Chapter VI: Part 6

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.

BELPHAGOR.

We find in the ancient records of Florence, that a most holy man, whose life was, in after years, celebrated for sanctity, being one night deeply engaged in meditation, fell into a dream and saw numbers of the souls of wretched mortals, who had died under the displeasure of the gods, and inhabited the dark regions of Pluto; complaining, at least most part of them, of having been driven to such misery by marriage; the which greatly surprised Minos, Radamanthus, and other infernal judges, as they did not credit those falsehoods against the sex. But these complaints increasing daily, after informing Pluto of it, it was resolved to hold a council of all the infernal deities upon the subject, and ultimately determine upon what might be best to do, in order to ascertain the whole truth of the case. These being called to council, Pluto spoke in the following manner:--“Although, my dearly beloved, by celestial power and irrevocable fate, I possess this realm, and am wholly unaccountable to any celestial or mortal being, yet as it is more wise to listen to the opinions of others, I have resolved to take your advice in a case that might eventually be of great dishonour to our empire; all the souls of men that come into our infernal kingdom, say that their wives are the cause of it; this appearing impossible to us, we therefore fear that in passing sentence on this subject, we may, perhaps, be accused of too much cruelty, or of not being sufficiently severe, and unfriendly to justice; being desirous to avoid both these charges, we have called upon you for your advice and assistance, in order that this realm may remain, as it ever hath been, without disgrace.”

It appeared to all the infernal lords that it was a most momentous case, and they unanimously agreed that it ought to be sifted to the very bottom, but disagreed about the means and manner of carrying the investigation into effect; some were of opinion that one of them should be sent into the world, in the shape of a man, to ascertain personally the truth; others thought it might be done with less difficulty, by compelling several souls, by various torments, to tell the truth; but the majority decreeing that some one should be sent, they decided upon the former opinion. No one being inclined to take this business upon himself, it was settled that chance should determine, the which fell to the lot of the arch-devil Belphagor, who, before he was kicked out of heaven, was called archangel; he, though against his will, was compelled by Pluto’s power to accept the office, and prepared to do that which the council should determine, and bound himself to such compacts as had solemnly been stipulated between them; the which were, that he who should be deputed should immediately receive a hundred thousand ducats, with which he was to come into the world with the features of man--take to him a wife--live ten years with her--then, feigning death, should return; and, by his own experience, prove to his superiors, what are the sorrows and comforts of the married state. It was moreover fixed, that he should be subject to all the misfortunes, and all the evils incident to man--that of poverty, imprisonment, diseases, and other calamities which men draw on themselves, unless he could extricate himself from them by deceit or cunning. Belphagor, having assumed the man, and taken the cash, came to the world, and after having ordered his horses and attendants, he made cheerfully towards Florence, the which city he chose in preference to any other, as the one where roguery and usury were most likely to thrive; and, taking the name of Roderigo, he hired a house in the Borgo d’Ogrissanti. In order that they might not enquire who he was, he gave out that he had quitted Spain, when very young, and going to Syria, had gained all his wealth at Aleppo, and that his object in coming to Italy was to take a wife, as being a more civilized country, and more congenial to his feelings. Roderigo was a very handsome man, about thirty, and being in a very few days known to possess immense riches, and it appearing that he was liberal and humane, many noble citizens who had plenty of daughters, and a scarcity of money, made offers to him; out of the number, Roderigo selected a most beautiful young lady called Onesta, daughter of Amerigo Donati, who had three other daughters almost marriageable, and three sons grown to man’s estate. Although he was of a noble family, and greatly esteemed in Florence, yet, in consequence of a style of living suited to his rank, he was very poor.

