There was at Naples a lady of the name of Corsina, bom at Capovana, and wife of a noble cavalier, whose name was Messer Ramondo del Balzo. It happened after some years that heaven was pleased to deprive this lady of her husband, and she was left a widow, with an only son, whose name was Carlo. This youth possessing all the excellent qualities and endowments of his father, became the mother’s idol and only care. She bethought herself that it would be greatly to his advantage to send him to Bologna, to pursue his studies, in order that he might hereafter become a great man. Having made up his mind to this, she gave him a tutor, provided him with books, and every thing that would make him comfortable, and sent him away with a tender mother’s blessing. There, for several years, she maintained him with every comfort he could wish. The youth, having every advantage, improved greatly, and became an excellent scholar, and by his gentleman-like manners, correct conduct, and great talents, had gained the affection of all his fellow collegians. It happened, that having become, after some years, a doctor in law, and being nearly on the eve of his return to Naples, he was taken seriously ill, whereupon all the best physicians of Bologna anxiously endeavoured to save his life, but had no hopes of success. Carlo, perceiving he was a lost man, said to himself, I do not care so much for myself, as for my poor, dear mother, who will no longer have a son, for whom she has sacrificed her all, and whom she expected would become her consolation, who might form some great alliance, and thereby restore our family name. Now if she hears I am dead, and has not the comfort of seeing me once again, she will assuredly die with excessive grief. This reflection, more than the loss of his own life, overwhelmed him with sorrow, and the thought continuing uppermost in his mind, suggested the idea to him of contriving some means to prevent his mother from being overpowered by her grief; he therefore immediately wrote to her in the following words:—“My dearest mother, I do entreat that you would be kind enough to get me a shirt made by the most beautiful and the most happy lady you can find in Naples, she who is most free from the cares or sorrows of this world.” The letter being dispatched, and coming to hand, the mother immediately considered of the means of satisfying this request, and how she could find one; she enquired among all her acquaintances where she could meet such an unconcerned, and indifferent, and easy-minded woman; but the task was arduous, yet she was determined to do her son’s will. The lady, however, searched to such effect, that she at last found one, who appeared so cheerful, so beautiful, and so happy, and so unconcerned, that she seemed incapable of feeling a single unpleasant thought. Madame Corsina, fancying she had found the very person she was in search of, went to the lady, who received her very politely. Madame Corsina said to her, “can you guess what I am come for? it is because looking upon you as the most cheerful lady in Naples, and the freest from painful thoughts or troubles; I wish to ask you a very great favour, that is, that you would make a shirt for me with your own hands, that I may send it to my son, who has earnestly entreated me to get it made by such a one as yourself.” The young lady answered, “you say you consider me the most cheerful young woman in Naples.”
“Yes,” said Madame Corsina. “Now,” added the lady, “I will prove to you it is quite the reverse, and that there never was born, perhaps, a more unfortunate woman than myself, or who has more sorrows and heavy afflictions, and that you may be convinced of this,” said she, “come with me;” and, taking her hand, she led her into an inner chamber, where, drawing aside a curtain, she pointed to a skeleton which was hanging from a beam: upon which Madame Corsina exclaimed, “Oh, heavens! what means this?” The young lady mournfully sighed, then said, “This was a most worthy youth, who was in love with me; my husband finding him here, caused him directly to be hung as you see; and, to increase my agonies, he compels me to come and see the unfortunate youth every night and morning; think what must be my anguish at being obliged to see him thus daily; yet, if you wish it, I will do that you desire; but, as to being the most cheerful, unconcerned, and happy person, I am, on the contrary, the most wretched woman that ever was on earth.” The dame remained in perfect astonishment, and said, “well, I see clearly that no one is free from troubles and calamities, and that those that consider me the most cheerful young woman in Naples.”
“Yes,” said Madame Corsina. “Now,” added the lady, “I will prove to you it is quite the reverse, and that there never was bom, perhaps, a more unfortunate woman than myself, or who has more sorrows and heavy afflictions, and that you may be convinced of this,” said she, “come with me;” and, taking her hand, she led her into an inner chamber, where, drawing aside a curtain, she pointed to a skeleton which was hanging from abeam: upon which Madame Corsina exclaimed, “Oh, heavens! what means this?”
The young lady mournfully sighed, then said, “This was a most worthy youth, who was in love with me; my husband finding him here, caused him directly to be hung as you see; and, to increase my agonies, he compels me to come and see the unfortunate youth every night and morning; think what must be my anguish at being obliged to see him thus daily; yet, if you wish it, I will do that you desire; but, as to being the most cheerful, unconcerned, and happy person, I am, on the contrary, the most wretched woman that ever was on earth.” The dame remained in perfect astonishment, and said, “well, I see clearly that no one is free from troubles and calamities, and that those that appear the most happy to us, are often the most wretched.” She therefore took leave of the lady, returned home, and wrote to her son, that he must excuse her if she could not send the shirt, for she could not find a single individual who was free from troubles and sorrows. After a few days a letter arrived, stating that her son was dead; she, therefore, wisely thought to herself, that as she clearly saw no one was ever free from misfortunes and tribulations, even the very best of women; she would therefore take comfort, more especially, as she perceived she was not the only one, and thereby quieted her mind, and lived more happily by her submission to the decree of heaven.
