Decameron, translated by J.M. Rigg

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Title: The Decameron, Volume I
Author: Giovanni Boccaccio
Release Date: February, 2003 [Etext #3726]
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This etext was produced by Donna Holsten.
The Decameron
of
Giovanni Boccaccio
Faithfully Translated
By J.M. Rigg
with illustrations by Louis Chalon
--CONTENTS--
INTRODUCTION
PROEM
- FIRST DAY -
NOVEL I. - Ser 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.
NOVEL II. - Abraham, a Jew, at the instance of Jehannot de Chevigny, goes to
the court of Rome, and having marked the evil life of clergy, returns to
Paris, and becomes a Christian.
NOVEL III. - Melchisedech, a Jew, by a story of three rings averts a danger
with which he was menaced by Saladin.
NOVEL IV. - A monk lapses into a sin meriting the most severe punishment,
justly censures the same fault in his abbot, and thus evades the penalty.
NOVEL V. - The Marchioness of Monferrato by a banquet of hens seasoned with
wit checks the mad passion of the King of France.
NOVEL VI. - A worthy man by an apt saying puts to shame the wicked hypocrisy
of the religious.
NOVEL VII. - Bergamino, with a story of Primasso and the Abbot of Cluny,
finely censures a sudden access of avarice in Messer Cane della Scala.
NOVEL VIII. - Guglielmo Borsiere by a neat retort sharply censures avarice
in Messer Ermino de' Grimaldi.
NOVEL IX. - The censure of a Gascon lady converts the King of Cyprus from a
churlish to an honourable temper.
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.
- SECOND DAY -
NOVEL I. - Martellino 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.
NOVEL II. - Rinaldo 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.
NOVEL III. - Three 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 re-establishes the fortune of his
uncles.
NOVEL IV. - Landolfo 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.
NOVEL V. - Andreuccio 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.
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 recognized by the mother,
marries the master's daughter, and, his brother being discovered, is
reinstated in great honour.
NOVEL VII. - The 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 place.
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.
NOVEL VIII. - The 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.
NOVEL IX. - Bernabo 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
Bernabo to Alexandria, where the deceiver is punished. She then resumes the
garb of a woman, and with her husband returns wealthy to Genoa.
NOVEL X. - Paganino 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.
- THIRD DAY -
NOVEL I. - Masetto 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.
NOVEL II. - A 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.
NOVEL III. - Under 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.
NOVEL IV. - Dom 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.
NOVEL V. - Zima 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.
NOVEL VI. - Ricciardo 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.
NOVEL VII. - Tedaldo, 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.
NOVEL VIII. Ÿ Ferondo, 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.
NOVEL IX. - Gillette 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.
NOVEL X. - Alibech 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.
- FOURTH DAY -
NOVEL I. - Tancred, 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.
NOVEL II. - Fra Alberto gives a lady to understand 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.
NOVEL III. - Three 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 third 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.
NOVEL IV. - Gerbino, 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.
NOVEL V. - Lisabetta'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.
NOVEL VI. - Andreuola loves Gabriotto: she tells him a dream that she has
had; he tells her a dream of his own, and dies suddenly in her arms. While
she and her maid 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
Podesta, 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.
NOVEL VII. - Simona 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.
NOVEL VIII. - Girolamo 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.
Nova IX. - Sieur 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.
NOVEL X. - The 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.
ILLUSTRATIONS TO THE DECAMERON
VOLUME I.
The lady and the friar (third day, third story) - Frontispiece
The three rings (first day, third story)
The dinner of hens (first day, fifth story)
Rinaldo D'Asti and the widow lady (second day, second story)
Alatiel dancing (second day, seventh story)
The wedding party (fourth day, introduction)
The daughter of the King of Tunis (fourth day, fourth story)
Simona and Pasquino (fourth day, seventh story)
INTRODUCTION
Son of a merchant, Boccaccio di Chellino di Buonaiuto, of Certaldo in Val
d'Elsa, a little town about midway between Empoli and Siena, but within the
Florentine "contado," Giovanni Boccaccio was born, most probably at Paris,
in the year 1313. His mother, at any rate, was a Frenchwoman, whom his
father seduced during a sojourn at Paris, and afterwards deserted. So much
as this Boccaccio has himself told us, under a transparent veil of allegory,
in his Ameto. Of his mother we would fain know more, for his wit has in it
a quality, especially noticeable in the Tenth Novel of the Sixth Day of the
Decameron, which marks him out as the forerunner of Rabelais, and prompts us
to ask how much more his genius may have owed to his French ancestry. His
father was of sufficient standing in Florence to be chosen Prior in 1321;
but this brief term of office--but two months--was his last, as well as his
first experience of public life. Of Boccaccio's early years we know nothing
more than that his first preceptor was the Florentine grammarian, Giovanni
da Strada, father of the poet Zanobi da Strada, and that, when he was about
ten years old, he was bound apprentice to a merchant, with whom he spent
the next six years at Paris, whence he returned to Florence with an
inveterate repugnance to commerce. His father then proposed to make a
canonist of him; but the study of Gratian proved hardly more congenial than
the routine of the counting-house to the lad, who had already evinced a
taste for letters; and a sojourn at Naples, where under the regime of the
enlightened King Robert there were coteries of learned men, and even Greek
was not altogether unknown, decided his future career. According to Filippo
Villani his choice was finally fixed by a visit to the tomb of Vergil on the
Via Puteolana, and, though the modern critical spirit is apt to discount such
stories, there can be no doubt that such a pilgrimage would be apt to make a
deep, and perhaps enduring, impression upon a nature ardent and sensitive,
and already conscious of extraordinary powers. His stay at Naples was also in
another respect a turning point in his life; for it was there that, as we
gather from the Filocopo, he first saw the blonde beauty, Maria, natural
daughter of King Robert, whom he has immortalized as Fiammetta. The place was
the church of San Lorenzo, the day the 26th of March, 1334. Boccaccio's
admiring gaze was observed by the lady, who, though married, proved no Laura,
and forthwith returned his love in equal measure. Their liaison lasted several
years, during which Boccaccio recorded the various phases of their passion
with exemplary assiduity in verse and prose. Besides paying her due and
discreet homage in sonnet and canzone, he associated her in one way or another,
not only with the Filocopo (his prose romance of Florio and Biancofiore, which
he professes to have written to pleasure her), but with the Ameto, the Amorosa
Visione, the Teseide, and the Filostrato; and in L'Amorosa Fiammetta he wove
out of their relations a romance in which her lover, who is there called
Pamfilo, plays Aeneas to her Dido, though with somewhat less tragic
consequences. The Proem to the Decameron shews us the after-glow of his
passion; the lady herself appears as one of the "honourable company," and
her portrait, as in the act of receiving the laurel wreath at the close of
the Fourth Day, is a masterpiece of tender and delicate delineation.
Boccaccio appears to have been recalled to Florence by his father in 1341;
and it was probably in that year that he wrote L'Amorosa Fiammetta and the
allegorical prose pastoral (with songs interspersed) which he entitled
Ameto, and in which Fiammetta masquerades in green as one of the nymphs.
