Surprise

Passages

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

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• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  2That spring, in the foyer of the Comédie Francaise, Stephen stumbled across a link with the past in the person of a middle-aged woman. The woman was stout and wore pince-nez; her sparse brown hair was already greying; her face, which was long, had a double chin, and that face seemed vaguely familiar to Stephen. Then suddenly Stephen’s two hands were seized and held fast in those of the middle-aged woman, while a voice grown loud with delight and emotion was saying: ‘Mais oui, c’est ma petite Stévenne!’ Back came a picture of the schoolroom at Morton, with a battered red book on its ink-stained table—the Bibliothèque Rose—‘Les Petites Filles Modèles,’ ‘Les Bons Enfants,’ and Mademoiselle Duphot. Stephen said: ‘To think—after all these years!’ ‘Ah, quelle joie! Quelle joie!’ babbled Mademoiselle Duphot. And now Stephen was being embraced on both cheeks, then held at arm’s length for a better inspection. ‘But how tall, how strong you are, ma petite Stévenne. You remember what I say, that we meet in Paris? I say when I go, “But you come to Paris when you grow up bigger, my poor little baby!” I keep looking and looking, but I knowed you at once. I say, “Oui certainement, that is ma petite Stévenne, no one ’ave such another face what I love, it could only belong to Stévenne,” I say. And now voilà! I am correct and I find you.’ Stephen released herself firmly but gently, replying in French to calm Mademoiselle, whose linguistic struggles increased every moment. ‘I’m living in Paris altogether,’ she told her; ‘you must come and see me—come to dinner to-morrow; 35, Rue Jacob.’ Then she introduced Puddle who had been an amused spectator. The two ex-guardians of Stephen’s young mind shook hands with each other very politely, and they made such a strangely contrasted couple that Stephen must smile to see them together. The one was so small, so quiet and so English; the other so portly, so tearful, so French in her generous, if somewhat embarrassing emotion. As Mademoiselle regained her composure, Stephen was able to observe her more closely, and she saw that her face was excessively childish—a fact which she, when a child, had not noticed. It was more the face of a foal than a horse—an innocent, new-born foal. Mademoiselle said rather wistfully: ‘I will dine with much pleasure to-morrow evening, but when will you come and see me in my home? It is in the Avenue de la Grande Armée, a small apartment, very small but so pretty—it is pleasant to have one’s treasures around one. The bon Dieu has been very good to me, Stévenne, for my Aunt Clothilde left me a little money when she died; it has proved a great consolation.’ ‘I’ll come very soon,’ promised Stephen.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Before sending him back to his own quarters, she repeatedly savoured the one pleasure for which she had always reserved her most fierce disapproval, and from then on she demanded regular supplementary allocations, amounting to considerably more than her fair share. Eventually, Masetto, being unable to cope with all their demands, decided that by continuing to be dumb any longer he might do himself some serious injury. And so one night, when he was with the Abbess, he untied his tongue and began to talk. ‘I have always been given to understand, ma’am,’ he said, ‘that whereas a single cock is quite sufficient for ten hens, ten men are hard put to satisfy one woman, and yet here am I with nine of them on my plate. I can’t endure it any longer, not at any price, and as a matter of fact I’ve been on the go so much that I’m no longer capable of delivering the goods. So you’ll either have to bid me farewell or come to some sort of an arrangement.’ When she heard him speak, the lady was utterly amazed, for she had always believed him to be dumb. ‘What is all this?’ she said. ‘I thought you were supposed to be dumb.’ ‘That’s right, ma’am, I was,’ said Masetto, ‘but I wasn’t born dumb. It was owing to an illness that I lost the power of speech, and, praise be to God, I’ve recovered it this very night.’ The lady believed him implicitly, and asked him what he had meant when he had talked about having nine on his plate. Masetto explained how things stood, and when the Abbess heard, she realized that every single one of the nuns possessed sharper wits than her own. Being of a tactful disposition, she decided there and then that rather than allow Masetto to go away and spread tales concerning the convent, she would come to some arrangement with her nuns in regard to the matter. Their old steward had died a few days previously. And so, with Masetto’s consent, they unanimously decided, now that they all knew what the others had been doing, to persuade the people living in the neighbourhood that after a prolonged period of speechlessness, his ability to talk had been miraculously restored by the nuns’ prayers and the virtues of the saint after whom the convent was named, and they appointed him their new steward. They divided up his various functions among themselves in such a way that he was able to do them all justice. And although he fathered quite a number of nunlets and monklets, it was all arranged so discreetly that nothing leaked out until after the death of the Abbess, by which time Masetto was getting on in years and simply wanted to retire to his village on a fat pension. Once his wishes became known, they were readily granted.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  ancient system of laws forbade an inheritance passing to a woman if there were male claimants. There was, therefore, a strong case for Charles to be accorded some form of imperial dignity. He was undoubtedly the greatest monarch in the West, perhaps in the entire world. As Abbot Alcuin, who was in effect his chief adviser, had pointed out, the English had evolved a system under which the most powerful and successful of their many kings was given the title of bretwalda, and exacted homage and obedience from the others. This argument, which presented the imperial idea in Germanic terms which Charles could grasp, was again put forward by Alcuin’s two delegates at the council. And it appears to have proved conclusive. Charles agreed to become western emperor, and ceremonies of homage seem to have been carried out on that day. Two days later, in the great basilica of St Peter’s, Charles and his generals celebrated Christmas, and the Pope insisted on performing a Roman ritual under which he placed a crown on Charles’s head, and then prostrated himself in an act of emperor-worship, the crowd of Romans present calling out a monotonous series of ritual acclamations. Charles was taken aback by this weird, eastern enactment, which was completely alien to anyone coming from north of the Alps, with a Germanic background. And it seemed suspicious to him that the crown, which he had won by his own achievements, should be presented to him by the Bishop of Rome, as though it were in his gift. Charles said afterwards that, if he had known what was to happen, he would have refused to attend mass in St Peter’s that day. When he appointed his own eldest son the successor-emperor some years later, he insisted on placing the crown himself. The disagreement on the coronation ceremony reflected ambiguities about its precise significance which were to echo through European history for centuries. And historians still argue about how exactly the coronation of Charlemagne came about, and what it meant to those concerned. What cannot be denied is that it was one of the key events in the evolution of western society and Christian civilization. Let us now trace the long series of interconnected events which led to it, and its vast and ramifying consequences. Between the death of Augustine in embattled Hippo and the coronation of Charlemagne there is an interval of nearly four centuries. These are the formative centuries in the history of medieval Europe and also of the Christian Church as a world-society. The conversion of Constantine had aligned the Roman empire with the Christian Church in a working partnership. But the empire, as the earlier

