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 18 of 212 · 20 per page

• From Carmina (-50)

  Vt flos in saeptis secretus nascitur hortis, ignotus pecori, nullo contusus aratro, 40 quem mulcent aurae, firmat sol, educat imber; multi illum pueri, multae optauere puellae: idem cum tenui carptus defloruit ungui, nulli illum pueri, nullae optauere puellae: sic uirgo, dum intacta manet, dum cara suis est; 45 cum castum amisit polluto corpore florem, nec pueris iucunda manet, nec cara puellis. Hymen o Hymenaee, Hymen ades o Hymenaee! IVVENES Vt uidua in nudo uitis quae nascitur aruo, numquam se extollit, numquam mitem educat uuam, 50 sed tenerum prono deflectens pondere corpus, iam iam contingit summum radice flagellum, hanc nulli agricolae, nulli coluere iuuenci: at si forte eadem est ulmo coniuncta marito, multi illam agricolae, multi accoluere iuuenci: 55 sic uirgo dum intacta manet, dum inculta senescit; cum par conubium maturo tempore adepta est, cara uiro magis et minus est inuisa parenti. et tu ne pugna cum tali coniuge uirgo, non aequom est pugnare, pater cui tradidit ipse. 60 ipse pater cum matre, quibus parere necesse est. . . . . . . . . uirginitas non tota tua est, ex parte parentum est, tertia pars patrist, pars est data tertia matri, tertia sola tua est: noli pugnare duobus, qui genero sua iura simul cum dote dederunt. 65 Hymen o Hymenaee, Hymen ades o Hymenaee! LXIII

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Morton so changed and yet so changeless. Changed because of those blue-clad figures, the lame, the halt and the partially blinded who had sought its peace and its kindly protection. Changeless because that protection and peace belonged to the very spirit of Morton. Mrs. Williams a widow; her niece melancholic ever since the groom Jim had been wounded and missing—they had married while he had been home on leave, and quite soon the poor soul was expecting a baby. Williams now dead of his third and last stroke, after having survived pneumonia. The swan called Peter no longer gliding across the lake on his white reflection, and in his stead an unmannerly offspring who struck out with his wings and tried to bite Stephen. The family vault where her father lay buried—the vault was in urgent need of repair—‘No men left, Miss Stephen, we’re that short of stonemasons; her ladyship’s bin complainin’ already, but it don’t be no use complainin’ these times.’ Raftery’s grave—a slab of rough granite: ‘In memory of a gentle and courageous friend, whose name was Raftery, after the poet.’ Moss on the granite half effacing the words; the thick hedge growing wild for the want of clipping. And her mother—a woman with snow-white hair and a face that was worn almost down to the spirit; a woman of quiet but uncertain movements, with a new trick of twisting the rings on her fingers. ‘It was good of you to come.’ ‘You sent for me, Mother.’ Long silences filled with the realization that all they dared hope for was peace between them—too late to go back—they could not retrace their steps even though there was now peace between them. Then those last poignant moments in the study together—memory, the old room was haunted by it—a man dying with love in his eyes that was deathless—a woman holding him in her arms, speaking words such as lovers will speak to each other. Memory—they’re the one perfect thing about me. ‘Stephen, promise to write when you’re out in France, I shall want to hear from you.’ ‘I promise, Mother.’ The return to London; Puddle’s anxious voice: ‘Well, how was she?’ ‘Very frail, you must go to Morton.’ Puddle’s sudden and almost fierce rebellion: ‘I would rather not go, I’ve made my choice, Stephen.’ ‘But I ask this for my sake, I’m worried about her—even if I weren’t going away, I couldn’t go back now and live at Morton—our living together would make us remember.’ ‘I remember too, Stephen, and what I remember is hard to forgive. It’s hard to forgive an injury done to some one one loves. . . .’ Puddle’s face, very white, very stern—strange to hear such words as these on the kind lips of Puddle. ‘I know, I know, but she’s terribly alone, and I can’t forget that my father loved her.’ A long silence, and then: ‘I’ve never yet failed you—and you’re right—I must go to Morton.’ Stephen’s thoughts stopped abruptly.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  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. 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:

