Joy

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Instead, I will put #6 to work. I leave the table to use the restroom and when I return, I am alarmed all over again. “This might be TMI,” I say, furrowing my brows, “but I think #8 broke me. I’m bleeding.” Ana bursts into peals of laughter, shrieking “TMI? TMI? Now it’s TMI? You passed that so long ago! TMI went out the window the minute you told me you thought you peed in #8’s bed.” We laugh long and hard, drawing a few looks from the waiter who normally witnesses us huddled in the corner, me wiping away tears while Ana reaches out to put her hand over mine. Now we are like hyenas, cackling and doubled over, crying with laughter. It’s obvious to both of us that we have crossed the border into a land where bodies are just bodies and what they can do is a common experience, no reason to keep it to ourselves. * True to my prediction, #6 is wildly jealous that another man has located my G- spot and becomes obsessed with finding it himself. I suggest that he go down one of the research rabbit holes I’m so famous for to figure it out. “Now you’re definitely going to see #8 again. Why wouldn’t you?” he says mournfully. “Actually, he texted me already to make another date and I declined,” I say. “I told him that as much as I enjoyed my time with him, I have been dating someone for whom I am developing real feelings and thus it is starting to feel strange to sleep with other men.” “And what did he say?” he asks, though I was hoping he would respond to the part in which I declared vague but real feelings for him. “He said he was happy for me,” I say. “So now the pressure is really on for me to find the mystery spot,” he says. “I’m parking my LLT for a while. I’m going to see what it feels like to date just you,” I say. He laughs; I know the way I said it made it sound like I was slumming it with him as my sole sex partner. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Obviously I have limited free time and I would like to spend the free time I do have with you.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The queen, knowing what a jovial and entertaining fellow he was, and clearly perceiving that he was only asking this favour so that, if the company should grow weary of hearing people talk, he could enliven the proceedings with some story that would move them to laughter, cheerfully granted his request, having first obtained the consent of the others. She then stood up, and they all sauntered off towards a stream of crystal-clear water, which descended the side of a hill and flowed through the shade of a thickly wooded valley, its banks lined with smooth round stones and verdant grasses. On reaching the stream, they stepped barefoot and with naked arms into the water and began to engage in various games with each other. But when it was nearly time for supper, they made their way back to the house, and there they supped merrily together. After supper, instruments were sent for, and the queen decreed that a dance should begin, which Lauretta was to lead whilst Emilia was to sing a song, accompanied on the lute by Dioneo. No sooner did she hear the queen’s command than Lauretta promptly began to dance, and she was joined by the others, whilst Emilia sang the following song in amorous tones: ‘In mine own beauty take I such delight That to no other love could I My fond affections plight. ‘Since in my looking-glass each hour I spy Beauty enough to satisfy the mind, Why seek out past delights, or new ones try When all content within my glass I find? What other sight so pleasing to mine eyes Is there that I might see Which further I could prize? ‘My sweet reflection never fades away; My consolation ever is To see it every day. It lies beyond the tongue’s expressing To celebrate a joy so fine; None understands this bliss who has not burned With a delight like mine. ‘The longer I reflect upon those same Eyes that stare from mine own face back to me, The fiercer burns the flame. I yield it all my heart, it renders back All that I gave; I taste the bliss It promised me; and hope yet more to have. Ah, who has loved like this!’ Albeit the words of this little song caused not a few to ponder its meaning, they all joined cheerfully in the choruses. When it was over, they danced and sang some other short pieces, and then, as the night was short and much of it already spent, the queen was pleased to bring the first day to an end. Having called for torches to be lit, she ordered her companions to retire to rest till the following morning, and this command, returning to their several rooms, they duly obeyed. Here ends the First Day of the Decameron

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The whole of the East was already suffused with white, and the heavens of our western world were shot through by the rays of the rising sun, when Fiammetta was roused from sleep by the melodious songs of the birds in the trees, chanting their joyous greetings to the dawn. She arose and sent for all the other ladies and the three young men, then sauntered down with her companions to the fields, where, walking over the dew of the broad and grassy plain, she conversed agreeably with the others upon this and that, till the sun had climbed well into the sky. But as the heat of the sun’s rays grew more intense, she retraced her steps, and on reaching the house she saw that her companions were refreshed from the gentle exertions of their walk with excellent wines and sweetmeats, after which they whiled away their time till breakfast in the delectable garden. No detail had been overlooked by their resourceful steward in the preparation of the meal, to which in due course, at the bidding of the queen, after singing some canzonets and one or two ballades, they gaily addressed themselves. One by one, they disposed of the various dishes with relish, and when the meal was over, mindful of the practice already established, they danced and sang to the music of instruments. The queen then dismissed them till after the siesta hour, whereat some of them went away to sleep, whilst the others remained in the garden to savour its pleasures. But shortly after nones,1 at the queen’s command, they all forgathered as usual beside the fountain. And having seated herself in a position of honour, the queen fixed her gaze upon Panfilo, smiled, and bade him tell the first of the day’s stories, all of which were to end happily. Panfilo readily agreed, and began as follows: FIRST STORYCimon1 acquires wisdom through falling in love with Iphigenia, whom he later abducts on the high seas. After being imprisoned at Rhodes, he is released by Lysimachus, with whom he abducts both Iphigenia and Cassandra whilst they are celebrating their nuptials. They then flee with their ladies to Crete, whence after marrying them they are summoned back with their wives to their respective homes. Delectable ladies, I can think of many stories with which I could aptly make a beginning to so joyful a day as this. But there is one in particular that strikes me as specially pleasing, for not only will it enable you to perceive the happy goal to which our discussions will from now on be directed, but it will also allow you to appreciate the sacredness, the power, and the beneficial effects of the forces of Love, which so many people, ignorant of what they are saying, mistakenly treat with contempt and abuse. All of which, unless I am mistaken, you will find most agreeable, for I take it that you are yourselves in love.