First DayBeginneth here the first day of the Decameron, in which,
when the author has set forth, how it came to pass
that the persons, who appear hereafter, met together
for interchange of discourse, they, under the rule of
Pampinea, discourse of such matters as most commend
themselves to each in turn.
IntroductionAs often, most gracious ladies, as I bethink me, how compassionate
you are by nature one and all, I do not disguise from
myself that the present work must seem to you to have but a
heavy and distressful prelude, in that it bears upon its very front
what must needs revive the sorrowful memory of the late mortal
pestilence, the course whereof was grievous not merely to eyewitnesses
but to all who in any other wise had cognisance of it.
But I would have you know, that you need not therefore be fearful
to read further, as if your reading were ever to be accompanied
by sighs and tears. This horrid beginning will be to you even
such as to wayfarers is a steep and rugged mountain, beyond which
stretches a plain most fair and delectable, which the toil of the ascent
and descent does but serve to render more agreeable to them; for, as
the last degree of joy brings with it sorrow, so misery has ever its
sequel of happiness. To this brief exordium of woe--brief, I say,
inasmuch as it can be put within the compass of a few letters--succeed
forthwith the sweets and delights which I have promised you, and
which, perhaps, had I not done so, were not to have been expected
from it. In truth, had it been honestly possible to guide you whither
I would bring you by a road less rough than this will be, I would
gladly have so done. But, because without this review of the past, it
would not be in my power to shew how the matters, of which you
will hereafter read, came to pass, I am almost bound of necessity to
enter upon it, if I would write of them at all.
I say, then, that the years of the beatific incarnation of the Son
of God had reached the tale of one thousand three hundred and
forty-eight, when in the illustrious city of Florence, the fairest of all
the cities of Italy, there made its appearance that deadly pestilence,
which, whether disesminated by the influence of the celestial bodies,
or sent upon us mortals by God in His just wrath by way of
retribution for our iniquities, had had its origin some years before in
the East, whence, after destroying an innumerable multitude of living
beings, it had propagated itself without respite from place to place,
and so, calamitously, had spread into the West.
In Florence, despite all that human wisdom and forethought could
devise to avert it, as the cleansing of the city from many impurities
by officials appointed for the purpose, the refusal of entrance to all
sick folk, and the adoption of many precautions for the preservation
of health; despite also humble supplications addressed to God, and
often repeated both in public procession and otherwise, by the devout;
towards the beginning of the spring of the said year the doleful
effects of the pestilence began to be horribly apparent by symptoms
that shewed as if miraculous.
Not such were they as in the East, where an issue of blood from
the nose was a manifest sign of inevitable death; but in men and
women alike it first betrayed itself by the emergence of certain
tumours in the groin or the armpits, some of which grew as large as
a common apple, others as an egg, some more, some less, which the
common folk called gavoccioli. From the two said parts of the
body this deadly gavocciolo soon began to propagate and spread itself
in all directions indifferently; after which the form of the malady
began to change, black spots or livid making their appearance in
many cases on the arm or the thigh or elsewhere, now few and large,
now minute and numerous. And as the gavocciolo had been and
still was an infallible token of approaching death, such also were
these spots on whomsoever they shewed themselves. Which maladies
seemed to set entirely at naught both the art of the physician and
the virtues of physic; indeed, whether it was that the disorder was
of a nature to defy such treatment, or that the physicians were at
fault--besides the qualified there was now a multitude both of men
and of women who practised without having received the slightest
tincture of medical science--and, being in ignorance of its source,
failed to apply the proper remedies; in either case, not merely were
those that recovered few, but almost all within three days from the
appearance of the said symptoms, sooner or later, died, and in most
cases without any fever or other attendant malady.
Moreover, the virulence of the pest was the greater by reason that
intercourse was apt to convey it from the sick to the whole, just as
fire devours things dry or greasy when they are brought close to it.
Nay, the evil went yet further, for not merely by speech or association
with the sick was the malady communicated to the healthy with
consequent peril of common death; but any that touched the clothes
of the sick or aught else that had been touched or used by them,
seemed thereby to contract the disease.
So marvellous sounds that which I have now to relate, that, had
not many, and I among them, observed it with their own eyes, I had
hardly dared to credit it, much less to set it down in writing, though
I had had it from the lips of a credible witness.
I say, then, that such was the energy of the contagion of the said
pestilence, that it was not merely propagated from man to man,
but, what is much more startling, it was frequently observed, that
things which had belonged to one sick or dead of the disease, if
touched by some other living creature, not of the human species,
were the occasion, not merely of sickening, but of an almost instantaneous
death. Whereof my own eyes (as I said a little before) had
cognisance, one day among others, by the following experience. The
rags of a poor man who had died of the disease being strewn about
the open street, two hogs came thither, and after, as is their wont,
no little trifling with their snouts, took the rags between their
teeth and tossed them to and fro about their chaps; whereupon,
almost immediately, they gave a few turns, and fell down dead,
as if by poison, upon the rags which in an evil hour they had
disturbed.
In which circumstances, not to speak of many others of a similar
or even graver complexion, divers apprehensions and imaginations
were engendered in the minds of such as were left alive, inclining
almost all of them to the same harsh resolution, to wit, to shun and
abhor all contact with the sick and all that belonged to them,
thinking thereby to make each his own health secure. Among whom
there were those who thought that to live temperately and avoid all
excess would count for much as a preservative against seizures of this
kind. Wherefore they banded together, and, dissociating themselves
from all others, formed communities in houses where there were no
sick, and lived a separate and secluded life, which they regulated with
the utmost care, avoiding every kind of luxury, but eating and
drinking very moderately of the most delicate viands and the finest
wines, holding converse with none but one another, lest tidings of
sickness or death should reach them, and diverting their minds with
music and such other delights as they could devise. Others, the bias
of whose minds was in the opposite direction, maintained, that to
drink freely, frequent places of public resort, and take their pleasure
with song and revel, sparing to satisfy no appetite, and to laugh and
mock at no event, was the sovereign remedy for so great an evil: and
that which they affirmed they also put in practice, so far as they were
able, resorting day and night, now to this tavern, now to that, drinking
with an entire disregard of rule or measure, and by preference making
the houses of others, as it were, their inns, if they but saw in them
aught that was particularly to their taste or liking; which they were
readily able to do, because the owners, seeing death imminent, had
become as reckless of their property as of their lives; so that most of
the houses were open to all comers, and no distinction was observed
between the stranger who presented himself and the rightful lord.
Thus, adhering ever to their inhuman determination to shun the sick,
as far as possible, they ordered their life. In this extremity of our
city's suffering and tribulation the venerable authority of laws,
human and divine, was abased and all but totally dissolved, for lack
of those who should have administered and enforced them, most of
whom, like the rest of the citizens, were either dead or sick, or so
hard bested for servants that they were unable to execute any
office; whereby every man was free to do what was right in his
own eyes.
Not a few there were who belonged to neither of the two said
parties, but kept a middle course between them, neither laying the
same restraint upon their diet as the former, nor allowing themselves
the same license in drinking and other dissipations as the latter, but
living with a degree of freedom sufficient to satisfy their appetites,
and not as recluses. They therefore walked abroad, carrying in
their hands flowers or fragrant herbs or divers sorts of spices, which
they frequently raised to their noses, deeming it an excellent thing
thus to comfort the brain with such perfumes, because the air seemed
to be everywhere laden and reeking with the stench emitted by the
dead and the dying, and the odours of drugs.
Some again, the most sound, perhaps, in judgment, as they were
also the most harsh in temper, of all, affirmed that there was no
medicine for the disease superior or equal in efficacy to flight; following
which prescription a multitude of men and women, negligent
of all but themselves, deserted their city, their houses, their estates,
their kinsfolk, their goods, and went into voluntary exile, or migrated
to the country parts, as if God in visiting men with this pestilence in
requital of their iniquities would not pursue them with His wrath
wherever they might be, but intended the destruction of such alone
as remained within the circuit of the walls of the city; or deeming,
perchance, that it was now time for all to flee from it, and that its
last hour was come.
Of the adherents of these divers opinions not all died, neither did
all escape; but rather there were, of each sort and in every place, many
that sickened, and by those who retained their health were treated after
the example which they themselves, while whole, had set, being everywhere
left to languish in almost total neglect. Tedious were it to
recount, how citizen avoided citizen, how among neighbours was
scarce found any that shewed fellow-feeling for another, how kinsfolk
held aloof, and never met, or but rarely; enough that this sore affliction
entered so deep into the minds of men and women, that in the
horror thereof brother was forsaken by brother, nephew by uncle,
brother by sister, and oftentimes husband by wife; nay, what is more,
and scarcely to be believed, fathers and mothers were found to abandon
their own children, untended, unvisited, to their fate, as if they had
been strangers. Wherefore the sick of both sexes, whose number
could not be estimated, were left without resource but in the charity
of friends (and few such there were), or the interest of servants, who
were hardly to be had at high rates and on unseemly terms, and
being, moreover, one and all, men and women of gross understanding,
and for the most part unused to such offices, concerned themselves
no further than to supply the immediate and expressed wants of the
sick, and to watch them die; in which service they themselves not
seldom perished with their gains. In consequence of which dearth
of servants and dereliction of the sick by neighbours, kinsfolk and
friends, it came to pass--a thing, perhaps, never before heard of--that
no woman, however dainty, fair or well-born she might be,
shrank, when stricken with the disease, from the ministrations of a
man, no matter whether he were young or no, or scrupled to expose
to him every part of her body, with no more shame than if he had
been a woman, submitting of necessity to that which her malady
required; wherefrom, perchance, there resulted in after time some
loss of modesty in such as recovered. Besides which many succumbed,
who with proper attendance, would, perhaps, have escaped
death; so that, what with the virulence of the plague and the lack
of due tendance of the sick, the multitude of the deaths, that daily
and nightly took place in the city, was such that those who heard
the tale--not to say witnessed the fact--were struck dumb with
amazement. Whereby, practices contrary to the former habits of
the citizens could hardly fail to grow up among the survivors.
It had been, as to-day it still is, the custom for the women that
were neighbours and of kin to the deceased to gather in his house
with the women that were most closely connected with him, to
wail with them in common, while on the other hand his male kinsfolk
and neighbours, with not a few of the other citizens, and a due
proportion of the clergy according to his quality, assembled without,
in front of the house, to receive the corpse; and so the dead man
was borne on the shoulders of his peers, with funeral pomp of taper
and dirge, to the church selected by him before his death. Which
rites, as the pestilence waxed in fury, were either in whole or in
great part disused, and gave way to others of a novel order. For
not only did no crowd of women surround the bed of the dying, but
many passed from this life unregarded, and few indeed were they to
whom were accorded the lamentations and bitter tears of sorrowing
relations; nay, for the most part, their place was taken by the laugh,
the jest, the festal gathering; observances which the women, domestic
piety in large measure set aside, had adopted with very great
advantage to their health. Few also there were whose bodies were
attended to the church by more than ten or twelve of their neighbours,
and those not the honourable and respected citizens; but a sort
of corpse-carriers drawn from the baser ranks, who called themselves
becchiniProbably from the name of the pronged or hooked implement
with
which they dragged the corpses out of the houses. and performed such
offices for hire, would shoulder the
bier, and with hurried steps carry it, not to the church of the dead
man's choice, but to that which was nearest at hand, with four or
six priests in front and a candle or two, or, perhaps, none; nor did
the priests distress themselves with too long and solemn an office,
but with the aid of the becchini hastily consigned the corpse to the
first tomb which they found untenanted. The condition of the
lower, and, perhaps, in great measure of the middle ranks, of the
people shewed even worse and more deplorable; for, deluded by
hope or constrained by poverty, they stayed in their quarters, in their
houses, where they sickened by thousands a day, and, being without
service or help of any kind, were, so to speak, irredeemably devoted
to the death which overtook them. Many died daily or nightly in
the public streets; of many others, who died at home, the departure
was hardly observed by their neighbours, until the stench of their
putrefying bodies carried the tidings; and what with their corpses
and the corpses of others who died on every hand the whole place
was a sepulchre.
It was the common practice of most of the neighbours, moved no
less by fear of contamination by the putrefying bodies than by charity
towards the deceased, to drag the corpses out of the houses with their
own hands, aided, perhaps, by a porter, if a porter was to be had, and
to lay them in front of the doors, where any one who made the
round might have seen, especially in the morning, more of them than
he could count; afterwards they would have biers brought up, or, in
default, planks, whereon they laid them. Nor was it once or twice
only that one and the same bier carried two or three corpses at once;
but quite a considerable number of such cases occurred, one bier
sufficing for husband and wife, two or three brothers, father and son,
and so forth. And times without number it happened, that, as two
priests, bearing the cross, were on their way to perform the last office
for some one, three or four biers were brought up by the porters in
rear of them, so that, whereas the priests supposed that they had
but one corpse to bury, they discovered that there were six or
eight, or sometimes more. Nor, for all their number, were their
obsequies honoured by either tears or lights or crowds of mourners;
rather, it was come to this, that a dead man was then of no more
account than a dead goat would be to-day. From all which it is
abundantly manifest, that that lesson of patient resignation, which
the sages were never able to learn from the slight and infrequent
mishaps which occur in the natural course of events, was now brought
home even to the minds of the simple by the magnitude of their
disasters, so that they became indifferent to them.
As consecrated ground there was not in extent sufficient to
provide tombs for the vast multitude of corpses which day and night,
and almost every hour, were brought in eager haste to the churches
for interment, least of all, if ancient custom were to be observed and
a separate resting-place assigned to each, they dug, for each graveyard,
as soon as it was full, a huge trench, in which they laid the
corpses as they arrived by hundreds at a time, piling them up as
merchandise is stowed in the hold of a ship, tier upon tier, each
covered with a little earth, until the trench would hold no more.
But I spare to rehearse with minute particularity each of the woes
that came upon our city, and say in brief, that, harsh as was the
tenor of her fortunes, the surrounding country knew no mitigation;
for there--not to speak of the castles, each, as it were, a little city in
itself--in sequestered village, or on the open champaign, by the wayside,
on the farm, in the homestead, the poor hapless husbandmen
and their families, forlorn of physicians' care or servants' tendance,
perished day and night alike, not as men, but rather as beasts.
Wherefore, they too, like the citizens, abandoned all rule of life, all
habit of industry, all counsel of prudence; nay, one and all, as if
expecting each day to be their last, not merely ceased to aid Nature
to yield her fruit in due season of their beasts and their lands and
their past labours, but left no means unused, which ingenuity could
devise, to waste their accumulated store; denying shelter to their
oxen, asses, sheep, goats, pigs, fowls, nay, even to their dogs, man's
most faithful companions, and driving them out into the fields to
roam at large amid the unsheaved, nay, unreaped corn. Many of
which, as if endowed with reason, took their fill during the day, and
returned home at night without any guidance of herdsman. But
enough of the country! What need we add, but (reverting to the
city) that such and so grievous was the harshness of heaven, and
perhaps in some degree of man, that, what with the fury of the
pestilence, the panic of those whom it spared, and their consequent
neglect or desertion of not a few of the stricken in their need, it is
believed without any manner of doubt, that between March and the
ensuing July upwards of a hundred thousand human beings lost their
lives within the walls of the city of Florence, which before the
deadly visitation would not have been supposed to contain so many
people! How many grand palaces, how many stately homes, how
many splendid residences, once full of retainers, of lords, of ladies,
were now left desolate of all, even to the meanest servant! How
many families of historic fame, of vast ancestral domains, and wealth
proverbial, found now no scion to continue the succession! How
many brave men, how many fair ladies, how many gallant youths,
whom any physician, were he Galen, Hippocrates, or Æsculapius
himself, would have pronounced in the soundest of health, broke fast
with their kinsfolk, comrades and friends in the morning, and when
evening came, supped with their forefathers in the other world!
Irksome it is to myself to rehearse in detail so sorrowful a history.
Wherefore, being minded to pass over so much thereof as I fairly
can, I say, that our city, being thus well-nigh depopulated, it so
happened, as I afterwards learned from one worthy of credit, that
on a Tuesday morning after Divine Service the venerable church of
Santa Maria Novella was almost deserted save for the presence of
seven young ladies habited sadly in keeping with the season. All
were connected either by blood or at least as friends or neighbours;
and fair and of good understanding were they all, as also of noble
birth, gentle manners, and a modest sprightliness. In age none
exceeded twenty-eight, or fell short of eighteen years. Their names
I would set down in due form, had I not good reason to withhold
them, being solicitous lest the matters which here ensue, as told
and heard by them, should in after time be occasion of reproach to
any of them, in view of the ample indulgence which was then, for the
reasons heretofore set forth, accorded to the lighter hours of persons of
much riper years than they, but which the manners of to-day have
somewhat restricted; nor would I furnish material to detractors,
ever ready to bestow their bite where praise is due, to cast by invidious
speech the least slur upon the honour of these noble ladies. Wherefore,
that what each says may be apprehended without confusion, I
intend to give them names more or less appropriate to the character
of each. The first, then, being the eldest of the seven, we will call
Pampinea, the second Fiammetta, the third Filomena, the fourth
Emilia, the fifth we will distinguish as Lauretta, the sixth as Neifile,
and the last, not without reason, shall be named Elisa.
'Twas not of set purpose but by mere chance that these ladies met
in the same part of the church; but at length grouping themselves
into a sort of circle, after heaving a few sighs, they gave up saying
paternosters, and began to converse (among other topics) on the
times.
So they continued for a while, and then Pampinea, the rest listening
in silent attention, thus began: Dear ladies mine, often have I
heard it said, and you doubtless as well as I, that wrong is done to
none by whoso but honestly uses his reason. And to fortify, preserve,
and defend his life to the utmost of his power is the dictate of natural
reason in every one that is born. Which right is accorded in such
measure that in defence thereof men have been held blameless in
taking life. And if this be allowed by the laws, albeit on their
stringency depends the well-being of every mortal, how much more
exempt from censure should we, and all other honest folk, be in
taking such means as we may for the preservation of our life? As
often as I bethink me how we have been occupied this morning, and
not this morning only, and what has been the tenor of our conversation,
I perceive--and you will readily do the like--that each of
us is apprehensive on her own account; nor thereat do I marvel, but
at this I do marvel greatly, that, though none of us lacks a woman's
wit, yet none of us has recourse to any means to avert that which
we all justly fear. Here we tarry, as if, methinks, for no other
purpose than to bear witness to the number of the corpses that are
brought hither for interment, or to hearken if the brothers there
within, whose number is now almost reduced to nought, chant their
offices at the canonical hours, or, by our weeds of woe, to obtrude on
the attention of every one that enters, the nature and degree of our
sufferings. And if we quit the church, we see dead or sick folk carried
about,
or we see those, who for their crimes were of late condemned to
exile by the outraged majesty of the public laws, but who now, in
contempt of those laws, well knowing that their ministers are a prey
to death or disease, have returned, and traverse the city in packs,
making it hideous with their riotous antics; or else we see the refuse
of the people, fostered on our blood, becchini, as they call themselves,
who for our torment go prancing about here and there and everywhere,
making mock of our miseries in scurrilous songs. Nor hear
we aught but: Such and such are dead; or, Such and such are
dying; and should hear dolorous wailing on every hand, were there
but any to wail. Or go we home, what see we there? I know not
if you are in like case with me; but there, where once were servants
in plenty, I find none left but my maid, and shudder with terror, and
feel the very hairs of my head to stand on end; and turn or tarry
where I may, I encounter the ghosts of the departed, not with their
wonted mien, but with something horrible in their aspect that appals
me. For which reasons church and street and home are alike distressful
to me, and the more so that none, methinks, having means and place
of retirement as we have, abides here save only we; or if any such
there be, they are of those, as my senses too often have borne witness,
who make no distinction between things honourable and their
opposites, so they but answer the cravings of appetite, and, alone or
in company, do daily and nightly what things soever give promise of
most gratification. Nor are these secular persons alone; but such as
live recluse in monasteries break their rule, and give themselves up
to carnal pleasures, persuading themselves that they are permissible
to them, and only forbidden to others, and, thereby thinking to
escape, are become unchaste and dissolute. If such be our circumstances--and
such most manifestly they are--what do we here?
what wait we for? what dream we of? why are we less prompt to
provide for our own safety than the rest of the citizens? Is life less
dear to us than to all other women? or think we that the bond
which unites soul and body is stronger in us than in others, so that
there is no blow that may light upon it, of which we need be
apprehensive? If so, we err, we are deceived. What insensate folly
were it in us so to believe! We have but to call to mind the
number and condition of those, young as we, and of both sexes, who
have succumbed to this cruel pestilence, to find therein conclusive
evidence to the contrary. And lest from lethargy or indolence we
fall into the vain imagination that by some lucky accident we may
in some way or another, when we would, escape--I know not if
your opinion accord with mine--I should deem it most wise in us,
our case being what it is, if, as many others have done before us, and
are still doing, we were to quit this place, and, shunning like death
the evil example of others, betake ourselves to the country, and there
live as honourable women on one of the estates, of which none of us
has any lack, with all cheer of festal gathering and other delights, so
long as in no particular we overstep the bounds of reason. There we
shall hear the chant of birds, have sight of verdant hills and plains, of
cornfields undulating like the sea, of trees of a thousand sorts; there
also we shall have a larger view of the heavens, which, however harsh
to usward, yet deny not their eternal beauty; things fairer far for
epe to rest on than the desolate walls of our city. Moreover, we
shall there breathe a fresher air, find ampler store of things meet for
such as live in these times, have fewer causes of annoy. For, though
the husbandmen die there, even as here the citizens, they are
dispersed in scattered homesteads, and 'tis thus less painful to witness.
Nor, so far as I can see, is there a soul here whom we shall desert;
rather we may truly say, that we are ourselves deserted; for, our
kinsfolk being either dead or fled in fear of death, no more regardful
of us than if we were strangers, we are left alone in our great
affliction. No censure, then, can fall on us if we do as I propose;
and otherwise grievous suffering, perhaps death, may ensue. Wherefore,
if you agree, 'tis my advice, that, attended by our maids with al???
things needful, we sojourn, now on this, now on the other estate,
and in such way of life continue, until we see--if death should not
first overtake us--the end which Heaven reserves for these events.
And I remind you that it will be at least as seemly in us to leave
with honour, as in others, of whom there are not a few, to stay with
dishonour.
The other ladies praised Pampinea's plan, and indeed were so
prompt to follow it, that they had already begun to discuss the
manner in some detail, as if they were forthwith to rise from their
seats and take the road, when Filomena, whose judgment was
excellent, interposed, saying: Ladies, though Pampinea has spoken
to most excellent effect, yet it were not well to be so precipitate as
you seem disposed to be. Bethink you that we are all women; nor
is there any here so young, but she is of years to understand how
women are minded towards one another, when they are alone
together, and how ill they are able to rule themselves without the
guidance of some man. We are sensitive, perverse, suspicious,
pusillanimous and timid; wherefore I much misdoubt, that, if we
find no other guidance than our own, this company is like to break
up sooner, and with less credit to us, than it should. Against which
it were well to provide at the outset.
Said then Elisa:
Without
doubt man is woman's head, and, without man's governance, it is
seldom that aught that we do is brought to a commendable conclusion.
But how are we to come by the men? Every one of us
here knows that her kinsmen are for the most part dead, and that the
survivors are dispersed, one here, one there, we know not where, bent
each on escaping the same fate as ourselves; nor were it seemly to
seek the aid of strangers; for, as we are in quest of health, we must
find some means so to order matters that, wherever we seek diversion
or repose, trouble and scandal do not follow us.
While the ladies were thus conversing, there came into the church
three young men, young, I say, but not so young that the age of the
youngest was less than twenty-five years; in whom neither the
sinister course of events, nor the loss of friends or kinsfolk, nor fear
for their own safety, had availed to quench, or even temper, the
ardour of their love. The first was called Pamfilo, the second
Filostrato, and the third Dioneo. Very debonair and chivalrous
were they all; and in this troublous time they were seeking if haply,
to their exceeding great solace, they might have sight of their fair
friends, all three of whom chanced to be among the said seven ladies,
besides some that were of kin to the young men. At one and the
same moment they recognised the ladies and were recognised by
them: wherefore, with a gracious smile, Pampinea thus began:
Lo, fortune is propitious to our enterprise, having vouchsafed us the
good offices of these young men, who are as gallant as they are
discreet, and will gladly give us their guidance and escort, so we but
take them into our service.
Whereupon Neifile, crimson from brow
to neck with the blush of modesty, being one of those that had a
lover among the young men, said: For God's sake, Pampinea,
have a care what you say. Well assured am I that nought but good
can be said of any of them, and I deem them fit for office far more
onerous than this which you propose for them, and their good and
honourable company worthy of ladies fairer by far and more tenderly
to be cherished than such as we. But 'tis no secret that they love
some of us here; wherefore I misdoubt that, if we take them with
us, we may thereby give occasion for scandal and censure merited
neither by us nor by them.
That,
said Filomena, is of no
consequence;
so I but live honestly, my conscience gives me no
disquietude; if others asperse me, God and the truth will take arms
in my defence. Now, should they be disposed to attend us, of a truth
we might say with Pampinea, that fortune favours our enterprise.
The silence which followed betokened consent on the part of the other
ladies, who then with one accord resolved to call the young men, and
acquaint them with their purpose, and pray them to be of their company.
So without further parley Pampinea, who had a kinsman
among the young men, rose and approached them where they stood
intently regarding them; and greeting them gaily, she opened to them
their plan, and besought them on the part of herself and her friends
to join their company on terms of honourable and fraternal comradeship.
At first the young men thought she did but trifle with them;
but when they saw that she was in earnest, they answered with
alacrity that they were ready, and promptly, even before they left
the church, set matters in train for their departure. So all things
meet being first sent forward in due order to their intended place
of sojourn, the ladies with some of their maids, and the three young
men, each attended by a man-servant, sallied forth of the city on
the morrow, being Wednesday, about daybreak, and took the road;
nor had they journeyed more than two short miles when they
arrived at their destination. The estateIdentified by tradition with
the Villa Palmieri (now Crawford) on the
slope of Fiesole. lay upon a little hill some
distance from the nearest highway, and, embowered in shrubberies
of divers hues, and other greenery, afforded the eye a pleasant
prospect. On the summit of the hill was a palace with galleries,
halls and chambers, disposed around a fair and spacious court, each
very fair in itself, and the goodlier to see for the gladsome pictures
with which it was adorned; the whole set amidst meads and gardens
laid out with marvellous art, wells of the coolest water, and vaults of
the finest wines, things more suited to dainty drinkers than to sober
and honourable women. On their arrival the company, to their no
small delight, found their beds already made, the rooms well swept
and garnished with flowers of every sort that the season could afford,
and the floors carpeted with rushes. When they were seated,
Dioneo, a gallant who had not his match for courtesy and wit, spoke
thus: My ladies, 'tis not our forethought so much as your own
mother-wit that has guided us hither. How you mean to dispose
of your cares I know not; mine I left behind me within the citygate
when I issued thence with you a brief while ago. Wherefore,
I pray you, either address yourselves to make merry, to laugh and
sing with me (so far, I mean, as may consist with your dignity), or
give me leave to hie me back to the stricken city, there to abide
with my cares.
To whom blithely Pampinea replied, as if she too
had cast off all her cares: Well sayest thou, Dioneo, excellent
well; gaily we mean to live; 'twas a refuge from sorrow that here
we sought, nor had we other cause to come hither. But, as no
anarchy can long endure, I who initiated the deliberations of which
this fair company is the fruit, do now, to the end that our joy may
be lasting, deem it expedient, that there be one among us in chief
authority, honoured and obeyed by us as our superior, whose
exclusive care it shall be to devise how we may pass our time
blithely. And that each in turn may prove the weight of the care,
as well as enjoy the pleasure, of sovereignty, and, no distinction being
made of sex, envy be felt by none by reason of exclusion from the
office; I propose, that the weight and honour be borne by each one
for a day; and let the first to bear sway be chosen by us all,
those that follow to be appointed towards the vesper hour by him
or her who shall have had the signory for that day; and let each
holder of the signory be, for the time, sole arbiter of the place and
manner in which we are to pass our time.
Pampinea's speech was received with the utmost applause, and
with one accord she was chosen queen for the first day. Whereupon
Filomena hied her lightly to a bay-tree, having often heard of the
great honour in which its leaves, and such as were deservedly
crowned therewith, were worthy to be holden; and having gathered
a few sprays, she made thereof a goodly wreath of honour, and set
it on Pampinea's head; which wreath was thenceforth, while
their company endured, the visible sign of the wearer's sway and
sovereignty.
No sooner was Queen Pampinea crowned than she bade all be
silent. She then caused summon to her presence their four maids,
and the servants of the three young men, and, all keeping silence,
said to them: That I may shew you all at once, how,
well still giving place to better, our company may flourish and
endure, as long as it shall pleasure us, with order meet and assured
delight and without reproach, I first of all constitute Dioneo's man,
Parmeno, my seneschal, and entrust him with the care and control
of all our household, and all that belongs to the service of the hall.
Pamfilo's man, Sirisco, I appoint treasurer and chancellor of our
exchequer; and be he ever answerable to Parmeno. While Parmeno
and Sirisco are too busy about their duties to serve their masters,
let Filostrato's man, Tindaro, have charge of the chambers of all
three. My maid, Misia, and Filomena's maid, Licisca, will keep in
the kitchen, and with all due diligence prepare such dishes as
Parmeno shall bid them. Lauretta's maid, Chimera, and Fiammetta's
maid, Stratilia we make answerable for the ladies' chambers, and
wherever we may take up our quarters, let them see that all is
spotless. And now we enjoin you, one and all alike, as you value
our favour, that none of you, go where you may, return whence
you may, hear or see what you may, bring us any tidings but such as
be cheerful.
These orders thus succinctly given were received with
universal approval. Whereupon Pampinea rose, and said gaily:
Here are gardens, meads, and other places delightsome enough,
where you may wander at will, and take your pleasure; but on the
stroke of tierce,The canonical hour following prime, roughly speaking
about 9 a.m. let all be here to breakfast in the shade.
Thus dismissed by their new queen the gay company sauntered
gently through a garden, the young men saying sweet things to the
fair ladies, who wove fair garlands of divers sorts of leaves and sang
love-songs.
Having thus spent the time allowed them by the queen, they
returned to the house, where they found that Parmeno had entered
on his office with zeal; for in a hall on the ground-floor they saw
tables covered with the whitest of cloths, and beakers that shone
like silver, and sprays of broom scattered everywhere. So, at the bidding
of the queen, they washed their hands, and all took their places
as marshalled by Parmeno. Dishes, daintily prepared, were served,
and the finest wines were at hand; the three serving-men did their
office noiselessly; in a word all was fair and ordered in a seemly
manner; whereby the spirits of the company rose, and they
seasoned their viands with pleasant jests and sprightly sallies.
Breakfast done, the tables were removed, and the queen bade fetch
instruments of music; for all, ladies and young men alike, knew
how to tread a measure, and some of them played and sang with
great skill: so, at her command, Dioneo having taken a lute, and
Fiammetta a viol, they struck up a dance in sweet concert; and,
the servants being dismissed to their repast, the queen, attended by
the other ladies and the two young men, led off a stately carol; which
ended they fell to singing ditties dainty and gay. Thus they diverted
themselves until the queen, deeming it time to retire to rest, dismissed
them all for the night. So the three young men and the
ladies withdrew to their several quarters, which were in different
parts of the palace. There they found the beds well made, and
abundance of flowers, as in the hall; and so they undressed, and
went to bed.
Shortly after noneThe canonical hour following sext, i. e. 3
p.m. the queen rose, and roused the rest of the
ladies, as also the young men, averring that it was injurious to the
health to sleep long in the daytime. They therefore hied them to
a meadow, where the grass grew green and luxuriant, being nowhere
scorched by the sun, and a light breeze gently fanned them. So at
the queen's command they all ranged themselves in a circle on the
grass, and hearkened while she thus spoke:
You mark that the sun is high, the heat intense, and the silence
unbroken save by the cicalas among the olive-trees. It were therefore
the height of folly to quit this spot at present. Here the air
is cool and the prospect fair, and here, observe, are dice and chess.
Take, then, your pleasure as you may be severally minded; but, if
you take my advice, you will find pastime for the hot hours before
us, not in play, in which the loser must needs be vexed, and
neither the winner nor the onlooker much the better pleased, but
in telling of stories, in which the invention of one may afford
solace to all the company of his hearers. You will not each have
told a story before the sun will be low, and the heat abated, so that
we shall be able to go and severally take our pleasure where it may
seem best to each. Wherefore, if my proposal meet with your
approval--for in this I am disposed to consult your pleasure--let us
adopt it; if not, divert yourselves as best you may, until the vesper
hour.
The queen's proposal being approved by all, ladies and men alike,
she added: So please you, then, I ordain, that, for this first day,
we be free to discourse of such matters as most commend themselves
to each in turn.
She then addressed Pamfilo, who sat on her
right hand, bidding him with a gracious air to lead off with one of
his stories. And prompt at the word of command, Pamfilo, while
all listened intently, thus began:
Novel ISer Ciappelletto cheats a holy friar by a false confession,
and dies; and, having lived as a very bad man,
is, on his death, reputed a saint, and called San
Ciappelletto.
A seemly thing it is, dearest ladies, that whatever we do, it be
begun
in the holy and awful name of Him who was the maker of all. Wherefore,
as it falls to me to lead the way in this your enterprise of storytelling,
I intend to begin with one of His wondrous works, that, by
hearing thereof, our hopes in Him, in whom is no change, may be
established, and His name be by us forever lauded. 'Tis manifest
that, as things temporal are all doomed to pass and perish, so within
and without they abound with trouble and anguish and travail, and
are subject to infinite perils; nor, save for the especial grace of God,
should we, whose being is bound up with and forms part of theirs,
have either the strength to endure or the wisdom to combat their
adverse influences. By which grace we are visited and penetrated
(so we must believe) not by reason of any merit of our own, but
solely out of the fulness of God's own goodness, and in answer to the
prayers of those who, being mortal like ourselves, did faithfully
observe His ordinances during their lives, and are now become
blessed for ever with Him in heaven. To whom, as to advocates
taught by experience all that belongs to our frailty, we, not daring,
perchance, to present our petitions in the presence of so great a Judge,
make known our requests for such things as we deem expedient for
us. And of His mercy richly abounding to usward we have further
proof herein, that, no keenness of mortal vision being able in any
degree to penetrate the secret counsels of the Divine mind, it
sometimes,
perchance, happens, that, in error of judgment, we make one
our advocate before His Majesty, who is banished from His presence
in eternal exile, and yet He to whom nothing is hidden, having
regard rather to the sincerity of our prayers than to our ignorance or
the banishment of the intercessor, hears us no less than if the intercessor
were in truth one of the blest who enjoy the light of His
countenance. Which the story that I am about to relate may serve
to make apparent; apparent, I mean, according to the standard of
the judgment of man, not of God.
The story goes, then, that Musciatto Franzesi, a great and
wealthy merchant, being made a knight in France, and being to
attend Charles Sansterre, brother of the King of France, when he
came into Tuscany at the instance and with the support of Pope
Boniface, found his affairs, as often happens to merchants, to be
much involved in divers quarters, and neither easily nor suddenly to
be adjusted; wherefore he determined to place them in the hands of
commissioners, and found no difficulty except as to certain credits
given to some Burgundians, for the recovery of which he doubted
whether he could come by a competent agent; for well he knew
that the Burgundians were violent men and ill-conditioned and
faithless; nor could he call to mind any man so bad that he could
with confidence oppose his guile to theirs. After long pondering
the matter, he recollected one Ser Ciapperello da Prato, who much
frequented his house in Paris. Who being short of stature and very
affected, the French who knew not the meaning of Cepparello,The
diminutive of ceppo, stump or log: more commonly written
cepperello (cf. p. 32) or ceppatello. The form ciapperello
seems to be found only here.
but supposed that it meant the same as Cappello, i. e. garland, in their
vernacular, called him not Cappello, but Ciappelletto by reason of his
diminutive size; and as Ciappelletto he was known everywhere,
whereas few people knew him as Ciapperello. Now Ciappelletto's
manner of life was thus. He was by profession a notary, and his
pride was to make false documents; he would have made them as
often as he was asked, and more readily without fee than another
at a great price; few indeed he made that were not false, and great
was his shame when they were discovered. False witness he bore,
solicited or unsolicited, with boundless delight; and, as oaths were in
those days had in very great respect in France, he, scrupling not to
forswear himself, corruptly carried the day in every case in which he
was summoned faithfully to attest the truth. He took inordinate
delight, and bestirred himself with great zeal, in fomenting ill-feeling,
enmities, dissensions between friends, kinsfolk and all other folk;
and the more calamitous were the consequences the better he was
pleased. Set him on murder, or any other foul crime, and he never
hesitated, but went about it with alacrity; he had been known on
more than one occasion to inflict wounds or death by preference
with his own hands. He was a profuse blasphemer of God and His
saints, and that on the most trifling occasions, being of all men the
most irascible. He was never seen at church, held all the sacraments
vile things, and derided them in language of horrible ribaldry.
On the other hand he resorted readily to the tavern and other
places of evil repute, and frequented them. He was as fond of
women as a dog is of the stick: in the use against nature he had
not his match among the most abandoned. He would have pilfered
and stolen as a matter of conscience, as a holy man would make an
oblation. Most gluttonous he was and inordinately fond of his
cups, whereby he sometimes brought upon himself both shame and
suffering. He was also a practised gamester and thrower of false
dice. But why enlarge so much upon him? Enough that he was,
perhaps, the worst man that ever was born.
The rank and power of Musciatto Franzesi had long been this
reprobate's mainstay, serving in many instances to secure him considerate
treatment on the part of the private persons whom he
frequently, and the court which he unremittingly, outraged. So
Musciatto, having bethought him of this Ser Cepparello, with whose
way of life he was very well acquainted, judged him to be the very
sort of person to cope with the guile of the Burgundians. He therefore
sent for him, and thus addressed him: Ser Ciappelletto, I am,
as thou knowest, about to leave this place for good; and among
those with whom I have to settle accounts are certain Burgundians,
very wily knaves; nor know I the man whom I could more fitly
entrust with the recovery of my money than thyself. Wherefore, as
thou hast nothing to do at present, if thou wilt undertake this
business, I will procure thee the favour of the court, and give thee a
reasonable part of what thou shalt recover.
Ser Ciappelletto, being
out of employment, and by no means in easy circumstances, and
about to lose Musciatto, so long his mainstay and support, without
the least demur, for in truth he had hardly any choice, made his
mind up and answered that he was ready to go. So the bargain was
struck. Armed with the power of attorney and the royal letters
commendatory, Ser Ciappelletto took leave of Messer Musciatto and
hied him to Burgundy, where he was hardly known to a soul. He
set about the business which had brought him thither, the recovery
of the money, in a manner amicable and considerate, foreign to his
nature, as if he were minded to reserve his severity to the last.
While thus occupied, he was frequently at the house of two
Florentine usurers, who treated him with great distinction out of
regard for Messer Musciatto; and there it so happened that he fell
sick. The two brothers forthwith placed physicians and servants in
attendance upon him, and omitted no means meet and apt for the
restoration of his health. But all remedies proved unavailing; for
being now old, and having led, as the physicians reported, a disorderly
life, he went daily from bad to worse like one stricken with a
mortal disease. This greatly disconcerted the two brothers; and one
day, hard by the room in which Ser Ciappelletto lay sick, they began
to talk about him; saying one to the other: What shall we do
with this man? We are hard bested indeed on his account. If we
turn him out of the house, sick as he is, we shall not only incur grave
censure, but shall evince a signal want of sense; for folk must know
the welcome we gave him in the first instance, the solicitude with
which we have had him treated and tended since his illness, during
which time he could not possibly do aught to displease us, and yet
they would see him suddenly turned out of our house sick unto
death. On the other hand he has been so bad a man that he is sure
not to confess or receive any of the Church's sacraments; and dying
thus unconfessed, he will be denied burial in church, but will be cast out
into some ditch like a dog; nay, 'twill be all one if he do confess, for
such and so horrible have been his crimes that no friar or priest either
will or can absolve him; and so, dying without absolution, he will
still be cast out into the ditch. In which case the folk of these parts,
who reprobate our trade as iniquitous and revile it all day long, and
would fain rob us, will seize their opportunity, and raise a tumult,
and make a raid upon our houses, crying: 'A way with these Lombard
dogs, whom the Church excludes from her pale;' and will certainly
strip us of our goods, and perhaps take our lives also; so that in any
case we stand to lose if this man die.
Ser Ciappelletto, who, as we said, lay close at hand while they
thus spoke, and whose hearing was sharpened, as is often the case,
by his malady, overheard all that they said about him. So he called
them to him, and said to them: I would not have you disquiet
yourselves in regard of me, or apprehend loss to befall you by my
death. I have heard what you have said of me and have no doubt
that 'twould be as you say, if matters took the course you anticipate;
but I am minded that it shall be otherwise. I have committed so
many offences against God in the course of my life, that one more in
the hour of my death will make no difference whatever to the account.
So seek out and bring hither the worthiest and most holy friar you
can find, and leave me to settle your affairs and mine upon a sound
and solid basis, with which you may rest satisfied.
The two brothers
had not much hope of the result, but yet they went to a friary and
asked for a holy and discreet man to hear the confession of a Lombard
that was sick in their house, and returned with an aged man of just
and holy life, very learned in the Scriptures, and venerable and held
in very great and especial reverence by all the citizens. As soon as
he had entered the room where Ser Ciappelletto was lying, and had
taken his place by his side, he began gently to comfort him: then he
asked him how long it was since he was confessed. Whereto Ser
Ciappelletto, who had never been confessed, answered: Father, it
is my constant practice to be confessed at least once a week, and
many a week I am confessed more often; but true it is, that, since I
have been sick, now eight days, I have made no confession, so sore
has been my affliction.
Son,
said the friar, thou hast well
done,
and well for thee, if so thou continue to do; as thou dost confess
so often, I see that my labour of hearkening and questioning will be
slight.
Nay but, master friar,
said Ser Ciappelletto, say not
so; I have not confessed so often but that I would fain make a
general confession of all my sins that I have committed, so far as
I can recall them, from the day of my birth to the present time;
and therefore I pray you, my good father, to question me precisely in
every particular just as if I had never been confessed. And spare me
not by reason of my sickness, for I had far rather do despite to my
flesh than, sparing it, risk the perdition of my soul, which my Saviour
redeemed with His precious blood.
The holy man was mightily delighted with these words, which
seemed to him to betoken a soul in a state of grace. He therefore
signified to Ser Ciappelletto his high approval of this practice; and
then began by asking him whether he had ever sinned carnally with
a woman. Whereto Ser Ciappelletto answered with a sigh: My
father, I scruple to tell you the truth in this matter, fearing lest I sin
in vain-glory.
Nay, but,
said the friar, speak boldly; none
ever sinned by telling the truth, either in confession or otherwise.
Then,
said Ser Ciappelletto, as you bid me speak boldly, I will
tell you the truth of this matter. I am virgin even as when I issued
from my mother's womb.
Now God's blessing on thee,
said the
friar, well done; and the greater is thy merit in that, hadst thou
so willed, thou mightest have done otherwise far more readily than
we who are under constraint of rule.
He then proceeded to ask,
whether he had offended God by gluttony. Whereto Ser Ciappelletto,
heaving a heavy sigh, answered that he had frequently so offended;
for, being wont to fast not only in Lent like other devout persons, but
at least three days in every week, taking nothing but bread and water,
he had quaffed the water with as good a gusto and as much enjoyment,
more particularly when fatigued by devotion or pilgrimage, as great
drinkers quaff their wine; and oftentimes he had felt a craving for
such dainty dishes of herbs as ladies make when they go into the
country, and now and again he had relished his food more than
seemed to him meet in one who fasted, as he did, for devotion.
Son,
said the friar, these sins are natural and very trifling; and
therefore I would not have thee burden thy conscience too much
with them. There is no man, however holy he may be, but must
sometimes find it pleasant to eat after a long fast and to drink after
exertion.
O, my father,
said Ser Ciappelletto, say not this to
comfort me. You know well that I know, that the things which are
done in the service of God ought to be done in perfect purity of
an unsullied spirit; and whoever does otherwise sins.
The friar,
well content, replied: Glad I am that thou dost think so, and I
am mightily pleased with thy pure and good conscience which therein
appears; but tell me: hast thou sinned by avarice, coveting more
than was reasonable, or withholding more than was right?
My
father,
replied Ser Ciappelletto, I would not have you disquiet
yourself, because I am in the house of these usurers: no part have
I in their concerns; nay, I did but come here to admonish and
reprehend them, and wean them from this abominable traffic; and
so, I believe, I had done, had not God sent me this visitation. But
you must know, that my father left me a fortune, of which I dedicated
the greater part to God; and since then for my own support and the
relief of Christ's poor I have done a little trading, whereof I have desired
to make gain; and all that I have gotten I have shared with God's
poor, reserving one half for my own needs and giving the other half
to them; and so well has my Maker prospered me, that I have ever
managed my affairs to better and better account.
Well done,
said the friar; but how? hast thou often given way to anger?
Often indeed, I assure you,
said Ser Ciappelletto. And who
could refrain therefrom, seeing men doing frowardly all day long,
breaking the commandments of God and recking nought of His
judgments? Many a time in the course of a single day I had rather
be dead than alive, to see the young men going after vanity, swearing
and forswearing themselves, haunting taverns, avoiding the churches,
and in short walking in the way of the world rather than in God's
way.
My son,
said the friar, this is a righteous wrath; nor
could I find occasion therein to lay a penance upon thee. But did
anger ever by any chance betray thee into taking human life, or
affronting or otherwise wronging any?
Alas,
replied Ser
Ciappelletto, alas, sir, man of God though you seem to me, how
come you to speak after this manner? If I had had so much
as the least thought of doing any of the things of which you speak,
should I believe, think you, that I had been thus supported or
God? These are the deeds of robbers and such like evil men, to
whom I have ever said, when any I saw: 'Go, God change your
heart.'
Said then the friar: Now, my son, as thou hopest to
be blest of God, tell me, hast thou never borne false witness against
any, or spoken evil of another, or taken the goods of another without
his leave?
Yes, master friar,
answered Ser Ciappelletto, most
true it is that I have spoken evil of another; for I had once a neighbour
who without the least excuse in the world was ever beating his
wife, and so great was my pity of the poor creature, whom, when he
was in his cups, he would thrash as God alone knows how, that once I
spoke evil of him to his wife's kinsfolk.
Well, well,
said the
friar, thou tellest me thou hast been a merchant; hast thou ever
cheated any, as merchants use to do?
I'faith, yes, master friar,
said Ser Ciappelletto; but I know not who he was; only that he
brought me some money which he owed me for some cloth that
I had sold him, and I put it in a box without counting it, where
a month afterwards I found four farthings more than there should
have been, which I kept for a year to return to him, but not seeing
him again, I bestowed them in alms for the love of God.
This,
said the friar, was a small matter; and thou didst well to bestow
them as thou didst.
The holy friar went on to ask him many
other questions, to which he made answer in each case in this sort.
Then, as the friar was about to give him absolution, Ser Ciappelletto
interposed: Sir, I have yet a sin to confess.
What?
asked the
friar. I remember,
he said, that I once caused my servant to
sweep my house on a Saturday after none; and that my observance
of Sunday was less devout than it should have been.
O, my son,
said the friar, this is a light matter.
No,
said Ser Ciappelletto,
say not a light matter; for Sunday is the more to be had in honour
because on that day our Lord rose from the dead.
Then said the
holy friar: Now is there aught else that thou hast done?
Yes, master friar,
replied Ser Ciappelletto, once by inadvertence
I spat in the church of God.
At this the friar began to smile, and
said: My son, this is not a matter to trouble about; we, who are
religious, spit there all day long.
And great impiety it is when
you so do,
replied Ser Ciappelletto, for there is nothing that
is so worthy to be kept from all impurity as the holy temple in which
sacrifice is offered to God.
More he said in the same strain, which I
pass over; and then at last he began to sigh, and by and by to weep
bitterly, as he was well able to do when he chose.
And the friar demanding:
My son, why weepest thou?
Alas, master friar,
answered Ser Ciappelletto, a sin yet remains, which I have
never confessed, such shame were it to me to tell it; and as often as
I call it to mind, I weep as you now see me weep, being well assured
that God will never forgive me this sin.
Then said the holy friar:
Come, come, son, what is this that thou sayst? If all the sins of
all the men, that ever were or ever shall be, as long as the world shall
endure, were concentrated in one man, so great is the goodness of
God that He would freely pardon them all, were he but penitent and
contrite as I see thou art, and confessed them: wherefore tell me thy
sin with a good courage.
Then said Ser Ciappelletto, still weeping
bitterly: Alas, my father, mine is too great a sin, and scarce can
I believe, if your prayers do not co-operate, that God will ever grant
me His pardon thereof.
Tell it with a good courage,
said the
friar; I promise thee to pray God for thee.
Ser Ciappelletto,
however, continued to weep, and would not speak, for all the friar's
encouragement. When he had kept him for a good while in suspense,
he heaved a mighty sigh, and said: My father, as you promise me
to pray God for me, I will tell it you. Know, then, that once, when I
was a little child, I cursed my mother;
and having so said he began
again to weep bitterly.
O, my son,
said the friar, does this seem
to thee so great a sin? Men curse God all day long, and He pardons
them freely, if they repent them of having so done; and thinkest
thou He will not pardon thee this? Weep not, be comforted, for
truly, hadst thou been one of them that set Him on the Cross, with
the contrition that I see in thee, thou wouldst not fail of His pardon.
Alas! my father,
rejoined Ser Ciappelletto, what is this you
say? To curse my sweet mother that carried me in her womb
for nine months day and night, and afterwards on her shoulder
more than a hundred times! Heinous indeed was my offence;
'tis too great a sin; nor will it be pardoned, unless you pray God
for me.
The friar now perceiving that Ser Ciappelletto had nothing more
to say, gave him absolution and his blessing, reputing him for a most
holy man, fully believing that all that he had said was true. And
who would not have so believed, hearing him so speak at the point
of death?
Then, when all was done, he said: Ser Ciappelletto,
if God so will, you will soon be well; but should it so come to pass
that God call your blessed soul to Himself in this state of grace, is
it well pleasing to you that your body be buried in our convent?
Yea, verily, master friar,
replied Ser Ciappelletto; there would
I be, and nowhere else, since you have promised to pray God for
me; besides which I have ever had a special devotion to your order.
Wherefore I pray you, that, on your return to your convent, you
cause to be sent me that very Body of Christ, which you consecrate
in the morning on the altar; because (unworthy though I be) I
purpose with your leave to take it, and afterwards the holy and
extreme unction, that, though I have lived as a sinner, I may die
at any rate as a Christian.
The holy man said that he was greatly
delighted, that it was well said of Ser Ciappelletto, and that
he would cause the Host to be forthwith brought to him; and
so it was.
The two brothers, who much misdoubted Ser Ciappelletto's power
to deceive the friar, had taken their stand on the other side of a
wooden partition which divided the room in which Ser Ciappelletto
lay from another, and hearkening there they readily heard and understood
what Ser Ciappelletto said to the friar; and at times could
scarce refrain their laughter as they followed his confession; and
now and again they said one to another:
What manner of man
is this, whom neither age nor sickness, nor fear of death, on the
threshold of which he now stands, nor yet of God, before whose
judgment-seat he must soon appear, has been able to turn from his
wicked ways, that he die not even as he has lived?
But seeing that
his confession had secured the interment of his body in church, they
troubled themselves no further.
Ser Ciappelletto soon afterwards
communicated, and growing immensely worse, received the extreme
unction, and died shortly after vespers on the same day on which he
had made his good confession.
So the two brothers, having from
his own moneys provided the wherewith to procure him honourable
sepulture, and sent word to the friars to come at even to observe the
usual vigil, and in the morning to fetch the corpse, set all things
in order accordingly.
The holy friar who had confessed him, hearing
that he was dead, had audience of the prior of the friary; a chapter
was convened and the assembled brothers heard from the confessor's
own mouth how Ser Ciappelletto had been a holy man, as had
appeared by his confession, and were exhorted to receive the body
with the utmost veneration and pious care, as one by which there
was good hope that God would work many miracles.
To this the
prior and the rest of the credulous confraternity assenting, they went
in a body in the evening to the place where the corpse of Ser
Ciappelletto lay, and kept a great and solemn vigil over it; and in
the morning they made a procession habited in their surplices and
copes, with books in their hands and crosses in front; and chanting
as they went, they fetched the corpse and brought it back to their
church with the utmost pomp and solemnity, being followed by
almost all the folk of the city, men and women alike.
So it was laid
in the church, and then the holy friar who had heard the confession
got up in the pulpit and began to preach marvellous things of Ser
Ciappelletto's life, his fasts, his virginity, his simplicity and
guilelessness and holiness; narrating among other matters that of which
Ser Ciappelletto had made tearful confession as his greatest sin, and
how he had hardly been able to make him conceive that God would
pardon him; from which he took occasion to reprove his hearers;
saying: And you, accursed of God, on the least pretext, blaspheme
God and His Mother, and all the celestial court.
And much
beside he told of his loyalty and purity; and, in short, so wrought
upon the people by his words, to which they gave entire credence,
that they all conceived a great veneration for Ser Ciappelletto, and
at the close of the office came pressing forward with the utmost
vehemence to kiss the feet and the hands of the corpse, from which
they tore off the cerements, each thinking himself blessed to have
but a scrap thereof in his possession; and so it was arranged that
it should be kept there all day long, so as to be visible and accessible
to all.
At nightfall it was honourably interred in a marble tomb
in one of the chapels, where on the morrow, one by one, folk came
and lit tapers and prayed and paid their vows, setting there the
waxen images which they had dedicated. And the fame of Ciappelletto's
holiness and the devotion to him grew in such measure that
scarce any there was that in any adversity would vow aught to any
saint but he, and they called him and still call him San Ciappelletto,
affirming that many miracles have been and daily are wrought by
God through him for such as devoutly crave his intercession.
So lived, so died Ser Cepperello da Prato, and came to be reputed
a saint, as you have heard. Nor would I deny that it is possible that
he is of the number of the blessed in the presence of God, seeing
that, though his life was evil and depraved, yet he might in his last
moments have made so complete an act of contrition that perchance
God had mercy on him and received him into His kingdom. But,
as this is hidden from us, I speak according to that which appears,
and I say that he ought rather to be in the hands of the devil in hell
than in Paradise. Which, if so it be, is a manifest token of the
superabundance of the goodness of God to usward, inasmuch as He
regards not our error but the sincerity of our faith, and hearkens
unto us when, mistaking one who is at enmity with Him for a
friend, we have recourse to him, as to one holy indeed, as our intercessor
for His grace. Wherefore, that we of this gay company
may by His grace be preserved safe and sound throughout this time
of adversity, commend we ourselves in our need to Him, whose
name we began by invoking, with lauds and reverent devotion and
good confidence that we shall be heard.
And so he was silent.
Novel IIAbraham, a Jew, at the instance of Jehannot de
Chevigny, goes to the court of Rome, and having
marked the evil life of the clergy, returns to Paris,
and becomes a Christian.
Pamfilo's story elicited the mirth of some of the ladies and the
hearty commendation of all, who listened to it with close attention
until the end. Whereupon the queen bade Neifile, who sat next
her, to tell a story, that the commencement thus made of their
diversions might have its sequel. Neifile, whose graces of mind
matched the beauty of her person, consented with a gladsome goodwill,
and thus began:
Pamfilo has shewn by his story that the goodness of God spares
to regard our errors when they result from unavoidable ignorance;
and in mine I mean to shew you how the same goodness, bearing
patiently with the shortcomings of those who should be its faithful
witness in deed and word, draws from them contrariwise evidence
of His infallible truth; to the end that what we believe we may
with more assured conviction follow.
In Paris, gracious ladies, as I have heard tell, there was once
a great merchant, a large dealer in drapery, a good man, most loyal
and righteous, his name Jehannot de Chevigny, between whom and
a Jew, Abraham by name, also a merchant, and a man of great
wealth, as also most loyal and righteous, there subsisted a very close
friendship. Now Jehannot, observing Abraham's loyalty and rectitude,
began to be sorely vexed in spirit that the soul of one so
worthy and wise and good should perish for want of faith.
Wherefore
he began in a friendly manner to plead with him, that he should
leave the errors of the Jewish faith and turn to the Christian verity,
which, being sound and holy, he might see daily prospering and
gaining ground, whereas, on the contrary, his own religion was
dwindling and was almost come to nothing. The Jew replied that
he believed that there was no faith sound and holy except the Jewish
faith, in which he was born, and in which he meant to live and die;
nor would anything ever turn him therefrom. Nothing daunted,
however, Jehannot some days afterwards began again to ply Abraham
with similar arguments, explaining to him in such crude fashion as
merchants use the reasons why our faith is better than the Jewish.
And though the Jew was a great master in the Jewish law, yet,
whether it was by reason of his friendship for Jehannot, or that the
Holy Spirit dictated the words that the simple merchant used, at any
rate the Jew began to be much interested in Jehannot's arguments,
though still too staunch in his faith to suffer himself to be converted.
But Jehannot was no less assiduous in plying him with argument
than he was obstinate in adhering to his law, insomuch that at length
the Jew, overcome by such incessant appeals, said: Well, well,
Jehannot, thou wouldst have me become a Christian, and I am
disposed to do so, provided I first go to Rome and there see him
whom thou callest God's vicar on earth, and observe what manner
of life he leads and his brother cardinals with him; and if such it
be that thereby, in conjunction with thy words, I may understand
that thy faith is better than mine, as thou hast sought to shew me,
I will do as I have said: otherwise, I will remain as I am a Jew.
When Jehannot heard this, he was greatly distressed, saying to himself:
I thought to have converted him; but now I see that the
pains which I took for so excellent a purpose are all in vain; for, if he
goes to the court of Rome and sees the iniquitous and foul life which
the clergy lead there, so far from turning Christian, had he been
converted already, he would without doubt relapse into Judaism.
Then turning to Abraham he said: Nay, but, my friend, why
wouldst thou be at all this labour and great expense of travelling
from here to Rome? to say nothing of the risks both by sea and by
land which a rich man like thee must needs run. Thinkest thou
not to find here one that can give thee baptism? And as for any
doubts that thou mayst have touching the faith to which I point thee,
where wilt thou find greater masters and sages therein than here, to
resolve thee of any question thou mayst put to them? Wherefore
in my opinion this journey of thine is superfluous. Think that the
prelates there are such as thou mayst have seen here, nay, as much
better as they are nearer to the Chief Pastor. And so, by my advice
thou wilt spare thy pains until some time of indulgence, when I,
perhaps, may be able to bear thee company.
The Jew replied:
Jehannot, I doubt not that so it is as thou sayst; but once and
for all I tell thee that I am minded to go there, and will never otherwise
do that which thou wouldst have me and hast so earnestly
besought me to do.
Go then,
said Jehannot, seeing that his
mind was made up, and good luck go with thee;
and so he gave
up the contest because nothing would be lost, though he felt sure
that he would never become a Christian after seeing the court of
Rome. The Jew took horse, and posted with all possible speed
to Rome; where on his arrival he was honourably received by his
fellow Jews. He said nothing to any one of the purpose for which
he had come; but began circumspectly to acquaint himself with the
ways of the Pope and the cardinals and the other prelates and all the
courtiers; and from what he saw for himself, being a man of great
intelligence, or learned from others, he discovered that without
distinction of rank they were all sunk in the most disgraceful lewdness,
sinning not only in the way of nature but after the manner
of the men of Sodom, without any restraint of remorse or shame, in
such sort that, when any great favour was to be procured, the influence
of the courtesans and boys was of no small moment. Moreover he
found them one and all gluttonous, wine-bibbers, drunkards, and next
after lewdness, most addicted to the shameless service of the belly,
like brute beasts. And, as he probed the matter still further, he
perceived that they were all so greedy and avaricious that human, nay
Christian blood, and things sacred of what kind soever, spiritualities
no less than temporalities, they bought and sold for money; which
traffic was greater and employed more brokers than the drapery trade
and all the other trades of Paris put together; open simony and
gluttonous excess being glosed under such specious terms as
arrangement
and moderate use of creature comforts,
as if God could not
penetrate the thoughts of even the most corrupt hearts, to say nothing
of the signification of words, and would suffer Himself to be misled
after the manner of men by the names of things. Which matters,
with many others which are not to be mentioned, our modest and
sober-minded Jew found by no means to his liking, so that, his
curiosity being fully satisfied, he was minded to return to Paris; which
accordingly he did. There, on his arrival, he was met by Jehannot;
and the two made great cheer together. Jehannot expected Abraham's
conversion least of all things, and allowed him some days of rest before
he asked what he thought of the Holy Father and the cardinals and
the other courtiers. To which the Jew forthwith replied: I think
God owes them all an evil recompense: I tell thee, so far as I was
able to carry my investigations, holiness, devotion, good works or
exemplary living in any kind was nowhere to be found in any clerk;
but only lewdness, avarice, gluttony, and the like, and worse, if worse
may be, appeared to be held in such honour of all, that (to my thinking)
the place is a centre of diabolical rather than of divine activities.
To the best of my judgment, your Pastor, and by consequence all
that are about him devote all their zeal and ingenuity and subtlety
to devise how best and most speedily they may bring the Christian
religion to nought and banish it from the world. And because I see
that what they so zealously endeavour does not come to pass, but
that on the contrary your religion continually grows, and shines
more and more clear, therein I seem to discern a very evident token
that it, rather than any other, as being more true and holy than any
other, has the Holy Spirit for its foundation and support. For which
cause, whereas I met your exhortations in a harsh and obdurate
temper, and would not become a Christian, now I frankly tell you
that I would on no account omit to become such. Go we then to
the church, and there according to the traditional rite of your holy
faith let me receive baptism.
Jehannot, who had anticipated a
diametrically opposite conclusion, as soon as he heard him so speak,
was the best pleased man that ever was in the world. So taking
Abraham with him to Notre Dame he prayed the clergy there to
baptise him. When they heard that it was his own wish, they forthwith
did so, and Jehannot raised him from the sacred font, and named
him Jean; and afterwards he caused teachers of great eminence
thoroughly to instruct him in our faith, which he readily learned,
and afterwards practised in a good, a virtuous, nay, a holy life.
Novel IIIMelchisedech, a Jew, by a story of three rings averts a
great danger with which he was menaced by Saladin.
When Neifile had brought her story to a close amid the
commendations
of all the company, Filomena, at the queen's behest, thus
began:
The story told by Neifile brings to my mind another in
which also a Jew appears, but this time as the hero of a perilous
adventure; and as enough has been said of God and of the truth of
our faith, it will not now be inopportune if we descend to mundane
events and the actions of men. Wherefore I propose to tell you a
story, which will perhaps dispose you to be more circumspect than
you have been wont to be in answering questions addressed to you.
Well ye know, or should know, loving gossips, that, as it often
happens that folk by their own folly forfeit a happy estate and are
plunged in most grievous misery, so good sense will extricate the wise
from extremity of peril, and establish them in complete and assured
peace. Of the change from good to evil fortune, which folly may
effect, instances abound; indeed, occurring as they do by the thousand
day by day, they are so conspicuous that their recital would
be beside our present purpose. But that good sense may be our
succour in misfortune, I will now, as I promised, make plain to you
within the narrow compass of a little story.
Saladin, who by his great valour had from small beginnings made
himself Soldan of Egypt, and gained many victories over kings both
Christian and Saracen, having in divers wars and by divers lavish
displays of magnificence spent all his treasure, and in order to meet
a certain emergency being in need of a large sum of money, and
being at a loss to raise it with a celerity adequate to his necessity,
bethought him of a wealthy Jew, Melchisedech by name, who lent
at usance in Alexandria, and who, were he but willing, was, as he
believed, able to accommodate him, but was so miserly that he would
never do so of his own accord, nor was Saladin disposed to constrain him
thereto. So great, however, was his necessity that, after pondering
every method whereby the Jew might be induced to be compliant, at
last he determined to devise a colourably reasonable pretext for extorting
the money from him. So he sent for him, received him affably,
seated him by his side, and presently said to him: My good man, I
have heard from many people that thou art very wise, and of great
discernment in divine things; wherefore I would gladly know of thee,
which of the three laws thou reputest the true law, the law of the
Jews, the law of the Saracens, or the law of the Christians?
The Jew,
who was indeed a wise man, saw plainly enough that Saladin meant
to entangle him in his speech, that he might have occasion to harass
him, and bethought him that he could not praise any of the three laws
above another without furnishing Saladin with the pretext which he
sought. So, concentrating all the force of his mind to shape such an
answer as might avoid the snare, he presently lit on what he sought,
saying:
My lord, a pretty question indeed is this which you propound,
and fain would I answer it; to which end it is apposite that
I tell you a story, which, if you will hearken, is as follows:
If I
mistake not, I remember to have often heard tell of a great and rich
man of old time, who among other most precious jewels had in his
treasury a ring of extraordinary beauty and value, which by reason
of its value and beauty he was minded to leave to his heirs for ever;
for which cause he ordained, that, whichever of his sons was found
in possession of the ring as by his bequest, should thereby be designate
his heir, and be entitled to receive from the rest the honour and
homage due to a superior. The son, to whom he bequeathed the
ring, left it in like manner to his descendants, making the like
ordinance as his predecessor. In short the ring passed from hand to
hand for many generations; and in the end came to the hands of
one who had three sons, goodly and virtuous all, and very obedient
to their father, so that he loved them all indifferently. The rule
touching the descent of the ring was known to the young men, and
each aspiring to hold the place of honour among them did all he
could to persuade his father, who was now old, to leave the ring to
him at his death. The worthy man, who loved them all equally, and
knew not how to choose from among them a sole legatee, promised
the ring to each in turn, and in order to satisfy all three, caused a
cunning artificer secretly to make other two rings, so like the first,
that the maker himself could hardly tell which was the true ring.
So, before he died, he disposed of the rings, giving one privily to
each of his sons; whereby it came to pass, that after his decease each
of the sons claimed the inheritance and the place of honour, and, his
claim being disputed by his brothers, produced his ring in witness of
right. And the rings being found so like one to another that it
was impossible to distinguish the true one, the suit to determine the
true heir remained pendent, and still so remains. And so, my lord,
to your question, touching the three laws given to the three peoples
by God the Father, I answer: Each of these peoples deems itself to
have the true inheritance, the true law, the true commandments of
God; but which of them is justified in so believing, is a question
which, like that of the rings, remains pendent.
The excellent
adroitness with which the Jew had contrived to evade the snare
which he had laid for his feet was not lost upon Saladin. He therefore
determined to let the Jew know his need, and did so, telling him
at the same time what he had intended to do, in the event of his
answering less circumspectly than he had done.
Thereupon the Jew gave the Soldan all the accommodation that
he required, which the Soldan afterwards repaid him in full. He
also gave him most munificent gifts with his lifelong amity and a
great and honourable position near his person.
Novel IVA monk lapses into a sin meriting the most severe punishment,
justly censures the same fault in his abbot, and
thus evades the penalty.
The silence which followed the conclusion of Filomena's tale
was broken by Dioneo, who sate next her, and without waiting for
the queen's word, for he knew that by the rule laid down at the
commencement it was now his turn to speak, began on this wise:
Loving ladies, if I have well understood the intention of you all, we
are here to afford entertainment to one another by story-telling;
wherefore, provided only nought is done that is repugnant to this
end, I deem it lawful for each (and so said our queen a little while
ago) to tell whatever story seems to him most likely to be amusing.
Seeing, then, that we have heard how Abraham saved his soul by the
good counsel of Jehannot de Chevigny, and Melchisedech by his own
good sense safe-guarded his wealth against the stratagems of Saladin,
I hope to escape your censure in narrating a brief story of a monk,
who by his address delivered his body from imminent peril of most
severe chastisement.
In the not very remote district of Lunigiana there flourished
formerly a community of monks more numerous and holy than is
there to be found to-day, among whom was a young brother, whose
vigour and lustihood neither the fasts nor the vigils availed to subdue.
One afternoon, while the rest of the confraternity slept, our young
monk took a stroll around the church, which lay in a very sequestered
spot, and chanced to espy a young and very beautiful girl, a
daughter, perhaps, of one of the husbandmen of those parts, going
through the fields and gathering herbs as she went. No sooner had
he seen her than he was sharply assailed by carnal concupiscence,
insomuch that he made up to and accosted her; and (she hearkening)
little by little they came to an understanding, and unobserved
by any entered his cell together. Now it so chanced that, while
they fooled it within somewhat recklessly, he being overwrought
with passion, the abbot awoke and passing slowly by the young
monk's cell, heard the noise which they made within, and the better
to distinguish the voices, came softly up to the door of the cell, and
listening discovered that beyond all doubt there was a woman within.
His first thought was to force the door open; but, changing his
mind, he returned to his chamber and waited until the monk should
come out.
Delightsome beyond measure though the monk found his
intercourse with the girl, yet was he not altogether without anxiety.
He had heard, as he thought, the sound of footsteps in the dormitory,
and having applied his eye to a convenient aperture had had a good
view of the abbot as he stood by the door listening. He was thus
fully aware that the abbot might have detected the presence of a
woman in the cell. Whereat he was exceedingly distressed, knowing
that he had a severe punishment to expect; but he concealed his
vexation from the girl while he busily cast about in his mind for
some way of escape from his embarrassment. He thus hit on a novel
stratagem which was exactly suited to his purpose. With the air of
one who had had enough of the girl's company he said to her: I
shall now leave you in order that I may arrange for your departure
hence unobserved. Stay here quietly until I return.
So out he
went, locking the door of the cell, and withdrawing the key, which
he carried straight to the abbot's chamber and handed to him, as was
the custom when a monk was going out, saying with a composed air:
Sir, I was not able this morning to bring in all the faggots which I
had made ready, so with your leave I will go to the wood and bring
them in.
The abbot, desiring to have better cognisance of the
monk's offence, and not dreaming that the monk knew that he had
been detected, was pleased with the turn matters had taken, and
received the key gladly, at the same time giving the monk the desired
leave.
So the monk withdrew, and the abbot began to consider what
course it were best for him to take, whether to assemble the brotherhood
and open the door in their presence, that, being witnesses of
the delinquency, they might have no cause to murmur against him
when he proceeded to punish the delinquent, or whether it were not
better first to learn from the girl's own lips how it had come about.
And reflecting that she might be the wife or daughter of some man
who would take it ill that she should be shamed by being exposed to
the gaze of all the monks, he determined first of all to find out who
she was, and then to make up his mind. So he went softly to the
cell, opened the door, and, having entered, closed it behind him.
The girl, seeing that her visitor was none other than the abbot, quite
lost her presence of mind, and quaking with shame began to weep.
Master abbot surveyed her from head to foot, and seeing that she
was fresh and comely, fell a prey, old though he was, to fleshly
cravings no less poignant and sudden than those which the young
monk had experienced, and began thus to commune with himself:
Alas! why take I not my pleasure when I may, seeing that I
never need lack for occasions of trouble and vexation of spirit? Here
is a fair wench, and no one in the world to know. If I can bring her
to pleasure me, I know not why I should not do so.
Who will
know? No one will ever know; and sin that is hidden is half
forgiven; this chance may never come again; so, methinks, it were
the part of wisdom to take the boon which God bestows.
So
musing, with an altogether different purpose from that with which
he had come, he drew near the girl, and softly bade her to be
comforted, and besought her not to weep; and so little by little he
came at last to show her what he would be at. The girl, being
made neither of iron nor of adamant, was readily induced to gratify
the abbot, who after bestowing upon her many an embrace and
kiss, got upon the monk's bed, where, being sensible, perhaps, of the
disparity between his reverend portliness and her tender youth, and
fearing to injure her by his excessive weight, he refrained from lying
upon her, but laid her upon him, and in that manner disported
himself with her for a long time.
The monk, who had only pretended
to go to the wood, and had concealed himself in the dormitory,
no sooner saw the abbot enter his cell than he was overjoyed to
think that his plan would succeed; and when he saw that he had
locked the door, he was well assured thereof. So he stole out of his
hiding-place, and set his eye to an aperture through which he saw
and heard all that the abbot did and said.
At length the abbot,
having had enough of dalliance with the girl, locked her in the cell
and returned to his chamber. Catching sight of the monk soon
afterwards, and supposing him to have returned from the wood,
he determined to give him a sharp reprimand and have him
imprisoned, that he might thus secure the prey for himself alone.
He therefore caused him to be summoned, chid him very severely and
with a stern countenance, and ordered him to be put in prison.
The
monk replied trippingly: Sir, I have not been so long in the order
of St. Benedict as to have every particular of the rule by heart; nor
did you teach me before to-day in what posture it behoves the monk
to have intercourse with women, but limited your instruction to such
matters as fasts and vigils. As, however, you have now given me
my lesson, I promise you, if you also pardon my offence, that I will
never repeat it, but will always follow the example which you have
set me.
The abbot, who was a shrewd man, saw at once that the monk
was not only more knowing than he, but had actually seen what he
had done; nor, conscience-stricken himself, could he for shame mete
out to the monk a measure which he himself merited. So pardon
given, with an injunction to bury what had been seen in silence,
they decently conveyed the young girl out of the monastery, whither,
it is to be believed, they now and again caused her to return.
Novel VThe Marchioness of Monferrato by a banquet of hens
seasoned with wit checks the mad passion of the King
of France.
The story told by Dioneo evoked at first some qualms of shame
in the minds of the ladies, as was apparent by the modest blush that
tinged their faces: then exchanging glances, and scarce able to
refrain their mirth, they listened to it with half-suppressed smiles.
On its conclusion they bestowed upon Dioneo a few words of gentle
reprehension with intent to admonish him that such stories were not
to be told among ladies. The queen then turned to Fiammetta,
who was seated on the grass at her side, and bade her follow suit;
and Fiammetta with a gay and gracious mien thus began:
The line upon which our story-telling proceeds, to wit, to shew the
virtue that resides in apt and ready repartees, pleases me well; and as
in affairs of love men and women are in diverse case, for to aspire to
the love of a woman of higher lineage than his own is wisdom in
man, whereas a woman's good sense is then most conspicuous when
she knows how to preserve herself from becoming enamoured of a
man, her superior in rank, I am minded, fair my ladies, to shew
you by the story which I am now to tell, how by deed and word a
gentlewoman both defended herself against attack, and weaned her
suitor from his love.
The Marquis of Monferrato, a paladin of distinguished prowess,
was gone overseas as gonfalonier of the Church in a general array of
the Christian forces.
Whose merits being canvassed at the court of
Philippe le Borgne, on the eve of his departure from France on the
same service, a knight observed, that there was not under the stars
a couple comparable to the Marquis and his lady; in that, while the
Marquis was a paragon of the knightly virtues, his lady for beauty
and honour was without a peer among all the other ladies of the
world. These words made so deep an impression on the mind of
the King of France that, though he had never seen the lady, he fell
ardently in love with her, and, being to join the armada, resolved that
his port of embarcation should be no other than Genoa, in order that,
travelling thither by land, he might find a decent pretext for visiting
the Marchioness, with whom in the absence of the Marquis he
trusted to have the success which he desired; nor did he fail to put
his design in execution. Having sent his main army on before, he
took the road himself with a small company of gentlemen, and, as
they approached the territory of the Marquis, he despatched a courier
to the Marchioness, a day in advance, to let her know that he
expected to breakfast with her the next morning. The lady, who
knew her part and played it well, replied graciously, that he would
be indeed welcome, and that his presence would be the greatest of
all favours. She then began to commune with herself, what this
might import, that so great a king should come to visit her in her
husband's absence, nor was she so deluded as not to surmise that it
was the fame of her beauty that drew him thither. Nevertheless she
made ready to do him honour in a manner befitting her high degree,
summoning to her presence such of the retainers as remained in the
castle, and giving all needful directions with their advice, except that
the order of the banquet and the choice of the dishes she reserved
entirely to herself. Then, having caused all the hens that could be
found in the country-side to be brought with all speed into the castle,
she bade her cooks furnish forth the royal table with divers dishes
made exclusively of such fare. The King arrived on the appointed
day, and was received by the lady with great and ceremonious cheer.
Fair and noble and gracious seemed she in the eyes of the King
beyond all that he had conceived from the knight's words, so that he
was lost in admiration and inly extolled her to the skies, his passion
being the more inflamed in proportion as he found the lady surpass
the idea which he had formed of her. A suite of rooms furnished
with all the appointments befitting the reception of so great a king,
was placed at his disposal, and after a little rest, breakfast-time being
come, he and the Marchioness took their places at the same table,
while his suite were honourably entertained at other boards according
to their several qualities. Many courses were served with no lack
of excellent and rare wines, whereby the King was mightily pleased,
as also by the extraordinary beauty of the Marchioness, on whom his
eye from time to time rested. However, as course followed course,
the King observed with some surprise, that, though the dishes were
diverse, yet they were all but variations of one and the same fare, to
wit, the pullet. Besides which he knew that the domain was one
which could not but afford plenty of divers sorts of game, and by
forewarning the lady of his approach, he had allowed time for hunting;
yet, for all his surprise, he would not broach the question more
directly with her than by a reference to her hens; so, turning to her
with a smile, he said: Madam, do hens grow in this country
without so much as a single cock?
The Marchioness, who perfectly
apprehended the drift of the question, saw in it an opportunity,
sent her by God, of evincing her virtuous resolution; so casting a
haughty glance upon the King she answered thus: Sire, no; but
the women, though they may differ somewhat from others in dress
and rank, are yet of the same nature here as elsewhere.
The
significance of the banquet of pullets was made manifest to the King
by these words, as also the virtue which they veiled. He perceived
that on a lady of such a temper words would be wasted, and that
force was out of the question. Wherefore, yielding to the dictates
of prudence and honour, he was now as prompt to quench, as he
had been inconsiderate in conceiving, his unfortunate passion for the
lady;
and fearing her answers, he refrained from further jesting with
her, and dismissing his hopes devoted himself to his breakfast, which
done, he disarmed suspicion of the dishonourable purpose of his visit
by an early departure, and thanking her for the honour she had
conferred upon him, and commending her to God, took the road to
Genoa.
Novel VIA worthy man by an apt saying puts to shame the wicked
hypocrisy of the religious.
When all had commended the virtue of the Marchioness and the
spirited reproof which she administered to the King of France,
Emilia, who sate next to Fiammetta, obeyed the queen's behest, and
with a good courage thus began:
My story is also of a reproof, but of one administered by a
worthy man, who lived the secular life, to a greedy religious, by
a jibe as merry as admirable.
Know then, dear ladies, that there
was in our city, not long ago, a friar minor, an inquisitor in
matters of heresy, who, albeit he strove might and main to pass
himself off as a holy man and tenderly solicitous for the integrity
of the Christian Faith, as they all do, yet he had as keen a
scent for a full purse as for a deficiency of faith. Now it so
chanced that his zeal was rewarded by the discovery of a good man
far better furnished with money than with sense, who in an unguarded
moment, not from defect of faith, but rather, perhaps, from
excess of hilarity, being heated with wine, had happened to say to
his boon companions, that he had a wine good enough for Christ
Himself to drink. Which being reported to the inquisitor, he,
knowing the man to be possessed of large estates and a well-lined
purse, set to work in hot haste, cum gladiis et fustibus,
to bring
all the rigour of the law to bear upon him, designing thereby not to
lighten the load of his victim's misbelief, but to increase the weight of
his own purse by the florins, which he might, as he did, receive from
him. So he cited him to his presence, and asked him whether what
was alleged against him were true. The good man answered in the
affirmative, and told him how it had happened.
Then,
said our
most holy and devout inquisitor of St. John Goldenbeard,The
fiorino
d'oro bore the effigy of St. John. then hast
thou made Christ a wine-bibber, and a lover of rare vintages, as if
He were a sot, a toper and a tavern-haunter even as one of you. And
thinkest thou now by a few words of apology to pass this off as a
light matter? It is no such thing as thou supposest. Thou hast
deserved the fire; and we should but do our duty, did we inflict it
upon thee.
With these and the like words in plenty he upbraided
him, bending on him meanwhile a countenance as stern as if
Epicurus had stood before him denying the immortality of the soul.
In short he so terrified him that the good man was fain to employ
certain intermediaries to anoint his palms with a liberal allowance of
St. John Goldenmouth's grease, an excellent remedy for the disease of
avarice which spreads like a pestilence among the clergy, and notably
among the friars minors, who dare not touch a coin, that he might
deal gently with him. And great being the virtue of this ointment,
albeit no mention is made thereof by Galen in any part of his
Medicines, it had so gracious an effect that the threatened fire gave
place to a cross, which he was to wear as if he were bound for the
emprise over seas; and to make the ensign more handsome the
inquisitor ordered that it should be yellow upon a black ground.
Besides which, after pocketing the coin, he kept him dangling about
him for some days, bidding him by way of penance hear mass every
morning at Santa Croce, and afterwards wait upon him at the
breakfast-hour, after which he was free to do as he pleased for the
rest of the day.
All which he most carefully observed; and so it
fell out that one of these mornings there were chanted at the mass
at which he assisted the following words of the Gospel: You shall
receive an hundredfold and shall possess eternal life. With these
words deeply graven in his memory, he presented himself, as he was
bidden, before the inquisitor, where he sate taking his breakfast, and
being asked whether he had heard mass that morning,
he promptly answered: Yes, sir.
And being further asked: Heardest
thou aught therein, as to which thou art in doubt, or hast thou any
question to propound?
the good man responded: Nay indeed,
doubt have I none of aught that I heard; but rather assured faith in
the verity of all. One thing, however, I heard, which caused me to
commiserate you and the rest of you friars very heartily, in regard
of the evil plight in which you must find yourselves in the other
world.
And what,
said the inquisitor, was the passage that so
moved thee to commiserate us?
Sir,
rejoined the good man,
it was that passage in the Gospel which says: You shall receive
an hundredfold.
You heard aright,
said the inquisitor; but
why did the passage so affect you?
Sir,
replied the good man,
I will tell you. Since I have been in attendance here, I have seen
a crowd of poor folk receive a daily dole, now of one, now of two,
huge tureens of swill, being the refuse from your table, and that of
the brothers of this convent; whereof if you are to receive an hundredfold
in the other world, you will have so much that it will go hard
but you are all drowned therein.
This raised a general laugh
among those who sat at the inquisitor's table, whereat the inquisitor,
feeling that their gluttony and hypocrisy had received a home-thrust,
was very wroth, and, but that what he had already done had not
escaped censure, would have instituted fresh proceedings against him
in revenge for the pleasantry with which he had rebuked the baseness
of himself and his brother friars; so in impotent wrath he bade
him go about his business and shew himself there no more.
Novel VIIBergamino, with a story of Primasso and the Abbot of
Cluny, finely censures a sudden access of avarice in
Messer Cane della Scala.
Emilia's charming manner and her story drew laughter and
commendation from the queen and all the company, who were much
tickled by her new type of crusader. When the laughter had subsided,
and all were again silent, Filostrato, on whom the narration
now fell, began on this wise:
A fine thing it is, noble ladies, to hit a fixed mark; but
if, on the sudden appearance of some strange object, it be forthwith
hit by the bowman, 'tis little short of a miracle. The
corrupt and filthy life of the clergy offers on many sides a fixed
mark of iniquity at which, whoever is so minded, may let fly, with
little doubt that they will reach it, the winged words of reproof
and reprehension. Wherefore, though the worthy man did well
to censure in the person of the inquisitor the pretended charity of
the friars who give to the poor what they ought rather to give to the
pigs or throw away, higher indeed is the praise which I accord to
him, of whom, taking my cue from the last story, I mean to speak;
seeing that by a clever apologue he rebuked a sudden and unwonted
access of avarice in Messer Cane della Scala, conveying in a figure
what he had at heart to say touching Messer Cane and himself; which
apologue is to follow.
Far and wide, almost to the ends of the earth, is borne the most
illustrious renown of Messer Cane della Scala, in many ways the
favoured child of fortune, a lord almost without a peer among the
notables and magnificoes of Italy since the time of the Emperor
Frederic II. Now Messer Cane, being minded to hold high
festival at Verona, whereof fame should speak marvellous things, and
many folk from divers parts, of whom the greater number were jesters
of every order, being already arrived, Messer Cane did suddenly (for
some cause or another) abandon his design, and dismissed them with
a partial recompense. One only, Bergamino by name, a speaker
ready and polished in a degree credible only to such as heard him,
remained, having received no recompense or congé, still cherishing
the hope that this omission might yet turn out to his advantage.
But Messer Cane was possessed with the idea that whatever he
might give Bergamino would be far more completely thrown away
than if he had tossed it into the fire; so never a word of the sort
said he or sent he to him. A few days thus passed, and then Bergamino,
seeing that he was in no demand or request for aught that
belonged to his office, and being also at heavy charges at his inn for
the keep of his horses and servants, fell into a sort of melancholy;
but still he waited a while, not deeming it expedient to leave.
He
had brought with him three rich and goodly robes, given him by
other lords, that he might make a brave show at the festival, and
when his host began to press for payment he gave him one of the
robes; afterwards, there being still much outstanding against him, he
must needs, if he would tarry longer at the inn, give the host the
second robe; after which he began to live on the third, being minded
to remain there, as long as it would hold out, in expectation of better
luck, and then to take his departure.
Now, while he was thus living
on the third robe, it chanced that Messer Cane encountered him one
day as he sate at breakfast with a very melancholy visage. Which
Messer Cane observing, said, rather to tease him than expecting to
elicit from him any pleasant retort: What ails thee, Bergamino,
that thou art still so melancholy? Let me know the reason why.
Whereupon Bergamino, without a moment's reflection, told the
following story, which could not have fitted his own case more
exactly if it had been long premeditated.
My lord, you must know that Primasso was a grammarian of great
eminence, and excellent and quick beyond all others in versifying;
whereby he waxed so notable and famous that, albeit he was not
everywhere known by sight, yet there were scarce any that did not
at least by name and report know who Primasso was.
Now it so
happened that, being once at Paris in straitened circumstances, as
it was his lot to be most of his time by reason that virtue is little
appreciated by the powerful, he heard speak of the Abbot of Cluny,
who, except the Pope, is supposed to be the richest prelate, in regard
of his vast revenues, that the Church of God can shew; and marvellous
and magnificent things were told him of the perpetual court
which the abbot kept, and how, wherever he was, he denied not to
any that came there either meat or drink, so only that he preferred
his request while the abbot was at table. Which when
Primasso heard, he determined to go and see for himself what
magnificent state this abbot kept, for he was one that took great
delight in observing the ways of powerful and lordly men; wherefore
he asked how far from Paris was the abbot then sojourning. He
was informed that the abbot was then at one of his places distant
perhaps six miles; which Primasso concluded he could reach in time
for breakfast, if he started early in the morning. When he had
learned the way, he found that no one else was travelling by it, and
fearing lest by mischance he should lose it, and so find himself where
it would not be easy for him to get food, he determined to obviate so
disagreeable a contingency by taking with him three loaves of bread--as
for drink, water, though not much to his taste, was, he supposed,
to be found everywhere. So, having disposed the loaves in the fold of
his tunic, he took the road and made such progress that he reached
the abbot's place of sojourn before the breakfast-hour.
Having
entered, he made the circuit of the entire place, observing everything,
the vast array of tables, and the vast kitchen well-appointed with all
things needful for the preparation and service of the breakfast, and
saying to himself: In very truth this
man is even such a magnifico
as he is reported to be.
While his attention was thus occupied,
the abbot's seneschal, it being now breakfast-time, gave order to serve
water for the hands, which being washen, they sat them all down to
breakfast. Now it so happened that Primasso was placed immediately
in front of the door by which the abbot must pass from his chamber
into the hall;
in which, according to rule of his court, neither wine,
nor bread, nor aught else drinkable or eatable was ever set on the
tables before he made his appearance and was seated. The seneschal,
therefore, having set the tables, sent word to the abbot, that all
was now ready, and they waited only his pleasure.
So the abbot
gave the word, the door of his chamber was thrown open, and he
took a step or two forward towards the hall, gazing straight in front
of him as he went. Thus it fell out that the first man on whom he
set eyes was Primasso, who was in very sorry trim. The abbot, who
knew him not by sight, no sooner saw him, than, surprised by a
churlish mood to which he had hitherto been an entire stranger, he
said to himself:
So it is
to such as this man that I give my hospitality;
and going back into the chamber he bade lock the door, and
asked of his attendants whether the vile fellow that sate at table
directly opposite the door was known to any of them, who, one and all,
answered in the negative. Primasso waited a little, but he was not
used to fast, and his journey had whetted his appetite. So, as the abbot
did not return, he drew out one of the loaves which he had brought
with him, and began to eat. The abbot, after a while, bade one of
his servants go see whether Primasso were gone. The servant
returned with the answer: No, sir, and (what is more) he is
eating a loaf of bread, which he seems to have brought with him.
Be it so then,
said the abbot, who was
vexed that he was not gone
of his own accord, but was not disposed to turn him out; let him
eat his own bread, if he have any, for he shall have none of ours today.
By and by Primasso, having finished his first loaf, began, as
the abbot did not make his appearance, to eat the second; which was
likewise reported to the abbot, who had again sent to see if he were
gone. Finally, as the abbot still delayed his coming, Primasso,
having finished the second loaf, began upon the third; whereof, once
more, word was carried to the abbot, who now began to commune
with himself and say: Alas! my soul, what unwonted mood
harbourest thou to-day? What avarice? what scorn? and of whom?
I have given my hospitality, now for many a year, to whoso craved
it, without looking to see whether he were gentle or churl, poor or
rich, merchant or cheat, and mine eyes have seen it squandered on
vile fellows without number; and nought of that which I feel
towards this man ever entered my mind. Assuredly it cannot be that
he is a man of no consequence, who is the occasion of this access of
avarice in me. Though he seem to me a vile fellow, he must be some
great man, that my mind is thus obstinately averse to do him honour.
Of which musings the upshot was that he sent to inquire who the
vile fellow was, and learning that he was Primasso, come to see if what
he had heard of his magnificent state were true, he was stricken with
shame, having heard of old Primasso's fame, and knowing him to be
a great man. Wherefore, being zealous to make him the amend, he
studied to do him honour in many ways; and after breakfast, that
his garb might accord with his native dignity, he caused him to be
nobly arrayed, and setting him upon a palfrey and filling his purse,
left it to his own choice, whether to go or to stay. So Primasso, with
a full heart, thanked him for his courtesy in terms the amplest that
he could command, and, having left Paris afoot, returned thither on
horseback.
Messer Cane was shrewd enough to apprehend Bergamino's
meaning perfectly well without a gloss, and said with a smile:
Bergamino, thy parable is apt, and declares to me very plainly
thy losses, my avarice, and what thou desirest of me. And in good
sooth this access of avarice, of which thou art the occasion, is the
first that I have experienced. But I will expel the intruder with
the bâton which thou thyself hast furnished.
So he paid Bergamino's
reckoning, habited him nobly in one of his own robes, gave
him money and a palfrey, and left it for the time at his discretion,
whether to go or to stay.
Novel VIIIGuglielmo Borsiere by a neat retort sharply censures
avarice in Messer Ermino de' Grimaldi.
Next Filostrato was seated Lauretta, who, when the praises
bestowed on Bergamino's address had ceased, knowing that it was
now her turn to speak, waited not for the word of command, but
with a charming graciousness thus began:
The last novel, dear gossips, prompts me to relate how a worthy
man, likewise a jester, reprehended not without success the greed
of a very wealthy merchant; and though the burden of my story
is not unlike the last, yet, perchance, it may not on that account
be the less appreciated by you, because it has a happy termination.
Know then that in Genoa there dwelt long ago a gentleman,
who was known as Messer Ermino de' Grimaldi, and whose wealth,
both in lands and money, was generally supposed to be far in excess
of that of any other burgher then in Italy; and as in wealth he was
without a rival in Italy, so in meanness and avarice there was not
any in the entire world, however richly endowed with those qualities,
whom he did not immeasurably surpass, insomuch that, not only
did he keep a tight grip upon his purse when honour was to be done
to another, but in his personal expenditure, even upon things meet
and proper, contrary to the general custom of the Genoese, whose
wont is to array themselves nobly, he was extremely penurious, as
also in his outlay upon his table. Wherefore, not without just cause,
folk had dropped his surname de' Grimaldi, and called him instead
Messer Ermino Avarizia. While thus by thrift his wealth waxed
greater and greater, it so chanced that there came to Genoa a jester
of good parts, a man debonair and ready of speech, his name
Guglielmo Borsiere, whose like is not to be found to-day, when
jesters (to the great reproach be it spoken of those that claim the
name and reputation of gentlemen) are rather to be called asses,
being without courtly breeding, and formed after the coarse pattern
of the basest of churls. And whereas in the days of which I speak
they made it their business, they spared no pains, to compose quarrels,
to allay heart-burnings, between gentlemen, or arrange marriages, or
leagues of amity, ministering meanwhile relief to jaded minds and
solace to courts by the sprightly sallies of their wit, and with keen
sarcasm, like fathers, censuring churlish manners, being also satisfied
with very trifling guerdons; nowadays all their care is to spend their
time in scandal-mongering, in sowing discord, in saying, and (what
is worse) in doing in the presence of company things churlish and
flagitious, in bringing accusations, true or false, of wicked, shameful
or flagitious conduct against one another; and in drawing gentlemen
into base and nefarious practices by sinister and insidious arts.
And
by these wretched and depraved lords he is held most dear and best
rewarded whose words and deeds are the most atrocious, to the
great reproach and scandal of the world of to-day; whereby it is
abundantly manifest that virtue has departed from the earth, leaving
a degenerate generation to wallow in the lowest depths of vice.
But reverting to the point at which I started, wherefrom under
stress of just indignation I have deviated somewhat further than I
intended, I say that the said Guglielmo was had in honour, and was
well received by all the gentlemen of Genoa; and tarrying some
days in the city, heard much of the meanness and avarice of Messer
Ermino, and was curious to see him. Now Messer Ermino had
heard that this Guglielmo Borsiere was a man of good parts, and,
notwithstanding his avarice, having in him some sparks of good
breeding, received him with words of hearty greeting and a gladsome
mien, and conversed freely with him and of divers matters, and so
conversing, took him with other Genoese that were of his company
to a new and very beautiful house which he had built,
and after
shewing him over the whole of it, said to him: Now, Messer
Guglielmo, you have seen and heard many things; could you suggest
to me something, the like of which has not hitherto been seen,
which I might have painted here in the saloon of this house?
To
which ill-judged question Guglielmo replied: Sir, it would not, I
think, be in my power to suggest anything the like of which has
never been seen, unless it were a sneeze or something similar; but
if it so please you, I have something to suggest, which, I think, you
have never seen.
Prithee, what may that be?
said Messer
Ermino, not expecting to get the answer which he got.
For
Guglielmo replied forthwith: Paint Courtesy here;
which Messer
Ermino had no sooner heard, than he was so stricken with shame
that his disposition underwent a complete change, and he said:
Messer Guglielmo, I will see to it that Courtesy is here painted
in such wise that neither you nor any one else shall ever again have
reason to tell me that I have not seen or known that virtue.
And
henceforward (so enduring was the change wrought by Guglielmo's
words) there was not in Genoa, while he lived, any gentleman so
liberal and so gracious and so lavish of honour both to strangers and
to his fellow-citizens as Messer Ermino de' Grimaldi
Novel IXThe censure of a Gascon lady converts the King of
Cyprus from a churlish to an honourable temper.
Except Elisa none now remained to answer the call of the
queen, and she without waiting for it, with gladsome alacrity thus
began:
Bethink you, damsels, how often it has happened that men who
have been obdurate to censures and chastisements have been reclaimed
by some unpremeditated casual word. This is plainly manifest
by the story told by Lauretta; and by mine, which will be of the
briefest, I mean further to illustrate it; seeing that, good stories,
being always pleasurable, are worth listening to with attention, no
matter by whom they may be told.
'Twas, then, in the time of the first king of Cyprus, after the
conquest made of the Holy Land by Godfrey de Bouillon, that a
lady of Gascony made a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre, and on
her way home, having landed at Cyprus, met with brutal outrage
at the hands of certain ruffians. Broken-hearted and disconsolate
she determined to make her complaint to the king; but she was told
that it would be all in vain, because so spiritless and
fainèant
was he that he not only neglected to avenge affronts put upon others, but
endured with a reprehensible tameness those which were offered
to himself, insomuch that whoso had any ill-humour to vent, took
occasion to vex or mortify him. The lady, hearing this report,
despaired of redress, and by way of alleviation of her grief determined
to make the king sensible of his baseness. So in tears she presented
herself before him and said: Sire, it is not to seek redress of the
wrong done me that I come here before you: but only that, so please
you, I may learn of you how it is that you suffer patiently the wrongs
which, as I understand, are done you; that thus schooled by you in
patience I may endure my own, which, God knows, I would gladly,
were it possible, transfer to you, seeing that you are so well fitted to
bear them.
These words aroused the hitherto sluggish and apathetic
king as it were from sleep. He redressed the lady's wrong, and having
thus made a beginning, thenceforth meted out the most rigorous
justice to all that in any wise offended against the majesty of his
crown.
Novel X.Master Alberto da Bologna honourably puts to shame a
lady who sought occasion to put him to shame in that
he was in love with her.
After Elisa had done, it only remained for the queen to conclude
the day's story-telling, and thus with manner debonair did she begin:
As stars in the serene expanse of heaven, as in spring-time
flowers in the green pastures, so, honourable damsels, in the hour of
rare and excellent converse is wit with its bright sallies.
Which,
being brief, are much more proper for ladies than for men, seeing
that prolixity of speech, when brevity is possible, is much less allowable
to them; albeit (shame be to us all and all our generation) few
ladies or none are left to-day who understand aught that is wittily
said, or understanding are able to answer it. For the place of those
graces of the spirit which distinguished the ladies of the past has now
been usurped by adornments of the person; and she whose dress is
most richly and variously and curiously dight, accounts herself more
worthy to be had in honour, forgetting, that, were one but so to
array him, an ass would carry a far greater load of finery than any
of them, and for all that be not a whit the more deserving of honour.
I blush to say this, for in censuring others I condemn myself.
Tricked out, bedecked, bedizened thus, we are either silent and
impassive as statues, or, if we answer aught that is said to us, much
better were it we had held our peace. And we make believe,
forsooth, that our failure to acquit ourselves in converse with our
equals of either sex does but proceed from guilelessness; dignifying
stupidity by the name of modesty, as if no lady could be modest and
converse with other folk than her maid or laundress or bake-house
woman; which if Nature had intended, as we feign she did, she would
have set other limits to our garrulousness.
True it is that in this, as
in other matters, time and place and person are to be regarded;
because it sometimes happens that a lady or gentleman thinking by
some sally of wit to put another to shame, has rather been put to
shame by that other, having failed duly to estimate their relative
powers. Wherefore, that you may be on your guard against such
error, and, further, that in you be not exemplified the common
proverb, to wit, that women do ever and on all occasions choose the
worst, I trust that this last of to-day's stories, which falls to me to
tell, may serve you as a lesson; that, as you are distinguished from
others by nobility of nature, so you may also shew yourselves
separate from them by excellence of manners.
There lived not many years ago, perhaps yet lives, in Bologna, a
very great physician, so great that the fame of his skill was noised
abroad throughout almost the entire world.
Now Master Alberto (such was his name) was of so noble a
temper that, being now nigh upon seventy years of age, and all but
devoid of natural heat of body, he was yet receptive of the flames of
love; and having at an assembly seen a very beautiful widow lady,
Madonna Malgherida de' Ghisolieri, as some say, and being charmed
with her beyond measure, was, notwithstanding his age, no less
ardently enamoured than a young man, insomuch that he was not
well able to sleep at night, unless during the day he had seen the fair
lady's lovely and delicate features. Wherefore he began to frequent
the vicinity of her house, passing to and fro in front of it, now on
foot now on horseback, as occasion best served.
Which she and many
other ladies perceiving, made merry together more than once, to see
a man of his years and discretion in love, as if they deemed that this
most delightful passion of love were only fit for empty-headed youths,
and could not in men be either harboured or engendered.
Master Alberto thus continuing to haunt the front of the house, it so
happened that one feast-day the lady with other ladies was seated
before her door, and Master Alberto's approach being thus observed
by them for some time before he arrived, they complotted to receive
him and shew him honour, and then to rally him on his love;
and so they did, rising with one accord to receive him, bidding him
welcome, and ushering him into a cool courtyard, where they regaled
him with the finest wines and comfits; which done, in a tone of
refined and sprightly banter they asked him how it came about that
he was enamoured of this fair lady, seeing that she was beloved of
many a fine gentleman of youth and spirit.
Master Alberto, being
thus courteously assailed, put a blithe face on it, and answered:
Madam, my love for you need surprise none that is conversant
with such matters, and least of all you that are worthy of it.
And though old men, of course, have lost the strength which love demands
for its full fruition, yet are they not therefore without the
good intent and just appreciation of what beseems the accepted lover,
but indeed understand it far better than young men, by reason that
they have more experience.
My hope in thus old aspiring to love
you, who are loved by so many young men, is founded on what I
have frequently observed of ladies' ways at lunch, when they trifle
with the lupin and the leek. In the leek no part is good, but the
head is at any rate not so bad as the rest, and indeed not unpalatable;
you, however, for the most part, following a depraved taste, hold it in
your hand and munch the leaves, which are not only of no account
but actually distasteful. How am I to know, madam, that in your
selection of lovers, you are not equally eccentric? In which case I
should be the man of your choice, and the rest would be cast aside.
Whereto the gentle lady, somewhat shame-stricken, as were also her
fair friends, thus made answer: Master Alberto, our presumption
has received from you a most just and no less courteous reproof; but
your love is dear to me, as should ever be that of a wise and worthy
man. And therefore, saving my honour, I am yours, entirely and
devotedly at your pleasure and command.
This speech brought
Master Alberto to his feet, and the others also rising, he thanked the
lady for her courtesy, bade her a gay and smiling adieu, and so
left the house. Thus the lady, not considering on whom she exercised
her wit, thinking to conquer was conquered herself: against
which mishap you, if you are discreet, will ever be most strictly on
your guard.
ConclusionAs the young ladies and the three young men finished their story-telling
the sun was westering and the heat of the day in great
measure abated. Which their queen observing, debonairly thus she
spoke: Now, dear gossips, my day of sovereignty draws to a close,
and nought remains for me to do but to give you a new queen, by
whom on the morrow our common life may be ordered as she may
deem best in a course of seemly pleasure; and though there seems to
be still some interval between day and night, yet, as whoso does not
in some degree anticipate the course of time, cannot well provide for
the future; and in order that what the new queen shall decide to be
meet for the morrow may be made ready beforehand, I decree that
from this time forth the days begin at this hour. And so in reverent
submission to Him, in whom is the life of all beings, for our comfort
and solace we commit the governance of our realm for the morrow
into the hands of Queen Filomena, most discreet of damsels.
So saying she arose, took the laurel wreath from her brow, and with a
gesture of reverence set it on the brow of Filomena, whom she then,
and after her all the other ladies and the young men, saluted as
queen, doing her due and graceful homage.
Queen Filomena modestly blushed a little to find herself thus
invested with the sovereignty; but, being put on her mettle by
Pampinea's recent admonitions, she was minded not to seem awkward,
and soon recovered her composure. She then began by confirming
all the appointments made by Pampinea, and making all needful
arrangements for the following morning and evening, which they
were to pass where they then were. Whereupon she thus spoke:
Dearest gossips, though, thanks rather to Pampinea's courtesy than
to merit of mine, I am made queen of you all; yet I am not on
that account minded to have respect merely to my own judgment in
the governance of our life, but to unite your wisdom with mine; and
that you may understand what I think of doing, and by consequence
may be able to amplify or curtail it at your pleasure, I will in few
words make known to you my purpose. The course observed by
Pampinea to-day, if I have judged aright, seems to be alike commendable
and delectable; wherefore, until by lapse of time, or for some
other cause, it grow tedious, I purpose not to alter it.
So when we
have arranged for what we have already taken in hand, we will go
hence and enjoy a short walk; at sundown we will sup in the cool;
and we will then sing a few songs and otherwise divert ourselves,
until it is time to go to sleep. To-morrow we will rise in the cool
of the morning, and after enjoying another walk, each at his or her
sweet will, we will return, as to-day, and in due time break our fast,
dance, sleep, and having risen, will here resume our story-telling,
wherein, methinks, pleasure and profit unite in superabundant
measure. True it is that Pampinea, by reason of her late election to
the sovereignty, neglected one matter, which I mean to introduce,
to wit, the circumscription of the topic of our story-telling, and its
preassignment, that each may be able to premeditate some apt story
bearing upon the theme; and seeing that from the beginning of the
world Fortune has made men the sport of divers accidents, and so it
will continue until the end, the theme, so please you, shall in each
case be the same;
to wit, the fortune of such as after divers adventures
have at last attained a goal of unexpected felicity.
The ladies and the young men alike commended the rule thus
laid down, and agreed to follow it. Dioneo, however, when the rest
had done speaking, said: Madam, as all the rest have said, so say
I, briefly, that the rule prescribed by you is commendable and delectable;
but of your especial grace I crave a favour, which, I trust,
may be granted and continued to me, so long as our company shall
endure; which favour is this: that I be not bound by the assigned
theme if I am not so minded, but that I have leave to choose such
topic as best shall please me. And lest any suppose that I crave this
grace as one that has not stories ready to hand, I am henceforth
content that mine be always the last.
The queen, knowing him to
be a merry and facetious fellow, and feeling sure that he only craved
this favour in order that, if the company were jaded, he might have
an opportunity to recreate them by some amusing story, gladly, with
the consent of the rest, granted his petition.
She then rose, and
attended by the rest sauntered towards a stream, which, issuing clear
as crystal from a neighbouring hill, precipitated itself into a valley
shaded by trees close set amid living rock and fresh green herbage.
Bare of foot and arm they entered the stream, and roving hither and
thither amused themselves in divers ways till in due time they returned
to the palace, and gaily supped. Supper ended, the queen sent for
instruments of music, and bade Lauretta lead a dance, while Emilia
was to sing a song accompanied by Dioneo on the lute.
Accordingly Lauretta led a dance, while Emilia with passion
sang the following song:
So fain I am of my own loveliness,
I hope, nor think not e'er
The weight to feel of other amorousness.
When in the mirror I my face behold,
That see I there which doth my mind content,
Nor any present hap or memory old
May me deprive of such sweet ravishment.
Where else, then, should I find such blandishment
Of sight and sense that e'er
My heart should know another amorousness?
Nor need I fear lest the fair thing retreat,
When fain I am my solace to renew;
Rather, I know, 'twill me advance to meet,
To pleasure me, and shew so sweet a view
That speech or thought of none its semblance true
Paint or conceive may e'er,
Unless he burn with ev'n such amorousness.
Thereon as more intent I gaze, the fire
Waxeth within me hourly more and more,
Myself I yield thereto, myself entire,
And foretaste have of what it hath in store,
And hope of greater joyance than before,
Nay, such as ne'er
None knew; for ne'er was felt such amorousness.
This ballade, to which all heartily responded, albeit its words
furnished much matter of thought to some, was followed by some
other dances, and part of the brief night being thus spent, the queen
proclaimed the first day ended, and bade light the torches, that all
might go to rest until the following morning; and so, seeking their
several chambers, to rest they went.
Second DayEndeth here the first day of the Decameron; beginneth
the second, in which, under the rule of Filomena, they
discourse of the fortunes of such as after divers misadventures
have at last attained a goal of unexpected
felicity.
IntroductionThe sun was already trailing the new day in his
wake of light,
and the birds, blithely chanting their lays among the green boughs,
carried the tidings to the ear, when with one accord all the ladies and
the three young men arose, and entered the gardens, where for no
little time they found their delight in sauntering about the dewy
meads, straying hither and thither, culling flowers, and weaving them
into fair garlands. The day passed like its predecessor;
they breakfasted
in the shade, and danced and slept until noon, when they rose,
and, at their queen's behest, assembled in the cool meadow, and sat
them down in a circle about her. Fair and very debonair she shewed,
crowned with her laurel wreath, as for a brief space she scanned the
company, and then bade Neifile shew others the way with a story.
Neifile made no excuse, and gaily thus began.
Novel IMartellino pretends to be a paralytic, and makes it appear
as if he were cured by being placed upon the body of
St. Arrigo. His trick is detected; he is beaten and
arrested, and is in peril of hanging, but finally escapes.
Often has it happened, dearest ladies, that one who has studied
to raise a laugh at others' expense, especially in regard of things
worthy to be had in reverence, has found the laugh turn against himself,
and sometimes to his loss: as, in obedience to the queen's
command, and by way of introducing our theme, I am about to shew
you, by the narrative of an adventure which befell one of our own
citizens, and after a course of evil fortune had an entirely unexpected
and very felicitous issue.
Not long ago there was at Treviso a German, named Arrigo, a
poor man who got his living as a common hired porter, but, though
of so humble a condition, was respected by all, being accounted not
only an honest but a most holy man; insomuch that, whether truly
or falsely I know not, the Trevisans affirm, that on his decease all
the bells of the cathedral of Treviso began to toll of their own accord.
Which being accounted a miracle, this Arrigo was generally reputed
a saint; and all the people of the city gathered before the house where
his body lay, and bore it, with a saint's honours, into the cathedral,
and brought thither the halt and paralytic and blind, and others
afflicted with disease or bodily defects, as hoping that by contact with
this holy body they would all be healed. The people thus tumultuously
thronging the church, it so chanced that there arrived in
Treviso three of our own citizens, of whom one was named Stecchi,
another Martellino, and the third Marchese; all three being men
whose habit it was to frequent the courts of the nobles and afford
spectators amusement by assuming disguises and personating other
men. Being entire strangers to the place, and seeing everybody
running to and fro, they were much astonished, and having learned
the why and wherefore, were curious to go see what was to be seen.
So at the inn, where they put up, Marchese began: We would
fain go see this saint; but for my part I know not how we are to
reach the spot, for I hear the piazza is full of Germans and other
armed men, posted there by the Lord who rules here to prevent an
uproar, and moreover the church, so far as one may learn, is so full
of folk that scarce another soul may enter it.
Whereupon Martellino,
who was bent on seeing what was to be seen, said: Let not
this deter us; I will assuredly find a way of getting to the saint's
body.
How?
rejoined Marchese.
I will tell you,
replied Martellino;
I will counterfeit a paralytic, and thou wilt support me on one side
and Stecchi on the other, as if I were not able to go alone, and so
you will enter the church, making it appear as if you were leading
me up to the body of the saint that he may heal me, and all that see
will make way and give us free passage.
Marchese and Stecchi
approved the plan; so all three forthwith left the inn and repaired to
a lonely place, where Martellino distorted his hands, his fingers, his
arms, his legs, and also his mouth and eyes and his entire face in a
manner horrible to contemplate; so that no stranger that saw him
could have doubted that he was impotent and paralysed in every part
of his body. In this guise Marchese and Stecchi laid hold of him,
and led him towards the church, assuming a most piteous air, and
humbly beseeching everybody for God's sake to make way for them.
Their request was readily granted; and, in short, observed by all,
and crying out at almost every step, make way, make way,
they
reached the place where St. Arrigo's body was laid. Whereupon
some gentlemen who stood by hoisted Martellino on to the saint's
body, that thereby he might receive the boon of health. There he
lay still for a while, the eyes of all in the church being riveted upon
him in expectation of the result; then, being a very practised performer,
he stretched, first, one of his fingers, next a hand, afterwards
an arm, and so forth, making as if he gradually recovered the use of
all his natural powers. Which the people observing raised such a
clamour in honour of St. Arrigo that even thunder would have been
inaudible.
Now it chanced that hard by stood a Florentine, who
knew Martellino well, though he had failed to recognise him, when,
in such strange guise, he was led into the church; but now, seeing
him resume his natural shape, the Florentine recognised him, and at
once said with a laugh: God's curse upon him. Who that saw
him come but would have believed that he was really paralysed?
These words were overheard by some of the Trevisans, who began
forthwith to question the Florentine. How?
said they; was
he then not paralysed?
No, by God!
returned the Florentine;
he has always been as straight as any of us; he has merely
shewn you that he knows better than any man alive how to play
this trick of putting on any counterfeit semblance that he chooses.
Thereupon the Trevisans, without further parley, made a rush, clearing
the way and crying out as they went: Seize this traitor who
mocks at God and His saints; who, being no paralytic, has come
hither in the guise of a paralytic to deride our patron saint and us.
So saying, they laid hands on him, dragged him down from where
he stood, seized him by the hair, tore the clothes from his back, and
fell to beating and kicking him, so that it seemed to him as if all the
world were upon him. He cried out: Pity, for God's sake,
and
defended himself as best he could: all in vain, however; the press
became thicker and thicker moment by moment. Which Stecchi and
Marchese observing began to say one to the other that 'twas a bad
business; yet, being apprehensive on their own account, they did not
venture to come to his assistance, but cried out with the rest that he
ought to die, at the same time, however, casting about how they
might find the means to rescue him from the hands of the people,
who would certainly have killed him, but for a diversion which
Marchese hastily effected. The entire posse of the signory being just
outside, he ran off at full speed to the Podestà's lieutenant, and
said
to him: Help, for God's sake; there is a villain here that has cut
my purse with full a hundred florins of gold in it; prithee have him
arrested that I may have my own again.
Whereupon, twelve
sergeants or more ran forthwith to the place where hapless Martellino
was being carded without a comb, and, forcing their way with the
utmost difficulty through the throng, rescued him all bruised and
battered from their hands, and led him to the palace; whither he was
followed by many who, resenting what he had done, and hearing that
he was arrested as a cutpurse, and lacking better pretext for harassing
him, began one and all to charge him with having cut their purses.
All which the deputy of the Podestà had no sooner heard, than, being
a harsh man, he straightway took Martellino aside and began to
examine him. Martellino answered his questions in a bantering tone,
making light of the arrest; whereat the deputy, losing patience, had
him bound to the strappado, and caused him to receive a few hints of
the cord with intent to extort from him a confession of his guilt, by
way of preliminary to hanging him. Taken down from the strappado,
and questioned by the deputy if what his accusers said were
true, Martellino, as nothing was to be gained by denial, answered:
My lord, I am ready to confess the truth; let but my accusers say,
each of them, when and where I cut his purse, and I will tell you
what I have and what I have not done.
So be it,
said the deputy,
and caused a few of them to be summoned. Whereupon Martellino,
being charged with having cut this, that or the other man's purse
eight, six or four days ago, while others averred that he had cut their
purses that very day, answered thus: My lord, these men lie in
the throat, and for token that I speak true, I tell you that, so far from
having been here as long as they make out, it is but very lately that
I came into these parts, where I never was before; and no sooner was
I come, than, as my ill-luck would have it, I went to see the body of
this saint, and so have been carded as you see; and that what I say
is true, his Lordship's intendant of arrivals, and his book, and also my
host may certify. Wherefore, if you find that even so it is as I say,
hearken not to these wicked men, and spare me the torture and death
which they would have you inflict.
In this posture of affairs
Marchese and Stecchi, learning that the Podestà's deputy was dealing
rigorously with Martellino, and had already put him to the strappado,
grew mightily alarmed. We have made a mess of it,
they said to
themselves; we have only taken him out of the frying-pan to toss
him into the fire.
So, hurrying hither and thither with the utmost
zeal, they made diligent search until they found their host, and told
him how matters stood. The host had his laugh over the affair, and
then brought them to one Sandro Agolanti, who dwelt in Treviso
and had great interest with the Lord of the place. The host laid the
whole matter before Sandro, and, backed by Marchese and Stecchi,
besought him to undertake Martellino's cause. Sandro, after many
a hearty laugh, hied him to the Lord, who at his instance sent for
Martellino. The messengers found Martellino still in his shirt before
the deputy, at his wits' end, and all but beside himself with fear,
because the deputy would hear nothing that he said in his defence.
Indeed, the deputy, having a spite against Florentines, had quite
made up his mind to have him hanged; he was therefore in the last
degree reluctant to surrender him to the Lord, and only did so upon
compulsion. Brought at length before the Lord, Martellino detailed
to him the whole affair, and prayed him as the greatest of favours to
let him depart in peace. The Lord had a hearty laugh over the
adventure, and bestowed a tunic on each of the three. So, congratulating
themselves on their unexpected deliverance from so great
a peril, they returned home safe and sound.
Novel IIRinaldo d'Asti is robbed, arrives at Castel Guglielmo,
and is entertained by a widow lady; his property is
restored to him, and he returns home safe and sound.
The ladies and the young men, especially Filostrato, laughed
inordinately at Neifile's narrative of Martellino's misadventures.
Then Filostrato, who sate next Neifile, received the queen's command
to follow her, and promptly thus began:
Fair ladies, 'tis on my mind to tell you a story in which are
mingled things sacred and passages of adverse fortune and love,
which to hear will perchance be not unprofitable, more especially to
travellers in love's treacherous lands; of whom if any fail to say St.
Julian's paternoster, it often happens that, though he may have a
good bed, he is ill lodged.
Know, then, that in the time of the Marquis Azzo da Ferrara, a
merchant, Rinaldo d'Asti by name, having disposed of certain affairs
which had brought him to Bologna, set his face homeward, and
having left Ferrara behind him was on his way to Verona, when he
fell in with some men that looked like merchants, but were in truth
robbers and men of evil life and condition, whose company he
imprudently joined, riding and conversing with them. They, perceiving
that he was a merchant, and judging that he must have
money about him, complotted to rob him on the first opportunity;
and to obviate suspicion they played the part of worthy and reputable
men, their discourse of nought but what was seemly and honourable
and leal, their demeanour at once as respectful and as cordial as they
could make it; so that he deemed himself very lucky to have met
with them, being otherwise alone save for a single mounted servant.
Journeying
thus, they conversed, after the desultory manner of travellers,
of divers matters, until at last they fell a talking of the prayers which
men address to God, and one of the robbers--there were three of
them--said to Rinaldo: And you, gentle sir, what is your wonted
orison when you are on your travels?
Rinaldo answered: Why,
to tell the truth, I am a man unskilled, unlearned in such matters,
and few prayers have I at my command, being one that lives in the
good old way and lets two soldi count for twenty-four deniers;
nevertheless it has always been my custom in journeying to say of a
morning, as I leave the inn, a paternoster and an avemaria for the
souls of the father and mother of St. Julian, after which I pray God
and St. Julian to provide me with a good inn for the night. And
many a time in the course of my life have I met with great perils by
the way, and evading them all have found comfortable quarters for
the night: whereby my faith is assured, that St. Julian, in whose
honour I say my paternoster, has gotten me this favour of God; nor
should I look for a prosperous journey and a safe arrival at night, if
I had not said it in the morning.
Then said his interrogator:
And did you say it this morning?
Whereto Rinaldo answered, Troth, did I,
which caused the other, who by this time knew
what course matters would take, to say to himself: 'Twill prove
to have been said in the nick of time; for if we do not miscarry, I
take it thou wilt have but a sorry lodging.
Then turning to
Rinaldo he said: I also have travelled much, and never a prayer
have I said, though I have heard them much commended by many;
nor has it ever been my lot to find other than good quarters for the
night; it may be that this very evening you will be able to determine
which of us has the better lodging, you that have said the paternoster,
or I that have not said it. True, however, it is that in its stead I
am accustomed to say the 'Dirupisti,' or the 'Intemerata,' or the
'De profundis,' which, if what my grandmother used to say is to be
believed, are of the greatest efficacy.
So, talking of divers matters,
and ever on the look-out for time and place suited to their evil
purpose, they continued their journey, until towards evening, some
distance from Castel Guglielmo, as they were about to ford a stream,
these three ruffians, profiting by the lateness of the hour, and the
loneliness and straitness of the place, set upon Rinaldo and robbed
him, and leaving him afoot and in his shirt, said by way of adieu:
Go now, and see if thy St. Julian will provide thee with good
lodging to-night; our saint, we doubt not, will do as much by us;
and so crossing the stream, they went their way. Rinaldo's servant,
coward that he was, did nothing to help his master when he saw him
attacked, but turned his horse's head, and was off at a smart pace;
nor did he draw rein until he was come to Castel Guglielmo; where,
it being now evening, he put up at an inn and gave himself no
further trouble. Rinaldo, left barefoot, and stripped to his shirt,
while the night closed in very cold and snowy, was at his wits' end,
and shivering so that his teeth chattered in his head, began to peer
about, if haply he might find some shelter for the night, that so
he might not perish with the cold; but, seeing none (for during a
recent war the whole country had been wasted by fire), he set off for
Castel Guglielmo, quickening his pace by reason of the cold.
Whether his servant had taken refuge in Castel Guglielmo or
elsewhere, he knew not, but he thought that, could he but enter
the town, God would surely send him some succour. However,
dark night overtook him while he was still about a mile from the
castle; so that on his arrival he found the gates already locked and
the bridges raised, and he could not pass in. Sick at heart, disconsolate
and bewailing his evil fortune, he looked about for some
place where he might ensconce himself, and at any rate find shelter
from the snow. And by good luck he espied a house, built with a
balcony a little above the castle-wall, under which balcony he
purposed to shelter himself until daybreak. Arrived at the spot, he
found beneath the balcony a postern, which, however, was locked;
and having gathered some bits of straw that lay about, he placed
them in front of the postern, and there in sad and sorrowful plight
took up his quarters, with many a piteous appeal to St. Julian, whom
he reproached for not better rewarding the faith which he reposed
in him. St. Julian, however, had not abandoned him, and in due
time provided him with a good lodging.
There was in the castle a widow lady of extraordinary beauty
(none fairer) whom Marquis Azzo loved as his own life, and kept
there for his pleasure. She lived in the very same house beneath
the balcony of which Rinaldo had posted himself. Now it chanced
that that very day the Marquis had come to Castel Guglielmo to
pass the night with her, and had privily caused a bath to be made
ready, and a supper suited to his rank, in the lady's own house.
The arrangements were complete; and only the Marquis was stayed
for, when a servant happened to present himself at the castle-gate,
bringing tidings for the Marquis which obliged him suddenly to take
horse. He therefore sent word to the lady that she must not wait
for him, and forthwith took his departure. The lady, somewhat
disconsolate, found nothing better to do than to get into the bath
which had been intended for the Marquis, sup and go to bed: so
into the bath she went. The bath was close to the postern on the
other side of which hapless Rinaldo had ensconced himself, and thus
the mournful and quavering music which Rinaldo made as he
shuddered in the cold, and which seemed rather to proceed from a
stork's beak than from the mouth of a human being, was audible to
the lady in the bath. She therefore called her maid, and said to
her: Go up and look out over the wall and down at the postern,
and mark who is there, and what he is, and what he does there.
The maid obeyed, and, the night being fine, had no difficulty in
making out Rinaldo as he sate there, barefoot, as I have said, and in
his shirt, and trembling in every limb. So she called out to him,
to know who he was. Rinaldo, who could scarcely articulate for
shivering, told as briefly as he could, who he was, and how and why
he came to be there; which done, he began piteously to beseech
her not, if she could avoid it, to leave him there all night to perish of
cold. The maid went back to her mistress full of pity for Rinaldo,
and told her all she had seen and heard. The lady felt no less pity
for Rinaldo; and bethinking her that she had the key of the postern
by which the Marquis sometimes entered when he paid her a secret
visit, she said to the maid: Go, and let him in softly; here is
this supper, and there will be none to eat it; and we can very well
put him up for the night.
Cordially commending her mistress's
humanity, the maid went and let Rinaldo in, and brought him to the
lady, who, seeing that he was all but dead with cold, said to him:
Quick, good man, get into that bath, which is still warm.
Gladly he did so, awaiting no second invitation, and was so much
comforted by its warmth that he seemed to have passed from death
to life. The lady provided him with a suit of clothes, which
had been worn by her husband shortly before his death, and which,
when he had them on, looked as if they had been made for him. So
he recovered heart, and, while he awaited the lady's commands, gave
thanks to God and St. Julian for delivering him from a woful night
and conducting him, as it seemed, to comfortable quarters.
The lady meanwhile took a little rest, after which she had a
roaring fire put in one of her large rooms, whither presently she
came, and asked her maid how the good man did. The maid
replied: Madam, he has put on the clothes, in which he shews
to advantage, having a handsome person, and seeming to be a worthy
man, and well-bred.
Go, call him then,
said the lady, tell him
to come hither to the fire, and we will sup; for I know that he has
not supped.
Rinaldo, on entering the room and seeing the lady,
took her to be of no small consequence. He therefore made her a
low bow, and did his utmost to thank her worthily for the service
she had rendered him. His words pleased her no less than his
person, which accorded with what the maid had said: so she made
him heartily welcome, installed him at his ease by her side before the
fire, and questioned him of the adventure which had brought him
thither. Rinaldo detailed all the circumstances, of which the lady
had heard somewhat when Rinaldo's servant made his appearance at
the castle. She therefore gave entire credence to what he said, and
told him what she knew about his servant, and how he might easily
find him on the morrow. She then bade set the table, which done,
Rinaldo and she washed their hands and sate down together to sup.
Tall he was and comely of form and feature, debonair and gracious
of mien and manner, and in his lusty prime. The lady had eyed
him again and again to her no small satisfaction, and, her wantonness
being already kindled for the Marquis, who was to have come
to lie with her, she had let Rinaldo take the vacant place in her
mind. So when supper was done, and they were risen from the
table, she conferred with her maid, whether, after the cruel trick
played upon her by the Marquis, it were not well to take the good
gift which Fortune had sent her. The maid knowing the bent of
her mistress's desire, left no word unsaid that might encourage her
to follow it. Wherefore the lady, turning towards Rinaldo, who
was standing where she had left him by the fire, began thus:
So!
Rinaldo, why still so pensive? Will nothing console you for the
loss of a horse and a few clothes? Take heart, put a blithe face on
it, you are at home; nay more, let me tell you that, seeing you in
those clothes which my late husband used to wear, and taking you
for him, I have felt, not once or twice, but perhaps a hundred times
this evening, a longing to throw my arms round you and kiss you;
and, in faith, I had so done, but that I feared it might displease you.
Rinaldo, hearing these words, and marking the flame which shot
from the lady's eyes, and being no laggard, came forward with open
arms, and confronted her and said: Madam, I am not unmindful
that I must ever acknowledge that to you I owe my life, in regard
of the peril whence you rescued me. If then there be any way in
which I may pleasure you, churlish indeed were I not to devise it.
So you may even embrace and kiss me to your heart's content, and
I will embrace and kiss you with the best of good wills.
There
needed no further parley. The lady, all aflame with amorous desire,
forthwith threw herself into his arms, and straining him to her
bosom with a thousand passionate embraces, gave and received a
thousand kisses before they sought her chamber. There with all
speed they went to bed, nor did day surprise them until again and
again and in full measure they had satisfied their desire. With the
first streaks of dawn they rose, for the lady was minded that none
should surmise aught of the affair. So, having meanly habited
Rinaldo, and replenished his purse, she enjoined him to keep the
secret, shewed him the way to the castle, where he was to find his
servant, and let him out by the same postern by which he had
entered. When it was broad day the gates were opened, and
Rinaldo, passing himself off as a traveller from distant parts, entered
the castle, and found his servant. Having put on the spare suit
which was in his valise, he was about to mount the servant's horse,
when, as if by miracle, there were brought into the castle the three
gentlemen of the road who had robbed him the evening before,
having been taken a little while after for another offence. Upon
their confession Rinaldo's horse was restored to him, as were also his
clothes and money; so that he lost nothing except a pair of garters,
of which the robbers knew not where they had bestowed them.
Wherefore Rinaldo, giving thanks to God and St. Julian, mounted
his horse, and returned home safe and sound, and on the morrow the
three robbers kicked heels in the wind.
Novel IIIThree young men squander their substance and are
reduced to poverty. Their nephew, returning home
a desperate man, falls in with an abbot, in whom he
discovers the daughter of the King of England. She
marries him, and he retrieves the losses and reestablishes
the fortune of his uncles.
The ladies marvelled to hear the adventures of Rinaldo d'Asti,
praised his devotion, and gave thanks to God and St. Julian for the
succour lent him in his extreme need. Nor, though the verdict was
hardly outspoken, was the lady deemed unwise to take the boon
which God had sent her. So they tittered and talked of her night
of delight, while Pampinea, being seated by Filostrato, and surmising
that her turn would, as it did, come next, was lost in meditation on
what she was to say. Roused from her reverie by the word of the
queen, she put on a cheerful courage, and thus began:
Noble ladies, discourse as we may of Fortune's handiwork, much
still remains to be said if we but scan events aright, nor need we
marvel thereat, if we but duly consider that all matters, which we
foolishly call our own, are in her hands, and therefore subject, at her
inscrutable will, to every variety of chance and change without any
order therein by us discernible. Which is indeed signally manifest
everywhere and all day long; yet, as 'tis our queen's will that we
speak thereof, perhaps 'twill not be unprofitable to you, if,
notwithstanding
it has been the theme of some of the foregoing stories, I add
to them another, which, I believe, should give you pleasure.
There was formerly in our city a knight, by name Messer
Tedaldo, of the Lamberti, according to some, or, as others say, of the
Agolanti
family, perhaps for no better reason than that the occupation
of his sons was similar to that which always was and is the
occupation of the Agolanti. However, without professing to
determine which of the two houses he belonged to, I say, that he
was in his day a very wealthy knight, and had three sons, the eldest
being by name Lamberto, the second Tedaldo, and the third
Agolante. Fine, spirited young men were they all, though the
eldest was not yet eighteen years old when their father, Messer
Tedaldo, died very rich, leaving to them as his lawful heirs the
whole of his property both movable and immovable. Finding
themselves thus possessed of great wealth, both in money and in
lands and chattels, they fell to spending without stint or restraint,
indulging their every desire, maintaining a great establishment, and
a large and well-filled stable, besides dogs and hawks, keeping ever
open house, scattering largesses, jousting, and, not content with these
and the like pastimes proper to their condition, indulging every
appetite natural to their youth. They had not long followed this
course of life before the cash left them by their father was exhausted;
and, their rents not sufficing to defray their expenditure, they began
to sell and pledge their property, and disposing of it by degrees, one
item to-day and another to-morrow, they hardly perceived that they
were approaching the verge of ruin, until poverty opened the eyes
which wealth had fast sealed. So one day Lamberto called his
brothers to him, reminded them of the position of wealth and
dignity which had been theirs and their father's before them, and
shewed them the poverty to which their extravagance had reduced
them, and adjured them most earnestly that, before their destitution
was yet further manifest, they should all three sell what little
remained to them and depart thence; which accordingly they did.
Without leave-taking, or any ceremony, they quitted Florence; nor
did they rest until they had arrived in England and established
themselves in a small house in London, where, by living with extreme
parsimony and lending at exorbitant usances, they prospered so well
that in the course of a few years they amassed a fortune; and so,
one by one, they returned to Florence, purchased not a few of their
former estates besides many others, and married. The management
of their affairs in England where they continued their business of
usurers, they left to a young nephew, Alessandro by name, while,
heedless
alike of the teaching of experience and of marital and
parental duty, they all three launched out at Florence into more
extravagant expenditure than before, and contracted debts on all
hands and to large amounts. This expenditure they were enabled
for some years to support by the remittances made by Alessandro,
who, to his great profit, had lent money to the barons on the
security of their castles and rents.
While the three brothers thus continued to spend freely, and,
when short of money, to borrow it, never doubting of help from
England, it so happened that, to the surprise of everybody, there
broke out in England a war between the King and his son, by which
the whole island was divided into two camps; whereby Alessandro
lost all his mortgages of the baronial castles and every other source of
income whatsoever. However, in the daily expectation that peace
would be concluded between the King and his son, Alessandro,
hoping that in that event all would be restored to him, principal and
interest, tarried in the island; and the three brothers at Florence in
no degree retrenched their extravagant expenditure, but went on
borrowing from day to day. Several years thus passed; and, their
hopes being frustrated, the three brothers not only lost credit, but,
being pressed for payment by their creditors, were suddenly arrested,
and, their property proving deficient, were kept in prison for the
balance, while their wives and little children went into the country
parts, or elsewhere, wretchedly equipped, and with no other prospect
than to pass the rest of their days in destitution. Alessandro, meanwhile,
seeing that the peace, which he had for several years awaited
in England, did not come, and deeming that he would hazard his
life to no purpose by tarrying longer in the country, made up his
mind to return to Italy. He travelled at first altogether alone; but
it so chanced that he left Bruges at the same time with an abbot,
habited in white, attended by a numerous retinue, and preceded by
a goodly baggage-train. Behind the abbot rode two greybeard
knights, kinsmen of the King, in whom Alessandro recognised
acquaintances, and, making himself known to them, was readily
received into their company. As thus they journeyed together,
Alessandro softly asked them who the monks were that rode in front
with so great a train, and whither they were bound.
The foremost
rider,
replied one of the knights, is a young kinsman of ours, the
newly-elected
abbot of one of the greatest abbeys of England; and
as he is not of legal age for such a dignity, we are going with him to
Rome to obtain the Holy Father's dispensation and his confirmation
in the office; but this is not a matter for common talk.
Now the
new abbot, as lords are wont to do when they travel, was sometimes
in front, sometimes in rear of his train; and thus it happened that,
as he passed, he set eyes on Alessandro, who was still quite young,
and very shapely and well-favoured, and as courteous, gracious and
debonair as e'er another. The abbot was marvellously taken with
him at first sight, having never seen aught that pleased him so much,
called him to his side, addressed him graciously, and asked him who
he was, whence he came, and whither he was bound. Alessandro
frankly told all about himself, and having thus answered the abbot's
questions, placed himself at his service as far as his small ability
might extend. The abbot was struck by his easy flow of apt speech,
and observing his bearing more closely, he made up his mind that,
albeit his occupation was base, he was nevertheless of gentle blood,
which added no little to his interest in him; and being moved to
compassion by his misfortunes, he gave him friendly consolation,
bidding him be of good hope, that if he lived a worthy life, God
would yet set him in a place no less or even more exalted than that
whence Fortune had cast him down, and prayed him to be of his
company as far as Tuscany, as both were going the same way.
Alessandro thanked him for his words of comfort, and professed
himself ready to obey his every command.
So fared on the abbot, his mind full of new ideas begotten by the
sight of Alessandro, until some days later they came to a town which
was none too well provided with inns; and, as the abbot must needs
put up there, Alessandro, who was well acquainted with one of the
innkeepers, arranged that the abbot should alight at his house, and
procured him the least discomfortable quarters which it could afford.
He thus became for the nonce the abbot's seneschal, and being very
expert for such office, managed excellently, quartering the retinue in
divers parts of the town. So the abbot supped, and, the night being
far spent, all went to bed except Alessandro, who then asked the host
where he might find quarters for the night.
In good sooth, I
know not,
replied the host; thou seest that every place is occupied,
and that I and my household must lie on the benches. However,
in the abbot's chamber there are some corn-sacks. I can shew
thee the way thither, and lay a bit of a bed upon them, and there, an
it like thee, thou mayst pass the night very well.
How sayst
thou?
said Alessandro; in the abbot's chamber, which thou
knowest is small, so that there was not room for any of the monks
to sleep there? Had I understood this when the curtains were
drawn, I would have quartered his monks on the corn-sacks, and
slept myself where the monks sleep.
'Tis even so, however,
replied the host, and thou canst, if thou wilt, find excellent quarters
there: the abbot sleeps, the curtains are close drawn; I will go
in softly and lay a small bed there, on which thou canst sleep.
Alessandro, satisfied that it might be managed without disturbing the
abbot, accepted the offer, and made his arrangements for passing the
night as quietly as he could.
The abbot was not asleep; his mind being far too overwrought
by certain newly-awakened desires. He had heard what had passed
between Alessandro and the host, he had marked the place where
Alessandro had lain down, and in the great gladness of his heart had
begun thus to commune with himself: God has sent me the
opportunity of gratifying my desire; if I let it pass, perchance it
will be long before another such opportunity occurs.
So, being
minded by no means to let it slip, when all was quiet in the inn, he
softly called Alessandro, and bade him lie down by his side. Alessandro
made many excuses, but ended by undressing and obeying;
whereupon the abbot laid a hand on Alessandro's breast, and began to
caress him just as amorous girls do their lovers; whereat Alessandro
marvelled greatly, doubting the abbot was prompted to such caresses
by a shameful love. Which the abbot speedily divined, or else surmised
from some movement on Alessandro's part, and, laughing,
threw off a chemise which she had upon her, and taking Alessandro's
hand, laid it on her bosom, saying: Alessandro, dismiss thy foolish
thought, feel here, and learn what I conceal.
Alessandro obeyed,
laying a hand upon the abbot's bosom, where he encountered two
little teats, round, firm and delicate, as they had been of ivory;
whereby he at once knew that 'twas a woman, and without awaiting
further encouragement forthwith embraced her, and would have
kissed her, when she said:
Before thou art more familiar with me
hearken to what I have to say to thee. As thou mayst perceive, I
am no man, but a woman. Virgin I left my home, and was going
to the Pope to obtain his sanction for my marriage, when, as Fortune
willed, whether for thy gain or my loss, no sooner had I seen thee
the other day, than I burned for thee with such a flame of love as
never yet had lady for any man. Wherefore I am minded to have
thee for my husband rather than any other; so, if thou wilt not
have me to wife, depart at once, and return to thine own place.
Albeit he knew not who she was, Alessandro by the retinue which
attended her conjectured that she must be noble and wealthy, and he
saw that she was very fair; so it was not long before he answered
that, if such were her pleasure, it was very much to his liking.
Whereupon she sate up, set a ring on his finger, and espoused him
before a tiny picture of our Lord; after which they embraced, and
to their no small mutual satisfaction solaced themselves for the rest
of the night. At daybreak Alessandro rose, and by preconcert with
the lady, left the chamber as he had entered it, so that none knew
where he had passed the night: then, blithe at heart beyond measure,
he rejoined the abbot and his train, and so, resuming their journey,
they after many days arrived at Rome. They had not been there
more than a few days, when the abbot, attended by the two knights
and Alessandro, waited on the Pope, whom, after making the due
obeisance, he thus addressed: Holy Father, as you must know
better than any other, whoso intends to lead a true and honourable
life ought, as far as may be, to shun all occasion of error; for which
cause I, having a mind to live honourably, did, the better to accomplish
my purpose, assume the habit in which you see me, and depart
by stealth from the court of my father, the King of England, who
was minded to marry me, young as you see me to be, to the aged
King of Scotland; and, carrying with me not a little of his treasure,
set my face hitherward that your Holiness might bestow me in
marriage. Nor was it the age of the King of Scotland that moved
me to flee so much as fear lest the frailty of my youth should, were I
married to him, betray me to commit some breach of divine law, and
sully the honour of my father's royal blood. And as in this frame of
mind I journeyed, God, who knows best what is meet for every
one, did, as I believe, of His mercy shew me him whom He is pleased
to appoint me for my husband, even this young man
(pointing to
Alessandro) whom you see by my side, who for nobility of nature
and bearing is a match for any great lady, though the strain of his
blood, perhaps, be not of royal purity. Him, therefore, have I
chosen, him will I have, and no other, no matter what my father or
any one else may think. And albeit the main purpose with which I
started is fulfilled, yet I have thought good to continue my journey,
that I may visit the holy and venerable places which abound in this
city, and your Holiness, and that so in your presence, and by consequence
in the presence of others, I may renew my marriage-vow with
Alessandro, whereof God alone was witness. Wherefore I humbly
pray you that God's will and mine may be also yours, and that you
pronounce your benison thereon, that therewith, having the more
firm assurance of the favour of Him, whose vicar you are, we may
both live together, and, when the time comes, die to God's glory
and yours.
Alessandro was filled with wonder and secret delight, when he
heard that his wife was the daughter of the King of England; but
greater still was the wonder of the two knights, and such their
wrath that, had they been anywhere else than in the Pope's presence,
they would not have spared to affront Alessandro, and perhaps the
lady too. The Pope, on his part, found matter enough for wonder
as well in the lady's habit as in her choice; but, knowing that he
could not refuse, he consented to grant her request.
He therefore began by smoothing the ruffled tempers of the
knights, and having reconciled them with the lady and Alessandro,
proceeded to put matters in train for the marriage. When the day
appointed was come, he gave a great reception, at which were
assembled all the cardinals and many other great lords; to whom he
presented the lady royally robed, and looking so fair and so gracious
that she won, as she deserved, the praise of all, and likewise Alessandro,
splendidly arrayed, and bearing himself not a whit like the young
usurer but rather as one of royal blood, for which cause he received
due honour from the knights. There, before the Pope himself, the
marriage-vows were solemnly renewed; and afterwards the marriage,
which was accompanied by every circumstance that could add grace
and splendour to the ceremony, received the sanction of his benediction.
Alessandro and the lady on leaving Rome saw fit to visit
Florence, whither fame had already wafted the news, so that they
were received by the citizens with every token of honour. The
lady set the three brothers at liberty, paying all their creditors, and
reinstated them and their wives in their several properties. So, leaving
gracious memories behind them, Alessandro and his lady, accompanied
by Agolante, quitted Florence, and arriving at Paris were
honourably received by the King. The two knights went before
them to England, and by their influence induced the King to restore
the lady to his favour, and receive her and his son-in-law with every
circumstance of joy and honour. Alessandro he soon afterwards
knighted with unwonted ceremony, and bestowed on him the earldom
of Cornwall. And such was the Earl's consequence and influence
at court that he restored peace between father and son, thereby
conferring a great boon on the island and gaining the love and esteem
of all the people. Agolante, whom he knighted, recovered all the
outstanding debts in full, and returned to Florence immensely rich.
The Earl passed the rest of his days with his lady in great renown.
Indeed there are those who say, that with the help of his father-in-law
he effected by his policy and valour the conquest of Scotland,
and was crowned king of that country.
Novel IVLandolfo Ruffolo is reduced to poverty, turns corsair, is
captured by Genoese, is shipwrecked, escapes on a
chest full of jewels, and, being cast ashore at Corfu,
is hospitably entertained by a woman, and returns
home wealthy.
When Pampinea had brought her story to this glorious conclusion,
Lauretta, who sate next her, delayed not, but thus began:
Most gracious ladies, the potency of Fortune is never, methinks,
more conspicuous than when she raises one, as in Pampinea's story
we have seen her raise Alessandro, from abject misery to regal state.
And such being the limits which our theme henceforth imposes on
our invention, I shall feel no shame to tell a story wherein reverses
yet greater are compensated by a sequel somewhat less dazzling.
Well I know that my story, being compared with its predecessor,
will therefore be followed with the less interest; but, failing of
necessity, I shall be excused.
Scarce any part of Italy is reputed so delectable as the sea-coast
between Reggio and Gaeta; and in particular the slope which overlooks
the sea by Salerno, and which the dwellers there call the Slope
of Amalfi, is studded with little towns, gardens and fountains, and
peopled by men as wealthy and enterprising in mercantile affairs as
are anywhere to be found; in one of which towns, to wit, Ravello,
rich as its inhabitants are to-day, there was formerly a merchant,
who surpassed them all in wealth, Landolfo Ruffolo by name, who
yet, not content with his wealth, but desiring to double it, came
nigh to lose it all and his own life to boot. Know, then, that this
man, having made his calculations, as merchants are wont, bought a
great ship, which, entirely at his own expense, he loaded with divers
sorts of merchandise, and sailed to Cyprus. There he found several
other ships, each laden with just such a cargo as his own, and was
therefore fain to dispose of his goods at a very cheap rate, insomuch
that he might almost as well have thrown them away, and was
brought to the verge of ruin. Mortified beyond measure to find
himself thus reduced in a short space of time from opulence to something
like poverty, he was at his wits' end, and rather than go home
poor, having left home rich, he was minded to retrieve his losses by
piracy or die in the attempt. So he sold his great ship, and with the
price and the proceeds of the sale of his merchandise bought a light
bark such as corsairs use, and having excellently well equipped her
with the armament and all things else meet for such service, took to
scouring the seas as a rover, preying upon all folk alike, but more
particularly upon the Turk.
In this enterprise he was more favoured by Fortune than in
his trading adventures. A year had scarce gone by before he had
taken so many ships from the Turk that not only had he recovered
the fortune which he had lost in trade, but was well on the way
to doubling it. The bitter memory of his late losses taught him
sobriety; he estimated his gains and found them ample; and lest
he should have a second fall, he schooled himself to rest content
with them, and made up his mind to return home without attempting
to add to them. Shy of adventuring once more in trade, he
refrained from investing them in any way, but shaped his course
for home, carrying them with him in the very same bark in which
he had gotten them. He had already entered the Archipelago when
one evening a contrary wind sprang up from the south-east, bringing
with it a very heavy sea, in which his bark could not well have lived.
He therefore steered her into a bay under the lee of one of the
islets, and there determined to await better weather. As he lay
there two great carracks of Genoa, homeward-bound from Constantinople,
found, not without difficulty, shelter from the tempest
in the same bay. The masters of the carracks espied the bark, and
found out to whom she belonged: the fame of Landolfo and his
vast wealth had already reached them, and had excited their natural
cupidity and rapacity. They therefore determined to capture the
bark, which lay without means of escape. Part of their men, well
armed with cross-bows and other weapons, they accordingly sent
ashore, so posting them that no one could leave the bark without
being exposed to the bolts; the rest took to their boats, and rowed
up to the side of Landolfo's little craft, which in a little time, with
little trouble and no loss or risk, they captured with all aboard
her. They then cleared the bark of all she contained, allowing
Landolfo, whom they set aboard one of the carracks, only a pitiful
doublet, and sunk her. Next day the wind shifted, and the carracks
set sail on a westerly course, which they kept prosperously enough
throughout the day; but towards evening a tempest arose, and the
sea became very boisterous, so that the two ships were parted one
from the other. And such was the fury of the gale that the ship,
aboard which was poor, hapless Landolfo, was driven with prodigious
force upon a shoal off the island of Cephalonia, and broke up and
went to pieces like so much glass dashed against a wall. Wherefore
the unfortunate wretches that were aboard her, launched amid the
floating merchandise and chests and planks with which the sea was
strewn, did as men commonly do in such a case; and though the night
was of the murkiest and the sea rose and fell in mountainous surges,
such as could swim sought to catch hold of whatever chance brought
in their way. Among whom hapless Landolfo, who only the day
before had again and again prayed for death, rather than he should
return home in such poverty, now, seeing death imminent, was
afraid; and, like the rest, laid hold of the first plank that came to
hand, in the hope that, if he could but avoid immediate drowning,
God would in some way aid his escape. Gripping the beam with
his legs as best he might, while wind and wave tossed him hither
and thither, he contrived to keep himself afloat until broad day:
when, looking around him, he discerned nothing but clouds and sea
and a chest, which, borne by the wave, from time to time drew
nigh him to his extreme terror, for he apprehended it might strike
against the plank, and do him a mischief; and ever, as it came near
him, he pushed it off with all the little force he had in his hand.
But, as it happened, a sudden gust of wind swept down upon the
sea, and struck the chest with such force that it was driven against
the plank on which Landolfo was, and upset it, and Landolfo went
under the waves. Swimming with an energy begotten rather of
fear than of strength, he rose to the surface only to see the plank
so far from him that, doubting he could not reach it, he made for
the chest, which was close at hand; and resting his breast upon the
lid, he did what he could to keep it straight with his arms. In this
manner, tossed to and fro by the sea, without tasting food, for not
a morsel had he with him, and drinking more than he cared for,
knowing not where he was, and seeing nothing but the sea, he
remained all that day, and the following night. The next day, as
the will of God, or the force of the wind so ordered, more like a
sponge than aught else, but still with both hands holding fast by
the edges of the chest, as we see those do that clutch aught to save
themselves from drowning, he was at length borne to the coast of
the island of Corfu, where by chance a poor woman was just then
scrubbing her kitchen-ware with sand and salt-water to make it
shine. The woman caught sight of him as he drifted shorewards,
but making out only a shapeless mass, was at first startled, and
shrieked and drew back. Landolfo was scarce able to see, and
uttered no sound, for his power of speech was gone. However,
when the sea brought him close to the shore, she distinguished the
shape of the chest, and gazing more intently, she first made out the
arms strained over the chest, and then discerned the face and divined
the truth. So, prompted by pity, she went out a little way into the
sea, which was then calm, took him by the hair of the head, and
drew him to land, chest and all. Then, not without difficulty she
disengaged his hands from the chest, which she set on the head of
a little girl, her daughter, that was with her, carried him home like
a little child, and set him in a bath, where she chafed and laved him
with warm water, until, the vital heat and some part of the strength
which he had lost being restored, she saw fit to take him out and
regale him with some good wine and comfits. Thus for some days
she tended him as best she could, until he recovered his strength, and
knew where he was. Then, in due time, the good woman, who
had kept his chest safe, gave it back to him, and bade him try his
fortune.
Landolfo could not recall the chest, but took it when she brought
it to him, thinking that, however slight its value, it must suffice for
a few days' charges. He found it very light, and quite lost hope;
but when the good woman was out of doors, he opened it to see
what was inside, and found there a great number of precious stones,
some set, others unset. Having some knowledge of such matters,
he saw at a glance that the stones were of great value; wherefore,
feeling that he was still not forsaken by God, he praised His name,
and quite recovered heart. But, having in a brief space of time
been twice shrewdly hit by the bolts of Fortune, he was apprehensive
of a third blow, and deemed it meet to use much circumspection in
conveying his treasure home; so he wrapped it up in rags as best
he could, telling the good woman that he had no more use for the
chest, but she might keep it if she wished, and give him a sack in
exchange. This the good woman readily did; and he, thanking
her as heartily as he could for the service she had rendered him,
threw his sack over his shoulders, and, taking ship, crossed to
Brindisi. Thence he made his way by the coast as far as Trani,
where he found some of his townsfolk that were drapers, to whom
he narrated all his adventures except that of the chest. They in
charity gave him a suit of clothes, and lent him a horse and their
escort as far as Ravello, whither, he said, he was minded to return.
There, thanking God for bringing him safe home, he opened his sack,
and examining its contents with more care than before, found the
number and fashion of the stones to be such that the sale of them
at a moderate price, or even less, would leave him twice as rich as
when he left Ravello. So, having disposed of his stones, he sent a
large sum of money to Corfu in recompense of the service done him
by the good woman who had rescued him from the sea, and also to
his friends at Trani who had furnished him with the clothes; the
residue he retained, and, making no more ventures in trade, lived
and died in honourable estate.
Novel VAndreuccio da Perugia comes to Naples to buy horses,
meets with three serious adventures in one night,
comes safe out of them all, and returns home with
a ruby.
Landolfo's find of stones, began Fiammetta,
on whom the
narration now fell, has brought to my mind a story in which there are
scarce fewer perilous scapes than in Lauretta's story, but with this
difference, that, instead of a course of perhaps several years, a single
night, as you shall hear, sufficed for their occurrence.
In Perugia, by what I once gathered, there lived a young man,
Andreuccio di Pietro by name, a horse-dealer, who, having learnt
that horses were to be had cheap at Naples, put five hundred florins
of gold in his purse, and in company with some other merchants
went thither, never having been away from home before. On his
arrival at Naples, which was on a Sunday evening, about vespers,
he learnt from his host that the fair would be held on the following
morning. Thither accordingly he then repaired, and looked at
many horses which pleased him much, and cheapening them more
and more, and failing to strike a bargain with any one, he from
time to time, being raw and unwary, drew out his purse of florins
in view of all that came and went, to shew that he meant business.
While he was thus chaffering, and after he had shewn his purse,
there chanced to come by a Sicilian girl, fair as fair could be, but
ready to pleasure any man for a small consideration. He did not see
her, but she saw him and his purse, and forthwith said to herself:
Who would be in better luck than I if all those florins were
mine?
and so she passed on. With the girl was an old woman,
also a Sicilian, who, when she saw Andreuccio, dropped behind the
girl, and ran towards him, making as if she would tenderly embrace
him. The girl observing this said nothing, but stopped and waited
a little way off for the old woman to rejoin her. Andreuccio turned
as the old woman came up, recognised her, and greeted her very
cordially; but time and place not permitting much converse, she
left him, promising to visit him at his inn; and he resumed his
chaffering, but bought nothing that morning.
Her old woman's intimate acquaintance with Andreuccio had no
more escaped the girl's notice than the contents of Andreuccio's
purse; and with the view of devising, if possible, some way to make
the money, either in whole or in part, her own, she began cautiously
to ask the old woman, who and whence he was, what he did there,
and how she came to know him. The old woman gave her almost
as much and as circumstantial information touching Andreuccio and his
affairs as he might have done himself, for she had lived a great while with
his father, first in Sicily, and afterwards at Perugia. She likewise told
the girl the name of his inn, and the purpose with which he had
come to Naples. Thus fully armed with the names and all else that
it was needful for her to know touching Andreuccio's kith and kin,
the girl founded thereon her hopes of gratifying her cupidity, and
forthwith devised a cunning stratagem to effect her purpose. Home
she went, and gave the old woman work enough to occupy her all
day, that she might not be able to visit Andreuccio; then, summoning
to her aid a little girl whom she had well trained for such services,
she sent her about vespers to the inn where Andreuccio lodged.
Arrived there, the little girl asked for Andreuccio of Andreuccio
himself, who chanced to be just outside the gate. On his answering
that he was the man, she took him aside, and said: Sir, a lady of
this country, so please you, would fain speak with you.
Whereto
he listened with all his ears, and having a great conceit of his person,
made up his mind that the lady was in love with him, as if there
were ne'er another handsome fellow in Naples but himself; so forthwith
he replied, that he would wait on the lady, and asked where
and when it would be her pleasure to speak with him.
Sir,
replied
the little girl, she expects you in her own house, if you be pleased
to come.
Lead on then, I follow thee,
said Andreuccio promptly,
vouchsafing never a word to any in the inn.
So the little girl guided
him to her mistress's house, which was situated in a quarter the
character of which may be inferred from its name, Evil Hole.
Of this, however, he neither knew nor suspected aught, but, supposing
that the quarter was perfectly reputable and that he was going to see
a sweet lady, strode carelessly behind the little girl into the house of
her mistress, whom she summoned by calling out, Andreuccio is
here;
and Andreuccio then saw her advance to the head of the
stairs to await his ascent. She was tall, still in the freshness of her
youth, very fair of face, and very richly and nobly clad. As Andreuccio
approached, she descended three steps to meet him with open
arms, and clasped him round the neck, but for a while stood silent as
if from excess of tenderness; then, bursting into a flood of tears, she
kissed his brow, and in slightly broken accents said: O Andreuccio,
welcome, welcome, my Andreuccio.
Quite lost in wonder
to be the recipient of such caresses, Andreuccio could only answer:
Madam, well met.
Whereupon she took him by the hand, led
him up into her saloon, and thence without another word into her
chamber, which exhaled throughout the blended fragrance of roses,
orange-blossoms and other perfumes. He observed a handsome curtained
bed, dresses in plenty hanging, as is customary in that country,
on pegs, and other appointments very fair and sumptuous; which
sights, being strange to him, confirmed his belief that he was in the
house of no other than a great lady. They sate down side by side
on a chest at the foot of the bed, and thus she began to speak:
Andreuccio, I cannot doubt that thou dost marvel both at the
caresses which I bestow upon thee, and at my tears, seeing that thou
knowest me not, and, maybe, hast never so much as heard my name;
wait but a moment and thou shalt learn what perhaps will cause thee
to marvel still more, to wit, that I am thy sister; and I tell thee,
that, since of God's especial grace it is granted me to see one, albeit
I would fain see all, of my brothers before I die, I shall not meet
death, when the hour comes, without consolation; but thou, perchance,
hast never heard aught of this; wherefore listen to what I
shall say to thee. Pietro, my father and thine, as I suppose thou
mayst have heard, dwelt a long while at Palermo, where his good
heart and gracious bearing caused him to be (as he still is) much
beloved by all that knew him; but by none was he loved so much as
by a gentlewoman, afterwards my mother, then a widow, who, casting
aside all respect for her father and brothers, ay, and her honour,
grew so intimate with him that a child was born, which child am I,
thy sister, whom thou seest before thee. Shortly after my birth it so
befell that Pietro must needs leave Palermo and return to Perugia, and
I, his little daughter, was left behind with my mother at Palermo; nor,
so far as I have been able to learn, did he ever again bestow a thought
upon either of us. Wherefore--to say nothing of the love which he
should have borne me, his daughter by no servant or woman of low
degree--I should, were he not my father, gravely censure the ingratitude
which he shewed towards my mother, who, prompted by a most
loyal love, committed her fortune and herself to his keeping, without so
much as knowing who he was. But to what end? The wrongs of
long-ago are much more easily censured than redressed; enough that so
it was. He left me a little girl at Palermo, where, when I was grown
to be almost as thou seest me, my mother, who was a rich lady, gave
me in marriage to an honest gentleman of the Girgenti family, who
for love of my mother and myself settled in Palermo, and there, being
a staunch Guelf, entered into correspondence with our King
Charles;Charles II. of Naples, son of Charles of Anjou.
which being discovered by King FredericFrederic II. of Sicily,
younger son of Peter III. of Arragon. before the time was ripe
for action, we had perforce to flee from Sicily just when I was expecting
to become the greatest lady that ever was in the island. So,
taking with us such few things as we could, few, I say, in comparison
of the abundance which we possessed, we bade adieu to our estates
and palaces, and found a refuge in this country, and such favour with
King Charles that, in partial compensation for the losses which we
had sustained on his account, he has granted us estates and houses and
an ample pension, which he regularly pays to my husband and thy
brother-in-law, as thou mayst yet see. In this manner I live here;
but that I am blest with the sight of thee, I ascribe entirely to the
mercy of God; and no thanks to thee, my sweet brother.
So saying
she embraced him again, and melting anew into tears kissed his
brow.
This story, so congruous, so consistent in every detail, came trippingly
and without the least hesitancy from her tongue. Andreuccio
remembered that his father had indeed lived at Palermo; he knew by
his own experience the ways of young folk, how prone they are to
love; he saw her melt into tears, he felt her embraces and sisterly
kisses; and he took all she said for gospel. So, when she had done,
he answered:
Madam, it should not surprise you that I marvel,
seeing that, in sooth, my father, for whatever cause, said never a word
of you and your mother, or, if he did so, it came not to my knowledge,
so that I knew no more of you than if you had not been;
wherefore, the lonelier I am here, and the less hope I had of such
good luck, the better pleased I am to have found here my sister.
And indeed, I know not any man, however exalted his station, who
ought not to be well pleased to have such a sister; much more, then,
I, who am but a petty merchant; but, I pray you, resolve me of one
thing: how came you to know that I was here?
Then answered
she: 'Twas told me this morning by a poor woman who is much
about the house, because, as she tells me, she was long in the service
of our father both at Palermo and at Perugia; and, but that it seemed
more fitting that thou shouldst come to see me at home than that I
should visit thee at an inn, I had long ago sought thee out.
She
then began to inquire particularly after all his kinsfolk by name, and
Andreuccio, becoming ever more firmly persuaded of that which it
was least for his good to believe, answered all her questions.
Their
conversation being thus prolonged and the heat great, she had Greek
wine and sweetmeats brought in, and gave Andreuccio to drink;
and when towards supper-time he made as if he would leave, she
would in no wise suffer it; but, feigning to be very much vexed, she
embraced him, saying:
Alas! now 'tis plain how little thou carest
for me: to think that thou art with thy sister, whom thou seest for
the first time, and in her own house, where thou shouldst have
alighted on thine arrival, and thou wouldst fain depart hence to go
sup at an inn! Nay but, for certain, thou shalt sup with me; and
albeit, to my great regret, my husband is not here, thou shalt see that
I can do a lady's part in shewing thee honour.
Andreuccio, not
knowing what else to say, replied: Sister, I care for you with all
a brother's affection; but if I go not, supper will await me all the
evening at the inn, and I shall justly be taxed with discourtesy.
Then said she: Blessed be God, there is even now in the house
one by whom I can send word that they are not to expect thee at the
inn, albeit thou wouldst far better discharge the debt of courtesy by
sending word to thy friends, that they come here to sup; and then,
if go thou must, you might all go in a body.
Andreuccio replied,
that he would have none of his friends that evening, but since she
would have him stay, he would even do her the pleasure. She then
made a shew of sending word to the inn that they should not expect
him at dinner. Much more talk followed; and then they sate down
to a supper of many courses splendidly served, which she cunningly
protracted until nightfall; nor, when they were risen from table, and
Andreuccio was about to take his departure, would she by any means
suffer it, saying, that Naples was no place to walk about in after
dark, least of all for a stranger, and that, as she had sent word to the
inn that they were not to expect him at supper, so she had done the
like in regard of his bed. Believing what she said, and being (in his
false confidence) overjoyed to be with her, he stayed. After supper
there was matter enough for talk both various and prolonged; and,
when the night was in a measure spent, she gave up her own chamber
to Andreuccio, leaving him with a small boy to shew him aught that
he might have need of, while she retired with her women to another
chamber.
It was a very hot night; so, no sooner was Andreuccio alone than
he stripped himself to his doublet, and drew off his stockings and laid
them on the bed's head; and nature demanding a discharge of the
surplus weight which he carried within him, he asked the lad
where this might be done, and was shewn a door in a corner of
the room, and told to go in there. Andreuccio, nothing doubting,
did so, but, by ill luck, set his foot on a plank which was detached
from the joist at the further end, whereby down it went, and he
with it. By God's grace he took no hurt by the fall, though it
was from some height, beyond sousing himself from head to foot
in the ordure which filled the whole place, which, that you may
the better understand what has been said, and that which is to
follow, I will describe to you. A narrow and blind alley, such as
we commonly see between two houses, was spanned by planks
supported by joists on either side, and on the planks was the stool;
of which planks that which fell with Andreuccio was one.
Now
Andreuccio, finding himself down there in the alley, fell to calling on
the lad, who, as soon as he heard him fall, had run off, and promptly
let the lady know what had happened. She hied forthwith to her
chamber, and after a hasty search found Andreuccio's clothes and the
money
in them, for he foolishly thought to secure himself against
risk by carrying it always on his person, and thus being possessed of
the prize for which she had played her ruse, passing herself off as the
sister of a man of Perugia, whereas she was really of Palermo, she
concerned herself no further with Andreuccio except to close with
all speed the door by which he had gone out when he fell.
As the
lad did not answer, Andreuccio began to shout more loudly; but all
to no purpose. Whereby his suspicions were aroused, and he began
at last to perceive the trick that had been played upon him; so he
climbed over a low wall that divided the alley from the street, and
hied him to the door of the house, which he knew very well. There
for a long while he stood shouting and battering the door till it shook
on its hinges; but all again to no purpose.
