Title: The Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio
Author: Boccaccio, Giovanni
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio" ***


[Transcriber's Note: The original text does not observe the normal
convention of placing quotation marks at the beginnings of paragraphs
within a multiple-paragraph quotation. This idiosyncrasy has been
preserved in this e-text.

Archaic spellings have been preserved, but obvious printer errors have
been corrected.

John Payne's translation of _The Decameron_ was originally published
in a private printing for The Villon Society, London, 1886. The
American edition from which this e-text was prepared is undated.]



_The_

_Decameron_

_of_

_Giovanni Boccaccio_


_Translated by_

_John Payne_


[Illustration]


WALTER J. BLACK, INC.
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NEW YORK, N.Y.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA



_Contents_


PROEM.


DAY THE FIRST 1

THE FIRST STORY. _Master Ciappelletto dupeth a holy friar with a false
confession and dieth; and having been in his lifetime the worst of
men, he is, after his death, reputed a saint and called Saint
Ciappelletto_ 16

THE SECOND STORY. _Abraham the Jew, at the instigation of Jehannot de
Chevigné, goeth to the Court of Rome and seeing the depravity of the
clergy, returneth to Paris and there becometh a Christian_ 25

THE THIRD STORY. _Melchizedek the Jew, with a story of three rings,
escapeth a parlous snare set for him by Saladin_ 28

THE FOURTH STORY. _A monk, having fallen into a sin deserving of very
grievous punishment, adroitly reproaching the same fault to his abbot,
quitteth himself of the penalty_ 30

THE FIFTH STORY. _The Marchioness of Monferrato, with a dinner of hens
and certain sprightly words, curbeth the extravagant passion of the
King of France_ 33

THE SIXTH STORY. _An honest man, with a chance pleasantry, putteth to
shame the perverse hypocrisy of the religious orders_ 35

THE SEVENTH STORY. _Bergamino, with a story of Primasso and the Abbot
of Cluny, courteously rebuketh a fit of parsimony newly come to Messer
Cane della Scala_ 37

THE EIGHTH STORY. _Guglielmo Borsiere with some quaint words rebuketh
the niggardliness of Messer Ermino de' Grimaldi_ 40

THE NINTH STORY. _The King of Cyprus, touched to the quick by a Gascon
lady, from a mean-spirited prince becometh a man of worth and
valiance_ 42

THE TENTH STORY. _Master Alberto of Bologna civilly putteth a lady to
the blush who thought to have shamed him of being enamoured of her_ 43


DAY THE SECOND 48

THE FIRST STORY. _Martellino feigneth himself a cripple and maketh
believe to wax whole upon the body of St. Arrigo. His imposture being
discovered, he is beaten and being after taken [for a thief,] goeth in
peril of being hanged by the neck, but ultimately escapeth_ 49

THE SECOND STORY. _Rinaldo d'Asti, having been robbed, maketh his way
to Castel Guglielmo, where he is hospitably entertained by a widow
lady and having made good his loss, returneth to his own house, safe
and sound_ 52

THE THIRD STORY. _Three young men squander their substance and become
poor; but a nephew of theirs, returning home in desperation, falleth
in with an abbot and findeth him to be the king's daughter of England,
who taketh him to husband and maketh good all his uncles' losses,
restoring them to good estate_ 57

THE FOURTH STORY. _Landolfo Ruffolo, grown poor, turneth corsair and
being taken by the Genoese, is wrecked at sea, but saveth himself upon
a coffer full of jewels of price and being entertained in Corfu by a
woman, returneth home rich_ 63

THE FIFTH STORY. _Andreuccio of Perugia, coming to Naples to buy
horses, is in one night overtaken with three grievous accidents, but
escapeth them all and returneth home with a ruby_ 66

THE SIXTH STORY. _Madam Beritola, having lost her two sons, is found
on a desert island with two kids and goeth thence into Lunigiana,
where one of her sons, taking service with the lord of the country,
lieth with his daughter and is cast into prison. Sicily after
rebelling against King Charles and the youth being recognized by his
mother, he espouseth his lord's daughter, and his brother being
likewise found, they are all three restored to high estate_ 75

THE SEVENTH STORY. _The Soldan of Babylon sendeth a daughter of his to
be married to the King of Algarve, and she, by divers chances, in the
space of four years cometh to the hands of nine men in various places.
Ultimately, being restored to her father for a maid, she goeth to the
King of Algarve to wife, as first she did_ 85

THE EIGHTH STORY. _The Count of Antwerp, being falsely accused, goeth
into exile and leaveth his two children in different places in
England, whither, after awhile, returning in disguise and finding them
in good case, he taketh service as a horseboy in the service of the
King of France and being approved innocent, is restored to his former
estate_ 100

THE NINTH STORY. _Bernabo of Genoa, duped by Ambrogiuolo, loseth his
good and commandeth that his innocent wife be put to death. She
escapeth and serveth the Soldan in a man's habit. Here she lighteth
upon the deceiver of her husband and bringeth the latter to
Alexandria, where, her traducer being punished, she resumeth woman's
apparel and returneth to Genoa with her husband, rich_ 111

THE TENTH STORY. _Paganino of Monaco stealeth away the wife of Messer
Ricciardo di Chinzica, who, learning where she is, goeth thither and
making friends with Paganino, demandeth her again of him. The latter
concedeth her to him, an she will; but she refuseth to return with him
and Messer Ricciardo dying, she becometh the wife of Paganino_ 120


DAY THE THIRD 127

THE FIRST STORY. _Masetto of Lamporecchio feigneth himself dumb and
becometh gardener to a convent of women, who all flock to lie with
him_ 129

THE SECOND STORY. _A horsekeeper lieth with the wife of King Agilulf,
who, becoming aware thereof, without word said, findeth him out and
polleth him; but the polled man polleth all his fellows on like wise
and so escapeth ill hap_ 134

THE THIRD STORY. _Under colour of confession and of exceeding niceness
of conscience, a lady, being enamoured of a young man, bringeth a
grave friar, without his misdoubting him thereof, to afford a means of
giving entire effect to her pleasure_ 137

THE FOURTH STORY. _Dom Felice teacheth Fra Puccio how he may become
beatified by performing a certain penance of his fashion, which the
other doth, and Dom Felice meanwhile leadeth a merry life of it with
the good man's wife_ 143

THE FIFTH STORY. _Ricciardo, surnamed Il Zima, giveth Messer Francesco
Vergellesi a palfrey of his and hath therefor his leave to speak with
his wife. She keeping silence, he in her person replieth unto himself,
and the effect after ensueth in accordance with his answer_ 147

THE SIXTH STORY. _Ricciardo Minutolo, being enamoured of the wife of
Filippello Fighinolfi and knowing her jealousy of her husband,
contriveth, by representing that Filippello was on the ensuing day to
be with his own wife in a bagnio, to bring her to the latter place,
where, thinking to be with her husband, she findeth that she hath
abidden with Ricciardo_ 152

THE SEVENTH STORY. _Tedaldo Elisei, having fallen out with his
mistress, departeth Florence and returning thither, after awhile, in a
pilgrim's favour, speaketh with the lady and maketh her cognisant of
her error; after which he delivereth her husband, who had been
convicted of murdering him, from death and reconciling him with his
brethren, thenceforward discreetly enjoyeth himself with his mistress_
157

THE EIGHTH STORY. _Ferondo, having swallowed a certain powder, is
entombed for dead and being taken forth of the sepulchre by the abbot,
who enjoyeth his wife the while, is put in prison and given to believe
that he is in purgatory; after which, being raised up again, he
reareth for his own a child begotten of the abbot on his wife_ 169

THE NINTH STORY. _Gillette de Narbonne recovereth the King of France
of a fistula and demandeth for her husband Bertrand de Roussillon, who
marrieth her against his will and betaketh him for despite to
Florence, where, he paying court to a young lady, Gillette, in the
person of the latter, lieth with him and hath by him two sons;
wherefore after, holding her dear, he entertaineth her for his wife_
176

THE TENTH STORY. _Alibech, turning hermit, is taught by Rustico, a
monk, to put the devil in hell, and being after brought away thence,
becometh Neerbale his wife_ 182


DAY THE FOURTH 189

THE FIRST STORY. _Tancred, Prince of Salerno, slayeth his daughter's
lover and sendeth her his heart in a bowl of gold; whereupon, pouring
poisoned water over it, she drinketh thereof and dieth_ 194

THE SECOND STORY. _Fra Alberto giveth a lady to believe that the angel
Gabriel is enamoured of her and in his shape lieth with her sundry
times; after which, for fear of her kinsmen, he casteth himself forth
of her window into the canal and taketh refuge in the house of a poor
man, who on the morrow carrieth him, in the guise of a wild man of the
woods, to the Piazza, where, being recognized, he is taken by his
brethren and put in prison_ 201

THE THIRD STORY. _Three young men love three sisters and flee with
them into Crete, where the eldest sister for jealousy slayeth her
lover. The second, yielding herself to the Duke of Crete, saveth her
sister from death, whereupon her own lover slayeth her and fleeth with
the eldest sister. Meanwhile the third lover and the youngest sister
are accused of the new murder and being taken, confess it; then, for
fear of death, they corrupt their keepers with money and flee to
Rhodes, where they die in poverty_ 208

THE FOURTH STORY. _Gerbino, against the plighted faith of his
grandfather, King Guglielmo of Sicily, attacketh a ship of the King of
Tunis, to carry off a daughter of his, who being put to death of those
on board, he slayeth these latter and is after himself beheaded_ 213

THE FIFTH STORY. _Lisabetta's brothers slay her lover, who appeareth
to her in a dream and showeth her where he is buried, whereupon she
privily disinterreth his head and setteth it in a pot of basil.
Thereover making moan a great while every day, her brothers take it
from her and she for grief dieth a little thereafterward_ 216

THE SIXTH STORY. _Andrevuola loveth Gabriotto and recounteth to him a
dream she hath had, whereupon he telleth her one of his own and
presently dieth suddenly in her arms. What while she and a waiting
woman of hers bear him to his own house, they are taken by the
officers of justice and carried before the provost, to whom she
discovereth how the case standeth. The provost would fain force her,
but she suffereth it not and her father, coming to hear of the matter,
procureth her to be set at liberty, she being found innocent;
whereupon, altogether refusing to abide longer in the world, she
becometh a nun_ 220

THE SEVENTH STORY. _Simona loveth Pasquino and they being together in
a garden, the latter rubbeth a leaf of sage against his teeth and
dieth. She, being taken and thinking to show the judge how her lover
died, rubbeth one of the same leaves against her teeth and dieth on
like wise_ 225

THE EIGHTH STORY. _Girolamo loveth Salvestra and being constrained by
his mother's prayers to go to Paris, returneth and findeth his
mistress married; whereupon he entereth her house by stealth and dieth
by her side; and he being carried to a church, Salvestra dieth beside
him_ 228

THE NINTH STORY. _Sir Guillaume de Roussillon giveth his wife to eat
the heart of Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing by him slain and loved of
her, which she after coming to know, casteth herself from a high
casement to the ground and dying, is buried with her lover_ 232

THE TENTH STORY. _A physician's wife putteth her lover for dead in a
chest, which two usurers carry off to their own house, gallant and
all. The latter, who is but drugged, cometh presently to himself and
being discovered, is taken for a thief; but the lady's maid avoucheth
to the seignory that she herself had put him into the chest stolen by
the two usurers, whereby he escapeth the gallows and the thieves are
amerced in certain monies_ 235


DAY THE FIFTH 243

THE FIRST STORY. _Cimon, loving, waxeth wise and carrieth off to sea
Iphigenia his mistress. Being cast into prison at Rhodes, he is
delivered thence by Lysimachus and in concert with him carrieth off
Iphigenia and Cassandra on their wedding-day, with whom the twain flee
into Crete, where the two ladies become their wives and whence they
are presently all four recalled home_ 244

THE SECOND STORY. _Costanza loveth Martuccio Gomito and hearing that
he is dead, embarketh for despair alone in a boat, which is carried by
the wind to Susa. Finding her lover alive at Tunis, she discovereth
herself to him and he, being great in favour with the king for
counsels given, espouseth her and returneth rich with her to Lipari_
252

THE THIRD STORY. _Pietro Boccamazza, fleeing with Agnolella, falleth
among thieves; the girl escapeth through a wood and is led [by
fortune] to a castle, whilst Pietro is taken by the thieves, but
presently, escaping from their hands, winneth, after divers
adventures, to the castle where his mistress is and espousing her,
returneth with her to Rome_ 256

THE FOURTH STORY. _Ricciardo Manardi, being found by Messer Lizio da
Valbona with his daughter, espouseth her and abideth in peace with her
father_ 261

THE FIFTH STORY. _Guidotto da Cremona leaveth to Giacomino da Pavia a
daughter of his and dieth. Giannole di Severino and Minghino di
Mingole fall in love with the girl at Faenza and come to blows on her
account. Ultimately she is proved to be Giannole's sister and is given
to Minghino to wife_ 265

THE SIXTH STORY. _Gianni di Procida being found with a young lady,
whom he loved and who had been given to King Frederick of Sicily, is
bound with her to a stake to be burnt; but, being recognized by
Ruggieri dell' Oria, escapeth and becometh her husband_ 269

THE SEVENTH STORY. _Teodoro, being enamoured of Violante, daughter of
Messer Amerigo his lord, getteth her with child and is condemned to be
hanged; but, being recognized and delivered by his father, as they are
leading him to the gallows, scourging him the while, he taketh
Violante to wife_ 273

THE EIGHTH STORY. _Nastagio degli Onesti, falling in love with a lady
of the Traversari family, spendeth his substance, without being
beloved in return, and betaking himself, at the instance of his
kinsfolk, to Chiassi, he there seeth a horseman give chase to a damsel
and slay her and cause her to be devoured of two dogs. Therewithal he
biddeth his kinsfolk and the lady whom he loveth to a dinner, where
his mistress seeth the same damsel torn in pieces and fearing a like
fate, taketh Nastagio to husband_ 278

THE NINTH STORY. _Federigo degli Alberighi loveth and is not loved. He
wasteth his substance in prodigal hospitality till there is left him
but one sole falcon, which, having nought else, he giveth his mistress
to eat, on her coming to his house; and she, learning this, changeth
her mind and taking him to husband, maketh him rich again_ 282

THE TENTH STORY. _Pietro di Vinciolo goeth to sup abroad, whereupon
his wife letteth fetch her a youth to keep her company, and her
husband returning, unlooked for, she hideth her gallant under a
hen-coop. Pietro telleth her how there had been found in the house of
one Arcolano, with whom he was to have supped, a young man brought in
by his wife, and she blameth the latter. Presently, an ass, by
mischance, setteth foot on the fingers of him who is under the coop
and he roareth out, whereupon Pietro runneth thither and espying him,
discovereth his wife's unfaith, but ultimately cometh to an accord
with her for his own lewd ends_ 286


DAY THE SIXTH 294

THE FIRST STORY. _A gentleman engageth to Madam Oretta to carry her
a-horseback with a story, but, telling it disorderly, is prayed by her
to set her down again_ 296

THE SECOND STORY. _Cisti the baker with a word of his fashion maketh
Messer Geri Spina sensible of an indiscreet request of his_ 297

THE THIRD STORY. _Madam Nonna de' Pulci, with a ready retort to a not
altogether seemly pleasantry, imposeth silence on the Bishop of
Florence_ 299

THE FOURTH STORY. _Chichibio, cook to Currado Gianfigliazzi, with a
ready word spoken to save himself, turneth his master's anger into
laughter and escapeth the punishment threatened him by the latter_ 301

THE FIFTH STORY. _Messer Forese da Rabatta and Master Giotto the
painter coming from Mugello, each jestingly rallieth the other on his
scurvy favour_ 303

THE SIXTH STORY. _Michele Scalza proveth to certain young men that the
cadgers of Florence are the best gentlemen of the world or the Maremma
and winneth a supper_ 304

THE SEVENTH STORY. _Madam Filippa, being found by her husband with a
lover of hers and brought to justice, delivereth herself with a prompt
and pleasant answer and causeth modify the statute_ 306

THE EIGHTH STORY. _Fresco exhorteth his niece not to mirror herself in
the glass if, as she saith, it irketh her to see disagreeable folk_
308

THE NINTH STORY. _Guido Cavalcanti with a pithy speech courteously
flouteth certain Florentine gentlemen who had taken him by surprise_
309

THE TENTH STORY. _Fra Cipolla promiseth certain country folk to show
them one of the angel Gabriel's feathers and finding coals in place
thereof, avoucheth these latter to be of those which roasted St.
Lawrence_ 311


DAY THE SEVENTH 322

THE FIRST STORY. _Gianni Lotteringhi heareth knock at his door by
night and awakeneth his wife, who giveth him to believe that it is a
phantom; whereupon they go to exorcise it with a certain orison and
the knocking ceaseth_ 323

THE SECOND STORY. _Peronella hideth a lover of hers in a vat, upon her
husband's unlooked for return, and hearing from the latter that he
hath sold the vat, avoucheth herself to have sold it to one who is
presently therewithin, to see if it be sound; whereupon the gallant,
jumping out of the vat, causeth the husband scrape it out for him and
after carry it home to his house_ 326

THE THIRD STORY. _Fra Rinaldo lieth with his gossip and being found of
her husband closeted with her in her chamber, they give him to believe
that he was in act to conjure worms from his godson_ 329

THE FOURTH STORY. _Tofano one night shutteth his wife out of doors,
who, availing not to re-enter by dint of entreaties, feigneth to cast
herself into a well and casteth therein a great stone. Tofano cometh
forth of the house and runneth thither, whereupon she slippeth in and
locking him out, bawleth reproaches at him from the window_ 333

THE FIFTH STORY. _A jealous husband, in the guise of a priest,
confesseth his wife, who giveth him to believe that she loveth a
priest, who cometh to her every night; and whilst the husband secretly
keepeth watch at the door for the latter, the lady bringeth in a lover
of hers by the roof and lieth with him_ 336

THE SIXTH STORY. _Madam Isabella, being in company with Leonetto her
lover, is visited by one Messer Lambertuccio, of whom she is beloved;
her husband returning, [unexpected,] she sendeth Lambertuccio forth of
the house, whinger in hand, and the husband after escorteth Leonetto
home_ 341

THE SEVENTH STORY. _Lodovico discovereth to Madam Beatrice the love he
beareth her, whereupon she sendeth Egano her husband into the garden,
in her own favour, and lieth meanwhile with Lodovico, who, presently
arising, goeth and cudgelleth Egano in the garden_ 344

THE EIGHTH STORY. _A man waxeth jealous of his wife, who bindeth a
piece of packthread to her great toe anights, so she may have notice
of her lover's coming. One night her husband becometh aware of this
device and what while he pursueth the lover, the lady putteth another
woman to bed in her room. This latter the husband beateth and cutteth
off her hair, then fetcheth his wife's brothers, who, finding his
story [seemingly] untrue, give him hard words_ 348

THE NINTH STORY. _Lydia, wife of Nicostratus, loveth Pyrrhus, who, so
he may believe it, requireth of her three things, all which she doth.
Moreover, she solaceth herself with him in the presence of Nicostratus
and maketh the latter believe that that which he hath seen is not
real_ 353

THE TENTH STORY. _Two Siennese love a lady, who is gossip to one of
them; the latter dieth and returning to his companion, according to
premise made him, relateth to him how folk fare in the other world_
360


DAY THE EIGHTH 365

THE FIRST STORY. _Gulfardo borroweth of Guasparruolo certain monies,
for which he hath agreed with his wife that he shall lie with her, and
accordingly giveth them to her; then, in her presence, he telleth
Guasparruolo that he gave them to her, and she confesseth it to be
true_ 365

THE SECOND STORY. _The parish priest of Varlungo lieth with Mistress
Belcolore and leaveth her a cloak of his in pledge; then, borrowing a
mortar of her, he sendeth it back to her, demanding in return the
cloak left by way of token, which the good woman grudgingly giveth him
back_ 367

THE THIRD STORY. _Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco go coasting along
the Mugnone in search of the heliotrope and Calandrino thinketh to
have found it. Accordingly he returneth home, laden with stones, and
his wife chideth him; whereupon, flying out into a rage, he beateth
her and recounteth to his companions that which they know better than
he_ 371

THE FOURTH STORY. _The rector of Fiesole loveth a widow lady, but is
not loved by her and thinking to lie with her, lieth with a
serving-wench of hers, whilst the lady's brothers cause the bishop
find him in this case_ 377

THE FIFTH STORY. _Three young men pull the breeches off a Marchegan
judge in Florence, what while he is on the bench, administering
justice_ 380

THE SIXTH STORY. _Bruno and Buffalmacco, having stolen a pig from
Calandrino, make him try the ordeal with ginger boluses and sack and
give him (instead of the ginger) two dogballs compounded with aloes,
whereby it appeareth that he himself hath had the pig and they make
him pay blackmail, and he would not have them tell his wife_ 383

THE SEVENTH STORY. _A scholar loveth a widow lady, who, being
enamoured of another, causeth him spend one winter's night in the snow
awaiting her, and he after contriveth, by his sleight, to have her
abide naked, all one mid-July day, on the summit of a tower, exposed
to flies and gads and sun_ 387

THE EIGHTH STORY. _Two men consorting together, one lieth with the
wife of his comrade, who, becoming aware thereof, doth with her on
such wise that the other is shut up in a chest, upon which he lieth
with his wife, he being inside the while_ 403

THE NINTH STORY. _Master Simone the physician, having been induced by
Bruno and Buffalmacco to repair to a certain place by night, there to
be made a member of a company, that goeth a-roving, is cast by
Buffalmacco into a trench full of ordure and there left_ 406

THE TENTH STORY. _A certain woman of Sicily artfully despoileth a
merchant of that which he had brought to Palermo; but he, making
believe to have returned thither with much greater plenty of
merchandise than before, borroweth money of her and leaveth her water
and tow in payment_ 418


DAY THE NINTH 427

THE FIRST STORY. _Madam Francesca, being courted of one Rinuccio
Palermini and one Alessandro Chiarmontesi and loving neither the one
nor the other, adroitly riddeth herself of both by causing one enter
for dead into a sepulchre and the other bring him forth thereof for
dead, on such wise that they cannot avail to accomplish the condition
imposed_ 428

THE SECOND STORY. _An abbess, arising in haste and in the dark to find
one of her nuns, who had been denounced to her, in bed with her lover
and, thinking to cover her head with her coif, donneth instead thereof
the breeches of a priest who is abed with her; the which the accused
nun observing and making her aware thereof, she is acquitted and hath
leisure to be with her lover_ 432

THE THIRD STORY. _Master Simone, at the instance of Bruno and
Buffalmacco and Nello, maketh Calandrino believe that he is with
child; wherefore he giveth them capons and money for medicines and
recovereth without bringing forth_ 435

THE FOURTH STORY. _Cecco Fortarrigo gameth away at Buonconvento all
his good and the monies of Cecco Angiolieri [his master;] moreover,
running after the latter, in his shirt, and avouching that he hath
robbed him, he causeth him be taken of the countryfolk; then, donning
Angiolieri's clothes and mounting his palfrey, he maketh off and
leaveth the other in his shirt_ 438

THE FIFTH STORY. _Calandrino falleth in love with a wench and Bruno
writeth him a talisman, wherewith when he toucheth her, she goeth with
him; and his wife finding them together, there betideth him grievous
trouble and annoy_ 441

THE SIXTH STORY. _Two young gentlemen lodge the night with an
innkeeper, whereof one goeth to lie with the host's daughter, whilst
his wife unwittingly coucheth with the other; after which he who lay
with the girl getteth him to bed with her father and telleth him all,
thinking to bespeak his comrade. Therewithal they come to words, but
the wife, perceiving her mistake, entereth her daughter's bed and
thence with certain words appeaseth everything_ 446

THE SEVENTH STORY. _Talano di Molese dreameth that a wolf mangleth all
his wife's neck and face and biddeth her beware thereof; but she
payeth no heed to his warning and it befalleth her even as he had
dreamed_ 450

THE EIGHTH STORY. _Biondello cheateth Ciacco of a dinner, whereof the
other craftily avengeth himself, procuring him to be shamefully
beaten_ 451

THE NINTH STORY. _Two young men seek counsel of Solomon, one how he
may be loved and the other how he may amend his froward wife, and in
answer he biddeth the one love and the other get him to Goosebridge_
454

THE TENTH STORY. _Dom Gianni, at the instance of his gossip Pietro,
performeth a conjuration for the purpose of causing the latter's wife
to become a mare; but, whenas he cometh to put on the tail, Pietro
marreth the whole conjuration, saying that he will not have a tail_
457


DAY THE TENTH 462

THE FIRST STORY. _A knight in the king's service of Spain thinking
himself ill guerdoned, the king by very certain proof showeth him that
this is not his fault, but that of his own perverse fortune, and after
largesseth him magnificently_ 462

THE SECOND STORY. _Ghino di Tacco taketh the Abbot of Cluny and having
cured him of the stomach-complaint, letteth him go; whereupon the
Abbot, returning to the court of Rome, reconcileth him with Pope
Boniface and maketh him a Prior of the Hospitallers_ 464

THE THIRD STORY. _Mithridanes, envying Nathan his hospitality and
generosity and going to kill him, falleth in with himself, without
knowing him, and is by him instructed of the course he shall take to
accomplish his purpose; by means whereof he findeth him, as he himself
had ordered it, in a coppice and recognizing him, is ashamed and
becometh his friend_ 468

THE FOURTH STORY. _Messer Gentile de' Carisendi, coming from Modona,
taketh forth of the sepulchre a lady whom he loveth and who hath been
buried for dead. The lady, restored to life, beareth a male child and
Messer Gentile restoreth her and her son to Niccoluccio Caccianimico,
her husband_ 472

THE FIFTH STORY. _Madam Dianora requireth of Messer Ansaldo a garden
as fair in January as in May, and he by binding himself [to pay a
great sum of money] to a nigromancer, giveth it to her. Her husband
granteth her leave to do Messer Ansaldo's pleasure, but he, hearing of
the former's generosity, absolveth her of her promise, whereupon the
nigromancer, in his turn, acquitteth Messer Ansaldo of his bond,
without willing aught of his_ 478

THE SIXTH STORY. _King Charles the Old, the Victorious, falleth
enamoured of a young girl, but after, ashamed of his fond thought,
honourably marrieth both her and her sister_ 481

THE SEVENTH STORY. _King Pedro of Arragon, coming to know the fervent
love borne him by Lisa, comforteth the lovesick maid and presently
marrieth her to a noble young gentleman; then, kissing her on the
brow, he ever after avoucheth himself her knight_ 485

THE EIGHTH STORY. _Sophronia, thinking to marry Gisippus, becometh the
wife of Titus Quintius Fulvus and with him betaketh herself to Rome,
whither Gisippus cometh in poor case and conceiving himself slighted
of Titus, declareth, so he may die, to have slain a man. Titus,
recognizing him, to save him, avoucheth himself to have done the deed,
and the true murderer, seeing this, discovereth himself; whereupon
they are all three liberated by Octavianus and Titus, giving Gisippus
his sister to wife, hath all his good in common with him_ 491

THE NINTH STORY. _Saladin, in the disguise of a merchant, is
honourably entertained by Messer Torello d'Istria, who, presently
undertaking the [third] crusade, appointeth his wife a term for her
marrying again. He is taken [by the Saracens] and cometh, by his skill
in training hawks, under the notice of the Soldan, who knoweth him
again and discovering himself to him, entreateth him with the utmost
honour. Then, Torello falling sick for languishment, he is by magical
art transported in one night [from Alexandria] to Pavia, where, being
recognized by his wife at the bride-feast held for her marrying again,
he returneth with her to his own house_ 503

THE TENTH STORY. _The Marquess of Saluzzo, constrained by the prayers
of his vassals to marry, but determined to do it after his own
fashion, taketh to wife the daughter of a peasant and hath of her two
children, whom he maketh believe to her to put to death; after which,
feigning to be grown weary of her and to have taken another wife, he
letteth bring his own daughter home to his house, as she were his new
bride, and turneth his wife away in her shift; but, finding her
patient under everything, he fetcheth her home again, dearer than
ever, and showing her her children grown great, honoureth and letteth
honour her as marchioness_ 510


CONCLUSION OF THE AUTHOR 525



HERE BEGINNETH THE BOOK CALLED DECAMERON AND SURNAMED PRINCE GALAHALT
WHEREIN ARE CONTAINED AN HUNDRED STORIES IN TEN DAYS TOLD BY SEVEN
LADIES AND THREE YOUNG MEN

PROEM


A kindly thing it is to have compassion of the afflicted and albeit it
well beseemeth every one, yet of those is it more particularly
required who have erst had need of comfort and have found it in any,
amongst whom, if ever any had need thereof or held it dear or took
pleasure therein aforetimes, certes, I am one of these. For that,
having from my first youth unto this present been beyond measure
inflamed with a very high and noble passion (higher and nobler,
perchance, than might appear, were I to relate it, to sort with my low
estate) albeit by persons of discretion who had intelligence thereof I
was commended therefor and accounted so much the more worth, natheless
a passing sore travail it was to me to bear it, not, certes, by reason
of the cruelty of the beloved lady, but because of the exceeding
ardour begotten in my breast of an ill-ordered appetite, for which,
for that it suffered me not to stand content at any reasonable bounds,
caused me ofttimes feel more chagrin than I had occasion for. In this
my affliction the pleasant discourse of a certain friend of mine and
his admirable consolations afforded me such refreshment that I firmly
believe of these it came that I died not. But, as it pleased Him who,
being Himself infinite, hath for immutable law appointed unto all
things mundane that they shall have an end, my love,--beyond every
other fervent and which nor stress of reasoning nor counsel, no, nor
yet manifest shame nor peril that might ensue thereof, had availed
either to break or to bend,--of its own motion, in process of time, on
such wise abated that of itself at this present it hath left me only
that pleasance which it is used to afford unto whoso adventureth
himself not too far in the navigation of its profounder oceans; by
reason whereof, all chagrin being done away, I feel it grown
delightsome, whereas it used to be grievous. Yet, albeit the pain hath
ceased, not, therefore, is the memory fled of the benefits whilom
received and the kindnesses bestowed on me by those to whom, of the
goodwill they bore me, my troubles were grievous; nor, as I deem, will
it ever pass away, save for death. And for that gratitude, to my
thinking, is, among the other virtues, especially commendable and its
contrary blameworthy, I have, that I may not appear ungrateful,
bethought myself, now that I can call myself free, to endeavour, in
that little which is possible to me, to afford some relief, in
requital of that which I received aforetime,--if not to those who
succoured me and who, belike, by reason of their good sense or of
their fortune, have no occasion therefor,--to those, at least, who
stand in need thereof. And albeit my support, or rather I should say
my comfort, may be and indeed is of little enough avail to the
afflicted, natheless meseemeth it should rather be proffered whereas
the need appeareth greater, as well because it will there do more
service as for that it will still be there the liefer had. And who
will deny that this [comfort], whatsoever [worth] it be, it behoveth
much more to give unto lovesick ladies than unto men? For that these
within their tender bosoms, fearful and shamefast, hold hid the fires
of love (which those who have proved know how much more puissance they
have than those which are manifest), and constrained by the wishes,
the pleasures, the commandments of fathers, mothers, brothers and
husbands, abide most time enmewed in the narrow compass of their
chambers and sitting in a manner idle, willing and willing not in one
breath, revolve in themselves various thoughts which it is not
possible should still be merry. By reason whereof if there arise in
their minds any melancholy, bred of ardent desire, needs must it with
grievous annoy abide therein, except it be done away by new discourse;
more by token that they are far less strong than men to endure. With
men in love it happeneth not on this wise, as we may manifestly see.
They, if any melancholy or heaviness of thought oppress them, have
many means of easing it or doing it away, for that to them, an they
have a mind thereto, there lacketh not commodity of going about
hearing and seeing many things, fowling, hunting, fishing, riding,
gaming and trafficking; each of which means hath, altogether or in
part, power to draw the mind unto itself and to divert it from
troublous thought, at least for some space of time, whereafter, one
way or another, either solacement superveneth or else the annoy
groweth less. Wherefore, to the end that the unright of Fortune may by
me in part be amended, which, where there is the less strength to
endure, as we see it in delicate ladies, hath there been the more
niggard of support, I purpose, for the succour and solace of ladies in
love (unto others[1] the needle and the spindle and the reel suffice)
to recount an hundred stories or fables or parables or histories or
whatever you like to style them, in ten days' time related by an
honourable company of seven ladies and three young men made in the
days of the late deadly pestilence, together with sundry canzonets
sung by the aforesaid ladies for their diversion. In these stories
will be found love-chances,[2] both gladsome and grievous, and other
accidents of fortune befallen as well in times present as in days of
old, whereof the ladies aforesaid, who shall read them, may at once
take solace from the delectable things therein shown forth and useful
counsel, inasmuch as they may learn thereby what is to be eschewed and
what is on like wise to be ensued,--the which methinketh cannot betide
without cease of chagrin. If it happen thus (as God grant it may) let
them render thanks therefor to Love, who, by loosing me from his
bonds, hath vouchsafed me the power of applying myself to the service
of their pleasures.

[Footnote 1: _i.e._ those not in love.]

[Footnote 2: Syn. adventures (_casi_).]



_Day the First_

     HERE BEGINNETH THE FIRST DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN (AFTER
     DEMONSTRATION MADE BY THE AUTHOR OF THE MANNER IN WHICH IT
     CAME TO PASS THAT THE PERSONS WHO ARE HEREINAFTER PRESENTED
     FOREGATHERED FOR THE PURPOSE OF DEVISING TOGETHER) UNDER THE
     GOVERNANCE OF PAMPINEA IS DISCOURSED OF THAT WHICH IS MOST
     AGREEABLE UNTO EACH


As often, most gracious ladies, as, taking thought in myself, I mind
me how very pitiful you are all by nature, so often do I recognize
that this present work will, to your thinking, have a grievous and a
weariful beginning, inasmuch as the dolorous remembrance of the late
pestiferous mortality, which it beareth on its forefront, is
universally irksome to all who saw or otherwise knew it. But I would
not therefore have this affright you from reading further, as if in
the reading you were still to fare among sighs and tears. Let this
grisly beginning be none other to you than is to wayfarers a rugged
and steep mountain, beyond which is situate a most fair and delightful
plain, which latter cometh so much the pleasanter to them as the
greater was the hardship of the ascent and the descent; for, like as
dolour occupieth the extreme of gladness, even so are miseries
determined by imminent joyance. This brief annoy (I say brief,
inasmuch as it is contained in few pages) is straightway succeeded by
the pleasance and delight which I have already promised you and which,
belike, were it not aforesaid, might not be looked for from such a
beginning. And in truth, could I fairly have availed to bring you to
my desire otherwise than by so rugged a path as this will be I had
gladly done it; but being in a manner constrained thereto, for that,
without this reminiscence of our past miseries, it might not be shown
what was the occasion of the coming about of the things that will
hereafter be read, I have brought myself to write them.[3]

[Footnote 3: _i.e._ the few pages of which he speaks above.]

I say, then, that the years [of the era] of the fruitful Incarnation
of the Son of God had attained to the number of one thousand three
hundred and forty-eight, when into the notable city of Florence, fair
over every other of Italy, there came the death-dealing pestilence,
which, through the operation of the heavenly bodies or of our own
iniquitous dealings, being sent down upon mankind for our correction
by the just wrath of God, had some years before appeared in the parts
of the East and after having bereft these latter of an innumerable
number of inhabitants, extending without cease from one place to
another, had now unhappily spread towards the West. And thereagainst
no wisdom availing nor human foresight (whereby the city was purged of
many impurities by officers deputed to that end and it was forbidden
unto any sick person to enter therein and many were the counsels
given[4] for the preservation of health) nor yet humble
supplications, not once but many times both in ordered processions and
on other wise made unto God by devout persons,--about the coming in of
the Spring of the aforesaid year, it began on horrible and miraculous
wise to show forth its dolorous effects. Yet not as it had done in the
East, where, if any bled at the nose, it was a manifest sign of
inevitable death; nay, but in men and women alike there appeared, at
the beginning of the malady, certain swellings, either on the groin or
under the armpits, whereof some waxed of the bigness of a common
apple, others like unto an egg, some more and some less, and these the
vulgar named plague-boils. From these two parts the aforesaid
death-bearing plague-boils proceeded, in brief space, to appear and
come indifferently in every part of the body; wherefrom, after awhile,
the fashion of the contagion began to change into black or livid
blotches, which showed themselves in many [first] on the arms and
about the thighs and [after spread to] every other part of the person,
in some large and sparse and in others small and thick-sown; and like
as the plague-boils had been first (and yet were) a very certain token
of coming death, even so were these for every one to whom they came.

[Footnote 4: Syn. provisions made or means taken (_consigli dati_).
Boccaccio constantly uses _consiglio_ in this latter sense.]

To the cure of these maladies nor counsel[5] of physician nor virtue
of any medicine appeared to avail or profit aught; on the
contrary,--whether it was that the nature of the infection suffered it
not or that the ignorance of the physicians (of whom, over and above
the men of art, the number, both men and women, who had never had any
teaching of medicine, was become exceeding great,) availed not to know
whence it arose and consequently took not due measures thereagainst,--not
only did few recover thereof, but well nigh all died within the third
day from the appearance of the aforesaid signs, this sooner and that
later, and for the most part without fever or other accident.[6] And
this pestilence was the more virulent for that, by communication with
those who were sick thereof, it gat hold upon the sound, no otherwise
than fire upon things dry or greasy, whenas they are brought very near
thereunto. Nay, the mischief was yet greater; for that not only did
converse and consortion with the sick give to the sound infection of
cause of common death, but the mere touching of the clothes or of
whatsoever other thing had been touched or used of the sick appeared
of itself to communicate the malady to the toucher. A marvellous thing
to hear is that which I have to tell and one which, had it not been
seen of many men's eyes and of mine own, I had scarce dared credit,
much less set down in writing, though I had heard it from one worthy
of belief. I say, then, that of such efficience was the nature of the
pestilence in question in communicating itself from one to another,
that, not only did it pass from man to man, but this, which is much
more, it many times visibly did;--to wit, a thing which had pertained
to a man sick or dead of the aforesaid sickness, being touched by an
animal foreign to the human species, not only infected this latter
with the plague, but in a very brief space of time killed it. Of this
mine own eyes (as hath a little before been said) had one day, among
others, experience on this wise; to wit, that the rags of a poor man,
who had died of the plague, being cast out into the public way, two
hogs came up to them and having first, after their wont, rooted amain
among them with their snouts, took them in their mouths and tossed
them about their jaws; then, in a little while, after turning round
and round, they both, as if they had taken poison, fell down dead upon
the rags with which they had in an ill hour intermeddled.

[Footnote 5: Syn. help, remedy.]

[Footnote 6: _Accidente_, what a modern physician would call
"complication." "Symptom" does not express the whole meaning of the
Italian word.]

From these things and many others like unto them or yet stranger
divers fears and conceits were begotten in those who abode alive,
which well nigh all tended to a very barbarous conclusion, namely, to
shun and flee from the sick and all that pertained to them, and thus
doing, each thought to secure immunity for himself. Some there were
who conceived that to live moderately and keep oneself from all excess
was the best defence against such a danger; wherefore, making up their
company, they lived removed from every other and shut themselves up in
those houses where none had been sick and where living was best; and
there, using very temperately of the most delicate viands and the
finest wines and eschewing all incontinence, they abode with music and
such other diversions as they might have, never suffering themselves
to speak with any nor choosing to hear any news from without of death
or sick folk. Others, inclining to the contrary opinion, maintained
that to carouse and make merry and go about singing and frolicking and
satisfy the appetite in everything possible and laugh and scoff at
whatsoever befell was a very certain remedy for such an ill. That
which they said they put in practice as best they might, going about
day and night, now to this tavern, now to that, drinking without stint
or measure; and on this wise they did yet more freely in other folk's
houses, so but they scented there aught that liked or tempted them, as
they might lightly do, for that every one--as he were to live no
longer--had abandoned all care of his possessions, as of himself,
wherefore the most part of the houses were become common good and
strangers used them, whenas they happened upon them, like as the very
owner might have done; and with all this bestial preoccupation, they
still shunned the sick to the best of their power.

In this sore affliction and misery of our city, the reverend authority
of the laws, both human and divine, was all in a manner dissolved and
fallen into decay, for [lack of] the ministers and executors thereof,
who, like other men, were all either dead or sick or else left so
destitute of followers that they were unable to exercise any office,
wherefore every one had license to do whatsoever pleased him. Many
others held a middle course between the two aforesaid, not straitening
themselves so exactly in the matter of diet as the first neither
allowing themselves such license in drinking and other debauchery as
the second, but using things in sufficiency, according to their
appetites; nor did they seclude themselves, but went about, carrying
in their hands, some flowers, some odoriferous herbs and other some
divers kinds of spiceries,[7] which they set often to their noses,
accounting it an excellent thing to fortify the brain with such
odours, more by token that the air seemed all heavy and attainted with
the stench of the dead bodies and that of the sick and of the remedies
used.

[Footnote 7: _i.e._ aromatic drugs.]

Some were of a more barbarous, though, peradventure, a surer way of
thinking, avouching that there was no remedy against pestilences
better than--no, nor any so good as--to flee before them; wherefore,
moved by this reasoning and recking of nought but themselves, very
many, both men and women, abandoned their own city, their own houses
and homes, their kinsfolk and possessions, and sought the country
seats of others, or, at the least, their own, as if the wrath of God,
being moved to punish the iniquity of mankind, would not proceed to do
so wheresoever they might be, but would content itself with afflicting
those only who were found within the walls of their city, or as if
they were persuaded that no person was to remain therein and that its
last hour was come. And albeit these, who opined thus variously, died
not all, yet neither did they all escape; nay, many of each way of
thinking and in every place sickened of the plague and languished on
all sides, well nigh abandoned, having themselves, what while they
were whole, set the example to those who abode in health.

Indeed, leaving be that townsman avoided townsman and that well nigh
no neighbour took thought unto other and that kinsfolk seldom or never
visited one another and held no converse together save from afar, this
tribulation had stricken such terror to the hearts of all, men and
women alike, that brother forsook brother, uncle nephew and sister
brother and oftentimes wife husband; nay (what is yet more
extraordinary and well nigh incredible) fathers and mothers refused to
visit or tend their very children, as they had not been theirs. By
reason whereof there remained unto those (and the number of them, both
males and females, was incalculable) who fell sick, none other succour
than that which they owed either to the charity of friends (and of
these there were few) or the greed of servants, who tended them,
allured by high and extravagant wage; albeit, for all this, these
latter were not grown many, and those men and women of mean
understanding and for the most part unused to such offices, who served
for well nigh nought but to reach things called for by the sick or to
note when they died; and in the doing of these services many of them
perished with their gain.

Of this abandonment of the sick by neighbours, kinsfolk and friends
and of the scarcity of servants arose an usage before well nigh
unheard, to wit, that no woman, how fair or lovesome or well-born
soever she might be, once fallen sick, recked aught of having a man to
tend her, whatever he might be, or young or old, and without any shame
discovered to him every part of her body, no otherwise than she would
have done to a woman, so but the necessity of her sickness required
it; the which belike, in those who recovered, was the occasion of
lesser modesty in time to come. Moreover, there ensued of this
abandonment the death of many who peradventure, had they been
succoured, would have escaped alive; wherefore, as well for the lack
of the opportune services which the sick availed not to have as for
the virulence of the plague, such was the multitude of those who died
in the city by day and by night that it was an astonishment to hear
tell thereof, much more to see it; and thence, as it were of
necessity, there sprang up among those who abode alive things contrary
to the pristine manners of the townsfolk.

It was then (even as we yet see it used) a custom that the kinswomen
and she-neighbours of the dead should assemble in his house and there
condole with those who more nearly pertained unto him, whilst his
neighbours and many other citizens foregathered with his next of kin
before his house, whither, according to the dead man's quality, came
the clergy, and he with funeral pomp of chants and candles was borne
on the shoulders of his peers to the church chosen by himself before
his death; which usages, after the virulence of the plague began to
increase, were either altogether or for the most part laid aside, and
other and strange customs sprang up in their stead. For that, not only
did folk die without having a multitude of women about them, but many
there were who departed this life without witness and few indeed were
they to whom the pious plaints and bitter tears of their kinsfolk were
vouchsafed; nay, in lieu of these things there obtained, for the most
part, laughter and jests and gibes and feasting and merrymaking in
company; which usance women, laying aside womanly pitifulness, had
right well learned for their own safety.

Few, again, were they whose bodies were accompanied to the church by
more than half a score or a dozen of their neighbours, and of these no
worshipful and illustrious citizens, but a sort of blood-suckers,
sprung from the dregs of the people, who styled themselves
_pickmen_[8] and did such offices for hire, shouldered the bier and
bore it with hurried steps, not to that church which the dead man had
chosen before his death, but most times to the nearest, behind five or
six[9] priests, with little light[10] and whiles none at all, which
latter, with the aid of the said pickmen, thrust him into what grave
soever they first found unoccupied, without troubling themselves with
too long or too formal a service.

[Footnote 8: _i.e._ gravediggers (_becchini_).]

[Footnote 9: Lit. _four_ or six. This is the equivalent Italian
idiom.]

[Footnote 10: _i.e._ but few tapers.]

The condition of the common people (and belike, in great part, of the
middle class also) was yet more pitiable to behold, for that these,
for the most part retained by hope[11] or poverty in their houses and
abiding in their own quarters, sickened by the thousand daily and
being altogether untended and unsuccoured, died well nigh all without
recourse. Many breathed their last in the open street, whilst other
many, for all they died in their houses, made it known to the
neighbours that they were dead rather by the stench of their rotting
bodies than otherwise; and of these and others who died all about the
whole city was full. For the most part one same usance was observed by
the neighbours, moved more by fear lest the corruption of the dead
bodies should imperil themselves than by any charity they had for the
departed; to wit, that either with their own hands or with the aid of
certain bearers, whenas they might have any, they brought the bodies
of those who had died forth of their houses and laid them before their
doors, where, especially in the morning, those who went about might
see corpses without number; then they fetched biers and some, in
default thereof, they laid upon some board or other. Nor was it only
one bier that carried two or three corpses, nor did this happen but
once; nay, many might have been counted which contained husband and
wife, two or three brothers, father and son or the like. And an
infinite number of times it befell that, two priests going with one
cross for some one, three or four biers, borne by bearers, ranged
themselves behind the latter,[12] and whereas the priests thought to
have but one dead man to bury, they had six or eight, and whiles more.
Nor therefore were the dead honoured with aught of tears or candles or
funeral train; nay, the thing was come to such a pass that folk recked
no more of men that died than nowadays they would of goats; whereby it
very manifestly appeared that that which the natural course of things
had not availed, by dint of small and infrequent harms, to teach the
wise to endure with patience, the very greatness of their ills had
brought even the simple to expect and make no account of. The
consecrated ground sufficing not to the burial of the vast multitude
of corpses aforesaid, which daily and well nigh hourly came carried in
crowds to every church,--especially if it were sought to give each his
own place, according to ancient usance,--there were made throughout
the churchyards, after every other part was full, vast trenches,
wherein those who came after were laid by the hundred and being heaped
up therein by layers, as goods are stowed aboard ship, were covered
with a little earth, till such time as they reached the top of the
trench.

[Footnote 11: _i.e._ expectation of gain from acting as tenders of the
sick, gravediggers, etc. The word _speranza_ is, however, constantly
used by Dante and his follower Boccaccio in the contrary sense of
"fear," and may be so meant in the present instance.]

[Footnote 12: _i.e._ the cross.]

Moreover,--not to go longer searching out and recalling every
particular of our past miseries, as they befell throughout the
city,--I say that, whilst so sinister a time prevailed in the latter,
on no wise therefor was the surrounding country spared, wherein,
(letting be the castles,[13] which in their littleness[14] were like
unto the city,) throughout the scattered villages and in the fields,
the poor and miserable husbandmen and their families, without succour
of physician or aid of servitor, died, not like men, but well nigh
like beasts, by the ways or in their tillages or about the houses,
indifferently by day and night. By reason whereof, growing lax like
the townsfolk in their manners and customs, they recked not of any
thing or business of theirs; nay, all, as if they looked for death
that very day, studied with all their wit, not to help to maturity the
future produce of their cattle and their fields and the fruits of
their own past toils, but to consume those which were ready to hand.
Thus it came to pass that the oxen, the asses, the sheep, the goats,
the swine, the fowls, nay, the very dogs, so faithful to mankind,
being driven forth of their own houses, went straying at their
pleasure about the fields, where the very corn was abandoned, without
being cut, much less gathered in; and many, well nigh like reasonable
creatures, after grazing all day, returned at night, glutted, to their
houses, without the constraint of any herdsman.

[Footnote 13: _i.e._ walled burghs.]

[Footnote 14: _i.e._ in miniature.]

To leave the country and return to the city, what more can be said
save that such and so great was the cruelty of heaven (and in part,
peradventure, that of men) that, between March and the following July,
what with the virulence of that pestiferous sickness and the number of
sick folk ill tended or forsaken in their need, through the
fearfulness of those who were whole, it is believed for certain that
upward of an hundred thousand human beings perished within the walls
of the city of Florence, which, peradventure, before the advent of
that death-dealing calamity, had not been accounted to hold so many?
Alas, how many great palaces, how many goodly houses, how many noble
mansions, once full of families, of lords and of ladies, abode empty
even to the meanest servant! How many memorable families, how many
ample heritages, how many famous fortunes were seen to remain without
lawful heir! How many valiant men, how many fair ladies, how many
sprightly youths, whom, not others only, but Galen, Hippocrates or
Æsculapius themselves would have judged most hale, breakfasted in the
morning with their kinsfolk, comrades and friends and that same night
supped with their ancestors in the other world!

I am myself weary of going wandering so long among such miseries;
wherefore, purposing henceforth to leave such part thereof as I can
fitly, I say that,--our city being at this pass, well nigh void of
inhabitants,--it chanced (as I afterward heard from a person worthy of
credit) that there foregathered in the venerable church of Santa Maria
Novella, one Tuesday morning when there was well nigh none else there,
seven young ladies, all knit one to another by friendship or
neighbourhood or kinship, who had heard divine service in mourning
attire, as sorted with such a season. Not one of them had passed her
eight-and-twentieth year nor was less than eighteen years old, and
each was discreet and of noble blood, fair of favour and well-mannered
and full of honest sprightliness. The names of these ladies I would in
proper terms set out, did not just cause forbid me, to wit, that I
would not have it possible that, in time to come, any of them should
take shame by reason of the things hereinafter related as being told
or hearkened by them, the laws of disport being nowadays somewhat
straitened, which at that time, for the reasons above shown, were of
the largest, not only for persons of their years, but for those of a
much riper age; nor yet would I give occasion to the envious, who are
still ready to carp at every praiseworthy life, on anywise to
disparage the fair fame of these honourable ladies with unseemly talk.
Wherefore, so that which each saith may hereafterward be apprehended
without confusion, I purpose to denominate them by names altogether or
in part sorting with each one's quality.[15] The first of them and
her of ripest age I shall call Pampinea, the second Fiammetta, the
third Filomena and the fourth Emilia. To the fifth we will give the
name of Lauretta, to the sixth that of Neifile and the last, not
without cause, we will style Elisa.[16] These, then, not drawn of any
set purpose, but foregathering by chance in a corner of the church,
having seated themselves in a ring, after divers sighs, let be the
saying of paternosters and fell to devising with one another many and
various things of the nature of the time. After awhile, the others
being silent, Pampinea proceeded to speak thus:

[Footnote 15: Or character (_qualità_).]

[Footnote 16: I know of no explanation of these names by the
commentators, who seem, indeed, after the manner of their kind, to
have generally confined themselves to the elaborate illustration and
elucidation (or rather, alas! too often, obscuration) of passages
already perfectly plain, leaving the difficult passages for the most
part untouched. The following is the best I can make of them.
_Pampinea_ appears to be formed from the Greek [Greek: pan], all, and
[Greek: pinuô], I advise, admonish or inform, and to mean all-advising
or admonishing, which would agree well enough with the character of
Pampinea, who is represented as the eldest and sagest of the female
personages of the Decameron and as taking the lead in everything.
_Fiammetta_ is the name by which Boccaccio designates his mistress,
the Princess Maria of Naples (the lady for whom he cherished "the very
high and noble passion" of which he speaks in his Proem), in his
earlier opuscule, the "Elégia di Madonna Fiammetta," describing, in
her name, the torments of separation from the beloved. In this work he
speaks of himself under the name of Pamfilo (Gr. [Greek: pan], all,
and [Greek: phileô], I love, _i.e._ the all-loving or the passionate
lover), and it is probable, therefore, that under these names he
intended to introduce his royal ladylove and himself in the present
work. _Filomena_ (Italian form of Philomela, a nightingale, Greek
[Greek: philos] loving, and [Greek: melos], melody, song, _i.e._
song-loving) is perhaps so styled for her love of music, and
_Emilia's_ character, as it appears in the course of the work,
justifies the derivation of her name from the Greek [Greek: aimylios],
pleasing, engaging in manners and behaviour, cajoling. _Lauretta_
Boccaccio probably intends us to look upon as a learned lady, if, as
we may suppose, her name is a corruption of _laureata_,
laurel-crowned; whilst _Neifile's_ name (Greek [Greek: neios] [[Greek:
neos]] new, and [Greek: phileô], I love, _i.e._ novelty-loving) stamps
her as being of a somewhat curious disposition, eager "to tell or to
hear some new thing." The name _Elisa_ is not so easily to be
explained as the others; possibly it was intended by the author as a
reminiscence of Dido, to whom the name (which is by some authorities
explained to mean "Godlike," from a Hebrew root) is said to have been
given "quòd plurima supra animi muliebris fortitudinem gesserit." It
does not, however, appear that there was in Elisa's character or life
anything to justify the implied comparison.]

"Dear my ladies, you may, like myself, have many times heard that
whoso honestly useth his right doth no one wrong; and it is the
natural right of every one who is born here below to succour, keep and
defend his own life as best he may, and in so far is this allowed that
it hath happened whiles that, for the preservation thereof, men have
been slain without any fault. If this much be conceded of the laws,
which have in view the well-being of all mortals, how much more is it
lawful for us and whatsoever other, without offence unto any, to take
such means as we may for the preservation of our lives? As often as I
consider our fashions of this morning and those of many other mornings
past and bethink me what and what manner discourses are ours, I feel,
and you likewise must feel, that each of us is in fear for herself.
Nor do I anywise wonder at this; but I wonder exceedingly, considering
that we all have a woman's wit, that we take no steps to provide
ourselves against that which each of us justly feareth. We abide here,
to my seeming, no otherwise than as if we would or should be witness
of how many dead bodies are brought hither for burial or to hearken if
the friars of the place, whose number is come well nigh to nought,
chant their offices at the due hours or by our apparel to show forth
unto whosoever appeareth here the nature and extent of our distresses.
If we depart hence, we either see dead bodies or sick persons carried
about or those, whom for their misdeeds the authority of the public
laws whilere condemned to exile, overrun the whole place with unseemly
excesses, as if scoffing at the laws, for that they know the executors
thereof to be either dead or sick; whilst the dregs of our city,
fattened with our blood, style themselves _pickmen_ and ruffle it
everywhere in mockery of us, riding and running all about and flouting
us with our distresses in ribald songs. We hear nothing here but 'Such
an one is dead' or 'Such an one is at the point of death'; and were
there any to make them, we should hear dolorous lamentations on all
sides. And if we return to our houses, I know not if it is with you as
with me, but, for my part, when I find none left therein of a great
household, save my serving-maid, I wax fearful and feel every hair of
my body stand on end; and wherever I go or abide about the house,
meseemeth I see the shades of those who are departed and who wear not
those countenances that I was used to see, but terrify me with a
horrid aspect, I know not whence newly come to them.

By reason of these things I feel myself alike ill at ease here and
abroad and at home, more by token that meseemeth none, who hath, as we
have, the power and whither to go, is left here, other than ourselves;
or if any such there be, I have many a time both heard and perceived
that, without making any distinction between things lawful and
unlawful, so but appetite move them, whether alone or in company, both
day and night, they do that which affordeth them most delight. Nor is
it the laity alone who do thus; nay, even those who are shut in the
monasteries, persuading themselves that what befitteth and is lawful
to others alike sortable and unforbidden unto them,[17] have broken
the laws of obedience and giving themselves to carnal delights,
thinking thus to escape, are grown lewd and dissolute. If thus, then,
it be, as is manifestly to be seen, what do we here? What look we for?
What dream we? Why are we more sluggish and slower to provide for our
safety than all the rest of the townsfolk? Deem we ourselves of less
price than others, or do we hold our life to be bounden in our bodies
with a stronger chain than is theirs and that therefore we need reck
nothing of aught that hath power to harm it? We err, we are deceived;
what folly is ours, if we think thus! As often as we choose to call to
mind the number and quality of the youths and ladies overborne of this
cruel pestilence, we may see a most manifest proof thereof.

[Footnote 17: This phrase may also be read "persuading themselves that
that (_i.e._ their breach of the laws of obedience, etc.) beseemeth
them and is forbidden only to others" (_faccendosi a credere che
quello a lor si convenga e non si disdica che all' altre_); but the
reading in the text appears more in harmony with the general sense and
is indeed indicated by the punctuation of the Giunta Edition of 1527,
which I generally follow in case of doubt.]

Wherefore, in order that we may not, through wilfulness or
nonchalance, fall into that wherefrom we may, peradventure, an we but
will, by some means or other escape, I know not if it seem to you as
it doth to me, but methinketh it were excellently well done that we,
such as we are, depart this city, as many have done before us, and
eschewing, as we would death, the dishonourable example of others,
betake ourselves quietly to our places in the country, whereof each of
us hath great plenty, and there take such diversion, such delight and
such pleasance as we may, without anywise overpassing the bounds of
reason. There may we hear the small birds sing, there may we see the
hills and plains clad all in green and the fields full of corn wave
even as doth the sea; there may we see trees, a thousand sorts, and
there is the face of heaven more open to view, the which, angered
against us though it be, nevertheless denieth not unto us its eternal
beauties, far goodlier to look upon than the empty walls of our city.
Moreover, there is the air far fresher[18] and there at this season is
more plenty of that which behoveth unto life and less is the sum of
annoys, for that, albeit the husbandmen die there, even as do the
townsfolk here, the displeasance is there the less, insomuch as houses
and inhabitants are rarer than in the city.

[Footnote 18: Syn. cooler.]

Here, on the other hand, if I deem aright, we abandon no one; nay, we
may far rather say with truth that we ourselves are abandoned, seeing
that our kinsfolk, either dying or fleeing from death, have left us
alone in this great tribulation, as it were we pertained not unto
them. No blame can therefore befall the ensuing of this counsel; nay,
dolour and chagrin and belike death may betide us, an we ensue it not.
Wherefore, an it please you, methinketh we should do well to take our
maids and letting follow after us with the necessary gear, sojourn
to-day in this place and to-morrow in that, taking such pleasance and
diversion as the season may afford, and on this wise abide till such
time (an we be not earlier overtaken of death) as we shall see what
issue Heaven reserveth unto these things. And I would remind you that
it is no more forbidden unto us honourably to depart than it is unto
many others of our sex to abide in dishonour."

The other ladies, having hearkened to Pampinea, not only commended her
counsel, but, eager to follow it, had already begun to devise more
particularly among themselves of the manner, as if, arising from
their session there, they were to set off out of hand. But Filomena,
who was exceeding discreet, said, "Ladies, albeit that which Pampinea
allegeth is excellently well said, yet is there no occasion for
running, as meseemeth you would do. Remember that we are all women and
none of us is child enough not to know how [little] reasonable women
are among themselves and how [ill], without some man's guidance, they
know how to order themselves. We are fickle, wilful, suspicious,
faint-hearted and timorous, for which reasons I misdoubt me sore, an
we take not some other guidance than our own, that our company will be
far too soon dissolved and with less honour to ourselves than were
seemly; wherefore we should do well to provide ourselves, ere we
begin."

"Verily," answered Elisa, "men are the head of women, and without
their ordinance seldom cometh any emprise of ours to good end; but how
may we come by these men? There is none of us but knoweth that of her
kinsmen the most part are dead and those who abide alive are all gone
fleeing that which we seek to flee, in divers companies, some here and
some there, without our knowing where, and to invite strangers would
not be seemly, seeing that, if we would endeavour after our welfare,
it behoveth us find a means of so ordering ourselves that, wherever we
go for diversion and repose, scandal nor annoy may ensue thereof."

Whilst such discourse was toward between the ladies, behold, there
entered the church three young men,--yet not so young that the age of
the youngest of them was less than five-and-twenty years,--in whom
neither the perversity of the time nor loss of friends and kinsfolk,
no, nor fear for themselves had availed to cool, much less to quench,
the fire of love. Of these one was called Pamfilo,[19] another
Filostrato[20] and the third Dioneo,[21] all very agreeable and
well-bred, and they went seeking, for their supreme solace, in such a
perturbation of things, to see their mistresses, who, as it chanced,
were all three among the seven aforesaid; whilst certain of the other
ladies were near kinswomen of one or other of the young men.

[Footnote 19: See ante, p. 8, note.]

[Footnote 20: _Filostrato_, Greek [Greek: philos], loving, and [Greek:
stratos], army, _met._ strife, war, _i.e._ one who loves strife. This
name appears to be a reminiscence of Boccaccio's poem (_Il
Filostrato_, well known through its translation by Chaucer and the
Senechal d'Anjou) upon the subject of the loves of Troilus and
Cressida and to be in this instance used by him as a synonym for an
unhappy lover, whom no rebuffs, no treachery can divert from his
ill-starred passion. Such a lover may well be said to be in love with
strife, and that the Filostrato of the Decameron sufficiently answers
to this description we learn later on from his own lips.]

[Footnote 21: _Dioneo_, a name probably coined from the Greek [Greek:
Diônê], one of the _agnomina_ of Venus (properly her mother's name)
and intended to denote the amorous temperament of his personage, to
which, indeed, the erotic character of most of the stories told by him
bears sufficient witness.]

No sooner had their eyes fallen on the ladies than they were
themselves espied of them; whereupon quoth Pampinea, smiling, "See,
fortune is favourable to our beginnings and hath thrown in our way
young men of worth and discretion, who will gladly be to us both
guides and servitors, an we disdain not to accept of them in that
capacity." But Neifile, whose face was grown all vermeil for
shamefastness, for that it was she who was beloved of one of the young
men, said, "For God's sake, Pampinea, look what thou sayest! I
acknowledge most frankly that there can be nought but all good said of
which one soever of them and I hold them sufficient unto a much
greater thing than this, even as I opine that they would bear, not
only ourselves, but far fairer and nobler dames than we, good and
honourable company. But, for that it is a very manifest thing that
they are enamoured of certain of us who are here, I fear lest, without
our fault or theirs, scandal and blame ensue thereof, if we carry them
with us." Quoth Filomena, "That skilleth nought; so but I live
honestly and conscience prick me not of aught, let who will speak to
the contrary; God and the truth will take up arms for me. Wherefore,
if they be disposed to come, verily we may say with Pampinea that
fortune is favourable to our going."

The other ladies, hearing her speak thus absolutely, not only held
their peace, but all with one accord agreed that the young men should
be called and acquainted with their project and bidden to be pleased
bear them company in their expedition. Accordingly, without more
words, Pampinea, who was knit by kinship to one of them, rising to her
feet, made for the three young men, who stood fast, looking upon them,
and saluting them with a cheerful countenance, discovered to them
their intent and prayed them, on behalf of herself and her companions,
that they would be pleased to bear them company in a pure and
brotherly spirit. The young men at the first thought themselves
bantered, but, seeing that the lady spoke in good earnest, they made
answer joyfully that they were ready, and without losing time about
the matter, forthright took order for that which they had to do
against departure.

On the following morning, Wednesday to wit, towards break of day,
having let orderly make ready all things needful and despatched them
in advance whereas they purposed to go,[22] the ladies, with certain
of their waiting-women, and the three young men, with as many of their
serving-men, departing Florence, set out upon their way; nor had they
gone more than two short miles from the city, when they came to the
place fore-appointed of them, which was situate on a little hill,
somewhat withdrawn on every side from the high way and full of various
shrubs and plants, all green of leafage and pleasant to behold. On the
summit of this hill was a palace, with a goodly and great courtyard in
its midst and galleries[23] and saloons and bedchambers, each in
itself most fair and adorned and notable with jocund paintings, with
lawns and grassplots round about and wonder-goodly gardens and wells
of very cold water and cellars full of wines of price, things more apt
unto curious drinkers than unto sober and modest ladies. The new
comers, to their no little pleasure, found the place all swept and the
beds made in the chambers and every thing full of such flowers as
might be had at that season and strewn with rushes.

[Footnote 22: _e prima mandato là dove_, etc. This passage is obscure
and may be read to mean "and having first despatched [a messenger] (or
sent [word]) whereas," etc. I think, however, that _mandato_ is a
copyist's error for _mandata_, in which case the meaning would be as
in the text.]

[Footnote 23: Or balconies (_loggie_).]

As soon as they had seated themselves, Dioneo, who was the merriest
springald in the world and full of quips and cranks, said, "Ladies,
your wit, rather than our foresight, hath guided us hither, and I know
not what you purpose to do with your cares; as for my own, I left them
within the city gates, whenas I issued thence with you awhile agone;
wherefore, do you either address yourselves to make merry and laugh
and sing together with me (in so far, I mean, as pertaineth to your
dignity) or give me leave to go back for my cares and abide in the
afflicted city." Whereto Pampinea, no otherwise than as if in like
manner she had banished all her own cares, answered blithely, "Dioneo,
thou sayst well; it behoveth us live merrily, nor hath any other
occasion caused us flee from yonder miseries. But, for that things
which are without measure may not long endure, I, who began the
discourse wherethrough this so goodly company came to be made, taking
thought for the continuance of our gladness, hold it of necessity that
we appoint some one to be principal among us, whom we may honour and
obey as chief and whose especial care it shall be to dispose us to
live joyously. And in order that each in turn may prove the burden of
solicitude, together with the pleasure of headship; and that, the
chief being thus drawn, in turn, from one and the other sex, there may
be no cause for jealousy, as might happen, were any excluded from the
sovranty, I say that unto each be attributed the burden and the honour
for one day. Let who is to be our first chief be at the election of us
all. For who shall follow, be it he or she whom it shall please the
governor of the day to appoint, whenas the hour of vespers draweth
near, and let each in turn, at his or her discretion, order and
dispose of the place and manner wherein we are to live, for such time
as his or her seignory shall endure."

Pampinea's words pleased mightily, and with one voice they elected her
chief of the first day; whereupon Filomena, running nimbly to a
laurel-tree--for that she had many a time heard speak of the honour
due to the leaves of this plant and how worship-worth they made whoso
was deservedly crowned withal--and plucking divers sprays therefrom,
made her thereof a goodly and honourable wreath, which, being set upon
her head, was thenceforth, what while their company lasted, a manifest
sign unto every other of the royal office and seignory.

Pampinea, being made queen, commanded that every one should be silent;
then, calling the serving-men of the three young gentlemen and her own
and the other ladies' women, who were four in number, before herself
and all being silent, she spoke thus: "In order that I may set you a
first example, by which, proceeding from good to better, our company
may live and last in order and pleasance and without reproach so long
as it is agreeable to us, I constitute, firstly, Parmeno, Dioneo's
servant, my seneschal and commit unto him the care and ordinance of
all our household and [especially] that which pertaineth to the
service of the saloon. Sirisco, Pamfilo's servant, I will shall be
our purveyor and treasurer and ensue the commandments of Parmeno.
Tindaro shall look to the service of Filostrato and the other two
gentlemen in their bed chambers, what time the others, being occupied
about their respective offices, cannot attend thereto. Misia, my
woman, and Filomena's Licisca shall still abide in the kitchen and
there diligently prepare such viands as shall be appointed them of
Parmeno. Lauretta's Chimera and Fiammetta's Stratilia it is our
pleasure shall occupy themselves with the ordinance of the ladies'
chambers and the cleanliness of the places where we shall abide; and
we will and command all and several, as they hold our favour dear, to
have a care that, whithersoever they go or whencesoever they return
and whatsoever they hear or see, they bring us from without no news
other than joyous." These orders summarily given and commended of all,
Pampinea, rising blithely to her feet, said, "Here be gardens, here be
meadows, here be store of other delectable places, wherein let each go
a-pleasuring at will; and when tierce[24] soundeth, let all be here,
so we may eat in the cool."

[Footnote 24: _i.e._ Nine o'clock a.m. Boccaccio's habit of measuring
time by the canonical hours has been a sore stumbling-block to the
ordinary English and French translator, who is generally terribly at
sea as to his meaning, inclining to render _tierce_ three, _sexte_ six
o'clock and _none_ noon and making shots of the same wild kind at the
other hours. The monasterial rule (which before the general
introduction of clocks was commonly followed by the mediæval public in
the computation of time) divided the twenty-four hours of the day and
night into seven parts (six of three hours each and one of six), the
inception of which was denoted by the sound of the bells that summoned
the clergy to the performance of the seven canonical offices _i.e._
_Matins_ at 3 a.m., _Prime_ at 6 a.m., _Tierce_ at 9 a.m., _Sexte_ or
Noonsong at noon, _None_ at 3 p.m., _Vespers_ or Evensong at 6 p.m.
and _Complines_ or Nightsong at 9 p.m., and at the same time served
the laity as a clock.]

The merry company, being thus dismissed by the new queen, went
straying with slow steps, young men and fair ladies together, about a
garden, devising blithely and diverting themselves with weaving goodly
garlands of various leaves and carolling amorously. After they had
abidden there such time as had been appointed them of the queen, they
returned to the house, where they found that Parmeno had made a
diligent beginning with his office, for that, entering a saloon on the
ground floor, they saw there the tables laid with the whitest of
cloths and beakers that seemed of silver and everything covered with
the flowers of the broom; whereupon, having washed their hands, they
all, by command of the queen, seated themselves according to Parmeno's
ordinance. Then came viands delicately drest and choicest wines were
proffered and the three serving-men, without more, quietly tended the
tables. All, being gladdened by these things, for that they were fair
and orderly done, ate joyously and with store of merry talk, and the
tables being cleared away,[25] the queen bade bring instruments of
music, for that all the ladies knew how to dance, as also the young
men, and some of them could both play and sing excellent well.
Accordingly, by her commandment, Dioneo took a lute and Fiammetta a
viol and began softly to sound a dance; whereupon the queen and the
other ladies, together with the other two young men, having sent the
serving-men to eat, struck up a round and began with a slow pace to
dance a brawl; which ended, they fell to singing quaint and merry
ditties. On this wise they abode till it seemed to the queen time to
go to sleep,[26] and she accordingly dismissed them all; whereupon the
young men retired to their chambers, which were withdrawn from the
ladies' lodging, and finding them with the beds well made and as full
of flowers as the saloon, put off their clothes and betook themselves
to rest, whilst the ladies, on their part, did likewise.

[Footnote 25: The table of Boccaccio's time was a mere board upon
trestles, which when not in actual use, was stowed away, for room's
sake, against the wall.]

[Footnote 26: _i.e._ to take the siesta or midday nap common in hot
countries.]

None[27] had not long sounded when the queen, arising, made all the
other ladies arise, and on like wise the three young men, alleging
overmuch sleep to be harmful by day; and so they betook themselves to
a little meadow, where the grass grew green and high nor there had the
sun power on any side. There, feeling the waftings of a gentle breeze,
they all, as their queen willed it, seated themselves in a ring on the
green grass; while she bespoke them thus, "As ye see, the sun is high
and the heat great, nor is aught heard save the crickets yonder among
the olives; wherefore it were doubtless folly to go anywhither at this
present. Here is the sojourn fair and cool, and here, as you see, are
chess and tables,[28] and each can divert himself as is most to his
mind. But, an my counsel be followed in this, we shall pass away this
sultry part of the day, not in gaming,--wherein the mind of one of the
players must of necessity be troubled, without any great pleasure of
the other or of those who look on,--but in telling stories, which, one
telling, may afford diversion to all the company who hearken; nor
shall we have made an end of telling each his story but the sun will
have declined and the heat be abated, and we can then go a-pleasuring
whereas it may be most agreeable to us. Wherefore, if this that I say
please you, (for I am disposed to follow your pleasure therein,) let
us do it; and if it please you not, let each until the hour of vespers
do what most liketh him." Ladies and men alike all approved the
story-telling, whereupon, "Then," said the queen, "since this pleaseth
you, I will that this first day each be free to tell of such matters
as are most to his liking." Then, turning to Pamfilo, who sat on her
right hand, she smilingly bade him give beginning to the story-telling
with one of his; and he, hearing the commandment, forthright began
thus, whilst all gave ear to him.

[Footnote 27: _i.e._ three o'clock p.m.]

[Footnote 28: _i.e._ backgammon.]



THE FIRST STORY

[Day the First]

     MASTER CIAPPELLETTO DUPETH A HOLY FRIAR WITH A FALSE
     CONFESSION AND DIETH; AND HAVING BEEN IN HIS LIFETIME THE
     WORST OF MEN, HE IS, AFTER HIS DEATH, REPUTED A SAINT AND
     CALLED SAINT CIAPPELLETTO.


"It is a seemly thing, dearest ladies, that whatsoever a man doth, he
give it beginning from the holy and admirable name of Him who is the
maker of all things. Wherefore, it behoving me, as the first, to give
commencement to our story-telling, I purpose to begin with one of His
marvels, to the end that, this being heard, our hope in Him, as in a
thing immutable, may be confirmed and His name be ever praised of us.
It is manifest that, like as things temporal are all transitory and
mortal, even so both within and without are they full of annoy and
anguish and travail and subject to infinite perils, against which it
is indubitable that we, who live enmingled therein and who are indeed
part and parcel thereof, might avail neither to endure nor to defend
ourselves, except God's especial grace lent us strength and foresight;
which latter, it is not to be believed, descendeth unto us and upon us
by any merit of our own, but of the proper motion of His own benignity
and the efficacy of the prayers of those who were mortals even as we
are and having diligently ensued His commandments, what while they
were on life, are now with Him become eternal and blessed and unto
whom we,--belike not daring to address ourselves unto the proper
presence of so august a judge,--proffer our petitions of the things
which we deem needful unto ourselves, as unto advocates[29] informed
by experience of our frailty. And this more we discern in Him, full as
He is of compassionate liberality towards us, that, whereas it
chanceth whiles (the keenness of mortal eyes availing not in any wise
to penetrate the secrets of the Divine intent), that we peradventure,
beguiled by report, make such an one our advocate unto His
majesty, who is outcast from His presence with an eternal
banishment,--nevertheless He, from whom nothing is hidden, having
regard rather to the purity of the suppliant's intent than to his
ignorance or to the reprobate estate of him whose intercession be
invoketh, giveth ear unto those who pray unto the latter, as if he
were in very deed blessed in His aspect. The which will manifestly
appear from the story which I purpose to relate; I say manifestly,
ensuing, not the judgment of God, but that of men.

[Footnote 29: Or procurators.]

It is told, then, that Musciatto Franzesi,[30] being from a very rich
and considerable merchant in France become a knight and it behoving
him thereupon go into Tuscany with Messire Charles Sansterre,[31]
brother to the king of France,[32] who had been required and bidden
thither by Pope Boniface,[33] found his affairs in one part and
another sore embroiled, (as those of merchants most times are,) and
was unable lightly or promptly to disentangle them; wherefore he
bethought himself to commit them unto divers persons and made shift
for all, save only he abode in doubt whom he might leave sufficient to
the recovery of the credits he had given to certain Burgundians. The
cause of his doubt was that he knew the Burgundians to be litigious,
quarrelsome fellows, ill-conditioned and disloyal, and could not call
one to mind, in whom he might put any trust, curst enough to cope with
their perversity. After long consideration of the matter, there came
to his memory a certain Master Ciapperello da Prato, who came often to
his house in Paris and whom, for that he was little of person and
mighty nice in his dress, the French, knowing not what Cepparello[34]
meant and thinking it be the same with Cappello, to wit, in their
vernacular, Chaplet, called him, not Cappello, but Ciappelletto,[35]
and accordingly as Ciappelletto he was known everywhere, whilst few
knew him for Master Ciapperello.

[Footnote 30: A Florentine merchant settled in France; he had great
influence over Philippe le Bel and made use of the royal favour to
enrich himself by means of monopolies granted at the expense of his
compatriots.]

[Footnote 31: Charles, Comte de Valois et d'Alençon.]

[Footnote 32: Philippe le Bel, A.D. 1268-1314.]

[Footnote 33: The Eighth.]

[Footnote 34: Sic. _Cepparello_ means a log or stump. Ciapperello is
apparently a dialectic variant of the same word.]

[Footnote 35: Diminutive of Cappello. This passage is obscure and most
likely corrupt. Boccaccio probably meant to write "hat" instead of
"chaplet" (_ghirlanda_), as the meaning of _cappello_, chaplet
(diminutive of Old English _chapel_, a hat,) being the meaning of
_ciappelletto_ (properly _cappelletto_).]

Now this said Ciappelletto was of this manner life, that, being a
scrivener, he thought very great shame whenas any of his instrument
was found (and indeed he drew few such) other than false; whilst of
the latter[36] he would have drawn as many as might be required of him
and these with a better will by way of gift than any other for a great
wage. False witness he bore with especial delight, required or not
required, and the greatest regard being in those times paid to oaths
in France, as he recked nothing of forswearing himself, he knavishly
gained all the suits concerning which he was called upon to tell the
truth upon his faith. He took inordinate pleasure and was mighty
diligent in stirring up troubles and enmities and scandals between
friends and kinsfolk and whomsoever else, and the greater the
mischiefs he saw ensue thereof, the more he rejoiced. If bidden to
manslaughter or whatsoever other naughty deed, he went about it with a
will, without ever saying nay thereto; and many a time of his proper
choice he had been known to wound men and do them to death with his
own hand. He was a terrible blasphemer of God and the saints, and that
for every trifle, being the most choleric man alive. To church he went
never and all the sacraments thereof he flouted in abominable terms,
as things of no account; whilst, on the other hand, he was still fain
to haunt and use taverns and other lewd places. Of women he was as
fond as dogs of the stick; but in the contrary he delighted more than
any filthy fellow alive. He robbed and pillaged with as much
conscience as a godly man would make oblation to God; he was a very
glutton and a great wine bibber, insomuch that bytimes it wrought him
shameful mischief, and to boot, he was a notorious gamester and a
caster of cogged dice. But why should I enlarge in so many words? He
was belike the worst man that ever was born.[37] His wickedness had
long been upheld by the power and interest of Messer Musciatto, who
had many a time safeguarded him as well from private persons, to whom
he often did a mischief, as from the law, against which he was a
perpetual offender.

[Footnote 36: _i.e._ false instruments.]

[Footnote 37: A "twopence-coloured" sketch of an impossible villain,
drawn with a crudeness unusual in Boccaccio.]

This Master Ciappelletto then, coming to Musciatto's mind, the latter,
who was very well acquainted with his way of life, bethought himself
that he should be such an one as the perversity of the Burgundians
required and accordingly, sending for him, he bespoke him thus:
'Master Ciappelletto, I am, as thou knowest, about altogether to
withdraw hence, and having to do, amongst others, with certain
Burgundians, men full of guile, I know none whom I may leave to
recover my due from them more fitting than thyself, more by token that
thou dost nothing at this present; wherefore, an thou wilt undertake
this, I will e'en procure thee the favour of the Court and give thee
such part as shall be meet of that which thou shalt recover.'

Don Ciappelletto, who was then out of employ and ill provided with the
goods of the world, seeing him who had long been his stay and his
refuge about to depart thence, lost no time in deliberation, but, as
of necessity constrained, replied that he would well. They being come
to an accord, Musciatto departed and Ciappelletto, having gotten his
patron's procuration and letters commendatory from the king, betook
himself into Burgundy, where well nigh none knew him, and there,
contrary to his nature, began courteously and blandly to seek to get
in his payments and do that wherefor he was come thither, as if
reserving choler and violence for a last resort. Dealing thus and
lodging in the house of two Florentines, brothers, who there lent at
usance and who entertained him with great honour for the love of
Messer Musciatto, it chanced that he fell sick, whereupon the two
brothers promptly fetched physicians and servants to tend him and
furnished him with all that behoved unto the recovery of his health.
But every succour was in vain, for that, by the physicians' report,
the good man, who was now old and had lived disorderly, grew daily
worse, as one who had a mortal sickness; wherefore the two brothers
were sore concerned and one day, being pretty near the chamber where
he lay sick, they began to take counsel together, saying one to the
other, 'How shall we do with yonder fellow? We have a sorry bargain on
our hands of his affair, for that to send him forth of our house, thus
sick, were a sore reproach to us and a manifest sign of little wit on
our part, if the folk, who have seen us first receive him and after
let tend and medicine him with such solicitude, should now see him
suddenly put out of our house, sick unto death as he is, without it
being possible for him to have done aught that should displease us. On
the other hand, he hath been so wicked a man that he will never
consent to confess or take any sacrament of the church; and he dying
without confession, no church will receive his body; nay, he will be
cast into a ditch, like a dog. Again, even if he do confess, his sins
are so many and so horrible that the like will come of it, for that
there is nor priest nor friar who can or will absolve him thereof;
wherefore, being unshriven, he will still be cast into the ditches.
Should it happen thus, the people of the city, as well on account of
our trade, which appeareth to them most iniquitous and of which they
missay all day, as of their itch to plunder us, seeing this, will rise
up in riot and cry out, "These Lombard dogs, whom the church refuseth
to receive, are to be suffered here no longer";--and they will run to
our houses and despoil us not only of our good, but may be of our
lives, to boot; wherefore in any case it will go ill with us, if
yonder fellow die.'

Master Ciappelletto, who, as we have said, lay near the place where
the two brothers were in discourse, being quick of hearing, as is most
times the case with the sick, heard what they said of him and calling
them to him, bespoke them thus: 'I will not have you anywise misdoubt
of me nor fear to take any hurt by me. I have heard what you say of me
and am well assured that it would happen even as you say, should
matters pass as you expect; but it shall go otherwise. I have in my
lifetime done God the Lord so many an affront that it will make
neither more nor less, an I do Him yet another at the point of death;
wherefore do you make shift to bring me the holiest and worthiest
friar you may avail to have, if any such there be,[38] and leave the
rest to me, for that I will assuredly order your affairs and mine own
on such wise that all shall go well and you shall have good cause to
be satisfied.'

[Footnote 38: _i.e._ if there be such a thing as a holy and worthy
friar.]

The two brothers, albeit they conceived no great hope of this,
nevertheless betook themselves to a brotherhood of monks and demanded
some holy and learned man to hear the confession of a Lombard who lay
sick in their house. There was given them a venerable brother of holy
and good life and a past master in Holy Writ, a very reverend man, for
whom all the townsfolk had a very great and special regard, and they
carried him to their house; where, coming to the chamber where Master
Ciappelletto lay and seating himself by his side, he began first
tenderly to comfort him and after asked him how long it was since he
had confessed last; whereto Master Ciappelletto, who had never
confessed in his life, answered, 'Father, it hath been my usance to
confess every week once at the least and often more; it is true that,
since I fell sick, to wit, these eight days past, I have not
confessed, such is the annoy that my sickness hath given me.' Quoth
the friar, 'My son, thou hast done well and so must thou do
henceforward. I see, since thou confessest so often, that I shall be
at little pains either of hearing or questioning.' 'Sir,' answered
Master Ciappelletto, 'say not so; I have never confessed so much nor
so often but I would still fain make a general confession of all my
sins that I could call to mind from the day of my birth to that of my
confession; wherefore I pray you, good my father, question me as
punctually of everything, nay, everything, as if I had never
confessed; and consider me not because I am sick, for that I had far
liefer displease this my flesh than, in consulting its ease, do aught
that might be the perdition of my soul, which my Saviour redeemed with
His precious blood.'

These words much pleased the holy man and seemed to him to argue a
well-disposed mind; wherefore, after he had much commended Master
Ciappelletto for that his usance, he asked him if he had ever sinned
by way of lust with any woman. 'Father,' replied Master Ciappelletto,
sighing, 'on this point I am ashamed to tell you the truth, fearing to
sin by way of vainglory.' Quoth the friar, 'Speak in all security, for
never did one sin by telling the truth, whether in confession or
otherwise.' 'Then,' said Master Ciappelletto, 'since you certify me of
this, I will tell you; I am yet a virgin, even as I came forth of my
mother's body.' 'O blessed be thou of God!' cried the monk. 'How well
hast thou done! And doing thus, thou hast the more deserved, inasmuch
as, an thou wouldst, thou hadst more leisure to do the contrary than
we and whatsoever others are limited by any rule.'

After this he asked him if he had ever offended against God in the sin
of gluttony; whereto Master Ciappelletto answered, sighing, Ay had he,
and that many a time; for that, albeit, over and above the Lenten
fasts that are yearly observed of the devout, he had been wont to fast
on bread and water three days at the least in every week,--he had
oftentimes (and especially whenas he had endured any fatigue, either
praying or going a-pilgrimage) drunken the water with as much appetite
and as keen a relish as great drinkers do wine. And many a time he had
longed to have such homely salads of potherbs as women make when they
go into the country; and whiles eating had given him more pleasure
than himseemed it should do to one who fasteth for devotion, as did
he. 'My son,' said the friar, 'these sins are natural and very slight
and I would not therefore have thee burden thy conscience withal more
than behoveth. It happeneth to every man, how devout soever he be,
that, after long fasting, meat seemeth good to him, and after travail,
drink.'

'Alack, father mine,' rejoined Ciappelletto, 'tell me not this to
comfort me; you must know I know that things done for the service of
God should be done sincerely and with an ungrudging mind; and whoso
doth otherwise sinneth.' Quoth the friar, exceeding well pleased, 'I
am content that thou shouldst thus apprehend it and thy pure and good
conscience therein pleaseth me exceedingly. But, tell me, hast thou
sinned by way of avarice, desiring more than befitted or withholding
that which it behoved thee not to withhold?' 'Father mine,' replied
Ciappelletto, 'I would not have you look to my being in the house of
these usurers; I have nought to do here; nay, I came hither to
admonish and chasten them and turn them from this their abominable way
of gain; and methinketh I should have made shift to do so, had not God
thus visited me. But you must know that I was left a rich man by my
father, of whose good, when he was dead, I bestowed the most part in
alms, and after, to sustain my life and that I might be able to
succour Christ's poor, I have done my little traffickings, and in
these I have desired to gain; but still with God's poor have I shared
that which I gained, converting my own half to my occasion and giving
them the other, and in this so well hath my Creator prospered me that
my affairs have still gone from good to better.'

'Well hast thou done,' said the friar; 'but hast thou often been
angered?' 'Oh,' cried Master Ciappelletto, 'that I must tell you I
have very often been! And who could keep himself therefrom, seeing men
do unseemly things all day long, keeping not the commandments of God
neither fearing His judgment? Many times a day I had liefer been dead
than alive, seeing young men follow after vanities and hearing them
curse and forswear themselves, haunting the taverns, visiting not the
churches and ensuing rather the ways of the world than that of God.'
'My son,' said the friar, 'this is a righteous anger, nor for my part
might I enjoin thee any penance therefor. But hath anger at any time
availed to move thee to do any manslaughter or to bespeak any one
unseemly or do any other unright?' 'Alack, sir,' answered the sick
man, 'you, who seem to me a man of God, how can you say such words?
Had I ever had the least thought of doing any one of the things
whereof you speak, think you I believe that God would so long have
forborne me? These be the doings of outlaws and men of nought, whereof
I never saw any but I said still, "Go, may God amend thee!"'

Then said the friar, 'Now tell me, my son (blessed be thou of God),
hast thou never borne false witness against any or missaid of another,
or taken others' good, without leave of him to whom it pertained?'
'Ay, indeed, sir,' replied Master Ciappelletto; 'I have missaid of
others; for that I had a neighbour aforetime, who, with the greatest
unright in the world, did nought but beat his wife, insomuch that I
once spoke ill of him to her kinsfolk, so great was the compassion
that overcame me for the poor woman, whom he used as God alone can
tell, whenassoever he had drunken overmuch.' Quoth the friar, 'Thou
tellest me thou hast been a merchant. Hast thou never cheated any one,
as merchants do whiles!' 'I' faith, yes, sir,' answered Master
Ciappelletto; 'but I know not whom, except it were a certain man, who
once brought me monies which he owed me for cloth I had sold him and
which I threw into a chest, without counting. A good month after, I
found that they were four farthings more than they should have been;
wherefore, not seeing him again and having kept them by me a full
year, that I might restore them to him, I gave them away in alms.'
Quoth the friar, 'This was a small matter, and thou didst well to deal
with it as thou didst.'

Then he questioned him of many other things, of all which he answered
after the same fashion, and the holy father offering to proceed to
absolution, Master Ciappelletto said, 'Sir, I have yet sundry sins
that I have not told you.' The friar asked him what they were, and he
answered, 'I mind me that one Saturday, after none, I caused my
servant sweep out the house and had not that reverence for the Lord's
holy day which it behoved me have.' 'Oh,' said the friar, 'that is a
light matter, my son.' 'Nay,' rejoined Master Ciappelletto, 'call it
not a light matter, for that the Lord's Day is greatly to be honoured,
seeing that on such a day our Lord rose from the dead.' Then said the
friar, 'Well, hast thou done aught else?' 'Ay, sir,' answered Master
Ciappelletto; 'once, unthinking what I did, I spat in the church of
God.' Thereupon the friar fell a-smiling, and said, 'My son, that is
no thing to be recked of; we who are of the clergy, we spit there all
day long.' 'And you do very ill,' rejoined Master Ciappelletto; 'for
that there is nought which it so straitly behoveth to keep clean as
the holy temple wherein is rendered sacrifice to God.'

Brief, he told him great plenty of such like things and presently fell
a-sighing and after weeping sore, as he knew full well to do, whenas
he would. Quoth the holy friar, 'What aileth thee, my son?' 'Alas,
sir,' replied Master Ciappelletto, 'I have one sin left, whereof I
never yet confessed me, such shame have I to tell it; and every time I
call it to mind, I weep, even as you see, and meseemeth very certain
that God will never pardon it me.' 'Go to, son,' rejoined the friar;
'what is this thou sayest? If all the sins that were ever wrought or
are yet to be wrought of all mankind, what while the world endureth,
were all in one man and he repented him thereof and were contrite
therefor, as I see thee, such is the mercy and loving-kindness of God
that, upon confession, He would freely pardon them to him. Wherefore
do thou tell it in all assurance.' Quoth Master Ciappelletto, still
weeping sore, 'Alack, father mine, mine is too great a sin, and I can
scarce believe that it will ever be forgiven me of God, except your
prayers strive for me.' Then said the friar, 'Tell it me in all
assurance, for I promise thee to pray God for thee.'

Master Ciappelletto, however, still wept and said nought; but, after
he had thus held the friar a great while in suspense, he heaved a deep
sigh and said, 'Father mine, since you promise me to pray God for me,
I will e'en tell it you. Know, then, that, when I was little, I once
cursed my mother.' So saying, he fell again to weeping sore. 'O my
son,' quoth the friar, 'seemeth this to thee so heinous a sin? Why,
men blaspheme God all day long and He freely pardoneth whoso repenteth
him of having blasphemed Him; and deemest thou not He will pardon thee
this? Weep not, but comfort thyself; for, certes, wert thou one of
those who set Him on the cross, He would pardon thee, in favour of
such contrition as I see in thee.' 'Alack, father mine, what say you?'
replied Ciappelletto. 'My kind mother, who bore me nine months in her
body, day and night, and carried me on her neck an hundred times and
more, I did passing ill to curse her and it was an exceeding great
sin; and except you pray God for me, it will not be forgiven me.'

The friar, then, seeing that Master Ciappelletto had no more to say,
gave him absolution and bestowed on him his benison, holding him a
very holy man and devoutly believing all that he had told him to be
true. And who would not have believed it, hearing a man at the point
of death speak thus? Then, after all this, he said to him, 'Master
Ciappelletto, with God's help you will speedily be whole; but, should
it come to pass that God call your blessed and well-disposed soul to
Himself, would it please you that your body be buried in our convent?'
'Ay, would it, sir,' replied Master Ciappelletto. 'Nay, I would fain
no be buried otherwhere, since you have promised to pray God for me;
more by token that I have ever had a special regard for your order.
Wherefore I pray you that whenas you return to your lodging, you must
cause bring me that most veritable body of Christ, which you
consecrate a-mornings upon the altar, for that, with your leave, I
purpose (all unworthy as I am) to take it and after, holy and extreme
unction, to the intent that, if I have lived as a sinner, I may at the
least die like a Christian.' The good friar replied that it pleased
him much and that he said well and promised to see it presently
brought him; and so was it done.

Meanwhile, the two brothers, misdoubting them sore lest Master
Ciappelletto should play them false, had posted themselves behind a
wainscot, that divided the chamber where he lay from another, and
listening, easily heard and apprehended that which he said to the
friar and had whiles so great a mind to laugh, hearing the things
which he confessed to having done, that they were like to burst and
said, one to other, 'What manner of man is this, whom neither old age
nor sickness nor fear of death, whereunto he seeth himself near, nor
yet of God, before whose judgment-seat he looketh to be ere long, have
availed to turn from his wickedness nor hinder him from choosing to
die as he hath lived?' However, seeing that he had so spoken that he
should be admitted to burial in a church, they recked nought of the
rest.

Master Ciappelletto presently took the sacrament and, growing rapidly
worse, received extreme unction, and a little after evensong of the
day he had made his fine confession, he died; whereupon the two
brothers, having, of his proper monies, taken order for his honourable
burial, sent to the convent to acquaint the friars therewith, bidding
them come thither that night to hold vigil, according to usance, and
fetch away the body in the morning, and meanwhile made ready all that
was needful thereunto.

The holy friar, who had shriven him, hearing that he had departed this
life, betook himself to the prior of the convent and, letting ring to
chapter, gave out to the brethren therein assembled that Master
Ciappelletto had been a holy man, according to that which he had
gathered from his confession, and persuaded them to receive his body
with the utmost reverence and devotion, in the hope that God should
show forth many miracles through him. To this the prior and brethren
credulously consented and that same evening, coming all whereas Master
Ciappelletto lay dead, they held high and solemn vigil over him and on
the morrow, clad all in albs and copes, book in hand and crosses
before them, they went, chanting the while, for his body and brought
it with the utmost pomp and solemnity to their church, followed by
well nigh all the people of the city, men and women.

As soon as they had set the body down in the church, the holy friar,
who had confessed him, mounted the pulpit and fell a-preaching
marvellous things of the dead man and of his life, his fasts, his
virginity, his simplicity and innocence and sanctity, recounting,
amongst other things, that which he had confessed to him as his
greatest sin and how he had hardly availed to persuade him that God
would forgive it him; thence passing on to reprove the folk who
hearkened, 'And you, accursed that you are,' quoth he, 'for every waif
of straw that stirreth between your feet, you blaspheme God and the
Virgin and all the host of heaven.' Moreover, he told them many other
things of his loyalty and purity of heart; brief, with his speech,
whereto entire faith was yielded of the people of the city, he so
established the dead man in the reverent consideration of all who were
present that, no sooner was the service at an end, than they all with
the utmost eagerness flocked to kiss his hands and feet and the
clothes were torn off his back, he holding himself blessed who might
avail to have never so little thereof; and needs must they leave him
thus all that day, so he might be seen and visited of all.

The following night he was honourably buried in a marble tomb in one
of the chapels of the church and on the morrow the folk began
incontinent to come and burn candles and offer up prayers and make
vows to him and hang images of wax[39] at his shrine, according to the
promise made. Nay, on such wise waxed the frame of his sanctity and
men's devotion to him that there was scarce any who, being in
adversity, would vow himself to another saint than him; and they
styled and yet style him Saint Ciappelletto and avouch that God
through him hath wrought many miracles and yet worketh, them every day
for whoso devoutly commendeth himself unto him.

[Footnote 39: _i.e._ ex voto.]

Thus, then, lived and died Master Cepperello[40] da Prato and became a
saint, as you have heard; nor would I deny it to be possible that he
is beatified in God's presence, for that, albeit his life was wicked
and perverse, he may at his last extremity have shown such contrition
that peradventure God had mercy on him and received him into His
kingdom; but, for that this is hidden from us, I reason according to
that which, is apparent and say that he should rather be in the hands
of the devil in perdition than in Paradise. And if so it be, we may
know from this how great is God's loving-kindness towards us, which,
having regard not to our error, but to the purity of our faith, whenas
we thus make an enemy (deeming him a friend) of His our intermediary,
giveth ear unto us, even as if we had recourse unto one truly holy, as
intercessor for His favour. Wherefore, to the end that by His grace we
may be preserved safe and sound in this present adversity and in this
so joyous company, let us, magnifying His name, in which we have begun
our diversion, and holding Him in reverence, commend ourselves to Him
in our necessities, well assured of being heard." And with this he was
silent.

[Footnote 40: It will be noted that this is Boccaccio's third variant
of his hero's name (the others being Ciapperello and Cepparello) and
the edition of 1527 furnishes us with a fourth and a fifth form _i.e._
Ciepparello and Ciepperello.]



THE SECOND STORY

[Day the First]

     ABRAHAM THE JEW, AT THE INSTIGATION OF JEHANNOT DE CHEVIGNÉ,
     GOETH TO THE COURT OF ROME AND SEEING THE DEPRAVITY OF THE
     CLERGY, RETURNETH TO PARIS AND THERE BECOMETH A CHRISTIAN


Pamfilo's story was in part laughed at and altogether commended by the
ladies, and it being come to its end, after being diligently
hearkened, the queen bade Neifile, who sat next him, ensue the
ordinance of the commenced diversion by telling one[41] of her
fashion. Neifile, who was distinguished no less by courteous manners
than by beauty, answered blithely that she would well and began on
this wise: "Pamfilo hath shown us in his story that God's benignness
regardeth not our errors, when they proceed from that which is beyond
our ken; and I, in mine, purpose to show you how this same
benignness,--patiently suffering the defaults of those who, being
especially bounden both with words and deeds to bear true witness
thereof[42] yet practise the contrary,--exhibiteth unto us an
infallible proof of itself, to the intent that we may, with the more
constancy of mind, ensue that which we believe.

[Footnote 41: _i.e._ a story.]

[Footnote 42: _i.e._ of God's benignness.]

As I have heard tell, gracious ladies, there was once in Paris a great
merchant and a very loyal and upright man, whose name was Jehannot de
Chevigné and who was of great traffic in silks and stuffs. He had
particular friendship for a very rich Jew called Abraham, who was also
a merchant and a very honest and trusty man, and seeing the latter's
worth and loyalty, it began to irk him sore that the soul of so worthy
and discreet and good a man should go to perdition for default of
faith; wherefore he fell to beseeching him on friendly wise leave the
errors of the Jewish faith and turn to the Christian verity, which he
might see still wax and prosper, as being holy and good, whereas his
own faith, on the contrary, was manifestly on the wane and dwindling
to nought. The Jew made answer that he held no faith holy or good save
only the Jewish, that in this latter he was born and therein meant to
live and die, nor should aught ever make him remove therefrom.

Jehannot for all that desisted not from him, but some days after
returned to the attack with similar words, showing him, on rude enough
wise (for that merchants for the most part can no better), for what
reasons our religion is better than the Jewish; and albeit the Jew was
a past master in their law, nevertheless, whether it was the great
friendship he bore Jehannot that moved him or peradventure words
wrought it that the Holy Ghost put into the good simple man's mouth,
the latter's arguments began greatly to please him; but yet,
persisting in his own belief, he would not suffer himself to be
converted. Like as he abode obstinate, even so Jehannot never gave
over importuning him, till at last the Jew, overcome by such continual
insistence, said, 'Look you, Jehannot, thou wouldst have me become a
Christian and I am disposed to do it; insomuch, indeed, that I mean,
in the first place, to go to Rome and there see him who, thou sayest,
is God's Vicar upon earth and consider his manners and fashions and
likewise those of his chief brethren.[43] If these appear to me such
that I may, by them, as well as by your words, apprehend that your
faith is better than mine, even as thou hast studied to show me, I
will do as I have said; and if it be not so, I will remain a Jew as I
am.'

[Footnote 43: Lit. cardinal brethren (_fratelli cardinali_).]

When Jehannot heard this, he was beyond measure chagrined and said in
himself, 'I have lost my pains, which meseemed I had right well
bestowed, thinking to have converted this man; for that, an he go to
the court of Rome and see the lewd and wicked life of the clergy, not
only will he never become a Christian, but, were he already a
Christian, he would infallibly turn Jew again.' Then, turning to
Abraham, he said to him, 'Alack, my friend, why wilt thou undertake
this travail and so great a charge as it will be to thee to go from
here to Rome? More by token that, both by sea and by land, the road is
full of perils for a rich man such as thou art. Thinkest thou not to
find here who shall give thee baptism? Or, if peradventure thou have
any doubts concerning the faith which I have propounded to thee, where
are there greater doctors and men more learned in the matter than are
here or better able to resolve thee of that which thou wilt know or
ask? Wherefore, to my thinking, this thy going is superfluous. Bethink
thee that the prelates there are even such as those thou mayst have
seen here, and indeed so much the better as they are nearer unto the
Chief Pastor. Wherefore, an thou wilt be counselled by me, thou wilt
reserve this travail unto another time against some jubilee or other,
whereunto it may be I will bear thee company.' To this the Jew made
answer, 'I doubt not, Jehannot, but it is as thou tellest me; but, to
sum up many words in one, I am altogether determined, an thou wouldst
have me do that whereof thou hast so instantly besought me, to go
thither; else will I never do aught thereof.' Jehannot, seeing his
determination, said, 'Go and good luck go with thee!' And inwardly
assured that he would never become a Christian, when once he should
have seen the court of Rome, but availing[44] nothing in the matter,
he desisted.

[Footnote 44: Lit. losing (_perdendo_), but this is probably some
copyist's mistake for _podendo_, the old form of _potendo_, availing.]

The Jew mounted to horse and as quickliest he might betook himself to
the court of Rome, he was honourably entertained of his brethren, and
there abiding, without telling any the reason of his coming, he began
diligently to enquire into the manners and fashions of the Pope and
Cardinals and other prelates and of all the members of his court, and
what with that which he himself noted, being a mighty quick-witted
man, and that which he gathered from others, he found all, from the
highest to the lowest, most shamefully given to the sin of lust, and
that not only in the way of nature, but after the Sodomitical fashion,
without any restraint of remorse or shamefastness, insomuch that the
interest of courtezans and catamites was of no small avail there in
obtaining any considerable thing.

Moreover, he manifestly perceived them to be universally gluttons,
wine-bibbers, drunkards and slaves to their bellies, brute-beast
fashion, more than to aught else after lust. And looking farther, he
saw them all covetous and greedy after money, insomuch that human,
nay, Christian blood, no less than things sacred, whatsoever they
might be, whether pertaining to the sacrifices of the altar or to the
benefices of the church, they sold and bought indifferently for a
price, making a greater traffic and having more brokers thereof than
folk at Paris of silks and stuffs or what not else. Manifest simony
they had christened 'procuration' and gluttony 'sustentation,' as if
God apprehended not,--let be the meaning of words but,--the intention
of depraved minds and would suffer Himself, after the fashion of men,
to be duped by the names of things. All this, together with much else
which must be left unsaid, was supremely displeasing to the Jew, who
was a sober and modest man, and himseeming he had seen enough, he
determined to return to Paris and did so.

As soon as Jehannot knew of his return, he betook himself to him,
hoping nothing less than that he should become a Christian, and they
greeted each other with the utmost joy. Then, after Abraham had rested
some days, Jehannot asked him how himseemed of the Holy Father and of
the cardinals and others of his court. Whereto the Jew promptly
answered, 'Meseemeth, God give them ill one and all! And I say this
for that, if I was able to observe aright, no piety, no devoutness, no
good work or example of life or otherwhat did I see there in any who
was a churchman; nay, but lust, covetise, gluttony and the like and
worse (if worse can be) meseemed to be there in such favour with all
that I hold it for a forgingplace of things diabolical rather than
divine. And as far as I can judge, meseemeth your chief pastor and
consequently all the others endeavour with all diligence and all their
wit and every art to bring to nought and banish from the world the
Christian religion, whereas they should be its foundation and support.
And for that I see that this whereafter they strive cometh not to
pass, but that your religion continually increaseth and waxeth still
brighter and more glorious, meseemeth I manifestly discern that the
Holy Spirit is verily the foundation and support thereof, as of that
which is true and holy over any other. Wherefore, whereas, aforetime I
abode obdurate and insensible to thine exhortations and would not be
persuaded to embrace thy faith, I now tell thee frankly that for
nothing in the world would I forbear to become a Christian. Let us,
then, to church and there have me baptized, according to the rite and
ordinance of your holy faith.'

Jehannot, who looked for a directly contrary conclusion to this, was
the joyfullest man that might be, when he heard him speak thus, and
repairing with him to our Lady's Church of Paris, required the clergy
there to give Abraham baptism. They, hearing that the Jew himself
demanded it, straightway proceeded to baptize him, whilst Jehannot
raised him from the sacred font[45] and named him Giovanni. After
this, he had him thoroughly lessoned by men of great worth and
learning in the tenets of our holy faith, which he speedily
apprehended and thenceforward was a good man and a worthy and one of a
devout life."

[Footnote 45: _i.e._ stood sponsor for him.]



THE THIRD STORY

[Day the First]

     MELCHIZEDEK THE JEW, WITH A STORY OF THREE RINGS, ESCAPETH A
     PARLOUS SNARE SET FOR HIM BY SALADIN


Neifile having made an end of her story, which was commended of all,
Filomena, by the queen's good pleasure, proceeded to speak thus: "The
story told by Neifile bringeth to my mind a parlous case the once
betided a Jew; and for that, it having already been excellent well
spoken both of God and of the verity of our faith, it should not
henceforth be forbidden us to descend to the doings of mankind and the
events that have befallen them, I will now proceed to relate to you
the case aforesaid, which having heard, you will peradventure become
more wary in answering the questions that may be put to you. You must
know, lovesome[46] companions[47] mine, that, like as folly ofttimes
draweth folk forth of happy estate and casteth them into the utmost
misery, even so doth good sense extricate the wise man from the
greatest perils and place him in assurance and tranquillity. How true
it is that folly bringeth many an one from fair estate unto misery is
seen by multitude of examples, with the recounting whereof we have no
present concern, considering that a thousand instances thereof do
every day manifestly appear to us; but that good sense is a cause of
solacement I will, as I promised, briefly show you by a little story.

[Footnote 46: Lit. amorous (_amorose_), but Boccaccio frequently uses
_amoroso_, _vago_, and other adjectives, which are now understood in
an active or transitive sense only, in their ancient passive or
intransitive sense of lovesome, desirable, etc.]

[Footnote 47: _Compagne_, _i.e._ she-companions. Filomena is
addressing the female part of the company.]

Saladin,--whose valour was such that not only from a man of little
account it made him Soldan of Babylon, but gained him many victories
over kings Saracen and Christian,--having in divers wars and in the
exercise of his extraordinary munificences expended his whole treasure
and having an urgent occasion for a good sum of money nor seeing
whence he might avail to have it as promptly as it behoved him, called
to mind a rich Jew, by name Melchizedek, who lent at usance in
Alexandria, and bethought himself that this latter had the wherewithal
to oblige him, and he would; but he was so miserly that he would never
have done it of his freewill and Saladin was loath to use force with
him; wherefore, need constraining him, he set his every wit awork to
find a means how the Jew might be brought to serve him in this and
presently concluded to do him a violence coloured by some show of
reason.

Accordingly he sent for Melchizedek and receiving him familiarly,
seated him by himself, then said to him, 'Honest man, I have
understood from divers persons that thou art a very learned man and
deeply versed in matters of divinity; wherefore I would fain know of
thee whether of the three Laws thou reputest the true, the Jewish, the
Saracen or the Christian.' The Jew, who was in truth a man of learning
and understanding, perceived but too well that Saladin looked to
entrap him in words, so he might fasten a quarrel on him, and
bethought himself that he could not praise any of the three more than
the others without giving him the occasion he sought. Accordingly,
sharpening his wits, as became one who felt himself in need of an
answer by which he might not be taken at a vantage, there speedily
occurred to him that which it behoved him reply and he said, 'My lord,
the question that you propound to me is a nice one and to acquaint you
with that which I think of the matter, it behoveth me tell you a
little story, which you shall hear.

An I mistake not, I mind me to have many a time heard tell that there
was once a great man and a rich, who among other very precious jewels
in his treasury, had a very goodly and costly ring, whereunto being
minded, for its worth and beauty, to do honour and wishing to leave it
in perpetuity to his descendants, he declared that whichsoever of his
sons should, at his death, be found in possession thereof, by his
bequest unto him, should be recognized as his heir and be held of all
the others in honour and reverence as chief and head. He to whom the
ring was left by him held a like course with his own descendants and
did even as his father had done. In brief the ring passed from hand to
hand, through many generations, and came at last into the possession
of a man who had three goodly and virtuous sons, all very obedient to
their father wherefore he loved them all three alike. The young men,
knowing the usance of the ring, each for himself, desiring to be the
most honoured among his folk, as best he might, besought his father,
who was now an old man, to leave him the ring, whenas he came to die.
The worthy man, who loved them all alike and knew not himself how to
choose to which he had liefer leave the ring, bethought himself,
having promised it to each, to seek to satisfy all three and privily
let make by a good craftsman other two rings, which were so like unto
the first that he himself scarce knew which was the true. When he came
to die, he secretly gave each one of his sons his ring, wherefore each
of them, seeking after their father's death, to occupy the inheritance
and the honour and denying it to the others, produced his ring, in
witness of his right, and the three rings being found so like unto one
another that the true might not be known, the question which was the
father's very heir abode pending and yet pendeth. And so say I to you,
my lord, of the three Laws to the three peoples given of God the
Father, whereof you question me; each people deemeth itself to have
his inheritance, His true Law and His commandments; but of which in
very deed hath them, even as of the rings, the question yet pendeth.'

Saladin perceived that the Jew had excellently well contrived to
escape the snare which he had spread before his feet; wherefore he
concluded to discover to him his need and see if he were willing to
serve him; and so accordingly he did, confessing to him that which he
had it in mind to do, had he not answered him on such discreet wise.
The Jew freely furnished him with all that he required, and the Soldan
after satisfied him in full; moreover, he gave him very great gifts
and still had him to friend and maintained him about his own person in
high and honourable estate."



THE FOURTH STORY

[Day the First]

     A MONK, HAVING FALLEN INTO A SIN DESERVING OF VERY GRIEVOUS
     PUNISHMENT, ADROITLY REPROACHING THE SAME FAULT TO HIS
     ABBOT, QUITTETH HIMSELF OF THE PENALTY


Filomena, having despatched her story, was now silent, whereupon
Dioneo, who sat next her, knowing already, by the ordinance begun,
that it fell to his turn to tell, proceeded, without awaiting farther
commandment from the queen, to speak on this wise: "Lovesome ladies,
if I have rightly apprehended the intention of you all, we are here to
divert ourselves with story-telling; wherefore, so but it be not done
contrary to this our purpose, I hold it lawful unto each (even as our
queen told us a while agone) to tell such story as he deemeth may
afford most entertainment. Accordingly having heard how, by the good
counsels of Jehannot de Chevigné, Abraham had his soul saved and how
Melchizedek, by his good sense, defended his riches from Saladin's
ambushes, I purpose, without looking for reprehension from you,
briefly to relate with what address a monk delivered his body from a
very grievous punishment.

There was in Lunigiana, a country not very far hence, a monastery
whilere more abounding in sanctity and monks than it is nowadays, and
therein, among others, was a young monk, whose vigour and lustiness
neither fasts nor vigils availed to mortify. It chanced one day,
towards noontide, when all the other monks slept, that, as he went all
alone round about the convent,[48] which stood in a very solitary
place, he espied a very well-favoured lass, belike some husbandman's
daughter of the country, who went about the fields culling certain
herbs, and no sooner had he set eyes on her than he was violently
assailed by carnal appetite. Wherefore, accosting her, he entered into
parley with her and so led on from one thing to another that he came
to an accord with her and brought her to his cell, unperceived of
any; but whilst, carried away by overmuch ardour, he disported himself
with her less cautiously than was prudent, it chanced that the abbot
arose from sleep and softly passing by the monk's cell, heard the
racket that the twain made together; whereupon he came stealthily up
to the door to listen, that he might the better recognize the voices,
and manifestly perceiving that there was a woman in the cell, was at
first minded to cause open to him, but after bethought himself to hold
another course in the matter and, returning to his chamber, awaited
the monk's coming forth.

[Footnote 48: Lit. his church (_sua chiesa_); but the context seems to
indicate that the monastery itself is meant.]

The latter, all taken up as he was with the wench and his exceeding
pleasure and delight in her company, was none the less on his guard
and himseeming he heard some scuffling of feet in the dormitory, he
set his eye to a crevice and plainly saw the abbot stand hearkening
unto him; whereby he understood but too well that the latter must have
gotten wind of the wench's presence in his cell and knowing that sore
punishment would ensue to him thereof, he was beyond measure
chagrined. However, without discovering aught of his concern to the
girl, he hastily revolved many things in himself, seeking to find some
means of escape, and presently hit upon a rare device, which went
straight to the mark he aimed at. Accordingly, making a show of
thinking he had abidden long enough with the damsel, he said to her,
'I must go cast about for a means how thou mayest win forth hence,
without being seen; wherefore do thou abide quietly until my return.'

Then, going forth and locking the cell door on her, he betook himself
straight to the abbot's chamber and presenting him with the key,
according as each monk did, whenas he went abroad, said to him, with a
good countenance, 'Sir, I was unable to make an end this morning of
bringing off all the faggots I had cut; wherefore with your leave I
will presently go to the wood and fetch them away.' The abbot, deeming
the monk unaware that he had been seen of him, was glad of such an
opportunity to inform himself more fully of the offence committed by
him and accordingly took the key and gave him the leave he sought.
Then, as soon as he saw him gone, he fell to considering which he
should rather do, whether open his cell in the presence of all the
other monks and cause them to see his default, so they might after
have no occasion to murmur against himself, whenas he should punish
the offender, or seek first to learn from the girl herself how the
thing had passed; and bethinking himself that she might perchance be
the wife or daughter of such a man that he would be loath to have done
her the shame of showing her to all the monks, he determined first to
see her and after come to a conclusion; wherefore, betaking himself to
the cell, he opened it and, entering, shut the door after him.

The girl, seeing the abbot enter, was all aghast and fell a-weeping
for fear of shame; but my lord abbot, casting his eyes upon her and
seeing her young and handsome, old as he was, suddenly felt the pricks
of the flesh no less importunate than his young monk had done and fell
a-saying in himself, 'Marry, why should I not take somewhat of
pleasure, whenas I may, more by token that displeasance and annoy are
still at hand, whenever I have a mind to them? This is a handsome
wench and is here unknown of any in the world. If I can bring her to
do my pleasure, I know not why I should not do it. Who will know it?
No one will ever know it and a sin that's hidden is half forgiven.
Maybe this chance will never occur again. I hold it great sense to
avail ourselves of a good, whenas God the Lord sendeth us thereof.'

So saying and having altogether changed purpose from that wherewith he
came, he drew near to the girl and began gently to comfort her,
praying her not to weep, and passing from one word to another, he
ended by discovering to her his desire. The girl, who was neither iron
nor adamant, readily enough lent herself to the pleasure of the abbot,
who, after he had clipped and kissed her again and again, mounted upon
the monk's pallet and having belike regard to the grave burden of his
dignity and the girl's tender age and fearful of irking her for
overmuch heaviness, bestrode not her breast, but set her upon his own
and so a great while disported himself with her.

