Tenderness

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)

  Apart from the Comedía delie ninfe florentine and the Fiammetta (1343–4), already briefly referred to above, the years immediately following the author’s return to Florence also saw the completion of the Amorosa visione (1342), a complicated allegorical poem consisting of fifty cantos of terza rima in which the influence of the Commedia looms even larger than in any of his earlier compositions. There is also a lengthy pastoral poem, the Ninfale fiesolano, of which the dating (and indeed the authorship) have been subject to some dispute. Assuming that he was indeed the author, the maturity of its style and the directness of its narrative-line would lend support to Branca’s tentative placing of its composition in the years 1344–6. Although the poem is relatively free of the overt ‘autobiographical’ material of most of his earlier writings, the delicate presentation in one of its episodes of the affection of grandparents for their illegitimate grandson may well owe a part of its immediacy to his direct personal experience, during those years, of the sentiments it so charmingly depicts. Mario and Giulio, the first two of five children he fathered, all illegitimate, were already approaching adolescence, whilst the third, Violante, for whom he displays deep fatherly affection in one of his later Latin eclogues, was born either in Florence or Ravenna in the mid 1340s. More significantly, perhaps, the house where he lived with his elderly father and second stepmother was gladdened by the birth of their child, lacopo, in or around 1344. Positivist critics used to make a connection between the love-child of Mensola, the heroine of the Ninfale, with the circumstances of Boccaccio’s own illegitimate birth in 1313. It has even been suggested that the story is a literary re-working of a scandalous love-affair, imperfectly documented, between the author and a Benedictine nun from the convent of San Martino a Mensola, where a farm belonging to his father was located.

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

  He reassures me that he’s not, but he wants to hear the story. I tell him about our meeting in the dark on the beach, how intensely vigorous the sex was, how I had thought about him and even missed him when it was over, which he does not believe. “You don’t have to believe me. I’m not telling you to flatter you, I’m telling you because you want to know if the sex was all I had built it up to be in my imagination and I’m sharing that it both was and wasn’t. I love the hunt, the flirting, the capturing, the moment when I know feelings are more than friendly, but I don’t think I need to do it again. I’m fully satisfied now. And I did think about you,” I say, putting the phone on the bed and climbing between the sheets. “What did you think about when you thought of me?” he asks. “I thought about how easy it is with you, how I’m comfortable with you even when I’m out of my comfort zone sexually. How new isn’t always better. How you treat me like I’m more than just a receptacle for your pleasure,” I say. “All this while fucking the man of your dreams on a beach in the Caribbean,” he says, laughing. “Make all the jokes you want. I know it’s hard for you to speak openly about your feelings. I’m telling you the truth, I have no incentive to conjure feelings to make you feel better about your manhood,” I say. “Do you think I’m a pervert because I want all the details?” he asks. “Absolutely,” I say. “But now I must sleep. My eyes are closing while I talk to you,” I say, and immediately fall into a deep, blissful slumber. CHAPTER 46 Writing Parked on lounge chairs next to the pool under the blazing morning sun, Georgia asks me to take her down the beach to get a coconut from Blaze, a request I suggest she take to Michael instead. I watch them walk away, swinging their hands together as they run through the hot sand to get to the edge of the water. I feel anxious, knowing I have something weighing on me that I need to share with Michael. It’s not about my dalliance the night before, as that’s something I get to keep all to myself, it’s about my writing. I’ve been working on it and I like doing it.

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

  He tells me to stay put, that he will get something with which I can clean myself. He returns a minute later with a warm washcloth and when I reach for it, he says, “No, let me.” He gently cleans between my legs, taking care to clean my bikini line and between my lips. I am struck by how tender he is and by how intimate this feels. I had always thought intercourse was the most intimate thing two people could share but I am learning that sex can be physical without being profound and that moments like this take intimacy to a decidedly new level. I am wobbly going down the stairs and have to reach for the bannister to steady myself. In the kitchen he hands me a tall glass of water, which I inhale. He laughs watching me, saying that he’s spent as well. Is there a prize for wearing this robust man out? He walks me to my car, though in truth I am practically strutting. Standing barefoot and bare-chested in the driveway, he watches me as I turn around to pull out. Right before I pull away from the house, he calls out “Wait!” and then jogs over to my open window, where he leans in to give me a boyish grin and one last kiss goodbye before I am on the road again. * I brace myself later in the day for a phone call from my mother, but it doesn’t come. By the next day, her silence is making me nervous as I know she’s building a case in her mind and soon I will get one of her famous speeches that my sister Jennifer and I call her “I’ve been thinking” sermons. Finally, two days later, the call comes. I debate not answering but I know I have to get this over with. “Hi Mom,” I say. “Listen, Laura, I’ve been thinking,” she starts. “It’s fine, you don’t have to explain yourself. I’m just worried about your dating, that this could be held against you in some way if you get divorced.” “That would be kind of ironic, no?” I ask. “I don’t know, I’m not a lawyer, I just think you should check with someone,” she says. “OK,” I say, relieved that this is the only objection she voices. When I call a lawyer friend and learn that I could sleep with a different man every day and it won’t legally be held against me, I consider that all the approval I need. CHAPTER 12 This Must Be Bad When I tell friends that Michael and I have separated, they want an explanation. It makes little sense to anyone, aside from the friend who stunned me when he bluntly announced his surprise that we had actually made it this long.