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Next morning, therefore, at the hour of breakfast, Tedaldo’s four brothers, still dressed in black and accompanied by some friends of theirs, presented themselves at the house of Aldobrandino, who was waiting to greet them. And in the presence of all the people who had been invited by Aldobrandino to join them in the festivities, they laid their weapons on the ground and threw themselves on Aldobrandino’s mercy, asking him to forgive them for the way they had treated him. Aldobrandino received them with affection, his eyes full of tears, and having kissed each one of them on the mouth, he quickly said what he had to say and pardoned them for the wrongs he had suffered. They then made way for their wives and sisters, who were all dressed in mourning, and were given a gracious welcome by Monna Ermellina and the other ladies. Then all the guests, gentlemen and ladies alike, sat down to a splendid meal, excellent in every respect save for the general air of reticence engendered by the recent bereavement which Tedaldo’s kinsfolk had suffered, and which was made more apparent by the sombre clothes they were wearing. For this very reason, in fact, some people had condemned the pilgrim’s scheme for holding the banquet, and Tedaldo, who was well aware of their objections, felt that the time had now come to spring his surprise and disperse the mists of melancholy. He therefore rose to his feet while the others were still eating their dessert, and said: ‘All that this banquet requires to bring it to life is the presence of Tedaldo. He has been here all the time, as it happens, but since you have failed to notice him, I want to point him out.’ Then, throwing off his cloak and all his pilgrim’s clothing, he stood before them wearing a tunic of green taffeta, to be inspected and scrutinized at great length, and with no small display of astonishment, before anyone ventured to believe that he really was Tedaldo. Seeing how incredulous they looked, Tedaldo identified the families to which they belonged, told them about various things that had happened to them, and described his own adventures, whereupon his brothers and the other men rushed to embrace him, all weeping with joy, and the ladies followed their example, kinsfolk and others alike, with the sole exception of Monna Ermellina. ‘Ermellina!’ exclaimed Aldobrandino. ‘What is this that I see? Why are you not greeting Tedaldo, like the other ladies?’ ‘I would greet him more willingly,’ she replied, in everyone’s hearing, ‘than any of the ladies who have done so already, because it was thanks to him that you have been restored to me, and thus my debt to him is greater than anyone’s. But I refrain because of the mischievous things that were said when we were mourning the man we mistook for Tedaldo.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The gentleman was feeling absolutely delighted, for not only did it appear quite certain that the lady loved him, but he had also received a handsome present. On leaving the friar, he went and stood in a sheltered place from which he showed his lady that both of the items were now in his possession, all of which made her very happy, the more so because her scheme appeared to be working better and better. All that she was waiting for now, in order to bring her work to a successful conclusion, was for her husband to go away somewhere, and not long afterwards it so happened that he was indeed called away on business to Genoa. The next morning, after he had ridden off on horseback, the lady paid yet another visit to the reverend friar, filling his ears with sobs and lamentations. ‘Father,’ she said. ‘I simply cannot bear it any longer. However, since I did promise you the other day that I wouldn’t do anything without telling you first, I have come now to offer you my apologies in advance. And lest you should imagine that my tears and complaints are unjustified, I want to tell you what that friend of yours, or rather, that devil incarnate, did to me early this morning, a little before matins. ’I don’t know what unfortunate accident led him to discover that my husband went away to Genoa yesterday morning, but during the night, at the hour I mentioned, he forced his way into the grounds and climbed up a tree to my bedroom-window, which overlooks the garden. He had already opened the window and was about to enter the room, when I awoke with a start, leapt out of bed, and began to scream. And I would have continued to scream but for the fact that he announced who he was and implored me to stop for your sake and for the love of God. Not wishing to cause you any distress, I stopped screaming, and since he was not yet inside, I rushed to the window, naked as on the day I was born, and slammed it in his face, after which I think the rogue must have taken himself off, because I heard no more of him. Now, I leave you to judge whether this sort of thing is either pleasant or permissible, but I personally have no intention of allowing him to get away with it any longer. In fact, I’ve already put up with more than enough of his antics for your sake.’ The lady’s story threw the friar into such a state of turmoil that all he could do by way of reply was to ask her, over and over again, whether she was quite sure that it had not been some other man. ‘Merciful God!’ she replied. ‘I ought to know the man by now! It was he, I tell you, and if he denies it, don’t you believe him.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Having pondered for a while, Bernabuccio remembered that she ought to have a small scar above her left ear in the shape of a cross – the remains of an abscess which he had had removed shortly before his house was looted. So without further ado he went up to Giacomino, who was still standing on his doorstep, and asked him to take him into the house and let him see the girl. Giacomino readily took him inside, and introduced him to the girl. As soon as Bernabuccio set eyes on her, he could see that she was the living image of the child’s mother, who was still a good-looking woman. Not content with this, however, he asked Giacomino if he would kindly allow him to lift the hair above the girl’s left ear, and Giacomino told him to go ahead. Bernabuccio went up to the girl, who was feeling rather embarrassed by all this, and having raised her hair with his right hand, he caught sight of the cross-shaped scar. Now that he knew for certain that she was his daughter, he burst into tears and enfolded her in a tender embrace, albeit the girl attempted to hold him at a distance; and turning to Giacomino he said: ‘Brother, this is my daughter; it was my house that was plundered by Guidotto, and in the heat of the moment my wife, the child’s mother, left her behind. Later that day, my house was set on fire, and we had always supposed until now that the child was burned to death.’ On hearing this the girl, having taken account of his age and the fact that his words rang true, was prompted by some mysterious impulse to relax in his arms and tenderly mingle her tears with his. Bernabuccio instantly sent for her mother and for other women relatives, as well as for her brothers and sisters, and having presented her to each of them in turn and told them the story, he took her back to his house amid great rejoicing and the exchange of a thousand embraces, Giacomino being well content that he should have her. Tidings of these events were brought to the podestà, an excellent fellow, who, knowing that Giannole, whom he was holding prisoner, was the son of Bernabuccio and the girl’s blood-brother, decided to deal with him leniently and overlook the offence he had committed. What was more, he took a personal interest in the affair, and in consultation with Bernabuccio and Giacomino he induced Giannole and Minghino to make peace with one another. Then, to the enormous satisfaction of Minghino’s kinsfolk, he announced that the girl, whose name was Agnesa, was to be married to Minghino; and having set the two young men at liberty, he also released Crivello and the others who had been implicated in the matter.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  When the King was told about her confession, he heaved many an anguished sigh over the wrongs to which this excellent man had been so unjustly subjected. He then issued an edict, which was published far and wide, both throughout the army and elsewhere, to the effect that he would pay substantial rewards to anyone bringing him information concerning the whereabouts of the Count of Antwerp or any of his children. Because of the Queen’s confession – so the edict continued – the King held him to be innocent of the charges which had led to his exile, and it was his intention, not only to restore him to his former position, but to grant him still higher honours. Rumours of the announcement reached the ears of the Count, who was still working as a groom, and when he had confirmed them he went at once to Jacques and asked him to arrange a meeting with Perrot so that he could show them what the King was looking for. When all three of them had come together, the Count said to Perrot, who was already thinking of announcing his identity: ‘Perrot, Jacques here is married to your sister, and never received any dowry from her. In order, therefore, that your sister should not remain without a dowry, I propose that he alone should claim these huge rewards that the King is offering. This he will do by declaring you to be the Count of Antwerp’s son, his wife to be your sister Violante, and myself to be your father, the Count of Antwerp.’ On hearing this, Perrot looked intently at the old man, and it dawned upon him that this was indeed his father. Dissolving into tears, he threw himself at the Count’s feet and embraced him, saying: ‘Father, what a joy it is to see you!’ Jacques, having listened to the Count’s words and witnessed Perrot’s response, was so delighted and astonished that he hardly knew where to put himself. But being convinced that it was all true, and bitterly ashamed for occasionally having spoken harshly to the groom or Count, he too burst into tears and sank to his knees at the old man’s feet, humbly begging his pardon for all the wrongs he had done him. Whereupon the Count, having first of all persuaded him to stand up again, assured him very graciously that he was forgiven. When the three of them had finished telling one another about their adventures, weeping and laughing endlessly together, Perrot and Jacques offered to supply the Count with new clothes, but he could in no way be persuaded to accept them. On the contrary, he was determined that Jacques, once he had claimed the promised reward, should present him exactly as he was, in his groom’s clothing, so that the King would feel all the more ashamed for what had happened.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Away to the right lay the valley of the Wye, a long, lovely valley of deep blue shadows; a valley of small homesteads and mothering trees, of soft undulations and wide, restful spaces leading away to a line of dim mountains—leading away to the mountains of Wales, that lay just over the border. And because she loved this kind English valley, Stephen’s sulky eyes must turn and rest upon it; not all her apprehension and sense of injustice could take from her eyes the joy of that seeing. She must gaze and gaze, she must let it possess her, the peace, the wonder that lay in such beauty; while the unwilling tears welled up under her lids—she not knowing why they had come there. And now they were trotting swiftly downhill; the valley had vanished, but the woods of Eastnor stood naked and lovely, and the forms of their trees were more perfect than forms that are made with hands—unless with the hands of God. Stephen’s eyes turned again; she could not stay sulky for these were the woods where she drove with her father. Twice every spring they drove up to these woods and through them to the stretching parkland beyond. There were deer in the park—they would sometimes get out of the dog-cart so that Stephen could feed the does. She began to whistle softly through her teeth, an accomplishment in which she took a great pride. Impossible to go on feeling resentful when the sun was shining between the bare branches, when the air was as clear and as bright as crystal, when the cob was literally flying through the air, taking all Williams’ strength to hold him . ‘Steady boy—steady on! He be feeling the weather—gets into his blood and makes him that skittish—Now go quiet, you young blight! Just look at him, will you, he’s got himself all of a lather!’ ‘Let me drive,’ pleaded Stephen, ‘Oh, please, please Williams!’ But Williams shook his head as he grinned at her broadly: ‘I’ve got old bones, Miss Stephen, and old bones breaks quick when it’s frosty, so I’ve heard tell.’ 3 Mrs. Antrim was waiting for Stephen in the lounge—she was always waiting to waylay her in the lounge, or so it appeared to Stephen. The lounge was a much overdressed apartment, full of small, useless tables and large, clumsy chairs. You bumped into the chairs and tripped over the tables; at least you did if you were Stephen. There was one deadly pitfall you never could avoid, a huge polar bear skin that lay on the floor. Its stuffed head protruded at a most awkward angle; you invariably stubbed your big toe on that head. Stephen, true to tradition, stubbed her toe rather badly as she blundered towards Mrs. Antrim. ‘Dear me,’ remarked her hostess, ‘you are a great girl; why your feet must be double the size of Violet’s!

