Part 14

“And I have brought some of her water that thou mayest judge how sick she is, and the more easily cure her,” said the young man.

The physician took the vessel of urine, and, turning it about and examining it, said:

“Thy wife is sore afflicted with illness and in peril of death unless succour be forthcoming. Her water showeth it.”

“Ah! master, for the love of God, tell me what to do, and I will pay thee well canst thou restore her to health and prevent her from dying!”

“She need not die an thou obeyest my commands,” quoth the physician. “But if thou dost not make haste, all the money in the world will not save her from death.”

“Tell me, for Gods sake, what to do,” said the other, “and I will do it.”

“She must have connection with a man or she will die,” answered the physician.

“Connection with a man?” said the other. “What is that?”

“It meaneth,” continued the doctor, “that thou must mount on top of her, and speedily ram her three or four times, or more if thou canst; otherwise, the great heat which doth consume and kill her, will not be extinguished.”

“That will be good for her?”

“She is a dead woman,” answered the physician, “an thou do it not and do it quickly.”

“By St. John!” said the other, “I will try what I can do.”

With that he went home and found his wife, who was groaning and lamenting loudly.

“How art thou, beloved?” asked he.

“I die, beloved,” answered she.

“Please God, thou shalt not die,” said he. “I have conversed with the physician, who hath told me what medicine will cure thee.”

And, as he spoke, he fell to undressing, and lay down beside his wife, and began to execute in clumsy fashion the orders he had received from the physician.

“What dost thou?” asked his wife. “Wouldst kill me?”

“Nay, I am about to cure thee,” said he. “The physician hath assured me.”

And Nature instructing and the patient assisting, he performed upon her twice or thrice. When resting from his labours, much astonished at what had befallen, he asked his wife how she was.

“I am a little better than I was hitherto,” she replied.

“God be praised,” quoth he. “I hope thou wilt get well and that the physician hath spoken truly.”

And with that he fell to again.

To cut matters short, he performed so well that his wife was cured in a few days, whereat he was very joyful, as was the mother when she knew of it.

Ever afterwards our Champenois became a better fellow than heretofore, and his wife being now restored to health, he one day invited all his friends and relatives to dine with him, and also the father and mother of his wife, and he served good cheer after his own fashion. They drank to him, and he drank to them, and he was right good company.

But hear what befell him. In the midst of the feast he fell to weeping, which much astonished all his friends who were at table with him; and they demanded what was the matter, but he could not answer for weeping scalding tears. At length he spake, saying:

“I have good cause to weep.”

“By my oath thou hast not!” replied his mother-in-law. “What aileth thee? Thou art rich and powerful and well-housed, and hast good friends, nor must thou forget thy fair and good wife, whom God brought back to health when she was on the verge of the grave. In my thinking thou shouldst be light-hearted and joyous.”

“Alas!” said he. “Woe is me! My father and mother, who both loved me, and who amassed and bequeathed me so much wealth, are dead, and by my fault, for they died of a fever, and had I well touzled[111] them both when they were ill, as I did my wife, they would still be on their feet.”

[111] _Touzle_ or _Tousle_, in its original sense, meant “to rumple”--“to pull or mess about,” but came in time to signify, in erotic slang, the act of “mastering a woman by romping.” (_Vide_ Farmer: _Slang and its Analogues_.) It belongs to that class of word connoting the sexual act which may be described as _energetic_, as implying a sense of lively action and movement. Farmer, under his key-word _Ride_, gives a number of similar terms, among them:--to _belly-bump_; to _bounce_; to _cuddle_; to _ferret_; to _frisk_; to _fumble_; to _hug_; to _hustle_; to _jiggle_; to _jumble_; to _muddle_; to _niggle_; to _plough_; to _rummage_; to _shake_; and to _tumble_. _Touzle_ is Fielding’s term for the venereal act.

There was none at table who, on hearing this, would not fain have laughed; nevertheless, all restrained themselves as best they might. The tables were removed and each went his way, and the young man continued to live with his wife, and, in order that she might remain in good health, he failed not to tail her pretty often.

THE PRIEST AND THE LABOURER.[112]

[112] _Kruptadia_: Heilbronn: Henninger Frères, 1883: _Secret Stories from the Russian_.

Once on a time there dwelt a priest and his wife; they had two daughters. The priest hired a labourer, and in the spring he made a pilgrimage; but before setting out he gave his orders to the labourer.

“See, friend,” said the priest, “on my return I would find all the garden dug up and the beds set out.”

“I hear, little father,” answered the labourer.

The labourer dug so ill that the garden went to wrack and ruin, and all the while he enjoyed himself. When the priest returned, he went to the garden and saw that naught had been done.

“Ah, friend,” asked the priest of the labourer, “is it possible that thou knowest not how to dig a garden?”

