_TALE LXIV_.
_After a lady had for the space of five or six years made trial of the love that a certain gentleman bore her, she desired to have a still stronger proof of it, and reduced him to such despair that he turned monk, on which account she was not able to win him back again when she would fain have done so_.
In the city of Valencia there lived a gentleman, who for the space offive or six years had loved a lady so perfectly that the honour andconscience of neither of them had taken any hurt; for his intent wasto have her as his wife, and this was reasonable, seeing that he washandsome, rich and of good descent. But, before he became her lover, hefirst inquired concerning her own mind, whereupon she declared herselfwilling to marry according to the counsels of her kinsfolk. Thelatter, being come together for the purpose, deemed the marriage a veryreasonable one provided that the maiden was herself disposed to it; butshe--whether because she thought to do better or because she wished tohide her love for him---made some difficulty, and the company separated,not without regret at having failed to conclude a match so well suitedto both parties.
The most grieved of all was the poor gentleman, who would have bornehis misfortune with patience had he thought that the fault lay with thekinsfolk and not with her; but he knew the truth, and the knowledge wasto him worse than death. So, without speaking to his sweetheart or toany other person, he withdrew to his own house, and, after setting hisaffairs in order, betook himself to a solitary spot, where he strove toforget his love and change it wholly to that love of our Lord which weretruly a higher duty than the other.
During this time he received no tidings of his mistress or her kindred,and he therefore resolved that, since he had failed to obtain thehappiest life he could hope for, he would choose the most austere anddisagreeable that he could imagine. With this sad intent, whichmight well have been called despair, he went and became a monk in themonastery of St. Francis. This monastery was not far from the dwellingsof divers of his kinsfolk, who, on hearing of his desperate condition,did all that in them lay to hinder his purpose; but this was so firmlyrooted in his heart that it was not possible to turn him from it.
Nevertheless, as the source of his distemper was known to them, theydetermined to seek the cure, and so repaired to her who was the causeof his sudden devoutness. She was greatly astonished and grieved by thismischance, for, in refusing for a time, she had thought only to test hisaffection, not to lose it for ever. Seeing now the evident risk that sheran of doing this last, she sent him a letter, which, ill-translated,was as follows:--
"Since love, if tested not full needfully, Steadfast and faithful is not shown to be, By length of time my heart would that assay Whereon itself was set to love alway-- To wit, a husband with that true love filled Such as no lapsing time has ever killed. This, then, was the sole reason that I drew My kin to hinder for a year or two That closest tie which lasts till life is not, And whereby woe is oftentimes begot. Yet sought I not to have you wholly sent Away; such was in no wise my intent, For none save you could I have e'er adored Or looked to as my husband and my lord. But woe is me, what tidings reach mine ear! That you, to lead the cloistered life austere, Are gone with speech to none; whereat the pain That ever holds me, now can brook no rein, But forces me mine own estate to slight For that which yours aforetime was of right; To seek him out who once sought me alone, And win him who myself has sometimes won. Nay then, my love, life of the life in me, For loss of whom I fain would cease to be, Turn hither, graciously, those eyes of pain And trace those wandering footsteps back again. Leave the grey robe and its austerity, Come back and taste of that felicity Which often you desired, and which to-day Time has nor slain, nor swept away. For you alone I've kept myself; and I, Lacking your presence, cannot choose but die. Come back then; in your sweetheart have belief, And for past memories find cool relief In holy marriage-ties. Ah! then, my dear, To me, not to your pride give ready ear, And rest of this assured, I had no thought To give, sweetheart, to you offence in aught, But only yearned your faithfulness to prove And then to make you happy with my love. But now that through this trial, free from scathe, Are come your steadfastness and patient faith, And all that loyal love to me is known, Which at the last has made me yours alone, Come, my beloved, take what is your due And wholly yield to me, as I to you!"
This letter, brought by a friend of hers with every remonstrance that itwas possible to make, was received and read by the gentleman friar withsuch sadness of countenance, such sighs and such tears, that it seemedas though he would drown and burn the poor epistle. But he made noreply to it, except to tell the messenger that the mortification of hisexceeding passion had cost him so dear as to have taken from him boththe wish to live and the fear to die. He therefore requested her whohad been the cause of this, that since she had not chosen to satisfyhis passionate longings, she would, now that he was rid of them, abstainfrom tormenting him, and rest content with the evil which was past. Forthat evil he could find no remedy but the choice of an austere life,which by continual penance might bring him to forget his grief, and, byfasts and disciplines, subdue his body, till the thought of death shouldbe to him but a sovereign consolation. Above all, he begged that hemight never hear of her, since he found the mere remembrance of her namea purgatory not to be endured.
