabriel, and really agonized by the distress of his widow. He was
inwardly praised by all present, who believed him to be Lazarus.
The poor widow, after the funeral was performed, returned to Pisa, much
comforted by the promises of him, whom she considered as her neighbour
Lazarus. Gabriel, who had been long acquainted with the deceased’s ways,
manners, and mode of living, entered Lazarus’s house, as if the master
of it; without uttering a syllable, ascended into a very beautiful room
that looked over a fine garden, pulled out of the dead man’s coat he had
on a bunch of keys, and opened several chests, and finding some smaller
keys, he opened several desks, bureaus, money chests, and found,
independent of trunks filled with cloth, linen and jewels, which the old
father, the physician, and brothers of the deceased had left, nearly to
the value of two thousand gold florins, and four hundred of silver. He
was in raptures all the night, and began to think of the best means to
conceal himself from the servants, and appear as the real Lazarus. About
the hour of supper he came out of his room, weeping; the servants, who
had heard the dreadful situation of the Widow Santa, and that it was
reported that their master had partly been the cause of the accident,
were not much surprised at seeing him thus afflicted, thinking it was
on account of Gabriel. He called the servant and desired him to take a
couple of loaves, two bottles of wine, and half his supper to the Widow
Santa, the which the poor widow scarcely touched. When the servant
returned, Gabriel ordered supper but ate sparingly, the better to
deceive the servants, as Lazarus was a very little eater; then left the
room without saying a word, and shut himself up in his own room as the
deceased used to do. The servants thought there was some alteration in
his countenance and voice, but attributed it to the sorrowful event
that had occurred. The widow, after having tasted of the supper, and
considering the care that had been taken of her, and the promises made
by Lazarus, began to take comfort, parted with her relations, who had
come to condole with her, and retired to bed. Gabriel, full of thought,
could not sleep a wink, and got up in the morning at Lazarus’s usual
hour, and in all things imitated him. But being informed by the servants
that Santa was always in grief, weeping and discomforted, and being a
fond husband, and loving her tenderly, he was miserable upon hearing
this, and determined to comfort her. Thus resolved, one day after dinner
he went to her, and found a cousin of her’s with her. Having given her
to understand he had some private business with her, the cousin knowing
how much she was indebted to him, and her expectations, left the room,
and departed, saying, he begged she would be advised by her worthy
neighbour.
As soon as he was gone, he shut the door, went into his room and
motioned her to follow; she, struck with the singularity of the case,
and fearing for her honor, did not know what to do, whether she should,
or she should not follow; yet thinking of his kindness, and the hopes
she had from his liberality, and taking her eldest son by the hand, she
went into the room, where she found him lying on a little bed, on which
her husband used to lie when tired; upon which she started and stopped.
Gabriel, seeing her come with her son, smiled with pleasurable feelings
at the purity of his wife’s conduct; one word that he uttered, which he
was in the habit of using, staggered the poor Santa, so that she could
not utter a syllable. Gabriel, pressing the poor boy to his breast,
said, “thy mother weeps unaware of thy happy fate, her own, and her
husband’s.” Yet not daring to trust himself before him, though but a
child, he took him into the next room, gave him money to play with, and
left him there. Returning to his wife, who had caught his words, and
partly recognized him, he double-locked the door, and related to her
every circumstance that had happened, and how he had managed every
thing; she, delighted and convinced from the repetition of certain
family secrets, known to themselves alone, embraced him, giving him
as many kisses as she had bestowed tears for his death, for both were
loving and tenderly attached. After reciprocal marks of each other’s
affection, Gabriel said to her that she must be perfectly silent, and
pointed out to her how happy their life would hereafter prove; he told
her of the riches he had found, and what he intended to do, the which
highly delighted her. In going out, Santa pretended to cry on opening
the street door, and said aloud, that she might be heard by the
neighbours, “I recommend these poor fatherless children to you, signor!”
to which he answered, “fear not, good Mrs. Santa,” and walked away, full
of thoughts on his future plans. When evening came on, observing the
same uniform conduct of his predecessor, he went to bed, but could not
sleep for thinking. No sooner did the dawn appear than he rose and went
to the church of St. Catherine, where a devout and worthy pastor dwelt,
and who was considered by all the Pisanians as a little saint: friar
Angelico appearing, Gabriel told him he wanted to speak to him on
particular business, and to have his advice upon a very important and
singular case that had happened to him. The kind friar, although he did
not know him, led him into his room. Gabriel, who well knew the whole
genealogy of Lazarus, son of Basilio of Milan, related it fully to
the friar, likewise the dreadful accident, adding, that he considered
himself as a principal cause of it, making him believe it was he
who induced the unfortunate man to go a fishing against his will;
he represented the mischief which resulted from it to the widow and
children of the deceased, and that he considered himself so much the
cause of it, and felt such a weight on his conscience, that he had made
up his mind, though Santa was of low condition, and poor, to take her
for his wife, if she and her friends approved of it, and to take the
children of the poor fisherman under his care as his own; bring them up
with his own children, should he have any, and leave them co-heirs with
them; this, he said, would reconcile him to himself and his Maker,
and be approved by men. The holy man, seeing the worthy motives which
actuated him, approved of his intention, and recommended as little delay
as possible, since he would thereby meet with forgiveness. Gabriel, in
order the more effectually to secure his ready cooperation, threw down
thirty pieces of money, saying, that in the three succeeding Mondays
he wished high mass to be sung for the soul of the deceased. At this
tempting sight the friar, although a very saint, leaped with joy, took
the cash, and said, “my son, the masses shall be sung next Monday; there
is nothing more to attend to now but the marriage, a ceremony which I
advise thee to hasten as much as thou canst; do not think of riches or
noble birth; thou art, thank heaven, rich enough; and as to birth, we
are all children of one father; true nobility consists in virtue and the
fear of God, nor is the good woman deficient in either; I know her well,
and most of her relations.”
“Oh, Father,” said Gabriel, “I am come to you for the very purpose,
therefore, I pray you, put me quickly in the way to forward the
business.”
“When will you give her the ring?” said the holy man. “This very day,”
he answered, “if she be inclined.”
“Well,” said the friar, “go thy ways, and leave all to me; go home, and
stir not from thence--these blessed nuptials shall take place.” Gabriel
thanked him, received his blessing, and went home. The holy father
carefully put the cash in his desk, then went to an uncle of Dame Santa,
a shoemaker by trade, and a cousin of hers, a barber, and related to
them what had happened; after which they went together to Dame Santa,
and used every possible argument to persuade her to consent to the
match, the which she feigned great difficulty in consenting to, saying
that it was merely for the advantage of her children that she submitted
to such a thing. I will only add, that the very same morning, by
the exertions of the friar, they were married a second time; great
rejoicings took place, and Gabriel and his wife laughed heartily at the
simplicity of the good friar, and the credulity of the relations and
neighbours. They happily lived in peace and plenty, provided for and
dismissed the old servants; were blessed with two more children, whom
he named _Fortunatus_, and from whom afterward sprung some of the most
renowned men, both in arms and letters.