The Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio
we will pray God, with certain orisons that he restore him to this
life, and He will do it.' 'Then,' said the lady, 'I am to become a
widow?' 'Ay,' answered the abbot, 'for a certain time, wherein you
must look well you suffer not yourself to be married again, for that
God would take it in ill part, and whenas Ferondo returned hither, it
would behove you return to him and he would then be more jealous than
ever.' Quoth she, 'Provided he be but cured of this calamity, so it
may not behove me abide in prison all my life, I am content; do as it
pleaseth you.' 'And I will do it,'[193] rejoined he; 'but what guerdon
am I to have of you for such a service?' 'Father,' answered the lady,
'you shall have whatsoever pleaseth you, so but it be in my power; but
what can the like of me that may befit such a man as yourself?'
'Madam,' replied the abbot 'you can do no less for me than that which
I undertake to do for you; for that, like as I am disposed to do that
which is to be your weal and your solacement, even so can you do that
which will be the saving and assainment of my life.' Quoth she, 'An it
be so, I am ready.' 'Then,' said the abbot, 'you must give me your
love and vouchsafe me satisfaction of yourself, for whom I am all
afire with love and languishment.'
[Footnote 193: _i.e._ I will cure your husband of his jealousy.]
The lady, hearing this, was all aghast and answered, 'Alack, father
mine, what is this you ask? Methought you were a saint. Doth it beseem
holy men to require women, who come to them for counsel, of such
things?' 'Fair my soul,' rejoined the abbot, 'marvel not, for that
sanctity nowise abateth by this, seeing it hath its seat in the soul
and that which I ask of you is a sin of the body. But, be that as it
may, your ravishing beauty hath had such might that love constraineth
me to do thus; and I tell you that you may glory in your charms over
all other women, considering that they please holy men, who are used
to look upon the beauties of heaven. Moreover, abbot though I be, I am
a man like another and am, as you see, not yet old. Nor should this
that I ask be grievous to you to do; nay, you should rather desire it,
for that, what while Ferondo sojourneth in purgatory, I will bear you
company by night and render you that solacement which he should give
you; nor shall any ever come to know of this, for that every one
believeth of me that, and more than that, which you but now believed
of me. Reject not the grace that God sendeth you, for there be women
enough who covet that which you may have and shall have, if, like a
wise woman, you hearken to my counsel. Moreover, I have fair and
precious jewels, which I purpose shall belong to none other than
yourself. Do, then, for me, sweet my hope, that which I willingly do
for you.'
The lady hung her head, knowing not how to deny him, whilst herseemed
it were ill done to grant him what he asked; but the abbot, seeing
that she hearkened and hesitated to reply and himseeming he had
already half converted her, followed up his first words with many
others and stayed not till he had persuaded her that she would do well
to comply with him. Accordingly, she said, blushing, that she was
ready to do his every commandment, but might not avail thereto till
such time as Ferondo should be gone to purgatory; whereupon quoth the
abbot, exceeding well pleased, 'And we will make shift to send him
thither incontinent; do you but contrive that he come hither to-morrow
or next day to sojourn with me.' So saying, he privily put a very
handsome ring into her hand and dismissed her. The lady rejoiced at
the gift and looking to have others, rejoined her companions, to whom
she fell to relating marvellous things of the abbot's sanctity, and
presently returned home with them.
A few days after Ferondo repaired to the abbey, whom, whenas the abbot
saw, he cast about to send him to purgatory. Accordingly, he sought
out a powder of marvellous virtue, which he had gotten in the parts of
the Levant of a great prince who avouched it to be that which was wont
to be used of the Old Man of the Mountain,[194] whenas he would fain
send any one, sleeping, into his paradise or bring him forth thereof,
and that, according as more or less thereof was given, without doing
any hurt, it made him who took it sleep more or less [time] on such
wise that, whilst its virtue lasted, none would say he had life in
him. Of this he took as much as might suffice to make a man sleep
three days and putting it in a beaker of wine, that was not yet well
cleared, gave it to Ferondo to drink in his cell, without the latter
suspecting aught; after which he carried him into the cloister and
there with some of his monks fell to making sport of him and his
dunceries; nor was it long before, the powder working, Ferondo was
taken with so sudden and overpowering a drowsiness, that he slumbered
as yet he stood afoot and presently fell down fast asleep.
[Footnote 194: The well-known chief of the Assassins (properly
_Heshashin_, _i.e._ hashish or hemp eaters). The powder in question is
apparently a preparation of hashish or hemp. Boccaccio seems to have
taken his idea of the Old Man of the Mountain from Marco Polo, whose
travels, published in the early part of the fourteenth century, give a
most romantic account of that chieftain and his followers.]