Roderigo’s wedding was most splendid; nothing usual on such occasions was forgotten or neglected; it having been decreed before he left the dark regions, that he should be subject to all the passions of men, he soon took delight and pride in the pomp and vanities of the world, and the praises of men, the which cost him dear enough; besides this, he had not been long with his wife before he fell desperately in love with her, and was wretched if she happened to look otherwise than cheerful, or was displeased at any thing. Madonna Onesta had not only brought youth and beauty to Roderigo, but such a share of pride, that he, who was a tolerable judge, thought the pride of Lucifer himself was a mere nothing to it; this greatly increased the very instant she perceived how much her husband doated upon her, and as she thought she could rule him as she pleased, she commanded him imperiously, nor did she hesitate, if he denied her any thing, to abuse and maltreat him, the which greatly annoyed him, yet the ties of matrimony, and the love he bore her, made him endure all with patience. I make no mention of the very enormous expenses he was at to please her in new fashions, which naturally often vary in this our city, and which he was obliged to submit to for the sake of peace. He was compelled to help his father-in-law in portioning the other girls; then again, to be on good terms with her, he was compelled to equip one brother for the Levant with clothes, &c., and the other to the west with silks; and, lastly, to open a goldbeater’s shop for the third, all of which consumed the best part of his fortune. Moreover, in the carnival time and festival of St. John, when the whole city is nothing but feasting and revels, and when the noblemen treat each other with splendid entertainments, Madonna Onesta would not yield to any lady in splendour and show, but insisted that her Roderigo should outdo them all in magnificence. Quietly did Roderigo bear all these things for the reasons above-mentioned--peace and quietness; nor would he have grudged the expense, though very annoying, nay, would have even borne more, could he but have had peace in the house; or could he have waited quietly the moment of his ruin: but, on the contrary, it was quite the reverse, for besides the ruinous extravagance she led him into, her diabolical nature wearied him daily, nor was there a servant in the house that could stay any time. Roderigo, of course, suffered much in not being able to keep a single servant that could take care of his property, for the very devils he had brought with him, under the shape of servants, rather chose to return to hell, among their native fire and smoke, than dwell in the world under her controul. Roderigo going on in this dreadful way, and having wasted all his property in the above manner, began to live on the hopes of remittances from the east and west, which he expected to receive, but being put to shifts and having good credit still, he borrowed on promissory notes. At this juncture the intelligence arrived from the east and west that one of the Madonna Oliesta’s brothers had gambled away all Roderigo’s property, and that the other, on his return with a ship laden with goods uninsured, had been drowned, and the ship sunk. The instant the news was made known, the creditors assembled, and judging he was a ruined man, they being prevented from making any demands, the notes not being as yet due, agreed it was proper to keep a watchful eye over him, in order that he might not give them the slip. Roderigo, on the other hand, seeing his situation desperate, and thinking of the infernal law that bound him to this sublunary world, determined to be off at any rate. He mounted his horse one morning, and living near the gate Alprato, he rode through on his way. No sooner was his departure heard of, than the creditors were roused up to action, and applying to the magistrate, they flew with the police, and even the populace, after him. Roderigo was scarcely one mile off, when he heard the outcry behind him. Conceiving the road was but an indifferent protection, he thought that striking across the fields would be a far safer way; but in so doing he found so many ditches in his road, the which are frequent in that part, that he alighted, left his horse, and ran on foot through fields covered with vines and reeds, with which that country abounds. He arrived at Peretola, at the house of Matteo del Bricea, a labourer of Giovanni del Bene, and as chance would have it, found Matteo feeding the oxen. Roderigo begged of him to save him from the hands of his enemies, who, he said, pursued him, to take him and shut him up in gaol to die; promising him a great reward, and adding, that he would enrich him, and would, before he left him, give him such proofs that he could no longer doubt; and should he not keep his word, he would allow him to deliver him up to his pursuers. Matteo, though but a labourer, was a man of spirit, and kind-hearted; and thinking he could lose nothing by protecting him, he promised so to do, and concealed him behind a dunghill, covered him up with lumber, and sticks which he had brought for firewood. Roderigo had scarcely time to conceal himself properly, before his pursuers reached the place, who, however, could not obtain from Matteo an avowal that he had seen any such a one as they described. They, therefore, continued their way; being unsuccessful in their search, after two days pursuit, they returned back to Florence. When the bustle was over, Matteo took him out of his concealment. Roderigo said to him, “Matteo, I am under the greatest obligation to you, and will reward you, and that thou mayest believe me, I will tell thee who I am,”--upon this he related to him who he was, and the orders he received on going out of hell; his taking a wife; the eternal plague he had with her, and, moreover, the means he should use to enrich him, which was this:--when he should hear that there was a young woman possessed with the devil, to be quite assured that it was he who was within her, and that he should not cast himself from her until he himself should come, by which means he might get such payment from her friends as he might choose. Thus agreed, he disappeared. Very few days had elapsed, when it was reported in Florence that a daughter of Ambrogio