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

  I had felt thoroughly defeated days ago, but now I’m trying to view it as a temporary trouncing, like losing to my sister at Big Boggle when I had been the family winner since childhood, or ceding the “Who can hold the longest plank?” contest to Hudson after I had been undefeated for years. I didn’t as a result of those losses abruptly stop playing Boggle or say I’ll never do a plank again. Those sleek women on the city streets may have unwittingly held up an unflattering mirror to me last week, but that can’t mean I’m supposed to quietly retreat. Before I lose momentum, I text #3 and #4 that I have some free time. I have not told either of them that I’m actively dating other people, which makes me feel sneaky and dishonest, but I am unclear as to how to establish dating parameters. Is it assumed that you’re dating other people until you clarify with each other that you’re not, or is it assumed that you’re not dating other people until you clarify that you indeed are? It feels a little late in the game now to bring this up so instead I swallow the discomfort and proceed to throw myself into their orbits, hoping at least one of them will want me and give me a chance to get my head back in the game. Both men respond, so with a fair amount of anxiety I book #4 for late afternoon into evening and book #3 for later in the night. When #4 opens the door to his house for me later that day, he is wearing a plush green bathrobe loosely belted around his waist, his skin and hair still damp from the shower. He opens his arms and I step inside them; wordlessly we stand like that, with the pugs running circles around us and the front door open, for longer than I think I’ve ever hugged anyone before. I rest my head against his chest, he presses his body against mine, and I feel like I might be having a spiritual breakthrough, so strong is my reaction to being touched. Why have I never liked to be hugged before? This is amazing, like someone is holding my heart just so it can beat with a little more ease, the warmth of his body spreading into mine. I have so much to learn about intimacy, I am like an infant learning language. I thought I was unaffectionate and didn’t like being touched – Michael always used to marvel at how affectionate I was with our kids when I seemed to physically recoil from everyone else around me – but I do like it, in fact I feel a kind of unexpected peace and comfort wash over me. As #4 hugs me, I can feel him growing hard against me.

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

  If I’m being honest, it wasn’t Michael’s fault that our sex life had become humdrum and monotonous – he was a passionate lover; had I even slightly reciprocated his desire, he would have been thrilled. Whether I was no longer attracted to him or whether I was no longer attracted to myself when I was with him, I can’t determine. The only thing I’m certain of now is that there is something inside of me stirring – not just sexual arousal but sexual curiosity too. I have always gagged giving blow jobs. Maybe I like them now? I was always fairly quiet in bed. Maybe I’m ready to make some noise? The possibilities seem vast and wondrous, presenting me with something I haven’t felt for years: desire. Jack asks me to lie to him and tell him I will stay all night. “I can’t stay,” I say. “I have to go home.” “I know,’ he says. “That’s why I said lie to me.” So I do, I say I won’t leave his side all night, and the loneliness behind his request fills me with deep sadness but also tenderness for the way he has been unguarded with me. He makes me laugh by relaying that when I left the bar earlier to wait outside for him, Don expressed surprise that I had left because he was sure Jack was going to ‘get lucky’ with me, so our ruse was successful and my reputation intact. He tells me he thinks I am beautiful, sexy and fierce and even though he sees my raw and open wound, he feels sure I will be more than OK someday. This is the only moment in which my breath catches. That this man, who is a stranger to me, and yet has now seen me intimately in a way no one but my husband has, should show me compassion and express confidence in me injects me with a dose of optimism I hadn’t realized I desperately needed. I thought I had been doing an excellent job of playacting the happy-go-lucky, freewheeling, soon-to-be divorcée, but he saw through those superficial layers to my core where grief resides, yet wasn’t scared away. It’s well after midnight and we are both starting to nod off as we lie entwined. I whisper that I have to go home and ask if he will walk me to my car, which is several blocks away in this now-deserted town. We dress in silence and it feels like our protective armor goes back on, thicker with each article of clothing we don. I wonder if sex with men who aren’t Michael will always feel this profoundly intimate, or if Jack and I have simply been fortunate to have found kindred spirits in one another: to have really seen each other even knowing this would be a one-night stand. As we leave the hotel, a heavy rain starts to fall and he asks if he should run back upstairs for an umbrella.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘But never mind about all that. Wrongs committed in the distant past are far easier to condemn than to rectify. At all events, the fact is that he abandoned me when I was still a tiny child in Palermo, where I eventually grew up, and my mother, being a wealthy woman, married me off to a worthy nobleman from Girgenti, who out of affection for my mother and myself came to live in Palermo. Being a staunch supporter of the Guelphs, he began to intrigue on behalf of King Charles of Naples. But before the plot could be sprung, it reached the ears of King Frederick,2 and we had to flee from Sicily just as I was about to become the greatest lady in the island. Of our huge store of possessions, we took away only those few things we were able to carry with us, and leaving behind our lands and palaces, we came as refugees to this country, where we found King Charles so well-disposed towards us that he made good some of the losses we had suffered on his account. He gave us estates and houses, and as you will see for yourself, he makes generous and regular provision for my husband, or in other words your brother- in-law. And that, my dear sweet brother, is how I came to be in Naples, where, thanks more to God than to yourself, I have met you at last.’ And having said all this, sobbing with affection, she embraced him a second time and kissed him once again on the forehead. She had told her tale very glibly and with great self-assurance, neither stammering at any point nor swallowing any of her words. For his part, Andreuccio remembered that his father really had been in Palermo, and he knew from his own experience how lightly young men are apt to regard the love of a woman. So what with her tears of affection, her fond embraces and her chaste kisses, he was more than satisfied that she was telling the truth. And when she had finished, he replied: ‘I beg you not to take my amazement too much to heart, madam, for to tell you the truth I have never had the slightest knowledge of your existence. For some reason or other, my father never spoke of you and your mother, or if he did I never came to hear of it. But I am all the more delighted to find my sister in Naples, because I was feeling rather lonely here and the discovery was so unexpected. I myself am merely a small trader, but I know of no man, however exalted his station, who would not be equally delighted upon finding such a sister. There is one thing, though, that I would like you to explain: how did you know I was here?’ To which she replied:

