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  • The Project Gutenberg EBook of La Fiammetta, by Giovanni Boccaccio
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  • Title: La Fiammetta
  • Author: Giovanni Boccaccio
  • Release Date: November 7, 2003 [EBook #10006]
  • Language: English
  • *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LA FIAMMETTA ***
  • Produced by Ted Garvin, Dave Morgan and PG Distributed Proofreaders
  • LA FIAMMETTA
  • BY
  • GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO
  • TRANSLATED BY JAMES C. BROGAN
  • 1907.
  • INTRODUCTION
  • Youth, beauty, and love, wit, gayety and laughter, are the component
  • parts of the delightful picture conjured up by the mere name of Giovanni
  • Boccaccio, the prince of story-tellers for all generations of men. This
  • creator of a real literary epoch was born in Paris, in 1313, (in the
  • eleventh year of Dante's exile), of an Italian father and a French-woman
  • of good family. His father was a merchant of Florence, whither he
  • returned with his son when the child was seven years old. The boy
  • received some education, but was placed in a counting-house when he was
  • only thirteen, and at seventeen he was sent by his father to Naples to
  • enter another commercial establishment. But he disliked commerce, and
  • finally persuaded his father to allow him to study law for two years at
  • the University of Naples, during which period the lively and attractive
  • youth made brisk use of his leisure time in that gay and romantic city,
  • where he made his way into the highest circles of society, and
  • unconsciously gleaned the material for the rich harvest of song and
  • story that came with his later years. At this time he was present at the
  • coronation of the poet Petrarch in the Capitol, and was fired with
  • admiration for the second greatest poet of that day. He chose Petrarch
  • for his model and guide, and in riper manhood became his most intimate
  • friend.
  • By the time he was twenty-five, Boccaccio had fallen in love with the
  • Lady Maria, a natural daughter of King Robert of Naples, who had caused
  • her to be adopted as a member of the family of the Count d'Aquino, and
  • to be married when very young to a Neapolitan nobleman. Boccaccio first
  • saw her in the Church of San Lorenzo on the morning of Easter eve, in
  • 1338, and their ensuing friendship was no secret to their world. For the
  • entertainment of this youthful beauty he wrote his _Filicopo_, and the
  • fair Maria is undoubtedly the heroine of several of his stories and
  • poems. His father insisted upon his return to Florence in 1340, and
  • after he had settled in that city he occupied himself seriously with
  • literary work, producing, between the years 1343 and 1355, the _Teseide_
  • (familiar to English readers as "The Knight's Tale" in Chaucer,
  • modernized by Dryden as "Palamon and Arcite"), _Ameto, Amorosa Visione,
  • La Fiammetta, Ninfale Fiesolona_, and his most famous work, the
  • _Decameron_, a collection of stories written, it is said, to amuse Queen
  • Joanna of Naples and her court, during the period when one of the
  • world's greatest plagues swept over Europe in 1348. In these years he
  • rose from the vivid but confused and exaggerated manner of _Filocopo_ to
  • the perfection of polished literary style. The _Decameron_ fully
  • revealed his genius, his ability to weave the tales of all lands and all
  • ages into one harmonious whole; from the confused mass of legends of the
  • Middle Ages, he evolved a world of human interest and dazzling beauty,
  • fixed the kaleidoscopic picture of Italian society, and set it in the
  • richest frame of romance.
  • While he had the _Decameron_ still in hand, he paused in that great
  • work, with heart full of passionate longing for the lady of his love,
  • far away in Naples, to pour out his very soul in _La Fiammetta_, the
  • name by which he always called the Lady Maria. Of the real character of
  • this lady, so famous in literature, and her true relations with
  • Boccaccio, little that is certain is known. In several of his poems and
  • in the _Decameron_ he alludes to her as being cold as a marble statue,
  • which no fire can ever warm; and there is no proof, notwithstanding the
  • ardor of Fiammetta as portrayed by her lover--who no doubt wished her to
  • become the reality of his glowing picture--that he ever really received
  • from the charmer whose name was always on his lips anything more than
  • the friendship that was apparent to all the world. But she certainly
  • inspired him in the writing of his best works.
  • The best critics agree in pronouncing _La Fiammetta_ a marvelous
  • performance. John Addington Symonds says: "It is the first attempt in
  • any literature to portray subjective emotion exterior to the writer;
  • since the days of Virgil and Ovid, nothing had been essayed in this
  • region of mental analysis. The author of this extraordinary work proved
  • himself a profound anatomist of feeling by the subtlety with which he
  • dissected a woman's heart." The story is full of exquisite passages, and
  • it exercised a widespread and lasting influence over all the narrative
  • literature that followed it. It is so rich in material that it furnished
  • the motives of many tales, and the novelists of the sixteenth century
  • availed themselves freely of its suggestions.
  • After Boccaccio had taken up a permanent residence in Florence, he
  • showed a lively interest in her political affairs, and fulfilled all
  • the duties of a good citizen. In 1350 he was chosen to visit the lords
  • of various towns of Romagna, in order to engage their cooperation in a
  • league against the Visconti family, who, already lords of the great and
  • powerful city of Milan, desired to extend their domains beyond the
  • Apennines. In 1351 Boccaccio had the pleasure of bearing to the poet
  • Petrarch the news of the restoration of his rights of citizenship and of
  • his patrimony, both of which he had lost in the troubles of 1323, and
  • during this visit the two geniuses became friends for life. They delved
  • together into the literature of the ancients, and Boccaccio determined,
  • through the medium of translation, to make the work of the great Greek
  • writers a part of the liberal education of his countrymen. A knowledge
  • of Greek at that time was an exceedingly rare accomplishment, since the
  • serious study of living literatures was only just beginning, and the
  • Greek of Homer had been almost forgotten. Even Petrarch, whose erudition
  • was marvelous, could not read a copy of the _Iliad_ that he possessed.
  • Boccaccio asked permission of the Florentine Government to establish a
  • Greek professorship in the University of Florence, and persuaded a
  • learned Calabrian, Leonzio Pilato, who had a perfect knowledge of
  • ancient Greek, to leave Venice and accept the professorship at Florence,
  • and lodged him in his own house. Together the Calabrian and the author
  • of _La Fiammetta_ and the _Decameron_ made a Latin translation of the
  • _Iliad_, which Boccaccio transcribed with his own hand. But his literary
  • enthusiasm was not confined to his own work and that of the ancients.
  • His soul was filled with a generous ardor of admiration for Dante;
  • through his efforts the Florentines were awakened to a true sense of the
  • merits of the sublime poet, so long exiled from his native city, and the
  • younger genius succeeded in persuading them to establish a professorship
  • in the University for the sole study of the _Divine Comedy_, he himself
  • being the first to occupy the chair, and writing a _Life of Dante_,
  • besides commentaries on the _Comedy_ itself.
  • Mainly through his intimacy with the spiritual mind of Petrarch,
  • Boccaccio's moral character gradually underwent a change from the
  • reckless freedom and unbridled love of pleasure into which he had easily
  • fallen among his associates in the court life at Naples. He admired the
  • delicacy and high standard of honor of his friend, and became awakened
  • to a sense of man's duty to the world and to himself. During the decade
  • following the year 1365 he occupied himself at his home in Certaldo,
  • near Florence, with various literary labors, often entertaining there
  • the great men of the world.
  • Petrarch's death occurred in 1374, and Boccaccio survived him but one
  • year, dying on the twenty-first of December, 1375. He was buried in
  • Certaldo, in the Church of San Michele e Giacomo.
  • That one city should have produced three such men as the great
  • triumvirate of the fourteenth century--Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio--and
  • that one half-century should have witnessed their successive triumphs,
  • is the greatest glory of Florence, and is one of the most notable facts
  • in the history of genius.
  • We quote once more from Symonds: "Dante brought the universe into his
  • _Divine Comedy_. 'But the soul of man, too, is a universe', and of this
  • inner microcosm Petrarch was the poet and genius. It remained for
  • Boccaccio to treat of daily life with an art as distinct and dazzling as
  • theirs. From Dante's Beatrice, through Petrarch's Laura, to Boccaccio's
  • La Fiammetta--from woman as an allegory of the noblest thoughts and
  • purest stirrings of the soul, through woman as the symbol of all beauty
  • worshiped at a distance, to woman as man's lover, kindling and
  • reciprocating the most ardent passion; from mystic, stately periods to
  • Protean prose; from verse built up into cathedral-like dignity, through
  • lyrics light as arabesques and pointed with the steely touch of polished
  • style, to that free form of speech which takes all moods and lends
  • itself alike to low or lofty things--such was the rapid movement of
  • Italian genius within the brief space of fifty years. So quickly did the
  • Renaissance emerge from the Middle Ages; and when the voices of that
  • august trio were silenced in the grave, their echoes ever widened and
  • grew louder through the spacious time to come."