Amadeo, who had married Buonijuto Zebalducci, was possessed by the devil. The friends, of course, tried all the remedies usually recurred to in such cases, such as placing the head of Saint Zarobi on her head, and Saint John of Gualberto’s cloak, which things were rendered of no avail by Roderigo, and to make it clear that the deceased had really and truly an evil spirit within her, he made her speak Latin, and hold a disputation on philosophy. She made public the sins of people, and particularly those of a monk, who had kept a female more than four years under the dress of a young friar; which things people much marveled at. Messer Ambrogio, however, was truly miserable, and had lost all hopes of a cure, when Matteo having heard of the case, came to him, and told him that if he would give him five hundred florins to purchase a little farm at Ponterolo, he would restore the lady to her perfect senses. Ambrogio accepted the offer, upon which Matteo having ordered several masses to be said, and numerous mysterious ceremonies to be performed, in order the better to conceal the business, he accosted the lady, and whispering into her ear, said, “Roderigo, I am now come to thee that thou mayest perform thy promise,” to which Roderigo answered, “but this sum is not enough to make thee rich, therefore as soon as I depart from this, I will cast myself into the daughter of Charles, King of Naples, nor will I depart from her until thou comest to me. Thou wilt then make thy own demand to the king, and after this, never trouble me more.” This said, he came forth from the lady, to the great amazement and joy of all present. It was but a few months after, that the news was spread through Italy of the accident which had befallen King Charles’s daughter. All the attempts of the monks proving ineffectual to relieve her, and the King having heard of Matteo, immediately dispatched a messenger to Florence to fetch him. Matteo arrived soon at Naples, and, after some artful practices, removed the evil spirit from the lady; but before Roderigo quitted his hold, he said, “Matteo, thou seest I have kept my word with thee in enriching thee; I therefore am now under no obligations whatever to thee; do not thou ever attempt to appear before me, because I might hereafter do thee much harm, instead of the good I have done thee.” Matteo, returning to Florence very rich, for the king had given him fifty thousand ducats, thought of enjoying his wealth in comfort, unconscious that Roderigo would ever do him any injury; but this hope was soon frustrated by news arriving that the daughter of Louis the Seventh of France was possessed of the evil spirit; this quite upset the mind of Matteo, considering the power of that king, and coupling, withal, the threat of Roderigo, if ever he appeared before him. Meanwhile, Louis unable to find a cure for his daughter, and being told of Matteo’s power of exorcism, sent at first a messenger to request his attendance; but Matteo alleging indisposition as an excuse, the king was obliged to apply to the government, who compelled Matteo to obedience. In great grief and perturbation of mind did Matteo arrive at Paris; he told the king that certainly there were such things by which he had formerly cured persons possessed with the devil, but that was not the case with all such, because there were some of so wicked a nature, that neither threats, exorcism, or religious ceremonies could move them; yet that he would certainly do his best, but, that should his endeavours prove useless, he entreated his majesty to pardon him. The king, greatly disappointed and incensed, replied, that if he did not cure his daughter, he certainly should be hanged. Matteo, of course, felt much alarmed at his ticklish situation; nevertheless, summoning up his whole stock of courage, he desired the lady might be called in, and with all humility, in a whisper, entreated Roderigo to take pity on him, reminding him of what he had formerly done by him: to which Roderigo answered, “treacherous villain, hast thou the boldness to appear before me? dost thou forget I made thee the rich man thou art? I will now show thee and the world how I can bestow gifts, and bereave mortals of them at my pleasure, and before thou quittest this place, I’ll have thee gibbeted.” Matteo, conceiving he was lost, and seeing no other means of escape, determined to try his fortune in another way; therefore, desiring the lady might be dismissed, he said to the king, “Sire, I have already told your majesty, that there are such malignant spirits, against which nothing will avail, and this is one; however, I will try one last experiment, which, should it succeed, will make your majesty and myself most happy; should it fail, I hope your majesty will feel that compassion towards me that my innocence deserves. To this effect your majesty will please to order that a large platform be erected at the piazza of _Our Lady_, large enough to contain all your barons and clergy, decking the railing with cloths, silks, and gold fringes; in the middle of this platform I wish an altar to be placed, and on Sunday morning next I wish your majesty to attend in solemn and royal pomp, with all your barons and clergy in their richest canonicals, when high mass shall be chaunted, and the lady brought forth. Besides these things, I do request that a group of at least twenty persons be placed at one corner of the square, with each a trumpet, horn, bugle, cymbals, drums, kettle-drums, or other terrific instruments, who, at the waving of my hat, shall immediately strike up and walk on towards the platform; this and certain other exorcisms will, I hope, drive the evil spirit from the lady.” Every thing was ordered by his majesty which Matteo desired; on the Sunday morning the king, barons, clergy, and populace being assembled, the mass was celebrated, and the lady brought up to the platform by two bishops, and several noblemen. Roderigo, when he beheld such a multitude collected together, was almost confounded: “what the devil does this dastardly scoundrel mean to do,” said he to himself; “does he think to frighten me by all this show and bustle; does he not know that I am used to the pomp and splendour of heaven, and the fire and furies of hell? but I will punish him, that I will.” Matteo approached him, and entreated him to be gone.

