husband. And yet (as sottish as you see him) he is (without any
occasion given him) so extreamely jealous of me; as I am not able to
live with him, but only in continuall tribulation and hearts griefe.
In which respect, before I enter into confession, I most humbly
beseech you, that you would vouchsafe (in this distresse) to assist me
with your fatherly advice and counsell, because, if thereby I cannot
attaine to a more pleasing kinde of happinesse; neither confessior, or
any thing else, is able to doe me any good at all.
These words were not a little welcome to my Lord Abbot, because
(thereby) he halfe assured himselfe, that Fortune had laid open the
path to his hoped pleasures. Whereupon he said. Deare daughter, I make
no question to the contrary, but it must needes be an exceeding
infelicity, to so faire and goodly a young woman as you are, to be
plagued with so sottish an husband, brainsick, and without the use
of common understanding; but yet subject to a more hellish
affliction then all these, namely jealousie, and therefore you being
in this wofull manner tormented, your tribulations are not only so
much the more credited, but also as amply grieved for, and pittied. In
which heavy and irksome perturbations, I see not any meanes of remedy,
but onely one, being a kinde of physicke (beyond all other) to cure
him of his foolish jealousie; which medicine is very familiar to me,
because I know best how to compound it, alwayes provided, that you can
be of so strong a capacity, as to be secret in what I shall say unto
you.
Good Father (answered the Woman) never make you any doubt thereof,
for I would rather endure death it selfe, then disclose any thing
which you enjoyne me to keepe secret: wherefore, I beseech you Sir
to tell me, how, and by what meanes it may be done. If (quoth the
Abbot) you desire to have him perfectly cured, of disease so dangerous
and offensive, of necessity he Must be sent into Purgatory. How may
that be done, saide the woman, he being alive? He must needs die,
answered the Abbot, for his more speedy passage thither; and when he
hath endured so much punishment, as may expiate the quality of his
jealousie, we have certaine devoute and zealous prayers, whereby to
bring him backe againe to life, in as able manner as ever he was.
Why then, replyed the woman, I must remaine in the state of a
Widdow? Very true, saide the Abbot, for a certaine time, in all
which space, you may not (by no meanes) marrie againe, because the
heavens will therewith be highly offended: but Ferando being
returned to life againe, you must repossesse him as your Husband,
but never to be jealous any more. Alas Sir (quoth the woman) so that
he may be cured of his wicked jealousie, and I no longer live in
such an hellish imprisonment, do as you please.
Now was the Abbot (well neere) on the highest step of his hope,
making her constant promise, to accomplish it: But (quoth he) what
shall be my recompence when I have done it? Father, saide she,
whatsoever you please to aske, if it remaine within the compasse of my
power: but you being such a vertuous and sanctified man, and I a woman
of so meane worth or merit; what sufficient recompence can I be able
to make you? Whereunto the Abbot thus replyed. Faire woman, you are
able to do as much for me, as I am for you, because I doe dispose my
selfe, to performe a matter for your comfort and consolation, even
so ought you to be as mindfull of me, in any action concerning my life
and welfare. In any such matter Sir (quoth she) depending on your
benefit so strictly, you may safely presume to command me. You must
then (saide the Abbot) grant me your love, and the kinde embracing
of your person; because so violent are mine affections, as I pine
and consume away daily, till I enjoy the fruition of my desires, and
none can helpe me therein but you.
When the woman heard these words, as one confounded with much
amazement, thus shee replied. Alas, holy Father! What a strange motion
have you made to me? I beleeved very faithfully, that you were no
lesse then a Saint, and is it convenient, that when silly women come
to ask counsell of such sanctified men, they should returne them
such unfitting answeres? Be not amazed good woman, saide the Abbot, at
the motion which I have made unto you, because holinesse is not
thereby impaired a jot in me; for it is the inhabitant of the soule,
the other is an imperfection attending on the body: but be it
whatsoever, your beauty hath so powerfully prevailed on me, that
entire love hath compelld me to let you know it. And more may you
boast of your beauty, then any that ever I beheld before, considering,
it is so pleasing to a sanctified man, that it can draw him from
divine contemplations, to regard a matter of so humble an equalitie.