The Cavalier Nimagri à Revescio, a descendant of a noble Venetian family, whose name it is immaterial to mention, more particularly as the fact happened only some fifty years ago, being on his way to Rome, passed through Caserta, and wanting a servant, his valet having been taken dangerously ill on the road, enquired of the host, where he alighted, whether he could recommend him such a one? The host said he would enquire, and towards the evening brought a man up, who he said wanted a place. The host having retired, the Cavalier Nimagri asked the man what he could do? To which Gasparo, the servant, answered, “nothing, sir.”
“Nothing,” said the cavalier, “can you dress hair, shave, &c.?”
“No, sir, but have good will, and will learn any thing.”
“But what has been your employment?”
“A very bad one,” said Gasparo, “but I am heartily sick of it, and am determined to get my bread honestly and live in the fear of God.”
“But what are you; where do you come from?”
“Oh, sir,” he continued, “I am a Sicilian, Gasparo is my name; take pity on a poor repentant sinner! hitherto I have been only a thief and a murderer, who for a ducat or two would have murdered any man.” Don Nimagri was astonished at the singularity of the case, and not a little staggered at the horrible countenance before him, wherein his former trade was strikingly depicted; but being a young man of uncommon courage, and altogether struck with the candour and simplicity of the fellow’s tale, as well as the unaffected repentance he showed, he hired him, and he has often been heard to say, in his life he never met with a more trusty or faithful servant.
The next day the cavalier pursued his intended journey to Rome; on the second evening, having stopped at one of the best inns at Mecerra, while Don Nimagri was at supper, the host came in, and having apologized for the intrusion, said, “Signor Cavalier, there is a very noble youth below, just arrived, who, upon hearing I had but one gentleman traveller in the house, has begged I would ask your excellency, whether you would allow him the pleasure of your society: I assure you, sir,” said the host, “he is a very handsome young man, and, I dare say, the son of some nobleman of the first rank, who has been playing some thoughtless pranks; run away from college, or some such trick.” Don Nimagri, who was naturally of a kind disposition, desired the host to give his compliments to the gentleman, and say, he should be very happy in his company. In a few minutes the host introduced the guest, a very elegant youth, seemingly about eighteen, whose genteel and prepossessing appearance bespoke him of high birth; he was in stature rather short, delicate, but well proportioned, of a fair complexion, with beautiful and animated eyes’; after the usual compliments on such occasions, an addition was ordered to the supper. Don Nimagri’s curiosity was a good deal excited by the manners and conversation of his guest; it was sensible, but reserved. Don Nimagri was too well bred to pry into his guest’s affairs, but there was a visible uneasiness about the youth that distressed him; he endeavoured to rouse him by every means in his power, but the stranger answered but little; scarcely eat any thing; sighed deeply; and, upon the whole, seemed to be greatly agitated. Don Nimagri, however, imagining be might have some affair of honour on his hands, generously offered the stranger every assistance in his power. Supper being ended, the youth got up, paced awhile along the room, and, at last, addressing the cavalier, said in a hurried tone, “noble signor, I have a favour to ask you: will you allow me, if the host can accommodate us with a double-bedded room, to sleep in the same apartment?” Don Nimagri hesitated not an instant, but rang for the host, and enquired for a room with two beds; the host answered, that he was sorry to say he had no such thing in the inn. Don Nimagri perceiving the host’s answer very much encreased the youth’s inquietude, though he could not rightly guess at the cause, said, “well, signor, we must do as well as we can, the night is very hot; for my part I only mean to take off my coat and boots, slip on my dressing gown, and lay on the bed, for I propose starting very early, and to travel in the cool of the morning;” and, as Gasparo came in to receive orders, he desired his horse to be ready by five o’clock. These matters being settled, they retired to rest. Don Nimagri would have been glad to have had a few hours sleep, but our youth was so restless as he lay on the bed, that it seemed impossible. Sleep, however, had at last over-powered the signor cavaliero; he had scarcely slept two hours, when he was roused by a tremendous noise, as if the whole inn was in arms; he listened, and the noise still increasing, he jumped up; scarcely was he on his feet, when a loud rap was heard at the room door, and two voices demanded admittance. The youth, at the sound of the voices, ran to Don Nimagri, and hardly able to articulate a word, caught hold of his arm and cried, “Oh, save me, signor! I am an unfortunate young woman!” and fell at his feet. The cavalier had not a moment to think, for they threatened to break open the door; upon which Don Nimagri called to them, and said if they dared to force the door, without a proper order from the magistrate, he would blow their brains out, and that he was well prepared to encounter a host of them; to which they replied they had. “If you have,” said the cavalier, “thrust