Sadness

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.

Page 13 of 212 · 20 per page

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But he waited just the same, thinking it would be unwise of him to leave. In his luggage he had three fine rich robes, which had been given to him by other noble lords, so that he would cut a graceful figure at the festivities. And since the innkeeper was demanding payment, he first gave him one of these, and then, after staying a while longer, he was compelled to give him the second, since otherwise he would have had to leave the inn altogether. Then he began to live off the third, having decided to stay until he had seen how long it would last, and then go away. Now while he was living off this third robe, he happened one day to be standing with a very gloomy expression on his face, in front of the table where Can Grande was dining. More out of a desire to tease him than to be entertained by any of his witticisms, Can Grande looked towards him and said: ‘Bergamino, what is the matter? You are looking so sad! Say something to us.’ Without a moment’s reflection, yet with all the fluency of a speech prepared long in advance, Bergamino suddenly came out with a story relevant to his own case, which ran as follows: ‘My lord, I must begin by telling you that Primas 3 was a very great grammarian and had no equal as a quick and gifted versifier. These two qualities made him so famous and respected, that even though he was not known everywhere by sight, his name and reputation were such that there was hardly anybody who did not know who Primas was. ‘Now it happened that once, while living in Paris in a state of poverty (which was the way he mostly lived, for his abilities were little appreciated by those who were rich enough to help him), he heard mention of a certain abbot of Cluny, 4 who was believed to have a higher revenue from his estates than any other prelate in God’s Church, with the exception of the Pope. He heard people saying wonderful and magnificent things about this Abbot, for instance that he always held open court and that nobody who called upon him was ever refused food and drink, provided only that he asked for it while the Abbot was at table. When Primas heard this, he decided, being a man who enjoyed seeing gentlemen and princes, that he would go and discover for himself how splendidly the Abbot lived, and he inquired how far it was from Paris to his residence. On being told it was a distance of about six miles, Primas calculated that by setting out early in the morning he could reach the place in time for breakfast.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘My darling Salabaetto, I implore you to remember that just as my person is yours to enjoy, so everything I have here is yours, and all that I can do is at your command.’ Salabaetto took her in his arms and kissed her, then walked jauntily forth from the house and made his way down to that part of the city where his fellow merchants forgathered. From then on he consorted with her regularly without spending so much as a farthing, becoming ever more deeply enamoured. And when, eventually, he disposed of his woollen goods for ready money at a substantial profit, the good lady was immediately informed, though not by Salabaetto himself. On the following evening, Salabaetto called to see her, and she began to jest and frolic with him, kissing and hugging him with such a show of burning passion that it seemed she would die of love in his arms. And she kept asking him to accept a pair of exquisite silver goblets, which Salabaetto refused to take, having at one time and another had presents from her worth at least thirty gold florins, without ever managing to persuade her to take so much as a silver groat in return. At length, however, when she had worked him up into a frenzy of excitement with her display of passion and generosity, she was called away from the room by one of her slave-girls, acting upon instructions received beforehand from her mistress. After a brief absence she returned, her eyes full of tears, and hurling herself face downwards on the bed, she began to give vent to the most piteous wailings that ever issued from a woman’s lips, much to the astonishment of Salabaetto, who took her in his arms, and mingling his own tears with hers, he said: ‘Ah, dearest heart of my body, what has happened to you so suddenly? What is the cause of all this sorrow? Ah! do tell me, my darling.’ After allowing Salabaetto to coax and cajole her for some little time, the lady replied:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  However, she would have nothing to do with his proposals, and so he left her with his wife, bidding her to arrange for food to be brought, and, since the woman was all in rags, to let her have some of her own clothes to wear. But most important, she was to do all she could to bring her back to the ship. On being left alone with Beritola, Currado’s wife shed countless tears over the lady’s misfortunes, then she gave instructions for food and clothes to be brought, which she had the greatest difficulty in persuading her to accept. And finally, after a stream of entreaties, with Madonna Beritola asserting that on no account would she go to any place in which she was known, she persuaded her to accompany them to Lunigiana, bringing with her the doe and the two rocbucks. The doe had meanwhile, in fact, returned, and, to the no small astonishment of Currado’s wife, it had greeted Beritola with a display of affection. And so, once the weather had improved, Madonna Beritola embarked on the ship with Currado and his lady, taking with her the doe and the two roebucks, a circumstance which, since few people knew her real name, led to her being referred to as Cavriuola. 5 The winds were favourable, and they soon reached the mouth of the River Magra, where they left the ship and proceeded to Currado’s estates in the hills. After her arrival at the castle, Madonna Beritola, dressed in widow’s weeds, began to live a humble, secluded and obedient life as a maid of honour to Currado’s lady, at the same time continuing to treat her roebucks with affection and ensuring that they were properly fed. Meanwhile, the pirates who had unwittingly abandoned Madonna Beritola at Ponza and seized the ship on which she had been travelling, had arrived at