“What do you mean,” said Roderigo, “do you think to terrify me by all these preparations? dost thou think to shelter thyself from my power and the king’s rage? Wretch! scoundrel that thou art! I will have thee hanged, cost what it may,” and at it they went, abusing each other, till at last Matteo thought it would be useless to lose any more time, and gave the signal by waving his hat. All those that had been ordered played up, and with an infernal noise approached the scaffold. Roderigo, at this horrid cry and noise, pricked up his ears, and remained stupified, not knowing what it could be, and asking Matteo what all that meant. Matteo, seeming quite alarmed, said, “Oh, Roderigo, _it is your wife, it is your wife_ that is coming to you!” At the hearing of his wife’s name, no one would credit the agitation, fright, and terror it threw him into; and without considering the improbability of its being so, he was so thunderstruck that he instantly made off in a bustle, and left the lady _free_, preferring to go back to hell and give an account of his mission, to encountering the vexations, spite, troubles, hardships, and dangers to which the marriage yoke had subjected him. Thus Belphagor returned to the infernal regions, gave a true and circumstantial account of all the evils which a wife brings into a house, and Matteo, highly delighted at his exploit, and at having outwitted the devil, returned home in raptures.

THE SLEEPING DRAUGHT

There was in Siena, not many years ago, a young man, the son of respectable parents, named Marriotto Mignelli, who fell violently in love with a young lady by name Gianozza, the daughter of one of the most respectable and worthy citizens, descended from the family of the Saraceni; in the course of time his assiduity and constancy were returned by the lady with equal ardour. They, for some time, remained satisfied with the joys of reciprocal protestations, and the sight of each other alone was a blessing beyond their most ardent wishes,--but this lasted but a short time; in what manner they should proceed to complete their views of happiness they could not devise, knowing the repulse they should meet from the parents of the lady. At last Gianozza, who was as prudent as she was handsome, resolved on secretly being married to him, and thus, should they be detected, to sanction their secret intrigue under the cloak of a marriage. In order to accomplish this object, they bribed an Augustin friar, by whose means they were united. Having, for a time, enjoyed the fruits of this sly, and partly unlawful marriage, it happened that fortune, contrary to their expectations, turned all their joys to bitter sorrow. Marriotto one day coming to high words with a respectable citizen, blows ensued, and Marriotto unfortunately struck the man a severe blow with his stick on the head, of which the unhappy man died a few days after: Marriotto, therefore, carefully concealed himself. As the sbirri, who were sent in quest of him, could not find him, he was outlawed by the magistrates, and condemned to die if found within their jurisdiction.