Meanwhile, the monk, who had only made believe to go to the wood and
had hidden himself in the dormitory, was altogether reassured, whenas
he saw the abbot enter his cell alone, doubting not but his device
should have effect, and when he saw him lock the door from within, he
held it for certain. Accordingly, coming forth of his hiding-place, he
stealthily betook himself to a crevice, through which he both heard
and saw all that the abbot did and said. When it seemed to the latter
that he had tarried long enough with the damsel, he locked her in the
cell and returned to his own chamber, whence, after awhile, he heard
the monk stirring and deeming him returned from the wood, thought to
rebuke him severely and cast him into prison, so himself might alone
possess the prey he had gotten; wherefore, sending for him, he very
grievously rebuked him and with a stern countenance and commanded that
he should be put in prison.

The monk very readily answered, 'Sir, I have not yet pertained long
enough to the order of St. Benedict to have been able to learn every
particular thereof, and you had not yet shown me that monks should
make of women a means of mortification,[49] as of fasts and vigils;
but, now that you have shown it me, I promise you, so you will pardon
me this default, never again to offend therein, but still to do as I
have seen you do.' The abbot, who was a quick-witted man, readily
understood that the monk not only knew more than himself, but had seen
what he did; wherefore, his conscience pricking him for his own
default, he was ashamed to inflict on the monk a punishment which he
himself had merited even as he. Accordingly, pardoning him and
charging him keep silence of that which he had seen, they privily put
the girl out of doors and it is believed that they caused her return
thither more than once thereafterward."

[Footnote 49: Lit. a pressure or oppression (_priemere_, hod.
_premere_, to press or oppress, indicative used as a noun). The monk
of course refers to the posture in which he had seen the abbot have to
do with the girl, pretending to believe that he placed her on his own
breast (instead of mounting on hers) out of a sentiment of humility
and a desire to mortify his flesh _ipsâ in voluptate_.]



THE FIFTH STORY

[Day the First]

     THE MARCHIONESS OF MONFERRATO, WITH A DINNER OF HENS AND
     CERTAIN SPRIGHTLY WORDS, CURBETH THE EXTRAVAGANT PASSION OF
     THE KING OF FRANCE


The story told by Dioneo at first pricked the hearts of the listening
ladies with somewhat of shamefastness, whereof a modest redness
appearing in their faces gave token; but after, looking one at other
and being scarce able to keep their countenance, they listened,
laughing in their sleeves. The end thereof being come, after they had
gently chidden him, giving him to understand that such tales were not
fit to be told among ladies, the queen, turning to Fiammetta, who sat
next him on the grass, bade her follow on the ordinance. Accordingly,
she began with a good grace and a cheerful countenance, "It hath
occurred to my mind, fair my ladies,--at once because it pleaseth me
that we have entered upon showing by stories how great is the efficacy
of prompt and goodly answers and because, like as in men it is great
good sense to seek still to love a lady of higher lineage than
themselves,[50] so in women it is great discretion to know how to keep
themselves from being taken with the love of men of greater condition
than they,--to set forth to you, in the story which it falleth to me
to tell, how both with deeds and words a noble lady guarded herself
against this and diverted another therefrom.

[Footnote 50: An evident allusion to Boccaccio's passion for the
Princess Maria, _i.e._ Fiammetta herself.]

The Marquis of Monferrato, a man of high worth and gonfalonier[51] of
the church, had passed beyond seas on the occasion of a general
crusade undertaken by the Christians, arms in hand, and it being one
day discoursed of his merit at the court of King Phillippe le
Borgne,[52] who was then making ready to depart France upon the same
crusade, it was avouched by a gentleman present that there was not
under the stars a couple to match with the marquis and his lady, for
that, even as he was renowned among knights for every virtue, so was
she the fairest and noblest of all the ladies in the world. These
words took such hold upon the mind of the King of France that, without
having seen the marchioness, he fell of a sudden ardently in love with
her and determined to take ship for the crusade, on which he was to
go, no otherwhere than at Genoa, in order that, journeying thither by
land, he might have an honourable occasion of visiting the
marchioness, doubting not but that, the marquis being absent, he might
avail to give effect to his desire.

[Footnote 51: Or standard-bearer.]

[Footnote 52: _i.e._ the One-eyed (syn. le myope, the short-sighted,
the Italian word [_Il Bornio_] having both meanings), _i.e._ Philip
II. of France, better known as Philip Augustus.]

As he had bethought himself, so he put his thought into execution;
for, having sent forward all his power, he set out, attended only by
some few gentlemen, and coming within a day's journey of the
marquis's domains, despatched a vauntcourier to bid the lady expect
him the following morning to dinner. The marchioness, who was well
advised and discreet, replied blithely that in this he did her the
greatest of favours and that he would be welcome and after bethought
herself what this might mean that such a king should come to visit her
in her husband's absence, nor was she deceived in the conclusion to
which she came, to wit, that the report of her beauty drew him
thither. Nevertheless, like a brave lady as she was, she determined to
receive him with honour and summoning to her counsels sundry gentlemen
of those who remained there, with their help, she let provide for
everything needful. The ordinance of the repast and of the viands she
reserved to herself alone and having forthright caused collect as many
hens as were in the country, she bade her cooks dress various dishes
of these alone for the royal table.

The king came at the appointed time and was received by the lady with
great honour and rejoicing. When he beheld her, she seemed to him fair
and noble and well-bred beyond that which he had conceived from the
courtier's words, whereat he marvelled exceedingly and commended her
amain, waxing so much the hotter in his desire as he found the lady
overpassing his foregone conceit of her. After he had taken somewhat
of rest in chambers adorned to the utmost with all that pertaineth to
the entertainment of such a king, the dinner hour being come, the king
and the marchioness seated themselves at one table, whilst the rest,
according to their quality, were honourably entertained at others. The
king, being served with many dishes in succession, as well as with
wines of the best and costliest, and to boot gazing with delight the
while upon the lovely marchioness, was mightily pleased with his
entertainment; but, after awhile, as the viands followed one upon
another, he began somewhat to marvel, perceiving that, for all the
diversity of the dishes, they were nevertheless of nought other than
hens, and this although he knew the part where he was to be such as
should abound in game of various kinds and although he had, by
advising the lady in advance of his coming, given her time to send
a-hunting. However, much as he might marvel at this, he chose not to
take occasion of engaging her in parley thereof, otherwise than in the
matter of her hens, and accordingly, turning to her with a merry air,
'Madam,' quoth he, 'are hens only born in these parts, without ever a
cock?' The marchioness, who understood the king's question excellent
well, herseeming God had vouchsafed her, according to her wish, an
opportune occasion of discovering her mind, turned to him and answered
boldly, 'Nay, my lord; but women, albeit in apparel and dignities they
may differ somewhat from others, are natheless all of the same fashion
here as elsewhere.'

The King, hearing this, right well apprehended the meaning of the
banquet of hens and the virtue hidden in her speech and perceived that
words would be wasted upon such a lady and that violence was out of
the question; wherefore, even as he had ill-advisedly taken fire for
her, so now it behoved him sagely, for his own honour's sake, stifle
his ill-conceived passion. Accordingly, without making any more words
with her, for fear of her replies, he dined, out of all hope; and the
meal ended, thanking her for the honourable entertainment he had
received from her and commending her to God, he set out for Genoa, so
by his prompt departure he might make amends for his unseemly visit."



THE SIXTH STORY

[Day the First]

     AN HONEST MAN, WITH A CHANCE PLEASANTRY, PUTTETH TO SHAME
     THE PERVERSE HYPOCRISY OF THE RELIGIOUS ORDERS


Emilia, who sat next after Fiammetta,--the courage of the marchioness
and the quaint rebuke administered by her to the King of France having
been commended of all the ladies,--began, by the queen's pleasure,
boldly to speak as follows: "I also, I will not keep silence of a
biting reproof given by an honest layman to a covetous monk with a
speech no less laughable than commendable.

There was, then, dear lasses, no great while agone, in our city, a
Minor friar and inquisitor of heretical pravity, who, for all he
studied hard to appear a devout and tender lover of the Christian
religion, as do they all, was no less diligent in enquiring of who had
a well-filled purse than of whom he might find wanting in the things
of the Faith. Thanks to this his diligence, he lit by chance upon a
good simple man, richer, by far in coin than in wit, who, of no lack
of religion, but speaking thoughtlessly and belike overheated with
wine or excess of mirth, chanced one day to say to a company of his
friends that he had a wine so good that Christ himself might drink
thereof. This being reported to the inquisitor and he understanding
that the man's means were large and his purse well filled, ran in a
violent hurry _cum gladiis et fustibus_[53] to clap up a right
grievous suit against him, looking not for an amendment of misbelief
in the defendant, but for the filling of his own hand with florins to
ensue thereof (as indeed it did,) and causing him to be cited, asked
him if that which had been alleged against him were true.

[Footnote 53: _i.e._ with sword and whips, a technical term of
ecclesiastical procedure, about equivalent to our "with the strong arm
of the law."]

The good man replied that it was and told him how it chanced;
whereupon quoth the most holy inquisitor, who was a devotee of St.
John Goldenbeard,[54] 'Then hast thou made Christ a wine-bibber and
curious in wines of choice, as if he were Cinciglione[55] or what not
other of your drunken sots and tavern-haunters; and now thou speakest
lowly and wouldst feign this to be a very light matter! It is not as
thou deemest; thou hast merited the fire therefor, an we were minded
to deal with thee as we ought.' With these and many other words he
bespoke him, with as menacing a countenance as if the poor wretch had
been Epicurus denying the immortality of the soul, and in brief so
terrified him that the good simple soul, by means of certain
intermediaries, let grease his palm with a good dose of St. John
Goldenmouth's ointment[56] (the which is a sovereign remedy for the
pestilential covetise of the clergy and especially of the Minor
Brethren, who dare not touch money), so he should deal mercifully with
him.

[Footnote 54: _i.e._ a lover of money.]

[Footnote 55: A notorious drinker of the time.]

[Footnote 56: _i.e._ money.]

This unguent, being of great virtue (albeit Galen speaketh not thereof
in any part of his Medicines), wrought to such purpose that the fire
denounced against him was by favour commuted into [the wearing, by way
of penance, of] a cross, and to make the finer banner, as he were to
go a crusading beyond seas, the inquisitor imposed it him yellow upon
black. Moreover, whenas he had gotten the money, he detained him about
himself some days, enjoining him, by way of penance, hear a mass every
morning at Santa Croce and present himself before him at dinner-time,
and after that he might do what most pleased him the rest of the day;
all which he diligently performed.

One morning, amongst others, it chanced that at the Mass he heard a
Gospel, wherein these words were chanted, 'For every one ye shall
receive an hundred and shall possess eternal life.'[57] This he laid
fast up in his memory and according to the commandment given him,
presented him at the eating hour before the inquisitor, whom he found
at dinner. The friar asked him if he had heard mass that morning,
whereto he promptly answered, 'Ay have I, sir.' Quoth the inquisitor,
'Heardest thou aught therein whereof thou doubtest or would question?'
'Certes,' replied the good man, 'I doubt not of aught that I heard,
but do firmly believe all to be true. I did indeed hear something
which caused and yet causeth me have the greatest compassion of you
and your brother friars, bethinking me of the ill case wherein you
will find yourselves over yonder in the next life.' 'And what was it
that moved thee to such compassion of us?' asked the inquisitor.
'Sir,' answered the other, 'it was that verse of the Evangel, which
saith, "For every one ye shall receive an hundred." 'That is true,'
rejoined the inquisitor; 'but why did these words move thee thus?'
'Sir,' replied the good man, 'I will tell you. Since I have been used
to resort hither, I have seen give out every day to a multitude of
poor folk now one and now two vast great cauldrons of broth, which had
been taken away from before yourself and the other brethren of this
convent, as superfluous; wherefore, if for each one of these cauldrons
of broth there be rendered you an hundred in the world to come, you
will have so much thereof that you will assuredly all be drowned
therein.'

[Footnote 57: "And every one that hath forsaken houses or brethren or
sisters or father or mother or wife or children or lands for my name's
sake shall receive an hundredfold and shall inherit everlasting
life."--Matthew xix. 29. Boccaccio has garbled the passage for the
sake of his point.]

All who were at the inquisitor's table fell a-laughing; but the
latter, feeling the hit at the broth-swilling[58] hypocrisy of himself
and his brethren, was mightily incensed, and but that he had gotten
blame for that which he had already done, he would have saddled him
with another prosecution, for that with a laughable speech he had
rebuked him and his brother good-for-noughts; wherefore, of his
despite, he bade him thenceforward do what most pleased him and not
come before him again."

[Footnote 58: Syn. gluttonous (_brodajuola_).]



THE SEVENTH STORY

[Day the First]

     BERGAMINO, WITH A STORY OF PRIMASSO AND THE ABBOT OF CLUNY,
     COURTEOUSLY REBUKETH A FIT OF PARSIMONY NEWLY COME TO MESSER
     CANE DELLA SCALA


Emilia's pleasantness and her story moved the queen and all the rest
to laugh and applaud the rare conceit of this new-fangled crusader.
Then, after the laughter had subsided and all were silent again,
Filostrato, whose turn it was to tell, began to speak on this wise:
"It is a fine thing, noble ladies, to hit a mark that never stirreth;
but it is well-nigh miraculous if, when some unwonted thing appeareth
of a sudden, it be forthright stricken of an archer. The lewd and
filthy life of the clergy, in many things as it were a constant mark
for malice, giveth without much difficulty occasion to all who have a
mind to speak of, to gird at and rebuke it; wherefore, albeit the
worthy man, who pierced the inquisitor to the quick touching the
hypocritical charity of the friars, who give to the poor that which it
should behove them cast to the swine or throw away, did well, I hold
him much more to be commended of whom, the foregoing tale moving me
thereto, I am to speak and who with a quaint story rebuked Messer Cane
della Scala, a magnificent nobleman, of a sudden and unaccustomed
niggardliness newly appeared in him, figuring, in the person of
another, that which he purposed to say to him concerning themselves;
the which was on this wise.

As very manifest renown proclaimeth well nigh throughout the whole
world, Messer Cane della Scala, to whom in many things fortune was
favourable, was one of the most notable and most magnificent gentlemen
that have been known in Italy since the days of the Emperor Frederick
the Second. Being minded to make a notable and wonder-goodly
entertainment in Verona, whereunto many folk should have come from
divers parts and especially men of art[59] of all kinds, he of a
sudden (whatever might have been the cause) withdrew therefrom and
having in a measure requited those who were come thither, dismissed
them all, save only one, Bergamino by name, a man ready of speech and
accomplished beyond the credence of whoso had not heard him, who,
having received neither largesse nor dismissal, abode behind, in the
hope that his stay might prove to his future advantage. But Messer
Cane had taken it into his mind that what thing soever he might give
him were far worse bestowed than if it had been thrown into the fire,
nor of this did he bespeak him or let tell him aught.

[Footnote 59: _i.e._ gleemen, minstrels, story-tellers, jugglers and
the like, lit. men of court (_uomini di corte_).]

Bergamino, after some days, finding himself neither called upon nor
required unto aught that pertained to his craft and wasting his
substance, to boot, in the hostelry with his horses and his servants,
began to be sore concerned, but waited yet, himseeming he would not do
well to depart. Now he had brought with him three goodly and rich
suits of apparel, which had been given him of other noblemen, that he
might make a brave appearance at the festival, and his host pressing
for payment, he gave one thereof to him. After this, tarrying yet
longer, it behoved him give the host the second suit, an he would
abide longer with him, and withal he began to live upon the third,
resolved to abide in expectation so long as this should last and then
depart. Whilst he thus fed upon the third suit, he chanced one day,
Messer Cane being at dinner, to present himself before him with a
rueful countenance, and Messer Cane, seeing this, more by way of
rallying him than of intent to divert himself with any of his speech,
said to him, 'What aileth thee, Bergamino, to stand thus disconsolate?
Tell us somewhat.'[60] Whereupon Bergamino, without a moment's
hesitation, forthright, as if he had long considered it, related the
following story to the purpose of his own affairs.

[Footnote 60: _Dinne alcuna cosa._ If we take the affix _ne_ (thereof,
of it), in its other meaning (as dative of _noi_, we), of "to us,"
this phrase will read "Tell somewhat thereof," _i.e._ of the cause of
thy melancholy.]

'My lord,' said he, 'you must know that Primasso was a very learned
grammarian[61] and a skilful and ready verse-maker above all others,
which things rendered him so notable and so famous that, albeit he
might not everywhere be known by sight, there was well nigh none who
knew him not by name and by report. It chanced that, finding himself
once at Paris in poor case, as indeed he abode most times, for that
worth is[62] little prized of those who can most,[63] he heard speak
of the Abbot of Cluny, who is believed to be, barring the Pope, the
richest prelate of his revenues that the Church of God possesseth, and
of him he heard tell marvellous and magnificent things, in that he
still held open house nor were meat and drink ever denied to any who
went whereas he might be, so but he sought it what time the Abbot was
at meat. Primasso, hearing this and being one who delighted in looking
upon men of worth and nobility, determined to go see the magnificence
of this Abbot and enquired how near he then abode to Paris. It was
answered him that he was then at a place of his maybe half a dozen
miles thence; wherefore Primasso thought to be there at dinner-time,
by starting in the morning betimes.

[Footnote 61: _i.e._ Latinist.]

[Footnote 62: Lit. was (_era_); but as Boccaccio puts "can"
(_possono_) in the present tense we must either read _è_ and _possono_
or _era_ and _potevano_. The first reading seems the more probable.]

[Footnote 63: _i.e._ have most power or means of requiting it.]

Accordingly, he enquired the way, but, finding none bound thither, he
feared lest he might go astray by mischance and happen on a part where
there might be no victual so readily to be found; wherefore, in order
that, if this should betide, he might not suffer for lack of food, he
bethought himself to carry with him three cakes of bread, judging that
water (albeit it was little to his taste) he should find everywhere.
The bread he put in his bosom and setting out, was fortunate enough to
reach the Abbot's residence before the eating-hour. He entered and
went spying all about and seeing the great multitude of tables set and
the mighty preparations making in the kitchen and what not else
provided against dinner, said in himself, "Of a truth this Abbot is as
magnificent as folk say." After he had abidden awhile intent upon
these things, the Abbot's seneschal, eating-time being come, bade
bring water for the hands; which being done, he seated each man at
table, and it chanced that Primasso was set right over against the
door of the chamber, whence the Abbot should come forth into the
eating-hall.

Now it was the usance in that house that neither wine nor bread nor
aught else of meat or drink should ever be set on the tables, except
the Abbot were first came to sit at his own table. Accordingly, the
seneschal, having set the tables, let tell the Abbot that, whenas it
pleased him, the meat was ready. The Abbot let open the chamber-door,
that he might pass into the saloon, and looking before him as he came,
as chance would have it, the first who met his eyes was Primasso, who
was very ill accoutred and whom he knew not by sight. When he saw him,
incontinent there came into his mind an ill thought and one that had
never yet been there, and he said in himself, "See to whom I give my
substance to eat!" Then, turning back, he bade shut the chamber-door
and enquired of those who were about him if any knew yonder losel who
sat at table over against his chamber-door; but all answered no.

Meanwhile Primasso, who had a mind to eat, having come a journey and
being unused to fast, waited awhile and seeing that the Abbot came
not, pulled out of his bosom one of the three cakes of bread he had
brought with him and fell to eating. The Abbot, after he had waited
awhile, bade one of his serving-men look if Primasso were gone, and
the man answered, "No, my lord; nay, he eateth bread, which it seemeth
he hath brought with him." Quoth the Abbot, "Well, let him eat of his
own, an he have thereof; for of ours he shall not eat to-day." Now he
would fain have had Primasso depart of his own motion, himseeming it
were not well done to turn him away; but the latter, having eaten one
cake of bread and the Abbot coming not, began upon the second; the
which was likewise reported to the Abbot, who had caused look if he
were gone.

At last, the Abbot still tarrying, Primasso, having eaten the second
cake, began upon the third, and this again was reported to the Abbot,
who fell a-pondering in himself and saying, "Alack, what new maggot is
this that is come into my head to-day? What avarice! What despite! And
for whom? This many a year have I given my substance to eat to
whosoever had a mind thereto, without regarding if he were gentle or
simple, poor or rich, merchant or huckster, and have seen it with mine
own eyes squandered by a multitude of ribald knaves; nor ever yet came
there to my mind the thought that hath entered into me for yonder man.
Of a surety avarice cannot have assailed me for a man of little
account; needs must this who seemeth to me a losel be some great
matter, since my soul hath thus repugned to do him honour."

So saying, he desired to know who he was and finding that it was
Primasso, whom he had long known by report for a man of merit, come
thither to see with his own eyes that which he had heard of his
magnificence, was ashamed and eager to make him amends, studied in
many ways to do him honour. Moreover, after eating, he caused clothe
him sumptuously, as befitted his quality, and giving him money and a
palfrey, left it to his own choice to go or stay; whereupon Primasso,
well pleased with his entertainment, rendered him the best thanks in
his power and returned on horseback to Paris, whence he had set out
afoot.

Messer Cane, who was a gentleman of understanding, right well
apprehended Bergamino's meaning, without further exposition, and said
to him, smiling, 'Bergamino, thou hast very aptly set forth to me thy
wrongs and merit and my niggardliness, as well as that which thou
wouldst have of me; and in good sooth, never, save now on thine
account, have I been assailed of parsimony; but I will drive it away
with that same stick which thou thyself hast shown me.' Then, letting
pay Bergamino's host and clothing himself most sumptuously in a suit
of his own apparel, he gave him money and a palfrey and committed to
his choice for the nonce to go or stay."



THE EIGHTH STORY

[Day the First]

     GUGLIELMO BORSIERE WITH SOME QUAINT WORDS REBUKETH THE
     NIGGARDLINESS OF MESSER ERMINO DE' GRIMALDI


Next Filostrato sat Lauretta, who, after she had heard Bergamino's
address commended, perceiving that it behoved her tell somewhat,
began, without awaiting any commandment, blithely to speak thus: "The
foregoing story, dear companions,[64] bringeth me in mind to tell how
an honest minstrel on like wise and not without fruit rebuked the
covetise of a very rich merchant, the which, albeit in effect it
resembleth the last story, should not therefore be less agreeable to
you, considering that good came thereof in the end.

[Footnote 64: Fem.]

There was, then, in Genoa, a good while agone, a gentleman called
Messer Ermino de' Grimaldi, who (according to general belief) far
overpassed in wealth of lands and monies the riches of whatsoever
other richest citizen was then known in Italy; and like as he excelled
all other Italians in wealth, even so in avarice and sordidness he
outwent beyond compare every other miser and curmudgeon in the world;
for not only did he keep a strait purse in the matter of hospitality,
but, contrary to the general usance of the Genoese, who are wont to
dress sumptuously, he suffered the greatest privations in things
necessary to his own person, no less than in meat and in drink, rather
than be at any expense; by reason whereof the surname de' Grimaldi had
fallen away from him and he was deservedly called of all only Messer
Ermino Avarizia.

It chanced that, whilst, by dint of spending not, he multiplied his
wealth, there came to Genoa a worthy minstrel,[65] both well-bred and
well-spoken, by name Guglielmo Borsiere, a man no whit like those[66]
of the present day, who (to the no small reproach of the corrupt and
blameworthy usances of those[67] who nowadays would fain be called and
reputed gentlefolk and seigniors) are rather to be styled asses,
reared in all the beastliness and depravity of the basest of mankind,
than [minstrels, bred] in the courts [of kings and princes]. In those
times it used to be a minstrel's office and his wont to expend his
pains in negotiating treaties of peace, where feuds or despites had
befallen between noblemen, or transacting marriages, alliances and
friendships, in solacing the minds of the weary and diverting courts
with quaint and pleasant sayings, ay, and with sharp reproofs,
father-like, rebuking the misdeeds of the froward,--and this for
slight enough reward; but nowadays they study to spend their time in
hawking evil reports from one to another, in sowing discord, in
speaking naughtiness and obscenity and (what is worse) doing them in
all men's presence, in imputing evil doings, lewdnesses and knaveries,
true or false, one to other, and in prompting men of condition with
treacherous allurements to base and shameful actions; and he is most
cherished and honoured and most munificently entertained and rewarded
of the sorry unmannerly noblemen of our time who saith and doth the
most abominable words and deeds; a sore and shameful reproach to the
present age and a very manifest proof that the virtues have departed
this lower world and left us wretched mortals to wallow in the slough
of the vices.

[Footnote 65: _Uomo di corte._ This word has been another grievous
stumbling block to the French and English translators of Boccaccio,
who render it literally "courtier." The reader need hardly be reminded
that the minstrel of the middle ages was commonly jester, gleeman and
story-teller all in one and in these several capacities was allowed
the utmost license of speech. He was generally attached to the court
of some king or sovereign prince, but, in default of some such
permanent appointment, passed his time in visiting the courts and
mansions of princes and men of wealth and liberty, where his talents
were likely to be appreciated and rewarded; hence the name _uomo di
corte_, "man of court" (not "courtier," which is _cortigiano_).]

[Footnote 66: _i.e._ those minstrels.]

[Footnote 67: _i.e._ the noblemen their patrons.]

But to return to my story, from which a just indignation hath carried
me somewhat farther astray than I purposed,--I say that the aforesaid
Guglielmo was honoured by all the gentlemen of Genoa and gladly seen
of them, and having sojourned some days in the city and hearing many
tales of Messer Ermino's avarice and sordidness, he desired to see
him. Messer Ermino having already heard how worthy a man was this
Guglielmo Borsiere and having yet, all miser as he was, some tincture
of gentle breeding, received him with very amicable words and blithe
aspect and entered with him into many and various discourses. Devising
thus, he carried him, together with other Genoese who were in his
company, into a fine new house of his which he had lately built and
after having shown it all to him, said, 'Pray, Messer Guglielmo, you
who have seen and heard many things, can you tell me of something that
was never yet seen, which I may have depictured in the saloon of this
my house?' Guglielmo, hearing this his preposterous question,
answered, 'Sir, I doubt me I cannot undertake to tell you of aught
that was never yet seen, except it were sneezings or the like; but, an
it like you, I will tell you of somewhat which me thinketh you never
yet beheld.' Quoth Messer Ermino, not looking for such an answer as he
got, 'I pray you tell me what it is.' Whereto Guglielmo promptly
replied, 'Cause Liberality to be here depictured.'

When Messer Ermino heard this speech, there took him incontinent such
a shame that it availed in a manner to change his disposition
altogether to the contrary of that which it had been and he said,
'Messer Guglielmo, I will have it here depictured after such a fashion
that neither you nor any other shall ever again have cause to tell me
that I have never seen nor known it.' And from that time forth (such
was the virtue of Guglielmo's words) he was the most liberal and the
most courteous gentleman of his day in Genoa and he who most
hospitably entreated both strangers and citizens."



THE NINTH STORY

[Day the First]

     THE KING OF CYPRUS, TOUCHED TO THE QUICK BY A GASCON LADY,
     FROM A MEAN-SPIRITED PRINCE BECOMETH A MAN OF WORTH AND
     VALIANCE


The Queen's last commandment rested with Elisa, who, without awaiting
it, began all blithely, "Young ladies, it hath often chanced that what
all manner reproofs and many pains[68] bestowed upon a man have not
availed to bring about in him hath been effected by a word more often
spoken at hazard than of purpose aforethought. This is very well shown
in the story related by Lauretta and I, in my turn, purpose to prove
to you the same thing by means of another and a very short one; for
that, since good things may still serve, they should be received with
a mind attent, whoever be the sayer thereof.

[Footnote 68: Syn. penalties, punishments (_pene_).]

I say, then, that in the days of the first King of Cyprus, after the
conquest of the Holy Land by Godefroi de Bouillon, it chanced that a
gentlewoman of Gascony went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre and
returning thence, came to Cyprus, where she was shamefully abused of
certain lewd fellows; whereof having complained, without getting any
satisfaction, she thought to appeal to the King for redress, but was
told that she would lose her pains, for that he was of so abject a
composition and so little of worth that, far from justifying others of
their wrongs, he endured with shameful pusillanimity innumerable
affronts offered to himself, insomuch that whose had any grudge
[against him] was wont to vent his despite by doing him some shame or
insult.

The lady, hearing this and despairing of redress, bethought herself,
by way of some small solacement of her chagrin, to seek to rebuke the
king's pusillanimity; wherefore, presenting herself in tears before
him, she said to him, 'My lord, I come not into thy presence for any
redress that I expect of the wrong that hath been done me; but in
satisfaction thereof, I prithee teach me how thou dost to suffer those
affronts which I understand are offered unto thyself, so haply I may
learn of thee patiently to endure mine own, the which God knoweth, an
I might, I would gladly bestow on thee, since thou art so excellent a
supporter thereof.'

The King, who till then had been sluggish and supine, awoke as if from
sleep and beginning with the wrong done to the lady, which he cruelly
avenged, thenceforth became a very rigorous prosecutor of all who
committed aught against the honour of his crown."



THE TENTH STORY

[Day the First]

     MASTER ALBERTO OF BOLOGNA CIVILLY PUTTETH A LADY TO THE
     BLUSH WHO THOUGHT TO HAVE SHAMED HIM OF BEING ENAMOURED OF
     HER


Elisa being now silent, the last burden of the story-telling rested
with the queen, who, with womanly grace beginning to speak, said,
"Noble damsels, like as in the lucid nights the stars are the ornament
of the sky and as in Spring-time the flowers of the green meadows,
even so are commendable manners and pleasing discourse adorned by
witty sallies, which latter, for that they are brief, are yet more
beseeming to women than to men, inasmuch as much and long speech,
whenas it may be dispensed with, is straitlier forbidden unto women
than to men, albeit nowadays there are few or no women left who
understand a sprightly saying or, if they understand it, know how to
answer it, to the general shame be it said of ourselves and of all
women alive. For that virtue,[69] which was erst in the minds of the
women of times past, those of our day have diverted to the adornment
of the body, and she on whose back are to be seen the most motley
garments and the most gaudily laced and garded and garnished with the
greatest plenty of fringes and purflings and broidery deemeth herself
worthy to be held of far more account than her fellows and to be
honoured above them, considering not that, were it a question of who
should load her back and shoulders with bravery, an ass would carry
much more thereof than any of them nor would therefore be honoured for
more than an ass.

[Footnote 69: _Virtù_, in the old Roman sense of strength, vigour,
energy.]

I blush to avow it, for that I cannot say aught against other women
but I say it against myself; these women that are so laced and purfled
and painted and parti-coloured abide either mute and senseless, like
marble statues, or, an they be questioned, answer after such a fashion
that it were far better to have kept silence. And they would have you
believe that their unableness to converse among ladies and men of
parts proceedeth from purity of mind, and to their witlessness they
give the name of modesty, as if forsooth no woman were modest but she
who talketh with her chamberwoman or her laundress or her bake-wench;
the which had Nature willed, as they would have it believed, she had
assuredly limited unto them their prattle on other wise. It is true
that in this, as in other things, it behoveth to have regard to time
and place and with whom one talketh; for that it chanceth bytimes that
women or men, thinking with some pleasantry or other to put another to
the blush and not having well measured their own powers with those of
the latter, find that confusion, which they thought to cast upon
another, recoil upon themselves. Wherefore, so you may know how to
keep yourselves and that, to boot, you may not serve as a text for the
proverb which is current everywhere, to wit, that women in everything
still take the worst, I would have you learn a lesson from the last of
to-day's stories, which falleth to me to tell, to the intent that,
even as you are by nobility of mind distinguished from other women, so
likewise you may show yourselves no less removed from them by
excellence of manners.

It is not many years since there lived (and belike yet liveth) at
Bologna a very great and famous physician, known by manifest renown to
well nigh all the world. His name was Master Alberto and such was the
vivacity of his spirit that, albeit he was an old man of hard upon
seventy years of age and well nigh all natural heat had departed his
body, he scrupled not to expose himself to the flames of love; for
that, having seen at an entertainment a very beautiful widow lady,
called, as some say, Madam Malgherida[70] de' Ghisolieri, and being
vastly taken with her, he received into his mature bosom, no otherwise
than if he had been a young gallant, the amorous fire, insomuch that
himseemed he rested not well by night, except the day foregone he had
looked upon the delicate and lovesome countenance of the fair lady.
Wherefore he fell to passing continually before her house, now afoot
and now on horseback, as the occasion served him, insomuch that she
and many other ladies got wind of the cause of his constant passings
to and fro and oftentimes made merry among themselves to see a man
thus ripe of years and wit in love, as if they deemed that that most
pleasant passion of love took root and flourished only in the silly
minds of the young and not otherwhere.

[Footnote 70: Old form of Margherita.]

What while he continued to pass back and forth, it chanced one holiday
that, the lady being seated with many others before her door and
espying Master Alberto making towards them from afar, they one and
all took counsel together to entertain him and do him honour and after
to rally him on that his passion. Accordingly, they all rose to
receive him and inviting him [to enter,] carried him into a shady
courtyard, whither they let bring the choicest of wines and sweetmeats
and presently enquired of him, in very civil and pleasant terms, how
it might be that he was fallen enamoured of that fair lady, knowing
her to be loved of many handsome, young and sprightly gentlemen. The
physician, finding himself thus courteously attacked, put on a blithe
countenance and answered, 'Madam, that I love should be no marvel to
any understanding person, and especially that I love yourself, for
that you deserve it; and albeit old men are by operation of nature
bereft of the vigour that behoveth unto amorous exercises, yet not for
all that are they bereft of the will nor of the wit to apprehend that
which is worthy to be loved; nay, this latter is naturally the better
valued of them, inasmuch as they have more knowledge and experience
than the young. As for the hope that moveth me, who am an old man, to
love you who are courted of many young gallants, it is on this wise: I
have been many a time where I have seen ladies lunch and eat lupins
and leeks. Now, although in the leek no part is good, yet is the
head[71] thereof less hurtful and more agreeable to the taste; but you
ladies, moved by a perverse appetite, commonly hold the head in your
hand and munch the leaves, which are not only naught, but of an ill
savour. How know I, madam, but you do the like in the election of your
lovers? In which case, I should be the one chosen of you and the
others would be turned away.'

[Footnote 71: _i.e._ the base or eatable part of the stem.]

The gentlewoman and her companions were somewhat abashed and said,
'Doctor, you have right well and courteously chastised our
presumptuous emprise; algates, your love is dear to me, as should be
that of a man of worth and learning; wherefore, you may in all
assurance command me, as your creature, of your every pleasure, saving
only mine honour.' The physician, rising with his companions, thanked
the lady and taking leave of her with laughter and merriment, departed
thence. Thus the lady, looking not whom she rallied and thinking to
discomfit another, was herself discomfited; wherefrom, an you be wise,
you will diligently guard yourselves."

       *       *       *       *       *

The sun had begun to decline towards the evening, and the heat was in
great part abated, when the stories of the young ladies and of the
three young men came to an end; whereupon quoth the queen
blithesomely, "Henceforth, dear companions, there remaineth nought
more to do in the matter of my governance for the present day, save to
give you a new queen, who shall, according to her judgment, order her
life and ours, for that[72] which is to come, unto honest pleasance.
And albeit the day may be held to endure from now until nightfall,
yet,--for that whoso taketh not somewhat of time in advance cannot,
meseemeth, so well provide for the future and in order that what the
new queen shall deem needful for the morrow may be prepared,--methinketh
the ensuing days should commence at this hour. Wherefore, in reverence
of Him unto whom all things live and for our own solacement, Filomena,
a right discreet damsel, shall, as queen, govern our kingdom for the
coming day." So saying, she rose to her feet and putting off the
laurel-wreath, set it reverently on the head of Filomena, whom first
herself and after all the other ladies and the young men likewise
saluted as queen, cheerfully submitting themselves to her governance.

[Footnote 72: _i.e._ that day.]

Filomena blushed somewhat to find herself invested with the queendom,
but, calling to mind the words a little before spoken by
Pampinea,[73]--in order that she might not appear witless, she resumed
her assurance and in the first place confirmed all the offices given
by Pampinea; then, having declared that they should abide whereas they
were, she appointed that which was to do against the ensuing morning,
as well as for that night's supper, and after proceeded to speak thus:

[Footnote 73: See ante, p. 8.]

"Dearest companions, albeit Pampinea, more of her courtesy than for
any worth of mine, hath made me queen of you all, I am not therefore
disposed to follow my judgment alone in the manner of our living, but
yours together with mine; and that you may know that which meseemeth
is to do and consequently at your pleasure add thereto or abate
thereof, I purpose briefly to declare it to you.

If I have well noted the course this day held by Pampinea, meseemeth I
have found it alike praiseworthy and delectable; wherefore till such
time as, for overlong continuance or other reason, it grow irksome to
us, I judge it not to be changed. Order, then, being taken for [the
continuance of] that which we have already begun to do, we will,
arising hence, go awhile a-pleasuring, and whenas the sun shall be for
going under, we will sup in the cool of the evening, and after sundry
canzonets and other pastimes, we shall do well to betake ourselves to
sleep. To-morrow, rising in the cool of the morning, we will on like
wise go somewhither a-pleasuring, as shall be most agreeable to every
one; and as we have done to-day, we will at the due hour come back to
eat; after which we will dance and when we arise from sleep, as to-day
we have done, we will return hither to our story-telling, wherein
meseemeth a very great measure to consist alike of pleasance and of
profit. Moreover, that which Pampinea had indeed no opportunity of
doing, by reason of her late election to the governance, I purpose now
to enter upon, to wit, to limit within some bound that whereof we are
to tell and to declare it[74] to you beforehand, so each of you may
have leisure to think of some goodly story to relate upon the theme
proposed, the which, an it please you, shall be on this wise; namely,
seeing that since the beginning of the world men have been and will
be, until the end thereof, bandied about by various shifts of fortune,
each shall be holden to tell OF THOSE WHO AFTER BEING BAFFLED BY
DIVERS CHANCES HAVE WON AT LAST TO A JOYFUL ISSUE BEYOND THEIR HOPE."

[Footnote 74: _i.e._ the terms of the limitation aforesaid.]

Ladies and men alike all commended this ordinance and declared
themselves ready to ensue it. Only Dioneo, the others all being
silent, said, "Madam, as all the rest have said, so say I, to wit that
the ordinance given by you is exceeding pleasant and commendable; but
of especial favour I crave you a boon, which I would have confirmed to
me for such time as our company shall endure, to wit, that I may not
be constrained by this your law to tell a story upon the given theme,
an it like me not, but shall be free to tell that which shall most
please me. And that none may think I seek this favour as one who hath
not stories, in hand, from this time forth I am content to be still
the last to tell."

The queen,--who knew him for a merry man and a gamesome and was well
assured that he asked this but that he might cheer the company with
some laughable story, whenas they should be weary of discoursing,--with
the others' consent, cheerfully accorded him the favour he sought.
Then, arising from session, with slow steps they took their way
towards a rill of very clear water, that ran down from a little hill,
amid great rocks and green herbage, into a valley overshaded with many
trees and there, going about in the water, bare-armed and shoeless,
they fell to taking various diversions among themselves, till
supper-time drew near, when they returned to the palace and there
supped merrily. Supper ended, the queen called for instruments of
music and bade Lauretta lead up a dance, whilst Emilia sang a song, to
the accompaniment of Dioneo's lute. Accordingly, Lauretta promptly set
up a dance and led it off, whilst Emilia amorously warbled the
following song:

     I burn for mine own charms with such a fire,
         Methinketh that I ne'er
       Of other love shall reck or have desire.

     Whene'er I mirror me, I see therein[75]
       That good which still contenteth heart and spright;
     Nor fortune new nor thought of old can win
       To dispossess me of such dear delight.
       What other object, then, could fill my sight,
         Enough of pleasance e'er
     To kindle in my breast a new desire?

     This good flees not, what time soe'er I'm fain
       Afresh to view it for my solacement;
     Nay, at my pleasure, ever and again
       With such a grace it doth itself present
       Speech cannot tell it nor its full intent
         Be known of mortal e'er,
       Except indeed he burn with like desire.

     And I, grown more enamoured every hour,
       The straitlier fixed mine eyes upon it be,
     Give all myself and yield me to its power,
       E'en tasting now of that it promised me,
       And greater joyance yet I hope to see,
         Of such a strain as ne'er
       Was proven here below of love-desire.

[Footnote 75: _i.e._ in the mirrored presentment of her own beauty.]

Lauretta having thus made an end of her ballad,[76]--in the burden of
which all had blithely joined, albeit the words thereof gave some much
matter for thought,--divers other rounds were danced and a part of the
short night being now spent, it pleased the queen to give an end to
the first day; wherefore, letting kindle the flambeaux, she commanded
that all should betake themselves to rest until the ensuing morning,
and all, accordingly, returning to their several chambers, did so.

[Footnote 76: _Ballatella_, lit. little dancing song or song made to
be sung as an accompaniment to a dance (from _ballare_, to dance).
This is the origin of our word ballad.]


HERE ENDETH THE FIRST DAY
OF THE DECAMERON



_Day the Second_

     HERE BEGINNETH THE SECOND DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER
     THE GOVERNANCE OF FILOMENA IS DISCOURSED OF THOSE WHO AFTER
     BEING BAFFLED BY DIVERS CHANCES HAVE WON AT LAST TO A JOYFUL
     ISSUE BEYOND THEIR HOPE


The sun had already everywhere brought on the new day with its light
and the birds, carolling blithely among the green branches, bore
witness thereof unto the ear with their merry songs, when the ladies
and the three young men, arising all, entered the gardens and pressing
the dewy grass with slow step, went wandering hither and thither,
weaving goodly garlands and disporting themselves, a great while. And
like as they had done the day foregone, even so did they at present;
to wit, having eaten in the cool and danced awhile, they betook them
to repose and arising thence after none, came all, by command of their
queen, into the fresh meadows, where they seated themselves round
about her. Then she, who was fair of favour and exceeding pleasant of
aspect, having sat awhile, crowned with her laurel wreath, and looked
all her company in the face, bade Neifile give beginning to the day's
stories by telling one of her fashion; whereupon the latter, without
making any excuse, blithely began to speak thus:



THE FIRST STORY

[Day the Second]

     MARTELLINO FEIGNETH HIMSELF A CRIPPLE AND MAKETH BELIEVE TO
     WAX WHOLE UPON THE BODY OF ST. ARRIGO. HIS IMPOSTURE BEING
     DISCOVERED, HE IS BEATEN AND BEING AFTER TAKEN [FOR A
     THIEF,] GOETH IN PERIL OF BEING HANGED BY THE NECK, BUT
     ULTIMATELY ESCAPETH


"It chanceth oft, dearest ladies, that he who studieth to befool
others, and especially in things reverend, findeth himself with
nothing for his pains but flouts and whiles cometh not off scathless.
Wherefore, that I may obey the queen's commandment and give beginning
to the appointed theme with a story of mine, I purpose to relate to
you that which, first misfortunately and after happily, beyond his
every thought, betided a townsman of ours.

No great while agone there was at Treviso a German called Arrigo, who,
being a poor man, served whoso required him to carry burdens for hire;
and withal he was held of all a man of very holy and good life.
Wherefore, be it true or untrue, when he died, it befell, according to
that which the Trevisans avouch, that, in the hour of his death, the
bells of the great church of Treviso began to ring, without being
pulled of any. The people of the city, accounting this a miracle,
proclaimed this Arrigo a saint and running all to the house where he
lay, bore his body, for that of a saint, to the Cathedral, whither
they fell to bringing the halt, the impotent and the blind and others
afflicted with whatsoever defect or infirmity, as if they should all
be made whole by the touch of the body.

In the midst of this great turmoil and concourse of folk, it chanced
that there arrived at Treviso three of our townsmen, whereof one was
called Stecchi, another Martellino and the third Marchese, men who
visited the courts of princes and lords and diverted the beholders by
travestying themselves and counterfeiting whatsoever other man with
rare motions and grimaces. Never having been there before and seeing
all the folk run, they marvelled and hearing the cause, were for going
to see what was toward; wherefore they laid up their baggage at an inn
and Marchese said, 'We would fain go look upon this saint; but, for my
part, I see not how we may avail to win thither, for that I understand
the Cathedral place is full of German and other men-at-arms, whom the
lord of this city hath stationed there, so no riot may betide; more by
token that they say the church is so full of folk that well nigh none
else might enter there.' 'Let not that hinder you,' quoth Martellino,
who was all agog to see the show; 'I warrant you I will find a means
of winning to the holy body.' 'How so?' asked Marchese, and Martellino
answered, 'I will tell thee. I will counterfeit myself a cripple and
thou on one side and Stecchi on the other shall go upholding me, as it
were I could not walk of myself, making as if you would fain bring me
to the saint, so he may heal me. There will be none but, seeing us,
will make way for us and let us pass.'

The device pleased Marchese and Stecchi and they went forth of the inn
without delay, all three. Whenas they came to a solitary place,
Martellino writhed his hands and fingers and arms and legs and eke his
mouth and eyes and all his visnomy on such wise that it was a
frightful thing to look upon, nor was there any saw him but would have
avouched him to be verily all fordone and palsied of his person.
Marchese and Stecchi, taking him up, counterfeited as he was, made
straight for the church, with a show of the utmost compunction, humbly
beseeching all who came in their way for the love of God to make room
for them, the which was lightly yielded them. Brief, every one gazing
on them and crying well nigh all, 'Make way! Make way!' they came
whereas Saint Arrigo's body lay and Martellino was forthright taken up
by certain gentlemen who stood around and laid upon the body, so he
might thereby regain the benefit of health. Martellino, having lain
awhile, whilst all the folk were on the stretch to see what should
come of him, began, as right well he knew how, to make a show of
opening first one finger, then a hand and after putting forth an arm
and so at last coming to stretch himself out altogether. Which when
the people saw, they set up such an outcry in praise of Saint Arrigo
as would have drowned the very thunder.

Now, as chance would have it, there was therenigh a certain
Florentine, who knew Martellino very well, but had not recognized him,
counterfeited as he was, whenas he was brought thither. However, when
he saw him grown straight again, he knew him and straightway fell
a-laughing and saying, 'God confound him! Who that saw him come had
not deemed him palsied in good earnest?' His words were overheard of
sundry Trevisans, who asked him incontinent, 'How! Was he not
palsied?' 'God forbid!' answered the Florentine. 'He hath ever been as
straight as any one of us; but he knoweth better than any man in the
world how to play off tricks of this kind and counterfeit what shape
soever he will.'

When the others heard this, there needed nothing farther; but they
pushed forward by main force and fell a-crying out and saying, 'Seize
yonder traitor and scoffer at God and His saints, who, being whole of
his body, hath come hither, in the guise of a cripple, to make mock of
us and of our saint!' So saying, they laid hold of Martellino and
pulled him down from the place where he lay. Then, taking him by the
hair of his head and tearing all the clothes off his back, they fell
upon him with cuffs and kicks; nor himseemed was there a man in the
place but ran to do likewise. Martellino roared out, 'Mercy, for God's
sake!' and fended himself as best he might, but to no avail; for the
crowd redoubled upon him momently. Stecchi and Marchese, seeing this,
began to say one to the other that things stood ill, but, fearing for
themselves, dared not come to his aid; nay, they cried out with the
rest to put him to death, bethinking them the while how they might
avail to fetch him out of the hands of the people, who would certainly
have slain him, but for a means promptly taken by Marchese; to wit,
all the officers of the Seignory being without the church, he betook
himself as quickliest he might, to him who commanded for the Provost
and said, 'Help, for God's sake! There is a lewd fellow within who
hath cut my purse, with a good hundred gold florins. I pray you take
him, so I may have mine own again.'

Hearing this, a round dozen of sergeants ran straightway whereas the
wretched Martellino was being carded without a comb and having with
the greatest pains in the world broken through the crowd, dragged him
out of the people's hands, all bruised and tumbled as he was, and
haled him off to the palace, whither many followed him who held
themselves affronted of him and hearing that he had been taken for a
cutpurse and themseeming they had no better occasion[77] of doing him
an ill turn,[78] began each on like wise to say that he had cut his
purse. The Provost's judge, who was a crabbed, ill-conditioned fellow,
hearing this, forthright took him apart and began to examine him of
the matter; but Martellino answered jestingly, as if he made light of
his arrest; whereat the judge, incensed, caused truss him up and give
him two or three good bouts of the strappado, with intent to make him
confess that which they laid to his charge, so he might after have him
strung up by the neck.

[Footnote 77: Or pretext (_titolo_).]

[Footnote 78: Or "having him punished," lit. "causing give him ill
luck" (_fargli dar la mala ventura_). This passage, like so many
others of the Decameron, is ambiguous and may also be read
"themseeming none other had a juster title to do him an ill turn."]

When he was let down again, the judge asked him once more if that were
true which the folk avouched against him, and Martellino, seeing that
it availed him not to deny, answered, 'My lord, I am ready to confess
the truth to you; but first make each who accuseth me say when and
where I cut his purse, and I will tell you what I did and what not.'
Quoth the judge, 'I will well,' and calling some of his accusers, put
the question to them; whereupon one said that he had cut his purse
eight, another six and a third four days agone, whilst some said that
very day. Martellino, hearing this, said, 'My lord, these all lie in
their throats and I can give you this proof that I tell you the truth,
inasmuch as would God it were as sure that I had never come hither as
it is that I was never in this place till a few hours agone; and as
soon as I arrived, I went, of my ill fortune, to see yonder holy body
in the church, where I was carded as you may see; and that this I say
is true, the Prince's officer who keepeth the register of strangers
can certify you, he and his book, as also can my host. If, therefore,
you find it as I tell you, I beseech you torture me not neither put me
to death at the instance of these wicked, men.'

Whilst things were at this pass, Marchese and Stecchi, hearing that
the judge of the Provostry was proceeding rigorously against
Martellino and had already given him the strappado, were sore affeared
and said in themselves, 'We have gone the wrong way to work; we have
brought him forth of the frying-pan and cast him into the fire.'
Wherefore they went with all diligence in quest of their host and
having found him, related to him how the case stood. He laughed and
carried them to one Sandro Agolanti, who abode in Treviso and had
great interest with the Prince, and telling him everything in order,
joined with them in beseeching him to occupy himself with Martellino's
affairs. Sandro, after many a laugh, repaired to the Prince and
prevailed upon him to send for Martellino.

The Prince's messengers found Martellino still in his shirt before the
judge, all confounded and sore adread, for that the judge would hear
nothing in his excuse; nay, having, by chance, some spite against the
people of Florence, he was altogether determined to hang him by the
neck and would on no wise render him up to the Prince till such time
as he was constrained thereto in his despite. Martellino, being
brought before the lord of the city and having told him everything in
order, besought him, by way of special favour, to let him go about his
business, for that, until he should be in Florence again, it would
still seem to him he had the rope about his neck. The Prince laughed
heartily at his mischance and let give each of the three a suit of
apparel, wherewith they returned home safe and sound, having, beyond
all their hope, escaped so great a peril."



THE SECOND STORY

[Day the Second]

     RINALDO D'ASTI, HAVING BEEN ROBBED, MAKETH HIS WAY TO CASTEL
     GUGLIELMO, WHERE HE IS HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED BY A WIDOW
     LADY AND HAVING MADE GOOD HIS LOSS, RETURNETH TO HIS OWN
     HOUSE, SAFE AND SOUND


The ladies laughed immoderately at Martellino's misfortunes narrated
by Neifile, as did also the young men and especially Filostrato, whom,
for that he sat next Neifile, the queen bade follow her in
story-telling. Accordingly he began without delay, "Fair ladies, needs
must I tell you a story[79] of things Catholic,[80] in part mingled
with misadventures and love-matters, which belike will not be other
than profitable to hear, especially to those who are wayfarers in the
perilous lands of love, wherein whoso hath not said St. Julian his
Paternoster is oftentimes ill lodged, for all he have a good bed.

[Footnote 79: Lit. a story striveth in (draweth) me to be told or to
tell itself (_a raccontarsi mi tira una novella_).]

[Footnote 80: _i.e._ religious matters (_cose cattoliche_).]

In the days, then, of the Marquis Azzo of Ferrara, there came a
merchant called Rinaldo d'Asti to Bologna on his occasions, which
having despatched and returning homeward, it chanced that, as he
issued forth of Ferrara and rode towards Verona, he fell in with
certain folk who seemed merchants, but were in truth highwaymen and
men of lewd life and condition, with whom he unwarily joined company
and entered into discourse. They, seeing him to be a merchant and
judging him to have monies about him, took counsel together to rob
him, at the first opportunity that should offer; wherefore, that he
might take no suspicion, they went devising with him, like decent
peaceable folk, of things honest and seemly and of loyalty, ordering
themselves toward him, in so far as they knew and could, with respect
and complaisance, so that he deemed himself in great luck to have met
with them, for that he was alone with a serving-man of his on
horseback.

Thus faring on and passing from one thing to another, as it chanceth
in discourse, they presently fell to talking of the orisons that men
offer up to God, and one of the highwaymen, who were three in number,
said to Rinaldo, 'And you, fair sir, what orison do you use to say on
a journey?' Whereto he answered, 'Sooth to say, I am but a plain man
and little versed in these matters and have few orisons in hand; I
live after the old fashion and let a couple of shillings pass for
four-and-twenty pence.[81] Nevertheless, I have still been wont, when
on a journey, to say of a morning, what time I come forth of the inn,
a Pater and an Ave for the soul of St. Julian's father and mother,
after which I pray God and the saint to grant me a good lodging for
the ensuing night. Many a time in my day have I, in the course of my
journeyings, been in great perils, from all of which I have escaped
and have still found myself at night, to boot, in a place of safety
and well lodged. Wherefore I firmly believe that St. Julian, in whose
honour I say it, hath gotten me this favour of God; nor meseemeth
should I fare well by day nor come to good harbourage at night, except
I had said it in the morning.' 'And did you say it[82] this morning?'
asked he who had put the question to him. 'Ay did I,' answered
Rinaldo; whereupon quoth the other in himself, knowing well how the
thing was to go, 'May it stand thee in stead![83] For, an no hindrance
betide us, methinketh thou art e'en like to lodge ill.' Then, to
Rinaldo, 'I likewise,' quoth he, 'have travelled much and have never
said this orison, albeit I have heard it greatly commended, nor ever
hath it befallen me to lodge other than well; and this evening maybe
you shall chance to see which will lodge the better, you who have said
it or I who have not. True, I use, instead thereof, the _Dirupisti_ or
the _Intemerata_ or the _De Profundis_, the which, according to that
which a grandmother of mine used to tell me, are of singular virtue.'

[Footnote 81: _i.e._ take things by the first intention, without
seeking to refine upon them, or, in English popular phrase, "I do not
pretend to see farther through a stone wall than my neighbours."]

[Footnote 82: _i.e._ the aforesaid orison.]

[Footnote 83: Or "'Twill have been opportunely done of thee."]

Discoursing thus of various matters and faring on their way, on the
look out the while for time and place apt unto their knavish purpose,
they came, late in the day, to a place a little beyond Castel
Guglielmo, where, at the fording of a river, the three rogues, seeing
the hour advanced and the spot solitary and close shut in, fell upon
Rinaldo and robbed him of money, clothes and horse. Then, leaving him
afoot and in his shirt, they departed, saying, 'Go see if thy St.
Julian will give thee a good lodging this night, even as ours[84] will
assuredly do for us.' And passing the stream, they went their ways.
Rinaldo's servant, seeing him attacked, like a cowardly knave as he
was, did nought to help him, but turning his horse's head, never drew
bridle till he came to Castel Guglielmo and entering the town, took up
his lodging there, without giving himself farther concern.

[Footnote 84: _i.e._ our patron saint.]

Rinaldo, left in his shirt and barefoot, it being very cold and
snowing hard, knew not what to do and seeing the night already at
hand, looked about him, trembling and chattering the while with his
teeth, if there were any shelter to be seen therenigh, where he might
pass the night, so he should not perish of cold; but, seeing none, for
that a little before there had been war in those parts and everything
had been burnt, set off at a run, spurred by the cold, towards Castel
Guglielmo, knowing not withal if his servant were fled thither or
otherwise and thinking that, so he might but avail to enter therein,
God would send him some relief. But darkness overtook him near a mile
from the town, wherefore he arrived there so late that, the gates
being shut and the draw-bridges raised, he could get no admission.
Thereupon, despairing and disconsolate, he looked about, weeping, for
a place where he might shelter, so at the least it should not snow
upon him, and chancing to espy a house that projected somewhat beyond
the walls of the town, he determined to go bide thereunder till day.
Accordingly, betaking himself thither, he found there a door, albeit
it was shut, and gathering at foot thereof somewhat of straw that was
therenigh, he laid himself down there, tristful and woebegone,
complaining sore to St. Julian and saying that this was not of the
faith he had in him.

However, the saint had not lost sight of him and was not long in
providing him with a good lodging. There was in the town a widow lady,
as fair of favour as any woman living, whom the Marquis Azzo loved as
his life and there kept at his disposition, and she abode in that same
house, beneath the projection whereof Rinaldo had taken shelter. Now,
as chance would have it, the Marquis had come to the town that day,
thinking to lie the night with her, and had privily let make ready in
her house a bath and a sumptuous supper. Everything being ready and
nought awaited by the lady but the coming of the Marquis, it chanced
that there came a serving-man to the gate, who brought him news, which
obliged him to take horse forthright; wherefore, sending to tell his
mistress not to expect him, he departed in haste. The lady, somewhat
disconsolate at this, knowing not what to do, determined to enter the
bath prepared for the Marquis and after sup and go to bed.

Accordingly she entered the bath, which was near the door, against
which the wretched merchant was crouched without the city-wall;
wherefore she, being therein, heard the weeping and trembling kept up
by Rinaldo, who seemed as he were grown a stork,[85] and calling her
maid, said to her, 'Go up and look over the wall who is at the
postern-foot and what he doth there.' The maid went thither and aided
by the clearness of the air, saw Rinaldo in his shirt and barefoot,
sitting there, as hath been said, and trembling sore; whereupon she
asked him who he was. He told her, as briefliest he might, who he was
and how and why he was there, trembling the while on such wise that he
could scarce form the words, and after fell to beseeching her
piteously not to leave him there all night to perish of cold, [but to
succour him,] an it might be. The maid was moved to pity of him and
returning to her mistress, told her all. The lady, on like wise taking
compassion on him and remembering that she had the key of the door
aforesaid, which served whiles for the privy entrances of the Marquis,
said, 'Go softly and open to him; here is this supper and none to eat
it and we have commodity enough for his lodging.'

[Footnote 85: _i.e._ whose teeth chattered as it were the clapping of
a stork's beak.]

The maid, having greatly commended her mistress for this her humanity,
went and opening to Rinaldo, brought him in; whereupon the lady,
seeing him well nigh palsied with cold, said to him, 'Quick, good man,
enter this bath, which is yet warm.' Rinaldo, without awaiting farther
invitation, gladly obeyed and was so recomforted with the warmth of
the bath that himseemed he was come back from death to life. The lady
let fetch him a suit of clothes that had pertained to her husband,
then lately dead, which when he had donned, they seemed made to his
measure, and whilst awaiting what she should command him, he fell to
thanking God and St. Julian for that they had delivered him from the
scurvy night he had in prospect and had, as he deemed, brought him to
good harbourage.

Presently, the lady, being somewhat rested,[86] let make a great fire
in her dining-hall and betaking herself thither, asked how it was with
the poor man; whereto the maid answered, 'Madam, he hath clad himself
and is a handsome man and appeareth a person of good condition and
very well-mannered.' Quoth the lady, 'Go, call him and bid him come to
the fire and sup, for I know he is fasting.' Accordingly, Rinaldo
entered the hall and seeing the gentlewoman, who appeared to him a
lady of quality, saluted her respectfully and rendered her the best
thanks in his power for the kindness done him. The lady, having seen
and heard him and finding him even as her maid had said, received him
graciously and making him sit familiarly with her by the fire,
questioned him of the chance that had brought him thither; whereupon
he related everything to her in order. Now she had heard somewhat of
this at the time of his servant's coming into the town, wherefore she
gave entire belief to all he said and told him, in turn, what she knew
of his servant and how he might lightly find him again on the morrow.
Then, the table being laid, Rinaldo, at the lady's instance, washed
his hands and sat down with her to supper. Now he was tall of his
person and comely and pleasant of favour and very engaging and
agreeable of manners and a man in the prime of life; wherefore the
lady had several times cast her eyes on him and found him much to her
liking, and her desires being already aroused for the Marquis, who was
to have come to lie with her, she had taken a mind to him.
Accordingly, after supper, whenas they were risen from table, she took
counsel with her maid whether herseemed she would do well, the Marquis
having left her in the lurch, to use the good which fortune had sent
her. The maid, seeing her mistress's drift, encouraged her as best she
might to ensue it; whereupon the lady, returning to the fireside,
where she had left Rinaldo alone, fell to gazing amorously upon him
and said to him, 'How now, Rinaldo, why bide you thus melancholy?
Think you you cannot be requited the loss of a horse and of some small
matter of clothes? Take comfort and be of good cheer; you are in your
own house. Nay, I will e'en tell you more, that, seeing you with those
clothes on your back, which were my late husband's, and meseeming you
were himself, there hath taken me belike an hundred times to-night a
longing to embrace you and kiss you: and but that I feared to
displease you, I had certainly done it.'

[Footnote 86: _i.e._ after her bath.]

Rinaldo, who was no simpleton, hearing these words and seeing the
lady's eyes sparkle, advanced towards her with open arms, saying,
'Madam, considering that I owe it to you to say that I am now alive
and having regard to that from which you delivered me, it were great
unmannerliness in me, did I not study to do everything that may be
agreeable to you; wherefore do you embrace me and kiss me to your
heart's content, and I will kiss and clip you more than willingly.'
There needed no more words. The lady, who was all afire with amorous
longing, straightway threw herself into his arms and after she had
strained him desirefully to her bosom and bussed him a thousand times
and had of him been kissed as often, they went off to her chamber, and
there without delay betaking themselves to bed, they fully and many a
time, before the day should come, satisfied their desires one of the
other. Whenas the day began to appear, they arose,--it being her
pleasure, so the thing might not be suspected of any,--and she, having
given him some sorry clothes and a purse full of money and shown him
how he should go about to enter the town and find his servant, put him
forth at the postern whereby he had entered, praying him keep the
matter secret.

As soon as it was broad day and the gates were opened, he entered the
town, feigning to come from afar, and found his servant. Therewithal
he donned the clothes that were in the saddle-bags and was about to
mount the man's horse and depart, when, as by a miracle, it befell
that the three highwaymen, who had robbed him overnight, having been a
little after taken for some other misdeed of them committed, were
brought into the town and on their confession, his horse and clothes
and money were restored to him, nor did he lose aught save a pair of
garters, with which the robbers knew not what they had done. Rinaldo
accordingly gave thanks to God and St. Julian and taking horse,
returned home, safe and sound, leaving the three rogues to go kick on
the morrow against the wind."[87]

[Footnote 87: _i.e._ to be hanged or, in the equivalent English idiom,
to dance upon nothing.]



THE THIRD STORY

[Day the Second]

     THREE YOUNG MEN SQUANDER THEIR SUBSTANCE AND BECOME POOR;
     BUT A NEPHEW OF THEIRS, RETURNING HOME IN DESPERATION,
     FALLETH IN WITH AN ABBOT AND FINDETH HIM TO BE THE KING'S
     DAUGHTER OF ENGLAND, WHO TAKETH HIM TO HUSBAND AND MAKETH
     GOOD ALL HIS UNCLES' LOSSES, RESTORING THEM TO GOOD ESTATE


The adventures of Rinaldo d'Asti were hearkened with admiration and
his devoutness commended by the ladies, who returned thanks to God and
St. Julian for that they had succoured him in his utmost need. Nor yet
(though this was said half aside) was the lady reputed foolish, who
had known how to take the good God had sent her in her own house. But,
whilst they discoursed, laughing in their sleeves, of the pleasant
night she had had, Pampinea, seeing herself beside Filostrato and
deeming, as indeed it befell, that the next turn would rest with her,
began to collect her thoughts and take counsel with herself what she
should say; after which, having received the queen's commandment, she
proceeded to speak thus, no less resolutely than blithely, "Noble
ladies, the more it is discoursed of the doings of Fortune, the more,
to whoso is fain to consider her dealings aright, remaineth to be said
thereof; and at this none should marvel, an he consider advisedly that
all the things, which we foolishly style ours, are in her hands and
are consequently, according to her hidden ordinance, transmuted by her
without cease from one to another and back again, without any method
known unto us. Wherefore, albeit this truth is conclusively
demonstrated in everything and all day long and hath already been
shown forth in divers of the foregoing stories, nevertheless, since it
is our queen's pleasure that we discourse upon this theme, I will, not
belike without profit for the listeners, add to the stories aforesaid
one of my own, which methinketh should please.

There was once in our city a gentleman, by name Messer Tedaldo, who,
as some will have it, was of the Lamberti family, albeit others avouch
that he was of the Agolanti, arguing more, belike, from the craft
after followed by his sons,[88] which was like unto that which the
Agolanti have ever practised and yet practise, than from aught else.
But, leaving be of which of these two houses he was, I say that he
was, in his time, a very rich gentleman and had three sons, whereof
the eldest was named Lamberto, the second Tedaldo and the third
Agolante, all handsome and sprightly youths, the eldest of whom had
not reached his eighteenth year when it befell that the aforesaid
Messer Tedaldo died very rich and left all his possessions, both
moveable and immoveable, to them, as his legitimate heirs. The young
men, seeing themselves left very rich both in lands and monies, began
to spend without check or reserve or other governance than that of
their own pleasure, keeping a vast household and many and goodly
horses and dogs and hawks, still holding open house and giving
largesse and making tilts and tournaments and doing not only that
which pertaineth unto men of condition, but all, to boot, that it
occurred to their youthful appetite to will.

[Footnote 88: _i.e._ usury? See post. One of the commentators
ridiculously suggests that they were needlemakers, from _ago_, a
needle.]

They had not long led this manner of life before the treasure left by
their father melted away and their revenues alone sufficing not unto
their current expenses, they proceeded to sell and mortgage their
estates, and selling one to-day and another to-morrow, they found
themselves well nigh to nought, without perceiving it, and poverty
opened their eyes, which wealth had kept closed. Whereupon Lamberto,
one day, calling the other two, reminded them how great had been their
father's magnificence and how great their own and setting before them
what wealth had been theirs and the poverty to which they were come
through their inordinate expenditure, exhorted them, as best he knew,
ere their distress should become more apparent, to sell what little
was left them and get them gone, together with himself. They did as he
counselled them and departing Florence, without leavetaking or
ceremony, stayed not till they came to England, where, taking a little
house in London and spending very little, they addressed themselves
with the utmost diligence to lend money at usance. In this fortune was
so favourable to them that in a few years they amassed a vast sum of
money, wherewith, returning to Florence, one after another, they
bought back great part of their estates and purchased others to boot
and took unto themselves wives.

Nevertheless, they still continued to lend money in England and sent
thither, to look to their affairs, a young man, a nephew of theirs,
Alessandro by name, whilst themselves all three at Florence, for all
they were become fathers of families, forgetting to what a pass
inordinate expenditure had aforetime brought them, began to spend more
extravagantly than ever and were high in credit with all the
merchants, who trusted them for any sum of money, however great. The
monies remitted them by Alessandro, who had fallen to lending to the
barons upon their castles and other their possessions, which brought
him great profit, helped them for some years to support these
expenses; but, presently, what while the three brothers spent thus
freely and lacking money, borrowed, still reckoning with all assurance
upon England, it chanced that, contrary to all expectation, there
broke out war in England between the king and his son, through which
the whole island was divided into two parties, some holding with the
one and some with the other; and by reason thereof all the barons'
castles were taken from Alessandro nor was there any other source of
revenue that answered him aught. Hoping that from day to day peace
should be made between father and son and consequently everything
restored to him, both interest and capital, Alessandro departed not
the island and the three brothers in Florence no wise abated their
extravagant expenditure, borrowing more and more every day. But, when,
after several years, no effect was seen to follow upon their
expectation, the three brothers not only lost their credit, but, their
creditors seeking to be paid their due, they were suddenly arrested
and their possessions sufficing not unto payment, they abode in
prison for the residue, whilst their wives and little ones betook
themselves, some into the country, some hither and some thither, in
very ill plight, unknowing what to expect but misery for the rest of
their lives.

Meanwhile, Alessandro, after waiting several years in England for
peace, seeing that it came not and himseeming that not only was his
tarrying there in vain, but that he went in danger of his life,
determined to return to Italy. Accordingly, he set out all alone and
as chance would have it, coming out of Bruges, he saw an abbot of
white friars likewise issuing thence, accompanied by many monks and
with a numerous household and a great baggage-train in his van. After
him came two old knights, kinsmen of the King, whom Alessandro
accosted as acquaintances and was gladly admitted into their company.
As he journeyed with them, he asked them softly who were the monks
that rode in front with so great a train and whither they were bound;
and one of them answered, 'He who rideth yonder is a young gentleman
of our kindred, who hath been newly elected abbot of one of the most
considerable abbeys of England, and for that he is younger than is
suffered by the laws for such a dignity, we go with him to Rome to
obtain of the Holy Father that he dispense him of his defect of
overmuch youthfulness and confirm him in the dignity aforesaid; but
this must not be spoken of with any.'

The new abbot, faring on thus, now in advance of his retinue and now
in their rear, as daily we see it happen with noblemen on a journey,
chanced by the way to see near him Alessandro, who was a young man
exceedingly goodly of person and favour, well-bred, agreeable and fair
of fashion as any might be, and who at first sight pleased him
marvellously, as nought had ever done, and calling him to his side,
fell a-discoursing pleasantly with him, asking him who he was and
whence he came and whither he was bound; whereupon Alessandro frankly
discovered to him his whole case and satisfied his questions, offering
himself to his service in what little he might. The abbot, hearing his
goodly and well-ordered speech, took more particular note of his
manners and inwardly judging him to be a man of gentle breeding, for
all his business had been mean, grew yet more enamoured of his
pleasantness and full of compassion for his mishaps, comforted him on
very friendly wise, bidding him be of good hope, for that, an he were
a man of worth, God would yet replace him in that estate whence
fortune had cast him down, nay, in a yet higher. Moreover, he prayed
him, since he was bound for Tuscany, that it would please him bear him
company, inasmuch as himself was likewise on the way thitherward;
whereupon Alessandro returned him thanks for his encouragement and
declared himself ready to his every commandment.

The abbot, in whose breast new feelings had been aroused by the sight
of Alessandro, continuing his journey, it chanced that, after some
days, they came to a village not overwell furnished with hostelries,
and the abbot having a mind to pass the night there, Alessandro caused
him alight at the house of an innkeeper, who was his familiar
acquaintance, and let prepare him his sleeping-chamber in the least
incommodious place of the house; and being now, like an expert man as
he was, grown well nigh a master of the household to the abbot, he
lodged all his company, as best he might, about the village, some here
and some there. After the abbot had supped, the night being now well
advanced and every one gone to bed, Alessandro asked the host where he
himself could lie; whereto he answered, 'In truth, I know not; thou
seest that every place is full and I and my household must needs sleep
upon the benches. Algates, in the abbot's chamber there be certain
grain-sacks, whereto I can bring thee and spread thee thereon some
small matter of bed, and there, an it please thee, thou shalt lie this
night, as best thou mayst.' Quoth Alessandro, 'How shall I go into the
abbot's chamber, seeing thou knowest it is little and of its
straitness none of his monks might lie there? Had I bethought me of
this, ere the curtains were drawn, I would have let his monks lie on
the grain-sacks and have lodged myself where they sleep.' 'Nay,'
answered the host, 'the case standeth thus;[89] but, an thou wilt,
thou mayst lie whereas I tell thee with all the ease in the world. The
abbot is asleep and his curtains are drawn; I will quickly lay thee a
pallet-bed there, and do thou sleep on it.' Alessandro, seeing that
this might be done without giving the abbot any annoy, consented
thereto and settled himself on the grain-sacks as softliest he might.

[Footnote 89: _i.e._ the thing is done and cannot be undone; there is
no help for it.]

The abbot, who slept not, nay, whose thoughts were ardently occupied
with his new desires, heard what passed between Alessandro and the
host and noted where the former laid himself to sleep, and well
pleased with this, began to say in himself, 'God hath sent an occasion
unto my desires; an I take it not, it may be long ere the like recur
to me.' Accordingly, being altogether resolved to take the opportunity
and himseeming all was quiet in the inn, he called to Alessandro in a
low voice and bade him come couch with him. Alessandro, after many
excuses, put off his clothes and laid himself beside the abbot, who
put his hand on his breast and fell to touching him no otherwise than
amorous damsels use to do with their lovers; whereat Alessandro
marvelled exceedingly and misdoubted him the abbot was moved by
unnatural love to handle him on that wise; but the latter promptly
divined his suspicions, whether of presumption or through some gesture
of his, and smiled; then, suddenly putting off a shirt that he wore,
he took Alessandro's hand and laying it on his own breast, said,
'Alessandro, put away thy foolish thought and searching here, know
that which I conceal.'

Alessandro accordingly put his hand to the abbot's bosom and found
there two little breasts, round and firm and delicate, no otherwise
than as they were of ivory, whereby perceiving that the supposed
prelate was a woman, without awaiting farther bidding, he straightway
took her in his arms and would have kissed her; but she said to him,
'Ere thou draw nearer to me, hearken to that which I have to say to
thee. As thou mayst see, I am a woman and not a man, and having left
home a maid, I was on my way to the Pope, that he might marry me. Be
it thy good fortune or my mishap, no sooner did I see thee the other
day than love so fired me for thee, that never yet was woman who so
loved man. Wherefore, I am resolved to take thee, before any other, to
husband; but, an thou wilt not have me to wife, begone hence
forthright and return to thy place.'

Alessandro, albeit he knew her not, having regard to her company and
retinue, judged her to be of necessity noble and rich and saw that she
was very fair; wherefore, without overlong thought, he replied that,
if this pleased her, it was mighty agreeable to him. Accordingly,
sitting up with him in bed, she put a ring into his hand and made him
espouse her[90] before a picture wherein our Lord was portrayed, after
which they embraced each other and solaced themselves with amorous
dalliance, to the exceeding pleasure of both parties, for so much as
remained of the night.

[Footnote 90: _i.e._ make her a solemn promise of marriage, formally
plight her his troth. The ceremony of betrothal was formerly (and
still is in certain countries) the most essential part of the marriage
rite.]

When the day came, after they had taken order together concerning
their affairs, Alessandro arose and departed the chamber by the way he
had entered, without any knowing where he had passed the night. Then,
glad beyond measure, he took to the road again with the abbot and his
company and came after many days to Rome. There they abode some days,
after which the abbot, with the two knights and Alessandro and no
more, went in to the Pope and having done him due reverence, bespoke
him thus, 'Holy Father, as you should know better than any other,
whoso is minded to live well and honestly should, inasmuch as he may,
eschew every occasion that may lead him to do otherwise; the which
that I, who would fain live honestly, may throughly do, having fled
privily with a great part of the treasures of the King of England my
father, (who would have given me to wife to the King of Scotland, a
very old prince, I being, as you see, a young maid), I set out,
habited as you see me, to come hither, so your Holiness might marry
me. Nor was it so much the age of the King of Scotland that made me
flee as the fear, if I were married to him, lest I should, for the
frailty of my youth, be led to do aught that might be contrary to the
Divine laws and the honour of the royal blood of my father. As I came,
thus disposed, God, who alone knoweth aright that which behoveth unto
every one, set before mine eyes (as I believe, of His mercy) him whom
it pleased Him should be my husband, to wit, this young man,' showing
Alessandro, 'whom you see here beside me and whose fashions and desert
are worthy of however great a lady, although belike the nobility of
his blood is not so illustrious as the blood-royal. Him, then, have I
taken and him I desire, nor will I ever have any other than he,
however it may seem to my father or to other folk. Thus, the principal
occasion of my coming is done away; but it pleased me to make an end
of my journey, at once that I might visit the holy and reverential
places, whereof this city is full, and your Holiness and that through
you I might make manifest, in your presence and consequently in that
of the rest of mankind, the marriage contracted between Alessandro
and myself in the presence of God alone. Wherefore I humbly pray you
that this which hath pleased God and me may find favour with you and
that you will vouchsafe us your benison, in order that with this, as
with more assurance of His approof whose Vicar you are, we may live
and ultimately die together.'

Alessandro marvelled to hear that the damsel was the King's daughter
of England and was inwardly filled with exceeding great gladness; but
the two knights marvelled yet more and were so incensed, that, had
they been otherwhere than in the Pope's presence, they had done
Alessandro a mischief and belike the lady also. The Pope also, on his
part, marvelled exceedingly both at the habit of the lady and at her
choice; but, seeing that there was no going back on that which was
done, he consented to satisfy her of her prayer. Accordingly, having
first appeased the two knights, whom he knew to be angered, and made
them well at one again with the lady and Alessandro, he took order for
that which was to do, and the day appointed by him being come, before
all the cardinals and many other men of great worship, come, at his
bidding, to a magnificent bride-feast prepared by him, he produced the
lady, royally apparelled, who showed so fair and so agreeable that she
was worthily commended of all, and on like wise Alessandro splendidly
attired, in bearing and appearance no whit like a youth who had lent
at usury, but rather one of royal blood, and now much honoured of the
two knights. There he caused solemnly celebrate the marriage afresh
and after goodly and magnificent nuptials made, he dismissed them with
his benison.

It pleased Alessandro, and likewise the lady, departing Rome, to
betake themselves to Florence, whither report had already carried the
news. There they were received by the townsfolk with the utmost honour
and the lady caused liberate the three brothers, having first paid
every man [his due]. Moreover, she reinstated them and their ladies in
their possessions and with every one's goodwill, because of this, she
and her husband departed Florence, carrying Agolante with them, and
coming to Paris, were honourably entertained by the King. Thence the
two knights passed into England and so wrought with the King that the
latter restored to his daughter his good graces and with exceeding
great rejoicing received her and his son-in-law, whom he a little
after made a knight with the utmost honour and gave him the Earldom of
Cornwall. In this capacity he approved himself a man of such parts and
made shift to do on such wise that he reconciled the son with his
father, whereof there ensued great good to the island, and thereby he
gained the love and favour of all the people of the country.

Moreover, Agolante thoroughly recovered all that was there due to him
and his brethren and returned to Florence, rich beyond measure, having
first been knighted by Count Alessandro. The latter lived long and
gloriously with his lady, and according as some avouch, what with his
wit and valour and the aid of his father-in-law, he after conquered
Scotland and was crowned King thereof."



THE FOURTH STORY

[Day the Second]

     LANDOLFO RUFFOLO, GROWN POOR, TURNETH CORSAIR AND BEING
     TAKEN BY THE GENOESE, IS WRECKED AT SEA, BUT SAVETH HIMSELF
     UPON A COFFER FULL OF JEWELS OF PRICE AND BEING ENTERTAINED
     IN CORFU BY A WOMAN, RETURNETH HOME RICH


Lauretta, who sat next Pampinea, seeing her come to the glorious
ending of her story, began, without awaiting more, to speak on this
wise: "Most gracious ladies, there can, to my judgment, be seen no
greater feat of fortune than when we behold one raised from the lowest
misery to royal estate, even as Pampinea's story hath shown it to have
betided her Alessandro. And for that from this time forth whosoever
relateth of the appointed matter must of necessity speak within these
limits,[91] I shall think no shame to tell a story, which, albeit it
compriseth in itself yet greater distresses hath not withal so
splendid an issue. I know well, indeed, that, having regard unto that,
my story will be hearkened with less diligence; but, as I can no
otherwise, I shall be excused.

[Footnote 91: _i.e._ cannot hope to tell a story presenting more
extraordinary shifts from one to the other extreme of human fortune
than that of Pampinea.]

The sea-coast from Reggio to Gaeta is commonly believed to be well
nigh the most delightful part of Italy, and therein, pretty near
Salerno, is a hillside overlooking the sea, which the countryfolk call
Amalfi Side, full of little towns and gardens and springs and of men
as rich and stirring in the matter of trade as any in the world. Among
the said cities is one called Ravello and therein, albeit nowadays
there are rich men there, there was aforetime one, Landolfo Ruffolo by
name, who was exceeding rich and who, his wealth sufficing him not,
came nigh, in seeking to double it, to lose it all and himself withal.
This man, then, having, after the usance of merchants, laid his plans,
bought a great ship and freighting it all of his own monies with
divers merchandise, repaired therewith to Cyprus. There he found
sundry other ships come with the same kind and quality of merchandise
as he had brought, by reason of which not only was he constrained to
make great good cheap of his own venture, but it behoved him, an he
would dispose of his goods, well nigh to throw them away, whereby he
was brought near unto ruin.

Sore chagrined at this mischance and knowing not what to do, seeing
himself thus from a very rich man in brief space grown in a manner
poor, he determined either to die or repair his losses by pillage, so
he might not return thither poor, whence he had departed rich.
Accordingly, having found a purchaser for his great ship, with the
price thereof and that which he had gotten of his wares, he bought a
little vessel, light and apt for cruising and arming and garnishing it
excellent well with everything needful unto such a service, addressed
himself to make his purchase of other men's goods and especially of
those of the Turks. In this trade fortune was far kinder to him than
she had been in that of a merchant, for that, in some year's space,
he plundered and took so many Turkish vessels that he found he had not
only gotten him his own again that he had lost in trade, but had more
than doubled his former substance. Whereupon, schooled by the chagrin
of his former loss and deeming he had enough, he persuaded himself,
rather than risk a second mischance, to rest content with that which
he had, without seeking more. Accordingly he resolved to return
therewith to his own country and being fearful of trade, concerned not
himself to employ his money otherwise, but, thrusting his oars into
the water, set out homeward in that same little vessel wherewith he
had gained it.

He had already reached the Archipelago when there arose one evening a
violent south-east wind, which was not only contrary to his course,
but raised so great a sea that his little vessel could not endure it;
wherefore he took refuge in a bight of the sea, made by a little
island, and there abode sheltered from the wind and purposing there to
await better weather. He had not lain there long when two great
Genoese carracks, coming from Constantinople, made their way with
great difficulty into the little harbour, to avoid that from which
himself had fled. The newcomers espied the little ship and hearing
that it pertained to Landolfo, whom they already knew by report to be
very rich, blocked against it the way by which it might depart and
addressed themselves, like men by nature rapacious and greedy of
gain,[92] to make prize of it. Accordingly, they landed part of their
men well harnessed and armed with crossbows and posted them on such
wise that none might come down from the bark, an he would not be shot;
whilst the rest, warping themselves in with small boats and aided by
the current, laid Landolfo's little ship aboard and took it out of
hand, crew and all, without missing a man. Landolfo they carried
aboard one of the carracks, leaving him but a sorry doublet; then,
taking everything out of the ship, they scuttled her.

[Footnote 92: The Genoese have the reputation in Italy of being
thieves by nature.]

On the morrow, the wind having shifted, the carracks made sail
westward and fared on their voyage prosperously all that day; but
towards evening there arose a tempestuous wind which made the waves
run mountains high and parted the two carracks one from the other.
Moreover, from stress of wind it befell that that wherein was the
wretched and unfortunate Landolfo smote with great violence upon a
shoal over against the island of Cephalonia and parting amidships,
broke all in sunder no otherwise than a glass dashed against a wall.
The sea was in a moment all full of bales of merchandise and chests
and planks, that floated on the surface, as is wont to happen in such
cases, and the poor wretches on board, swimming, those who knew how,
albeit it was a very dark night and the sea was exceeding great and
swollen, fell to laying hold of such things as came within their
reach. Among the rest the unfortunate Landolfo, albeit many a time
that day he had called for death, (choosing rather to die than return
home poor as he found himself,) seeing it near at hand, was fearful
thereof and like the others, laid hold of a plank that came to his
hand, so haply, an he put off drowning awhile, God might send him
some means of escape.

Bestriding this, he kept himself afloat as best he might, driven
hither and thither of the sea and the wind, till daylight, when he
looked about him and saw nothing but clouds and sea and a chest
floating on the waves, which bytimes, to his sore affright, drew nigh
unto him, for that he feared lest peradventure it should dash against
him on such wise as to do him a mischief; wherefore, as often as it
came near him, he put it away from him as best he might with his hand,
albeit he had little strength thereof. But presently there issued a
sudden flaw of wind out of the air and falling on the sea, smote upon
the chest and drove it with such violence against Landolfo's plank
that the latter was overset and he himself perforce went under water.
However, he struck out and rising to the surface, aided more by fear
than by strength, saw the plank far removed from him, wherefore,
fearing he might be unable to reach it again, he made for the chest,
which was pretty near him, and laying himself flat with his breast on
the lid thereof, guided it with his arms as best he might.[93]

[Footnote 93: It seems doubtful whether _la reggeva diritta_ should
not rather be rendered "kept it upright." Boccaccio has a knack, very
trying to the translator, of constantly using words in an obscure or
strained sense.]

On this wise, tossed about by the sea now hither and now thither,
without eating, as one indeed who had not the wherewithal, but
drinking more than he could have wished, he abode all that day and the
ensuing night, unknowing where he was and descrying nought but sea;
but, on the following day, whether it was God's pleasure or stress of
wind that wrought it, he came, grown well nigh a sponge and clinging
fast with both hands to the marges of the chest, even as we see those
do who are like to drown, to the coast of the island of Corfu, where a
poor woman chanced to be scouring her pots and pans and making them
bright with sand and salt water. Seeing Landolfo draw near and
discerning in him no [human] shape, she drew back, affrighted and
crying out. He could not speak and scarce saw, wherefore he said
nothing; but presently, the sea carrying him landward, the woman
descried the shape of the chest and looking straitlier, perceived
first the arms outspread upon it and then the face and guessed it for
that which it was.

Accordingly, moved with compassion, she entered somedele into the sea,
which was now calm, and seizing Landolfo by the hair, dragged him
ashore, chest and all. There having with difficulty unclasped his
hands from the chest, she set the latter on the head of a young
daughter of hers, who was with her, and carried him off, as he were a
little child, to her hut, where she put him in a bagnio and so chafed
and bathed him with warm water that the strayed heat returned to him,
together with somewhat of his lost strength. Then, taking him up out
of the bath, whenas it seemed good to her, she comforted him with
somewhat of good wine and confections and tended him some days, as
best she might, till he had recovered his strength and knew where he
was, when she judged it time to restore him his chest, which she had
kept safe for him, and to tell him that he might now prosecute his
fortune.

Landolfo, who had no recollection of the chest, yet took it, when the
good woman presented it to him, thinking it could not be so little
worth but that it might defray his expenses for some days, but,
finding it very light, was sore abated of his hopes. Nevertheless,
what while his hostess was abroad, he broke it open, to see what it
contained, and found therein store of precious stones, both set and
unset. He had some knowledge of these matters and seeing them, knew
them to be of great value; wherefore he praised God, who had not yet
forsaken him, and was altogether comforted. However, as one who had in
brief space been twice cruelly baffled by fortune, fearing a third
misadventure, he bethought himself that it behoved him use great
wariness and he would bring those things home; wherefore, wrapping
them, as best he might, in some rags, he told the good woman that he
had no more occasion for the chest, but that, an it pleased her, she
should give him a bag and take the chest herself. This she willingly
did and he, having rendered her the best thanks in his power for the
kindness received from her, shouldered his bag and going aboard a
bark, passed over to Brindisi and thence made his way, along the
coast, to Trani.

Here he found certain townsmen of his, who were drapers and clad him
for the love of God,[94] after he had related to them all his
adventures, except that of the chest; nay more, they lent him a horse
and sent him, under escort, to Ravello, whither he said he would fain
return. There, deeming himself in safety and thanking God who had
conducted him thither, he opened his bag and examining everything more
diligently than he had yet done, found he had so many and such stones
that, supposing he sold them at a fair price or even less, he was
twice as rich again as when he departed thence. Then, finding means to
dispose of his jewels, he sent a good sum of money to Corfu to the
good woman who had brought him forth of the sea, in requital of the
service received, and the like to Trani to those who had reclothed
him. The rest he kept for himself and lived in honour and worship to
the end of his days, without seeking to trade any more."

[Footnote 94: _i.e._ for nothing.]



THE FIFTH STORY

[Day the Second]

     ANDREUCCIO OF PERUGIA, COMING TO NAPLES TO BUY HORSES, IS IN
     ONE NIGHT OVERTAKEN WITH THREE GRIEVOUS ACCIDENTS, BUT
     ESCAPETH THEM ALL AND RETURNETH HOME WITH A RUBY


"The stones found by Landolfo," began Fiammetta, to whose turn it came
to tell, "have brought to my mind a story scarce less full of perilous
scapes than that related by Lauretta, but differing therefrom inasmuch
as the adventures comprised in the latter befell in the course of
belike several years and these of which I have to tell in the space
of a single night, as you shall hear.

There was once in Perugia, as I have heard tell aforetime, a young
man, a horse-courser, by name Andreuccio di Pietro,[95] who, hearing
that horses were good cheap at Naples, put five hundred gold florins
in his purse and betook himself thither with other merchants, having
never before been away from home. He arrived there one Sunday evening,
towards vespers, and having taken counsel with his host, sallied forth
next morning to the market, where he saw great plenty of horses. Many
of them pleased him and he cheapened one and another, but could not
come to an accord concerning any. Meanwhile, to show that he was for
buying, he now and again, like a raw unwary clown as he was, pulled
out the purse of florins he had with him, in the presence of those who
came and went. As he was thus engaged, with his purse displayed, it
chanced that a Sicilian damsel, who was very handsome, but disposed
for a small matter to do any man's pleasure, passed near him, without
his seeing her, and catching sight of the purse, said straightway in
herself, 'Who would fare better than I, if yonder money were mine!'
And passed on.

[Footnote 95: _i.e._ son of Pietro, as they still say in Lancashire
and other northern provinces, "Tom o' Dick" for "Thomas, son of
Richard," etc.]

Now there was with her an old woman, likewise a Sicilian, who, seeing
Andreuccio, let her companion pass on and running to him, embraced him
affectionately, which when the damsel saw, she stepped aside to wait
for her, without saying aught. Andreuccio, turning to the old woman
and recognizing her, gave her a hearty greeting and she, having
promised to visit him at his inn, took leave, without holding overlong
parley there, whilst he fell again to chaffering, but bought nothing
that morning. The damsel, who had noted first Andreuccio's purse and
after her old woman's acquaintance with him, began cautiously to
enquire of the latter, by way of casting about for a means of coming
at the whole or part of the money, who and whence he was and what he
did there and how she came to know him. The old woman told her every
particular of Andreuccio's affairs well nigh as fully as he himself
could have done, having long abidden with his father, first in Sicily
and after at Perugia, and acquainted her, to boot, where he lodged and
wherefore he was come thither.

The damsel, being thus fully informed both of his name and parentage,
thereby with subtle craft laid her plans for giving effect to her
desire and returning home, set the old woman awork for the rest of the
day, so she might not avail to return to Andreuccio. Then, calling a
maid of hers, whom she had right well lessoned unto such offices, she
despatched her, towards evensong, to the inn where Andreuccio lodged.
As chance would have it, she found him alone at the door and enquired
at him of himself. He answered that he was the man she sought,
whereupon she drew him aside and said to him, 'Sir, an it please you,
a gentlewoman of this city would fain speak with you.' Andreuccio,
hearing this, considered himself from head to foot and himseeming he
was a handsome varlet of his person, he concluded (as if there were
no other well-looking young fellow to be found in Naples,) that the
lady in question must have fallen in love with him. Accordingly, he
answered without further deliberation that he was ready and asked the
girl when and where the lady would speak with him; whereto she
answered, 'Sir, whenas it pleaseth you to come, she awaiteth you in
her house'; and Andreuccio forthwith rejoined, without saying aught to
the people of the inn, 'Go thou on before; I will come after thee.'

Thereupon the girl carried him to the house of her mistress, who dwelt
in a street called Malpertugio,[96] the very name whereof denoteth how
reputable a quarter it is. But he, unknowing neither suspecting aught
thereof and thinking to go to most honourable place and to a lady of
quality, entered the house without hesitation,--preceded by the
serving-maid, who called her mistress and said, 'Here is
Andreuccio,'--and mounting the stair, saw the damsel come to the
stairhead to receive him. Now she was yet in the prime of youth, tall
of person, with a very fair face and very handsomely dressed and
adorned. As he drew near her, she came down three steps to meet him
with open arms and clasping him round the neck, abode awhile without
speaking, as if hindered by excess of tenderness; then kissed him on
the forehead, weeping, and said, in a somewhat broken voice, 'O my
Andreuccio, thou art indeed welcome.'

[Footnote 96: _i.e._ ill hole.]

He was amazed at such tender caresses and answered, all confounded,
'Madam, you are well met.' Thereupon, taking him by the hand, she
carried him up into her saloon and thence, without saying another word
to him, she brought him into her chamber, which was all redolent of
roses and orange flowers and other perfumes. Here he saw a very fine
bed, hung round with curtains, and store of dresses upon the pegs and
other very goodly and rich gear, after the usance of those parts; by
reason whereof, like a freshman as he was, he firmly believed her to
be no less than a great lady. She made him sit with her on a chest
that stood at the foot of the bed and bespoke him thus, 'Andreuccio, I
am very certain thou marvellest at these caresses that I bestow on
thee and at my tears, as he may well do who knoweth me not and hath
maybe never heard speak of me; but I have that to tell thee which is
like to amaze thee yet more, namely, that I am thy sister; and I tell
thee that, since God hath vouchsafed me to look upon one of my
brothers, (though fain would I see you all,) before my death,
henceforth I shall not die disconsolate; and as perchance thou has
never heard of this, I will tell it thee.

Pietro, my father and thine, as I doubt not thou knowest, abode long
in Palermo and there for his good humour and pleasant composition was
and yet is greatly beloved of those who knew him; but, among all his
lovers, my mother, who was a lady of gentle birth and then a widow,
was she who most affected him, insomuch that, laying aside the fear of
her father and brethren, as well as the care of her own honour, she
became so private with him that I was born thereof and grew up as thou
seest me. Presently, having occasion to depart Palermo and return to
Perugia, he left me a little maid with my mother nor ever after, for
all that I could hear, remembered him of me or her; whereof, were he
not my father, I should blame him sore, having regard to the
ingratitude shown by him to my mother (to say nothing of the love it
behoved him bear me, as his daughter, born of no serving-wench nor
woman of mean extraction) who had, moved by very faithful love,
without anywise knowing who he might be, committed into his hands her
possessions and herself no less. But what [skilleth it]? Things ill
done and long time passed are easier blamed than mended; algates, so
it was.

He left me a little child in Palermo, where being grown well nigh as I
am now, my mother, who was a rich lady, gave me to wife to a worthy
gentleman of Girgenti, who, for her love and mine, came to abide at
Palermo and there, being a great Guelph,[97] he entered into treaty
with our King Charles,[98] which, being discovered by King
Frederick,[99] ere effect could be given to it, was the occasion of
our being enforced to flee from Sicily, whenas I looked to be the
greatest lady was ever in the island; wherefore, taking such few
things as we might (I say few, in respect of the many we had) and
leaving our lands and palaces, we took refuge in this city, where we
found King Charles so mindful of our services that he hath in part
made good to us the losses we had sustained for him, bestowing on us
both lands and houses, and still maketh my husband, thy kinsman that
is, a goodly provision, as thou shalt hereafter see. On this wise come
I in this city, where, Godamercy and no thanks to thee, sweet my
brother, I now behold thee.' So saying, she embraced him over again
and kissed him on the forehead, still weeping for tenderness.

[Footnote 97: _i.e._ a member of the Guelph party, as against the
Ghibellines or partisans of the Pope.]

[Footnote 98: Charles d'Anjou, afterwards King of Sicily.]

[Footnote 99: _i.e._ Frederick II. of Germany.]

Andreuccio, hearing this fable so orderly, so artfully delivered by
the damsel, without ever stammering or faltering for a word, and
remembering it to be true that his father had been in Palermo,
knowing, moreover, by himself the fashions of young men and how
lightly they fall in love in their youth and seeing the affectionate
tears and embraces and the chaste kisses that she lavished on him,
held all she told him for more than true; wherefore, as soon as she
was silent, he answered her, saying, 'Madam, it should seem to you no
very great matter if I marvel, for that in truth, whether it be that
my father, for whatsoever reason, never spoke of your mother nor of
yourself, or that if he did, it came not to my notice, I had no more
knowledge of you than if you had never been, and so much the dearer is
it to me to find you my sister here, as I am alone in this city and
the less expected this. Indeed, I know no man of so high a condition
that you should not be dear to him, to say nothing of myself, who am
but a petty trader. But I pray you make me clear of one thing; how
knew you that I was here?' Whereto she made answer, 'A poor woman, who
much frequenteth me, gave me this morning to know of thy coming, for
that, as she telleth me, she abode long with our father both at
Palermo and at Perugia; and but that meseemed it was a more reputable
thing that thou shouldst visit me in my own house than I thee in that
of another, I had come to thee this great while agone.' After this,
she proceeded to enquire more particularly of all his kinsfolk by
name, and he answered her of all, giving the more credence, by reason
of this, to that which it the less behoved him to believe.

The talk being long and the heat great, she called for Greek wine and
confections and let give Andreuccio to drink, after which he would
have taken leave, for that it was supper-time; but she would on no
wise suffer it and making a show of being sore vexed, embraced him and
said, 'Ah, woe is me! I see but too clearly how little dear I am to
thee! Who would believe that thou couldst be with a sister of thine,
whom thou hast never yet seen and in whose house thou shouldst have
lighted down, whenas thou earnest hither, and offer to leave her, to
go sup at the inn? Indeed, thou shalt sup with me, and albeit my
husband is abroad, which grieveth me mightily, I shall know well how
to do thee some little honour, such as a woman may.' To which
Andreuccio, unknowing what else he should say, answered, 'I hold you
as dear as a sister should be held; but, an I go not, I shall be
expected to supper all the evening and shall do an unmannerliness.'
'Praised be God!' cried she. 'One would think I had no one in the
house to send to tell them not to expect thee; albeit thou wouldst do
much greater courtesy and indeed but thy duty an thou sentest to bid
thy companions come hither to supper; and after, am thou must e'en
begone, you might all go away together.'

Andreuccio replied that he had no desire for his companions that
evening; but that, since it was agreeable to her, she might do her
pleasure of him. Accordingly, she made a show of sending to the inn to
say that he was not to be expected to supper, and after much other
discourse, they sat down to supper and were sumptuously served with
various meats, whilst she adroitly contrived to prolong the repast
till it was dark night. Then, when they rose from table and Andreuccio
would have taken his leave, she declared that she would on no wise
suffer this, for that Naples was no place to go about in by night
especially for a stranger, and that, whenas she sent to the inn to say
that he was not to be expected to supper, she had at the same time
given notice that he would lie abroad. Andreuccio, believing this and
taking pleasure in being with her, beguiled as he was by false
credence, abode where he was, and after supper they held much and long
discourse, not without reason,[100] till a part of the night was past,
when she withdrew with her women into another room, leaving Andreuccio
in her own chamber, with a little lad to wait upon him, if he should
lack aught.

[Footnote 100: The reason was that she wished to keep him in play till
late into the night, when all the folk should be asleep and she might
the lightlier deal with him.]

The heat being great, Andreuccio, as soon as he found himself alone,
stripped to his doublet and putting off his hosen, laid them at the
bedhead; after which, natural use soliciting him to rid himself of the
overmuch burden of his stomach, he asked the boy where this might be
done, who showed him a door in one corner of the room and said, 'Go in
there.' Accordingly he opened the door and passing through in all
assurance, chanced to set foot on a plank, which, being broken loose
from the joist at the opposite end, [flew up] and down they went,
plank and man together. God so favoured him that he did himself no
hurt in the fall, albeit he fell from some height; but he was all
bemired with the ordure whereof the place was full; and in order that
you may the better apprehend both that which hath been said and that
which ensueth, I will show you how the place lay. There were in a
narrow alley, such as we often see between two houses, a pair of
rafters laid from one house to another, and thereon sundry boards
nailed and the place of session set up; of which boards that which
gave way with Andreuccio was one.

Finding himself, then, at the bottom of the alley and sore chagrined
at the mishap, he fell a-bawling for the boy; but the latter, as soon
as he heard him fall, had run to tell his mistress, who hastened to
his chamber and searching hurriedly if his clothes were there, found
them and with them the money, which, in his mistrust, he still
foolishly carried about him. Having now gotten that for which,
feigning herself of Palermo and sister to a Perugian, she had set her
snare, she took no more reck of him, but hastened to shut the door
whereby he had gone out when he fell.

Andreuccio, getting no answer from the boy, proceeded to call
loudlier, but to no purpose; whereupon, his suspicions being now
aroused, he began too late to smoke the cheat. Accordingly, he
scrambled over a low wall that shut off the alley from the street, and
letting himself down into the road, went up to the door of the house,
which he knew very well, and there called long and loud and shook and
beat upon it amain, but all in vain. Wherefore, bewailing himself, as
one who was now fully aware of his mischance, 'Ah, woe is me!' cried
he. 'In how little time have I lost five hundred florins and a
sister!' Then, after many other words, he fell again to battering the
door and crying out and this he did so long and so lustily that many
of the neighbours, being awakened and unable to brook the annoy, arose
and one of the courtezan's waiting-women, coming to the window,
apparently all sleepy-eyed, said peevishly, 'Who knocketh below
there?'

'What?' cried Andreuccio. 'Dost thou not know me? I am Andreuccio,
brother to Madam Fiordaliso.' Whereto quoth she, 'Good man, an thou
have drunken overmuch, go sleep and come back to-morrow morning. I
know no Andreuccio nor what be these idle tales thou tellest. Begone
in peace and let us sleep, so it please thee.' 'How?' replied
Andreuccio. 'Thou knowest not what I mean? Certes, thou knowest; but,
if Sicilian kinships be of such a fashion that they are forgotten in
so short a time, at least give me back my clothes and I will begone
with all my heart.' 'Good man,' rejoined she, as if laughing,
'methinketh thou dreamest'; and to say this and to draw in her head
and shut the window were one and the same thing. Whereat Andreuccio,
now fully certified of his loss, was like for chagrin to turn his
exceeding anger into madness and bethought himself to seek to recover
by violence that which he might not have again with words; wherefore,
taking up a great stone, he began anew to batter the door more
furiously than ever.

At this many of the neighbours, who had already been awakened and had
arisen, deeming him some pestilent fellow who had trumped up this
story to spite the woman of the house and provoked at the knocking he
kept up, came to the windows and began to say, no otherwise than as
all the dogs of a quarter bark after a strange dog, ''Tis a villainous
shame to come at this hour to decent women's houses and tell these
cock-and-bull stories. For God's sake, good man, please you begone in
peace and let us sleep. An thou have aught to mell with her, come back
to-morrow and spare us this annoy to-night.' Taking assurance,
perchance, by these words, there came to the window one who was within
the house, a bully of the gentlewoman's, whom Andreuccio had as yet
neither heard nor seen, and said, in a terrible big rough voice, 'Who
is below there?'

Andreuccio, hearing this, raised his eyes and saw at the window one
who, by what little he could make out, himseemed should be a very
masterful fellow, with a bushy black beard on his face, and who yawned
and rubbed his eyes, as he had arisen from bed or deep sleep;
whereupon, not without fear, he answered, 'I am a brother of the lady
of the house.' The other waited not for him to make an end of his
reply, but said, more fiercely than before, 'I know not what hindereth
me from coming down and cudgelling thee what while I see thee stir,
for a pestilent drunken ass as thou must be, who will not let us sleep
this night.' Then, drawing back into the house, he shut the window;
whereupon certain of the neighbours, who were better acquainted with
the fellow's quality, said softly to Andreuccio, 'For God's sake, good
man, begone in peace and abide not there to-night to be slain; get
thee gone for thine own good.'

Andreuccio, terrified at the fellow's voice and aspect and moved by
the exhortations of the neighbours, who seemed to him to speak out of
charity, set out to return to his inn, in the direction of the quarter
whence he had followed the maid, without knowing whither to go,
despairing of his money and woebegone as ever man was. Being loathsome
to himself, for the stench that came from him, and thinking to repair
to the sea to wash himself, he turned to the left and followed a
street called Ruga Catalana,[101] that led towards the upper part of
the city. Presently, he espied two men coming towards him with a
lantern and fearing they might be officers of the watch or other
ill-disposed folk, he stealthily took refuge, to avoid them, in a
hovel, that he saw hard by. But they, as of malice aforethought, made
straight for the same place and entering in, began to examine certain
irons which one of them laid from off his shoulder, discoursing
various things thereof the while.

[Footnote 101: _i.e._ Catalan Street.]

Presently, 'What meaneth this?' quoth one. 'I smell the worst stench
meseemeth I ever smelt.' So saying, he raised the lantern and seeing
the wretched Andreuccio, enquired, in amazement. 'Who is there?'
Andreuccio made no answer, but they came up to him with the light and
asked him what he did there in such a pickle; whereupon he related to
them all that had befallen him, and they, conceiving where this might
have happened, said, one to the other, 'Verily, this must have been
in the house of Scarabone Buttafuocco.' Then, turning to him, 'Good
man,' quoth one, 'albeit thou hast lost thy money, thou hast much
reason to praise God that this mischance betided thee, so that thou
fellest nor couldst after avail to enter the house again; for, hadst
thou not fallen, thou mayst be assured that, when once thou wast
fallen asleep, thou hadst been knocked on the head and hadst lost thy
life as well as thy money. But what booteth it now to repine? Thou
mayst as well look to have the stars out of the sky as to recover a
farthing of thy money; nay, thou art like to be murdered, should
yonder fellow hear that thou makest any words thereof.' Then they
consulted together awhile and presently said to him, 'Look you, we are
moved to pity for thee; wherefore, an thou wilt join with us in
somewhat we go about to do, it seemeth to us certain that there will
fall to thee for thy share much more than the value of that which thou
hast lost.' Whereupon Andreuccio, in his desperation, answered that he
was ready.

Now there had been that day buried an archbishop of Naples, by name
Messer Filippo Minutolo, and he had been interred in his richest
ornaments and with a ruby on his finger worth more than five hundred
florins of gold. Him they were minded to despoil and this their intent
they discovered to Andreuccio, who, more covetous than well-advised,
set out with them for the cathedral. As they went, Andreuccio still
stinking amain, one of the thieves said, 'Can we not find means for
this fellow to wash himself a little, be it where it may, so he may
not stink so terribly?' 'Ay can we,' answered the other. 'We are here
near a well, where there useth to be a rope and pulley and a great
bucket; let us go thither and we will wash him in a trice.'
Accordingly they made for the well in question and found the rope
there, but the bucket had been taken away; wherefore they took counsel
together to tie him to the rope and let him down into the well, so he
might wash himself there, charging him shake the rope as soon as he
was clean, and they would pull him up.

Hardly had they let him down when, as chance would have it, certain of
the watch, being athirst for the heat and with running after some
rogue or another, came to the well to drink, and the two rogues,
setting eyes on them, made off incontinent, before the officers saw
them. Presently, Andreuccio, having washed himself at the bottom of
the well, shook the rope, and the thirsty officers, laying by their
targets and arms and surcoats, began to haul upon the rope, thinking
the bucket full of water at the other end. As soon as Andreuccio found
himself near the top, he let go the rope and laid hold of the marge
with both hands; which when the officers saw, overcome with sudden
affright, they dropped the rope, without saying a word, and took to
their heels as quickliest they might. At this Andreuccio marvelled
sore, and but that he had fast hold of the marge, would have fallen to
the bottom, to his no little hurt or maybe death. However, he made his
way out and finding the arms, which he knew were none of his
companions' bringing, he was yet more amazed; but, knowing not what to
make of it and misdoubting [some snare], he determined to begone
without touching aught and accordingly made off he knew not whither,
bewailing his ill-luck.

As he went, he met his two comrades, who came to draw him forth of the
well; and when they saw him, they marvelled exceedingly and asked him
who had drawn him up. Andreuccio replied that he knew not and told
them orderly how it had happened and what he had found by the
wellside, whereupon the others, perceiving how the case stood, told
him, laughing, why they had fled and who these were that had pulled
him up. Then, without farther parley, it being now middle night, they
repaired to the cathedral and making their way thereinto lightly
enough, went straight to the archbishop's tomb, which was of marble
and very large. With their irons they raised the lid, which was very
heavy, and propped it up so as a man might enter; which being done,
quoth one, 'Who shall go in?' 'Not I,' answered the other. 'Nor I,'
rejoined his fellow; 'let Andreuccio enter.' 'That will I not,' said
the latter; whereupon the two rogues turned upon him and said, 'How!
Thou wilt not? Cock's faith, an thou enter not, we will clout thee
over the costard with one of these iron bars till thou fall dead.'

Andreuccio, affrighted, crept into the tomb, saying in himself the
while, 'These fellows will have me go in here so they may cheat me,
for that, when I shall have given them everything, they will begone
about their business, whilst I am labouring to win out of the tomb,
and I shall abide empty-handed.' Accordingly, he determined to make
sure of his share beforehand; wherefore, as soon as he came to the
bottom, calling to mind the precious ring whereof he had heard them
speak, he drew it from the archbishop's finger and set it on his own.
Then he passed them the crozier and mitre and gloves and stripping the
dead man to his shirt, gave them everything, saying that there was
nothing more. The others declared that the ring must be there and bade
him seek everywhere; but he replied that he found it not and making a
show of seeking it, kept them in play awhile. At last, the two rogues,
who were no less wily than himself, bidding him seek well the while,
took occasion to pull away the prop that held up the lid and made off,
leaving him shut in the tomb.

What became of Andreuccio, when he found himself in this plight, you
may all imagine for yourselves. He strove again and again to heave up
the lid with his head and shoulders, but only wearied himself in vain;
wherefore, overcome with chagrin and despair, he fell down in a swoon
upon the archbishop's dead body; and whoso saw him there had hardly
known which was the deader, the prelate or he. Presently, coming to
himself, he fell into a passion of weeping, seeing he must there
without fail come to one of two ends, to wit, either he must, if none
came thither to open the tomb again, die of hunger and stench, among
the worms of the dead body, or, if any came and found him there, he
would certainly be hanged for a thief.

As he abode in this mind, exceeding woebegone, he heard folk stirring
in the Church and many persons speaking and presently perceived that
they came to do that which he and his comrades had already done;
whereat fear redoubled upon him. But, after the newcomers had forced
open the tomb and propped up the lid, they fell into dispute of who
should go in, and none was willing to do it. However, after long
parley, a priest said, 'What fear ye? Think you he will eat you? The
dead eat not men. I will go in myself.' So saying, he set his breast
to the marge of the tomb and turning his head outward, put in his
legs, thinking to let himself drop. Andreuccio, seeing this, started
up and catching the priest by one of his legs, made a show of offering
to pull him down into the tomb. The other, feeling this, gave a
terrible screech and flung precipitately out of the tomb; whereupon
all the others fled in terror, as they were pursued by an hundred
thousand devils, leaving the tomb open.

Andreuccio, seeing this, scrambled hastily out of the tomb, rejoiced
beyond all hope, and made off out of the church by the way he had
entered in. The day now drawing near, he fared on at a venture, with
the ring on his finger, till he came to the sea-shore and thence made
his way back to his inn, where he found his comrades and the host, who
had been in concern for him all that night. He told them what had
betided him and themseemed, by the host's counsel, that he were best
depart Naples incontinent. Accordingly, he set out forthright and
returned to Perugia, having invested his money in a ring, whereas he
came to buy horses."



THE SIXTH STORY

[Day the Second]

     MADAM BERITOLA, HAVING LOST HER TWO SONS, IS FOUND ON A
     DESERT ISLAND WITH TWO KIDS AND GOETH THENCE INTO LUNIGIANA,
     WHERE ONE OF HER SONS, TAKING SERVICE WITH THE LORD OF THE
     COUNTRY, LIETH WITH HIS DAUGHTER AND IS CAST INTO PRISON.
     SICILY AFTER REBELLING AGAINST KING CHARLES AND THE YOUTH
     BEING RECOGNIZED BY HIS MOTHER, HE ESPOUSETH HIS LORD'S
     DAUGHTER, AND HIS BROTHER BEING LIKEWISE FOUND, THEY ARE ALL
     THREE RESTORED TO HIGH ESTATE


Ladies and young men alike laughed heartily at Andreuccio's
adventures, as related by Fiammetta, and Emilia, seeing the story
ended, began, by the queen's commandment, to speak thus: "Grievous
things and woeful are the various shifts of Fortune, whereof,--for
that, whenassoever it is discoursed of them, it is an awakenment for
our minds, which lightly fall asleep under her blandishments,--methinketh
it should never be irksome either to the happy or the unhappy to hear
tell, inasmuch as it rendereth the former wary and consoleth the
latter. Wherefore, albeit great things have already been recounted
upon this subject, I purpose to tell you thereanent a story no less
true than pitiful, whereof, for all it had a joyful ending, so great
and so longsome was the bitterness that I can scarce believe it to
have been assuaged by any subsequent gladness.

You must know, dearest ladies, that, after the death of the Emperor
Frederick the Second, Manfred was crowned King of Sicily, in very high
estate with whom was a gentleman of Naples called Arrighetto Capece,
who had to wife a fair and noble lady, also of Naples, by name Madam
Beritola Caracciola. The said Arrighetto, who had the governance of
the island in his hands, hearing that King Charles the First[102] had
overcome and slain Manfred at Benevento and that all the realm had
revolted to him and having scant assurance of the short-lived fidelity
of the Sicilians, prepared for flight, misliking to become a subject
of his lord's enemy; but, his intent being known of the Sicilians, he
and many other friends and servants of King Manfred were suddenly made
prisoners and delivered to King Charles, together with possession of
the island.

[Footnote 102: Charles d'Anjou.]

Madam Beritola, in this grievous change of affairs, knowing not what
was come of Arrighetto and sore adread of that which had befallen,
abandoned all her possessions for fear of shame and poor and pregnant
as she was, embarked, with a son of hers and maybe eight years of age,
Giusfredi by name, in a little boat and fled to Lipari, where she gave
birth to another male child, whom she named Scacciato,[103] and
getting her a nurse, took ship with all three to return to her
kinsfolk at Naples. But it befell otherwise than as she purposed; for
that the ship, which should have gone to Naples, was carried by stress
of wind to the island of Ponza,[104] where they entered a little bight
of the sea and there awaited an occasion for continuing their voyage.
Madam Beritola, going up, like the rest, into the island and finding a
remote and solitary place, addressed herself to make moan for her
Arrighetto, all alone there.

[Footnote 103: _i.e._ the Banished or the Expelled One.]

[Footnote 104: An island in the Gulf of Gaeta, about 70 miles from
Naples. It is now inhabited, but appears in Boccaccio's time to have
been desert.]

This being her daily usance, it chanced one day that, as she was
occupied in bewailing herself, there came up a pirate galley,
unobserved of any, sailor or other, and taking them all at unawares,
made off with her prize. Madam Beritola, having made an end of her
diurnal lamentation, returned to the sea-shore, as she was used to do,
to visit her children, but found none there; whereat she first
marvelled and after, suddenly misdoubting her of that which had
happened, cast her eyes out to sea and saw the galley at no great
distance, towing the little ship after it; whereby she knew but too
well that she had lost her children, as well as her husband, and
seeing herself there poor and desolate and forsaken, unknowing where
she should ever again find any of them, she fell down aswoon upon the
strand, calling upon her husband and her children. There was none
there to recall her distracted spirits with cold water or other
remedy, wherefore they might at their leisure go wandering whither it
pleased them; but, after awhile, the lost senses returning to her
wretched body, in company with tears and lamentations, she called long
upon her children and went a great while seeking them in every cavern.
At last, finding all her labour in vain and seeing the night coming
on, she began, hoping and knowing not what, to be careful for herself
and departing the sea-shore, returned to the cavern where she was wont
to weep and bemoan herself.