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And that’s all there is to it, father.’ She was still sobbing uncontrollably when, having come to the end of her speech, she extracted a very splendid, expensive-looking purse from beneath her cloak together with a gorgeous little belt, and hurled them into the lap of the friar, who, being fully taken in by her story, was feeling exceedingly distressed and accepted them without any question. ‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘I am not surprised that you are so upset by what has happened, and I certainly cannot blame you. On the contrary, I am full of admiration for the way you have followed my advice in this affair. He has obviously failed to keep the promise he gave me the other day, when I first took him to task. Nevertheless, I believe that this latest outrage of his, following in the wake of his earlier misdemeanours, will enable me to give him such a severe scolding that he will not trouble you any further. In the meantime, you must with God’s blessing contain your anger and refrain from informing any of your relatives, because that could bring him altogether too heavy a punishment. Never fear that this will harm your good name, for I shall always be here to bear unwavering witness, whether before God or before men, to your virtuous nature.’ The lady gave the appearance of being somewhat mollified, and then, knowing how covetous he and his fellow friars were, she moved on to another subject. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘for the past few nights I have been dreaming about various departed relatives of mine, and they all appear to be suffering dreadful torments and continually asking for alms, especially my mother, who seems to be in such a state of affliction and misery that it would break your heart to see her. I think she is suffering abominably at seeing me persecuted like this by that enemy of God, and hence I should like you to pray for their souls and say the forty masses of Saint Gregory, 1 so that God may release them from this scourging fire.’ And so saying, she slipped a florin into his hand. The reverend friar gleefully pocketed the money, and having poured out a torrent of fine words and pious tales to reinforce her godliness, he gave her his blessing and let her go. Unaware that he had been hoodwinked, the friar watched her depart and then summoned his friend, who realized as soon as he arrived, from the friar’s agitated appearance, that he was about to receive some news from the lady, and waited to hear what the friar had to say. The latter repeated all that he had said to him previously, and for the second time, angrily and without mincing his words, gave him a severe scolding for what the lady alleged he had done.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “That was my problem when I married Hugo.” The sadness in her voice made it even more melodic. “I was twenty. He was twenty-four. And neither of us had had any experience with sex. I was much too shy to tell him how to please me, so he couldn’t learn.” She must have seen the shock on my face because she quickly added, touching my hand, “This is entre nous. Do you know that term?” “Between us only. Yes.” “For the first two years of our marriage, I remained a virgin, because he was so afraid of hurting me. Then we went to a doctor who talked to Hugo, and after that he was able to penetrate me. It did hurt, though, because he was too large for me.” I tried not to show my fear and repugnance, but it was no use. “Don’t be afraid. It is unusual; and even so, if he had known how to prepare a woman so that her juices made her ready, it would not have been so much a problem. But he had developed bad habits during the time that we both thought only of his pleasure.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  SEVENTH STORY Bergamino, with the help of a story about Primas and the Abbot of Cluny, tellingly chides Can Grande della Scala for a sudden fit of parsimony . Emilia’s story, and the vivacious manner of its telling, provoked the laughter of the whole company, including the queen, and everybody applauded the crusader’s novel interpretation of the gospel. When the laughter subsided and they were all quiet again, Filostrato, whose turn it was to tell a story, began to speak as follows: Excellent ladies, it is a fine thing to strike a sitting target. But when an archer takes sudden aim, and hits an unusual object that has suddenly appeared from nowhere, his achievement is well-nigh miraculous. It is not unduly difficult, for anyone so inclined, to discuss, criticize and admonish the clergy for their foul and corrupt way of life, which in many ways resembles a sitting target of evil. And although our honest man did well to pierce the self-esteem of the inquisitor by pointing out the hypocrisy of friars who offer in alms to the poor what they should be giving to the pigs or throwing down the drain, I feel that the hero of my story (for which I have taken my cue from the previous tale) is the more worthy of praise; for this man censured a great prince, Can Grande della Scala, 1 for a quite unwonted and sudden fit of miserliness, by telling a charming tale in which he represented, through others, what he wanted to say about himself and Can Grande. My story runs as follows: It is a matter of very common knowledge throughout the greater part of the world that Can Grande della Scala, upon whom Fortune smiled in so many of his deeds, was one of the most outstanding and munificent princes that Italy has known since the Emperor Frederick the Second. 