  • No translation into English of _La Fiammetta_ has been made since
  • Shakespeare's time--when a small edition was published, which is now so
  • rare as to be practically unattainable--until the appearance of the
  • present Scholarly and poetic rendering, which places within the reach of
  • all one of the world's greatest masterpieces of literature.
  • D.K.R.
  • PROLOGUE
  • _Beginneth the Book called Elegy of Madonna Fiammetta, sent by her to
  • Ladies in Love._
  • When the wretched perceive or feel that their woes arouse compassion,
  • their longing to give vent to their anguish is thereby increased. And
  • so, since, from long usance, the cause of my anguish, instead of growing
  • less, has become greater, the wish has come to me, noble ladies--in
  • whose hearts, mayhap, abides a love more fortunate than mine--to win
  • your pity, if I may, by telling the tale of my sorrows. Nor is it at all
  • my intent that these my words should come to the ears of men. Nay,
  • rather would I, so far as lies in my power, withhold my complaints from
  • them; for, such bitterness has the discovery of the unkindness of one
  • man stirred in me, that, imagining all other men to be like him,
  • methinks I should be a witness of their mocking laughter rather than of
  • their pitying tears. You alone do I entreat to peruse my story, knowing
  • full well that you will feel with me, and that you have a pious concern
  • for others' pangs. Here you will not find Grecian fables adorned with
  • many lies, nor Trojan battles, foul with blood and gore, but amorous
  • sentiments fed with torturing desires. Here will appear before your very
  • eyes the dolorous tears, the impetuous sighs, the heart-breaking words,
  • the stormy thoughts, which have harrowed me with an ever-recurring goad,
  • and have torn away from me sleep and appetite and the pleasant times of
  • old, and my much-loved beauty. When you behold these things, and behold
  • them with the ardent feelings which ladies are wont to have, sure I am
  • that the cheeks of each separately, and of all when brought together,
  • will be bathed in tears, because of those ills which are alone the
  • occasion of my never-ending misery. Do not, I beseech you, refuse me
  • these tears, reflecting that your estate is unstable as well as mine,
  • and that, should it ever come to resemble mine (the which may God
  • forfend!), the tears that others shed for you will be pleasing to you in
  • return. And that the time may pass more rapidly in speaking than in,
  • weeping, I will do my best to fulfil my promise briefly, beginning with
  • that love which was more happy than lasting, so that, by comparing that
  • happiness with my present case, you may learn that I am now more unhappy
  • than any woman ever has been. And afterward I will trace with mournful
  • pen, as best I can, all the agonies which are justly the source of my
  • lamentations. But first, if the prayers of the wretched are heard, if
  • there is in Heaven any Deity whose holy mind can be touched with
  • compassion for me, afflicted as I am, bathed in my own tears, Him I
  • beseech to aid my despondent memory and support my trembling hand in its
  • present task. So may the tortures which I have felt and still feel in my
  • soul become fruitful, and the memory will suggest the words for them,
  • and the hand, more eager than apt for such duty, will write them down.
  • Chapter I
  • _Wherein the lady describes who she was, and by what signs her
  • misfortunes were foreshadowed, and at what time, and where, and in what
  • manner, and of whom she became enamored, with the description of the
  • ensuing delight._
  • In the time when the newly-vestured earth appears more lovely than
  • during all the rest of the year came I into the world, begotten of noble
  • parents and born amid the unstinted gifts of benignant fortune. Accursed
  • be the day, to me more hateful than any other, on which I was born! Oh,
  • how far more befitting would it have been had I never been born, or had
  • I been carried from that luckless womb to my grave, or had I possessed a
  • life not longer than that of the teeth sown by Cadmus, or had Atropos
  • cut the thread of my existence at the very hour when it had begun! Then,
  • in earliest childhood would have been entombed the limitless woes that
  • are the melancholy occasion of that which I am writing. But what boots
  • it to complain of this now? I am here, beyond doubt; and it has pleased
  • and even now pleases God that I should be here. Born and reared, then,
  • amid boundless affluence, I learned under a venerable mistress whatever
  • manners and refinements it beseems a demoiselle of high rank to know.
  • And as my person grew and developed with my increasing years, so also
  • grew and developed my beauty. Alas! even while a child, on hearing that
  • beauty acclaimed of many, I gloried therein, and cultivated it by
  • ingenious care and art. And when I had bidden farewell to childhood, and
  • had attained a riper age, I soon discovered that this, my beauty
  • --ill-fated gift for one who desires to live virtuously!--had power to
  • kindle amorous sparks in youths of my own age, and other noble persons
  • as well, being instructed thereupon by nature, and feeling that love can
  • be quickened in young men by beauteous ladies. And by divers looks and
  • actions, the sense of which I did but dimly discern at the time, did
  • these youths endeavor in numberless ways to kindle in my heart the fire
  • wherewith their own hearts glowed--fire that was destined, not to warm,
  • but rather to consume me also in the future more than it ever has burned
  • another woman; and by many of these young men was I sought in marriage
  • with most fervid and passionate entreaty. But after I had chosen among
  • them one who was in every respect congenial to me, this importunate
  • crowd of suitors, being now almost hopeless, ceased to trouble me with
  • their looks and attentions. I, therefore, being satisfied, as was meet,
  • with such a husband, lived most happily, so long as fervid love, lighted
  • by flames hitherto unfelt, found no entrance into my young soul. Alas! I
  • had no wish unsatisfied; nothing that could please me or any other lady
  • ever was denied me, even for a moment. I was the sole delight, the
  • peculiar felicity of a youthful spouse, and, just as he loved me, so did
  • I equally love him. Oh, how much happier should I have been than all
  • other women, if the love for him that was then in my heart had endured!