She passed the night in great fear and inexpressible dolour and the
new day being come and the hour of tierce past, she was fain,
constrained by hunger, for that she had not supped overnight, to
browse upon herbs; and having fed as best she might, she gave herself,
weeping, to various thoughts of her future life. Pondering thus, she
saw a she-goat enter a cavern hard by and presently issue thence and
betake herself into the wood; whereupon she arose and entering whereas
the goat had come forth, found there two little kidlings, born belike
that same day, which seemed to her the quaintest and prettiest things
in the world. Her milk being yet undried from her recent delivery, she
tenderly took up the kids and set them to her breast. They refused not
the service, but sucked her as if she had been their dam and
thenceforth made no distinction between the one and the other.
Wherefore, herseeming she had found some company in that desert place,
and growing no less familiar with the old goat than with her little
ones, she resigned herself to live and die there and abode eating of
herbs and drinking water and weeping as often as she remembered her of
her husband and children and of her past life.

The gentle lady, thus grown a wild creature, abiding on this wise, it
befell, after some months, that there came on like wise to the place
whither she had aforetime been driven by stress of weather, a little
vessel from Pisa and there abode some days. On broad this bark was a
gentleman named Currado [of the family] of the Marquises of Malespina,
who, with his wife, a lady of worth and piety, was on his return home
from a pilgrimage to all the holy places that be in the kingdom of
Apulia. To pass away the time, Currado set out one day, with his lady
and certain of his servants and his dogs, to go about the island, and
not far from Madam Beritola's place of harbourage, the dogs started
the two kids, which were now grown pretty big, as they went grazing.
The latter, chased by the dogs, fled to no other place but into the
cavern where was Madam Beritola, who, seeing this, started to her feet
and catching up a staff, beat off the dogs. Currado and his wife, who
came after them, seeing the lady, who was grown swart and lean and
hairy, marvelled, and she yet more at them. But after Currado had, at
her instance, called off his dogs, they prevailed with her, by dint of
much entreaty, to tell them who she was and what she did there;
whereupon she fully discovered to them her whole condition and all
that had befallen her, together with her firm resolution [to abide
alone in the island].

Currado, who had know Arrighetto Capece very well, hearing this, wept
for pity, and did his utmost to divert her with words from so
barbarous a purpose, offering to carry her back to her own house or to
keep her with himself, holding her in such honour as his sister, until
God should send her happier fortune. The lady not yielding to these
proffers, Currado left his wife with her, bidding the latter cause
bring thither to eat and clothe the lady, who was all in rags, with
some of her own apparel, and charging her contrive, by whatsoever
means, to bring her away with her. Accordingly, the gentle lady, being
left with Madam Beritola, after condoling with her amain of her
misfortunes, sent for raiment and victual and prevailed on her, with
all the pains in the world, to don the one and eat the other.

Ultimately, after many prayers, Madam Beritola protesting that she
would never consent to go whereas she might be known, she persuaded
her to go with her into Lunigiana, together with the two kids and
their dam, which latter were meantime returned and had greeted her
with the utmost fondness, to the no small wonderment of the
gentlewoman. Accordingly, as soon as fair weather was come, Madam
Beritola embarked with Currado and his lady in their vessel, carrying
with her the two kids and the she-goat (on whose account, her name
being everywhere unknown, she was styled Cavriuola[105]) and setting
sail with a fair wind, came speedily to the mouth of the Magra,[106]
where they landed and went up to Currado's castle. There Madam
Beritola abode, in a widow's habit, about the person of Currado's
lady, as one of her waiting-women, humble, modest and obedient, still
cherishing her kids and letting nourish them.

[Footnote 105: _i.e._ wild she-goat.]

[Footnote 106: A river falling into the Gulf of Genoa between Carrara
and Spezzia.]

Meanwhile, the corsairs, who had taken the ship wherein Madam Beritola
came to Ponza, but had left herself, as being unseen of them, betook
themselves with all the other folk to Genoa, where, the booty coming
to be shared among the owners of the galley, it chanced that the nurse
and the two children fell, amongst other things, to the lot of a
certain Messer Guasparrino d'Oria,[107] who sent them all three to his
mansion, to be there employed as slaves about the service of the
house. The nurse, afflicted beyond measure at the loss of her mistress
and at the wretched condition where into she found herself and the two
children fallen, wept long and sore; but, for that, albeit a poor
woman, she was discreet and well-advised, when she saw that tears
availed nothing and that she was become a slave together with them,
she first comforted herself as best she might and after, considering
whither they were come, she bethought herself that, should the two
children be known, they might lightly chance to suffer hindrance;
wherefore, hoping withal that, sooner or later fortune might change
and they, an they lived, regain their lost estate, she resolved to
discover to no one who they were, until she should see occasion
therefor, and told all who asked her thereof that they were her sons.
The elder she named, not Giusfredi, but Giannotto di Procida (the name
of the younger she cared not to change), and explained to him, with
the utmost diligence, why she had changed his name, showing him in
what peril he might be, an he were known. This she set out to him not
once, but many and many a time, and the boy, who was quick of wit,
punctually obeyed the enjoinment of his discreet nurse.

[Footnote 107: More familiar to modern ears as Doria.]

Accordingly, the two boys and their nurse abode patiently in Messer
Guasparrino's house several years, ill-clad and worse shod and
employed about the meanest offices. But Giannotto, who was now sixteen
years of age, and had more spirit than pertained to a slave, scorning
the baseness of a menial condition, embarked on board certain galleys
bound for Alexandria and taking leave of Messer Guasparrino's service,
journeyed to divers parts, without any wise availing to advance
himself. At last some three or four years after his departure from
Genoa, being grown a handsome youth and tall of his person and hearing
that his father, whom he thought dead, was yet alive, but was kept by
King Charles in prison and duresse, he went wandering at a venture,
well nigh despairing of fortune, till he came to Lunigiana and there,
as chance would have it, took service with Currado Malespina, whom he
served with great aptitude and acceptance. And albeit he now and again
saw his mother, who was with Currado's lady, he never recognized her
nor she him, so much had time changed the one and the other from that
which they were used to be, whenas they last set eyes on each other.

Giannotto being, then, in Currado's service, it befell that a daughter
of the latter, by name Spina, being left the widow of one Niccolo da
Grignano, returned to her father's house and being very fair and
agreeable and a girl of little more than sixteen years of age, chanced
to cast eyes on Giannotto and he on her, and they became passionately
enamoured of each other. Their love was not long without effect and
lasted several months ere any was ware thereof. Wherefore, taking
overmuch assurance, they began to order themselves with less
discretion than behoveth unto matters of this kind, and one day, as
they went, the young lady and Giannotto together, through a fair and
thickset wood, they pushed on among the trees, leaving the rest of the
company behind. Presently, themseeming they had far foregone the
others, they laid themselves down to rest in a pleasant place, full of
grass and flowers and shut in with trees, and there fell to taking
amorous delight one of the other.

In this occupation, the greatness of their delight making the time
seem brief to them, albeit they had been there a great while, they
were surprised, first by the girl's mother and after by Currado, who,
chagrined beyond measure at this sight, without saying aught of the
cause, had them both seized by three of his serving-men and carried in
bonds to a castle of his and went off, boiling with rage and despite
and resolved to put them both to a shameful death. The girl's mother,
although sore incensed and holding her daughter worthy of the severest
punishment for her default, having by certain words of Currado
apprehended his intent towards the culprits and unable to brook this,
hastened after her enraged husband and began to beseech him that it
would please him not run madly to make himself in his old age the
murderer of his own daughter and to soil his hands with the blood of
one of his servants, but to find other means of satisfying his wrath,
such as to clap them in prison and there let them pine and bewail the
fault committed. With these and many other words the pious lady so
wrought upon him that she turned his mind from putting them to death
and he bade imprison them, each in a place apart, where they should be
well guarded and kept with scant victual and much unease, till such
time as he should determine farther of them. As he bade, so was it
done, and what their life was in duresse and continual tears and in
fasts longer than might have behoved unto them, each may picture to
himself.

What while Giannotto and Spina abode in this doleful case and had
therein already abidden a year's space, unremembered of Currado, it
came to pass that King Pedro of Arragon, by the procurement of Messer
Gian di Procida, raised the island of Sicily against King Charles and
took it from him, whereat Currado, being a Ghibelline,[108] rejoiced
exceedingly, Giannotto, hearing of this from one of those who had him
in guard, heaved a great sigh and said, 'Ah, woe is me! These fourteen
years have I gone ranging beggarlike about the world, looking for
nought other than this, which, now that it is come, so I may never
again hope for weal, hath found me in a prison whence I have no hope
ever to come forth, save dead.' 'How so?' asked the gaoler. 'What doth
that concern thee which great kings do to one another? What hast thou
to do in Sicily?' Quoth Giannotto, 'My heart is like to burst when I
remember me of that which my father erst had to do there, whom, albeit
I was but a little child, when I fled thence, yet do I mind me to have
been lord thereof, in the lifetime of King Manfred.' 'And who was thy
father?' asked the gaoler. 'My father's name,' answered Giannotto, 'I
may now safely make known, since I find myself in the peril whereof I
was in fear, an I discovered it. He was and is yet, an he live, called
Arrighetto Capece, and my name is, not Giannotto, but Giusfredi, and I
doubt not a jot, an I were quit of this prison, but I might yet, by
returning to Sicily, have very high place there.'

[Footnote 108: The Ghibellines were the supporters of the Papal
faction against the Guelphs or adherents of the Emperor Frederick II.
of Germany. The cardinal struggle between the two factions took place
over the succession to the throne of Naples and Sicily, to which the
Pope appointed Charles of Anjou, who overcame and killed the reigning
sovereign Manfred, but was himself, through the machinations of the
Ghibellines, expelled from Sicily by the celebrated popular rising
known as the Sicilian Vespers.]

The honest man, without asking farther, reported Giannotto's words, as
first he had occasion, to Currado, who, hearing this,--albeit he
feigned to the gaoler to make light of it,--betook himself to Madam
Beritola and courteously asked her if she had had by Arrighetto a son
named Giusfredi. The lady answered, weeping, that, if the elder of her
two sons were alive, he would so be called and would be two-and-twenty
years old. Currado, hearing this, concluded that this must be he and
bethought himself that, were it so, he might at once do a great mercy
and take away his own and his daughter's shame by giving her to
Giannotto to wife; wherefore, sending privily for the latter, he
particularly examined him touching all his past life and finding, by
very manifest tokens, that he was indeed Giusfredi, son of Arrighetto
Capece, he said to him, 'Giannotto, thou knowest what and how great is
the wrong thou hast done me in the person of my daughter, whereas, I
having ever well and friendly entreated thee, it behoved thee, as a
servant should, still to study and do for my honour and interest; and
many there be who, hadst thou used them like as thou hast used me,
would have put thee to a shameful death, the which my clemency brooked
not. Now, if it be as thou tellest me, to wit, that thou art the son
of a man of condition and of a noble lady, I purpose, an thou thyself
be willing, to put an end to thy tribulations and relieving thee from
the misery and duresse wherein thou abidest, to reinstate at once
thine honour and mine own in their due stead. As thou knowest, Spina,
whom thou hast, though after a fashion misbeseeming both thyself and
her, taken with love-liking, is a widow and her dowry is both great
and good; as for her manners and her father and mother, thou knowest
them, and of thy present state I say nothing. Wherefore, an thou will,
I purpose that, whereas she hath unlawfully been thy mistress, she
shall now lawfully become thy wife and that thou shalt abide here with
me and with her, as my very son, so long as it shall please thee.'

Now prison had mortified Giannotto's flesh, but had nothing abated the
generous spirit, which he derived from his noble birth, nor yet the
entire affection he bore his mistress; and albeit he ardently desired
that which Currado proffered him and saw himself in the latter's
power, yet no whit did he dissemble of that which the greatness of his
soul prompted him to say; wherefore he answered, 'Currado, neither
lust of lordship nor greed of gain nor other cause whatever hath ever
made me lay snares, traitor-wise, for thy life or thy good. I loved
and love thy daughter and still shall love her, for that I hold her
worthy of my love, and if I dealt with her less than honourably, in
the opinion of the vulgar, my sin was one which still goeth hand in
hand with youth and which an you would do away, it behoveth you first
do away with youth. Moreover, it is an offence which, would the old
but remember them of having been young and measure the defaults of
others by their own and their own by those of others, would show less
grievous than thou and many others make it; and as a friend, and not
as an enemy, I committed it. This that thou profferest me I have still
desired and had I thought it should be vouchsafed me, I had long since
sought it; and so much the dearer will it now be to me, as my hope
thereof was less. If, then, thou have not that intent which thy words
denote, feed me not with vain hope; but restore me to prison and there
torment me as thou wilt, for, so long as I love Spina, even so, for
the love of her, shall I still love thee, whatsoever thou dost with
me, and have thee in reverence.'

Currado, hearing this, marvelled and held him great of soul and his
love fervent and tendered him therefore the dearer; wherefore, rising
to his feet, he embraced him and kissed him and without more delay
bade privily bring Spina thither. Accordingly, the lady--who was grown
lean and pale and weakly in prison and showed well nigh another than
she was wont to be, as on like wise Giannotto another man--being come,
the two lovers in Currado's presence with one consent contracted
marriage according to our usance. Then, after some days, during which
he had let furnish the newly-married pair with all that was necessary
or agreeable to them, he deemed it time to gladden their mothers with
the good news and accordingly calling his lady and Cavriuola, he said
to the latter, 'What would you say, madam, an I should cause you have
again your elder son as the husband of one of my daughters?' Whereto
she answered, 'Of that I can say to you no otherwhat than that, could
I be more beholden to you than I am, I should be so much the more so
as you would have restored to me that which is dearer to me than mine
own self; and restoring it to me on such wise as you say, you would in
some measure re-awaken in me my lost hope.' With this, she held her
peace, weeping, and Currado said to his lady, 'And thou, mistress, how
wouldst thou take it, were I to present thee with such a son-in-law?'
The lady replied, 'Even a common churl, so he pleased you, would
please me, let alone one of these,[109] who are men of gentle birth.'
'Then,' said Currado, 'I hope, ere many days, to make you happy women
in this.'

[Footnote 109: _i.e._ Beritola's sons.]

Accordingly, seeing the two young folk now restored to their former
cheer, he clad them sumptuously and said to Giusfredi, 'Were it not
dear to thee, over and above thy present joyance, an thou sawest thy
mother here?' Whereto he answered, 'I dare not flatter myself that the
chagrin of her unhappy chances can have left her so long alive; but,
were it indeed so, it were dear to me above all, more by token that
methinketh I might yet, by her counsel, avail to recover great part of
my estate in Sicily.' Thereupon Currado sent for both the ladies, who
came and made much of the newly-wedded wife, no little wondering what
happy inspiration it could have been that prompted Currado to such
exceeding complaisance as he had shown in joining Giannotto with her
in marriage. Madam Beritola, by reason of the words she had heard from
Currado, began to consider Giannotto and some remembrance of the
boyish lineaments of her son's countenance being by occult virtue
awakened in her, without awaiting farther explanation, she ran,
open-armed, to cast herself upon his neck, nor did overabounding
emotion and maternal joy suffer her to say a word; nay, they so locked
up all her senses that she fell into her son's arms, as if dead.

The latter, albeit he was sore amazed, remembering to have many times
before seen her in that same castle and never recognized her,
nevertheless knew incontinent the maternal odour and blaming himself
for his past heedlessness, received her, weeping, in his arms and
kissed her tenderly. After awhile, Madam Beritola, being
affectionately tended by Currado's lady and Spina and plied both with
cold water and other remedies, recalled her strayed senses and
embracing her son anew, full of maternal tenderness, with many tears
and many tender words, kissed him a thousand times, whilst he all
reverently beheld and entreated her. After these joyful and honourable
greetings had been thrice or four times repeated, to the no small
contentment of the bystanders, and they had related unto each other
all that had befallen them, Currado now, to the exceeding satisfaction
of all, signified to his friends the new alliance made by him and gave
ordinance for a goodly and magnificent entertainment.

Then said Giusfredi to him, 'Currado, you have made me glad of many
things and have long honourably entertained my mother; and now, that
no whit may remain undone of that which it is in your power to do, I
pray you gladden my mother and bride-feast and myself with the
presence of my brother, whom Messer Guasparrino d'Oria holdeth in
servitude in his house and whom, as I have already told you, he took
with me in one of his cruises. Moreover, I would have you send into
Sicily one who shall thoroughly inform himself of the state and
condition of the country and study to learn what is come of
Arrighetto, my father, an he be alive or dead, and if he be alive, in
what estate; of all which having fully certified himself, let him
return to us.' Giusfredi's request was pleasing to Currado, and
without any delay he despatched very discreet persons both to Genoa
and to Sicily.

He who went to Genoa there sought out Messer Guasparrino and instantly
besought him, on Currado's part, to send him Scacciato and his nurse,
orderly recounting to him all his lord's dealings with Giusfredi and
his mother. Messer Guasparrino marvelled exceedingly to hear this and
said, 'True is it I would do all I may to pleasure Currado, and I
have, indeed, these fourteen years had in my house the boy thou
seekest and one his mother, both of whom I will gladly send him; but
do thou bid him, on my part, beware of lending overmuch credence to
the fables of Giannotto, who nowadays styleth himself Giusfredi, for
that he is a far greater knave than he deemeth.' So saying, he caused
honourably entertain the gentleman and sending privily for the nurse,
questioned her shrewdly touching the matter. Now she had heard of the
Sicilian revolt and understood Arrighetto to be alive, wherefore,
casting off her former fears, she told him everything in order and
showed him the reasons that had moved her to do as she had done.

Messer Guasparrino, finding her tale to accord perfectly with that of
Currado's messenger, began to give credit to the latter's words and
having by one means and another, like a very astute man as he was,
made enquiry of the matter and happening hourly upon things that gave
him more and more assurance of the fact, took shame to himself of his
mean usage of the lad, in amends whereof, knowing what Arrighetto had
been and was, he gave him to wife a fair young daughter of his, eleven
years of age, with a great dowry. Then, after making a great
bride-feast thereon, he embarked with the boy and girl and Currado's
messenger and the nurse in a well-armed galliot and betook himself to
Lerici, where he was received by Currado and went up, with all his
company, to one of the latter's castles, not far removed thence, where
there was a great banquet toward.

The mother's joy at seeing her son again and that of the two brothers
in each other and of all three in the faithful nurse, the honour done
of all to Messer Guasparrino and his daughter and of him to all and
the rejoicing of all together with Currado and his lady and children
and friends, no words might avail to express; wherefore, ladies, I
leave it to you to imagine. Thereunto,[110] that it might be complete,
it pleased God the Most High, a most abundant giver, whenas He
beginneth, to add the glad news of the life and well-being of
Arrighetto Capece; for that, the feast being at its height and the
guests, both ladies and men, yet at table for the first service, there
came he who had been sent into Sicily and amongst other things,
reported of Arrighetto that he, being kept in captivity by King
Charles, whenas the revolt against the latter broke out in the land,
the folk ran in a fury to the prison and slaying his guards, delivered
himself and as a capital enemy of King Charles, made him their captain
and followed him to expel and slay the French: wherefore he was become
in especial favour with King Pedro,[111] who had reinstated him in all
his honours and possessions, and was now in great good case. The
messenger added that he had received himself with the utmost honour
and had rejoiced with inexpressible joy in the recovery of his wife
and son, of whom he had heard nothing since his capture; moreover, he
had sent a brigantine for them, with divers gentlemen aboard, who came
after him.

[Footnote 110: _i.e._ to which general joy.]

[Footnote 111: Pedro of Arragon, son-in-law of Manfred, who, in
consequence of the Sicilian Vespers, succeeded Charles d'Anjou as King
of Sicily.]

The messenger was received and hearkened with great gladness and
rejoicing, whilst Currado, with certain of his friends, set out
incontinent to meet the gentlemen who came for Madam Beritola and
Giusfredi and welcoming them joyously, introduced them into his
banquet, which was not yet half ended. There both the lady and
Giusfredi, no less than all the others, beheld them with such joyance
that never was heard the like; and the gentlemen, ere they sat down to
meat, saluted Currado and his lady on the part of Arrighetto, thanking
them, as best they knew and might, for the honour done both to his
wife and his son and offering himself to their pleasure,[112] in all
that lay in his power. Then, turning to Messer Guasparrino, whose
kindness was unlooked for, they avouched themselves most certain that,
whenas that which he had done for Scacciato should be known of
Arrighetto, the like thanks and yet greater would be rendered him.

[Footnote 112: Or (in modern phrase) putting himself at their
disposition.]

Thereafter they banqueted right joyously with the new-made bridegrooms
at the bride-feast of the two newly-wedded wives; nor that day alone
did Currado entertain his son-in-law and other his kinsmen and
friends, but many others. As soon as the rejoicings were somewhat
abated, it appearing to Madam Beritola and to Giusfredi and the others
that it was time to depart, they took leave with many tears of Currado
and his lady and Messer Guasparrino and embarked on board the
brigantine, carrying Spina with them; then, setting sail with a fair
wind, they came speedily to Sicily, where all alike, both sons and
daughters-in-law, were received by Arrighetto in Palermo with such
rejoicing as might never be told; and there it is believed that they
all lived happily a great while after, in love and thankfulness to God
the Most High, as mindful of the benefits received."



THE SEVENTH STORY

[Day the Second]

     THE SOLDAN OF BABYLON SENDETH A DAUGHTER OF HIS TO BE
     MARRIED TO THE KING OF ALGARVE, AND SHE, BY DIVERS CHANCES,
     IN THE SPACE OF FOUR YEARS COMETH TO THE HANDS OF NINE MEN
     IN VARIOUS PLACES. ULTIMATELY, BEING RESTORED TO HER FATHER
     FOR A MAID, SHE GOETH TO THE KING OF ALGARVE TO WIFE, AS
     FIRST SHE DID


Had Emilia's story been much longer protracted, it is like the
compassion had by the young ladies on the misfortunes of Madam
Beritola would have brought them to tears; but, an end being now made
thereof, it pleased the queen that Pamfilo should follow on with his
story, and accordingly he, who was very obedient, began thus, "Uneath,
charming ladies, is it for us to know that which is meet for us, for
that, as may oftentimes have been seen, many, imagining that, were
they but rich, they might avail to live without care and secure, have
not only with prayers sought riches of God, but have diligently
studied to acquire them, grudging no toil and no peril in the quest,
and who,--whereas, before they became enriched, they loved their
lives,--once having gotten their desire, have found folk to slay them,
for greed of so ample an inheritance. Others of low estate, having,
through a thousand perilous battles and the blood of their brethren
and their friends, mounted to the summit of kingdoms, thinking in the
royal estate to enjoy supreme felicity, without the innumerable cares
and alarms whereof they see and feel it full, have learned, at the
cost of their lives, that poison is drunken at royal tables in cups of
gold. Many there be who have with most ardent appetite desired bodily
strength and beauty and divers personal adornments and perceived not
that they had desired ill till they found these very gifts a cause to
them of death or dolorous life. In fine, not to speak particularly of
all the objects of human desire, I dare say that there is not one
which can, with entire assurance, be chosen by mortal men as secure
from the vicissitudes of fortune; wherefore, an we would do aright,
needs must we resign ourselves to take and possess that which is
appointed us of Him who alone knoweth that which behoveth unto us and
is able to give it to us. But for that, whereas men sin in desiring
various things, you, gracious ladies, sin, above all, in one, to wit,
in wishing to be fair,--insomuch that, not content with the charms
vouchsafed you by nature, you still with marvellous art study to
augment them,--it pleaseth me to recount to you how ill-fortunedly
fair was a Saracen lady, whom it befell, for her beauty, to be in some
four years' space nine times wedded anew.

It is now a pretty while since there was a certain Soldan of
Babylon,[113] by name Berminedab, to whom in his day many things
happened in accordance with his pleasure.[114] Amongst many other
children, both male and female, he had a daughter called Alatiel, who,
by report of all who saw her, was the fairest woman to be seen in the
world in those days, and having, in a great defeat he had inflicted
upon a vast multitude of Arabs who were come upon him, been
wonder-well seconded by the King of Algarve,[115] had, at his request,
given her to him to wife, of especial favour; wherefore, embarking her
aboard a ship well armed and equipped, with an honourable company of
men and ladies and store of rich and sumptuous gear and furniture, he
despatched her to him, commending her to God.

[Footnote 113: _i.e._ Egypt, Cairo was known in the middle ages by the
name of "Babylon of Egypt." It need hardly be noted that the Babylon
of the Bible was the city of that name on the Euphrates, the ancient
capital of Chaldæa (Irak Babili). The names Beminedab and Alatiel are
purely imaginary.]

[Footnote 114: _i.e._ to his wish, to whom fortune was mostly
favourable in his enterprises.]

[Footnote 115: _Il Garbo_, Arabic El Gherb or Gharb, [Arabic: al
gharb], the West, a name given by the Arabs to several parts of the
Muslim empire, but by which Boccaccio apparently means Algarve, the
southernmost province of Portugal and the last part of that kingdom to
succumb to the wave of Christian reconquest, it having remained in the
hands of the Muslims till the second half of the thirteenth century.
This supposition is confirmed by the course taken by Alatiel's ship,
which would naturally pass Sardinia and the Balearic Islands on its
way from Alexandria to Portugal.]

The sailors, seeing the weather favourable, gave their sails to the
wind and departing the port of Alexandria, fared on prosperously many
days, and having now passed Sardinia, deemed themselves near the end
of their voyage, when there arose one day of a sudden divers contrary
winds, which, being each beyond measure boisterous, so harassed the
ship, wherein was the lady, and the sailors, that the latter more than
once gave themselves over for lost. However, like valiant men, using
every art and means in their power, they rode it out two days, though
buffeted by a terrible sea; but, at nightfall of the third day, the
tempest abating not, nay, waxing momently, they felt the ship open,
being then not far off Majorca, but knowing not where they were
neither availing to apprehend it either by nautical reckoning or by
sight, for that the sky was altogether obscured by clouds and dark
night; wherefore, seeing no other way of escape and having each
himself in mind and not others, they lowered a shallop into the water,
into which the officers cast themselves, choosing rather to trust
themselves thereto than to the leaking ship. The rest of the men in
the ship crowded after them into the boat, albeit those who had first
embarked therein opposed it, knife in hand,--and thinking thus to flee
from death, ran straight into it, for that the boat, availing not, for
the intemperance of the weather, to hold so many, foundered and they
perished one and all.

As for the ship, being driven by a furious wind and running very
swiftly, albeit it was now well nigh water-logged, (none being left on
board save the princess and her women, who all, overcome by the
tempestuous sea and by fear, lay about the decks as they were dead,)
it stranded upon a beach of the island of Majorca and such and so
great was the shock that it well nigh buried itself in the sand some
stone's cast from the shore, where it abode the night, beaten by the
waves, nor might the wind avail to stir it more. Broad day came and
the tempest somewhat abating, the princess, who was half dead, raised
her head and weak as she was, fell to calling now one, now another of
her household, but to no purpose, for that those she called were too
far distant. Finding herself unanswered of any and seeing no one, she
marvelled exceedingly and began to be sore afraid; then, rising up, as
best she might, she saw the ladies who were in her company and the
other women lying all about and trying now one and now another, found
few who gave any signs of life, the most of them being dead what with
sore travail of the stomach and what with affright; wherefore fear
redoubled upon her.

Nevertheless, necessity constraining her, for that she saw herself
alone there and had neither knowledge nor inkling where she was, she
so goaded those who were yet alive that she made them arise and
finding them unknowing whither the men were gone and seeing the ship
stranded and full of water, she fell to weeping piteously, together
with them. It was noon ere they saw any about the shore or elsewhere,
whom they might move to pity and succour them; but about that hour
there passed by a gentleman, by name Pericone da Visalgo, returning by
chance from a place of his, with sundry of his servants on horseback.
He saw the ship and forthright conceiving what it was, bade one of the
servants board it without delay and tell him what he found there. The
man, though with difficulty, made his way on board and found the young
lady, with what little company she had, crouched, all adread, under
the heel of the bowsprit. When they saw him, they besought him,
weeping, of mercy again and again; but, perceiving that he understood
them not nor they him, they made shift to make known to him their
misadventure by signs.

The servant having examined everything as best he might, reported to
Pericone that which was on board; whereupon the latter promptly caused
to bring the ladies ashore, together with the most precious things
that were in the ship and might be gotten, and carried them off to a
castle of his, where, the women being refreshed with food and rest, he
perceived, from the richness of her apparel, that the lady whom he had
found must needs be some great gentlewoman, and of this he was
speedily certified by the honour that he saw the others do her and her
alone; and although she was pale and sore disordered of her person,
for the fatigues of the voyage, her features seemed to him exceeding
fair; wherefore he forthright took counsel with himself, an she had no
husband, to seek to have her to wife, and if he might not have her in
marriage, to make shift to have her favours.

He was a man of commanding presence and exceeding robust and having
for some days let tend the lady excellently well and she being thereby
altogether restored, he saw her lovely past all conception and was
grieved beyond measure that he could not understand her nor she him
and so he might not learn who she was. Nevertheless, being
inordinately inflamed by her charms, he studied, with pleasing and
amorous gestures, to engage her to do his pleasure without contention;
but to no avail; she altogether rejected his advances and so much the
more waxed Pericone's ardour. The lady, seeing this and having now
abidden there some days, perceived, by the usances of the folk, that
she was among Christians and in a country where, even if she could, it
had little profited her to make herself known and foresaw that, in the
end, either perforce or for love, needs must she resign herself to do
Pericone's pleasure, but resolved nevertheless by dint of magnanimity
to override the wretchedness of her fortune; wherefore she commanded
her women, of whom but three were left her, that they should never
discover to any who she was, except they found themselves whereas they
might look for manifest furtherance in the regaining of their liberty,
and urgently exhorted them, moreover, to preserve their chastity,
avouching herself determined that none, save her husband, should ever
enjoy her. They commended her for this and promised to observe her
commandment to the best of their power.

Meanwhile Pericone, waxing daily more inflamed, insomuch as he saw the
thing desired so near and yet so straitly denied, and seeing that his
blandishments availed him nothing, resolved to employ craft and
artifice, reserving force unto the last. Wherefore, having observed
bytimes that wine was pleasing to the lady, as being unused to drink
thereof, for that her law forbade it, he bethought himself that he
might avail to take her with this, as with a minister of enus.
Accordingly, feigning to reck no more of that whereof she showed
herself so chary, he made one night by way of special festival a
goodly supper, whereto he bade the lady, and therein, the repast being
gladdened with many things, he took order with him who served her that
he should give her to drink of various wines mingled. The cupbearer
did his bidding punctually and she, being nowise on her guard against
this and allured by the pleasantness of the drink, took more thereof
than consisted with her modesty; whereupon, forgetting all her past
troubles, she waxed merry and seeing some women dance after the
fashion of Majorca, herself danced in the Alexandrian manner.

Pericone, seeing this, deemed himself on the high road to that which
he desired and continuing the supper with great plenty of meats and
wines, protracted it far into the night. Ultimately, the guests having
departed, he entered with the lady alone into her chamber, where she,
more heated with wine than restrained by modesty, without any reserve
of shamefastness, undid herself in his presence, as he had been one of
her women, and betook herself to bed. Pericone was not slow to follow
her, but, putting out all the lights, promptly hid himself beside her
and catching her in his arms, proceeded, without any gainsayal on her
part, amorously to solace himself with her; which when once she had
felt,--having never theretofore known with what manner horn men
butt,--as if repenting her of not having yielded to Pericone's
solicitations, thenceforth, without waiting to be bidden to such
agreeable nights, she oftentimes invited herself thereto, not by
words, which she knew not how to make understood, but by deeds.

But, in the midst of this great pleasance of Pericone and herself,
fortune, not content with having reduced her from a king's bride to be
the mistress of a country gentleman, had foreordained unto her a more
barbarous alliance. Pericone had a brother by name Marato,
five-and-twenty years of age and fair and fresh as a rose, who saw her
and she pleased him mightily. Himseemed, moreover, according to that
which he could apprehend from her gestures, that he was very well seen
of her and conceiving that nought hindered him of that which he craved
of her save the strait watch kept on her by Pericone, he fell into a
barbarous thought, whereon the nefarious effect followed without
delay.

There was then, by chance, in the harbour of the city a vessel laden
with merchandise and bound for Chiarenza[116] in Roumelia; whereof two
young Genoese were masters, who had already hoisted sail to depart as
soon as the wind should be fair. Marato, having agreed with them, took
order how he should on the ensuing night be received aboard their ship
with the lady; and this done, as soon as it was dark, having inwardly
determined what he should do, he secretly betook himself, with certain
of his trustiest friends, whom he had enlisted for the purpose, to the
house of Pericone, who nowise mistrusted him. There he hid himself,
according to the ordinance appointed between them, and after a part of
the night had passed, he admitted his companions and repaired with
them to the chamber where Pericone lay with the lady. Having opened
the door, they slew Pericone, as he slept, and took the lady, who was
now awake and in tears, threatening her with death, if she made any
outcry; after which they made off, unobserved, with great part of
Pericone's most precious things and betook themselves in haste to the
sea-shore, where Marato and the lady embarked without delay on board
the ship, whilst his companions returned whence they came.

[Footnote 116: The modern Klarentza in the north-west of the Morea,
which latter province formed part of Roumelia under the Turkish
domination.]

The sailors, having a fair wind and a fresh, made sail and set out on
their voyage, whilst the princess sore and bitterly bewailed both her
former and that her second misadventure; but Marato, with that Saint
Waxeth-in-hand, which God hath given us [men,] proceeded to comfort
her after such a fashion that she soon grew familiar with him and
forgetting Pericone, began to feel at her ease, when fortune, as if
not content with the past tribulations wherewith it had visited her,
prepared her a new affliction; for that, she being, as we have already
more than once said, exceeding fair of favour and of very engaging
manners, the two young men, the masters of the ship, became so
passionately enamoured of her that, forgetting all else, they studied
only to serve and pleasure her, being still on their guard lest Marato
should get wind of the cause. Each becoming aware of the other's
passion, they privily took counsel together thereof, and agreed to
join in getting the lady for themselves and enjoy her in common, as if
love should suffer this, as do merchandise and gain.

Seeing her straitly guarded by Marato and being thereby hindered of
their purpose, one day, as the ship fared on at full speed under sail
and Marato stood at the poop, looking out on the sea and nowise on his
guard against them, they went of one accord and laying hold of him
suddenly from behind, cast him into the sea, nor was it till they had
sailed more than a mile farther that any perceived Marato to be
fallen overboard. Alatiel, hearing this and seeing no possible way of
recovering him, began anew to make moan for herself; whereupon the two
lovers came incontinent to her succour and with soft words and very
good promises, whereof she understood but little, studied to soothe
and console the lady, who lamented not so much her lost husband as her
own ill fortune. After holding much discourse with her at one time and
another, themseeming after awhile they had well nigh comforted her,
they came to words with one another which should first take her to lie
with him. Each would fain be the first and being unable to come to any
accord upon this, they first with words began a sore and hot dispute
and thereby kindled into rage, they clapped hands to their knives and
falling furiously on one another, before those on board could part
them, dealt each other several blows, whereof one incontinent fell
dead, whilst the other abode on life, though grievously wounded in
many places.

This new mishap was sore unpleasing to the lady, who saw herself
alone, without aid or counsel of any, and feared lest the anger of the
two masters' kinsfolk and friends should revert upon herself; but the
prayers of the wounded man and their speedy arrival at Chiarenza
delivered her from danger of death. There she went ashore with the
wounded man and took up her abode with him in an inn, where the report
of her great beauty soon spread through the city and came to the ears
of the Prince of the Morea, who was then at Chiarenza and was fain to
see her. Having gotten sight of her and himseeming she was fairer than
report gave out, he straightway became so sore enamoured of her that
he could think of nothing else and hearing how she came thither,
doubted not to be able to get her for himself. As he cast about for a
means of effecting his purpose, the wounded man's kinsfolk got wind of
his desire and without awaiting more, sent her to him forthright,
which was mighty agreeable to the prince and to the lady also, for
that herseemed she was quit of a great peril. The prince, seeing her
graced, over and above her beauty, with royal manners and unable
otherwise to learn who she was, concluded her to be some noble lady,
wherefore he redoubled in his love for her and holding her in
exceeding honour, entreated her not as a mistress, but as his very
wife.

The lady, accordingly, having regard to her past troubles and
herseeming she was well enough bestowed, was altogether comforted and
waxing blithe again, her beauties flourished on such wise that it
seemed all Roumelia could talk of nothing else. The report of her
loveliness reaching the Duke of Athens, who was young and handsome and
doughty of his person and a friend and kinsman of the prince, he was
taken with a desire to see her and making a show of paying him a
visit, as he was wont bytimes to do, repaired, with a fair and
worshipful company, to Chiarenza, where he was honourably received and
sumptuously entertained. Some days after, the two kinsmen coming to
discourse together of the lady's charms, the duke asked if she were
indeed so admirable a creature as was reported; to which the prince
answered, 'Much more so; but thereof I will have not my words, but
thine own eyes certify thee.' Accordingly, at the duke's
solicitation, they betook themselves together to the princess's
lodging, who, having had notice of their coming, received them very
courteously and with a cheerful favour, and they seated her between
them, but might not have the pleasure of conversing with her, for that
she understood little or nothing of their language; wherefore each
contented himself with gazing upon her, as upon a marvel, and
especially the duke, who could scarce bring himself to believe that
she was a mortal creature and thinking to satisfy his desire with her
sight, heedless of the amorous poison he drank in at his eyes,
beholding her, he miserably ensnared himself, becoming most ardently
enamoured of her.

After he had departed her presence with the prince and had leisure to
bethink himself, he esteemed his kinsman happy beyond all others in
having so fair a creature at his pleasure, and after many and various
thoughts, his unruly passion weighing more with him than his honour,
he resolved, come thereof what might, to do his utmost endeavour to
despoil the prince of that felicity and bless himself therewith.
Accordingly, being minded to make a quick despatch of the matter and
setting aside all reason and all equity, he turned his every thought
to the devising of means for the attainment of his wishes, and one
day, in accordance with the nefarious ordinance taken by him with a
privy chamberlain of the prince's, by name Ciuriaci, he let make ready
in secret his horses and baggage for a sudden departure.

The night come, he was, with a companion, both armed, stealthily
introduced by the aforesaid Ciuriaci into the prince's chamber and saw
the latter (the lady being asleep) standing, all naked for the great
heat, at a window overlooking the sea-shore, to take a little breeze
that came from that quarter; whereupon, having beforehand informed his
companion of that which he had to do, he went softly up to the window
and striking the prince with a knife, stabbed him, through and through
the small of his back; then, taking him up in haste, he cast him forth
of the window. The palace stood over against the sea and was very
lofty and the window in question looked upon certain houses that had
been undermined by the beating of the waves and where seldom or never
any came; wherefore it happened, as the duke had foreseen, that the
fall of the prince's body was not nor might be heard of any. The
duke's companion, seeing this done, pulled out a halter he had brought
with him to that end and making a show of caressing Ciuriaci, cast it
adroitly about his neck and drew it so that he could make no outcry;
then, the duke coming up, they strangled him and cast him whereas they
had cast the prince.

This done and they being manifestly certified that they had been
unheard of the lady or of any other, the duke took a light in his hand
and carrying it to the bedside, softly uncovered the princess, who
slept fast. He considered her from head to foot and mightily commended
her; for, if she was to his liking, being clothed, she pleased him,
naked, beyond all compare. Wherefore, fired with hotter desire and
unawed by his new-committed crime, he couched himself by her side,
with hands yet bloody, and lay with her, all sleepy-eyed as she was
and thinking him to be the prince. After he had abidden with her
awhile in the utmost pleasure, he arose and summoning certain of his
companions, caused take up the lady on such wise that she could make
no outcry and carry her forth by a privy door, whereat he had entered;
then, setting her on horseback, he took to the road with all his men,
as softliest he might, and returned to his own dominions. However (for
that he had a wife) he carried the lady, who was the most distressful
of women, not to Athens, but to a very goodly place he had by the sea,
a little without the city, and there entertained her in secret,
causing honourably furnish her with all that was needful.

The prince's courtiers on the morrow awaited his rising till none,
when, hearing nothing, they opened the chamber-doors, which were but
closed, and finding no one, concluded that he was gone somewhither
privily, to pass some days there at his ease with his fair lady, and
gave themselves no farther concern. Things being thus, it chanced next
day that an idiot, entering the ruins where lay the bodies of the
prince and Ciuriaci, dragged the latter forth by the halter and went
haling him after him. The body was, with no little wonderment,
recognized by many, who, coaxing the idiot to bring them to the place
whence he had dragged it, there, to the exceeding grief of the whole
city, found the prince's corpse and gave it honourable burial. Then,
enquiring for the authors of so heinous a crime and finding that the
Duke of Athens was no longer there, but had departed by stealth, they
concluded, even as was the case, that it must be he who had done this
and carried off the lady; whereupon they straightway substituted a
brother of the dead man to their prince and incited him with all their
might to vengeance. The new prince, being presently certified by
various other circumstances that it was as they had surmised, summoned
his friends and kinsmen and servants from divers parts and promptly
levying a great and goodly and powerful army, set out to make war upon
the Duke of Athens.

The latter, hearing of this, on like wise mustered all his forces for
his own defence, and to his aid came many lords, amongst whom the
Emperor of Constantinople sent Constantine his son and Manual his
nephew, with a great and goodly following. The two princes were
honourably received by the duke and yet more so by the duchess, for
that she was their sister,[117] and matters drawing thus daily nearer
unto war, taking her occasion, she sent for them both one day to her
chamber and there, with tears galore and many words, related to them
the whole story, acquainting them with the causes of the war.
Moreover, she discovered to them the affront done her by the duke in
the matter of the woman whom it was believed he privily entertained,
and complaining sore thereof, besought them to apply to the matter
such remedy as best they might, for the honour of the duke and her own
solacement.

[Footnote 117: _i.e._ sister to the one and cousin to the other.]

The young men already knew all the facts as it had been; wherefore,
without enquiring farther, they comforted the duchess, as best they
might, and filled her with good hope. Then, having learned from her
where the lady abode, they took their leave and having a mind to see
the latter, for that they had oftentimes heard her commended for
marvellous beauty, they besought the duke to show her to them. He,
unmindful of that which had befallen the Prince of the Morea for
having shown her to himself, promised to do this and accordingly next
morning, having let prepare a magnificent collation in a very goodly
garden that pertained to the lady's place of abode, he carried them
and a few others thither to eat with her. Constantine, sitting with
Alatiel, fell a-gazing upon her, full of wonderment, avouching in
himself that he had never seen aught so lovely and that certes the
duke must needs be held excused, ay, and whatsoever other, to have so
fair a creature, should do treason or other foul thing, and looking on
her again and again and each time admiring her more, it betided him no
otherwise than it had betided the duke; wherefore, taking his leave,
enamoured of her, he abandoned all thought of the war and occupied
himself with considering how he might take her from the duke,
carefully concealing his passion the while from every one.

Whilst he yet burnt in this fire, the time came to go out against the
new prince, who now drew near to the duke's territories; wherefore the
latter and Constantine and all the others, sallied forth of Athens
according to the given ordinance and betook themselves to the defence
of certain frontiers, so the prince might not avail to advance
farther. When they had lain there some days, Constantine having his
mind and thought still intent upon the lady and conceiving that, now
the duke was no longer near her, he might very well avail to
accomplish his pleasure, feigned himself sore indisposed of his
person, to have an occasion of returning to Athens; wherefore, with
the duke's leave, committing his whole power to Manuel, he returned to
Athens to his sister, and there, after some days, putting her upon
talk of the affront which herseemed she suffered from the duke by
reason of the lady whom he entertained, he told her that, an it liked
her, he would soon ease her thereof by causing take the lady from
whereas she was and carry her off. The duchess, conceiving that he did
this of regard for herself and not for love of the lady, answered that
it liked her exceeding well so but it might be done on such wise that
the duke should never know that she had been party thereto, which
Constantine fully promised her, and thereupon she consented that he
should do as seemed best to him.

Constantine, accordingly, let secretly equip a light vessel and sent
it one evening to the neighbourhood of the garden where the lady
abode; then, having taught certain of his men who were on board what
they had to do, he repaired with others to the lady's pavilion, where
he was cheerfully received by those in her service and indeed by the
lady herself, who, at his instance, betook herself with him to the
garden, attended by her servitors and his companions. There, making as
he would speak with her on the duke's part, he went with her alone
towards a gate, which gave upon the sea and had already been opened by
one of his men, and calling the bark thither with the given signal, he
caused suddenly seize the lady and carry her aboard; then, turning to
her people, he said to them, 'Let none stir or utter a word, an he
would not die; for that I purpose not to rob the duke of his wench,
but to do away the affront which he putteth upon my sister.'

To this none dared make answer; whereupon Constantine, embarking with
his people and seating himself by the side of the weeping lady, bade
thrust the oars into the water and make off. Accordingly, they put out
to sea and not hieing, but flying,[118] came, after a little after
daybreak on the morrow, to Egina, where they landed and took rest,
whilst Constantine solaced himself awhile with the lady, who bemoaned
her ill-fated beauty. Thence, going aboard the bark again, they made
their way, in a few days, to Chios, where it pleased Constantine to
take up his sojourn, as in a place of safety, for fear of his father's
resentment and lest the stolen lady should be taken from him. There
the fair lady bewailed her ill fate some days, but, being presently
comforted by Constantine, she began, as she had done otherwhiles, to
take her pleasure of that which fortune had foreordained to her.

[Footnote 118: _Non vogando, ma volando._]

Things being at this pass, Osbech, King of the Turks, who abode in
continual war with the Emperor, came by chance to Smyrna, where
hearing how Constantine abode in Chios, without any precaution,
leading a wanton life with a mistress of his, whom he had stolen away,
he repaired thither one night with some light-armed ships and entering
the city by stealth with some of his people, took many in their beds,
ere they knew of the enemy's coming. Some, who, taking the alert, had
run to arms, he slew and having burnt the whole place, carried the
booty and captives on board the ships and returned to Smyrna. When
they arrived there, Osbech, who was a young man, passing his prisoners
in review, found the fair lady among them and knowing her for her who
had been taken with Constantine asleep in bed, was mightily rejoiced
at sight of her. Accordingly, he made her his wife without delay, and
celebrating the nuptials forthright, lay with her some months in all
joyance.

Meanwhile, the Emperor, who had, before these things came to pass,
been in treaty with Bassano, King of Cappadocia, to the end that he
should come down upon Osbech from one side with his power, whilst
himself assailed him on the other, but had not yet been able to come
to a full accord with him, for that he was unwilling to grant certain
things which Bassano demanded and which he deemed unreasonable,
hearing what had betided his son and chagrined beyond measure thereat,
without hesitating farther, did that which the King of Cappadocia
asked and pressed him as most he might to fall upon Osbech, whilst
himself made ready to come down upon him from another quarter. Osbech,
hearing this, assembled his army, ere he should be straitened between
two such puissant princes, and marched against Bassano, leaving his
fair lady at Smyrna, in charge of a trusty servant and friend of his.
After some time he encountered the King of Cappadocia and giving him
battle, was slain in the mellay and his army discomfited and
dispersed; whereupon Bassano advanced in triumph towards Smyrna,
unopposed, and all the folk submitted to him by the way, as to a
conqueror.

Meanwhile, Osbech's servant, Antiochus by name, in whose charge the
lady had been left, seeing her so fair, forgot his plighted faith to
his friend and master and became enamoured of her, for all he was a
man in years. Urged by love and knowing her tongue (the which was
mighty agreeable to her, as well as it might be to one whom it had
behoved for some years live as she were deaf and dumb, for that she
understood none neither was understanded of any) he began, in a few
days, to be so familiar with her that, ere long, having no regard to
their lord and master who was absent in the field, they passed from
friendly commerce to amorous privacy, taking marvellous pleasure one
of the other between the sheets. When they heard that Osbech was
defeated and slain and that Bassano came carrying all before him, they
took counsel together not to await him there and laying hands on great
part of the things of most price that were there pertaining to Osbech,
gat them privily to Rhodes, where they had not long abidden ere
Antiochus sickened unto death.

As chance would have it, there was then in lodging with him a merchant
of Cyprus, who was much loved of him and his fast friend, and
Antiochus, feeling himself draw to his end, bethought himself to leave
him both his possessions and his beloved lady; wherefore, being now
nigh upon death, he called them both to him and bespoke them thus, 'I
feel myself, without a doubt, passing away, which grieveth me, for
that never had I such delight in life as I presently have. Of one
thing, indeed, I die most content, in that, since I must e'en die, I
see myself die in the arms of those twain whom I love over all others
that be in the world, to wit, in thine, dearest friend, and in those
of this lady, whom I have loved more than mine own self, since first I
knew her. True, it grieveth me to feel that, when I am dead, she will
abide here a stranger, without aid or counsel; and it were yet more
grievous to me, did I not know thee here, who wilt, I trust, have that
same care of her, for the love of me, which thou wouldst have had of
myself. Wherefore, I entreat thee, as most I may, if it come to pass
that I die, that thou take my goods and her into thy charge and do
with them and her that which thou deemest may be for the solacement of
my soul. And thou, dearest lady, I prithee forget me not after my
death, so I may vaunt me, in the other world, of being beloved here
below of the fairest lady ever nature formed; of which two things an
you will give me entire assurance, I shall depart without misgiving
and comforted.'

The merchant his friend and the lady, hearing these words, wept, and
when he had made an end of his speech, they comforted him and promised
him upon their troth to do that which he asked, if it came to pass
that he died. He tarried not long, but presently departed this life
and was honourably interred of them. A few days after, the merchant
having despatched all his business in Rhodes and purposing to return
to Cyprus on board a Catalan carrack that was there, asked the fair
lady what she had a mind to do, for that it behoved him return to
Cyprus. She answered that, an it pleased him, she would gladly go with
him, hoping for Antiochus his love to be of him entreated and regarded
as a sister. The merchant replied that he was content to do her every
pleasure, and the better to defend her from any affront that might be
offered her, ere they came to Cyprus, he avouched that she was his
wife. Accordingly, they embarked on board the ship and were given a
little cabin on the poop, where, that the fact might not belie his
words, he lay with her in one very small bed. Whereby there came about
that which was not intended of the one or the other of them at
departing Rhodes, to wit, that--darkness and commodity and the heat of
the bed, matters of no small potency, inciting them,--drawn by equal
appetite and forgetting both the friendship and the love of Antiochus
dead, they fell to dallying with each other and before they reached
Baffa, whence the Cypriot came, they had clapped up an alliance
together.

At Baffa she abode some time with the merchant till, as chance would
have it, there came thither, for his occasions, a gentleman by name
Antigonus, great of years and greater yet of wit, but little of
wealth, for that, intermeddling in the affairs of the King of Cyprus,
fortune had in many things been contrary to him. Chancing one day to
pass by the house where the fair lady dwelt with the merchant, who was
then gone with his merchandise into Armenia, he espied her at a window
and seeing her very beautiful, fell to gazing fixedly upon her and
presently began to recollect that he must have seen her otherwhere,
but where he could on no wise call to mind. As for the lady, who had
long been the sport of fortune, but the term of whose ills was now
drawing near, she no sooner set eyes on Antigonus than she remembered
to have seen him at Alexandria in no mean station in her father's
service; wherefore, conceiving a sudden hope of yet by his aid
regaining her royal estate, and knowing her merchant to be abroad, she
let call him to her as quickliest she might and asked him, blushing,
an he were not, as she supposed, Antigonus of Famagosta. He answered
that he was and added, 'Madam, meseemeth I know you, but on no wise
can I remember me where I have seen you; wherefore I pray you, an it
mislike you not, put me in mind who you are.'

The lady hearing that it was indeed he, to his great amazement, cast
her arms about his neck, weeping sore, and presently asked him if he
had never seen her in Alexandria. Antigonus, hearing this, incontinent
knew her for the Soldan's daughter Alatiel, who was thought to have
perished at sea, and would fain have paid her the homage due to her
quality; but she would on no wise suffer it and besought him to sit
with her awhile. Accordingly, seating himself beside her, he asked her
respectfully how and when and whence she came thither, seeing that it
was had for certain, through all the land of Egypt, that she had been
drowned at sea years agone. 'Would God,' replied she, 'it had been so,
rather than that I should have had the life I have had; and I doubt
not but my father would wish the like, if ever he came to know it.'

So saying, she fell anew to weeping wonder-sore; whereupon quoth
Antigonus to her, 'Madam, despair not ere it behove you; but, an it
please you, relate to me your adventures and what manner of life yours
hath been; it may be the matter hath gone on such wise that, with
God's aid, we may avail to find an effectual remedy.' 'Antigonus,'
answered the fair lady, 'when I beheld thee, meseemed I saw my father,
and moved by that love and tenderness, which I am bounden to bear him,
I discovered myself to thee, having it in my power to conceal myself
from thee, and few persons could it have befallen me to look upon in
whom I could have been so well-pleased as I am to have seen and known
thee before any other; wherefore that which in my ill fortune I have
still kept hidden, to thee, as to a father, I will discover. If, after
thou hast heard it, thou see any means of restoring me to my pristine
estate, prithee use it; but, if thou see none, I beseech thee never
tell any that thou hast seen me or heard aught of me.'

This said, she recounted to him, still weeping, that which had
befallen her from the time of her shipwreck on Majorca up to that
moment; whereupon he fell a-weeping for pity and after considering
awhile, 'Madam,' said he, 'since in your misfortunes it hath been
hidden who you are, I will, without fail, restore you, dearer than
ever, to your father and after to the King of Algarve to wife.' Being
questioned of her of the means, he showed her orderly that which was
to do, and lest any hindrance should betide through delay, he
presently returned to Famagosta and going in to the king, said to him,
'My lord, an it like you, you have it in your power at once to do
yourself exceeding honour and me, who am poor through you, a great
service, at no great cost of yours.' The king asked how and Antigonus
replied, 'There is come to Baffa the Soldan's fair young daughter, who
hath so long been reputed drowned and who, to save her honour, hath
long suffered very great unease and is presently in poor case and
would fain return to her father. An it pleased you send her to him
under my guard, it would be much to your honour and to my weal, nor do
I believe that such a service would ever be forgotten of the Soldan.'

The king, moved by a royal generosity of mind, answered forthright
that he would well and sending for Alatiel, brought her with all
honour and worship to Famagosta, where she was received by himself and
the queen with inexpressible rejoicing and entertained with
magnificent hospitality. Being presently questioned of the king and
queen of her adventures, she answered according to the instructions
given her by Antigonus and related everything;[119] and a few days
after, at her request, the king sent her, under the governance of
Antigonus, with a goodly and worshipful company of men and women, back
to the Soldan, of whom let none ask if she was received with
rejoicing, as also was Antigonus and all her company.

[Footnote 119: Sic (_contò tutto_); but this is an oversight of the
author's, as it is evident from what follows that she did _not_ relate
everything.]

As soon as she was somewhat rested, the Soldan desired to know how it
chanced that she was yet alive and where she had so long abidden,
without having ever let him know aught of her condition; whereupon the
lady, who had kept Antigonus his instructions perfectly in mind,
bespoke him thus, 'Father mine, belike the twentieth day after my
departure from you, our ship, having sprung a leak in a terrible
storm, struck in the night upon certain coasts yonder in the
West,[120] near a place called Aguamorta, and what became of the men
who were aboard I know not nor could ever learn; this much only do I
remember that, the day come and I arisen as it were from death to
life, the shattered vessel was espied of the country people, who ran
from all the parts around to plunder it. I and two of my women were
first set ashore and the latter were incontinent seized by certain of
the young men, who fled with them, one this way and the other that,
and what came of them I never knew.

[Footnote 120: Lit. Ponant (_Ponente_), _i.e._ the Western coasts of
the Mediterranean, as opposed to the Eastern or Levant.]

As for myself, I was taken, despite my resistance, by two young men,
and haled along by the hair, weeping sore the while; but, as they
crossed over a road, to enter a great wood, there passed by four men
on horseback, whom when my ravishers saw, they loosed me forthwith and
took to flight. The new comers, who seemed to me persons of great
authority, seeing this, ran where I was and asked me many questions;
whereto I answered much, but neither understood nor was understanded
of them. However, after long consultation they set me on one of their
horses and carried me to a convent of women vowed to religion,
according to their law, where, whatever they said, I was of all the
ladies kindly received and still entreated with honour, and there with
great devotion I joined them in serving Saint Waxeth-in-Deepdene, a
saint for whom the women of that country have a vast regard.

After I had abidden with them awhile and learned somewhat of their
language, they questioned me of who I was and fearing, an I told the
truth, to be expelled from amongst them, as an enemy of their faith, I
answered that I was the daughter of a great gentleman of Cyprus, who
was sending me to be married in Crete, when, as ill-luck would have
it, we had run thither and suffered shipwreck. Moreover, many a time
and in many things I observed their customs, for fear of worse, and
being asked by the chief of the ladies, her whom they call abbess, if
I wished to return thence to Cyprus, I answered that I desired nothing
so much; but she, tender of my honour, would never consent to trust me
to any person who was bound for Cyprus, till some two months agone,
when there came thither certain gentlemen of France with their ladies.
One of the latter being a kinswoman of the abbess and she hearing that
they were bound for Jerusalem, to visit the Sepulchre where He whom
they hold God was buried, after He had been slain by the Jews, she
commended me to their care and besought them to deliver me to my
father in Cyprus.

With what honour these gentlemen entreated me and how cheerfully they
received me together with their ladies, it were a long story to tell;
suffice it to say that we took ship and came, after some days, to
Baffa, where finding myself arrived and knowing none in the place, I
knew not what to say to the gentlemen, who would fain have delivered
me to my father, according to that which had been enjoined them of the
reverend lady; but God, taking pity belike on my affliction, brought
me Antigonus upon the beach what time we disembarked at Baffa, whom I
straightway hailed and in our tongue, so as not to be understood of
the gentlemen and their ladies, bade him receive me as a daughter. He
promptly apprehended me and receiving me with a great show of joy,
entertained the gentlemen and their ladies with such honour as his
poverty permitted and carried me to the King of Cyprus, who received
me with such hospitality and hath sent me back to you [with such
courtesy] as might never be told of me. If aught remain to be said,
let Antigonus, who hath ofttimes heard from me these adventures,
recount it.'

Accordingly Antigonus, turning to the Soldan, said, 'My lord, even as
she hath many a time told me and as the gentlemen and ladies, with
whom she came, said to me, so hath she recounted unto you. Only one
part hath she forborne to tell you, the which methinketh she left
unsaid for that it beseemeth her not to tell it, to wit, how much the
gentlemen and ladies, with whom she came, said of the chaste and
modest life which she led with the religious ladies and of her virtue
and commendable manners and the tears and lamentations of her
companions, both men and women, when, having restored her to me, they
took leave of her. Of which things were I fain to tell in full that
which they said to me, not only this present day, but the ensuing
night would not suffice unto us; be it enough to say only that
(according to that which their words attested and that also which I
have been able to see thereof,) you may vaunt yourself of having the
fairest daughter and the chastest and most virtuous of any prince that
nowadays weareth a crown.'

The Soldan was beyond measure rejoiced at these things and besought
God again and again to vouchsafe him of His grace the power of
worthily requiting all who had succoured his daughter and especially
the King of Cyprus, by whom she had been sent back to him with honour.
After some days, having caused prepare great gifts for Antigonus, he
gave him leave to return to Cyprus and rendered, both by letters and
by special ambassadors, the utmost thanks to the king for that which
he had done with his daughter. Then desiring that that which was begun
should have effect, to wit, that she should be the wife of the King of
Algarve, he acquainted the latter with the whole matter and wrote to
him to boot, that, an it pleased him have her, he should send for her.
The King of Algarve was mightily rejoiced at this news and sending for
her in state, received her joyfully; and she, who had lain with eight
men belike ten thousand times, was put to bed to him for a maid and
making him believe that she was so, lived happily with him as his
queen awhile after; wherefore it was said, 'Lips for kissing forfeit
no favour; nay, they renew as the moon doth ever.'"



THE EIGHTH STORY

[Day the Second]

     THE COUNT OF ANTWERP, BEING FALSELY ACCUSED, GOETH INTO
     EXILE AND LEAVETH HIS TWO CHILDREN IN DIFFERENT PLACES IN
     ENGLAND, WHITHER, AFTER AWHILE, RETURNING IN DISGUISE AND
     FINDING THEM IN GOOD CASE, HE TAKETH SERVICE AS A HORSEBOY
     IN THE SERVICE OF THE KING OF FRANCE AND BEING APPROVED
     INNOCENT, IS RESTORED TO HIS FORMER ESTATE


The ladies sighed amain over the fortunes of the fair Saracen; but who
knoweth what gave rise to those sighs? Maybe there were some of them
who sighed no less for envy of such frequent nuptials than for pity of
Alatiel. But, leaving that be for the present, after they had laughed
at Pamfilo's last words, the queen, seeing his story ended, turned to
Elisa and bade her follow on with one of hers. Elisa cheerfully obeyed
and began as follows: "A most ample field is that wherein we go to-day
a-ranging, nor is there any of us but could lightly enough run, not
one, but half a score courses there, so abounding hath Fortune made it
in her strange and grievous chances; wherefore, to come to tell of one
of these latter, which are innumerable, I say that:

When the Roman Empire was transferred from the French to the
Germans,[121] there arose between the one and the other nation an
exceeding great enmity and a grievous and continual war, by reason
whereof, as well for the defence of their own country as for the
offence of that of others, the King of France and a son of his, with
all the power of their realm and of such friends and kinsfolk as they
could command, levied a mighty army to go forth upon the foe; and ere
they proceeded thereunto,--not to leave the realm without
governance,--knowing Gautier, Count of Antwerp,[122] for a noble and
discreet gentleman and their very faithful friend and servant, and for
that (albeit he was well versed in the art of war) he seemed to them
more apt unto things delicate than unto martial toils, they left him
vicar general in their stead over all the governance of the realm of
France and went on their way. Gautier accordingly addressed himself
with both order and discretion to the office committed unto him, still
conferring of everything with the queen and her daughter-in-law, whom,
for all they were left under his custody and jurisdiction, he honoured
none the less as his liege ladies and mistresses.

[Footnote 121: _i.e._ A.D. 912, when, upon the death of Louis III, the
last prince of the Carlovingian race, Conrad, Duke of Franconia, was
elected Emperor and the Empire, which had till then been hereditary in
the descendants of Charlemagne, became elective and remained
thenceforth in German hands.]

[Footnote 122: _Anguersa_, the old form of _Anversa_, Antwerp. All
versions that I have seen call Gautier Comte d'_Angers_ or _Angiers_,
the translators, who forgot or were unaware that Antwerp, as part of
Flanders, was then a fief of the French crown, apparently taking it
for granted that the mention of the latter city was in error and
substituting the name of the ancient capital of Anjou on their own
responsibility.]

Now this Gautier was exceedingly goodly of his body, being maybe
forty years old and as agreeable and well-mannered a gentleman as
might be; and withal, he was the sprightliest and daintiest cavalier
known in those days and he who went most adorned of his person. His
countess was dead, leaving him two little children, a boy and a girl,
without more, and it befell that, the King of France and his son being
at the war aforesaid and Gautier using much at the court of the
aforesaid ladies and speaking often with them of the affairs of the
kingdom, the wife of the king's son cast her eyes on him and
considering his person and his manners with very great affection, was
secretly fired with a fervent love for him. Feeling herself young and
lusty and knowing him wifeless, she doubted not but her desire might
lightly be accomplished unto her and thinking nought hindered her
thereof but shamefastness, she bethought herself altogether to put
that away and discover to him her passion. Accordingly, being one day
alone and it seeming to her time, she sent for him into her chamber,
as though she would discourse with him of other matters.

The count, whose thought was far from that of the lady, betook himself
to her without any delay and at her bidding, seated himself by her
side on a couch; then, they being alone together, he twice asked her
the occasion for which she had caused him come thither; but she made
him no reply. At last, urged by love and grown all vermeil for shame,
well nigh in tears and all trembling, with broken speech she thus
began to say: 'Dearest and sweet friend and my lord, you may easily as
a man of understanding apprehend how great is the frailty both of men
and of women, and that more, for divers reasons, in one than in
another; wherefore, at the hands of a just judge, the same sin in
diverse kinds of qualities of persons should not in equity receive one
same punishment. And who is there will deny that a poor man or a poor
woman, whom it behoveth gain with their toil that which is needful for
their livelihood, would, an they were stricken with Love's smart and
followed after him, be far more blameworthy than a lady who is rich
and idle and to whom nothing is lacking that can flatter her desires?
Certes, I believe, no one. For which reason methinketh the things
aforesaid [to wit, wealth and leisure and luxurious living] should
furnish forth a very great measure of excuse on behalf of her who
possesseth them, if, peradventure, she suffer herself lapse into
loving, and the having made choice of a lover of worth and discretion
should stand for the rest,[123] if she who loveth hath done that.
These circumstances being both, to my seeming, in myself (beside
several others which should move me to love, such as my youth and the
absence of my husband), it behoveth now that they rise up in my behalf
for the defence of my ardent love in your sight, wherein if they avail
that which they should avail in the eyes of men of understanding, I
pray you afford me counsel and succour in that which I shall ask of
you. True is it, that availing not, for the absence of my husband, to
withstand the pricks of the flesh nor the might of love-liking, the
which are of such potency that they have erst many a time overcome and
yet all days long overcome the strongest men, to say nothing of weak
women,--and enjoying the commodities and the leisures wherein you see
me, I have suffered myself lapse into ensuing Love his pleasures and
becoming enamoured; the which,--albeit, were it known, I acknowledge
it would not be seemly, yet,--being and abiding hidden, I hold[124]
well nigh nothing unseemly; more by token that Love hath been insomuch
gracious to me that not only hath he not bereft me of due discernment
in the choice of a lover, but hath lent me great plenty thereof[125]
to that end, showing me yourself worthy to be loved of a lady such as
I,--you whom, if my fancy beguile me not, I hold the goodliest, the
most agreeable, the sprightliest and the most accomplished cavalier
that may be found in all the realm of France; and even as I may say
that I find myself without a husband, so likewise are you without a
wife. Wherefore, I pray you, by the great love which I bear you, that
you deny me not your love in return, but have compassion on my youth,
the which, in very deed, consumeth for you, as ice before the fire.'

[Footnote 123: _i.e._ of her excuse.]

[Footnote 124: Lit. Thou holdest (or judges); but _giudichi_ in the
text is apparently a mistake for _giudico_.]

[Footnote 125: _i.e._ of discernment.]

With these words her tears welled up in such abundance that, albeit
she would fain have proffered him yet other prayers, she had no power
to speak farther, but, bowing her face, as if overcome, she let
herself fall, weeping, her head on the count's bosom. The latter, who
was a very loyal gentleman, began with the gravest reproofs to rebuke
so fond a passion and to repel the princess, who would fain have cast
herself on his neck, avouching to her with oaths that he had liefer be
torn limb from limb than consent unto such an offence against his
lord's honour, whether in himself or in another. The lady, hearing
this, forthright forgot her love and kindling into a furious rage,
said, 'Felon knight that you are, shall I be this wise flouted by you
of my desire? Now God forbid, since you would have me die, but I have
you put to death or driven from the world!' So saying, she set her
hands to her tresses and altogether disordered and tore them; then,
rending her raiment at the breast, she fell to crying aloud and
saying, 'Help! Help! The Count of Antwerp would do me violence.' The
count, seeing this, misdoubting far more the courtiers' envy than his
own conscience and fearful lest, by reason of this same envy, more
credence should be given to the lady's malice than to his own
innocence, started up and departing the chamber and the palace as
quickliest he might, fled to his own house, where, without taking
other counsel, he set his children on horseback and mounting himself
to horse, made off with them, as most he might, towards Calais.

Meanwhile, many ran to the princess's clamour and seeing her in that
plight and hearing [her account of] the cause of her outcry, not only
gave credence to her words, but added[126] that the count's gallant
bearing and debonair address had long been used by him to win to that
end. Accordingly, they ran in a fury to his houses to arrest him, but
finding him not, first plundered them all and after razed them to the
foundations. The news, in its perverted shape, came presently to the
army to the king and his son, who, sore incensed, doomed Gautier and
his descendants to perpetual banishment, promising very great guerdons
to whoso should deliver him to them alive or dead.

[Footnote 126: Sic (_aggiunsero_); but _semble_ should mean "believed,
in addition."]

The count, woeful for that by his flight he had, innocent as he was,
approved himself guilty, having, without making himself known or being
recognized, reached Calais with his children, passed hastily over into
England and betook himself in mean apparel to London, wherein ere he
entered, with many words he lessoned his two little children, and
especially in two things; first, that they should brook with patience
the poor estate, whereunto, without their fault, fortune had brought
them, together with himself,--and after, that with all wariness they
should keep themselves from ever discovering unto any whence or whose
children they were, as they held life dear. The boy, Louis by name,
who was some nine and the girl, who was called Violante and was some
seven years old, both, as far as their tender age comported, very well
apprehended their father's lessons and showed it thereafter by deed.
That this might be the better done,[127] he deemed it well to change
their names; wherefore he named the boy Perrot and the girl Jeannette
and all three, entering London, meanly clad, addressed themselves to
go about asking alms, like as we see yonder French vagabonds do.

[Footnote 127: _i.e._ That the secret might be the better kept.]

They being on this account one morning at a church door, it chanced
that a certain great lady, the wife of one of the king's marshals of
England, coming forth of the church, saw the count and his two little
ones asking alms and questioned him whence he was and if the children
were his, to which he replied that he was from Picardy and that, by
reason of the misfeasance of a rakehelly elder son of his, it had
behoved him depart the country with these two, who were his. The lady,
who was pitiful, cast her eyes on the girl and being much taken with
her, for that she was handsome, well-mannered and engaging, said,
'Honest man, an thou be content to leave thy daughter with me, I will
willingly take her, for that she hath a good favour, and if she prove
an honest woman, I will in due time marry her on such wise that she
shall fare well.' This offer was very pleasing to the count, who
promptly answered, 'Yes,' and with tears gave up the girl to the lady,
urgently commending her to her care.

Having thus disposed of his daughter, well knowing to whom, he
resolved to abide there no longer and accordingly, begging his way
across the island, came, not without sore fatigue, as one who was
unused to go afoot, into Wales. Here dwelt another of the king's
marshals, who held great state and entertained a numerous household,
and to his court both the count and his son whiles much resorted to
get food. Certain sons of the said marshal and other gentlemen's
children being there engaged in such boyish exercises as running and
leaping, Perrot began to mingle with them and to do as dextrously as
any of the rest, or more so, each feat that was practised among them.
The marshal, chancing whiles to see this and being much taken with
the manners and fashion of the boy, asked who he was and was told that
he was the son of a poor man who came there bytimes for alms;
whereupon he caused require him of the count, and the latter, who
indeed besought God of nought else, freely resigned the boy to him,
grievous as it was to him to be parted from him. Having thus provided
his son and daughter, he determined to abide no longer in England and
passing over into Ireland, made his way, as best he might, to
Stamford, where he took service with a knight belonging to an earl of
the country, doing all such things as pertain unto a lackey or a
horseboy, and there, without being known of any, he abode a great
while in unease and travail galore.

Meanwhile Violante, called Jeannette, went waxing with the gentlewoman
in London in years and person and beauty and was in such favour both
with the lady and her husband and with every other of the house and
whoso else knew her, that it was a marvellous thing to see; nor was
there any who noted her manners and fashions but avouched her worthy
of every greatest good and honour. Wherefore the noble lady who had
received her from her father, without having ever availed to learn who
he was, otherwise than as she had heard from himself, was purposed to
marry her honourably according to that condition whereof she deemed
her. But God, who is a just observer of folk's deserts, knowing her to
be of noble birth and to bear, without fault, the penalty of another's
sin, ordained otherwise, and fain must we believe that He of His
benignity permitted that which came to pass to the end that the gentle
damsel might not fall into the hands of a man of low estate.

The noble lady with whom Jeannette dwelt had of her husband one only
son, whom both she and his father loved with an exceeding love, both
for that he was their child and that he deserved it by reason of his
worth and virtues. He, being some six years older than Jeannette and
seeing her exceeding fair and graceful, became so sore enamoured of
her that he saw nought beyond her; yet, for that he deemed her to be
of mean extraction, not only dared he not demand her of his father and
mother to wife, but, fearing to be blamed for having set himself to
love unworthily, he held his love, as most he might, hidden; wherefore
it tormented him far more than if he had discovered it; and thus it
came to pass that, for excess of chagrin, he fell sick and that
grievously. Divers physicians were called in to medicine him, who,
having noted one and another symptom of his case and being
nevertheless unable to discover what ailed him, all with one accord
despaired of his recovery; whereat the young man's father and mother
suffered dolour and melancholy so great that greater might not be
brooked, and many a time, with piteous prayers, they questioned him of
the cause of his malady, whereto or sighs he gave for answer or
replied that he felt himself all wasting away.

It chanced one day that, what while a doctor, young enough, but
exceedingly deeply versed in science, sat by him and held him by the
arm in that part where leaches use to seek the pulse, Jeannette, who,
of regard for his mother, tended him solicitously, entered, on some
occasion or another, the chamber where the young man lay. When the
latter saw her, without word said or gesture made, he felt the amorous
ardour redouble in his heart, wherefore his pulse began to beat
stronglier than of wont; the which the leach incontinent noted and
marvelling, abode still to see how long this should last. As soon as
Jeannette left the chamber, the beating abated, wherefore it seemed to
the physician he had gotten impartment of the cause of the young man's
ailment, and after waiting awhile, he let call Jeannette to him, as he
would question her of somewhat, still holding the sick man by the arm.
She came to him incontinent and no sooner did she enter than the
beating of the youth's pulse returned and she being gone again,
ceased. Thereupon, it seeming to the physician that he had full enough
assurance, he rose and taking the young man's father and mother apart,
said to them, 'The healing of your son is not in the succour of
physicians, but abideth in the hands of Jeannette, whom, as I have by
sure signs manifestly recognized, the young man ardently loveth,
albeit, for all I can see, she is unaware thereof. You know now what
you have to do, if his life be dear to you.'

The gentleman and his lady, hearing this, were well pleased, inasmuch
as some means was found for his recoverance, albeit it irked them sore
that the means in question should be that whereof they misdoubted
them, to wit, that they should give Jeannette to their son to wife.
Accordingly, the physician being gone, they went into the sick man and
the lady bespoke him thus: 'Son mine, I could never have believed that
thou wouldst keep from me any desire of thine, especially seeing
thyself pine away for lack thereof; for that thou shouldst have been
and shouldst be assured that there is nought I can for thy
contentment, were it even less than seemly, which I would not do as
for myself. But, since thou hast e'en done this, God the Lord hath
been more pitiful over thee than thou thyself and that thou mayst not
die of this sickness, hath shown me the cause of thine ill, which is
no otherwhat than excess of love for some damsel or other, whoever she
may be; and this, indeed, thou needest not have thought shame to
discover, for that thine age requireth it, and wert thou not
enamoured, I should hold thee of very little account. Wherefore, my
son, dissemble not with me, but in all security discover to me thine
every desire and put away from thee the melancholy and the
thought-taking which be upon thee and from which proceedeth this thy
sickness and take comfort and be assured that there is nothing of that
which thou mayst impose on me for thy satisfaction but I will do it to
the best of my power, as she who loveth thee more than her life.
Banish shamefastness and fearfulness and tell me if I can do aught to
further thy passion; and if thou find me not diligent therein or if I
bring it not to effect for thee, account me the cruellest mother that
ever bore son.'

The young man, hearing his mother's words, was at first abashed, but
presently, bethinking himself that none was better able than she to
satisfy his wishes, he put away shamefastness and said thus to her:
'Madam, nothing hath wrought so effectually with me to keep my love
hidden as my having noted of most folk that, once they are grown in
years, they choose not to remember them of having themselves been
young. But, since in this I find you reasonable, not only will I not
deny that to be true which you say you have observed, but I will, to
boot, discover to you of whom [I am enamoured], on condition that you
will, to the best of your power, give effect to your promise; and thus
may you have me whole again.' Whereto the lady (trusting overmuch in
that which was not to come to pass for her on such wise as she deemed
in herself) answered freely that he might in all assurance discover to
her his every desire, for that she would without any delay address
herself to contrive that he should have his pleasure. 'Madam,' then
said the youth, 'the exceeding beauty and commendable fashions of our
Jeannette and my unableness to make her even sensible, still less to
move her to pity, of my love and the having never dared to discover it
unto any have brought me whereas you see me; and if that which you
have promised me come not, one way or another, to pass, you may be
assured that my life will be brief.'

The lady, to whom it appeared more a time for comfort than for
reproof, said, smilingly, 'Alack, my son, hast thou then for this
suffered thyself to languish thus? Take comfort and leave me do, once
thou shalt be recovered.' The youth, full of good hope, in a very
short time showed signs of great amendment, whereas the lady, being
much rejoiced, began to cast about how she might perform that which
she had promised him. Accordingly, calling Jeannette to her one day,
she asked her very civilly, as by way of a jest, if she had a lover;
whereupon she waxed all red and answered, 'Madam, it concerneth not
neither were it seemly in a poor damsel like myself, banished from
house and home and abiding in others' service, to think of love.'
Quoth the lady, 'An you have no lover, we mean to give you one, in
whom you may rejoice and live merry and have more delight of your
beauty, for it behoveth not that so handsome a girl as you are abide
without a lover.' To this Jeannette made answer, 'Madam, you took me
from my father's poverty and have reared me as a daughter, wherefore
it behoveth me to do your every pleasure; but in this I will nowise
comply with you, and therein methinketh I do well. If it please you
give me a husband, him do I purpose to love, but none other; for that,
since of the inheritance of my ancestors nought is left me save only
honour, this latter I mean to keep and preserve as long as life shall
endure to me.'

This speech seemed to the lady very contrary to that whereto she
thought to come for the keeping of her promise to her son,--albeit,
like a discreet woman as she was, she inwardly much commended the
damsel therefor,--and she said, 'How now, Jeannette? If our lord the
king, who is a young cavalier, as thou art a very fair damsel, would
fain have some easance of thy love, wouldst thou deny it to him?'
Whereto she answered forthright, 'The king might do me violence, but
of my consent he should never avail to have aught of me save what was
honourable.' The lady, seeing how she was minded, left parleying with
her and bethought herself to put her to the proof; wherefore she told
her son that, whenas he should be recovered, she would contrive to
get her alone with him in a chamber, so he might make shift to have
his pleasure of her, saying that it appeared to her unseemly that she
should, procuress-wise, plead for her son and solicit her own maid.

With this the young man was nowise content and presently waxed
grievously worse, which when his mother saw, she opened her mind to
Jeannette, but, finding her more constant than ever, recounted what
she had done to her husband, and he and she resolved of one accord,
grievous though it seemed to them, to give her to him to wife,
choosing rather to have their son alive with a wife unsorted to his
quality than dead without any; and so, after much parley, they did;
whereat Jeannette was exceeding content and with a devout heart
rendered thanks to God, who had not forgotten her; but for all that
she never avouched herself other than the daughter of a Picard. As for
the young man, he presently recovered and celebrating his nuptials,
the gladdest man alive, proceeded to lead a merry life with his bride.

Meanwhile, Perrot, who had been left in Wales with the King of
England's marshal, waxed likewise in favour with his lord and grew up
very goodly of his person and doughty as any man in the island,
insomuch that neither in tourneying nor jousting nor in any other act
of arms was there any in the land who could cope with him; wherefore
he was everywhere known and famous under the name of Perrot the
Picard. And even as God had not forgotten his sister, so on like wise
He showed that He had him also in mind; for that a pestilential
sickness, being come into those parts, carried off well nigh half the
people thereof, besides that most part of those who survived fled for
fear into other lands; wherefore the whole country appeared desert. In
this mortality, the marshal his lord and his lady and only son,
together with many others, brothers and nephews and kinsmen, all died,
nor was any left of all his house save a daughter, just husband-ripe,
and Perrot, with sundry other serving folk. The pestilence being
somewhat abated, the young lady, with the approof and by the counsel
of some few gentlemen of the country[128] left alive, took Perrot, for
that he was a man of worth and prowess, to husband and made him lord
of all that had fallen to her by inheritance; nor was it long ere the
King of England, hearing the marshal to be dead and knowing the worth
of Perrot the Picard, substituted him in the dead man's room and made
him his marshal. This, in brief, is what came of the two innocent
children of the Count of Antwerp, left by him for lost.

[Footnote 128: _Paesani_, lit., countrymen; but Boccaccio evidently
uses the word in the sense of "vassals."]

Eighteen years were now passed since the count's flight from Paris,
when, as he abode in Ireland, having suffered many things in a very
sorry way of life, there took him a desire to learn, as he might, what
was come of his children. Wherefore, seeing himself altogether changed
of favour from that which he was wont to be and feeling himself, for
long exercise, grown more robust of his person than he had been when
young and abiding in ease and idlesse, he took leave of him with whom
he had so long abidden and came, poor and ill enough in case, to
England. Thence he betook himself whereas he had left Perrot and found
him a marshal and a great lord and saw him robust and goodly of
person; the which was mighty pleasing unto him, but he would not make
himself known to him till he should have learned how it was with
Jeannette. Accordingly, he set out and stayed not till he came to
London, where, cautiously enquiring of the lady with whom he had left
his daughter and of her condition, he found Jeannette married to her
son, which greatly rejoiced him and he counted all his past adversity
a little thing, since he had found his children again alive and in
good case.

Then, desirous of seeing Jeannette, he began beggarwise, to haunt the
neighbourhood of her house, where one day Jamy Lamiens, (for so was
Jeannette's husband called,) espying him and having compassion on him,
for that he saw him old and poor, bade one of his servants bring him
in and give him to eat for the love of God, which the man readily did.
Now Jeannette had had several children by Jamy, whereof the eldest was
no more than eight years old, and they were the handsomest and
sprightliest children in the world. When they saw the count eat, they
came one and all about him and began to caress him, as if, moved by
some occult virtue, they divined him to be their grandfather. He,
knowing them for his grandchildren, fell to fondling and making much
of them, wherefore the children would not leave him, albeit he who had
charge of their governance called them. Jeannette, hearing this,
issued forth of a chamber therenigh and coming whereas the count was,
chid them amain and threatened to beat them, an they did not what
their governor willed. The children began to weep and say that they
would fain abide with that honest man, who loved them better than
their governor, whereat both the lady and the count laughed. Now the
latter had risen, nowise as a father, but as a poor man, to do honour
to his daughter, as to a mistress, and seeing her, felt a marvellous
pleasure at his heart. But she nor then nor after knew him any whit,
for that he was beyond measure changed from what he was used to be,
being grown old and hoar and bearded and lean and swart, and appeared
altogether another man than the count.

The lady then, seeing that the children were unwilling to leave him
and wept, when she would have them go away, bade their governor let
them be awhile and the children thus being with the good man, it
chanced that Jamy's father returned and heard from their governor what
had passed, whereupon quoth the marshal, who held Jeannette in
despite, 'Let them be, God give them ill-luck! They do but hark back
to that whence they sprang. They come by their mother of a vagabond
and therefore it is no wonder if they are fain to herd with
vagabonds.' The count heard these words and was mightily chagrined
thereat; nevertheless, he shrugged his shoulders and put up with the
affront, even as he had put up with many others. Jamy, hearing how the
children had welcomed the honest man, to wit, the count, albeit it
misliked him, nevertheless so loved them that, rather than see them
weep, he commanded that, if the good man chose to abide there in any
capacity, he should be received into his service. The count answered
that he would gladly abide there, but he knew not to do aught other
than tend horses, whereto he had been used all his lifetime. A horse
was accordingly assigned to him and when he had cared for it, he
busied himself with making sport for the children.

Whilst fortune handled the Count of Antwerp and his children on such
wise as hath been set out, it befell that the King of France, after
many truces made with the Germans, died and his son, whose wife was
she through whom the count had been banished, was crowned in his
place; and no sooner was the current truce expired than he again began
a very fierce war. To his aid the King of England, as a new-made
kinsman, despatched much people, under the commandment of Perrot his
marshal and Jamy Lamiens, son of the other marshal, and with them went
the good man, to wit, the count, who, without being recognized of any,
abode a pretty while with the army in the guise of a horseboy, and
there, like a man of mettle as he was, wrought good galore, more than
was required of him, both with counsels and with deeds.

During the war, it came to pass that the Queen of France fell
grievously sick and feeling herself nigh unto death, contrite for all
her sins, confessed herself unto the Archbishop of Rouen, who was held
of all a very holy and good man. Amongst her other sins, she related
to him that which the Count of Antwerp had most wrongfully suffered
through her; nor was she content to tell it to him alone, nay, but
before many other men of worth she recounted all as it had passed,
beseeching them so to do with the king that the count, an he were on
life, or, if not, one of his children, should be restored to his
estate; after which she lingered not long, but, departing this life,
was honourably buried. Her confession, being reported to the king,
moved him, after he had heaved divers sighs of regret for the wrong
done to the nobleman, to let cry throughout all the army and in many
other parts, that whoso should give him news of the Count of Antwerp
or of either of his children should for each be wonder-well guerdoned
of him, for that he held him, upon the queen's confession, innocent of
that for which he had gone into exile and was minded to restore him to
his first estate and more.

The count, in his guise of a horseboy, hearing this and being assured
that it was the truth,[129] betook himself forthright to Jamy Lamiens
and prayed him go with him to Perrot, for that he had a mind to
discover to them that which the king went seeking. All three being
then met together, quoth the count to Perrot, who had it already in
mind to discover himself, 'Perrot, Jamy here hath thy sister to wife
nor ever had any dowry with her; wherefore, that thy sister may not go
undowered, I purpose that he and none other shall, by making thee
known as the son of the Count of Antwerp, have this great reward that
the king promiseth for thee and for Violante, thy sister and his wife,
and myself, who am the Count of Antwerp and your father.' Perrot,
hearing this and looking steadfastly upon him, presently knew him and
cast himself, weeping, at his feet and embraced him, saying, 'Father
mine, you are dearly welcome.' Jamy, hearing first what the count
said and after seeing what Perrot did, was overcome at once with such
wonderment and such gladness that he scarce knew what he should do.
However, after awhile, giving credence to the former's speech and sore
ashamed for the injurious words he had whiles used to the
hostler-count, he let himself fall, weeping, at his feet and humbly
besought him pardon of every past affront, the which the count, having
raised him to his feet, graciously accorded him.

[Footnote 129: _i.e._ that it was not a snare.]

Then, after they had all three discoursed awhile of each one's various
adventures and wept and rejoiced together amain, Perrot and Jamy would
have reclad the count, who would on nowise suffer it, but willed that
Jamy, having first assured himself of the promised guerdon, should,
the more to shame the king, present him to the latter in that his then
plight and in his groom's habit. Accordingly, Jamy, followed by the
count and Perrot, presented himself before the king, and offered,
provided he would guerdon him according to the proclamation made, to
produce to him the count and his children. The king promptly let bring
for all three a guerdon marvellous in Jamy's eyes and commanded that
he should be free to carry it off, whenas he should in very deed
produce the count and his children, as he promised. Jamy, then,
turning himself about and putting forward the count his horseboy and
Perrot, said, 'My lord, here be the father and the son; the daughter,
who is my wife and who is not here, with God's aid you shall soon
see.'

The king, hearing this, looked at the count and albeit he was sore
changed from that which he was used to be, yet, after he had awhile
considered him, he knew him and well nigh with tears in his eyes
raised him--for that he was on his knees before him--to his feet and
kissed and embraced him. Perrot, also, he graciously received and
commanded that the count should incontinent be furnished anew with
clothes and servants and horses and harness, according as his quality
required, which was straightway done. Moreover, he entreated Jamy with
exceeding honour and would fain know every particular of his[130] past
adventures. Then, Jamy being about to receive the magnificent guerdons
appointed him for having discovered the count and his children, the
former said to him, 'Take these of the munificence of our lord the
king and remember to tell thy father that thy children, his
grandchildren and mine, are not by their mother born of a vagabond.'
Jamy, accordingly, took the gifts and sent for his wife and mother to
Paris, whither came also Perrot's wife; and there they all
foregathered in the utmost joyance with the count, whom the king had
reinstated in all his good and made greater than he ever was. Then
all, with Gautier's leave, returned to their several homes and he
until his death abode in Paris more worshipfully than ever."

[Footnote 130: _Quære_, the Count's?]



THE NINTH STORY

[Day the Second]

     BERNABO OF GENOA, DUPED BY AMBROGIUOLO, LOSETH HIS GOOD AND
     COMMANDETH THAT HIS INNOCENT WIFE BE PUT TO DEATH. SHE
     ESCAPETH AND SERVETH THE SOLDAN IN A MAN'S HABIT. HERE SHE
     LIGHTETH UPON THE DECEIVER OF HER HUSBAND AND BRINGETH THE
     LATTER TO ALEXANDRIA, WHERE, HER TRADUCER BEING PUNISHED,
     SHE RESUMETH WOMAN'S APPAREL AND RETURNETH TO GENOA WITH HER
     HUSBAND, RICH


Elisa having furnished her due with her pitiful story, Filomena the
queen, who was tall and goodly of person and smiling and agreeable of
aspect beyond any other of her sex, collecting herself, said, "Needs
must the covenant with Dioneo be observed, wherefore, there remaining
none other to tell than he and I, I will tell my story first, and he,
for that he asked it as a favour, shall be the last to speak." So
saying, she began thus, "There is a proverb oftentimes cited among the
common folk to the effect that the deceiver abideth[131] at the feet
of the deceived; the which meseemeth may by no reasoning be shown to
be true, an it approve not itself by actual occurrences. Wherefore,
whilst ensuing the appointed theme, it hath occurred to me, dearest
ladies, to show you, at the same time, that this is true, even as it
is said; nor should it mislike you to hear it, so you may know how to
keep yourselves from deceivers.

[Footnote 131: _Rimane._ The verb _rimanere_ is constantly used by the
old Italian writers in the sense of "to become," so that the proverb
cited in the text may be read "The deceiver becometh (_i.e._ findeth
himself in the end) at the feet (_i.e._ at the mercy) of the person
deceived."]

There were once at Paris in an inn certain very considerable Italian
merchants, who were come thither, according to their usance, some on
one occasion and some on another, and having one evening among others
supped all together merrily, they fell to devising of divers matters,
and passing from one discourse to another, they came at last to speak
of their wives, whom they had left at home, and one said jestingly, 'I
know not how mine doth; but this I know well, that, whenas there
cometh to my hand here any lass that pleaseth me, I leave on one side
the love I bear my wife and take of the other such pleasure as I may.'
'And I,' quoth another, 'do likewise, for that if I believe that my
wife pusheth her fortunes [in my absence,] she doth it, and if I
believe it not, still she doth it; wherefore tit for tat be it; an ass
still getteth as good as he giveth.'[132] A third, following on, came
well nigh to the same conclusion, and in brief all seemed agreed upon
this point, that the wives they left behind had no mind to lose time
in their husbands' absence. One only, who hight Bernabo Lomellini of
Genoa, maintained the contrary, avouching that he, by special grace of
God, had a lady to wife who was belike the most accomplished woman of
all Italy in all those qualities which a lady, nay, even (in great
part) in those which a knight or an esquire, should have; for that she
was fair of favour and yet in her first youth and adroit and robust of
her person; nor was there aught that pertaineth unto a woman, such as
works of broidery in silk and the like, but she did it better than any
other of her sex. Moreover, said he, there was no sewer, or in other
words, no serving-man, alive who served better or more deftly at a
nobleman's table than did she, for that she was very well bred and
exceeding wise and discreet. He after went on to extol her as knowing
better how to ride a horse and fly a hawk, to read and write and cast
a reckoning than if she were a merchant; and thence, after many other
commendations, coming to that whereof it had been discoursed among
them, he avouched with an oath that there could be found no honester
nor chaster woman than she; wherefore he firmly believed that, should
he abide half a score years, or even always, from home, she would
never incline to the least levity with another man. Among the
merchants who discoursed thus was a young man called Ambrogiuolo of
Piacenza, who fell to making the greatest mock in the world of this
last commendation bestowed by Bernabo upon his wife and asked him
scoffingly if the emperor had granted him that privilege over and
above all other men. Bernabo, some little nettled, replied that not
the emperor, but God, who could somewhat more than the emperor, had
vouchsafed him the favour in question. Whereupon quoth Ambrogiuolo,
'Bernabo, I doubt not a whit but that thou thinkest to say sooth; but
meseemeth thou hast paid little regard to the nature of things; for
that, hadst thou taken heed thereunto, I deem thee not so dull of wit
but thou wouldst have noted therein certain matters which had made
thee speak more circumspectly on this subject. And that thou mayst not
think that we, who have spoken much at large of our wives, believe
that we have wives other or otherwise made than thine, but mayst see
that we spoke thus, moved by natural perception, I will e'en reason
with thee a little on this matter. I have always understood man to be
the noblest animal created of God among mortals, and after him, woman;
but man, as is commonly believed and as is seen by works, is the more
perfect and having more perfection, must without fail have more of
firmness and constancy, for that women universally are more
changeable; the reason whereof might be shown by many natural
arguments, which for the present I purpose to leave be. If then man be
of more stability and yet cannot keep himself, let alone from
complying with a woman who soliciteth him, but even from desiring one
who pleaseth him, nay more, from doing what he can, so he may avail to
be with her,--and if this betide him not once a month, but a thousand
times a day,--what canst thou expect a woman, naturally unstable, to
avail against the prayers, the blandishments, the gifts and a thousand
other means which an adroit man, who loveth her, will use? Thinkest
thou she can hold out? Certes, how much soever thou mayst affirm it,
I believe not that thou believest it; and thou thyself sayst that thy
wife is a woman and that she is of flesh and blood, as are other
women. If this be so, those same desires must be hers and the same
powers that are in other women to resist these natural appetites;
wherefore, however honest she be, it is possible she may do that which
other women do; and nothing that is possible she be so peremptorily
denied nor the contrary thereof affirmed with such rigour as thou
dost.' To which Bernabo made answer, saying, 'I am a merchant, and not
a philosopher, and as a merchant I will answer; and I say that I
acknowledge that what thou sayst may happen to foolish women in whom
there is no shame; but those who are discreet are so careful of their
honour that for the guarding thereof they become stronger than men,
who reck not of this; and of those thus fashioned is my wife.'
'Indeed,' rejoined Ambrogiuolo, 'if, for every time they occupy
themselves with toys of this kind, there sprouted from their foreheads
a horn to bear witness of that which they have done, there be few, I
believe, who would incline thereto; but, far from the horn sprouting,
there appeareth neither trace nor token thereof in those who are
discreet, and shame and soil of honour consist not but in things
discovered; wherefore, whenas they may secretly, they do it, or, if
they forebear, it is for stupidity. And have thou this for certain
that she alone is chaste, who hath either never been solicited of any
or who, having herself solicited, hath not been hearkened. And
although I know by natural and true reasons that it is e'en as I say,
yet should I not speak thereof with so full an assurance, had I not
many a time and with many women made essay thereof. And this I tell
thee, that, were I near this most sanctified wife of thine, I warrant
me I would in brief space of time bring her to that which I have
already gotten of other women.' Whereupon quoth Bernabo, 'Disputing
with words might be prolonged without end; thou wouldst say and I
should say, and in the end it would all amount to nothing. But, since
thou wilt have it that all women are so compliant and that thine
address is such, I am content, so I may certify thee of my wife's
honesty, to have my head cut off, and thou canst anywise avail to
bring her to do thy pleasure in aught of the kind; and if thou fail
thereof, I will have thee lose no otherwhat than a thousand gold
florins.' 'Bernabo,' replied Ambrogiuolo, who was now grown heated
over the dispute, 'I know not what I should do with thy blood, if I
won the wager; but, an thou have a mind to see proof of that which I
have advanced, do thou stake five thousand gold florins of thy monies,
which should be less dear to thee than thy head, against a thousand of
mine, and whereas thou settest no limit [of time,] I will e'en bind
myself to go to Genoa and within three months from the day of my
departure hence to have done my will of thy wife and to bring back
with me, in proof thereof, sundry of her most precious things and such
and so many tokens that thou shalt thyself confess it to be truth, so
verily thou wilt pledge me thy faith not to come to Genoa within that
term nor write her aught of the matter.' Bernabo said that it liked
him well and albeit the other merchants endeavoured to hinder the
affair, foreseeing that sore mischief might come thereof, the two
merchants' minds were so inflamed that, in despite of the rest, they
bound themselves one to other by express writings under their hands.
This done, Bernabo abode behind, whilst Ambrogiuolo, as quickliest he
might, betook himself to Genoa. There he abode some days and informing
himself with the utmost precaution of the name of the street where the
lady dwelt and of her manner of life, understood of her that and more
than that which he had heard of her from Bernabo, wherefore himseemed
he was come on a fool's errand. However, he presently clapped up an
acquaintance with a poor woman, who was much about the house and whose
great well-wisher the lady was, and availing not to induce her to
aught else, he debauched her with money and prevailed with her to
bring him, in a chest wroughten after a fashion of his own, not only
into the house, but into the gentlewoman's very bedchamber, where,
according to the ordinance given her of him, the good woman commended
it to her care for some days, as if she had a mind to go somewhither.
The chest, then being left in the chamber and the night come,
Ambrogiuolo, what time he judged the lady to be asleep, opened the
chest with certain engines of his and came softly out into the
chamber, where there was a light burning, with whose aid he proceeded
to observe the ordinance of the place, the paintings and every other
notable thing that was therein and fixed them in his memory. Then,
drawing near the bed and perceiving that the lady and a little girl,
who was with her, were fast asleep, he softly altogether uncovered the
former and found that she was as fair, naked, as clad, but saw no sign
about her that he might carry away, save one, to wit, a mole which she
had under the left pap and about which were sundry little hairs as red
as gold. This noted he covered her softly up again, albeit, seeing her
so fair, he was tempted to adventure his life and lay himself by her
side; however, for that he had heard her to be so obdurate and
uncomplying in matters of this kind, he hazarded not himself, but,
abiding at his leisure in the chamber the most part of the night, took
from one of her coffers a purse and a night-rail, together with sundry
rings and girdles, and laying them all in his chest, returned thither
himself and shut himself up therein as before; and on this wise he did
two nights, without the lady being ware of aught. On the third day the
good woman came back for the chest, according to the given ordinance,
and carried it off whence she had taken it, whereupon Ambrogiuolo came
out and having rewarded her according to promise, returned, as
quickliest he might, with the things aforesaid, to Paris, where he
arrived before the term appointed. There he summoned the merchants who
had been present at the dispute and the laying of the wager and
declared, in Bernabo's presence, that he had won the wager laid
between them, for that he had accomplished that whereof he had vaunted
himself; and to prove this to be true, he first described the fashion
of the chamber and the paintings thereof and after showed the things
he had brought with him thence, avouching that he had them of herself.
Bernabo confessed the chamber to be as he had said and owned,
moreover, that he recognized the things in question as being in truth
his wife's; but said that he might have learned from one of the
servants of the house the fashion of the chamber and have gotten the
things in like manner; wherefore, an he had nought else to say,
himseemed not that this should suffice to prove him to have won.
Whereupon quoth Ambrogiuolo, 'In sooth this should suffice, but, since
thou wilt have me say more, I will say it. I tell thee that Madam
Ginevra thy wife hath under her left pap a pretty big mole, about
which are maybe half a dozen little hairs as red as gold.' When
Bernabo heard this, it was as if he had gotten a knife-thrust in the
heart, such anguish did he feel, and though he had said not a word,
his countenance, being all changed, gave very manifest token that what
Ambrogiuolo said was true. Then, after awhile, 'Gentlemen,' quoth he,
'that which Ambrogiuolo saith is true; wherefore, he having won, let
him come whenassoever it pleaseth him and he shall be paid.'
Accordingly, on the ensuing day Ambrogiuolo was paid in full and
Bernabo, departing Paris, betook himself to Genoa with fell intent
against the lady. When he drew near the city, he would not enter
therein, but lighted down a good score miles away at a country house
of his and despatched one of his servants, in whom he much trusted, to
Genoa with two horses and letters under his hand, advising his wife
that he had returned and bidding her come to him; and he privily
charged the man, whenas he should be with the lady in such place as
should seem best to him, to put her to death without pity and return
to him. The servant accordingly repaired to Genoa and delivering the
letters and doing his errand, was received with great rejoicing by the
lady, who on the morrow took horse with him and set out for their
country house. As they fared on together, discoursing of one thing and
another, they came to a very deep and lonely valley, beset with high
rocks and trees, which seeming to the servant a place wherein he
might, with assurance for himself, do his lord's commandment, he
pulled out his knife and taking the lady by the arm, said, 'Madam,
commend your soul to God, for needs must you die, without faring
farther.' The lady, seeing the knife and hearing these words, was all
dismayed and said, 'Mercy, for God's sake! Ere thou slay me, tell me
wherein I have offended thee, that thou wouldst put me to death.'
'Madam,' answered the man, 'me you have nowise offended; but wherein
you have offended your husband I know not, save that he hath commanded
me slay you by the way, without having any pity upon you, threatening
me, an I did it not, to have me hanged by the neck. You know well how
much I am beholden to him and how I may not gainsay him in aught that
he may impose upon me; God knoweth it irketh me for you, but I can no
otherwise.' Whereupon quoth the lady, weeping, 'Alack, for God's sake,
consent not to become the murderer of one who hath never wronged thee,
to serve another! God who knoweth all knoweth that I never did aught
for which I should receive such a recompense from my husband. But let
that be; thou mayst, an thou wilt, at once content God and thy master
and me, on this wise; to wit, that thou take these my clothes and give
me but thy doublet and a hood and with the former return to my lord
and thine and tell him that thou hast slain me; and I swear to thee,
by that life which thou wilt have bestowed on me, that I will remove
hence and get me gone into a country whence never shall any news of me
win either to him or to thee or into these parts.' The servant, who
was loath to slay her, was lightly moved to compassion; wherefore he
took her clothes and give her a sorry doublet of his and a hood,
leaving her sundry monies she had with her. Then praying her depart
the country, he left her in the valley and afoot and betook himself to
his master, to whom he avouched that not only was his commandment
accomplished, but that he had left the lady's dead body among a pack
of wolves, and Bernabo presently returned to Genoa, where the thing
becoming known, he was much blamed. As for the lady, she abode alone
and disconsolate till nightfall, when she disguised herself as most
she might and repaired to a village hard by, where, having gotten from
an old woman that which she needed, she fitted the doublet to her
shape and shortening it, made a pair of linen breeches of her shift;
then, having cut her hair and altogether transformed herself in the
guise of a sailor, she betook herself to the sea-shore, where, as
chance would have it, she found a Catalan gentleman, by name Senor
Encararch, who had landed at Alba from a ship he had in the offing, to
refresh himself at a spring there. With him she entered into parley
and engaging with him as a servant, embarked on board the ship, under
the name of Sicurano da Finale. There, being furnished by the
gentleman with better clothes, she proceeded to serve him so well and
so aptly that she became in the utmost favour with him. No great while
after it befell that the Catalan made a voyage to Alexandria with a
lading of his and carrying thither certain peregrine falcons for the
Soldan, presented them to him. The Soldan, having once and again
entertained him at meat and noting with approof the fashions of
Sicurano, who still went serving him, begged him[133] of his master,
who yielded him to him, although it irked him to do it, and Sicurano,
in a little while, by his good behaviour, gained the love and favour
of the Soldan, even as he had gained that of the Catalan. Wherefore,
in process of time, it befell that,--the time coming for a great
assemblage, in the guise of a fair, of merchants, both Christian and
Saracen, which was wont at a certain season of the year to be held in
Acre, a town under the seignory of the Soldan, and to which, in order
that the merchants and their merchandise might rest secure, the latter
was still used to despatch, besides other his officers, some one of
his chief men, with troops, to look to the guard,--he bethought
himself to send Sicurano, who was by this well versed in the language
of the country, on this service; and so he did. Sicurano accordingly
came to Acre as governor and captain of the guard of the merchants and
their merchandise and there well and diligently doing that which
pertained to his office and going round looking about him, saw many
merchants there, Sicilians and Pisans and Genoese and Venetians and
other Italians, with whom he was fain to make acquaintance, in
remembrance of his country. It befell, one time amongst others, that,
having lighted down at the shop of certain Venetian merchants, he
espied among other trinkets, a purse and a girdle, which he
straightway knew for having been his and marvelled thereat; but,
without making any sign, he carelessly asked to whom they pertained
and if they were for sale. Now Ambrogiuolo of Piacenza was come
thither with much merchandise on board a Venetian ship and hearing the
captain of the guard ask whose the trinkets were, came forward and
said, laughing, 'Sir, the things are mine and I do not sell them; but,
if they please you, I will gladly give them to you.' Sicurano, seeing
him laugh, misdoubted he had recognized him by some gesture of his;
but yet, keeping a steady countenance, he said, 'Belike thou laughest
to see me, a soldier, go questioning of these women's toys?' 'Sir,'
answered Ambrogiuolo, 'I laugh not at that; nay, but at the way I came
by them.' 'Marry, then,' said Sicurano, 'an it be not unspeakable,
tell me how thou gottest them, so God give thee good luck.' Quoth
Ambrogiuolo, 'Sir, a gentlewoman of Genoa, hight Madam Ginevra, wife
of Bernabo Lomellini, gave me these things, with certain others, one
night that I lay with her, and prayed me keep them for the love of
her. Now I laugh for that I mind me of the simplicity of Bernabo, who
was fool enough to lay five thousand florins to one that I would not
bring his wife to do my pleasure; the which I did and won the wager;
whereupon he, who should rather have punished himself for his
stupidity than her for doing that which all women do, returned from
Paris to Genoa and there, by what I have since heard, caused her put
to death.' Sicurano, hearing this, understood forthwith what was the
cause of Bernabo's anger against his wife[134] and manifestly
perceiving this fellow to have been the occasion of all her ills,
determined not to let him go unpunished therefor. Accordingly he
feigned to be greatly diverted with the story and artfully clapped up
a strait acquaintance with him, insomuch that, the fair being ended,
Ambrogiuolo, at his instance, accompanied him, with all his good, to
Alexandria. Here Sicurano let build him a warehouse and lodged in his
hands store of his own monies; and Ambrogiuolo, foreseeing great
advantage to himself, willingly took up his abode there. Meanwhile,
Sicurano, careful to make Bernabo clear of his[135] innocence, rested
not till, by means of certain great Genoese merchants who were then in
Alexandria, he had, on some plausible occasion of his[136] own
devising, caused him come thither, where finding him in poor enough
case, he had him privily entertained by a friend of his[137] against
it should seem to him[138] time to do that which he purposed. Now he
had already made Ambrogiuolo recount his story before the Soldan for
the latter's diversion; but seeing Bernabo there and thinking there
was no need to use farther delay in the matter, he took occasion to
procure the Soldan to have Ambrogiuolo and Bernabo brought before him
and in the latter's presence, to extort from the former, by dint of
severity, an it might not easily be done [by other means,] the truth
of that whereof he vaunted himself concerning Bernabo's wife.
Accordingly, they both being come, the Soldan, in the presence of
many, with a stern countenance commanded Ambrogiuolo to tell the truth
how he had won of Bernabo the five thousand gold florins; and Sicurano
himself, in whom he most trusted, with a yet angrier aspect,
threatened him with the most grievous torments, an he told it not;
whereupon Ambrogiuolo, affrighted on one side and another and in a
measure constrained, in the presence of Bernabo and many others,
plainly related everything, even as it passed, expecting no worse
punishment therefor than the restitution of the five thousand gold
florins and of the stolen trinkets. He having spoken, Sicurano, as he
were the Soldan's minister in the matter, turned to Bernabo and said
to him, 'And thou, what didst thou to thy lady for this lie?' Whereto
Bernabo replied, 'Overcome with wrath for the loss of my money and
with resentment for the shame which meseemed I had gotten from my
wife, I caused a servant of mine put her to death, and according to
that which he reported to me, she was straightway devoured by a
multitude of wolves,' These things said in the presence of the Soldan
and all heard and apprehended of him, albeit he knew not yet to what
end Sicurano, who had sought and ordered this, would fain come, the
latter said to him, 'My lord, you may very clearly see how much reason
yonder poor lady had to vaunt herself of her gallant and her husband,
for that the former at once bereaved her of honour, marring her fair
fame with lies, and despoiled her husband, whilst the latter more
credulous of others' falsehoods than of the truth which he might by
long experience have known, caused her to be slain and eaten of
wolves; and moreover, such is the goodwill and the love borne her by
the one and the other that, having long abidden with her, neither of
them knoweth her. But that you may the better apprehend that which
each of these hath deserved, I will,--so but you vouchsafe me, of
special favour to punish the deceiver and pardon the dupe,--e'en cause
her come hither into your and their presence.' The Soldan, disposed in
the matter altogether to comply with Sicurano's wishes, answered that
he would well and bade him produce the lady; whereat Bernabo marvelled
exceedingly, for that he firmly believed her to be dead, whilst
Ambrogiuolo, now divining his danger, began to be in fear of worse
than paying of monies and knew not whether more to hope or to fear
from the coming of the lady, but awaited her appearance with the
utmost amazement. The Soldan, then, having accorded Sicurano his wish,
the latter threw himself, weeping, on his knees before him and putting
off, as it were at one and the same time, his manly voice and
masculine demeanour, said, 'My lord, I am the wretched misfortunate
Ginevra, who have these six years gone wandering in man's disguise
about the world, having been foully and wickedly aspersed by this
traitor Ambrogiuolo and given by yonder cruel and unjust man to one
of his servants to be slain and eaten of wolves.' Then, tearing open
the fore part of her clothes and showing her breast, she discovered
herself to the Soldan and all else who were present and after, turning
to Ambrogiuolo, indignantly demanded of him when he had ever lain with
her, according as he had aforetime boasted; but he, now knowing her
and fallen well nigh dumb for shame, said nothing. The Soldan, who had
always held her a man, seeing and hearing this, fell into such a
wonderment that he more than once misdoubted that which he saw and
heard to be rather a dream than true. However, after his amazement had
abated, apprehending the truth of the matter, he lauded to the utmost
the life and fashions of Ginevra, till then called Sicurano, and
extolled her constancy and virtue; and letting bring her very
sumptuous woman's apparel and women to attend her, he pardoned
Bernabo, in accordance with her request, the death he had merited,
whilst the latter, recognizing her, cast himself at her feet, weeping
and craving forgiveness, which she, ill worthy as he was thereof,
graciously accorded him and raising him to his feet, embraced him
tenderly, as her husband. Then the Soldan commanded that Ambrogiuolo
should incontinent be bound to a stake and smeared with honey and
exposed to the sun in some high place of the city, nor should ever be
loosed thence till such time as he should fall of himself; and so was
it done. After this he commanded that all that had belonged to him
should be given to the lady, the which was not so little but that it
outvalued ten thousand doubloons. Moreover, he let make a very goodly
banquet, wherein he entertained Bernabo with honour, as Madam
Ginevra's husband, and herself as a very valiant lady and gave her, in
jewels and vessels of gold and silver and monies, that which amounted
to better[139] than other ten thousand doubloons. Then, the banquet
over, he caused equip them a ship and gave them leave to return at
their pleasure to Genoa, whither accordingly they returned with great
joyance and exceeding rich; and there they were received with the
utmost honour, especially Madam Ginevra, who was of all believed to be
dead and who, while she lived, was still reputed of great worth and
virtue. As for Ambrogiuolo, being that same day bounded to the stake
and anointed with honey, he was, to his exceeding torment, not only
slain, but devoured, of the flies and wasps and gadflies, wherewith
that country aboundeth, even to the bones, which latter, waxed white
and hanging by the sinews, being left unremoved, long bore witness of
his villainy to all who saw them. And on this wise did the deceiver
abide at the feet of the deceived."

[Footnote 132: Lit. Whatsoever an ass giveth against a wall, such he
receiveth (_Quale asino da in parete, tal riceve_). I cannot find any
satisfactory explanation of this proverbial saying, which may be
rendered in two ways, according as _quale_ and _tale_ are taken as
relative to a thing or a person. The probable reference seems to be to
the circumstance of an ass making water against a wall, so that his
urine returns to him.]

[Footnote 133: From this point until the final discovery of her true
sex, the heroine is spoken of in the masculine gender, as became her
assumed name and habit.]

[Footnote 134: Here Boccaccio uses the feminine pronoun, immediately
afterward resuming the masculine form in speaking of Sicurano.]

[Footnote 135: _i.e._ her.]

[Footnote 136: _i.e._ her.]

[Footnote 137: _i.e._ hers.]

[Footnote 138: _i.e._ her.]

[Footnote 139: Sic (_meglio_).]



THE TENTH STORY

[Day the Second]

     PAGANINO OF MONACO STEALETH AWAY THE WIFE OF MESSER
     RICCIARDO DI CHINZICA, WHO, LEARNING WHERE SHE IS, GOETH
     THITHER AND MAKING FRIENDS WITH PAGANINO, DEMANDETH HER
     AGAIN OF HIM. THE LATTER CONCEDETH HER TO HIM, AN SHE WILL;
     BUT SHE REFUSETH TO RETURN WITH HIM AND MESSER RICCIARDO
     DYING, SHE BECOMETH THE WIFE OF PAGANINO


Each of the honourable company highly commended for goodly the story
told by their queen, especially Dioneo, with whom alone for that
present day it now rested to tell, and who, after many praises
bestowed upon the preceding tale, said, "Fair ladies, one part of the
queen's story hath caused me change counsel of telling you one that
was in my mind, and determine to tell you another,--and that is the
stupidity of Bernabo (albeit good betided him thereof) and of all
others who give themselves to believe that which he made a show of
believing and who, to wit, whilst going about the world, diverting
themselves now with this woman and now with that, imagine that the
ladies left at home abide with their hands in their girdles, as if we
knew not, we who are born and reared among the latter, unto what they
are fain. In telling you this story, I shall at once show you how
great is the folly of these folk and how greater yet is that of those
who, deeming themselves more potent than nature herself, think by dint
of sophistical inventions[140] to avail unto that which is beyond
their power and study to bring others to that which they themselves
are, whenas the complexion of those on whom they practise brooketh it
not.

[Footnote 140: Lit. fabulous demonstrations (_dimostrazioni
favolose_), casuistical arguments, founded upon premises of their own
invention.]