The abbot made a show of being concerned at this accident and letting
untruss him, caused fetch cold water and cast it in his face and essay
many other remedies of his fashion, as if he would recall the strayed
life and senses from [the oppression of] some fumosity of the stomach
or what not like affection that had usurped them. The monks, seeing
that for all this he came not to himself and feeling his pulse, but
finding no sign of life in him, all held it for certain that he was
dead. Accordingly, they sent to tell his wife and his kinsfolk, who
all came thither forthright, and the lady having bewept him awhile
with her kinswomen, the abbot caused lay him, clad as he was, in a
tomb; whilst the lady returned to her house and giving out that she
meant never to part from a little son, whom she had had by her
husband, abode at home and occupied herself with the governance of the
child and of the wealth which had been Ferondo's. Meanwhile, the abbot
arose stealthily in the night and with the aid of a Bolognese monk, in
whom he much trusted and who was that day come thither from Bologna,
took up Ferondo out of the tomb and carried him into a vault, in which
there was no light to be seen and which had been made for prison of
such of the monks as should make default in aught. There they pulled
off his garments and clothing him monk-fashion, laid him on a truss of
straw and there left him against he should recover his senses, whilst
the Bolognese monk, having been instructed by the abbot of that which
he had to do, without any else knowing aught thereof, proceeded to
await his coming to himself.
On the morrow, the abbot, accompanied by sundry of his monks, betook
himself, by way of visitation, to the house of the lady, whom he found
clad in black and in great tribulation, and having comforted her
awhile, he softly required her of her promise. The lady, finding
herself free and unhindered of Ferondo or any other and seeing on his
finger another fine ring, replied that she was ready and appointed him
to come to her that same night. Accordingly, night come, the abbot,
disguised in Ferondo's clothes and accompanied by the monk his
confidant, repaired thither and lay with her in the utmost delight and
pleasance till the morning, when he returned to the abbey. After this
he very often made the same journey on a like errand and being whiles
encountered, coming or going, of one or another of the villagers, it
was believed he was Ferondo who went about those parts, doing penance;
by reason whereof many strange stories were after bruited about among
the simple countryfolk, and this was more than once reported to
Ferondo's wife, who well knew what it was.
As for Ferondo, when he recovered his senses and found himself he knew
not where, the Bolognese monk came in to him with a horrible noise and
laying hold of him, gave him a sound drubbing with a rod he had in his
hand. Ferondo, weeping and crying out, did nought but ask, 'Where am
I?' To which the monk answered, 'Thou art in purgatory.' 'How?' cried
Ferondo. 'Am I then dead?' 'Ay, certes,' replied the other; whereupon
Ferondo fell to bemoaning himself and his wife and child, saying the
oddest things in the world. Presently the monk brought him somewhat of
meat and drink, which Ferondo seeing, 'What!' cried he. 'Do the dead
eat?' 'Ay do they,' answered the monk. 'This that I bring thee is what
the woman, thy wife that was, sent this morning to the church to let
say masses for thy soul, and God the Lord willeth that it be made over
to thee.' Quoth Ferondo, 'God grant her a good year! I still cherished
her ere I died, insomuch that I held her all night in mine arms and
did nought but kiss her, and t' other thing also I did, when I had a
mind thereto.' Then, being very sharp-set, he fell to eating and
drinking and himseeming the wine was not overgood, 'Lord confound
her!' quoth he. 'Why did not she give the priest wine of the cask
against the wall?'
After he had eaten, the monk laid hold of him anew and gave him
another sound beating with the same rod; whereat Ferondo roared out
lustily and said, 'Alack, why dost thou this to me?' Quoth the monk,
'Because thus hath God the Lord ordained that it be done unto thee
twice every day.' 'And for what cause?' asked Ferondo. 'Because,'
answered the monk, 'thou wast jealous, having the best woman in the
country to wife.' 'Alas!' said Ferondo. 'Thou sayst sooth, ay, and the
kindest creature; she was sweeter than syrup; but I knew not that God
the Lord held it for ill that a man should be jealous; else had I not
been so.' Quoth the monk, 'Thou shouldst have bethought thyself of
that, whenas thou wast there below,[195] and have amended thee
thereof; and should it betide that thou ever return thither, look thou
so have in mind that which I do unto thee at this present that thou be
nevermore jealous.' 'What?' said Ferondo. 'Do the dead ever return
thither?' 'Ay,' answered the monk; 'whom God willeth.' 'Marry,' cried
Ferondo, 'and I ever return thither, I will be the best husband in the
world; I will never beat her nor give her an ill word, except it be
anent the wine she sent hither this morning and for that she sent no
candles, so it behoved me to eat in the dark.' 'Nay,' said the monk,
'she sent candles enough, but they were all burnt for the masses.'
'True,' rejoined Ferondo; 'and assuredly, an I return thither, I will
let her do what she will. But tell me, who art thou that usest me
thus?' Quoth the monk, 'I also am dead. I was of Sardinia and for that
aforetime I much commended a master of mine of being jealous, I have
been doomed of God to this punishment, that I must give thee to eat
and drink and beat thee thus, till such time as God shall ordain
otherwhat of thee and of me.' Then said Ferondo, 'Is there none here
other than we twain?' 'Ay,' answered the monk, 'there be folk by the
thousands; but thou canst neither see nor hear them, nor they thee.'
Quoth Ferondo, 'And how far are we from our own countries?' 'Ecod,'
replied the other, 'we are distant thence more miles than we can well
cack at a bout.' 'Faith,' rejoined the farmer, 'that is far enough;
meseemeth we must be out of the world, an it be so much as all that.'
[Footnote 195: _i.e._ in the sublunary world.]
In such and the like discourse was Ferondo entertained half a score
months with eating and drinking and beating, what while the abbot
assiduously visited the fair lady, without miscarriage, and gave