Let me tell you moreover, woorthy Woman, that see me reverenced here
as Lord Abbot, yet am I but as other men are, and in regard I am
neither aged, nor mishapen, me thinkes the motion I have made,
should be the lesse offensive to you, and therefore the sooner
granted. For, all the while as Ferando remaineth in Purgatory, doe you
but imagine him to be present with you, and your perswasion will the
more absolutely be confirmed. No man can, or shall be privy to our
close meetings, for I carry the same holy opinion among all men, as
you your selfe conceived of me, and none dare be so saucie, as to call
in question whatsoever I doe or say, because my words are Oracles, and
mine actions more than halfe miracles; doe you not then refuse so
gracious an offer. Enow there are, who would gladly enjoy that,
which is francke and freely presented to you, and which (if you be a
wise Woman) is meerely impossible for you to refuse. Richly am I
possessed of Gold and Jewels, which shall be all yours, if you
please in favour to be mine, wherein I will not be gaine-saide, except
your selfe do deny me.
The Woman having her eyes fixed on the ground, knew not well how
shee should denie him; and yet in plaine words, to say shee consented,
shee held it to be overbase and immodest, and ill agreeing with her
former reputation: when the Abbot had well noted this attention in
her, and how silent shee stood without returning any answere; he
accounted the conquest to be more then halfe his owne: so that
continuing on his former perswasions, hee never ceased, but allured
her still to beleeve whatsoever he saide. And much ashamed of his
importunity, but more of her owne flexible yeelding weaknesse, made
answere, that shee would willingly accomplish his request; which yet
shee did not absolutely grant, untill Ferando were first sent into
Purgatory. And till then (quoth the Abbot) I will not urge any more,
because I purpose his speedy sending thither: but yet, so farre lend
me your assistance, that either to morrow, or else the next day, he
may come hither once more to converse with me. So putting a faire gold
Ring on her finger, they parted till the next meeting.
Not a little joyfull was the Woman of so rich a gift, hoping to
enjoy a great many more of them, and returning home to her neighbours,
acquainted them with wonderfull matters, all concerning the
sanctimonious life of the Abbot, a meere miracle of men, and worthy to
be truely termed a Saint. Within two dayes after, Ferando went to
the Abbey againe, and so soone as the Abbot espyed him, he presently
prepared for his sending of him into Purgatorie. He never was
without a certaine kinde of drugge, which being beaten into powder,
would worke so powerfully upon the braine, and all the other vitall
senses, as to entrance them with a deadly sleepe, and deprive them
of all motion, either in the pulses, or in any other part else, even
as if the body were dead indeede; in which operation, it would so hold
and continue, according to the quantity given and drunke, as it
preased the Abbot to order the matter. This powder or drugge, was sent
him by a great Prince of the East, and therewith he wrought wonders
upon his Novices, sending them into Purgatory when he pleased, and
by such punishments as he inflicted on them there, made them (like
credulous asses) believe whatsoever himselfe listed.
So much of this powder had the Abbot provided, as should suffice for
three dayes entrancing, and having compounded it with a very
pleasant Wine, calling Ferando into his Chamber, there gave it him
to drinke, and afterward walked with him about the Cloyster, in very
friendly conference together, the silly sot never dreaming on the
treachery intended against him. Many Monkes beside were recreating
themselves in the Cloyster, most of them delighting to behold the
follies of Ferando, on whom the potion beganne so to worke, that he
slept in walking, nodding and reeling as hee went, till at the last he
fell downe, as if he had bene dead.
The Abbot pretending great admiration at this accident, called his
Monkes about him, all labouring by rubbing his temples, throwing
cold water and vinegar in his face, to revive him againe; alleaging
that some fume or vapour in the stomacke, had thus over-awed his
understanding faculties, and quite deprived him of life indeede. At
length, when by tasting the pulse, and all their best employed paines,
they saw that their labour was spent in vaine; the Abbot used such
perswasions to the Monkes, that they all beleeved him to be dead:
whereupon they sent for his wife and friends, who crediting as much as
the rest did, were very sad and sorrowfull for him.