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But once again Anna began to protest. ‘What’s the good of it all for a girl?’ she argued. ‘Did you love me any less because I couldn’t do mathematics? Do you love me less now because I count on my fingers?’ He kissed her. ‘That’s different, you’re you,’ he said, smiling, but a look that she knew well had come into his eyes, a cold, resolute expression, which meant that all persuasion was likely to be unavailing. Presently they went upstairs to the nursery, and Sir Philip shaded the candle with his hand, while they stood together gazing down at Stephen—the child was heavily asleep. ‘Look, Philip,’ whispered Anna, pitiful and shaken, ‘look, Philip—she’s got two big tears on her cheek!’ He nodded, slipping his arm around Anna: ‘Come away, he muttered, ‘we may wake her.’ CHAPTER 6 1 M rs. Bingham departed unmourned and unmourning, and in her stead reigned Mademoiselle Duphot, a youthful French governess with a long, pleasant face that reminded Stephen of a horse. This equine resemblance was fortunate in one way—Stephen took to Mademoiselle Duphot at once—but it did not make for respectful obedience. On the contrary, Stephen felt very familiar, kindly familiar and quite at her ease; she petted Mademoiselle Duphot. Mademoiselle Duphot was lonely and homesick, and it must be admitted that she liked being petted. Stephen would rush off to get her a cushion, or a footstool or her glass of milk at eleven. ‘Comme elle est gentille, cette drôle de petite fille, elle a si bon cœur,’ would think Mademoiselle Duphot, and somehow geography would not seem to matter quite so much, or arithmetic either—in vain did Mademoiselle try to be strict, her pupil could always beguile her. Mademoiselle Duphot knew nothing about horses, in spite of the fact that she looked so much like one, and Stephen would complacently entertain her with long conversations anent splints and spavins, cow hocks and colic, all mixed up together in a kind of wild veterinary jumble. Had Williams been listening, he might well have rubbed his chin, but Williams was not there to listen. As for Mademoiselle Duphot, she was genuinely impressed: ‘Mais quel type, quel type!’ she was always exclaiming. ‘Vous êtes déjà une vraie petite Amazone, Stévenne. ’ ‘N’est-ce pas?’ agreed Stephen, who was picking up French. The child showed a real ability for French, and this delighted her teacher; at the end of six months she could gabble quite freely, making quick little gestures and shrugging her shoulders. She liked talking French, it rather amused her, nor was she averse to mastering the grammar; what she could not endure were the long, foolish dictées from the edifying Bibliothèque Rose.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  At first, being unable to make out what creature it was that was approaching the shore, she started back with a cry of alarm. He said nothing to her, for he was quite unable to speak and scarcely able to see. But as the current bore him closer to the shore, she could make out the shape of the chest, and, peering more intently, she first of all recognized a pair of arms stretched across its lid, after which she picked out the face and realized it was a human being. Prompted by compassion, she waded some distance out into the sea, which was now quite calm, took him by the hair and dragged him to the shore, chest and all. There, with an effort, she unhooked his hands from the chest, which she placed on the head of her young daughter who was with her, whilst she herself carried Landolfo away like a baby and put him into a hot bath. She rubbed away so vigorously at him and poured so much hot water over him, that eventually he began to thaw out and recover some of his lost strength. And when she judged it to be the right moment, she took him from the bath and refreshed him with a quantity of good wine and nourishing food. After she had nursed him to the best of her ability for several days, his recovery was complete and he took stock of his surroundings. The good woman therefore decided it was time to hand over his chest, which she had been keeping for him, and to tell him that from now on he must fend for himself. And this she did. He could remember nothing about any chest, but he nevertheless accepted it when the good woman offered it to him, for he thought it could hardly be so valueless that it would not keep him going for a few days. His hopes were severely jolted when he discovered how light it was, but all the same, when the woman was out of the house, he forced it open to see what was inside, and discovered that it contained a number of precious stones, some of them loose and others mounted. Being quite knowledgeable on the subject of jewels, he realized from the moment he saw them that they were extremely valuable, and his spirits rose higher than ever. He praised God for once again coming to his rescue, but since Fortune had dealt him two cruel blows in rapid succession, and might conceivably deal him a third, he decided he would have to proceed with great caution if he wanted to convey these things safely home. So he wrapped them up as carefully as he could in some old rags, told the woman that if she liked, she could keep the chest, since he no longer had any use for it, and asked her to let him have a sack in exchange.