it under the door, and if it is a true one, I will open the door;” but that was not the case, they were not in possession of any such a thing. After many useless threats, they said they would fetch a police officer, and retired. Meanwhile Gasparo, on the first hearing of the bustle, had equipped himself with two large pistols in his belt, a poignard, a huge sword which he always wore, and came in to his master: what was to be done with the lady was the first question; the host was called, and a purse of ducats put into his hand, (the best pleaders for protection); the state of the case being told him, he proposed, while they were gone, to procure an order, which he had no doubt they would obtain, as the magistrate of the place was by no means invulnerable against the attack of a full purse; that the lady should be hidden in the hay-loft under some trusses, properly arranged for the purpose. This being done, the cavalier threw himself carelessly on the bed, and waited in great anxiety to hear of the lady’s safety, till Gasparo ran in, and cried out, “II Diavolo istesso non la troverebbe,”—the devil himself could not find her out, she is so well concealed. It was but a short time after every thing was settled, that the two gentlemen returned, accompanied by an officer, who was desired to thrust the warrant under the door, if he really had one. Don Nimagri finding that it was a magistrate’s order, and knowing the lady was safe, ordered Gasparo to open the door; the strangers judging by the appearance of Don Nimagri, and Gasparo’s terrible figure, that the one was a person of some consequence, and well protected, began to apologize, stating that they were in search of a sister who had run away from home to avoid an union with a nobleman of her father’s choice, and whom they were determined to secure.
They searched every where, and as one of the brothers was looking under the bed, Qasparo, who was perhaps seized with an itching after his old habits, was winking and blinking at his master, with a piteous, imploring face, to let him have a pop or two at them; and it was with difficulty he was able, by threatening looks, and a grasp of his arm, to prevent him from discharging both his pieces at them. Being disappointed in their search, the three men withdrew. As soon as Don Nimagri thought they were safe, Gasparo and himself went to release the affrighted lady, who was more dead than alive; some refreshments being brought in, Donna Colomba, having recovered a little, related her story to her protector, informing him that her cruel father, for the sake of interest, insisted she should marry an old dotard, who was old enough to be her grandfather, and whose vices and character she abhorred. “But what do you intend to do?” said our young champion. “Signor,” added she, with a bewitching grace, and tears glistening in her fine eyes, “I am under your protection; the interest you have shown for my safety, repels every idea of fear in me, and I have no hesitation in entrusting my life and my honor in your hands, if you will but escort me with your servant as far as Benevento; I have, at a short distance from thence, an aunt, an abbess, under whose sacred care I shall be safe, and where I mean to take the veil: do but this, and I will ever be grateful to you.” Don Nimagri was too much of a man and a cavalier to withstand the entreaties of a distressed fair one; he immediately gave orders for a carriage to be got ready, desired Gasparo to saddle their horses, look to the pistols in both saddles, and be quick. Gasparo flew; the chaise being ready, the host liberally paid, the better to seal his lips, Donna Colomba and Don Nimagri leaped into the vehicle, and drove off full gallop. Whether the brothers had had scent by some stable-boy or other, that a lady had been at the inn is not certain; but they had laid watch, the which was easy enough, as there was but one road; but being afraid, they placed themselves in ambush and suffered them to pass, and followed behind at a small distance, expecting to overtake them at the rising of the hill, which was about three miles off, when the horses would be tired. By the time they got within a quarter of a mile from the hill, Gasparo who was following, leading his master’s steed, hearing a trampling of horses, looked back, saw them, and instantly gave the alarm, crying as loud as he could, “here they are, here they are, we shall have fine sport.” Don Nimagri looked out of the window, stopped the carriage, got out, mounted his horse, ordered the postillion to drive as fast as he could out of reach, the which he had no occasion to repeat, for he was gone before Don Nimagri could well turn his horse to face the enemy. The sbirro darting forward, pistol in hand, ordered them to stand. Gasparo, who was more expert at this work than his master, fired his pistol, but missing his aim, only shot the horse; down fell the sbirro. Gasparo dismounted in an instant; put his horse’s bridle into his master’s hand, ran up to the sbirro, and with his stiletto most charitably put him out of misery, for the poor devil had broken his arm in the fall. Don Nimagri meanwhile fired at the brothers who had advanced upon him. Gasparo seeing the danger of his master in this unequal match, fired his other pistol so successfully, that whether one alone, or both were wounded, was never heard, for both set spurs to their horses, like the valiant knight who ran away, to live and fight another day.
