On hearing this, Tedaldo’s eldest brother interrupted to ask what sort of clothes this Faziuolo of theirs had been wearing. Their description fitted the facts so precisely, that what with this and other indications, it became quite obvious that the murdered man was not Tedaldo, but Faziuolo; and thenceforth, neither Tedaldo’s brothers nor anyone else harboured any further doubts about him.
Tedaldo, who had made a fortune during his absence, remained constant in his love, whilst for her part his mistress never rebuffed him again. And by proceeding with discretion, they long enjoyed their love together. May God grant that we enjoy ours likewise.
EIGHTH STORY
Ferondo, having consumed a special powder, is buried for dead. The Abbot who is cavorting with his wife removes him from his tomb, imprisons him, and makes him believe he is in Purgatory. He is later resurrected, and raises as his own a child begotten on his wife by the Abbot.
Emilia had thus reached the end of her story, which in spite of its length was not unfavourably received. On the contrary, they all maintained that it had been briefly told, considering the number and variety of the incidents it had touched upon. And now the queen, making her wishes evident by a brief nod in the direction of Lauretta, induced her to begin:
Dearest ladies, I find myself confronted by a true story, demanding to be told, which sounds far more fictitious than was actually the case, and of which I was reminded when I heard of the man who was buried and mourned in mistake for another. My story, then, is about a living man who was buried for dead, and who later, on emerging from his tomb, was convinced that he had truly died and been resurrected – a belief that was shared by many other people, who consequently venerated him as a Saint when they should have been condemning him as a fool.
*
In Tuscany, then, there was and still is a certain abbey, situated, as so many of them are, a little off the beaten track. Its newly appointed abbot was a former monk who was a veritable saint of a man in all his ways except for his womanizing, a hobby that he pursued so discreetly that very few people suspected, let alone knew about it, and hence he was considered to be very saintly and upright in every respect.
Now, this abbot happened to become closely acquainted with a very wealthy yeoman called Ferondo, an exceedingly coarse and unimaginative fellow whose company he suffered only because Ferondo’s simple ways were sometimes a source of amusement. From associating with Ferondo, the Abbot made the discovery that he was married to a very beautiful woman, and he fell so ardently in love with her that she occupied his thoughts day and night, and he could concentrate on nothing else. But when he further discovered that Ferondo, for all his fatuousness and stupidity in every other respect, was extremely sensible in his devotion to this wife of his, and kept a careful watch upon her, the Abbot was driven to the brink of despair. Nevertheless, being very shrewd, he managed on occasion to persuade Ferondo to bring her to the abbey, when they would all go for a pleasant stroll together in the grounds and the Abbot would converse with them in a highly polite and articulate manner about the blessedness of the life eternal and the saintly deeds of various men and women of the past. Because of this, the lady was seized with the desire of going to him for confession, and she asked and obtained Ferondo’s permission to do so.
And thus, much to the delight of the Abbot, the lady came to him in order to be confessed. First of all, however, having seated herself at his feet,1 she addressed him as follows:
‘Sir, if God had given me a real husband, or no husband at all, perhaps it would be easy for me to set out under your guidance along the path you were telling us about, which leads to the life eternal. Considering the sort of man Ferondo is, and the moronic way he behaves, I am no better off than a widow. Yet I am a married woman, inasmuch as, while he lives, I cannot have any other husband except this half-witted oaf who for no reason whatever guards me with such extraordinary and excessive jealousy that my life with him is one long torment and misery. And so, before going any further with my confession, I humbly beseech you, with all my heart, to advise me what to do about it. For unless I take this as the starting point of my endeavours to lead a better life, no amount of confessing or of other pious deeds will do me any good.’
These sentiments were very much to the liking of the Abbot, who felt that Fortune had placed his greatest desire within sight of fulfilment.
‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘I consider it a great affliction for a beautiful and sensitive woman like yourself to have a half-witted husband, but I consider it an even greater affliction to have a husband who is jealous; and since you are saddled with both, I can well believe what you say about your torment and misery. Without going into too many details, there is only one piece of advice, only one remedy, that I can suggest: namely, that Ferondo must be cured of his jealousy. What is more, I am able to provide him with the very medicine he needs, if only you have the necessary will to keep what I tell you a secret.’
‘Have no fear on that account, Father,’ said the lady, ‘for I would sooner die than repeat anything you had asked me to keep to myself. But how is this cure to be effected?’
‘If we want him to recover,’ replied the Abbot, ‘then obviously he will have to go to Purgatory.’
‘But how can he go there if he’s still alive?’
‘He will have to die, that is how he will go there. And when he has had enough punishment to purge him of this jealousy of his, we shall recite certain prayers asking God to bring him back to life, and God will attend to it.’
‘Am I to be left a widow, then?’
‘Yes, for a while. But you must take good care not to remarry, because if you did, God would take it amiss. And besides, you would have to go back to Ferondo when he returned from Purgatory, and he would be more jealous than ever.’
‘It sounds all right to me, provided it cures this malady of his, so that I no longer have to spend my whole life under lock and key. Do whatever you think best.’
‘Right you are,’ said the Abbot. ‘But what reward are you prepared to offer me for rendering you so useful a service?’
‘Whatever you ask, Father, provided I have it to give,’ she replied. ‘But what possible reward could a there woman like myself offer to a man in your position?’
‘Madam,’ said the Abbot, ‘you can do as much for me as I am about to do for you. Just as I am making preparations for your welfare and happiness, so you can do something that will lead to my freedom and salvation.’
‘In that case,’ said the lady, ‘I am quite willing to do it.’
‘All you need to do,’ said the Abbot, ‘is to give me your love and let me enjoy you. I am burning all over; I am pining for you.’
‘Oh, Father!’ exclaimed the lady, who was hardly able to believe her ears. ‘Whatever are you asking me to do? I always took you for a saint. Is this the sort of request a saintly man should be making to a lady who goes to him for advice?’
‘Do not be so astonished, my treasure,’ said the Abbot. ‘No loss of saintliness is involved,2 for saintliness resides in the soul, and what I am asking of you is merely a sin of the body. But be that as it may, your beauty is so overpowering that love compels me to speak out. And what I say is this, that when you consider that your beauty is admired by a Saint, you have more reason to be proud of it than other women, because Saints are accustomed to seeing the beauties of Heaven. Furthermore, even though I am an Abbot, I am a man like the others and as you can see I am still quite young. It should not be too difficult for you to comply with my request; on the contrary, you ought to welcome it, because whilst Ferondo is away in Purgatory, I will come and keep you company every night and provide you with all the solace that he should be giving you. Nobody will suspect us, because my reputation stands at least as high with everyone else as it formerly did with you. Do not cast aside this special favour which is sent to you by God, for you can have something that countless women yearn for, and if you are sensible enough to accept my advice, it will be yours. Moreover, I possess some fine, preciou
s jewels, and I intend that you alone should have them. Do not therefore refuse, my dearest, to do me a service that I will do for you with the greatest of pleasure.’
Not knowing how to refuse him, yet feeling it was wrong to grant his request, the lady fixed her gaze upon the ground. The Abbot knew that she had heard him, and when he saw her at a loss for an answer, he felt she was already half-converted. He therefore followed up his previous arguments with a torrent of new ones, and by the time he had finished talking, he had convinced her that it was all for the best. And so in bashful tones she placed herself entirely at his disposal, adding that she could do nothing until Ferondo had gone to Purgatory.
‘In that case,’ said the Abbot, beaming with joy, ‘we shall see that he goes there at once. Send him along to see me tomorrow, or the following day.’
Whereupon he furtively slipped a magnificent ring into her hand, and sent her away. The lady was delight with her present, and looked forward to receiving others. And having rejoined her companions, she regaled them with marvellous accounts of the Abbot’s saintliness as they made their way home together.
