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 Decameron (1353)

  They then descended to meet her, and Messer Ansaldo greeted her courteously and reverentially, without any show of unbridled passion, after which they all made their way into a splendid apartment where a huge fire was burning. After having offered her somewhere to sit, Messer Ansaldo said: ‘My lady, if the love I have so long borne you merits any reward, I beseech you to do me the kindness of telling me truthfully why you have come here at this hour of day with so few people to bear you company.’ To which the lady replied, confused and almost in tears: ‘Sir, I am led here, not because I love you or because I pledged you my word, but because I was ordered to come by my husband, who, paying more regard to the labours of your unruly love than to his own or his wife’s reputation, has constrained me to call upon you. And by his command I am ready to submit for this once to your every pleasure.’ Great as Messer Ansaldo’s astonishment had been when the lady arrived, his astonishment on hearing her words was considerably greater; and because he was deeply moved by Gilberto’s liberality, his ardour gradually turned to compassion. ‘My lady,’ he said, ‘since it is as you say, God forbid that I should ever impair the reputation of one who shows compassion for my love. With your consent, therefore, whilst you are under my roof I shall treat you exactly as though you were my sister, and whenever you choose you shall be free to depart, provided that you convey to your husband all the thanks you deem appropriate for the immense courtesy he has shown me, and that you look upon me always in future as your brother and your servant.’ The lady was pleased beyond measure to hear these words. ‘Nothing could ever make me believe,’ she said, ‘in view of your impeccable manners, that my coming to your house would have any other sequel than the one which I see you have made of it, for which I shall always remain in your debt.’ Then, having taken her leave, she returned to Gilberto suitably attended and told him what had happened. And from that day forth, Gilberto and Messer Ansaldo became the closest of loyal friends. After perceiving how liberally Gilberto had behaved towards Messer Ansaldo, and Messer Ansaldo towards the lady, the magician said to Messer Ansaldo, as the latter was about to present him with his fee: ‘Heaven forbid that after observing Gilberto’s generosity in respect of his honour, and yours in respect of your love, I should not be equally generous in respect of my reward. And since I know that you can put this sum of money to good use, I intend that you should keep it.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And then afterwards, if you still insist on leaving, you could all go back to the inn together.’ Andreuccio replied that he would rather do without his companions that evening, and that he would place himself entirely at her disposal, if this was what she really wanted. She accordingly went through the motions of sending word to the inn that they should not expect him for supper. Then after a lot of further talk, they sat down to a splendid supper, consisting of several courses, which she cunningly prolonged until darkness had completely fallen. When they got up from table, Andreuccio said he would have to go, but she refused to hear of it under any circumstances, telling him that Naples was no place to wander about in at night, especially if one was a stranger, and that when she had sent word to the inn not to expect him for supper, she had told them he would not be sleeping there either. He swallowed all this, and since, being taken in by appearances, he was enjoying her company, he stayed where he was. After supper, she engaged him, not without her reasons, in a protracted conversation about this and that, and when the night was well advanced she left Andreuccio to sleep in her room, with a page-boy to show him where to find anything he needed, whilst she herself retired into another room with her maidservants. The heat was stifling, and so, on finding himself alone, Andreuccio stripped to his doublet and removed his hose and breeches, and laid them under his bolster. Nature demanded that he should relieve his belly, which was inordinately full, so he asked the page where he could do it, and the boy showed him a door in one of the corners of the room, saying: ‘Go through there.’ Andreuccio passed jauntily through, and chanced to step on to a plank, which came away at its other end from the beam on which it was resting, so that it flew up in the air and fell into the lower regions, taking Andreuccio with it. Although he had fallen from a goodly height, he mercifully suffered no injury; but he got himself daubed from head to foot in the filthy mess with which the place was literally swimming. Now in order to give you a clearer picture of what has preceded and what follows, I shall describe the sort of place it was. In a narrow alleyway, such as we often see between two houses, some boards, and a place to sit, had been rigged up on two beams, running across from one house to the next; and it was one of these boards that had collapsed under Andreuccio’s weight. So finding himself down there in the alley, Andreuccio, cursing his bad luck, began calling out to the boy.