Don Nimagri finding that the enemy were fled, did not think it necessary to follow them, but turned his attention to the lady. They rode up to the carriage as fast as they could, and found the lady in the greatest terror; she eagerly enquired whether her brothers were safe, for cruel as they were, she could not but feel as a sister. Don Nimagri assured her they had both run away safe and sound. There being no time to be lost, lest they might have run off under the idea of getting assistance, he ordered the postillion to proceed to the next post, where they rested some time, the lady being overcome by the fright, fatigue, and distress of mind. As soon as she was recovered they set off, and arrived safe at Benevento, but although it was in the middle of the night, no entreaty or remonstrance could prevail on the lady to remain there till morning; she was so alarmed at the idea of being surprised, and carried away by her brothers, whom she had reason to fear were still pursuing, or perhaps some more powerful dread in the breast of a virtuous female, now she was discovered, that with tears she entreated Don Nimagri to proceed to the convent she had mentioned, to which he reluctantly agreed, apprehending the consternation and fright such an arrival, and at such an hour, would create. The sisterhood of the convent, as he conjectured, when they arrived, had just retired again to rest after their midnight prayer, and were scarcely fallen into a doze, when they were terrified by the violent ringing of the great convent bell. What could be the matter? was the general cry. The alarm spread like wild-fire; some fell on their marrow-bones, praying to St. Jenajo; some ran with half their garments into the chapel; some concealed themselves in the vaults, while the poor ab-bess lay trembling in her bed, counting her beads. At last the porteress came to the gate and through the little grating enquired what was the matter. Don Nimagri said Donna Colomba, the abbess’s relation, was pursued, and begged protection. While the good nun went up to deliver the message, the gates were opened, and the chaise drove in. But poor Gasparo was shut out, and thereby exposed to his fate, had there been any one at their heels; but luckily for him, they had been too much terrified to venture a second attack. Shortly after the fugitives were introduced into the chapel, for the abbess seeing the girls running helter-skelter in every direction, did not dare to introduce a man into any room, lest some of them might have sought refuge there. Therefore, into the chapel they went; two or three of those innocent creatures, who had run into it in their fright, now scampered away as fast as they could, at sight of a man, and at that time of the morning. When the abbess had heard Donna Colomba’s account, she thanked Don Nimagri for his very kind and humane attention, expressed great regret at not being able to allow him to stay the night, but offered to send to a neighbouring farm, and obtain accommodation for him and his servant; entreated him to come in the morning that they might have an opportunity of giving him some testimony of the gratitude they felt for his kind protection to her relation. Don Nimagri, highly pleased at his success in saving the lady, departed. Receiving a message from the abbess in the morning, he attended her, and was presented to the whole sisterhood as the saviour of Donna Colomba’s life and honor, and much gratified with the blessings and thanks of all these pretty creatures, who vied with each other in little presents of relics, sweet-meats,&c. The lady abbess presented him with a very handsome crucifix set in diamonds. Donna Colomba could not find words to express herself, but requested his acceptance of a beautiful diamond ring in remembrance of her; and loaded him with blessings. Gasparo, I must say, was not neglected by the inferior nuns. Although not a very prepossessing parsonage, the account he gave of his glorious exploits so delighted them, for ladies are fond of valour, that he did not lack wine, cakes, and the good things usually met with in convents. After a few hours Don Nimagri took leave of the ladies and sisterhood, and arrived safe and sound at Rome.
At Arezzo, a city of Tuscany, there formerly lived a friar, who was styled Master Stefano. He was, in fact, a Mantuan, but he had dwelt so long at Arezzo, that most people considered him an Aretine. He was a handsome fellow, about thirty, extremely bold, and eloquent, and, as most of the preaching friars are, I mean the wickeder part of them, inclined to trick his best friend out of his wife’s affections. Although in the pulpit they preach up chastity, reprobate the sin of disturbing the happiness of married life, and dwell upon the merit of alms-giving, all this is in order to be more securely admitted into families, and to gain a character for sanctity, by which people may be induced to leave their property to the church, and deprive their rightful heirs of their due. Thus they enrich themselves, and laugh in their sleeves at the fools who are deluded by their hypocrisy.
Instead of paying regard to the divine precept, which directs all those of their profession not to provide food for the morrow, they are for ever begging, and grasping at every thing within their reach; and if perchance they should confess a dying person, who has detained that which was not his own, they will make him believe it is more meritorious and good for his soul, to give it to the church, than restore it to its owner. This Master Stefano was one of these fine fellows. He fell in love with a beautiful and virtuous lady, named Emilia, who was married to as worthy a man, Girolamo de Brendali. The lady, who thought that Stefano led so pure and holy a life, never suspected that he could entertain such unworthy intentions, and received him every day with the greatest marks of kindness, both on account of her husband’s partiality to him, and, moreover, because for two years past he had been her confessor. The friar, however, being unable to moderate the ardour of his passion, determined to make her acquainted with it, having that opportunity at command every day. Still he thought it would be better to wait awhile, because it was carnival time; after which she was in the habit of going to church to confess, thinking it much more safe on account of the sanctity of the place, in case any thing should be suspected, rather than her own house.