The Amorosa Visione, written about the same time, is not only an allegory but
an acrostic, the initial letters of its fifteen hundred triplets composing two
sonnets and a ballade in honour of Fiammetta, whom he here for once ventures
to call by her true name. Later came the Teseide, or romance of Palamon and
Arcite, the first extant rendering of the story, in twelve books, and the
Filostrato, nine books of the loves and woes of Troilus and Cressida. Both
these poems are in ottava rima, a metre which, if Boccaccio did not invent
it, he was the first to apply to such a purpose. Both works were dedicated
to Fiammetta. A graceful idyll in the same metre, Ninfale Fiesolano, was
written later, probably at Naples in 1345. King Robert was then dead, but
Boccaccio enjoyed the favour of Queen Joan, of somewhat doubtful memory, at
whose instance he hints in one of his later letters that he wrote the
Decameron. Without impugning Boccaccio's veracity we can hardly but think
that the Decameron would have seen the light, though Queen Joan had withheld
her encouragement. He had probably been long meditating it, and gathering
materials for it, and we may well suppose that the outbreak of the plague in
1348, by furnishing him with a sombre background to heighten the effect of
his motley pageant, had far more to do with accelerating the composition
than aught that Queen Joan may have said.
That Boccaccio was not at Florence during the pestilence is certain; but we
need not therefore doubt the substantial accuracy of his marvellous
description of the state of the stricken city, for the course and
consequences of the terrible visitation must have been much the same in all
parts of Italy, and as to Florence in particular, Boccaccio could have no
difficulty in obtaining detailed and abundant information from credible
eye-witnesses. The introduction of Fiammetta, who was in all probability at
Naples at the time, and in any case was not a Florentine, shews, however,
that he is by no means to be taken literally, and renders it extremely
probable that the facetious, irrepressible, and privileged Dioneo is no
other than himself. At the same time we cannot deem it either impossible,
or very unlikely, that in the general relaxation of morale, which the plague
brought in its train, refuge from care and fear was sought in the diversions
which he describes by some of those who had country-seats to which to
withdraw, and whether the "contado" was that of Florence or that of Naples
is a matter of no considerable importance. (1) It is probable that
Boccaccio's father was one of the victims of the pestilence; for he was dead
in 1350, when his son returned to Florence to live thenceforth on the modest
patrimony which he inherited. It must have been about this time that he
formed an intimacy with Petrarch, which, notwithstanding marked diversity
of temperament, character and pursuits, was destined to be broken only by
death. Despite his complaints of the malevolence of his critics in the Proem
to the Fourth Day of the Decameron, he had no lack of appreciation on the
part of his fellow-citizens, and was employed by the Republic on several
missions; to Bologna, probably with the view of averting the submission of
that city to the Visconti in 1350; to Petrarch at Padua in March 1351, with
a letter from the Priors announcing his restitution to citizenship, and
inviting him to return to Florence, and assume the rectorship of the newly
founded university; to Ludwig of Brandenburg with overtures for an alliance
against the Visconti in December of the same year; and in the spring of 1354
to Pope Innocent VI. at Avignon in reference to the approaching visit of the
Emperor Charles IV. to Italy. About this time, 1354-5, he threw off, in
striking contrast to his earlier works, an invective against women, entitled
Laberinto d'Amore, otherwise Corbaccio, a coarse performance occasioned by
resentment at what he deemed capricious treatment by a lady to whom he had
made advances. To the same period, though the date cannot be precisely fixed,
belongs his Life of Dante, a work of but mediocre merit. Somewhat later, it
would seem, he began the study of Greek under one Leontius Pilatus, a
Calabrian, who possessed some knowledge of that language, and sought to pass
himself off as a Greek by birth.
Leontius was of coarse manners and uncertain temper, but Boccaccio was his
host and pupil for some years, and eventually procured him the chair of
Greek in the university of Florence. How much Greek Boccaccio learned from
him, and how far he may have been beholden to him in the compilation of
his elaborate Latin treatise De Genealogia Deorum, in which he essayed with
very curious results to expound the inner meaning of mythology, it is
impossible to say. In 1361 he seems to have had serious thoughts of
devoting himself to religion, being prodigiously impressed by the menaces,
monitions and revelations of a dying Carthusian of Siena. One of the
revelations concerned a matter which Boccaccio had supposed to be known only
to Petrarch and himself. He accordingly confided his anxiety to Petrarch,
who persuaded him to amend his life without renouncing the world. In 1362
he revisited Naples, and in the following year spent three months with
Petrarch at Venice. In 1365 he was sent by the Republic of Florence on a
mission of conciliation to Pope Urban V. at Avignon. He was employed on a
like errand on the Pope's return to Rome in 1367. In 1368 he revisited
Venice, and in 1371 Naples; but in May 1372 he returned to Florence, where
on 25th August 1373 he was appointed lecturer on the Divina Commedia, with
a yearly stipend of 100 fiorini d'oro. His lectures, of which the first
was delivered in the church of San Stefano near the Ponte Vecchio, were
discontinued owing to ill health, doubtless aggravated by the distress which
the death of Petrarch (20th July 1374) could not but cause him, when he had
got no farther than the seventeenth Canto of the Inferno. His commentary is
still occasionally quoted. He died, perhaps in the odour of sanctity, for
in later life he was a diligent collector of relics, at Certaldo on 21st
December 1375, and was buried in the parish church. His tomb was desecrated,
and his remains were dispersed, owing, it is said, to a misunderstanding,
towards the close of the eighteenth century. His library, which by his
direction was placed in the Convent of Santo Spirito at Florence, was
destroyed by fire about a century after his death.
Besides the De Genealogia Deorum Boccaccio wrote other treatises in Latin,
which need not here be specified, and sixteen Eclogues in the same language,
of which he was by no means a master. As for his minor works in the
vernacular, the earlier of them shew that he had not as yet wrought himself
free from the conventionalism which the polite literature of Italy inherited
from the Sicilians. It is therefore inevitable that the twentieth century
should find the Filocopo, Ameto, and Amorosa Visione tedious reading. The
Teseide determined the form in which Pulci, Boiardo, Bello, Ariosto, Tasso,
and, with a slight modification, our own Spenser were to write, but its
readers are now few, and are not likely ever again to be numerous. Chaucer
drew upon it for the Knight's Tale, but it is at any rate arguable that his
retrenchment of its perhaps inordinate length was judicious, and that what
he gave was better than what he borrowed. Still, that it had such a redactor
as Chaucer is no small testimony to its merit; nor was it only in the
Knight's Tale that he was indebted to it: the description of the Temple of
Love in the Parlement of Foules is taken almost word for word from it. Even
more considerable and conspicuous is Chaucer's obligation to Boccaccio in
the Troilus and Criseyde, about a third of which is borrowed from the
Filostrato. Nor is it a little remarkable that the same man, that in the
Teseide and Filostrato founded the chivalrous epic, should also and in the
same period of his literary activity, have written the first and not the
least powerful and artistic of psychologic romances, for even such is
L'Amorosa Fiammetta.