• 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 The Decameron (1353)

  ‘You will soon be convinced when you take me to see her, for she will fling her arms round my neck immediately. I could ask for nothing better than the arrangement you suggest.’ ‘In that case,’ said Paganino, ‘let us proceed.’ And so off they went to Paganino’s house, where they entered a large room and Paganino sent for the lady, who came in from another room, composed in appearance and neatly dressed, and walked over to where the two men were standing. But she took no more notice of Messer Ricciardo than if he were some total stranger coming into the house as Paganino’s guest. On seeing this, the judge was greatly astonished, for he had been expecting her to greet him with a display of frenzied rejoicing. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘the melancholy and prolonged suffering to which I have been subjected, ever since I lost her, have wrought such a change in my appearance that she no longer knows who I am.’ He therefore addressed her as follows: ‘Madam, it was a costly idea of mine to take you fishing with me, for nobody ever experienced so much sorrow as I have endured from the day I lost you, and now it appears, from the coldness of your greeting, that you do not even recognize me. Don’t you see that I am your Messer Ricciardo? Don’t you understand that I came to Monaco fully prepared to offer this gentleman whatever ransom he required, so that I could have you back again and take you away from this house? And are you perhaps unaware that he has been good enough to tell me that he’ll hand you over for whatever sum I choose to pay?’ The lady turned towards him, with the faintest suggestion of a smile on her lips. ‘Are you addressing me, sir?’ she asked. ‘You must surely be mistaking me for someone else, for as far as I can recall, I have never seen you before in

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘You will soon be convinced when you take me to see her, for she will fling her arms round my neck immediately. I could ask for nothing better than the arrangement you suggest.’ ‘In that case,’ said Paganino, ‘let us proceed.’ And so off they went to Paganino’s house, where they entered a large room and Paganino sent for the lady, who came in from another room, composed in appearance and neatly dressed, and walked over to where the two men were standing. But she took no more notice of Messer Ricciardo than if he were some total stranger coming into the house as Paganino’s guest. On seeing this, the judge was greatly astonished, for he had been expecting her to greet him with a display of frenzied rejoicing. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘the melancholy and prolonged suffering to which I have been subjected, ever since I lost her, have wrought such a change in my appearance that she no longer knows who I am.’ He therefore addressed her as follows: ‘Madam, it was a costly idea of mine to take you fishing with me, for nobody ever experienced so much sorrow as I have endured from the day I lost you, and now it appears, from the coldness of your greeting, that you do not even recognize me. Don’t you see that I am your Messer Ricciardo? Don’t you understand that I came to Monaco fully prepared to offer this gentleman whatever ransom he required, so that I could have you back again and take you away from this house? And are you perhaps unaware that he has been good enough to tell me that he’ll hand you over for whatever sum I choose to pay?’ The lady turned towards him, with the faintest suggestion of a smile on her lips. ‘Are you addressing me, sir?’ she asked. ‘You must surely be mistaking me for someone else, for as far as I can recall, I have never seen you before in my life.’ ‘Oh, come now,’ said Messer Ricciardo. ‘Take a good look at me, and if you choose to remember properly, you will soon see that I am your husband, Ricciardo di Chinzica.’ ‘You will forgive me for saying so, sir,’ said the lady, ‘but it is not so proper as you imagine for me to stare at you. And in any case, I have already looked at you sufficiently to know that I have never seen you before.’ Messer Ricciardo supposed her to be doing this because she was afraid of Paganino, in whose presence she was perhaps reluctant to admit that she recognized him. And so, after a while, he asked Paganino if he would kindly allow him to speak with her alone in her room.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Just before Andreuccio reached her, she opened her arms wide and descended three steps to meet him. Then she clasped him round the neck and remained for some time without speaking, as though hindered by a surge of powerful emotion. Finally, her eyes filling with tears, she kissed his brow and said, in a somewhat faltering voice: ‘Oh, Andreuccio my dear, how delighted I am to see you.’ Not knowing what to make of this barrage of affection, he replied, in tones of deep astonishment: ‘My lady, the pleasure is mine.’ Then she took him by the hand, and led him up to the main room of her house, from whence, without another word, she passed with him into her bedroom, which was all fragrant with roses, orange-blossom and other pleasant odours. There he saw an exquisite curtained bed, a large number of dresses hanging from pegs, as is the custom in those parts, and other very beautiful, expensive looking objects. He had never seen such finery before, and was firmly convinced that the lady must be nothing less than a genuine aristocrat. Having made him sit by her side on a chest at the foot of the bed, she began to address him as follows: ‘Andreuccio, I am quite sure you must be astonished at me for embracing you like this and bursting into tears, for you do not know me and it may be that you have never even heard of me before. But you are now to hear something that will possibly increase your astonishment, for the fact is that I am your sister. I have always longed to meet all of my brothers, and now that God has been good enough to allow me to see one of them, I shall no longer die disconsolate when the time comes for me to depart this life. But in case you know nothing of this, I will tell you all about it. ‘Pietro, who is my father as well as yours, lived for many years in Palermo, as I suppose you may have heard. Being a good and amiable man, he was greatly loved there, and he is still loved there to this day by those who knew him. But of all his profound admirers, none loved him more than my mother, who was a widowed lady of gentle birth. Indeed, she loved Pietro so deeply, that she abandoned all fear of her father, her brothers and her good name, and their friendship became so intimate that it led to the birth of the person you see here now, sitting beside you. ‘When I was still a little girl, Pietro’s business called him away from Palermo and he returned to Perugia, leaving my mother and me to fend for ourselves, and as far as I have been able to discover, he never gave either of us another thought.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  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. I am alive and well, and whatever you and my brothers may believe, I never died and was never murdered.’ Somewhat reassured by the sound of his voice, the lady looked at him more closely, and having convinced herself that he really was Tedaldo, she burst into tears, flung her arms about his neck, and kissed him, saying: ‘Tedaldo, my sweet Tedaldo, you are welcome!’ ‘My lady,’ said Tedaldo, after embracing and kissing her, ‘there is no time now to exchange more intimate greetings. I must go and arrange for Aldobrandino to be restored to you safe and sound, and trust that you will hear good news of my endeavours before tomorrow evening. Indeed, I fully expect by tonight to hear that he is safe, in which case I should like to come and tell you all about it in a more leisurely way than I have time for at present.’ Donning once again his pilgrim’s cloak and hood, he kissed the lady a second time, assured her that everything would be all right, and left her. He then proceeded to the place where Aldobrandino, more preoccupied with the dread of his impending doom than with the hope of his future release, was being held prisoner.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  No sooner had the Sultan agreed to Sicurano’s request than Sicurano burst into tears and threw himself on his knees at the Sultan’s feet, at the same time losing his manly voice and the desire to persist in his masculine role. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘I myself am the poor unfortunate Zinevra, who for six long years has toiled her way through the world disguised as a man, a victim of the false and wicked calumnies of this traitor Ambrogiuolo and of the iniquitous cruelty of this man who handed her over to be killed by one of his servants and eaten by wolves.’ Tearing open the front of her dress and displaying her bosom, she made it clear to the Sultan and to everyone else that she was indeed a woman. Then she rounded on Ambrogiuolo, haughtily demanding to know when he had ever slept with her, as he had claimed. But Ambrogiuolo, seeing who it was, simply stood there and said nothing, as though he were too ashamed to open his mouth. The Sultan, who had always believed her to be a man, was so astonished on seeing and hearing all this, that he kept thinking that he must be dreaming and that his eyes and ears were deceiving him. But once he had recovered from his astonishment and realized that it was true, he lauded Zinevra to the skies for her virtuous way of life, her constancy, and her strength of character. And having ordered women’s clothes of the finest quality to be brought, and provided her with a retinue of ladies, he complied with her earlier request and spared Bernabò from the death he assuredly deserved. On recognizing his wife, Bernabò threw himself in tears at her feet asking her forgiveness, and although he merited no such favour, she graciously conceded it and helped him up again, clasping him in a fond and wifely embrace. The Sultan next commanded that Ambrogiuolo should instantly be taken to some upper part of the city, tied to a pole in the sun, smeared with honey, and left there until he fell of his own accord; and this was done. He then decreed that all of Ambrogiuolo’s possessions, which amounted in value to more than ten thousand doubloons, should be handed over to the lady. And for his own part, he put on a splendid feast, at which Bernabò, being Lady Zinevra’s husband, and the most excellent Lady Zinevra herself were the guests of honour. And in addition he presented her with jewels, gold and silver plate, and money, all of which came to a further ten thousand doubloons in value.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  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 The Decameron (1353)