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Then a queer little girl dressed up as young Nelson: ‘I’d like to be awfully hurt for you, Collins, the way that Jesus was hurt for sinners. . . .’ The potting shed smelling of earth and dampness, sagging a little on one side, lop-sided—Collins lying in the arms of the footman, Collins being kissed by him, wantonly, crudely—a broken flower pot in the hand of a child—rage, deep rage—a great anguish of spirit—blood on a face that was pale with amazement, very bright red blood that kept trickling and trickling—flight, wild, inarticulate flight, away and away, anyhow, anywhere—the pain of torn skin, the rip of torn stockings— She had not remembered these things for years, she had thought that all this had been quite forgotten; there was nothing to remind her of Collins these days but a fat, half-blind and pampered old pony. Strange how these memories came back this morning; she had lain in bed lately trying to recapture the childish emotions aroused in her by Collins and had failed, yet this morning they came back quite clearly. But the garden was full of a new memory now; it was full of the sorrowful memory of Martin. She turned abruptly, and leaving the shed walked towards the lakes that gleamed faintly in the distance. Down by the lakes there was a sense of great stillness which the songs of the birds could in no way lessen, for this place had that curious stillness of spirit that seems to interpenetrate sound. A swan paddled about in front of his island, on guard, for his mate had a nest full of cygnets; from time to time he glanced crossly at Stephen though he knew her quite well, but now there were cygnets. He was proud in his splendid, incredible whiteness, and paternity made him feel overbearing, so that he refused to feed from Stephen’s hand although she found a biscuit in her pocket. ‘Coup, c-o-u-p!’ she called, but he swung his neck sideways as he swam—it was like a disdainful negation. ‘Perhaps he thinks I’m a freak,’ she mused grimly, feeling more lonely because of the swan. The lakes were guarded by massive old beech trees, and the beech trees stood ankle-deep in their foliage; a lovely and luminous carpet of leaves they had spread on the homely brown earth of Morton. Each spring came new little shuttles of greenness that in time added warp and woof to the carpet, so that year by year it grew softer and deeper, and year by year it glowed more resplendent. Stephen had loved this spot from her childhood, and now she instinctively went to it for comfort, but its beauty only added to her melancholy, for beauty can wound like a two-edged sword. She could not respond to its stillness of spirit, since she could not lull her own spirit to stillness.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Though his poverty was acute, the extent to which he had squandered his wealth had not yet been fully borne home to Federigo; but on this particular morning, finding that he had nothing to set before the lady for whose love he had entertained so lavishly in the past, his eyes were well and truly opened to the fact. Distressed beyond all measure, he silently cursed his bad luck and rushed all over the house like one possessed, but could find no trace of either money or valuables. By now the morning was well advanced, he was still determined to entertain the gentlewoman to some sort of meal, and, not wishing to beg assistance from his own farmer (or from anyone else, for that matter), his gaze alighted on his precious falcon, which was sitting on its perch in the little room where it was kept. And having discovered, on picking it up, that it was nice and plump, he decided that since he had nowhere else to turn, it would make a worthy dish for such a lady as this. So without thinking twice about it he wrung the bird’s neck and promptly handed it over to his housekeeper to be plucked, dressed, and roasted carefully on a spit. Then he covered the table with spotless linen, of which he still had a certain amount in his possession, and returned in high spirits to the garden, where he announced to his lady that the meal, such as he had been able to prepare, was now ready. The lady and her companion rose from where they were sitting and made their way to the table. And together with Federigo, who waited on them with the utmost deference, they made a meal of the prize falcon without knowing what they were eating. On leaving the table they engaged their host in pleasant conversation for a while, and when the lady thought it time to broach the subject she had gone there to discuss, she turned to Federigo and addressed him affably as follows: ‘I do not doubt for a moment, Federigo, that you will be astonished at my impertinence when you discover my principal reason for coming here, especially when you recall your former mode of living and my virtue, which you possibly mistook for harshness and cruelty. But if you had ever had any children to make you appreciate the power of parental love, I should think it certain that you would to some extent forgive me.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Yes, in this her moment of spiritual insight she was infinitely sad, and she said to Raftery: ‘We’ll never hunt any more, we two, Raftery—we’ll never go out hunting together any more.’ And because in his own way he had understood her, she felt his sides swell with a vast, resigned sigh; heard the creaking of damp girth leather as he sighed because he had understood her. For the love of the chase was still hot in Raftery, the love of splendid, unforeseen danger, the love of crisp mornings and frostbound evenings, and of long, dusky roads that always led home. He was wise with the age-old wisdom of the beasts, it is true, but that wisdom was not guiltless of slaying, and deep in his gentle and faithful mind lurked a memory bequeathed him by some wild forbear. A memory of vast and unpeopled spaces, of fierce open nostrils and teeth bared in battle, of hooves that struck death with every sure blow, of a great untamed mane that streamed out like a banner, of the shrill and incredibly savage war-cry that accompanied that gallant banner. So now he too felt infinitely sad, and he sighed until his strong girths started creaking, after which he stood still and shook himself largely, in an effort to shake off depression. Stephen bent forward and patted his neck. ‘I’m sorry, sorry, Raftery,’ she said gravely. CHAPTER 16 1 W ith the breaking up of the stables at Morton came the breaking up of their faithful servant. Old age took its toll of Williams at last, and it got him under completely. Sore at heart and gone in both wind and limb, he retired with a pension to his comfortable cottage; there to cough and grumble throughout the winter, or to smoke disconsolate pipes through the summer, seated on a chair in his trim little garden with a rug wrapped around his knees. ‘It do be a scandal,’ he was now for ever saying, ‘and ’er such a splendid woman to ’ounds!’ And then he would start remembering past glories, while his mind would begin to grieve for Sir Philip. He would cry just a little because he still loved him, so his wife must bring Williams a strong cup of tea. ‘There, there, Arth-thur, you’ll soon be meetin’ the master; we be old me and you—it can’t be long now.’ At which Williams would glare: ‘I’m not thinkin’ of ’eaven—like as not there won’t be no ’orses in ’eaven—I wants the master down ’ere at me stables. Gawd knows they be needin’ a master!’ For now besides Anna’s carriage horses, there were only four inmates of those once fine stables; Raftery and Sir Philip’s young upstanding chestnut, a cob known as James, and the aged Collins who had taken to vice in senile decay, and persisted in eating his bedding. Anna had accepted this radical change quite calmly, as she now accepted most things.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She knows that I can’t get on with my mother, and that my mother won’t ask her to Morton; but she doesn’t know that I had to leave home because of a woman, that I was turned out—I’ve wanted to spare her all I could.’ ‘Do you think you were right?’ ‘Yes, a thousand times.’ ‘Well, only you can judge of that, Stephen.’ He looked down at the carpet, then he asked abruptly: ‘Does she know about you and me, about . . .’ Stephen shook her head: ‘No, she’s no idea. She thinks you were just my very good friend as you are to-day. I don’t want her to know.’ ‘For my sake?’ he demanded. And she answered slowly: ‘Well, yes, I suppose so . . . for your sake, Martin.’ Then an unexpected, and to her very moving thing happened; his eyes filled with pitiful tears: ‘Lord,’ he muttered, ‘why need this have come upon you—this incomprehensible dispensation? It’s enough to make one deny God’s existence!’ She felt a great need to reassure him. At that moment he seemed so much younger than she was as he stood there with his eyes full of pitiful tears, doubting God, because of his human compassion: ‘There are still the trees. Don’t forget the trees, Martin—because of them you used to believe.’ ‘Have you come to believe in a God then?’ he muttered. ‘Yes,’ she told him, ‘it’s strange, but I know now I must—lots of us feel that way in the end. I’m not really religious like some of the others, but I’ve got to acknowledge God’s existence, though at times I still think: “Can He really exist?” One can’t help it, when one’s seen what I have here in Paris. But unless there’s a God, where do some of us find even the little courage we possess? Martin stared out of the window in silence. 3 Mary was growing gentle again; infinitely gentle she now was at times, for happiness makes for gentleness, and in these days Mary was strangely happy.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  When he got up next morning, he left his servant behind and made his way, at what seemed a suitable hour, to the house of his former mistress. Since the door happened to be open, he went in, and there, sitting on the floor in a little room downstairs, he found his lady-love, all tearful and forlorn. Scarcely able to restrain himself from crying at this piteous spectacle, he walked over to where she was sitting. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘do not torment yourself: your troubles will soon be over.’ On hearing his voice, the lady looked up at him and sobbed, saying: ‘Good sir, you appear to be a pilgrim and a stranger; how can you know anything of my troubles and torments?’ ‘Madam,’ replied the pilgrim, ‘I come from Constantinople and I have just arrived in this city, to which I was sent by God to convert your tears into joy and deliver your husband from death.’ ‘But if you come from Constantinople,’ said the woman, ‘and if you have only just arrived, how can you know anything of me or my husband?’ Starting from the beginning, the pilgrim provided a full account of Aldobrandino’s predicament and told her exactly who she was, how long she had been married, and many other things that he knew concerning her private affairs. This recital greatly astonished the lady, who took him to be some kind of prophet and knelt down at his feet, beseeching him in God’s name, if he really had come to save Aldobrandino, to do so quickly before it was too late. ‘Stand up, my lady,’ said the pilgrim, assuming a very saintly air, ‘and cry no more. Listen closely to what I am about to say, and take good care never to repeat it to anyone. God has revealed to me that your tribulation arises from a certain sin you once committed, which He intends that you should purge, partially at any rate, by means of this present affliction. He is very anxious that you should make amends for it, because otherwise you would assuredly be plunged into much greater suffering.’ ‘I have committed many sins, sir,’ said the lady, ‘and I do not know which particular one it is that the Lord God desires me to atone for out of all the rest. So if you know which one it is, please tell me, and I shall do whatever I can to make amends for it.’ ‘I know very well what it is, madam,’ said the pilgrim. ‘And I shall now ask you a few questions about it, not for my own benefit, but merely to enable you to acknowledge the sin of your own free will, and repent more fully. But let us come to the point. Tell me, do you remember whether you ever had a lover?’