What were the sorrows of the loving pair, may more easily be conceived than described; the bitter tears that were shed at their parting, under the impression they never should meet again, would have melted a heart of stone; and, in their last embrace, they both seemed expiring in each other’s arms. At length Marriotto tried to comfort his mournful bride, by intimating a hope that, by some fortunate event, he might return to his country. He, at last, determined not only to absent himself from Tuscany, but to fly from Italy altogether, and go over to Alexandria to an uncle, named Mignanelli, he had there, a great merchant. After settling with his wife on the best means of carrying on a correspondence between them, the unhappy couple parted in tears. The distracted Marriotto made his way to the nearest port, to set sail for Alexandria, after leaving a letter for his brother, to inform him of the whole secret. He most pressingly entreated him carefully to watch over the safety of his dear Gianozza, and to protect her. In due time he arrived at Alexandria, was kindly received by his uncle, and related his misfortunes to him; Mignanelli was much grieved, not so much at the murder of the man, as on account of the offence given to the relations of the lady by this secret union, and whose power was much to be dreaded; but thinking it was useless to reproach him for things past, they endeavoured to quiet each other’s minds. The uncle initiated him in trade, and having every month letters constantly from his beloved Gianozza, and now and then seeing his brother, he was comparatively happy. In the interim, the father of Gianozza being solicited and importuned by many to marry his daughter, she continually objected to one, then to another; being at last pressed by her father to choose a husband, and, in such a manner, that it would have been needless to resist, she became almost distracted; to tell the truth would have but added fuel to fire. In this dreadful situation, a thought struck her, not only dangerous and cruel, but, perhaps, never yet heard of. She told her father she was ready to obey his commands, and immediately went to the friar Augustin, who had favoured their scheme, and cautiously imparted to him her project, and entreated his assistance; upon which he assumed that modest caution and timidity natural to the cloth, and, by some, highly admired; and humm’d and hah’d, but the enchanting powers of a well lined purse soon emboldened him, and he manfully entered into the scheme. He hastened home and made up (for he was an adept in the science) a draught, that not only would send a person to sleep for three days, but would give the real appearance of a corpse; having made up this draught, he sent it to the lady, with proper directions. Gianozza wrote a letter to Marriotto, to inform him of every particular the friar had done by her express command; then swallowed the draught, which, in a short time, threw her into a stupor, and she fell as if dead amidst her women; their cries soon brought her father and all the family into the room; the distracted old man sent for medical assistance, but nothing could avail; she was to all appearance dead, and the doctors were of opinion it was from the gout that had seized the chest.

The next day, and the succeeding one, she was carefully watched, to see if any signs of life appeared, but none being visible, to the great grief of her aged parent, and amidst the tears and lamentations of friends and relations, she was buried in the church of St. Augustin. About midnight the friar, assisted by one of his trusty brethren, took her out of the coffin into his room, and at the hour when the operation of the draught must be nearly over, they, by friction and other means, restored her to life. Being completely revived to sense and feeling in a few days, dressed in a friar’s garment, she set forth with the Augustin friar to port Pisano, where they found the galley Aquamorta, that was to touch at Alexandria in her voyage. Having taken their passage, they embarked forthwith, but as navigation is very precarious, and merchant vessels are often detained by landing, or freighting goods, contrary winds, and other casualties, they did not arrive till some months later than they expected.

The unfortunate Marriotto had, however, received, by several merchants, letters from Gargano his brother, who anxious to keep up the correspondence he had promised, had written to him every particular of the melancholy event, adding, that the afflicted and broken-hearted old father had died with grief. On the other hand, the vessel by which Gianozza’s letter had been sent was carrying corn to Alexandria, and was taken by pirates. Having no other information than his brother’s, he concluded it was all as stated in his letters. Reader, if thou hast a heart, thou wilt easily picture to thyself the distraction of Marriotto; so overpowering were his sorrows, that he determined not to outlive his misfortune, and in spite of his uncle’s entreaties, he resolved to return to Siena, to conceal himself in disguise, and there, where he thought his dear Gianozza lay, to bathe her tomb with his tears, and die. He embarked in a Venetian galley that was sailing to Naples; being arrived there, he went by land into Tuscany, entered Siena unknown, in a pilgrim’s dress, and without going to any of his relations, went to the church of St. Augustin, where his beloved had been buried; there he wept and lamented, and would fain have buried himself with her in the tomb.