But whatever may be the final verdict of criticism upon these minor works of
Boccaccio, it is impossible to imagine an age in which the Decameron will
fail of general recognition as, in point alike of invention as of style, one
of the most notable creations of human genius. Of few books are the sources
so recondite, insomuch that it seems to be certain that in the main they
must have be merely oral tradition, and few have exercised so wide and
mighty an influence. The profound, many-sided and intimate knowledge of
human nature which it evinces, its vast variety of incident, its wealth
of tears and laughter, its copious and felicitous diction, inevitably apt
for every occasion, and, notwithstanding the frequent harshness, and
occasional obscurity of its at times tangled, at times laboured periods,
its sustained energy and animation of style must ever ensure for this human
comedy unchallenged rank among the literary masterpieces that are truly
immortal.
The Decameron was among the earliest of printed books, Venice leading the
way with a folio edition in 1471, Mantua following suit in 1472, and
Vicenza in 1478. A folio edition, adorned, with most graceful wood-
engravings, was published at Venice in 1492. Notwithstanding the freedom
with which in divers passages Boccaccio reflected on the morals of the
clergy, the Roman Curia spared the book, which the austere Savonarola
condemned to the flames. The tradition that the Decameron was among the
pile of "vanities" burned by Savonarola in the Piazza della Signoria on
the last day of the Carnival of 1497, little more than a year before he
was himself burned there, is so intrinsically probable--and accords so
well with the extreme paucity of early copies of the work--that it would
be the very perversity of scepticism to doubt it. It is by no means to
the credit of our country that, except to scholars, it long remained in
England, an almost entirely closed book. (2) Indeed the first nominally
complete English translation, a sadly mutilated and garbled rendering of
the French version by Antoine Le Macon, did not appear till 1620, and
though successive redactions brought it nearer to the original, it
remained at the best but a sorry faute de mieux. Such as it was,
however, our forefathers were perforce fain to be content with it.
The first Englishman to render the whole Decameron direct from the Italian
was Mr. John Payne; but his work, printed for the Villon Society in 1886,
was only for private circulation, and those least inclined to disparage
its merits may deem its style somewhat too archaic and stilted adequately
to render the vigour and vivacity of the original. Accordingly in the
present version an attempt has been made to hit the mean between archaism
and modernism, and to secure as much freedom and spirit as is compatible
with substantial accuracy.
(1) As to the palaces in which the scene is laid, Manni (Istoria del
Decamerone, Par. ii. cap. ii.) identifies the first with a villa near
Fiesole, which can be no other than the Villa Palmieri, and the second (ib.
cap. lxxvi.) with the Podere della Fonte, or so-called Villa del Boccaccio,
near Camerata. Baldelli's theory, adopted by Mrs. Janet Ann Ross (Florentine
Villas, 1901), that the Villa di Poggio Gherardi was the first, and the
Villa Palmieri the second, retreat is not to be reconciled with Boccaccio's
descriptions. The Villa Palmieri is not remote enough for the second and
more sequestered retreat, nor is it, as that is said to have been, situate
on a low hill amid a plain, but on the lower Fiesolean slope. The most
rational supposition would seem to be that Boccaccio, who had seen many a
luxurious villa, freely combined his experiences in the description of his
palaces and pleasaunces, and never expected to be taken au pied de la
lettre.
(2) Nevertheless Shakespeare derived indirectly the plot of All's Well that
Ends Well from the Ninth Novel of the Third Day, and an element in the plot
of Cymbeline from the Ninth Novel of the Second Day.
--
Beginneth here the book called Decameron, otherwise Prince Galeotto, wherein
are contained one hundred novels told in ten days by seven ladies and three
young men.
--
PROEM
'Tis humane to have compassion on the afflicted and as it shews well in all,
so it is especially demanded of those who have had need of comfort and have
found it in others: among whom, if any had ever need thereof or found it
precious or delectable, I may be numbered; seeing that from my early youth
even to the present I was beyond measure aflame with a most aspiring and
noble love (1) more perhaps than, were I to enlarge upon it, would seem to
accord with my lowly condition. Whereby, among people of discernment to
whose knowledge it had come, I had much praise and high esteem, but
nevertheless extreme discomfort and suffering not indeed by reason of
cruelty on the part of the beloved lady, but through superabundant ardour
engendered in the soul by ill-bridled desire; the which, as it allowed me no
reasonable period of quiescence, frequently occasioned me an inordinate
distress. In which distress so much relief was afforded me by the delectable
discourse of a friend and his commendable consolations, that I entertain a
very solid conviction that to them I owe it that I am not dead. But, as it
pleased Him, who, being infinite, has assigned by immutable law an end to
all things mundane, my love, beyond all other fervent, and neither to be
broken nor bent by any force of determination, or counsel of prudence, or
fear of manifest shame or ensuing danger, did nevertheless in course of time
me abate of its own accord, in such wise that it has now left nought of
itself in my mind but that pleasure which it is wont to afford to him who
does not adventure too far out in navigating its deep seas; so that, whereas
it was used to be grievous, now, all discomfort being done away, I find that
which remains to be delightful. But the cessation of the pain has not
banished the memory of the kind offices done me by those who shared by
sympathy the burden of my griefs; nor will it ever, I believe, pass from me
except by death. And as among the virtues, gratitude is in my judgment most
especially to be commended, and ingratitude in equal measure to be censured,
therefore, that I show myself not ungrateful, I have resolved, now that I
may call myself to endeavour, in return for what I have received, to afford,
so far as in me lies, some solace, if not to those who succoured and who,
perchance, by reason of their good sense or good fortune, need it not, at
least to such as may be apt to receive it.
And though my support or comfort, so to say, may be of little avail to the
needy, nevertheless it seems to me meet to offer it most readily where the
need is most apparent, because it will there be most serviceable and also
most kindly received. Who will deny, that it should be given, for all that
it may be worth, to gentle ladies much rather than to men? Within their soft
bosoms, betwixt fear and shame, they harbour secret fires of love, and how
much of strength concealment adds to those fires, they know who have proved
it. Moreover, restrained by the will, the caprice, the commandment of
fathers, mothers, brothers, and husbands, confined most part of their time
within the narrow compass of their chambers, they live, so to say, a life of
vacant ease, and, yearning and renouncing in the same moment, meditate
divers matters which cannot all be cheerful. If thereby a melancholy bred of
amorous desire make entrance into their minds, it is like to tarry there to
their sore distress, unless it be dispelled by a change of ideas. Besides
which they have much less power to support such a weight than men. For, when
men are enamoured, their case is very different, as we may readily perceive.
They, if they are afflicted by a melancholy and heaviness of mood, have many
ways of relief and diversion; they may go where they will, may hear and see
many things, may hawk, hunt, fish, ride, play or traffic. By which means all
are able to compose their minds, either in whole or in part, and repair the
ravage wrought by the dumpish mood, at least for some space of time; and
shortly after, by one way or another, either solace ensues, or the dumps
become less grievous. Wherefore, in some measure to compensate the injustice
of Fortune, which to those whose strength is least, as we see it to be in
the delicate frames of ladies, has been most niggard of support, I, for the
succour and diversion of such of them as love (for others may find
sufficient solace in the needle and the spindle and the reel), do intend to
recount one hundred Novels or Fables or Parables or Stories, as we may
please to call them, which were recounted in ten days by an honourable
company of seven ladies and three young men in the time of the late mortal
pestilence, as also some canzonets sung by the said ladies for their
delectation. In which pleasant novels will be found some passages of love
rudely crossed, with other courses of events of which the issues are
felicitous, in times as well modern as ancient: from which stories the said
ladies, who shall read them, may derive both pleasure from the entertaining
matters set forth therein, and also good counsel, in that they may learn
what to shun, and likewise what to pursue. Which cannot, I believe, come to
pass unless the dumps be banished by diversion of mind. And if it so happen
(as God grant it may) let them give thanks to Love, who, liberating me from
his fetters, has given me the power to devote myself to their gratification.