  • It was, then, while I was living in sweet content, amid every kind of
  • enjoyment, that Fortune, who quickly changes all things earthly,
  • becoming envious of the very gifts which she herself had bestowed,
  • withdrew her protecting hand. At first uncertain in what manner she
  • could succeed in poisoning my happiness, she at length managed, with
  • subtle craft, to make mine own very eyes traitors and so guide me into
  • the path that led to disaster. But the gods were still propitious to me,
  • nay, were even more concerned for my fate than I myself. Having seen
  • through her veiled malice, they wished to supply me with weapons, had I
  • but known how to avail me thereof, wherewith I might fend my breast,
  • and not go unarmed to the battle wherein I was destined to fall. Yea, on
  • the very night that preceded the day which was the beginning of all my
  • woes, they revealed to me the future in my sleep by means of a clear and
  • distinct vision, in such wise as follows:
  • While lying on my spacious couch, with all my limbs relaxed in deepest
  • slumber, I seemed to be filled with greater joy than I had ever felt
  • before, and wherefore I knew not. And the day whereon this happened was
  • the brightest and loveliest of days. I was standing alone in verdant
  • grass, when, with the joy whereof I spoke, came the thought to me that
  • it might be well for me to repose in a meadow that appeared to be
  • shielded from the fervid rays of the sun by the shadows cast by various
  • trees newly garbed in their glossy foliage. But first, gathering divers
  • flowers, wherewith the whole sward was bejeweled, I placed them, with my
  • white hands, in a corner of my robe, and then, sitting down and choosing
  • flower after flower, I wove therefrom a fair garland, and adorned my
  • head with it. And, being so adorned, I arose, and, like unto Proserpine
  • at what time Pluto ravished her from her mother, I went along singing in
  • this new springtime. Then, being perchance weary, I laid me down in a
  • spot where the verdure was deepest and softest. But, just as the tender
  • foot of Eurydice was pierced by the concealed viper, so meseemed that a
  • hidden serpent came upon me, as I lay stretched on the grass, and
  • pierced me under the left breast. The bite of the sharp fang, when it
  • first entered, seemed to burn me. But afterward, feeling somewhat
  • reassured, and yet afraid of something worse ensuing, I thought I
  • clasped the cold serpent to my bosom, fancying that by communicating to
  • it the warmth of that bosom, I should thereby render it more kindly
  • disposed in my regard in return for such a service. But the viper, made
  • bolder and more obdurate by that very favor, laid his hideous mouth on
  • the wound he had given me, and after a long space, and after it had
  • drunk much of my blood, methought that, despite my resistance, it drew
  • forth my soul; and then, leaving my breast, departed with it. And at the
  • very moment of the serpent's departure the day lost its brightness, and
  • a thick shadow came behind me and covered me all over, and the farther
  • the serpent crept, the more lowering grew the heavens, and it seemed
  • almost as if the reptile dragged after it in its course the masses of
  • thick, black clouds that appeared to follow in its wake, Not long
  • afterward, just as a white stone flung into deep water gradually
  • vanishes from the eyes of the beholder, so it, too, vanished from my
  • sight. Then the heavens became darker and darker, and I thought that the
  • sun had suddenly withdrawn and night had surely returned, as it had
  • erstwhile returned to the _Greeks_ because of the crime of Atrcus. Next,
  • flashes of lightning sped swiftly along the skies, and peals of crashing
  • thunder appalled the earth and me likewise. And through all, the wound
  • made in my breast by the bite of the serpent remained with me still, and
  • full of viperous poison; for no medicinal help was within my reach, so
  • that my entire body appeared to have swollen in a most foul and
  • disgusting manner. Whereupon I, who before this seemed to be without
  • life or motion--why, I do not know--feeling that the force of the venom
  • was seeking to reach my heart in divers subtle ways, now tossed and
  • rolled upon the cool grass, expecting death at any moment. But methought
  • that when the hour of my doom arrived, I was struck with terror at its
  • approach, and the anguish of my heart was so appalling, while looking
  • forward to its coming, that my inert body was convulsed with horror, and
  • so my deep slumber was suddenly broken. No sooner was I fully awake
  • than, being still alarmed by the things I had seen, I felt with my right
  • hand for the wound in my breast, searching at the present moment for
  • that which was already being prepared for my future misery. Finding that
  • no wound was there, I began to feel quite safe and even merry, and I
  • made a mock of the folly of dreams and of those who believe in them,
  • and so I rendered the work of the gods useless. Ah, wretched me! if I
  • mocked them then, I had good reason to believe in them afterward, to my
  • bitter sorrow and with the shedding of useless tears; good reason had I
  • also to complain of the gods, who reveal their secrets to mortals in
  • such mystic guise that the things that are to happen in the future can
  • hardly be said to be revealed at all. Being then fully awake, I raised
  • my drowsy head, and, as soon as I saw the light of the new-risen sun
  • enter my chamber, laying aside every other thought directly, I at once
  • left my couch.
  • That day, too, was a day of the utmost solemnity for almost everyone.
  • Therefore, attiring myself carefully in glittering cloth of gold, and
  • adorning every part of my person with deft and cunning hand, I made
  • ready to go to the August festival, appareled like unto the goddesses
  • seen by Paris in the vale of Ida. And, while I was lost in admiration of
  • myself, just as the peacock is of his plumage, imagining that the
  • delight which I took in my own appearance would surely be shared by all
  • who saw me, a flower from my wreath fell on the ground near the curtain
  • of my bed, I know not wherefore--perhaps plucked from my head by a
  • celestial hand by me unseen. But I, careless of the occult signs by
  • which the gods forewarn mortals, picked it up, replaced it on my head,
  • and, as if nothing portentous had happened, I passed out from my abode.
  • Alas! what clearer token of what was to befall me could the gods have
  • given me? This should have served to prefigure to me that my soul, once
  • free and sovereign of itself, was on that day to lay aside its
  • sovereignty and become a slave, as it betided. Oh, if my mind had not
  • been distempered, I should have surely known that to me that day would
  • be the blackest and direst of days, and I should have let it pass
  • without ever crossing the threshold of my home! But although the gods
  • usually hold forth signs whereby those against whom they are incensed
  • may be warned, they often deprive them of due understanding; and thus,
  • while pointing out the path they ought to follow, they at the same time
  • sate their own anger. My ill fortune, then, thrust me forth from my
  • house, vain and careless that I was; and, accompanied by several ladies,
  • I moved with slow step to the sacred temple, in which the solemn
  • function required by the day was already celebrating. Ancient custom, as
  • well as my noble estate, had reserved for me a prominent place among the
  • other ladies. When I was seated, my eyes, as was my habit of old,
  • quickly wandered around the temple, and I saw that it was crowded with
  • men and women, who were divided into separate groups. And no sooner was
  • it observed that I was in the temple than (even while the sacred office
  • was going on) that happened which had always happened at other times,
  • and not only did the men turn their eyes to gaze upon me, but the women
  • did the same, as if Venus or Minerva had newly descended from the skies,
  • and would never again be seen by them in that spot where I was seated.
  • Oh, how often I laughed within my own breast, being enraptured with
  • myself, and taking glory unto myself because of such things, just as if
  • I were a real goddess! And so, nearly all the young gentlemen left off
  • admiring the other ladies, and took their station around me, and
  • straightway encompassed me almost in the form of a complete circle; and,
  • while speaking in divers ways of my beauty, each finished his praises
  • thereof with well-nigh the same sentences. But I who, by turning my eyes
  • in another direction, showed that my mind was intent on other cares,
  • kept my ears attentive to their discourse and received therefrom much
  • delectable sweetness; and, as it seemed to me that I was beholden to
  • them for such pleasure, I sometimes let my eyes rest on them more kindly
  • and benignantly. And not once, but many times, did I perceive that some
  • of them, puffed up with vain hopes because of this, boasted foolishly of
  • it to their companions.
  • While I, then, in this way looked at a few, and that sparingly, I was
  • myself looked at by many, and that exceedingly, and while I believed
  • that my beauty was dazzling others, it came to pass that the beauty of
  • another dazzled me, to my great tribulation. And now, being already
  • close on the dolorous moment, which was fated to be the occasion either
  • of a most assured death or of a life of such anguish that none before me
  • has ever endured the like, prompted by I know not what spirit, I raised
  • my eyes with decent gravity, and surveyed with penetrating look the
  • crowds of young men who were standing near me. And I discerned, more
  • plainly than I saw any of the others, a youth who stood directly in
  • front of me, all alone, leaning against a marble column; and, being
  • moved thereto by irresistible fate, I began to take thought within my
  • mind of his bearing and manners, the which I had never before done in
  • the case of anyone else. I say, then, that, according to my judgment,
  • which was not at that time biased by love, he was most beautiful in
  • form, most pleasing in deportment, and apparently of an honorable
  • disposition. The soft and silky locks that fell in graceful curls beside
  • his cheeks afforded manifest proof of his youthfulness. The look
  • wherewith he eyed me seemed to beg for pity, and yet it was marked by
  • the wariness and circumspection usual between man and man. Sure I am
  • that I had still strength enough to turn away my eyes from his gaze, at
  • least for a time; but no other occurrence had power to divert my
  • attention from the things already mentioned, and upon which I had deeply
  • pondered. And the image of his form, which was already in my mind,
  • remained there, and this image I dwelt upon with silent delight,
  • affirming within myself that those things were true which seemed to me
  • to be true; and, pleased that he should look at me, I raised my eyes
  • betimes to see whether he was still looking at me. But anon I gazed at
  • him more steadily, making no attempt to avoid amorous snares. And when I
  • had fixed my eyes on his more intently than was my wont, methought I
  • could read in his eyes words which might be uttered in this wise:
  • "O lady, thou alone art mine only bliss!"