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But knowing to whom it belonged, he decided that since the knight was a political adversary of his, he would make his visit informal, and sent word that on the following evening he desired to sup with him incognito in his garden, together with four companions. Messer Neri took very kindly to this proposal, and having made preparations on a truly lavish scale, and arranged with his household what was to be done, he received the King in his fair garden as cordially as he possibly could. After inspecting and admiring the whole of Messer Neri’s garden and his house, the King washed and sat down at one of the tables, which had been placed at the side of the pool. He then ordered Count Guy de Montfort, 4 who was one of his four companions, to sit on his right and Messer Neri on his left, and directed the other three to wait upon him, taking their instructions from Messer Neri. Dainty dishes were set before him, and wines of rare excellence, and the King was warmly appreciative of the way in which everything had been so tastefully and admirably planned, without anyone knowing he was there or making him feel embarrassed. Whilst he was contentedly addressing his meal, and admiring the solitude of his surroundings, there came into the garden two young girls, each about fourteen years old, who were as fair as threads of gold, their hair a mass of ringlets surmounted by a garland of periwinkle flowers, and looking more like angels than anything else, so fine and delicate were their features. Their bodies were clothed in sheer linen dresses, white as driven snow, with closely fitting bodices and bell-shaped skirts cascading down from their waists to their feet. The girl in front was carrying upon her shoulders a pair of fishnets, which she held with her left hand, whilst in her right she carried a long pole. The girl behind had a frying-pan slung over her left shoulder, a bundle of sticks beneath her left arm, and a trivet in her left hand, whilst in her other hand she held a cruse of oil and a small lighted torch. The sight of these two girls filled the King with surprise, and he waited with interest to see what it might import. The girls came forward, chaste and modest in their bearing, and curtsied to the King. Then they walked to the edge of the fishpond, where the one with the frying-pan put it down along with all the other things she was carrying and took the pole from her companion, after which they both waded into the pool till the water came up to their breasts. One of Messer Neri’s servants forthwith lit the fire on the bank of the pool, and pouring the oil into the frying-pan, he placed it on the trivet and waited for the girls to throw him out some fish.

• From Adam, Eve, and the Serpent (1988)