The following evening he provided himself with an iron tool and wrench, and had nearly succeeded in opening the tomb, when the sexton, who was come to ring the bell for midnight prayers, hearing a noise, hastened to the place, and found the unfortunate Marriotto hard at his work; taking him to be a robber of the tombs, he halloed lustily, “_stop thief, stop thief!_” that all the fraternity were soon down into the church, some in their night-caps, others in their shirts; and although he was in tatters, he was immediately recognised to be Marriotto Mignelli. Here he was kept fast till the morning. It was soon divulged in Siena, and reaching the ears of the magistrates, they instantly sent the sbirri to seize him. They brought him before the judge, and he had scarcely felt the first torture, when he confessed, rather than endure more torments, the cause of his desperate resolution to return home. Although he was universally pitied, and more particularly by the fair sex, who looked upon him as a phenomenon of true love, and wept bitterly for his fate, yet the magistrate ordered that on the first execution day he should be hung. Thus, the interposition of his friends being unavailing, he submitted to his fate. After some months had elapsed, Gianozza, and her conductor arrived, after great sufferings, at Alexandria, enquired for Niccolo Mignanelli, and having found him made herself known to him, and told him all her misfortunes, and the purpose of her voyage. The good uncle was petrified with amazement, and grieved to the heart. After he had made her take her usual woman’s garments, and kindly treated the friar, he then related to the distressed Gianozza how Marriotto, led away by despair, had left him, and had gone back, without giving him the least intimation, fully determined to die, and how much he had grieved at his departure, knowing that such was his fixed resolve. Reader, you will surely conceive that this last misfortune outweighed every past suffering, and almost overwhelmed the unfortunate widow. After the bitterness of her sorrow was alleviated by scorching tears, Niccolo advised that they should both immediately take shipping, go to Siena, and find out Marriotto, dead or alive, and use every means to clear the honour of the lady. Having settled some little business, he made her take men’s clothes, embarked her, and after a prosperous voyage they arrived at Leghorn, and went from thence as speedily as they could to a little estate near Siena, which Niccolo possessed. Having enquired into many particulars, they were informed, to their very great grief, that Marriotto had three days before been executed. This fatal news was, indeed, a last stroke of cruel fortune. This was too much; tears could no longer flow; death and despair were indelibly traced in her countenance. Niccolo tried to comfort her, and at last determined, as secretly as possible, to place her in a convent, where, without making her known to the abbess, she might be taken care of. In this he succeeded; but intense grief, which totally deprived her of sleep and food, in a few days relieved her from all her sorrows, and she expired calling on her beloved Marriotto.

THE COUNTERPARTS

Messer Basilio, of Milan, who had fixed his residence in Pisa, on his return from Paris, where he had pursued the study of physic, having accumulated, by industry and extraordinary skill, a good fortune, married a young woman of Pisa, of very slender fortune, and fatherless and motherless; by her he had three sons, and a daughter who in due time was married in Pisa; the eldest son was likewise married, the younger one was at school; the middle one, whose name was Lazarus, although great sums had been spent upon his education, made nothing of it; he was naturally idle and stupid, of a sour and melancholy disposition; a man of few words, and obstinate to such a degree, that if once he had said no to any thing, nothing upon earth could make him alter his mind. His father, finding him so extremely troublesome, determined to get rid of him, and sent him to a beautiful estate he had lately bought at a small distance from town.