• From Carmina (-50)

  Omnia qui magni dispexit lumina mundi, qui stellarum ortus comperit atque obitus, flammeus ut rapidi solis nitor obscuretur, ut cedant certis sidera temporibus, ut Triuiam furtim sub Latmia saxa relegans 5 dulcis amor giro deuocet aereo: idem me ille Conon caelesti numine uidit e Beroniceo uertice caesariem fulgentem clare, quam multis illa dearum leuia protendens brachia pollicita est, 10 qua rex tempestate nouo auctus hymenaeo uastatum finis iuerat Assyrios, dulcia nocturnae portans uestigia rixae, quam de uirgineis gesserat exuuiis. estne nouis nuptis odio Venus? idque parentum 15 frustratur falsis gaudia lacrimulis, ubertim thalami quas intra limina fundunt? non, ita me diui, uera gemunt, iuerint. id mea me multis docuit regina querellis inuisente nouo proelia torua uiro. 20 et tu non orbum luxti deserta cubile, sed fratris cari flebile discidium? cum penitus maestas exedit cura medullas! ut tibi tunc toto pectore sollicitae sensibus ereptis mens excidit! at te ego certe 25 cognoram a parua uirgine magnanimam. anne bonum oblita es facinus, quo regium adepta es coniugium, quod non fortior ausit alis? sed tum maesta uirum mittens quae uerba locuta es! Iuppiter, ut tristi lumina saepe manu! 30 quis te mutauit tantus deus? an quod amantes non longe a caro corpore abesse uolunt? atque ibi me cunctis pro dulci coniuge diuis non sine taurino sanguine pollicita es, si reditum tetulisset. is haut in tempore longo 35 captam Asiam Aegypti finibus addiderat. quis ego pro factis caelesti reddita coetu pristina uota nouo munere dissoluo. inuita, o regina, tuo de uertice cessi, inuita: adiuro teque tuumque caput, 40 digna ferat quod siquis inaniter adiurarit: sed qui se ferro postulet esse parem? ille quoque euersus mons est, quem maximum in oris progenies Thiae clara superuehitur, cum Medi peperere nouum mare, cumque iuuentus 45 per medium classi barbara nauit Athon. quid facient crines, cum ferro talia cedant? Iuppiter, ut Chalybon omne genus pereat, et qui principio sub terra quaerere uenas institit ac ferri stringere duritiem! 50 abiunctae paulo ante comae mea fata sorores lugebant, cum se Memnonis Aethiopis unigena impellens nutantibus aera pennis obtulit Arsinoes Locridos ales equos, isque per aetherias me tollens abuolat umbras 55 et Veneris casto collocat in gremio. ipsa suum Zephyritis eo famulum legarat, Graia Canopieis incola litoribus. hic iuueni Ismario ne solum in limine caeli ex Ariadneis aurea temporibus 60 fixa corona foret, sed nos quoque fulgeremus deuotae flaui uerticis exuuiae, uuidulum a fluctu cedentem ad templa deum me sidus in antiquis diua nouum posuit. Virginis et saeui contingens namque Leonis 65 lumina, Callisto iuxta Lycaoniam, uertor in occasum, tardum dux ante Booten, qui uix sero alto mergitur Oceano. sed quamquam me nocte premunt uestigia diuum, lux autem canae Tethyi restituit, 70 (pace tua fari hic liceat, Ramnusia uirgo, namque ego non ullo uera timore tegam, nec si me infestis discerpent sidera dictis, condita quin ueri pectoris euoluam): non his tam laetor rebus, quam me afore semper, 75 afore me a dominae uertice discrucior, quicum ego, dum uirgo quondam fuit, omnibus expers unguentis, una milia multa bibi. nunc uos, optato quas iunxit lumine taeda, non post unanimis corpora coniugibus 80 tradite nudantes reiecta ueste papillas, quin iucunda mihi munera libet onyx, uester onyx, casto petitis quae iura cubili. sed quae se impuro dedit adulterio, illius a mala dona leuis bibat irrita puluis: 85 namque ego ab indignis praemia nulla peto. sed magis, o nuptae, semper concordia uestras semper amor sedes incolat assiduus. tu uero, regina, tuens cum sidera diuam placabis festis luminibus Venerem, 90 sanguinis expertem non [+]uestris[+] esse tuum me, sed potius largis affice muneribus. sidera corruerint utinam! coma regia fiam, proximus Hydrochoi fulgeret Oarion!

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  On the drive back to Paris they were all very silent. Puddle was feeling too tired to talk, and Stephen was oppressed by a sense of sadness—the vast and rather beautiful sadness that may come to us when we have looked upon beauty, the sadness that aches in the heart of Versailles. Brockett was content to sit opposite Stephen on the hard little let-down seat of her motor. He might have been comfortable next to the driver, but instead he preferred to sit opposite Stephen, and he too was silent, surreptitiously watching the expression of her face in the gathering twilight. When he left them he said with his cold little smile: ‘To-morrow, before you’ve forgotten Versailles, I want you to come to the Conciergerie. It’s very enlightening—cause and effect.’ At that moment Stephen disliked him intensely. All the same he had stirred her imagination. 3In the weeks that followed, Brockett showed Stephen just as much of Paris as he wished her to see, and this principally consisted of the tourist’s Paris. Into less simple pastures he would guide her later on, always provided that his interest lasted. For the present, however, he considered it wiser to tread delicately like Agag. The thought of this girl had begun to obsess him to a very unusual extent. He who had prided himself on his skill in ferreting out other people’s secrets, was completely baffled by this youthful abnormal. That she was abnormal he had no doubt whatever, but what he was keenly anxious to find out was just how her own abnormality struck her—he felt pretty sure that she worried about it. And he genuinely liked her. Unscrupulous he might be in his vivisection of men and women; cynical too when it came to his pleasures, himself an invert, secretly hating the world which he knew hated him in secret; and yet in his way he felt sorry for Stephen, and this amazed him, for Jonathan Brockett had long ago, as he thought, done with pity. But his pity was a very poor thing at best, it would never defend and never protect her; it would always go down before any new whim, and his whim at the moment was to keep her in Paris. All unwittingly Stephen played into his hands, while having no illusions about him. He represented a welcome distraction that helped her to keep her thoughts off England. And because under Brockett’s skilful guidance she developed a fondness for the beautiful city, she felt very tolerant of him at moments, almost grateful she felt, grateful too towards Paris. And Puddle also felt grateful.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ‘I speak French,’ she broke out, ‘I speak French like a native; I can read and write French as well as Mademoiselle does.’ THE WELL OF LONELINESS 63 ‘ And beyond that you know very little,’ he informed her; “it’s not enough, Stephen, believe me.’ There ensued a long silence, she tapping her leg with her whip, he speculating about her. Then he said, but quite gently: ‘I’ve considered this thing — I’ve considered this matter of your education. I want you to have the same education, the same advantages as I’d give to my son — that is as far as possible —’ he added, looking away from Stephen. ‘But Im not your son, Father,’ she said very slowly, and even as she said it her heart felt heavy — heavy and sad as it had not done for years, not since she was quite a small child. And at this he looked back at her with love in his eyes, love and something that seemed like compassion; and their looks met and mingled and held for a moment, speechless yet some- how expressing their hearts. Her own eyes clouded and she stared at her boots, ashamed of the tears that she felt might flow over. He saw this and went on speaking more quickly, as though anxious to cover her confusion. “You're all the son that I’ve got,’ he told her. * You’re brave and strong-limbed, but I want you to be wise—I want you to be wise for your own sake, Stephen, because at the best life re- quires great wisdom. I want you to learn to make friends of your books; some day you may need them, because —’ He hesitated, ‘ because you mayn’t find life at all easy, we none of us do, and books are good friends. I don’t want you to give up your fencing and gymnastics or your riding, but I want you to show modera- tion. You’ve developed your body, now develop your mind; let your mind and your muscles help, not hinder each other — it can be done, Stephen, I’ve done it myself, and in many respects you're like me. I’ve brought you up very differently from most girls, you must know that — look at Violet Antrim. I’ve indulged you, I suppose, but I don’t think I’ve spoilt you, because I believe in you absolutely. I believe in myself too, where you're concerned; I believe in my own sound judgment. But you’ve now got to prove that my judgment’s been sound, we’ve both got to prove 64 THE WELL OF LONELINESS