  What I found was the opposite of what I’d expected, for my professors were exploring the complex history of the construction of the New Testament, and, most surprising of all, they were investigating gnostic gospels and other writings attributed to Jesus’ disciples—ancient papyrus texts discovered near Nag Hammadi in Upper Egypt in 1945. Fascinated by these writings, I realized that instead of simplifying the search for the “real Christianity,” these texts made it more baffling; they suggested that during the first two centuries the Christian movement may have been even more diversified than it is today. For today, virtually all Christians revere the same canon of Christian writings—the collection of twenty-six books we call the New Testament; most share a common creed; and most celebrate, in various ways, the same rituals (baptism and eucharist). But during the first and second centuries, Christians scattered throughout the world, from Rome to Asia, Africa, Egypt, and Gaul, read and revered quite different traditions, and various groups of Christians perceived Jesus and his message very differently. In the present book, I set out to see how Christians have interpreted the creation accounts of Genesis. But what intrigued me especially was this question: since the representatives of Christian orthodoxy, from Justin through Irenaeus, Tertullian, Clement, and Origen, had denounced gnostic interpretations of Genesis in the name of moral freedom, how could the majority of Christians in the fifth century be persuaded to give up this primary theme of Christian doctrine—or, at least, to modify it radically—following Augustine’s reinterpretation of Adam’s sin? This book shows where the question led me. What I did not find in the process of this research was what I had started out to find—a “golden age” of purer and simpler early Christianity. What I discovered instead is that the “real Christianity”—so far as historical investigation can disclose it—was not monolithic, or the province of one party or another, but included a variety of voices, and an extraordinary range of viewpoints, even among the saints (witness Augustine and Chrysostom!), as well as among those denounced as heretics, from Valentinus to Julian, and even, as we have seen, within the New Testament writings themselves. From a strictly historical point of view, then, there is no single “real Christianity.” Yet in saying this I recall how William James, writing his Varieties of Religious Experience, distinguishes between his psychological analysis of religious experience and the value judgments—positive or negative—that one can make about such experience; the same distinction applies to historical analysis. James distinguishes two modes of inquiry concerning anything: First, what is the nature of it?… what is its constitution, origin and history? And second, What is its importance, meaning, or significance now that it is once here? The answer to the one question is given in an existential judgment or proposition. The answer to the other is a proposition of value … what we may, if we like, denominate a spiritual judgment. Neither judgment can be deduced immediately from the other.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Nor had the tables long been cleared before Messer Torello, observing that his guests were tired, showed them to sumptuous beds in which to lie down and rest, and shortly thereafter he too retired to bed. The servant he had sent to Pavia delivered the message to his lady, who, in a spirit more worthy of a prince than of a woman, promptly summoned a number of her husband’s friends and servants, and set all preparations in train for a sumptuous banquet. And apart from seeing that invitations were delivered, by the light of torches, to many of the city’s leading nobles, she laid in a supply of clothes and silks and furs, and carried out all the instructions her husband had sent her, down to the tiniest detail. Next morning, when the gentlemen had risen, Messer Torello invited them to join him for an expedition on horseback, and having called for his falcons, he took his guests to a nearby stretch of shallow water and showed them how magnificently the birds could fly. But when Saladin inquired whether there was anyone who could take them to Pavia and direct them to the most comfortable inn, Messer Torello said: ‘I myself will direct you, for I am obliged to go to Pavia in any case.’ The gentlemen believed him, gladly accepted his offer, and set off with him on the road to Pavia, where they arrived a little after tierce. Thinking they were being directed to the finest of the city’s inns, they came with Messer Torello to his mansion, where already some fifty or more of the leading citizens were assembled to greet them, and these immediately gathered round them, seizing their reins and their stirrups. Saladin and his companions no sooner saw this than they realized all too well what it signified, and they said: ‘Messer Torello, we did not ask for any such favour as this. You entertained us royally last night, far better than we had any right to expect, and therefore

• From The Decameron (1353)