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I didn’t even think about Theo. For once I was not thinking. Maybe for the first time ever. I felt space in my mind, in my skull, which I had never felt before. Had that too always been there? If it had always been there, then life, it seemed, could have always been beautiful, redeemable, sacred. But if it had always been there, it was strange that I had never found it before. If something so beautiful and pure existed right between your ears, why wouldn’t you stay there forever? Why wouldn’t you live there? — I started to laugh. I couldn’t tell if I was coming, or if I had already come. But then the laughter subsided and I felt a darkness crawl over me—a cool darkness that was dead serious—and I realized that I had not come yet and was going to. His tongue was like a dog’s tongue—a little rough—so unlike my fingers or vibrator. It was like a magic carpet or something, in that I came and came and came. It was like the orgasm began, then stopped, then started a couple of times and I felt that I was able to control it, before I rode the carpet all the way up to where it crested and then exploded. I stayed in it longer than I had ever experienced. And just as I came I became aware of him again. I said his name out loud, I heard myself say it. But I also felt a connectedness between me and something bigger—beyond him—as though there were a split screen. He was on one side of the screen and the universe was on the other. I felt love for both of them. I lay there on the rock and stared up at the sky, silent, for a long time. He kept his face in between my thighs and I hugged his head with my knees. “Would you like me to come out of the water?” he asked. “What?” He took his head out from under my skirt, looked me in the eye, and smiled. “I said, ‘Would you like me to come out of the water?’ ” “So much,” I said. “More than anything. More than anything I would like you to come out of the water.” “I’m scared,” he said. He looked like a little boy when he said that, scrunching up his nose and squinting. “Of what?” I laughed. “Are you scared of me? But you just had your face in my pussy.” “I have some imperfections,” he said. “I have—something is wrong with my body. I’m afraid for you to see.” “I think you’re beautiful,” I said. “You are a gorgeous creature. I would never judge you. Anything that could be different or weird about your body I would only see as even more special.” “You can’t tell anyone,” he said. “About what you see.” Now I wondered what it was that was wrong with him. Did he have a shrunken lower body?

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But above all she rediscovered the cuckoo—it was June, so the cuckoo had changed his rhythm—she must often stand breathlessly still to listen: ‘Cuckoo- kook, cuckoo-kook,’ all over the hills; and at evening the songs of blackbirds and thrushes. Her wanderings would sometimes lead her to the places that she and Martin had visited together, only now she could think of him with affection, with toleration, with tenderness even. In a curious way she now understood him as never before, and in consequence condoned. It had just been some rather ghastly mistake, his mistake, yet she understood what he must have felt; and thinking of Martin she might grow rather frightened—what if she should ever make such a mistake? But the fear would be driven into the background by her sense of well- being, her fine exultation. The very earth that she trod seemed exalted, and the green, growing things that sprang out of the earth, and the birds, ‘Cuckoo-kook,’ all over the hills—and at evening the songs of blackbirds and thrushes. She became much more anxious about her appearance; for five mornings she studied her face in the glass as she dressed—after all she was not so bad looking. Her hair spoilt her a little, it was too thick and long, but she noticed with pleasure that at least it was wavy—then she suddenly admired the colour of her hair. Opening cupboard after cupboard she went through her clothes. They were old, for the most part distinctly shabby. She would go into Malvern that very afternoon and order a new flannel suit at her tailor’s. The suit should be grey with a little white pin stripe, and the jacket, she decided, must have a breast pocket. She would wear a black tie—no, better a grey one to match the new suit with the little white pin stripe. She ordered not one new suit but three, and she also ordered a pair of brown shoes; indeed she spent most of the afternoon in ordering things for her personal adornment. She heard herself being ridiculously fussy about details, disputing with her tailor over buttons; disputing with her bootmaker over the shoes, their thickness of sole, their amount of broguing; disputing regarding the match of her ties with the young man who sold her handkerchiefs and neckties—for such trifles had assumed an enormous importance; she had, in fact, grown quite long-winded about them. That evening she showed her smart neckties to Puddle, whose manner was most unsatisfactory—she grunted.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Innocent was happy in being permitted to join with Europe in rejoicings over the expulsion of the last of the Moors from Granada, 1492. Masses were said in Rome, and a sermon preached in the pontiff’s presence in celebration of the memorable event.783 With characteristic national gallantry, Cardinal Borgia showed his appreciation by instituting a bull-fight in which five bulls were killed, the first but not the last spectacle of the kind seen in the papal city. In his last sickness, Innocent was fed by a woman’s milk.784 Several years before, when he was thought to be dying, the cardinals found 1,200,000 ducats in his drawers and chests. They now granted his request that 48,000 ducats should be taken from his fortune and distributed among his relatives. § 54. Pope Alexander VI—Borgia. 