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Ah, how great a number of splendid palaces, fine houses, and noble dwellings, once filled with retainers, with lords and with ladies, were bereft of all who had lived there, down to the tiniest child! How numerous were the famous families, the vast estates, the notable fortunes, that were seen to be left without a rightful successor! How many gallant gentlemen, fair ladies, and sprightly youths, who would have been judged hale and hearty by Galen, Hippocrates and Aesculapius3 (to say nothing of others), having breakfasted in the morning with their kinsfolk, acquaintances and friends, supped that same evening with their ancestors in the next world! The more I reflect upon all this misery, the deeper my sense of personal sorrow; hence I shall refrain from describing those aspects which can suitably be omitted, and proceed to inform you that these were the conditions prevailing in our city, which was by now almost emptied of its inhabitants, when one Tuesday morning (or so I was told by a person whose word can be trusted) seven young ladies4 were to be found in the venerable church of Santa Maria Novella,5 which was otherwise almost deserted. They had been attending divine service, and were dressed in mournful attire appropriate to the times. Each was a friend, a neighbour, or a relative of the other six, none was older than twenty-seven or younger than eighteen, and all were intelligent, gently bred, fair to look upon, graceful in bearing, and charmingly unaffected. I could tell you their actual names, but refrain from doing so for a good reason, namely that I would not want any of them to feel embarrassed, at any time in the future, on account of the ensuing stories, all of which they either listened to or narrated themselves. For nowadays, laws relating to pleasure are somewhat restrictive, whereas at that time, for the reasons indicated above, they were exceptionally lax, not only for ladies of their own age but also for much older women. Besides, I have no wish to supply envious tongues, ever ready to censure a laudable way of life, with a chance to besmirch the good name of these worthy ladies with their lewd and filthy gossip. And therefore, so that we may perceive distinctly what each of them had to say, I propose to refer to them by names which are either wholly or partially appropriate to the qualities of each. The first of them, who was also the eldest, we shall call Pampinea, the second Fiammetta, Filomena the third, and the fourth Emilia; then we shall name the fifth Lauretta, and the sixth Neifile, whilst to the last, not without reason, we shall give the name of Elissa.

• From Trash (1988)

  If it would have helped, I would have told her I was sorry already. Jo put me in the room where her daughter, Pammy, stashes all the gear she will not let Jo give away or destroy—shelves of books, racks of dusty music tapes, and mounted posters on the wall over the daybed. I fell asleep under posters of prepubescent boy bands and woke up dry-mouthed and headachy. Jo laughed when I asked about the bands. “Don’t ask me,” she said. “Some maudlin shit no one could dance to—whey-faced girls and anorexic boys. All of it sounds alike, whiny voices all scratchy and droning. Girl has no ear, no ear at all.” Pammy had been picking out chords on the old piano Jo took in trade for her wrecked Chevy. She spoke without looking up. “You know what Mama does?” she asked in her peculiar Florida twang. “Mama sits up late smoking dope and listening to Black Sabbath on the headphones. Acts like she’s seventeen and nothing’s changed in the world at all.” Jo snorted, though I saw the quick grin she suppressed. She kicked her boot heels together, knocking dried mud on the Astroturf carpet. That carpet was her prize. She’d had her boyfriend Jaybird install it throughout the house. “She’s eleven now,” she said, nodding in Pammy’s direction. “What you think? Should I shoot her or just cut my own throat?” I shook my head, looking back and forth from one of them to the other. They were so alike it startled me, thick brown hair, black eyes, and the exact same way of sneering so that the right side of the mouth drew up and back. “Hang on,” I told Jo. “She gets to be thirty or so, you might like her.” “Ha!” Jo slapped her hands together. “If I live that long.” Pammy banged the piano closed and swept out of the room. My sister and I grinned at each other. Pammy we both believed would redeem us all. The child was fearless. “We need to talk,” I told Arlene when she came to the hospital the day after I moved in with Jo. Arlene was standing just inside the smoking lounge off the side of the cafeteria, waiting for Jack to arrive. “She’s looking better, don’t you think?” Arlene popped a Tic Tac in her mouth . “No, she an’t.” I tried to catch Arlene’s hand, but she hugged her elbows in tight and just looked at me. “Arlene, she’s not going to get any better. She’s going to get worse. If the tumor on her lung doesn’t kill her, then the ones in her head will.” Arlene’s pale face darkened. When she spoke her words all ran together. “They don’t know what that stuff was.