  Next morning, taking another lady with her for company, his mother left the house as though intending to go for a walk, made her way to Federigo’s little cottage, and asked to see him. For several days, the weather had been unsuitable for hawking, so Federigo was attending to one or two little jobs in his garden, and when he heard, to his utter astonishment, that Monna Giovanna was at the front-door and wished to speak to him, he happily rushed there to greet her. When she saw him coming, she advanced with womanly grace to meet him. Federigo received her with a deep bow, whereupon she said: ‘Greetings, Federigo!’ Then she continued: ‘I have come to make amends for the harm you have suffered on my account, by loving me more than you ought to have done. As a token of my esteem, I should like to take breakfast with you this morning, together with my companion here, but you must not put yourself to any trouble.’ ‘My lady,’ replied Federigo in all humility, ‘I cannot recall ever having suffered any harm on your account. On the contrary I have gained so much that if ever I attained any kind of excellence, it was entirely because of your own great worth and the love I bore you. Moreover I can assure you that this visit which you have been generous enough to pay me is worth more to me than all the money I ever possessed, though I fear that my hospitality will not amount to very much.’ So saying, he led her unassumingly into the house, and thence into his garden, where, since there was no one else he could call upon to chaperon her, he said: ‘My lady, as there is nobody else available, this good woman, who is the wife of the farmer here, will keep you company whilst I go and see about setting the table.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  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. And whilst one of them poked about in the places where she knew the fish to be hiding, the other wielded her nets to such good purpose that within a short space of time, to the huge delight of the King who was watching their every movement, they caught fish by the score. Some of these they threw to the servant, who tossed them almost before they were dead into the frying-pan; but then they began to pick out some of the finest specimens, as they had been instructed, and to throw them up on the table in front of the King, the Count, and their father. The sight of these fishes writhing about on the table was marvellously pleasing to the King, who in his turn picked some of them up and politely tossed them back to the girls. And in this fashion they sported for some little time until the servant had cooked the ones he had been given, which at Messer Neri’s bidding were placed before the King, more by way of an entremets than as a specially choice or delectable dish.

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

  I felt as adopted children must when, at last, they meet their real mother and are too full of jumbled emotions to speak. Artfully, she refocused the conversation. “Which of the women characters in my novels did you identify with?” The question took me by surprise. I hadn’t thought about myself as any of the characters; they were all older than me. I wasn’t like the adulterous adventuress Sabina, or like Djuna, her intuitive, wise friend. “Maybe I’m like Stella because she is an actress and fearful,” I said. “Or maybe Lillian, because she is awkward and impetuous?” Anaïs nodded. I said, “I see you as Djuna because you are feminine and wise like her.” She smiled. I just had to ask: “Where did the character of Sabina come from?” Anaïs raised one arched eyebrow. “My four women characters are all parts of myself and of all women. I believe that all women have these characters in them: Sabina, the seductress; Djuna, our wisdom; Lillian, driven to action by anxiety; and Stella, the fearful, reclusive one.” “I don’t have a Sabina.” “You don’t have a seductress? Are you sure? I think you will realize that you do.” I thought about Sabina in A Spy in the House of Love, cheating on her husband. That would never be me. Anaïs explained, “Think of Sabina as akin to the goddess Artemis, with her hounds and her bow and quiver of arrows chasing her prey. It’s the love of the hunt.” Suddenly I had an inkling what Anaïs meant. When I was twelve, soon after my father left, my girlfriend and I had hunted the San Fernando Valley for guys to flirt with. For three Halloweens in a row, we dressed in the same black leotard cat costumes that revealed our pubertal curves, reveling in our power to ensnare the eyes of older boys and men as we sauntered through Encino Park at night. We put on eye makeup and stuffed our bras and hunted for boys at movie matinees, bowling alleys, and miniature golf courses, thrilling to the game of pulling in guys like reeling in fish. It was the newness of the encounters, the rush of triumphant power, the intoxication of arousal when we made out with them, the giddiness of telling each other afterwards how the guy had tried to cop a feel. I marveled that Anaïs had intuited I’d been a pubescent huntress, like Sabina searching for new encounters and untried caresses, when I’d forgotten it until just then. The nuns in high school had succeeded in making me demure, but now the wild thrill of those hot summer nights and the unthinking pleasure of kissing strangers in the air-conditioned La Reina theater came back to me and mingled with the recent charge I’d experienced when I’d felt Jean-Jacques’s penis. Yet I could not have articulated any of this and instead said to Anaïs, “Well, I know I don’t have a Djuna.”