“Assuredly I know not,” answered the labourer. “Had I known I would have done it.”

“Go, then, into the house, and beg of my daughters to give thee an iron shovel, and I will show thee how to dig.”

The labourer sped to the house and sought the daughters.

“Little mistresses,” quoth he, “the little father orders ye to give me ... both of ye....”

“Give thee what?”

“Ye know well he meaneth ye yourselves ... to futter!”

The priest’s daughters fell to abusing the labourer.

“What availeth it to abuse me?” asked the labourer. “The little father hath ordered ye to yield me this at once, for the borders of the garden must be dug. An ye believe not me, ask of him yourselves.”

One of the daughters straightway ran to the steps leading to the house, and cried:

“Little father! Hast ordered us to give this thing to the labourer?”

“Give it him swiftly! Why keepest him waiting?” answered the priest.

“Come, my sister,” said the young girl when she returned. “There is no help for it. We must give it him. So the little father hath ordered.”

Both then went to bed, and the labourer put the matter through most expeditiously. Afterwards, he took a shovel from the shed, and ran to the little father in the garden. The priest showed him how to dig the borders of the garden, and he himself returned to the house to his wife. But what saw he? His daughters in tears.

“Why weep ye?”

“How should we not weep, little father,” answered they, “when thou thyself hast ordered the labourer to make mock of us?”

“To make mock of ye?”

“Didst not order us to yield it to him?”

“And why not? I ordered ye to give him a shovel.”

“A shovel? He hath dishonoured us! He hath taken our virginity!”

When the priest heard this, he fell into a mighty rage, seized a stake, and ran headlong to the kitchen garden. The labourer perceived the priest approaching with a stake. Wretched mischance! He hurled the shovel from him and took to his heels. The priest sped after him, but the labourer was the more agile, and vanished from the sight of the priest.

Then went the priest in search of his labourer, and in his search he encountered a peasant.

“Good day, friend,” said the priest.

“Good day, little father,” answered the peasant.

“Hast encountered my labourer?”

“I know not. A lad passed me, running swiftly.”

“Tis he! Come with me, little peasant, and aid me in the search. I will pay thee well.”

They set out together; not far off they came upon a strolling player.

“Good day, strolling player,” said the priest.

“Good day, little father,” answered the strolling player.

“Hast met a lad just now?”

“Yea, little father. There was one who went running past me.”

“‘Tis he! Aid us in the search. I will pay thee well.”

“Willingly, little father.”

And the three set forth together.

Now the labourer had run to the village, and having clad himself in other garments, went himself to meet the priest. And the priest failed to recognise him, but questioned him, saying:

“Tell me, friend--hast seen a labourer on the road?”

“I have seen one, and he ran to the village.”

“Come, friend, aid us in the search.”

“Willingly, little father.”

All four then went in search of the priest’s labourer; they entered the village; they walked; they walked unto eventide; naught befell. Darkness descended. Where might they pass the night?

Anon they came to a house where dwelt a widow, and they begged leave of her to pass the night therein.

“Good people,” replied the widow, “there will be a deluge this night in my house. I warn ye of it beforehand. Ye will be drowned.”

Howbeit, she did not refuse them--indeed, she might not--and she let them enter for the night.

(Now the widow’s lover had promised to visit her that night.)

All four then entered the house and betook themselves to bed. The priest, thinking perchance there might be a deluge, laid hold of a great trough, set it upon a shelf, and put himself to sleep in the trough.

“If there be a deluge,” thought he to himself, “I shall float upon the top of it in the trough.”

The strolling player laid himself down by the hearth, his head in the ashes; the peasant reclined on the bench behind the table; and the priest’s labourer stretched himself on the stool by the window. Hardly had they lain down ere they fell into deep slumber, excepting the labourer, who alone slept not. He it was who heard the lover of the mistress of the house come beneath the window and knock, saying:

“Open, my beloved.”

The labourer arose, opened the window, and spake in low tones, saying:

“Beloved, thou comest at an ill moment. Strangers are within my house, passing the night therein. Come thou the next night.”

“I go, beloved,” answered the lover. “But lean thou from the window that we may embrace.”

The labourer turned his posterior to the window and thrust out his backside. The lover embraced it with rapture.

“I go ... adieu, my beloved. Fare thee well. I will return to-morrow night.”

“Go, loved one. I will await thee, but, as a parting gift, give me thy yard, which I will hold for several moments in my hand. ‘Twill console me somewhat.”

The lover drew forth his yard from his drawers and thrust it towards the window.

“Take it, beloved,” quoth he. “Amuse thyself.”