  • Certainly, if I should say that this idea was not pleasing to me, I
  • should surely lie, for it drew forth a gentle sigh from my bosom,
  • accompanied by these words: "And thou art mine!" unless, perchance, the
  • words were but the echo of his, caught by my mind and remaining within
  • it. But what availed it whether such words were spoken or not? The heart
  • had good understanding within itself of that which was not expressed by
  • the lips, and kept, too, within itself that which, if it had escaped
  • outside, might, mayhap, have left me still free. And so, from that time
  • forward, I gave more absolute liberty to my foolish eyes than ever they
  • had possessed before, and they were well content withal. And surely, if
  • the gods, who guide all things to a definite issue, had not deprived me
  • of understanding, I could still have been mistress of myself. But,
  • postponing every consideration to the last one that swayed me, I took
  • delight in following my unruly passion, and having made myself meet, all
  • at once, for such slavery, I became its thrall. For the fire that leaped
  • forth from his eyes encountered the light in mine, flashing thereunto a
  • most subtle ray. It did not remain content therewith, but, by what
  • hidden ways I know not, penetrated directly into the deepest recesses of
  • my heart; the which, affrighted by the sudden advent of this flame,
  • recalled to its center its exterior forces and left me as pale as
  • death, and also with the chill of death upon me. But not for long did
  • this continue, rather it happened contrariwise; and I felt my heart not
  • only glow with sudden beat, but its forces speeded back swiftly to their
  • places, bringing with them a throbbing warmth that chased away my pallor
  • and flushed my cheeks deeply; and, marveling wherefore this should
  • betide, I sighed heavily; nor thereafter was there other thought in my
  • soul than how I might please him.
  • In like fashion, he, without changing his place, continued to scrutinize
  • my features, but with the greatest caution; and, perhaps, having had
  • much practice in amorous warfare, and knowing by what devices the
  • longed-for prey might be captured, he showed himself every moment more
  • humble, more desperate, and more fraught with tender yearning. Alas! how
  • much guile did that seeming desperation hide, which, as the result has
  • now shown, though it may have come from the heart, never afterward
  • returned to the same, and made manifest later that its revealment on the
  • face was only a lure and a delusion! And, not to mention all his deeds,
  • each of which was full of most artful deception, he so wrought upon me
  • by his own craft, or else the fates willed it should so happen, that I
  • straightway found myself enmeshed in the snares of sudden and
  • unthought-of love, in a manner beyond all my powers of telling, and so I
  • remain unto this very hour.
  • It was this one alone, therefore, most pitiful ladies, that my heart, in
  • it mad infatuation, chose, not only among so many high-born, handsome
  • and valiant youths then present, but even among all of the same degree
  • having their abode in my own Parthenope, as first and last and sole lord
  • of my life. It was this one alone that I loved, and loved more than any
  • other. It was this one alone that was destined to be the beginning and
  • source of my by any pleasure, although often tempted, being at last
  • vanquished, have burned and now burn in the fire which then first caught
  • me. Omitting many thoughts that came into my mind, and many things that
  • were told me, I will only say that, intoxicated by a new passion, I
  • returned with a soul enslaved to that spot whence I had gone forth in
  • freedom.
  • When I was in my chamber, alone and unoccupied, inflamed with various
  • wild wishes, filled with new sensations and throbbing with many
  • anxieties, all of which were concentrated on the image of the youth who
  • pleased me, I argued within myself that if I could not banish love from
  • my luckless bosom, I might at least be able to keep cautious and secret
  • control of it therein; and how hard it is to do such a thing, no one can
  • discover who does not make trial of the same. Surely do I believe that
  • not even Love himself can cause so great anguish as such an attempt is
  • certain to produce. Furthermore, I was arrested in my purpose by the
  • fact that I had no acquaintance with him of whom I professed myself
  • enamored. To relate all the thoughts that were engendered in me by this
  • love, and of what nature they were, would take altogether too much time.
  • But some few I must perforce declare, as well as certain things that
  • were beginning to delight me more than usual. I say, then, that,
  • everything else being neglected, the only thing that was dear to me was
  • the thought of my beloved, and, when it occurred to my mind that, by
  • persevering in this course, I might, mayhap, give occasion to some one
  • to discover that which I wished to conceal, I often upbraided myself for
  • my folly. But what availed it all? My upbraidings had to give way to my
  • inordinate yearning for him, and dissolved uselessly into thin air.
  • For several days I longed exceedingly to learn who was the youth I
  • loved, toward whom my thoughts were ever clearly leading me; and this I
  • craftily learned, the which filled me with great content. In like
  • manner, the ornaments for which I had before this in no way cared, as
  • having but little need thereof, began to be dear to me, thinking that
  • the more I was adorned the better should I please. Wherefore I prized
  • more than hitherto my garments, gold, pearls, and my other precious
  • things. Until the present moment it had been my custom to frequent
  • churches, gardens, festivals, and seaside resorts, without other wish
  • than the companionship of young friends of my own sex; now, I sought the
  • aforesaid places with a new desire, believing that both to see and be
  • seen would bring me great delectation. But, in sooth, the trust which I
  • was wont to place in my beauty had deserted me, and now I never left my
  • chamber, without first seeking the faithful counsel of my mirror: and my
  • hands, newly instructed thereunto by I know not what cunning master,
  • discovering each day some more elegant mode of adornment than the day
  • before, and deftly adding artificial charms to my natural loveliness,
  • thereby caused me to outshine all the other ladies in my surpassing
  • splendor. Furthermore, I began to wish for the honors usually paid to me
  • by ladies, because of their gracious courtesy, though, perhaps, they
  • were rather the guerdon of my noble birth, being due to me therefor,
  • thinking that if I appeared so magnificent to my beloved's eyes, he
  • would take the more delight in beholding me. Avarice, too, which is
  • inborn in women, fled from me, so that I became free and openhanded, and
  • regarded my own possessions almost as if they were not my own. The
  • sedateness that beseems a woman fell away from me somewhat, and I grew
  • bolder in my ways; and, in addition to all this, my eyes, which until
  • that day looked out on the world simply and naturally, entirely changed
  • their manner of looking, and became so artful in their office that it
  • was a marvel. And many other alterations appeared in me over and above
  • these, all of which I do not care to relate, for besides that the
  • report thereof would be too tedious, I ween full well that you, like me,
  • also have been, or are, in love, and know what changes take place in
  • those who are in such sad case.
  • He was a most wary and circumspect youth, whereunto my experience was
  • able to bear witness frequently. Going very rarely, and always in the
  • most decorous manner, to the places where I happened to be, he used to
  • observe me, but ever with a cautious eye, so that it seemed as if he had
  • planned as well as I to hide the tender flames that glowed in the
  • breasts of both. Certainly, if I denied that love, although it had
  • clutched every corner of my heart and taken violent possession of every
  • recess of my soul, grew even more intense whenever it happened that my
  • eyes encountered his, I should deny the truth; he added further fuel to
  • the fires that consumed me, and rekindled such as might be expiring, if,
  • mayhap, there were any such. But the beginning of all this was by no
  • means so cheerful as the ending was joyless, as soon as I was deprived
  • of the sight of this, my beloved, inasmuch as the eyes, being thus
  • robbed of their delight, gave woful occasion of lamentation to the
  • heart, the sighs whereof grew greater in quality as well as in quantity,
  • and desire, as if seizing my every feeling, took me away from myself,
  • and, as if I were not where I was, I frequently gave him who saw me
  • cause for amazement by affording numberless pretexts for such
  • happenings, being taught by love itself. In addition to this, the quiet
  • of the night and the thoughts on which my fancy fed continuously, by
  • taking me out of myself, sometimes moved me to actions more frantic than
  • passionate and to the employment of unusual words.
  • But it happened that while my excess of ornaments, heartfelt sighs, lost
  • rest, strange actions, frantic movements, and other effects of my recent
  • love, attracted the notice of the other domestics of the household, they
  • especially struck with wonder a nurse of mine, old in years and
  • experienced, and of sound judgment, who, though well aware of the flames
  • that tortured my breast, yet making show of not knowing thereof,
  • frequently chided me for my altered manners. One day in particular,
  • finding me lying disconsolate on my couch, seeing that my brow was
  • charged with doleful thoughts, and believing that we were not likely to
  • be interrupted by other company, she began to speak as follows:
  • "My dearest daughter, whom I love as my very self, tell me, I pray you,
  • what are the sorrows that have for some time past been harassing you?
  • You who were wont to be so gay formerly, you whom I have never seen
  • before with a mournful countenance, seem to me now to be the prey of
  • grief and to let no moment pass without a sigh."
  • Then, having at first feigned to be asleep and not to have heard her, I
  • heaved a deep sigh, and, my face, at one time flushing, at another
  • turning pale, I tossed about on the couch, seeking what answer I should
  • make, though, indeed, in my agitation, my tongue could hardly shape a
  • perfect sentence. But, at length, I answered:
  • "Indeed, dear nurse, no fresh sorrows harass me; nor do I feel that I am
  • in any way different from what I am wont to be. Perhaps some troubles I
  • may have, but they are such as are incidental to all women."