  A little after dawn next morning, Ferondo came to his senses and noticed a chink of light coming through a crack in the side of the tomb. Not having seen any light for ten whole months, he concluded that he must be alive, and started to shout: ‘Open up! Open up!’ At the same time, he began to press his head firmly against the lid of the tomb, and not being very secure, it yielded and he started to push it aside. Meanwhile the monks, who had just finished reciting their matins, hurried to the scene, and when they recognized Ferondo’s voice and saw him emerging from the tomb, they were all terrified by the novelty of the occurrence and ran off to inform the Abbot. The Abbot pretended to be rising from prayer. ‘My sons,’ he said, ‘be not afraid. Take up the cross and-the holy water and follow me. Let us go and see what God’s omnipotence has in store for us.’ And away he strode. Ferondo, who was as white as a sheet on account of his prolonged incarceration in total darkness, had meanwhile emerged from the tomb, and on seeing the Abbot approaching, he hurled himself at his feet, saying: ‘Father, I have been rescued from the torments of Purgatory and restored to life, and it was revealed to me that my release was brought about by your prayers, together with those of my wife and Saint Benedict. God bless you, therefore, and make you prosper, now and forever more!’ ‘God be praised for His omnipotence!’ exclaimed the Abbot. ‘Now that He has sent you back again, just you run along, my son, and comfort your good lady, for she has done nothing but weep since the day you departed this life. And take good care, from now on, to serve God and hold on to His friendship.’ ‘That’s good advice, sir, and no mistake,’ said Ferondo. ‘Leave things to me. I love her so much that I’ll give her a great big kiss the moment I find her.’ The Abbot pretended to marvel greatly over what had happened, and as soon as he was alone with his monks, he had them all devoutly chanting the Miserere . When Ferondo returned to his village, everyone he met ran away from him in horror, and his wife was no less frightened of him than the rest, but he called them all back, assuring them that he had been restored to life. And once they recovered from the initial shock and saw that he really was alive, they bombarded him with questions, to all of which he replied as though he had been transformed into some kind of soothsayer, providing them with information about the souls of their kinsfolk and inventing all manner of marvellous tales about what went on in Purgatory. Moreover, he supplied the assembled populace with an account of the revelation he had received, before his return, from the Arse-angel Bagriel’s own lips.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Friend of God,’ she said, ‘I know full well that what you say is true, and you have taught me a great deal about friars, all of whom I have hitherto regarded as saints. I can see that I undoubtedly committed a serious error in behaving as I did towards Tedaldo, and if it lay within my power I would willingly make amends in the way you suggest. But how is this to be done? Tedaldo cannot ever return here again; he is dead. So what is the point of my giving you a pledge that I cannot keep?’ ‘Madam,’ said the pilgrim, ‘God has revealed to me that Tedaldo is not dead at all, but alive and well, and if only he enjoyed your favour he would also be happy.’ ‘But you must surely be mistaken,’ said the lady. ‘I saw him lying dead from a number of stab-wounds on my own doorstep, and held him in these arms and shed countless tears on his poor dead face, which possibly accounts for the malicious gossip that has been put about.’ ‘No matter what you may say, madam,’ said the pilgrim, ‘I assure you that Tedaldo is alive. And provided that you give me the pledge and intend to keep it, there is every hope of your seeing him soon.’ ‘I will do it, and willingly,’ said the lady. ‘Nothing would bring me greater joy than to see my husband released unharmed and Tedaldo alive.’ Tedaldo now decided that the time had come to make himself known to the lady and reassure her about her husband. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘in order to set your mind at rest about your husband, I shall have to tell you an important secret, which you must take care never to reveal for as long as you live.’ Since they were alone in a very remote part of the house (the lady being quite disarmed by the pilgrim’s appearance of saintliness), Tedaldo drew forth a ring which he had religiously preserved and which the lady had given him on their last night together, and held it out for her to see, saying: ‘Do you know this ring, madam?’ The lady recognized it at once. ‘I do indeed, sir,’ she replied. ‘I gave it long ago to Tedaldo.’ The pilgrim thereupon stood up straight, and having thrown off his cloak and removed his hood, he addressed her in a Florentine accent, saying: ‘And do you know me, too?’ When the lady saw that it was Tedaldo, she was utterly astonished, and began to tremble with fright, as though she were seeing a ghost. Far from rushing forward to welcome a Tedaldo who had returned from Cyprus, she shrank back in terror from a Tedaldo who had seemingly risen from the grave. ‘Do not be afraid, my lady,’ he said. ‘I really am your Tedaldo.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘I shall certainly find a way of reaching the Saint’s body.’ ‘How?’ said Marchese. ‘Like this,’ Martellino replied. ‘I’ll disguise myself as a paralytic, and pretend I can’t walk. Then with you propping me up on one side and Stecchi on the other, you will both go along giving the impression that you’re taking me to be healed by the Saint. When they see us coming, everyone will step aside and let us through.’ Marchese and Stecchi thought this a splendid idea, so all three of them promptly left the inn and went to a lonely spot, where Martellino contorted not only his hands, fingers, arms and legs, but also his mouth, his eyes and the whole of his face, becoming such a horrifying spectacle that no one would have taken him for anything other than a genuine case of hopeless and total bodily paralysis. In this state he was taken up by Marchese and Stecchi, and they headed for the church, with pity written all over their faces, humbly beseeching all those blocking their path to make way, for the love of God. They persuaded people to move without any trouble, and in brief, to the accompaniment of almost continuous cries of ‘Make way! Make way!’, and with all eyes turned in their direction, they arrived at the place where the body of Saint Arrigo was lying. There were some gentlemen standing round the body, and they quickly took hold of Martellino and laid him across it, so that it might help him regain the use of his limbs. Martellino lay there motionless for a while, with all eyes fixed upon him to see what would happen. Then, like the skilled performer that he was, he began to go through the motions of straightening out one of his fingers, then a hand, then an arm, and so on until he had unwound himself completely. When the people saw this, they applauded Saint Arrigo so rowdily that a roll of thunder would have passed unnoticed. Now it happened that there was a Florentine standing nearby, and although he was very well acquainted with Martellino, he had failed to recognize him when he was first led in, because of the grotesqueness of his appearance. But when he saw him standing up straight, he knew at once who it was, and he burst out laughing and said: ‘God damn the fellow! Who would have thought, to see him arriving, that he was not really paralysed at all!’ ‘What?’ exclaimed a number of Trevisans, who had overheard the Florentine’s words. ‘Do you mean to say he was not paralysed?’ ‘Heaven forbid!’ the Florentine replied. ‘He has always stood as straight as the rest of us.