The labourer took the yard in his hand, caressed it once or twice, drew his knife from his pocket, and, with one blow, cut off the member and testicles of the lover. The latter uttered a great cry, and sped amain to his home. The labourer shut the window, sat down on the bench, and made a noise with his mouth, as though eating. The peasant heard the noise and awoke, saying:

“What eatest thou, comrade?”

“I have found a morsel of sausage on the table, but I cannot eat it all, for ‘tis uncooked.”

“No matter if it be uncooked, comrade. Give me a portion to sample.”

“There is not much, friend, but take what is left and eat.” And he gave him the cut-off yard.

The peasant fell to chewing the ‘sausage’ with fine appetite. He chewed and chewed, but could not swallow the morsel.

“What is wrong with it, comrade?” he asked. “‘Tis impossible to eat it. ‘Tis so tough.”

“Put it in the frying-pan, roast it, and then thou wilt be able to eat it.”

The peasant arose, went towards the frying-pan, and crammed the ‘sausage’ right ‘twixt the teeth of the strolling player. He held it there; he held it there for a long while, making experiment with it.

“Nay,” said he, at length. “The ‘sausage’ hath not grown tender. The fire hath done naught.”

“Cease to wrestle with the thing,” said the labourer. “The mistress of the house will hear and will scold us. Thou hast scattered the fire over the frying-pan. Look! sprinkle it with water that the woman may perceive naught.”

“But where may I get the water?”

“Piss o’er it. Better extinguish the fire than have to go forth into the courtyard.”

The peasant had great desire to piss, and he pissed forthwith upon the face of the strolling player. And when the strolling player felt the water, coming whence he knew not, fall right in his mouth, he said:

“The deluge hath arrived!”

And he fell to crying with all the strength of his lungs:

“Little father! The deluge! The deluge!”

The priest heard the voice of the strolling player, and, half asleep, sought to cast himself, together with the trough, straight into the water, but instead he fell heavily on the ground, bruising himself all over.

“Ah! my God!” he cried. “When a child falleth, the good Lord placeth a cushion under it, but when an old man tumbleth, the devil putteth a harrow beneath him. Behold me all sore and bruised. Of a certainty I shall ne’er find that brigand of a labourer.”

Quoth the labourer to the priest:

“Seek him no more, I counsel thee. Go home, and may the Lord go with thee. It were better for thy health.”

_EXCURSUS_ to _THE PRIEST AND THE LABOURER_.

The foregoing story reminds one of the device employed by “The Youth who would Futter his Father’s Wives,” (_The Thousand Nights and a Night: Supplemental Nights_, vol. 6: Translated by Sir Richard F. Burton.) In the latter case the father sets out on a journey, but, having forgotten his shoes, instructs his son, who is accompanying him for a short way, to return and fetch them. The youth goes back, informs his father’s wives that they are to sleep with him in his parent’s absence, and, when they are incredulous, shouts to his father in the distance:

“O my papa, one of them or the two of them?”

The father, referring, of course, to his shoes, shouts back:

“The two! The two!”

The wives are convinced by this remark, as were the virgin daughters of the priest in our story from _Kruptadia_. We shall reserve further extracts from this Oriental narrative for a subsequent volume of _Anthologica Rarissima_, the plot and details being inappropriate to our present theme.

THE TWO LOVERS AND THE TWO SISTERS.[113]

[113] Masuccio: _The Novellino_: Translated into English by W. G. Waters: Lawrence and Bullen: London, 1894: vol. 2, Forty-first Novel.

I will tell you, therefore, that in those days when Duke Ranier of Anjou, envious of the peace and quiet, as well as of the power and the wisdom of that divine prince, King Don Alfonso, was driven from Naples and from the Kingdom, it pleased him to tarry for a certain season in Florence. There were, amongst the other Frenchmen who were involved in the ruin and shipwreck of his fortunes, two valiant and accomplished cavaliers, the one named Filippo de Lincurto and the other Ciarlo d’Amboia.

Now these two, although they were very prudent and endowed with many virtues, were inclined nevertheless, being young and given over to love, to leave the burden of disaster, and the cares thereof as well, to him who was especially concerned with the same, that is, to the duke.

It happened that in their daily rides through Florence Filippo fell deeply in love with a graceful and very lovely young lady of noble parentage, and wife to a citizen of repute; and while he strove incessantly to win her, it chanced that Ciarlo, as he ranged another part of the city, became enamoured of a sister of Filippo’s lady-love, who abode unmarried in her father’s house. He, unwitting of this kinship, made up his mind, albeit he deemed her passing fair, to keep his passion within sober limits, forasmuch as he was well versed in the strife of love and aware that young damsels are wont to love lightly and without constancy. Filippo, finding that his fair lady was discreet and of good understanding, and being also fully prepared to become her servant, resolved to give her his love entirely; on which account the lady, realizing his humour and considering his many and praiseworthy parts, likewise determined to recompense him with all the love of her heart, and began to favour him with her kindness in such wise that he saw she was the only woman in the world who knew how to love.