About eight days after the carnival, the lady, as was her custom, went to the church. The friar hastened to lead her to the remotest confessional he could pitch upon. After a few words of civility had passed, he began to interrogate her cursorily and lightly, touching the mortal sins, except that of incontinence, upon which he long dwelt, being highly delighted with an opportunity of expatiating on the subject, after the manner of too many confessors, who, under the pretence of interrogating, gratify their own prurient imaginations with indecent explanations, and circumstantial detail. Thus did the friar dwell on his favourite subject as long as he could, in order to forward the discovery of his passion to the lady. At last, breathing a deep sigh, he said, “Lady, heaven knows I have many a time hesitated to give you absolution, because I have from your confession found you so chaste and free from the sin of incontinence.”
“How, father,” said she, “is it then a sin to be faithful to one’s husband, and to be chaste?”
“The reason is,” said the friar, “because so beautiful as you are, I cannot believe but you must have numbers of admirers, and surely you cannot have resisted them all. I have often thought, that through shame you have not told the truth, perhaps for fear (though heaven forbid that I should ever do such a thing) lest I should tell your husband, or lest I should refuse you absolution, of which, however, you would be unworthy only by disguising from me the truth. Therefore, speak to me with sincerity, let no fear prevent you, for I promise you, that instead of the reproof you might expect, you will find praise and approbation; for I think it a much greater sin to let a poor unfortunate fellow of a lover die, than to break through that which has been prescribed merely to make us live a little more regularly, than if all things were in common; or, perhaps, because we set less value upon those things which we can obtain with ease.” The lady was greatly astonished at hearing these words, and being a virtuous and sensible woman, she began to suspect what the hypocritical friar was driving at; but resuming her serenity of countenance, which had been a little ruffled by his discourse, she resolved to answer him, without giving him the least suspicion that she understood his meaning, in order not to check him from saying what he had in his mind. So with a smile she said, “alas! father, saidst thou that thou dost not believe I am the honest and virtuous woman which I am?”
“Nay, it is quite the reverse,” quoth the friar, “I do think you a more worthy lady than you would seem, and that you would not be so cruel, as to suffer any one to languish and die for the sake of preserving that virtue.”
“Heaven preserve you,” said the lady, “who do you think would die on my account? who would cast on me a look of tenderness?”
“Oh!” groaned the friar, “who is it can look on you and not lose his heart. As for my part, (and pray pardon me if I offend you), since I have been blessed with a sight of you, there has not been a day or night that I have spent without thinking of your beauty, or without petitioning mighty Love to afford me an opportunity (though at the risque of my life) of telling you how great is the tender affection I bear you. Should my ill-fate order it so that my passion should offend, lay the blame not on me, but on those transcendent charms and noble manners which have brought me to such a crisis, that I can no longer live unless you take pity on me. Should you delay this compassion, lady too long, perhaps it may come too late, for I must surely die.” Besides that Emilia was a virtuous woman; she was doubly offended at the friar’s speech, on account of the friendship which her husband bore him, and for this reason resolved on his punishment. She told him she could not give credit to such wonderful things; neither did she believe in his affection, nor in the charms he alluded to. Having parted from the friar, the lady went home, and related every word to her husband Girolamo, having previously made him solemnly swear that he would not meditate any serious revenge, but merely inflict some slight punishment on him, and let him go. Girolamo considering what he could do to the worthy preacher, which should not be a serious injury, and yet a great disgrace, he hit upon a plan which will soon appear. He told his wife to contrive to let the friar come to her some night, and related to her his plan. To this she agreed, and, in consequence, to prevent the friar from having any suspicion, and in order that the plot might the better succeed, she sent the friar some little trifling presents by her maid—perfumes, flowers, and green and black ribbons, such as ladies are used to send their lovers.