2 He once arranged to hold a splendid and marvellous festival at Verona to which many people would be coming from all over the place, in particular court-entertainers of various kinds. But for reasons of his own, he suddenly changed his mind about it, offered token presents to those who had come, and sent them all packing. The only person to receive neither present nor congé was a certain Bergamino, a conversationalist of quite extraordinary wit and brilliance, who lingered on in the hope that it would eventually turn out to his advantage. But Can Grande had the fixed idea that whatever he gave to this man would be more surely wasted than if he had thrown it into the fire. He did not, however, say anything personally to Bergamino about this, nor did he have him told by others. Several days went by, and Bergamino, receiving neither a summons to the Duke’s table nor any request for his professional services, began to feel the crippling expense of staying at the inn with his servants and horses, and fell into a state of melancholy.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  5 But do not leave her to be devoured by the beasts and the birds, unless that is what he has ordered you to do.’ The servant took away the little girl and reported Griselda’s words to Gualtieri, who, marvelling at her constancy, sent him with the child to a kinswoman of his in Bologna, requesting her to rear and educate her carefully, but without ever making it known whose daughter she was. Then it came about that his wife once more became pregnant, and in due course she gave birth to a son, which pleased Gualtieri enormously. But not being content with the mischief he had done already, he abused her more viciously than ever, and one day he glowered at her angrily and said: ‘Woman, from the day you produced this infant son, the people have made my life a complete misery, so bitterly do they resent the thought of a grandson of Giannùcole succeeding me as their lord. So unless I want to be deposed, I’m afraid I shall be forced to do as I did before, and eventually to leave you and marry someone else.’ His wife listened patiently, and all she replied was: ‘My lord, look to your own comfort, see that you fulfil your wishes, and spare no thought for me, since nothing brings me pleasure unless it pleases you also.’ Before many days had elapsed, Gualtieri sent for his son in the same way that he had sent for his daughter, and having likewise pretended to have had the child put to death, he sent him, like the little girl, to Bologna. To all of this his wife reacted no differently, either in her speech or in her looks, than she had on the previous occasion, much to the astonishment of Gualtieri, who told himself that no other woman could have remained so impassive. But for the fact that he had observed her doting upon the children for as long as he allowed her to do so, he would have assumed that she was glad to be rid of them, whereas he knew that she was too judicious to behave in any other way. His subjects, thinking he had caused the children to be murdered, roundly condemned him and judged him a cruel tyrant, whilst his wife became the object of their deepest compassion. But to the women who offered her their sympathy in the loss of her children, all she ever said was that the decision of their father was good enough for her. Many years after the birth of his daughter, Gualtieri decided that the time had come to put Griselda’s patience to the final test. So he told a number of his men that in no circumstances could he put up with Griselda as his wife any longer, having now come to realize that his marriage was an aberration of his youth.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  them has the pig. They’d guess what we were up to, and stay away.’ ‘What’s to be done, then?’ asked Buffalmacco. ‘What we ought to do,’ Bruno replied, ‘is to use the best ginger sweets we can get hold of, along with some fine Vernaccia wine, and invite them round for a drink. They wouldn’t suspect anything, and they’d all turn up. And it’s just as easy to bless ginger sweets as it is to bless bread and cheese.’ ‘You certainly have a point there,’ said Buffalmacco. ‘What do you say, Calandrino? Shall we give it a try?’ ‘Of course,’ said Calandrino. ‘Let’s do that, for the love of God. If only I could find out who took it, I shouldn’t feel half so miserable about it!’ ‘That’s settled then,’ said Bruno. ‘Now I’d be quite willing to go to Florence and get these things for you, if you’ll give me the money.’ Calandrino gave him all the money he had, which amounted to about forty pence, and so Bruno went to Florence and called on a friend of his, who was an apothecary. Having bought a pound of the best ginger sweets he had in stock, he got him to make two special ones, consisting of dog ginger 2 seasoned with fresh hepatic aloes; then he had these coated with sugar, like the rest, and so as not to lose them or confuse them with the others, he had a tiny mark put on them which enabled him to recognize them without any difficulty. And having bought a flask of fine Vernaccia, he returned to Calandrino’s place in the country, and said to him: ‘See to it that you invite all the people you suspect to come and drink with you tomorrow morning. It’s a holiday, so they’ll all come readily enough. Tonight, along with Buffalmacco, I shall cast a spell on the sweets, and bring them round to your house first thing tomorrow morning. I shall hand the sweets out myself, to save you the trouble, and I shall pronounce all the right words and do all the right things.’ Calandrino issued the invitations, and next morning a goodly crowd of people assembled round the elm in front of the church, of whom some were farmworkers and others were young Florentines who happened to be staying in the country. Then along came Bruno and Buffalmacco with the box of sweets and the flask of wine, and having got them to stand in a circle, Bruno made the following announcement: ‘Gentlemen, I must explain to you why you are here, so that if you should take offence at anything that happens, you won’t go and blame it on me. The night before last, Calandrino, who is here among us, was robbed of a fine fat pig, and he can’t find out who has taken it.