There he lived contented, more proud of the society of clowns and clodpoles, than the acquaintance of civilized people. While Lazarus was thus living quietly in his own way, there happened about ten years after a dreadful mortality in Pisa; people were seized with a violent fever, they then fell into a sleep suddenly, and died in that state. The disease was catching; Basilio, as well as other physicians, exerted their utmost skill, as well for their own interest as the general good; but ill fortune would have it that he caught the infection and died. The contagion was such that not one individual of the family escaped death, except an old woman servant. The raging disease having ceased at last, Lazarus was induced to return to Pisa, where he inherited the extensive estates and riches of his father. Many were the efforts made by the different families to induce him to marry their daughters, notwithstanding they were aware of his boorish disposition; but nothing would avail. He said he was resolved to wait four years before he would marry; so that his obstinate disposition being well known, they ceased their importunities. Lazarus, intent upon pleasing himself alone, would not associate with any living soul. There was, however, one poor man, named Gabriel, who lived in a small house opposite to him, with his wife Dame Santa. This poor fellow was an excellent fisherman and birdcatcher, made nets, &c. and what with that, and the assistance of his wife, who spun, he made shift to keep his family, consisting of two children, a boy of five, and a girl of three years old. Now it happened that this Gabriel was a perfect likeness of Lazarus; both were red haired, had the same length of beard, every feature, size, gait, and voice so perfectly alike, that one would have sworn they were twins; and had they both been dressed alike, certainly no one but would have mistaken the one for the other; the wife herself would have been deceived, but for the clothes--those of Lazarus being fine cloth, and her husband’s of coarse wool of a different colour. Lazarus, observing tins extraordinary resemblance, could not help fancying that there must be something in it, and began to familiarise himself with his society, sent his wife presents of eatables, wines, &c. and often invited Gabriel to dinner or supper with him, and conversed with him. Gabriel, though poor and untaught, was shrewd and sagacious, and knew well how to get on the blind side of any one; he so humoured him, that at last Lazarus could not rest an instant without his company. One day, after dinner, they entered into conversation on the subject of fishing, and the different modes of catching fish, and at last came to the fishing by diving with small nets fastened to the neck and arms; and Gabriel told him of the immense numbers of large fish which were caught in that manner, insomuch that Lazarus became very anxious to know how one could fish diving, and begged of him to let him see how he did it. Upon which Gabriel said he was very willing, and it being a hot summer’s day, they might easily take the sport, if he too were willing. Having risen from table, Gabriel marched out, fetched his nets, and away they went. They arrived on the borders of the Arno, in a shady place surrounded by elders; there he requested Lazarus to sit and look on. After stripping, and fastening the nets about him, he dived in the river, and being very expert at the sport, he soon rose again with eight or ten fish of terrible size in his nets. Lazarus could not think how it was possible to catch so many fish under water; it so astonished him, that he determined to try it himself. The day was broiling hot, and he thought it would cool him. By the assistance of Gabriel he undressed, and the latter conducted him in at a pleasant part of the shore, where the water was scarcely knee deep. There he left him with nets, giving him charge not to go farther than the stake which he pointed out to him. Lazarus, who had never before been in the water, was delighted at its coolness, and observing how often Gabriel rose up with nets full of fish, bethought himself one must see under as well as above water, otherwise it would be impossible to catch the fish in the dark, therefore, in order to ascertain the point, without thinking of consequences, he put his head under water, and dashed forward beyond the stake. Down he went like a piece of lead; not aware he should hold his breath, and knowing nothing of swimming, he struggled hard to raise himself above the surface. He was almost stifled with the water he had swallowed, and was carried away by the current so that he very shortly lost his senses. Gabriel, who was very busy catching a great deal of fish in a very good place, did not care to leave it; therefore, poor Lazarus, after rising half dead two or three times, sunk at last never to rise again. Gabriel, after he had got as much fish as he thought would do for him, joyfully turned round to show Lazarus his sport; he looked round and did not see him, he then sought him every where, but not finding him, he became quite alarmed, and terrified at the sight of the poor fellow’s clothes that were laid on the bank. He dived, and sought the body, and found it at last driven by the current on the beach; at the sight he almost lost his senses; he stood motionless, not knowing what to do, for he feared, that in relating the truth, people would think it was all a lie, and that he had drowned him, himself, in order to get his money. Driven thus almost to despair, a thought struck him, and he determined to put it in instant execution. There was no witness to the fact, for every one was asleep, it being the heat of the day; he, therefore, took the fish, and put them safe in a basket, and for that purpose, took the dead body on his shoulders, heavy as it was, laid him on some grass, put his own breeches on the dead limbs, untied the nets from his own arms, and tied them tight to the arms of the corpse. This done, he took hold of him, dived into the water, and tied him fast with the nets to the stake under water. He then came on shore, slipped on Lazarus’s shirt, and all his clothes, and even his fine shoes, and sat himself down on a bank, determining to try his luck first in saving himself from his perilous situation, and next to try whether he might not, from his extreme likeness to Lazarus, make his fortune and live at ease. Being a bold and sagacious fellow, he immediately undertook the daring and dangerous experiment, and began to cry out with all his might and main, “Oh! good people, help! help! run and help the poor fisherman, who is drowning.” He roared out so, that at last the miller, who lived not far off, came running with I know not how many of his men. Gabriel spoke with a gruff voice, the better to imitate that of Lazarus, and weepingly related that the fisherman, after diving and catching a good deal of fish, had gone again, and that as he had been above an hour under water, he was afraid he was drowned; they, enquiring what part of the river he had gone to, he shewed them the stake and place. The miller, who could swim very well, rushed in towards the stake, and found the corpse, but being unable to extricate it from the stake, rose up again and cried out, “Oh! yes he is dead sure enough, but I cannot get him up by myself,” upon which two others stripped, and got the body out, whose arms and limbs were lacerated by the nets, which (as they thought) had entangled him, and caused his death. The news being spread abroad, a priest came, the corpse was put in a coffin and carried to a small church, that it might be owned by the family of Gabriel. The dreadful news had already reached Pisa, and the unfortunate wife, with her weeping children, came to the church, and there beholding her beloved husband, as she thought, she hung over him, wept, sobbed, tore her hair, and became almost frantic, insomuch that the bystanders were moved to tears. Gabriel, who was a most loving husband and father, could scarce refrain from weeping, and seeing the extreme affliction of his wife, came forward, keeping Lazarus’s hat over his eyes, and his handkerchief to his face as it were to wipe away his tears, and approaching the widow, who took him, as well as others, for Lazarus, he said, in the hearing of all the people, “good woman, do not give, way to such sorrow, nor weep so, for I will, not forsake you; as it was to oblige me, and afford me pleasure, that he went a fishing to-day against his inclination, methinks it is partly to me he owed his death, therefore I will ever be a friend to thee and thine; all expenses shall be paid, therefore return home and be comforted, for while I live thou shalt never want, and should I die I will leave thee enough to make thee as comfortable as any of thy equals.” Thus he went on, weeping and sobbing, as if regretting the loss of Gabriel, and really agonized by the distress of his widow. He was inwardly praised by all present, who believed him to be Lazarus.