A few days later, Ferondo called at the abbey, and no sooner did the Abbot see him than he decided to pack him off to Purgatory. So he sought out a wondrous powder which had been given him in the East by a mighty prince, who maintained that it was the one used by the Old Man of the Mountain3 whenever he wanted to send people to his paradise in their sleep or bring them back again. The prince had further assured him that by varying the dose, one could render people unconscious for longer or shorter periods, during which they slept so profoundly that nobody would ever guess that they were still alive. Without letting Ferondo see what he was doing, the Abbot measured out a quantity sufficient to put him to sleep for three days, poured it into a glass of somewhat cloudy wine, and gave it to him to drink whilst they were still in his cell. He then led him off to the cloister, where he and several of his monks began to amuse themselves at Ferondo’s expense and make fun of his imbecilities. Before very long, however, the powder began to take effect, and Ferondo, being suddenly overcome by a powerful sensation of drowsiness, fell asleep where he was standing and collapsed to the ground unconscious.
The Abbot, feigning consternation at this occurrence, got someone to loosen his clothing, sent for cold water and had it sprinkled over Ferondo’s face, and ordered various other remedies to be applied, as though he were intent on restoring the life and feeling of which he had been deprived by his stomach-wind or whatever else it was that had felled him. But on seeing that he failed to come round despite all their efforts, and on testing his pulse and finding it had stopped, the Abbot and his monks unanimously concluded that he must be dead. So somebody was sent to inform his wife and kinsfolk, and they all came rushing to the scene. And when his wife and kinswomen had finished weeping, the Abbot caused him to be laid to rest in a tomb, in the clothes he was wearing.
Ferondo and his wife had a little boy, and when she returned home, she told the child that she intended to stay there for the rest of her days. Thus she remained in Ferondo’s house, and applied herself to the task of looking after the child and administering the fortune left behind by her husband.
Meanwhile, the Abbot quietly rose from his bed in the middle of the night, and with the assistance of a Bolognese monk whom he trusted implicitly and who had arrived that same day from Bologna, he dragged Ferondo from the tomb and moved him into a vault, totally devoid of any light, which served as a place of confinement for monks who had broken their vows. Having removed the clothes Ferondo was wearing and dressed him in a monastic habit, they left him lying on a bundle of straw until such time as he should come to his senses. And in the meantime, unbeknown to anyone else, the Bolognese monk waited for Ferondo to come round, having been told what to do by the Abbot.
Next day, the Abbot, accompanied by one or two of his monks, called on the lady to pay her his respects, and found her dressed in black and full of woe. After offering her a few words of comfort, he quietly reminded her of her promise, and the lady, having caught sight of another fine ring on the Abbot’s finger, and realizing that she was now a free agent, unhindered by Ferondo or anyone else, told him that she was ready to honour it and arranged for him to call there after dark that evening.
After dark, therefore, the Abbot decked himself out in Ferondo’s clothes and set off for her house accompanied by his monk. Having spent the whole night in her arms with enormous pleasure and delight, he returned a little before matins to the abbey, and from then on he went regularly- back and forth on the same errand. It occasionally happened that people would chance upon the Abbot as he wended his way to and fro, and they concluded that it must be Ferondo’s ghost, wandering through the district doing penance. So that, in the course of time, various strange legends grew up among the simple countryfolk, and some of these reached the ears of Ferondo’s wife, who was not mystified in the slightest.
When Ferondo recovered his senses, without having the faintest idea where he was, the Bolognese monk burst in upon him brandishing a bunch of sticks; and with a terrifying roar, he seized hold of him and gave him a severe thrashing. Weeping and howling, Ferondo kept repeating the same question:
‘Where am I?’
‘You are in Purgatory,’ replied the monk.
‘What?’ said Ferondo. ‘Do you mean to say I am dead, then?’
‘You certainly are,’ said the monk; whereupon Ferondo started bemoaning his fate and weeping over the plight of his wife and child, coming out with the most extraordinary statements imaginable.
