THE EIGHT NOVELL

 

    WHEREIN IS DISPLAYED, THE APPARANT FOLLY OF JEALOUSIE: AND THE

            SUBTILITY OF SOME RELIGIOUS CARNALL MINDED MEN, TO

                   BEGUILE SILLY AND SIMPLE MARIED MEN

 

  Ferando, by drinking a certaine kinde of powder, was buried dead.

And by the Abbot, who was enamored of his Wife, was taken out of his

Grave, and put into a darke prison, where they made him beleeve,

that hee was in Purgatorie. Afterward, when time came that hee

should be, raised to life againe; he was made to keepe a childe

which the Abbot had got by his Wife.

 

  When the long discourse of Madame Emilia was ended, not

displeasing to any, in regard of the length, but rather held too

short, because no exceptions could bee taken against it, comparing the

raritie of the accidents, and changes together: the Queene turned to

Madame Lauretto, 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.

  In Tuscanie there was sometime an Abbey, 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 he 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, named Ferando,

dwelt as neere neighbour to the said Abby, he 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, that Ferando had a very beautifull woman to his Wife, with

whom he grew so deeply in love, as he 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 carfully 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 of Ferando, 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 be her

ghostly Father, and she come to be confessed by him; which the foole

Ferando tooke 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 man Ferando is, and thinke upon

his folly withall; I may well terme my selfe to be a widow, 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 only in continuall tribulation and 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 advice and counsell, because, if thereby I cannot

attaine to a more pleasing kinde of happinesse; neither confessior, 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, brainsick, 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, and 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 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 no meanes) marrie againe, because the

heavens will therewith be highly offended: but Ferando being

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, do 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 she,

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 do as much for me, as I am for you, because 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 she) 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 helpe me therein but you.

 When the woman heard these words, as one confounded with much

amazement, thus 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 ask 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 compelld 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 see me reverenced here

as Lord Abbot, yet am I but as other men are, and in regard I am

neither aged, nor mishapen, me thinkes the motion I have made,

should be the lesse offensive to you, and therefore the sooner

granted. For, all the while as Ferando remaineth 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 carry 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 words are Oracles, and

mine actions more than 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 do deny me.

  The Woman having her eyes fixed on the ground, knew not well how

shee should denie him; and yet in plaine words, to say shee consented,

shee held it to be overbase 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 answere; he

accounted the conquest to be more then halfe his owne: so that

continuing on his former perswasions, hee never ceased, but allured

her still to beleeve whatsoever he saide. And much ashamed of his

importunity, but more of her owne flexible yeelding weaknesse, made

answere, that shee would willingly accomplish his request; which yet

shee did not absolutely grant, untill Ferando were 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 the 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, Ferando went to

the Abbey againe, and so soone as the Abbot espyed him, he 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

senses, as to entrance them with a deadly sleepe, and deprive them

of all motion, either in the pulses, or in 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

preased 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) believe whatsoever himselfe listed.

  So much of this powder had the Abbot provided, as should suffice for

three dayes entrancing, and having compounded it with a very

pleasant Wine, calling Ferando into 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 of Ferando, on whom the potion beganne so to worke, that he

slept in walking, nodding and reeling as hee went, till at the last he

fell downe, as if he had bene 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 instead 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 of Bologna, 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 taking Ferando out 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 all 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 m a bundle of straw, so left him untill

his senses 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

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 needs 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 Country people, carrying no such

ill opinion of the holy Abbot, and having-seene Ferando lying 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 of Ferando, who

walked in this manner after his death, as a just pennance for his

jealousie.

  When Ferandoes senses 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 of

Bologna (according as the Abbot had tutored him) stept into the

dungeon, carrying a little waxe candle in the one hand, and a smarting

whip in the other, going to Ferando, he stript off his cloathes, and

began to lash him very soundly. Ferando roaring and crying, could

say nothing else, but where am I? The Monke (with a dreadfull voyce)

replyed: Thou art in Purgatory. How? saide Ferando; what? Am I dead?

Thou art dead (quoth the Monke) and began to lash him lustily

againe. Poore Ferando, 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 when Ferando saw, 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 the 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.

  Ferando having 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, when Ferando holding 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? replyed Ferando. 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, answered Ferando, 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, replyed Ferando, 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 (quoth Ferando) by what meanes they

would be appeased, and let me visite the World on 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 food, I pray you worke so much, that some Candles

may be sent me also, because I live here in uncomfortable

darkenesse; and what should I doe with food, 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.

  Ferando breathing 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 in Sardignia, 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? saide Ferando, 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, saide

Ferando, 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

dally 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 visite

Ferandoes wife, without the least suspition in any of the

neighbours, by reason of their setled opinion, concerning the

nightly walking Ferandoes ghost. But, as all pleasures cannot bee

exempted from some following paine or other, so it came to passe, that

Ferandoes wife proved to be conceived with childe, and the time was

drawing on for her deliverance. Now began the Abbot to consider,

that Ferandoes folly was sufficiently chastised, and he had beene long

enough in Purgatory: wherefore, the better to countenance all passed

inconveniences, it was now thought high time, that Ferando should 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 to

Ferando, saying. Comfort thy selfe Ferando, 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 named Bennet: because, by the incessant

prayers of the holy Abbot, thine owne loving Wife, and for sweet Saint

Bennets sake, this grace and favour is afforded thee. Ferando

hearing this, was exceeding joyfull, and returned this answere: For

ever honored be the Fates, the holy Lord Abbot, blessed Saint

Bennet, and my most dearely beloved Wife, whom I will faithfully

love for ever, and never more offend her by any jealous in me.

  When the next foode was sent to Ferando, 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 of Bologna, conveying and laying him in the same vault under the

Tombe, where at the first they gave him buriall. The next morning

following, the breake of day, Ferando recovered his senses, and thorow

divers chinkes and crannies of the Tombe, descried daylight, which hee

had not see in tenne moneths space before. Perceiving then plainely,

that he was alive, he cryed 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 of

Ferando, 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, be not

affraide, but fetch the Crosse and Holy-water hither; then follow

me, and I will shew you, what miracles 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.

  Ferando looking leane and pale, as one, that in so long time hadde

not seene the light of heaven, and endured such strict discipline

twice every day: stood in a gastly amazement by the Tombesside, 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 thanke 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 continuall

mourning, love, cherish, and make much of her, never afflicting her

henceforth with causlesse jealousie. No I warrant you good Father,

replyed Ferando; 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 causing Miserere to be devoutly sung, sprinkling Ferando

well 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 fled away

from him, so scared and terrified, as if they had seene some dreadfull

sight, or gastly apporition; his wife being as fearfull of him, as any

of the rest. He called to them kindly by their severall names, telling

them, that he 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 id as if

he were become farre wiser then before, told 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 named Bennet 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

holinesse, and Ferandoes happy curing his jealousie.