--
Under cloak of confession and a most spotless conscience, a lady, enamoured
of a young man, induces a booby friar unwittingly to provide a means to the
entire gratification of her passion.
--
When Pampinea had done, and several of the company had commended the
hardihood and wariness of the groom, as also the wisdom of the King, the
queen, turning to Filomena, bade her follow suit: wherefore with manner
debonair Filomena thus began:--
The story which I shall tell you is of a trick which was actually played by
a fair lady upon a booby religious, and which every layman should find the
more diverting that these religious, being, for the most part, great
blockheads and men of odd manners and habits, do nevertheless credit
themselves with more ability and knowledge in all kinds than fall to the lot
of the rest of the world; whereas, in truth, they are far inferior, and so,
not being able, like others, to provide their own sustenance, are prompted
by sheer baseness to fly thither for refuge where they may find provender,
like pigs. Which story, sweet my ladies, I shall tell you, not merely that
thereby I may continue the sequence in obedience to the queen's behest, but
also to the end that I may let you see that even the religious, in whom we
in our boundless credulity repose exorbitant faith, may be, and sometimes
are, made--not to say by men--even by some of us women the sport of their
sly wit.
In our city, where wiles do more abound than either love or faith, there
dwelt, not many years ago, a gentlewoman richly endowed (none more so) by
nature with physical charms, as also with gracious manners, high spirit and
fine discernment. Her name I know, but will not disclose it, nor yet that of
any other who figures in this story, because there yet live those who might
take offence thereat, though after all it might well be passed off with a
laugh. High-born and married to an artificer of woollen fabrics, she could
not rid her mind of the disdain with which, by reason of his occupation, she
regarded her husband; for no man, however wealthy, so he were of low
condition, seemed to her worthy to have a gentlewoman to wife; and seeing
that for all his wealth he was fit for nothing better than to devise a
blend, set up a warp, or higgle about yarn with a spinster, she determined
to dispense with his embraces, save so far as she might find it impossible
to refuse them; and to find her satisfaction elsewhere with one that seemed
to her more meet to afford it than her artificer of woollens. In this frame
of mind she became enamoured of a man well worthy of her love and not yet
past middle age, insomuch that, if she saw him not in the day, she must
needs pass an unquiet night. The gallant, meanwhile, remained fancy-free,
for he knew nought of the lady's case; and she, being apprehensive of
possible perils to ensue, was far too circumspect to make it known to him
either by writing or by word of mouth of any of her female friends. Then she
learned that he had much to do with a religious, a simple, clownish fellow,
but nevertheless, as being a man of most holy life, reputed by almost
everybody a most worthy friar, and decided that she could not find a better
intermediary between herself and her lover than this same friar. So, having
matured her plan, she hied her at a convenient time to the convent where the
friar abode and sent for him, saying, that, if he so pleased, she would be
confessed by him. The friar, who saw at a glance that she was a gentlewoman,
gladly heard her confession; which done, she said:--"My father, I have yet a
matter to confide to you, in which I must crave your aid and counsel. Who my
kinsfolk and husband are, I wot you know, for I have myself told you. My
husband loves me more dearly than his life, and being very wealthy, he can
well and does forthwith afford me whatever I desire. Wherefore, as he loves
me, even so I love him more dearly than myself; nor was there ever yet
wicked woman that deserved the fire so richly as should I, were I guilty--I
speak not of acts, but of so much as a single thought of crossing his will
or tarnishing his honour. Now a man there is--his name, indeed, I know not,
but he seems to me to be a gentleman, and, if I mistake not, he is much with
you--a fine man and tall, his garb dun and very decent, who, the bent of my
mind being, belike, quite unknown to him, would seem to have laid siege to
me, insomuch that I cannot shew myself at door or casement, or quit the
house, but forthwith he presents himself before me; indeed I find it passing
strange that he is not here now; whereat I am sorely troubled, because, when
men so act, unmerited reproach will often thereby be cast upon honest women.