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

  WHEN THE PROP PLANE CARRYING Hugo bumped to a stop on the beach landing strip, Anaïs trudged through the sand to greet him. A cabdriver waited to take them directly to the American Hotel. It was luxurious compared to the El Mirador, where gossiping maids and the patron had seen her with Rupert. She intended to tell Hugo she wanted a divorce as soon as they were alone in their penthouse suite. After he’d tipped the hotel porters and appreciated the panoramic view of the ocean from fourteen floors above, he said soberly, “You’ve heard the news that Gandhi was assassinated?” “Yes, I’m grieving with the world.” They communed for a moment in silence, cooled by the hotel air-conditioning, he sitting on the king-sized bed, she perched on a settee covered with a tropical print, mourning the loss of a hero who had embodied their shared ideals. “Well, the world goes on,” Hugo said softly. “I brought three little surprises that should cheer you, dear. I hope you like them.” Poor Hugo, she thought, I’m sure I’ll like them more than you will like my surprise. He pulled a gift-wrapped box from his leather satchel. She could tell by its size and shape what was inside: Chanel 22, Coco Chanel’s personal scent that the famous designer allowed only a few select customers to buy. Receiving this almost illicit nectar always gave Anaïs a thrill but accepting it did not make her announcement of wanting a divorce easier. He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head, and told her his second surprise. “I resigned from the bank. I’m a free man!” He grinned. To her increasing alarm, he explained that the conflict between his banker self and his artist self had reached a crisis and that with his psychoanalyst’s help he’d decided to become, as she, a full-time artist. “But what about money?” Anaïs gasped. “I took an early payout on my pension.” “No!” Her hands gripped her face. “Your pension was there to take care of us in old age,” she moaned. “Anaïs, it’s fine. I’ve paid off our debts and we still have money to invest.” “Invest!” “Dearest, that’s what I do for other people. I can do it for us. Leave that part to me.” How she hated his patronizing tone. “This affects us both!” she cried. A divorce attorney she had once consulted in New York had told her that half of Hugo’s pension would be hers if they separated. Now what could she expect? They had always rented and owned no property, except for the rat-infested shack she’d recently purchased. A terrifying thought seized her. She had driven him to this disastrous act. Hugo had given up his pension in order to keep her from divorcing him. He had put her in checkmate. He knows. He’s always known I was cheating, she realized. He’s telling me that it was the bargain he made, offering me silence, in order to hold onto me.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  When the entire populace was assembled in front of the church, Friar Cipolla began to preach his sermon, never suspecting for a moment that any of his things had been tampered with. He harangued his audience at great length, carefully stressing what was required of them, and on reaching the point where he was to display the Angel Gabriel’s feather, he first recited the Confiteor11 and caused two torches to be lit; then, throwing back the cowl from his head, he carefully unwound the taffeta and drew forth the casket, which, after a few words in praise and commendation of the Angel Gabriel and his relic, he proceeded to open. When he saw that it was full of coal, Guccio Balena was the last person he suspected of playing him such a trick, for he knew him to be incapable of rising to such heights of ingenuity. Nor did he even blame the man for being so careless as to allow others to do it, but inwardly cursed his own stupidity in entrusting his things to Guccio’s care, knowing full well, as he did, that he was negligent, disobedient, careless and witless. Without changing colour in the slightest, however, he raised his eyes and hands to Heaven, and in a voice that could be heard by all the people present, he exclaimed: ‘Almighty God, may Thy power be forever praised!’ Then, closing the casket and turning to the people, he said: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I must explain to you that when I was still very young, I was sent by my superior into those parts where the sun appears,12 with express instructions to seek out the privileges of the Porcellana,13 which, though they cost nothing to seal and deliver, bring far more profit to others than to ourselves. ‘So away I went, and after setting out from Venison, I visited the Greek Calends, then rode at a brisk pace through the Kingdom of Algebra and through Bordello, eventually reaching Bedlam, and not long afterwards, almost dying of thirst, I arrived in Sardintinia. But why bother to mention every single country to which I was directed by my questing spirit? After crossing the Straits of Penury, I found myself passing through Funland and Laughland, both of which countries are thickly populated, besides containing a lot of people. Then I went on to Liarland, where I found a large number of friars belonging to various religious orders including my own, all of whom were forsaking a life of discomfort for the love of God, and paying little heed to the exertions of others so long as they led to their own profit. In all these countries, I coined a great many phrases, which turned out to be the only currency I needed.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Now Titus was by chance come at that juncture to the prætorium and looking the wretched condemned man in the face and hearing why he had been doomed to die, suddenly knew him for Gisippus; whereupon, marvelling at his sorry fortune and how he came to be in Rome and desiring most ardently to succour him, but seeing no other means of saving him than to accuse himself and thus excuse him, he thrust forward in haste and cried out, saying, 'Marcus Varro, call back the poor man whom thou hast condemned, for that he is innocent. I have enough offended against the Gods with one crime, in slaying him whom thine officer found this morning dead, without willing presently to wrong them with the death of another innocent.' Varro marvelled and it irked him that all the prætorium should have heard him; but, being unable, for his own honour's sake, to forbear from doing that which the laws commanded, he caused bring back Gisippus and in the presence of Titus said to him, 'How camest thou to be so mad that, without suffering any torture, thou confessedst to that which thou didst not, it being a capital matter? Thou declaredst thyself to be he who slew the man yesternight, and now this man cometh and saith that it was not thou, but he that slew him.'

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ‘Forgive me, Philip—’ For in between quarrels they were sometimes like children, naïvely asking each other’s forgiveness. Sir Philip’s resolution weakened and waned as he kissed the tears from her poor, reddened eyelids. He thought: ‘To-morrow—to-morrow I’ll tell her—I can’t bear to make her more unhappy to-day.’ So the weeks drifted by and still he had not spoken; summer came and went, giving place to the autumn. Yet one more Christmas visited Morton, and still Sir Philip had not spoken. CHAPTER 141F ebruary came bringing snowstorms with it, the heaviest known for many a year. The hills lay folded in swathes of whiteness, and so did the valleys at the foot of the hills, and so did the spacious gardens of Morton—it was all one vast panorama of whiteness. The lakes froze, and the beech trees had crystalline branches, while their luminous carpet of leaves grew brittle so that it crackled now underfoot, the only sound in the frozen stillness of that place that was always infinitely still. Peter, the arrogant swan, turned friendly, and he and his family now welcomed Stephen who fed them every morning and evening, and they glad enough to partake of her bounty. On the lawn Anna set out a tray for the birds, with chopped suet, seed, and small mounds of breadcrumbs; and down at the stables old Williams spread straw in wide rings for exercising the horses who could not be taken beyond the yard, so bad were the roads around Morton. The gardens lay placidly under the snow, in no way perturbed or disconcerted. Only one inmate of theirs felt anxious, and that was the ancient and wide-boughed cedar, for the weight of the snow made an ache in its branches—its branches were brittle like an old man’s bones; that was why the cedar felt anxious. But it could not cry out or shake off its torment; no, it could only endure with patience, hoping that Anna would take note of its trouble, since she sat in its shade summer after summer—since once long ago she had sat in its shade dreaming of the son she would bear her husband. And one morning Anna did notice its plight, and she called Sir Philip, who hurried from his study. She said: ‘Look, Philip! I’m afraid for my cedar—it’s all weighted down—I feel worried about it.’ Then Sir Philip sent in to Upton for chain, and for stout pads of felt to support the branches; and he himself must direct the gardeners while they climbed into the tree and pushed off the snow; and he himself must see to the placing of the stout felt pads, lest the branches be galled. Because he loved Anna who loved the cedar, he must stand underneath it directing the gardeners. A sudden and horrible sound of rending. ‘Sir, look out! Sir Philip, look out, sir, it’s giving!’ A crash, and then silence—a horrible silence, far worse than that horrible sound of rending.