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  In Bologna, then, that illustrious city in the Lombard plain, there once lived a gentleman called Messer Gentile de’ Carisendi,1 distinguished for his valour and noble blood, who whilst still in his youth became enamoured of a gentlewoman, Madonna Catalina by name, who was the wife of a certain Niccoluccio Caccianimico. But because his love for the lady was ill-requited he almost despaired of it and went away to Modena, where he had been appointed to the office of podestà. At the time of which we are speaking, Niccoluccio was absent from Bologna, and his wife, being pregnant, was staying at an estate of his, some three miles distant from the city, where she had the misfortune to contract a sudden and cruel malady, whose effects were so powerful and serious that all sign of life in her was extinguished, and consequently she was adjudged, even by her physicians, to be dead. Since her closest women relatives claimed to have heard from her own lips that she had not been pregnant sufficiently long for the unborn creature to be perfectly formed, they troubled themselves no further on that score, and after shedding many tears, they buried her, just as she was, in a tomb in the local church. The news of the lady’s demise was immediately reported to Messer Gentile by one of his friends, and despite the fact that she had never exactly smothered him with her favours, he was quite overcome with sorrow. But at length he said to himself: ‘So, Madonna Catalina, you are dead! You never accorded me so much as a single glance when you were alive; but now that you are dead, and cannot reject my love, I am determined to steal a kiss or two from you.’ Night had already fallen, and having made arrangements to depart in secret, he took horse with one of his servants, riding without pause2 till he came to the place where the lady was buried. Having opened up the tomb, he made his way cautiously inside, and lying down beside her, he drew his face to hers and kissed her again and again, shedding tears profusely as he did so. But as every woman knows, no sooner does a man obtain one thing, especially if he happens to be in love, than he wants something else; and just as Messer Gentile had made up his mind to tarry there no longer, he said to himself: ‘Ah! why should I not place my hand gently on her breast, now that I am here? I have never touched her before, and I shall never have another opportunity.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  SIXTH STORY Madonna Beritola, having lost her two sons, is found on an island with two roebucks and taken to Lunigiana, where one of her sons, having entered the service of her lord and master, makes love to the daughter of the house and is thrown into prison. After the Sicilian rebellion against King Charles, the son is recognized by his mother, he marries his master’s daughter, he is reunited with his brother, and they are all restored to positions of great honour . The whole company, ladies and young men alike, rocked with laughter over Fiammetta’s account of Andreuccio’s misfortunes, and then Emilia, on seeing that the story was finished and receiving a signal from the queen, began as follows: The erratic course pursued by Fortune frequently leads to pain and irritation. But since our mental faculties, which are easily lulled to sleep by her blandishments, are aroused as often as a subject is openly discussed, I consider that nobody, whether he be happy or miserable, should ever object to hearing an account of her eccentricities, in that the first man will be placed on his guard and the second will receive some consolation. Accordingly, I propose to tell you a story, no less true than touching, on this same topic upon which such splendid things have already been said. And whilst my tale has a happy ending, the suffering contained therein was so intense and protracted, that I can scarcely believe it was ever entirely assuaged by the happiness that ensued. You are to know, dear ladies, that Manfred, 1 who was crowned King of Sicily after the death of the Emperor Frederick II, held few of his courtiers in higher esteem man a gentleman of Naples called Arrighetto Capece, who had a beautiful and noble wife, also Neapolitan, called Madonna Beritola Caracciolo. 2 Arrighetto was in fact governing the island, when news reached him that King Charles I had defeated and killed Manfred at Benevento, and that the whole kingdom had gone over to the conqueror. Knowing that the Sicilians could never be trusted for long, and not wishing to become a subject of his master’s enemy, he prepared to flee. But his plans were discovered by the Sicilians, who promptly took him prisoner and delivered him over to King Charles along with many other friends and servants of King Manfred. And shortly afterwards, the island itself was surrendered. In the face of all this upheaval, not knowing what had become of Arrighetto, frightened by what had happened and fearing a possible attempt on her own honour, Madonna Beritola abandoned everything she possessed, and though pregnant and reduced to poverty, she fled by ship to Lipari with her son, Giusfredi, who was about eight years old. There she gave birth to a second son, whom she called The Outcast, and having hired a nurse, she embarked with all three on a tiny ship bound for Naples, with the intention of rejoining her family.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  No sooner had the tables been removed than Filostrato, wishing to follow the same path that the ladies crowned before him had taken, called upon Lauretta to dance and sing them a song. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘the only songs I know are the ones I have composed myself, and of those I remember, none is especially apt for so merry a gathering as this. But if you would like me to sing you one, I will gladly oblige.’ ‘Nothing of yours could be other than pleasing and beautiful,’ replied the king. ‘Sing it, therefore, exactly as you wrote it.’ And so, in mellifluous but somewhat plaintive tones, Lauretta began as follows, and the other ladies repeated the refrain after each verse: ‘None has need for lamentation More than have I Who, alas, all sick for love In vain do sigh. ‘He who moves the stars and heavens 3 Decreed me at my birth Light, lovely, graceful, fair to see, To show men here on earth Some sign of that eternal grace That shines for ever in His face. But I went all unprized Because of men’s unknowing And mortal imperfection Spurned and despised! ‘One man once loved me dearly. In his embrace He held me, and in all his thoughts I held high place. My eyes with love inflamed him And all my time I spent, Which flew by all so lightly, In tender blandishment. But now I am forsaken; From me, alas, he’s taken. ‘And now there came before me A youth all proud and vain Though noble reputation Gave him a valiant name. He took me, and false fancies, Alas for me! Made him a jealous gaoler: Gone liberty! And I, who came to earth To bring mankind delight Learned to despair, almost, Gone all my mirth! ‘I curse my wretched fate When I agreed To change to wedding clothes From widow’s weeds. Though they were dark, perhaps, My life was fair; but now I live a weary life, With far less honour, too. Oh cursed wedding-tie! Before I took those vows That brought me to this pass Would God had let me die! ‘Oh, sweetest love, with whom I once was so content! From where you stand, with Him To whom our souls are sent, Ah, spare some pity for me For I cannot remove Your memory which burns me With all the pain of love! Ah, pray that I may soon return To those sweet climes for which I yearn!’ Here Lauretta ended her song, to which all had listened raptly and construed in different ways. There were those who took it, in the Milanese fashion, 4 to imply that a good fat pig was better than a comely wench. But others gave it a loftier, more subtle and truer meaning, which this is not the moment to expound.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Mademoiselle Duphot shed a few tears: ‘I find you only to lose you, Stévenne. Ah, but how many friends will be parted, perhaps for ever, by this terrible war—and yet what else could we do? We are blameless!’ In Berlin people were also saying: ‘What else could we do? We are blameless!’ Julie’s hand lingered on Stephen’s arm: ‘You feel so strong,’ she said, sighing a little, ‘it is good to be strong and courageous these days, and to have one’s eyes—alas, I am quite useless.’ ‘No one is useless who can pray, my sister,’ reproved Mademoiselle almost sternly. And indeed there were many who thought as she did, the churches were crowded all over France. A great wave of piety swept through Paris, filling the dark confessional boxes, so that the priests had now some ado to cope with such shoals of penitent people—the more so as every priest fit to fight had been summoned to join the army. Up at Montmartre the church of the Sacré Cœur echoed and re-echoed with the prayers of the faithful, while those prayers that were whispered with tears in secret, hung like invisible clouds round its altars. ‘Save us, most Sacred Heart of Jesus. Have pity upon us, have pity upon France. Save us, oh, Heart of Jesus!’ So all day long must the priests sit and hear the time-honoured sins of body and spirit; a monotonous hearing because of its sameness, since nothing is really new under the sun, least of all our manner of sinning. Men who had not been to Mass for years, now began to remember their first Communion; thus it was that many a hardy blasphemer, grown suddenly tongue-tied and rather sheepish, clumped up to the altar in his new army boots, having made an embarrassed confession. Young clericals changed into uniform and marched side by side with the roughest Poilus, to share in their hardships, their hopes, their terrors, their deeds of supremest valour. Old men bowed their heads and gave of the strength which no longer animated their bodies, gave of that strength through the bodies of their sons who would charge into battle shouting and singing. Women of all ages knelt down and prayed, since prayer has long been the refuge of women. ‘No one is useless who can pray, my sister.’ The women of France had spoken through the lips of the humble Mademoiselle Duphot. Stephen and Puddle said good-bye to the sisters, then went on to Buisson’s Academy of Fencing, where they found him engaged upon greasing his foils.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  The old station fly that had come out from Malvern, drove up, and the footman seized Mademoiselle’s luggage. It was such meagre luggage that he waved back assistance from the driver, and lifted the trunk single-handed. Then Mademoiselle Duphot broke out into English—heaven only knew why, perhaps from emotion. ‘It’s not farewell, it shall not be for ever—’ she sobbed. ‘You come, but I feel it, to Paris. We meet once more, Stévenne, my poor little baby, when you grow up bigger, we two meet once more—’ And Stephen, already taller than she was, longed to grow small again, just to please Mademoiselle. Then, because the French are a practical people even in moments of real emotion, Mademoiselle found her handbag, and groping in its depths she produced a half sheet of paper. ‘The address of my sister in Paris,’ she said, snuffling; ‘the address of my sister who makes little bags—if you should hear of anyone, Stévenne—any lady who would care to buy one little bag—’ ‘Yes, yes, I’ll remember,’ muttered Stephen. At last she was gone; the fly rumbled away down the drive and finally turned the corner. To the end a wet face had been thrust from the window, a wet handkerchief waved despondently at Stephen. The rain must have mingled with Mademoiselle’s tears, for the weather had broken and now it was raining. It was surely a desolate day for departure, with the mist closing over the Severn Valley and beginning to creep up the hillsides. . . . Stephen made her way to the empty schoolroom, empty of all save a general confusion; the confusion that stalks in some people’s trail—it had always stalked Mademoiselle