(1) For Fiammetta, i. e. Maria, natural daughter of Robert, King of Naples.
--
Beginneth 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.
--
As 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 eye-
witnesses 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
disseminated 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 cloth 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 we 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 estate, 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 farther 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 becchini
(1) 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 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 Aesculapius 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 with hold 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 awhile, 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 everyone 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 art 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 eye 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 all 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 estate (2) 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 city-gate
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,
(3) 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 none (4) the queen rose, and roused the rest of the ladies, as
also the young men, averring that it was injurious to 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:--
(1) Probably from the name of the pronged or hooked implement with which
they dragged the corpses out of the houses.
(2) Identified by tradition with the Villa Palmieri (now Crawford) on the
slope of Fiesole.
(3) The canonical hour following prime, roughly speaking about 9 a.m.
(4) The canonical hour following sext, i.e. 3 p.m.
NOVEL I.
--
Ser 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 story telling, 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 or 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, (1) 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:--'Away with these Lombard
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, "I 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 so offended for, being wont to fast not only in Lent like other
devout persons, but at least thrice 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 of 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 Ciapelletto's life, his fasts, his virginity, his simplicity
and guilelessness and holiness; narrating among the 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.
(1) 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.
NOVEL II.
--
Abraham, 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 III.
--
Melchisedech, 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 Jew
appears, but this time as the hero of a perilous adventure; and as enough
has been said of God and of the truth 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 two other
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 IV.
--
A 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:--"I 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 V.
--
The 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 VI.
--
A 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,
(1) "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.
(1) The fiorino d'oro bore the effigy of St. John.
NOVEL VII.
--
Bergamino, 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 conge, 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 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 baton 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 VIII.
--
Guglielmo 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 IX.
--
The 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 faineant 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.
As the young ladies and the three young men finished their storytelling 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.
--
Endeth 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.
--
The 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 I.
--
Martellino 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 Podesta'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 Podesta 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 Podesta'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 II.
--
Rinaldo 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 III.
--
Three 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 IV.
--
Landolfo 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 V.
--
Andreuccio 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;(1) which being discovered by King
Frederic (2) 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, (3) 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, 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, spring 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.
(1) Charles II. of Naples, son of Charles of Anjou.
(2) Frederic II. of Sicily, younger son of Peter III. of Arragon.
(3) I. e. the bawd.
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, (1) 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; (2) and the wind holding fair,
they speedily reached the mouth of the Magra, (3) 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 Niccolo 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 rebellion (4) 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 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.
(1) The largest, now inhabited, of a group of islets in the Gulf of Gaeta.
(2) I.e. she-goat.
(3) Between Liguria and Tuscany.
(4) The Sicilian Vespers, Easter, 1282.
NOVEL VII.
--
The 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 (1), 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 Algarve
(2) 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 extra ordinary, 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; where-by 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 see her in Alexandria. The question awakened Antigono's memory; he
at once recognised Alatiel, the Soldan's daughter, whom he had though 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 my 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 go 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. If aught remains to tell, you had 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 conge 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."
(1) I.e. according to medieval usage, Egypt.
(2) I.e. Garbo, the coast of Africa opposite Andalusia and Granada.
NOVEL VIII.
--
The 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 neck
with shame, half sobbing, trembling in every limb, and 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 IX.
--
Bernabo 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 Bernabo 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 Philomena, 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, Bernabo 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 Bernabo 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. Bernabo 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, Bernabo, 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 Bernabo 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 Bernabo 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, Bernabo, 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." Bernabo
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 Bernabo 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 Bernabo 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 Bernabo'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 Bernabo 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
Bernabo, and the wager to which it had given occasion, he told Bernabo 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. Bernabo
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 Bernabo 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 Bernabo, 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. Bernabo 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 Bernabo Lomellin, who prayed me to keep them as a token of her
love. I smiled just now to think of the folly of Bernabo, 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 Bernabo, 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; Bernabo 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 Bernabo being come, and further
delay inexpedient, she seized her opportunity, and persuaded the Soldan to
cite Ambrogiuolo and Bernabo before him, that in Bernabo's presence
Ambrogiuolo might be examined of his boast touching Bernabo's wife, and the
truth hereof, if not to be had from him by gentle means, be elicited by
torture. So the Soldan, having Ambrogiuolo and Bernabo before him, amid a
great concourse of his people questioned Ambrogiuolo of the five thousand
florins of gold that he had won from Bernabo, 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 Bernabo 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 Bernabo and said:--"And thy wife, thus
falsely accused, what treatment did she meet with at thy hands?"
"Mortified," said Bernabo, "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. Bernabo, 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 Bernabo the life which he had forfeited; and she, when Bernabo
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 X.
--
Paganino 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 Bernabo (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,(1) 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(2) 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 laugh, 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 encaenia 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:(3) 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 baton? 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 Bernabo in his altercation with
Ambrogiuolo rode the goat downhill.(4)
(1) A strong white wine.
(2) The saying went, that owing to the multitude of churches at Ravenna
every day was there a saint's day.
(3) A poor jeu de mots, mortaio, mortar, being substituted for mortale.
(4) I.e. argued preposterously, the goat being the last animal to carry a
rider comfortably downhill.
This 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 Bernabo 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 soul 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.
--
Endeth 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.
--
The 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,(1) 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 levee; 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.
(1) I.e. midway between prime and tierce, about 7:30 a.m.
NOVEL I.
--
Masetto 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 II.
--
A 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 horse--
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 III.
--
Under 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 IV.
--
Dom 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 casolan(1) 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, 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.
(1) Perhaps from Casoli, near Naples.
NOVEL V.
--
Zima 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 podesta, 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,(1) 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 podesta, 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.
(1) 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."
NOVEL VI.
--
Ricciardo 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:Ÿ-"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 VII.
--
Tedaldo, 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 I know it was so, what
justification had you for thus harshly severing 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 they give them, they would be more apt to keep them to themselves, 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 longsuffering, 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 longsuffering, 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?(1) 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 halfwitted
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 sclavine(2) 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 hat, 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, not 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 awhile, 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.
(1) 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.
(2) Schiavina, Low Lat. sclavina, the long coarse frock worn, among others,
by palmers.
NOVEL VIII.
--
Ferondo, 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
hearts 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 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.(1) 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 Braghiello(2) 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.
(1) 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.
(2) Derisively for Agnolo Gabriello (the h having merely the effect of
preserving the hardness of the g before i), i. e. Angel Gabriel.