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  about polygamy.” When Dan completed his chiropractic training he moved his family back to Utah County, and there he embarked on an energetic investigation of the polygamous history of the Latter-day Saints. Nosing around in the special collections of the Brigham Young University library one afternoon, he came across a fifty-one-page typescript of a nineteenth-century tract in praise of plural marriage: An Extract, From a Manuscript Entitled “The Peace Maker,” or the Doctrines of the Millennium: Being a Treatise on Religion and Jurisprudence. Or a New System of Religion and Politicks. It had been written by a mysterious figure named Udney Hay Jacob. The booklet’s title page indicated that it had been published in 1842 in Nauvoo, Illinois, and that the printer was none other than Joseph Smith himself. The Peace Maker offered an elaborate biblical rationale for polygamy, which it proposed as a cure for the myriad ills that plagued monogamous relationships and, by extension, all of humankind. Part of that cure was making sure that women remained properly subservient, as God intended. According to the tract, The government of the wife is therefore placed in the husband by the law of God; for he is the head. I suffer not a woman saith the Lord to teach, or to usurp authority over a man, but to be in subjection. . . . A right understanding of this matter and a correct law properly executed would restore this nation to peace and order; and man to his true dignity, authority and government of the earthly creation. It would soon rectify the domestic circle and establish a proper head over the families of the earth, together with the knowledge and restitution of the whole penal law of God, and be the means of driving Satan, yea of driving Satan from the human mind. . . . Gentlemen, the ladies laugh at your pretended authority. They, many of them, hiss at the idea of your being the lords of the creation. . . . Nothing is further from the minds of our wives in general, than the idea of submitting to their husbands in all things, and of reverencing their husbands. They will boldly ridicule the idea of calling them sincerely in their hearts lords and masters. But God has positively required this of them. . . . Here, the wife is pronounced the husband’s property, as much so as his manservant, his maidservant, his ox, or his horse. . . . It is evident that by [abandoning the sacred principle of plural marriage], an endless catalogue of crime has been created that otherwise could never have existed; and that does exist at this moment in these States. Husbands forsake their wives, and often brutally abuse them. Fathers forsake their children; young maidens are seduced and abandoned by the deceiver; wives are poisoned and put to

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And now the Patron was standing by their table; bowing slightly to Brockett he started singing. His voice was a high and sweet baritone; his song was of love that must end too soon, of life that in death is redeemed by ending. An extraordinary song to hear in such a place — melancholy and very sentimental. Some of the couples had tears in their eyes — tears that had prob- ably sprung from champagne quite as much as from that melan- choly singing. Brockett ordered a fresh bottle to console the Patron. Then he waved him away with a gesture of impatience. There ensued more dancing, more ordering of drinks, more dalliance by the amorous couples. The Patron’s mood changed, and now he must sing a song of the lowest boites in Paris. As he sang he skipped like a performing dog, grimacing, beating time with his hands, conducting the chorus that rose from: the tables. Brockett sighed as he shrugged his shoulders in disgust, and once again Stephen glanced at Mary; but Mary, she saw, had not understood that song with its inexcusable meaning. Valérie was talking to Jeanne Maurel, talking about her villa at St. Tropez; talking of the garden, the sea, the sky, the design she had drawn for a green marble fountain. Stephen could hear her charming voice, so cultured, so cool —itself cool as a fountain; and she marvelled at this woman’s perfect poise, the genius she possessed for complete detachment; Valérie had closed her ears to that song, and not only her ears but her mind and spirit. The place was becoming intolerably hot, the room too over- crowded for dancing. Lids drooped, mouths sagged, heads lay upon shoulders — there was kissing, much kissing at a table in the corner. The air was foetid with drink and all the rest; un. breathable it appeared to Stephen. Dickie yawned an enormous, uncovered yawn; she was still young enough to feel rather sleepy. But Wanda was being seduced by her eyes, the lust of THE WELL OF LONELINESS 447 the eye was heavy upon her, so that Pat must shake a lugubrious head and begin to murmur anent General Custer. Brockett got up and paid the bill; he was sulky, it seemed, because Stephen had snubbed him. He had not spoken for quite half an hour, and refused point-blank to accompany them further. ‘I’m going home to my bed, thanks — good morning,’ he said crossly, as they crowded into the motor. They drove to a couple more bars, but at these they remained for only a very few minutes. Dickie said they were dull and Jeanne Maurel agreed — she suggested that they should go on to Alec’s. Valérie lifted an eyebrow and groaned. She was terribly bored, she was terribly hungry. ‘I do wish I could get some cold chicken,’ she murmured. 4

