“I well know that jealousy is a passion as insupportable as love, and
were you inclined to jealousy even with regard to myself, I should not
blame you, for you could not help it. But there is a thing that is in
your power of which I should have reason to complain, and that is the
concealment of your distemper from me, seeing that never before was
thought, feeling or opinion concealed between us. If I were in love with
your wife, you should not impute it to me as a crime, for love is not
a fire that I can hold in my hand to do with it what I will; but if it
were so and I concealed it from you, and sought by demonstration to
make it known to your wife, I should be the wickedest comrade that ever
lived.
“As far as I myself am concerned, I can truly assure you that, although
she is an honourable and virtuous woman, she is the last of all the
women I have ever seen upon whom, even though she were not yours, my
fancy would light. But even though there be no occasion to do so, I ask
you, if you have the smallest possible feeling of suspicion, to tell me
of it, that I may so act as to prevent a friendship that has lasted so
long from being severed for the sake of a woman. For, even if I loved
her more dearly than aught in the world beside, I would never speak to
her of it, seeing that I set your honour before aught else.”
His comrade swore to him the strongest oaths he could muster, that he
had never thought of such a thing, and begged him to act in his house as
he had been used to do.
“That will I,” the other replied, “but if after this should you harbour
an evil opinion of me and conceal it or bear me ill-will, I will
continue no more in fellowship with you.”
Some time afterwards, whilst they were living together as had been their
wont, the married gentleman again fell into stronger suspicion than
ever, and commanded his wife to no longer show the same countenance
to his friend as before. This she at once made known to her husband’s
comrade, and begged that he would of his own motion abstain from holding
speech with her, since she had been charged to do the like towards him.
The gentleman perceived from her words and from divers tokens on the
part of his comrade that the latter had not kept his promise, and so
said to him in great wrath--
“If, comrade, you are jealous, ‘tis a natural thing, but, after the
oaths you swore to me, I must needs be angered that you have used such
concealment towards me. I had always thought that neither obstacle nor
mean intervened between your heart and mine, but to my exceeding sorrow,
and with no fault on my part, I see that the reverse is true. Not only
are you most jealous of your wife and of me, but you seek to hide your
distemper from me, until at last it must wholly turn to hate, and the
dearest love that our time has known become the deadliest enmity.
“I have done all I could to avoid this mishap, but since you suspect me
of being so wicked and the opposite of what I have always proved towards
you, I give you my oath and word that I will indeed be such a one as you
deem me, and that I will never rest until I have had from your wife
that which you believe I seek from her. So I bid you beware of me
henceforward, for, since suspicion has destroyed your friendship for me,
resentment will destroy mine for you.”
Although his comrade tried to persuade him of the contrary, he would no
longer believe him, but removed his portion of the furniture and goods
that had been in common between them. And so their hearts were as widely
sundered as they had before been closely united, and the unmarried
gentleman never rested until, as he had promised, he had made his
comrade a cuckold. (3)
3 The idea developed in this tale, that of bringing to pass
by one’s own actions the thing one fears and seeks to avoid
or prevent, has much analogy with that embodied in the
“novel of the Curious Impertinent” which Cervantes
introduces into _Don Quixote_ (Part I. chaps, xxviii.,
xxix). In this tale it will be remembered Anselmo and
Lothario are represented as being two such close friends as
the gentlemen who figured in Queen Margaret’s tale. Anselmo
marries, however, and seized with an insane desire to test
the virtue of his wife, Camilla, by exposing her to
temptation, urges Lothario to pay court to her. Lothario at
first resists these solicitations, pointing out the folly of
such an enterprise, but his friend entreats him so
pressingly that he finally consents, and in the sequel the
passion which he at first simulates for Camilla becomes a
real one and leads to his seducing her and carrying her
away, with the result that both the wretched Anselmo and his
wife soon die of grief, whilst Lothario betakes himself to
the wars and perishes in battle.--M. & Ed.
“Thus, ladies, may it fare with those who wrongfully suspect their
wives of evil. Many men make of them what they suspect them to be, for
a virtuous woman is more readily overcome by despair than by all the
pleasures on earth. And if any one says that suspicion is love, I give
him nay, for although it results from love as do ashes from fire, it
kills it nevertheless in the same way.”
“I do not think,” said Hircan, “that anything can be more grievous to
either man or woman than to be suspected of that which is contrary to
fact. For my own part, nothing could more readily prompt me to sever
fellowship with my friends than such suspicion.”
“Nevertheless,” said Oisille, “woman is without rational excuse who
revenges herself for her husband’s suspicion by her own shame. It is
as though a man should thrust his sword through his own body, because
unable to slay his foe, or should bite his own fingers because he cannot
scratch him. She would have done better had she spoken to the gentleman
no more, and so shown her husband how wrongly he had suspected her; for
time would have softened them both.”
“Still ‘twas done like a woman of spirit,” said Ennasuite. “If many
women acted in the same way, their husbands would not be so outrageous
as they are.”
“For all that,” said Longarine, “patience gives a woman the victory in
the end, and chastity brings her praise, and more we should not desire.”
