The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 56

It was told to a French lady in Padua that in the bishop's prison there was a friar, and seeing that all men made a jest of him, she asked the reason of it. And she was told that this friar, an old man, was confessor to an honourable and devout lady who for some time had been a widow, and had one only daughter whom she loved so much that her care was but to heap up riches for her and to find her a good match. And perceiving her daughter to be growing of age, she incessantly troubled herself to find her a husband who could live with them, in peace and quietness; that is to say, she would have a man with a good and honest conscience. And since she had heard a foolish preacher declare that it is better to do wrong by the counsel of the doctors of the Church than do right by the inspiration of the Holy Ghost, she addressed herself to her ​confessor, a man then stricken in years, a doctor in theology, esteemed of good life by all the town, assuring herself that with his counsel and prayers she would not fail to gain peace and quietness for herself and her daughter. And on her earnestly entreating him to choose a husband for her daughter, and such a man as he knew would be befitting for a maid that loved God and her conscience, he replied that first of all he must implore the grace of the Holy Ghost with prayer and fasting, and then, God confirming his understanding, he would hope to find what she wanted. So the friar went apart to ponder the matter, and hearing from the lady that she had got together five hundred ducats to give her daughter's husband, and would feed, lodge, and clothe the pair, he bethought him that there was a young friar of his acquaintance, of a good figure and pleasant countenance, to whom he would give the maid, the house, and an assured maintenance, and keep the five hundred ducats as an easement for his unspeakable covetousness. And having spoken to the young friar he agreed with him, and returned to the lady, saying: "I steadfastly believe that God hath sent me his angel Raphael, as he did to Tobit, to find a perfect husband for your daughter, for I do assure you I have in my house the bravest gentleman in all Italy, who, having several times seen your daughter, is mightily pleased with her, and this very day, while I prayed, God sent him to me, and he declared the desire he had for this marriage; and I, knowing his house and lineage, and that he comes of a very notable stock, promised him to speak with you on the matter. It is true that one thing, and one only, is not as it should be with him; that is, that, wishing to save a friend whom another would have killed, he drew his sword for to part them; but it fell out that his friend killed the other, and so he, though he struck no blow, is fled from his town, since he was present to the murder and drew his sword. And, by the counsel of his kinsfolk, he has hidden himself in this town in the habit of a scholar, and remains here unknown till his friends have brought the matter to a conclusion, which he hopes will be no long time. Wherefore the marriage must be done secretly, and you must be content for him to go during the day to the public lecture, and sup and lie here every night." To this the good woman answered: "I deem your words, father, to be spoken greatly to my ​advantage, for at the least I shall have by me that I desire most of all things." Then the friar brought in his fellow, clad in a crimson satin doublet, and altogether very brave, so that as soon as he was come the betrothal was performed, and on the last stroke of midnight mass was sung and they were married. Then they went to lie together, but at the dawn of day the bridegroom said to his wife that he must begone to the college if he would remain unknown, and, taking his doublet and his long robe, together with his coif of black silk, he bade farewell to his wife, who was still in bed, and promised to take his supper with her every evening, but she must not look for him at dinner. So he went his way and left his wife, she esteeming herself the most fortunate of women, in that she had met with such a good match. But the young married friar returned to the old father confessor, and gave him the five hundred ducats according to their agreement, and in the evening supped with her who took him for her husband, and in such wise did he obtain her love and that of her mother-in-law that they would not have changed him for the greatest prince in the world.