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

  It sounded more dramatic than it was,” I say quietly, meeting #7’s bemused gaze with narrow, angry eyes. I am too overtired and cranky to soften my anger and I dare him to find me a hot catch after this sleepover. When I leave him with a perfunctory kiss a few minutes later, I know that I will not be seeing him again. CHAPTER 34 Onward I rally, despite my broken rib situation, lest I lose a precious Saturday night. #6 and I decide to see the Freddy Mercury biopic and I invite him to stay over at my place after, as long as he feels confident he can give my ribcage a wide berth. He enthusiastically agrees. At the theatre, he produces a clementine from each pocket for a snack, which makes me laugh. He is always eating clementines, throwing peels in small garden plots we pass on the street, claiming it’s permissible because they’re biodegradable. I fuss every time, appalled that he appears to be throwing trash in the bushes. He’s over-the-top eco-conscious, recycling even the small pieces of foil that are wrapped around Hershey’s Kisses. During the movie, he keeps his hands in his lap but occasionally reaches over to place a hand on my knee, withdrawing it after a brief moment, or placing his hand over mine and then putting it back in his own lap. His touches are fleeting but so gentle and intentional that I feel a small thrill with each one. Back at my apartment, which he likes to call The Four Seasons compared to his “Shiteau”, he asks for a clean towel and sets up a makeshift massage station on my bed. He produces a tube of coconut lotion from his bag and instructs me to lie down, saying it is his sole mission to take care of me. I remind him about my rib and he promises to be gentle. He is methodical, making sure not to miss a spot on my body and to give equal treatment to both sides. Every couple of minutes, he asks me how he is doing. I suggest that the only improvement would be if he could stop talking, that we should keep this professional. Ever since I got a massage when I was at a spa with Jessica and the masseuse made me open my eyes to look at a photo she kept in her pocket of a sighting she insisted she had of the Virgin Mary, I have believed silence during a massage is key. “I don’t want to get a bad Yelp rating. If I give you a happy ending, will you give me more or less stars?” “Depends how happy it is. Now shhhhh,” I say, closing my eyes again.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  I’ve grown tired with waiting, and with wishing you home.’ And she answered: ‘Yes, I’ve come back to you, Raftery.’ Then she threw her strong arm around his neck, and they talked together for quite a long while—not in Irish or English but in a quiet language having very few words but many small sounds and many small movements, that meant much more than words. ‘Since you went I’ve discovered a wonderful thing,’ he told her, ‘I’ve discovered that for me you are God. It’s like that some times with us humbler people, we may only know God through His human image.’ ‘Raftery,’ she murmured, ‘oh, Raftery, my dear—I was so young when you came to Morton. Do you remember that first day out hunting when you jumped the huge hedge in our big north paddock? What a jump! It ought to go down to history. You were splendidly cool and collected about it. Thank the Lord you were—I was only a kid, all the same it was very foolish of us, Raftery.’ She gave him a carrot, which he took with contentment from the hand of his God, and proceeded to munch. And she watched him munch it, contented in her turn, hoping that the carrot was succulent and sweet; hoping that his innocent cup of pleasure might be full to the brim and overflowing. Like God indeed, she tended his needs, mixing the evening meal in his manger, holding the water bucket to his lips while he sucked in the cool, clear, health-giving water. A groom came along with fresh trusses of straw which he opened and tossed among Raftery’s bedding; then he took off the smart blue and red day clothing, and buckled him up in a warm night blanket. Beyond in the far loose box by the window, Sir Philip’s young chestnut kicked loudly for supper. ‘Woa horse! Get up there! Stop kicking them boards!’ And the groom hurried off to attend to the chestnut. Collins, who had spat out his two lumps of sugar, was now busy indulging his morbid passion. His sides were swollen well-nigh to bursting— blown out like an air balloon was old Collins from the evil and dyspeptic effects of the straw, plus his own woeful lack of molars. He stared at Stephen with whitish-blue eyes that saw nothing, and when she touched him he grunted—a discourteous sound which meant: ‘Leave me alone!’ So after a mild reproof she left him to his sins and his indigestion. Last but not least, she strolled down to the home of the two-legged creature who had once reigned supreme in those princely but now depleted stables. And the lamplight streamed out through uncurtained windows to meet her, so that she walked on lamplight. A slim streak of gold led right up to the porch of old Williams’ comfortable cottage.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen looked at the men; they seemed quite complacent. Against the wall sat a bald, flabby man whose fingers crept over an amber chaplet. His lips moved; God alone knew to whom he prayed, and God alone knew what prayers he was praying—horrible he was, sitting there all alone with that infamous chaplet between his fingers. The band struck up a onestep. Dickie still danced, but with Pat, for Wanda was now beyond dancing. But Stephen would not dance, not among these men, and she laid a restraining hand upon Mary. Despite her sense of their terrible affliction, she could not dance in this place with Mary. A youth passed with a friend and the couple were blocked by the press of dancers in front of her table. He bent forward, this youth, until his face was almost on a level with Stephen’s—a grey, drug-marred face with a mouth that trembled incessantly. ‘Ma sœur,’ he whispered. For a moment she wanted to strike that face with her naked fist, to obliterate it. Then all of a sudden she perceived the eyes, and the memory came of a hapless creature, distracted, bleeding from bursting lungs, hopelessly pursued, glancing this way, then that, as though looking for something, some refuge, some hope—and the thought: ‘It’s looking for God who made it.’ Stephen shivered and stared at her tightly clenched hands; the nails whitened her flesh. ‘Mon frère,’ she muttered. And now some one was making his way through the crowd, a quiet, tawny man with the eyes of the Hebrew; Adolphe Blanc, the gentle and learned Jew, sat down in Dickie’s seat beside Stephen. And he patted her knee as though she were young, very young and in great need of consolation. ‘I have seen you for quite a long time, Miss Gordon. I’ve been sitting just over there by the window.’ Then he greeted the others, but the greeting over he appeared to forget their very existence; he had come, it seemed, only to talk to Stephen. He said: ‘This place—these poor men, they have shocked you. I’ve been watching you in between the dances. They are terrible, Miss Gordon, because they are those who have fallen but have not risen again—there is surely no sin so great for them, so unpardonable as the sin of despair; yet as surely you and I can forgive. . . .’ She was silent, not knowing what she should answer.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘I learned about it this morning from a poor old woman, who often comes to see me because she spent a long time with our father in Palermo and Perugia; or at least she tells me she did. And if it weren’t for the fact that I thought it more decorous for you to come to my own house than for me to visit you in another’s, I would have called to see you hours ago.’ After saying this, she began to inquire about all of his relatives, naming each one individually, and Andreuccio, allowing himself to be led even further up the garden path, told her how they all were. As it was a very hot evening, and they had been talking together for some little time, she sent for Greek wine3 and sweetmeats and saw that Andreuccio was given something to drink, after which he got up to go, saying it was time for supper. She refused to allow him to do any such thing: on the contrary, pretending to be deeply hurt, she flung her arms round his neck, saying: ‘Alas, now I am quite certain how little you care for me! What else am I to think, when you are with a sister you have never seen before, in her own house, where you should have stayed from the moment you arrived, and now you want to leave me to go and have supper at some inn! Really! You are going to sup with me. My husband is not at home, for which I am very sorry, but though I am merely a woman, I am quite capable of supplying you with a little hospitality.’ Andreuccio, not knowing how else to reply, said: ‘I care for you just as much as any man should care for his sister, but if I don’t go back they will be waiting for me all evening to turn up for supper, and I shall cut a bad figure.’ Whereupon she said: ‘Good heavens, as if I didn’t have anyone in the house who could be sent to tell them not to expect you! But you would be doing a much greater kindness, and no more than your duty, if you were to send word to your companions that they should come and have supper here. And then afterwards, if you still insist on leaving, you could all go back to the inn together.’