Duphot. On the chairs, which stood crooked, lay odds and ends meaning nothing—crumpled paper, a broken shoehorn, a well-worn brown glove that had lost its fellow and likewise two of its buttons. On the table lay a much abused pink blotting pad, from which Stephen had torn off the corners, unchidden—it was crossed and re-crossed with elegant French script until its scarred face had turned purple. And there stood the bottle of purple ink, half-empty, and green round its neck with dribbles; and a pen with a nib as sharp as a pin point, a thin, peevish nib that jabbed at the paper. Chock-a-block with the bottle of purple ink lay a little piety card of St. Joseph that had evidently slipped out of Mademoiselle’s missal—St. Joseph looked very respectable and kind, like the fishmonger in Great Malvern. Stephen picked up the card and stared at St. Joseph; something was written across his corner; looking closer she read the minute handwriting: ‘Priez pour ma petite Stévenne.’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And now she exerted all her subtlety and skill to make this queer guest of hers talk more freely, and Angela’s subtlety was no mean thing, neither was her skill if she chose to exert it. Very gradually the girl became more at her ease; it was up-hill work but Angela triumphed, so that in the end Stephen talked about Morton, and a very little about herself also. And somehow, although Stephen appeared to be talking, she found that she was learning many things about her hostess; for instance, she learnt that Angela was lonely and very badly in need of her friendship. Most of Angela’s troubles seemed to centre round Ralph, who was not always kind and seldom agreeable. Remembering Ralph she could well believe this, and she said: ‘I don’t think your husband liked me.’ Angela sighed: ‘Very probably not. Ralph never likes the people I do; he objects to my friends on principle I think.’ Then Angela talked more openly of Ralph. Just now he was staying away with his mother, but next week he would be returning to The Grange, and then he was certain to be disagreeable: ‘Whenever he’s been with his mother he’s that way—she puts him against me, I never know why—unless, of course, it’s because I’m not English. I’m the stranger within the gates, it may be that.’ And when Stephen protested, ‘Oh, yes indeed, I’m quite often made to feel like a stranger. Take the people round here, do you think they like me?’ Then Stephen, who had not yet learnt to dissemble, stared hard at her shoes, in embarrassed silence. Just outside the door a clock boomed seven. Stephen started; she had been there nearly three hours. ‘I must go,’ she said, getting abruptly to her feet, ‘you look tired, I’ve been making a visitation.’ Her hostess made no effort to retain her: ‘Well,’ she smiled, ‘come again, please come very often—that is if you won’t find it dull, Miss Gordon; we’re terribly quiet here at The Grange.’ 3Stephen drove home slowly, for now that it was over she felt like a machine that had suddenly run down. Her nerves were relaxed, she was thoroughly tired, yet she rather enjoyed this unusual sensation. The hot June evening was heavy with thunder. From somewhere in the distance came the bleating of sheep, and the melancholy sound seemed to blend and mingle with her mood, which was now very gently depressed. A gentle but persistent sense of depression enveloped her whole being like a soft, grey cloak; and she did not wish to shake off this cloak, but rather to fold it more closely around her.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  After a brief absence she returned, her eyes full of tears, and hurling herself face downwards on the bed, she began to give vent to the most piteous wailings that ever issued from a woman’s lips, much to the astonishment of Salabaetto, who took her in his arms, and mingling his own tears with hers, he said: ‘Ah, dearest heart of my body, what has happened to you so suddenly? What is the cause of all this sorrow? Ah! do tell me, my darling.’ After allowing Salabaetto to coax and cajole her for some little time, the lady replied: ‘Alas, my sweet master, I know not what to do nor what to say. I have just received a letter from my brother, who writes from Messina, telling me that unless I send him a thousand gold florins without fail within the next seven days, by selling and pawning everything I have in the house, he will lose his head on the block. I have no idea how I am to find so large a sum at such short notice. If only I had a fortnight at my disposal, I should be able to raise twice the amount by collecting a certain sum of money that is owed to me, or I could sell one of the family estates. But since this is out of the question, I wish I’d been struck dead before this dreadful news had ever reached my ears...’ At which point she broke off, appearing sorely distressed, and the tears rolled down her cheeks in a never-ending torrent. Salabaetto, who in the heat of his amorous passion had mislaid a substantial part of his wits, thought that her tears were genuine, and her words even more so. And he replied: ‘Be of good cheer, my lady, for though I couldn’t supply you with a thousand, I could certainly let you have five hundred gold florins, if you are sure you can repay me within the next fortnight. Fortunately for you, I managed only yesterday to dispose of my cargo of woollens, otherwise I shouldn’t have been able to lend you a groat.’ ‘Do you mean to say,’ said the lady, ‘that you have been short of money? Why on earth didn’t you ask me for some? I don’t have a thousand, but I could easily have given you a hundred, and possibly two. And now that you have told me all this, I simply wouldn’t have the heart to accept your offer of assistance.’ Deeply touched by these sentiments, Salabaetto replied: ‘That is no reason for you to refuse, my lady. If my own need had been as great as yours, I should certainly have asked for your help.’ ‘Oh, my Salabaetto!’ exclaimed the lady. ‘I plainly perceive that your love for me is true and perfect, when without waiting to be asked for such a large sum of money, you freely offer to help me in my hour of need.