1492–1503. The pontificate of Alexander VI., which coincides with the closing years of the 15th century and the opening of the 16th, may be compared with the pontificate of Boniface VIII., which witnessed the passage from the 13th to the 14th centuries. Boniface marked the opening act in the decline of the papal power introduced by the king of France. Under Alexander, when the French again entered actively into the affairs of Italy, even to seizing Rome, the papacy passed into its deepest moral humiliation since the days of the pornocracy in the 10th century. Alexander VI., whom we have before known as Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia, has the notorious distinction of being the most corrupt of the popes of the Renaissance period. Even in the judgment of Catholic historians, his dissoluteness knew no restraint and his readiness to abase the papacy for his own personal ends, no bounds.785 His intellectual force, if used aright, might have made his pontificate one of the most brilliant in the annals of the Apostolic see. The time was ripe. The conditions offered the opportunity if ever period did. But moral principle was wanting. Had Dante lived again, he would have written that Alexander VI. made a greater refusal than the hermit pope, Coelestine V., and deserved a darker doom than the simoniac pope, Boniface VIII.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Jeannette had already presented Jacques with several children, of whom the eldest was no more than eight, and they were the prettiest and most delightful infants imaginable. When they saw the Count at his meal, they all gathered round and made a fuss of him, as though impelled by some mysterious instinct which told them that this was their grandfather. Knowing them to be his grandchildren, the old man began to show them his affection and fondle them, with the result that the children were unwilling to come away, however much their tutor cajoled and threatened them. Hearing the commotion, Jeannette left the room she was in, came to where the Count was sitting, and spoke sharply to the children, threatening to chastise them if they did not obey their tutor’s instructions. The children began to cry, protesting that they wanted to stay with this worthy fellow who loved them more than their tutor, whereupon the lady and the Count smiled broadly at one another. The Count had risen to his feet, not in the manner of a father greeting his daughter but rather in the role of a pauper paying his respects to a fine lady, and as soon as he set eyes upon her, his heart was filled with a marvellous joy. But she never suspected for a moment who he was, either then or later, for he was thin and elderly-looking, and what with his beard, his greying hair and his dark complexion, he no longer seemed the same person. But on seeing how reluctant the children were to be parted from the old man, and how dismally they wailed whenever any attempt was made to dislodge them, the lady told their tutor to leave them for the present where they were. It was while the children were playing with this worthy fellow that Jacques’ father, who now loathed Jeannette, happened to return home and hear the whole story from their tutor. ‘Let them stay where they are,’ he said, ‘and to hell with them. It’s obvious which side of the family they take after, for they are descended from a vagrant on their mother’s side, and it’s hardly surprising if they feel at home in a vagrant’s company.’ The Count overheard these words, and was deeply wounded. But he simply shrugged his shoulders, and suffered the insult as patiently as he had borne countless others.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Yes, thousands,’ said the monk. ‘But you cannot see or hear them, any more than they can see or hear you.’ ‘And how far are we away from home?’ ‘Oho! Far more miles than one of our turds would travel.’ ‘Crikey! that’s a fair distance. I should think we must have left the earth behind entirely.’ This kind of gibberish,4 together with his food rations and his regular beatings, kept Ferondo going for ten whole months during which the Abbot was highly assiduous and enterprising in his visits to the fair lady, with whom he had the jolliest time imaginable. But accidents will happen, and the lady eventually became pregnant, promptly told the Abbot about it, and they both agreed that Ferondo must be recalled at once from Purgatory and reunited with his wife, who undertook to convince him that it was he who had got her with child. So the following night, the Abbot went to Ferondo’s cell, and disguising his voice, he called to him and said: ‘Ferondo, be of good cheer, for God has decreed that you should go back to earth, where, after your return, your wife will present you with a son.5 See that the child is christened Benedict, for it is in answer to the prayers of your reverend Abbot and your wife, and because of His love for Saint Benedict, that God has done you this favour.’ This announcement was received by Ferondo with great glee. ‘I am very glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘God bless Mister Almighty and the Abbot and Saint Benedict and my cheesy-weesy, honey-bunny, sweetie-weetie wife.’ Having put sufficient powder in Ferondo’s wine to send him to sleep for about four hours, the Abbot dressed him in his proper clothes again and quietly restored him, with the aid of his monk, to the tomb in which he had originally been laid to rest. A little after dawn next morning, Ferondo came to his senses and noticed a chink of light coming through a crack in the side of the tomb. Not having seen any light for ten whole months, he concluded that he must be alive, and started to shout: ‘Open up! Open up!’ At the same time, he began to press his head firmly against the lid of the tomb, and not being very secure, it yielded and he started to push it aside. Meanwhile the monks, who had just finished reciting their matins, hurried to the scene, and when they recognized Ferondo’s voice and saw him emerging from the tomb, they were all terrified by the novelty of the occurrence and ran off to inform the Abbot. The Abbot pretended to be rising from prayer. ‘My sons,’ he said, ‘be not afraid. Take up the cross and-the holy water and follow me. Let us go and see what God’s omnipotence has in store for us.’ And away he strode.