• From The Pisces (2018)

  Now that I knew he was the one who had brought the darkness I felt that I didn’t have to be as afraid anymore. The gloom wasn’t coming from me. I was still responsible for him but not for the atmosphere. So many times I had tried to fix things, people’s feelings, the shifting moods of men, by adjusting my own behavior. But in this case it was beyond me. He was, after all, supernatural. Did he even exist? I decided that he existed like a mood. In some ways, my moods did and did not exist. People said that you could will a mood into being or will it away. Just think positively. But I never felt that way. My moods were their own entities, even if no one could understand why they were there. That was what made me scared of feelings. I realized now that what I had to do, in spite of what others said, was not try to change a mood but surrender to it. I had to surrender to whatever feelings arrived and in doing so I could maybe ride them, floating on the waves. I decided I was going to surrender. “We could rest a bit,” I said. “I’m tired too.” “Yes, let’s rest,” he said. “I’d like that. Come here, come lie down with me.” I got on the sofa with him and we lay there face-to-face. He closed his eyes and I kissed his eyelids and cheeks. He gathered me in his arms and his upper body was warm. Everything above his tail was soft. I didn’t know what to do with our lower halves. I couldn’t intertwine my legs with his tail as if it was a pair of legs, so I wrapped one leg around him and pressed the other leg straight against his tail. Usually when I cuddled with another body, I would have to separate before falling asleep. I would feel too trapped or get too hot pressed so close against them. But Theo’s tail was cool, almost like a built-in fan or compress, and I was reminded of what my friend’s aunt taught me years ago as a trick for insomnia: keep one leg under the blanket and one leg out. It was as though I had one leg under a towel in the sun and one dipped in the sea. When I thought of it this way I slipped into the waves. His breathing was rhythmic and the slight scent of fish drifted up from him. The sun came in the window and shone on our heads, and we both drifted off with our faces in a glow. — We woke up around noon. Theo stirred and pulled me closer. “Mmmmmm,” he breathed in my ear.