The monk then brought him some food and drink, and Ferondo gasped with astonishment, saying:
‘Do dead people eat?’
‘Yes,’ said the monk. ‘As a matter of fact, the food I am giving you was sent this morning to the church by the woman who was your wife, with a request that masses should be said for your soul. And it is God’s wish that you should have it here and now.’
‘God bless her little heart!’ exclaimed Ferondo. ‘I did love her a lot of course, before I died. Why, I used to hold her in my arms all night, and I never stopped kissing her. And when the mood took me, I did more besides.’
His appetite being enormous, he then began to eat and drink, but the wine was not entirely to his liking.
‘God damn the woman!’ he exclaimed. ‘This wine she’s given to the priest didn’t come from the cask alongside the wall.’
He continued with his meal, however, and when he had finished, the monk brandished his bunch of sticks once again, seized him a second time, and gave him another severe hiding.
‘Hey!’ yelled Ferondo, making the dickens of a protest. ‘What are you doing this to me for?’
‘Because the Almighty has given strict orders that you are to be beaten twice every day.’
‘For what reason?’
‘Because you were jealous of your wife, who was the finest woman in the whole district.’
‘Alas, how right you are,’ said Ferondo. ‘She was also the sweetest; aye, sweeter than a sugar-plum. But I would never have been jealous if I had known I was giving offence to the Almighty.’
‘You should have thought of that while you were still on the other side,’ said the monk. ‘You should have mended your ways before it was too late. And if you ever happen to return, be very careful to remember what I am doing now, and never be jealous again.’
‘Eh? But surely the dead don’t ever return, do they?’
‘Some do, if God so wills it.’
‘Well, I’m blessed!’ said Ferondo. ‘If I ever go back, I shall be the best husband in the world. I’ll never beat her, nor scold her either, except about the wine she sent this morning. Which reminds me: she didn’t send a single candle, and I was forced to eat in the dark.’
‘She did send some,’ said the monk, ‘but they were used up during the masses.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Ferondo, ‘that’ll be what has happened. Anyway, if I go back, I shall definitely allow her to do as s
he pleases. But tell me, why should you be doing this to me? Who are you?’
‘I also am dead,’ replied the monk. ‘I lived in Sardinia, and because I lauded my master to the skies for his jealousy, God has decreed that I should be punished by supplying you with food and drink and these thrashing until He decides what to do with us next.’
‘Is there anybody else here, apart from ourselves?’ asked Ferondo.
‘Yes, thousands,’ said the monk. ‘But you cannot see or hear them, any more than they can see or hear you.’
‘And how far are we away from home?’
‘Oho! Far more miles than one of our turds would travel.’
‘Crikey! that’s a fair distance. I should think we must have left the earth behind entirely.’
This kind of gibberish,4 together with his food rations and his regular beatings, kept Ferondo going for ten whole months during which the Abbot was highly assiduous and enterprising in his visits to the fair lady, with whom he had the jolliest time imaginable. But accidents will happen, and the lady eventually became pregnant, promptly told the Abbot about it, and they both agreed that Ferondo must be recalled at once from Purgatory and reunited with his wife, who undertook to convince him that it was he who had got her with child.
So the following night, the Abbot went to Ferondo’s cell, and disguising his voice, he called to him and said:
‘Ferondo, be of good cheer, for God has decreed that you should go back to earth, where, after your return, your wife will present you with a son.5 See that the child is christened Benedict, for it is in answer to the prayers of your reverend Abbot and your wife, and because of His love for Saint Benedict, that God has done you this favour.’
This announcement was received by Ferondo with great glee.
‘I am very glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘God bless Mister Almighty and the Abbot and Saint Benedict and my cheesy-weesy, honey-bunny, sweetie-weetie wife.’
Having put sufficient powder in Ferondo’s wine to send him to sleep for about four hours, the Abbot dressed him in his proper clothes again and quietly restored him, with the aid of his monk, to the tomb in which he had originally been laid to rest.