No doubt of his misadventure
now lurking in his mind, he fell to bewailing himself,
saying: Alas! in how brief a time have I lost five hundred florins
and a sister!
with much more of the like sort. Then he recommenced
battering the door and shouting, to such a tune that not a
few of the neighbours were roused, and finding the nuisance intolerable,
got up; and one of the lady's servant-girls presented herself at
the window with a very sleepy air, and said angrily: Who knocks
below there?
Oh!
said Andreuccio, dost not know me? I
am Andreuccio, Madam Fiordaliso's brother.
Good man,
she
rejoined, if thou hast had too much to drink, go, sleep it off, and
come back to-morrow. I know not Andreuccio, nor aught of the
fantastic stuff thou pratest; prithee begone and be so good as to let
us sleep in peace.
How?
said Andreuccio, dost not understand
what I say? For sure thou dost understand; but if Sicilian kinships
are of such a sort that folk forget them so soon, at least return me
my clothes, which I left within, and right glad shall I be to be off.
Half laughing she rejoined: Good man, methinks thou dost
dream:
and so saying, she withdrew and closed the window.
Andreuccio by this time needed no further evidence of his wrongs;
his wrath knew no bounds, and mortification well-nigh converted
it into frenzy; he was minded to exact by force what he had
failed to obtain by entreaties; and so, arming himself with a
large stone, he renewed his attack upon the door with fury, dealing
much heavier blows than at first. Wherefore, not a few of the
neighbours, whom he had already roused from their beds, set him
down as an ill-conditioned rogue, and his story as a mere fiction
intended to annoy the good woman,I. e. the bawd. and
resenting the din which
he now made, came to their windows, just as, when a stranger dog
makes his appearance, all the dogs of the quarter will run to bark at
him, and called out in chorus:
'Tis a gross affront to come at this
time of night to the house of the good woman with this silly story.
Prithee, good man, let us sleep in peace; begone in God's name; and
if thou hast a score to settle with her, come to-morrow, but a truce
to thy pestering to-night.
Emboldened, perhaps, by these words, a man who lurked within
the house, the good woman's bully, whom Andreuccio had as yet
neither seen nor heard, shewed himself at the window, and said in a
gruff voice and savage, menacing tone: Who is below there?
Andreuccio looked up in the direction of the voice, and saw standing
at the window, yawning and rubbing his eyes as if he had just been
roused from his bed, or at any rate from deep sleep, a fellow with a
black and matted beard, who, as far as Andreuccio's means of judging
went, bade fair to prove a most redoubtable champion. It was not
without fear, therefore, that he replied: I am a brother of the
lady who is within.
The bully did not wait for him to finish his
sentence, but, addressing him in a much sterner tone than before,
called out: I know not why I come not down and give thee play
with my cudgel, whilst thou givest me sign of life, ass, tedious driveller
that thou must needs be, and drunken sot, thus to disturb our
night's rest.
Which said, he withdrew, and closed the window.
Some of the neighbours who best knew the bully's quality gave
Andreuccio fair words. For God's sake,
said they, good man,
take thyself off, stay not here to be murdered. 'Twere best for thee
to go.
These counsels, which seemed to be dictated by charity,
reinforced the fear which the voice and aspect of the bully had
inspired in Andreuccio, who, thus despairing of recovering his money
and in the deepest of dumps, set his face towards the quarter whence
in the daytime he had blindly followed the little girl, and began to
make his way back to the inn. But so noisome was the stench
which he emitted that he resolved to turn aside and take a bath in the
sea. So he bore leftward up a street called Ruga Catalana, and was
on his way towards the steep of the city, when by chance he saw two
men coming towards him, bearing a lantern, and fearing that they
might be patrols or other men who might do him a mischief, he stole
away and hid himself in a dismantled house to avoid them.
The
house, however, was presently entered by the two men, just as if they
had been guided thither; and one of them having disburdened himself
of some iron tools which he carried on his shoulder, they both
began to examine them, passing meanwhile divers comments upon
them. While they were thus occupied, What,
said one, means
this? Such a stench as never before did I smell the like!
So
saying, he raised the lantern a little; whereby they had a view of
hapless Andreuccio, and asked in amazement: Who is there?
Whereupon Andreuccio was at first silent, but when they flashed
the light close upon him, and asked him what he did there in such
a filthy state, he told them all that had befallen him. Casting
about to fix the place where it occurred, they said one to another:
Of a surety 'twas in the house of Scarabone Buttafuoco.
Then
said one, turning to Andreuccio: Good man, albeit thou hast
lost thy money, thou hast cause enough to praise God that thou
hadst the luck to fall; for hadst thou not fallen, be sure that, no
sooner wert thou asleep, than thou hadst been knocked on the head,
and lost not only thy money but thy life. But what boots it now
to bewail thee? Thou mightest as soon pluck a star from the
firmament as recover a single denier; nay, 'tis as much as thy life
is worth if he do but hear that thou breathest a word of the affair.
The two men then held a short consultation, at the close of
which they said: Lo now; we are sorry for thee, and so we
make thee a fair offer. If thou wilt join with us in a little matter
which we have in hand, we doubt not but thy share of the gain
will greatly exceed what thou hast lost.
Andreuccio, being now
desperate, answered that he was ready to join them.
Now Messer
Filippo Minutolo, Archbishop of Naples, had that day been buried
with a ruby on his finger, worth over five hundred florins of gold,
besides other ornaments of extreme value. The two men were
minded to despoil the Archbishop of his fine trappings, and imparted
their design to Andreuccio, who, cupidity getting the better of
caution, approved it; and so they all three set forth. But as they
were on their way to the cathedral, Andreuccio gave out so rank an
odour that one said to the other: Can we not contrive that he
somehow wash himself a little, that he stink not so shrewdly?
Why yes,
said the other, we are now close to a well, which
is never without the pulley and a large bucket; 'tis but a step
thither, and we will wash him out of hand.
Arrived at the well,
they found that the rope was still there, but the bucket had been
removed; so they determined to attach him to the rope, and
lower him into the well, there to wash himself, which done, he
was to jerk the rope, and they would draw him up. Lowered
accordingly he was; but just as, now washen, he jerked the rope,
it
so happened that a company of patrols, being thirsty because 'twas a
hot night and some rogue had led them a pretty dance, came to the
well to drink. The two men fled, unobserved, as soon as they caught
sight of the newcomers, who, parched with thirst, laid aside their
bucklers, arms and surcoats, and fell to hauling on the rope, supposing
that it bore the bucket, full of water. When, therefore, they saw
Andreuccio, as he neared the brink of the well, loose the rope and
clutch the brink with his hands, they were stricken with a sudden
terror, and without uttering a word let go the rope, and took to flight
with all the speed they could make. Whereat Andreuccio marvelled
mightily, and had he not kept a tight grip on the brink of the well,
he would certainly have gone back to the bottom and hardly have
escaped grievous hurt, or death. Still greater was his astonishment,
when, fairly landed on terra firma, he found the patrols' arms lying
there, which he knew had not been carried by his comrades.
He
felt a vague dread, he knew not why; he bewailed once more his
evil fortune; and without venturing to touch the arms, he left the
well and wandered he knew not whither. As he went, however, he
fell in with his two comrades, now returning to draw him out of the
well; who no sooner saw him than in utter amazement they
demanded who had hauled him up. Andreuccio answered that he
knew not, and then told them in detail how it had come about, and
what he had found beside the well. They laughed as they apprehended
the circumstances, and told him why they had fled, and who
they were that had hauled him up. Then without further parley,
for it was now midnight, they hied them to the cathedral. They had
no difficulty in entering and finding the tomb, which was a magnificent
structure of marble, and with their iron implements they raised
the lid, albeit it was very heavy, to a height sufficient to allow a man
to enter, and propped it up. This done, a dialogue ensued. Who
shall go in?
said one.
Not I,
said the other.
Nor I,
rejoined his companion; let Andreuccio go in.
That will not I,
said Andreuccio.
Whereupon both turned upon him and said:
How? thou wilt not go in? By God, if thou goest not in, we
will give thee that over the pate with one of these iron crowbars
that thou shalt drop down dead.
Terror-stricken, into the tomb
Andreuccio went, saying to himself as he did so: These men will
have me go in, that they may play a trick upon me: when I have
handed everything up to them, and am sweating myself to get out
of the tomb, they will be off about their business, and I shall be left
with nothing for my pains.
So he determined to make sure of his
own part first; and bethinking him of the precious ring of which he
had heard them speak, as soon as he had completed the descent, he
drew the ring off the Archbishop's finger, and put it on his own: he
then handed up one by one the crosier, mitre and gloves, and other of
the Archbishop's trappings, stripping him to his shirt; which done, he
told his comrades that there was nothing more. They insisted that
the ring must be there, and bade him search everywhere. This he
feigned to do, ejaculating from time to time that he found it not;
and thus he kept them a little while in suspense. But they, who
were in their way as cunning as he, kept on exhorting him to make
a careful search, and, seizing their opportunity, withdrew the prop
that supported the lid of the tomb, and took to their heels, leaving
him there a close prisoner. You will readily conceive how Andreuccio
behaved when he understood his situation.
More than once he
applied his head and shoulders to the lid and sought with might and
main to heave it up; but all his efforts were fruitless; so that at
last, overwhelmed with anguish he fell in a swoon on the corpse of
the Archbishop, and whether of the twain were the more lifeless,
Andreuccio or the Archbishop, 'twould have puzzled an observer to
determine.
When he came to himself he burst into a torrent of tears, seeing
now nothing in store for him but either to perish there of hunger
and fetid odours beside the corpse and among the worms, or, should
the tomb be earlier opened, to be taken and hanged as a thief.
These
most lugubrious meditations were interrupted by a sound of persons
walking and talking in the church. They were evidently a numerous
company, and their purpose, as Andreuccio surmised, was the very
same with which he and his comrades had come thither: whereby
his terror was mightily increased. Presently the folk opened the
tomb, and propped up the lid, and then fell to disputing as to who
should go in. None was willing, and the contention was protracted;
but at length one--'twas a priest--said: Of what are ye afeared?
Think ye to be eaten by him? Nay, the dead eat not the living. I
will go in myself.
So saying he propped his breast upon the edge
of the lid, threw his head back, and thrust his legs within, that he
might go down feet foremost. On sight whereof Andreuccio started
to his feet, and seizing hold of one of the priest's legs, made as if he
would drag him down; which caused the priest to utter a prodigious
yell, and bundle himself out of the tomb with no small celerity.
The rest took to flight in a panic, as if a hundred thousand devils
were at their heels. The tomb being thus left open, Andreuccio, the
ring still on his finger, sprang out. The way by which he had
entered the church served him for egress, and roaming at random, he
arrived towards daybreak at the coast. Diverging thence he came
by chance upon his inn, where he found that his host and his
comrades had been anxious about him all night. When he told
them all that had befallen him, they joined with the host in advising
him to leave Naples at once. He accordingly did so, and returned
to Perugia, having invested in a ring the money with which he had
intended to buy horses.
Novel VI Madam Beritola loses two sons, is found with two kids
on an island, goes thence to Lunigiana, where
one of her sons takes service with her master,
and lies with his daughter, for which he is put in
prison. Sicily rebels against King Charles, the son
is recognised by the mother, marries the master's
daughter, and, his brother being discovered, is reinstated
in great honour.
The ladies and the young men alike had many a hearty laugh
over Fiammetta's narrative of Andreuccio's adventures, which ended,
Emilia, at the queen's command, thus began:
Grave and grievous are the vicissitudes with which Fortune
makes us acquainted, and as discourse of such matter serves to
awaken our minds, which are so readily lulled to sleep by her
flatteries, I deem it worthy of attentive hearing by all, whether
they enjoy her favour or endure her frown, in that it ministers
counsel to the one sort and consolation to the other. Wherefore,
albeit great matters have preceded it, I mean to tell you a story, not
less true than touching, of adventures whereof the issue was indeed
felicitous, but the antecedent bitterness so long drawn out that scarce
can I believe that it was ever sweetened by ensuing happiness.
Dearest ladies, you must know that after the death of the
Emperor Frederic II. the crown of Sicily passed to Manfred; whose
favour was enjoyed in the highest degree by a gentleman of Naples,
Arrighetto Capece by name, who had to wife Madonna Beritola
Caracciola, a fair and gracious lady, likewise a Neapolitan. Now
when Manfred was conquered and slain by King Charles I. at
Benevento, and the whole realm transferred its allegiance to the
conqueror, Arrighetto, who was then governor of Sicily, no sooner
received the tidings than he prepared for instant flight, knowing that
little reliance was to be placed on the fleeting faith of the Sicilians,
and not being minded to become a subject of his master's enemy.
But the Sicilians having intelligence of his plans, he and many other
friends and servants of King Manfred were surprised, taken prisoners
and delivered over to King Charles, to whom the whole island was
soon afterwards surrendered. In this signal reversal of the wonted
course of things Madam Beritola, knowing not what was become
of Arrighetto, and from the past ever auguring future evil, lest she
should suffer foul dishonour, abandoned all that she possessed, and with
a son of, perhaps, eight years, Giusfredi by name, being also pregnant,
fled in a boat to Lipari, where she gave birth to another male child,
whom she named Outcast. Then with her sons and a hired nurse
she took ship for Naples, intending there to rejoin her family.
Events, however, fell out otherwise than she expected; for by stress
of weather the ship was carried out of her course to the desert
island of Ponza,The largest, now inhabited, of a group of islets in
the
Gulf of Gaeta. where they put in to a little bay until such time
as they might safely continue their voyage. Madam Beritola
landed with the rest on the island, and, leaving them all, sought out
a lonely and secluded spot, and there abandoned herself to melancholy
brooding on the loss of her dear Arrighetto. While thus she spent
her days in solitary preoccupation with her grief it chanced that a
galley of corsairs swooped down upon the island, and, before either
the mariners or any other folk were aware of their peril, made
an easy capture of them all and sailed away; so that, when Madam
Beritola, her wailing for that day ended, returned, as was her wont,
to the shore to solace herself with the sight of her sons, she found
none there. At first she was lost in wonder, then with a sudden
suspicion of the truth she bent her eyes seaward, and there saw the
galley still at no great distance, towing the ship in her wake. Thus
apprehending beyond all manner of doubt that she had lost her sons
as well as her husband, and that, alone, desolate and destitute, she
might not hope that any of her lost ones would ever be restored to
her, she fell down on the shore in a swoon with the names of her
husband and sons upon her lips. None was there to administer cold
water or aught else that might recall her truant powers; her animal
spirits might even wander whithersoever they would at their sweet
will: strength, however, did at last return to her poor exhausted
frame, and therewith tears and lamentations, as, plaintively repeating
her sons' names, she roamed in quest of them from cavern to cavern.
Long time she sought them thus; but when she saw that her labour
was in vain, and that night was closing in, hope, she knew not why,
began to return, and with it some degree of anxiety on her own
account. Wherefore she left the shore and returned to the cavern
where she had been wont to indulge her plaintive mood. She
passed the night in no small fear and indescribable anguish; the new
day came, and, as she had not supped, she was fain after tierce to
appease her hunger, as best she could, by a breakfast of herbs: this
done, she wept and began to ruminate on her future way of life.
While thus engaged, she observed a she-goat come by and go into
an adjacent cavern, and after a while come forth again and go into
the wood: thus roused from her reverie she got up, went into the
cavern from which the she-goat had issued, and there saw two kids,
which might have been born that very day, and seemed to her the
sweetest and the most delicious things in the world: and, having,
by reason of her recent delivery, milk still within her, she took them
up tenderly, and set them to her breast. They, nothing loath,
sucked at her teats as if she had been their own dam; and thenceforth
made no distinction between her and the dam. Which caused
the lady to feel that she had found company in the desert; and so,
living on herbs and water, weeping as often as she bethought her
of her husband and sons and her past life, she disposed herself to
live and die there, and became no less familiar with the she-goat
than with her young.
The gentle lady thus leading the life of a wild creature, it
chanced that after some months stress of weather brought a Pisan
ship to the very same bay in which she had landed. The ship lay
there for several days, having on board a gentleman, Currado de'
Malespini by name (of the same family as the Marquis), who with
his noble and most devout lady was returning home from a pilgrimage,
having visited all the holy places in the realm of Apulia.
To
beguile the tedium of the sojourn Currado with his lady, some
servants and his dogs, set forth one day upon a tour through the
island. As they neared the place where Madam Beritola dwelt,
Currado's dogs on view of the two kids, which, now of a fair size,
were grazing, gave chase. The kids, pursued by the dogs, made
straight for Madam Beritola's cavern. She, seeing what was toward,
started to her feet, caught up a stick, and drove the dogs back.
Currado and his lady coming up after the dogs, gazed on Madam
Beritola, now tanned and lean and hairy, with wonder, which she
more than reciprocated. At her request Currado called off the
dogs; and then he and his lady besought her again and again to
say who she was and what she did there. So she told them all
about herself, her rank, her misfortunes, and the savage life which
she was minded to lead. Currado, who had known Arrighetto
Capece very well, was moved to tears by compassion, and exhausted
all his eloquence to induce her to change her mind, offering to escort
her home, or to take her to live with him in honourable estate as his
sister until God should vouchsafe her kindlier fortune. The lady
declining all his offers, Currado left her with his wife, whom he bade
see that food was brought thither, and let Madam Beritola, who was
all in rags, have one of her own dresses to wear, and do all that she
could to persuade her to go with them. So the gentle lady stayed
with Madam Beritola, and after condoling with her at large on her
misfortunes had food and clothing brought to her, and with the
greatest difficulty in the world prevailed upon her to eat and dress
herself. At last, after much beseeching, she induced her to depart
from her oft-declared intention never to go where she might meet
any that knew her, and accompany them to Lunigiana, taking with
her the two kids and the dam, which latter had in the meantime
returned, and to the gentle lady's great surprise had greeted
Madam Beritola with the utmost affection. So with the return
of fair weather Madam Beritola, taking with her the dam and the
two kids, embarked with Currado and his lady on their ship, being
called by them--for her true name was not to be known of
all--Cavriuola;I. e. she-goat. and the wind holding
fair, they speedily reached the
mouth of the Magra,Between Liguria and Tuscany. and landing
hied
them to Currado's castle;
where Madam Beritola abode with Currado's lady in the quality of
her maid, serving her well and faithfully, wearing widow's weeds,
and feeding and tending her kids with assiduous and loving care.
The corsairs, who, not espying Madam Beritola, had left her at
Ponza when they took the ship on which she had come thither,
had made a course to Genoa, taking with them all the other folk.
On their arrival the owners of the galley shared the booty, and so
it happened that as part thereof Madam Beritola's nurse and her two
boys fell to the lot of one Messer Guasparrino d'Oria, who sent all
three to his house, being minded to keep them there as domestic
slaves. The nurse, beside herself with grief at the loss of her
mistress and the woful plight in which she found herself and her
two charges, shed many a bitter tear. But, seeing that they were
unavailing, and that she and the boys were slaves together, she,
having, for all her low estate, her share of wit and good sense, made
it her first care to comfort them; then, regardful of the condition
to which they were reduced, she bethought her, that, if the lads were
recognised, 'twould very likely be injurious to them. So, still hoping
that some time or another Fortune would change her mood, and
they be able, if living, to regain their lost estate, she resolved to let
none know who they were, until she saw a fitting occasion; and
accordingly, whenever she was questioned thereof by any, she gave
them out as her own children. The name of the elder she changed
from Giusfredi to Giannotto di Procida; the name of the younger
she did not think it worth while to change. She spared no pains
to make Giusfredi understand the reason why she had changed his
name, and the risk which he might run if he were recognised.
This she impressed upon him not once only but many times; and
the boy, who was apt to learn, followed the instructions of the wise
nurse with perfect exactitude.
So the two boys, ill clad and worse shod, continued with the
nurse in Messer Guasparrino's house for two years, patiently performing
all kinds of menial offices. But Giannotto, being now
sixteen years old, and of a spirit that consorted ill with servitude,
brooked not the baseness of his lot, and dismissed himself from
Messer Guasparrino's service by getting aboard a galley bound
for Alexandria, and travelled far and wide, and fared never the
better. In the course of his wanderings he learned that his father,
whom he had supposed to be dead, was still living, but kept in prison
under watch and ward by King Charles. He was grown a tall
handsome young man, when, perhaps three or four years after he
had given Messer Guasparrino the slip, weary of roaming and all
but despairing of his fortune, he came to Lunigiana, and by chance
took service with Currado Malespini, who found him handy, and
was well-pleased with him. His mother, who was in attendance
on Currado's lady, he seldom saw, and never recognised her, nor
she him; so much had time changed both from their former aspect
since they last met. While Giannotto was thus in the service of
Currado, it fell out by the death of Niccolò da Grignano that his
widow, Spina, Currado's daughter, returned to her father's house.
Very fair she was and loveable, her age not more than sixteen years,
and so it was that she saw Giannotto with favour, and he her, and
both fell ardently in love with one another. Their passion was
early gratified; but several months elapsed before any detected its
existence. Wherefore, growing overbold, they began to dispense with
the precautions which such an affair demanded. So one day, as
they walked with others through a wood, where the trees grew fair
and close, the girl and Giannotto left the rest of the company some
distance behind, and, thinking that they were well in advance, found
a fair pleasaunce girt in with trees and carpeted with abundance of
grass and flowers, and fell to solacing themselves after the manner
of lovers. Long time they thus dallied, though such was their
delight that all too brief it seemed to them, and so it befell that they
were surprised first by the girl's mother and then by Currado.
Pained beyond measure by what he had seen, Currado, without
assigning any cause, had them both arrested by three of his servants
and taken in chains to one of his castles; where in a frenzy of
passionate wrath he left them, resolved to put them to an ignominious
death. The girl's mother was also very angry, and deemed her
daughter's fall deserving of the most rigorous chastisement, but,
when by one of Currado's chance words she divined the doom which
he destined for the guilty pair, she could not reconcile herself to
it, and hasted to intercede with her angry husband, beseeching him
to refrain the impetuous wrath which would hurry him in his
old age to murder his daughter and imbrue his hands in the
blood of his servant, and vent it in some other way, as by close
confinement and duress, whereby the culprits should be brought to
repent them of their fault in tears. Thus, and with much more
to the like effect, the devout lady urged her suit, and at length
prevailed upon her husband to abandon his murderous design.
Wherefore, he commanded that the pair should be confined in
separate prisons, and closely guarded, and kept short of food and
in sore discomfort, until further order; which was accordingly done;
and the life which the captives led, their endless tears, their fasts of
inordinate duration, may be readily imagined.
Giannotto and Spina had languished in this sorry plight for full
a year, entirely ignored by Currado, when in concert with Messer
Gian di Procida, King Peter of Arragon raised a rebellionThe Sicilian
Vespers, Easter, 1282. in the island
of Sicily, and wrested it from King Charles, whereat Currado, being a
Ghibelline, was overjoyed. Hearing the tidings from one of his warders,
Giannotto heaved a great sigh, and said: Alas, fourteen years have I
been a wanderer upon the face of the earth, looking for no other than
this very event; and now, that my hopes of happiness may be for ever
frustrate, it has come to pass only to find me in prison, whence I
may never think to issue alive.
How?
said the warder; what
signify to thee these doings of these mighty monarchs? What part
hadst thou in Sicily?
Giannotto answered: 'Tis as if my heart
were breaking when I bethink me of my father and what part he had
in Sicily. I was but a little lad when I fled the island, but yet I
remember him as its governor in the time of King Manfred.
And who then was thy father?
demanded the warder.
His
name,
rejoined Giannotto, I need no longer scruple to disclose,
seeing that I find myself in the very strait which I hoped to avoid by
concealing it. He was and still is, if he live, Arrighetto Capece;
and my name is not Giannotto but Giusfredi; and I doubt not but,
were I once free, and back in Sicily, I might yet hold a very honourable
position in the island.
The worthy man asked no more questions, but, as soon as he found
opportunity, told what he had learned to Currado; who, albeit he
made light of it in the warder's presence, repaired to Madam Beritola,
and asked her in a pleasant manner, whether she had had by Arrighetto
a son named Giusfredi. The lady answered, in tears, that, if
the elder of her two sons were living, such would be his name, and
his age twenty-two years. This inclined Currado to think that
Giannotto and Giusfredi were indeed one and the same; and it
occurred to him, that, if so it were, he might at once shew himself
most merciful and blot out his daughter's shame and his own by
giving her to him in marriage; wherefore he sent for Giannotto
privily, and questioned him in detail touching his past life. And
finding by indubitable evidence that he was indeed Giusfredi, son of
Arrighetto Capece, he said to him:
Giannotto, thou knowest the
wrong which thou hast done me in the person of my daughter, what
and how great it is, seeing that I used thee well and kindly, and thou
shouldst therefore, like a good servant, have shewn thyself jealous
of my honour, and zealous in my interest; and many there are who,
hadst thou treated them as thou hast treated me, would have caused
thee to die an ignominious death; which my clemency would not
brook. But now, as it is even so as thou sayst, and thou art of
gentle blood by both thy parents, I am minded to put an end to thy
sufferings as soon as thou wilt, releasing thee from the captivity in
which thou languishest, and setting thee in a happy place, and reinstating
at once thy honour and my own. Thy intimacy with Spina--albeit
shameful to both--was yet prompted by love. Spina, as
thou knowest, is a widow, and her dower is ample and secure. What
her breeding is, and her father's and her mother's, thou knowest:
of thy present condition I say nought. Wherefore, when thou wilt,
I am consenting, that, having been with dishonour thy friend, she
become with honour thy wife, and that, so long as it seem good to
thee, thou tarry here with her and me as my son.
Captivity had wasted Giannotto's flesh, but had in no degree
impaired the generosity of spirit which he derived from his ancestry,
or the whole-hearted love which he bore his lady. So, albeit he
ardently desired that which Currado offered, and knew that he was
in Currado's power, yet, even as his magnanimity prompted, so,
unswervingly, he made answer: Currado, neither ambition nor
cupidity nor aught else did ever beguile me to any treacherous
machination against either thy person or thy property. Thy daughter
I loved, and love and shall ever love, because I deem her worthy of
my love; and, if I dealt with her after a fashion which to the
mechanic mind seems hardly honourable, I did but commit that fault
which is ever congenial to youth, which can never be eradicated so
long as youth continues, and which, if the aged would but remember
that they were once young and would measure the delinquencies
of others by their own and their own by those of others, would not
be deemed so grave as thou and many others depict it; and what
I did, I did as a friend, not as an enemy. That which thou offerest
I have ever desired, and should long ago have sought, had I supposed
that thou wouldst grant it, and 'twill be the more grateful to me in
proportion to the depth of my despair. But if thy intent be not such
as thy words import, feed me not with vain hopes, but send me back
to prison there to suffer whatever thou mayst be pleased to inflict; nor
doubt that even as I love Spina, so for love of her shall I ever love
thee, though thou do thy worst, and still hold thee in reverent
regard.
Currado marvelled to hear him thus speak, and being assured of
his magnanimity and the fervour of his love, held him the more dear;
wherefore he rose, embraced and kissed him, and without further
delay bade privily bring thither Spina, who left her prison wasted and
wan and weak, and so changed that she seemed almost another
woman than of yore, even as Giannotto was scarce his former self.
Then and there in Currado's presence they plighted their troth
according to our custom of espousals; and some days afterwards
Currado, having in the meantime provided all things meet for their
convenience and solace, yet so as that none should surmise what had
happened, deemed it now time to gladden their mothers with the
news. So he sent for his lady and Cavriuola, and thus, addressing first
Cavriuola, he spoke: What would you say, madam, were I to
restore you your elder son as the husband of one of my daughters?
Cavriuola answered: I should say, that, were it possible for you
to strengthen the bond which attaches me to you, then assuredly you
had so done, in that you restored to me that which I cherish more
tenderly than myself, and in such a guise as in some measure to renew
within me the hope which I had lost: more I could not say.
And
so, weeping, she was silent. Then, turning to his lady, Currado said:
And thou, madam, what wouldst thou think if I were to present
thee with such a son-in-law?
A son-in-law,
she answered,
that was not of gentle blood, but a mere churl, so he pleased you,
would well content me.
So!
returned Currado; I hope within
a few days to gladden the hearts of both of you.
He waited only until the two young folk had recovered their
wonted mien, and were clad in a manner befitting their rank. Then,
addressing Giusfredi, he said: Would it not add to thy joy to see
thy mother here?
I dare not hope,
returned Giusfredi, that she
has survived calamities and sufferings such as hers; but were it so,
great indeed would be my joy, and none the less that by her counsel
I might be aided to the recovery (in great measure) of my lost heritage
in Sicily.
Whereupon Currado caused both the ladies to come
thither, and presented to them the bride. The gladness with which
they both greeted her was a wonder to behold, and no less great was
their wonder at the benign inspiration that had prompted Currado to
unite her in wedlock with Giannotto, whom Currado's words caused
Madam Beritola to survey with some attention. A hidden spring of
memory was thus touched; she recognised in the man the lineaments
of her boy, and awaiting no further evidence she ran with open arms
and threw herself upon his neck. No word did she utter, for very
excess of maternal tenderness and joy; but, every avenue of sense
closed, she fell as if bereft of life within her son's embrace.
Giannotto,
who had often seen her in the castle and never recognised her,
marvelled not a little, but nevertheless it at once flashed upon him
that 'twas his mother, and blaming himself for his past inadvertence
he took her in his arms and wept and tenderly kissed her.
With gentle
solicitude Currado's lady and Spina came to her aid, and restored her
suspended animation with cold water and other remedies. She then
with many tender and endearing words kissed him a thousand times
or more, which tokens of her love he received with a look of reverential
acknowledgment. Thrice, nay a fourth time were these glad
and gracious greetings exchanged, and joyful indeed were they that
witnessed them, and hearkened while mother and son compared their
past adventures. Then Currado, who had already announced his new
alliance to his friends, and received their felicitations, proceeded to
give order for the celebration of the event with all becoming gaiety
and splendour. As he did so, Giusfredi said to him:
Currado, you
have long given my mother honourable entertainment, and on me
you have conferred many boons; wherefore, that you may fill up the
measure of your kindness, 'tis now my prayer that you be pleased to
gladden my mother and my marriage feast and me with the presence
of my brother, now in servitude in the house of Messer Guasparrino
d'Oria, who, as I have already told you, made prize of both him and
me; and that then you send some one to Sicily, who shall make himself
thoroughly acquainted with the circumstances and condition of
the country, and find out how it has fared with my father Arrighetto,
whether he be alive or dead, and if alive, in what circumstances, and
being thus fully informed, return to us with the tidings.
Currado
assented, and forthwith sent most trusty agents both to Genoa and to
Sicily. So in due time an envoy arrived at Genoa, and made instant
suit to Guasparrino on Currado's part for the surrender of Outcast and
the nurse, setting forth in detail all that had passed between Currado
and Giusfredi and his mother. Whereat Messer Guasparrino was
mightily astonished, and said: Of a surety there is nought that, being
able, I would not do to pleasure Currado; and true it is that I have
had in my house for these fourteen years the boy whom thou dost now
demand of me, and his mother, and gladly will I surrender them; but
tell Currado from me to beware of excessive credulity, and to put no
faith in the idle tales of Giannotto, or Giusfredi, as thou sayst he
calls himself, who is by no means so guileless as he supposes.
Then, having provided for the honourable entertainment of the
worthy envoy, he sent privily for the nurse, and cautiously sounded
her as to the affair. The nurse had heard of the revolt of Sicily, and
had learned that Arrighetto was still alive. She therefore banished
fear, and told Messer Guasparrino the whole story, and explained to
him the reasons why she had acted as she had done.
Finding that
what she said accorded very well with what he had learned from
Currado's envoy, he inclined to credit the story, and most astutely
probing the matter in divers ways, and always finding fresh grounds
for confidence, he reproached himself for the sorry manner in which
he had treated the boy, and by way of amends gave him one of his
own daughters, a beautiful girl of eleven years, to wife with a dowry
suited to Arrighetto's rank, and celebrated their nuptials with great
festivity. He then brought the boy and girl, Currado's envoy, and the
nurse in a well-armed galliot to Lerici, being there met by Currado,
who had a castle not far off, where great preparations had been made
for their entertainment: and thither accordingly he went with his
whole company.
What cheer the mother had of her son, the brothers
of one another, and all the three of the faithful nurse; what cheer
Messer Guasparrino and his daughter had of all, and all of them, and
what cheer all had of Currado and his lady and their sons and their
friends, words may not describe; wherefore, my ladies, I leave it to
your imagination. And that their joy might be full, God, who, when
He gives, gives most abundantly, added the glad tidings that Arrighetto
Capece was alive and prosperous. For, when in the best of spirits the
ladies and gentlemen had sat them down to feast, and they were yet
at the first course, the envoy from Sicily arrived, and among other
matters reported, that, no sooner had the insurrection broken out in the
island than the people hied them in hot haste to the prison where
Arrighetto was kept in confinement by King Charles, and despatching
the guards, brought him forth, and knowing him to be a capital
enemy to King Charles made him their captain, and under his command
fell upon and massacred the French. Whereby he had won
the highest place in the favour of King Peter, who had granted him
restitution of all his estates and honours, so that he was now both
prosperous and mighty. The envoy added that Arrighetto had
received him with every token of honour, had manifested the utmost
delight on hearing of his lady and son, of whom no tidings had reached
him since his arrest, and had sent, to bring them home, a brigantine
with some gentlemen aboard, whose arrival might hourly be expected.
The envoy, and the good news which he brought, were heartily
welcome; and presently Currado, with some of his friends, encountered
the gentlemen who came for Madam Beritola and Giusfredi, and
saluting them cordially invited them to his feast, which was not yet
half done. Joy unheard-of was depicted on the faces of the lady, of
Giusfredi, and of all the rest as they greeted them; nor did they on
their part take their places at the table before, as best they might,
they had conveyed to Currado and his lady Arrighetto's greetings and
grateful acknowledgments of the honour which they had conferred
upon his lady and his son, and had placed Arrighetto, to the uttermost
of his power, entirely at their service. Then, turning to Messer
Guasparrino, of whose kindness Arrighetto surmised nothing, they
said that they were very sure that, when he learned the boon which
Outcast had received at his hands, he would pay him the like and an
even greater tribute of gratitude. This speech ended, they feasted
most joyously with the brides and bridegrooms. So passed the day,
the first of many which Currado devoted to honouring his son-in-law
and his other intimates, both kinsfolk and friends. The time of
festivity ended, Madam Beritola and Giusfredi and the rest felt that
they must leave: so, taking Spina with them, they parted, not
without many tears, from Currado and his lady and Guasparrino, and
went aboard the brigantine, which, wafted by a prosperous wind,
soon brought them to Sicily. At Palermo they were met by
Arrighetto, who received them all, ladies and sons alike, with such
cheer as it were vain to attempt to describe. There it is believed
that they all lived long and happily and in amity with God, being
not unmindful of the blessings which He had conferred upon them.
Novel VIIThe Soldan of Babylon sends one of his daughters overseas,
designing to marry her to the King of Algarve.
By divers adventures she comes in the space of four
years into the hands of nine men in divers places.
At last she is restored to her father, whom she quits
again in the guise of a virgin, and, as was at first
intended, is married to the King of Algarve.
Had Emilia's story but lasted a little longer, the young ladies
would perhaps have been moved to tears, so great was the sympathy
which they felt for Madam Beritola in her various fortunes. But
now that it was ended, the Queen bade Pamfilo follow suit; and he,
than whom none was more obedient, thus began:
Hardly, gracious ladies, is it given to us to know that which makes
for our good; insomuch that, as has been observable in a multitude
of instances, many, deeming that the acquisition of great riches would
ensure them an easy and tranquil existence, have not only besought
them of God in prayer, but have sought them with such ardour that
they have spared no pains and shrunk from no danger in the quest,
and have attained their end only to lose, at the hands of some one
covetous of their vast inheritance, a life with which before the days
of their prosperity they were well content. Others, whose course,
perilous with a thousand battles, stained with the blood of their
brothers and their friends, has raised them from base to regal estate,
have found in place of the felicity they expected an infinity of cares
and fears, and have proved by experience that a chalice may be
poisoned, though it be of gold, and set on the table of a king.
Many
have most ardently desired beauty and strength and other advantages
of person, and have only been taught their error by the death or
dolorous life which these very advantages entailed upon them.
And so, not to instance each particular human desire, I say, in sum,
that there is none of them that men may indulge in full confidence
as exempt from the chances and changes of fortune; wherefore, if we
would act rightly, we ought to school ourselves to take and be
content with that which He gives us, who alone knows and can
afford us that of which we have need. But, divers as are the
aberrations of desire to which men are prone, so, gracious ladies,
there is one to which you are especially liable, in that you are unduly
solicitous of beauty, insomuch, that, not content with the charms
which nature has allotted you, you endeavour to enhance them with
wondrous ingenuity of art; wherefore I am minded to make you
acquainted with the coil of misadventures in which her beauty
involved a fair Saracen, who in the course of, perhaps, four years was
wedded nine several times.
There was of yore a Soldan of Babylon,I. e. according to
medieval usage, Egypt. by name of Beminedab,
who in his day had cause enough to be well content with his luck.
Many children male and female had he, and among them a daughter,
Alatiel by name, who by common consent of all that saw her was
the most beautiful woman then to be found in the world. Now the
Soldan, having been signally aided by the King of AlgarveI. e.
Garbo, the coast of Africa opposite Andalusia and Granada. in
inflicting a great defeat upon a host of Arabs that had attacked him,
had at his instance and by way of special favour given Alatiel to the
King to wife; wherefore, with an honourable escort of gentlemen
and ladies most nobly and richly equipped, he placed her aboard a
well-armed, well-furnished ship, and, commending her to God, sped
her on her journey. The mariners, as soon as the weather was
favourable, hoisted sail, and for some days after their departure from
Alexandria had a prosperous voyage; but when they had passed
Sardinia, and were beginning to think that they were nearing their
journey's end, they were caught one day between divers cross winds,
each blowing with extreme fury, whereby the ship laboured so sorely
that not only the lady but the seamen from time to time gave themselves
up for lost. But still, most manfully and skilfully they
struggled might and main with the tempest, which, ever waxing
rather than waning, buffeted them for two days with immense unintermittent
surges; and being not far from the island of Majorca, as
the third night began to close in, wrapt in clouds and mist and thick
darkness, so that they saw neither the sky nor aught else, nor by any
nautical skill might conjecture where they were, they felt the ship's
timbers part. Wherefore, seeing no way to save the ship, each thought
only how best to save himself, and, a boat being thrown out, the
masters first, and then the men, one by one, though the first-comers
sought with knives in their hands to bar the passage of the rest, all,
rather than remain in the leaky ship, crowded into it, and there
found the death which they hoped to escape. For the boat, being in
such stress of weather and with such a burden quite unmanageable,
went under, and all aboard her perished; whereas the ship, leaky
though she was, and all but full of water, yet, driven by the fury of
the tempest, was hurled with prodigious velocity upon the shore of
the island of Majorca, and struck it with such force as to embed
herself in the sand, perhaps a stone's throw from terra firma, where
she remained all night beaten and washed by the sea, but no more
to be moved by the utmost violence of the gale. None had remained
aboard her but the lady and her women, whom the malice of
the elements and their fears had brought to the verge of death.
When it was broad day and the storm was somewhat abated, the
lady, half dead, raised her head, and in faltering accents began to call
first one and then another of her servants. She called in vain, however;
for those whom she called were too far off to hear. Great
indeed was her wonder and fear to find herself thus without sight of
human face or sound of other voice than her own; but, struggling
to her feet as best she might, she looked about her, and saw the ladies
that were of her escort, and the other women, all prostrate on the
deck; so, after calling them one by one, she began at length to touch
them, and finding few that shewed sign of life, for indeed, between
grievous sea-sickness and fear, they had little life left, she grew more
terrified than before. However, being in sore need of counsel, all
alone as she was, and without knowledge or means of learning where
she was, she at last induced such as had life in them to get upon their
feet, with whom, as none knew where the men were gone, and the
ship was now full of water and visibly breaking up, she abandoned
herself to piteous lamentations.
It was already none before they descried any one on the shore or
elsewhere to whom they could make appeal for help; but shortly
after none it so chanced that a gentleman, Pericone da Visalgo by
name, being on his return from one of his estates, passed that way
with some mounted servants. Catching sight of the ship, he apprehended
the circumstances at a glance, and bade one of his servants
try to get aboard her, and let him know the result. The servant
with some difficulty succeeded in boarding the vessel, and found the
gentle lady with her few companions ensconced under shelter of the
prow, and shrinking timidly from observation. At the first sight of
him they wept, and again and again implored him to have pity on
them; but finding that he did not understand them, nor they him,
they sought by gestures to make him apprehend their forlorn
condition.
With these tidings the servant, after making such survey of the
ship as he could, returned to Pericone, who forthwith caused the
ladies, and all articles of value which were in the ship and could be
removed, to be brought off her, and took them with him to one of
his castles. The ladies' powers were soon in a measure restored by
food and rest, and by the honour which was paid to Alatiel, and
Alatiel alone by all the rest, as well as by the richness of her dress,
Pericone perceived that she must be some great lady. Nor, though
she was still pale, and her person bore evident marks of the sea's
rough usage, did he fail to note that it was cast in a mould of
extraordinary
beauty. Wherefore his mind was soon made up that, if she
lacked a husband, he would take her to wife, and that, if he could
not have her to wife, then he would make her his mistress. So
this ardent lover, who was a man of powerful frame and haughty
mien, devoted himself for several days to the service of the
lady with excellent effect, for the lady completely recovered her
strength and spirits, so that her beauty far exceeded Pericone's most
sanguine conjectures. Great therefore beyond measure was his
sorrow that he understood not her speech, nor she his, so that neither
could know who the other was; but being inordinately enamoured of
her beauty, he sought by such mute blandishments as he could devise
to declare his love, and bring her of her own accord to gratify his
desire. All in vain, however; she repulsed his advances point blank;
whereby his passion only grew the stronger. So some days passed;
and the lady perceiving Pericone's constancy, and bethinking her that
sooner or later she must yield either to force or to love, and gratify his
passion, and judging by what she observed of the customs of the people
that she was amongst Christians, and in a part where, were she able
to speak their language, she would gain little by making herself
known, determined with a lofty courage to stand firm and immovable
in this extremity of her misfortunes. Wherefore she bade the
three women, who were all that were left to her, on no account to let
any know who they were, unless they were so circumstanced that
they might safely count on assistance in effecting their escape: she
also exhorted them most earnestly to preserve their chastity, averring
that she was firmly resolved that none but her husband should enjoy
her. The women heartily assented, and promised that her injunctions
should be obeyed to the utmost of their power.
Day by day Pericone's passion waxed more ardent, being fomented
by the proximity and contrariety of its object. Wherefore seeing
that blandishment availed nothing, he was minded to have recourse to
wiles and stratagems, and in the last resort to force.
The lady,
debarred by her law from the use of wine, found it, perhaps, on that
account all the more palatable; which Pericone observing determined
to enlist Bacchus in the service of Venus. So, ignoring her
coyness, he provided one evening a supper, which was ordered with
all possible pomp and beauty, and graced by the presence of the lady.
No lack was there of incentives to hilarity; and Pericone directed
the servant who waited on Alatiel to ply her with divers sorts of
blended wines; which command the man faithfully executed. She,
suspecting nothing, and seduced by the delicious flavour of the
liquor, drank somewhat more freely than was seemly, and forgetting
her past woes, became frolicsome, and incited by some women who
trod some measures in the Majorcan style, she shewed the company
how they footed it in Alexandria. This novel demeanour was by no
means lost on Pericone, who saw in it a good omen of his speedy
success; so, with profuse relays of food and wine he prolonged the
supper far into the night.
When the guests were at length gone, he attended the lady alone
to her chamber, where, the heat of the wine overpowering the cold
counsels of modesty, she made no more account of Pericone's presence
than if he had been one of her women, and forthwith undressed and
went to bed. Pericone was not slow to follow her, and as soon as
the light was out lay down by her side, and taking her in his arms,
without the least demur on her part, began to solace himself with her
after the manner of lovers; which experience--she knew not till then
with what horn men butt--caused her to repent that she had not
yielded to his blandishments; nor did she thereafter wait to be
invited to such nights of delight, but many a time declared her readiness,
not by words, for she had none to convey her meaning, but by
gestures.
But this great felicity which she now shared with Pericone was
not to last: for not content with making her, instead of the consort
of a king, the mistress of a castellan, Fortune had now in store for her
a harsher experience, though of an amorous character. Pericone had
a brother, twenty-five years of age, fair and fresh as a rose, his name
Marato. On sight of Alatiel Marato had been mightily taken with
her; he inferred from her bearing that he stood high in her good
graces; he believed that nothing stood between him and the gratification
of his passion but the jealous vigilance with which Pericone
guarded her. So musing, he hit upon a ruthless expedient, which
had effect in action as hasty as heinous.
It so chanced that there then lay in the port of the city a ship,
commanded by two Genoese, bound with a cargo of merchandise for
Klarenza in the Morea: her sails were already hoist; and she tarried
only for a favourable breeze. Marato approached the masters and
arranged with them to take himself and the lady aboard on the
following night. This done he concerted further action with some
of his most trusty friends, who readily lent him their aid to carry his
design into execution. So on the following evening towards nightfall,
the conspirators stole unobserved into Pericone's house, which
was entirely unguarded, and there hid themselves, as pre-arranged.
Then, as the night wore on, Marato shewed them where Pericone
and the lady slept, and they entered the room, and slew Pericone.
The lady thus rudely roused wept; but silencing her by menaces of
death they carried her off with the best part of Pericone's treasure,
and hied them unobserved to the coast, where Marato parted from his
companions, and forthwith took the lady aboard the ship. The wind
was now fair and fresh, the mariners spread the canvas, and the vessel
sped on her course.
This new misadventure, following so hard upon the former, caused
the lady no small chagrin; but Marato, with the aid of the good St.
Crescent-in-hand that God has given us, found means to afford her
such consolation that she was already grown so familiar with him as
entirely to forget Pericone, when Fortune, not content with her
former caprices, added a new dispensation of woe; for what with
the beauty of her person, which, as we have often said, was extraordinary,
and the exquisite charm of her manners, the two young
men, who commanded the ship, fell so desperately in love with her
that they thought of nothing but how they might best serve and
please her, so only that Marato should not discover the reason of their
assiduous attentions. And neither being ignorant of the other's love,
they held secret counsel together, and resolved to make conquest of
the lady on joint account: as if love admitted of being held in partnership
like merchandise or money. Which design being thwarted
by the jealousy with which Alatiel was guarded by Marato, they
chose a day and hour, when the ship was speeding amain under canvas,
and Marato was on the poop looking out over the sea and quite off
his guard; and going stealthily up behind him, they suddenly laid
hands on him, and threw him into the sea, and were already more
than a mile on their course before any perceived that Marato was
overboard. Which when the lady learned, and knew that he was
irretrievably lost, she relapsed into her former plaintive mood.
But
the twain were forthwith by her side with soft speeches and profuse
promises, which, however ill she understood them, were not altogether
inapt to allay a grief which had in it more of concern for her own
hapless self than of sorrow for her lost lover. So, in course of time,
the lady beginning visibly to recover heart, they began privily to
debate which of them should first take her to bed with him; and
neither being willing to give way to the other, and no compromise
being discoverable, high words passed between them, and the dispute
grew so hot, that they both waxed very wroth, drew their knives, and
rushed madly at one another, and before they could be parted by their
men, several stabs had been given and received on either side, whereby
the one fell dead on the spot, and the other was severely wounded in
divers parts of the body. The lady was much disconcerted to find
herself thus alone with none to afford her either succour or counsel,
and was mightily afraid lest the wrath of the kinsfolk and friends of
the twain should vent itself upon her. From this mortal peril she
was, however, delivered by the intercessions of the wounded man and
their speedy arrival at Klarenza.
As there she tarried at the same inn with her wounded lover, the
fame of her great beauty was speedily bruited abroad, and reached the
ears of the Prince of the Morea, who was then staying there. The
Prince was curious to see her, and having so done, pronounced her even
more beautiful than rumour had reported her; nay, he fell in love
with her in such a degree that he could think of nought else; and
having heard in what guise she had come thither, he deemed that he
might have her. While he was casting about how to compass his
end, the kinsfolk of the wounded man, being apprised of the fact,
forthwith sent her to him to the boundless delight, as well of the lady,
who saw therein her deliverance from a great peril, as of the Prince.
The royal bearing, which enhanced the lady's charms, did not escape
the Prince, who, being unable to discover her true rank, set her down
as at any rate of noble lineage; wherefore he loved her as much again
as before, and shewed her no small honour, treating her not as his
mistress but as his wife. So the lady, contrasting her present happy
estate with her past woes, was comforted; and, as her gaiety revived,
her beauty waxed in such a degree that all the Morea talked of it and
of little else: insomuch that the Prince's friend and kinsman, the
young, handsome and gallant Duke of Athens, was smitten with a
desire to see her, and taking occasion to pay the Prince a visit, as he
was now and again wont to do, came to Klarenza with a goodly
company of honourable gentlemen. The Prince received him with
all distinction and made him heartily welcome, but did not at first
shew him the lady. By and by, however, their conversation began
to turn upon her and her charms, and the Duke asked if she were
really so marvellous a creature as folk said. The Prince replied:
Nay, but even more so; and thereof thou shalt have better assurance
than my words, to wit, the witness of thine own eyes.
So, without
delay, for the Duke was now all impatience, they waited on the lady,
who was prepared for their visit, and received them very courteously
and graciously. They seated her between them, and being debarred
from the pleasure of conversing with her, for of their speech she
understood little or nothing, they both, and especially the Duke, who
was scarce able to believe that she was of mortal mould, gazed upon
her in mute admiration; whereby the Duke, cheating himself with
the idea that he was but gratifying his curiosity, drank with his eyes,
unawares, deep draughts of the poisoned chalice of love, and, to his
own lamentable hurt, fell a prey to a most ardent passion.
His first
thought, when they had left her, and he had time for reflection, was
that the Prince was the luckiest man in the world to have a creature so
fair to solace him; and swayed by his passion, his mind soon inclined
to divers other and less honourable meditations, whereof the issue was
that, come what might, he would despoil the Prince of his felicity, and,
if possible, make it his own.
This resolution was no sooner taken than,
being of a hasty temperament, he cast to the winds all considerations
of honour and justice, and studied only how to compass his end by
craft. So, one day, as the first step towards the accomplishment of his
evil purpose, he arranged with the Prince's most trusted chamberlain,
one Ciuriaci, that his horses and all other his personal effects should,
with the utmost secrecy, be got ready against a possible sudden departure:
and then at nightfall, attended by a single comrade (both
carrying arms), he was privily admitted by Ciuriaci into the Prince's
chamber. It was a hot night, and the Prince had risen without
disturbing the lady, and was standing bare to the skin at an open
window fronting the sea, to enjoy a light breeze that blew thence.
So, by preconcert with his comrade, the Duke stole up to the window,
and in a trice ran the Prince through the body, and caught him up,
and threw him out of the window. The palace was close by the
sea, but at a considerable altitude above it, and the window, through
which the Prince's body was thrown, looked over some houses, which,
being sapped by the sea, had become ruinous, and were rarely or
never visited by a soul; whereby, as the Duke had foreseen, the fall
of the Prince's body passed, as indeed it could not but pass, unobserved.
Thereupon the Duke's accomplice whipped out a halter,
which he had brought with him for the purpose, and, making as if he
were but in play, threw it round Ciuriaci's neck, drew it so tight that
he could not utter a sound, and then, with the Duke's aid, strangled
him, and sent him after his master. All this was accomplished, as the
Duke knew full well, without awakening any in the palace, not even
the lady, whom he now approached with a light, and holding it
over the bed gently uncovered her person, as she lay fast asleep, and
surveyed her from head to foot to his no small satisfaction; for fair
as she had seemed to him dressed, he found her unadorned charms
incomparably greater. As he gazed, his passion waxed beyond
measure, and, reckless of his recent crime, and of the blood which
still stained his hands, he got forthwith into the bed; and she, being
too sound asleep to distinguish between him and the Prince, suffered
him to lie with her.
But, boundless as was his delight, it brooked no long continuance;
so, rising, he called to him some of his comrades, by whom he had
the lady secured in such manner that she could utter no sound, and
borne out of the palace by the same secret door by which he had
gained entrance; he then set her on horseback and in dead silence
put his troop in motion, taking the road to Athens. He did not,
however, venture to take the lady to Athens, where she would have
encountered his Duchess--for he was married--but lodged her in a
very beautiful villa which he had hard by the city overlooking the
sea, where, most forlorn of ladies, she lived secluded, but with no lack
of meet and respectful service.
On the following morning the Prince's courtiers awaited his
rising until none, but perceiving no sign of it, opened the doors,
which had not been secured, and entered his bedroom. Finding it
vacant, they supposed that the Prince was gone off privily somewhere
to have a few days of unbroken delight with his fair lady; and so
they gave themselves no further trouble. But the next day it so
chanced that an idiot, roaming about the ruins where lay the corpses
of the Prince and Ciuriaci, drew the latter out by the halter and
went off dragging it after him. The corpse was soon recognised by
not a few, who, at first struck dumb with amazement, soon recovered
sense enough to cajole the idiot into retracing his steps and shewing
them the spot where he had found it; and having thus, to the
immeasurable grief of all the citizens, discovered the Prince's body,
they buried it with all honour. Needless to say that no pains were
spared to trace the perpetrators of so heinous a crime, and that the
absence and evidently furtive departure of the Duke of Athens
caused him to be suspected both of the murder and of the abduction
of the lady. So the citizens were instant with one accord that
the Prince's brother, whom they chose as his successor, should exact
the debt of vengeance; and he, having satisfied himself by further
investigation that their suspicion was well founded, summoned to his
aid his kinsfolk, friends and divers vassals, and speedily gathered a
large, powerful and well-equipped army, with intent to make war
upon the Duke of Athens. The Duke, being informed of his
movements, made ready likewise to defend himself with all his
power; nor had he any lack of allies, among whom the Emperor of
Constantinople sent his son, Constantine, and his nephew, Manuel,
with a great and goodly force. The two young men were honourably
received by the Duke, and still more so by the Duchess, who
was Constantine's sister.
Day by day war grew more imminent; and at last the Duchess
took occasion to call Constantine and Manuel into her private
chamber, and with many tears told them the whole story at large,
explaining the casus belli, dilating on the indignity which she
suffered
at the hands of the Duke, if, as was believed, he really kept a mistress
in secret, and beseeching them in most piteous accents to do the best
they could to devise some expedient whereby the Duke's honour
might be cleared, and her own peace of mind assured. The young
men knew exactly how matters stood; and so, without wearying the
Duchess with many questions, they did their best to console her, and
succeeded in raising her hopes. Before taking their leave they
learned from her where the lady was, whose marvellous beauty they
had heard lauded so often; and being eager to see her, they besought
the Duke to afford them an opportunity. Forgetful of what a like
complaisance had cost the Prince, he consented, and next morning
brought them to the villa where the lady lived, and with her and a
few of his boon companions regaled them with a lordly breakfast,
which was served in a most lovely garden. Constantine had no
sooner seated himself and surveyed the lady, than he was lost in
admiration, inly affirming that he had never seen so beautiful a
creature, and that for such a prize the Duke, or any other man,
might well be pardoned treachery or any other crime: he scanned
her again and again, and ever with more and more admiration; whereby
it fared with him even as it had fared with the Duke. He went
away hotly in love with her, and dismissing all thought of the war,
cast about for some method by which, without betraying his passion to
any, he might devise some means of wresting the lady from the Duke.
As he thus burned and brooded, the Prince drew dangerously
near the Duke's dominions; wherefore order was given for an
advance, and the Duke, with Constantine and the rest, marshalled
his forces and led them forth from Athens to bar the Prince's passage
of the frontier at certain points. Some days thus passed, during
which Constantine, whose mind and soul were entirely absorbed by
his passion for the lady, bethought him, that, as the Duke was no
longer in her neighbourhood, he might readily compass his end. He
therefore feigned to be seriously unwell, and, having by this pretext
obtained the Duke's leave, he ceded his command to Manuel, and
returned to his sister at Athens. He had not been there many days
before the Duchess recurred to the dishonour which the Duke did
her by keeping the lady; whereupon he said that of that, if she
approved, he would certainly relieve her by seeing that the lady was
removed from the villa to some distant place. The Duchess,
supposing that Constantine was prompted not by jealousy of the
Duke but by jealousy for her honour, gave her hearty consent to his
plan, provided he so contrived that the Duke should never know that
she had been privy to it; on which point Constantine gave her ample
assurance. So, being authorised by the Duchess to act as he might
deem best, he secretly equipped a light bark and manned her with
some of his men, to whom he confided his plan, bidding them lie to
off the garden of the lady's villa; and so, having sent the bark
forward, he hied him with other of his men to the villa. He gained
ready admission of the servants, and was made heartily welcome by
the lady, who, at his desire, attended by some of her servants, walked
with him and some of his comrades in the garden. By and by,
feigning that he had a message for her from the Duke, he drew her
aside towards a gate that led down to the sea, and which one of his
confederates had already opened. A concerted signal brought the
bark alongside, and to seize the lady and set her aboard the bark was
but the work of an instant. Her retinue hung back as they heard
Constantine menace with death whoso but stirred or spoke, and
suffered him, protesting that what he did was done not to wrong the
Duke but solely to vindicate his sister's honour, to embark with his
men. The lady wept, of course, but Constantine was at her side,
the rowers gave way, and the bark, speeding like a thing of life over
the waves, made Egina shortly after dawn. There Constantine and
the lady landed, she still lamenting her fatal beauty, and took a
little
rest and pleasure. Then, re-embarking, they continued their voyage,
and in the course of a few days reached Chios, which Constantine,
fearing paternal censure, and that he might be deprived of his fair
booty, deemed a safe place of sojourn. So, after some days of repose
the lady ceased to bewail her harsh destiny, and suffering Constantine
to console her as his predecessors had done, began once more to enjoy
the good gifts which Fortune sent her.
Now while they thus dallied, Osbech, King of the Turks, who
was perennially at war with the Emperor, came by chance to
Smyrna; and there learning that Constantine was wantoning in
careless ease at Chios with a lady of whom he had made prize, he
made a descent by night upon the island with an armed flotilla.
Landing his men in dead silence, he made captives of not a few of
the Chians whom he surprised in their beds; others, who took the
alarm and rushed to arms, he slew; and having wasted the whole
island with fire, he shipped the booty and the prisoners, and sailed
back to Smyrna. As there he overhauled the booty, he lit upon the
fair lady, and knew her for the same that had been taken in bed
and fast asleep with Constantine: whereat, being a young man,
he was delighted beyond measure, and made her his wife out of
hand with all due form and ceremony. And so for several months
he enjoyed her.
Now there had been for some time and still was a treaty pending
between the Emperor and Basano, King of Cappadocia, whereby
Basano with his forces was to fall on Osbech on one side while the
Emperor attacked him on the other. Some demands made by
Basano, which the Emperor deemed unreasonable, had so far retarded
the conclusion of the treaty; but no sooner had the Emperor learned
the fate of his son than, distraught with grief, he forthwith conceded
the King of Cappadocia's demands, and was instant with him to fall
at once upon Osbech while he made ready to attack him on the other
side. Getting wind of the Emperor's design, Osbech collected his
forces, and, lest he should be caught and crushed between the convergent
armies of two most mighty potentates, advanced against the
King of Cappadocia. The fair lady he left at Smyrna in the care of
a faithful dependant and friend, and after a while joined battle with
the King of Cappadocia, in which battle he was slain, and his army
defeated and dispersed. Wherefore Basano with his victorious host
advanced, carrying everything before him, upon Smyrna, and receiving
everywhere the submission due to a conqueror.
Meanwhile Osbech's dependant, by name Antioco, who had
charge of the fair lady, was so smitten with her charms that, albeit
he was somewhat advanced in years, he broke faith with his friend
and lord, and allowed himself to become enamoured of her. He had
the advantage of knowing her language, which counted for much with
one who for some years had been, as it were, compelled to live the
life of a deaf mute, finding none whom she could understand or by
whom she might be understood; and goaded by passion, he in the
course of a few days established such a degree of intimacy with her
that in no long time it passed from friendship into love, so that their
lord, far away amid the clash of arms and the tumult of the battle,
was forgotten, and marvellous pleasure had they of one another
between the sheets.
However, news came at last of Osbech's defeat and death, and
the victorious and unchecked advance of Basano, whose advent they
were by no means minded to await. Wherefore, taking with them
the best part of the treasure that Osbech had left there, they hied
them with all possible secrecy to Rhodes. There they had not along
abode before Antioco fell ill of a mortal disease. He had then with
him a Cypriote merchant, an intimate and very dear friend, to whom,
as he felt his end approach, he resolved to leave all that he possessed,
including his dear lady. So, when he felt death imminent, he called
them to him and said: 'Tis now quite evident to me that my life
is fast ebbing away; and sorely do I regret it, for never had I so much
pleasure of life as now. Well content indeed I am in one respect,
in that, as die I must, I at least die in the arms of the two persons
whom I love more than any other in the world, to wit, in thine
arms, dearest friend, and those of this lady, whom, since I have
known her, I have loved more than myself. But yet 'tis grievous to
me to know that I must leave her here in a strange land with none
to afford her either protection or counsel; and but that I leave her
with thee, who, I doubt not, wilt have for my sake no less care of her
than thou wouldst have had of me, 'twould grieve me still more;
wherefore with all my heart and soul I pray thee, that, if I die, thou
take her with all else that belongs to me into thy charge, and so
acquit thyself of thy trust as thou mayst deem conducive to
the peace of my soul. And of thee, dearest lady, I entreat one
favour, that I be not forgotten of thee, after my death, so that there
whither I go it may still be my boast to be beloved here of the
most beautiful lady that nature ever formed. Let me but die
with these two hopes assured, and without doubt I shall depart in
peace.
Both the merchant and the lady wept to hear him thus speak,
and, when he had done, comforted him, and promised faithfully, in the
event of his death, to do even as he besought them. He died almost
immediately afterwards, and was honourably buried by them. A
few days sufficed the merchant to wind up all his affairs in Rhodes;
and being minded to return to Cyprus aboard a Catalan boat that was
there, he asked the fair lady what she purposed to do if he went back
to Cyprus. The lady answered, that, if it were agreeable to him, she
would gladly accompany him, hoping that for love of Antioco he
would treat and regard her as his sister. The merchant replied that
it would afford him all the pleasure in the world; and, to protect her
from insult until their arrival in Cyprus, he gave her out as his wife,
and, suiting action to word, slept with her on the boat in an alcove
in a little cabin in the poop. Whereby that happened which on
neither side was intended when they left Rhodes, to wit, that the
darkness and the comfort and the warmth of the bed, forces of no
mean efficacy, did so prevail with them that dead Antioco was forgotten
alike as lover and as friend, and by a common impulse they
began to wanton together, insomuch that before they were arrived
at Baffa, where the Cypriote resided, they were indeed man and wife.
At Baffa the lady tarried with the merchant a good while,
during
which it so befell that a gentleman, Antigono by name, a man of
ripe age and riper wisdom but no great wealth, being one that had
had vast and various experience of affairs in the service of the King
of Cyprus but had found fortune adverse to him, came to Baffa on
business; and passing one day by the house where the fair lady was
then living by herself, for the Cypriote merchant was gone to Armenia
with some of his wares, he chanced to catch sight of the lady at
one of the windows, and, being struck by her extraordinary beauty,
regarded her attentively, and began to have some vague recollection
of having seen her before, but could by no means remember where.
The fair lady, however, so long the sport of Fortune, but now nearing
the term of her woes, no sooner saw Antigono than she remembered
to have seen him in her father's service, and in no mean
capacity, at Alexandria. Wherefore she forthwith sent for him,
hoping that by his counsel she might elude her merchant and be
reinstated in her true character and dignity of princess.
When he
presented himself, she asked him with some embarrassment whether
he were, as she took him to be, Antigono of Famagosta.
He answered
in the affirmative, adding: And of you, madam, I have a sort of
recollection, though I cannot say where I have seen you; wherefore,
so it irk you not, bring, I pray you, yourself to my remembrance.
Satisfied that it was Antigono himself, the lady in a flood of tears threw
herself upon him to his no small amazement, and embraced his neck:
then, after a little while, she asked him whether he had never seen
her in Alexandria. The question awakened Antigono's memory; he
at once recognised Alatiel, the Soldan's daughter, whom he had thought
to have been drowned at sea, and would have paid her due homage;
but she would not suffer it, and bade him be seated with her for a
while. Being seated, he respectfully asked her, how, and when and
whence she had come thither, seeing that all Egypt believed for
certain that she had been drowned at sea some years before.
And
would that so it had been,
said the lady, rather than I should
have led the life that I have led; and so doubtless will my father
say, if he shall ever come to know of it.
And so saying, she
burst into such a flood of tears that 'twas a wonder to see.
Wherefore
Antigono said to her: Nay but, madam, be not distressed
before the occasion arises. I pray you, tell me the story of your
adventures, and what has been the tenor of your life; perchance
'twill prove to be no such matter but, God helping us, we may set it
all straight.
Antigono,
said the fair lady, when I saw thee,
'twas as if I saw my father, and 'twas the tender love by which I
am holden to him that prompted me to make myself known to thee,
though I might have kept my secret; and few indeed there are,
whom to have met would have afforded me such pleasure as this
which I have in meeting and recognising thee before all others;
wherefore I will now make known to thee as to a father that which
in my evil fortune I have ever kept close. If, when thou hast heard
my story, thou seest any means whereby I may be reinstated in my
former honour, I pray thee use it. If not, disclose to none that thou
hast seen me or heard aught of me.
Then, weeping between every word, she told him her whole
story from the day of the shipwreck at Majorca to that hour.
Antigono wept in sympathy, and then said: Madam, as throughout
this train of misfortunes you have happily escaped recognition, I
undertake to restore you to your father in such sort that you shall be
dearer to him than ever before, and be afterwards married to the King
of Algarve. How?
she asked. Whereupon he explained to her
in detail how he meant to proceed; and, lest delay should give
occasion to another to interfere, he went back at once to Famagosta,
and having obtained audience of the King, thus he spoke: Sire,
so please you, you have it in your power at little cost to yourself to
do a thing, which will at once redound most signally to your honour
and confer a great boon on me, who have grown poor in your
service.
How?
asked the King. Then said Antigono:
At
Baffa is of late arrived a fair damsel, daughter of the Soldan, long
thought to be drowned, who to preserve her chastity has suffered
long and severe hardship. She is now reduced to poverty, and is
desirous of returning to her father. If you should be pleased to send
her back to him under my escort, your honour and my interest would
be served in high and equal measure; nor do I think that such a
service would ever be forgotten by the Soldan.
With true royal generosity the King forthwith signified his
approval, and had Alatiel brought under honourable escort to Famagosta,
where, attended by his Queen, he received her with every
circumstance of festal pomp and courtly magnificence. Schooled by
Antigono, she gave the King and Queen such a version of her
adventures as satisfied their inquiries in every particular.
So, after a
few days, the King sent her back to the Soldan under escort of
Antigono, attended by a goodly company of honourable men and
women; and of the cheer which the Soldan made her, and not her
only but Antigono and all his company, it boots not to ask. When she
was somewhat rested, the Soldan inquired how it was that she was
yet alive, and where she had been so long without letting him know
how it fared with her. Whereupon the lady, who had got Antigono's
lesson by heart, answered thus: My father, 'twas perhaps the
twentieth night after my departure from you when our ship parted her
timbers in a terrible storm and went ashore nigh a place called
Aguamorta, away there in the West: what was the fate of the men
that were aboard our ship I know not, nor knew I ever;
I remember
only, that, when day came, and I returned, as it were, from death to
life, the wreck, having been sighted, was boarded by folk from all the
country-side, intent on plunder; and I and two of my women were
taken ashore, where the women were forthwith parted from me by
the young men, nor did I ever learn their fate. Now hear my own.
Struggling might and main, I was seized by two young men, who
dragged me, weeping bitterly, by the hair of the head, towards a
great forest; but, on sight of four men who were then passing that
way on horseback, they forthwith loosed me and took to flight.
Whereupon the four men, who struck me as persons of great
authority, ran up to me; and much they questioned me, and much I
said to them; but neither did they understand me, nor I them. So,
after long time conferring together, they set me on one of their
horses and brought me to a house, where dwelt a community of
ladies, religious according to their law; and what the men may have
said I know not, but there I was kindly received and ever honourably
entreated by all; and with them I did afterwards most reverentially
pay my devotions to St. Crescent-in-Hollow, who is held in great
honour by the women of that country. When I had been some
time with them, and had learned something of their language, they
asked me who and whence I was: whereto I, knowing that I was in
a convent, and fearing to be cast out as a foe to their law if I told the
truth, answered that I was the daughter of a great gentleman of
Cyprus, who had intended to marry me to a gentleman of Crete;
but that on the voyage we had been driven out of our course and
wrecked at Aguamorta. And so I continued, as occasion required,
observing their usages with much assiduity, lest worse should befall
me; but being one day asked by their superior, whom they call
abbess, whether I was minded to go back to Cyprus, I answered that
there was nought that I desired so much. However, so solicitous for
my honour was the abbess, that there was none going to Cyprus to
whom she would entrust me, until, two months or so ago, there
arrived some worthy men from France, of whom one was a kinsman
of the abbess, with their wives. They were on their way to visit the
sepulchre where He whom they hold to be God was buried after He
had suffered death at the hands of the Jews; and the abbess, learning
their destination, prayed them to take charge of me, and restore me
to my father in Cyprus. With what cheer, with what honour, these
gentlemen and their wives entertained me, 'twere long to tell. But,
in brief, we embarked, and in the course of a few days arrived at
Baffa, where it was so ordered by the providence of God, who perchance
took pity on me, that in the very hour of our disembarkation
I, not knowing a soul and being at a loss how to answer the gentlemen,
who would fain have discharged the trust laid upon them by
the reverend abbess and restored me to my father, fell in, on the
shore, with Antigono, whom I forthwith called, and in our language,
that I might be understood neither of the gentlemen nor of their
wives, bade him acknowledge me as his daughter. He understood
my case at once, made much of me, and to the utmost of his
slender power honourably requited the gentlemen. He then brought
me to the King of Cyprus, who accorded me welcome there and
conduct hither so honourable as words of mine can never describe. It
aught remains to tell, you may best learn it from the lips of Antigono,
who has often heard my story.
Then Antigono, addressing the Soldan, said: Sire, what she
has told you accords with what she has often told me, and with
what I have learned from the gentlemen and ladies who accompanied
her. One thing, however, she has omitted, because, I suppose, it
hardly becomes her to tell it; to wit, all that the gentlemen and
ladies, who accompanied her, said of the virtuous and gracious and
noble life which she led with the devout ladies, and of the tears and
wailings of both the ladies and the gentlemen, when they parted
with her to me. But were I to essay to repeat all that they said to
me, the day that now is, and the night that is to follow, were all too
short: suffice it to say so much as this, that, by what I gathered
from their words and have been able to see for myself, you may make
it your boast, that among all the daughters of all your peers that
wear the crown none can be matched with yours for virtue and true
worth.
By all which the Soldan was so overjoyed that 'twas a wonder to
see. Again and again he made supplication to God, that of His
grace power might be vouchsafed him adequately to recompense all
who had done honour to his daughter, and most especially the King
of Cyprus, for the honourable escort under which he had sent her
thither; for Antigono he provided a magnificent guerdon, and some
days later gave him his congè to return to Cyprus, at the same
time
by a special ambassage conveying to the King his grateful acknowledgments
of the manner in which he had treated his daughter.
Then, being minded that his first intent, to wit, that his daughter
should be the bride of the King of Algarve, should not be frustrate,
he wrote to the King, telling him all, and adding that, if he were
still minded to have her, he might send for her. The King was
overjoyed by these tidings, and having sent for her with great pomp,
gave her on her arrival a hearty welcome. So she, who had lain
with eight men, in all, perhaps, ten thousand times, was bedded with
him as a virgin, and made him believe that a virgin she was, and
lived long and happily with him as his queen: wherefore 'twas
said: Mouth, for kisses, was never the worse: like as the moon
reneweth her course.
Novel VIIIThe Count of Antwerp, labouring under a false accusation,
goes into exile. He leaves his two children in
different places in England, and takes service in
Ireland. Returning to England an unknown man, he
finds his sons prosperous. He serves as a groom in
the army of the King of France; his innocence is
established, and he is restored to his former honours.
The ladies heaved many sighs over the various
fortunes of the
fair lady: but what prompted those sighs who shall say? With
some, perchance, 'twas as much envy as pity of one to whose lot
fell so many nights of delight. But, however this may be, when
Pamfilo's story was ended, and the laughter which greeted his last
words had subsided, the queen turned to Elisa, and bade her follow
suit with one of her stories. So Elisa with a cheerful courage thus
began:
Vast indeed is the field that lies before us, wherein to roam
at large; 'twould readily afford each of us not one course but ten,
so richly has Fortune diversified it with episodes both strange and
sombre; wherefore selecting one such from this infinite store, I
say:
That, after the transference of the Roman Empire from the
Franks to the Germans, the greatest enmity prevailed between the
two nations, with warfare perpetual and relentless: wherefore,
deeming that the offensive would be their best defence, the King of
France and his son mustered all the forces they could raise from
their own dominions and those of their kinsmen and allies, and
arrayed a grand army for the subjugation of their enemies. Before
they took the field, as they could not leave the realm without a
governor, they chose for that office Gautier, Count of Antwerp, a
true knight and sage counsellor, and their very loyal ally and vassal,
choosing him the rather, because, albeit he was a thorough master of
the art of war, yet they deemed him less apt to support its hardships
than for the conduct of affairs of a delicate nature. Him, therefore,
they set in their place as their vicar-general and regent of the whole
realm of France, and having so done, they took the field.
Count Gautier ordered his administration wisely and in a regular
course, discussing all matters with the queen and her daughter-in-law;
whom, albeit they were left under his charge and jurisdiction,
he nevertheless treated as his ladies paramount. The Count was
about forty years of age, and the very mould of manly beauty; in
bearing as courteous and chivalrous as ever a gentleman might be,
and withal so debonair and dainty, so feat and trim of person that
he had not his peer among the gallants of that day. His wife was
dead, leaving him two children and no more, to wit, a boy and a
girl, still quite young. Now the King and his son being thus away
at the war, and the Count frequenting the court of the two said
ladies, and consulting with them upon affairs of state, it so befell
that the Prince's lady regarded him with no small favour, being very
sensible alike of the advantages of his person and the nobility of his
bearing; whereby she conceived for him a passion which was all the
more ardent because it was secret. And, as he was without a wife,
and she was still in the freshness of her youth, she saw not why she
should not readily be gratified; but supposing that nothing stood in
the way but her own shamefastness, she resolved to be rid of that,
and disclose her mind to him without any reserve. So one day,
when she was alone, she seized her opportunity, and sent for him, as
if she were desirous to converse with him on indifferent topics. The
Count, his mind entirely aloof from the lady's purpose, presented
himself forthwith, and at her invitation sate down by her side on a
settee. They were quite alone in the room; but the Count had
twice asked her the reason why she had so honoured him, before,
overcome by passion, she broke silence, and crimson from brow to
neck with shame, half sobbing, trembling in every limb, and faltering
at every word, she thus spoke:
Dearest friend and sweet my lord,
sagacity such as yours cannot but be apt to perceive how great is the
frailty of men and women, and how, for divers reasons, it varies in
different persons in such a degree that no just judge would mete
out the same measure to each indifferently, though the fault were
apparently the same.
Who would not acknowledge that a poor man
or woman, fain to earn daily bread by the sweat of the brow, is far
more reprehensible in yielding to the solicitations of love, than a
rich lady, whose life is lapped in ease and unrestricted luxury?
Not
a soul, I am persuaded, but would so acknowledge! Wherefore I
deem that the possession of these boons of fortune should go far
indeed to acquit the possessor, if she, perchance, indulge an errant
love; and, for the rest, that, if she have chosen a wise and worthy
lover, she should be entirely exonerated.
And as I think I may
fairly claim the benefit of both these pleas, and of others beside, to
wit, my youth and my husband's absence, which naturally incline me
to love, 'tis meet that I now urge them in your presence in defence
of my passion; and if they have the weight with you which they
should have with the wise, I pray you to afford me your help and
counsel in the matter wherein I shall demand it. I avow that in the
absence of my husband I have been unable to withstand the promptings
of the flesh and the power of love, forces of such potency that
even the strongest men--not to speak of delicate women--have not
seldom been, nay daily are, overcome by them; and so, living thus,
as you see me, in ease and luxury, I have allowed the allurements of
love to draw me on until at last I find myself a prey to passion.
Wherein were I discovered, I were, I confess, dishonoured; but
discovery being avoided, I count the dishonour all but nought.
Moreover, love has been so gracious to me that not only has he
spared to blind me in the choice of my lover, but he has even lent me
his most effective aid, pointing me to one well worthy of the love of
a lady such as I, even to yourself; whom, if I misread not my
mind, I deem the most handsome and courteous and debonair, and
therewithal the sagest cavalier that the realm of France may shew.
And as you are without a wife, so may I say that I find myself
without a husband. Wherefore in return for this great love I bear
you, deny me not, I pray you, yours; but have pity on my youth,
which wastes away for you like ice before the fire.
These words were followed by such a flood of tears, that, albeit
she had intended yet further to press her suit, speech failed her; her
eyes drooped, and, almost swooning with emotion, she let her head
fall upon the Count's breast. The Count, who was the most loyal
of knights, began with all severity to chide her mad passion and to
thrust her from him--for she was now making as if she would throw
her arms around his neck--and to asseverate with oaths that he
would rather be hewn in pieces than either commit, or abet another
in committing such an offence against the honour of his lord;
when
the lady, catching his drift, and forgetting all her love in a sudden
frenzy of rage, cried out: So! unknightly knight, is it thus you
flout my love? Now Heaven forbid, but, as you would be the death
of me, I either do you to death or drive you from the world!
So
saying, she dishevelled and tore her hair and rent her garments to
shreds about her bosom. Which done, she began shrieking at the top
of her voice: Help! help! The Count of Antwerp threatens to
violate me!
Whereupon the Count, who knew that a clear conscience
was no protection against the envy of courtiers, and doubted that
his innocence would prove scarce a match for the cunning of the
lady, started to his feet, and hied him with all speed out of the room,
out of the palace, and back to his own house. Counsel of none he
sought; but forthwith set his children on horseback, and taking
horse himself, departed post haste for Calais.
The lady's cries
brought not a few to her aid, who, observing her plight, not only
gave entire credence to her story, but improved upon it, alleging that
the debonair and accomplished Count had long employed all the arts
of seduction to compass his end. So they rushed in hot haste to the
Count's house, with intent to arrest him, and not finding him, sacked
it and razed it to the ground.
The news, as glosed and garbled,
being carried to the King and Prince in the field, they were mightily
incensed, and offered a great reward for the Count, dead or alive, and
condemned him and his posterity to perpetual banishment.
Meanwhile the Count, sorely troubled that by his flight his
innocence shewed as guilt, pursued his journey, and concealing his
identity, and being recognised by none, arrived with his two children
at Calais. Thence he forthwith crossed to England, and, meanly
clad, fared on for London, taking care as he went to school his
children in all that belonged to their new way of life, and especially
in two main articles: to wit, that they should bear with resignation
the poverty to which, by no fault of theirs, but solely by one of
Fortune's caprices, they and he were reduced, and that they should
be most sedulously on their guard to betray to none, as they valued
their lives, whence they were, or who their father was.
The son,
Louis by name, was perhaps nine, and the daughter, Violante, perhaps
seven years of age. For years so tender they proved apt pupils, and
afterwards shewed by their conduct that they had well learned their
father's lesson. He deemed it expedient to change their names, and
accordingly called the boy Perrot and the girl Jeannette. So, meanly
clad, the Count and his two children arrived at London, and there
made shift to get a living by going about soliciting alms in the guise
of French mendicants.
Now, as for this purpose they waited one morning outside a
church, it so befell that a great lady, the wife of one of the marshals
of the King of England, observed them, as she left the church, asking
alms, and demanded of the Count whence he was, and whether
the children were his. He answered that he was from Picardy, that
the children were his, and that he had been fain to leave Picardy by
reason of the misconduct of their reprobate elder brother.
The lady
looked at the girl, who being fair, and of gentle and winning mien
and manners, found much favour in her eyes. So the kind-hearted
lady said to the Count: My good man, if thou art willing to
leave thy little daughter with me, I like her looks so well that I will
gladly take her; and if she grow up a good woman, I will see that
she is suitably married when the right time comes.
The Count
was much gratified by the proposal, which he forthwith accepted,
and parted with the girl, charging the lady with tears to take every
care of her.
Having thus placed the girl with one in whom he felt sure that he
might trust, he determined to tarry no longer in London; wherefore,
taking Perrot with him and begging as he went, he made his way
to Wales, not without great suffering, being unused to go afoot.
Now in Wales another of the King's marshals had his court, maintaining
great state and a large number of retainers; to which court
the Count and his son frequently repaired, there to get food;
and
there Perrot, finding the marshal's son and other gentlemen's sons
vying with one another in boyish exercises, as running and leaping,
little by little joined their company, and shewed himself a match or
more for them all in all their contests. The marshal's attention
being thus drawn to him, he was well pleased with the boy's mien
and bearing, and asked who he was. He was told that he was the
son of a poor man who sometimes came there to solicit alms.
Whereupon he asked the Count to let him have the boy, and the
Count, to whom God could have granted no greater boon, readily
consented, albeit he was very loath to part with Perrot.
Having thus provided for his son and daughter, the Count
resolved to quit the island; and did so, making his way as best he
could to Stamford, in Ireland, where he obtained a menial's place in
the service of a knight, retainer to one of the earls of that country,
and so abode there a long while, doing all the irksome and wearisome
drudgery of a lackey or groom.
Meanwhile under the care of the gentle lady at London Violante
or Jeannette increased, as in years and stature so also in beauty, and
in such favour with the lady and her husband and every other
member of the household and all who knew her that 'twas a
wonder to see; nor was there any that, observing her bearing and
manners, would not have said that estate or dignity there was none so
high or honourable but she was worthy of it. So the lady, who, since
she had received her from her father, had been unable to learn aught
else about him than what he had himself told, was minded to marry
her honourably according to what she deemed to be her rank.
But
God, who justly apportions reward according to merit, having
regard to her noble birth, her innocence, and the load of suffering
which the sin of another had laid upon her, ordered otherwise; and
in His good providence, lest the young gentlewoman should be mated
with a churl, permitted, we must believe, events to take the course
they did.
The gentle lady with whom Jeannette lived had an only son,
whom she and her husband loved most dearly, as well because he was
a son as for his rare and noble qualities, for in truth there were few
that could compare with him in courtesy and courage and personal
beauty. Now the young man marked the extraordinary beauty and
grace of Jeannette, who was about six years his junior, and fell so
desperately in love with her that he had no eyes for any other maiden;
but, deeming her to be of low degree, he not only hesitated to ask her
of his parents in marriage, but, fearing to incur reproof for indulging
a passion for an inferior, he did his utmost to conceal his love.
Whereby it gave him far more disquietude than if he had avowed
it; insomuch that--so extreme waxed his suffering--he fell ill, and
that seriously. Divers physicians were called in, but, for all their
scrutiny of his symptoms, they could not determine the nature of
his malady, and one and all gave him up for lost. Nothing could
exceed the sorrow and dejection of his father and mother, who again
and again piteously implored him to discover to them the cause of his
malady, and received no other answer than sighs or complaints that
he seemed to be wasting away. Now it so happened that one day,
Jeannette, who from regard for his mother was sedulous in waiting
upon him, for some reason or another came into the room where he
lay, while a very young but very skilful physician sate by him and
held his pulse. The young man gave her not a word or other sign
of recognition; but his passion waxed, his heart smote him, and the
acceleration of his pulse at once betrayed his inward commotion to
the physician, who, albeit surprised, remained quietly attentive to see
how long it would last, and observing that it ceased when Jeannette
left the room, conjectured that he was on the way to explain the
young man's malady. So, after a while, still holding the young
man's pulse, he sent for Jeannette, as if he had something to ask
of her. She returned forthwith; the young man's pulse mounted
as soon as she entered the room, and fell again as soon as she left
it. Wherefore the physician no longer hesitated, but rose, and
taking the young man's father and mother aside, said to them:
The restoration of your son's health rests not with medical skill,
but solely with Jeannette, whom, as by unmistakable signs I have
discovered, he ardently loves, though, so far I can see, she is not
aware of it. So you know what you have to do, if you value his
life.
The prospect thus afforded of their son's deliverance from
death reassured the gentleman and his lady, albeit they were troubled,
misdoubting it must be by his marriage with Jeannette. So, when
the physician was gone, they went to the sick lad, and the lady
thus spoke: My son, never would I have believed that thou
wouldst have concealed from me any desire of thine, least of all
if such it were that privation should cause thee to languish; for
well assured thou shouldst have been and shouldst be, that I hold
thee dear as my very self, and that whatever may be for thy
contentment, even though it were scarce seemly, I would do it
for thee;
but, for all thou hast so done, God has shewn Himself
more merciful to theeward than thyself, and, lest thou die of this
malady, has given me to know its cause, which is nothing else than
the excessive love which thou bearest to a young woman, be she
who she may. Which love in good sooth thou needest not have
been ashamed to declare; for it is but natural at thy age; and
hadst thou not loved, I should have deemed thee of very little
worth. So, my son, be not shy of me, but frankly discover to me
thy whole heart; and away with this gloom and melancholy
whereof thy sickness is engendered, and be comforted, and assure
thyself that there is nought that thou mayst require of me which
I will not do to give thee ease, so far as my powers may reach,
seeing that thou art dearer to me than my own life. Away with
thy shamefastness and fears, and tell me if there is aught wherein
I may be helpful to thee in the matter of thy love; and if I bestir
not myself and bring it to pass, account me the most harsh mother
that ever bore son.
The young man was at first somewhat shamefast to hear his
mother thus speak, but, reflecting that none could do more for his
happiness than she, he took courage, and thus spoke: Madam,
my sole reason for concealing my love from you was that I have
observed that old people for the most part forget that they once were
young; but, as I see that no such unreasonableness is to be apprehended
in you, I not only acknowledge the truth of what you say
that you have discerned, but I will also disclose to you the object of
my passion, on the understanding that your promise shall to the best
of your power be performed, as it must be, if I am to be restored to
you in sound health.
Whereupon the lady, making too sure of that
which was destined to fall out otherwise than she expected, gave him
every encouragement to discover all his heart, and promised to lose
no time and spare no pains in endeavouring to compass his gratification.
Madam,
said then the young man, the rare beauty and
exquisite manners of our Jeannette, my powerlessness to make her
understand--I do not say commiserate--my love, and my reluctance
to disclose it to any, have brought me to the condition in which you
see me; and if your promise be not in one way or another performed,
be sure that my life will be brief.
The lady, deeming that the
occasion called rather for comfort than for admonition, replied with a
smile: Ah! my son, was this then of all things the secret of thy
suffering? Be of good cheer, and leave me to arrange the affair,
when you are recovered.
So, animated by a cheerful hope, the
young man speedily gave sign of a most marked improvement, which
the lady observed with great satisfaction, and then began to cast about
how she might keep her promise. So one day she sent for Jeannette,
and in a tone of gentle raillery asked her if she had a lover.
Jeannette turned very red as she answered: Madam, 'twould scarce,
nay, 'twould ill become a damsel such as I, poor, outcast from home,
and in the service of another, to occupy herself with thoughts of
love.
Whereto the lady answered: So you have none, we will
give you one, who will brighten all your life and give you more joy
of your beauty; for it is not right that so fair a damsel as you remain
without a lover.
Madam,
rejoined Jeannette, you found me
living in poverty with my father, you adopted me, you have brought
me up as your daughter; wherefore I should, if possible, comply with
your every wish; but in this matter I will render you no compliance,
nor do I doubt that I do well. So you will give me a husband, I
will love him, but no other will I love; for, as patrimony I now have
none save my honour, that I am minded to guard and preserve while
my life shall last.
Serious though the obstacle was which these
words opposed to the plan by which the lady had intended to keep
her promise to her son, her sound judgment could not but secretly
acknowledge that the spirit which they evinced was much to be
commended in the damsel. Wherefore she said: Nay but,
Jeannette; suppose that our Lord the King, who is a young knight
as thou art a most fair damsel, craved some indulgence of thy
love, wouldst thou deny him?
The King,
returned Jeannette
without the least hesitation, might constrain me, but with my
consent he should never have aught of me that was not honourable.
Whereto the lady made no answer, for she now understood the girl's
temper; but, being minded to put her to the proof, she told her son
that, as soon as he was recovered, she would arrange that he should
be closeted with her in the same room, and be thus able to use all his
arts to bring her to his will, saying that it ill became her to play the
part of procuress and urge her son's suit upon her own maid.
But
as the young man, by no means approving this idea, suddenly grew
worse, the lady at length opened her mind to Jeannette,
whom she
found in the same frame as before, and indeed even more resolute.
Wherefore she told her husband all that she had done; and as both
preferred that their son should marry beneath him, and live, than that
he should remain single and die, they resolved, albeit much disconcerted,
to give Jeannette to him to wife; and so after long debate
they did. Whereat Jeannette was overjoyed, and with devout heart
gave thanks to God that He had not forgotten her; nevertheless she
still gave no other account of herself than that she was the daughter
of a Picard. So the young man recovered, and blithe at heart as
ne'er another, was married, and began to speed the time gaily with
his bride.
Meanwhile Perrot, left in Wales with the marshal of the King
of England, had likewise with increase of years increase of favour
with his master, and grew up most shapely and well-favoured, and of
such prowess that in all the island at tourney or joust or any other
passage of arms he had not his peer; being everywhere known and
renowned as Perrot the Picard. And as God had not forgotten
Jeannette, so likewise He made manifest by what follows that He had
not forgotten Perrot. Well-nigh half the population of those parts
being swept off by a sudden visitation of deadly pestilence, most of the
survivors fled therefrom in a panic, so that the country was, to all
appearance, entirely deserted. Among those that died of the pest
were the marshal, his lady, and his son, besides brothers and nephews
and kinsfolk in great number; whereby of his entire household there
were left only one of his daughters, now marriageable, and a few
servants, among them Perrot. Now Perrot being a man of such
notable prowess, the damsel, soon after the pestilence had spent
itself, took him, with the approval and by the advice of the few folk
that survived, to be her husband, and made him lord of all that fell
to her by inheritance. Nor was it long before the King of England,
learning that the marshal was dead, made Perrot the Picard, to whose
merit he was no stranger, marshal in the dead man's room. Such,
in brief, was the history of the two innocent children, with whom
the Count of Antwerp had parted, never expecting to see them
again.
'Twas now the eighteenth year since the Count of Antwerp had
taken flight from Paris, when, being still in Ireland, where he had
led a very sorry and suffering sort of life, and feeling that age was
now come upon him, he felt a longing to learn, if possible, what was
become of his children. The fashion of his outward man was now
completely changed; for long hardship had (as he well knew) given
to his age a vigour which his youth, lapped in ease, had lacked. So
he hesitated not to take his leave of the knight with whom he had
so long resided, and poor and in sorry trim he crossed to England,
and made his way to the place where he had left Perrot--to find him
a great lord and marshal of the King, and in good health, and withal
a hardy man and very handsome. All which was very grateful to
the old man; but yet he would not make himself known to his son,
until he had learned the fate of Jeannette. So forth he fared again,
nor did he halt until he was come to London, where, cautiously
questing about for news of the lady with whom he had left his
daughter, and how it fared with her, he learned that Jeannette was
married to the lady's son. Whereat, in the great gladness of his
heart, he counted all his past adversity but a light matter, since
he had found his children alive and prosperous. But sore he
yearned to see Jeannette. Wherefore he took to loitering, as poor
folk are wont, in the neighbourhood of the house. And so one
day Jacques Lamiens--such was the name of Jeannette's husband--saw
him and had pity on him, observing that he was poor and aged,
and bade one of his servants take him indoors, and for God's sake
give him something to eat; and nothing loath the servant did so.
Now Jeannette had borne Jacques several children, the finest and the
most winsome children in the world, the eldest no more than eight
years old; who gathered about the Count as he ate, and, as if by
instinct divining that he was their grandfather, began to make friends
with him. He, knowing them for his grandchildren, could not
conceal his love, and repaid them with caresses; insomuch that they
would not hearken to their governor when he called them, but
remained with the Count. Which being reported to Jeannette, she
came out of her room, crossed to where the Count was sitting with
the children, and bade them do as their master told them, or she
would certainly have them whipped. The children began to cry,
and to say that they would rather stay with the worthy man, whom
they liked much better than their master; whereat both the lady and
the Count laughed in sympathy. The Count had risen, with no
other intention--for he was not minded to disclose his paternity--than
to pay his daughter the respect due from his poverty to her
rank, and the sight of her had thrilled his soul with a wondrous
delight. By her he was and remained unrecognised; utterly
changed as he was from his former self; aged, grey-haired, bearded,
lean and tanned--in short to all appearance another man than the
Count.
However, seeing that the children were unwilling to leave him,
but wept when she made as if she would constrain them, she bade
the master let them be for a time. So the children remained with
the worthy man, until by chance Jacques' father came home, and
learned from the master what had happened. Whereupon, having a
grudge against Jeannette, he said: Let them be; and God give
them the ill luck which He owes them: whence they sprang, thither
they must needs return; they descend from a vagabond on the
mother's side, and so 'tis no wonder that they consort readily with
vagabonds.
The Count caught these words and was sorely pained,
but, shrugging his shoulders, bore the affront silently as he had borne
many another. Jacques, who had noted his children's fondness for
the worthy man, to wit, the Count, was displeased; but nevertheless,
such was the love he bore them, that, rather than see them weep, he
gave order that, if the worthy man cared to stay there in his service,
he should be received. The Count answered that he would gladly
do so, but that he was fit for nothing except to look after horses, to
which he had been used all his life. So a horse was assigned him,
and when he had groomed him, he occupied himself in playing with
the children.
While Fortune thus shaped the destinies of the Count of Antwerp
and his children, it so befell that after a long series of truces
made with the Germans the King of France died, and his crown
passed to his son, whose wife had been the occasion of the Count's
banishment. The new king, as soon as the last truce with the
Germans was run out, renewed hostilities with extraordinary vigour,
being aided by his brother of England with a large army under the
command of his marshal, Perrot, and his other marshal's son,
Jacques Lamiens. With them went the worthy man, that is to say,
the Count, who, unrecognised by any, served for a long while in the
army in the capacity of groom, and acquitted himself both in counsel
and in arms with a wisdom and valour unwonted in one of his
supposed rank.
The war was still raging when the Queen of France
fell seriously ill, and, as she felt her end approach, made a humble and
contrite confession of all her sins to the Archbishop of Rouen, who
was universally reputed a good and most holy man. Among her other
sins she confessed the great wrong that she had done to the Count
of Antwerp; nor was she satisfied to confide it to the Archbishop,
but recounted the whole affair, as it had passed, to not a few other
worthy men, whom she besought to use their influence with the
King to procure the restitution of the Count, if he were still alive,
and if not, of his children, to honour and estate. And so, dying
shortly afterwards, she was honourably buried.
The Queen's confession
wrung from the King a sigh or two of compunction for a
brave man cruelly wronged; after which he caused proclamation
to be made throughout the army and in many other parts, that
whoso should bring him tidings of the Count of Antwerp, or his
children, should receive from him such a guerdon for each of them
as should justly be matter of marvel; seeing that he held him
acquitted, by confession of the Queen, of the crime for which he
had been banished, and was therefore now minded to grant him not
only restitution but increase of honour and estate.
Now the Count, being still with the army in his character of
groom, heard the proclamation, which he did not doubt was made
in good faith. Wherefore he hied him forthwith to Jacques, and
begged a private interview with him and Perrot, that he might discover
to them that whereof the King was in quest. So the meeting
was had; and Perrot was on the point of declaring himself, when
the Count anticipated him: Perrot,
he said, Jacques here has
thy sister to wife, but never a dowry had he with her. Wherefore
that thy sister be not dowerless, 'tis my will that he, and no other,
have this great reward which the King offers for thee, son, as he
shall certify, of the Count of Antwerp, and for his wife and thy
sister, Violante, and for me, Count of Antwerp, thy father.
So
hearing, Perrot scanned the Count closely, and forthwith recognising
him, burst into tears, and throwing himself at his feet embraced
him, saying: My father, welcome, welcome indeed art thou.
Whereupon, between what he had heard from the Count and what
he had witnessed on the part of Perrot, Jacques was so overcome
with wonder and delight, that at first he was at a loss to know how
to act. However, giving entire credence to what he had heard, and
recalling insulting language which he had used towards the quondam
groom, the Count, he was sore stricken with shame, and wept, and
fell at the Count's feet, and humbly craved his pardon for all past
offences; which the Count, raising him to his feet, most graciously
granted him. So with many a tear and many a hearty laugh the
three men compared their several fortunes; which done, Perrot and
Jacques would have arrayed the Count in manner befitting his rank,
but he would by no means suffer it, being minded that Jacques, so
soon as he was well assured that the guerdon was forthcoming,
should present him to the King in his garb of groom, that thereby
the King might be the more shamed. So Jacques, with the Count
and Perrot, went presently to the King and offered to present to him
the Count and his children, provided the guerdon were forthcoming
according to the proclamation. Jacques wondered not a little as
forthwith at a word from the King a guerdon was produced ample
for all three, and he was bidden take it away with him, so only that
he should in very truth produce, as he had promised, the Count and
his children in the royal presence. Then, withdrawing a little and
causing his quondam groom, now Count, to come forward with
Perrot, he said: Sire, father and son are before you; the daughter,
my wife, is not here, but, God willing, you shall soon see her.
So
hearing, the King surveyed the Count, whom, notwithstanding his
greatly changed appearance, he at length recognised, and well-nigh
moved to tears, he raised him from his knees to his feet, and kissed
and embraced him. He also gave a kindly welcome to Perrot, and
bade forthwith furnish the Count with apparel, servants and horses,
suited to his rank; all which was no sooner said than done.
Moreover
the King shewed Jacques no little honour, and particularly
questioned him of all his past adventures.
As Jacques was about to take the noble guerdons assigned him for
the discovery of the Count and his children, the Count said to
him: Take these tokens of the magnificence of our Lord the
King, and forget not to tell thy father that 'tis from no vagabond
that thy children, his and my grandchildren, descend on the mother's
side.
So Jacques took the guerdons, and sent for his wife and
mother to join him at Paris. Thither also came Perrot's wife: and
there with all magnificence they were entertained by the Count, to
whom the King had not only restored all his former estates and
honours, but added thereto others, whereby he was now become a
greater man than he had ever been before. Then with the
Count's leave they all returned to their several houses. The
Count himself spent the rest of his days at Paris in greater glory
than ever.
Novel IXBernabò of Genoa, deceived by Ambrogiuolo, loses his
money and commands his innocent wife to be put
to death. She escapes, habits herself as a man,
and serves the Soldan. She discovers the deceiver,
and brings Bernabò to Alexandria, where the deceiver
is punished. She then resumes the garb of a
woman, and with her husband returns wealthy to
Genoa.
When Elisa had performed her part, and
brought her touching
story to a close, Queen Filomena, a damsel no less stately than fair
of person, and of a surpassingly sweet and smiling mien, having
composed herself to speak, thus began:
Our engagements with Dioneo shall be faithfully observed;
wherefore, as he and I alone remain to complete the day's narration,
I will tell my story first, and he shall have the grace he
craved, and be the last to speak.
After which prelude she thus
began her story:
'Tis a proverb current among the vulgar that
the deceived has the better of the deceiver; a proverb which, were it
not exemplified by events, might hardly in any manner be justified.
Wherefore, while adhering to our theme, I am minded at the same
time, dearest ladies, to shew you that there is truth in this proverb;
the proof whereof should be none the less welcome to you that it
may put you on your guard against deceivers.
Know then that certain very great merchants of Italy, being met,
as merchants use, for divers reasons proper to each, at a hostelry in
Paris, and having one evening jovially supped together, fell a talking
of divers matters, and so, passing from one topic to another, they
came at last to discuss the ladies whom they had left at home,
and
one jocosely said: I cannot answer for my wife; but for myself
I own, that, whenever a girl that is to my mind comes in my way, I
give the go-by to the love that I bear my wife, and take my pleasure
of the new-comer to the best of my power.
And so do I,
said
another, because I know that, whether I suspect her or no, my wife
tries her fortune, and so 'tis do as you are done by; the ass and the
wall are quits.
A third added his testimony to the same effect;
and in short all seemed to concur in the opinion that the ladies they
had left behind them were not likely to neglect their opportunities,
when one, a Genoese, Bernabò Lomellin by name, dissociated
himself from the rest, affirming that by especial grace of God he was
blessed with a wife who was, perhaps, the most perfect paragon to be
found in Italy of all the virtues proper to a lady, ay, and in great
measure, to a knight or squire; inasmuch as she was fair, still quite
young, handy, hardy, and clever beyond all other women in
embroidery work and all other forms of lady's handicraft.
Moreover
so well-mannered, discreet and sensible was she that she was as fit to
wait at a lord's table as any squire or manservant or such like, the
best and most adroit that could be found. To which encomium he
added that she knew how to manage a horse, fly a hawk, read, write
and cast up accounts better than as if she were a merchant; and after
much more in the same strain of commendation he came at length to
the topic of their conversation, asseverating with an oath that 'twas
not possible to find a woman more honest, more chaste than she:
nay, he verily believed that, if he remained from home for ten years,
or indeed for the rest of his days, she would never think of any of
these casual amours with any other man.
Among the merchants who thus gossiped was a young man,
Ambrogiuolo da Piacenza by name, who, when Bernabò thus concluded
his eulogy of his wife, broke out into a mighty laugh, and
asked him with a leer, whether he of all men had this privilege by
special patent of the Emperor. Bernabò replied, somewhat angrily,
that 'twas a boon conferred upon him by God, who was rather more
powerful than the Emperor. To which Ambrogiuolo rejoined: I
make no doubt, Bernabò, that thou believest that what thou sayst is
true; but, methinks, thou hast been but a careless observer of the
nature of things; otherwise, I do not take thee to be of so gross
understanding but that thou must have discerned therein reasons
for speaking more judiciously of this matter. And that thou
mayst not think that we, who have spoken with much freedom
about our wives, deem them to be of another nature and mould
than thine, but mayst know that we have but uttered what
common sense dictates, I am minded to go a little further into
this matter with thee. I have always understood, that of all mortal
beings created by God man is the most noble, and next after him
woman: man, then, being, as is universally believed, and is indeed
apparent by his works, more perfect than woman, must without
doubt be endowed with more firmness and constancy, women being
one and all more mobile, for reasons not a few and founded in nature,
which I might adduce, but mean for the present to pass over.
And
yet, for all his greater firmness, man cannot withstand--I do not say
a woman's supplications, but--the mere lust of the eye which she
unwittingly excites, and that in such sort that he will do all that is in
his power to induce her to pleasure him, not once, perhaps, in the
course of a month, but a thousand times a day. How, then, shouldst
thou expect a woman, mobile by nature, to resist the supplications,
the flatteries, the gifts, and all the other modes of attack that an
accomplished seducer will employ? Thou thinkest that she may
hold out! Nay verily, affirm it as thou mayst, I doubt thou dost not
really so think. Thou dost not deny that thy wife is a woman, a
creature of flesh and blood like the rest; and if so, she must have the
same cravings, the same natural propensities as they, and no more
force to withstand them; wherefore 'tis at least possible, that,
however honest she be, she will do as others do; and nought that is
possible admits such peremptory denial or affirmation of its contrary
as this of thine.
Whereto Bernabò returned: I am a merchant and no philosopher,
and I will give thee a merchant's answer. I acknowledge
that what thou sayst is true of vain and foolish women who have no
modesty, but such as are discreet are so sensitive in regard of their
honour that they become better able to preserve it than men,
who have no such solicitude; and my wife is one of this sort.
Doubtless,
observed Ambrogiuolo, few would be found to indulge
in these casual amours, if every time they did so a horn grew out on
the brow to attest the fact; but not only does no horn make its
appearance but not so much as a trace or vestige of a horn, so only
they be but prudent; and the shame and dishonour consist only in
the discovery: wherefore, if they can do it secretly, they do it, or are
fools to refrain.
Hold it for certain that she alone is chaste who
either had never suit made to her, or, suing herself, was repulsed.
And albeit I know that for reasons true and founded in nature this
must needs be, yet I should not speak so positively thereof as I do,
had I not many a time with many a woman verified it by experience.
And I assure thee that, had I but access to this most saintly wife of
thine, I should confidently expect very soon to have the same success
with her as with others.
Then Bernabò angrily: 'Twere long
and tedious to continue this discussion. I should have my say, and
thou thine, and in the end 'twould come to nothing. But, as thou
sayst that they are all so compliant, and that thou art so accomplished
a seducer, I give thee this pledge of the honour of my wife: I
consent to forfeit my head, if thou shouldst succeed in bringing her
to pleasure thee in such a sort; and shouldst thou fail, thou shalt
forfeit to me no more than one thousand florins of gold.
Elated by this unexpected offer, Ambrogiuolo replied: I know
not what I should do with thy blood, Bernabò, if I won the wager;
but, if thou wouldst have proof of what I have told thee, lay five
thousand florins of gold, which must be worth less to thee than thy
head, against a thousand of mine, and, whereas thou makest no
stipulation as to time, I will bind myself to go to Genoa, and within
three months from my departure hence to have had my pleasure of
thy wife, and in witness thereof to bring back with me, of the things
which she prizes most dearly, evidence of her compliance so weighty
and conclusive that thou thyself shalt admit the fact; nor do I
require ought of thee but that thou pledge thy faith neither to come
to Genoa nor to write word to her of this matter during the said
three months.
Bernabò professed himself well content; and though
the rest of the company, seeing that the compact might well have
very evil consequences, did all that they could to frustrate it, yet the
two men were now so heated that, against the will of the others, they
set it down fairly in writing, and signed it each with his own hand.
This done, Ambrogiuolo, leaving Bernabò at Paris, posted with all
speed for Genoa. Arrived there, he set to work with great caution;
and having found out the quarter in which the lady resided, he
learned in the course of a few days enough about her habits of life
and her character to know that what Bernabò had told him was
rather less than the truth. So, recognising that his enterprise was
hopeless, he cast about for some device whereby he might cover his
defeat; and having got speech of a poor woman, who was much in
the lady's house, as also in her favour, he bribed her (other means
failing) to convey him in a chest, which he had had made for the
purpose, not only into the house but into the bedroom of the lady,
whom the good woman, following Bernabò's instructions, induced to
take charge of it for some days, during which, she said, she would be
away.
So the lady suffered the chest to remain in the room; and when
the night was so far spent that Bernabò thought she must be asleep,
he opened it with some tools with which he had provided himself,
and stole softly out. There was a light in the room, so that he was
able to form an idea of its situation, to take note of the pictures and
everything else of consequence that it contained, and to commit the
whole to memory. This done, he approached the bed; and observing
that the lady, and a little girl that was with her, were fast asleep, he
gently uncovered her, and saw that nude she was not a whit less
lovely than when dressed: he looked about for some mark that might
serve him as evidence that he had seen her in this state, but found
nothing except a mole, which she had under the left breast, and
which was fringed with a few fair hairs that shone like gold. So
beautiful was she that he was tempted at the hazard of his life to
take his place by her side in the bed; but, remembering what he had
heard of her inflexible obduracy in such affairs, he did not venture;
but quietly replaced the bedclothes; and having passed the best part
of the night very much at his ease in her room, he took from one of
the lady's boxes a purse, a gown, a ring and a girdle, and with these
tokens returned to the chest, and locked himself in as before. In
this manner he passed two nights, nor did the lady in the least
suspect his presence. On the third day the good woman came by
preconcert to fetch her chest, and took it back to the place whence
she had brought it. So Ambrogiuolo got out, paid her the stipulated
sum, and hied him back with all speed to Paris, where he arrived
within the appointed time. Then, in presence of the merchants
who were witnesses of his altercation with Bernabò, and the
wager
to which it had given occasion, he told Bernabò that he had won
the bet, having done what he had boasted that he would do; and in
proof thereof he first of all described the appearance of the room and
the pictures, and then displayed the articles belonging to the lady
which he had brought away with him, averring that she had given
them to him. Bernabò acknowledged the accuracy of his description
of the room, and that the articles did really belong to his wife, but
objected that Ambrogiuolo might have learned characteristic features
of the room from one of the servants, and have come by the things
in a similar way, and therefore, unless he had something more to say,
he could not justly claim to have won the bet.
Verily,
rejoined
Ambrogiuolo, this should suffice; but, as thou requirest that I say
somewhat further, I will satisfy thee. I say, then, that Madam
Zinevra, thy wife, has under her left breast a mole of some size,
around which are, perhaps, six hairs of a golden hue.
As Bernabò
heard this, it was as if a knife pierced his heart, so poignant was his
suffering; and, though no word escaped him, the complete alteration
of his mien bore unmistakable witness to the truth of Ambrogiuolo's
words. After a while he said: Gentlemen, 'tis even as Ambrogiuolo
says; he has won the bet; he has but to come when
he will, and he shall be paid.
And so the very next day
Ambrogiuolo was paid in full, and Bernabò, intent on wreaking
vengeance on his wife, left Paris and set his face towards Genoa.
He had no mind, however, to go home, and accordingly halted at an
estate which he had some twenty miles from the city, whither he
sent forward a servant, in whom he reposed much trust, with two
horses and a letter advising the lady of his return, and bidding her
come out to meet him. At the same time he gave the servant
secret instructions to choose some convenient place, and ruthlessly
put the lady to death, and so return to him.
On his arrival at
Genoa the servant delivered his message and the letter to the lady,
who received him with great cheer, and next morning got on
horseback and set forth with him for her husband's estate.
So they
rode on, talking of divers matters, until they came to a deep gorge,
very lonely, and shut in by high rocks and trees. The servant,
deeming this just the place in which he might without risk of
discovery fulfil his lord's behest, whipped out a knife, and seizing
the lady by the arm, said: Madam, commend your soul to God,
for here must end at once your journey and your life.
Terror-stricken
by what she saw and heard, the lady cried out: Mercy
for God's sake; before thou slay me, tell me at least wherein I have
wronged thee, that thou art thus minded to put me to death.
Madam,
said the servant, me you have in no wise wronged;
but your husband--how you may have wronged him I know not--charged
me shew you no mercy, but to slay you on this journey,
and threatened to have me hanged by the neck, should I not do so.
You know well how bound I am to him, and that I may not
disobey any of his commands: God knows I pity you, but yet I can
no otherwise.
Whereat the lady burst into tears, saying: Mercy
for God's sake; make not thyself the murderer of one that has done
thee no wrong, at the behest of another. The all-seeing God knows
that I never did aught to merit such requital at my husband's hands.
But enough of this for the present: there is a way in which thou
canst serve at once God and thy master and myself, if thou wilt do
as I bid thee: take, then, these clothes of mine and give me in
exchange just thy doublet and a hood; and carry the clothes with
thee to my lord and thine, and tell him that thou hast slain me;
and I swear to thee by the life which I shall have received at thy
hands, that I will get me gone, and there abide whence news of me
shall never reach either him or thee or these parts.
The servant,
being loath to put her to death, soon yielded to pity; and so he took
her clothes, allowing her to retain a little money that she had, and
gave her one of his worser doublets and a hood; then, praying her
to depart the country, he left her afoot in the gorge, and returned
to his master, whom he gave to understand that he had not only
carried out his orders but had left the lady's body a prey to wolves.
Bernabò after a while returned to Genoa, where, the supposed
murder being bruited abroad, he was severely censured.
Alone and disconsolate, the lady, as night fell, disguised herself
as best she could, and hied her to a neighbouring village, where,
having procured what was needful from an old woman, she shortened
the doublet and fitted it to her figure, converted her chemise into a
pair of breeches, cut her hair close, and, in short, completely disguised
herself as a sailor. She then made her way to the coast, where by
chance she encountered a Catalan gentleman, by name Segner
Encararch, who had landed from one of his ships, which lay in the
offing, to recreate himself at Alba, where there was a fountain.
So
she made overture to him of her services, was engaged and taken
aboard the ship, assuming the name Sicurano da Finale. The
gentleman put her in better trim as to clothes, and found her so apt
and handy at service that he was exceeding well pleased with her.
Not long afterwards the Catalan sailed one of his carracks to
Alexandria. He took with him some peregrine falcons, which he
presented to the Soldan, who feasted him once or twice; and noting
with approbation the behaviour of Sicurano, who always attended
his master, he craved him of the Catalan, which request the Catalan
reluctantly granted. Sicurano proved so apt for his new service
that he was soon as high in grace and favour with the Soldan as he
had been with the Catalan. Wherefore, when the time of year
came at which there was wont to be held at Acre, then under the
Soldan's sway, a great fair, much frequented by merchants, Christian
and Saracen alike, and to which, for the security of the merchants
and their goods, the Soldan always sent one of his great officers of
state with other officers and a guard to attend upon them,
he determined
to send Sicurano, who by this time knew the language very
well.
So Sicurano was sent to Acre as governor and captain of the
guard for the protection of the merchants and merchandise. Arrived
there, he bestirred himself with great zeal in all matters appertaining
to his office; and as he went his rounds of inspection, he espied
among the merchants not a few from Italy, Sicilians, Pisans, Genoese,
Venetians, and so forth, with whom he consorted the more readily
because they reminded him of his native land.
And so it befell that,
alighting once at a shop belonging to some Venetian merchants, he
saw there among other trinkets a purse and a girdle, which he
forthwith recognised as having once been his own. Concealing
his surprise, he blandly asked whose they were, and if they were
for sale. He was answered by Ambrogiuolo da Piacenza, who had
come thither with much merchandise aboard a Venetian ship, and
hearing that the captain of the guard was asking about the ownership
of the purse and girdle, came forward, and said with a smile: The
things are mine, Sir, and I am not disposed to sell them, but, if they
take your fancy, I will gladly give them to you.
Observing the
smile, Sicurano misdoubted that something had escaped him by
which Ambrogiuolo had recognised him; but he answered with a
composed air: Thou dost smile, perchance, to see me, a soldier,
come asking about this woman's gear?
Not so, Sir,
returned
Ambrogiuolo; I smile to think of the manner in which I came
by it.
And pray,
said Sicurano, if thou hast no reason to
conceal it, tell me, in God's name, how thou didst come by the
things.
Why, Sir,
said Ambrogiuolo, they were given me by
a Genoese lady, with whom I once spent a night, Madam Zinevra
by name, wife of Bernabò Lomellin, who prayed me to keep them
as a token of her love.
I smiled just now to think of the folly of
Bernabò, who was so mad as to stake five thousand florins of gold
against my thousand that I could not bring his wife to surrender to
me; which I did. I won the bet; and he, who should rather have
been punished for his insensate folly, than she for doing what all
women do, had her put to death, as I afterwards gathered, on his
way back from Paris to Genoa.
Ambrogiuolo had not done speaking before Sicurano had discerned
in him the evident cause of her husband's animosity against
her, and all her woe, and had made up her mind that he should
not escape with impunity. She therefore feigned to be much
interested by this story, consorted frequently and very familiarly
with Ambrogiuolo, and insidiously captured his confidence, insomuch
that at her suggestion, when the fair was done, he, taking with
him all his wares, accompanied her to Alexandria, where she
provided him with a shop, and put no little of her own money in
his hands; so that he, finding it very profitable, was glad enough
to stay. Anxious to make her innocence manifest to Bernabò,
Sicurano did not rest until, with the help of some great Genoese
merchants that were in Alexandria, she had devised an expedient
to draw him thither. Her plan succeeded; Bernabò arrived; and,
as he was now very poor, she privily arranged that he should be
entertained by one of her friends until occasion should serve to carry
out her design. She had already induced Ambrogiuolo to tell his
story to the Soldan, and the Soldan to interest himself in the matter.
So Bernabò being come, and further delay inexpedient, she seized
her opportunity, and persuaded the Soldan to cite Ambrogiuolo and
Bernabò before him, that in Bernabò's presence Ambrogiuolo
might
be examined of his boast touching Bernabò's wife, and the truth
thereof, if not to be had from him by gentle means, be elicited by
torture. So the Soldan, having Ambrogiuolo and Bernabò before
him, amid a great concourse of his people questioned Ambrogiuolo
of the five thousand florins of gold that he had won from Bernabò,
and sternly bade him tell the truth. Still more harsh was the
aspect of Sicurano, in whom Ambrogiuolo had placed his chief
reliance, but who now threatened him with the direst torments if
the truth were not forthcoming. Thus hard bested on this side and
on that, and in a manner coerced, Ambrogiuolo, thinking he had
but to refund, in presence of Bernabò and many others accurately
recounted the affair as it had happened. When he had done, Sicurano,
as minister of the Soldan for the time being, turned to Bernabò and
said: And thy wife, thus falsely accused, what treatment did she
meet with at thy hands?
Mortified,
said Bernabò, by the
loss
of my money, and the dishonour which I deemed to have been
done me by my wife, I was so overcome by wrath that I had her put
to death by one of my servants, who brought me word that her
corpse had been instantly devoured by a pack of wolves.
Albeit the Soldan had heard and understood all that had passed,
yet he did not as yet apprehend the object for which Sicurano had
pursued the investigation. Wherefore Sicurano thus addressed him:
My lord, what cause this good lady has to boast of her lover and
her husband you have now abundant means of judging; seeing that
the lover at one and the same time despoils her of her honour,
blasting her fair fame with slanderous accusations, and ruins her
husband; who, more prompt to trust the falsehood of another than
the verity of which his own long experience should have assured
him, devotes her to death and the devouring wolves; and, moreover,
such is the regard, such the love which both bear her that, though
both tarry a long time with her, neither recognises her.
However,
that you may know full well what chastisements they have severally
deserved, I will now cause her to appear in your presence and theirs,
provided you, of your especial grace, be pleased to punish the deceiver
and pardon the deceived.
The Soldan, being minded in this matter
to defer entirely to Sicurano, answered that he was well content,
and bade produce the lady. Bernabò, who had firmly believed that
she was dead, was lost in wonder; likewise Ambrogiuolo, who now
divined his evil plight, and dreading something worse than the
disbursement of money, knew not whether to expect the lady's advent
with fear or with hope. His suspense was not of long duration;
for,
as soon as the Soldan signified his assent, Sicurano, weeping, threw
herself on her knees at his feet, and discarding the tones, as she
would fain have divested herself of the outward semblance, of a man,
said:
.My lord, that forlorn, hapless Zinevra am I, falsely and
foully slandered by this traitor Ambrogiuolo, and by my cruel
and unjust husband delivered over to his servant to slaughter and
cast out as a prey to the wolves; for which cause I have now for
six years been a wanderer on the face of the earth in the guise of
a man.
Then rending her robes in front and baring her breast, she
made it manifest to the Soldan and all others who were present,
that she was indeed a woman; then turning to Ambrogiuolo she
haughtily challenged him to say when she had ever lain with him,
as he had boasted. Ambrogiuolo said never a word, for he now
recognised her, and it was as if shame had reft from him the power
of speech.
The Soldan, who had never doubted that Sicurano was
a man, was so wonder-struck by what he saw and heard that at
times he thought it must be all a dream. But, as wonder gave
place to conviction of the truth, he extolled in the amplest terms the
constancy and virtue and seemliness with which Zinevra, erstwhile
Sicurano, had ordered her life.
He then directed that she should
be most nobly arrayed in the garb of her sex and surrounded by a
bevy of ladies. Mindful of her intercession, he granted to Bernabò
the life which he had forfeited; and she, when Bernabò threw
himself at her feet and wept and craved her pardon, raised him,
unworthy though he was, to his feet and generously forgave him,
and tenderly embraced him as her husband. Ambrogiuolo the
Soldan commanded to be bound to a stake, that his bare flesh,
anointed with honey, might be exposed to the sun on one of the
heights of the city, there to remain until it should fall to pieces
of its own accord: and so 'twas done. He then decreed that the
lady should have the traitor's estate, which was worth not less but
rather more than ten thousand doubloons; whereto he added, in
jewels and vessels of gold and silver and in money, the equivalent
of upwards of other ten thousand doubloons, having first entertained
her and her husband with most magnificent and ceremonious cheer,
accordant with the lady's worth. Which done, he placed a ship at
their disposal, and gave them leave to return to Genoa at their
pleasure. So to Genoa they returned very rich and happy, and
were received with all honour, especially Madam Zinevra, whom
all the citizens had believed to be dead, and whom thenceforth, so
long as she lived, they held of great consequence and excellency.
As for Ambrogiuolo, the very same day that he was bound to the
stake, the honey with which his body was anointed attracted such
swarms of flies, wasps and gadflies, wherewith that country abounds,
that not only was his life sucked from him but his very bones were
completely denuded of flesh; in which state, hanging by the sinews,
they remained a long time undisturbed, for a sign and a testimony
of his baseness to all that passed by. And so the deceived had the
better of the deceiver.
Novel XPaganino da Monaco carries off the wife of Messer
Ricciardo di Chinzica, who, having learned where
she is, goes to Paganino and in a friendly manner
asks him to restore her. He consents, provided she
be willing. She refuses to go back with her husband.
Messer Ricciardo dies, and she marries Paganino.
Their queen's story, by its beauty, elicited hearty commendation
from all the honourable company, and most especially from Dioneo,
with whom it now rested to conclude the day's narration. Again and
again he renewed his eulogy of the queen's story; and then began
on this wise:
Fair ladies, there is that in the queen's story which has caused
me to change my purpose, and substitute another story for that
which I had meant to tell: I refer to the insensate folly of
Bernabò (well though it was with him in the end) and of all
others, who delude themselves, as he seemed to do, with the vain
imagination that, while they go about the world, taking their
pleasure now of this, now of the other woman, their wives, left
at home, suffer not their hands to stray from their girdles; as if
we, who are born of them and bred among them, could be ignorant
of the bent of their desires. Wherefore, by my story I purpose
at one and the same time to shew you how great is the folly of
all such, and how much greater is the folly of those who, deeming
themselves mightier than nature, think by sophistical arguments to
bring that to pass which is beyond their power, and strive might
and main to conform others to their own pattern, however little
the nature of the latter may brook such treatment.
Know then
that there was in Pisa a judge, better endowed with mental than
with physical vigour, by name Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica, who,
being minded to take a wife, and thinking, perhaps, to satisfy her
by the same resources which served him for his studies, was to be
suited with none that had not both youth and beauty, qualities
which he would rather have eschewed, if he had known how to
give himself as good counsel as he gave to others. However, being
very rich, he had his desire.
Messer Lotto Gualandi gave him in
marriage one of his daughters, Bartolomea by name, a maid as fair
and fit for amorous dalliance as any in Pisa, though few maids be
there that do not shew as spotted lizards.
The judge brought her
home with all pomp and ceremony, and had a brave and lordly
wedding; but in the essay which he made the very first night to
serve her so as to consummate the marriage he made a false move,
and drew the game much to his own disadvantage; for next morning
his lean, withered and scarce animate frame was only to be
re-quickened by draughts of vernaccia,A strong white wine.
artificial restoratives and the
like remedies.
So, taking a more sober estimate of his powers than
he had been wont, the worthy judge began to give his wife lessons
from a calendar, which might have served as a horn-book, and
perhaps had been put together at Ravenna:The saying went, that owing
to the multitude of churches at Ravenna
every day was there a saint's day.
inasmuch as, according
to his shewing, there was not a day in the year but was sacred,
not to one saint only, but to many; in honour of whom for divers
reasons it behoved men and women to abstain from carnal intercourse;
whereto he added fast-days, Ember-days, vigils of Apostles
and other saints, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, the whole of Lent,
certain lunar mansions, and many other exceptions, arguing perchance,
that the practice of men with women abed should have
its times of vacation no less than the administration of the law.
In this method, which caused the lady grievous dumps, he long
persisted, hardly touching her once a month, and observing her
closely, lest another should give her to know working-days, as he
had taught her holidays.
Now it so befell that, one hot season, Messer Ricciardo thought
he would like to visit a very beautiful estate which he had near
Monte Nero, there to take the air and recreate himself for some
days, and thither accordingly he went with his fair lady.
While
there, to amuse her, he arranged for a day's fishing; and so, he in
one boat with the fishermen, and she in another with other ladies,
they put out to watch the sport, which they found so delightsome,
that almost before they knew where they were they were some miles
out to sea. And while they were thus engrossed with the sport, a
galliot of Paganino da Mare, a very famous corsair of those days,
hove in sight and bore down upon the boats, and, for all the speed
they made, came up with that in which were the ladies; and on
sight of the fair lady Paganino, regardless of all else, bore her off to
his galliot before the very eyes of Messer Ricciardo, who was by this
time ashore, and forthwith was gone. The chagrin of the judge,
who was jealous of the very air, may readily be imagined. But
'twas to no purpose that, both at Pisa and elsewhere, he moaned and
groaned over the wickedness of the corsairs, for he knew neither by
whom his wife had been abducted, nor whither she had been taken.
Paganino, meanwhile, deemed himself lucky to have gotten so
beautiful a prize; and being unmarried, he was minded never to
part with her, and addressed himself by soft words to soothe the
sorrow which kept her in a flood of tears. Finding words of little
avail, he at night passed--the more readily that the calendar had
slipped from his girdle, and all feasts and holidays from his mind--to
acts of love, and on this wise administered consolation so effective
that before they were come to Monaco she had completely forgotten
the judge and his canons, and had begun to live with Paganino as
merrily as might be. So he brought her to Monaco, where, besides
the daily and nightly solace which he gave her, he honourably
entreated her as his wife.
Not long afterwards Messer Ricciardo coming to know where
his wife was, and being most ardently desirous to have her back, and
thinking none but he would understand exactly what to do in the
circumstances, determined to go and fetch her himself, being prepared
to spend any sum of money that might be demanded by way of
ransom. So he took ship, and being come to Monaco, he both saw
her and was seen by her; which news she communicated to
Paganino in the evening, and told him how she was minded to
behave. Next morning Messer Ricciardo, encountering Paganino,
made up to him; and soon assumed a very familiar and friendly air,
while Paganino pretended not to know him, being on his guard to see
what he would be at. So Messer Ricciardo, as soon as he deemed
the time ripe, as best and most delicately he was able, disclosed to
Paganino the business on which he had come, praying him to take
whatever in the way of ransom he chose and restore him the lady.
Paganino replied cheerily: Right glad I am to see you here, Sir;
and briefly thus I answer you: True it is that I have here a young
woman; whether she be your wife or another man's, I know not,
for you are none of my acquaintance, nor is she, except for the short
time that she has been with me. If, as you say, you are her husband,
why, as you seem to me to be a pleasant gentleman, I will even take
you to her, and I doubt not she will know you well; if she says that
it is even as you say, and is minded to go with you, you shall give
me just what you like by way of ransom, so pleasant have I found
you; otherwise 'twill be churlish in you to think of taking her from
me, who am a young man, and as fit to keep a woman as another,
and moreover never knew any woman so agreeable.
My wife,
said Ricciardo, she is beyond all manner of doubt, as thou shalt
see; for so soon as thou bringest me to her, she will throw her arms
about my neck; wherefore as thou art minded, even so be it; I ask
no more.
Go we then,
said Paganino;
and forthwith they
went into the house, and Paganino sent for the lady while they
waited in one of the halls. By and by she entered from one of the
adjoining rooms all trim and tricked out, and advanced to the place
where Paganino and Messer Ricciardo were standing, but never a
word did she vouchsafe to her husband, any more than if he had been
some stranger whom Paganino had brought into the house. Whereat
the judge was mightily amazed, having expected to be greeted by
her with the heartiest of cheer, and began to ruminate thus:
Perhaps I am so changed by the melancholy and prolonged heartache,
to which I have been a prey since I lost her, that she does not
recognise me.
Wherefore he said: Madam, cause enough have
I to rue it that I took thee a fishing, for never yet was known such
grief as has been mine since I lost thee; and now it seems as if thou
dost not recognise me, so scant of courtesy is thy greeting. Seest
thou not that I am thy Messer Ricciardo, come hither prepared to
pay whatever this gentleman, in whose house we are, may demand,
that I may have thee back and take thee away with me: and he is
so good as to surrender thee on my own terms?
The lady turned
to him with a slight smile, and said: Is it to me you speak, Sir?
Bethink you that you may have mistaken me for another, for I, for
my part, do not remember ever to have seen you.
Nay,
said
Messer Ricciardo, but bethink thee what thou sayst; scan me
closely; and if thou wilt but search thy memory, thou wilt find that
I am thy Ricciardo di Chinzica.
Your pardon, Sir,
answered
the lady, 'tis not, perhaps, as seemly for me, as you imagine, to
gaze long upon you; but I have gazed long enough to know that I
never saw you before.
Messer Ricciardo supposed that she so spoke
for fear of Paganino, in whose presence she durst not acknowledge
that she knew him: so, after a while, he craved as a favour of
Paganino that he might speak with her in a room alone.
Which
request Paganino granted, so only that he did not kiss her against her
will. He then bade the lady go with Messer Ricciardo into a room
apart, and hear what he had to say, and give him such answer as she
deemed meet. So the lady and Messer Ricciardo went together into
a room alone, and sate down, and Messer Ricciardo began on this
wise: Ah! dear heart of me, sweet soul of me, hope of me, dost
not recognise thy Ricciardo that loves thee better than himself?
how comes it thus to pass? am I then so changed? Ah! goodly
eye of me, do but look on me a little.
Whereat the lady burst into
a laught, and interrupting him, said: Rest assured that my memory
is not so short but that I know you for what you are, my husband,
Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica; but far enough you shewed yourself
to be, while I was with you, from knowing me for what I was,
young, lusty, lively; which, had you been the wise man you would
fain be reputed, you would not have ignored, nor by consequence
that which, besides food and clothing, it behoves men to give young
ladies, albeit for shame they demand it not; which in what sort you
gave, you know. You should not have taken a wife if she was to
be less to you than the study of the law, albeit 'twas never as a judge
that I regarded you, but rather as a bellman of encænia and saints'
days, so well you knew them all, and fasts and vigils. And I tell
you that, had you imposed the observance of as many saints' days on
the labourers that till your lands as on yourself who had but my little
plot to till, you would never have harvested a single grain of corn.
God in His mercy, having regard unto my youth, has caused me to
fall in with this gentleman, with whom I am much closeted in this
room, where nought is known of feasts, such feasts, I mean, as you,
more devoted to the service of God than to the service of ladies, were
wont to observe in such profusion; nor was this threshold ever
crossed by Saturday or Friday or vigil or Ember-days or Lent, that
is so long; rather here we are at work day and night, threshing the
wool, and well I know how featly it went when the matin bell last
sounded. Wherefore with him I mean to stay, and to work while
I am young, and postpone the observance of feasts and times of
indulgence and fasts until I am old: so get you hence, and good luck
go with you, but depart with what speed you may, and observe as
many feasts as you like, so I be not with you.
The pain with which Messer Ricciardo followed this outburst
was more than he could bear, and when she had done, he exclaimed:
Ah! sweet soul of me, what words are these that thou
utterest? Hast thou no care for thy parents' honour and thine
own? Wilt thou remain here to be this man's harlot, and to live
in mortal sin, rather than live with me at Pisa as my wife? Why,
when he is tired of thee, he will cast thee out to thy most grievous
dishonour. I will ever cherish thee, and ever, will I nill I, thou
wilt be the mistress of my house. Wouldst thou, to gratify this
unbridled and unseemly passion, part at once with thy honour and
with me, who love thee more dearly than my very life? Ah!
cherished hope of me, say not so again: make up thy mind to come
with me. As I now know thy bent, I will henceforth constrain
myself to pleasure thee: wherefore, sweet my treasure, think better
of it, and come with me, who have never known a happy hour since
thou wert reft from me.
The lady answered: I expect not, nor
is it possible, that another should be more tender of my honour than
I am myself. Were my parents so, when they gave me to you? I
trow not; nor mean I to be more tender of their honour now than
they were then of mine. And if now I live in mortar sin, I will
ever abide there until it be pestle sin:A poor jeu de mots, mortaio,
mortar, being substituted for mortale. concern yourself no further
on my account.
Moreover, let me tell you, that, whereas at Pisa
'twas as if I were your harlot, seeing that the planets in conjunction
according to lunar mansion and geometric square intervened between
you and me, here with Paganino I deem myself a wife, for he holds
me in his arms all night long and hugs and bites me, and how he
serves me, God be my witness.
Ah! but you say you will constrain
yourself to serve me: to what end? to do it on the third essay,
and raise it by stroke of bâton? I doubt not you are become a
perfect knight since last I saw you. Begone, and constrain yourself
to live; for here, methinks, your tenure is but precarious, so hectic
and wasted is your appearance. Nay more; I tell you this, that,
should Paganino desert me (which he does not seem disposed to do
so long as I am willing to stay with him), never will I return to
your house, where for one while I staid to my most grievous loss
and prejudice, but will seek my commodity elsewhere, than with
one from whose whole body I could not wring a single cupful of sap.
So, again, I tell you that here is neither feast nor vigil; wherefore
here I mean to abide; and you, get you gone, in God's name with
what speed you may, lest I raise the cry that you threaten to
violate me.
Messer Ricciardo felt himself hard bested, but he could not but
recognise that, worn out as he was, he had been foolish to take a
young wife; so sad and woebegone he quitted the room, and, after
expending on Paganino a wealth of words which signified nothing,
he at last gave up his bootless enterprise, and leaving the lady to her
own devices, returned to Pisa; where for very grief he lapsed into
such utter imbecility that, when he was met by any with greeting or
question in the street, he made no other answer than the evil hole
brooks no holiday,
and soon afterwards died. Which when Paganino
learned, being well assured of the love the lady bore him, he made
her his lawful wife; and so, keeping neither feast nor vigil nor Lent,
they worked as hard as their legs permitted, and had a good time.
Wherefore, dear my ladies, I am of opinion that Messer Bernabò in
his altercation with Ambrogiuolo rode the goat downhill.I. e.
argued preposterously, the goat being the last animal to carry a
rider comfortably downhill.
ConclusionThis story provoked so much laughter that the jaws of every one
in the company ached; and all the ladies by common consent
acknowledged that Dioneo was right, and pronounced Bernabò a
blockhead. But when the story was ended and the laughter had
subsided, the queen, observing that the hour was now late, and that
with the completion of the day's story-telling the end of her
sovereignty was come, followed the example of her predecessor, and
took off her wreath and set it on Neifile's brow, saying with gladsome
mien, Now, dear gossip, thine be the sovereignty of this little
people;
and so she resumed her seat. Neifile coloured somewhat
to receive such honour, shewing of aspect even as the fresh-blown
rose of April or May in the radiance of the dawn, her eyes rather
downcast, and glowing with love's fire like the morning-star. But
when the respectful murmur, by which the rest of the company gave
blithe token of the favour in which they held their queen, was
hushed, and her courage revived, she raised herself somewhat more
in her seat than she was wont, and thus spoke:
As so it is that
I am your queen, I purpose not to depart from the usage observed
by my predecessors, whose rule has commanded not only your
obedience but your approbation. I will therefore in few words
explain to you the course which, if it commend itself to your
wisdom, we will follow. To-morrow, you know, is Friday, and the
next day Saturday, days which most folk find somewhat wearisome
by reason of the viands which are then customary, to say nothing of
the reverence in which Friday is meet to be held, seeing that 'twas
on that day that He who died for us bore His passion; wherefore
'twould be in my judgment both right and very seemly, if, in honour
of God, we then bade story-telling give place to prayer.
On
Saturday ladies are wont to wash the head, and rid their persons of
whatever of dust or other soilure they may have gathered by the
labours of the past week; not a few, likewise, are wont to practise
abstinence for devotion to the Virgin Mother of the Son of God,
and to honour the approaching Sunday by an entire surcease from
work. Wherefore, as we cannot then completely carry out our
plan of life, we shall, I think, do well to intermit our story-telling
on that day also. We shall then have been here four days; and
lest we should be surprised by new-comers, I deem it expedient that
we shift our quarters, and I have already taken thought for our next
place of sojourn. Where, being arrived on Sunday, we will assemble
after our sleep; and, whereas to-day our discourse has had an ample
field to range in, I propose, both because you will thereby have more
time for thought, and it will be best to set some limits to the license
of our story-telling, that of the many diversities of Fortune's handiwork
we make one our theme, whereof I have also made choice,
to
wit, the luck of such as have painfully acquired some much-coveted
thing, or having lost, have recovered it. Whereon let each meditate
some matter, which to tell may be profitable or at least delectable to
the company, saving always Dioneo's privilege.
All applauded the queen's speech and plan, to which, therefore,
it was decided to give effect. Thereupon the queen called her
seneschal, told him where to place the tables that evening, and then
explained to him all that he had to do during the time of her
sovereignty. This done, she rose with her train, and gave leave to
all to take their pleasure as to each might seem best.
So the ladies
and the men hied them away to a little garden, where they diverted
themselves a while; then supper-time being come, they supped with
all gay and festal cheer. When they were risen from the table,
Emilia, at the queen's command, led the dance, while Pampinea,
the other ladies responding, sang the ensuing song.
Shall any lady sing, if I not sing,
I to whom Love did full contentment bring?
Come hither, Love, thou cause of all my joy,
Of all my hope, and all its sequel blest,
And with me tune the lay,
No more to sighs and bitter past annoy,
That now but serve to lend thy bliss more zest;
But to that fire's clear ray,
Wherewith enwrapt I blithely live and gay,
Thee as my God for ever worshipping.
'Twas thou, O Love, didst set before mine eyes,
When first thy fire my sould did penetrate,
A youth to be my fere,
So fair, so fit for deeds of high emprise,
That ne'er another shall be found more great,
Nay, nor, I ween, his peer:
Such flame he kindled that my heart's full cheer
I now pour out in chant with thee, my King.
And that wherein I most delight is this,
That as I love him, so he loveth me:
So thank thee, Love, I must.
For whatsoe'er this world can yield of bliss
Is mine, and in the next at peace to be
I hope through that full trust
I place in him. And thou, O God, that dost
It see, wilt grant of joy thy plenishing.
Some other songs and dances followed, to the accompaniment
of divers sorts of music; after which, the queen deeming it time to
go to rest, all, following in the wake of the torches, sought their
several chambers. The next two days they devoted to the duties
to which the queen had adverted, looking forward to the Sunday
with eager expectancy.
Third DayEndeth here the second day of the Decameron, beginneth
the third, in which, under the rule of Neifile, discourse
is had of the fortune of such as have painfully acquired
some much-coveted thing, or, having lost, have recovered
it.
IntroductionThe dawn of Sunday was already changing from vermilion to
orange, as the sun hasted to the horizon, when the queen rose and
roused all the company. The seneschal had early sent forward to
their next place of sojourn ample store of things meet with folk to
make all things ready, and now seeing the queen on the road, and
the decampment, as it were, begun, he hastily completed the equipment
of the baggage-train, and set off therewith, attended by the
rest of the servants, in rear of the ladies and gentlemen. So, to the
chant of, perhaps, a score of nightingales and other birds, the queen,
her ladies and the three young men trooping beside or after her,
paced leisurely westward by a path little frequented and overgrown
with herbage and flowers, which, as they caught the sunlight, began
one and all to unfold their petals. So fared she on with her train,
while the quirk and the jest and the laugh passed from mouth to
mouth; nor had they completed more than two thousand paces
when, well before half tierce,I. e. midway between prime and
tierce, about 7.30 a.m. they arrived at a palace most fair
and sumptuous, which stood out somewhat from the plain, being
situate upon a low eminence. On entering, they first traversed its
great halls and dainty chambers furnished throughout with all brave
and meet appointments; and finding all most commendable, they
reputed its lord a magnifico. Then descending, they surveyed its
spacious and cheerful court, its vaults of excellent wines and copious
springs of most cool water, and found it still more commendable.
After which, being fain of rest, they sat them down in a gallery
which commanded the court, and was close imbosked with leafage
and such flowers as the season afforded, and thither the discreet
seneschal brought comfits and wines most choice and excellent,
wherewith they were refreshed. Whereupon they hied them to a
walled garden adjoining the palace; which, the gate being opened,
they entered, and wonder-struck by the beauty of the whole passed
on to examine more attentively the several parts. It was bordered
and traversed in many parts by alleys, each very wide and straight as
an arrow and roofed in with trellis of vines, which gave good promise
of bearing clusters that year, and, being all in flower, dispersed such
fragrance throughout the garden as blended with that exhaled by
many another plant that grew therein made the garden seem
redolent of all the spices that ever grew in the East. The sides of
the alleys were all, as it were, walled in with roses white and red
and jasmine; insomuch that there was no part of the garden but one
might walk there not merely in the morning but at high noon in
grateful shade and fragrance, completely screened from the sun. As
for the plants that were in the garden, 'twere long to enumerate
them, to specify their sorts, to describe the order of their arrangement;
enough, in brief, that there was abundance of every rarer species that
our climate allows. In the middle of the garden, a thing not less
but much more to be commended than aught else, was a lawn of
the finest turf, and so green that it seemed almost black, pranked with
flowers of, perhaps, a thousand sorts, and girt about with the richest
living verdure of orange-trees and cedars, which shewed not only
flowers but fruits both new and old, and were no less grateful to the
smell by their fragrance than to the eye by their shade. In the
middle of the lawn was a basin of whitest marble, graven with
marvellous art; in the centre whereof--whether the spring were
natural or artificial I know not--rose a column supporting a figure
which sent forth a jet of water of such volume and to such an
altitude that it fell, not without a delicious plash, into the basin in
quantity amply sufficient to turn a mill-wheel. The overflow was
carried away from the lawn by a hidden conduit, and then, reemerging,
was distributed through tiny channels, very fair and
cunningly contrived, in such sort as to flow round the entire lawn,
and by similar derivative channels to penetrate almost every part of
the fair garden, until, re-uniting at a certain point, it issued thence,
and, clear as crystal, slid down towards the plain, turning by the way
two mill-wheels with extreme velocity to the no small profit of the
lord. The aspect of this garden, its fair order, the plants and the
fountain and the rivulets that flowed from it, so charmed the ladies
and the three young men that with one accord they affirmed that
they knew not how it could receive any accession of beauty, or what
other form could be given to Paradise, if it were to be planted on
earth. So, excellently well pleased, they roved about it, plucking
sprays from the trees, and weaving them into the fairest of garlands,
while songsters of, perhaps, a score of different sorts warbled as if in
mutual emulation, when suddenly a sight as fair and delightsome as
novel, which, engrossed by the other beauties of the place, they had
hitherto overlooked, met their eyes. For the garden, they now saw,
was peopled with a host of living creatures, fair and of, perhaps, a
hundred sorts; and they pointed out to one another how here
emerged a cony, or there scampered a hare, or couched a goat, or
grazed a fawn, or many another harmless, all but domesticated,
creature roved carelessly seeking his pleasure at his own sweet will.
All which served immensely to reinforce their already abundant
delight. At length, however, they had enough of wandering about
the garden and observing this thing and that: wherefore they
repaired to the beautiful fountain, around which were ranged the
tables, and there, after they had sung half-a-dozen songs and trod
some measures, they sat them down, at the queen's command, to
breakfast, which was served with all celerity and in fair and orderly
manner, the viands being both good and delicate; whereby their
spirits rose, and up they got, and betook themselves again to music
and song and dance, and so sped the hours, until, as the heat increased,
the queen deemed it time that whoso was so minded should go to
sleep. Some there were that did so; others were too charmed by
the beauty of the place to think of leaving it; but tarried there, and,
while the rest slept, amused themselves with reading romances or
playing at chess or dice. However, after none, there was a general
levèe; and, with faces laved and refreshed with cold water,
they
gathered by the queen's command upon the lawn, and, having sat
them down in their wonted order by the fountain, waited for the
story-telling to begin upon the theme assigned by the queen. With
this duty the queen first charged Filostrato, who began on this wise.
Novel IMasetto da Lamporecchio feigns to be dumb, and obtains
a gardener's place at a convent of women, who with
one accord make haste to lie with him.
Fairest ladies, not a few there are both of men and of women,
who are so foolish as blindly to believe that, so soon as a young
woman has been veiled in white and cowled in black, she ceases to
be a woman, and is no more subject to the cravings proper to her
sex, than if, in assuming the garb and profession of a nun, she had
put on the nature of a stone: and if, perchance, they hear of aught
that is counter to this their faith, they are no less vehement in their
censure than if some most heinous and unnatural crime had been
committed; neither bethinking them of themselves, whom unrestricted
liberty avails not to satisfy, nor making due allowance for
the prepotent forces of idleness and solitude. And likewise not a
few there are that blindly believe that, what with the hoe and the
spade and coarse fare and hardship, the carnal propensities are utterly
eradicated from the tillers of the soil, and therewith all nimbleness of
wit and understanding. But how gross is the error of such as so
suppose, I, on whom the queen has laid her commands, am minded,
without deviating from the theme prescribed by her, to make manifest
to you by a little story.
In this very country-side of ours there was and yet is a convent of
women of great repute for sanctity--name it I will not, lest I should
in some measure diminish its repute--the nuns being at the time of
which I speak but nine in number, including the abbess, and all
young women. Their very beautiful garden was in charge of a
foolish fellow, who, not being content with his wage, squared
accounts with their steward, and hied him back to Lamporecchio,
whence he came. Among others who welcomed him home was a
young husbandman, Masetto by name, a stout and hardy fellow, and
handsome for a contadino, who asked him where he had been so
long. Nuto, as our good friend was called, told him. Masetto
then asked how he had been employed at the convent, and Nuto
answered: I kept their large and beautiful garden in good trim,
and, besides, I sometimes went to the wood to fetch the faggots, I
drew water, and did some other trifling services; but the ladies gave
so little wage that it scarce kept me in shoes. And moreover they
are all young, and, I think, they are one and all possessed of the
devil, for 'tis impossible to do anything to their mind; indeed, when
I would be at work in the kitchen-garden, 'put this here,' would say
one, 'put that here,' would say another, and a third would snatch
the hoe from my hand, and say, 'that is not as it should be'; and
so they would worry me until I would give up working and go out
of the garden; so that, what with this thing and that, I was minded
to stay there no more, and so I am come hither. The steward asked
me before I left to send him any one whom on my return I might
find fit for the work, and I promised; but God bless his loins, I
shall be at no pains to find out and send him any one.
As Nuto thus ran on, Masetto was seized by such a desire to be
with these nuns that he quite pined, as he gathered from what Nuto
said that his desire might be gratified. And as that could not be,
if he said nothing to Nuto, he remarked: Ah! 'twas well done
of thee to come hither. A man to live with women! he might as
well live with so many devils: six times out of seven they know not
themselves what they want.
There the conversation ended; but
Masetto began to cast about how he should proceed to get permission
to live with them. He knew that he was quite competent for the
services of which Nuto spoke, and had therefore no fear of failing on
that score; but he doubted he should not be received, because he was
too young and well-favoured. So, after much pondering, he fell into
the following train of thought: The place is a long way off, and no
one there knows me; if I make believe that I am dumb, doubtless
I shall be admitted. Whereupon he made his mind up, laid a
hatchet across his shoulder, and saying not a word to any of his
destination, set forth, intending to present himself at the convent
in the character of a destitute man. Arrived there, he had no
sooner entered than he chanced to encounter the steward in the
courtyard, and making signs to him as dumb folk do, he let him
know that of his charity he craved something to eat, and that, if
need were, he would split firewood. The steward promptly gave
him to eat, and then set before him some logs which Nuto had not
been able to split, all which Masetto, who was very strong, split
in a very short time. The steward, having occasion to go to the
wood, took him with him, and there set him at work on the lopping;
which done he placed the ass in front of him, and by signs made him
understand that he was to take the loppings back to the convent.
This he did so well that the steward kept him for some days to do
one or two odd jobs. Whereby it so befell that one day the abbess
saw him, and asked the steward who he was.
Madam,
replied
the steward, 'tis a poor deaf mute that came here a day or two
ago craving alms, so I have treated him kindly, and have let him
make himself useful in many ways. If he knew how to do the work
of the kitchen-garden and would stay with us, I doubt not we should
be well served; for we have need of him, and he is strong, and would
be able for whatever he might turn his hand to; besides which you
would have no cause to be apprehensive lest he should be cracking
his jokes with your young women.
As I trust in God,
said the
abbess, thou sayst sooth; find out if he can do the garden work,
and if he can, do all thou canst to keep him with us; give him a
pair of shoes, an old hood, and speak him well, make much of him,
and let him be well fed.
All which the steward promised to do.
Masetto, meanwhile, was close at hand, making as if he were
sweeping the courtyard, and heard all that passed between the abbess
and the steward, whereat he gleefully communed with himself on
this wise: Put me once within there, and you will see that I will
do the work of the kitchen-garden as it never was done before.
So
the steward set him to work in the kitchen-garden, and finding that
he knew his business excellently well, made signs to him to know
whether he would stay, and he made answer by signs that he was
ready to do whatever the steward wished. The steward then signified
that he was engaged, told him to take charge of the kitchen-garden,
and shewed him what he had to do there. Then, having other
matters to attend to, he went away, and left him there. Now, as
Masetto worked there day by day, the nuns began to tease him, and
make him their butt (as it commonly happens that folk serve the
dumb) and used bad language to him, the worst they could think of,
supposing that he could not understand them: all which passed
scarce heeded by the abbess, who perhaps deemed him as destitute
of virility as of speech. Now it so befell that after a hard day's
work he was taking a little rest, when two young nuns, who were
walking in the garden, approached the spot where he lay, and stopped
to look at him, while he pretended to be asleep. And so the bolder
of the two said to the other: If I thought thou wouldst keep the
secret, I would tell thee what I have sometimes meditated, and which
thou perhaps mightest also find agreeable.
The other replied:
Speak thy mind freely and be sure that I will never tell a soul.
Whereupon the bold one began: I know not if thou hast ever
considered how close we are kept here, and that within these precincts
dare never enter any man, unless it be the old steward or
this mute: and I have often heard from ladies that have come hither,
that all the other sweets that the world has to offer signify not a jot
in comparison of the pleasure that a woman has in connexion with
a man. Whereof I have more than once been minded to make
experiment with this mute, no other man being available. Nor,
indeed, could one find any man in the whole world so meet therefor;
seeing that he could not blab if he would; thou seest that he is but
a dull clownish lad, whose size has increased out of all proportion
to his sense; wherefore I would fain hear what thou hast to say to
it.
Alas!
said the other, what is 't thou sayst? Knowest
thou not that we have vowed our virginity to God?
Oh,
rejoined the first, think but how many vows are made to Him
all day long, and never a one performed: and so, for our vow, let
Him find another or others to perform it.
But,
said her companion,
suppose that we conceived, how then?
Nay but,
protested the first, thou goest about to imagine evil before it befalls
thee: time enough to think of that when it comes to pass; there
will be a thousand ways to prevent its ever being known, so only
we do not publish it ourselves.
Thus reassured, the other was now
the more eager of the two to test the quality of the male human
animal. Well then,
she said, how shall we go about it?
and
was answered: Thou seest 'tis past none; I make no doubt but
all the sisters are asleep, except ourselves; search we through the
kitchen-garden, to see if there be any there, and if there be none,
we have but to take him by the hand and lead him hither to the
hut where he takes shelter from the rain; and then one shall
mount guard while the other has him with her inside. He is such
a simpleton that he will do just whatever we bid him.
No word
of this conversation escaped Masetto, who, being disposed to obey,
hoped for nothing so much as that one of them should take him
by the hand. They, meanwhile, looked carefully all about them,
and satisfied themselves that they were secure from observation:
then she that had broached the subject came close up to Masetto,
and shook him; whereupon he started to his feet. So she took
him by the hand with a blandishing air, to which he replied with
some clownish grins. And then she led him into the hut, where
he needed no pressing to do what she desired of him.
Which done,
she changed places with the other, as loyal comradeship required;
and Masetto, still keeping up the pretence of simplicity, did their
pleasure. Wherefore before they left, each must needs make another
assay of the mute's powers of riding; and afterwards, talking the
matter over many times, they agreed that it was in truth not less
but even more delightful than they had been given to understand;
and so, as they found convenient opportunity, they continued to go
and disport themselves with the mute.
Now it so chanced that one of their gossips, looking out of the
window of her cell, saw what they did, and imparted it to two
others. The three held counsel together whether they should not
denounce the offenders to the abbess, but soon changed their mind,
and came to an understanding with them, whereby they became
partners in Masetto. And in course of time by divers chances the
remaining three nuns also entered the partnership.
Last of all the
abbess, still witting nought of these doings, happened one very hot
day, as she walked by herself through the garden, to find Masetto,
who now rode so much by night that he could stand very little
fatigue by day, stretched at full length asleep under the shade of
an almond-tree, his person quite exposed in front by reason that the
wind had disarranged his clothes. Which the lady observing, and
knowing that she was alone, fell a prey to the same appetite to
which her nuns had yielded: she aroused Masetto, and took him
with her to her chamber, where, for some days, though the nuns
loudly complained that the gardener no longer came to work in the
kitchen-garden, she kept him, tasting and re-tasting the sweetness
of that indulgence which she was wont to be the first to censure
in others. And when at last she had sent him back from her
chamber to his room, she must needs send for him again and again,
and made such exorbitant demands upon him, that Masetto, not being
able to satisfy so many women, bethought him that his part of mute,
should he persist in it, might entail disastrous consequences. So one
night, when he was with the abbess, he cut the tongue-string, and
thus broke silence: Madam, I have understood that a cock may
very well serve ten hens, but that ten men are sorely tasked to satisfy
a single woman; and here am I expected to serve nine, a burden
quite beyond my power to bear; nay, by what I have already undergone
I am now so reduced that my strength is quite spent; wherefore
either bid me Godspeed, or find some means to make matters
tolerable.
Wonder-struck to hear the supposed mute thus speak, the
lady exclaimed: What means this? I took thee to be dumb.
And in sooth, Madam, so was I,
said Masetto, not indeed from
my birth, but through an illness which took from me the power
of speech, which only this very night have I recovered; and so I
praise God with all my heart.
The lady believed him; and asked
him what he meant by saying that he had nine to serve. Masetto
told her how things stood; whereby she perceived that of all her
nuns there was not any but was much wiser than she; and lest,
if Masetto were sent away, he should give the convent a bad name,
she discreetly determined to arrange matters with the nuns in such
sort that he might remain there. So, the steward having died
within the last few days, she assembled all the nuns; and their and
her own past errors being fully avowed, they by common consent,
and with Masetto's concurrence, resolved that the neighbours should
be given to understand that by their prayers and the merits of their
patron saint, Masetto, long mute, had recovered the power of speech;
after which they made him steward, and so ordered matters among
themselves that he was able to endure the burden of their service.
In
the course of which, though he procreated not a few little monastics,
yet 'twas all managed so discreetly that no breath of scandal stirred,
until after the abbess's death, by which time Masetto was advanced
in years and minded to return home with the wealth that he had
gotten; which he was suffered to do as soon as he made his desire
known. And so Masetto, who had left Lamporecchio with a
hatchet on his shoulder, returned thither in his old age rich and
a father, having by the wisdom with which he employed his youth,
spared himself the pains and expense of rearing children, and
averring that such was the measure that Christ meted out to the
man that set horns on his cap.
Novel IIA groom lies with the wife of King Agilulf, who learns
the fact, keeps his own counsel, finds out the groom
and shears him. The shorn shears all his fellows,
and so comes safe out of the scrape.
Filostrato's story, which the ladies had received now with
blushes now with laughter, being ended, the queen bade Pampinea
follow suit. Which behest Pampinea smilingly obeyed, and thus
began:
Some there are whose indiscretion is such that they must needs
evince that they are fully cognizant of that which it were best
they should not know, and censuring the covert misdeeds of others,
augment beyond measure the disgrace which they would fain diminish.
The truth whereof, fair ladies, I mean to shew you in the contrary
case, wherein appears the astuteness of one that held, perhaps, an even
lower place than would have been Masetto's in the esteem of a
doughty king.
Agilulf, King of the Lombards, who like his predecessors made
the city of Pavia in Lombardy the seat of his government, took
to wife Theodelinde, the widow of Authari, likewise King of the
Lombards, a lady very fair, wise and virtuous, but who was
unfortunate in her lover. For while the Lombards prospered in
peace under the wise and firm rule of King Agilulf, it so befell
that one of the Queen's grooms, a man born to very low estate,
but in native worth far above his mean office, and moreover not
a whit less tall and goodly of person than the King, became
inordinately enamoured of her. And as, for all his base condition,
he had sense enough to recognize that his love was in the last
degree presumptuous, he disclosed it to none, nay, he did not even
venture to tell her the tale by the mute eloquence of his eyes.
And albeit he lived without hope that he should ever be able to
win her favour, yet he inwardly gloried that he had fixed his
affections in so high a place; and being all aflame with passion,
he shewed himself zealous beyond any of his comrades to do whatever
he thought was likely to please the Queen. Whereby it came
about, that, when the Queen had to take horse, she would mount
the palfrey that he groomed rather than any other; and when she
did so, he deemed himself most highly favoured, and never quitted
her stirrup, esteeming himself happy if he might but touch her
clothes. But as 'tis frequently observed that love waxes as hope
wanes, so was it with this poor groom, insomuch that the burden
of this great hidden passion, alleviated by no hope, was most grievous
to bear, and from time to time, not being able to shake it off, he
purposed to die. And meditating on the mode, he was minded
that it should be of a kind to make it manifest that he died for the
love which he had borne and bore to the Queen, and also to afford
him an opportunity of trying his fortune whether his desire might
in whole or in part be gratified. He had no thought of speaking
to the Queen, nor yet of declaring his love to her by letter, for he
knew that 'twould be vain either to speak or to write; but he
resolved to try to devise some means whereby he might lie with
the Queen; which end might in no other way be compassed than
by contriving to get access to her in her bedroom; which could
only be by passing himself off as the King, who, as he knew, did
not always lie with her. Wherefore, that he might observe the
carriage and dress of the King as he passed to her room, he contrived
to conceal himself for several nights in a great hall of the
King's palace which separated the King's room from that of the
Queen: and on one of these nights he saw the King issue from
his room, wrapped in a great mantle, with a lighted torch in one
hand and a wand in the other, and cross the hall, and, saying
nothing, tap the door of the Queen's room with the wand once
or twice; whereupon the door was at once opened and the torch
taken from his hand. Having observed the King thus go and
return, and being bent on doing likewise, he found means to come
by a mantle like that which he had seen the King wear, and also
a torch and a wand: he then took a warm bath, and having
thoroughly cleansed himself, that the smell of the foul straw might
not offend the lady, or discover to her the deceit, he in this guise
concealed himself as he was wont in the great hall. He waited
only until all were asleep, and then, deeming the time come to
accomplish his purpose, or by his presumption clear a way to the death
which he coveted, he struck a light with the flint and steel which he
had brought with him; and having kindled his torch and wrapped
himself close in his mantle, he went to the door of the Queen's
room, and tapped on it twice with his wand. The door was opened
by a very drowsy chambermaid, who took the torch and put it out
of sight; whereupon without a word he passed within the curtain,
laid aside the mantle, and got into the bed where the Queen lay
asleep. Then, taking her in his arms and straining her to him
with ardour, making as if he were moody, because he knew that,
when the King was in such a frame, he would never hear aught,
in such wise, without word said either on his part or on hers,
he had more than once carnal cognizance of the Queen. Loath
indeed was he to leave her, but, fearing lest by too long tarrying
his achieved delight might be converted into woe, he rose, resumed
the mantle and the light, and leaving the room without a word,
returned with all speed to his bed. He was hardly there when the
King got up and entered the Queen's room; whereat she wondered
not a little; but, reassured by the gladsome greeting which he gave
her as he got into bed, she said: My lord, what a surprise is this
to-night! 'Twas but now you left me after an unwonted measure
of enjoyment, and do you now return so soon? consider what you
do.
From these words the King at once inferred that the Queen
had been deceived by some one that had counterfeited his person
and carriage; but, at the same time, bethinking himself that, as
neither the Queen nor any other had detected the cheat, 'twas
best to leave her in ignorance, he wisely kept silence. Which
many a fool would not have done, but would have said: Nay,
'twas not I that was here. Who was it that was here? How
came it to pass? Who came hither?
Whereby in the sequel
he might have caused the lady needless chagrin, and given her
occasion to desire another such experience as she had had; and
so have brought disgrace upon himself by uttering that, from which,
unuttered, no shame could have resulted.
Wherefore, betraying
little, either by his mien or by his words, of the disquietude which
he felt, the King replied: Madam, seem I such to you that you
cannot suppose that I should have been with you once, and returned
to you immediately afterwards?
Nay, not so, my lord,
returned
the lady, but none the less I pray you to look to your health.
Then said the King: And I am minded to take your advice;
wherefore, without giving you further trouble I will leave you.
So, angered and incensed beyond measure by the trick which, he
saw, had been played upon him, he resumed his mantle and quitted
the room with the intention of privily detecting the offender,
deeming that he must belong to the palace, and that, whoever he
might be, he could not have quitted it. So, taking with him a
small lantern which shewed only a glimmer of light, he went into
the dormitory which was over the palace-stables and was of great
length, insomuch that well-nigh all the men-servants slept there
in divers beds, and arguing that, by whomsoever that of which the
Queen spoke was done, his heart and pulse could not after such
a strain as yet have ceased to throb, he began cautiously with one
of the head-grooms, and so went from bed to bed feeling at the
heart of each man to see if it was thumping. All were asleep,
save only he that had been with the Queen, who, seeing the King
come, and guessing what he sought to discover, began to be mightily
afraid, insomuch that to the agitation which his late exertion had
communicated to his heart, terror now added one yet more violent;
nor did he doubt that, should the King perceive it, he would kill
him. Divers alternatives of action thronged his mind; but at last,
observing that the King was unarmed, he resolved to make as if
he were asleep, and wait to see what the King would do. So,
having tried many and found none that he deemed the culprit, the
King came at last to the culprit himself, and marking the thumping
of his heart, said to himself: This is he. But being minded to afford
no clue to his ulterior purpose, he did no more than with a pair of
scissors which he had brought with him shear away on one side
of the man's head a portion of his locks, which, as was then the
fashion, he wore very long, that by this token he might recognize
him on the morrow; and having so done, he departed and returned
to his room. The groom, who was fully sensible of what the King
had done, and being a shrewd fellow understood very well to what
end he was so marked, got up without a moment's delay; and,
having found a pair of scissors--for, as it chanced, there were several
pairs there belonging to the stables for use in grooming the horses--he
went quietly through the dormitory and in like manner sheared
the locks of each of the sleepers just above the ear; which done
without disturbing any, he went back to bed.