There was, then, in Pisa a judge, by name Messer Ricciardo di
Chinzica, more gifted with wit than with bodily strength, who,
thinking belike to satisfy a wife by the same means which served him
to despatch his studies and being very rich, sought with no little
diligence to have a fair and young lady to wife; whereas, had he but
known to counsel himself as he counselled others, he should have
shunned both the one and the other. The thing came to pass according
to his wish, for Messer Lotto Gualandi gave him to wife a daughter of
his, Bartolomea by name, one of the fairest and handsomest young
ladies of Pisa, albeit there be few there that are not very lizards to
look upon. The judge accordingly brought her home with the utmost pomp
and having held a magnificent wedding, made shift the first night to
hand her one venue for the consummation of the marriage, but came
within an ace of making a stalemate of it, whereafter, lean and dry
and scant of wind as he was, it behoved him on the morrow bring
himself back to life with malmsey and restorative confections and
other remedies. Thenceforward, being now a better judge of his own
powers than he was, he fell to teaching his wife a calendar fit for
children learning to read and belike made aforetime at Ravenna,[141]
for that, according to what he feigned to her, there was no day in the
year but was sacred not to one saint only, but to many, in reverence
of whom he showed by divers reasons that man and wife should abstain
from carnal conversation; and to these be added, to boot, fast days
and Emberdays and the vigils of the Apostles and of a thousand other
saints and Fridays and Saturdays and Lord's Day and all Lent and
certain seasons of the moon and store of other exceptions, conceiving
belike that it behoved to keep holiday with women in bed like as he
did bytimes whilst pleading in the courts of civil law. This fashion
(to the no small chagrin of the lady, whom he handled maybe once a
month, and hardly that) he followed a great while, still keeping
strait watch over her, lest peradventure some other should teach her
to know working-days, even as he had taught her holidays. Things
standing thus, it chanced that, the heat being great and Messer
Ricciardo having a mind to go a-pleasuring to a very fair country-seat
he had, near Monte Nero, and there abide some days to take the air, he
betook himself thither, carrying with him his fair lady. There
sojourning, to give her some diversion, he caused one day fish and
they went out to sea in two boats, he in one with the fishermen, and
she in another with other ladies. The sport luring them on, they
drifted some miles out to sea, well nigh without perceiving it, and
whilst they were intent upon their diversion, there came up of a
sudden a galliot belonging to Paganino da Mare, a famous corsair of
those days. The latter, espying the boats, made for them, nor could
they flee so fast but he overtook that in which were the women and
seeing therein the judge's fair lady, he carried her aboard the
galliot, in full sight of Messer Ricciardo, who was now come to land,
and made off without recking of aught else. When my lord judge, who
was so jealous that he misdoubted of the very air, saw this, it
booteth not to ask if he was chagrined; and in vain, both at Pisa and
otherwhere, did he complain of the villainy of the corsairs, for that
he knew not who had taken his wife from him nor whither he had carried
her. As for Paganino, finding her so fair, he deemed himself in luck
and having no wife, resolved to keep her for himself. Accordingly,
seeing her weeping sore, he studied to comfort her with soft words
till nightfall, when, his calendar having dropped from his girdle and
saints' days and holidays gone clean out of his head, he fell to
comforting her with deeds, himseeming that words had availed little by
day; and after such a fashion did he console her that, ere they came
to Monaco, the judge and his ordinances had altogether escaped her
mind and she began to lead the merriest of lives with Paganino. The
latter carried her to Monaco and there, over and above the
consolations with which he plied her night and day, he entreated her
honourably as his wife. After awhile it came to Messer Ricciardo's
ears where his wife was and he, being possessed with the most ardent
desire to have her again and bethinking himself that none other might
thoroughly suffice to do what was needful to that end, resolved to go
thither himself, determined to spend any quantity of money for her
ransom. Accordingly he set out by sea and coming to Monaco, there both
saw and was seen of the lady, who told it to Paganino that same
evening and acquainted him with her intent. Next morning Messer
Ricciardo, seeing Paganino, accosted him and quickly clapped up a
great familiarity and friendship with him, whilst the other feigned
not to know him and waited to see at what he aimed. Accordingly,
whenas it seemed to him time, Messer Ricciardo discovered to him, as
best and most civilly he knew, the occasion of his coming and prayed
him take what he pleased and restore him the lady. To which Paganino
made answer with a cheerful countenance, 'Sir, you are welcome, and to
answer you briefly, I say thus; it is true I have a young lady in my
house, if she be your wife or another's I know not, for that I know
you not nor indeed her, save in so much as she hath abidden awhile
with me. If you be, as you say, her husband, I will, since you seem to
me a civil gentleman, carry you to her and I am assured that she will
know you right well. If she say it is as you avouch and be willing to
go with you, you shall, for the sake of your civility, give me what
you yourself will to her ransom; but, an it be not so, you would do
ill to seek to take her from me, for that I am a young man and can
entertain a woman as well as another, and especially such an one as
she, who is the most pleasing I ever saw.' Quoth Messer Ricciardo,
'For certain she is my wife, an thou bring me where she is, thou shalt
soon see it; for she will incontinent throw herself on my neck;
wherefore I ask no better than that it be as thou proposest.' 'Then,'
said Paganino, 'let us be going.' Accordingly they betook themselves
to the corsair's house, where he brought the judge into a saloon of
his and let call the lady, who issued forth of a chamber, all dressed
and tired, and came whereas they were, but accosted Messer Ricciardo
no otherwise than as she would any other stranger who might have come
home with Paganino. The judge, who looked to have been received by her
with the utmost joy, marvelled sore at this and fell a-saying in
himself, 'Belike the chagrin and long grief I have suffered, since I
lost her, have so changed me that she knoweth me not.' Wherefore he
said to her, 'Wife, it hath cost me dear to carry thee a-fishing, for
that never was grief felt like that which I have suffered since I lost
thee, and now meseemeth thou knowest me not, so distantly dost thou
greet me. Seest thou not that I am thine own Messer Ricciardo, come
hither to pay that which this gentleman, in whose house we are, shall
require to thy ransom and to carry thee away? And he, of his favour,
restoreth thee to me for what I will.' The lady turned to him and
said, smiling somewhat, 'Speak you to me, sir? Look you mistake me
not, for, for my part, I mind me not ever to have seen you.' Quoth
Ricciardo, 'Look what thou sayest; consider me well; an thou wilt but
recollect thyself, thou wilt see that I am thine own Ricciardo di
Chinzica.' 'Sir,' answered the lady, 'you will pardon me; belike it is
not so seemly a thing as you imagine for me to look much on you.
Nevertheless I have seen enough of you to know that I never before set
eyes on you.' Ricciardo, concluding that she did this for fear of
Paganino and chose not to confess to knowing him in the latter's
presence, besought him of his favour that he might speak with her in a
room alone. Paganino replied that he would well, so but he would not
kiss her against her will, and bade the lady go with him into a
chamber and there hear what he had to say and answer him as it should
please her. Accordingly the lady and Messer Ricciardo went into a room
apart and as soon as they were seated, the latter began to say,
'Alack, heart of my body, sweet my soul and my hope, knowest thou not
thy Ricciardo, who loveth thee more than himself? How can this be? Am
I so changed? Prithee, fair mine eye, do but look on me a little.' The
lady began to laugh and without letting him say more, replied, 'You
may be assured that I am not so scatterbrained but that I know well
enough you are Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica, my husband; but, what
time I was with you, you showed that you knew me very ill, for that
you should have had the sense to see that I was young and lusty and
gamesome and should consequently have known that which behoveth unto
young ladies, over and above clothes and meat, albeit for
shamefastness they name it not; the which how you performed, you know.
If the study of the laws was more agreeable to you than your wife, you
should not have taken her, albeit it never appeared to me that you
were a judge; nay, you seemed to me rather a common crier of saints'
days and sacraments and fasts and vigils, so well you knew them. And I
tell you this, that, had you suffered the husbandmen who till your
lands keep as many holidays as you allowed him who had the tilling of
my poor little field, you would never have reaped the least grain of
corn. However, as God, having compassion on my youth, hath willed it,
I have happened on yonder man, with whom I abide in this chamber,
wherein it is unknown what manner of thing is a holiday (I speak of
those holidays which you, more assiduous in the service of God than in
that of the ladies, did so diligently celebrate) nor ever yet entered
in at this door Saturday nor Friday nor vigil nor Emberday nor Lent,
that is so long; nay, here swink we day and night and thump our wool;
and this very night after matinsong, I know right well how the thing
went, once he was up. Wherefore I mean to abide with him and work;
whilst I am young, and leave saints' days and jubilees and fasts for
my keeping when I am old; so get you gone about your business as
quickliest you may, good luck go with you, and keep as many holidays
as you please, without me.' Messer Ricciardo, hearing these words, was
distressed beyond endurance and said, whenas he saw she had made an
end of speaking. 'Alack, sweet my soul, what is this thou sayest? Hast
thou no regard for thy kinsfolk's honour and thine own? Wilt thou
rather abide here for this man's whore and in mortal sin than at Pisa
as my wife? He, when he is weary of thee, will turn thee away to thine
own exceeding reproach, whilst I will still hold thee dear and still
(e'en though I willed it not) thou shalt be mistress of my house. Wilt
thou for the sake of a lewd and disorderly appetite, forsake thine
honour and me, who love thee more than my life? For God's sake, dear
my hope, speak no more thus, but consent to come with me; henceforth,
since I know thy desire, I will enforce myself [to content it;]
wherefore, sweet my treasure, change counsel and come away with me,
who have never known weal since thou wast taken from me.' Whereto
answered the lady, 'I have no mind that any, now that it availeth not,
should be more tender of my honour than I myself; would my kinsfolk
had had regard thereto, whenas they gave me to you! But, as they had
then no care for my honour, I am under no present concern to be
careful of theirs; and if I am herein _mortar_[142] sin, I shall abide
though it be in pestle[142] sin. And let me tell you that here
meseemeth I am Paganino's wife, whereas at Pisa meseemed I was your
whore, seeing that there, by season of the moon and quadratures of
geometry, needs must be planets concur to couple betwixt you and me,
whereas here Paganino holdeth me all night in his arms and straineth
me and biteth me, and how he serveth me, let God tell you for me. You
say forsooth you will enforce yourself; to what? To do it in three
casts and cause it stand by dint of cudgelling? I warrant me you are
grown a doughty cavalier since I saw you last! Begone and enforce
yourself to live, for methinketh indeed you do but sojourn here below
upon sufferance, so peaked and scant o' wind you show to me. And yet
more I tell you, that, should he leave me (albeit meseemeth he is
nowise inclined thereto, so I choose to stay,) I purpose not therefor
ever to return to you, of whom squeeze you as I might, there were no
making a porringer of sauce; for that I abode with you once to my
grievous hurt and loss, wherefore in such a case I should seek my
vantage elsewhere. Nay, once again I tell you, here be neither saints'
days nor vigils; wherefore here I mean to abide; so get you gone in
God's name as quickliest you may, or I will cry out that you would
fain force me.' Messer Ricciardo, seeing himself in ill case and now
recognizing his folly in taking a young wife, whenas he was himself
forspent, went forth the chamber tristful and woebegone, and bespoke
Paganino with many words, that skilled not a jot. Ultimately, leaving
the lady, he returned to Pisa, without having accomplished aught, and
there for chagrin fell into such dotage that, as he went about Pisa,
to whoso greeted him or asked him of anywhat, he answered nought but
'The ill hole[143] will have no holidays;'[144] and there, no great
while after, he died. Paganino, hearing this and knowing the love the
lady bore himself, espoused her to his lawful wife and thereafter,
without ever observing saints' day or vigil or keeping Lent, they
wrought what while their legs would carry them and led a jolly life of
it. Wherefore, dear my ladies, meseemeth Bernabo, in his dispute with
Ambrogiuolo, rode the she-goat down the steep."[145]

[Footnote 141: According to one of the commentators of the Decameron,
there are as many churches at Ravenna as days in the year and each day
is there celebrated as that of some saint or other.]

[Footnote 142: A trifling jingle upon the similarity in sound of the
words _mortale_ (mortal), _mortaio_ (mortar), _pestello_ (pestle), and
_pestilente_ (pestilential). The same word-play occurs at least once
more in the Decameron.]

[Footnote 143: _Il mal foro_, a woman's commodity (Florio).]

[Footnote 144: _i.e._ _Cunnus nonvult feriari._ Some commentators
propose to read _il mal furo_, the ill thief, supposing Ricciardo to
allude to Paganino, but this seems far-fetched.]

[Footnote 145: _i.e. semble_ ran headlong to destruction. The
commentators explain this proverbial expression by saying that a
she-goat is in any case a hazardous mount, and _a fortiori_ when
ridden down a precipice; but this seems a somewhat "sporting" kind of
interpretation.]

       *       *       *       *       *

This story gave such occasion for laughter to all the company that
there was none whose jaws ached not therefor, and all the ladies
avouched with one accord that Dioneo spoke sooth and that Bernabo had
been an ass. But, after the story was ended and the laughter abated,
the queen, observing that the hour was now late and that all had told
and seeing that the end of her seignory was come, according to the
ordinance commenced, took the wreath from her own head and set it on
that of Neifile, saying, with a blithe aspect, "Henceforth, companion
dear, be thine the governance of this little people"; and reseated
herself. Neifile blushed a little at the honour received and became in
countenance like as showeth a new-blown rose of April or of May in the
breaking of the day, with lovesome eyes some little downcast,
sparkling no otherwise than the morning-star. But, after the courteous
murmur of the bystanders, whereby they gladsomely approved their
goodwill towards the new-made queen, had abated and she had taken
heart again, she seated herself somewhat higher than of wont and said,
"Since I am to be your queen, I will, departing not from the manner
holden of those who have foregone me and whose governance you have by
your obedience commended, make manifest to you in few words my
opinion, which, an it be approved by your counsel, we will ensue.
To-morrow, as you know, is Friday and the next day is Saturday, days
which, by reason of the viands that are used therein,[146] are
somewhat irksome to most folk, more by token that Friday, considering
that He who died for our life on that day suffered passion, is worthy
of reverence; wherefore I hold it a just thing and a seemly that, in
honour of the Divinity, we apply ourselves rather to orisons than to
story-telling. As for Saturday, it is the usance of ladies on that day
to wash their heads and do away all dust and all uncleanliness
befallen them for the labours of the past week; and many, likewise,
use, in reverence of the Virgin Mother of the Son of God, to fast and
rest from all manner of work in honour of the ensuing Sunday.
Wherefore, we being unable fully to ensue the order of living taken by
us, on like wise methinketh we were well to rest from story-telling on
that day also; after which, for that we shall then have sojourned here
four days, I hold it opportune, an we would give no occasion for
newcomers to intrude upon us, that we remove hence and get us gone
elsewhither; where I have already considered and provided. There when
we shall be assembled together on Sunday, after sleeping,--we having
to-day had leisure enough for discoursing at large,[147]--I have
bethought myself,--at once that you may have more time to consider and
because it will be yet goodlier that the license of our story-telling
be somewhat straitened and that we devise of one of the many fashions
of fortune,--that our discourse shall be OF SUCH AS HAVE, BY DINT OF
DILIGENCE,[148] ACQUIRED SOME MUCH DESIRED THING OR RECOVERED SOME
LOST GOOD. Whereupon let each think to tell somewhat that may be
useful or at least entertaining to the company, saving always Dioneo
his privilege." All commended the speech and disposition of the queen
and ordained that it should be as she had said. Then, calling for her
seneschal, she particularly instructed him where he should set the
tables that evening and after of what he should do during all the time
of her seignory; and this done, rising to her feet, she gave the
company leave to do that which was most pleasing unto each.
Accordingly, ladies and men betook themselves to a little garden and
there, after they had disported themselves awhile, the hour of supper
being come, they supped with mirth and pleasance; then, all arising
thence and Emilia, by the queen's commandment, leading the round, the
ditty following was sung by Pampinea, whilst the other ladies
responded:

     What lady aye should sing, and if not I,
     Who'm blest with all for which a maid can sigh?
     Come then, O Love, thou source of all my weal,
       All hope and every issue glad and bright
         Sing ye awhile yfere
     Of sighs nor bitter pains I erst did feel,
       That now but sweeten to me thy delight,
       Nay, but of that fire clear,
       Wherein I, burning, live in joy and cheer,
     And as my God, thy name do magnify.

     Thou settest, Love, before these eyes of mine
       Whenas thy fire I entered the first day,
         A youngling so beseen
     With valour, worth and loveliness divine,
       That never might one find a goodlier, nay,
         Nor yet his match, I ween.
         So sore I burnt for him I still must e'en
     Sing, blithe, of him with thee, my lord most high.

     And that in him which crowneth my liesse
       Is that I please him, as he pleaseth me,
         Thanks to Love debonair;
     Thus in this world my wish I do possess
       And in the next I trust at peace to be,
         Through that fast faith I bear
         To him; sure God, who seeth this, will ne'er
     The kingdom of His bliss to us deny.

[Footnote 146: _i.e._ Friday being a fast day and Saturday a _jour
maigre_.]

[Footnote 147: _i.e._ generally upon the vicissitudes of Fortune and
not upon any particular feature.]

[Footnote 148: _Industria_, syn. address, skilful contrivance.]

After this they sang sundry other songs and danced sundry dances and
played upon divers instruments of music. Then, the queen deeming it
time to go to rest, each betook himself, with torches before him, to
his chamber, and all on the two following days, whilst applying
themselves to those things whereof the queen had spoken, looked
longingly for Sunday.


HERE ENDETH THE SECOND DAY
OF THE DECAMERON



_Day the Third_

     HERE BEGINNETH THE THIRD DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER
     THE GOVERNANCE OF NEIFILE IS DISCOURSED OF SUCH AS HAVE BY
     DINT OF DILIGENCE ACQUIRED SOME MUCH DESIRED THING OR
     RECOVERED SOME LOST GOOD


The dawn from vermeil began to grow orange-tawny, at the approach of
the sun, when on the Sunday the queen arose and caused all her company
rise also. The seneschal had a great while before despatched to the
place whither they were to go store of things needful and folk who
should there make ready that which behoved, and seeing the queen now
on the way, straightway let load everything else, as if the camp were
raised thence, and with the household stuff and such of the servants
as remained set out in rear of the ladies and gentlemen. The queen,
then, with slow step, accompanied and followed by her ladies and the
three young men and guided by the song of some score nightingales and
other birds, took her way westward, by a little-used footpath, full of
green herbs and flowers, which latter now all began to open for the
coming sun, and chatting, jesting and laughing with her company,
brought them a while before half tierce,[149] without having gone over
two thousand paces, to a very fair and rich palace, somewhat upraised
above the plain upon a little knoll. Here they entered and having gone
all about and viewed the great saloons and the quaint and elegant
chambers all throughly furnished with that which pertaineth thereunto,
they mightily commended the place and accounted its lord magnificent.
Then, going below and seeing the very spacious and cheerful court
thereof, the cellars full of choicest wines and the very cool water
that welled there in great abundance, they praised it yet more.
Thence, as if desirous of repose, they betook themselves to sit in a
gallery which commanded all the courtyard and was all full of flowers,
such as the season afforded, and leafage, whereupon there came the
careful seneschal and entertained and refreshed them with costliest
confections and wines of choice. Thereafter, letting open to them a
garden, all walled about, which coasted the palace, they entered
therein and it seeming to them, at their entering, altogether[150]
wonder-goodly, they addressed themselves more intently to view the
particulars thereof. It had about it and athwart the middle very
spacious alleys, all straight as arrows and embowered with trellises
of vines, which made great show of bearing abundance of grapes that
year and being then all in blossom, yielded so rare a savour about the
garden, that, as it blent with the fragrance of many another
sweet-smelling plant that there gave scent, themseemed they were among
all the spiceries that ever grew in the Orient. The sides of these
alleys were all in a manner walled about with roses, red and white,
and jessamine, wherefore not only of a morning, but what while the sun
was highest, one might go all about, untouched thereby, neath
odoriferous and delightsome shade. What and how many and how orderly
disposed were the plants that grew in that place, it were tedious to
recount; suffice it that there is none goodly of those which may brook
our air but was there in abundance. Amiddleward the garden (what was
not less, but yet more commendable than aught else there) was a plat
of very fine grass, so green that it seemed well nigh black, enamelled
all with belike a thousand kinds of flowers and closed about with the
greenest and lustiest of orange and citron trees, the which, bearing
at once old fruits and new and flowers, not only afforded the eyes a
pleasant shade, but were no less grateful to the smell. Midmost the
grass-plat was a fountain of the whitest marble, enchased with
wonder-goodly sculptures, and thence,--whether I know not from a
natural or an artificial source,--there sprang, by a figure that stood
on a column in its midst, so great a jet of water and so high towards
the sky, whence not without a delectable sound it fell back into the
wonder-limpid fount, that a mill might have wrought with less; the
which after (I mean the water which overflowed the full basin) issued
forth of the lawn by a hidden way, and coming to light therewithout,
encompassed it all about by very goodly and curiously wroughten
channels. Thence by like channels it ran through well nigh every part
of the pleasance and was gathered again at the last in a place whereby
it had issue from the fair garden and whence it descended, in the
clearest of streams, towards the plain; but, ere it won thither, it
turned two mills with exceeding power and to the no small vantage of
the lord. The sight of this garden and its fair ordinance and the
plants and the fountain, with the rivulets proceeding therefrom, so
pleased the ladies and the three young men that they all of one accord
avouched that, an Paradise might be created upon earth, they could not
avail to conceive what form, other than that of this garden, might be
given it nor what farther beauty might possibly be added thereunto.
However, as they went most gladsomely thereabout, weaving them the
goodliest garlands of the various leafage of the trees and hearkening
the while to the carols of belike a score of different kinds of birds,
that sang as if in rivalry one of other, they became aware of a
delectable beauty, which, wonderstricken as they were with the other
charms of the place, they had not yet noted; to wit, they found the
garden full of maybe an hundred kinds of goodly creatures, and one
showing them to other, they saw on one side rabbits issue, on another
hares run; here lay kids and there fawns went grazing, and there was
many another kind of harmless animal, each going about his pastime at
his pleasure, as if tame; the which added unto them a yet greater
pleasure than the others. After they had gone about their fill,
viewing now this thing and now that, the queen let set the tables
around the fair fountain and at her commandment, having first sung
half a dozen canzonets and danced sundry dances, they sat down to
meat. There, being right well and orderly served, after a very fair
and sumptuous and tranquil fashion, with goodly and delicate viands,
they waxed yet blither and arising thence, gave themselves anew to
music-making and singing and dancing till it seemed good to the queen
that those whom it pleased should betake themselves to sleep.
Accordingly some went thither, whilst others, overcome with the beauty
of the place, willed not to leave it, but, abiding there, addressed
themselves, some to reading romances and some to playing chess or
tables, whilst the others slept. But presently, the hour of none being
past and the sleepers having arisen and refreshed their faces with
cold water, they came all, at the queen's commandment, to the lawn
hard by the fountain and there seating themselves, after the wonted
fashion, waited to fall to story-telling upon the subject proposed by
her. The first upon whom she laid this charge was Filostrato, who
began on this wise:

[Footnote 149: _i.e._ half _before_ (not half _after_) tierce or 7.30
a.m. _Cf._ the equivalent German idiom, _halb acht_, 7.30 (not 8.30)
a.m.]

[Footnote 150: _i.e._ as a whole (_tutto insieme_).]



THE FIRST STORY

[Day the Third]

     MASETTO OF LAMPORECCHIO FEIGNETH HIMSELF DUMB AND BECOMETH
     GARDENER TO A CONVENT OF WOMEN, WHO ALL FLOCK TO LIE WITH
     HIM


"Fairest ladies, there be many men and women foolish enough to believe
that, whenas the white fillet is bound about a girl's head and the
black cowl clapped upon her back, she is no longer a woman and is no
longer sensible of feminine appetites, as if the making her a nun had
changed her to stone; and if perchance they hear aught contrary to
this their belief, they are as much incensed as if a very great and
heinous misdeed had been committed against nature, considering not
neither having regard to themselves, whom full license to do that
which they will availeth not to sate, nor yet to the much potency of
idlesse and thought-taking.[151] On like wise there are but too many
who believe that spade and mattock and coarse victuals and hard living
do altogether purge away carnal appetites from the tillers of the
earth and render them exceeding dull of wit and judgment. But how much
all who believe thus are deluded, I purpose, since the queen hath
commanded it to me, to make plain to you in a little story, without
departing from the theme by her appointed.

[Footnote 151: _Sollecitudine._ The commentators will have it that
this is an error for _solitudine_, solitude, but I see no necessity
for the substitution, the text being perfectly acceptable as it
stands.]

There was (and is yet) in these our parts a convent of women, very
famous for sanctity (the which, that I may not anywise abate its
repute, I will not name), wherein no great while agone, there being
then no more than eight nuns and an abbess, all young, in the nunnery,
a poor silly dolt of a fellow was gardener of a very goodly garden of
theirs, who, being miscontent with his wage, settled his accounts with
the ladies' bailiff and returned to Lamporecchio, whence he came.
There, amongst others who welcomed him home, was a young labouring
man, stout and robust and (for a countryman) a well-favoured fellow,
by name of Masetto, who asked him where he had been so long. The good
man, whose name was Nuto, told him, whereupon Masetto asked him in
what he had served the convent, and he, 'I tended a great and goodly
garden of theirs, and moreover I went while to the coppice for faggots
and drew water and did other such small matters of service; but the
nuns gave me so little wage that I could scare find me in shoon
withal. Besides, they are all young and methinketh they are possessed
of the devil, for there was no doing anything to their liking; nay,
when I was at work whiles in the hortyard,[152] quoth one, "Set this
here," and another, "Set that here," and a third snatched the spade
from my hand, saying, "That is naught"; brief, they gave me so much
vexation that I would leave work be and begone out of the hortyard;
insomuch that, what with one thing and what with another, I would
abide there no longer and took myself off. When I came away, their
bailiff besought me, an I could lay my hand on any one apt unto that
service, to send the man to him, and I promised it him; but may God
make him sound of the loins as he whom I shall get him, else will I
send him none at all!' Masetto, hearing this, was taken with so great
a desire to be with these nuns that he was all consumed therewith,
judging from Nuto's words that he might avail to compass somewhat of
that which he desired. However, foreseeing that he would fail of his
purpose, if he discovered aught thereof to Nuto, he said to the
latter, 'Egad, thou didst well to come away. How is a man to live with
women? He were better abide with devils. Six times out of seven they
know not what they would have themselves.' But, after they had made an
end of their talk, Masetto began to cast about what means he should
take to be with them and feeling himself well able to do the offices
of which Nuto had spoken, he had no fear of being refused on that
head, but misdoubted him he might not be received, for that he was
young and well-looked. Wherefore, after pondering many things in
himself, he bethought himself thus: 'The place is far hence and none
knoweth me there, an I can but make a show of being dumb, I shall for
certain be received there.' Having fixed upon this device, he set out
with an axe he had about his neck, without telling any whither he was
bound, and betook himself, in the guise of a beggarman, to the
convent, where being come, he entered in and as luck would have it,
found the bailiff in the courtyard. Him he accosted with signs such as
dumb folk use and made a show of asking food of him for the love of
God and that in return he would, an it were needed, cleave wood for
him. The bailiff willingly gave him to eat and after set before him
divers logs that Nuto had not availed to cleave, but of all which
Masetto, who was very strong, made a speedy despatch. By and by, the
bailiff, having occasion to go to the coppice, carried him thither and
put him to cutting faggots; after which, setting the ass before him,
he gave him to understand by signs that he was to bring them home.
This he did very well; wherefore the bailiff kept him there some days,
so he might have him do certain things for which he had occasion. One
day it chanced that the abbess saw him and asked the bailiff who he
was. 'Madam,' answered he, 'this is a poor deaf and dumb man, who came
hither the other day to ask an alms; so I took him in out of charity
and have made him do sundry things of which we had need. If he knew
how to till the hortyard and chose to abide with us, I believe we
should get good service of him; for that we lack such an one and he is
strong and we could make what we would of him; more by token that you
would have no occasion to fear his playing the fool with yonder lasses
of yours.' 'I' faith,' rejoined the abbess, 'thou sayst sooth. Learn
if he knoweth how to till and study to keep him here; give him a pair
of shoes and some old hood or other and make much of him, caress him,
give him plenty to eat.' Which the bailiff promised to do. Masetto was
not so far distant but he heard all this, making a show the while of
sweeping the courtyard, and said merrily in himself, 'An you put me
therein, I will till you your hortyard as it was never tilled yet.'
Accordingly, the bailiff, seeing that he knew right well how to work,
asked him by signs if he had a mind to abide there and he replied on
like wise that he would do whatsoever he wished; whereupon the bailiff
engaged him and charged him till the hortyard, showing him what he was
to do; after which he went about other business of the convent and
left him. Presently, as Masetto went working one day after another,
the nuns fell to plaguing him and making mock of him, as ofttimes it
betideth that folk do with mutes, and bespoke him the naughtiest words
in the world, thinking he understood them not; whereof the abbess,
mayhap supposing him to be tailless as well as tongueless, recked
little or nothing. It chanced one day, however, that, as he rested
himself after a hard morning's work, two young nuns, who went about
the garden,[153] drew near the place where he lay and fell to looking
upon him, whilst he made a show of sleeping. Presently quoth one who
was somewhat the bolder of the twain to the other, 'If I thought thou
wouldst keep my counsel, I would tell thee a thought which I have once
and again had and which might perchance profit thee also.' 'Speak in
all assurance,' answered the other, 'for certes I will never tell it
to any.' Then said the forward wench, 'I know not if thou have ever
considered how straitly we are kept and how no man dare ever enter
here, save the bailiff, who is old, and yonder dumb fellow; and I have
again and again heard ladies, who come to visit us, say that all other
delights in the world are but toys in comparison with that which a
woman enjoyeth, whenas she hath to do with a man. Wherefore I have
often had it in mind to make trial with this mute, since with others I
may not, if it be so. And indeed he is the best in the world to that
end, for that, e'en if he would, he could not nor might tell it
again. Thou seest he is a poor silly lout of a lad, who hath overgrown
his wit, and I would fain hear how thou deemest of the thing.'
'Alack!' rejoined the other, 'what is this thou sayest? Knowest thou
not that we have promised our virginity to God?' 'Oh, as for that,'
answered the first, 'how many things are promised Him all day long,
whereof not one is fulfilled unto Him! An we have promised it Him, let
Him find Himself another or others to perform it to Him.' 'Or if,'
went on her fellow, 'we should prove with child, how would it go
then?' Quoth the other, 'Thou beginnest to take thought unto ill ere
it cometh; when that betideth, then will we look to it; there will be
a thousand ways for us of doing so that it shall never be known,
provided we ourselves tell it not.' The other, hearing this and having
now a greater itch than her companion to prove what manner beast a man
was, said, 'Well, then, how shall we do?' Quoth the first, 'Thou seest
it is nigh upon none and methinketh the sisters are all asleep, save
only ourselves; let us look about the hortyard if there be any there,
and if there be none, what have we to do but to take him by the hand
and carry him into yonder hut, whereas he harboureth against the rain,
and there let one of us abide with him, whilst the other keepeth
watch? He is so simple that he will do whatever we will.' Masetto
heard all this talk and disposed to compliance, waited but to be taken
by one of the nuns. The latter having looked well all about and
satisfied themselves that they could be seen from nowhere, she who had
broached the matter came up to Masetto and aroused him, whereupon he
rose incontinent to his feet. The nun took him coaxingly by the hand
and led him, grinning like an idiot, to the hut, where, without
overmuch pressing, he did what she would. Then, like a loyal comrade,
having had her will, she gave place to her fellow, and Masetto, still
feigning himself a simpleton, did their pleasure. Before they departed
thence, each of the girls must needs once more prove how the mute
could horse it, and after devising with each other, they agreed that
the thing was as delectable as they had heard, nay, more so.
Accordingly, watching their opportunity, they went oftentimes at
fitting seasons to divert themselves with the mute, till one day it
chanced that one of their sisters, espying them in the act from the
lattice of her cell, showed it to other twain. At first they talked of
denouncing the culprits to the abbess, but, after, changing counsel
and coming to an accord with the first two, they became sharers with
them in Masetto's services, and to them the other three nuns were at
divers times and by divers chances added as associates. Ultimately,
the abbess, who had not yet gotten wind of these doings, walking one
day alone in the garden, the heat being great, found Masetto (who had
enough of a little fatigue by day, because of overmuch posting it by
night) stretched out asleep under the shade of an almond-tree, and the
wind lifting the forepart of his clothes, all abode discovered. The
lady, beholding this and seeing herself alone, fell into that same
appetite which had gotten hold of her nuns, and arousing Masetto,
carried him to her chamber, where, to the no small miscontent of the
others, who complained loudly that the gardener came not to till the
hortyard, she kept him several days, proving and reproving that
delight which she had erst been wont to blame in others. At last she
sent him back to his own lodging, but was fain to have him often again
and as, moreover, she required of him more than her share, Masetto,
unable to satisfy so many, bethought himself that his playing the mute
might, an it endured longer, result in his exceeding great hurt.
Wherefore, being one night with the abbess, he gave loose to[154] his
tongue and bespoke her thus: 'Madam, I have heard say that one cock
sufficeth unto half a score hens, but that half a score men can ill or
hardly satisfy one woman; whereas needs must I serve nine, and to this
I can no wise endure; nay, for that which I have done up to now, I am
come to such a pass that I can do neither little nor much; wherefore
do ye either let me go in God's name or find a remedy for the matter.'
The abbess, hearing him speak whom she held dumb, was all amazed and
said, 'What is this? Methought thou wast dumb.' 'Madam,' answered
Masetto, 'I was indeed dumb, not by nature, but by reason of a malady
which bereft me of speech, and only this very night for the first time
do I feel it restored to me, wherefore I praise God as most I may.'
The lady believed this and asked him what he meant by saying that he
had to serve nine. Masetto told her how the case stood, whereby she
perceived that she had no nun but was far wiser than herself; but,
like a discreet woman as she was, she resolved to take counsel with
her nuns to find some means of arranging the matter, without letting
Masetto go, so the convent might not be defamed by him. Accordingly,
having openly confessed to one another that which had been secretly
done of each, they all of one accord, with Masetto's consent, so
ordered it that the people round about believed speech to have been
restored to him, after he had long been mute, through their prayers
and by the merits of the saint in whose name the convent was
intituled, and their bailiff being lately dead, they made Masetto
bailiff in his stead and apportioned his toils on such wise that he
could endure them. Thereafter, albeit he began upon them monikins
galore, the thing was so discreetly ordered that nothing took vent
thereof till after the death of the abbess, when Masetto began to grow
old and had a mind to return home rich. The thing becoming known,
enabled him lightly to accomplish his desire, and thus Masetto, having
by his foresight contrived to employ his youth to good purpose,
returned in his old age, rich and a father, without being at the pains
or expense of rearing children, to the place whence he had set out
with an axe about his neck, avouching that thus did Christ entreat
whoso set horns to his cap."

[Footnote 152: Hortyard (_orto_) is the old form of orchard, properly
an enclosed tract of land in which fruit, vegetables and potherbs are
cultivated for use, _i.e._ the modern kitchen garden and orchard in
one, as distinguished from the pleasaunce or flower garden
(_giardino_).]

[Footnote 153: _Giardino_, _i.e._ flower-garden.]

[Footnote 154: Lit. broke the string of.]



THE SECOND STORY

[Day the Third]

     A HORSEKEEPER LIETH WITH THE WIFE OF KING AGILULF, WHO,
     BECOMING AWARE THEREOF, WITHOUT WORD SAID, FINDETH HIM OUT
     AND POLLETH HIM; BUT THE POLLED MAN POLLETH ALL HIS FELLOWS
     ON LIKE WISE AND SO ESCAPETH ILL HAP


The end of Filostrato's story, whereat whiles the ladies had some
little blushed and other whiles laughed, being come, it pleased the
queen that Pampinea should follow on with a story, and she
accordingly, beginning with a smiling countenance, said, "Some are so
little discreet in seeking at all hazards to show that they know and
apprehend that which it concerneth them not to know, that whiles,
rebuking to this end unperceived defects in others, they think to
lessen their own shame, whereas they do infinitely augment it; and
that this is so I purpose, lovesome ladies, to prove to you by the
contrary thereof, showing you the astuteness of one who, in the
judgment of a king of worth and valour, was held belike of less
account than Masetto himself.

Agilulf, King of the Lombards, as his predecessors had done, fixed the
seat of his kingship at Pavia, a city of Lombardy, and took to wife
Theodolinda[155] the widow of Autari, likewise King of the Lombards, a
very fair lady and exceeding discreet and virtuous, but ill fortuned
in a lover.[156] The affairs of the Lombards having, thanks to the
valour and judgment of King Agilulf, been for some time prosperous and
in quiet, it befell that one of the said queen's horse-keepers, a man
of very low condition, in respect of birth, but otherwise of worth far
above so mean a station, and comely of person and tall as he were the
king, became beyond measure enamoured of his mistress. His mean estate
hindered him not from being sensible that this love of his was out of
all reason, wherefore, like a discreet man as he was, he discovered it
unto none, nor dared he make it known to her even with his eyes. But,
albeit he lived without any hope of ever winning her favour, yet
inwardly he gloried in that he had bestowed his thoughts in such high
place, and being all aflame with amorous fire, he studied, beyond
every other of his fellows, to do whatsoever he deemed might pleasure
the queen; whereby it befell that, whenas she had occasion to ride
abroad, she liefer mounted the palfrey of which he had charge than any
other; and when this happened, he reckoned it a passing great favour
to himself nor ever stirred from her stirrup, accounting himself happy
what time he might but touch her clothes. But, as often enough we see
it happen that, even as hope groweth less, so love waxeth greater, so
did it betide this poor groom, insomuch that sore uneath it was to him
to avail to brook his great desire, keeping it, as he did, hidden and
being upheld by no hope; and many a time, unable to rid himself of
that his love, he determined in himself to die. And considering
inwardly of the manner, he resolved to seek his death on such wise
that it should be manifest he died for the love he bore the queen, to
which end he bethought himself to try his fortune in an enterprise of
such a sort as should afford him a chance of having or all or part of
his desire. He set not himself to seek to say aught to the queen nor
to make her sensible of his love by letters, knowing he should speak
and write in vain, but chose rather to essay an he might by practice
avail to lie with her; nor was there any other shift for it but to
find a means how he might, in the person of the king, who, he knew,
lay not with her continually, contrive to make his way to her and
enter her bedchamber. Accordingly, that he might see on what wise and
in what habit the king went, whenas he visited her, he hid himself
several times by night in a great saloon of the palace, which lay
between the king's bedchamber and that of the queen, and one night,
amongst others, he saw the king come forth of his chamber, wrapped in
a great mantle, with a lighted taper in one hand and a little wand in
the other, and making for the queen's chamber, strike once or twice
upon the door with the wand, without saying aught, whereupon it was
incontinent opened to him and the taper taken from his hand. Noting
this and having seen the king return after the same fashion, he
bethought himself to do likewise. Accordingly, finding means to have a
cloak like that which he had seen the king wear, together with a taper
and a wand, and having first well washed himself in a bagnio, lest
haply the smell of the muck should offend the queen or cause her smoke
the cheat, he hid himself in the great saloon, as of wont. Whenas he
knew that all were asleep and it seemed to him time either to give
effect to his desire or to make his way by high emprise[157] to the
wished-for death, he struck a light with a flint and steel he had
brought with him and kindling the taper, wrapped himself fast in the
mantle, then, going up to the chamber-door, smote twice upon it with
the wand. The door was opened by a bedchamber-woman, all sleepy-eyed,
who took the light and covered it; whereupon, without saying aught, he
passed within the curtain, put off his mantle and entered the bed
where the queen slept. Then, taking her desirefully in his arms and
feigning himself troubled (for that he knew the king's wont to be
that, whenas he was troubled, he cared not to hear aught), without
speaking or being spoken to, he several times carnally knew the queen;
after which, grievous as it seemed to him to depart, yet, fearing lest
his too long stay should be the occasion of turning the gotten delight
into dolour, he arose and taking up the mantle and the light,
withdrew, without word said, and returned, as quickliest he might, to
his own bed. He could scarce yet have been therein when the king arose
and repaired to the queen's chamber, whereat she marvelled
exceedingly; and as he entered the bed and greeted her blithely, she
took courage by his cheerfulness and said, 'O my lord, what new
fashion is this of to-night? You left me but now, after having taken
pleasure of me beyond your wont, and do you return so soon? Have a
care what you do.' The king, hearing these words, at once concluded
that the queen had been deceived by likeness of manners and person,
but, like a wise man, bethought himself forthright, seeing that
neither she nor any else had perceived the cheat, not to make her
aware thereof; which many simpletons would not have done, but would
have said, 'I have not been here, I. Who is it hath been here? How did
it happen? Who came hither?' Whence many things might have arisen,
whereby he would needlessly have afflicted the lady and given her
ground for desiring another time that which she had already tasted;
more by token that, an he kept silence of the matter, no shame might
revert to him, whereas, by speaking, he would have brought dishonour
upon himself. The king, then, more troubled at heart than in looks or
speech, answered, saying, 'Wife, seem I not to you man enough to have
been here a first time and to come yet again after that?' 'Ay, my
lord,' answered she. 'Nevertheless, I beseech you have regard to your
health.' Quoth Agilulf, 'And it pleaseth me to follow your counsel,
wherefore for the nonce I will get me gone again, without giving you
more annoy.' This said, taking up his mantle, he departed the chamber,
with a heart full of wrath and despite for the affront that he saw had
been done him, and bethought himself quietly to seek to discover the
culprit, concluding that he must be of the household and could not,
whoever he might be, have issued forth of the palace. Accordingly,
taking a very small light in a little lantern, he betook himself to a
very long gallery that was over the stables of his palace and where
all his household slept in different beds, and judging that, whoever
he might be that had done what the queen said, his pulse and the
beating of his heart for the swink endured could not yet have had time
to abate, he silently, beginning at one end of the gallery, fell to
feeling each one's breast, to know if his heart beat high. Although
every other slept fast, he who had been with the queen was not yet
asleep, but, seeing the king come and guessing what he went seeking,
fell into such a fright that to the beating of the heart caused by the
late-had fatigue, fear added yet a greater and he doubted not but the
king, if he became aware of this, would put him to death without
delay, and many things passed through his thought that he should do.
However, seeing him all unarmed, he resolved to feign sleep and await
what he should do. Agilulf, then, having examined many and found none
whom he judged to be he of whom he was in quest, came presently to the
horsekeeper and feeling his heart beat high, said in himself, 'This is
the man.' Nevertheless, an he would have nought be known of that which
he purposed to do, he did nought to him but poll, with a pair of
scissors he had brought with him, somewhat on one side of his hair,
which they then wore very long, so by that token he might know him
again on the morrow; and this done, he withdrew and returned to his
own chamber. The culprit, who had felt all this, like a shrewd fellow
as he was, understood plainly enough why he had been thus marked;
wherefore he arose without delay and finding a pair of shears, whereof
it chanced there were several about the stables for the service of the
horses, went softly up to all who lay in the gallery and clipped each
one's hair on like wise over the ear; which having done without being
observed, he returned to sleep. When the king arose in the morning, he
commanded that all his household should present themselves before him,
or ever the palace-doors were opened; and it was done as he said.
Then, as they all stood before him with uncovered heads, he began to
look that he might know him whom he had polled; but, seeing the most
part of them with their hair clipped after one and the same fashion,
he marvelled and said in himself, 'He whom I seek, for all he may be
of mean estate, showeth right well he is of no mean wit.' Then, seeing
that he could not, without making a stir, avail to have him whom he
sought, and having no mind to incur a great shame for the sake of a
paltry revenge, it pleased him with one sole word to admonish the
culprit and show him that he was ware of the matter; wherefore,
turning to all who were present, he said, 'Let him who did it do it no
more and get you gone in peace.' Another would have been for giving
them the strappado, for torturing, examining and questioning, and
doing this, would have published that which every one should go about
to conceal; and having thus discovered himself, though he should have
taken entire revenge for the affront suffered, his shame had not been
minished, nay, were rather much enhanced therefor and his lady's
honour sullied. Those who heard the king's words marvelled and long
debated amongst themselves what he meant by this speech; but none
understood it, save he whom it concerned, and he, like a wise man,
never, during Agilulf's lifetime, discovered the matter nor ever again
committed his life to the hazard of such a venture."

[Footnote 155: Boccaccio calls her _Teudelinga_; but I know of no
authority for this form of the name of the famous Longobardian queen.]

[Footnote 156: Referring apparently to the adventure related in the
present story.]

[Footnote 157: Lit. with high (_i.e._ worthy) cause (_con alta
cagione_).]



THE THIRD STORY

[Day the Third]

     UNDER COLOUR OF CONFESSION AND OF EXCEEDING NICENESS OF
     CONSCIENCE, A LADY, BEING ENAMOURED OF A YOUNG MAN, BRINGETH
     A GRAVE FRIAR, WITHOUT HIS MISDOUBTING HIM THEREOF, TO
     AFFORD A MEANS OF GIVING ENTIRE EFFECT TO HER PLEASURE


Pampinea being now silent and the daring and subtlety of the
horsekeeper having been extolled by several of the company, as also
the king's good sense, the queen, turning to Filomena, charged her
follow on; whereupon she blithely began to speak thus, "I purpose to
recount to you a cheat which was in very deed put by a fair lady upon
a grave friar and which should be so much the more pleasing to every
layman as these [--friars, to wit--], albeit for the most part very
dull fools and men of strange manners and usances, hold themselves to
be in everything both better worth and wiser than others, whereas they
are of far less account than the rest of mankind, being men who,
lacking, of the meanness of their spirit, the ability to provide
themselves, take refuge, like swine, whereas they may have what to
eat. And this story, charming ladies, I shall tell you, not only for
the ensuing of the order imposed, but to give you to know withal that
even the clergy, to whom we women, beyond measure credulous as we are,
yield overmuch faith, can be and are whiles adroitly befooled, and
that not by men only, but even by certain of our own sex.

In our city, the which is fuller of cozenage than of love or faith,
there was, not many years agone, a gentlewoman adorned with beauty and
charms and as richly endowed by nature as any of her sex with engaging
manners and loftiness of spirit and subtle wit, whose name albeit I
know, I purpose not to discover it, no, nor any other that pertaineth
unto the present story, for that there be folk yet alive who would
take it in despite, whereas it should be passed over with a laugh.
This lady, then, seeing herself, though of high lineage, married to a
wool-monger and unable, for that he was a craftsman, to put off the
haughtiness of her spirit, whereby she deemed no man of mean
condition, how rich soever he might be, worthy of a gentlewoman and
seeing him moreover, for all his wealth, to be apt unto nothing of
more moment than to lay a warp for a piece of motley or let weave a
cloth or chaffer with a spinster anent her yarn, resolved on no wise
to admit of his embraces, save in so far as she might not deny him,
but to seek, for her own satisfaction, to find some one who should be
worthier of her favours than the wool-monger appeared to her to be,
and accordingly fell so fervently in love with a man of very good
quality and middle age, that, whenas she saw him not by day, she could
not pass the ensuing night without unease. The gentleman, perceiving
not how the case stood, took no heed of her, and she, being very
circumspect, dared not make the matter known to him by sending of
women nor by letter, fearing the possible perils that might betide.
However, observing that he companied much with a churchman, who,
albeit a dull lump of a fellow, was nevertheless, for that he was a
man of very devout life, reputed of well nigh all a most worthy friar,
she bethought herself that this latter would make an excellent
go-between herself and her lover and having considered what means she
should use, she repaired, at a fitting season, to the church where he
abode, and letting call him to her, told him that, an he pleased, she
would fain confess herself to him. The friar seeing her and judging
her to be a woman of condition, willingly gave ear to her, and she,
after confession, said to him, 'Father mine, it behoveth me have
recourse to you for aid and counsel anent that which you shall hear. I
know, as having myself told you, that you know my kinsfolk and my
husband, who loveth me more than his life, nor is there aught I desire
but I have it of him incontinent, he being a very rich man and one who
can well afford it; wherefore I love him more than mine own self and
should I but think, let alone do, aught that might be contrary to his
honour and pleasure, there were no woman more wicked or more deserving
of the fire than I. Now one, whose name in truth I know not, but who
is, meseemeth, a man of condition, and is, if I mistake not, much in
your company,--a well-favoured man and tall of his person and clad in
very decent sad-coloured raiment,--unaware belike of the constancy of
my purpose, appeareth to have laid siege to me, nor can I show myself
at door or window nor go without the house, but he incontinent
presenteth himself before me, and I marvel that he is not here now;
whereat I am sore concerned, for that such fashions as these often
bring virtuous women into reproach, without their fault. I have whiles
had it in mind to have him told of this by my brothers; but then I
have bethought me that men oftentimes do messages on such wise that
ill answers ensue, which give rise to words and from words they come
to deeds; wherefore, lest mischief spring therefrom and scandal, I
have kept silence of the matter and have determined to discover it to
yourself rather than to another, at once because meseemeth you are his
friend and for that it beseemeth you to rebuke not only friends, but
strangers, of such things. I beseech you, therefore, for the one God's
sake, that you rebuke him of this and pray him leave these his
fashions. There be women enough, who incline belike to these toys and
would take pleasure in being dogged and courted by him, whereas to me,
who have no manner of mind to such matters, it is a very grievous
annoy.' So saying, she bowed her head as she would weep. The holy
friar understood incontinent of whom she spoke and firmly believing
what she said to be true, greatly commended her righteous intent and
promised her to do on such wise that she should have no farther annoy
from the person in question; and knowing her to be very rich, he
commended to her works of charity and almsdeeds, recounting to her his
own need. Quoth the lady, 'I beseech you thereof for God's sake, and
should he deny, prithee scruple not to tell him that it was I who told
you this and complained to you thereof.' Then, having made her
confession and gotten her penance, recalling the friar's exhortations
to works of almsgiving, she stealthily filled his hand with money,
praying him to say masses for the souls of her dead kinsfolk; after
which she rose from his feet and taking leave of him, returned home.
Not long after up came the gentleman, according to his wont, and after
they had talked awhile of one thing and another, the friar, drawing
his friend aside, very civilly rebuked him of the manner in which, as
he believed, he pursued and spied upon the lady aforesaid, according
to that which she had given him to understand. The other marvelled, as
well he might, having never set eyes upon her and being used very
rarely to pass before her house, and would have excused himself; but
the friar suffered him not to speak, saying, 'Now make no show of
wonderment nor waste words in denying it, for it will avail thee
nothing; I learnt not these matters from the neighbours; nay, she
herself told them to me, complaining sore of thee. And besides that
such toys beseem not a man of thine age, I may tell thee this much of
her, that if ever I saw a woman averse to these follies, it is she;
wherefore, for thine own credit and her comfort, I prithee desist
therefrom and let her be in peace.' The gentleman, quicker of wit than
the friar, was not slow to apprehend the lady's device and feigning to
be somewhat abashed, promised to meddle no more with her
thenceforward; then, taking leave of the friar, he betook himself to
the house of the lady, who still abode await at a little window, so
she might see him, should he pass that way. When she saw him come, she
showed herself so rejoiced and so gracious to him, that he might very
well understand that he had gathered the truth from the friar's words,
and thenceforward, under colour of other business, he began with the
utmost precaution to pass continually through the street, to his own
pleasure and to the exceeding delight and solace of the lady. After
awhile, perceiving that she pleased him even as he pleased her and
wishful to inflame him yet more and to certify him of the love she
bore him, she betook herself again, choosing her time and place, to
the holy friar and seating herself at his feet in the church, fell
a-weeping. The friar, seeing this, asked her affectionately what was
to do with her anew. 'Alack, father mine,' answered she, 'that which
aileth me is none other than yonder God-accursed friend of yours, of
whom I complained to you the other day, for that methinketh he was
born for my especial torment and to make me do a thing, such that I
should never be glad again nor ever after dare to seat myself at your
feet.' 'How?' cried the friar. 'Hath he not given over annoying thee?'
'No, indeed,' answered she; 'nay, since I complained to you of him, as
if of despite, maybe taking it ill that I should have done so, for
every once he used to pass before my house, I verily believe he hath
passed seven times. And would to God he were content with passing and
spying upon me! Nay, he is grown so bold and so malapert that but
yesterday he despatched a woman to me at home with his idle tales and
toys and sent me a purse and a girdle, as if I had not purses and
girdles galore; the which I took and take so ill that I believe, but
for my having regard to the sin of it and after for the love of you, I
had played the devil. However, I contained myself and would not do or
say aught whereof I should not first have let you know. Nay, I had
already returned the purse and the girdle to the baggage who brought
them, that she might carry them back to him, and had given her a rough
dismissal, but after, fearing she might keep them for herself and tell
him that I had accepted them, as I hear women of her fashion do
whiles, I called her back and took them, full of despite, from her
hands and have brought them to you, so you may return them to him and
tell him I want none of his trash, for that, thanks to God and my
husband, I have purses and girdles enough to smother him withal.
Moreover, if hereafter he desist not from this, I tell you, as a
father, you must excuse me, but I will tell it, come what may, to my
husband and my brothers; for I had far liefer he should brook an
affront, if needs he must, than that I should suffer blame for him;
wherefore let him look to himself.' So saying, still weeping sore, she
pulled out from under her surcoat a very handsome and rich purse and a
quaint and costly girdle and threw them into the lap of the friar,
who, fully crediting that which she told him and incensed beyond
measure, took them and said to her, 'Daughter, I marvel not that thou
art provoked at these doings, nor can I blame thee therefor; but I
much commend thee for following my counsel in the matter. I rebuked
him the other day and he hath ill performed that which he promised me;
wherefore, as well for that as for this that he hath newly done, I
mean to warm his ears[158] for him after such a fashion that
methinketh he will give thee no farther concern; but do thou, God's
benison on thee, suffer not thyself to be so overcome with anger that
thou tell it to any of thy folk, for that overmuch harm might ensue
thereof unto him. Neither fear thou lest this blame anywise ensue to
thee, for I shall still, before both God and men, be a most constant
witness to thy virtue.' The lady made believe to be somewhat comforted
and leaving that talk, said, as one who knew his greed and that of his
fellow-churchmen, 'Sir, these some nights past there have appeared to
me sundry of my kinsfolk, who ask nought but almsdeeds, and meseemeth
they are indeed in exceeding great torment, especially my mother, who
appeareth to me in such ill case and affliction that it is pity to
behold. Methinketh she suffereth exceeding distress to see me in this
tribulation with yonder enemy of God; wherefore I would have you say
me forty masses of Saint Gregory for her and their souls, together
with certain of your own prayers, so God may deliver them from that
penitential fire.' So saying, she put a florin into his hand, which
the holy father blithely received and confirming her devoutness with
fair words and store of pious instances, gave her his benison and let
her go. The lady being gone, the friar, never thinking how he was
gulled, sent for his friend, who, coming and finding him troubled, at
once divined that he was to have news of the lady and awaited what the
friar should say. The latter repeated that which he had before said to
him and bespeaking him anew angrily and reproachfully, rebuked him
severely of that which, according to the lady's report, he had done.
The gentleman, not yet perceiving the friar's drift, faintly enough
denied having sent her the purse and the girdle, so as not to
undeceive the friar, in case the lady should have given him to believe
that he had done this; whereat the good man was sore incensed and
said, 'How canst thou deny it, wicked man that thou art? See, here
they are, for she herself brought them to me, weeping; look if thou
knowest them.' The gentleman feigned to be sore abashed and answered,
'Yes, I do indeed know them and I confess to you that I did ill; but I
swear to you, since I see her thus disposed, that you shall never more
hear a word of this.' Brief, after many words, the numskull of a friar
gave his friend the purse and the girdle and dismissed him, after
rating him amain and beseeching him occupy himself no more with these
follies, the which he promised him. The gentleman, overjoyed both at
the assurance that himseemed he had of the lady's love and at the
goodly gift, was no sooner quit of the friar than he betook himself to
a place where he made shift to let his mistress see that he had the
one and the other thing; whereat she was mightily rejoiced, more by
token that herseemed her device went from good to better. She now
awaited nought but her husband's going abroad to give completion to
the work, and it befell not long after that it behoved him repair to
Genoa on some occasion or other. No sooner had he mounted to horse in
the morning and gone his way, than the lady betook herself to the holy
man and after many lamentations, said to him, weeping, 'Father mine,
I tell you now plainly that I can brook no more; but, for that I
promised you the other day to do nought, without first telling you, I
am come to excuse myself to you; and that you may believe I have good
reason both to weep and to complain, I will tell you what your friend,
or rather devil incarnate, did to me this very morning, a little
before matins. I know not what ill chance gave him to know that my
husband was to go to Genoa yestermorn; algates, this morning, at the
time I tell you, he came into a garden of mine and climbing up by a
tree to the window of my bedchamber, which giveth upon the garden, had
already opened the lattice and was for entering, when I of a sudden
awoke and starting up, offered to cry out, nay, would assuredly have
cried out, but that he, who was not yet within, besought me of mercy
in God's name and yours, telling me who he was; which when I heard, I
held my peace for the love of you and naked as I was born, ran and
shut the window in his face; whereupon I suppose he took himself off
(ill-luck go with him!), for I heard no more of him. Look you now if
this be a goodly thing and to be endured. For my part I mean to bear
with him no more; nay, I have already forborne him overmuch for the
love of you.' The friar, hearing this, was the wrathfullest man alive
and knew not what to say, except to ask again and again if she had
well certified herself that it was indeed he and not another; to which
she answered, 'Praised be God! As if I did not yet know him from
another! I tell you it was himself, and although he should deny it,
credit him not.' Then said the friar, 'Daughter, there is nothing to
be said for it but that this was exceeding effrontery and a thing
exceeding ill done, and in sending him off, as thou didst, thou didst
that which it behoved thee to do. But I beseech thee, since God hath
preserved thee from shame, that, like as thou hast twice followed my
counsel, even so do thou yet this once; to wit, without complaining to
any kinsman of thine, leave it to me to see an I can bridle yonder
devil broke loose, whom I believed a saint. If I can make shift to
turn him from this lewdness, well and good; if not, I give thee leave
henceforth to do with him that which thy soul shall judge best, and my
benison go with thee.' 'Well, then,' answered the lady, 'for this once
I will well not to vex or disobey you; but look you do on such wise
that he be ware of annoying me again, for I promise you I will never
again return to you for this cause.' Thereupon, without saying more,
she took leave of the friar and went away, as if in anger. Hardly was
she out of the church when up came the gentleman and was called by the
friar, who, taking him apart, gave him the soundest rating ever man
had, calling him disloyal and forsworn and traitor. The other, who had
already twice had occasion to know to what the monk's reprimands
amounted, abode expectant and studied with embarrassed answers to make
him speak out, saying, at the first, 'Why all this passion, Sir? Have
I crucified Christ?' Whereupon, 'Mark this shameless fellow!' cried
the friar. 'Hear what he saith! He speaketh as if a year or two were
passed and he had for lapse of time forgotten his misdeeds and his
lewdness! Hath it then escaped thy mind between this and matinsong
that thou hast outraged some one this very morning? Where wast thou
this morning a little before day?' 'I know not,' answered the
gentleman; 'but wherever it was, the news thereof hath reached you
mighty early.' Quoth the friar, 'Certes, the news hath reached me.
Doubtless thou supposedst because her husband was abroad, that needs
must the gentlewoman receive thee incontinent in her arms. A fine
thing, indeed! Here's a pretty fellow! Here's an honourable man! He's
grown a nighthawk, a garden-breaker, a tree-climber! Thinkest thou by
importunity to overcome this lady's chastity, that thou climbest up to
her windows anights by the trees? There is nought in the world so
displeasing to her as thou; yet must thou e'en go essaying it again
and again. Truly, thou hast profited finely by my admonitions, let
alone that she hath shown thee her aversion in many ways. But this I
have to say to thee; she hath up to now, not for any love she beareth
thee, but at my instant entreaty, kept silence of that which thou hast
done; but she will do so no more; I have given her leave to do what
seemeth good to her, an thou annoy her again in aught. What wilt thou
do, an she tell her brothers?' The gentleman having now gathered
enough of that which it concerned him to know, appeased the friar, as
best he knew and might, with many and ample promises, and taking leave
of him, waited till matinsong[159] of the ensuing night, when he made
his way into the garden and climbed up by the tree to the window. He
found the lattice open and entering the chamber as quickliest he
might, threw himself into the arms of his fair mistress, who, having
awaited him with the utmost impatience, received him joyfully, saying,
'Gramercy to my lord the friar for that he so well taught thee the way
hither!' Then, taking their pleasure one of the other, they solaced
themselves together with great delight, devising and laughing amain
anent the simplicity of the dolt of a friar and gibing at wool-hanks
and teasels and carding-combs. Moreover, having taken order for their
future converse, they did on such wise that, without having to resort
anew to my lord the friar, they foregathered in equal joyance many
another night, to the like whereof I pray God, of His holy mercy,
speedily to conduct me and all Christian souls who have a mind
thereto."

[Footnote 158: Lit. (_riscaldare gli orecchi_).]

[Footnote 159: _i.e._ three a.m. next morning.]



THE FOURTH STORY

[Day the Third]

     DOM FELICE TEACHETH FRA PUCCIO HOW HE MAY BECOME BEATIFIED
     BY PERFORMING A CERTAIN PENANCE OF HIS FASHION, WHICH THE
     OTHER DOTH, AND DOM FELICE MEANWHILE LEADETH A MERRY LIFE OF
     IT WITH THE GOOD MAN'S WIFE


Filomena, having made an end of her story, was silent and Dioneo
having with dulcet speech mightily commended the lady's shrewdness and
eke the prayer with which Filomena had concluded, the queen turned
with a smile to Pamfilo and said, "Come, Pamfilo, continue our
diversion with some pleasant trifle." Pamfilo promptly answered that
he would well and began thus: "Madam, there are many persons who, what
while they study to enter Paradise, unwittingly send others thither;
the which happened, no great while since, to a neighbour of ours, as
you shall hear.

According to that which I have heard tell, there abode near San
Pancrazio an honest man and a rich, called Puccio di Rinieri, who,
devoting himself in his latter days altogether to religious practices,
became a tertiary[160] of the order of St. Francis, whence he was
styled Fra Puccio, and ensuing this his devout life, much frequented
the church, for that he had no family other than a wife and one maid
and consequently, it behoved him not apply himself to any craft. Being
an ignorant, clod-pated fellow, he said his paternosters, went to
preachments and attended mass, nor ever failed to be at the Lauds
chanted by the seculars,[161] and fasted and mortified himself; nay,
it was buzzed about that he was of the Flagellants.[162] His wife,
whose name was Mistress Isabetta,[163] a woman, yet young, of
eight-and-twenty to thirty years of age, fresh and fair and plump as a
lady-apple, kept, by reason of the piety and belike of the age of her
husband, much longer and more frequent fasts than she could have
wished, and when she would have slept or maybe frolicked with him, he
recounted to her the life of Christ and the preachments of Fra
Nastagio or the Complaint of Mary Magdalene or the like. Meantime
there returned home from Paris a monk hight Dom[164] Felice,
Conventual[165] of San Pancrazio, who was young and comely enough of
person, keen of wit and a profound scholar, and with him Fra Puccio
contracted a strait friendship. And for that this Dom Felice right
well resolved him his every doubt and knowing his pious turn of mind,
made him a show of exceeding devoutness, Fra Puccio fell to carrying
him home bytimes and giving him to dine and sup, as the occasion
offered; and the lady also, for her husband's sake, became familiar
with him and willingly did him honour. The monk, then, continuing to
frequent Fra Puccio's house and seeing the latter's wife so fresh and
plump, guessed what should be the thing whereof she suffered the most
default and bethought himself, an he might, to go about to furnish her
withal himself, and so spare Fra Puccio fatigue. Accordingly, craftily
casting his eyes on her, at one time and another, he made shift to
kindle in her breast that same desire which he had himself, which when
he saw, he bespoke her of his wishes as first occasion betided him.
But, albeit he found her well disposed to give effect to the work, he
could find no means thereunto, for that she would on nowise trust
herself to be with him in any place in the world save her own house,
and there it might not be, seeing that Fra Puccio never went without
the town. At this the monk was sore chagrined; but, after much
consideration, he hit upon a device whereby he might avail to
foregather with the lady in her own house, without suspect, for all
Fra Puccio should be at home. Accordingly, the latter coming one day
to visit him, he bespoke him thus, 'I have many a time understood, Fra
Puccio, that all thy desire is to become a saint and to this end
meseemeth thou goest about by a long road, whereas there is another
and a very short one, which the Pope and the other great prelates, who
know and practise it, will not have made known, for that the clergy,
who for the most part live by alms, would incontinent be undone,
inasmuch as the laity would no longer trouble themselves to propitiate
them with alms or otherwhat. But, for that thou art my friend and hast
very honourably entertained me, I would teach it thee, so I were
assured thou wouldst practise it and wouldst not discover it to any
living soul.' Fra Puccio, eager to know the thing, began straightway
to entreat him with the utmost instancy that he would teach it him and
then to swear that never, save in so far as it should please him,
would he tell it to any, engaging, an if it were such as he might
avail to follow, to address himself thereunto. Whereupon quoth the
monk, 'Since thou promisest me this, I will e'en discover it to thee.
Thou must know that the doctors of the church hold that it behoveth
whoso would become blessed to perform the penance which thou shalt
hear; but understand me aright; I do not say that, after the penance,
thou wilt not be a sinner like as thou presently art; but this will
betide, that the sins which thou hast committed up to the time of the
penance will all by virtue thereof be purged and pardoned unto thee,
and those which thou shalt commit thereafterward will not be written
to thy prejudice, but will pass away with the holy water, as venial
sins do now. It behoveth a man, then, in the first place, whenas he
cometh to begin the penance, to confess himself with the utmost
diligence of his sins, and after this he must keep a fast and a very
strict abstinence for the space of forty days, during which time
thou[166] must abstain from touching, not to say other women, but even
thine own wife. Moreover, thou must have in thine own house some place
whence thou mayst see the sky by night, whither thou must betake
thyself towards the hour of complines,[167] and there thou must have a
wide plank set up, on such wise that, standing upright, thou mayst
lean thy loins against it and keeping thy feet on the ground, stretch
out thine arms, crucifix fashion. An thou wouldst rest them upon some
peg or other, thou mayst do it, and on this wise thou must abide
gazing upon the sky, without budging a jot, till matins. Wert thou a
scholar, thou wouldst do well to repeat certain orisons I would give
thee; but, as thou art it not, thou must say three hundred
Paternosters and as many Ave Marys, in honour of the Trinity, and
looking upon heaven, still have in remembrance that God is the Creator
of heaven and earth and the passion of Christ, abiding on such wise as
He abode on the cross. When the bell ringeth to matins, thou mayst, an
thou wilt, go and cast thyself, clad as thou art, on thy bed and
sleep, and after, in the forenoon, betake thyself to church and there
hear at least three masses and repeat fifty Paternosters and as many
Aves; after which thou shalt with a single heart do all and sundry
thine occasions, if thou have any to do, and dine and at evensong be
in church again and there say certain orisons which I will give thee
by writ and without which it cannot be done. Then, towards complines,
do thou return to the fashion aforesaid, and thus doing, even as I
have myself done aforetime, I doubt not but, ere thou come to the end
of the penance, thou wilt, (provided thou shalt have performed it with
devoutness and compunction,) feel somewhat marvellous of eternal
beatitude.' Quoth Fra Puccio, 'This is no very burdensome matter, nor
yet overlong, and may very well be done; wherefore I purpose in God's
name to begin on Sunday.' Then, taking leave of him and returning
home, he related everything in due order to his wife, having the
other's permission therefor. The lady understood very well what the
monk meant by bidding him stand fast without stirring till matins;
wherefore, the device seeming to her excellent, she replied that she
was well pleased therewith and with every other good work that he did
for the health of his soul and that, so God might make the penance
profitable to him, she would e'en fast with him, but do no more. They
being thus of accord and Sunday come, Fra Puccio began his penance and
my lord monk, having agreed with the lady, came most evenings to sup
with her, bringing with him store of good things to eat and drink, and
after lay with her till matinsong, when he arose and took himself off,
whilst Fra Puccio returned to bed. Now the place which Fra Puccio had
chosen for his penance adjoined the chamber where the lady lay and was
parted therefrom but by a very slight wall, wherefore, Master Monk
wantoning it one night overfreely with the lady and she with him, it
seemed to Fra Puccio that he felt a shaking of the floor of the house.
Accordingly, having by this said an hundred of his Paternosters, he
made a stop there and without moving, called to his wife to know what
she did. The lady, who was of a waggish turn and was then belike
astride of San Benedetto his beast or that of San Giovanni Gualberto,
answered, 'I' faith, husband mine, I toss as most I may.' 'How?'
quoth Fra Puccio. 'Thou tossest? What meaneth this tossing?' The lady,
laughing, for that she was a frolicsome dame and doubtless had cause
to laugh, answered merrily; 'How? You know not what it meaneth? Why, I
have heard you say a thousand times, "Who suppeth not by night must
toss till morning light."' Fra Puccio doubted not but that the fasting
was the cause of her unableness to sleep and it was for this she
tossed thus about the bed; wherefore, in the simplicity of his heart,
'Wife,' said he, 'I told thee not to fast; but, since thou wouldst
e'en do it, think not of that, but address thyself to rest; thou
givest such vaults about the bed that thou makest all in the place
shake.' 'Have no care for that,' answered the lady; 'I know what I am
about; do you but well, you, and I will do as well as I may.' Fra
Puccio, accordingly, held his peace and betook himself anew to his
Paternosters; and after that night my lord monk and the lady let make
a bed in another part of the house, wherein they abode in the utmost
joyance what while Fra Puccio's penance lasted. At one and the same
hour the monk took himself off and the lady returned to her own bed,
whereto a little after came Fra Puccio from his penance; and on this
wise the latter continued to do penance, whilst his wife did her
delight with the monk, to whom quoth she merrily, now and again, 'Thou
hast put Fra Puccio upon performing a penance, whereby we have gotten
Paradise.' Indeed, the lady, finding herself in good case, took such a
liking to the monk's fare, having been long kept on low diet by her
husband, that, whenas Fra Puccio's penance was accomplished, she still
found means to feed her fill with him elsewhere and using discretion,
long took her pleasure thereof. Thus, then, that my last words may not
be out of accord with my first, it came to pass that, whereas Fra
Puccio, by doing penance, thought to win Paradise for himself, he put
therein the monk, who had shown him the speedy way thither, and his
wife, who lived with him in great lack of that whereof Dom Felice,
like a charitable man as he was, vouchsafed her great plenty."

[Footnote 160: _i.e._ a lay brother or affiliate.]

[Footnote 161: _i.e._ the canticles of praise chanted by certain lay
confraternities, established for that purpose and answering to our
præ-Reformation Laudsingers.]

[Footnote 162: An order of lay penitents, who were wont at certain
times to go masked about the streets, scourging themselves in
expiation of the sins of the people. This expiatory practice was
particularly prevalent in Italy in the middle of the thirteenth
century.]

[Footnote 163: Contraction of Elisabetta.]

[Footnote 164: _Dom_, contraction of Dominus (lord), the title
commonly given to the beneficed clergy in the middle ages, answering
to our _Sir_ as used by Shakespeare (_e.g._ Sir Hugh Evans the Welsh
Parson, Sir Topas the Curate, etc.). The expression survives in the
title _Dominie_ (_i.e._ Domine, voc. of Dominus) still familiarly
applied to schoolmasters, who were of course originally invariably
clergymen.]

[Footnote 165: A Conventual is a member of some monastic order
attached to the regular service of a church, or (as would nowadays be
said) a "beneficed" monk.]

[Footnote 166: _Sic._ This confusion of persons constantly occurs in
Boccaccio, especially in the conversational parts of the Decameron, in
which he makes the freest use of the various forms of enallage and of
other rhetorical figures, such as hyperbaton, synecdoche, etc., to the
no small detriment of his style in the matter of clearness.]

[Footnote 167: _i.e._ nine o'clock p.m.]



THE FIFTH STORY

[Day the Third]

     RICCIARDO, SURNAMED IL ZIMA, GIVETH MESSER FRANCESCO
     VERGELLESI A PALFREY OF HIS AND HATH THEREFOR HIS LEAVE TO
     SPEAK WITH HIS WIFE. SHE KEEPING SILENCE, HE IN HER PERSON
     REPLIETH UNTO HIMSELF, AND THE EFFECT AFTER ENSUETH IN
     ACCORDANCE WITH HIS ANSWER


Pamfilo having made an end, not without laughter on the part of the
ladies, of the story of Fra Puccio, the queen with a commanding air
bade Elisa follow on. She, rather tartly than otherwise, not out of
malice, but of old habit, began to speak thus, "Many folk, knowing
much, imagine that others know nothing, and so ofttimes, what while
they think to overreach others, find, after the event, that they
themselves have been outwitted of them; wherefore I hold his folly
great who setteth himself without occasion to test the strength of
another's wit. But, for that maybe all are not of my opinion, it
pleaseth me, whilst following on the given order of the discourse, to
relate to you that which befell a Pistolese gentleman[168] by reason
thereof.

[Footnote 168: _i.e._ a gentleman of Pistoia.]

There was in Pistoia a gentleman of the Vergellesi family, by name
Messer Francesco, a man of great wealth and understanding and well
advised in all else, but covetous beyond measure. Being made provost
of Milan, he had furnished himself with everything necessary for his
honourable going thither, except only with a palfrey handsome enough
for him, and finding none to his liking, he abode in concern thereof.
Now there was then in the same town a young man called Ricciardo, of
little family, but very rich, who still went so quaintly clad and so
brave of his person that he was commonly known as Il Zima,[169] and he
had long in vain loved and courted Messer Francesco's wife, who was
exceeding fair and very virtuous. Now he had one of the handsomest
palfreys in all Tuscany and set great store by it for its beauty and
it being public to every one that he was enamoured of Messer
Francesco's wife, there were those who told the latter that, should he
ask it, he might have the horse for the love Il Zima bore his lady.
Accordingly, moved by covetise, Messer Francesco let call Il Zima to
him and sought of him his palfrey by way of sale, so he should proffer
it to him as a gift. The other, hearing this, was well pleased and
made answer to him, saying, "Sir, though you gave me all you have in
the world, you might not avail to have my palfrey by way of sale, but
by way of gift you may have it, whenas it pleaseth you, on condition
that, ere you take it, I may have leave to speak some words with your
lady in your presence, but so far removed from every one that I may be
heard of none other than herself.' The gentleman, urged by avarice and
looking to outwit the other, answered that it liked him well and [that
he might speak with her] as much as he would; then, leaving him in the
saloon of his palace, he betook himself to the lady's chamber and
telling her how easily he might acquire the palfrey, bade her come
hearken to Il Zima, but charged her take good care to answer neither
little or much to aught that he should say. To this the lady much
demurred, but, it behoving her ensue her husband's pleasure, she
promised to do his bidding and followed him to the saloon, to hear
what Il Zima should say. The latter, having renewed his covenant with
the gentleman, seated himself with the lady in a part of the saloon at
a great distance from every one and began to say thus, 'Noble lady,
meseemeth certain that you have too much wit not to have long since
perceived how great a love I have been brought to bear you by your
beauty, which far transcendeth that of any woman whom methinketh I
ever beheld, to say nothing of the engaging manners and the peerless
virtues which be in you and which might well avail to take the
loftiest spirits of mankind; wherefore it were needless to declare to
you in words that this [my love] is the greatest and most fervent that
ever man bore woman; and thus, without fail, will I do[170] so long as
my wretched life shall sustain these limbs, nay, longer; for that, if
in the other world folk love as they do here below, I shall love you
to all eternity. Wherefore you may rest assured that you have nothing,
be it much or little worth, that you may hold so wholly yours and
whereon you may in every wise so surely reckon as myself, such as I
am, and that likewise which is mine. And that of this you may take
assurance by very certain argument, I tell you that I should count
myself more graced, did you command me somewhat that I might do and
that would pleasure you, than if, I commanding, all the world should
promptliest obey me. Since, then, I am yours, even as you have heard,
it is not without reason that I dare to offer up my prayers to your
nobility, wherefrom alone can all peace, all health and all well-being
derive for me, and no otherwhence; yea, as the humblest of your
servants, I beseech you, dear my good and only hope of my soul, which,
midmost the fire of love, feedeth upon its hope in you,--that your
benignity may be so great and your past rigour shown unto me, who am
yours, on such wise be mollified that I, recomforted by your kindness,
may say that, like as by your beauty I was stricken with love, even so
by your pity have I life, which latter, an your haughty soul incline
not to my prayers, will without fail come to nought and I shall perish
and you may be said to be my murderer. Letting be that my death will
do you no honour, I doubt not eke but that, conscience bytimes
pricking you therefor, you will regret having wrought it[171] and
whiles, better disposed, will say in yourself, "Alack, how ill I did
not to have compassion upon my poor Zima!" and this repentance, being
of no avail, will cause you the great annoy. Wherefore, so this may
not betide, now that you have it in your power to succour me, bethink
yourself and ere I die, be moved to pity on me, for that with you
alone it resteth to make me the happiest or the most miserable man
alive. I trust your courtesy will be such that you will not suffer me
to receive death in guerdon of such and so great a love, but will with
a glad response and full of favour quicken my fainting spirits, which
flutter, all dismayed, in your presence.' Therewith he held his peace
and heaving the deepest of sighs, followed up with sundry tears,
proceeded to await the lady's answer. The latter,--whom the long court
he had paid her, the joustings held and the serenades given in her
honour and other like things done of him for the love of her had not
availed to move,--was moved by the passionate speech of this most
ardent lover and began to be sensible of that which she had never yet
felt, to wit, what manner of thing love was; and albeit, in ensuance
of the commandment laid upon her by her husband, she kept silence, she
could not withal hinder sundry gentle sighs from discovering that
which, in answer to Il Zima, she would gladly have made manifest. Il
Zima, having waited awhile and seeing that no response ensued, was
wondered and presently began to divine the husband's device; but yet,
looking her in the face and observing certain flashes of her eyes
towards him now and again and noting, moreover, the sighs which she
suffered not to escape her bosom with all her strength, conceived
fresh hope and heartened thereby, took new counsel[172] and proceeded
to answer himself after the following fashion, she hearkening the
while: 'Zima mine, this long time, in good sooth, have I perceived thy
love for me to be most great and perfect, and now by thy words I know
it yet better and am well pleased therewith, as indeed I should be.
Algates, an I have seemed to thee harsh and cruel, I will not have
thee believe that I have at heart been that which I have shown myself
in countenance; nay, I have ever loved thee and held thee dear above
all other men; but thus hath it behoved me do, both for fear of others
and for the preserving of my fair fame. But now is the time at hand
when I may show thee clearly that I love thee and guerdon thee of the
love that thou hast borne and bearest me. Take comfort, therefore, and
be of good hope, for that a few days hence Messer Francesco is to go
to Milan for provost, as indeed thou knowest, who hast for the love of
me given him thy goodly palfrey; and whenas he shall be gone, I
promise thee by my troth and of the true love I bear thee, that,
before many days, thou shalt without fail foregather with me and we
will give gladsome and entire accomplishment to our love. And that I
may not have to bespeak thee otherwhiles of the matter, I tell thee
presently that, whenas thou shalt see two napkins displayed at the
window of my chamber, which giveth upon our garden, do thou that same
evening at nightfall make shift to come to me by the garden door,
taking good care that thou be not seen. Thou wilt find me awaiting
thee and we will all night long have delight and pleasance one of
another, to our hearts' content.' Having thus spoken for the lady, he
began again to speak in his own person and rejoined on this wise,
'Dearest lady, my every sense is so transported with excessive joy for
your gracious reply that I can scarce avail to make response, much
less to render you due thanks; nay, could I e'en speak as I desire,
there is no term so long that it might suffice me fully to thank you
as I would fain do and as it behoveth me; wherefore I leave it to your
discreet consideration to imagine that which, for all my will, I am
unable to express in words. This much only I tell you that I will
without fail bethink myself to do as you have charged me, and being
then, peradventure, better certified of so great a grace as that which
you have vouchsafed me, I will, as best I may, study to render you the
utmost thanks in my power. For the nonce there abideth no more to say;
wherefore, dearest lady mine, God give you that gladness and that weal
which you most desire, and so to Him I commend you.' For all this the
lady said not a word; whereupon Il Zima arose and turned towards the
husband, who, seeing him risen, came up to him and said, laughing 'How
deemest thou? Have I well performed my promise to thee?' 'Nay, sir'
answered Il Zima; 'for you promised to let me speak with your lady and
you have caused me speak with a marble statue.' These words were
mighty pleasing to the husband, who, for all he had a good opinion of
the lady, conceived of her a yet better and said, 'Now is thy palfrey
fairly mine.' 'Ay is it, sir,' replied Il Zima, 'but, had I thought to
reap of this favour received of you such fruit as I have gotten, I had
given you the palfrey, without asking it[173] of you; and would God I
had done it, for that now you have bought the palfrey and I have not
sold it.' The other laughed at this and being now provided with a
palfrey, set out upon his way a few days after and betook himself to
Milan, to enter upon the Provostship. The lady, left free in her
house, called to mind Il Zima's words and the love he bore her and the
palfrey given for her sake and seeing him pass often by the house,
said in herself, 'What do I? Why waste I my youth? Yonder man is gone
to Milan and will not return these six months. When will he ever
render me them[174] again? When I am old? Moreover, when shall I ever
find such a lover as Il Zima? I am alone and have no one to fear. I
know not why I should not take this good opportunity what while I may;
I shall not always have such leisure as I presently have. None will
know the thing, and even were it to be known, it is better to do and
repent, than to abstain and repent.' Having thus taken counsel with
herself, she one day set two napkins in the garden window, even as Il
Zima had said, which when he saw, he was greatly rejoiced and no
sooner was the night come than he betook himself, secretly and alone,
to the gate of the lady's garden and finding it open, passed on to
another door that opened into the house, where he found his mistress
awaiting him. She, seeing him come, started up to meet him and
received him with the utmost joy, whilst he clipped and kissed her an
hundred thousand times and followed her up the stair to her chamber,
where, getting them to bed without a moment's delay, they knew the
utmost term of amorous delight. Nor was this first time the last, for
that, what while the gentleman abode at Milan and even after his
coming back, Il Zima returned thither many another time, to the
exceeding satisfaction of both parties."

[Footnote 169: Lit. "The summit," or in modern slang "The tiptop,"
_i.e._ the pink of fashion.]

[Footnote 170: _i.e._ this love shall I bear you. This is a flagrant
instance of the misuse of ellipsis, which so frequently disfigures
Boccaccio's dialogue.]

[Footnote 171: _i.e._ my death.]

[Footnote 172: Syn. a rare or strange means (_nuovo consiglio_). The
word _nuovo_ is constantly used by Boccaccio in the latter sense, as
is _consiglio_ in its remoter signification of means, remedy, etc.]

[Footnote 173: _i.e._ the favour.]

[Footnote 174: _i.e._ the lost six months.]



THE SIXTH STORY

[Day the Third]

     RICCIARDO MINUTOLO, BEING ENAMOURED OF THE WIFE OF
     FILIPPELLO FIGHINOLFI AND KNOWING HER JEALOUSY OF HER
     HUSBAND, CONTRIVETH, BY REPRESENTING THAT FILIPPELLO WAS ON
     THE ENSUING DAY TO BE WITH HIS OWN WIFE IN A BAGNIO, TO
     BRING HER TO THE LATTER PLACE, WHERE, THINKING TO BE WITH
     HER HUSBAND, SHE FINDETH THAT SHE HATH ABIDDEN WITH
     RICCIARDO


Elisa having no more to say, the queen, after commending the sagacity
of Il Zima, bade Fiammetta proceed with a story, who answered, all
smilingly, "Willingly, Madam," and began thus: "It behoveth somedele
to depart our city (which, like as it aboundeth in all things else, is
fruitful in instances of every subject) and as Elisa hath done, to
recount somewhat of the things that have befallen in other parts of
the world; wherefore, passing over to Naples, I shall tell how one of
those she-saints, who feign themselves so shy of love, was by the
ingenuity of a lover of hers brought to taste the fruits of love, ere
she had known its flowers; the which will at once teach you
circumspection in the things that may hap and afford you diversion of
those already befallen.

In Naples, a very ancient city and as delightful as any in Italy or
maybe more so, there was once a young man, illustrious for nobility of
blood and noted for his much wealth, whose name was Ricciardo
Minutolo. Albeit he had to wife a very fair and lovesome young lady,
he fell in love with one who, according to general opinion, far
overpassed in beauty all the other ladies of Naples. Her name was
Catella and she was the wife of another young gentleman of like
condition, hight Filippello Fighinolfi, whom, like a very virtuous
woman as she was, she loved and cherished over all. Ricciardo, then,
loving this Catella and doing all those things whereby the love and
favour of a lady are commonly to be won, yet for all that availing not
to compass aught of his desire, was like to despair; and unknowing or
unable to rid him of his passion, he neither knew how to die nor did
it profit him to live.

Abiding in this mind, it befell that he was one day urgently exhorted
by certain ladies of his kinsfolk to renounce this passion of his,
seeing he did but weary himself in vain, for that Catella had none
other good than Filippello, of whom she lived in such jealousy that
she fancied every bird that flew through the air would take him from
her. Ricciardo, hearing of Catella's jealousy, forthright bethought
himself how he might compass his wishes and accordingly proceeded to
feign himself in despair of her love and to have therefore set his
mind upon another lady, for whose love he began to make a show of
jousting and tourneying and doing all those things which he had been
used to do for Catella; nor did he do this long before well nigh all
the Neapolitans, and among the rest the lady herself, were persuaded
that he no longer loved Catella, but was ardently enamoured of this
second lady; and on this wise he persisted until it was so firmly
believed not only of others, but of Catella herself, that the latter
laid aside a certain reserve with which she was wont to entreat him,
by reason of the love he bore her, and coming and going, saluted him
familiarly, neighbourwise, as she did others.

It presently befell that, the weather being warm, many companies of
ladies and gentlemen went, according to the usance of the Neapolitans,
to divert themselves on the banks of the sea and there to dine and
sup, and Ricciardo, knowing Catella to be gone thither with her
company, betook himself to the same place with his friends and was
received into Catella's party of ladies, after allowing himself to be
much pressed, as if he had no great mind to abide there. The ladies
and Catella fell to rallying him upon his new love, and he, feigning
himself sore inflamed therewith, gave them the more occasion for
discourse. Presently, one lady going hither and thither, as commonly
happeneth in such places, and Catella being left with a few whereas
Ricciardo was, the latter cast at her a hint of a certain amour of
Filippello her husband, whereupon she fell into a sudden passion of
jealousy and began to be inwardly all afire with impatience to know
what he meant. At last, having contained herself awhile and being
unable to hold out longer, she besought Ricciardo, for that lady's
sake whom he most loved, to be pleased to make her clear[175] of that
which he had said of Filippello; whereupon quoth he, 'You conjure me
by such a person that I dare not deny aught you ask me; wherefore I am
ready to tell it you, so but you promise me that you will never say a
word thereof either to him or to any other, save whenas you shall by
experience have seen that which I shall tell you to be true; for that,
when you please, I will teach you how you may see it.'

[Footnote 175: Or, in modern parlance, to enlighten her.]

The lady consented to that which he asked and swore to him never to
repeat that which he should tell her, believing it the more to be
true. Then, withdrawing apart with her, so they might not be overheard
of any, he proceeded to say thus: 'Madam, an I loved you as once I
loved, I should not dare tell you aught which I thought might vex you;
but, since that love is passed away, I shall be less chary of
discovering to you the whole truth. I know not if Filippello have ever
taken umbrage at the love I bore you or have believed that I was ever
loved of you. Be this as it may, he hath never personally shown me
aught thereof; but now, having peradventure awaited a time whenas he
deemed I should be less suspicious, it seemeth he would fain do unto
me that which I misdoubt me he feareth I have done unto him, to wit,
[he seeketh] to have my wife at his pleasure. As I find, he hath for
some little time past secretly solicited her with sundry messages, all
of which I have known from herself, and she hath made answer thereunto
according as I have enjoined her. This very day, however, ere I came
hither, I found in the house, in close conference with my wife, a
woman whom I set down incontinent for that which she was, wherefore I
called my wife and asked her what the woman wanted. Quoth she, "She is
the agent of Filippello, with whom thou hast saddled me, by dint of
making me answer him and give him hopes, and she saith that he will
e'en know once for all what I mean to do and that, an I will, he
would contrive for me to be privily at a bagnio in this city; nay, of
this he prayeth and importuneth me; and hadst thou not, I know not
why, caused me keep this traffic with him, I would have rid myself of
him after such a fashion that he should never more have looked whereas
I might be." Thereupon meseemed this was going too far and that it was
no longer to be borne; and I bethought myself to tell it to you, so
you might know how he requiteth that entire fidelity of yours, whereby
aforetime I was nigh upon death. And so you shall not believe this
that I tell you to be words and fables, but may, whenas you have a
mind thereto, openly both see and touch it, I caused my wife make this
answer to her who awaited it, that she was ready to be at the bagnio
in question to-morrow at none, whenas the folk sleep; with which the
woman took leave of her, very well pleased. Now methinketh not you
believe that I will send my wife thither; but, were I in your place, I
would contrive that he should find me there in the room of her he
thinketh to meet, and whenas I had abidden with him awhile, I would
give him to know with whom he had been and render him such honour
thereof as should beseem him; by which means methinketh you would do
him such a shame that the affront he would fain put upon yourself and
upon me would at one blow be avenged.'

Catella, hearing this, without anywise considering who it was that
said it to her or suspecting his design, forthright, after the wont of
jealous folk, gave credence to his words and fell a-fitting to his
story certain things that had already befallen; then, fired with
sudden anger, she answered that she would certainly do as he
counselled,--it was no such great matter,--and that assuredly, if
Filippello came thither, she would do him such a shame that it should
still recur to his mind, as often as he saw a woman. Ricciardo, well
pleased at this and himseeming his device was a good one and in a fair
way of success, confirmed her in her purpose with many other words and
strengthened her belief in his story, praying her, natheless, never to
say that she had heard it from him, the which she promised him on her
troth.

Next morning, Ricciardo betook himself to a good woman, who kept the
bagnio he had named to Catella, and telling her what he purposed to
do, prayed her to further him therein as most she might. The good
woman, who was much beholden to him, answered that she would well and
agreed with him what she should do and say. Now in the house where the
bagnio was she had a very dark chamber, for that no window gave
thereon by which the light might enter. This chamber she made ready
and spread a bed there, as best she might, wherein Ricciardo, as soon
as he had dined, laid himself and proceeded to await Catella. The
latter, having heard Ricciardo's words and giving more credence
thereto than behoved her, returned in the evening, full of despite, to
her house, whither Filippello also returned and being by chance full
of other thought, maybe did not show her his usual fondness. When she
saw this, her suspicions rose yet higher and she said in herself,
'Forsooth, his mind is occupied with yonder lady with whom he thinketh
to take his pleasure to-morrow; but of a surety this shall not come to
pass.' An in this thought she abode well nigh all that night,
considering how she should bespeak him, whenas she should be with him
[in the bagnio].

What more [need I say?] The hour of none come, she took her
waiting-woman and without anywise changing counsel, repaired to the
bagnio that Ricciardo had named to her, and there finding the good
woman, asked her if Filippello had been there that day, whereupon
quoth the other, who had been duly lessoned by Ricciardo, 'Are you the
lady that should come to speak with him?' 'Ay am I,' answered Catella.
'Then,' said the woman, 'get you in to him.' Catella, who went seeking
that which she would fain not have found, caused herself to be brought
to the chamber where Ricciardo was and entering with covered head,
locked herself in. Ricciardo, seeing her enter, rose joyfully to his
feet and catching her in his arms, said softly, 'Welcome, my soul!'
Whilst she, the better to feign herself other than she was, clipped
him and kissed him and made much of him, without saying a word,
fearing to be known of him if she should speak. The chamber was very
dark, wherewith each of them was well pleased, nor for long abiding
there did the eyes recover more power. Ricciardo carried her to the
bed and there, without speaking, lest their voices should betray them,
they abode a long while, to the greater delight and pleasance of the
one party than the other.

But presently, it seeming to Catella time to vent the resentment she
felt, she began, all afire with rage and despite, to speak thus,
'Alas, how wretched is women's lot and how ill bestowed the love that
many of them bear their husbands! I, unhappy that I am, these eight
years have I loved thee more than my life, and thou, as I have felt,
art all afire and all consumed with love of a strange woman, wicked
and perverse man that thou art! Now with whom thinkest thou to have
been? Thou hast been with her whom thou hast too long beguiled with
thy false blandishments, making a show of love to her and being
enamoured elsewhere. I am Catella, not Ricciardo's wife, disloyal
traitor that thou art! Hearken if thou know my voice; it is indeed I;
and it seemeth to me a thousand years till we be in the light, so I
may shame thee as thou deservest, scurvy discredited cur that thou
art! Alack, woe is me! To whom have I borne so much love these many
years? To this disloyal dog, who, thinking to have a strange woman in
his arms, hath lavished on me more caresses and more fondnesses in
this little while I have been here with him than in all the rest of
the time I have been his. Thou hast been brisk enough to-day, renegade
cur that thou art, that usest at home to show thyself so feeble and
forspent and impotent; but, praised be God, thou hast tilled thine own
field and not, as thou thoughtest, that of another. No wonder thou
camest not anigh me yesternight; thou lookedst to discharge thee of
thy lading elsewhere and wouldst fain come fresh to the battle; but,
thanks to God and my own foresight, the stream hath e'en run in its
due channel. Why answerest thou not, wicked man? Why sayst thou not
somewhat? Art thou grown dumb, hearing me? Cock's faith, I know not
what hindereth me from thrusting my hands into thine eyes and tearing
them out for thee. Thou thoughtest to do this treason very secretly;
but, perdie, one knoweth as much as another; thou hast not availed to
compass thine end; I have had better beagles at thy heels than thou
thoughtest.'

Ricciardo inwardly rejoiced at these words and without making any
reply, clipped her and kissed her and fondled her more than ever;
whereupon quoth she, following on her speech, 'Ay, thou thinkest to
cajole me with thy feigned caresses, fashious dog that thou art, and
to appease and console me; but thou art mistaken; I shall never be
comforted for this till I have put thee to shame therefor in the
presence of all our friends and kinsmen and neighbours. Am I not as
fair as Ricciardo's wife, thou villain? Am I not as good a
gentlewoman? Why dost thou not answer, thou sorry dog? What hath she
more than I? Keep thy distance; touch me not; thou hast done enough
feats of arms for to-day. Now thou knowest who I am, I am well assured
that all thou couldst do would be perforce; but, so God grant me
grace, I will yet cause thee suffer want thereof, and I know not what
hindereth me from sending for Ricciardo, who hath loved me more than
himself and could never boast that I once even looked at him; nor know
I what harm it were to do it. Thou thoughtest to have his wife here
and it is as if thou hadst had her, inasmuch as it is none of thy
fault that the thing hath miscarried; wherefore, were I to have
himself, thou couldst not with reason blame me.'

Brief, many were the lady's words and sore her complaining. However,
at last, Ricciardo, bethinking himself that, an he let her go in that
belief, much ill might ensue thereof, determined to discover himself
and undeceive her; wherefore, catching her in his arms and holding her
fast, so she might not get away, he said, 'Sweet my soul, be not
angered; that which I could not have of you by simply loving you, Love
hath taught me to obtain by practice; and I am your Ricciardo.'
Catella, hearing this and knowing him by the voice, would have thrown
herself incontinent out of bed, but could not; whereupon she offered
to cry out; but Ricciardo stopped her mouth with one hand and said,
'Madam, this that hath been may henceforth on nowise be undone, though
you should cry all the days of your life; and if you cry out or cause
this ever anywise to be known of any one, two things will come
thereof; the one (which should no little concern you) will be that
your honour and fair fame will be marred, for that, albeit you may
avouch that I brought you hither by practice, I shall say that it is
not true, nay, that I caused you come hither for monies and gifts that
I promised you, whereof for that I gave you not so largely as you
hoped, you waxed angry and made all this talk and this outcry; and you
know that folk are more apt to credit ill than good, wherefore I shall
more readily be believed than you. Secondly, there will ensue thereof
a mortal enmity between your husband and myself, and it may as well
happen that I shall kill him as he me, in which case you are never
after like to be happy or content. Wherefore, heart of my body, go not
about at once to dishonour yourself and to cast your husband and
myself into strife and peril. You are not the first woman, nor will
you be the last, who hath been deceived, nor have I in this practised
upon you to bereave you of your own, but for the exceeding love that
I bear you and am minded ever to bear you and to be your most humble
servant. And although it is long since I and all that I possess or can
or am worth have been yours and at your service, henceforward I
purpose that they shall be more than ever so. Now, you are well
advised in other things and so I am certain you will be in this.'

Catella, what while Ricciardo spoke thus, wept sore, but, albeit she
was sore provoked and complained grievously, nevertheless, her reason
allowed so much force to his true words that she knew it to be
possible that it should happen as he said; wherefore quoth she,
'Ricciardo, I know not how God will vouchsafe me strength to suffer
the affront and the cheat thou hast put upon me; I will well to make
no outcry here whither my simplicity and overmuch jealousy have
brought me; but of this be assured that I shall never be content till
one way or another I see myself avenged of this thou hast done to me.
Wherefore, leave me, hold me no longer; thou hast had that which thou
desiredst and hast tumbled me to thy heart's content; it is time to
leave me; let me go, I prithee.'

Ricciardo, seeing her mind yet overmuch disordered, had laid it to
heart never to leave her till he had gotten his pardon of her;
wherefore, studying with the softest words to appease her, he so
bespoke and so entreated and so conjured her that she was prevailed
upon to make peace with him, and of like accord they abode together a
great while thereafter in the utmost delight. Moreover, Catella,
having thus learned how much more savoury were the lover's kisses than
those of the husband and her former rigour being changed into kind
love-liking for Ricciardo, from that day forth she loved him very
tenderly and thereafter, ordering themselves with the utmost
discretion, they many a time had joyance of their loves. God grant us
to enjoy ours!"



THE SEVENTH STORY

[Day the Third]

     TEDALDO ELISEI, HAVING FALLEN OUT WITH HIS MISTRESS,
     DEPARTETH FLORENCE AND RETURNING THITHER, AFTER AWHILE, IN A
     PILGRIM'S FAVOUR, SPEAKETH WITH THE LADY AND MAKETH HER
     COGNISANT OF HER ERROR; AFTER WHICH HE DELIVERETH HER
     HUSBAND, WHO HAD BEEN CONVICTED OF MURDERING HIM, FROM DEATH
     AND RECONCILING HIM WITH HIS BRETHREN, THENCEFORWARD
     DISCREETLY ENJOYETH HIMSELF WITH HIS MISTRESS


Fiammetta being now silent, commended of all, the queen, to lose no
time, forthright committed the burden of discourse to Emilia, who
began thus: "It pleaseth me to return to our city, whence it pleased
the last two speakers to depart, and to show you how a townsman of
ours regained his lost mistress.

There was, then, in Florence a noble youth, whose name was Tedaldo
Elisei and who, being beyond measure enamoured of a lady called Madam
Ermellina, the wife of one Aldobrandino Palermini, deserved for his
praiseworthy fashions, to enjoy his desire. However, Fortune, the
enemy of the happy, denied him this solace, for that, whatever might
have been the cause, the lady, after complying awhile with Tedaldo's
wishes, suddenly altogether withdrew her good graces from him and not
only refused to hearken to any message of his, but would on no wise
see him; wherefore he fell into a dire and cruel melancholy; but his
love for her had been so hidden that none guessed it to be the cause
of his chagrin. After he had in divers ways studied amain to recover
the love himseemed he had lost without his fault and finding all his
labour vain, he resolved to withdraw from the world, that he might not
afford her who was the cause of his ill the pleasure of seeing him
pine away; wherefore, without saying aught to friend or kinsman, save
to a comrade of his, who knew all, he took such monies as he might
avail to have and departing secretly, came to Ancona, where, under the
name of Filippo di Sanlodeccio, he made acquaintance with a rich
merchant and taking service with him, accompanied him to Cyprus on
board a ship of his.

His manners and behaviour so pleased the merchant that he not only
assigned him a good wage, but made him in part his associate and put
into his hands a great part of his affairs, which he ordered so well
and so diligently that in a few years he himself became a rich and
famous and considerable merchant; and albeit, in the midst of these
his dealings, he oft remembered him of his cruel mistress and was
grievously tormented of love and yearned sore to look on her again,
such was his constancy that seven years long he got the better of the
battle. But, chancing one day to hear sing in Cyprus a song that
himself had made aforetime and wherein was recounted the love he bore
his mistress and she him and the pleasure he had of her, and thinking
it could not be she had forgotten him, he flamed up into such a
passion of desire to see her again that, unable to endure longer, he
resolved to return to Florence.

Accordingly, having set all his affairs in order, he betook himself
with one only servant to Ancona and transporting all his good thither,
despatched it to Florence to a friend of the Anconese his partner,
whilst he himself, in the disguise of a pilgrim returning from the
Holy Sepulchre, followed secretly after with his servant and coming to
Florence, put up at a little hostelry kept by two brothers, in the
neighbourhood of his mistress's house, whereto he repaired first of
all, to see her, an he might. However, he found the windows and doors
and all else closed, wherefore his heart misgave him she was dead or
had removed thence and he betook himself, in great concern, to the
house of his brethren, before which he saw four of the latter clad all
in black. At this he marvelled exceedingly and knowing himself so
changed both in habit and person from that which he was used to be,
whenas he departed thence, that he might not lightly be recognized, he
boldly accosted a cordwainer hard by and asked him why they were clad
in black; whereto he answered, 'Yonder men are clad in black for that
it is not yet a fortnight since a brother of theirs, who had not been
here this great while, was murdered, and I understand they have
proved to the court that one Aldobrandino Palermini, who is in prison,
slew him, for that he was a well-wisher of his wife and had returned
hither unknown to be with her.'

Tedaldo marvelled exceedingly that any one should so resemble him as
to be taken for him and was grieved for Aldobrandino's ill fortune.
Then, having learned that the lady was alive and well and it being now
night, he returned, full of various thoughts, to the inn and having
supped with his servant, was put to sleep well nigh at the top of the
house. There, what with the many thoughts that stirred him and the
badness of the bed and peradventure also by reason of the supper,
which had been meagre, half the night passed whilst he had not yet
been able to fall asleep; wherefore, being awake, himseemed about
midnight he heard folk come down into the house from the roof, and
after through the chinks of the chamber-door he saw a light come up
thither. Thereupon he stole softly to the door and putting his eye to
the chink, fell a-spying what this might mean and saw a comely enough
lass who held the light, whilst three men, who had come down from the
roof, made towards her; and after some greetings had passed between
them, one of them said to the girl, 'Henceforth, praised be God, we
may abide secure, since we know now for certain that the death of
Tedaldo Elisei hath been proved by his brethren against Aldobrandino
Palermini, who hath confessed thereto, and judgment is now recorded;
nevertheless, it behoveth to keep strict silence, for that, should it
ever become known that it was we [who slew him], we shall be in the
same danger as is Aldobrandino.' Having thus bespoken the woman, who
showed herself much rejoiced thereat, they left her and going below,
betook themselves to bed.

Tedaldo, hearing this, fell a-considering how many and how great are
the errors which may befall the minds of men, bethinking him first of
his brothers who had bewept and buried a stranger in his stead and
after of the innocent man accused on false suspicion and brought by
untrue witness to the point of death, no less than of the blind
severity of laws and rulers, who ofttimes, under cover of diligent
investigation of the truth, cause, by their cruelties, prove that
which is false and style themselves ministers of justice and of God,
whereas indeed they are executors of iniquity and of the devil; after
which he turned his thought to the deliverance of Aldobrandino and
determined in himself what he should do. Accordingly, arising in the
morning, he left his servant at the inn and betook himself alone,
whenas it seemed to him time, to the house of his mistress, where,
chancing to find the door open, he entered in and saw the lady seated,
all full of tears and bitterness of soul, in a little ground floor
room that was there.

At this sight he was like to weep for compassion of her and drawing
near to her, said, 'Madam, afflict not yourself; your peace is at
hand.' The lady, hearing this, lifted her eyes and said, weeping,
'Good man, thou seemest to me a stranger pilgrim; what knowest thou of
my peace or of my affliction?' 'Madam,' answered Tedaldo, 'I am of
Constantinople and am but now come hither, being sent of God to turn
your tears into laughter and to deliver your husband from death.'
Quoth she, 'An thou be of Constantinople and newly come hither, how
knowest thou who I am or who is my husband?' Thereupon, the pilgrim
beginning from the beginning, recounted to her the whole history of
Aldobrandino's troubles and told her who she was and how long she had
been married and other things which he very well knew of her affairs;
whereat she marvelled exceedingly and holding him for a prophet, fell
on her knees at his feet, beseeching him for God's sake, an he were
come for Aldobrandino's salvation, to despatch, for that the time was
short.

The pilgrim, feigning himself a very holy man, said, 'Madam, arise and
weep not, but hearken well to that which I shall say to you and take
good care never to tell it to any. According to that which God hath
revealed unto me, the tribulation wherein you now are hath betided you
because of a sin committed by you aforetime, which God the Lord hath
chosen in part to purge with this present annoy and will have
altogether amended of you; else will you fall into far greater
affliction.' 'Sir,' answered the lady, 'I have many sins and know not
which one, more than another, God the Lord would have me amend;
wherefore, an you know it, tell me and I will do what I may to amend
it.' 'Madam,' rejoined the pilgrim, 'I know well enough what it is,
nor do I question you thereof the better to know it, but to the intent
that, telling it yourself, you may have the more remorse thereof. But
let us come to the fact; tell me, do you remember, ever to have had a
lover?'

The lady, hearing this, heaved a deep sigh and marvelled sore,
supposing none had ever known it, albeit, in the days when he was
slain who had been buried for Tedaldo, there had been some whispering
thereof, for certain words not very discreetly used by Tedaldo's
confidant, who knew it; then answered, 'I see that God discovereth
unto you all men's secrets, wherefore I am resolved not to hide mine
own from you. True it is that in my youth I loved over all the
ill-fortuned youth whose death is laid to my husband's charge, which
death I have bewept as sore as it was grievous to me, for that, albeit
I showed myself harsh and cruel to him before his departure, yet
neither his long absence nor his unhappy death hath availed to tear
him from my heart.' Quoth the pilgrim, 'The hapless youth who is dead
you never loved, but Tedaldo Elisei ay.[176] But tell me, what was the
occasion of your falling out with him? Did he ever give you any
offence?' 'Certes, no,' replied she; 'he never offended against me;
the cause of the breach was the prate of an accursed friar, to whom I
once confessed me and who, when I told him of the love I bore Tedaldo
and the privacy I had with him, made such a racket about my ears that
I tremble yet to think of it, telling me that, an I desisted not
therefrom, I should go in the devil's mouth to the deepest deep of
hell and there be cast into everlasting fire; whereupon there entered
into me such a fear that I altogether determined to forswear all
further converse with him, and that I might have no occasion
therefor, I would no longer receive his letters or messages; albeit I
believe, had he persevered awhile, instead of getting him gone (as I
presume) in despair, that, seeing him, as I did, waste away like snow
in the sun, my harsh resolve would have yielded, for that I had no
greater desire in the world.'

[Footnote 176: _i.e._ It was not the dead man, but Tedaldo Elisei whom
you loved. (_Lo sventurato giovane che fu morto non amasti voi mai, ma
Tedaldo Elisei si._)]

'Madam,' rejoined the pilgrim, 'it is this sin alone that now
afflicteth you. I know for certain that Tedaldo did you no manner of
violence; whenas you fell in love with him, you did it of your own
free will, for that he pleased you; and as you yourself would have it,
he came to you and enjoyed your privacy, wherein both with words and
deeds you showed him such complaisance that, if he loved you before,
you caused his love redouble a thousandfold. And this being so (as I
know it was) what cause should have availed to move you so harshly to
withdraw yourself from him? These things should be pondered awhile
beforehand and if you think you may presently have cause to repent
thereof, as of ill doing, you ought not to do them. You might, at your
pleasure, have ordained of him, as of that which belonged to you, that
he should no longer be yours; but to go about to deprive him of
yourself, you who were his, was a theft and an unseemly thing, whenas
it was not his will. Now you must know that I am a friar and am
therefore well acquainted with all their usances; and if I speak
somewhat at large of them for your profit, it is not forbidden me, as
it were to another; nay, and it pleaseth me to speak of them, so you
may henceforward know them better than you appear to have done in the
past.

Friars of old were very pious and worthy men, but those who nowadays
style themselves friars and would be held such have nothing of the
monk but the gown; nor is this latter even that of a true friar, for
that,--whereas of the founders of the monastic orders they[177] were
ordained strait and poor and of coarse stuff and demonstrative[178] of
the spirit of the wearers, who testified that they held things
temporal in contempt whenas they wrapped their bodies in so mean a
habit,--those of our time have them made full and double and glossy
and of the finest cloth and have brought them to a quaint pontifical
cut, insomuch that they think it no shame to flaunt it withal
peacock-wise, in the churches and public places, even as do the laity
with their apparel; and like as with the sweep-net the fisher goeth
about to take many fishes in the river at one cast, even so these,
wrapping themselves about with the amplest of skirts, study to
entangle therein great store of prudish maids and widows and many
other silly women and men, and this is their chief concern over any
other exercise; wherefore, to speak more plainly, they have not the
friar's gown, but only the colours thereof.

[Footnote 177: _i.e._ friars' gowns. Boccaccio constantly uses this
irregular form of enallage, especially in dialogue.]

[Footnote 178: Or, as we should nowadays say, "typical."]

Moreover, whereas the ancients[179] desired the salvation of mankind,
those of our day covet women and riches and turn their every thought
to terrifying the minds of the foolish with clamours and
depicturements[180] and to making believe that sins may be purged with
almsdeeds and masses, to the intent that unto themselves (who, of
poltroonery, not of devoutness, and that they may not suffer
fatigue,[181] have, as a last resort, turned friars) one may bring
bread, another send wine and a third give them a dole of money for the
souls of their departed friends. Certes, it is true that almsdeeds and
prayers purge away sins; but, if those who give alms knew on what
manner folks they bestow them, they would or keep them for themselves
or cast them before as many hogs. And for that these[182] know that,
the fewer the possessors of a great treasure, the more they live at
ease, every one of them studieth with clamours and bugbears to detach
others from that whereof he would fain abide sole possessor. They
decry lust in men, in order that, they who are chidden desisting from
women, the latter may be left to the chiders; they condemn usury and
unjust gains, to the intent that, it being entrusted to them to make
restitution thereof, they may, with that which they declare must bring
to perdition him who hath it, make wide their gowns and purchase
bishopricks and other great benefices.

[Footnote 179: _i.e._ the founders of the monastic orders.]

[Footnote 180: Lit. pictures, paintings (_dipinture_), but evidently
here used in a tropical sense, Boccaccio's apparent meaning being that
the hypocritical friars used to terrify their devotees by picturing to
them, in vivid colours, the horrors of the punishment reserved for
sinners.]

[Footnote 181: _i.e._ may not have to labour for their living.]

[Footnote 182: _i.e._ the false friars.]

And when they are taken to task of these and many other unseemly
things that they do, they think that to answer, "Do as we say and not
as we do," is a sufficient discharge of every grave burden, as if it
were possible for the sheep to be more constant and stouter to resist
temptation[183] than the shepherds. And how many there be of those to
whom they make such a reply who apprehend it not after the
fashion[184] in which they say it, the most part of them know. The
monks of our day would have you do as they say, to wit, fill their
purses with money, trust your secrets to them, observe chastity,
practise patience and forgiveness of injuries and keep yourselves from
evil speaking,--all things good, seemly and righteous; but why would
they have this? So they may do that, which if the laity did,
themselves could not do. Who knoweth not that without money idleness
may not endure? An thou expend thy monies in thy pleasures, the friar
will not be able to idle it in the monastery; an thou follow after
women, there will be no room for him, and except thou be patient or a
forgiver of injuries, he will not dare to come to thy house to corrupt
thy family. But why should I hark back after every particular? They
condemn themselves in the eyes of the understanding as often as they
make this excuse. An they believe not themselves able to abstain and
lead a devout life, why do they not rather abide at home? Or, if they
will e'en give themselves unto this,[185] why do they not ensue that
other holy saying of the Gospel, "Christ began to do and to
teach?"[186] Let them first do and after teach others. I have in my
time seen a thousand of them wooers, lovers and haunters, not of lay
women alone, but of nuns; ay, and of those that make the greatest
outcry in the pulpit. Shall we, then, follow after these who are thus
fashioned? Whoso doth it doth that which he will, but God knoweth if
he do wisely.

[Footnote 183: Lit. more of iron (_più di ferro_).]

[Footnote 184: Sic (_per lo modo_); but _quære_ not rather "in the
sense."]

[Footnote 185: _i.e._ if they must enter upon this way of life, to
wit, that of the friar.]

[Footnote 186: The reference is apparently to the opening verse of the
Acts of the Apostles, where Luke says, "The former treatise have I
made, O Theophilus, of all that Jesus began to do and to teach." It
need hardly be remarked that the passage in question does not bear the
interpretation Boccaccio would put upon it.]

But, granted even we are to allow that which the friar who chid you
said to you, to wit, that it is a grievous sin to break the marriage
vow, is it not a far greater sin to rob a man and a greater yet to
slay him or drive him into exile, to wander miserably about the world?
Every one must allow this. For a woman to have converse with a man is
a sin of nature; but to rob him or slay him or drive him into exile
proceedeth from malignity of mind. That you robbed Tedaldo I have
already shown you, in despoiling him of yourself, who had become his
of your spontaneous will, and I say also that, so far as in you lay,
you slew him, for that it was none of your fault,--showing yourself,
as you did, hourly more cruel,--that he slew not himself with his own
hand; and the law willeth that whoso is the cause of the ill that is
done be held alike guilty with him who doth it. And that you were the
cause of his exile and of his going wandering seven years about the
world cannot be denied. So that in whichever one of these three things
aforesaid you have committed a far greater sin than in your converse
with him.

But, let us see; maybe Tedaldo deserved this usage? Certes, he did
not; you yourself have already confessed it, more by token that I know
he loveth[187] you more than himself. No woman was ever so honoured,
so exalted, so magnified over every other of her sex as were you by
him, whenas he found himself where he might fairly speak of you,
without engendering suspicion. His every good, his every honour, his
every liberty were all committed by him into your hands. Was he not
noble and young? Was he not handsome among all his townsmen? Was he
not accomplished in such things as pertain unto young men? Was he not
loved, cherished and well seen of every one? You will not say nay to
this either. Then how, at the bidding of a scurvy, envious numskull of
a friar, could you take such a cruel resolve against him? I know not
what error is that of women who eschew men and hold them in little
esteem, whenas, considering what themselves are and what and how great
is the nobility, beyond every other animal, given of God to man, they
should rather glory whenas they are loved of any and prize him over
all and study with all diligence to please him, so he may never desist
from loving them. This how you did, moved by the prate of a friar,
who must for certain have been some broth-swilling pasty-gorger, you
yourself know; and most like he had a mind to put himself in the place
whence he studied to expel others.

[Footnote 187: _Sic_; but the past tense "loved" is probably intended,
as the pretended pilgrim had not yet discovered Tedaldo to be alive.]

This, then, is the sin that Divine justice, the which with a just
balance bringeth all its operations to effect, hath willed not to
leave unpunished; and even as you without reason studied to withdraw
yourself from Tedaldo, so on like wise hath your husband been and is
yet, without reason, in peril for Tedaldo, and you in tribulation.
Wherefrom an you would be delivered, that which it behoveth you to
promise, and yet more to do, is this; that, should it ever chance that
Tedaldo return hither from his long banishment, you will render him
again your favour, your love, your goodwill and your privacy and
reinstate him in that condition wherein he was, ere you foolishly
hearkened to yonder crack-brained friar.'