“Nevertheless,” said Ennasuite, “a woman may be unchaste and yet commit
no sin.”
“How may that be?” said Oisille.
“When she mistakes another man for her husband.”
“And who,” said Parlamente, “is so foolish that she cannot clearly tell
the difference between her husband and another man, whatever disguise
the latter may wear?”
“There have been and still will be,” said Ennasuite, “a few deceived in
this fashion, and therefore still innocent and free from sin.”
“If you know of such a one,” said Dagoucin, “I give you my vote that you
may tell us about her, for I think it very strange that innocence and
sin can go together.”
“Listen, then,” said Ennasuite. “If, ladies, the foregoing tales have
not sufficiently warned you of the danger of lodging in our houses those
who call us worldly and consider themselves as something holy and far
worthier than we, I will give you yet a further instance of it, that you
may see by the errors into which those fall who trust them too much
that not only are they human like others, but that there is something
devilish in their nature, passing the ordinary wickedness of men. This
you will learn from the following story.”
[Illustration: 211.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 213a.jpg The Grey Friars Caught and Punished]
[The Grey Friars Caught and Punished]
[Illustration: 213.jpg Page Image]
_TALE XLVIII_.
_The older and wickeder of two Grey Friars, who were lodged
in an inn where the marriage of the host’s daughter was
being celebrated, perceived the bride being led away,
whereupon he went and took the place of the bridegroom
whilst the latter was still dancing with the company_. (1)
1 We have already had an instance of a friar stealing into
a wife’s bed at night-time, in the husband’s absence (see
_ante_, vol. iii., tale xxili.). For a similar incident see
the _Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_, No. xxx.--Ed.
At an inn, in a village of the land of Perigort, there was celebrated
the marriage of a maiden of the house, at which all the kinsfolk and
friends strove to make as good cheer as might be. On the day of the
wedding there arrived at the inn two Grey Friars, to whom supper was
given in their own room, since it was not meet for those of their
condition to be present at a wedding. However, the chief of the two, who
had the greater authority and craft, resolved that, since he was shut
out from the board, he would share the bed, and in this way play them
one of the tricks of his trade.
When evening was come, and the dances were begun, the Grey Friar
continued to observe the bride for a long time, and found her
very handsome and to his taste. Then, inquiring carefully of the
serving-woman concerning the room in which she was to lie, he found that
it was close to his own, at which he was well pleased; and so good a
watch did he keep in order to work his end, that he perceived the bride
being led from the hall by the old women, as is the custom. As it was
yet very early, the bridegroom would not leave the dance, in which he
was so greatly absorbed that he seemed to have altogether forgotten his
wife.
Not so the Friar, for, as soon as his ears told him that the bride was
in bed, he put off his grey robe and went and took the husband’s place.
Being fearful of discovery, however, he stayed but a very short time,
and then went to the end of a passage where his comrade, who was keeping
watch for him, signed to him that the husband was dancing-still.
The Friar, who had not yet satisfied his wicked lust, thereupon went
back to bed with the bride, until his comrade gave him a signal that it
was time to leave.
The bridegroom afterwards came to bed, and his wife, who had been so
tormented by the Friar that she desired naught but rest, could not help
saying to him--
“Have you resolved never to sleep or do anything but torment me?”
The unhappy husband, who had but just come in, was greatly astonished
at this, and asked what torment he had given her, seeing that he had not
left the dance.
“A pretty dance!” said the poor girl. “This is the third time that you
have come to bed. I think you would do better to sleep.”
The husband was greatly astonished on hearing these words, and set aside
thought of everything else in order that he might learn the truth of
what had passed.
When his wife had told him the story, he at once suspected the Grey
Friars who were lodged in the house, and forthwith rising, he went into
their room, which was close beside his own.
Not finding them there, he began to call out for help in so loud a voice
that he speedily drew together all his friends, who, when they had heard
the tale, assisted him with candles, lanterns, and all the dogs of the
village to hunt for the Grey Friars.
Not finding them in the house, they made all diligence, and so caught
them among the vines, where they treated them as they deserved; for,
after soundly beating them, they cut off their arms and legs, and left
them among the vines to the care of Bacchus and Venus, of whom they had
been better disciples than of St. Francis.
“Be not amazed, ladies, if such folk, being cut off from our usual
mode of life, do things of which adventurers (2) even would be ashamed.
Wonder rather that they do no worse when God withdraws his hand from
them, for so little does the habit make the monk, that it often unmakes
him through the pride it lends him. For my own part, I go not beyond the
religion that is taught by St. James, who has told us to ‘keep the
heart pure and unspotted toward God, and to show all charity to our
neighbours.’”(3)
2 This is an allusion to the dismissed French Swiss, and
German lansquenets who roamed about France in little bands,
kidnapping, plundering, and at times hiring themselves out
as spadassins. These men, the pests of the country, were
commonly known by the name of adventurers.--B. J.
3 “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is
this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction
and to keep himself unspotted from the world.”--_James_ i.
27.--Ed.
“Heavens!” said Oisille, “shall we never have done with tales about
these tiresome Grey Friars?”