Our innamorato accepted every thing with joy and rapture, and had no scruple in sending as many back by a little convenient brother. The friar, now thinking he was at home to a peg, determined one Saturday to pay her a visit, for, on that day, it was his custom to rest from his duty; therefore, taking with him the little friar, on the Saturday before the Sunday of St. Lazarus, he marched off to the Lady Emilia. It so happened that, exactly as he wished it, Girolamo had gone out; he joyfully went up stairs, and sent word to Emilia that he had waited upon her; the lady received him with very great kindness and affection; upon which our worthy friar, after a few sweet words, reminded her of his anguish and his hopes; to which Emilia, who had been taught by her husband what to say, replied, “holy father! heaven knows I have always thought infidelity to my husband a great crime, but as you have assured me that there is no sin in it, and that you bear me such great love, I have determined to reward your passion, but on condition of inviolable secrecy; indeed, to shew you that I am in earnest, I would say that, were not to-morrow the Sunday of Lazarus, when you are to preach, you might come this very evening between eleven and twelve o’clock, my husband being gone to Villa Cavalca; I would not fail to open the door to you, at that time all the servants will be gone to bed and fast asleep.” The worthy friar, who wished for nothing more ardently, and to whom every minute seemed an age, said, “dear lady, if this be your kind intention, do not let my preaching prevent you, for if you will let me out a little before day-light, I will preach a sermon to-morrow that shall delight and melt the hearts of my hearers.” He departed, and, in order to make himself the more agreeable to the lady, he went to refresh and perfume himself; the lady, meanwhile, related all the particulars to her husband, who, after telling his lady how she should act, left the house, and went to sup with an intimate friend. At the hour appointed, the friar tapped at the door, which was opened to him, and he was led gently up stairs to the bedchamber where Girolamo and his wife usually slept; here she left him, desiring him to undress, saying that she would come to him as soon as she had arranged some trifling matters. Scarcely had our amorous lover stripped himself to his shirt, when Girolamo, who, with the friend with whom he had supped, had watched the friar, knocked furiously at the door. Emilia, on hearing this, rushed into the room, threw open the window, and demanded who was there, pretending to be in a dreadful fright. Girolamo answering, desired to be admitted, saying it was her husband. Emilia began to call out that she was undone, ran up to the father, who was more dead than alive through fright, bid him get up quick, and said, “we are as good as dead; I cannot think how it is, but my husband, whom I thought ten miles off, is now knocking at the door.”
“For heaven’s sake,” said she, “slip into that chest,” shewing him a large one in the room, “and lie there until I see what may be done; meanwhile I will hide your clothes somewhere or other as well as I am able; heaven knows, I fear more for your holy person than I do for my own life.” The unfortunate wretch, seeing himself reduced to such a pass, did as the lady desired. Meanwhile the servants awoke, got up, and let their master in, who, pretending that he had been attacked, along with his companion, when put of Arezzo, by some banditti, said he had caused the city gates to be opened by giving a crown to the guard; the which had delayed him for more than three hours, on account of his being obliged to go to the castle to get the keys. After ordering a bed for his companion, he went into bed to his wife, while the poor fellow remained in the chest. Day-light coming, the church bells began to ring for prayers, which greatly annoyed our captive, who was to preach at the cathedral.
Girolamo and his friend having risen, ordered two servants to carry the chest to the church, and place it in the middle, saying they were ordered to do so by the preacher; and that unlocking the chest without raising the lid, they should leave it there; all which the fellows did very neatly: every body stared, and wondered what all this could mean, some said one thing, and some another. At last the bell having ceased to ring, and no one appearing in the pulpit, or any other part of the church, a young man rose and said, “really this preacher of ours makes us wait too long; pray let us see what he has ordered to be brought in this chest,” having said thus much, he, before all the congregation, lifted up the lid, and looking in, beheld the friar in his shirt, pale, almost frightened to death, and certainly appearing more dead than alive, and as if buried in the chest.
He, however, finding himself discovered, collected his mind as well as he could, and stood upright to the great astonishment of all present; and, having taken his text from the Sunday of Lazarus, he then addressed his congregation:—“My dear brethren, I am not at all astonished at your surprise and amusement in seeing me brought before you in this chest, or rather at my ordering myself to be brought thus: ye know that this is the day in which our holy church commemorates the wonderful miracle our Lord performed on the person of Lazarus, in raising him from the dead who had been buried four days. I was desirous in your favour to present myself to you, as it were, in the form of Lazarus, in order that seeing me in this chest, which is no other than an emblem of the sepulchre wherein he had been buried, you might be moved more effectually to the consideration of what perishable things we are, and that seeing me stripped of all worldly decorations, thus, in my shirt, you may be convinced of the vanity of the things in this world, the which if duly considered, may tend greatly to the amending of our lives. Will you believe that, since yesternight, I have been a thousand times dead, and revivified as Lazarus was; and, considering my dreadful situation, remember that we must all die, and trust to Him who can bestow upon us life eternal; but first ye must die to sin, to avarice, to rapine, and all those sinful deeds to which our nature prompts us; and, above all, avoid seducing the wives of others, as none who so act can be saved.” In such language, and in this manner did the friar continue his sermon. Much praise did the Aretines heap upon him, more especially Girolamo and his friend, who had come to see how the trick would succeed, and who were astonished at the extraordinary presence of mind which the friar displayed, and laughed heartily at his success in persuading his audience of his wonderful chastity in respect of other men’s wives. Girolamo, in consideration of the adroitness of the culprit, did not attempt any other revenge, but took very good care to shut his door in future against all such double-faced hypocrites.