On the morrow, as soon as the King was risen, and before the
gates of the palace were opened, he summoned all his men-servants to
his presence, and, as they stood bareheaded before him, scanned them
closely to see whether the one whom he had sheared was there; and
observing with surprise that the more part of them were all sheared
in the same manner, said to himself: Of a surety this fellow, whom
I go about to detect, evinces, for all his base condition, a high degree
of sense. Then, recognising that he could not compass his end
without causing a bruit, and not being minded to brave so great a
dishonour in order to be avenged upon so petty an offender, he was
content by a single word of admonition to shew him that his offence
had not escaped notice. Wherefore turning to them all, he said:
He that did it, let him do it no more, and get you hence in God's
peace.
Another would have put them to the strappado, the question,
the torture, and thereby have brought to light that which one should
rather be sedulous to cloak; and having so brought it to light, would,
however complete the retribution which he exacted, have not
lessened but vastly augmented his disgrace, and sullied the fair fame
of his lady. Those who heard the King's parting admonition
wondered, and made much question with one another, what the
King might have meant to convey by it; but 'twas understood by
none but him to whom it referred: who was discreet enough never to
reveal the secret as long as the King lived, or again to stake his life
on such a venture.
Novel IIIUnder cloak of confession and a most spotless conscience,
a lady, enamoured of a young man, induces a booby
friar unwittingly to provide a means to the entire
gratification of her passion.
When Pampinea had done, and several of the company had
commended the hardihood and wariness of the groom, as also the
wisdom of the King, the queen, turning to Filomena, bade her follow
suit: wherefore with manner debonair Filomena thus began:
The story which I shall tell you is of a trick which was actually
played by a fair lady upon a booby religious, and which every layman
should find the more diverting that these religious, being, for the
most part, great blockheads and men of odd manners and habits, do
nevertheless credit themselves with more ability and knowledge in
all kinds than fall to the lot of the rest of the world; whereas, in
truth, they are far inferior, and so, not being able, like others, to
provide their own sustenance, are prompted by sheer baseness to fly
thither for refuge where they may find provender, like pigs. Which
story, sweet my ladies, I shall tell you, not merely that thereby I may
continue the sequence in obedience to the queen's behest, but also to
the end that I may let you see that even the religious, in whom we
in our boundless credulity repose exorbitant faith, may be, and sometimes
are, made--not to say by men--even by some of us women
the sport of their sly wit.
In our city, where wiles do more abound than either love or
faith, there dwelt, not many years ago, a gentlewoman richly
endowed (none more so) by nature with physical charms, as also
with gracious manners, high spirit and fine discernment. Her name
I know, but will not disclose it, nor yet that of any other who
figures in this story, because there yet live those who might take
offence thereat, though after all it might well be passed off with a
laugh. High-born and married to an artificer of woollen fabrics, she
could not rid her mind of the disdain with which, by reason of his
occupation, she regarded her husband; for no man, however wealthy,
so he were of low condition, seemed to her worthy to have a gentlewoman
to wife; and seeing that for all his wealth he was fit for
nothing better than to devise a blend, set up a warp, or higgle about
yarn with a spinster, she determined to dispense with his embraces,
save so far as she might find it impossible to refuse them; and to find
her satisfaction elsewhere with one that seemed to her more meet to
afford it than her artificer of woollens. In this frame of mind she
became enamoured of a man well worthy of her love and not yet
past middle age, insomuch that, if she saw him not in the day, she
must needs pass an unquiet night. The gallant, meanwhile, remained
fancy-free, for he knew nought of the lady's case; and she, being
apprehensive of possible perils to ensue, was far too circumspect to
make it known to him either by writing or by word of mouth of
any of her female friends. Then she learned that he had much to
do with a religious, a simple, clownish fellow, but nevertheless, as
being a man of most holy life, reputed by almost everybody a most
worthy friar, and decided that she could not find a better intermediary
between herself and her lover than this same friar. So,
having matured her plan, she hied her at a convenient time to the
convent where the friar abode, and sent for him, saying, that, if he
so pleased, she would be confessed by him. The friar, who saw at
a glance that she was a gentlewoman, gladly heard her confession;
which done, she said: My father, I have yet a matter to confide
to you, in which I must crave your aid and counsel. Who my
kinsfolk and husband are, I wot you know, for I have myself told
you. My husband loves me more dearly than his life, and being
very wealthy, he can well and does forthwith afford me whatever I
desire. Wherefore, as he loves me, even so I love him more dearly
than myself; nor was there ever yet wicked woman that deserved
the fire so richly as should I, were I guilty--I speak not of acts, but
of so much as a single thought of crossing his will or tarnishing his
honour. Now a man there is--his name, indeed, I know not, but
he seems to me to be a gentleman, and, if I mistake not, he is much
with you--a fine man and tall, his garb dun and very decent, who,
the bent of my mind being, belike, quite unknown to him, would
seem to have laid siege to me, insomuch that I cannot shew
myself at door or casement, or quit the house, but forthwith he
presents himself before me; indeed I find it passing strange that he
is not here now; whereat I am sorely troubled, because, when men
so act, unmerited reproach will often thereby be cast upon honest
women. At times I have been minded to inform my brothers of
the matter; but then I have bethought me that men sometimes
frame messages in such a way as to evoke untoward answers, whence
follow high words; and so they proceed to rash acts: wherefore, to
obviate trouble and scandal, I have kept silence, and by preference
have made you my confidant, both because you are the gentleman's
friend, and because it befits your office to censure such behaviour
not only in friends but in strangers. And so I beseech you for the
love of our only Lord God to make him sensible of his fault, and
pray him to offend no more in such sort. Other ladies there are in
plenty, who may, perchance, be disposed to welcome such advances,
and be flattered to attract his fond and assiduous regard, which to
me, who am in no wise inclined to encourage it, is but a most
grievous molestation.
Having thus spoken, the lady bowed her head as if she were ready
to weep. The holy friar was at no loss to apprehend who it was of
whom she spoke; he commended her virtuous frame, firmly believing
that what she said was true, and promised to take such action that
she should not again suffer the like annoyance; nor, knowing that
she was very wealthy, did he omit to extol works of charity and
almsgiving, at the same time opening to her his own needs.
I
make my suit to you,
said she, for the love of God; and if your
friend should deny what I have told you, tell him roundly that 'twas
from me you had it, and that I made complaint to you thereof.
So, her confession ended and penance imposed, bethinking her of the
hints which the friar had dropped touching almsgiving, she slipped
into his hand as many coins as it would hold, praying him to say
masses for the souls of her dead. She then rose and went home.
Not long afterwards the gallant paid one of his wonted visits to
the holy friar. They conversed for a while of divers topics, and
then the friar took him aside, and very courteously reproved him for
so haunting and pursuing the lady with his gaze, as from what
she had given him to understand, he supposed was his wont. The
gallant, who had never regarded her with any attention, and very
rarely passed her house, was amazed, and was about to clear himself,
when the friar closed his mouth, saying: Now away with this
pretence of amazement, and waste not words in denial, for 'twill not
avail thee. I have it not from the neighbours; she herself, bitterly
complaining of thy conduct, told it me. I say not how ill this
levity beseems thee; but of her I tell thee so much as this, that, if
I ever knew woman averse to such idle philandering, she is so;
and therefore for thy honour's sake, and that she be no more vexed,
I pray thee refrain therefrom, and let her be in peace.
The gallant,
having rather more insight than the holy friar, was not slow to
penetrate the lady's finesse; he therefore made as if he were rather
shame-stricken, promised to go no further with the matter, and hied
him straight from the friar to the lady's house, where she was always
posted at a little casement to see if he were passing by. As she saw
him come, she shewed him so gay and gracious a mien that he could
no longer harbour any doubt that he had put the true construction
upon what he had heard from the friar; and thenceforth, to his own
satisfaction and the immense delight and solace of the lady, he
omitted not daily to pass that way, being careful to make it appear
as if he came upon other business. 'Twas thus not long before the
lady understood that she met with no less favour in his eyes than he
in hers; and being desirous to add fuel to his flame, and to assure him
of the love she bore him, as soon as time and occasion served, she
returned to the holy friar, and having sat herself down at his feet in
the church, fell a weeping. The friar asked her in a soothing tone
what her new trouble might be. Whereto the lady answered:
My father, 'tis still that accursed friend of thine, of whom I made
complaint to you some days ago, and who would now seem to have
been born for my most grievous torment, and to cause me to do that
by reason whereof I shall never be glad again, nor venture to place
myself at your feet.
How?
said the friar; has he not forborne
to annoy thee?
Not he, indeed,
said the lady; on the
contrary, 'tis my belief that, since I complained to you of him, he
has, as if in despite, being offended, belike, that I did so, passed my
house seven times for once that he did so before.
Nay, would to
God he were content to pass and fix me with his eyes; but he is
waxed so bold and unabashed that only yesterday he sent a woman
to me at home with his compliments and cajoleries, and, as if I had
not purses and girdles enough, he sent me a purse and a girdle;
whereat I was, as I still am, so wroth, that, had not conscience first,
and then regard for you, weighed with me, I had flown into a frenzy
of rage. However, I restrained myself, and resolved neither to do
nor to say aught without first letting you know it. Nor only so;
but, lest the woman who brought the purse and girdle, and to whom
I at first returned them, shortly bidding her begone and take them
back to the sender, should keep them and tell him that I had accepted
them, as I believe they sometimes do, I recalled her and had them
back, albeit 'twas in no friendly spirit that I received them from her
hand; and I have brought them to you, that you may return them
to him and tell him that I stand in no need of such gifts from him,
because, thanks be to God and my husband, I have purses and girdles
enough to smother him in. And if after this he leave me not alone,
I pray you as my father to hold me excused if, come what may, I
tell it to my husband and brothers; for much liefer had I that he
suffer indignity, if so it must be, than that my fair fame should be
sullied on his account: that holds good, friar.
Weeping bitterly
as she thus ended, she drew from under her robe a purse of very fine
and ornate workmanship and a dainty and costly little girdle, and
threw them into the lap of the friar, who, fully believing what she
said, manifested the utmost indignation as he took them, and said:
Daughter, that by these advances thou shouldst be moved to anger, I
deem neither strange nor censurable; but I am instant with thee to
follow my advice in the matter. I chid him some days ago, and ill
has he kept the promise that he made me; for which cause and this
last feat of his I will surely make his ears so tingle that he will give
thee no more trouble; wherefore, for God's sake, let not thyself be
so overcome by wrath as to tell it to any of thy kinsfolk; which
might bring upon him a retribution greater than he deserves. Nor
fear lest thereby thy fair fame should suffer; for I shall ever be thy
most sure witness before God and men that thou art innocent.
The lady made a shew of being somewhat comforted: then, after a
pause--for well she knew the greed of him and his likes--she said:
Of late, Sir, by night, the spirits of divers of my kinsfolk have
appeared to me in my sleep, and methinks they are in most grievous
torment; alms, alms, they crave, nought else, especially my mother,
who seems to be in so woful and abject a plight that 'tis pitiful
to see. Methinks 'tis a most grievous torment to her to see the
tribulation which this enemy of God has brought upon me. I would
therefore have you say for their souls the forty masses of St. Gregory
and some of your prayers, that God may deliver them from this
purging fire.
So saying she slipped a florin into the hand of the
holy friar, who took it gleefully, and having with edifying words and
many examples fortified her in her devotion, gave her his benediction,
and suffered her to depart.
The lady gone, the friar, who had still no idea of the trick that
had been played upon him, sent for his friend; who was no sooner
come than he gathered from the friar's troubled air that he had news
of the lady, and waited to hear what he would say. The friar
repeated what he had said before, and then broke out into violent
and heated objurgation on the score of the lady's latest imputation.
The gallant, who did not as yet apprehend the friar's drift, gave but
a very faint denial to the charge of sending the purse and girdle, in
order that he might not discredit the lady with the friar, if, perchance,
she had given him the purse and girdle. Whereupon the friar exclaimed
with great heat: How canst thou deny it, thou wicked
man? Why, here they are; she brought them to me in tears with
her own hand. Look at them, and say if thou knowest them not.
The gallant now feigned to be much ashamed, and said: Why,
yes, indeed, I do know them; I confess that I did wrong; and I
swear to you that, now I know her character, you shall never hear
word more of this matter.
Many words followed; and then the
blockheadly friar gave the purse and girdle to his friend, after which
he read him a long lecture, besought him to meddle no more with
such matters, and on his promising obedience dismissed him.
Elated beyond measure by the assurance which he now had of
the lady's love, and the beautiful present, the gallant, on leaving the
friar, hied him straight to a spot whence he stealthily gave the lady
to see that he had both her gifts: whereat the lady was well content,
the more so as her intrigue seemed ever to prosper more and more.
She waited now only for her husband's departure from home to
crown her enterprise with success. Nor was it long before occasion
required that her husband should go to Genoa. The very morning
that he took horse and rode away she hied her to the holy friar, and
after many a lamentation she said to him betwixt her sobs: My
father, now at last I tell you out and out that I can bear my suffering
no longer. I promised you some days ago to do nought in this
matter without first letting you know it; I am now come to crave
release from that promise; and that you may believe that my
lamentations and complaints are not groundless, I will tell you how
this friend of yours, who should rather be called a devil let loose
from hell, treated me only this very morning, a little before matins.
As ill-luck would have it, he learned, I know not how, that yesterday
morning my husband went to Genoa, and so this morning at the
said hour he came into my garden, and got up by a tree to the
window of my bedroom, which looks out over the garden, and had
already opened the casement, and was about to enter the room, when
I suddenly awoke, and got up and uttered a cry, and should have
continued to cry out, had not he, who was still outside, implored my
mercy for God's sake and yours, telling me who he was. So, for
love of you I was silent, and naked as I was born, ran and shut the
window in his face, and he--bad luck to him--made off, I suppose,
for I saw him no more. Consider now if such behaviour be seemly
and tolerable: I for my part am minded to put up with no more of
it; indeed I have endured too much already for love of you.
Wroth beyond measure was the friar, as he heard her thus speak,
nor knew he what to say, except that he several times asked her if
she were quite certain that it was no other than he.
Holy name
of God!
replied the lady, as if I did not yet know him from
another! He it was, I tell you; and do you give no credence to his
denial.
Daughter,
said then the friar, there is here nought
else to say but that this is a monstrous presumption and a most
heinous offence; and thou didst well to send him away as thou didst.
But seeing that God has preserved thee from shame, I would implore
thee that, as thou hast twice followed my advice, thou do so likewise
on this occasion, and making no complaint to any of thy kinsfolk,
leave it to me to try if I can control this devil that has slipt his chain,
whom I supposed to be a saint; and if I succeed in weaning him from
this insensate folly, well and good; and if I fail, thenceforth I give
thee leave, with my blessing, to do whatsoever may commend itself
to thy own judgment.
Lo now,
answered the lady, once
again I will not vex or disobey you; but be sure that you so order
matters that he refrain from further annoyance, as I give you my
word that never will I have recourse to you again touching this
matter.
Then, without another word, and with a troubled air, she
took leave of him. Scarcely was she out of the church when the
gallant came up. The friar called him, took him aside, and gave him
the affront in such sort as 'twas never before given to any man,
reviling him as a disloyal and perjured traitor. The gallant, who by
his two previous lessons had been taught how to value the friar's
censures, listened attentively, and sought to draw him out by ambiguous
answers. Wherefore this wrath, Sir?
he began. Have I
crucified Christ?
Ay, mark the fellow's effrontery!
retorted
the friar: list to what he says! He talks, forsooth, as if 'twere
a year or so since, and his villanies and lewdnesses were clean gone from
his memory for lapse of time. Between matins and now hast thou
forgotten this morning's outrage? Where wast thou this morning
shortly before daybreak?
Where was I?
rejoined the gallant;
that know not I. 'Tis indeed betimes that the news has reached
you.
True indeed it is,
said the friar, that the news has
reached
me: I suppose that, because the husband was not there, thou never
doubtedst that thou wouldst forthwith be received by the lady with
open arms. Ah! the gay gallant! the honourable gentleman! he
is now turned prowler by night, and breaks into gardens, and climbs
trees! Dost thou think by sheer importunity to vanquish the virtue
of this lady, that thou escaladest her windows at night by the trees?
She dislikes thee of all things in the world, and yet thou must still
persist. Well indeed hast thou laid my admonitions to heart, to say
nothing of the many proofs which she has given thee of her disdain!
But I have yet a word for thee: hitherto, not that she bears thee
any love, but that she has yielded to my urgent prayers, she has kept
silence as to thy misdeeds: she will do so no more: I have given her
leave to act as she may think fit, if thou givest her any further
annoyance. And what wilt thou do if she informs her brothers?
The gallant, now fully apprised of what it imported him to know,
was profuse in promises, whereby as best he might he reassured the
friar, and so left him. The very next night, as soon as the matin
hour was come, he entered the garden, climbed up the tree, found the
window open, entered the chamber, and in a trice was in the embrace
of his fair lady. Anxiously had she expected him, and blithely did she
now greet him, saying: All thanks to master friar that he so well
taught thee the way hither.
Then, with many a jest and laugh at
the simplicity of the asinine friar, and many a flout at distaff-fuls and
combs and cards, they solaced themselves with one another to their
no small delight. Nor did they omit so to arrange matters that
they were well able to dispense with master friar, and yet pass many
another night together with no less satisfaction: to which goal I
pray that I, and all other Christian souls that are so minded, may be
speedily guided of God in His holy mercy.
Novel IVDom Felice instructs Fra Puccio how to attain blessedness
by doing a penance. Fra Puccio does the penance,
and meanwhile Dom Felice has a good time with Fra
Puccio's wife.
When Filomena, having concluded her story, was silent, and
Dioneo had added a few honeyed phrases in praise of the lady's wit and
Filomena's closing prayer, the queen glanced with a smile to Pamfilo,
and said: Now, Pamfilo, give us some pleasant trifle to speed our
delight.
That gladly will I,
returned forthwith Pamfilo, and
then:
Madam,
he began,
not a few there are that, while they
use their best endeavours to get themselves places in Paradise, do, by
inadvertence, send others thither: as did, not long ago, betide a fair
neighbour of ours, as you shall hear.
Hard by San Pancrazio there used to live, as I have heard tell,
a worthy man and wealthy, Puccio di Rinieri by name, who in later
life, under an overpowering sense of religion, became a tertiary of
the order of St. Francis, and was thus known as Fra Puccio. In
which spiritual life he was the better able to persevere that his
household consisted but of a wife and a maid, and having no need to
occupy himself with any craft, he spent no small part of his time at
church; where, being a simple soul and slow of wit, he said his
paternosters, heard sermons, assisted at the mass, never missed lauds
(i. e. when chanted by the seculars), fasted and mortified his flesh;
nay--so
'twas whispered--he was of the Flagellants. His wife, Monna
Isabetta by name, a woman of from twenty-eight to thirty summers,
still young for her age, lusty, comely and plump as a casolanPerhaps
from Casoli, near Naples. apple,
had not unfrequently, by reason of her husband's devoutness, if not
also of his age, more than she cared for, of abstinence; and when she
was sleepy, or, maybe, riggish, he would repeat to her the life of Christ,
and the sermons of Fra Nastagio, or the lament of the Magdalen, or
the like. Now, while such was the tenor of her life, there returned
from Paris a young monk, by name Dom Felice, of the convent of
San Pancrazio, a well-favoured man and keen-witted, and profoundly
learned, with whom Fra Puccio became very intimate; and as there
was no question which he could put to him but Dom Felice could
answer it, and moreover he made great shew of holiness, for well he
knew Fra Puccio's bent, Fra Puccio took to bringing him home and
entertaining him at breakfast and supper, as occasion served; and for
love of her husband the lady also grew familiar with Dom Felice,
and was zealous to do him honour. So the monk, being a constant
visitor at Fra Puccio's house, and seeing the lady so lusty and plump,
surmised that of which she must have most lack, and made up his
mind to afford, if he could, at once relief to Fra Puccio and contentment
to the lady. So cautiously, now and again, he cast an admiring
glance in her direction with such effect that he kindled in her the
same desire with which he burned, and marking his success, took the
first opportunity to declare his passion to her. He found her fully
disposed to gratify it; but how this might be, he was at a loss to
discover, for she would not trust herself with him in any place whatever
except her own house, and there it could not be, because Fra
Puccio never travelled; whereby the monk was greatly dejected.
Long he pondered the matter, and at length thought of an expedient,
whereby he might be with the lady in her own house without
incurring suspicion, notwithstanding that Fra Puccio was there.
So, being with Fra Puccio one day, he said to him: Reasons
many have I to know, Fra Puccio, that all thy desire is to become a
saint; but it seems to me that thou farest by a circuitous route,
whereas there is one very direct, which the Pope and the greater
prelates that are about him know and use, but will have it remain a
secret, because otherwise the clergy, who for the most part live by
alms, and could not then expect alms or aught else from the laity,
would be speedily ruined. However, as thou art my friend, and hast
shewn me much honour, I would teach thee that way, if I were assured
that thou wouldst follow it without letting another soul in the world
hear of it.
Fra Puccio was now all agog to hear more of the matter,
and began most earnestly entreating Dom Felice to teach him the
way, swearing that without Dom Felice's leave none should ever
hear of it from him, and averring that, if he found it practicable, he
would certainly follow it. I am satisfied with thy promises,
said
the monk, and I will shew thee the way. Know then that the
holy doctors hold that whoso would achieve blessedness must do the
penance of which I shall tell thee; but see thou take me judiciously.
I do not say that after the penance thou wilt not be a sinner, as thou
art; but the effect will be that the sins which thou hast committed
up to the very hour of the penance will all be purged away and
thereby remitted to thee, and the sins which thou shalt commit
thereafter will not be written against thee to thy damnation, but will
be quit by holy water, like venial sins. First of all then the penitent
must with great exactitude confess his sins when he comes to begin
the penance. Then follows a period of fasting and very strict
abstinence which must last for forty days, during which time he is to
touch no woman whomsoever, not even his wife. Moreover, thou
must have in thy house some place whence thou mayst see the sky
by night, whither thou must resort at compline; and there thou must
have a beam, very broad, and placed in such a way, that, standing,
thou canst rest thy nether part upon it, and so, not raising thy feet
from the ground, thou must extend thy arms, so as to make a sort of
crucifix, and if thou wouldst have pegs to rest them on thou mayst;
and on this manner, thy gaze fixed on the sky, and never moving a
jot, thou must stand until matins. And wert thou lettered, it were
proper for thee to say meanwhile certain prayers that I would give
thee; but as thou art not so, thou must say three hundred paternosters
and as many avemarias in honour of the Trinity; and thus
contemplating the sky, be ever mindful that God was the creator of
the heaven and the earth, and being set even as Christ was upon the
cross, meditate on His passion. Then, when the matin-bell sounds,
thou mayst, if thou please, go to bed--but see that thou undress not--and
sleep; but in the morning thou must go to church, and hear
at least three masses, and say fifty paternosters and as many avemarias;
after which thou mayst with a pure heart do aught that thou hast
to do, and breakfast; but at vespers thou must be again at church,
and say there certain prayers, which I shall give thee in writing and
which are indispensable, and after compline thou must repeat thy
former exercise. Do this, and I, who have done it before thee, have
good hope that even before thou shalt have reached the end of the
penance, thou wilt, if thou shalt do it in a devout spirit, have already
a marvellous foretaste of the eternal blessedness.
This,
said Fra
Puccio, is neither a very severe nor a very long penance, and can
be very easily managed: wherefore in God's name I will begin on
Sunday.
And so he took his leave of Dom Felice, and went home,
and, by Dom Felice's permission, informed his wife of every particular
of his intended penance.
The lady understood very well what the monk meant by enjoining
him not to stir from his post until matins; and deeming it an
excellent device, she said that she was well content that he should do
this or aught else that he thought good for his soul; and to the end
that his penance might be blest of God, she would herself fast with
him, though she would go no further.
So they did as they had
agreed: when Sunday came Fra Puccio began his penance, and master
monk, by understanding with the lady, came most evenings, at the
hour when he was secure from discovery, to sup with her, always
bringing
with him abundance both of meat and of drink, and after slept
with her till the matin hour, when he got up and left her, and Fra
Puccio went to bed. The place which Fra Puccio had chosen for
his penance was close to the room in which the lady slept, and only
separated from it by the thinnest of partitions; so that, the monk and
the lady disporting themselves with one another without stint or
restraint, Fra Puccio thought he felt the floor of the house shake a
little, and pausing at his hundredth paternoster, but without leaving
his post, called out to the lady to know what she was about. The
lady, who dearly loved a jest, and was just then riding the horse of
St. Benedict or St. John Gualbert, answered: I'faith, husband, I am
as restless as may be.
Restless,
said Fra Puccio, how so? What
means this restlessness?
Whereto with a hearty laugh, for which
she doubtless had good occasion, the bonny lady replied: What
means it? How should you ask such a question? Why, I have
heard you say a thousand times: 'Who fasting goes to bed, uneasy
lies his head.'
Fra Puccio, supposing that her wakefulness and
restlessness abed was due to want of food, said in good faith: Wife,
I told thee I would have thee not fast; but as thou hast chosen to
fast, think not of it, but think how thou mayst compose thyself to
sleep; thou tossest about the bed in such sort that the shaking is felt
here.
That need cause thee no alarm,
rejoined the lady. I
know what I am about; I will manage as well as I can, and do thou
likewise.
So Fra Puccio said no more to her, but resumed his
paternosters; and thenceforth every night, while Fra Puccio's penance
lasted, the lady and master monk, having had a bed made up for them
in another part of the house, did there wanton it most gamesomely,
the monk departing and the lady going back to her bed at one and
the same time, being shortly before Fra Puccio's return from his
nightly vigil. The friar thus persisting in his penance while the lady
took her fill of pleasure with the monk, she would from time to time
say jestingly to him: Thou layest a penance upon Fra Puccio
whereby we are rewarded with Paradise.
So well indeed did she
relish the dainties with which the monk regaled her, the more so by
contrast with the abstemious life to which her husband had long
accustomed her, that, when Fra Puccio's penance was done, she found
means to enjoy them elsewhere, and ordered her indulgence with
such discretion as to ensure its long continuance. Whereby (that my
story may end as it began) it came to pass that Fra Puccio, hoping by
his penance to win a place for himself in Paradise, did in fact translate
thither the monk who had shewn him the way, and the wife who
lived with him in great dearth of that of which the monk in his
charity gave her superabundant largess.
Novel VZima gives a palfrey to Messer Francesco Vergellesi,
who in return suffers him to speak with his wife.
She keeping silence, he answers in her stead, and
the sequel is in accordance with his answer.
When Pamfilo had brought the story of Fra Puccio to a close
amid the laughter of the ladies, the queen debonairly bade Elisa
follow suit; and she, whose manner had in it a slight touch of
severity, which betokened not despite, but was habitual to her, thus
began:
Many there are that, being very knowing, think that others
are quite the reverse; and so, many a time, thinking to beguile
others, are themselves beguiled; wherefore I deem it the height of
folly for any one wantonly to challenge another to a contest of
wit. But, as, perchance, all may not be of the same opinion, I
am minded, without deviating from the prescribed order, to acquaint
you with that which thereby befell a certain knight of Pistoia.
Know then that at Pistoia there lived a knight, Messer Francesco,
by name, of the Vergellesi family, a man of much wealth and good
parts, being both wise and clever, but withal niggardly beyond
measure. Which Messer Francesco, having to go to Milan in the
capacity of podestà, had provided himself with all that was meet
for the honourable support of such a dignity, save only a palfrey
handsome enough for him; and not being able to come by any
such, he felt himself at a loss. Now there was then in Pistoia
a young man, Ricciardo by name, of low origin but great wealth,
who went always so trim and fine and foppish of person, that folk
had bestowed upon him the name of Zima,From the Low Latin
aczima, explained by Du Cange as tonture de
draps,
the process of dressing cloth so as to give it an even nap. Zima
is thus equivalent to nitidus.
Cf. Vocab. degli Accademici della
Crusca,
Azzimare.
by which he was
generally known. Zima had long and to no purpose burned and
yearned for love of Messer Francesco's very fair and no less virtuous
wife. His passion was matter of common notoriety; and so it befell
that some one told Messer Francesco that he had but to ask Zima,
who was the possessor of one of the handsomest palfreys in Tuscany,
which on that account he greatly prized, and he would not hesitate
to give him the horse for the love which he bore his wife. So our
niggardly knight sent for Zima, and offered to buy the horse of
him, hoping thereby to get him from Zima as a gift.
Zima
heard the knight gladly, and thus made answer: Sell you my
horse, Sir, I would not, though you gave me all that you have in
the world; but I shall be happy to give him to you, when you will,
on this condition, that, before he pass into your hands, I may by your
leave and in your presence say a few words to your wife so privately
that I may be heard by her alone.
Thinking at once to gratify
his cupidity and to outwit Zima, the knight answered that he was
content that it should be even as Zima wished. Then, leaving him
in the hall of the palace, he went to his lady's chamber, and told her
the easy terms on which he might acquire the palfrey, bidding her
give Zima his audience, but on no account to vouchsafe him a word
of reply. This the lady found by no means to her mind, but, as
she must needs obey her husband's commands, she promised compliance,
and followed him into the hall to hear what Zima might
have to say. Zima then renewed his contract with the knight in due
form; whereupon, the lady being seated in a part of the hall where
she was quite by herself, he sate down by her side, and thus began:
Noble lady, I have too much respect for your understanding
to doubt that you have long been well aware of the extremity of
passion whereto I have been brought by your beauty, which certainly
exceeds that of any other lady that I have ever seen, to say nothing
of your exquisite manners and incomparable virtues, which might
well serve to captivate every soaring spirit that is in the world;
wherefore there need no words of mine to assure you that I love
you with a love greater and more ardent than any that man yet
bore to woman, and so without doubt I shall do, as long as my
woful life shall hold this frame together; nay, longer yet, for, if
love there be in the next world as in this, I shall love you evermore.
And so you may make your mind secure that there is nothing that
is yours, be it precious or be it common, which you may count as
in such and so sure a sort your own as me, for all that I am and have.
And that thereof you may not lack evidence of infallible cogency,
I tell you, that I should deem myself more highly favoured, if I
might at your command do somewhat to pleasure you, than if at
my command the whole world were forthwith to yield me obedience.
And as 'tis even in such sort that I am yours, 'tis not unworthily
that I make bold to offer my petitions to Your Highness, as being
to me the sole, exclusive source of all peace, of all bliss, of all health.
Wherefore, as your most lowly vassal, I pray you, dear my bliss,
my soul's one hope, wherein she nourishes herself in love's devouring
flame, that in your great benignity you deign so far to mitigate the
harshness which in the past you have shewn towards me, yours though
I am, that, consoled by your compassion, I may say, that, as 'twas
by your beauty that I was smitten with love, so 'tis to your pity
that I owe my life, which, if in your haughtiness you lend not ear
unto my prayers, will assuredly fail, so that I shall die, and, it may
be, 'twill be said that you slew me. 'Twould not redound to your
honour that I died for love of you; but let that pass; I cannot but
think, however, that you would sometimes feel a touch of remorse,
and would grieve that 'twas your doing, and that now and again,
relenting, you would say to yourself: 'Ah! how wrong it was of
me that I had not pity on my Zima;' by which too late repentance
you would but enhance your grief. Wherefore, that this come not
to pass, repent you while it is in your power to give me ease, and
shew pity on me before I die, seeing that with you it rests to make
me either the gladdest or the saddest man that lives. My trust is
in your generosity, that 'twill not brook that a love so great and
of such a sort as mine should receive death for guerdon, and that
by a gladsome and gracious answer you will repair my shattered
spirits, which are all a-tremble in your presence for very fear.
When he had done, he heaved several very deep sighs, and a few
tears started from his eyes, while he awaited the lady's answer.
Long time he had wooed her with his eyes, had tilted in her
honour, had greeted her rising with music; and against these and
all like modes of attack she had been proof; but the heartfelt words
of her most ardent lover were not without their effect, and she now
began to understand what she had never till then understood, to wit,
what love really means. So, albeit she obeyed her lord's behest, and
kept silence, yet she could not but betray by a slight sigh that which,
if she might have given Zima his answer, she would readily have
avowed. After waiting a while, Zima found it strange that no
answer was forthcoming; and he then began to perceive the trick
which the knight had played him. However, he kept his eyes fixed
on the lady, and observing that her eyes glowed now and again, as
they met his, and noting the partially suppressed sighs which escaped
her, he gathered a little hope, which gave him courage to try a novel
plan of attack. So, while the lady listened, he began to make answer
for her to himself on this wise:
Zima mine, true indeed it is that
long since I discerned that thou didst love me with a love exceeding
great and whole-hearted, whereof I have now yet ampler assurance
by thine own words, and well content I am therewith, as indeed
I ought to be. And however harsh and cruel I may have seemed
to thee, I would by no means have thee believe, that I have been such
at heart as I have seemed in aspect; rather, be assured that I have
ever loved thee and held thee dear above all other men; the mien
which I have worn was but prescribed by fear of another and
solicitude for my fair fame. But a time will soon come when I
shall be able to give thee plain proof of my love, and to accord
the love which thou hast borne and dost bear me its due guerdon.
Wherefore be comforted and of good hope; for, Messer Francesco
is to go in a few days' time to Milan as podestà, as thou well
knowest, seeing that for love of me thou hast given him thy fine
palfrey; and I vow to thee upon my faith, upon the true love
which I bear thee, that without fail, within a few days thereafter
thou shalt be with me, and we will give our love complete and
gladsome consummation. And that I may have no more occasion
to speak to thee of this matter, be it understood between us that
henceforth when thou shalt observe two towels disposed at the
window of my room which overlooks the garden, thou shalt come
to me after nightfall of that same day by the garden door (and look
well to it that thou be not seen), and thou shalt find me waiting
for thee, and we will have our fill of mutual cheer and solace all
night long.
Having thus answered for the lady, Zima resumed his own
person and thus replied to the lady: Dearest madam, your boon
response so overpowers my every faculty that scarce can I frame
words to render you due thanks; and, were I able to utter all I feel,
time, however long, would fail me fully to thank you as I would
fain and as I ought: wherefore I must even leave it to your sage
judgment to divine that which I yearn in vain to put in words.
Let this one word suffice, that as you bid me, so I shall not fail
to do; and then, having, perchance, firmer assurance of the great
boon which you have granted me, I will do my best endeavour to
thank you in terms the amplest that I may command. For the
present there is no more to say; and so, dearest my lady, I commend
you to God; and may He grant you your heart's content of
joy and bliss.
To all which the lady returned never a word:
wherefore Zima rose and turned to rejoin the knight, who, seeing
him on his feet, came towards him, and said with a laugh: How
sayst thou? Have I faithfully kept my promise to thee?
Not so,
Sir,
replied Zima; for by thy word I was to have spoken with thy
wife, and by thy deed I have spoken to a statue of marble.
Which
remark was much relished by the knight, who, well as he had thought
of his wife, thought now even better of her, and said: So thy
palfrey, that was, is now mine out and out.
'Tis even so, Sir,
replied Zima; but had I thought to have gotten such fruit as I
have from this favour of yours, I would not have craved it, but
would have let you have the palfrey as a free gift: and would to
God I had done so, for, as it is, you have bought the palfrey and
I have not sold him.
This drew a laugh from the knight, who
within a few days thereafter mounted the palfrey which he had
gotten, and took the road for Milan, there to enter on his podestate.
The lady, now mistress of herself, bethought her of Zima's words,
and the love which he bore her, and for which he had parted with
his palfrey; and observing that he frequently passed her house, said
to herself:
What am I about? Why throw I my youth away?
My husband is gone to Milan, and will not return for six months,
and when can he ever restore them to me? When I am old!
And besides, shall I ever find another such lover as Zima? I am
quite by myself. There is none to fear. I know not why I take
not my good time while I may: I shall not always have the like
opportunity as at present: no one will ever know; and if it should
get known, 'tis better to do and repent than to forbear and repent.
Of which meditations the issue was that one day she set two towels
in the window overlooking the garden, according to Zima's word;
and Zima having marked them with much exultation, stole at
nightfall alone to the door of the lady's garden, and finding it open,
crossed to another door that led into the house, where he found the
lady awaiting him. On sight of him she rose to meet him, and
gave him the heartiest of welcomes. A hundred thousand times
he embraced and kissed her, as he followed her upstairs: then
without delay they hied them to bed, and knew love's furthest
bourne. And so far was the first time from being in this case the
last, that, while the knight was at Milan, and indeed after his return,
there were seasons not a few at which Zima resorted thither to the
immense delight of both parties.
Novel VIRicciardo Minutolo loves the wife of Filippello Fighinolfi,
and knowing her to be jealous, makes her believe that
his own wife is to meet Filippello at a bagnio on the
ensuing day; whereby she is induced to go thither,
where, thinking to have been with her husband, she
discovers that she has tarried with Ricciardo.
When Elisa had quite done, the queen, after some commendation
of Zima's sagacity, bade Fiammetta follow with a story. Whereto
Fiammetta, all smiles, responded: Madam, with all my heart;
and thus began:
Richly though our city abounds, as in all things else, so also in
instances to suit every topic, yet I am minded to journey some
distance thence, and, like Elisa, to tell you something of what goes
on in other parts of the world: wherefore pass we to Naples, where
you shall hear how one of these sanctified that shew themselves so
shy of love, was by the subtlety of her lover brought to taste of the
fruit before she had known the flowers of love; whereby at one and
the same time you may derive from the past counsel of prudence for
the future, and present delectation.
In the very ancient city of Naples, which for loveliness has not
its superior or perhaps its equal in Italy, there once lived a young
man, renowned alike for noble blood and the splendour of his vast
wealth, his name Ricciardo Minutolo. He was mated with a very
fair and loving wife; but nevertheless he became enamoured of a
lady who in the general opinion vastly surpassed in beauty every other
lady in Naples. Catella--such was the lady's name--was married to
a young man, likewise of gentle blood, Filippello Fighinolfi by name,
whom she, most virtuous of ladies, loved and held dear above all else
in the world. Being thus enamoured of Catella, Ricciardo Minutolo
left none of those means untried whereby a lady's favour and love
are wont to be gained, but for all that he made no way towards the
attainment of his heart's desire: whereby he fell into a sort of despair,
and witless and powerless to loose himself from his love, found life
scarce tolerable, and yet knew not how to die. While in this frame
he languished, it befell one day that some ladies that were of kin to
him counselled him earnestly to be quit of such a love, whereby he
could but fret himself to no purpose, seeing that Catella cared for
nought in the world save Filippello, and lived in such a state of
jealousy on his account that never a bird flew but she feared lest it
should snatch him from her. So soon as Ricciardo heard of Catella's
jealousy, he forthwith began to ponder how he might make it
subserve his end. He feigned to have given up his love for Catella
as hopeless, and to have transferred it to another lady, in whose
honour he accordingly began to tilt and joust and do all that he
had been wont to do in honour of Catella. Nor was it long before
well-nigh all the Neapolitans, including Catella herself, began to
think that he had forgotten Catella, and was to the last degree
enamoured of the other lady. In this course he persisted, until the
opinion was so firmly rooted in the minds of all that even Catella
laid aside a certain reserve which she had used towards him while
she deemed him her lover, and, coming and going, greeted him in
friendly, neighbourly fashion, like the rest. Now it so befell that
during the hot season, when, according to the custom of the
Neapolitans, many companies of ladies and gentlemen went down to
the sea-coast to recreate themselves and breakfast and sup, Ricciardo,
knowing that Catella was gone thither with her company, went
likewise with his, but, making as if he were not minded to stay
there, he received several invitations from the ladies of Catella's
company before he accepted any. When the ladies received him,
they all with one accord, including Catella, began to rally him on
his new love, and he furnished them with more matter for talk
by feigning a most ardent passion. At length most of the ladies
being gone off, one hither, another thither, as they do in such places,
leaving Catella and a few others with Ricciardo, he tossed at Catella
a light allusion to a certain love of her husband Filippello, which
threw her at once into such a fit of jealousy, that she inly burned
with a vehement desire to know what Ricciardo meant. For a
while she kept her own counsel; then, brooking no more suspense,
she adjured Ricciardo, by the love he bore the lady whom most he
loved, to expound to her what he had said touching Filippello. He
answered thus: You have adjured me by her to whom I dare
not deny aught that you may ask of me; my riddle therefore I will
presently read you, provided you promise me that neither to him nor
to any one else will you impart aught of what I shall relate to you,
until you shall have ocular evidence of its truth; which, so you desire
it, I will teach you how you may obtain.
The lady accepted his
terms, which rather confirmed her belief in his veracity, and swore
that she would not tell a soul. They then drew a little apart, that
they might not be overheard by the rest, and Ricciardo thus began:
Madam, did I love you, as I once did, I should not dare to tell
you aught that I thought might cause you pain; but, now that that
love is past, I shall have the less hesitation in telling you the truth.
Whether Filippello ever resented the love which I bore you, or
deemed that it was returned by you, I know not: whether it were
so or no, he certainly never shewed any such feeling to me; but
so it is that now, having waited, perhaps, until, as he supposes, I am
less likely to be on my guard, he shews a disposition to serve me
as I doubt he suspects that I served him; that is to say, he would
fain have his pleasure of my wife, whom for some time past he has,
as I discover, plied with messages through most secret channels. She
has told me all, and has answered him according to my instructions:
but only this morning, just before I came hither, I found a woman
in close parley with her in the house, whose true character and
purpose I forthwith divined; so I called my wife, and asked what the
woman wanted. Whereto she answered: ''Tis this persecution
by Filippello which thou hast brought upon me by the encouraging
answers that thou wouldst have me give him: he now tells me that
he is most earnestly desirous to know my intentions, and that, should
I be so minded, he would contrive that I should have secret access
to a bagnio in this city, and he is most urgent and instant that I
should consent. And hadst thou not, wherefore I know not, bidden
me keep the affair afoot, I would have dismissed him in such a
sort that my movements would have been exempt from his prying
observation for ever. Upon this I saw that the affair was going
too far; I determined to have no more of it, and to let you know
it, that you may understand how he requites your whole-hearted
faith, which brought me of late to the verge of death. And that
you may not suppose that these are but empty words and idle tales,
but may be able, should you so desire, to verify them by sight and
touch, I caused my wife to tell the woman who still waited her
answer, that she would be at the bagnio to-morrow about none,
during the siesta: with which answer the woman went away well
content. Now you do not, I suppose, imagine that I would send
her thither; but if I were in your place, he should find me there
instead of her whom he thinks to find there; and when I had been
some little time with him, I would give him to understand with
whom he had been, and he should have of me such honour as he
deserved. Whereby, I doubt not, he would be put to such shame
as would at one and the same time avenge both the wrong which
he has done to you and that which he plots against me.
Catella, as is the wont of the jealous, hearkened to Ricciardo's words
without so much as giving a thought to the speaker or his wiles,
inclined at once to credit his story, and began to twist certain antecedent
matters into accord with it; then, suddenly kindling with
wrath, she answered, that to the bagnio she would certainly go;
'twould cause her no great inconvenience, and if he should come, she
would so shame him that he should never again set eyes on woman
but his ears would tingle. Satisfied by what he heard, that his
stratagem was well conceived, and success sure, Ricciardo added much
in corroboration of his story, and having thus confirmed her belief
in it, besought her to keep it always close, whereto she pledged
her faith.
Next morning Ricciardo hied him to the good woman that kept
the bagnio to which he had directed Catella, told her the enterprise
which he had in hand, and prayed her to aid him therein so far as
she might be able. The good woman, who was much beholden to
him, assured him that she would gladly do so, and concerted with
him all that was to be said and done. She had in the bagnio a room
which was very dark, being without any window to admit the light.
This room, by Ricciardo's direction, she set in order, and made up a
bed there as well as she could, into which bed Ricciardo got, as soon
as he had breakfasted, and there awaited Catella's coming.
Now Catella, still giving more credence to Ricciardo's story than
it merited, had gone home in the evening in a most resentful mood,
and Filippello, returning home the same evening with a mind greatly
preoccupied, was scarce as familiar with her as he was wont to be.
Which she marking, grew yet more suspicious than before, and said
to herself: Doubtless he is thinking of the lady of whom he expects
to take his pleasure to-morrow, as most assuredly he shall not;
and
so, musing and meditating what she should say to him after their
rencounter at the bagnio, she spent the best part of the night. But--to
shorten my story--upon the stroke of none Catella, taking with
her a single attendant, but otherwise adhering to her original intention,
hied her to the bagnio which Ricciardo had indicated; and finding
the good woman there, asked her whether Filippello had been there
that day. Primed by Ricciardo, the good woman asked her, whether
she were the lady that was to come to speak with him; to which she
answered in the affirmative.
Go to him, then,
said the good
woman. And so Catella, in quest of that which she would gladly
not have found, was shewn to the chamber where Ricciardo was,
and having entered without uncovering her head, closed the door
behind her. Overjoyed to see her, Ricciardo sprang out of bed, took
her in his arms, and said caressingly: Welcome, my soul.
Catella, dissembling, for she was minded at first to counterfeit another
woman, returned his embrace, kissed him, and lavished endearments
upon him; saying, the while, not a word, lest her speech should
betray her. The darkness of the room, which was profound, was
equally welcome to both; nor were they there long enough for their
eyes to recover power. Ricciardo helped Catella on to the bed,
where, with no word said on either side in a voice that might be
recognized, they lay a long while, much more to the solace and
satisfaction of the one than of the other party. Then, Catella,
deeming it high time to vent her harboured resentment, burst forth
in a blaze of wrath on this wise: Alas! how wretched is the lot
of women, how misplaced of not a few the love they bear their
husbands! Ah, woe is me! for eight years have I loved thee more
dearly than my life; and now I find that thou, base miscreant that
thou art, dost nought but burn and languish for love of another
woman! Here thou hast been--with whom, thinkest thou? Even
with her whom thou hast too long deluded with thy false blandishments,
making pretence to love her while thou art enamoured of
another. 'Tis I, Catella, not the wife of Ricciardo, false traitor
that thou art; list if thou knowest my voice; 'tis I indeed! Ah!
would we were but in the light!--it seems to me a thousand years
till then--that I might shame thee as thou deservest, vile, pestilent
dog that thou art! Alas! woe is me! such love as I have borne so
many years--to whom? To this faithless dog, that, thinking to have a
strange woman in his embrace, has in the brief while that I have
been with him here lavished upon me more caresses and endearments
than during all the forepast time that I have been his! A lively
spark indeed art thou to-day, renegade dog, that shewest thyself
so limp and enervate and impotent at home! But, God be praised,
thou hast tilled thine own plot, and not another's, as thou didst believe.
No wonder that last night thou heldest aloof from me; thou wast
thinking of scattering thy seed elsewhere, and wast minded to shew
thyself a lusty knight when thou shouldst join battle. But praise be
to God and my sagacity, the water has nevertheless taken its proper
course. Where is thy answer, culprit? Hast thou nought to say?
Have my words struck thee dumb? God's faith! I know not why I
forbear to pluck thine eyes out with my fingers! Thou thoughtest
to perpetrate this treason with no small secrecy; but, by God, one is
as knowing as another; thy plot has failed; I had better hounds on
thy trail than thou didst think for.
Ricciardo, inly delighted by her
words, made no answer, but embraced and kissed her more than
ever, and overwhelmed her with his endearments. So she continued
her reproaches, saying: Ay, thou thinkest to cajole me with thy
feigned caresses, wearisome dog that thou art, and so to pacify and
mollify me; but thou art mistaken. I shall never be mollified, until
I have covered thee with infamy in the presence of all our kinsfolk
and friends and neighbours. Am I not, miscreant, as fair as the wife
of Ricciardo Minutolo? Am I not as good a lady as she? Why
dost not answer, vile dog? Wherein has she the advantage of me?
Away with thee! touch me not; thou hast done feats of arms more
than enough for to-day. Well I know that, now that thou knowest
who I am, thou wilt wreak thy will on me by force: but by God's
grace I will yet disappoint thee. I know not why I forbear to send
for Ricciardo, who loved me more than himself and yet was never
able to boast that he had a single glance from me; nor know I why
'twere wrong to do so. Thou thoughtest to have his wife here, and
'tis no fault of thine that thou hadst her not: so, if I had him, thou
couldst not justly blame me.
Enough had now been said: the lady's mortification was extreme;
and, as she ended, Ricciardo bethought him that, if he suffered her,
thus deluded, to depart, much evil might ensue. He therefore
resolved to make himself known, and disabuse her of her error. So,
taking her in his arms, and clipping her so close that she could not
get loose, he said: Sweet my soul, be not wroth: that which,
while artlessly I loved, I might not have, Love has taught me to
compass by guile: know that I am thy Ricciardo.
At these words and the voice, which she recognized, Catella
started, and would have sprung out of the bed; which being
impossible, she essayed a cry; but Ricciardo laid a hand upon her
mouth, and closed it, saying: Madam, that which is done can
never be undone, though you should cry out for the rest of your
days, and should you in such or any other wise publish this matter to
any, two consequences will ensue. In the first place (and this is a
point which touches you very nearly) your honour and fair fame will
be blasted; for, however you may say that I lured you hither by
guile, I shall deny it, and affirm, on the contrary, that I induced you
to come hither by promises of money and gifts, and that 'tis but
because you are vexed that what I gave you did not altogether come
up to your expectations, that you make such a cry and clamour; and
you know that folk are more prone to believe evil than good, and
therefore I am no less likely to be believed than you. The further
consequence will be mortal enmity between your husband and me, and
the event were as like to be that I killed him as that he killed me:
which if I did, you would never more know joy or peace. Wherefore,
heart of my body, do not at one and the same time bring dishonour
upon yourself and set your husband and me at strife and in jeopardy
of our lives. You are not the first, nor will you be the last to be
beguiled; nor have I beguiled you to rob you of aught, but for excess
of love that I bear, and shall ever bear, you, being your most lowly
vassal. And though it is now a great while that I, and what I have
and can and am worth, are yours, yet I am minded that so it shall be
henceforth more than ever before. Your discretion in other matters
is not unknown to me, and I doubt not 'twill be equally manifest
in this.
Ricciardo's admonitions were received by Catella with many a
bitter tear; but though she was very wroth and very sad at heart,
yet Ricciardo's true words so far commanded the assent of her
reason, that she acknowledged that 'twas possible they might be
verified by the event. Wherefore she made answer:
Ricciardo,
I know not how God will grant me patience to bear the villainy and
knavery which thou hast practised upon me; and though in this
place, to which simplicity and excess of jealousy guided my steps, I
raise no cry, rest assured that I shall never be happy, until in one way
or another I know myself avenged of that which thou hast done to
me. Wherefore unhand me, let me go: thou hast had thy desire of
me, and hast tormented me to thy heart's content: 'tis time to release
me; let me go, I pray thee.
But Ricciardo, seeing that she was
still much ruffled in spirit, was resolved not to let her go, until he
had made his peace with her. So he addressed himself to soothe
her; and by dint of most dulcet phrases and entreaties and adjurations
he did at last prevail with her to give him her pardon; nay, by
joint consent, they tarried there a great while to the exceeding great
delight of both. Indeed the lady, finding her lover's kisses smack
much better than those of her husband, converted her asperity into
sweetness, and from that day forth cherished a most tender love for
Ricciardo; whereof, using all circumspection, they many a time had
solace. God grant us solace of ours.
Novel VIITedaldo, being in disfavour with his lady, departs from
Florence. He returns thither after a while in the
guise of a pilgrim, has speech of his lady, and makes
her sensible of her fault. Her husband, convicted
of slaying him, he delivers from peril of death,
reconciles him with his brothers, and thereafter
discreetly enjoys his lady.
So ceased Fiammetta; and, when all had bestowed on her their
meed of praise, the queen--to lose no time--forthwith bade Emilia
resume the narration. So thus Emilia began:
I am minded to return to our city, whence my two last predecessors
saw fit to depart, and to shew you how one of our citizens
recovered the lady he had lost.
Know then that there was in
Florence a young noble, his name Tedaldo Elisei, who being beyond
measure enamoured of a lady hight Monna Ermellina, wife of one
Aldobrandino Palermini, and by reason of his admirable qualities
richly deserving to have his desire, found Fortune nevertheless adverse,
as she is wont to be to the prosperous. Inasmuch as, for some reason
or another, the lady, having shewn herself gracious towards Tedaldo
for a while, completely altered her mien, and not only shewed him no
further favour, but would not so much as receive a message from him
or suffer him to see her face; whereby he fell a prey to a grievous
and distressful melancholy; but so well had he concealed his love
that the cause of his melancholy was surmised by none. He tried
hard in divers ways to recover the love which he deemed himself to
have lost for no fault of his, and finding all his efforts unavailing, he
resolved to bid the world adieu, that he might not afford her
who was the cause of his distress the satisfaction of seeing him
languish. So he got together as much money as he might, and
secretly, no word said to friend or kinsman except only a familiar
gossip, who knew all, he took his departure for Ancona. Arrived
there, he assumed the name of Filippo Santodeccio, and having
forgathered with a rich merchant, entered his service. The merchant
took him with him to Cyprus aboard one of his ships, and was so well
pleased with his bearing and behaviour that he not only gave him a
handsome salary but made him in a sort his companion, and entrusted
him with the management of no small part of his affairs: wherein he
proved himself so apt and assiduous, that in the course of a few years
he was himself established in credit and wealth and great repute as a
merchant. Seven years thus passed, during which, albeit his thoughts
frequently reverted to his cruel mistress, and sorely love smote him,
and much he yearned to see her again, yet such was his firmness that
he came off conqueror, until one day in Cyprus it so befell that
there was sung in his hearing a song that he had himself composed,
and of which the theme was the mutual love that was between his
lady and him, and the delight that he had of her; which as he heard,
he found it incredible that she should have forgotten him, and burned
with such a desire to see her once more, that, being able to hold out
no longer, he made up his mind to return to Florence. So, having
set all his affairs in order, he betook him, attended only by a single
servant, to Ancona; whence he sent all his effects, as they arrived,
forward to Florence, consigning them to a friend of his Ancontan
partner, and followed with his servant in the disguise of a pilgrim
returned from the Holy Sepulchre. Arrived at Florence, he put
up at a little hostelry kept by two brothers hard by his lady's house,
whither he forthwith hied him, hoping that, perchance, he might
have sight of her from the street; but, finding all barred and
bolted, doors, windows and all else, he doubted much, she must be
dead, or have removed thence. So, with a very heavy heart, he
returned to the house of the two brothers, and to his great surprise
found his own four brothers standing in front of it, all in black. He
knew that he was so changed from his former semblance, both in dress
and in person, that he might not readily be recognized, and he had
therefore no hesitation in going up to a shoemaker and asking him
why these men were all dressed in black. The shoemaker answered:
'Tis because 'tis not fifteen days since a brother of theirs, Tedaldo
by name, that had been long abroad, was slain; and I understand
that they have proved in court that one Aldobrandino Palermini,
who is under arrest, did the deed, because Tedaldo, who loved his
wife, was come back to Florence incognito to forgather with her.
Tedaldo found it passing strange that there should be any one so
like him as to be mistaken for him, and deplored Aldobrandino's evil
plight. He had learned, however, that the lady was alive and well.
So, as 'twas now night, he hied him, much perplexed in mind, into
the inn, and supped with his servant. The bedroom assigned him
was almost at the top of the house, and the bed was none of the
best. Thoughts many and disquieting haunted his mind, and his
supper had been but light. Whereby it befell that midnight came and
went, and Tedaldo was still awake. As thus he watched, he heard
shortly after midnight, a noise as of persons descending from the roof
into the house, and then through the chinks of the door of his room
he caught the flicker of an ascending light. Wherefore he stole
softly to the door, and peeping through a chink to make out what
was afoot, he saw a very fine young woman bearing a light, and three
men making towards her, being evidently those that had descended
from the roof. The men exchanged friendly greetings with the
young woman, and then one said to her:
Now, God be praised,
we may make our minds easy, for we are well assured that judgment
for the death of Tedaldo Elisei is gotten by his brothers against
Aldobrandino Palermini, and he has confessed, and the sentence is
already drawn up; but still it behoves us to hold our peace; for,
should it ever get abroad that we were guilty, we shall stand in the
like jeopardy as Aldobrandino.
So saying, they took leave of the
woman, who seemed much cheered, and went to bed.
What he
had heard set Tedaldo musing on the number and variety of the
errors to which men are liable: as, first, how his brothers had
mourned and interred a stranger in his stead, and then charged an
innocent man upon false suspicion, and by false witness brought him
into imminent peril of death: from which he passed to ponder the
blind severity of laws and magistrates, who from misguided zeal to
elicit the truth not unfrequently become ruthless, and, adjudging that
which is false, forfeit the title which they claim of ministers of
God and justice, and do but execute the mandates of iniquity and
the Evil One. And so he came at last to consider the possibility
of saving Aldobrandino, and formed a plan for the purpose. Accordingly,
on the morrow, when he was risen, he left his servant at the
inn, and hied him alone, at what he deemed a convenient time, to
his lady's house, where, finding, by chance, the door open, he entered,
and saw his lady sitting, all tears and lamentations, in a little parlour
on the ground-floor. Whereat he all but wept for sympathy; and
drawing near her, he said:
Madam, be not troubled in spirit: your peace is nigh you.
Whereupon the lady raised her head, and said
between her sobs: Good man, what dost thou, a pilgrim, if I
mistake not, from distant parts, know either of my peace or of my
affliction?
Madam,
returned the pilgrim, I am of Constantinople,
and am but now come hither, at God's behest, that I may give
you laughter for tears, and deliver your husband from death.
But,
said the lady, if thou art of Constantinople, and but now arrived,
how is 't that thou knowest either who my husband is, or who I
am?
Whereupon the pilgrim gave her the whole narrative, from
the very beginning, of Aldobrandino's sufferings; he also told her,
who she was, how long she had been married, and much besides that
was known to him of her affairs: whereat the lady was lost in
wonder, and, taking him to be a prophet, threw herself on her knees
at his feet, and besought him for God's sake, if he were come to save
Aldobrandino, to lose no time, for the matter brooked no delay. Thus
adjured, the pilgrim assumed an air of great sanctity, as he said:
Arise, Madam, weep not, but hearken diligently to what I shall
say to you, and look to it that you impart it to none. I have it by
revelation of God that the tribulation wherein you stand is come
upon you in requital of a sin which you did once commit, of which
God is minded that this suffering be a partial purgation, and that you
make reparation in full, if you would not find yourself in a far
more grievous plight.
Sir,
replied the lady, many sins have I
committed, nor know I how among them all to single out that
whereof, more than another, God requires reparation at my hands:
wherefore, if you know it, tell it me, and what by way of reparation
I may do, that will I do.
Madam,
returned the pilgrim, well
wot I what it is, nor shall I question you thereof for my better
instruction, but that the rehearsal may give you increase of remorse
therefor. But pass we now to fact. Tell me, mind you ever to
have had a lover?
Whereat the lady heaved a deep sigh; then,
marvelling not a little, for she had thought 'twas known to none,
albeit on the day when the man was slain, who was afterwards buried
as Tedaldo, there had been some buzz about it, occasioned by some
indiscreet words dropped by Tedaldo's gossip and confidant, she made
answer:
I see that there is nought that men keep secret but God
reveals it to you; wherefore I shall not endeavour to hide my secrets
from you. True it is that in my youth I was beyond measure
enamoured of the unfortunate young man whose death is imputed to
my husband; whom I mourned with grief unfeigned, for, albeit I
shewed myself harsh and cruel towards him before his departure, yet
neither thereby, nor by his long absence, nor yet by his calamitous
death was my heart estranged from him.
Then said the pilgrim:
'Twas not the unfortunate young man now dead that you did love,
but Tedaldo Elisei. But let that pass; now tell me: wherefore lost
he your good graces? Did he ever offend you?
Nay verily,
answered the lady, he never offended me at all. My harshness was
prompted by an accursed friar, to whom I once confessed, and who,
when I told him of the love I bore Tedaldo, and my intimacy with
him, made my ears so tingle and sing that I still shudder to think of
it, warning me that, if I gave it not up, I should fall into the jaws of
the Devil in the abyss of hell, and be cast into the avenging fire.
Whereby I was so terrified that I quite made my mind up to discontinue
my intimacy with him, and, to trench the matter, I would
thenceforth have none of his letters or messages; and so, I suppose,
he went away in despair, though I doubt not, had he persevered a
while longer, I should not have seen him wasting away like snow in
sunshine without relenting of my harsh resolve; for in sooth there
was nothing in the world I would so gladly have done.
Then said
the pilgrim: Madam, 'tis this sin, and this only, that has brought
upon you your present tribulation. I know positively that Tedaldo
did never put force upon you: 'twas of your own free will, and for
that he pleased you, that you became enamoured of him: your
constant visitor, your intimate friend he became, because you yourself
would have it so; and in the course of your intimacy you shewed
him such favour by word and deed that, if he loved you first, you
multiplied his love full a thousandfold. And if so it was, and well
yourself from him? You should have considered the whole matter
before the die was cast, and not have entered upon it, if you deemed
you might have cause to repent you of it as a sin. As soon as he
became yours, you became his. Had he not been yours, you might
have acted as you had thought fit, at your own unfettered discretion;
but, as you were his, 'twas robbery, 'twas conduct most disgraceful,
to sever yourself from him against his will. Now you must know
that I am a friar; and therefore all the ways of friars are familiar to
me; nor does it misbecome me, as it might another, to speak for
your behoof somewhat freely of them; as I am minded to do that
you may have better understanding of them in the future than you
would seem to have had in the past. Time was when the friars were
most holy and worthy men, but those who to-day take the name and
claim the reputation of friars have nought of the friar save only the
habit: nay, they have not even that: for, whereas their founders
ordained that their habits should be strait, of a sorry sort, and of
coarse stuff, apt symbols of a soul that in arraying the body in so mean
a garb did despite to all things temporal, our modern friars will have
them full, and double, and resplendent, and of the finest stuff, and of
a fashion goodly and pontifical, wherein without shame they flaunt it
like peacocks in the church, in the piazza, even as do the laity in their
robes. And as the fisherman casts his net into the stream with
intent to take many fish at one throw: so 'tis the main solicitude and
study, art and craft of these friars to embrace and entangle within
the ample folds of their vast swelling skirts beguines, widows and
other foolish women, ay, and men likewise in great number. Wherefore,
to speak with more exactitude, the friars of to-day have nought
of the habit of the friar save only the colour thereof. And, whereas
the friars of old time sought to win men to their salvation, those of
to-day seek to win their women and their wealth; wherefore they
have made it and make it their sole concern by declamation and
imagery to strike terror into the souls of fools, and to make believe
that sins are purged by alms and masses; to the end that they, base
wretches that have fled to friarage not to ensue holiness but to escape
hardship, may receive from this man bread, from that man wine, and
from the other man a donation for masses for the souls of his dead.
True indeed it is that sins are purged by almsgiving and prayer; but,
did they who give the alms know, did they but understand to whom
or throw them to so many pigs. And, knowing that the fewer be
they that share great riches, the greater their ease, 'tis the study of
each how best by declamation and intimidation to oust others from
that whereof he would fain be the sole owner. They censure lust in
men, that, they turning therefrom, the sole use of their women may
remain to the censors: they condemn usury and unlawful gains,
that, being entrusted with the restitution thereof, they may be able
to enlarge their habits, and to purchase bishoprics and other great
preferments with the very money which they have made believe must
bring its possessor to perdition. And when they are taxed with these
and many other discreditable practices, they deem that there is no
censure, however grave, of which they may not be quit by their glib
formula: 'Follow our precepts, not our practice:' as if'twere possible
that the sheep should be of a more austere and rigid virtue than the
shepherds. And how many of these, whom they put off with this
formula, understand it not in the way in which they enunciate it, not
a few of them know. The friars of to-day would have you follow
their precepts, that is to say, they would have you fill their purses
with coin, confide to them your secrets, practise continence, be
long-suffering,
forgive those that trespass against you, keep yourselves from
evil speaking; all which things are good, seemly, holy. But to what
end? To the end that they may be able to do that which, if the
laity do it, they will not be able to do. Who knows not that idleness
cannot subsist without money? Spend thy money on thy pleasures,
and the friar will not be able to live in sloth in his order. Go after
women, and there will be no place for the friar. Be not long-suffering,
pardon not the wrong-doer, and the friar will not dare to
cross thy threshold to corrupt thy family. But wherefore pursue I
the topic through every detail? They accuse themselves as often
as they so excuse themselves in the hearing of all that have understanding.
Why seclude they not themselves, if they misdoubt
their power to lead continent and holy lives? Or if they must
needs not live as recluses, why follow they not that other holy
text of the Gospel: Christ began to do and to teach?As pointed out by
Mr. Payne, these words are not from any of the
Gospels, but from the first verse of the Acts of the Apostles. Boccaccio
doubtless used Evangelio
in a large sense for the whole of the New
Testament.
Let
them practise first, and school us with their precepts afterwards. A
thousand such have I seen in my day, admirers, lovers, philanderers,
not of ladies of the world alone, but of nuns; ay, and they too such as
made the most noise in the pulpits. Is it such as they that we are to
follow? He that does so, pleases himself; but God knows if he do
wisely. But assume that herein we must allow that your censor, the
friar, spoke truth, to wit, that none may break the marriage-vow
without very grave sin. What then? to rob a man, to slay him, to
make of him an exile and a wanderer on the face of the earth, are not
these yet greater sins? None will deny that so they are. A woman
that indulges herself in the intimate use with a man commits but a
sin of nature; but if she rob him, or slay him, or drive him out into
exile, her sin proceeds from depravity of spirit. That you did rob
Tedaldo, I have already shewn you, in that, having of your own free
will become his, you reft you from him. I now go further and say
that, so far as in you lay, you slew him, seeing that, shewing yourself
ever more and more cruel, you did your utmost to drive him to take
his own life; and in the law's intent he that is the cause that wrong
is done is as culpable as he that does it. Nor is it deniable that you
were the cause that for seven years he has been an exile and a
wanderer upon the face of the earth. Wherefore upon each of the
said three articles you are found guilty of a greater crime than you
committed by your intimacy with him. But consider we the matter
more closely: perchance Tedaldo merited such treatment: nay, but
assuredly 'twas not so. You have yourself so confessed: besides
which I know that he loves you more dearly than himself. He
would laud, he would extol, he would magnify you above all other
ladies so as never was heard the like, wheresoever 'twas seemly for
him to speak of you, and it might be done without exciting suspicion.
All his bliss, all his honour, all his liberty he avowed was entirely in
your disposal. Was he not of noble birth? And for beauty might
he not compare with the rest of his townsfolk? Did he not excel in
all the exercises and accomplishments proper to youth? Was he not
beloved, held dear, well seen of all men? You will not deny it.
How then could you at the behest of a paltry friar, silly, brutish and
envious, bring yourself to deal with him in any harsh sort? I cannot
estimate the error of those ladies who look askance on men and hold
them cheap; whereas, bethinking them of what they are themselves,
and what and how great is the nobility with which God has endowed
man above all the other animals, they ought rather to glory in the
love which men give them, and hold them most dear, and with all
zeal study to please them, that so their love may never fail. In what
sort you did so, instigated by the chatter of a friar, some broth-guzzling,
pastry-gorging knave without a doubt, you know; and peradventure
his purpose was but to instal himself in the place whence he sought
to oust another. This then is the sin which the Divine justice,
which, ever operative, suffers no perturbation of its even balance,
or arrest of judgment, has decreed not to leave unpunished: wherefore,
as without due cause you devised how you might despoil
Tedaldo of yourself, so without due cause your husband has been
placed and is in jeopardy of his life on Tedaldo's account, and to
your sore affliction. Wherefrom if you would be delivered, there
is that which you must promise, ay, and (much more) which you
must perform: to wit, that, should it ever betide that Tedaldo return
hither from his long exile, you will restore to him your favour, your
love, your tender regard, your intimacy, and reinstate him in the
position which he held before you foolishly hearkened to the half-witted
friar.
Thus ended the pilgrim; and the lady, who had followed him
with the closest attention, deeming all that he advanced very sound,
and doubting not that her tribulation was, as he said, in requital of her
sin, spoke thus:
Friend of God, well I wot that the matters
which you discourse are true, and, thanks to your delineation, I now
in great measure know what manner of men are the friars, whom
I have hitherto regarded as all alike holy; nor doubt I that great
was my fault in the course which I pursued towards Tedaldo; and
gladly, were it in my power, would I make reparation in the manner
which you have indicated. But how is this feasible? Tedaldo can
never return to us. He is dead. Wherefore I know not why I
must needs give you a promise which cannot be performed.
Madam,
returned the pilgrim, 'tis revealed to me by God
that Tedaldo is by no means dead, but alive and well and happy,
so only he enjoyed your favour.
Nay, but,
said the lady, speak
advisedly; I saw his body done to death by more than one knife-wound;
I folded it in these arms, and drenched the dead face with
many a tear; whereby, perchance, I gave occasion for the bruit that
has been made to my disadvantage.
Say what you may, Madam,
rejoined the pilgrim, I assure you that Tedaldo lives, and if you will
but give the promise, then, for its fulfilment, I have good hope that
you will soon see him.
Whereupon: I give the promise,
said the lady, and right gladly will I make it good; nor is there
aught that might happen that would yield me such delight as to see
my husband free and scatheless, and Tedaldo alive.
Tedaldo now
deemed it wise to make himself known, and establish the lady in a
more sure hope of her husband's safety. Wherefore he said:
Madam, to set your mind at ease in regard of your husband, I
must first impart to you a secret, which be mindful to disclose to
none so long as you live.
Then--for such was the confidence
which the lady reposed in the pilgrim's apparent sanctity that they
were by themselves in a place remote from observation--Tedaldo
drew forth a ring which he had guarded with the most jealous care,
since it had been given him by the lady on the last night when they
were together, and said, as he shewed it to her: Madam, know
you this?
The lady recognized it forthwith, and answered: I
do, Sir; I gave it long ago to Tedaldo.
Then the pilgrim, rising
and throwing off his sclavineSchiavina, Low Lat.
sclavina, the long coarse frock worn, among
others, by palmers. and hat, said with the Florentine
accent: And know you me?
The lady recognizing forthwith
the form and semblance of Tedaldo, was struck dumb with wonder
and fear as of a corpse that is seen to go about as if alive, and was
much rather disposed to turn and flee from Tedaldo returned from
the tomb than to come forward and welcome Tedaldo arrived from
Cyprus.
But when Tedaldo said to her: Fear not, Madam, your
Tedaldo am I, alive and well, nor was I ever dead, whatever you
and my brothers may think,
the lady, partly awed, partly reassured
by his voice, regarded him with rather more attention, and inly
affirming that 'twas in very truth Tedaldo, threw herself upon his
neck, and wept, and kissed him, saying: Sweet my Tedaldo,
welcome home.
Madam,
replied Tedaldo after he had kissed
and embraced her, time serves not now for greetings more intimate.
'Tis for me to be up and doing, that Aldobrandino may be restored
to you safe and sound; touching which matter you will, I trust,
before to-morrow at even hear tidings that will gladden your heart;
indeed I expect to have good news to-night, and, if so, will come
and tell it you, when I shall be less straitened than I am at present.
He then resumed his sclavine and that, and having kissed the lady
again, and bade her be of good cheer, took his leave, and hied him to
the prison, where Aldobrandino lay more occupied with apprehension
of imminent death than hope of deliverance to come. As ministrant
of consolation, he gained ready admittance of the warders, and, seating
himself by Aldobrandino's side, he said:
Aldobrandino, in me
thou seest a friend sent thee by God, who is touched with pity of
thee by reason of thy innocence; wherefore, if in reverent submission
to Him thou wilt grant me a slight favour that I shall ask of thee,
without fail, before to-morrow at even, thou shalt, in lieu of the
doom of death that thou awaitest, hear thy acquittal pronounced.
Worthy man,
replied Aldobrandino, I know thee not, nor mind
I ever to have seen thee; wherefore, as thou shewest thyself solicitous
for my safety, my friend indeed thou must needs be, even as thou
sayst. And in sooth the crime, for which they say I ought to be
doomed to death, I never committed, though others enough I have
committed, which perchance have brought me to this extremity.
However, if so be that God has now pity on me, this I tell thee
in reverent submission to Him, that, whereas 'tis but a little thing
that thou cravest of me, there is nought, however great, but I would
not only promise but gladly do it; wherefore, even ask what thou
wilt, and, if so be that I escape, I will without fail keep my word to
the letter.
Nay,
returned the pilgrim, I ask but this of thee,
that thou pardon Tedaldo's four brothers, that in the belief that thou
wast guilty of their brother's death they brought thee to this strait, and,
so they ask thy forgiveness, account them as thy brothers and friends.
How sweet,
replied Aldobrandino, is the savour, how ardent the
desire, of vengeance, none knows but he that is wronged; but yet, so
God may take thought for my deliverance, I will gladly pardon, nay,
I do now pardon them, and if I go hence alive and free, I will thenceforth
have them in such regard as shall content thee.
Satisfied with
this answer, the pilgrim, without further parley, heartily exhorted
Aldobrandino to be of good cheer; assuring him that, before the next
day was done, he should be certified beyond all manner of doubt of
his deliverance; and so he left him.
On quitting the prison the pilgrim hied him forthwith to the
signory, and being closeted with a knight that was in charge, thus
spoke: My lord, 'tis the duty of all, and most especially of those
who hold your place, zealously to bestir themselves that the truth be
brought to light, in order as well that those bear not the penalty
who have not committed the crime, as that the guilty be punished.
And that this may come to pass to your honour and the undoing
of the delinquent, I am come hither to you. You wot that you
have dealt rigorously with Aldobrandino Palermini, and have found,
as you think, that 'twas he that slew Tedaldo Elisei, and you are
about to condemn him; wherein you are most certainly in error, as
I doubt not before midnight to prove to you, delivering the murderers
into your hands.
The worthy knight, who was not without pity
for Aldobrandino, readily gave ear to the pilgrim's words. He
conversed at large with him, and availing himself of his guidance,
made an easy capture of the two brothers that kept the inn and their
servant in their first sleep. He was about to put them the torture, to
elicit the true state of the case, when, their courage failing, they
confessed without the least reserve, severally at first, and then jointly,
that 'twas they that had slain Tedaldo Elisei, not knowing who he
was. Asked for why, they answered that 'twas because he had
sorely harassed the wife of one of them, and would have constrained
her to do his pleasure, while they were out of doors. Whereof the
pilgrim was no sooner apprised, than by leave of the knight he withdrew,
and hied him privily to the house of Madonna Ermellina, whom
(the rest of the household being gone to bed) he found awaiting him
alone, and equally anxious for good news of her husband and a
complete reconciliation with her Tedaldo. On entering, he blithely
exclaimed: Rejoice, dearest my lady, for thou mayst rest assured
that to-morrow thou shalt have thy Aldobrandino back here safe and
sound;
and to confirm her faith in his words, he told her all that
he had done. Greater joy was never woman's than hers of two such
glad surprises; to wit, to have Tedaldo with her alive again, whom
she had wailed for verily dead, and to know Aldobrandino, whom she
had thought in no long time to wail for dead, now out of jeopardy.
Wherefore, when she had affectionately embraced and kissed her
Tedaldo, they hied them to bed together, and with hearty goodwill
made gracious and gladsome consummation of their peace by
interchange of sweet solace.
With the approach of day Tedaldo rose, and having first apprised
the lady of his purpose and enjoined her, as before, to keep it most
secret, resumed his pilgrim's habit, and sallied forth of her house,
to be ready, as occasion should serve, to act in Aldobrandino's interest.
As soon as 'twas day, the signory, deeming themselves amply conversant
with the affair, set Aldobrandino at large; and a few days
later they caused the malefactors to be beheaded in the place where
they had done the murder.
Great was Aldobrandino's joy to find himself free, nor less great
was that of his lady and all his friends and kinsfolk; and as 'twas
through the pilgrim that it had come about, they brought him to
their house, there to reside as long as he cared to tarry in the city;
nor could they do him honour and cheer enough, and most of all the
lady, who knew her man. But after a while, seeing that his brothers
were not only become a common laughing-stock by reason of Aldobrandino's
acquittal, but had armed themselves for very fear, he felt
that their reconciliation with him brooked no delay, and accordingly
craved of him performance of his promise. Aldobrandino replied
handsomely that it should be had at once. The pilgrim then bade
him arrange for the following day a grand banquet, at which he and his
kinsfolk and their ladies were to entertain the four brothers and their
ladies, adding that he would himself go forthwith as Aldobrandino's
envoy, and bid them welcome to his peace and banquet. All which
being approved by Aldobrandino, the pilgrim hied him with all speed
to the four brothers, whom by ample, apt and unanswerable argument
he readily induced to reinstate themselves in Aldobrandino's friendship
by suing for his forgiveness: which done, he bade them and their
ladies to breakfast with Aldobrandino on the morrow, and they, being
assured of his good faith, were consenting to come. So, on the
morrow, at the breakfast hour, Tedaldo's four brothers, still wearing
their black, came with certain of their friends to Aldobrandino's house,
where he awaited them; and, in presence of the company that had
been bidden to meet them, laid down their arms, and made surrender
to Aldobrandino, asking his pardon of that which they had done
against him. Aldobrandino received them compassionately, wept,
kissed each on the mouth, and let few words suffice to remit each
offence. After them came their sisters and their wives, all habited
sadly, and were graciously received by Madonna Ermellina and the
other ladies. The guests, men and women alike, found all things
ordered at the banquet with magnificence, nor aught unmeet for
commendation save the restraint which the yet recent grief, betokened
by the sombre garb of Tedaldo's kinsfolk, laid upon speech (wherein
some had found matter to except against the banquet and the pilgrim
for devising it, as he well knew), but, as he had premeditated, in due
time, he stood up, the others being occupied with their dessert, and
spoke thus:
Nothing is wanting to complete the gaiety of this
banquet except the presence of Tedaldo; whom, as you have been
long time with him and have not known him, I will point out to
you.
So, having divested himself of his sclavine and whatever else
in his garb denoted the pilgrim, he remained habited in a tunic of
green taffeta, in which guise, so great was the wonder with which all
regarded him that, though they recognized him, 'twas long before
any dared to believe that 'twas actually Tedaldo.
Marking their
surprise, Tedaldo told them not a little about themselves, their family
connexions, their recent history, and his own adventures. Whereat
his brothers and the rest of the men, all weeping for joy, hasted to
embrace him, followed by the women, as well those that were not, as
those that were, of kin to him, save only Madonna Ermellina. Which
Aldobrandino observing, said: What is this, Ermellina? How
comes it that, unlike the other ladies, thou alone dost Tedaldo no
cheer?
Cheer,
replied the lady in the hearing of all, would I
gladly do him such as no other woman has done or could do, seeing
that I am more beholden to him than any other woman, in that to
him I owe it that I have thee with me again; 'tis but the words
spoken to my disadvantage, while we mourned him that we deemed
Tedaldo, that give me pause.
Now out upon thee,
said
Aldobrandino,
thinkest thou that I heed the yelping of these curs?
His zeal for my deliverance has abundantly disproved it, besides which
I never believed it. Quick, get thee up, and go and embrace him.
The lady, who desired nothing better, was in this not slow to obey
her husband; she rose forthwith, and embraced Tedaldo as the other
ladies had done, and did him gladsome cheer. Tedaldo's brothers
and all the company, men and women alike, heartily approved Aldobrandino's
handsomeness; and so whatever of despite the rumour had
engendered in the minds of any was done away. And, now that all
had done him cheer, Tedaldo with his own hands rent his brothers'
suits of black upon their backs, as also the sad-hued garments which
his sisters and sisters-in-law wore, and bade bring other apparel. Which
when they had donned, there was no lack of singing, dancing and
other sorts of merry-making; whereby the banquet, for all its subdued
beginning, had a sonorous close. Then, just as they were, in the
blithest of spirits, they hied them all to Tedaldo's house, where in
the evening they supped; and in this manner they held festival for
several days.
'Twas some time before the Florentines ceased to look on Tedaldo
as a portent, as if he were risen from the dead; and a shadow of doubt
whether he were really Tedaldo or no continued to lurk in the minds
of not a few, including even his brothers: they had no assured belief;
and in that frame had perchance long continued, but for a casual
occurrence that shewed them who the murdered man was. It so
befell that one day some men-at-arms from Lunigiana passed by their
house, and seeing Tedaldo accosted him, saying: Good-morrow to
thee, Faziuolo.
To whom Tedaldo, in the presence of his brothers,
answered: You take me for another.
Whereat they were abashed,
and asked his pardon, saying: Sooth to tell, you are liker than we
ever knew any man like to another to a comrade of ours, Faziuolo da
Pontremoli by name, who came hither a fortnight ago, or perhaps a
little more, since when we have not been able to learn what became
of him. Most true it is that your dress surprised us, because he, like
ourselves, was a soldier.
Whereupon Tedaldo's eldest brother came
forward, and asked how their comrade had been accoutred. They
told him, and 'twas found to have been exactly as they said: by which
and other evidence 'twas established that 'twas Faziuolo that had been
murdered, and not Tedaldo; of whom thenceforth no suspicion
lurked in the minds of his brothers or any one else.
So, then, Tedaldo returned home very rich, and remained constant
in his love; nor did the lady again treat him harshly; but, using
discretion, they long had mutual solace of their love. God grant us
solace of ours.
Novel VIIIFerondo, having taken a certain powder, is interred for
dead; is disinterred by the abbot, who enjoys his wife;
is put in prison and taught to believe that he is in
purgatory; is then resuscitated, and rears as his own
a boy begotten by the abbot upon his wife.
Ended Emilia's long story, which to none was the less pleasing
for its length, but was deemed of all the ladies brief in regard of the
number and variety of the events therein recounted, a gesture of
the queen sufficed to convey her behest to Lauretta, and cause her
thus to begin:
Dearest ladies, I have it in mind to tell you a true
story, which wears far more of the aspect of a lie than of that which
it really was: 'tis brought to my recollection by that which we
have heard of one being bewailed and buried in lieu of another. My
story then is of one that, living, was buried for dead, and after believed
with many others that he came out of the tomb not as one that had
not died but as one risen from the dead; whereby he was venerated
as a saint who ought rather to have been condemned as a criminal.
Know then that there was and still is in Tuscany an abbey,
situate, as we see not a few, in a somewhat solitary spot, wherein the
office of abbot was held by a monk, who in all other matters ordered
his life with great sanctity, save only in the commerce with women,
and therein knew so well how to cloak his indulgence, that scarce any
there were that so much as suspected--not to say detected it--so
holy and just was he reputed in all matters. Now the abbot consorted
much with a very wealthy contadino, Ferondo by name, a
man coarse and gross beyond measure, whose friendship the abbot
only cared for because of the opportunities which it afforded of
deriving amusement from his simplicity; and during their intercourse
the abbot discovered that Ferondo had a most beautiful wife; of
whom he became so hotly enamoured that he could think of nought
else either by day or by night. But learning that, however simple
and inept in all other matters, Ferondo shewed excellent good sense
in cherishing and watching over this wife of his, he almost despaired.
However, being very astute, he prevailed so far with Ferondo, that he
would sometimes bring his wife with him to take a little recreation
in the abbey-garden, where he discoursed to them with all lowliness
of the blessedness of life eternal, and the most pious works of many
men and women of times past, insomuch that the lady conceived a
desire to confess to him, and craved and had Ferondo's leave therefor.
So, to the abbot's boundless delight, the lady came and seated herself
at his feet to make her confession, whereto she prefixed the following
exordium:
If God, Sir, had given me a husband, or had not permitted
me to have one, perchance 'twould be easy for me, under your
guidance, to enter the way, of which you have spoken, that leads to
life eternal. But, considering what manner of man Ferondo is, and
his stupidity, I may call myself a widow, while yet I am married in
that, so long as he lives, I may have no other husband; and he,
fool that he is, is without the least cause so inordinately jealous of
me that 'tis not possible but that my life with him be one of perpetual
tribulation and woe. Wherefore, before I address myself to make
further confession, I in all humility beseech you to be pleased to give
me some counsel of this matter, for here or nowhere is to be found
the source of the amelioration of my life, and if it be not found,
neither confession nor any other good work will be of any avail.
The abbot was overjoyed to hear her thus speak, deeming that
Fortune had opened a way to the fulfilment of his heart's desire.
Wherefore he said: My daughter, I doubt not that 'tis a great
affliction to a lady, fair and delicate as you are, to have a fool for a
husband, and still more so that he should be jealous: and as your
husband is both the one and the other, I readily credit what you say
of your tribulation. But, to come to the point, I see no resource or
remedy in this case, save this only, that Ferondo be cured of his
jealousy. The medicine that shall cure him I know very well how
to devise, but it behoves you to keep secret what I am about to tell
you.
Doubt not of it, my father,
said the lady; for I had
rather suffer death than tell any aught that you forbade me to tell.
But the medicine, how is it to be devised?
If we would have
him cured,
replied the abbot, it can only be by his going to
purgatory.
And how may that be?
returned the lady; can he go
thither while he yet lives?
He must die,
answered the abbot;
and so he will go thither; and when he has suffered pain enough to
be cured of his jealousy, we have certain prayers with which we will
supplicate God to restore him to life, and He will do so.
Then,
said the lady; am I to remain a widow?
Yes,
replied the
abbot, for a certain time, during which you must be very careful
not to let yourself be married to another, because 'twould offend God,
and when Ferondo was restored to life, you would have to go back to
him, and he would be more jealous than ever.
Be it so then,
said the lady; if he be but cured of his jealousy, and so I be not
doomed to pass the rest of my days in prison, I shall be content: do
as you think best.
And so will I,
said the abbot; but what
reward shall I have for such a service?
My father,
said the
lady, what you please; so only it be in my power. But what may
the like of me do that may be acceptable to a man such as you?'
Madam,
replied the abbot, 'tis in your power to do no less for
me than I am about to do for you: as that which I am minded to do
will ensure your comfort and consolation, so there is that which you
may do which will be the deliverance and salvation of my life.
If
so it be,
said the lady, I shall not be found wanting.
In that
case,
said the abbot, you will give me your love, and gratify my
passion for you, with which I am all afire and wasting away.
Whereto the lady, all consternation, replied: Alas! my father, what
is this you crave? I took you for a holy man; now does it beseem
holy men to make such overtures to ladies that come to them for
counsel?
Marvel not, fair my soul,
returned the abbot;
hereby
is my holiness in no wise diminished, for holiness resides in the
soul, and this which I ask of you is but a sin of the flesh. But, however
it may be, such is the might of your bewitching beauty, that
love constrains me thus to act. And, let me tell you, good cause
have you to vaunt you of your beauty more than other women, in
that it delights the saints, who are used to contemplate celestial
beauties; whereto I may add that, albeit I am an abbot, yet I am a
man even as others, and, as you see, not yet old. Nor need this
matter seem formidable to you, but rather to be anticipated with
pleasure, for, while Ferondo is in purgatory, I shall be your nightly
companion, and will give you such solace as he should have given you;
nor will it ever be discovered by any, for all think of me even as you
did a while ago, or even more so. Reject not the grace that God
accords you; for 'tis in your power to have, and, if you are wise and
follow my advice, you shall have that which women not a few desire
in vain to have. And moreover I have jewels fair and rare, which I
am minded shall be yours and none other's. Wherefore, sweet my
hope, deny me not due guerdon of the service which I gladly render
you.
The lady, her eyes still downcast, knew not how to deny him,
and yet scrupled to gratify him: wherefore the abbot, seeing that
she had hearkened and hesitated to answer, deemed that she was
already half won, and following up what he had said with much more
to the like effect, did not rest until he had persuaded her that she
would do well to comply: and so with some confusion she told him
that she was ready to obey his every behest; but it might not be until
Ferondo was in purgatory. The abbot, well content, replied:
And
we will send him thither forthwith: do but arrange that he come
hither to stay with me to-morrow or the day after.
Which said, he
slipped a most beautiful ring on her finger, and dismissed her.
Pleased with the gift, and expecting more to come, the lady rejoined
her attendants, with whom she forthwith fell a talking marvellous
things of the abbot's sanctity, and so went home with them.
Some few days after, Ferondo being come to the abbey, the abbot
no sooner saw him than he resolved to send him to purgatory. So he
selected from among his drugs a powder of marvellous virtue, which
he had gotten in the Levant from a great prince, who averred that
'twas wont to be used by the Old Man of the Mountain, when he
would send any one to or bring him from his paradise, and that,
without doing the recipient any harm, 'twould induce in him, according
to the quantity of the dose, a sleep of such duration and quality that,
while the efficacy of the powder lasted, none would deem him to be
alive.By the Old Man of the Mountain is meant the head of the
confraternity
of hashish-eaters (Assassins), whose chief stronghold was at Alamut in
Persia (1090-1256). Cf. Marco Polo, ed. Yule, I. cap. xxiii.
Whereof he took enough to cause a three days' sleep, and
gave it to Ferondo in his cell in a beaker that had still some wine in
it, so that he drank it unwittingly: after which he took Ferondo to
the cloister, and there with some of his monks fell to making merry
with him and his ineptitudes. In no long time, however, the
powder so wrought, that Ferondo was seized in the head with a fit
of somnolence so sudden and violent that he slept as he stood, and
sleeping fell to the ground. The abbot put on an agitated air, caused
him to be untrussed, sent for cold water, and had it sprinkled on his
face, and applied such other remedies as if he would fain call back
life and sense banished by vapours of the stomach, or some other
intrusive force; but, as, for all that he and his monks did, Ferondo
did not revive, they, after feeling his pulse and finding there no
sign of life, one and all pronounced him certainly dead. Wherefore
they sent word to his wife and kinsfolk, who came forthwith, and
mourned a while; after which Ferondo in his clothes was by the
abbot's order laid in a tomb. The lady went home, saying that
nothing should ever part her from a little son that she had borne
Ferondo; and so she occupied herself with the care of her son and
Ferondo's estate. At night the abbot rose noiselessly, and with the
help of a Bolognese monk, in whom he reposed much trust, and who
was that very day arrived from Bologna, got Ferondo out of the
tomb, and bore him to a vault, which admitted no light, having been
made to serve as a prison for delinquent monks; and having stripped
him of his clothes, and habited him as a monk, they laid him on a
truss of straw, and left him there until he should revive. Expecting
which event, and instructed by the abbot how he was then to act,
the Bolognese monk (none else knowing aught of what was afoot)
kept watch by the tomb.
The day after, the abbot with some of his monks paid a pastoral
visit to the lady's house, where he found her in mourning weeds and
sad at heart; and, after administering a little consolation, he gently
asked her to redeem her promise. Free as she now felt herself, and
hampered neither by Ferondo nor by any other, the lady, who had
noticed another beautiful ring on the abbot's finger, promised immediate
compliance, and arranged with the abbot that he should visit
her the very next night. So, at nightfall, the abbot donned Ferondo's
clothes, and, attended by his monk, paid his visit, and lay with her
until matins to his immense delight and solace, and so returned to
the abbey; and many visits he paid her on the same errand; whereby
some that met him, coming or going that way, supposed that 'twas
Ferondo perambulating those parts by way of penance; and fables
not a few passed from mouth to mouth of the foolish rustics, and
sometimes reached the ears of the lady, who was at no loss to account
for them.
As for Ferondo, when he revived, 'twas only to find himself he
knew not where, while the Bolognese monk entered the tomb, gibbering
horribly, and armed with a rod, wherewith, having laid hold of
Ferondo, he gave him a severe thrashing.
Blubbering and bellowing
for pain, Ferondo could only ejaculate: Where am I?
In purgatory,
replied the monk.
How?
returned Ferondo, am I dead then?
and the monk assuring him that 'twas even so, he
fell a bewailing his own and his lady's and his son's fate, after the
most ridiculous fashion in the world. The monk brought him
somewhat to eat and drink. Of which when Ferondo caught sight,
Oh!
said he, dead folk eat then, do they?
They do,
replied the monk; and this, which I bring thee, is what the lady
that was thy wife sent this morning to the church by way of alms
for masses for thy soul; and God is minded that it be assigned to
thee.
Now God grant her a happy year,
said Ferondo; dearly
I loved her while I yet lived, and would hold her all night long in
my arms, and cease not to kiss her, ay, and would do yet more to her,
when I was so minded.
Whereupon he fell to eating and drinking
with great avidity, and finding the wine not much to his taste, he
said: Now God do her a mischief! Why gave she not the priest
of the wine that is in the cask by the wall?
When he had done
eating, the monk laid hold of him again, and gave him another sound
thrashing with the rod.
Ferondo bellowed mightily, and then cried
out: Alas! why servest thou me so?
God,
answered the monk, has decreed that thou be so served twice a day.
For why?
said Ferondo.
Because,
returned the monk, thou wast
jealous, notwithstanding thou hadst to wife a woman that has not her
peer in thy countryside.
Alas,
said Ferondo, she was indeed
all that thou sayst, ay, and the sweetest creature too,--no comfit so
honeyed--but I knew not that God took it amiss that a man should
be jealous, or I had not been so.
Of that,
replied the monk,
thou shouldst have bethought thee while thou wast there, and have
amended thy ways; and should it fall to thy lot ever to return thither,
be sure that thou so lay to heart the lesson that I now give thee, that
thou be no more jealous.
Oh!
said Ferondo; dead folk sometimes
return to earth, do they?
They do,
replied the monk; if God so will.
Oh!
said Ferondo; if I ever return, I will
be the best husband in the world; never will I beat her or scold her,
save for the wine that she has sent me this morning, and also for
sending me never a candle, so that I have had perforce to eat in the
dark.
Nay,
said the monk, she sent them, but they were burned
at the masses.
Oh!
said Ferondo, I doubt not you say true;
and, of a surety, if I ever return, I will let her do just as she likes.
But tell me, who art thou that entreatest me thus?
Late of
Sardinia I,
answered the monk, dead too; and, for that I gave
my lord much countenance in his jealousy, doomed by God for
my proper penance to entreat thee thus with food and drink and
thrashings, until such time as He may ordain otherwise touching
thee and me.
And are we two the only folk here?
inquired
Ferondo.
Nay, there are thousands beside,
answered the monk;
but thou canst neither see nor hear them, nor they thee.
And how far,
said Ferondo, may we be from our country?
Oh! ho!
returned the monk, why, 'tis some miles clean out of
shitrange.
I'faith,
said Ferondo, that is far indeed: methinks we
must be out of the world.
In such a course, alternately beaten, fed and amused with idle
tales, was Ferondo kept for ten months, while the abbot, to his great
felicity, paid many a visit to the fair lady, and had the jolliest time in
the world with her. But, as misfortunes will happen, the lady
conceived, which fact, as soon as she was aware of it, she imparted to
the abbot; whereupon both agreed that Ferondo must without delay
be brought back from purgatory to earth and her, and be given to
understand that she was with child of him. So the very next night
the abbot went to the prison, and in a disguised voice pronounced
Ferondo's name, and said to him: Ferondo, be of good cheer, for
God is minded that thou return to earth; and on thy return thou
shalt have a son by thy lady, and thou shalt call him Benedetto;
because 'tis in answer to the prayers of thy holy abbot and thy lady,
and for love of St. Benedict, that God accords thee this grace.
Whereat Ferondo was overjoyed, and said: It likes me well.
God give a good year to Master Lord God, and the abbot, and St.
Benedict, and my cheese-powdered, honey-sweet wife.
Then, in
the wine that he sent him, the abbot administered enough of the
powder to cause him to sleep for four hours; and so, with the aid of
the monk, having first habited him in his proper clothes, he privily
conveyed him back to the tomb in which he had been buried. On
the morrow at daybreak Ferondo revived, and perceiving through a
chink in the tomb a glimmer of light, to which he had been a
stranger for full ten months, he knew that he was alive, and began
to bellow: Let me out, let me out:
then, setting his head to
the lid of the tomb, he heaved amain; whereby the lid, being insecure,
started; and he was already thrusting it aside, when the monks,
matins being now ended, ran to the spot and recognized Ferondo's
voice, and saw him issue from the tomb; by which unwonted event
they were all so affrighted that they took to flight, and hied them to
the abbot: who, rising as if from prayer, said: Sons, be not
afraid; take the cross and the holy water, and follow me, and let us
see what sign of His might God will vouchsafe us.
And so
he led the way to the tomb; beside which they found Ferondo
standing, deathly pale by reason of his long estrangement from the
light. On sight of the abbot he ran and threw himself at his feet,
saying: My father, it has been revealed to me that 'tis to your
prayers and those of St. Benedict and my lady that I owe my release
from purgatorial pain, and restoration to life; wherefore 'tis my
prayer that God give you a good year and good calends, to-day and
all days.
Laud we the power of God!
said the abbot. Go
then, son, as God has restored thee to earth, comfort thy wife, who,
since thou didst depart this life, has been ever in tears, and mayst thou
live henceforth in the love and service of God.
Sir,
answered
Ferondo, 'tis well said; and, for the doing, trust me that, as soon as
I find her, I shall kiss her, such is the love I bear her.
So saying,
he went his way; and the abbot, left alone with his monks, made
as if he marvelled greatly at the affair, and caused devoutly chant
the Miserere. So Ferondo returned to his hamlet, where all that
saw him fleeing, as folk are wont to flee from spectacles of horror,
he called them back, asseverating that he was risen from the tomb.
His wife at first was no less timorous: but, as folk began to take heart
of grace, perceiving that he was alive, they plied him with many
questions, all which he answered as one that had returned with ripe
experience, and gave them tidings of the souls of their kinsfolk, and
told of his own invention the prettiest fables of the purgatorial state,
and in full folkmoot recounted the revelation vouchsafed him by the
mouth of Ragnolo BraghielloDerisively for Agnolo Gabriello (the
h having merely the effect of
preserving the hardness of the g before i),
i.e. Angel Gabriel. before his resuscitation.
Thus was Ferondo reinstated in his property and reunited to his
wife, who, being pregnant, as he thought, by himself, chanced by
the time of her delivery to countenance the vulgar error that the
woman must bear the infant in the womb for exactly nine months,
and gave birth to a male child, who was named Benedetto Ferondi.
Ferondo's return from purgatory, and the report he brought thence,
immeasurably enhanced the fame of the abbot's holiness. So
Ferondo, cured of his jealousy by the thrashings which he had gotten
for it, verified the abbot's prediction, and never offended the lady
again in that sort. Wherefore she lived with him, as before, in all
outward seemliness; albeit she failed not, as occasion served, to forgather
with the holy abbot, who had so well and sedulously served
her in her especial need.
Novel IXGillette of Narbonne cures the King of France of a fistula,
craves for spouse Bertrand de Roussillon, who marries
her against his will, and hies him in despite to Florence,
where, as he courts a young woman, Gillette lies with
him in her stead, and has two sons by him; for which
cause he afterwards takes her into favour and entreats
her as his wife.
Lauretta's story being ended, and the queen being minded not
to break her engagement with Dioneo, 'twas now her turn to speak.
Wherefore without awaiting the call of her subjects, thus with mien
most gracious she began:
Now that we have heard Lauretta's story,
who shall tell any to compare with it for beauty? Lucky indeed
was it that she was not the first; for few that followed would have
pleased; and so, I misdoubt me, 'twill fare ill with those that remain
to complete the day's narration. However, for what it may be worth,
I will tell you a story which seems to me germane to our theme.
Know, then, that in the realm of France there was a gentleman,
Isnard, Comte de Roussillon, by name, who, being in ill-health, kept
ever in attendance on him a physician, one Master Gerard of Narbonne.
The said Count had an only son named Bertrand, a very
fine and winsome little lad; with whom were brought up other
children of his own age, among them the said physician's little
daughter Gillette; who with a love boundless and ardent out of all
keeping with her tender years became enamoured of this Bertrand.
And so, when the Count died, and his son, being left a ward of the
King, must needs go to Paris, the girl remained beside herself with
grief, and, her father dying soon after, would gladly have gone to
Paris to see Bertrand, might she but have found a fair excuse; but no
decent pretext could she come by, being left a great and sole heiress
and very closely guarded. So being come of marriageable age, still
cherishing Bertrand's memory, she rejected not a few suitors, to
whom her kinsfolk would fain have married her, without assigning
any reason.
Now her passion waxing ever more ardent for Bertrand, as she
learned that he was grown a most goodly gallant, tidings reached
her that the King of France, in consequence of a tumour which he
had had in the breast, and which had been ill tended, was now
troubled with a fistula, which occasioned him extreme distress and
suffering; nor had he as yet come by a physician that was able,
though many had essayed, to cure him, but had rather grown worse
under their hands; wherefore in despair he was minded no more to
have recourse to any for counsel or aid. Whereat the damsel was
overjoyed, deeming not only that she might find therein lawful occasion
to go to Paris, but, that, if the disease was what she took it to be,
it might well betide that she should be wedded to Bertrand. So--for
not a little knowledge had she gotten from her father--she prepared
a powder from certain herbs serviceable in the treatment of the supposed
disease, and straightway took horse, and hied her to Paris.
Arrived there she made it her first concern to have sight of Bertrand;
and then, having obtained access to the King, she besought
him of his grace to shew her his disease. The King knew not how
to refuse so young, fair and winsome a damsel, and let her see the
place. Whereupon, no longer doubting that she should cure him, she
said: Sire, so please you, I hope in God to cure you of this malady
within eight days without causing you the least distress or discomfort.
The King inly scoffed at her words, saying to himself:
How should a damsel have come by a knowledge and skill that
the greatest physicians in the world do not possess?
He therefore
graciously acknowledged her good intention, and answered
that he had resolved no more to follow advice of physician.
Sire,
said the damsel, you disdain my art, because I am young
and a woman; but I bid you bear in mind that I rely not on
my own skill, but on the help of God, and the skill of Master
Gerard of Narbonne, my father, and a famous physician in his day.
Whereupon the King said to himself: Perchance she is sent me by
God; why put I not her skill to the proof, seeing that she says that
she can cure me in a short time, and cause me no distress?
And
being minded to make the experiment, he said: Damsel, and if,
having caused me to cancel my resolve, you should fail to cure me,
what are you content should ensue?
Sire,
answered the damsel,
set a guard upon me; and if within eight days I cure you not, have
me burned; but if I cure you, what shall be my guerdon?
You
seem,
said the King, to be yet unmarried; if you shall effect the
cure, we will marry you well and in high place.
Sire,
returned
the damsel, well content indeed am I that you should marry me,
so it be to such a husband as I shall ask of you, save that I may not
ask any of your sons or any other member of the royal house.
Whereto the King forthwith consented, and the damsel, thereupon
applying her treatment, restored him to health before the period
assigned. Wherefore, as soon as the King knew that he was cured:
Damsel,
said he, well have you won your husband.
She
answered: In that case, Sire, I have won Bertrand de Roussillon,
of whom, while yet a child, I was enamoured, and whom I have
ever since most ardently loved.
To give her Bertrand seemed to
the King no small matter; but, having pledged his word, he would
not break it: so he sent for Bertrand, and said to him: Bertrand,
you are now come to man's estate, and fully equipped to enter on it;
'tis therefore our will that you go back and assume the governance
of your county, and that you take with you a damsel, whom we have
given you to wife.
And who is the damsel, Sire?
said Bertrand.
She it is,
answered the King, that has restored us to health by
her physic.
Now Bertrand, knowing Gillette, and that her lineage
was not such as matched his nobility, albeit, seeing her, he had found
her very fair, was overcome with disdain, and answered: So, Sire,
you would fain give me a she-doctor to wife. Now God forbid that
I should ever marry any such woman.
Then,
said the King,
you would have us fail of the faith which we pledged to the damsel,
who asked you in marriage by way of guerdon for our restoration to
health.
Sire,
said Bertrand, you may take from me all that
I possess, and give me as your man to whomsoever you may be
minded; but rest assured that I shall never be satisfied with such a
match.
Nay, but you will,
replied the King; for the damsel
is fair and discreet, and loves you well; wherefore we anticipate that
you will live far more happily with her than with a dame of much
higher lineage.
Bertrand was silent; and the King made great
preparations for the celebration of the nuptials. The appointed day
came, and Bertrand, albeit reluctantly, nevertheless complied, and in
the presence of the King was wedded to the damsel, who loved him
more dearly than herself. Which done, Bertrand, who had already
taken his resolution, said that he was minded to go down to his
county, there to consummate the marriage; and so, having craved and
had leave of absence of the King, he took horse, but instead of
returning to his county he hied him to Tuscany; where, finding the
Florentines at war with the Sienese, he determined to take service
with the Florentines, and being made heartily and honourably welcome,
was appointed to the command of part of their forces, at a
liberal stipend, and so remained in their service for a long while.
Distressed by this turn of fortune, and hoping by her wise management
to bring Bertrand back to his county, the bride hied her
to Roussillon, where she was received by all the tenants as their
liege lady. She found that, during the long absence of the lord,
everything had fallen into decay and disorder; which, being a capable
woman, she rectified with great and sedulous care, to the great joy of
the tenants, who held her in great esteem and love, and severely
censured the Count, that he was not satisfied with her. When the
lady had duly ordered all things in the county, she despatched two
knights to the Count with the intelligence, praying him, that, if 'twas
on her account that he came not home, he would so inform her; in
which case she would gratify him by departing. To whom with all
harshness he replied: She may even please herself in the matter.
For my part I will go home and live with her, when she has this ring
on her finger and a son gotten of me upon her arm.
The ring was
one which he greatly prized, and never removed from his finger, by
reason of a virtue which he had been given to understand that it
possessed. The knights appreciated the harshness of a condition
which contained two articles, both of which were all but impossible;
and, seeing that by no words of theirs could they alter his resolve,
they returned to the lady, and delivered his message. Sorely distressed,
the lady after long pondering determined to try how and
where the two conditions might be satisfied, that so her husband
might be hers again. Having formed her plan, she assembled certain
of the more considerable and notable men of the county, to whom
she gave a consecutive and most touching narrative of all that she
had done for love of the Count, with the result; concluding by
saying that she was not minded to tarry there to the Count's perpetual
exile, but to pass the rest of her days in pilgrimages and pious
works for the good of her soul: wherefore she prayed them to undertake
the defence and governance of the county, and to inform the
Count that she had made entire and absolute cession of it to him,
and was gone away with the intention of never more returning to
Roussillon. As she spoke, tears not a few coursed down the cheeks
of the honest men, and again and again they besought her to change
her mind, and stay. All in vain, however; she commended them
to God, and, accompanied only by one of her male cousins and a
chambermaid (all three habited as pilgrims and amply provided with
money and precious jewels), she took the road, nor tarried until she
was arrived at Florence. There she lodged in a little inn kept by a
good woman that was a widow, bearing herself lowly as a poor
pilgrim, and eagerly expectant of news of her lord.
Now it so befell that the very next day she saw Bertrand pass
in front of the inn on horseback at the head of his company; and
though she knew him very well, nevertheless she asked the good
woman of the inn who he was. The hostess replied: 'Tis a
foreign gentleman--Count Bertrand they call him--a very pleasant
gentleman, and courteous, and much beloved in this city; and he is
in the last degree enamoured of one of our neighbours here, who is a
gentlewoman, but in poor circumstances. A very virtuous damsel
she is too, and, being as yet unmarried by reason of her poverty, she
lives with her mother, who is an excellent and most discreet lady,
but for whom, perchance, she would before now have yielded and
gratified the Count's desire.
No word of this was lost on the lady;
she pondered and meditated every detail with the closest attention,
and having laid it all to heart, took her resolution: she ascertained
the names and abode of the lady and her daughter that the Count
loved, and hied her one day privily, wearing her pilgrim's weeds, to
their house, where she found the lady and her daughter in very
evident poverty, and after greeting them, told the lady that, if it
were agreeable to her, she would speak with her. The gentlewoman
rose and signified her willingness to listen to what she had to say;
so they went into a room by themselves and sate down, and then
the Countess began thus: Madam, methinks you are, as I am,
under Fortune's frown; but perchance you have it in your power,
if you are so minded, to afford solace to both of us.
The lady
answered that, so she might honourably find it, solace indeed was
what she craved most of all things in the world. Whereupon the
Countess continued: I must first be assured of your faith, wherein
if I confide and am deceived, the interests of both of us will suffer.
Have no fear,
said the gentlewoman, speak your whole mind
without reserve, for you will find that there is no deceit in me.
So the Countess told who she was, and the whole course of her love
affair, from its commencement to that hour, on such wise that the
gentlewoman, believing her story the more readily that she had
already heard it in part from others, was touched with compassion
for her. The narrative of her woes complete, the Countess added:
Now that you have heard my misfortunes, you know the two
conditions that I must fulfil, if I would come by my husband; nor
know I any other person than you, that may enable me to fulfil
them; but so you may, if this which I hear is true, to wit, that
my husband is in the last degree enamoured of your daughter.
Madam,
replied the gentlewoman, I know not if the Count
loves my daughter, but true it is that he makes great shew of loving
her; but how may this enable me to do aught for you in the matter
that you have at heart?
The how, madam,
returned the
Countess, I will shortly explain to you; but you shall first hear
what I intend shall ensue, if you serve me. Your daughter, I see, is
fair and of marriageable age, and, by what I have learned and may
well understand, 'tis because you have not the wherewith to marry
her that you keep her at home. Now, in recompense of the service
that you shall do me, I mean to provide her forthwith from my own
moneys with such a dowry as you yourself shall deem adequate for
her marriage.
The lady was too needy not to be gratified by the
proposal; but, nevertheless, with the true spirit of the gentlewoman,
she answered: Nay but, madam, tell me that which I may do
for you, and if it shall be such as I may honourably do, gladly will I
do it, and then you shall do as you may be minded.
Said then the
Countess: I require of you, that through some one in whom you
trust you send word to the Count, my husband, that your daughter
is ready to yield herself entirely to his will, so she may be sure that
he loves her even as he professes; whereof she will never be convinced,
until he send her the ring which he wears on his finger, and
which, she understands, he prizes so much: which, being sent, you
shall give to me, and shall then send him word that your daughter
is ready to do his pleasure, and, having brought him hither secretly,
you shall contrive that I lie by his side instead of your daughter.
Perchance, by God's grace I shall conceive, and so, having his ring
on my finger, and a son gotten of him on my arm, shall have him
for my own again, and live with him even as a wife should live with
her husband, and owe it all to you.
The lady felt that 'twas not a little that the Countess craved of her,
for she feared lest it should bring reproach upon her daughter: but
she reflected that to aid the good lady to recover her husband was
an honourable enterprise, and that in undertaking it she would be
subserving a like end; and so, trusting in the good and virtuous
disposition of the Countess, she not only promised to do as she was
required, but in no long time, proceeding with caution and secrecy,
as she had been bidden, she both had the ring from the Count, loath
though he was to part with it, and cunningly contrived that the
Countess should lie with him in place of her daughter. In which
first commingling, so ardently sought by the Count, it so pleased
God that the lady was gotten, as in due time her delivery made
manifest, with two sons. Nor once only, but many times did the
lady gratify the Countess with the embraces of her husband, using
such secrecy that no word thereof ever got wind, the Count all the
while supposing that he lay, not with his wife, but with her that he
loved, and being wont to give her, as he left her in the morning,
some fair and rare jewel, which she jealously guarded.
When she perceived that she was with child, the Countess, being
minded no more to burden the lady with such service, said to her:
Madam, thanks be to God and to you, I now have that which I
desired, and therefore 'tis time that I make you grateful requital, and
take my leave of you.
The lady answered that she was glad if the
Countess had gotten aught that gave her joy; but that 'twas not as
hoping to have guerdon thereof that she had done her part, but
simply because she deemed it meet and her duty so to do.
Well
said, madam,
returned the Countess, and in like manner that
which you shall ask of me I shall not give you by way of guerdon,
but because I deem it meet and my duty to give it.
Whereupon
the lady, yielding to necessity, and abashed beyond measure, asked of
her a hundred pounds wherewith to marry her daughter. The
Countess, marking her embarrassment, and the modesty of her
request, gave her five hundred pounds besides jewels fair and rare,
worth, perhaps, no less; and having thus much more than contented
her, and received her superabundant thanks, she took leave of her and
returned to the inn. The lady, to render purposeless further visits or
messages on Bertrand's part, withdrew with her daughter to the
house of her kinsfolk in the country; nor was it long before Bertrand,
on the urgent entreaty of his vassals and intelligence of the departure
of his wife, quitted Florence and returned home. Greatly elated by
this intelligence, the Countess tarried awhile in Florence, and was
there delivered of two sons as like as possible to their father, whom
she nurtured with sedulous care. But by and by she saw fit to take
the road, and being come, unrecognized by any, to Montpellier,
rested there a few days; and being on the alert for news of the
Count and where he was, she learned that on All Saints' day he
was to hold a great reception of ladies and gentlemen at Roussillon.
Whither, retaining her now wonted pilgrim's weeds, she hied her,
and finding that the ladies and gentlemen were all gathered in the
Count's palace and on the point of going to table, she tarried not to
change her dress, but went up into the hall, bearing her little ones in
her arms, and threading her way through the through to the place
where she saw the Count stand, she threw herself at his feet, and
sobbing, said to him:
My lord, thy hapless bride am I, who to
ensure thy homecoming and abidance in peace have long time been
a wanderer, and now demand of thee observance of the condition
whereof word was brought me by the two knights whom I sent to
thee. Lo in my arms not one son only but twain, gotten of thee,
and on my finger thy ring. 'Tis time, then, that I be received of
thee as thy wife according to thy word.
Whereat the Count was
all dumfounded, recognizing the ring and his own lineaments in the
children, so like were they to him; but saying to himself nevertheless:
How can it have come about?
So the Countess, while the
Count and all that were present marvelled exceedingly, told what
had happened, and the manner of it, in precise detail. Wherefore
the Count, perceiving that she spoke truth, and having regard to her
perseverance and address and her two fine boys, and the wishes of
all his vassals and the ladies, who with one accord besought him to
own and honour her thenceforth as his lawful bride, laid aside his
harsh obduracy, and raised the Countess to her feet, and embraced
and kissed her, and acknowledged her for his lawful wife, and the
children for his own. Then, having caused her to be rearrayed in
garments befitting her rank, he, to the boundless delight of as many
as were there, and of all other his vassals, gave up that day and some
that followed to feasting and merrymaking; and did ever thenceforth
honour, love and most tenderly cherish her as his bride and wife.
Novel XAlibech turns hermit, and is taught by Rustico, a monk,
how the Devil is put in hell. She is afterwards conveyed
thence, and becomes the wife of Neerbale.
Dioneo, observing that the queen's story, which he had followed
with the closest attention, was now ended, and that it only remained
for him to speak, waited not to be bidden, but smilingly thus
began:
Gracious ladies, perchance you have not yet heard how the
Devil is put in hell; wherefore, without deviating far from the
topic of which you have discoursed throughout the day, I will tell
you how 'tis done; it may be the lesson will prove inspiring; besides
which, you may learn therefrom that, albeit Love prefers the gay
palace and the dainty chamber to the rude cabin, yet, for all that,
he may at times manifest his might in wilds matted with forests,
rugged with alps, and desolate with caverns: whereby it may be
understood that all things are subject to his sway.
But--to come to
my story--I say that in the city of CapsaNow Gafsa, in Tunis.
in Barbary there was once
a very rich man, who with other children had a fair and dainty little
daughter, Alibech by name. Now Alibech, not being a Christian,
and hearing many Christians, that were in the city, speak much in
praise of the Christian Faith and the service of God, did one day
inquire of one of them after what fashion it were possible to serve
God with as few impediments as might be, and was informed that
they served God best who most completely renounced the world and
its affairs, like those who had fixed their abode in the wilds of the
Thebaid desert. Whereupon, actuated by no sober predilection, but
by childish impulse, the girl, who was very simple and about fourteen
years of age, said never a word more of the matter, but stole away
on the morrow, and quite alone set out to walk to the Thebaid
desert; and, by force of resolution, albeit with no small suffering, she
after some days reached those wilds; where, espying a cabin a great
way off, she hied her thither, and found a holy man by the door,
who, marvelling to see her there, asked her what she came there to
seek. She answered that, guided by the spirit of God, she was come
thither, seeking, if haply she might serve Him, and also find some one
that might teach her how He ought to be served. Marking her
youth and great beauty, the worthy man, fearing lest, if he suffered
her to remain with him, he should be ensnared by the Devil, commended
her good intention, set before her a frugal repast of roots of
herbs, crab-apples and dates, with a little water to wash them down,
and said to her: My daughter, there is a holy man not far from
here, who is much better able to teach thee that of which thou art in
quest than I am; go to him, therefore;
and he shewed her the
way. But when she was come whither she was directed, she met
with the same answer as before, and so, setting forth again, she came
at length to the cell of a young hermit, a worthy man and very
devout--his name Rustico--whom she interrogated as she had the
others. Rustico, being minded to make severe trial of his constancy,
did not send her away, as the others had done, but kept her with
him in his cell, and when night came, made her a little bed of palmleaves;
whereon he bade her compose herself to sleep. Hardly had
she done so before the solicitations of the flesh joined battle with the
powers of Rustico's spirit, and he, finding himself left in the lurch
by the latter, endured not many assaults before he beat a retreat, and
surrendered at discretion: wherefore he bade adieu to holy meditation
and prayer and discipline, and fell a musing on the youth and beauty
of his companion, and also how he might so order his conversation
with her, that without seeming to her to be a libertine he might yet
compass that which he craved of her. So, probing her by certain
questions, he discovered that she was as yet entirely without cognizance
of man, and as simple as she seemed: wherefore he excogitated
a plan for bringing her to pleasure him under colour of serving God.
He began by giving her a long lecture on the great enmity that
subsists between God and the Devil; after which he gave her to
understand that, God having condemned the Devil to hell, to put
him there was of all services the most acceptable to God. The girl
asking him how it might be done, Rustico answered: Thou
shalt know it in a trice; thou hast but to do that which thou seest me
do.
Then, having divested himself of his scanty clothing, he threw
himself stark naked on his knees, as if he would pray; whereby he
caused the girl, who followed his example, to confront him in the
same posture.No apology is needed for leaving, in accordance
with precedent, the
subsequent detail untranslated.
***The following [13]-[31] are untranslated ***
E così stando, essendo Rustico più che mai nel suo
disidéro acceso per lo vederla così bella, venne la
resurrezion della
carne, la quale riguardando Alibech e maravigliatasi, disse:
Rustico, quella che cosa è, che io ti veggio, che così si
pigne in
fuori, e non l' ho io?
O figliuola mia,
disse Rustico, questo
è
il Diavolo, di che io t' ho parlato: e vedi tu? ora egli mi dà
grandissima
molestia, tanta che io appena la posso sofferire.
Allora disse la
giovane: Oh lodato sia Iddio, chè io veggio che io sto meglio
che non stai tu, chè io non ho cotesto Diavolo io.
Disse Rustico:
Tu di' vero, ma tu hai un' altra cosa che non la ho io, et
háila in iscambio di questo.
Disse Alibech: O che?
A cui
Rustico disse: Hai il ninferno; e dicoti che io mi credo che
Iddio t' abbia qui mandata per la salute della anima mia, per ciò
che se questo Diavolo pur mi darà questa noja, ove tu vogli aver di
me tanta pietà, e sofferire che io in inferno il rimetta, tu mi darai
grandissima consolazione, et a Dio farai grandissimo piacere e
servigio, se tu per quello fare in queste parti venuta se', che tu di'.
La giovane di buona fede rispose: O padre mio, poscia che ho
il ninferno, sia pure quando vi piacerà.
Disse allora Rustico:
Figliuola mia, benedetta sia tu; andiamo dunque, e rimettiámlovi
sì che egli poscia mi lasci stare.
E così detto, menata la
giovane sopra uno de' loro letticelli, le 'nsegnò come star si dovesse a
dovere
incarcerare quel maledetto da Dio. La giovane, che mai più non
aveva in inferno messo diavolo alcuno, per la prima volta sentì un
poco di noja, per che ella disse a Rustico: Per certo, padre mio,
mala cosa dee essere questo Diavolo, e veramente nimico di Dio, chè
ancora al ninferno, non che altrui, duole quando egli v' è dentro
rimesso.
Disse Rustico: Figliuola, egli non avverrà sempre
così.
E per fare che questo non avvenisse, da sei volte, anzi che di su il
letticel si movessero, ve 'l rimisero, tanto che per quella volta gli
trasser sì la superbia del capo, che egli si stette volentieri in
pace.
Ma, ritornatagli poi nel seguente tempo più volte, e la giovane
ubbidiente
sempre a trargliele si disponesse, avvenne che il giuoco le cominciò
a piacere, e cominciò a dire a Rustico: Ben veggio che il ver
dicevano que' valentuomini in Capsa, che il servire a Dio era così
dolce cosa: e per certo io non mi ricordo che mai alcuna altra ne
facessi, che di tanto diletto e piacer mi fosse, quanto è il
rimettere il
Diavolo in inferno; e per ciò io giudico ogn' altra persona, che ad
altro che a servire a Dio attende, essere una bestia.
Per la qual
cosa essa spesse volte andava a Rustico, e gli dicea: Padre mio,
io son qui venuta per servire a Dio e non per istare oziosa; andiamo
a rimettere il Diavolo in inferno.
La qual cosa faccendo, diceva
ella alcuna volta: Rustico, io non so perchè il Diavolo si fugga
di
ninferno; chè s' egli vi stesse così volentieri come il
ninferno il
riceve e tiene, egli non se ne uscirebbe mai.
Così adunque
invitando
spesso la giovane Rustico, et al servigio di Dio confortandolo sì la
bambagia del farsetto tratta gli avea, che egli a tal ora sentiva freddo
che un altro sarebbe sudato; e per ciò egli incominciò a dire
alla
giovane che il Diavolo non era da gastigare nè da rimettere in
inferno,
se non quando egli per superbia levasse il capo; e noi per grazia di
Dio l'abbiamo sì sgannato, che egli priega Iddio di starsi in
pace
: e
così alquanto impose di silenzio alla giovane.
La qual, poi che vide
Rustico non la richiedeva a dovere il Diavolo rimettere in inferno,
gli disse un giorno: Rustico, se il Diavolo tuo è gastigato e
più non ti dà noja, me il mio ninferno non lascia stare: per
che
tu farai bene che tu col tuo Diavolo ajuti attutare la rabbia al
mio ninferno, com' io col mio ninferno ho ajutato a trarre la
superbia al tuo Diavolo.
Rustico, che di radici d' erba e d' acqua
vivea, poteva male rispondere alle poste; e dissele che troppi diavoli
vorrebbono essere a potere il ninferno attutare, ma che egli ne
farebbe ciò che per lui si potesse; c così alcuna volta le
sodisfaceva,
ma sì era di rado che altro non era che gittare una fava in bocca al
leone: di che la giovane, non parendole tanto servire a Dio quanto
voleva, mormorava anzi che no.
However, the case standing thus
(deficiency of power against superfluity of desire) between Rustico's
Devil and Alibech's hell, it chanced that a fire broke out in Capsa,
whereby the house of Alibech's father was burned, and he and all
his sons and the rest of his household perished; so that Alibech was
left sole heiress of all his estate. And a young gallant, Neerbale by
name, who by reckless munificence had wasted all his substance,
having discovered that she was alive, addressed himself to the pursuit
of her, and, having found her in time to prevent the confiscation of
her father's estate as an escheat for failure of heirs, took her, much to
Rustico's relief and against her own will, back to Capsa, and made
her his wife, and shared with her her vast patrimony. But before
he had lain with her, she was questioned by the ladies of the manner
in which she had served God in the desert; whereto she answered,
that she had been wont to serve Him by putting the Devil in hell,
and that Neerbale had committed a great sin, when he took her out
of such service. The ladies being curious to know how the Devil
was put in hell, the girl satisfied them, partly by words, partly by
signs. Whereat they laughed exorbitantly (and still laugh) and said
to her: Be not down-hearted, daughter; 'tis done here too;
Neerbale will know well how to serve God with you in that way.
And so the story passing from mouth to mouth throughout the city,
it came at last to be a common proverb, that the most acceptable
service that can be rendered to God is to put the Devil in hell;
which proverb, having travelled hither across the sea, is still current.
Wherefore, young ladies, you that have need of the grace of God,
see to it that you learn how to put the Devil in hell, because 'tis
mightily pleasing to God, and of great solace to both the parties,
and much good may thereby be engendered and ensue.
ConclusionA thousand times or more had Dioneo's story brought the laugh to
the lips of the honourable ladies, so quaint and curiously entertaining
found they the fashion of it. And now at its close the queen, seeing the
term of her sovereignty come, took the laurel wreath from her head,
and with mien most debonair, set it on the brow of Filostrato,
saying: We shall soon see whether the wolf will know better
how to guide the sheep than the sheep have yet succeeded in guiding
the wolves.
Whereat Filostrato said with a laugh: Had I been
hearkened to, the wolves would have taught the sheep to put the
Devil in hell even as Rustico taught Alibech. Wherefore call us not
wolves, seeing that you have not shewn yourselves sheep: however,
as best I may be able, I will govern the kingdom committed to my
charge.
Whereupon Neifile took him up: Hark ye, Filostrato,
she said, while you thought to teach us, you might have learnt a
lesson from us, as did Masetto da Lamporecchio from the nuns, and
have recovered your speech when the bones had learned to whistle
without a master.
I.e. when you were so emaciated that your
bones made music like a skeleton in the wind.
Filostrato, perceiving that there was a scythe
for each of his arrows, gave up jesting, and addressed himself to the
governance of his kingdom. He called the seneschal, and held him
strictly to account in every particular; he then judiciously ordered
all matters as he deemed would be best and most to the satisfaction of
the company, while his sovereignty should last; and having so done,
he turned to the ladies, and said:
Loving ladies, as my ill luck
would have it, since I have had wit to tell good from evil, the charms
of one or other of you have kept me ever a slave to Love: and for
all I shewed myself humble and obedient and conformable, so far as
I knew how, to all his ways, my fate has been still the same, to be
discarded for another, and go ever from bad to worse; and so, I
suppose, 'twill be with me to the hour of my death. Wherefore I am
minded that to-morrow our discourse be of no other topic than that
which is most germane to my condition, to wit, of those whose loves
had a disastrous close: because mine, I expect, will in the long
run be most disastrous; nor for other cause was the name, by which
you address me, given me by one that well knew its signification.
Which said, he arose, and dismissed them all until supper-time.
So fair and delightsome was the garden that none saw fit to quit
it, and seek diversion elsewhere. Rather--for the sun now shone
with a tempered radiance that caused no discomfort--some of the
ladies gave chase to the kids and conies and other creatures that
haunted it, and, scampering to and fro among them as they sate,
had caused them a hundred times, or so, some slight embarrassment.
Dioneo and Fiammetta fell a singing of Messer Guglielmo
and the lady of Vergiù.Evidently some version of the tragical
conte de la
Chastelaine de
Vergi, qui mori por laialment amer son ami.
See Fabliaux et
Contes,
ed. Barbazan, iv. 296: and cf. Bandello, Pt. iv. Nov. v, and Heptameron,
Journée vii. Nouvelle lxx.
Filomena and Pamfilo sat them down to
a game of chess and, as thus they pursued each their several
diversions, time sped so swiftly that the supper-hour stole upon them
almost unawares: whereupon they ranged the tables round the
beautiful fountain, and supped with all glad and festal cheer.
When the tables were removed, Filostrato, being minded to
follow in the footsteps of his fair predecessors in sway, bade Lauretta
lead a dance and sing a song. She answered: My lord, songs of
others know I none, nor does my memory furnish me with any of
mine own that seems meet for so gay a company; but, if you will
be content with what I have, gladly will I give you thereof.
Nought of thine,
returned the king, could be other than
goodly and delectable. Wherefore give us even what thou hast.
So
encouraged, Lauretta, with dulcet voice, but manner somewhat
languishing, raised the ensuing strain, to which the other ladies
responded:
What dame disconsolate
May so lament as I,
That vainly sigh, to Love still dedicate?
He that the heaven and every orb doth move
Formed me for His delight
Fair, debonair and gracious, apt for love;
That here on earth each soaring spirit might
Have foretaste how, above,
That beauty shews that standeth in His sight.
Ah! but dull wit and slight,
For that it judgeth ill,
Liketh me not, nay, doth me vilely rate.
There was who loved me, and my maiden grace
Did fondly clip and strain,
As in his arms, so in his soul's embrace,
And from mine eyes Love's fire did drink amain,
And time that glides apace
In nought but courting me to spend was fain;
Whom courteous I did deign
Ev'n as my peer to entreat;
But am of him bereft! Ah! dolorous fate!
Came to me next a gallant swol'n with pride
Brave, in his own conceit,
And no less noble eke. Whom woe betide
That he me took, and holds in all unmeet
Suspicion, jealous-eyed!
And I, who wot that me the world should greet
As the predestined sweet
Of many men, well-nigh
Despair, to be to one thus subjugate.
Ah! woe is me! cursed be the luckless day,
When, a new gown to wear,
I said the fatal ay; for blithe and gay
In that plain gown I lived, no whit less fair;
While in this rich array
A sad and far less honoured life I bear!
Would I had died, or e'er
Sounded those notes of joy
(Ah! dolorous cheer!) my woe to celebrate!
So list my supplication, lover dear,
Of whom such joyance I,
As ne'er another, had. Thou that in clear
Light of the Maker's presence art, deny
Not pity to thy fere,
Who thee may ne'er forget; but let one sigh
Breathe tidings that on high
Thou burnest still for me;
And sue of God that He me there translate.
So ended Lauretta her song, to which all hearkened attentively,
though not all interpreted it alike. Some were inclined to give it a
moral after the Milanese fashion, to wit, that a good porker was
better than pretty quean. Others construed it in a higher, better
and truer sense, which 'tis not to the present purpose to unfold.
Some more songs followed by command of the king, who caused
torches not a few to be lighted and ranged about the flowery mead;
and so the night was prolonged until the last star that had risen had
begun to set. Then, bethinking him that 'twas time for slumber,
the king bade all good-night, and dismissed them to their several
chambers.
Fourth DayEndeth here the third day of the Decameron, beginneth
the fourth, in which, under the rule of Filostrato,
discourse is had of those whose loves had a disastrous
close.
IntroductionDearest ladies, as well from what I heard in converse with the
wise, as from matters that not seldom fell within my own observation
and reading, I formed the opinion that the vehement and
scorching blast of envy was apt to vent itself only upon lofty towers
or the highest tree-tops: but therein I find that I misjudged; for,
whereas I ever sought and studied how best to elude the buffetings
of that furious hurricane, and to that end kept a course not merely
on the plain, but, by preference, in the depth of the valley; as
should be abundantly clear to whoso looks at these little stories,
written as they are not only in the vulgar Florentine, and in prose,
and without dedicatory flourish, but also in as homely and simple a
style as may be; nevertheless all this has not stood me in such stead
but that I have been shrewdly shaken, nay, all but uprooted by the
blast, and altogether lacerated by the bite of this same envy.
Whereby I may very well understand that 'tis true, what the sages
aver, that only misery is exempt from envy in the present life.
Know then, discreet my ladies, that some there are, who, reading
these little stories, have alleged that I am too fond of you, and that
'tis not a seemly thing that I should take so much pleasure in
ministering to your gratification and solace; and some have found
more fault with me for praising you as I do. Others, affecting to
deliver a more considered judgment, have said that it ill befits my
time of life to ensue such matters, to wit, the discoursing of women,
or endeavouring to pleasure them. And not a few, feigning a mighty
tender regard to my fame, aver that I should do more wisely to keep
ever with the Muses on Parnassus, than to forgather with you in such
vain dalliance. Those again there are, who, evincing less wisdom
than despite, have told me that I should shew sounder sense if I
bethought me how to get my daily bread, than, going after these idle
toys, to nourish myself upon the wind; while certain others, in
disparagement of my work, strive might and main to make it appear
that the matters which I relate fell out otherwise than as I set them
forth. Such then, noble ladies, are the blasts, such the sharp and
cruel fangs, by which, while I champion your cause, I am assailed,
harassed and well-nigh pierced through and through. Which
censures I hear and mark, God knows, with equal mind: and,
though to you belongs all my defence, yet I mean not to be niggard
of my own powers, but rather, without dealing out to them the
castigation they deserve, to give them such slight answer as may
secure my ears some respite of their clamour; and that without
delay; seeing that, if already, though I have not completed the
third part of my work, they are not a few and very presumptuous, I
deem it possible, that before I have reached the end, should they
receive no check, they may have grown so numerous, that 'twould
scarce tax their powers to sink me; and that your forces, great though
they be, would not suffice to withstand them. However I am
minded to answer none of them, until I have related in my behoof,
not indeed an entire story, for I would not seem to foist my stories in
among those of so honourable a company as that with which I have
made you acquainted, but a part of one, that its very incompleteness
may shew that it is not one of them: wherefore, addressing my
assailants, I say: That in our city there was in old time a citizen
named Filippo Balducci, a man of quite low origin, but of good
substance and well versed and expert in matters belonging to his
condition, who had a wife that he most dearly loved, as did she him,
so that their life passed in peace and concord, nor there was aught
they studied so much as how to please each other perfectly. Now it
came to pass, as it does to every one, that the good lady departed this
life, leaving Filippo nought of hers but an only son, that she had had
by him, and who was then about two years old. His wife's death left
Filippo as disconsolate as ever was any man for the loss of a loved
one: and sorely missing the companionship that was most dear to
him, he resolved to have done with the world, and devote himself
and his little son to the service of God. Wherefore, having dedicated
all his goods to charitable uses, he forthwith betook him to the summit
of Monte Asinaio, where he installed himself with his son in a little
cell, and living on alms, passed his days in fasting and prayer, being
careful above all things to say nothing to the boy of any temporal
matters, nor to let him see aught of the kind, lest they should
distract his mind from his religious exercises, but discoursing with
him continually of the glory of the life eternal and of God and the
saints, and teaching him nought else but holy orisons: in which way
of life he kept him not a few years, never suffering him to quit the
cell or see aught but himself. From time to time the worthy man
would go Florence, where divers of the faithful would afford him
relief according to his needs, and so he would return to his cell.
And thus it fell out that one day Filippo, now an aged man, being
asked by the boy, who was about eighteen years old, whither he went,
told him. Whereupon: Father,
said the boy, you are now old,
and scarce able to support fatigue; why take you me not with you
for once to Florence, and give me to know devout friends of God
and you, so that I, who am young and fitter for such exertion than
you, may thereafter go to Florence for our supplies at your pleasure,
and you remain here?
The worthy man, bethinking him that his son was now grown
up, and so habituated to the service of God as hardly to be seduced
by the things of the world, said to himself: He says tell.
And
so, as he must needs go to Florence, he took the boy with him.
Where, seeing the palaces, the houses, the churches, and all matters
else with which the city abounds, and of which he had no more
recollection than if he had never seen them, the boy found all passing
strange, and questioned his father of not a few of them, what they
were and how they were named; his curiosity being no sooner
satisfied in one particular than he plied his father with a further
question. And so it befell that, while son and father were thus
occupied in asking and answering questions, they encountered a bevy
of damsels, fair and richly arrayed, being on their return from a
wedding; whom the young man no sooner saw, than he asked his
father what they might be.
My son,
answered the father, fix
thy gaze on the ground, regard them not at all, for naughty things
are they.
Oh!
said the son, and what is their name?
The
father, fearing to awaken some mischievous craving of concupiscence
in the young man, would not denote them truly, to wit, as women,
but said: They are called goslings.
Whereupon, wonderful
to tell! the lad who had never before set eyes on any woman,
thought no more of the palaces, the oxen, the horses, the asses,
the money, or aught else that he had seen, but exclaimed:
Prithee, father, let me have one of those goslings.
Alas,
my son,
replied the father, speak not of them; they are
naughty things.
Oh!
questioned the son; but are naughty
things made like that?
Ay,
returned the father.
Whereupon
the son: I know not,
he said, what you say, nor why they
should be naughty things: for my part I have as yet seen nought
that seemed to me so fair and delectable. They are fairer than the
painted angels that you have so often shewn me. Oh! if you love
me, do but let us take one of these goslings up there, and I will see
that she have whereon to bill.
Nay,
said the father, that will
not I. Thou knowest not whereon they bill;
and straightway,
being ware that nature was more potent than his art, he repented
him that he had brought the boy to Florence.
But enough of this story: 'tis time for me to cut it short, and
return to those, for whose instruction 'tis told. They say then,
some of these my censors, that I am too fond of you, young ladies,
and am at too great pains to pleasure you. Now that I am fond of
you, and am at pains to pleasure you, I do most frankly and fully
confess; and I ask them whether, considering only all that it means
to have had, and to have continually, before one's eyes your debonair
demeanour, your bewitching beauty and exquisite grace, and therewithal
your modest womanliness, not to speak of having known the
amorous kisses, the caressing embraces, the voluptuous comminglings,
whereof our intercourse with you, ladies most sweet, not seldom is
productive, they do verily marvel that I am fond of you, seeing that
one who was nurtured, reared, and brought up on a savage and solitary
mountain, within the narrow circuit of a cell, without other companion
than his father, had no sooner seen you than 'twas you alone
that he desired, that he demanded, that he sought with ardour?
Will they tear, will they lacerate me with their censures, if I,
whose body Heaven fashioned all apt for love, whose soul from
very boyhood was dedicate to you, am not insensible to the power
of the light of your eyes, to the sweetness of your honeyed words,
to the flame that is kindled by your gentle sighs, but am fond of you
and sedulous to pleasure you; you, again I bid them remember,
in whom a hermit, a rude, witless lad, liker to an animal than to a
human being, found more to delight him than in aught else that he
saw? Of a truth whoso taxes me thus must be one that, feeling,
knowing nought of the pleasure and power of natural affection, loves
you not, nor craves your love; and such an one I hold in light esteem.
And as for those that go about to find ground of exception in my
age, they do but shew that they ill understand that the leek, albeit
its head is white, has a green tail. But jesting apart, thus I answer
them, that never to the end of my life shall I deem it shameful to
me to pleasure those to whom Guido Cavalcanti and Dante Alighieri
in their old age, and Messer Cino da Pistoia in extreme old age,
accounted it an honour and found it a delight to minister gratification.
And but that 'twere a deviation from the use and wont of
discourse, I would call history to my aid, and shew it to abound
with stories of noble men of old time, who in their ripest age studied
above all things else to pleasure the ladies; whereof if they be
ignorant, go they and get them to school. To keep with the Muses
on Parnassus is counsel I approve; but tarry with them always we
cannot, nor they with us, nor is a man blameworthy, if, when he
happen to part from them, he find his delight in those that resemble
them. The Muses are ladies, and albeit ladies are not the peers of
the Muses, yet they have their outward semblance; for which cause,
if for no other, 'tis reasonable that I should be fond of them.
Besides which, ladies have been to me the occasion of composing
some thousand verses, but of never a verse that I made were the
Muses the occasion. Howbeit 'twas with their aid, 'twas under their
influence that I composed those thousand verses, and perchance they
have sometimes visited me to encourage me in my present task, humble
indeed though it be, doing honour and paying, as it were, tribute,
to the likeness which the ladies have to them; wherefore, while I
weave these stories, I stray not so far from Mount Parnassus and the
Muses as not a few perchance suppose. But what shall we say to
those, in whom my hunger excites such commiseration that they
bid me get me bread? Verily I know not, save this: Suppose that
in my need I were to beg bread of them, what would be their
answer? I doubt not they would say: Go seek it among the
fables.
And in sooth the poets have found more bread among their
fables than many rich men among their treasures. And many that
have gone after fables have crowned their days with splendour, while,
on the other hand, not a few, in the endeavour to get them more
bread than they needed, have perished miserably. But why waste
more words on them? Let them send me packing, when I ask
bread of them; not that, thank God, I have yet need of it, and
should I ever come to be in need of it, I know, like the Apostle,
how to abound and to be in want, and so am minded to be beholden
to none but myself. As for those who say that these matters fell out
otherwise than as I relate them, I should account it no small favour,
if they would produce the originals, and should what I write not
accord with them, I would acknowledge the justice of their censure,
and study to amend my ways; but, until better evidence is forthcoming
than their words, I shall adhere to my own opinion without
seeking to deprive them of theirs, and give them tit for tat. And
being minded that for this while this answer suffice, I say that with
God and you, in whom I trust, most gentle ladies, to aid and protect
me, and patience for my stay, I shall go forward with my work,
turning my back on this tempest, however it may rage; for I see
not that I can fare worse than the fine dust, which the blast of the
whirlwind either leaves where it lies, or bears aloft, not seldom over
the heads of men, over the crowns of kings, of emperors, and sometimes
suffers to settle on the roofs of lofty palaces, and the summits
of the tallest towers, whence if it fall, it cannot sink lower than the
level from which it was raised. And if I ever devoted myself and
all my powers to minister in any wise to your gratification, I am
now minded more than ever so to do, because I know that there is
nought that any can justly say in regard thereof, but that I, and
others who love you, follow the promptings of nature, whose laws
whoso would withstand, has need of powers pre-eminent, and, even
so, will oft-times labour not merely in vain but to his own most
grievous disadvantage. Such powers I own that I neither have, nor,
to such end, desire to have; and had I them, I would rather leave
them to another than use them myself. Wherefore let my detractors
hold their peace, and if they cannot get heat, why, let them shiver
their life away; and, while they remain addicted to their delights,
or rather corrupt tastes, let them leave me to follow my own bent
during the brief life that is accorded us. But this has been a long
digression, fair ladies, and 'tis time to retrace our steps to the point
where we deviated, and continue in the course on which we started.
The sun had chased every star from the sky, and lifted the dank
murk of night from the earth, when, Filostrato being risen, and
having roused all his company, they hied them to the fair garden,
and there fell to disporting themselves: the time for breakfast being
come, they took it where they had supped on the preceding evening,
and after they had slept they rose, when the sun was in his zenith,
and seated themselves in their wonted manner by the beautiful
fountain; where Fiammetta, being bidden by Filostrato to lead off
the story-telling, awaited no second command, but debonairly thus
began.
Novel ITancred, Prince of Salerno, slays his daughter's lover,
and sends her his heart in a golden cup: she pours
upon it a poisonous distillation, which she drinks and
dies.
A direful theme has our king allotted us for to-day's discourse;
seeing that, whereas we are here met for our common delectation,
needs must we now tell of others' tears, whereby, whether telling
or hearing, we cannot but be moved to pity. Perchance 'twas to
temper in some degree the gaiety of the past days that he so
ordained, but, whatever may have been his intent, his will must be
to me immutable law; wherefore I will narrate to you a matter that
befell piteously, nay woefully, and so as you may well weep thereat.
Tancred, Prince of Salerno, a lord most humane and kind of heart,
but that in his old age he imbrued his hands in the blood of a lover,
had in the whole course of his life but one daughter; and had he not
had her, he had been more fortunate.
Never was daughter more tenderly beloved of father than she of
the Prince, who, for that cause not knowing how to part with her,
kept her unmarried for many a year after she had come of marriageable
age: then at last he gave her to a son of the Duke of Capua,
with whom she had lived but a short while, when he died and she
returned to her father. Most lovely was she of form and feature
(never woman more so), and young and light of heart, and more
knowing, perchance, than beseemed a woman. Dwelling thus with
her loving father, as a great lady, in no small luxury, nor failing to
see that the Prince, for the great love he bore her, was at no pains to
provide her with another husband, and deeming it unseemly on her
part to ask one of him, she cast about how she might come by a
gallant to be her secret lover. And seeing at her father's court not
a few men, both gentle and simple, that resorted thither, as we know
men use to frequent courts, and closely scanning their mien and
manners, she preferred before all others the Prince's page, Guiscardo
by name, a man of very humble origin, but pre-eminent for native
worth and noble bearing; of whom, seeing him frequently, she
became hotly enamoured, hourly extolling his qualities more and
more highly. The young man, who for all his youth by no means
lacked shrewdness, read her heart, and gave her his own on such
wise that his love for her engrossed his mind to the exclusion of
almost everything else. While thus they burned in secret for one
another, the lady, desiring of all things a meeting with Guiscardo,
but being shy of making any her confidant, hit upon a novel
expedient to concert the affair with him. She wrote him a letter
containing her commands for the ensuing day, and thrust it into a
cane in the space between two of the knots, which cane she gave to
Guiscardo, saying: Thou canst let thy servant have it for a
bellows to blow thy fire up to night.
Guiscardo took it, and
feeling sure that 'twas not unadvisedly that she made him such a
present, accompanied with such words, hied him straight home,
where, carefully examining the cane, he observed that it was cleft,
and, opening it, found the letter; which he had no sooner read, and
learned what he was to do, than, pleased as ne'er another, he fell to
devising how to set all in order that he might not fail to meet the
lady on the following day, after the manner she had prescribed.
Now hard by the Prince's palace was a grotto, hewn in days of
old in the solid rock, and now long disused, so that an artificial
orifice, by which it received a little light, was all but choked with
brambles and plants that grew about and overspread it. From one
of the ground-floor rooms of the palace, which room was part of the
lady's suite, a secret stair led to the grotto, though the entrance was
barred by a very strong door. This stair, having been from time
immemorial disused, had passed out of mind so completely that there
was scarce any that remembered that it was there: but Love, whose
eyes nothing, however secret, may escape, had brought it to the mind
of the enamoured lady. For many a day, using all secrecy, that
none should discover her, she had wrought with her tools, until she had
succeeded in opening the door; which done, she had gone down
into the grotto alone, and having observed the orifice, had by her
letter apprised Guiscardo of its apparent height above the floor of
the grotto, and bidden him contrive some means of descending
thereby. Eager to carry the affair through, Guiscardo lost no time
in rigging up a ladder of ropes, whereby he might ascend and
descend; and having put on a suit of leather to protect him from
the brambles, he hied him the following night (keeping the affair
close from all) to the orifice, made the ladder fast by one of its ends
to a massive trunk that was rooted in the mouth of the orifice,
climbed down the ladder, and awaited the lady. On the morrow,
making as if she would fain sleep, the lady dismissed her damsels,
and locked herself into her room: she then opened the door of the
grotto, hied her down, and met Guiscardo, to their marvellous
mutual satisfaction. The lovers then repaired to her room, where
in exceeding great joyance they spent no small part of the day.
Nor
were they neglectful of the precautions needful to prevent discovery
of their amour; but in due time Guiscardo returned to the grotto;
whereupon the lady locked the door and rejoined her damsels. At
nightfall Guiscardo reascended his ladder, and, issuing forth of the
orifice, hied him home; nor, knowing now the way, did he fail to
revisit the grotto many a time thereafter.
But Fortune, noting with envious eye a happiness of such degree
and duration, gave to events a dolorous turn, whereby the joy of the
two lovers was converted into bitter lamentation. 'Twas Tancred's
custom to come from time to time quite alone to his daughter's
room, and tarry talking with her a while. Whereby it so befell that
he came down there one day after breakfast, while Ghismonda--such
was the lady's name--was in her garden with her damsels; so that
none saw or heard him enter; nor would he call his daughter, for he
was minded that she should not forgo her pleasure. But, finding the
windows closed and the bed-curtains drawn down, he seated himself
on a divan that stood at one of the corners of the bed, rested his head
on the bed, drew the curtain over him, and thus, hidden as if of set
purpose, fell asleep. As he slept Ghismonda, who, as it happened,
had caused Guiscardo to come that day, left her damsels in the garden,
softly entered the room, and having locked herself in, unwitting
that there was another in the room, opened the door to Guiscardo,
who was in waiting. Straightway they got them to bed, as was
their wont; and, while they there solaced and disported them
together, it so befell that Tancred awoke, and heard and saw what
they did: whereat he was troubled beyond measure, and at first was
minded to upbraid them; but on second thoughts he deemed it best
to hold his peace, and avoid discovery, if so he might with greater
stealth and less dishonour carry out the design which was already in
his mind. The two lovers continued long together, as they were
wont, all unwitting of Tancred; but at length they saw fit to get
out of bed, when Guiscardo went back to the grotto, and the lady
hied her forth of the room. Whereupon Tancred, old though he
was, got out at one of the windows, clambered down into the garden,
and, seen by none, returned sorely troubled to his room. By his
command two men took Guiscardo early that same night, as he
issued forth of the orifice accoutred in his suit of leather, and brought
him privily to Tancred; who, as he saw him, all but wept, and
said: Guiscardo, my kindness to thee is ill requited by the outrage
and dishonour which thou hast done me in the person of my daughter,
as to-day I have seen with my own eyes.
To whom Guiscardo
could answer nought but: Love is more potent than either you
or I.
Tancred then gave order to keep him privily under watch
and ward in a room within the palace; and so 'twas done.
Next
day, while Ghismonda wotted nought of these matters, Tancred,
after pondering divers novel expedients, hied him after breakfast,
according to his wont, to his daughter's room, where, having called
her to him and locked himself in with her, he began, not without
tears, to speak on this wise:
Ghismonda, conceiving that I knew
thy virtue and honour, never, though it had been reported to me,
would I have credited, had I not seen with my own eyes, that thou
wouldst so much as in idea, not to say fact, have ever yielded thyself
to any man but thy husband: wherefore, for the brief residue of life
that my age has in store for me, the memory of thy fall will ever be
grievous to me. And would to God, as thou must needs demean
thyself to such dishonour, thou hadst taken a man that matched thy
nobility; but of all the men that frequent my court, thou must needs
choose Guiscardo, a young man of the lowest condition, a fellow
whom we brought up in charity from his tender years; for whose
sake thou hast plunged me into the abyss of mental tribulation,
insomuch that I know not what course to take in regard of thee.
As to Guiscardo, whom I caused to be arrested last night as he
issued from the orifice, and keep in durance, my course is already
taken, but how I am to deal with thee, God knows, I know not.
I
am distraught between the love which I have ever borne thee, love
such as no father ever bare to daughter, and the most just indignation
evoked in me by thy signal folly; my love prompts me to pardon
thee, my indignation bids me harden my heart against thee, though
I do violence to my nature. But before I decide upon my course,
I would fain hear what thou hast to say to this.
So saying, he
bent his head, and wept as bitterly as any child that had been
soundly thrashed.
Her father's words, and the tidings they conveyed that not only
was her secret passion discovered, but Guiscardo taken, caused
Ghismonda immeasurable grief, which she was again and again on
the point of evincing, as most women do, by cries and tears; but
her high spirit triumphed over this weakness; by a prodigious effort
she composed her countenance, and taking it for granted that her
Guiscardo was no more, she inly devoted herself to death rather than
a single prayer for herself should escape her lips.
Wherefore, not as
a woman stricken with grief or chidden for a fault, but unconcerned
and unabashed, with tearless eyes, and frank and utterly dauntless
mien, thus answered she her father: Tancred, your accusation
I shall not deny, neither will I cry you mercy, for nought should
I gain by denial, nor aught would I gain by supplication: nay more;
there is nought I will do to conciliate thy humanity and love; my
only care is to confess the truth, to defend my honour by words of
sound reason, and then by deeds most resolute to give effect to the
promptings of my high soul.
True it is that I have loved and love
Guiscardo, and during the brief while I have yet to live shall love
him, nor after death, so there be then love, shall I cease to love him;
but that I love him, is not imputable to my womanly frailty so
much as to the little zeal thou shewedst for my bestowal in marriage,
and to Guiscardo's own worth. It should not have escaped thee,
Tancred, creature of flesh and blood as thou art, that thy daughter
was also a creature of flesh and blood, and not of stone or iron; it
was, and is, thy duty to bear in mind (old though thou art) the
nature and the might of the laws to which youth is subject; and,
though thou hast spent part of thy best years in martial exercises,
thou shouldst nevertheless have not been ignorant how potent is the
influence even upon the aged--to say nothing of the young--of ease
and luxury. And not only am I, as being thy daughter, a creature
of flesh and blood, but my life is not so far spent but that I am still
young, and thus doubly fraught with fleshly appetite, the vehemence
whereof is marvellously enhanced by reason that, having been married,
I have known the pleasure that ensues upon the satisfaction of such
desire. Which forces being powerless to withstand, I did but act
as was natural in a young woman, when I gave way to them, and
yielded myself to love. Nor in sooth did I fail to the utmost of my
power so to order the indulgence of my natural propensity that my
sin should bring shame neither upon thee nor upon me. To which
end Love in his pity, and Fortune in a friendly mood, found and
discovered to me a secret way, whereby, none witting, I attained my
desire: this, from whomsoever thou hast learned it, howsoever thou
comest to know it, I deny not. 'Twas not at random, as many
women do, that I loved Guiscardo; but by deliberate choice I preferred
him before all other men, and of determinate forethought I
lured him to my love, whereof, through his and my discretion and
constancy, I have long had joyance. Wherein 'twould seem that
thou, following rather the opinion of the vulgar than the dictates of
truth, find cause to chide me more severely than in my sinful love,
for, as if thou wouldst not have been vexed, had my choice fallen on
a nobleman, thou complainest that I have forgathered with a man of
low condition; and dost not see that therein thou censurest not my
fault but that of Fortune, which not seldom raises the unworthy to
high place and leaves the worthiest in low estate. But leave we
this: consider a little the principles of things: thou seest that in
regard of our flesh we are all moulded of the same substance, and
that all souls are endowed by one and the same Creator with equal
faculties, equal powers, equal virtues. 'Twas merit that made the
first distinction between us, born as we were, nay, as we are, all
equal, and those whose merits were and were approved in act the
greatest were called noble, and the rest were not so denoted. Which
law, albeit overlaid by the contrary usage of after times, is not yet
abrogated, nor so impaired but that it is still traceable in nature and
good manners; for which cause whoso with merit acts, does plainly
shew himself a gentleman; and if any denote him otherwise, the
default is his own and not his whom he so denotes. Pass in review
all thy nobles, weigh their merits, their manners and bearing, and then
compare Guiscardo's qualities with theirs: if thou wilt judge without
prejudice, thou wilt pronounce him noble in the highest degree, and
thy nobles one and all churls. As to Guiscardo's merits and worth I
did but trust the verdict which thou thyself didst utter in words, and
which mine own eyes confirmed. Of whom had he such commendation
as of thee for all those excellences whereby a good man and true
merits commendation? And in sooth thou didst him but justice;
for, unless mine eyes have played me false, there was nought for
which thou didst commend him but I had seen him practise it, and
that more admirably than words of thine might express; and had I
been at all deceived in this matter, 'twould have been by thee. Wilt
thou say then that I have forgathered with a man of low condition?
If so, thou wilt not say true. Didst thou say with a poor man, the
impeachment might be allowed, to thy shame, that thou so ill hast
known how to requite a good man and true that is thy servant; but
poverty, though it take away all else, deprives no man of gentilesse.
Many kings, many great princes, were once poor, and many a ditcher
or herdsman has been and is very wealthy. As for thy last perpended
doubt, to wit, how thou shouldst deal with me, banish it
utterly from thy thoughts. If in thy extreme old age thou art
minded to manifest a harshness unwonted in thy youth, wreak thy
harshness on me, resolved as I am to cry thee no mercy, prime cause
as I am that this sin, if sin it be, has been committed; for of this I
warrant thee, that as thou mayst have done or shalt do to Guiscardo,
if to me thou do not the like, I with my own hands will do it. Now
get thee gone to shed thy tears with the women, and when thy
melting mood is over, ruthlessly destroy Guiscardo and me, if such
thou deem our merited doom, by one and the same blow.
The loftiness of his daughter's spirit was not unknown to the
Prince; but still he did not credit her with a resolve quite as firmly
fixed as her words implied, to carry their purport into effect. So,
parting from her without the least intention of using harshness
towards her in her own person, he determined to quench the heat of
her love by wreaking his vengeance on her lover, and bade the two
men that had charge of Guiscardo to strangle him noiselessly that
same night, take the heart out of the body, and send it to him.
The
men did his bidding: and on the morrow the Prince had a large and
beautiful cup of gold brought to him, and having put Guiscardo's
heart therein, sent it by the hand of one of his most trusted servants
to his daughter, charging the servant to say, as he gave it to her:
Thy father sends thee this to give thee joy of that which thou
lovest best, even as thou hast given him joy of that which he loved
best.
Now when her father had left her, Ghismonda, wavering not
a jot in her stern resolve, had sent for poisonous herbs and roots, and
therefrom had distilled a water, to have it ready for use, if that which
she apprehended should come to pass. And when the servant
appeared with the Prince's present and message, she took the cup
unblenchingly, and having lifted the lid, and seen the heart, and
apprehended the meaning of the words, and that the heart was
beyond a doubt Guiscardo's, she raised her head, and looking straight
at the servant, said: Sepulture less honourable than of gold had
ill befitted heart such as this: herein has my father done wisely.
Which said, she raised it to her lips, and kissed it, saying: In all
things and at all times, even to this last hour of my life, have I
found my father most tender in his love, but now more so than
ever before; wherefore I now render him the last thanks which will
ever be due from me to him for this goodly present.
So she spoke,
and straining the cup to her, bowed her head over it, and gazing at
the heart, said: Ah! sojourn most sweet of all my joys, accursed
be he by whose ruthless act I see thee with the bodily eye: 'twas
enough that to the mind's eye thou wert hourly present.
Thou
hast run thy course; thou hast closed the span that Fortune allotted
thee; thou hast reached the goal of all; thou hast left behind thee
the woes and weariness of the world; and thy enemy has himself
granted thee sepulture accordant with thy deserts.
No circumstance
was wanting to duly celebrate thy obsequies, save the tears of her
whom, while thou livedst, thou didst so dearly love; which that
thou shouldst not lack, my remorseless father was prompted of God
to send thee to me, and, albeit my resolve was fixed to die with eyes
unmoistened and front all unperturbed by fear, yet will I accord
thee my tears; which done, my care shall be forthwith by thy
means to join my soul to that most precious soul which thou didst
once enshrine.
And is there other company than hers, in which
with more of joy and peace I might fare to the abodes unknown?
She is yet here within, I doubt not, contemplating the abodes of her
and my delights, and--for sure I am that she loves me--awaiting my
soul that loves her before all else.
Having thus spoken, she bowed herself low over the cup; and,
while no womanish cry escaped her, 'twas as if a fountain of water
were unloosed within her head, so wondrous a flood of tears gushed
from her eyes, while times without number she kissed the dead
heart. Her damsels that stood around her knew not whose the
heart might be or what her words might mean, but melting in sympathy,
they all wept, and compassionately, as vainly, enquired the
cause of her lamentation, and in many other ways sought to comfort
her to the best of their understanding and power.
When she had
wept her fill, she raised her head, and dried her eyes. Then: O
heart,
said she, much cherished heart, discharged is my every duty
towards thee; nought now remains for me to do but to come and
unite my soul with thine.
So saying, she sent for the vase that
held the water which the day before she had distilled, and emptied
it into the cup where lay the heart bathed in her tears; then, nowise
afraid, she set her mouth to the cup, and drained it dry, and so with
the cup in her hand she got her upon her bed, and having there disposed
her person in guise as seemly as she might, laid her dead lover's heart
upon her own, and silently awaited death.
Meanwhile the damsels,
seeing and hearing what passed, but knowing not what the water
was that she had drunk, had sent word of each particular to Tancred;
who, apprehensive of that which came to pass, came down with all
haste to his daughter's room, where he arrived just as she got her
upon her bed, and, now too late, addressed himself to comfort her
with soft words, and seeing in what plight she was, burst into a flood
of bitter tears. To whom the lady: Reserve thy tears, Tancred,
till Fortune send thee hap less longed for than this: waste them not
on me who care not for them. Whoever yet saw any but thee
bewail the consummation of his desire? But, if of the love thou
once didst bear me any spark still lives in thee, be it thy parting
grace to me, that, as thou brookedst not that I should live with
Guiscardo in privity and seclusion, so wherever thou mayst have
caused Guiscardo's body to be cast, mine may be united with it in the
common view of all.
The Prince replied not for excess of grief;
and the lady, feeling that her end was come, strained the dead heart
to her bosom, saying: Fare ye well; I take my leave of you;
and with eyelids drooped and every sense evanished departed this
life of woe.
Such was the lamentable end of the loves of Guiscardo
and Ghismonda; whom Tancred, tardily repentant of his harshness,
mourned not a little, as did also all the folk of Salerno, and had
honourably interred side by side in the same tomb.
Novel IIFra Alberto gives a lady to under stand that she is beloved
of the Angel Gabriel, in whose shape he lies with her
sundry times; afterward, for fear of her kinsmen, he
flings himself forth of her house, and finds shelter in
the house of a poor man, who on the morrow leads
him in the guise of a wild man into the piazza,
where, being recognized, he is apprehended by his
brethren and imprisoned.
More
than once had Fiammetta's story brought tears to the eyes of her fair companions; but now
that it was ended the king said with an austere air: I should esteem my life but a
paltry price to pay for half the delight that Ghismonda had with Guiscardo: whereat no
lady of you all should marvel, seeing that each hour that I live I die a thousand deaths;
nor is there so much as a particle of compensating joy allotted me.
But a truce to my own concerns: I ordain that Pampinea do next ensue our
direful argument, wherewith the tenor of my life in part accords, and if she follow in
Fiammetta's footsteps, I doubt not I shall presently feel some drops of dew distill upon
my fire.
Pampinea received the king's command in a spirit
more accordant with what from her own bent she divined to be the wishes of her fair
gossips than with the king's words; wherefore, being minded rather to afford them some
diversion, than, save as in duty bound, to satisfy the king, she made choice of a story
which, without deviating from the prescribed theme, should move a laugh, and thus
began:
'Tis a proverb current among the vulgar, that: Whoso, being
wicked, is righteous reputed, May sin as he will, and 'twill ne'er be
imputed.
Which proverb furnishes me with abundant matter of
discourse, germane to our theme, besides occasion to exhibit the
quality and degree of the hypocrisy of the religious, who flaunt it in
ample flowing robes, and, with faces made pallid by art, with voices
low and gentle to beg alms, most loud and haughty to reprove in
others their own sins, would make believe that their way of salvation
lies in taking from us and ours in giving to them; nay, more, as if
they had not like us Paradise to win, but were already its lords and
masters, assign therein to each that dies a place more or less exalted
according to the amount of the money that he has bequeathed to
them; which if they believe, 'tis by dint of self-delusion, and to the
effect of deluding all that put faith in their words.