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

  When my father persisted in trying to dissuade me, Hilarianus ordered him to be thrown to the ground and beaten with a rod. I felt sorry for my father, just as if I myself had been beaten. I felt sorry for his pathetic old age. Then Hilarianus passed sentence on all of us: we were condemned to the beasts, and we returned to prison in high spirits.10 Even before she was sentenced, Perpetua knew that she was going to die, for she had dreamed that she was climbing a bronze ladder of tremendous height, bristling with daggers, swords, and spikes, reaching all the way to the heavens. On the day before her execution, Perpetua wrote down another vision: She dreamed that she was led to the amphitheater, where enormous crowds waited to see her fight with a ferocious Egyptian athlete. “My clothes were stripped off, and suddenly I was a man.” She fought and wrestled until she got him into a headlock and so won the fight. “Then I awoke; I realized that it was not with wild animals that I would fight, but with the devil; but I knew that I would win the victory.” Perpetua concludes her journal with the words “So much for what I did until the evening of the contest. About what happened at the contest itself, let whoever write about it who will.”11 Perpetua’s slave Felicitas was pregnant when she was arrested and was in her eighth month as the execution date approached: “Felicitas was very distressed that her martyrdom would be postponed because of her pregnancy; for it is against the law for pregnant women to be executed.” She feared she would have to survive her Christian companions and alone endure a later execution along with criminals. Two days before the execution the Christians prayed for her in one torrent of common grief, and immediately after their prayer the labor pains came upon her. She suffered a good deal in her labor because of the natural difficulty of an eight-month delivery.12

