next, who thus began. It liketh me best (gracious Ladies) to returne
home againe to our owne City, which it pleased the for.
mer two discoursers to part from: And there I will shew you, how a
Citizen of ours, recovered the kindnesse of his Love, after hee had
lost it.
Sometime there dwelt in Florence a young Gentleman, named
Theobaido Elisei, descended of a noble House, who became earnestly
enamoured of a Widdow, called Hermelina, the daughter to
Aldobrandino Palermini: well deserving, for his vertues and
commendable qualities, to enjoy of her whatsoever he could desire.
Secretly they were espoused together, but Fortune, the enemy to Lovers
felicities, opposed her malice against them, in depriving Theobaldo of
those deere delights, which sometime he held in free possession, and
making him as a stranger to her gracious favours. Now grew shee
contemptibly to despise him, not onely denying to heare any message
sent from him, but scorning also to vouch safe so much as a sight of
him, causing in him extreme griefe and melancholy, yet concealling all
her unkindnesse so wisely to himselfe, as no one could understand
the reason of his sadnesse.
After he had laboured by all hopefull courses, to obtaine that
favour of her, which he had formerly lost, without any offence in him,
as his innocent soule truly witnessed with him, and saw that all his
further endeavours were fruitlesse and in vaine; he concluded to
retreate himselfe from the World, and not to be any longer irkesome in
her eye, that was the onely occasion of his unhappinesse. Hereupon,
storing himselfe with summes of money, as suddenly he could collect
together, secretly he departed from Florence, without speaking any
word to his friends or kindred; except one kinde companion of
his, whom he acquainted with most of his secrets, and so travelled
to Ancona, where he termed himselfe by the name of Sandoloscio.
Repairing to a wealthy Merchant there, he placed himselfe as his
servant, and went in a Ship of his with him to Cyprus; his actions and
behaviour proved so pleasing to the Merchant, as not onely he
allowed him very sufficient wages, but also grew into such association
with him; as he gave the most of his affaires into his hands, which he
guided with such honest and discreete care, that hee himselfe (in
few yeeres compasse) proved to be a rich Merchant, and of famous
report.
While matters went on in this successefull manner, although he could
not chuse, but still he remembred his cruell Mistresse, and was very
desperately transported for her love, as coveting (above all things
else) to see her once more; yet was he of such powerfull constancy, as
7 whole yeeres together, he vanquished all those fierce conflicts. But
on a day it chanced he heard a song sung in Cyprus, which he
himselfe had formerly made, in honour of the love he bare to his
Mistresse, and what delight he conceived, by being dayly in her
presence; whereby he gathered, that it was impossible for him to
forget her, and proceeded on so desirously, as he could not live,
except he had a sight of her once more, and therefore determined on
his returne to Florence. Having set all his affaires in due order,
accompanied with a servant of his onely, he passed to Ancona, where
when he was arrived, he sent his Merchandises to Florence, in name
of the Merchant of Ancona, who was his especiall friend and partner;
travayling himselfe alone with his servant, in the habite of a
Pilgrime, as if he had beene newly returned from Jerusalem.
Being come to Florence, he went to an Inne kept by two brethren,
neere neighbours to the dwelling of his Mistresse, and the first thing
he did, was passing by her doore, to get a sight of her if he were
so happie. But he found the windowes, doores, and all parts of the
house fast shut up, whereby he suspected her to be dead, or else to be
changed from her dwelling: wherefore (much perplexed in minde) he went
on to the two brothers Inne, finding foure persons standing at the
gate, attired in mourning, whereat he marvelled not a little;
knowing himselfe to be so transfigured, both in body and babite, farre
from the manner of common use at his parting thence, as it was a
difficult matter to know him: he stept boldly to a Shooe-makers shop
neere adjoyning, and demanded the reason of their wearing mourning.
The Shooe-maker made answer thus; Sir, those men are clad in mourning,
because a brother of theirs, being named Theobaldo (who hath beene
absent hence a long while) about some fifteene dayes since was slaine.