  • "Most certainly, you are trying to deceive me, my child," returned the
  • aged nurse, "and you seem not to reflect how serious a matter it is to
  • attempt to lead persons of experience to believe one thing because it is
  • couched in words and to disbelieve the opposite, although it is made
  • plainly evident by deeds. There is no reason why you should hide from me
  • a fact whereof I have had perfect knowledge since several days ago."
  • Alas! when I heard her speak thus, provoked and stung by her words, I
  • said:
  • "If, then, thou wittest of all this, wherefore dost thou question me?
  • All that thou hast to do now is to keep secret that which thou hast
  • discovered."
  • "In good truth," she replied, "I will conceal all that which it is not
  • meet that another should know, and may the earth open and engulf me in
  • its bowels before I ever reveal aught that might turn to thy open shame!
  • Therefore, do thou live assured of this, and guard thyself carefully
  • from letting another know that which I, without either thyself or anyone
  • else telling me, have learned from observing thy looks. As for myself,
  • it is not now, but long ere now, that I have learned to keep hidden that
  • which should not be disclosed. Therefore, do thou continue to feel
  • secure as to this matter, and watch most carefully that thou lettest not
  • another know that which I, not witting it from thee or from another,
  • most surely have discovered from thine own face and from its changeful
  • seeming. But, if thou art still the victim of that folly by which I know
  • thou hast been enslaved, if thou art as prone now as erewhile to indulge
  • that feeling to which thou hast already given way, then know I right
  • well that I must leave thee to thy own devices, for bootless will be my
  • teachings and my warnings. Still, although this cruel tyrant, to whom in
  • thy youthful simplicity being taken by surprise thou hast yielded thy
  • freedom, appears to have deprived thee of understanding as well as of
  • liberty, I will put thee in mind of many things, and entreat thee to
  • fling off and banish wicked thoughts from thy chaste bosom, to quench
  • that unholy fire, and not to make thyself the thrall of unworthy hopes.
  • Now is the time to be strong in resistance; for whoso makes a stout
  • fight in the beginning roots out an unhallowed affection, and bears
  • securely the palm of victory; but whoso, with long and wishful fancies,
  • fosters it, will try too late to resist a yoke that has been submitted
  • to almost unresistingly."
  • "Alas!" I replied, "how far easier it is to say such things than to
  • lead them to any good result."
  • "Albeit they be not easy of fulfilment," she said, "yet are they
  • possible, and they are things that it beseems you to do. Take thou
  • thought whether it would be fitting that for such a thing as this thou
  • shouldst lose the luster of thy exalted parentage, the great fame of thy
  • virtue, the flower of thy beauty, the honor in which thou art now held,
  • and, above all, the favor of the spouse whom thou hast loved and by whom
  • thou art loved: certainly, thou shouldst not wish for this; nor do I
  • believe thou wouldst wish it, if thou didst but weigh the matter
  • seriously in thine own mind. Wherefore, in the name of God, forbear, and
  • drive from thy heart the false delights promised by a guilty hope, and,
  • with them, the madness that has seized thee. By this aged breast, long
  • harassed by many cares, from which thou didst take thy first nutriment,
  • I humbly beseech thee to have the courage to aid thyself, to have a
  • concern for thine own honor, and not to disdain my warnings. Bethink
  • thee that the very desire to be healed is itself often productive of
  • health."
  • Whereto I thus made answer:
  • "Only too well do I know, dear nurse, the truth of that which thou
  • sayest. But a furious madness constrains me to follow the worse course;
  • vainly does my heart, insatiable in its desires, long for strength to
  • enable it to adopt thy advice; what reason enjoins is rendered of no
  • avail by this soul-subduing passion. My mind is wholly possessed by
  • Love, who rules every part thereof, in virtue of his all-embracing
  • deity; and surely thou art aware that his power is absolute, and 'twere
  • useless to attempt to resist it."
  • Having said these words, I became almost unconscious, and fell into her
  • arms. But she, now more agitated than before, in austere and rebuking
  • tones, said:
  • "Yes, forsooth, well am I aware that you and a number of fond young
  • women, inflamed and instigated thereunto by vain thoughts, have
  • discovered Love to be a god, whereas a juster name for him would be that
  • of demon; and you and they call him the son of Venus, and say that his
  • strength has come to him from the third heaven, wishing, seemingly, to
  • offer necessity as an excuse for your foolishness. Oh, was ever woman so
  • misled as thou? Truly, thou must be bereft entirely of understanding!
  • What a thing thou sayest! Love a deity! Love is a madness, thrust forth
  • from hell by some fury. He speeds across the earth in hasty flight, and
  • they whom he visits soon discover that he brings no deity with him, but
  • frenzy rather; yet none will he visit except those abounding overmuch in
  • earthly felicity; for they, he knows, in their overweening conceit, are
  • ready to afford him lodgment and shelter. This has been proven to us by
  • many facts. Do we not see that Venus, the true, the heavenly Venus,
  • often dwells in the humblest cot, her sole concern being the
  • perpetuation of our race? But this god, whom some in their folly name
  • Love, always hankering after things unholy, ministers only to those
  • whose fortunes are prosperous. This one, recoiling from those whose food
  • and raiment suffice to meet the demands of nature, uses his best efforts
  • to win over the pampered and the splendidly attired, and with their food
  • and their habiliments he mixes his poisons, and so gains the lordship of
  • their wicked souls; and, for this reason, he gladly seeks a harborage in
  • lofty palaces, and seldom, or rather never, enters the houses of the
  • lowly, because this horrible plague always resorts by choice to scenes
  • of elegance and refinement, well knowing that such places are best
  • fitted for the achievement of his fell purposes. It is easy for us to
  • see that among the humble the affections are sane and well ordered; but
  • the rich, on the other hand, everywhere pluming themselves on their
  • riches, and being insatiable in their pursuit of other things as well as
  • of wealth, always show more eagerness therein than is becoming; and they
  • who can do much desire furthermore to have the power of doing that which
  • they must not do: among whom I feel that thou hast placed thyself, O
  • most hapless of women, seeing that thou hast already entered and
  • traveled far on a path that will surely lead to guilt and misery."
  • After hearing which, I said:
  • "Be silent, old woman, and provoke not the wrath of the gods by thy
  • speech. Now that thou art incapacitated from love by age and rejected by
  • all the gods, thou railest against this one, blaspheming him in whom
  • thou didst erstwhile take delight. If other ladies, far more puissant,
  • famous, and wise than I, have formerly called him by that name, it is
  • not in my power to give him a name anew. By him am I now truly enslaved;
  • whatever be the cause of this, and whether it be the occasion of my
  • happiness or misery, I am helpless. The strength wherewith I once
  • opposed him has been vanquished and has abandoned me. Therefore either
  • death or the youth for whom I languish can alone end my tortures. If
  • thou art, then, as wise as I hold thee to be, bestow such counsel and
  • help on me as may lighten my anguish, or, at least, abstain from
  • exasperating it by censuring that to which my soul, unable to act
  • differently, is inclined with all its energy."
  • Thereupon, she, being angry, and not without reason, making no answer,
  • but muttering to herself, passed out of the chamber and left me alone.