• From Adam, Eve, and the Serpent (1988)

  “Have you not read that he who made them from the beginning made them male and female and said, ‘For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one’? So they are no longer two but one. What therefore God has joined together, let no man put asunder.” (MATTHEW 19:4–6) This answer shocked his Jewish listeners and, as Matthew tells it, pleased no one. Among Jesus’ Jewish contemporaries no one questioned the legitimacy of divorce. The only question was what constituted adequate grounds; and it was this question of grounds, not the legitimacy of divorce as such, that split religious schools into opposing factions. The teacher Shammai, for one, took the conservative position: the only offense serious enough to justify divorce was the wife’s infidelity. Shammai’s opponent Hillel, famous for his liberal judgments, argued instead that a man may divorce his wife for any reason he chooses, “even if she burn his soup!” The well-known teacher Akiba, who agreed with Hillel, added emphatically, “and even if he finds a younger woman more beautiful than she.” But however various teachers disputed the grounds for divorce, no one went so far as Jesus did and prohibited it altogether. Those among his audience familiar with Jewish law demanded to know how he dared question divorce, a right—and, in some cases, an obligation—provided in Mosaic law as essential to procreation. Jesus admitted that divorce is technically legal, but he rejected the practice nevertheless. “Moses allowed you to divorce your wives, but from the beginning [i.e., from the time of creation] it was not so” (Matthew 19:8). Moses took it upon himself, Jesus says, to change what God had created and to permit divorce as a concession to “your hardness of heart.” When his own followers, offended by such vehemence, complained, “If such is the case … it is not expedient to marry,” Jesus must have astonished them even more by agreeing that, yes, it is better not to marry, and praising “those who have made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the Kingdom of Heaven” (Matthew 19:12). Luke says that Jesus even praised barren women: “Blessed are … the wombs that never bore, and the breasts that never gave suck” (Luke 23:29), implying that the time was coming when the people who did not have children would be the lucky ones. Luke probably saw this as Jesus’ prophecy of the coming war against Rome (66–70 C.E.); but later readers often took it as referring to the Kingdom of God. In another passage, Luke has Jesus link marriage with death, and celibacy with eternal life:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But in the meantime, leave everything to me.’ Scarcely had the good man finished knocking at the door, when his wife replied: ‘All right, I’m coming.’ And, getting up, she went and opened the bedroom door, looking a picture of innocence. ‘Oh, husband,’ she said, ‘I tell you it was God who sent our neighbour Friar Rinaldo to us today, for if he hadn’t come, we should certainly have lost our child.’ ‘What’s this?’ exclaimed the poor fool of a husband, turning white as a sheet.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Neither of them recognized the other, and Messer Torello, whom Saladin referred to simply as ‘the Christian’, constantly had the thought of Pavia at the back of his mind and attempted several times to escape, but without success. So that when a party of Genoese emissaries came to Saladin’s court to arrange for the ransom of certain fellow citizens of theirs, he resolved that before they departed he would write to his wife, letting her know he was alive and would return to her as soon as he could, and asking her to wait for him. And having written the letter, he earnestly begged one of the emissaries, whom he knew personally, to see that it was delivered to his uncle, who was the Abbot of San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro,6 in Pavia. This being the way matters stood with Messer Torello, it happened that as Saladin was conversing with him one day on the subject of his hawks, Messer Torello began to smile and his mouth assumed a certain expression, of which Saladin had taken particular note when staying at his house in Pavia. Consequently Saladin called Messer Torello to mind, and after peering at the falconer more intently, he was almost sure that this man and Messer Torello were one and the same. So, changing the subject, he said: ‘Tell me, Christian, in what part of the West do you live?’ ‘My lord,’ replied Messer Torello, ‘I am a Lombard, from a city called Pavia, and I am a poor man of low estate.’ When Saladin heard this, he was virtually certain that his surmise was correct, and gleefully thought to himself: ‘God has now given me the chance to show this man how greatly I valued his kindness towards me.’ However, he said no more on the subject, but gave orders for all his robes to be laid out on display in one of the rooms of the palace, into which he took Messer Torello, and said to him: ‘Take a look at these clothes, Christian, and tell me whether you ever saw any of them before.’ Messer Torello began to inspect them, and albeit he caught sight of the garments his wife had presented to Saladin, it never entered his head that they could be the ones in question. However, he replied: ‘My lord, I recognize none of them, though it’s true that these two resemble certain robes which I myself once wore, and were also worn by three merchants who came to stay with me.’ Whereupon Saladin, unable to restrain himself any longer, threw his arms affectionately round Messer Torello’s neck, saying: ‘You are Messer Torello of Strà; I am one of the three merchants to whom your good lady presented these garments, and the time has now come to persuade you of the quality of my merchandise, as I promised you I would, God willing, on the day I departed.’