The Abbot (cloathed as he was) laide him in a hollow vault under a
Tombe, such as there are used instead of Graves; his Wife returning
home againe to her House, with a young Sonne which shee had by her
Husband, protesting to keepe still within her House, and never more to
be seene in any company, but onely to attend her young Sonne, and be
very carefull of such wealth as her Husband had left unto her.
From the City of Bologna, that very instant day, a well staide and
governed Monke there arrived, who was a neere kinsman to the Abbot,
and one whom he might securely trust. In the dead time of the night,
the Abbot and this Monke arose, and taking Ferando out of the vault,
carried him into a darke dungeon or prison, which he termed by the
name of Purgatory, and where hee used to discipline his Monkes, when
they had committed any notorious offence, deserving to be punished
in Purgatory. There they tooke off all his usuall wearing garments,
and cloathed him in the habite of a Monke, even as if he had beene one
of the house; and laying him m a bundle of straw, so left him untill
his senses should be restored againe. On the day following, late in
the evening, the Abbot, accompanied with his trusty Monke, (by way
of visitation) went to see and comfort the supposed widow, finding her
attired in blacke, very sad and pensive, which by his wonted
perswasions, indifferently he appeased; challenging the benefit of
promise. Shee being thus alone, not hindered by her Husbands
jealousie, and espying another goodly gold Ring on his finger, how
frailety and folly over-ruled her, I know not, shee was a weake woman,
he a divelish deluding man; and the strongest holdes by over long
battery and besieging, must needs yeeld at the last, as I feare shee
did: for very often afterward, the Abbot used in this manner to
visit her, and the simple ignorant Country people, carrying no such
ill opinion of the holy Abbot, and having- seene Ferando lying for
dead in the vault, and also in the habite of a Monke; were verily
perswaded, that when they saw the Abbot passe by to and fro, but
most commonly in the night season, it was the ghost of Ferando, who
walked in this manner after his death, as a just pennance for his
jealousie.
When Ferandoes senses were recovered againe, and he found himselfe
to be in such a darkesome place; not knowing where he was, he
beganne to crie and make a noyse. When presently the Monke of
Bologna (according as the Abbot had tutored him) stept into the
dungeon, carrying a little waxe candle in the one hand, and a smarting
whip in the other, going to Ferando, he stript off his cloathes, and
began to lash him very soundly. Ferando roaring and crying, could
say nothing else, but where am I? The Monke (with a dreadfull voyce)
replyed: Thou art in Purgatory. How? saide Ferando; what? Am I dead?
Thou art dead (quoth the Monke) and began to lash him lustily
againe. Poore Ferando, crying out for his Wife and little Sonne,
demanded a number of idle questions, whereto the Monke still fitted
him with as fantasticke answers. Within a while after, he set both
foode and wine before him, which when Ferando saw, he saide; How is
this? Doe dead men eate and drinke? Yes, replyed the Monke, and this
foode which here thou seest, thy Wife brought hither to the Church
this morning, to have Masses devoutly sung for thy soule, and as to
other, so must it be set before thee, for such is the command of the
Patrone of this place.
Ferando having lyen entranced three dayes and three nights, felt his
stomacke well prepared to eate, and feeding very heartily, still
saide; O my good Wife, O my loving Wife, long mayest thou live for
this extraordinary kindnesse. I promise thee (sweete heart) while I
was alive, I cannot remember, that ever any foode and wine was halfe
so pleasing to me. O my deare Wife; O my hony Wife. Canst thou
(quoth the Monke) prayse and commend her now, using her so
villainously in thy life time? Then did he whip him more fiercely then
before, when Ferando holding up his hands, as craving for mercy,
demanded wherefore he was so severely punished? I am so commanded
(quoth the Monke) by supreme power, and twice every day must thou be
thus disciplinde. Upon what occasion? replyed Ferando. Because
(quoth the Monke) thou wast most notoriously jealous of thy Wife, shee
being the very kindest woman to thee, as all the Countrey containeth
not her equall. It is too true, answered Ferando, I was over-much
jealous of her indeede: but had I knowne, that jealousie was such a
hatefull sinne against Heaven, I never would have offended therein.
Now (quoth the Monke) thou canst confesse thine owne wilfull follie,