The poor widow, after the funeral was performed, returned to Pisa, much comforted by the promises of him, whom she considered as her neighbour Lazarus. Gabriel, who had been long acquainted with the deceased’s ways, manners, and mode of living, entered Lazarus’s house, as if the master of it; without uttering a syllable, ascended into a very beautiful room that looked over a fine garden, pulled out of the dead man’s coat he had on a bunch of keys, and opened several chests, and finding some smaller keys, he opened several desks, bureaus, money chests, and found, independent of trunks filled with cloth, linen and jewels, which the old father, the physician, and brothers of the deceased had left, nearly to the value of two thousand gold florins, and four hundred of silver. He was in raptures all the night, and began to think of the best means to conceal himself from the servants, and appear as the real Lazarus. About the hour of supper he came out of his room, weeping; the servants, who had heard the dreadful situation of the Widow Santa, and that it was reported that their master had partly been the cause of the accident, were not much surprised at seeing him thus afflicted, thinking it was on account of Gabriel. He called the servant and desired him to take a couple of loaves, two bottles of wine, and half his supper to the Widow Santa, the which the poor widow scarcely touched. When the servant returned, Gabriel ordered supper but ate sparingly, the better to deceive the servants, as Lazarus was a very little eater; then left the room without saying a word, and shut himself up in his own room as the deceased used to do. The servants thought there was some alteration in his countenance and voice, but attributed it to the sorrowful event that had occurred. The widow, after having tasted of the supper, and considering the care that had been taken of her, and the promises made by Lazarus, began to take comfort, parted with her relations, who had come to condole with her, and retired to bed. Gabriel, full of thought, could not sleep a wink, and got up in the morning at Lazarus’s usual hour, and in all things imitated him. But being informed by the servants that Santa was always in grief, weeping and discomforted, and being a fond husband, and loving her tenderly, he was miserable upon hearing this, and determined to comfort her. Thus resolved, one day after dinner he went to her, and found a cousin of her’s with her. Having given her to understand he had some private business with her, the cousin knowing how much she was indebted to him, and her expectations, left the room, and departed, saying, he begged she would be advised by her worthy neighbour.