And they having heard, by proofe made in the Court of justice, that
one Aldobrandino Palermini (who is kept close prisoner) was the
murtherer of him, as he came in a disguised habite to his daughter, of
whom he was most affectionately enamoured; cannot chuse, but let the
World know by their outward habits, the inward affliction of their
hearts, for a deede so dishonourably committed. Theobaldo wondered
greatly hereat, imagining, that some man belike resembling him in
shape, might be slaine in this manner, and by Aldobrandino, for
whose misfortune he grieved marvellously. As concerning his Mistresse,
he understood that shee was living, and in good health; and night
drawing on apace, he went to his lodging, with infinite molestations
in his minde, where after supper, he was lodged in a Corne-loft with
his man. Now by reason of many disturbing imaginations, which
incessantly wheeled about his braine, his bed also being none of the
best, and his supper (perhaps) somewhat of the coursest; a great
part of the night was spent, yet could he not close his eyes together.
But lying still broade awake, about the dead time of night, he heard
the treading of divers persons over his head, who discended downe a
paire of stayres by his Chamber, into the lower parts of the house,
carrying a light with them, which he discerned by the chinkes and
crannies in the wall. Stepping softly out of his bed, to see what
the meaning hereof might be, he espied a faire young woman, who
carried a light in her hand, and three men in her company,
descending downe the stayres together, one of them speaking thus to
the young woman. Now we may boldly warrant our saftey, because we have
heard it assuredly, that the death of Theobaldo Elisei, hath beene
sufficiently approved by the Brethren, against Aldobrandino Palermini,
and he hath confessed the fact; whereupon the sentence is already
set downe in writing. But yet it behooveth us notwithstanding, to
conceale it very secretly, because if ever hereafter it should be
knowne, that we are they who murthered him, we shall be in the same
danger, as now Aldobrandino is.
When Theobaldo had heard these words, hee began to consider with
himselfe, how many and great the dangers are, wherewith mens minds may
dayly be molested. First, he thought on his owne brethren in their
sorrow, and buried a stranger insteed of him, accusing afterward (by
false opinion, and upon the testimony of as false witnesses) a man
most innocent, making him ready for the stroke of death. Next, he made
a strict observation in his soule, concerning the blinded severity
of Law, and the Ministers thereto belonging, who pretending a diligent
and carefull inquisition for truth, doe oftentimes (by their
tortures and torments) heare lies avouched (onely for ease of paine)
in the place of a true confession, yet thinking themselves (by doing
so) to be the Ministers of God and justice, whereas indeede they are
the Divels executioners of his wickednesse. Lastly, converting his
thoughts to Aldobrandino, the imagined murtherer of a man yet
living, infinite cares beleagured his soule, in devising what might
best be done for his deliverance.
So soone as he was risen in the morning, leaving his servant behinde
him in his lodging, he went (when he thought it fit time) all alone
toward the house of his Mistresse, where finding by good fortune the
gate open, he entred into a small Parlour beneath, and where he saw
his Mistresse sitting on the ground, wringing hands, and wofully
weeping, which (in meere compassion) moved him to weepe likewise;
and going somewhat neere her, he saide. Madame, torment your selfe
no more, for your peace is not farre off from you. The Gentlewoman
hearing him say so, lifted up her head, and in teares spake thus. Good
man, thou seemest to me to be a Pilgrime stranger; what doest thou
know, either concerning my peace, or mine affliction? Madame
(replied the Pilgrime) I am of Constantinople, and (doubtlesse) am
conducted hither by the hand of Heaven, to convert your teares into
rejoycing, and to deliver your Father from death. How is this?
answered shee: If thou be of Constantinople, and art but now arrived
here; doest thou know who we are, either I, or my Father?