At times I have been minded to inform my brothers of the matter; but then I
have bethought me that men sometimes frame messages in such a way as to
evoke untoward answers, whence follow high words; and so they proceed to
rash acts: wherefore, to obviate trouble and scandal, I have kept silence,
and by preference have made you my confidant, both because you are the
gentleman's friend, and because it befits your office to censure such
behaviour not only in friends but in strangers. And so I beseech you for the
love of our only Lord God to make him sensible of his fault, and pray him to
offend no more in such sort. Other ladies there are in plenty, who may,
perchance, be disposed to welcome such advances, and be flattered to attract
his fond and assiduous regard, which to me, who am in no wise inclined to
encourage it, is but a most grievous molestation."
Having thus spoken, the lady bowed her head as if she were ready to weep.
The holy friar was at no loss to apprehend who it was of whom she spoke; he
commended her virtuous frame, firmly believing that what she said was true,
and promised to take such action that she should not again suffer the like
annoyance; nor, knowing that she was very wealthy, did he omit to extol
works of charity and almsgiving, at the same time opening to her his own
needs. "I make my suit to you," said she, "for the love of God; and if your
friend should deny what I have told you, tell him roundly that 'twas from me
you had it, and that I made complaint to you thereof." So, her confession
ended and penance imposed, bethinking her of the hints which the friar had
dropped touching almsgiving, she slipped into his hand as many coins as it
would hold, praying him to say masses for the souls of her dead. She then
rose and went home.
Not long afterwards the gallant paid one of his wonted visits to the holy
friar. They conversed for a while of divers topics, and then the friar took
him aside, and very courteously reproved him for so haunting and pursuing
the lady with his gaze, as from what she had given him to understand, he
supposed was his wont. The gallant, who had never regarded her with any
attention, and very rarely passed her house, was amazed, and was about to
clear himself, when the friar closed his mouth, saying:--"Now away with this
pretence of amazement, and waste not words in denial, for 'twill not avail
thee. I have it not from the neighbours; she herself, bitterly complaining
of thy conduct, told it me. I say not how ill this levity beseems thee; but
of her I tell thee so much as this, that, if I ever knew woman averse to
such idle philandering, she is so; and therefore for thy honour's sake, and
that she be no more vexed, I pray thee refrain therefrom, and let her be in
peace." The gallant, having rather more insight than the holy friar, was not
slow to penetrate the lady's finesse; he therefore made as if he were rather
shame-stricken, promised to go no further with the matter, and hied him
straight from the friar to the lady's house, where she was always posted at
a little casement to see if he were passing by. As she saw him come, she
shewed him so gay and gracious a mien that he could no longer harbour any
doubt that he had put the true construction upon what he had heard from the
friar; and thenceforth, to his own satisfaction and the immense delight and
solace of the lady, he omitted not daily to pass that way, being careful to
make it appear as if he came upon other business. 'Twas thus not long before
the lady understood that she met with no less favour in his eyes than he in
hers; and being desirous to add fuel to his flame, and to assure him of the
love she bore him, as soon as time and occasion served, she returned to the
holy friar, and having sat herself down at his feet in the church, fell a
weeping. The friar asked her in a soothing tone what her new trouble might
be. Whereto the lady answered:--"My father, 'tis still that accursed friend
of thine, of whom I made complaint to you some days ago, and who would now
seem to have been born for my most grievous torment, and to cause me to do
that by reason whereof I shall never be glad again, nor venture to place
myself at your feet." "How?" said the friar; "has he not forborne to annoy
thee?" "Not he, indeed," said the lady; "on the contrary, 'tis my belief
that, since I complained to you of him, he has, as if in despite, being
offended, belike, that I did so, passed my house seven times for once that
he did so before. Nay, would to God he were content to pass and fix me with
his eyes; but he is waxed so bold and unabashed that only yesterday he sent
a woman to me at home with his compliments and cajoleries, and, as if I had
not purses and girdles enough, he sent me a purse and a girdle; whereat I
was, as I still am, so wroth, that, had not conscience first, and then
regard for you, weighed with me, I had flown into a frenzy of rage. However,
I restrained myself, and resolved neither to do nor to say aught without
first letting you know it. Nor only so; but, lest the woman who brought the
purse and girdle, and to whom I at first returned them, shortly bidding her
begone and take them back to the sender, should keep them and tell him that
I had accepted them, as I believe they sometimes do, I recalled her and had
them back, albeit 'twas in no friendly spirit that I received them from her
hand; and I have brought them to you, that you may return them to him and
tell him that I stand in no need of such gifts from him, because, thanks be
to God and my husband, I have purses and girdles enough to smother him in.