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Quelle joie!’ babbled Mademoiselle Duphot. And now Stephen was being embraced on both cheeks, then held at arm’s length for a better inspection. ‘But how tall, how strong you are, ma petite Stévenne. You remember what I say, that we meet in Paris? I say when I go, “But you come to Paris when you grow up bigger, my poor little baby!” I keep looking and looking, but I knowed you at once. I say, “Oui certainement, that is ma petite Stévenne, no one ’ave such another face what I love, it could only belong to Stévenne,” I say. And now voilà! I am correct and I find you.’ Stephen released herself firmly but gently, replying in French to calm Mademoiselle, whose linguistic struggles increased every moment. ‘I’m living in Paris altogether,’ she told her; ‘you must come and see me—come to dinner to-morrow; 35, Rue Jacob.’ Then she introduced Puddle who had been an amused spectator. The two ex-guardians of Stephen’s young mind shook hands with each other very politely, and they made such a strangely contrasted couple that Stephen must smile to see them together. The one was so small, so quiet and so English; the other so portly, so tearful, so French in her generous, if somewhat embarrassing emotion. As Mademoiselle regained her composure, Stephen was able to observe her more closely, and she saw that her face was excessively childish—a fact which she, when a child, had not noticed. It was more the face of a foal than a horse—an innocent, new-born foal. Mademoiselle said rather wistfully: ‘I will dine with much pleasure to-morrow evening, but when will you come and see me in my home? It is in the Avenue de la Grande Armée, a small apartment, very small but so pretty—it is pleasant to have one’s treasures around one. The bon Dieu has been very good to me, Stévenne, for my Aunt Clothilde left me a little money when she died; it has proved a great consolation.’ ‘I’ll come very soon,’ promised Stephen. Then Mademoiselle spoke at great length of her aunt, and of Maman who had also passed on into glory; Maman, who had had her chicken on Sunday right up to the very last moment, Dieu merci! Even when her teeth had grown loose in the gums, Maman had asked for her chicken on Sunday. But alas, the poor sister who once made little bags out of beads for the shops in the Rue de la Paix, and who had such a cruel and improvident husband—the poor sister had now become totally blind, and therefore dependent on Mademoiselle Duphot.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  So that Bertrand should have no further reason for sending messages or paying visits to her house, the gentlewoman took her daughter away with her to live with relatives in the country. And shortly afterwards, Bertrand was recalled by his nobles and returned home, having been assured that the Countess had gone away. On hearing that he had left Florence and returned to his estates, the Countess was overjoyed. She herself remained in Florence until the time came for her confinement, when she gave birth to twin sons who were the image of their father. She took special care to have them properly nursed, and when she considered the time to be ripe, she set out with the children and succeeded in reaching Montpelier4 without being recognized. There she rested for a few days, making inquiries concerning the Count and his whereabouts, and on learning that he would be holding a magnificent feast for his lords and ladies on All Saints’ Day in Roussillon, she too made her way there, still attired in the pilgrim’s garb to which she had by now become accustomed. Arriving at the Count’s palace, she heard all the lords and ladies talking together prior to sitting at table, and so she made her way up to the hall, still wearing the same clothes and carrying the two infants in her arms, and threaded her way through the guests until, catching sight of the Count, she flung herself at his feet and burst into tears, saying: ‘My lord, behold your unfortunate bride, who has suffered the pangs of a long and bitter exile so that you could return and settle in your ancestral home. I now beseech you, in God’s name, to observe the conditions you imposed upon me through the agency of those two knights I sent to you. Here in my arms I carry, not merely one of your children, but two; and here is your ring. So the time has come for you to honour your promise and accept me as your wife.’ The Count could scarcely believe his ears, yet had to admit that the ring was his and that the children, since they resembled him so exactly, must also be his. All he could find to say was: ‘How can this have happened?’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  The walls of the town would be covered with flowers, jasmine, plumbago and bougainvillea. But they would not linger in old Orotava; pressing on they would climb always up and up to the region of health and trailing arbutus, and beyond that again to the higher slopes that had once been the home of a mighty forest. Now, only a few Spanish chestnut trees remained to mark the decline of that forest. Sometimes they took their luncheon along, and when they did this young Pedro went with them, for he it was who must drive the mule that carried Concha’s ample lunch-basket. Pedro adored these impromptu excursions, they made an excuse for neglecting the garden. He would saunter along chewing blades of grass, or the stem of some flower he had torn from a wall; or perhaps he would sing softly under his breath, for he knew many songs of his native island. But if the mule Celestino should stumble, or presume, in his turn, to tear flowers from a wall, then Pedro would suddenly cease his soft singing and shout guttural remarks to old Celestino: ‘Vaya, burro! Celestino, arre! Arre—boo!’ he would shout with a slap, so that Celestino must swallow his flowers in one angry gulp, before having a sly kick at Pedro. The lunch would be eaten in the cool upland air, while the beasts stood near at hand, placidly grazing. Against a sky of incredible blueness the Peak would gleam as though powdered with crystal—Teide, mighty mountain of snow with the heart of fire and the brow of crystal. Down the winding tracks would come goats with their herds, the tinkle of goat-bells breaking the stillness. And as all such things have seemed wonderful to lovers throughout the ages, even so now they seemed very wonderful to Mary and Stephen. There were days when, leaving the uplands for the vale, they would ride past the big banana plantations and the glowing acres of ripe tomatoes. Geraniums and agaves would be growing side by side in the black volcanic dust of the roadway. From the stretching Valley of Orotava they would see the rugged line of the mountains. The mountains would look blue, like the African nights, all save Teide, clothed in her crystalline whiteness. And now while they sat together in the garden at evening, there would sometimes come beggars, singing; ragged fellows who played deftly on their guitars and sang songs whose old melodies hailed from Spain, but whose words sprang straight from the heart of the island: ‘A-a-a-y! Before I saw thee I was at peace, But now I am tormented because I have seen thee. Take away mine eyes oh, enemy! Oh, belovèd! Take away mine eyes, for they have turned me to fire. My blood is as the fire in the heart of Teide. A-a-a-y!