NOVEL IX.
--
Gillette 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
throng 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 X.
--
Alibech 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 Capsa(1) 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 palm-leaves; 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. Whereupon Rustico, seeing her
so fair, felt an accession of desire, and therewith came an insurgence of
the flesh, which Alibech marking with surprise, said:--"Rustico, what is
this, which I see thee have, that so protrudes, and which I have not?" "Oh!
my daughter," said Rustico, "'tis the Devil of whom I have told thee: and,
seest thou? he is now tormenting me most grievously, insomuch that I am
scarce able to hold out." Then:--"Praise be to God," said the girl, "I see
that I am in better case than thou, for no such Devil have I." "Sooth sayst
thou," returned Rustico; "but instead of him thou hast somewhat else that I
have not." "Oh!" said Alibech, "what may that be?" "Hell," answered Rustico:
"and I tell thee, that 'tis my belief that God has sent thee hither for the
salvation of my soul; seeing that, if this Devil shall continue to plague me
thus, then, so thou wilt have compassion on me and permit me to put him in
hell, thou wilt both afford me great and exceeding great solace, and render
to God an exceeding most acceptable service, if, as thou sayst, thou art
come into these parts for such a purpose." In good faith the girl made
answer:--"As I have hell to match your Devil, be it, my father, as and when
you will." Whereupon:--"Bless thee, my daughter," said Rustico, "go we then,
and put him there, that he leave me henceforth in peace." Which said, he
took the girl to one of the beds and taught her the posture in which she
must lie in order to incarcerate this spirit accursed of God. The girl,
having never before put any devil in hell, felt on this first occasion a
twinge of pain: wherefore she said to Rustico:--"Of a surety, my father, he
must be a wicked fellow, this devil, and in very truth a foe to God; for
there is sorrow even in hell--not to speak of other places--when he is put
there." "Daughter," said Rustico, "'twill not be always so." And for better
assurance thereof they put him there six times before they quitted the bed;
whereby they so thoroughly abased his pride that he was fain to be quiet.
However, the proud fit returning upon him from time to time, and the girl
addressing herself always obediently to its reduction, it so befell that she
began to find the game agreeable, and would say to Rustico:--"Now see I
plainly that 'twas true, what the worthy men said at Capsa, of the service
of God being so delightful: indeed I cannot remember that in aught that ever
I did I had so much pleasure, so much solace, as in putting the Devil in
hell; for which cause I deem it insensate folly on the part of any one to
have a care to aught else than the service of God." Wherefore many a time
she would come to Rustico, and say to him:--"My father, 'twas to serve God
that I came hither, and not to pass my days in idleness: go we then, and put
the Devil in hell." And while they did so, she would now and again say:--"I
know not, Rustico, why the Devil should escape from hell; were he but as
ready to stay there as hell is to receive and retain him, he would never
come out of it." So, the girl thus frequently inviting and exhorting Rustico
to the service of God, there came at length a time when she had so
thoroughly lightened his doublet that he shivered when another would have
sweated; wherefore he began to instruct her that the Devil was not to be
corrected and put in hell, save when his head was exalted with pride;
adding, "and we by God's grace have brought him to so sober a mind that he
prays God he may be left in peace;" by which means he for a time kept the
girl quiet. But when she saw that Rustico had no more occasion for her to
put the Devil in hell, she said to him one day:--"Rustico, if thy Devil is
chastened and gives thee no more trouble, my hell, on the other hand, gives
me no peace; wherefore, I with my hell have holpen thee to abase the pride
of thy Devil, so thou wouldst do well to lend me the aid of thy Devil to
allay the fervent heat of my hell." Rustico, whose diet was roots of herbs
and water, was scarce able to respond to her demands: he told her that
'twould require not a few devils to allay the heat of hell; but that he
would do what might be in his power; and so now and again he satisfied her;
but so seldom that 'twas as if he had tossed a bean into the jaws of a lion.
Whereat the girl, being fain of more of the service of God than she had, did
somewhat repine. 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.
(1) Now Gafsa, in Tunis.
A 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."(1) 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 Vergiu.(2) 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 a 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.
(1) I.e. when you were so emaciated that your bones made music like a
skeleton in the wind.
(2) 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, Journee
vii. Nouvelle lxx.
--
Endeth 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.
--
Dearest 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 well." 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 I.
--
Tancred, 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 II.
--
Fra Alberto gives a lady to understand 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 greatest(1) 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 took 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."(2) 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.
(1) de' maggior cassesi. No such word as cassesi is known to the
lexicographers or commentators; and no plausible emendation has yet been
suggested.
(2) With this ineptitude cf. the friar's "flowers and roses " on the
preceding page.
NOVEL III.
--
Three 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 third 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 merrymaking, 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 evil-disposed 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 IV.
--
Gerbino, 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,(1) 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;(2) 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 oft times
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.
(1) First, according to the now accepted reckoning. He reigned from 1154 to
1166.
(2) An anachronism; the Moorish kingdom of Granada not having been founded
until 1238.
NOVEL V.
--
Lisabetta'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.(1)
(1) 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!(1)
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 console!
Ounces(2) an hundred of fine gold have I:
Him would I give the whole,
Ay, and a kiss to boot, so he were fain.
(1) This stanza is defective in the original.
(2) The "oncia" was a Sicilian gold coin worth rather more than a zecchino.
NOVEL VI.
--
Andreuola loves Gabriotto: she tells him a dream that she has had; he tells
her a dream of his own, and dies suddenly in her arms. While she and her
maid 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 Podesta,
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 Podesta'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 Podesta 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 Podesta 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 Podesta had to say, he required him
peremptorily to give him back his daughter. The Podesta, 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 Podesta 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 VII.
--
Simona 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 Podesta: 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 VIII.
--
Girolamo 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 with out 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 IX.
--
Sieur 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 Provencals 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;(1) 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.
(1) Boccaccio writes Guardastagno, but the troubadour, Cabestaing, or
Cabestany, is the hero of the story.
NOVEL X.
--
The 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 evil-
liver, '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 Stadic(1) 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 sleepy
head; 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.
(1) The Neapolitan term for the chief of police.
Heartsore 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.
END OF VOL. 1.
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Decameron, Volume I
by Giovanni Boccaccio
The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Decameron, Vol. II., by Giovanni Boccaccio
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Title: The Decameron, Vol. II.
Author: Giovanni Boccaccio
Release Date: August 3, 2004 [EBook #13102]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DECAMERON, VOL. II. ***
Produced by Donna Holsten
THE DECAMERON
OF
GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO
Faithfully Translated
By J.M. Rigg
with illustrations by Louis Chalon
VOLUME II
CONTENTS
- FIFTH DAY -
NOVEL I. - Cimon, 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.
NOVEL II. - Gostanza 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.
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.
NOVEL IV. - Ricciardo Manardi is found by Messer Lizio da Valbona with
his daughter, whom he marries, and remains at peace with her father.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
- SIXTH DAY -
NOVEL I. - A knight offers to carry Madonna Oretta a horseback with a
story, but tells it so ill that she prays him to dismount her.
NOVEL II. - Cisti, 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.