The pilgrim having thus made an end of his discourse, the lady, who
had hearkened thereto with the utmost attention, for that his
arguments appeared to her most true and that, hearing him say, she
accounted herself of a certainty afflicted for the sin of which he
spoke, said, 'Friend of God, I know full well that the things you
allege are true, and in great part by your showing do I perceive what
manner of folk are these friars, whom till now I have held all saints.
Moreover, I acknowledge my default without doubt to have been great in
that which I wrought against Tedaldo; and an I might, I would gladly
amend it on such wise as you have said; but how may this be done?
Tedaldo can never more return hither; he is dead; wherefore I know not
why it should behove me promise that which may not be performed.'
'Madam,' replied the pilgrim, 'according to that which God hath
revealed unto me, Tedaldo is nowise dead, but alive and well and in
good case, so but he had your favour.' Quoth the lady, 'Look what you
say; I saw him dead before my door of several knife-thrusts and had
him in these arms and bathed his dead face with many tears, the which
it may be gave occasion for that which hath been spoken thereof
unseemly.' 'Madam,' replied the pilgrim, 'whatever you may say, I
certify you that Tedaldo is alive, and if you will e'en promise me
that [which I ask,] with intent to fulfil your promise, I hope you
shall soon see him.' Quoth she, 'That do I promise and will gladly
perform; nor could aught betide that would afford me such content as
to see my husband free and unharmed and Tedaldo alive.'

Thereupon it seemed to Tedaldo time to discover himself and to comfort
the lady with more certain hope of her husband, and accordingly he
said, 'Madam, in order that I may comfort you for your husband, it
behoveth me reveal to you a secret, which look you discover not unto
any, as you value your life.' Now they were in a very retired place
and alone, the lady having conceived the utmost confidence of the
sanctity which herseemed was in the pilgrim; wherefore Tedaldo,
pulling out a ring, which she had given him the last night he had been
with her and which he had kept with the utmost diligence, and showing
it to her, said, 'Madam, know you this?' As soon as she saw it, she
recognized it and answered, 'Ay, sir; I gave it to Tedaldo aforetime.'
Whereupon the pilgrim, rising to his feet, hastily cast off his
palmer's gown and hat and speaking Florence-fashion, said, 'And know
you me?'

When the lady saw this, she knew him to be Tedaldo and was all aghast,
fearing him as one feareth the dead, an they be seen after death to go
as if alive; wherefore she made not towards him to welcome him as
Tedaldo returned from Cyprus, but would have fled from him in
affright, as he were Tedaldo come back from the tomb. Whereupon,
'Madam,' quoth he, 'fear not; I am your Tedaldo, alive and well, and
have never died nor been slain, whatsoever you and my brothers may
believe.' The lady, somewhat reassured and knowing his voice,
considered him awhile longer and avouched in herself that he was
certainly Tedaldo; wherefore she threw herself, weeping, on his neck
and kissed him, saying, 'Welcome back, sweet my Tedaldo.'

Tedaldo, having kissed and embraced her, said, 'Madam, it is no time
now for closer greetings; I must e'en go take order that Aldobrandino
may be restored to you safe and sound; whereof I hope that, ere
to-morrow come eventide, you shall hear news that will please you;
nay, if, as I expect, I have good news of his safety, I trust this
night to be able to come to you and report them to you at more leisure
than I can at this present.' Then, donning his gown and hat again, he
kissed the lady once more and bidding her be of good hope, took leave
of her and repaired whereas Aldobrandino lay in prison, occupied more
with fear of imminent death than with hopes of deliverance to come.
Tedaldo, with the gaoler's consent, went in to him, in the guise of a
ghostly comforter, and seating himself by his side, said to him,
'Aldobrandino, I am a friend of thine, sent thee for thy deliverance
by God, who hath taken pity on thee because of thine innocence;
wherefore, if, in reverence to Him, thou wilt grant me a little boon
that I shall ask of thee, thou shalt without fail, ere to-morrow be
night, whereas thou lookest for sentence of death, hear that of thine
acquittance.'

'Honest man,' replied the prisoner, 'since thou art solicitous of my
deliverance, albeit I know thee not nor mind me ever to have seen
thee, needs must thou be a friend, as thou sayst. In truth, the sin,
for which they say I am to be doomed to death, I never committed;
though others enough have I committed aforetime, which, it may be,
have brought me to this pass. But this I say to thee, of reverence to
God; an He presently have compassion on me, I will not only promise,
but gladly do any thing, however great, to say nothing of a little
one; wherefore ask that which pleaseth thee, for without fail, if it
come to pass that I escape with life, I will punctually perform it.'
Then said the pilgrim, 'What I would have of thee is that thou pardon
Tedaldo's four brothers the having brought thee to this pass,
believing thee guilty of their brother's death, and have them again
for brethren and for friends, whenas they crave thee pardon thereof.'
Whereto quoth Aldobrandino, 'None knoweth but he who hath suffered the
affront how sweet a thing is vengeance and with what ardour it is
desired; nevertheless, so God may apply Himself to my deliverance, I
will freely pardon them; nay, I pardon them now, and if I come off
hence alive and escape, I will in this hold such course as shall be
to thy liking.'

This pleased the pilgrim and without concerning himself to say more to
him, he exhorted him to be of good heart, for that, ere the ensuing
day came to an end, he should without fail hear very certain news of
his safety. Then, taking leave of him, he repaired to the Seignory and
said privily to a gentleman who was in session there, 'My lord, every
one should gladly labour to bring to light the truth of things, and
especially those who hold such a room as this of yours, to the end
that those may not suffer the penalty who have not committed the crime
and that the guilty may be punished; that which may be brought about,
to your honour and the bane of those who have merited it, I am come
hither to you. As you know, you have rigorously proceeded against
Aldobrandino Palermini and thinking you have found for truth that it
was he who slew Tedaldo Elisei, are minded to condemn him; but this is
most certainly false, as I doubt not to show you, ere midnight betide,
by giving into your hands the murderers of the young man in question.'

The worthy gentleman, who was in concern for Aldobrandino, willingly
gave ear to the pilgrim's words and having conferred at large with him
upon the matter, on his information, took the two innkeeper brothers
and their servant, without resistance, in their first sleep. He would
have put them to the question, to discover how the case stood; but
they brooked it not and each first for himself, and after all
together, openly confessed that it was they who had slain Tedaldo
Elisei, knowing him not. Being questioned of the case, they said [that
it was] for that he had given the wife of one of them sore annoy, what
while they were abroad, and would fain have enforced her to do his
will.

The pilgrim, having heard this, with the magistrate's consent took his
leave and repairing privily to the house of Madam Ermellina, found her
alone and awaiting him, (all else in the house being gone to sleep,)
alike desirous of having good news of her husband and of fully
reconciling herself with her Tedaldo. He accosted her with a joyful
countenance and said, 'Dearest lady mine, be of good cheer, for
to-morrow thou shalt certainly have thine Aldobrandino here again safe
and sound'; and to give her more entire assurance thereof, he fully
recounted to her that which he had done. Whereupon she, glad as ever
woman was of two so sudden and so happy chances, to wit, the having
her lover alive again, whom she verily believed to have bewept dead,
and the seeing Aldobrandino free from peril, whose death she looked
ere many days to have to mourn, affectionately embraced and kissed
Tedaldo; then, getting them to bed together, with one accord they made
a glad and gracious peace, taking delight and joyance one of the
other. Whenas the day drew near, Tedaldo arose, after showing the lady
that which he purposed to do and praying her anew to keep it a close
secret, and went forth, even in his pilgrim's habit, to attend, whenas
it should be time, to Aldobrandino's affairs. The day come, it
appearing to the Seignory that they had full information of the
matter, they straightway discharged Aldobrandino and a few days after
let strike off the murderers' heads whereas they had committed the
crime.

Aldobrandino being now, to the great joy of himself and his wife and
of all his friends and kinsfolk, free and manifestly acknowledging
that he owed his deliverance to the good offices of the pilgrim,
carried the latter to his house for such time as it pleased him to
sojourn in the city; and there they could not sate themselves of doing
him honour and worship, especially the lady, who knew with whom she
had to do. After awhile, deeming it time to bring his brothers to an
accord with Aldobrandino and knowing that they were not only put to
shame by the latter's acquittance, but went armed for fear [of his
resentment,] he demanded of his host the fulfilment of his promise.
Aldobrandino freely answered that he was ready, whereupon the pilgrim
caused him prepare against the morrow a goodly banquet, whereat he
told him he would have him and his kinsmen and kinswomen entertain the
four brothers and their ladies, adding that he himself would go
incontinent and bid the latter on his part to peace and his banquet.
Aldobrandino consenting to all that liked the pilgrim, the latter
forthright betook himself to the four brothers and plying them with
store of such words as behoved unto the matter, in fine, with
irrepugnable arguments, brought them easily enough to consent to
regain Aldobrandino's friendship by asking pardon; which done, he
invited them and their ladies to dinner with Aldobrandino next
morning, and they, being certified of his good faith, frankly accepted
the invitation.

Accordingly, on the morrow, towards dinner-time, Tedaldo's four
brothers, clad all in black as they were, came, with sundry of their
friends, to the house of Aldobrandino, who stayed for them, and there,
in the presence of all who had been bidden of him to bear them
company, cast down their arms and committed themselves to his mercy,
craving forgiveness of that which they had wrought against him.
Aldobrandino, weeping, received them affectionately, and kissing them
all on the mouth, despatched the matter in a few words, remitting unto
them every injury received. After them came their wives and sisters,
clad all in sad-coloured raiment, and were graciously received by
Madam Ermellina and the other ladies. Then were all, ladies and men
alike, magnificently entertained at the banquet, nor was there aught
in the entertainment other than commendable, except it were the
taciturnity occasioned by the yet fresh sorrow expressed in the sombre
raiment of Tedaldo's kinsfolk. Now on this account the pilgrim's
device of the banquet had been blamed of some and he had observed it;
wherefore, the time being come to do away with the constraint
aforesaid, he rose to his feet, according as he had foreordained in
himself, what while the rest still ate of the fruits, and said,
'Nothing hath lacked to this entertainment that should make it joyful,
save only Tedaldo himself; whom (since having had him continually with
you, you have not known him) I will e'en discover to you.'

So saying, he cast off his palmer's gown and all other his pilgrim's
weeds and abiding in a jerkin of green sendal, was with no little
amazement, long eyed and considered of all, ere any would venture to
believe it was indeed he. Tedaldo, seeing this, recounted many
particulars of the relations and things betided between them, as well
as of his own adventures; whereupon his brethren and the other
gentlemen present ran all to embrace him, with eyes full of joyful
tears, as after did the ladies on like wise, as well strangers as
kinswomen, except only Madam Ermellina. Which Aldobrandino seeing,
'What is this, Ermellina?' quoth he. 'Why dost thou not welcome
Tedaldo, as do the other ladies?' Whereto she answered, in the hearing
of all, 'There is none who had more gladly welcomed and would yet
welcome him than myself, who am more beholden to him than any other
woman, seeing that by his means I have gotten thee again; but the
unseemly words spoken in the days when we mourned him whom we deemed
Tedaldo made me refrain therefrom.' Quoth her husband, 'Go to;
thinkest thou I believe in the howlers?[188] He hath right well shown
their prate to be false by procuring my deliverance; more by token
that I never believed it. Quick, rise and go and embrace him.'

[Footnote 188: Lit. barkers (_abbajatori_), _i.e._ slanderers.]

The lady, who desired nothing better, was not slow to obey her husband
in this and accordingly, arising, embraced Tedaldo, as the other
ladies had done, and gave him joyous welcome. This liberality of
Aldobrandino was mighty pleasing to Tedaldo's brothers and to every
man and woman there, and thereby all suspect[189] that had been
aroused in the minds of some by the words aforesaid was done away.
Then, every one having given Tedaldo joy, he with his own hands rent
the black clothes on his brothers' backs and the sad-coloured on those
of his sisters and kinswomen and would have them send after other
apparel, which whenas they had donned, they gave themselves to singing
and dancing and other diversions galore; wherefore the banquet, which
had had a silent beginning had a loud-resounding ending. Thereafter,
with the utmost mirth, they one and all repaired, even as they were,
to Tedaldo's house, where they supped that night, and on this wise
they continued to feast several days longer.

[Footnote 189: Lit. despite, rancour (_rugginuzza_), but the phrase
appears to refer to the suspicions excited by the whispers that had
been current, as above mentioned, of the connection between Ermellina
and Tedaldo.]

The Florentines awhile regarded Tedaldo with amazement, as a man risen
from the dead; nay, in many an one's mind, and even in that of his
brethren, there abode a certain faint doubt an he were indeed himself
and they did not yet thoroughly believe it, nor belike had they
believed it for a long time to come but for a chance which made them
clear who the murdered man was which was on this wise. There passed
one day before their house certain footmen[190] of Lunigiana, who,
seeing Tedaldo, made towards him and said, 'Give you good day,
Faziuolo.' Whereto Tedaldo in his brothers' presence answered, 'You
mistake me.' The others, hearing him speak, were abashed and cried him
pardon, saying, 'Forsooth you resemble, more than ever we saw one man
favour another, a comrade of ours called Faziuolo of Pontremoli, who
came hither some fortnight or more agone, nor could we ever since
learn what is come of him. Indeed, we marvelled at the dress, for that
he was a soldier, even as we are.' Tedaldo's elder brother, hearing
this, came forward and enquired how this Faziuolo had been clad. They
told him and it was found to have been punctually as they said;
wherefore, what with these and what with other tokens, it was known
for certain that he who had been slain was Faziuolo and not Tedaldo,
and all doubt of the latter[191] accordingly departed [the minds of]
his brothers and of every other. Tedaldo, then, being returned very
rich, persevered in his love and the lady falling out with him no
more, they long, discreetly dealing, had enjoyment of their love. God
grant us to enjoy ours!"

[Footnote 190: _i.e._ foot-soldiers.]

[Footnote 191: _i.e._ of his identity.]



THE EIGHTH STORY

[Day the Third]

     FERONDO, HAVING SWALLOWED A CERTAIN POWDER, IS ENTOMBED FOR
     DEAD AND BEING TAKEN FORTH OF THE SEPULCHRE BY THE ABBOT,
     WHO ENJOYETH HIS WIFE THE WHILE, IS PUT IN PRISON AND GIVEN
     TO BELIEVE THAT HE IS IN PURGATORY; AFTER WHICH, BEING
     RAISED UP AGAIN, HE REARETH FOR HIS OWN A CHILD BEGOTTEN OF
     THE ABBOT ON HIS WIFE


The end being come of Emilia's long story,--which had not withal for
its length been unpleasing to any of the company, nay, but was held of
all the ladies to have been briefly narrated, having regard to the
number and diversity of the incidents therein recounted,--the queen,
having with a mere sign intimated her pleasure to Lauretta, gave her
occasion to begin thus: "Dearest ladies, there occurreth to me to tell
you a true story which hath much more semblance of falsehood than of
that which it indeed is and which hath been recalled to my mind by
hearing one to have been bewept and buried for another. I purpose
then, to tell you how a live man was entombed for dead and how after
he and many other folk believed himself to have come forth of the
sepulchre as one raised from the dead, by reason whereof he[192] was
adored as a saint who should rather have been condemned as a criminal.

[Footnote 192: _i.e._ the abbot who played the trick upon Ferondo. See
post.]

There was, then, and yet is, in Tuscany, an abbey situate, like as we
see many thereof, in a place not overmuch frequented of men, whereof a
monk was made abbot, who was a very holy man in everything, save in
the matter of women, and in this he contrived to do so warily that
well nigh none, not to say knew, but even suspected him thereof, for
that he was holden exceeding godly and just in everything. It chanced
that a very wealthy farmer, by name Ferondo, contracted a great
intimacy with him, a heavy, clodpate fellow and dull-witted beyond
measure, whose commerce pleased the abbot but for that his simplicity
whiles afforded him some diversion, and in the course of their
acquaintance, the latter perceived that Ferondo had a very handsome
woman to wife, of whom he became so passionately enamoured that he
thought of nothing else day or night; but, hearing that, simple and
shallow-witted as Ferondo was in everything else, he was shrewd enough
in the matter of loving and guarding his wife, he well nigh despaired
of her.

However, like a very adroit man as he was, he wrought on such wise
with Ferondo that he came whiles, with his wife, to take his pleasance
in the abbey-garden, and there he very demurely entertained them with
discourse of the beatitude of the life eternal and of the pious works
of many men and women of times past, insomuch that the lady was taken
with a desire to confess herself to him and asked and had Ferondo's
leave thereof. Accordingly, to the abbot's exceeding pleasure, she
came to confess to him and seating herself at his feet, before she
proceeded to say otherwhat, began thus: 'Sir, if God had given me a
right husband or had given me none, it would belike be easy to me,
with the help of your exhortations, to enter upon the road which you
say leadeth folk unto life eternal; but I, having regard to what
Ferondo is and to his witlessness, may style myself a widow, and yet I
am married, inasmuch as, he living, I can have no other husband; and
dolt as he is, he is without any cause, so out of all measure jealous
of me that by reason thereof I cannot live with him otherwise than in
tribulation and misery; wherefore, ere I come to other confession, I
humbly beseech you, as most I may, that it may please you give me some
counsel concerning this, for that, an the occasion of my well-doing
begin not therefrom, confession or other good work will profit me
little.'

This speech gave the abbot great satisfaction and himseemed fortune
had opened him the way to his chief desire; wherefore, 'Daughter,'
quoth he, 'I can well believe that it must be a sore annoy for a fair
and dainty dame such as you are to have a blockhead to husband, but a
much greater meseemeth to have a jealous man; wherefore, you having
both the one and the other, I can lightly credit that which you avouch
of your tribulation. But for this, speaking briefly, I see neither
counsel nor remedy save one, the which is that Ferondo be cured of
this jealousy. The medicine that will cure him I know very well how to
make, provided you have the heart to keep secret that which I shall
tell you.' 'Father mine,' answered the lady, 'have no fear of that,
for I would liefer suffer death than tell any that which you bid me
not repeat; but how may this be done?' Quoth the abbot, 'An we would
have him cured, it behoveth of necessity that he go to purgatory.'
'But how,' asked she, 'can he go thither alive?' 'Needs must he die,'
replied the abbot, 'and so go thither; and whenas he shall have
suffered such penance as shall suffice to purge him of his jealousy,
we will pray God, with certain orisons that he restore him to this
life, and He will do it.' 'Then,' said the lady, 'I am to become a
widow?' 'Ay,' answered the abbot, 'for a certain time, wherein you
must look well you suffer not yourself to be married again, for that
God would take it in ill part, and whenas Ferondo returned hither, it
would behove you return to him and he would then be more jealous than
ever.' Quoth she, 'Provided he be but cured of this calamity, so it
may not behove me abide in prison all my life, I am content; do as it
pleaseth you.' 'And I will do it,'[193] rejoined he; 'but what guerdon
am I to have of you for such a service?' 'Father,' answered the lady,
'you shall have whatsoever pleaseth you, so but it be in my power; but
what can the like of me that may befit such a man as yourself?'
'Madam,' replied the abbot 'you can do no less for me than that which
I undertake to do for you; for that, like as I am disposed to do that
which is to be your weal and your solacement, even so can you do that
which will be the saving and assainment of my life.' Quoth she, 'An it
be so, I am ready.' 'Then,' said the abbot, 'you must give me your
love and vouchsafe me satisfaction of yourself, for whom I am all
afire with love and languishment.'

[Footnote 193: _i.e._ I will cure your husband of his jealousy.]

The lady, hearing this, was all aghast and answered, 'Alack, father
mine, what is this you ask? Methought you were a saint. Doth it beseem
holy men to require women, who come to them for counsel, of such
things?' 'Fair my soul,' rejoined the abbot, 'marvel not, for that
sanctity nowise abateth by this, seeing it hath its seat in the soul
and that which I ask of you is a sin of the body. But, be that as it
may, your ravishing beauty hath had such might that love constraineth
me to do thus; and I tell you that you may glory in your charms over
all other women, considering that they please holy men, who are used
to look upon the beauties of heaven. Moreover, abbot though I be, I am
a man like another and am, as you see, not yet old. Nor should this
that I ask be grievous to you to do; nay, you should rather desire it,
for that, what while Ferondo sojourneth in purgatory, I will bear you
company by night and render you that solacement which he should give
you; nor shall any ever come to know of this, for that every one
believeth of me that, and more than that, which you but now believed
of me. Reject not the grace that God sendeth you, for there be women
enough who covet that which you may have and shall have, if, like a
wise woman, you hearken to my counsel. Moreover, I have fair and
precious jewels, which I purpose shall belong to none other than
yourself. Do, then, for me, sweet my hope, that which I willingly do
for you.'

The lady hung her head, knowing not how to deny him, whilst herseemed
it were ill done to grant him what he asked; but the abbot, seeing
that she hearkened and hesitated to reply and himseeming he had
already half converted her, followed up his first words with many
others and stayed not till he had persuaded her that she would do well
to comply with him. Accordingly, she said, blushing, that she was
ready to do his every commandment, but might not avail thereto till
such time as Ferondo should be gone to purgatory; whereupon quoth the
abbot, exceeding well pleased, 'And we will make shift to send him
thither incontinent; do you but contrive that he come hither to-morrow
or next day to sojourn with me.' So saying, he privily put a very
handsome ring into her hand and dismissed her. The lady rejoiced at
the gift and looking to have others, rejoined her companions, to whom
she fell to relating marvellous things of the abbot's sanctity, and
presently returned home with them.

A few days after Ferondo repaired to the abbey, whom, whenas the abbot
saw, he cast about to send him to purgatory. Accordingly, he sought
out a powder of marvellous virtue, which he had gotten in the parts of
the Levant of a great prince who avouched it to be that which was wont
to be used of the Old Man of the Mountain,[194] whenas he would fain
send any one, sleeping, into his paradise or bring him forth thereof,
and that, according as more or less thereof was given, without doing
any hurt, it made him who took it sleep more or less [time] on such
wise that, whilst its virtue lasted, none would say he had life in
him. Of this he took as much as might suffice to make a man sleep
three days and putting it in a beaker of wine, that was not yet well
cleared, gave it to Ferondo to drink in his cell, without the latter
suspecting aught; after which he carried him into the cloister and
there with some of his monks fell to making sport of him and his
dunceries; nor was it long before, the powder working, Ferondo was
taken with so sudden and overpowering a drowsiness, that he slumbered
as yet he stood afoot and presently fell down fast asleep.

[Footnote 194: The well-known chief of the Assassins (properly
_Heshashin_, _i.e._ hashish or hemp eaters). The powder in question is
apparently a preparation of hashish or hemp. Boccaccio seems to have
taken his idea of the Old Man of the Mountain from Marco Polo, whose
travels, published in the early part of the fourteenth century, give a
most romantic account of that chieftain and his followers.]

The abbot made a show of being concerned at this accident and letting
untruss him, caused fetch cold water and cast it in his face and essay
many other remedies of his fashion, as if he would recall the strayed
life and senses from [the oppression of] some fumosity of the stomach
or what not like affection that had usurped them. The monks, seeing
that for all this he came not to himself and feeling his pulse, but
finding no sign of life in him, all held it for certain that he was
dead. Accordingly, they sent to tell his wife and his kinsfolk, who
all came thither forthright, and the lady having bewept him awhile
with her kinswomen, the abbot caused lay him, clad as he was, in a
tomb; whilst the lady returned to her house and giving out that she
meant never to part from a little son, whom she had had by her
husband, abode at home and occupied herself with the governance of the
child and of the wealth which had been Ferondo's. Meanwhile, the abbot
arose stealthily in the night and with the aid of a Bolognese monk, in
whom he much trusted and who was that day come thither from Bologna,
took up Ferondo out of the tomb and carried him into a vault, in which
there was no light to be seen and which had been made for prison of
such of the monks as should make default in aught. There they pulled
off his garments and clothing him monk-fashion, laid him on a truss of
straw and there left him against he should recover his senses, whilst
the Bolognese monk, having been instructed by the abbot of that which
he had to do, without any else knowing aught thereof, proceeded to
await his coming to himself.

On the morrow, the abbot, accompanied by sundry of his monks, betook
himself, by way of visitation, to the house of the lady, whom he found
clad in black and in great tribulation, and having comforted her
awhile, he softly required her of her promise. The lady, finding
herself free and unhindered of Ferondo or any other and seeing on his
finger another fine ring, replied that she was ready and appointed him
to come to her that same night. Accordingly, night come, the abbot,
disguised in Ferondo's clothes and accompanied by the monk his
confidant, repaired thither and lay with her in the utmost delight and
pleasance till the morning, when he returned to the abbey. After this
he very often made the same journey on a like errand and being whiles
encountered, coming or going, of one or another of the villagers, it
was believed he was Ferondo who went about those parts, doing penance;
by reason whereof many strange stories were after bruited about among
the simple countryfolk, and this was more than once reported to
Ferondo's wife, who well knew what it was.

As for Ferondo, when he recovered his senses and found himself he knew
not where, the Bolognese monk came in to him with a horrible noise and
laying hold of him, gave him a sound drubbing with a rod he had in his
hand. Ferondo, weeping and crying out, did nought but ask, 'Where am
I?' To which the monk answered, 'Thou art in purgatory.' 'How?' cried
Ferondo. 'Am I then dead?' 'Ay, certes,' replied the other; whereupon
Ferondo fell to bemoaning himself and his wife and child, saying the
oddest things in the world. Presently the monk brought him somewhat of
meat and drink, which Ferondo seeing, 'What!' cried he. 'Do the dead
eat?' 'Ay do they,' answered the monk. 'This that I bring thee is what
the woman, thy wife that was, sent this morning to the church to let
say masses for thy soul, and God the Lord willeth that it be made over
to thee.' Quoth Ferondo, 'God grant her a good year! I still cherished
her ere I died, insomuch that I held her all night in mine arms and
did nought but kiss her, and t' other thing also I did, when I had a
mind thereto.' Then, being very sharp-set, he fell to eating and
drinking and himseeming the wine was not overgood, 'Lord confound
her!' quoth he. 'Why did not she give the priest wine of the cask
against the wall?'

After he had eaten, the monk laid hold of him anew and gave him
another sound beating with the same rod; whereat Ferondo roared out
lustily and said, 'Alack, why dost thou this to me?' Quoth the monk,
'Because thus hath God the Lord ordained that it be done unto thee
twice every day.' 'And for what cause?' asked Ferondo. 'Because,'
answered the monk, 'thou wast jealous, having the best woman in the
country to wife.' 'Alas!' said Ferondo. 'Thou sayst sooth, ay, and the
kindest creature; she was sweeter than syrup; but I knew not that God
the Lord held it for ill that a man should be jealous; else had I not
been so.' Quoth the monk, 'Thou shouldst have bethought thyself of
that, whenas thou wast there below,[195] and have amended thee
thereof; and should it betide that thou ever return thither, look thou
so have in mind that which I do unto thee at this present that thou be
nevermore jealous.' 'What?' said Ferondo. 'Do the dead ever return
thither?' 'Ay,' answered the monk; 'whom God willeth.' 'Marry,' cried
Ferondo, 'and I ever return thither, I will be the best husband in the
world; I will never beat her nor give her an ill word, except it be
anent the wine she sent hither this morning and for that she sent no
candles, so it behoved me to eat in the dark.' 'Nay,' said the monk,
'she sent candles enough, but they were all burnt for the masses.'
'True,' rejoined Ferondo; 'and assuredly, an I return thither, I will
let her do what she will. But tell me, who art thou that usest me
thus?' Quoth the monk, 'I also am dead. I was of Sardinia and for that
aforetime I much commended a master of mine of being jealous, I have
been doomed of God to this punishment, that I must give thee to eat
and drink and beat thee thus, till such time as God shall ordain
otherwhat of thee and of me.' Then said Ferondo, 'Is there none here
other than we twain?' 'Ay,' answered the monk, 'there be folk by the
thousands; but thou canst neither see nor hear them, nor they thee.'
Quoth Ferondo, 'And how far are we from our own countries?' 'Ecod,'
replied the other, 'we are distant thence more miles than we can well
cack at a bout.' 'Faith,' rejoined the farmer, 'that is far enough;
meseemeth we must be out of the world, an it be so much as all that.'

[Footnote 195: _i.e._ in the sublunary world.]

In such and the like discourse was Ferondo entertained half a score
months with eating and drinking and beating, what while the abbot
assiduously visited the fair lady, without miscarriage, and gave
himself the goodliest time in the world with her. At last, as ill-luck
would have it, the lady found herself with child and straightway
acquainted the abbot therewith, wherefore it seemed well to them both
that Ferondo should without delay be recalled from purgatory to life
and return to her, so she might avouch herself with child by him.
Accordingly, the abbot that same night caused call to Ferondo in
prison with a counterfeit voice, saying, 'Ferondo, take comfort, for
it is God's pleasure that thou return to the world, where thou shalt
have a son by thy wife, whom look thou name Benedict, for that by the
prayers of thy holy abbot and of thy wife and for the love of St.
Benedict He doth thee this favour.' Ferondo, hearing this, was
exceedingly rejoiced and said, 'It liketh me well, Lord grant a good
year to Seignior God Almighty and to the abbot and St. Benedict and my
cheesy[196] sweet honey wife.' The abbot let give him, in the wine
that he sent him, so much of the powder aforesaid as should cause him
sleep maybe four hours and with the aid of his monk, having put his
own clothes on him, restored him privily to the tomb wherein he had
been buried.

[Footnote 196: _Sic_ (_casciata_); meaning that he loves her as well
as he loves cheese, for which it is well known that the lower-class
Italian has a romantic passion. According to Alexandre Dumas, the
Italian loves cheese so well that he has succeeded in introducing it
into everything he eats or drinks, with the one exception of coffee.]

Next morning, at break of day, Ferondo came to himself and espying
light,--a thing which he had not seen for good ten months,--through
some crevice of the tomb, doubted not but he was alive again.
Accordingly, he fell to bawling out, 'Open to me! Open to me!' and
heaving so lustily at the lid of the tomb with his head that he
stirred it, for that it was eath to move, and had begun to move it
away, when the monks, having now made an end of saying matins, ran
thither and knew Ferondo's voice and saw him in act to come forth of
the sepulchre; whereupon, all aghast for the strangeness of the case,
they took to their heels and ran to the abbot, who made a show of
rising from prayer and said, 'My sons, have no fear; take the cross
and the holy water and follow after me, so we may see that which God
willeth to show forth to us of His might'; and as he said, so he did.

Now Ferondo was come forth of the sepulchre all pale, as well might he
be who had so long abidden without seeing the sky. As soon as he saw
the abbot, he ran to cast himself at his feet and said, 'Father mine,
according to that which hath been revealed to me, your prayers and
those of St. Benedict and my wife have delivered me from the pains of
purgatory and restored me to life, wherefore I pray God to give you a
good year and good calends now and always.' Quoth the abbot, 'Praised
be God His might! Go, my son, since He hath sent thee back hither;
comfort thy wife, who hath been still in tears, since thou departedst
this life, and henceforth be a friend and servant of God.' 'Sir,'
replied Ferondo, 'so hath it indeed been said to me; only leave me do;
for, as soon as I find her, I shall buss her, such goodwill do I bear
her.'

The abbot, left alone with his monks, made a great show of wonderment
at this miracle and caused devoutly sing Miserere therefor. As for
Ferondo, he returned to his village, where all who saw him fled, as
men use to do from things frightful; but he called them back and
avouched himself to be raised up again. His wife on like wise feigned
to be adread of him; but, after the folk were somewhat reassured anent
him and saw that he was indeed alive, they questioned him of many
things, and he, as it were he had returned wise, made answer to all
and gave them news of the souls of their kinsfolk, making up, of his
own motion, the finest fables in the world of the affairs of purgatory
and recounting in full assembly the revelation made him by the mouth
of the Rangel Bragiel[197] ere he was raised up again. Then, returning
to his house and entering again into possession of his goods, he got
his wife, as he thought, with child, and by chance it befell that, in
due time,--to the thinking of the fools who believe that women go just
nine months with child,--the lady gave birth to a boy, who was called
Benedict Ferondi.[198]

[Footnote 197: _i.e._ the Angel Gabriel.]

[Footnote 198: The plural of a surname is, in strictness, always used
by the Italians in speaking of a man by his full name, _dei_ being
understood between the Christian and surname, as _Benedetto_ (_dei_)
_Ferondi_, Benedict of the Ferondos or Ferondo family, whilst, when he
is denominated by the surname alone, it is used in the singular, _il_
(the) being understood, _e.g._ (Il) Boccaccio, (Il) Ferondo, _i.e._
the particular Boccaccio or Ferondo in question for the nonce.]

Ferondo's return and his talk, well nigh every one believing him to
have risen from the dead, added infinitely to the renown of the
abbot's sanctity, and he himself, as if cured of his jealousy by the
many beatings he had received therefor, thenceforward, according to
the promise made by the abbot to the lady, was no more jealous;
whereat she was well pleased and lived honestly with him, as of her
wont, save indeed that, whenas she conveniently might, she willingly
foregathered with the holy abbot, who had so well and diligently
served her in her greatest needs."



THE NINTH STORY

[Day the Third]

     GILLETTE DE NARBONNE RECOVERETH THE KING OF FRANCE OF A
     FISTULA AND DEMANDETH FOR HER HUSBAND BERTRAND DE
     ROUSSILLON, WHO MARRIETH HER AGAINST HIS WILL AND BETAKETH
     HIM FOR DESPITE TO FLORENCE, WHERE, HE PAYING COURT TO A
     YOUNG LADY, GILLETTE, IN THE PERSON OF THE LATTER, LIETH
     WITH HIM AND HATH BY HIM TWO SONS; WHEREFORE AFTER, HOLDING
     HER DEAR, HE ENTERTAINETH HER FOR HIS WIFE


Lauretta's story being now ended, it rested but with the queen to
tell, an she would not infringe upon Dioneo's privilege; wherefore,
without waiting to be solicited by her companions, she began all
blithesomely to speak thus: "Who shall tell a story that may appear
goodly, now we have heard that of Lauretta? Certes, it was well for us
that hers was not the first, for that few of the others would have
pleased after it, as I misdoubt me[199] will betide of those which are
yet to tell this day. Natheless, be that as it may, I will e'en
recount to you that which occurreth to me upon the proposed theme.

[Footnote 199: Lit. and so I hope (_spero_), a curious instance of the
ancient Dantesque use of the word _spero_, I hope, in its contrary
sense of fear.]

There was in the kingdom of France a gentleman called Isnard, Count of
Roussillon, who, for that he was scant of health, still entertained
about his person a physician, by name Master Gerard de Narbonne. The
said count had one little son, and no more, hight Bertrand, who was
exceeding handsome and agreeable, and with him other children of his
own age were brought up. Among these latter was a daughter of the
aforesaid physician, by name Gillette, who vowed to the said Bertrand
an infinite love and fervent more than pertained unto her tender
years. The count dying and leaving his son in the hands of the king,
it behoved him betake himself to Paris, whereof the damsel abode sore
disconsolate, and her own father dying no great while after, she would
fain, an she might have had a seemly occasion, have gone to Paris to
see Bertrand: but, being straitly guarded, for that she was left rich
and alone, she saw no honourable way thereto; and being now of age for
a husband and having never been able to forget Bertrand, she had,
without reason assigned, refused many to whom her kinsfolk would have
married her.

Now it befell that, what while she burned more than ever for love of
Bertrand, for that she heard he was grown a very goodly gentleman,
news came to her how the King of France, by an imposthume which he had
had in his breast and which had been ill tended, had gotten a fistula,
which occasioned him the utmost anguish and annoy, nor had he yet been
able to find a physician who might avail to recover him thereof,
albeit many had essayed it, but all had aggravated the ill; wherefore
the king, despairing of cure, would have no more counsel nor aid of
any. Hereof the young lady was beyond measure content and bethought
herself that not only would this furnish her with a legitimate
occasion of going to Paris, but that, should the king's ailment be
such as she believed, she might lightly avail to have Bertrand to
husband. Accordingly, having aforetime learned many things of her
father, she made a powder of certain simples useful for such an
infirmity as she conceived the king's to be and taking horse, repaired
to Paris.

Before aught else she studied to see Bertrand and next, presenting
herself before the king, she prayed him of his favour to show her his
ailment. The king, seeing her a fair and engaging damsel, knew not how
to deny her and showed her that which ailed him. Whenas she saw it,
she was certified incontinent that she could heal it and accordingly
said, 'My lord, an it please you, I hope in God to make you whole of
this your infirmity in eight days' time, without annoy or fatigue on
your part.' The king scoffed in himself at her words, saying, 'That
which the best physicians in the world have availed not neither known
to do, how shall a young woman know?' Accordingly, he thanked her for
her good will and answered that he was resolved no more to follow the
counsel of physicians. Whereupon quoth the damsel, 'My lord, you make
light of my skill, for that I am young and a woman; but I would have
you bear in mind that I medicine not of mine own science, but with the
aid of God and the science of Master Gerard de Narbonne, who was my
father and a famous physician whilst he lived.'

The king, hearing this, said in himself, 'It may be this woman is sent
me of God; why should I not make proof of her knowledge, since she
saith she will, without annoy of mine, cure me in little time?'
Accordingly, being resolved to essay her, he said, 'Damsel, and if you
cure us not, after causing us break our resolution, what will you have
ensue to you therefor?' 'My lord,' answered she, 'set a guard upon me
and if I cure you not within eight days, let burn me alive; but, if I
cure you, what reward shall I have?' Quoth the king, 'You seem as yet
unhusbanded; if you do this, we will marry you well and worshipfully.'
'My lord,' replied the young lady, 'I am well pleased that you should
marry me, but I will have a husband such as I shall ask of you,
excepting always any one of your sons or of the royal house.' He
readily promised her that which she sought, whereupon she began her
cure and in brief, before the term limited, she brought him back to
health.

The king, feeling himself healed, said, 'Damsel, you have well earned
your husband'; whereto she answered, 'Then, my lord, I have earned
Bertrand de Roussillon, whom I began to love even in the days of my
childhood and have ever since loved over all.' The king deemed it a
grave matter to give him to her; nevertheless, having promised her and
unwilling to fail of his faith, he let call the count to himself and
bespoke him thus: 'Bertrand, you are now of age and accomplished [in
all that behoveth unto man's estate];[200] wherefore it is our
pleasure that you return to govern your county and carry with you a
damsel, whom we have given you to wife.' 'And who is the damsel, my
lord?' asked Bertrand; to which the king answered, 'It is she who hath
with her medicines restored to us our health.'

[Footnote 200: _Fornito_, a notable example of what the illustrious
Lewis Carroll Dodgson, Waywode of Wonderland, calls a "portmanteau-word,"
a species that abounds in mediæval Italian, for the confusion of
translators.]

Bertrand, who had seen and recognized Gillette, knowing her (albeit
she seemed to him very fair) to be of no such lineage as sorted with
his quality, said all disdainfully, 'My lord, will you then marry me
to a she-leach? Now God forbid I should ever take such an one to
wife!' 'Then,' said the king, 'will you have us fail of our faith, the
which, to have our health again, we pledged to the damsel, who in
guerdon thereof demanded you to husband?' 'My lord,' answered
Bertrand, 'you may, an you will, take from me whatsoever I possess or,
as your liegeman, bestow me upon whoso pleaseth you; but of this I
certify you, that I will never be a consenting party unto such a
marriage.' 'Nay,' rejoined the king, 'but you shall, for that the
damsel is fair and wise and loveth you dear; wherefore we doubt not
but you will have a far happier life with her than with a lady of
higher lineage.' Bertrand held his peace and the king let make great
preparations for the celebration of the marriage.

The appointed day being come, Bertrand, sore against his will, in the
presence of the king, espoused the damsel, who loved him more than
herself. This done, having already determined in himself what he
should do, he sought leave of the king to depart, saying he would fain
return to his county and there consummate the marriage; then, taking
horse, he repaired not thither, but betook himself into Tuscany,
where, hearing that the Florentines were at war with those of Sienna,
he determined to join himself to the former, by whom he was joyfully
received and made captain over a certain number of men-at-arms; and
there, being well provided[201] of them, he abode a pretty while in
their service.

[Footnote 201: _i.e._ getting good pay and allowances (_avendo buona
provisione_).]

The newly-made wife, ill content with such a lot, but hoping by her
fair dealing to recall him to his county, betook herself to
Roussillon, where she was received of all as their liege lady. There,
finding everything waste and disordered for the long time that the
land had been without a lord, with great diligence and solicitude,
like a discreet lady as she was, she set all in order again, whereof
the count's vassals were mightily content and held her exceeding dear,
vowing her a great love and blaming the count sore for that he
accepted not of her. The lady, having thoroughly ordered the county,
notified the count thereof by two knights, whom she despatched to him,
praying him that, an it were on her account he forbore to come to his
county, he should signify it to her and she, to pleasure him, would
depart thence; but he answered them very harshly, saying, 'For that,
let her do her pleasure; I, for my part, will return thither to abide
with her, whenas she shall have this my ring on her finger and in her
arms a son by me begotten.' Now the ring in question he held very dear
and never parted with it, by reason of a certain virtue which it had
been given him to understand that it had.

The knights understood the hardship of the condition implied in these
two well nigh impossible requirements, but, seeing that they might not
by their words avail to move him from his purpose, they returned to
the lady and reported to her his reply; whereat she was sore afflicted
and determined, after long consideration, to seek to learn if and
where the two things aforesaid might be compassed, to the intent that
she might, in consequence, have her husband again. Accordingly, having
bethought herself what she should do, she assembled certain of the
best and chiefest men of the county and with plaintive speech very
orderly recounted to them that which she had already done for love of
the count and showed them what had ensued thereof, adding that it was
not her intent that, through her sojourn there, the count should abide
in perpetual exile; nay, rather she purposed to spend the rest of her
life in pilgrimages and works of mercy and charity for her soul's
health; wherefore she prayed them take the ward and governance of the
county and notify the count that she had left him free and vacant
possession and had departed the country, intending nevermore to return
to Roussillon. Many were the tears shed by the good folk, whilst she
spoke, and many the prayers addressed to her that it would please her
change counsel and abide there; but they availed nought. Then,
commending them to God, she set out upon her way, without telling any
whither she was bound, well furnished with monies and jewels of price
and accompanied by a cousin of hers and a chamberwoman, all in
pilgrims' habits, and stayed not till she came to Florence, where,
chancing upon a little inn, kept by a decent widow woman, she there
took up her abode and lived quietly, after the fashion of a poor
pilgrim, impatient to hear news of her lord.

It befell, then, that on the morrow of her arrival she saw Bertrand
pass before her lodging, a-horseback with his company, and albeit she
knew him full well, natheless she asked the good woman of the inn who
he was. The hostess answered, 'That is a stranger gentleman, who
calleth himself Count Bertrand, a pleasant man and a courteous and
much loved in this city; and he is the most enamoured man in the world
of a she-neighbour of ours, who is a gentlewoman, but poor. Sooth to
say, she is a very virtuous damsel and abideth, being yet unmarried
for poverty, with her mother, a very good and discreet lady, but for
whom, maybe, she had already done the count's pleasure.' The countess
took good note of what she heard and having more closely enquired into
every particular and apprehended all aright, determined in herself how
she should do.

Accordingly, having learned the house and name of the lady whose
daughter the count loved, she one day repaired privily thither in her
pilgrim's habit and finding the mother and daughter in very poor case,
saluted them and told the former that, an it pleased her, she would
fain speak with her alone. The gentlewoman, rising, replied that she
was ready to hearken to her and accordingly carried her into a chamber
of hers, where they seated themselves and the countess began thus,
'Madam, meseemeth you are of the enemies of Fortune, even as I am;
but, an you will, belike you may be able to relieve both yourself and
me.' The lady answered that she desired nothing better than to relieve
herself by any honest means; and the countess went on, 'Needs must you
pledge me your faith, whereto an I commit myself and you deceive me,
you will mar your own affairs and mine.' 'Tell me anything you will in
all assurance,' replied the gentlewoman; 'for never shall you find
yourself deceived of me.'

Thereupon the countess, beginning with her first enamourment,
recounted to her who she was and all that had betided her to that day
after such a fashion that the gentlewoman, putting faith in her words
and having, indeed, already in part heard her story from others, began
to have compassion of her. The countess, having related her
adventures, went on to say, 'You have now, amongst my other troubles,
heard what are the two things which it behoveth me have, an I would
have my husband, and to which I know none who can help me, save only
yourself, if that be true which I hear, to wit, that the count my
husband is passionately enamoured of your daughter.' 'Madam,' answered
the gentlewoman, 'if the count love my daughter I know not; indeed he
maketh a great show thereof. But, an it be so, what can I do in this
that you desire?' 'Madam,' rejoined the countess, 'I will tell you;
but first I will e'en show you what I purpose shall ensue thereof to
you, an you serve me. I see your daughter fair and of age for a
husband and according to what I have heard, meseemeth I understand the
lack of good to marry her withal it is that causeth you keep her at
home. Now I purpose, in requital of the service you shall do me, to
give her forthright of mine own monies such a dowry as you yourself
shall deem necessary to marry her honorably.'

The mother, being needy, was pleased with the offer; algates, having
the spirit of a gentlewoman, she said, 'Madam, tell me what I can do
for you; if it consist with my honour, I will willingly do it, and you
shall after do that which shall please you.' Then said the countess,
'It behoveth me that you let tell the count my husband by some one in
whom you trust, that your daughter is ready to do his every pleasure,
so she may but be certified that he loveth her as he pretendeth, the
which she will never believe, except he send her the ring which he
carrieth on his finger and by which she hath heard he setteth such
store. An he send you the ring, you must give it to me and after send
to him to say that your daughter is ready do his pleasure; then bring
him hither in secret and privily put me to bed to him in the stead of
your daughter. It may be God will vouchsafe me to conceive and on this
wise, having his ring on my finger and a child in mine arms of him
begotten, I shall presently regain him and abide with him, as a wife
should abide with her husband, and you will have been the cause
thereof.'

This seemed a grave matter to the gentlewoman, who feared lest blame
should haply ensue thereof to her daughter; nevertheless, bethinking
her it were honourably done to help the poor lady recover her husband
and that she went about to do this to a worthy end and trusting in the
good and honest intention of the countess, she not only promised her
to do it, but, before many days, dealing with prudence and secrecy, in
accordance with the latter's instructions, she both got the ring
(albeit this seemed somewhat grievous to the count) and adroitly put
her to bed with her husband, in the place of her own daughter. In
these first embracements, most ardently sought of the count, the lady,
by God's pleasure, became with child of two sons, as her delivery in
due time made manifest. Nor once only, but many times, did the
gentlewoman gratify the countess with her husband's embraces,
contriving so secretly that never was a word known of the matter,
whilst the count still believed himself to have been, not with his
wife, but with her whom he loved; and whenas he came to take leave of
a morning, he gave her, at one time and another, divers goodly and
precious jewels, which the countess laid up with all diligence.

Then, feeling herself with child and unwilling to burden the
gentlewoman farther with such an office, she said to her, 'Madam,
thanks to God and you, I have gotten that which I desired, wherefore
it is time that I do that which shall content you and after get me
gone hence.' The gentlewoman answered that, if she had gotten that
which contented her, she was well pleased, but that she had not done
this of any hope of reward, nay, for that herseemed it behoved her to
do it, an she would do well. 'Madam,' rejoined the countess, 'that
which you say liketh me well and so on my part I purpose not to give
you that which you shall ask of me by way of reward, but to do well,
for that meseemeth behoveful so to do.' The gentlewoman, then,
constrained by necessity, with the utmost shamefastness, asked her an
hundred pounds to marry her daughter withal; but the countess, seeing
her confusion and hearing her modest demand, gave her five hundred and
so many rare and precious jewels as were worth maybe as much more.
With this the gentlewoman was far more than satisfied and rendered the
countess the best thanks in her power; whereupon the latter, taking
leave of her, returned to the inn, whilst the other, to deprive
Bertrand of all farther occasion of coming or sending to her house,
removed with her daughter into the country to the house of one of her
kinsfolk, and he, being a little after recalled by his vassals and
hearing that the countess had departed the country, returned to his
own house.

The countess, hearing that he had departed Florence and returned to
his county, was mightily rejoiced and abode at Florence till her time
came to be delivered, when she gave birth to two male children, most
like their father, and let rear them with all diligence. Whenas it
seemed to her time, she set out and came, without being known of any,
to Montpellier, where having rested some days and made enquiry of the
count and where he was, she learned that he was to hold a great
entertainment of knights and ladies at Roussillon on All Saints' Day
and betook herself thither, still in her pilgrim's habit that she was
wont to wear. Finding the knights and ladies assembled in the count's
palace and about to sit down to table, she went up, with her children
in her arms and without changing her dress, into the banqueting hall
and making her way between man and man whereas she saw the count, cast
herself at his feet and said, weeping, 'I am thine unhappy wife, who,
to let thee return and abide in thy house, have long gone wandering
miserably about the world. I conjure thee, in the name of God, to
accomplish unto me thy promise upon the condition appointed me by the
two knights I sent thee; for, behold, here in mine arms is not only
one son of thine, but two, and here is thy ring. It is time, then,
that I be received of thee as a wife, according to thy promise.'

The count, hearing this, was all confounded and recognized the ring
and the children also, so like were they to him; but yet he said, 'How
can this have come to pass?' The countess, then, to his exceeding
wonderment and that of all others who were present, orderly recounted
that which had passed and how it had happened; whereupon the count,
feeling that she spoke sooth and seeing her constancy and wit and
moreover two such goodly children, as well for the observance of his
promise as to pleasure all his liegemen and the ladies, who all
besought him thenceforth to receive and honour her as his lawful wife,
put off his obstinate despite and raising the countess to her feet,
embraced her and kissing her, acknowledged her for his lawful wife and
those for his children. Then, letting clothe her in apparel such as
beseemed her quality, to the exceeding joyance of as many as were
there and of all other his vassals who heard the news, he held high
festival, not only all that day, but sundry others, and from that day
forth still honoured her as his bride and his wife and loved and
tendered her over all."



THE TENTH STORY

[Day the Third]

     ALIBECH, TURNING HERMIT, IS TAUGHT BY RUSTICO, A MONK, TO
     PUT THE DEVIL IN HELL, AND BEING AFTER BROUGHT AWAY THENCE,
     BECOMETH NEERBALE HIS WIFE


Dioneo, who had diligently hearkened to the queen's story, seeing that
it was ended and that it rested with him alone to tell, without
awaiting commandment, smilingly began to speak as follows: "Charming
ladies, maybe you have never heard tell how one putteth the devil in
hell; wherefore, without much departing from the tenor of that
whereof you have discoursed all this day, I will e'en tell it you.
Belike, having learned it, you may catch the spirit[202] thereof and
come to know that, albeit Love sojourneth liefer in jocund palaces and
luxurious chambers than in the hovels of the poor, yet none the less
doth he whiles make his power felt midmost thick forests and rugged
mountains and in desert caverns; whereby it may be understood that all
things are subject to his puissance.

[Footnote 202: _Guadagnare l'anima_, lit. gain the soul (syn. pith,
kernel, substance). This passage is ambiguous and should perhaps be
rendered "catch the knack or trick" or "acquire the wish."]

To come, then, to the fact, I say that in the city of Capsa in Barbary
there was aforetime a very rich man, who, among his other children,
had a fair and winsome young daughter, by name Alibech. She, not being
a Christian and hearing many Christians who abode in the town mightily
extol the Christian faith and the service of God, one day questioned
one of them in what manner one might avail to serve God with the least
hindrance. The other answered that they best served God who most
strictly eschewed the things of the world, as those did who had
betaken them into the solitudes of the deserts of Thebais. The girl,
who was maybe fourteen years old and very simple, moved by no ordered
desire, but by some childish fancy, set off next morning by stealth
and all alone, to go to the desert of Thebais, without letting any
know her intent. After some days, her desire persisting, she won, with
no little toil, to the deserts in question and seeing a hut afar off,
went thither and found at the door a holy man, who marvelled to see
her there and asked her what she sought. She replied that, being
inspired of God, she went seeking to enter into His service and was
now in quest of one who should teach her how it behoved to serve Him.

The worthy man, seeing her young and very fair and fearing lest, an he
entertained her, the devil should beguile him, commended her pious
intent and giving her somewhat to eat of roots of herbs and wild
apples and dates and to drink of water, said to her, 'Daughter mine,
not far hence is a holy man, who is a much better master than I of
that which thou goest seeking; do thou betake thyself to him'; and put
her in the way. However, when she reached the man in question, she had
of him the same answer and faring farther, came to the cell of a young
hermit, a very devout and good man, whose name was Rustico and to whom
she made the same request as she had done to the others. He, having a
mind to make a trial of his own constancy, sent her not away, as the
others had done, but received her into his cell, and the night being
come, he made her a little bed of palm-fronds and bade her lie down to
rest thereon. This done, temptations tarried not to give battle to his
powers of resistance and he, finding himself grossly deceived by these
latter, turned tail, without awaiting many assaults, and confessed
himself beaten; then, laying aside devout thoughts and orisons and
mortifications, he fell to revolving in his memory the youth and
beauty of the damsel and bethinking himself what course he should take
with her, so as to win to that which he desired of her, without her
taking him for a debauched fellow.

Accordingly, having sounded her with sundry questions, he found that
she had never known man and was in truth as simple as she seemed;
wherefore he bethought him how, under colour of the service of God, he
might bring her to his pleasures. In the first place, he showeth her
with many words how great an enemy the devil was of God the Lord and
after gave her to understand that the most acceptable service that
could be rendered to God was to put back the devil into hell, whereto
he had condemned him. The girl asked him how this might be done; and
he, 'Thou shalt soon know that; do thou but as thou shalt see me do.'
So saying, he proceeded to put off the few garments he had and abode
stark naked, as likewise did the girl, whereupon he fell on his knees,
as he would pray, and caused her abide over against himself.[203]

[Footnote 203: The translators regret that the disuse into which magic
has fallen, makes it impossible to render the technicalities of that
mysterious art into tolerable English; they have therefore found it
necessary to insert several passages in the original Italian.]

Matters standing thus and Rustico being more than ever inflamed in his
desires to see her so fair, there came the resurrection of the flesh,
which Alibech observing and marvelling, 'Rustico,' quoth she, 'what is
that I see on thee which thrusteth forth thus and which I have not?'
'Faith, daughter mine,' answered he, 'this is the devil whereof I
bespoke thee; and see now, he giveth me such sore annoy that I can
scarce put up with it.' Then said the girl, 'Now praised be God! I see
I fare better than thou, in that I have none of yonder devil.' 'True,'
rejoined Rustico; 'but thou hast otherwhat that I have not, and thou
hast it instead of this.' 'What is that?' asked Alibech; and he, 'Thou
hast hell, and I tell thee methinketh God hath sent thee hither for my
soul's health, for that, whenas this devil doth me this annoy, an it
please thee have so much compassion on me as to suffer me put him back
into hell, thou wilt give me the utmost solacement and wilt do God a
very great pleasure and service, so indeed thou be come into these
parts to do as thou sayst.'

The girl answered in good faith, 'Marry, father mine, since I have
hell, be it whensoever it pleaseth thee;' whereupon quoth Rustico,
'Daughter, blessed be thou; let us go then and put him back there, so
he may after leave me in peace.' So saying, he laid her on one of their
little beds and taught her how she should do to imprison that accursed
one of God. The girl, who had never yet put any devil in hell, for the
first time felt some little pain; wherefore she said to Rustico,
'Certes, father mine, this same devil must be an ill thing and an enemy
in very deed of God, for that it irketh hell itself, let be otherwhat,
when he is put back therein.' 'Daughter,' answered Rustico, 'it will
not always happen thus;' and to the end that this should not happen,
six times, or ever they stirred from the bed, they put him in hell
again, insomuch that for the nonce they so took the conceit out of his
head that he willingly abode at peace. But, it returning to him again
and again the ensuing days and the obedient girl still lending herself
to take it out of him, it befell that the sport began to please her and
she said to Rustico, 'I see now that those good people in Capsa spoke
sooth, when they avouched that it was so sweet a thing to serve God;
for, certes, I remember me not to have ever done aught that afforded me
such pleasance and delight as putting the devil in hell; wherefore
methinketh that whoso applieth himself unto aught other than God His
service is a fool.'

Accordingly, she came ofttimes to Rustico and said to him, 'Father
mine, I came here to serve God and not to abide idle; let us go put the
devil in hell.' Which doing, she said whiles, 'Rustico, I know not why
the devil fleeth away from hell; for, an he abode there as willingly as
hell receiveth him and holdeth him, he would never come forth
therefrom.' The girl, then, on this wise often inviting Rustico and
exhorting him to the service of God, so took the bombast out of his
doublet that he felt cold what time another had sweated; wherefore he
fell to telling her that the devil was not to be chastised nor put into
hell, save whenas he should lift up his head for pride; 'and we,' added
he, 'by God's grace, have so baffled him that he prayeth our Lord to
suffer him abide in peace;' and on this wise he for awhile imposed
silence on her. However, when she saw that he required her not of
putting the devil in hell, she said to him one day, 'Rustico, an thy
devil be chastened and give thee no more annoy, my hell letteth me not
be; wherefore thou wilt do well to aid me with thy devil in abating the
raging of my hell, even as with my hell I have helped thee take the
conceit out of thy devil.'

Rustico, who lived on roots and water, could ill avail to answer her
calls and told her that it would need overmany devils to appease hell,
but he would do what he might thereof. Accordingly he satisfied her
bytimes, but so seldom it was but casting a bean into the lion's
mouth; whereas the girl, herseeming she served not God as diligently
as she would fain have done, murmured somewhat. But, whilst this
debate was toward between Rustico his devil and Alibech her hell, for
overmuch desire on the one part and lack of power on the other, it
befell that a fire broke out in Capsa and burnt Alibech's father in
his own house, with as many children and other family as he had; by
reason whereof she abode heir to all his good. Thereupon, a young man
called Neerbale, who had spent all his substance in gallantry, hearing
that she was alive, set out in search of her and finding her, before
the court[204] had laid hands upon her father's estate, as that of a
man dying without heir, to Rustico's great satisfaction, but against
her own will, brought her back to Capsa, where he took her to wife and
succeeded, in her right, to the ample inheritance of her father.

[Footnote 204: _i.e._ the government (_corte_).]

There, being asked by the women at what she served God in the desert,
she answered (Neerbale having not yet lain with her) that she served
Him at putting the devil in hell and that Neerbale had done a grievous
sin in that he had taken her from such service. The ladies asked, 'How
putteth one the devil in hell?' And the girl, what with words and
what with gestures, expounded it to them; whereat they set up so great
a laughing that they laugh yet and said, 'Give yourself no concern, my
child; nay, for that is done here also and Neerbale will serve our
Lord full well with thee at this.' Thereafter, telling it from one to
another throughout the city, they brought it to a common saying there
that the most acceptable service one could render to God was to put
the devil in hell, which byword, having passed the sea hither, is yet
current here. Wherefore do all you young ladies, who have need of
God's grace, learn to put the devil in hell, for that this is highly
acceptable to Him and pleasing to both parties and much good may grow
and ensue thereof."

       *       *       *       *       *

A thousand times or more had Dioneo's story moved the modest ladies to
laughter, so quaint and comical did his words appear to them; then,
whenas he had made an end thereof, the queen, knowing the term of her
sovranty to be come, lifted the laurel from her head and set it
merrily on that of Filostrato, saying: "We shall presently see if the
wolf will know how to govern the ewes better than the ewes have
governed the wolves." Filostrato, hearing this, said, laughing, "An I
were hearkened to, the wolves had taught the ewes to put the devil in
hell, no worse than Rustico taught Alibech; wherefore do ye not style
us wolven, since you yourselves have not been ewen. Algates, I will
govern the kingdom committed to me to the best of my power." "Harkye,
Filostrato," rejoined Neifile, "in seeking to teach us, you might have
chanced to learn sense, even as did Masetto of Lamporecchio of the
nuns, and find your tongue what time your bones should have learnt to
whistle without a master."

Filostrato, finding that he still got a Roland for his Oliver,[205]
gave over pleasantry and addressed himself to the governance of the
kingdom committed to him. Wherefore, letting call the seneschal, he
was fain to know at what point things stood all and after discreetly
ordained that which he judged would be well and would content the
company for such time as his seignory should endure. Then, turning to
the ladies, "Lovesome ladies," quoth he, "since I knew good from evil,
I have, for my ill fortune, been still subject unto Love for the
charms of one or other of you; nor hath humility neither obedience,
no, nor the assiduous ensuing him in all his usances, in so far as it
hath been known of me, availed me but that first I have been abandoned
for another and after have still gone from bad to worse; and so I
believe I shall fare unto my death; wherefore it pleaseth me that it
be discoursed to-morrow of none other matter than that which is most
conformable to mine own case, to wit, OF THOSE WHOSE LOVES HAVE HAD
UNHAPPY ENDING, for that I in the long run look for a most unhappy
[issue to mine own]; nor was the name by which you call me conferred
on me for otherwhat by such an one who knew well what it meant."[206]
So saying, he rose to his feet and dismissed every one until
supper-time.

[Footnote 205: Lit. that scythes were no less plenty that he had
arrows (_che falci si trovavano non meno che egli avesse strali_), a
proverbial expression the exact bearing of which I do not know, but
whose evident sense I have rendered in the equivalent English idiom.]

[Footnote 206: Syn. what he said (_che si dire_). See ante, p. 11,
note.]

The garden was so goodly and so delightsome that there was none who
elected to go forth thereof, in the hope of finding more pleasance
elsewhere. Nay, the sun, now grown mild, making it nowise irksome to
give chase to the fawns and kids and rabbits and other beasts which
were thereabout and which, as they sat, had come maybe an hundred
times to disturb them by skipping through their midst, some addressed
themselves to pursue them. Dioneo and Fiammetta fell to singing of
Messer Guglielmo and the Lady of Vergiu,[207] whilst Filomena and
Pamfilo sat down to chess; and so, some doing one thing and some
another, the time passed on such wise that the hour of supper came
well nigh unlooked for; whereupon, the tables being set round about
the fair fountain, they supped there in the evening with the utmost
delight.

[Footnote 207: Apparently the well-known fabliau of the Dame de Vergy,
upon which Marguerite d'Angoulême founded the seventieth story of the
Heptameron.]

As soon as the tables were taken away, Filostrato, not to depart from
the course holden of those who had been queens before him, commanded
Lauretta to lead up a dance and sing a song. "My lord," answered she,
"I know none of other folk's songs, nor have I in mind any of mine own
which should best beseem so joyous a company; but, an you choose one
of those which I have, I will willingly sing it." Quote the king,
"Nothing of thine can be other than goodly and pleasing; wherefore
sing us such as thou hast." Lauretta, then, with a sweet voice enough,
but in a somewhat plaintive style, began thus, the other ladies
answering:

       No maid disconsolate
         Hath cause as I, alack!
       Who sigh for love in vain, to mourn her fate.

     He who moves heaven and all the stars in air
       Made me for His delight
     Lovesome and sprightly, kind and debonair,
       E'en here below to give each lofty spright
     Some inkling of that fair
       That still in heaven abideth in His sight;
       But erring men's unright,
         Ill knowing me, my worth
           Accepted not, nay, with dispraise did bate.

     Erst was there one who held me dear and fain
       Took me, a youngling maid,
     Into his arms and thought and heart and brain,
       Caught fire at my sweet eyes; yea time, unstayed
     Of aught, that flits amain
       And lightly, all to wooing me he laid.
       I, courteous, nought gainsaid
         And held[208] him worthy me;
           But now, woe's me, of him I'm desolate.

     Then unto me there did himself present
       A youngling proud and haught,
     Renowning him for valorous and gent;
       He took and holds me and with erring thought[209]
     To jealousy is bent;
       Whence I, alack! nigh to despair am wrought,
       As knowing myself,--brought
         Into this world for good
           Of many an one,--engrossed of one sole mate.

     The luckless hour I curse, in very deed,
       When I, alas! said yea,
     Vesture to change,--so fair in that dusk wede
       I was and glad, whereas in this more gay
     A weary life I lead,
       Far less than erst held honest, welaway!
       Ah, dolorous bridal day,
         Would God I had been dead
           Or e'er I proved thee in such ill estate!

     O lover dear, with whom well pleased was I
       Whilere past all that be,--
     Who now before Him sittest in the sky
       Who fashioned us,--have pity upon me
     Who cannot, though I die,
       Forget thee for another; cause me see
       The flame that kindled thee
         For me lives yet unquenched
           And my recall up thither[210] impetrate.

[Footnote 208: Lit. made (_Di me il feci digno_).]

[Footnote 209: _i.e._ false suspicion (_falso pensiero_).]

[Footnote 210: _i.e._ to heaven (_e costa su m'impetra la tornata_).]

Here Lauretta made an end of her song, wherein, albeit attentively
followed of all, she was diversely apprehended of divers persons, and
there were those who would e'en understand, Milan-fashion, that a good
hog was better than a handsome wench;[211] but others were of a
loftier and better and truer apprehension, whereof it booteth not to
tell at this present. Thereafter the king let kindle store of
flambeaux upon the grass and among the flowers and caused sing divers
other songs, until every star began to decline, that was above the
horizon, when, deeming it time for sleep, he bade all with a good
night betake themselves to their chambers.

[Footnote 211: The pertinence of this allusion, which probably refers
to some current Milanese proverbial saying, the word _tosa_, here used
by Boccaccio for "wench," belonging to the Lombard dialect, is not
very clear. The expression "Milan-fashion" (_alla melanese_) may be
supposed to refer to the proverbial materialism of the people of
Lombardy.]


HERE ENDETH THE THIRD DAY
OF THE DECAMERON



_Day the Fourth_

     HERE BEGINNETH THE FOURTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER
     THE GOVERNANCE OF FILOSTRATO IS DISCOURSED OF THOSE WHOSE
     LOVES HAVE HAD UNHAPPY ENDINGS


Dearest ladies, as well by words of wise men heard as by things many a
time both seen and read of myself, I had conceived that the boisterous
and burning blast of envy was apt to smite none but lofty towers or
the highest summits of the trees; but I find myself mistaken in my
conceit, for that, fleeing, as I have still studied to flee, from the
cruel onslaught of that raging wind, I have striven to go, not only in
the plains, but in the very deepest of the valleys, as many manifestly
enough appear to whoso considereth these present stories, the which
have been written by me, not only in vulgar Florentine and in prose
and without [author's] name, but eke in as humble and sober a style as
might be. Yet for all this have I not availed to escape being cruelly
shaken, nay, well nigh uprooted, of the aforesaid wind and all torn of
the fangs of envy; wherefore I can very manifestly understand that to
be true which the wise use to say, to wit, that misery alone in things
present is without envy.[212]

[Footnote 212: Sic (_senza invidia_); but the meaning is that misery
alone is without _enviers_.]

There are then, discreet ladies, some who, reading these stories, have
said that you please me overmuch and that it is not a seemly thing
that I should take so much delight in pleasuring and solacing you; and
some have said yet worse of commending you as I do. Others, making a
show of wishing to speak more maturely, have said that it sorteth ill
with mine age henceforth to follow after things of this kind, to wit,
to discourse of women or to study to please them. And many, feigning
themselves mighty tender of my repute, avouch that I should do more
wisely to abide with the Muses on Parnassus than to busy myself among
you with these toys. Again, there be some who, speaking more
despitefully than advisedly, have said that I should do more
discreetly to consider whence I might get me bread than to go peddling
after these baubles, feeding upon wind; and certain others, in
disparagement of my pains, study to prove the things recounted by me
to have been otherwise than as I present them to you.

With such, then, and so many blusterings,[213] such atrocious
backbitings, such needle-pricks, noble ladies, am I, what while I
battle in your service, baffled and buffeted and transfixed even to
the quick. The which things, God knoweth, I hear and apprehend with an
untroubled mind; and albeit my defence in this pertaineth altogether
unto you, natheless, I purpose not to spare mine own pains; nay,
without answering so much [at large] as it might behove, I mean to rid
mine ears of them with some slight rejoinder, and that without delay;
for that if even now, I being not yet come to[214] the third part of
my travail, they[215] are many and presume amain, I opine that, ere I
come to the end thereof, they may, having had no rebuff at the first,
on such wise be multiplied that with whatsoever little pains of theirs
they might overthrow me, nor might your powers, great though they be,
avail to withstand this.

[Footnote 213: _i.e._ blasts of calumny.]

[Footnote 214: _i.e._ having not yet accomplished.]

[Footnote 215: _i.e._ my censors.]

But, ere I come to make answer to any of them, it pleaseth me, in mine
own defence, to relate, not an entire story,--lest it should seem I
would fain mingle mine own stories with those of so commendable a
company as that which I have presented to you,--but a part of
one,--that so its very default [of completeness] may attest that it is
none of those,--and accordingly, speaking to my assailants, I say that
in our city, a good while agone, there was a townsman, by name Filippo
Balducci, a man of mean enough extraction, but rich and well addressed
and versed in such matters as his condition comported. He had a wife,
whom he loved with an exceeding love, as she him, and they lived a
peaceful life together, studying nothing so much as wholly to please
one another. In course of time it came to pass, as it cometh to pass
of all, that the good lady departed this life and left Filippo nought
of herself but one only son, begotten of him and maybe two years old.
Filippo for the death of his lady abode as disconsolate as ever man
might, having lost a beloved one, and seeing himself left alone and
forlorn of that company which most he loved, he resolved to be no more
of the world, but to give himself altogether to the service of God and
do the like with his little son. Wherefore, bestowing all his good for
the love of God,[216] he repaired without delay to the top of Mount
Asinajo, where he took up his abode with his son in a little hut and
there living with him upon alms, in the practice of fasts and prayers,
straitly guarded himself from discoursing whereas the boy was, of any
temporal thing, neither suffered him see aught thereof, lest this
should divert him from the service aforesaid, but still bespoke him of
the glories of life eternal and of God and the saints, teaching him
nought but pious orisons; and in this way of life he kept him many
years, never suffering him go forth of the hermitage nor showing him
aught other than himself.

[Footnote 216: _i.e._ in alms.]

Now the good man was used to come whiles into Florence, where being
succoured, according to his occasions, of the friends of God, he
returned to his hut, and it chanced one day that, his son being now
eighteen years old and Filippo an old man, the lad asked him whither
he went. Filippo told him and the boy said, "Father mine, you are now
an old man and can ill endure fatigue; why do you not whiles carry me
to Florence and bring me to know the friends and devotees of God and
yourself, to the end that I, who am young and better able to toil than
you, may after, whenas it pleaseth you, go to Florence for our
occasions, whilst you abide here?" The worthy man, considering that
his son was now grown to man's estate and thinking him so inured to
the service of God that the things of this world might thenceforth
uneath allure him to themselves, said in himself, "The lad saith
well"; and accordingly, having occasion to go thither, he carried him
with him. There the youth, seeing the palaces, the houses, the
churches and all the other things whereof one seeth all the city full,
began, as one who had never to his recollection beheld the like, to
marvel amain and questioned his father of many things what they were
and how they were called. Filippo told him and he, hearing him, abode
content and questioned of somewhat else.

As they went thus, the son asking and the father answering, they
encountered by chance a company of pretty and well-dressed young
women, coming from a wedding, whom as soon as the young man saw, he
asked his father what manner of things these were. "My son," answered
Filippo, "cast your eyes on the ground and look not at them, for that
they are an ill thing." Quoth the son, "And how are they called?" The
father, not to awaken in the lad's mind a carnal appetite less than
useful, would not name them by the proper name, to wit, women, but
said, "They are called green geese." Whereupon, marvellous to relate,
he who have never seen a woman and who recked not of palaces nor oxen
nor horses nor asses nor monies nor of aught else he had seen, said
suddenly, "Father mine, I prithee get me one of these green geese."
"Alack, my son," replied the father, "hold they peace; I tell thee
they are an ill thing." "How!" asked the youth. "Are ill things then
made after this fashion?" and Filippo answered, "Ay." Then said the
son, "I know not what you would say nor why these are an ill thing;
for my part, meseemeth I never yet saw aught goodly or pleasing as are
these. They are fairer than the painted angels you have shown me
whiles. For God's sake, an you reck of me, contrive that we may carry
one of yonder green geese back with us up yonder, and I will give it
to eat." "Nay," answered the father, "I will not: thou knowest not
whereon they feed." And he understood incontinent that nature was
stronger than his wit and repented him of having brought the youth to
Florence. But I will have it suffice me to have told this much of the
present story and return to those for whose behoof I have related it.

Some, then, of my censurers say that I do ill, young ladies, in
studying overmuch to please you and that you please me overmuch. Which
things I do most openly confess, to wit, that you please me and that I
study to please you, and I ask them if they marvel thereat,--considering
(let be the having known the dulcet kisses and amorous embracements
and delightsome couplings that are of you, most sweet ladies, often
gotten) only my having seen and still seeing your dainty manners and
lovesome beauty and sprightly grace and above all your womanly
courtesy,--whenas he who had been reared and bred on a wild and
solitary mountain and within the bounds of a little cell, without
other company than his father, no sooner set eyes on you than you
alone were desired of him, you alone sought, you alone followed with
the eagerness of passion. Will they, then, blame me, back bite me,
rend me with their tongues if I, whose body Heaven created all apt to
love you, I, who from my childhood vowed my soul to you, feeling the
potency of the light of your eyes and the sweetness of your honeyed
words and the flame enkindled by your piteous sighs,--if, I say, you
please me or if I study to please you, seeing that you over all else
pleased a hermitling, a lad without understanding, nay, rather, a wild
animal? Certes, it is only those, who, having neither sense nor
cognizance of the pleasures and potency of natural affection, love you
not nor desire to be loved of you, that chide me thus; and of these I
reck little.

As for those who go railing anent mine age, it would seem they know
ill that, for all the leek hath a white head, the tail thereof is
green. But to these, laying aside pleasantry, I answer that never, no,
not to the extreme limit of my life, shall I repute it to myself for
shame to seek to please those whom Guido Cavalcanti and Dante
Alighieri, when already stricken in years, and Messer Cino da Pistoja,
when a very old man, held in honour and whose approof was dear to
them. And were it not to depart from the wonted usance of discourse, I
would cite history in support and show it to be all full of stories of
ancient and noble men who in their ripest years have still above all
studied to please the ladies, the which an they know not, let them go
learn. That I should abide with the Muses on Parnassus, I confess to
be good counsel; but, since we can neither abide for ever with the
Muses, nor they with us, it is nothing blameworthy if, whenas it
chanceth a man is parted from them, he take delight in seeing that
which is like unto them. The muses are women, and albeit women may not
avail to match with them, yet at first sight they have a semblance of
them; insomuch that, an they pleased me not for aught else, for this
they should please me; more by token that women have aforetime been to
me the occasion of composing a thousand verses, whereas the Muses
never were to me the occasion of making any. They aided me, indeed,
and showed me how to compose the verses in question; and peradventure,
in the writing of these present things, all lowly though they be, they
have come whiles to abide with me, in token maybe and honour of the
likeness that women bear to them; wherefore, in inditing these toys, I
stray not so far from Mount Parnassus nor from the Muses as many
belike conceive.

But what shall we say to those who have such compassion on my hunger
that they counsel me provide myself bread? Certes, I know not, save
that, whenas I seek to imagine in myself what would be their answer,
an I should of necessity beseech them thereof, to wit, of bread,
methinketh they would reply, "Go seek it among thy fables." Indeed,
aforetime poets have found more thereof among their fables than many a
rich man among his treasures, and many, following after their fables,
have caused their age to flourish; whereas, on the contrary, many, in
seeking to have more bread than they needed, have perished miserably.
What more [shall I say?] Let them drive me forth, whenas I ask it of
them, not that, Godamercy, I have yet need thereof; and even should
need betide, I know with the Apostle Paul both how to abound and
suffer need;[217] wherefore let none be more careful of me than I am
of myself. For those who say that these things have not been such as I
have here set them down, I would fain have them produce the originals,
and an these latter accord not with that of which I write, I will
confess their objection for just and will study to amend myself; but
till otherwhat than words appeareth, I will leave them to their
opinion and follow mine own, saying of them that which they say of me.

[Footnote 217: "I know both how to be abased and I know how to abound;
everywhere and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be
hungry, both to abound and suffer need."--_Philippians_ iv. 12.]

Wherefore, deeming that for the nonce I have answered enough, I say
that, armed, as I hope to be, with God's aid and yours, gentlest
ladies, and with fair patience, I will fare on with this that I have
begun, turning my back to the wind aforesaid and letting it blow, for
that I see not that aught can betide me other than that which betideth
thin dust, the which a whirlwind, whenas it bloweth, either stirreth
not from the earth, or, an it stir it, carrieth it aloft and leaveth
it oftentimes upon the heads of men and upon the crowns of kings and
emperors, nay, bytimes upon high palaces and lofty towers, whence an
it fall, it cannot go lower than the place wherefrom it was uplifted.
And if ever with all my might I vowed myself to seek to please you in
aught, now more than ever shall I address myself thereto; for that I
know none can with reason say otherwhat than that I and others who
love you do according to nature, whose laws to seek to gainstand
demandeth overgreat strength, and oftentimes not only in vain, but to
the exceeding hurt of whoso striveth to that end, is this strength
employed. Such strength I confess I have not nor ever desired in this
to have; and an I had it, I had liefer lend it to others than use it
for myself. Wherefore, let the carpers be silent and an they avail not
to warm themselves, let them live star-stricken[218] and abiding in
their delights--or rather their corrupt appetites,--leave me to abide
in mine for this brief life that is appointed me. But now, fair
ladies, for that we have strayed enough, needs must we return whence
we set out and ensue the ordinance commenced.

[Footnote 218: _i.e._ benumbed (_assiderati_).]

The sun had already banished every star from the sky and had driven
from the earth the humid vapours of the night, when Filostrato,
arising, caused all his company arise and with them betook himself to
the fair garden, where they all proceeded to disport themselves, and
the eating-hour come, they dined whereas they had supped on the
foregoing evening. Then, after having slept, what time the sun was at
its highest, they seated themselves, after the wonted fashion, hard by
the fair fountain, and Filostrato bade Fiammetta give beginning to the
story-telling; whereupon, without awaiting further commandment, she
began with womanly grace as follows:



THE FIRST STORY

[Day the Fourth]

     TANCRED, PRINCE OF SALERNO, SLAYETH HIS DAUGHTER'S LOVER AND
     SENDETH HER HIS HEART IN A BOWL OF GOLD; WHEREUPON, POURING
     POISONED WATER OVER IT, SHE DRINKETH THEREOF AND DIETH


"Our king hath this day appointed us a woeful subject of discourse,
considering that, whereas we came hither to make merry, needs must we
tell of others' tears, the which may not be recounted without moving
both those who tell and those who hearken to compassion thereof. He
hath mayhap done this somedele to temper the mirth of the foregoing
days; but, whatsoever may have moved him thereto, since it pertaineth
not to me to change his pleasure, I will relate a piteous chance, nay,
an ill-fortuned and a worthy of your tears.

Tancred, Lord of Salerno, was a humane prince and benign enough of
nature, (had he not in his old age imbrued his hands in lover's
blood,) who in all the course of his life had but one daughter, and
happier had he been if he had none. She was of him as tenderly loved
as ever daughter of father, and knowing not, by reason of this his
tender love for her, how to part with her, he married her not till she
had long overpassed the age when she should have had a husband. At
last, he gave her to wife to a son of the Duke of Capua, with whom
having abidden a little while, she was left a widow and returned to
her father. Now she was most fair of form and favour, as ever was
woman, and young and sprightly and learned perchance more than is
required of a lady. Abiding, then, with her father in all ease and
luxury, like a great lady as she was, and seeing that, for the love he
bore her, he recked little of marrying her again, nor did it seem to
her a seemly thing to require him thereof, she bethought herself to
seek, an it might be, to get her privily a worthy lover. She saw men
galore, gentle and simple, frequent her father's court, and
considering the manners and fashions of many, a young serving-man of
her father's, Guiscardo by name, a man of humble enough extraction,
but nobler of worth and manners than whatsoever other, pleased her
over all and of him, seeing him often, she became in secret ardently
enamoured, approving more and more his fashions every hour; whilst the
young man, who was no dullard, perceiving her liking for him, received
her into his heart, on such wise that his mind was thereby diverted
from well nigh everything other than the love of her.

Each, then, thus secretly tendering the other, the young lady, who
desired nothing so much as to foregather with him, but had no mind to
make any one a confidant of her passion, bethought herself of a rare
device to apprize him of the means; to wit, she wrote him a letter,
wherein she showed him how he should do to foregather with her on the
ensuing day, and placing it in the hollow of a cane, gave the letter
jestingly to Guiscardo, saying, 'Make thee a bellows thereof for thy
serving-maid, wherewith she may blow up the fire to-night.' Guiscardo
took the cane and bethinking himself that she would not have given it
him nor spoken thus, without some cause, took his leave and returned
therewith to his lodging. There he examined the cane and seeing it to
be cleft, opened it and found therein the letter, which having read
and well apprehended that which he had to do, he was the joyfullest
man alive and set about taking order how he might go to her, according
to the fashion appointed him of her.

There was, beside the prince's palace, a grotto hewn out of the rock
and made in days long agone, and to this grotto some little light was
given by a tunnel[219] by art wrought in the mountain, which latter,
for that the grotto was abandoned, was well nigh blocked at its mouth
with briers and weeds that had overgrown it. Into this grotto one
might go by a privy stair which was in one of the ground floor rooms
of the lady's apartment in the palace and which was shut in by a very
strong door. This stair was so out of all folk's minds, for that it
had been unused from time immemorial, that well nigh none remembered
it to be there; but Love, to whose eyes there is nothing so secret but
it winneth, had recalled it to the memory of the enamoured lady, who,
that none should get wind of the matter, had laboured sore many days
with such tools as she might command, ere she could make shift to open
the door; then, going down alone thereby into the grotto and seeing
the tunnel, she sent to bid Guiscardo study to come to her thereby and
acquainted him with the height which herseemed should be from the
mouth thereof to the ground.

[Footnote 219: Or airshaft (_spiraglio_).]

To this end Guiscardo promptly made ready a rope with certain knots
and loops, whereby he might avail to descend and ascend, and donning a
leathern suit, that might defend him from the briers, he on the
ensuing night repaired, without letting any know aught of the matter,
to the mouth of the tunnel. There making one end of the rope fast to a
stout tree-stump that had grown up in the mouth, he let himself down
thereby into the grotto and there awaited the lady, who, on the
morrow, feigning a desire to sleep, dismissed her women and shut
herself up alone in her chamber; then, opening the privy door, she
descended into the grotto, where she found Guiscardo. They greeted one
another with marvellous joy and betook themselves to her chamber,
where they abode great part of the day in the utmost delight; and
after they had taken order together for the discreet conduct of their
loves, so they might abide secret, Guiscardo returned to the grotto,
whilst she shut the privy door and went forth to her women. The night
come, Guiscardo climbed up by his rope to the mouth of the tunnel and
issuing forth whence he had entered in, returned to his lodging; and
having learned this road, he in process of time returned many times
thereafter.

But fortune, jealous of so long and so great a delight, with a woeful
chance changed the gladness of the two lovers into mourning and
sorrow; and it befell on this wise. Tancred was wont to come bytimes
all alone into his daughter's chamber and there abide with her and
converse awhile and after go away. Accordingly, one day, after dinner,
he came thither, what time the lady (whose name was Ghismonda) was in
a garden of hers with all her women, and willing not to take her from
her diversion, he entered her chamber, without being seen or heard of
any. Finding the windows closed and the curtains let down over the
bed, he sat down in a corner on a hassock at the bedfoot and leant his
head against the bed; then, drawing the curtain over himself, as if he
had studied to hide himself there, he fell asleep. As he slept thus,
Ghismonda, who, as ill chance would have it, had appointed her lover
to come thither that day, softly entered the chamber, leaving her
women in the garden, and having shut herself in, without perceiving
that there was some one there, opened the secret door to Guiscardo,
who awaited her. They straightway betook themselves to bed, as of
their wont, and what while they sported and solaced themselves
together, it befell that Tancred awoke and heard and saw that which
Guiscardo and his daughter did; whereat beyond measure grieved, at
first he would have cried out at them, but after bethought himself to
keep silence and abide, an he might, hidden, so with more secrecy and
less shame to himself he might avail to do that which had already
occurred to his mind.

The two lovers abode a great while together, according to their
usance, without observing Tancred, and coming down from the bed,
whenas it seemed to them time, Guiscardo returned to the grotto and
she departed the chamber; whereupon Tancred, for all he was an old
man, let himself down into the garden by a window and returned, unseen
of any, to his own chamber, sorrowful unto death. That same night, at
the time of the first sleep, Guiscardo, by his orders, was seized by
two men, as he came forth of the tunnel, and carried secretly, trussed
as he was in his suit of leather, to Tancred, who, whenas he saw him,
said, well nigh weeping, 'Guiscardo, my kindness to thee merited not
the outrage and the shame thou hast done me in mine own flesh and
blood, as I have this day seen with my very eyes.' Whereto Guiscardo
answered nothing but this, 'Love can far more than either you or I.'
Tancred then commanded that he should be kept secretly under guard and
in one of the chambers of the palace, and so was it done.

On the morrow, having meanwhile revolved in himself many and divers
devices, he betook himself, after eating, as of his wont, to his
daughter's chamber and sending for the lady, who as yet knew nothing
of these things, shut himself up with her and proceeded, with tears in
his eyes, to bespeak her thus: 'Ghismonda, meseemed I knew thy virtue
and thine honesty, nor might it ever have occurred to my mind, though
it were told me, had I not seen it with mine own eyes, that thou
wouldst, even so much as in thought, have abandoned thyself to any
man, except he were thy husband; wherefore in this scant remnant of
life that my eld reserveth unto me, I shall still abide sorrowful,
remembering me of this. Would God, an thou must needs stoop to such
wantonness, thou hadst taken a man sortable to thy quality! But,
amongst so many who frequent my court, thou hast chosen Guiscardo, a
youth of the meanest condition, reared in our court, well nigh of
charity, from a little child up to this day; wherefore thou hast put
me in sore travail of mind, for that I know not what course to take
with thee. With Guiscardo, whom I caused take yesternight, as he
issued forth of the tunnel and have in ward, I am already resolved how
to deal; but with thee God knoweth I know not what to do. On one side
love draweth me, which I still borne thee more than father ever bore
daughter, and on the other most just despite, conceived for thine
exceeding folly; the one would have me pardon thee, the other would
have me, against my nature, deal harshly by thee. But ere I come to a
decision, I would fain hear what thou hast to say to this.' So saying,
he bowed his head and wept sore as would a beaten child.

Ghismonda, hearing her father's words and seeing that not only was her
secret love discovered, but Guiscardo taken, felt an inexpressible
chagrin and came many a time near upon showing it with outcry and
tears, as women mostly do; nevertheless, her haughty soul
overmastering that weakness, with marvellous fortitude she composed
her countenance and rather than proffer any prayer for herself,
determined inwardly to abide no more on life, doubting not but her
Guiscardo was already dead. Wherefore, not as a woman rebuked and
woeful for her default, but as one undaunted and valiant, with dry
eyes and face open and nowise troubled, she thus bespoke her father:
'Tancred, I purpose neither to deny nor to entreat, for that the one
would profit me nothing nor would I have the other avail me; more by
token that I am nowise minded to seek to render thy mansuetude and
thine affection favourable to me, but rather, confessing the truth,
first with true arguments to vindicate mine honour and after with
deeds right resolutely to ensue the greatness of my soul. True is it I
have loved and love Guiscardo, and what while I live, which will be
little, I shall love him, nor, if folk live after death, shall I ever
leave loving him; but unto this it was not so much my feminine frailty
that moved me as thy little solicitude to remarry me and his own
worth.

It should have been manifest to thee, Tancred, being as thou art flesh
and blood, that thou hadst begotten a daughter of flesh and blood and
not of iron or stone; and thou shouldst have remembered and should
still remember, for all thou art old, what and what like are the laws
of youth and with what potency they work; nor, albeit thou, being a
man, hast in thy best years exercised thyself in part in arms,
shouldst thou the less know what ease and leisure and luxury can do in
the old, to say nothing of the young. I am, then, as being of thee
begotten, of flesh and blood and have lived so little that I am yet
young and (for the one and the other reason) full of carnal desire,
whereunto the having aforetime, by reason of marriage, known what
pleasure it is to give accomplishment to such desire hath added
marvellous strength. Unable, therefore, to withstand the strength of
my desires, I addressed myself, being young and a woman, to ensue that
whereto they prompted me and became enamoured. And certes in this I
set my every faculty to the endeavouring that, so far as in me lay, no
shame should ensue either to thee or to me through this to which
natural frailty moved me. To this end compassionate Love and favouring
Fortune found and showed me a very occult way, whereby, unknown of
any, I won to my desire, and this, whoever it be discovered it to
thee or howsoever thou knowest it, I nowise deny.

Guiscardo I took not at hazard, as many women do; nay, of deliberate
counsel I chose him before every other and with advisement prepense
drew him to me[220] and by dint of perseverance and discretion on my
part and on his, I have long had enjoyment of my desire. Whereof it
seemeth that thou, ensuing rather vulgar prejudice than truth,
reproachest me with more bitterness than of having sinned by way of
love, saying (as if thou shouldst not have been chagrined, had I
chosen therefor a man of gentle birth,) that I have committed myself
with a man of mean condition. Wherein thou seest not that thou blamest
not my default, but that of fortune, which too often advanceth the
unworthy to high estate, leaving the worthiest alow.

[Footnote 220: Lit. introduced him to me (_a me lo 'ntrodussi_); but
Boccaccio here uses the word _introdurre_ in its rarer literal sense
to lead, to draw, to bring in.]

But now let us leave this and look somewhat to the first principles of
things, whereby thou wilt see that we all get our flesh from one same
stock and that all souls were by one same Creator created with equal
faculties, equal powers and equal virtues. Worth it was that first
distinguished between us, who were all and still are born equal;
wherefore those who had and used the greatest sum thereof were called
noble and the rest abode not noble. And albeit contrary usance hath
since obscured this primary law, yet is it nowise done away nor
blotted out from nature and good manners; wherefore he who doth
worthily manifestly showeth himself a gentleman, and if any call him
otherwise, not he who is called, but he who calleth committeth
default. Look among all thy gentlemen and examine into their worth,
their usances and their manners, and on the other hand consider those
of Guiscardo; if thou wilt consent to judge without animosity, thou
wilt say that he is most noble and that these thy nobles are all
churls. With regard to his worth and virtue, I trusted not to the
judgment of any other, but to that of thy words and of mine own eyes.
Who ever so commended him as thou didst in all those praiseworthy
things wherefor a man of worth should be commended? And certes not
without reason; for, if mine eyes deceived me not, there was no praise
given him of thee which I saw him not justify by deeds, and that more
admirably than thy words availed to express; and even had I suffered
any deceit in this, it is by thyself I should have been deceived. An,
then, thou say that I have committed myself with a man of mean
condition, thou sayst not sooth; but shouldst thou say with a poor
man, it might peradventure be conceded thee, to thy shame who hast so
ill known to put a servant of thine and a man of worth in good case;
yet poverty bereaveth not any of gentilesse; nay, rather, wealth it is
that doth this. Many kings, many great princes were once poor and many
who delve and tend sheep were once very rich.

The last doubt that thou broachest, to wit, what thou shouldst do with
me, drive it away altogether; an thou in thine extreme old age be
disposed to do that which thou usedst not, being young, namely, to
deal cruelly, wreak thy cruelty upon me, who am minded to proffer no
prayer unto thee, as being the prime cause of this sin, if sin it be;
for of this I certify thee, that whatsoever thou hast done or shalt do
with Guiscardo, an thou do not the like with me, mine own hands shall
do it. Now begone; go shed tears with women and waxing cruel, slay him
and me with one same blow, an it seem to thee we have deserved it.'

The prince knew the greatness of his daughter's soul, but
notwithstanding believed her not altogether so firmly resolved as she
said unto that which her words gave out. Wherefore, taking leave of
her and having laid aside all intent of using rigour against her
person, he thought to cool her fervent love with other's suffering and
accordingly bade Guiscardo's two guardians strangle him without noise
that same night and taking out his heart, bring it to him. They did
even as it was commanded them, and on the morrow the prince let bring
a great and goodly bowl of gold and setting therein Guiscardo's heart,
despatched it to his daughter by the hands of a very privy servant of
his, bidding him say, whenas he gave it her, 'Thy father sendeth thee
this, to solace thee of the thing thou most lovest, even as thou hast
solaced him of that which he loved most.'

Now Ghismonda, unmoved from her stern purpose, had, after her father's
departure, let bring poisonous herbs and roots and distilled and
reduced them in water, so she might have it at hand, an that she
feared should come to pass. The serving-man coming to her with the
prince's present and message, she took the cup with a steadfast
countenance and uncovered it. Whenas she saw the heart and
apprehended the words of the message, she was throughly certified that
this was Guiscardo's heart and turning her eyes upon the messenger,
said to him, 'No sepulchre less of worth than one of gold had beseemed
a heart such as this; and in this my father hath done discreetly.' So
saying, she set the heart to her lips and kissing it, said, 'Still in
everything and even to this extreme limit of my life have I found my
father's love most tender towards me; but now more than ever;
wherefore do than render him on my part for so great a gift the last
thanks I shall ever have to give him.'

Then, bending down over the cup, which she held fast, she said,
looking upon the heart, 'Alack, sweetest harbourage of all my
pleasures, accursed be his cruelty who maketh me now to see thee with
the eyes of the body! Enough was it for me at all hours to behold thee
with those of the mind. Thou hast finished thy course and hast
acquitted thyself on such wise as was vouchsafed thee of fortune; thou
art come to the end whereunto each runneth; thou hast left the toils
and miseries of the world, and of thy very enemy thou hast that
sepulchre which thy worth hath merited. There lacked nought to thee to
make thy funeral rites complete save her tears whom in life thou so
lovedst, the which that thou mightest have, God put it into the heart
of my unnatural father to send thee to me and I will give them to
thee, albeit I had purposed to die with dry eyes and visage undismayed
of aught; and having given them to thee, I will without delay so do
that my soul, thou working it,[221] shall rejoin that soul which thou
erst so dearly guardedst. And in what company could I betake me more
contentedly or with better assurance to the regions unknown than with
it?[222] Certain am I that it abideth yet herewithin[223] and vieweth
the seats of its delights and mine and as that which I am assured
still loveth me, awaiteth my soul, whereof it is over all beloved.'

[Footnote 221: _i.e._ thou being the means of bringing about the
conjunction (_adoperandol tu_).]

[Footnote 222: _i.e._ Guiscardo's soul.]

[Footnote 223: _i.e._ in the heart.]

So saying, no otherwise than as she had a fountain of water in her
head, bowing herself over the bowl, without making any womanly outcry,
she began, lamenting, to shed so many and such tears that they were a
marvel to behold, kissing the dead heart the while an infinite number
of times. Her women, who stood about her, understood not what this
heart was nor what her words meant, but, overcome with compassion,
wept all and in vain questioned her affectionately of the cause of her
lament and studied yet more, as best they knew and might, to comfort
her. The lady, having wept as much as herseemed fit, raised her head
and drying her eyes, said, 'O much-loved heart, I have accomplished
mine every office towards thee, nor is there left me aught else to do
save to come with my soul and bear thine company.' So saying, she
called for the vial wherein was the water she had made the day before
and poured the latter into the bowl where was the heart bathed with so
many of her tears; then, setting her mouth thereto without any fear,
she drank it all off and having drunken, mounted, with the cup in her
hand, upon the bed, where composing her body as most decently she
might, she pressed her dead lover's heart to her own and without
saying aught, awaited death.

Her women, seeing and hearing all this, albeit they knew not what
water this was she had drunken, had sent to tell Tancred everything,
and he, fearing that which came to pass, came quickly down into his
daughter's chamber, where he arrived what time she laid herself on her
bed and addressed himself too late to comfort her with soft words;
but, seeing the extremity wherein she was, he fell a-weeping
grievously; whereupon quoth the lady to him, 'Tancred, keep these
tears against a less desired fate than this of mine and give them not
to me, who desire them not. Who ever saw any, other than thou, lament
for that which he himself hath willed? Nevertheless, if aught yet live
in thee of the love which once thou borest me, vouchsafe me for a last
boon that, since it was not thy pleasure that I should privily and in
secret live with Guiscardo, my body may openly abide with his,
whereassoever thou hast caused cast him dead.' The agony of his grief
suffered not the prince to reply; whereupon the young lady, feeling
herself come to her end, strained the dead heart to her breast and
said, 'Abide ye with God, for I go hence.' Then, closing her eyes and
losing every sense, she departed this life of woe. Such, then, as you
have heard, was the sorrowful ending of the loves of Guiscardo and
Ghismonda, whose bodies Tancred, after much lamentation, too late
repenting him of his cruelty, caused honourably bury in one same
sepulchre, amid the general mourning of all the people of Salerno."



THE SECOND STORY

[Day the Fourth]

     FRA ALBERTO GIVETH A LADY TO BELIEVE THAT THE ANGEL GABRIEL
     IS ENAMOURED OF HER AND IN HIS SHAPE LIETH WITH HER SUNDRY
     TIMES; AFTER WHICH, FOR FEAR OF HER KINSMEN, HE CASTETH
     HIMSELF FORTH OF HER WINDOW INTO THE CANAL AND TAKETH REFUGE
     IN THE HOUSE OF A POOR MAN, WHO ON THE MORROW CARRIETH HIM,
     IN THE GUISE OF A WILD MAN OF THE WOODS, TO THE PIAZZA,
     WHERE, BEING RECOGNIZED, HE IS TAKEN BY HIS BRETHREN AND PUT
     IN PRISON


The story told by Fiammetta had more than once brought the tears to
the eyes of the ladies her companions; but, it being now finished, the
king with a stern countenance said, "My life would seem to me a little
price to give for half the delight that Guiscardo had with Ghismonda,
nor should any of you ladies marvel thereat, seeing that every hour of
my life I suffer a thousand deaths, nor for all that is a single
particle of delight vouchsafed me. But, leaving be my affairs for the
present, it is my pleasure that Pampinea follow on the order of the
discourse with some story of woeful chances and fortunes in part like
to mine own; which if she ensue like as Fiammetta hath begun, I shall
doubtless begin to feel some dew fallen upon my fire." Pampinea,
hearing the order laid upon her, more by her affection apprehended the
mind of the ladies her companions than that of Filostrato by his
words,[224] wherefore, being more disposed to give them some diversion
than to content the king, farther than in the mere letter of his
commandment, she bethought herself to tell a story, that should,
without departing from the proposed theme, give occasion for laughter,
and accordingly began as follows:

[Footnote 224: _i.e._ was more inclined to consider the wishes of the
ladies her companions, which she divined by sympathy, than those of
Filostrato, as shown by his words (_più per la sua affezione cognobbe
l'animo delle campagne che quello del re per le sue parole_). It is
difficult, however, in this instance as in many others, to discover
with certainty Boccaccio's exact meaning, owing to his affectation of
Ciceronian concision and delight in obscure elliptical forms of
construction; whilst his use of words in a remote or unfamiliar sense
and the impossibility of deciding, in certain cases, the person of the
pronouns and adjectives employed tend still farther to darken counsel.
_E.g._, if we render _affezione_ sentiment, _cognobbe_ (as
_riconobbe_) acknowledged, recognized, and read _le sue parole_ as
meaning _her_ (instead of _his_) words, the whole sense of the passage
is changed, and we must read it "more by her sentiment (_i.e._ by the
tendency and spirit of her story) recognized the inclination of her
companions than that of the king by her [actual] words." I have
commented thus at large on this passage, in order to give my readers
some idea of the difficulties which at every page beset the translator
of the Decameron and which make Boccaccio perhaps the most troublesome
of all authors to render into representative English.]

"The vulgar have a proverb to the effect that he who is naught and is
held good may do ill and it is not believed of him; the which
affordeth me ample matter for discourse upon that which hath been
proposed to me and at the same time to show what and how great is the
hypocrisy of the clergy, who, with garments long and wide and faces
paled by art and voices humble and meek to solicit the folk, but
exceeding loud and fierce to rebuke in others their own vices, pretend
that themselves by taking and others by giving to them come to
salvation, and to boot, not as men who have, like ourselves, to
purchase paradise, but as in a manner they were possessors and lords
thereof, assign unto each who dieth, according to the sum of the
monies left them by him, a more or less excellent place there,
studying thus to deceive first themselves, an they believe as they
say, and after those who put faith for that matter in their words.
Anent whom, were it permitted me to discover as much as it behoved, I
would quickly make clear to many simple folk that which they keep
hidden under those huge wide gowns of theirs. But would God it might
betide them all of their cozening tricks, as it betided a certain
minor friar, and he no youngling, but held one of the first
casuists[225] in Venice; of whom it especially pleaseth me to tell
you, so as peradventure somewhat to cheer your hearts, that are full
of compassion for the death of Ghismonda, with laughter and pleasance.

[Footnote 225: Lit. of those who _was_ held of the greatest casuists
(_di quelli che de' maggior cassesi era tenuto_). This is another very
obscure passage. The meaning of the word _cassesi_ is unknown and we
can only guess it to be a dialectic (probably Venetian) corruption of
the word _casisti_ (casuists). The Giunta edition separates the word
thus, _casse si_, making _si_ a mere corroborative prefix to _era_,
but I do not see how the alteration helps us, the word _casse_
(chests, boxes) being apparently meaningless in this connection.]

There was, then, noble ladies, in Imola, a man of wicked and corrupt
life, who was called Berto della Massa and whose lewd fashions, being
well known of the Imolese, had brought him into such ill savour with
them that there was none in the town who would credit him, even when
he said sooth; wherefore, seeing that his shifts might no longer stand
him in stead there, he removed in desperation to Venice, the
receptacle of every kind of trash, thinking to find there new means of
carrying on his wicked practices. There, as if conscience-stricken for
the evil deeds done by him in the past, feigning himself overcome with
the utmost humility and waxing devouter than any man alive, he went
and turned Minor Friar and styled himself Fra Alberta da Imola; in
which habit he proceeded to lead, to all appearance, a very austere
life, greatly commending abstinence and mortification and never eating
flesh nor drinking wine, whenas he had not thereof that which was to
his liking. In short, scarce was any ware of him when from a thief, a
pimp, a forger, a manslayer, he suddenly became a great preacher,
without having for all that forsworn the vices aforesaid, whenas he
might secretly put them in practice. Moreover, becoming a priest, he
would still, whenas he celebrated mass at the altar, an he were seen
of many, beweep our Saviour's passion, as one whom tears cost little,
whenas he willed it. Brief, what with his preachings and his tears, he
contrived on such wise to inveigle the Venetians that he was trustee
and depository of well nigh every will made in the town and guardian
of folk's monies, besides being confessor and counsellor of the most
part of the men and women of the place; and doing thus, from wolf he
was become shepherd and the fame of his sanctity was far greater in
those parts than ever was that of St. Francis at Assisi.

It chanced one day that a vain simple young lady, by name Madam
Lisetta da Ca[226] Quirino, wife of a great merchant who was gone with
the galleys into Flanders, came with other ladies to confess to this
same holy friar, at whose feet kneeling and having, like a true
daughter of Venice as she was (where the women are all feather-brained),
told him part of her affairs, she was asked of him if she had a lover.
Whereto she answered, with an offended air, 'Good lack, sir friar,
have you no eyes in your head? Seem my charms to you such as those of
yonder others? I might have lovers and to spare, an I would; but my
beauties are not for this one nor that. How many women do you see
whose charms are such as mine, who would be fair in Paradise?' Brief,
she said so many things of this beauty of hers that it was a weariness
to hear. Fra Alberto incontinent perceived that she savoured of folly
and himseeming she was a fit soil for his tools, he fell suddenly and
beyond measure in love with her; but, reserving blandishments for a
more convenient season, he proceeded, for the nonce, so he might show
himself a holy man, to rebuke her and tell her that this was vainglory
and so forth. The lady told him he was an ass and knew not what one
beauty was more than another, whereupon he, unwilling to vex her
overmuch, took her confession and let her go away with the others.

[Footnote 226: Venetian contraction of _Casa_, house. Da Ca Quirino,
of the Quirino house or family.]

He let some days pass, then, taking with him a trusty companion of
his, he repaired to Madam Lisetta's house and withdrawing with her
into a room apart, where none might see him, he fell on his knees
before her and said, 'Madam, I pray you for God's sake pardon me that
which I said to you last Sunday, whenas you bespoke me of your beauty,
for that the following night I was so cruelly chastised there that I
have not since been able to rise from my bed till to-day.' Quoth
Mistress Featherbrain, 'And who chastised you thus?' 'I will tell
you,' replied the monk. 'Being that night at my orisons, as I still
use to be, I saw of a sudden a great light in my cell and ere I could
turn me to see what it might be, I beheld over against me a very fair
youth with a stout cudgel in his hand, who took me by the gown and
dragging me to my feet, gave me such a drubbing that he broke every
bone in my body. I asked him why he used me thus and he answered, "For
that thou presumedst to-day, to disparage the celestial charms of
Madam Lisetta, whom I love over all things, save only God." "Who,
then, are you?" asked I; and he replied that he was the angel Gabriel.
"O my lord," said I, "I pray you pardon me"; and he, "So be it; I
pardon thee on condition that thou go to her, as first thou mayst, and
get her pardon; but if she pardons thee not, I will return to thee and
give thee such a bout of it that I will make thee a woeful man for
all the time thou shalt live here below." That which he said to me
after I dare not tell you, except you first pardon me.'

My Lady Addlepate, who was somewhat scant of wit, was overjoyed to
hear this, taking it all for gospel, and said, after a little, 'I told
you, Fra Alberto, that my charms were celestial, but, so God be mine
aid, it irketh me for you and I will pardon you forthright, so you may
come to no more harm, provided you tell me truly that which the angel
said to you after.' 'Madam,' replied Fra Alberto, 'since you pardon
me, I will gladly tell it you; but I must warn you of one thing, to
wit, that whatever I tell you, you must have a care not to repeat it
to any one alive, an you would not mar your affairs, for that you are
the luckiest lady in the world. The angel Gabriel bade me tell you
that you pleased him so much that he had many a time come to pass the
night with you, but that he feared to affright you. Now he sendeth to
tell you by me that he hath a mind to come to you one night and abide
awhile with you and (for that he is an angel and that, if he came in
angel-form, you might not avail to touch him,) he purposeth, for your
delectation, to come in guise of a man, wherefore he biddeth you send
to tell him when you would have him come and in whose form, and he
will come hither; whereof you may hold yourself blest over any other
lady alive.'

My Lady Conceit answered that it liked her well that the angel Gabriel
loved her, seeing she loved him well nor ever failed to light a candle
of a groat before him, whereas she saw him depictured, and that what
time soever he chose to come to her, he should be dearly welcome and
would find her all alone in her chamber, but on this condition, that
he should not leave her for the Virgin Mary, whose great well-wisher
it was said he was, as indeed appeareth, inasmuch as in every place
where she saw him [limned], he was on his knees before her. Moreover,
she said it must rest with him to come in whatsoever form he pleased,
so but she was not affrighted.

Then said Fra Alberto, 'Madam, you speak sagely and I will without
fail take order with him of that which you tell me. But you may do me
a great favour, which will cost you nothing; it is this, that you will
him come with this my body. And I will tell you in what you will do me
a favour; you must know that he will take my soul forth of my body and
put it in Paradise, whilst he himself will enter into me; and what
while he abideth with you, so long will my soul abide in Paradise.'
'With all my heart,' answered Dame Littlewit. 'I will well that you
have this consolation, in requital of the buffets he gave you on my
account.' Then said Fra Alberto, 'Look that he find the door of your
house open to-night, so he may come in thereat, for that, coming in
human form, as he will, he might not enter save by the door.' The lady
replied that it should be done, whereupon the monk took his leave and
she abode in such a transport of exultation that her breech touched
not her shift and herseemed a thousand years till the angel Gabriel
should come to her.

Meanwhile, Fra Alberto, bethinking him that it behoved him play the
cavalier, not the angel, that night proceeded to fortify himself with
confections and other good things, so he might not lightly be
unhorsed; then, getting leave, as soon as it was night, he repaired
with one of his comrades to the house of a woman, a friend of his,
whence he was used whiles to take his start what time he went to
course the fillies; and thence, whenas it seemed to him time, having
disguised himself, he betook him to the lady's house. There he tricked
himself out as an angel with the trappings he had brought with him and
going up, entered the chamber of the lady, who, seeing this creature
all in white, fell on her knees before him. The angel blessed her and
raising her to her feet, signed to her to go to bed, which she,
studious to obey, promptly did, and the angel after lay down with his
devotee. Now Fra Alberto was a personable man of his body and a lusty
and excellent well set up on his legs; wherefore, finding himself in
bed with Madam Lisetta, who was young and dainty, he showed himself
another guess bedfellow than her husband and many a time that night
took flight without wings, whereof she avowed herself exceeding
content; and eke he told her many things of the glories of heaven.
Then, the day drawing near, after taking order for his return, he made
off with his trappings and returned to his comrade, whom the good
woman of the house had meanwhile borne amicable company, lest he
should get a fright, lying alone.

As for the lady, no sooner had she dined than, taking her
waiting-woman with her, she betook herself to Fra Alberto and gave him
news of the angel Gabriel, telling him that which she had heard from
him of the glories of life eternal and how he was made and adding to
boot, marvellous stories of her own invention. 'Madam,' said he, 'I
know not how you fared with him; I only know that yesternight, whenas
he came to me and I did your message to him, he suddenly transported
my soul amongst such a multitude of roses and other flowers that never
was the like thereof seen here below, and I abode in one of the most
delightsome places that was aye until the morning; but what became of
my body meanwhile I know not.' 'Do I not tell you?' answered the lady.
'Your body lay all night in mine arms with the angel Gabriel. If you
believe me not, look under your left pap, whereas I gave the angel
such a kiss that the marks of it will stay by you for some days to
come.' Quoth the friar, 'Say you so? Then will I do to-day a thing I
have not done this great while; I will strip myself, to see if you
tell truth.' Then, after much prating, the lady returned home and Fra
Alberto paid her many visits in angel-form, without suffering any
hindrance.

However, it chanced one day that Madam Lisetta, being in dispute with
a gossip of hers upon the question of female charms, to set her own
above all others, said, like a woman who had little wit in her noddle,
'An you but knew whom my beauty pleaseth, in truth you would hold your
peace of other women.' The other, longing to hear, said, as one who
knew her well, 'Madam, maybe you say sooth; but knowing not who this
may be, one cannot turn about so lightly.' Thereupon quoth Lisetta,
who was eath enough to draw, 'Gossip, it must go no farther; but he I
mean is the angel Gabriel, who loveth me more than himself, as the
fairest lady (for that which he telleth me) who is in the world or the
Maremma.'[227] The other had a mind to laugh, but contained herself,
so she might make Lisetta speak farther, and said, 'Faith, madam, an
the angel Gabriel be your lover and tell you this, needs must it be
so; but methought not the angels did these things.' 'Gossip,' answered
the lady, 'you are mistaken; zounds, he doth what you wot of better
than my husband and telleth me they do it also up yonder; but, for
that I seem to him fairer than any she in heaven, he hath fallen in
love with me and cometh full oft to lie with me; seestow now?'[228]

[Footnote 227: _cf._ Artemus Ward's "Natives of the Universe and other
parts."]

[Footnote 228: _Mo vedi vu_, Venetian for _Or vedi tu_, now dost thou
see? I have rendered it by the equivalent old English form.]

The gossip, to whom it seemed a thousand years till she should be
whereas she might repeat these things, took her leave of Madam Lisetta
and foregathering at an entertainment with a great company of ladies,
orderly recounted to them the whole story. They told it again to their
husbands and other ladies, and these to yet others, and so in less
than two days Venice was all full of it. Among others to whose ears
the thing came were Lisetta's brothers-in-law, who, without saying
aught to her, bethought themselves to find the angel in question and
see if he knew how to fly, and to this end they lay several nights in
wait for him. As chance would have it, some inkling of the matter[229]
came to the ears of Fra Alberto, who accordingly repaired one night to
the lady's house, to reprove her, but hardly had he put off his
clothes ere her brothers-in-law, who had seen him come, were at the
door of her chamber to open it.

[Footnote 229: _i.e._ not of the trap laid for him by the lady's
brothers-in-law, but of her indiscretion in discovering the secret.]

Fra Alberto, hearing this and guessing what was to do, started up and
having no other resource, opened a window, which gave upon the Grand
Canal, and cast himself thence into the water. The canal was deep
there and he could swim well, so that he did himself no hurt, but made
his way to the opposite bank and hastily entering a house that stood
open there, besought a poor man, whom he found within, to save his
life for the love of God, telling him a tale of his own fashion, to
explain how he came there at that hour and naked. The good man was
moved to pity and it behoving him to go do his occasions, he put him
in his own bed and bade him abide there against his return; then,
locking him in, he went about his affairs. Meanwhile, the lady's
brothers-in-law entered her chamber and found that the angel Gabriel
had flown, leaving his wings there; whereupon, seeing themselves
baffled, they gave her all manner hard words and ultimately made off
to their own house with the angel's trappings, leaving her
disconsolate.

Broad day come, the good man with whom Fra Alberto had taken refuge,
being on the Rialto, heard how the angel Gabriel had gone that night
to lie with Madam Lisetta and being surprised by her kinsmen, had cast
himself for fear into the canal, nor was it known what was come of
him, and concluded forthright that this was he whom he had at home.
Accordingly, he returned thither and recognizing the monk, found means
after much parley, to make him fetch him fifty ducats, an he would not
have him give him up to the lady's kinsmen. Having gotten the money
and Fra Alberto offering to depart thence, the good man said to him,
'There is no way of escape for you, an it be not one that I will tell
you. We hold to-day a festival, wherein one bringeth a man clad
bear-fashion and another one accoutred as a wild man of the woods and
what not else, some one thing and some another, and there is a hunt
held in St. Mark's Place, which finished, the festival is at an end
and after each goeth whither it pleaseth him with him whom he hath
brought. An you will have me lead you thither, after one or other of
these fashions, I can after carry you whither you please, ere it be
spied out that you are here; else I know not how you are to get away,
without being recognized, for the lady's kinsmen, concluding that you
must be somewhere hereabout, have set a watch for you on all sides.'

Hard as it seemed to Fra Alberto to go on such wise, nevertheless, of
the fear he had of the lady's kinsmen, he resigned himself thereto and
told his host whither he would be carried, leaving the manner to him.
Accordingly, the other, having smeared him all over with honey and
covered him with down, clapped a chain about his neck and a mask on
his face; then giving him a great staff in on hand and in the other
two great dogs which he had fetched from the shambles he despatched
one to the Rialto to make public proclamation that whoso would see the
angel Gabriel should repair to St. Mark's Place; and this was Venetian
loyalty! This done, after a while, he brought him forth and setting
him before himself, went holding him by the chain behind, to the no
small clamour of the folk, who said all, 'What be this? What be
this?'[230] till he came to the place, where, what with those who had
followed after them and those who, hearing the proclamation, were come
thither from the Rialto, were folk without end. There he tied his wild
man to a column in a raised and high place, making a show of awaiting
the hunt, whilst the flies and gads gave the monk exceeding annoy, for
that he was besmeared with honey. But, when he saw the place well
filled, making as he would unchain his wild man, he pulled off Fra
Alberto's mask and said, 'Gentlemen, since the bear cometh not and
there is no hunt toward, I purpose, so you may not be come in vain,
that you shall see the angel Gabriel, who cometh down from heaven to
earth anights, to comfort the Venetian ladies.'

[Footnote 230: _Che xe quel?_ Venetian for _che c'e quella cosa_, What
is this thing?]

No sooner was the mask off than Fra Alberto was incontinent recognized
of all, who raised a general outcry against him, giving him the
scurviest words and the soundest rating was ever given a canting
knave; moreover, they cast in his face, one this kind of filth and
another that, and so they baited him a great while, till the news came
by chance to his brethren, whereupon half a dozen of them sallied
forth and coming thither, unchained him and threw a gown over him;
then, with a general hue and cry behind them, they carried him off to
the convent, where it is believed he died in prison, after a wretched
life. Thus then did this fellow, held good and doing ill, without it
being believed, dare to feign himself the angel Gabriel, and after
being turned into a wild man of the woods and put to shame, as he
deserved, bewailed, when too late, the sins he had committed. God
grant it happen thus to all other knaves of his fashion!"