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen was busily grooming her hair with a couple of brushes that had been dipped in water. The water had darkened her hair in patches, but had deepened the wide wave above her forehead. Seeing Mary in the glass she did not turn round, but just smiled for a moment at their two reflections. Mary sat down in an arm-chair and watched her, noticing the strong, thin line of her thighs; noticing too the curve of her breasts—slight and compact, of a certain beauty. She had taken off her jacket and looked very tall in her soft silk shirt and her skirt of dark serge. ‘Tired?’ she inquired, glancing down at the girl. ‘No, not a bit tired,’ smiled Mary. Stephen walked over to the stationary basin and proceeded to wash her hands under the tap, spotting her white silk cuffs in the process. Going to the cupboard she got out a clean shirt, slipped in a pair of simple gold cuff-links, and changed; after which she put on a new necktie. Mary said: ‘Who’s been looking after your clothes—sewing on buttons and that sort of thing?’ ‘I don’t know exactly—Puddle or Adèle. Why?’ ‘Because I’m going to do it in future. You’ll find that I’ve got one very real talent, and that’s darning. When I darn the place looks like a basket, criss-cross. And I know how to pick up a ladder as well as the Invisible Mending people! It’s very important that the darns should be smooth, otherwise when you fence they might give you a blister.’ Stephen’s lips twitched a little, but she said quite gravely: ‘Thanks awfully, darling, we’ll go over my stockings.’ From the dressing-room next door came a series of thuds; Pierre was depositing Stephen’s luggage. Getting up, Mary opened the wardrobe, revealing a long, neat line of suits hanging from heavy mahogany shoulders—she examined each suit in turn with great interest. Presently she made her way to the cupboard in the wall; it was fitted with sliding shelves, and these she pulled out one by one with precaution. On the shelves there were orderly piles of shirts, crêpe de Chine pyjamas—quite a goodly assortment, and the heavy silk masculine underwear that for several years now had been worn by Stephen. Finally she discovered the stockings where they lay by themselves in the one long drawer, and these she proceeded to unfurl deftly, with a quick and slightly important movement. Thrusting a fist into toes and heels she looked for the holes that were nonexistent. ‘You must have paid a lot for these stockings, they’re hand knitted silk;’ murmured Mary gravely. ‘I forget what I paid—Puddle got them from England.’ ‘Who did she order them from; do you know?’ ‘I can’t remember; some woman or other.’ But Mary persisted: ‘I shall want her address.’ Stephen smiled: ‘Why? Are you going to order my stockings?’ ‘Darling! Do you think I’ll let you go barefoot? Of course I’m going to order your stockings.’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And then Angela knew her own power to subdue; she could play with fire yet remain unscathed by it. She had only to cry long and bitterly enough for Stephen to grow pitiful and consequently gentle. ‘Stephen, don’t hurt me—I’m awfully frightened when you’re like this—you simply terrify me, Stephen! Is it my fault that I married Ralph before I met you? Be good to me, Stephen!’ And then would come tears, so that Stephen must hold her as though she were a child, very tenderly, rocking her backwards and forwards. They took to driving as far as the hills, taking Tony with them; he liked hunting the rabbits—and while he leapt wildly about in the air to land on nothing more vital than herbage, they would sit very close to each other and watch him. Stephen knew many places where lovers might sit like this, unashamed, among those charitable hills. There were times when a numbness descended upon her as they sat there, and if Angela kissed her cheek lightly, she would not respond, would not even look round, but would just go on staring at Tony. Yet at other times she felt queerly uplifted, and turning to the woman who leant against her shoulder, she said suddenly one day: ‘Nothing matters up here. You and I are so small, we’re smaller than Tony—our love’s nothing but a drop in some vast sea of love—it’s rather consoling—don’t you think so, belovèd?’ But Angela shook her head: ‘No, my Stephen; I’m not fond of vast seas, I’m of the earth earthy,’ and then: ‘Kiss me, Stephen.’ So Stephen must kiss her many times, for the hot blood of youth stirs quickly, and the mystical sea became Angela’s lips that so eagerly gave and took kisses. But when they got back to The Grange that evening, Ralph was there—he was hanging about in the hall. He said: ‘Had a nice afternoon, you two women? Been motoring Angela round the hills, Stephen, or what?’ He had taken to calling her Stephen, but his voice just now sounded sharp with suspicion as his rather weak eyes peered at Angela, so that for her sake Stephen must lie, and lie well—nor would this be for the first time either. ‘Yes, thanks,’ she lied calmly, ‘we went over to Tewkesbury and had another look at the abbey. We had tea in the town. I’m sorry we’re so late, the carburettor choked, I couldn’t get it right at first, my car needs a good overhauling.’ Lies, always lies! She was growing proficient at the glib kind of lying that pacified Ralph, or at all events left him with nothing to say, nonplussed and at a distinct disadvantage.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Wanda needed no second invitation to talk, and very soon her eyes were aglow with the fire of the born religious fanatic as she told of the little town in Poland, with its churches, its bells that were always chiming—the Mass bells beginning at early dawn, the Angelus bells, the Vesper bells—always calling, calling they were, said Wanda. Through the years of persecution and strife, of wars and the endless rumours of wars that had ravaged her most unhappy country, her people had clung to their ancient faith like true children of Mother Church, said Wanda. She herself had three brothers, and all of them priests; her parents had been very pious people, they were both dead now, had been dead for some years; and Wanda signed her breast with the Cross, having regard for the souls of her parents. Then she tried to explain the meaning of her faith, but this she did exceedingly badly, finding that words are not always easy when they must encompass the things of the spirit, the things that she herself knew by instinct; and then, too, these days her brain was not clear, thanks to brandy, even when she was quite sober. The details of her coming to Paris she omitted, but Stephen thought she could easily guess them, for Wanda declared with a curious pride that her brothers were men of stone and of iron. Saints they all were, according to Wanda, uncompromising, fierce and relentless, seeing only the straight and narrow path on each side of which yawned the fiery chasm. ‘I was not as they were, ah, no!’ she declared, ‘Nor was I as my father and mother; I was—I was . . .’She stopped speaking abruptly, gazing at Stephen with her burning eyes which said quite plainly: ‘You know what I was, you understand.’ And Stephen nodded, divining the reason of Wanda’s exile. But suddenly Mary began to grow restless, putting an end to this dissertation by starting the large, new gramophone which Stephen had given her for Christmas. The gramophone blared out the latest foxtrot, and jumping up Barbara and Jamie started dancing, while Stephen and Wanda moved chairs and tables, rolled back rugs and explained to the barking David that he could not join in, but might, if he chose, sit and watch them dance from the divan. Then Wanda slipped an arm around Mary and they glided off, an incongruous couple, the one clad as sombrely as any priest, the other in her soft evening dress of blue chiffon. Mary lay gently against Wanda’s arm, and she seemed to Stephen a very perfect dancer—lighting a cigarette, she watched them. The dance over, Mary put on a new record; she was flushed and her eyes were considerably brighter. ‘Why did you never tell me?’ Stephen murmured. ‘Tell you what?’ ‘Why, that you danced so well.’ Mary hesitated, then she murmured back: ‘You didn’t dance, so what was the good?’