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

  But when she returned to the side of the young man and nuzzled into him, I guessed that the secret was that they were having an affair. He must be “the other one.” I was impressed how much younger he was than Anaïs. His golden skin shone, and he had sun streaks in his brown hair. His short-sleeved shirt revealed shapely biceps and triceps. With the eagerness of a cocker spaniel, he gave me a firm handshake, and in a full-bodied voice, said, “I’m Rupert Pole, Anaïs’s husband.” I started to giggle, thinking he was joking; his chiseled good looks made him almost cartoonish. Immediately, I noticed that no one else in the group had registered amusement.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The gentlemen paid her eloquent homage and warmly commended her, and having assured their host that he ought indeed to cherish her, they all began to gaze in her direction. Many of those present would have sworn she was the person she actually was, but for the fact that they understood her to be dead. But the one who gazed most intently of all upon her was Niccoluccio, who was dying to know who she was; and no sooner did his host move aside from the lady than his curiosity got the better of him and he asked her whether she was a Bolognese or a foreigner. On hearing this question being put to her by her own husband, it was something of an effort for the lady to withhold a reply; but faithful to her instructions she remained silent. Another of the gentlemen asked her whether the infant was hers, and yet another inquired whether she was Messer Gentile’s wife, but to neither did she offer any answer. However they were now rejoined by Messer Gentile, and one of his guests said to him: ‘This jewel of yours is indeed very beautiful, but are we right in thinking she is dumb?’ ‘Gentlemen,’ replied Messer Gentile, ‘that she has hitherto remained silent is no small proof of her virtue.’ ‘You tell us then,’ replied the other. ‘Who is she?’ ‘I shall be only too happy to tell you,’ he replied, ‘provided that you all promise not to move from your places, no matter what I may say, until I have finished speaking.’ They all gave him their promise, and once the tables had been cleared, Messer Gentile took his seat alongside the lady and said: ‘Gentlemen, this lady is the faithful and loyal servant to whom I was referring in the question I put to you just now. Being little prized by her own people, she was cast like something vile and useless into the gutter, whence I myself retrieved her, and by dint of my loving care I removed her from death’s grasp with my own hands. In recognition of my pure affection for the lady, God has transformed her from a fearsome corpse into the lovely object that you see before you. But so that you may have a better idea of how this came about, I shall briefly explain the circumstances.’ And so, much to the amazement of his hearers, he gave a clear account of all that had happened from the time he had first fallen in love with the lady until that very hour, then added: ‘Therefore, unless you have suddenly changed your opinion, and Niccoluccio especially, this lady belongs to me as of right, and no one can lawfully demand her return.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Once you resign yourself to it, you’ll sleep like a top in there. The Abbot is asleep, and the curtains are drawn in front of his bed. I’ll slip in quietly, and put down a nice mattress for you to sleep on.’ When he saw that it could all be arranged without disturbing the Abbot, Alessandro fell in with the scheme, and, making as little noise as possible, he bedded down where the landlord had suggested. The Abbot, far from being asleep, was locked in meditation on the subject of certain newly aroused longings of his. He had overheard the conversation between Alessandro and the landlord, and was listening, too, when Alessandro turned in for the night. ‘God has answered my prayers,’ said the Abbot delightedly to himself. ‘If I do not seize this opportunity, it may be a long time before another comes my way.’ Having firmly made up his mind, he waited for complete silence to descend on the inn, then he called out to Alessandro in a low voice, and, firmly brushing aside the latter’s numerous excuses, persuaded him to undress and he down at his side. The Abbot placed one of his hands on Alessandro’s chest, and then, to Alessandro’s great astonishment, began to caress him in the manner of a young girl fondling her lover, causing Alessandro to suspect, since there seemed to be no other explanation for his extraordinary behaviour, that the youth was possibly in the grip of some impure passion. But either by intuition, or because of some movement on Alessandro’s part, the Abbot understood at once what he was thinking, and began to smile. Then, hastily tearing off the shirt he was wearing, he took Alessandro’s hand and placed it on his bosom, saying: ‘Drive those silly thoughts out of your head, Alessandro. Lay your hand here, and see what I am hiding.’ And placing his hand on the Abbot’s bosom, Alessandro discovered a pair of sweet little rounded breasts, as firm and finely shaped as if they were made of ivory. It dawned on him at once that this was a woman, and without awaiting further invitation he immediately took her in his arms. But just as he was about to kiss her, she said: ‘Wait! Before you come any closer, there is something I want to tell you. As you can gather, I am not a man, but a woman. I am also a virgin, and I set out from home in order to obtain the Pope’s permission for my marriage. I know not whether to call it your good fortune or my misfortune, but from the moment I saw you, the other day, I burned with a love deeper than woman has ever experienced for any man. Hence I am resolved to have you as my husband rather than any other.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But you must take good care not to remarry, because if you did, God would take it amiss. And besides, you would have to go back to Ferondo when he returned from Purgatory, and he would be more jealous than ever.’ ‘It sounds all right to me, provided it cures this malady of his, so that I no longer have to spend my whole life under lock and key. Do whatever you think best.’ ‘Right you are,’ said the Abbot. ‘But what reward are you prepared to offer me for rendering you so useful a service?’ ‘Whatever you ask, Father, provided I have it to give,’ she replied. ‘But what possible reward could a there woman like myself offer to a man in your position?’ ‘Madam,’ said the Abbot, ‘you can do as much for me as I am about to do for you. Just as I am making preparations for your welfare and happiness, so you can do something that will lead to my freedom and salvation.’ ‘In that case,’ said the lady, ‘I am quite willing to do it.’ ‘All you need to do,’ said the Abbot, ‘is to give me your love and let me enjoy you. I am burning all over; I am pining for you.’ ‘Oh, Father!’ exclaimed the lady, who was hardly able to believe her ears. ‘Whatever are you asking me to do? I always took you for a saint. Is this the sort of request a saintly man should be making to a lady who goes to him for advice?’ ‘Do not be so astonished, my treasure,’ said the Abbot. ‘No loss of saintliness is involved, 2 for saintliness resides in the soul, and what I am asking of you is merely a sin of the body. But be that as it may, your beauty is so overpowering that love compels me to speak out. And what I say is this, that when you consider that your beauty is admired by a Saint, you have more reason to be proud of it than other women, because Saints are accustomed to seeing the beauties of Heaven. Furthermore, even though I am an Abbot, I am a man like the others and as you can see I am still quite young. It should not be too difficult for you to comply with my request; on the contrary, you ought to welcome it, because whilst Ferondo is away in Purgatory, I will come and keep you company every night and provide you with all the solace that he should be giving you. Nobody will suspect us, because my reputation stands at least as high with everyone else as it formerly did with you. Do not cast aside this special favour which is sent to you by God, for you can have something that countless women yearn for, and if you are sensible enough to accept my advice, it will be yours.