THE THIRD STORY

[Day the Fourth]

     THREE YOUNG MEN LOVE THREE SISTERS AND FLEE WITH THEM INTO
     CRETE, WHERE THE ELDEST SISTER FOR JEALOUSY SLAYETH HER
     LOVER. THE SECOND, YIELDING HERSELF TO THE DUKE OF CRETE,
     SAVETH HER SISTER FROM DEATH, WHEREUPON HER OWN LOVER
     SLAYETH HER AND FLEETH WITH THE ELDEST SISTER. MEANWHILE THE
     THIRD LOVER AND THE YOUNGEST SISTER ARE ACCUSED OF THE NEW
     MURDER AND BEING TAKEN, CONFESS IT; THEN, FOR FEAR OF DEATH,
     THEY CORRUPT THEIR KEEPERS WITH MONEY AND FLEE TO RHODES,
     WHERE THEY DIE IN POVERTY


Filostrato, having heard the end of Pampinea's story, bethought
himself awhile and presently, turning to her, said, "There was some
little that was good and that pleased me in the ending of your story;
but there was overmuch before that which gave occasion for laughter
and which I would not have had there." Then, turning to Lauretta,
"Lady," said he, "ensue you with a better, and it may be." Quoth she,
laughing, "You are too cruel towards lovers, an you desire of them
only an ill end;[231] but, to obey you, I will tell a story of three
who all ended equally ill, having had scant enjoyment of their loves."
So saying, she began thus: "Young ladies, as you should manifestly
know, every vice may turn to the grievous hurt of whoso practiseth it,
and often of other folk also; but of all others that which with the
slackest rein carrieth us away to our peril, meseemeth is anger, which
is none otherwhat than a sudden and unconsidered emotion, aroused by
an affront suffered, and which, banishing all reason and overclouding
the eyes of the understanding with darkness, kindleth the soul to the
hottest fury. And although this often cometh to pass in men and more
in one than in another, yet hath it been seen aforetime to work
greater mischiefs in women, for that it is lightlier enkindled in
these latter and burneth in them with a fiercer flame and urgeth them
with less restraint. Nor is this to be marvelled at, for that, an we
choose to consider, we may see that fire, of its nature, catcheth
quicklier to light and delicate things than to those which are denser
and more ponderous; and we women, indeed,--let men not take it
ill,--are more delicately fashioned than they and far more mobile.
Wherefore, seeing that we are naturally inclined thereunto[232] and
considering after how our mansuetude and our loving kindness are of
repose and pleasance to the men with whom we have to do and how big
with harm and peril are anger and fury, I purpose, to the intent that
we may with a more steadfast, mind keep ourselves from these latter,
to show you by my story how the loves of three young men and as many
ladies came, as I said before, to an ill end, becoming through the ire
of one of the latter, from happy most unhappy.

[Footnote 231: _i.e._ _semble_ "an you would wish them nought but an
ill end."]

[Footnote 232: _i.e._ to anger.]

Marseilles is, as you know, a very ancient and noble city, situate in
Provence on the sea-shore, and was once more abounding in rich and
great merchants than it is nowadays. Among the latter was one called
Narnald Cluada, a man of mean extraction, but of renowned good faith
and a loyal merchant, rich beyond measure in lands and monies, who had
by a wife of his several children, whereof the three eldest were
daughters. Two of these latter, born at a birth, were fifteen and the
third fourteen years old, nor was aught awaited by their kinsfolk to
marry them but the return of Narnald, who was gone into Spain with his
merchandise. The names of the two elder were the one Ninetta and the
other Maddalena and the third called Bertella. Of Ninetta a young man
of gentle birth, though poor, called Restagnone, was enamoured as much
as man might be, and she of him, and they had contrived to do on such
wise that, without any knowing it, they had enjoyment of their loves.

They had already a pretty while enjoyed this satisfaction when it
chanced that two young companions, named the one Folco and the other
Ughetto, whose fathers were dead, leaving them very rich, fell in
love, the one with Maddalena and the other with Bertella. Restagnone,
noting this (it having been shown him of Ninetta), bethought himself
that he might make shift to supply his own lack by means of the
newcomers' love. Accordingly, he clapped up an acquaintance with them,
so that now one, now the other of them accompanied him to visit their
mistresses and his; and when himseemed he was grown privy enough with
them and much their friend, he called them one day into his house and
said to them, 'Dearest youths, our commerce should have certified you
how great is the love I bear you and that I would do for you that
which I would do for myself; and for that I love you greatly, I
purpose to discover to you that which hath occurred to my mind, and
you and I together will after take such counsel thereof as shall seem
to you best. You, an your words lie not and for that to boot which
meseemeth I have apprehended by your deeds, both daily and nightly,
burn with an exceeding passion for the two young ladies beloved of
you, as do I for the third their sister; and to this ardour, an you
will consent thereunto,[233] my heart giveth me to find a very sweet
and pleasing remedy, the which is as follows. You are both very rich,
which I am not; now, if you will agree to bring your riches into a
common stock, making me a third sharer with you therein, and determine
in which part of the world we shall go lead a merry life with our
mistresses, my heart warranteth me I can without fail so do that the
three sisters, with a great part of their father's good, will go with,
us whithersoever we shall please, and there, each with his wench, like
three brothers, we may live the happiest lives of any men in the
world. It resteth with you now to determine whether you will go about
to solace yourself in this or leave it be.'

[Footnote 233: _i.e._ to the proposal I have to make.]

The two young men, who were beyond measure inflamed, hearing that they
were to have their lasses, were not long in making up their minds, but
answered that, so this[234] should ensue, they were ready to do as he
said. Restagnone, having gotten this answer from the young men, found
means a few days after to foregather with Ninetta, to whom he could
not come without great unease, and after he had abidden with her
awhile, he told her what he had proposed to the others and with many
arguments studied to commend the emprise to her. This was little
uneath to him, seeing that she was yet more desirous than himself to
be with him without suspect; wherefore she answered him frankly that
it liked her well and that her sisters would do whatever she wished,
especially in this, and bade him make ready everything needful
therefor as quickliest he might. Restagnone accordingly returned to
the two young men, who still importuned him amain to do that whereof
he had bespoken them, and told them that, so far as concerned their
mistresses, the matter was settled. Then, having determined among
themselves to go to Crete, they sold certain lands they had, under
colour of meaning to go a-trading with the price, and having made
money of all their other goods, bought a light brigantine and secretly
equipped it to the utmost advantage.

[Footnote 234: _i.e._ the possession of their mistresses.]

Meanwhile, Ninetta, who well enough knew her sisters' mind, with soft
words inflamed them with such a liking for the venture that themseemed
they might not live to see the thing accomplished. Accordingly, the
night come when they were to go aboard the brigantine, the three
sisters opened a great coffer of their father's and taking thence a
vast quantity of money and jewels, stole out of the house, according
to the given order. They found their gallants awaiting them and going
straightway all aboard the brigantine, they thrust the oars into the
water and put out to sea nor rested till they came, on the following
evening, to Genoa, where the new lovers for the first time took ease
and joyance of their loves. There having refreshed themselves with
that whereof they had need, they set out again and sailing from port
to port, came, ere it was the eighth day, without any hindrance, to
Crete, where they bought great and goodly estates near Candia and made
them very handsome and delightsome dwelling-houses thereon. Here they
fell to living like lords and passed their days in banquets and
joyance and merrymaking, the happiest men in the world, they and their
mistresses, with great plenty of servants and hounds and hawks and
horses.

Abiding on this wise, it befell (even as we see it happen all day long
that, how much soever things may please, they grow irksome, an one
have overgreat plenty thereof) that Restagnone, who had much loved
Ninetta, being now able to have her at his every pleasure, without let
or hindrance, began to weary of her, and consequently his love for her
began to wane. Having seen at entertainment a damsel of the country, a
fair and noble young lady, who pleased him exceedingly, he fell to
courting her with all his might, giving marvellous entertainments in
her honor and plying her with all manner gallantries; which Ninetta
coming to know, she fell into such a jealousy that he could not go a
step but she heard of it and after harassed both him and herself with
words and reproaches on account thereof. But, like as overabundance of
aught begetteth weariness, even so doth the denial of a thing desired
redouble the appetite; accordingly, Ninetta's reproaches did but fan
the flame of Restagnone's new love and in process of time it came to
pass that, whether he had the favours of the lady he loved or not,
Ninetta held it for certain, whoever it was reported it to her;
wherefore she fell into such a passion of grief and thence passed into
such a fit of rage and despite that the love which she bore Restagnone
was changed to bitter hatred, and blinded by her wrath, she bethought
herself to avenge, by his death, the affront which herseemed she had
received.

Accordingly, betaking herself to an old Greek woman, a past mistress
in the art of compounding poisons, she induced her with gifts and
promises to make her a death-dealing water, which she, without
considering farther, gave Restagnone one evening to drink he being
heated and misdoubting him not thereof; and such was the potency of
the poison that, ere morning came, it had slain him. Folco and Ughetto
and their mistresses, hearing of his death and knowing not of what
poison he had died,[235] bewept him bitterly, together with Ninetta,
and caused bury him honourably. But not many days after it chanced
that the old woman, who had compounded the poisoned water for Ninetta,
was taken for some other misdeed and being put to the torture,
confessed to this amongst her other crimes, fully declaring that which
had betided by reason thereof; whereupon the Duke of Crete, without
saying aught of the matter, beset Folco's palace by surprise one night
and without any noise or gainsayal, carried off Ninetta prisoner, from
whom, without putting her to the torture, he readily got what he would
know of the death of Restagnone.

[Footnote 235: Sic (_di che veleno fosse morto_), but this is probably
a copyist's error for _che di veleno fosse morto_, _i.e._ that he had
died of poison.]

Folco and Ughetto (and from them their ladies) had privy notice from
the duke why Ninetta had been taken, the which was exceeding grievous
to them and they used their every endeavour to save her from the fire,
whereto they doubted not she would be condemned, as indeed she richly
deserved; but all seemed vain, for that the duke abode firm in willing
to do justice upon her. However, Maddalena, who was a beautiful young
woman and had long been courted by the duke, but had never yet
consented to do aught that might pleasure him, thinking that, by
complying with his wishes, she might avail to save her sister from the
fire, signified to him by a trusty messenger that she was at his
commandment in everything, provided two things should ensue thereof,
to wit, that she should have her sister again safe and sound and that
the thing should be secret. Her message pleased the duke, and after
long debate with himself if he should do as she proposed, he
ultimately agreed thereto and said that he was ready. Accordingly, one
night, having, with the lady's consent, caused detain Folco and
Ughetto, as he would fain examine them of the matter, he went secretly
to couch with Maddalena and having first made a show of putting
Ninetta in a sack and of purposing to let sink her that night in the
sea, he carried her with him to her sister, to whom on the morrow he
delivered her at parting, in payment of the night he had passed with
her, praying her that this,[236] which had been the first of their
loves, might not be the last and charging her send the guilty lady
away, lest blame betide himself and it behove him anew proceed against
her with rigour.

[Footnote 236: _i.e._ that night.]

Next morning, Folco and Ughetto, having heard that Ninetta had been
sacked overnight and believing it, were released and returned home to
comfort their mistresses for the death of their sister. However, for
all Maddalena could do to hide her, Folco soon became aware of
Ninetta's presence in the palace, whereat he marvelled exceedingly and
suddenly waxing suspicious,--for that he had heard of the duke's
passion for Maddalena,--asked the latter how her sister came to be
there. Maddalena began a long story, which she had devised to account
to him therefor, but was little believed of her lover, who was shrewd
and constrained her to confess the truth, which, after long parley,
she told him. Folco, overcome with chagrin and inflamed with rage,
pulled out a sword and slew her, whilst she in vain besought mercy;
then, fearing the wrath and justice of the duke, he left her dead in
the chamber and repairing whereas Ninetta was, said to her, with a
feigned air of cheerfulness, 'Quick, let us begone whither it hath
been appointed of thy sister that I shall carry thee, so thou mayst
not fall again into the hands of the duke.' Ninetta, believing this
and eager, in her fearfulness, to begone, set out with Folco, it being
now night, without seeking to take leave of her sister; whereupon he
and she, with such monies (which were but few) as he could lay hands
on, betook themselves to the sea-shore and embarked on board a vessel;
nor was it ever known whither they went.

On the morrow, Maddalena being found murdered, there were some who, of
the envy and hatred they bore to Ughetto, forthright gave notice
thereof to the duke, whereupon the latter, who loved Maddalena
exceedingly, ran furiously to the house and seizing Ughetto and his
lady, who as yet knew nothing of the matter,--to wit, of the departure
of Folco and Ninetta,--constrained them to confess themselves guilty,
together with Folco, of his mistress's death. They, apprehending with
reason death in consequence of this confession, with great pains
corrupted those who had them in keeping, giving them a certain sum of
money, which they kept hidden in their house against urgent
occasions, and embarking with their guards, without having leisure to
take any of their goods, fled by night to Rhodes, where they lived no
great while after in poverty and distress. To such a pass, then, did
Restagnone's mad love and Ninetta's rage bring themselves and others."



THE FOURTH STORY

[Day the Fourth]

     GERBINO, AGAINST THE PLIGHTED FAITH OF HIS GRANDFATHER, KING
     GUGLIELMO OF SICILY, ATTACKETH A SHIP OF THE KING OF TUNIS,
     TO CARRY OFF A DAUGHTER OF HIS, WHO BEING PUT TO DEATH OF
     THOSE ON BOARD, HE SLAYETH THESE LATTER AND IS AFTER HIMSELF
     BEHEADED


Lauretta, having made an end of her story, was silent, whilst the
company bewailed the illhap of the lovers, some blaming Ninetta's
anger and one saying one thing and another another, till presently the
king, raising his head, as if aroused from deep thought, signed to
Elisa to follow on; whereupon she began modestly, "Charming ladies,
there are many who believe that Love launcheth his shafts only when
enkindled of the eyes and make mock of those who hold that one may
fall in love by hearsay; but that these are mistaken will very
manifestly appear in a story that I purpose to relate, wherein you
will see that report not only wrought this, without the lovers having
ever set eyes on each other, but it will be made manifest to you that
it brought both the one and the other to a miserable death.

Guglielmo, the Second, King of Sicily, had (as the Sicilians pretend)
two children, a son called Ruggieri and a daughter called Costanza.
The former, dying before his father, left a son named Gerbino, who was
diligently reared by his grandfather and became a very goodly youth
and a renowned for prowess and courtesy. Nor did his fame abide
confined within the limits of Sicily, but, resounding in various parts
of the world, was nowhere more glorious than in Barbary, which in
those days was tributary to the King of Sicily. Amongst the rest to
whose ears came the magnificent fame of Gerbino's valour and courtesy
was a daughter of the King of Tunis, who, according to the report of
all who had seen her, was one of the fairest creatures ever fashioned
by nature and the best bred and of a noble and great soul. She,
delighting to hear tell of men of valour, with such goodwill received
the tales recounted by one and another of the deeds valiantly done of
Gerbino and they so pleased her that, picturing to herself the
prince's fashion, she became ardently enamoured of him and discoursed
more willingly of him than of any other and hearkened to whoso spoke
of him.

On the other hand, the great renown of her beauty and worth had won to
Sicily, as elsewhither, and not without great delight nor in vain had
it reached the ears of Gerbino; nay, it had inflamed him with love of
her, no less than that which she herself had conceived for him.
Wherefore, desiring beyond measure to see her, against he should find
a colourable occasion of having his grandfather's leave to go to
Tunis, he charged his every friend who went thither to make known to
her, as best he might, his secret and great love and bring him news of
her. This was very dexterously done by one of them, who, under
pretence of carrying her women's trinkets to view, as do merchants,
throughly discovered Gerbino's passion to her and avouched the prince
and all that was his to be at her commandment. The princess received
the messenger and the message with a glad flavour and answering that
she burnt with like love for the prince, sent him one of her most
precious jewels in token thereof. This Gerbino received with the
utmost joy wherewith one can receive whatsoever precious thing and
wrote to her once and again by the same messenger, sending her the
most costly gifts and holding certain treaties[237] with her, whereby
they should have seen and touched one another, had fortune but allowed
it.

[Footnote 237: Or, in modern parlance, "laying certain plans."]

But, things going thus and somewhat farther than was expedient, the
young lady on the one hand and Gerbino on the other burning with
desire, it befell that the King of Tunis gave her in marriage to the
King of Granada, whereat she was beyond measure chagrined, bethinking
herself that not only should she be separated from her lover by long
distance, but was like to be altogether parted from him; and had she
seen a means thereto, she would gladly, so this might not betide, have
fled from her father and betaken herself to Gerbino. Gerbino, in like
manner, hearing of this marriage, was beyond measure sorrowful
therefor and often bethought himself to take her by force, if it
should chance that she went to her husband by sea. The King of Tunis,
getting some inkling of Gerbino's love and purpose and fearing his
valour and prowess, sent to King Guglielmo, whenas the time came for
despatching her to Granada, advising him of that which he was minded
to do and that, having assurance from him that he should not be
hindered therein by Gerbino or others, he purposed to do it. The King
of Sicily, who was an old man and had heard nothing of Gerbino's
passion and consequently suspected not that it was for this that such
an assurance was demanded, freely granted it and in token thereof,
sent the King of Tunis a glove of his. The latter, having gotten the
desired assurance, caused equip a very great and goodly ship in the
port of Carthage and furnish it with what was needful for those who
were to sail therein and having fitted and adorned it for the sending
of his daughter into Granada, awaited nought but weather.

The young lady, who saw and knew all this, despatched one of her
servants secretly to Palermo, bidding him salute the gallant Gerbino
on her part and tell him that she was to sail in a few days for
Granada, wherefore it would now appear if he were as valiant a man as
was said and if he loved her as much as he had sundry times declared
to her. Her messenger did his errand excellent well and returned to
Tunis, whilst Gerbino, hearing this and knowing that his grandfather
had given the King of Tunis assurance, knew not what to do. However,
urged by love and that he might not appear a craven, he betook himself
to Messina, where he hastily armed two light galleys and manning them
with men of approved valour, set sail with them for the coast of
Sardinia, looking for the lady's ship to pass there. Nor was he far
out in his reckoning, for he had been there but a few days when the
ship hove in sight with a light wind not far from the place where he
lay expecting it.

Gerbino, seeing this, said to his companions, 'Gentlemen, an you be
the men of mettle I take you for, methinketh there is none of you but
hath either felt or feeleth love, without which, as I take it, no
mortal can have aught of valour or worth in himself; and if you have
been or are enamoured, it will be an easy thing to you to understand
my desire. I love and love hath moved me to give you this present
pains; and she whom I love is in the ship which you see becalmed
yonder and which, beside that thing which I most desire, is full of
very great riches. These latter, an ye be men of valour, we may with
little difficulty acquire, fighting manfully; of which victory I
desire nothing to my share save one sole lady, for whose love I have
taken up arms; everything else shall freely be yours. Come, then, and
let us right boldly assail the ship; God is favourable to our emprise
and holdeth it here fast, without vouchsafing it a breeze.'

The gallant Gerbino had no need of many words, for that the Messinese,
who were with him being eager for plunder, were already disposed to do
that unto which he exhorted them. Wherefore, making a great outcry, at
the end of his speech, that it should be so, they sounded the trumpets
and catching up their arms, thrust the oars into the water and made
for the Tunis ship. They who were aboard this latter, seeing the
galleys coming afar off and being unable to flee,[238] made ready for
defence. The gallant Gerbino accosting the ship, let command that the
masters thereof should be sent on board the galleys, an they had no
mind to fight; but the Saracens, having certified themselves who they
were and what they sought, declared themselves attacked of them
against the faith plighted them by King Guglielmo; in token whereof
they showed the latter's glove, and altogether refused to surrender
themselves, save for stress of battle, or to give them aught that was
in the ship.

[Footnote 238: _i.e._ for lack of wind.]

Gerbino, who saw the lady upon the poop, far fairer than he had
pictured her to himself, and was more inflamed than ever, replied to
the showing of the glove that there were no falcons there at that
present and consequently there needed no gloves; wherefore, an they
chose not to give up the lady, they must prepare to receive battle.
Accordingly, without further parley, they fell to casting shafts and
stones at one another, and on this wise they fought a great while,
with loss on either side. At last, Gerbino, seeing that he did little
to the purpose, took a little vessel he had brought with him out of
Sardinia and setting fire therein, thrust it with both the galleys
aboard the ship. The Saracens, seeing this and knowing that they must
of necessity surrender or die, fetched the king's daughter, who wept
below, on deck and brought her to the ship's prow; then, calling
Gerbino, they butchered her before his eyes, what while she called for
mercy and succour, and cast her into the sea, saying, 'Take her; we
give her to thee, such as we may and such as thine unfaith hath
merited.'

Gerbino, seeing their barbarous deed, caused lay himself alongside the
ship and recking not of shaft or stone, boarded it, as if courting
death, in spite of those who were therein; then,--even as a hungry
lion, coming among a herd of oxen, slaughtereth now this, now that,
and with teeth and claws sateth rather his fury than his
hunger,--sword in hand, hewing now at one, now at another, he cruelly
slew many of the Saracens; after which, the fire now waxing in the
enkindled ship, he caused the sailors fetch thereout what they might,
in payment of their pains, and descended thence, having gotten but a
sorry victory over his adversaries. Then, letting take up the fair
lady's body from the sea, long and with many tears he bewept it and
steering for Sicily, buried it honourably in Ustica, a little island
over against Trapani; after which he returned home, the woefullest man
alive.

The King of Tunis, hearing the heavy news, sent his ambassadors, clad
all in black, to King Guglielmo, complaining of the ill observance of
the faith which he had plighted him. They recounted to him how the
thing had passed, whereat King Guglielmo was sore incensed and seeing
no way to deny them the justice they sought, caused take Gerbino; then
himself,--albeit there was none of his barons but strove with prayers
to move him from his purpose,--condemned him to death and let strike
off his head in his presence, choosing rather to abide without
posterity than to be held a faithless king. Thus, then, as I have told
you, did these two lovers within a few days[239] die miserably a
violent death, without having tasted any fruit of their loves."

[Footnote 239: _i.e._ of each other.]



THE FIFTH STORY

[Day the Fourth]

     LISABETTA'S[240] BROTHERS SLAY HER LOVER, WHO APPEARETH TO
     HER IN A DREAM AND SHOWETH HER WHERE HE IS BURIED, WHEREUPON
     SHE PRIVILY DISINTERRETH HIS HEAD AND SETTETH IT IN A POT OF
     BASIL. THEREOVER MAKING MOAN A GREAT WHILE EVERY DAY, HER
     BROTHERS TAKE IT FROM HER AND SHE FOR GRIEF DIETH A LITTLE
     THEREAFTERWARD

[Footnote 240: This is the proper name of the heroine of the story
immortalized by Keats as "Isabella or the Pot of Basil," and is one of
the many forms of the and name _Elisabetta_ (Elizabeth), _Isabetta_
and _Isabella_ being others. Some texts of the Decameron call the
heroine _Isabetta_, but in the heading only, all with which I am
acquainted agreeing in the use of the form _Lisabetta_ in the body of
the story.]


Elisa's tale being ended and somedele commended of the king, Filomena
was bidden to discourse, who, full of compassion for the wretched
Gerbino and his mistress, after a piteous sigh, began thus: "My story,
gracious ladies, will not treat of folk of so high condition as were
those of whom Elisa hath told, yet peradventure it will be no less
pitiful; and what brought me in mind of it was the mention, a little
before, of Messina, where the case befell.

There were then in Messina three young brothers, merchants and left
very rich by their father, who was a man of San Gimignano, and they
had an only sister, Lisabetta by name, a right fair and well-mannered
maiden, whom, whatever might have been the reason thereof, they had
not yet married. Now these brothers had in one of their warehouses a
youth of Pisa, called Lorenzo, who did and ordered all their affairs
and was very comely and agreeable of person; wherefore, Lisabetta
looking sundry times upon him, it befell that he began strangely to
please her; of which Lorenzo taking note at one time and another, he
in like manner, leaving his other loves, began to turn his thoughts to
her; and so went the affair, that, each being alike pleasing to the
other, it was no great while before, taking assurance, they did that
which each of them most desired.

Continuing on this wise and enjoying great pleasure and delight one of
the other, they knew not how to do so secretly but that, one night,
Lisabetta, going whereas Lorenzo lay, was, unknown to herself, seen of
the eldest of her brothers, who, being a prudent youth, for all the
annoy it gave him to know this thing, being yet moved by more
honourable counsel, abode without sign or word till the morning,
revolving in himself various things anent the matter. The day being
come, he recounted to his brothers that which he had seen the past
night of Lisabetta and Lorenzo, and after long advisement with them,
determined (so that neither to them nor to their sister should any
reproach ensue thereof) to pass the thing over in silence and feign to
have seen and known nothing thereof till such time as, without hurt or
unease to themselves, they might avail to do away this shame from
their sight, ere it should go farther. In this mind abiding and
devising and laughing with Lorenzo as was their wont, it befell that
one day, feigning to go forth the city, all three, a-pleasuring, they
carried him with them to a very lonely and remote place; and there,
the occasion offering, they slew him, whilst he was off his guard, and
buried him on such wise that none had knowledge of it; then, returning
to Messina, they gave out that they had despatched him somewhither for
their occasions, the which was the lightlier credited that they were
often used to send him abroad about their business.

Lorenzo returning not and Lisabetta often and instantly questioning
her brothers of him, as one to whom the long delay was grievous, it
befell one day, as she very urgently enquired of him, that one of them
said to her, 'What meaneth this? What hast thou to do often of him? An
thou question of him with Lorenzo, that thou askest thus more, we
will make thee such answer as thou deservest.' Wherefore the girl, sad
and grieving and fearful she knew not of what, abode without more
asking; yet many a time anights she piteously called him and prayed
him come to her, and whiles with many tears she complained of his long
tarrying; and thus, without a moment's gladness, she abode expecting
him alway, till one night, having sore lamented Lorenzo for that he
returned not and being at last fallen asleep, weeping, he appeared to
her in a dream, pale and all disordered, with clothes all rent and
mouldered, and herseemed he bespoke her thus: 'Harkye, Lisabetta; thou
dost nought but call upon me, grieving for my long delay and cruelly
impeaching me with thy tears. Know, therefore, that I may never more
return to thee, for that, the last day thou sawest me, thy brothers
slew me.' Then, having discovered to her the place where they had
buried him, he charged her no more call him nor expect him and
disappeared; whereupon she awoke and giving faith to the vision, wept
bitterly.

In the morning, being risen and daring not say aught to her brothers,
she determined to go to the place appointed and see if the thing were
true, as it had appeared to her in the dream. Accordingly, having
leave to go somedele without the city for her disport, she betook
herself thither,[241] as quickliest she might, in company of one who
had been with them[242] otherwhiles and knew all her affairs; and
there, clearing away the dead leaves from the place, she dug whereas
herseemed the earth was less hard. She had not dug long before she
found the body of her unhappy lover, yet nothing changed nor rotted,
and thence knew manifestly that her vision was true, wherefore she was
the most distressful of women; yet, knowing that this was no place for
lament, she would fain, an she but might, have borne away the whole
body, to give it fitter burial; but, seeing that this might not be,
she with a knife did off[243] the head from the body, as best she
could, and wrapping it in a napkin, laid it in her maid's lap. Then,
casting back the earth over the trunk, she departed thence, without
being seen of any, and returned home, where, shutting herself in her
chamber with her lover's head, she bewept it long and bitterly,
insomuch that she bathed it all with her tears, and kissed it a
thousand times in every part. Then, taking a great and goodly pot, of
those wherein they plant marjoram or sweet basil, she set the head
therein, folded in a fair linen cloth, and covered it with earth, in
which she planted sundry heads of right fair basil of Salerno; nor did
she ever water these with other water than that of her tears or rose
or orange-flower water. Moreover she took wont to sit still near the
pot and to gaze amorously upon it with all her desire, as upon that
which held her Lorenzo hid; and after she had a great while looked
thereon, she would bend over it and fall to weeping so sore and so
long that her tears bathed all the basil, which, by dint of long and
assiduous tending, as well as by reason of the fatness of the earth,
proceeding from the rotting head that was therein, waxed passing fair
and very sweet of savour.

[Footnote 241: _i.e._ to the place shown her in the dream.]

[Footnote 242: _i.e._ in their service.]

[Footnote 243: Lit. unhung (_spiccò_).]

The damsel, doing without cease after this wise, was sundry times seen
of her neighbours, who to her brothers, marvelling at her waste beauty
and that her eyes seemed to have fled forth her head [for weeping],
related this, saying, 'We have noted that she doth every day after
such a fashion.' The brothers, hearing and seeing this and having once
and again reproved her therefor, but without avail, let secretly carry
away from her the pot, which she, missing, with the utmost instance
many a time required, and for that it was not restored to her, stinted
not to weep and lament till she fell sick; nor in her sickness did she
ask aught other than the pot of basil. The young men marvelled greatly
at this continual asking and bethought them therefor to see what was
in this pot. Accordingly, turning out the earth, they found the cloth
and therein the head, not yet so rotted but they might know it, by the
curled hair, to be that of Lorenzo. At this they were mightily amazed
and feared lest the thing should get wind; wherefore, burying the
head, without word said, they privily departed Messina, having taken
order how they should withdraw thence, and betook themselves to
Naples. The damsel, ceasing never from lamenting and still demanding
her pot, died, weeping; and so her ill-fortuned love had end. But,
after a while the thing being grown manifest unto many, there was one
who made thereon the song that is yet sung, to wit:

     Alack! ah, who can the ill Christian be,
       That stole my pot away?" etc.[244]

[Footnote 244: The following is a translation of the whole of the song
in question, as printed, from a MS. in the Medicean Library, in
Fanfani's edition of the Decameron.

Alack! ah, who can the ill Christian be,
  That stole my pot away,
My pot of basil of Salern, from me?
  'Twas thriv'n with many a spray
And I with mine own hand did plant the tree,
  Even on the festal[A] day.
'Tis felony to waste another's ware.

'Tis felony to waste another's ware;
  Yea, and right grievous sin.
And I, poor lass, that sowed myself whilere
  A pot with flowers therein,
Slept in its shade, so great it was and fair;
  But folk, that envious bin,
Stole it away even from my very door.

'Twas stolen away even from my very door.
  Full heavy was my cheer,
(Ah, luckless maid, would I had died tofore!)
  Who brought[B] it passing dear,
Yet kept ill ward thereon one day of fear.
  For him I loved so sore,
I planted it with marjoram about.

I planted it with marjoram about,
  When May was blithe and new;
Yea, thrice I watered it, week in, week out,
  And watched how well it grew:
But now, for sure, away from me 'tis ta'en.

Ay, now, for sure, away from me 'tis ta'en;
  I may 't no longer hide.
Had I but known (alas, regret is vain!)
  That which should me betide,
Before my door on guard I would have lain
  To sleep, my flowers beside.
Yet might the Great God ease me at His will.

Yea, God Most High might ease me, at His will,
  If but it liked Him well,
Of him who wrought me such unright and ill;
  He into pangs of hell
Cast me who stole my basil-pot, that still
  Was full of such sweet smell,
Its savour did all dole from me away.

All dole its savour did from me away;
  It was so redolent,
When, with the risen sun, at early day
  To water it I went,
The folk would marvel all at it and say,
  "Whence comes the sweetest scent?"
And I for love of it shall surely die.

Yea, I for love of it shall surely die,
  For love and grief and pain.
If one would tell me where it is, I'd buy
  It willingly again.
Fivescore gold crowns, that in my pouch have I,
  I'd proffer him full fain,
And eke a kiss, if so it liked the swain.]

[Footnote A: Quære--natal?--perhaps meaning her birthday (_lo giorno
della festa_).]

[Footnote B: Or "purchased" in the old sense of obtained, acquired
(_accattai_).]



THE SIXTH STORY

[Day the Fourth]

     ANDREVUOLA LOVETH GABRIOTTO AND RECOUNTETH TO HIM A DREAM
     SHE HATH HAD, WHEREUPON HE TELLETH HER ONE OF HIS OWN AND
     PRESENTLY DIETH SUDDENLY IN HER ARMS. WHAT WHILE SHE AND A
     WAITING WOMAN OF HERS BEAR HIM TO HIS OWN HOUSE, THEY ARE
     TAKEN BY THE OFFICERS OF JUSTICE AND CARRIED BEFORE THE
     PROVOST, TO WHOM SHE DISCOVERETH HOW THE CASE STANDETH. THE
     PROVOST WOULD FAIN FORCE HER, BUT SHE SUFFERETH IT NOT AND
     HER FATHER, COMING TO HEAR OF THE MATTER, PROCURETH HER TO
     BE SET AT LIBERTY, SHE BEING FOUND INNOCENT; WHEREUPON,
     ALTOGETHER REFUSING TO ABIDE LONGER IN THE WORLD, SHE
     BECOMETH A NUN


Filomela's story was very welcome to the ladies, for that they had
many a time heard sing this song, yet could never, for asking, learn
the occasion of its making. But the king, having heard the end
thereof, charged Pamfilo follow on the ordinance; whereupon quoth he,
"The dream in the foregoing story giveth me occasion to recount one
wherein is made mention of two dreams, which were of a thing to come,
even as the former was of a thing [already] betided, and scarce were
they finished telling by those who had dreamt them than the
accomplishment followed of both. You must know, then, lovesome ladies,
that it is an affection common to all alive to see various things in
sleep, whereof,--albeit to the sleeper, what while he sleepeth, they
all appear most true and he, awakened, accounteth some true, others
probable and yet others out of all likelihood,--many are natheless
found to be come to pass. By reason whereof many lend to every dream
as much belief as they would to things they should see, waking, and
for their proper dreams they sorrow or rejoice, according as by these
they hope or fear. And contrariwise, there are those who believe none
thereof, save after they find themselves fallen into the peril
foreshown. Of these,[245] I approve neither the one nor other, for
that dreams are neither always true nor always false. That they are
not all true, each one of us must often enough have had occasion to
know; and that they are not all false hath been already shown in
Filomena her story, and I also purpose, as I said before, to show it
in mine. Wherefore I am of opinion that, in the matter of living and
doing virtuously, one should have no fear of any dream contrary
thereto nor forego good intentions by reason thereof; as for perverse
and wicked things, on the other hand, however favourable dreams may
appear thereto and how much soever they may hearten him who seeth them
with propitious auguries, none of them should be credited, whilst full
faith should be accorded unto all that tend to the contrary.[246] But
to come to the story.

[Footnote 245: _i.e._ these two classes of folk.]

[Footnote 246: _i.e._ to the encouragement of good and virtuous
actions and purposes.]

There was once in the city of Brescia a gentleman called Messer Negro
da Ponte Carraro, who amongst sundry other children had a daughter
named Andrevuola, young and unmarried and very fair. It chanced she
fell in love with a neighbour of hers, Gabriotto by name, a man of
mean condition, but full laudable fashions and comely and pleasant of
his person, and by the means and with the aid of the serving-maid of
the house, she so wrought that not only did Gabriotto know himself
beloved of her, but was many and many a time brought, to the delight
of both parties, into a goodly garden of her father's. And in order
that no cause, other than death, should ever avail to sever those
their delightsome loves, they became in secret husband and wife, and
so stealthily continuing their foregatherings, it befell that the
young lady, being one night asleep, dreamt that she was in her garden
with Gabriotto and held him in her arms, to the exceeding pleasure of
each; but, as they abode thus, herseemed she saw come forth of his
body something dark and frightful, the form whereof she could not
discern; the which took Gabriotto and tearing him in her despite with
marvellous might from her embrace, made off with him underground, nor
ever more might she avail to see either the one or the other.

At this she fell into an inexpressible passion of grief, whereby she
awoke, and albeit, awaking, she was rejoiced to find that it was not
as she had dreamed, nevertheless fear entered into her by reason of
the dream she had seen. Wherefore, Gabriotto presently desiring to
visit her that next night, she studied as most she might to prevent
his coming; however, seeing his desire and so he might not misdoubt
him of otherwhat, she received him in the garden and having gathered
great store of roses, white and red (for that it was the season), she
went to sit with him at the foot of a very goodly and clear fountain
that was there. After they had taken great and long delight together,
Gabriotto asked her why she would have forbidden his coming that
night; whereupon she told him, recounting to him the dream she had
seen the foregoing night and the fear she had gotten therefrom.

He, hearing this, laughed it to scorn and said that it was great folly
to put any faith in dreams, for that they arose of excess of food or
lack thereof and were daily seen to be all vain, adding, 'Were I
minded to follow after dreams, I had not come hither, not so much on
account of this of thine as of one I myself dreamt last night; which
was that meseemed I was in a fair and delightsome wood, wherein I went
hunting and had taken the fairest and loveliest hind was ever seen;
for methought she was whiter than snow and was in brief space become
so familiar with me that she never left me a moment. Moreover,
meseemed I held her so dear that, so she might not depart from me, I
had put a collar of gold about her neck and held her in hand with a
golden chain. After this medreamed that, once upon a time, what while
this hind lay couched with its head in my bosom,[247] there issued I
know not whence a greyhound bitch as black as coal, anhungred and
passing gruesome of aspect, and made towards me. Methought I offered
it no resistance, wherefore meseemed it thrust its muzzle into my
breast on the left side and gnawed thereat till it won to my heart,
which methought it tore from me, to carry it away. Therewith I felt
such a pain that my sleep was broken and awaking, I straightway
clapped my hand to my side, to see if I had aught there; but, finding
nothing amiss with me, I made mock of myself for having sought. But,
after all, what booteth this dream?[248] I have dreamed many such and
far more frightful, nor hath aught in the world befallen me by reason
thereof; wherefore let it pass and let us think to give ourselves a
good time.'

[Footnote 247: Or "lap" (_seno_).]

[Footnote 248: Lit. what meaneth this? (_che vuol dire questo?_)]

The young lady, already sore adread for her own dream, hearing this,
waxed yet more so, but hid her fear, as most she might, not to be the
occasion of any unease to Gabriotto. Nevertheless, what while she
solaced herself with him, clipping and kissing him again and again and
being of him clipped and kissed, she many a time eyed him in the face
more than of her wont, misdoubting she knew not what, and whiles she
looked about the garden, and she should see aught of black come
anywhence. Presently, as they abode thus, Gabriotto heaved a great
sigh and embracing her said, 'Alas, my soul, help me, for I die!' So
saying, he fell to the ground upon the grass of the lawn. The young
lady, seeing this, drew him up into her lap and said, well nigh
weeping, 'Alack, sweet my lord, what aileth thee?' He answered not,
but, panting sore and sweating all over, no great while after departed
this life.

How grievous, how dolorous was this to the young lady, who loved him
more than her life, each one of you may conceive for herself. She
bewept him sore and many a time called him in vain; but after she had
handled him in every part of his body and found him cold in all,
perceiving that he was altogether dead and knowing not what to do or
to say, she went, all tearful as she was and full of anguish, to call
her maid, who was privy to their loves, and discovered to her misery
and her grief. Then, after they had awhile made woeful lamentation
over Gabriotto's dead face, the young lady said to the maid, 'Since
God hath bereft me of him I love, I purpose to abide no longer on
life; but, ere I go about to slay myself, I would fain take fitting
means to preserve my honour and the secret of the love that hath been
between us twain and that the body, wherefrom the gracious spirit is
departed, may be buried.'

'Daughter mine,' answered the maid, 'talk not of seeking to slay
thyself, for that, if thou have lost him in this world, by slaying
thyself thou wouldst lose him in the world to come also, since thou
wouldst go to hell, whither I am assured his soul hath not gone; for
he was a virtuous youth. It were better far to comfort thyself and
think of succouring his soul with prayers and other good works, so
haply he have need thereof for any sin committed. The means of burying
him are here at hand in this garden and none will ever know of the
matter, for none knoweth that he ever came hither. Or, an thou wilt
not have it so, let us put him forth of the garden and leave him be;
he will be found to-morrow morning and carried to his house, where his
kinsfolk will have him buried.' The young lady, albeit she was full of
bitter sorrow and wept without ceasing, yet gave ear to her maid's
counsels and consenting not to the first part thereof, made answer to
the second, saying, 'God forbid that I should suffer so dear a youth
and one so beloved of me and my husband to be buried after the fashion
of a dog or left to lie in the street! He hath had my tears and
inasmuch as I may, he shall have those of his kinsfolk, and I have
already bethought me of that which we have to do to that end.'

Therewith she despatched her maid for a piece of cloth of silk, which
she had in a coffer of hers, and spreading it on the earth, laid
Gabriotto's body thereon, with his head upon a pillow. Then with many
tears she closed his eyes and mouth and weaving him a chaplet of
roses, covered him with all they had gathered, he and she; after which
she said to the maid, 'It is but a little way hence to his house;
wherefore we will carry him thither, thou and I, even as we have
arrayed him, and lay him before the door. It will not be long ere it
be day and he will be taken up; and although this may be no
consolation to his friends, yet to me, in whose arms he died, it will
be a pleasure.' So saying, once more with most abundant tears she cast
herself upon his face and wept a great while. Then, being urged by her
maid to despatch, for that the day was at hand, she rose to her feet
and drawing from her finger the ring wherewith Gabriotto had espoused
her, she set it on his and said, weeping, 'Dear my lord, if thy soul
now seeth my tears or if any sense or cognizance abide in the body,
after the departure thereof, benignly receive her last gift, whom,
living, thou lovedst so well.' This said, she fell down upon him in a
swoon, but, presently coming to herself and rising, she took up,
together with her maid, the cloth whereon the body lay and going forth
the garden therewith, made for his house.

As they went, they were discovered and taken with the dead body by
the officers of the provostry, who chanced to be abroad at that hour
about some other matter. Andrevuola, more desirous of death than of
life, recognizing the officers, said frankly, 'I know who you are and
that it would avail me nothing to seek to flee; I am ready to go with
you before the Seignory and there declare how the case standeth; but
let none of you dare to touch me, provided I am obedient to you, or to
remove aught from this body, an he would not be accused of me.'
Accordingly, without being touched of any, she repaired, with
Gabriotto's body, to the palace, where the Provost, hearing what was
to do, arose and sending for her into his chamber, proceeded to
enquire of this that had happened. To this end he caused divers
physicians look if the dead man had been done to death with poison or
otherwise, who all affirmed that it was not so, but that some
imposthume had burst near the heart, the which had suffocated him. The
magistrate hearing this and feeling her to be guilty in [but] a small
matter, studied to make a show of giving her that which he could not
sell her and told her that, an she would consent to his pleasures, he
would release her; but, these words availing not, he offered, out of
all seemliness, to use force. However, Andrevuola, fired with disdain
and waxed strong [for indignation], defended herself manfully,
rebutting him with proud and scornful words.

Meanwhile, broad day come and these things being recounted to Messer
Negro, he betook himself, sorrowful unto death, to the palace, in
company with many of his friends, and being there acquainted by the
Provost with the whole matter, demanded resentfully[249] that his
daughter should be restored to him. The Provost, choosing rather to
accuse himself of the violence he would have done her than to be
accused of her, first extolled the damsel and her constancy and in
proof thereof, proceeded to tell that which he had done; by reason
whereof, seeing her of so excellent a firmness, he had vowed her an
exceeding love and would gladly, an it were agreeable to him, who was
her father, and to herself, espouse her for his lady, notwithstanding
she had had a husband of mean condition. Whilst they yet talked,
Andrevuola presented herself and weeping, cast herself before her
father and said, 'Father mine, methinketh there is no need that I
recount to you the story of my boldness and my illhap, for I am
assured that you have heard and know it; wherefore, as most I may, I
humbly ask pardon of you for my default, to wit, the having without
your knowledge taken him who most pleased me to husband. And this boon
I ask of you, not for that my life may be spared me, but to die your
daughter and not your enemy.' So saying, she fell weeping at his feet.

[Footnote 249: Lit. complaining, making complaint (_dolendosi_).]

Messer Negro, who was an old man and kindly and affectionate of his
nature, hearing these words, began to weep and with tears in his eyes
raised his daughter tenderly to her feet and said, 'Daughter mine, it
had better pleased me that thou shouldst have had such a husband as,
according to my thinking, behoved unto thee; and that thou shouldst
have taken such an one as was pleasing unto thee had also been
pleasing to me; but that thou shouldst have concealed him, of thy
little confidence in me, grieveth me, and so much the more as I see
thee to have lost him, ere I knew it. However, since the case is so,
that which had he lived, I had gladly done him, to content thee, to
wit, honour, as to my son-in-law, be it done him, now he is dead.'
Then, turning to his sons and his kinsfolk, he commanded that great
and honourable obsequies should be prepared for Gabriotto.

Meanwhile, the kinsmen and kinswomen of the young man, hearing the
news, had flocked thither, and with them well nigh all the men and
women in the city. Therewith, the body, being laid out amiddleward the
courtyard upon Andrevuola's silken cloth and strewn, with all her
roses, was there not only bewept by her and his kinsfolk, but publicly
mourned by well nigh all the ladies of the city and by many men, and
being brought forth of the courtyard of the Seignory, not as that of a
plebeian, but as that of a nobleman, it was with the utmost honour
borne to the sepulchre upon the shoulders of the most noble citizens.
Some days thereafterward, the Provost ensuing that which he had
demanded, Messer Negro propounded it to his daughter, who would hear
nought thereof, but, her father being willing to comply with her in
this, she and her maid made themselves nuns in a convent very famous
for sanctity and there lived honourably a great while after."



THE SEVENTH STORY

[Day the Fourth]

     SIMONA LOVETH PASQUINO AND THEY BEING TOGETHER IN A GARDEN,
     THE LATTER RUBBETH A LEAF OF SAGE AGAINST HIS TEETH AND
     DIETH. SHE, BEING TAKEN AND THINKING TO SHOW THE JUDGE HOW
     HER LOVER DIED, RUBBETH ONE OF THE SAME LEAVES AGAINST HER
     TEETH AND DIETH ON LIKE WISE


Pamfilo having delivered himself of his story, the king, showing no
compassion for Andrevuola, looked at Emilia and signed to her that it
was his pleasure she should with a story follow on those who had
already told; whereupon she, without delay, began as follows: "Dear
companions, the story told by Pamfilo putteth me in mind to tell you
one in nothing like unto his save that like as Andrevuola lost her
beloved in a garden, even so did she of whom I have to tell, and being
taken in like manner as was Andrevuola, freed herself from the court,
not by dint of fortitude nor constancy, but by an unlooked-for death.
And as hath otherwhile been said amongst us, albeit Love liefer
inhabiteth the houses of the great, yet not therefor doth he decline
the empery of those of the poor; nay, whiles in these latter he so
manifesteth his power that he maketh himself feared, as a most
puissant seignior, of the richer sort. This, if not in all, yet in
great part, will appear from my story, with which it pleaseth me to
re-enter our own city, wherefrom this day, discoursing diversely of
divers things and ranging over various parts of the world, we have so
far departed.

There was, then, no great while ago, in Florence a damsel very
handsome and agreeable, according to her condition, who was the
daughter of a poor father and was called Simona; and although it
behoved her with her own hands earn the bread she would eat and
sustain her life by spinning wool, she was not therefor of so poor a
spirit but that she dared to admit into her heart Love, which,--by
means of the pleasing words and fashions of a youth of no greater
account than herself, who went giving wool to spin for a master of
his, a wool-monger,--had long made a show of wishing to enter there.
Having, then, received Him into her bosom with the pleasing aspect of
the youth who loved her whose name was Pasquino, she heaved a thousand
sighs, hotter than fire, at every hank of yarn she wound about the
spindle, bethinking her of him who had given it her to spin and
ardently desiring, but venturing not to do more. He, on his side,
grown exceeding anxious that his master's wool should be well spun,
overlooked Simona's spinning more diligently than that of any other,
as if the yarn spun by her alone and none other were to furnish forth
the whole cloth; wherefore, the one soliciting and the other
delighting to be solicited, it befell that, he growing bolder than of
his wont and she laying aside much of the timidity and shamefastness
she was used to feel, they gave themselves up with a common accord to
mutual pleasures, which were so pleasing to both that not only did
neither wait to be bidden thereto of the other, but each forewent
other in the matter of invitation.

Ensuing this their delight from day to day and waxing ever more
enkindled for continuance, it chanced one day that Pasquino told
Simona he would fain have her find means to come to a garden, whither
he wished to carry her so they might there foregather more at their
ease and with less suspect. Simona answered that she would well and
accordingly on Sunday, after eating, giving her father to believe that
she meant to go a-pardoning to San Gallo,[250] she betook herself,
with a friend of hers, called Lagina, to the garden appointed her of
Pasquino. There she found him with a comrade of his, whose name was
Puccino, but who was commonly called Stramba,[251] and an amorous
acquaintance being quickly clapped up between the latter and Lagina,
Simona and her lover withdrew to one part of the garden, to do their
pleasure, leaving Stramba and Lagina in another.

[Footnote 250: _i.e._ to attend the ecclesiastical function called a
Pardon, with which word, used in this sense, Meyerbeer's opera of
Dinorah (properly Le Pardon de Ploërmel) has familiarized opera-goers.
A Pardon is a sort of minor jubilee of the Roman Catholic Church, held
in honour of some local saint, at which certain indulgences and
remissions of sins (hence the name) are granted to the faithful
attending the services of the occasion.]

[Footnote 251: _i.e._ Bandy-legs.]

Now in that part of the garden, whither Pasquino and Simona had
betaken themselves, was a very great and goodly bush of sage, at the
foot whereof they sat down and solaced themselves together a great
while, holding much discourse of a collation they purposed to make
there at their leisure. Presently, Pasquino turned to the great
sage-bush and plucking a leaf thereof, began to rub his teeth and gums
withal, avouching that sage cleaned them excellent well of aught that
might be left thereon after eating. After he had thus rubbed them
awhile, he returned to the subject of the collation, of which he had
already spoken, nor had he long pursued his discourse when he began
altogether to change countenance and well nigh immediately after lost
sight and speech, and in a little while he died. Simona, seeing this,
fell to weeping and crying out and called Stramba and Lagina, who ran
thither in haste and seeing Pasquino not only dead, but already grown
all swollen and full of dark spots about his face and body, Stramba
cried out of a sudden, 'Ah, wicked woman! Thou hast poisoned him.'
Making a great outcry, he was heard of many who dwelt near the garden
and who, running to the clamour, found Pasquino dead and swollen.

Hearing Stramba lamenting and accusing Simona of having poisoned him
of her malice, whilst she, for dolour of the sudden mishap that had
carried off her lover, knew not how to excuse herself, being as it
were beside herself, they all concluded that it was as he said; and
accordingly she was taken and carried off, still weeping sore, to the
Provost's palace, where, at the instance of Stramba and other two
comrades of Pasquino, by name Atticciato and Malagevole, who had come
up meanwhile, a judge addressed himself without delay to examine her
of the fact and being unable to discover that she had done malice in
the matter or was anywise guilty, he bethought himself, in her
presence, to view the dead body and the place and manner of the
mishap, as recounted to him by her, for that he apprehended it not
very well by her words.

Accordingly, he let bring her, without any stir, whereas Pasquino's
body lay yet, swollen as it were a tun, and himself following her
thither, marvelled at the dead man and asked her how it had been;
whereupon, going up to the sage-bush, she recounted to him all the
foregoing story and to give him more fully to understand how the thing
had befallen, she did even as Pasquino had done and rubbed one of the
sage-leaves against her teeth. Then,--whilst her words were, in the
judge's presence, flouted by Stramba and Atticciato and the other
friends and comrades of Pasquino as frivolous and vain and they all
denounced her wickedness with the more instance, demanding nothing
less than that the fire should be the punishment of such
perversity,--the wretched girl, who abode all confounded for dolour of
her lost lover and fear of the punishment demanded by Stramba fell,
for having rubbed the sage against her teeth, into that same
mischance, whereinto her lover had fallen [and dropped dead], to the
no small wonderment of as many as were present. O happy souls, to whom
it fell in one same day to terminate at once your fervent love and
your mortal life! Happier yet, an ye went together to one same place!
And most happy, if folk love in the other life and ye love there as
you loved here below! But happiest beyond compare,--at least in our
judgment who abide after her on life,--was Simona's soul, whose
innocence fortune suffered not to fall under the testimony of Stramba
and Atticciato and Malagevole, wool-carders belike or men of yet
meaner condition, finding her a more honourable way, with a death like
unto that of her lover, to deliver herself from their calumnies and to
follow the soul, so dearly loved of her, of her Pasquino.

The judge, in a manner astonied, as were likewise as many as were
there, at this mischance and unknowing what to say, abode long silent;
then, recollecting himself, he said, 'It seemeth this sage is
poisonous, the which is not wont to happen of sage. But, so it may not
avail to offend on this wise against any other, be it cut down even to
the roots and cast into the fire.' This the keeper of the garden
proceeded to do in the judge's presence, and no sooner had he levelled
the great bush with the ground than the cause of the death of the two
unfortunate lovers appeared; for thereunder was a toad of marvellous
bigness, by whose pestiferous breath they concluded the sage to have
become venomous. None daring approach the beast, they made a great
hedge of brushwood about it and there burnt it, together with the
sage. So ended the judge's inquest upon the death of the unfortunate
Pasquino, who, together with his Simona, all swollen as they were, was
buried by Stramba and Atticciato and Guccio Imbratta and Malagevole in
the church of St. Paul, whereof it chanced they were parishioners."



THE EIGHTH STORY

[Day the Fourth]

     GIROLAMO LOVETH SALVESTRA AND BEING CONSTRAINED BY HIS
     MOTHER'S PRAYERS TO GO TO PARIS, RETURNETH AND FINDETH HIS
     MISTRESS MARRIED; WHEREUPON HE ENTERETH HER HOUSE BY STEALTH
     AND DIETH BY HER SIDE; AND HE BEING CARRIED TO A CHURCH,
     SALVESTRA DIETH BESIDE HIM


Emilia's story come to an end, Neifile, by the king's commandment,
began thus: "There are some, noble ladies, who believe themselves to
know more than other folk, albeit, to my thinking, they know less, and
who, by reason thereof, presume to oppose their judgment not only to
the counsels of men, but even to set it up against the very nature of
things; of which presumption very grave ills have befallen aforetime,
nor ever was any good known to come thereof. And for that of all
natural things love is that which least brooketh contrary counsel or
opposition and whose nature is such that it may lightlier consume of
itself than be done away by advisement, it hath come to my mind to
narrate to you a story of a lady, who, seeking to be wiser than
pertained unto her and than she was, nay, than the matter comported in
which she studied to show her wit, thought to tear out from an
enamoured heart a love which had belike been set there of the stars,
and so doing, succeeded in expelling at once love and life from her
son's body.

There was, then, in our city, according to that which the ancients
relate, a very great and rich merchant, whose name was Lionardo
Sighieri and who had by his wife a son called Girolamo, after whose
birth, having duly set his affairs in order, he departed this life.
The guardians of the boy, together with his mother, well and loyally
ordered his affairs, and he, growing up with his neighbour's children,
became familiar with a girl of his own age, the daughter of the
tailor, more than with any other of the quarter. As he waxed in age,
use turned to love so great and so ardent that he was never easy save
what time he saw her, and certes she loved him no less than she was
loved of him. The boy's mother, observing this, many a time chid and
rebuked him therefor and after, Girolamo availing not to desist
therefrom, complained thereof to his guardians, saying to them, as if
she thought, thanks to her son's great wealth, to make an orange-tree
of a bramble, 'This boy of ours, albeit he is yet scarce fourteen
years old, is so enamoured of the daughter of a tailor our neighbour,
by name Salvestra, that, except we remove her from his sight, he will
peradventure one day take her to wife, without any one's knowledge,
and I shall never after be glad; or else he will pine away from her,
if he see her married to another; wherefore meseemeth, to avoid this,
you were best send him somewhither far from here, about the business
of the warehouse; for that, he being removed from seeing her, she will
pass out of his mind and we may after avail to give him some well-born
damsel to wife.'

The guardians answered that the lady said well and that they would do
this to the best of their power; wherefore, calling the boy into the
warehouse, one of them began very lovingly to bespeak him thus, 'My
son, thou art now somewhat waxen in years and it were well that thou
shouldst begin to look for thyself to thine affairs; wherefore it
would much content us that thou shouldst go sojourn awhile at Paris,
where thou wilt see how great part of thy wealth is employed, more by
token that thou wilt there become far better bred and mannered and
more of worth than thou couldst here, seeing the lords and barons and
gentlemen who are there in plenty and learning their usances; after
which thou mayst return hither.' The youth hearkened diligently and
answered curtly that he was nowise disposed to do this, for that he
believed himself able to fare as well at Florence as another. The
worthy men, hearing this, essayed him again with sundry discourse,
but, failing to get other answer of him, told his mother, who, sore
provoked thereat, gave him a sound rating, not because of his
unwillingness to go to Paris, but of his enamourment; after which, she
fell to cajoling him with fair words, coaxing him and praying him
softly be pleased to do what his guardians wished; brief, she
contrived to bespeak him to such purpose that he consented to go to
France and there abide a year and no more.

Accordingly, ardently enamoured as he was, he betook himself to Paris
and there, being still put off from one day to another, he was kept
two years; at the end of which time, returning, more in love than
ever, he found his Salvestra married to an honest youth, a tent maker.
At this he was beyond measure woebegone; but, seeing no help for it,
he studied to console himself therefor and having spied out where she
dwelt, began, after the wont of young men in love, to pass before
her, expecting she should no more have forgotten him than he her. But
the case was otherwise; she had no more remembrance of him than if she
had never seen him; or, if indeed she remembered aught of him, she
feigned the contrary; and of this, in a very brief space of time,
Girolamo became aware, to his no small chagrin. Nevertheless, he did
all he might to bring himself to her mind; but, himseeming he wrought
nothing, he resolved to speak with her, face to face, though he should
die for it.

Accordingly, having learned from a neighbour how her house stood, one
evening that she and her husband were gone to keep wake with their
neighbours, he entered therein by stealth and hiding himself behind
certain tent cloths that were spread there, waited till, the twain
having returned and gotten them to bed, he knew her husband to be
asleep; whereupon he came whereas he had seen Salvestra lay herself
and putting his hand upon her breast, said softly, 'Sleepest thou yet,
O my soul?' The girl, who was awake, would have cried out; but he said
hastily, 'For God's sake, cry not, for I am thy Girolamo.' She,
hearing this, said, all trembling, 'Alack, for God's sake, Girolamo,
get thee gone; the time is past when it was not forbidden unto our
childishness to be lovers. I am, as thou seest, married and it
beseemeth me no more to have regard to any man other than my husband;
wherefore I beseech thee, by God the Only, to begone, for that, if my
husband heard thee, even should no other harm ensue thereof, yet would
it follow that I might never more avail to live with him in peace or
quiet, whereas now I am beloved of him and abide with him in weal and
in tranquility.'

The youth, hearing these words, was grievously endoloured and recalled
to her the time past and his love no whit grown less for absence,
mingling many prayers and many great promises, but obtained nothing;
wherefore, desiring to die, he prayed her at last that, in requital of
so much love, she would suffer him couch by her side, so he might warm
himself somewhat, for that he was grown chilled, awaiting her,
promising her that he would neither say aught to her nor touch her and
would get him gone, so soon as he should be a little warmed.
Salvestra, having some little compassion of him, granted him this he
asked, upon the conditions aforesaid, and he accordingly lay down
beside her, without touching her. Then, collecting into one thought
the long love he had borne her and her present cruelty and his lost
hope, he resolved to live no longer; wherefore, straitening in himself
his vital spirits,[252] he clenched his hands and died by her side,
without word or motion.

[Footnote 252: _Ristretti in sè gli spiriti._ An obscure passage;
perhaps "holding his breath" is meant; but in this case we should read
"_lo spirito_" instead of "_gli spiriti_."]

After a while the young woman, marvelling at his continence and
fearing lest her husband should awake, began to say, 'Alack, Girolamo,
why dost thou not get thee gone?' Hearing no answer, she concluded
that he had fallen asleep and putting out her hand to awaken him,
found him cold to the touch as ice, whereat she marvelled sore; then,
nudging him more sharply and finding that he stirred not, she felt him
again and knew that he was dead; whereat she was beyond measure
woebegone and abode a great while, unknowing what she should do. At
last she bethought herself to try, in the person of another, what her
husband should say was to do [in such a case]; wherefore, awakening
him, she told him, as having happened to another, that which had
presently betided herself and after asked him what counsel she should
take thereof,[253] if it should happen to herself. The good man
replied that himseemed the dead man should be quietly carried to his
house and there left, without bearing any ill will thereof to the
woman, who, it appeared to him, had nowise done amiss. Then said
Salvestra, 'And so it behoveth us do'; and taking his hand, made him
touch the dead youth; whereupon, all confounded, he arose, without
entering into farther parley with his wife, and kindled a light; then,
clothing the dead body in its own garments, he took it, without any
delay, on his shoulders and carried it, his innocence aiding him, to
the door of Girolamo's house, where he set it down and left it.

[Footnote 253: _i.e._ what course she should take in the matter,
_consiglio_ used as before (see notes, pp. 2 and 150) in this special
sense.]

When the day came and Girolamo was found dead before his own door,
great was outcry, especially on the part of his mother, and the
physicians having examined him and searched his body everywhere, but
finding no wound nor bruise whatsoever on him, it was generally
concluded that he had died of grief, as was indeed the case. Then was
the body carried into a church and the sad mother, repairing thither
with many other ladies, kinswomen and neighbours, began to weep
without stint and make sore moan over him, according to our usance.
What while the lamentation was at it highest, the good man, in whose
house he had died, said to Salvestra, 'Harkye, put some mantlet or
other on thy head and get thee to the church whither Girolamo hath
been carried and mingle with the women and hearken to that which is
discoursed of the matter; and I will do the like among the men, so we
may hear if aught be said against us.' The thing pleased the girl, who
was too late grown pitiful and would fain look upon him, dead, whom,
living, she had not willed to pleasure with one poor kiss, and she
went thither. A marvellous thing it is to think how uneath to search
out are the ways of love! That heart, which Girolamo's fair fortune
had not availed to open, his illhap opened and the old flames reviving
all therein, whenas she saw the dead face it[254] melted of a sudden
into such compassion that she pressed between the women, veiled as she
was in the mantlet, and stayed not till she won to the body, and
there, giving a terrible great shriek, she cast herself, face
downward, on the dead youth, whom she bathed not with many tears, for
that no sooner did she touch him than grief bereaved her of life, even
as it had bereft him.

[Footnote 254: _i.e._ her heart.]

The women would have comforted her and bidden her arise, not yet
knowing her; but after they had bespoken her awhile in vain, they
sought to lift her and finding her motionless, raised her up and knew
her at once for Salvestra and for dead; whereupon all who were there,
overcome with double pity, set up a yet greater clamour of
lamentation. The news soon spread abroad among the men without the
church and came presently to the ears of her husband, who was amongst
them and who, without lending ear to consolation or comfort from any,
wept a great while; after which he recounted to many of those who were
there the story of that which had befallen that night between the dead
youth and his wife; and so was the cause of each one's death made
everywhere manifest, the which was grievous unto all. Then, taking up
the dead girl and decking her, as they use to deck the dead, they laid
her beside Girolamo on the same bier and there long bewept her; after
which the twain were buried in one same tomb, and so these, whom love
had not availed to conjoin on life, death conjoined with an
inseparable union."



THE NINTH STORY

[Day the Fourth]

     SIR GUILLAUME DE ROUSSILLON GIVETH HIS WIFE TO EAT THE HEART
     OF SIR GUILLAUME DE GUARDESTAING BY HIM SLAIN AND LOVED OF
     HER, WHICH SHE AFTER COMING TO KNOW, CASTETH HERSELF FROM A
     HIGH CASEMENT TO THE GROUND AND DYING, IS BURIED WITH HER
     LOVER


Neifile having made an end of her story, which had awakened no little
compassion in all the ladies her companions, the king, who purposed
not to infringe Dioneo his privilege, there being none else to tell
but they twain, began, "Gentle ladies, since you have such compassion
upon ill-fortuned loves, it hath occurred to me to tell you a story
whereof it will behove you have no less pity than of the last, for
that those to whom that which I shall tell happened were persons of
more account than those of whom it hath been spoken and yet more cruel
was the mishap that befell them.

You must know, then, that according to that which the Provençals
relate, there were aforetime in Provence two noble knights, each of
whom had castles and vassals under him, called the one Sir Guillaume
de Roussillon and the other Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing, and for
that they were both men of great prowess in arms, they loved each
other with an exceeding love and were wont to go still together and
clad in the same colours to every tournament or jousting or other act
of arms. Although they abode each in his own castle and were distant,
one from other, a good half score miles, yet it came to pass that, Sir
Guillaume de Roussillon having a very fair and lovesome lady to wife,
Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing, notwithstanding the friendship and
fellowship that was between them, become beyond measure enamoured of
her and so wrought, now with one means and now with another, that the
lady became aware of his passion and knowing him for a very valiant
knight, it pleased her and she began to return his love, insomuch that
she desired and tendered nothing more than him nor awaited otherwhat
than to be solicited of him; the which was not long in coming to pass
and they foregathered once and again.

Loving each other amain and conversing together less discreetly than
behoved, it befell that the husband became aware of their familiarity
and was mightily incensed thereat, insomuch that the great love he
bore to Guardestaing was turned into mortal hatred; but this he knew
better to keep hidden than the two lovers had known to conceal their
love and was fully resolved in himself to kill him. Roussillon being
in this mind, it befell that a great tourneying was proclaimed in
France, the which he forthright signified to Guardestaing and sent to
bid him come to him, an it pleased him, so they might take counsel
together if and how they should go thither; whereto the other very
joyously answered that he would without fail come to sup with him on
the ensuing day. Roussillon, hearing this, thought the time come
whenas he might avail to kill him and accordingly on the morrow he
armed himself and mounting to horse with a servant of his, lay at
ambush, maybe a mile from his castle, in a wood whereas Guardestaing
must pass.

There after he had awaited him a good while, he saw him come, unarmed
and followed by two servants in like case, as one who apprehends
nothing from him; and when he saw him come whereas he would have him,
he rushed out upon him, lance in hand, full of rage and malice,
crying, 'Traitor, thou art dead!' And to say thus and to plunge the
lance into his breast were one and the same thing. Guardestaing,
without being able to make any defence or even to say a word, fell
from his horse, transfixed of the lance, and a little after died,
whilst his servants, without waiting to learn who had done this,
turned their horses' heads and fled as quickliest they might, towards
their lord's castle. Roussillon dismounted and opening the dead man's
breast with a knife, with his own hands tore out his heart, which he
let wrap in the pennon of a lance and gave to one of his men to carry.
Then, commanding that none should dare make words of the matter, he
remounted, it being now night, and returned to his castle.

The lady, who had heard that Guardestaing was to be there that evening
to supper and looked for him with the utmost impatience, seeing him
not come, marvelled sore and said to her husband, 'How is it, sir,
that Guardestaing is not come?' 'Wife,' answered he, 'I have had
[word] from him that he cannot be here till to-morrow'; whereat the
lady abode somewhat troubled. Roussillon then dismounted and calling
the cook, said to him, 'Take this wild boar's heart and look thou make
a dainty dish thereof, the best and most delectable to eat that thou
knowest, and when I am at table, send it to me in a silver porringer.'
The cook accordingly took the heart and putting all his art thereto
and all his diligence, minced it and seasoning it with store of rich
spices, made of it a very dainty ragout.

When it was time, Sir Guillaume sat down to table with his wife and
the viands came; but he ate little, being hindered in thought for the
ill deed he had committed. Presently the cook sent him the ragout,
which he caused set before the lady, feigning himself disordered[255]
that evening and commending the dish to her amain. The lady, who was
nowise squeamish, tasted thereof and finding it good, ate it all;
which when the knight saw, he said to her, 'Wife, how deem you of this
dish?' 'In good sooth, my lord,' answered she, 'it liketh me
exceedingly.' Whereupon, 'So God be mine aid,' quoth Roussillon; 'I do
indeed believe it you, nor do I marvel if that please you, dead,
which, alive, pleased you more than aught else.' The lady, hearing
this, hesitated awhile, then said, 'How? What have you made me eat?'
'This that you have eaten,' answered the knight, 'was in very truth
the heart of Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing, whom you, disloyal wife as
you are, so loved; and know for certain that it is his very heart, for
that I tore it from his breast with these hands a little before my
return.'

[Footnote 255: Or surfeited (_svogliato_).]

It needeth not to ask if the lady were woebegone, hearing this of him
whom she loved more than aught else; and after awhile she said, 'You
have done the deed of a disloyal and base knight, as you are; for, if
I, unenforced of him, made him lord of my love and therein offended
against you, not he, but I should have borne the penalty thereof. But
God forfend that ever other victual should follow upon such noble meat
the heart of so valiant and so courteous a gentleman as was Sir
Guillaume de Guardestaing!' Then, rising to her feet, without any
manner of hesitation, she let herself fall backward through a window
which was behind her and which was exceeding high above the ground;
wherefore, as she fell, she was not only killed, but well nigh broken
in pieces.

Sir Guillaume, seeing this, was sore dismayed and himseemed he had
done ill; wherefore, being adread of the country people and of the
Count of Provence, he let saddle his horses and made off. On the
morrow it was known all over the country how the thing had passed;
whereupon the two bodies were, with the utmost grief and lamentation,
taken up by Guardestaing's people and those of the lady and laid in
one same sepulchre in the chapel of the latter's own castle; and
thereover were verses written, signifying who these were that were
buried therewithin and the manner and occasion of their death."[256]

[Footnote 256: This is the well-known story of the Troubadour Guillem
de Cabestanh or Cabestaing, whose name Boccaccio alters to
Guardastagno or Guardestaing.]



THE TENTH STORY

[Day the Fourth]

     A PHYSICIAN'S WIFE PUTTETH HER LOVER FOR DEAD IN A CHEST,
     WHICH TWO USURERS CARRY OFF TO THEIR OWN HOUSE, GALLANT AND
     ALL. THE LATTER, WHO IS BUT DRUGGED, COMETH PRESENTLY TO
     HIMSELF AND BEING DISCOVERED, IS TAKEN FOR A THIEF; BUT THE
     LADY'S MAID AVOUCHETH TO THE SEIGNORY THAT SHE HERSELF HAD
     PUT HIM INTO THE CHEST STOLEN BY THE TWO USURERS, WHEREBY HE
     ESCAPETH THE GALLOWS AND THE THIEVES ARE AMERCED IN CERTAIN
     MONIES


Filostrato having made an end of his telling, it rested only with
Dioneo to accomplish his task, who, knowing this and it being
presently commanded him of the king, began as follows: 'The sorrows
that have been this day related of ill fortuned loves have saddened
not only your eyes and hearts, ladies, but mine also; wherefore I have
ardently longed for an end to be made thereof. Now that, praised be
God, they are finished (except I should choose to make an ill addition
to such sorry ware, from which God keep me!), I will, without farther
ensuing so dolorous a theme, begin with something blither and better,
thereby perchance affording a good argument for that which is to be
related on the ensuing day.

You must know, then, fairest lasses, that there was in Salerno, no
great while since, a very famous doctor in surgery, by name Master
Mazzeo della Montagna, who, being already come to extreme old age,
took to wife a fair and gentle damsel of his city and kept better
furnished with sumptuous and rich apparel and jewels and all that can
pleasure a lady than any woman of the place. True it is she went
a-cold most of her time, being kept of her husband ill covered abed;
for, like as Messer Ricardo di Chinzica (of whom we already told)
taught his wife to observe saints' days and holidays, even so the
doctor pretended to her that once lying with a woman necessitated I
know not how many days' study to recruit the strength and the like
toys; whereof she abode exceeding ill content and like a discreet and
high-spirited woman as she was, bethought herself, so she might the
better husband the household good, to betake herself to the highway
and seek to spend others' gear. To this end, considering divers young
men, at last she found one to her mind and on him she set all her
hope; whereof he becoming aware and she pleasing him mightily, he in
like manner turned all his love upon her.

The spark in question was called Ruggieri da Jeroli, a man of noble
birth, but of lewd life and blameworthy carriage, insomuch that he had
left himself neither friend nor kinsman who wished him well or cared
to see him and was defamed throughout all Salerno for thefts and other
knaveries of the vilest; but of this the lady recked little, he
pleasing her for otherwhat, and with the aid of a maid of hers, she
wrought on such wise that they came together. After they had taken
some delight, the lady proceeded to blame his past way of life and to
pray him, for the love of her, to desist from these ill fashions; and
to give him the means of doing this, she fell to succouring him, now
with one sum of money and now with another. On this wise they abode
together, using the utmost discretion, till it befell that a sick man
was put into the doctor's hands, who had a gangrened leg, and Master
Mazzeo, having examined the case, told the patient's kinsfolk that,
except a decayed bone he had in his leg were taken out, needs must he
have the whole limb cut off or die, and that, by taking out the bone,
he might recover, but that he would not undertake him otherwise than
for a dead man; to which those to whom the sick man pertained agreed
and gave the latter into his hands for such. The doctor, judging that
the patient might not brook the pain nor would suffer himself to be
operated, without an opiate, and having appointed to set about the
matter at evensong, let that morning distil a certain water of his
composition, which being drunken by the sick man, should make him
sleep so long as he deemed necessary for the performing of the
operation upon him, and fetching it home, set it in his chamber,
without telling any what it was.

The hour of vespers come and the doctor being about to go to the
patient in question, there came to him a messenger from certain very
great friends of his at Malfi, charging him fail not for anything to
repair thither incontinent, for that there had been a great fray
there, in which many had been wounded. Master Mazzeo accordingly put
off the tending of the leg until the ensuing morning and going aboard
a boat, went off to Malfi, whereupon his wife, knowing that he would
not return home that night, let fetch Ruggieri, as of her wont, and
bringing him into her chamber, locked him therewithin, against certain
other persons of the house should be gone to sleep. Ruggieri, then,
abiding in the chamber, awaiting his mistress, and being,--whether for
fatigue endured that day or salt meat that he had eaten or maybe for
usance,--sore, athirst, caught sight of the flagon of water, which the
doctor had prepared for the sick man and which stood in the window,
and deeming it drinking water, set it to his mouth and drank it all
off; nor was it long ere a great drowsiness took him and he fell
asleep.

The lady came to the chamber as first she might and finding Ruggieri
asleep, nudged him and bade him in a low voice arise, but to no
effect, for he replied not neither stirred anywhit; whereat she was
somewhat vexed and nudged him more sharply, saying, 'Get up, slugabed!
An thou hadst a mind to sleep, thou shouldst have betaken thee to
thine own house and not come hither.' Ruggieri, being thus pushed,
fell to the ground from a chest whereon he lay and gave no more sign
of life than a dead body; whereupon the lady, now somewhat alarmed,
began to seek to raise him up and to shake him more roughly, tweaking
him by the nose and plucking him by the beard, but all in vain; he had
tied his ass to a fast picket.[257] At this she began to fear lest he
were dead; nevertheless she proceeded to pinch him sharply and burn
his flesh with a lighted taper, but all to no purpose; wherefore,
being no doctress, for all her husband was a physician, she doubted
not but he was dead in very deed. Loving him over all else as she
did, it needeth no asking if she were woebegone for this and daring
not make any outcry, she silently fell a-weeping over him and
bewailing so sore a mishap.

[Footnote 257: A proverbial way of saying that he was fast asleep.]

After awhile, fearing to add shame to her loss, she bethought herself
that it behoved her without delay find a means of carrying the dead
man forth of the house and knowing not how to contrive this, she
softly called her maid and discovering to her her misadventure sought
counsel of her. The maid marvelled exceedingly and herself pulled and
pinched Ruggieri, but, finding him without sense or motion, agreed
with her mistress that he was certainly dead and counselled her put
him forth of the house. Quoth the lady, 'And where can we put him, so
it may not be suspected, whenas he shall be seen to-morrow morning,
that he hath been brought out hence?' 'Madam,' answered the maid, 'I
saw, this evening at nightfall, over against the shop of our neighbour
yonder the carpenter, a chest not overbig, the which, an the owner
have not taken it in again, will come very apt for our affair; for
that we can lay him therein, after giving him two or three slashes
with a knife, and leave him be. I know no reason why whoso findeth him
should suppose him to have been put there from this house rather than
otherwhence; nay, it will liefer be believed, seeing he was a young
man of lewd life, that he hath been slain by some enemy of his, whilst
going about to do some mischief or other, and after clapped in the
chest.'

The maid's counsel pleased the lady, save that she would not hear of
giving him any wound, saying that for naught in the world would her
heart suffer her to do that. Accordingly she sent her to see if the
chest were yet whereas she had noted it and she presently returned and
said, 'Ay.' Then, being young and lusty, with the aid of her mistress,
she took Ruggieri on her shoulders and carrying him out,--whilst the
lady forewent her, to look if any came,--clapped him into the chest
and shutting down the lid, left him there. Now it chanced that, a day
or two before, two young men, who lent at usance, had taken up their
abode in a house a little farther and lacking household gear, but
having a mind to gain much and spend little, had that day espied the
chest in question and had plotted together, if it should abide there
the night, to carry it off to their own house. Accordingly, midnight
come, they sallied forth and finding the chest still there, without
looking farther, they hastily carried it off, for all it seemed to
them somewhat heavy, to their own house, where they set it down beside
a chamber in which their wives slept and there leaving it, without
concerning themselves for the nonce to settle it overnicely, betook
them to bed.

Presently, the morning drawing near, Ruggieri, who had slept a great
while, having by this time digested the sleeping draught and exhausted
its effects, awoke and albeit his sleep was broken and his senses in
some measure restored, there abode yet a dizziness in his brain, which
held him stupefied, not that night only, but some days after. Opening
his eyes and seeing nothing, he put out his hands hither and thither
and finding himself in the chest, bethought himself and said, 'What is
this? Where am I? Am I asleep or awake? Algates I mind me that I came
this evening into my mistress's chamber and now meseemeth I am in a
chest. What meaneth this? Can the physician have returned or other
accident befallen, by reason whereof the lady hath hidden me here, I
being asleep? Methinketh it must have been thus; assuredly it was so.'
Accordingly, he addressed himself to abide quiet and hearken if he
could hear aught and after he had abidden thus a great while, being
somewhat ill at ease in the chest, which was small, and the side
whereon he lay irking him, he would have turned over to the other and
wrought so dexterously that, thrusting his loins against one of the
sides of the chest, which had not been set on a level place, he caused
it first to incline to one side and after topple over. In falling, it
made a great noise, whereat the women who slept therenigh awoke and
being affrighted, were silent for fear. Ruggieri was sore alarmed at
the fall of the chest, but, finding that it had opened in the fall,
chose rather, if aught else should betide, to be out of it than to
abide therewithin. Accordingly, he came forth and what with knowing
not where he was and what with one thing and another, he fell to
groping about the house, so haply he should find a stair or a door,
whereby he might get him gone.

The women, hearing this, began to say, 'Who is there?' But Ruggieri,
knowing not the voice, answered not; whereupon they proceeded to call
the two young men, who, for that they had overwatched themselves,
slept fast and heard nothing of all this. Thereupon the women, waxing
more fearful, arose and betaking themselves to the windows, fell
a-crying, 'Thieves! Thieves!' At this sundry of the neighbours ran up
and made their way, some by the roof and some by one part and some by
another, into the house; and the young men also, awaking for the
noise, arose and seized Ruggieri, who finding himself there, was in a
manner beside himself for wonderment and saw no way of escape. Then
they gave him into the hands of the officers of the governor of the
city, who had now run thither at the noise and carried him before
their chief. The latter, for that he was held of all a very sorry
fellow, straightway put him to the question and he confessed to having
entered the usurers' house to steal; whereupon the governor thought to
let string him up by the neck without delay.

The news was all over Salerno by the morning that Ruggieri had been
taken in the act of robbing the money-lenders' house, which the lady
and her maid hearing, they were filled with such strange and exceeding
wonderment that they were like to persuade themselves that they had
not done, but had only dreamed of doing, that which they had done
overnight; whilst the lady, to boot, was so concerned at the news of
the danger wherein Ruggieri was that she was like to go mad. Soon
after half tierce[258] the physician, having returned from Malfi and
wishing to medicine his patient, called for his prepared water and
finding the flagon empty, made a great outcry, saying that nothing
could abide as it was in his house. The lady, who was troubled with
another great chagrin, answered angrily, saying 'What wouldst thou
say, doctor, of grave matter, whenas thou makest such an outcry anent
a flagonlet of water overset? Is there no more water to be found in
the world?' 'Wife,' rejoined the physician, 'thou thinkest this was
common water; it was not so; nay, it was a water prepared to cause
sleep'; and told her for what occasion he had made it. When she heard
this, she understood forthright that Ruggieri had drunken the opiate
and had therefore appeared to them dead and said to her husband,
'Doctor, we knew it not; wherefore do you make yourself some more';
and the physician, accordingly, seeing he might not do otherwise, let
make thereof anew.

[Footnote 258: _i.e._ about half-past seven a.m.]

A little after, the maid, who had gone by her mistress's commandment
to learn what should be reported of Ruggieri, returned and said to
her, 'Madam, every one missaith of Ruggieri; nor, for aught I could
hear, is there friend or kinsman who hath risen up or thinketh to rise
up to assist him, and it is held certain that the prefect of police
will have him hanged to-morrow. Moreover, I have a strange thing to
tell you, to wit, meseemeth I have discovered how he came into the
money-lenders' house, and hear how. You know the carpenter overagainst
whose shop was the chest wherein we laid him; he was but now at the
hottest words in the world with one to whom it seemeth the chest
belonged; for the latter demanded of him the price of his chest, and
the carpenter replied that he had not sold it, but that it had that
night been stolen from him. Whereto, "Not so," quoth the other, "nay,
thou soldest it to the two young men, the money-lenders yonder, as
they told me yesternight, when I saw it in their house what time
Ruggieri was taken." "They lie," answered the carpenter. "I never sold
it to them; but they stole it from me yesternight. Let us go to them."
So they went off with one accord to the money-lenders' house, and I
came back hither. On this wise, as you may see, I conclude that
Ruggieri was transported whereas he was found; but how he came to life
again I cannot divine.'

The lady now understood very well how the case stood and telling the
maid what she had heard from the physician, besought her help to save
Ruggieri, for that she might, an she would, at once save him and
preserve her honour. Quoth she, 'Madam, teach me how, and I will
gladly do anything.' Whereupon the lady, whose wits were sharpened by
the urgency of the case, having promptly bethought herself of that
which was to do, particularly acquainted the maid therewith, who first
betook herself to the physician and weeping, began to say to him,
'Sir, it behoveth me ask you pardon of a great fault, which I have
committed against you.' 'In what?' asked the doctor, and she, never
giving over weeping, answered, 'Sir, you know what manner young man is
Ruggieri da Jeroli. He took a liking to me awhile agone and partly for
fear and partly for love, needs must I become his mistress.
Yesternight, knowing that you were abroad, he cajoled me on such wise
that I brought him into your house to lie with me in my chamber, and
he being athirst and I having no whither more quickly to resort for
water or wine, unwilling as I was that your lady, who was in the
saloon, should see me, I remembered me to have seen a flagon of water
in your chamber. Accordingly, I ran for it and giving him the water to
drink, replaced the flagon whence I had taken it, whereof I find you
have made a great outcry in the house. And certes I confess I did ill;
but who is there doth not ill bytimes? Indeed, I am exceeding grieved
to have done it, not so much for the thing itself as for that which
hath ensued of it and by reason whereof Ruggieri is like to lose his
life. Wherefore I pray you, as most I may, pardon me and give me leave
to go succour Ruggieri inasmuch as I can.' The physician, hearing
this, for all he was angry, answered jestingly, 'Thou hast given
thyself thine own penance therefor, seeing that, whereas thou
thoughtest yesternight to have a lusty young fellow who would shake
thy skincoats well for thee, thou hadst a sluggard; wherefore go and
endeavour for the deliverance of thy lover; but henceforth look thou
bring him not into the house again, or I will pay thee for this time
and that together.'

The maid, thinking she had fared well for the first venue, betook
herself, as quickliest she might, to the prison, where Ruggieri lay
and coaxed the gaoler to let her speak with the prisoner, whom after
she had instructed what answers he should make to the prefect of
police, an he would fain escape, she contrived to gain admission to
the magistrate himself. The latter, for that she was young and buxom,
would fain, ere he would hearken to her, cast his grapnel aboard the
good wench, whereof she, to be the better heard, was no whit chary;
then, having quitted herself of the grinding due,[259] 'Sir,' said
she, 'you have here Ruggieri da Jeroli taken for a thief; but the
truth is not so.' Then, beginning from the beginning, she told him the
whole story; how she, being his mistress, had brought him into the
physician's house and had given him the drugged water to drink,
unknowing what it was, and how she had put him for dead into the
chest; after which she told him the talk she had heard between the
master carpenter and the owner of the chest, showing him thereby how
Ruggieri had come into the money-lenders' house.

[Footnote 259: Or "having risen from the grinding" (_levatasi dal
macinio_).]

The magistrate, seeing it an easy thing to come at the truth of the
matter, first questioned the physician if it were true of the water
and found that it was as she had said; whereupon he let summon the
carpenter and him to whom the chest belonged and the two money-lenders
and after much parley, found that the latter had stolen the chest
overnight and put it in their house. Ultimately he sent for Ruggieri
and questioned him where he had lain that night, whereto he replied
that where he had lain he knew not; he remembered indeed having gone
to pass the night with Master Mazzeo's maid, in whose chamber he had
drunken water for a sore thirst he had; but what became of him after
he knew not, save that, when he awoke, he found himself in the
money-lenders' house in a chest. The prefect, hearing these things and
taking great pleasure therein, caused the maid and Ruggieri and the
carpenter and the money-lenders repeat their story again and again;
and in the end, seeing Ruggieri to be innocent, he released him and
amerced the money-lenders in half a score ounces for that they had
stolen the chest. How welcome this was to Ruggieri, none need ask, and
it was beyond measure pleasing to his mistress, who together with her
lover and the precious maid, who had proposed to give him the slashes
with the knife, many a time after laughed and made merry of the
matter, still continuing their loves and their disport from good to
better; the which I would well might so betide myself, save always the
being put in the chest."

       *       *       *       *       *

If the former stories had saddened the hearts of the lovesome ladies,
this last one of Dioneo's made them laugh heartily, especially when he
spoke of the prefect casting his grapnel aboard the maid, that they
were able thus to recover themselves of the melancholy caused by the
others. But the king, seeing that the sun began to grow yellow and
that the term of his seignory was come, with very courteous speech
excused himself to the fair ladies for that which he had done, to wit,
that he had caused discourse of so sorrowful a matter as that of
lovers' infelicity; which done, he rose to his feet and taking from
his head the laurel wreath, whilst the ladies waited to see on whom he
should bestow it, set it daintily on Fiammetta's fair head, saying, "I
make over this crown to thee, as to her who will, better than any
other, know how with to-morrow's pleasance to console these ladies our
companions of to-day's woefulness."

Fiammetta, whose locks were curled and long and golden and fell over
her white and delicate shoulders and whose soft-rounded face was all
resplendent with white lilies and vermeil roses commingled, with two
eyes in her head as they were those of a peregrine falcon and a dainty
little mouth, the lips whereof seemed twin rubies, answered, smiling,
"And I, Filostrato, I take it willingly, and that thou mayst be the
better cognizant of that which thou hast done, I presently will and
command that each prepare to discourse to-morrow of THAT WHICH HATH
HAPPILY BETIDED LOVERS AFTER SUNDRY CRUEL AND MISFORTUNATE
ADVENTURES." Her proposition[260] was pleasing unto all and she, after
summoning the seneschal and taking counsel with him of things needful,
arising from session, blithely dismissed all the company until
supper-time. Accordingly, they all proceeded, according to their
various appetites, to take their several pleasures, some wandering
about the garden, whose beauties were not such as might lightly tire,
and other some betaking themselves towards the mills which wrought
therewithout, whilst the rest fared some hither and some thither,
until the hour of supper, which being come, they all foregathered, as
of their wont, anigh the fair fountain and there supped with exceeding
pleasance and well served. Presently, arising thence, they addressed
themselves, as of their wont, to dancing and singing, and Filomena
leading off the dance, the queen said, "Filostrato, I purpose not to
depart from the usance of those who have foregone me in the sovranty,
but, like as they have done, so I intend that a song be sung at my
commandment; and as I am assured that thy songs are even such as are
thy stories, it is our pleasure that, so no more days than this be
troubled with thine ill fortunes, thou sing such one thereof as most
pleaseth thee." Filostrato replied that he would well and forthright
proceeded to sing on this wise:

[Footnote 260: _i.e._ the theme proposed by her.]

         Weeping, I demonstrate
     How sore with reason doth my heart complain
     Of love betrayed and plighted faith in vain.

       Love, whenas first there was of thee imprest
         Thereon[261] her image for whose sake I sigh,
           Sans hope of succour aye,
           So full of virtue didst thou her pourtray,
         That every torment light accounted I
       That through thee to my breast
       Grown full of drear unrest
     And dole, might come; but now, alack! I'm fain
     To own my error, not withouten pain.

       Yea, of the cheat first was I made aware,
         Seeing myself of her forsaken sheer,
           In whom I hoped alone;
           For, when I deemed myself most fairly grown
         Into her favour and her servant dear,
       Without her thought or care
       Of my to-come despair,
     I found she had another's merit ta'en
     To heart and put me from her with disdain.

       Whenas I knew me banished from my stead,
         Straight in my heart a dolorous plaint there grew,
           That yet therein hath power,
           And oft I curse the day and eke the hour
         When first her lovesome visage met my view,
       Graced with high goodlihead;
       And more enamouréd
     Than eye, my soul keeps up its dying strain,
     Faith, ardour, hope, blaspheming still amain.
       How void my misery is of all relief
         Thou mayst e'en feel, so sore I call thee, sire,
           With voice all full of woe;
           Ay, and I tell thee that it irks me so
         That death for lesser torment I desire.
       Come, death, then; shear the sheaf
       Of this my life of grief
     And with thy stroke my madness eke assain;
     Go where I may, less dire will be my bane.

       No other way than death is left my spright,
         Ay, and none other solace for my dole;
           Then give it[262] me straightway,
           Love; put an end withal to my dismay:
       Ah, do it; since fate's spite
       Hath robbed me of delight;
     Gladden thou her, lord, with my death, love-slain,
     As thou hast cheered her with another swain.

       My song, though none to learn thee lend an ear,
         I reck the less thereof, indeed, that none
           Could sing thee even as I;
           One only charge I give thee, ere I die,
         That thou find Love and unto him alone
       Show fully how undear
       This bitter life and drear
     Is to me, craving of his might he deign
     Some better harbourage I may attain.

         Weeping I demonstrate
     How sore with reason doth my heart complain
     Of love betrayed and plighted faith in vain.

[Footnote 261: _i.e._ on my heart.]

[Footnote 262: _i.e._ death.]

The words of this song clearly enough discovered the state of
Filostrato's mind and the cause thereof, the which belike the
countenance of a certain lady who was in the dance had yet plainlier
declared, had not the shades of the now fallen night hidden the
blushes that rose to her face. But, when he had made an end of his
song, many others were sung, till such time as the hour of sleep
arrived, whereupon, at the queen's commandment, each of the ladies
withdrew to her chamber.


HERE ENDETH THE FOURTH DAY
OF THE DECAMERON



_Day the Fifth_

     HERE BEGINNETH THE FIFTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER
     THE GOVERNANCE OF FIAMMETTA IS DISCOURSED OF THAT WHICH HATH
     HAPPILY BETIDED LOVERS AFTER SUNDRY CRUEL AND MISFORTUNATE
     ADVENTURES


The East was already all white and the rays of the rising sun had made
it light through all our hemisphere, when Fiammetta, allured by the
sweet song of the birds that blithely chanted the first hour of the
day upon the branches, arose and let call all the other ladies and the
three young men; then, with leisured pace descending into the fields,
she went a-pleasuring with her company about the ample plain upon the
dewy grasses, discoursing with them of one thing and another, until
the sun was somewhat risen, when, feeling that its rays began to grow
hot, she turned their steps to their abiding-place. There, with
excellent wines and confections, she let restore the light fatigue had
and they disported themselves in the delightsome garden until the
eating hour, which being come and everything made ready by the
discreet seneschal, they sat blithely down to meat, such being the
queen's pleasure, after they had sung sundry roundelays and a ballad
or two. Having dined orderly and with mirth, not unmindful of their
wonted usance of dancing, they danced sundry short dances to the sound
of songs and tabrets, after which the queen dismissed them all until
the hour of slumber should be past. Accordingly, some betook
themselves to sleep, whilst others addressed themselves anew to their
diversion about the fair garden; but all, according to the wonted
fashion, assembled together again, a little after none, near the fair
fountain, whereas it pleased the queen. Then she, having seated
herself in the chief room, looked towards Pamfilo and smilingly
charged him make a beginning with the fair-fortuned stories; whereto
he willingly addressed himself and spoke as follows:



THE FIRST STORY

[Day the Fifth]

     CIMON, LOVING, WAXETH WISE AND CARRIETH OFF TO SEA IPHIGENIA
     HIS MISTRESS. BEING CAST INTO PRISON AT RHODES, HE IS
     DELIVERED THENCE BY LYSIMACHUS AND IN CONCERT WITH HIM
     CARRIETH OFF IPHIGENIA AND CASSANDRA ON THEIR WEDDING-DAY,
     WITH WHOM THE TWAIN FLEE INTO CRETE, WHERE THE TWO LADIES
     BECOME THEIR WIVES AND WHENCE THEY ARE PRESENTLY ALL FOUR
     RECALLED HOME


"Many stories, delightsome ladies, apt to give beginning to so glad a
day as this will be, offer themselves unto me to be related; whereof
one is the most pleasing to my mind, for that thereby, beside the
happy issue which is to mark this day's discourses, you may understand
how holy, how puissant and how full of all good is the power of Love,
which many, unknowing what they say, condemn and vilify with great
unright; and this, an I err not, must needs be exceeding pleasing to
you, for that I believe you all to be in love.

There was, then, in the island of Cyprus, (as we have read aforetime
in the ancient histories of the Cypriots,) a very noble gentleman, by
name Aristippus, who was rich beyond any other of the country in all
temporal things and might have held himself the happiest man alive,
had not fortune made him woeful in one only thing, to wit, that
amongst his other children he had a son who overpassed all the other
youths of his age in stature and goodliness of body, but was a
hopeless dullard and well nigh an idiot. His true name was Galesus,
but for that neither by toil of teacher nor blandishment nor beating
of his father nor study nor endeavour of whatsoever other had it been
found possible to put into his head any inkling of letters or good
breeding and that he had a rough voice and an uncouth and manners more
befitting a beast than a man, he was of well nigh all by way of
mockery called Cimon, which in their tongue signified as much as brute
beast in ours. His father brooked his wastrel life with the most
grievous concern and having presently given over all hope of him, he
bade him begone to his country house[263] and there abide with his
husbandmen, so he might not still have before him the cause of his
chagrin; the which was very agreeable to Cimon, for that the manners
and usages of clowns and churls were much more to his liking than
those of the townsfolk.

[Footnote 263: Or farm (_villa_).]

Cimon, then, betaking himself to the country and there employing
himself in the things that pertained thereto, it chanced one day,
awhile after noon, as he passed from one farm to another, with his
staff on his shoulder, that he entered a very fair coppice which was
in those parts and which was then all in leaf, for that it was the
month of May. Passing therethrough, he happened (even as his fortune
guided him thither) upon a little mead compassed about with very high
trees, in one corner whereof was a very clear and cool spring, beside
which he saw a very fair damsel asleep upon the green grass, with so
thin a garment upon her body that it hid well nigh nothing of her
snowy flesh. She was covered only from the waist down with a very
white and light coverlet; and at her feet slept on like wise two women
and a man, her servants. When Cimon espied the young lady, he halted
and leaning upon his staff, fell, without saying a word, to gazing
most intently upon her with the utmost admiration, no otherwise than
as he had never yet seen a woman's form, whilst in his rude breast,
wherein for a thousand lessonings no least impression of civil
pleasance had availed to penetrate, he felt a thought awaken which
intimated to his gross and material spirit that this maiden was the
fairest thing that had been ever seen of any living soul. Thence he
proceeded to consider her various parts,--commending her hair, which
he accounted of gold, her brow, her nose, her mouth, her throat and
her arms, and above all her breast, as yet but little upraised,--and
grown of a sudden from a churl a judge of beauty, he ardently desired
in himself to see the eyes, which, weighed down with deep sleep, she
kept closed. To this end, he had it several times in mind to awaken
her; but, for that she seemed to him beyond measure fairer than the
other women aforetime seen of him, he misdoubted him she must be some
goddess. Now he had wit enough to account things divine worthy of more
reverence than those mundane; wherefore he forbore, waiting for her to
awake of herself; and albeit the delay seemed overlong to him, yet,
taken as he was with an unwonted pleasure, he knew not how to tear
himself away.

It befell, then, that, after a long while, the damsel, whose name was
Iphigenia, came to herself, before any of her people, and opening her
eyes, saw Cimon (who, what for his fashion and uncouthness and his
father's wealth and nobility, was known in a manner to every one in
the country) standing before her, leant on his staff, marvelled
exceedingly and said, 'Cimon, what goest thou seeking in this wood at
this hour?' He made her no answer, but, seeing her eyes open, began to
look steadfastly upon them, himseeming there proceeded thence a
sweetness which fulfilled him with a pleasure such as he had never
before felt. The young lady, seeing this, began to misdoubt her lest
his so fixed looking upon her should move his rusticity to somewhat
that might turn to her shame; wherefore, calling her women, she rose
up, saying, 'Cimon, abide with God.' To which he replied, 'I will
begone with thee'; and albeit the young lady, who was still in fear of
him, would have declined his company, she could not win to rid herself
of him till he had accompanied her to her own house.

Thence he repaired to his father's house [in the city,] and declared
to him that he would on no wise consent to return to the country; the
which was irksome enough to Aristippus and his kinsfolk; nevertheless
they let him be, awaiting to see what might be the cause of his change
of mind. Love's arrow having, then, through Iphigenia's beauty,
penetrated into Cimon's heart, whereinto no teaching had ever availed
to win an entrance, in a very brief time, proceeding from one idea to
another, he made his father marvel and all his kinsfolk and every
other that knew him. In the first place he besought his father that he
would cause him go bedecked with clothes and every other thing, even
as his brothers, the which Aristippus right gladly did. Then,
consorting with young men of condition and learning the fashions and
carriage that behoved unto gentlemen and especially unto lovers, he
first, to the utmost wonderment of every one, in a very brief space of
time, not only learned the first [elements of] letters, but became
very eminent among the students of philosophy, and after (the love
which he bore Iphigenia being the cause of all this) he not only
reduced his rude and rustical manner of speech to seemliness and
civility, but became a past master of song and sound[264] and
exceeding expert and doughty in riding and martial exercises, both by
land and by sea. In short, not to go recounting every particular of
his merits, the fourth year was not accomplished from the day of his
first falling in love, ere he was grown the sprightliest and most
accomplished gentleman of all the young men in the island of Cyprus,
ay, and the best endowed with every particular excellence. What, then,
charming ladies, shall we say of Cimon? Certes, none other thing than
that the lofty virtues implanted by heaven in his generous soul had
been bounden with exceeding strong bonds of jealous fortune and shut
in some straitest corner of his heart, all which bonds Love, as a
mightier than fortune, broke and burst in sunder and in its quality of
awakener and quickener of drowsed and sluggish wits, urged forth into
broad daylight the virtues aforesaid, which had till then been
overdarkened with a barbarous obscurity, thus manifestly discovering
from how mean a room it can avail to uplift those souls that are
subject unto it and to what an eminence it can conduct them with its
beams.

[Footnote 264: _i.e._ of music, vocal and instrumental.]

Although Cimon, loving Iphigenia as he did, might exceed in certain
things, as young men in love very often do, nevertheless Aristippus,
considering that Love had turned him from a dunce into a man, not only
patiently bore with the extravagances into which it might whiles lead
him, but encouraged him to ensue its every pleasure. But Cimon, (who
refused to be called Galesus, remembering that Iphigenia had called
him by the former name,) seeking to put an honourable term to his
desire, once and again caused essay Cipseus, Iphigenia's father, so he
should give him his daughter to wife; but Cipseus still answered that
he had promised her to Pasimondas, a young nobleman of Rhodes, to whom
he had no mind to fail of his word. The time coming the covenanted
nuptials of Iphigenia and the bridegroom having sent for her, Cimon
said to himself, 'Now, O Iphigenia, is the time to prove how much thou
are beloved of me. By thee am I become a man and so I may but have
thee, I doubt not to become more glorious than any god; and for
certain I will or have thee or die.'

Accordingly, having secretly recruited certain young noblemen who were
his friends and let privily equip a ship with everything apt for naval
battle, he put out to sea and awaited the vessel wherein Iphigenia was
to be transported to her husband in Rhodes. The bride, after much
honour done of her father to the bridegroom's friends, took ship with
the latter, who turned their prow towards Rhodes and departed. On the
following day, Cimon, who slept not, came out upon them with his ship
and cried out, in a loud voice, from the prow, to those who were on
board Iphigenia's vessel, saying, 'Stay, strike your sails or look to
be beaten and sunken in the sea.' Cimon's adversaries had gotten up
their arms on deck and made ready to defend themselves; whereupon he,
after speaking the words aforesaid, took a grappling-iron and casting
it upon the poop of the Rhodians, who were making off at the top of
their speed, made it fast by main force to the prow of his own ship.
Then, bold as a lion, he leapt on board their ship, without waiting
for any to follow him, as if he held them all for nought, and Love
spurring him, he fell upon his enemies with marvellous might, cutlass
in hand, striking now this one and now that and hewing them down like
sheep.

The Rhodians, seeing this, cast down their arms and all as with one
voice confessed themselves prisoners; whereupon quoth Cimon to them,
'Young men, it was neither lust of rapine nor hate that I had against
you made me depart Cyprus to assail you, arms in hand, in mid sea.
That which moved me thereunto was the desire of a thing which to have
gotten is a very grave matter to me and to you a very light one to
yield me in peace; it is, to wit, Iphigenia, whom I loved over all
else and whom, availing not to have of her father on friendly and
peaceful wise, Love hath constrained me to win from you as an enemy
and by force of arms. Wherefor I mean to be to her that which your
friend Pasimondas should have been. Give her to me, then, and begone
and God's grace go with you.'

The Rhodians, more by force constrained than of freewill, surrendered
Iphigenia, weeping, to Cimon, who, seeing her in tears, said to her,
'Noble Lady, be not disconsolate; I am thy Cimon, who by long love
have far better deserved to have thee than Pasimondas by plighted
faith.' Thereupon he caused carry her aboard his own ship and
returning to his companions, let the Rhodians go, without touching
aught else of theirs. Then, glad beyond any man alive to have gotten
so dear a prey, after devoting some time to comforting the weeping
lady, he took counsel with his comrades not to return to Cyprus at
that present; wherefore, of one accord, they turned the ship's head
towards Crete, where well nigh every one, and especially Cimon, had
kinsfolk, old and new, and friends in plenty and where they doubted
not to be in safety with Iphigenia. But fortune the unstable, which
had cheerfully enough vouchsafed unto Cimon the acquisition of the
lady, suddenly changed the inexpressible joyance of the enamoured
youth into sad and bitter mourning; for it was not four full told
hours since he had left the Rhodians when the night (which Cimon
looked to be more delightsome than any he had ever known) came on and
with it a very troublous and tempestuous shift of weather, which
filled all the sky with clouds and the sea with ravening winds, by
reason whereof none could see what to do or whither to steer, nor
could any even keep the deck to do any office.

How sore concerned was Cimon for this it needeth not to ask; himseemed
the gods had vouchsafed him his desire but to make death the more
grievous to him, whereof, without that, he had before recked little.
His comrades lamented on like wise, but Iphigenia bewailed herself
over all, weeping sore and fearing every stroke of the waves; and in
her chagrin she bitterly cursed Cimon's love and blamed his
presumption, avouching that the tempest had arisen for none other
thing but that the gods chose not that he, who would fain against
their will have her to wife, should avail to enjoy his presumptuous
desire, but, seeing her first die, should after himself perish
miserably.

Amidst such lamentations and others yet more grievous, the wind waxing
hourly fiercer and the seamen knowing not what to do, they came,
without witting whither they went or availing to change their course,
near to the island of Rhodes, and unknowing that it was Rhodes, they
used their every endeavour to get to land thereon, an it were
possible, for the saving of their lives. In this fortune was
favourable to them and brought them into a little bight of the sea,
where the Rhodians whom Cimon had let go had a little before arrived
with their ship; nor did they perceive that they had struck the island
of Rhodes till the dawn broke and made the sky somewhat clearer, when
they found themselves maybe a bowshot distant from the ship left of
them the day before. At this Cimon was beyond measure chagrined and
fearing lest that should betide them which did in very deed ensue,
bade use every endeavour to issue thence and let fortune after carry
them whither it should please her, for that they could be nowhere in
worse case than there. Accordingly, they made the utmost efforts to
put to sea, but in vain; for the wind blew so mightily against them
that not only could they not avail to issue from the little harbour,
but whether they would or no, it drove them ashore.

No sooner were they come thither than they were recognized by the
Rhodian sailors, who had landed from their ship, and one of them ran
nimbly to a village hard by, whither the young Rhodian gentlemen had
betaken themselves, and told the latter that, as luck would have
it,[265] Cimon and Iphigenia were come thither aboard their ship,
driven, like themselves, by stress of weather. They, hearing this,
were greatly rejoiced and repairing in all haste to the sea-shore,
with a number of the villagers, took Cimon, together with Iphigenia
and all his company, who had now landed and taken counsel together to
flee into some neighbouring wood, and carried them to the village. The
news coming to Pasimondas, he made his complaint to the senate of the
island and according as he had ordered it with them, Lysimachus, in
whom the chief magistracy of the Rhodians was for that year vested,
coming thither from the city with a great company of men-at-arms,
haled Cimon and all his men to prison. On such wise did the wretched
and lovelorn Cimon lose his Iphigenia, scantwhile before won of him,
without having taken of her more than a kiss or two; whilst she
herself was received by many noble ladies of Rhodes and comforted as
well for the chagrin had of her seizure as for the fatigue suffered by
reason of the troubled sea; and with them she abode against the day
appointed for her nuptials.

[Footnote 265: _Per fortuna._ This may also be rendered "by tempest,"
_fortuna_ being a name for a squall or hurricane, which Boccaccio uses
elsewhere in the same sense.]

As for Cimon and his companions, their lives were granted them, in
consideration of the liberty given by them to the young Rhodians the
day before,--albeit Pasimondas used his utmost endeavour to procure
them to be put to death,--and they were condemned to perpetual prison,
wherein, as may well be believed, they abode woebegone and without
hope of any relief. However, whilst Pasimondas, as most he might,
hastened the preparations for his coming nuptials, fortune, as if
repenting her of the sudden injury done to Cimon, brought about a new
circumstance for his deliverance, the which was on this wise.
Pasimondas had a brother called Ormisdas, less in years, but not in
merit, than himself, who had been long in treaty for the hand of a
fair and noble damsel of the city, by name Cassandra, whom Lysimachus
ardently loved, and the match had sundry times been broken off by
divers untoward accidents. Now Pasimondas, being about to celebrate
his own nuptials with the utmost splendour, bethought himself that it
were excellently well done if he could procure Ormisdas likewise to
take wife on the same occasion, not to resort afresh to expense and
festival making. Accordingly, he took up again the parleys with
Cassandra's parents and brought them to a successful issue; wherefore
he and his brother agreed, in concert with them, that Ormisdas should
take Cassandra to wife on the same day whenas himself took Iphigenia.

Lysimachus hearing this, it was beyond measure displeasing to him, for
that he saw himself bereaved of the hope which he cherished, that, an
Ormisdas took her not, he should certainly have her. However, like a
wise man, he kept his chagrin hidden and fell to considering on what
wise he might avail to hinder this having effect, but could see no way
possible save the carrying her off. This seemed easy to him to compass
for the office which he held, but he accounted the deed far more
dishonourable than if he had not held the office in question.
Ultimately, however, after long deliberation, honour gave place to
love and he determined, come what might of it, to carry off Cassandra.
Then, bethinking himself of the company he must have and the course he
must hold to do this, he remembered him of Cimon, whom he had in
prison with his comrades, and concluded that he might have no better
or trustier companion than Cimon in this affair.

Accordingly, that same night he had him privily into his chamber and
proceeded to bespeak him on this wise: 'Cimon, like as the gods are
very excellent and bountiful givers of things to men, even so are they
most sagacious provers of their virtues, and those, whom they find
resolute and constant under all circumstances, they hold deserving, as
the most worthy, of the highest recompenses. They have been minded to
have more certain proof of thy worth than could be shown by thee
within the limits of thy father's house, whom I know to be abundantly
endowed with riches; wherefore, first, with the poignant instigations
of love they brought thee from a senseless animal to be a man, and
after with foul fortune and at this present with prison dour, they
would fain try if thy spirit change not from that which it was, whenas
thou wast scantwhile glad of the gotten prize. If that[266] be the
same as it was erst, they never yet vouchsafed thee aught so gladsome
as that which they are presently prepared to bestow on thee and which,
so thou mayst recover thy wonted powers and resume thy whilom spirit,
I purpose to discover to thee.

[Footnote 266: _i.e._ thy spirit.]

Pasimondas, rejoicing in thy misadventure and a diligent promoter of
thy death, bestirreth himself as most he may to celebrate his nuptials
with thine Iphigenia, so therein he may enjoy the prize which fortune
first blithely conceded thee and after, growing troubled, took from
thee of a sudden. How much this must grieve thee, an thou love as I
believe, I know by myself, to whom Ormisdas his brother prepareth in
one same day to do a like injury in the person of Cassandra, whom I
love over all else. To escape so great an unright and annoy of
fortune, I see no way left open of her to us, save the valour of our
souls and the might of our right hands, wherein it behoveth us take
our swords and make us a way to the carrying off of our two
mistresses, thee for the second and me for the first time. If, then,
it be dear to thee to have again--I will not say thy liberty, whereof
methinketh thou reckest little without thy lady, but--thy mistress,
the gods have put her in thy hands, an thou be willing to second me in
my emprize.'

All Cimon's lost spirit was requickened in him by these words and he
replied, without overmuch consideration, 'Lysimachus, thou canst have
no stouter or trustier comrade than myself in such an enterprise, an
that be to ensue thereof for me which thou avouchest; wherefore do
thou command me that which thou deemest should be done of me, and thou
shalt find thyself wonder-puissantly seconded.' Then said Lysimachus,
'On the third day from this the new-married wives will for the first
time enter their husbands' houses, whereinto thou with thy companions
armed and I with certain of my friends, in whom I put great trust,
will make our way towards nightfall and snatching up our mistresses
out of the midst of the guests, will carry them off to a ship, which I
have caused secretly equip, slaying whosoever shall presume to offer
opposition.' The devise pleased Cimon and he abode quiet in prison
until the appointed time.

The wedding-day being come, great and magnificent was the pomp of the
festival and every part of the two brothers' house was full of mirth
and merrymaking; whereupon Lysimachus, having made ready everything
needful, divided Cimon and his companions, together with his own
friends, all armed under their clothes, into three parties and having
first kindled them to his purpose with many words, secretly despatched
one party to the harbour, so none might hinder their going aboard the
ship, whenas need should be. Then, coming with the other twain, whenas
it seemed to him time, to Pasimondas his house, he left one party of
them at the door, so as none might shut them up therewithin or forbid
them the issue, and with Cimon and the rest went up by the stairs.
Coming to the saloon where the new-wedded brides were seated orderly
at meat with many other ladies, they rushed in upon them and
overthrowing the tables, took each his mistress and putting them in
the hands of their comrades, bade straightway carry them to the ship
that was in waiting. The brides fell a-weeping and shrieking, as did
likewise the other ladies and the servants, and the whole house was of
a sudden full of clamour and lamentation.

Cimon and Lysimachus and their companions, drawing their swords, made
for the stairs, without any opposition, all giving way to them, and as
they descended, Pasimondas presented himself before them, with a great
cudgel in his hand, being drawn thither by the outcry; but Cimon dealt
him a swashing blow on the head and cleaving it sheer in sunder, laid
him dead at his feet. The wretched Ormisdas, running to his brother's
aid, was on like wise slain by one of Cimon's strokes, and divers
others who sought to draw nigh them were in like manner wounded and
beaten off by the companions of the latter and Lysimachus, who,
leaving the house full of blood and clamour and weeping and woe, drew
together and made their way to the ship with their prizes, unhindered
of any. Here they embarked with their mistresses and all their
companions, the shore being now full of armed folk come to the rescue
of the ladies, and thrusting the oars into the water, made off,
rejoicing, about their business. Coming presently to Crete, they were
there joyfully received by many, both friends and kinsfolk, and
espousing their mistresses with great pomp, gave themselves up to the
glad enjoyment of their purchase. Loud and long were the clamours and
differences in Cyprus and in Rhodes by reason of their doings; but,
ultimately, their friends and kinsfolk, interposing in one and the
other place, found means so to adjust matters that, after some exile,
Cimon joyfully returned to Cyprus with Iphigenia, whilst Lysimachus on
like wise returned to Rhodes with Cassandra, and each lived long and
happily with his mistress in his own country."



THE SECOND STORY

[Day the Fifth]

     COSTANZA LOVETH MARTUCCIO GOMITO AND HEARING THAT HE IS
     DEAD, EMBARKETH FOR DESPAIR ALONE IN A BOAT, WHICH IS
     CARRIED BY THE WIND TO SUSA. FINDING HER LOVER ALIVE AT
     TUNIS, SHE DISCOVERETH HERSELF TO HIM AND HE, BEING GREAT IN
     FAVOUR WITH THE KING FOR COUNSELS GIVEN, ESPOUSETH HER AND
     RETURNETH RICH WITH HER TO LIPARI


The queen, seeing Pamfilo's story at an end, after she had much
commended it, enjoined Emilia to follow on, telling another, and she
accordingly began thus: "Every one must naturally delight in those
things wherein he seeth rewards ensue according to the affections;[267]
and for that love in the long run deserveth rather happiness than
affliction, I shall, intreating of the present theme, obey the queen
with much greater pleasure to myself than I did the king in that of
yesterday.

[Footnote 267: Syn. inclinations (_affezioni_). This is a somewhat
obscure passage, owing to the vagueness of the word _affezioni_ (syn.
_affetti_) in this position, and may be rendered, with about equal
probability, in more than one way.]

You must know, then, dainty dames, that near unto Sicily is an islet
called Lipari, wherein, no great while agone, was a very fair damsel
called Costanza, born of a very considerable family there. It chanced
that a young man of the same island, called Martuccio Gomito, who was
very agreeable and well bred and of approved worth[268] in his
craft,[269] fell in love with her; and she in like manner so burned
for him that she was never easy save whenas she saw him. Martuccio,
wishing to have her to wife, caused demand her of her father, who
answered that he was poor and that therefore he would not give her to
him. The young man, enraged to see himself rejected for poverty, in
concert with certain of his friends and kinsmen, equipped a light ship
and swore never to return to Lipari, except rich. Accordingly, he
departed thence and turning corsair, fell to cruising off the coast of
Barbary and plundering all who were weaker than himself; wherein
fortune was favourable enough to him, had he known how to set bounds
to his wishes; but, it sufficing him not to have waxed very rich, he
and his comrades, in a brief space of time, it befell that, whilst
they sought to grow overrich, he was, after a long defence, taken and
plundered with all his companions by certain ships of the Saracens,
who, after scuttling the vessel and sacking the greater part of the
crew, carried Martuccio to Tunis, where he was put in prison and long
kept in misery.