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  charters express a similar conviction. But such missions were left in secular and mercantile hands. The Anglican church created no organization; nor did the state. Chaplains were appointed for the benefit of the merchant or settler communities. Conversions served the objects of commerce or were the work of individuals. It was in territories occupied by the Spanish and Portuguese that the missions were taken seriously. The work was undertaken almost entirely by the orders, led by the Franciscans, on the instructions of the crown. Motives were mixed. The authorities needed a docile labour force and a sense of security. Conversion was an element of the conquest, as it had been in eighth-century Europe: the Indians, like the Saxons, were told that their gods had failed them in allowing the Spanish to win. Some of the conquistadores were pious; Cortes had a devotion to the Blessed Virgin, carried her image with him, and her standard; his orders were ‘. . . the first aim of your expedition is to serve God and spread the Christian faith... you must neglect no opportunity to spread the knowledge of the true faith and the church of God among those people who dwell in darkness.’ One of his earliest messages home was to ask for the dispatch of missionaries ‘with as little delay as possible’. On the other hand, Pizarro admitted brutally: ‘I have not come for any such reasons. I have come to take their gold away from them.’ Was it a case of Cortes being hypocritical and Pizarro honest? Medieval Christian soldiers were curious and volatile combinations; often the most savage among them were the most generous in Christian charity and works, as the rise of the Cistercians suggests. The friars were also divided in themselves. They were motivated by inter-order rivalry, by the quest for spiritual and material power, but also, right from the start, by compassion for the Indians. In Hispaniola, on Christmas Day 1511, the Dominican Antonio de Montesimos preached a sermon to the settlers to the text ‘I am a voice crying in the wilderness’ in which he demanded: ‘By what right or justice do you keep these Indians in such horrible servitude? . . . Are these not men? Have they not rational souls? Are you not bound to love them as you love yourselves?’ The first batch of twelve Franciscans arrived in Mexico in 1526: within thirty years there were 380 of them, plus 210 Dominicans and 212 Augustinians. By this time, it was claimed the Franciscans alone had baptized over five million natives, considerably more than the entire population of England at that time. There is no means of checking these figures or even of knowing how they were compiled. The whole conversion process was an extraordinary mixture of force, cruelty, stupidity

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  They say all the Irish are poets at heart, so perhaps they pass on the gift to their horses.’ Then the two of them smiled, each a little embarrassed, but their eyes held great friendship the one for the other, a friendship of years now cemented by Raftery whom they loved—and small wonder, for assuredly never did more gallant or courteous horse step out of stable. ‘Oh, well,’ sighed Williams, ‘I be gettin’ that old—and Raftery, ’e do be comin’ eleven, but ’e don’t feel it yet in ’is limbs the way I does—me rheumatics ’as troubled me awful this winter.’ She stayed on a little while, comforting Williams, then made her way back to the house, very slowly. ‘Poor Williams,’ she thought, ‘he is getting old, but thank the Lord nothing’s the matter with Raftery.’ The house lay full in a great slant of sunshine; it looked as though it was sunning its shoulders. Glancing up, she came eye to eye with the house, and she fancied that Morton was thinking about her, for its windows seemed to be beckoning, inviting: ‘Come home, come home, come inside quickly, Stephen!’ And as though they had spoken, she answered: ‘I’m coming,’ and she quickened her lagging steps to a run, in response to this most compassionate kindness. Yes, she actually ran through the heavy white doorway under the semi-circular fanlight, and on up the staircase that led from the hall in which hung the funny old portraits of Gordons—men long dead and gone but still wonderfully living, since their thoughts had fashioned the comeliness of Morton; since their loves had made children from father to son—from father to son until the advent of Stephen. 2 That evening she went to her father’s study, and when he looked up she thought she was expected. She said: ‘I want to talk to you, Father.’ And he answered: ‘I know—sit close to me, Stephen.’ He shaded his face with his long, thin hand, so that she could not see his expression, yet it seemed to her that he knew quite well why she had come to him in that study. Then she told him about Martin, told him all that had happened, omitting no detail, sparing him nothing. She openly mourned the friend who had failed her, and herself she mourned for failing the lover—and Sir Philip listened in absolute silence. After she had spoken for quite a long time, she at length found the courage to ask her question: ‘Is there anything strange about me, Father, that I should have felt as I did about Martin?’ It had come. It fell on his heart like a blow.

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

  To these religionists belongs the merit of having revived the use of popular religious song. Singing was a feature of the earliest Flagellant movement, 1259.900 Their hymns are in Latin, Italian, French, German and Dutch. In Italian they went by the name of laude, and in German leisen. The Italian hymns, like the German, agree that sins have brought down the judgment of God and in appealing to the Virgin Mary, and call upon the "brethren" to castigate themselves, to confess their sins and to live in peace and brotherhood. They beseech the Virgin to prevail upon her son to stop "the hard death and pestilence—Gesune tolga via l’ aspra morte e pistilentia.901 Most of these hymns are filled with the thought of death and the woes of humanity, but the appeals to Mary are full of tenderness, and every conceivable allegory is applied to her from the dove to the gate of paradise, from the rose to a true medicine for every sickness. The songs of the Italian and the Northern Flagellants seem to have been independent of each other.902 The cohorts in the North agreed in using the same penitential song at their drills, but they had a variety of scores and songs for their marches.903 While the most of the words of their songs have been known, it is only recently that some of the music has been found to which the Flagellants sang their hymns. A manuscript of Hugo of Reutlingen, dating from 1349 and discovered at St. Petersburg, gives 8 such tunes, together with the words and an account of the movement.904 The hearers, in describing the impression made upon them by the melodies, mention their sweetness, their orderly rhythm,—ordine miro hymnos cantabant,—and their pathos capable of "moving hearts of stone and bringing tears to the eyes of the most stolid."905 Altogether, the Flagellant movement during the Black Death, 1349, must be regarded as a genuinely popular religious movement.