This manner of living endured for some time, but since God has compassion on them that are deceived through no fault of their own, he put it into the hearts of the mother and daughter to go to hear mass at the Grey Friars' Church of St. Francis, where likewise they would see their good confessor who had provided the one with so dutiful a son-in-law, and the other with so brave a husband. And it chanced that, not being able to find the confessor, or any other of their acquaintance, they were pleased to wait his coming, and in the meanwhile to hear high mass, which was then beginning. And as the daughter gazed with attentive eyes on the holy mysteries being performed at the altar, when the priest turned him to the people to say the Dominus vobiscum, she was struck with a great astonishment, for it seemed to her that the priest was either her husband or the express image of him. But she said not a word, and waited till he should turn a second time, looking upon him more carefully, and doubted not that he was the man. Wherefore she touched her mother, who was in a devout contemplation of the mysteries, and said to her: "Alas! alas! mother, who is that I see?" Her mother asked her who it was. "'Tis my husband that is now singing mass, or the one man in the world ​who is altogether like to him." Her mother, who had not carefully looked upon him, said: "I entreat you, daughter, let no such imaginations enter your brain, for 'tis a thing plainly impossible that these holy men should devise such a cozening device, and you will sin grievously against God if you put faith in this fantasy." Natheless the mother did not omit to look upon him, and when he turned him at the Ite missa est she clearly perceived that never were twin brothers more like to one another than this priest to her son-in-law. Yet so simple was she that she would fain have said: "Save me, O God, from believing mine own eyes!" But since it touched her daughter she would not leave the matter thus in darkness, and resolved to know the truth of it. And when the time was come in the evening for the husband to return, the mother said to her daughter: "Now, if you are willing, we can know the truth concerning your husband, for as soon as he is bedded I will come in, and do you snatch off his coif from behind so that he perceive you not, and we shall see if he has a tonsure like him who sang mass." As it was resolved, so it was done, for when that evil husband was in bed the old dame came in, and while she took him by the hands, as if in jest, her daughter snatched off his coif and left him with his fine tonsure, whereat the two women were mightily astounded. But forthwith they called the servants that were in the house, and made them take him and keep him fast in bonds till the morning, and no excuse or talking at all availed him. And on the morrow the lady sent for her confessor, feigning to have some great secret for his ear, so he came in great haste, and she made take him like the young friar, reproaching him with the deceit he had used toward her. And after this they were haled before the judges, and these, if they were honest folk, would by no means let them escape unpunished.

"By this, ladies, you perceive that they who are vowed to poverty are not freed from the temptation of covetousness, which is the cause of many evils." "Nay, but rather many blessings," said Saffredent, "for the monk made good cheer on the five hundred ducats the old woman would have stored up, and the poor maid, who was in such earnest expectation of a husband, was enabled thereby to have two if she had a mind, and knew better how to speak the truth of all hierarchies." ​"Your positions," said Oisille, "are always of the falsest, for you think that every woman is of the same complexion as yourself." "With your good favour, mistress," said Saffredent, "I maintain no such thing, for I would that women were as easy to satisfy as we are." "That was an evil speech," said Oisille, "for there is not one present that knoweth not to the contrary. And to prove the truth thereof, doth not the story that was but now told show the simpleness of poor womenfolk, and the craft of those we consider far better than other men; for neither mother nor daughter wished to do according to their own will, but submitted themselves unto ghostly counsel." "And some women," said Longarine, "are so hard to please that they think they ought to have angels for husbands." "For which cause," said Simontault, "they often light upon devils; and chiefly they that, putting no trust in God, deem by their own good sense, or that of another, to find that happiness in this world which is given alone of God." "What! Simontault," said Oisille, "I knew not there was so much of good in you." "Mistress," answered Simontault, "'tis pity I have had no trial, for by reason of your not knowing me, you have already passed a bad judgment on me; but since a friar hath intromitted with my craft, why should not I practise the craft of a friar?" "This, then, you call your craft," said Parlamente, "to deceive women? Out of your own mouth you are condemned." "When I shall have deceived a hundred thousand," said Simontault, "even then I shall not be avenged for the torments that one hath made to suffer." "I know," answered Parlamente, "how often you make complaint of the ladies, and all the while we see you so stout and joyous that it is not to be believed that you have suffered all the ills you say. But as La Belle Dame Sans Merci replies, you do well to talk thus since you draw some comfort from it." "You bring in a notable doctor," said Simontault, "who not only is wearisome himself, but makes all who read him and follow his teaching wearisome likewise." "Yet," replied Parlamente, "his teaching is as profitable to maids as any I know of." "If it were thus," said Simontault, "and the ladies were without compassion, we could give our horses a rest, and let our armour rust till the next war, and think of nought else but the household. And, prithee, tell me whether it is a brave thing for a ​lady to have the name of being without pity, without charity, without love, and without compassion?" "Let her not be," answered Parlamente, "without charity and love; but this word compassion hath such an ill sound in a woman's ears, that we cannot use it without doing a hurt to our honour; for compassion is to grant some favour which is asked, and we know what favour a man would ask." "With your good pleasure, mistress," said Simontault, "some there be so reasonable that they ask but a word." "You make me to remember," said Parlamente, "him who was content with a glove." "We must know," said Hircan, "who was this easy lover, wherefore I give you my vote." "And I will willingly tell the tale," said Parlamente, "for it is full of honourable passages."