In the time of Charles the Second, there was at Salerno a noble knight, of an ancient family, called Messer Mazzeo, a chief justice, extremely rich both in money and lands, whose wife being rather old, died, and left an only daughter, whose name was Veronica, youthful, handsome, and very virtuous. Her father, whether from affection, or that he wished to marry her advantageously, kept her single at home, though she had many offers. It happened that a youth, named Antonio Marcello, of noble birth, who had been familiar in the house from his infancy, under the sanction of a certain relationship between him and Messer Mazzeo’s lady, became so enraptured with Veronica, that he was almost mad. Antonio, although reserved and virtuous, and dearly beloved as a worthy son could be, yet unable to resist all powerful love, and having opportunities which his weak resolution could not withstand, this pair of youthful lovers forgot what was due to their father and themselves. Though they continued, with the greatest caution, this guilty intercourse, yet their utmost care could not guard them from the cruel storm which fate was raising against them. One night being together, and not suspecting any thing, it happened that one of the servants espied them, and immediately went to his master, and having related the fact, the former, full of indignation, went with some of his servants to the place where the couple were, who, being thrown into the utmost consternation, were both seized, but Antonio being very strong and courageous, disengaged himself, and, sword in hand, rushed forth and made his escape, unhurt and unseen, and went home. Messer Mazzeo, grieved to death on seeing how matters stood, insisted on knowing from his daughter who the young man was. She very prudently, knowing the temper of her father, and that the death of her lover must be the consequence, determined rather to expose her own life than his, and finally told her father that she would suffer every torment, and even death itself, rather than let the youth’s name be known. The father, in the greatest rage, after having tortured her in various ways, seeing her obstinately determined to be silent, although parental feeling moved him at times, determined upon her death, and, without seeing her more, he commanded two of his trusty servants immediately to drag her into a boat, and throw her overboard, when they should be some miles from shore. The men, though most unwillingly, bound her hands, and forced her to the sea side, and while they were making the boat ready, one of them being moved to compassion, sifted the other, who was equally sorry at the cruel circumstance, and talking over the matter, they agreed not only to spare her life, but to set her at liberty; and having unbound her, they told her that being strongly moved to pity, they could not execute the cruel sentence her father had ordered, and begged of her, as a return for the liberty they restored to her, that she would expatriate herself, so that her father might never hear of their having saved her. The poor young lady finding she received life through the humanity of her own servants, and that she was unable to reward them sufficiently, poured forth her prayers to heaven to send them blessings equal to the inestimable gift they bestowed upon her; and after recovering from-her fright and terror she swore to them, by that life they had saved her, that she would conduct herself in such a manner, that not only her merciless father, but no living soul should ever be apprised of the circumstance.
After having cut her hair, and dressed her up as well as they could with their own clothes, and giving her what trifle of money they had about them, they directed her on the way to Naples, and left her with tears; and having returned home with her clothes, they asserted, that with a large stone tied to her neck, they had plunged her into the sea about ten miles off. The noble lady, who had never before been out of the city, felt herself nearly fainting at every step she took; the thoughts of leaving her poor Antonio without the hope of ever seeing him again, together with many other tender thoughts, nearly induced her to turn back; but recollecting the kindness she experienced, and the solemn promise she had made to them, gratitude, that blossom of every virtue, had such power over her feelings, that every such thought was dismissed. She therefore went on, not knowing where, and praying to heaven to help her, she walked the remaining part of the night. About dawn, being near Nocera, she was overtaken by a party who were going on to Naples, and joined company with them; among these was a Calabrian gentleman, who was taking some sparrow hawks to the Duke of Calabria. The youth (for so the lady appeared) seeming to him a pleasant young man, he asked her what countryman he was, and whether he wanted employment? Veronica, who in sport had learned in her youth to imitate the language of an old woman of Apulia, who was in her father’s house, thought she would make use of those Pugliese words which she recollected, as often as she could in the course of her conversation with him, and answered, “I am a native of Apulia, and came forth from home only to get a situation, but, as I am the son of a noble father, I would not wish to undertake too menial a place.” To which the Calabrian said, “would you like to be keeper of the hawks?” This question highly delighted Veronica, having at her father’s house had the care of several; she answered, that from her infancy she had been accustomed to the care of them. After some conversation as they went along, she took the care of one, and being arrived at Naples, and clad so that she appeared a very neat and elegant little squire, whether fate had so decreed it, or that her likely appearance captivated him, the duke would have both the hawks and the young Pugliese keeper who managed them so well, and, consequently, he was installed in the family with a young Neapolitan. She so carefully fulfilled her duty, and was so exact in her attendance, that in a short time she became the greatest favourite, and was much valued by the duke; insomuch that she remained with him till fortune directed another course for her.