Of whose guile
were it lawful for me to make as full exposure as were fitting, not a
few simple folk should soon be enlightened as to what they cloak
within the folds of their voluminous habits. But would to God all
might have the like reward of their lies as a certain friar minor, no
novice, but one that was reputed among their greatestde' maggior
cassesi. No such word as cassesi is known to the lexicographers
or commentators; and no plausible emendation has yet been
suggested. at Venice;
whose story, rather than aught else, I am minded to tell you, if so
I may, perchance, by laughter and jollity relieve in some degree your
souls that are heavy laden with pity for the death of Ghismonda.
Know then, noble ladies, that there was in Imola a man of evil
and corrupt life, Berto della Massa by name, whose pestilent practices
came at length to be so well known to the good folk of Imola that
'twas all one whether he lied or spoke the truth, for there was not a
soul in Imola that believed a word he said: wherefore, seeing that his
tricks would pass no longer there, he removed, as in despair, to Venice,
that common sink of all abominations, thinking there to find other
means than he had found elsewhere to the prosecution of his nefarious
designs. And, as if conscience-stricken for his past misdeeds, he
assumed an air of the deepest humility, turned the best Catholic of
them all, and went and made himself a friar minor, taking the name
of Fra Alberto da Imola. With his habit he put on a shew of
austerity, highly commending penitence and abstinence, and eating
or drinking no sort of meat or wine but such as was to his taste.
And scarce a soul was there that wist that the thief, the pimp,
the cheat, the assassin, had not been suddenly converted into a great
preacher without continuing in the practice of the said iniquities,
whensoever the same was privily possible. And withal, having got
himself made priest, as often as he celebrated at the altar, he would
weep over the passion of our Lord, so there were folk in plenty to
see, for tears cost him little enough, when he had a mind to shed
them. In short, what with his sermons and his tears, he duped the
folk of Venice to such a tune that scarce a will was there made but
he was its executor and depositary; nay, not a few made him trustee
of their moneys, and most, or well-nigh most, men and women alike,
their confessor and counsellor: in short, he had put off the wolf and
put on the shepherd, and the fame of his holiness was such in those
parts that St. Francis himself had never the like at Assisi.
Now it so befell that among the ladies that came to confess to this
holy friar was one Monna Lisetta of Ca' Quirino, the young, silly,
empty-headed wife of a great merchant, who was gone with the
galleys to Flanders. Like a Venetian--for unstable are they all--though
she placed herself at his feet, she told him but a part of her
sins, and when Fra Alberto asked her whether she had a lover,
she
replied with black looks: How now, master friar? have you not
eyes in your head? See you no difference between my charms and
those of other women? Lovers in plenty might I have, so I would:
but charms such as mine must not be cheapened: 'tis not every man
that might presume to love me. How many ladies have you seen
whose beauty is comparable to mine? I should adorn Paradise
itself.
Whereto she added so much more in praise of her beauty
that the friar could scarce hear her with patience.
Howbeit, discerning
at a glance that she was none too well furnished with sense,
he deemed the soil meet for his plough, and fell forthwith inordinately
in love with her, though he deferred his blandishments to a more
convenient season, and by way of supporting his character for holiness
began instead to chide her, telling her (among other novelties) that
this was vainglory: whereto the lady retorted that he was a blockhead,
and could not distinguish one degree of beauty from another.
Wherefore Fra Alberto, lest he should occasion her too much chagrin,
cut short the confession, and suffered her to depart with the other
ladies.
Some days after, accompanied by a single trusty friend, he
hied him to Monna Lisetta's house, and having withdrawn with her
alone into a saloon, where they were safe from observation, he fell on
his knees at her feet, and said: Madam, for the love of God I
crave your pardon of that which I said to you on Sunday, when you
spoke to me of your beauty, for so grievously was I chastised therefor
that very night, that 'tis but to-day that I have been able to quit
my bed.
And by whom,
quoth my Lady Battledore, were
you so chastised?
I will tell you,
returned Fra Alberto.
That night I was, as is ever my wont, at my orisons, when suddenly
a great light shone in my cell, and before I could turn me
to see what it was, I saw standing over me a right goodly youth with
a stout cudgel in his hand, who seized me by the habit and threw
me at his feet and belaboured me till I was bruised from head to
foot. And when I asked him why he used me thus, he answered:
--''Tis because thou didst to-day presume to speak slightingly of
the celestial charms of Monna Lisetta, whom I love next to God
Himself.' Whereupon I asked: 'And who are you?' And he
made answer that he was the Angel Gabriel. Then said I: 'O
my lord, I pray you pardon me.' Whereto he answered: 'I pardon
thee on condition that thou go to her, with what speed thou mayst,
and obtain her pardon, which if she accord thee not, I shall come
back hither and give thee belabourings enough with my cudgel to
make thee a sad man for the rest of thy days.' What more he
said, I dare not tell you, unless you first pardon me.
Whereat our
flimsy pumpion-pated Lady Lackbrain was overjoyed, taking all the
friar's words for gospel. So after a while she said: And did I not
tell you, Fra Alberto, that my charms were celestial? But, so help
me God, I am moved to pity of you, and forthwith I pardon you,
lest worse should befall you, so only you tell me what more the
Angel said.
So will I gladly, Madam,
returned Fra Alberto,
now that I have your pardon; this only I bid you bear in mind,
that you have a care that never a soul in the world hear from you a
single word of what I shall say to you, if you would not spoil your
good fortune, wherein there is not to-day in the whole world a lady
that may compare with you. Know then that the Angel Gabriel
bade me tell you that you stand so high in his favour that again and
again he would have come to pass the night with you, but that he
doubted he should affright you. So now he sends you word through
me that he would fain come one night, and stay a while with you;
and seeing that, being an angel, if he should visit you in his angelic
shape, he might not be touched by you, he would, to pleasure you,
present himself in human shape; and so he bids you send him word,
when you would have him come, and in whose shape, and he will
come; for which cause you may deem yourself more blessed than
any other lady that lives.
My Lady Vanity then said that she
was highly flattered to be beloved of the Angel Gabriel; whom she
herself loved so well that she had never grudged four soldi to burn
a candle before his picture, wherever she saw it, and that he was
welcome to visit her as often as he liked, and would always find her
alone in her room; on the understanding, however, that he should
not desert her for the Virgin Mary, whom she had heard he did
mightily affect, and indeed 'twould so appear, for, wherever she saw
him, he was always on his knees at her feet: for the rest he might
even come in what shape he pleased, so that it was not such as to
terrify her. Then said Fra Alberto: Madam, 'tis wisely spoken;
and I will arrange it all with him just as you say. But 'tis in your
power to do me a great favour, which will cost you nothing; and
this favour is that you be consenting that he visit you in my
shape. Now hear wherein you will confer this favour: thus will it
be: he will disembody my soul, and set it in Paradise, entering himself
into my body; and, as long as he shall be with you, my soul will
be in Paradise.
Whereto my Lady Slenderwit: So be it,
she
said; I am well pleased that you have this solace to salve the bruises
that he gives you on my account.
Good,
said Fra Alberto;
then you will see to it that to-night he find, when he comes, your
outer door unlatched, that he may have ingress; for, coming, as he
will, in human shape, he will not be able to enter save by the door.
It shall be done,
replied the lady. Whereupon Fra Alberto took
his leave, and the lady remained in such a state of exaltation that her
nether end knew not her chemise, and it seemed to her a thousand
years until the Angel Gabriel should come to visit her.
Fra
Alberto, bethinking him that 'twas not as an angel, but as a cavalier
that he must acquit himself that night, fell to fortifying himself with
comfits and other dainties, that he might not lose his saddle for
slight cause. Then, leave of absence gotten, he betook him at nightfall,
with a single companion, to the house of a woman that was his
friend, which house had served on former occasions as his base when
he went a chasing the fillies; and having there disguised himself,
he hied him, when he deemed 'twas time, to the house of the lady,
where, donning the gewgaws he had brought with him, he transformed
himself into an angel, and going up, entered the lady's
chamber. No sooner saw she this dazzling apparition than she fell
on her knees before the Angel, who gave her his blessing, raised her
to her feet, and motioned her to go to bed. She, nothing loath,
obeyed forthwith, and the Angel lay down beside his devotee.
Now
Fra Alberto was a stout, handsome fellow, whose legs bore themselves
right bravely; and being bedded with Monna Lisetta, who was lusty
and delicate, he covered her after another fashion than her husband
had been wont, and took many a flight that night without wings, so
that she heartily cried him content; and not a little therewithal did
he tell her of the glory celestial. Then towards daybreak, all being
ready for his return, he hied him forth, and repaired, caparisoned as
he was, to his friend, whom, lest he should be affrighted, sleeping
alone, the good woman of the house had solaced with her company.
The lady, so soon as she had breakfasted, betook her to Fra Alberto,
and reported the Angel Gabriel's visit, and what he had told her of
the glory of the life eternal, describing his appearance, not without
some added marvels of her own invention.
Whereto Fra Alberto
replied: Madam, I know not how you fared with him; but this
I know, that last night he came to me, and for that I had done his
errand with you, he suddenly transported my soul among such a
multitude of flowers and roses as was never seen here below, and my
soul--what became of my body I know not--tarried in one of the
most delightful places that ever was from that hour until matins.
As for your body,
said the lady, do I not tell you whose it was?
It lay all night long with the Angel Gabriel in my arms; and if you
believe me not, you have but to look under your left pap, where I
gave the Angel a mighty kiss, of which the mark will last for some
days.
Why then,
said Fra Alberto, I will even do to-day
what 'tis long since I did, to wit, undress, that I may see if you say
sooth.
So they fooled it a long while, and then the lady went
home, where Fra Alberto afterwards paid her many a visit without
any let.
However, one day it so befell that while Monna Lisetta
was with one of her gossips canvassing beauties, she, being minded
to exalt her own charms above all others, and having, as we know,
none too much wit in her pumpion-pate, observed: Did you but
know by whom my charms are prized, then, for sure, you would
have nought to say of the rest.
Her gossip, all agog to hear, for
well she knew her foible, answered: Madam, it may be as you say,
but still, while one knows not who he may be, one cannot alter one's
mind so rapidly.
Whereupon my Lady Featherbrain: Gossip,
said she, 'tis not for common talk, but he that I wot of is the
Angel Gabriel, who loves me more dearly than himself, for that I
am, so he tells me, the fairest lady in all the world, ay, and in the
Maremma to boot.
With this ineptitude cf. the friar's flowers
and roses
on the preceding
page.
Whereat her gossip would fain have laughed,
but held herself in, being minded to hear more from her. Wherefore
she said: God's faith, Madam, if 'tis the Angel Gabriel, and
he tells you so, why, so of course it must needs be; but I wist
not the angels meddled with such matters.
There you erred,
gossip,
said the lady: zounds, he does it better than my husband,
and he tells me they do it above there too, but, as he rates my
charms above any that are in heaven, he is enamoured of me, and
not seldom visits me: so now dost see?
So away went the gossip
so agog to tell the story, that it seemed to her a thousand years till
she was where it might be done; and being met for recreation with
a great company of ladies, she narrated it all in detail: whereby it
passed to the ladies' husbands, and to other ladies, and from them to
yet other ladies, so that in less than two days all Venice was full of
it. But among others, whose ears it reached, were Monna Lisetta's
brothers-in-law, who, keeping their own counsel, resolved to find
this angel and make out whether he knew how to fly; to which end
they kept watch for some nights.
Whereof no hint, as it happened,
reached Fra Alberto's ears; and so, one night when he was come to
enjoy the lady once more, he was scarce undressed when her brothers-in-law,
who had seen him come, were at the door of the room and
already opening it, when Fra Alberto, hearing the noise and apprehending
the danger, started up, and having no other resource, threw open
a window that looked on to the Grand Canal, and plunged into the
water. The depth was great, and he was an expert swimmer; so
that he took no hurt, but, having reached the other bank, found a
house open, and forthwith entered it, praying the good man that was
within, for God's sake to save his life, and trumping up a story to
account for his being there at so late an hour, and stripped to the
skin. The good man took pity on him, and having occasion to go
out, he put him in his own bed, bidding him stay there until his
return; and so, having locked him in, he went about his business.
Now when the lady's brothers-in-law entered the room, and found
that the Angel Gabriel had taken flight, leaving his wings behind him,
being baulked of their prey, they roundly rated the lady, and then,
leaving her disconsolate, betook themselves home with the Angel's
spoils. Whereby it befell, that, when 'twas broad day, the good man,
being on the Rialto, heard tell how the Angel Gabriel had come to
pass the night with Monna Lisetta, and, being surprised by her
brothers-in-law, had taken fright, and thrown himself into the Canal,
and none knew what was become of him. The good man guessed
in a trice that the said Angel was no other than the man he had at
home, whom on his return he recognized, and, after much chaffering,
brought him to promise him fifty ducats that he might not be given
up to the lady's brothers-in-law. The bargain struck, Fra Alberto
signified a desire to be going. Whereupon: There is no way,
said the good man, but one, if you are minded to take it. To-day
we hold a revel, wherein folk lead others about in various disguises;
as, one man will present a bear, another a wild man, and so forth;
and then in the piazza of San Marco there is a hunt, which done, the
revel is ended; and then away they hie them, whither they will, each
with the man he has led about. If you are willing to be led by me
in one or another of these disguises, before it can get wind that you
are here, I can bring you whither you would go; otherwise I see not
how you are to quit this place without being known; and the lady's
brothers-in-law, reckoning that you must be lurking somewhere in this
quarter, have set guards all about to take you.
Loath indeed was Fra
Alberto to go in such a guise, but such was his fear of the lady's relations
that he consented, and told the good man whither he desired to be
taken, and that he was content to leave the choice of the disguise
to him. The good man then smeared him all over with honey, and
covered him with down, set a chain on his neck and a vizard on
his face, gave him a stout cudgel to carry in one hand, and two
huge dogs, which he had brought from the shambles, to lead with
the other, and sent a man to the Rialto to announce that whoso would
see the Angel Gabriel should hie him to the piazza of San Marco; in
all which he acted as a leal Venetian. And so, after a while, he led
him forth, and then, making him go before, held him by the chain
behind, and through a great throng that clamoured: What manner
of thing is this? what manner of thing is this?
he brought him
to the piazza, where, what with those that followed them, and those
that had come from the Rialto on hearing the announcement, there
were folk without end. Arrived at the piazza, he fastened his wild
man to a column in a high and exposed place, making as if he were
minded to wait till the hunt should begin; whereby the flies and
gadflies, attracted by the honey with which he was smeared, caused
him most grievous distress. However, the good man waited only
until the piazza was thronged, and then, making as if he would
unchain his wild man, he tore the vizard from Fra Alberto's face,
saying: Gentlemen, as the boar comes not to the hunt, and the hunt
does not take place, that it be not for nothing that you are come hither,
I am minded to give you a view of the Angel Gabriel, who comes
down from heaven to earth by night to solace the ladies of Venice.
The vizard was no sooner withdrawn than all recognized Fra Alberto,
and greeted him with hootings, rating him in language as offensive
and opprobrious as ever rogue was abused withal, and pelting him in
the face with every sort of filth that came to hand: in which plight
they kept him an exceeding great while, until by chance the bruit
thereof reached his brethren, of whom some six thereupon put themselves
in motion, and, arrived at the piazza, clapped a habit on his
back, and unchained him, and amid an immense uproar led him off
to their convent, where, after languishing a while in prison, 'tis believed
that he died.
So this man, by reason that, being reputed righteous, he did evil,
and 'twas not imputed to him, presumed to counterfeit the Angel
Gabriel, and, being transformed into a wild man, was in the end put
to shame, as he deserved, and vainly bewailed his misdeeds. God
grant that so it may betide all his likes.
Novel IIIThree young men love three sisters, and flee with them to
Crete. The eldest of the sisters slays her lover for
jealousy. The second saves the life of the first by
yielding herself to the Duke of Crete. Her lover
slays her, and makes off with the first: the thira
sister and her lover are charged with the murder,
are arrested and confess the crime. They escape
death by bribing the guards, flee destitute to Rhodes,
and there in destitution die.
Pampinea's story ended, Filostrato mused a while, and then said
to her: A little good matter there was that pleased me at the
close of your story, but, before 'twas reached, there was far too much
to laugh at, which I could have wished had not been there.
Then,
turning to Lauretta, he said: Madam, give us something better
to follow, if so it may be.
Lauretta replied with a laugh: Harsh
beyond measure are you to the lovers, to desire that their end be
always evil; but, as in duty bound, I will tell a story of three, who
all alike came to a bad end, having had little joyance of their loves;
and so saying, she began.
Well may ye wot, young ladies, for 'tis abundantly manifest, that
there is no vice but most grievous disaster may ensue thereon to him
that practises it, and not seldom to others; and of all the vices that
which hurries us into peril with loosest rein is, methinks, anger;
which is nought but a rash and hasty impulse, prompted by a feeling
of pain, which banishes reason, shrouds the eyes of the mind in thick
darkness, and sets the soul ablaze with a fierce frenzy.
Which,
though it not seldom befall men, and one rather than another, has
nevertheless been observed to be fraught in women with more
disastrous consequences, inasmuch as in them the flame is both more
readily kindled, and burns more brightly, and with less impediment
to its vehemence. Wherein is no cause to marvel, for, if we consider
it, we shall see that 'tis of the nature of fire to lay hold more readily
of things light and delicate than of matters of firmer and more solid
substance; and sure it is that we (without offence to the men be it
spoken) are more delicate than they, and much more mobile.
Wherefore,
seeing how prone we are thereto by nature, and considering
also our gentleness and tenderness, how soothing and consolatory they
are to the men with whom we consort, and that thus this madness
of wrath is fraught with grievous annoy and peril; therefore, that
with stouter heart we may defend ourselves against it, I purpose by
my story to shew you, how the loves of three young men, and as
many ladies, as I said before, were by the anger of one of the ladies
changed from a happy to a most woeful complexion.
Marseilles, as you know, is situate on the coast of Provence, a
city ancient and most famous, and in old time the seat of many more
rich men and great merchants than are to be seen there to-day,
among whom was one Narnald Cluada by name, a man of the lowest
origin, but a merchant of unsullied probity and integrity, and boundless
wealth in lands and goods and money, who had by his lady several
children, three of them being daughters, older, each of them, than
the other children, who were sons. Two of the daughters, who
were twins, were, when my story begins, fifteen years old, and the
third was but a year younger, so that in order to their marriage their
kinsfolk awaited nothing but the return of Narnald from Spain,
whither he was gone with his merchandise. One of the twins was
called Ninette, the other Madeleine; the third daughter's name was
Bertelle. A young man, Restagnon by name, who, though poor,
was of gentle blood, was in the last degree enamoured of Ninette,
and she of him; and so discreetly had they managed the affair,
that, never another soul in the world witting aught of it, they had
had joyance of their love, and that for a good while, when it so
befell that two young friends of theirs, the one Foulques, the other
Hugues by name, whom their fathers, recently dead, had left very
wealthy, fell in love, the one with Madeleine, the other with Bertelle.
Whereof Restagnon being apprised by Ninette bethought him that
in their love he might find a means to the relief of his necessities.
He accordingly consorted freely and familiarly with them, accompanying,
now one, now the other, and sometimes both of them, when
they went to visit their ladies and his; and when he judged that he
had made his footing as friendly and familiar as need was, he bade
them one day to his house, and said: Comrades most dear, our
friendship, perchance, may not have left you without assurance of
the great love I bear you, and that for you I would do even as much
as for myself: wherefore, loving you thus much, I purpose to impart
to you that which is in my mind, that in regard thereof, you and I
together may then resolve in such sort as to you shall seem the best.
You, if I may trust your words, as also what I seem to have gathered
from your demeanour by day and by night, burn with an exceeding
great love for the two ladies whom you affect, as I for their sister.
For the assuagement whereof, I have good hope that, if you will
unite with me, I shall find means most sweet and delightsome; to
wit, on this wise. You possess, as I do not, great wealth: now if
you are willing to make of your wealth a common stock with me as
third partner therein, and to choose some part of the world where
we may live in careless ease upon our substance, without any manner
of doubt I trust so to prevail that the three sisters with great part of
their father's substance shall come to live with us, wherever we shall
see fit to go; whereby, each with his own lady, we shall live as
three brethren, the happiest men in the world. 'Tis now for you to
determine whether you will embrace this proffered solace, or let it
slip from you.
The two young men, whose love was beyond all
measure fervent, spared themselves the trouble of deliberation: 'twas
enough that they heard that they were to have their ladies: wherefore
they answered, that, so this should ensue, they were ready to do
as he proposed. Having thus their answer, Restagnon a few days
later was closeted with Ninette, to whom 'twas a matter of no small
difficulty for him to get access. Nor had he been long with her
before he adverted to what had passed between him and the young
men, and sought to commend the project to her for reasons not a
few.
Little need, however, had he to urge her: for to live their life
openly together was the very thing she desired, far more than he:
wherefore she frankly answered that she would have it so, that her
sisters would do, more especially in this matter, just as she wished,
and that he should lose no time in making all the needful arrangements.
So Restagnon returned to the two young men, who were
most urgent that it should be done even as he said, and told them
that on the part of the ladies the matter was concluded.
And so,
having fixed upon Crete for their destination, and sold some estates
that they had, giving out that they were minded to go a trading with
the proceeds, they converted all else that they possessed into money,
and bought a brigantine, which with all secrecy they handsomely
equipped, anxiously expecting the time of their departure, while
Ninette on her part, knowing well how her sisters were affected,
did so by sweet converse foment their desire that, till it should be
accomplished, they accounted their life as nought.
The night of
their embarcation being come, the three sisters opened a great chest
that belonged to their father, and took out therefrom a vast quantity
of money and jewels, with which they all three issued forth of the
house in dead silence, as they had been charged, and found their
three lovers awaiting them; who, having forthwith brought them
aboard the brigantine, bade the rowers give way, and, tarrying
nowhere, arrived the next evening at Genoa, where the new lovers
had for the first time joyance and solace of their love.
Having taken what they needed of refreshment, they resumed
their course, touching at this port and that, and in less than eight
days, speeding without impediment, were come to Crete. There
they bought them domains both beautiful and broad, whereon, hard
by Candia they built them mansions most goodly and delightsome,
wherein they lived as barons, keeping a crowd of retainers, with
dogs, hawks and horses, and speeding the time with their ladies in
feasting and revelling and merrymaking, none so light-hearted as
they. Such being the tenor of their life, it so befell that (as 'tis
matter of daily experience that, however delightsome a thing may
be, superabundance thereof will breed disgust) Restagnon, much as
he had loved Ninette, being now able to have his joyance of her
without stint or restraint, began to weary of her, and by consequence
to abate somewhat of his love for her. And being mightily pleased
with a fair gentlewoman of the country, whom he met at a merry-making,
he set his whole heart upon her, and began to shew himself
marvellously courteous and gallant towards her; which Ninette
perceiving
grew so jealous that he might not go a step but she knew of
it, and resented it to his torment and her own with high words.
But
as, while superfluity engenders disgust, appetite is but whetted when
fruit is forbidden, so Ninette's wrath added fuel to the flame of
Restagnon's new love. And whichever was the event, whether in
course of time Restagnon had the lady's favour or had it not, Ninette,
whoever may have brought her the tidings, firmly believed that he
had it; whereby from the depths of distress she passed into a towering
passion, and thus was transported into such a frenzy of rage that
all the love she bore to Restagnon was converted into bitter hatred,
and, blinded by her wrath, she made up her mind to avenge by
Restagnon's death the dishonour which she deemed that he had done
her. So she had recourse to an old Greek woman, that was very
skilful in compounding poisons, whom by promises and gifts she
induced to distill a deadly water, which, keeping her own counsel,
she herself gave Restagnon to drink one evening, when he was
somewhat heated and quite off his guard: whereby--such was the
efficacy of the water--she despatched Restagnon before matins. On
learning his death Foulques and Hugues and their ladies, who knew
not that he had been poisoned, united their bitter with Ninette's
feigned lamentations, and gave him honourable sepulture. But so it
befell that, not many days after, the old woman, that had compounded
the poison for Ninette, was taken for another crime; and, being put
to the torture, confessed the compounding of the poison among other
of her misdeeds, and fully declared what had thereby come to pass.
Wherefore the Duke of Crete, breathing no word of his intent, came
privily by night, and set a guard around Foulques' palace, where
Ninette then was, and quietly, and quite unopposed, took and carried
her off; and without putting her to the torture, learned from her in
a trice all that he sought to know touching the death of Restagnon.
Foulques and Hugues had learned privily of the Duke, and their
ladies of them, for what cause Ninette was taken; and, being mightily
distressed thereby, bestirred themselves with all zeal to save Ninette
from the fire, to which they apprehended she would be condemned,
as having indeed richly deserved it; but all their endeavours seemed
to avail nothing, for the Duke was unwaveringly resolved that justice
should be done.
Madeleine, Foulques' fair wife, who had long been
courted by the Duke, but had never deigned to shew him the least
favour, thinking that by yielding herself to his will she might redeem
her sister from the fire, despatched a trusty envoy to him with the
intimation that she was entirely at his disposal upon the twofold
condition, that in the first place her sister should be restored to her
free and scatheless, and, in the second place, the affair should be kept
secret.
Albeit gratified by this overture, the Duke was long in doubt
whether he should accept it; in the end, however, he made up his
mind to do so, and signified his approval to the envoy. Then with
the lady's consent he put Foulques and Hugues under arrest for a
night, as if he were minded to examine them of the affair, and
meanwhile quartered himself privily with Madeleine.
Ninette, who,
he had made believe, had been set in a sack, and was to be sunk
in the sea that same night, he took with him, and presented her to
her sister in requital of the night's joyance, which, as he parted from
her on the morrow, he prayed her might not be the last, as it was
the first, fruit of their love, at the same time enjoining her to send
the guilty lady away that she might not bring reproach upon him,
nor he be compelled to deal rigorously with her again.
Released the
same morning, and told that Ninette had been cast into the sea,
Foulques and Hugues, fully believing that so it was, came home,
thinking how they should console their ladies for the death of their
sister; but, though Madeleine was at great pains to conceal Ninette,
Foulques nevertheless, to his no small amazement, discovered that
she was there; which at once excited his suspicion, for he knew that
the Duke had been enamoured of Madeleine; and he asked how it
was that Ninette was there. Madeleine made up a long story by
way of explanation, to which his sagacity gave little credit, and in
the end after long parley he constrained her to tell the truth. Whereupon,
overcome with grief, and transported with rage, he drew his
sword, and, deaf to her appeals for mercy, slew her.
Then, fearing
the vengeful justice of the Duke, he left the dead body in the room,
and hied him to Ninette, and with a counterfeit gladsome mien said
to her: Go we without delay whither thy sister has appointed
that I escort thee, that thou fall not again into the hands of the
Duke.
Ninette believed him, and being fain to go for very fear,
she forewent further leave-taking of her sister, more particularly as
it was now night, and set out with Foulques, who took with him
such little money as he could lay his hands upon; and so they made
their way to the coast, where they got aboard a bark, but none ever
knew where their voyage ended.
Madeleine's dead body being discovered next day, certain evildisposed
folk, that bore a grudge to Hugues, forthwith apprised the
Duke of the fact; which brought the Duke--for much he loved
Madeleine--in hot haste to the house, where he arrested Hugues and
his lady, who as yet knew nothing of the departure of Foulques and
Ninette, and extorted from them a confession that they and Foulques
were jointly answerable for Madeleine's death.
For which cause being
justly apprehensive of death, they with great address corrupted the
guards that had charge of them, giving them a sum of money which
they kept concealed in their house against occasions of need; and
together with the guards fled with all speed, leaving all that they
possessed behind them, and took ship by night for Rhodes, where,
being arrived, they lived in great poverty and misery no long time.
Such then was the issue, to which Restagnon, by his foolish love, and
Ninette by her wrath brought themselves and others.
Novel IVGerbino, in breach of the plighted faith of his grandfather,
King Guglielmo, attacks a ship of the King of Tunis
to rescue thence his daughter. She being slain by
those aboard the ship, he slays them, and afterwards
he is beheaded.
Lauretta, her story ended, kept silence; and the king brooded
as in deep thought, while one or another of the company deplored
the sad fate of this or the other of the lovers, or censured Ninette's
wrath, or made some other comment. At length, however, the
king roused himself, and raising his head, made sign to Elisa that
'twas now for her to speak. So, modestly, Elisa thus began:
Gracious ladies, not a few there are that believe that Love looses no
shafts save when he is kindled by the eyes, contemning their opinion
that hold that passion may be engendered by words; whose error
will be abundantly manifest in a story which I purpose to tell you;
wherein you may see how mere rumour not only wrought mutual
love in those that had never seen one another, but also brought both
to a miserable death.
Guglielmo, the Second,First, according to the now accepted
reckoning. He reigned from 1154
to 1166. as the Sicilians compute, King of Sicily,
had two children, a son named Ruggieri, and a daughter named
Gostanza. Ruggieri died before his father, and left a son named
Gerbino; who, being carefully trained by his grandfather, grew up a
most goodly gallant, and of great renown in court and camp,
and
that not only within the borders of Sicily, but in divers other parts
of the world, among them Barbary, then tributary to the King of
Sicily. And among others, to whose ears was wafted the bruit of
Gerbino's magnificent prowess and courtesy, was a daughter of the
King of Tunis, who, by averment of all that had seen her, was a
creature as fair and debonair, and of as great and noble a spirit as
Nature ever formed. To hear tell of brave men was her delight, and
what she heard, now from one, now from another, of the brave deeds
of Gerbino she treasured in her mind so sedulously, and pondered
them with such pleasure, rehearsing them to herself in imagination,
that she became hotly enamoured of him, and there was none
of whom she talked, or heard others talk, so gladly. Nor, on the
other hand, had the fame of her incomparable beauty and other
excellences failed to travel, as to other lands, so also to Sicily, where,
falling on Gerbino's ears, it gave him no small delight, to such effect
that he burned for the lady no less vehemently than she for him.
Wherefore, until such time as he might, upon some worthy occasion,
have his grandfather's leave to go to Tunis, yearning beyond measure
to see her, he charged every friend of his, that went thither, to give
her to know, as best he might, his great and secret love for her, and
to bring him tidings of her. Which office one of the said friends
discharged with no small address; for, having obtained access to her,
after the manner of merchants, by bringing jewels for her to look at,
he fully apprised her of Gerbino's passion, and placed him, and all
that he possessed, entirely at her disposal. The lady received both
messenger and message with gladsome mien, made answer that she
loved with equal ardour, and in token thereof sent Gerbino one of
her most precious jewels. Gerbino received the jewel with extreme
delight, and sent her many a letter and many a most precious gift by
the hand of the same messenger; and 'twas well understood between
them that, should Fortune accord him opportunity, he should see
and know her.
On this footing the affair remained somewhat longer than was
expedient; and so, while Gerbino and the lady burned with mutual
love, it befell that the King of Tunis gave her in marriage to the
King of Granada;An anachronism; the Moorish kingdom of Granada not
having been
founded until 1238. whereat she was wroth beyond measure, for that
she was not only going into a country remote from her lover, but, as
she deemed, was severed from him altogether; and so this might not
come to pass, gladly, could she but have seen how, would she have
left her father and fled to Gerbino. In like manner, Gerbino, on
learning of the marriage, was vexed beyond measure, and was ofttimes
minded, could he but find means to win to her husband by
sea, to wrest her from him by force. Some rumour of Gerbino's love,
and of his intent, reached the King of Tunis, who, knowing his
prowess and power, took alarm, and as the time drew nigh for
conveying the lady to Granada, sent word of his purpose to King
Guglielmo, and craved his assurance that it might be carried into
effect without let or hindrance on the part of Gerbino, or any one
else. The old King had heard nothing of Gerbino's love affair, and
never dreaming that 'twas on such account that the assurance was
craved, granted it without demur, and in pledge thereof sent the
King of Tunis his glove. Which received, the King made ready
a great and goodly ship in the port of Carthage, and equipped
her with all things meet for those that were to man her, and
with all appointments apt and seemly for the reception of his
daughter, and awaited only fair weather to send her therein to
Granada. All which the young lady seeing and marking, sent
one of her servants privily to Palermo, bidding him greet the
illustrious Gerbino on her part, and tell him that a few days
would see her on her way to Granada; wherefore 'twould now appear
whether, or no, he were really as doughty a man as he was reputed,
and loved her as much as he had so often protested.
The servant
did not fail to deliver her message exactly, and returned to Tunis,
leaving Gerbino, who knew that his grandfather, King Guglielmo,
had given the King of Tunis the desired assurance, at a loss how to
act. But prompted by love, and goaded by the lady's words and
loath to seem a craven, he hied him to Messina; and having there
armed two light galleys, and manned them with good men and true,
he put to sea, and stood for Sardinia, deeming that the lady's ship must
pass that way. Nor was he far out in his reckoning; for he had
not been there many days, when the ship, sped by a light breeze, hove
in sight not far from the place where he lay in wait for her. Whereupon
Gerbino said to his comrades: Gentlemen, if you be as good
men and true as I deem you, there is none of you but must have felt, if
he feel not now, the might of love; for without love I deem no
mortal capable of true worth or aught that is good; and if you are
or have been in love, 'twill be easy for you to understand that which
I desire. I love, and 'tis because I love that I have laid this travail
upon you; and that which I love is in the ship that you see before
you, which is fraught not only with my beloved, but with immense
treasures, which, if you are good men and true, we, so we but play
the man in fight, may with little trouble make our own; nor for
my share of the spoils of the victory demand I aught but a lady,
whose love it is that prompts me to take arms: all else I freely cede
to you from this very hour. Forward, then; attack we this ship;
success should be ours, for God favours our enterprise, nor lends her
wind to evade us.
Fewer words might have sufficed the illustrious
Gerbino; for the rapacious Messinese that were with him were
already bent heart and soul upon that to which by his harangue he
sought to animate them. So, when he had done, they raised a
mighty shout, so that 'twas as if trumpets did blare, and caught up
their arms, and smiting the water with their oars, overhauled the
ship. The advancing galleys were observed while they were yet a
great way off by the ship's crew, who, not being able to avoid the
combat, put themselves in a posture of defence. Arrived at close
quarters, the illustrious Gerbino bade send the ship's masters aboard
the galleys, unless they were minded to do battle.
Certified of the
challenge, and who they were that made it, the Saracens answered
that 'twas in breach of the faith plighted to them by their assailants'
king that they were thus attacked, and in token thereof displayed
King Guglielmo's glove, averring in set terms that there should be
no surrender either of themselves or of aught that was aboard the
ship without battle.
Gerbino, who had observed the lady standing
on the ship's poop, and seen that she was far more beautiful than he
had imagined, burned with a yet fiercer flame than before, and to
the display of the glove made answer, that, as he had no falcons there
just then, the glove booted him not; wherefore, so they were not
minded to surrender the lady, let them prepare to receive battle.
Whereupon, without further delay, the battle began on both sides
with a furious discharge of arrows and stones; on which wise it was
long protracted to their common loss; until at last Gerbino, seeing
that he gained little advantage, took a light bark which they had
brought from Sardinia, and having fired her, bore down with her,
and both the galleys, upon the ship. Whereupon the Saracens,
seeing that they must perforce surrender the ship or die, caused the
King's daughter, who lay beneath the deck weeping, to come up on
deck, and led her to the prow, and shouting to Gerbino, while the
lady shrieked alternately mercy
and succour,
opened her veins
before his eyes, and cast her into the sea, saying: Take her; we
give her to thee on such wise as we can, and as thy faith has merited.
Maddened to witness this deed of barbarism, Gerbino, as if courting
death, recked no more of the arrows and the stones, but drew alongside
the ship, and, despite the resistance of her crew, boarded her;
and as a famished lion ravens amongst a herd of oxen, and tearing
and rending, now one, now another, gluts his wrath before he appeases
his hunger, so Gerbino, sword in hand, hacking and hewing on all
sides among the Saracens, did ruthlessly slaughter not a few of them;
till, as the burning ship began to blaze more fiercely, he bade the
seamen take thereout all that they might by way of guerdon, which
done, he quitted her, having gained but a rueful victory over his
adversaries. His next care was to recover from the sea the body of
the fair lady, whom long and with many a tear he mourned: and
so he returned to Sicily, and gave the body honourable sepulture in
Ustica, an islet that faces, as it were, Trapani, and went home the
saddest man alive.
When these tidings reached the King of Tunis, he sent to King
Guglielmo ambassadors, habited in black, who made complaint
of the breach of faith and recited the manner of its occurrence.
Which caused King Guglielmo no small chagrin; and seeing not
how he might refuse the justice they demanded, he had Gerbino
arrested, and he himself, none of his barons being able by any
entreaty to turn him from his purpose, sentenced him to forfeit his
head, and had it severed from his body in his presence, preferring
to suffer the loss of his only grandson than to gain the reputation of
a faithless king. And so, miserably, within the compass of a few
brief days, died the two lovers by woeful deaths, as I have told you,
and without having known any joyance of their love.
Novel VLisabetta's brothers slay her lover: he appears to her in
a dream, and shews her where he is buried: she
privily disinters the head, and sets it in a pot of
basil, whereon she daily weeps a great while. The
pot being taken from her by her brothers, she dies
not long after.
Elisa's story ended, the king bestowed a few
words of praise
upon it, and then laid the burden of discourse upon Filomena, who,
full of compassion for the woes of Gerbino and his lady, heaved a
piteous sigh, and thus began:
My story, gracious ladies, will not
be of folk of so high a rank as those of whom Elisa has told us, but
perchance 'twill not be less touching. 'Tis brought to my mind by
the recent mention of Messina, where the matter befell.
Know then that there were at Messina three young men, that
were brothers and merchants, who were left very rich on the death
of their father, who was of San Gimignano; and they had a sister,
Lisabetta by name, a girl fair enough, and no less debonair, but
whom, for some reason or another, they had not as yet bestowed in
marriage. The three brothers had also in their shop a young Pisan,
Lorenzo by name, who managed all their affairs, and who was so
goodly of person and gallant, that Lisabetta bestowed many a glance
upon him, and began to regard him with extraordinary favour;
which Lorenzo marking from time to time, gave up all his other
amours, and in like manner began to affect her, and so, their loves
being equal, 'twas not long before they took heart of grace, and did
that which each most desired. Wherein continuing to their no
small mutual solace and delight, they neglected to order it with due
secrecy, whereby one night as Lisabetta was going to Lorenzo's
room, she, all unwitting, was observed by the eldest of the brothers,
who, albeit much distressed by what he had learnt, yet, being a
young man of discretion, was swayed by considerations more seemly,
and, allowing no word to escape him, spent the night in turning the
affair over in his mind in divers ways. On the morrow he told his
brothers that which, touching Lisabetta and Lorenzo, he had observed
in the night, which, that no shame might thence ensue either to
them or to their sister, they after long consultation determined to pass
over in silence, making as if they had seen or heard nought thereof,
until such time as they in a safe and convenient manner might
banish this disgrace from their sight before it could go further.
Adhering to which purpose, they jested and laughed with Lorenzo
as they had been wont; and after a while pretending that they were
all three going forth of the city on pleasure, they took Lorenzo with
them; and being come to a remote and very lonely spot, seeing that
'twas apt for their design, they took Lorenzo, who was completely
off his guard, and slew him, and buried him on such wise that none
was ware of it. On their return to Messina they gave out that they
had sent him away on business; which was readily believed, because
'twas what they had been frequently used to do. But as Lorenzo
did not return, and Lisabetta questioned the brothers about him with
great frequency and urgency, being sorely grieved by his long
absence, it so befell that one day, when she was very pressing in her
enquiries, one of the brothers said: What means this? What
hast thou to do with Lorenzo, that thou shouldst ask about him so
often? Ask us no more, or we will give thee such answer as thou
deservest.
So the girl, sick at heart and sorrowful, fearing she
knew not what, asked no questions; but many a time at night she
called piteously to him, and besought him to come to her, and
bewailed his long tarrying with many a tear, and ever yearning for
his return, languished in total dejection.
But so it was that one night, when, after long weeping that her
Lorenzo came not back, she had at last fallen asleep, Lorenzo
appeared to her in a dream, wan and in utter disarray, his clothes
torn to shreds and sodden; and thus, as she thought, he spoke:
Lisabetta, thou dost nought but call me, and vex thyself for my
long tarrying, and bitterly upbraid me with thy tears; wherefore be
it known to thee that return to thee I may not, because the last day
that thou didst see me thy brothers slew me.
After which, he
described the place where they had buried him, told her to call and
expect him no more, and vanished. The girl then awoke, and
doubting not that the vision was true, wept bitterly. And when
morning came, and she was risen, not daring to say aught to her
brothers, she resolved to go to the place indicated in the vision, and
see if what she had dreamed were even as it had appeared to her.
So, having leave to go a little way out of the city for recreation in
company with a maid that had at one time lived with them and
knew all that she did, she hied her thither with all speed; and having
removed the dry leaves that were strewn about the place, she began
to dig where the earth seemed least hard. Nor had she dug long,
before she found the body of her hapless lover, whereon as yet
there was no trace of corruption or decay; and thus she saw without
any manner of doubt that her vision was true. And so, saddest of
women, knowing that she might not bewail him there, she would
gladly, if she could, have carried away the body and given it more
honourable sepulture elsewhere; but as she might not so do, she
took a knife, and, as best she could, severed the head from the trunk,
and wrapped it in a napkin and laid it in the lap of her maid; and
having covered the rest of the corpse with earth, she left the spot,
having been seen by none, and went home. There she shut herself
up in her room with the head, and kissed it a thousand times in every
part, and wept long and bitterly over it, till she had bathed it in her
tears. She then wrapped it in a piece of fine cloth, and set it in a
large and beautiful pot of the sort in which marjoram or basil is
planted, and covered it with earth, and therein planted some roots
of the goodliest basil of Salerno, and drenched them only with her
tears, or water perfumed with roses or orange-blossoms. And 'twas
her wont ever to sit beside this pot, and, all her soul one yearning, to
pore upon it, as that which enshrined her Lorenzo, and when long
time she had so done, she would bend over it, and weep a great
while, until the basil was quite bathed in her tears.
Fostered with such constant, unremitting care, and nourished by
the richness given to the soil by the decaying head that lay therein,
the basil burgeoned out in exceeding great beauty and fragrance.
And, the girl persevering ever in this way of life, the neighbours from
time to time took note of it, and when her brothers marvelled to see
her beauty ruined, and her eyes as it were evanished from her head,
they told them of it, saying: We have observed that such is her
daily wont.
Whereupon the brothers, marking her behaviour, chid
her therefore once or twice, and as she heeded them not, caused the
pot to be taken privily from her. Which, so soon as she missed it,
she demanded with the utmost instance and insistence, and, as they
gave it not back to her, ceased not to wail and weep, insomuch that
she fell sick; nor in her sickness craved she aught but the pot of
basil. Whereat the young men, marvelling mightily, resolved to
see what the pot might contain; and having removed the earth they
espied the cloth, and therein the head, which was not yet so decayed,
but that by the curled locks they knew it for Lorenzo's head. Passing
strange they found it, and fearing lest it should be bruited abroad,
they buried the head, and, with as little said as might be, took order
for their privy departure from Messina, and hied them thence to
Naples. The girl ceased not to weep and crave her pot, and, so
weeping, died. Such was the end of her disastrous love; but not a
few in course of time coming to know the truth of the affair, there
was one that made the song that is still sung: to wit:
A thief he was, I swear,
A sorry Christian he,
That took my basil of Salerno fair, etc.This Sicilian folk-song, of which Boccaccio quotes only the first two
lines, is given in extenso from MS. Laurent. 38, plut. 42, by Fanfani in his
edition of the Decameron (Florence, 1857). The following is a free
rendering:
A thief he was, I swear,
A sorry Christian he,
That took my basil of Salerno fair,
That flourished mightily.
Planted by mine own hands with loving care
What time they revelled free:
To spoil another's goods is churlish spite.
To spoil another's goods is churlish spite,
Ay, and most heinous sin.
A basil had I (alas! luckless wight!),
The fairest plant: within
Its shade I slept: 'twas grown to such a height.
But some folk for chagrin
'Reft me thereof, ay, and before my door.
'Reft me thereof, ay, and before my door.
Ah! dolorous day and drear!
Ah! woe is me! Would God I were no more!
My purchase was so dear!
Ah! why that day did I to watch give o'er?
For him my cherished fere
With marjoram I bordered it about.
With marjoram I bordered it about
In May-time fresh and fair,
And watered it thrice ere each week was out,
And marked it grow full yare:
But now 'tis stolen. Ah! too well 'tis known!This stanza is
defective
in the original.
But now 'tis stolen. Ah! too well 'tis known!
That no more may I hide:
But had to me a while before been shewn
What then should me betide,
At night before my door I had laid me down
To watch my plant beside.
Yet God Almighty sure me succour might.
Ay, God Almighty sure me succour might,
So were it but His will,
'Gainst him that me hath done so foul despite,
That in dire torment still
I languish, since the thief reft from my sight
My plant that did me thrill,
And to my inmost soul such comfort lent!
And to my inmost soul such comfort lent!
So fresh its fragrance blew,
That when, what time the sun uprose, I went
My watering to do,
I'd hear the people all in wonderment
Say, whence this perfume new?
And I for love of it of grief shall die.
And I for love of it of grief shall die,
Of my fair plant for dole.
Would one but shew me how I might it buy!
Ah! how 'twould me con???ole!
OuncesThe oncia
was a Sicilian gold coin worth rather more
than
a zecchino. an hundred of fine gold have I:
Him would I give the whole,
Ay, and a kiss to boot, so he were fain.
Novel VIAndreuola loves Gabriotto: she tells him a dream that
she has had; he tells her a dream of his own, ana
dies suddenly in her arms. While she and her maia
are carrying his corpse to his house, they are taken
by the Signory. She tells how the matter stands, is
threatened with violence by the Podestà, but will not
brook it. Her father hears how she is bested; and,
her innocence being established, causes her to be set
at large; but she, being minded to tarry no longer in
the world, becomes a nun.
Glad indeed were the ladies to have heard
Filomena's story, for
that, often though they had heard the song sung, they had never
yet, for all their enquiries, been able to learn the occasion upon
which it was made. When 'twas ended, Pamfilo received the
king's command to follow suit, and thus spoke:
By the dream
told in the foregoing story I am prompted to relate one in which
two dreams are told, dreams of that which was to come, as Lisabetta's
was of that which had been, and which were both fulfilled
almost as soon as they were told by those that had dreamed them.
Wherefore, loving ladies, you must know that 'tis the common
experience of mankind to have divers visions during sleep; and albeit
the sleeper, while he sleeps, deems all alike most true, but, being
awake, judges some of them to be true, others to be probable, and
others again to be quite devoid of truth, yet not a few are found to
have come to pass. For which cause many are as sure of every
dream as of aught that they see in their waking hours, and so, as
their dreams engender in them fear or hope, are sorrowful or joyous.
And on the other hand there are those that credit no dream, until
they see themselves fallen into the very peril whereof they were
forewarned. Of whom I approve neither sort, for in sooth neither are
all dreams true, nor all alike false. That they are not all true, there
is none of us but may many a time have proved; and that they are
not all alike false has already been shewn in Filomena's story, and
shall also, as I said before, be shewn in mine. Wherefore I deem
that in a virtuous course of life and conduct there is no need to fear
aught by reason of any dream that is contrary thereto, or on that
account to give up any just design; and as for crooked and sinister
enterprises, however dreams may seem to favour them, and flatter
the hopes of the dreamer with auspicious omens, none should trust
them: rather should all give full credence to such as run counter
thereto. But come we to the story.
In the city of Brescia there lived of yore a gentleman named
Messer Negro da Ponte Carraro, who with other children had a
very fair daughter, Andreuola by name, who, being unmarried,
chanced to fall in love with a neighbour, one Gabriotto, a man of
low degree, but goodly of person and debonair, and endowed with
all admirable qualities; and aided and abetted by the housemaid, the
girl not only brought it to pass that Gabriotto knew that he was
beloved of her, but that many a time to their mutual delight he
came to see her in a fair garden belonging to her father. And that
nought but death might avail to sever them from this their gladsome
love, they became privily man and wife; and, while thus they
continued their clandestine intercourse, it happened that one night,
while the girl slept, she saw herself in a dream in her garden with
Gabriotto, who to the exceeding great delight of both held her in his
arms; and while thus they lay, she saw issue from his body somewhat
dark and frightful, the shape whereof she might not discern;
which, as she thought, laid hold of Gabriotto, and in her despite
with prodigious force reft him from her embrace, and bore him with
it underground, so that both were lost to her sight for evermore:
whereby stricken with sore and inexpressible grief, she awoke; and
albeit she was overjoyed to find that 'twas not as she had dreamed,
yet a haunting dread of what she had seen in her vision entered her
soul. Wherefore, Gabriotto being minded to visit her on the ensuing
night, she did her best endeavour to dissuade him from coming; but
seeing that he was bent upon it, lest he should suspect somewhat,
she received him in her garden, where, having culled roses many,
white and red--for 'twas summer--she sat herself down with him
at the base of a most fair and lucent fountain. There long and
joyously they dallied, and then Gabriotto asked her wherefore she
had that day forbade his coming. Whereupon the lady told him
her dream of the night before, and the doubt and fear which it had
engendered in her mind. Whereat Gabriotto laughed, and said that
'twas the height of folly to put any faith in dreams, for that they
were occasioned by too much or too little food, and were daily seen
to be, one and all, things of nought, adding:
Were I minded to
give heed to dreams, I should not be here now, for I, too, had a
dream last night, which was on this wise: Methought I was in
a fair and pleasant wood, and there, a hunting, caught a she-goat as
beautiful and loveable as any that ever was seen, and, as it seemed to
me, whiter than snow, which in a little while grew so tame and
friendly that she never stirred from my side.
All the same so jealous
was I lest she should leave me, that, meseemed, I had set a collar of
gold around her neck, and held her by a golden chain.
And presently
meseemed that, while the she-goat lay at rest with her head in my
lap, there came forth, I knew not whence, a greyhound bitch, black
as coal, famished, and most fearsome to look upon; which made
straight for me, and for, meseemed, I offered no resistance, set her
muzzle to my breast on the left side and gnawed through to the
heart, which, meseemed, she tore out to carry away with her.
Whereupon ensued so sore a pain that it brake my sleep, and as I
awoke I laid my hand to my side to feel if aught were amiss there;
but finding nothing I laughed at myself that I had searched. But
what signifies it all? Visions of the like sort, ay, and far more
appalling, have I had in plenty, and nought whatever, great or small,
has come of any of them. So let it pass, and think we how we may
speed the time merrily.
What she heard immensely enhanced the already great dread
which her own dream had inspired in the girl; but, not to vex
Gabriotto, she dissembled her terror as best she might. But, though
she made great cheer, embracing and kissing him, and receiving his
embraces and kisses, yet she felt a doubt, she knew not why, and
many a time, more than her wont, she would gaze upon his face,
and ever and anon her glance would stray through the garden to
see if any black creature were coming from any quarter.
While
thus they passed the time, of a sudden Gabriotto heaved a great
sigh, and embracing her, said: Alas! my soul, thy succour! for
I die.
And so saying, he fell down upon the grassy mead.
Whereupon
the girl drew him to her, and laid him on her lap, and all
but wept, and said: O sweet my lord, what is't that ails thee?
But Gabriotto was silent, and gasping sore for breath, and bathed
in sweat, in no long time departed this life.
How grievous was the distress of the girl, who loved him more
than herself, you, my ladies, may well imagine. With many a tear
she mourned him, and many times she vainly called him by his
name; but when, having felt his body all over, and found it cold in
every part, she could no longer doubt that he was dead, knowing not
what to say or do, she went, tearful and woebegone, to call the
maid, to whom she had confided her love, and shewed her the
woeful calamity that had befallen her. Piteously a while they wept
together over the dead face of Gabriotto, and then the girl said to
the maid: Now that God has reft him from me, I have no
mind to linger in this life; but before I slay myself, I would we
might find apt means to preserve my honour, and the secret of our
love, and to bury the body from which the sweet soul has fled.
My daughter,
said the maid, speak not of slaying thyself, for
so wouldst thou lose in the other world, also, him that thou hast
lost here; seeing that thou wouldst go to hell, whither, sure I am,
his soul is not gone, for a good youth he was; far better were it to
put on a cheerful courage, and bethink thee to succour his soul with
thy prayers or pious works, if perchance he have need thereof by
reason of any sin that he may have committed.
We can bury him
readily enough in this garden, nor will any one ever know; for
none knows that he ever came hither; and if thou wilt not have
it so, we can bear him forth of the garden, and leave him there;
and on the morrow he will be found, and carried home, and buried
by his kinsfolk.
The girl, heavy-laden though she was with
anguish, and still weeping, yet gave ear to the counsels of her maid,
and rejecting the former alternative, made answer to the latter on
this wise: Now God forbid that a youth so dear, whom I have
so loved and made my husband, should with my consent be buried
like a dog, or left out there in the street. He has had my tears, and
so far as I may avail, he shall have the tears of his kinsfolk, and
already wot I what we must do.
And forthwith she sent the maid
for a piece of silken cloth, which she had in one of her boxes; and
when the maid returned with it, they spread it on the ground, and
laid Gabriotto's body thereon, resting the head upon a pillow. She
then closed the eyes and mouth, shedding the while many a tear,
wove for him a wreath of roses, and strewed upon him all the roses
that he and she had gathered; which done, she said to the maid:
'Tis but a short way hence to the door of his house; so thither we
will bear him, thou and I, thus as we have dight him, and will lay
him at the door. Day will soon dawn, and they will take him up;
and, though 'twill be no consolation to them, I, in whose arms he
died, shall be glad of it.
So saying, she burst once more into a
torrent of tears, and fell with her face upon the face of the dead, and
so long time she wept. Then, yielding at last to the urgency of her
maid, for day was drawing nigh, she arose, drew from her finger the
ring with which she had been wedded to Gabriotto, and set it on
his finger, saying with tears:
Dear my lord, if thy soul be witness
of my tears, or if, when the spirit is fled, aught of intelligence or
sense still lurk in the body, graciously receive the last gift of her
whom in life thou didst so dearly love.
Which said, she swooned,
and fell upon the corpse;
but, coming after a while to herself, she
arose; and then she and her maid took the cloth whereon the body
lay, and so bearing it, quitted the garden, and bent their steps towards
the dead man's house. As thus they went, it chanced that certain
of the Podestà's guard, that for some reason or another were abroad
at that hour, met them, and arrested them with the corpse.
Andreuola,
to whom death was more welcome than life, no sooner knew
them for the officers of the Signory than she frankly said: I know
you, who you are, and that flight would avail me nothing: I am
ready to come with you before the Signory, and to tell all there is to
tell; but let none of you presume to touch me, so long as I obey
you, or to take away aught that is on this body, if he would not that
I accuse him.
And so, none venturing to lay hand upon either her
person or the corpse, she entered the palace.
So soon as the Podestà was apprised of the affair, he arose,
had
her brought into his room, and there made himself conversant with
the circumstances: and certain physicians being charged to inquire
whether the good man had met his death by poison or otherwise, all
with one accord averred that 'twas not by poison, but that he was
choked by the bursting of an imposthume near the heart.
Which
when the Podestà heard, perceiving that the girl's guilt could but
be slight, he sought to make a pretence of giving what it was not
lawful for him to sell her, and told her that he would set her at
liberty, so she were consenting to pleasure him;
but finding that he
did but waste his words he cast aside all decency, and would have
used force. Whereupon Andreuola, kindling with scorn, waxed
exceeding brave, and defended herself with a virile energy, and with
high and contumelious words drove him from her.
When 'twas broad day, the affair reached the ears of Messer
Negro, who, half dead with grief, hied him with not a few of his
friends to the palace; where, having heard all that the Podestà had
to say, he required him peremptorily to give him back his daughter.
The Podestà, being minded rather to be his own accuser, than that
he should be accused by the girl of the violence that he had meditated
towards her, began by praising her and her constancy, and in proof
thereof went on to tell what he had done; he ended by saying, that,
marking her admirable firmness, he had fallen mightily in love with
her, and so, notwithstanding she had been wedded to a man of low
degree, he would, if 'twere agreeable to her and to her father, Messer
Negro, gladly make her his wife. While they thus spoke, Andreuola
made her appearance, and, weeping, threw herself at her father's feet,
saying: My father, I wot I need not tell you the story of my
presumption, and the calamity that has befallen me, for sure I am
that you have heard it and know it; wherefore, with all possible
humility I crave your pardon of my fault, to wit, that without your
knowledge I took for my husband him that pleased me best.
And
this I crave, not that my life may be spared, but that I may die as
your daughter and not as your enemy;
and so, weeping, she fell at
his feet.
Messer Negro, now an old man, and naturally kindly and
affectionate, heard her not without tears, and weeping raised her
tenderly to her feet, saying: Daughter mine, I had much liefer
had it that thou hadst had a husband that I deemed a match for thee;
and in that thou hadst taken one that pleased thee I too had been
pleased; but thy concealing thy choice from me is grievous to me
by reason of thy distrust of me, and yet more so, seeing that thou
hast lost him before I have known him.
But as 'tis even so, to his
remains be paid the honour which, while he lived for thy contentment,
I had gladly done him as my son-in-law.
Then, turning to
his sons and kinsmen, he bade them order Gabriotto's obsequies with
all pomp and honourable circumstance.
Meanwhile the young man's kinsmen and kinswomen, having
heard the news, had flocked thither, bringing with them almost all the
rest of the folk, men and women alike, that were in the city. And so
his body, resting on Andreuola's cloth, and covered with her roses,
was laid out in the middle of the courtyard, and there was mourned
not by her and his kinsfolk alone, but publicly by well-nigh all the
women of the city, and not a few men; and shouldered by some of
the noblest of the citizens, as it had been the remains of no plebeian
but of a noble, was borne from the public courtyard to the tomb
with exceeding great pomp.
Some days afterwards, as the Podestà continued to urge his suit,
Messer Negro would have discussed the matter with his daughter;
but, as she would hear none of it, and he was minded in this matter
to defer to her wishes, she and her maid entered a religious house of
great repute for sanctity, where in just esteem they lived long time
thereafter.
Novel VIISimona loves Pasquino; they are together in a garden;
Pasquino rubs a leaf of sage against his teeth, and
dies; Simona is arrested, and, with intent to shew
the judge how Pasquino died, rubs one of the leaves of
the same plant against her teeth, and likewise dies.
When Pamfilo had done with his story, the king, betraying no
compassion for Andreuola, glancing at Emilia, signified to her his
desire that she should now continue the sequence of narration.
Emilia made no demur, and thus began:
Dear gossips, Pamfilo's story puts me upon telling you another in
no wise like thereto, save in this, that as Andreuola lost her lover in
a garden, so also did she of whom I am to speak, and, being arrested
like Andreuola, did also deliver herself from the court, albeit 'twas
not by any vigour or firmness of mind, but by a sudden death.
And,
as 'twas said among us a while ago, albeit Love affects the mansions
of the noble, he does not, therefore, disdain the dominion of the
dwellings of the poor, nay, does there at times give proof of his might
no less signal than when he makes him feared of the wealthiest as a
most potent lord. Which, though not fully, will in some degree
appear in my story, wherewith I am minded to return to our city,
from which to-day's discourse, roving from matter to matter, and
one part of the world to another, has carried us so far.
Know then that no great while ago there dwelt in Florence a
maid most fair, and, for her rank, debonair--she was but a poor
man's daughter--whose name was Simona; and though she must
needs win with her own hands the bread she ate, and maintain
herself by spinning wool; yet was she not, therefore, of so poor a
spirit, but that she dared to give harbourage in her mind to Love,
who for some time had sought to gain entrance there by means of
the gracious deeds and words of a young man of her own order that
went about distributing wool to spin for his master, a wool-monger.
Love being thus, with the pleasant image of her beloved Pasquino,
admitted into her soul, mightily did she yearn, albeit she hazarded no
advance, and heaved a thousand sighs fiercer than fire with every
skein of yarn that she wound upon her spindle, while she called to
mind who he was that had given her that wool to spin.
Pasquino
on his part became, meanwhile, very anxious that his master's wool
should be well spun, and most particularly about that which Simona
span, as if, indeed, it and it alone was to furnish forth the whole of
the cloth. And so, what with the anxiety which the one evinced,
and the gratification that it afforded to the other, it befell that, the
one waxing unusually bold, and the other casting off not a little
of her wonted shyness and reserve, they came to an understanding
for their mutual solace; which proved so delightful to both, that
neither waited to be bidden by the other, but 'twas rather which
should be the first to make the overture.
While thus they sped their days in an even tenor of delight, and
ever grew more ardently enamoured of one another, Pasquino
chanced to say to Simona that he wished of all things she would
contrive how she might betake her to a garden, whither he would
bring her, that there they might be more at their ease, and in greater
security. Simona said that she was agreeable; and, having given her
father to understand that she was minded to go to San Gallo for the
pardoning, she hied her with one of her gossips, Lagina by name, to
the garden of which Pasquino had told her. Here she found
Pasquino awaiting her with a friend, one Puccino, otherwise Stramba;
and Stramba and Lagina falling at once to love-making, Pasquino
and Simona left a part of the garden to them, and withdrew to
another part for their own solace.
Now there was in their part of the garden a very fine and lovely
sage-bush, at foot of which they sat them down and made merry
together a great while, and talked much of a junketing they meant
to have in the garden quite at their ease. By and by Pasquino,
turning to the great sage-bush, plucked therefrom a leaf, and fell to
rubbing his teeth and gums therewith, saying that sage was an
excellent detergent of aught that remained upon them after a meal.
Having done so, he returned to the topic of the junketing of which
he had spoken before. But he had not pursued it far before his
countenance entirely changed, and forthwith he lost sight and speech,
and shortly after died. Whereupon Simona fell a weeping and
shrieking and calling Stramba and Lagina; who, notwithstanding
they came up with all speed, found Pasquino not only dead but
already swollen from head to foot, and covered with black spots both
on the face and on the body; whereupon Stramba broke forth
with: Ah! wicked woman! thou hast poisoned him;
and made
such a din that 'twas heard by not a few that dwelt hard by the
garden; who also hasted to the spot, and seeing Pasquino dead and
swollen, and hearing Stramba bewail himself and accuse Simona of
having maliciously poisoned him, while she, all but beside herself for
grief to be thus suddenly bereft of her lover, knew not how to defend
herself, did all with one accord surmise that 'twas even as Stramba
said. Wherefore they laid hands on her, and brought her, still
weeping bitterly, to the palace of the Podestà: where at the instant
suit of Stramba, backed by Atticciato and Malagevole, two other
newly-arrived friends of Pasquino, a judge forthwith addressed himself
to question her of the matter; and being unable to discover
that she had used any wicked practice, or was guilty, he resolved to
take her with him and go see the corpse, and the place, and the
manner of the death, as she had recounted it to him; for by her
words he could not well understand it. So, taking care that there
should be no disturbance, he had her brought to the place where
Pasquino's corpse lay swollen like a tun, whither he himself presently
came, and marvelling as he examined the corpse, asked her
how the death had come about. Whereupon, standing by the sagebush,
she told him all that had happened, and that he might perfectly
apprehend the occasion of the death, she did as Pasquino had
done, plucked one of the leaves from the bush, and rubbed her teeth
with it. Whereupon Stramba and Atticciato, and the rest of the
friends and comrades of Pasquino, making in the presence of the
judge open mock of what she did, as an idle and vain thing, and
being more than ever instant to affirm her guilt, and to demand the
fire as the sole condign penalty, the poor creature, that, between
grief for her lost lover and dread of the doom demanded by Stramba,
stood mute and helpless, was stricken no less suddenly, and in the
same manner, and for the same cause (to wit, that she had rubbed
her teeth with the sage leaf) as Pasquino, to the no small amazement
of all that were present.
Oh! happy souls for whom one and the same day was the
term of ardent love and earthly life! Happier still, if to the
same bourn ye fared! Ay, and even yet more happy, if love
there be in the other world, and there, even as here, ye love!
But happiest above all Simona, so far as we, whom she has left
behind, may judge, in that Fortune brooked not that the witness of
Stramba, Atticciato and Malagevole, carders, perchance, or yet viler
fellows, should bear down her innocence, but found a more seemly
issue, and, appointing her a like lot with her lover, gave her at once
to clear herself from their foul accusation, and to follow whither the
soul, that she so loved, of her Pasquino had preceded her!
The judge, and all else that witnessed the event, remained long
time in a sort of stupefaction, knowing not what to say of it; but at
length recovering his wits, the judge said: 'Twould seem that
this sage is poisonous, which the sage is not used to be. Let it be
cut down to the roots and burned, lest another suffer by it in like
sort.
Which the gardener proceeding to do in the judge's presence, no sooner
had he brought the great bush down, than the cause of the deaths of
the two lovers plainly appeared: for underneath it was a toad of prodigious
dimensions, from whose venomous breath, as they conjectured,
the whole of the bush had contracted a poisonous quality. Around
which toad, none venturing to approach it, they set a stout ring-fence
of faggots, and burned it together with the sage. So ended Master
Judge's inquest on the death of hapless Pasquino,
who with his
Simona, swollen as they were, were buried by Stramba, Atticciato,
Guccio Imbratta, and Malagevole in the church of San Paolo, of
which, as it so happened, they were parishioners.
Novel VIIIGirolamo loves Salvestra: yielding to his mother's prayers
he goes to Paris; he returns to find Salvestra
married; he enters her house by stealth, lays himself
by her side, and dies; he is borne to the church,
where Salvestra lays herself by his side, and dies.
When Emilia's story was done, Neifile at a word
from the king thus began:
Some there are, noble ladies, who, methinks, deem
themselves to be wiser than the rest of the world, and are in fact less
so; and by consequence presume to measure their wit against not
only the counsels of men but the nature of things; which presumption
has from time to time been the occasion of most grievous mishaps;
but nought of good was ever seen to betide thereof. And
as there is nought in nature that brooks to be schooled or thwarted
so ill as love, the quality of which is such that it is more likely to die
out of its own accord than to be done away of set purpose, I am
minded to tell you a story of a lady, who, while she sought to be
more wise than became her, and than she was, and indeed than the
nature of the matter, wherein she studied to shew her wisdom, allowed,
thinking to unseat Love from the heart that he had occupied, and
wherein perchance the stars had established him, did in the end
banish at one and the same time Love and life from the frame of
her son.
Know, then, that, as 'tis related by them of old time, there was
once in our city a very great and wealthy merchant, Leonardo
Sighieri by name, who had by his lady a son named Girolamo, after
whose birth he departed this life, leaving his affairs in meet and due
order; and well and faithfully were they afterwards administered in
the interest of the boy by his mother and guardians.
As he grew
up, consorting more frequently with the neighbours' children than
any others of the quarter, he made friends with a girl of his own
age that was the daughter of a tailor; and in course of time this
friendship ripened into a love so great and vehement, that Girolamo
was ever ill at ease when he saw her not; nor was her love for him
a whit less strong than his for her. Which his mother perceiving
would not seldom chide him therefor and chastise him. And as
Girolamo could not give it up, she confided her distress to his
guardians, speaking--for by reason of her boy's great wealth she
thought to make, as it were, an orange-tree out of a bramble--on
this wise:
This boy of ours, who is now scarce fourteen years
old, is so in love with a daughter of one of our neighbours, a
tailor--Salvestra
is the girl's name--that, if we part them not, he will, peradventure,
none else witting, take her to wife some day, and I shall
never be happy again; or, if he see her married to another, he will
pine away; to prevent which, methinks, you would do well to send
him away to distant parts on the affairs of the shop; for so, being
out of sight she will come at length to be out of mind, and then we
can give him some well-born girl to wife.
Whereto the guardians
answered, that 'twas well said, and that it should be so done to the
best of their power: so they called the boy into the shop, and one
of them began talking to him very affectionately on this wise:
My son, thou art now almost grown up; 'twere well thou shouldst
now begin to learn something for thyself of thy own affairs: wherefore
we should be very well pleased if thou wert to go stay at Paris
a while, where thou wilt see how we trade with not a little of thy
wealth, besides which thou wilt there become a much better, finer,
and more complete gentleman than thou couldst here, and when
thou hast seen the lords and barons and seigneurs that are there in
plenty, and hast acquired their manners, thou canst return hither.
The boy listened attentively, and then answered shortly that he
would have none of it, for he supposed he might remain at Florence
as well as another. Whereupon the worthy men plied him with fresh
argument, but were unable to elicit other answer from him, and
told his mother so. Whereat she was mightily incensed, and gave
him a great scolding, not for his refusing to go to Paris, but for his
love; which done, she plied him with soft, wheedling words, and
endearing expressions and gentle entreaties that he would be pleased
to do as his guardians would have him; whereby at length she prevailed
so far, that he consented to go to Paris for a year and no more;
and so 'twas arranged. To Paris accordingly our ardent lover went,
and there under one pretext or another was kept for two years. He
returned more in love than ever, to find his Salvestra married to a
good youth that was a tent-maker; whereat his mortification knew
no bounds. But, seeing that what must be must be, he sought to
compose his mind; and, having got to know where she lived, he
took to crossing her path, according to the wont of young men in
love, thinking that she could no more have forgotten him than he
her. 'Twas otherwise, however; she remembered him no more
than if she had never seen him; or, if she had any recollection of
him, she dissembled it: whereof the young man was very soon ware,
to his extreme sorrow. Nevertheless he did all that he could to
recall himself to her mind; but, as thereby he seemed to be nothing
advantaged, he made up his mind, though he should die for it, to
speak to her himself. So, being instructed as to her house by a neighbour,
he entered it privily one evening when she and her husband
were gone to spend the earlier hours with some neighbours, and hid
himself in her room behind some tent-cloths that were stretched
there, and waited till they were come back, and gone to bed, and he
knew the husband to be asleep. Whereupon he got him to the
place where he had seen Salvestra lie down, and said as he gently
laid his hand upon her bosom: O my soul, art thou yet asleep?
The girl was awake, and was on the point of uttering a cry, when
he forestalled her, saying: Hush! for God's sake. I am thy
Girolamo.
Whereupon she, trembling in every limb: Nay, but
for God's sake, Girolamo, begone: 'tis past, the time of our childhood,
when our love was excusable. Thou seest I am married;
wherefore 'tis no longer seemly that I should care for any other man
than my husband, and so by the one God, I pray thee, begone; for,
if my husband were to know that thou art here, the least evil that
could ensue would be that I should never more be able to live with
him in peace or comfort, whereas, having his love, I now pass my
days with him in tranquil happiness.
Which speech caused the
young man grievous distress; but 'twas in vain that he reminded
her of the past, and of his love that distance had not impaired, and
therewith mingled many a prayer and the mightiest protestations.
Wherefore, yearning for death, he besought her at last that she would
suffer him to lie a while beside her till he got some heat, for he was
chilled through and through, waiting for her, and promised her that
he would say never a word to her, nor touch her, and that as soon
as he was a little warmed he would go away.
On which terms
Salvestra, being not without pity for him, granted his request. So
the young man lay down beside her, and touched her not; but,
gathering up into one thought the love he had so long borne her,
the harshness with which she now requited it, and his ruined hopes,
resolved to live no longer, and in a convulsion, without a word, and
with fists clenched, expired by her side.
After a while the girl, marvelling at his continence, and fearing
lest her husband should awake, broke silence, saying: Nay, but,
Girolamo, why goest thou not?
But, receiving no answer, she
supposed that he slept. Wherefore, reaching forth her hand to
arouse him, she touched him and found him to her great surprise
cold as ice; and touching him again and again somewhat rudely, and
still finding that he did not stir, she knew that he was dead. Her
grief was boundless, and 'twas long before she could bethink her how
to act. But at last she resolved to sound her husband's mind as to
what should be done in such a case without disclosing that 'twas his
own. So she awakened him, and told him how he was then bested,
as if it were the affair of another, and then asked him, if such a thing
happened to her, what course he would take.
The good man
answered that he should deem it best to take the dead man privily
home, and there leave him, bearing no grudge against the lady, who
seemed to have done no wrong.
And even so,
said his wife, it
is for us to do;
and taking his hand, she laid it on the corpse.
Whereat he started up in consternation, and struck a light, and without
further parley with his wife, clapped the dead man's clothes
upon him, and forthwith (confident in his own innocence) raised
him on his shoulders, and bore him to the door of his house, where
he set him down and left him.
Day came, and the dead man being found before his own door,
there was a great stir made, particularly by his mother; the body
was examined with all care from head to foot, and, no wound or trace
of violence being found on it, the physicians were on the whole of
opinion that, as the fact was, the man had died of grief. So the corpse
was borne to a church, and thither came the sorrowing mother and
other ladies, her kinswomen and neighbours, and began to wail and
mourn over it without restraint after our Florentine fashion.
And
when the wailing had reached its height, the good man, in whose
house the death had occurred, said to Salvestra: Go wrap a
mantle about thy head, and hie thee to the church, whither Girolamo
has been taken, and go about among the women and list what
they say of this matter, and I will do the like among the men, that
we may hear if aught be said to our disadvantage.
The girl
assented, for with tardy tenderness she now yearned to look on him
dead, whom living she would not solace with a single kiss, and so to
the church she went. Ah! how marvellous to whoso ponders it, is
the might of Love, and how unsearchable his ways! That heart,
which, while Fortune smiled on Girolamo, had remained sealed to
him, opened to him now that he was fordone, and, kindling anew
with all its old flame, melted with such compassion that no sooner
saw she his dead face, as there she stood wrapped in her mantle,
than, edging her way forward through the crowd of women, she
stayed not till she was beside the corpse; and there, uttering a piercing
shriek, she threw herself upon the dead youth, and as her face
met his, and before she might drench it with her tears, grief that had
reft life from him had even so reft it from her.
The women strove to comfort her, and bade her raise herself a
little, for as yet they knew her not; then, as she did not arise, they
would have helped her, but found her stiff and stark, and so, raising
her up, they in one and the same moment saw her to be Salvestra
and dead. Whereat all the women that were there, overborne by
a redoubled pity, broke forth in wailing new and louder far than
before. From the church the bruit spread itself among the men,
and reached the ears of Salvestra's husband, who, deaf to all that
offered comfort or consolation, wept a long while; after which he
told to not a few that were there what had passed in the night
between the youth and his wife; and so 'twas known of all how
they came to die, to the common sorrow of all.
So they took the
dead girl, and arrayed her as they are wont to array the dead, and
laid her on the same bed beside the youth, and long time they
mourned her: then were they both buried in the same tomb, and
thus those, whom love had not been able to wed in life, were wedded
by death in indissoluble union.
Novel IXSieur Guillaume de Roussillon slays his wife's paramour,
Sieur Guillaume de Cabestaing, and gives her his
heart to eat. She, coming to wit thereof, throws
herself from a high window to the ground, and dies,
and is buried with her lover.
Neifile's story, which had not failed to
move her gossips to no
little pity, being ended, none now remained to speak but the king
and Dioneo, whose privilege the king was minded not to infringe:
wherefore he thus began:
I propose, compassionate my ladies, to
tell you a story, which, seeing that you so commiserate ill-starred
loves, may claim no less a share of your pity than the last, inasmuch
as they were greater folk of whom I shall speak, and that which
befell them was more direful.
You are to know, then, that, as the Provençals relate, there
were once in Provence two noble knights, each having castles and
vassals under him, the one yclept Sieur Guillaume de Roussillon,
and the other Sieur Guillaume de Cabestaing;Boccaccio writes
Guardastagno, but the troubadour, Cabestaing, or
Cabestany, is the hero of the story. and being both
most doughty warriors, they were as brothers, and went ever together,
and bearing the same device, to tournament or joust, or
other passage of arms. And, albeit each dwelt in his own castle,
and the castles were ten good miles apart, it nevertheless came to
pass that, Sieur Guillaume de Roussillon having a most lovely lady,
and amorous withal, to wife, Sieur Guillaume de Cabestaing, for all
they were such friends and comrades, became inordinately enamoured
of the lady, who, by this, that, and the other sign that he gave,
discovered
his passion, and knowing him for a most complete knight,
was flattered, and returned it, insomuch that she yearned and burned
for him above all else in the world, and waited only till he should
make his suit to her, as before long he did; and so they met from
time to time, and great was their love. Which intercourse they
ordered with so little discretion that 'twas discovered by the husband,
who was very wroth, insomuch that the great love which he bore to
Cabestaing was changed into mortal enmity; and, dissembling it
better than the lovers their love, he made his mind up to kill Cabestaing.
Now it came to pass that, while Roussillon was in this
frame, a great tourney was proclaimed in France, whereof Roussillon
forthwith sent word to Cabestaing, and bade him to his castle, so he
were minded to come, that there they might discuss whether (or no)
to go to the tourney, and how. Cabestaing was overjoyed, and
made answer that he would come to sup with him next day without
fail. Which message being delivered, Roussillon wist that the
time was come to slay Cabestaing. So next day he armed himself,
and, attended by a few servants, took horse, and about a mile from
his castle lay in ambush in a wood through which Cabestaing must
needs pass. He waited some time, and then he saw Cabestaing
approach unarmed with two servants behind, also unarmed, for he
was without thought of peril on Roussillon's part. So Cabestaing
came on to the place of Roussillon's choice, and then, fell and vengeful,
Roussillon leapt forth lance in hand, and fell upon him, exclaiming:
Thou art a dead man!
and the words were no sooner
spoken than the lance was through Cabestaing's breast.
Powerless
either to defend himself or even utter a cry, Cabestaing fell to the
ground, and soon expired. His servants waited not to see who had
done the deed, but turned their horses' heads and fled with all speed
to their lord's castle. Roussillon dismounted, opened Cabestaing's
breast with a knife, and took out the heart with his own hands,
wrapped it up in a banderole, and gave it to one of his servants to
carry: he then bade none make bold to breathe a word of the affair,
mounted his horse and rode back--'twas now night--to his castle.
The lady, who had been told that Cabestaing was to come to supper
that evening, and was all impatience till he should come, was greatly
surprised to see her husband arrive without him. Wherefore:
How is this, my lord?
said she. Why tarries Cabestaing?
Madam,
answered her husband, I have tidings from him that he
cannot be here until to-morrow:
whereat the lady was somewhat
disconcerted.
Having dismounted, Roussillon called the cook, and said to him:
Here is a boar's heart; take it, and make thereof the daintiest
and most delicious dish thou canst, and when I am set at table serve
it in a silver porringer.
So the cook took the heart, and expended
all his skill and pains upon it, mincing it and mixing with it plenty
of good seasoning, and made thereof an excellent ragout;
and in due
time Sieur Guillaume and his lady sat them down to table. The
meat was served, but Sieur Guillaume, his mind engrossed with his
crime, ate but little. The cook set the ragout before him, but he,
feigning that he cared to eat no more that evening, had it passed on
to the lady, and highly commended it. The lady, nothing loath,
took some of it, and found it so good that she ended by eating the
whole. Whereupon: Madam,
quoth the knight, how liked
you this dish?
In good faith, my lord,
replied the lady, not
a little.
So help me, God,
returned the knight, I dare be
sworn you did; 'tis no wonder that you should enjoy that dead, which
living you enjoyed more than aught else in the world.
For a while
the lady was silent; then: How say you?
said she; what is
this you have caused me to eat?
That which you have eaten,
replied the knight, was in good sooth the heart of Sieur Guillaume
de Cabestaing, whom you, disloyal woman that you are, did so much
love: for assurance whereof I tell you that but a short while before
I came back, I plucked it from his breast with my own hands.
It
boots not to ask if the lady was sorrow-stricken to receive such tidings
of her best beloved. But after a while she said: 'Twas the deed
of a disloyal and recreant knight; for if I, unconstrained by him, made
him lord of my love, and thereby did you wrong, 'twas I, not he,
should have borne the penalty. But God forbid that fare of such
high excellence as the heart of a knight so true and courteous as Sieur
Guillaume de Cabestaing be followed by aught else.
So saying she
started to her feet, and stepping back to a window that was behind
her, without a moment's hesitation let herself drop backwards
therefrom. The window was at a great height from the ground, so
that the lady was not only killed by the fall, but almost reduced to
atoms. Stunned and conscience-stricken by the spectacle, and fearing
the vengeance of the country folk, and the Count of Provence,
Sieur Guillaume had his horses saddled and rode away.
On the
morrow the whole countryside knew how the affair had come about;
wherefore folk from both of the castles took the two bodies, and bore
them with grief and lamentation exceeding great to the church in the
lady's castle, and laid them in the same tomb, and caused verses to
be inscribed thereon signifying who they were that were there
interred, and the manner and occasion of their death.
Novel XThe wife of a leech, deeming her lover, who has taken an
opiate, to be dead, puts him in a chest, which, with
him therein, two usurers carry off to their house.
He comes to himself, and is taken for a thief; but,
the lady's maid giving the Signory to understand that
she had put him in the chest which the usurers stole,
he escapes the gallows, and the usurers are mulcted
in moneys for the theft of the chest.
Now that the king had told his tale, it only
remained for Dioneo
to do his part, which he witting, and being thereto bidden by the
king, thus began:
Sore have I--to say nought of you, my ladies--been
of eyne and heart to hear the woeful histories of ill-starred love,
insomuch that I have desired of all things that they might have an
end. Wherefore, now that, thank God, ended they are, unless indeed
I were minded, which God forbid, to add to such pernicious stuff a
supplement of the like evil quality, no such dolorous theme do I
purpose to ensue, but to make a fresh start with somewhat of a
better and more cheerful sort, which perchance may serve to suggest
to-morrow's argument.
You are to know, then, fairest my damsels, that 'tis not long
since there dwelt at Salerno a leech most eminent in surgery, his
name, Master Mazzeo della Montagna, who in his extreme old age
took to wife a fair damsel of the same city, whom he kept in nobler
and richer array of dresses and jewels, and all other finery that the
sex affects, than any other lady in Salerno. Howbeit, she was none
too warm most of her time, being ill covered abed by the doctor;
who gave her to understand--even as Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica,
of whom we spoke a while since, taught his lady the feasts--that for
once that a man lay with a woman he needed I know not how
many days to recover, and the like nonsense: whereby she lived as
ill content as might be; and, lacking neither sense nor spirit, she
determined to economize at home, and taking to the street, to live
at others' expense. So, having passed in review divers young men,
she at last found one that was to her mind, on whom she set all her
heart and hopes of happiness. Which the gallant perceiving was
mightily flattered, and in like manner gave her all his love.
Ruggieri
da Jeroli--such was the gallant's name--was of noble birth, but of
life and conversation so evil and reprehensible that kinsman or
friend he had none left that wished him well, or cared to see him;
and all Salerno knew him for a common thief and rogue of the vilest
character. Whereof the lady took little heed, having a mind to him
for another reason; and so with the help of her maid she arranged
a meeting with him. But after they had solaced themselves a while,
the lady began to censure his past life, and to implore him for love
of her to depart from such evil ways; and to afford him the means
thereto, she from time to time furnished him with money.
While
thus with all discretion they continued their intercourse, it chanced
that a man halt of one of his legs was placed under the leech's care.
The leech saw what was amiss with him, and told his kinsfolk, that,
unless a gangrened bone that he had in his leg were taken out, he
must die, or have the whole leg amputated; that if the bone were
removed he might recover; but that otherwise he would not answer
for his life: whereupon the relatives assented that the bone should
be removed, and left the patient in the hands of the leech;
who,
deeming that by reason of the pain 'twas not possible for him to
endure the treatment without an opiate, caused to be distilled in the
morning a certain water of his own concoction, whereby the patient,
drinking it, might be ensured sleep during such time as he deemed
the operation, which he meant to perform about vespers, would
occupy. In the meantime he had the water brought into his house,
and set it in the window of his room, telling no one what it was.
But when the vesper hour was come, and the leech was about to
visit his patient, a messenger arrived from some very great friends of
his at Amalfi, bearing tidings of a great riot there had been there, in
which not a few had been wounded, and bidding him on no account
omit to hie him thither forthwith.
Wherefore the leech put off
the treatment of the leg to the morrow, and took boat to Amalfi;
and the lady, knowing that he would not return home that night,
did as she was wont in such a case, to wit, brought Ruggieri in
privily, and locked him in her chamber until certain other folk that
were in the house were gone to sleep. Ruggieri, then, being thus in
the chamber, awaiting the lady, and having--whether it were that
he had had a fatiguing day, or eaten something salt, or, perchance,
that 'twas his habit of body--a mighty thirst, glancing at the window,
caught sight of the bottle containing the water which the leech had
prepared for the patient, and taking it to be drinking water, set it
to his lips and drank it all, and in no long time fell into a deep
sleep.
So soon as she was able the lady hied her to the room, and there
finding Ruggieri asleep, touched him and softly told him to get up:
to no purpose, however; he neither answered nor stirred a limb.
Wherefore the lady, rather losing patience, applied somewhat more
force, and gave him a push, saying: Get up, sleepy-head; if
thou hadst a mind to sleep, thou shouldst have gone home, and not
have come hither.
Thus pushed Ruggieri fell down from a box
on which he lay, and, falling, shewed no more sign of animation
than if he had been a corpse. The lady, now somewhat alarmed,
essayed to lift him, and shook him roughly, and took him by the nose,
and pulled him by the beard; again to no purpose: he had tethered
his ass to a stout pin. So the lady began to fear he must be dead:
however, she went on to pinch him shrewdly, and singe him with the
flame of a candle; but when these methods also failed she, being, for
all she was a leech's wife, no leech herself, believed for sure that he
was dead; and as there was nought in the world that she loved so
much, it boots not to ask if she was sore distressed; wherefore
silently, for she dared not lament aloud, she began to weep over him
and bewail such a misadventure. But, after a while, fearing lest her
loss should not be without a sequel of shame, she bethought her that
she must contrive without delay to get the body out of the house;
and standing in need of another's advice, she quietly summoned her
maid, shewed her the mishap that had befallen her, and craved her
counsel. Whereat the maid marvelled not a little; and she too fell
to pulling Ruggieri this way and that, and pinching him, and, as she
found no sign of life in him, concurred with her mistress that he was
verily dead, and advised her to remove him from the house.
And
where,
said the lady, shall we put him, that to-morrow, when he
is discovered, it be not suspected that 'twas hence he was carried?
Madam,
answered the maid, late last evening I marked in front
of our neighbour the carpenter's shop a chest, not too large, which,
if he have not put it back in the house, will come in very handy
for our purpose, for we will put him inside, and give him two or
three cuts with a knife, and so leave him. When he is found, I
know not why it should be thought that 'twas from this house rather
than from any other that he was put there; nay, as he was an evilliver,
'twill more likely be supposed, that, as he hied him on some
evil errand, some enemy slew him, and then put him in the chest.
The lady said there was nought in the world she might so ill brook
as that Ruggieri should receive any wound; but with that exception
she approved her maid's proposal, and sent her to see if the chest
were still where she had seen it. The maid, returning, reported
that there it was, and, being young and strong, got Ruggieri, with
the lady's help, upon her shoulders; and so the lady, going before
to espy if any folk came that way, and the maid following, they
came to the chest, and having laid Ruggieri therein, closed it and
left him there.
Now a few days before, two young men, that were usurers, had
taken up their quarters in a house a little further on: they had seen
the chest during the day, and being short of furniture, and having
a mind to make great gain with little expenditure, they had resolved
that, if it were still there at night, they would take it home with
them. So at midnight forth they hied them, and finding the chest,
were at no pains to examine it closely, but forthwith, though it
seemed somewhat heavy, bore it off to their house, and set it down
beside a room in which their women slept; and without being at
pains to adjust it too securely they left it there for the time, and
went to bed.
Towards matins Ruggieri, having had a long sleep and digested
the draught and exhausted its efficacy, awoke, but albeit his slumber
was broken, and his senses had recovered their powers, yet his brain
remained in a sort of torpor which kept him bemused for some days;
and when he opened his eyes and saw nothing, and stretched his
hands hither and thither and found himself in the chest, it was with
difficulty that he collected his thoughts.
How is this?
he said to
himself. Where am I? Do I sleep or wake? I remember
coming this evening to my lady's chamber; and now it seems I am
in a chest. What means it? Can the leech have returned, or
somewhat else have happened that caused the lady, while I slept, to
hide me here? That was it, I suppose. Without a doubt it must
have been so.
And having come to this conclusion, he composed
himself to listen, if haply he might hear something, and being somewhat
ill at ease in the chest, which was none too large, and the side
on which he lay paining him, he must needs turn over to the other,
and did so with such adroitness that, bringing his loins smartly
against one of the sides of the chest, which was set on an uneven
floor, he caused it to tilt and then fall; and such was the noise that
it made as it fell that the women that slept there awoke, albeit for
fear they kept silence. Ruggieri was not a little disconcerted by the
fall, but, finding that thereby the chest was come open, he judged
that, happen what might, he would be better out of it than in it;
and not knowing where he was, and being otherwise at his wits' end,
he began to grope about the house, if haply he might find a stair or
door whereby he might take himself off. Hearing him thus groping
his way, the alarmed women gave tongue with: Who is there?
Ruggieri, not knowing the voice, made no answer: wherefore the
women fell to calling the two young men, who, having had a long
day, were fast asleep, and heard nought of what went on.
Which
served to increase the fright of the women, who rose and got them
to divers windows, and raised the cry: Take thief, take thief!
At which summons there came running from divers quarters not a
few of the neighbours, who got into the house by the roof or otherwise
as each best might: likewise the young men, aroused by the
din, got up; and, Ruggieri being now all but beside himself for sheer
amazement, and knowing not whither to turn him to escape them,
they took him and delivered him to the officers of the Governor of
the city, who, hearing the uproar, had hasted to the spot. And so
he was brought before the Governor, who, knowing him to be held
of all a most arrant evil-doer, put him forthwith to the torture, and,
upon his confessing that he had entered the house of the usurers with
intent to rob, was minded to make short work of it, and have him
hanged by the neck.
In the morning 'twas bruited throughout all Salerno that
Ruggieri had been taken a thieving in the house of the usurers.
Whereat the lady and her maid were all amazement and bewilderment,
insomuch that they were within an ace of persuading themselves
that what they had done the night before they had not done,
but had only dreamed it; besides which, the peril in which Ruggieri
stood caused the lady such anxiety as brought her to the verge
of madness. Shortly after half tierce the leech, being returned
from Amalfi, and minded now to treat his patient, called for his
water, and finding the bottle empty made a great commotion, protesting
that nought in his house could be let alone. The lady,
having other cause of annoy, lost temper, and said: What would
you say, Master, of an important matter, when you raise such a din
because a bottle of water has been upset? Is there never another to
be found in the world?
Madam,
replied the leech, thou takest
this to have been mere water: 'twas no such thing, but an artificial
water of a soporiferous virtue;
and he told her for what purpose he
had made it. Which the lady no sooner heard, than, guessing that
Ruggieri had drunk it, and so had seemed to them to be dead, she
said: Master, we knew it not; wherefore make you another.
And so the leech, seeing that there was no help for it, had another
made. Not long after, the maid, who by the lady's command had
gone to find out what folk said of Ruggieri, returned, saying:
Madam, of Ruggieri they say nought but evil, nor, by what I have
been able to discover, has he friend or kinsman that has or will come
to his aid; and 'tis held for certain that to-morrow the StadicThe
Neapolitan term for the chief of police. will
have him hanged. Besides which, I have that to tell you which will
surprise you; for, methinks, I have found out how he came into the
usurers' house. List, then, how it was: you know the carpenter in
front of whose shop stood the chest we put Ruggieri into: he had
to-day the most violent altercation in the world with one to whom
it would seem the chest belongs, by whom he was required to make
good the value of the chest, to which he made answer that he had
not sold it, but that it had been stolen from him in the night.
'Not
so,' said the other; 'thou soldst it to the two young usurers, as they
themselves told me last night, when I saw it in their house at the
time Ruggieri was taken.' 'They lie,' replied the carpenter. 'I
never sold it them, but they must have stolen it from me last night;
go we to them.' So with one accord off they went to the usurers'
house, and I came back here. And so, you see, I make out that
'twas on such wise that Ruggieri was brought where he was found;
but how he came to life again, I am at a loss to conjecture.
The lady
now understood exactly how things were, and accordingly told the
maid what she had learned from the leech, and besought her to aid
her to get Ruggieri off, for so she might, if she would, and at the
same time preserve her honour. Madam,
said the maid, do but
shew me how; and glad shall I be to do just as you wish.
Whereupon
the lady, to whom necessity taught invention, formed her plan
on the spur of the moment, and expounded it in detail to the maid;
who (as the first step) hied her to the leech, and, weeping, thus
addressed him: Sir, it behoves me to ask your pardon of a great
wrong that I have done you.
And what may that be?
inquired the leech.
Sir,
said the maid, who ceased not to weep, you
know what manner of man is Ruggieri da Jeroli. Now he took a
fancy to me, and partly for fear, partly for love, I this year agreed to
be his mistress; and knowing yestereve that you were from home,
he coaxed me into bringing him into your house to sleep with me in
my room. Now he was athirst, and I, having no mind to be seen
by your lady, who was in the hall, and knowing not whither I might
sooner betake me for wine or water, bethought me that I had seen a
bottle of water in your room, and ran and fetched it, and gave it him
to drink, and then put the bottle back in the place whence I had
taken it; touching which I find that you have made a great stir in
the house. Verily I confess that I did wrong; but who is there
that does not wrong sometimes? Sorry indeed am I to have so done,
but 'tis not for such a cause and that which ensued thereon that
Ruggieri should lose his life. Wherefore, I do most earnestly
beseech you, pardon me, and suffer me to go help him as best I may
be able.
Wroth though he was at what he heard, the leech replied
in a bantering tone: Thy pardon thou hast by thine own deed;
for, whereas thou didst last night think to have with thee a gallant
that would thoroughly dust thy pelisse for thee, he was but a
sleepyhead;
wherefore get thee gone, and do what thou mayst for the
deliverance of thy lover, and for the future look thou bring him not
into the house; else I will pay thee for that turn and this to boot.
The maid, deeming that she had come off well in the first brush,
hied her with all speed to the prison where Ruggieri lay, and by her
cajoleries prevailed upon the warders to let her speak with him; and
having told him how he must answer the Stadic if he would get off,
she succeeded in obtaining preaudience of the Stadic;
who, seeing
that the baggage was lusty and mettlesome, was minded before he
heard her to grapple her with the hook, to which she was by no
means averse, knowing that such a preliminary would secure her a
better hearing. When she had undergone the operation and was
risen: Sir,
said she, you have here Ruggieri da Jeroli,
apprehended
on a charge of theft; which charge is false.
Whereupon she
told him the whole story from beginning to end, how she, being
Ruggieri's mistress, had brought him into the leech's house and had
given him the opiate, not knowing it for such, and taking him to be
dead, had put him in the chest; and then recounting what she had
heard pass between the carpenter and the owner of the chest, she
shewed him how Ruggieri came into the house of the usurers.
Seeing that 'twas easy enough to find out whether the story were
true, the Stadic began by questioning the leech as to the water, and
found that 'twas as she had said: he then summoned the carpenter,
the owner of the chest and the usurers, and after much further
parley ascertained that the usurers had stolen the chest during the
night, and brought it into their house: finally he sent for Ruggieri,
and asked him where he had lodged that night, to which Ruggieri
answered that where he had lodged he knew not, but he well
remembered going to pass the night with Master Mazzeo's maid, in
whose room he had drunk some water by reason of a great thirst
that he had; but what happened to him afterwards, except that, when
he awoke, he found himself in a chest in the house of the usurers, he
knew not. All which matters the Stadic heard with great interest,
and caused the maid and Ruggieri and the carpenter and the
usurers to rehearse them several times. In the end, seeing that
Ruggieri was innocent, he released him, and mulcted the usurers in
fifteen ounces for the theft of the chest. How glad Ruggieri was
thus to escape, it boots not to ask; and glad beyond measure was his
lady. And so, many a time did they laugh and make merry
together over the affair, she and he and the dear maid that had
proposed to give him a taste of the knife; and remaining constant in
their love, they had ever better and better solace thereof. The like
whereof befall me, sans the being put in the chest.
ConclusionHeartsore as the gentle ladies had been made by the preceding
stories, this last of Dioneo provoked them to such merriment, more
especially the passage about the Stadic and the hook, that they lacked
not relief of the piteous mood engendered by the others.
But the
king observing that the sun was now taking a yellowish tinge, and
that the end of his sovereignty was come, in terms most courtly
made his excuse to the fair ladies, that he had made so direful a
theme as lovers' infelicity the topic of their discourse; after which,
he rose, took the laurel wreath from his head, and, while the ladies
watched to see to whom he would give it, set it graciously upon the
blond head of Fiammetta, saying:
Herewith I crown thee, as
deeming that thou, better than any other, wilt know how to make
to-morrow console our fair companions for the rude trials of to-day.
Fiammetta, whose wavy tresses fell in a flood of gold over her white
and delicate shoulders, whose softly rounded face was all radiant
with the very tints of the white lily blended with the red of the
rose, who carried two eyes in her head that matched those of a
peregrine falcon, while her tiny sweet mouth shewed a pair of lips
that shone as rubies, replied with a smile:
And gladly take I the
wreath, Filostrato, and that thou mayst more truly understand what
thou hast done, 'tis my present will and pleasure that each make
ready to discourse to-morrow of good fortune befalling lovers after
divers direful or disastrous adventures.
The theme propounded was
approved by all; whereupon the queen called the seneschal, and
having made with him all meet arrangements, rose and gaily dismissed
all the company until the supper hour; wherefore, some
straying about the garden, the beauties of which were not such
as soon to pall, others bending their steps towards the mills that
were grinding without, each, as and where it seemed best, they took
meanwhile their several pleasures. The supper hour come, they all
gathered, in their wonted order, by the fair fountain, and in the
gayest of spirits and well served they supped. Then rising they
addressed them, as was their wont, to dance and song, and while
Filomena led the dance:
Filostrato,
said the queen, being
minded to follow in the footsteps of our predecessors, and that, as
by their, so by our command a song be sung; and well witting that
thy songs are even as thy stories, to the end that no day but this be
vexed with thy misfortunes, we ordain that thou give us one of
them, whichever thou mayst prefer.
Filostrato answered that he
would gladly do so; and without delay began to sing on this wise:
Full well my tears attest,
O traitor Love, with what just cause the heart,
With which thou once hast broken faith, doth smart.
Love, when thou first didst in my heart enshrine
Her for whom still I sigh, alas! in vain,
Nor any hope do know,
A damsel so complete thou didst me shew,
That light as air I counted every pain,
Wherewith behest of thine
Condemned my soul to pine.
Ah! but I gravely erred; the which to know
Too late, alas! doth but enhance my woe.
The cheat I knew not ere she did me leave,
She, she, in whom alone my hopes were placed:
For 'twas when I did most
Flatter myself with hope, and proudly boast
Myself her vassal lowliest and most graced,
Nor thought Love might bereave,
Nor dreamed he e'er might grieve,
'Twas then I found that she another's worth
Into her heart had ta'en, and me cast forth.
A plant of pain, alas! my heart did bear,
What time my hapless self cast forth I knew;
And there it doth remain;
And day and hour I curse and curse again,
When first that front of love shone on my view
That front so queenly fair,
And bright beyond compare!
Wherefore at once my faith, my hope, my fire
My soul doth imprecate, ere she expire.
My lord, thou knowest how comfortless my woe,
Thou, Love, my lord, whom thus I supplicate
With many a piteous moan,
Telling thee how in anguish sore I groan,
Yearning for death my pain to mitigate.
Come death, and with one blow
Cut short my span, and so
With my curst life me of my frenzy ease;
For wheresoe'er I go, 'twill sure decrease.
Save death no way of comfort doth remain:
No anodyne beside for this sore smart.
The boon, then, Love bestow;
And presently by death annul my woe,
And from this abject life release my heart.
Since from me joy is ta'en,
And every solace, deign
My prayer to grant, and let my death the cheer
Complete, that she now hath of her new fere.
Song, it may be that no one shall thee learn:
Nor do I care; for none I wot, so well
As I may chant thee; so,
This one behest I lay upon thee, go
Hie thee to Love, and him in secret tell,
How I my life do spurn,
My bitter life, and yearn,
That to a better harbourage he bring
Me, of all might and grace that own him king.
Full well my tears attest, etc.Filostrato's mood and its cause were made abundantly manifest
by the words of this song; and perchance they had been made still
more so by the looks of a lady that was among the dancers, had not
the shades of night, which had now overtaken them, concealed the
blush that suffused her face. Other songs followed until the hour
for slumber arrived: whereupon at the behest of the queen all the
ladies sought their several chambers.
Fifth DayEndeth here the fourth day of the Decameron, beginneth
the fifth, in which under the rule of Fiammetta discourse
is had of good fortune befalling lovers after
divers direful or disastrous adventures.
IntroductionAll the east was white, nor any part of our hemisphere
unillumined
by the rising beams, when the carolling of the birds that in
gay chorus saluted the dawn among the boughs induced Fiammetta
to rise and rouse the other ladies and the three gallants; with whom
adown the hill and about the dewy meads of the broad champaign
she sauntered, talking gaily of divers matters, until the sun had
attained some height. Then, feeling his rays grow somewhat
scorching, they retraced their steps, and returned to the villa; where,
having repaired their slight fatigue with excellent wines and comfits,
they took their pastime in the pleasant garden until the breakfast
hour; when, all things being made ready by the discreet seneschal,
they, after singing a stampita,A song accompanied by music, but
without dancing. and a balladette or two, gaily, at the
queen's behest, sat them down to eat. Meetly ordered and gladsome
was the meal, which done, heedful of their rule of dancing, they
trod a few short measures with accompaniment of music and song.
Thereupon, being all dismissed by the queen until after the siesta,
some hied them to rest, while others tarried taking their pleasure in
the fair garden. But shortly after none, all, at the queen's behest,
reassembled, according to their wont, by the fountain; and the
queen, having seated herself on her throne, glanced towards Pamfilo,
and bade him with a smile lead off with the stories of good fortune.
Whereto Pamfilo gladly addressed himself, and thus began.
Novel ICimon, by loving, waxes wise, wins his wife Iphigenia by
capture on the high seas, and is imprisoned at Rhodes.
He is delivered by Lysimachus; and the twain capture
Cassandra and recapture Iphigenia in the hour of their
marriage. They flee with their ladies to Crete, and
having there married them, are brought back to their
homes.
Many stories, sweet my ladies, occur to me as meet for me to
tell by way of ushering in a day so joyous as this will be: of which
one does most commend itself to my mind, because not only has it
one of those happy endings of which to-day we are in quest, but
'twill enable you to understand how holy, how mighty and how
salutary are the forces of Love, which not a few, witting not what
they say, do most unjustly reprobate and revile: which, if I err not,
should to you, for that I take you to be enamoured, be indeed
welcome.
Once upon a time, then, as we have read in the ancient histories
of the Cypriotes, there was in the island of Cyprus a very great
noble named Aristippus, a man rich in all worldly goods beyond all
other of his countrymen, and who might have deemed himself
incomparably blessed, but for a single sore affliction that Fortune had
allotted him. Which was that among his sons he had one, the best
grown and handsomest of them all, that was well-nigh a hopeless
imbecile. His true name was Galesus; but, as neither his tutor's
pains, nor his father's coaxing or chastisement, nor any other method
had availed to imbue him with any tincture of letters or manners, but
he still remained gruff and savage of voice, and in his bearing
liker to a beast than to a man, all, as in derision, were wont to call
him Cimon, which in their language signifies the same as bestione
(brute)One of the augmentative forms of bestia. in ours.
The father, grieved beyond measure to see his
son's life thus blighted, and having abandoned all hope of his recovery,
nor caring to have the cause of his mortification ever before his
eyes, bade him betake him to the farm, and there keep with his
husbandmen. To Cimon the change was very welcome, because
the manners and habits of the uncouth hinds were more to his taste
than those of the citizens. So to the farm Cimon hied him, and
addressed himself to the work thereof; and being thus employed, he
chanced one afternoon as he passed, staff on shoulder, from one
domain to another, to enter a plantation, the like of which for beauty
there was not in those parts, and which was then--for 'twas the
month of May--a mass of greenery; and, as he traversed it, he
came, as Fortune was pleased to guide him, to a meadow girt in with
trees exceeding tall, and having in one of its corners a fountain most
fair and cool, beside which he espied a most beautiful girl lying
asleep on the green grass, clad only in a vest of such fine stuff that it
scarce in any measure veiled the whiteness of her flesh, and below the
waist nought but an apron most white and fine of texture; and
likewise at her feet there slept two women and a man, her slaves.
No sooner did Cimon catch sight of her, than, as if he had never
before seen form of woman, he stopped short, and leaning on his
cudgel, regarded her intently, saying never a word, and lost in admiration.
And in his rude soul, which, despite a thousand lessons, had
hitherto remained impervious to every delight that belongs to urbane
life, he felt the awakening of an idea, that bade his gross and coarse
mind acknowledge, that this girl was the fairest creature that had ever
been seen by mortal eye. And thereupon he began to distinguish
her several parts, praising her hair, which shewed to him as gold, her
brow, her nose and mouth, her throat and arms, and above all her
bosom, which was as yet but in bud, and as he gazed, he changed
of a sudden from a husbandman into a judge of beauty, and desired
of all things to see her eyes, which the weight of her deep slumber
kept close shut, and many a time he would fain have awakened her,
that he might see them. But so much fairer seemed she to
him than any other woman that he had seen, that he doubted
she must be a goddess; and as he was not so devoid of sense but
that he deemed things divine more worthy of reverence than things
mundane, he forbore, and waited until she should awake of her
own accord; and though he found the delay overlong, yet,
enthralled by so unwonted a delight, he knew not how to be
going. However, after he had tarried a long while, it so befell
that Iphigenia--such was the girl's name--her slaves still sleeping,
awoke, and raised her head, and opened her eyes, and seeing
Cimon standing before her, leaning on his staff, was not a little
surprised, and said: Cimon, what seekest thou in this wood at
this hour?
For Cimon she knew well, as indeed did almost all the
country-side, by reason alike of his uncouth appearance as of the rank
and wealth of his father. To Iphigenia's question he answered never
a word; but as soon as her eyes were open, nought could he do but
intently regard them, for it seemed to him that a soft influence
emanated from them, which filled his soul with a delight that he had
never before known. Which the girl marking began to misdoubt
that by so fixed a scrutiny his boorish temper might be prompted to
some act that should cause her dishonour: wherefore she roused her
women, and got up, saying: Keep thy distance, Cimon, in God's
name.
Whereto Cimon made answer: I will come with thee.
And, albeit the girl refused his escort, being still in fear of him, she
could not get quit of him; but he attended her home; after which
he hied him straight to his father's house, and announced that he was
minded on no account to go back to the farm: which intelligence was
far from welcome to his father and kinsmen; but nevertheless they
suffered him to stay, and waited to see what might be the reason or
his change of mind. So Cimon, whose heart, closed to all teaching,
love's shaft, sped by the beauty of Iphigenia, had penetrated, did now
graduate in wisdom with such celerity as to astonish his father and
kinsmen, and all that knew him. He began by requesting his father
to let him go clad in the like apparel, and with, in all respects, the
like personal equipment as his brothers: which his father very gladly
did. Mixing thus with the gallants, and becoming familiar with the
manners proper to gentlemen, and especially to lovers, he very soon,
to the exceeding great wonder of all, not only acquired the rudiments of
letters, but waxed most eminent among the philosophic wits.
After which (for no other cause than the love he bore to Iphigenia)
he not only modulated his gruff and boorish voice to a degree of
smoothness suitable to urbane life, but made himself accomplished in
singing and music; in riding also and in all matters belonging to
war, as well by sea as by land, he waxed most expert and hardy. And
in sum (that I go not about to enumerate each of his virtues in
detail) he had not completed the fourth year from the day of his
first becoming enamoured before he was grown the most gallant, and
courteous, ay, and the most perfect in particular accomplishments, of
the young cavaliers that were in the island of Cyprus. What then,
gracious ladies, are we to say of Cimon? Verily nought else but
that the high faculties, with which Heaven had endowed his noble
soul, invidious Fortune had bound with the strongest of cords, and
circumscribed within a very narrow region of his heart; all which
cords Love, more potent than Fortune, burst and brake in pieces;
and then with the might, wherewith he awakens dormant powers, he
brought them forth of the cruel obfuscation, in which they lay, into
clear light, plainly shewing thereby, whence he may draw, and
whither he may guide, by his beams the souls that are subject to
his sway.
Now, albeit by his love for Iphigenia Cimon was betrayed, as
young lovers very frequently are, into some peccadillos, yet Aristippus,
reflecting that it had turned him from a booby into a man, not
only bore patiently with him, but exhorted him with all his heart to
continue steadfast in his love And Cimon, who still refused to be
called Galesus, because 'twas as Cimon that Iphigenia had first
addressed him, being desirous to accomplish his desire by honourable
means, did many a time urge his suit upon her father, Cipseus, that
he would give her him to wife: whereto Cipseus always made the
same answer, to wit, that he had promised her to Pasimondas, a
young Rhodian noble, and was not minded to break faith with him.
However, the time appointed for Iphigenia's wedding being come,
and the bridegroom having sent for her, Cimon said to himself:
'Tis now for me to shew thee, O Iphigenia, how great is my love
for thee: 'tis by thee that I am grown a man, nor doubt I, if I
shall have thee, that I shall wax more glorious than a god, and verily
thee will I have, or die. Having so said, he privily enlisted in his
cause
certain young nobles that were his friends, and secretly fitted
out a ship with all equipment meet for combat, and put to sea on the
look-out for the ship that was to bear Iphigenia to Rhodes and her
husband. And at length, when her father had done lavishing
honours upon her husband's friends, Iphigenia embarked, and, the
mariners shaping their course for Rhodes, put to sea. Cimon was on
the alert, and overhauled them the very next day, and standing on
his ship's prow shouted amain to those that were aboard Iphigenia's
ship: Bring to; strike sails, or look to be conquered and sunk in
the sea.
Then, seeing that the enemy had gotten their arms above
deck, and were making ready to make a fight of it, he followed up his
words by casting a grapnel upon the poop of the Rhodians, who were
making great way; and having thus made their poop fast to his prow,
he sprang, fierce as a lion, reckless whether he were followed or no,
on to the Rhodians' ship, making, as it were, no account of them,
and animated by love, hurled himself, sword in hand, with prodigious
force among the enemy, and cutting and thrusting right and left,
slaughtered them like sheep; insomuch that the Rhodians, marking
the fury of his onset, threw down their arms, and as with one voice
did all acknowledge themselves his prisoners. To whom Cimon:
Gallants,
quoth he, 'twas neither lust of booty nor enmity to
you that caused me to put out from Cyprus to attack you here with
force of arms on the high seas. Moved was I thereto by that which
to gain is to me a matter great indeed, which peaceably to yield me
is to you but a slight matter; for 'tis even Iphigenia, whom more
than aught else I love; whom, as I might not have her of her father
in peaceable and friendly sort, Love has constrained me to take from
you in this high-handed fashion and by force of arms; to whom I
mean to be even such as would have been your Pasimondas: wherefore
give her to me, and go your way, and God's grace go with
you.
Yielding rather to force than prompted by generosity, the Rhodians
surrendered Iphigenia, all tears, to Cimon; who, marking her tears,
said to her: Grieve not, noble lady; thy Cimon am I, who, by my
long love, have established a far better right to thee than Pasimondas
by the faith that was plighted to him.
So saying, he sent her aboard
his ship, whither he followed her, touching nought that belonged to
the Rhodians, and suffering them to go their way.
To have gotten so
dear a prize made him the happiest man in the world, but for a
time 'twas all he could do to assuage her grief: then, after taking
counsel with his comrades, he deemed it best not to return to Cyprus
for the present: and so, by common consent they shaped their course
for Crete, where most of them, and especially Cimon, had alliances
of old or recent date, and friends not a few, whereby they deemed
that there they might tarry with Iphigenia in security. But Fortune,
that had accorded Cimon so gladsome a capture of the lady, suddenly
proved fickle, and converted the boundless joy of the enamoured
gallant into woeful and bitter lamentation. 'Twas not yet full four
hours since Cimon had parted from the Rhodians, when with the
approach of night, that night from which Cimon hoped such joyance
as he had never known, came weather most turbulent and tempestuous,
which wrapped the heavens in cloud, and swept the sea with scathing
blasts; whereby 'twas not possible for any to see how the ship was
to be worked or steered, or to steady himself so as to do any duty upon
her deck. Whereat what grief was Cimon's, it boots not to ask.
Indeed it seemed to him that the gods had granted his heart's desire
only that it might be harder for him to die, which had else been to
him but a light matter. Not less downcast were his comrades; but
most of all Iphigenia, who, weeping bitterly and shuddering at every
wave that struck the ship, did cruelly curse Cimon's love and censure
his rashness, averring that this tempest was come upon them for no
other cause than that the gods had decreed, that, as 'twas in despite
of their will that he purposed to espouse her, he should be frustrate of
his presumptuous intent, and having lived to see her expire, should
then himself meet a woeful death.
While thus and yet more bitterly they bewailed them, and the
mariners were at their wits' end, as the gale grew hourly more violent,
nor knew they, nor might conjecture, whither they went, they drew
nigh the island of Rhodes, albeit that Rhodes it was they wist not,
and set themselves, as best and most skilfully they might, to run the
ship aground. In which enterprise Fortune favoured them, bringing
them into a little bay, where, shortly before them, was arrived the
Rhodian ship that Cimon had let go. Nor were they sooner ware
that 'twas Rhodes they had made, than day broke, and, the sky thus
brightening a little, they saw that they were about a bow-shot from
the ship that they had released on the preceding day.
Whereupon Cimon,
vexed beyond measure, being apprehensive of that which in
fact befell them, bade make every effort to win out of the bay, and
let Fortune carry them whither she would, for nowhere might they be
in worse plight than there. So might and main they strove to bring
the ship out, but all in vain: the violence of the gale thwarted them
to such purpose as not only to preclude their passage out of the bay but
to drive them, willing nilling, ashore. Whither no sooner were they
come, than they were recognized by the Rhodian mariners, who were
already landed. Of whom one ran with all speed to a farm hard by,
whither the Rhodian gallants were gone, and told them that Fortune
had brought Cimon and Iphigenia aboard their ship into the same
bay to which she had guided them. Whereat the gallants were overjoyed,
and taking with them not a few of the farm-servants, hied
them in hot haste to the shore, where, Cimon and his men being
already landed with intent to take refuge in a neighbouring wood,
they took them all (with Iphigenia) and brought them to the farm.
Whence, pursuant to an order of the Senate of Rhodes, to which, so
soon as he received the news, Pasimondas made his complaint, Cimon
and his men were all marched off to prison by Lysimachus, chief
magistrate of the Rhodians for that year, who came down from the
city for the purpose with an exceeding great company of men at
arms. On such wise did our hapless and enamoured Cimon lose his
so lately won Iphigenia before he had had of her more than a kiss
or two. Iphigenia was entertained and comforted of the annoy,
occasioned as well by her recent capture as by the fury of the sea, by
not a few noble ladies of Rhodes, with whom she tarried until the
day appointed for her marriage. In recompense of the release of the
Rhodian gallants on the preceding day the lives of Cimon and his
men were spared, notwithstanding that Pasimondas pressed might
and main for their execution; and instead they were condemned to
perpetual imprisonment: wherein, as may be supposed, they abode in
dolorous plight, and despaired of ever again knowing happiness.
However, it so befell that, Pasimondas accelerating his nuptials to
the best of his power, Fortune, as if repenting her that in her haste
she had done Cimon so evil a turn, did now by a fresh disposition of
events compass his deliverance. Pasimondas had a brother, by name
Hormisdas, his equal in all respects save in years, who had long
been contract to marry Cassandra, a fair and noble damsel of Rhodes,
of whom Lysimachus was in the last degree enamoured;
but owing to divers accidents the marriage had been from time to
time put off. Now Pasimondas, being about to celebrate his nuptials
with exceeding great pomp, bethought him that he could not do
better than, to avoid a repetition of the pomp and expense, arrange, if
so he might, that his brother should be wedded on the same day
with himself. So, having consulted anew with Cassandra's kinsfolk,
and come to an understanding with them, he and his brother and
they conferred together, and agreed that on the same day that
Pasimondas married Iphigenia, Hormisdas should marry Cassandra.
Lysimachus, getting wind of this arrangement, was mortified beyond
measure, seeing himself thereby deprived of the hope which he cherished
of marrying Cassandra himself, if Hormisdas should not forestall
him. But like a wise man he concealed his chagrin, and cast about
how he might frustrate the arrangement: to which end he saw no
other possible means but to carry Cassandra off. It did not escape
him that the office which he held would render this easily feasible,
but he deemed it all the more dishonourable than if he had not held
the office; but, in short, after much pondering, honour yielded place
to love, and he made up his mind that, come what might, he would
carry Cassandra off. Then, as he took thought what company he
should take with him, and how he should go about the affair, he
remembered Cimon, whom he had in prison with his men, and it
occurred to him that he could not possibly have a better or more trusty
associate in such an enterprise than Cimon. Wherefore the same night
he caused Cimon to be brought privily to him in his own room, and
thus addressed him: Cimon, as the gods are most generous and
liberal to bestow their gifts on men, so are they also most sagacious
to try their virtue; and those whom they find to be firm and steadfast
in all circumstances they honour, as the most worthy, with the
highest rewards. They have been minded to be certified of thy
worth by better proofs than thou couldst afford them, as long as thy
life was bounded by thy father's house amid the superabundant wealth
which I know him to possess: wherefore in the first place they so
wrought upon thee with the shrewd incitements of Love that from an
insensate brute, as I have heard, thou grewest to be a man; since
when, it has been and is their intent to try whether evil fortune and
harsh imprisonment may avail to change thee from the temper that was
thine when for a short while thou hadst joyance of the prize
thou hadst won. And so thou prove the same that thou wast then,
they have in store for thee a boon incomparably greater than aught
that they vouchsafed thee before: what that boon is, to the end thou
mayst recover heart and thy wonted energies, I will now explain to
thee. Pasimondas, exultant in thy misfortune and eager to compass thy
death, hastens to the best of his power his nuptials with thy Iphigenia;
that so he may enjoy the prize that Fortune, erstwhile smiling, gave
thee, and forthwith, frowning, reft from thee. Whereat how sore
must be thy grief, if rightly I gauge thy love, I know by my own
case, seeing that his brother Hormisdas addresses himself to do me on
the same day a like wrong in regard of Cassandra, whom I love more
than aught else in the world. Nor see I that Fortune has left us
any way of escape from this her unjust and cruel spite, save what we
may make for ourselves by a resolved spirit and the might of our
right hands: take we then the sword, and therewith make we, each,
prize of his lady, thou for the second, I for the first time: for so thou
value the recovery, I say not of thy liberty, for without thy lady I doubt
thou wouldst hold it cheap, but of thy lady, the gods have placed it in
thine own hands, if thou art but minded to join me in my enterprise.
These words restored to Cimon all that he had lost of heart and
hope, nor pondered he long, before he replied: Lysimachus, comrade
stouter or more staunch than I thou mightst not have in such
an enterprise, if such indeed it be as thou sayst: wherefore lay upon
me such behest as thou shalt deem meet, and thou shalt marvel to
witness the vigour of my performance.
Whereupon Lysimachus:
On the third day from now,
quoth he, their husbands' houses
will be newly entered by the brides, and on the same day at even we
too will enter them in arms, thou with thy men, and I with some of
mine, in whom I place great trust, and forcing our way among the
guests and slaughtering all that dare to oppose us, will bear the ladies
off to a ship which I have had privily got ready.
Cimon approved
the plan, and kept quiet in prison until the appointed time;
which being come, the nuptials were celebrated with great pomp and
magnificence, that filled the houses of the two brothers with festal
cheer. Then Lysimachus having made ready all things meet, and fired
Cimon and his men and his own friends for the enterprise by a long
harangue, disposed them in due time, all bearing arms under their
cloaks,
in three companies; and having privily despatched one company
to the port, that, when the time should come to embark, he might
meet with no let, he marched with the other two companies to the
house of Pasimondas, posted the one company at the gate, that, being
entered, they might not be shut in or debarred their egress, and, with
the other company and Cimon, ascended the stairs, and gained the
saloon, where the brides and not a few other ladies were set at several
tables to sup in meet order: whereupon in they rushed, and overthrew
the tables and seized each his own lady, and placed them in
charge of their men, whom they bade bear them off forthwith to the
ship that lay ready to receive them. Whereupon the brides and the
other ladies and the servants with one accord fell a sobbing and
shrieking, insomuch that a confused din and lamentation filled the
whole place. Cimon, Lysimachus and their band, none withstanding,
but all giving way before them, gained the stairs, which they were
already descending when they encountered Pasimondas, who, carrying
a great staff in his hand, was making in the direction of the noise;
but one doughty stroke of Cimon's sword sufficed to cleave his skull
in twain, and lay him dead at Cimon's feet, and another stroke
disposed of hapless Hormisdas, as he came running to his brother's
aid. Some others who ventured to approach them were wounded
and beaten off by the retinue. So forth of the house, that reeked
with blood and resounded with tumult and lamentation and woe,
sped Simon and Lysimachus with all their company, and without any
let, in close order, with their fair booty in their midst, made good
their retreat to the ship; whereon with the ladies they one and all
embarked, for the shore was now full of armed men come to rescue
the ladies, and, the oarsmen giving way, put to sea elate.
Arrived at
Crete, they met with a hearty welcome on the part of their many
friends and kinsfolk; and, having married their ladies, they made
greatly merry, and had gladsome joyance of their fair booty. Their
doings occasioned, both in Cyprus and in Rhodes, no small stir and
commotion, which lasted for a long while: but in the end, by the
good offices of their friends and kinsfolk in both islands, 'twas so
ordered as that after a certain term of exile Cimon returned with
Iphigenia to Cyprus, and in like manner Lysimachus returned with
Cassandra to Rhodes; and long and blithely thereafter lived they,
each well contented with his own wife in his own land.
Novel IIGostanza loves Martuccio Gomito, and hearing that he is
dead, gives way to despair, and hies her alone aboard
a boat, which is wafted by the wind to Susa. She
finds him alive in Tunis, and makes herself known to
him, who, having by his counsel gained high place in
the king's favour, marries her, and returns with her
wealthy to Lipari.
Pamfilo's story being ended, the
queen, after commending it not a little, called for one to follow from Emilia; who thus
began:
Meet and right it is that one should rejoice when events so fall
out that passion meets with its due reward: and as love merits in
the long run rather joy than suffering, far gladlier obey I the queen's
than I did the king's behest, and address myself to our present theme.
You are to know then, dainty ladies, that not far from Sicily there is
an islet called Lipari, in which, no great while ago, there dwelt a
damsel, Gostanza by name, fair as fair could be, and of one of the
most honourable families in the island. And one Martuccio Gomito,
who was also of the island, a young man most gallant and courteous,
and worthy for his condition, became enamoured of Gostanza;
who in like manner grew so afire for him that she was ever ill at ease,
except she saw him. Martuccio, craving her to wife, asked her of
her father, who made answer that, Martuccio being poor, he was not
minded to give her to him.
Mortified to be thus rejected by reason
of poverty, Martuccio took an oath in presence of some of his friends
and kinsfolk that Lipari should know him no more, until he was
wealthy. So away he sailed, and took to scouring the seas as a rover
on the coast of Barbary, preying upon all whose force matched not his
own. In which way of life he found Fortune favourable enough,
had he but known how to rest and be thankful: but 'twas not
enough that he and his comrades in no long time waxed very
wealthy; their covetousness was inordinate, and, while they sought
to gratify it, they chanced in an encounter with certain Saracen ships
to be taken after a long defence, and despoiled, and, most part of
them, thrown into the sea by their captors, who, after sinking his
ship, took Martuccio with them to Tunis, and clapped him in prison,
and there kept him a long time in a very sad plight.
Meanwhile, not by one or two, but by divers and not a few
persons, tidings reached Lipari that all that were with Martuccio
aboard his bark had perished in the sea. The damsel, whose grief on
Martuccio's departure had known no bounds, now hearing that he was
dead with the rest, wept a great while, and made up her mind to
have done with life; but, lacking the resolution to lay violent hands
upon herself, she bethought her how she might devote herself to
death by some novel expedient. So one night she stole out of her
father's house, and hied her to the port, and there by chance she
found, lying a little apart from the other craft, a fishing boat, which,
as the owners had but just quitted her, was still equipped with mast
and sails and oars. Aboard which boat she forthwith got, and being,
like most of the women of the island, not altogether without nautical
skill, she rowed some distance out to sea, and then hoisted sail, and
cast away oars and tiller, and let the boat drift, deeming that a boat
without lading or steersman would certainly be either capsized by
the wind or dashed against some rock and broken in pieces, so that
escape she could not, even if she would, but must perforce drown.
And so, her head wrapped in a mantle, she stretched herself weeping
on the floor of the boat. But it fell out quite otherwise than she
had conjectured: for, the wind being from the north, and very
equable, with next to no sea, the boat kept an even keel, and next
day about vespers bore her to land hard by a city called Susa, full a
hundred miles beyond Tunis. To the damsel 'twas all one whether
she were at sea or ashore, for, since she had been aboard, she had
never once raised, nor, come what might, meant she ever to raise,
her head.
Now it so chanced, that, when the boat grounded, there was on
the shore a poor woman that was in the employ of some fishermen, whose
nets she was just taking out of the sunlight. Seeing the
boat under full sail, she marvelled how it should be suffered to drive
ashore, and conjectured that the fishermen on board were asleep. So
to the boat she hied her, and finding therein only the damsel fast
asleep, she called her many times, and at length awakened her; and
perceiving by her dress that she was a Christian, she asked her in
Latin how it was that she was come thither all alone in the boat.
Hearing the Latin speech, the damsel wondered whether the wind
had not shifted, and carried her back to Lipari: so up she started,
gazed about her, and finding herself ashore and the aspect of the
country strange, asked the good woman where she was. To which
the good woman made answer: My daughter, thou art hard by
Susa in Barbary.
Whereupon the damsel, sorrowful that God had
not seen fit to accord her the boon of death, apprehensive of dishonour,
and at her wits' end, sat herself down at the foot of her
boat, and burst into tears. Which the good woman saw not without
pity, and persuaded her to come with her into her hut, and there by
coaxing drew from her how she was come thither; and knowing
that she could not but be fasting, she set before her her own coarse
bread and some fish and water, and prevailed upon her to eat a little.
Gostanza thereupon asked her, who she was that thus spoke Latin;
whereto she answered that her name was Carapresa, and that she
was from Trapani, where she had served some Christian fishermen.
To the damsel, sad indeed though she was, this name Carapresa,
wherefore she knew not, seemed to be of happy augury, so that she
began to take hope, she knew not why, and to grow somewhat less
fain of death: wherefore without disclosing who or whence she was,
she earnestly besought the good woman for the love of God to have
pity on her youth, and advise her how best to avoid insult.
Whereupon
Carapresa, good woman that she was, left her in her hut, while
with all speed she picked up her nets; and on her return she wrapped
her in her own mantle, and led her to Susa.
Arrived there, she said
to her: Gostanza, I shall bring thee to the house of an excellent
Saracen lady, for whom I frequently do bits of work, as she has
occasion: she is an old lady and compassionate: I will commend
thee to her care as best I may, and I doubt not she will right gladly
receive thee, and entreat thee as her daughter: and thou wilt serve
her, and, while thou art with her, do all thou canst to gain her favour,
until
such time as God may send thee better fortune;
and as she
said, so she did.
The old lady listened, and then, gazing steadfastly in the damsel's
face, shed tears, and taking her hand, kissed her forehead, and led her
into the house, where she and some other women dwelt quite by
themselves, doing divers kinds of handiwork in silk and palm leaves
and leather. Wherein the damsel in a few days acquired some skill,
and thenceforth wrought together with them; and rose wondrous
high in the favour and good graces of all the ladies, who soon taught
her their language.
Now while the damsel, mourned at home as lost and dead, dwelt
thus at Susa, it so befell that, Mariabdela being then King of Tunis,
a young chieftain in Granada, of great power, and backed by mighty
allies, gave out that the realm of Tunis belonged to him, and having
gathered a vast army, made a descent upon Tunis with intent to
expel the King from the realm. Martuccio Gomito, who knew the
language of Barbary well, heard the tidings in prison, and learning
that the King of Tunis was mustering a mighty host for the defence
of his kingdom, said to one of the warders that were in charge of
him and his comrades: If I might have speech of the King, I am
confident that the advice that I should give him would secure him
the victory.
The warder repeated these words to his chief, who
forthwith carried them to the King. Wherefore by the King's command
Martuccio was brought before him, and being asked by him
what the advice, of which he had spoken, might be, answered on
this wise: Sire, if in old days, when I was wont to visit this
country of yours, I duly observed the manner in which you order
your battle, methinks you place your main reliance upon archers;
and therefore, if you could contrive that your enemy's supply of
arrows should give out and your own continue plentiful, I apprehend
that you would win the battle.
Ay indeed,
replied the King, I
make no doubt that, could I but accomplish that, I should conquer.
Nay but, Sire,
returned Martuccio, you may do it, if you will.
Listen, and I will tell you how. You must fit the bows of your
archers with strings much finer than those that are in common use,
and match them with arrows, the notches of which will not admit
any but these fine strings; and this you must do so secretly that
your enemy may not know it, else he will find means to be even with
you. Which counsel I give you for the following reason:
When your and your enemy's archers have expended all their arrows,
you wot that the enemy will fall to picking up the arrows that your
men have shot during the battle, and your men will do the like by
the enemy's arrows; but the enemy will not be able to make use of
your men's arrows, by reason that their fine notches will not suffice
to admit the stout strings, whereas your men will be in the contrary
case in regard of the enemy's arrows, for the fine string will very
well receive the large-notched arrow, and so your men will have
an abundant supply of arrows, while the enemy will be at a loss for
them.
The King, who lacked not sagacity, appreciated Martuccio's
advice, and gave full effect to it; whereby he came out of the war
a conqueror, and Martuccio, being raised to the chief place in his
favour, waxed rich and powerful. Which matters being bruited
throughout the country, it came to the ears of Gostanza that Martuccio
Gomito, whom she had long supposed to be dead, was alive;
whereby her love for him, some embers of which still lurked in her
heart, burst forth again in sudden flame, and gathered strength, and
revived her dead hope. Wherefore she frankly told all her case to
the good lady with whom she dwelt, saying that she would fain go
to Tunis, that her eyes might have assurance of that which the
report received by her ears had made them yearn to see. The lady
fell heartily in with the girl's desire, and, as if she had been her
mother, embarked with her for Tunis, where on their arrival they
were honourably received in the house of one of her kinswomen.
Carapresa, who had attended her, being sent to discover what she
might touching Martuccio, brought back word that he was alive, and
high in honour and place. The gentlewoman was minded that none
but herself should apprise Martuccio of the arrival of his Gostanza:
wherefore she hied her one day to Martuccio, and said: Martuccio,
there is come to my house a servant of thine from Lipari,
who would fain speak with thee here privily, and for that he would
not have me trust another, I am come hither myself to deliver his
message.
Martuccio thanked her, and forthwith hied him with her
to her house: where no sooner did the girl see him than she all
but died for joy, and carried away by her feelings, fell upon his neck
with open arms and embraced him, and, what with sorrow of his past
woes and her present happiness, said never a word, but softly
wept. Martuccio regarded her for a while in silent wonder; then,
heaving a sigh, he said: Thou livest then, my Gostanza? Long
since I heard that thou wast lost; nor was aught known of thee
at home.
Which said, he tenderly and with tears embraced her.
Gostanza told him all her adventures, and how honourably she had
been entreated by the gentlewoman with whom she had dwelt.
And so long time they conversed, and then Martuccio parted
from her, and hied him back to his lord the King, and told him
all, to wit, his own adventures and those of the girl, adding that
with his leave he was minded to marry her according to our law.
Which matters the King found passing strange; and having called
the girl to him, and learned from her that 'twas even as Martuccio
had said: Well indeed,
quoth he, hast thou won thy husband.
Then caused he gifts most ample and excellent to be brought forth,
part of which he gave to Gostanza, and part to Martuccio, leaving
them entirely to their own devices in regard of one another. Then
Martuccio, in terms most honourable, bade farewell to the old lady
with whom Gostanza had dwelt, thanking her for the service she
had rendered to Gostanza, and giving her presents suited to her condition,
and commending her to God, while Gostanza shed many a
tear: after which, by leave of the King, they went aboard a light
bark, taking with them Carapresa, and, sped by a prosperous breeze,
arrived at Lipari, where they were received with such cheer as 'twere
vain to attempt to describe. There were Martuccio and Gostanza
wedded with all pomp and splendour; and there long time in
easeful peace they had joyance of their love.
Novel III Pietro Boccamazza runs away with Agnolella, and
encounters a gang of robbers: the girl takes refuge in
a wood, and is guided to a castle. Pietro is taken, but
escapes out of the hands of the robbers, and after some
adventures arrives at the castle where Agnolella is,
marries her, and returns with her to Rome.
Ended Emilia's story, which none of the company
spared to commend, the queen, turning to Elisa, bade her follow suit; and she, with glad
obedience, thus began:
'Tis a story, sweet ladies, of a woeful night passed by two indiscreet
young lovers that I have in mind; but, as thereon ensued not a
few days of joy, 'tis not inapposite to our argument, and shall be
narrated.
'Tis no long time since at Rome, which, albeit now the tail,In
reference to the forlorn condition of the city while the seat of the
papacy was at Avignon, 1308-1377.
was of yore the head, of the world, there dwelt a young man, Pietro
Boccamazza by name, a scion of one of the most illustrious of the
Roman houses, who became enamoured of a damsel exceeding fair, and
amorous withal--her name Agnolella--the daughter of one Gigliuozzo
Saullo, a plebeian, but in high repute among the Romans. Nor, loving
thus, did Pietro lack the address to inspire in Agnolella a love as ardent
as his own. Wherefore, overmastered by his passion, and minded no
longer to endure the sore suffering that it caused him, he asked her
in marriage. Whereof his kinsfolk were no sooner apprised, than
with one accord they came to him and strongly urged him to desist
from his purpose: they also gave Gigliuozzo Saullo to understand that
he were best to pay no sort of heed to Pietro's words, for that,
if he so did, they would never acknowledge him as friend or relative.
Thus to see himself debarred of the one way by which he deemed
he might attain to his desire, Pietro was ready to die for grief, and,
all his kinsfolk notwithstanding, he would have married Gigliuozzo's
daughter, had but the father consented. Wherefore at length he
made up his mind that, if the girl were willing, nought should stand
in the way; and having through a common friend sounded the
damsel and found her apt, he brought her to consent to elope with
him from Rome. The affair being arranged, Pietro and she took
horse betimes one morning, and sallied forth for Anagni, where
Pietro had certain friends, in whom he placed much trust; and as
they rode, time not serving for full joyance of their love, for they
feared pursuit, they held converse thereof, and from time to time
exchanged a kiss. Now it so befell, that, the way being none too
well known to Pietro, when, perhaps eight miles from Rome, they
should have turned to the right, they took instead a leftward road.
Whereon when they had ridden but little more than two miles, they
found themselves close to a petty castle, whence, so soon as they
were observed, there issued some dozen men at arms; and, as they
drew near, the damsel, espying them, gave a cry, and said: We are
attacked, Pietro, let us flee;
and guiding her nag as best she knew
towards a great forest, she planted the spurs in his sides, and so, holding
on by the saddle-bow, was borne by the goaded creature into the
forest at a gallop. Pietro, who had been too engrossed with her face
to give due heed to the way, and thus had not been ware, as soon as
she, of the approach of the men at arms, was still looking about to
see whence they were coming, when they came up with him, and
took him prisoner, and forced him to dismount. Then they asked
who he was, and, when he told them, they conferred among themselves,
saying: This is one of the friends of our enemies: what
else can we do but relieve him of his nag and of his clothes, and hang
him on one of these oaks in scorn of the Orsini?
To which
proposal all agreeing, they bade Pietro strip himself: but while,
already divining his fate, he was so doing, an ambuscade of full
five-and-twenty
men at arms fell suddenly upon them, crying: Death,
death!
Thus surprised, they let Pietro go, and stood on the
defensive; but, seeing that the enemy greatly outnumbered them, they
took to their heels, the others giving chase. Whereupon Pietro
hastily resumed his clothes, mounted his nag, and fled with all speed
in the direction which he had seen the damsel take. But finding no
road or path through the forest, nor discerning any trace of a horse's
hooves, he was--for that he found not the damsel--albeit he deemed
himself safe out of the clutches of his captors and their assailants, the
most wretched man alive, and fell a weeping and wandering hither and
thither about the forest, uttering Agnolella's name. None answered;
but turn back he dared not: so on he went, not knowing whither
he went; besides which, he was in mortal dread of the wild beasts
that infest the forest, as well on account of himself as of the damsel,
whom momently he seemed to see throttled by some bear or wolf.
Thus did our unfortunate Pietro spend the whole day, wandering
about the forest, making it to resound with his cries of Agnolella's
name, and harking at times back, when he thought to go forward;
until at last, what with his cries and his tears and his fears and his
long fasting, he was so spent that he could go no further. 'Twas
then nightfall, and, as he knew not what else to do, he dismounted
at the foot of an immense oak, and having tethered his nag to the
trunk, climbed up into the branches, lest he should be devoured by
the wild beasts during the night. Shortly afterwards the moon rose
with a very clear sky, and Pietro, who dared not sleep, lest he should
fall, and indeed, had he been secure from that risk, his misery and
his anxiety on account of the damsel would not have suffered him to
sleep, kept watch, sighing and weeping and cursing his evil luck.
Now the damsel, who, as we said before, had fled she knew not
whither, allowing her nag to carry her whithersoever he would,
strayed so far into the forest that she lost sight of the place where
she had entered it, and spent the whole day just as Pietro had done,
wandering about the wilderness, pausing from time to time, and
weeping, and uttering his name, and bewailing her evil fortune. At
last, seeing that 'twas now the vesper hour and Pietro came not, she
struck into a path, which the nag followed, until, after riding some
two miles, she espied at some distance a cottage, for which she made
with all speed, and found there a good man, well stricken in years,
with his wife, who was likewise aged. Seeing her ride up alone,
they said: Daughter, wherefore ridest thou thus alone at this
hour in these parts?
Weeping, the damsel made answer that she had
lost her companion in the forest, and asked how far might
Anagni be from there? My daughter,
returned the good man,
this is not the road to Anagni; 'tis more than twelve miles away.
And how far off,
inquired the damsel, are the nearest houses in
which one might find lodging for the night?
There are none
so near,
replied the good man, that thou canst reach them to-day.
Then, so please you,
said the damsel, since go elsewhither I
cannot, for God's sake let me pass the night here with you.
Whereto
the good man made answer: Damsel, welcome art thou to tarry
the night with us; but still thou art to know that these parts are infested
both by day and by night by bands, which, be they friends or be they
foes, are alike ill to meet with, and not seldom do much despite and
mischief, and if by misadventure one of these bands should visit us
while thou wert here, and marking thy youth and beauty should do
thee despite and dishonour, we should be unable to afford thee any
succour. This we would have thee know, that if it should so come
to pass, thou mayst not have cause to reproach us.
The damsel
heard not the old man's words without dismay; but, seeing that the
hour was now late, she answered: God, if He be so pleased, will
save both you and me from such molestation, and if not, 'tis a much
lesser evil to be maltreated by men than to be torn in pieces by the
wild beasts in the forest.
So saying, she dismounted, and entered
the cottage, where, having supped with the poor man and his wife
on such humble fare as they had, she laid herself in her clothes
beside them in their bed. She slept not, however; for her own evil
plight and that of Pietro, for whom she knew not how to augur
aught but evil, kept her sighing and weeping all night long. And
towards matins she heard a great noise as of men that marched; so
up she got and hied her into a large courtyard that was in rear of the
cottage, and part of which was covered with a great heap of hay,
which she espying, hid herself therein, that, if the men came there,
they might not so readily find her. Scarce had she done so than the
men, who proved to be a strong company of marauders, were at the
door of the cottage, which they forced open; and having entered,
and found the damsel's nag, still saddled, they asked who was there.
The damsel being out of sight, the good man answered: There
is none here but my wife and I; but this nag, which has given some
one the slip, found his way hither last night, and we housed him, lest
he
should be devoured by the wolves.
So!
said the chief of the
band, as he has no owner, he will come in very handy for us.
Whereupon, in several parties, they ransacked the cottage from
top to bottom; and one party went out into the courtyard, where,
as they threw aside their lances and targets, it so befell that one of
them, not knowing where else to bestow his lance, tossed it into the
hay, and was within an ace of killing the damsel that lay hid there,
as likewise she of betraying her whereabouts, for the lance all but
grazing her left breast, insomuch that the head tore her apparel, she
doubted she was wounded, and had given a great shriek, but that,
remembering where she was, she refrained for fear. By and by the
company cooked them a breakfast of kid's and other meat, and having
eaten and drunken, dispersed in divers directions, as their affairs
required, taking the girl's nag with them. And when they were
gotten some little way off, the good man asked his wife: What
became of the damsel, our guest of last night, that I have not seen
her since we rose?
The good woman answered that she knew
not where the damsel was, and went to look for her. The damsel,
discovering that the men were gone, came forth of the hay, and
the good man, seeing her, was overjoyed that she had not fallen into
the hands of the ruffians, and, as day was breaking, said to her:
Now that day is at hand, we will, so it like thee, escort thee to a
castle, some five miles hence, where thou wilt be in safety; but thou
must needs go afoot, because these villains, that are but just gone,
have taken thy nag with them.
The damsel, resigning herself to
her loss, besought them for God's sake to take her to the castle:
whereupon they set forth, and arrived there about half tierce. Now
the castle belonged to one of the Orsini, Liello di Campo di Fiore
by name, whose wife, as it chanced, was there. A most kindly
and good woman she was, and, recognizing the damsel as soon as she
saw her, gave her a hearty welcome and would fain have from her a
particular account of how she came there. So the damsel told her
the whole story. The lady, to whom Pietro was also known, as
being a friend of her husband, was distressed to hear of his misadventure,
and being told where he was taken, gave him up for dead.
So she said to the damsel: Since so it is that thou knowest not
how Pietro has fared, thou shalt stay here with me until such time
as I may have opportunity to send thee safely back to Rome.
Meanwhile Pietro, perched on his oak in as woeful a plight as
might be, had espied, when he should have been in his first sleep, a
full score of wolves, that, as they prowled, caught sight of the nag,
and straightway were upon him on all sides. The horse, as soon as he
was ware of their approach, strained on the reins till they snapped,
and tried to make good his escape; but, being hemmed in, was
brought to bay, and made a long fight of it with his teeth and hooves;
but in the end they bore him down and throttled him and forthwith
eviscerated him, and, the whole pack falling upon him, devoured him
to the bone before they had done with him. Whereat Pietro, who
felt that in the nag he had lost a companion and a comfort in his
travail, was sorely dismayed, and began to think that he should never
get out of the forest. But towards dawn, he, perched there in the
oak, almost dead with cold, looking around him as he frequently did,
espied about a mile off a huge fire. Wherefore, as soon as 'twas
broad day, he got down, not without trepidation, from the oak, and
bent his steps towards the fire; and being come to it, he found,
gathered about it, a company of shepherds, eating and making merry,
who took pity on him and made him welcome. And when he had
broken his fast and warmed himself, he told them the mishap that
had befallen him, and how it was that he was come there alone, and
asked them if there was a farm or castle in those parts, whither he
might betake him. The shepherds said that about three miles away
there was a castle belonging to Liello di Campo di Fiore, where his lady
was then tarrying. Pietro, much comforted, requested to be guided
thither by some of their company; whereupon two of them right
gladly escorted him. So Pietro arrived at the castle, where he found
some that knew him; and while he was endeavouring to set on foot
a search for the damsel in the forest, the lady summoned him to her
presence, and he, forthwith obeying, and seeing Agnolella with her,
was the happiest man that ever was. He yearned till he all but
swooned to go and embrace her, but refrained, for bashfulness, in the
lady's presence. And overjoyed as he was, the joy of the damsel
was no less. The lady received him with great cheer, and though,
when she had heard the story of his adventures from his own lips, she
chid him not a little for having set at nought the wishes of his kinsfolk;
yet, seeing that he was still of the same mind, and that the
damsel was also constant, she said to herself: To what purpose give
I myself all this trouble? they love one another, they know
one another; they love with equal ardour; their love is honourable,
and I doubt not is well pleasing to God, seeing that the one has
escaped the gallows and the other the lance, and both the wild beasts:
wherefore be it as they would have it. Then, turning to them, she
said: If 'tis your will to be joined in wedlock as man and wife,
mine jumps with it: here shall your nuptials be solemnized and at
Liello's charges, and for the rest I will see that your peace is made
with your kinsfolk.
So in the castle the pair were wedded, Pietro
only less blithe than Agnolella, the lady ordering the nuptials as
honourably as might be in her mountain-home, and there they had
most sweet joyance of the first fruits of their love. So some days
they tarried there, and then accompanied by the lady with a strong
escort, they took horse and returned to Rome, where, very wroth
though she found Pietro's kinsfolk for what he had done, the lady
re-established solid peace between him and them; and so at Rome
Pietro and Agnolella lived together to a good old age in great
tranquillity and happiness.
Novel IV Ricciardo Manardi is found by Messer Lizio da Valbona
with his daughter, whom he marries, and remains at
peace with her father.
In silence Elisa received the praise bestowed on her story by
her fair companions; and then the queen called for a story from
Filostrato, who with a laugh began on this wise:
Chidden have I
been so often and by so many of you for the sore burden, which I
laid upon you, of discourse harsh and meet for tears, that, as some
compensation for such annoy, I deem myself bound to tell you somewhat
that may cause you to laugh a little: wherefore my story,
which will be of the briefest, shall be of a love, the course whereof,
save for sighs and a brief passage of fear mingled with shame, ran
smooth to a happy consummation.
Know then, noble ladies, that 'tis no long time since there dwelt
in Romagna a right worthy and courteous knight, Messer Lizio da
Valbona by name, who was already verging upon old age, when, as it
happened, there was born to him of his wife, Madonna Giacomina,
a daughter, who, as she grew up, became the fairest and most debonair
of all the girls of those parts, and, for that she was the only daughter
left to them, was most dearly loved and cherished by her father and
mother, who guarded her with most jealous care, thinking to arrange
some great match for her. Now there was frequently in Messer
Lizio's house, and much in his company, a fine, lusty young man,
one Ricciardo de' Manardi da Brettinoro, whom Messer Lizio and
his wife would as little have thought of mistrusting as if he had been
their own son: who, now and again taking note of the damsel, that
she was very fair and graceful, and in bearing and behaviour most
commendable, and of marriageable age, fell vehemently in love with
her, which love he was very careful to conceal. The damsel detected
it, however, and in like manner plunged headlong into love with
him, to Ricciardo's no small satisfaction. Again and again he was
on the point of speaking to her, but refrained for fear; at length,
however, he summoned up his courage, and seizing his opportunity,
thus addressed her: Caterina, I implore thee, suffer me not to
die for love of thee.
Whereto the damsel forthwith responded:
Nay, God grant that it be not rather that I die for love of thee.
Greatly exhilarated and encouraged, Ricciardo made answer:
'Twill never be by default of mine that thou lackest aught that
may pleasure thee; but it rests with thee to find the means to save
thy life and mine.
Then said the damsel: Thou seest, Ricciardo,
how closely watched I am, insomuch that I see not how 'twere
possible for thee to come to me; but if thou seest aught that I may
do without dishonour, speak the word, and I will do it.
Ricciardo
was silent a while, pondering many matters: then, of a sudden, he
said: Sweet my Caterina, there is but one way that I can see,
to wit, that thou shouldst sleep either on or where thou mightst have
access to the terrace by thy father's garden, where, so I but knew
that thou wouldst be there at night, I would without fail contrive
to meet thee, albeit 'tis very high.
As for my sleeping there,
replied Caterina, I doubt not that it may be managed, if thou art
sure that thou canst join me.
Ricciardo answered in the affirmative.
Whereupon they exchanged a furtive kiss, and parted.
On the morrow, it being now towards the close of May, the
damsel began complaining to her mother that by reason of the
excessive heat she had not been able to get any sleep during the
night. Daughter,
said the lady, what heat was there? Nay,
there was no heat at all.
Had you said, 'to my thinking,'
mother,
rejoined Caterina, you would perhaps have said sooth;
but you should bethink you how much more heat girls have in them
than ladies that are advanced in years.
True, my daughter,
returned the lady, but I cannot order that it shall be hot and cold,
as thou perchance wouldst like; we must take the weather as we
find it, and as the seasons provide it: perchance to-night it will be
cooler, and thou wilt sleep better.
God grant it be so,
said
Caterina, but 'tis not wonted for the nights to grow cooler as the
summer comes on.
What then,
said the lady, wouldst thou
have me do?
With your leave and my father's,
answered
Caterina, I should like to have a little bed made up on the terrace
by his room and over his garden, where, hearing the nightingales
sing, and being in a much cooler place, I should sleep much better
than in your room.
Whereupon: Daughter, be of good cheer,
said the mother; I will speak to thy father, and we will do as he
shall decide.
So the lady told Messer Lizio what had passed between
her and the damsel; but he, being old and perhaps for that reason
a little morose, said: What nightingale is this, to whose chant
she would fain sleep? I will see to it that the cicalas shall yet lull
her to sleep.
Which speech, coming to Caterina's ears, gave her
such offence, that for anger, rather than by reason of the heat, she
not only slept not herself that night, but suffered not her mother to
sleep, keeping up a perpetual complaint of the great heat. Wherefore
her mother hied her in the morning to Messer Lizio, and said
to him: Sir, you hold your daughter none too dear; what difference
can it make to you that she lie on the terrace? She has tossed
about all night long by reason of the heat; and besides, can you
wonder that she, girl that she is, loves to hear the nightingale sing?
Young folk naturally affect their likes.
Whereto Messer Lizio
made answer: Go, make her a bed there to your liking, and set
a curtain round it, and let her sleep there, and hear the nightingale
sing to her heart's content.
Which the damsel no sooner learned,
than she had a bed made there with intent to sleep there that same
night; wherefore she watched until she saw Ricciardo, whom by a
concerted sign she gave to understand what he was to do. Messer
Lizio, as soon as he had heard the damsel go to bed, locked a door
that led from his room to the terrace, and went to sleep himself.
When all was quiet, Ricciardo with the help of a ladder got upon
a wall, and standing thereon laid hold of certain toothings of another
wall, and not without great exertion and risk, had he fallen, clambered
up on to the terrace, where the damsel received him quietly with
the heartiest of cheer. Many a kiss they exchanged; and then got
them to bed, where well-nigh all night long they had solace and
joyance of one another, and made the nightingale sing not a few
times. But, brief being the night and great their pleasure, towards
dawn, albeit they wist it not, they fell asleep, Caterina's right arm
encircling Ricciardo's neck, while with her left hand she held him
by that part of his person which your modesty, my ladies, is most
averse to name in the company of men. So, peacefully they slept,
and were still asleep when day broke and Messer Lizio rose; and
calling to mind that his daughter slept on the terrace, softly opened
the door, saying to himself: Let me see what sort of night's rest
the nightingale has afforded our Caterina? And having entered,
he gently raised the curtain that screened the bed, and saw Ricciardo
asleep with her and in her embrace as described, both being quite
naked and uncovered; and having taken note of Ricciardo, he went
away, and hied him to his lady's room, and called her, saying: Up,
up, wife, come and see; for thy daughter has fancied the nightingale
to such purpose that she has caught him, and holds him in her hand.
How can this be?
said the lady. Come quickly, and thou shalt
see,
replied Messer Lizio. So the lady huddled on her clothes, and
silently followed Messer Lizio, and when they were come to the
bed, and had raised the curtain, Madonna Giacomina saw plainly
enough how her daughter had caught, and did hold the nightingale,
whose song she had so longed to hear. Whereat the lady, deeming
that Ricciardo had played her a cruel trick, would have cried out
and upbraided him; but Messer Lizio said to her: Wife, as thou
valuest my love, say not a word; for in good sooth, seeing that she
has caught him, he shall be hers. Ricciardo is a gentleman and
wealthy; an alliance with him cannot but be to our advantage: if
he would part from me on good terms, he must first marry her, so
that the nightingale shall prove to have been put in his own cage
and not in that of another.
Whereby the lady was reassured, seeing
that her husband took the affair so quietly, and that her daughter had
had a good night, and was rested, and had caught the nightingale.
So she kept silence; nor had they long to wait before Ricciardo
awoke; and, seeing that 'twas broad day, deemed that 'twas as much
as his life was worth, and aroused Caterina, saying: Alas! my
soul, what shall we do, now that day has come and surprised me
here?
Which question Messer Lizio answered by coming forward,
and saying: We shall do well.
At sight of him Ricciardo felt
as if his heart were torn out of his body, and sate up in the bed, and
said: My lord, I cry you mercy for God's sake. I wot that my
disloyalty and delinquency have merited death; wherefore deal with
me even as it may seem best to you: however, I pray you, if so it
may be, to spare my life, that I die not.
Ricciardo,
replied
Messer
Lizio, the love I bore thee, and the faith I reposed in thee, merited
a better return; but still, as so it is, and youth has seduced thee into
such a transgression, redeem thy life, and preserve my honour, by
making Caterina thy lawful spouse, that thine, as she has been for
this past night, she may remain for the rest of her life. In this way
thou mayst secure my peace and thy safety; otherwise commend thy
soul to God.
Pending this colloquy, Caterina let go the nightingale,
and having covered herself, began with many a tear to implore her
father to forgive Ricciardo, and Ricciardo to do as Messer Lizio
required, that thereby they might securely count upon a long continuance
of such nights of delight. But there needed not much
supplication; for, what with remorse for the wrong done, and the
wish to make amends, and the fear of death, and the desire to escape
it, and above all ardent love, and the craving to possess the beloved
one, Ricciardo lost no time in making frank avowal of his readiness
to do as Messer Lizio would have him. Wherefore Messer Lizio,
having borrowed a ring from Madonna Giacomina, Ricciardo did
there and then in their presence wed Caterina. Which done, Messer
Lizio and the lady took their leave, saying: Now rest ye a while;
for so perchance 'twere better for you than if ye rose.
And so
they left the young folks, who forthwith embraced, and not having
travelled more than six miles during the night, went two miles
further before they rose, and so concluded their first day. When
they were risen, Ricciardo and Messer Lizio discussed the matter
with more formality; and some days afterwards Ricciardo, as was
meet, married the damsel anew in presence of their friends and
kinsfolk, and brought her home with great pomp, and celebrated his
nuptials with due dignity and splendour. And so for many a year
thereafter he lived with her in peace and happiness, and snared the
nightingales day and night to his heart's content.
Novel V Guidotto da Cremona dies leaving a girl to Giacomino da
Pavia. She has two lovers in Faenza, to wit, Giannole
di Severino and Minghino di Mingole, who fight
about her. She is discovered to be Giannole's sister,
and is given to Minghino to wife.
All the ladies laughed so heartily over the story of the
nightingale, that, even when Filostrato had finished, they could not control
their merriment. However, when the laughter was somewhat
abated, the queen said: Verily if thou didst yesterday afflict us,
to-day thou hast tickled us to such purpose that none of us may
justly complain of thee.
Then, as the turn had now come round
to Neifile, she bade her give them a story. And thus, blithely,
Neifile began:
As Filostrato went to Romagna for the matter of
his discourse, I too am fain to make a short journey through the
same country in what I am about to relate to you.
I say, then, that there dwelt of yore in the city of Fano two
Lombards, the one ycleped Guidotto da Cremona and the other
Giacomino da Pavia, men advanced in life, who, being soldiers, had
spent the best part of their youth in feats of arms. Now Guidotto,
being at the point of death, and having no son or any friend or kinsman
in whom he placed more trust than in Giacomino, left him a
girl of about ten years, and all that he had in the world; and so,
having given him to know not a little of his affairs, he died. About
the same time the city of Faenza, which had long been at war and
in a most sorry plight, began to recover some measure of prosperity;
and thereupon liberty to return thither on honourable terms was
accorded to all that were so minded. Whither, accordingly, Giacomino,
who had dwelt there aforetime, and liked the place, returned
with all his goods and chattels, taking with him the girl left him by
Guidotto, whom he loved and entreated as his daughter. The girl
grew up as beautiful a maiden as was to be found in the city; and
no less debonair and modest was she than fair. Wherefore she
lacked not admirers; but above all two young men, both very gallant
and of equal merit, the one Giannole di Severino, the other Minghino
di Mingole, affected her with so ardent a passion, that, growing
jealous, they came to hate one another with an inordinate hatred.
Right gladly would each have espoused her, she being now fifteen
years old, but that his kinsmen forbade it; wherefore seeing that
neither might have her in an honourable way, each determined to
compass his end as best he might.
Now Giacomino had in his house an ancient maid, and a man, by
name Crivello, a very pleasant and friendly sort of fellow, with whom
Giannole grew familiar, and in due time confided to him all his love,
praying him to further the attainment of his desire, and promising to
reward him handsomely, if he did so. Crivello made answer: Thou
must know that there is but one way in which I might be of service
to thee in this affair: I might contrive that thou shouldst be where
she is when Giacomino is gone off to supper; but, were I to presume
to say aught to her on thy behalf, she would never listen to me.
This, if it please thee, I promise to do for thee, and will be as good
as my word; and then thou canst do whatever thou mayst deem
most expedient.
Giannole said that he asked no more; and so 'twas
arranged.
Meanwhile Minghino on his part had made friends with the
maid, on whom he had so wrought that she had carried several
messages to the girl, and had gone far to kindle her to his love, and
furthermore had promised to contrive that he should meet her when
for any cause Giacomino should be from home in the evening. And
so it befell that no long time after these parleys, Giacomino, by
Crivello's management, was to go sup at the house of a friend, and
by preconcert between Crivello and Giannole, upon signal given,
Giannole was to come to Giacomino's house and find the door open.
The maid, on her part, witting nought of the understanding between
Crivello and Giannole, let Minghino know that Giacomino would not
sup at home, and bade him be near the house, so that he might come
and enter it on sight of a signal from her. The evening came; neither
of the lovers knew aught of what the other was about; but, being
suspicious of one another, they came to take possession, each with
his own company of armed friends. Minghino, while awaiting the
signal, rested with his company in the house of one of his friends
hard by the girl's house: Giannole with his company was posted a
little farther off. Crivello and the maid, when Giacomino was gone,
did each their endeavour to get the other out of the way. Crivello
said to the maid: How is it thou takest not thyself off to bed,
but goest still hither and thither about the house?
And the maid
said to Crivello: Nay, but why goest thou not after thy master?
Thou hast supped; what awaitest thou here?
And so, neither
being able to make the other quit the post, Crivello, the hour
concerted with Giannole being come, said to himself: What care
I for her? If she will not keep quiet, 'tis like to be the worse for
her. Whereupon he gave the signal, and hied him to the door,
which he had no sooner opened, than Giannole entered with two of
his companions, and finding the girl in the saloon, laid hands on her
with intent to carry her off. The girl struggled, and shrieked amain,
as did also the maid. Minghino, fearing the noise, hasted to the
spot with his companions; and, seeing that the girl was already being
borne across the threshold, they drew their swords, and cried out in
chorus: Ah! Traitors that ye are, ye are all dead men! 'Twill
go otherwise than ye think for. What means this force?
Which
said, they fell upon them with their swords, while the neighbours,
alarmed by the noise, came hurrying forth with lights and arms, and
protested that 'twas an outrage, and took Minghino's part. So, after
a prolonged struggle, Minghino wrested the girl from Giannole, and
set her again in Giacomino's house. Nor were the combatants
separated before the officers of the Governor of the city came up
and arrested not a few of them; among them Minghino and Giannole
and Crivello, whom they marched off to prison. However,
peace being restored and Giacomino returned, 'twas with no little
chagrin that he heard of the affair; but finding upon investigation
that the girl was in no wise culpable, he was somewhat reassured;
and determined, lest the like should again happen, to bestow the girl
in marriage as soon as might be.
On the morrow the kinsfolk of the two lovers, having learned
the truth of the matter, and knowing what evil might ensue to the
captives, if Giacomino should be minded to take the course which
he reasonably might, came and gave him good words, beseeching him
to let the kindly feeling, the love, which they believed he bore
to them, his suppliants, count for more with him than the wrong
that the hare-brained gallants had done him, and on their part and
their own offering to make any amend that he might require.
Giacomino, who had seen many things in his time, and lacked not
sound sense, made answer briefly: Gentlemen, were I in my own
country, as I am in yours, I hold myself in such sort your friend
that nought would I do in this matter, or in any other, save what
might be agreeable to you: besides which, I have the more reason
to consider your wishes, because 'tis against you yourselves that you
have offended, inasmuch as this damsel, whatever many folk may
suppose, is neither of Cremona nor of Pavia, but is of Faenza, albeit
neither I nor she, nor he from whom I had her, did ever wot whose
daughter she was: wherefore, touching that you ask of me, I will
even do just as you bid me.
The worthy men found it passing
strange that the girl should be of Faenza; and having thanked Giacomino
for his handsome answer, they besought him that he would be
pleased to tell them how she had come into his hands, and how he
knew that she was of Faenza. To whom Giacomino replied on
this wise: A comrade and friend I had, Guidotto da Cremona,
who, being at the point of death, told me that, when this city of
Faenza was taken by the Emperor Frederic, he and his comrades,
entering one of the houses during the sack, found there good store of
booty, and never a soul save this girl, who, being two years old or
thereabouts, greeted him as father as he came up the stairs; wherefore
he took pity on her, and carried her with whatever else was in the
house away with him to Fano; where on his deathbed he left her to
me, charging me in due time to bestow her in marriage, and give her
all his goods and chattels by way of dowry: but, albeit she is now
of marriageable age, I have not been able to provide her with a
husband to my mind; though right glad should I be to do so, that
nought like the event of yesterday may again befall me.
Now among the rest of those present was one Guglielmo da
Medicina, who had been with Guidotto on that occasion, and knew
well whose house it was that Guidotto had sacked; and seeing the
owner there among the rest, he went up to him, and said: Dost
hear, Bernabuccio, what Giacomino says?