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

  She shot a frightened look at Renate so I added, “We all went to Harlem, and Hugo—” “Tristine!” Anaïs broke from a young man with his arm around her. With his chiseled nose and even smile, he was handsome as a TV soap star. She quickly enclosed me in a hug, whispering in my ear, “You will keep my secret, won’t you?” “Yes,” I responded, though I wasn’t sure what it was. But when she returned to the side of the young man and nuzzled into him, I guessed that the secret was that they were having an affair. He must be “the other one.” I was impressed how much younger he was than Anaïs. His golden skin shone, and he had sun streaks in his brown hair. His short-sleeved shirt revealed shapely biceps and triceps. With the eagerness of a cocker spaniel, he gave me a firm handshake, and in a full-bodied voice, said, “I’m Rupert Pole, Anaïs’s husband.” I started to giggle, thinking he was joking; his chiseled good looks made him almost cartoonish. Immediately, I noticed that no one else in the group had registered amusement. Anaïs said to the others, “We went dancing one night, Tristine and Caresse Crosby and my book illustrator Ian Hugo.” Then she said to me, “Aren’t you attending that college in Westwood?” “No, I’m downtown at USC.” A lot of people confused UCLA with USC because both universities were in LA, but I was surprised Anaïs didn’t remember it was her husband Hugo Guiler who took us dancing, not Ian Hugo. “I’ll probably go to UCLA for grad school,” I offered. “And what will be your major?” asked a square-jawed man in his early sixties standing on the other side of Anaïs. “English lit,” I answered and told Anaïs, “I’ve been hoping to see one of your books on a syllabus, but the only woman writer I ever see is Emily Dickinson.” “Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?” the man quipped in his high-pitched, British-inflected voice. “Have you met Christopher Isherwood?” Anaïs introduced the famous author, who bowed his head and put his hands together like a yogi. In reverence, I gasped. “I read your Berlin Stories in my Twentieth Century Lit class! I loved the structure of separate short stories that together made up the novel.” “Very insightful. Thank you.” His hand moved to the shoulder of an adorable mouse-faced boy standing close to him. “This is Don Bachardy.” Even though Don was at least thirty years his junior, I could tell by the way Isherwood hugged him that they were a couple. Don’s grin revealed a gap between his front teeth. He asked me, “What year are you in college?” I told him I was a junior as Renate pulled on my elbow. She said, “I think your good-looking date is getting worried about you.” The others followed her gaze through the glass wall to Harry Browne brushing wrinkles out of his suit as he rose from his chair.

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

  “You can. I specialize in portraits of people alongside their animal spirit.” “And I remind you of a cormorant?” “Always fishing.” It sounded like a reprimand. As Renate studied me, I tried not to look fishy. Finally she said, “Maybe you will be able to do a service for Anaïs.” “A service? I would. I would love to.” “Depending on how well you can be trusted,” she said, watching something behind me. “Now you know quite a few secrets. Let’s see how well you keep them.” “I will,” I promised. “I won’t mention anything to anyone about you being married to a famous football player. Or that Ian Hugo is Hugo Guiler.” Damn, now I couldn’t tell my godmother. “Or what goes on at Holiday House.” Renate nodded in the direction behind me. “Be discreet when you turn around.” “I’ll go to the ladies’ room.” As I rose and turned, I saw a man seated two tables away who looked so much like Frank Sinatra it had to be him! He was clasping hands with a blond woman who had her back to me. When I returned from the bathroom, they had left—probably to use one of the apartments below. I saw that Renate was on the phone at the hostess’s desk. I’d been trying to think who she reminded me of, and now it dawned on me: it was Vampira, the local TV emcee of midnight horror films. Renate had the same long black hair and witchy beauty. As I approached, she put down the receiver. “You’re invited to my house to see my paintings Wednesday next.” CHAPTER 5 Malibu, California, 1964 AS MY BUICK BUMPED ALONG the dirt road on the east side of Pacific Coast Highway, I understood how Renate could afford to live in Malibu on a hostess’s salary. There were no ocean views on this side. Her house sat in the gloom on a barren, undeveloped expanse of scrubby chaparral and tilted telephone poles. The carport under Renate’s characterless stucco was empty. Had she forgotten our appointment? I parked in the carport and walked around the house to find an entry door. I saw a faded red Volkswagen parked at the rear of the house but could find no entry other than the one under the carport, so I knocked on it. Renate welcomed me and proudly showed me around. This was all hers, paid for with her wages. “My ex-husband was a doctor, but when I left him, all I took was my son and my freedom.” Everything in her house looked as if it had been crafted by a class of third graders told to finish their projects before the bell rang. The spiral ladder leading to a sleeping loft seemed so narrow only a monkey could climb it. The huge velvet pillows that substituted for a couch had been basted with thick white thread that had never been removed. Renate’s unfinished canvases balanced on off-kilter, homemade easels.