NOVEL III. - Monna Nonna de' Pulci by a ready retort silences the scarce
seemly jesting of the Bishop of Florence.
NOVEL IV. - Chichibio, 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.
NOVEL V. - Messer Forese da Rabatta and Master Giotto, the painter,
journeying together from Mugello, deride one another's scurvy appearance.
NOVEL VI. - Michele Scalza proves to certain young men that the Baronci
are the best gentlemen in the world and the Maremma, and wins a supper.
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.
NOVEL VIII. - Fresco admonishes his niece not to look at herself in the
glass, if 'tis, as she says, grievous to her to see nasty folk.
NOVEL IX. - Guido Cavalcanti by a quip meetly rebukes certain Florentine
gentlemen who had taken him at a disadvantage.
NOVEL X. - Fra 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.
- SEVENTH DAY -
NOVEL I. - Gianni Lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door at night: he
awakens his wife, who persuades him that 'tis the bogey, which they fall
to exorcising with a prayer; whereupon the knocking ceases.
NOVEL II. - Her 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 set 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.
NOVEL III. - Fra 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.
NOVEL IV. - Tofano 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.
NOVEL V. - A 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.
NOVEL VI. - Madonna 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.
NOVEL VII. - Lodovico 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.
NOVEL VIII. - A 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.
NOVEL IX. - Lydia, 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.
NOVEL X. - Two 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.
- EIGHTH DAY -
NOVEL I. - Gulfardo 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.
NOVEL II. - The 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.
NOVEL III. - Calandrino, 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.
NOVEL IV. - The 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.
NOVEL V. - Three young men pull down the breeches of a judge from the
Marches, while he is administering justice on the bench.
NOVEL VI. - Bruno 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.
NOVEL VII. - A 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.
NOVEL VIII. - Two 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.
NOVEL IX. - Bruno 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.
NOVEL X. - A 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.
- NINTH DAY -
NOVEL I. - Madonna 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.
NOVEL II. - An 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.
NOVEL III. - Master 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.
NOVEL IV. - Cecco, 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.
NOVEL V. - Calandrino 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.
NOVEL VI. - Two 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.
NOVEL VII. - Talano 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.
NOVEL VIII. - Biondello gulls Ciacco in the matter of a breakfast: for
which prank Ciacco is cunningly avenged on Biondello, causing him to be
shamefully beaten.
NOVEL IX. - Two 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.
NOVEL X. - Dom 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.
- TENTH DAY -
NOVEL I. - A 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.
NOVEL II. - Ghino 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.
NOVEL III. - Mitridanes, holding Nathan in despite by reason of his
courtesy, journey 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.
NOVEL IV. - Messer 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.
NOVEL V. - Madonna 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 tale nought of his.
NOVEL VI. - King 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.
NOVEL VII. - King 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.
NOVEL VIII. - Sophronia, albeit she deems herself wife to Gisippus, is
wife to Titus Quintius 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.
NOVEL IX. - Saladin, 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.
NOVEL X. - The 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.
ILLUSTRATIONS TO THE DECAMERON
VOLUME II
Pietro and Agnolella (fifth day, third story)
Gianni and Restituta (fifth day, sixth story)
Calandrino singing (ninth day, fifth story)
Titus, Gisippus, and Sophronia (tenth day, eighth story)
--
Endeth 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.
--
All 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,(1) 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.
(1) A song accompanied by music, but without dancing.
NOVEL I.
--
Cimon, 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)(1) 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 of 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.
(1) One of the augmentative forms of bestia.
NOVEL II.
--
Gostanza 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,(1) 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.
(1) In reference to the forlorn condition of the city while the seat of
the papacy was at Avignon, 1308-1377.
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 of 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 majordomo, 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
betide 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.
Dioneo'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.'"(1) "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.
(1) The song is evidently amoebean.
--
Endeth 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.
--
Still 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 neighbourhood 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 I.
--
A 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,(1) 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.
(1) Cf. First Day, Novel X.
NOVEL II.
--
Cisti, 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 conge, 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 III.
--
Monna 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 popolins(1) 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,(2)
and took note of the ladies, the bishop espied a young gentlewoman, 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.
(1) A coin of the same size and design as the fiorino d'oro, but worth
only two soldi.
(2) A sort of horse-race still in vogue at Siena.
NOVEL IV.
--
Chichibio, 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 he might 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, "Oho!" 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 V.
--
Messer 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 bide
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 Baroncio(1) 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.
(1) The 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.
NOVEL VI.
--
Michele 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,(1) and all that know them as I do; and lest
you should otherwise conceive me, I say that 'tis of your neighbours the
Baronci(2) 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.
(1) In the Italian fisofoli: an evidently intentional distortion.
(2) Villani, Istorie Fiorentine, iv. cap. ix., and Dante, Paradiso, xvi.
104, spell the name Barucci.
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 gentlewoman, 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 Podesta, and with a composed air and unfaltering voice asked
whereof he would interrogate her. The Podesta, 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 Podesta'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 Podesta 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 VIII.
--
Fresco 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 other women.
And so she remained, and yet remains, hidebound in her folly.
NOVEL IX.
--
Guido 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 X.
--
Fra 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 Cipolla(1)--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,(2) whom some called by way of addition Balena,(3)
others Imbratta,(4) others again Porco,(5) and who was such a rascallion
that sure it is that Lippo Topo(6) 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,(7) 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,(8) 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 Chatillon, 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,(9) and thence on
horseback the realm of Algarve,(10) and so by Baldacca(11) I came to
Parione,(12) whence, somewhat athirst, I after a while got on to
Sardinia.(13) 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 Truffia(14) and Buffia,(15) countries thickly populated and
with great nations, whence I pursued my journey to Menzogna,(16) 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 coin(17) 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;(18) and a little further on I found folk that carried
bread in staves and wine in sacks.(19) And leaving them, I arrived at the
mountains of the Bachi,(20) where all the waters run downwards. In short
I penetrated so far that I came at last to India Pastinaca,(21) where I
swear to you by the habit that I wear, that I saw pruning-hooks(22) 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,(23) 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,(24) 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 acclivities(25) 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 I 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.
(1) Onion.
(2) Diminutive of Arriguccio.
(3) Whale.
(4) Filth.
(5) Hog.
(6) The works of this painter seem to be lost.
(7) One of the humorous ineptitudes of which Boccaccio is fond.
(8) An abbey near Lucca famous for its doles of broth.
(9) 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.
(10) 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.
(11) A famous tavern in Florence. Florio, Vocab. Ital. e Ingl., ed
Torriano, 1659.
(12) A "borgo" in Florence. Villani, Istorie Fiorentine, iv. 7.
(13) A suburb of Florence on the Arno, ib. ix. 256.
(14) The land of Cajolery.
(15) The land of Drollery.
(16) The land of Lies.
(17) I.e. in false promises: suggested by Dante's Pagando di moneta senza
conio. Parad. xxix. 126.
(18) A reference to sausage-making.
(19) I.e. cakes fashioned in a hollow ring, and wines in leathern
bottles.
(20) Grubs.
(21) In allusion to the shapeless fish, so called, which was proverbially
taken as a type of the outlandish.