Ay,
answered
Bernabuccio,
and I gave the more heed thereto, for that I call to mind
that during those disorders I lost a little daughter of just the age that
Giacomino speaks of.
'Tis verily she then,
said Guglielmo,
for once when I was with Guidotto I heard him describe what house
it was that he had sacked, and I wist that 'twas thine. Wherefore
search thy memory if there be any sign by which thou thinkest to
recognize her, and let her be examined that thou mayst be assured that
she is thy daughter.
So Bernabuccio pondered a while, and then
recollected that she ought to have a scar, shewing like a tiny cross,
above her left ear, being where he had excised a tumour a little while
before that affair: wherefore without delay he went up to Giacomino,
who was still there, and besought him to let him go home with
him and see the damsel. Giacomino gladly did so, and no sooner was
the girl brought into Bernabuccio's presence, than, as he beheld her,
'twas as if he saw the face of her mother, who was still a beautiful
woman. However, he would not rest there, but besought Giacomino
of his grace to permit him to lift a lock or two of hair above her left
ear; whereto Giacomino consented. So Bernabuccio approached
her where she stood somewhat shamefast, and with his right hand
lifted her locks, and, seeing the cross, wist that in very truth she was
his daughter, and tenderly wept and embraced her, albeit she withstood
him; and then, turning to Giacomino, he said: My
brother, the girl is my daughter; 'twas my house that Guidotto
sacked, and so sudden was the assault that my wife, her mother,
forgot her, and we have always hitherto supposed, that, my house
being burned that same day, she perished in the flames.
Catching
his words, and seeing that he was advanced in years, the girl inclined
to believe him, and impelled by some occult instinct, suffered his
embraces, and melting, mingled her tears with his. Bernabuccio
forthwith sent for her mother and her sisters and other kinswomen
and her brothers, and having shewn her to them all, and told the
story, after they had done her great cheer and embraced her a
thousand times, to Giacomino's no small delight, he brought her
home with him. Which coming to the ears of the Governor of the
city, the worthy man, knowing that Giannole, whom he had in
ward, was Bernabuccio's son and the girl's brother, made up his
mind to deal leniently with Giannole: wherefore he took upon
himself the part of mediator in the affair, and having made peace
between Bernabuccio and Giacomino and Giannole and Minghino,
gave Agnesa--such was the damsel's name--to Minghino to wife, to
the great delight of all Minghino's kinsfolk, and set at liberty not
only Giannole and Minghino but Crivello, and the others their
confederates in the affair. Whereupon Minghino with the blithest
of hearts wedded Agnesa with all due pomp and circumstance, and
brought her home, where for many a year thereafter he lived with
her in peace and prosperity.
Novel VI Gianni di Procida, being found with a damsel that he
loves, and who had been given to King Frederic, is
bound with her to a stake, so to be burned. He is
recognized by Ruggieri dell' Oria, is delivered, and
marries her.
Neifile's story, with which the ladies were greatly delighted,
being ended, the queen called for one from Pampinea; who forthwith
raised her noble countenance, and thus began:
Mighty
indeed, gracious ladies, are the forces of Love, and great are the
labours and excessive and unthought-of the perils which they induce
lovers to brave; as is manifest enough by what we have heard
to-day and on other occasions: howbeit I mean to shew you the
same once more by a story of an enamoured youth.
Hard by Naples is the island of Ischia, in which there dwelt
aforetime with other young damsels one, Restituta by name, daughter
of one Marin Bolgaro, a gentleman of the island. Very fair was
she, and blithe of heart, and by a young gallant, Gianni by name,
of the neighbouring islet of Procida, was beloved more dearly than
life, and in like measure returned his love. Now, not to mention his
daily resort to Ischia to see her, there were times not a few when
Gianni, not being able to come by a boat, would swim across from
Procida by night, that he might have sight, if of nought else, at
least of the walls of her house. And while their love burned thus
fervently, it so befell that one summer's day, as the damsel was all
alone on the seashore, picking her way from rock to rock, detaching,
as she went, shells from their beds with a knife, she came to a recess
among the rocks, where for the sake, as well of the shade as of the
comfort afforded by a spring of most cool water that was there,
some Sicilian gallants, that were come from Naples, had put in with
their felucca. Who, having taken note of the damsel, that she was
very fair, and that she was not yet ware of them, and was alone,
resolved to capture her, and carry her away; nor did they fail to
give effect to their resolve; but, albeit she shrieked amain, they laid
hands on her, and set her aboard their boat, and put to sea. Arrived
at Calabria, they fell a wrangling as to whose the damsel should be,
and in brief each claimed her for his own: wherefore, finding no
means of coming to an agreement, and fearing that worse might
befall them, and she bring misfortune upon them, they resolved with
one accord to give her to Frederic, King of Sicily, who was then a
young man, and took no small delight in commodities of that
quality; and so, being come to Palermo, they did.
Marking her beauty, the King set great store by her; but as she
was somewhat indisposed, he commanded that, till she was stronger,
she should be lodged and tended in a very pretty villa that was in
one of his gardens, which he called Cuba; and so 'twas done. The
purloining of the damsel caused no small stir in Ischia, more especially
because 'twas impossible to discover by whom she had been
carried off. But Gianni, more concerned than any other, despairing
of finding her in Ischia, and being apprised of the course the felucca
had taken, equipped one himself, and put to sea, and in hot haste
scoured the whole coast from Minerva to Scalea in Calabria, making
everywhere diligent search for the damsel, and in Scalea learned
that she had been taken by Sicilian mariners to Palermo. Whither,
accordingly, he hied him with all speed; and there after long search
discovering that she had been given to the King, who kept her at
Cuba, he was sore troubled, insomuch that he now scarce ventured
to hope that he should ever set eyes on her, not to speak of having
her for his own, again. But still, holden by Love, and seeing that
none there knew him, he sent the felucca away, and tarried there,
and frequently passing by Cuba, he chanced one day to catch sight
of her at a window, and was seen of her, to their great mutual
satisfaction. And Gianni, taking note that the place was lonely,
made up to her, and had such speech of her as he might, and being
taught by her after what fashion he must proceed, if he would have
further speech of her, he departed, but not till he had made himself
thoroughly acquainted with the configuration of the place; and
having waited until night was come and indeed far spent, he returned
thither, and though the ascent was such that 'twould scarce have
afforded lodgment to a woodpecker, won his way up and entered the
garden, where, finding a pole, he set it against the window which
the damsel had pointed out as hers, and thereby swarmed up easily
enough.
The damsel had aforetime shewn herself somewhat distant
towards him, being careful of her honour, but now deeming it
already lost, she had bethought her that there was none to whom
she might more worthily give herself than to him; and reckoning
upon inducing him to carry her off, she had made up her mind to
gratify his every desire; and to that end had left the window open
that his ingress might be unimpeded. So, finding it open, Gianni
softly entered, lay down beside the damsel, who was awake, and
before they went further, opened to him all her mind, beseeching
him most earnestly to take her thence, and carry her off. Gianni
replied that there was nought that would give him so much pleasure,
and that without fail, upon leaving her, he would make all needful
arrangements for bringing her away when he next came. Whereupon
with exceeding great delight they embraced one another, and
plucked that boon than which Love has no greater to bestow; and
having so done divers times, they unwittingly fell asleep in one
another's arms.
Now towards daybreak the King, who had been greatly charmed
with the damsel at first sight, happened to call her to mind, and
feeling himself fit, resolved, notwithstanding the hour, to go lie with
her a while; and so, attended by a few of his servants, he hied him
privily to Cuba. Having entered the house, he passed (the door
being softly opened) into the room in which he knew the damsel
slept. A great blazing torch was borne before him, and so, as he
bent his glance on the bed, he espied the damsel and Gianni lying
asleep, naked and in one another's arms. Whereat he was seized
with a sudden and vehement passion of wrath, insomuch that, albeit
he said never a word, he could scarce refrain from slaying both of
them there and then with a dagger that he had with him. Then,
bethinking him that 'twere the depth of baseness in any man--not
to say a king--to slay two naked sleepers, he mastered himself, and
determined to do them to death in public and by fire. Wherefore,
turning to a single companion that he had with him, he said:
What thinkest thou of this base woman, in whom I had placed
my hope?
And then he asked whether he knew the gallant, that
had presumed to enter his house to do him such outrage and despite.
Whereto the other replied that he minded not ever to have seen
him. Thereupon the King hied him out of the room in a rage,
and bade take the two lovers, naked as they were, and bind them,
and, as soon as 'twas broad day, bring them to Palermo, and bind
them back to back to a stake in the piazza, there to remain until
tierce, that all might see them, after which they were to be burned,
as they had deserved. And having so ordered, he went back to
Palermo, and shut himself up in his room, very wroth.
No sooner was he gone than there came unto the two lovers folk
not a few, who, having awakened them, did forthwith ruthlessly take
and bind them: whereat, how they did grieve and tremble for
their lives, and weep and bitterly bewail their fate, may readily be
understood.
Pursuant to the King's commandment they were brought to
Palermo, and bound to a stake in the piazza; and before their eyes
faggots and fire were made ready to burn them at the hour appointed
by the King. Great was the concourse of the folk of Palermo, both
men and women, that came to see the two lovers, the men all agog
to feast their eyes on the damsel, whom they lauded for shapeliness
and loveliness, and no less did the women commend the gallant,
whom in like manner they crowded to see, for the same qualities.
Meanwhile the two hapless lovers, both exceeding shamefast, stood
with bent heads bitterly bewailing their evil fortune, and momently
expecting their death by the cruel fire. So they awaited the time
appointed by the King; but their offence being bruited abroad, the
tidings reached the ears of Ruggieri dell' Oria, a man of peerless
worth, and at that time the King's admiral, who, being likewise
minded to see them, came to the place where they were bound, and
after gazing on the damsel and finding her very fair, turned to look
at the gallant, whom with little trouble he recognized, and drawing
nearer to him, he asked him if he were Gianni di Procida. Gianni
raised his head, and recognizing the admiral, made answer: My
lord, he, of whom you speak, I was; but I am now as good as no
more.
The admiral then asked him what it was that had brought
him to such a pass. Whereupon: Love and the King's wrath,
quoth Gianni. The admiral induced him to be more explicit, and
having learned from him exactly how it had come about, was turning
away, when Gianni called him back, saying: Oh! my lord, if so
it may be, procure me one favour of him by whose behest I thus
stand here.
What favour?
demanded Ruggieri. I see,
returned Gianni, that die I must, and that right soon. I crave,
then, as a favour, that, whereas this damsel and I, that have loved one
another more dearly than life, are here set back to back, we may be
set face to face, that I may have the consolation of gazing on her
face as I depart.
Ruggieri laughed as he replied: With all my
heart. I will so order it that thou shalt see enough of her to tire or
her.
He then left him and charged the executioners to do nothing
more without further order of the King; and being assured of their
obedience, he hied him forthwith to the King, to whom, albeit he
found him in a wrathful mood, he spared not to speak his mind,
saying: Sire, wherein have they wronged thee, those two young
folk, whom thou hast ordered to be burned down there in the
piazza?
The King told him. Whereupon Ruggieri continued:
Their offence does indeed merit such punishment, but not at thy
hands, and if misdeeds should not go unpunished, services should not
go unrewarded; nay, may warrant indulgence and mercy. Knowest
thou who they are whom thou wouldst have burned?
The King
signified that he did not. Whereupon Ruggieri: But I,
quoth
he, am minded that thou shouldst know them, to the end that thou
mayst know with what discretion thou surrenderest thyself to a
transport of rage. The young man is the son of Landolfo di
Procida, brother of Messer Gianni di Procida, to whom thou owest
it that thou art lord and king of this island. The damsel is a
daughter of Marin Bolgaro, whose might alone to-day prevents
Ischia from throwing off thy yoke. Moreover, these young folk
have long been lovers, and 'tis for that the might of Love constrained
them, and not that they would do despite to thy lordship, that they
have committed this offence, if indeed 'tis meet to call that an
offence which young folk do for Love's sake. Wherefore, then,
wouldst thou do them to death, when thou shouldst rather do them
all cheer, and honour them with lordly gifts?
The King gave ear
to Ruggieri's words, and being satisfied that he spoke sooth, repented
him, not only of his evil purpose, but of what he had already done,
and forthwith gave order to loose the two young folk from the
stake, and bring them before him; and so 'twas done. And having
fully apprised himself of their case, he saw fit to make them amends
of the wrong he had done them with honours and largess. Wherefore
he caused them to be splendidly arrayed, and being assured that
they were both minded to wed, he himself gave Gianni his bride,
and loading them with rich presents, sent them well content back to
Ischia, where they were welcomed with all festal cheer, and lived
long time thereafter to their mutual solace and delight.
Novel VII Teodoro, being enamoured of Violante, daughter of Messer
Amerigo, his lord, gets her with child, and is sentenced
to the gallows; but while he is being scourged
thither, he is recognized by his father, and being set
at large, takes Violante to wife.
While they doubted whether the two lovers would be burned,
the ladies were all fear and suspense; but when they heard of their
deliverance, they all with one accord put on a cheerful countenance,
praising God. The story ended, the queen ordained that the next
should be told by Lauretta, who blithely thus began:
Fairest ladies, what time good King Guglielmo ruled Sicily there
dwelt on the island a gentleman, Messer Amerigo Abate da Trapani
by name, who was well provided, as with other temporal goods, so
also with children. For which cause being in need of servants, he
took occasion of the appearance in Trapani waters of certain Genoese
corsairs from the Levant, who, scouring the coast of Armenia,
had captured not a few boys, to purchase of them some of these
youngsters, supposing them to be Turks; among whom, albeit most
shewed as mere shepherd boys, there was one, Teodoro by name,
whose less rustic mien seemed to betoken gentle blood. Who,
though still treated as a slave, was suffered to grow up in the house
with Messer Amerigo's children, and, nature getting the better of
circumstance, bore himself with such grace and dignity that Messer
Amerigo gladly gave him his freedom, and still deeming him to be
a Turk, had him baptized and named Pietro, and made him his major-domo,
and placed much trust in him. Now among the other
children that grew up in Messer Amerigo's house was his fair and
dainty daughter, Violante; and, as her father was in no hurry to give
her in marriage, it so befell that she became enamoured of Pietro;
but, for all her love and the great conceit she had of his qualities
and conduct, she nevertheless was too shamefast to discover her
passion to him. However, Love spared her the pains, for Pietro had
cast many a furtive glance in her direction, and had grown so
enamoured of her that 'twas never well with him except he saw her;
but great was his fear lest any should detect his passion, for he
deemed 'twould be the worse for him. The damsel, who was fain
indeed of the sight of him, understood his case; and to encourage
him dissembled not her exceeding great satisfaction. On which
footing they remained a great while, neither venturing to say aught
to the other, much as both longed to do so. But, while they both
burned with a mutual flame, Fortune, as if their entanglement
were of her preordaining, found means to banish the fear and
hesitation that kept them tongue-tied.
Messer Amerigo possessed, a mile or so from Trapani, a goodly
estate, to which he was wont not seldom to resort with his daughter
and other ladies by way of recreation; and on one of these days,
while there they tarried with Pietro, whom they had brought with
them, suddenly, as will sometimes happen in summer, the sky became
overcast with black clouds, insomuch that the lady and her companions,
lest the storm should surprise them there, set out on their return
to Trapani, making all the haste they might. But Pietro and the
girl being young, and sped perchance by Love no less than by fear of
the storm, completely outstripped her mother and the other ladies;
and when they were gotten so far ahead as to be well-nigh out of
sight of the lady and all the rest, the thunder burst upon them peal
upon peal, hard upon which came a fall of hail very thick and close,
from which the lady sought shelter in the house of a husbandman.
Pietro and the damsel, finding no more convenient refuge, betook
them to an old, and all but ruinous, and now deserted, cottage, which,
however, still had a bit of roof left, whereunder they both took their
stand in such close quarters, owing to the exiguity of the shelter, that
they perforce touched one another. Which contact was the occasion
that they gathered somewhat more courage to disclose their love;
and so it was that Pietro began on this wise: Now would to God
that this hail might never cease, that so I might stay here for ever!
And well content were I,
returned the damsel.
And by and by
their hands met, not without a tender pressure, and then they fell to
embracing and so to kissing one another, while the hail continued.
And not to dwell on every detail, the sky was not clear before they
had known the last degree of love's felicity, and had taken thought
how they might secretly enjoy one another in the future. The
cottage being close to the city gate, they hied them thither, as soon
as the storm was overpast, and having there awaited the lady, returned
home with her. Nor, using all discretion, did they fail thereafter to
meet from time to time in secret, to their no small solace; and the
affair went so far that the damsel conceived, whereby they were both
not a little disconcerted; insomuch that the damsel employed many
artifices to arrest the course of nature, but to no effect. Wherefore
Pietro, being in fear of his life, saw nothing for it but flight, and told
her so. Whereupon: If thou leave me,
quoth she, I shall
certainly kill myself.
Much as he loved her, Pietro answered:
Nay but, my lady, wherefore wouldst thou have me tarry here?
Thy pregnancy will discover our offence: thou wilt be readily
forgiven; but 'twill be my woeful lot to bear the penalty of thy sin
and mine.
Pietro,
returned the damsel, too well will they wot
of my offence, but be sure that, if thou confess not, none will ever
wot of thine.
Then quoth he: Since thou givest me this
promise, I will stay; but mind thou keep it.
The damsel, who had done her best to keep her condition secret,
saw at length by the increase of her bulk that 'twas impossible:
wherefore one day most piteously bewailing herself, she made her
avowal to her mother, and besought her to shield her from the
consequences. Distressed beyond measure, the lady chid her severely,
and then asked her how it had come to pass. The damsel, to screen
Pietro, invented a story by which she put another complexion on the
affair. The lady believed her, and, that her fall might not be
discovered, took her off to one of their estates; where, the time of her
delivery being come, and she, as women do in such a case, crying out
for pain, it so befell that Messer Amerigo, whom the lady expected
not, as indeed he was scarce ever wont, to come there, did so, having
been out a hawking, and passing by the chamber where the damsel
lay, marvelled to hear her cries, and forthwith entered, and asked what
it meant. On sight of whom the lady rose and sorrowfully gave him
her daughter's version of what had befallen her. But he, less credulous
than his wife, averred that it could not be true that she knew
not by whom she was pregnant, and was minded to know the whole
truth: let the damsel confess and she might regain his favour;
otherwise she must expect no mercy and prepare for death.
The lady did all she could to induce her husband to rest satisfied
with what she had told him; but all to no purpose. Mad with rage,
he rushed, drawn sword in hand, to his daughter's bedside (she, pending
the parley, having given birth to a boy) and cried out: Declare
whose this infant is, or forthwith thou diest.
Overcome by fear of
death, the damsel broke her promise to Pietro, and made a clean
breast of all that had passed between him and her. Whereat the
knight, grown fell with rage, could scarce refrain from slaying her.
However, having given vent to his wrath in such words as it
dictated, he remounted his horse and rode to Trapani, and there
before one Messer Currado, the King's lieutenant, laid information of
the wrong done him by Pietro, in consequence whereof Pietro, who
suspected nothing, was forthwith taken, and being put to the torture,
confessed all. Some days later the lieutenant sentenced him to be
scourged through the city, and then hanged by the neck; and Messer
Amerigo, being minded that one and the same hour should rid the
earth of the two lovers and their son (for to have compassed Pietro's
death was not enough to appease his wrath), mingled poison and wine
in a goblet, and gave it to one of his servants with a drawn sword,
saying: Get thee with this gear to Violante, and tell her from me
to make instant choice of one of these two deaths, either the poison
or the steel; else, I will have her burned, as she deserves, in view of
all the citizens; which done, thou wilt take the boy that she bore a
few days ago, and beat his brains out against the wall, and cast his
body for a prey to the dogs.
Hearing the remorseless doom thus passed by the angry father
upon both his daughter and his grandson, the servant, prompt to do
evil rather than good, hied him thence.
Now, as Pietro in execution of his sentence was being scourged to
the gallows by the serjeants, 'twas so ordered by the leaders of the band
that he passed by an inn, where were three noblemen of Armenia,
sent by the king of that country as ambassadors to Rome, to treat
with the Pope of matters of the highest importance, touching a
crusade that was to be; who, having there alighted to rest and recreate
them for some days, had received not a few tokens of honour
from the nobles of Trapani, and most of all from Messer Amerigo.
Hearing the tramp of Pietro's escort, they came to a window to see
what was toward; and one of them, an aged man, and of great
authority, Fineo by name, looking hard at Pietro, who was stripped
from the waist up, and had his hands bound behind his back, espied
on his breast a great spot of scarlet, not laid on by art, but wrought
in the skin by operation of Nature, being such as the ladies here call
a rose. Which he no sooner saw, than he was reminded of a son
that had been stolen from him by corsairs on the coast of Lazistan
some fifteen years before, nor had he since been able to hear tidings
of him; and guessing the age of the poor wretch that was being
scourged, he set it down as about what his son's would be, were
he living, and, what with the mark and the age, he began to
suspect that 'twas even his son, and bethought him that, if so, he
would scarce as yet have forgotten his name or the speech of Armenia.
Wherefore, as he was within earshot he called to him: Teodoro!
At the word Pietro raised his head: whereupon Fineo,
speaking in Armenian, asked him: Whence and whose son art
thou?
The serjeants, that were leading him, paused in deference
to the great man, and so Pietro answered: Of Armenia was I,
son of one Fineo, brought hither by folk I wot not of, when I was
but a little child.
Then Fineo, witting that in very truth 'twas
the boy that he had lost, came down with his companions, weeping;
and, all the serjeants making way, he ran to him, and embraced him,
and doffing a mantle of richest texture that he wore, he prayed the
captain of the band to be pleased to tarry there until he should receive
orders to go forward, and was answered by the captain that he would
willingly so wait.
Fineo already knew, for 'twas bruited everywhere, the cause for
which Pietro was being led to the gallows; wherefore he straightway
hied him with his companions and their retinue to Messer Currado,
and said to him: Sir, this lad, whom you are sending to the
gallows like a slave, is freeborn, and my son, and is ready to take to
wife her whom, as 'tis said, he has deflowered; so please you, therefore,
delay the execution until such time as it may be understood whether
she be minded to have him for husband, lest, should she be so minded,
you be found to have broken the law.
Messer Currado marvelled
to hear that Pietro was Fineo's son, and not without shame, albeit
'twas not his but Fortune's fault, confessed that 'twas even as Fineo
said: and having caused Pietro to be taken home with all speed, and
Messer Amerigo to be brought before him, told him the whole
matter. Messer Amerigo, who supposed that by this time his
daughter and grandson must be dead, was the saddest man in the world
to think that 'twas by his deed, witting that, were the damsel still alive,
all might very easily be set right: however, he sent post haste to his
daughter's abode, revoking his orders, if they were not yet carried
out. The servant, whom he had earlier despatched, had laid the
sword and poison before the damsel, and, for that she was in no hurry
to make her choice, was giving her foul words, and endeavouring to
constrain her thereto, when the messenger arrived; but on hearing
the injunction laid upon him by his lord, he desisted, and went back,
and told him how things stood. Whereupon Messer Amerigo, much
relieved, hied him to Fineo, and well-nigh weeping, and excusing
himself for what had befallen, as best he knew how, craved his
pardon, and professed himself well content to give Teodoro, so he
were minded to have her, his daughter to wife. Fineo readily
accepted his excuses, and made answer: 'Tis my will that my son
espouse your daughter, and, so he will not, let thy sentence passed
upon him be carried out.
So Fineo and Messer Amerigo being agreed, while Teodoro still
languished in fear of death, albeit he was glad at heart to have found
his father, they questioned him of his will in regard of this matter.
When he heard that, if he would, he might have Violante to
wife, Teodoro's delight was such that he seemed to leap from hell
to paradise, and said that, if 'twas agreeable to them all, he should
deem it the greatest of favours. So they sent to the damsel to learn
her pleasure: who, having heard how it had fared, and was now like
to fare, with Teodoro, albeit, saddest of women, she looked for
nought but death, began at length to give some credence to their
words, and to recover heart a little, and answered that, were she to
follow the bent of her desire, nought that could happen would delight
her more than to be Teodoro's wife; but nevertheless she would do
as her father bade her.
So, all agreeing, the damsel was espoused with all pomp and festal
cheer, to the boundless delight of all the citizens,
and was comforted,
and nurtured her little boy, and in no long time waxed more beautiful
than ever before; and, her confinement being ended, she presented
herself before Fineo, who was then about to quit Rome on his
homeward journey, and did him such reverence as is due to a father.
Fineo, mighty well pleased to have so fair a daughter-in-law, caused
celebrate her nuptials most bravely and gaily, and received, and did
ever thereafter entreat, her as his daughter.
And so he took her, not many days after the festivities were
ended, with his son and little grandson, aboard a galley, and brought
them to Lazistan, and there thenceforth the two lovers dwelt with
him in easeful and lifelong peace.
Novel VIII Nastagio degli Onesti, loving a damsel of the Traversari
family, by lavish expenditure gains not her love. At
the instance of his kinsfolk he hies him to Chiassi,
where he sees a knight hunt a damsel and slay her and
cause her to be devoured by two dogs. He bids his
kinsfolk and the lady that he loves to breakfast.
During the meal the said damsel is torn in pieces
before the eyes of the lady, who, fearing a like fate,
takes Nastagio to husband.
Lauretta was no sooner silent than thus at the queen's behest
began Filomena:
Sweet ladies, as in us pity has ever its meed of
praise, even so Divine justice suffers not our cruelty to escape severe
chastisement: the which that I may shew you, and thereby dispose
you utterly to banish that passion from your souls, I am minded to
tell you a story no less touching than delightsome.
In Ravenna, that most ancient city of Romagna, there dwelt of yore
noblemen and gentlemen not a few, among whom was a young man,
Nastagio degli Onesti by name, who by the death of his father and one
of his uncles inherited immense wealth. Being without a wife, Nastagio,
as 'tis the way with young men, became enamoured of a daughter
of Messer Paolo Traversaro, a damsel of much higher birth than his,
whose love he hoped to win by gifts and the like modes of courting,
which, albeit they were excellent and fair and commendable, not
only availed him not, but seemed rather to have the contrary effect,
so harsh and ruthless and unrelenting did the beloved damsel shew
herself towards him; for whether it was her uncommon beauty or
her noble lineage that puffed her up, so haughty and disdainful was
she grown that pleasure she had none either in him or in aught that
pleased him. The burden of which disdain Nastagio found so hard
to bear, that many a time, when he had made his moan, he longed to
make away with himself. However he refrained therefrom, and
many a time resolved to give her up altogether, or, if so he might, to
hold her in despite, as she did him: but 'twas all in vain, for it
seemed as if, the more his hope dwindled, the greater grew his love.
And, as thus he continued, loving and spending inordinately, certain
of his kinsfolk and friends, being apprehensive lest he should waste
both himself and his substance, did many a time counsel and beseech
him to depart Ravenna, and go tarry for a time elsewhere, that so he
might at once cool his flame and reduce his charges. For a long
while Nastagio answered their admonitions with banter; but as they
continued to ply him with them, he grew weary of saying no so
often, and promised obedience. Whereupon he equipped himself as
if for a journey to France or Spain, or other distant parts, got on
horseback and sallied forth of Ravenna, accompanied by not a few of
his friends, and being come to a place called Chiassi, about three
miles from Ravenna, he halted, and having sent for tents and pavilions,
told his companions that there he meant to stay, and they might go
back to Ravenna. So Nastagio pitched his camp, and there commenced
to live after as fine and lordly a fashion as did ever any man,
bidding divers of his friends from time to time to breakfast or sup
with him, as he had been wont to do. Now it so befell that about
the beginning of May, the season being very fine, he fell a brooding
on the cruelty of his mistress, and, that his meditations might be the
less disturbed, he bade all his servants leave him, and sauntered slowly,
wrapt in thought, as far as the pinewood. Which he had threaded
for a good half-mile, when, the fifth hour of the day being well-nigh
past, yet he recking neither of food nor of aught else, 'twas as if he
heard a woman wailing exceedingly and uttering most piercing
shrieks: whereat, the train of his sweet melancholy being broken,
he raised his head to see what was toward, and wondered to find himself
in the pinewood; and saw, moreover, before him running through
a grove, close set with underwood and brambles, towards the place
where he was, a damsel most comely, stark naked, her hair dishevelled,
and her flesh all torn by the briers and brambles, who wept and cried
piteously for mercy; and at her flanks he saw two mastiffs, exceeding
great and fierce, that ran hard upon her track, and not seldom
came up with her and bit her cruelly; and in the rear he saw, riding
a black horse, a knight sadly accoutred, and very wrathful of mien,
carrying a rapier in his hand, and with despiteful, blood-curdling
words threatening her with death. Whereat he was at once amazed
and appalled, and then filled with compassion for the hapless lady,
whereof was bred a desire to deliver her, if so he might, from such
anguish and peril of death. Wherefore, as he was unarmed, he ran
and took in lieu of a cudgel a branch of a tree, with which he prepared
to encounter the dogs and the knight. Which the knight observing,
called to him before he was come to close quarters, saying: Hold
off, Nastagio, leave the dogs and me alone to deal with this vile
woman as she has deserved.
And, even as he spoke, the dogs
gripped the damsel so hard on either flank that they arrested her flight,
and the knight, being come up, dismounted. Whom Nastagio
approached, saying: I know not who thou art, that knowest me
so well, but thus much I tell thee: 'tis a gross outrage for an armed
knight to go about to kill a naked woman, and set his dogs upon her
as if she were a wild beast: rest assured that I shall do all I can to
protect her.
Whereupon: Nastagio,
replied the knight, of
the same city as thou was I, and thou wast yet a little lad when I,
Messer Guido degli Anastagi by name, being far more enamoured of
this damsel than thou art now of her of the Traversari, was by her
haughtiness and cruelty brought to so woeful a pass that one day
in a fit of despair I slew myself with this rapier which thou seest
in my hand; for which cause I am condemned to the eternal
pains. Nor was it long after my death that she, who exulted
therein over measure, also died, and for that she repented her
not of her cruelty and the joy she had of my sufferings, for
which she took not blame to herself, but merit, was likewise
condemned to the pains of hell. Nor had she sooner made her
descent, than for her pain and mine 'twas ordained, that she should
flee before me, and that I, who so loved her, should pursue her, not as
my beloved lady, but as my mortal enemy, and so, as often as I come
up with her, I slay her with this same rapier with which I slew
myself, and having ripped her up by the back, I take out that hard
and cold heart, to which neither love nor pity had ever access, and
therewith her other inward parts, as thou shalt forthwith see, and
cast them to these dogs to eat. And in no long time, as the just
and mighty God decrees, she rises even as if she had not died, and
recommences her dolorous flight, I and the dogs pursuing her. And
it so falls out that every Friday about this hour I here come up with
her, and slaughter her as thou shalt see; but ween not that we rest
on other days; for there are other places in which I overtake her,
places in which she used, or devised how she might use, me cruelly;
on which wise, changed as thou seest from her lover into her foe, I
am to pursue her for years as many as the months during which she
shewed herself harsh to me. Wherefore leave me to execute the
decree of the Divine justice, and presume not to oppose that which
thou mayst not avail to withstand.
Affrighted by the knight's words, insomuch that there was scarce
a hair on his head but stood on end, Nastagio shrank back, still gazing
on the hapless damsel, and waited all a tremble to see what the knight
would do. Nor had he long to wait; for the knight, as soon as he
had done speaking, sprang, rapier in hand, like a mad dog upon the
damsel, who, kneeling, while the two mastiffs gripped her tightly,
cried him mercy; but the knight, thrusting with all his force, struck
her between the breasts, and ran her clean through the body. Thus
stricken, the damsel fell forthwith prone on the ground sobbing and
shrieking: whereupon the knight drew forth a knife, and having
therewith opened her in the back, took out the heart and all the
circumjacent parts, and threw them to the two mastiffs, who, being
famished, forthwith devoured them. And in no long time the
damsel, as if nought thereof had happened, started to her feet, and
took to flight towards the sea, pursued, and ever and anon bitten, by
the dogs, while the knight, having gotten him to horse again, followed
them as before, rapier in hand; and so fast sped they that they were
quickly lost to Nastagio's sight.
Long time he stood musing on what he had seen, divided between
pity and terror, and then it occurred to him that, as this passed
every Friday, it might avail him not a little. So, having marked the
place, he rejoined his servants, and in due time thereafter sent for
some of his kinsfolk and friends, and said to them: 'Tis now a
long while that you urge me to give up loving this lady that is no
friend to me, and therewith make an end of my extravagant way of
living; and I am now ready so to do, provided you procure me one
favour, to wit, that next Friday Messer Paolo Traversaro, and his
wife and daughter, and all the ladies, their kinswomen, and as many
other ladies as you may be pleased to bid, come hither to breakfast
with me: when you will see for yourselves the reason why I so
desire.
A small matter this seemed to them; and so, on their
return to Ravenna, they lost no time in conveying Nastagio's message
to his intended guests: and, albeit she was hardly persuaded, yet in
the end the damsel that Nastagio loved came with the rest.
Nastagio caused a lordly breakfast to be prepared, and had the
tables set under the pines about the place where he had witnessed
the slaughter of the cruel lady; and in ranging the ladies and
gentlemen at table he so ordered it, that the damsel whom he loved
was placed opposite the spot where it should be enacted. The last
course was just served, when the despairing cries of the hunted
damsel became audible to all, to their no small amazement; and
each asking, and none knowing, what it might import, up they all
started intent to see what was toward; and perceived the suffering
damsel, and the knight and the dogs, who in a trice were in their
midst. They hollaed amain to dogs and knight, and not a few
advanced to succour the damsel: but the words of the knight, which
were such as he had used to Nastagio, caused them to fall back,
terror-stricken and lost in amazement. And when the knight proceeded
to do as he had done before, all the ladies that were there,
many of whom were of kin to the suffering damsel and to the knight,
and called to mind his love and death, wept as bitterly as if 'twere
their own case.
When 'twas all over, and the lady and the knight had disappeared,
the strange scene set those that witnessed it pondering many and
divers matters: but among them all none was so appalled as the
cruel damsel that Nastagio loved, who, having clearly seen and heard
all that had passed, and being ware that it touched her more nearly
than any other by reason of the harshness that she had ever shewn to
Nastagio, seemed already to be fleeing from her angered lover, and
to have the mastiffs on her flanks. And so great was her terror that,
lest a like fate should befall her, she converted her aversion into
affection, and as soon as occasion served, which was that very night,
sent a trusty chambermaid privily to Nastagio with a request that he
would be pleased to come to her, for that she was ready in all respects
to pleasure him to the full. Nastagio made answer that he was
greatly flattered, but that he was minded with her consent to have
his pleasure of her in an honourable way, to wit, by marrying her.
The damsel, who knew that none but herself was to blame that she
was not already Nastagio's wife, made answer that she consented.
Wherefore by her own mouth she acquainted her father and mother
that she agreed to marry Nastagio; and, they heartily approving her
choice, Nastagio wedded her on the ensuing Sunday, and lived
happily with her many a year. Nor was it in her instance alone that
this terror was productive of good: on the contrary, it so wrought
among the ladies of Ravenna that they all became, and have ever
since been, much more compliant with men's desires than they had
been wont to be.
Novel IX Federigo degli Alberighi loves and is not loved in return:
he wastes his substance by lavishness until nought is
left but a single falcon, which, his lady being come to
see him at his house, he gives her to eat: she, knowing
his case, changes her mind, takes him to husband and
makes him rich.
So ended Filomena; and the queen, being ware that besides herself
only Dioneo (by virtue of his privilege) was left to speak, said
with gladsome mien:
'Tis now for me to take up my parable;
which, dearest ladies, I will do with a story like in some degree to
the foregoing, and that, not only that you may know how potent are
your charms to sway the gentle heart, but that you may also learn
how upon fitting occasions to make bestowal of your guerdons of
your own accord, instead of always waiting for the guidance of
Fortune, which most times, not wisely, but without rule or measure,
scatters her gifts.
You are then to know, that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi, a
man that in our day was, and perchance still is, had in respect and
great reverence in our city, being not only by reason of his noble
lineage, but, and yet more, for manners and merit most illustrious and
worthy of eternal renown, was in his old age not seldom wont to
amuse himself by discoursing of things past with his neighbours and
other folk; wherein he had not his match for accuracy and compass
of memory and concinnity of speech. Among other good stories, he
would tell, how that there was of yore in Florence a gallant named
Federigo di Messer Filippo Alberighi, who for feats of arms and
courtesy had not his peer in Tuscany; who, as is the common lot of
gentlemen, became enamoured of a lady named Monna Giovanna,
who in her day held rank among the fairest and most elegant ladies
of Florence; to gain whose love he jousted, tilted, gave entertainments,
scattered largess, and in short set no bounds to his expenditure.
However the lady, no less virtuous than fair, cared not
a jot for what he did for her sake, nor yet for him.
Spending thus greatly beyond his means, and making nothing,
Federigo could hardly fail to come to lack, and was at length reduced
to such poverty that he had nothing left but a little estate, on the
rents of which he lived very straitly, and a single falcon, the best in
the world. The estate was at Campi, and thither, deeming it no
longer possible for him to live in the city as he desired, he repaired,
more in love than ever before; and there, in complete seclusion,
diverting himself with hawking, he bore his poverty as patiently as he
might.
Now, Federigo being thus reduced to extreme poverty, it so
happened that one day Monna Giovanna's husband, who was very
rich, fell ill, and, seeing that he was nearing his end, made his will,
whereby he left his estate to his son, who was now growing up, and
in the event of his death without lawful heir named Monna Giovanna,
whom he dearly loved, heir in his stead; and having made these
dispositions he died.
Monna Giovanna, being thus left a widow, did as our ladies are
wont, and repaired in the summer to one of her estates in the country
which lay very near to that of Federigo. And so it befell that
the urchin began to make friends with Federigo, and to shew a
fondness for hawks and dogs, and having seen Federigo's falcon fly
not a few times, took a singular fancy to him, and greatly longed to
have him for his own, but still did not dare to ask him of Federigo,
knowing that Federigo prized him so much. So the matter stood when
by chance the boy fell sick; whereby the mother was sore distressed, for
he was her only son, and she loved him as much as might be, insomuch
that all day long she was beside him, and ceased not to comfort
him, and again and again asked him if there were aught that he
wished for, imploring him to say the word, and, if it might by any
means be had, she would assuredly do her utmost to procure it for
him. Thus repeatedly exhorted, the boy said: Mother mine, do
but get me Federigo's falcon, and I doubt not I shall soon be well.
Whereupon the lady was silent a while, bethinking her what she
should do. She knew that Federigo had long loved her, and had
never had so much as a single kind look from her: wherefore she
said to herself: How can I send or go to beg of him this falcon,
which by what I hear is the best that ever flew, and moreover is his
sole comfort? And how could I be so unfeeling as to seek to deprive
a gentleman of the one solace that is now left him? And so, albeit
she very well knew that she might have the falcon for the asking, she
was perplexed, and knew not what to say, and gave her son no
answer. At length, however, the love she bore the boy carried the
day, and she made up her mind, for his contentment, come what might,
not to send, but to go herself and fetch him the falcon. So: Be of
good cheer, my son,
she said, and doubt not thou wilt soon be
well; for I promise thee that the very first thing that I shall do tomorrow
morning will be to go and fetch thee the falcon.
Whereat
the child was so pleased that he began to mend that very day.
On the morrow the lady, as if for pleasure, hied her with another
lady to Federigo's little house, and asked to see him. 'Twas still, as
for some days past, no weather for hawking, and Federigo was in his
garden, busy about some small matters which needed to be set right
there. When he heard that Monna Giovanna was at the door,
asking to see him, he was not a little surprised and pleased, and hied
him to her with all speed. As soon as she saw him, she came
forward to meet him with womanly grace, and having received his
respectful salutation, said to him: Good morrow, Federigo,
and
continued: I am come to requite thee for what thou hast lost
by loving me more than thou shouldst: which compensation is this,
that I and this lady that accompanies me will breakfast with thee
without ceremony this morning.
Madam,
Federigo replied
with all humility, I mind not ever to have lost aught by loving you,
but rather to have been so much profited that, if I ever deserved well
in aught, 'twas to your merit that I owed it, and to the love that I
bore you. And of a surety had I still as much to spend as I have
spent in the past, I should not prize it so much as this visit you so
frankly pay me, come as you are to one who can afford you but a
sorry sort of hospitality.
Which said, with some confusion, he
bade her welcome to his house, and then led her into his garden,
where, having none else to present to her by way of companion, he
said: Madam, as there is none other here, this good woman, wife
of this husbandman, will bear you company, while I go to have the
table set.
Now, albeit his poverty was extreme, yet he had not
known as yet how sore was the need to which his extravagance had
reduced him; but this morning 'twas brought home to him, for that
he could find nought wherewith to do honour to the lady, for love
of whom he had done the honours of his house to men without
number: wherefore, distressed beyond measure, and inwardly cursing
his evil fortune, he sped hither and thither like one beside himself,
but never a coin found he, nor yet aught to pledge. Meanwhile it
grew late, and sorely he longed that the lady might not leave his
house altogether unhonoured, and yet to crave help of his own
husbandman was more than his pride could brook. In these desperate
straits his glance happened to fall on his brave falcon on his perch in
his little parlour. And so, as a last resource, he took him, and finding
him plump, deemed that he would make a dish meet for such a
lady. Wherefore, without thinking twice about it, he wrung the
bird's neck, and caused his maid forthwith pluck him and set him on
a spit, and roast him carefully; and having still some spotless table-linen,
he had the table laid therewith, and with a cheerful countenance
hied him back to his lady in the garden, and told her that such
breakfast as he could give her was ready. So the lady and her companion
rose and came to table, and there, with Federigo, who waited on
them most faithfully, ate the brave falcon, knowing not what they ate.
When they were risen from table, and had dallied a while in gay
converse with him, the lady deemed it time to tell the reason of her
visit: wherefore, graciously addressing Federigo, thus began she:
Federigo, by what thou rememberest of thy past life and my virtue,
which, perchance, thou hast deemed harshness and cruelty, I doubt
not thou must marvel at my presumption, when thou hearest the
main purpose of my visit; but if thou hadst sons, or hadst had them, so
that thou mightest know the full force of the love that is borne them,
I should make no doubt that thou wouldst hold me in part excused.
Nor, having a son, may I, for that thou hast none, claim exemption
from the laws to which all other mothers are subject, and, being thus
bound to own their sway, I must, though fain were I not, and
though 'tis neither meet nor right, crave of thee that which I know
thou dost of all things and with justice prize most highly, seeing
that this extremity of thy adverse fortune has left thee nought else
wherewith to delight, divert and console thee; which gift is no other
than thy falcon, on which my boy has so set his heart that, if I
bring him it not, I fear lest he grow so much worse of the malady
that he has, that thereby it may come to pass that I lose him. And
so, not for the love which thou dost bear me, and which may nowise
bind thee, but for that nobleness of temper, whereof in courtesy
more conspicuously than in aught else thou hast given proof, I implore
thee that thou be pleased to give me the bird, that thereby
I may say that I have kept my son alive, and thus made him for
aye thy debtor.
No sooner had Federigo apprehended what the lady wanted,
than, for grief that 'twas not in his power to serve her, because he
had given her the falcon to eat, he fell a weeping in her presence,
before he could so much as utter a word. At first the lady supposed
that 'twas only because he was loath to part with the brave falcon
that he wept, and as good as made up her mind that he would refuse
her: however, she awaited with patience Federigo's answer, which
was on this wise: Madam, since it pleased God that I should set
my affections upon you there have been matters not a few, in which
to my sorrow I have deemed Fortune adverse to me; but they have
all been trifles in comparison of the trick that she now plays me:
the which I shall never forgive her, seeing that you are come here to
my poor house, where, while I was rich, you deigned not to come,
and ask a trifling favour of me, which she has put it out of my
power to grant: how 'tis so, I will briefly tell you. When I learned
that you, of your grace, were minded to breakfast with me, having
respect to your high dignity and desert, I deemed it due and seemly
that in your honour I should regale you, to the best of my power,
with fare of a more excellent quality than is commonly set before
others; and, calling to mind the falcon which you now ask of me,
and his excellence, I judged him meet food for you, and so you have
had him roasted on the trencher this morning; and well indeed I
thought I had bestowed him; but, as now I see that you would fain
have had him in another guise, so mortified am I that I am not able
to serve you, that I doubt I shall never know peace of mind more.
In witness whereof he had the feathers and feet and beak of the
bird brought in and laid before her.
The first thing the lady did, when she had heard Federigo's
story, and seen the relics of the bird, was to chide him that he had
killed so fine a falcon to furnish a woman with a breakfast; after
which the magnanimity of her host, which poverty had been and
was powerless to impair, elicited no small share of inward commendation.
Then, frustrate of her hope of possessing the falcon, and
doubting of her son's recovery, she took her leave with the heaviest
of hearts, and hied her back to the boy: who, whether for fretting,
that he might not have the falcon, or by the unaided energy of his
disorder, departed this life not many days after, to the exceeding
great grief of his mother. For a while she would do nought but
weep and bitterly bewail herself; but being still young, and left very
wealthy, she was often urged by her brothers to marry again, and
though she would rather have not done so, yet being importuned,
and remembering Federigo's high desert, and the magnificent generosity
with which he had finally killed his falcon to do her honour,
she said to her brothers: Gladly, with your consent, would I
remain a widow, but if you will not be satisfied except I take a
husband, rest assured that none other will I ever take save Federigo
degli Alberighi.
Whereupon her brothers derided her, saying:
Foolish woman, what is't thou sayst? How shouldst thou want
Federigo, who has not a thing in the world?
To whom she
answered: My brothers, well wot I that 'tis as you say; but I
had rather have a man without wealth than wealth without a man.
The brothers, perceiving that her mind was made up, and knowing
Federigo for a good man and true, poor though he was, gave her to
him with all her wealth. And so Federigo, being mated with such
a wife, and one that he had so much loved, and being very wealthy
to boot, lived happily, keeping more exact accounts, to the end of his
days.
Novel X Pietro di Vinciolo goes from home to sup: his wife brings
a boy into the house to bear her company: Pietro
returns, and she hides her gallant under a hen-coop:
Pietro explains that in the house of Ercolano, with
whom he was to have supped, there was discovered a
young man bestowed there by Ercolano's wife: the
lady thereupon censures Ercolano's wife: but unluckily
an ass treads on the fingers of the boy that is
hidden under the hen-coop, so that he cries for pain:
Pietro runs to the place, sees him, and apprehends
the trick played on him by his wife, which nevertheless
he finally condones, for that he is not himself free
from blame.
When the queen had done speaking, and all had praised God
that He had worthily rewarded Federigo, Dioneo, who never waited
to be bidden, thus began:
I know not whether I am to term it a
vice accidental and superinduced by bad habits in us mortals, or
whether it be a fault seated in nature, that we are more prone to
laugh at things dishonourable than at good deeds, and that more
especially when they concern not ourselves. However, as the sole
scope of all my efforts has been and still shall be to dispel your
melancholy, and in lieu thereof to minister to you laughter and
jollity; therefore, enamoured my damsels, albeit the ensuing story
is not altogether free from matter that is scarce seemly, yet, as it
may afford you pleasure, I shall not fail to relate it; premonishing
you my hearers, that you take it with the like discretion as when,
going into your gardens, you stretch forth your delicate hands and
cull the roses, leaving the thorns alone: which, being interpreted,
means that you will leave the caitiff husband to abide in sorry plight
with his dishonour, and will gaily laugh at the amorous wiles or
his wife, and commiserate her unfortunate gallant, when occasion
requires.
'Tis no great while since there dwelt at Perugia a rich man
named Pietro di Vinciolo, who rather, perchance, to blind others and
mitigate the evil repute in which he was held by the citizens of
Perugia, than for any desire to wed, took a wife: and such being his
motive, Fortune provided him with just such a spouse as he merited.
For the wife of his choice was a stout, red-haired young woman, and
so hot-blooded that two husbands would have been more to her mind
than one, whereas one fell to her lot that gave her only a subordinate
place in his regard. Which she perceiving, while she knew herself
to be fair and lusty, and felt herself to be gamesome and fit, waxed
very wroth, and now and again had high words with her husband,
and led but a sorry life with him at most times. Then, seeing
that thereby she was more like to fret herself than to dispose her
husband to conduct less base, she said to herself: This poor creature
deserts me to go walk in pattens in the dry; wherefore it shall
go hard but I will bring another aboard the ship for the wet weather.
I married him, and brought him a great and goodly dowry, knowing
that he was a man, and supposing him to have the desires which men
have and ought to have; and had I not deemed him to be a man,
I should never have married him. He knew me to be a woman:
why then took he me to wife, if women were not to his mind?
'Tis not to be endured. Had I not been minded to live in the
world, I had become a nun; and being minded there to live, as I
am, if I am to wait until I have pleasure or solace of him, I shall
wait perchance until I am old; and then, too late, I shall bethink
me to my sorrow that I have wasted my youth; and as to the way
in which I should seek its proper solace I need no better teacher and
guide than him, who finds his delight where I should find mine, and
finds it to his own condemnation, whereas in me 'twere commendable.
'Tis but the laws that I shall set at nought, whereas he sets
both them and Nature herself at nought.
So the good lady reasoned, and peradventure more than once;
and then, casting about how she might privily compass her end, she
made friends with an old beldam, that shewed as a veritable Santa
Verdiana, foster-mother of vipers, who was ever to be seen going to
pardonings with a parcel of paternosters in her hand, and talked of
nothing but the lives of the holy Fathers, and the wounds of St.
Francis, and was generally reputed a saint; to whom in due time
she opened her whole mind. My daughter,
replied the beldam,
God, who knows all things, knows that thou wilt do very rightly
indeed: were it for no other reason, 'twould be meet for thee and
every other young woman so to do, that the heyday of youth be not
wasted; for there is no grief like that of knowing that it has been
wasted. And what the devil are we women fit for when we are old
--except to pore over the cinders on the hearth? The which if any
know, and may attest it, 'tis I, who, now that I am old, call to mind
the time that I let slip from me, not without most sore and bitter
and fruitless regret: and albeit 'twas not all wasted, for I would not
have thee think that I was entirely without sense, yet I did not
make the best use of it: whereof when I bethink me, and that I am
now, even as thou seest me, such a hag that never a spark of fire may
I hope to get from any, God knows how I rue it. Now with men
'tis otherwise: they are born meet for a thousand uses, not for this
alone; and the more part of them are of much greater consequence
in old age than in youth: but women are fit for nought but this,
and 'tis but for that they bear children that they are cherished.
Whereof, if not otherwise, thou mayst assure thyself, if thou do but
consider that we are ever ready for it; which is not the case with
men; besides which, one woman will tire out many men without
being herself tired out. Seeing then that 'tis for this we are born, I
tell thee again that thou wilt do very rightly to give thy husband thy
loaf for his cake, that in thy old age thy soul may have no cause of
complaint against thy flesh. Every one has just as much of this life
as he appropriates: and this is especially true of women, whom
therefore it behoves, much more than men, to seize the moment as
it flies: indeed, as thou mayst see for thyself, when we grow old
neither husband, nor any other man will spare us a glance; but, on
the contrary, they banish us to the kitchen, there to tell stories to the
cat, and to count the pots and pans; or, worse, they make rhymes
about us: 'To the damsel dainty bits; to the beldam ague-fits;' and
such-like catches. But to make no more words about it, I tell thee
at once that there is no person in the world to whom thou couldst
open thy mind with more advantage than to me; for there is no
gentleman so fine but I dare speak my mind to him, nor any so harsh
and forbidding but I know well how to soften him and fashion him
to my will. Tell me only what thou wouldst have, and leave the
rest to me: but one word more: I pray thee to have me in kindly
remembrance, for that I am poor; and thou shalt henceforth go
shares with me in all my indulgences and every paternoster that I
say, that God may make thereof light and tapers for thy dead:
wherewith she ended.
So the lady came to an understanding with the beldam, that, as
soon as she set eyes on a boy that often came along that street, and
of whom the lady gave her a particular description, she would know
what she was to do: and thereupon the lady gave her a chunk
of salt meat, and bade her God-speed. The beldam before long
smuggled into the lady's chamber the boy of whom she had spoken,
and not long after another, such being the humour of the lady, who,
standing in perpetual dread of her husband, was disposed, in this
particular,
to make the most of her opportunities. And one of these
days, her husband being to sup in the evening with a friend named
Ercolano, the lady bade the beldam bring her a boy as pretty and
dainty as was to be found in Perugia; and so the beldam forthwith
did. But the lady and the boy being set at table to sup, lo, Pietro's
voice was heard at the door, bidding open to him. Whereupon the
lady gave herself up for dead; but being fain, if she might, to screen
the boy, and knowing not where else to convey or conceal him,
bestowed him under a hen-coop that stood in a veranda hard by the
chamber in which they were supping, and threw over it a sorry
mattress that she had that day emptied of its straw; which done she
hastened to open the door to her husband; saying to him as he
entered: You have gulped your supper mighty quickly to-night.
Whereto Pietro replied: We have not so much as tasted it.
How so?
enquired the lady.
I will tell thee,
said Pietro.
No sooner were we set at table, Ercolano, his wife, and I, than we
heard a sneeze close to us, to which, though 'twas repeated, we paid
no heed; but as the sneezer continued to sneeze a third, a fourth, a
fifth, and many another time to boot, we all began to wonder, and
Ercolano, who was somewhat out of humour with his wife, because
she had kept us a long time at the door before she opened it, burst
out in a sort of rage with: 'What means this? Who is't that
thus sneezes?' and made off to a stair hard by, beneath which and
close to its foot was a wooden closet, of the sort which, when folk are
furnishing their houses, they commonly cause to be placed there, to
stow things in upon occasion. And as it seemed to him that the
sneezing proceeded thence, he undid the wicket, and no sooner had
he opened it than out flew never so strong a stench of brimstone;
albeit we had already been saluted by a whiff of it, and complained
thereof, but had been put off by the lady with: ''Tis but that a
while ago I bleached my veils with brimstone, having sprinkled it
on a dish, that they might catch its fumes, which dish I then placed
under the stair, so that it still smells a little.'
However the door being now, as I have said, open, and the
smoke somewhat less dense, Ercolano, peering in, espied the fellow
that had sneezed, and who still kept sneezing, being thereto constrained
by the pungency of the brimstone. And for all he sneezed,
yet was he by this time so well-nigh choked with the brimstone that
he was like neither to sneeze nor to do aught else again. As soon as
he caught sight of him, Ercolano bawled out: 'Now see I, Madam,
why it was that a while ago, when we came here, we were kept
waiting so long at the gate before 'twas opened; but woe be???ide me
for the rest of my days, if I pay you not out.' Whereupon the lady,
perceiving that her offence was discovered, ventured no excuse, but
fled from the table, whither I know not. Ercolano, ignoring his
wife's flight, bade the sneezer again and again to come forth; but
he, being by this time fairly spent, budged not an inch for aught that
Ercolano said. Wherefore Ercolano caught him by one of his feet,
and dragged him forth, and ran off for a knife with intent to kill
him; but I, standing in fear of the Signory on my own account, got
up and would not suffer him to kill the fellow or do him any hurt,
and for his better protection raised the alarm, whereby some of the
neighbours came up and took the lad, more dead than alive, and bore
him off, I know not whither. However, our supper being thus rudely
interrupted, not only have not gulped it, but I have not so much as
tasted it, as I said before.
Her husband's story shewed his wife that there were other ladies
as knowing as she, albeit misfortune might sometimes overtake them;
and gladly would she have spoken out in defence of Ercolano's wife,
but, thinking that, by censuring another's sin, she would secure more
scope for her own, she launched out on this wise: Fine doings
indeed, a right virtuous and saintly lady she must be: here is the
loyalty of an honest woman, and one to whom I had lief have confessed,
so spiritual I deemed her; and the worst of it is that, being
no longer young, she sets a rare example to those that are so. Curses
on the hour that she came into the world: curses upon her that she
make not away with herself, basest, most faithless of women that she
must needs be, the reproach of her sex, the opprobrium of all the
ladies of this city, to cast aside all regard for her honour, her marriage
vow, her reputation before the world, and, lost to all sense of shame,
to scruple not to bring disgrace upon a man so worthy, a citizen so
honourable, a husband by whom she was so well treated, ay, and
upon herself to boot! By my hope of salvation no mercy should be
shewn to such women; they should pay the penalty with their lives;
to the fire with them while they yet live, and let them be burned to
ashes.
Then, calling to mind the lover that she had close at hand
in the hen-coop, she fell to coaxing Pietro to get him to bed, for the
hour grew late. Pietro, who was more set on eating than sleeping,
only asked whether there was aught he might have by way of supper.
Supper, forsooth!
replied the lady. Ay, of course 'tis our way
to make much of supper when thou art not at home. As if I were
Ercolano's wife! Now, wherefore tarry longer? Go, get thy night's
rest: 'twere far better for thee.
Now so it was that some of Pietro's husbandmen had come to
the house that evening with divers things from the farm, and had
put up their asses in a stable that adjoined the veranda, but had
neglected to water them; and one of the asses being exceeding
thirsty, got his head out of the halter and broke loose from the stable,
and went about nosing everything, if haply he might come by water:
whereby he came upon the hen-coop, beneath which was the boy;
who, being constrained to stand on all fours, had the fingers of one
hand somewhat protruding from under the hen-coop; and so as luck
or rather ill-luck would have it, the ass trod on them; whereat, being
sorely hurt, he set up a great howling, much to the surprise of Pietro,
who perceived that 'twas within his house. So forth he came, and
hearing the boy still moaning and groaning, for the ass still kept his
hoof hard down on the fingers, called out: Who is there?
and
ran to the hen-coop and raised it, and espied the fellow, who, besides
the pain that the crushing of his fingers by the ass's hoof occasioned
him, trembled in every limb for fear that Pietro should do him a
mischief. He was one that Pietro had long been after for his foul
purposes: so Pietro, recognizing him, asked him: What dost
thou here?
The boy making no answer, save to beseech him for
the love of God to do him no hurt, Pietro continued: Get up,
have no fear that I shall hurt thee; but tell me: How, and for
what cause comest thou to be here?
The boy then confessed
everything. Whereupon Pietro, as elated by the discovery as his wife
was distressed, took him by the hand; and led him into the room
where the lady in the extremity of terror awaited him; and, having
seated himself directly in front of her, said: 'Twas but a moment
ago that thou didst curse Ercolano's wife, and averred that she ought
to be burned, and that she was the reproach of your sex: why saidst
thou not, of thyself? Or, if thou wast not minded to accuse thyself,
how hadst thou the effrontery to censure her, knowing that thou
hadst done even as she? Verily 'twas for no other reason than that
ye are all fashioned thus, and study to cover your own misdeeds with
the delinquencies of others: would that fire might fall from heaven
and burn you all, brood of iniquity that ye are!
The lady, marking that in the first flush of his wrath he had
given her nothing worse than hard words, and discerning, as she
thought, that he was secretly overjoyed to hold so beautiful a boy by
the hand, took heart of grace and said: I doubt not indeed that
thou wouldst be well pleased that fire should fall from heaven and
devour us all, seeing that thou art as fond of us as a dog is of the
stick, though by the Holy Rood thou wilt be disappointed; but I
would fain have a little argument with thee, to know whereof thou
complainest. Well indeed were it with me, didst thou but place me
on an equality with Ercolano's wife, who is an old sanctimonious
hypocrite, and has of him all that she wants, and is cherished by him
as a wife should be: but that is not my case. For, granted that
thou givest me garments and shoes to my mind, thou knowest how
otherwise ill bested I am, and how long it is since last thou didst lie
with me; and far liefer had I go barefoot and in rags, and have thy
benevolence abed, than have all that I have, and be treated as thou
dost treat me. Understand me, Pietro, be reasonable; consider that
I am a woman like other women, with the like craving; whereof
if thou deny me the gratification, 'tis no blame to me that I seek it
elsewhere; and at least I do thee so much honour as not forgather
with stable-boys or scurvy knaves.
Pietro perceived that she was like to continue in this vein the
whole night: wherefore, indifferent as he was to her, he said:
Now, Madam, no more of this; in the matter of which thou
speakest I will content thee; but of thy great courtesy let us have
something to eat by way of supper; for, methinks, the boy, as well
as I, has not yet supped.
Ay, true enough,
said the lady, he
has not supped; for we were but just sitting down to table to sup,
when, beshrew thee, thou madest thy appearance.
Go then,
said Pietro, get us some supper; and by and by I will arrange this
affair in such a way that thou shalt have no more cause of complaint.
The lady, perceiving that her husband was now tranquil, rose, and
soon had the table laid again and spread with the supper which she
had ready; and so they made a jolly meal of it, the caitiff husband,
the lady and the boy. What after supper Pietro devised for their
mutual satisfaction has slipped from my memory. But so much as
this I know, that on the morrow as he wended his way to the piazza,
the boy would have been puzzled to say, whether of the twain, the
wife or the husband, had had the most of his company during the
night. But this I would say to you, dear my ladies, that whoso
gives you tit, why, just give him tat; and if you cannot do it at
once, why, bear it in mind until you can, that even as the ass gives,
so he may receive.
ConclusionDioneo's story, whereat the ladies laughed the less for shamefastness
rather than for disrelish, being ended, the queen, taking
note that the term of her sovereignty was come, rose to her feet,
and took off the laurel wreath and set it graciously upon Elisa's
head, saying: Madam, 'tis now your turn to bear sway.
The
dignity accepted, Elisa followed in all respects the example of her
predecessors: she first conferred with the seneschal, and directed him
how meetly to order all things during the time of her sovereignty;
which done to the satisfaction of the company: Ofttimes,
quoth
she, have we heard how with bright sallies, and ready retorts, and
sudden devices, not a few have known how to repugn with apt checks
the bites of others, or to avert imminent perils; and because 'tis an
excellent argument, and may be profitable, I ordain that to-morrow,
God helping us, the following be the rule of our discourse; to wit,
that it be of such as by some sprightly sally have repulsed an attack,
or by some ready retort or device have avoided loss, peril or scorn.
The rule being heartily approved by all, the queen rose and dismissed
them till supper-time. So the honourable company, seeing the queen
risen, rose all likewise, and as their wont was, betook them to their
diversions as to each seemed best. But when the cicalas had hushed
their chirping, all were mustered again for supper; and having blithely
feasted, they all addressed them to song and dance. And the queen,
while Emilia led a dance, called for a song from Dioneo, who at once
came out with:
Monna Aldruda, come perk up thy mood, a piece
of glad tidings I bring thee. Whereat all the ladies fell a laughing,
and most of all the queen, who bade him give them no more of that,
but sing another. Quoth Dioneo: Madam, had I a tabret, I
would sing: Up with your smock, Monna Lapa! or: Oh!
the greensward under the olive! Or perchance you had liefer I
should give you: Woe is me, the wave of the sea! But no tabret
have I: wherefore choose which of these others you will have.
Perchance you would like: Now hie thee to us forth, that so it
may be cut, as May the fields about.
No,
returned the queen,
give us another.
Then,
said Dioneo, I will sing: Monna
Simona, embarrel, embarrel. Why, 'tis not the month of October.
The
song is evidently amoebean.
Now a plague upon thee,
said the queen, with a laugh; give us
a proper song, wilt thou? for we will have none of these.
Never
fear, Madam,
replied Dioneo; only say which you prefer. I have
more than a thousand songs by heart. Perhaps you would like:
This my little covert, make I ne'er it overt; or:
Gently, gently,
husband mine; or: A hundred pounds were none too high a
price for me a cock to buy.
The queen now shewed some offence,
though the other ladies laughed, and: A truce to thy jesting,
Dioneo,
said she, and give us a proper song: else thou mayst prove
the quality of my ire.
Whereupon Dioneo forthwith ceased his
fooling, and sang on this wise:So ravishing a light
Doth from the fair eyes of my mistress move
As keeps me slave to her and thee, O Love.A beam from those bright orbs did radiate
That flame that through mine own eyes to my breast
Did whilom entrance gain.
Thy majesty, O Love, thy might, how great
They be, 'twas her fair face did manifest:
Whereon to brood still fain,
I felt thee take and chain
Each sense, my soul enthralling on such wise
That she alone henceforth evokes my sighs.Wherefore, O dear my Lord, myself I own
Thy slave, and, all obedience, wait and yearn,
Till thy might me console.
Yet wot I not if it be throughly known
How noble is the flame wherewith I burn,
My loyalty how whole
To her that doth control
Ev'n in such sort my mind that shall I none,
Nor would I, peace receive, save hers alone.And so I pray thee, sweet my Lord, that thou
Give her to feel thy fire, and shew her plain
How grievous my disease.
This service deign to render; for that now
Thou seest me waste for love, and in the pain
Dissolve me by degrees:
And then the apt moment seize
My cause to plead with her, as is but due
From thee to me, who fain with thee would sue.When Dioneo's silence shewed that his song was ended, the
queen accorded it no stinted meed of praise; after which she
caused not a few other songs to be sung. Thus passed some part
of the night; and then the queen, taking note that its freshness had
vanquished the heat of the day, bade all go rest them, if they would,
till the morning.
Sixth DayEndeth here the fifth day of the Decameron, beginneth the sixth,
wherein, under the rule of Elisa, discourse is had of such as by some sprightly sally have
repulsed an attack, or by some ready retort or device have avoided loss, peril or
scorn.
IntroductionStill in mid heaven, the moon had lost her radiance, nor was any
part of our world unillumined by the fresh splendour of the dawn, when, the queen being
risen and having mustered her company, they hied them, gently sauntering, across the dewy
mead some distance from the beautiful hill, conversing now of this, now of the other
matter, canvassing the stories, their greater or less degree of beauty, and laughing
afresh at divers of their incidents, until, the sun being now in his higher ascendant,
they began to feel his heat, and turning back by common consent, retraced their steps to
the palace, where, the tables being already set, and fragrant herbs and fair
flowers
strewn all about, they by the queen's command, before it should grow hotter, addressed
themselves to their meal. So, having blithely
breakfasted, they first of all sang some dainty and jocund ditties, and
then, as they were severally minded, composed them to sleep or sat them down to chess or
dice, while Dioneo and Lauretta fell a singing of Troilus and Cressida.
The hour of session being come, they took their places, at the queen's summons, in
their wonted order by the fountain; but, when the queen was about to call for the first
story, that happened which had not happened before; to wit, there being a great uproar in
the
kitchen among the maids and men, the sound thereof reached the ears of the queen and all
the company. Whereupon the queen called the seneschal and asked him who bawled
so loud, and what was the occasion of the uproar. The seneschal made answer that 'twas some contention between Licisca and Tindaro; but the occasion he knew not,
having but just come to quiet them, when he received her summons. The queen
then bade him cause Licisca and Tindaro to come thither forthwith: so they came, and the
queen enquired of them the cause of the uproar. Tindaro was about to make
answer, when Licisca, who was somewhat advanced in years, and disposed to give herself
airs, and heated to the strife of words, turned to Tindaro,
and scowling upon him said: Unmannerly varlet that makest bold to speak before me;
leave me to tell the story.
Then, turning to the queen, she said:
Madam, this
fellow would fain instruct me as to Sicofante's wife, and--neither more or less--as if I
had not known her well--would have me believe that, the first night that Sicofante lay
with her, 'twas by force and not without effusion of blood that Master Yard made his way
into Dusky Hill; which I deny, averring that he met with no resistance, but, on the
contrary, with a hearty welcome on the part of the garrison. And such a
numskull is he as fondly to believe that the girls are so simple as to let slip their
opportunities, while they wait on the caprice of father or brothers, who six times out of
seven delay to marry them for three or four years after they should. Ay, ay indeed,
doubtless they were well advised to tarry so long! Christ's faith! I should know the truth
of what I swear; there is never a woman in my neighbour-hood whose husband had her
virginity; and well I know how many and what manner of tricks our married dames play their
husbands; and yet this booby would fain teach me to know women as if I were but born
yesterday.
While Licisca thus spoke, the ladies laughed till all their teeth were ready to start
from their heads. Six times at least the queen bade her be silent: but all in vain; she
halted not till she had said all that she had a mind to. When she had done, the queen
turned with a smile to Dioneo saying: This is a question for thee to deal with, Dioneo;
so hold thyself in readiness to give final judgment upon it, when our stories are
ended.
Madam,
replied Dioneo forthwith, I give judgment without
more ado: I say that Licisca is in the right; I believe that 'tis even as she says, and
that Tindaro is a fool.
Whereupon Licisca burst out laughing, and turning
to Tindaro: Now did I not tell thee so?
quoth she. Begone in
God's name: dost think to know more than I, thou that art but a sucking babe?
Thank God, I have not lived for nothing, not I.
And had not the queen sternly bade her be silent, and make no more
disturbance, unless she had a mind to be whipped, and sent both her and Tindaro back to
the kitchen, the whole day would have been spent in nought but listening to
her. So Licisca and Tindaro having withdrawn, the queen charged Filomena to
tell the first story: and gaily thus Filomena began.
Novel IA knight offers to carry Madonna Oretta a horseback
with a story, but tells it so ill that she prays him to dismount
her.
As stars are set for an ornament in the serene
expanse of heaven, and likewise in springtime flowers and leafy shrubs in the green
meadows, so, damsels, in the hour of rare and excellent discourse, is wit with its bright
sallies. Which, being brief, are much more proper for ladies than for men, seeing that
prolixity of speech, where brevity is possible, is much less allowable to them. But for whatever cause, be it the sorry quality of our understanding, or
some especial enmity that heaven bears to our generation, few ladies or none are left
to-day that, when occasion prompts, are able to meet it with apt speech, ay, or if aught
of the kind they hear, can understand it aright: to our common shame be it spoken!
But as, touching this matter, enough has already been said by
Pampinea,Cf. First Day, Novel X. I purpose not to enlarge thereon; but, that
you may know what excellence resides in speech apt for the occasion, I am minded to tell
you after how courteous a fashion a lady imposed silence upon a gentleman.
'Tis no long time since there
dwelt in our city a lady, noble,
debonair and of excellent discourse, whom
not a few of you may have
seen or heard of, whose name--for such high
qualities merit not
oblivion--was Madonna Oretta, her husband being Messer
Geri Spina.
Now this lady, happening to be, as we are, in the country,
moving
from place to place for pleasure with a company of ladies and
gentlemen,
whom she had entertained the day before at breakfast at her
house, and the place of their next sojourn, whither they were to go
afoot, being some considerable distance off, one of the gentlemen
of
the company said to her: Madonna Oretta, so please you, I will
carry you great part of the way a horseback with one of the finest
stories
in the world.
Indeed, Sir,
replied the lady, I pray
you
do
so; and I shall deem it the greatest of favours.
Whereupon the
gentleman, who perhaps was no better master of his weapon than of
his
story, began a tale, which in itself was indeed excellent, but which,
by
repeating the same word three, four or six times, and now and
again
harking back, and saying: I said not well
; and erring
not seldom in
the names, setting one in place of another, he utterly
spoiled; besides
which, his mode of delivery accorded very ill with
the character of the
persons and incidents: insomuch that Madonna
Oretta, as she listened, did
oft sweat, and was like to faint, as if she
were ill and at the point of
death. And being at length able to bear
no more of it, witting that the
gentleman had got into a mess and
was not like to get out of it, she said
pleasantly to him: Sir, this
horse of yours trots too hard; I pray you
be pleased to set me down.
The gentleman, being perchance more quick
of apprehension than
he was skilful in narration, missed not the meaning
of her sally, and
took it in all good and gay humour. So, leaving
unfinished the tale
which he had begun, and so mishandled, he addressed
himself to tell
her other stories.
Novel IICisti, a baker, by an apt speech gives Messer Geri
Spina to know that he has by inadvertence asked that of him which he should
not.
All the ladies and the men alike having greatly
commended Madonna Oretta's apt saying, the queen bade Pampinea follow suit, and thus she
began:
Fair ladies, I cannot myself determine whether Nature or Fortune be the
more at fault, the one in furnishing a noble soul with a vile body, or the other in
allotting a base occupation to a body endowed with a noble soul, whereof we may have seen
an example, among others, in our fellow-citizen, Cisti; whom, furnished though he was with
a most lofty soul, Fortune made a baker. And verily I should
curse Nature and Fortune alike, did I not know that Nature is most discreet, and that
Fortune, albeit the foolish imagine her blind, has a thousand eyes.
For 'tis, I suppose, that, being wise above a little, they do as mortals
ofttimes do, who, being uncertain as to their future, provide against contingencies by
burying their most precious treasures in the basest places in their houses, as being the
least likely to be suspected; whence, in the hour of their greatest need, they bring them
forth, the base place having kept them more safe than the dainty chamber would have
done. And so these two arbitresses of the world not seldom hide
their most precious commodities in the obscurity of the crafts that are reputed most base,
that thence being brought to light they may shine with a brighter splendour.
Whereof how in a trifling matter Cisti, the baker, gave proof, restoring
the eyes of the mind to Messer Geri Spina, whom the story of his wife, Madonna Oretta, has
brought to my recollection, I am minded to shew you in a narrative which shall be of the
briefest.
I say then that Pope Boniface, with whom
Messer Geri Spina
stood very high in favour and honour, having sent divers
of his
courtiers to Florence as ambassadors to treat of certain matters of
great
moment, and they being lodged in Messer Geri's house, where he
treated with them of the said affairs of the Pope, 'twas, for some
reason
or another, the wont of Messer Geri and the ambassadors of
the Pope to
pass almost every morning by Santa Maria Ughi, where
Cisti, the baker, had
his bakehouse, and plied his craft in person.
Now, albeit Fortune had
allotted him a very humble occupation, she
had nevertheless prospered him
therein to such a degree that he was
grown most wealthy, and without ever
aspiring to change it for
another, lived in most magnificent style, having
among his other good
things a cellar of the best wines, white and red,
that were to be found
in Florence, or the country parts; and marking
Messer Geri and the
ambassadors of the Pope pass every morning by his
door, he bethought
him that, as 'twas very hot, 'twould be a very
courteous thing to give
them to drink of his good wine; but comparing his
rank with that
of Messer Geri, he deemed it unseemly to presume to invite
him,
and cast about how he might lead Messer Geri to invite himself.
So,
wearing always the whitest of doublets and a spotless apron, that
denoted
rather the miller than the baker, he let bring, every morning
about the
hour that he expected Messer Geri and the ambassadors to
pass by his door,
a spick-and-span bucket of fresh and cool spring
water, and a small
Bolognese flagon of his good white wine, and two
beakers that shone like
silver, so bright were they: and there down
he sat him, as they came by,
and after hawking once or twice, fell a
drinking his wine with such gusto
that 'twould have raised a thirst
in a corpse. Which Messer Geri having
observed on two successive
mornings, said on the third: What is't,
Cisti? Is't good?
Whereupon Cisti jumped up, and answered: Ay, Sir,
good it is;
but in what degree I might by no means make you understand,
unless
you tasted it.
Messer Geri, in whom either the heat of the
weather,
or unwonted fatigue, or, perchance, the gusto with which he had
seen Cisti drink, had bred a thirst, turned to the ambassadors and
said
with a smile: Gentlemen, 'twere well to test the quality of
this worthy
man's wine: it may be such that we shall not repent
us.
And so in a
body they came up to where Cisti stood; who,
having caused a goodly bench
to be brought out of the bakehouse,
bade them be seated, and to
their servants, who were now coming
forward to wash the beakers, said:
Stand back, comrades, and
leave this office to me, for I know as well
how to serve wine as to
bake bread; and expect not to taste a drop
yourselves.
Which said,
he washed four fine new beakers with his own
hands, and having
sent for a small flagon of his good wine, he heedfully
filled the
beakers, and presented them to Messer Geri and his companions;
who deemed the wine the best that they had drunk for a great while.
So
Messer Geri, having praised the wine not a little, came there to
drink
every morning with the ambassadors as long as they tarried
with
him.
Now when the ambassadors had received their
congè, and were
about to depart, Messer Geri
gave a grand banquet, to which he bade
some of the most honourable of the
citizens, and also Cisti, who could
by no means be induced to come.
However, Messer Geri bade one
of his servants go fetch a flask of Cisti's
wine, and serve half a beaker
thereof to each guest at the first course.
The servant, somewhat
offended, perhaps, that he had not been suffered to
taste any of the
wine, took with him a large flask, which Cisti no sooner
saw, than:
Son,
quoth he, Messer Geri does not send thee to
me
: and
often as the servant affirmed that he did, he could get no
other answer:
wherewith he was fain at last to return to Messer Geri.
Go, get
thee back,
said Messer Geri, and tell him that I do send
thee
to him, and if he answers thee so again, ask him, to whom then
I
send thee.
So the servant came back, and said: Cisti, Messer
Geri
does, for sure, send me to thee.
Son,
answered Cisti,
Messer
Geri does, for sure, not send thee to me.
To whom
then,
said
the servant, does he send me?
To Arno,
returned Cisti.
Which being reported by the servant to Messer Geri, the
eyes of
his mind were straightway opened, and: Let me see,
quoth
he
to the servant, what flask it is thou takest there.
And when he
had seen it: Cisti says sooth,
he added; and having sharply
chidden
him, he caused him take with him a suitable flask, which
when Cisti saw:
Now know I,
quoth he, that 'tis indeed Messer
Geri that sends
thee to me,
and blithely filled it. And having
replenished the rundlet
that same day with wine of the same quality,
he had it carried with due
care to Messer Geri's house, and followed
after himself; where finding
Messer Geri he said: I would not
have you think, Sir, that I
was appalled by the great flask your servant
brought me this morning;
'twas but that I thought you had forgotten
that which by my little beakers
I gave you to understand, when you
were with me of late; to wit, that this
is no table wine; and so
wished this morning to refresh your memory. Now,
however, being
minded to keep the wine no longer, I have sent you all I
have of it,
to be henceforth entirely at your disposal.
Messer Geri
set great
store by Cisti's gift, and thanked him accordingly, and ever
made
much of him and entreated him as his friend.
Novel IIIMonna Nonna de' Pulci by a ready retort silences the
scarce seemly jesting of the Bishop of Florence.
Pampinea's story ended, and praise not a little
bestowed on Cisti alike for his apt speech and for his handsome present, the queen was
pleased to call forthwith for a story from Lauretta, who blithely thus began:
Debonair my ladies, the excellency of wit, and our lack thereof, have
been noted with no small truth first by Pampinea and after her by Filomena. To which topic
'twere bootless to return: wherefore to that which has been said touching the nature of
wit I purpose but to add one word, to remind you that its bite should be as a sheep's bite
and not as a dog's; for if it bite like a dog, 'tis no longer wit but discourtesy.
With which maxim the words of Madonna Oretta, and the apt reply
of Cisti, accorded excellently. True indeed it is that if 'tis by way of retort, and one
that has received a dog's bite gives the biter a like bite in return, it does not seem to
be reprehensible, as otherwise it would have been. Wherefore one must consider how and
when and on whom and likewise where one exercises one's wit. By
ill observing which matters one of our prelates did once upon a time receive no less
shrewd a bite than he gave; as I will shew you in a short story.
While Messer Antonio d'Orso, a
prelate both worthy and wise,
was Bishop of Florence, there came thither a
Catalan gentleman,
Messer Dego della Ratta by name, being King Ruberto's
marshal.
Now Dego being very goodly of person, and inordinately fond of women, it so befell that
of the ladies of Florence she that he regarded
with especial favour was the very beautiful niece of a brother of the
said
bishop. And having learned that her husband, though of good
family, was but a caitiff, and avaricious in the last degree, he
struck
a bargain with him that he should lie one night with the lady for
five hundred florins of gold: whereupon he had the same number of
popolinsA coin of the same size and design as the fiorino d'oro, but
worth only two soldi. of silver, which were then current, gilded,
and having
lain
with the lady, albeit against her will, gave them to her
husband.
Which coming to be generally known, the caitiff husband was left
with the loss and the laugh against him; and the bishop, like a wise
man,
feigned to know nought of the affair. And so the bishop and
the marshal
being much together, it befell that on St. John's day, as
they rode side
by side down the street whence they start to run the
palio,A sort of
horse-race still in vogue at Siena. and took
note of the ladies,
the bishop espied a young gentle-woman,
whom this present pestilence has
reft from us, Monna Nonna
de' Pulci by name, a cousin of Messer Alesso
Rinucci, whom you all
must know; whom, for that she was lusty and fair,
and of excellent
discourse and a good courage, and but just settled with
her husband
in Porta San Piero, the bishop presented to the marshal; and
then,
being close beside her, he laid his hand on the marshal's shoulder
and
said to her: Nonna, what thinkest thou of this gentleman? That
thou mightst make a conquest of him?
Which words the lady
resented as
a jibe at her honour, and like to tarnish it in the eyes
of those, who
were not a few, in whose hearing they were spoken
Wherefore without
bestowing a thought upon the vindication of her
honour, but being minded
to return blow for blow, she retorted
hastily: Perchance, Sir, he might
not make a conquest of me;
but if he did so, I should want good money.
The answer stung
both the marshal and the bishop to the quick, the one as
contriver
of the scurvy trick played upon the bishop's brother in regard
of his
niece, the other as thereby outraged in the person of his
brother's
niece; insomuch that they dared not look one another in the
face,
but took themselves off in shame and silence, and said never a word
more to her that day.
In such a case, then, the lady having received
a bite, 'twas allowable
in her wittily to return it.
Novel IVChichibio, cook to Currado Gianfigliazzi, owes his
safety to a ready answer, whereby he converts Currado's wrath into laughter, and evades
the evil fate with which Currado had threatened him.
Lauretta being now silent, all lauded Nonna to
the skies; after which Neifile received the queen's command to follow suit, and thus
began:
Albeit, loving ladies, ready wit not seldom ministers words apt and
excellent and congruous with the circumstances of the speakers, 'tis also true that
Fortune at times comes to the aid of the timid, and unexpectedly sets words upon the
tongue, which in a quiet hour the speaker could never have found for himself: the which
'tis my purpose to shew you by my story.
Currado Gianfigliazzi, as the eyes and ears of each of you
may
bear witness, has ever been a noble citizen of our city, open-handed
and magnificent, and one that lived as a gentleman should with
hounds and
hawks, in which, to say nothing at present of more
important matters, he
found unfailing delight. Now, having one
day hard by Peretola despatched a
crane with one of his falcons,
finding it young and plump, he sent it to
his excellent cook, a
Venetian, Chichibio by name, bidding him roast it
for supper and
make a dainty dish of it. Chichibio, who looked, as he was,
a
very green-head, had dressed the crane, and set it to the fire and was
cooking it carefully, when, the bird being all but roasted, and the
fumes
of the cooking very strong, it so chanced that a girl, Brunetta
by name,
that lived in the same street, and of whom Chichibio was
greatly
enamoured, came into the kitchen, and perceiving the smell
and
seeing the bird, began coaxing Chichibio to give her a thigh.
By way of
answer Chichibio fell a singing: You get it not from
me, Madam
Brunetta, you get it not from me.
Whereat Madam
Brunetta was offended,
and said to him: By God, if thou givest
it me not, thou shalt never
have aught from me to pleasure thee.
In short there was not a little
altercation; and in the end Chichibio,
fain not to vex his mistress, cut
off one of the crane's thighs, and
gave it to her. So the bird was set
before Currado and some strangers
that he had at table with him, and
Currado, observing that it had but
one thigh, was surprised, and sent for
Chichibio, and demanded of
him what was become of the missing thigh.
Whereto the mendacious
Venetian answered readily: The crane, Sir, has
but one thigh and
one leg.
What the devil?
rejoined Currado in
a rage: so the
crane has but one thigh and one leg? thinkst thou I
never saw crane
before this?
But Chichibio continued: 'Tis even so
as I say,
Sir; and, so please you, I will shew you that so it is in the
living
bird.
Currado had too much respect for his guests to pursue
the
topic; he only said: Since thou promisest to shew me in the
living
bird what I have never seen or heard tell of, I bid thee do so
to-morrow,
and I shall be satisfied, but if thou fail, I swear to thee
by the body of
Christ that I will serve thee so that thou shalt ruefully
remember my name
for the rest of thy days.
No more was said of the matter that
evening, but on the morrow,
at daybreak, Currado, who had by no means
slept off his wrath, got
up still swelling therewith, and ordered his
horses, mounted Chichibio
on a hackney, and saying to him: We shall
soon see which of us
lied yesternight, thou or I,
set off with him for
a place where there
was much water, beside which there were always cranes
to be seen
about dawn. Chichibio, observing that Currado's ire was
unabated,
and knowing not how to bolster up his lie, rode by Currado's
side
in a state of the utmost trepidation, and would gladly, had he been
able, have taken to flight; but, as hemight not, he glanced, now
ahead,
now aback, now aside, and saw everywhere nought but cranes
standing on two
feet. However, as they approached the river, the
very first thing they saw
upon the bank was a round dozen of cranes
standing each and all on one
foot, as is their wont, when asleep.
Which Chichibio presently pointed out
to Currado, saying: Now
may you see well enough, Sir, that 'tis true as
I said yesternight, that
the crane has but one thigh and one
leg; mark but how they stand
over there.
Whereupon Currado:
Wait,
quoth he, and I
will shew thee that they have each thighs
and legs twain.
So,
having drawn a little nigher to them, he
ejaculated, Ohio!
Which
caused the cranes to bring each the other
foot to the ground, and,
after hopping a step or two, to take to flight.
Currado then turned
to Chichibio, saying: How now, rogue? art satisfied
that the
bird has thighs and legs twain?
Whereto Chichibio, all but
beside
himself with fear, made answer: Ay, Sir; but you cried not,
oho! to our crane of yestereve: had you done so, it would have
popped its
other thigh and foot forth, as these have done.
Which
answer Currado
so much relished, that, all his wrath changed to jollity
and laughter:
Chichibio,
quoth he, thou art right, indeed I
ought to have so
done.
Thus did Chichibio by his ready and jocund retort arrest
impending
evil, and make his peace with his master.
Novel VMesser Forese da Rabatta and Master Giotto, the
painter, journeying together from Mugello, deride one another's scurvy
appearance.
Neifile being silent, and the ladies having made
very merry over Chichibio's retort, Pamfilo at the queen's command thus spoke:
Dearest ladies, if Fortune, as Pampinea has shewn us, does sometimes
hide treasures most rich of native worth in the obscurity of base occupations, so in like
manner 'tis not seldom found that Nature has enshrined prodigies of wit in the most
ignoble of human forms.
Whereof a notable example is afforded by two of our citizens,
of whom I purpose for a brief while to discourse. The one, Messer Forese da Rabatta by
name, was short and deformed of person and withal flat-cheeked and flat-nosed, insomuch
that never a BaroncioThe name of a Florentine family famous for the extraordinary
ugliness of its men: whereby it came to pass that any grotesque or extremely ugly man was
called a Baroncio. Fanfani, Vocab. della Lingua Italiana,
1891. had a visage so misshapen but his would have shewed as hideous beside it;
yet so conversant was this man with the laws, that by not a few of those well able to
form an opinion he was reputed a veritable storehouse of civil jurisprudence.
The other, whose name was Giotto, was of so excellent a wit that, let
Nature, mother of all, operant ever by continual revolution of the heavens, fashion what
she would, he with his style and pen and pencil would depict its like on such wise that
it shewed not as its like, but rather as the thing itself, insomuch that the visual sense
of men did often err in regard thereof, mistaking for real that which was but
painted. Wherefore, having brought back to light that art which
had for many ages lain buried beneath the blunders of those who painted rather to delight
the eyes of the ignorant than to satisfy the intelligence of the wise, he may deservedly
be called one of the lights that compose the glory of Florence, and the more
so, the more lowly was the spirit in which he won that glory, who, albeit he was, while
he yet lived, the master of others, yet did ever refuse to be called their
master. And this title that he rejected adorned him with a
lustre the more splendid in proportion to the avidity with which it was usurped by those
who were less knowing than he, or were his pupils. But for all
the exceeding greatness of his art, yet in no particular had he the advantage of Messer
Forese either in form or in feature. But to come to the story:
'Twas in Mugello that Messer Forese, as likewise Giotto, had his
country-seat, whence returning from a sojourn that he had made there during the summer
vacation of the courts, and being, as it chanced, mounted on a poor jade of a draught
horse, he fell in with the said Giotto, who was also on his way back to Florence after a
like sojourn on his own estate, and was neither better mounted, nor in any other wise
better equipped, than Messer Forese. And so, being both old men, they jogged on together
at a slow pace: and being surprised by a sudden shower, such as
we frequently see fall in summer, they presently sought shelter in the house of a
husbandman that was known to each of them, and was their friend.
But after a while, as the rain gave no sign of ceasing, and they had a
mind to be at Florence that same day, they borrowed of the husbandman two old cloaks of
Romagnole cloth, and two hats much the worse for age (there being no better to be had),
and resumed their journey. Whereon they had not proceeded far,
when, taking note that they were soaked through and through, and liberally splashed with
the mud cast up by their nags' hooves (circumstances which are not of a kind to add to
one's dignity), they, after long silence, the sky beginning to brighten a little, began
to converse. And Messer Forese, as he rode and hearkened to
Giotto, who was an excellent talker, surveyed him sideways, and from head to foot, and
all over, and seeing him in all points in so sorry and scurvy a trim, and recking nought
of his own appearance, broke into a laugh and said: Giotto,
would e'er a stranger that met us, and had not seen thee before, believe, thinkst thou,
that thou wert, as thou art, the greatest painter in the world.
Whereto Giotto answered promptly: Methinks, Sir, he might, if, scanning
you, he gave you credit for knowing the A B C.
Which
hearing, Messer Forese recognized his error, and perceived that he had gotten as good as
he brought.
Novel VIMichele Scalza proves to certain young men that the
Baronci are the best gentlemen in the world and the Maremma, and wins a
supper.
The ladies were still laughing over Giotto's
ready retort, when the queen charged Fiammetta to follow suit; wherefore thus Fiammetta
began:
Pamfilo's mention of the
Baronci, who to you, Damsels, are perchance not so well known as to him, has brought to my
mind a story in which 'tis shewn how great is their nobility; and, for that it involves no
deviation from our rule of discourse, I am minded to tell it you.
'Tis no long time
since there dwelt in our city a young man,
Michele Scalza by name, the
pleasantest and merriest fellow in the
world, and the best furnished with
quaint stories: for which reason
the Florentine youth set great store on
having him with them when
they forgathered in company. Now it so befell
that one day, he
being with a party of them at Mont' Ughi, they fell a
disputing
together on this wise; to wit, who were the best gentlemen and
of
the longest descent in Florence. One said, the Uberti, another, the
Lamberti, or some other family, according to the predilection of the
speaker. Whereat Scalza began to smile, and said: Now out
upon you, out
upon you, blockheads that ye are: ye know not what
ye say. The best
gentlemen and of longest descent in all the world
and the Maremma (let
alone Florence) are the Baronci by the
common consent of all
phisopholers,In the Italian fisofoli: an
evidently intentional distortion. and all that know them as I
do;
and lest you should otherwise conceive me, I say that 'tis of
your
neighbours the BaronciVillani, Istorie
Fiorentine, iv.
cap.
ix., and Dante,
Paradiso, xvi. 104,
spell the name Barucci. of
Santa Maria Maggiore that I speak.
Whereupon the young men,
who had looked for somewhat else from
him, said derisively: Thou dost
but jest with us; as if we did not
know the Baronci as well as thou!
Quoth Scalza: By the Gospels
I jest not, but speak sooth; and if there
is any of you will wager a
supper to be given to the winner and six good
fellows whom he
shall choose, I will gladly do the like, and--what is
more--I will
abide by the decision of such one of you as you may
choose.
Then
said one of them whose name was Neri Mannini: I am
ready to
adventure this supper;
and so they agreed together that Piero
di
Fiorentino, in whose house they were, should be judge, and hied them
to him followed by all the rest, eager to see Scalza lose, and triumph
in
his discomfiture, and told Piero all that had been said. Piero, who
was a
young man of sound sense, heard what Neri had to say; and
then turning to
Scalza: And how,
quoth he, mayst thou make
good what thou
averrest?
I will demonstrate it,
returned
Scalza, by
reasoning so cogent that not only you, but he that denies
it shall
acknowledge that I say sooth. You know, and so they were
saying but now,
that the longer men's descent, the better is their
gentility, and I say
that the Baronci are of longer descent, and thus
better gentlemen than any
other men. If, then, I prove to you that
they are of longer descent than
any other men, without a doubt the
victory in this dispute will rest with
me. Now you must know that
when God made the Baronci, He was but a novice
in His art, of
which, when He made the rest of mankind, He was already
master.
And to assure yourself that herein I say sooth, you have but to
consider
the Baronci, how they differ from the rest of mankind, who all
have faces well composed and duly proportioned, whereas of the
Baronci you
will see one with a face very long and narrow, another
with a face
inordinately broad, one with a very long nose, another
with a short one,
one with a protruding and upturned chin, and
great jaws like an ass's; and
again there will be one that has one eye
larger than its fellow, or set on
a lower plane; so that their faces
resemble those that children make when
they begin to learn to draw.
Whereby, as I said, 'tis plainly manifest
that, when God made them,
He was but novice in His art; and so they are of
longer descent
than the rest of mankind, and by consequence better
gentlemen.
By which entertaining argument Piero, the judge, and Neri
who had
wagered the supper, and all the rest, calling to mind the
Baronci's
ugliness, were so tickled, that they fell a laughing,
and averred that
Scalza was in the right, and that he had won the wager,
and that
without a doubt the Baronci were the best gentlemen, and of the
longest descent, not merely in Florence, but in the world and the
Maremma
to boot. Wherefore 'twas not without reason that
Pamfilo, being minded to
declare Messer Forese's ill-favouredness,
said that he would have been
hideous beside a Baroncio.
Novel VII Madonna Filippa, being found by her husband with her
lover, is cited before the court, and by a ready and
jocund answer acquits herself, and brings about an alteration of the
statute.
Fiammetta had been silent some time, but Scalza's
novel argument to prove the pre-eminent nobility of the Baronci kept all still laughing,
when the queen called for a story from Filostrato, who thus began:
Noble ladies, an excellent thing is apt speech on all occasions,
but to be proficient therein I deem then most excellent when the occasion does most
imperatively demand it. As was the case with a gentlewoman, of whom I purpose to speak to
you, who not only ministered gaiety and merriment to her hearers, but extricated herself,
as you shall hear, from the toils of an ignominious death.
There was aforetime in the city of Prato a statute
no less censurable
than harsh, which, making no distinction between the
wife
whom her husband took in adultery with her lover, and the woman
found pleasuring a stranger for money, condemned both alike to be
burned.
While this statute was in force, it befell that a gentle-woman,
fair and
beyond measure enamoured, Madonna Filippa by
name, was by her husband,
Rinaldo de' Pugliesi, found in her own
chamber one night in the arms of
Lazzarino de' Guazzagliotri, a
handsome young noble of the same city, whom
she loved even as
herself. Whereat Rinaldo, very wroth, scarce refrained
from falling
upon them and killing them on the spot; and indeed, but that
he
doubted how he should afterwards fare himself, he had given way to
the
vehemence of his anger, and so done. Nor, though he so far
mastered himself, could he forbear recourse to the statute, thereby
to compass that which he might not otherwise lawfully compass, to
wit, the
death of his lady. Wherefore, having all the evidence
needful to prove her
guilt, he took no further counsel; but, as soon
as 'twas day, he charged
the lady and had her summoned. Like
most ladies that are veritably
enamoured, the lady was of a high
courage; and, though not a few of her
friends and kinsfolk sought
to dissuade her, she resolved to appear to the
summons, having liefer
die bravely confessing the truth than basely flee
and for defiance of
the law live in exile, and shew herself unworthy of
such a lover as
had had her in his arms that night. And so, attended by
many ladies
and gentlemen, who all exhorted her to deny the charge, she
came
before the Podestà, and with a composed air and unfaltering
voice
asked whereof he would interrogate her. The Podestà,
surveying her,
and taking note of her extraordinary beauty, and exquisite
manners,
and the high courage that her words evinced, was touched with
compassion
for her, fearing she might make some admission, by reason
whereof, to save his honour, he must needs do her to death. But
still, as
he could not refrain from examining her of that which was
laid to her
charge, he said: Madam, here, as you see, is your
husband, Rinaldo, who
prefers a charge against you, alleging that he
has taken you in adultery,
and so he demands that, pursuant to a
statute which is in force here, I
punish you with death: but this I
may not do, except you confess;
wherefore be very careful what you
answer, and tell me if what your
husband alleges against you be true.
The lady, no wise dismayed, and
in a tone not a little jocund, thus
made answer: True it is, Sir, that
Rinaldo is my husband, and
that last night he found me in the arms of
Lazzarino, in whose arms
for the whole-hearted love that I bear him I have
ofttimes lain; nor
shall I ever deny it; but, as well I wot you know, the
laws ought
to be common and enacted with the common consent of all that
they
affect; which conditions are wanting to this law, inasmuch as it
binds only us poor women, in whom to be liberal is much less reprehensible
than it were in men; and furthermore the consent of no
woman was--I say
not had, but--so much as asked before 'twas
made; for which reasons it
justly deserves to be called a bad law.
However, if in scathe of my body
and your own soul, you are
minded to put it in force, 'tis your affair;
but, I pray you, go not
on to try this matter in any wise,
until you have granted me this
trifling grace, to wit, to ask my husband
if I ever gainsaid him, but
did not rather accord him, when and so often
as he craved it, complete
enjoyment of myself.
Whereto Rinaldo,
without awaiting
the Podestà's question, forthwith answered, that
assuredly the lady
had ever granted him all that he had asked of her for
his gratification.
Then,
promptly continued the lady, if he has
ever had of me as
much as sufficed for his solace, what was I or am I to
do with the
surplus? Am I to cast it to the dogs? Is it not much better
to
bestow it on a gentleman that loves me more dearly than himself,
than
to suffer it to come to nought or worse?
Which jocund
question being
heard by well-nigh all the folk of Prato, who had
flocked thither all agog
to see a dame so fair and of such quality on
her trial for such an
offence, they laughed loud and long, and then
all with one accord, and as
with one voice, exclaimed that the lady
was in the right and said well;
nor left they the court until in
concert with the Podestà they had
so altered the harsh statute as
that
thenceforth only such women as
should wrong their husbands for
money should be within its
purview.
Wherefore Rinaldo left the court, discomfited of his
foolish
enterprise; and the lady blithe and free, as if rendered back to
life
from the burning, went home triumphant.
Novel VIIIFresco admonishes his niece not to look at herself
in the glass, if'tis, as she says, grievous to her to see nasty
folk.
'Twas not
at first without some flutterings of shame, evinced by
the modest blush
mantling on their cheeks, that the ladies heard
Filostrato's story; but
afterwards, exchanging glances, they could
scarce forbear to laugh, and
hearkened tittering. However, when
he had done, the queen turning to
Emilia bade her follow suit.
Whereupon Emilia, fetching a deep breath as
if she were roused
from sleep, thus began:
Loving ladies, brooding thought has kept my spirit for so long time
remote from here that perchance I may make a shift to satisfy our queen with a much
shorter story than would
have been forthcoming but for my absence of mind, wherein I purpose to tell you how a
young woman's folly was corrected by her uncle with a pleasant jest, had she but had the
sense to apprehend it.
My story, then,
is of one, Fresco da Celatico by name, that had a
niece, Ciesca, as she
was playfully called, who, being fair of face and
person, albeit she had
none of those angelical charms that we ofttimes
see, had so superlative a
conceit of herself, that she had contracted
a habit of disparaging both
men and women and all that she
saw, entirely regardless of her own
defects, though for odiousness,
tiresomeness,
and petulance she had not
her match among women,
insomuch that there was nought that could be done
to her mind:
besides which, such was her pride that had she been of the
blood royal
of France, 'twould have been inordinate. And when she walked
abroad, so fastidious was her humour, she was ever averting her
head, as
if there was never a soul she saw or met but reeked with a
foul
smell. Now one day--not to speak of other odious and tiresome
ways that
she had--it so befell that being come home, where
Fresco was, she sat
herself down beside him with a most languishing
air, and did nought but
fume and chafe. Whereupon: Ciesca,
quoth he, what means this,
that, though 'tis a feast-day, yet thou
art come back so soon?
She,
all but dissolved with her vapourish
humours, made answer: Why, the
truth is, that I am come back
early because never, I believe, were there
such odious and tiresome
men and women in this city as there are to-day. I
cannot pass a
soul in the street that I loathe not like ill-luck; and I
believe there is
not a woman in the world that is so distressed by the
sight of odious
people as I am; and so I am come home thus soon to avoid
the sight
of them.
Whereupon Fresco, to whom his niece's bad manners
were distasteful in the extreme: Daughter,
quoth he, if thou
loathe odious folk as much as thou sayest, thou wert best, so thou
wouldst
live happy, never to look at thyself in the glass.
But she,
empty as a
reed, albeit in her own conceit a match for Solomon in
wisdom, was as far
as any sheep from apprehending the true sense of
her uncle's jest; but
answered that on the contrary she was minded
to look at herself in the
glass like otherwomen. And so she
remained, and yet remains, hidebound in
her folly.
Novel IXGuido Cavalcanti by a quip meetly rebukes certain
Florentine gentlemen who had taken him at a disadvantage.
The queen, perceiving that Emilia had finished
her story, and that none but she, and he who had the privilege of speaking last, now
remained to tell, began on this wise:
Albeit, debonair my ladies, you have forestalled me to-day of
more than two of the stories, of which I had thought to tell one, yet one is still left me
to recount, which carries at the close of it a quip of such a sort, that perhaps we have
as yet heard nought so pregnant.
You are to know, then, that in former times there obtained
in
our city customs excellent and commendable not a few, whereof today
not one is left to us, thanks to the greed which, growing with
the wealth
of our folk, has banished them all from among us. One
of which customs was
that in divers quarters of Florence the gentlemen
that there resided would
assemble together in companies of a
limited number, taking care to include
therein only such as might
conveniently bear the expenses, and to-day one,
another to-morrow,
each in his turn for a day, would entertain the rest of
the company;
and so they would not seldom do honour to gentlemen from
distant
parts when they visited the city, and also to their
fellow-citizens;
and in like manner they would meet together at least once
a year all
in the same trim, and on the most notable days would ride
together
through the city, and now and again they would tilt together,
more
especially on the greater feasts, or when the city was rejoiced by
tidings of victory or some other glad event. Among which companies
was one
of which Messer Betto Brunelleschi was the leading
spirit, into which
Messer Betto and his comrades had striven hard
to bring Guido,
son of Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti, and not without
reason, inasmuch as,
besides being one of the best logicians in the
world, and an excellent
natural philosopher (qualities of which the
company made no great
account), he was without a peer for gallantry
and courtesy and excellence
of discourse and aptitude for all matters
which he might set his mind to,
and that belonged to a gentleman;
and therewithal he was very rich, and,
when he deemed
any worthy of honour, knew how to bestow it to the
uttermost.
But, as Messer Betto had never been able to gain him over, he
and his comrades supposed that 'twas because Guido, being addicted
to
speculation, was thereby estranged from men. And, for that he
was somewhat
inclined to the opinion of the Epicureans, the vulgar
averred that these
speculations of his had no other scope than to
prove that God did not
exist. Now one day it so befell that, Guido
being come, as was not seldom
his wont, from Or San Michele by
the Corso degli Adimari as far as San
Giovanni, around which were
then the great tombs of marble that are to-day
in Santa Reparata,
besides other tombs not a few, and Guido being between
the columns
of porphyry, that are there, and the tombs and the door of
San
Giovanni, which was locked, Messer Betto and his company came
riding
on to the piazza of Santa Reparata, and seeing him among the
tombs, said:
Go we and flout him.
So they set spurs to their
horses, and making
a mock onset, were upon him almost before he
saw them. Whereupon:
Guido,
they began, thou wilt be
none of our company; but, lo
now, when thou hast proved that
God does not exist, what wilt thou have
achieved?
Guido, seeing
that he was surrounded, presently answered:
Gentlemen, you
may say to me what you please in your own house.
Thereupon he
laid his hand on one of the great tombs, and being very
nimble,
vaulted over it, and so evaded them, and went his way, while they
remained gazing in one another's faces, and some said that he had
taken
leave of his wits, and that his answer was but nought, seeing
that the
ground on which they stood was common to them with the
rest of the
citizens, and among them Guido himself. But Messer
Betto, turning to them:
Nay but,
quoth he, 'tis ye that have
taken leave of your wits,
if ye have not understood him; for meetly
and in few words he has given us
never so shrewd a reprimand;
seeing that, if you consider it well, these
tombs are the houses of the
dead, that are laid and tarry
therein; which he calls our house, to
shew us that we, and all other
simple, unlettered men, are, in comparison
of him and the rest of the
learned, in sorrier case than dead
men, and so being here, we are in our
own house.
Then none was
there but understood Guido's meaning and was
abashed, insomuch
that they flouted him no more, and thenceforth reputed
Messer Betto
a gentleman of a subtle and discerning wit.
Novel XFra Cipolla promises to shew certain country-folk a
feather of the Angel Gabriel, in lieu of which he finds coals, which he avers to be of
those with which St. Lawrence was roasted.
All the company save Dioneo being delivered of
their several stories, he wist that 'twas his turn to speak. Wherefore, without awaiting
any very express command, he enjoined silence on those that were commending Guido's pithy
quip, and thus began:
Sweet my ladies, albeit 'tis my privilege to speak of what likes me
most, I purpose not to-day to deviate from that theme whereon you have all discoursed most
appositely; but, following in your footsteps, I am minded to shew you with what adroitness
and readiness of resource one of the Friars of St. Antony avoided a pickle that two young
men had in readiness for him. Nor, if, in order to do the story
full justice, I be somewhat prolix of speech, should it be burdensome to you, if you will
but glance at the sun, which is yet in mid-heaven.
Certaldo, as perchance you may have heard, is a town of
Val
d'Elsa within our country-side, which, small though it is, had in it
aforetime people of rank and wealth. Thither, for that there he
found good
pasture, 'twas long the wont of one of the Friars of St.
Antony to resort
once every year, to collect the alms that fools gave
them. Fra
CipollaOnion.--so hight the friar--met with a hearty
welcome,
no less, perchance, by reason of his name than for other cause,
the
onions produced in that district being famous throughout Tuscany.
He
was little of person, red-haired, jolly-visaged, and the very best
of good
fellows; and therewithal, though learning he had none, he
was
so excellent and ready a speaker that whoso knew him not would
not only
have esteemed him a great rhetorician, but would have
pronounced him Tully
himself or, perchance, Quintilian; and in all
the country-side there was
scarce a soul to whom he was not either
gossip or friend or lover. Being
thus wont from time to time to
visit Certaldo, the friar came there once
upon a time in the month
of August, and on a Sunday morning, all the good
folk of the
neighbouring farms being come to mass in the parish church, he
took
occasion to come forward and say: Ladies and gentlemen, you
wot
'tis your custom to send year by year to the poor of Baron
Master St.
Antony somewhat of your wheat and oats, more or less,
according to the
ability and the devoutness of each, that blessed St.
Antony may save your
oxen and asses and pigs and sheep from harm;
and you are also accustomed,
and especially those whose names are
on the books of our confraternity, to
pay your trifling annual dues.
To collect which offerings, I am hither
sent by my superior, to wit,
Master Abbot; wherefore, with the blessing of
God, after none,
when you hear the bells ring, you will come out of the
church to
the place where in the usual way I shall deliver you my sermon,
and
you will kiss the cross; and therewithal, knowing, as I do, that you
are one and all most devoted to Baron Master St. Antony, I will by
way of
especial grace shew you a most holy and goodly relic, which
I brought
myself from the Holy Land overseas, which is none other
than one of the
feathers of the Angel Gabriel, which he left behind
him in the room of the
Virgin Mary, when he came to make her
the annunciation in Nazareth.
And having said thus much, he
ceased, and went on with the mass. Now among
the many that
were in the church, while Fra Cipolla made this speech, were
two
very wily young wags, the one Giovanni del Bragoniera by name,
the
other Biagio Pizzini; who, albeit they were on the best of
terms with Fra
Cipolla and much in his company, had a sly laugh
together over the relic,
and resolved to make game of him and his
feather. So, having learned that
Fra Cipolla was to breakfast that
morning in the town with one of his
friends, as soon as they knew
that he was at table, down they hied them
into the street, and to the
inn where the friar lodged, having complotted
that Biagio should
keep the friar's servant in play, while Giovanni made
search among
the friar's goods and chattels for this feather, whatever it
might be,
to carry it off, that they might see how the friar
would afterwards
explain the matter to the people. Now Fra Cipolla had for
servant
one Guccio,Diminutive of Arriguccio. whom some called
by way of
addition Balena,Whale. others
Imbratta,Filth. others again Porco,Hog. and who
was
such a rascallion that
sure it is that Lippo TopoThe works of
this painter seem to be
lost. himself never painted his like.
Concerning
whom Fra Cipolla would ofttimes make merry with his
familiars,
saying: My servant has nine qualities, any one of
which in Solomon,
Aristotle, or Seneca, would have been enough to
spoil all their virtue,
wisdom and holiness. Consider, then, what
sort of a man he must be that
has these nine qualities, and yet never
a spark of either virtue or wisdom
or holiness.
And being asked
upon divers occasions what these nine
qualities might be, he strung
them together in rhyme, and answered: I
will tell you. Lazy
and uncleanly and a liar he is, Negligent, disobedient
and foulmouthed,
iwis, And reckless and witless and mannerless: and
therewithal
he has some other petty vices, which 'twere best to pass
over.
And the most amusing thing about him is, that, wherever he goes, he
is for taking a wife and renting a house, and on the strength of a big,
black, greasy beard he deems himself so very handsome a fellow and
seductive, that he takes all the women that see him to be in love
with
him, and, if he were left alone, he would slip his girdle and run
after
them all. True it is that he is of great use to me, for that,
be any
minded to speak with me never so secretly, he must still have
his share of
the audience; and, if perchance aught is demanded of
me, such is his fear
lest I should be at a loss what answer to make,
that he presently replies,
ay or no, as he deems meet.
Now, when he left this knave at the
inn, Fra Cipolla had strictly
enjoined him on no account to suffer any one
to touch aught of his,
and least of all his wallet, because it contained
the holy things.
But Guccio Imbratta, who was fonder of the kitchen than
any
nightingale of the green boughs, and most particularly if he espied
there a maid, and in the host's kitchen had caught sight of a coarse
fat
woman, short and misshapen, with a pair of breasts that shewed
as two
buckets of muck and a face that might have belonged to one
of the Baronci,
all reeking with sweat and grease and smoke, left
Fra Cipolla's room and
all his things to take care of themselves, and
like a vulture
swooping down upon the carrion, was in the kitchen
in a trice. Where,
though 'twas August, he sat him down by the
fire, and fell a gossiping
with Nuta--such was the maid's name--and
told her that he was a gentleman
by procuration,One of the humorous
ineptitudes of which Boccaccio is
fond. and had more
florins than could be reckoned, besides those
that he had to give
away, which were rather more than less, and that he
could do and
say such things as never were or might be seen or heard
forever, good
Lord! and a day. And all heedless of his cowl, which had as
much
grease upon it as would have furnished forth the caldron of
Altopascio,An
abbey near Lucca famous for its doles of
broth.
and of his rent and patched doublet, inlaid with filth about
the neck
and under the armpits, and so stained that it shewed hues more
various than ever did silk from Tartary or the Indies, and of his
shoes
that were all to pieces, and of his hose that were all in tatters,
he told
her in a tone that would have become the Sieur de Châtillon,
that he
was minded to rehabit her and put her in trim, and raise her
from her
abject condition, and place her where, though she would
not have much to
call her own, at any rate she would have hope of
better things, with much
more to the like effect; which professions,
though made with every
appearance of good will, proved, like most
of his schemes, insubstantial
as air, and came to nothing.
Finding Guccio Porco thus occupied with
Nuta, the two young
men gleefully accounted their work half done, and,
none gainsaying
them, entered Fra Cipolla's room, which was open, and lit
at once
upon the wallet, in which was the feather. The wallet opened,
they
found, wrapt up in many folds of taffeta, a little casket, on
opening
which they discovered one of the tail-feathers of a parrot, which
they
deemed must be that which the friar had promised to shew the good
folk of Certaldo. And in sooth he might well have so imposed upon
them,
for in those days the luxuries of Egypt had scarce been
introduced into
Tuscany, though they have since been brought over
in prodigious abundance,
to the grave hurt of all Italy. And though
some conversance with them
there was, yet in those parts folk knew
next to nothing of them; but,
adhering to the honest, simple ways of
their forefathers, had not seen,
nay for the most part had not so much
as heard tell of, a
parrot.
So the young men, having found the feather, took it out
with
great glee; and looking around for something to replace
it, they
espied in a corner of the room some pieces of coal, wherewith
they
filled the casket; which they then closed, and having set the room
in order exactly as they had found it, they quitted it unperceived,
and
hied them merrily off with the feather, and posted themselves
where they
might hear what Fra Cipolla would say when he found
the coals in its
stead. Mass said, the simple folk that were in the
church went home with
the tidings that the feather of the Angel
Gabriel was to be seen after
none; and this goodman telling his
neighbour, and that goodwife her
gossip, by the time every one had
breakfasted, the town could scarce hold
the multitude of men and
women that flocked thither all agog to see this
feather.
Fra Cipolla, having made a hearty breakfast and had a
little nap,
got up shortly after none, and marking the great concourse of
country-folk that were come to see the feather, sent word to Guccio
Imbratta to go up there with the bells, and bring with him the
wallet.
Guccio, though 'twas with difficulty that he tore himself
away from the
kitchen and Nuta, hied him up with the things
required; and though, when
he got up, he was winded, for he was
corpulent with drinking nought but
water, he did Fra Cipolla's
bidding by going to the church door and
ringing the bells amain.
When all the people were gathered about the door,
Fra Cipolla, all
unwitting that aught of his was missing, began his
sermon, and after
much said in glorification of himself, caused the
confiteor to be recited
with great solemnity, and two torches to be lit by
way of preliminary
to the shewing of the feather of the Angel Gabriel: he
then bared
his head, carefully unfolded the taffeta, and took out the
casket,
which, after a few prefatory words in praise and laudation of the
Angel Gabriel and his relic, he opened. When he saw that it contained
nought but coals, he did not suspect Guccio Balena of playing
the trick,
for he knew that he was not clever enough, nor did he
curse him, that his
carelessness had allowed another to play it, but he
inly imprecated
himself, that he had committed his things to the
keeping of one whom he
knew to be negligent and disobedient,
reckless and witless.
Nevertheless, he changed not colour, but
with face and hands upturned to
heaven, he said in a voice that all
might hear: O God, blessed be Thy
might for ever and ever.
Then, closing the casket, and turning to the
people: Ladies and
gentlemen,
he said, you are to
know, that when I was yet a very
young man, I was sent by my superior into
those parts where the
sun rises, and I was expressly bidden to search
until I should find
the Privileges of Porcellana, which, though they cost
nothing to seal,
are of much more use to others than to us. On which
errand I set
forth, taking my departure from Venice, and traversing the
Borgo
de' Greci,Perhaps part of the sesto
of Florence known
as the
Borgo, as the tradition of the commentators that the friar's
itinerary is
wholly
Florentine is not to be lightly set aside. and
thence on horseback
the
realm of Algarve,Il
Garbo, a quarter or street in Florence,
doubtless so called
because the wares of Algarve were there sold. Rer.
Ital.
Script. (Muratori: Suppl. Tartini) ii. 119. Villani,
Istorie
Fiorentine, iv. 12, xii. 18. and so
by
BaldaccaA famous tavern in Florence. Florio, Vocab.
Ital. e
Ingl., ed Torriano, 1659. I came to
Parione,A borgo
in
Florence. Villani, Istorie
Fiorentine, iv. 7. whence, somewhat
athirst, I after a
while got on to Sardinia.A suburb of Florence on the Arno,
ib.
ix. 256. But wherefore go I about to
enumerate
all the lands in which I pursued my quest? Having passed the
straits of San Giorgio, I arrived at TruffiaThe land of
Cajolery. and Buffia,The land of Drollery. countries
thickly populated and with great nations, whence I pursued my
journey to
Menzogna,The land of Lies. where I met with many of
our own
brethren,
and of other religious not a few, intent one and all on
eschewing
hardship for the love of God, making little account of others'
toil, so
they might ensue their own advantage, and paying in nought but
unminted
coinI.e. in false promises: suggested
by Dante's Pagando di
moneta senza conio. Parad.
xxix. 126. throughout the length
and
breadth of the country;
and
so I came to the land of Abruzzi, where the men and women
go in pattens on
the mountains, and clothe the hogs with their own
entrails;A
reference to sausage-making. and a little further on
I
found folk
that carried bread in
staves and wine in
sacks.I.e. cakes fashioned in a hollow ring,
and wines in leathern bottles. And leaving them, I arrived at the
mountains of the Bachi,Grubs. where all the waters
run
downwards. In
short I penetrated so far that I came at last to India
Pastinaca,In
allusion to the shapeless fish, so called, which was
proverbially taken as a
type of the outlandish. where
I swear to
you by the habit that I wear, that I saw pruning-hooksA
jeu de mots, pennati,
pruning-hooks, signifying
also
feathered, though pennuti
is more common
in that sense.
fly: a thing that none would believe that had not
seen it. Whereof
be my witness that I lie not Maso del Saggio, that great
merchant,
whom I found there cracking nuts, and selling the shells by
retail!
However, not being able to find that whereof I was in quest,
because
from thence one must travel by water, I turned back, and so came
at length to the Holy Land, where in summer cold bread costs four
deniers,
and hot bread is to be had for nothing. And there I found
the venerable
father
Nonmiblasmetesevoipiace,Takemenottotaskanitlikeyou.
the most
worshipful
Patriarch of Jerusalem; who out of respect for the
habit that I have
ever worn, to wit, that of Baron Master St. Antony, was
pleased to
let me see all the holy relics that he had by him, which were
so
many, that, were I to enumerate them all, I should not come to the
end
of them in some miles. However, not to disappoint you, I will
tell you a
few of them. In the first place, then, he shewed me the
finger of the Holy
Spirit, as whole and entire as it ever was, and the
tuft of the Seraph
that appeared to St. Francis, and one of the nails
of the Cherubim, and
one of the ribs of the Verbum Caro hie thee
to the
casement,fatti alle finestre, a subterfuge for
factum est. and some of the vestments of the
Holy Catholic
Faith, and some of the rays of the star that appeared to the
Magi in
the East, and a phial of the sweat of St. Michael a battling with
the
Devil and the jaws of death of St. Lazarus, and other relics. And
for
that I gave him a liberal supply of the
acclivitiespiagge,
jocularly for
pagine: doubtless some mighty tome of school divinity
is
meant. of Monte
Morello in the vulgar and some chapters of
Caprezio, of which he
had long been in quest, he was pleased to let me
participate in his
holy relics, and gave me one of the teeth of the Holy
Cross, and in
a small phial a bit of the sound of the bells of Solomon's
temple, and
this feather of the Angel Gabriel, whereof I have
told you, and one
of the pattens of San Gherardo da Villa Magna, which,
not long ago,
I gave at Florence to Gherardo di Bonsi, who holds him in
prodigious
veneration. He also gave me some of the coals with which the
most blessed martyr, St. Lawrence, was roasted. All which things
I
devoutly brought thence, and have them all safe. True it is that
my
superior has not hitherto permitted me to shew them, until he
should be
certified that they are genuine. However, now that this
is avouched by
certain miracles wrought by them, of which we have
tidings by letter from
the Patriarch, he has given me leave to shew
them. But, fearing to trust
them to another, I always carry them
with me; and to tell you the truth I
carry the feather of the Angel
Gabriel, lest it should get spoiled, in a
casket, and the coals, with
which St. Lawrence was roasted, in another
casket; which caskets
are so like the one to the other, that not seldom I
mistake one for
the other, which has befallen me on this occasion; for,
whereas I
thought to have brought with me the casket wherein is the
feather,
I have brought instead that which contains the coals. Nor deem l
this a mischance; nay, methinks, 'tis by interposition of God, and
that He
Himself put the casket of coals in my hand, for I mind me
that the feast
of St. Lawrence falls but two days hence. Wherefore
God, being minded that
by shewing you the coals, with which he
was roasted, I should rekindle in
your souls the devotion that you
ought to feel towards him, guided my
hand, not to the feather which
I meant to take, but to the blessed coals
that were extinguished by
the humours that exuded from that most holy
body. And so,
blessed children, bare your heads and devoutly draw nigh to
see
them. But first of all I would have you know, that whoso has the
sign
of the cross made upon him with these coals, may live secure for
the whole
of the ensuing year, that fire shall not touch him, that he
feel it
not.
Having so said, the friar, chanting a hymn in praise of
St.
Lawrence, opened the casket, and shewed the coals. Whereon the
foolish crowd gazed a while in awe and reverent wonder, and then
came
pressing forward in a mighty throng about Fra Cipolla with
offerings
beyond their wont, each and all praying him to touch them
with the coals.
Wherefore Fra Cipolla took the coals in his hand,
and set about making on
their white blouses, and on their doublets,
and on the veils
of the women crosses as big as might be, averring
the while that whatever
the coals might thus lose would be made
good to them again in the casket,
as he had often proved. On this
wise, to his exceeding great profit, he
marked all the folk of Certaldo
with the cross, and, thanks to his ready
wit and resource, had his
laugh at those, who by robbing him of the
feather thought to make
a laughing-stock of him. They, indeed, being among
his hearers,
and marking his novel expedient, and how voluble he was, and
what
a long story he made of it, laughed till they thought their jaws
would break; and, when the congregation was dispersed, they went
up to
him, and never so merrily told him what they had done, and
returned him
his feather; which next year proved no less lucrative
to him than that day
the coals had been.
ConclusionImmense was the delight and
diversion which this story afforded
to all the company alike, and great
and general was the laughter over
Fra Cipolla, and more especially at his
pilgrimage, and the relics, as
well those that he had but seen as those
that he had brought back
with him. Which being ended, the queen, taking
note that therewith
the close of her sovereignty was come, stood up, took
off the
crown, and set it on Dioneo's head, saying with a laugh: 'Tis
time, Dioneo, that thou prove the weight of the burden of having
ladies to
govern and guide. Be thou king then; and let thy rule
be such that, when
'tis ended, we may have cause to commend it.
Dioneo took the crown,
and laughingly answered: Kings worthier
far than I you may well have
seen many a time ere now--I speak
of the kings in chess; but let me have
of you that obedience which
is due to a true king, and of a surety I will
give you to taste of that
solace, without which perfection of joy there
may not be in any
festivity. But enough of this: I will govern as best I
may.
Then,
as was the wont, he sent for the seneschal, and gave him
particular
instruction how to order matters during the term of his
sovereignty,
which done, he said: Noble ladies, such and so diverse has
been
our discourse of the ways of men and their various fortunes, that
but for the visit that we had a while ago from Madam Licisca, who
by what
she said has furnished me with matter of discourse for
to-morrow, I doubt
I had been not a little put to it to find a theme.
You heard how she said
that there was not a woman in her neighbourhood
whose husband had her
virginity; adding that well she knew
how many and what manner
of tricks they, after marriage, played
their husbands. The first count we
may well leave to the girls
whom it concerns; the second, methinks, should
prove a diverting
topic: wherefore I ordain that, taking our cue from
Madam Licisca,
we discourse to-morrow of the tricks that, either for love
or for their
deliverance from peril, ladies have heretofore played their
husbands,
and whether they were by the said husbands detected or no.
To
discourse of such a topic some of the ladies deemed unmeet for them,
and besought the king to find another theme. But the king made
answer:
Ladies, what manner of theme I have prescribed I know
as well as you,
nor was I to be diverted from prescribing it by that
which you now think
to declare unto me, for I wot the times are
such that, so only men and
women have a care to do nought that is
unseemly, 'tis allowable to them to
discourse of what they please.
For in sooth, as you must know, so out of
joint are the times that
the judges have deserted the judgment-seat, the
laws are silent, and
ample licence to preserve his life as best he may is
accorded to each
and all. Wherefore, if you are somewhat less strict of
speech than is
your wont, not that aught unseemly in act may follow, but
that you
may afford solace to yourselves and others, I see not how you can
be
open to reasonable censure on the part of any. Furthermore, nought
that has been said from the first day to the present moment has,
methinks,
in any degree sullied the immaculate honour of your
company, nor, God
helping us, shall aught ever sully it. Besides,
who is there that knows
not the quality of your honour? which
were proof, I make no doubt, against
not only the seductive influence
of diverting discourse, but even the
terror of death. And,
to tell you the truth, whoso wist that you refused
to discourse of
these light matters for a while, would be apt to suspect
that 'twas
but for that you had yourselves erred in like sort. And truly
a
goodly honour would you confer upon me, obedient as I have ever
been to
you, if after making me your king and your lawgiver, you
were to refuse to
discourse of the theme which I prescribe. Away,
then, with this scruple
fitter for low minds than yours, and let each
study how she may give us a
goodly story, and Fortune prosper her
therein.
So spake the
king, and the ladies, hearkening, said that, even as
he would, so it
should be: whereupon he gave all leave to do as they
might be
severally minded until the supper-hour. The sun was still
quite high in
the heaven, for they had not enlarged in their discourse:
wherefore,
Dioneo with the other gallants being set to play
at dice, Elisa called the
other ladies apart, and said: There is a
nook hard by this place, where
I think none of you has ever been:
'tis called the Ladies' Vale: whither,
ever since we have been here,
I have desired to take you, but time meet I
have not found until today,
when the sun is still so high: if, then, you
are minded to visit
it, I have no manner of doubt that, when you are
there, you will be
very glad you came.
The ladies answered that they
were ready,
and so, saying nought to the young men, they summoned one of
their maids, and set forth; nor had they gone much more than a
mile, when
they arrived at the Vale of Ladies. They entered it by
a very strait
gorge, through which there issued a rivulet, clear as
crystal, and a
sight, than which nought more fair and pleasant,
especially at that time
when the heat was great, could be imagined,
met their eyes. Within the
valley, as one of them afterwards told
me, was a plain about half-a-mile
in circumference, and so exactly
circular that it might have been
fashioned according to the compass,
though it seemed a work of Nature's
art, not man's: 'twas girdled
about by six hills of no great height, each
crowned with a palace
that shewed as a goodly little castle. The slopes of
the hills were
graduated from summit to base after the manner of the
successive
tiers, ever abridging their circle, that we see in our
theatres; and as
many as fronted the southern rays were all planted so
close with
vines, olives, almond-trees, cherry-trees, fig-trees and other
fruit-bearing
trees not a few, that there was not a hand's-breadth of
vacant space. Those that fronted the north were in like manner
covered
with copses of oak saplings, ashes and other trees, as green
and straight
as might be. Besides which, the plain, which was shut
in on all sides save
that on which the ladies had entered, was full of
firs, cypresses, and
bay-trees, with here and there a pine, in order
and symmetry so meet and
excellent as had they been planted by an
artist, the best that might be
found in that kind; wherethrough,
even when the sun was in the zenith,
scarce a ray of light might
reach the ground, which was all one lawn of
the finest turf, pranked
with the hyacinth and divers other flowers. Add
to which--nor was
there aught there more delightsome--a rivulet that,
issuing from one
of the gorges between two of the hills,
descended over ledges of
living rock, making, as it fell, a murmur most
gratifying to the ear,
and, seen from a distance, shewed as a spray of
finest, powdered
quick-silver, and no sooner reached the little plain,
than 'twas
gathered into a tiny channel, by which it sped with great
velocity
to the middle of the plain, where it formed a diminutive lake,
like
the fishponds that townsfolk sometimes make in their gardens, when
they have occasion for them. The lake was not so deep but that a
man might
stand therein with his breast above the water; and so
clear, so pellucid
was the water that the bottom, which was of
the finest gravel, shewed so
distinct, that one, had he wished, who
had nought better to do, might have
counted the stones. Nor was it
only the bottom that was to be seen, but
such a multitude of fishes,
glancing to and fro, as was at once a delight
and a marvel to behold.
Bank it had none, but its margin was the lawn, to
which it imparted
a goodlier freshness. So much of the water as it might
not contain
was received by another tiny channel, through which, issuing
from
the vale, it glided swiftly to the plain below.
To which
pleasaunce the damsels being come surveyed it with
roving glance, and
finding it commendable, and marking the lake
in front of them, did, as
'twas very hot, and they deemed themselves
secure from observation,
resolve to take a bath. So, having bidden
their maid wait and keep watch
over the access to the vale, and give
them warning, if haply any should
approach it, they all seven undressed
and got into the water, which to the
whiteness of their flesh
was even such a veil as fine glass is to the
vermeil of the rose. They,
being thus in the water, the clearness of which
was thereby in no
wise affected, did presently begin to go hither and
thither after the
fish, which had much ado where to bestow themselves so
as to
escape out of their hands. In which diversion they spent some time,
and caught a few, and then they hied them out of the water and
dressed
them again, and bethinking them that 'twas time to return
to the palace,
they began slowly sauntering thither, dilating much as
they went upon the
beauty of the place, albeit they could not extol
it more than they had
already done. 'Twas still quite early when
they reached the palace, so
that they found the gallants yet at play
where they had left them. To whom
quoth Pampinea with a
smile: We have stolen a march upon you
to-day.
So,
replied Dioneo, 'tis with you do
first and say after?
Ay, my
lord,
returned Pampinea, and told
him at large whence they came,
and what the place was like, and how far
'twas off, and what they
had done. What she said of the beauty of the spot
begat in the king
a desire to see it: wherefore he straightway ordered
supper, whereof
when all had gaily partaken, the three gallants parted
from the ladies
and hied them with their servants to the vale, where none
of them
had ever been before, and, having marked all its beauties,
extolled it
as scarce to be matched in all the world. Then, as the hour
was
very late, they did but bathe, and as soon as they had resumed their
clothes, returned to the ladies, whom they found dancing a carol to
an air
that Fiammetta sang, which done, they conversed of the
Ladies' Vale,
waxing eloquent in praise thereof: insomuch that the
king called the
seneschal, and bade him have some beds made ready
and carried thither on
the morrow, that any that were so minded
might there take their siesta. He
then had lights and wine and
comfits brought; and when they had taken a
slight refection, he
bade all address them to the dance. So at his behest
Pamfilo led a
dance, and then the king, turning with gracious mien to
Elisa:
Fair damsel,
quoth he, 'twas thou to-day didst me this
honour
of the crown; and 'tis my will that thine to-night be the honour
or
the song; wherefore sing us whatsoever thou hast most lief.
That gladly will I,
replied Elisa smiling; and thus with dulcet
voice began:
If of thy talons,
Love, be quit I may,
I deem it scarce can be
But other fangs
I may elude for aye.Service I took with thee, a tender
maid,
In thy war thinking perfect peace to find,
And all my
arms upon the ground I laid,
Yielding myself to thee with trustful
mind:
Thou, harpy-tyrant, whom no faith may bind,
Eftsoons
didst swoop on me,
And with thy cruel claws mad'st me thy
prey.Then thy poor captive, bound with many a
chain,
Thou tookst, and gav'st to him, whom fate did
call
Hither my death to be; for that in pain
And
bitter tears I waste away, his thrall:
Nor heave I e'er a sigh, or
tear let fall,
So harsh a lord is he,
That him inclines a jot
my grief to allay.My prayers upon the idle air are
spent:
He hears not, will not hear; wherefore in vain
The
more each hour my soul doth her torment;
Nor may I die, albeit to
die were gain.
Ah! Lord, have pity of my bitter pain!
Help
have I none but thee;
Then take and bind and at my feet him
lay.But if thou wilt not, do my soul but loose
From
hope, that her still binds with triple chain.
Sure, O my Lord, this
prayer thou'lt not refuse:
The which so thou to grant me do but
deign,
I look my wonted beauty to regain,
And banish
misery
With roses white and red bedecked and
gay.So with a most piteous sigh ended Elisa her song,
whereat all
wondered exceedingly, nor might any conjecture wherefore she
so
sang. But the king, who was in a jolly humour, sent for Tindaro,
and
bade him out with his cornemuse, and caused them tread many a
measure
thereto, until, no small part of the night being thus spent,
he gave leave
to all to betake them to rest.
Seventh DayEndeth here the sixth day of the Decameron, beginneth the seventh,
in which, under the rule of Dioneo, discourse is had of the tricks which, either for love
or for their deliverance from peril, ladies have heretofore played their husbands, and
whether they were by the said husbands detected, or no.
IntroductionFled was now each star from the eastern sky, save only that
which we call Lucifer, which still glowed in the whitening dawn, when uprose the
seneschal, and with a goodly baggage-train hied him to the Ladies' Vale, there to make all
things ready according to the ordinance and commandment of the king. Nor was it
long after his departure that the king rose, being awaked by the stir and bustle that the
servants made in lading the horses, and being risen he likewise roused all the ladies and
the other gallants; and so, when as yet 'twas scarce clear daybreak, they all
took the road; nor seemed it to them that the nightingales and the other birds had ever
chanted so blithely as that morning. By which choir they were attended to the Ladies'
Vale, where they were greeted by other warblers not a few, that seemed rejoiced at their
arrival. Roving about the vale, and surveying its beauties afresh, they rated
them higher than on the previous day, as indeed the hour was more apt to shew them
forth. Then with good wine and comfits they broke their fast, and, that they
might not lag behind the songsters, they fell a singing, whereto the vale responded, ever
echoing their strains; nor did the birds, as minded not to be beaten, fail to swell the
chorus with notes of unwonted sweetness. However, breakfast-time came, and
then, the tables being laid under a living canopy of trees, and beside other goodly trees
that fringed the little lake, they sat them down in order as to the king seemed meet. So
they took their meal, glancing from time to time at the lake, where the fish
darted to and fro in multitudinous shoals, which afforded not only delight to their eyes
but matter for converse. Breakfast ended, and the tables
removed, they fell a singing again more blithely than before. After which,
there being set, in divers places about the little vale, beds which the discreet seneschal
had duly furnished and equipped within and without with store of French coverlets, and
other bedgear, all, that were so minded, had leave of the king to go to sleep, and those
that cared not to sleep might betake them, as each might choose, to any of their wonted
diversions. But, all at length being risen, and the time for addressing them to
the story-telling being come, the king had carpets spread on the sward no great way from
the place where they had breakfasted; and, all having sat them down beside the lake, he
bade Emilia begin; which, blithe and smiling, Emilia did on this wise.
Novel IGianni Lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door at night: he
awakens his wife, who persuaaes him that 'tis the
bogey, which they fall to exorcising with a prayer; whereupon the knocking
ceases.
My lord, glad indeed had I been, that, saving your good
pleasure, some other than I had had precedence of discourse upon so goodly a theme as this
of which we are to speak: I doubt I am but chosen to teach others confidence; but, such
being your will, I will gladly obey it. And my endeavour shall be, dearest
ladies, to tell you somewhat that may be serviceable to you in the future: for, if you
are, as I am, timorous, and that most especially of the bogey, which, God wot, I know not
what manner of thing it may be, nor yet have found any that knew, albeit we are all alike
afraid of it, you may learn from this my story how to put it to flight, should it intrude
upon you, with a holy, salutary and most efficacious orison.
There dwelt of yore at
Florence, in the quarter of San Pancrazio, a master-spinner, Gianni Lotteringhi by name,
one that had prospered in his business, but had little understanding of aught else;
insomuch that being somewhat of a simpleton, he had many a time been chosen leader of the
band of laud-singers of Santa Maria Novella, and had charge of their school; and not a few
like offices had he often served, upon which he greatly plumed himself. Howbeit, 'twas all
for no other reason than that, being a man of substance, he gave liberal doles to the
friars; who, for that they got thereof, this one hose, another a cloak, and a
third a hood, would teach him good orisons, or give him the paternoster in the vernacular,
or the chant of St. Alexis, or the lament of St. Bernard, or the laud of Lady
Matilda, or the like sorry stuff, which he greatly prized, and guarded with
jealous care, deeming them all most conducive to the salvation of his soul.
Now our
simple master-spinner had a most beautiful wife, and amorous withal, her name Monna
Tessa. Daughter she was of Mannuccio dalla Cuculla, and not a little knowing and
keen-witted; and being enamoured of Federigo di Neri Pegolotti, a handsome and lusty
gallant, as he also of her, she, knowing her husband's simplicity, took counsel with her
maid, and arranged that Federigo should come to chat with her at a right goodly
pleasure-house that the said Gianni had at Camerata, where she was wont to pass the
summer, Gianni coming now and again to sup and sleep, and going back in the
morning to his shop, or, maybe, to his laud-singers. Federigo, who desired
nothing better, went up there punctually on the appointed day about vespers, and as the
evening passed without Gianni making his appearance, did most comfortably, and to his no
small satisfaction, sup and sleep with the lady, who lying in his arms taught him that
night some six of her husband's lauds. But, as neither she nor Federigo was
minded that this beginning should also be the end of
their intercourse, and that it might not be needful for the maid to go each time to make
the assignation with him, they came to the following understanding; to wit,
that as often as he came and went between the house and an estate that he had a little
higher up, he should keep an eye on a vineyard that was beside the house, where he would
see an ass's head stuck on one of the poles of the vineyard, and as often as he observed
the muzzle turned towards Florence, he might visit her without any sort of misgiving; and
if he found not the door open, he was to tap it thrice, and she would open it; and when he
saw the muzzle of the ass's head turned towards Fiesole, he was to keep away, for then
Gianni would be there.
Following which plan, they forgathered not seldom:
but on one of
these evenings, when Federigo was to sup with Monna Tessa on two fat capons that she had
boiled, it so chanced that Gianni arrived there unexpectedly and very late, much to the
lady's chagrin: so she had a little salt meat boiled apart, on which she supped with her
husband; and the maid by her orders carried the two boiled capons laid in a
spotless napkin with plenty of fresh eggs and a bottle of good wine into the garden, to
which there was access otherwise than from the house, and where she was wont
at times to sup with Federigo; and there the maid set them down at the foot of a
peach-tree, that grew beside a lawn. But in her vexation she forgot to tell the
maid to wait till Federigo should come, and let him know that Gianni was there, and he
must take his supper in the
garden: and she and Gianni and the maid were scarce gone to bed, when Federigo
came and tapped once at the door, which being hard by the bedroom, Gianni heard the tap,
as did also the lady, albeit, that Gianni might have no reason to suspect her, she feigned
to be asleep. Federigo waited a little, and then gave a second tap; whereupon,
wondering what it might mean, Gianni nudged his wife, saying: Tessa, dost hear what I
hear? Methinks some one has tapped at our door.
The lady, who had heard the
noise much better than he, feigned to wake up, and: How? what sayst thou?
quoth
she. I say,
replied Gianni, that, meseems, some one has tapped at our
door.
Tapped at it?
quoth the lady. Alas, my Gianni, wottest thou
not what that is? 'Tis the
bogey, which for some nights past has so terrified me as never was,
insomuch that I never hear it but I pop my head under the clothes and venture not to put
it out again until 'tis broad day.
Come, come, wife,
quoth Gianni,
if such it is, be not alarmed; for before we got into bed I repeated the Te
lucis, the
Intemerata, and divers other good orisons, besides which I made the
sign of the cross in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit at each corner of the
bed; wherefore we need have no fear that it may avail to hurt us, whatever be its
power.
The lady, lest Federigo, perchance suspecting a rival, should take
offence, resolved to get up, and let him understand that Gianni was there: so she said to
her husband: Well, well; so sayst thou; but I for my part shall never deem myself safe
and secure, unless we exorcise it, seeing that thou art here.
Oh!
said Gianni, and how does one exorcise it?
That,
quoth the lady,
I know right well; for t'other day, when I went to Fiesole for the pardoning, one of
those anchoresses, the saintliest creature, my Gianni, God be my witness, knowing how much
afraid I am of the bogey, taught me a holy and salutary orison, which she said she had
tried many a time before she was turned anchoress, and always with success. God
wot, I should never have had courage to try it alone; but as thou art here, I propose that
we go exorcise it together.
Gianni made answer that he was
quite of the same mind; so up they got, and stole to the door, on the outside of which
Federigo, now suspicious, was still waiting. And as soon as they were there: Now,
quoth the lady to Gianni, thou wilt spit, when I tell thee.
Good,
said Gianni. Whereupon the lady began her orison, saying:
Bogey,
bogey that goest by night, Tail erect, thou cam'st, tail erect, take thy flight:
Hie thee to the garden, and the great peach before, Grease upon grease, and
droppings five score Of my hen shalt thou find: Set the flask thy lips to,
Then away like the wind, And no scathe unto me or my Gianni do.
And when she
had done: Now, Gianni,
quoth she, spit
: and Gianni spat.
There was no more room for jealousy in Federigo's mind as he heard all this
from without; nay, for all his disappointment, he was like to burst with
suppressed laughter, and when Gianni spat, he muttered under his breath: Now
out with thy teeth.
The lady, having after this fashion thrice
exorcised the bogey, went back to bed with her husband. Federigo,
disappointed of the supper that he was to have had with her, and apprehending the
words of the orison aright, hied him to the garden, and having found the two
capons and the wine and the eggs at the foot of the peach-tree, took them home
with him, and supped very comfortably. And many a hearty laugh had he and the lady
over the exorcism during their subsequent intercourse.
Now, true it is that
some say that the lady had in fact turned the ass's head towards Fiesole, but that
a husbandman, passing through the vineyard, had given it a blow with his stick,
whereby it had swung round, and remained fronting Florence, and so it was that
Federigo thought that he was invited, and came to the house, and that
the lady's orison was on this wise:
Bogey, a God's name, away thee hie, For whoe'er turned the ass's head, 'twas not I;
Another it was, foul fall his eyne; And here am I with Gianni mine.
Wherefore Federigo was fain to take himself off, having neither slept nor
supped.
But a neighbour of mine, a lady well advanced in years, tells me that, by
what she heard when she was a girl, both stories are true; but that the latter concerned
not Gianni Lotteringhi but one Gianni di Nello, that lived at Porta San Piero, and was no
less a numskull than Gianni Lotteringhi. Wherefore, dear my ladies, you are at
liberty to choose which exorcism you prefer, or take both if you like. They are both of
extraordinary and approved virtue in such cases, as you have heard: get them by heart,
therefore, and they may yet stand you in good stead.
Novel IIHer husband returning home, Peronella bestows her lover in a tun;
which, being sold by her husband, she avers
to have been already sold by herself to one that is inside examining it to see if it be
sound. Whereupon the lover jumps out, and causes the husband to scour the tun for him, and
afterwards to carry it to his house.
Great indeed was the laughter with which Emilia's story was
received; which being ended, and her orison commended by all as good and salutary, the
king bade Filostrato follow suit; and thus Filostrato began:
Dearest my ladies,
so many are the tricks that men play you, and most of all your husbands, that, when from
time to time it so befalls that some lady plays her husband a trick, the circumstance,
whether it come within your own cognizance or be told you by another, should not only give
you joy but should incite you to publish it on all hands, that men may be ware, that,
knowing as they are, their ladies also, on their part, know somewhat: which
cannot but be serviceable to you, for that one does not rashly essay to take another with
guile whom one wots not to lack that quality.
Can we doubt, then, that, should but the converse that we shall hold
to-day touching this matter come to be bruited among men, 'twould serve to put a most
notable check upon the tricks they play you, by doing them to wit of the tricks, which
you, in like manner, when you are so minded, may play them? Wherefore 'tis my
intention to tell you in what manner a young girl, albeit she was but of low rank, did, on
the spur of the moment, beguile her husband to her own deliverance.
'Tis no long time since at Naples a poor man, a mason by craft, took to wife a fair and
amorous maiden--Peronella was her name--who eked out by spinning what her husband made by
his craft; and so the pair managed as best they might on very slender
means. And as chance would have it, one of the gallants of the city, taking
note of this Peronella one day, and being mightily pleased with her, fell in love with
her, and by this means and that so prevailed that he won her to accord him her
intimacy. Their times of forgathering they concerted as follows: to wit, that,
her husband being wont to rise betimes of a morning to go to work or seek for work, the
gallant was to be where he might see him go forth, and, the street where she dwelt, which
is called Avorio, being scarce inhabited, was to come
into the house as soon as her husband was well out of it; and so times not a few they
did. But on one of these occasions it befell that, the good man being gone
forth, and Giannello Sirignario--such was the gallant's name--being come into the house,
and being with Peronella, after a while, back came the good man, though 'twas not his wont
to return until the day was done; and finding the door locked, he knocked, and after
knocking, he fell a saying to himself: O God, praised be Thy name forever; for
that, albeit Thou hast ordained that I be poor, at least Thou hast accorded me the
consolation of a good and honest girl for wife. Mark what haste she made to shut the door
when I was gone forth, that none else might enter to give her trouble.
Now
Peronella knew by his knock that 'twas her husband; wherefore: Alas, Giannello
mine,
quoth she, I am a dead woman, for lo, here is my husband, foul fall him! come
back! What it may import, I know not, for he is never wont to come back at this hour;
perchance he caught sight of thee as thou camest in. However, for the love of
God, be it as it may, get thee into this tun that thou seest here, and I will go open to
him, and we shall see what is the occasion of this sudden return this morning.
So Giannello forthwith got into the tun, and Peronella went to the door, and
let in her husband, and gave him black looks, saying: This is indeed a surprise that
thou art back so soon this morning! By what I see thou hast a mind to make this a holiday,
that thou returnest tools in hand; if so, what are we to live on? whence shall we get
bread to eat? Thinkest thou I will let thee pawn my gown and other bits of
clothes? Day and night I do nought else but spin, insomuch that the flesh is fallen away
from my nails, that at least I may have oil enough to keep our lamp
alight. Husband, husband, there is never a woman in the neighbourhood but
marvels and mocks at me, that I am at such labour and pains; and thou comest home to me
with thy hands hanging idle, when thou shouldst be at work.
Which said, she
fell a weeping and repeating: Alas, alas, woe's me, in what evil hour was I born? in
what luckless moment came I hither, I, that might have had so goodly a young man, and I
would not, to take up with one that bestows never a thought on her whom he has made his
wife? Other women have a good time with their lovers, and never a one have we
here but has two or three; they take their pleasure, and make their husbands believe that
the moon is the sun; and I, alas! for that I am an honest woman, and have no such casual
amours, I suffer, and am hard bested: I know not why I provide not myself with one of
these lovers, as others do. Give good heed, husband, to what I say: were I
disposed to dishonour thee, I were at no loss to find the man: for here are gallants
enough, that love me, and court me, and have sent me many an offer of money--no stint--or
dresses or jewels, should I prefer them; but my pride would never suffer it, because I was
not born of a woman of that sort: and now thou comest home to me when thou oughtest to be
at work.
Whereto the husband: Wife, wife, for God's sake distress not
thyself: thou shouldst give me credit for knowing what manner of woman thou art, as indeed
I have partly seen this morning. True it is that I went out to work; but 'tis plain that
thou knowest not, as indeed I knew not, that to-day 'tis the feast of San
Galeone, and a holiday, and that is why I am come home at this hour; but nevertheless I
have found means to provide us with bread for more than a month; for I have sold to this
gentleman, whom thou seest with me, the tun, thou wottest of, seeing that it has
encumbered the house so long, and he will give me five gigliats for it.
Quoth then Peronella: And all this but adds to my trouble: thou, that art a
man, and goest abroad, and shouldst know affairs, hast sold for five gigliats a tun, which
I, that am but a woman, and was scarce ever out of doors, have, for that it took up so
much room in the house, sold for seven gigliats to a good man, that but now, as thou
cam'st back, got therein, to see if 'twere sound.
So hearing, the husband
was overjoyed, and said to the man that was come to take it away; Good man,
I wish thee Godspeed; for, as thou hearest, my wife has sold the tun for seven gigliats,
whereas thou gavest me only five.
Whereupon: So be it,
said the good
man, and took himself off. Then said Peronella to her husband: Now, as thou
art here, come
up, and arrange the matter with the good man.
Now Giannello, who, meanwhile,
had been all on the alert to discover if there were aught he had to fear or be on his
guard against, no sooner heard Peronella's last words, than he sprang out of the tun, and
feigning to know nought of her husband's return, began thus: Where art thou, good
dame?
Whereto the husband, coming up, answered: Here am I: what wouldst
thou of me?
Quoth Giannello: And who art thou? I would speak with the
lady with whom I struck the bargain for this tun.
Then said the good
man: Have no fear, you can deal with me; for I am her husband.
Quoth then Giannello: The tun seems to me sound enough; but I think you must
have let the lees remain in it; for 'tis all encrusted with I know not what that is so
dry, that I cannot raise it with the nail; wherefore I am not minded to take it unless I
first see it scoured.
Whereupon Peronella: To be sure: that shall not
hinder the bargain; my husband will scour it clean.
And: Well and
good,
said the husband.
So he laid down his tools, stripped himself to his
vest, sent for a light and a rasp, and was in the tun, and scraping away, in a trice.
Whereupon Peronella, as if she were curious to see what he did, thrust her head
into the vent of the tun, which was of no great size, and
therewithal one of her arms up to the shoulder, and fell a saying:
Scrape here, and here, and there too, and look, there is a bit left
here.
So, she being in this posture, directing and admonishing her
husband, Giannello, who had not, that morning, fully satisfied his desire, when the
husband arrived, now seeing that as he would, he might not, brought his mind to his
circumstances, and resolved to take his pleasure as he might: wherefore he made
up to the lady, who completely blocked the vent of the tun; and even on such wise as on
the open champaign the wild and lusty horses do amorously assail the mares of Parthia, he
sated his youthful appetite; and so it was that almost at the same moment that he did so,
and was off, the tun was scoured, the husband came forth of it, and Peronella
withdrew her head from the vent, and turning to
Giannello, said: Take this light, good man, and see if 'tis scoured to thy mind.
Whereupon Giannello, looking into the tun, said that 'twas in good trim, and
that he was well content, and paid the husband the seven gigliats, and caused him carry
the tun to his house.
Novel IIIFra Rinaldo lies with his gossip: her
husband finds him in the room with her; and they make him believe that he was curing his
godson of worms by a charm.
Filostrato
knew not how so to veil what he said touching the mares of Parthia, but that the
keen-witted ladies laughed thereat, making as if 'twas at somewhat else. However, his
story being ended, the king called for one from Elisa, who, all obedience, thus began:
Debonair my ladies, we heard from Emilia how the bogey is exorcised, and it
brought to my mind a story of another incantation: 'tis not indeed so good a story as
hers; but, as no other,
germane to our theme, occurs to me at present, I will relate it.
You are to know,
then, that there dwelt aforetime at Siena a young man, right gallant and of honourable
family, his name Rinaldo; who, being in the last degree enamoured of one of his
neighbours, a most beautiful gentlewoman and the wife of a rich man, was not without hopes
that, if he could but find means to speak with her privately, he might have of her all
that he desired; but seeing no way, and the lady being pregnant, he cast about
how he might become her child's godfather. Wherefore, having ingratiated himself with her
husband, he broached the matter to him in as graceful a manner as he might; and 'twas
arranged. So Rinaldo, being now godfather to Madonna Agnesa's child, and having
a more colourable pretext for speaking to her, took courage, and told her in words that
message of his heart which she had long before read in his eyes; but though 'twas not
displeasing to the lady to hear, it availed him but little.
Now not long afterwards
it so befell that, whatever may have been his reason, Rinaldo betook him to friarage; and
whether it was that he found good pasture therein, or what not, he persevered
in that way of life. And though for a while after he was turned friar, he laid
aside the love he bore his gossip, and certain other vanities, yet in course of time,
without putting off the habit, he resumed them, and began to take a pride in his
appearance, and to go dressed in fine clothes, and to be quite the trim gallant, and to
compose songs and sonnets and ballades, and to sing them, and to make a brave shew in all
else that pertained to his new character. But why enlarge upon our Fra
Rinaldo, of whom we speak? what friars are there that do not the like? Ah! opprobrium of
a corrupt
world! Sleek-faced and sanguine, daintily clad, dainty in all their
accessories, they ruffle it shamelessly before the eyes of all, shewing
not as doves but as insolent cocks with raised crest and swelling bosom, and,
what is worse (to say nought of the vases full of electuaries and unguents, the boxes
packed with divers comfits, the pitchers and phials of artificial waters, and oils, the
flagons brimming with Malmsey and Greek and other wines of finest quality, with which
their cells are so packed that they shew not as the cells of friars, but rather as
apothecaries' or perfumers' shops), they blush not to be known to be gouty, flattering
themselves that other folk wot not that long fasts and many of them, and coarse fare and
little of it, and sober living, make men lean and thin and for the most part healthy;
or if any malady come thereof, at any rate 'tis not the gout, the wonted remedy
for which is chastity and all beside that
belongs to the regimen of a humble friar. They flatter themselves, too, that
others wot not that over and above the meagre diet, long vigils and orisons and strict
discipline ought to mortify men and make them pale, and that neither St. Dominic nor
St. Francis went clad in stuff dyed in grain or any other goodly garb, but in coarse
woollen habits innocent of the dyer's art, made to keep out the cold, and not for shew. To
which matters 'twere well God had a care, no less than to the souls of the simple folk by
whom our friars are nourished.
Fra Rinaldo, then, being come back to his first
affections, took to visiting his gossip very frequently; and gaining confidence, began
with more insistence than before to solicit her to that which he craved of
her. So, being much urged, the good lady, to whom Fra Rinaldo, perhaps, seemed
now more handsome than of yore, had
recourse one day, when she felt herself unusually hard pressed by him, to the
common expedient of all that would fain concede what is asked of them, and said: Oh!
but Fra Rinaldo, do friars then do this sort of thing?
Madam,
replied Fra Rinaldo, when I divest myself of this habit, which I shall do easily
enough, you will see that I am a man furnished as other men, and no friar.
Whereto with a truly comical air the lady made answer: Alas! woe's me! you
are my child's godfather: how might it be? nay, but 'twere a very great mischief; and many
a time I have heard that 'tis a most heinous sin; and without a doubt, were it not so, I
would do as you wish.
If,
said Fra Rinaldo, you forego it for
such a scruple as this, you are a fool for your pains. I say not that 'tis no sin; but
there is no sin so great but God pardons it, if one repent. Now tell me: whether is more
truly father to your son, I that held him at the font, or your husband that begot him?
My husband,
replied the lady.
Sooth say you,
returned
the friar, and does not your husband lie with you?
Why, yes,
said
the lady. Then,
rejoined the friar, I that am less truly your son's
father than your husband, ought also to lie with you, as does your husband.
The lady was no logician, and needed little to sway her: she therefore believed
or feigned to believe that what the friar said was true. So: Who might avail to answer
your words of wisdom?
quoth she; and presently forgot the godfather in the lover, and
complied with
his desires. Nor had they begun their course to end it forthwith: but under cover of the
friar's sponsorship, which set them more at ease, as it rendered them less open to
suspicion, they forgathered again and again.
But on one of these occasions it so
befell that Fra Rinaldo, being come to the lady's house, where he espied none else save a
very
pretty and dainty little maid that waited on the lady, sent his companion
away with her into the pigeon-house, there to teach her the paternoster, while he and the
lady, holding her little boy by the hand, went into the bedroom, locked themselves in, got
them on to a divan that was there, and began to disport them. And while thus
they sped the time, it chanced that the father returned, and, before any was ware of him,
was at the bedroom door, and knocked, and called the lady by her
name. Whereupon: 'Tis as much as my life is worth,
quoth Madonna Agnesa;
lo, here is my husband; and the occasion of our intimacy cannot but be now
apparent to him.
Sooth say you,
returned Fra Rinaldo, who was
undressed, that is to say, had thrown off his habit and hood, and was in his tunic; if
I had but my habit and hood on me in any sort, 'twould be another matter; but if you let
him in, and he find me thus, 'twill not be possible to put any face on it.
But with an inspiration as happy as sudden: Now get them on you,
quoth
the lady; and when you have them on, take your godson in your arms, and give good heed
to what I shall say to him, that your words may accord with mine; and leave the rest to
me.
The good man was still knocking, when his wife made answer:
Coming, coming.
And so up she got, and put on a cheerful
countenance and hied her to the door, and opened it and said: Husband mine: well indeed
was it for us that in came Fra Rinaldo, our sponsor; 'twas God that sent him to us; for in
sooth, but for that, we had to-day lost our boy.
Which the poor simpleton
almost swooned to hear; and: How so?
quoth he. O husband mine,
replied the lady, he was taken but now, all of a sudden, with a fainting fit, so that I
thought he was dead: and what to do or say I knew not, had not Fra Rinaldo, our sponsor,
come just in the nick of time, and set him on his shoulder, and said: 'Gossip, 'tis that
he has worms in his body, and getting, as they do, about the heart, they might only too
readily be the death of him; but fear not; I will say a charm that will kill them all; and
before I take my leave, you will see your boy as whole as you ever saw him.'
And because to say certain of the prayers thou shouldst have been with us, and
the maid
knew not where to find thee, he caused his companion to say them at the top of the house,
and he and I came in here. And for that 'tis not meet for any but the boy's
mother to assist at such a service, that we might not be troubled with any one else, we
locked the door; and he yet has him in his arms; and I doubt not that he only waits till
his companion have said his prayers, and then the charm will be complete; for the boy is
already quite himself again.
The good simple soul, taking all this for sooth,
and overwrought by the love he bore his son, was entirely without suspicion of the trick
his wife was playing him, and heaving a great sigh, said: I will go look for him.
Nay,
replied the wife, go not: thou wouldst spoil the
efficacy of the charm: wait here; I will go see if thou mayst safely go; and will call
thee.
Whereupon Fra Rinaldo, who had heard all that passed, and was in his
canonicals, and quite at his ease, and had the boy in his arms, having made sure that all
was as it should be, cried out: Gossip, do I not hear the father's voice out there?
Ay indeed, Sir,
replied the simpleton. Come in then,
said Fra Rinaldo. So in came the simpleton. Whereupon quoth Fra Rinaldo: I restore to
you your boy made whole by the grace of God, whom but now I scarce thought you would see
alive at vespers. You will do well to have his image fashioned in wax, not less than
life-size, and set it for a thanksgiving to God, before the statue of Master St. Ambrose,
by whose merits you have this favour of God.
The boy, catching sight of his
father, ran to him with joyous greetings, as little children are wont; and the father,
taking him in his arms, and weeping as if he were restored to him from the grave,
fell by turns a kissing him and thanking his godfather, that he had cured
him. Fra Rinaldo's companion, who had taught the maid not one paternoster only,
but peradventure four or more, and by giving her a little purse of white thread that a nun
had given him, had made her his devotee, no sooner heard Fra Rinaldo call the simpleton
into his wife's room, than he stealthily got him to a place whence he might see and hear
what was going on. Observing that the affair was now excellently arranged, he came down,
and entered the chamber, saying: Fra Rinaldo, those four prayers that you bade me say,
I have said them all.
Then well done, my brother,
quoth Fra Rinaldo,
well-breathed must thou be. For my part, I had but said two, when my gossip came in;
but what with thy
travail and mine, God of His grace has vouchsafed us the healing or the boy.
The simpleton then had good wine and comfits brought in, and did the honours to
the godfather and his companion in such sort as their occasions did most demand. He then
ushered them forth of the house, commending them to God; and without delay had the waxen
image made, and directed it to be set up with the others in front of the statue of St.
Ambrose, not, be it understood, St. Ambrose of Milan.The statue would doubtless be
that of St. Ambrose of Siena, of the Dominican Order.
Novel IVTofano one night locks his
wife out of the house: she, finding that by no entreaties may she prevail upon him to let
her in, feigns to throw herself into a well, throwing therein a great stone. Tofano hies
him forth of the house, and runs to the spot: she goes into the house, and locks him out,
and hurls abuse at him from
within.
The king no sooner wist that
Elisa's story was ended, than, turning to Lauretta, he signified his will that she should
tell somewhat: wherefore without delay she began:
O Love, how great and signal
is thy potency! how notable thy stratagems, thy devices! Was there ever, shall there ever
be, philosopher or adept competent to inspire, counsel and teach in such sort as thou by
thine unpremeditated art dost tutor those that follow thy lead?
Verily laggard
teachers are they all in comparison of thee, as by the matters heretofore set forth may
very well be understood. To which store I will
add, loving ladies, a stratagem used by a woman of quite ordinary
understanding, and of such a sort that I know not by whom she could have been taught it
save by Love.
Know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at Arezzo a rich man, Tofano
by name, who took to wife Monna Ghita, a lady exceeding fair, of whom, for what cause he
knew not, he presently grew jealous. Whereof the lady being ware, waxed resentful, and
having on divers occasions demanded of him the reason of his jealousy, and gotten from him
nought precise, but only generalities and trivialities, resolved at last to give him cause
enough to die of that evil which without cause he so much dreaded. And being
ware that a gallant, whom she deemed well
worthy of her, was enamoured of her, she, using due discretion, came to an
understanding with him; which being brought to the point that it only remained to give
effect to their words in act, the lady cast about to devise how this might
be. And witting that, among other bad habits that her husband had, he was too
fond of his cups, she would not only commend indulgence, but cunningly and not seldom
incite him thereto; insomuch that, well-nigh as often as she was so minded, she
led him to drink to excess; and when she saw that he was well drunken, she would put him
to bed; and so not once only but divers times without any manner of risk she forgathered
with her lover; nay, presuming upon her husband's intoxication, she grew so bold that, not
content with bringing her lover into her house, she would at times go spend a great part
of the night with him at his house, which was not far off.
Now such being the
enamoured lady's constant practice, it so befell that the dishonoured husband took note
that, while she egged him on to drink, she herself drank never a drop; whereby he came to
suspect the truth, to wit, that the lady was making him drunk, that afterwards she might
take her pleasure while he slept. And being minded to put his surmise to the
proof, one evening, having drunken nought all day, he mimicked never so drunken a sot both
in
speech and in carriage. The lady, deeming him to be really as he appeared, and that 'twas
needless to ply him with liquor, presently put him to bed. Which done, she, as she at
times was wont, hied her forth to her lover's house, where she tarried until midnight.
Tofano no sooner perceived that his wife was gone, than up he got, hied him to
the door, locked it, and then posted himself at the window to observe her return, and let
her know that he was ware of her misconduct. So there he stood until the lady returned,
and finding herself locked out, was annoyed beyond measure, and sought to force the door
open. Tofano let her try her strength upon it a while, and then: Madam,
quoth he, 'tis all to no purpose: thou canst not get in. Go get thee back thither where
thou hast tarried all this while, and rest assured that thou shalt never recross this
threshold, until I have done thee such honour as is meet for thee in the presence of thy
kinsfolk and neighbours.