  • When my dear nurse had departed without making further discourse, and I
  • was again alone, I felt that I had acted ill in despising her advice. I
  • revolved her sayings within my restless breast; and, albeit my
  • understanding was blinded, I perceived that what she had said was
  • replete with wisdom, and, almost repenting of what I had uttered and of
  • the course which I had declared I purposed taking, I was wavering in my
  • mind. And, already beginning to have thoughts of abandoning that course
  • which was sure to be in every way most harmful, I was about to call her
  • back to give me encouragement, when a new and unforeseen event suddenly
  • changed my intention. For a most beautiful lady, come to my private
  • chamber I know not whence, presented herself before my eyes, enveloped
  • in such dazzling light that scarcely could my sight endure the
  • brightness thereof. But while she stood still and silent before me, the
  • effulgent radiance that had almost blinded my vision, after a time left
  • it unobscured, and I was able so to portray her every aspect to my mind,
  • as her whole beauteous figure was impressed on my memory. I saw that she
  • was nude, except for a thin and delicate drapery of purple, which,
  • albeit in some parts it covered the milk-white body, yet no more
  • concealed it from my ravished eyes than does the transparent glass
  • conceal the portrait beneath it. Her head, the hair whereof as much
  • surpassed gold in its luster as gold surpasses the yellowest tresses to
  • be found among mortals, was garlanded with a wreath of green myrtle,
  • beneath whose shadow I beheld two eyes of peerless splendor, so
  • enchanting that I could have gazed on them forever; they flashed forth
  • such luminous beams that it was a marvel; and all the rest of her
  • countenance had such transcendent loveliness that the like never was
  • seen here below. At first she spake no word, perchance content that I
  • should look upon her, or perchance seeing me so content to look upon
  • her. Then gradually through the translucent radiance, she revealed more
  • clearly every hidden grace, for she was aware that I could not believe
  • such beauty possible except I beheld it with my eyes, and that even then
  • words would fail me to picture it to mortals with my tongue. At last,
  • when she observed that I had sated my eyes with gazing on her, and when
  • she saw that her coming hither was as wondrous to me as her loveliness,
  • with smiling face, and in a voice sweeter than can be conceived by minds
  • like ours, she thus addressed me:
  • "Prithee, young woman, what art thou, the most fickle of thy sex,
  • preparing to do in obedience to the late counsels of thy aged nurse?
  • Knowest thou not that such counsels are far harder to follow than that
  • very love which thou desirest to flee? Hast thou reflected on the dire
  • and unendurable torments which compliance with them will entail on thee?
  • O most insensate one! dost thou then, who only a few hours ago wert my
  • willing vassal, now wish to break away from my gentle rule, because,
  • forsooth, of the words of an old woman, who is no longer vassal of mine,
  • as if, like her, thou art now unwitting of what delights I am the
  • source? O most witless of women! forbear, and reflect whether thou
  • shouldst not find befitting happiness in that which makes the happiness
  • of Heaven and earth. All things that Phoebus beholds during the bright
  • day, from what time he emerges from Ganges, until he plunges with his
  • tired steeds into the Hesperian waves, to seek due repose after his
  • wearisome pilgrimage; all things that are confined between cold Arcturus
  • and the red-hot pole, all own the absolute and authentic lordship of my
  • wingéd son; and in Heaven not only is he esteemed a god, like the other
  • deities, but he is so much more puissant than them all that not one
  • remains who has not heretofore been vanquished by his darts. He, flying
  • on golden plumage throughout his realms, with such swiftness that his
  • passage can hardly be discerned, visits them all in turn, and, bending
  • his strong bow, to the drawn string he fits the arrows forged by me and
  • tempered in the fountains sacred to my divinity. And when he elects
  • anyone to his service, as being more worthy than others, that one he
  • rules as it likes him. He kindles raging fires in the hearts of the
  • young, fans the flames that are almost dead in the old, awakens the
  • fever of passion in the chaste bosoms of virgins and instils a genial
  • warmth into the breasts of wives and widows equally. He has even
  • aforetime forced the gods, wrought up to a frenzy by his blazing torch,
  • to forsake the heavens and dwell on earth under false appearances.
  • Whereof the proofs are many. Was not Phoebus, though victor over huge
  • Python and creator of the celestial strains that sound from the lyres of
  • Parnassus, by him made the thrall, now of Daphne, now of Clymene, and
  • again of Leucothea, and of many others withal? Certainly, this was so.
  • And, finally, hiding his brightness under the form of a shepherd, did
  • not Apollo tend the flocks of Admetus? Even Jove himself, who rules the
  • skies, by this god coerced, molded his greatness into forms inferior to
  • his own. Sometimes, in shape of a snow-white fowl, he gave voice to
  • sounds sweeter than those of the dying swan, and anon, changing to a
  • young bull and fitting horns to his brow, he bellowed along the plains,
  • and humbled his proud flanks to the touch of a virgin's knees, and,
  • compelling his tired hoofs to do the office of oars, he breasted the
  • waves of his brother's kingdom, yet sank not in its depths, but joyously
  • bore away his prize. I shall not discourse unto you of his pursuit of
  • Semele under his proper form, or of Alcmena, in guise of Amphitryon, or
  • of Callisto, under the semblance of Diana, or of Danaë for whose sake he
  • became a shower of gold, seeing that in the telling thereof I should
  • waste too much time. Nay, even the savage god of war, whose strength
  • appalls the giants, repressed his wrathful bluster, being forced to such
  • submission by this my son, and became gentle and loving. And the forger
  • of Jupiter, and artificer of his three-pronged thunderbolts, though
  • trained to handle fire, was smitten by a shaft more potent than he
  • himself had ever wrought. Nay I, though I be his mother, have not been
  • able to fend off his arrows: Witness the tears I have shed for the death
  • of Adonis! But why weary myself and thee with the utterance of so many
  • words? There is no deity in heaven who has passed unscathed from his
  • assaults; except, perhaps, Diana only, who may have escaped him by
  • fleeing to the woods; though some there be who tell that she did not
  • flee, but rather concealed the wound. If haply, however, thou, in the
  • hardness of thy unbelief, rejectest the testimony of heaven, and
  • searchest rather for examples of those in this nether world who have
  • felt his power, I affirm them to be so multitudinous that where to begin
  • I know not. Yet this much may I tell thee truly: all who have confessed
  • his sway have been men of might and valor. Consider attentively, in the
  • first place, that undaunted son of Alcmena, who, laying aside his arrows
  • and the formidable skin of the huge lion, was fain to adorn his fingers
  • with green emeralds, and to smooth and adjust his bristling and
  • rebellions hair. Nay, that hand which aforetime had wielded the terrific
  • club, and slain therewith Antæus, and dragged the hound of hell from the
  • lower world, was now content to draw the woolen threads spun from
  • Omphale's distaff; and the shoulders whereon had rested the pillars of
  • the heavens, from which he had for a time freed Atlas, were now clasped
  • in Omphale's arms, and afterward, to do her pleasure, covered with a
  • diaphanous raiment of purple. Need I relate what Paris did in obedience
  • to the great deity? or Helen? or Clytemnestra? or Ægisthus? These are
  • things that are well known to all the world. Nor do I care to speak of
  • Achilles, or of Scylla, of Ariadne or Leander, of Dido, or of many
  • others, of whom the same tale could be told, were there need to tell it.
  • Believe me when I affirm that this fire is holy, and most potent as
  • well. Thou hast heard that heaven and earth are subject to my son
  • because of his lordship over gods and men. But what shall I say of the
  • power that he exercises over irrational animals, whether celestial or
  • terrene? It is through him that the turtle is fain to follow her mate;
  • it is through him that my pigeons have learned to caress his ringdoves
  • with fondest endearments. And there is no creeping or living creature
  • that has ever at any time attempted to escape from his puissance: in the
  • woods the timid stag, made fierce by his touch, becomes brave for sake
  • of the coveted hind and by bellowing and fighting, they prove how strong
  • are the witcheries of Love. The ferocious boars are made by Love to
  • froth at the mouth and sharpen their ivory tusks; the African lions,
  • when Love quickens them, shake their manes in fury. But leaving the
  • groves and forests, I assert that even in the chilly waters the
  • numberless divinities of the sea and of the flowing rivers are not safe
  • from the bolts of my son. Neither can I for a moment believe that thou
  • art ignorant of the testimony thereof which has been rendered by
  • Neptune, Glaucus, Alpheus, and others too numerous to mention: not only
  • were they unable to quench the flame with their dank waters, but they
  • could not even moderate its fury, which, when it had made its might
  • felt, both on the earth and in the waters, continued its onward course,
  • and rested not until it had penetrated into the gloomy realms of Dis.