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  All the people present implored Gualtieri to let her have a dress, so that she who had been his wife for thirteen years and more would not have to suffer the indignity of leaving his house in a shift, like a pauper; but their pleas were unavailing. And so Griselda, wearing a shift, barefoot, and with nothing to cover her head, having bidden them farewell, set forth from Gualtieri’s house and returned to her father amid the weeping and the wailing of all who set eyes upon her. Giannùcole, who had never thought it possible that Gualtieri would keep his daughter as his wife, and was daily expecting this to happen, had preserved the clothes she discarded on the morning Gualtieri had married her. So he brought them to her, and Griselda, having put them on, applied herself as before to the menial chores in her father’s house, bravely enduring the cruel assault of hostile Fortune. No sooner did Gualtieri drive Griselda away, than he gave his subjects to understand that he was betrothed to a daughter of one of the Counts of Panago.7 And having ordered that grandiose preparations were to be made for the nuptials, he sent for Griselda and said to her: ‘I am about to fetch home this new bride of mine, and from the moment she sets foot inside the house, I intend to accord her an honourable welcome. As you know, I have no women here who can set the rooms in order for me, or attend to many of the things that a festive occasion of this sort requires. No one knows better than you how to handle these household affairs, so I want you to make all the necessary arrangements. Invite all the ladies you need, and receive them as though you were mistress of the house. And when the nuptials are over, you can go back home to your father.’ Since Griselda was unable to lay aside her love for Gualtieri as readily as she had dispensed with her good fortune, his words pierced her heart like so many knives. But she replied: ‘My lord, I am ready to do as you ask.’8 And so, in her coarse, thick, woollen garments, Griselda returned to the house she had quitted shortly before in her shift, and started to sweep and tidy the various chambers. On her instructions, the beds were draped with hangings, the benches in the halls were suitably adorned, the kitchen was made ready; and she set her hand, as though she were a petty serving wench, to every conceivable household task, never stopping to draw breath until she had everything prepared and arranged as befitted the occasion.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And now it was Stephen’s turn to grow red. ‘My father died. . . .’ She hesitated, then finished abruptly, ‘I don’t live with my mother any more, I don’t live at Morton.’ Mademoiselle gasped. ‘You no longer live . . .’ she began, then something in Stephen’s face warned her kind but bewildered guest not to question. ‘I am deeply grieved to hear of your father’s death, my dear,’ she said very gently. Stephen answered: ‘Yes—I shall always miss him.’ There ensued a long, rather painful silence, during which Mademoiselle Duphot felt awkward. What had happened between the mother and daughter? It was all very strange, very disconcerting. And Stephen, why was she exiled from Morton? But Mademoiselle could not cope with these problems, she knew only that she wanted Stephen to be happy, and her kind brown eyes grew anxious, for she did not feel certain that Stephen was happy. Yet she dared not ask for an explanation, so instead she clumsily changed the subject. ‘When will you both come to tea with me, Stévenne?’ ‘We’ll come to-morrow if you like.’ Stephen told her. Mademoiselle Duphot left rather early; and all the way home to her apartment her mind felt exercised about Stephen. She thought: ‘She was always a strange little child, but so dear. I remember her when she was little, riding her pony astride like a boy; and how proud he would seem, that handsome Sir Philip—they would look more like father and son, those two. And now—is she not still a little bit strange?’ But these thoughts led her nowhere, for Mademoiselle Duphot was quite unacquainted with the bypaths of nature. Her innocent mind was untutored and trustful; she believed in the legend of Adam and Eve, and no careless mistakes had been made in their garden! 4The apartment in the Avenue de la Grande Armée was as tidy as Valérie’s had been untidy. From the miniature kitchen to the miniature salon, everything shone as though recently polished, for here in spite of restricted finances, no dust was allowed to harbour. Mademoiselle Duphot beamed on her guests as she herself opened the door to admit them. ‘For me this is very real joy,’ she declared. Then she introduced them to her sister Julie, whose eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  At Morton she stopped the car by the lakes and sat staring through the trees at the glint of water. For a long while she sat there without knowing why, unless it was that she wished to remember. But she found that she could not even be certain of the kind of dress that Angela had worn—it had been of some soft stuff, that much she remembered, so soft that it had easily torn, for the rest her memories of it were vague—though she very much wanted to remember that dress. A faint rumble of thunder came out of the west, where the clouds were banking up ominously purple. Some uncertain and rather hysterical swallows flew high and then low at the sound of the thunder. Her sense of depression was now much less gentle, it increased every moment, turning to sadness. She was sad in spirit and mind and body—her body felt dejected, she was sad all over. And now some one was whistling down by the stables, old Williams, she suspected, for the whistle was tuneless. The loss of his teeth had disgruntled his whistle; yes, she was sure that that must be Williams. A horse whinnied as one bucket clanked against another—sounds came clearly this evening; they were watering the