Thereupon the lady fell entreating him to be
pleased to open to her for the love of God, for that she was not come whence he supposed,
but had only been passing the time
with one of her gossips, because the nights were long, and she could not spend
the whole time either in sleep or in solitary watching.
But her supplications availed her nothing, for the fool was determined
that all Arezzo should know their shame, whereof as yet none wist aught. So as
'twas idle to entreat, the lady assumed a menacing tone, saying: So thou open not to
me, I will make thee the saddest man alive.
Whereto Tofano made answer:
And what then canst thou do?
The lady, her wits sharpened by Love,
rejoined: Rather than endure the indignity to which thou wouldst unjustly subject me, I
will cast myself into the well hard by here, and when I am found dead there, all the world
will believe that 'twas thou that didst it in thy cups, and so thou wilt either have to
flee and lose all that thou hast and be outlawed, or forfeit thy head as guilty of my
death, as indeed thou wilt be.
But, for all she said, Tofano wavered not a
jot in his foolish purpose. So at last: Lo, now,
quoth the lady, I can no more
abide thy surly humour: God forgive thee: I leave thee my distaff here, which be careful
to bestow in a safe place.
So saying, away she hied her to the well, and,
the night being so dark that wayfarers could scarce see one another as they passed, she
took up a huge stone that was by the well, and ejaculating, God forgive me!
dropped
it therein. Tofano, hearing the mighty splash that the stone made as it struck
the water, never doubted that she had cast herself in: so, bucket and rope in hand, he
flung himself out of the house, and came running to the well to her rescue. The
lady had meanwhile hidden herself hard by the door, and seeing him make for the well, was
in the house in a trice, and having locked the door, hied her to the window, and greeted
him with: 'Tis while thou art drinking, not now, when the night is far spent, that thou
shouldst temper thy wine with water.
Thus derided, Tofano came back to the
door, and finding his ingress barred, began adjuring her to let him
in. Whereupon, changing the low tone she had hitherto used for one so shrill
that 'twas well-nigh a shriek, she broke out with: By the Holy Rood, tedious drunken
sot that thou art, thou gettest no admittance here to-night; thy ways are more than I can
endure: 'tis time I let all the world know what manner of man thou art, and at what hour
of the night thou comest home.
Tofano, on his part, now grew angry, and
began loudly to upbraid her; insomuch that the neighbours, aroused by the noise,
got up, men and women alike, and looked out of the windows, and asked what was the
matter. Whereupon the lady fell a weeping and saying: 'Tis this wicked man,
who comes home drunk at even, or falls asleep in some tavern, and then returns at this
hour. Long and to no purpose have I borne with him; but 'tis now past endurance, and I
have done him this indignity of locking him out of
the house in the hope that perchance it may cause him to mend his
ways.
Tofano, on his part, told, dolt that he was, just what had happened, and
was mighty menacing. Whereupon: Now mark,
quoth the lady to the
neighbours, the sort of man he is! What would you say if I were, as he is, in the
street, and he were in the house, as I am? God's faith, I doubt you would believe what he
said. Hereby you may gauge his sense. He tells you that I have done just what, I doubt
not, he has done himself. He thought to terrify me by throwing I know not what
into the well, wherein would to God he had thrown himself indeed, and drowned himself,
whereby the wine of which he has taken more than enough, had
been watered to some purpose!
The neighbours, men and women alike, now with
one accord gave tongue, censuring Tofano, throwing all the blame upon him, and answering
what he alleged against the lady with loud recrimination; and in short the bruit, passing
from neighbour to neighbour, reached at last the ears of the lady's kinsfolk;
who hied them to the spot, and being apprised of the affair from this, that and
the other of the neighbours, laid hands on Tofano, and beat him till he was black and blue
from head to foot. Which done, they entered his house, stripped it of all that belonged to
the lady, and took her home with them, bidding Tofano look for worse to come.
Thus hard bested, and ruing the plight in which his jealousy had landed him,
Tofano, who loved his wife with all his heart, set some friends to work to patch matters
up, whereby he did in fact induce his lady to forgive him and live with him again; albeit
he was fain to promise her never again to be jealous, and to give her leave to amuse
herself to her heart's content, provided she used such discretion that he should not be
ware of it. On such wise, like the churl and booby that he was, being
despoiled, he made terms. Now long live
Love, and perish war, and all that wage it!
Novel VA jealous husband disguises himself as a priest, and hears his own
wife's confession: she tells him that she loves
a priest, who comes to her every night. The husband posts himself at the door to watch for
the priest, and meanwhile the lady brings her lover in by the roof, and tarries with
him.
When Lauretta had done speaking,
and all had commended the lady, for that she had done well, and treated her caitiff
husband as he had deserved, the king, not to lose time, turned to Fiammetta, and
graciously bade her take up her parable; which she did on this wise:
Most noble
ladies, the foregoing story prompts me likewise to discourse of one of these jealous
husbands, deeming that they are justly requited by their wives, more especially when they
grow jealous without due cause. And had our legislators taken account of everything, I am
of opinion that they would have visited ladies in such a
case with no other penalty than such as they provide for those that offend in
self-defence, seeing that a jealous husband does cunningly practise against the life of
his lady, and most assiduously machinate her death. All the week the wife
stays at home, occupied with her domestic duties; after which, on the day that is sacred
to joy, she, like every one else, craves some solace, some peace, some recreation, not
unreasonably, for she craves but what the husbandmen take in the fields, the craftsmen in
the city, the magistrates in the courts, nay what God Himself took, when He rested from
all His labours on the seventh day, and which laws human and Divine, mindful alike of the
honour of God and the common well-being, have ordained, appropriating certain days to
work, and others to repose. To which ordinance these jealous
husbands will in no wise conform; on the contrary by then most sedulously secluding their
wives, they make those days which to all other women are gladsome, to them most
grievous and dolorous. And what an affliction it is to the poor creatures, they alone
know, who have proved it; for which reason, to sum up, I say that a wife is
rather to be commended than censured, if she take her revenge upon a husband that is
jealous without cause.
Know then that at Rimini there dwelt a merchant, a man of
great substance in lands and goods and money, who, having a most beautiful woman to wife,
waxed inordinately jealous of her, and that for no better reason than that, loving her
greatly, and esteeming her exceeding fair, and knowing that she did her utmost endeavour
to pleasure him, he must needs suppose that every man loved her, and esteemed her fair,
and that she, moreover, was as zealous to stand well with every other man as with himself;
whereby you may see that he was a poor creature, and of little sense. Being
thus so deeply infected with jealousy, he kept so strict and close watch over her, that
some, maybe, have lain under sentence of death and been less
rigorously confined by their warders. 'Twas not merely that the lady might not
go to a wedding, or a festal gathering, or even to church, or indeed set foot out of doors
in any sort; but she dared not so much as shew herself at a window, or cast a glance
outside the house, no matter for what purpose. Wherefore she led a most woeful life of it,
and found it all the harder to bear because she knew herself to be
innocent. Accordingly, seeing herself evilly entreated by her husband without
good cause, she cast about how for her own consolation she might devise means to justify
his usage of her. And for that, as she might not shew herself at the window,
there could be no interchange of amorous glances between her and any man that passed along
the street, but she wist that in the next house there was a goodly and debonair gallant,
she bethought her, that, if there were but a hole in the wall that divided the two houses,
she might watch
thereat, until she should have sight of the gallant on such wise that she might speak to
him, and give him her love, if he cared to have it, and, if so it might be
contrived, forgather with him now and again, and after this fashion relieve the burden of
her woeful life, until such time as the evil spirit should depart from her
husband. So peering about, now here, now there, when her husband was away, she
found in a very remote part of the house a place, where, by chance, the wall
had a little chink in it. Peering through which, she made out, though not without great
difficulty, that on the other side was a room, and said to herself: If this were Filippo's
room--Filippo was the name of the gallant, her neighbour--I should be already halfway to
my goal. So cautiously, through her maid, who was grieved to see her thus
languish, she made quest, and discovered that it was indeed the gallant's room, where he
slept quite alone. Wherefore she now betook her frequently to the aperture, and whenever
she was ware that the gallant was in the room, she would let fall a pebble or the like
trifle; whereby at length she brought the gallant to the other side of the aperture to see
what the matter was. Whereupon she
softly called him, and he knowing her voice, answered; and so, having now the opportunity
she had sought, she in few words opened to him all her mind. The gallant, being
overjoyed, wrought at the aperture on such wise that albeit none might be ware thereof, he
enlarged it; and there many a time they held converse together, and touched hands, though
further they might not go by reason of the assiduous watch that the jealous husband
kept.
Now towards Christmas the lady told her husband that, if he
approved, she would fain go on Christmas morning to church, and confess and communicate,
like other Christians. And what sins,
quoth he, hast thou committed, that
wouldst be shriven?
How?
returned the lady; dost thou take me for
a saint? For all thou keepest me so close, thou must know very well that I am like all
other mortals. However, I am not minded to confess to thee, for that thou art no
priest.
Her husband, whose suspicions were excited by what she had said,
cast about how he might discover these sins of hers, and having bethought him of what
seemed an apt expedient, made answer that she had his consent, but he would not have her
go to any church but their own chapel, where she might hie her betimes in the morning, and
confess either to their own chaplain or some other priest that the chaplain might assign
her, but to none other, and presently return to the house. The lady thought she half
understood him, but she answered only that she would do as he required.
Christmas morning came, and with the dawn the lady rose, dressed herself, and
hied her to the church appointed by her husband, who also rose, and hied him to the same
church, where he arrived before her; and having already concerted matters with
the priest that was in charge, he forthwith put on one of the priest's robes with a great
hood, overshadowing the face, such as we see priests wear, and which he pulled somewhat
forward; and so disguised he seated himself in the choir.
On entering the church
the lady asked for the priest, who came, and learning that she was minded to confess, said
that he could not
hear her himself, but would send her one of his brethren; so away he hied him and sent
her, in an evil hour for him, her husband. For though he wore an air of great
solemnity, and 'twas not yet broad day, and he had pulled the hood well over his eyes, yet
all did not avail, but that his lady forthwith recognized him, and said to herself: God be
praised! why, the jealous rogue is turned priest: but leave it me to give him that whereof
he is in quest. So she feigned not to know him, and seated herself at his
feet. (I should tell you that he had put some pebbles in his mouth, that his speech, being
impeded, might not betray him to his wife, and in all other respects he deemed himself so
thoroughly disguised that there was
nought whereby she might recognize him.) Now, to come to the confession, the
lady, after informing him that she was married, told him among other matters that she was
enamoured of a priest, who came every night to lie with her. Which to hear was
to her husband as if he were stricken through the heart with a knife; and had it not been
that he was bent on knowing more, he would have forthwith given over the confession, and
taken himself off. However he kept his place, and: How?
said he to the lady,
does not your husband lie with you?
The lady replied in the affirmative.
How, then,
quoth the husband, can the priest also lie with you?
Sir,
replied she, what art the priest employs I know not; but door
there is none, however well locked, in the house,
that comes not open at his touch; and he tells me that, being come to the door of my room,
before he opens it, he says certain words, whereby my husband forthwith falls asleep;
whereupon he opens the door, and enters the room, and lies with me; and so 'tis always,
without fail.
Then 'tis very wrong, Madam, and you must give it up
altogether,
said the husband. That, Sir,
returned the lady, I
doubt I can never do; for I love him too much.
In that case,
quoth
the husband, I cannot give you absolution.
The pity of
it!
ejaculated the lady; I came not hither to tell you falsehoods: if I could give
it up, I would.
Madam,
replied the husband, indeed I am sorry for
you; for I see that you are in a fair way to lose your soul. However, this I will do for
you; I will make special supplication to God on your behalf; and perchance you may be
profited thereby. And from time to time I will send you one of my young clerks; and you
will tell him whether my prayers have been of any help to you, or no, and if they have
been so, I shall know what to do next.
Nay, Sir,
quoth the lady,
do not so; send no man to me at home; for, should my husband come to know it, he is so
jealous that nothing in the world would ever disabuse him of the idea that he came but for
an evil
purpose, and so I should have no peace with him all the year long.
Madam,
returned the husband, have no fear; rest assured that I will
so order matters that you shall never hear a word about it from him.
If
you can make sure of that,
quoth the lady, I have no more to say.
And so, her
confession ended, and her penance enjoined, she rose, and went to mass, while
the luckless husband, fuming and fretting, hasted to divest himself of his priest's
trappings, and then went home bent upon devising some means to bring the priest and his
wife together, and take his revenge upon them both.
When the lady came home
from church she read in her husband's face that she had spoiled his Christmas for him,
albeit he dissembled to the uttermost, lest she should discover what he had done, and
supposed himself to have learned. His mind was made up to keep watch for the
priest that very night by his own front door. So to the lady he said: I have to go out
to-night to sup and sleep; so thou wilt take care that the front door, and the mid-stair
door, and the bedroom door are well locked; and for the rest thou mayst go to bed, at
thine own time.
Well and good,
replied the lady:
and as
soon as she was able, off she hied her to the aperture, and gave the wonted signal, which
Filippo no sooner heard, than he was at the spot. The lady then told him what she had done
in the morning, and what her husband had said to her after breakfast, adding: Sure I am
that he will not stir out of the house, but will keep watch beside the door; wherefore
contrive to come in to-night by the roof, that we may be together.
Madam,
replied the gallant, nothing loath, trust me for that.
Night came, the husband armed, and noiselessly hid himself in a room on the ground
floor: the lady locked all the doors, being especially careful to secure the mid-stair
door, to bar her husband's ascent; and in due time the gallant, having found his way
cautiously enough over the roof, they got them to bed, and there had solace of one another
and a good time; and at daybreak the gallant hied him back to his
house. Meanwhile the husband, rueful and supperless, half dead with cold, kept
his armed watch beside his door, momently expecting the priest, for the best part of the
night; but towards daybreak, his powers failing him, he lay down and slept in the
ground-floor room. 'Twas hard upon tierce when he awoke, and the front door was
then open; so, making as if he had just come in, he went upstairs and breakfasted. Not
long afterwards he sent to his wife a young fellow, disguised as the priest's underling,
who asked her if he of whom she wist had been with her again. The lady, who
quite understood what that meant, made answer that he had not come that night, and that,
if he continued to neglect her so, 'twas possible he might be forgotten, though she had no
mind to forget him.
Now, to make a long story short, the husband passed many a
night in the same way, hoping to catch the priest as he came in, the lady and her gallant
meanwhile having a good time. But at last the husband, being able to stand it no longer,
sternly demanded of his wife what she had said to the priest the morning when she was
confessed. The lady answered that she was not minded to tell him, for that 'twas not
seemly or proper so to do. Whereupon: Sinful woman,
quoth the husband,
in thy despite I know what thou saidst to him, and know I must and will who this priest
is, of whom thou art enamoured, and who by dint of his incantations lies with thee a
nights, or I will sluice thy veins for thee.
'Tis not true,
replied
the lady, that I am enamoured of a priest.
How?
quoth the
husband, saidst thou not as much to the priest that confessed thee?
Thou canst not have had it from
him,
rejoined the lady. Wast thou then present thyself? For sure I never told him
so.
Then tell me,
quoth the husband, who this priest is; and lose
no time about it.
Whereat the lady began to smile, and: I find it not a
little diverting,
quoth she, that a wise man should suffer himself to be led by a
simple woman as a ram is led by the horns to the shambles; albeit no wise man
art thou: not since that fatal hour when thou gavest harbourage in thy breast, thou wist
not why, to the evil spirit of jealousy; and the more foolish and insensate thou art, the
less glory have I. Deemest thou, my husband, that I am as blind of the bodily
eye as thou art of the mind's eye? Nay, but for sure I am not so. I knew at a glance the
priest that confessed me, and that 'twas even thyself. But I was minded to give thee that
of which thou wast in quest, and I gave it thee. Howbeit, if thou hadst been
the wise man thou takest thyself to be, thou wouldst not have chosen such a way as that to
worm out thy good lady's secrets, nor wouldst thou have fallen a prey to a baseless
suspicion, but wouldst have understood that what she confessed was true, and she all the
while guiltless. I told thee that I loved a priest; and wast not thou, whom I
love, though ill enough dost thou deserve it, turned priest? I told thee that there was no
door in my house but would open when he was minded to lie with me: and when thou wouldst
fain have access to me, what door was ever closed against thee? I told thee
that the priest lay nightly with me: and what night was there that thou didst not lie with
me? Thou sentest thy young clerk to me: and thou knowest that, as often as thou hadst not
been with me, I sent word that the priest had not been with me. Who but thou,
that hast suffered jealousy to blind thee, would have been so witless as not to read such
a riddle? But thou must needs mount guard at night beside the door, and think to make me
believe that thou hadst gone out to sup and sleep. Consider thy ways, and
court not the mockery of those that know them as I do, but turn a man again as thou wast
wont to be: and let there be no more of this strict restraint in which thou keepest me;
for I swear to thee by God that, if I were minded to set horns on thy brow, I should not
fail so to take my pastime that thou wouldst never find it out, though thou hadst a
hundred eyes, as thou hast but two.
Thus admonished, the jealous caitiff, who
had flattered himself that he had very cunningly discovered his wife's secret, was
ashamed, and made no answer save to commend his wife's wit and honour; and thus, having
cause for jealousy, he discarded it, as he had erstwhile been jealous without
cause. And so the adroit lady had, as it were, a charter of indulgence, and needed no
more to contrive for her lover to come to her over the roof like a cat, but admitted him
by the door, and using due discretion, had many a good time with him, and sped her life
gaily.
Novel VIMadonna Isabella has with her Leonetto, her
accepted lover, when she is surprised by one Messer Lambertuccio, by whom she is beloved:
her husband coming home about the same time, she sends Messer Lambertuccio forth of the
house drawn sword in hand, and the husband afterwards escorts Leonetto
home.
Wondrous was the delight that
all the company had of Fiammetta's story, nor was there any but affirmed that the lady had
done excellent well, and dealt with her insensate husband as he deserved. However, it
being ended, the king bade Pampinea follow suit; which she did on this wise:
Not a few there are that in their simplicity aver that Love deranges the mind,
insomuch that whoso loves becomes as it were witless: the folly of which opinion, albeit I
doubt it not, and deem it abundantly proven by what has been already said, I purpose once
again to demonstrate.
In our city, rich in all manner of good things, there dwelt a
young gentlewoman, fair exceedingly, and wedded to a most worthy and excellent
gentleman. And as it not seldom happens that one cannot keep ever to the same
diet, but would fain at times vary it, so this lady, finding her husband not altogether to
her mind, became enamoured of a gallant, Leonetto by name, who, though of no high rank,
was not a little debonair and courteous, and he in like manner
fell in love with her; and (as you know that 'tis seldom that what is
mutually desired fails to come about) 'twas not long before they had
fruition of their love. Now the lady being, as I said, fair and winsome,
it so befell that a gentleman, Messer Lambertuccio by name, grew mightily enamoured of
her, but so tiresome and odious did she find him, that for the world she could
not bring herself to love him. So, growing tired of fruitlessly soliciting her favour by
ambassage, Messer Lambertuccio, who was a powerful signior, sent her at last another sort
of message in which he threatened to defame her if she complied not with his
wishes. Wherefore the lady, knowing her man, was terrified, and disposed herself to
pleasure him.
Now it so chanced that Madonna Isabella, for such was the lady's
name, being gone, as is our Florentine custom in the summer, to spend some time on a very
goodly estate that she had in the contado, one morning finding herself alone, for her
husband had ridden off to tarry some days elsewhere, she sent for Leonetto to come and
keep her company; and Leonetto came forthwith in high glee. But while they were
together, Messer Lambertuccio, who, having got wind that the husband was away, had mounted
his horse and ridden thither quite alone, knocked at the door. Whereupon the
lady's maid hied her forthwith to her mistress, who was alone with Leonetto, and called
her, saying: Madam, Messer Lambertuccio is here below, quite alone.
Whereat the lady was vexed beyond measure; and being also not a little
dismayed, she said to Leonetto: Prithee, let it not irk thee to withdraw behind the
curtain, and there keep close until Messer Lambertuccio be gone.
Leonetto,
who stood in no less fear of Messer Lambertuccio than did the lady, got into his
hiding-place; and the lady bade the maid go open to Messer Lambertuccio: she did so; and
having dismounted and fastened his palfrey to a pin, he ascended the stairs; at
the head of which the lady received him with a smile and as gladsomea greeting as she
could find words for, and asked him on what errand he was come. The gentleman
embraced and kissed her, saying: My soul, I am informed that your husband is not here,
and therefore I am come to stay a while with you.
Which said, they went into the room,
and locked them in, and Messer Lambertuccio fell a toying with her.
Now, while thus
he sped the time with her, it befell that the lady's husband, albeit she nowise expected
him, came home, and, as he drew nigh the palace, was observed by the maid, who forthwith
ran to the lady's chamber, and said: Madam, the master will be here anon; I doubt he is
already in the courtyard.
Whereupon, for that she had two men in the house,
and the knight's palfrey, that was in the courtyard, made it impossible to hide him, the
lady gave herself up for dead. Nevertheless she made up her mind on the spur
of the moment, and springing out of bed: Sir,
quoth she to Messer Lambertuccio,
if you have any regard for me, and would save my life, you will do as I bid you:
that is to say, you will draw your blade, and put on a fell and wrathful
countenance, and hie you downstairs, saying: 'By God, he shall not escape me elsewhere.'
And if my husband would stop you, or ask you aught, say nought but what I have told you,
and get you on horseback and tarry with him on no account.
To hear is to
obey,
quoth Messer Lambertuccio, who, with the flush of his recent exertion and the
rage that he felt at the husband's return still on his face, and drawn sword in hand, did
as she bade him. The lady's husband, being now dismounted in the courtyard, and not a
little surprised to see the palfrey there, was about to go up the stairs, when he saw
Messer Lambertuccio coming down them, and marvelling both at his words and at
his mien: What means this, Sir?
quoth he. But Messer Lambertuccio
clapped foot in stirrup, and mounted, saying nought but: Zounds, but I will meet him
elsewhere;
and so he rode off.
The gentleman then ascended the stairs, at the
head of which he found his lady distraught with terror, to whom he said: What manner of
thing is this? After whom goes Messer Lambertuccio, so wrathful and menacing?
Whereto the lady, drawing nigher the room, that Leonetto might hear her, made
answer: Never, Sir, had I such a fright as this. There came running in here a young
man, who to me is quite a stranger, and at his heels Messer Lambertuccio with a drawn
sword in his hand; and as it happened the young man found the door of this room open, and
trembling in every limb, cried out: 'Madam, your succour, for God's sake, that I die not
in your arms.' So up I got, and would have asked him who he was, and how
bested, when up came Messer Lambertuccio, exclaiming: 'Where art thou, traitor?' I planted
myself in the doorway, and kept him from entering, and seeing that I was not minded to
give him admittance, he was courteous enough, after not a little parley, to take himself
off, as you saw.
Whereupon:
Wife,
quoth the husband, thou didst very right. Great indeed had been the
scandal, had some one been slain here, and 'twas a gross affront on Messer Lambertuccio's
part to pursue a fugitive within the house.
He then asked where the young man
was. Whereto the lady answered: Nay, where he may be hiding,
Sir, I wot not.
So: Where art thou?
quoth the knight. Fear not to
shew thyself.
Then forth of his hiding-place, all of a tremble, for in
truth he had been thoroughly terrified, crept Leonetto, who had heard all that had passed.
To whom: What hast thou to do with Messer Lambertuccio?
quoth the
knight. Nothing in the world,
replied the young man: wherefore, I
doubt he must either be out of his mind, or have mistaken me for another; for no sooner
had he sight of me in the street hard by the palace, than he laid his hand on his sword,
and exclaimed: 'Traitor, thou art a dead man.' Whereupon I sought not to know why,but
fled with all speed, and got me here, and so, thanks to God and this gentlewoman, I
escaped his hands.
Now away with thy fears,
quoth the knight; I
will see thee home safe and sound; and then 'twill be for thee to
determine how thou shalt deal with him.
And so, when they had supped, he
set him on horseback, and escorted him to Florence, and left him not until he was safe in
his own house. And the very same evening, following the lady's instructions, Leonetto
spoke privily with Messer Lambertuccio, and so composed the affair with him, that, though
it occasioned not a little talk, the knight never wist how he had been tricked by his
wife.
Novel VIILodovico discovers to Madonna
Beatrice the love that he bears her: she sends Egano, her husband, into a garden disguised
as herself, and lies with Lodovico;
who thereafter, being risen, hies him to the garden and cudgels
Egano.
This device of Madonna
Isabella, thus recounted by Pampinea, was held nothing short of marvellous by all the
company. But, being bidden by the king to tell the next story, thus spake Filomena:
Loving ladies, if I mistake not, the device, of which you shall presently hear
from me, will prove to be no less excellent than the last.
You are to know, then,
that there dwelt aforetime at Paris a Florentine gentleman, who, being by reason of
poverty turned merchant, had prospered so well in his affairs that he was become very
wealthy; and having by his lady an only son, Lodovico by name, whose nobility
disrelished trade, he would not put him in any shop;
but that he might be with other gentlemen, he caused him to enter the service of the King
of France, whereby he acquired very fine manners and other
accomplishments. Being in this service, Lodovico was one day with some other
young gallants that talked of the fair ladies of France, and England, and other parts of
the world, when they were joined by certain knights that were returned from the Holy
Sepulchre; and hearing their discourse, one of the knights fell a saying, that of a surety
in the whole world, so far as he had explored it, there was not any lady, of all that he
had ever seen, that might compare for beauty with Madonna Beatrice, the wife of Egano de'
Galluzzi, of Bologna: wherein all his companions, who
in common with him had seen the lady at Bologna, concurred.
Which report Lodovico, who was as yet fancy-free, no sooner heard, than he
burned with such a yearning to see the lady that he was able to think of nought else:
insomuch that he made up his mind to betake him to Bologna to see her, and if she pleased
him, to remain there; to which end he gave his father to understand that he would fain
visit the Holy Sepulchre, whereto his father after no little demur consented.
So to
Bologna Anichino--for so he now called himself--came; and, as Fortune would have it, the
very next day, he saw the lady at a festal gathering, and deemed her vastly more beautiful
than he had expected: wherefore he waxed most ardently enamoured of her, and resolved
never to quit Bologna, until he had gained her love. So, casting about how he
should proceed, he could devise no other way but to enter her husband's service, which was
the more easy that he kept not a few retainers: on this wise Lodovico surmised that,
peradventure, he might compass his end. He therefore sold his horses and meetly
bestowed his servants, bidding them make as if they
knew him not; and being pretty familiar with his host, he told him that he was minded to
take service with some worthy lord, it any such he might find. Thou wouldst make,
quoth the host, the very sort of retainer to suit a gentleman of this city, Egano by
name, who keeps not a few of them, and will have all of them presentable like thee: I will
mention the matter to him.
And so he accordingly did, and before he took
leave of Egano had placed Anichino with him, to Egano's complete satisfact ion.
Being thus resident with Egano, and having abundant opportunities of seeing the fair
lady, Anichino set himself to serve Egano with no little zeal; wherein he succeeded so
well, that Egano was
more than satisfied, insomuch that by and by there was nought he could do without his
advice, and he entrusted to him the guidance not only of himself, but of all his
affairs. Now it so befell that one day when Egano was gone a hawking, having
left Anichino at home, Madonna Beatrice, who as yet wist not of his love, albeit she had
from time to time taken note of him and his manners, and had not a little approved and
commended them, sat herself down with him to a game of chess, which, to please her,
Anichino most dexterously contrived to lose, to the lady's prodigious delight.
After a while, the lady's women, one and all, gave over watching
their play, and left them to it; whereupon Anichino heaved a mighty sigh. The
lady, looking hard at him, said: What ails thee, Anichino? Is it, then, such a
mortification to thee to be conquered by me?
Nay, Madam,
replied
Anichino, my sigh was prompted by a much graver matter.
Then, if thou
hast any regard for me,
quoth the lady, tell me what it is.
Hearing
himself thus adjured by any regard
he had for her whom he loved more than aught
else, Anichino heaved a yet mightier sigh, which caused the lady to renew her
request that he would be pleased to tell her the occasion of his sighs.
Whereupon: Madam,
said Anichino, I greatly fear me, that, were I to tell it you,
'twould but vex you; and, moreover, I doubt you might repeat it to some one else.
Rest assured,
returned the lady, that I shall neither be annoyed,
nor, without thy leave, ever repeat to any other soul aught that thou mayst say.
Then,
said Anichino, having this pledge from you, I will tell it
you.
And, while the tears all but stood in his eyes, he told her, who he was, the
report he had heard of her, and where and how he had become enamoured of her, and with
what intent he had taken service with her husband: after which, he humbly besought her,
that, if it might be, she would have pity on him, and gratify this his secret and ardent
desire; and that, if she were not minded so to do, she would suffer him to retain his
place there, and love her. Ah! Bologna! how sweetly mixed are the elements in
thy women! How commendable in such a case are they all! No delight have they in sighs and
tears, but are ever inclinable to prayers, and ready to yield to the solicitations of
Love. Had I but words apt to praise them as they deserve, my eloquence were
inexhaustible.
The gentlewoman's gaze was fixed on Anichino as he spoke; she made
no doubt that all he said was true, and yielding to his appeal, she entertained his love
within her heart in such measure that she too began to sigh, and after a sigh or two made
answer: Sweet my Anichino, be of good cheer; neither presents nor
promises, nor any courting by gentleman, or lord, or whoso else (for I have been and am
still courted by not a few) was ever able to sway my soul to love any of them: but thou,
by the few words that thou hast said, hast so wrought with me that, brief though the time
has been, I am already in far greater measure thine than mine. My love
I deem thee to have won right worthily; and so I give it thee, and vow to give
thee joyance thereof before the coming night be past. To which end thou wilt
come to my room about midnight; I will leave the door open; thou knowest the side of the
bed on which I sleep; thou wilt come there; should I be asleep, thou hast but to touch me,
and I shall awake, and give thee solace of thy long-pent desire. In earnest whereof I will
even give thee a kiss.
So saying, she threw her arms about his neck, and lovingly
kissed him, as Anichino her.
Their colloquy thus ended, Anichino betook him
elsewhere about some matters which he had to attend to, looking forward to midnight with
boundless exultation. Egano came in from his hawking; and after supper, being
weary, went straight to bed, whither the lady soon followed him, leaving, as she had
promised, the door of the
chamber open. Thither accordingly, at the appointed hour, came Anichino, and
having softly entered the chamber, and closed the door behind him, stole up to where the
lady lay, and laying his hand upon her breast, found that she was awake. Now,
as soon as she wist that Anichino was come, she took his hand in both her own; and keeping
fast hold of him, she turned about in the bed, until she awoke Egano;
whereupon: Husband,
quoth she, I would not say aught of this to thee,
yestereve, because I judged thou wast weary; but tell me, upon thy hope of salvation,
Egano, whom deemest thou thy best and most loyal retainer, and the most attached to
thee, of all that thou hast in the house?
What a question is this,
wife?
returned Egano. Dost not know him? Retainer I have none, nor ever had, so
trusted, or loved, as Anichino. But wherefore put such a question?
Now, when
Anichino wist that Egano was awake, and heard them talk of himself, he more than once
tried to withdraw his hand,
being mightily afraid lest the lady meant to play him false; but she held it so tightly
that he might not get free, while thus she made answer to Egano: I will tell
thee what he is. I thought that he was all thou sayst, and that none was so loyal to thee
as he, but he has undeceived me, for that yesterday, when thou wast out a hawking, he,
being here, chose his time, and had the shamelessness to crave of me compliance with his
wanton desires: and I, that I might not need other evidence than that of thine
own senses to prove his guilt to thee, I made answer, that I was well content,
and that to-night, after midnight, I would get me into the garden, and await him there at
the foot of the pine. Now go thither I shall certainly not; but, if thou
wouldst prove the loyalty of thy retainer, thou canst readily do so, if thou but slip on
one of my loose robes, and cover thy face with a veil, and go down and attend his coming,
for come, I doubt not, he will.
Whereto Egano: Meet indeed it is,
quoth he, that I should go see;
and straightway up he got, and, as best he might in
the dark, he put on one of the lady's loose robes and veiled his face, and then hied him
to the garden, and sate down at the foot of the pine to await Anichino. The
lady no sooner wist that he was out of the room, than she rose, and locked the
door. Anichino, who
had never been so terrified in all his life, and had struggled with all
his might to disengage his hand from the lady's clasp, and had inwardly cursed her and his
love, and himself for trusting her, a hundred thousand times, was overjoyed beyond measure
at this last turn that she had given the affair. And so, the lady having got her to bed
again, and he, at her bidding, having stripped and laid him down beside her, they had
solace and joyance of one another for a good while. Then, the lady, deeming it
unmeet for Anichino to tarry longer with her, caused him to get up and resume his clothes,
saying to him: Sweet my mouth, thou wilt take a stout cudgel,
and get thee to the garden, and making as if I were there, and thy suit to me had been but
to try me, thou wilt give Egano a sound rating with thy tongue and a sound belabouring
with thy cudgel, the sequel whereof will be wondrously gladsome and delightful.
Whereupon Anichino hied him off to the garden, armed with a staff of wild
willow; and as he drew nigh the pine, Egano saw him, and rose and came forward to meet him
as if he would receive him with the heartiest of cheer. But: Ah! wicked woman!
quoth Anichino; so thou art come! Thou didst verily believe, then, that I was, that I
am, minded thus to wrong my lord? Foul fall thee a
thousand times!
And therewith he raised his cudgel, and began to lay about
him. Egano, however, had heard and seen enough, and without a word took to
flight, while Anichino pursued him, crying out: Away with thee! God send thee a bad
year, lewd woman that thou art; nor doubt that Egano shall hear of this to-morrow.
Egano, having received sundry round knocks, got him back to his
chamber with what speed he might; and being asked by the lady, whether Anichino
had come into the garden: Would to God he had not!
quoth he, for
that, taking me for thee, he has beaten me black and blue with his cudgel, and rated me
like the vilest woman that ever was: passing strange, indeed, it had seemed to me that he
should have said those words to thee with intent to dishonour me;
and now 'tis plain that 'twas but that, seeing thee so blithe and
frolicsome, he was minded to prove thee.
Whereto: God be
praised,
returned the lady, that he proved me by words, as thee by
acts: and I doubt not he may say that I bear his words with more patience than thou his
acts. But since he is so loyal to thee, we must make much of him and do him honour.
Ay, indeed,
quoth Egano, thou sayst sooth.
Thus was Egano
fortified in the belief that never had any gentleman wife so true, or retainer so loyal,
as he; and many a hearty
laugh had he with Anichino and his lady over this affair, which to them was the occasion
that, with far less let than might else have been, they were able to have solace and
joyance of one another, so long as it pleased Anichino to tarry at Bologna.
Novel VIIIA husband
grows jealous of his wife, and discovers that she has warning of her lover's approach by a
piece of
pack-thread, which she ties to her great toe a nights. While he is pursuing her lover,
she puts another woman in bed in her place. The husband, finding her there, beats her, and
cuts off her hair. He then
goes and calls his wife's brothers, who, holding his accusation to be false, give him a
rating.
Rare indeed was deemed by
common consent the subtlety shewn by Madonna Beatrice in the beguilement of her husband,
and all affirmed that the terror of Anichino must have been prodigious, when, the lady
still keeping fast hold of him, he had heard her say that he had made suit of love to
her. However, Filomena being silent, the king turned to Neifile, saying: 'Tis now for
you to tell.
Whereupon Neifile, while a slight smile died away upon her lips, thus
began:
Fair ladies, to entertain you with a goodly story,
such as those which my predecessors have delighted you withal, is indeed a heavy burden,
but, God helping me, I trust fairly well to acquit myself thereof.
You are to know,
then, that there dwelt aforetime in our
city a most wealthy merchant, Arriguccio Berlinghieri by name, who foolishly, as we wot by
daily experience is the way of merchants, thinking to compass gentility by matrimony, took
to wife a young gentlewoman, by no means suited to him, whose name was Monna
Sismonda. Now Monna Sismonda, seeing that her husband was much abroad, and gave
her little of his company, became enamoured of a young gallant, Ruberto by
name, who had long courted her: and she being grown pretty familiar with him,
and using, perchance, too little discretion, for she affected him extremely, it so befell
that Arriguccio, whether it was that he detected somewhat, or howsoever, waxed of all men
the most jealous, and gave up going abroad, and changed his way of life altogether, and
made it his sole care to watch over his wife, insomuch that he never allowed himself a
wink of sleep until he had seen her to bed: which occasioned the lady the most grievous
dumps, because 'twas on no wise possible for her to be with her Ruberto. So,
casting about in many ways how she might contrive to meet him, and
being thereto not a little plied by Ruberto himself, she bethought her at last of the
following expedient: to wit, her room fronting the street, and Arriguccio, as she had
often observed, being very hard put to it to get him to sleep, but thereafter sleeping
very soundly, she resolved to arrange with Ruberto that he should come to the front door
about midnight, whereupon she would get her down, and open the door, and stay some time
with him while her husband was in his deep sleep. And that she might have
tidings of his arrival, yet so as that none else might wot aught thereof, she adopted the
device of lowering a pack-thread from the bedroom window on such wise that, while with one
end it should all but touch the ground, it should traverse the floor of the room, until it
reached the bed, and then be brought under the clothes, so that, when she was abed, she
might attach it to her great toe. Having so done, she sent word to Ruberto,
that when he came, he must be sure to jerk the pack-thread, and, if her husband were
asleep, she would loose it, and go open to him; but, if he were awake, she would hold it
taut and draw it to herself, to let him know that he must not expect
her. Ruberto fell in with the idea, came there many
times, and now forgathered with her and again did not. But at last, they still
using this cunning practice, it so befell that one night, while the lady slept,
Arriguccio, letting his foot stray more than he was wont about the bed, came upon the
pack-thread, and laying his hand upon it, found that it was attached to his lady's great
toe, and said to himself: This must be some trick: and afterwards discovering
that the thread passed out of the window, was confirmed in his surmise. Wherefore, he
softly severed it from the lady's toe, and affixed it to his own; and waited,
all attention, to learn the result of his experiment. Nor had he long to wait
before Ruberto came, and Arriguccio felt him jerk the thread according to his wont: and as
Arriguccio had not known how to attach the thread securely, and Ruberto jerked it with
some force, it gave way, whereby he understood that he was to wait, and did
so. Arriguccio straightway arose, caught up his arms, and hasted to the door to
see who might be there, intent to do him a mischief. Now Arriguccio, for all he was a
merchant, was a man of spirit, and of thews and sinews; and being
come to the door, he opened it by no means gingerly, as the lady was wont; whereby
Ruberto, who was in waiting, surmised the truth, to wit, that 'twas Arriguccio by whom the
door was opened. Wherefore he forthwith took to flight, followed by
Arriguccio. But at length, when he had run a long way, as Arriguccio gave not
up the pursuit, he being also armed, drew his sword, and faced about; and so they fell to,
Arriguccio attacking, and Ruberto defending himself.
Now when Arriguccio undid the
bedroom door, the lady awoke, and finding the pack-thread cut loose from her toe, saw at a
glance that her trick was discovered; and hearing Arriguccio running after Ruberto, she
forthwith got up, foreboding what the result was like to be, and called her maid, who was
entirely in her confidence:
whom she so plied with her obsecrations that at last she got her into bed in her room,
beseeching her not to say who she was, but to bear patiently all the blows that Arriguccio
might give her; and she would so reward her that she should have no reason to complain.
Then, extinguishing the light that was in the room, forth she hied her, and
having found a convenient hiding-place in the house, awaited the turn of
events. Now Arriguccio and Ruberto being hotly engaged in the street, the
neighbours, roused by the din of the combat, got up and launched their curses upon
them. Wherefore
Arriguccio, fearing lest he should be recognized, drew off before he had so much as
discovered who the young gallant was, or done him any scathe, and in a fell and wrathful
mood betook him home. Stumbling into the bedroom, he cried out angrily: Where art
thou, lewd woman? Thou hast put out the light, that I may not be able to find thee; but
thou hast miscalculated.
And going to the bedside, he laid hold of the
maid, taking her to be his wife, and fell a pummelling and kicking her with
all the strength he had in his hands and feet, insomuch that he pounded her face well-nigh
to pulp, rating her the while like the vilest woman that ever was; and last of all he cut
off her hair. The maid wept bitterly, as indeed she well might; and though from
time to time she ejaculated an Alas! Mercy, for God's sake!
or Spare me, spare
me;
yet her voice was so broken by her sobs, and Arriguccio's hearing so dulled by his
wrath, that he was not able to discern that 'twas not
his wife's voice but that of another woman. So, having soundly thrashed her,
and cut off her hair, as we said: Wicked woman,
quoth he, I touch thee no more;
but I go to find thy brothers, and shall do them to wit of thy good works; and then they
may come here, and deal with thee as they may deem their honour demands, and take thee
hence, for be sure thou shalt no more abide in this house.
With this he was gone,
locking the door of the room behind him, and quitted the house alone.
Now no sooner
did Monna Sismonda, who had heard all that passed, perceive that her husband was gone,
than she opened the door of the bedroom, rekindled the light, and finding her maid all
bruises and tears, did what she could to comfort her, and carried her back to her own
room, where, causing her to be privily waited on and tended, she helped her so liberally
from Arriguccio's own store, that she confessed herself content. The maid thus
bestowed in her room, the lady presently hied her back to her own, which she set all in
neat and trim order, remaking the bed, so that it might
appear as if it had not been slept in, relighting the lamp, and dressing
and tiring herself, until she looked as if she had not been abed that
night; then, taking with her a lighted lamp and some work, she sat her down at the head of
the stairs, and began sewing, while she waited to see how the affair would end.
Arriguccio meanwhile had hied him with all speed straight from the house to that of his
wife's brothers, where by dint of much knocking he made himself heard, and was
admitted. The lady's
three brothers, and her mother, being informed that 'twas Arriguccio, got up, and having
set lights a burning, came to him and asked him on what errand he was come there at that
hour, and alone. Whereupon Arriguccio, beginning with the discovery of the
pack-thread attached to his lady's great toe, gave them the whole narrative of
his discoveries and doings down to the very end; and to clinch the whole matter, he put in
their hands the locks which he had cut, as he believed, from his wife's head, adding that
'twas now for them to come for her and deal with her on such wise as they might deem their
honour required, seeing that he would nevermore have her in his house. Firmly
believing what he told them, the lady's brothers were very wroth with her, and having
provided themselves with lighted torches, set out with Arriguccio, and hied them to his
house with intent to scorn her, while their mother followed, weeping and
beseeching now one, now another, not to credit these matters so hastily, until they had
seen or heard somewhat more thereof; for that the husband might have some other reason to
be wroth with her, and having ill-treated her, might have trumped up this charge by way of
exculpation, adding that, if true, 'twas passing strange, for well she knew her daughter,
whom she had brought up from her tenderest years, and much more to the like
effect.
However, being come to Arriguccio's house, they entered, and were mounting
the stairs, when Monna Sismonda, hearing them, called out: Who is there?
Whereto one of the brothers responded: Lewd woman, thou shalt soon have
cause enough to know who it is.
Now Lord love us!
quoth Monna
Sismonda, what would he be at?
Then, rising, she greeted them with: Welcome, my
brothers; but what seek ye abroad at this hour, all three of you?
They had
seen her sitting and sewing with never a sign of a blow on her face, whereas Arriguccio
had averred that he had pummelled her all over: wherefore their first impression was one
of wonder, and refraining the vehemence of their wrath, they asked her what might be the
truth of the matter which Arriguccio
laid to her charge, and threatened her with direful consequences, if she should conceal
aught. Whereto the lady: What you would have me tell you,
quoth she,
or what Arriguccio may have laid to my charge, that know not I.
Arriguccio could
but gaze upon her, as one that had taken leave of his wits, calling to mind how he had
pummelled her about the face times without number, and scratched it for her, and
mishandled her in all manner of ways, and there he now saw her with no trace of aught of
it all upon her. However, to make a long story short, the lady's brothers told
her what Arriguccio had told them touching the pack-thread and the beating and
all the rest of it. Whereupon the lady turned to him with: Alas, my husband,
what is this that I hear? Why givest thou me, to thy own great shame, the reputation of a
lewd woman, when such I am not, and thyself the reputation of a wicked and cruel man,
which thou art not? Wast thou ever to-night, I say not in my company, but so much as in
the house until now? Or when didst thou beat me? For my part I mind me not of it.
Arriguccio began: How sayst thou, lewd woman? Did we not go to bed together?
Did I not come back, after chasing thy lover? Did I not give thee bruises not a few, and
cut thy hair for thee?
But the lady interrupted him, saying: Nay, thou
didst not lie here to-night. But leave we this, of which my true words are my sole
witness, and pass we to this of the beating thou sayst thou gavest me, and how thou didst
cut my hair. Never a beating had I from thee, and I bid all that are here, and
thee among them, look at me, and say if I have any trace of a beating on my person; nor
should I advise thee to dare lay hand upon me; for, by the Holy Rood, I would spoil thy
beauty for thee. Nor didst thou cut my hair, for aught that I saw or felt:
however, thou didst it, perchance, on such wise that I was not ware thereof: so let me see
whether 'tis cut or no.
Then, unveiling herself, she shewed that her hair was uncut
and entire. Wherefore her brothers and mother now turned to Arriguccio with:
What means this, Arriguccio? This accords not with what thou gavest us
to understand thou hadst done; nor know we how thou wilt prove the residue.
Arriguccio was lost, as it were, in a dream, and yet he would fain have spoken; but,
seeing that what he had thought to prove was
otherwise, he essayed no reply. So the lady turning to her brothers: I
see,
quoth she, what he would have: he will not be satisfied unless I do what I
never would otherwise have done, to wit, give you to know what a pitiful caitiff he is; as
now I shall not fail to do. I make no manner of doubt that, as he has said, even so it
befell, and so he did. How, you shall hear. This worthy man, to whom, worse
luck! you gave me to wife, a merchant, as he calls himself, and as such would fain have
credit, and who ought to be more temperate than a religious, and more continent than a
girl, lets scarce an evening pass but he goes a boozing in the taverns, and consorting
with this or the other woman of the town; and 'tis for me to await his return
until midnight or sometimes until matins, even as you now find me. I doubt not
that, being thoroughly well drunk, he got him to bed with one of these wantons, and,
awaking, found the packthread on her foot, and afterwards did actually perform all these
brave exploits of which he speaks, and in the end came back to her, and
beat her, and cut her hair off, and being not yet quite recovered from his debauch,
believed, and, I doubt not, still believes, that 'twas I that he thus treated; and if you
will but scan his face closely, you will see that he is still half drunk. But,
whatever he may have said about me, I would have you account it as nothing more than the
disordered speech of a tipsy man; and forgive him as I do.
Whereupon the
lady's mother raised no small outcry, saying: By the Holy Rood, my daughter, this may
not be! A daughter, such as thou, to be mated with one so unworthy of thee! The pestilent,
insensate cur should be slain on the spot! A pretty state of things, indeed! Why, he might
have picked thee up from the gutter! Now foul fall him! but thou shalt no more
be vexed with the tedious drivel of a petty dealer in ass's dung, some blackguard, belike,
that came hither from the country because he was dismissed the service of some petty
squire, clad in romagnole, with belfry-breeches, and a pen in his arse, and, for that he
has a few pence, must needs have a gentleman's daughter,
and a fine lady to wife, and set up a coat of arms, and say: 'I am of the such
and such,' and 'my ancestors did thus and thus.' Ah! had my sons but followed my advice!
Thy honour were safe in the house of the Counts Guidi, where they might have bestowed
thee, though thou hadst but a morsel of bread to thy dowry: but they must needs give thee
to this rare treasure, who, though better daughter and more chaste there is none than thou
in Florence, has not blushed this very midnight and in our presence to call thee a
strumpet, as if we knew thee not. God's faith! so I were hearkened
to, he should shrewdly smart for it.
Then, turning to her sons, she said:
My sons, I told you plainly enough that this ought not to be. Now, have you heard how
your worthy brother-in-law treats your sister? Petty twopenny trader that he is: were it
for me to act, as it is for you, after what he has said of her and done to her, nought
would satisfy or appease me, till I had rid the earth of him. And were I a man, who am but
a woman, none other but myself should meddle with the affair. God's curse
upon him, the woeful, shameless sot!
Whereupon the young men, incensed by
what they had seen and heard, turned to Arriguccio, and after giving him the soundest
rating that ever was bestowed upon caitiff, concluded as follows: This once we pardon
thee, witting thee to be a drunken knave: but as thou holdest thy life dear, have a care
that
henceforth we hear no such tales of thee; for rest assured that if aught of the kind do
reach our ears, we will requite thee for both turns.
Which said, they
departed. Arriguccio, standing there like one dazed, not witting whether his
late doings were actual fact or but a dream, made no more words about the matter, but left
his wife in peace. Thus did she by her address not only escape imminent peril, but open a
way whereby in time to come she was able to gratify her passion to the full without any
farther fear of her husband.
Novel IXLydia, wife of
Nicostratus, loves Pyrrhus, who to assure himself thereof, asks three things of her, all
of which she does, and therewithal enjoys him in presence of Nicostratus, and makes
Nicostratus believe that what he saw was not real.
So diverting did the ladies find Neifile's story that it kept
them still laughing and talking, though the king, having bidden Pamfilo tell his story,
had several times enjoined silence upon them. However, as soon as they had done, Pamfilo
thus began:
Methinks, worshipful ladies, there is no venture, though fraught
with gravest peril, that whoso loves ardently will not make: of which truth, exemplified
though it has been in stories not a few, I purpose to afford you yet more signal proof in
one which I shall tell you; wherein you will hear of a lady who in her enterprises owed
far more to the favour of Fortune than to the guidance of reason: wherefore I
should not advise any of you rashly to follow in her footsteps, seeing
that Fortune is not always in a kindly mood, nor are the eyes of all men equally
holden.
In Argos, that most ancient city of Achaia, the fame of whose kings of old
time is out of all proportion to its size, there dwelt of yore Nicostratus, a nobleman, to
whom, when he was already verging on old age, Fortune gave to wife a great lady, Lydia by
name, whose courage matched her charms. Nicostratus, as suited with his rank
and wealth, kept not a few retainers and hounds and hawks, and was
mightily addicted to the chase. Among his dependants was a young man named Pyrrhus, a
gallant of no mean accomplishment, and goodly of person and beloved and trusted by
Nicostratus above all other. Of whom Lydia grew mighty enamoured,
insomuch that neither by day nor by night might her thoughts stray from him: but, whether
it was that Pyrrhus wist not her love, or would have none of it, he gave no sign of
recognition; whereby the lady's suffering waxing more than she could bear, she
made up her mind to declare her love to him; and having a chambermaid, Lusca by name, in
whom she placed great trust, she called her, and said: Lusca,
tokens thou hast had from me of my regard that should ensure thy obedience and loyalty;
wherefore have a care that what I shall now tell thee reach the ears of none but him to
whom I shall bid thee impart it. Thou seest, Lusca, that I am in the prime of
my youth and lustihead, and have neither lack nor stint of all such things as folk desire,
save only, to be brief, that I have one cause to repine, to wit, that my husband's years
so far outnumber my own. Wherefore with that wherein young ladies take most
pleasure I am but ill provided, and, as my desire is no less than theirs, 'tis now some
while since I determined that, if Fortune has shewn herself so little friendly to me by
giving me a husband so advanced in years, at least I will not be mine own enemy by sparing
to devise the means whereby my happiness and health may be assured; and that
herein, as in all other
matters, my joy may be complete, I have chosen, thereto to minister by his embraces, our
Pyrrhus, deeming him more worthy than any other man, and have so set my heart upon him
that I am ever ill at ease save when he is present either to my sight or to my mind,
insomuch that, unless I forgather with him without delay, I doubt not that 'twill be the
death of me. And so, if thou holdest my life dear, thou wilt shew him my love
on such wise as thou mayst deem best, and make my suit to him that he be pleased to come
to me, when thou shalt go to fetch him.
That gladly will I,
replied
the chambermaid; and as soon as she found convenient time and place, she drew Pyrrhus
apart, and, as best she knew how, conveyed her lady's message to him. Which Pyrrhus found
passing strange to hear, for 'twas in truth a complete surprise to him, and he doubted
the lady did but mean to try him. Wherefore he presently, and with some asperity, answered
thus: Lusca, believe I cannot that this message comes from my lady: have a
care, therefore, what thou sayst, and if, perchance, it does come from her, I doubt she
does not mean it; and if, perchance, she does mean it, why, then I am honoured
by my lord above what I deserve, and I would not for my life do him such a wrong: so have
a care never to speak of such matters to me again.
Lusca, nowise
disconcerted by his uncompliant tone, rejoined: I shall speak to thee, Pyrrhus, of
these and all other matters, wherewith I may be commissioned by my lady, as often as she
shall bid me, whether it pleases or irks thee; but thou art a blockhead.
So,
somewhat chafed, Lusca bore Pyrrhus' answer back to her lady, who would fain have died,
when she heard it, and some days afterwards resumed the topic, saying: Thou
knowest, Lusca, that 'tis not the first stroke that fells the oak; wherefore, methinks,
thou wert best go back to this strangeman, who is minded to evince his loyalty at my
expense, and choosing a convenient time, declare to him all my passion, and do thy best
endeavour that the affair be carried through; for if it should thus lapse, 'twould be the
death of me; besides which, he would think we had but trifled with him, and, whereas 'tis
his love we would have, we should earn his hatred.
So, after comforting the
lady, the maid hied her in quest of Pyrrhus,
whom she found in a gladsome and propitious mood, and thus addressed: 'Tis not many
days, Pyrrhus, since I declared to thee how ardent is the flame with which thy lady and
mine is consumed for love of thee, and now again I do thee to wit thereof, and that, if
thou shalt not relent of the harshness that thou didst manifest the other day, thou mayst
rest assured that her life will be short: wherefore I pray thee to be pleased to give her
solace of her desire, and shouldst thou persist in thy obduracy, I, that gave thee credit
for not a little sense, shall deem thee a great fool. How flattered thou
shouldst be to know thyself beloved above all else by a lady so beauteous and high-born!
And how indebted shouldst thou feel thyself to Fortune, seeing that she has in
store for thee a boon so great and so suited to the cravings of thy youth, ay, and so like
to be of service to thee upon occasion of need! Bethink thee, if there be any
of thine equals whose life is ordered more agreeably than thine will be if thou but be
wise. Which of them wilt thou find so well furnished with arms and horses, clothes and
money as thou shalt be, if thou but give my lady thy love? Receive, then, my
words with open mind; be thyself again; bethink thee that 'tis Fortune's way to confront a
man but once with smiling mien and open lap, and, if he then accept not her
bounty, he has but himself to blame, if afterward he find himself in want, in
beggary. Besides which, no such loyalty is demanded between servants and their
masters as between friends and kinsfolk; rather 'tis for servants, so far as they may, to
behave towards their masters as their masters behave towards them. Thinkest
thou, that, if thou hadst a fair wife or mother or daughter or sister that found favour in
Nicostratus' eyes, he would be so scrupulous on the point of loyalty as thou art disposed
to be in regard of his lady? Thou art a fool, if so thou dost believe. Hold it
for certain, that, if blandishments and supplications did not suffice, he would, whatever
thou mightest think of it, have recourse to force. Observe we, then, towards
them and theirs the same rule which they observe towards us and ours. Take the boon that
Fortune offers thee; repulse her not; rather go thou to meet her, and hail her advance;
for be sure that, if thou do not so, to say nought of thy lady's death, which will
certainly ensue, thou thyself wilt repent thee thereof so often that
thou wilt be fain of death.
Since he had last seen Lusca, Pyrrhus had
repeatedly pondered what she had said to him, and had made his mind up that, should she
come again, he would answer her in another sort, and comply in all respects with the
lady's desires, provided he might be assured that she was not merely putting him to the
proof; wherefore he now made answer: Lo, now, Lusca, I acknowledge the truth
of all that thou
sayst; but, on the other hand, I know that my lord is not a little wise and wary, and, as
he has committed all his affairs to my charge, I sorely misdoubt me that 'tis with his
approbation, and by his advice, and but to prove me, that Lydia does this:
wherefore let her do three things which I shall demand of her for my assurance,
and then there is nought that she shall crave of me, but I will certainly render her
prompt obedience. Which three things are these: first, let her in Nicostratus'
presence kill his fine sparrow-hawk: then she must send me a lock of Nicostratus' beard,
and lastly one of his best teeth.
Hard seemed these terms to Lusca, and
hard beyond measure to the lady, but Love, that great fautor of enterprise, and master of
stratagem, gave her resolution to address herself to their performance: wherefore through
the chambermaid she sent him word that what he required of her she would do, and that
without either reservation or delay; and therewithal she told him, that, as he deemed
Nicostratus so wise, she would contrive that they should enjoy one another in
Nicostratus' presence, and that Nicostratus should believe that 'twas a mere show.
Pyrrhus, therefore, anxiously expected what the lady would do. Some days thus
passed, and then Nicostratus gave a great breakfast, as was his frequent wont, to certain
gentlemen, and when the tables were removed, the lady, robed in green samite, and richly
adorned, came forth of her chamber into the hall wherein they sate, and before the eyes of
Pyrrhus and all the rest of the company hied her to the perch, on which stood the
sparrow-hawk that Nicostratus so much prized, and loosed him, and, as if she were minded
to carry him on her hand, took him by the jesses and dashed him against the wall so that
he died. Whereupon: Alas! my lady, what hast thou done?
exclaimed
Nicostratus: but she vouchsafed no answer, save that,
turning to the gentlemen that had sate at meat with him, she said: My lords, ill fitted
were I to take vengeance on a king that had done me despite, if I lacked the courage to be
avenged on a sparrowhawk. You are to know that by this bird I have long been
cheated of all the time that ought to be devoted by gentlemen to pleasuring their ladies;
for with the first streaks of dawn Nicostratus has been up and got him to horse, and hawk
on hand hied him to the champaign to see him fly, leaving me, such as you see me, alone
and ill content abed. For which cause I have oftentimes been minded to do that
which I have now done, and have only refrained therefrom, that, biding my time, I might do
it in the presence of men that should judge my cause justly, as I trust you will do.
Which hearing, the gentlemen, who deemed her affections no less fixed on
Nicostratus than her words imported, broke with one accord into a laugh,
and turning to Nicostratus, who was sore displeased, fell a saying: Now well done of
the lady to avenge her wrongs by the death of the sparrow-hawk!
and so, the lady being
withdrawn to her chamber, they passed the affair off with divers pleasantries, turning the
wrath of Nicostratus to laughter.
Pyrrhus, who had witnessed what had passed, said
to himself: Nobly indeed has my lady begun, and on such wise as promises well for the
felicity of my love. God grant that she so continue. And even so Lydia did:
for not many days after she had killed the
sparrow-hawk, she, being with Nicostratus in her chamber, from caressing passed to toying
and trifling with him, and he, sportively pulling her by the hair, gave her
occasion to fulfil the second of
Pyrrhus' demands; which she did by nimbly laying hold of one of the lesser tufts of his
beard, and, laughing the while, plucking it so hard that she tore it out of his
chin. Which Nicostratus somewhat resenting: Now what cause hast thou,
quoth she, to make such a wry face? 'Tis but that I have plucked some half-dozen hairs
from thy beard. Thou didst not feel it as much as did I but now thy tugging of my
hair.
And so they continued jesting and sporting with one another, the lady
jealously guarding the tuft that she had torn from the beard, which the very same day she
sent to her cherished lover. The third demand caused the lady more thought;
but, being amply endowed with wit, and powerfully seconded
by Love, she failed not to hit upon an apt expedient.
Nicostratus had in his service two lads, who, being of gentle birth, had been placed
with him by their kinsfolk, that they might learn manners, one of whom, when Nicostratus
sate at meat, carved before him, while the other gave him to drink. Both lads Lydia called
to her, and gave them to understand that their breath smelt, and admonished them that,
when they waited on Nicostratus, they should hold their heads as far back as possible,
saying never a word of the matter to any. The lads believing her, did as she
bade them. Whereupon she took occasion to say to Nicostratus: Hast thou marked what
these lads do when they wait upon thee?
Troth, that have I,
replied
Nicostratus; indeed I have often had it in mind to ask them why they do so.
Nay,
rejoined the lady, spare thyself the pains; for I can tell thee
the reason, which I have for some time kept close, lest it should vex thee; but as I now
see that others begin to be ware of it, it need no longer be withheld from
thee. 'Tis for that thy breath stinks shrewdly that they thus avert their heads
from thee: 'twas not wont to be so, nor know I why it should be so; and 'tis most
offensive when thou art in converse with gentlemen; and therefore 'twould be well to find
some way of curing it.
I wonder what it could be,
returned
Nicostratus; is it perchance that I have a decayed tooth in my jaw?
That may well be,
quoth Lydia: and taking him to a window, she caused
him open his mouth, and after regarding it on this side and that: Oh!
Nicostratus,
quoth she, how couldst thou have endured it so long? Thou hast a tooth
here, which, by what I see, is not only decayed, but actually rotten
throughout; and beyond all manner of doubt, if thou let it remain long in thy head, 'twill
infect its neighbours; so 'tis my advice that thou out with it before the matter grows
worse.
My judgment jumps with thine,
quoth Nicostratus; wherefore
send without delay for a chirurgeon to draw it.
God forbid,
returned
the lady, that chirurgeon come hither for such a purpose; methinks, the case is such
that I can very well dispense with him, and draw the tooth myself. Besides
which, these chirurgeons do these things in such a cruel way, that I could never endure to
see thee or know thee under the hands of any of them: wherefore my mind is quite made up
to do it myself, that, at least, if thou shalt suffer too much, I may give it over at
once, as a chirurgeon would not do.
And so she caused the instruments that
are used on such occasions to be brought her, and having dismissed all other attendants
save Lusca from the chamber, and locked the door, made Nicostratus lie down on a table,
set the pincers in his mouth, and clapped them on one of his teeth, which, while Lusca
held him, so that, albeit he roared for pain, he might not move, she wrenched by main
force from his jaw, and keeping it close, took from Lusca's hand another and
horribly decayed tooth, which she shewed him, suffering and half dead as he was, saying:
See what thou hadst in thy jaw; mark how far gone it is.
Believing what
she said, and deeming that, now the tooth was out, his breath would no more be offensive,
and being somewhat eased of the pain, which had been extreme, and still remained, so that
he murmured not little, by divers comforting applications, he quitted the chamber:
whereupon the lady forthwith sent the tooth to her lover, who, having now full
assurance of her love, placed himself entirely at her service. But the lady
being
minded to make his assurance yet more sure, and deeming each hour a thousand till she
might be with him, now saw fit, for the more ready performance of the promise she had
given him, to feign sickness; and Nicostratus, coming to see her one day after breakfast,
attended only by Pyrrhus, she besought him for her better solacement, to help her down to
the garden. Wherefore Nicostratus on one side, and Pyrrhus on the other, took
her and bore her down to the garden, and set her on a lawn at the foot of a beautiful
pear-tree: and after they had sate there a while, the lady, who had already given Pyrrhus to understand what he must do, said to him: Pyrrhus, I should
greatly like to have some of those pears; get thee up the tree, and shake some of them
down.
Pyrrhus climbed the tree in a trice, and began to shake down the
pears, and while he did so: Fie! Sir,
quoth he, what is this you do? And you,
Madam, have you no shame, that you suffer him to do so in my presence? Think you that I
am blind? 'Twas but now that you were gravely indisposed. Your cure has been speedy
indeed to permit of your so behaving: and as for such a purpose you have so many goodly
chambers, why betake you not yourselves to one of them, if you must needs so disport
yourselves? 'Twould be much more decent than to do so in my presence.
Whereupon the lady, turning to her husband: Now what can Pyrrhus mean?
said she. Is he mad?
Nay, Madam,
quoth Pyrrhus; mad am not I.
Think you I see you not?
Whereat Nicostratus marvelled not a little; and:
Pyrrhus,
quoth he, I verily believe thou dreamest.
Nay, my
lord,
replied Pyrrhus, not a whit do I dream; neither do you; rather you wag it
with such vigour, that, if this pear-tree did the like, there would be never a pear left
on it.
Then the lady: What can this mean?
quoth she: can it be
that it really seems to him to be as he says? Upon my hope of salvation, were I but in my
former health, I would get me up there to judge for myself what these wonders are which he
professes to see.
Whereupon, as Pyrrhus in the pear-tree continued talking
in the same strange strain: Come down,
quoth Nicostratus;
and when he was down: Now what,
said Nicostratus, is it thou sayst thou seest up
there?
I suppose,
replied Pyrrhus, that you take me to be deluded
or dreaming: but as I must needs tell you the truth, I saw you lying upon your wife, and
then, when I came down, I saw you get up and sit you down here where you now are.
Therein,
said Nicostratus, thou wast certainly deluded, for, since
thou clombest the pear-tree, we have not budged a jot, save as thou seest.
Then said Pyrrhus: Why make more words about the matter? See you I certainly
did; and, seeing you, I saw you lying upon your own.
Nicostratus' wonder
now waxed momently, insomuch that he said: I am minded to see if this
pear-tree be enchanted, so that whoso is in it sees marvels;
and so he got him up into
it. Whereupon the lady and Pyrrhus fell to disporting them, and Nicostratus,
seeing what they were about, exclaimed: Ah! lewd woman, what is this thou doest? And
thou, Pyrrhus, in whom I so much trusted!
And so saying, he began to climb
down. Meanwhile the lady and Pyrrhus had made answer: We are sitting
here:
and seeing him descending, they placed themselves as they had been when he had
left them, whom Nicostratus, being come down, no sooner saw, than he fell a
rating them. Then quoth Pyrrhus: Verily, Nicostratus, I now acknowledge,
that, as you said a while ago, what I saw when I was in the pear-tree was but a false
show, albeit I had never understood that so it was but that I now see and know that thou
hast also seen a false show. And that I speak truth, you may sufficiently
assure yourself, if you but reflect whether 'tis likely that your wife, who for virtue and
discretion has not her peer among women, would, if she were minded so to dishonour you,
see fit to do so before your very eyes. Of myself I say nought, albeit I had liefer be
hewn in pieces than that I should so much as think of such a thing, much less do it in
your presence. Wherefore 'tis evident
that 'tis some illusion of sight that is propagated from the pear-tree;
for nought in the world would have made me believe that I saw not you lying there in
carnal intercourse with your wife, had I not heard you say that you saw me doing that
which most assuredly, so far from doing, I never so much as thought of.
The
lady then started up with a most resentful mien, and burst out with: Foul fall thee, if
thou knowest so little of me as to suppose that, if I were minded to do thee such foul
dishonour as thou sayst thou didst see me do, I would come hither to do it before thine
eyes! Rest assured that for such a purpose, were it ever mine, I should deem
one of our chambers more meet, and it should go hard but I would so order the matter that
thou shouldst never know aught of it.
Nicostratus, having heard both, and
deeming that what they both
averred must be true, to wit, that they would never have ventured upon such an act in his
presence, passed from chiding to talk of the
singularity of the thing, and how marvellous it was that the vision should reshape itself
for every one that clomb the tree. The lady, however, made a show of being
distressed that Nicostratus should so have thought of her, and: Verily,
quoth she,
no woman, neither I nor another, shall again suffer loss of honour by this pear-tree: run, Pyrrhus, and bring hither an axe, and at one and the
same time vindicate thy honour and mine by felling it, albeit 'twere better far
Nicostratus' skull should feel the weight of the axe, seeing that in utter heedlessness he
so readily suffered the eyes of his mind to be blinded; for, albeit this vision was seen
by the bodily eye, yet ought the understanding by no means to have entertained and
affirmed it as real.
So Pyrrhus presently hied him to fetch the axe, and
returning therewith felled the pear; whereupon the lady, turning towards Nicostratus:
Now that this foe of my honour is fallen,
quoth she, my wrath is gone from
me.
Nicostratus then craving her pardon, she graciously granted it him, bidding him
never again to suffer himself to be betrayed into thinking such a thing of her, who loved
him more dearly than herself. So the poor duped husband went back with her and
her lover to the palace, where not seldom in time to come Pyrrhus and Lydia took their
pastime together more at ease. God grant us the like.
Novel XTwo Sienese love a lady, one of them being
her gossip: the gossip dies, having promised his comrade to return to him from the other
world; which he does, and tells him what sort of life is led
there.
None now was left to tell, save
the king, who, as soon as the ladies had ceased mourning over the fall of the pear-tree,
that had done no wrong, and were silent, began thus:
Most manifest it is that
'tis the prime duty of a just king to observe the laws that he has made; and, if he do not
so, he is to be esteemed no king, but a slave that has merited punishment, into which
fault, and under which condemnation, I, your king, must, as of necessity,
fall. For, indeed, when yesterday I made the law which governs our discourse of
to-day, I thought not to-day to avail myself of my privilege, but to submit to the law, no
less than you, and to discourse of the same topic whereof you all have discoursed;
but not only has the very story
been told which I had intended to tell, but therewithal so many things else, and so very
much goodlier have been said, that, search my memory as I may, I cannot mind me of aught,
nor wot I that touching such a matter there is indeed aught, for me to say, that would be
comparable with what has been said; wherefore, as infringe I must the law that
I myself have made, I confess myself worthy of punishment, and instantly declaring my
readiness to pay any forfeit that may be demanded of me, am minded to have recourse to my
wonted privilege. And such, dearest ladies, is the potency of Elisa's story of
the godfather and his gossip, and therewith of the simplicity of the Sienese, that I am
prompted thereby to pass from this topic of the beguilement of foolish husbands by their
cunning wives to a
little story touching these same Sienese, which, albeit there is not a little
therein which you were best not to believe, may yet be in
some degree entertaining to hear.
Know, then, that at Siena there dwelt in Porta
Salaia two young men of the people, named, the one, Tingoccio Mini, the other Meuccio di
Tura, who, by what appeared, loved one another not a little, for they were scarce ever out
of one another's company; and being wont, like other folk, to go to church and
listen to sermons, they heard from time to time of the glory and the woe, which in the
other world are allotted, according to merit, to the souls of the dead. Of which matters
craving, but being unable to come by, more certain assurance, they agreed together that,
whichever of them should die first, should, if he might, return to the survivor, and
certify him of that which he would fain know; and this agreement they confirmed with an
oath. Now, after they had made this engagement, and while they were still
constantly together, Tingoccio chanced to become sponsor to one Ambruogio Anselmini, that
dwelt in Campo Reggi, who had had a son by his wife, Monna Mita. The lady was
exceeding fair, and amorous withal, and Tingoccio being wont sometimes to visit her as his
gossip, and to take Meuccio with him, he,
notwithstanding his sponsorship, grew enamoured of her, as did also
Meuccio, for she pleased him not a little, and he heard her much commended by
Tingoccio. Which love each concealed from the other; but not for the same
reason. Tingoccio was averse to discover it to Meuccio, for that he deemed it an
ignominious thing to love his gossip, and was ashamed to let any one know it. Meuccio was
on his guard for a very different reason, to wit, that he was already ware that the lady
was in Tingoccio's good graces. Wherefore he said to himself: If I avow my love
to him, he will be jealous of me, and as, being her gossip, he can speak with her as
often as he pleases, he will do all he can to make her hate me, and so I shall never have
any favour of her.
Now, the two young men being thus, as I have said, on terms of
most familiar friendship, it befell that Tingoccio, being the better able to open his
heart to the lady, did so order his demeanour and discourse that he had from her all that
he desired. Nor was his friend's success hidden from Meuccio; though, much as it vexed
him, yet still cherishing the hope of eventually attaining his end, and
fearing to give Tingoccio occasion to baulk or hamper him in some way, he feigned
to know nought of the matter. So Tingoccio, more fortunate than his comrade,
and rival in love, did with such assiduity till his gossip's good land that he got thereby
a malady, which in the course of some days waxed so grievous that he succumbed thereto,
and departed this life. And on the night of the third day after his
decease (perchance because earlier he might not) he made his appearance,
according to his promise, in Meuccio's chamber, and called Meuccio, who was fast asleep,
by his name. Whereupon: Who art thou?
quoth Meuccio, as he
awoke. 'Tis I, Tingoccio,
replied he, come back, in fulfilment of the
pledge I gave thee, to give thee tidings of the other world.
For a while
Meuccio saw him not without terror: then, his courage reviving: Welcome, my
brother,
quoth he: and proceeded to ask him if he were lost. Nought is
lost but what is irrecoverable,
replied Tingoccio: how then should I be here, if I
were lost?
Nay,
quoth then Meuccio; I mean it not so: I would
know of thee, whether thou art of the number of the souls that are condemned to the penal
fire of hell.
Why no,
returned Tingoccio, not just that; but
still for the sins that I did I am in most sore and grievous torment.
Meuccio then questioned Tingoccio in detail of the pains there meted out for
each of the sins done here; and Tingoccio enumerated them all. Whereupon Meuccio asked if
there were aught he might do for him
here on earth. Tingoccio answered in the affirmative; to wit, that he might have masses
and prayers said and alms-deeds done for him, for that such things were of great service
to the souls there. That gladly will I,
replied Meuccio; and then, as
Tingoccio was about to take his leave, he bethought him of the gossip, and raising his
head a little, he said: I mind me, Tingoccio, of the gossip, with whom thou wast wont
to lie when thou wast here. Now what is thy punishment for that?
My
brother,
returned Tingoccio, as soon as I got down there, I met one that seemed to
know all my sins by heart, who bade me betake me to a place, where, while in direst
torment I bewept my sins, I found comrades not a few condemned to the same pains; and so,
standing there among them, and calling to mind what I had done with the gossip, and
foreboding in
requital thereof a much greater torment than had yet been allotted me, albeit I was in a
great and most vehement flame, I quaked for fear in every part of
me. Which one that was beside me observing:
'What,' quoth he, 'hast thou done more than the rest of us that are here, that thou
quakest thus as thou standest in the fire?' 'My friend,' quoth I, 'I am in mortal fear of
the doom that I expect for a great sin that I once committed.' He then asked
what sin it might be. ''Twas on this wise,' replied I: 'I lay with my gossip, and that so
much that I died thereof.' Whereat, he did but laugh, saying: 'Go to, fool,
make thy mind easy; for here there is no account taken of gossips.' Which completely
revived my drooping spirits.
'Twas now near daybreak: wherefore: Adieu! Meuccio,
quoth his friend: for
longer tarry with thee I may not;
and so he vanished. As for Meuccio,
having learned that no account was taken of gossips in the other world, he began to laugh
at his own folly in that he had already spared divers such; and so, being quit of his
ignorance, he in that respect in course of time waxed wise. Which matters had Fra Rinaldo
but known, he would not have
needed to go about syllogizing in order to bring his fair gossip to
pleasure him.
ConclusionThe sun was westering, and a light breeze blew,
when the king, his story ended, and none else being left to speak, arose, and taking off
the crown, set it on Lauretta's head, saying: Madam, I crown you with yourselfA
play upon laurea (laurel wreath) and Lauretta. queen of our
company: 'tis now for you, as our sovereign lady, to make such ordinances as you shall
deem meet for our common solace and delectation;
and having so said, he sat him
down again. Queen Lauretta sent for the seneschal, and bade him have a care
that the tables should be set in the pleasant vale somewhat earlier than had been their
wont, that their return to the palace might be more leisurely; after which she gave him to
know what else he had to do during her sovereignty. Then turning to the
company: Yesterday,
quoth she, Dioneo would have it that to-day we should
discourse of the tricks that wives play their husbands; and but that I am minded not to
shew as of the breed of yelping curs, that are ever prompt to retaliate, I would ordain
that to-morrow we discourse of the tricks that husbands play their wives.
However, in lieu thereof, I will have every one take thought to tell of those
tricks that, daily, woman plays man, or man woman, or one man another;
wherein, I doubt not, there will be matter of discourse no less agreeable than has been
that of to-day.
So saying, she rose and dismissed the company until
supper-time. So the ladies and the men being risen, some bared their feet and
betook them to the clear water, there to disport them, while others took their pleasure
upon the green lawn amid the trees that there grew goodly and straight. For no
brief
while Dioneo and Fiammetta sang in concert of Arcite and Palamon. And so, each and all
taking their several pastimes, they sped the hours with exceeding great delight until
supper-time. Which being come, they sat them down at table beside the little lake, and
there, while a thousand songsters charmed their ears, and a gentle breeze, that blew from
the environing hills, fanned them, and never a fly annoyed them, reposefully and joyously
they supped. The tables removed, they roved a while about the pleasant vale,
and then, the sun being still high, for 'twas but half vespers, the queen gave the word,
and they wended their way back to their wonted abode, and going slowly, and beguiling the
way with quips and quirks without number upon divers matters, nor those alone of which
they had that day discoursed, they arrived, hard upon nightfall, at the goodly palace.
There, the short walk's fatigue dispelled by wines most cool and
comfits, they presently gathered for the dance about the fair fountain,
and now they footed it to the strains of Tindaro's cornemuse, and now to other
music. Which done, the queen bade Filomena give them a song; and thus Filomena
sang:
Ah! woe
is me, my soul!
Ah! shall I ever thither fare again
Whence I
was parted to my grievous dole?Full sure I know not; but
within my breast
Throbs ever the same fire
Of yearning there
where erst I was to be.
O thou in whom is all my weal, my
rest,
Lord of my heart's desire,
Ah! tell me thou! for none
to ask save thee
Neither dare I, nor see.
Ah! dear my Lord,
this wasted heart disdain
Thou wilt not, but with hope at length
console.Kindled the flame I know not what
delight,
Which me doth so devour,
That day and night alike I
find no ease;
For whether it was by hearing, touch, or
sight,
Unwonted was the power,
And fresh the fire that me
each way did seize;
Wherein without release
I languish still,
and of thee, Lord, am fain,
For thou alone canst comfort and make
whole.Ah! tell me if it shall be, and how
soon,
That I again thee meet
Where those death-dealing eyes I
kissed. Thou, chief
Weal of my soul, my very soul, this
boon
Deny not; say that fleet
Thou hiest hither: comfort thus
my grief.
Ah! let the time be brief
Till thou art here, and
then long time remain;
For I, Love-stricken, crave but Love's
control.Let me but once again mine own thee
call,
No more so indiscreet
As erst, I'll be, to let thee
from me part:
Nay, I'll still hold thee, let what may
befall,
And of thy mouth so sweet
Such solace take as may
content my heart:
So this be all my art,
Thee to entice, me
with thine arms to enchain:
Whereon but musing inly chants my
soul.This song set all the company conjecturing what new and delightsome love might now hold
Filomena in its sway; and as its words imported that she had had more joyance thereof than
sight alone
might yield, some that were there grew envious of her excess of happiness. However, the
song being ended, the queen, bethinking her that the morrow was Friday, thus graciously
addressed them all: Ye wot, noble ladies, and ye also, my gallants, that
to-morrow is the day that is sacred to the passion of our Lord, which, if ye remember, we
kept devoutly when Neifile was queen, intermitting delectable discourse, as we did also on
the ensuing Saturday. Wherefore, being minded to follow Neifile's
excellent example, I deem that now, as then, 'twere a seemly thing to surcease from this
our pastime of story-telling for those two days, and compose our minds to meditation on
what was at that season accomplished for the weal of our souls.
All the
company having approved their queen's devout speech, she, as the night was now far spent,
dismissed them; and so they all betook them to slumber.
Eigth DayEndeth here the seventh day of the Decameron, beginneth
the eighth, in which, under the rule of Lauretta, discourse
is had of those tricks that, daily, woman plays
man, or man woman, or one man another.
IntroductionThe summits of the loftiest mountains were already illumined by
the rays of the rising sun, the shades of night were fled, and all things
plainly visible, when the queen and her company arose, and hied
them first to the dewy mead, where for a while they walked: then,
about half tierce, they wended their way to a little church that
was hard by, where they heard Divine service; after which, they
returned to the palace, and having breakfasted with gay and gladsome
cheer, and sung and danced a while, were dismissed by the
queen, to rest them as to each might seem good. But when the sun
was past the meridian, the queen mustered them again for their
wonted pastime; and, all being seated by the fair fountain, thus, at
her command, Neifile began.
Novel IGulfardo borrows moneys of Guasparruolo, which he has
agreed to give Guasparruolo's wife, that he may lie
with her. He gives them to her, and in her presence
tells Guasparruolo that he has done so, and she
acknowledges that 'tis true.
Sith God has ordained that 'tis for me to take the lead to-day
with
my story, well pleased am I. And for that, loving ladies, much has
been said touching the tricks that women play men, I am minded to
tell you of one that a man played a woman, not because I would
censure what the man did, or say that 'twas not merited by the
woman, but rather to commend the man and censure the woman,
and to shew that men may beguile those that think to beguile them,
as well as be beguiled by those they think to beguile; for peradventure
what I am about to relate should in strictness of speech not be
termed beguilement, but rather retaliation; for, as it behoves woman
to be most strictly virtuous, and to guard her chastity as her very life,
nor on any account to allow herself to sully it, which notwithstanding,
'tis not possible by reason of our frailty that there should be as perfect
an observance of this law as were meet, I affirm, that she that allows
herself to infringe it for money merits the fire; whereas she that so
offends under the prepotent stress of Love will receive pardon from
any judge that knows how to temper justice with mercy: witness
what but the other day we heard from Filostrato touching Madonna
Filippa at Prato.Cf. Sixth Day, Novel VII.
Know, then, that there was once at Milan a German mercenary,
Gulfardo by name, a doughty man, and very loyal to those with whom
he took service; a quality most uncommon in Germans.
And as he was wont to be most faithful in repaying whatever moneys
he borrowed, he would have had no difficulty in finding a merchant
to advance him any amount of money at a low rate of interest.
Now, tarrying thus at Milan, Gulfardo fixed his affection on a very
fine woman, named Madonna Ambruogia, the wife of a wealthy
merchant, one Guasparruolo Cagastraccio, with whom he was well
acquainted and on friendly terms: which amour he managed with
such discretion that neither the husband nor any one else wist aught
of it. So one day he sent her a message, beseeching her of her
courtesy to gratify his passion, and assuring her that he on his part
was ready to obey her every behest.
The lady made a great many words about the affair, the upshot
of which was that she would do as Gulfardo desired upon the following
terms: to wit, that, in the first place, he should never discover
the matter to a soul, and, secondly, that, as for some purpose or another
she required two hundred florins of gold, he out of his abundance
should supply her necessity; these conditions being satisfied she
would be ever at his service. Offended by such base sordidness in
one whom he had supposed to be an honourable woman, Gulfardo
passed from ardent love to something very like hatred, and cast about
how he might flout her. So he sent her word that he would right
gladly pleasure her in this and in any other matter that might be in
his power; let her but say when he was to come to see her, and he
would bring the moneys with him, and none should know of the
matter except a comrade of his, in whom he placed much trust, and
who was privy to all that he did. The lady, if she should not rather
be called the punk, gleefully made answer that in the course of a few
days her husband, Guasparruolo, was to go to Genoa on business, and
that, when he was gone, she would let Gulfardo know, and appoint a
time for him to visit her. Gulfardo thereupon chose a convenient
time, and hied him to Guasparruolo, to whom: I am come,
quoth he, about a little matter of business which I have on hand,
for which I require two hundred florins of gold, and I should be glad
if thou wouldst lend them me at the rate of interest which thou
art wont to charge me.
That gladly will I,
replied Guasparruolo,
and told out the money at once. A few days later Guasparruolo
being gone to Genoa, as the lady had said, she sent word to Gulfardo
that
he should bring her the two hundred florins of gold. So Gulfardo
hied him with his comrade to the lady's house, where he found
her expecting him, and lost no time in handing her the two
hundred florins of gold in his comrade's presence, saying: You
will keep the money, Madam, and give it to your husband when he returns.
Witting not why Gulfardo so said, but thinking that 'twas
but to conceal from his comrade that it was given by way of price,
the lady made answer: That will I gladly; but I must first see
whether the amount is right;
whereupon she told the florins out
upon a table, and when she found that the two hundred were there,
she put them away in high glee, and turning to Gulfardo, took him
into her chamber, where, not on that night only but on many
another night, while her husband was away, he had of her all that
he craved. On Guasparruolo's return Gulfardo presently paid him a
visit, having first made sure that the lady would be with him, and so
in her presence: Guasparruolo,
quoth he, I had after all no
occasion for the money, to wit, the two hundred florins of gold that
thou didst lend me the other day, being unable to carry through the
transaction for which I borrowed them, and so I took an early opportunity
of bringing them to thy wife, and gave them to her: thou
wilt therefore cancel the account.
Whereupon Guasparruolo
turned to the lady, and asked her if she had had them. She, not
daring to deny the fact in presence of the witness, answered:
Why, yes, I had them, and quite forgot to tell thee.
Good,
quoth then Guasparruolo, we are quits, Gulfardo; make thy mind
easy; I will see that thy account is set right.
Gulfardo then
withdrew, leaving the flouted lady to hand over her ill-gotten gains
to her husband; and so the astute lover had his pleasure of his greedy
mistress for nothing.
Novel IIThe priest of Varlungo lies with Monna Belcolore: he
leaves with her his cloak by way of pledge, and
receives from her a mortar. He returns the mortar,
and demands of her the cloak that he had left in pledge,
which the good lady returns him with a gibe.
Ladies and men alike commended
Gulfardo for the check that
he gave to the greed of the Milanese lady; but before they had
done, the queen turned to Pamfilo, and with a smile bade him follow
suit: wherefore thus Pamfilo began:
Fair my ladies, it occurs to
me to tell you a short story, which reflects no credit on those by
whom we are continually wronged without being able to retaliate, to
wit, the priests, who have instituted a crusade against our wives, and
deem that, when they have made conquest of one of them, they have
done a work every whit as worthy of recompense by remission of sin
and punishment as if they had brought the Soldan in chains to Avignon:
in which respect 'tis not possible for the hapless laity to be
even with them: howbeit they are as hot to make reprisals on the
priests' mothers, sisters, mistresses, and daughters as the priests to
attack their wives. Wherefore I am minded to give you, as I may
do in few words, the history of a rustic amour, the conclusion whereof
was not a little laughable, nor barren of moral, for you may also
gather therefrom, that 'tis not always well to believe everything
that a priest says.
I say then, that at Varlungo, a village hard by here, as all of you,
my ladies, should wot either of your own knowledge or by report,
there dwelt a worthy priest, and doughty of body in the service of
the ladies: who, albeit he was none too quick at his book, had no lack
of precious and blessed solecisms to edify his flock withal of a
Sunday under the elm. And when the men were out of doors, he
would visit their wives as never a priest had done before him, bringing
them feast-day gowns and holy water, and now and again a bit of
candle, and giving them his blessing. Now it so befell that among
those of his fair parishioners whom he most affected the first place
was at length taken by one Monna Belcolore, the wife of a husbandman
that called himself Bentivegna del Mazzo. And in good sooth
she was a winsome and lusty country lass, brown as a berry and
buxom enough, and fitter than e'er another for his mill. Moreover
she had not her match in playing the tabret and singing:
The
borage is full sappy,
For this folk-song see Cantilene e Ballate,
Strambotti e Madrigali, ed.
Carducci (1871), p. 60. The fragment there printed may be freely rendered
as follows:
The borage is full sappy,
And clusters red we see,
And my love would make me happy;
So that maiden give to me.
Ill set I find this dance,
And better might it be:
So, comrade mine, advance,
And, changing place with me,
Stand thou thy love beside.
and in leading a brawl or a breakdown, no
matter who might be next her, with a fair and dainty kerchief in her
hand. Which spells so wrought upon Master Priest, that for love
of her he grew distracted, and did nought all day long but loiter
about the village on the chance of catching sight of her. And if of
a Sunday morning he espied her in church, he strove might and main
to acquit himself of his Kyrie and Sanctus in the style of a great
singer, albeit his performance was liker to the braying of an ass:
whereas, if he saw her not, he scarce exerted himself at all. However,
he managed with such discretion that neither Bentivegna del
Mazzo nor any of the neighbours wist aught of his love.
And
hoping thereby to ingratiate himself with Monna Belcolore, he from
time to time would send her presents, now a clove of fresh garlic, the
best in all the country-side, from his own garden, which he tilled with
his own hands, and anon a basket of beans or a bunch of chives or
shallots; and, when he thought it might serve his turn, he would
give
her a sly glance, and follow it up with a little amorous mocking
and mowing, which she, with rustic awkwardness, feigned not to
understand, and ever maintained her reserve, so that Master Priest
made no headway.Now it so befell that one day, when the priest at high noon was
aimlessly gadding about the village, he encountered Bentivegna del
Mazzo at the tail of a well laden ass, and greeted him, asking him
whither he was going.
I'faith, Sir,
quoth Bentivegna, for sure
'tis to town I go, having an affair or two to attend to there; and I
am taking these things to Ser Buonaccorri da Ginestreto, to get him
to stand by me in I wot not what matter, whereof the justice
o' th' coram has by his provoker served me with a pertrumpery
summons to appear before him.
Whereupon: 'Tis well, my
son,
quoth the priest, overjoyed, my blessing go with thee: good
luck to thee and a speedy return; and harkye, shouldst thou see
Lapuccio or Naldino, do not forget to tell them to send me those
thongs for my flails.
It shall be done,
quoth Bentivegna, and
jogged on towards Florence, while the priest, thinking that now was
his time to hie him to Belcolore and try his fortune, put his best
leg forward, and stayed not till he was at the house, which entering,
he said: God be gracious to us! Who is within?
Belcolore,
who was up in the loft, made answer: Welcome, Sir; but what
dost thou, gadding about in the heat?
Why, as I hope for
God's blessing,
quoth he, I am just come to stay with thee a
while, having met thy husband on his way to town.
Whereupon
down came Belcolore, took a seat, and began sifting cabbage-seed
that her husband had lately threshed. By and by the priest began:
So, Belcolore, wilt thou keep me ever a dying thus?
Whereat
Belcolore tittered, and said: Why, what is't I do to you?
Truly, nothing at all,
replied the priest: but thou sufferest me
not to do to thee that which I had lief, and which God commands.
Now away with you!
returned Belcolore, do priests do that
sort of thing?
Indeed we do,
quoth the priest, and to better
purpose than others: why not? I tell you our grinding is far
better; and wouldst thou know why? 'tis because 'tis intermittent.
And in truth 'twill be well worth thy while to keep thine own
counsel, and let me do it.
Worth my while!
ejaculated
Belcolore. How may that be? There is never a one of you but would
overreach the very Devil.
'Tis not for me to say,
returned the priest; say but what thou wouldst have: shall it be
a pair of dainty shoes? Or wouldst thou prefer a fillet? Or
perchance a gay riband? What's thy will?
Marry, no lack
have I,
quoth Belcolore, of such things as these. But, if you
wish me so well, why do me not a service? and I would then be
at your command.
Name but the service,
returned the priest,
and gladly will I do it.
Quoth then Belcolore: On Saturday
I have to go to Florence to deliver some wool that I have spun,
and to get my spinning-wheel put in order: lend me but five
pounds--I know you have them--and I will redeem my perse
petticoat from the pawnshop, and also the girdle that I wear on
saints' days, and that I had when I was married--you see that
without them I cannot go to church or anywhere else, and then I
will do just as you wish thenceforth and forever.
Whereupon:
So God give me a good year,
quoth he, as I have not the
money with me: but never fear that I will see that thou hast it
before Saturday with all the pleasure in life.
Ay, ay,
rejoined
Belcolore, you all make great promises, but then you never keep
them. Think you to serve me as you served Biliuzza, whom you
left in the lurch at last? God's faith, you do not so. To think
that she turned woman of the world just for that! If you have
not the money with you, why, go and get it.
Prithee,
returned
the priest, send me not home just now. For, seest thou, 'tis the
very nick of time with me, and the coast is clear, and perchance it
might not be so on my return, and in short I know not when it
would be likely to go so well as now.
Whereto she did but
rejoin: Good; if you are minded to go, get you gone; if not,
stay where you are.
The priest, therefore, seeing that she was
not disposed to give him what he wanted, as he was fain, to wit, on
his own terms, but was bent upon having a quid pro quo, changed
his tone; and: Lo, now,
quoth he, thou doubtest I will not
bring thee the money; so to set thy mind at rest, I will leave thee
this cloak--thou seest 'tis good sky-blue silk--in pledge.
So raising
her head and glancing at the cloak: And what may the cloak be
worth?
quoth Belcolore.
Worth!
ejaculated the priest: I
would have thee know that 'tis all Douai, not to say Trouai,
make: nay, there are some of our folk here that say 'tis Quadrouai; and
'tis not a fortnight since I bought it of Lotto, the secondhand
dealer, for seven good pounds, and then had it five good soldi
under value, by what I hear from Buglietto, who, thou knowest,
is an excellent judge of these articles.
Oh! say you so?
exclaimed Belcolore. So help me God, I should not have thought
it; however, let me look at it.
So Master Priest, being ready for
action, doffed the cloak and handed it to her. And she, having
put it in a safe place, said to him: Now, Sir, we will away to
the hut; there is never a soul goes there;
and so they did.
And
there Master Priest, giving her many a mighty buss and straining
her to his sacred person, solaced himself with her no little while.
Which done, he hied him away in his cassock, as if he were come
from officiating at a wedding; but, when he was back in his holy
quarters, he bethought him that not all the candles that he received
by way of offering in the course of an entire year would amount to
the half of five pounds, and saw that he had made a bad bargain,
and repented him that he had left the cloak in pledge, and cast
about how he might recover it without paying anything.
And as
he did not lack cunning, he hit upon an excellent expedient, by
which he compassed his end. So on the morrow, being a saint's
day, he sent a neighbour's lad to Monna Belcolore with a request
that she would be so good as to lend him her stone mortar, for that
Binguccio dal Poggio and Nuto Buglietti were to breakfast with
him that morning, and he therefore wished to make a sauce.
Belcolore having sent the mortar,
the priest, about breakfast time,
reckoning that Bentivegna del Mazzo and Belcolore would be at
their meal, called his clerk, and said to him: Take the mortar
back to Belcolore, and say: 'My master thanks you very kindly,
and bids you return the cloak that the lad left with you in pledge.'
The clerk took the mortar to Belcolore's house, where, finding her
at table with Bentivegna, he set the mortar down and delivered the
priest's message. Whereto Belcolore would fain have demurred;
but Bentivegna gave her a threatening glance, saying: So, then,
thou takest a pledge from Master Priest? By Christ, I vow, I
have half a mind to give thee a great clout o' the chin. Go, give
it back at once, a murrain on thee! And look to it that whatever
he may have a mind to, were it our very ass, he be never denied.
So, with a very bad grace, Belcolore got up, and went to the wardrobe,
and took out the cloak, and gave it to the clerk, saying:
Tell thy master from me: Would to God he may never ply pestle
in my mortar again, such honour has he done me for this turn!
So the clerk returned with the cloak, and delivered the message to
Master Priest; who, laughing, made answer: Tell her, when
thou next seest her, that, so she lend us not the mortar, I will not
lend her the pestle: be it tit for tat.
Bentivegna made no account of his wife's words, deeming that
'twas but his chiding that had provoked them. But Belcolore was
not a little displeased with Master Priest, and had never a word to say
to him till the vintage; after which, what with the salutary fear in
which she stood of the mouth of Lucifer the Great, to which he
threatened to consign her, and the must and roast chestnuts that he
sent her, she made it up with him, and many a jolly time they had
together. And though she got not the five pounds from him, he put
a new skin on her tabret, and fitted it with a little bell, wherewith
she was satisfied.
Novel IIICalandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco go in quest of the
heliotrope beside the Mugnone. Thinking to have
found it, Calandrino gets him home laden with stones.
His wife chides him: whereat he waxes wroth, beats
her, and tells his comrades what they know better
than he.
Ended Pamfilo's story, which
moved the ladies to inextinguishable
laughter, the queen bade Elisa follow suit: whereupon,
laughing, she thus began:
I know not, debonair my ladies, whether
with my little story, which is no less true than entertaining, I shall
give you occasion to laugh as much as Pamfilo has done with his,
but I will do my best.
In our city, where there has never been lack of odd humours
and queer folk, there dwelt, no long time ago, a painter named
Calandrino, a simple soul, of uncouth manners, that spent most of
his time with two other painters, the one Bruno, the other
Buffalmacco, by name, pleasant fellows enough, but not without
their full share of sound and shrewd sense, and who kept with
Calandrino for that they not seldom found his singular ways and
his simplicity very diverting. There was also at the same time
at Florence one Maso del Saggio, a fellow marvellously entertaining
by his cleverness, dexterity and unfailing resource; who having
heard somewhat touching Calandrino's simplicity, resolved to make
fun of him by playing him a trick, and inducing him to believe
some prodigy. And happening one day to come upon Calandrino in
the church of San Giovanni, where he sate intently regarding the
paintings and intaglios of the tabernacle above the altar, which had
then
but lately been set there, he deemed time and place convenient
for the execution of his design; which he accordingly imparted to
one of his comrades: whereupon the two men drew nigh the place
where Calandrino sate alone, and feigning not to see him fell a
talking of the virtues of divers stones, of which Maso spoke as aptly
and pertinently as if he had been a great and learned lapidary.
Calandrino heard what passed between them, and witting that 'twas
no secret, after a while got up, and joined them, to Maso's no small
delight. He therefore continued his discourse, and being asked by
Calandrino, where these stones of such rare virtues were to be found,
made answer:
Chiefly in Berlinzone, in the land of the Basques.
The district is called Bengodi, and there they bind the vines with
sausages, and a denier will buy a goose and a gosling into the
bargain; and on a mountain, all of grated Parmesan cheese, dwell
folk that do nought else but make macaroni and raviuoli,A sort of
rissole. and boil
them in capon's broth, and then throw them down to be scrambled
for; and hard by flows a rivulet of Vernaccia, the best that ever
was drunk, and never a drop of water therein.
Ah! 'tis a sweet
country!
quoth Calandrino; but tell me, what becomes of the
capons that they boil?
They are all eaten by the Basques,
replied Maso.
Then: Wast thou ever there?
quoth Calandrino.
Whereupon: Was I ever there, sayst thou?
replied Maso.
Why, if I have been there once, I have been there a thousand
times.
And how many miles is't from here?
quoth Calandrino.
Oh!
returned Maso, more than thou couldst number in a night
without slumber.
Farther off, then, than the Abruzzi?
said
Calandrino.
Why, yes, 'tis a bit farther,
replied Maso.
Now Calandrino, like the simple soul that he was, marking the
composed and grave countenance with which Maso spoke, could not
have believed him more thoroughly, if he had uttered the most patent
truth, and thus taking his words for gospel: 'Tis a trifle too far
for my purse,
quoth he; were it nigher, I warrant thee, I
would go with thee thither one while, just to see the macaroni
come tumbling down, and take my fill thereof. But tell me, so good
luck befall thee, are none of these stones, that have these rare virtues,
to be found in these regions?
Ay,
replied Maso, two sorts of
stone
are found there, both of virtues extraordinary. The one sort
are the sandstones of Settignano and Montisci, which being made
into millstones, by virtue thereof flour is made; wherefore 'tis a
common saying in those countries that blessings come from God and
millstones from Montisci: but, for that these sandstones are in great
plenty, they are held cheap by us, just as by them are emeralds,
whereof they have mountains, bigger than Monte Morello, that shine
at midnight, a God's name! And know this, that whoso should make
a goodly pair of millstones, and connect them with a ring before ever
a hole was drilled in them, and take them to the Soldan, should get
all he would have thereby. The other sort of stone is the heliotrope,
as we lapidaries call it, a stone of very great virtue, inasmuch as
whoso carries it on his person is seen, so long as he keep it, by never
another soul, where he is not.
These be virtues great indeed,
quoth Calandrino; but where is this second stone to be found?
Whereto Maso made answer that there were usually some to be
found in the Mugnone.
And what are its size and colour?
quoth
Calandrino. The size varies,
replied Maso, for some are bigger
and some smaller than others; but all are of the same colour, being
nearly black.
All these matters duly marked and fixed in his memory,
Calandrino made as if he had other things to attend to, and took his
leave of Maso with the intention of going in quest of the stone, but
not until he had let his especial friends, Bruno and Buffalmacco,
know of his project.
So, that no time might be lost, but, postponing
everything else, they might begin the quest at once, he set about
looking for them, and spent the whole morning in the search.
At
length, when 'twas already past none, he called to mind that they
would be at work in the Faentine women's convent, and though
'twas excessively hot, he let nothing stand in his way, but at a pace
that was more like a run than a walk, hied him thither; and so soon
as he had made them ware of his presence, thus he spoke:
Comrades,
so you are but minded to hearken to me, 'tis in our power to
become the richest men in Florence; for I am informed by one that
may be trusted that there is a kind of stone in the Mugnone which
renders whoso carries it invisible to every other soul in the world.
Wherefore, methinks, we were wise to let none have the start of us,
but go search for this stone without any delay.
We shall find it
without a doubt, for I know what 'tis like, and when we have found it,
we have but to put it in the purse, and get us to the moneychangers,
whose counters, as you know, are always laden with groats
and florins, and help ourselves to as many as we have a mind to.
No one will see us, and so, hey presto! we shall be rich folk in the
twinkling of an eye, and have no more need to go besmearing the
walls all day long like so many snails.
Whereat Bruno and Buffalmacco
began only to laugh, and exchanging glances, made as if they
marvelled exceedingly, and expressed approval of Calandrino's project.
Then Buffalmacco asked, what might be the name of the stone.
Calandrino, like the numskull that he was, had already forgotten the
name: so he made answer: Why need we concern ourselves
with the name, since we know the stone's virtue? methinks, we
were best to go look for it, and waste no more time.
Well, well,
said Bruno, but what are the size and shape of the stone?
They
are of all sizes and shapes,
said Calandrino, but they are all pretty
nearly black; wherefore, methinks, we were best to collect all the
black stones that we see until we hit upon it: and so, let us be off,
and lose no more time.
Nay, but,
said Bruno, wait a bit.
And turning to Buffalmacco: Methinks,
quoth he, that Calandrino
says well: but I doubt this is not the time for such work,
seeing that the sun is high, and his rays so flood the Mugnone as to
dry all the stones; insomuch that stones will now shew as white
that in the morning, before the sun had dried them, would shew as
black:
besides which, to-day being a working-day, there will be for
one cause or another folk not a few about the Mugnone, who, seeing
us, might guess what we were come for, and peradventure do the like
themselves; whereby it might well be that they found the stone, and
we might miss the trot by trying after the amble.
Wherefore, so
you agree, methinks we were best to go about it in the morning,
when we shall be better able to distinguish the black stones from the
white, and on a holiday, when there will be none to see us.
Buffalmacco's advice being approved by Bruno, Calandrino
chimed in; and so 'twas arranged that they should all three go in
quest of the stone on the following Sunday. So Calandrino, having
besought his companions above all things to let never a soul in the
world hear aught of the matter, for that it had been imparted to him
in strict confidence, and having told them what he had heard touching
the land of Bengodi, the truth of which he affirmed with oaths, took
leave of them; and they concerted their plan, while Calandrino
impatiently expected the Sunday morning. Whereon, about dawn,
he arose, and called them; and forth they issued by the Porta a San
Gallo, and hied them to the Mugnone, and following its course,
began their quest of the stone, Calandrino, as was natural, leading
the way, and jumping lightly from rock to rock, and wherever he
espied a black stone, stooping down, picking it up and putting it in
the fold of his tunic, while his comrades followed, picking up a stone
here and a stone there. Thus it was that Calandrino had not gone
far, before, finding that there was no more room in his tunic, he lifted
the skirts of his gown, which was not cut after the fashion of
Hainault, and gathering them under his leathern girdle and making
them fast on every side, thus furnished himself with a fresh and
capacious lap, which, however, taking no long time to fill, he made
another lap out of his cloak, which in like manner he soon filled
with stones. Wherefore, Bruno and Buffalmacco seeing that
Calandrino was well laden, and that 'twas nigh upon breakfast-time,
and the moment for action come: Where is Calandrino?
quoth Bruno to Buffalmacco. Whereto Buffalmacco, who had
Calandrino full in view, having first turned about and looked here,
there and everywhere, made answer: That wot not I; but not
so long ago he was just in front of us.
Not so long ago,
forsooth,
returned Bruno; 'tis my firm belief that at this very moment he is
at breakfast at home, having left to us this wild-goose chase of black
stones in the Mugnone.
Marry,
quoth Buffalmacco, he did but
serve us right so to trick us and leave, seeing that we were so silly as
to believe him. Why, who could have thought that any but we
would have been so foolish as to believe that a stone of such rare
virtue was to be found in the Mugnone?
Calandrino, hearing their
colloquy, forthwith imagined that he had the stone in his hand, and
by its virtue, though present, was invisible to them; and overjoyed by
such good fortune, would not say a word to undeceive them, but
determined to hie him home, and accordingly faced about, and put
himself in motion.
Whereupon: Ay!
quoth Buffalmacco
to Bruno, what are we about that we go not back too?
Go we
then,
said Bruno; but by God I swear that Calandrino shall
never play me another such trick; and as to this, were I nigh him,
as I have been all the morning, I would teach him to remember it for
a month or so, such a reminder would I give him in the heel
with this stone.
And even as he spoke he threw back his arm, and
launched the stone against Calandrino's heel. Galled by the blow,
Calandrino gave a great hop and a slight gasp, but said nothing, and
halted not. Then, picking out one of the stones that he had
collected: Bruno,
quoth Buffalmacco, see what a goodly
stone I have here, would it might but catch Calandrino in the
back;
and forthwith he discharged it with main force upon the
said back. And in short, suiting action to word, now in this way,
now in that, they stoned him all the way up the Mugnone as far as
the Porta a San Gallo. There they threw away the stones they had
picked up, and tarried a while with the customs' officers, who, being
primed by them, had let Calandrino pass unchallenged, while their
laughter knew no bounds.
So Calandrino, halting nowhere, betook him to his house, which
was hard by the corner of the Macina. And so well did Fortune
prosper the trick, that all the way by the stream and across the city
there was never a soul that said a word to Calandrino, and indeed he
encountered but few, for most folk were at breakfast. But no
sooner was Calandrino thus gotten home with his stones, than it so
happened that his good lady, Monna Tessa, shewed her fair face at
the stair's head, and catching sight of him, and being somewhat
annoyed by his long delay, chid him, saying: What the Devil
brings thee here so late? Must breakfast wait thee until all other
folk have had it?
Calandrino caught the words, and angered and
mortified to find that he was not invisible, broke out with: Alas!
curst woman! so 'twas thou! Thou hast undone me: but, God's
faith, I will pay thee out.
Whereupon he was upstairs in a trice,
and having discharged his great load of stones in a parlour, rushed
with fell intent upon his wife, and laid hold of her by the hair, and
threw her down at his feet, and beat and kicked her in every part of
her person with all the force he had in his arms and legs, insomuch
that he left never a hair of her head or bone of her body unscathed,
and 'twas all in vain that she laid her palms together and crossed her
fingers and cried for mercy.
Now Buffalmacco and Bruno, after making merry a while with
the warders of the gate, had set off again at a leisurely pace, keeping
some distance behind Calandrino. Arrived at his door, they heard the
noise of the sound thrashing that he was giving his wife; and
making as if they were but that very instant come upon the scene,
they called him. Calandrino, flushed, all of a sweat, and out of
breath, shewed himself at the window, and bade them come up.
They, putting on a somewhat angry air, did so; and espied Calandrino
sitting in the parlour, amid the stones which lay all about,
untrussed, and puffing with the air of a man spent with exertion,
while his lady lay in one of the corners, weeping bitterly, her hair all
dishevelled, her clothes torn to shreds, and her face livid, bruised and
battered. So after surveying the room a while: What means
this, Calandrino?
quoth they. Art thou minded to build thee a
wall, that we see so many stones about?
And then, as they received
no answer, they continued: And how's this? How comes
Monna Tessa in this plight? 'Twould seem thou hast given her a
beating! What unheard-of doings are these?
What with the
weight of the stones that he had carried, and the fury with which he
had beaten his wife, and the mortification that he felt at the miscarriage
of his enterprise, Calandrino was too spent to utter a word
by way of reply. Wherefore in a menacing tone Buffalmacco began
again:
However out of sorts thou mayst have been, Calandrino,
thou shouldst not have played us so scurvy a trick as thou hast. To
take us with thee to the Mugnone in quest of this stone of rare
virtue, and then, without so much as saying either God-speed or
Devil-speed, to be off, and leave us there like a couple of gowks!
We take it not a little unkindly: and rest assured that thou shalt
never so fool us again.
Whereto with an effort Calandrino replied:
Comrades, be not wroth with me: 'tis not as you think.
I, luckless wight! found the stone: listen, and you will no longer
doubt that I say sooth. When you began saying one to the other:
'Where is Calandrino?' I was within ten paces of you, and marking
that you came by without seeing me, I went before, and so, keeping
ever a little ahead of you, I came hither.
And then he told them the
whole story of what they had said and done from beginning to end,
and shewed them his back and heel, how they had been mauled by
the stones; after which:
And I tell you,
he went on, that,
laden though I was with all these stones, that you see here, never a
word was said to me by the warders of the gate as I passed in, though
you know how vexatious and grievous these warders are wont to make
themselves in their determination to see everything: and moreover
I met by the way several of my gossips and friends that are ever
wont to greet me, and ask me to drink, and never a word said any or
them to me, no, nor half a word either; but they passed me by as
men that saw me not. But at last, being come home, I was met
and seen by this devil of a woman, curses upon her, forasmuch as all
things, as you know, lose their virtue in the presence of a woman;
whereby I from being the most lucky am become the most luckless
man in Florence: and therefore I thrashed her as long as I could stir
a hand, nor know I wherefore I forbear to sluice her veins for her,
cursed be the hour that first I saw her, cursed be the hour that I
brought her into the house!
And so, kindling with fresh wrath, he
was about to start up and give her another thrashing; when Buffalmacco
and Bruno, who had listened to his story with an air of great
surprise, and affirmed its truth again and again, while they all but burst
with suppressed laughter, seeing him now frantic to renew his assault
upon his wife, got up and withstood and held him back, averring that
the lady was in no wise to blame for what had happened, but only he,
who, witting that things lost their virtue in the presence of women, had
not bidden her keep aloof from him that day; which precaution God
had not suffered him to take, either because the luck was not to be
his, or because he was minded to cheat his comrades, to whom he
should have shewn the stone as soon as he found it. And so, with
many words they hardly prevailed upon him to forgive his injured
wife, and leaving him to rue the ill-luck that had filled his house
with stones, went their way.
Novel IVThe rector of Fiesole loves a widow lady, by whom he is
not loved, and thinking to lie with her, lies with her
maid, with whom the lady's brothers cause him to be
found by his Bishop.
Elisa being come to the end of
her story, which in the telling
had yielded no small delight to all the company, the queen, turning
to Emilia, signified her will, that her story should ensue at once upon
that of Elisa. And thus with alacrity Emilia began:
Noble ladies,
how we are teased and tormented by these priests and friars, and
indeed by clergy of all sorts, I mind me to have been set forth in
more than one of the stories that have been told; but as 'twere not
possible to say so much thereof but that more would yet remain to
say, I purpose to supplement them with the story of a rector, who, in
defiance of all the world, was bent upon having the favour of a
gentlewoman, whether she would or no. Which gentlewoman,
being discreet above a little, treated him as he deserved.
Fiesole, whose hill is here within sight, is, as each of you knows,
a city of immense antiquity, and was aforetime great, though now
'tis fallen into complete decay; which notwithstanding, it always was,
and still is the see of a bishop. Now there was once a gentlewoman,
Monna Piccarda by name, a widow, that had an estate at Fiesole,
hard by the cathedral, on which, for that she was not in the easiest
circumstances, she lived most part of the year, and with her her two
brothers, very worthy and courteous young men, both of them.
And the lady being wont frequently to resort to the cathedral, and
being still quite young and fair and debonair withal, it so befell that
the rector grew in the last degree enamoured of her, and waxed at
length so bold, that he himself avowed his passion to the lady, praying
her
to entertain his love, and requite it in like measure.
The rector
was advanced in years, but otherwise the veriest springald, being bold
and of a high spirit, of a boundless conceit of himself, and of mien
and manners most affected and in the worst taste, and withal so tiresome
and insufferable that he was on bad terms with everybody, and,
if with one person more than another, with this lady, who not only
cared not a jot for him, but had liefer have had a headache than his
company. Wherefore the lady discreetly made answer: I may
well prize your love, Sir, and love you I should and will right gladly;
but such love as yours and mine may never admit of aught that is
not honourable. You are my spiritual father and a priest, and now
verging towards old age, circumstances which should ensure your
honour and chastity; and I, on my part, am no longer a girl, such
as these love affairs might beseem, but a widow, and well you wot
how it behoves widows to be chaste. Wherefore I pray you to have
me excused; for, after the sort you crave, you shall never have my
love, nor would I in such sort be loved by you.
With this answer
the rector was for the nonce fain to be content; but he was not the
man to be dismayed and routed by a first repulse; and with his
wonted temerity and effrontery he plied her again and again with
letters and ambassages, and also by word of mouth, when he espied
her entering the church. Wherefore the lady finding this persecution
more grievous and harassing than she could well bear, cast about how
she might be quit thereof in such fashion as he deserved, seeing that
he left her no choice; howbeit she would do nought in the matter
until she had conferred with her brothers. She therefore told them
how the rector pursued her, and how she meant to foil him; and,
with their full concurrence, some few days afterwards she went, as
she was wont, to church. The rector no sooner saw her, than he
approached and accosted her, as he was wont, in a tone of easy
familiarity. The lady greeted him, as he came up, with a glance
of gladsome recognition; and when he had treated her to not a little
of his wonted eloquence, she drew him aside, and heaving a great
sigh, said:
I have oftentimes heard it said, Sir, that there is no
castle so strong, but that, if the siege be continued day by day, it
will sooner or later be taken; which I now plainly perceive is my
own case. For so fairly have you hemmed me in with this, that, and
the other pretty speech or the like blandishments, that you have
constrained
me to make nought of my former resolve, and, seeing that I
find such favour with you, to surrender myself unto you.
Whereto,
overjoyed, the rector made answer: Madam, I am greatly
honoured; and, sooth to say, I marvelled not a little how you should
hold out so long, seeing that I have never had the like experience
with any other woman, insomuch that I have at times said: 'Were
women of silver, they would not be worth a denier, for there is none
but would give under the hammer.' But no more of this: when and
where may we come together?
Sweet my lord,
replied the lady,
for the when, 'tis just as we may think best, for I have no husband
to whom to render account of my nights, but the where passes my
wit to conjecture.
How so?
quoth the rector. Why not in
your own house?
Sir,
replied the lady, you know that I have
two brothers, both young men, who day and night bring their comrades
into the house, which is none too large: for which reason it
might not be done there, unless we were minded to make ourselves,
as it were, dumb and blind, uttering never a word, not so much as a
monosyllable, and abiding in the dark: in such sort indeed it might
be, because they do not intrude upon my chamber; but theirs is so
near to mine that the very least whisper could not but be heard.
Nay but, Madam,
returned the rector, let not this stand in our
way for a night or two, until I may bethink me where else we might
be more at our ease.
Be that as you will, Sir,
quoth the lady,
I do but entreat that the affair be kept close, so that never a word
of it get wind.
Have no fear on that score, Madam,
replied the
priest; and if so it may be, let us forgather to-night.
With
pleasure,
returned the lady; and having appointed him how and
when to come, she left him and went home.
Now the lady had a maid, that was none too young, and had a
countenance the ugliest and most misshapen that ever was seen; for
indeed she was flat-nosed, wry-mouthed, and thick-lipped, with huge,
ill-set teeth, eyes that squinted and were ever bleared, and a complexion
betwixt green and yellow, that shewed as if she had spent the
summer not at Fiesole but at Sinigaglia: besides which she was hipshot
and somewhat halting on the right side.
Her name was Ciuta,
but, for that she was such a scurvy bitch to look upon, she was called
by all folk Ciutazza.An augmentative form, with a suggestion of
cagnazza, bitch-like. And being thus misshapen of body, she
was
also not without her share of guile. So the lady called her and said:
Ciutazza, so thou wilt do me a service to-night, I will give thee
a fine new shift.
At the mention of the shift Ciutazza made
answer: So you give me a shift, Madam, I will throw myself
into the very fire.
Good,
said the lady; then I would have
thee lie to-night in my bed with a man, whom thou wilt caress; but
look thou say never a word, that my brothers, who, as thou knowest,
sleep in the next room, hear thee not; and afterwards I will give
thee the shift.
Sleep with a man!
quoth Ciutazza: why, if
need be, I will sleep with six.
So in the evening Master Rector
came, as he had been bidden; and the two young men, as the lady
had arranged, being in their room, and making themselves very audible,
he stole noiselessly, and in the dark, into the lady's room, and got
him on to the bed, which Ciutazza, well advised by the lady how to
behave, mounted from the other side.
Whereupon Master Rector,
thinking to have the lady by his side, took Ciutazza in his arms, and
fell a kissing her, saying never a word the while, and Ciutazza did
the like; and so he enjoyed her, plucking the boon which he had so
long desired.
The rector and Ciutazza thus closeted, the lady charged her
brothers to execute the rest of her plan. They accordingly stole
quietly out of their room, and hied them to the piazza, where
Fortune proved propitious beyond what they had craved of her; for,
it being a very hot night, the bishop had been seeking them, purposing
to go home with them, and solace himself with their society, and
quench his thirst. With which desire he acquainted them, as soon
as he espied them coming into the piazza; and so they escorted him
to their house, and there in the cool of their little courtyard, which
was bright with many a lamp, he took, to his no small comfort, a
draught of their good wine. Which done: Sir,
said the young
men, since of your great courtesy you have deigned to visit our poor
house, to which we were but now about to invite you, we should be
gratified if you would be pleased to give a look at somewhat, a mere
trifle though it be, which we have here to shew you.
The bishop
replied that he would do so with pleasure. Whereupon one of the
young men took a lighted torch and led the way, the bishop and
the rest following, to the chamber where Master Rector lay with
Ciutazza.
Now the rector, being in hot haste, had ridden hard, insomuch
that he was already gotten above three miles on his way when they
arrived; and so, being somewhat tired, he was resting, but, hot
though the night was, he still held Ciutazza in his arms.
In which
posture he was shewn to the bishop, when, preceded by the young
man bearing the light, and followed by the others, he entered the
chamber. And being roused, and observing the light and the folk
that stood about him, Master Rector was mighty ashamed and
affrighted, and popped his head under the clothes. But the bishop,
reprimanding him severely, constrained him to thrust his head out
again, and take a view of his bed-fellow. Thus made aware of the
trick which the lady had played him, the rector was now, both on
that score and by reason of his signal disgrace, the saddest man that
ever was; and his discomfiture was complete, when, having donned
his clothes, he was committed by the bishop's command to close
custody and sent to prison, there to expiate his offence by a rigorous
penance.
The bishop was then fain to know how it had come about that
he had forgathered there with Ciutazza. Whereupon the young
men related the whole story; which ended, the bishop commended
both the lady and the young men not a little, for that they had taken
condign vengeance upon him without imbruing their hands in the
blood of a priest. The bishop caused him to bewail his transgression
forty days; but what with his love, and the scornful requital which
it had received, he bewailed it more than forty and nine days, not to
mention that for a great while he could not shew himself in the
street but the boys would point the finger at him and say:
There goes he that lay with Ciutazza.
Which was such an
affliction to him that he was like to go mad. On this wise the
worthy lady rid herself of the rector's vexatious importunity, and
Ciutazza had a jolly night and earned her shift.
Novel VThree young men pull down the breeches of a judge from
the Marches, while he is administering justice on the
bench.
So ended Emilia her story; and when
all had commended the
widow lady: 'Tis now thy turn to speak,
quoth the queen,
fixing her gaze upon Filostrato, who answered that he was ready,
and forthwith thus began:
Sweet my ladies, by what I remember
of that young man, to wit, Maso del Saggio, whom Elisa named a
while ago, I am prompted to lay aside a story that I had meant to
tell you, and to tell you another, touching him and some of his
comrades, which, notwithstanding there are in it certain words
(albeit 'tis not unseemly) which your modesty forbears to use, is yet
so laughable that I shall relate it.
As you all may well have heard, there come not seldom to our
city magistrates from the Marches, who for the most part are men
of a mean spirit, and in circumstances so reduced and beggarly, that
their whole life seems to be but a petty-foggery; and by reason of
this their inbred sordidness and avarice they bring with them judges
and notaries that have rather the air of men taken from the plough
or the last than trained in the schools of law.It was owing to their
internal dissensions that the Florentines were
from time to time fain to introduce these stranger Podestàs.
Now one of these
Marchers, being come hither as Podestà, brought with him judges
not a few, and among them one that called himself Messer Niccola
da San Lepidio, and looked liker to a locksmith than aught else.
However, this fellow was assigned with the rest of the judges to
hear criminal causes. And as folk will often go to the court, though
they have no concern whatever there, it so befell that Maso del Saggio
went thither one morning in quest of one of his friends, and
there chancing to set eyes on this Messer Niccola, where he sate,
deemed him a fowl of no common feather, and surveyed him from
head to foot, observing that the vair which he wore on his head was
all begrimed, that he carried an ink-horn at his girdle, that his gown
was longer than his robe, and many another detail quite foreign to
the appearance of a man of birth and breeding, of which that which
he deemed most notable was a pair of breeches, which, as he saw
(for the judge's outer garments being none too ample were open in
front, as he sate), reached half-way down his legs. By which sight his
mind was presently diverted from the friend whom he came there to
seek; and forth he hied him in quest of other two of his comrades,
the one Ribi, the other Matteuzzo by name, fellows both of them
not a whit less jolly than Maso himself; and having found them, he
said to them: An you love me, come with me to the court, and
I will shew you the queerest scarecrow that ever you saw.
So the
two men hied them with him to the court; and there he pointed
out to them the judge and his breeches. What they saw from a
distance served to set them laughing: then drawing nearer to the
daïs on which Master Judge was seated, they observed that 'twas
easy enough to get under the daïs, and moreover that the plank, on
which the judge's feet rested, was broken, so that there was plenty
of room for the passage of a hand and arm. Whereupon quoth
Maso to his comrades: 'Twere a very easy matter to pull these
breeches right down: wherefore I propose that we do so.
Each
of the men had marked how it might be done; and so, having
concerted both what they should do and what they should say, they
came to the court again next morning; and, the court being
crowded, Matteuzzo, observed by never a soul, slipped beneath the
daïs, and posted himself right under the spot where the judge's feet
rested, while the other two men took their stand on either side of the
judge, each laying hold of the hem of his robe. Then: Sir, sir, I
pray you for God's sake,
began Maso, that, before the pilfering
rascal
that is there beside you can make off, you constrain him to give me
back a pair of jack boots that he has stolen from me, which theft
he still denies, though 'tis not a month since I saw him getting
them resoled.
Meanwhile Ribi, at the top of his voice, shouted:
Believe him not, Sir, the scurvy knave! 'Tis but that he knows that
I am come to demand restitution of a valise that he has stolen
from me that he now for the first time trumps up this story about
a pair of jack boots that I have had in my house down to the last
day or two; and if you doubt what I say, I can bring as witness
Trecca, my neighbour, and Grassa, the tripe-woman, and one that
goes about gathering the sweepings of Santa Maria a Verzaia, who
saw him when he was on his way back from the farm.
But shout
as he might, Maso was still even with him, nor for all that did Ribi
bate a jot of his clamour. And while the judge stood, bending now
towards the one, now towards the other, the better to hear them,
Matteuzzo seized his opportunity, and thrusting his hand through
the hole in the plank caught hold of the judge's breeches, and tugged
at them amain. Whereby down they came straightway, for the
judge was a lean man, and shrunk in the buttocks. The judge,
being aware of the accident, but knowing not how it had come
about, would have gathered his outer garments together in front, so
as to cover the defect, but Maso on the one side, and Ribi on the
other, held him fast, shouting amain and in chorus:
You do me a
grievous wrong, Sir, thus to deny me justice, nay, even a hearing,
and to think of quitting the court: there needs no writ in this city
for such a trifling matter as this.
And thus they held him by the
clothes and in parley, until all that were in the court perceived that
he had lost his breeches. However, after a while, Matteuzzo
dropped the breeches, and slipped off, and out of the court, without
being observed, and Ribi, deeming that the joke had gone far
enough, exclaimed: By God, I vow, I will appeal to the Syndics;
while Maso, on the other side, let go the robe, saying: Nay,
but for my part, I will come here again and again and again, until I
find you less embarrassed than you seem to be to-day.
And so the
one this way, the other that way, they made off with all speed.
Whereupon Master Judge, disbreeched before all the world, was as
one that awakens from sleep, albeit he was ware of his forlorn
condition, and asked whither the parties in the case touching the
jack boots and the valise were gone. However, as they were not
to be found, he fell a swearing by the bowels of God, that 'twas
meet and proper that he should know and wit, whether 'twas the
custom at Florence to disbreech judges sitting in the seat of justice.
When the affair reached the ears of the Podestà, he made no
little stir about it; but, being informed by some of his friends, that
'twould not have happened, but that the Florentines were minded
to shew him, that, in place of the judges he should have brought
with him, he had brought but gowks, to save expense, he deemed it
best to say no more about it, and so for that while the matter went
no further.
Novel VIBruno and Buffalmacco steal a pig from Calandrino, and
induce him to essay its recovery by means of pills of
ginger and vernaccia. Of the said pills they give
him two, one after the other, made of dog-ginger
compounded with aloes; and it then appearing as if
he had had the pig himself, they constrain him to buy
them off, if he would not have them tell his wife.
Filostrato's story, which elicited
not a little laughter, was no
sooner ended, than the queen bade Filomena follow suit. Wherefore
thus Filomena began:
As, gracious ladies, 'twas the name of
Maso del Saggio that prompted Filostrato to tell the story that you
have but now heard, even so 'tis with me in regard of Calandrino
and his comrades, of whom I am minded to tell you another story,
which you will, I think, find entertaining.
Who Calandrino,
Bruno and Buffalmacco were, I need not explain; you know them
well enough from the former story; and therefore I will tarry no
longer than to say that Calandrino had a little estate not far from
Florence, which his wife had brought him by way of dowry, and
which yielded them yearly, among other matters, a pig; and 'twas
his custom every year in the month of December to resort to the
farm with his wife, there to see to the killing and salting of the
said pig. Now, one of these years it so happened that his wife
being unwell, Calandrino went thither alone to kill the pig. And
Bruno and Buffalmacco learning that he was gone to the farm, and
that his wife was not with him, betook them to the house of a
priest that was their especial friend and a neighbour of Calandrino,
there to tarry a while. Upon their arrival Calandrino, who had
that very morning killed the pig, met them with the priest, and
accosted them, saying: A hearty welcome to you. I should
like you to see what an excellent manager I am;
and so he took
them into his house, and shewed them the pig. They observed
that 'twas a very fine pig; and learned from Calandrino that he was
minded to salt it for household consumption. Then thou art but
a fool,
quoth Bruno. Sell it, man, and let us have a jolly time
with the money; and tell thy wife that 'twas stolen.
Not I,
replied Calandrino: she would never believe me, and would drive
me out of the house. Urge me no further, for I will never do it.
The others said a great deal more, but to no purpose; and Calandrino
bade them to supper, but so coldly that they declined, and left him.
Presently: Should we not steal this pig from him to-night?
quoth Bruno to Buffalmacco.
Could we so?
returned Buffalmacco.
How?
Why as to that,
rejoined Bruno, I have
already marked how it may be done, if he bestow not the pig
elsewhere.
So be it, then,
said Buffalmacco: we will steal
it; and then, perchance, our good host, Master Priest, will join us
in doing honour to such good cheer?
That right gladly will I,
quoth the priest. Whereupon: Some address, though,
quoth
Bruno, will be needful: thou knowest, Buffalmacco, what a
niggardly fellow Calandrino is, and how greedily he drinks at other
folk's expense. Go we, therefore, and take him to the tavern,
and there let the priest make as if, to do us honour, he would pay
the whole score, and suffer Calandrino to pay never a soldo, and he
will grow tipsy, and then we shall speed excellent well, because he
is alone in the house.
As Bruno proposed, so they did: and Calandrino, finding that
the priest would not suffer him to pay, drank amain, and took a great
deal more aboard than he had need of; and the night being far spent
when he left the tavern, he dispensed with supper, and went home,
and thinking to have shut the door, got him to bed, leaving it open.
Buffalmacco and Bruno went to sup with the priest; and after supper,
taking with them certain implements with which to enter Calandrino's
house, where Bruno thought it most feasible, they stealthily approached
it; but finding the door open, they entered, and took down the pig,
and carried it away to the priest's house, and having there bestowed
it safely, went to bed. In the morning when Calandrino, his head at
length quit of the fumes of the wine, got up, and came downstairs
and found that his pig was nowhere to be seen, and that the door
was open, he asked this, that, and the other man, whether they wist
who had taken the pig away, and getting no answer, he began to
make a great outcry: Alas, alas! luckless man that I am, that
my pig should have been stolen from me!
Meanwhile Bruno and
Buffalmacco, being also risen, made up to him, to hear what he would
say touching the pig. Whom he no sooner saw, than well-nigh
weeping he called them, saying: Alas! my friends! my pig is
stolen from me.
Bruno stepped up to him and said in a low tone:
'Tis passing strange if thou art in the right for once.
Alas!
returned Calandrino, what I say is but too true.
Why, then,
out with it, man,
quoth Bruno, cry aloud, that all folk may know
that 'tis so.
Calandrino then raised his voice and said: By the
body o' God I say of a truth that my pig has been stolen from me.
So!
quoth Bruno, but publish it, man, publish it; lift up thy
voice, make thyself well heard, that all may believe thy report.
Thou art enough to make me give my soul to the Enemy,
replied
Calandrino. I say--dost not believe me?--that hang me by the
neck if the pig is not stolen from me!
Nay, but,
quoth Bruno,
how can it be? I saw it here but yesterday. Dost think to make
me believe that it has taken to itself wings and flown away?
All
the same 'tis as I tell thee,
returned Calandrino.
Is it possible?
quoth Bruno.
Ay indeed,
replied Calandrino; 'tis even so: and
I am undone, and know not how to go home. Never will my wife
believe me; or if she do so, I shall know no peace this year.
Upon my hope of salvation,
quoth Bruno, 'tis indeed a bad
business, if so it really is. But thou knowest, Calandrino, that 'twas
but yesterday I counselled thee to make believe that 'twas so. I
should be sorry to think thou didst befool thy wife and us at the same
time.
Ah!
vociferated Calandrino, wilt thou drive me to
despair and provoke me to blaspheme God and the saints and all the
company of heaven? I tell thee that the pig has been stolen from
me in the night.
Whereupon: If so it be,
quoth Buffalmacco,
we must find a way, if we can, to recover it.
Find a way?
said Calandrino: how can we compass that?
Why,
replied
Buffalmacco, 'tis certain that no one has come from India to steal
thy pig: it must have been one of thy neighbours, and it thou
couldst bring them together, I warrant thee, I know how to make
the assay with bread and cheese, and we will find out in a trice who
has had the pig.
Ay,
struck in Bruno, make thy assay with
bread
and cheese in the presence of these gentry hereabout, one of whom
I am sure has had the pig! why, the thing would be seen through:
and they would not come.
What shall we do, then?
said
Buffalmacco.
Whereto Bruno made answer: It must be done
with good pills of ginger and good vernaccia; and they must be
bidden come drink with us. They will suspect nothing, and will
come; and pills of ginger can be blessed just as well as bread and
cheese.
Beyond a doubt, thou art right,
quoth Buffalmacco;
and thou, Calandrino, what sayst thou? Shall we do as Bruno
says?
Nay, I entreat you, for the love of God,
quoth Calandrino,
do even so: for if I knew but who had had the pig, I should
feel myself half consoled for my loss.
Go to, now,
quoth Bruno,
I am willing to do thy errand to Florence for these commodities, if
thou givest me the money.
Calandrino had some forty soldi upon him, which he gave to
Bruno, who thereupon hied him to Florence to a friend of his that
was an apothecary, and bought a pound of good pills of ginger, two
of which, being of dog-ginger, he caused to be compounded with
fresh hepatic aloes, and then to be coated with sugar like the others;
and lest they should be lost, or any of the others mistaken for them,
he had a slight mark set upon them by which he might readily
recognize them. He also bought a flask of good vernaccia, and, thus
laden, returned to the farm, and said to Calandrino:
To-morrow
morning thou wilt bid those whom thou suspectest come hither to
drink with thee: as 'twill be a saint's day, they will all come readily
enough; and to-night I and Buffalmacco will say the incantation
over the pills, which in the morning I will bring to thee here, and
for our friendship's sake will administer them myself, and do and say
all that needs to be said and done.
So Calandrino did as Bruno
advised; and on the morrow a goodly company, as well of young
men from Florence, that happened to be in the village, as of husbandmen,
being assembled in front of the church around the elm, Bruno
and Buffalmacco came, bearing a box containing the ginger, and the
flask of wine, and ranged the folk in a circle. Whereupon:
Gentlemen,
said Bruno, 'tis meet I tell you the reason why
you
are gathered here, that if aught unpleasant to you should befall, you
may have no ground for complaint against me.
Calandrino here was
the night before last robbed of a fine pig, and cannot discover who
has had it; and, for that it must have been stolen by some one of us
here, he would have each of you take and eat one of these pills and
drink of this vernaccia. Wherefore I forthwith do you to wit, that
whoso has had the pig will not be able to swallow the pill, but will
find it more bitter than poison, and will spit it out; and so, rather
than he should suffer this shame in presence of so many, 'twere
perhaps best that he that has had the pig should confess the fact to
the priest, and I will wash my hands of the affair.
All professed themselves ready enough to eat the pills; and so,
having set them in a row with Calandrino among them, Bruno,
beginning at one end, proceeded to give each a pill, and when he
came to Calandrino he chose one of the pills of dog-ginger and put it
in his hand. Calandrino thrust it forthwith between his teeth and
began to chew it; but no sooner was his tongue acquainted with the
aloes, than, finding the bitterness intolerable, he spat it out.
Now,
the eyes of all the company being fixed on one another to see who should
spit out his pill, Bruno, who, not having finished the distribution,
feigned to be concerned with nought else, heard some one in his rear
say: Ha! Calandrino, what means this?
and at once turning
round, and marking that Calandrino had spit out his pill:
Wait a
while,
quoth he, perchance 'twas somewhat else that caused thee
to spit: take another;
and thereupon whipping out the other pill of
dog-ginger, he set it between Calandrino's teeth, and finished the
distribution. Bitter as Calandrino had found the former pill, he
found this tenfold more so; but being ashamed to spit it out, he kept
it a while in his mouth and chewed it, and, as he did so, tears stood in
his eyes that shewed as large as filberts, and at length, being unable
to bear it any longer, he spat it out, as he had its predecessor.
Which
being observed by Buffalmacco and Bruno, who were then administering
the wine, and by all the company, 'twas averred by common
consent that Calandrino had committed the theft himself; for which
cause certain of them took him severely to task.
However, the company being dispersed, and Bruno and Buffalmacco
left alone with Calandrino, Buffalmacco began on this wise:
I never doubted but that thou hadst had it thyself, and wast minded
to make us believe that it had been stolen from thee, that we might
not have of thee so much as a single drink out of the price which
thou gottest for it.
Calandrino, with the bitterness of the aloes
still on his tongue, fell a swearing that he had not had it.
Whereupon:
Nay, but, comrade,
quoth Buffalmacco, upon thy honour,
what did it fetch? Six florins?
Whereto, Calandrino being now
on the verge of desperation, Bruno added: Now be reasonable,
Calandrino; among the company that ate and drank with us there
was one that told me that thou hadst up there a girl that thou didst
keep for thy pleasure, giving her what by hook or by crook thou
couldst get together, and that he held it for certain that thou hadst
sent her this pig. And thou art grown expert in this sort of cozenage.
Thou tookest us one while adown the Mugnone a gathering black
stones, and having thus started us on a wild-goose chase, thou madest
off; and then wouldst fain have us believe that thou hadst found the
stone: and now, in like manner, thou thinkest by thine oaths to
persuade us that this pig which thou hast given away or sold, has
been stolen from thee. But we know thy tricks of old; never
another couldst thou play us; and, to be round with thee, this spell
has cost us some trouble: wherefore we mean that thou shalt give
us two pair of capons, or we will let Monna Tessa know all.
Seeing
that he was not believed, and deeming his mortification ample without
the addition of his wife's resentment, Calandrino gave them the
two pair of capons, with which, when the pig was salted, they
returned to Florence, leaving Calandrino with the loss and the laugh
against him.
Novel VIIA scholar loves a widow lady, who, being enamoured of
another, causes him to spend a winter's night awaiting
her in the snow. He afterwards by a stratagem
causes her to stand for a whole day in July, naked
upon a tower, exposed to the flies, the gadflies, and
the sun.
Over the woes of poor Calandrino the
ladies laughed not a little,
and had laughed yet more, but that it irked them that those that had
robbed him of the pig should also take from him the capons. However, the story being
ended, the queen bade Pampinea give them
hers: and thus forthwith Pampinea began:
Dearest ladies, it happens oftentimes that the artful scorner
meets his match; wherefore
'tis only little wits that delight to scorn. In a series of stories we have heard
tell of tricks played without aught in the way of reprisals
following: by mine I purpose in some degree to excite your compassion
for a gentlewoman of our city (albeit the retribution that
came upon her was but just) whose flout was returned in the like
sort, and to such effect that she well-nigh died thereof. The which
to hear will not be unprofitable to you, for thereby you will learn to
be more careful how you flout others, and therein you will do very
wisely.
'Tis not many years since there dwelt at Florence a lady young
and fair, and of a high spirit, as also of right gentle lineage, and
tolerably well endowed with temporal goods. Now Elena--such
was the lady's name--being left a widow, was minded never to marry
again, being enamoured of a handsome young gallant of her own
choosing, with whom she, recking nought of any other lover, did, by
the help of a maid in whom she placed much trust, not seldom speed
the time gaily and with marvellous delight. Meanwhile it so befell
that a young nobleman of our city, Rinieri by name, who had spent
much time in study at Paris, not that he might thereafter sell his
knowledge by retail, but that he might learn the reasons and causes
of things, which accomplishment shews to most excellent advantage
in a gentleman, returned to Florence, and there lived as a citizen in
no small honour with his fellows, both by reason of his rank and of
his learning. But as it is often the case that those who are most
versed in deep matters are the soonest mastered by Love, so was it
with Rinieri. For at a festal gathering, to which one day he went,
there appeared before his eyes this Elena, of whom we spoke, clad in
black, as is the wont of our Florentine widows, and shewing to his
mind so much fairer and more debonair than any other woman that
he had ever seen, that happy indeed he deemed the man might call
himself, to whom God in His goodness should grant the right to hold
her naked in his arms. So now and again he eyed her stealthily, and
knowing that boons goodly and precious are not to be gotten without
trouble, he made up his mind to study and labour with all assiduity
how best to please her, that so he might win her love, and thereby
the enjoyment of her.
The young gentlewoman was not used to keep her eyes bent
ever towards the infernal regions; but, rating herself at no less, if not
more, than her deserts, she was dexterous to move them to and fro,
and thus busily scanning her company, soon detected the men who
regarded her with pleasure. By which means having discovered
Rinieri's passion, she inly laughed, and said: 'Twill turn out that
'twas not for nothing that I came here to-day, for, if I mistake not,
I have caught a gander by the bill. So she gave him an occasional
sidelong glance, and sought as best she might to make him believe
that she was not indifferent to him, deeming that the more men she
might captivate by her charms, the higher those charms would be
rated, and most especially by him whom she had made lord of them
and her love. The erudite scholar bade adieu to philosophical meditation,
for the lady entirely engrossed his mind; and, having discovered
her house, he, thinking to please her, found divers pretexts
for frequently passing by it. Whereon the lady, her vanity flattered
for the reason aforesaid, plumed herself not a little, and shewed herself
pleased to see him. Thus encouraged, the scholar found means to
make friends with her maid, to whom he discovered his love, praying
her to do her endeavour with her mistress, that he might have her
favour. The maid was profuse of promises, and gave her mistress his
message, which she no sooner heard, than she was convulsed with
laughter, and replied: He brought sense enough hither from
Paris: knowest thou where he has since been to lose it? Go to,
now; let us give him that which he seeks. Tell him, when he next
speaks to you of the matter, that I love him vastly more than he
loves me, but that I must have regard to my reputation, so that I
may be able to hold my head up among other ladies; which, if he is
really the wise man they say, will cause him to affect me much more.
Ah! poor woman! poor woman! she little knew, my ladies, how
rash it is to try conclusions with scholars.
The maid found the scholar, and did her mistress's errand.
The
scholar, overjoyed, proceeded to urge his suit with more ardour, to
indite letters, and send presents. The lady received all that he sent
her, but vouchsafed no answers save such as were couched in general
terms: and on this wise she kept him dangling a long while.
At last,
having disclosed the whole affair to her lover, who evinced some
resentment and jealousy, she, to convince him that his suspicions
were groundless, and for that she was much importuned by the
scholar, sent word to him by her maid, that never since he had
assured her of his love, had occasion served her to do him pleasure,
but that next Christmastide she hoped to be with him; wherefore, if
he were minded to await her in the courtyard of her house on the
night of the day next following the feast, she would meet him there as
soon as she could. Elated as ne'er another, the scholar hied him at
the appointed time to the lady's house, and being ushered into a courtyard
by the maid, who forthwith turned the key upon him, addressed
himself there to await the lady's coming.
Now the lady's lover, by her appointment, was with her that
evening; and, when they had gaily supped, she told him what she had
in hand that night, adding: And so thou wilt be able to gauge the
love which I have borne and bear this scholar, whom thou hast
foolishly regarded as a rival.
The lover heard the lady's words with
no small delight, and waited in eager expectancy to see her make
them good. The scholar, hanging about there in the courtyard,
began to find it somewhat chillier than he would have liked, for it
had snowed hard all day long, so that the snow lay everywhere
thick on the ground; however, he bore it patiently, expecting to be
recompensed by and by.
After a while the lady said to her lover:
Go we to the chamber and take a peep through a lattice at him of
whom thou art turned jealous, and mark what he does, and how he
will answer the maid, whom I have bidden go speak with him.
So
the pair hied them to a lattice, wherethrough they could see without
being seen, and heard the maid call from another lattice to the
scholar, saying: Rinieri, my lady is distressed as never woman
was, for that one of her brothers is come here to-night, and after
talking a long while with her, must needs sup with her, and is not
yet gone, but, I think, he will soon be off; and that is the reason
why she has not been able to come to thee, but she will come soon
now. She trusts it does not irk thee to wait so long.
Whereto the
scholar, supposing that 'twas true, made answer: Tell my lady to
give herself no anxiety on my account, until she can conveniently
come to me, but to do so as soon as she may.
Whereupon the maid
withdrew from the window, and went to bed; while the lady said
to her lover: Now, what sayst thou? Thinkst thou that, if I had
that regard for him, which thou fearest, I would suffer him to tarry
below there to get frozen?
Which said, the lady and her now
partly reassured lover got them to bed, where for a great while they
disported them right gamesomely, laughing together and making
merry over the luckless scholar.
The scholar, meanwhile, paced up and down the courtyard to
keep himself warm, nor indeed had he where to sit, or take shelter:
in this plight he bestowed many a curse upon the lady's brother for
his long tarrying, and never a sound did he hear but he thought that
'twas the lady opening the door. But vain indeed were his hopes:
the lady, having solaced herself with her lover until hard upon midnight,
then said to him: How ratest thou our scholar, my soul?
whether is the greater his wit, or the love I bear him, thinkst thou?
Will the cold, that, of my ordaining, he now suffers, banish from thy
breast the suspicion which my light words the other day implanted
there?
Ay, indeed, heart of my body!
replied the lover, well
wot I now that even as thou art to me, my weal, my consolation,
my bliss, so am I to thee.
So:
quoth the lady, then I must
have full a thousand kisses from thee, to prove that thou sayst
sooth.
The lover's answer was to strain her to his heart, and give her not
merely a thousand but a hundred thousand kisses.
In such converse
they dallied a while longer, and then: Get we up, now,
quoth
the lady, that we may go see if 'tis quite spent, that fire, with
which, as he wrote to me daily, this new lover of mine used to
burn.
So up they got and hied them to the lattice which they had
used before, and peering out into the courtyard, saw the scholar
dancing a hornpipe to the music that his own teeth made, a chattering
for extremity of cold; nor had they ever seen it footed so nimbly
and at such a pace. Whereupon: How sayst thou, sweet my
hope?
quoth the lady. Know I not how to make men dance
without the aid of either trumpet or cornemuse?
Indeed thou
dost, my heart's delight,
replied the lover. Quoth then the lady:
I have a mind that we go down to the door. Thou wilt keep
quiet, and I will speak to him, and we shall hear what he says,
which, peradventure, we shall find no less diverting than the sight
of him.
So they stole softly out of the chamber and down to the door,
which leaving fast closed, the lady set her lips to a little hole that
was there, and with a low voice called the scholar, who, hearing her
call him, praised God, making too sure that he was to be admitted,
and being come to the door, said: Here am I, Madam; open for
God's sake; let me in, for I die of cold.
Oh! ay,
replied the
lady, I know thou hast a chill, and of course, there being a little
snow about, 'tis mighty cold; but well I wot the nights are colder
far at Paris. I cannot let thee in as yet, because my accursed
brother, that came to sup here this evening, is still with me; but he
will soon take himself off, and then I will let thee in without a
moment's delay. I have but now with no small difficulty given him
the slip, to come and give thee heart that the waiting irk thee not.
Nay but, Madam,
replied the scholar, for the love of God, I
entreat you, let me in, that I may have a roof over my head, because
for some time past there has been never so thick a fall of snow, and
'tis yet snowing; and then I will wait as long as you please.
Alas! sweet my love,
quoth the lady, that I may not, for this
door makes such a din, when one opens it, that my brother would be
sure to hear, were I to let thee in; but I will go tell him to get him
gone, and so come back and admit thee.
Go at once, then,
returned the scholar, and prithee, see that a good fire be kindled,
that, when I get in, I may warm myself, for I am now so chilled
through and through that I have scarce any feeling left.
That
can scarce be,
rejoined the lady, if it be true, what thou hast so
protested in thy letters, that thou art all afire for love of me: 'tis
plain to me now that thou didst but mock me. I now take my leave
of thee: wait and be of good cheer.
So the lady and her lover, who, to his immense delight, had heard
all that passed, betook them to bed; however, little sleep had they
that night, but spent the best part of it in disporting themselves and
making merry over the unfortunate scholar, who, his teeth now
chattering to such a tune that he seemed to have been metamorphosed
into a stork, perceived that he had been befooled, and after making
divers fruitless attempts to open the door and seeking means of egress
to no better purpose, paced to and fro like a lion, cursing the villainous
weather, the long night, his simplicity, and the perversity of the
lady, against whom (the vehemence of his wrath suddenly converting
the love he had so long borne her to bitter and remorseless enmity)
he now plotted within himself divers and grand schemes of revenge,
on which he was far more bent than ever he had been on forgathering
with her.
Slowly the night wore away, and with the first streaks of dawn
the maid, by her mistress's direction, came down, opened the door of
the courtyard, and putting on a compassionate air, greeted Rinieri
with: Foul fall him that came here yestereve; he has afflicted us
with his presence all night long, and has kept thee a freezing out
here: but harkye, take it not amiss; that which might not be
to-night shall be another time: well wot I that nought could have
befallen that my lady could so ill brook.
For all his wrath, the
scholar, witting, like the wise man he was, that menaces serve but to
put the menaced on his guard, kept pent within his breast that which
unbridled resentment would have uttered, and said quietly, and
without betraying the least trace of anger:
In truth 'twas the
worst night I ever spent, but I understood quite well that the lady
was in no wise to blame, for that she herself, being moved to pity of
me, came down here to make her excuses, and to comfort me; and,
as thou sayst, what has not been to-night will be another time:
wherefore commend me to her, and so, adieu!
Then, well-nigh
paralysed for cold, he got him, as best he might, home, where, weary
and fit to die for drowsiness, he threw himself on his bed, and fell
into a deep sleep, from which he awoke to find that he had all but
lost the use of his arms and legs. He therefore sent for some
physicians, and having told them what a chill he had gotten, caused
them have a care to his health. But, though they treated him with
active and most drastic remedies, it cost them some time and no little
trouble to restore to the cramped muscles their wonted pliancy, and,
indeed, but for his youth and the milder weather that was at hand,
'twould have gone very hard with him.
However, recover he did his health and lustihood, and nursing
his enmity, feigned to be vastly more enamoured of his widow than
ever before. And so it was that after a while Fortune furnished him
with an opportunity of satisfying his resentment, for the gallant of
whom the widow was enamoured, utterly regardless of the love she
bore him, grew enamoured of another lady, and was minded no more
to pleasure the widow in aught either by word or by deed; wherefore
she now pined in tears and bitterness of spirit. However, her
maid, who commiserated her not a little, and knew not how to dispel
the dumps that the loss of her lover had caused her, espying the
scholar pass along the street, as he had been wont, conceived the
silly idea that the lady's lover might be induced to return to his old
love by some practice of a necromantic order, wherein she doubted
not that the scholar must be a thorough adept; which idea she
imparted to her mistress. The lady, being none too well furnished
with sense, never thinking that, if the scholar had been an adept in
necromancy, he would have made use of it in his own behoof, gave
heed to what her maid said, and forthwith bade her learn of the
scholar whether he would place his skill at her service, and assure
him that, if he so did, she, in guerdon thereof, would do his pleasure.
The maid did her mistress's errand well and faithfully. The scholar
no sooner heard the message, than he said to himself: Praised be
Thy name, O God, that the time is now come, when with Thy
help I may be avenged upon this wicked woman of the wrong she
did me in requital of the great love I bore her. Then, turning to
the maid, he said: Tell my lady to set her mind at ease touching
this matter; for that, were her lover in India, I would forthwith
bring him hither to crave her pardon of that wherein he has offended
her. As to the course she should take in the matter, I tarry but her
pleasure to make it known to her, when and where she may think
fit: tell her so, and bid her from me to be of good cheer.
The
maid carried his answer to her mistress, and arranged that they should
meet in the church of Santa Lucia of Prato. Thither accordingly
they came, the lady and the scholar, and conversed apart, and the
lady, quite oblivious of the ill-usage by which she had well-nigh done
him to death, opened all her mind to him, and besought him, if he had
any regard to her welfare, to aid her to the attainment of her desire.
Madam,
replied the scholar, true it is that among other lore
that I acquired at Paris was this of necromancy, whereof, indeed, I
know all that may be known; but, as 'tis in the last degree displeasing
to God, I had sworn never to practise it either for my own or for any
other's behoof. 'Tis also true that the love I bear you is such that I
know not how to refuse you aught that you would have me do for
you; and so, were this single essay enough to consign me to hell,
I would adventure it to pleasure you. But I mind me that 'tis a
matter scarce so easy of performance as, perchance, you suppose,
most especially when a woman would fain recover the love of a man,
or a man that of a woman, for then it must be done by the postulant
in proper person, and at night, and in lonely places, and unattended,
so that it needs a stout heart; nor know I whether you are disposed
to comply with these conditions.
The lady, too enamoured to be
discreet, made answer: So shrewdly does Love goad me, that
there is nought I would not do to bring him back to me who wrongfully
has deserted me; but tell me, prithee, wherein it is that I have
need of this stout heart.
Madam,
returned the despiteful scholar,
'twill be my part to fashion in tin an image of him you would fain
lure back to you: and when I have sent you the image, 'twill be for
you, when the moon is well on the wane, to dip yourself, being stark
naked, and the image, seven times in a flowing stream, and this you
must do quite alone about the hour of first sleep, and afterwards, still
naked, you must get you upon some tree or some deserted house, and
facing the North, with the image in your hand, say certain words
that I shall give you in writing seven times; which, when you have
done, there will come to you two damsels, the fairest you ever saw,
who will greet you graciously, and ask of you what you would fain
have; to whom you will disclose frankly and fully all that you
crave; and see to it that you make no mistake in the name; and
when you have said all, they will depart, and you may then descend
and return to the spot where you left your clothes, and resume them,
and go home. And rest assured, that before the ensuing midnight
your lover will come to you in tears, and crave your pardon and
mercy, and that thenceforth he will never again desert you for any
other woman.
The lady gave entire credence to the scholar's words, and deeming
her lover as good as in her arms again, recovered half her wonted
spirits: wherefore: Make no doubt,
quoth she, that I shall do
as thou biddest; and indeed I am most favoured by circumstance;
for in upper Val d'Arno I have an estate adjoining the river, and 'tis
now July, so that to bathe will be delightful. Ay, and now I mind
me that at no great distance from the river there is a little tower,
which is deserted, save that now and again the shepherds will get
them up by the chestnut-wood ladder to the roof, thence to look out
for their strayed sheep; 'tis a place lonely indeed, and quite out of
ken; and when I have clomb it, as climb it I will, I doubt not 'twill
be the best place in all the world to give effect to your
instructions.
Well pleased to be certified of the lady's intention, the scholar,
to whom her estate and the tower were very well known, made
answer: I was never in those parts, Madam, and therefore know
neither your estate nor the tower, but, if 'tis as you say, 'twill certainly
be the best place in the world for your purpose. So, when
time shall serve, I will send you the image and the orison. But I
pray you, when you shall have your heart's desire, and know that
I have done you good service, do not forget me, but keep your
promise to me.
That will I without fail,
quoth the lady; and
so she bade him farewell, and went home. The scholar, gleefully
anticipating the success of his enterprise, fashioned an image, and
inscribed it with certain magical signs, and wrote some gibberish
by way of orison, which in due time he sent to the lady, bidding her
the very next night do as he had prescribed: and thereupon he
hied him privily with one of his servants to the house of a friend
hard by the tower, there to carry his purpose into effect. The lady,
on her part, set out with her maid, and betook her to her estate, and,
night being come, sent the maid to bed, as if she were minded to go
to rest herself; and about the hour of first sleep stole out of the
house and down to the tower, beside the Arno; and when, having
carefully looked about her, she was satisfied that never a soul was to
be seen or heard, she took off her clothes and hid them under a bush;
then, with the image in her hand, she dipped herself seven times in
the river; which done, she hied her with the image to the tower.
The scholar, having at nightfall couched himself with his servant
among the willows and other trees that fringed the bank, marked
all that she did, and how, as she passed by him, the whiteness of her
flesh dispelled the shades of night, and scanning attentively her
bosom and every other part of her body, and finding them very fair,
felt, as he bethought him what would shortly befall them, some pity
of her; while, on the other hand, he was suddenly assailed by the
solicitations of the flesh which caused that to stand which had been
inert, and prompted him to sally forth of his ambush and take her by
force, and have his pleasure of her. And, what with his compassion
and passion, he was like to be worsted; but then, as he bethought
him who he was, and what a grievous wrong had been done him,
and for what cause, and by whom, his wrath, thus rekindled, got the
better of the other affections, so that he swerved not from his resolve,
but suffered her to go her way.
The lady ascended the tower, and standing with her face to the
North, began to recite the scholar's orison, while he, having stolen
into the tower but a little behind her, cautiously shifted the ladder
that led up to the roof on which the lady stood, and waited to
observe what she would say and do. Seven times the lady said the
orison, and then awaited the appearance of the two damsels; and so
long had she to wait--not to mention that the night was a good deal
cooler than she would have liked--that she saw day break; whereupon,
disconcerted that it had not fallen out as the scholar had
promised, she said to herself: I misdoubt me he was minded to
give me such a night as I gave him; but if such was his intent, he
is but maladroit in his revenge, for this night is not as long by a third
as his was, besides which, the cold is of another quality. And that
day might not overtake her there, she began to think of descending,
but, finding that the ladder was removed, she felt as if the world had
come to nought beneath her feet, her senses reeled, and she fell in a
swoon upon the floor of the roof. When she came to herself, she
burst into tears and piteous lamentations, and witting now very well
that 'twas the doing of the scholar, she began to repent her that she
had first offended him, and then trusted him unduly, having such
good cause to reckon upon his enmity; in which frame she abode
long time. Then, searching if haply she might find some means of
descent, and finding none, she fell a weeping again, and bitterly to
herself she said: Alas for thee, wretched woman! what will thy
brothers, thy kinsmen, thy neighbours, nay, what will all Florence
say of thee, when 'tis known that thou hast been found here naked?
Thy honour, hitherto unsuspect, will be known to have been but
a shew, and shouldst thou seek thy defence in lying excuses, if any
such may be fashioned, the accursed scholar, who knows all thy
doings, will not suffer it. Ah! poor wretch! that at one and the
same time hast lost thy too dearly cherished gallant and thine own
honour! And therewith she was taken with such a transport of
grief, that she was like to cast herself from the tower to the ground.
Then, bethinking her that if she might espy some lad making towards
the tower with his sheep, she might send him for her maid, for the
sun was now risen, she approached one of the parapets of the tower,
and looked out, and so it befell that the scholar, awakening from a
slumber, in which he had lain a while at the foot of a bush, espied
her, and she him. Whereupon: Good-day, Madam,
quoth he:
are the damsels yet come?
The lady saw and heard him not
without bursting afresh into a flood of tears, and besought him to
come into the tower, that she might speak with him: a request which
the scholar very courteously granted. The lady then threw herself
prone on the floor of the roof; and, only her head being visible
through the aperture, thus through her sobs she spoke: Verily,
Rinieri, if I gave thee a bad night, thou art well avenged on me, for,
though it be July, meseemed I was sore a cold last night, standing
here with never a thread upon me, and, besides, I have so bitterly
bewept both the trick I played thee and my own folly in trusting
thee, that I marvel that I have still eyes in my head. Wherefore
I implore thee, not for love of me, whom thou hast no cause to love,
but for the respect thou hast for thyself as a gentleman, that thou let
that which thou hast already done suffice thee to avenge the wrong
I did thee, and bring me my clothes, that I may be able to get me
down from here, and spare to take from me that which, however
thou mightst hereafter wish, thou couldst not restore to me, to wit,
my honour; whereas, if I deprived thee of that one night with me,
'tis in my power to give thee many another night in recompense
thereof, and thou hast but to choose thine own times. Let this,
then, suffice, and like a worthy gentleman be satisfied to have taken
thy revenge, and to have let me know it: put not forth thy might
against a woman: 'tis no glory to the eagle to have vanquished a
dove; wherefore for God's and thine own honour's sake have mercy
on me.
The scholar, albeit his haughty spirit still brooded on her evil
entreatment of him, yet saw her not weep and supplicate without
a certain compunction mingling with his exultation; but vengeance
he had desired above all things, to have wreaked it was indeed sweet,
and albeit his humanity prompted him to have compassion on the
hapless woman, yet it availed not to subdue the fierceness of his
resentment; wherefore thus he made answer:
Madam Elena,
had my prayers (albeit art I had none to mingle with them tears
and honeyed words as thou dost with thine) inclined thee that night,
when I stood perishing with cold amid the snow that filled thy
courtyard, to accord me the very least shelter, 'twere but a light
matter for me to hearken now to thine; but, if thou art now so
much more careful of thy honour than thou wast wont to be, and
it irks thee to tarry there naked, address thy prayers to him in whose
arms it irked thee not naked to pass that night thou mindest thee
of, albeit thou wist that I with hasty foot was beating time upon
the snow in thy courtyard to the accompaniment of chattering
teeth: 'tis he that thou shouldst call to succour thee, to fetch thy
clothes, to adjust the ladder for thy descent; 'tis he in whom thou
shouldst labour to inspire this tenderness thou now shewest for thy
honour, that honour which for his sake thou hast not scrupled to
jeopardize both now and on a thousand other occasions. Why,
then, call'st thou not him to come to thy succour? To whom
pertains it rather than to him? Thou art his. And of whom will
he have a care, whom will he succour, if not thee? Thou askedst
him that night, when thou wast wantoning with him, whether
seemed to him the greater, my folly or the love thou didst bear
him: call him now, foolish woman, and see if the love thou bearest
him, and thy wit and his, may avail to deliver thee from my folly.
'Tis now no longer in thy power to shew me courtesy of that which
I no more desire, nor yet to refuse it, did I desire it. Reserve thy
nights for thy lover, if so be thou go hence alive. Be they all thine
and his. One of them was more than I cared for; 'tis enough for
me to have been flouted once. Ay, and by thy cunning of speech
thou strivest might and main to conciliate my good-will, calling me
worthy gentleman, by which insinuation thou wouldst fain induce
me magnanimously to desist from further chastisement of thy baseness.
But thy cajoleries shall not now cloud the eyes of my mind,
as did once thy false promises. I know myself, and better now for
thy one night's instruction than for all the time I spent at Paris.
But, granted that I were disposed to be magnanimous, thou art not
of those to whom 'tis meet to shew magnanimity. A wild beast
such as thou, having merited vengeance, can claim no relief
from suffering save death, though in the case of a human being
'twould suffice to temper vengeance with mercy, as thou saidst.
Wherefore I, albeit no eagle, witting thee to be no dove, but a
venomous serpent, mankind's most ancient enemy, am minded,
bating no jot of malice or of might, to harry thee to the bitter end:
natheless this which I do is not properly to be called vengeance but
rather just retribution; seeing that vengeance should be in excess
of the offence, and this my chastisement of thee will fall short of
it; for, were I minded to be avenged on thee, considering what
account thou madest of my heart and soul, 'twould not suffice me
to take thy life, no, nor the lives of a hundred others such as thee;
for I should but slay a vile and base and wicked woman.
And
what the Devil art thou more than any other pitiful baggage, that
I should spare thy little store of beauty, which a few years will
ruin, covering thy face with wrinkles? And yet 'twas not for
want of will that thou didst fail to do to death a worthy gentleman,
as thou but now didst call me, of whom in a single day of his life
the world may well have more profit than of a hundred thousand
like thee while the world shall last. Wherefore by this rude
discipline I will teach thee what it is to flout men of spirit, and
more especially what it is to flout scholars, that if thou escape with
thy life thou mayst have good cause ever hereafter to shun such
folly. But if thou art so fain to make the descent, why cast not
thyself down, whereby, God helping, thou wouldst at once
break thy neck, be quit of the torment thou endurest, and make
me the happiest man alive? I have no more to say to thee. 'Twas
my art and craft thus caused thee climb; be it thine to find the
way down: thou hadst cunning enough, when thou wast minded
to flout me.