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

  I waited, and she began again. “I’d befriended the homosexuals because I didn’t want to be unfaithful to Hugo anymore. I thought that with the homosexuals, I could find companionship without temptation. I hadn’t realized what a hothouse of enticements I would be entering. The talk was all about sex, and everyone fell so easily into each other’s beds, the women as well as the men.” Oh my god, how could I have missed it? Especially after she’d told me that she’d wanted to be part of Djuna Barnes’s lesbian clique! It just hadn’t occurred to me that Anaïs went with women because she was so feminine. That should have been the tipoff, though; she was one of those femme lesbians I’d heard about. Renate had to be one, too—all the paintings of her naked girlfriends! Probably Anaïs’s and Renate’s young husbands were shills. They were probably homosexual, too. I felt as if one of Renate’s artichoke hearts had gotten stuck in my throat. If Anaïs and Renate were lesbians, then they must think I was one, too, and that was why I’d been brought there! Or they believed I was one but hadn’t yet recognized it, so they wanted to help me. The secret was about me: that I was a lesbian, too. But how could I be when I liked sex with men? I didn’t even know if I could do it with women, especially women as old as Anaïs and Renate. Making my voice sound both accepting and neutral I asked, “Are you a lesbian?” “No!” She laughed her delightful jingle. “Oh.” I took a relieved breath but felt some disappointment on the exhale. Anaïs went on, “After I turned forty, I was having a midlife crisis like a man. I was in a sexual frenzy, especially for young, beautiful boys, hetero or not.” Her laugh cracked. “When I met Gore I’d already slept with enough homosexual young men to know it would be a disaster, but I couldn’t help myself. He was so brilliant and beautiful when he was young. Once, in a taxi, he grabbed me into a fierce kiss. I responded, inflamed with desire, and that frightened him. He told the driver to stop, jumped out of the cab, and fled to one of his boys.” “Ouch!” I said. “That wasn’t the worst of it.” Her face coiled with ire. “He used secret confidences we’d shared to parody me in his novels! And there was nothing I could do about it because I had to remain friends with him.” “Why?” “He was my only route to a real publisher.” I was confused. “I thought you had a publisher, Gemor Press.” “Those books were self-published. I handprinted all those books myself.” “What about the British Book Company?” “It was a vanity press in England.” Her sigh was more of a groan. “Hugo wasted so much of his capital on vanity publishing for me.” “Well, at least you handprinted some beautiful books.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  All the same, she swept past your front door the other night when she was on her way to the Arno to bathe her feet and get a breath of fresh air; but she spends most of her time in Laterina. 18 You can regularly see her footmen going the rounds, all carrying a rod in one hand and a bucket in the other as symbols of her authority; and wherever you look you’ll find many of her nobles, such as Baron Ffouljakes, Lord Dung, Viscount Broom-handle, and the Earl of Loosefart, and others, with all of whom I believe you are acquainted, though perhaps you don’t recall them just at present. This, then, if all goes according to plan, is the great lady in whose tender arms we shall place you, in which case you can forget about that girl from Cacavincigli.’ Having been born and bred in Bologna, the physician was unable to grasp the meaning of their words, and told them that the lady would suit him down to the ground. Nor did he have long to wait before the two painters brought him the news of his election to the company. On the morning of the day appointed for the next meeting of the society, the Master invited the pair of them to breakfast, and after the meal he asked them how he was to get there, to which Buffalmacco replied: ‘See here, Master, for reasons you are now about to hear, you will have to be very brave, otherwise you may run into trouble and make things very awkward for us. This evening, after dark, you must contrive to climb up on to one of the raised tombs 19 that were erected just recently outside Santa Maria Novella, wearing one of your most sumptuous robes, for not only does the company require you to be nobly dressed when you are presented for the first time, but since you are gently bred, the Countess is proposing (or so we have been told, for we have never actually met her) to make you a Knight of the Bath 20 at her own expense. And you are to remain on the tomb till we send for you. ‘Now, so that you will know exactly what to expect, I should explain that we shall be sending a black creature with horns to come and fetch you, which, though not very large, will attempt to frighten you by parading up and down before you in the piazza, leaping high in the air, and making loud hissing noises. When it sees that you are not afraid, it will come silently towards you, and as soon as it has drawn near to where you are sitting, you must clamber boldly down from the tomb, and, without invoking God or any of the Saints, leap on to its back.