(22) A jeu de mots, "pennati," pruning-hooks, signifying also feathered,
though "pennuti" is more common in that sense.
(23) Takemenottotaskanitlikeyou.
(24) Fatti alle finestre, a subterfuge for factum est.
(25) Piagge, jocularly for pagine: doubtless some mighty tome of school
divinity is meant.
Immense 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 fruitbearing 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 of 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.
--
Endeth 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.
--
Fled 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 I.
--
Gianni Lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door at night: he awakens his
wife, who persuades 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 bad 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 II.
--
Her 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 III.
--
Fra 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.(1)
(1) The statue would doubtless be that of St. Ambrose of Siena, of the
Dominican Order.
NOVEL IV.
--
Tofano 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 V.
--
A 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 VI.
--
Madonna 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
gladsome a 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 VII.
--
Lodovico 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 satisfaction.
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 VIII.
--
A 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 pack-thread 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 IX.
--
Lydia, 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
strange man, 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 sparrow-hawk. 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 X.
--
Two 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.
The 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
yourself(1) 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.
(1) A play upon laurea (laurel wreath) and Lauretta.
--
Endeth 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.
--
The 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 I.
--
Gulfardo 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.(1)
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.
(1) Cf. Sixth Day, Novel VII.
NOVEL II.
--
The 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,(1) 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.
(1) For this folk-song see Cantilene e Ballate, Strambotti e Madrigali,
ed. Carducci (1871), p. 60. The fragment there printed maybe 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.
NOVEL III.
--
Calandrino, 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,(1) 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 of 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.
(1) A sort of rissole.
NOVEL IV.
--
The 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 hip-shot 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.(1) 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.
(1) An augmentative form, with a suggestion of cagnazza, bitch-like.
NOVEL V.
--
Three 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.(1) Now one of these Marchers, being come hither as
Podesta, 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 dais on which Master Judge was
seated, they observed that 'twas easy enough to get under the dais, 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 dais, 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 Podesta, 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.
(1) It was owing to their internal dissensions that the Florentines were
from time to time fain to introduce these stranger Podestas.
NOVEL VI.
--
Bruno 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
if 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 VII.
--
A 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 panted
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.(1)
Wherefore, my ladies, have a care how you flout men, and more especially
scholars.
(1) I.e. are a match for the Devil himself in cunning.
NOVEL VIII.
--
Two 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,(1) 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 lief 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.
(1) A suburb of Siena.
NOVEL IX.
--
Bruno 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 stripe(1) 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,(2) 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,(3) 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 artargutically(4) 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 bagattines(5) 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
Podesta 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 thy 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;(6) 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,(7) 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.(8) 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,(9) Don Meta,(10) Manico di
Scopa,(11) Squacchera,(12) 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 headforemost 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.
(1) The distinguishing mark of a doctor in those days. Fanfani, Vocab.
della Lingua Italiana, 1891, "Batolo."
(2) Perhaps an allusion to some frightful picture.
(3) About four miles from Florence.
(4) In the Italian "artagoticamente," a word of Boccaccio's own minting.
(5) A Venetian coin of extremely low value, being reckoned as 1/4 of the
Florentine quattrino.
(6) I.e. without salt, that Florentine symbol of wit, not being so
readily procurable on a holiday as on working-days.
(7) A public sink at Florence.
(8) In the contado of Arezzo: the equivoque is tolerably obvious.
(9) Slang for an ill-kept jakes.
(10) Also slang: signifying a pyramidal pile of ordure.
(11) Broom-handle.
(12) The meaning of this term may perhaps be divined from the sound.
NOVEL X.
--
A 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, Niccolo 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 nanfa(1) 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,(2) 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 lief; 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 tend 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.
(1) Neither the Vocab. degli Accad. della Crusca nor the Ricchezze
attempts to define the precise nature of this scent, which Fanfani
identifies with that of the orange-blossom.
(2) I.e. with a sort of musical boxes in the shape of birds.
No 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, endeavouring 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.
--
Endeth 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.
--
The luminary, before whose splendour the night takes wing, had already
changed the eighth heaven(1) from azure to the lighter blue,(2) 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:--
(1) I.e. in the Ptolemaic system, the region of the fixed stars.
(2) 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.
NOVEL I.
--
Madonna 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 II.
--
An 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 III.
--
Master 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, of 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;(1) 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 Scimmione(2) 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.
(1) I.e. bolts of clay for the cross-bow.
(2) I.e. great ape: with a play on Simone.
NOVEL IV.
--
Cecco, 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 forthwith, 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 V.
--
Calandrino 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.
Niccolo 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 Niccolo'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 hauling 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 VI.
--
Two 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 VII.
--
Talano 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 VIII.
--
Biondello 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 IX.
--
Two 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 X.
--
Dom 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 good-fellowship 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.
What 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.
--
Endeth 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.
--
Some 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 I.
--
A 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 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 II.
--
Ghino 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 III.
--
Mitridanes, 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 horrid 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 IV.
--
Messer 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
Podesta. 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 V.
--
Madonna 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 that, 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 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 VI.
--
King 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 VII.
--
King 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 clasped 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 enamoured,
Never hast thou, O Love, my fearful heart
With any such fond hope encouraged,
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 environed,
And grew enamoured
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, Ceffalu 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 VIII.
--
Sophronia, albeit she deems herself wife to Gisippus, is wife to Titus
Quintius 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 wholehearted 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? 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 IX.
--
Saladin, 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 X.
--
The 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 wise 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.
So 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.
THE AUTHOR'S EPILOGUE.
Most noble damsels, for whose solace I addressed me to this long and
toilsome task, meseems that, aided by the Divine grace, the bestowal
whereof I impute to the efficacy of your pious prayers, and in no wise to
merits of mine, I have now brought this work to the full and perfect
consummation which in the outset thereof I promised you. Wherefore, it
but remains for me to render, first to God, and then to you, my thanks,
and so to give a rest to my pen and weary hand. But this I purpose not to
allow them, until, briefly, as to questions tacitly mooted--for well
assured I am that these stories have no especial privilege above any
others, nay, I forget not that at the beginning of the Fourth Day I have
made the same plain--I shall have answered certain trifling objections
that one of you, maybe, or some other, might advance. Peradventure, then,
some of you will be found to say that I have used excessive license in
the writing of these stories, in that I have caused ladies at times to
tell, and oftentimes to list, matters that, whether to tell or to list,
do not well beseem virtuous women. The which I deny, for that there is
none of these stories so unseemly, but that it may without offence be
told by any one, if but seemly words be used; which rule, methinks, has
here been very well observed. But assume we that 'tis even so (for with
you I am not minded to engage in argument, witting that you would
vanquish me), then, I say that for answer why I have so done, reasons
many come very readily to hand. In the first place, if aught of the kind
in any of these stories there be, 'twas but such as was demanded by the
character of the stories, which let but any person of sound judgment scan
with the eye of reason, and 'twill be abundantly manifest that, unless I
had been minded to deform them, they could not have been otherwise
recounted. And if, perchance, they do, after all, contain here and there
a trifling indiscretion of speech, such as might ill sort with one of
your precious prudes, who weigh words rather than deeds, and are more
concerned to appear, than to be, good, I say that so to write was as
permissible to me, as 'tis to men and women at large in their converse to
make use of such terms as hole, and pin, and mortar, and pestle, and
sausage, and polony, and plenty more besides of a like sort. And
therewithal privilege no less should be allowed to my pen than to the
pencil of the painter, who without incurring any, or at least any just,
censure, not only will depict St. Michael smiting the serpent, or St.