She, certes, would have let him taste at once the supreme fruit of love had she not been restrained therefrom by the continual presence of her husband; so, having given Filippo assurance, both by letter and by messages, that she was firmly set in this purpose, the two lovers longed beyond aught else for the time when the husband would take his departure to Flanders in the galley which was now expected at any hour to touch at Pisa.

While they thus abode in pleasureable expectation, Duke Ranier was obliged to return to France, whereat both the cavaliers felt mightily aggrieved, and especially that one of the two who loved and likewise was loved in return; nevertheless, being bound by necessity, they took their departure, snared as they were in amorous toils.

Filippo swore to his lady that no obstacle, however great, should debar him from returning, and that, come what might, he as a loyal lover would never forsake her. Having consoled her with other speeches yet more affectionate, he and his companion set forth; and after his return it came to pass in the course of time, either through some fresh fancy or through the cares of business, that Filippo, albeit he still remembered the lady left behind, let the ardent flames of his passion grow colder every day. He not only forgot his promise to return, but beyond this neglected to answer any of the many letters writ to him by the lady.

On this account she, perceiving how she was well-nigh forsaken by this lover once so ardent, was stricken with such cruel grief thereanent that she almost lost her wits; but, calling to mind the stainless virtue of the cavalier, she could not persuade herself that so noble a heart could harbour such inhumanity. However, when she remembered his latest words, both written and sent to her by the mouth of their trusted messenger, she deliberated how she might by a new and suggestive plan stimulate the virtue of her lover and thereby make a final trial on behalf of her passion.

Thus she caused to be made by a skilled master a ring of gold, wrought very finely, and in this she had set a counterfeit diamond, most manifestly false, letting engrave round the ring itself the words, ‘La ma za batani?’[114] This, after she had wrapped it in fine cambric, she sent to her Filippo by a certain young man of Florence, who knew how things stood with her, and who was going to France after his own affairs, charging him that he should himself deliver it to Filippo with no farther words than these: “She who loves you and you only sends you this, and implores you to let her have a fitting answer thereto.”

[114] St. Matthew, 27, 46: “Why hast thou forsaken me?”

In due time the envoy with his offering and his message arrived at Filippo’s house and was joyfully received; but after the cavalier had marked with amazement what was the quality of the ring, and what the motto graven thereupon, he went about for several days pondering over the purport of the same, and finding himself unable to draw from it the true meaning, he determined to show it to Ciarlo and to divers other gentlemen of the court; but these, taken singularly and altogether, what though they used all their wits, were unable to hit the mark.

Finally its meaning was fathomed by Duke John, who was a gentleman of great discretion, albeit more fortunate in advising others than in reaping victory in the many enterprises he undertook. What it said was this:

“False diamond, why hast thou forsaken me?”

When Filippo heard this sentence he saw at once how the lady had most justly and prudently reproved him for his lover’s unfaith, and began to consider how he might by a device of the same sort answer so graceful a proposition and repay so heavy a debt of love. So, being minded to conclude the matter, he went to his dear friend Ciarlo, beseeching him by the friendship there was between them, that he would go with him to Florence for the reason aforesaid.

And albeit Ciarlo found this somewhat hard at first, he ended by consenting to oblige so dear a friend, deeming besides that he might peradventure thereby compass some pleasure for himself and for the damsel he loved. Thereupon they set forth, and having duly come to Florence, they began at the first chance to walk past the houses of their ladies in order to signify their presence; and Filippo soon sent word by his wonted messenger to his lady how he had sufficiently understood the message which the ring sent by her had borne, and how he knew no other method of disproving her false opinion of him save by bearing witness for himself, wherefore it behoved her to grant him an interview meet for the occasion.

The gracious lady, who with her sister had rejoiced amain over the return of their lovers, and had deliberated what course should be taken, as soon as she heard this kindly message, so manifestly springing from love, was filled with such joy that she felt almost jealous of herself, and so as to lose no more time over the matter she sent back a brief answer to Filippo, bidding him wait with his companion before the door of her house next evening.

Wherefore Filippo, as soon as the hour had come, betook himself merrily with his friend Ciarlo to the spot which had been named, and there they caught sight of the lady, who gave them most gladsome reception. After she had made a trusty maidservant of hers open to them the door and bring them in, she likewise gave them to understand, by the mouth of this same woman, that the only way in which the thing she so much desired could be brought about would be that, while she should be taking her pleasure with Filippo, Messer Ciarlo should go and strip naked and lie down in the bed beside her husband, in order that, if by chance the husband should wake and feel Ciarlo in bed, he might believe that his wife was still there.