While the scholar thus spoke, the hapless lady wept incessantly,
and before he had done, to aggravate her misery, the sun was high
in the heaven. However, when he was silent, thus she made
answer: Ah! ruthless man, if that accursed night has so rankled
with thee, and thou deemest my fault so grave that neither my youth
and beauty, nor my bitter tears, nor yet my humble supplications may
move thee to pity, let this at least move thee, and abate somewhat
of thy remorseless severity, that 'twas my act alone, in that of late
I trusted thee, and discovered to thee all my secret, that did open
the way to compass thy end, and make me cognizant of my guilt,
seeing that, had I not confided in thee, on no wise mightst thou
have been avenged on me; which thou wouldst seem so ardently
to have desired. Turn thee, then, turn thee, I pray thee, from thy
wrath, and pardon me. So thou wilt pardon me, and get me down
hence, right gladly will I give up for ever my faithless gallant, and
thou shalt be my sole lover and lord, albeit thou sayst hard things
of my beauty, slight and shortlived as thou wouldst have it to be,
which, however it may compare with others, is, I wot, to be prized,
if for no other reason, yet for this, that 'tis the admiration
and solace and delight of young men, and thou art not yet old.
And albeit I have been harshly treated by thee, yet believe I cannot
that thou wouldst have me do myself so shamefully to death as to
cast me down, like some abandoned wretch, before thine eyes, in
which, unless thou wast then, as thou hast since shewn thyself, a
liar, I found such favour. Ah! have pity on me for God's and
mercy's sake! The sun waxes exceeding hot, and having suffered
not a little by the cold of last night, I now begin to be sorely afflicted
by the heat.
Madam,
rejoined the scholar, who held her in parley with no
small delight, 'twas not for any love that thou didst bear me that
thou trustedst me, but that thou mightst recover that which thou
hadst lost, for which cause thou meritest but the greater punishment;
and foolish indeed art thou if thou supposest that such was the sole
means available for my revenge. I had a thousand others, and, while
I feigned to love thee, I had laid a thousand gins for thy feet, into
one or other of which in no long time, though this had not occurred,
thou must needs have fallen, and that too to thy more grievous
suffering and shame; nor was it to spare thee, but that I might be
the sooner rejoiced by thy discomfiture that I took my present
course. And though all other means had failed me, I had still the
pen, with which I would have written of thee such matters and in
such a sort, that when thou wist them, as thou shouldst have done,
thou wouldst have regretted a thousand times that thou hadst ever
been born. The might of the pen is greater far than they suppose,
who have not proved it by experience. By God I swear,
so may He, who has prospered me thus far in this my revenge,
prosper me to the end! that I would have written of thee things
that would have so shamed thee in thine own--not to speak of
others'--sight that thou hadst put out thine eyes that thou mightst
no more see thyself; wherefore chide not the sea, for that it has
sent forth a tiny rivulet. For thy love, or whether thou be mine or
no, nought care I. Be thou still his, whose thou hast been, if thou
canst. Hate him as I once did, I now love him, by reason of his
present entreatment of thee. Ye go getting you enamoured, ye
women, and nought will satisfy you but young gallants, because ye
mark that their flesh is ruddier, and their beards are blacker, than other
folk's, and that they carry themselves well, and foot it featly in the
dance, and joust; but those that are now more mature were even as
they, and possess a knowledge which they have yet to acquire. And
therewithal ye deem that they ride better, and cover more miles in a
day, than men of riper age. Now that they dust the pelisse with
more vigour I certainly allow, but their seniors, being more experienced,
know better the places where the fleas lurk; and spare and
dainty diet is preferable to abundance without savour: moreover
hard trotting will gall and jade even the youngest, whereas an easy
pace, though it bring one somewhat later to the inn, at any rate
brings one thither fresh. Ye discern not, witless creatures that ye
are, how much of evil this little shew of bravery serves to hide.
Your young gallant is never content with one woman, but lusts
after as many as he sets eyes on; nor is there any but he deems
himself worthy of her: wherefore 'tis not possible that their love
should be lasting, as thou hast but now proved and mayst only too
truly witness. Moreover to be worshipped, to be caressed by their
ladies they deem but their due; nor is there aught whereon they
plume and boast them so proudly as their conquests: which impertinence
has caused not a few women to surrender to the friars, who
keep their own counsel. Peradventure thou wilt say that never a
soul save thy maid and I wist aught of thy loves; but, if so, thou
hast been misinformed, and if thou so believest, thou dost misbelieve.
Scarce aught else is talked of either in his quarter or in thine; but
most often 'tis those most concerned whose ears such matters reach
last. Moreover, they rob you, these young gallants, whereas the
others make you presents. So, then, having made a bad choice, be
thou still his to whom thou hast given thyself, and leave me, whom
thou didst flout, to another, for I have found a lady of much greater
charms than thine, and that has understood me better than thou
didst. And that thou mayst get thee to the other world better
certified of the desire of my eyes than thou wouldst seem to be here
by my words, delay no more, but cast thyself down, whereby thy
soul, taken forthwith, as I doubt not she will be, into the embrace
of the Devil, may see whether thy headlong fall afflicts mine eyes, or
no. But, for that I doubt thou meanest not thus to gladden me,
I bid thee, if thou findest the sun begin to scorch thee, remember the
cold thou didst cause me to endure, wherewith, by admixture, thou
mayst readily temper the sun's heat.
The hapless lady, seeing that the scholar's words were ever to the
same ruthless effect, burst afresh into tears, and said: Lo, now,
since nought that pertains to me may move thee, be thou at least
moved by the love thou bearest this lady of whom thou speakest, who,
thou sayst, is wiser than I, and loves thee, and for love of her pardon me,
and fetch me my clothes, that I may resume them, and get me down
hence.
Whereat the scholar fell a laughing, and seeing that 'twas
not a little past tierce, made answer: Lo, now, I know not how
to deny thee, adjuring me as thou dost by such a lady: tell me, then,
where thy clothes are, and I will go fetch them, and bring thee
down.
The lady, believing him, was somewhat comforted, and
told him where she had laid her clothes. The scholar then quitted
the tower, bidding his servant on no account to stir from his post,
but to keep close by, and, as best he might, bar the tower against all
comers until his return: which said, he betook him to the house of
his friend, where he breakfasted much at his ease, and thereafter
went to sleep.
Left alone upon the tower, the lady, somewhat
cheered by her fond hope, but still exceeding sorrowful, drew nigh
to a part of the wall where there was a little shade, and there sate
down to wait. And now lost in most melancholy brooding, now
dissolved in tears, now plunged in despair of ever seeing the scholar
return with her clothes, but never more than a brief while in any one
mood, spent with grief and the night's vigil, she by and by fell asleep.
The sun was now in the zenith, and smote with extreme fervour
full and unmitigated upon her tender and delicate frame, and upon
her bare head, insomuch that his rays did not only scorch but bit by
bit excoriate every part of her flesh that was exposed to them, and so
shrewdly burn her that, albeit she was in a deep sleep, the pain
awoke her. And as by reason thereof she writhed a little, she felt
the scorched skin part in sunder and shed itself, as will happen when
one tugs at a parchment that has been singed by the fire, while her
head ached so sore that it seemed like to split, and no wonder. Nor
might she find place either to lie or to stand on the floor of the roof,
but ever went to and fro, weeping. Besides which there stirred not
the least breath of wind, and flies and gadflies did swarm in prodigious
quantity, which, settling upon her excoriate flesh, stung her so shrewdly
that 'twas as if she received so many stabs with a javelin, and she was
ever restlessly feeling her sores with her hands, and cursing herself,
her life, her lover, and the scholar.
Thus by the exorbitant heat of the sun, by the flies and gadflies,
harassed, goaded, and lacerated, tormented also by hunger, and yet
more by thirst, and thereto by a thousand distressful thoughts, she
planted herself erect on her feet, and looked about her, if haply she
might see or hear any one, with intent, come what might, to call
to him and crave his succour. But even this hostile Fortune had
disallowed her. The husbandmen were all gone from the fields by
reason of the heat, and indeed there had come none to work that
day in the neighbourhood of the tower, for that all were employed in
threshing their corn beside their cottages: wherefore she heard but
the cicalas, while Arno, tantalizing her with the sight of his waters,
increased rather than diminished her thirst. Ay, and in like manner,
wherever she espied a copse, or a patch of shade, or a house, 'twas a
torment to her, for the longing she had for it.
What more is to be
said of this hapless woman? Only this: that what with the heat of
the sun above and the floor beneath her, and the scarification of her
flesh in every part by the flies and gadflies, that flesh, which in the
night had dispelled the gloom by its whiteness, was now become red
as madder, and so besprent with clots of blood, that whoso had seen
her would have deemed her the most hideous object in the world.
Thus resourceless and hopeless, she passed the long hours, expecting
death rather than aught else, until half none was come and gone;
when, his siesta ended, the scholar bethought him of his lady, and
being minded to see how she fared, hied him back to the tower, and
sent his servant away to break his fast. As soon as the lady espied
him, she came, spent and crushed by her sore affliction, to the aperture,
and thus addressed him:
Rinieri, the cup of thy vengeance
is full to overflowing: for if I gave thee a night of freezing in my
courtyard, thou hast given me upon this tower a day of scorching,
nay, of burning, and therewithal of perishing of hunger and thirst:
wherefore, by God I entreat thee to come up hither, and as my heart
fails me to take my life, take it thou, for 'tis death I desire of all
things, such and so grievous is my suffering.
But if this grace thou
wilt not grant, at least bring me a cup of water wherewith to lave
my mouth, for which my tears do not suffice, so parched and torrid is
it within.
Well wist the scholar by her voice how spent she was;
he also saw a part of her body burned through and through by the
sun; whereby, and by reason of the lowliness of her entreaties, he
felt some little pity for her; but all the same he made answer:
Nay, wicked woman, 'tis not by my hands thou shalt die; thou
canst die by thine own whenever thou art so minded; and to temper
thy heat thou shalt have just as much water from me as I had fire
from thee to mitigate my cold. I only regret that for the cure of
my chill the physicians were fain to use foul-smelling muck, whereas
thy burns can be treated with fragrant rose-water; and that, whereas
I was like to lose my muscles and the use of my limbs, thou, for all
thy excoriation by the heat, wilt yet be fair again, like a snake that
has sloughed off the old skin.
Alas! woe's me!
replied the
lady, for charms acquired at such a cost, God grant them to those
that hate me. But thou, most fell of all wild beasts, how hast thou
borne thus to torture me? What more had I to expect of thee or
any other, had I done all thy kith and kin to death with direst
torments? Verily, I know not what more cruel suffering thou
couldst have inflicted on a traitor that had put a whole city to the
slaughter than this which thou hast allotted to me, to be thus roasted,
and devoured of the flies, and therewithal to refuse me even a cup of
water, though the very murderers condemned to death by the law,
as they go to execution, not seldom are allowed wine to drink, so they
but ask it.
Lo now, I see that thou art inexorable in thy ruthlessness,
and on no wise to be moved by my suffering: wherefore with
resignation I will compose me to await death, that God may have
mercy on my soul. And may this that thou doest escape not the
searching glance of His just eyes.
Which said, she dragged herself,
sore suffering, toward the middle of the floor, despairing of ever
escaping from her fiery torment, besides which, not once only, but a
thousand times she thought to choke for thirst, and ever she wept
bitterly and bewailed her evil fate.
But at length the day wore to
vespers, and the scholar, being sated with his revenge, caused his
servant to take her clothes and wrap them in his cloak, and hied him
with the servant to the hapless lady's house, where, finding her maid
sitting disconsolate and woebegone and resourceless at the door:
Good woman,
quoth he, what has befallen thy mistress?
Whereto: Sir, I know not,
replied the maid. I looked to find
her this morning abed, for methought she went to bed last night,
but neither there nor anywhere else could I find her, nor know I
what is become of her; wherefore exceeding great is my distress;
but have you, Sir, nought to say of the matter?
Only this,
returned the scholar, that I would I had had thee with her there
where I have had her, that I might have requited thee of thy offence,
even as I have requited her of hers. But be assured that thou shalt
not escape my hands, until thou hast from me such wage of thy
labour that thou shalt never flout man more, but thou shalt mind
thee of me.
Then, turning to his servant, he said: Give her
these clothes, and tell her that she may go bring her mistress away,
if she will.
The servant did his bidding; and the maid, what
with the message and her recognition of the clothes, was mightily
afraid, lest they had slain the lady, and scarce suppressing a shriek,
took the clothes, and, bursting into tears, set off, as soon as the
scholar was gone, at a run for the tower.
Now one of the lady's husbandmen had had the misfortune to
lose two of his hogs that day, and, seeking them, came to the tower
not long after the scholar had gone thence, and peering about in all
quarters, if haply he might have sight of his hogs, heard the woeful
lamentation that the hapless lady made, and got him up into the
tower, and called out as loud as he might: Who wails up there?
The lady recognized her husbandman's voice, and called him by
name, saying: Prithee, go fetch my maid, and cause her come
up hither to me.
The husbandman, knowing her by her voice,
replied: Alas! Madam, who set you there? Your maid has
been seeking you all day long: but who would ever have supposed
that you were there?
Whereupon he took the props of the ladder,
and set them in position, and proceeded to secure the rounds to
them with withies. Thus engaged he was found by the maid, who,
as she entered the tower, beat her face and breast, and unable longer
to keep silence, cried out: Alas, sweet my lady, where are you?
Whereto the lady made answer as loud as she might: O my sister,
here above am I, weep not, but fetch me my clothes forthwith.
Well-nigh
restored to heart, to hear her mistress's voice, the maid, assisted
by the husbandman, ascended the ladder, which he had now all but
set in order, and gaining the roof, and seeing her lady lie there
naked, spent and fordone, and liker to a half-burned stump than to a
human being, she planted her nails in her face and fell a weeping
over her, as if she were a corpse.
However, the lady bade her for
God's sake be silent, and help her to dress, and having learned from
her that none knew where she had been, save those that had brought
her her clothes and the husbandman that was there present, was
somewhat consoled, and besought her for God's sake to say nought
of the matter to any.
Thus long time they conversed, and then
the husbandman took the lady on his shoulders, for walk she could
not, and bore her safely out of the tower. The unfortunate maid,
following after with somewhat less caution, slipped, and falling from
the ladder to the ground, broke her thigh, and roared for pain like
any lion.
So the husbandman set the lady down upon a grassy mead,
while he went to see what had befallen the maid, whom, finding her
thigh broken, he brought, and laid beside the lady: who, seeing her
woes completed by this last misfortune, and that she of whom, most
of all, she had expected succour, was lamed of a thigh, was distressed
beyond measure, and wept again so piteously that not only was the
husbandman powerless to comfort her, but was himself fain to weep.
However, as the sun was now low, that they might not be there
surprised by night, he, with the disconsolate lady's approval, hied him
home, and called to his aid two of his brothers and his wife, who
returned with him, bearing a plank, whereon they laid the maid, and
so they carried her to the lady's house. There, by dint of cold
water and words of cheer, they restored some heart to the lady,
whom the husbandman then took upon his shoulders, and bore to her
chamber. The husbandman's wife fed her with sops of bread, and
then undressed her, and put her to bed. They also provided the
means to carry her and the maid to Florence; and so 'twas done.
There the lady, who was very fertile in artifices, invented an entirely
fictitious story of what had happened as well in regard of her maid
as of herself, whereby she persuaded both her brothers and her sisters
and every one else, that 'twas all due to the enchantments of evil
spirits. The physicians lost no time, and, albeit the lady's suffering
and mortification were extreme, for she left more than one skin sticking
to the sheets, they cured her of a high fever, and certain attendant
maladies; as also the maid of her fractured thigh. The end of all
which was that the lady forgot her lover, and having learned discretion,
was thenceforth careful neither to love nor to flout; and the
scholar, learning that the maid had broken her thigh, deemed his
vengeance complete, and was satisfied to say never a word more of
the affair. Such then were the consequences of her flouts to this
foolish young woman, who deemed that she might trifle with a
scholar with the like impunity as with others, not duly understanding
that they--I say not all, but the more part--know where the Devil
keeps his tail.I.e. are a match for the Devil himself in
cunning. Wherefore, my ladies, have a care how you flout
men, and more especially scholars.
Novel VIIITwo men keep with one another: the one
lies with the other's
wife: the other, being ware thereof, manages with the
aid of his wife to have the one locked in a chest, upon
which he then lies with the wife of him that is locked
therein.
Grievous and distressful was it to
the ladies to hear how it fared
with Elena; but as they accounted the retribution in a measure
righteous, they were satisfied to expend upon her but a moderate
degree of compassion, albeit they censured the scholar as severe,
intemperately relentless, and indeed ruthless, in his vengeance.
However, Pampinea having brought the story to a close, the queen
bade Fiammetta follow suit; and prompt to obey, Fiammetta thus
spoke:
Debonair my ladies, as, methinks, your feelings must have
been somewhat harrowed by the severity of the resentful scholar, I
deem it meet to soothe your vexed spirits with something of a more
cheerful order. Wherefore I am minded to tell you a little story of
a young man who bore an affront in a milder temper, and avenged
himself with more moderation. Whereby you may understand that
one should be satisfied if the ass and the wall are quits, nor by
indulging a vindictive spirit to excess turn the requital of a wrong
into an occasion of wrong-doing.
You are to know, then, that at Siena,
as I have heard tell, there dwelt two young men of good substance,
and, for plebeians, of good family, the one Spinelloccio Tanena, the
other Zeppa di Mino, by name; who, their houses being contiguous
in the Camollia,A suburb of Siena. kept ever together, and, by
what appeared, loved
each other as brothers, or even more so, and had each a very fine
woman to wife. Now it so befell that Spinelloccio, being much in
Zeppa's house, as well when Zeppa was not, as when he was there,
grew so familiar with Zeppa's wife, that he sometimes lay with her;
and on this wise they continued to forgather a great while before any
one was ware of it. However, one of these days Zeppa being at
home, though the lady wist it not, Spinelloccio came in quest of
him; and, the lady sending word that he was not at home, he forthwith
went upstairs and found the lady in the saloon, and seeing none
else there, kissed her, as did she him.
Zeppa saw all that passed, but said nothing and kept close, being
minded to see how the game would end, and soon saw his wife and
Spinelloccio, still in one another's arms, hie them to her chamber and
lock themselves in: whereat he was mightily incensed. But, witting
that to make a noise, or do aught else overt, would not lessen but
rather increase his dishonour, he cast about how he might be avenged
on such wise that, without the affair getting wind, he might content
his soul; and having, after long pondering, hit, as he thought, upon
the expedient, he budged not from his retreat, until Spinelloccio had
parted from the lady. Whereupon he hied him into the chamber,
and there finding the lady with her head-gear, which Spinelloccio in
toying with her had disarranged, scarce yet readjusted: Madam,
what dost thou?
quoth he. Whereto: Why, dost not see?
returned the lady.
Troth do I,
rejoined he, and somewhat else
have I seen that I would I had not.
And so he questioned her of
what had passed, and she, being mightily afraid, did after long parley
confess that which she might not plausibly deny, to wit, her intimacy
with Spinelloccio, and fell a beseeching him with tears to pardon her.
Lo, now, wife,
quoth Zeppa, thou hast done wrong, and, so thou
wouldst have me pardon thee, have a care to do exactly as I shall bid
thee; to wit, on this wise:
thou must tell Spinelloccio to find some
occasion to part from me to-morrow morning about tierce, and come
hither to thee; and while he is here I will come back, and when
thou hearest me coming, thou wilt get him into this chest, and lock
him in there; which when thou hast done, I will tell thee what else
thou hast to do, which thou mayst do without the least misgiving,
for I promise thee I will do him no harm.
The lady, to content
him, promised to do as he bade, and she kept her word.
The morrow came, and Zeppa and Spinelloccio being together
about tierce, Spinelloccio, having promised the lady to come to see
her at that hour, said to Zeppa: I must go breakfast with a
friend, whom I had life not keep in waiting; therefore, adieu!
Nay, but,
quoth Zeppa, 'tis not yet breakfast-time.
No
matter,
returned Spinelloccio, I have business on which I must
speak with him; so I must be in good time.
Whereupon Spinelloccio
took his leave of Zeppa, and having reached Zeppa's house by
a slightly circuitous route, and finding his wife there, was taken by
her into the chamber, where they had not been long together when
Zeppa returned. Hearing him come, the lady, feigning no small
alarm, bundled Spinelloccio into the chest, as her husband had bidden
her, and having locked him in, left him there. As Zeppa came
upstairs: Wife,
quoth he, is it breakfast time?
Ay, husband, 'tis so,
replied the lady.
Whereupon: Spinelloccio is
gone to breakfast with a friend to-day,
quoth Zeppa, leaving his
wife at home: get thee to the window, and call her, and bid her
come and breakfast with us.
The lady, whose fear for herself made
her mighty obedient, did as her husband bade her; and after much
pressing Spinelloccio's wife came to breakfast with them, though she
was given to understand that her husband would not be of the company.
So, she being come, Zeppa received her most affectionately,
and taking her familiarly by the hand, bade his wife, in an undertone,
get her to the kitchen; he then led Spinelloccio's wife into the
chamber, and locked the door.
Hearing the key turn in the lock:
Alas!
quoth the lady, what means this, Zeppa? Is't for this you
have brought me here? Is this the love you bear Spinelloccio? Is
this your loyalty to him as your friend and comrade?
By the time
she had done speaking, Zeppa, still keeping fast hold of her, was
beside the chest, in which her husband was locked. Wherefore:
Madam,
quoth he, spare me thy reproaches, until thou hast
heard what I have to say to thee. I have loved, I yet love, Spinelloccio
as a brother; and yesterday, though he knew it not, I discovered
that the trust I reposed in him has for its guerdon that he
lies with my wife, as with thee. Now, for that I love him, I purpose
not to be avenged upon him save in the sort in which he
offended. He has had my wife, and I intend to have thee.
So thou
wilt not grant me what I crave of thee, be sure I shall not fail to
take it; and having no mind to let this affront pass unavenged, will
make such play with him that neither thou nor he shall ever be
happy again.
The lady hearkening, and by dint of his repeated
asseverations coming at length to believe him: Zeppa mine,
quoth she, as this thy vengeance is to light upon me, well content
am I; so only thou let not this which we are to do embroil me with
thy wife, with whom, notwithstanding the evil turn she has done
me, I am minded to remain at peace.
Have no fear on that
score,
replied Zeppa; nay, I will give thee into the bargain a
jewel so rare and fair that thou hast not the like.
Which said,
he took her in his arms and fell a kissing her, and having laid her
on the chest, in which her husband was safe under lock and key,
did there disport himself with her to his heart's content, as she with
him.
Spinelloccio in the chest heard all that Zeppa had said, and how
he was answered by the lady, and the Trevisan dance that afterwards
went on over his head; whereat his mortification was such that for
a great while he scarce hoped to live through it; and, but for the fear
he had of Zeppa, he would have given his wife a sound rating, close
prisoner though he was. But, as he bethought him that 'twas he
that had given the first affront, and that Zeppa had good cause for
acting as he did, and that he had dealt with him considerately and
as a good fellow should, he resolved that if it were agreeable to
Zeppa, they should be faster friends than ever before.
However,
Zeppa, having had his pleasure with the lady, got down from the
chest, and being reminded by the lady of his promise of the jewel,
opened the door of the chamber and brought his wife in. Quoth
she with a laugh: Madam, you have given me tit for tat,
and
never a word more. Whereupon: Open the chest,
quoth
Zeppa; and she obeying, he shewed the lady her Spinelloccio lying
therein. 'Twould be hard to say whether of the twain was the
more shame-stricken, Spinelloccio to be confronted with Zeppa,
knowing that Zeppa wist what he had done, or the lady to meet her
husband's eyes, knowing that he had heard what went on above his
head. Lo, here is the jewel I give thee,
quoth Zeppa to her,
pointing to Spinelloccio, who, as he came forth of the chest, blurted
out: Zeppa, we are quits, and so 'twere best, as thou saidst a while
ago to my wife, that we still be friends as we were wont, and as we
had nought separate, save our wives, that henceforth we have them
also in common.
Content,
quoth Zeppa; and so in perfect
peace and accord they all four breakfasted together. And thenceforth
each of the ladies had two husbands, and each of the husbands two
wives; nor was there ever the least dispute or contention between
them on that score.
Novel IXBruno and Buffalmacco prevail upon Master Simone, a
physician, to betake him by night to a certain place,
there to be enrolled in a company that go the course.
Buffalmacco throws him into a foul ditch, and there
they leave him.
When the ladies had made merry a while
over the partnership in
wives established by the two Sienese, the queen, who now, unless she
were minded to infringe Dioneo's privilege, alone remained to tell,
began on this wise:
Fairly earned indeed, loving ladies, was the
flout that Spinelloccio got from Zeppa. Wherefore my judgment jumps
with that which Pampinea expressed a while ago, to wit, that
he is not severely to be censured who bestows a flout on one that
provokes it or deserves it; and as Spinelloccio deserved it, so 'tis my
purpose to tell you of one that provoked it, for I deem that those
from whom he received it, were rather to be commended than condemned.
The man that got it was a physician, who, albeit he was
but a blockhead, returned from Bologna to Florence in mantle and
hood of vair.
'Tis matter of daily experience that our citizens come back to us
from Bologna, this man a judge, that a physician, and the other
a notary, flaunting it in ample flowing robes, and adorned with the
scarlet and the vair and other array most goodly to see; and how
far their doings correspond with this fair seeming, is also matter of
daily experience. Among whom 'tis not long since Master Simone
da Villa, one whose patrimony was more ample than his knowledge,
came back wearing the scarlet and a broad stripeThe distinguishing
mark
of a doctor in those days. Fanfani, Vocab. della Lingua Italiana,
1891,
Batolo.
on the shoulder, and
a doctor, as he called himself, and took a house in the street that we
now call Via del Cocomero. Now this Master Simone, being thus, as
we said, come back, had this among other singular habits, that he could
never see a soul pass along the street, but he must needs ask any that
was by, who that man was; and he was as observant of all the doings
of men, and as sedulous to store his memory with such matters, as
if they were to serve him to compound the drugs that he was to give
his patients. Now, of all that he saw, those that he eyed most observantly
were two painters, of whom here to-day mention has twice
been made, Bruno, to wit, and Buffalmacco, who were ever together,
and were his neighbours. And as it struck him that they daffed the
world aside and lived more lightheartedly than any others that he
knew, as indeed they did, he enquired of not a few folk as to their
rank. And learning on all hands that they were poor men and
painters, he could not conceive it possible that they should live thus
contentedly in poverty, but made his mind up that, being, as he was
informed, clever fellows, they must have some secret source from
which they drew immense gains; for which reason he grew all agog
to get on friendly terms with them, or any rate with one of them,
and did succeed in making friends with Bruno.
Bruno, who had not needed to be much with him in order to
discover that this physician was but a dolt, had never such a jolly
time in palming off his strange stories upon him, while the physician,
on his part, was marvellously delighted with Bruno; to whom, having
bidden him to breakfast, and thinking that for that reason he might
talk familiarly with him, he expressed the amazement with which
he regarded both him and Buffalmacco, for that, being but poor men,
they lived so lightheartedly, and asked him to tell him how they
managed. At which fresh proof of the doctor's simplicity and
fatuity Bruno was inclined to laugh; but, bethinking him that
'twere best to answer him according to his folly, he said: Master,
there are not many persons to whom I would disclose our manner
of life, but, as you are my friend, and I know you will not let it go
further, I do not mind telling you. The fact is that my comrade
and I live not only as lightheartedly and jovially as you see, but
much more so; and yet neither our art, nor any property that we
possess, yields us enough to keep us in water: not that I would
have you suppose that we go a thieving: no, 'tis that we go the
course, and thereby without the least harm done to a soul we get all
that we need, nay, all that we desire; and thus it is that we live so
lightheartedly as you see.
Which explanation the doctor believing
none the less readily that he knew not what it meant, was lost in
wonder, and forthwith burned with a most vehement desire to know
what going the course might be, and was instant with Bruno to
expound it, assuring him that he would never tell a soul.
Alas!
Master,
said Bruno, what is this you ask of me? 'Tis a mighty
great secret you would have me impart to you: 'twould be enough
to undo me, to send me packing out of the world, nay, into the very
jaws of Lucifer of San Gallo,Perhaps an allusion to some frightful
picture. if it came to be known. But such is
the respect in which I hold your quiditative pumpionship of Legnaia,
and the trust I repose in you, that I am not able to deny you aught
you ask of me; and so I will tell it you, on condition that you swear
by the cross at Montesone that you will keep your promise, and
never repeat it to a soul.
The Master gave the required assurance.
Whereupon: You
are then to know,
quoth Bruno, sweet my Master, that 'tis not
long since there was in this city a great master in necromancy, hight
Michael Scott, for that he was of Scotland, and great indeed was the
honour in which he was held by not a few gentlemen, most of whom
are now dead; and when the time came that he must needs depart
from Florence, he at their instant entreaty left behind him two
pupils, adepts both, whom he bade hold themselves ever ready to
pleasure those gentlemen who had done him honour. And very
handsomely they did serve the said gentlemen in certain of their love
affairs and other little matters; and finding the city and the manners
of the citizens agreeable to them, they made up their minds to stay
here always, and grew friendly and very intimate with some of the
citizens, making no distinction between gentle and simple, rich or
poor, so only they were such as were conformable to their ways.
And to gratify these their friends they formed a company of perhaps
twenty-five men, to meet together at least twice a month in a place
appointed by them; where, when they are met, each utters his
desire, and forthwith that same night they accomplish it. Now
Buffalmacco and I, being extraordinarily great and close friends with
these two adepts, were by them enrolled in this company, and are
still members of it. And I assure you that, as often as we are
assembled together, the adornments of the saloon in which we eat
are a marvel to see, ay, and the tables laid as for kings, and the
multitudes of stately and handsome servants, as well women as men,
at the beck and call of every member of the company, and the basins,
and the ewers, the flasks and the cups, and all else that is there for
our service in eating and drinking, of nought but gold and silver, and
therewithal the abundance and variety of the viands, suited to the
taste of each, that are set before us, each in due course, these too be
marvels. 'Twere vain for me to seek to describe to you the sweet
concord that is there of innumerable instruments of music, and the
tuneful songs that salute our ears; nor might I hope to tell you how
much wax is burned at these banquets, or compute the quantity of the
comfits that are eaten, or the value of the wines that are drunk.
Nor, my pumpkin o' wit, would I have you suppose that, when we
are there, we wear our common clothes, such as you now see me
wear; nay, there is none there so humble but he shews as an
emperor, so sumptuous are our garments, so splendid our trappings.
But among all the delights of the place none may compare with the
fair ladies, who, so one do but wish, are brought thither from every
part of the world. Why, you might see there My Lady of the
Barbanichs, the Queen of the Basques, the Consort of the Soldan,
the Empress of Osbech, the Ciancianfera of Nornieca, the Semistante
of Berlinzone, and the Scalpedra of Narsia. But why seek to enumerate
them all? They include all the queens in the world, ay, even to
the Schinchimurra of Prester John, who has the horns sprouting out
of her nether end: so there's for you. Now when these ladies have
done with the wine and the comfits, they tread a measure or two,
each with the man at whose behest she is come, and then all go with
their gallants to their chambers. And know that each of these
chambers shews as a very Paradise, so fair is it, ay, and no less
fragrant than the cases of aromatics in your shop when you are
pounding the cumin: and therein are beds that you would find more
goodly than that of the Doge of Venice, and 'tis in them we take
our rest; and how busily they ply the treadle, and how lustily they
tug at the frame to make the stuff close and compact, I leave you to
imagine. However, among the luckiest of all I reckon Buffalmacco
and myself; for that Buffalmacco for the most part fetches him the
Queen of France, and I do the like with the Queen of England, who
are just the finest women in the world, and we have known how to
carry it with them so that we are the very eyes of their heads.
So
I leave it to your own judgment to determine whether we have not
good cause to live and bear ourselves with a lighter heart than others,
seeing that we are beloved of two such great queens, to say nothing
of the thousand or two thousand florins that we have of them whenever
we are so minded. Now this in the vulgar we call going the
course, because, as the corsairs prey upon all the world, so do we;
albeit with this difference, that, whereas they never restore their spoil,
we do so as soon as we have done with it. So now, my worthy
Master, you understand what we mean by going the course; but
how close it behoves you to keep such a secret, you may see for
yourself; so I spare you any further exhortations.
The Master, whose skill did not reach, perhaps, beyond the treatment
of children for the scurf, took all that Bruno said for gospel,
and burned with so vehement a desire to be admitted into this company,
that he could not have longed for the summum bonum itself
with more ardour. So, after telling Bruno that indeed 'twas no
wonder they bore them lightheartedly, he could scarce refrain from
asking him there and then to have him enrolled, albeit he deemed it
more prudent to defer his suit, until by lavishing honour upon him
he had gained a right to urge it with more confidence. He therefore
made more and more of him, had him to breakfast and sup with
him, and treated him with extraordinary respect. In short, such and
so constant was their intercourse that it seemed as though the Master
wist not how to live without Bruno. As it went so well with him,
Bruno, to mark his sense of the honour done him by the doctor,
painted in his saloon a picture symbolical of Lent, and an Agnus
Dei at the entrance of his chamber, and an alembic over his front
door, that those who would fain consult him might know him from
other physicians, besides a battle of rats and mice in his little gallery,
which the doctor thought an extremely fine piece. And from time
to time, when he had not supped with the Master, he would say to
him: Last night I was with the company, and being a little tired
of the Queen of England, I fetched me the Gumedra of the great
Can of Tarisi.
Gumedra,
quoth the Master; what is she?
I know not the meaning of these words.
Thereat, Master,
replied Bruno, I marvel not; for I have heard tell that neither
Porcograsso nor Vannacena say aught thereof.
Thou wouldst say
Ippocrasso and Avicenna,
returned the Master.
I'faith I know
not,
quoth Bruno. I as ill know the meaning of your words as
you of mine. But Gumedra in the speech of the great Can signifies
the same as Empress in ours. Ah! a fine woman you would find
her, and plenty of her! I warrant she would make you forget your
drugs and prescriptions and plasters.
And so, Bruno from time to
time whetting the Master's appetite, and the Master at length thinking
that by his honourable entreatment of him he had fairly made a
conquest of Bruno, it befell that one evening, while he held the light
for Bruno, who was at work on the battle of rats and mice, he
determined to discover to him his desire; and as they were alone,
thus he spoke: God knows, Bruno, that there lives not the man,
for whom I would do as much as for thee: why, if thou wast to bid
me go all the way from here to Peretola,About four miles from
Florence. I almost think I would do
so; wherefore I trust thou wilt not deem it strange if I talk to thee
as an intimate friend and in confidence. Thou knowest 'tis not long
since thou didst enlarge with me on thy gay company and their
doings, which has engendered in me such a desire as never was to
know more thereof. Nor without reason, as thou wilt discover,
should I ever become a member of the said company, for I straightway
give thee leave to make game of me, should I not then fetch
me the fairest maid thou hast seen this many a day, whom I saw
last year at Cacavincigli, and to whom I am entirely devoted; and by
the body of Christ I offered her ten Bolognese groats, that she should
pleasure me, and she would not. Wherefore I do most earnestly
entreat thee to instruct me what I must do to fit myself for membership
in the company; and never doubt that in me you will have a true
and loyal comrade, and one that will do you honour. And above all
thou seest how goodly I am of my person, and how well furnished
with legs, and of face as fresh as a rose; and therewithal I am a
doctor of medicine, and I scarce think you have any such among
you; and not a little excellent lore I have, and many a good song by
heart, of which I will sing thee one;
and forthwith he fell a
singing.
Bruno had such a mind to laugh, that he could scarce contain
himself; but still he kept a grave countenance; and, when the
Master had ended his song, and said: How likes it thee?
he answered: Verily, no lyre of straw could vie with you, so
artarguticallyIn the Italian artagoticamente,
a word of
Boccaccio's own minting. you refine your strain.
I warrant
thee,
returned the
Master, thou hadst never believed it, hadst thou not heard me.
Ay, indeed, sooth sayst thou,
quoth Bruno.
And I have other
songs to boot,
said the Master; but enough of this at present. Thou
must know that I, such as thou seest me, am a gentleman's son, albeit
my father lived in the contado; and on my mother's side I come of
the Vallecchio family. And as thou mayst have observed I have
quite the finest library and wardrobe of all the physicians in Florence.
God's faith! I have a robe that cost, all told, close upon a hundred
pounds in bagattinesA Venetian coin of extremely low value, being
reckoned as 1/4 of the Florentine quattrino. more than ten years ago.
Wherefore I make
most instant suit to thee that thou get me enrolled, which if thou do,
God's faith! be thou never so ill, thou shalt pay me not a stiver for
my tendance of thee.
Whereupon Bruno, repeating to himself, as
he had done many a time before, that the doctor was a very numskull:
Master,
quoth he, shew a little more light here, and
have patience until I have put the finishing touches to the tails of these
rats, and then I will answer you.
So he finished the tails,
and then, putting on an air as if he were not a little embarrassed by
the request: Master mine,
quoth he, I should have great
things to expect from you; that I know: but yet what you ask of
me, albeit to your great mind it seems but a little thing, is a weighty
matter indeed for me; nor know I a soul in the world, to whom,
though well able, I would grant such a request, save to you alone:
and this I say not for friendship's sake alone, albeit I love you as I
ought, but for that your discourse is so fraught with wisdom, that 'tis
enough to make a beguine start out of her boots, much more, then, to
incline me to change my purpose; and the more I have of your
company, the wiser I repute you. Whereto I may add, that, if for
no other cause, I should still be well disposed towards you for the
love I see you bear to that fair piece of flesh of which you spoke but
now. But this I must tell you: 'tis not in my power to do as you
would have me in this matter; but, though I cannot myself do the
needful in your behalf, if you will pledge your faith, whole and solid
as may be, to keep my secret, I will shew you how to go about it
for yourself, and I make no doubt that, having this fine library and
the other matters you spoke of a while ago, you will compass your
end.
Quoth then the Master: Nay, but speak freely; I see
thou dost yet scarce know me, and how well I can keep a secret.
There were few things that Messer Guasparruolo da Saliceto did,
when he was Podestà of Forlinpopoli, that he did not confide to me,
so safe he knew they would be in my keeping: and wouldst thou
be satisfied that I say sooth? I assure you I was the first man whom
he told that he was about to marry Bergamina: so there's for thee.
Well and good,
said Bruno, if such as he confided in you, well
indeed may I do the like. Know, then, that you will have to proceed
on this wise: Our company is governed by a captain and a
council of two, who are changed every six months: and on the
calends without fail Buffalmacco will be captain, and I councillor:
'tis so fixed: and the captain has not a little power to promote the
admission and enrolment of whomsoever he will: wherefore, methinks,
you would do well to make friends with Buffalmacco and
honourably entreat him: he is one that, marking your great wisdom,
will take a mighty liking to you forthwith; and when you have just
a little dazzled him with your wisdom and these fine things of yours,
you may make your request to him; and he will not know how to
say no--I have already talked with him of you, and he is as well
disposed to you as may be--and having so done you will leave the
rest to me.
Whereupon: Thy words are to me for an exceeding
great joy,
quoth the Master: and if he be one that loves to
converse with sages, he has but to exchange a word or two with
me, and I will answer for it that he will be ever coming to see me;
for so fraught with wisdom am I, that I could furnish a whole city
therewith, and still remain a great sage.
Having thus set matters in train, Bruno related the whole affair,
point by point, to Buffalmacco, to whom it seemed a thousand years
till he should be able to give Master Noodle that of which he was in
quest. The doctor, now all agog to go the course, lost no time, and
found no difficulty, in making friends with Buffalmacco, and fell to
entertaining him, and Bruno likewise, at breakfast and supper in
most magnificent style; while they fooled him to the top of his
bent, for, being gentlemen that appreciated excellent wines and fat
capons, besides other good cheer in plenty, they were inclined to be
very neighbourly, and needed no second bidding, but, always letting
him understand that there was none other whose company they
relished so much, kept ever with him.
However, in due time the Master asked of Buffalmacco that
which he had before asked of Bruno. Whereat Buffalmacco feigned
to be not a little agitated, and turning angrily to Bruno, made a
great pother about his ears, saying: By the Most High God of
Pasignano I vow I can scarce forbear to give thee that over the head
that should make they nose fall about thy heels, traitor that thou art,
for 'tis thou alone that canst have discovered these secrets to the
Master.
Whereupon the Master interposed with no little vigour,
averring with oaths that 'twas from another source that he had gotten
his knowledge; and Buffalmacco at length allowed himself to be
pacified by the sage's words. So turning to him: Master,
quoth
he, 'tis evident indeed that you have been at Bologna, and have
come back hither with a mouth that blabs not, and that 'twas on no
pippin, as many a dolt does, but on the good long pumpkin that you
learned your A B C; and, if I mistake not, you were baptized on a
Sunday;I.e. without salt, that Florentine symbol of wit, not
being so readily procurable on a holiday as on working-days.
and
though Bruno has told me that 'twas medicine you
studied there, 'tis my opinion that you there studied the art of
catching men, of which, what with your wisdom and your startling
revelations, you are the greatest master that ever I knew.
He
would have said more, but the doctor, turning to Bruno, broke in
with: Ah! what it is to consort and converse with the wise!
Who but this worthy man would thus have read my mind through
and through? Less quick by far to rate me at my true worth wast
thou. But what said I when thou toldst me that Buffalmacco
delighted to converse with sages? Confess now; have I not kept
my word?
Verily,
quoth Bruno, you have more than kept
it.
Then, addressing Buffalmacco: Ah!
cried the Master,
what hadst thou said, hadst thou seen me at Bologna, where there
was none, great or small, doctor or scholar, but was devoted to me,
so well wist I how to entertain them with my words of wisdom.
Nay more; let me tell thee that there was never a word I spoke but
set every one a laughing, so great was the pleasure it gave them.
And at my departure they all deplored it most bitterly, and would
have had me remain, and by way of inducement went so far as to
propose that I should be sole lecturer to all the students in medicine
that were there; which offer I declined, for that I was minded to
return hither, having vast estates here, that have ever belonged to
my family; which, accordingly, I did.
Quoth then Bruno to
Buffalmacco: How shews it, now, man? Thou didst not believe
me when I told thee what he was. By the Gospels there is never a
physician in this city that has the lore of ass's urine by heart as he
has: verily, thou wouldst not find his like between here and the
gates of Paris. Now see if thou canst help doing as he would have
thee.
'Tis even as Bruno says,
observed the doctor, but I am
not understood here. You Florentines are somewhat slow of wit.
Would you could see me in my proper element, among a company
of doctors!
Whereupon: Of a truth, Master,
quoth Buffalmacco,
your lore far exceeds any I should ever have imputed to
you; wherefore, addressing you as 'tis meet to address a man of your
wisdom, I give you disjointedly to understand that without fail I will
procure your enrolment in our company.
After this promise the honours lavished by the doctor upon the
two men grew and multiplied; in return for which they diverted
themselves by setting him a prancing upon every wildest chimera in
the world; and promised, among other matters, to give him by way
of mistress, the Countess of Civillari,A public sink at
Florence.
whom they averred to be the
goodliest creature to be found in all the Netherlands of the human
race; and the doctor asking who this Countess might be: Mature
my gherkin,
quoth Buffalmacco, she is indeed a very great lady,
and few houses are there in the world in which she has not some
jurisdiction; nay, the very Friars Minors, to say nought of other
folk, pay her tribute to the sound of the kettle-drum.
And I may
tell you that, when she goes abroad, she makes her presence very
sensibly felt, albeit for the most part she keeps herself close: however,
'tis no great while since she passed by your door one night on
her way to the Arno to bathe her feet and get a breath of air; but
most of her time she abides at Laterina.In the contado of
Arezzo:
the équivoque is tolerably obvious.
Serjeants has she
not
a
few that go their rounds at short intervals, bearing, one and all, the
rod and the bucket in token of her sovereignty, and barons in plenty
in all parts, as Tamagnino della Porta,Slang for an ill-kept
jakes. Don Meta,Also slang: signifying a pyramidal pile of
ordure. Manico di Scopa,Broom-handle.
Squacchera,The meaning of this term may perhaps be divined from the
sound. and others, with whom I doubt not you are intimately
acquainted, though you may not just now bear them in mind.
Such,
then, is the great lady, in whose soft arms we, if we delude not ourselves,
will certainly place you, in which case you may well dispense
with her of Cacavincigli.
The doctor, who had been born and bred at Bologna, and understood
not their words, found the lady quite to his mind; and shortly
afterwards the painters brought him tidings of his election into the
company. Then came the day of the nocturnal gathering, and the
doctor had the two men to breakfast; and when they had breakfasted,
he asked them after what manner he was to join the company.
Whereupon: Lo, now, Master,
quoth Buffalmacco, you have
need of a stout heart; otherwise you may meet with some let, to
our most grievous hurt; and for what cause you have need of this
stout heart, you shall hear. You must contrive to be to-night about
the hour of first sleep on one of the raised tombs that have been
lately placed outside of Santa Maria Novella; and mind that you
wear one of your best gowns, that your first appearance may impress
the company with a proper sense of your dignity, and also because,
as we are informed, for we were not present at the time, the
Countess, by reason that you are a gentleman, is minded to make you
a Knight of the Bath at her own charges. So you will wait there,
until one, whom we shall send, come for you: who, that you may
know exactly what you have to expect, will be a beast black and
horned, of no great size; and he will go snorting and bounding
amain about the piazza in front of you, with intent to terrify you;
but, when he perceives that you are not afraid, he will draw nigh you
quietly, and when he is close by you, then get you down from the
tomb, fearing nothing; and, minding you neither of God nor of the
saints, mount him, and when you are well set on his back, then fold
your arms upon your breast, as in submission, and touch him no
more. Then, going gently, he will bear you to us; but once mind
you of God, or the saints, or give way to fear, and I warn you, he
might give you a fall, or dash you against something that you would
find scarce pleasant; wherefore, if your heart misgives you, you were
best not to come, for you would assuredly do yourself a mischief, and
us no good at all.
Quoth then the doctor: You know me not
as yet; 'tis perchance because I wear the gloves and the long robe
that you misdoubt me. Ah! did you but know what feats I have
done in times past at Bologna, when I used to go after the women
with my comrades, you would be lost in amazement.
God's faith!
on one of those nights there was one of them, a poor sickly creature
she was too, and stood not a cubit in height, who would not come
with us; so first I treated her to many a good cuff, and then I took
her up by main force, and carried her well-nigh as far as a cross-bow
will send a bolt, and so caused her, willy-nilly, come with us. And
on another occasion I mind me that, having none other with me but
my servant, a little after the hour of Ave Maria, I passed beside the
cemetery of the Friars Minors, and, though that very day a woman
had been there interred, I had no fear at all. So on this score you
may make your minds easy; for indeed I am a man of exceeding
great courage and prowess. And to appear before you with due
dignity, I will don my scarlet gown, in which I took my doctor's
degree, and it remains to be seen if the company will not give me a
hearty welcome, and make me captain out of hand. Let me once
be there, and you will see how things will go; else how is it that
this countess, that has not yet seen me, is already so enamoured of
me that she is minded to make me a Knight of the Bath? And
whether I shall find knighthood agreeable, or know how to support
the dignity well or ill, leave that to me.
Whereupon: Well
said, excellent well said,
quoth Buffalmacco: but look to it you
disappoint us not, either by not coming or by not being found, when
we send for you; and this I say, because 'tis cold weather, and you
medical gentlemen take great care of your health.
God forbid,
replied the doctor, I am none of your chilly folk; I fear not the
cold: 'tis seldom indeed, when I leave my bed a nights, to answer
the call of nature, as one must at times, that I do more than throw
a pelisse over my doublet; so rest assured that I shall be there.
So they parted; and towards nightfall the Master found a pretext
for leaving his wife, and privily got out his fine gown, which in due
time he donned, and so hied him to the tombs, and having perched
himself on one of them, huddled himself together, for 'twas mighty
cold, to await the coming of the beast. Meanwhile Buffalmacco,
who was a tall man and strong, provided himself with one of those
dominos that were wont to be worn in certain revels which are now
gone out of fashion; and enveloped in a black pelisse turned inside
out, shewed like a bear, save that the domino had the face of a devil,
and was furnished with horns: in which guise, Bruno following
close behind to see the sport, he hied him to the piazza of Santa
Maria Novella. And no sooner wist he that the Master was on
the tomb, than he fell a careering in a most wild and furious manner
to and fro the piazza, and snorting and bellowing and gibbering like
one demented, insomuch that, as soon as the Master was ware of him,
each several hair on his head stood on end, and he fell a trembling
in every limb, being in sooth more timid than a woman, and wished
himself safe at home: but as there he was, he strove might and
main to keep his spirits up, so overmastering was his desire to see the
marvels of which Bruno and Buffalmacco had told him. However,
after a while Buffalmacco allowed his fury to abate, and came quietly
up to the tomb on which the Master was, and stood still. The
Master, still all of a tremble with fear, could not at first make up his
mind, whether to get on the beast's back, or no; but at length,
doubting it might be the worse for him if he did not mount the
beast, he overcame the one dread by the aid of the other, got down
from the tomb, saying under his breath: God help me!
and
seated himself very comfortably on the beast's back; and then, still
quaking in every limb, he folded his arms as he had been bidden.
Buffalmacco now started, going on all-fours, at a very slow pace,
in the direction of Santa Maria della Scala, and so brought the
Master within a short distance of the Convent of the Ladies of Ripoli.
Now, in that quarter there were divers trenches, into which the
husbandmen of those parts were wont to discharge the Countess of
Civillari, that she might afterwards serve them to manure their land.
Of one of which trenches, as he came by, Buffalmacco skirted the
edge, and seizing his opportunity, raised a hand, and caught the
doctor by one of his feet, and threw him off his back and head-foremost
right into the trench, and then, making a terrific noise and
frantic gestures as before, went bounding off by Santa Maria della
Scala towards the field of Ognissanti, where he found Bruno, who
had betaken him thither that he might laugh at his ease; and there
the two men in high glee took their stand to observe from a distance
how the bemired doctor would behave. Finding himself in so loathsome
a place, the Master struggled might and main to raise himself
and get out; and though again and again he slipped back, and
swallowed some drams of the ordure, yet, bemired from head to foot,
woebegone and crestfallen, he did at last get out, leaving his hood
behind him. Then, removing as much of the filth as he might with
his hands, knowing not what else to do, he got him home, where,
by dint of much knocking, he at last gained admittance; and scarce
was the door closed behind the malodorous Master, when Bruno and
Buffalmacco were at it, all agog to hear after what manner he would
be received by his wife. They were rewarded by hearing her give
him the soundest rating that ever bad husband got.
Ah!
quoth
she, fine doings, these! Thou hast been with some other woman,
and wast minded to make a brave shew in thy scarlet gown. So I
was not enough for thee! not enough for thee forsooth, I that might
content a crowd! Would they had choked thee with the filth in
which they have soused thee; 'twas thy fit resting-place. Now, to
think that a physician of repute, and a married man, should go by
night after strange women!
Thus, and with much more to the
like effect, while the doctor was busy washing himself, she ceased
not to torment him until midnight.
On the morrow, Bruno and Buffalmacco, having painted their
bodies all over with livid patches to give them the appearance of
having been thrashed, came to the doctor's house, and finding that
he was already risen, went in, being saluted on all hands by a foul
smell, for time had not yet served thoroughly to cleanse the house.
The doctor, being informed that they were come to see him,
advanced to meet them, and bade them good morning. Whereto
Bruno and Buffalmacco, having prepared their answer, replied:
No good morning shall you have from us: rather we pray God to
give you bad years enough to make an end of you, seeing that there
lives no more arrant and faithless traitor. 'Tis no fault of yours, if
we, that did our best to honour and pleasure you, have not come by
a dog's death;
your faithlessness has cost us to-night as many sound
blows as would more than suffice to keep an ass a trotting all the
way from here to Rome; besides which, we have been in peril of
expulsion from the company in which we arranged for your enrolment.
If you doubt our words, look but at our bodies, what a state
they are in.
And so, baring their breasts they gave him a glimpse
of the patches they had painted there, and forthwith covered them
up again. The doctor would have made them his excuses, and
recounted his misfortunes, and how he had been thrown into the
trench. But Buffalmacco broke in with: Would he had thrown
you from the bridge into the Arno! Why must you needs mind
you of God and the saints? Did we not forewarn you?
God's
faith,
returned the doctor, that did I not.
How?
quoth
Buffalmacco, you did not? You do so above a little; for he that
we sent for you told us that you trembled like an aspen, and knew not
where you were. You have played us a sorry trick; but never
another shall do so; and as for you, we will give you such requital
thereof as you deserve.
The doctor now began to crave their
pardon, and to implore them for God's sake not to expose him to
shame, and used all the eloquence at his command to make his peace
with them. And if he had honourably entreated them before, he
thenceforth, for fear they should publish his disgrace, did so much
more abundantly, and courted them both by entertaining them at his
table and in other ways. And so you have heard how wisdom is
imparted to those that get it not at Bologna.
Novel XA Sicilian woman cunningly conveys from a merchant that
which he has brought to Palermo; he, making a shew
of being come back thither with far greater store of
goods than before, borrows money of her, and leaves
her in lieu thereof water and tow.
How much in divers passages the queen's story moved the ladies
to laughter, it boots not to ask: none was there in whose eyes the
tears stood not full a dozen times for excess of merriment. However,
it being ended, and Dioneo witting that 'twas now his turn,
thus spake he:
Gracious ladies, 'tis patent to all that wiles are
diverting in the degree of the wiliness of him that is by them
beguiled. Wherefore, albeit stories most goodly have been told by
you all, I purpose to relate one which should afford you more
pleasure than any that has been told, seeing that she that was
beguiled was far more cunning in beguiling others than any of the
beguiled of whom you have spoken.
There was, and perhaps still is, a custom in all maritime
countries that have ports, that all merchants arriving there with
merchandise, should, on discharging, bring all their goods into a
warehouse, called in many places dogana,
and maintained by
the state, or the lord of the land; where those that are assigned
to that office allot to each merchant, on receipt of an invoice of
all his goods and the value thereof, a room in which he stores
his goods under lock and key; whereupon the said officers of the
dogana enter all the merchant's goods to his credit in the book
of the dogana, and afterwards make him pay duty thereon, or on
such part as he withdraws from the warehouse. By which book of
the dogana the brokers not seldom find out the sorts and quantities
of the merchandise that is there, and also who are the owners
thereof, with whom, as occasion serves, they afterwards treat of
exchanges, barters, sales and other modes of disposing of the goods.
Which custom obtained, as in many other places, so also at Palermo
in Sicily, where in like manner there were and are not a few women,
fair as fair can be, but foes to virtue, who by whoso knows them not
would be reputed great and most virtuous ladies.
And being given
not merely to fleece but utterly to flay men, they no sooner espy a
foreign merchant in the city, than they find out from the book of
the dogana how much he has there and what he is good for; and
then by caressing and amorous looks and gestures, and words of
honeyed sweetness, they strive to entice and allure the merchant to
their love, and not seldom have they succeeded, and wrested from
him great part or the whole of his merchandise; and of some they
have gotten goods and ship and flesh and bones, so delightsomely
have they known how to ply the shears.
Now 'tis not long since one of our young Florentines, Niccolò da
Cignano by name, albeit he was called Salabaetto, arrived there,
being sent by his masters with all the woollen stuffs that he had not
been able to dispose of at Salerno fair, which might perhaps be
worth five hundred florins of gold; and having given the invoice to
the officers of the dogana and stored the goods, Salabaetto was in no
hurry to get them out of bond, but took a stroll or two about the
city for his diversion. And as he was fresh-complexioned and fair
and not a little debonair, it so befell that one of these ladies that
plied the shears, and called herself Jancofiore, began to ogle him.
Whereof he taking note, and deeming that she was a great lady,
supposed that she was taken by his good looks, and cast about how
he might manage this amour with all due discretion; wherefore,
saying nought to a soul, he began to pass to and fro before her house.
Which she observing, occupied herself for a few days in inflaming
his passion, and then affecting to be dying of love for him, sent
privily to him a woman that she had in her service, and who was an
adept in the arts of the procuress. She, after not a little palaver,
told him, while the tears all but stood in her eyes, that for his handsome
person and winsome air her mistress was so enamoured of him,
that she found no peace by day or by night; and therefore, if 'twere
agreeable to him, there was nought she desired so much as to meet
him privily at a bagnio: whereupon she drew a ring from her purse,
and gave it him by way of token from her mistress. Overjoyed as
ne'er another to hear such good news, Salabaetto took the ring, and,
after drawing it across his eyes and kissing it, put it on his finger,
and told the good woman that, if Madonna Jancofiore loved him,
she was well requited, for that he loved her more dearly than himself,
and that he was ready to meet her wherever and whenever she might
see fit. With which answer the procuress hied her back to her
mistress, and shortly afterwards Salabaetto was informed that he was
to meet the lady at a certain bagnio at vespers of the ensuing day.
So, saying nought to a soul of the matter, he hied him punctually
at the appointed hour to the bagnio, and found that it had been taken
by the lady; nor had he long to wait before two female slaves made
their appearance, bearing on their heads, the one a great and goodly
mattress of wadding, and the other a huge and well-filled basket; and
having laid the mattress on a bedstead in one of the rooms of the bagnio,
they covered it with a pair of sheets of the finest fabric, bordered with
silk, and a quilt of the whitest Cyprus buckram, with two
daintily-embroidered
pillows. The slaves then undressed and got into the
bath, which they thoroughly washed and scrubbed: whither soon
afterwards the lady, attended by other two female slaves, came,
and made haste to greet Salabaetto with the heartiest of cheer; and
when, after heaving many a mighty sigh, she had embraced and
kissed him: I know not,
quoth she, who but thou could have
brought me to this, such a fire hast thou kindled in my soul, little
dog of a Tuscan!
Whereupon she was pleased that they should
undress, and get into the bath, and two of the slaves with them;
which, accordingly, they did; and she herself, suffering none other to
lay a hand upon him, did with wondrous care wash Salabaetto from
head to foot with soap perfumed with musk and cloves; after which
she let the slaves wash and shampoo herself. The slaves then
brought two spotless sheets of finest texture, which emitted such a
scent of roses, that 'twas as if there was nought there but roses, in
one of which having wrapped Salabaetto, and in the other the lady,
they bore them both to bed, where, the sheets in which they were
enfolded being withdrawn by the slaves as soon as they had done
sweating, they remained stark naked in the others. The slaves then
took from the basket cruets of silver most goodly, and full, this of
rose-water, that of water of orange-blossom, a third of water of
jasmine-blossom, and a fourth of nanfaNeither the Vocab. degli
Accad. della Crusca nor the Riccbezze attempts
to define the precise nature of this scent, which Fanfani identifies with
that
of the orange-blossom. water, wherewith they
sprinkled them: after which, boxes of comfits and the finest wines
being brought forth, they regaled them a while. To Salabaetto 'twas
as if he were in Paradise; a thousand times he scanned the lady,
who was indeed most beautiful; and he counted each hour as
a hundred years until the slaves should get them gone, and he find
himself in the lady's arms.
At length, by the lady's command, the slaves departed, leaving a
lighted torch in the room, and then the lady and Salabaetto embraced,
and to Salabaetto's prodigious delight, for it seemed to him that she
was all but dissolved for love of him, tarried there a good while.
However, the time came when the lady must needs rise: so she
called the slaves, with whose help they dressed, regaled them again
for a while with wine and comfits, and washed their faces and hands
with the odoriferous waters. Then as they were going, quoth the
lady to Salabaetto: If it be agreeable to thee, I should deem it a
very great favour if thou wouldst come to-night to sup and sleep
with me.
Salabaetto, who, captivated by her beauty and her
studied graciousness, never doubted but he was dear to her as her
very heart, made answer: Madam, there is nought you can
desire but is in the last degree agreeable to me; wherefore to-night
and ever 'tis my purpose to do whatsoever you may be pleased to
command.
So home the lady hied her, and having caused a brave
shew to be made in her chamber with her dresses and other paraphernalia,
and a grand supper to be prepared, awaited Salabaetto;
who, being come there as soon as 'twas dark, had of her a gladsome
welcome, and was regaled with an excellent and well-served supper.
After which, they repaired to the chamber, where he was saluted by
a wondrous sweet odour of aloe-wood, and observed that the bed
was profusely furnished with birds,I. e. with a sort of
musical
boxes in the shape of birds. after the fashion of Cyprus, and
that not a few fine dresses were hanging upon the pegs. Which
circumstances did, one and all, beget in him the belief that this must
be a great and wealthy lady; and, though he had heard a hint or
two to the contrary touching her life, he would by no means credit
them; nor, supposing that she had perchance taken another with
guile, would he believe that the same thing might befall him. So to
his exceeding great solace, he lay with her that night, and ever grew
more afire for her. On the morrow, as she was investing him with
a fair and dainty girdle of silver, with a goodly purse attached:
Sweet my Salabaetto,
quoth she, prithee forget me not; even
as my person, so is all that I have at thy pleasure, and all that
I can at thy command.
Salabaetto then embraced and kissed her, and so bade her adieu,
and betook him to the place where the merchants were wont to congregate.
And so it befell that he, continuing to consort with her
from time to time, and being never a denier the poorer thereby,
disposed of his merchandise for ready money and at no small profit;
whereof not by him but by another the lady was forthwith advised.
And Salabaetto being come to see her one evening, she greeted him
gaily and gamesomely, and fell a kissing and hugging him, and made
as if she were so afire for love of him that she was like to die thereof
in his arms; and offered to give him two most goodly silver cups
that she had, which Salabaetto would not accept, having already had
from her (taking one time with another) fully thirty florins of gold,
while he had not been able to induce her to touch so much as a groat
of his money. But when by this shew of passion and generosity
she had thoroughly kindled his flame, in came, as she had arranged,
one of her slaves, and spoke to her; whereupon out of the room she
went, and after a while came back in tears, and threw herself prone
on the bed, and set up the most dolorous lamentation that ever
woman made. Whereat Salabaetto wondering, took her in his arms,
and mingled his tears with hers, and said: Alas! heart of my
body! what ails thee thus of a sudden? Wherefore art thou so
distressed? Ah! tell me the reason, my soul.
The lady allowed
him to run on in this strain for a good while, and then: Alas!
sweet my lord,
quoth she,
I know not either what to do or what
to say. I have but now received a letter from Messina, in which my
brother bids me sell, if need be, all that I have here, and send him
without fail within eight days a thousand florins of gold: otherwise
he will forfeit his head. I know not how to come by them so soon:
had I but fifteen days, I would make a shift to raise them in a quarter
where I might raise a much larger sum, or I would sell one of our
estates; but, as this may not be, would I had been dead or e'er this
bad news had reached me!
Which said, affecting to be utterly
broken-hearted, she ceased not to weep.
Salabaetto, the ardour of whose passion had in great measure
deprived him of the sagacity which the circumstances demanded,
supposed that the tears were genuine enough, and the words even
more so. Wherefore: Madam,
quoth he, I could not furnish
you with a thousand, but if five hundred florins of gold would suffice,
they are at your service, if you think you could repay them within
fifteen days; and you may deem yourself in luck's way, for 'twas
only yesterday that I sold my woollens, which had I not done, I
could not have lent you a groat.
Alas!
returned the lady,
then thou hast been in straits for money? Oh! why didst thou
not apply to me? Though I have not a thousand at my command,
I could have given thee quite a hundred, nay indeed two hundred
florins. By what thou hast said thou hast made me hesitate to accept
the service that thou proposest to render me.
Which words fairly
delivered Salabaetto into the lady's hands, insomuch that: Madam,
quoth he, I would not have you decline my help for such a scruple;
for had my need been as great as yours, I should certainly have
applied to you.
Quoth then the lady: Ah! Salabaetto mine,
well I wot that the love thou bearest me is a true and perfect love,
seeing that, without waiting to be asked, thou dost so handsomely
come to my aid with so large a sum of money. And albeit I was
thine without this token of thy love, yet, assuredly, it has made me
thine in an even greater degree; nor shall I ever forget that 'tis to
thee I owe my brother's life.
But God knows I take thy money
from thee reluctantly, seeing that thou art a merchant, and 'tis by
means of money that merchants conduct all their affairs; but, as
necessity constrains me, and I have good hope of speedily repaying
thee, I will even take it, and by way of security, if I should find no
readier method, I will pawn all that I have here.
Which said, she
burst into tears, and fell upon Salabaetto, pressing her cheek upon
his.
Salabaetto tried to comfort her; and having spent the night with
her, on the morrow, being minded to shew himself her most devoted
servant, brought her, without awaiting any reminder, five hundred
fine florins of gold: which she, laughing at heart while the tears
streamed from her eyes, took, Salabaetto trusting her mere promise
of repayment. Now that the lady had gotten the money, the
complexion of affairs began to alter; and whereas Salabaetto had
been wont to have free access to her, whenever he was so minded,
now for one reason or another he was denied admittance six times
out of seven; nor did she greet him with the same smile, or shower
on him the same caresses, or do him the same cheer as of yore.
So
a month, two months, passed beyond the time when he was to have
been repaid his money; and when he demanded it, he was put off
with words.
Whereby Salabaetto, being now ware of the cheat
which his slender wit had suffered the evil-disposed woman to put
upon him, and also that, having neither writing nor witness against
her, he was entirely at her mercy in regard of his claim, and being,
moreover, ashamed to lodge any complaint with any one, as well
because he had been forewarned of her character, as because he
dreaded the ridicule to which his folly justly exposed him, was
chagrined beyond measure, and inly bewailed his simplicity.
And
his masters having written to him, bidding him change the money
and remit it to them, he, being apprehensive that, making default as
he must, he should, if he remained there, be detected, resolved to
depart; and having taken ship, he repaired, not, as he should have
done, to Pisa, but to Naples;
where at that time resided our gossip,
Pietro dello Canigiano, treasurer of the Empress of Constantinople,
a man of great sagacity and acuteness, and a very great friend of
Salabaetto and his kinsfolk; to whom trusting in his great discretion,
Salabaetto after a while discovered his distress, telling him what he
had done, and the sorry plight in which by consequence he stood,
and craving his aid and counsel, that he might the more readily find
means of livelihood there, for that he was minded never to go back
to Florence. Impatient to hear of such folly: 'Twas ill done of
thee,
quoth Canigiano, thou hast misbehaved thyself, wronged thy
masters, and squandered an exorbitant sum in lewdness; however,
'tis done, and we must consider of the remedy.
And indeed, like
the shrewd man that he was, he had already bethought him what
was best to be done; and forthwith he imparted it to Salabaetto.
Which expedient Salabaetto approving, resolved to make the adventure;
and having still a little money, and being furnished with a loan
by Canigiano, he provided himself with not a few bales well and
closely corded, and bought some twenty oil-casks, which he filled,
and having put all on shipboard, returned to Palermo. There he
gave the invoice of the bales, as also of the oil-casks, to the officers of
the dogana, and having them all entered to his credit, laid them up
in the store-rooms, saying that he purposed to leave them there until
the arrival of other merchandise that he expected.
Which Jancofiore learning, and being informed that the merchandise,
that he had brought with him, was worth fully two thousand
florins of gold, or even more, besides that which he expected, which
was valued at more than three thousand florins of gold, bethought her
that she had not aimed high enough, and that 'twere well to refund
him the five hundred, if so she might make the greater part of the
five thousand florins her own. Wherefore she sent for him,
and
Salabaetto, having learned his lesson of cunning, waited on her.
Feigning to know nought of the cargo he had brought with him, she
received him with marvellous cheer, and began: Lo, now, if thou
wast angry with me because I did not repay thee thy money in due
time:
but Salabaetto interrupted her, saying with a laugh:
Madam, 'tis true I was a little vexed, seeing that I would have
plucked out my heart to pleasure you; but listen, and you shall learn
the quality of my displeasure. Such and so great is the love I bear
you, that I have sold the best part of all that I possess, whereby I
have already in this port merchandise to the value of more than two
thousand florins, and expect from the Levant other goods to the
value of above three thousand florins, and mean to set up a warehouse
in this city, and live here, to be ever near you, for that I deem myself
more blessed in your love than any other lover that lives.
Whereupon:
Harkye, Salabaetto,
quoth the lady, whatever advantages
thee is mighty grateful to me, seeing that I love thee more
than my very life, and right glad am I that thou art come back with
intent to stay, for I hope to have many a good time with thee; but
something I must say to thee by way of excuse, for that, whilst thou
wast thinking of taking thy departure, there were times when thou
wast disappointed of seeing me, and others when thou hadst not as
gladsome a welcome as thou wast wont to have, and therewithal I
kept not the time promised for the repayment of thy money.
Thou
must know that I was then in exceeding great trouble and tribulation,
and whoso is thus bested, love he another never so much, cannot
greet him with as gladsome a mien, or be as attentive to him, as he
had life;
and thou must further know that 'tis by no means an easy
matter for a lady to come by a thousand florins of gold: why, 'tis
every day a fresh lie, and never a promise kept; and so we in our
turn must needs lie to others; and 'twas for this cause, and not for
any fault of mine, that I did not repay thee thy money;
however, I
had it but a little while after thy departure, and had I known whither
to send it, be sure I would have remitted it to thee; but, as that I
wist not, I have kept it safe for thee.
She then produced a purse, in
which were the very same coins that he had brought her, and placed
it in his hand, saying: Count and see if there are five hundred
there.
'Twas the happiest moment Salabaetto had yet known, as,
having told them out, and found the sum exact, he made answer:
Madam, I know that you say sooth, and what you have done
abundantly proves it; wherefore, and for the love I bear you, I
warrant you there is no sum you might ask of me on any occasion of
need, with which, if 'twere in my power, I would not accommodate
you; whereof, when I am settled here, you will be able to assure
yourself.
Having thus in words reinstated himself as her lover, he proceeded
to treat her as his mistress, whereto she responded, doing all that was
in her power to pleasure and honour him, and feigning to be in the
last degree enamoured of him.
But Salabaetto, being minded to
requite her guile with his own, went to her one evening, being bidden
to sup and sleep with her, with an aspect so melancholy and dolorous,
that he shewed as he had lief give up the ghost. Jancofiore, as she
embraced and kissed him, demanded of him the occasion of his
melancholy.
Whereto he, having let her be instant with him a
good while, made answer: I am undone, for that the ship, having
aboard her the goods that I expected, has been taken by the corsairs
of Monaco, and held to ransom in ten thousand florins of gold, of
which it falls to me to pay one thousand, and I have not a denier, for
the five hundred thou repaidst me I sent forthwith to Naples to buy
stuffs for this market, and were I to sell the merchandise I have here,
as 'tis not now the right time to sell, I should scarce get half the
value; nor am I as yet so well known here as to come by any to
help me at this juncture, and so what to do or what to say I know
not; but this I know that, if I send not the money without delay,
my merchandise will be taken to Monaco, and I shall never touch
aught of it again.
Whereat the lady was mightily annoyed, being
apprehensive of losing all, and bethought her how she might prevent
the goods going to Monaco: wherefore: God knows,
quoth
she, that for the love I bear thee I am not a little sorry for thee:
but what boots it idly to distress oneself? Had I the money, God
knows I would lend it thee forthwith, but I have it not.
One,
indeed, there is that accommodated me a day or two ago with five
hundred florins that I stood in need of, but he requires a heavy
usance, not less than thirty on the hundred, and if thou shouldst
have recourse to him, good security must be forthcoming. Now for
my part I am ready, so I may serve thee, to pledge all these dresses,
and my person to boot, for as much as he will lend thee thereon; but
how wilt thou secure the balance?
Salabaetto divined the motive that prompted her thus to accommodate
him, and that she was to lend the money herself; which suiting
his purpose well, he first of all thanked her, and then said that, being
constrained by necessity, he would not stand out against exorbitant
terms, adding that, as to the balance, he would secure it upon the
merchandise that he had at the dogana by causing it to be entered in
the name of the lender; but that he must keep the key of the storerooms,
as well that he might be able to shew the goods, if requested,
as to make sure that none of them should be tampered with or
changed or exchanged. The lady said that this was reasonable, and
that 'twas excellent security. So, betimes on the morrow, the lady
sent for a broker, in whom she reposed much trust, and having talked
the matter over with him, gave him a thousand florins of gold, which
the broker took to Salabaetto, and thereupon had all that Salabaetto
had at the dogana entered in his name; they then had the script and
counterscript made out, and, the arrangement thus concluded, went
about their respective affairs. Salabaetto lost no time in getting
aboard a bark with his five hundred florins of gold, and being come
to Naples, sent thence a remittance which fully discharged his obligation
to his masters that had entrusted him with the stuffs: he also
paid all that he owed to Pietro dello Canigiano and all his other
creditors, and made not a little merry with Canigiano over the trick
he had played the Sicilian lady. He then departed from Naples, and
being minded to have done with mercantile affairs, betook him to
Ferrara.
Jancofiore, surprised at first by Salabaetto's disappearance from
Palermo, waxed after a while suspicious; and, when she had waited
fully two months, seeing that he did not return, she caused the broker
to break open the store-rooms. And trying first of all the casks, she
found them full of sea-water, save that in each there was perhaps a
hog's-head of oil floating on the surface. Then undoing the bales,
she found them all, save two that contained stuffs, full of tow, and
in short their whole contents put together were not worth more than
two hundred florins. Wherefore Jancofiore, knowing herself to
have been outdone, regretted long and bitterly the five hundred
florins of gold that she had refunded, and still more the thousand that
she had lent, repeating many a time to herself: Who with a Tuscan
has to do, Had need of eyesight quick and true. Thus, left with the
loss and the laugh against her, she discovered that there were others
as knowing as she.
ConclusionNo sooner was Dioneo's story ended, than Lauretta, witting
that therewith the end of her sovereignty was come, bestowed her
meed of praise on Pietro Canigiano for his good counsel, and also on
Salabaetto for the equal sagacity which he displayed in carrying it
out, and then, taking off the laurel wreath, set it on the head of
Emilia, saying graciously: I know not, Madam, how debonair
a queen you may prove, but at least we shall have in you a fair
one. Be it your care, then, that you exercise your authority in a
manner answerable to your charms.
Which said, she resumed
her seat.
Not so much to receive the crown, as to be thus commended to
her face and before the company for that which ladies are wont to
covet the most, Emilia was a little shamefast; a tint like that of the
newly-blown rose overspread her face, and a while she stood silent
with downcast eyes: then, as the blush faded away, she raised them;
and having given her seneschal her commands touching all matters
pertaining to the company, thus she spake:
Sweet my ladies, 'tis
matter of common experience that, when the oxen have swunken a
part of the day under the coercive yoke, they are relieved thereof and
loosed, and suffered to go seek their pasture at their own sweet will
in the woods;
nor can we fail to observe that gardens luxuriant with
diversity of leafage are not less, but far more fair to see, than woods
wherein is nought but oaks. Wherefore I deem that, as for so many
days our discourse has been confined within the bounds of certain
laws, 'twill be not only meet but profitable for us, being in need of
relaxation, to roam a while, and so recruit our strength to undergo
the yoke once more.
And therefore I am minded that to-morrow
the sweet tenor of your discourse be not confined to any particular
theme, but that you be at liberty to discourse on such wise as to each
may seem best; for well assured am I that thus to speak of divers
matters will be no less pleasurable than to limit ourselves to one topic;
and by reason of this enlargement my successor in the sovereignty
will find you more vigorous, and be therefore all the more forward
to reimpose upon you the wonted restraint of our laws.
Having so
said, she dismissed all the company until supper-time.
All approved the wisdom of what the queen had said; and being
risen betook them to their several diversions, the ladies to weave
garlands and otherwise disport them, the young men to play and sing;
and so they whiled away the hours until supper-time; which being
come, they gathered about the fair fountain, and took their meal with
gay and festal cheer. Supper ended, they addressed them to their
wonted pastime of song and dance.
At the close of which the queen,
notwithstanding the songs which divers of the company had already
gladly accorded them, called for another from Pamfilo, who without
the least demur thus sang:
So great, O Love, the bliss
Through thee I prove, so jocund my estate,
That in thy flame to burn I bless my fate!
Such plenitude of joy my heart doth know
Of that high joy and rare,
Wherewith thou hast me blest,
As, bounds disdaining, still doth overflow,
And by my radiant air
My blitheness manifest;
For by thee thus possessed
With love, where meeter 'twere to venerate,
I still consume within thy flame elate.
Well wot I, Love, no song may e'er reveal,
Nor any sign declare
What in my heart is pent:
Nay, might they so, that were I best conceal,
Whereof were others ware,
'Twould serve but to torment
Me, whose is such content,
That weak were words and all inadequate
A tittle of my bliss to adumbrate.
Who would have dreamed that e'er in mine embrace
Her I should clip and fold
Whom there I still do feel,
Or as 'gainst her face e'er to lay my face
Attain such grace untold,
And unimagined weal?
Wherefore my bliss I seal
Of mine own heart within the circuit strait,
And still in thy sweet flame luxuriate.
So ended Pamfilo his song: whereto all the company responded
in full chorus; nor was there any but gave to its words an inordinate
degree of attention, endeavóuring by conjecture to penetrate that
which he intimated that 'twas meet he should keep secret. Divers
were the interpretations hazarded, but all were wide of the mark.
At length, however, the queen, seeing that ladies and men alike were
fain of rest, bade all betake them to bed.
Ninth DayEndeth here the eighth day of the Decameron, beginneth
the ninth, in which, under the rule of Emilia, discourse
is had, at the discretion of each, of such matters as
most commend themselves to each in turn.
IntroductionThe luminary, before whose splendour the night takes wing, had
already changed the eighth heavenI. e. in the Ptolemaic
system,
the region of the fixed stars. from azure to the lighter
blue,Cilestro: a word for which we have no exact equivalent, the
dominant
note of the Italian sky, when the sun is well up, being its intense
luminosity.
and in the meads the flowerets were beginning to lift their heads,
when Emilia, being risen, roused her fair gossips, and, likewise, the
young men. And so the queen leading the way at an easy pace, and
the rest of the company following, they hied them to a copse at no
great distance from the palace. Where, being entered, they saw the
goats and stags and other wild creatures, as if witting that in this
time of pestilence they had nought to fear from the hunter, stand
awaiting them with no more sign of fear than if they had been
tamed: and so, making now towards this, now towards the other of
them as if to touch them, they diverted themselves for a while by
making them skip and run. But, as soon as the sun was in the
ascendant, by common consent they turned back, and whoso met
them, garlanded as they were with oak-leaves, and carrying store of
fragrant herbs or flowers in their hands might well have said:
Either shall death not vanquish these, or they will meet it with a
light heart.
So, slowly wended they their way, now singing, now
bandying quips and merry jests, to the palace, where they found all
things in order meet, and their servants in blithe and merry cheer.
A while they rested, nor went they to table until six ditties, each
gayer than that which went before, had been sung by the young
men and the ladies; which done, they washed their hands, and all by
the queen's command were ranged by the seneschal at the table;
and, the viands being served, they cheerily took their meal: wherefrom
being risen, they trod some measures to the accompaniment
of music; and then, by the queen's command, whoso would betook
him to rest. However, the accustomed hour being come, they all
gathered at the wonted spot for their discoursing, and the queen,
bending her regard upon Filomena, bade her make a beginning of
the day's story-telling, which she with a smile did on this wise:
Novel IMadonna Francesca, having two lovers, the one Rinuccio,
the other Alessandro, by name, and loving neither of
them, induces the one to simulate a corpse in a tomb,
and the other to enter the tomb to fetch him out:
whereby, neither satisfying her demands, she artfully
rids herself of both.
Madam, since so it pleases you, well pleased am I that in this
vast, this boundless field of discourse, which you, our Lady Bountiful,
have furnished us withal, 'tis mine to run the first course; wherein
if I do well, I doubt not that those, who shall follow me, will do
not only well but better. Such, sweet my ladies, has been the tenor
of our discourse, that times not a few the might of Love, how great
and singular it is, has been set forth; but yet I doubt the topic is not
exhausted, nor would it be so, though we should continue to speak
of nought else for the space of a full year. And as Love not only
leads lovers to debate with themselves whether they were not best to
die, but also draws them into the houses of the dead in quest of the
dead, I am minded in this regard to tell you a story, wherein you
will not only discern the power of Love, but will also learn how the
ready wit of a worthy lady enabled her to disembarrass herself of two
lovers, whose love was displeasing to her.
Know, then, that there dwelt aforetime in the city of Pistoia a
most beauteous widow lady, of whom it so befell that two of our
citizens, the one Rinuccio Palermini, the other Alessandro Chiarmontesi,
by name, tarrying at Pistoia, for that they were banished
from Florence, became, neither witting how it stood with the other,
in the last degree enamoured. Wherefore each used all his arts
to win the love of Madonna Francesca de' Lazzari--such was the
lady's name--and she, being thus continually plied with ambassages
and entreaties on the part of both, and having indiscreetly lent ear
to them from time to time, found it no easy matter discreetly to
extricate herself, when she was minded to be rid of their pestering,
until it occurred to her to adopt the following expedient, to wit,
to require of each a service, such as, though not impracticable,
she deemed none would actually perform, to the end that, they
making default, she might have a decent and colourable pretext
for refusing any longer to receive their ambassages. Which expedient
was on this wise. One day there died in Pistoia, and was
buried in a tomb outside the church of the Friars Minors, a man,
who, though his forbears had been gentlefolk, was reputed the very
worst man, not in Pistoia only, but in all the world, and therewithal
he was of form and feature so preternaturally hideous that
whoso knew him not could scarce see him for the first time without
a shudder. Now, the lady pondering her design on the day of this
man's death, it occurred to her that he might in a measure subserve
its accomplishment: wherefore she said to her maid: Thou
knowest to what worry and annoyance I am daily put by the
ambassages of these two Florentines, Rinuccio and Alessandro.
Now I am not disposed to gratify either of them with my love, and
therefore, to shake them off, I am minded, as they make such great
protestations, to put them to the proof by requiring of each something
which I am sure he will not perform, and thus to rid myself
of their pestering: so list what I mean to do. Thou knowest that
this morning there was interred in the ground of the Friars Minors
this Scannadio (such was the name of the bad man of whom we
spoke but now) whose aspect, while he yet lived, appalled even the
bravest among us. Thou wilt therefore go privily to Alessandro,
and say to him: 'Madonna Francesca sends thee word by me that
the time is now come when thou mayst win that which thou hast
so much desired, to wit, her love and joyance thereof, if thou be so
minded, on the following terms. For a reason, which thou shalt
learn hereafter, one of her kinsmen is to bring home to her to-night
the corpse of Scannadio, who was buried this morning; and she,
standing in mortal dread of this dead man, would fain not see him;
wherefore she prays thee to do her a great service, and be so good as
to get thee this evening at the hour of first sleep to the tomb wherein
Scannadio is buried, and go in, and having wrapped thyself in his
grave-clothes, lie there, as thou wert Scannadio himself, until one
come for thee, when thou must say never a word, but let him carry
thee forth, and bear thee to Madonna Francesca's house, where she
will give thee welcome, and let thee stay with her, until thou art
minded to depart, and, for the rest, thou wilt leave it to her.' And
if he says that he will gladly do so, well and good; if not, then thou
wilt tell him from me, never more to shew himself where I am,
and, as he values his life, to have a care to send me no more ambassages.
Which done, thou wilt go to Rinuccio Palermini, and
wilt say to him: 'Madonna Francesca lets thee know that she is
ready in all respects to comply with thy wishes, so thou wilt do her
a great service, which is on this wise: to-night, about midnight,
thou must go to the tomb wherein was this morning interred
Scannadio, and saying never a word, whatever thou mayst hear
or otherwise be ware of, bear him gently forth to Madonna
Francesca's house, where thou shalt learn wherefore she requires
this of thee, and shalt have thy solace of her; and if thou art not
minded to obey her in this, see that thou never more send her
ambassage.'
The maid did her mistress's errand, omitting nothing, to both
the men, and received from each the same answer, to wit, that to
pleasure the lady, he would adventure a journey to hell, to say
nothing of entering a tomb. With which answer the maid returned
to the lady, who waited to see if they would be such fools as to make
it good. Night came, and at the hour of first sleep Alessandro
Chiarmontesi, stripped to his doublet, quitted his house, and bent his
steps towards Scannadio's tomb, with intent there to take the dead
man's place. As he walked, there came upon him a great fear, and
he fell a saying to himself: Ah! what a fool am I! Whither go
I? How know I that her kinsmen, having detected my love, and
surmising that which is not, have not put her upon requiring this of
me, in order that they may slay me in the tomb? In which event I
alone should be the loser, for nought would ever be heard of it, so
that they would escape scot-free. Or how know I but that 'tis
some machination of one of my ill-wishers, whom perchance she
loves, and is therefore minded to abet? And again quoth he to
himself: But allowing that 'tis neither the one nor the other, and
that her kinsmen are really to carry me to her house, I scarce believe
that 'tis either that they would fain embrace Scannadio's corpse themselves,
or let her do so: rather it must be that they have a mind to
perpetrate some outrage upon it, for that, perchance, he once did
them an evil turn. She bids me say never a word, no matter what
I may hear or be otherwise ware of. Suppose they were to pluck
out my eyes, or my teeth, or cut off my hands, or treat me to some
other horse-play of the like sort, how then? how could I keep
quiet? And if I open my mouth, they will either recognize me,
and perchance do me a mischief, or, if they spare me, I shall have
been at pains for nought, for they will not leave me with the lady,
and she will say that I disobeyed her command, and I shall never
have aught of her favours.
As thus he communed with himself, he was on the point of
turning back; but his overmastering love plied him with opposing
arguments of such force that he kept on his way, and reached
the tomb; which having opened, he entered, and after stripping
Scannadio, and wrapping himself in the grave-clothes, closed it, and
laid himself down in Scannadio's place. He then fell a thinking of the
dead man, and his manner of life, and the things which he had heard
tell of as happening by night, and in other less appalling places than
the houses of the dead; whereby all the hairs of his head stood on end,
and he momently expected Scannadio to rise and cut his throat.
However, the ardour of his love so fortified him that he overcame
these and all other timorous apprehensions, and lay as if he were
dead, awaiting what should betide him.
Towards midnight Rinuccio, bent likewise upon fulfilling his
lady's behest, sallied forth of his house, revolving as he went divers
forebodings of possible contingencies, as that, having Scannadio's
corpse upon his shoulders, he might fall into the hands of the Signory,
and be condemned to the fire as a wizard, or that, should the affair
get wind, it might embroil him with his kinsfolk, or the like, which
gave him pause. But then with a revulsion of feeling: Shall I,
quoth he to himself, deny this lady, whom I so much have loved and
love, the very first thing that she asks of me? And that too when
I am thereby to win her favour? No, though 'twere as much as my
life is worth, far be it from me to fail of keeping my word. So on
he fared, and arrived at the tomb, which he had no difficulty in
opening, and being entered, laid hold of Alessandro, who, though
in mortal fear, had given no sign of life, by the feet, and dragged
him forth, and having hoisted him on to his shoulders, bent his steps
towards the lady's house. And as he went, being none too careful
of Alessandro, he swung him from time to time against one or other
of the angles of certain benches that were by the wayside; and
indeed the night was so dark and murky that he could not see where
he was going. And when he was all but on the threshold of the
lady's house (she standing within at a window with her maid, to mark
if Rinuccio would bring Alessandro, and being already provided with
an excuse for sending them both away), it so befell that the patrol of
the Signory, who were posted in the street in dead silence, being on
the look-out for a certain bandit, hearing the tramp of Rinuccio's
feet, suddenly shewed a light, the better to know what was toward,
and whither to go, and advancing targes and lances, cried out:
Who goes there?
Whereupon Rinuccio, having little leisure
for deliberation, let Alessandro fall, and took to flight as fast as his
legs might carry him. Alessandro, albeit encumbered by the graveclothes,
which were very long, also jumped up and made off. By
the light shewn by the patrol the lady had very plainly perceived
Rinuccio, with Alessandro on his back, as also that Alessandro had
the grave-clothes upon him; and much did she marvel at the daring
of both, but, for all that, she laughed heartily to see Rinuccio drop
Alessandro, and Alessandro run away. Overjoyed at the turn the
affair had taken, and praising God that He had rid her of their harass,
she withdrew from the window, and betook her to her chamber,
averring to her maid that for certain they must both be mightily in
love with her, seeing that 'twas plain they had both done her
bidding.
Crestfallen and cursing his evil fortune, Rinuccio nevertheless
went not home, but, as soon as the street was clear of the patrol,
came back to the spot where he had dropped Alessandro, and stooped
down and began feeling about, if haply he might find him, and so do
his devoir to the lady; but, as he found him not, he supposed the
patrol must have borne him thence, and so at last home he went; as
did also Alessandro, knowing not what else to do, and deploring his
mishap. On the morrow, Scannadio's tomb being found open and
empty, for Alessandro had thrown the corpse into the vault below,
all Pistoia debated of the matter with no small diversity of opinion,
the fools believing that Scannadio had been carried off by devils.
Neither of the lovers, however, forbore to make suit to the lady for
her favour and love, telling her what he had done, and what had happened,
and praying her to have him excused that he had not perfectly
carried out her instructions. But she, feigning to believe neither of
them, disposed of each with the same curt answer, to wit, that, as he
had not done her bidding, she would never do aught for him.
Novel IIAn abbess rises in haste and in the dark, with intent to
surprise an accused nun abed with her lover: thinking
to put on her veil, she puts on instead the breeches
of a priest that she has with her: the nun, espying
her headgear, and doing her to wit thereof, is acquitted,
and thenceforth finds it easier to forgather with her
lover.
So ended Filomena; and when all had commended the address
shewn by the lady in ridding herself of the two lovers that she
affected not, and contrariwise had censured the hardihood of the two
lovers as not love but madness, the queen turned to Elisa, and with
a charming air: Now, Elisa, follow,
quoth she: whereupon Elisa
began on this wise:
Dearest ladies, 'twas cleverly done of Madonna
Francesca, to disembarrass herself in the way we have heard: but I
have to tell of a young nun, who by a happy retort, and the favour
of Fortune, delivered herself from imminent peril. And as you
know that there are not a few most foolish folk, who, notwithstanding
their folly, take upon themselves the governance and correction of
others; so you may learn from my story that Fortune at times justly
puts them to shame; which befell the abbess, who was the superior
of the nun of whom I am about to speak.
You are to know, then, that in a convent in Lombardy of very
great repute for strict and holy living there was, among other ladies
that there wore the veil, a young woman of noble family, and extraordinary
beauty. Now Isabetta--for such was her name--having
speech one day of one of her kinsmen at the grate, became enamoured
of a fine young gallant that was with him; who, seeing her to be
very fair, and reading her passion in her eyes, was kindled with a like
flame for her: which mutual and unsolaced love they bore a great
while not without great suffering to both. But at length, both being
intent thereon, the gallant discovered a way by which he might with
all secrecy visit his nun; and she approving, he paid her not one visit
only, but many, to their no small mutual solace. But, while thus they
continued their intercourse, it so befell that one night one of the
sisters observed him take his leave of Isabetta and depart, albeit neither
he nor she was ware that they had thus been discovered. The sister
imparted what she had seen to several others. At first they were
minded to denounce her to the abbess, one Madonna Usimbalda,
who was reputed by the nuns, and indeed by all that knew her, to
be a good and holy woman; but on second thoughts they deemed it
expedient, that there might be no room for denial, to cause the abbess
to take her and the gallant in the act. So they held their peace, and
arranged between them to keep her in watch and close espial, that
they might catch her unawares. Of which practice Isabetta recking,
witting nought, it so befell that one night, when she had her lover
to see her, the sisters that were on the watch were soon ware of it,
and at what they deemed the nick of time parted into two companies,
of which one mounted guard at the threshold of Isabetta's cell, while
the other hasted to the abbess's chamber, and knocking at the door,
roused her, and as soon as they heard her voice, said: Up, Madam,
without delay: we have discovered that Isabetta has a young man
with her in her cell.
Now that night the abbess had with her a priest whom she used
not seldom to have conveyed to her in a chest; and the report of the
sisters making her apprehensive lest for excess of zeal and hurry they
should force the door open, she rose in a trice; and huddling on
her clothes as best she might in the dark, instead of the veil that
they wear, which they call the psalter, she caught up the priest's
breeches, and having clapped them on her head, hied her forth,
and locked the door behind her, saying: Where is this woman
accursed of God?
And so, guided by the sisters, all so agog to catch
Isabetta a sinning that they perceived not what manner of headgear
the abbess wore, she made her way to the cell, and with their
aid broke open the door; and entering they found the two lovers
abed in one another's arms; who, as it were, thunderstruck to be
thus surprised, lay there, witting not what to do. The sisters took
the young nun forthwith, and by command of the abbess brought her
to the chapter-house. The gallant, left behind in the cell, put on
his clothes and waited to see how the affair would end, being minded
to make as many nuns as he might come at pay dearly for any despite
that might be done his mistress, and to bring her off with him. The
abbess, seated in the chapter-house with all her nuns about her, and
all eyes bent upon the culprit, began giving her the severest reprimand
that ever woman got, for that by her disgraceful and abominable conduct,
should it get wind, she had sullied the fair fame of the convent;
whereto she added menaces most dire. Shamefast and timorous, the
culprit essayed no defence, and her silence begat pity of her in
the rest; but, while the abbess waxed more and more voluble, it
chanced that the girl raised her head and espied the abbess's headgear,
and the points that hung down on this side and that. The significance
whereof being by no means lost upon her, she quite plucked
up heart, and: Madam,
quoth she, so help you God, tie up
your coif, and then you may say what you will to me.
Whereto
the abbess, not understanding her, replied: What coif, lewd
woman? So thou hast the effrontery to jest! Think'st thou that
what thou hast done is a matter meet for jests?
Whereupon:
Madam,
quoth the girl again, I pray you, tie up your coif, and
then you may say to me whatever you please.
Which occasioned
not a few of the nuns to look up at the abbess's head, and the abbess
herself to raise her hands thereto, and so she and they at one and the
same time apprehended Isabetta's meaning. Wherefore the abbess,
finding herself detected by all in the same sin, and that no disguise
was possible, changed her tone, and held quite another sort of language
than before, the upshot of which was that 'twas impossible to withstand
the assaults of the flesh, and that, accordingly, observing due
secrecy as theretofore, all might give themselves a good time, as they
had opportunity. So, having dismissed Isabetta to rejoin her lover in
her cell, she herself returned to lie with her priest. And many a
time thereafter, in spite of the envious, Isabetta had her gallant to
see her, the others, that lacked lovers, doing in secret the best they
might to push their fortunes.
Novel IIIMaster Simone, at the instance of Bruno and Buffalmacco
and Nello, makes Calandrino believe that he is with
child. Calandrino, accordingly, gives them capons and
money for medicines, and is cured without being
delivered.
When Elisa had ended her story, and all had given thanks to
God that He had vouchsafed the young nun a happy escape from
the fangs of her envious companions, the queen bade Filostrato follow
suit; and without expecting a second command, thus Filostrato
began:
Fairest my ladies, the uncouth judge from the Marches, or
whom I told you yesterday, took from the tip of my tongue a story
of Calandrino, which I was on the point of narrating: and as nought
can be said of him without mightily enhancing our jollity, albeit not
a little has already been said touching him and his comrades, I will
now give you the story which I had meant yesterday to give you.
Who they were, this Calandrino and the others that I am to tell of
in this story, has already been sufficiently explained; wherefore,
without more ado, I say that one of Calandrino's aunts having died,
leaving him two hundred pounds in petty cash, Calandrino gave out
that he was minded to purchase an estate, and, as if he had had ten
thousand florins of gold to invest, engaged every broker in Florence
to treat for him, the negotiation always falling through, as soon as
the price was named. Bruno and Buffalmacco, knowing what was
afoot, told him again and again that he had better give himself a
jolly time with them than go about buying earth as if he must needs
make pellets;I.e. bolts of clay for the cross-bow. but
so far were they from effecting their purpose,
that they could not even prevail upon him to give them a single
meal. Whereat as one day they grumbled, being joined by a comrade
of theirs, one Nello, also a painter, they all three took counsel how
they might wet their whistle at Calandrino's expense; and, their
plan being soon concerted, the next morning Calandrino was scarce
gone out, when Nello met him, saying: Good day, Calandrino:
whereto Calandrino replied: God give thee a good day and a
good year.
Nello then drew back a little, and looked him steadily
in the face, until: What seest thou to stare at?
quoth Calandrino.
Hadst thou no pain in the night?
returned Nello; thou
seemest not thyself to me.
Which Calandrino no sooner heard,
than he began to be disquieted, and: Alas! How sayst thou?
quoth he. What tak'st thou to be the matter with me?
Why,
as to that I have nothing to say,
returned Nello; but thou
seemest to be quite changed: perchance 'tis not what I suppose;
and with that he left him.
Calandrino, anxious, though he could not in the least have said
why, went on; and soon Buffalmacco, who was not far off, and had
observed him part from Nello, made up to him, and greeted him,
asking him if he was not in pain. I cannot say,
replied Calandrino;
'twas but now that Nello told me that I looked quite changed:
can it be that there is aught the matter with me?
Aught?
quoth Buffalmacco, ay, indeed, there might be a trifle the matter
with thee. Thou look'st to be half dead, man.
Calandrino now
began to think he must have a fever. And then up came Bruno;
and the first thing he said was: Why, Calandrino, how ill thou
look'st! thy appearance is that of a corpse. How dost thou feel?
To be thus accosted by all three left no doubt in Calandrino's mind
that he was ill, and so: What shall I do?
quoth he, in a great
fright. My advice,
replied Bruno, is that thou go home and
get thee to bed and cover thee well up, and send thy water to
Master Simone, who, as thou knowest, is such a friend of ours. He
will tell thee at once what thou must do; and we will come to see
thee, and will do aught that may be needful.
And Nello then
joining them, they all three went home with Calandrino, who, now
quite spent, went straight to his room, and said to his wife: Come
now, wrap me well up; I feel very ill.
And so he laid himself on
the bed, and sent a maid with his water to Master Simone, who had
then his shop in the Mercato Vecchio, at the sign of the pumpkin.
Whereupon quoth Bruno to his comrades: You will stay here
with him, and I will go hear what the doctor has to say, and if need
be, will bring him hither.
Prithee, do so, my friend,
quoth
Calandrino, and bring me word how it is with me, for I feel as
how I cannot say in my inside.
So Bruno hied him to Master
Simone, and before the maid arrived with the water, told him what
was afoot. The Master, thus primed, inspected the water, and then
said to the maid: Go tell Calandrino to keep himself very warm,
and I will come at once, and let him know what is the matter with
him, and what he must do.
With which message the maid was
scarce returned, when the Master and Bruno arrived, and the Master,
having seated himself beside Calandrino, felt his pulse, and by and by,
in the presence of his wife, said: Harkye, Calandrino, I speak to
thee as a friend, and I tell thee that what is amiss with thee is just
that thou art with child.
Whereupon Calandrino cried out querulously:
Woe's me! 'Tis thy doing, Tessa, for that thou must
needs be uppermost: I told thee plainly what would come of it.
Whereat the lady, being not a little modest, coloured from brow to
neck, and with downcast eyes, withdrew from the room, saying
never a word by way of answer. Calandrino ran on in the same
plaintive strain: Alas! woe's me! What shall I do? How shall
I be delivered of this child? What passage can it find? Ah! I see
only too plainly that the lasciviousness of this wife of mine has been
the death of me: God make her as wretched as I would fain be
happy! Were I as well as I am not, I would get me up and thrash
her, till I left not a whole bone in her body, albeit it does but serve
me right for letting her get the upper place; but if I do win through
this, she shall never have it again; verily she might pine to death for
it, but she should not have it.
Which to hear, Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello were like to
burst with suppressed laughter, and Master ScimmioneI.e.
great
ape: with a play on Simone. laughed so
frantically, that all his teeth were ready to start from his jaws. However,
at length, in answer to Calandrino's appeals and entreaties for
counsel and succour: Calandrino,
quoth the Master, thou
mayst dismiss thy fears, for, God be praised, we were apprised of thy
state in such good time that with but little trouble, in the course of a
few days, I shall set thee right; but 'twill cost a little.
Woe's
me,
returned Calandrino, be it so, Master, for the love of God:
I have here two hundred pounds, with which I had thoughts of buying
an estate: take them all, all, if you must have all, so only I may escape
being delivered, for I know not how I should manage it, seeing that
women, albeit 'tis much easier for them, do make such a noise in
the hour of their labour, that I misdoubt me, if I suffered so, I should
die before I was delivered.
Disquiet not thyself,
said the
doctor:
I will have a potion distilled for thee; of rare virtue it is, and not
a little palatable, and in the course of three days 'twill purge thee of
all, and leave thee in better fettle than a fish; but thou wilt do well
to be careful thereafter, and commit no such indiscretions again.
Now to make this potion we must have three pair of good fat
capons, and, for divers other ingredients, thou wilt give one of thy
friends here five pounds in small change to purchase them, and thou
wilt have everything sent to my shop, and so, please God, I will
send thee this distilled potion to-morrow morning, and thou wilt
take a good beakerful each time.
Whereupon: Be it as you
bid, Master mine,
quoth Calandrino, and handing Bruno five
pounds, and money enough to purchase three pair of capons, he
begged him, if it were not too much trouble, to do him the service
to buy these things for him. So away went the doctor, and made a
little decoction by way of draught, and sent it him. Bruno bought
the capons and all else that was needed to furnish forth the feast,
with which he and his comrades and the doctor regaled them.
Calandrino drank of the decoction for three mornings, after which
he had a visit from his friends and the doctor, who felt his pulse, and
then: Beyond a doubt, Calandrino,
quoth he, thou art cured,
and so thou hast no more occasion to keep indoors, but needst have
no fear to do whatever thou hast a mind to.
Much relieved,
Calandrino got up, and resumed his accustomed way of life, and,
wherever he found any one to talk to, was loud in praise of
Master Simone for the excellent manner in which he had cured
him, causing him in three days without the least suffering to
be quit of his pregnancy. And Bruno and Buffalmacco and
Nello were not a little pleased with themselves that they had so
cleverly got the better of Calandrino's niggardliness, albeit Monna
Tessa, who was not deceived, murmured not a little against her
husband.
Novel IVCecco, son of Messer Fortarrigo, loses his all at play at
Buonconvento, besides the money of Cecco, son of
Messer Angiulieri; whom, running after him in his
shirt and crying out that he has robbed him, he causes
to be taken by peasants: he then puts on his clothes,
mounts his palfrey, and leaves him to follow in his
shirt.
All the company laughed beyond measure to hear what Calandrino
said touching his wife: but, when Filostrato had done, Neifile,
being bidden by the queen, thus began:
Noble ladies, were it not
more difficult for men to evince their good sense and virtue than
their folly and their vice, many would labour in vain to set bounds
to their flow of words: whereof you have had a most conspicuous
example in poor blundering Calandrino, who, for the better cure
of that with which in his simplicity he supposed himself to be
afflicted, had no sort of need to discover in public his wife's secret
pleasures. Which affair has brought to my mind one that fell out
contrariwise, inasmuch as the guile of one discomfited the good
sense of another to the grievous loss and shame of the discomfited:
the manner whereof I am minded to relate to you.
'Tis not many years since there were in Siena two young men,
both of age, and both alike named Cecco, the one being son of
Messer Angiulieri, the other of Messer Fortarrigo. Who, albeit in
many other respects their dispositions accorded ill, agreed so well in
one, to wit, that they both hated their fathers, that they became
friends, and kept much together. Now Angiulieri, being a pretty
fellow, and well-mannered, could not brook to live at Siena on the
allowance made him by his father, and learning that there was come
into the March of Ancona, as legate of the Pope, a cardinal, to whom
he was much bounden, resolved to resort to him there, thinking thereby
to improve his circumstances. So, having acquainted his father with
his purpose, he prevailed upon him to give him there and then all that
he would have given him during the next six months, that he might
have the wherewith to furnish himself with apparel and a good mount,
so as to travel in a becoming manner. And as he was looking out for
some one to attend him as his servant, Fortarrigo, hearing of it,
came presently to him and besought him with all earnestness to take
him with him as his groom, or servant, or what he would, and he
would be satisfied with his keep, without any salary whatsoever.
Whereto Angiulieri made answer that he was not disposed to take
him, not but that he well knew that he was competent for any
service that might be required of him, but because he was given to
play, and therewithal would at times get drunk. Fortarrigo assured
him with many an oath that he would be on his guard to commit
neither fault, and added thereto such instant entreaties, that Angiulieri
was, as it were, vanquished, and consented. So one morning they
took the road for Buonconvento, being minded there to breakfast.
Now when Angiulieri had breakfasted, as 'twas a very hot day, he
had a bed made in the inn, and having undressed with Fortarrigo's
help, he composed himself to sleep, telling Fortarrigo to call him on
the stroke of none. Angiulieri thus sleeping, Fortarrigo repaired to
the tavern, where, having slaked his thirst, he sate down to a game
with some that were there, who speedily won from him all his money,
and thereafter in like manner all the clothes he had on his back:
wherefore he, being anxious to retrieve his losses, went, stripped as
he was to his shirt, to the room where lay Angiulieri; and seeing
that he was sound asleep, he took from his purse all the money
that he had, and so went back to the gaming-table, and staked it, and
lost it all, as he had his own.
By and by Angiulieri awoke, and got up, and dressed, and called
for Fortarrigo; and as Fortarrigo answered not, he supposed that he
must have had too much to drink, and be sleeping it off somewhere,
as was his wont. He accordingly determined to leave him alone;
and doubting not to find a better servant at Corsignano, he let saddle
his palfrey and attach the valise; but when, being about to depart,
he would have paid the host, never a coin could he come by. Whereat
there was no small stir, so that all the inn was in an uproar, Angiulieri
averring that he had been robbed in the house, and threatening
to have them all arrested and taken to Siena; when, lo, who should
make his appearance but Fortarrigo in his shirt, intent now to steal
the clothes, as he had stolen the moneys, of Angiulieri? And marking
that Angiulieri was accoutred for the road: How is this,
Angiulieri?
quoth he. Are we to start so soon? Nay, but wait
a little. One will be here presently that has my doublet in pawn
for thirty-eight soldi; I doubt not he will return it me for thirty-five
soldi, if I pay money down.
And while they were yet talking,
in came one that made it plain to Angiulieri that 'twas Fortarrigo
that had robbed him of his money, for he told him the amount that
Fortarrigo had lost. Whereat Angiulieri, in a towering passion,
rated Fortarrigo right soundly, and, but that he stood more in fear of
man than of God, would have suited action to word; and so,
threatening to have him hanged by the neck and proclaimed an outlaw
at the gallows-tree of Siena, he mounted his horse.
Fortarrigo, making as if 'twas not to him, but to another, that
Angiulieri thus spoke, made answer: Come now, Angiulieri, we
were best have done with all this idle talk, and consider the matter
of substance: we can redeem for thirty-five soldi, if we pay forth-with,
but if we wait till to-morrow, we shall not get off with less
than thirty-eight, the full amount of the loan; and 'tis because I
staked by his advice that he will make me this allowance. Now why
should not we save these three soldi?
Whereat Angiulieri waxed
well-nigh desperate, more particularly that he marked that the
bystanders were scanning him suspiciously, as if, so far from understanding
that Fortarrigo had staked and lost his, Angiulieri's money,
they gave him credit for still being in funds: so he cried out:
What have I to do with thy doublet? 'Tis high time thou wast
hanged by the neck, that, not content with robbing me and gambling
away my money, thou must needs also keep me in parley here and
make mock of me, when I would fain be gone.
Fortarrigo, however,
still persisted in making believe that Angiulieri did not mean
this for him, and only said: Nay, but why wilt not thou save me
these three soldi? Think'st thou I can be of no more use to thee?
Prithee, an thou lov'st me, do me this turn. Wherefore in such a
hurry? We have time enough to get to Torrenieri this evening.
Come now, out with thy purse. Thou knowest I might search Siena
through, and not find a doublet that would suit me so well as this:
and for all I let him have it for thirty-eight soldi, 'tis worth forty or
more; so thou wilt wrong me twice over.
Vexed beyond measure
that, after robbing him, Fortarrigo should now keep him clavering
about the matter, Angiulieri made no answer, but turned his horse's
head, and took the road for Torrenieri. But Fortarrigo with cunning
malice trotted after him in his shirt, and 'twas still his doublet, his
doublet, that he would have of him: and when they had thus ridden
two good miles, and Angiulieri was forcing the pace to get out of
earshot of his pestering, Fortarrigo espied some husbandmen in a field
beside the road a little ahead of Angiulieri, and fell a shouting to
them amain: Take thief! take thief!
Whereupon they came
up with their spades and their mattocks, and barred Angiulieri's way,
supposing that he must have robbed the man that came shouting
after him in his shirt, and stopped him and apprehended him; and
little indeed did it avail him to tell them who he was, and how the
matter stood. For up came Fortarrigo with a wrathful air, and:
I know not,
quoth he, why I spare to kill thee on the spot,
traitor, thief that thou art, thus to despoil me and give me the slip!
And then, turning to the peasants: You see, gentlemen,
quoth
he, in what a trim he left me in the inn, after gambling away all
that he had with him and on him. Well indeed may I say that
under God 'tis to you I owe it that I have thus come by my own
again: for which cause I shall ever be beholden to you.
Angiulieri
also had his say; but his words passed unheeded. Fortarrigo with
the help of the peasants compelled him to dismount; and having
stripped him, donned his clothes, mounted his horse, and leaving him
barefoot and in his shirt, rode back to Siena, giving out on all hands
that he had won the palfrey and the clothes from Angiulieri. So
Angiulieri, having thought to present himself to the cardinal in the
March a wealthy man, returned to Buonconvento poor and in his
shirt; and being ashamed for the time to shew himself in Siena,
pledged the nag that Fortarrigo had ridden for a suit of clothes, and
betook him to his kinsfolk at Corsignano, where he tarried, until he
received a fresh supply of money from his father. Thus, then,
Fortarrigo's guile disconcerted Angiulieri's judicious purpose, albeit
when time and occasion served, it was not left unrequited.
Novel VCalandrino being enamoured of a damsel, Bruno gives
him a scroll, averring that, if he but touch her therewith,
she will go with him: he is found with her by his
wife, who subjects him to a most severe and vexatious
examination.
So, at no great length, ended Neifile her story, which the
company
allowed to pass with none too much laughter or remark:
whereupon the queen, turning to Fiammetta, bade her follow suit.
Fiammetta, with mien most gladsome, made answer that she willingly
obeyed, and thus began:
As I doubt not, ye know, ladies most
debonair, be the topic of discourse never so well worn, it will still
continue to please, if the speaker knows how to make due choice of
time and occasion meet. Wherefore, considering the reason for
which we are here (how that 'tis to make merry and speed the time
gaily, and that merely) I deem that there is nought that may afford
us mirth and solace but here may find time and occasion meet, and,
after serving a thousand turns of discourse, should still prove not
unpleasing
for another thousand. Wherefore, notwithstanding that of
Calandrino and his doings not a little has from time to time been
said among us, yet, considering that, as a while ago Filostrato
observed, there is nought that concerns him that is not entertaining,
I will make bold to add to the preceding stories another, which I
might well, had I been minded to deviate from the truth, have disguised,
and so recounted it to you, under other names; but as whoso
in telling a story diverges from the truth does thereby in no small
measure diminish the delight of his hearers, I purpose for the reason
aforesaid to give you the narrative in proper form.
Niccolò Cornacchini, one of our citizens, and a man of wealth,
had among other estates a fine one at Camerata, on which he had
a grand house built, and engaged Bruno and Buffalmacco to paint it
throughout; in which task, for that 'twas by no means light, they associated
with them Nello and Calandrino, and so set to work. There
were a few rooms in the house provided with beds and other furniture,
and an old female servant lived there as caretaker, but otherwise
the house was unoccupied, for which cause Niccolò's son, Filippo,
being
a young man and a bachelor, was wont sometimes to bring thither a
woman for his pleasure, and after keeping her there for a few days to
escort her thence again. Now on one of these occasions it befell
that he brought thither one Niccolosa, whom a vile fellow, named
Mangione, kept in a house at Camaldoli as a common prostitute.
And a fine piece of flesh she was, and wore fine clothes, and, for
one of her sort, knew how to comport herself becomingly and talk
agreeably.
Now one day at high noon forth tripped the damsel from her
chamber in a white gown, her locks braided about her head, to
wash her hands and face at a well that was in the courtyard of the
house, and, while she was so engaged, it befell that Calandrino came
there for water, and greeted her familiarly. Having returned his
salutation, she, rather because Calandrino struck her as something
out of the common, than for any other interest she felt in him,
regarded him attentively. Calandrino did the like by her, and being
smitten by her beauty, found reasons enough why he should not go
back to his comrades with the water; but, as he knew not who she
was, he made not bold to address her. She, upon whom his gaze
was not lost, being minded to amuse herself at his expense, let her
glance from time to time rest upon him, while she heaved a slight
sigh or two. Whereby Calandrino was forthwith captivated, and
tarried in the courtyard, until Filippo called her back into the chamber.
Returned to his work, Calandrino sighed like a furnace: which
Bruno, who was ever regardful of his doings for the diversion they
afforded him, failed not to mark, and by and by: What the
Devil is amiss with thee, comrade Calandrino?
quoth he. Thou
dost nought but puff and blow.
Comrade,
replied Calandrino,
I should be in luck, had I but one to help me.
How so?
quoth Bruno. Why,
returned Calandrino, 'tis not to go farther,
but there is a damsel below, fairer than a lamia, and so mightily in
love with me that 'twould astonish thee. I observed it but now,
when I went to fetch the water.
Nay, but, Calandrino, make
sure she be not Filippo's wife,
quoth Bruno. I doubt 'tis even
so,
replied Calandrino, for he called her and she joined him in the
chamber; but what signifies it? I would circumvent Christ Himself
in such case, not to say Filippo. Of a truth, comrade, I tell thee
she pleases me I could not say how.
Comrade,
returned Bruno,
I will find out for thee who she is, and if she be Filippo's wife, two
words from me will make it all straight for thee, for she is much my
friend. But how shall we prevent Buffalmacco knowing it? I can
never have a word with her, but he is with me.
As to Buffalmacco,
replied Calandrino, I care not if he do know it; but let
us make sure that it come not to Nello's ears, for he is of kin to
Monna Tessa, and would spoil it all.
Whereto: Thou art in
the right,
returned Bruno.
Now Bruno knew what the damsel was, for he had seen her
arrive, and moreover Filippo had told him. So, Calandrino having
given over working for a while, and betaken him to her, Bruno
acquainted Nello and Buffalmacco with the whole story; and thereupon
they privily concerted how to entreat him in regard of this love
affair. Wherefore, upon his return, quoth Bruno softly: Didst
see her?
Ay, woe's me!
replied Calandrino: she has
stricken me to the death.
Quoth Bruno: I will go see if she
be the lady I take her to be, and if I find that 'tis so, leave the
rest to me.
Whereupon down went Bruno, and found Filippo and
the damsel, and fully apprised them what sort of fellow Calandrino
was, and what he had told them, and concerted with them what
each should do and say, that they might have a merry time together
over Calandrino's love affair. He then rejoined Calandrino, saying:
'Tis the very same; and therefore the affair needs very delicate
handling, for, if Filippo were but ware thereof, not all Arno's waters
would suffice to cleanse us. However, what should I say to her
from thee, if by chance I should get speech of her?
I' faith,
replied Calandrino, why, first, first of all, thou wilt tell her that I
wish her a thousand bushels of the good seed of generation, and then
that I am her servant, and if she is fain of--aught--thou tak'st
me?
Ay,
quoth Bruno, leave it to me.
Supper-time came; and, the day's work done, they went down
into the courtyard, Filippo and Niccolosa being there, and there
they tarried a while to advance Calandrino's suit. Calandrino's gaze
was soon riveted on Niccolosa, and such and so strange and startling
were the gestures that he made that they would have given sight to
the blind. She on her part used all her arts to inflame his passion,
primed as she had been by Bruno, and diverted beyond measure as
she was by Calandrino's antics, while Filippo, Buffalmacco and the
rest feigned to be occupied in converse, and to see nought of what
passed. However, after a while, to Calandrino's extreme disgust, they
took their leave; and as they bent their steps towards Florence:
I warrant thee,
quoth Bruno to Calandrino, she wastes away
for thee like ice in the sunlight; by the body o' God, if thou
wert to bring thy rebeck, and sing her one or two of thy love-songs,
she'd throw herself out of window to be with thee.
Quoth Calandrino:
Think'st thou, comrade, think'st thou, 'twere well I
brought it?
Ay, indeed,
returned Bruno.
Whereupon:
Ah! comrade,
quoth Calandrino, so thou wouldst not believe
me when I told thee to-day? Of a truth I perceive there's ne'er
another knows so well what he would be at as I. Who but I
would have known how so soon to win the love of a lady like that?
Lucky indeed might they deem themselves, if they did it, those
young gallants that go about, day and night, up and down, a strumming
on the one-stringed viol, and would not know how to gather
a handful of nuts once in a millennium. Mayst thou be by to see
when I bring her the rebeck! thou wilt see fine sport. List well
what I say: I am not so old as I look; and she knows it right well:
ay, and anyhow I will soon let her know it, when I come to grapple
her. By the very body of Christ I will have such sport with her,
that she will follow me as any love-sick maid follows her swain.
Oh!
quoth Bruno, I doubt not thou wilt make her thy prey:
and I seem to see thee bite her dainty vermeil mouth and her cheeks,
that shew as twin roses, with thy teeth, that are as so many lute-pegs,
and afterwards devour her bodily.
So encouraged, Calandrino
fancied himself already in action, and went about singing and capering
in such high glee that 'twas as if he would burst his skin. And so
next day he brought the rebeck, and to the no small amusement
of all the company sang several songs to her. And, in short, by
frequently seeing her, he waxed so mad with passion that he gave
over working; and a thousand times a day he would run now to the
window, now to the door, and anon to the courtyard on the chance
of catching sight of her; nor did she, astutely following Bruno's
instructions, fail to afford him abundance of opportunity. Bruno
played the go-between, bearing him her answers to all his messages,
and sometimes bringing him messages from her. When she was not
at home, which was most frequently the case, he would send him
letters from her, in which she gave great encouragement to his hopes,
at the same time giving him to understand that she was at the house
of her kinsfolk, where as yet he might not visit her.
On this wise Bruno and Buffalmacco so managed the affair as to
divert themselves inordinately, causing him to send her, as at her
request, now an ivory comb, now a purse, now a little knife, and
other such dainty trifles; in return for which they brought him, now
and again, a counterfeit ring of no value, with which Calandrino was
marvellously pleased. And Calandrino, to stimulate their zeal in his
interest, would entertain them hospitably at table, and otherwise
flatter them. Now, when they had thus kept him in play for two
good months, and the affair was just where it had been, Calandrino,
seeing that the work was coming to an end, and bethinking him that,
if it did so before he had brought his love affair to a successful issue,
he must give up all hopes of ever so doing, began to be very instant
and importunate with Bruno. So, in the presence of the damsel, and
by preconcert with her and Filippo, quoth Bruno to Calandrino:
Harkye, comrade, this lady has vowed to me a thousand times that
she will do as thou wouldst have her, and as, for all that, she does
nought to pleasure thee, I am of opinion that she leads thee by the
nose: wherefore, as she keeps not her promises, we will make her
do so, willy-nilly, if thou art so minded.
Nay, but, for the love
of God, so be it,
replied Calandrino, and that speedily.
Darest
thou touch her, then, with a scroll that I shall give thee?
quoth
Bruno. I dare,
replied Calandrino.
Fetch me, then,
quoth
Bruno, a bit of the skin of an unborn lamb, a live bat, three grains of
incense, and a blessed candle; and leave the rest to me.
To catch
the bat taxed all Calandrino's art and craft for the whole of the evening;
but having at length taken him, he brought him with the other
matters to Bruno: who, having withdrawn into a room by himself,
wrote on the skin some cabalistic jargon, and handed it to him,
saying: Know, Calandrino, that, if thou touch her with this
scroll, she will follow thee forthwith, and do whatever thou shalt
wish. Wherefore, should Filippo go abroad to-day, get thee somehow
up to her, and touch her; and then go into the barn that is
hereby--'tis the best place we have, for never a soul goes there--and
thou wilt see that she will come there too. When she is there, thou
wottest well what to do.
Calandrino, overjoyed as ne'er another,
took the scroll, saying only: Comrade, leave that to me.
Now Nello, whom Calandrino mistrusted, entered with no less
zest than the others into the affair, and was their confederate for
Calandrino's discomfiture; accordingly by Bruno's direction he hied
to Florence, and finding Monna Tessa: Thou hast scarce forgotten,
Tessa,
quoth he, what a beating Calandrino gave thee,
without the least cause, that day when he came home with the stones
from Mugnone; for which I would have thee be avenged, and, so
thou wilt not, call me no more kinsman or friend. He is fallen in
love with a lady up there, who is abandoned enough to go closeting
herself not seldom with him, and 'tis but a short while since they
made assignation to forgather forthwith: so I would have thee go
there, and surprise him in the act, and give him a sound trouncing.
Which when the lady heard, she deemed it no laughing matter; but
started up and broke out with: Alas, the arrant knave! is't thus
he treats me? By the Holy Rood, never fear but I will pay him
out!
And wrapping herself in her cloak, and taking a young woman
with her for companion, she sped more at a run than at a walk, escorted
by Nello, up to Camerata. Bruno, espying her from afar, said to
Filippo: Lo, here comes our friend.
Whereupon Filippo went
to the place where Calandrino and the others were at work, and
said: My masters, I must needs go at once to Florence; slacken
not on that account.
And so off he went, and hid himself where,
unobserved, he might see what Calandrino would do. Calandrino
waited only until he saw that Filippo was at some distance, and then
he went down into the courtyard, where he found Niccolosa alone,
and fell a talking with her. She, knowing well what she had to do,
drew close to him, and shewed him a little more familiarity than she
was wont: whereupon Calandrino touched her with the scroll, and
having so done, saying never a word, bent his steps towards the
barn, whither Niccolosa followed him, and being entered, shut the
door, and forthwith embraced him, threw him down on the straw
that lay there, and got astride of him, and holding him fast by the
arms about the shoulders, suffered him not to approach his face to
hers, but gazing upon him, as if he were the delight of her heart:
O Calandrino, sweet my Calandrino,
quoth she, heart of my
body, my very soul, my bliss, my consolation, ah! how long have I
yearned to hold thee in my arms and have thee all my own! Thy
endearing ways have utterly disarmed me; thou hast made prize of
my heart with thy rebeck. Do I indeed hold thee in mine embrace?
Calandrino, scarce able to move, murmured: Ah! sweet
my soul, suffer me to kiss thee.
Whereto: Nay, but thou art
too hasty,
replied Niccolosa. Let me first feast mine eyes on
thee; let me but sate them with this sweet face of thine.
Meanwhile Bruno and Buffalmacco had joined Filippo, so that
what passed was seen and heard by all three. And while Calandrino
was thus intent to kiss Niccolosa, lo, up came Nello with Monna
Tessa. By God, I swear they are both there,
ejaculated Nello, as
they entered the doorway; but the lady, now fairly furious, laid hold
of him and thrust him aside, and rushing in, espied Niccolosa astride
of Calandrino. Niccolosa no sooner caught sight of the lady, than
up she jumped, and in a trice was beside Filippo. Monna Tessa fell
upon Calandrino, who was still on the floor, planted her nails in his
face, and scratched it all over: she then seized him by the hair, and
haling him to and fro about the barn: Foul, pestilent cur,
quoth
she, is this the way thou treatest me? Thou old fool! A murrain
on the love I have borne thee! Hast thou not enough to do at
home, that thou must needs go falling in love with strange women?
And a fine lover thou wouldst make! Dost not know thyself,
knave? Dost not know thyself, wretch? Thou, from whose whole
body 'twere not possible to wring enough sap for a sauce! God's
faith, 'twas not Tessa that got thee with child: God's curse on her,
whoever she was: verily she must be a poor creature to be enamoured
of a jewel of thy rare quality.
At sight of his wife, Calandrino,
suspended, as it were, between life and death, ventured no defence; but,
his face torn to shreds, his hair and clothes all disordered, fumbled about
for his capuche, which having found, up he got, and humbly besought
his wife not to publish the matter, unless she were minded that he
should be cut to pieces, for that she that was with him was the wife
of the master of the house. Then God give her a bad year,
replied the lady. Whereupon Bruno and Buffalmacco, who by this
time had laughed their fill with Filippo and Niccolosa, came up as if
attracted by the noise; and after not a little ado pacified the lady,
and counselled Calandrino to go back to Florence, and stay there,
lest Filippo should get wind of the affair, and do him a mischief.
So Calandrino, crestfallen and woebegone, got him back to Florence
with his face torn to shreds; where, daring not to shew himself at
Camerata again, he endured day and night the grievous torment of
his wife's vituperation. Such was the issue, to which, after ministering
not a little mirth to his comrades, as also to Niccolosa and Filippo,
this ardent lover brought his amour.
Novel VITwo young men lodge at an inn, of whom the one lies with
the host's daughter, his wife by inadvertence lying
with the other. He that lay with the daughter afterwards
gets into her father's bed and tells him all,
taking him to be his comrade. They bandy words:
whereupon the good woman, apprehending the circumstances,
gets her to bed with her daughter, and by
divers apt words re-establishes perfect accord.
Calandrino as on former occasions, so also on this, moved the
company to laughter. However, when the ladies had done talking
of his doings, the queen called for a story from Pamfilo, who thus
spoke:
Worshipful ladies, this Niccolosa, that Calandrino loved,
has brought to my mind a story of another Niccolosa; which I am
minded to tell you, because 'twill shew you how a good woman
by her quick apprehension avoided a great scandal.
In the plain of Mugnone there was not long ago a good man that
furnished travellers with meat and drink for money, and, for that he
was in poor circumstances, and had but a little house, gave not lodging
to every comer, but only to a few that he knew, and if they were
hard bested. Now the good man had to wife a very fine woman,
and by her had two children, to wit, a pretty and winsome girl of
some fifteen or sixteen summers, as yet unmarried, and a little
boy, not yet one year old, whom the mother suckled at her own
breast. The girl had found favour in the eyes of a goodly and
mannerly young gentleman of our city, who was not seldom in those
parts, and loved her to the point of passion. And she, being mightily
flattered to be loved by such a gallant, studied how to comport herself
so
debonairly as to retain his regard, and while she did so, grew
likewise enamoured of him; and divers times, by consent of both
their love had had its fruition, but that Pinuccio--such was the
gallant's name--shrank from the disgrace that 'twould bring upon
the girl and himself alike. But, as his passion daily waxed apace,
Pinuccio, yearning to find himself abed with her, bethought him that
he were best contrive to lodge with her father, deeming, from what
he knew of her father's economy, that, if he did so, he might effect
his purpose, and never a soul be the wiser: which idea no sooner
struck him, than he set about carrying it into effect.
So, late one evening Pinuccio and a trusty comrade, Adriano by
name, to whom he had confided his love, hired two nags, and having
set upon them two valises, filled with straw or such-like stuff, sallied
forth of Florence, and rode by a circuitous route to the plain of
Mugnone, which they reached after nightfall; and having fetched a
compass, so that it might seem as if they were coming from Romagna,
they rode up to the good man's house, and knocked at the door.
The good man, knowing them both very well, opened to them forthwith:
whereupon: Thou must even put us up to-night,
quoth
Pinuccio; we thought to get into Florence, but, for all the speed
we could make, we are but arrived here, as thou seest, at this hour.
Pinuccio,
replied the host, thou well knowest that I can but
make a sorry shift to lodge gentlemen like you; but yet, as night
has overtaken you here, and time serves not to betake you elsewhere,
I will gladly give you such accommodation as I may.
The two
gallants then dismounted and entered the inn, and having first looked
to their horses, brought out some supper that they had carried with
them, and supped with the host.
Now the host had but one little bedroom, in which were three
beds, set, as conveniently as he could contrive, two on one side of the
room, and the third on the opposite side, but, for all that, there was
scarce room enough to pass through. The host had the least discomfortable
of the three beds made up for the two friends; and having
quartered them there, some little while afterwards, both being awake,
but feigning to be asleep, he caused his daughter to get into one of
the other two beds, while he and his wife took their places in the
third, the good woman setting the cradle, in which was her little boy,
beside the bed. Such, then, being the partition made of the beds,
Pinuccio,
who had taken exact note thereof, waited only until he
deemed all but himself to be asleep, and then got softly up and stole
to the bed in which lay his beloved, and laid himself beside her; and
she according him albeit a timorous yet a gladsome welcome, he
stayed there, taking with her that solace of which both were most
fain.
Pinuccio being thus with the girl, it chanced that certain things,
being overset by a cat, fell with a noise that aroused the good woman,
who, fearing that it might be a matter of more consequence, got up
as best she might in the dark, and betook her to the place whence the
noise seemed to proceed. At the same time Adriano, not by reason
of the noise, which he heeded not, but perchance to answer the call of
nature, also got up, and questing about for a convenient place, came
upon the cradle beside the good woman's bed; and not being able
otherwise to go by, took it up, and set it beside his own bed, and
when he had accomplished his purpose, went back, and giving never
a thought to the cradle got him to bed. The good woman searched
until she found that the accident was no such matter as she had
supposed; so without troubling to strike a light to investigate it
further, she reproved the cat, and returned to the room, and groped
her way straight to the bed in which her husband lay asleep; but not
finding the cradle there, quoth she to herself: Alas! blunderer that
I am, what was I about? God's faith! I was going straight to the
guests' bed; and proceeding a little further, she found the cradle, and
laid herself down by Adriano in the bed that was beside it, taking
Adriano for her husband; and Adriano, who was still awake, received
her with all due benignity, and tackled her more than once to her
no small delight.
Meanwhile Pinuccio fearing lest sleep should overtake him while
he was yet with his mistress, and having satisfied his desire, got up
and left her, to return to his bed; but when he got there, coming
upon the cradle, he supposed that 'twas the host's bed; and so going
a little further, he laid him down beside the host, who thereupon
awoke. Supposing that he had Adriano beside him: I warrant
thee,
quoth Pinuccio to the host, there was never so sweet a piece
of flesh as Niccolosa: by the body of God, such delight have I had
of her as never had man of woman; and, mark me, since I left thee,
I have gotten me up to the farm some six times.
Which tidings the
host being none too well pleased to learn, said first of all to
himself: What the Devil does this fellow here? Then, his
resentment getting the better of his prudence: 'Tis a gross affront
thou hast put upon me, Pinuccio,
quoth he; nor know I what
occasion thou hast to do me such a wrong; but by the body of God
I will pay thee out.
Pinuccio, who was not the most discreet of
gallants, albeit he was now apprised of his error, instead of doing his
best to repair it, retorted: And how wilt thou pay me out?
What canst thou do?
Hark what high words our guests are at
together!
quoth meanwhile the host's wife to Adriano, deeming
that she spoke to her husband. Let them be,
replied Adriano
with a laugh: God give them a bad year: they drank too much
yestereve.
The good woman had already half recognized her
husband's angry tones, and now that she heard Adriano's voice, she
at once knew where she was and with whom. Accordingly, being
a discreet woman, she started up, and saying never a word, took her
child's cradle, and, though there was not a ray of light in the room,
bore it, divining rather than feeling her way, to the side of the bed
in which her daughter slept; and then, as if aroused by the noise
made by her husband, she called him, and asked what he and
Pinuccio were bandying words about. Hearest thou not,
replied
the husband, what he says he has this very night done to
Niccolosa?
Tush! he lies in the throat,
returned the good
woman: he has not lain with Niccolosa; for what time he might
have done so, I laid me beside her myself, and I have been wide
awake ever since; and thou art a fool to believe him. You men
take so many cups before going to bed that then you dream, and
walk in your sleep, and imagine wonders. 'Tis a great pity you do
not break your necks. What does Pinuccio there? Why keeps he
not in his own bed?
Whereupon Adriano, in his turn, seeing how adroitly the good
woman cloaked her own and her daughter's shame: Pinuccio,
quoth he, I have told thee a hundred times, that thou shouldst not
walk about at night; for this thy bad habit of getting up in thy
dreams and relating thy dreams for truth will get thee into a scrape
some time or another: come back, and God send thee a bad night.
Hearing Adriano thus confirm what his wife had said, the host began
to think that Pinuccio must be really dreaming; so he took him by the
shoulder, and fell a shaking him, and calling him by his name,
saying: Pinuccio, wake up, and go back to thy bed.
Pinuccio,
taking his cue from what he had heard, began as a dreamer would be
like to do, to talk wanderingly; whereat the host laughed amain.
Then, feigning to be aroused by the shaking, Pinuccio uttered
Adriano's name, saying: Is't already day, that thou callest me?
Ay, 'tis so,
quoth Adriano: come hither.
Whereupon Pinuccio,
making as if he were mighty drowsy, got him up from beside the host,
and back to bed with Adriano. On the morrow, when they were
risen, the host fell a laughing and making merry touching Pinuccio and
his dreams. And so the jest passed from mouth to mouth, while the
gallants' horses were groomed and saddled, and their valises adjusted:
which done, they drank with the host, mounted and rode to Florence,
no less pleased with the manner than with the matter of the night's
adventure. Nor, afterwards, did Pinuccio fail to find other means of
meeting Niccolosa, who assured her mother that he had unquestionably
dreamed. For which cause the good woman, calling to mind
Adriano's embrace, accounted herself the only one that had watched.
Novel VIITalano di Molese dreams that a wolf tears and rends all
the neck and face of his wife: he gives her warning
thereof, which she heeds not, and the dream comes
true.
When Pamfilo had brought his story to a close, and all had
commended
the good woman's quick perception, the queen bade Pampinea
tell hers; and thus Pampinea began:
A while ago, debonair my
ladies, we held discourse of the truths that dreams shew forth, which
not a few of us deride; for which cause, albeit the topic has been
handled before, I shall not spare to tell you that which not long ago
befell a neighbour of mine, for that she disbelieved a dream that her
husband had.
I wot not if you knew Talano di Molese, a man right worthy to
be had in honour; who, having married a young wife--Margarita
by name--fair as e'er another, but without her match for whimsical,
fractious, and perverse humours, insomuch that there was nought she
would do at the instance of another, either for his or her own good,
found her behaviour most grievous to bear, but was fain to endure
what he might not cure. Now it so befell that Talano and
Margarita being together at an estate that Talano had in the contado,
he, sleeping, saw in a dream a very beautiful wood that was on the
estate at no great distance from the house, and his lady there walking.
And as she went, there leapt forth upon her a huge and fierce wolf that
griped her by the throat, and bore her down to the ground, and (she
shrieking the while for succour) would have carried her off by main
force; but she got quit of his jaws, albeit her neck and face shewed as
quite disfigured. On the morrow, as soon as he was risen, Talano said
to
his wife: Albeit for thy perversity I have not yet known a single
good day with thee, yet I should be sorry, wife, that harm should
befall thee; and therefore, if thou take my advice, thou wilt not stir
out of doors to-day.
Wherefore?
quoth the lady; and thereupon
he recounted to her all his dream.
The lady shook her head, saying: Who means ill, dreams ill.
Thou makest as if thou wast mighty tender of me, but thou bodest of
me in thy dream that which thou wouldst fain see betide me. I
warrant thee that to-day and all days I will have a care to avoid
this or any other calamity that might gladden thy heart.
Whereupon:
Well wist I,
replied Talano, that thou wouldst so say,
for such is ever the requital of those that comb scurfy heads; but
whatever thou mayst be pleased to believe, I for my part speak to
thee for thy good, and again I advise thee to keep indoors to-day, or
at least not to walk in the wood.
Good,
returned the lady, I
will look to it,
and then she began communing with herself on this
wise: Didst mark how artfully he thinks to have scared me from
going into the wood to-day? Doubtless 'tis that he has an assignation
there with some light o' love, with whom he had rather I did not
find him. Ah! he would sup well with the blind, and what a fool
were I to believe him! But I warrant he will be disappointed, and
needs must I, though I stay there all day long, see what commerce it
is that he will adventure in to-day.
Having so said, she quitted the house on one side, while her
husband did so on the other; and forthwith, shunning observation as
best she might, she hied her to the wood, and hid her where 'twas
most dense, and there waited on the alert, and glancing, now this
way and now that, to see if any were coming. And while thus she
stood, nor ever a thought of a wolf crossed her mind, lo, forth of
a close covert hard by came a wolf of monstrous size and appalling
aspect, and scarce had she time to say, God help me! before he sprang
upon her and griped her by the throat so tightly that she might not
utter a cry, but, passive as any lambkin, was borne off by him, and
had certainly been strangled, had he not encountered some shepherds,
who with shouts compelled him to let her go. The shepherds
recognized the poor hapless woman, and bore her home, where the
physicians by dint of long and careful treatment cured her; howbeit
the whole of her throat and part of her face remained so disfigured
that,
fair as she had been before, she was ever thereafter most foul
and hideous to look upon. Wherefore, being ashamed to shew her
face, she did many a time bitterly deplore her perversity, in that, when
it would have cost her nothing, she would nevertheless pay no heed
to the true dream of her husband.
Novel VIIIBiondello gulls Ciacco in the matter of a breakfast: for
which prank Ciacco is cunningly avenged on Biondello,
causing him to be shamefully beaten.
All the company by common consent pronounced it no dream
but a vision that Talano had had in his sleep, so exactly, no circumstance
lacking, had it fallen out according as he had seen it. However,
as soon as all had done speaking, the queen bade Lauretta
follow suit; which Lauretta did on this wise:
As, most discreet
my ladies, those that have preceded me to-day have almost all taken
their cue from somewhat that has been said before, so, prompted by
the stern vengeance taken by the scholar in Pampinea's narrative of
yesterday, I am minded to tell you of a vengeance that was indeed
less savage, but for all that grievous enough to him on whom it was
wreaked.
Wherefore I say that there was once at Florence one that all
folk called Ciacco, a man second to none that ever lived for inordinate
gluttony, who, lacking the means to support the expenditure
which his gluttony demanded, and being, for the rest, well-mannered
and well furnished with excellent and merry jests, did, without turning
exactly court jester, cultivate a somewhat biting wit, and loved
to frequent the houses of the rich, and such as kept good tables;
whither, bidden or unbidden, he not seldom resorted for breakfast or
supper. There was also in those days at Florence one that was called
Biondello, a man very short of stature, and not a little debonair, more
trim than any fly, with his blond locks surmounted by a coif, and
never a hair out of place; and he and Ciacco were two of a trade.
Now one morning in Lent Biondello, being in the fish-market
purchasing two mighty fat lampreys for Messer Vieri de' Cerchi, was
observed
thus engaged by Ciacco, who came up to him, and:
What means this?
quoth he. Why,
replied Biondello, 'tis
that yestereve Messer Corso Donati had three lampreys much finer
than these and a sturgeon sent to his house, but as they did not
suffice for a breakfast that he is to give certain gentlemen, he has
commissioned me to buy him these two beside. Wilt thou not be
there?
Ay, marry, that will I,
returned Ciacco.
And in what
he deemed due time he hied him to Messer Corso Donati's house, where
he found him with some of his neighbours not yet gone to breakfast.
And being asked by Messer Corso with what intent he was come,
he answered: I am come, Sir, to breakfast with you and your
company.
And welcome art thou,
returned Messer Corso, go
we then to breakfast, for 'tis now the time.
So to table they went,
where nought was set before them but pease and the inward part of
the tunny salted, and afterwards the common fish of the Arno fried.
Wherefore Ciacco, not a little wroth at the trick that he perceived
Biondello had played him, resolved to pay him out. And not many
days after Biondello, who had meanwhile had many a laugh with his
friends over Ciacco's discomfiture, met him, and after greeting him,
asked him with a laugh what Messer Corso's lampreys had been like.
That question,
replied Ciacco, thou wilt be able to answer much
better than I before eight days are gone by.
And parting from
Biondello upon the word, he went forthwith and hired a cozening
rogue, and having thrust a glass bottle into his hand, brought him
within sight of the Loggia de' Cavicciuli; and there, pointing to a
knight, one Messer Filippo Argenti, a tall man and stout, and of
a high courage, and haughty, choleric and cross-grained as ne'er
another, he said to him: Thou wilt go, flask in hand, to Messer
Filippo, and wilt say to him: 'I am sent to you, Sir, by Biondello,
who entreats you to be pleased to colour this flask for him with some
of your good red wine, for that he is minded to have a good time with
his catamites.' And of all things have a care that he lay not hands
upon thee, for he would make thee rue the day, and would spoil my
sport.
Have I aught else to say?
enquired the rogue.
Nothing
more,
returned Ciacco: and now get thee gone, and when thou
hast delivered the message, bring me back the flask, and I will pay
thee.
So away went the rogue, and did the errand to Messer Filippo, who
forthwith, being a hasty man, jumped to the conclusion that
Biondello, whom he knew, was making mock of him, and while an
angry flush overspread his face: 'Colour the flask, forsooth!'
quoth he, and 'Catamites!' God send thee and him a bad year!
and therewith up he started, and reached forward to lay hold of the
rogue, who, being on the alert, gave him the slip and was off, and
reported Messer Filippo's answer to Ciacco, who had observed what
had passed. Having paid the rogue, Ciacco rested not until he had
found Biondello, to whom: Wast thou but now,
quoth he, at
the Loggia de' Cavicciuli?
Indeed no,
replied Biondello:
wherefore
such a question?
Because,
returned Ciacco, I may tell
thee that thou art sought for by Messer Filippo, for what cause I know
not.
Good,
quoth Biondello, I will go thither and speak with
him.
So away went Biondello, and Ciacco followed him to see
what course the affair would take.
Now having failed to catch the rogue, Messer Filippo was still
very wroth, and inly fumed and fretted, being unable to make out
aught from what the rogue had said save that Biondello was set on
by some one or another to flout him. And while thus he vexed his
spirit, up came Biondello; whom he no sooner espied than he made
for him, and dealt him a mighty blow in the face, and tore his hair
and coif, and cast his capuche on the ground, and to his Alas, Sir,
what means this?
still beating him amain: Traitor,
cried he; I
will give thee to know what it means to send me such a message.
'Colour the flask,' forsooth, and 'Catamites!' Dost take me for a
stripling, to be befooled by thee?
And therewith he pummelled
Biondello's face all over with a pair of fists that were liker to iron
than aught else, until it was but a mass of bruises; he also tore and
dishevelled all his hair, tumbled him in the mud, rent all his clothes
upon his back, and that without allowing him breathing-space to ask
why he thus used him, or so much as utter a word. Colour me
the flask!
and Catamites!
rang in his ears; but what the
words signified he knew not. In the end very badly beaten, and in
very sorry and ragged trim, many folk having gathered around them,
they, albeit not without the utmost difficulty, rescued him from
Messer Filippo's hands, and told him why Messer Filippo had thus
used him, censuring him for sending him such a message, and adding
that thenceforth he would know Messer Filippo better, and that he was
not a man to be trifled with. Biondello told them in tearful
exculpation that he had never sent for wine to Messer Filippo:
then, when they had put him in a little better trim, crestfallen and
woebegone, he went home imputing his misadventure to Ciacco.
And when, many days afterwards, the marks of his ill-usage being
gone from his face, he began to go abroad again, it chanced that
Ciacco met him, and with a laugh: Biondello,
quoth he, how
didst thou relish Messer Filippo's wine?
Why, as to that,
replied Biondello, would thou hadst relished the lampreys of Messer
Corso as much!
So!
returned Ciacco, such meat as thou then
gavest me, thou mayst henceforth give me, as often as thou art so
minded; and I will give thee even such drink as I have given thee.
So Biondello, witting that against Ciacco his might was not equal to
his spite, prayed God for his peace, and was careful never to flout
him again.
Novel IXTwo young men ask counsel of Solomon; the one, how he
is to make himself beloved, the other, how he is to reduce
an unruly wife to order. The King bids the one to
love, and the other to go to the Bridge of Geese.
None now remained to tell save the queen, unless she were
minded to infringe Dioneo's privilege. Wherefore, when the ladies
had laughed their fill over the misfortunes of Biondello, thus gaily
the queen began:
Observe we, lovesome ladies, the order of things
with a sound mind, and we shall readily perceive that we women are
one and all subjected by Nature and custom and law unto man, by
him to be ruled and governed at his discretion; wherefore she, that
would fain enjoy quietude and solace and comfort with the man to
whom she belongs, ought not only to be chaste but lowly, patient
and obedient: the which is the discreet wife's chief and most precious
possession. And if the laws, which in all matters have regard unto
the common weal, and use and wont or custom (call it what you
will), a power very great and to be had in awe, should not suffice to
school us thereto; yet abundantly clear is the witness of Nature,
which has fashioned our frames delicate and sensitive, and our spirits
timorous and fearful, and has decreed that our bodily strength shall
be slight, our voices tunable, and our movements graceful; which
qualities do all avouch that we have need of others' governance.
And whoso has need of succour and governance ought in all reason
to be obedient and submissive and reverent towards his governor.
And whom have we to govern and succour us save men? 'Tis then
our bounden duty to give men all honour and submit ourselves unto
them: from which rule if any deviate, I deem her most deserving
not only of grave censure but of severe chastisement. Which
reflections,
albeit they are not new to me, I am now led to make by
what but a little while ago Pampinea told us touching the perverse
wife of Talano, on whom God bestowed that chastisement which
the husband had omitted; and accordingly it jumps with my judgment
that all such women as deviate from the graciousness, kindliness
and compliancy, which Nature and custom and law prescribe, merit,
as I said, stern and severe chastisement. Wherefore, as a salutary
medicine for the healing of those of us who may be afflicted with
this disease, I am minded to relate to you that which was once
delivered by Solomon by way of counsel in such a case. Which let
none that stands not in need of such physic deem to be meant for
her, albeit a proverb is current among men; to wit:
Good steed, bad steed, alike need the rowel's prick,
Good wife, bad wife, alike demand the stick.
Which whoso should construe as a merry conceit would find you all
ready enough to acknowledge its truth. But even in its moral
significance I say that it ought to command assent. For women are
all by nature apt to be swayed and to fall; and therefore, for the
correction of the wrong-doing of such as transgress the bounds
assigned to them, there is need of the stick punitive; and also for the
maintenance of virtue in others, that they transgress not these
appointed bounds, there is need of the stick auxiliary and deterrent.
However, to cut short this preachment, and to come to that which I
purpose to tell you, I say:
That the bruit of the incomparable renown of the prodigious
wisdom of Solomon, as also of the exceeding great liberality with
which he accorded proof thereof to all that craved such assurance,
being gone forth over well-nigh all the earth, many from divers parts
were wont to resort to him for counsel in matters of most pressing
and arduous importance; among whom was a young man, Melisso
by name, a very wealthy nobleman, who was, as had been his fathers
before him, of Lazistan, and there dwelt. And as Melisso fared
toward Jerusalem, on his departure from Antioch he fell in with
another young man, Giosefo by name, who was going the same way,
and with whom, after the manner of travellers, he entered into converse.
Melisso, having learned from Giosefo, who and whence he
was, asked him whither he went, and on what errand: whereupon Giosefo
made an answer that he was going to seek counsel of Solomon,
how he should deal with his wife, who had not her match among
women for unruliness and perversity, insomuch that neither entreaties
nor blandishments nor aught else availed him to bring her to a better
frame. And thereupon he in like manner asked Melisso whence he
was, and whither he was bound, and on what errand: whereto:
Of Lazistan, I,
replied Melisso, and like thyself in evil plight;
for albeit I am wealthy and spend my substance freely in hospitably
entertaining and honourably entreating my fellow-citizens, yet for
all that, passing strange though it be to think upon, I find never a
soul to love me; and therefore I am bound to the self-same place as
thou, to be advised how it may come to pass that I be beloved.
So the two men fared on together, and being arrived at Jerusalem,
were, by the good offices of one of Solomon's barons, ushered
into his presence, and Melisso having briefly laid his case before the
King, was answered in one word: Love.
Which said, Melisso
was forthwith dismissed, and Giosefo discovered the reason of his
coming. To whom Solomon made no answer but: Get thee
to the Bridge of Geese.
Whereupon Giosefo was likewise promptly
ushered out of the King's presence, and finding Melisso awaiting
him, told him what manner of answer he had gotten. Which
utterances of the King the two men pondered, but finding therein
nought that was helpful or relevant to their need, they doubted
the King had but mocked them, and set forth upon their homeward
journey.
Now when they had been some days on the road, they came to
a river, which was spanned by a fine bridge, and a great caravan of
sumpter mules and horses being about to cross, they must needs
tarry, until the caravan had passed by. The more part of which
had done so, when it chanced that a mule turned sulky, as we know
they will not seldom do, and stood stock still; wherefore a muleteer
took a stick and fell a beating the mule therewith, albeit at first with
no great vigour, to urge the mule forward. The mule, however,
swerving, now to this, now to the other side of the bridge, and sometimes
facing about, utterly refused to go forward. Whereat the
muleteer, wroth beyond measure, fell a belabouring him with the stick
now on the head, now on the flanks, and anon on the croup, never
so lustily, but all to no purpose. Which caused Melisso and Giosefo
ofttimes
to say to him: How now, caitiff? What is this thou
doest? Wouldst kill the beast? Why not try if thou canst not
manage him kindly and gently? He would start sooner so than for
this cudgelling of thine.
To whom: You know your horses,
replied the muleteer, and I know my mule: leave me to deal with
him.
Which said, he resumed his cudgelling of the mule, and laid
about him on this side and on that to such purpose that he started
him; and so the honours of the day rested with the muleteer. Now,
as the two young men were leaving the bridge behind them, Giosefo
asked a good man that sate at its head what the bridge was called,
and was answered: Sir, 'tis called the Bridge of Geese.
Which
Giosefo no sooner heard than he called to mind Solomon's words,
and turning to Melisso: Now, comrade, I warrant thee I may
yet find Solomon's counsel sound and good, for that I knew not how
to beat my wife is abundantly clear to me; and this muleteer has
shewn me what I have to do.
Now some days afterwards they arrived at Antioch, where
Giosefo prevailed upon Melisso to tarry with him and rest a day or
two; and meeting with but a sorry welcome on the part of his wife,
he told her to take her orders as to supper from Melisso, who, seeing
that such was Giosefo's will, briefly gave her his instructions; which
the lady, as had been her wont, not only did not obey, but contravened
in almost every particular. Which Giosefo marking: Wast
thou not told,
quoth he angrily, after what fashion thou wast to
order the supper?
Whereto: So!
replied the lady haughtily:
what means this? If thou hast a mind to sup, why take not thy
supper? No matter what I was told, 'tis thus I saw fit to order it.
If it like thee, so be it: if not, 'tis thine affair.
Melisso heard the
lady with surprise and inward disapprobation: Giosefo retorted:
Ay, wife, thou art still as thou wast used to be; but I will make
thee mend thy manners.
Then, turning to Melisso: Friend,
quoth he, thou wilt soon prove the worth of Solomon's counsel:
but, prithee, let it not irk thee to look on, and deem that what I shall
do is but done in sport; and if thou shouldst be disposed to stand in
my way, bear in mind how we were answered by the muleteer,
when we pitied his mule.
I am in thy house,
replied Melisso,
and thy pleasure is to me law.
Thereupon Giosefo took a stout cudgel cut from an oak sapling, and
hied him into the room whither the lady had withdrawn from
the table in high dudgeon, seized her by the hair, threw her on to
the floor at his feet, and fell a beating her amain with the cudgel.
The lady at first uttered a shriek or two, from which she passed to
threats; but seeing that, for all that, Giosefo slackened not, by the
time she was thoroughly well thrashed, she began to cry him mercy,
imploring him not to kill her, and adding that henceforth his will
should be to her for law. But still Giosefo gave not over, but with
ever fresh fury dealt her mighty swingeing blows, now about the
ribs, now on the haunches, now over the shoulders; nor had he
done with the fair lady, until, in short, he had left never a bone or
other part of her person whole, and he was fairly spent. Then,
returning to Melisso: To-morrow,
quoth he, we shall see
whether 'Get thee to the Bridge of Geese' will prove to have been
sound advice or no.
And so, having rested a while, and then washed
his hands, he supped with Melisso. With great pain the poor lady
got upon her feet and laid herself on her bed, and having there taken
such rest as she might, rose betimes on the morrow, and craved to
know of Giosefo what he was minded to have to breakfast. Giosefo,
laughing with Melisso over the message, gave her his directions, and
when in due time they came to breakfast, they found everything
excellently ordered according as it had been commanded: for which
cause the counsel, which they had at first failed to understand, now
received their highest commendation.
Some few days later Melisso, having taken leave of Giosefo,
went home, and told a wise man the counsel he had gotten from
Solomon. Whereupon: And no truer or sounder advice could
he have given thee,
quoth the sage: thou knowest that thou
lovest never a soul, and that the honours thou payest and the services
thou renderest to others are not prompted by love of them, but by
love of display. Love, then, as Solomon bade thee, and thou shalt
be loved.
On such wise was the unruly chastised; and the young
man, learning to love, was beloved.
Novel XDom Gianni at the instance of his gossip Pietro uses an
enchantment to transform Pietro's wife into a mare;
but, when he comes to attach the tail, Gossip Pietro,
by saying that he will have none of the tail, makes
the enchantment of no effect.
The queen's story evoked some murmurs from the ladies and
some laughter from the young men; however, when they were
silent, Dioneo thus began:
Dainty my ladies, a black crow among a
flock of white doves enhances their beauty more than would a white
swan; and so, when many sages are met together, their ripe wisdom
not only shews the brighter and goodlier for the presence of one
that is not so wise, but may even derive pleasure and diversion therefrom.
Wherefore as you, my ladies, are one and all most discreet
and judicious, I, who know myself to be somewhat scant of sense,
should, for that by my demerit I make your merit shew the more
glorious, be more dear to you, than if by my greater merit I eclipsed
yours, and by consequence should have more ample license to reveal
myself to you as I am; and therefore have more patient sufferance
on your part than would be due to me, were I more discreet, in the
relation of the tale which I am about to tell you. 'Twill be, then,
a story none too long, wherefrom you may gather with what exactitude
it behoves folk to observe the injunctions of those that for any
purpose use an enchantment, and how slight an error committed
therein make bring to nought all the work of the enchanter.
A year or so ago there was at Barletta a priest named Dom
Gianni di Barolo, who, to eke out the scanty pittance his church
afforded him, set a pack-saddle upon his mare, and took to going the
round of the fairs of Apulia, buying and selling merchandise.
And so it befell that he clapped up a close acquaintance with one
Pietro da Tresanti, who plied the same trade as he, albeit instead of
a mare he had but an ass; whom in token of friendship and goodfellowship
Dom Gianni after the Apulian fashion called ever Gossip
Pietro, and had him to his house and there lodged and honourably
entreated him as often as he came to Barletta. Gossip Pietro on his
part, albeit he was very poor and had but a little cot at Tresanti
that scarce sufficed for himself, his fair, young wife, and their ass,
nevertheless, whenever Dom Gianni arrived at Tresanti, made him
welcome, and did him the honours of his house as best he might, in
requital of the hospitality which he received at Barletta. However,
as Gossip Pietro had but one little bed, in which he slept with his
fair wife, 'twas not in his power to lodge Dom Gianni as comfortably
as he would have liked; but the priest's mare being quartered beside
the ass in a little stable, the priest himself must needs lie beside her
on the straw. Many a time when the priest came, the wife, knowing
how honourably he entreated her husband at Barletta, would
fain have gone to sleep with a neighbour, one Zita Carapresa di
Giudice Leo, that the priest might share the bed with her husband,
and many a time had she told the priest so: howbeit he would never
agree to it, and on one occasion: Gossip Gemmata,
quoth he,
trouble not thyself about me; I am well lodged; for, when I am
so minded, I turn the mare into a fine lass and dally with her, and
then, when I would, I turn her back into a mare; wherefore I could
ill brook to part from her.
The young woman, wondering but
believing, told her husband what the priest had said, adding: If
he is even such a friend as thou sayst, why dost thou not get him
to teach thee the enchantment, so that thou mayst turn me into a
mare, and have both ass and mare for thine occasions? We should
then make twice as much gain as we do, and thou couldst turn me
back into a woman when we came home at night.
Gossip Pietro, whose wit was somewhat blunt, believed that 'twas
as she said, approved her counsel, and began adjuring Dom Gianni,
as persuasively as he might, to teach him the incantation. Dom
Gianni did his best to wean him of his folly; but as all was in vain:
Lo, now,
quoth he, as you are both bent on it, we will be up,
as is our wont, before the sun to-morrow morning, and I will shew you
how 'tis done. The truth is that 'tis in the attachment of the
tail that the great difficulty lies, as thou wilt see.
Scarce a wink of
sleep had either Gossip Pietro or Gossip Gemmata that night, so great
was their anxiety; and towards daybreak up they got, and called
Dom Gianni; who, being risen, came in his shirt into Gossip Pietro's
little bedroom, and: I know not,
quoth he, that there is
another soul in the world for whom I would do this, save you, my
gossips; however, as you will have it so, I will do it, but it behoves
you to do exactly as I bid you, if you would have the enchantment
work.
They promised obedience, and Dom Gianni thereupon took
a light, which he handed to Gossip Pietro, saying: Let nought
that I shall do or say escape thee; and have a care, so thou wouldst
not ruin all, to say never a word, whatever thou mayst see or hear;
and pray God that the tail may be securely attached.
So Gossip
Pietro took the light, and again promised obedience; Dom Gianni
caused Gossip Gemmata to strip herself stark naked, and stand on all
fours like a mare, at the same time strictly charging her that, whatever
might happen, she must utter no word. Then, touching her
head and face: Be this a fine head of a mare,
quoth he; in like
manner touching her hair, he said: Be this a fine mane of a
mare;
touching her arms: Be these fine legs and fine hooves of
a mare;
then, as he touched her breast and felt its firm roundness,
and there awoke and arose one that was not called: And be this
a fine breast of a mare,
quoth he; and in like manner he dealt with
her back, belly, croup, thighs, and legs. Last of all, the work being
complete save for the tail, he lifted his shirt and took in his hand the
tool with which he was used to plant men, and forthwith thrust it
into the furrow made for it, saying: And be this a fine tail of a
mare.
Whereat Gossip Pietro, who had followed everything very
heedfully to that point, disapproving that last particular, exclaimed:
No! Dom Gianni, I'll have no tail, I'll have no tail.
The
essential juice, by which all plants are propagated, was already discharged,
when Dom Gianni withdrew the tool, saying: Alas!
Gossip Pietro, what hast thou done? Did I not tell thee to say never
a word, no matter what thou mightst see? The mare was all but
made; but by speaking thou hast spoiled all; and 'tis not possible to
repeat the enchantment.
Well and good,
replied Gossip Pietro,
I would have none of that tail. Why saidst thou not to me: 'Make
it thou'? And besides, thou wast attaching it too low.
'Twas because,
returned Dom Gianni, thou wouldst not have
known, on the first essay, how to attach it so well as I.
Whereupon
the young woman stood up, and in all good faith said to her
husband: Fool that thou art, wherefore hast thou brought to
nought what had been for the good of us both? When didst thou
ever see mare without a tail? So help me God, poor as thou art,
thou deservest to be poorer still.
So, after Gossip Pietro's ill-timed
speech, there being no way left of turning the young woman into a
mare, downcast and melancholy she resumed her clothes; and Gossip
Pietro plied his old trade with his ass, and went with Dom Gianni
to the fair of Bitonto, and never asked him so to serve him again.
ConclusionWhat laughter this story drew from the ladies, who understood it
better than Dioneo had wished, may be left to the imagination of
the fair one that now laughs thereat. However, as the stories were
ended, and the sun now shone with a tempered radiance, the queen,
witting that the end of her sovereignty was come, stood up and took
off the crown, and set it on the head of Pamfilo, whom alone it now
remained thus to honour; and said with a smile: My lord, 'tis
a great burden that falls upon thee, seeing that thou, coming last, art
bound to make good my shortcomings and those of my predecessors;
which God give thee grace to accomplish, even as He has given me
grace to make thee king.
With gladsome acknowledgment of the
honour: I doubt not,
replied Pamfilo, that, thanks to your
noble qualities and those of my other subjects, I shall win even such
praise as those that have borne sway before me.
Then, following
the example of his predecessors, he made all meet arrangements in
concert with the seneschal: after which, he turned to the expectant
ladies, and thus spoke: Enamoured my ladies, Emilia, our queen
of to-day, deeming it proper to allow you an interval of rest to recruit
your powers, gave you license to discourse of such matters as should
most commend themselves to each in turn; and as thereby you are
now rested, I judge that 'tis meet to revert to our accustomed rule.
Wherefore I ordain that for to-morrow you do each of you take
thought how you may discourse of the ensuing theme: to wit, of
such as in matters of love, or otherwise, have done something with
liberality or magnificence. By the telling, and (still more) by the
doing of such things, your spirits will assuredly be duly attuned and
animated
to emprise high and noble; whereby our life, which cannot
but be brief, seeing that 'tis enshrined in a mortal body, fame
shall perpetuate in glory; which whoso serves not the belly, as do the
beasts, must not only covet, but with all zeal seek after and labour to
attain.
The gay company having, one and all, approved the theme, rose
at a word from their new king, and betook them to their wonted
pastimes, and so, according as they severally had most lief, diverted
them, until they blithely reunited for supper, which being served
with all due care and despatched, they rose up to dance, as they were
wont, and when they had sung, perhaps, a thousand ditties, fitter to
please by their words than by any excellence of musical art, the king
bade Neifile sing one on her own account. And promptly and
graciously, with voice clear and blithe, thus Neifile sang:
In prime of maidenhood, and fair and feat
'Mid spring's fresh foison chant I merrily:
Thanks be to Love and to my fancies sweet.As o'er the grassy mead I, glancing, fare,
I mark it white and yellow and vermeil dight
With flowers, the thorny rose, the lily white:
And all alike to his face I compare,
Who, loving, hath me ta'en, and me shall e'er
Hold bounden to his will, sith I am she
That in his will findeth her joy complete.Whereof if so it be that I do find
Any that I most like to him approve,
That pluck I straight and kiss with words of love,
Discovering all, as best I may, my mind;
Yea, all my heart's desire; and then entwined
I set it in the chaplet daintily,
And with my yellow tresses bind and pleat.And as mine eyes do drink in the delight
Which the flower yields them, even so my mind,
Fired with his sweet love, doth such solace find,
As he himself were present to the sight:
But never word of mine discover might
That which the flower's sweet smell awakes in me:
Witness the true tale that my sighs repeat.For from my bosom gentle and hot they fly,
Not like the gusty sighs that others heave,
Whenas they languish and do sorely grieve;
And to my love incontinent they hie:
Whereof when he is ware, he, by and by,
To meward hasting, cometh suddenly,
When: Lest I faint,
I cry, come, I entreat.