George the dragon, with sword or lance at his discretion; but male he
paints us Christ, and female Eve, and His feet that for the salvation of
our race willed to die upon the cross he fastens thereto, now with one,
now with two nails.
Moreover, 'tis patent to all that 'twas not in the Church, of matters
whereto pertaining 'tis meet we speak with all purity of heart and
seemliness of phrase, albeit among her histories there are to be found
not a few that will ill compare with my writings; nor yet in the schools
of the philosophers, where, as much as anywhere, seemliness is demanded,
nor in any place where clergy or philosophers congregate, but in gardens,
in pleasaunces, and among folk, young indeed, but not so young as to be
seducible by stories, and at a time when, if so one might save one's
life, the most sedate might without disgrace walk abroad with his
breeches for headgear, that these stories were told. Which stories, such
as they are, may, like all things else, be baneful or profitable
according to the quality of the hearer. Who knows not that wine is, as
Cinciglione and Scolaio(1) and many another aver, an excellent thing for
the living creature, and yet noxious to the fevered patient? Are we, for
the mischief it does to the fever-stricken, to say that 'tis a bad thing?
Who knows not that fire is most serviceable, nay, necessary, to mortals?
Are we to say that, because it burns houses and villages and cities, it
is a bad thing? Arms, in like manner, are the safeguard of those that
desire to live in peace, and also by them are men not seldom maliciously
slain, albeit the malice is not in them, but in those that use them for a
malicious purpose. Corrupt mind did never yet understand any word in a
wholesome sense; and as such a mind has no profit of seemly words, so
such as are scarce seemly may as little avail to contaminate a healthy
mind as mud the radiance of the sun, or the deformities of earth the
splendours of the heavens. What books, what words, what letters, are more
sacred, more excellent, more venerable, than those of Holy Writ? And yet
there have been not a few that, perversely construing them, have brought
themselves and others to perdition. Everything is in itself good for
somewhat, and being put to a bad purpose, may work manifold mischief. And
so, I say, it is with my stories. If any man shall be minded to draw from
them matters of evil tendency or consequence, they will not gainsay him,
if, perchance, such matters there be in them, nor will such matters fail
to be found in them, if they be wrested and distorted. Nor, if any shall
seek profit and reward in them, will they deny him the same; and censured
or accounted as less than profitable and seemly they can never be, if the
times or the persons when and by whom they are read be such as when they
were recounted. If any lady must needs say paternosters or make cakes or
tarts for her holy father, let her leave them alone; there is none after
whom they will run a begging to be read: howbeit, there are little
matters that even the beguines tell, ay, and do, now and again.
In like manner there will be some who will say that there are stories
here which 'twere better far had been omitted. Granted; but 'twas neither
in my power, nor did it behove me, to write any but such stories as were
narrated; wherefore, 'twas for those by whom they were told to have a
care that they were proper; in which case they would have been no less so
as I wrote them. But, assuming that I not only wrote but invented the
stories, as I did not, I say that I should take no shame to myself that
they were not all proper; seeing that artist there is none to be found,
save God, that does all things well and perfectly. And Charlemagne,
albeit he created the Paladins, wist not how to make them in such numbers
as to form an army of them alone. It must needs be that in the multitude
of things there be found diversities of quality. No field was ever so
well tilled but that here and there nettle, or thistle, or brier would be
found in it amid the goodlier growths. Whereto I may add that, having to
address me to young and unlearned ladies, as you for the most part are, I
should have done foolishly, had I gone about searching and swinking to
find matters very exquisite, and been sedulous to speak with great
precision. However, whoso goes a reading among these stories, let him
pass over those that vex him, and read those that please him. That none
may be misled, each bears on its brow the epitome of that which it hides
within its bosom.
Again, I doubt not there will be such as will say that some of the
stories are too long. To whom, once more, I answer, that whoso has aught
else to do would be foolish to read them, albeit they were short. And
though, now that I approach the end of my labours, 'tis long since I
began to write, I am not, therefore, oblivious that 'twas to none but
leisured ladies that I made proffer of my pains; nor can aught be long to
him that reads but to pass the time, so only he thereby accomplish his
purpose. Succinctness were rather to be desired by students, who are at
pains not merely to pass, but usefully to employ, their time, than by
you, who have as much time at your disposal as you spend not in amorous
delights. Besides which, as none of you goes either to Athens, or to
Bologna, or to Paris to study, 'tis meet that what is meant for you
should be more diffuse than what is to be read by those whose minds have
been refined by scholarly pursuits.
Nor make I any doubt but there are yet others who will say that the said
stories are too full of jests and merry conceits, and that it ill beseems
a man of weight and gravity to have written on such wise. To these I am
bound to render, and do render, my thanks, for that, prompted by
well-meant zeal, they have so tender a regard to my reputation. But to
that, which they urge against me, I reply after this sort:--That I am of
weight I acknowledge, having been often weighed in my time; wherefore, in
answer to the fair that have not weighed me, I affirm that I am not of
gravity; on the contrary I am so light that I float on the surface of the
water; and considering that the sermons which the friars make, when they
would chide folk for their sins, are to-day, for the most part, full of
jests and merry conceits, and drolleries, I deemed that the like stuff
would not ill beseem my stories, written, as they were, to banish women's
dumps. However, if thereby they should laugh too much, they may be
readily cured thereof by the Lament of Jeremiah, the Passion of the
Saviour, or the Complaint of the Magdalen.
And who shall question but that yet others there are who will say that I
have an evil tongue and venomous, because here and there I tell the truth
about the friars? Now for them that so say there is forgiveness, for that
'tis not to be believed but that they have just cause; seeing that the
friars are good folk, and eschew hardship for the love of God, and grind
intermittently, and never blab; and, were they not all a trifle
malodorous, intercourse with them would be much more agreeable.
Nevertheless, I acknowledge that the things of this world have no
stability, but are ever undergoing change; and this may have befallen my
tongue, albeit, no great while ago, one of my fair neighbours--for in
what pertains to myself I trust not my own judgment, but forgo it to the
best of my power--told me 'twas the goodliest and sweetest tongue in the
world; and in sooth, when this occurred, few of the said stories were yet
to write; nor, for that those who so tax me do it despitefully, am I
minded to vouchsafe them any further answer.
So, then, be every lady at liberty to say and believe whatever she may
think fit: but 'tis now time for me to bring these remarks to a close,
with humble thanks to Him, by whose help and guidance I, after so long
travail, have been brought to the desired goal. And may you, sweet my
ladies, rest ever in His grace and peace; and be not unmindful of me, if,
peradventure, any of you may, in any measure, have been profited by
reading these stories.
(1) Noted topers of the day.
--
Endeth here the tenth and last day of the book called Decameron,
otherwise Prince Galeotto.
--
THE END.
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