And if after this he leave me not alone, I pray you as my father to hold me
excused if, come what may, I tell it to my husband and brothers; for much
liefer had I that he suffer indignity, if so it must be, than that my fair
fame should be sullied on his account: that holds good, friar." Weeping
bitterly as she thus ended, she drew from under her robe a purse of very
fine and ornate workmanship and a dainty and costly little girdle, and threw
them into the lap of the friar, who, fully believing what she said,
manifested the utmost indignation as he took them, and said:--"Daughter,
that by these advances thou shouldst be moved to anger, I deem neither
strange nor censurable; but I am instant with thee to follow my advice in
the matter. I chid him some days ago, and ill has he kept the promise that
he made me; for which cause and this last feat of his I will surely make his
ears so tingle that he will give thee no more trouble; wherefore, for God's
sake, let not thyself be so overcome by wrath as to tell it to any of thy
kinsfolk; which might bring upon him a retribution greater than he deserves.
Nor fear lest thereby thy fair fame should suffer; for I shall ever be thy
most sure witness before God and men that thou art innocent." The lady made
a shew of being somewhat comforted: then, after a pause--for well she knew
the greed of him and his likes--she said:--"Of late, Sir, by night, the
spirits of divers of my kinsfolk have appeared to me in my sleep, and
methinks they are in most grievous torment; alms, alms, they crave, nought
else, especially my mother, who seems to be in so woful and abject a plight
that 'tis pitiful to see. Methinks 'tis a most grievous torment to her to
see the tribulation which this enemy of God has brought upon me. I would
therefore have you say for their souls the forty masses of St. Gregory and
some of your prayers, that God may deliver them from this purging fire." So
saying she slipped a florin into the hand of the holy friar, who took it
gleefully, and having with edifying words and many examples fortified her in
her devotion, gave her his benediction, and suffered her to depart.
The lady gone, the friar, who had still no idea of the trick that had been
played upon him, sent for his friend; who was no sooner come than he
gathered from the friar's troubled air that he had news of the lady, and
waited to hear what he would say. The friar repeated what he had said
before, and then broke out into violent and heated objurgation on the score
of the lady's latest imputation. The gallant, who did not as yet apprehend
the friar's drift, gave but a very faint denial to the charge of sending the
purse and girdle, in order that he might not discredit the lady with the
friar, if, perchance, she had given him the purse and girdle. Whereupon the
friar exclaimed with great heat:--"How canst thou deny it, thou wicked man?
Why, here they are; she brought them to me in tears with her own hand. Look
at them, and say if thou knowest them not." The gallant now feigned to be
much ashamed, and said:--"Why, yes, indeed, I do know them; I confess that I
did wrong; and I swear to you that, now I know her character, you shall
never hear word more of this matter." Many words followed; and then the
blockheadly friar gave the purse and girdle to his friend, after which he
read him a long lecture, besought him to meddle no more with such matters,
and on his promising obedience dismissed him.
Elated beyond measure by the assurance which he now had of the lady's love,
and the beautiful present, the gallant, on leaving the friar, hied him
straight to a spot whence he stealthily gave the lady to see that he had
both her gifts: whereat the lady was well content, the more so as her
intrigue seemed ever to prosper more and more. She waited now only for her
husband's departure from home to crown her enterprise with success. Nor was
it long before occasion required that her husband should go to Genoa. The
very morning that he took horse and rode away she hied her to the holy
friar, and after many a lamentation she said to him betwixt her sobs:--"My
father, now at last I tell you out and out that I can bear my suffering no
longer. I promised you some days ago to do nought in this matter without
first letting you know it; I am now come to crave release from that promise;
and that you may believe that my lamentations and complaints are not
groundless, I will tell you how this friend of yours, who should rather be
called a devil let loose from hell, treated me only this very morning, a
little before matins. As ill-luck would have it, he learned, I know not how,
that yesterday morning my husband went to Genoa, and so this morning at the
said hour he came into my garden, and got up by a tree to the window of my
bedroom, which looks out over the garden, and had already opened the
casement, and was about to enter the room, when I suddenly awoke, and got up
and uttered a cry, and should have continued to cry out, had not he, who was
still outside, implored my mercy for God's sake and yours, telling me who he
was. So, for love of you I was silent, and naked as I was born, ran and shut
the window in his face, and he--bad luck to him--made off, I suppose, for I
saw him no more. Consider now if such behaviour be seemly and tolerable: I
for my part am minded to put up with no more of it; indeed I have endured
too much already for love of you."