[Footnote 268: Or "eminent" (_valoroso_), _i.e._ in modern parlance,
"a man of merit and talent."]

[Footnote 269: _Valoroso nel suo mestiere._ It does not appear that
Martuccio was a craftsman and it is possible, therefore, that
Boccaccio intended the word _mestiere_ to be taken in the sense (to me
unknown) of "condition" or "estate," in which case the passage would
read, "a man of worth for (_i.e._ as far as comported with) his [mean]
estate"; and this seems a probable reading.]

The news was brought to Lipari, not by one or by two, but by many and
divers persons, that he and all on board the bark had been drowned;
whereupon the girl, who had been beyond measure woebegone for her
lover's departure, hearing that he was dead with the others, wept sore
and resolved in herself to live no longer; but, her heart suffering
her not to slay herself by violence, she determined to give a new
occasion[270] to her death.[271] Accordingly, she issued secretly
forth of her father's house one night and betaking herself to the
harbour, happened upon a fishing smack, a little aloof from the other
ships, which, for that its owners had but then landed therefrom, she
found furnished with mast and sail and oars. In this she hastily
embarked and rowed herself out to sea; then, being somewhat skilled in
the mariner's art, as the women of that island mostly are, she made
sail and casting the oars and rudder adrift, committed herself
altogether to the mercy of the waves, conceiving that it must needs
happen that the wind would either overturn a boat without lading or
steersman or drive it upon some rock and break it up, whereby she
could not, even if she would, escape, but must of necessity be
drowned. Accordingly, wrapping her head in a mantle, she laid herself,
weeping, in the bottom of the boat.

[Footnote 270: Lit. necessity (_necessità_).]

[Footnote 271: _i.e._ to use a new (or strange) fashion of exposing
herself to an inevitable death (_nuova necessità dare alla sua
morte_).]

But it befell altogether otherwise than as she conceived, for that,
the wind being northerly and very light and there being well nigh no
sea, the boat rode it out in safety and brought her on the morrow,
about vespers, to a beach near a town called Susa, a good hundred
miles beyond Tunis. The girl, who, for aught that might happen, had
never lifted nor meant to lift her head, felt nothing of being ashore
more than at sea;[272] but, as chance would have it, there was on the
beach, whenas the bark struck upon it, a poor woman in act to take up
from the sun the nets of the fishermen her masters, who, seeing the
bark, marvelled how it should be left to strike full sail upon the
land. Thinking that the fishermen aboard were asleep, she went up to
the bark and seeing none therein but the damsel aforesaid, who slept
fast, called her many times and having at last aroused her and knowing
her by her habit for a Christian, asked her in Latin how she came
there in that bark all alone. The girl, hearing her speak Latin,
misdoubted her a shift of wind must have driven her back to Lipari and
starting suddenly to her feet, looked about her, but knew not the
country, and seeing herself on land, asked the good woman where she
was; to which she answered, 'Daughter mine, thou art near unto Susa in
Barbary.' The girl, hearing this, was woeful for that God had not
chosen to vouchsafe her the death she sought, and being in fear of
shame and knowing not what to do, she seated herself at the foot of
her bark and fell a-weeping.

[Footnote 272: _i.e._ knew not whether she was ashore or afloat, so
absorbed was she in her despair.]

The good woman, seeing this, took pity upon her and brought her, by
dint of entreaty, into a little hut of hers and there so humoured her
that she told her how she came thither; whereupon, seeing that she
was fasting, she set before her her own dry bread and somewhat of fish
and water and so besought her that she ate a little. Costanza after
asked her who she was that she spoke Latin thus; to which she answered
that she was from Trapani and was called Carapresa and served certain
Christian fishermen there. The girl, hearing the name of Carapresa,
albeit she was exceeding woebegone and knew not what reason moved her
thereunto, took it unto herself for a good augury to have heard this
name[273] and began to hope, without knowing what, and somewhat to
abate of her wish to die. Then, without discovering who or whence she
was, she earnestly besought the good woman to have pity, for the love
of God, on her youth and give her some counsel how she might escape
any affront being offered her.

[Footnote 273: Or "augured well from the hearing of the name."
_Carapresa_ signifies "a dear or precious prize, gain or capture."]

Carapresa, like a good woman as she was, hearing this, left her in her
hut, whilst she hastily gathered up her nets; then, returning to her,
she wrapped her from head to foot in her own mantle and carried her to
Susa, where she said to her, 'Costanza, I will bring thee into the
house of a very good Saracen lady, whom I serve oftentimes in her
occasions and who is old and pitiful. I will commend thee to her as
most I may and I am very certain that she will gladly receive thee and
use thee as a daughter; and do thou, abiding with her, study thine
utmost, in serving her, to gain her favour, against God send thee
better fortune.' And as she said, so she did. The lady, who was well
stricken in years, hearing the woman's story, looked the girl in the
face and fell a-weeping; then taking her by the hand, she kissed her
on the forehead and carried her into her house, where she and sundry
other women abode, without any man, and wrought all with their hands
at various crafts, doing divers works of silk and palm-fibre and
leather. Costanza soon learned to do some of these and falling to
working with the rest, became in such favour with the lady and the
others that it was a marvellous thing; nor was it long before, with
their teaching, she learnt their language.

What while she abode thus at Susa, being now mourned at home for lost
and dead, it befell that, one Mariabdela[274] being King of Tunis, a
certain youth of great family and much puissance in Granada, avouching
that that kingdom belonged to himself, levied a great multitude of
folk and came upon King Mariabdela, to oust him from the kingship.
This came to the ears of Martuccio Gomito in prison and he knowing the
Barbary language excellent well and hearing that the king was making
great efforts for his defence, said to one of those who had him and
his fellows in keeping, 'An I might have speech of the king, my heart
assureth me that I could give him a counsel, by which he should gain
this his war.' The keeper reported these words to his chief, and he
carried them incontinent to the king, who bade fetch Martuccio and
asked him what might be his counsel; whereto he made answer on this
wise, 'My lord, if, what time I have otherwhiles frequented these your
dominions, I have noted aright the order you keep in your battles,
meseemeth you wage them more with archers than with aught else;
wherefore, if a means could be found whereby your adversary's bowmen
should lack of arrows, whilst your own had abundance thereof,
methinketh your battle would be won.' 'Without doubt,' answered the
king, 'and this might be compassed, I should deem myself assured of
victory.' Whereupon, 'My lord,' quoth Martuccio, 'an you will, this
may very well be done, and you shall hear how. You must let make
strings for your archers' bows much thinner than those which are
everywhere commonly used and after let make arrows, the notches
whereof shall not serve but for these thin strings. This must be so
secretly done that your adversary should know nought thereof; else
would he find a remedy therefor; and the reason for which I counsel
you thus is this. After your enemy's archers and your own shall have
shot all their arrows, you know that, the battle lasting, it will
behove your foes to gather up the arrows shot by your men and the
latter in like manner to gather theirs; but the enemy will not be able
to make use of your arrows, by reason of the strait notches which will
not take their thick strings, whereas the contrary will betide your
men of the enemy's arrows, for that the thin strings will excellently
well take the wide-notched arrows; and so your men will have abundance
of ammunition, whilst the others will suffer default thereof.'

[Footnote 274: This name is apparently a distortion of the Arabic
_Amir Abdullah_.]

The king, who was a wise prince, was pleased with Martuccio's counsel
and punctually following it, found himself thereby to have won his
war. Wherefore Martuccio became in high favour with him and rose in
consequence to great and rich estate. The report of these things
spread over the land and it came presently to Costanza's ears that
Martuccio Gomito, whom she had long deemed dead, was alive, whereupon
the love of him, that was now grown cool in her heart, broke out of a
sudden into fresh flame and waxed greater than ever, whilst dead hope
revived in her. Therewithal she altogether discovered her every
adventure to the good lady, with whom she dwelt, and told her that she
would fain go to Tunis, so she might satisfy her eyes of that whereof
her ears had made them desireful, through the reports received. The
old lady greatly commended her purpose and taking ship with her,
carried her, as if she had been her mother, to Tunis, where they were
honourably entertained in the house of a kinswoman of hers. There she
despatched Carapresa, who had come with them, to see what she could
learn of Martuccio, and she, finding him alive and in great estate and
reporting this to the old gentlewoman, it pleased the latter to will
to be she who should signify unto Martuccio that his Costanza was come
thither to him; wherefore, betaking herself one day whereas he was,
she said to him, 'Martuccio, there is come to my house a servant of
thine from Lipari, who would fain speak with thee privily there;
wherefore, not to trust to others, I have myself, at his desire, come
to give thee notice thereof.' He thanked her and followed her to her
house, where when Costanza saw him, she was like to die of gladness
and unable to contain herself, ran straightway with open arms to
throw herself on his neck; then, embracing him, without availing to
say aught, she fell a-weeping tenderly, both for compassion of their
past ill fortunes and for present gladness.

Martuccio, seeing his mistress, abode awhile dumb for amazement, then
said sighing, 'O my Costanza, art thou then yet alive? It is long
since I heard that thou wast lost; nor in our country was aught known
of thee.' So saying, he embraced her, weeping, and kissed her
tenderly. Costanza then related to him all that had befallen her and
the honourable treatment which she had received from the gentlewoman
with whom she dwelt; and Martuccio, after much discourse, taking leave
of her, repaired to the king his master and told him all, to wit, his
own adventures and those of the damsel, adding that, with his leave,
he meant to take her to wife, according to our law. The king marvelled
at these things and sending for the damsel and hearing from her that
it was even as Martuccio had avouched, said to her, 'Then hast thou
right well earned him to husband.' Then, letting bring very great and
magnificent gifts, he gave part thereof to her and part to Martuccio,
granting them leave to do one with the other that which was most
pleasing unto each of them; whereupon Martuccio, having entreated the
gentlewoman who had harboured Costanza with the utmost honour and
thanked her for that which she had done to serve her and bestowed on
her such gifts as sorted with her quality, commended her to God and
took leave of her, he and his mistress, not without many tears from
the latter. Then, with the king's leave, they embarked with Carapresa
on board a little ship and returned with a fair wind to Lipari, where
so great was the rejoicing that it might never be told. There
Martuccio took Costanza to wife and held great and goodly nuptials;
after which they long in peace and repose had enjoyment of their
loves."



THE THIRD STORY

[Day the Fifth]

     PIETRO BOCCAMAZZA, FLEEING WITH AGNOLELLA, FALLETH AMONG
     THIEVES; THE GIRL ESCAPETH THROUGH A WOOD AND IS LED [BY
     FORTUNE] TO A CASTLE, WHILST PIETRO IS TAKEN BY THE THIEVES,
     BUT PRESENTLY, ESCAPING FROM THEIR HANDS, WINNETH, AFTER
     DIVERS ADVENTURES, TO THE CASTLE WHERE HIS MISTRESS IS AND
     ESPOUSING HER, RETURNETH WITH HER TO ROME


There was none among all the company but commended Emilia's story,
which the queen seeing to be finished, turned to Elisa and bade her
follow on. Accordingly, studious to obey, she began: "There occurreth
to my mind, charming ladies, an ill night passed by a pair of
indiscreet young lovers; but, for that many happy days ensued thereon,
it pleaseth me to tell the story, as one that conformeth to our
proposition.

There was, a little while agone, at Rome,--once the head, as it is
nowadays the tail of the world,[275]--a youth, called Pietro
Boccamazza, of a very worshipful family among those of the city, who
fell in love with a very fair and lovesome damsel called Agnolella,
the daughter of one Gigliuozzo Saullo, a plebeian, but very dear to
the Romans, and loving her, he contrived so to do that the girl began
to love him no less than he loved her; whereupon, constrained by
fervent love and himseeming he might no longer brook the cruel pain
that the desire he had of her gave him, he demanded her in marriage;
which no sooner did his kinsfolk know than they all repaired to him
and chid him sore for that which he would have done; and on the other
hand they gave Gigliuozzo to understand that he should make no account
of Pietro's words, for that, an he did this, they would never have him
for friend or kinsman. Pietro seeing that way barred whereby alone he
deemed he might avail to win to his desire, was like to die of
chagrin, and had Gigliuozzo consented, he would have taken his
daughter to wife, in despite of all his kindred. However, he
determined, an it liked the girl, to contrive to give effect to their
wishes, and having assured himself, by means of an intermediary, that
this was agreeable to her, he agreed with her that she should flee
with him from Rome.

[Footnote 275: Clement V. early in the fourteenth century removed the
Papal See to Avignon, where it continued to be during the reigns of
the five succeeding Popes, Rome being in the meantime abandoned by the
Papal Court, till Gregory XI, in the year 1376 again took up his
residence at the latter city. It is apparently to this circumstance
that Boccaccio alludes in the text.]

Accordingly, having taken order for this, Pietro arose very early one
morning and taking horse with the damsel, set out for Anagni, where he
had certain friends in whom he trusted greatly. They had no leisure to
make a wedding of it, for that they feared to be followed, but rode
on, devising of their love and now and again kissing one another. It
chanced that, when they came mayhap eight miles from Rome, the way not
being overwell known to Pietro, they took a path to the left, whereas
they should have kept to the right; and scarce had they ridden more
than two miles farther when they found themselves near a little
castle, wherefrom, as soon as they were seen, there issued suddenly a
dozen footmen. The girl, espying these, whenas they were already close
upon them, cried out, saying, 'Pietro, let us begone, for we are
attacked'; then, turning her rouncey's head, as best she knew, towards
a great wood hard by, she clapped her spurs fast to his flank and held
on to the saddlebow, whereupon the nag, feeling himself goaded, bore
her into the wood at a gallop.

Pietro, who went gazing more at her face than at the road, not having
become so quickly aware as she of the new comers, was overtaken and
seized by them, whilst he still looked, without yet perceiving them,
to see whence they should come. They made him alight from his hackney
and enquired who he was, which he having told, they proceeded to take
counsel together and said, 'This fellow is of the friends of our
enemies; what else should we do but take from him these clothes and
this nag and string him up to one of yonder oaks, to spite the
Orsini?' They all fell in with this counsel and bade Pietro put off
his clothes, which as he was in act to do, foreboding him by this of
the ill fate which awaited him, it chanced that an ambush of good
five-and-twenty footmen started suddenly out upon the others, crying,
'Kill! Kill!' The rogues, taken by surprise, let Pietro be and turned
to stand upon their defence, but, seeing themselves greatly
outnumbered by their assailants, betook themselves to flight, whilst
the others pursued them.

Pietro, seeing this, hurriedly caught up his gear and springing on his
hackney, addressed himself, as best he might, to flee by the way he
had seen his mistress take; but finding her not and seeing neither
road nor footpath in the wood neither perceiving any horse's hoof
marks, he was the woefullest man alive; and as soon as himseemed he
was safe and out of reach of those who had taken him, as well as of
the others by whom they had been assailed, he began to drive hither
and thither about the wood, weeping and calling; but none answered him
and he dared not turn back and knew not where he might come, an he
went forward, more by token that he was in fear of the wild beasts
that use to harbour in the woods, at once for himself and for his
mistress, whom he looked momently to see strangled of some bear or
some wolf. On this wise, then, did the unlucky Pietro range all day
about the wood, crying and calling, whiles going backward, when as he
thought to go forward, until, what with shouting and weeping and fear
and long fasting, he was so spent that he could no more and seeing the
night come and knowing not what other course to take, he dismounted
from his hackney and tied the latter to a great oak, into which he
climbed, so he might not be devoured of the wild beasts in the night.
A little after the moon rose and the night being very clear and
bright, he abode there on wake, sighing and weeping and cursing his
ill luck, for that he durst not go to sleep, lest he should fall,
albeit, had he had more commodity thereof, grief and the concern in
which he was for his mistress would not have suffered him to sleep.

Meanwhile, the damsel, fleeing, as we have before said, and knowing
not whither to betake herself, save whereas it seemed good to her
hackney to carry her, fared on so far into the wood that she could not
see where she had entered, and went wandering all day about that
desert place, no otherwise than as Pietro had done, now pausing [to
hearken] and now going on, weeping the while and calling and making
moan of her illhap. At last, seeing that Pietro came not and it being
now eventide, she happened on a little path, into which her hackney
turned, and following it, after she had ridden some two or more miles
she saw a little house afar off. Thither she made her way as
quickliest she might and found there a good man sore stricken in years
and a woman, his wife alike old, who, seeing her alone, said to her,
'Daughter, what dost thou alone at this hour in these parts?' The
damsel replied, weeping, that she had lost her company in the wood and
enquired how near she was to Anagni. 'Daughter mine,' answered the
good man, 'this is not the way to go to Anagni; it is more than a
dozen miles hence.' Quoth the girl, 'And how far is it hence to any
habitations where I may have a lodging for the night?' To which the
good man answered, 'There is none anywhere so near that thou mayst
come thither by daylight.' Then said the damsel, 'Since I can go no
otherwhere, will it please you harbour me here to-night for the love
of God?' 'Young lady,' replied the old man, 'thou art very welcome to
abide with us this night; algates, we must warn you that there are
many ill companies, both of friends and of foes that come and go about
these parts both by day and by night, who many a time do us sore annoy
and great mischief; and if, by ill chance, thou being here, there come
any of them and seeing thee, fair and young as thou art, should offer
to do thee affront and shame, we could not avail to succour thee
therefrom. We deem it well to apprise thee of this, so that, an it
betide, thou mayst not be able to complain of us.'

The girl, seeing that it was late, albeit the old man's words
affrighted her, said, 'An it please God, He will keep both you and me
from that annoy; and even if it befall me, it were a much less evil to
be maltreated of men than to be mangled of the wild beasts in the
woods.' So saying, she alighted from the rouncey and entered the poor
man's house, where she supped with him on such poor fare as they had
and after, all clad as she was, cast herself, together with them, on a
little bed of theirs. She gave not over sighing and bewailing her own
mishap and that of Pietro all night, knowing not if she might hope
other than ill of him; and when it drew near unto morning, she heard a
great trampling of folk approaching, whereupon she arose and betaking
herself to a great courtyard, that lay behind the little house, saw in
a corner a great heap of hay, in which she hid herself, so she might
not be so quickly found, if those folk should come thither. Hardly had
she made an end of hiding herself when these, who were a great company
of ill knaves, came to the door of the little house and causing open
to them, entered and found Agnolella's hackney yet all saddled and
bridled; whereupon they asked who was there and the good man, not
seeing the girl, answered, 'None is here save ourselves; but this
rouncey, from whomsoever it may have escaped, came hither yestereve
and we brought it into the house, lest the wolves should eat it.'
'Then,' said the captain of the troop, 'since it hath none other
master, it is fair prize for us.'

Thereupon they all dispersed about the little house and some went into
the courtyard, where, laying down their lances and targets, it chanced
that one of them, knowing not what else to do, cast his lance into the
hay and came very near to slay the hidden girl and she to discover
herself, for that the lance passed so close to her left breast that
the steel tore a part of her dress, wherefore she was like to utter a
great cry, fearing to be wounded; but, remembering where she was, she
abode still, all fear-stricken. Presently, the rogues, having dressed
the kids and other meat they had with them and eaten and drunken, went
off, some hither and some thither, about their affairs, and carried
with them the girl's hackney. When they had gone some distance, the
good man asked his wife, 'What befell of our young woman, who came
thither yestereve? I have seen nothing of her since we arose.' The
good wife replied that she knew not and went looking for her,
whereupon the girl, hearing that the rogues were gone, came forth of
the hay, to the no small contentment of her host, who, rejoiced to see
that she had not fallen into their hands, said to her, it now growing
day, 'Now that the day cometh, we will, an it please thee, accompany
thee to a castle five miles hence, where thou wilt be in safety; but
needs must thou go afoot, for yonder ill folk, that now departed
hence, have carried off thy rouncey.' The girl concerned herself
little about the nag, but besought them for God's sake to bring her to
the castle in question, whereupon they set out and came thither about
half tierce.

Now this castle belonged to one of the Orsini family, by name Lionello
di Campodifiore, and there by chance was his wife, a very pious and
good lady, who, seeing the girl, knew her forthright and received her
with joy and would fain know orderly how she came thither. Agnolella
told her all and the lady, who knew Pietro on like wise, as being a
friend of her husband's, was grieved for the ill chance that had
betided and hearing where he had been taken, doubted not but he was
dead; wherefore she said to Agnolella, 'Since thou knowest not what is
come of Pietro, thou shalt abide here till such time as I shall have a
commodity to send thee safe to Rome.'

Meanwhile Pietro abode, as woebegone as could be, in the oak, and
towards the season of the first sleep, he saw a good score of wolves
appear, which came all about his hackney, as soon as they saw him. The
horse, scenting them, tugged at his bridle, till he broke it, and
would have fled, but being surrounded and unable to escape, he
defended himself a great while with his teeth and his hoofs. At last,
however, he was brought down and strangled and quickly disembowelled
by the wolves, which took all their fill of his flesh and having
devoured him, made off, without leaving aught but the bones, whereat
Pietro, to whom it seemed he had in the rouncey a companion and a
support in his troubles, was sore dismayed and misdoubted he should
never avail to win forth of the wood. However, towards daybreak, being
perished with cold in the oak and looking still all about him, he
caught sight of a great fire before him, mayhap a mile off, wherefore,
as soon as it was grown broad day, he came down from the oak, not
without fear, and making for the fire, fared on till he came to the
place, where he found shepherds eating and making merry about it, by
whom he was received for compassion.

After he had eaten and warmed himself, he acquainted them with his
misadventure and telling them how he came thither alone, asked them if
there was in those parts a village or castle, to which he might betake
himself. The shepherds answered that some three miles thence there was
a castle belonging to Lionello di Campodifiore, whose lady was
presently there; whereat Pietro was much rejoiced and besought them
that one of them should accompany him to the castle, which two of them
readily did. There he found some who knew him and was in act to
enquire for a means of having search made about the forest for the
damsel, when he was bidden to the lady's presence and incontinent
repaired to her. Never was joy like unto his, when he saw Agnolella
with her, and he was all consumed with desire to embrace her, but
forbore of respect for the lady, and if he was glad, the girl's joy
was no less great. The gentle lady, having welcomed him and made much
of him and heard from him what had betided him, chid him amain of that
which he would have done against the will of his kinsfolk; but, seeing
that he was e'en resolved upon this and that it was agreeable to the
girl also, she said in herself, 'Why do I weary myself in vain? These
two love and know each other and both are friends of my husband. Their
desire is an honourable one and meseemeth it is pleasing to God, since
the one of them hath scaped the gibbet and the other the lance-thrust
and both the wild beasts of the wood; wherefore be it as they will.'
Then, turning to the lovers, she said to them, 'If you have it still
at heart to be man and wife, it is my pleasure also; be it so, and let
the nuptials be celebrated here at Lionello's expense. I will engage
after to make peace between you and your families.' Accordingly, they
were married then and there, to the great contentment of Pietro and
the yet greater satisfaction of Agnolella, and the gentle lady made
them honourable nuptials, in so far as might be in the mountains.
There, with the utmost delight, they enjoyed the first-fruits of their
love and a few days after, they took horse with the lady and returned,
under good escort, to Rome, where she found Pietro's kinsfolk sore
incensed at that which he had done, but contrived to make his peace
with them, and he lived with his Agnolella in all peace and pleasance
to a good old age."



THE FOURTH STORY

[Day the Fifth]

     RICCIARDO MANARDI, BEING FOUND BY MESSER LIZIO DA VALBONA
     WITH HIS DAUGHTER, ESPOUSETH HER AND ABIDETH IN PEACE WITH
     HER FATHER


Elisa holding her peace and hearkening to the praises bestowed by the
ladies her companions upon her story, the Queen charged Filostrato
tell one of his own, whereupon he began, laughing, "I have been so
often rated by so many of you ladies for having imposed on you matter
for woeful discourse and such as tended to make you weep, that
methinketh I am beholden, an I would in some measure requite you that
annoy, to relate somewhat whereby I may make you laugh a little; and I
mean therefore to tell you, in a very short story, of a love that,
after no worse hindrance than sundry sighs and a brief fright, mingled
with shame, came to a happy issue.

It is, then, noble ladies, no great while ago since there lived in
Romagna a gentleman of great worth and good breeding, called Messer
Lizio da Valbona, to whom, well nigh in his old age, it chanced there
was born of his wife, Madam Giacomina by name, a daughter, who grew up
fair and agreeable beyond any other of the country; and for that she
was the only child that remained to her father and mother, they loved
and tendered her exceeding dear and guarded her with marvellous
diligence, looking to make some great alliance by her. Now there was
a young man of the Manardi of Brettinoro, comely and lusty of his
person, by name Ricciardo, who much frequented Messer Lizio's house
and conversed amain with him and of whom the latter and his lady took
no more account than they would have taken of a son of theirs. Now,
this Ricciardo, looking once and again upon the young lady and seeing
her very fair and sprightly and commendable of manners and fashions,
fell desperately in love with her, but was very careful to keep his
love secret. The damsel presently became aware thereof and without
anywise seeking to shun the stroke, began on like wise to love him;
whereat Ricciardo was mightily rejoiced. He had many a time a mind to
speak to her, but kept silence of misdoubtance; however, one day,
taking courage and opportunity, he said to her, 'I prithee, Caterina,
cause me not die of love.' To which she straightway made answer,
'Would God thou wouldst not cause _me_ die!'

This answer added much courage and pleasure to Ricciardo and he said
to her, 'Never shall aught that may be agreeable to thee miscarry[276]
for me; but it resteth with thee to find a means of saving thy life
and mine.' 'Ricciardo,' answered she, 'thou seest how straitly I am
guarded; wherefore, for my part, I cannot see how thou mayst avail to
come at me; but, if thou canst see aught that I may do without shame
to myself, tell it me and I will do it.' Ricciardo, having bethought
himself of sundry things, answered promptly, 'My sweet Caterina, I can
see no way, except that thou lie or make shift to come upon the
gallery that adjoineth thy father's garden, where an I knew that thou
wouldst be anights, I would without fail contrive to come to thee, how
high soever it may be.' 'If thou have the heart to come thither,'
rejoined Caterina, 'methinketh I can well enough win to be there.'
Ricciardo assented and they kissed each other once only in haste and
went their ways.

[Footnote 276: Lit. stand (_stare_), _i.e._ abide undone.]

Next day, it being then near the end of May, the girl began to
complain before her mother that she had not been able to sleep that
night for the excessive heat. Quoth the lady, 'Of what heat dost thou
speak, daughter? Nay, it was nowise hot.' 'Mother mine,' answered
Caterina, 'you should say "To my seeming," and belike you would say
sooth; but you should consider how much hotter are young girls than
ladies in years.' 'Daughter mine,' rejoined the lady, 'that is true;
but I cannot make it cold and hot at my pleasure, as belike thou
wouldst have me do. We must put up with the weather, such as the
seasons make it; maybe this next night will be cooler and thou wilt
sleep better.' 'God grant it may be so!' cried Caterina. 'But it is
not usual for the nights to go cooling, as it groweth towards summer.'
'Then what wouldst thou have done?' asked the mother; and she
answered, 'An it please my father and you, I would fain have a little
bed made in the gallery, that is beside his chamber and over his
garden, and there sleep. There I should hear the nightingale sing and
having a cooler place to lie in, I should fare much better than in
your chamber.' Quoth the mother, 'Daughter, comfort thyself; I will
tell thy father, and as he will, so will we do.'

Messer Lizio hearing all this from his wife, said, for that he was an
old man and maybe therefore somewhat cross-grained, 'What nightingale
is this to whose song she would sleep? I will yet make her sleep to
the chirp of the crickets.' Caterina, coming to know this, more of
despite than for the heat, not only slept not that night, but suffered
not her mother to sleep, still complaining of the great heat.
Accordingly, next morning, the latter repaired to her husband and said
to him, 'Sir, you have little tenderness for yonder girl; what
mattereth it to you if she lie in the gallery? She could get no rest
all night for the heat. Besides, can you wonder at her having a mind
to hear the nightingale sing, seeing she is but a child? Young folk
are curious of things like themselves. Messer Lizio, hearing this,
said, 'Go to, make her a bed there, such as you think fit, and bind it
about with some curtain or other, and there let her lie and hear the
nightingale sing to her heart's content.'

The girl, learning this, straightway let make a bed in the gallery and
meaning to lie there that same night, watched till she saw Ricciardo
and made him a signal appointed between them, by which he understood
what was to be done. Messer Lizio, hearing the girl gone to bed,
locked a door that led from his chamber into the gallery and betook
himself likewise to sleep. As for Ricciardo, as soon as he heard all
quiet on every hand, he mounted a wall, with the aid of a ladder, and
thence, laying hold of certain toothings of another wall, he made his
way, with great toil and danger, if he had fallen, up to the gallery,
where he was quietly received by the girl with the utmost joy. Then,
after many kisses, they went to bed together and took delight and
pleasure one of another well nigh all that night, making the
nightingale sing many a time. The nights being short and the delight
great and it being now, though they thought it not, near day, they
fell asleep without any covering, so overheated were they what with
the weather and what with their sport, Caterina having her right arm
entwined about Ricciardo's neck and holding him with the left hand by
that thing which you ladies think most shame to name among men.

As they slept on this wise, without awaking, the day came on and
Messer Lizio arose and remembering him that his daughter lay in the
gallery, opened the door softly, saying in himself, 'Let us see how
the nightingale hath made Caterina sleep this night.' Then, going in,
he softly lifted up the serge, wherewith the bed was curtained about,
and saw his daughter and Ricciardo lying asleep, naked and uncovered,
embraced as it hath before been set out; whereupon, having recognized
Ricciardo, he went out again and repairing to his wife's chamber,
called to her, saying, 'Quick, wife, get thee up and come see, for
that thy daughter hath been so curious of the nightingale that she
hath e'en taken it and hath it in hand.' 'How can that be?' quoth she;
and he answered, 'Thou shalt see it, an thou come quickly.'
Accordingly, she made haste to dress herself and quietly followed her
husband to the bed, where, the curtain being drawn, Madam Giacomina
might plainly see how her daughter had taken and held the
nightingale, which she had so longed to hear sing; whereat the lady,
holding herself sore deceived of Ricciardo, would have cried out and
railed at him; but Messer Lizio said to her, 'Wife, as thou holdest my
love dear, look thou say not a word, for, verily, since she hath
gotten it, it shall be hers. Ricciardo is young and rich and gently
born; he cannot make us other than a good son-in-law. An he would part
from me on good terms, needs must he first marry her, so it will be
found that he hath put the nightingale in his own cage and not in that
of another.'

The lady was comforted to see that her husband was not angered at the
matter and considering that her daughter had passed a good night and
rested well and had caught the nightingale, to boot, she held her
tongue. Nor had they abidden long after these words when Ricciardo
awoke and seeing that it was broad day, gave himself over for lost and
called Caterina, saying, 'Alack, my soul, how shall we do, for the day
is come and hath caught me here?' Whereupon Messer Lizio came forward
and lifting the curtain, answered, 'We shall do well.' When Ricciardo
saw him, himseemed the heart was torn out of his body and sitting up
in bed, he said, 'My lord, I crave your pardon for God's sake. I
acknowledged to have deserved death, as a disloyal and wicked man;
wherefore do you with me as best pleaseth you; but, I prithee, an it
may be, have mercy on my life and let me not die.' 'Ricciardo,'
answered Messer Lizio, 'the love that I bore thee and the faith I had
in thee merited not this return; yet, since thus it is and youth hath
carried thee away into such a fault, do thou, to save thyself from
death and me from shame, take Caterina to thy lawful wife, so that,
like as this night she hath been thine, she may e'en be thine so long
as she shall live. On this wise thou mayst gain my pardon and thine
own safety; but, an thou choose not to do this, commend thy soul to
God.'

Whilst these words were saying, Caterina let go the nightingale and
covering herself, fell to weeping sore and beseeching her father to
pardon Ricciardo, whilst on the other hand she entreated her lover to
do as Messer Lizio wished, so they might long pass such nights
together in security. But there needed not overmany prayers, for that,
on the one hand, shame of the fault committed and desire to make
amends for it, and on the other, the fear of death and the wish to
escape,--to say nothing of his ardent love and longing to possess the
thing beloved,--made Ricciardo freely and without hesitation avouch
himself ready to do that which pleased Messer Lizio; whereupon the
latter borrowed of Madam Giacomina one of her rings and there, without
budging, Ricciardo in their presence took Caterina to his wife. This
done, Messer Lizio and his lady departed, saying, 'Now rest
yourselves, for belike you have more need thereof than of rising.'
They being gone, the young folk clipped each other anew and not having
run more than half a dozen courses overnight, they ran other twain ere
they arose and so made an end of the first day's tilting. Then they
arose and Ricciardo having had more orderly conference with Messer
Lizio, a few days after, as it beseemed, he married the damsel over
again, in the presence of their friends and kinsfolk, and brought her
with great pomp to his own house. There he held goodly and honourable
nuptials and after went long nightingale-fowling with her to his
heart's content, in peace and solace, both by night and by day."



THE FIFTH STORY

[Day the Fifth]

     GUIDOTTO DA CREMONA LEAVETH TO GIACOMINO DA PAVIA A DAUGHTER
     OF HIS AND DIETH. GIANNOLE DI SEVERINO AND MINGHINO DI
     MINGOLE FALL IN LOVE WITH THE GIRL AT FAENZA AND COME TO
     BLOWS ON HER ACCOUNT. ULTIMATELY SHE IS PROVED TO BE
     GIANNOLE'S SISTER AND IS GIVEN TO MINGHINO TO WIFE


All the ladies, hearkening to the story of the nightingale, had
laughed so much that, though Filostrato had made an end of telling,
they could not yet give over laughing. But, after they had laughed
awhile, the queen said to Filostrato, "Assuredly, if thou afflictedest
us ladies yesterday, thou hast so tickled us to-day that none of us
can deservedly complain of thee." Then, addressing herself to Neifile,
she charged her tell, and she blithely began to speak thus: "Since
Filostrato, discoursing, hath entered into Romagna, it pleaseth me on
like wise to go ranging awhile therein with mine own story.

I say, then, that there dwelt once in the city of Fano two Lombards,
whereof the one was called Guidotto da Cremona and the other Giacomino
da Pavia, both men advanced in years, who had in their youth been well
nigh always soldiers and engaged in deeds of arms. Guidotto, being at
the point of death and having nor son nor other kinsmen nor friend in
whom he trusted more than in Giacomino, left him a little daughter he
had, of maybe ten years of age, and all that he possessed in the
world, and after having bespoken him at length of his affairs, he
died. In those days it befell that the city of Faenza, which had been
long in war and ill case, was restored to somewhat better estate and
permission to sojourn there was freely conceded to all who had a mind
to return thither; wherefore Giacomino, who had abidden there
otherwhile and had a liking for the place, returned thither with all
his good and carried with him the girl left him by Guidotto, whom he
loved and entreated as his own child.

The latter grew up and became as fair a damsel as any in the city, ay,
and as virtuous and well bred as she was fair; wherefore she began to
be courted of many, but especially two very agreeable young men of
equal worth and condition vowed her a very great love, insomuch that
for jealousy they came to hold each other in hate out of measure. They
were called, the one Giannole di Severino and the other Minghino di
Mingole; nor was there either of them but would gladly have taken the
young lady, who was now fifteen years old, to wife, had it been
suffered of his kinsfolk; wherefore, seeing her denied to them on
honourable wise, each cast about to get her for himself as best he
might. Now Giacomino had in his house an old serving-wench and a
serving-man, Crivello by name, a very merry and obliging person, with
whom Giannole clapped up a great acquaintance and to whom, whenas
himseemed time, he discovered his passion, praying him to be
favourable to him in his endeavour to obtain his desire and promising
him great things an he did this; whereto quoth Crivello, 'Look you, I
can do nought for thee in this matter other than that, when next
Giacomino goeth abroad to supper, I will bring thee whereas she may
be; for that, an I offered to say a word to her in thy favour, she
would never stop to listen to me. If this like thee, I promise it to
thee and will do it; and do thou after, an thou know how, that which
thou deemest shall best serve thy purpose.' Giannole answered that he
desired nothing more and they abode on this understanding. Meanwhile
Minghino, on his part, had suborned the maidservant and so wrought
with her that she had several times carried messages to the girl and
had well night inflamed her with love of him; besides which she had
promised him to bring him in company with her, so soon as Giacomino
should chance to go abroad of an evening for whatever cause.

Not long after this it chanced that, by Crivello's contrivance,
Giacomino went to sup with a friend of his, whereupon Crivello gave
Giannole to know thereof and appointed with him that, whenas he made a
certain signal, he should come and would find the door open. The maid,
on her side, knowing nothing of all this, let Minghino know that
Giacomino was to sup abroad and bade him abide near the house, so
that, whenas he saw a signal which she should make he might come and
enter therein. The evening come, the two lovers, knowing nothing of
each other's designs, but each misdoubting of his rival, came, with
sundry companions armed, to enter into possession. Minghino, with his
troop took up his quarters in the house of a friend of his, a
neighbour of the young lady's; whilst Giannole and his friends
stationed themselves at a little distance from the house. Meanwhile,
Crivello and the maid, Giacomino being gone, studied each to send the
other away. Quoth he to her, 'Why dost thou not get thee to bed? Why
goest thou still wandering about the house?' 'And thou,' retorted she,
'why goest thou not for thy master? What awaitest thou here, now that
thou hast supped?' And so neither could make other avoid the place;
but Crivello, seeing the hour come that he had appointed with Giannole
said in himself, 'What reck I of her? An she abide not quiet, she is
like to smart for it.'

Accordingly, giving the appointed signal, he went to open the door,
whereupon Giannole, coming up in haste with two companions, entered
and finding the young lady in the saloon, laid hands on her to carry
her off. The girl began to struggle and make a great outcry, as
likewise did the maid, which Minghino hearing, he ran thither with his
companions and seeing the young lady being presently dragged out at
the door, they pulled out their swords and cried all, 'Ho, traitors,
ye are dead men! The thing shall not go thus. What is this violence?'
So saying, they fell to hewing at them, whilst the neighbors, issuing
forth at the clamour with lights and arms, began to blame Giannole's
behaviour and to second Minghino; wherefore, after long contention,
the latter rescued the young lady from his rival and restored her to
Giacomino's house. But, before the fray was over, up came the
town-captain's officers and arrested many of them; and amongst the
rest Minghino and Giannole and Crivello were taken and carried off to
prison. After matters were grown quiet again, Giacomino returned home
and was sore chagrined at that which had happened; but, enquiring how
it had come about and finding that the girl was nowise at fault, he
was somewhat appeased and determined in himself to marry her as
quickliest he might, so the like should not again betide.

Next morning, the kinsfolk of the two young men, hearing the truth of
the case and knowing the ill that might ensue thereof for the
imprisoned youths, should Giacomino choose to do that which he
reasonably might, repaired to him and prayed him with soft words to
have regard, not so much to the affront which he had suffered from the
little sense of the young men as to the love and goodwill which they
believed he bore to themselves who thus besought him, submitting
themselves and the young men who had done the mischief to any amends
it should please him take. Giacomino, who had in his time seen many
things and was a man of sense, answered briefly, 'Gentlemen, were I in
mine own country, as I am in yours, I hold myself so much your friend
that neither in this nor in otherwhat would I do aught save insomuch
as it should please you; besides, I am the more bounden to comply with
your wishes in this matter, inasmuch as you have therein offended
against yourselves, for that the girl in question is not, as belike
many suppose, of Cremona nor of Pavia; nay, she is a Faentine,[277]
albeit neither I nor she nor he of whom I had her might ever learn
whose daughter she was; wherefore, concerning that whereof you pray
me, so much shall be done by me as you yourselves shall enjoin me.'

[Footnote 277: _i.e._ a native of Faenza (_Faentina_).]

The gentlemen, hearing this, marvelled and returning thanks to
Giacomino for his gracious answer, prayed him that it would please him
tell them how she came to his hands and how he knew her to be a
Faentine; whereto quoth he, 'Guidotto da Cremona, who was my friend
and comrade, told me, on his deathbed, that, when this city was taken
by the Emperor Frederick and everything given up to pillage, he
entered with his companions into a house and found it full of booty,
but deserted by its inhabitants, save only this girl, who was then
some two years old or thereabouts and who, seeing him mount the
stairs, called him "father"; whereupon, taking compassion upon her, he
carried her off with him to Fano, together with all that was in the
house, and dying there, left her to me with what he had, charging me
marry her in due time and give her to her dowry that which had been
hers. Since she hath come to marriageable age, I have not yet found an
occasion of marrying her to my liking, though I would gladly do it,
rather than that another mischance like that of yesternight should
betide me on her account.'

Now among the others there was a certain Guiglielmino da Medicina,
who had been with Guidotto in that affair[278] and knew very well
whose house it was that he had plundered, and he, seeing the person in
question[279] there among the rest, accosted him, saying,
'Bernabuccio, hearest thou what Giacomino saith?' 'Ay do I,' answered
Bernabuccio, 'and I was presently in thought thereof, more by token
that I mind me to have lost a little daughter of the age whereof
Giacomino speaketh in those very troubles.' Quoth Guiglielmino, 'This
is she for certain, for that I was once in company with Guidotto, when
I heard him tell where he had done the plundering and knew it to be
thy house that he had sacked; wherefore do thou bethink thee if thou
mayst credibly recognize her by any token and let make search
therefor; for thou wilt assuredly find that she is thy daughter.'

[Footnote 278: _A questo fatto_, _i.e._ at the storm of Faenza.]

[Footnote 279: _i.e._ the owner of the plundered house.]

Accordingly, Bernabuccio bethought himself and remembered that she
should have a little cross-shaped scar over her left ear, proceeding
from a tumour, which he had caused cut for her no great while before
that occurrence; whereupon, without further delay, he accosted
Giacomino, who was still there, and besought him to carry him to his
house and let him see the damsel. To this he readily consented and
carrying him thither, let bring the girl before him. When Bernabuccio
set eyes on her, himseemed he saw the very face of her mother, who was
yet a handsome lady; nevertheless, not contenting himself with this,
he told Giacomino that he would fain of his favour have leave to raise
her hair a little above her left ear, to which the other consented.
Accordingly, going up to the girl, who stood shamefast, he lifted up
her hair with his right hand and found the cross; whereupon, knowing
her to be indeed his daughter, he fell to weeping tenderly and
embracing her, notwithstanding her resistance; then, turning to
Giacomino, 'Brother mine,' quoth he, 'this is my daughter; it was my
house Guidotto plundered and this girl was, in the sudden alarm,
forgotten there of my wife and her mother; and until now we believed
that she had perished with the house, which was burned me that same
day.'

The girl, hearing this, and seeing him to be a man in years, gave
credence to his words and submitting herself to his embraces, as moved
by some occult instinct, fell a-weeping tenderly with him. Bernabuccio
presently sent for her mother and other her kinswomen and for her
sisters and brothers and presented her to them all, recounting the
matter to them; then, after a thousand embraces, he carried her home
to his house with the utmost rejoicing, to the great satisfaction of
Giacomino. The town-captain, who was a man of worth, learning this and
knowing that Giannole, whom he had in prison, was Bernabuccio's son
and therefore the lady's own brother, determined indulgently to
overpass the offence committed by him and released with him Minghino
and Crivello and the others who were implicated in the affair.
Moreover, he interceded with Bernabuccio and Giacomino concerning
these matters and making peace between the two young men, gave the
girl, whose name was Agnesa, to Minghino to wife, to the great
contentment of all their kinsfolk; whereupon Minghino, mightily
rejoiced, made a great and goodly wedding and carrying her home, lived
with her many years after in peace and weal."



THE SIXTH STORY

[Day the Fifth]

     GIANNI DI PROCIDA BEING FOUND WITH A YOUNG LADY, WHOM HE
     LOVED AND WHO HAD BEEN GIVEN TO KING FREDERICK OF SICILY, IS
     BOUND WITH HER TO A STAKE TO BE BURNT; BUT, BEING RECOGNIZED
     BY RUGGIERI DELL' ORIA, ESCAPETH AND BECOMETH HER HUSBAND


Neifile's story, which had much pleased the ladies, being ended, the
queen bade Pampinea address herself to tell another, and she
accordingly, raising her bright face, began: "Exceeding great,
charming ladies, is the might of Love and exposeth lovers to sore
travails, ay, and to excessive and unforeseen perils, as may be
gathered from many a thing that hath been related both to-day and
otherwhiles; nevertheless, it pleaseth me yet again to demonstrate it
to you with a story of an enamoured youth.

Ischia is an island very near Naples, and therein, among others, was
once a very fair and sprightly damsel, by name Restituta, who was the
daughter of a gentleman of the island called Marino Bolgaro and whom a
youth named Gianni, a native of a little island near Ischia, called
Procida, loved more than his life, as she on like wise loved him. Not
only did he come by day from Procida to see her, but oftentimes
anights, not finding a boat, he had swum from Procida to Ischia, at
the least to look upon the walls of her house, an he might no
otherwise. During the continuance of this so ardent love, it befell
that the girl, being all alone one summer day on the sea-shore,
chanced, as she went from rock to rock, loosening shell-fish from the
stones with a knife, upon a place hidden among the cliffs, where, at
once for shade and for the commodity of a spring of very cool water
that was there, certain young men of Sicily, coming from Naples, had
taken up their quarters with a pinnace they had. They, seeing that she
was alone and very handsome and was yet unaware of them, took counsel
together to seize her and carry her off and put their resolve into
execution. Accordingly, they took her, for all she made a great
outcry, and carrying her aboard the pinnace, made the best of their
way to Calabria, where they fell to disputing of whose she should be.
Brief, each would fain have her; wherefore, being unable to agree
among themselves and fearing to come to worse and to mar their affairs
for her, they took counsel together to present her to Frederick, King
of Sicily, who was then a young man and delighted in such toys.
Accordingly, coming to Palermo, they made gift of the damsel to the
king, who, seeing her to be fair, held her dear; but, for that he was
presently somewhat infirm of his person, he commanded that, against he
should be stronger, she should be lodged in a very goodly pavilion,
belonging to a garden of his he called La Cuba, and there tended; and
so it was done.

Great was the outcry in Ischia for the ravishment of the damsel and
what most chagrined them was that they could not learn who they were
that had carried her off; but Gianni, whom the thing concerned more
than any other, not looking to get any news of this in Ischia and
learning in what direction the ravishers had gone, equipped another
pinnace and embarking therein, as quickliest as he might, scoured all
the coast from La Minerva to La Scalea in Calabria, enquiring
everywhere for news of the girl. Being told at La Scalea that she had
been carried off to Palermo by some Sicilian sailors, he betook
himself thither, as quickliest he might, and there, after much search,
finding that she had been presented to the king and was by him kept
under ward at La Cuba, he was sore chagrined and lost well nigh all
hope, not only of ever having her again, but even of seeing her.
Nevertheless, detained by love, having sent away his pinnace and
seeing that he was known of none there, he abode behind and passing
often by La Cuba, he chanced one day to catch sight of her at a window
and she saw him, to the great contentment of them both.

Gianni, seeing the place lonely, approached as most he might and
bespeaking her, was instructed by her how he must do, an he would
thereafterward have further speech of her. He then took leave of her,
having first particularly examined the ordinance of the place in every
part, and waited till a good part of the night was past, when he
returned thither and clambering up in places where a woodpecker had
scarce found a foothold, he made his way into the garden. There he
found a long pole and setting it against the window which his mistress
had shown him, climbed up thereby lightly enough. The damsel,
herseeming she had already lost her honour, for the preservation
whereof she had in times past been somewhat coy to him, thinking that
she could give herself to none more worthily than to him and doubting
not to be able to induce him to carry her off, had resolved in herself
to comply with him in every his desire; wherefore she had left the
window open, so he might enter forthright. Accordingly, Gianni,
finding it open, softly made his way into the chamber and laid himself
beside the girl, who slept not and who, before they came to otherwhat,
discovered to him all her intent, instantly beseeching him to take her
thence and carry her away. Gianni answered that nothing could be so
pleasing to him as this and promised that he would without fail, as
soon as he should have taken his leave of her, put the matter in train
on such wise that he might carry her away with him, the first time he
returned thither. Then, embracing each other with exceeding pleasure,
they took that delight beyond which Love can afford no greater, and
after reiterating it again and again, they fell asleep, without
perceiving it, in each other's arms.

Meanwhile, the king, who had at first sight been greatly taken with
the damsel, calling her to mind and feeling himself well of body,
determined, albeit it was nigh upon day, to go and abide with her
awhile. Accordingly, he betook himself privily to La Cuba with certain
of his servants and entering the pavilion, caused softly open the
chamber wherein he knew the girl slept. Then, with a great lighted
flambeau before him, he entered therein and looking upon the bed, saw
her and Gianni lying asleep and naked in each other's arms; whereas he
was of a sudden furiously incensed and flamed up into such a passion
of wrath that it lacked of little but he had, without saying a word,
slain them both then and there with a dagger he had by his side.
However, esteeming it a very base thing of any man, much more a king,
to slay two naked folk in their sleep, he contained himself and
determined to put them to death in public and by fire; wherefore,
turning to one only companion he had with him, he said to him, 'How
deemest thou of this vile woman, on whom I had set my hope?' And after
he asked him if he knew the young man who had dared enter his house to
do him such an affront and such an outrage; but he answered that he
remembered not ever to have seen him. The king then departed the
chamber, full of rage, and commanded that the two lovers should be
taken and bound, naked as they were, and that, as soon as it was broad
day, they should be carried to Palermo and there bound to a stake,
back to back, in the public place, where they should be kept till the
hour of tierce, so they might be seen of all, and after burnt, even as
they had deserved; and this said, he returned to his palace at
Palermo, exceeding wroth.

The king gone, there fell many upon the two lovers and not only
awakened them, but forthright without any pity took them and bound
them; which when they saw, it may lightly be conceived if they were
woeful and feared for their lives and wept and made moan. According to
the king's commandment, they were carried to Palermo and bound to a
stake in the public place, whilst the faggots and the fire were made
ready before their eyes, to burn them at the hour appointed. Thither
straightway flocked all the townsfolk, both men and women, to see the
two lovers; the men all pressed to look upon the damsel and like as
they praised her for fair and well made in every part of her body,
even so, on the other hand, the women, who all ran to gaze upon the
young man, supremely commended him for handsome and well shapen. But
the wretched lovers, both sore ashamed, stood with bowed heads and
bewailed their sorry fortune, hourly expecting the cruel death by
fire.

Whilst they were thus kept against the appointed hour, the default of
them committed, being bruited about everywhere, came to the ears of
Ruggieri dell' Oria, a man of inestimable worth and then the king's
admiral, whereupon he repaired to the place where they were bound and
considering first the girl, commended her amain for beauty, then,
turning to look upon the young man, knew him without much difficulty
and drawing nearer to him, asked him if he were not Gianni di Procida.
The youth, raising his eyes and recognizing the admiral, answered, 'My
lord, I was indeed he of whom you ask; but I am about to be no more.'
The admiral then asked him what had brought him to that pass, and he
answered, 'Love and the king's anger.' The admiral caused him tell his
story more at large and having heard everything from him as it had
happened, was about to depart, when Gianni called him back and said to
him, 'For God's sake, my lord, an it may be, get me one favour of him
who maketh me to abide thus.' 'What is that?' asked Ruggieri; and
Gianni said, 'I see I must die, and that speedily, and I ask,
therefore, by way of favour,--as I am bound with my back to this
damsel, whom I have loved more than my life, even as she hath loved
me, and she with her back to me,--that we may be turned about with our
faces one to the other, so that, dying, I may look upon her face and
get me gone, comforted.' 'With all my heart,' answered Ruggieri,
laughing; 'I will do on such wise that thou shalt yet see her till
thou grow weary of her sight.'

Then, taking leave of him, he charged those who were appointed to
carry the sentence into execution that they should proceed no farther
therein, without other commandment of the king, and straightway betook
himself to the latter, to whom, albeit he saw him sore incensed, he
spared not to speak his mind, saying, 'King, in what have the two
young folk offended against thee, whom thou hast commanded to be
burned yonder in the public place?' The king told him and Ruggieri
went on, 'The offence committed by them deserveth it indeed, but not
from thee; for, like as defaults merit punishment, even so do good
offices merit recompense, let alone grace and clemency. Knowest thou
who these are thou wouldst have burnt?' The king answered no, and
Ruggieri continued, 'Then I will have thee know them, so thou mayst
see how discreetly[280] thou sufferest thyself to be carried away by
the transports of passion. The young man is the son of Landolfo di
Procida, own brother to Messer Gian di Procida,[281] by whose means
thou art king and lord of this island, and the damsel is the daughter
of Marino Bolgaro, to whose influence thou owest it that thine
officers have not been driven forth of Ischia. Moreover, they are
lovers who have long loved one another and constrained of love, rather
than of will to do despite to thine authority, have done this sin, if
that can be called sin which young folk do for love. Wherefore, then,
wilt thou put them to death, whenas thou shouldst rather honour them
with the greatest favours and boons at thy commandment?'

[Footnote 280: Iron., meaning "with how little discretion."]

[Footnote 281: Gianni (Giovanni) di Procida was a Sicilian noble, to
whose efforts in stirring up the island to revolt against Charles of
Anjou was mainly due the popular rising known as the Sicilian Vespers
(A.D. 1283) which expelled the French usurper from Sicily and
transferred the crown to the house of Arragon. The Frederick (A.D.
1296-1337) named in the text was the fourth prince of the latter
dynasty.]

The king, hearing this and certifying himself that Ruggieri spoke
sooth, not only forbore from proceeding to do worse, but repented him
of that which he had done, wherefore he commanded incontinent that the
two lovers should be loosed from the stake and brought before him;
which was forthright done. Therewith, having fully acquainted himself
with their case, he concluded that it behoved him requite them the
injury he had done them with gifts and honour; wherefore he let clothe
them anew on sumptuous wise and finding them of one accord, caused
Gianni to take the damsel to wife. Then, making them magnificent
presents, he sent them back, rejoicing, to their own country, where
they were received with the utmost joyance and delight."



THE SEVENTH STORY

[Day the Fifth]

     TEODORO, BEING ENAMOURED OF VIOLANTE, DAUGHTER OF MESSER
     AMERIGO HIS LORD, GETTETH HER WITH CHILD AND IS CONDEMNED TO
     BE HANGED; BUT, BEING RECOGNIZED AND DELIVERED BY HIS
     FATHER, AS THEY ARE LEADING HIM TO THE GALLOWS, SCOURGING
     HIM THE WHILE, HE TAKETH VIOLANTE TO WIFE


The ladies, who abode all fearful in suspense to know if the lovers
should be burnt, hearing of their escape, praised God and were glad;
whereupon the queen, seeing that Pampinea had made an end of her
story, imposed on Lauretta the charge of following on, who blithely
proceeded to say: "Fairest ladies, in the days when good King
William[282] ruled over Sicily, there was in that island a gentleman
hight Messer Amerigo Abate of Trapani, who, among other worldly goods,
was very well furnished with children; wherefore, having occasion for
servants and there coming thither from the Levant certain galleys of
Genoese corsairs, who had, in their cruises off the coast of Armenia,
taken many boys, he bought some of these latter, deeming them Turks,
and amongst them one, Teodoro by name, of nobler mien and better
bearing than the rest, who seemed all mere shepherds. Teodoro,
although entreated as a slave, was brought up in the house with Messer
Amerigo's children and conforming more to his own nature than to the
accidents of fortune, approved himself so accomplished and well-bred
and so commended himself to Messer Amerigo that he set him free and
still believing him to be a Turk, caused baptize him and call him
Pietro and made him chief over all his affairs, trusting greatly in
him.

[Footnote 282: William II. (A.D. 1166-1189), the last (legitimate)
king of the Norman dynasty in Sicily, called the Good, to distinguish
him from his father, William the Bad.]

As Messer Amerigo's children grew up, there grew up with them a
daughter of his, called Violante, a fair and dainty damsel, who, her
father tarrying overmuch to marry her, became by chance enamoured of
Pietro and loving him and holding his manners and fashions in great
esteem, was yet ashamed to discover this to him. But Love spared her
that pains, for that Pietro, having once and again looked upon her by
stealth, had become so passionately enamoured of her that he never
knew ease save whenas he saw her; but he was sore afraid lest any
should become aware thereof, himseeming that in this he did other than
well. The young lady, who took pleasure in looking upon him, soon
perceived this and to give him more assurance, showed herself
exceeding well pleased therewith, as indeed she was. On this wise they
abode a great while, daring not to say aught to one another, much as
each desired it; but, whilst both, alike enamoured, languished
enkindled in the flames of love, fortune, as if it had determined of
will aforethought that this should be, furnished them with an occasion
of doing away the timorousness that baulked them.

Messer Amerigo had, about a mile from Trapani, a very goodly
place,[283] to which his lady was wont ofttimes to resort by way of
pastime with her daughter and other women and ladies. Thither
accordingly they betook themselves one day of great heat, carrying
Pietro with them, and there abiding, it befell, as whiles we see it
happen in summer time, that the sky became of a sudden overcast with
dark clouds, wherefore the lady set out with her company to return to
Trapani, so they might not be there overtaken of the foul weather, and
fared on as fast as they might. But Pietro and Violante, being young,
outwent her mother and the rest by a great way, urged belike, no less
by love than by fear of the weather, and they being already so far in
advance that they were hardly to be seen, it chanced that, of a
sudden, after many thunderclaps, a very heavy and thick shower of hail
began to fall, wherefrom the lady and her company fled into the house
of a husbandman.

[Footnote 283: Apparently a pleasure-garden, without a house attached
in which they might have taken shelter from the rain.]

Pietro and the young lady, having no readier shelter, took refuge in a
little old hut, well nigh all in ruins, wherein none dwelt, and there
huddled together under a small piece of roof, that yet remained whole.
The scantness of the cover constrained them to press close one to
other, and this touching was the means of somewhat emboldening their
minds to discover the amorous desires that consumed them both; and
Pietro first began to say, 'Would God this hail might never give over,
so but I might abide as I am!' 'Indeed,' answered the girl, 'that were
dear to me also.' From these words they came to taking each other by
the hands and pressing them and from that to clipping and after to
kissing, it hailing still the while; and in short, not to recount
every particular, the weather mended not before they had known the
utmost delights of love and had taken order to have their pleasure
secretly one of the other. The storm ended, they fared on to the gate
of the city, which was near at hand, and there awaiting the lady,
returned home with her.

Thereafter, with very discreet and secret ordinance, they foregathered
again and again in the same place, to the great contentment of them
both, and the work went on so briskly that the young lady became with
child, which was sore unwelcome both to the one and the other;
wherefore she used many arts to rid herself, contrary to the course of
nature, of her burden, but could nowise avail to accomplish it.
Therewithal, Pietro, fearing for his life, bethought himself to flee
and told her, to which she answered, 'An thou depart, I will without
fail kill myself.' Whereupon quoth Pietro, who loved her exceedingly,
'Lady mine, how wilt thou have me abide here? Thy pregnancy will
discover our default and it will lightly be pardoned unto thee; but I,
poor wretch, it will be must needs bear the penalty of thy sin and
mine own.' 'Pietro,' replied she, 'my sin must indeed be discovered;
but be assured that thine will never be known, an thou tell not
thyself.' Then said he, 'Since thou promisest me this, I will remain;
but look thou keep thy promise to me.'

After awhile, the young lady, who had as most she might, concealed her
being with child, seeing that, for the waxing of her body, she might
no longer dissemble it, one day discovered her case to her mother,
beseeching her with many tears to save her; whereupon the lady, beyond
measure woeful, gave her hard words galore and would know of her how
the thing had come about. Violante, in order that no harm might come
to Pietro, told her a story of her own devising, disguising the truth
in other forms. The lady believed it and to conceal her daughter's
default, sent her away to a country house of theirs. There, the time
of her delivery coming and the girl crying out, as women use to do,
what while her mother never dreamed that Messer Amerigo, who was well
nigh never wont to do so, should come thither, it chanced that he
passed, on his return from hawking, by the chamber where his daughter
lay and marvelling at the outcry she made, suddenly entered the
chamber and demanded what was to do. The lady, seeing her husband come
unawares, started up all woebegone and told him that which had
befallen the girl. But he, less easy of belief than his wife had been,
declared that it could not be true that she knew not by whom she was
with child and would altogether know who he was, adding that, by
confessing it, she might regain his favour; else must she make ready
to die without mercy.

The lady did her utmost to persuade her husband to abide content with
that which she had said; but to no purpose. He flew out into a passion
and running, with his naked sword in his hand, at his daughter, who,
what while her mother held her father in parley, had given birth to a
male child, said, 'Either do thou discover by whom the child was
begotten, or thou shalt die without delay.' The girl, fearing death,
broke her promise to Pietro and discovered all that had passed between
him and her; which when the gentleman heard, he fell into a fury of
anger and hardly withheld himself from slaying her.

However, after he had said to her that which his rage dictated to him,
he took horse again and returning to Trapani, recounted the affront
that Pietro had done him to a certain Messer Currado, who was captain
there for the king. The latter caused forthright seize Pietro, who was
off his guard, and put him to the torture, whereupon he confessed all
and being a few days after sentenced by the captain to be flogged
through the city and after strung up by the neck, Messer Amerigo
(whose wrath had not been done away by the having brought Pietro to
death,) in order that one and the same hour should rid the earth of
the two lovers and their child, put poison in a hanap with wine and
delivering it, together with a naked poniard, to a serving-man of his,
said to him, 'Carry these two things to Violante and bid her, on my
part, forthright take which she will of these two deaths, poison or
steel; else will I have her burned alive, even as she hath deserved,
in the presence of as many townsfolk as be here. This done, thou shalt
take the child, a few days agone born of her, and dash its head
against the wall and after cast it to the dogs to eat.' This barbarous
sentence passed by the cruel father upon his daughter and his
grandchild, the servant, who was more disposed to ill than to good,
went off upon his errand.

Meanwhile, Pietro, as he was carried to the gallows by the officers,
being scourged of them the while, passed, according as it pleased
those who led the company, before a hostelry wherein were three
noblemen of Armenia, who had been sent by the king of that country
ambassadors to Rome, to treat with the Pope of certain matters of
great moment, concerning a crusade that was about to be undertaken,
and who had lighted down there to take some days' rest and
refreshment. They had been much honoured by the noblemen of Trapani
and especially by Messer Amerigo, and hearing those pass who led
Pietro, they came to a window to see. Now Pietro was all naked to the
waist, with his hands bounden behind his back, and one of the three
ambassadors, a man of great age and authority, named Fineo, espied on
his breast a great vermeil spot, not painted, but naturally imprinted
on his skin, after the fashion of what women here call _roses_. Seeing
this, there suddenly recurred to his memory a son of his who had been
carried off by corsairs fifteen years agone upon the coast of Lazistan
and of whom he had never since been able to learn any news; and
considering the age of the poor wretch who was scourged, he bethought
himself that, if his son were alive, he must be of such an age as
Pietro appeared to him. Wherefore he began to suspect by that token
that it must be he and bethought himself that, were he indeed his son,
he should still remember him of his name and that of his father and of
the Armenian tongue. Accordingly, as he drew near, he called out,
saying, 'Ho, Teodoro!' Pietro, hearing this, straightway lifted up his
head and Fineo, speaking in Armenian, said to him, 'What countryman
art thou and whose son?' The sergeants who had him in charge halted
with him, of respect for the nobleman, so that Pietro answered,
saying, 'I was of Armenia and son to one Fineo and was brought hither,
as a little child, by I know not what folk.'

Fineo, hearing this, knew him for certain to be the son whom he had
lost, wherefore he came down, weeping, with his companions, and ran to
embrace him among all the sergeants; then, casting over his shoulders
a mantle of the richest silk, which he had on his own back, he
besought the officer who was escorting him to execution to be pleased
to wait there till such time as commandment should come to him to
carry the prisoner back; to which he answered that he would well. Now
Fineo had already learned the reason for which Pietro was being led to
death, report having noised it abroad everywhere; wherefore he
straightway betook himself, with his companions and their retinue, to
Messer Currado and bespoke him thus: 'Sir, he whom you have doomed to
die, as a slave, is a free man and my son and is ready to take to
wife her whom it is said he hath bereft of her maidenhead; wherefore
may it please you to defer the execution till such time as it may be
learned if she will have him to husband, so, in case she be willing,
you may not be found to have done contrary to the law.' Messer
Currado, hearing that the condemned man was Fineo's son, marvelled and
confessing that which the latter said to be true, was somewhat ashamed
of the unright of fortune and straightway caused carry Pietro home;
then, sending for Messer Amerigo, he acquainted him with these things.

Messer Amerigo, who by this believed his daughter and grandson to be
dead, was the woefullest man in the world for that which he had done,
seeing that all might very well have been set right, so but Violante
were yet alive. Nevertheless, he despatched a runner whereas his
daughter was, to the intent that, in case his commandment had not been
done, it should not be carried into effect. The messenger found the
servant sent by Messer Amerigo rating the lady, before whom he had
laid the poniard and the poison, for that she made not her election as
speedily [as he desired], and would have constrained her to take the
one or the other. But, hearing his lord's commandment, he let her be
and returning to Messer Amerigo, told him how the case stood, to the
great satisfaction of the latter, who, betaking himself whereas Fineo
was, excused himself, well nigh with tears, as best he knew, of that
which had passed, craving pardon therefor and evouching that, an
Teodoro would have his daughter to wife, he was exceeding well pleased
to give her to him. Fineo gladly received his excuses and answered,
'It is my intent that my son shall take your daughter to wife; and if
he will not, let the sentence passed upon him take its course.'

Accordingly, being thus agreed, they both repaired whereas Teodoro
abode yet all fearful of death, albeit he was rejoiced to have found
his father again, and questioned him of his mind concerning this
thing. When he heard that, an he would, he might have Violante to
wife, such was his joy that himseemed he had won from hell to heaven
at one bound, and he answered that this would be to him the utmost of
favours, so but it pleased both of them. Thereupon they sent to know
the mind of the young lady, who, whereas she abode in expectation of
death, the woefullest woman alive, hearing that which had betided and
was like to betide Teodoro, after much parley, began to lend some
faith to their words and taking a little comfort, answered that, were
she to ensue her own wishes in the matter, no greater happiness could
betide her than to be the wife of Teodoro; algates, she would do that
which her father should command her.

Accordingly, all parties being of accord, the two lovers were married
with the utmost magnificence, to the exceeding satisfaction of all the
townsfolk; and the young lady, heartening herself and letting rear her
little son, became ere long fairer than ever. Then, being risen from
childbed, she went out to meet Fineo, whose return was expected from
Rome, and paid him reverence as to a father; whereupon he, exceeding
well pleased to have so fair a daughter-in-law, caused celebrate their
nuptials with the utmost pomp and rejoicing and receiving her as a
daughter, ever after held her such. And after some days, taking ship
with his son and her and his little grandson, he carried them with him
into Lazistan, where the two lovers abode in peace and happiness, so
long as life endured unto them."



THE EIGHTH STORY

[Day the Fifth]

     NASTAGIO DEGLI ONESTI, FALLING IN LOVE WITH A LADY OF THE
     TRAVERSARI FAMILY, SPENDETH HIS SUBSTANCE WITHOUT BEING
     BELOVED IN RETURN, AND BETAKING HIMSELF, AT THE INSTANCE OF
     HIS KINSFOLK, TO CHIASSI, HE THERE SEETH A HORSEMAN GIVE
     CHASE TO A DAMSEL AND SLAY HER AND CAUSE HER BE DEVOURED OF
     TWO DOGS. THEREWITHAL HE BIDDETH HIS KINSFOLK AND THE LADY
     WHOM HE LOVETH TO A DINNER, WHERE HIS MISTRESS SEETH THE
     SAME DAMSEL TORN IN PIECES AND FEARING A LIKE FATE, TAKETH
     NASTAGIO TO HUSBAND


No sooner was Lauretta silent than Filomena, by the queen's
commandment, began thus: "Lovesome ladies, even as pity is in us
commended, so also is cruelty rigorously avenged by Divine justice;
the which that I may prove to you and so engage you altogether to
purge yourselves therefrom, it pleaseth me tell you a story no less
pitiful than delectable.

In Ravenna, a very ancient city of Romagna, there were aforetime many
noblemen and gentlemen, and amongst the rest a young man called
Nastagio degli Onesti, who had, by the death of his father and an
uncle of his, been left rich beyond all estimation and who, as it
happeneth often with young men, being without a wife, fell in love
with a daughter of Messer Paolo Traversari, a young lady of much
greater family than his own, hoping by his fashions to bring her to
love him in return. But these, though great and goodly and
commendable, not only profited him nothing; nay, it seemed they did
him harm, so cruel and obdurate and intractable did the beloved damsel
show herself to him, being grown belike, whether for her singular
beauty or the nobility of her birth, so proud and disdainful that
neither he nor aught that pleased him pleased her. This was so
grievous to Nastagio to bear that many a time, for chagrin, being
weary of complaining, he had it in his thought to kill himself, but
held his hand therefrom; and again and again he took it to heart to
let her be altogether or have her, an he might, in hatred, even as she
had him. But in vain did he take such a resolve, for that, the more
hope failed him, the more it seemed his love redoubled. Accordingly,
he persisted both in loving and in spending without stint or measure,
till it seemed to certain of his friends and kinsfolk that he was like
to consume both himself and his substance; wherefore they besought him
again and again and counselled him depart Ravenna and go sojourn
awhile in some other place, for that, so doing, he would abate both
his passion and his expenditure. Nastagio long made light of this
counsel, but, at last, being importuned of them and able no longer to
say no, he promised to do as they would have him and let make great
preparations, as he would go into France or Spain or some other far
place. Then, taking horse in company with many of his friends, he rode
out of Ravenna and betook himself to a place called Chiassi, some
three miles from the city, where, sending for tents and pavilions, he
told those who had accompanied him thither that he meant to abide and
that they might return to Ravenna. Accordingly, having encamped there,
he proceeded to lead the goodliest and most magnificent life that was
aye, inviting now these, now those others, to supper and to dinner, as
he was used.

It chanced one day, he being come thus well nigh to the beginning of
May and the weather being very fair, that, having entered into thought
of his cruel mistress, he bade all his servants leave him to himself,
so he might muse more at his leisure, and wandered on, step by step,
lost in melancholy thought, till he came [unwillingly] into the
pine-wood. The fifth hour of the day was well nigh past and he had
gone a good half mile into the wood, remembering him neither of eating
nor of aught else, when himseemed of a sudden he heard a terrible
great wailing and loud cries uttered by a woman; whereupon, his dulcet
meditation being broken, he raised his head to see what was to do and
marvelled to find himself among the pines; then, looking before him,
he saw a very fair damsel come running, naked through a thicket all
thronged with underwood and briers, towards the place where he was,
weeping and crying sore for mercy and all dishevelled and torn by the
bushes and the brambles. At her heels ran two huge and fierce
mastiffs, which followed hard upon her and ofttimes bit her cruelly,
whenas they overtook her; and after them he saw come riding upon a
black courser a knight arrayed in sad-coloured armour, with a very
wrathful aspect and a tuck in his hand, threatening her with death in
foul and fearsome words.

This sight filled Nastagio's mind at once with terror and amazement
and after stirred him to compassion of the ill-fortuned lady,
wherefrom arose a desire to deliver her, an but he might, from such
anguish and death. Finding himself without arms, he ran to take the
branch of a tree for a club, armed wherewith, he advanced to meet the
dogs and the knight. When the latter saw this, he cried out to him
from afar off, saying, 'Nastagio, meddle not; suffer the dogs and
myself to do that which this wicked woman hath merited.' As he spoke,
the dogs, laying fast hold of the damsel by the flanks, brought her to
a stand and the knight, coming up, lighted down from his horse;
whereupon Nastagio drew near unto him and said, 'I know not who thou
mayst be, that knowest me so well; but this much I say to see that it
is a great felony for an armed knight to seek to slay a naked woman
and to set the dogs on her, as she were a wild beast; certes, I will
defend her as most I may.'

'Nastagio,' answered the knight, 'I was of one same city with thyself
and thou wast yet a little child when I, who hight Messer Guido degli
Anastagi, was yet more passionately enamoured of this woman than thou
art presently of yonder one of the Traversari and my ill fortune for
her hard-heartedness and barbarity came to such a pass that one day I
slew myself in despair with this tuck thou seest in my hand and was
doomed to eternal punishment. Nor was it long ere she, who was beyond
measure rejoiced at my death, died also and for the sin of her cruelty
and of the delight had of her in my torments (whereof she repented her
not, as one who thought not to have sinned therein, but rather to have
merited reward,) was and is on like wise condemned to the pains of
hell. Wherein no sooner was she descended than it was decreed unto her
and to me, for penance thereof,[284] that she should flee before me
and that I, who once loved her so dear, should pursue her, not as a
beloved mistress, but as a mortal enemy, and that, as often as I
overtook her, I should slay her with this tuck, wherewith I slew
myself, and ripping open her loins, tear from her body, as thou shalt
presently see, that hard and cold heart, wherein nor love nor pity
might ever avail to enter, together with the other entrails, and give
them to the dogs to eat. Nor is it a great while after ere, as God's
justice and puissance will it, she riseth up again, as she had not
been dead, and beginneth anew her woeful flight, whilst the dogs and I
again pursue her. And every Friday it betideth that I come up with her
here at this hour and wreak on her the slaughter that thou shalt see;
and think not that we rest the other days; nay, I overtake her in
other places, wherein she thought and wrought cruelly against me.
Thus, being as thou seest, from her lover grown her foe, it behoveth
me pursue her on this wise as many years as she was cruel to me
months. Wherefore leave me to carry the justice of God into effect and
seek not to oppose that which thou mayst not avail to hinder.'

[Footnote 284: _i.e._ of her sin.]

Nastagio, hearing these words, drew back, grown all adread, with not
an hair on his body but stood on end, and looking upon the wretched
damsel, began fearfully to await that which the knight should do. The
latter, having made an end of his discourse, ran, tuck in hand, as he
were a ravening dog, at the damsel, who, fallen on her knees and held
fast by the two mastiffs, cried him mercy, and smiting her with all
his might amiddleward the breast, pierced her through and through. No
sooner had she received this stroke than she fell grovelling on the
ground, still weeping and crying out; whereupon the knight, clapping
his hand to his hunting-knife, ripped open her loins and tearing forth
her heart and all that was thereabout, cast them to the two mastiffs,
who devoured them incontinent, as being sore anhungred. Nor was it
long ere, as if none of these things had been, the damsel of a sudden
rose to her feet and began to flee towards the sea, with the dogs
after her, still rending her; and in a little while they had gone so
far that Nastagio could see them no more. The latter, seeing these
things, abode a great while between pity and fear, and presently it
occurred to his mind that this might much avail him, seeing that it
befell every Friday; wherefore, marking the place, he returned to his
servants and after, whenas it seemed to him fit, he sent for sundry
of his kinsmen and friends and said to them, 'You have long urged me
leave loving this mine enemy and put an end to my expenditure, and I
am ready to do it, provided you will obtain me a favour; the which is
this, that on the coming Friday you make shift to have Messer Paolo
Traversari and his wife and daughter and all their kinswomen and what
other ladies soever it shall please you here to dinner with me. That
for which I wish this, you shall see then.' This seemed to them a
little thing enough to do, wherefore, returning to Ravenna, they in
due time invited those whom Nastagio would have to dine with him, and
albeit it was no easy matter to bring thither the young lady whom he
loved, natheless she went with the other ladies. Meanwhile, Nastagio
let make ready a magnificent banquet and caused set the tables under
the pines round about the place where he had witnessed the slaughter
of the cruel lady.

The time come, he seated the gentlemen and the ladies at table and so
ordered it that his mistress should be placed right over against the
spot where the thing should befall. Accordingly, hardly was the last
dish come when the despairful outcry of the hunted damsel began to be
heard of all, whereat each of the company marvelled and enquired what
was to do, but none could say; whereupon all started to their feet and
looking what this might be, they saw the woeful damsel and the knight
and the dogs; nor was it long ere they were all there among them.
Great was the clamor against both dogs and knight, and many rushed
forward to succour the damsel; but the knight, bespeaking them as he
had bespoken Nastagio, not only made them draw back, but filled them
all with terror and amazement. Then did he as he had done before,
whereat all the ladies that were there (and there were many present
who had been kinswomen both to the woeful damsel and to the knight and
who remembered them both of his love and of his death) wept as
piteously as if they had seen this done to themselves.

The thing carried to its end and the damsel and the knight gone, the
adventure set those who had seen it upon many and various discourses;
but of those who were the most affrighted was the cruel damsel beloved
of Nastagio, who had distinctly seen and heard the whole matter and
understood that these things concerned her more than any other who was
there, remembering her of the cruelty she had still used towards
Nastagio; wherefore herseemed she fled already before her enraged
lover and had the mastiffs at her heels. Such was the terror awakened
in her thereby that,--so this might not betide her,--no sooner did she
find an opportunity (which was afforded her that same evening) than,
turning her hatred into love, she despatched to Nastagio a trusty
chamberwoman of hers, who besought him that it should please him to go
to her, for that she was ready to do all that should be his pleasure.
He answered that this was exceeding agreeable to him, but that, so it
pleased her, he desired to have his pleasure of her with honour, to
wit, by taking her to wife. The damsel, who knew that it rested with
none other than herself that she had not been his wife, made answer to
him that it liked her well; then, playing the messenger herself, she
told her father and mother that she was content to be Nastagio's
wife, whereat they were mightily rejoiced, and he, espousing her on
the ensuing Sunday and celebrating his nuptials, lived with her long
and happily. Nor was this affright the cause of that good only; nay,
all the ladies of Ravenna became so fearful by reason thereof, that
ever after they were much more amenable than they had before been to
the desires of the men."



THE NINTH STORY

[Day the Fifth]

     FEDERIGO DEGLI ALBERIGHI LOVETH AND IS NOT LOVED. HE WASTETH
     HIS SUBSTANCE IN PRODIGAL HOSPITALITY TILL THERE IS LEFT HIM
     BUT ONE SOLE FALCON, WHICH, HAVING NOUGHT ELSE, HE GIVETH
     HIS MISTRESS TO EAT, ON HER COMING TO HIS HOUSE; AND SHE,
     LEARNING THIS, CHANGETH HER MIND AND TAKING HIM TO HUSBAND,
     MAKETH HIM RICH AGAIN


Filomena having ceased speaking, the queen, seeing that none remained
to tell save only herself and Dioneo, whose privilege entitled him to
speak last, said, with blithe aspect, "It pertaineth now to me to tell
and I, dearest ladies, will willingly do it, relating a story like in
part to the foregoing, to the intent that not only may you know how
much the love of you[285] can avail in gentle hearts, but that you may
learn to be yourselves, whenas it behoveth, bestowers of your
guerdons, without always suffering fortune to be your guide, which
most times, as it chanceth, giveth not discreetly, but out of all
measure.

[Footnote 285: Syn. your charms (_la vostra vaghezza_).]

You must know, then, that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi, who was of our
days and maybe is yet a man of great worship and authority in our city
and illustrious and worthy of eternal renown, much more for his
fashions and his merit than for the nobility of his blood, being grown
full of years, delighted oftentimes to discourse with his neighbours
and others of things past, the which he knew how to do better and more
orderly and with more memory and elegance of speech than any other
man. Amongst other fine things of his, he was used to tell that there
was once in Florence a young man called Federigo, son of Messer
Filippo Alberighi and renowned for deeds of arms and courtesy over
every other bachelor in Tuscany, who, as betideth most gentlemen,
became enamoured of a gentlewoman named Madam Giovanna, in her day
held one of the fairest and sprightliest ladies that were in Florence;
and to win her love, he held jousts and tourneyings and made
entertainments and gave gifts and spent his substance without any
stint; but she, being no less virtuous than fair, recked nought of
these things done for her nor of him who did them. Federigo spending
thus far beyond his means and gaining nought, his wealth, as lightly
happeneth, in course of time came to an end and he abode poor, nor
was aught left him but a poor little farm, on whose returns he lived
very meagrely, and to boot a falcon he had, one of the best in the
world. Wherefore, being more in love than ever and himseeming he might
no longer make such a figure in the city as he would fain do, he took
up his abode at Campi, where his farm was, and there bore his poverty
with patience, hawking whenas he might and asking of no one.

Federigo being thus come to extremity, it befell one day that Madam
Giovanna's husband fell sick and seeing himself nigh upon death, made
his will, wherein, being very rich, he left a son of his, now well
grown, his heir, after which, having much loved Madam Giovanna, he
substituted her to his heir, in case his son should die without lawful
issue, and died. Madam Giovanna, being thus left a widow, betook
herself that summer, as is the usance of our ladies, into the country
with her son to an estate of hers very near that of Federigo;
wherefore it befell that the lad made acquaintance with the latter and
began to take delight in hawks and hounds, and having many a time seen
his falcon flown and being strangely taken therewith, longed sore to
have it, but dared not ask it of him, seeing it so dear to him. The
thing standing thus, it came to pass that the lad fell sick, whereat
his mother was sore concerned, as one who had none but him and loved
him with all her might, and abode about him all day, comforting him
without cease; and many a time she asked him if there were aught he
desired, beseeching him tell it her, for an it might be gotten, she
would contrive that he should have it. The lad, having heard these
offers many times repeated, said, 'Mother mine, an you could procure
me to have Federigo's falcon, methinketh I should soon be whole.'

The lady hearing this, bethought herself awhile and began to consider
how she should do. She knew that Federigo had long loved her and had
never gotten of her so much as a glance of the eye; wherefore quoth
she in herself, 'How shall I send or go to him to seek of him this
falcon, which is, by all I hear, the best that ever flew and which, to
boot, maintaineth him in the world? And how can I be so graceless as
to offer to take this from a gentleman who hath none other pleasure
left?' Perplexed with this thought and knowing not what to say, for
all she was very certain of getting the bird, if she asked for it, she
made no reply to her son, but abode silent. However, at last, the love
of her son so got the better of her that she resolved in herself to
satisfy him, come what might, and not to send, but to go herself for
the falcon and fetch it to him. Accordingly she said to him, 'My son,
take comfort and bethink thyself to grow well again, for I promise
thee that the first thing I do to-morrow morning I will go for it and
fetch it to thee.' The boy was rejoiced at this and showed some
amendment that same day.

Next morning, the lady, taking another lady to bear her company,
repaired, by way of diversion, to Federigo's little house and enquired
for the latter, who, for that it was no weather for hawking nor had
been for some days past, was then in a garden he had, overlooking the
doing of certain little matters of his, and hearing that Madam
Giovanna asked for him at the door, ran thither, rejoicing and
marvelling exceedingly. She, seeing him come, rose and going with
womanly graciousness to meet him, answered his respectful salutation
with 'Give you good day, Federigo!' then went on to say, 'I am come to
make thee amends for that which thou hast suffered through me, in
loving me more than should have behooved thee; and the amends in
question is this that I purpose to dine with thee this morning
familiarly, I and this lady my companion.' 'Madam,' answered Federigo
humbly, 'I remember me not to have ever received any ill at your
hands, but on the contrary so much good that, if ever I was worth
aught, it came about through your worth and the love I bore you; and
assuredly, albeit you have come to a poor host, this your gracious
visit is far more precious to me than it would be an it were given me
to spend over again as much as that which I have spent aforetime.' So
saying, he shamefastly received her into his house and thence brought
her into his garden, where, having none else to bear her company, he
said to her, 'Madam, since there is none else here, this good woman,
wife of yonder husbandman, will bear you company, whilst I go see the
table laid.'

Never till that moment, extreme as was his poverty, had he been so
dolorously sensible of the straits to which he had brought himself for
the lack of those riches he had spent on such disorderly wise. But
that morning, finding he had nothing wherewithal he might honourably
entertain the lady, for love of whom he had aforetime entertained folk
without number, he was made perforce aware of his default and ran
hither and thither, perplexed beyond measure, like a man beside
himself, inwardly cursing his ill fortune, but found neither money nor
aught he might pawn. It was now growing late and he having a great
desire to entertain the gentle lady with somewhat, yet choosing not to
have recourse to his own labourer, much less any one else, his eye
fell on his good falcon, which he saw on his perch in his little
saloon; whereupon, having no other resource, he took the bird and
finding him fat, deemed him a dish worthy of such a lady. Accordingly,
without more ado, he wrung the hawk's neck and hastily caused a little
maid of his pluck it and truss it and after put it on the spit and
roast it diligently. Then, the table laid and covered with very white
cloths, whereof he had yet some store, he returned with a blithe
countenance to the lady in the garden and told her that dinner was
ready, such as it was in his power to provide. Accordingly, the lady
and her friend, arising, betook themselves to table and in company
with Federigo, who served them with the utmost diligence, ate the good
falcon, unknowing what they did.

Presently, after they had risen from table and had abidden with him
awhile in cheerful discourse, the lady, thinking it time to tell that
wherefor she was come, turned to Federigo and courteously bespoke him,
saying, 'Federigo, I doubt not a jot but that, when thou hearest that
which is the especial occasion of my coming hither, thou wilt marvel
at my presumption, remembering thee of thy past life and of my virtue,
which latter belike thou reputedst cruelty and hardness of heart;
but, if thou hadst or hadst had children, by whom thou mightest know
how potent is the love one beareth them, meseemeth certain that thou
wouldst in part hold me excused. But, although thou hast none, I, who
have one child, cannot therefore escape the common laws to which other
mothers are subject and whose enforcements it behoveth me ensue, need
must I, against my will and contrary to all right and seemliness, ask
of thee a boon, which I know is supremely dear to thee (and that with
good reason, for that thy sorry fortune hath left thee none other
delight, none other diversion, none other solace), to wit, thy falcon,
whereof my boy is so sore enamoured that, an I carry it not to him, I
fear me his present disorder will be so aggravated that there may
presently ensue thereof somewhat whereby I shall lose him. Wherefore I
conjure thee,--not by the love thou bearest me and whereto thou art
nowise beholden, but by thine own nobility, which in doing courtesy
hath approved itself greater than in any other,--that it please thee
give it to me, so by the gift I may say I have kept my son alive and
thus made him for ever thy debtor.'

Federigo, hearing what the lady asked and knowing that he could not
oblige her, for that he had given her the falcon to eat, fell
a-weeping in her presence, ere he could answer a word. The lady at
first believed that his tears arose from grief at having to part from
his good falcon and was like to say that she would not have it.
However, she contained herself and awaited what Federigo should reply,
who, after weeping awhile, made answer thus: 'Madam, since it pleased
God that I should set my love on you, I have in many things reputed
fortune contrary to me and have complained of her; but all the ill
turns she hath done me have been a light matter in comparison with
that which she doth me at this present and for which I can never more
be reconciled to her, considering that you are come hither to my poor
house, whereas you deigned not to come what while I was rich, and seek
of me a little boon, the which she hath so wrought that I cannot grant
you; and why this cannot be I will tell you briefly. When I heard that
you, of your favour, were minded to dine with me, I deemed it a light
thing and a seemly, having regard to your worth and the nobility of
your station, to honour you, as far as in me lay, with some choicer
victual than that which is commonly set before other folk; wherefore,
remembering me of the falcon which you ask of me and of his
excellence, I judged him a dish worthy of you. This very morning,
then, you have had him roasted upon the trencher, and indeed I had
accounted him excellently well bestowed; but now, seeing that you
would fain have had him on other wise, it is so great a grief to me
that I cannot oblige you therein that methinketh I shall never forgive
myself therefor.' So saying, in witness of this, he let cast before
her the falcon's feathers and feet and beak.

The lady, seeing and hearing this, first blamed him for having, to
give a woman to eat, slain such a falcon, and after inwardly much
commended the greatness of his soul, which poverty had not availed nor
might anywise avail to abate. Then, being put out of all hope of
having the falcon and fallen therefore in doubt of her son's recovery,
she took her leave and returned, all disconsolate, to the latter,
who, before many days had passed, whether for chagrin that he could
not have the bird or for that his disorder was e'en fated to bring him
to that pass, departed this life, to the inexpressible grief of his
mother. After she had abidden awhile full of tears and affliction,
being left very rich and yet young, she was more than once urged by
her brothers to marry again, and albeit she would fain not have done
so, yet, finding herself importuned and calling to mind Federigo's
worth and his last magnificence, to wit, the having slain such a
falcon for her entertainment, she said to them, 'I would gladly, an it
liked you, abide as I am; but, since it is your pleasure that I take a
[second] husband, certes I will never take any other, an I have not
Federigo degli Alberighi.' Whereupon her brothers, making mock of her,
said 'Silly woman that thou art, what is this thou sayest? How canst
thou choose him, seeing he hath nothing in the world?' 'Brothers
mine,' answered she, 'I know very well that it is as you say; but I
would liefer have a man that lacketh of riches than riches that lack
of a man.' Her brethren, hearing her mind and knowing Federigo for a
man of great merit, poor though he was, gave her, with all her wealth,
to him, even as she would; and he, seeing himself married to a lady of
such worth and one whom he had loved so dear and exceeding rich, to
boot, became a better husband of his substance and ended his days with
her in joy and solace."



THE TENTH STORY

[Day the Fifth]

     PIETRO DI VINCIOLO GOETH TO SUP ABROAD, WHEREUPON HIS WIFE
     LETTETH FETCH HER A YOUTH TO KEEP HER COMPANY, AND HER
     HUSBAND RETURNING, UNLOOKED FOR, SHE HIDETH HER GALLANT
     UNDER A HEN-COOP. PIETRO TELLETH HER HOW THERE HAD BEEN
     FOUND IN THE HOUSE OF ONE ARCOLANO, WITH WHOM HE WAS TO HAVE
     SUPPED, A YOUNG MAN BROUGHT IN BY HIS WIFE, AND SHE BLAMETH
     THE LATTER. PRESENTLY, AN ASS, BY MISCHANCE, SETTETH FOOT ON
     THE FINGERS OF HIM WHO IS UNDER THE COOP AND HE ROARETH OUT,
     WHEREUPON PIETRO RUNNETH THITHER AND ESPYING HIM,
     DISCOVERETH HIS WIFE'S UNFAITH, BUT ULTIMATELY COMETH TO AN
     ACCORD WITH HER FOR HIS OWN LEWD ENDS


The queen's story come to an end and all having praised God for that
He had rewarded Federigo according to his desert, Dioneo, who never
waited for commandment, began on this wise: "I know not whether to say
if it be a casual vice, grown up in mankind through perversity of
manners and usances, or a defect inherent in our nature, that we laugh
rather at things ill than at good works, especially when they concern
us not. Wherefore, seeing that the pains I have otherwhiles taken and
am now about to take aim at none other end than to rid you of
melancholy and afford you occasion for laughter and merriment,--albeit
the matter of my present story may be in part not altogether seemly,
nevertheless, lovesome lasses, for that it may afford diversion, I
will e'en tell it you, and do you, hearkening thereunto, as you are
wont to do, whenas you enter into gardens, where, putting out your
dainty hands, you cull the roses and leave the thorns be. On this wise
must you do with my story, leaving the naughty man of whom I shall
tell you to his infamy and ill-luck go with him, what while you laugh
merrily at the amorous devices of his wife, having compassion, whenas
need is, of the mischances of others.

There was, then, in Perugia, no great while agone, a rich man called
Pietro di Vinciolo, who, belike more to beguile others and to abate
the general suspect in which he was had of all the Perugians, than for
any desire of his own, took him a wife, and fortune in this was so far
conformable to his inclination that the wife he took was a thickset,
red-haired, hot-complexioned wench, who would liefer have had two
husbands than one, whereas she happened upon one who had a mind far
more disposed to otherwhat than to her. Becoming, in process of time,
aware of this and seeing herself fair and fresh and feeling herself
buxom and lusty, she began by being sore incensed thereat and came
once and again to unseemly words thereof with her husband, with whom
she was well nigh always at variance. Then, seeing that this might
result rather in her own exhaustion than in the amendment of her
husband's depravity, she said in herself, 'Yonder caitiff forsaketh me
to go of his ribaldries on pattens through the dry, and I will study
to carry others on shipboard through the wet. I took him to husband
and brought him a fine great dowry, knowing him to be a man and
supposing him desireful of that whereunto men are and should be fain;
and had I not believed that he would play the part of a man, I had
never taken him. He knew that I was a woman; why, then, did he take me
to wife, if women were not to his mind? This is not to be suffered.
Were I minded to renounce the world, I should have made myself a nun;
but, if, choosing to live in the world, as I do, I look for delight or
pleasure from yonder fellow, I may belike grow old, expecting in vain,
and whenas I shall be old, I shall in vain repent and bemoan myself of
having wasted my youth, which latter he himself is a very good teacher
and demonstrator how I should solace, showing me by example how I
should delect myself with that wherein he delighteth, more by token
that this were commendable in me, whereas in him it is exceeding
blameworthy, seeing that I should offend against the laws alone,
whereas he offendeth against both law and nature.'

Accordingly, the good lady, having thus bethought herself and belike
more than once, to give effect privily to these considerations,
clapped up an acquaintance with an old woman who showed like Saint
Verdiana, that giveth the serpents to eat, and still went to every
pardoning, beads in hand, nor ever talked of aught but the lives of
the Holy Fathers or of the wounds of St. Francis and was of well nigh
all reputed a saint, and whenas it seemed to her time, frankly
discovered to her her intent. 'Daughter mine,' replied the beldam,
'God who knoweth all knoweth that thou wilt do exceeding well, and if
for nought else, yet shouldst thou do it, thou and every other young
woman, not to lose the time of your youth, for that to whoso hath
understanding, there is no grief like that of having lost one's time.
And what a devil are we women good for, once we are old, save to keep
the ashes about the fire-pot? If none else knoweth it and can bear
witness thereof, that do and can I; for, now that I am old, I
recognize without avail, but not without very sore and bitter remorse
of mind, the time that I let slip, and albeit I lost it not altogether
(for that I would not have thee deem me a ninny), still I did not what
I might have done; whereof whenas I remember me, seeing myself
fashioned as thou seest me at this present, so that thou wouldst find
none to give me fire to my tinder,[286] God knoweth what chagrin I
feel. With men it is not so; they are born apt for a thousand things,
not for this alone, and most part of them are of much more account old
than young; but women are born into the world for nothing but to do
this and bear children, and it is for this that they are prized; the
which, if from nought else, thou mayst apprehend from this, that we
women are still ready for the sport; more by token that one woman
would tire out many men at the game, whereas many men cannot tire one
woman; and for that we are born unto this, I tell thee again that thou
wilt do exceeding well to return thy husband a loaf for his bannock,
so thy soul may have no cause to reproach thy flesh in thine old age.
Each one hath of this world just so much as he taketh to himself
thereof, and especially is this the case with women, whom it behoveth,
much more than men, make use of their time, whilst they have it; for
thou mayst see how, when we grow old, nor husband nor other will look
at us; nay, they send us off to the kitchen to tell tales to the cat
and count the pots and pans; and what is worse, they tag rhymes on us
and say,

     "Tidbits for wenches young;
     Gags[287] for the old wife's tongue."

[Footnote 286: _i.e._ she was grown so repulsively ugly in her old
age, that no one cared to do her even so trifling a service as giving
her a spark in tinder to light her fire withal.]

[Footnote 287: Or chokebits (_stranguglioni_).]

And many another thing to the like purpose. And that I may hold thee
no longer in parley, I tell thee in fine that thou couldst not have
discovered thy mind to any one in the world who can be more useful to
thee than I, for that there is no man so high and mighty but I dare
tell him what behoveth, nor any so dour or churlish but I know how to
supple him aright and bring him to what I will. Wherefore do thou but
show me who pleaseth thee and after leave me do; but one thing I
commend to thee, daughter mine, and that is, that thou be mindful of
me, for that I am a poor body and would have thee henceforth a sharer
in all my pardonings and in all the paternosters I shall say, so God
may make them light and candles for thy dead.'[288]

[Footnote 288: _i.e._ that they may serve to purchase remission from
purgatory for the souls of her dead relatives, instead of the burning
of candles and tapers, which is held by the Roman Catholic Church to
have that effect.]

With this she made an end of her discourse, and the young lady came to
an understanding with her that, whenas she chanced to spy a certain
young spark who passed often through that quarter and whose every
feature she set out to her, she should know what she had to do; then,
giving her a piece of salt meat, she dismissed her with God's
blessing; nor had many days passed ere the old woman brought her him
of whom she had bespoken her privily into her chamber, and a little
while after, another and another, according as they chanced to take
the lady's fancy, who stinted not to indulge herself in this as often
as occasion offered, though still fearful of her husband. It chanced
one evening that, her husband being to sup abroad with a friend of
his, Ercolano by name, she charged the old woman bring her a youth,
who was one of the goodliest and most agreeable of all Perugia, which
she promptly did; but hardly had the lady seated herself at table to
sup with her gallant, when, behold, Pietro called out at the door to
have it opened to him. She, hearing this, gave herself up for lost,
but yet desiring, an she might, to conceal the youth and not having
the presence of mind to send him away or hide him elsewhere, made him
take refuge under a hen-coop, that was in a shed adjoining the chamber
where they were at supper, and cast over him the sacking of a
pallet-bed that she had that day let empty.

This done, she made haste to open to her husband, to whom quoth she,
as soon as he entered the house, 'You have very soon despatched this
supper of yours!' 'We have not so much as tasted it,' replied he; and
she said, 'How was that?' Quoth he, 'I will tell thee. Scarce were we
seated at table, Ercolano and his wife and I, when we heard some one
sneeze hard by, whereof we took no note the first time nor the second;
but, he who sneezed sneezing yet a third time and a fourth and a fifth
and many other times, it made us all marvel; whereupon Ercolano, who
was somewhat vexed with his wife for that she had kept us a great
while standing at the door, without opening to us, said, as if in a
rage, "What meaneth this? Who is it sneezeth thus?" And rising from
table, made for a stair that stood near at hand and under which, hard
by the stairfoot, was a closure of planks, wherein to bestow all
manner things, as we see those do every day who set their houses in
order. Himseeming it was from this that came the noise of sneezing, he
opened a little door that was therein and no sooner had he done this
than there issued forth thereof the frightfullest stench of sulphur
that might be. Somewhat of this smell had already reached us and we
complaining thereof, the lady had said, "It is because I was but now
in act to bleach my veils with sulphur and after set the pan, over
which I had spread them to catch the fumes, under the stair, so that
it yet smoketh thereof."

As soon as the smoke was somewhat spent, Ercolano looked into the
cupboard and there espied him who had sneezed and who was yet in act
to sneeze, for that the fumes of the sulphur constrained him thereto,
and indeed they had by this time so straitened his breast that, had he
abidden a while longer, he had never sneezed nor done aught else
again. Ercolano, seeing him, cried out, "Now, wife, I see why, whenas
we came hither awhile ago, we were kept so long at the door, without
its being opened to us; but may I never again have aught that shall
please me, an I pay thee not for this!" The lady, hearing this and
seeing that her sin was discovered, stayed not to make any excuse, but
started up from table and made off I know not whither. Ercolano,
without remarking his wife's flight, again and again bade him who
sneezed come forth; but the latter, who was now at the last gasp,
offered not to stir, for all that he could say; whereupon, taking him
by one foot, he haled him forth of his hiding-place and ran for a
knife to kill him; but I, fearing the police on mine own account,
arose and suffered him not to slay him or do him any hurt; nay, crying
out and defending him, I gave the alarm to certain of the neighbours,
who ran thither and taking the now half-dead youth, carried him forth
the house I know not whither. Wherefore, our supper being disturbed by
these things, I have not only not despatched it, nay, I have, as I
said, not even tasted it.'

The lady, hearing this, knew that there were other women as wise as
herself, albeit illhap bytimes betided some of them thereof, and would
fain have defended Ercolano's wife with words; but herseeming that, by
blaming others' defaults, she might make freer way for her own, she
began to say, 'Here be fine doings! A holy and virtuous lady indeed
she must be! She, to whom, as I am an honest woman, I would have
confessed myself, so spiritually minded meseemed she was! And the
worst of it is that she, being presently an old woman, setteth a
mighty fine example to the young. Accursed by the hour she came into
the world and she also, who suffereth herself to live, perfidious and
vile woman that she must be, the general reproach and shame of all the
ladies of this city, who, casting to the winds her honour and the
faith plighted to her husband and the world's esteem, is not ashamed
to dishonour him, and herself with him, for another man, him who is
such a man and so worshipful a citizen and who used her so well! So
God save me, there should be no mercy had of such women as she; they
should be put to death; they should be cast alive into the fire and
burned to ashes.' Then, bethinking her of her gallant, whom she had
hard by under the coop, she began to exhort Pietro to betake himself
to bed, for that it was time; but he, having more mind to eat than to
sleep, enquired if there was aught for supper. 'Supper, quotha!'
answered the lady. 'Truly, we are much used to get supper, whenas thou
art abroad! A fine thing, indeed! Dost thou take me for Ercolano's
wife? Alack, why dost thou not go to sleep for to-night? How far
better thou wilt do!' Now it chanced that, certain husbandmen of
Pietro's being come that evening with sundry matters from the farm and
having put up their asses, without watering them, in a little stable
adjoining the shed, one of the latter, being sore athirst, slipped his
head out of the halter and making his way out of the stable, went
smelling to everything, so haply he might find some water, and going
thus, he came presently full on the hen-coop, under which was the
young man. The latter having, for that it behoved him abide on all
fours, put out the fingers of one hand on the ground beyond the coop,
such was his luck, or rather let us say, his ill luck, that the ass
set his hoof on them, whereupon the youth, feeling an exceeding great
pain, set up a terrible outcry. Pietro, hearing this, marvelled and
perceived that the noise came from within the house; wherefore he went
out into the shed and hearing the other still clamouring, for that the
ass had not lifted up his hoof from his fingers, but still trod hard
upon them, said, 'Who is there?' Then, running to the hen-coop, he
raised it and espied the young man, who, beside the pain he suffered
from his fingers that were crushed by the ass's hoof, was all
a-trembling for fear lest Pietro should do him a mischief.

The latter, knowing him for one whom he had long pursued for his lewd
ends, asked him what he did there, whereto he answered him nothing,
but prayed him for the love of God do him no harm. Quoth Pietro,
'Arise and fear not that I will do thee any hurt; but tell me how thou
comest here and for what purpose.' The youth told him all, whereupon
Pietro, no less rejoiced to have found him than his wife was woeful,
taking him by the hand, carried him into the chamber, where the lady
awaited him with the greatest affright in the world, and seating
himself overagainst her, said, 'But now thou cursedst Ercolano's wife
and avouchedst that she should be burnt and that she was the disgrace
of all you women; why didst thou not speak of thyself? Or, an thou
choosedst not to speak of thyself, how could thy conscience suffer
thee to speak thus of her, knowing thyself to have done even as did
she? Certes, none other thing moved thee thereunto save that you women
are all made thus and look to cover your own doings with others'
defaults; would fire might come from heaven to burn you all up,
perverse generation that you are!'

The lady, seeing that, in the first heat of the discovery, he had done
her no harm other than in words and herseeming she saw that he was all
agog with joy for that he held so goodly a stripling by the hand, took
heart and said, 'Of this much, indeed, I am mighty well assured, that
thou wouldst have fire come from heaven to burn us women all up,
being, as thou art, as fain to us as a dog to cudgels; but, by Christ
His cross, thou shalt not get thy wish. However, I would fain have a
little discourse with thee, so I may know of what thou complainest.
Certes, it were a fine thing an thou shouldst seek to even me with
Ercolano's wife, who is a beat-breast, a smell-sin,[289] and hath of
her husband what she will and is of him held dear as a wife should be,
the which is not the case with me. For, grant that I am well clad and
shod of thee, thou knowest but too well how I fare for the rest and
how long it is since thou hast lain with me; and I had liefer go
barefoot and rags to my back and be well used of thee abed than have
all these things, being used as I am of thee. For understand plainly,
Pietro; I am a woman like other women and have a mind unto that which
other women desire; so that, an I procure me thereof, not having it
from thee, thou hast no call to missay of me therefor; at the least, I
do thee this much honour that I have not to do with horseboys and
scald-heads.'

[Footnote 289: _i.e._ a hypocritical sham devotee, covering a lewd
life with an appearance of sanctity.]

Pietro perceived that words were not like to fail her for all that
night; wherefore, as one who recked little of her, 'Wife,' said he,
'no more for the present; I will content thee aright of this matter;
but thou wilt do us a great courtesy to let us have somewhat to sup
withal, for that meseemeth this lad, like myself, hath not yet
supped.' 'Certes, no,' answered the lady, 'he hath not yet supped; for
we were sitting down to table, when thou camest in thine ill hour.'
'Go, then,' rejoined Pietro, 'contrive that we may sup, and after I
will order this matter on such wise that thou shalt have no cause to
complain.' The lady, finding that her husband was satisfied, arose and
caused straightway reset the table; then, letting bring the supper she
had prepared, she supped merrily in company with her caitiff of a
husband and the young man. After supper, what Pietro devised for the
satisfaction of all three hath escaped my mind; but this much I know
that on the following morning the youth was escorted back to the
public place, not altogether certain which he had the more been that
night, wife or husband. Wherefore, dear my ladies, this will I say to
you, 'Whoso doth it to you, do you it to him'; and if you cannot
presently, keep it in mind till such time as you can, so he may get as
good as he giveth."

       *       *       *       *       *

Dioneo having made an end of his story, which had been less laughed at
by the ladies [than usual], more for shamefastness than for the little
delight they took therein, the queen, seeing the end of her sovranty
come, rose to her feet and putting off the laurel crown, set it
blithely on Elisa's head, saying, "With you, madam, henceforth it
resteth to command." Elisa, accepting the honour, did even as it had
been done before her, in that, having first, to the satisfaction of
the company, taken order with the seneschal for that whereof there was
need for the time of her governance, she said, "We have many a time
heard how, by dint of smart sayings and ready repartees and prompt
advisements, many have availed with an apt retort[290] to take the
edge off other folks' teeth or to fend off imminent perils; and, for
that the matter is goodly and may be useful,[291] I will that
to-morrow, with God's aid, it be discoursed within these terms, to
wit, OF WHOSO, BEING ASSAILED WITH SOME JIBING SPEECH, HATH VINDICATED
HIMSELF OR HATH WITH SOME READY REPLY OR ADVISEMENT ESCAPED LOSS,
PERIL OR SHAME."

[Footnote 290: Lit. a due or deserved bite (_debito morso_). I mention
this to show the connection with teeth.]

[Footnote 291: An ellipsis of a kind common in Boccaccio and indeed in
all the old Italian writers, meaning "it may be useful to enlarge upon
the subject in question."]

This was much commended of all, whereupon the queen, rising to her
feet, dismissed them all until supper time. The honourable company,
seeing her risen, stood up all and each, according to the wonted
fashion, applied himself to that which was most agreeable to him. But,
the crickets having now given over singing, the queen let call every
one and they betook themselves to supper, which being despatched with
merry cheer, they all gave themselves to singing and making music, and
Emilia having, at the queen's commandment, set up a dance, Dioneo was
bidden sing a song, whereupon he straightway struck up with "Mistress
Aldruda, come lift up your fud-a, for I bring you, I bring you, good
tidings." Whereat all the ladies fell a-laughing and especially the
queen, who bade him leave that and sing another. Quoth Dioneo, "Madam,
had I a tabret, I would sing 'Come truss your coats, I prithee,
Mistress Burdock,' or 'Under the olive the grass is'; or will you have
me say 'The waves of the sea do great evil to me'? But I have no
tabret, so look which you will of these others. Will it please you
have 'Come forth unto us, so it may be cut down, like a May in the
midst of the meadows'?" "Nay," answered the queen; "give us another."
"Then," said Dioneo, "shall I sing, 'Mistress Simona, embarrel,
embarrel! It is not the month of October'?" Quoth the queen, laughing,
"Ill luck to thee, sing us a goodly one, an thou wilt, for we will
none of these." "Nay, madam," rejoined Dioneo, "fash not yourself; but
which then like you better? I know more than a thousand. Will you have
'This my shell an I prick it not well,' or 'Fair and softly, husband
mine' or 'I'll buy me a cock, a cock of an hundred pounds
sterling'?"[292] Therewithal the queen, somewhat provoked, though all
the other ladies laughed, said, "Dioneo, leave jesting and sing us a
goodly one; else shalt thou prove how I can be angry." Hearing this,
he gave over his quips and cranks and forthright fell a-singing after
this fashion:

[Footnote 292: The songs proposed by Dioneo are all apparently of a
light, if not a wanton, character and "not fit to be sung before
ladies."]

         O Love, the amorous light
     That beameth from yon fair one's lovely eyes
     Hath made me thine and hers in servant-guise.

     The splendour of her lovely eyes, it wrought
       That first thy flames were kindled in my breast,
         Passing thereto through mine;
     Yea, and thy virtue first unto my thought
       Her visage fair it was made manifest,
         Which picturing, I twine
         And lay before her shrine
     All virtues, that to her I sacrifice,
     Become the new occasion of my sighs.

     Thus, dear my lord, thy vassal am I grown
       And of thy might obediently await
         Grace for my lowliness;
     Yet wot I not if wholly there be known
       The high desire that in my breast thou'st set
         And my sheer faith, no less,
         Of her who doth possess
     My heart so that from none beneath the skies,
     Save her alone, peace would I take or prize.

     Wherefore I pray thee, sweet my lord and sire,
       Discover it to her and cause her taste
         Some scantling of thy heat
     To-me-ward,--for thou seest that in the fire,
       Loving, I languish and for torment waste
         By inches at her feet,--
         And eke in season meet
     Commend me to her favour on such wise
     As I would plead for thee, should need arise.[293]

[Footnote 293: This singularly naïve give-and-take fashion of asking a
favour of a God recalls the old Scotch epitaph cited by Mr. George
Macdonald:

     Here lie I Martin Elginbrodde:
     Hae mercy o' my soul, Lord God;
     As I wad do, were I Lord God
     And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.]

Dioneo, by his silence, showing that his song was ended, the queen let
sing many others, having natheless much commended his. Then, somedele
of the night being spent and the queen feeling the heat of the day to
be now overcome of the coolness of the night, she bade each at his
pleasure betake himself to rest against the ensuing day.


HERE ENDETH THE FIFTH DAY
OF THE DECAMERON



_Day the Sixth_

     HERE BEGINNETH THE SIXTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER
     THE GOVERNANCE OF ELISA IS DISCOURSED OF WHOSO BEING
     ASSAILED WITH SOME JIBING SPEECH HATH VINDICATED HIMSELF OR
     HATH WITH SOME READY REPLY OR ADVISEMENT ESCAPED LOSS, PERIL
     OR SHAME


The moon, being now in the middest heaven, had lost its radiance and
every part of our world was bright with the new coming light, when,
the queen arising and letting call her company, they all with slow
step fared forth and rambled over the dewy grass to a little distance
from the fair hill, holding various discourse of one thing and another
and debating of the more or less goodliness of the stories told, what
while they renewed their laughter at the various adventures related
therein, till such time as the sun mounting high and beginning to wax
hot, it seemed well to them all to turn homeward. Wherefore, reversing
their steps, they returned to the palace and there, by the queen's
commandment, the tables being already laid and everything strewn with
sweet-scented herbs and fair flowers, they addressed themselves to
eat, ere the heat should grow greater. This being joyously
accomplished, ere they did otherwhat, they sang divers goodly and
pleasant canzonets, after which some went to sleep, whilst some sat
down to play at chess and other some at tables and Dioneo fell to
singing, in concert with Lauretta, of Troilus and Cressida. Then, the
hour come for their reassembling after the wonted fashion,[294] they
all, being summoned on the part of the queen, seated themselves, as
of their usance, about the fountain; but, as she was about to call for
the first story, there befell a thing that had not yet befallen there,
to wit, that a great clamour was heard by her and by all, made by the
wenches and serving-men in the kitchen.

[Footnote 294: Lit. for their returning to consistory (_del dovere a
concistoro tornare_).]

The seneschal, being called and questioned who it was that cried thus
and what might be the occasion of the turmoil, answered that the
clamour was between Licisca and Tindaro, but that he knew not the
cause thereof, being but then come thither to make them bide quiet,
whenas he had been summoned on her part. The queen bade him
incontinent fetch thither the two offenders and they being come,
enquired what was the cause of their clamour; whereto Tindaro offering
to reply, Licisca, who was well in years and somewhat overmasterful,
being heated with the outcry she had made, turned to him with an angry
air and said, "Mark this brute of a man who dareth to speak before me,
whereas I am! Let me speak." Then, turning again to the queen,
"Madam," quoth she, "this fellow would teach me, forsooth, to know
Sicofante's wife and neither more nor less than as if I had not been
familiar with her, would fain give me to believe that, the first night
her husband lay with her, Squire Maul[295] made his entry into Black
Hill[296] by force and with effusion of blood; and I say that it is
not true; nay, he entered there in peace and to the great contentment
of those within. Marry, this fellow is simple enough to believe
wenches to be such ninnies that they stand to lose their time, abiding
the commodity of their fathers and brothers, who six times out of
seven tarry three or four years more than they should to marry them.
Well would they fare, forsooth, were they to wait so long! By Christ
His faith (and I should know what I say, when I swear thus) I have not
a single gossip who went a maid to her husband; and as for the wives,
I know full well how many and what tricks they play their husbands;
and this blockhead would teach me to know women, as if I had been born
yesterday."

[Footnote 295: _Messer Mazza_, _i.e._ veretrum.]

[Footnote 296: _Monte Nero_, _i.e._ vas muliebre.]

What while Licisca spoke, the ladies kept up such a laughing that you
might have drawn all their teeth; and the queen imposed silence upon
her a good half dozen times, but to no purpose; she stinted not till
she had said her say. When she had at last made an end of her talk,
the queen turned to Dioneo and said, laughing, "Dioneo, this is a
matter for thy jurisdiction; wherefore, when we shall have made an end
of our stories, thou shalt proceed to give final judgment thereon."
Whereto he answered promptly, "Madam, the judgment is already given,
without hearing more of the matter; and I say that Licisca is in the
right and opine that it is even as she saith and that Tindaro is an
ass." Licisca, hearing this, fell a-laughing and turning to Tindaro,
said, "I told thee so; begone and God go with thee; thinkest thou thou
knowest better than I, thou whose eyes are not yet dry?[297] Gramercy,
I have not lived here below for nothing, no, not I!" And had not the
queen with an angry air imposed silence on her and sent her and
Tindaro away, bidding her make no more words or clamour, an she would
not be flogged, they had had nought to do all that day but attend to
her. When they were gone, the queen called on Filomena to make a
beginning with the day's stories and she blithely began thus:

[Footnote 297: _i.e._ who are yet a child, in modern parlance, "Thou
whose lips are yet wet with thy mother's milk."]



THE FIRST STORY

[Day the Sixth]

     A GENTLEMAN ENGAGETH TO MADAM ORETTA TO CARRY HER
     A-HORSEBACK WITH A STORY, BUT, TELLING IT DISORDERLY, IS
     PRAYED BY HER TO SET HER DOWN AGAIN


"Young ladies, like as stars, in the clear nights, are the ornaments
of the heavens and the flowers and the leaf-clad shrubs, in the
Spring, of the green fields and the hillsides, even so are
praiseworthy manners and goodly discourse adorned by sprightly
sallies, the which, for that they are brief, beseem women yet better
than men, inasmuch as much speaking is more forbidden to the former
than to the latter. Yet, true it is, whatever the cause, whether it be
the meanness of our[298] understanding or some particular grudge borne
by heaven to our times, that there be nowadays few or no women left
who know how to say a witty word in due season or who, an it be said
to them, know how to apprehend it as it behoveth; the which is a
general reproach to our whole sex. However, for that enough hath been
said aforetime on the subject by Pampinea,[299] I purpose to say no
more thereof; but, to give you to understand how much goodliness there
is in witty sayings, when spoken in due season, it pleaseth me to
recount to you the courteous fashion in which a lady imposed silence
upon a gentleman.