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  In THE wecks that followed on Collins’ departure, Anna tried to be very gentle with her daughter, having the child more fre- quently with her, more diligently fondling Stephen. Mother and daughter would walk in the garden, or wander about to- gether through the meadows, and Anna would remember the son of her dreams, who had played with her in those meadows. A great sadness would cloud her eyes for a moment, an infinite regret as she looked down at Stephen; and Stephen, quick to discern that sadness, would press Anna’s hand with small, anxious THE WELL OF LONELINESS 29 fingers; she would long to inquire what troubled her mother, but would be held speechless through shyness. The scents of the meadows would move those two strangely -the queer, pungent smell from the hearts of dog-daisies; the buttercup smell, faintly green like the grass; and then meadow- sweet that grew close by the hedges. Sometimes Stephen must tug at her mother’s sleeve sharply — intolerable to bear that thick fragrance alone! One day she had said: ‘ Stand still or you'll hurt it — it’s all round us — it’s a white smell, it reminds me of you!’ And then she had flushed, and had glanced up quickly, rather frightened in case she should find Anna laughing. But her mother had looked at her curiously, gravely, puzzled by this creature who seemed all contradictions — at one moment so hard, at another so gentle, gentle to tenderness, even. Anna had been stirred, as her child had been stirred, by the breath of the meadowsweet under the hedges; for in this they were one, the mother and daughter, having each in her veins the warm Celtic blood that takes note of such things — could they only have divined it, such simple things might have formed a link between them. A great will to loving had suddenly possessed Anna Gordon, there in that sunlit meadow — had possessed them both as they stood together, bridging the gulf between maturity and child- hood. They had gazed at each other as though asking for some- thing, as though seeking for something, the one from the other; then the moment had passed — they had walked on in silence, no nearer in spirit than before. 3 Sometimes Anna would drive Stephen into Great Malvern, tu the shops, with lunch at the Abbey Hotel on cold beef and whole- some rice pudding. Stephen loathed these excursions, which = meant dressing up, but she bore them because of the honour 30 THE WELL OF LONELINESS

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  The Stubbs family name was (and still is) one of the most prestigious pedigrees in Short Creek/Colorado City, but Lavina’s father had a falling out with Uncle Roy, converted to the LeBaron group, and moved his brood to Mexico. A year later, at the tender age of sixteen, having caught the eye of Prophet Joel LeBaron, Lavina became one of his plural wives. “I was married to Joel for fourteen joyful years,” Lavina says. “He was an absolutely righteous man, one of the greatest men that ever lived.” Before moving away from Short Creek, Lavina’s mother had wanted her to marry DeLoy Bateman’s father, but the prophet commanded her to become the plural wife of someone else, whom she despised. “I was almost forced to marry a man there who I couldn’t stand,” she recalls. “I got out by the skin of my teeth. It was a miracle that my father took us away when he did, and God allowed me to marry Joel instead.” In 1972, however, Joel was shot dead on Ervil’s orders, and Lavina’s life entered an extended rough stretch, from which it has yet to emerge. The worst of her heartache she attributes to Kenyon Blackmore—first cousin of Winston Blackmore, the erstwhile leader of the polygamist community in Bountiful, British Columbia. In 1983, Kenyon Blackmore married Joel and Lavina LeBaron’s twenty-two-year-old daughter, Gwendolyn. The marriage not only brought out the worst in both partners, but it has injected misery into the life of almost every person it has touched. Among these unlucky souls is a Canadian woman named Annie Vandeveer Blackmore. When Kenyon Blackmore wed young Gwendolyn LeBaron, he was already married to Annie. At that point, in fact, Annie had been married to Kenyon for twenty-four years—yet he neglected to tell her that he had taken a second wife. “See that picture on the wall?” Annie asks with a sour smile, pointing to a framed cover of the September 29, 1956, issue of Canada’s Weekend Magazine depicting a pair of beautiful seventeen-year-old cowgirls astride equally magnificent horses. “That was how I met Ken.” The two cowgirls are Annie and her twin sister, photographed on their family’s ranch outside Winnipeg, Manitoba. Upon seeing this magazine cover, twenty-year-old Kenyon Blackmore—an avid horseman from a family of renowned polygamists in western Canada—resolved on the spot to marry at least one of the lovely twins. “When he come across this article,” Annie says, “he started to write us letters and became my pen pal. He was about to go on a mission to South Africa, but he wrote to me the whole time he was gone, and when he got home two years later he took a trip out to Winnipeg to see us.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She thought: ‘I shall never be one with great peace any more, I shall always stand outside this stillness—wherever there is absolute stillness and peace in this world, I shall always stand just outside it.’ And as though these thoughts were in some way prophetic, she inwardly shivered a little. Then what must the swan do but start to hiss loudly, just to show her that he was really a father: ‘Peter,’ she reproached him, ‘I won’t hurt your babies—can’t you trust me? I fed you the whole of last winter!’ But apparently Peter could not trust her at all, for he squawked to his mate who came out through the bushes, and she hissed in her turn, flapping strong angry wings, which meant in mere language: ‘Get out of this, Stephen, you clumsy, inadequate, ludicrous creature; you destroyer of nests, you disturber of young, you great wingless blot on a beautiful morning!’ Then they both hissed together: ‘Get out of this, Stephen!’ So Stephen left them to the care of their cygnets. Remembering Raftery, she walked to the stables, where all was confusion and purposeful bustle. Old Williams was ruthlessly out on the warpath; he was scolding: ‘Drat the boy, what be ’e a-doin’? Come on, do! ’Urry up, get them two horses bridled, and don’t go forgettin’ their knee-caps this mornin’—and that bucket there don’t belong where it’s standin’, nor that broom! Did Jim take the roan to the blacksmith’s? Gawd almighty, why not? ’Er shoes is like paper! ’Ere, you Jim, don’t you go on ignorin’ my orders, if you do—Come on, boy, got them two horses ready? Right, well then, up you go! You don’t want no saddle, like as not you’d give ’im a gall if you ’ad one! The sleek, good-looking hunters were led out in clothing—for the early spring mornings were still rather nippy—and among them came Raftery, slender and skittish; he was wearing his hood, and his eyes peered out bright as a falcon’s from the two neatly braided eye-holes. From a couple more holes in the top of his head-dress, shot his small, pointed ears, which now worked with excitement. ‘ ’Old on!’ bellowed Williams, ‘What the ’ell be you doin’? Quick, shorten ’is bridle, yer not in a circus!’ And then seeing Stephen: ‘Beg pardon, Miss Stephen, but it be a fair crime not to lead that horse close, and ’im all corned up until ’e’s fair dancin’!’ They stood watching Raftery skip through the gates, then old Williams said softly: ‘ ’E do be a wonder—more nor fifty odd years ’ave I worked in the stables, and never no beast ’ave I loved like Raftery. But ’e’s no common horse, ’e be some sort of Christian, and a better one too than a good few I knows on—’ And Stephen answered: ‘Perhaps he’s a poet like his namesake; I think if he could write he’d write verses.