The king and all the ladies did not a little commend Neifile's
song; after which, as the night was far spent, the king bade all go to
rest until the morrow.
Tenth DayEndeth here the ninth day of the Decameron, and
beginneth the tenth, in which, under the rule of
Pamfilo, discourse is had of such as in matters of
love, or otherwise, have done something with liberality
or magnificence.
IntroductionSome cloudlets in the West still shewed a vermeil flush, albeit
those of the eastern sky, as the sun's rays smote them anear, were
already fringed as with most lucent gold, when uprose Pamfilo, and
roused the ladies and his comrades. And all the company being
assembled, and choice made of the place whither they should betake
them for their diversion, he, accompanied by Filomena and Fiammetta,
led the way at a slow pace, followed by all the rest. So fared they
no little space, beguiling the time with talk of their future way of
life, whereof there was much to tell and much to answer, until, as
the sun gained strength, they returned, having made quite a long
round, to the palace; and being gathered about the fountain, such as
were so minded drank somewhat from beakers rinsed in its pure
waters; and then in the delicious shade of the garden they hied them
hither and thither, taking their pleasure until breakfast-time. Their
meal taken, they slept as they were wont; and then, at a spot chosen
by the king, they reassembled, where Neifile, having received his
command to lead the way, blithely thus began.
Novel IA knight in the service of the King of Spain deems
himself ill requited. Wherefore the King, by most
cogent proof, shews him that the blame rests not with
him, but with the knight's own evil fortune; after
which, he bestows upon him a noble gift.
Highly graced, indeed, do I deem myself, honourable my ladies,
that our king should have given to me the precedence in a matter so
arduous to tell of as magnificence: for, as the sun irradiates all the
heaven with his glory and beauty, even so does magnificence enhance
the purity and the splendour of every other virtue. I shall therefore
tell you a story, which, to my thinking, is not a little pretty; and
which, assuredly, it must be profitable to call to mind.
You are to know, then, that, among other honourable knights
that from days of old even until now have dwelt in our city, one, and
perchance the worthiest of all, was Messer Ruggieri de' Figiovanni.
Who, being wealthy and magnanimous, reflecting on the customs and
manner of life of Tuscany, perceived that by tarrying there he was
like to find little or no occasion of shewing his mettle, and accordingly
resolved to pass some time at the court of Alfonso, King of Spain,
who for the fame of his high qualities was without a peer among the
potentates of his age. So, being well provided with arms and horses
and retinue suitable to his rank, he hied him to Spain, where he was
graciously received by the King. There tarrying accordingly, Messer
Ruggieri very soon, as well by the splendid style in which he lived
as by the prodigious feats of arms that he did, gave folk to know his
high desert.
Now, having tarried there some while, and observed the King's
ways with much care, and how he would grant castles, cities, or
baronies, to this, that, or the other of his subjects, he deemed that
the King shewed therein but little judgment, seeing that he would
give them to men that merited them not. And for that nought was
given to him, he, knowing his merit, deemed himself gravely injured
in reputation; wherefore he made up his mind to depart the realm,
and to that end craved license of the King; which the King granted
him, and therewith gave him one of the best and finest mules that
was ever ridden, a gift which Messer Ruggieri, as he had a long
journey to make, did not a little appreciate. The King then bade
one of his discreet domestics contrive, as best he might, to ride with
Messer Ruggieri on such wise that it might not appear that he did
so by the King's command, and charge his memory with whatever
Messer Ruggieri might say of him, so that he might be able to repeat
it; which done, he was on the very next morning to bid Ruggieri
return to the King forthwith. The King's agent was on the
alert, and no sooner was Ruggieri out of the city, than without any
manner of difficulty he joined his company, giving out that he was
going towards Italy. As thus they rode, talking of divers matters,
Messer Ruggieri being mounted on the mule given him by the
King: Methinks,
quoth the other, it being then hard upon
tierce, that 'twere well to give the beasts a voidance;
and by and
by, being come to a convenient place, they voided all the beasts save
the mule. Then, as they continued their journey, the squire
hearkening attentively to the knight's words, they came to a river,
and while there they watered the beasts, the mule made a voidance
in the stream. Whereat: Ah, foul fall thee, beast,
quoth
Messer Ruggieri, that art even as thy master, that gave thee to me!
Which remark, as also many another that fell from Ruggieri as they
rode together throughout the day, the squire stored in his memory;
but never another word did he hear Ruggieri say touching the King,
that was not laudatory to the last degree.
On the morrow, when they were gotten to horse, and had set
their faces towards Tuscany, the squire apprised Ruggieri of the
King's command, and thereupon Ruggieri turned back. On his
arrival the King, having already heard what he had said touching the
mule, gave him gladsome greeting, and asked him wherefore he had
likened him to the mule, or rather the mule to him. Whereto
Messer Ruggieri answered frankly: My lord, I likened you to the
mule, for that, as you bestow your gifts where 'tis not meet, and
where meet it were, bestow them not, so the mule where 'twas meet,
voided not, and where 'twas not meet, voided.
Messer Ruggieri,
replied the King, 'tis not because I have not discerned in you a
knight most good and true, for whose desert no gift were too great,
that I have not bestowed on you such gifts as I have bestowed upon
many others, who in comparison of you are nothing worth: the
fault is none of mine but solely of your fortune, which would not
suffer me; and that this which I say is true, I will make abundantly
plain to you.
My lord,
returned Messer Ruggieri, mortified
am I, not that you gave me no gift, for thereof I had no desire, being
too rich, but that you made no sign of recognition of my desert;
however, I deem your explanation sound and honourable, and
whatever you shall be pleased that I should see, that gladly will I,
albeit I believe you without attestation.
The King then led him into one of the great halls, in which, by
his preordinance, were two chests closed under lock and key, and, not
a few others being present, said to him: Messer Ruggieri, one of
these chests contains my crown, sceptre and orb, with many a fine
girdle, buckle, ring, and whatever else of jewellery I possess; the
other is full of earth: choose then, and whichever you shall choose,
be it yours; thereby you will discover whether 'tis due to me or to
your fortune that your deserts have lacked requital.
Such being the
King's pleasure, Messer Ruggieri chose one of the chests, which at
the King's command being opened and found to be that which
contained the earth: Now, Messer Ruggieri,
quoth the King
with a laugh, your own eyes may warrant you of the truth of what
I say touching Fortune; but verily your merit demands that I take
arms against her in your cause. I know that you are not minded to
become a Spaniard, and therefore I shall give you neither castle nor
city; but that chest, which Fortune denied you, I bestow on you in
her despite, that you may take it with you to your own country, and
there with your neighbours justly vaunt yourself of your deserts,
attested by my gifts.
Messer Ruggieri took the chest, and having
thanked the King in a manner befitting such a gift, returned therewith,
well pleased, to Tuscany.
Novel IIGhino di Tacco captures the Abbot of Cluny, cures him of
a disorder of the stomach, and releases him. The
abbot, on his return to the court of Rome, reconciles
Ghino with Pope Boniface, and makes him prior of
the Hospital.
When an end was made of extolling the magnificence shewn by
King Alfonso towards the Florentine knight, the king, who had
listened to the story with no small pleasure, bade Elisa follow suit;
and forthwith Elisa began:
Dainty my ladies, undeniable it is that
for a king to be magnificent, and to entreat magnificently one that
has done him service, is a great matter, and meet for commendation.
What then shall we say when the tale is of a dignitary of the Church
that shewed wondrous magnificence towards one whom he might
well have entreated as an enemy, and not have been blamed by a
soul? Assuredly nought else than that what in the king was virtue
was in the prelate nothing less than a miracle, seeing that for superlative
greed the clergy, one and all, outdo us women, and wage war
to the knife upon every form of liberality. And albeit all men are
by nature prone to avenge their wrongs, 'tis notorious that the clergy,
however they may preach longsuffering, and commend of all things
the forgiving of trespasses, are more quick and hot to be avenged
than the rest of mankind. Now this, to wit, after what manner a
prelate shewed magnificence, will be made manifest to you in my
story.
Ghino di Tacco, a man redoubtable by reason of his truculence
and his high-handed deeds, being banished from Siena, and at enmity
with the Counts of Santa Fiore, raised Radicofani in revolt against
the Church of Rome, and there abiding, harried all the surrounding
country with his soldiers, plundering all wayfarers. Now Pope
Boniface VIII. being at Rome, there came to court the Abbot
of Cluny, who is reputed one of the wealthiest prelates in the
world; and having there gotten a disorder of the stomach, he was
advised by the physicians to go to the baths of Siena, where (they
averred) he would certainly be cured. So, having obtained the
Pope's leave, reckless of the bruit of Ghino's exploits, he took the
road, being attended by a great and well-equipped train of sumpter-horses
and servants. Ghino di Tacco, getting wind of his approach,
spread his nets to such purpose as without the loss of so much as a
boy to surround the abbot, with all his servants and effects, in a
strait pass, from which there was no exit. Which done, he sent
one of his men, the cunningest of them all, with a sufficient retinue to
the abbot, who most lovingly on Ghino's part besought the abbot to
come and visit Ghino at the castle. Whereto the abbot, very wroth,
made answer that he would none of it, for that nought had he to do
with Ghino; but that he purposed to continue his journey, and
would fain see who would hinder him. Sir,
returned the envoy,
assuming a humble tone, you are come to a part of the country
where we have no fear of aught save the might of God, and where
excommunications and interdicts are one and all under the ban;
wherefore you were best be pleased to shew yourself agreeable to
Ghino in this particular.
As they thus spoke, Ghino's soldiers
shewed themselves on every side, and it being thus manifest to the
abbot that he and his company were taken prisoners, he, albeit
mightily incensed, suffered himself with all his train and effects to be
conducted by the envoy to the castle; where the abbot, being
alighted, was lodged in a small and very dark and discomfortable
room, while his retinue, according to their several conditions, were
provided with comfortable quarters in divers parts of the castle, the
horses well stabled and all the effects secured, none being in any
wise tampered with. Which done, Ghino hied him to the abbot,
and: Sir,
quoth he, Ghino, whose guest you are, sends me to
entreat you to be pleased to inform him of your destination, and the
purpose of your journey.
The abbot, vailing his pride like a wise
man, told whither he was bound and for what purpose. Whereupon
Ghino left him, casting about how he might cure him without a
bath. To which end he kept a great fire ever burning in the little
chamber, and had it closely guarded, and returned not to the abbot
until the ensuing morning, when he brought him in a spotless napkin
two slices of toast and a great beaker of vernaccia of Corniglia, being
of the abbot's own vintage; and: Sir,
quoth he to the abbot,
Ghino, as a young man, made his studies in medicine, and avers that
he then learned that there is no better treatment for disorder of the
stomach than that which he will afford you, whereof the matters
that I bring you are the beginning; wherefore take them and be of
good cheer.
The abbot, being far too hungry to make many words about the
matter, ate (albeit in high dudgeon) the toast, and drank the vernaccia;
which done, he enlarged on his wrongs in a high tone, with
much questioning and perpending; and above all he demanded to see
Ghino. Part of what the abbot said Ghino disregarded as of no
substance, to other part he replied courteously enough; and having
assured him that Ghino would visit him as soon as might be, he took
his leave of him; nor did he return until the morrow, when he
brought him toast and vernaccia in the same quantity as before;
and so he kept him several days: then, having marked that the
abbot had eaten some dried beans that he had secretly brought and
left there of set purpose, he asked him in Ghino's name how he
felt in the stomach. Were I but out of Ghino's hands,
replied the
abbot, I should feel myself well, indeed: next to which, I desire
most of all a good breakfast, so excellent a cure have his medicines
wrought on me.
Whereupon Ghino caused the abbot's servants to
furnish a goodly chamber with the abbot's own effects, and there
on the morrow make ready a grand banquet, at which all the abbot's
suite and not a few of the garrison being assembled, he hied him to
the abbot, and: Sir,
quoth he, 'tis time you left the infirmary,
seeing that you now feel yourself well;
and so saying, he took him
by the hand, and led him into the chamber made ready for him, and
having left him there with his own people, made it his chief concern
that the banquet should be magnificent. The abbot's spirits revived
as he found himself again among his men, with whom he talked a
while, telling them how he had been entreated, wherewith they
contrasted the signal honour which they, on the other hand, had,
one and all, received from Ghino.
Breakfast-time came, and with order meet the abbot and the
rest were regaled with good viands and good wines, Ghino still
suffering not the abbot to know who he was. But when the abbot
had thus passed several days, Ghino, having first had all his effects
collected in a saloon, and all his horses, to the poorest jade, in the
courtyard below, hied him to the abbot and asked him how he felt,
and if he deemed himself strong enough to ride. The abbot replied
that he was quite strong enough, and that 'twould be well indeed
with him, were he once out of Ghino's hands. Ghino then led him
into the saloon in which were his effects and all his retinue, and
having brought him to a window, whence he might see all his horses:
Sir Abbot,
quoth he, you must know that 'tis not for that he
has an evil heart, but because, being a gentleman, he is banished from
his home, and reduced to poverty, and has not a few powerful enemies,
that in defence of his life and honour, Ghino di Tacco, whom you see
before you, has become a robber of highways and an enemy to the
court of Rome. But such as I am, I have cured you of your malady
of the stomach, and taking you to be a worthy lord, I purpose not to
treat you as I would another, from whom, were he in my hands, as
you are, I should take such part of his goods as I should think fit;
but I shall leave it to you, upon consideration of my need, to assign
to me such portion of your goods as you yourself shall determine.
Here are they before you undiminished and unimpaired, and from
this window you may see your horses below in the courtyard;
wherefore take the part or take the whole, as you may see fit, and
be it at your option to tarry here, or go hence, from this hour
forth.
The abbot marvelled to hear a highway robber speak thus
liberally, and such was his gratification that his wrath and fierce
resentment departed from him, nay, were transformed into kindness,
insomuch that in all cordial amity he hasted to embrace Ghino,
saying: By God I swear, that to gain the friendship of a man such
I now deem thee to be, I would be content to suffer much greater
wrong than that which until now, meseemed, thou hadst done me.
Cursed be Fortune that constrains thee to ply so censurable a trade.
Which said, he selected a very few things, and none superfluous,
from his ample store, and having done likewise with the horses, ceded
all else to Ghino, and hied him back to Rome; where, seeing him,
the Pope, who to his great grief had heard of his capture, asked him
what benefit he had gotten from the baths. Whereto the abbot
made answer with a smile: Holy Father, I found nearer here than
the baths a worthy physician who has wrought a most excellent cure
on me:
he then recounted all the circumstances, whereat the Pope
laughed. Afterwards, still pursuing the topic, the abbot, yielding to
the promptings of magnificence, asked a favour of the Pope; who,
expecting that he would ask somewhat else than he did, liberally
promised to give him whatever he should demand. Whereupon:
Holy Father,
quoth the abbot, that which I would crave of you
is that you restore Ghino di Tacco, my physician, to your favour;
seeing that among the good men and true and meritorious that I have
known, he is by no means of the least account. And for the evil life
that he leads, I impute it to Fortune rather than to him: change then
his fortune, by giving him the means whereby he may live in manner
befitting his rank, and I doubt not that in a little while your
judgment of him will jump with mine.
Whereto the Pope, being
magnanimous, and an admirer of good men and true, made answer
that so he would gladly do, if Ghino should prove to be such as the
abbot said; and that he would have him brought under safe conduct
to Rome. Thither accordingly under safe conduct came Ghino, to
the abbot's great delight; nor had he been long at court before the
Pope approved his worth, and restored him to his favour, granting
him a great office, to wit, that of prior of the Hospital, whereof he
made him knight. Which office he held for the rest of his life,
being ever a friend and vassal of Holy Church and the Abbot of
Cluny.
Novel IIIMitridanes, holding Nathan in despite by reason of his
courtesy, journeys with intent to kill him, and falling
in with him unawares, is advised by him how to
compass his end. Following his advice, he finds him
in a copse, and recognizing him, is shame-stricken,
and becomes his friend.
Verily like to a miracle seemed it to all to hear that a prelate
had
done aught with magnificence; but when the ladies had made an end
of their remarks, the king bade Filostrato follow suit; and forthwith
Filostrato began:
Noble ladies, great was the magnificence of the
King of Spain, and perchance a thing unheard-of the magnificence
of the Abbot of Cluny; but peradventure 'twill seem not a whit less
marvellous to you to hear of one who, to shew liberality towards
another, did resolve artfully to yield to him his blood, nay, his very
life, for which the other thirsted, and had so done, had the other
chosen to take them, as I shall shew you in a little story.
Beyond all question, if we may believe the report of certain
Genoese, and other folk that have been in those regions, there dwelt
of yore in the parts of Cathay one Nathan, a man of noble lineage
and incomparable wealth. Who, having a seat hard by a road, by
which whoso would travel from the West eastward, or from the East
westward, must needs pass, and being magnanimous and liberal, and
zealous to approve himself such in act, did set on work cunning
artificers not a few, and cause one of the finest and largest and most
luxurious palaces that ever were seen, to be there builded and
furnished in the goodliest manner with all things meet for the
reception and honourable entertainment of gentlemen. And so,
keeping a great array of excellent servants, he courteously and
hospitably did the honours of his house to whoso came and went: in
which laudable way of life he persevered, until not only the East, but
well-nigh all the West had heard his fame; which thus, what time
he was well-stricken in years, albeit not for that cause grown weary
of shewing courtesy, reached the ears of one Mitridanes, a young man
of a country not far distant. Who, knowing himself to be no less
wealthy than Nathan, grew envious of the renown that he had of his
good deeds, and resolved to obliterate, or at least to obscure it, by a
yet greater liberality. So he had built for himself a palace like that
of Nathan, of which he did the honours with a lavish courtesy that
none had ever equalled, to whoso came or went that way; and verily
in a short while he became famous enough.
Now it so befell that on a day when the young man was all alone
in the courtyard of the palace, there came in by one of the gates a
poor woman, who asked of him an alms, and had it; but, not content
therewith, came again to him by the second gate, and asked another
alms, and had it, and after the like sort did even unto the twelfth
time; but, she returning for the thirteenth time: My good
woman,
quoth Mitridanes, thou art not a little pertinacious in thy
begging:
howbeit he gave her an alms. Whereupon: Ah!
the wondrous liberality of Nathan!
quoth the beldam: thirty-two
gates are there to his palace, by every one of which I have entered,
and asking alms of him, was never--for aught he shewed--recognized,
or refused, and here, though I have entered as yet by but
thirteen gates, I am recognized and reprimanded.
And therewith
she departed, and returned no more. Mitridanes, who accounted
the mention of Nathan's fame an abatement of his own, was kindled
by her words with a frenzy of wrath, and began thus to commune
with himself: Alas! when shall I attain to the grandeur of
Nathan's liberality, to say nought of transcending it, as I would fain,
seeing that in the veriest trifles I cannot approach him? Of a surety
my labour is in vain, if I rid not the earth of him: which, since old
age relieves me not of him, I must forthwith do with mine own
hands. And in the flush of his despite up he started, and giving
none to know of his purpose, got to horse with a small company,
and after three days arrived at the place where Nathan abode; and
having enjoined his comrades to make as if they were none of his,
and knew him not, and to go quarter themselves as best they might
until they had his further orders, he, being thus alone, towards
evening came upon Nathan, also alone, at no great distance from
his splendid palace. Nathan was recreating himself by a walk, and
was very simply clad; so that Mitridanes, knowing him not, asked
him if he could shew him where Nathan dwelt. My son,
replied
Nathan gladsomely, that can none in these parts better than I;
wherefore, so it please thee, I will bring thee thither.
The young
man replied that 'twould be mighty agreeable to him, but that, if so
it might be, he had a mind to be neither known nor seen by Nathan.
And herein also,
returned Nathan, since 'tis thy pleasure, I will
gratify thee.
Whereupon Mitridanes dismounted, and with Nathan,
who soon engaged him in delightsome discourse, walked to the
goodly palace. Arrived there Nathan caused one of his servants
take the young man's horse, and drawing close to him, bade him
in a whisper to see to it without delay that none in the house should
tell the young man that he was Nathan: and so 'twas done.
Being come into the palace, Nathan quartered Mitridanes in a
most goodly chamber, where none saw him but those whom he had
appointed to wait upon him; and he himself kept him company,
doing him all possible honour. Of whom Mitridanes, albeit he
reverenced him as a father, yet, being thus with him, forbore not to
ask who he was. Whereto Nathan made answer: I am a petty
servant of Nathan: old as I am, I have been with him since my
childhood, and never has he advanced me to higher office than this
wherein thou seest me: wherefore, howsoever other folk may praise
him, little cause have I to do so.
Which words afforded Mitridanes
some hope of carrying his wicked purpose into effect with more of
plan and less of risk than had otherwise been possible. By and by
Nathan very courteously asked him who he was, and what business
brought him thither; offering him such counsel and aid as he might
be able to afford him. Mitridanes hesitated a while to reply: but
at last he resolved to trust him, and when with no little circumlocution
he had demanded of him fidelity, counsel and aid, he fully
discovered to him who he was, and the purpose and motive of his
coming thither. Now, albeit to hear Mitridanes thus unfold his
norrid design caused Nathan no small inward commotion, yet 'twas
not long before courageously and composedly he thus made answer:
Noble was thy father, Mitridanes, and thou art minded to shew
thyself not unworthy of him by this lofty emprise of thine, to wit,
of being liberal to all comers: and for that thou art envious of
Nathan's merit I greatly commend thee; for were many envious
for a like cause, the world, from being a most wretched, would soon
become a happy place. Doubt not that I shall keep secret the
design which thou hast confided to me, for the furtherance whereof
'tis good advice rather than substantial aid that I have to offer thee.
Which advice is this. Hence, perhaps half a mile off, thou mayst
see a copse, in which almost every morning Nathan is wont to walk,
taking his pleasure, for quite a long while: 'twill be an easy matter
for thee to find him there, and deal with him as thou mayst be
minded. Now, shouldst thou slay him, thou wilt get thee home with
less risk of let, if thou take not the path by which thou camest
hither, but that which thou seest issue from the copse on the left,
for, though 'tis somewhat more rough, it leads more directly to thy
house, and will be safer for thee.
Possessed of this information, Mitridanes, when Nathan had left
him, privily apprised his comrades, who were likewise lodged in the
palace, of the place where they were to await him on the ensuing
day; which being come, Nathan, inflexibly determined to act in all
respects according to the advice which he had given Mitridanes,
hied him forth to the copse unattended, to meet his death. Mitridanes,
being risen, took his bow and sword, for other arms he had
none with him, mounted his horse, and rode to the copse, through
which, while he was yet some way off, he saw Nathan passing, quite
alone. And being minded, before he fell upon him, to see his face
and hear the sound of his voice, as, riding at a smart pace, he came
up with him, he laid hold of him by his head-gear, exclaiming:
Greybeard, thou art a dead man.
Whereto Nathan answered
nought but: Then 'tis but my desert.
But Mitridanes, hearing
the voice, and scanning the face, forthwith knew him for the same
man that had welcomed him heartily, consorted with him familiarly,
and counselled him faithfully; whereby his wrath presently subsided,
and gave place to shame. Wherefore, casting away the sword that
he held drawn in act to strike, he sprang from his horse, and weeping,
threw himself at Nathan's feet, saying: Your liberality, dearest
father, I acknowledge to be beyond all question, seeing with what
craft you did plot your coming hither to yield me your life, for
which, by mine own avowal, you knew that I, albeit cause I had
none, did thirst. But God, more regardful of my duty than I
myself, has now, in this moment of supreme stress, opened the eyes
of my mind, that wretched envy had fast sealed. The prompter
was your compliance, the greater is the debt of penitence that I owe
you for my fault; wherefore wreak even such vengeance upon me
as you may deem answerable to my transgression.
But Nathan
raised Mitridanes to his feet, and tenderly embraced him, saying:
My son, thy enterprise, howsoever thou mayst denote it, whether
evil or otherwise, was not such that thou shouldst crave, or I give,
pardon thereof; for 'twas not in malice but in that thou wouldst
fain have been reputed better than I that thou ensuedst it. Doubt
then no more of me; nay, rest assured that none that lives bears
thee such love as I, who know the loftiness of thy spirit, bent not
to heap up wealth, as do the caitiffs, but to dispense in bounty thine
accumulated store. Think it no shame that to enhance thy reputation
thou wouldst have slain me; nor deem that I marvel thereat.
To slay not one man, as thou wast minded, but countless multitudes,
to waste whole countries with fire, and to raze cities to the ground
has been well-nigh the sole art, by which the mightiest emperors and
the greatest kings have extended their dominions, and by consequence
their fame. Wherefore, if thou, to increase thy fame, wouldst fain
have slain me, 'twas nothing marvellous or strange, but wonted.
Whereto Mitridanes made answer, not to excuse his wicked
design, but to commend the seemly excuse found for it by Nathan,
whom at length he told how beyond measure he marvelled that
Nathan had not only been consenting to the enterprise, but had
aided him therein by his counsel. But Nathan answered: Liefer
had I, Mitridanes, that thou didst not marvel either at my consent
or at my counsel, for that, since I was my own master and of a mind
to that emprise whereon thou art also bent, never a soul came to my
house, but, so far as in me lay, I gave him all that he asked of me.
Thou camest, lusting for my life; and so, when I heard thee crave
it of me, I forthwith, that thou mightst not be the only guest to
depart hence ill content, resolved to give it thee; and to that end I
gave thee such counsel as I deemed would serve thee both to the
taking of my life and the preservation of thine own. Wherefore
yet again I bid thee, nay, I entreat thee, if so thou art minded, to
take it for thy satisfaction: I know not how I could better bestow
it. I have had the use of it now for some eighty years, and
pleasure and solace thereof; and I know that, by the course of
Nature and the common lot of man and all things mundane, it can
continue to be mine for but a little while; and so I deem that 'twere
much better to bestow it, as I have ever bestowed and dispensed my
wealth, than to keep it, until, against my will, it be reft from me by
Nature. 'Twere but a trifle, though 'twere a hundred years: how
insignificant, then, the six or eight years that are all I have to give!
Take it, then, if thou hadst lief, take it, I pray thee; for, long as
I have lived here, none have I found but thee to desire it; nor know
I when I may find another, if thou take it not, to demand it of me.
And if, peradventure, I should find one such, yet I know that the
longer I keep it, the less its worth will be; wherefore, ere it be thus
cheapened, take it, I implore thee.
Sore shame-stricken, Mitridanes made answer: Now God
forefend that I should so much as harbour, as but now I did, such a
thought, not to say do such a deed, as to wrest from you a thing
so precious as your life, the years whereof, so far from abridging, I
would gladly supplement with mine own.
So then,
rejoined
Nathan promptly, thou wouldst, if thou couldst, add thy years to
mine, and cause me to serve thee as I never yet served any man, to
wit, to take from thee that which is thine, I that never took aught
from a soul!
Ay, that would I,
returned Mitridanes.
Then,
quoth Nathan, do as I shall bid thee. Thou art young: tarry
here in my house, and call thyself Nathan; and I will get me to
thy house, and ever call myself Mitridanes.
Whereto Mitridanes
made answer: Were I but able to discharge this trust, as you
have been and are, scarce would I hesitate to accept your offer; but,
as too sure am I that aught that I might do would but serve to
lower Nathan's fame, and I am not minded to mar that in another
which I cannot mend in myself, accept it I will not.
After which and the like interchange of delectable discourse,
Nathan and Mitridanes, by Nathan's desire, returned to the palace;
where Nathan for some days honourably entreated Mitridanes, and
by his sage counsel confirmed and encouraged him in his high and
noble resolve; after which, Mitridanes, being minded to return
home with his company, took his leave of Nathan, fully persuaded
that 'twas not possible to surpass him in liberality.
Novel IVMesser Gentile de' Carisendi, being come from Modena,
disinters a lady that he loves, who has been buried for
dead. She, being reanimated, gives birth to a male
child; and Messer Gentile restores her, with her son,
to Niccoluccio Caccianimico, her husband.
A thing marvellous seemed it to all that for liberality a man
should be ready to sacrifice his own life; and herein they averred
that Nathan had without doubt left the King of Spain and the Abbot
of Cluny behind. However, when they had discussed the matter
diversely and at large, the king, bending his regard on Lauretta,
signified to her his will that she should tell; and forthwith, accordingly,
Lauretta began:
Goodly matters are they and magnificent that
have been recounted to you, young ladies; nay, so much of our
field of discourse is already filled by their grandeur, that for us that
are yet to tell, there is, methinks, no room left, unless we seek our
topic there where matter of discourse germane to every theme does
most richly abound, to wit, in the affairs of love. For which cause,
as also for that our time of life cannot but make us especially
inclinable thereto, I am minded that my story shall be of a feat of
magnificence done by a lover: which, all things considered, will,
peradventure, seem to you inferior to none that have been shewn
you; so it be true that to possess the beloved one, men will part
with their treasures, forget their enmities, and jeopardize their own
lives, their honour and their reputation, in a thousand ways.
Know, then, that at Bologna, that most famous city of Lombardy,
there dwelt a knight, Messer Gentile Carisendi by name, worshipful
alike for his noble lineage and his native worth: who in his youth,
being enamoured of a young gentlewoman named Madonna Catalina,
wife of one Niccoluccio Caccianimico, and well-nigh despairing, for
that the lady gave him but a sorry requital of his love, betook him
to Modena, being called thither as Podestà. Now what time he
was there, Niccoluccio being also away from Bologna, and his lady
gone, for that she was with child, to lie in at a house she had some
three miles or so from the city, it befell that she was suddenly
smitten with a sore malady of such and so virulent a quality that it
left no sign of life in her, so that the very physicians pronounced her
dead. And for that the women that were nearest of kin to her
professed to have been told by her, that she was not so far gone in
pregnancy that the child could be perfectly formed, they, without
more ado, laid her in a tomb in a neighbouring church, and after
long lamentation closed it upon her.
Whereof Messer Gentile being forthwith apprised by one of his
friends, did, for all she had been most niggardly to him of her favour,
grieve not a little, and at length fell a communing with himself on
this wise: So, Madonna Catalina, thou art dead! While thou
livedst, never a glance of thine might I have; wherefore, now that
thou art dead, 'tis but right that I go take a kiss from thee. 'Twas
night while he thus mused; and forthwith, observing strict secrecy
in his departure, he got him to horse with a single servant, and
halted not until he was come to the place where the lady was interred;
and having opened the tomb he cautiously entered it. Then, having
lain down beside her, he set his face against hers; and again and
again, weeping profusely the while, he kissed it. But as 'tis matter
of common knowledge that the desires of men, and more especially
of lovers, know no bounds, but crave ever an ampler satisfaction;
even so Messer Gentile, albeit he had been minded to tarry there
no longer, now said to himself: Wherefore touch I not her bosom
a while? I have never yet touched it, nor shall I ever touch it
again. Obeying which impulse, he laid his hand on her bosom, and
keeping it there some time, felt, as he thought, her heart faintly
beating. Whereupon, banishing all fear, and examining the body
with closer attention, he discovered that life was not extinct, though
he judged it but scant and flickering: and so, aided by his servant,
he bore her, as gently as he might, out of the tomb; and set her
before him upon his horse, and brought her privily to his house at
Bologna, where dwelt his wise and worthy mother, who, being fully
apprised by him of the circumstances, took pity on the lady, and had
a huge fire kindled, and a bath made ready, whereby she restored
her to life. Whereof the first sign she gave was to heave a great
sigh, and murmur: Alas! where am I?
To which the worthy
lady made answer: Be of good cheer; thou art well lodged.
By and by the lady, coming to herself, looked about her; and finding
herself she knew not where, and seeing Messer Gentile before her,
was filled with wonder, and besought his mother to tell her how she
came to be there.
Messer Gentile thereupon told her all. Sore distressed thereat,
the lady, after a while, thanked him as best she might; after which
she besought him by the love that he had borne her, and of his
courtesy, that she might, while she tarried in his house, be spared
aught that could impair her honour and her husband's; and that at
daybreak he would suffer her to return home. Madam,
replied
Messer Gentile, however I did affect you in time past, since God
in His goodness has, by means of the love I bore you, restored you
to me alive, I mean not now, or at any time hereafter, to entreat
you either here or elsewhere, save as a dear sister; but yet the
service I have to-night rendered you merits some guerdon: and
therefore lief had I that you deny me not a favour which I shall ask
of you.
Whereto the lady graciously made answer that she would
be prompt to grant it, so only it were in her power, and consonant
with her honour. Said then Messer Gentile: Your kinsfolk,
Madam, one and all, nay, all the folk in Bologna are fully persuaded
that you are dead: there is therefore none to expect you at home:
wherefore the favour I crave of you is this, that you will be pleased
to tarry privily here with my mother, until such time--which will
be speedily--as I return from Modena. And 'tis for that I purpose
to make solemn and joyous donation of you to your husband in
presence of the most honourable folk of this city that I ask of you
this grace.
Mindful of what she owed the knight, and witting
that what he craved was seemly, the lady, albeit she yearned not a
little to gladden her kinsfolk with the sight of her in the flesh, consented
to do as Messer Gentile besought her, and thereto pledged
him her faith. And scarce had she done so, when she felt that the
hour of her travail was come; and so, tenderly succoured by Messer
Gentile's mother, she not long after gave birth to a fine boy. Which
event did mightily enhance her own and Messer Gentile's happiness.
Then, having made all meet provision for her, and left word that
she was to be tended as if she were his own wife, Messer Gentile,
observing strict secrecy, returned to Modena.
His time of office there ended, in anticipation of his return to
Bologna, he appointed for the morning of his arrival in the city a
great and goodly banquet at his house, whereto were bidden not a
few of the gentlemen of Bologna, and among them Niccoluccio
Caccianimico. Whom, when he was returned and dismounted, he
found awaiting him, as also the lady, fairer and more healthful than
ever, and her little son doing well; and so with a gladness beyond
compare he ranged his guests at table, and regaled them with many
a course magnificently served. And towards the close of the feast,
having premonished the lady of his intention, and concerted with
her how she should behave, thus he spoke: Gentlemen, I mind
me to have once heard tell of (as I deem it) a delightsome custom
which they have in Persia; to wit, that, when one would do his
friend especial honour, he bids him to his house, and there shews him
that treasure, be it wife, or mistress, or daughter, or what not, that
he holds most dear; assuring him that yet more gladly, were it
possible, he would shew him his heart. Which custom I am minded
to observe here in Bologna. You, of your courtesy, have honoured
my feast with your presence, and I propose to do you honour in the
Persian fashion, by shewing you that which in all the world I do,
and must ever, hold most dear. But before I do so, tell me, I pray
you, how you conceive of a nice question that I shall lay before you.
Suppose that one has in his house a good and most faithful servant,
who falls sick of a grievous disorder; and that the master tarries not
for the death of the servant, but has him borne out into the open
street, and concerns himself no more with him: that then a stranger
comes by, is moved to pity of the sick man, and takes him to his
house, and by careful tendance and at no small cost restores him to
his wonted health. Now I would fain know whether the first
master has in equity any just cause to complain of or be aggrieved
with the second master, if he retain the servant in his employ, and
refuse to restore him, when so required.
The gentlemen discussed the matter after divers fashions, and
all agreed in one sentence, which they committed to Niccoluccio
Caccianimico, for that he was an eloquent and accomplished speaker,
to deliver on the part of them all. Niccoluccio began by commending
the Persian custom: after which he said that he and the others were
all of the same opinion, to wit, that the first master had no longer
any right in his servant, since he had not only abandoned but cast
him forth; and that by virtue of the second master's kind usage of
him he must be deemed to have become his servant; wherefore, by
keeping him, he did the first master no mischief, no violence, no
wrong. Whereupon the rest that were at the table said, one and all,
being worthy men, that their judgment jumped with Niccoluccio's
answer. The knight, well pleased with the answer, and that 'twas
Niccoluccio that gave it, affirmed that he was of the same opinion;
adding: 'Tis now time that I shew you that honour which I
promised you.
He then called two of his servants, and sent them
to the lady, whom he had caused to be apparelled and adorned with
splendour, charging them to pray her to be pleased to come and
gladden the gentlemen with her presence. So she, bearing in her
arms her most lovely little son, came, attended by the two servants,
into the saloon, and by the knight's direction, took a seat beside a
worthy gentleman: whereupon: Gentlemen,
quoth the knight,
this is the treasure that I hold, and mean ever to hold, more dear
than aught else. Behold, and judge whether I have good cause.
The gentlemen said not a little in her honour and praise, averring
that the knight ought indeed to hold her dear: then, as they
regarded her more attentively, there were not a few that would have
pronounced her to be the very woman that she was, had they not
believed that woman to be dead. But none scanned her so closely as
Niccoluccio, who, the knight being withdrawn a little space, could
no longer refrain his eager desire to know who she might be, but
asked her whether she were of Bologna, or from other parts. The
lady, hearing her husband's voice, could scarce forbear to answer;
but yet, not to disconcert the knight's plan, she kept silence.
Another asked her if that was her little boy; and yet another, if she
were Messer Gentile's wife, or in any other wise his connection. To
none of whom she vouchsafed an answer. Then, Messer Gentile
coming up: Sir,
quoth one of the guests, this treasure of
yours is goodly indeed; but she seems to be dumb: is she so?
Gentlemen,
quoth Messer Gentile, that she has not as yet
spoken is no small evidence of her virtue.
Then tell us, you, who she
is,
returned the other. That,
quoth the knight, will I right
gladly, so you but promise me, that, no matter what I may say, none
of you will stir from his place, until I have ended my story.
All
gave the required promise, and when the tables had been cleared,
Messer Gentile, being seated beside the lady, thus spoke:
Gentlemen, this lady is that loyal and faithful servant, touching
whom a brief while ago I propounded to you my question, whom her
own folk held none too dear, but cast out into the open street as a
thing vile and no longer good for aught, but I took thence, and by
my careful tendance wrested from the clutch of death; whom God,
regardful of my good will, has changed from the appalling aspect of
a corpse to the thing of beauty that you see before you. But for
your fuller understanding of this occurrence, I will briefly explain it
to you.
He then recounted to them in detail all that had happened
from his first becoming enamoured of the lady to that very hour;
whereto they hearkened with no small wonder; after which:
And so,
he added, unless you, and more especially Niccoluccio,
are now of another opinion than you were a brief while ago, the
lady rightly belongs to me, nor can any man lawfully reclaim her
of me.
None answered, for all were intent to hear what more he would
say. But, while Niccoluccio, and some others that were there, wept
for sympathy, Messer Gentile stood up, and took the little boy in his
arms and the lady by the hand, and approached Niccoluccio, saying:
Rise, my gossip: I do not, indeed, restore thee thy wife, whom thy
kinsfolk and hers cast forth; but I am minded to give thee this lady,
my gossip, with this her little boy, whom I know well to be thy son,
and whom I held at the font, and named Gentile: and I pray thee that
she be not the less dear to thee for that she has tarried three months
in my house; for I swear to thee by that God, who, peradventure,
ordained that I should be enamoured of her, to the end that my love
might be, as it has been, the occasion of her restoration to life, that
never with her father, or her mother, or with thee, did she live more
virtuously than with my mother in my house.
Which said, he
turned to the lady, saying: Madam, I now release you from all
promises made to me, and so deliver you to Niccoluccio.
Then,
leaving the lady and the child in Niccoluccio's embrace, he returned
to his seat.
Thus to receive his wife and son was to Niccoluccio a delight
great in the measure of its remoteness from his hope. Wherefore in
the most honourable terms at his command he thanked the knight,
whom all the rest, weeping for sympathy, greatly commended for
what he had done, as did also all that heard thereof. The lady,
welcomed home with wondrous cheer, was long a portent to the
Bolognese, who gazed on her as on one raised from the dead.
Messer Gentile lived ever after as the friend of Niccoluccio, and his
and the lady's kinsfolk.
Now what shall be your verdict, gracious ladies? A king's largess,
though it was of his sceptre and crown, an abbot's reconciliation,
at no cost to himself, of a malefactor with the Pope, or an old man's
submission of his throat to the knife of his enemy--will you adjudge
that such acts as these are comparable to the deed of Messer Gentile?
Who, though young, and burning with passion, and deeming himself
justly entitled to that which the heedlessness of another had discarded,
and he by good fortune had recovered, not only tempered his ardour
with honour, but having that which with his whole soul he had long
been bent on wresting from another, did with liberality restore it.
Assuredly none of the feats aforesaid seem to me like unto this.
Novel VMadonna Dianora craves of Messer Ansaldo a garden
that shall be as fair in January as in May. Messer
Ansaldo binds himself to a necromancer, and thereby
gives her the garden. Her husband gives her leave
to do Messer Ansaldo's pleasure: he, being apprised
of her husband's liberality, releases her from her
promise; and the necromancer releases Messer Ansaldo
from his bond, and will take nought of his.
Each of the gay company had with superlative commendation
extolled Messer Gentile to the skies, when the king bade Emilia
follow suit; and with a good courage, as burning to speak, thus
Emilia began:
Delicate my ladies, none can justly say that 'twas
not magnificently done of Messer Gentile; but if it be alleged that
'twas the last degree of magnificence, 'twill perchance not be
difficult to shew that more was possible, as is my purpose in the little
story that I shall tell you.
In Friuli, a country which, though its air is shrewd, is pleasantly
diversified by fine mountains and not a few rivers and clear
fountains, is a city called Udine, where dwelt of yore a fair and
noble lady, Madonna Dianora by name, wife of a wealthy grandee
named Giliberto, a very pleasant gentleman, and debonair. Now
this lady, for her high qualities, was in the last degree beloved by
a great and noble baron, Messer Ansaldo Gradense by name, a
man of no little consequence, and whose fame for feats of arms and
courtesy was spread far and wide. But, though with all a lover's
ardour he left nought undone that he might do to win her love, and
to that end frequently plied her with his ambassages, 'twas all in
vain. And the lady being distressed by his importunity, and chat,
refuse as she might all that he asked of her, he none the less
continued to love her and press his suit upon her, bethought her how
she might rid herself of him by requiring of him an extraordinary
and, as she deemed, impossible feat. So one day, a woman that came
oftentimes from him to her being with her: Good woman,
quoth she, thou hast many a time affirmed that Messer Ansaldo
loves me above all else; and thou hast made proffer to me on his
part of wondrous rich gifts which I am minded he keep to himself,
for that I could never bring myself to love him or pleasure him for
their sake; but, if I might be certified that he loves me as
much as thou sayst, then without a doubt I should not fail to love
him, and do his pleasure; wherefore, so he give me the assurance
that I shall require, I shall be at his command.
What is it,
Madam,
returned the good woman, that you would have him do?
This,
replied the lady; I would have this next ensuing January,
hard by this city, a garden full of green grass and flowers and
flowering trees, just as if it were May; and if he cannot provide me
with this garden, bid him never again send either thee or any other
to me, for that, should he harass me any further, I shall no longer
keep silence, as I have hitherto done, but shall make my complaint
to my husband and all my kinsmen, and it shall go hard but I will be
quit of him.
The gentleman being apprised of his lady's stipulation and
promise, notwithstanding that he deemed it no easy matter, nay, a
thing almost impossible, to satisfy her, and knew besides that 'twas
but to deprive him of all hope that she made the demand, did nevertheless
resolve to do his endeavour to comply with it, and causing
search to be made in divers parts of the world, if any he might find
to afford him counsel or aid, he lit upon one, who for a substantial
reward offered to do the thing by necromancy. So Messer Ansaldo,
having struck the bargain with him for an exceeding great sum of
money, gleefully expected the appointed time. Which being come
with extreme cold, insomuch that there was nought but snow and
ice, the adept on the night before the calends of January wrought
with his spells to such purpose that on the morrow, as was averred by
eye-witnesses, there appeared in a meadow hard by the city one of
the most beautiful gardens that was ever seen, with no lack of grass
and trees and fruits of all sorts. At sight whereof Messer Ansaldo
was overjoyed, and caused some of the finest fruits and flowers that
it contained to be gathered, and privily presented to his lady, whom
he bade come and see the garden that she had craved, that thereby
she might have assurance of his love, and mind her of the promise
that she had given him and confirmed with an oath, and, as a loyal
lady, take thought for its performance. When she saw the flowers
and fruits, the lady, who had already heard not a few folk speak of
the wondrous garden, began to repent her of her promise. But for
all that, being fond of strange sights, she hied her with many other
ladies of the city to see the garden, and having gazed on it with
wonderment, and commended it not a little, she went home the
saddest woman alive, bethinking her to what it bound her: and so
great was her distress that she might not well conceal it; but, being
written on her face, 'twas marked by her husband, who was minded
by all means to know the cause thereof.
The lady long time kept silence: but at last she yielded to his
urgency, and discovered to him the whole matter from first to last.
Whereat Giliberto was at first very wroth; but on second thoughts,
considering the purity of the lady's purpose, he was better advised,
and dismissing his anger: Dianora,
quoth he, 'tis not the act
of a discreet or virtuous lady to give ear to messages of such a sort,
nor to enter into any compact touching her chastity with any man
on any terms. Words that the ears convey to the heart have a
potency greater than is commonly supposed, and there is scarce
aught that lovers will not find possible. 'Twas then ill done of thee
in the first instance to hearken, as afterwards to make the compact;
but, for that I know the purity of thy soul, that thou mayst be quit
of thy promise, I will grant thee that which, perchance, no other man
would grant, being also swayed thereto by fear of the necromancer,
whom Messer Ansaldo, shouldst thou play him false, might, peradventure,
cause to do us a mischief. I am minded, then, that thou
go to him, and contrive, if on any wise thou canst, to get thee quit of
this promise without loss of virtue; but if otherwise it may not be,
then for the nonce thou mayst yield him thy body, but not thy soul.
Whereat the lady, weeping, would none of such a favour at her
husband's hands. But Giliberto, for all the lady's protestations, was
minded that so it should be.
Accordingly, on the morrow about dawn, apparelled none too
ornately, preceded by two servants and followed by a chambermaid,
the lady hied her to Messer Ansaldo's house. Apprised that his lady
was come to see him, Messer Ansaldo, marvelling not a little, rose,
and having called the necromancer: I am minded,
quoth he,
that thou see what goodly gain I have gotten by thine art.
And
the twain having met the lady, Ansaldo gave way to no unruly
appetite, but received her with a seemly obeisance; and then the
three repaired to a goodly chamber, where there was a great fire, and
having caused the lady to be seated, thus spoke Ansaldo: Madam,
if the love that I have so long borne you merit any guerdon, I pray
you that it be not grievous to you to discover to me the true occasion
of your coming to me at this hour, and thus accompanied.
Shamefast,
and the tears all but standing in her eyes, the lady made
answer: Sir, 'tis neither love that I bear you, nor faith that I
pledged you, that brings me hither, but the command of my husband,
who, regarding rather the pains you have had of your unbridled
passion than his own or my honour, has sent me hither; and for that
he commands it, I, for the nonce, am entirely at your pleasure.
If Messer Ansaldo had marvelled to hear of the lady's coming,
he now marvelled much more, and touched by Giliberto's liberality,
and passing from passion to compassion: Now, God forbid,
Madam,
quoth he, that, it being as you say, I should wound the
honour of him that has compassion on my love; wherefore, no
otherwise than as if you were my sister shall you abide here, while
you are so minded, and be free to depart at your pleasure; nor crave
I aught of you but that you shall convey from me to your husband
such thanks as you shall deem meet for courtesy such as his has been,
and entreat me ever henceforth as your brother and servant.
Whereat overjoyed in the last degree: Nought,
quoth the lady,
by what I noted of your behaviour, could ever have caused me to
anticipate other sequel of my coming hither than this which I see is
your will, and for which I shall ever be your debtor.
She then
took her leave, and, attended by a guard of honour, returned to
Giliberto, and told him what had passed; between whom and Messer
Ansaldo there was thenceforth a most close and loyal friendship.
Now the liberality shewn by Giliberto towards Messer Ansaldo,
and by Messer Ansaldo towards the lady, having been marked by
the necromancer, when Messer Ansaldo made ready to give him the
promised reward: Now God forbid,
quoth he, that, as I have
seen Giliberto liberal in regard of his honour, and you liberal in
regard of your love, I be not in like manner liberal in regard of my
reward, which accordingly, witting that 'tis in good hands, I am
minded that you keep.
The knight was abashed, and strove hard
to induce him to take, if not the whole, at least a part of the money;
but finding that his labour was in vain, and that the necromancer,
having caused his garden to vanish after the third day, was minded
to depart, he bade him adieu. And the carnal love he had borne
the lady being spent, he burned for her thereafter with a flame of
honourable affection. Now what shall be our verdict in this case,
lovesome ladies? A lady, as it were dead, and a love grown lukewarm
for utter hopelessness! Shall we set a liberality shewn in such
a case above this liberality of Messer Ansaldo, loving yet as ardently,
and hoping, perchance, yet more ardently than ever, and holding
in his hands the prize that he had so long pursued? Folly indeed
should I deem it to compare that liberality with this.
Novel VIKing Charles the Old, being conqueror, falls in love with
a young maiden, and afterward growing ashamed of
his folly bestows her and her sister honourably in
marriage.
Who might fully recount with what diversity of argument the
ladies debated which of the three, Giliberto, or Messer Ansaldo, or
the necromancer, behaved with the most liberality in the affair of
Madonna Dianora? Too long were it to tell. However, when the
king had allowed them to dispute a while, he, with a glance at
Fiammetta, bade her rescue them from their wrangling by telling her
story. Fiammetta made no demur, but thus began:
Illustrious my
ladies, I have ever been of opinion that in companies like ours one
should speak so explicitly that the import of what is said should
never by excessive circumscription afford matter for disputation;
which is much more in place among students in the schools, than
among us, whose powers are scarce adequate to the management of
the distaff and the spindle. Wherefore I, that had in mind a matter
of, perchance, some nicety, now that I see you all at variance
touching the matters last mooted, am minded to lay it aside, and
tell you somewhat else, which concerns a man by no means of slight
account, but a valiant king, being a chivalrous action that he did,
albeit in no wise thereto actuated by his honour.
There is none of you but may not seldom have heard tell of King
Charles the Old, or the First, by whose magnificent emprise, and the
ensuing victory gained over King Manfred, the Ghibellines were driven
forth of Florence, and the Guelfs returned thither. For which cause a
knight, Messer Neri degli Uberti by name, departing Florence with
his household and not a little money, resolved to fix his abode under
no
other sway than that of King Charles. And being fain of a lonely
place in which to end his days in peace, he betook him to Castello
da Mare di Stabia; and there, perchance a cross-bow-shot from the
other houses of the place, amid the olives and hazels and chestnuts
that abound in those parts, he bought an estate, on which he built a
goodly house and commodious, with a pleasant garden beside it, in the
midst of which, having no lack of running water, he set, after our
Florentine fashion, a pond fair and clear, and speedily filled it with
fish. And while thus he lived, daily occupying himself with nought
else but how to make his garden more fair, it befell that King
Charles in the hot season betook him to Castello da Mare to refresh
himself a while, and hearing of the beauty of Messer Neri's garden,
was desirous to view it. And having learned to whom it belonged,
he bethought him that, as the knight was an adherent of the party
opposed to him, he would use more familiarity towards him than he
would otherwise have done; and so he sent him word that he and
four comrades would sup privily with him in his garden on the
ensuing evening. Messer Neri felt himself much honoured; and
having made his preparations with magnificence, and arranged the
order of the ceremonies with his household, did all he could and
knew to make the King cordially welcome to his fair garden.
When the King had viewed the garden throughout, as also Messer
Neri's house, and commended them, he washed, and seated himself at
one of the tables, which were set beside the pond, and bade Count
Guy de Montfort, who was one of his companions, sit on one side
of him, and Messer Neri on the other, and the other three to
serve, as they should be directed by Messer Neri. The dishes that
were set before them were dainty, the wines excellent and rare, the
order of the repast very fair and commendable, without the least
noise or aught else that might distress; whereon the King bestowed
no stinted praise. As thus he gaily supped, well-pleased with the
lovely spot, there came into the garden two young maidens, each
perhaps fifteen years old, blonde both, their golden tresses falling all
in ringlets about them, and crowned with a dainty garland of
periwinkle-flowers; and so delicate and fair of face were they that
they shewed liker to angels than aught else, each clad in a robe of
finest linen, white as snow upon their flesh, close-fitting as might be
from the waist up, but below the waist ample, like a pavilion to the
feet. She that was foremost bore on her shoulders a pair of nets,
which she held with her left hand, carrying in her right a long pole.
Her companion followed, bearing on her left shoulder a frying-pan,
under her left arm a bundle of faggots, and in her left hand a tripod,
while in the other hand she carried a cruse of oil and a lighted taper.
At sight of whom the King marvelled, and gazed intent to learn
what it might import. The two young maidens came forward with
becoming modesty, and did obeisance to the King; which done they
hied them to the place of ingress to the pond, and she that had the
frying-pan, having set it down, and afterward the other things, took
the pole that the other carried, and so they both went down into the
pond, being covered by its waters to their breasts. Whereupon one
of Messer Neri's servants, having forthwith lit a fire, and set the tripod
on the faggots and oil therein, addressed himself to wait, until some
fish should be thrown to him by the girls. Who, the one searching
with the pole in those parts where she knew the fish lay hid, while
the other made ready the nets, did in a brief space of time, to the
exceeding great delight of the King, who watched them attentively,
catch fish not a few, which they tossed to the servant, who set them,
before the life was well out of them, in the frying-pan. After
which, the maidens, as pre-arranged, addressed them to catch some
of the finest fish, and cast them on to the table before the King, and
Count Guy, and their father. The fish wriggled about the table to
the prodigious delight of the King, who in like manner took some
of them, and courteously returned them to the girls; with which
sport they diverted them, until the servant had cooked the fish that
had been given him: which, by Messer Neri's command, were set
before the King rather as a side-dish than as aught very rare or
delicious.
When the girls saw that all the fish were cooked, and that there
was no occasion for them to catch any more, they came forth of the
pond, their fine white garments cleaving everywhere close to their
flesh so as to hide scarce any part of their delicate persons, took up
again the things that they had brought, and passing modestly before
the King, returned to the house. The King, and the Count, and
the other gentlemen that waited, had regarded the maidens with no
little attention, and had, one and all, inly bestowed on them no little
praise, as being fair and shapely, and therewithal sweet and debonair;
but 'twas in the King's eyes that they especially found favour.
Indeed, as they came forth of the water, the King had scanned each
part of their bodies so intently that, had one then pricked him, he
would not have felt it, and his thoughts afterwards dwelling upon
them, though he knew not who they were, nor how they came to
be there, he felt stir within his heart a most ardent desire to pleasure
them, whereby he knew very well that, if he took not care, he
would grow enamoured; howbeit he knew not whether of the
twain pleased him the more, so like was each to the other. Having
thus brooded a while, he turned to Messer Neri, and asked who the
two damsels were. Whereto: Sire,
replied Messer Neri, they
are my twin daughters, and they are called, the one, Ginevra the Fair,
and the other, Isotta the Blonde.
Whereupon the King was loud
in praise of them, and exhorted Messer Neri to bestow them in
marriage. To which Messer Neri demurred, for that he no longer
had the means. And nought of the supper now remaining to serve,
save the fruit, in came the two young damsels in gowns of taffeta
very fine, bearing in their hands two vast silver salvers full of divers
fruits, such as the season yielded, and set them on the table before
the King. Which done, they withdrew a little space and fell a
singing to music a ditty, of which the opening words were as
follows:
Love, many words would not suffice
There where I am come to tell.
And so dulcet and delightsome was the strain that to the King,
his eyes and ears alike charmed, it seemed as if all the nine orders
of angels were descended there to sing. The song ended, they
knelt and respectfully craved the King's leave to depart; which,
though sorely against his will, he gave them with a forced gaiety.
Supper ended, the King and his companions, having remounted
their horses, took leave of Messer Neri, and conversing of divers
matters, returned to the royal quarters; where the King, still harbouring
his secret passion, nor, despite affairs of state that supervened,
being able to forget the beauty and sweetness of Ginevra the Fair,
for whose sake he likewise loved her twin sister, was so limed by
Love that he could scarce think of aught else. So, feigning other
reasons, he consorted familiarly with Messer Neri, and did much
frequent his garden, that he might see Ginevra. And at length,
being unable to endure his suffering any longer, and being minded,
for that he could devise no other expedient, to despoil their father not
only of the one but of the other damsel also, he discovered both his
love and his project to Count Guy; who, being a good man and true,
thus made answer: Sire, your tale causes me not a little astonishment,
and that more especially because of your conversation from
your childhood to this very day, I have, methinks, known more than
any other man. And as no such passion did I ever mark in you,
even in your youth, when Love should more readily have fixed you
with his fangs, as now I discern, when you are already on the
verge of old age, 'tis to me so strange, so surprising that you
should veritably love, that I deem it little short of a miracle. And
were it meet for me to reprove you, well wot I the language I should
hold to you, considering that you are yet in arms in a realm but
lately won, among a people as yet unknown to you, and wily and
treacherous in the extreme, and that the gravest anxieties and
matters of high policy engross your mind, so that you are not
as yet able to sit you down, and nevertheless amid all these weighty
concerns you have given harbourage to false, flattering Love. This
is not the wisdom of a great king, but the folly of a feather-pated
boy. And moreover, what is far worse, you say that you are
resolved to despoil this poor knight of his two daughters, whom,
entertaining you in his house, and honouring you to the best of his
power, he brought into your presence all but naked, testifying
thereby, how great is his faith in you, and how assured he is that
you are a king, and not a devouring wolf. Have you so soon forgotten
that 'twas Manfred's outrageous usage of his subjects that
opened you the way into this realm? What treachery was he ever
guilty of that better merited eternal torment, than 'twould be in you
to wrest from one that honourably entreats you at once his hope and
his consolation? What would be said of you if so you should do?
Perchance you deem that 'twould suffice to say: 'I did it because
he is a Ghibelline.' Is it then consistent with the justice of a king
that those, be they who they may, who seek his protection, as this
man has sought yours, should be entreated after this sort? King, I
bid you remember that exceeding great as is your glory to have
vanquished Manfred, yet to conquer oneself is a still greater glory:
wherefore you, to whom belongs the correction of others, see to it
that you conquer yourself, and refrain this unruly passion; and let
not such a blot mar the splendour of your achievements.
Sore stricken at heart by the Count's words, and the more
mortified that he acknowledged their truth, the King heaved a
fervent sigh or two, and then: Count,
quoth he, that enemy
there is none, however mighty, but to the practised warrior is weak
enough and easy to conquer in comparison of his own appetite, I
make no doubt; but, great though the struggle will be and immeasurable
the force that it demands, so shrewdly galled am I by
your words, that not many days will have gone by before I shall
without fail have done enough to shew you that I, that am the
conqueror of others, am no less able to gain the victory over myself.
And indeed but a few days thereafter, the King, on his return to
Naples, being minded at once to leave himself no excuse for dishonourable
conduct, and to recompense the knight for his honourable
entreatment of him, did, albeit 'twas hard for him to endow
another with that which he had most ardently desired for himself,
none the less resolve to bestow the two damsels in marriage, and that
not as Messer Neri's daughters, but as his own. Wherefore, Messer
Neri consenting, he provided both with magnificent dowries, and
gave Ginevra the Fair to Messer Maffeo da Palizzi, and Isotta the
Blonde to Messer Guglielmo della Magna, noble knights and great
barons both; which done, sad at heart beyond measure, he betook
him to Apulia, and by incessant travail did so mortify his vehement
appetite that he snapped and broke in pieces the fetters of Love, and
for the rest of his days was no more vexed by such passion.
Perchance there will be those who say that 'tis but a trifle for
a king to bestow two girls in marriage; nor shall I dispute it: but
say we that a king in love bestowed in marriage her whom he loved,
neither having taken nor taking, of his love, leaf or flower or fruit;
then this I say was a feat great indeed, nay, as great as might be.
After such a sort then did this magnificent King, at once
generously rewarding the noble knight, commendably honouring
the damsels that he loved, and stoutly subduing himself.
Novel VIIKing Pedro, being apprised of the fervent love borne him
by Lisa, who thereof is sick, comforts her, and forthwith
gives her in marriage to a young gentleman, and
having kissed her on the brow, ever after professes
himself her knight.
When Fiammetta was come to the end of her story, and
not a little praise had been accorded to the virile magnificence
of King Charles, albeit one there was of the ladies, who, being a
Ghibelline, joined not therein, Pampinea, having received the king's
command, thus began:
None is there of discernment, worshipful
my ladies, that would say otherwise than you have said touching
good King Charles, unless for some other cause she bear him a
grudge; however, for that there comes to my mind the, perchance
no less honourable, entreatment of one of our Florentine girls by one
of his adversaries, I am minded to recount the same to you.
What time the French were driven forth of Sicily there dwelt
at Palermo one of our Florentines, that was an apothecary, Bernardo
Puccini by name, a man of great wealth, that by his lady had an
only and exceeding fair daughter, then of marriageable age. Now
King Pedro of Arragon, being instated in the sovereignty of the
island, did at Palermo make with his barons marvellous celebration
thereof; during which, as he tilted after the Catalan fashion, it
befell that Bernardo's daughter, Lisa by name, being with other
ladies at a window, did thence espy him in the course, whereat being
prodigiously delighted, she regarded him again and again, and grew
fervently enamoured of him; nor yet, when the festivities were
ended, and she was at home with her father, was there aught she
could think of but this her exalted and aspiring love. In regard
whereof that which most irked her was her sense of her low rank,
which scarce permitted her any hope of a happy issue; but, for all
that, give over her love for the King she would not; nor yet, for
fear of worse to come, dared she discover it. The King, meanwhile,
recking, witting nothing of the matter, her suffering waxed immeasurable,
intolerable; and her love ever growing with ever fresh
accessions of melancholy, the fair maiden, overborne at last, fell sick,
and visibly day by day wasted like snow in sunlight. Distraught
with grief thereat, her father and mother afforded her such succour
as they might with words of good cheer, and counsel of physicians,
and physic; but all to no purpose; for that she in despair of her
love was resolved no more to live.
Now her father assuring her that there was no whim of hers but
should be gratified, the fancy took her that, if she might find apt
means, she would, before she died, make her love and her resolve
known to the King: wherefore one day she besought her father to
cause Minuccio d'Arezzo to come to her; which Minuccio was a
singer and musician of those days, reputed most skilful, and well seen
of King Pedro. Bernardo, deeming that Lisa desired but to hear
him play and sing a while, conveyed her message to him; and he,
being an agreeable fellow, came to her forthwith, and after giving her
some words of loving cheer, sweetly discoursed some airs upon his
viol, and then sang her some songs; whereby, while he thought to
comfort her, he did but add fire and flame to her love. Presently
the girl said that she would fain say a few words to him in private,
and when all else were withdrawn from the chamber: Minuccio,
quoth she, thee have I chosen, deeming thee most trusty, to be the
keeper of my secret, relying upon thee in the first place never to
betray it to a soul, and next to lend me in regard thereof such aid as
thou mayst be able; and so I pray thee to do. Thou must know,
then, Minuccio mine, that on the day when our lord King Pedro
held the great festival in celebration of his triumph, I, seeing him
tilt, was so smitten with love of him that thereof was kindled within
my soul the fire which has brought me, as thou seest, to this pass;
and knowing how ill it beseems me to love a king, and being unable,
I say not to banish it from my heart, but so much as to bring it
within bounds, and finding it exceeding grievous to bear, I have
made choice of death as the lesser pain; and die I shall. But should
he wot not of my love before I die, sore disconsolate should I depart;
and knowing not by whom more aptly than by thee I might give
him to know this my frame, I am minded to entrust the communication
thereof to thee; which office I entreat thee not to refuse, and
having discharged it, to let me know, that dying thus consoled, I may
depart this pain.
Which said, she silently wept.
Marvelling at the loftiness of the girl's spirit and her desperate
determination, Minuccio commiserated her not a little; and presently
it occurred to him that there was a way in which he might honourably
serve her: wherefore: Lisa,
quoth he, my faith I plight
thee, wherein thou mayst place sure confidence that I shall never
play thee false, and lauding thy high emprise, to wit, the setting thine
affections upon so great a king, I proffer thee mine aid, whereby,
so thou wilt be of good cheer, I hope, and believe, that, before thou
shalt see the third day from now go by, I shall have brought thee
tidings which will be to thee for an exceeding great joy; and, not
to lose time, I will set to work at once.
And so Lisa, assuring
him that she would be of good cheer, and plying him afresh with
instant obsecrations, bade him Godspeed; and Minuccio, having
taken leave of her, hied him to one Mico da Siena, a very expert
rhymester of those days, who at his instant request made the ensuing
song:
Hence hie thee, Love; and hasting to my King,
Give him to know what torment dire I bear,
How that to death I fare,
Still close, for fear, my passion harbouring.Lo, Love, to thee with claspèd hands I turn,
And pray thee seek him where he tarrieth,
And tell him how I oft for him do yearn,
So sweetly he my heart enamoureth;
And of the fire, wherewith I throughly burn,
I think to die, but may the hour uneath
Say, when my grievous pain shall with my breath
Surcease; till when, neither may fear nor shame
The least abate the flame.
Ah! to his ears my woeful story bring.Since of him I was first enamourèd,
Never hast thou, O Love, my fearful heart
With any such fond hope encouragèd,
As e'er its message to him to impart,
To him, my lord, that me so sore bested
Holds: dying thus, 'twere grievous to depart:
Perchance, were he to know my cruel smart,
'Twould not displease him; might I but make bold
My soul to him to unfold,
And shew him all my woeful languishing.Love, since 'twas not thy will me to accord
Such boldness as that e'er unto my King
I may discover my sad heart's full hoard,
Or any word or sign thereof him bring:
This all my prayer to thee, O sweet my Lord:
Hie thee to him, and so him whispering
Mind of the day I saw him tourneying
With all his paladins environèd,
And grew enamourèd
Ev'n to my very heart's disrupturing.Which words Minuccio forthwith set to music after a soft and
plaintive fashion befitting their sense; and on the third day thereafter
hied him to court, while King Pedro was yet at breakfast.
And being bidden by the King to sing something to the accompaniment
of his viol, he gave them this song with such sweet concord of
words and music that all the folk that were in the King's hall seemed,
as it were, entranced, so intent and absorbed stood they to listen,
and the King rather more than the rest. And when Minuccio had
done singing, the King asked whence the song came, that, as far as
he knew, he had never heard it before. Sire,
replied Minuccio,
'tis not yet three days since 'twas made, words and music alike.
And being asked by the King in regard of whom 'twas made:
I dare not,
quoth he, discover such a secret save to you
alone.
Bent on hearing the story, the King, when the tables were cleared,
took Minuccio into his privy chamber; and there Minuccio told
him everything exactly as he had heard it from Lisa's lips. Whereby
the King was much gratified, and lauded the maiden not a little, and
said that a girl of such high spirit merited considerate treatment, and
bade Minuccio be his envoy to her, and comfort her, and tell her
that without fail that very day at vespers he would come to visit her.
Overjoyed to bear the girl such gladsome tidings, Minuccio tarried
not, but hied him back to the girl with his viol, and being closeted
with her, told her all that had passed, and then sang the song to the
accompaniment of his viol. Whereby the girl was so cheered and
delighted that forthwith there appeared most marked and manifest
signs of the amendment of her health, while with passionate longing
(albeit none in the house knew or divined it) she awaited the vesper
hour, when she was to see her lord.
Knowing the girl very well, and how fair she was, and pondering
divers times on what Minuccio had told him, the King, being a prince
of a liberal and kindly disposition, grew ever more compassionate.
So, about vespers, he mounted his horse, and rode forth, as if for
mere pleasure, and being come to the apothecary's house, demanded
access to a very goodly garden that the apothecary had, and having
dismounted, after a while enquired of Bernardo touching his
daughter, and whether he had yet bestowed her in marriage. Sire,
replied Bernardo, she is not yet married; and indeed she has been
and still is very ill: howbeit since none she is wonderfully amended.
The significance of which amendment being forthwith apprehended
by the King: In good faith,
quoth he, 'twere a pity so fair
a creature were reft from the world so early; we would go in and
visit her.
And presently, attended only by two of his lords and
Bernardo, he betook him to her chamber, where being entered,
he drew nigh the bed, whereon the girl half reclined, half sate in
eager expectation of his coming; and taking her by the hand:
Madonna,
quoth he, what means this? A maiden like you
should be the comfort of others, and you suffer yourself to languish.
We would entreat you that for love of us you be of good cheer, so
as speedily to recover your health.
To feel the touch of his hand
whom she loved above all else, the girl, albeit somewhat shamefast,
was so enraptured that 'twas as if she was in Paradise; and as soon
as she was able: My lord,
she said, 'twas the endeavour, weak
as I am, to sustain a most grievous burden that brought this sickness
upon me; but 'twill not be long ere you will see me quit thereof,
thanks to your courtesy.
The hidden meaning of which words
was apprehended only by the King, who momently made more
account of the girl, and again and again inly cursed Fortune, that had
decreed that she should be the daughter of such a man. And yet a
while he tarried with her, and comforted her, and so took his leave.
Which gracious behaviour of the King was not a little commended,
and accounted a signal honour to the apothecary and his daughter.
The girl, glad at heart as was ever lady of her lover, mended
with reviving hope, and in a few days recovered her health, and
therewith more than all her wonted beauty. Whereupon the King,
having taken counsel with the Queen how to reward so great a love,
got him one day to horse with a great company of his barons, and
hied him to the apothecary's house; and being come into the garden,
he sent for the apothecary and his daughter; and there, being joined
by the Queen with not a few ladies, who received the girl into their
company, they made such cheer as 'twas a wonder to see. And
after a while the King and Queen having called Lisa to them, quoth
the King: Honourable damsel, by the great love that you have
borne us we are moved greatly to honour you; and we trust that,
for love of us, the honour that we design for you will be acceptable
to you. Now 'tis thus we would honour you: to wit, that, seeing
that you are of marriageable age, we would have you take for
husband him that we shall give you; albeit 'tis none the less our
purpose ever to call ourself your knight, demanding no other tribute
of all your love but one sole kiss.
Scarlet from brow to neck,
the girl, making the King's pleasure her own, thus with a low
voice replied: My lord, very sure am I that, should it come to
be known that I was grown enamoured of you, most folk would hold
me for a fool, deeming, perchance, that I was out of my mind, and
witless alike of my own rank and yours; but God, who alone reads
the hearts of us mortals, knows that even then, when first I did
affect you, I wist that you were the King, and I but the daughter of
Bernardo the apothecary, and that to suffer my passion to soar so
high did ill become me; but, as you know far better than I, none
loves of set and discreet purpose, but only according to the dictates
of impulse and fancy; which law my forces, albeit not seldom
opposed, being powerless to withstand, I loved and still love and
shall ever love you. But as no sooner knew I myself subjugated to
your love, than I vowed to have ever no will but yours; therefore not
only am I compliant to take right gladly him whom you shall be
pleased to give me for husband, thereby conferring upon me great
honour and dignity; but if you should bid me tarry in the fire,
delighted were I to obey, so thereby I might pleasure you. How
far it beseems me to have you, my King, for my knight, you best
know; and therefore I say nought thereof; nor will the kiss which
you crave as your sole tribute of my love be granted you save by
leave of my Lady the Queen. Natheless, may you have of this
great graciousness that you and my Lady the Queen have shewn
me, and which I may not requite, abundant recompense in the blessing
and favour of God;
and so she was silent.
The Queen was mightily delighted with the girl's answer, and
deemed her as discreet as the King had said. The King then sent
for the girl's father and mother, and being assured that his intention
had their approval, summoned to his presence a young man, Perdicone
by name, that was of gentle birth, but in poor circumstances, and
put certain rings into his hand, and (he nowise gainsaying) wedded
him to Lisa. Which done, besides jewels many and precious that
he and the Queen gave the girl, he forthwith bestowed upon Perdicone
two domains, right goodly and of ample revenues, to wit,
Ceffalù and Calatabellotta, saying: We give them to thee for thy
wife's dowry; what we have in store for thee thou wilt learn hereafter.
Which said, he turned to the girl, and: Now,
quoth
he, we are minded to cull that fruit which is due to us of thy
love;
and so, taking her head between both his hands, he kissed her
brow. Wherefore, great was the joy of Perdicone, and the father
and mother of Lisa, and Lisa herself, and mighty the cheer they
made, and gaily did they celebrate the nuptials. And, as many
affirm, right well did the King keep his promise to the girl; for that
ever, while he lived, he called himself her knight, nor went to any
passage of arms bearing other device than that which he had
from her.
Now 'tis by doing after this sort that sovereigns win the hearts
of their subjects, give others occasion of well-doing, and gain for
themselves an imperishable renown. At which mark few or none in
our times have bent the bow of their understanding, the more part
of the princes having become but cruel tyrants.
Novel VIIISophronia, albeit she deems herself wife to Gisippus, is
wife to Titus Zuintius Fulvus, and goes with him to
Rome, where Gisippus arrives in indigence, and deeming
himself scorned by Titus, to compass his own death,
avers that he has slain a man. Titus recognizes
him, and to save his life, alleges that 'twas he that
slew the man: whereof he that did the deed being
witness, he discovers himself as the murderer. Whereby
it comes to pass that they are all three liberated by
Octavianus; and Titus gives Gisippus his sister to
wife, and shares with him all his substance.
So ceased Pampinea; and when all the ladies, and most of all
the Ghibelline, had commended King Pedro, Filomena by command
of the king thus began:
Magnificent my ladies, who wots not
that there is nought so great but kings, when they have a mind, may
accomplish it? As also that 'tis of them that magnificence is most
especially demanded? Now whoso, being powerful, does that which
it appertains to him to do, does well; but therein is no such matter of
marvel, or occasion of extolling him to the skies, as in his deed, of
whom, for that his power is slight, less is demanded. Wherefore, as
you are so profuse of your words in exaltation of the fine deeds, as
you deem them, of monarchs, I make no manner of doubt, but that the
doings of our peers must seem to you yet more delectable and commendable,
when they equal or surpass those of kings. Accordingly
'tis a transaction, laudable and magnificent, that passed between two
citizens, who were friends, that I purpose to recount to you in my
story.
I say, then, that what time Octavianus Caesar, not as yet hight
Augustus, but being in the office called Triumvirate, swayed the
empire of Rome, there dwelt at Rome a gentleman, Publius Quintius
Fulvus by name, who, having a son, Titus Quintius Fulvus, that
was a very prodigy of wit, sent him to Athens to study philosophy,
and to the best of his power commended him to a nobleman of that
city, Chremes by name, who was his very old friend. Chremes
lodged Titus in his own house with his son Gisippus, and placed
both Titus and Gisippus under a philosopher named Aristippus, to
learn of him his doctrine. And the two youths, thus keeping
together, found each the other's conversation so congruous with his
own, that there grew up between them a friendship so close and
brotherly that 'twas never broken by aught but death; nor knew
either rest or solace save when he was with the other. So, gifted
alike with pre-eminent subtlety of wit, they entered on their studies,
and with even pace and prodigious applause scaled together the
glorious heights of philosophy. In which way of life, to the exceeding
great delight of Chremes, who entreated Titus as no less his son
than Gisippus, they continued for full three years. At the end
whereof, it befell (after the common course of things mundane) that
Chremes (being now aged) departed this life. Whom with equal
grief they mourned as a common father; and the friends and kinsfolk
of Chremes were alike at a loss to determine whether of the twain
stood in need of the more consolation upon the bereavement.
Some months afterward the friends and kinsfolk of Gisippus came
to him and exhorted him, as did also Titus, to take a wife, and found
him a maiden, wondrous fair, of one of the most noble houses of
Athens, her name Sophronia, and her age about fifteen years. So a
time was appointed for their nuptials, and one day, when 'twas near
at hand, Gisippus bade Titus come see the maiden, whom as yet he
had not seen; and they being come into her house, and she sitting
betwixt them, Titus, as he were fain to observe with care the several
charms of his friend's wife that was to be, surveyed her with the
closest attention, and being delighted beyond measure with all that
he saw, grew, as inly he extolled her charms to the skies, enamoured
of her with a love as ardent, albeit he gave no sign of it, as ever lover
bore to lady. However, after they had tarried a while with her,
they took their leave, and went home, where Titus repaired to his
chamber, and there gave himself over to solitary musing on the
damsel's charms, and the longer he brooded, the more he burned for
her. Whereon as he reflected, having heaved many a fervent sigh,
thus he began to commune with himself: Ah! woe worth thy
life, Titus! Whom makest thou the mistress of thy soul, thy
love, thy hope? Knowest thou not that by reason as well of thy
honourable entreatment by Chremes and his kin as of the whole-hearted
friendship that is between thee and Gisippus, it behoves thee
to have his betrothed in even such pious regard as if she were thy
sister? Whither art thou suffering beguiling love, delusive hope, to
hurry thee? Open the eyes of thine understanding, and see thyself,
wretched man, as thou art; obey the dictates of thy reason, refrain thy
carnal appetite, control thine inordinate desires, and give thy thoughts
another bent; join battle with thy lust at the outset, and conquer
thyself while there is yet time. This which thou wouldst have is
not meet, is not seemly: this which thou art minded to ensue, thou
wouldst rather, though thou wert, as thou art not, sure of its attainment,
eschew, hadst thou but the respect thou shouldst have, for the
claims of true friendship. So, then, Titus, what wilt thou do?
What but abandon this unseemly love, if thou wouldst do as it
behoves thee?
But then, as he remembered Sophronia, his thoughts took the
contrary direction, and he recanted all he had said, musing on this
wise: The laws of Love are of force above all others; they abrogate
not only the law of human friendship, but the law Divine
itself. How many times ere now has father loved daughter, brother
sister, step-mother step-son? aberrations far more notable than that a
friend should love his friend's wife, which has happened a thousand
times. Besides which, I am young, and youth is altogether subject
to the laws of Love. Love's pleasure, then, should be mine. The
seemly is for folk of riper years. 'Tis not in my power to will aught
save that which Love wills. So beauteous is this damsel that there
is none but should love her; and if I love her, who am young, who
can justly censure me? I love her not because she is the affianced
of Gisippus; no matter whose she was, I should love her all the
same. Herein is Fortune to blame, that gave her to my friend,
Gisippus, rather than to another. And if she is worthy of love, as
for beauty she is, Gisippus, if he should come to know that I love
her, ought to be less jealous than another.
Then, scorning himself that he should indulge such thoughts, he
relapsed into the opposing mood, albeit not to abide there, but ever
veering to and fro, he spent not only the whole of that day and the
ensuing night, but many others; insomuch that, being able neither
to eat nor to sleep, he grew so weak that he was fain to take to his
bed. Gisippus, who had marked his moodiness for some days, and
now saw that he was fairly sick, was much distressed; and with
sedulous care, never quitting his side, he tended, and strove as best
he might to comfort, him, not seldom and most earnestly demanding
to know of him the cause of his melancholy and his sickness. Many
were the subterfuges to which Titus resorted; but, as Gisippus was
not to be put off with his fables, finding himself hard pressed by him,
with sighs and sobs he made answer on this wise: Gisippus, had
such been the will of the Gods, I were fain rather to die than to
live, seeing that Fortune has brought me to a strait in which needs
must my virtue be put to the ordeal, and, to my most grievous
shame, 'tis found wanting: whereof I confidently expect my due
reward, to wit, death, which will be more welcome to me than to
live, haunted ever by the memory of my baseness, which, as there is
nought that from thee I either should or can conceal, I, not without
burning shame, will discover to thee.
And so he recounted the
whole story from first to last, the occasion of his melancholy, its
several moods, their conflict, and with which of them the victory
rested, averring that he was dying of love for Sophronia, and that,
knowing how ill such love beseemed him, he had, for penance, elected
to die, and deemed the end was now not far off. Gisippus, hearing
his words and seeing his tears, for a while knew not what to say,
being himself smitten with the damsel's charms, albeit in a less degree
than Titus; but ere long he made up his mind that Sophronia must
be less dear to him than his friend's life.
And so, moved to tears by his friend's tears: Titus,
quoth
he between his sobs, but that thou art in need of comfort, I should
reproach thee, that thou hast offended against our friendship in that
thou hast so long kept close from me this most distressful passion;
and albeit thou didst deem it unseemly, yet unseemly things should
no more than things seemly be withheld from a friend, for that, as a
friend rejoices with his friend in things seemly, so he does his endeavour
to wean his friend from things unseemly: but enough of this
for the nonce: I pass to that which, I wot, is of greater moment. If
thou ardently lovest Sophronia, my affianced, so far from marvelling
thereat, I should greatly marvel were it not so, knowing how fair
she is, and how noble is thy soul, and thus the apter to be swayed by
passion, the more excelling is she by whom thou art charmed. And
the juster the cause thou hast to love Sophronia, the greater is the
injustice with which thou complainest of Fortune (albeit thou dost it
not in so many words) for giving her to me, as if thy love of her had
been seemly, had she belonged to any other but me; whereas, if thou
art still the wise man thou wast wont to be, thou must know that to
none could Fortune have assigned her, with such good cause for thee
to thank her, as to me. Had any other had her, albeit thy love had
been seemly, he had loved her as his own, rather than as thine;
which, if thou deem me even such a friend to thee as I am, thou wilt
not apprehend from me, seeing that I mind me not that, since we
were friends, I had ever aught that was not as much thine as mine.
And so should I entreat thee herein as in all other matters, were the
affair gone so far that nought else were possible; but as it is, I can
make thee sole possessor of her; and so I mean to do; for I know
not what cause thou shouldst have to prize my friendship, if, where
in seemly sort it might be done, I knew not how to surrender my
will to thine. 'Tis true that Sophronia is my betrothed, and that I
loved her much, and had great cheer in expectation of the nuptials:
but as thou, being much more discerning than I, dost more fervently
affect this rare prize, rest assured that she will enter my chamber not
mine but thine. Wherefore, away with thy moodiness, banish thy
melancholy, recover thy lost health, thy heartiness and jollity, and
gladsomely, even from this very hour, anticipate the guerdon of thy
love, a love worthier far than mine.
Delightful as was the prospect with which hope flattered Titus,
as he heard Gisippus thus speak, no less was the shame with which
right reason affected him, admonishing him that the greater was the
liberality of Gisippus, the less it would become him to profit thereby.
Wherefore, still weeping, he thus constrained himself to make
answer: Gisippus, thy generous and true friendship leaves me in
no doubt as to the manner in which it becomes me to act. God forefend
that her, whom, as to the more worthy, He has given to thee, I
should ever accept of thee for mine. Had He seen fit that she should
be mine, far be it from thee or any other to suppose that He would
ever have awarded her to thee. Renounce not, then, that which thy
choice and wise counsel and His gift have made thine, and leave me,
to whom, as unworthy, He has appointed no such happiness, to
waste my life in tears; for either I shall conquer my grief, which
will be grateful to thee, or it will conquer me, and so I shall be quit
of my pain.
Quoth then Gisippus: If our friendship, Titus, is
of such a sort as may entitle me to enforce thee to ensue behests of
mine, or as may induce thee of thine own free will to ensue the
same, such is the use to which, most of all, I am minded to put it;
and if thou lend not considerate ear unto my prayers, I shall by
force, that force which is lawful in the interest of a friend, make
Sophronia thine. I know the might of Love, how redoubtable it is,
and how, not once only, but oftentimes, it has brought ill-starred lovers
to a miserable death; and thee I see so hard bested that turn back
thou mightst not, nor get the better of thy grief, but holding on thy
course, must succumb, and perish; and without doubt I should
speedily follow thee. And so, had I no other cause to love thee, thy
life is precious to me in that my own is bound up with it. Sophronia,
then, shall be thine; for thou wouldst not lightly find another so
much to thy mind, and I shall readily find another to love, and so
shall content both thee and me. In which matter, peradventure, I
might not be so liberal, were wives so scarce or hard to find as are
friends; wherefore, as 'tis so easy a matter for me to find another
wife, I had liefer--I say not lose her, for in giving her to thee lose
her I shall not, but only transfer her to one that is my alter ego,
and
that to her advantage--I had liefer, I say, transfer her to thee than
lose thee. And so, if aught my prayers avail with thee, I entreat thee
extricate thyself from this thy woeful plight, and comfort at once
thyself and me, and in good hope, address thyself to pluck that boon
which thy fervent love craves of her for whom thou yearnest.
Still scrupling, for shame, to consent that Sophronia should become
his wife, Titus remained yet a while inexorable; but, yielding at
last to the solicitations of Love, reinforced by the exhortations of
Gisippus, thus he made answer: Lo now, Gisippus, I know not
how to call it, whether 'tis more thy pleasure than mine, this which
I do, seeing that 'tis as thy pleasure that thou so earnestly entreatest
me to do it; but, as thy liberality is such that my shame, though
becoming, may not withstand it, I will even do it. But of this rest
assured, that I do so, witting well that I receive from thee, not only
the lady I love, but with her my very life. And, Fate permitting,
may the Gods grant me to make thee such honourable and goodly
requital as may shew thee how sensible I am of the boon, which
thou, more compassionate of me than I am of myself, conferrest on
me.
Quoth then Gisippus: Now, for the giving effect to our
purpose, methinks, Titus, we should proceed on this wise. Thou
knowest that Sophronia, by treaty at length concluded between my
family and hers, is become my betrothed: were I now to say that
she should not be my wife, great indeed were the scandal that would
come thereof, and I should affront both her family and mine own;
whereof, indeed, I should make no account, so it gave me to see her
become thine; but I fear that, were I to give her up at this juncture,
her family would forthwith bestow her upon another, perchance,
than thee, and so we should both be losers. Wherefore
methinks that, so thou approve, I were best to complete what I have
begun, bring her home as my wife, and celebrate the nuptials, and
thereafter we can arrange that thou lie with her, privily, as thy wife.
Then, time and occasion serving, we will disclose the whole affair,
and if they are satisfied, well and good; if not, 'twill be done all the
same, and as it cannot be undone, they must perforce make the best
of it.
Which counsel being approved by Titus, Gisippus brought the
lady home as his wife, Titus being now recovered, and quite himself
again; and when they had made great cheer, and night was come,
the ladies, having bedded the bride, took their departure. Now the
chambers of Titus and Gisippus were contiguous, and one might
pass from one into the other: Gisippus, therefore, being come into
his room, extinguished every ray of light, and stole into that of
Titus, and bade him go get him to bed with his lady. Whereat Titus
gave way to shame, and would have changed his mind, and refused
to go in; but Gisippus, no less zealous at heart than in words to
serve his friend, after no small contention prevailed on him to go
thither. Now no sooner was Titus abed with the lady, than, taking
her in his arms, he, as if jestingly, asked in a low tone whether she
were minded to be his wife. She, taking him to be Gisippus,
answered, yes; whereupon he set a fair and costly ring on her
finger, saying: And I am minded to be thy husband.
And
having presently consummated the marriage, he long and amorously
disported him with her, neither she, nor any other, being ever aware
that another than Gisippus lay with her.
Now Titus and Sophronia being after this sort wedded, Publius,
the father of Titus, departed this life. For which cause Titus was
bidden by letter to return forthwith to Rome to see to his affairs;
wherefore he took counsel with Gisippus how he might take
Sophronia thither with him; which might not well be done without
giving her to know how matters stood. Whereof, accordingly, one
day, having called her into the chamber, they fully apprised her,
Titus for her better assurance bringing to her recollection not a little
of what had passed between them. Whereat she, after glancing from
one to the other somewhat disdainfully, burst into a flood of tears,
and reproached Gisippus that he had so deluded her; and forthwith,
saying nought of the matter to any there, she hied her forth of
Gisippus' house and home to her father, to whom and her mother
she recounted the deceit which Gisippus had practised upon them as
upon her, averring that she was the wife not of Gisippus, as they
supposed, but of Titus. Whereby her father was aggrieved exceedingly,
and prolonged and grave complaint was made thereof by him
and his own and Gisippus' families, and there was not a little parleying,
and a world of pother. Gisippus earned the hatred of both his own and
Sophronia's kin, and all agreed that he merited not only censure but
severe punishment. He, however, averred that he had done a thing
seemly, and that Sophronia's kinsfolk owed him thanks for giving her
in marriage to one better than himself.
All which Titus witnessed with great suffering, and witting that
'twas the way of the Greeks to launch forth in high words and
menaces, and refrain not until they should meet with one that
answered them, whereupon they were wont to grow not only
humble but even abject, was at length minded that their clavers
should no longer pass unanswered; and, as with his Roman temper he
united Athenian subtlety, he cleverly contrived to bring the kinsfolk,
as well of Gisippus as of Sophronia, together in a temple,
where, being entered, attended only by Gisippus, thus (they being
intent to hear) he harangued them: 'Tis the opinion of not a
few philosophers that whatsoever mortals do is ordained by the providence
of the immortal Gods; for which cause some would have it
that nought either is, or ever shall be, done, save of necessity, albeit
others there are that restrict this necessity to that which is already
done. Regard we but these opinions with some little attention, and
we shall very plainly perceive that to censure that which cannot be
undone is nought else but to be minded to shew oneself wiser than
the Gods; by whom we must suppose that we and our affairs are
swayed and governed with uniform and unerring wisdom. Whereby
you may very readily understand how vain and foolish a presumption
it is to pass judgment on their doings, and what manner and might
of chains they need who suffer themselves to be transported to such
excess of daring. Among whom, in my judgment, you must one
and all be numbered, if 'tis true, what I hear, to wit, that you have
complained and do continue to complain that Sophronia, albeit you
gave her to Gisippus, is, nevertheless, become my wife; not considering
that 'twas ordained from all eternity that she should become, not
the wife of Gisippus, but mine, as the fact does now declare.
But, for that discourse of the secret providence and purposes of
the Gods seems to many a matter hard and scarce to be understood,
I am willing to assume that they meddle in no wise with our concerns,
and to descend to the region of human counsels; in speaking
whereof I must needs do two things quite at variance with my wont,
to wit, in some degree praise myself and censure or vilify another.
But, as in either case I mean not to deviate from the truth, and 'tis
what the occasion demands, I shall not fail so to do. With bitter
upbraidings, animated rather by rage than by reason, you cease not
to murmur, nay, to cry out, against Gisippus, and to harass him with
your abuse, and hold him condemned, for that her, whom you saw
fit to give him, he has seen fit to give me, to wife; wherein I deem
him worthy of the highest commendation, and that for two reasons,
first, because he has done the office of a friend, and secondly, because
he has done more wisely than you did. After what sort the sacred
laws of friendship prescribe that friend shall entreat friend, 'tis not to
my present purpose to declare; 'twill suffice to remind you that the
tie of friendship should be more binding than that of blood, or
kinship; seeing that our friends are of our own choosing, whereas our
kinsfolk are appointed us by Fortune; wherefore, if my life was more
to Gisippus than your goodwill, since I am, as I hold myself, his
friend, can any wonder thereat?
But pass we to my second reason; in the exposition whereof I
must needs with yet more cogency prove to you that he has been
wiser than you, seeing that, methinks, you wot nought of the providence
of the Gods, and still less of the consequences of friendship. I
say then, that, as 'twas your premeditated and deliberate choice that
gave Sophronia to this young philosopher Gisippus, so 'twas his that
gave her to another young philosopher. 'Twas your counsel that
gave her to an Athenian; 'twas his that gave her to a Roman:
'twas your counsel that gave her to a man of gentle birth; 'twas his
that gave her to one of birth yet gentler: wealthy was he to whom
your counsel gave her, most wealthy he to whom his counsel gave
her. Not only did he to whom your counsel gave her, love her not,
but he scarce knew her, whereas 'twas to one that loved her beyond
all other blessings, nay, more dearly than his own life, that his
counsel gave her. And to the end that it may appear more plainly
that 'tis even as I say, and Gisippus' counsel more to be commended
than yours, let us examine it point by point. That I, like Gisippus,
am young and a philosopher, my countenance and my pursuits may,
without making more words about the matter, sufficiently attest.
We are also of the same age, and have ever kept pace together in
our studies. Now true it is that he is an Athenian, and I am a
Roman. But, as touching the comparative glory of the cities,
should the matter be mooted, I say that I am of a free city, and he
of a city tributary; that I am of a city that is mistress of all the
world, and he of one that is subject to mine; that I am of a city
that flourishes mightily in arms, in empire, and in arts; whereas he
cannot boast his city as famous save in arts.
Moreover, albeit you see me here in the guise of a most humble
scholar, I am not born of the dregs of the populace of Rome. My
halls and the public places of Rome are full of the antique effigies of
my forefathers, and the annals of Rome abound with the records of
triumphs led by the Quintii to the Roman Capitol; and so far from
age having withered it, to-day, yet more abundantly than ever of
yore, flourishes the glory of our name. Of my wealth I forbear, for
shame, to speak, being mindful that honest poverty is the time-honoured
and richest inheritance of the noble citizens of Rome;
but, allowing for the nonce the opinion of the vulgar, which holds
poverty in disrepute, and highly appraises wealth, I, albeit I never
sought it, yet, as the favoured of Fortune, have abundant store
thereof. Now well I wot that, Gisippus being of your own city,
you justly prized and prize an alliance with him; but not a whit
less should you prize an alliance with me at Rome, considering that
there you will have in me an excellent host, and a patron apt, zealous
and potent to serve you as well in matters of public interest as in
your private concerns. Who, then, dismissing all bias from his
mind, and judging with impartial reason, would deem your counsel
more commendable than that of Gisippus? Assuredly none.
Sophronia, then, being married to Titus Quintius Fulvus, a citizen
of Rome, of an ancient and illustrious house, and wealthy, and a
friend of Gisippus, whoso takes umbrage or offence thereat, does
that which it behoves him not to do, and knows not what he does.
Perchance some will say that their complaint is not that
Sophronia is the wife of Titus, but that she became his wife after
such a sort, to wit, privily, by theft, neither friend nor any of her
kin witting aught thereof; but herein is no matter of marvel, no
prodigy as yet unheard-of. I need not instance those who before
now have taken to them husbands in defiance of their fathers' will,
or have eloped with their lovers and been their mistresses before they
were their wives, or of whose marriages no word has been spoken,
until their pregnancy or parturition published them to the world,
and necessity sanctioned the fact: nought of this has happened in
the case of Sophronia; on the contrary, 'twas in proper form, and in
meet and seemly sort, that Gisippus gave her to Titus. And others,
peradventure, will say that 'twas by one to whom such office belonged
not that she was bestowed in marriage. Nay, but this is but
vain and womanish querulousness, and comes of scant consideration.
Know we not, then, that Fortune varies according to circumstances
her methods and her means of disposing events to their predetermined
ends? What matters it to me, if it be a cobbler, rather than
a philosopher, that Fortune has ordained to compass something for
me, whether privily or overtly, so only the result is as it should be?
I ought, indeed, to take order, if the cobbler be indiscreet, that he
meddle no more in affairs of mine, but, at the same time, I ought to
thank him for what he has done. If Gisippus has duly bestowed
Sophronia in marriage, it is gratuitous folly to find fault with the
manner and the person. If you mistrust his judgment, have a care
that it be not in his power to do the like again, but thank him
for this turn.
Natheless, you are to know that I used no cunning practice or
deceit to sully in any degree the fair fame of your house in the
person of Sophronia; and, albeit I took her privily to wife, I came
not as a ravisher to despoil her of her virginity, nor in any hostile
sort was I minded to make her mine on dishonourable terms, and
spurn your alliance; but, being fervently enamoured of her bewitching
beauty and her noble qualities, I wist well that, should I
make suit for her with those formalities which you, perchance, will
say were due, then, for the great love you bear her, and for fear lest I
should take her away with me to Rome, I might not hope to have
her. Accordingly I made use of the secret practice which is now
manifest to you, and brought Gisippus to consent in my interest to
that whereto he was averse; and thereafter, ardently though I loved
her, I sought not to commingle with her as a lover, but as a husband,
nor closed with her, until, as she herself by her true witness
may assure you, I had with apt words and with the ring made her
my lawful wife, asking her if she would have me to husband, whereto
she answered, yes. Wherein if she seem to have been tricked, 'tis
not I that am to blame, but she, for that she asked me not who I was.
This, then, is the great wrong, sin, crime, whereof for love and
friendship's sake Gisippus and I are guilty, that Sophronia is privily
become the wife of Titus Quintius: 'tis for this that you harass him
with your menaces and hostile machinations. What more would
you do, had he given her to a villein, to a caitiff, to a slave? Where
would you find fetters, dungeons, crosses adequate to your vengeance?
But enough of this at present: an event, which I did not
expect, has now happened; my father is dead; and I must needs
return to Rome; wherefore, being fain to take Sophronia with me,
I have discovered to you that which otherwise I had, perchance, still
kept close. Whereto, if you are wise, you will gladly reconcile
yourselves; for that, if I had been minded to play you false, or put
an affront upon you, I might have scornfully abandoned her to you;
but God forefend that such baseness be ever harboured in a Roman
breast. Sophronia, then, by the will of the Gods, by force of law,
and by my own love-taught astuteness, is mine. The which it would
seem that you, deeming yourselves, peradventure, wiser than the
Gods, or the rest of mankind, do foolishly set at nought, and that in
two ways alike most offensive to me; inasmuch as you both withhold
from me Sophronia, in whom right, as against me, you have
none, and also entreat as your enemy Gisippus, to whom you are
rightfully bounden. The folly whereof I purpose not at present
fully to expound to you, but in friendly sort to counsel you to abate
your wrath and abandon all your schemes of vengeance, and restore
Sophronia to me, that I may part from you on terms of amity and
alliance, and so abide: but of this rest assured, that whether this,
which is done, like you or not, if you are minded to contravene it, I
shall take Gisippus hence with me, and once arrived in Rome, shall
in your despite find means to recover her who is lawfully mine, and
pursuing you with unremitting enmity, will apprise you by experience
of the full measure and effect of a Roman's wrath.
Having so said, Titus started to his feet, his countenance distorted
by anger, and took Gisippus by the hand, and with manifest
contempt for all the rest, shaking his head at them and threatening
them, led him out of the temple. They that remained in the
temple, being partly persuaded by his arguments to accept his
alliance and friendship, partly terrified by his last words, resolved by
common consent that 'twas better to have the alliance of Titus, as
they had lost that of Gisippus, than to add to that loss the enmity of
Titus. Wherefore they followed Titus, and having come up with
him, told him that they were well pleased that Sophronia should be
his, and that they should prize his alliance and the friendship of dear
Gisippus; and having ratified this treaty of amity and alliance with
mutual cheer, they departed and sent Sophronia to Titus. Sophronia,
discreetly making a virtue of necessity, transferred forthwith to Titus
the love she had borne Gisippus, and being come with Titus to Rome,
was there received with no small honour. Gisippus tarried in Athens,
held in little account by well-nigh all the citizens, and being involved
in certain of their broils, was, not long afterwards, with all his
household,
banished the city, poor, nay, destitute, and condemned to perpetual
exile. Thus hard bested, and at length reduced to mendicancy,
he made his way, so as least discomfortably he might, to Rome,
being minded to see whether Titus would remember him: and
there, learning that Titus lived, and was much affected by all the
Romans, and having found out his house, he took his stand in front
of it, and watched until Titus came by; to whom, for shame of the
sorry trim that he was in, he ventured no word, but did his endeavour
that he might be seen of him, hoping that Titus might recognize
him, and call him by his name: but Titus passing on, Gisippus
deeming that he had seen and avoided him, and calling to mind that
which aforetime he had done for him, went away wroth and
desperate. And fasting and penniless, and--for 'twas now night--knowing
not whither he went, and yearning above all for death, he
wandered by chance to a spot, which, albeit 'twas within the city,
had much of the aspect of a wilderness, and espying a spacious
grotto, he took shelter there for the night; and worn out at last with
grief, on the bare ground, wretchedly clad as he was, he fell asleep.
Now two men that had that night gone out a thieving, having
committed the theft, came towards morning to the grotto, and there
quarrelled, and the stronger slew the other, and took himself off.
Aroused by the noise, Gisippus witnessed the murder, and deeming
that he had now the means of compassing, without suicide, the death
for which he so much longed, budged not a jot, but stayed there,
until the serjeants of the court, which had already got wind of the
affair, came on the scene, and laid violent hands upon him, and led
him away. Being examined, he confessed that he had slain the man,
and had then been unable to make his escape from the grotto.
Wherefore the praetor, Marcus Varro by name, sentenced him to
death by crucifixion, as was then the custom. But Titus, who
happened at that moment to come into the praetorium, being told
the crime for which he was condemned, and scanning the poor
wretch's face, presently recognized him for Gisippus, and marvelled
how he should come to be there, and in such a woeful plight. And
most ardently desiring to succour him, nor seeing other way to save
his life except to exonerate him by accusing himself, he straightway
stepped forward, and said with a loud voice: Marcus Varro, call
back the poor man on whom thou hast passed sentence, for he is
innocent. 'Tis enough that I have incurred the wrath of the Gods
by one deed of violence, to wit, the murder of him whom your
serjeants found dead this morning, without aggravating my offence
by the death of another innocent man.
Perplexed, and vexed that he
should have been heard by all in the praetorium, but unable honourably
to avoid compliance with that which the laws enjoined, Varro
had Gisippus brought back, and in presence of Titus said to him:
How camest thou to be so mad as, though no constraint was put
upon thee, to confess a deed thou never didst, thy life being at stake?
Thou saidst that 'twas thou by whom the man was slain last night,
and now comes this other, and says that 'twas not thou but he that
slew him.
Gisippus looked, and seeing Titus, wist well that, being
grateful for the service rendered by him in the past, Titus was now
minded to save his life at the cost of his own: wherefore, affected to
tears, he said: Nay but, Varro, in very sooth I slew him, and 'tis
now too late, this tender solicitude of Titus for my deliverance.
But on his part: Praetor,
quoth Titus, thou seest this man is
a stranger, and was found unarmed beside the murdered man; thou
canst not doubt that he was fain of death for very wretchedness:
wherefore discharge him, and let punishment light on me who have
merited it.
Marvelling at the importunity of both, Varro readily surmised
that neither was guilty. And while he was casting about how he
might acquit them, lo, in came a young man, one Publius Ambustus,
a desperate character, and known to all the Romans for an arrant
thief. He it was that had verily committed the murder, and witting
both the men to be innocent of that of which each accused himself, so
sore at heart was he by reason of their innocence, that, overborne by
an exceeding great compassion, he presented himself before Varro,
and: Praetor,
quoth he, 'tis destiny draws me hither to loose
the knot of these men's contention; and some God within me leaves
me no peace of his whips and stings, until I discover my offence:
wherefore know that neither of these men is guilty of that of which
each accuses himself. 'Tis verily I that slew the man this morning
about daybreak; and before I slew him, while I was sharing our
plunder with him, I espied this poor fellow asleep there. Nought
need I say to clear Titus: the general bruit of his illustrious renown
attests that he is not a man of such a sort. Discharge him, therefore,
and exact from me the penalty prescribed by the laws.
The affair had by this time come to the ears of Octavianus, who
caused all three to be brought before him, and demanded to know
the causes by which they had been severally moved to accuse themselves;
and, each having told his story, Octavianus released the two
by reason of their innocence, and the third for love of them. Titus
took Gisippus home, having first chidden him not a little for his
faint-heartedness and diffidence, and there, Sophronia receiving him as
a brother, did him marvellous cheer; and having comforted him a
while, and arrayed him in apparel befitting his worth and birth, he
first shared with him all his substance, and then gave him his sister,
a young damsel named Fulvia, to wife, and said to him: Choose
now, Gisippus, whether thou wilt tarry here with me, or go back
to Achaia with all that I have given thee.
Partly perforce of his banishment from his city, partly for that
the sweet friendship of Titus was justly dear to him, Gisippus
consented to become a Roman. And so, long and happily they
lived together at Rome, Gisippus with his Fulvia, and Titus with
his Sophronia, in the same house, growing, if possible, greater friends
day by day.
Exceeding sacred then, is friendship, and worthy not only to be
had in veneration, but to be extolled with never-ending praise, as the
most dutiful mother of magnificence and seemliness, sister of gratitude
and charity, and foe to enmity and avarice; ever, without waiting
to be asked, ready to do as generously by another as she would be
done by herself. Rarely indeed is it to-day that twain are found, in
whom her most holy fruits are manifest; for which is most shamefully
answerable the covetousness of mankind, which, regarding only
private interest, has banished friendship beyond earth's farthest bourne,
there to abide in perpetual exile. How should love, or wealth, or
kinship, how should aught but friendship have so quickened the soul
of Gisippus that the tears and sighs of Titus should incline his heart
to cede to him the fair and gracious lady that was his betrothed and
his beloved? Laws, menaces, terror! How should these, how should
aught but friendship, have withheld Gisippus, in lonely places, in
hidden retreats, in his own bed, from enfolding (not perchance unsolicited
by her) the fair damsel within his youthful embrace?
Honours, rewards, gains! Would Gisippus for these, would he for
aught but friendship, have made nothing of the loss of kindred--his
own and Sophronia's--have made nothing of the injurious murmurs
of the populace, have made nothing of mocks and scorns, so only
he might content his friend? And on the other hand, for what
other cause than friendship had Titus, when he might decently have
feigned not to see, have striven with the utmost zeal to compass his
own death, and set himself upon the cross in Gisippus' stead?
[*** missing sentence: please see Italian ***]
And
what but friendship had left no place for suspicion in the soul of
Titus, and filled it with a most fervent desire to give his sister to
Gisippus, albeit he saw him to be reduced to extreme penury
and destitution? But so it is that men covet hosts of acquaintance,
troops of kinsfolk, offspring in plenty; and the number of their
dependants increases with their wealth; and they reflect not that
there is none of these, be he who he may, but will be more apprehensive
of the least peril threatening himself than cumbered to avert
a great peril from his lord or kinsman, whereas between friends we
know 'tis quite contrariwise.
Novel IXSaladin, in guise of a merchant, is honourably entreated
by Messer Torello. The Crusade ensuing, Messer
Torello appoints a date, after which his wife may
marry again: he is taken prisoner, and by training
hawks comes under the Soldan's notice. The Soldan
recognizes him, makes himself known to him, and
entreats him with all honour. Messer Torello falls
sick, and by magic arts is transported in a single night
to Pavia, where his wife's second marriage is then to be
solemnized, and being present thereat, is recognized by
her, and returns with her to his house.
So ended Filomena her story, and when all alike had commended
the magnificence shewn by Titus in his gratitude, the king, reserving
the last place for Dioneo, thus began:
Lovesome my ladies, true
beyond all question is what Filomena reports of friendship, and with
justice did she deplore in her closing words the little account in
which 'tis held to-day among mortals. And were we here for the
purpose of correcting, or even of censuring, the vices of the age, I
should add a copious sequel to her discourse; but as we have another
end in view, it has occurred to me to set before you in a narrative,
which will be of considerable length, but entertaining throughout,
an instance of Saladin's magnificence, to the end that, albeit, by reason
of our vices, it may not be possible for us to gain to the full the
friendship of any, yet by the matters whereof you shall hear in my
story we may at least be incited to take delight in doing good offices,
in the hope that sooner or later we may come by our reward
thereof.
I say, then, that in the time of the Emperor Frederic I., as
certain writers affirm, the Christians made common emprise for the
recovery of the Holy Land. Whereof that most valiant prince,
Saladin, then Soldan of Babylonia, being in good time apprised,
resolved to see for himself the preparations made by the Christian
potentates for the said emprise, that he might put himself in better
trim to meet them. So, having ordered all things to his mind in
Egypt, he made as if he were bound on a pilgrimage, and attended
only by two of his chiefest and sagest lords, and three servants, took
the road in the guise of a merchant. And having surveyed many
provinces of Christendom, as they rode through Lombardy with
intent to cross the Alps, they chanced, between Milan and Pavia, to
fall in with a gentleman, one Messer Torello d'Istria da Pavia, who
with his servants and his dogs and falcons was betaking him to a fine
estate that he had on the Ticino, there to tarry a while. Now
Messer Torello no sooner espied Saladin and his lords than he
guessed them to be gentlemen and foreigners; and, being zealous to
do them honour, when Saladin asked one of his servants how far
off Pavia might still be, and if he might win there in time to enter
the town, he suffered not the servant to make answer, but: No,
gentlemen,
quoth he, by the time you reach Pavia 'twill be too
late for you to enter.
So!
replied Saladin, then might you
be pleased to direct us, as we are strangers, where we may best be
lodged?
That gladly will I,
returned Messer Torello. I
was but now thinking to send one of these my men on an errand to
Pavia; I will send him with you, and he will guide you to a place
where you will find very comfortable quarters.
Then, turning to
one of his most trusty servants, he gave him his instructions, and
despatched him with them: after which, he repaired to his estate,
and forthwith, as best he might, caused a goodly supper to be made
ready, and the tables set in his garden; which done, he stationed
himself at the gate on the look-out for his guests.
The servant, conversing with the gentlemen of divers matters,
brought them by devious roads to his lord's estate without their being
ware of it. Whom as soon as Messer Torello espied, he came forth
afoot to meet them, and said with a smile: A hearty welcome to
you, gentlemen.
Now Saladin, being very quick of apprehension,
perceived that the knight had doubted, when he met them, that, were
he to bid them to his house, they might not accept his hospitality;
and accordingly, that it might not be in their power to decline it, had
brought them to his house by a ruse. And so, returning his greeting:
Sir,
quoth he, were it meet to find fault with those that shew
courtesy, we should have a grievance against you, for that, to say
nought of somewhat delaying our journey, you have in guerdon of
a single greeting constrained us to accept so noble a courtesy as
yours.
Whereto the knight, who was of good understanding and
well-spoken, made answer: Gentlemen, such courtesy as we
shew you will, in comparison of that which, by what I gather from
your aspect, were meet for you, prove but a sorry thing; but in sooth
this side of Pavia you might not anywhere have been well lodged;
wherefore take it not amiss that you have come somewhat out of
your way to find less discomfortable quarters.
And as he spoke,
about them flocked the servants, who, having helped them to dismount,
saw to their horses; whereupon Messer Torello conducted them to
the chambers that were made ready for them, where, having caused
them to be relieved of their boots, and refreshed with the coolest of
wines, he held pleasant converse with them until supper-time.
Saladin and his lords and servants all knew Latin, so that they both
understood and made themselves understood very well, and there
was none of them but adjudged this knight to be the most agreeable
and debonair man, and therewithal the best talker, that he had ever
seen; while to Messer Torello, on the other hand, they shewed as
far greater magnificoes than he had at first supposed, whereby he was
inly vexed that he had not been able that evening to do them the
honours of company, and a more ceremonious banquet. For which
default he resolved to make amends on the ensuing morning: wherefore,
having imparted to one of his servants that which he would have
done, he sent him to his most judicious and highminded lady at
Pavia, which was close by, and where never a gate was locked.
Which done, he brought the gentlemen into the garden, and courteously
asked them who they were. We are Cypriote merchants,
replied Saladin, and 'tis from Cyprus we come, and we are on our
way to Paris on business.
Quoth then Messer Torello: Would
to God that our country bred gentlemen of such a quality as are the
merchants that I see Cyprus breeds!
From which they passed to
discourse of other matters, until, supper-time being come, he
besought them to seat them at table; whereat, considering that
the supper was but improvised, their entertainment was excellent
and well-ordered.
The tables being cleared, Messer Torello, surmising that they
must be weary, kept them no long time from their rest, but bestowed
them in most comfortable beds, and soon after went to rest himself.
Meanwhile the servant that he had sent to Pavia did his lord's errand
to the lady, who, in the style rather of a queen than of a housewife,
forthwith assembled not a few of Messer Torello's friends and vassals,
and caused all meet preparation to be made for a magnificent banquet,
and by messengers bearing torches bade not a few of the noblest of
the citizens thereto; and had store of silken and other fabrics and
vair brought in, and all set in order in every point as her husband
had directed. Day came, and the gentlemen being risen, Messer
Torello got him to horse with them, and having sent for his hawks,
brought them to a ford, and shewed them how the hawks flew.
By and by, Saladin requesting of him a guide to the best inn at
Pavia: I myself will be your guide,
returned Messer Torello,
for I have occasion to go thither.
Which offer they, nothing
doubting, did gladly accept, and so with him they set forth; and
about tierce, being come to the city, and expecting to be directed to
the best inn, they were brought by Messer Torello to his own house,
where they were forthwith surrounded by full fifty of the greatest
folk of the city, gathered there to give the gentlemen a welcome;
and 'twas who should hold a bridle or a stirrup, while they dismounted.
Whereby Saladin and his lords more than guessing the
truth: Messer Torello,
quoth they, 'twas not this that we
craved of you. Honour enough had we from you last night, and
far in excess of our desires; wherefore thou mightst very well have
left us to go our own road.
Whereto: Gentlemen,
replied
Messer Torello, for that which was done yestereve I have to thank
Fortune rather than you: seeing that Fortune surprised you on the
road at an hour when you must needs repair to my little house: for
that which shall be done this morning I shall be beholden to you, as
will also these gentlemen that surround you, with whom, if you
deem it courteous so to do, you may refuse to breakfast, if you
like.
Fairly conquered, Saladin and his lords dismounted, and heartily
welcomed by the gentlemen, were conducted to the chambers which
had been most sumptuously adorned for their use; and having laid
aside their riding dress, and taken some refreshment, repaired to the
saloon, where all had been made ready with splendour. There,
having washed their hands, they sat them down to table, and were
regaled with a magnificent repast of many courses, served with all
stately and fair ceremony, insomuch that, had the Emperor himself
been there, 'twould not have been possible to do him more honour.
And albeit Saladin and his lords were grandees, and used to exceeding
great displays of pomp and state, nevertheless this shewed to them
as not a little marvellous, and one of the greatest they had ever seen,
having regard to the quality of their host, whom they knew to be
but a citizen, and no lord. Breakfast done, and the tables cleared,
they conversed a while of high matters, and then, as 'twas very hot,
all the gentlemen of Pavia--so it pleased Messer Torello--retired for
their siesta, while he remained with his three guests; with whom he
presently withdrew into a chamber, whither, that there might be
nought that he held dear which they had not seen, he called his
noble lady. And so the dame, exceeding fair and stately of person,
and arrayed in rich apparel, with her two little boys, that shewed as
two angels, on either hand, presented herself before them, and
graciously greeted them. Whereupon they rose, and returned her
salutation with reverence, and caused her to sit down among them,
and made much of her two little boys. But after some interchange
of gracious discourse, Messer Torello being withdrawn somewhat
apart, she asked them courteously, whence they came and whither
they were bound, and had of them the same answer that Messer
Torello had received. So!
quoth the lady with a joyful air,
then I see that my woman's wit will be of service to you; wherefore
I pray you as a special favour neither to reject nor to despise the
little gift that I am about to present to you; but reflecting that, as
women have but small minds, so they make but small gifts, accept it,
having regard rather to the good will of the giver than the magnitude
of the gift.
She then caused bring forth for each of them
two pair of robes, lined the one with silk, the other with vair, no
such robes as citizens or merchants, but such as lords, use to wear,
and three vests of taffeta, besides linen clothes, and: Take them,
quoth she. The robes I give you are even such as I have arrayed
my lord withal: the other things, considering that you are far from
your wives, and have come a long way, and have yet a long way to
go, and that merchants love to be neat and trim, may, albeit they
are of no great value, be yet acceptable to you.
Wondering, the gentlemen acknowledged without reserve that
there was no point of courtesy wherein Messer Torello was not
minded to acquit himself towards them. And noting the lordly
fashion of the robes, unsuited to the quality of merchants, they misdoubted
that Messer Torello had recognized them. However, quoth
one of them to the lady: Gifts great indeed are these, Madam,
nor such as lightly to accept, were it not that thereto we are constrained
by your prayers, to which we may on no account say, no.
Whereupon, Messer Torello being now come back, the lady bade
them adieu, and took her leave of them; and in like manner did she
cause their servants to be supplied with equipment suitable to them.
The gentlemen, being much importuned thereto by Messer Torello,
consented to tarry the rest of the day with him; and so, having
slept, they donned their robes, and rode a while with him about the
city; and supper-time being come, they feasted magnificently, and
with a numerous and honourable company. And so in due time
they betook them to rest; and at daybreak, being risen, they found,
in lieu of their jaded nags, three stout and excellent palfreys, and in
like manner fresh and goodly mounts for their servants. Which
Saladin marking turned to his lords, and: By God,
quoth he,
never was gentleman more complete and courteous and considerate
than this Messer Torello, and if the Christian kings are as kingly as
he is knightly, there is none of them whose onset the Soldan of
Babylon might well abide, to say nought of so many as we see making
ready to fall upon him.
However, knowing that 'twas not permissible
to refuse, he very courteously thanked Messer Torello: and
so they got them to horse. Messer Torello with a numerous company
escorted them far beyond the gate of the city, until, loath
though Saladin was to part from him, so greatly did he now affect
him, yet as he must needs speed on, he besought him to turn back.
Whereupon, albeit it irked him to take leave of them: Gentlemen,
quoth Messer Torello, since such is your pleasure, I obey;
but this I must say to you. Who you are I know not, nor would I
know more than you are pleased to impart; but whoever you may
be, you will not make me believe that you are merchants this while;
and so adieu!
To whom Saladin, having already taken leave of
all his company, thus made answer: Peradventure, Sir, we shall
one day give you to see somewhat of our merchandise, and thereby
confirm your belief: and so adieu!
Thus parted Saladin and his company from Messer Torello,
Saladin burning with an exceeding great desire, if life should be continued
to him, and the war, which he anticipated, should not undo
him, to shew Messer Torello no less honour than he had received at
his hands, and conversing not a little with his lords both of Messer
Torello himself and of his lady, and all that he did and that in any wise
concerned him, ever more highly commending them. However,
having with much diligence spied out all the West, he put to sea,
and returned with his company to Alexandria; and having now all
needful information, he put himself in a posture of defence. Messer
Torello, his mind full of his late guests, returned to Pavia; but,
though he long pondered who they might be, he came never at or
anywhere near the truth.
Then with great and general mustering of forces came the time
for embarking on the emprise, and Messer Torello, heeding not the
tearful entreaties of his wife, resolved to join therein. So, being fully
equipped and about to take horse, he said to his lady, whom he most
dearly loved: Wife, for honour's sake and for the weal of my
soul, I go, as thou seest, on this emprise: our substance and our
honour I commend to thy care. Certain I am of my departure, but,
for the thousand accidents that may ensue, certitude have I none of
my return: wherefore I would have thee do me this grace, that,
whatever be my fate, shouldst thou lack certain intelligence that I
live, thou wilt expect me a year and a month and a day from this
my departure, before thou marry again.
Whereto the lady, weeping
bitterly, made answer: Messer Torello, I know not how I
shall support the distress in which, thus departing, you leave me;
but should my life not fail beneath it, and aught befall thee,
live and die secure that I shall live and die the wife of Messer
Torello, and of his memory.
Whereupon: Wife,
returned
Messer Torello, well assured I am that, so far as in thee
shall lie, this promise of thine will be kept; but thou art
young, and fair, and of a great family, and thy virtue is rare and
generally known: wherefore I make no doubt that, should there be
any suspicion of my death, thou wilt be asked of thy brothers and
kinsmen by many a great gentleman: against whose attacks, though
thou desire it never so, thou wilt not be able to hold out, but wilt
perforce be fain to gratify one or other of them; for which cause it
is that I ask thee to wait just so long and no longer.
As I have
said,
replied the lady, so, in so far as I may, I shall do; and if I
must needs do otherwise, rest assured that of this your behest I shall
render you obedience. But I pray God that He bring neither you
nor me to such a strait yet a while.
Which said, the lady wept,
and having embraced Messer Torello, drew from her finger a ring,
and gave it to him, saying: Should it betide that I die before I
see you again, mind you of me, when you look upon it.
Messer Torello took the ring, and got him to horse, and having
bidden all adieu, fared forth on his journey; and being arrived with
his company at Genoa, he embarked on a galley, and having departed
thence, in no long time arrived at Acre, and joined the main
Christian host; wherein there by and by broke out an exceeding
great and mortal sickness; during which, whether owing to Saladin's
strategy, or his good fortune, he made an easy capture of well-nigh
all the remnant of the Christians that were escaped, and quartered
them in divers prisons in many cities; of which captives Messer
Torello being one, was brought to Alexandria and there confined.
Where, not being known, and fearing to make himself known, he,
under constraint of necessity, applied him to the training of hawks,
whereof he was a very great master; and thereby he fell under the
notice of Saladin, who took him out of the prison, and made him his
falconer. The Soldan called him by no other name than Christian,
and neither recognized, nor was recognized by, him, who, his
whole soul ever in Pavia, essayed many a time to escape, that he
might return thither, but still without success: wherefore, certain
Genoese, that were come to Alexandria as ambassadors to the Soldan
for the redemption of some of their townsfolk, being about to return,
he resolved to write to his lady, how that he lived, and would come
back to her, as soon as he might, and that she should expect his
return; and having so done, he earnestly besought one of the
ambassadors, whom he knew, to see that the letter reached the
hands of the Abbot of San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro, who was his
uncle.
Now, such being the posture of Messer Torello's affairs, it befell
one day that, while he talked with Saladin of his hawks, he smiled;
whereby his mouth shaped itself in a fashion, of which Saladin had
taken particular note, while he was at Pavia. And so, recalling
Messer Torello to mind, he fixed his gaze upon him, and it seemed
to him that 'twas indeed Messer Torello; wherefore, leaving the
matter of which they were conversing: Tell me, Christian,
quoth he, of what country art thou in the West?
My lord,
replied Messer Torello, I am a Lombard, of a city called Pavia, a
poor man, and of humble condition.
Which when he heard,
Saladin, well-nigh resolved of his doubt, said joyfully to himself:
God has provided me with occasion meet to prove to this man
what store I set by his courtesy;
and without another word he
brought him into a room where he kept all his wearing apparel, and
said: Look, Christian, if among these robes there be any that
thou hast ever seen before.
So Messer Torello examined the robes,
and espied those which his lady had given to Saladin; but, deeming
they could not be the same, he replied: My lord, there is no robe
here that I recognize, albeit 'tis true that those two robes are such as
I once wore myself, in company with three merchants that came to
my house.
Whereupon Saladin could refrain himself no longer;
but, tenderly embracing him: You,
quoth he, are Messer
Torello d'Istria, and I am one of those three merchants to whom
your lady gave these robes; and now is the time to warrant you of
the quality of my merchandise, as, when I parted from you, I told
you might come to pass.
Which to hear, Messer Torello was at
once overjoyed and abashed, overjoyed to have entertained so illustrious
a guest, and abashed, for that it seemed to him that he
had given him but a sorry entertainment. To whom: Messer
Torello,
quoth Saladin, since hither has God sent you to me,
deem that 'tis no more I that am lord here, but you.
And so
they made great cheer together; and then Saladin caused Messer
Torello to be royally arrayed; and presented him to all his greatest
lords, and having extolled his merit in no stinted measure, bade
all, as they hoped for grace from him, honour Messer Torello
even as himself. And so from that hour did they all; but most
especially the two lords that had been with Saladin at Messer Torello's
house.
The glory, to which Messer Torello thus suddenly found himself
raised, somewhat diverted his mind from the affairs of Lombardy,
and the more so, for that he entertained no doubt that his letter
had reached his uncle's hands. But for that in the camp, or rather
army, of the Christians, on the day when they were taken by Saladin,
there died and was buried one Messer Torello de Dignes, an obscure
knight of Provence, whereas Messer Torello d'Istria was known to
all the host for a right noble gentleman, whoso heard tell that
Messer Torello was dead, supposed that 'twas Messer Torello d'Istria,
and not Messer Torello de Dignes; nor did what happened after,
to wit, the capture, avail to undeceive them; for not a few Italians
had carried the report home with them; among whom there were
some who made bold to say that they had seen Messer Torello
d'Istria's dead body, and had been present at its interment. Which
rumour coming to the ears of his lady and his kinsfolk, great indeed,
nay, immeasurable was the distress that it occasioned not only to
them, but to all that had known him. The mode and measure of his
lady's grief, her mourning, her lamentation, 'twere tedious to describe.
Enough that, after some months spent in almost unmitigated
tribulation, her sorrow shewed signs of abatement; whereupon, suit
being made for her hand by some of the greatest men of Lombardy,
her brothers and other kinsfolk began to importune her to marry
again. Times not a few, and with floods of tears, she refused; but,
overborne at last, she consented to do as they would have her, upon
the understanding that she was to remain unmarried until the term
for which she had bound herself to Messer Torello was fulfilled.
Now the lady's affairs being in this posture at Pavia, it befell
that some eight days or so before the time appointed for her marriage,
Messer Torello one day espied in Alexandria one that he had
observed go with the Genoese ambassadors aboard the galley that
took them to Genoa; wherefore he called him, and asked him what
sort of a voyage they had had, and when they had reached Genoa.
My lord,
replied the other, the galley made but a sorry voyage of
it, as I learned in Crete, where I remained; for that, while she was
nearing Sicily, there arose a terrible gale from the North that drove
her on to the shoals of Barbary, and never a soul escaped, and among
the rest my two brothers were lost.
Which report believing--and
'twas indeed most true--and calling to mind that in a few days the
term that he had asked of his wife would be fulfilled, and surmising
that there could be no tidings of him at Pavia, Messer Torello made
no question but that the lady was provided with another husband;
whereby he sank into such a depth of woe that he lost all power to
eat, and betook him to his bed and resigned himself to die. Which
when Saladin, by whom he was most dearly beloved, learned, he
came to him, and having plied him with many and most instant
entreaties, learned at length the cause of his distress and sickness;
and, having chidden him not a little that he had not sooner apprised
him thereof, he besought him to put on a cheerful courage, assuring
him, that, if so he did, he would bring it to pass that he should be in
Pavia at the time appointed, and told him how. Believing Saladin's
words the more readily that he had many times heard that 'twas
possible, and had not seldom been done, Messer Torello recovered
heart, and was instant with Saladin that he should make all haste.
Accordingly Saladin bade one of his necromancers, of whose skill
he had already had proof, to devise a method whereby Messer Torello
should be transported abed in a single night to Pavia: the necromancer
made answer that it should be done, but that 'twere best
he put Messer Torello to sleep. The matter being thus arranged,
Saladin hied him back to Messer Torello, and finding him most
earnestly desirous to be in Pavia at the time appointed, if so it might
be, and if not, to die: Messer Torello,
quoth he, if you dearly
love your lady, and misdoubt that she may become the bride of
another, no wise, God wot, do I censure you, for that, of all the
ladies that ever I saw, she, for bearing, manners, and address--to say
nought of beauty, which is but the flower that perishes--seems to
me the most worthy to be lauded and cherished. Much had I been
gratified, since Fortune has sent you hither to me, that, while you and
I yet live, we had exercised equal lordship in the governance of this
my realm, and, if such was not God's will, and this must needs come
upon you, that you are fain either to be at Pavia at the time
appointed or to die, I had desired of all things to have been apprised
thereof at such a time that I might have sent you home with such
honourable circumstance and state and escort as befit your high
desert; which not being vouchsafed me, and as nought will content
you but to be there forthwith, I do what I can, and speed you
thither on such wise as I have told you.
My lord,
replied Messer
Torello, had you said nought, you have already done enough to
prove your goodwill towards me, and that in so high a degree as is
quite beyond my deserts, and most assured of the truth of what you
say shall I live and die, and so had done, had you not said it; but,
seeing that my resolve is taken, I pray you that that, which you
promise to do, be done speedily, for that after to-morrow I may no
longer count on being expected.
Saladin assured him that 'twas so ordered that he should not be
disappointed. And on the morrow, it being his purpose to speed
him on his journey that same night, he caused to be set up in one of
his great halls a most goodly and sumptuous bed composed of mattresses,
all, as was their wont, of velvet and cloth of gold, and had it
covered with a quilt, adorned at certain intervals with enormous
pearls, and most rare precious stones, insomuch that 'twas in after
time accounted a priceless treasure, and furnished with two pillows
to match it. Which done, he bade array Messer Torello, who was
now quite recovered, in a robe after the Saracenic fashion, the
richest and goodliest thing of the kind that was ever seen, and wrap
about his head, according to their wont, one of their huge turbans.
Then, at a late hour, Saladin, attended by certain of his lords,
entered the chamber where Messer Torello was, and seating himself
beside him, all but wept as thus he began: Messer Torello, the
time is nigh at hand when you and I must part; wherefore, since
I may neither give you my own, nor others' company (the journey
that you are about to make not permitting it), I am come here, as
'tis fitting, in this chamber to take my leave of you. Wherefore,
before I bid you adieu, I entreat you, by that friendship, that love,
which is between us, that you forget me not, and that, if it be
possible, when you have settled your affairs in Lombardy, you come
at least once, before our days are ended, to visit me, that thereby I
may both have the delight of seeing you again, and make good that
omission which, by reason of your haste, I must needs now make;
and that in the meanwhile it irk thee not to visit me by letter,
and to ask of me whatever you shall have a mind to, and be sure
that there lives not the man whom I shall content more gladly
than you.
Messer Torello could not refrain his tears, and so,
with words few, and broken by his sobs, he answered that 'twas
impossible that the Soldan's generous deeds and chivalrous character
should ever be forgotten by him, and that without fail he would
do as he bade him, so soon as occasion should serve him. Whereupon
Saladin tenderly embraced and kissed him, and with many a
tear bade him adieu, and quitted the chamber. His lords then took
leave of Messer Torello, and followed Saladin into the hall, where
he had had the bed made ready.
'Twas now late, and the necromancer being intent to hasten
Messer Torello's transit, a physician brought him a potion, and
having first shewn him what he was to give him by way of viaticum,
caused him to drink it; and not long after he fell asleep. In which
state he was carried by Saladin's command, and laid on the goodly
bed, whereon he set a large and fair and most sumptuous crown,
marking it in such sort that there could be no mistake that it was
sent by Saladin to Messer Torello's wife. He next placed on
Messer Torello's finger a ring, in which was set a carbuncle of
such brilliance that it shewed as a lighted torch, and of well-nigh
inestimable value. After which he girded on him a sword, the
appointments of which might not readily be appraised. And therewithal
he adorned him in front with a pendant, wherein were
pearls, the like of which had never been seen, and not a few other
rare jewels. And, moreover, on either side of him he set two
vast basins of gold full of pistoles; and strings of pearls not a few,
and rings and girdles, and other things, which 'twere tedious to
enumerate, he disposed around him. Which done, he kissed Messer
Torello again, and bade the necromancer speed him on his journey.
Whereupon, forthwith, the bed, with Messer Torello thereon, was
borne away from before Saladin's eyes, and he and his barons
remained conversing thereof.
The bed, as Messer Torello had requested, had already been
deposited in the church of San Piero in Ciel d'Oro at Pavia, and
Messer Torello, with all the aforesaid jewels and ornaments upon
and about him, was lying thereon, and still slept, when, upon the
stroke of matins, the sacristan came into the church, light in hand,
and presently setting eyes on the sumptuous bed, was not only
amazed, but mightily terrified, insomuch that he turned back, and
took to flight. Which the abbot and monks observing with no small
surprise, asked wherefore he fled; and he told them. Whereupon:
Oh,
quoth the abbot, thou art no longer a child, nor
yet so new to this church, that thou shouldst so lightly be appalled:
go we now, and see who it is that has given thee this childish fright.
So, with a blaze of torches, the abbot, attended by his monks, entered
the church, and espied this wondrous costly bed whereon the knight
slept, and while, hesitant and fearful, daring not to approach the bed,
they scanned the rare and splendid jewels, it befell that, the efficacy
of the potion being exhausted, Messer Torello awoke and heaved a
great sigh. Whereat the monks and the abbot quaking and crying
out: Lord, help us!
one and all took to flight. Messer Torello,
opening his eyes and looking about him, saw, to his no small satisfaction,
that without a doubt he was in the very place where he had craved of
Saladin to be; so up he sate, and taking particular note of the
matters with which he was surrounded, accounted the magnificence
of Saladin to exceed even the measure, great though it was, that he
already knew. However, he still kept quiet, save that, perceiving
the monks in flight, and surmising the reason, he began to call the
abbot by name, bidding him be of good courage, for that he was his
nephew, Torello. Whereat the abbot did but wax more terrified,
for that he deemed Torello had been many a month dead; but, after
a while, as he heard himself still called, sound judgment got the
better of his fears, and making the sign of the cross, he drew nigh
Torello; who said to him: Father, what is't you fear? By
God's grace I live, and hither am come back from overseas.
Whom,
for all he had grown a long beard and was dressed in the Saracenic
fashion, the abbot after a while recognized, and now, quite reassured,
took by the hand, saying: Son, welcome home:
then: No
cause hast thou to marvel at our fears,
he went on, seeing that
there is never a soul in these parts but firmly believes thee to be
dead, insomuch that I may tell thee that Madonna Adalieta, thy wife,
overborne by the entreaties and menaces of her kinsfolk, and against
her will, is provided with another husband, to whom she is this
morning to go, and all is made ready for the nuptials and the
attendant festivities.
Whereupon Messer Torello, being risen from the sumptuous
bed, did the abbot and the monks wondrous cheer, and besought
them, one and all, to tell never a soul of his return, until he had
completed something that he had on hand. After which, having
put the costly jewels in safe keeping, he recounted to the abbot all
the story of his adventures to that very hour. The abbot, rejoicing
in his good fortune, joined with him in offering thanks to God.
Messer Torello then asked him who might be his wife's new husband,
and the abbot told him. Quoth then Messer Torello:
Before my return be known, I purpose to see how my wife will
comport herself at the nuptials: wherefore, though 'tis not the wont
of men of religion to go to such gatherings, I had lief that for love of
me you arranged for us to go thither together.
The abbot answered
that he would gladly do so, and as soon as 'twas day, he sent word
to the bridegroom that he had thoughts of being present at his
nuptials, accompanied by a friend; whereto the gentleman made
answer that he was much gratified. So, at the breakfast hour Messer
Torello, dressed as he was, hied him with the abbot to the bridegroom's
house, as many as saw them gazing on him with wonder,
but none recognizing him, and the abbot giving all to understand
that he was a Saracen sent by the Soldan as ambassador to the King
of France. Messer Torello was accordingly seated at a table directly
opposite that of his lady, whom he eyed with exceeding great delight,
the more so that he saw that in her face which shewed him that she
was chagrined by the nuptials. She in like manner from time to time
bent her regard on him; howbeit, what with his long beard, and his
foreign garb, and her firm persuasion that he was dead, she had still
no sort of recollection of him. However, Messer Torello at length
deemed it time to make trial of her, whether she would remember
him; wherefore he took the ring that the lady had given him on his
departure, and keeping it close in the palm of his hand, he called to
him a page that waited upon her, and said to him: Tell the
bride from me that 'tis the custom in my country, that, when a
stranger, such as I, eats with a bride, like herself, at her wedding-feast,
she, in token that he is welcome to her board, sends him the
cup from which she herself drinks, full of wine; and when the
stranger has drunk his fill, he closes the cup, and the bride drinks
what is left therein.
The page carried the message to the lady, who, being of good
understanding and manners, and supposing him to be some very great
man, by way of shewing that she was gratified by his presence,
commanded
that a gilt cup, that was on the table before her, should be
rinsed, and filled with wine, and borne to the gentleman. Which
being done, Messer Torello, having privily conveyed her ring into
his mouth, let it fall (while he drank) into the cup on such wise that
none wist thereof; and leaving but a little wine at the bottom, closed
the cup and returned it to the lady; who, having taken it, that she
might do full honour to the custom of her guest's country, lifted
the lid, and set the cup to her mouth; whereby espying the ring,
she thereon mutely gazed a while, and recognizing it for that which
she had given Messer Torello on his departure, she steadfastly
regarded the supposed stranger, whom now she also recognized.
Whereupon well-nigh distracted, oversetting the table in front of
her, she exclaimed: 'Tis my lord, 'tis verily Messer Torello;
and rushing to the table at which he sate, giving never a thought to
her apparel, or aught that was on the table, she flung herself upon
it; and reaching forward as far as she could, she threw her arms
about him, and hugged him; nor, for aught that any said or did,
could she be induced to release his neck, until Messer Torello himself
bade her forbear a while, for that she would have time enough
to kiss him thereafter. The lady then stood up, and for a while all
was disorder, albeit the feast was yet more gladsome than before by
reason of the recovery of so honourable a knight: then, at Messer
Torello's entreaty, all were silent, while he recounted to them the
story of his adventures from the day of his departure to that hour,
concluding by saying that the gentleman who, deeming him to be
dead, had taken his lady to wife, ought not to be affronted, if he,
being alive, reclaimed her. The bridegroom, albeit he was somewhat
crestfallen, made answer in frank and friendly sort, that 'twas
for Messer Torello to do what he liked with his own. The lady
resigned the ring and the crown that her new spouse had given her,
and put on the ring she had taken from the cup, and likewise the
crown sent her by the Soldan; and so, forth they hied them, and
with full nuptial pomp wended their way to Messer Torello's house;
and there for a great while they made merry with his late disconsolate
friends and kinsfolk and all the citizens, who accounted his
restoration as little short of a miracle.
Messer Torello, having bestowed part of his rare jewels upon
him who had borne the cost of the wedding-feast, and part on the
abbot, and many other folk; and having by more than one messenger
sent word of his safe home-coming and prosperous estate to Saladin,
acknowledging himself ever his friend and vassal, lived many years
thereafter with his worthy lady, acquitting himself yet more courteously
than of yore. Such, then, was the end of the troubles of
Messer Torello and his dear lady, and such the reward of their
cheerful and ready courtesies.
Now some there are that strive to do offices of courtesy, and
have the means, but do them with so ill a grace, that, ere they are
done, they have in effect sold them at a price above their worth:
wherefore, if no reward ensue to them thereof, neither they nor
other folk have cause to marvel.
Novel XThe Marquis of Saluzzo, overborne by the entreaties of
his vassals, consents to take a wife, but, being minded
to please himself in the choice of her, takes a husbandman's
daughter. He has two children by her, both
of whom he makes her believe that he has put to death.
Afterward, feigning to be tired of her, and to have
taken another wife, he turns her out of doors in her
shift, and brings his daughter into the house in guise
of his bride; but, finding her patient under it all, he
brings her home again, and shews her her children,
now grown up, and honours her, and causes her to be
honoured, as Marchioness.
Ended the king's long story, with which all seemed to be very
well pleased, quoth Dioneo with a laugh: The good man that
looked that night to cause the bogey's tail to droop, would scarce have
contributed two pennyworth of all the praise you bestow on Messer
Torello:
then, witting that it now only remained for him to tell,
thus he began:
Gentle my ladies, this day, meseems, is dedicate to
Kings and Soldans and folk of the like quality; wherefore, that I
stray not too far from you, I am minded to tell you somewhat of a
Marquis; certes, nought magnificent, but a piece of mad folly, albeit
there came good thereof to him in the end. The which I counsel
none to copy, for that great pity 'twas that it turned out well with
him.
There was in olden days a certain Marquis of Saluzzo, Gualtieri
by name, a young man, but head of the house, who, having
neither wife nor child, passed his time in nought else but in hawking
and hunting, and of taking a wife and begetting children had
no thought; wherein he should have been accounted very wise:
but his vassals, brooking it ill, did oftentimes entreat him to take
a wife, that he might not die without an heir, and they be left
without a lord; offering to find him one of such a pattern, and
of such parentage, that he might marry with good hope, and be
well content with the sequel. To whom: My friends,
replied
Gualtieri, you enforce me to that which I had resolved never to do,
seeing how hard it is to find a wife, whose ways accord well with
one's own, and how plentiful is the supply of such as run counter
thereto, and how grievous a life he leads who chances upon a lady
that matches ill with him. And to say that you think to know the
daughters by the qualities of their fathers and mothers, and thereby--so
you would argue--to provide me with a wife to my liking, is but
folly; for I wot not how you may penetrate the secrets of their
mothers so as to know their fathers; and granted that you do know
them, daughters oftentimes resemble neither of their parents. However,
as you are minded to rivet these fetters upon me, I am content
that so it be; and that I may have no cause to reproach any but
myself, should it turn out ill, I am resolved that my wife shall be of
my own choosing; but of this rest assured, that, no matter whom
I choose, if she receive not from you the honour due to a lady, you
shall prove to your great cost, how sorely I resent being thus constrained
by your importunity to take a wife against my will.
The worthy men replied that they were well content, so only he
would marry without more ado. And Gualtieri, who had long noted
with approval the mien of a poor girl that dwelt on a farm hard by
his house, and found her fair enough, deemed that with her he might
pass a tolerably happy life. Wherefore he sought no further, but
forthwith resolved to marry her; and having sent for her father, who
was a very poor man, he contracted with him to take her to wife.
Which done, Gualtieri assembled all the friends he had in those parts,
and: My friends,
quoth he, you were and are minded that I
should take a wife, and rather to comply with your wishes, than for
any desire that I had to marry, I have made up my mind to do so.
You remember the promise you gave me, to wit, that, whomsoever I
should take, you would pay her the honour due to a lady. Which
promise I now require you to keep, the time being come when I am
to keep mine. I have found hard by here a maiden after mine own
heart, whom I purpose to take to wife, and to bring hither to my
house in the course of a few days. Wherefore bethink you, how
you may make the nuptial feast splendid, and welcome her with all
honour; that I may confess myself satisfied with your observance of
your promise, as you will be with my observance of mine.
The
worthy men, one and all, answered with alacrity that they were well
content, and that, whoever she might be, they would entreat her as
a lady, and pay her all due honour as such. After which, they all
addressed them to make goodly and grand and gladsome celebration
of the event, as did also Gualtieri. He arranged for a wedding most
stately and fair, and bade thereto a goodly number of his friends and
kinsfolk, and great gentlemen, and others, of the neighbourhood;
and therewithal he caused many a fine and costly robe to be cut and
fashioned to the figure of a girl who seemed to him of the like proportions
as the girl that he purposed to wed; and laid in store,
besides, of girdles and rings, with a costly and beautiful crown, and
all the other paraphernalia of a bride.
The day that he had appointed for the wedding being come,
about half tierce he got him to horse with as many as had come to
do him honour, and having made all needful dispositions: Gentlemen,
quoth he, 'tis time to go bring home the bride.
And so
away he rode with his company to the village; where, being come
to the house of the girl's father, they found her returning from the
spring with a bucket of water, making all the haste she could, that
she might afterwards go with the other women to see Gualtieri's
bride come by. Whom Gualtieri no sooner saw, than he called her
by her name, to wit, Griselda, and asked her where her father was.
To whom she modestly made answer: My lord, he is in the house.
Whereupon Gualtieri dismounted, and having bidden the rest await
him without, entered the cottage alone; and meeting her father,
whose name was Giannucolo: I am come,
quoth he, to wed
Griselda, but first of all there are some matters I would learn from
her own lips in thy presence.
He then asked her, whether, if he
took her to wife, she would study to comply with his wishes, and be
not wroth, no matter what he might say or do, and be obedient,
with not a few other questions of a like sort: to all which she
answered, ay. Whereupon Gualtieri took her by the hand, led her
forth, and before the eyes of all his company, and as many other
folk as were there, caused her to strip naked, and let bring the
garments that he had had fashioned for her, and had her forthwith
arrayed therein, and upon her unkempt head let set a crown; and
then, while all wondered: Gentlemen,
quoth he, this is she
whom I purpose to make my wife, so she be minded to have me for
husband.
Then, she standing abashed and astonied, he turned to
her, saying: Griselda, wilt thou have me for thy husband?
To
whom: Ay, my lord,
answered she. And I will have thee to
wife,
said he, and married her before them all. And having set her
upon a palfrey, he brought her home with pomp.
The wedding was fair and stately, and had he married a daughter
of the King of France, the feast could not have been more splendid.
It seemed as if, with the change of her garb, the bride had acquired
a new dignity of mind and mien. She was, as we have said, fair of
form and feature; and therewithal she was now grown so engaging
and gracious and debonair, that she shewed no longer as the shepherdess,
and the daughter of Giannucolo, but as the daughter of some noble
lord, insomuch that she caused as many as had known her before to
marvel. Moreover, she was so obedient and devoted to her husband,
that he deemed himself the happiest and luckiest man in the world.
And likewise so gracious and kindly was she to her husband's vassals,
that there was none of them but loved her more dearly than himself,
and was zealous to do her honour, and prayed for her welfare and
prosperity and aggrandisement, and instead of, as erstwhile, saying
that Gualtieri had done foolishly to take her to wife, now averred
that he had not his like in the world for wisdom and discernment,
for that, save to him, her noble qualities would ever have remained
hidden under her sorry apparel and the garb of the peasant girl.
And in short she so comported herself as in no long time to bring it
to pass that, not only in the marquisate, but far and wide besides, her
virtues and her admirable conversation were matter of common talk,
and, if aught had been said to the disadvantage of her husband, when
he married her, the judgment was now altogether to the contrary
effect.
She had not been long with Gualtieri before she conceived; and
in due time she was delivered of a girl; whereat Gualtieri made great
cheer. But, soon after, a strange humour took possession of him,
to wit, to put her patience to the proof by prolonged and intolerable
hard usage; wherefore he began by afflicting her with his gibes,
putting on a vexed air, and telling her that his vassals were most
sorely dissatisfied with her by reason of her base condition, and all
the more so since they saw that she was a mother, and that they
did nought but most ruefully murmur at the birth of a daughter.
Whereto Griselda, without the least change of countenance or sign
of discomposure, made answer: My lord, do with me as thou
mayst deem best for thine own honour and comfort, for well I wot
that I am of less account than they, and unworthy of this honourable
estate to which of thy courtesy thou hast advanced me.
By which
answer Gualtieri was well pleased, witting that she was in no degree
puffed up with pride by his, or any other's, honourable entreatment
of her. A while afterwards, having in general terms given his wife
to understand that the vassals could not endure her daughter, he sent
her a message by a servant. So the servant came, and: Madam,
quoth he with a most dolorous mien, so I value my life, I must
needs do my lord's bidding. He has bidden me take your daughter
and . . .
He said no more, but the lady by what she heard, and
read in his face, and remembered of her husband's words, understood
that he was bidden to put the child to death. Whereupon she
presently took the child from the cradle, and having kissed and blessed
her, albeit she was very sore at heart, she changed not countenance,
but placed it in the servant's arms, saying: See that thou leave
nought undone that my lord and thine has charged thee to do, but
leave her not so that the beasts and the birds devour her, unless he
have so bidden thee.
So the servant took the child, and told
Gualtieri what the lady had said; and Gualtieri, marvelling at her
constancy, sent him with the child to Bologna, to one of his kinswomen,
whom he besought to rear and educate the child with all
care, but never to let it be known whose child she was.
Soon after it befell that the lady again conceived, and in due
time was delivered of a son, whereat Gualtieri was overjoyed. But,
not content with what he had done, he now even more poignantly
afflicted the lady; and one day with a ruffled mien: Wife,
quoth he, since thou gavest birth to this boy, I may on no wise live
in peace with my vassals, so bitterly do they reproach me that a
grandson of Giannucolo is to succeed me as their lord; and therefore I
fear that, so I be not minded to be sent a packing hence, I must even
do herein as I did before, and in the end put thee away, and take
another wife.
The lady heard him patiently, and answered only:
My lord, study how thou mayst content thee and best please thyself,
and waste no thought upon me, for there is nought I desire save in so
far as I know that 'tis thy pleasure.
Not many days after, Gualtieri,
in like manner as he had sent for the daughter, sent for the son, and
having made a shew of putting him to death, provided for his, as for
the girl's, nurture at Bologna. Whereat the lady shewed no more
discomposure of countenance or speech than at the loss of her
daughter: which Gualtieri found passing strange, and inly affirmed
that there was never another woman in the world that would have
so done. And but that he had marked that she was most tenderly
affectionate towards her children, while 'twas well pleasing to him, he
had supposed that she was tired of them, whereas he knew that 'twas
of her discretion that she so did. His vassals, who believed that he had
put the children to death, held him mightily to blame for his cruelty,
and felt the utmost compassion for the lady. She, however, said
never aught to the ladies that condoled with her on the death of her
children, but that the pleasure of him that had begotten them was
her pleasure likewise.
Years not a few had passed since the girl's birth, when Gualtieri
at length deemed the time come to put his wife's patience to the
final proof. Accordingly, in the presence of a great company of his
vassals he declared that on no wise might he longer brook to have
Griselda to wife, that he confessed that in taking her he had done a
sorry thing and the act of a stripling, and that he therefore meant to
do what he could to procure the Pope's dispensation to put Griselda
away, and take another wife: for which cause being much upbraided
by many worthy men, he made no other answer but only that needs
must it so be. Whereof the lady being apprised, and now deeming
that she must look to go back to her father's house, and perchance
tend the sheep, as she had aforetime, and see him, to whom she
was utterly devoted, engrossed by another woman, did inly bewail
herself right sorely: but still with the same composed mien with
which she had borne Fortune's former buffets, she set herself to endure
this last outrage. Nor was it long before Gualtieri by counterfeit
letters, which he caused to be sent to him from Rome, made his
vassals believe that the Pope had thereby given him a dispensation to
put Griselda away, and take another wife. Wherefore, having caused
her to be brought before him, he said to her in the presence of not a
few: Wife, by license granted me by the Pope, I am now free
to put thee away, and take another wife; and, for that my forbears
have always been great gentlemen and lords of these parts, whereas
thine have ever been husbandmen, I purpose that thou go back
to Giannucolo's house with the dowry that thou broughtest me;
whereupon I shall bring home a lady that I have found, and who is
meet to be my wife.
'Twas not without travail most grievous that the lady, as she
heard this announcement, got the better of her woman's nature, and
suppressing her tears, made answer: My lord, I ever knew that
my low degree was on no wise congruous with your nobility, and
acknowledged that the rank I had with you was of your and God's
bestowal, nor did I ever make as if it were mine by gift, or so esteem
it, but still accounted it as a loan. 'Tis your pleasure to recall it,
and therefore it should be, and is, my pleasure to render it up to you.
So, here is your ring, with which you espoused me; take it back.
You bid me take with me the dowry that I brought you; which to
do will require neither paymaster on your part nor purse nor packhorse
on mine; for I am not unmindful that naked was I when you
first had me. And if you deem it seemly that that body in which I
have borne children, by you begotten, be beheld of all, naked will I
depart; but yet, I pray you, be pleased, in guerdon of the virginity
that I brought you and take not away, to suffer me to bear hence
upon my back a single shift--I crave no more--besides my dowry.
There was nought of which Gualtieri was so fain as to weep; but
yet, setting his face as a flint, he made answer: I allow thee a
shift to thy back; so get thee hence.
All that stood by besought
him to give her a robe, that she, who had been his wife for thirteen
years and more, might not be seen to quit his house in so sorry and
shameful a plight, having nought on her but a shift. But their
entreaties went for nothing: the lady in her shift, and barefoot and
bareheaded, having bade them adieu, departed the house, and went
back to her father amid the tears and lamentations of all that saw
her. Giannucolo, who had ever deemed it a thing incredible
that Gualtieri should keep his daughter to wife, and had looked
for this to happen every day, and had kept the clothes that she
had put off on the morning that Gualtieri had wedded her, now
brought them to her; and she, having resumed them, applied herself
to the petty drudgery of her father's house, as she had been wont,
enduring with fortitude this cruel visitation of adverse Fortune.
Now no sooner had Gualtieri dismissed Griselda, than he gave his
vassals to understand that he had taken to wife a daughter of one of
the Counts of Panago. He accordingly made great preparations as
for the nuptials, during which he sent for Griselda. To whom,
being come, quoth he: I am bringing hither my new bride, and
in this her first home-coming I purpose to shew her honour; and
thou knowest that women I have none in the house that know
how to set chambers in due order, or attend to the many other
matters that so joyful an event requires; wherefore do thou, that
understandest these things better than another, see to all that needs
be done, and bid hither such ladies as thou mayst see fit, and
receive them, as if thou wert the lady of the house, and then,
when the nuptials are ended, thou mayst go back to thy cottage.
Albeit each of these words pierced Griselda's heart like a knife,
for that, in resigning her good fortune, she had not been able to
renounce the love she bore Gualtieri, nevertheless: My lord,
she
made answer, I am ready and prompt to do your pleasure.
And
so, clad in her sorry garments of coarse romagnole, she entered the
house, which, but a little before, she had quitted in her shift, and
addressed her to sweep the chambers, and arrange arras and cushions
in the halls, and make ready the kitchen, and set her hand to everything,
as if she had been a paltry serving-wench: nor did she rest
until she had brought all into such meet and seemly trim as the
occasion demanded. This done, she invited in Gualtieri's name all
the ladies of those parts to be present at his nuptials, and awaited the
event. The day being come, still wearing her sorry weeds, but in
heart and soul and mien the lady, she received the ladies as they
came, and gave each a gladsome greeting.
Now Gualtieri, as we said, had caused his children to be carefully
nurtured and brought up by a kinswoman of his at Bologna, which
kinswoman was married into the family of the Counts of Panago;
and, the girl being now twelve years old, and the loveliest creature
that ever was seen, and the boy being about six years old, he had
sent word to his kinswoman's husband at Bologna, praying him to
be pleased to come with this girl and boy of his to Saluzzo, and to
see that he brought a goodly and honourable company with him,
and to give all to understand that he brought the girl to him to
wife, and on no wisè to disclose to any, who she really was. The
gentleman did as the Marquis bade him, and within a few days of
his setting forth arrived at Saluzzo about breakfast-time with the
girl, and her brother, and a noble company, and found all the folk of
those parts, and much people besides, gathered there in expectation
of Gualtieri's new bride. Who, being received by the ladies, was
no sooner come into the hall, where the tables were set, than Griselda
advanced to meet her, saying with hearty cheer: Welcome, my
lady.
So the ladies, who had with much instance, but in vain, besought
Gualtieri, either to let Griselda keep in another room, or at any
rate to furnish her with one of the robes that had been hers, that she
might not present herself in such a sorry guise before the strangers,
sate down to table; and the service being begun, the eyes of all were
set on the girl, and every one said that Gualtieri had made a good
exchange, and Griselda joined with the rest in greatly commending
her, and also her little brother. And now Gualtieri, sated at last
with all that he had seen of his wife's patience, marking that this
new and strange turn made not the least alteration in her demeanour,
and being well assured that 'twas not due to apathy, for he knew her
to be of excellent understanding, deemed it time to relieve her
of the suffering which he judged her to dissemble under a resolute
front; and so, having called her to him in presence of them all, he
said with a smile: And what thinkst thou of our bride?
My lord,
replied Griselda, I think mighty well of her; and if
she be but as discreet as she is fair--and so I deem her--I make no
doubt but you may reckon to lead with her a life of incomparable
felicity; but with all earnestness I entreat you, that you spare her
those tribulations which you did once inflict upon another that was
yours, for I scarce think she would be able to bear them, as well
because she is younger, as for that she has been delicately nurtured,
whereas that other had known no respite of hardship since she was
but a little child.
Marking that she made no doubt but that the
girl was to be his wife, and yet spoke never a whit the less sweetly,
Gualtieri caused her to sit down beside him, and: Griselda,
said he, 'tis now time that thou see the reward of thy long patience,
and that those, who have deemed me cruel and unjust and insensate,
should know that what I did was done of purpose aforethought, for
that I was minded to give both thee and them a lesson, that thou
mightst learn to be a wife, and they in like manner might learn how
to take and keep a wife, and that I might beget me perpetual peace
with thee for the rest of my life; whereof being in great fear, when
I came to take a wife, lest I should be disappointed, I therefore, to
put the matter to the proof, did, and how sorely thou knowest, harass
and afflict thee. And since I never knew thee either by deed or by
word to deviate from my will, I now, deeming myself to have of
thee that assurance of happiness which I desired, am minded to
restore to thee at once all that, step by step, I took from thee, and
by extremity of joy to compensate the tribulations that I inflicted
on thee. Receive, then, this girl, whom thou supposest to be my
bride, and her brother, with glad heart, as thy children and mine.
These are they, whom by thee and many another it has long been
supposed that I did ruthlessly to death, and I am thy husband, that
loves thee more dearly than aught else, deeming that other there is
none that has the like good cause to be well content with his wife.
Which said, he embraced and kissed her; and then, while she
wept for joy, they rose and hied them there where sate the daughter,
all astonied to hear the news, whom, as also her brother, they tenderly
embraced, and explained to them, and many others that stood
by, the whole mystery. Whereat the ladies, transported with delight,
rose from table and betook them with Griselda to a chamber,
and, with better omen, divested her of her sorry garb, and arrayed
her in one of her own robes of state; and so, in guise of a lady
(howbeit in her rags she had shewed as no less) they led her back
into the hall. Wondrous was the cheer which there they made
with the children; and, all overjoyed at the event, they revelled and
made merry amain, and prolonged the festivities for several days;
and very discreet they pronounced Gualtieri, albeit they censured as
intolerably harsh the probation to which he had subjected Griselda,
and most discreet beyond all compare they accounted Griselda.
Some days after, the Count of Panago returned to Bologna, and
Gualtieri took Giannucolo from his husbandry, and established him
in honour as his father-in-law, wherein to his great solace he lived
for the rest of his days. Gualtieri himself, having mated his daughter
with a husband of high degree, lived long and happily thereafter with
Griselda, to whom he ever paid all honour.
Now what shall we say in this case but that even into the cots of
the poor the heavens let fall at times spirits divine, as into the palaces
of kings souls that are fitter to tend hogs than to exercise lordship over
men? Who but Griselda had been able, with a countenance not only
tearless, but cheerful, to endure the hard and unheard-of trials to which
Gualtieri subjected her? Who perhaps might have deemed himself
to have made no bad investment, had he chanced upon one, who,
having been turned out of his house in her shift, had found means so
to dust the pelisse of another as to get herself thereby a fine robe.
ConclusionSo ended Dioneo's story, whereof the ladies, diversely inclining,
one to censure where another found matter for commendation, had
discoursed not a little, when the king, having glanced at the sky,
and marked that the sun was now low, insomuch that 'twas nigh the
vesper hour, still keeping his seat, thus began: Exquisite my
ladies, as, methinks, you wot, 'tis not only in minding them of
the past and apprehending the present that the wit of mortals
consists; but by one means or the other to be able to foresee the
future is by the sages accounted the height of wisdom. Now,
to-morrow, as you know, 'twill be fifteen days since, in quest of
recreation and for the conservation of our health and life, we, shunning
the dismal and dolorous and afflicting spectacles that have ceased
not in our city since this season of pestilence began, took our departure
from Florence. Wherein, to my thinking, we have done
nought that was not seemly; for, if I have duly used my powers of
observation, albeit some gay stories, and of a kind to stimulate
concupiscence,
have here been told, and we have daily known no lack
of dainty dishes and good wine, nor yet of music and song, things,
one and all, apt to incite weak minds to that which is not seemly,
neither on your part, nor on ours, have I marked deed or word, or
aught of any kind, that called for reprehension; but, by what I have
seen and heard, seemliness and the sweet intimacy of brothers and
sisters have ever reigned among us. Which, assuredly, for the honour
and advantage which you and I have had thereof, is most grateful to
me. Wherefore, lest too long continuance in this way of life might
beget some occasion of weariness, and that no man may be able to
misconstrue our too long abidance here, and as we have all of us had
our day's share of the honour which still remains in me, I should
deem it meet, so you be of like mind, that we now go back whence
we came: and that the rather that our company, the bruit whereof
has already reached divers others that are in our neighbourhood, might
be so increased that all our pleasure would be destroyed. And so, if
my counsel meet with your approval, I will keep the crown I have
received of you until our departure, which, I purpose, shall be tomorrow
morning. Should you decide otherwise, I have already
determined whom to crown for the ensuing day.
Much debate ensued among the ladies and young men; but in
the end they approved the king's proposal as expedient and seemly;
and resolved to do even as he had said. The king therefore
summoned the seneschal; and having conferred with him of the
order he was to observe on the morrow, he dismissed the company
until supper-time. So, the king being risen, the ladies and the rest
likewise rose, and betook them, as they were wont, to their several
diversions. Supper-time being come, they supped with exceeding
great delight. Which done, they addressed them to song and music
and dancing; and, while Lauretta was leading a dance, the king bade
Fiammetta give them a song; whereupon Fiammetta right debonairly
sang on this wise:
So came but Love, and brought no jealousy,
So blithe, I wot, as I,
Dame were there none, be she whoe'er she be.If youth's fresh, lusty pride
May lady of her lover well content,
Or valour's just renown,
Hardihood, prowess tried,
Wit, noble mien, discourse most excellent,
And of all grace the crown;
That she am I, who, fain for love to swoun,
There where my hope doth lie
These several virtues all conjoined do see.But, for that I less wise
Than me no whit do other dames discern,
Trembling with sore dismay,
I still the worst surmise,
Deeming their hearts with the same flame to burn
That of mine maketh prey:
Wherefore of him that is my hope's one stay
Disconsolate I sigh,
Yea mightily, and daily do me dree.If but my lord as true
As worthy to be loved I might approve,
I were not jealous then:
But, for that charmer new
Doth all too often gallant lure to love,
Forsworn I hold all men,
And sick at heart I am, of death full fain;
Nor lady doth him eye,
But I do quake, lest she him wrest from me.'Fore God, then, let each she
List to my prayer, nor e'er in my despite
Such grievous wrong essay;
For should there any be
That by or speech or mien's allurements light
Of him to rob me may
Study or plot, I, witting, shall find way,
My beauty it aby!
To cause her sore lament such frenesie.As soon as Fiammetta had ended her song, Dioneo, who was
beside her, said with a laugh: Madam, 'twould be a great courtesy
on your part to do all ladies to wit, who he is, that he be not stolen
from you in ignorance, seeing that you threaten such dire resentment.
Several other songs followed; and it being then nigh upon
midnight, all, as the king was pleased to order, betook them to rest.
With the first light of the new day they rose, and, the seneschal
having already conveyed thence all their chattels, they, following the
lead of their discreet king, hied them back to Florence; and in Santa
Maria Novella, whence they had set forth, the three young men
took leave of the seven ladies, and departed to find other diversions
elsewhere, while the ladies in due time repaired to their homes.