horses. Anna’s young carriage horses would be pawing their straw, impatient because they were feeling thirsty. Then a gate slammed. That would be the gate of the meadow where the heifers were pastured—it was yellow with king-cups. One of the men from the home farm was going his rounds, securing all gates before sunset. Something dropped on the bonnet of the car with a ping. Looking up she met the eyes of a squirrel; he was leaning well forward on his tiny front paws, peering crossly; he had dropped his nut on the bonnet. She got out of the car and retrieved his supper, throwing it under his tree while he waited. Like a flash he was down and then back on his tree, devouring the nut with his legs well straddled. All around were the homely activities of evening, the watering of horses, the care of cattle—pleasant, peaceable things that preceded the peace and repose of the coming nightfall. And suddenly Stephen longed to share them, an immense need to share them leapt up within her, so that she ached with this urgent longing that was somehow a part of her bodily dejection.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She would think: ‘I must have been terribly mistaken,’ and would feel a great peace surge over her spirit. He might say, as they slowly jogged home to Morton: ‘Did you notice my youngster here take that stiff timber? Not bad for a five-year-old, he’ll do nicely.’ And perhaps he might add: ‘Put a three on that five, and then tell your old sire that he’s not so bad either! I’m fifty-three, Stephen, I’ll be going in the wind if I don’t knock off smoking quite soon, and that’s certain!’ Then Stephen would know that her father felt young, very young, and was wanting her to flatter him a little. But this mood would not last; it had often quite changed by the time that the two of them reached the stables. She would notice with a sudden pain in her heart that he stooped when he walked, not much yet, but a little. And she loved his broad back, she had always loved it—a kind, reassuring protective back. Then the thought would come that perhaps its great kindness had caused it to stoop as though bearing a burden; and the thought would come:’ He is bearing a burden, not his own, it’s some one else’s—but whose?’ CHAPTER 101C hristmas came and with it the girl’s eighteenth birthday, but the shadows that clung round her home did not lessen; nor could Stephen, groping about in those shadows, find a way to win through to the light. Every one tried to be cheerful and happy, as even sad people will do at Christmas, while the gardeners brought in huge bundles of holly with which to festoon the portraits of Gordons—rich, red-berried holly that came from the hills, and that year after year would be sent down to Morton. The courageous-eyed Gordons looked out from their wreaths unsmiling, as though they were thinking of Stephen. In the hall stood the Christmas-tree of her childhood, for Sir Philip loved the old German custom which would seem to insist that even the aged be as children and play with God on His birthday. At the top of the tree swung the little wax Christ-child in His spangled nightgown with gold and blue ribbons; and the little wax Christ-child bent downwards and sideways because, although small, He was rather heavy—or, as Stephen had thought when she too had been small, because He was trying to look for His presents.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  I recalled the character of Djuna in Anaïs’s novels, the calm, centered one who reminded me of Anaïs herself. “I still don’t have a Djuna,” I said. “She may not have fully emerged yet, but she’s there. Are you still writing a diary?” “No, I stopped.” “Oh no, why?” “I don’t have time. My studies. And, I don’t know, I don’t like to look at my writing.” “You are being too hard on yourself. The imperfections in a diary are part of the form. It’s a human document, full of stutterings. I hope you begin again.” “I will.” All the learning I’d crammed into my head in college had touched only my intellect. No one spoke to my emotional and inner life as she did. She said, “When I was your age, I longed for a woman writer to be my friend and guide.” Her melodic voice quivered with sadness. “I wrote to Djuna Barnes because I loved the novel she wrote, Nightwood.” “Did she write you back?” “No, she snubbed me.” I wondered if Anaïs realized that I’d felt snubbed when she’d broken off communication with me, but instead I asked, “Is Djuna Barnes’s name where you got the name for your character?” “No! My character is entirely different from Djuna Barnes, but I heard she complained that I used her first name. She also complained that I wear capes as she does. But that’s in tribute! In Paris, I admired her so much. I wanted to be part of her lesbian clique, but she rejected me.” Her face looked stricken, but then she straightened her spine and appeared to throw off the rejection, announcing with a professional air, “Djuna Barnes is a wonderful, mysterious writer. You should have her on your personal reading list. I can give you the names of many neglected women writers. I’ll type them up for you, and we can talk about them.” “Thank you!” I was delighted she’d begun to mentor me. We then fell into silence. I was uncomfortable, wanting to fill the space; but she, it seemed, was perfectly at ease, withdrawing into her private thoughts. After many moments she gave me a Mona Lisa smile and said, “I have to go to New York on business. I wonder if you might write a letter and mail it for me when I go.” “Sure.” I whipped out a steno book I’d packed in my bag, ready to take her dictation with the shorthand the nuns had insisted I learn. Her thin brows furled unevenly, one pinched in while the other lifted, and she added, “The letter should be addressed to me and it should begin formally: ‘Dear Anaïs Nin.’” “Okay.” I assumed there was a reason why she was dictating a letter addressed to herself. “What address?” “Could you get some stationery from your university?” “Maybe. I could ask the secretary in the English department office.”