Her old father, meanwhile, torn with grief and remorse, for the fatal story had got wind, remained mostly shut up in his house or at his country villa, secluded from all society. Antonio, after bitterly sorrowing for the death of his dear Veronica, and finding that the old man had never discovered who the cavalier was who had escaped on that fatal night, determined after a few days, as well to prevent suspicion, as moved by compassion, to visit the old man; he generally accompanied him to his villa, and shewed himself as kind, obedient, and dutiful, as if he had been his own son, the which Mazzeo felt the more sensibly, as the youth seemed to be the only one who had not forsaken him in his dire calamity, and therefore loved him as he would have done his own, and could not rest one hour without his dear Antonio. As the latter persevered in his kindness and attentions to him, it occurred to the old man, that since his ill fortune had deprived him of an heir, he would adopt him as such. Full of this thought he made his will, and left Antonio heir to every thing he possessed, and died shortly after. Antonio having thus acquired immense property, and occupying the house of the deceased, met with numberless objects that recalled to his mind the tender and heroic affection of his dear Veronica, who rather met her death, than reveal his name. His grief and gratitude were such, that he vowed he never would marry. Meanwhile the duke determined to go to Calabria, which thing enraptured the Pugliese (Veronica), as she would not only see her dear country again, but might perchance hear of her lover, and of her father, whom she still loved, in spite of his cruelty, and of whom she had made no enquiry lest her secret should be known. Being arrived at Salerno, and the duke’s retinue accommodated with lodgings according to their rank, it happened, as it pleased fortune to ordain, in order to put an end to their long sufferings, and finally make Antonio happy, that it fell to the lot of Antonio Marcello to accommodate the Pugliese and his companions with lodgings, which circumstance we may naturally suppose was no small joy to Veronica. They were honorably and courteously entertained by Antonio; at night he provided an elegant supper, and in the very apartment where he was wont to spend such happy moments with Veronica. As these two were looking anxiously on each other, Antonio thought he traced in the countenance of the Pugliese some of the features of his beloved, and recollecting her death, every word he uttered was broken by the deepest sighs. Veronica, seeing herself in her own house, though delighted at beholding her lover in possession of all the property, yet not seeing her father nor any of the family she had left, felt much afflicted and became very desirous of hearing something about him. While she remained thus agitated, in the course of the supper, her companion asked Antonio whether those painted arms in the hall were his, to which Antonio answered in the negative, and said they were those of a noble lord, named Messer Mazzeo, first judge, who having died in old age without children, had bequeathed all his property to him, for which reason having been adopted by him, he had taken possession, not only of the property, but assumed the name, as if he had been his own father. When Veronica heard this, her heart leaped with joy, and she could scarcely refrain from shedding tears; she, however, calmed herself till supper was over, when she thought it was high time she should fold her beloved to her arms, whom fortune had so kindly preserved to her; and taking Antonio by the hand, leaving her friends with the rest of the company, they entered an adjoining room, where she wished to say something to him by which he might recognise her. She attempted to speak, but could not utter a syllable from excess of joy and tears. Thus exhausted by contending feelings, she fell into his arms, exclaiming; “Oh! Antonio, my love, is it possible thou dost not know me?” He, who as I have said before, thought he recognized some features of his dear Veronica, upon hearing those words, immediately became convinced of what he only at first surmised, and overcome with the ten-derest feelings, said, “my soul, art thou really living?” So saying he swooned in her arms. After caressing each other for a time with endearments, and relating their adventures, Antonio considering it fit to divulge the whole circumstances, and herself being of the same mind, they went out of the room to her companions, and although it was late, Antonio sent to all his own friends and Veronica’s, desiring them to attend directly at his house, on business of the greatest importance. They being arrived, he requested them to attend him as far as the palace of the duke, as he meant to request him to put him in possession of an estate formerly belonging to Messer Mazzeo, from which no fruit or advantage had been derived for many years past. The whole group having willingly agreed so to do, when before the duke, Antonio, taking his Veronica by the hand, in the presence of all, related every circumstance that had happened, without concealing the least particular; declaring afterwards how, from the very beginning of their love, they had pledged their faith as man and wife, and meant, with their lord’s approbation, to celebrate publicly this marriage. The duke, barons, relations, and strangers present, hearing these extraordinary events were much surprised, and heartily rejoiced at the happy issue. The conduct and constancy of Antonio and Veronica were highly praised; they took leave of the duke, and next day high mass was celebrated in the presence of his highness, and Antonio and Veronica were both married; noble presents were sent by the duke, and they in love, and with many beautiful children, lived, and terminated this life at a very old age.