Wroth beyond measure was the friar, as he heard her thus speak, nor knew he
what to say, except that he several times asked her if she were quite
certain that it was no other than he. "Holy name of God!" replied the lady,
"as if I did not yet know him from another! He it was, I tell you; and do
you give no credence to his denial." "Daughter," said then the friar, "there
is here nought else to say but that this is a monstrous presumption and a
most heinous offence; and thou didst well to send him away as thou didst.
But seeing that God has preserved thee from shame, I would implore thee that
as thou hast twice followed my advice, thou do so likewise on this occasion,
and making no complaint to any of thy kinsfolk, leave it to me to try if I
can control this devil that has slipt his chain, whom I supposed to be a
saint; and if I succeed in weaning him from this insensate folly, well and
good; and if I fail, thenceforth I give thee leave, with my blessing, to do
whatsoever may commend itself to thy own judgment." "Lo now," answered the
lady, "once again I will not vex or disobey you; but be sure that you so
order matters that he refrain from further annoyance, as I give you my word
that never will I have recourse to you again touching this matter." Then,
without another word, and with a troubled air, she took leave of him.
Scarcely was she out of the church when the gallant came up. The friar
called him, took him aside, and gave him the affront in such sort as 'twas
never before given to any man reviling him as a disloyal and perjured
traitor. The gallant, who by his two previous lessons had been taught how to
value the friar's censures, listened attentively, and sought to draw him out
by ambiguous answers. "Wherefore this wrath, Sir?" he began. "Have I
crucified Christ?" "Ay, mark the fellow's effrontery!" retorted the friar:
"list to what he says! He talks, forsooth, as if 'twere a year or so since,
and his villanies and lewdnesses were clean gone from his memory for lapse
of time. Between matins and now hast thou forgotten this morning's outrage?
Where wast thou this morning shortly before daybreak?" "Where was I?"
rejoined the gallant; "that know not I. 'Tis indeed betimes that the news
has reached you." "True indeed it is," said the friar, "that the news has
reached me: I suppose that, because the husband was not there, thou never
doubtedst that thou wouldst forthwith be received by the lady with open
arms. Ah! the gay gallant! the honourable gentleman! he is now turned
prowler by night, and breaks into gardens, and climbs trees! Dost thou think
by sheer importunity to vanquish the virtue of this lady, that thou
escaladest her windows at night by the trees? She dislikes thee of all
things in the world, and yet thou must still persist. Well indeed hast thou
laid my admonitions to heart, to say nothing of the many proofs which she
has given thee of her disdain! But I have yet a word for thee: hitherto, not
that she bears thee any love, but that she has yielded to my urgent prayers,
she has kept silence as to thy misdeeds: she will do so no more: I have
given her leave to act as she may think fit, if thou givest her any further
annoyance. And what wilt thou do if she informs her brothers?" The gallant,
now fully apprised of what it imported him to know, was profuse in promises,
whereby as best he might he reassured the friar, and so left him. The very
next night, as soon as the matin hour was come, he entered the garden,
climbed up the tree, found the window open, entered the chamber, and in a
trice was in the embrace of his fair lady. Anxiously had she expected him,
and blithely did she now greet him, saying:--"All thanks to master friar
that he so well taught thee the way hither." Then, with many a jest and
laugh at the simplicity of the asinine friar, and many a flout at
distaff-fuls and combs and cards, they solaced themselves with one another
to their no small delight. Nor did they omit so to arrange matters that they
were well able to dispense with master friar, and yet pass many another
night together with no less satisfaction: to which goal I pray that I, and
all other Christian souls that are so minded, may be speedily guided of God
in His holy mercy.