  • Therefore Heaven and Earth and Ocean and Hell itself have had experience
  • of the potency of his weapons. And, in order that thou mayest understand
  • in a few words the power of the deity, I tell thee that, while
  • everything succumbs to nature, and nothing can ever be emancipated from
  • her dominion, Nature herself is but the servant of Love. When he
  • commands, ancient hatreds perish, and angry moods, be they old or new,
  • give place to his fires; and lastly, his sway has such far-reaching
  • influence that even stepmothers become gracious to their stepchildren, a
  • thing which it is a marvel to behold. Therefore what seekest thou? Why
  • dost thou hesitate? Why dost thou rashly avoid him? When so many gods,
  • when so many men, when so many animals, have been vanquished by him, art
  • ashamed to be vanquished by him also? In good sooth, thou weenest not
  • what thou art doing. If thou fearest to be blamed for thy obedience to
  • him, a blame so unmerited never can be thy portion. Greater sins than
  • thou canst commit have been committed by thousands far greater than
  • thou, and these sins would plead as thy excuse, shouldst thou pursue
  • that course which others have pursued--others who far excel thee. Thou
  • wilt have sinned but a little, seeing that thou hadst far less power of
  • resistance than those aforementioned. But if my words move thee not, and
  • thou wouldst still wish to withstand the god, bethink thee that thy
  • power falls far short of that of Jove, and that in judgment thou canst
  • not equal Phoebus, nor in wealth Juno, nor me in beauty; and yet, we all
  • have been conquered. Thou art greatly deceived, and I fear me that thou
  • must perish in the end, if thou persist in thy changed purpose. Let that
  • which has erstwhile sufficed for the whole world, suffice for thee, nor
  • try to render thyself cold-hearted, by saying: 'I have a husband, and
  • the holy laws and the vowed faith forbid me this'; for bootless are such
  • reasonings against the puissance of this god. He discards the laws of
  • others scornfully, as thinking them of no account, and ordains his own.
  • Pasiphæ? had a husband, and Phædra, and I, too, even though I have
  • loved. And it is these same husbands who most frequently fall in love
  • with others, albeit they have wives of their own: witness Jason and
  • Theseus and valiant Hector and Ulysses. Therefore to men we do no wrong
  • if we apply to them the same laws that they apply to others; for to
  • them no privilege has been granted which is not accorded to us withal.
  • Banish, then, thy foolish thoughts, and, in all security, go on loving
  • him whom thou hadst already begun to love. In good sooth, if thou
  • refusest to own the power of mighty Love, it behooves thee to fly; but
  • whither canst thou fly? Knowest thou of any retreat where he will not
  • follow and overtake thee? He has in all places equal puissance. Go
  • wheresoever thou wilt, never canst thou pass across the borders of his
  • realms, and within these realms vain it is for mortals to try to hide
  • themselves when he would smite them. But let it comfort thee to know,
  • young woman, that no such odious passion shall trouble thee as erstwhile
  • was the scourge of Myrrha, Semiramis, Byblis, Canace, and Cleopatra.
  • Nothing strange or new will be wrought by my son in thy regard. He has,
  • as have the other gods, his own special laws, which thou art not the
  • first to obey, and shouldst not be the last to entertain hopes
  • therefrom. If haply thou believest that thou art without companions in
  • this, foolish is thy belief. Let us pass by the other world, which is
  • fraught with such happenings; but observe attentively only thine own
  • city! What an infinite number of ladies it can show who are in the same
  • case with thyself! And remember that what is done by so many cannot be
  • deemed unseemly. Therefore, be thou of our following, and return thanks
  • to our beauty, which thou hast so closely examined. But return special
  • thanks to our deity, which has sundered thee from the ranks of the
  • simple, and persuaded thee to become acquainted with the delights that
  • our gifts bestow."
  • Alas! alas! ye tender and compassionate ladies, if Love has been
  • propitious to your desires, say what could I, what should I, answer to
  • such and so great words uttered by so great a goddess, if not: "Be it
  • done unto me according to thy pleasure"? And so, I affirm that as soon
  • as she had closed her lips, having already harvested within my
  • understanding all her words, and feeling that every word was charged
  • with ample excuse for what I might do, and knowing now how mighty she
  • was and how resistless, I resolved at once to submit to her guidance;
  • and instantly rising from my couch, and kneeling on the ground, with
  • humbled heart, I thus began, in abashed and tremulous accents:
  • "O peerless and eternal loveliness! O divinest of deities! O sole
  • mistress of all my thoughts! whose power is felt to be most invincible
  • by those who dare to try to withstand it, forgive the ill-timed
  • obstinacy wherewith I, in my great folly, attempted to ward off from my
  • breast the weapons of thy son, who was then to me an unknown divinity.
  • Now, I repeat, be it done unto me according to thy pleasure, and
  • according to thy promises withal. Surely, my faith merits a due reward
  • in time and space, seeing that I, taking delight in thee more than do
  • all other women, wish to see the number of thy subjects increase forever
  • and ever."
  • Hardly had I made an end of speaking these words, when she moved from
  • the place where she was standing, and came toward me. Then, her face
  • glowing with the most fervent expression of affection and sympathy, she
  • embraced me, and touched my forehead with her divine lips. Next, just as
  • the false Ascanius, when panting in the arms of Dido, breathed on her
  • mouth, and thereby kindled the latent flame, so did she breathe on my
  • mouth, and, in that wise, rendered the divine fire that slumbered in my
  • heart more uncontrollable than ever, and this I felt at that very
  • moment. Thereafter, opening a little her purple robe, she showed me,
  • clasped in her arms against her ravishing breast, the very counterpart
  • of the youth I loved, wrapped in the transparent folds of a Grecian
  • mantle, and revealing in the lineaments of his countenance pangs that
  • were not unlike those I suffered.
  • "O damsel," she said, "rivet thy gaze on the youth before thee: we have
  • not given thee for lover a Lissa, a Geta, or a Birria, or anyone
  • resembling them, but a person in every way worthy of being loved by
  • every goddess in the heavens. Thee he loves more than himself, as we
  • have ordained, and thee will he ever love; therefore do thou, joyfully
  • and securely, abandon thyself to his love. Thy prayers have moved us to
  • pity, as it is meet that prayers so deserving should, and so, be of good
  • hope, and fear not that thou shalt be without the reward due thee in the
  • future."
  • And thereafter she suddenly vanished from my eyes. _Oimè!_ wretched me!
  • I do not for a moment doubt now, after considering the things which
  • followed, that this one who appeared unto me was not Venus, but rather
  • Tisiphone, who, doffing from her head the horrid snakes that served it
  • for hair, and assuming for the while the splendid form of the Goddess of
  • Love, in this manner lured me with deceitful counsels to that disaster
  • which at length overwhelmed me. Thus did Juno, but in different fashion,
  • veiling the radiance of her deity and transforming herself for the
  • occasion into the exact likeness of her aged nurse, persuaded Semele to
  • her undoing. Woe is me! my resolve to be so advised was the cause--O
  • hallowed Modesty! O Chastity, most sacred of all the virtues! sole and
  • most precious treasure of righteous women!--was the cause, I repeat,
  • wherefore I drove ye from my bosom. Yet do I venture to pray unto ye for
  • pardon, and surely the sinner who repents and perseveres in repentance
  • should in due season obtain your forgiveness.
  • Although the goddess had disappeared from my sight, my whole soul,
  • nevertheless, continued to crave her promised delights; and, albeit the
  • ardor of the passion that vexed my soul deprived me of every other
  • feeling, one piece of good fortune, for what deserving of mine I know
  • not, remained to me out of so many that had been lost--namely, the power
  • of knowing that seldom if ever has a smooth and happy ending been
  • granted to love, if that love be divulged and blazed abroad. And for
  • this reason, when influenced by my highest thoughts, I resolved,
  • although it was a most serious thing to do so, not to set will above
  • reason in carrying this my desire unto an ending. And assuredly,
  • although I have often been most violently constrained by divers
  • accidents to follow certain courses, yet so much grace was conceded to
  • me that, sustained by my own firmness, I passed through these agonies
  • without revealing the pangs that tortured me. And in sooth, I have still
  • resolution enough to continue to follow out this my purpose; so that,
  • although the things I write are most true, I have so disposed them that
  • no one, however keen his sagacity, can ever discover who I am, except
  • him who is as well acquainted with these matters as I, being, indeed,
  • the occasion of them all. And I implore him, should this little book
  • ever come into his hands, in the name of that love which he once bore
  • me, to conceal that which, if disclosed, would turn neither to his
  • profit nor honor. And, albeit he has deprived me of himself, and that
  • through no fault of mine, let him not take it upon himself to deprive me
  • of that honor which I still possess, although, perchance, undeservedly;
  • for should he do so, he could never again give it back to me, any more
  • than he can now give me back himself.