The Pilgrime discoursed to her, even from the one end to the
other, the history of her husbands sad disasters, telling her, how
many yeeres since she was espoused to him, and many other important
matters, which well shee knew, and was greatly amazed thereat,
thinking him verily to be a Prophet, and kneeling at his feete,
entreated him very earnestly, that if he were come to deliver her
Father Aldobrandino from death, to doe it speedily, because the time
was very short. The Pilgrime appearing to be a man of great holinesse,
saide. Rise up Madame, refraine from weeping, and observe
attentively what I shall say; yet with this caution, that you never
reveale it to any person whatsoever. This tribulation whereinto you
are falne, (as by revelation I am faithfully informed) is for a
grievous sinne by you heretofore committed, whereof divine mercy is
willing to purge you, and to make a perfect amends by a sensible
feeling of this affliction; as seeking your sound and absolute
recovery, least you fall into farre greater danger then before. Good
man (quoth shee) I am burthened with many sinnes, and doe not know for
which any amends should be made by me; any one sooner then other:
wherefore if you have intelligence thereof, for charities sake tell it
me, and I will doe so much as lieth in me, to make a full satisfaction
for it. Madame, answered the Pilgrime, I know well enough what it
is, and will demand it no more of you, to winne any further
knowledge thereof, then I have already: but because in revealing it
your selfe, it may touch you with the more true compunction of
soule; let us goe to the point indeede, and tell mee, doe you
remember, that at any time you were married to an Husband, or no?
At the hearing of these words, shee breathed foorth a very
vehement sigh, and was stricken with admiration at this question,
beleeving that not any one had knowledge thereof. Howbeit, since the
day of the supposed Theobaldaes buriall, such a rumour ran abroade, by
meanes of some speeches, rashly dispersed by a friend of
Theobaldoes, who (indeede) knew it; whereupon shee returned him this
answer. It appeareth to me (good man) that divine ordinativation
hath revealed unto you all the secrets of men; and therefore I am
determined, not to conceale any of mine from you. True it is, that
in my younger yeeres, being left a widdow, I entirely affected an
unfortunate young Gentleman, who (in secret) was my Husband, and whose
death is imposed on my Father. The death of him I have the more
bemoaned, because (in reason) it did neerely concerne me, by shewing
my selfe so savage and rigorous to him before his departure:
neverthelesse, let me assure you Sir, that neither his parting long
absence from me, or his untimely death, never had the power to bereave
my heart of his remembrance.
Madame, saide the Pilgrime, the unfortinate young Gentleman that
is slaine, did never love you; but sure I am, that Theobaldo Elisei
loved you deerely. But tell me, what was the occasion whereby you
conceived such hatred against him? Did he at any time offend you? No
truly Sir, quoth shee; but the reason of my anger towards him, was
by the words and threatnings of a religious Father, to whom once I
revealed (under confession) how faithfully I affected him, and what
private familiarity had passed betweene us. When iristantly he used
such dreadfull threatnings to me, and which (even yet) doe afflict
my soule, that I did not abstaine, and utterly refuse him, the
Divell would fetch me quicke to Hell, and cast me into the bottome
of his quenchlesse and everlasting fire.
These menaces were so prevailing with me, as I refused all further
conversition with Theobaldo, in which regard, I would receive
neither letters or messages from him. Howbeit, I am perswaded, that if
he had continued here still, and not departed hence in such
desperate manner as hee did, seeing him melt and consume dayly away,
even as Snow by power of the Sunne-beames: my austere deliberation had
beene long agoe quite altered, because not at any time (since then)
life hath allowed me one merry day, neither did I, or ever can love
any man like unto him.
At these wordes the Pilgrime sighed, and then proceeded on againe
thus. Surely Madame, this one onely sin, may justly torment you,
because I know for a certainty, that Theobaldo never offered you any
in many, the day hee first became enamoured of you; and what grace
or favour you affoorded him, was your owne voluntary gift, and (as
he tooke it) no more then in modesty might well become you; for hee
loving you first, you had beene most cruell and unkinde, if you should
not have requited him with the like affection. If then he continued so
just and loyall to you, as (of mine owne knowledge) I am able to say
he did; what should move you to repulse him so rudely? Such matters
ought well to bee considered on before hand; for if you did imagine,
that you should repent it as an action ill done, yet you could not doe
it, because as hee became yours, so were you likewise onely his; and
he being yours, you might dispose of him at your pleasure, as being
truely obliged to none but you. How could you then with-draw your
selfe from him, being onely his, and not commit most manifest theft, a
farre unfitting thing for you to doe, except you had gone with his