The gentleman went back with this mournful reply, and reported it to themaiden who did not hear it without intolerable sorrow. But Love, whichwill not suffer the spirit utterly to fail, gave her the thought that,if she could see him, her words and presence might be of more effectthan the writing. She therefore, with her father and the nearest of herkin, went to the monastery where he abode. She had left nothing in herbox that might set off her beauty, for she felt sure that, could he butonce look at her and hear her, the fire that had so long dwelt in boththeir hearts must of necessity be kindled again in greater strength thanbefore.
Coming thus into the monastery towards the end of vespers, she sent forhim to come to her in a chapel that was in the cloister. He, knowing notwho it was that sought him, went in all ignorance to the sternest battlein which he had ever been. When she saw him so pale and wan that shecould hardly recognise him, yet filled with grace, in no whit lesswinning than of yore, Love made her stretch out her arms to embrace him,whilst her pity at seeing him in such a plight so enfeebled her heart,that she sank swooning to the floor.
The poor monk, who was not void of brotherly charity, lifted her up andset her upon a seat in the chapel. Although he had no less need ofaid than she had, he feigned to be unaware of her passion, and sostrengthened his heart in the love of God against the opportunities nowpresent with him, that, judging by his countenance, he seemed not toknow what was actually before him. Having recovered from her weakness,she turned upon him her beautiful, piteous eyes, which were enough tosoften a rock, and began to utter all such discourse as she believed aptto draw him from the place in which he now was. He replied as virtuouslyas he was able; but at last, finding that his heart was being softenedby his sweetheart's abundant tears, and perceiving that Love, the cruelarcher whose pains he long had known, was ready with his golden dart todeal him fresh and more deadly wounds, he fled both from Love and fromhis sweetheart, like one whose only resource lay, indeed, in flight.
When he was shut up in his room, not desiring to let her go without somesettlement of the matter, he wrote her a few words in Spanish, whichseem to me so excellent in their matter that I would not by translatingthem mar their grace. These were brought to her by a little novice,who found her still in the chapel and in such despair that, had it beenlawful, she too would have remained there and turned friar. But when shesaw the words, which were these--
"Volvete don venesti, anima mia, Que en las tristas vidas es la mia," (1)
she knew that all hope was gone, and she resolved to follow the a
dviceof him and her friends, and so returned home, there to lead a life asmelancholy as that of her lover in his monastery was austere.
1 "Return whence thou earnest, my soul, for among the sad lives is mine."'
"You see, ladies, what vengeance the gentleman took upon his harshsweetheart, who, thinking to try him, reduced him to such despair that,when she would have regained him, she could not do so."
"I am sorry," said Nomerfide, "that he did not lay aside his gown andmarry her. It would, I think, have been a perfect marriage."
"In good sooth," said Simontault, "I think he was very wise. Anyone whowell considers what marriage is will deem it no less grievous thana monkish life. Moreover, being so greatly weakened by fasts andabstinence, he feared to take upon him a burden of that kind which lastsall through life."
"Methinks," said Hircan, "she wronged so feeble a man by tempting himto marriage, for 'tis too much for the strongest man alive; but had shespoken to him of love, free from any obligation but that of the will,there is no friar's cord that would not have been untied. However, sinceshe sought to draw him out of purgatory by offering him hell, I thinkthat he was quite right to refuse her, and to let her feel the pain thather own refusal had cost him."
"By my word," said Ennasuite, "there are many who, thinking to do betterthan their fellows, do either worse or else the very opposite of whatthey desire."
"Truly," said Geburon, "you remind me--though, indeed, the matter isnot greatly to the point--of a woman who did the opposite of what shedesired, and so caused a great uproar in the church of St. John ofLyons."
"I pray you," said Parlamente, "take my place and tell us about it."
"My story," said Geburon, "will not be so long or so piteous as the onewe have heard from Parlamente."
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143a. The Old Woman startled by the Waking of the Soldier]
[The Old Woman startled by the Waking of the Soldier]
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