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And so they were secretly in love with each other. The young woman was longing to be with him, and being unwilling to confide in anyone on the subject of her love, she thought of a novel idea for informing him how they could meet. Having written him a letter, explaining what he was to do in order to be with her on the following day, she inserted it into a length of reed, which later on she handed to Guiscardo, saying as though for the fun of it: ‘Turn it into a bellows-pipe for your serving-wench, so that she can use it to kindle the fire this evening.’ Guiscardo took it and went about his business, reflecting that she could hardly have given it to him or spoken as she had without some special motive. As soon as he returned home, he examined the reed, saw that it was split, opened it, and found her letter inside. And when he had read it and taken careful note of what he was to do, he was the happiest man that ever lived, and set about making his preparations for going to see her in the way she had suggested. Inside the mountain on which the Prince’s palace stood, there was a cavern, formed at some remote period of the past, which was partially lit from above through a shaft driven into the hillside. But since the cavern was no longer used, the mouth of the shaft was almost entirely covered over by weeds and brambles. There was a secret staircase leading to the cavern from a room occupied by the lady, on the ground-floor of the palace, but the way was barred by a massive door. So many years had passed since the staircase had last been used, that hardly anybody remembered it was still there; but Love, to whose eyes nothing remains concealed, had reminded the enamoured lady of its existence. For several days, she had been struggling to open this door by herself, using certain implements of her own as picklocks so that no one should perceive what was afoot. Having finally got it open, she had descended alone into the cavern, seen the shaft, and written to Guiscardo, giving him a rough idea of the distance between the top of the shaft and the floor of the cavern, and telling him to try and use the shaft as his means of access. With this object in view, Guiscardo promptly got hold of a suitable length of rope, tied various knots and loops in it to allow him to climb up and down, and the following night, without breathing a word to anyone, he made his way to the shaft, wearing a suit of leather to protect himself from the brambles. Firmly tying one end of the rope to a stout bush that had taken root at the mouth of the opening, he lowered himself into the cavern and waited for the lady to come.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Brighter than ever looked the patches of sky when glimpsed between rows of tall, flat-bosomed houses. From the Pont des Arts could be seen a river that was one wide, ingratiating smile of sunshine; while beyond in the Rue des Petits Champs, spring ran up and down the Passage Choiseul, striking gleams of gold from its dirty glass roof—the roof that looks like the vertebral column of some prehistoric monster. All over the Bois there was bursting of buds—a positive orgy of growth and greenness. The miniature waterfall lifted its voice in an effort to roar as loud as Niagara. Birds sang. Dogs yapped or barked or bayed according to their size and the tastes of their owners. Children appeared in the Champs Elysées with bright coloured balloons which tried to escape and which, given the ghost of a chance, always did so. In the Tuileries Gardens boys with brown legs and innocent socks were hiring toy boats from the man who provided Bateaux de Location. The fountains tossed clouds of spray into the air, and just for fun made an occasional rainbow; then the Arc de Triomphe would be seen through an arc that was, thanks to the sun, even more triumphal. As for the very old lady in her kiosk—the one who sells bocks, groseille, limonade, and such simple food-stuffs as brioches and croissants—as for her, she appeared in a new frilled bonnet and a fine worsted shawl on one memorable Sunday. Smiling she was too, from ear to ear, in spite of the fact that her mouth was toothless, for this fact she only remembered in winter when the east wind started her empty gums aching. Under the quiet, grey wings of the Madeleine the flower-stalls were bright with the glory of God—anemones, jonquils, daffodils, tulips; mimosa that left gold dust on the fingers, and the faintly perfumed ascetic white lilac that had come in the train from the Riviera. There were also hyacinths, pink, red and blue, and many small trees of sturdy azalea. Oh, but the spring was shouting through Paris! It was in the hearts and the eyes of the people. The very dray-horses jangled their bells more loudly because of the spring in their drivers. The debauched old taxis tooted their horns and spun round the corners as though on a race track. Even such glacial things as the diamonds in the Rue de la Paix, were kindled to fire as the sun pierced their facets right through to their entrails; while the sapphires glowed as those African nights had glowed in the garden at Orotava. Was it likely that Stephen could finish her book—she who had Paris in springtime with Mary? Was it likely that Mary could urge her to do so—she who had Paris in springtime with Stephen?