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

  Luther had as yet no idea of reforming the Catholic church, and still less of separating from it. All the roots of his life and piety were in the historic church, and he considered himself a good Catholic even in 1517, and was so in fact. He still devoutly prayed to the Virgin Mary from the pulpit; he did not doubt the intercession of saints in heaven for the sinners on earth; he celebrated mass with full belief in the repetition of the sacrifice on the cross and the miracle of transubstantiation; he regarded the Hussites as "sinful heretics" for breaking away from the unity of the church and the papacy which offered a bulwark against sectarian division. But by the leading of Providence he became innocently and reluctantly a Reformer. A series of events carried him irresistibly from step to step, and forced him far beyond his original intentions. Had he foreseen the separation, he would have shrunk from it in horror. He was as much the child of his age as its father, and the times molded him before he molded the times. This is the case with all men of Providence: they are led by a divine hand while they are leading their fellow-men. NOTES. The works of Luther written before the 95 Theses (reprinted in the Weimar ed., I. 1–238, III., IV.) are as follows: Commentary on the Psalms; a number of sermons; Tractatus de his, qui ad ecclesias confugiunt (an investigation of the right of asylum; first printed 1517, anonymously, then under Luther’s name, 1520, at Landshut; but of doubtful genuineness); Sermo praescriptus praeposito in Litzka, 1512 (a Latin sermon prepared for his friend, the Provost Georg Mascov of Leitzkau in Brandenburg); several Latin Sermons from 1514–1517; Quaestio de viribus et voluntate hominis sine gratia disputata, 1516; Preface to his first edition of "German Theology," 1516; The seven Penitential Psalms, 1517; Disputatio contra scholasticam theologiam, 1517. The last are 97 theses against the philosophy of Aristotle, of whom he said, that he would hold him to be a devil if he had not had flesh. These theses were published in September, 1517, and were followed in October by the 95 Theses against the traffic in Indulgences. The earliest letters of Luther, from April 22, 1507, to Oct. 31, 1517, are addressed to Braun (vicar at Eisenach), Spalatin (chaplain of the Elector Frederick), Lohr (prior of the Augustinian Convent at Erfurt), John Lange, Scheurl, and others. They are printed in Latin in Löscher’s Reformations-Acta, vol. . 795–846; in De Wette’s edition of Luther’s Briefe, I. 1–64; German translation in Walch, vol. XXI. The last of these ante-Reformation letters is directed to Archbishop Albrecht of Mainz, and dated from the day of the publication of the Theses, Oct. 31, 1517 (DeWette I. 67–70). The letters begin with the name of "Jesus." CHAPTER III.THE GERMAN REFORMATION FROM THE PUBLICATION OF LUTHER’S THESES TO THE DIET OF WORMS, A.D. 1517–1521.§ 30. The Sale of Indulgences.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  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. I am alive and well, and whatever you and my brothers may believe, I never died and was never murdered.’ Somewhat reassured by the sound of his voice, the lady looked at him more closely, and having convinced herself that he really was Tedaldo, she burst into tears, flung her arms about his neck, and kissed him, saying: ‘Tedaldo, my sweet Tedaldo, you are welcome!’ ‘My lady,’ said Tedaldo, after embracing and kissing her, ‘there is no time now to exchange more intimate greetings. I must go and arrange for Aldobrandino to be restored to you safe and sound, and trust that you will hear good news of my endeavours before tomorrow evening. Indeed, I fully expect by tonight to hear that he is safe, in which case I should like to come and tell you all about it in a more leisurely way than I have time for at present.’ Donning once again his pilgrim’s cloak and hood, he kissed the lady a second time, assured her that everything would be all right, and left her. He then proceeded to the place where Aldobrandino, more preoccupied with the dread of his impending doom than with the hope of his future release, was being held prisoner. And having been admitted to Aldobrandino’s cell by the prison-warders, who assumed that he had come to minister to the condemned man, he sat down beside him, saying: ‘Aldobrandino, I am a friend, sent here to save you by God, who has been moved to pity by your innocence. If, therefore, out of reverence to Him you will grant me the trifling favour that I am about to ask of you, it is certain that by tomorrow evening, instead of languishing here under sentence of death, you will hear the news of your acquittal.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘even if I were in my native city, and not in yours, I count myself the sort of friend who would never do anything that was contrary to your wishes, either in the present instance or in any other. Besides, I am more than ever bound to respect your wishes in this matter inasmuch as you have wronged one of yourselves, for this young woman comes neither from Cremona nor Pavia, as many people may possibly have supposed, but from Faenza, though neither she nor I nor the person who entrusted her to my care ever discovered whose daughter she was. Hence I am fully prepared to do as you ask.’ The worthy men were surprised to learn that the girl was a native of Faenza, and having thanked Giacomino for taking so generous a view of the matter, they asked him to be so kind as to explain how she had come under his control, and how he knew that she was from Faenza. Giacomino said to them: ‘Guidotto da Cremona, who was a friend and comrade of mine, informed me on his deathbed that when this town was captured by the Emperor Frederick, and everything was being plundered, he and his companions entered a house and found it full of booty. All the inhabitants had fled except for this girl, who would be about two years old at the time, and as he was going up the stairs, she called him “father”. He felt sorry for the child, and together with all the valuables from the house, he took her with him to Fano. And in Fano, as he lay dying, he appointed me her guardian and bequeathed to me everything he possessed, on the understanding that when she grew up I would see that she was married, handing over his fortune to her by way of dowry. She is now of marriageable age, but I have not yet succeeded in finding a suitable husband for her. The sooner I can do so the better, for I’ve no wish to suffer the things I suffered last night all over again.’ One of the people present was Guiglielmino da Medicina, who had been with Guidotto at the time of this escapade, and remembered quite clearly whose house Guidotto had plundered. Seeing the owner of the house standing there with the others, he went up to him and said: ‘Bernabuccio, do you hear what Giacomino says?’ ‘Yes,’ said Bernabuccio, ‘and I was just thinking about it, because during those upheavals I lost a little girl of the age that Giacomino mentioned.’ ‘Then it must be the same girl,’ said Guiglielmino, ‘for I was once in a place where I heard Guidotto describing the house he had looted, and I recognized it as yours. Try and remember whether the child had any mark by which you could identify her, and get them to look for it. I am certain you will find that she is your daughter.’

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  In early February 2003 they held a press conference during which they released the best police sketch to the public. Soon thereafter a woman who saw the composite drawing called to report that it bore a resemblance to her brother, a man of strong religious views named Brian David Mitchell who refered to himself as Immanuel. She sent in a photo of Mitchell, which on February 15 was broadcast on the television show America’s Most Wanted, along with photos and videotape of Elizabeth and footage of Ed Smart pleading with viewers to help find his daughter. On March 12, 2003, an alert motorist who had watched the America’s Most Wanted segment spotted someone who resembled Mitchell in the suburb of Sandy, walking down State Street, a busy, six-lane thoroughfare that is one of the main north-south arterials in Salt Lake County. The Mitchell look-alike was dressed in seedy robes and sandals and was accompanied by a middle-aged woman and a teenage girl, who were similarly attired. The motorist dialed 911. A pair of police officers, Karen Jones and Troy Rasmussen, pulled up in a squad car and stopped the oddly dressed trio. The man, who had a bushy salt-and-pepper beard and wore flowers in his unkempt hair, gave his name as Peter Marshall and insisted on speaking for the two females, who were wearing sunglasses and cheap gray wigs in an apparent attempt to disguise their identities. When questioned directly, the teenager denied that she was Elizabeth Smart, adamantly maintaining that her name was Augustine Marshall. She said she was eighteen years old and that the man with the beard was her father. She seemed extremely reluctant to say or do anything without his consent. Officer Jones took the girl aside and questioned her further, but “Augustine” continued to be evasive and uncooperative. When Officer Rasmussen asked her why she was wearing a wig, “she became angry,” he told NBC News. “Told me that was personal, none of my business.” The cops nevertheless persisted in asking if she was Elizabeth Smart, and after forty-five minutes of grilling the teen finally relented. On the brink of tears, she conceded her true identity with a biblical utterance: “Thou sayest”—Jesus’s reply to Pilate when asked if he was king of the Jews. Even after she had revealed that she was indeed Elizabeth and was sitting in the back of the squad car on her way to be reunited with her father at the police station, she continued to express concern for the well-being of Mitchell and Barzee. “The first question out of her mouth,” said Officer Jones, “was ‘What’s gonna happen to them? Are they going to be OK?’ Didn’t want them in trouble, didn’t want them to be hurt. . . .