  • Having, therefore, formed my plans in this wise, I showed the most
  • long-suffering patience in manifesting my keenest and most covetous
  • yearnings, and I used my best efforts, but only in secret ways and when
  • opportunities were afforded me, to light in this young man's soul the
  • same flames wherewith my own soul glowed, and to make him as
  • circumspect as myself withal. Nor, in truth, was this for me a task of
  • great difficulty; for, inasmuch as the lineaments of the face always
  • bear most true witness to the qualities of the heart, it was not long
  • before I became aware that my desire would have its full fruition. I
  • perceived that, not only was he throbbing with amorous enthusiasm, but
  • that he was also imbued with most perfect discretion, and this was
  • exceedingly pleasing to me. He, being at once wishful to preserve my
  • honor in all its luster, and, at the same time, to arrange convenient
  • times and places for our meetings, employed many ingenious stratagems,
  • which, methinks, must have cost him much toil and trouble. He used every
  • subtle art to win the friendship of all who were related to me, and, at
  • last, of my husband; and not only did he enjoy their friendship, but he
  • possessed it in such a supreme degree that no pleasure was agreeable to
  • them unless he shared it. How much all this delighted me you will
  • understand without its being needful to me to set it down in words. And
  • is there anyone so dull of wit as not to conclude that from the
  • aforesaid friendship arose many opportunities for him and me of holding
  • discourse together in public? But already had he bethought himself of
  • acting in more subtle ways; and now he would speak to this one, now to
  • that one, words whereby I, being most eager for such enlightenment,
  • discovered that whatever he said to these was fraught with figurative
  • and hidden meanings, intended to show forth his ardent affection for
  • myself. When he was sensible that I had a clear perception of the occult
  • significance of his questions and answers, he went still further, and by
  • gestures, and mobile changes in the expression of his features, he would
  • make known to me his thoughts and the various phases of his passion,
  • which was to me a source of much delectation; and I strove so hard to
  • comprehend it all and to make fitting response thereunto, that neither
  • could he shadow forth anything to me, nor I to him, that either of us
  • did not at once understand.
  • Nay, not satisfied even with this, he employed other symbols and
  • metaphors, and labored earnestly to discipline me in such manner of
  • speech; and, to render me the more assured of his unalterable love, he
  • named me Fiammetta, and himself Panfilo. Woe is me! How often, when
  • warmed with love and wine, did we tell tales, in the presence of our
  • dearest friends, of Fiammetta and Panfilo, feigning that they were
  • Greeks of the days of old, I at one time, he at another; and the tales
  • were all of ourselves; how we were first caught in the snares of Love,
  • and of what tribulations we were long the victims, giving suitable names
  • to the places and persons connected with the story! Certainly, I
  • frequently laughed at it all, being made merry by the simplicity of the
  • bystanders, as well as by his astuteness and sagacity. Yet betimes I
  • dreaded that in the flush of his excitement he might thoughtlessly let
  • his tongue wander in directions wherein it was not befitting it should
  • venture. But he, being ever far wiser than I imagined, guarded himself
  • craftily from any such blundering awkwardness.
  • _Oimè!_ most compassionate ladies, what is there that Love will not
  • teach to his subjects? and what is there that he is not able to render
  • them skilful in learning? I, who of all young women was the most
  • simple-minded, and ordinarily with barely power to loose my tongue, when
  • among my companions, concerning the most trivial and ordinary affairs,
  • now, because of this my affection, mastered so speedily all his modes of
  • speech that, in a brief space, my aptness at feigning and inventing
  • surpassed that of any poet! And there were few questions put to me in
  • response to which, after meditating on their main points, I could not
  • make up a pleasing tale: a thing, in my opinion, exceedingly difficult
  • for a young woman to begin, and still more difficult to finish and
  • relate afterward. But, if my actual situation required it, I might set
  • down numerous details which might, perhaps, seem to you of little or no
  • moment, as, for instance, the artful experiment whereby we tested the
  • fidelity of my favorite maid to whom, and to whom alone, we meditated
  • entrusting the secret of this hidden passion, considering that, should
  • another share it, our uneasiness, lest it should not be kept, would be
  • most grievous. Furthermore, it would weary you if I mentioned all the
  • plans we adopted, in order to meet divers situations, plans that I do
  • not believe were ever imagined by any before us; and albeit I am now
  • well aware that they all worked for my ultimate destruction, yet the
  • remembrance of them does not displease me.
  • Unless, O ladies, my judgment be greatly at fault, the strength of our
  • minds was by no means small, if it be but taken in account how hard a
  • thing it is for youthful persons in love to resist long the rush of
  • impetuous ardor without crossing the bounds set by reason: nay, it was
  • so great and of such quality that the most valiant of men, by acting in
  • such wise, would win high and worthy laud as a result thereof. But my
  • pen is now about to depict the final ending to which love was guided,
  • and, before I do so, I would appeal to your pity and to those soft
  • sentiments which make their dwelling in your tender breasts, and incline
  • your thoughts to a like termination.
  • Day succeeded day, and our wishes dragged along with them, kept alive by
  • torturing anxiety, the full bitterness whereof each of us experienced;
  • although the one manifested this to the other in disguised language, and
  • the other showed herself over-discreet to an excessive degree; all of
  • which you who know how ladies who are beloved behave in such
  • circumstances will easily understand. Well, then, he, putting full trust
  • in the veiled meaning of my words, and choosing the proper time and
  • place, came to an experience of that which I desired as much as he,
  • although I feigned the contrary. Certainly, if I were to say that this
  • was the cause of the love I felt for him, I should also have to confess
  • that every time it came back to my memory, it was the occasion to me of
  • a sorrow like unto none other. But, I call God to witness, nothing that
  • has happened between us had the slightest influence upon the love I bore
  • him, nor has it now. Still, I will not deny that our close intimacy was
  • then, and is now, most dear to me. And where is the woman so unwise as
  • not to wish to have the object of her affection within reach rather than
  • at a distance? How much more intensely does love enthrall us when it is
  • brought so near us that we and it are made almost inseparable! I say,
  • then, that after such an adventure, never afore willed or even thought
  • of by me, not once, but many times did fortune and our adroit stratagems
  • bring us good cheer and consolation, not indeed screened entirely from
  • danger, for which I cared less than for the passing of the fleeing wind.
  • But while the time was being spent in such joyous fashion--and that it
  • was joyous, Love, who alone may bear witness thereof, can truly say--yet
  • sometimes his coming inspired me with not a little natural apprehension,
  • inasmuch as he was beginning to be indiscreet in the manner of his
  • coming. But how dear to him was my own apartment, and with what gladness
  • did it see him enter! Yet was he filled with more reverence for it than
  • he ever had been for a sacred temple, and this I could at all times
  • easily discern. Woe is me! what burning kisses, what tender embraces,
  • what delicious moments we had there!
  • Why do I take such pleasure in the mere words which I am now setting
  • down? It is, I say, because I am forced to express the gratitude I then
  • felt to the holy goddess who was the promiser and bestower of Love's
  • delights. Ah, how often did I visit her altars and offer incense,
  • crowned with a garland of her favorite foliage! How often did I think
  • scornfully of the counsels of my aged nurse! Nay, furthermore, being
  • elated far more than all my other companions, how often did I disparage
  • their loves, saying within myself: "No one is loved as I am loved, no
  • one loves a youth as matchless as the youth I love, no one realizes such
  • delights from love as I!" In short, I counted the world as nothing in
  • comparison with my love. It seemed to me that my head touched the skies,
  • and that nothing was lacking to the culmination of my ecstatic bliss.
  • Betimes the idea flashed on my mind that I must disclose to others the
  • occasion of my transports, for surely, I would reflect, it would be a
  • delight to others to hear of that which has brought such delight to me!
  • But thou, O Shame, on the one side, and thou, O Fear, on the other, did
  • hold me back: the one threatening me with eternal infamy; the other with
  • loss of that which hostile Fortune was soon afterward to tear from me.
  • In such wise then, did I live for some time, for it was then pleasing to
  • Love that I should live in this manner; and, in good sooth, so blithely
  • and joyously were these days spent that I had little cause to envy any
  • lady in the whole world, never imagining that the delight wherewith my
  • heart was filled to overflowing, was to nourish the root and plant of my
  • future misery, as I now know to my fruitless and never-ending sorrow.
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