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Oh, Father,’ replied the girl in all innocence, ‘if I really do have a Hell, let’s do as you suggest just as soon as you are ready.’ ‘God bless you, my daughter,’ said Rustico. ‘Let us go and put him back, and then perhaps he’ll leave me alone.’ At which point he conveyed the girl to one of their beds, where he instructed her in the art of incarcerating that accursed fiend. Never having put a single devil into Hell before, the girl found the first experience a little painful, and she said to Rustico: ‘This devil must certainly be a bad lot, Father, and a true enemy of God, for as well as plaguing mankind, he even hurts Hell when he’s driven back inside it.’ ‘Daughter,’ said Rustico, ‘it will not always be like that.’ And in order to ensure that it wouldn’t, before moving from the bed they put him back half a dozen times, curbing his arrogance to such good effect that he was positively glad to keep still for the rest of the day. During the next few days, however, the devil’s pride frequently reared its head again, and the girl, ever ready to obey the call to duty and bring him under control, happened to develop a taste for the sport, and began saying to Rustico: ‘I can certainly see what those worthy men in Gafsa meant when they said that serving God was so agreeable. I don’t honestly recall ever having done anything that gave me so much pleasure and satisfaction as I get from putting the devil back in Hell. To my way of thinking, anyone who devotes his energies to anything but the service of God is a complete blockhead.’ She thus developed the habit of going to Rustico at frequent intervals, and saying to him: ‘Father, I came here to serve God, not to idle away my time. Let’s go and put the devil back in Hell.’ And sometimes, in the middle of their labours, she would say: ‘What puzzles me, Rustico, is that the devil should ever want to escape from Hell. Because if he liked being there as much as Hell enjoys receiving him and keeping him inside, he would never go away at all.’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen listened, nodding from time to time. Yes, of course she could have her white fan-tailed pigeons, and her bulbs, and her roses, could have anything she pleased, if only she would get quite well and be happy. At this Mary laughed: ‘Oh, Stephen, my dear—don’t you know that I’m really terribly happy?’ Pierre came in with the evening letters; there was one from Anna and another from Puddle. There was also a lengthy epistle from Brockett who was praying, it seemed, for demobilization. Once released, he must go for a few weeks to England, but after that he was coming to Paris. He wrote: ‘I’m longing to see you again and Valérie Seymour. By the way, how goes it? Valérie writes that you never rang her up. It’s a pity you’re so unsociable, Stephen; unwholesome, I call it, you’ll be bagging a shell like a hermit crab, or growing hairs on your chin, or a wart on your nose, or worse still a complex. You might even take to a few nasty habits towards middle life—better read Ferenczi! Why were you so beastly to Valérie, I wonder? She is such a darling and she likes you so much, only the other day she wrote: “When you see Stephen Gordon give her my love, and tell her that nearly all streets in Paris lead sooner or later to Valérie Seymour.” You might write her a line, and you might write to me—already I’m finding your silence suspicious. Are you in love? I’m just crazy to know, so why deny me that innocent pleasure? After all, we’re told to rejoice with those who rejoice—may I send my congratulations? Vague but exciting rumours have reached me. And by the way, Valérie’s very forgiving, so don’t feel shy about telephoning to her. She’s one of those highly developed souls who bob up serenely after a snubbing, as do I, your devoted Brockett.’ Stephen glanced at Mary as she folded the letter: ‘Isn’t it time you went off to bed?’ ‘Don’t send me away.’ ‘I must, you’re so tired. Come on, there’s a good child, you look tired and sleepy.’ ‘I’m not a bit sleepy!’ ‘All the same it’s high time. . . .’ ‘Are you coming?’ ‘Not yet, I must answer some letters.’ Mary got up, and just for a moment their eyes met, then Stephen looked away quickly: ‘Good night, Mary. ’ ‘Stephen . . . won’t you kiss me good night? It’s our first night together here in your home. Stephen, do you know that you’ve never kissed me?’ The clock chimed ten; a rose on the desk fell apart, its over-blown petals disturbed by that almost imperceptible vibration. Stephen’s heart beat thickly. ‘Do you want me to kiss you?’ ‘More than anything else in the world,’ said Mary. Then Stephen suddenly came to her senses, and she managed to smile: ‘Very well, my dear.’