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

  The Peasants’ War was a complete failure, and the victory of the princes an inglorious revenge. The reaction made their condition worse than ever. Very few masters had sufficient humanity and self-denial to loosen the reins. Most of them followed the maxim of Rehoboam: "My father chastised you with whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions" (1 Kings 12:14). The real grievances remained, and the prospect of a remedy was put off to an indefinite future. The cause of the Reformation suffered irreparable injury, and was made responsible by the Romanists, and even by Erasmus, for all the horrors of the rebellion. The split of the nation was widened; the defeated peasantry in Roman Catholic districts were forced back into the old church; quiet citizens lost their interest in politics and social reform; every attempt in that direction was frowned down with suspicion. Luther had once for all committed himself against every kind of revolution, and in favor of passive obedience to the civil rulers who gladly accepted it, and appealed again and again to Rom. 13:1, as the popes to Matt. 16:18, as if they contained the whole Scripture-teaching on obedience to authority. Melanchthon and Bucer fully agreed with Luther on this point; and the Lutheran Church has ever since been strictly conservative in politics, and indifferent to the progress of civil liberty. It is only in the nineteenth century that serfdom has been entirely abolished in Germany and Russia, and negro slavery in America. The defeat of the Peasants’ War marks the end of the destructive tendencies of the Reformation, and the beginning of the construction of a new church on the ruins of the old. CHAPTER V.THE INNER DEVELOPMENT OF THE REFORMATION FROM THE PEASANTS’ WAR TO THE DIET OF AUGSBURG, A.D. 1525–1530.§ 76. The Three Electors. G. Spalatin: Friedrich d. Weise, Lebensgeschichte, ed. by Neudecker and Preller, Jena, 1851. Tutzschmann: Fr. d. W., Grimma, 1848. Ranke, vol. II. Kolde: Friedrich der Weise und die Anfänge der Reformation, Erlangen, 1881. Köstlin in the Studien u. Kritiken, 1882, p. 700, (vers. Kolde). Comp. §§ 26 and 61.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  [Footnote 1: _i.e._ those not in love.] [Footnote 2: Syn. adventures (_casi_).] _Day the First_ HERE BEGINNETH THE FIRST DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN (AFTER DEMONSTRATION MADE BY THE AUTHOR OF THE MANNER IN WHICH IT CAME TO PASS THAT THE PERSONS WHO ARE HEREINAFTER PRESENTED FOREGATHERED FOR THE PURPOSE OF DEVISING TOGETHER) UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF PAMPINEA IS DISCOURSED OF THAT WHICH IS MOST AGREEABLE UNTO EACH As often, most gracious ladies, as, taking thought in myself, I mind me how very pitiful you are all by nature, so often do I recognize that this present work will, to your thinking, have a grievous and a weariful beginning, inasmuch as the dolorous remembrance of the late pestiferous mortality, which it beareth on its forefront, is universally irksome to all who saw or otherwise knew it. But I would not therefore have this affright you from reading further, as if in the reading you were still to fare among sighs and tears. Let this grisly beginning be none other to you than is to wayfarers a rugged and steep mountain, beyond which is situate a most fair and delightful plain, which latter cometh so much the pleasanter to them as the greater was the hardship of the ascent and the descent; for, like as dolour occupieth the extreme of gladness, even so are miseries determined by imminent joyance. This brief annoy (I say brief, inasmuch as it is contained in few pages) is straightway succeeded by the pleasance and delight which I have already promised you and which, belike, were it not aforesaid, might not be looked for from such a beginning. And in truth, could I fairly have availed to bring you to my desire otherwise than by so rugged a path as this will be I had gladly done it; but being in a manner constrained thereto, for that, without this reminiscence of our past miseries, it might not be shown what was the occasion of the coming about of the things that will hereafter be read, I have brought myself to write them.[3] [Footnote 3: _i.e._ the few pages of which he speaks above.]