[Footnote 298: _i.e._ women's.]

[Footnote 299: See ante, p. 43, Introduction to the last story of the
First Day.]

As many of you ladies may either know by sight or have heard tell,
there was not long since in our city a noble and well-bred and
well-spoken gentlewoman, whose worth merited not that her name be left
unsaid. She was called, then, Madam Oretta and was the wife of Messer
Geri Spina. She chanced to be, as we are, in the country, going from
place to place, by way of diversion, with a company of ladies and
gentlemen, whom she had that day entertained to dinner at her house,
and the way being belike somewhat long from the place whence they set
out to that whither they were all purposed to go afoot, one of the
gentlemen said to her, 'Madam Oretta, an you will, I will carry you
a-horseback great part of the way we have to go with one of the finest
stories in the world.' 'Nay, sir,' answered the lady, 'I pray you
instantly thereof; indeed, it will be most agreeable to me.' Master
cavalier, who maybe fared no better, sword at side than tale on
tongue, hearing this, began a story of his, which of itself was in
truth very goodly; but he, now thrice or four or even half a dozen
times repeating one same word, anon turning back and whiles saying, 'I
said not aright,' and often erring in the names and putting one for
another, marred it cruelly, more by token that he delivered himself
exceedingly ill, having regard to the quality of the persons and the
nature of the incidents of his tale. By reason whereof, Madam Oretta,
hearkening to him, was many a time taken with a sweat and failing of
the heart, as she were sick and near her end, and at last, being
unable to brook the thing any more and seeing the gentleman engaged in
an imbroglio from which he was not like to extricate himself, she said
to him pleasantly, 'Sir, this horse of yours hath too hard a trot;
wherefore I pray you be pleased to set me down.' The gentleman, who,
as it chanced, understood a hint better than he told a story, took the
jest in good part and turning it off with a laugh, fell to discoursing
of other matters and left unfinished the story that he had begun and
conducted so ill."



THE SECOND STORY

[Day the Sixth]

     CISTI THE BAKER WITH A WORD OF HIS FASHION MAKETH MESSER
     GERI SPINA SENSIBLE OF AN INDISCREET REQUEST OF HIS


Madam Oretta's saying was greatly commended of all, ladies and men,
and the queen bidding Pampinea follow on, she began thus: "Fair
ladies, I know not of mine own motion to resolve me which is the more
at fault, whether nature in fitting to a noble soul a mean body or
fortune in imposing a mean condition upon a body endowed with a noble
soul, as in one our townsman Cisti and in many another we may have
seen it happen; which Cisti being gifted with a very lofty spirit,
fortune made him a baker. And for this, certes, I should curse both
nature and fortune like, did I not know the one to be most discreet
and the other to have a thousand eyes, albeit fools picture her blind;
and I imagine, therefore, that, being exceeding well-advised, they do
that which is oftentimes done of human beings, who, uncertain of
future events, bury their most precious things, against their
occasions, in the meanest places of their houses, as being the least
suspect, and thence bring them forth in their greatest needs, the mean
place having the while kept them more surely than would the goodly
chamber. And so, meseemeth, do the governors of the world hide
oftentimes their most precious things under the shadow of crafts and
conditions reputed most mean, to the end that, bringing them forth
therefrom in time of need, their lustre may show the brighter. Which
how Cisti the baker made manifest, though in but a trifling matter,
restoring to Messer Geri Spina (whom the story but now told of Madam
Oretta, who was his wife, hath recalled to my memory) the eyes of the
understanding, it pleaseth me to show you in a very short story.

I must tell you, then, that Pope Boniface, with whom Messer Geri
Spina was in very great favour, having despatched to Florence certain
of his gentlemen on an embassy concerning sundry important matters of
his, they lighted down at the house of Messer Geri and he treating the
pope's affairs in company with them, it chanced, whatever might have
been the occasion thereof, that he and they passed well nigh every
morning afoot before Santa Maria Ughi, where Cisti the baker had his
bakehouse and plied his craft in person. Now, albeit fortune had
appointed Cisti a humble enough condition, she had so far at the least
been kind to him therein that he was grown very rich and without ever
choosing to abandon it for any other, lived very splendidly, having,
amongst his other good things, the best wines, white and red, that
were to be found in Florence or in the neighbouring country. Seeing
Messer Geri and the pope's ambassadors pass every morning before his
door and the heat being great, he bethought himself that it were a
great courtesy to give them to drink of his good white wine; but,
having regard to his own condition and that of Messer Geri, he deemed
it not a seemly thing to presume to invite them, but determined to
bear himself on such wise as should lead Messer Geri to invite
himself.

Accordingly, having still on his body a very white doublet and an
apron fresh from the wash, which bespoke him rather a miller than a
baker, he let set before his door, every morning, towards the time
when he looked for Messer Geri and the ambassadors to pass, a new
tinned pail of fair water and a small pitcher of new Bolognese ware,
full of his good white wine, together with two beakers, which seemed
of silver, so bright they were, and seated himself there, against they
should pass, when, after clearing his throat once or twice, he fell to
drinking of that his wine with such a relish that he had made a dead
man's mouth water for it. Messer Geri, having seen him do thus one and
two mornings, said on the third, 'How now, Cisti? Is it good?'
Whereupon he started to his feet and said, 'Ay is it, Sir; but how
good I cannot give you to understand, except you taste thereof.'
Messer Geri, in whom either the nature of the weather or belike the
relish with which he saw Cisti drink had begotten a thirst, turned to
the ambassadors and said, smiling, 'Gentlemen, we shall do well to
taste this honest man's wine; belike it is such that we shall not
repent thereof.' Accordingly, he made with them towards Cisti, who let
bring a goodly settle out of his bakehouse and praying them sit, said
to their serving-men, who pressed forward to rinse the beakers, 'Stand
back, friends, and leave this office to me, for that I know no less
well how to skink than to wield the baking-peel; and look you not to
taste a drop thereof.' So saying, he with his own hands washed out
four new and goodly beakers and letting bring a little pitcher of his
good wine, busied himself with giving Messer Geri and his companions
to drink, to whom the wine seemed the best they had drunken that great
while; wherefore they commended it greatly, and well nigh every
morning, whilst the ambassadors abode there, Messer Geri went thither
to drink in company with them.

After awhile, their business being despatched and they about to
depart, Messer Geri made them a magnificent banquet, whereto he bade
a number of the most worshipful citizens and amongst the rest, Cisti,
who would, however, on no condition go thither; whereupon Messer Geri
bade one of his serving-men go fetch a flask of the baker's wine and
give each guest a half beaker thereof with the first course. The
servant, despiteful most like for that he had never availed to drink
of the wine, took a great flagon, which when Cisti saw, 'My son,' said
he, 'Messer Geri sent thee not to me.' The man avouched again and
again that he had, but, getting none other answer, returned to Messer
Geri and reported it to him. Quoth he, 'Go back to him and tell him
that I do indeed send thee to him; and if he still make thee the same
answer, ask him to whom I send thee, [an it be not to him.]'
Accordingly, the servant went back to the baker and said to him,
'Cisti, for certain Messer Geri sendeth me to thee and none other.'
'For certain, my son,' answered the baker, 'he doth it not.' 'Then,'
said the man, 'to whom doth he send me?' 'To the Arno,' replied Cisti;
which answer when the servant reported to Messer Geri, the eyes of his
understanding were of a sudden opened and he said to the man, 'Let me
see what flask thou carriedst thither.'

When he saw the great flagon aforesaid, he said, 'Cisti saith sooth,'
and giving the man a sharp reproof, made him take a sortable flask,
which when Cisti saw, 'Now,' quoth he, 'I know full well that he
sendeth thee to me,' and cheerfully filled it unto him. Then, that
same day, he let fill a little cask with the like wine and causing
carry it softly to Messer Geri's house, went presently thither and
finding him there, said to him, 'Sir. I would not have you think that
the great flagon of this morning frightened me; nay, but, meseeming
that which I have of these past days shown you with my little pitchers
had escaped your mind, to wit, that this is no household wine,[300] I
wished to recall it to you. But, now, for that I purpose no longer to
be your steward thereof, I have sent it all to you; henceforward do
with it as it pleaseth you.' Messer Geri set great store by Cisti's
present and rendering him such thanks as he deemed sortable, ever
after held him for a man of great worth and for friend."

[Footnote 300: Lit. Family wine (_vin da famiglia_), _i.e._ no wine
for servants' or general drinking, but a choice vintage, to be
reserved for special occasions.]



THE THIRD STORY

[Day the Sixth]

     MADAM NONNA DE' PULCI, WITH A READY RETORT TO A NOT
     ALTOGETHER SEEMLY PLEASANTRY, IMPOSETH SILENCE ON THE BISHOP
     OF FLORENCE


Pampinea having made an end of her story and both Cisti's reply and
his liberality having been much commended of all, it pleased the queen
that the next story should be told by Lauretta, who blithely began as
follows, "Jocund ladies, first Pampinea and now Filomena have spoken
truly enough touching our little worth and the excellence of pithy
sayings, whereto that there may be no need now to return, I would
fain remind you, over and above that which hath been said on the
subject, that the nature of smart sayings is such that they should
bite upon the hearer, not as the dog, but as the sheep biteth; for
that, an a trait bit like a dog, it were not a trait, but an affront.
The right mean in this was excellently well hit both by Madam Oretta's
speech and Cisti's reply. It is true that, if a smart thing be said by
way of retort, and the answerer biteth like a dog, having been bitten
on like wise, meseemeth he is not to be blamed as he would have been,
had this not been the case; wherefore it behoveth us look how and with
whom, no less than when and where, we bandy jests; to which
considerations, a prelate of ours, taking too little heed, received at
least as sharp a bite as he thought to give, as I shall show you in a
little story.

Messer Antonio d'Orso, a learned and worthy prelate, being Bishop of
Florence, there came thither a Catalan gentleman, called Messer Dego
della Ratta, marshal for King Robert, who, being a man of a very fine
person and a great amorist, took a liking to one among other
Florentine ladies, a very fair lady and granddaughter to a brother of
the said bishop, and hearing that her husband, albeit a man of good
family, was very sordid and miserly, agreed with him to give him five
hundred gold florins, so he would suffer him lie a night with his
wife. Accordingly, he let gild so many silver poplins,[301] a coin
which was then current, and having lain with the lady, though against
her will, gave them to the husband. The thing after coming to be known
everywhere, the sordid wretch of a husband reaped both loss and scorn,
but the bishop, like a discreet man as he was, affected to know
nothing of the matter. Wherefore, he and the marshal consorting much
together, it chanced, as they rode side by side with each other, one
St. John's Day, viewing the ladies on either side of the way where the
mantle is run for,[302] the prelate espied a young lady,--of whom this
present pestilence hath bereft us and whom all you ladies must have
known, Madam Nonna de' Pulci by name, cousin to Messer Alessio
Rinucci, a fresh and fair young woman, both well-spoken and
high-spirited, then not long before married in Porta San Piero,--and
pointed her out to the marshal; then, being near her, he laid his hand
on the latter's shoulder and said to her, 'Nonna, how deemest thou of
this gallant? Thinkest thou thou couldst make a conquest of him?' It
seemed to the lady that those words somewhat trenched upon her honour
and were like to sully it in the eyes of those (and there were many
there) who heard them; wherefore, not thinking to purge away the soil,
but to return blow for blow, she promptly answered, 'Maybe, sir, he
would not make a conquest of me; but, in any case, I should want good
money.' The marshal and the bishop, hearing this, felt themselves
alike touched to the quick by her speech, the one as the author of
the cheat put upon the bishop's brother's granddaughter and the other
as having suffered the affront in the person of his kinswoman, and
made off, shamefast and silent, without looking at one another or
saying aught more to her that day. Thus, then, the young lady having
been bitten, it was not forbidden her to bite her biter with a
retort."

[Footnote 301: A silver coin of about the size and value of our silver
penny, which, when gilded, would pass muster well enough for a gold
florin, unless closely examined.]

[Footnote 302: _Il palio_, a race anciently run at Florence on St.
John's Day, as that of the Barberi at Rome during the Carnival.]



THE FOURTH STORY

[Day the Sixth]

     CHICHIBIO, COOK TO CURRADO GIANFIGLIAZZI, WITH A READY WORD
     SPOKEN TO SAVE HIMSELF, TURNETH HIS MASTER'S ANGER INTO
     LAUGHTER AND ESCAPETH THE PUNISHMENT THREATENED HIM BY THE
     LATTER


Lauretta being silent and Nonna having been mightily commended of all,
the queen charged Neifile to follow on, and she said, "Although,
lovesome ladies, a ready wit doth often furnish folk with words both
prompt and useful and goodly, according to the circumstances, yet
fortune whiles cometh to the help of the fearful and putteth of a
sudden into their mouths such answers as might never of malice
aforethought be found of the speaker, as I purpose to show you by my
story.

Currado Gianfigliazzi, as each of you ladies may have both heard and
seen, hath still been a noble citizen of our city, liberal and
magnificent, and leading a knightly life, hath ever, letting be for
the present his weightier doings, taken delight in hawks and hounds.
Having one day with a falcon of his brought down a crane and finding
it young and fat, he sent it to a good cook he had, a Venetian hight
Chichibio, bidding him roast it for supper and dress it well.
Chichibio, who looked the new-caught gull he was, trussed the crane
and setting it to the fire, proceeded to cook it diligently. When it
was all but done and gave out a very savoury smell, it chanced that a
wench of the neighbourhood, Brunetta by name, of whom Chichibio was
sore enamoured, entered the kitchen and smelling the crane and seeing
it, instantly besought him to give her a thigh thereof. He answered
her, singing, and said, 'Thou shalt not have it from me, Mistress
Brunetta, thou shalt not have it from me.' Whereat she, being vexed,
said to him, 'By God His faith, an thou give it me not, thou shalt
never have of me aught that shall pleasure thee.' In brief, many were
the words between them and at last, Chichibio, not to anger his
mistress, cut off one of the thighs of the crane and gave it her.

The bird being after set before Messer Currado and certain stranger
guests of his, lacking a thigh, and the former marvelling thereat, he
let call Chichibio and asked him what was come of the other thigh;
whereto the liar of a Venetian answered without hesitation, 'Sir,
cranes have but one thigh and one leg.' 'What a devil?' cried Currado
in a rage. 'They have but one thigh and one leg? Have I never seen a
crane before?' 'Sir,' replied Chichibio, 'it is as I tell you, and
whenas it pleaseth you, I will cause you see it in the quick.'
Currado, out of regard for the strangers he had with him, chose not to
make more words of the matter, but said, 'Since thou sayst thou wilt
cause me see it in the quick, a thing I never yet saw or heard tell
of, I desire to see it to-morrow morning, in which case I shall be
content; but I swear to thee, by Christ His body, that, an it be
otherwise, I will have thee served on such wise that thou shalt still
have cause to remember my name to thy sorrow so long as thou livest.'
There was an end of the talk for that night; but, next morning, as
soon as it was day, Currado, whose anger was nothing abated for sleep,
arose, still full of wrath, and bade bring the horses; then, mounting
Chichibio upon a rouncey, he carried him off towards a watercourse, on
whose banks cranes were still to be seen at break of day, saying, 'We
shall soon see who lied yestereve, thou or I.'

Chichibio, seeing that his master's wrath yet endured and that needs
must be made good his lie and knowing not how he should avail
thereunto, rode after Currado in the greatest fright that might be,
and fain would he have fled, so but he might. But, seeing no way of
escape, he looked now before him and now behind and now on either side
and took all he saw for cranes standing on two feet. Presently, coming
near to the river, he chanced to catch sight, before any other, of a
round dozen of cranes on the bank, all perched on one leg, as they use
to do, when they sleep; whereupon he straightway showed them to
Currado, saying, 'Now, sir, if you look at those that stand yonder,
you may very well see that I told you the truth yesternight, to wit,
that cranes have but one thigh and one leg.' Currado, seeing them,
answered, 'Wait and I will show thee that they have two,' and going
somewhat nearer to them, he cried out, 'Ho! Ho!' At this the cranes,
putting down the other leg, all, after some steps, took to flight;
whereupon Currado said to him, 'How sayst thou now, malapert knave
that thou art? Deemest thou they have two legs?' Chichibio, all
confounded and knowing not whether he stood on his head or his
heels,[303] answered, 'Ay, sir; but you did not cry, "Ho! Ho!" to
yesternight's crane; had you cried thus, it would have put out the
other thigh and the other leg, even as did those yonder.' This reply
so tickled Currado that all his wrath was changed into mirth and
laughter and he said, 'Chichibio, thou art in the right; indeed, I
should have done it.' Thus, then, with his prompt and comical answer
did Chichibio avert ill luck and made his peace with his master."

[Footnote 303: Lit. knowing not whence himself came.]



THE FIFTH STORY

[Day the Sixth]

     MESSER FORESE DA RABATTA AND MASTER GIOTTO THE PAINTER
     COMING FROM MUGELLO, EACH JESTINGLY RALLIETH THE OTHER ON
     HIS SCURVY FAVOUR


Neifile being silent and the ladies having taken much pleasure in
Chichibio's reply, Pamfilo, by the queen's desire, spoke thus:
"Dearest ladies, it chanceth often that, like as fortune whiles hideth
very great treasures of worth and virtue under mean conditions, as
hath been a little before shown by Pampinea, even so, under the
sorriest of human forms are marvellous wits found to have been lodged
by nature; and this very plainly appeared in two townsmen of ours, of
whom I purpose briefly to entertain you. For that the one, who was
called Messer Forese da Rabatta, though little of person and
misshapen, with a flat camoys face, that had been an eyesore on the
shoulders of the foulest cadger in Florence, was yet of such
excellence in the interpretation of the laws, that he was of many men
of worth reputed a very treasury of civil right; whilst the other,
whose name was Giotto, had so excellent a genius that there was
nothing of all which Nature, mother and mover of all things,
presenteth unto us by the ceaseless revolution of the heavens, but he
with pencil and pen and brush depicted it and that so closely that not
like, nay, but rather the thing itself it seemed, insomuch that men's
visual sense is found to have been oftentimes deceived in things of
his fashion, taking that for real which was but depictured. Wherefore,
he having brought back to the light this art, which had for many an
age lain buried under the errors of certain folk who painted more to
divert the eyes of the ignorant than to please the understanding of
the judicious, he may deservedly be styled one of the chief glories of
Florence, the more so that he bore the honours he had gained with the
utmost humility and although, while he lived, chief over all else in
his art, he still refused to be called master, which title, though
rejected by him, shone so much the more gloriously in him as it was
with greater eagerness greedily usurped by those who knew less than
he, or by his disciples. Yet, great as was his skill, he was not
therefore anywise goodlier of person or better favoured than Messer
Forese. But, to come to my story:

I must tell you that Messer Forese and Giotto had each his country
house at Mugello and the former, having gone to visit his estates, at
that season of the summer when the Courts hold holiday, and returning
thence on a sorry cart-horse, chanced to fall in with the aforesaid
Giotto, who had been on the same errand and was then on his way back
to Florence nowise better equipped than himself in horse and
accoutrements. Accordingly, they joined company and fared on softly,
like old men as they were. Presently, it chanced, as we often see it
happen in summer time, that a sudden shower overtook them, from which,
as quickliest they might, they took shelter in the house of a
husbandman, a friend and acquaintance of both of them. After awhile,
the rain showing no sign of giving over and they wishing to reach
Florence by daylight, they borrowed of their host two old homespun
cloaks and two hats, rusty with age, for that there were no better to
be had, and set out again upon their way.

When they had gone awhile and were all drenched and bemired with the
splashing that their hackneys kept up with their hoofs--things which
use not to add worship to any one's looks,--the weather began to clear
a little and the two wayfarers, who had long fared on in silence, fell
to conversing together. Messer Forese, as he rode, hearkening to
Giotto, who was a very fine talker, fell to considering his companion
from head to foot and seeing him everywise so ill accoutred and in
such scurvy case, burst out laughing and without taking any thought to
his own plight, said to him, 'How sayst thou, Giotto? An there
encountered us here a stranger who had never seen thee, thinkest thou
he would believe thee to be, as thou art, the finest painter in the
world?' 'Ay, sir,' answered Giotto forthright, 'methinketh he might
e'en believe it whenas, looking upon you, he should believe that you
knew your A B C.' Messer Forese, hearing this, was sensible of his
error and saw himself paid with money such as the wares he had
sold."[304]

[Footnote 304: Or, as we should say, "in his own coin."]



THE SIXTH STORY

[Day the Sixth]

     MICHELE SCALZA PROVETH TO CERTAIN YOUNG MEN THAT THE CADGERS
     OF FLORENCE ARE THE BEST GENTLEMEN OF THE WORLD OR THE
     MAREMMA AND WINNETH A SUPPER


The ladies yet laughed at Giotto's prompt retort, when the queen
charged Fiammetta follow on and she proceeded to speak thus: "Young
ladies, the mention by Pamfilo of the cadgers of Florence, whom
peradventure you know not as doth he, hath brought to my mind a story,
wherein, without deviating from our appointed theme, it is
demonstrated how great is their nobility; and it pleaseth me,
therefore, to relate it.

It is no great while since there was in our city a young man called
Michele Scalza, who was the merriest and most agreeable man in the
world and he had still the rarest stories in hand, wherefore the young
Florentines were exceeding glad to have his company whenas they made a
party of pleasure amongst themselves. It chanced one day, he being
with certain folk at Monte Ughi, that the question was started among
them of who were the best and oldest gentlemen of Florence. Some said
the Uberti, others the Lamberti, and one this family and another that,
according as it occurred to his mind; which Scalza hearing, he fell
a-laughing and said, 'Go to, addlepates that you are! You know not
what you say. The best gentlemen and the oldest, not only of Florence,
but of all the world or the Maremma,[305] are the Cadgers,[306] a
matter upon which all the phisopholers and every one who knoweth them,
as I do, are of accord; and lest you should understand it of others, I
speak of the Cadgers your neighbors of Santa Maria Maggiore.'

[Footnote 305: A commentator notes that the adjunction to the world of
the Maremma (cf. Elijer Goff, "The Irish Question has for some
centuries been enjoyed by _the universe and other parts_") produces a
risible effect and gives the reader to understand that Scalza broaches
the question only by way of a joke. The same may be said of the
jesting inversion of the word philosophers (phisopholers, Fisofoli) in
the next line.]

[Footnote 306: _Baronci_, the Florentine name for what we should call
professional beggars, "mumpers, chanters and Abrahammen," called
_Bari_ and _Barocci_ in other parts of Italy. This story has been a
prodigious stumbling-block to former translators, not one of whom
appears to have had the slightest idea of Boccaccio's meaning.]

When the young men, who looked for him to say otherwhat, heard this,
they all made mock of him and said, 'Thou gullest us, as if we knew
not the Cadgers, even as thou dost.' 'By the Evangels,' replied
Scalza, 'I gull you not; nay, I speak the truth, and if there be any
here who will lay a supper thereon, to be given to the winner and half
a dozen companions of his choosing, I will willingly hold the wager;
and I will do yet more for you, for I will abide by the judgment of
whomsoever you will.' Quoth one of them, called Neri Mannini, 'I am
ready to try to win the supper in question'; whereupon, having agreed
together to take Piero di Fiorentino, in whose house they were, to
judge, they betook themselves to him, followed by all the rest, who
looked to see Scalza lose and to make merry over his discomfiture, and
recounted to him all that had passed. Piero, who was a discreet young
man, having first heard Neri's argument, turned to Scalza and said to
him, 'And thou, how canst thou prove this that thou affirmest?' 'How,
sayest thou?' answered Scalza. 'Nay, I will prove it by such reasoning
that not only thou, but he who denieth it, shall acknowledge that I
speak sooth. You know that, the ancienter men are, the nobler they
are; and so was it said but now among these. Now the Cadgers are more
ancient than any one else, so that they are nobler; and showing you
how they are the most ancient, I shall undoubtedly have won the wager.
You must know, then, that the Cadgers were made by God the Lord in the
days when He first began to learn to draw; but the rest of mankind
were made after He knew how to draw. And to assure yourselves that in
this I say sooth, do but consider the Cadgers in comparison with other
folk; whereas you see all the rest of mankind with faces well composed
and duly proportioned, you may see the Cadgers, this with a visnomy
very long and strait and with a face out of all measure broad; one
hath too long and another too short a nose and a third hath a chin
jutting out and turned upward and huge jawbones that show as they were
those of an ass, whilst some there be who have one eye bigger than the
other and other some who have one set lower than the other, like the
faces that children used to make, whenas they first begin to learn to
draw. Wherefore, as I have already said, it is abundantly apparent
that God the Lord made them, what time He was learning to draw; so
that they are more ancient and consequently nobler than the rest of
mankind.' At this, both Piero, who was the judge, and Neri, who had
wagered the supper, and all the rest, hearing Scalza's comical
argument and remembering themselves,[307] fell all a-laughing and
affirmed that he was in the right and had won the supper, for that the
Cadgers were assuredly the noblest and most ancient gentlemen that
were to be found not in Florence alone, but in the world or the
Maremma. Wherefore it was very justly said of Pamfilo, seeking to show
the foulness of Messer Forese's visnomy, that it would have showed
notably ugly on one of the Cadgers."

[Footnote 307: _i.e._ of the comical fashion of the Cadgers.]



THE SEVENTH STORY

[Day the Sixth]

     MADAM FILIPPA, BEING FOUND BY HER HUSBAND WITH A LOVER OF
     HERS AND BROUGHT TO JUSTICE, DELIVERETH HERSELF WITH A
     PROMPT AND PLEASANT ANSWER AND CAUSETH MODIFY THE STATUTE


Fiammetta was now silent and all laughed yet at the novel argument
used by Scalza for the ennoblement over all of the Cadgers, when the
queen enjoined Filostrato to tell and he accordingly began to say, "It
is everywise a fine thing, noble ladies, to know how to speak well,
but I hold it yet goodlier to know how to do it whereas necessity
requireth it, even as a gentlewoman, of whom I purpose to entertain
you, knew well how to do on such wise that not only did she afford her
hearers matter for mirth and laughter, but did herself loose from the
toils of an ignominious death, as you shall presently hear.

There was, then, aforetime, in the city of Prato, a statute in truth
no less blameworthy than cruel, which, without making any distinction,
ordained that any woman found by her husband in adultery with any her
lover should be burnt, even as she who should be discovered to have
sold her favours for money. What while this statute was in force, it
befell that a noble and beautiful lady, by name Madam Filippa, who was
of a singularly amorous complexion, was one night found by Rinaldo de'
Pugliesi her husband, in her own chamber in the arms of Lazzerino de'
Guazzagliotri, a noble and handsome youth of that city, whom she loved
even as herself. Rinaldo, seeing this, was sore enraged and scarce
contained himself from falling upon them and slaying them; and but
that he feared for himself, an he should ensue the promptings of his
anger, he had certainly done it. However, he forbore from this, but
could not refrain from seeking of the law of Prato that which it was
not permitted him to accomplish with his own hand, to wit, the death
of his wife. Having, therefore, very sufficient evidence to prove the
lady's default, no sooner was the day come than, without taking other
counsel, he lodged an accusation against her and caused summon her
before the provost.

Madam Filippa, being great of heart, as women commonly are who are
verily in love, resolved, although counselled to the contrary by many
of her friends and kinsfolk, to appear, choosing rather, confessing
the truth, to die with an undaunted spirit, than, meanly fleeing, to
live an outlaw in exile and confess herself unworthy of such a lover
as he in whose arms she had been the foregoing night. Wherefore,
presenting herself before the provost, attended by a great company of
men and ladies and exhorted of all to deny the charge, she demanded,
with a firm voice and an assured air, what he would with her. The
magistrate, looking upon her and seeing her very fair and commendable
of carriage and according as her words testified, of a lofty spirit,
began to have compassion of her, fearing lest she should confess
somewhat wherefore it should behoove him, for his own honour's sake,
condemn her to die. However, having no choice but to question her of
that which was laid to her charge, he said to her, 'Madam, as you see,
here is Rinaldo your husband, who complaineth of you, avouching
himself to have found you in adultery with another man and demanding
that I should punish you therefor by putting you to death, according
to the tenor of a statute which here obtaineth; but this I cannot do,
except you confess it; wherefore look well what you answer and tell me
if that be true whereof your husband impeacheth you.'

The lady, no wise dismayed, replied very cheerfully, 'Sir, true it is
that Rinaldo is my husband and that he found me last night in the arms
of Lazzarino, wherein, for the great and perfect love I bear him, I
have many a time been; nor am I anywise minded to deny this. But, as I
am assured you know, laws should be common to all and made with the
consent of those whom they concern; and this is not the case with this
statute, which is binding only upon us unhappy women, who might far
better than men avail to satisfy many; more by token that, when it was
made, not only did no woman yield consent thereunto, but none of us
was even cited to do so; wherefore it may justly be styled naught.
However, an you choose, to the prejudice of my body and of your own
soul, to be the executor of this unrighteous law, it resteth with you
to do so; but, ere you proceed to adjudge aught, I pray you do me one
slight favour, to wit, that you question my husband if at all times
and as often as it pleased him, without ever saying him nay, I have or
not vouchsafed him entire commodity of myself.'

Rinaldo, without waiting to be questioned of the provost, straightway
made answer that undoubtedly the lady had, at his every request,
accorded him his every pleasure of herself; whereupon, 'Then, my lord
provost,' straightway rejoined she, 'if he have still taken of me that
which was needful and pleasing to him, what, I ask you, was or am I to
do with that which remaineth over and above his requirements? Should I
cast it to the dogs? Was it not far better to gratify withal a
gentleman who loveth me more than himself, than to leave it waste or
spoil?' Now well nigh all the people of Prato had flocked thither to
the trial of such a matter and of so fair and famous a lady, and
hearing so comical a question, they all, after much laughter, cried
out as with one voice that she was in the right of it and that she
said well. Moreover, ere they departed thence, at the instance of the
provost, they modified the cruel statute and left it to apply to those
women only who should for money make default to their husbands.
Thereupon Rinaldo, having taken nought but shame by so fond an
emprise, departed the court, and the lady returned in triumph to her
own house, joyful and free and in a manner raised up out of the fire."



THE EIGHTH STORY

[Day the Sixth]

     FRESCO EXHORTETH HIS NIECE NOT TO MIRROR HERSELF IN THE
     GLASS, IF, AS SHE SAITH, IT IRKETH HER TO SEE DISAGREEABLE
     FOLK


The story told by Filostrato at first touched the hearts of the
listening ladies with some little shamefastness and they gave token
thereof by a modest redness that appeared upon their faces; but, after
looking one at another, they hearkened thereto, tittering the while
and scarce able to abstain from laughing. As soon as he was come to
the end thereof, the queen turned to Emilia and bade her follow on,
whereupon, sighing no otherwise than as she had been aroused from a
dream, she began, "Lovesome lasses, for that long thought hath held me
far from here, I shall, to obey our queen content myself with
[relating] a story belike much slighter than that which I might have
bethought myself to tell, had my mind been present here, recounting to
you the silly default of a damsel, corrected by an uncle of hers with
a jocular retort, had she been woman enough to have apprehended it.

A certain Fresco da Celatico, then, had a niece familiarly called
Ciesca,[308] who, having a comely face and person (though none of
those angelical beauties that we have often seen aforetime), set so
much store by herself and accounted herself so noble that she had
gotten a habit of carping at both men and women and everything she
saw, without anywise taking thought to herself, who was so much more
fashous, froward and humoursome than any other of her sex that nothing
could be done to her liking. Beside all this, she was so prideful
that, had she been of the blood royal of France, it had been
overweening; and when she went abroad, she gave herself so many airs
that she did nought but make wry faces, as if there came to her a
stench from whomsoever she saw or met. But, letting be many other
vexatious and tiresome fashions of hers, it chanced one day that she
came back to the house, where Fresco was, and seating herself near
him, all full of airs and grimaces, did nothing but puff and blow;
whereupon quoth he, 'What meaneth this, Ciesca, that, to-day being a
holiday, thou comest home so early?' To which she answered, all like
to die away with affectation, 'It is true I have come back soon, for
that I believe there were never in this city so many disagreeable and
tiresome people, both men and women, as there are to-day; there
passeth none about the streets but is hateful to me as ill-chance, and
I do not believe there is a woman in the world to whom it is more
irksome to see disagreeable folk than it is to me; wherefore I have
returned thus early, not to see them.' 'My lass,' rejoined Fresco, to
whom his niece's airs and graces were mighty displeasing, 'if
disagreeable folk be so distasteful to thee as thou sayest, never
mirror thyself in the glass, so thou wouldst live merry.' But she,
emptier than a reed, albeit herseemed she was a match for Solomon in
wit, apprehended Fresco's true speech no better than a block; nay, she
said that she chose to mirror herself in the glass like other women;
and so she abode in her folly and therein abideth yet."

[Footnote 308: An abbreviation of Francesca.]



THE NINTH STORY

[Day the Sixth]

     GUIDO CAVALCANTI WITH A PITHY SPEECH COURTEOUSLY FLOUTETH
     CERTAIN FLORENTINE GENTLEMEN WHO HAD TAKEN HIM BY SURPRISE


The queen, seeing Emilia delivered of her story and that it rested
with none other than herself to tell, saving him who was privileged to
speak last, began thus, "Although, sprightly ladies, you have this day
taken out of my mouth at the least two stories, whereof I had purposed
to relate one, I have yet one left to tell, the end whereof compriseth
a saying of such a fashion that none, peradventure, of such
pertinence, hath yet been cited to us.

You must know, then, that there were in our city, of times past, many
goodly and commendable usances, whereof none is left there nowadays,
thanks to the avarice that hath waxed therein with wealth and hath
banished them all. Among these there was a custom to the effect that
the gentlemen of the various quarters of Florence assembled together
in divers places about the town and formed themselves into companies
of a certain number, having a care to admit thereinto such only as
might aptly bear the expense, whereof to-day the one and to-morrow the
other, and so all in turn, hold open house, each his day, for the
whole company. At these banquets they often entertained both stranger
gentlemen, whenas there came any thither, and those of the city; and
on like wise, once at the least in the year, they clad themselves
alike and rode in procession through the city on the most notable days
and whiles they held passes of arms, especially on the chief holidays
or whenas some glad news of victory or the like came to the city.

Amongst these companies was one of Messer Betto Brunelleschi,
whereinto the latter and his companions had studied amain to draw
Guido, son of Messer Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti, and not without cause;
for that, besides being one of the best logicians in the world and an
excellent natural philosopher (of which things, indeed, they recked
little), he was very sprightly and well-bred and a mighty well-spoken
man and knew better than any other to do everything that he would and
that pertained unto a gentleman, more by token that he was very rich
and knew wonder-well how to entertain whomsoever he deemed deserving
of honour. But Messer Betto had never been able to win and to have
him, and he and his companions believed that this betided for that
Guido, being whiles engaged in abstract speculations, became much
distraught from mankind; and for that he inclined somewhat to the
opinion of the Epicureans, it was reported among the common folk that
these his speculations consisted only in seeking if it might be
discovered that God was not.

It chanced one day that Guido set out from Orto San Michele and came
by way of the Corso degli Ademari, the which was oftentimes his road,
to San Giovanni, round about which there were at that present divers
great marble tombs (which are nowadays at Santa Reparata) and many
others. As he was between the columns of porphyry there and the tombs
in question and the door of the church, which was shut, Messer Betto
and his company, coming a-horseback along the Piazza di Santa
Reparata, espied him among the tombs and said, 'Let us go plague him.'
Accordingly, spurring their horses, they charged all down upon him in
sport and coming upon him ere he was aware of them, said to him,
'Guido, thou refusest to be of our company; but, harkye, whenas thou
shalt have found that God is not, what wilt thou have accomplished?'
Guido, seeing himself hemmed in by them, answered promptly,
'Gentlemen, you may say what you will to me in your own house'; then,
laying his hand on one of the great tombs aforesaid and being very
nimble of body, he took a spring and alighting on the other side, made
off, having thus rid himself of them.

The gentlemen abode looking one upon another and fell a-saying that he
was a crack-brain and that this that he had answered them amounted to
nought seeing that there where they were they had no more to do than
all the other citizens, nor Guido himself less than any of themselves.
But Messer Betto turned to them and said, 'It is you who are the
crackbrains, if you have not apprehended him. He hath courteously and
in a few words given us the sharpest rebuke in the world; for that, an
you consider aright, these tombs are the houses of the dead, seeing
they are laid and abide therein, and these, saith he, are our house,
meaning thus to show us that we and other foolish and unlettered men
are, compared with him and other men of learning, worse than dead
folk; wherefore, being here, we are in our own house.' Thereupon each
understood what Guido had meant to say and was abashed nor ever
plagued him more, but held Messer Betto thenceforward a gentleman of a
subtle wit and an understanding."



THE TENTH STORY

[Day the Sixth]

     FRA CIPOLLA PROMISETH CERTAIN COUNTRY FOLK TO SHOW THEM ONE
     OF THE ANGEL GABRIEL'S FEATHERS AND FINDING COALS IN PLACE
     THEREOF, AVOUCHETH THESE LATTER TO BE OF THOSE WHICH ROASTED
     ST. LAWRENCE


Each of the company being now quit of his[309] story, Dioneo perceived
that it rested with him to tell; whereupon, without awaiting more
formal commandment, he began on this wise, silence having first been
imposed on those who commended Guido's pregnant retort: "Charming
ladies, albeit I am privileged to speak of that which most liketh me,
I purpose not to-day to depart from the matter whereof you have all
very aptly spoken; but, ensuing in your footsteps, I mean to show you
how cunningly a friar of the order of St. Anthony, by name Fra
Cipolla, contrived with a sudden shift to extricate himself from a
snare[310] which had been set for him by two young men; nor should it
irk you if, for the complete telling of the story, I enlarge somewhat
in speaking, an you consider the sun, which is yet amiddleward in the
sky.

[Footnote 309: "Or her."]

[Footnote 310: Lit. to avoid or elude a scorn (_fuggire uno scorno_).]

Certaldo, as you may have heard, is a burgh of Val d' Elsa situate in
our country, which, small though it be, was once inhabited by
gentlemen and men of substance; and thither, for that he found good
pasture there, one of the friars of the order of St. Anthony was long
used to resort once a year, to get in the alms bestowed by simpletons
upon him and his brethren. His name was Fra Cipolla and he was gladly
seen there, no less belike, for his name's sake[311] than for other
reasons, seeing that these parts produce onions that are famous
throughout all Tuscany. This Fra Cipolla was little of person,
red-haired and merry of countenance, the jolliest rascal in the world,
and to boot, for all he was no scholar, he was so fine a talker and so
ready of wit that those who knew him not would not only have esteemed
him a great rhetorician, but had avouched him to be Tully himself or
may be Quintilian; and he was gossip or friend or well-wisher[312] to
well nigh every one in the country.

[Footnote 311: _Cipolla_ means onion.]

[Footnote 312: The term "well-wisher" (_benivogliente_), when
understood in relation to a woman, is generally equivalent (at least
with the older Italian writers) to "lover." See ante, passim.]

One August among others he betook himself thither according to his
wont, and on a Sunday morning, all the goodmen and goodwives of the
villages around being come to hear mass at the parish church, he came
forward, whenas it seemed to him time, and said, 'Gentlemen and
ladies, it is, as you know, your usance to send every year to the poor
of our lord Baron St. Anthony of your corn and of your oats, this
little and that much, according to his means and his devoutness, to
the intent that the blessed St. Anthony may keep watch over your
beeves and asses and swine and sheep; and besides this, you use to
pay, especially such of you as are inscribed into our company, that
small due which is payable once a year. To collect these I have been
sent by my superior, to wit, my lord abbot; wherefore, with the
blessing of God, you shall, after none, whenas you hear the bells
ring, come hither without the church, where I will make preachment to
you after the wonted fashion and you shall kiss the cross; moreover,
for that I know you all to be great devotees of our lord St. Anthony,
I will, as an especial favour show you a very holy and goodly relic,
which I myself brought aforetime from the holy lands beyond seas; and
that is one of the Angel Gabriel's feathers, which remained in the
Virgin Mary's chamber, whenas he came to announce to her in Nazareth.'
This said, he broke off and went on with his mass.

Now, when he said this, there were in the church, among many others,
two roguish young fellows, hight one Giovanni del Bragioniera and the
other Biagio Pizzini, who, after laughing with one another awhile over
Fra Cipolla's relic, took counsel together, for all they were great
friends and cronies of his, to play him some trick in the matter of
the feather in question. Accordingly, having learned that he was to
dine that morning with a friend of his in the burgh, they went down
into the street as soon as they knew him to be at table, and betook
themselves to the inn where he had alighted, purposing that Biagio
should hold his servant in parley, whilst Giovanni should search his
baggage for the feather aforesaid, whatever it might be, and carry it
off, to see what he should say to the people of the matter.

Fra Cipolla had a servant, whom some called Guccio[313] Balena,[314]
others Guccio Imbratta[315] and yet others Guccia Porco[316] and who
was such a scurvy knave that Lipo Topo[317] never wrought his like,
inasmuch as his master used oftentimes to jest of him with his cronies
and say, 'My servant hath in him nine defaults, such that, were one of
them in Solomon or Aristotle or Seneca, it would suffice to mar all
their worth, all their wit and all their sanctity. Consider, then,
what a man he must be, who hath all nine of them and in whom there is
neither worth nor wit nor sanctity.' Being questioned whiles what were
these nine defaults and having put them into doggerel rhyme, he would
answer, 'I will tell you. He's a liar, a sloven, a slugabed;
disobedient, neglectful, ill bred; o'erweening, foul-spoken, a
dunderhead; beside which he hath divers other peccadilloes, whereof it
booteth not to speak. But what is most laughable of all his fashions
is that, wherever he goeth, he is still for taking a wife and hiring a
house; for, having a big black greasy beard, him-seemeth he is so
exceeding handsome and agreeable that he conceiteth himself all the
women who see him fall in love with him, and if you let him alone, he
would run after them all till he lost his girdle.[318] Sooth to say,
he is of great assistance to me, for that none can ever seek to speak
with me so secretly but he must needs hear his share; and if it chance
that I be questioned of aught, he is so fearful lest I should not know
how to answer, that he straightway answereth for me both Ay and No, as
he judgeth sortable.'

[Footnote 313: Diminutive of contempt of Arrigo, contracted from
Arriguccio, _i.e._ mean little Arrigo.]

[Footnote 314: _i.e._ Whale.]

[Footnote 315: _i.e._ Dirt.]

[Footnote 316: _i.e._ Hog.]

[Footnote 317: A painter of Boccaccio's time, of whom little or
nothing seems to be known.]

[Footnote 318: _Perpendo lo coreggia._ The exact meaning of this
passage is not clear. The commentators make sundry random shots at it,
but, as usual, only succeed in making confusion worse confounded. It
may perhaps be rendered, "till his wind failed him."]

Now Fra Cipolla, in leaving him at the inn, had bidden him look well
that none touched his gear, and more particularly his saddle-bags, for
that therein were the sacred things. But Guccio, who was fonder of the
kitchen than the nightingale of the green boughs, especially if he
scented some serving-wench there, and who had seen in that of the inn
a gross fat cookmaid, undersized and ill-made, with a pair of paps
that showed like two manure-baskets and a face like a cadger's, all
sweaty, greasy and smoky, leaving Fra Cipolla's chamber and all his
gear to care for themselves, swooped down upon the kitchen, even as
the vulture swoopeth upon carrion, and seating himself by the fire,
for all it was August, entered into discourse with the wench in
question, whose name was Nuta, telling her that he was by rights a
gentleman and had more than nine millions of florins, beside that
which he had to give others, which was rather more than less, and that
he could do and say God only knew what. Moreover, without regard to
his bonnet, whereon was grease enough to have seasoned the caldron of
Altopascio,[319] and his doublet all torn and pieced and enamelled
with filth about the collar and under the armpits, with more spots and
patches of divers colours than ever had Turkey or India stuffs, and
his shoes all broken and hose unsewn, he told her, as he had been the
Sieur de Châtillon,[320] that he meant to clothe her and trick her out
anew and deliver her from the wretchedness of abiding with
others,[321] and bring her to hope of better fortune, if without any
great wealth in possession, and many other things, which, for all he
delivered them very earnestly, all turned to wind and came to nought,
as did most of his enterprises.

[Footnote 319: Said by the commentators to have been an abbey, where
they made cheese-soup for all comers twice a week; hence "the caldron
of Altopascio" became a proverb; but _quære_ is not the name
Altopascio (high feeding) a fancy one?]

[Footnote 320: It does not appear to which member of this great house
Boccaccio here alludes, but the Châtillons were always rich and
magnificent gentlemen, from Gaucher de Châtillon, who followed Philip
Augustus to the third crusade, to the great Admiral de Coligny.]

[Footnote 321: Sic (_star con altrui_); but "being in the service of
or dependent upon others" seems to be the probable meaning.]

The two young men, accordingly, found Guccio busy about Nuta, whereat
they were well pleased, for that it spared them half their pains, and
entering Fra Cipolla's chamber, which they found open, the first thing
that came under their examination was the saddle-bags wherein was the
feather. In these they found, enveloped in a great taffetas wrapper,
a little casket and opening this latter, discovered therein a parrot's
tail-feather, which they concluded must be that which the friar had
promised to show the people of Certaldo. And certes he might lightly
cause it to be believed in those days, for that the refinements of
Egypt had not yet made their way save into a small part of Tuscany, as
they have since done in very great abundance, to the undoing of all
Italy; and wherever they may have been some little known, in those
parts they were well nigh altogether unknown of the inhabitants; nay
the rude honesty of the ancients yet enduring there, not only had they
never set eyes on a parrot, but were far from having ever heard tell
of such a bird. The young men, then, rejoiced at finding the feather,
laid hands on it and not to leave the casket empty, filled it with
some coals they saw in a corner of the room and shut it again. Then,
putting all things in order as they had found them, they made off in
high glee with the feather, without having been seen, and began to
await what Fra Cipolli should say, when he found the coals in place
thereof.

The simple men and women who were in the church, hearing that they
were to see the Angel Gabriel's feather after none, returned home, as
soon as mass was over, and neighbor telling it to neighbor and gossip
to gossip, no sooner had they all dined than so many men and women
flocked to the burgh that it would scarce hold them, all looking
eagerly to see the aforesaid feather. Fra Cipolla, having well dined
and after slept awhile, arose a little after none and hearing of the
great multitude of country folk come to see the feather, sent to bid
Guccio Imbratta come thither with the bells and bring his saddle-bags.
Guccio, tearing himself with difficulty away from the kitchen and
Nuta, betook himself with the things required to the appointed place,
whither coming, out of breath, for that the water he had drunken had
made his belly swell amain, he repaired, by his master's commandment,
to the church door and fell to ringing the bells lustily.

When all the people were assembled there, Fra Cipolla, without
observing that aught of his had been meddled with, began his
preachment and said many words anent his affairs; after which,
thinking to come to the showing of the Angel Gabriel's feather, he
first recited the Confiteor with the utmost solemnity and let kindle a
pair of flambeaux; then, pulling off his bonnet, he delicately
unfolded the taffetas wrapper and brought out the casket. Having first
pronounced certain ejaculations in praise and commendation of the
Angel Gabriel and of his relic, he opened the casket and seeing it
full of coals, suspected not Guccio Balena of having played him this
trick, for that he knew him not to be man enough; nor did he curse him
for having kept ill watch lest others should do it, but silently
cursed himself for having committed to him the care of his gear,
knowing him, as he did, to be negligent, disobedient, careless and
forgetful.

Nevertheless, without changing colour, he raised his eyes and hands to
heaven and said, so as to be heard of all, 'O God, praised be still
thy puissance!' Then, shutting the casket and turning to the people,
'Gentlemen and ladies,' quoth he, 'you must know that, whilst I was
yet very young, I was dispatched by my superior to those parts where
the sun riseth and it was expressly commanded me that I should seek
till I found the Privileges of Porcellana, which, though they cost
nothing to seal, are much more useful to others than to us. On this
errand I set out from Venice and passed through Borgo de' Greci,[322]
whence, riding through the kingdom of Algarve and Baldacca,[323] I
came to Parione,[324] and from there, not without thirst, I came after
awhile into Sardinia. But what booteth it to set out to you in detail
all the lands explored by me? Passing the straits of San Giorgio,[325]
I came into Truffia[326] and Buffia,[327] countries much inhabited and
with great populations, and thence into the land of Menzogna,[328]
where I found great plenty of our brethren and of friars of other
religious orders, who all went about those parts, shunning unease for
the love of God, recking little of others' travail, whenas they saw
their own advantage to ensue, and spending none other money than such
as was uncoined.[329] Thence I passed into the land of the Abruzzi,
where the men and women go in clogs over the mountains, clothing the
swine in their own guts;[330] and a little farther I found folk who
carried bread on sticks and wine in bags. From this I came to the
Mountains of the Bachi, where all the waters run down hill; and in
brief, I made my way so far inward that I won at last even to India
Pastinaca,[331] where I swear to you, by the habit I wear on my back,
that I saw hedge-bills[332] fly, a thing incredible to whoso hath not
seen it. But of this Maso del Saggio will confirm me, whom I found
there a great merchant, cracking walnuts and selling the shells by
retail.

[Footnote 322: Apparently the Neapolitan town of that name.]

[Footnote 323: The name of a famous tavern in Florence (_Florio_).]

[Footnote 324: _Quære_ a place in Florence? One of the commentators,
with characteristic carelessness, states that the places mentioned in
the preachment of Fra Cipolla (an amusing specimen of the
patter-sermon of the mendicant friar of the middle ages, that
ecclesiastical Cheap Jack of his day) are all names of streets or
places of Florence, a statement which, it is evident to the most
cursory reader, is altogether inaccurate.]

[Footnote 325: Apparently the island of that name near Venice.]

[Footnote 326: _i.e._ Nonsense-land.]

[Footnote 327: _i.e._ Land of Tricks or Cozenage.]

[Footnote 328: _i.e._ Falsehood, Lie-land.]

[Footnote 329: _i.e._ paying their way with fine words, instead of
coin.]

[Footnote 330: _i.e._ making sausages of them.]

[Footnote 331: _Bachi_, drones or maggots. _Pastinaca_ means "parsnip"
and is a meaningless addition of Fra Cipolla's fashion.]

[Footnote 332: A play of words upon the primary meaning (winged
things) of the word _pennate_, hedge-bills.]

Being unable to find that which I went seeking, for that thence one
goeth thither by water, I turned back and arrived in those holy
countries, where, in summer-years, cold bread is worth four farthings
a loaf and the hot goeth for nothing. There I found the venerable
father my lord Blamemenot Anitpleaseyou, the very worshipful Patriarch
of Jerusalem, who, for reverence of the habit I have still worn of my
lord Baron St. Anthony, would have me see all the holy relics that he
had about him and which were so many that, an I sought to recount
them all to you, I should not come to an end thereof in several miles.
However, not to leave you disconsolate, I will tell you some thereof.
First, he showed me the finger of the Holy Ghost, as whole and sound
as ever it was, and the forelock 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[333] Get-thee-to-the-windows and some of the vestments
of the Holy Catholic Faith and divers rays of the star that appeared
to the Three Wise Men in the East and a vial of the sweat of St.
Michael, whenas he fought with the devil, and the jawbone of the death
of St. Lazarus and others. And for that I made him a free gift of the
Steeps[334] of Monte Morello in the vernacular and of some chapters of
the Caprezio,[335] which he had long gone seeking, he made me a sharer
in his holy relics and gave me one of the teeth of the Holy Rood and
somewhat of the sound of the bells of Solomon's Temple in a vial and
the feather of the Angel Gabriel, whereof I have already bespoken you,
and one of the pattens of St. Gherardo da Villa Magna, which not long
since at Florence I gave to Gherardo di Bonsi, who hath a particular
devotion for that saint; and he gave me also of the coals wherewith
the most blessed martyr St. Lawrence was roasted; all which things I
devoutly brought home with me and yet have. True it is that my
superior hath never suffered me to show them till such time as he
should be certified if they were the very things or not. But now that,
by certain miracles performed by them and by letters received from the
patriarch, he hath been made certain of this, he hath granted me leave
to show them; and I, fearing to trust them to others, still carry them
with me.

[Footnote 333: _i.e._ The Word [made] flesh. Get-thee-to-the-windows
is only a patter tag.]

[Footnote 334: Or Slopes or Coasts (_piaggie_).]

[Footnote 335: ?]

Now I carry the Angel Gabriel's feather, so it may not be marred, in
one casket, and the coals wherewith St. Lawrence was roasted in
another, the which are so like one to other, that it hath often
happened to me to take one for the other, and so hath it betided me at
this present, for that, thinking to bring hither the casket wherein
was the feather, I have brought that wherein are the coals. The which
I hold not to have been an error; nay, meseemeth certain that it was
God's will and that He Himself placed the casket with the coals in my
hands, especially now I mind me that the feast of St. Lawrence is but
two days hence; wherefore God, willing that, by showing you the coals
wherewith he was roasted, I should rekindle in your hearts the
devotion it behoveth you have for him, caused me take, not the
feather, as I purposed, but the blessed coals extinguished by the
sweat of that most holy body. So, O my blessed children, put off your
bonnets and draw near devoutly to behold them; but first I would have
you knew that whoso is scored with these coals, in the form of the
sign of the cross, may rest assured, for the whole year to come, that
fire shall not touch him but he shall feel it.'

Having thus spoken, he opened the casket, chanting the while a
canticle in praise of St. Lawrence, and showed the coals, which after
the simple multitude had awhile beheld with reverent admiration, they
all crowded about Fra Cipolla and making him better offerings than
they were used, besought him to touch them withal. Accordingly, taking
the coals in hand, he fell to making the biggest crosses for which he
could find room upon their white smocks and doublets and upon the
veils of the women, avouching that how much soever the coals
diminished in making these crosses, they after grew again in the
casket, as he had many a time proved. On this wise he crossed all the
people of Certaldo, to his no small profit, and thus, by his ready wit
and presence of mind, he baffled those who, by taking the feather from
him, had thought to baffle him and who, being present at his
preachment and hearing the rare shift employed by him and from how far
he had taken it and with what words, had so laughed that they thought
to have cracked their jaws. Then, after the common folk had departed,
they went up to him and with all the mirth in the world discovered to
him that which they had done and after restored him his feather, which
next year stood him in as good stead as the coals had done that day."

       *       *       *       *       *

This story afforded unto all the company alike the utmost pleasure and
solace, and it was much laughed of all at Fra Cipolla, and
particularly of his pilgrimage and the relics seen and brought back by
him. The queen, seeing the story and likewise her sovantry at an end,
rose to her feet and put off the crown, which she set laughingly on
Dioneo's head, saying, "It is time, Dioneo, that thou prove awhile
what manner charge it is to have ladies to govern and guide; be thou,
then, king and rule on such wise that, in the end, we may have reason
to give ourselves joy of thy governance." Dioneo took the crown and
answered, laughing, "You may often enough have seen much better kings
than I, I mean chess-kings; but, an you obey me as a king should in
truth be obeyed, I will cause you enjoy that without which assuredly
no entertainment is ever complete in its gladness. But let that talk
be; I will rule as best I know."

Then, sending for the seneschal, according to the wonted usance, he
orderly enjoined him of that which he should do during the continuance
of his seignory and after said, "Noble ladies, it hath in divers
manners been devised of human industry[336] and of the various chances
[of fortune,] insomuch that, had not Dame Licisca come hither a while
agone and found me matter with her prate for our morrow's relations, I
misdoubt me I should have been long at pains to find a subject of
discourse. As you heard, she avouched that she had not a single gossip
who had come to her husband a maid and added that she knew right well
how many and what manner tricks married women yet played their
husbands. But, letting be the first part, which is a childish matter,
methinketh the second should be an agreeable subject for discourse;
wherefore I will and ordain it that, since Licisca hath given us
occasion therefor, it be discoursed to-morrow OF THE TRICKS WHICH, OR
FOR LOVE OR FOR THEIR OWN PRESERVATION, WOMEN HAVE HERETOFORE PLAYED
THEIR HUSBANDS, WITH OR WITHOUT THE LATTER'S COGNIZANCE THEREOF."

[Footnote 336: _Industria_ in the old sense of ingenuity, skilful
procurement, etc.]

It seemed to some of the ladies that to discourse of such a matter
would ill beseem them and they prayed him, therefore, to change the
theme proposed; wherefore answered he, "Ladies, I am no less cognizant
than yourselves of that which I have ordained, and that which you
would fain allege to me availed not to deter me from ordaining it,
considering that the times are such that, provided men and women are
careful to eschew unseemly actions, all liberty of discourse is
permitted. Know you not that, for the malignity of the season, the
judges have forsaken the tribunals, that the laws, as well Divine as
human, are silent and full licence is conceded unto every one for the
preservation of his life? Wherefore, if your modesty allow itself some
little freedom in discourse, not with intent to ensue it with aught of
unseemly in deeds, but to afford yourselves and others diversion, I
see not with what plausible reason any can blame you in the future.
Moreover, your company, from the first day of our assembling until
this present, hath been most decorous, nor, for aught that hath been
said here, doth it appear to me that its honour hath anywise been
sullied. Again, who is there knoweth not your virtue? Which, not to
say mirthful discourse, but even fear of death I do not believe could
avail to shake. And to tell you the truth, whosoever should hear that
you shrank from devising bytimes of these toys would be apt to suspect
that you were guilty in the matter and were therefore unwilling to
discourse thereof. To say nothing of the fine honour you would do me
in that, I having been obedient unto all, you now, having made me your
king, seek to lay down the law to me, and not to discourse of the
subject which I propose. Put off, then, this misdoubtance, apter to
mean minds than to yours, and good luck to you, let each of you
bethink herself of some goodly story to tell." When the ladies heard
this, they said it should be as he pleased; whereupon he gave them all
leave to do their several pleasures until supper-time.

The sun was yet high, for that the discoursement[337] had been brief;
wherefor Dioneo having addressed himself to play at tables with the
other young men, Elisa called the other ladies apart and said to them,
"Since we have been here, I have still wished to carry you to a place
very near at hand, whither methinketh none of you hath ever been and
which is called the Ladies' Valley, but have never yet found an
occasion of bringing you thither unto to-day; wherefore, as the sun is
yet high, I doubt not but, an it please you come thither, you will be
exceeding well pleased to have been there." They answered that they
were ready and calling one of their maids, set out upon their way,
without letting the young men know aught thereof; nor had they gone
much more than a mile, when they came to the Ladies' Valley. They
entered therein by a very strait way, on one side whereof ran a very
clear streamlet, and saw it as fair and as delectable, especially at
that season whenas the heat was great, as most might be conceived.
According to that which one of them after told me, the plain that was
in the valley was as round as if it had been traced with the compass,
albeit it seemed the work of nature and not of art, and was in circuit
a little more than half a mile, encompassed about with six little
hills not over-high, on the summit of each of which stood a palace
builded in guise of a goodly castle. The sides of these hills went
sloping gradually downward to the plain on such wise as we see in
amphitheatres, the degrees descend in ordered succession from the
highest to the lowest, still contracting their circuit; and of these
slopes those which looked toward the south were all full of vines and
olives and almonds and cherries and figs and many another kind of
fruit-bearing trees, without a span thereof being wasted; whilst those
which faced the North Star[338] were all covered with thickets of
dwarf oaks and ashes and other trees as green and straight as might
be. The middle plain, which had no other inlet than that whereby the
ladies were come thither, was full of firs and cypresses and laurels
and various sorts of pines, as well arrayed and ordered as if the best
artist in that kind had planted them; and between these little or no
sun, even at its highest, made its way to the ground, which was all
one meadow of very fine grass, thick-sown with flowers purpurine and
others. Moreover, that which afforded no less delight than otherwhat
was a little stream, which ran down from a valley that divided two of
the hills aforesaid and falling over cliffs of live rock, made a
murmur very delectable to hear, what while it showed from afar, as it
broke over the stones, like so much quicksilver jetting out, under
pressure of somewhat, into fine spray. As it came down into the little
plain, it was there received into a fair channel and ran very swiftly
into the middest thereof, where it formed a lakelet, such as the
townsfolk made whiles, by way of fishpond, in their gardens, whenas
they have a commodity thereof. This lakelet was no deeper than a man's
stature, breast high, and its waters being exceeding clear and
altogether untroubled with any admixture, it showed its bottom to be
of a very fine gravel, the grains whereof whoso had nought else to do
might, an he would, have availed to number; nor, looking into the
water, was the bottom alone to be seen, nay, but so many fish fleeting
hither and thither that, over and above the pleasure thereof, it was a
marvel to behold; nor was it enclosed with other banks than the very
soil of the meadow, which was the goodlier thereabout in so much as it
received the more of its moisture. The water that abounded over and
above the capacity of the lake was received into another channel,
whereby, issuing forth of the little valley, it ran off into the lower
parts.

[Footnote 337: _i.e._ the tale-telling.]

[Footnote 338: Lit. the northern chariot (_carro di tramontana_);
_quære_ the Great Bear?]

Hither then came the young ladies and after they had gazed all about
and much commended the place, they took counsel together to bathe, for
that the heat was great and that they saw the lakelet before them and
were in no fear of being seen. Accordingly, bidding their serving
maid abide over against the way whereby one entered there and look if
any should come and give them notice thereof, they stripped themselves
naked, all seven, and entered the lake, which hid their white bodies
no otherwise than as a thin glass would do with a vermeil rose. Then,
they being therein and no troubling of the water ensuing thereof, they
fell, as best they might, to faring hither and thither in pursuit of
the fish, which had uneath where to hide themselves, and seeking to
take them with the naked hand. After they had abidden awhile in such
joyous pastime and had taken some of the fish, they came forth of the
lakelet and clad themselves anew. Then, unable to commend the place
more than they had already done and themseeming time to turn homeward,
they set out, with soft step, upon their way, discoursing much of the
goodliness of the valley.

They reached the palace betimes and there found the young men yet at
play where they had left them; to whom quoth Pampinea, laughing. "We
have e'en stolen a march on you to-day." "How?" asked Dioneo. "Do you
begin to do deeds ere you come to say words?"[339] "Ay, my lord,"
answered she and related to him at large whence they came and how the
place was fashioned and how far distant thence and that which they had
done. The king, hearing tell of the goodliness of the place and
desirous of seeing it, caused straightway order the supper, which
being dispatched to the general satisfaction, the three young men,
leaving the ladies, betook themselves with their servants to the
valley and having viewed it in every part, for that none of them had
ever been there before, extolled it for one of the goodliest things in
the world. Then, for that it grew late, after they had bathed and
donned their clothes, they returned home, where they found the ladies
dancing a round, to the accompaniment of a song sung by Fiammetta.

[Footnote 339: Alluding to the subject fixed for the next day's
discourse, as who should say, "Have you begun already to play tricks
upon us men in very deed, ere you tell about them in words?"]

The dance ended, they entered with them into a discourse of the
Ladies' Valley and said much in praise and commendation thereof.
Moreover, the king, sending for the seneschal, bade him look that the
dinner be made ready there on the following morning and have sundry
beds carried thither, in case any should have a mind to lie or sleep
there for nooning; after which he let bring lights and wine and
confections and the company having somedele refreshed themselves, he
commanded that all should address themselves to dancing. Then, Pamfilo
having, at his commandment, set up a dance, the king turned to Elisa
and said courteously to her, "Fair damsel, thou has to-day done me the
honour of the crown and I purpose this evening to do thee that of the
song; wherefore look thou sing such an one as most liketh thee." Elisa
answered, smiling, that she would well and with dulcet voice began on
this wise:

       Love, from thy clutches could I but win free,
         Hardly, methinks, again
       Shall any other hook take hold on me.
       I entered in thy wars a youngling maid,
         Thinking thy strife was utmost peace and sweet,
       And all my weapons on the ground I laid,
         As one secure, undoubting of defeat;
         But thou, false tyrant, with rapacious heat,
       Didst fall on me amain
     With all the grapnels of thine armoury.

       Then, wound about and fettered with thy chains,
         To him, who for my death in evil hour
       Was born, thou gav'st me, bounden, full of pains
         And bitter tears; and syne within his power
         He hath me and his rule's so harsh and dour
       No sighs can move the swain
     Nor all my wasting plaints to set me free.

       My prayers, the wild winds bear them all away;
         He hearkeneth unto none and none will hear;
       Wherefore each hour my torment waxeth aye;
         I cannot die, albeit life irks me drear.
         Ah, Lord, have pity on my heavy cheer;
       Do that I seek in vain
     And give him bounden in thy chains to me.

       An this thou wilt not, at the least undo
         The bonds erewhen of hope that knitted were;
       Alack, O Lord, thereof to thee I sue,
         For, an thou do it, yet to waxen fair
         Again I trust, as was my use whilere,
       And being quit of pain
     Myself with white flowers and with red besee.

Elisa ended her song with a very plaintive sigh, and albeit all
marvelled at the words thereof, yet was there none who might conceive
what it was that caused her sing thus. But the king, who was in a
merry mood, calling for Tindaro, bade him bring out his bagpipes, to
the sound whereof he let dance many dances; after which, a great part
of the night being now past, he bade each go sleep.


HERE ENDETH THE SIXTH DAY
OF THE DECAMERON



_Day the Seventh_

     HERE BEGINNETH THE SEVENTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN
     UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF DIONEO IS DISCOURSED OF THE TRICKS
     WHICH OR FOR LOVE OR FOR THEIR OWN PRESERVATION WOMEN HAVE
     HERETOFORE PLAYED THEIR HUSBANDS WITH OR WITHOUT THE
     LATTER'S COGNIZANCE THEREOF


Every star was already fled from the parts of the East, save only that
which we style Lucifer and which shone yet in the whitening dawn, when
the seneschal, arising, betook himself, with a great baggage-train, to
the Ladies' Valley, there to order everything, according to
commandment had of his lord. The king, whom the noise of the packers
and of the beasts had awakened, tarried not long after his departure
to rise and being risen, caused arouse all the ladies and likewise the
young men; nor had the rays of the sun yet well broken forth, when
they all entered upon the road. Never yet had the nightingales and the
other birds seemed to them to sing so blithely as they did that
morning, what while, accompanied by their carols, they repaired to the
Ladies' Valley, where they were received by many more, which seemed to
them to make merry for their coming. There, going round about the
place and reviewing it all anew, it appeared to them so much fairer
than on the foregoing day as the season of the day was more sorted to
its goodliness. Then, after they had broken their fast with good wine
and confections, not to be behindhand with the birds in the matter of
song, they fell a-singing and the valley with them, still echoing
those same songs which they did sing, whereto all the birds, as if
they would not be outdone, added new and dulcet notes. Presently, the
dinner-hour being come and the tables spread hard by the fair lakelet
under the thickset laurels and other goodly trees, they seated
themselves there, as it pleased the king, and eating, watched the fish
swim in vast shoals about the lake, which gave bytimes occasion for
talk as well as observation. When they had made an end of dining and
the meats and tables were removed, they fell anew to singing more
blithely than ever; after which, beds having been spread in various
places about the little valley and all enclosed about by the discreet
seneschal with curtains and canopies of French serge, whoso would
might with the king's permission, go sleep; whilst those who had no
mind to sleep might at their will take pleasure of their other wonted
pastimes. But, after awhile, all being now arisen and the hour come
when they should assemble together for story-telling, carpets were, at
the king's commandment, spread upon the grass, not far from the place
where they had eaten, and all having seated themselves thereon hard by
the lake, the king bade Emilia begin; whereupon she blithely proceeded
to speak, smiling, thus:



THE FIRST STORY

[Day the Seventh]

     GIANNI LOTTERINGHI HEARETH KNOCK AT HIS DOOR BY NIGHT AND
     AWAKENETH HIS WIFE, WHO GIVETH HIM TO BELIEVE THAT IT IS A
     PHANTOM; WHEREUPON THEY GO TO EXORCISE IT WITH A CERTAIN
     ORISON AND THE KNOCKING CEASETH


"My Lord, it had been very agreeable to me, were such your pleasure,
that other than I should have given a beginning to so goodly a matter
as is that whereof we are to speak; but, since it pleaseth you that I
give all the other ladies assurance by my example, I will gladly do
it. Moreover, dearest ladies, I will study to tell a thing that may be
useful to you in time to come, for that, if you others are as fearful
as I, and especially of phantoms, (though what manner of thing they
may be God knoweth I know not, nor ever found I any woman who knew it,
albeit all are alike adread of them,) you may, by noting well my
story, learn a holy and goodly orison of great virtue for the
conjuring them away, should they come to you.

There was once in Florence, in the quarter of San Brancazio, a
wool-comber called Gianni Lotteringhi, a man more fortunate in his
craft than wise in other things, for that, savoring of the simpleton,
he was very often made captain of the Laudsingers[340] of Santa Maria
Novella and had the governance of their confraternity, and he many a
time had other little offices of the same kind, upon which he much
valued himself. This betided him for that, being a man of substance,
he gave many a good pittance to the clergy, who, getting of him often,
this a pair of hose, that a gown and another a scapulary, taught him
in return store of goodly orisons and gave him the paternoster in the
vulgar tongue, the Song of Saint Alexis, the Lamentations of Saint
Bernard, the Canticles of Madam Matilda and the like trumpery, all
which he held very dear and kept very diligently for his soul's
health. Now he had a very fair and lovesome lady to wife, by name
Mistress Tessa, who was the daughter of Mannuccio dalla Cuculia and
was exceeding discreet and well advised. She, knowing her husband's
simplicity and being enamoured of Federigo di Neri Pegolotti, a brisk
and handsome youth, and he of her, took order with a serving-maid of
hers that he should come speak with her at a very goodly country house
which her husband had at Camerata, where she sojourned all the summer
and whither Gianni came whiles to sup and sleep, returning in the
morning to his shop and bytimes to his Laudsingers.

[Footnote 340: See p. 144, note 2.]

Federigo, who desired this beyond measure, taking his opportunity,
repaired thither on the day appointed him towards vespers and Gianni
not coming thither that evening, supped and lay the night in all ease
and delight with the lady, who, being in his arms, taught him that
night a good half dozen of her husband's lauds. Then, neither she nor
Federigo purposing that this should be the last, as it had been the
first time [of their foregathering], they took order together on this
wise, so it should not be needful to send the maid for him each time,
to wit, that every day, as he came and went to and from a place he had
a little farther on, he should keep his eye on a vineyard that
adjoined the house, where he would see an ass's skull set up on one of
the vine poles, which whenas he saw with the muzzle turned towards
Florence, he should without fail and in all assurance betake himself
to her that evening after dark; and if he found the door shut he
should knock softly thrice and she would open to him; but that, whenas
he saw the ass's muzzle turned towards Fiesole, he should not come,
for that Gianni would be there; and doing on this wise, they
foregathered many a time.

But once, amongst other times, it chanced that, Federigo being one
night to sup with Mistress Tessa and she having let cook two fat
capons, Gianni, who was not expected there that night, came thither
very late, whereat the lady was much chagrined and having supped with
her husband on a piece of salt pork, which she had let boil apart,
caused the maid wrap the two boiled capons in a white napkin and carry
them, together with good store of new-laid eggs and a flask of good
wine, into a garden she had, whither she could go, without passing
through the house, and where she was wont to sup whiles with her
lover, bidding her lay them at the foot of a peach-tree that grew
beside a lawn there. But such was her trouble and annoy that she
remembered not to bid the maid wait till Federigo should come and tell
him that Gianni was there and that he should take the viands from the
garden; wherefore, she and Gianni betaking themselves to bed and the
maid likewise, it was not long before Federigo came to the door and
knocked softly once. The door was so near to the bedchamber that
Gianni heard it incontinent, as also did the lady; but she made a show
of being asleep, so her husband might have no suspicion of her. After
waiting a little, Federigo knocked a second time, whereupon Gianni,
marvelling, nudged his wife somewhat and said, 'Tessa, hearest thou
what I hear? Meseemeth there is a knocking at our door.'

The lady, who had heard it much better than he, made a show of awaking
and said, 'Eh? How sayst thou?' 'I say,' answered Gianni, 'that
meseemeth there is a knocking at our door.' 'Knocking!' cried she.
'Alack, Gianni mine, knowst thou not what it is? It is a phantom, that
hath these last few nights given me the greatest fright that ever was,
insomuch that, whenas I hear it, I put my head under the clothes and
dare not bring it out again until it is broad day.' Quoth Gianni, 'Go
to, wife; have no fear, if it be so; for I said the _Te Lucis_ and the
_Intemerata_ and such and such other pious orisons, before we lay
down, and crossed the bed from side to side, in the name of the
Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, so that we have no need to fear,
for that, what power soever it have, it cannot avail to harm us.'

The lady, fearing lest Federigo should perchance suspect otherwhat and
be angered with her, determined at all hazards to arise and let him
know that Gianni was there; wherefore quoth she to her husband, 'That
is all very well; thou sayst thy words, thou; but, for my part, I
shall never hold myself safe nor secure, except we exorcise it, since
thou art here.' 'And how is it to be exorcised?' asked he; and she, 'I
know full well how to exorcise it; for, the other day, when I went to
the Pardon at Fiesole, a certain anchoress (the very holiest of
creatures, Gianni mine, God only can say how holy she is,) seeing me
thus fearful, taught me a pious and effectual orison and told me that
she had made trial of it several times, ere she became a recluse, and
that it had always availed her. God knoweth I should never have dared
go alone to make proof of it; but, now that thou art here, I would
have us go exorcise the phantom.'

Gianni answered that he would well and accordingly they both arose and
went softly to the door, without which Federigo, who now began to
misdoubt him of somewhat, was yet in waiting. When they came thither,
the lady said to Gianni, 'Do thou spit, whenas I shall bid thee.' And
he answered, 'Good.' Then she began the conjuration and said,
'Phantom, phantom that goest by night, with tail upright[341] thou
cam'st to us; now get thee gone with tail upright. Begone into the
garden to the foot of the great peach tree; there shalt thou find an
anointed twice-anointed one[342] and an hundred turds of my sitting
hen;[343] set thy mouth to the flagon and get thee gone again and do
thou no hurt to my Gianni nor to me.' Then to her husband, 'Spit,
Gianni,' quoth she, and he spat. Federigo, who heard all this from
without and was now quit of jealousy, had, for all his vexation, so
great a mind to laugh that he was like to burst, and when Gianni spat,
he said under his breath '[Would it were] thy teeth!'

[Footnote 341: _i.e._ pene arrecto.]

[Footnote 342: _i.e._ a fattened capon well larded.]

[Footnote 343: _i.e._ eggs.]

The lady, having thrice conjured the phantom on this wise, returned to
bed with her husband, whilst Federigo, who had not supped, looking to
sup with her, and had right well apprehended the words of the
conjuration, betook himself to the garden and finding the capons and
wine and eggs at the foot of the great peach-tree, carried them off to
his house and there supped at his ease; and after, when he next
foregathered with the lady, he had a hearty laugh with her anent the
conjuration aforesaid. Some say indeed that the lady had actually
turned the ass's skull towards Fiesole, but that a husbandman, passing
through the vineyard, had given it a blow with a stick and caused it
spin round and it had become turned towards Florence, wherefore
Federigo, thinking himself summoned, had come thither, and that the
lady had made the conjuration on this wise: 'Phantom, phantom, get
thee gone in God's name; for it was not I turned the ass's head; but
another it was, God put him to shame! and I am here with my Gianni in
bed'; whereupon he went away and abode without supper or lodging. But
a neighbour of mine, a very ancient lady, telleth me that, according
to that which she heard, when a child, both the one and the other were
true; but that the latter happened, not to Gianni Lotteringhi, but to
one Gianni di Nello, who abode at Porta San Piero and was no less
exquisite a ninny than the other. Wherefore, dear my ladies, it
abideth at your election to take whether of the two orisons most
pleaseth you, except you will have both. They have great virtue in
such cases, as you have had proof in the story you have heard; get
them, therefore, by heart and they may yet avail you."



THE SECOND STORY

[Day the Seventh]

     PERONELLA HIDETH A LOVER OF HERS IN A VAT, UPON HER
     HUSBAND'S UNLOOKED FOR RETURN, AND HEARING FROM THE LATTER
     THAT HE HATH SOLD THE VAT, AVOUCHETH HERSELF TO HAVE SOLD IT
     TO ONE WHO IS PRESENTLY THEREWITHIN, TO SEE IF IT BE SOUND;
     WHEREUPON THE GALLANT, JUMPING OUT OF THE VAT, CAUSETH THE
     HUSBAND SCRAPE IT OUT FOR HIM AND AFTER CARRY IT HOME TO HIS
     HOUSE


Emilia's story was received with loud laughter and the conjuration
commended of all as goodly and excellent; and this come to an end, the
king bade Filostrato follow on, who accordingly began, "Dearest
ladies, so many are the tricks that men, and particularly husbands,
play you, that, if some woman chance whiles to put a cheat upon her
husband, you should not only be blithe that this hath happened and
take pleasure in coming to know it or hearing it told of any, but
should yourselves go telling it everywhere, so men may understand
that, if they are knowing, women, on their part, are no less so! the
which cannot be other than useful unto you, for that, when one knoweth
that another is on the alert, he setteth himself not overlightly to
cozen him. Who, then, can doubt but that which we shall say to-day
concerning this matter, coming to be known of men, may be exceeding
effectual in restraining them from cozening you ladies, whenas they
find that you likewise know how to cozen, an you will? I purpose,
therefore, to tell you the trick which, on the spur of the moment, a
young woman, albeit she was of mean condition, played her husband for
her own preservation.

In Naples no great while agone there was a poor man who took to wife a
fair and lovesome damsel called Peronella, and albeit he with his
craft, which was that of a mason, and she by spinning, earned but a
slender pittance, they ordered their life as best they might. It
chanced one day that a young gallant of the neighbourhood saw this
Peronella and she pleasing him mightily, he fell in love with her and
importuned her one way and another till he became familiar with her
and they took order with each other on this wise, so they might be
together; to wit, seeing that her husband arose every morning betimes
to go to work or to find work, they agreed that the young man should
be whereas he might see him go out, and that, as soon as he was
gone,--the street where she abode, which was called Avorio, being very
solitary,--he should come to her house. On this wise they did many
times; but one morning, the good man having gone out and Giannello
Strignario (for so was the lover named) having entered the house and
being with Peronella, it chanced that, after awhile, the husband
returned home, whereas it was his wont to be abroad all day, and
finding the door locked within, knocked and after fell a-saying in
himself, 'O my God, praised be Thou ever! For, though Thou hast made
me poor, at least Thou hast comforted me with a good and honest damsel
to wife. See how she locked the door within as soon as I was gone out,
so none might enter to do her any annoy.'

Peronella, knowing her husband by his way of knocking, said to her
lover, 'Alack, Giannello mine, I am a dead woman! For here is my
husband, whom God confound, come back and I know not what this
meaneth, for never yet came he back hither at this hour; belike he saw
thee whenas thou enteredst here. But, for the love of God, however the
case may be, get thee into yonder vat, whilst I go open to him, and we
shall see what is the meaning of his returning home so early this
morning.' Accordingly, Giannello betook himself in all haste into the
vat, whilst Peronella, going to the door, opened to her husband and
said to him, with an angry air, 'What is to do now, that thou
returnest home so soon this morning? Meseemeth thou hast a mind to do
nought to-day, that I see thee come back, tools in hand; and if thou
do thus, on what are we to live? Whence shall we get bread? Thinkest
thou I will suffer thee pawn my gown and my other poor clothes? I, who
do nothing but spin day and night, till the flesh is come apart from
my nails, so I may at the least have so much oil as will keep our lamp
burning! Husband, husband, there is not a neighbour's wife of ours but
marvelleth thereat and maketh mock of me for the pains I give myself
and all that I endure; and thou, thou returnest home to me, with thy
hands a-dangle, whenas thou shouldst be at work.'

So saying, she fell a-weeping and went on to say, 'Alack, woe is me,
unhappy woman that I am! In what an ill hour was I born, at what an
ill moment did I come hither! I who might have had a young man of such
worth and would none of him, so I might come to this fellow here, who
taketh no thought to her whom he hath brought home! Other women give
themselves a good time with their lovers, for there is none [I know]
but hath two and some three, and they enjoy themselves and show their
husbands the moon for the sun. But I, wretch that I am! because I am
good and occupy myself not with such toys, I suffer ill and ill hap. I
know not why I do not take me a lover, as do other women. Understand
well, husband mine, that had I a mind to do ill, I could soon enough
find the wherewithal, for there be store of brisk young fellows who
love me and wish me well and have sent to me, proffering money galore
or dresses and jewels, at my choice; but my heart would never suffer
me to do it, for that I was no mother's daughter of that ilk; and here
thou comest home to me, whenas thou shouldst be at work.'

'Good lack, wife,' answered the husband, 'fret not thyself, for God's
sake; thou shouldst be assured that I know what manner of woman thou
art, and indeed this morning I have in part had proof thereof. It is
true that I went out to go to work; but it seemeth thou knowest not,
as I myself knew not, that this is the Feast-day of San Galeone and
there is no work doing; that is why I am come back at this hour; but
none the less I have provided and found a means how we shall have
bread for more than a month, for I have sold yonder man thou seest
here with me the vat which, as thou knowest, hath this long while
cumbered the house; and he is to give me five lily-florins[344] for
it.' Quoth Peronella, 'So much the more cause have I to complain;
thou, who art a man and goest about and should be versed in the things
of the world, thou hast sold a vat for five florins, whilst I, a poor
silly woman who hath scarce ever been without the door, seeing the
hindrance it gave us in the house, have sold it for seven to an honest
man, who entered it but now, as thou camest back, to see if it were
sound!' When the husband heard this, he was more than satisfied and
said to him who had come for the vat, 'Good man, begone in peace; for
thou hearest that my wife hath sold the vat for seven florins, whereas
thou wast to give me but five for it.' 'Good,' replied the other and
went his way; whereupon quoth Peronella to her husband, 'Since thou
art here, come up and settle with him thyself.' Giannello, who abode
with his ears pricked up to hear if it behoved him fear or be on his
guard against aught, hearing his mistress's words, straightway
scrambled out of the vat and cried out, as if he had heard nothing of
the husband's return, 'Where art thou, good wife?' whereupon the
goodman, coming up, answered, 'Here am I; what wouldst thou have?'
'Who art thou?' asked Giannello. 'I want the woman with whom I made
the bargain for this vat.' Quoth the other, 'You may deal with me in
all assurance, for I am her husband.' Then said Giannello, 'The vat
appeareth to me sound enough; but meseemeth you have kept dregs or the
like therein, for it is all overcrusted with I know not what that is
so hard and dry that I cannot remove aught thereof with my nails;
wherefore I will not take it, except I first see it clean.' 'Nay,'
answered Peronella, 'the bargain shall not fall through for that; my
husband will clean it all out.' 'Ay will I,' rejoined the latter, and
laying down his tools, put off his coat; then, calling for a light and
a scraper, he entered the vat and fell to scraping. Peronella, as if
she had a mind to see what he did, thrust her head and one of her
arms, shoulder and all, in at the mouth of the vat, which was not
overbig, and fell to saying, 'Scrape here' and 'There' and 'There
also' and 'See, here is a little left.'

[Footnote 344: So called from the figure of a lily stamped on the
coin; cf. our rose-nobles.]

Whilst she was thus engaged in directing her husband and showing him
where to scrape, Giannello, who had scarce yet that morning done his
full desire, when they were interrupted by the mason's coming, seeing
that he could not as he would, bethought himself to accomplish it as
he might; wherefore, boarding her, as she held the mouth of the vat
all closed up, on such wise as in the ample plains the unbridled
stallions, afire with love, assail the mares of Parthia, he satisfied
his juvenile ardour, the which enterprise was brought to perfection
well nigh at the same moment as the scraping of the vat; whereupon he
dismounted and Peronella withdrawing her head from the mouth of the
vat, the husband came forth thereof. Then said she to her gallant,
'Take this light, good man, and look if it be clean to thy mind.'
Giannello looked in and said that it was well and that he was
satisfied and giving the husband seven florins, caused carry the vat
to his own house."



THE THIRD STORY

[Day the Seventh]

     FRA RINALDO LIETH WITH HIS GOSSIP AND BEING FOUND OF HER
     HUSBAND CLOSETED WITH HER IN HER CHAMBER, THEY GIVE HIM TO
     BELIEVE THAT HE WAS IN ACT TO CONJURE WORMS FROM HIS GODSON


Filostrato had not known to speak so obscurely of the mares of Parthia
but that the roguish ladies laughed thereat, making believe to laugh
at otherwhat. But, when the king saw that his story was ended, he bade
Elisa tell, who accordingly, with obedient readiness, began, "Charming
ladies, Emilia's conjuration of the phantom hath brought to my memory
the story of another conjuration, which latter, though it be not so
goodly as hers, nevertheless, for that none other bearing upon our
subject occurreth to me at this present, I will proceed to relate.

You must know that there was once in Siena a very agreeable young man
and of a worshipful family, by name Rinaldo, who was passionately
enamored of a very beautiful lady, a neighbour of his and the wife of
a rich man, and flattered himself that, could he but find means to
speak with her unsuspected, he might avail to have of her all that he
should desire. Seeing none other way and the lady being great with
child, he bethought himself to become her gossip and accordingly,
clapping up an acquaintance with her husband, he offered him, on such
wise as appeared to him most seemly, to be godfather to his child. His
offer was accepted and he being now become Madam Agnesa's gossip and
having a somewhat more colourable excuse for speaking with her, he
took courage and gave her in so many words to know that of his intent
which she had indeed long before gathered from his looks; but little
did this profit him, although the lady was nothing displeased to have
heard him.

Not long after, whatever might have been the reason, it came to pass
that Rinaldo turned friar and whether or not he found the pasturage to
his liking, he persevered in that way of life; and albeit, in the days
of his becoming a monk, he had for awhile laid on one side the love he
bore his gossip, together with sundry other vanities of his, yet, in
process of time, without quitting the monk's habit, he resumed
them[345] and began to delight in making a show and wearing fine
stuffs and being dainty and elegant in all his fashions and making
canzonets and sonnets and ballads and in singing and all manner other
things of the like sort. But what say I of our Fra Rinaldo, of whom we
speak? What monks are there that do not thus? Alack, shame that they
are of the corrupt world, they blush not to appear fat and ruddy in
the face, dainty in their garb and in all that pertaineth unto them,
and strut along, not like doves, but like very turkey-cocks, with
crest erect and breast puffed out; and what is worse (to say nothing
of having their cells full of gallipots crammed with electuaries and
unguents, of boxes full of various confections, of phials and flagons
of distilled waters and oils, of pitchers brimming with Malmsey and
Cyprus and other wines of price, insomuch that they seem to the
beholder not friars' cells, but rather apothecaries' or perfumers'
shops) they think no shame that folk should know them to be gouty,
conceiving that others see not nor know that strict fasting, coarse
viands and spare and sober living make men lean and slender and for
the most part sound of body, and that if indeed some sicken thereof,
at least they sicken not of the gout, whereto it is used to give, for
medicine, chastity and everything else that pertaineth to the natural
way of living of an honest friar. Yet they persuade themselves that
others know not that,--let alone the scant and sober living,--long
vigils, praying and discipline should make men pale and mortified and
that neither St. Dominic nor St. Francis, far from having four gowns
for one, clad themselves in cloth dyed in grain nor in other fine
stuffs, but in garments of coarse wool and undyed, to keep out the
cold and not to make a show. For which things, as well as for the
souls of the simpletons who nourish them, there is need that God
provide.

[Footnote 345: _i.e._ the discarded vanities aforesaid.]

Fra Rinaldo, then, having returned to his former appetites, began to
pay frequent visits to his gossip and waxing in assurance, proceeded
to solicit her with more than his former instancy to that which he
desired of her. The good lady, seeing herself hard pressed and Fra
Rinaldo seeming to her belike goodlier than she had thought him
aforetime, being one day sore importuned of him, had recourse to that
argument which all women use who have a mind to yield that which is
asked of them and said, 'How now, Fra Rinaldo? Do monks such things?'
'Madam,' answered he, 'when as I shall have this gown off my
back,--and I can put it off mighty easily,--I shall appear to you a
man fashioned like other men and not a monk.' The lady pulled a demure
face and said, 'Alack, wretched me! You are my gossip; how can I do
this? It were sadly ill, and I have heard many a time that it is a
very great sin; but, certes, were it not for this, I would do that
which you wish.' Quoth Fra Rinaldo, 'You are a simpleton, if you
forbear for this; I do not say that it is not a sin, but God pardoneth
greater than this to whoso repenteth. But tell me, who is more akin to
your child, I who held him at baptism or your husband who begat him?'
'My husband is more akin to him,' answered the lady; whereupon, 'You
say sooth,' rejoined the friar. 'And doth not your husband lie with
you?' 'Ay doth he,' replied she. 'Then,' said Fra Rinaldo, 'I, who am
less akin to your child than is your husband, may lie with you even
as doth he.' The lady, who knew no logic and needed little persuasion,
either believed or made a show of believing that the friar spoke the
truth and answered, 'Who might avail to answer your learned words?'
And after, notwithstanding the gossipship, she resigned herself to do
his pleasure; nor did they content themselves with one bout, but
foregathered many and many a time, having the more commodity thereof
under cover of the gossipship, for that there was less suspicion.

But once, amongst other times, it befell that Fra Rinaldo, coming to
the lady's house and finding none with her but a little maid of hers,
who was very pretty and agreeable, despatched his comrade with the
latter to the pigeon-loft, to teach her her Paternoster, and entered
with the lady, who had her child in her hand, into her bedchamber,
where they locked themselves in and fell to taking their pleasure upon
a daybed that was there. As they were thus engaged, it chanced that
the husband came home and making for the bedchamber-door, unperceived
of any, knocked and called to the lady, who, hearing this, said to the
friar, 'I am a dead woman, for here is my husband, and now he will
certainly perceive what is the reason of our familiarity.' Now Rinaldo
was stripped to his waistcoat, to wit, he had put off his gown and his
scapulary, and hearing this, answered, 'You say sooth; were I but
dressed, there might be some means; but, if you open to him and he
find me thus, there can be no excuse for us.' The lady, seized with a
sudden idea, said, 'Harkye, dress yourself and when you are dressed,
take your godchild in your arms and hearken well to that which I shall
say to him, so your words may after accord with mine, and leave me
do.' Then, to the good man, who had not yet left knocking, 'I come to
thee,' quoth she and rising, opened the chamber-door and said, with a
good countenance, 'Husband mine, I must tell thee that Fra Rinaldo,
our gossip, is come hither and it was God sent him to us; for, certes,
but for his coming, we should to-day have lost our child.'

The good simple man, hearing this, was like to swoon and said, 'How
so?' 'O husband mine,' answered Agnesa, 'there took him but now of a
sudden a fainting-fit, that methought he was dead, and I knew not what
to do or say; but just then Fra Rinaldo our gossip came in and taking
him in his arms, said, "Gossip, these be worms he hath in his body,
the which draw near to his heart and would infallibly kill him; but
have no fear, for I will conjure them and make them all die; and ere I
go hence, you shall see the child whole again as ever you saw him."
And for that we had need of thee to repeat certain orisons and that
the maid could not find thee, he caused his comrade say them in the
highest room of our house, whilst he and I came hither and locked
ourselves in, so none should hinder us, for that none other than the
child's mother might be present at such an office. Indeed, he hath the
child yet in his arms and methinketh he waiteth but for his comrade to
have made an end of saying the orisons and it will be done, for that
the boy is already altogether restored to himself.' The good simple
man, believing all this, was so straitened with concern for his child
that it never entered his mind to suspect the cheat put upon him by
his wife; but, heaving a great sigh, he said, 'I will go see him.'
'Nay,' answered she, 'thou wouldst mar that which hath been done.
Wait; I will go see an thou mayst come in and call thee.'

Meanwhile, Fra Rinaldo, who had heard everything and had dressed
himself at his leisure, took the child in his arms and called out, as
soon as he had ordered matters to his mind, saying, 'Harkye, gossip,
hear I not my gossip your husband there?' 'Ay, sir,' answered the
simpleton; whereupon, 'Then,' said the other, 'come hither.' The
cuckold went to him and Fra Rinaldo said to him, 'Take your son by the
grace of God whole and well, whereas I deemed but now you would not
see him alive at vespers; and look you let make a waxen image of his
bigness and set it up, to the praise and glory of God, before the
statue of our lord St. Ambrose, through whose intercession He hath
vouchsafed to restore him unto you.' The child, seeing his father, ran
to him and caressed him, as little children used to do, whilst the
latter, taking him, weeping, in his arms, no otherwise than as he had
brought him forth of the grave, fell to kissing him and returning
thanks to his gossip for that he had made him whole.

Meanwhile, Fra Rinaldo's comrade, who had by this taught the
serving-wench not one, but maybe more than four paternosters, and had
given her a little purse of white thread, which he had from a nun, and
made her his devotee, hearing the cuckold call at his wife's
chamber-door, had softly betaken himself to a place whence he could,
himself unseen, both see and hear what should betide and presently,
seeing that all had passed off well, came down and entering the
chamber, said, 'Fra Rinaldo, I have despatched all four of the orisons
which you bade me say.' 'Brother mine,' answered the friar, 'thou hast
a good wind and hast done well; I, for my part, had said but two
thereof, when my gossip came; but God the Lord, what with thy pains
and mine, hath shown us such favour that the child is healed.'
Therewithal the cuckold let bring good wines and confections and
entertained his gossip and the latter's comrade with that whereof they
had more need than of aught else. Then, attending them to the door, he
commended them to God and letting make the waxen image without delay,
he sent to hang it up with the others[346] before the statue of St.
Ambrose, but not that of Milan."[347]

[Footnote 346: _i.e._ the other ex votos.]

[Footnote 347: There is apparently some satirical allusion here, which
I cannot undertake to explain.]



THE FOURTH STORY

[Day the Seventh]

     TOFANO ONE NIGHT SHUTTETH HIS WIFE OUT OF DOORS, WHO,
     AVAILING NOT TO RE-ENTER BY DINT OF ENTREATIES, FEIGNETH TO
     CAST HERSELF INTO A WELL AND CASTETH THEREIN A GREAT STONE.
     TOFANO COMETH FORTH OF THE HOUSE AND RUNNETH THITHER,
     WHEREUPON SHE SLIPPETH IN AND LOCKING HIM OUT, BAWLETH
     REPROACHES AT HIM FROM THE WINDOW


The king no sooner perceived Elisa's story to be ended than, turning
without delay to Lauretta, he signified to her his pleasure that she
should tell; whereupon she, without hesitation, began thus, "O Love,
how great and how various is thy might! How many thy resources and thy
devices! What philosopher, what craftsman[348] could ever have availed
or might avail to teach those shifts, those feints, those subterfuges
which thou on the spur of the moment suggestest to whoso ensueth in
thy traces! Certes, all others' teaching is halting compared with
thine, as may very well have been apprehended by the devices which
have already been set forth and to which, lovesome ladies, I will add
one practised by a woman of a simple wit enough and such as I know
none but Love could have taught her.

[Footnote 348: Syn. professor of the liberal arts (_artista_).]

There was once, then, in Arezzo, a rich man called Tofano and he was
given to wife a very fair lady, by name Madam Ghita, of whom, without
knowing why, he quickly waxed jealous. The lady, becoming aware of
this, was despited thereat and questioned him once and again of the
reason of his jealousy; but he was able to assign her none, save such
as were general and naught; wherefore it occurred to her mind to cause
him die of the disease whereof he stood without reason in fear.
Accordingly, perceiving that a young man, who was much to her taste,
sighed for her, she proceeded discreetly to come to an understanding
with him and things being so far advanced between them that there
lacked but with deeds to give effect to words, she cast about for a
means of bringing this also to pass; wherefore, having already
remarked, amongst her husband's other ill usances, that he delighted
in drinking, she began not only to commend this to him, but would
often artfully incite him thereto. This became so much his wont that,
well nigh whensoever it pleased her, she led him to drink even to
intoxication, and putting him to bed whenas she saw him well drunken,
she a first time foregathered with her lover, with whom many a time
thereafter she continued to do so in all security. Indeed, she grew to
put such trust in her husband's drunkenness that not only did she make
bold to bring her gallant into the house, but went whiles to pass a
great part of the night with him in his own house, which was not very
far distant.

The enamoured lady continuing on this wise, it befell that the
wretched husband came to perceive that she, whilst encouraging him to
drink, natheless herself drank never; wherefore suspicion took him
that it might be as in truth it was, to wit, that she made him
drunken, so she might after do her pleasure what while he slept, and
wishing to make proof of this, an it were so, he one evening, not
having drunken that day, feigned himself, both in words and fashions,
the drunkenest man that was aye. The lady, believing this and judging
that he needed no more drink, put him to bed in all haste and this
done, betook herself, as she was used to do whiles, to the house of
her lover, where she abode till midnight. As for Tofano, no sooner did
he know the lady to have left the house than he straightway arose and
going to the doors, locked them from within; after which he posted
himself at the window, so he might see her return and show her that he
had gotten wind of her fashions; and there he abode till such time as
she came back. The lady, returning home and finding herself locked
out, was beyond measure woeful and began to essay an she might avail
to open the door by force, which, after Tofano had awhile suffered,
'Wife,' quoth he, 'thou weariest thyself in vain, for thou canst
nowise come in here again. Go, get thee back whereas thou hast been
till now and be assured that thou shalt never return thither till such
time as I shall have done thee, in respect of this affair, such honour
as beseemeth thee in the presence of thy kinsfolk and of the
neighbours.'

The lady fell to beseeching him for the love of God that it would
please him open to her, for that she came not whence he supposed, but
from keeping vigil with a she-neighbour of hers, for that the nights
were long and she could not sleep them all out nor watch at home
alone. However, prayers profited her nought, for that her brute of a
husband was minded to have all the Aretines[349] know their shame,
whereas none as yet knew it; wherefore, seeing that prayers availed
her not, she had recourse to threats and said, 'An thou open not to
me, I will make thee the woefullest man alive.' 'And what canst thou
do to me?' asked Tofano, and Mistress Tessa, whose wits Love had
already whetted with his counsels, replied, 'Rather than brook the
shame which thou wouldst wrongfully cause me suffer, I will cast
myself into this well that is herenigh, where when I am found dead,
there is none will believe otherwise than that thou, for very
drunkenness, hast cast me therein; wherefore it will behove thee flee
and lose all thou hast and abide in banishment or have thy head cut
off for my murderer, as thou wilt in truth have been.'

[Footnote 349: _i.e._ inhabitants of Arezzo.]

Tofano was nowise moved by these words from his besotted intent;
wherefore quoth she to him, 'Harkye now, I can no longer brook this
thy fashery, God pardon it thee! Look thou cause lay up[350] this
distaff of mine that I leave here.' So saying, the night being so dark
that one might scarce see other by the way, she went up to the well
and taking a great stone that lay thereby, cried out, 'God pardon me!'
and let it drop into the water. The stone, striking the water, made a
very great noise, which when Tofano heard, he verily believed that she
had cast herself in; wherefore, snatching up the bucket and the rope,
he rushed out of the house and ran to the well to succour her. The
lady, who had hidden herself near the door, no sooner saw him run to
the well than she slipped into the house and locked herself in; then,
getting her to the window, 'You should water your wine, whenas you
drink it,' quoth she, 'and not after and by night.' Tofano, hearing
this, knew himself to have been fooled and returned to the door, but
could get no admission and proceeded to bid her open to him; but she
left speaking softly, as she had done till then, and began, well nigh
at a scream, to say, 'By Christ His Cross, tiresome sot that thou art,
thou shalt not enter here to-night; I cannot brook these thy fashions
any longer; needs must I let every one see what manner of man thou art
and at what hour thou comest home anights.' Tofano, on his side,
flying into a rage, began to rail at her and bawl; whereupon the
neighbours, hearing the clamour, arose, both men and women, and coming
to the windows, asked what was to do. The lady answered, weeping, 'It
is this wretch of a man, who still returneth to me of an evening,
drunken, or falleth asleep about the taverns and after cometh home at
this hour; the which I have long suffered, but, it availing me not and
I being unable to put up with it longer, I have bethought me to shame
him therefor by locking him out of doors, to see and he will mend
himself thereof.'

[Footnote 350: _Riporre_, possibly a mistake for _riportare_, to fetch
back.]

Tofano, on the other hand, told them, like an ass as he was, how the
case stood and threatened her sore; but she said to the neighbours,
'Look you now what a man he is! What would you say, were I in the
street, as he is, and he in the house, as am I? By God His faith, I
doubt me you would believe he said sooth. By this you may judge of his
wits; he saith I have done just what methinketh he hath himself done.
He thought to fear me by casting I know not what into the well; but
would God he had cast himself there in good sooth and drowned himself,
so he might have well watered the wine which he hath drunken to
excess.' The neighbours, both men and women, all fell to blaming
Tofano, holding him at fault, and chid him for that which he said
against the lady; and in a short time the report was so noised abroad
from neighbour to neighbour that it reached the ears of the lady's
kinsfolk, who came thither and hearing the thing from one and another
of the neighbours, took Tofano and gave him such a drubbing that they
broke every bone in his body. Then, entering the house, they took the
lady's gear and carried her off home with them, threatening Tofano
with worse. The latter, finding himself in ill case and seeing that
his jealousy had brought him to a sorry pass, for that he still loved
his wife heartily,[351] procured certain friends to intercede for him
and so wrought that he made his peace with the lady and had her home
again with him, promising her that he would never be jealous again.
Moreover, he gave her leave to do her every pleasure, provided she
wrought so discreetly that he should know nothing thereof; and on this
wise, like a crack-brained churl as he was, he made peace after
suffering damage. So long live Love and death to war and all its
company!"

[Footnote 351: Lit. wished her all his weal.]



THE FIFTH STORY

[Day the Seventh]

     A JEALOUS HUSBAND, IN THE GUISE OF A PRIEST, CONFESSETH HIS
     WIFE, WHO GIVETH HIM TO BELIEVE THAT SHE LOVETH A PRIEST,
     WHO COMETH TO HER EVERY NIGHT; AND WHILST THE HUSBAND
     SECRETLY KEEPETH WATCH AT THE DOOR FOR THE LATTER, THE LADY
     BRINGETH IN A LOVER OF HERS BY THE ROOF AND LIETH WITH HIM


Lauretta having made an end of her story and all having commended the
lady for that she had done aright and even as befitted her wretch of a
husband, the king, to lose no time, turned to Fiammetta and
courteously imposed on her the burden of the story-telling; whereupon
she began thus, "Most noble ladies, the foregoing story moveth me to
tell you, on like wise, of a jealous husband, accounting, as I do, all
that their wives do unto such,--particularly whenas they are jealous
without cause,--to be well done and holding that, if the makers of the
laws had considered everything, they should have appointed none other
penalty unto women who offend in this than that which they appoint
unto whoso offendeth against other in self-defence; for that jealous
men are plotters against the lives of young women and most diligent
procurers of their deaths. Wives abide all the week mewed up at home,
occupying themselves with domestic offices and the occasions of their
families and households, and after they would fain, like every one
else, have some solace and some rest on holidays and be at leisure to
take some diversion even as do the tillers of the fields, the artisans
of the towns and the administrators of the laws, according to the
example of God himself, who rested from all His labours the seventh
day, and to the intent of the laws, both human and Divine, which,
looking to the honour of God and the common weal of all, have
distinguished working days from those of repose. But to this jealous
men will on no wise consent; nay, those days which are gladsome for
all other women they make wretcheder and more doleful than the others
to their wives, keeping them yet closelier straitened and confined;
and what a misery and a languishment this is for the poor creatures
those only know who have proved it. Wherefore, to conclude, I say that
what a woman doth to a husband who is jealous without cause should
certes not be condemned, but rather commended.

There was, then, in Arimino a merchant, very rich both in lands and
monies, who, having to wife a very fair lady, became beyond measure
jealous of her; nor had he other cause for this save that, as he loved
her exceedingly and held her very fair and saw that she studied with
all her might to please him, even so he imagined that every man loved
her and that she appeared fair to all and eke that she studied to
please others as she did himself, which was the reasoning of a man of
nought and one of little sense. Being grown thus jealous, he kept such
strict watch over her and held her in such constraint that belike many
there be of those who are condemned to capital punishment who are less
straitly guarded of their gaolers; for, far from being at liberty to
go to weddings or entertainments or to church or indeed anywise to set
foot without the house, she dared not even stand at the window nor
look abroad on any occasion; wherefore her life was most wretched and
she brooked this annoy with the more impatience as she felt herself
the less to blame. Accordingly, seeing herself unjustly suspected of
her husband, she determined, for her own solacement, to find a means
(an she but might) of doing on such wise that he should have reason
for his ill usage of her. And for that she might not station herself
at the window and so had no opportunity of showing herself favourable
to the suit of any one who might take note of her, as he passed along
her street, and pay his court to her,--knowing that in the adjoining
house there was a certain young man both handsome and agreeable,--she
bethought herself to look if there were any hole in the wall that
parted the two houses and therethrough to spy once and again till such
time as she should see the youth aforesaid and find an occasion of
speaking with him and bestowing on him her love, so he would accept
thereof, purposing, if a means could be found, to foregather with him
bytimes and on this wise while away her sorry life till such time as
the demon [of jealousy] should take leave of her husband.

Accordingly, she went spying about the walls of the house, now in one
part and now in another, whenas her husband was abroad, and happened
at last upon a very privy place where the wall was somewhat opened by
a fissure and looking therethrough, albeit she could ill discover what
was on the other side, algates she perceived that the opening gave
upon a bedchamber there and said in herself, 'Should this be the
chamber of Filippo,' to wit, the youth her neighbour, 'I were half
sped.' Then, causing secretly enquire of this by a maid of hers, who
had pity upon her, she found that the young man did indeed sleep in
that chamber all alone; wherefore, by dint of often visiting the
crevice and dropping pebbles and such small matters, whenas she
perceived him to be there, she wrought on such wise that he came to
the opening, to see what was to do; whereupon she called to him
softly. He, knowing her voice, answered her, and she, profiting by the
occasion, discovered to him in brief all her mind; whereat the youth
was mightily content and made shift to enlarge the hole from his side
on such wise that none could perceive it; and therethrough they many a
time bespoke one another and touched hands, but could go no farther,
for the jealous vigilance of the husband.

After awhile, the Feast of the Nativity drawing near, the lady told
her husband that, an it pleased him, she would fain go to church on
Christmas morning and confess and take the sacrament, as other
Christians did. Quoth he, 'And what sin hast thou committed that thou
wouldst confess?' 'How?' answered the lady. 'Thinkest thou that I am a
saint, because thou keepest me mewed up? Thou must know well enough
that I commit sins like all others that live in this world; but I will
not tell them to thee, for that thou art not a priest.' The jealous
wretch took suspicion at these words and determined to seek to know
what sins she had committed; wherefore, having bethought himself of a
means whereby he might gain his end, he answered that he was content,
but that he would have her go to no other church than their parish
chapel and that thither she must go betimes in the morning and confess
herself either to their chaplain or to such priest as the latter
should appoint her and to none other and presently return home.
Herseemed she half apprehended his meaning; but without saying
otherwhat, she answered that she would do as he said.

Accordingly, Christmas Day come, the lady arose at daybreak and
attiring herself, repaired to the church appointed her of her husband,
who, on his part, betook himself to the same place and reached it
before her. Having already taken order with the chaplain of that which
he had a mind to do, he hastily donned one of the latter's gowns, with
a great flapped cowl, such as we see priests wear, and drawing the
hood a little over his face, seated himself in the choir. The lady,
entering the chapel, enquired for the chaplain, who came and hearing
from her that she would fain confess, said that he could not hear her,
but would send her one of his brethren. Accordingly, going away, he
sent her the jealous man, in an ill hour for the latter, who came up
with a very grave air, and albeit the day was not over bright and he
had drawn the cowl far over his eyes, knew not so well to disguise
himself but he was readily recognized by the lady, who, seeing this,
said in herself, 'Praised be God! From a jealous man he is turned
priest; but no matter; I will e'en give him what he goeth seeking.'

Accordingly, feigning not to know him, she seated herself at his feet.
My lord Jealousy had put some pebbles in his mouth, to impede his
speech somewhat, so his wife might not know him by his voice,
himseeming he was in every other particular so thoroughly disguised
that he was nowise fearful of being recognized by her. To come to the
confession, the lady told him, amongst other things, (having first
declared herself to be married,) that she was enamoured of a priest,
who came every night to lie with her. When the jealous man heard this,
himseemed he had gotten a knife-thrust in the heart, and had not
desire constrained him to know more, he had abandoned the confession
and gone away. Standing fast, then, he asked the lady, 'How! Doth not
your husband lie with you?' 'Ay doth he, sir,' replied she. 'How,
then,' asked the jealous man, 'can the priest also lie with you?'
'Sir,' answered she, 'by what art he doth it I know not, but there is
not a door in the house so fast locked but it openeth so soon as he
toucheth it; and he telleth me that, whenas he cometh to the door of
my chamber, before opening it, he pronounceth certain words, by virtue
whereof my husband incontinent falleth asleep, and so soon as he
perceiveth him to be fast, he openeth the door and cometh in and lieth
with me; and this never faileth.' Quoth the mock priest, 'Madam, this
is ill done, and it behoveth you altogether to refrain therefrom.'
'Sir,' answered the lady, 'methinketh I could never do that, for that
I love him too well.' 'Then,' said the other, 'I cannot shrive you.'
Quoth she, 'I am grieved for that; but I came not hither to tell you
lies; an I thought I could do it, I would tell you so.' 'In truth,
madam,' replied the husband, 'I am concerned for you, for that I see
you lose your soul at this game; but, to do you service, I will well
to take the pains of putting up my special orisons to God in your
name, the which maybe shall profit you, and I will send you bytimes a
little clerk of mine, to whom you shall say if they have profited you
or not; and if they have profited you, we will proceed farther.'
'Sir,' answered the lady, 'whatever you do, send none to me at home,
for, should my husband come to know of it, he is so terribly jealous
that nothing in the world would get it out of his head that your
messenger came hither for nought[352] but ill, and I should have no
peace with him this year to come.' Quoth the other, 'Madam, have no
fear of that, for I will certainly contrive it on such wise that you
shall never hear a word of the matter from him.' Then said she, 'So
but you can engage to do that, I am content.' Then, having made her
confession and gotten her penance, she rose to her feet and went off
to hear mass; whilst the jealous man, (ill luck go with him!)
withdrew, bursting with rage, to put off his priest's habit, and
returned home, impatient to find a means of surprising the priest with
his wife, so he might play the one and the other an ill turn.

[Footnote 352: Boccaccio writes carelessly "for _aught_" (_altro_),
which makes nonsense of the passage.]

Presently the lady came back from church and saw plainly enough from
her husband's looks that she had given him an ill Christmas; albeit he
studied, as most he might, to conceal that which he had done and what
himseemed he had learned. Then, being inwardly resolved to lie in wait
near the street-door that night and watch for the priest's coming, he
said to the lady, 'Needs must I sup and lie abroad to-night, wherefore
look thou lock the street-door fast, as well as that of the midstair
and that of thy chamber, and get thee to bed, whenas it seemeth good
to thee.' The lady answered, 'It is well,' and betaking herself, as
soon as she had leisure, to the hole in the wall, she made the wonted
signal, which when Filippo heard, he came to her forthright. She told
him how she had done that morning and what her husband had said to her
after dinner and added, 'I am certain he will not leave the house, but
will set himself to watch the door; wherefore do thou find means to
come hither to me to-night by the roof, so we may lie together.' The
young man was mightily rejoiced at this and answered, 'Madam, leave me
do.'

Accordingly, the night come, the jealous man took his arms and hid
himself by stealth in a room on the ground floor, whilst the lady,
whenas it seemed to her time,--having caused lock all the doors and in
particular that of the midstair, so he might not avail to come
up,--summoned the young man, who came to her from his side by a very
privy way. Thereupon they went to bed and gave themselves a good time,
taking their pleasure one of the other till daybreak, when the young
man returned to his own house. Meanwhile, the jealous man stood to his
arms well nigh all night beside the street-door, sorry and supperless
and dying of cold, and waited for the priest to come till near upon
day, when, unable to watch any longer, he returned to the ground floor
room and there fell asleep. Towards tierce he awoke and the street
door being now open, he made a show of returning from otherwhere and
went up into his house and dined. A little after, he sent a lad, as he
were the priest's clerkling that had confessed her, to the lady to ask
if she wot of were come thither again. She knew the messenger well
enough and answered that he had not come thither that night and that
if he did thus, he might haply pass out of her mind, albeit she wished
it not. What more should I tell you? The jealous man abode on the
watch night after night, looking to catch the priest at his entering
in, and the lady still had a merry life with her lover the while.

At length the cuckold, able to contain himself no longer, asked his
wife, with an angry air, what she had said to the priest the morning
she had confessed herself to him. She answered that she would not tell
him, for that it was neither a just thing nor a seemly; whereupon,
'Vile woman that thou art!' cried he. 'In despite of thee I know what
thou saidst to him, and needs must I know the priest of whom thou art
so mightily enamoured and who, by means of his conjurations, lieth
with thee every night; else will I slit thy weasand.' She replied that
it was not true that she was enamoured of any priest. 'How?' cried the
husband, 'Saidst thou not thus and thus to the priest who confessed
thee?' And she, 'Thou couldst not have reported it better, not to say
if he had told it thee, but if thou hadst been present; ay, I did tell
him this.' 'Then,' rejoined the jealous man, 'tell me who is this
priest, and that quickly.'

The lady fell a-smiling and answered, 'It rejoiceth me mightily to see
a wise man led by the nose by a woman, even as one leadeth a ram by
the horns to the shambles, albeit thou art no longer wise nor hast
been since the hour when, unknowing why, thou sufferedst the malignant
spirit of jealousy to enter thy breast; and the sillier and more
besotted thou art, so much the less is my glory thereof. Deemest thou,
husband mine, I am as blind of the eyes of the body as thou of those
of the mind? Certes, no; I perceived at first sight who was the priest
that confessed me and know that thou wast he; but I had it at heart to
give thee that which thou wentest seeking, and in sooth I have done
it. Wert thou as wise as thou thinkest to be, thou wouldst not have
essayed by this means to learn the secrets of thy good wife, but
wouldst, without taking vain suspicion, have recognized that which she
confessed to thee to be the very truth, without her having sinned in
aught. I told thee that I loved a priest, and wast not thou, whom I am
much to blame to love as I do, become a priest? I told thee that no
door of my house could abide locked, whenas he had a mind to lie with
me; and what door in the house was ever kept against thee, whenas thou
wouldst come whereas I might be? I told thee that the priest lay with
me every night, and when was it that thou layest not with me? And
whenassoever thou sentest thy clerk to me, which was thou knowest, as
often as thou layest from me, I sent thee word that the priest had not
been with me. What other than a crack-brain like thee, who has
suffered thyself to be blinded by thy jealousy, had failed to
understand these things? Thou hast abidden in the house, keeping
watch anights, and thoughtest to have given me to believe that thou
wast gone abroad to sup and sleep. Bethink thee henceforth and become
a man again, as thou wast wont to be; and make not thyself a laughing
stock to whoso knoweth thy fashions, as do I, and leave this
unconscionable watching that thou keepest; for I swear to God that, an
the fancy took me to make thee wear the horns, I would engage, haddest
thou an hundred eyes, as thou hast but two, to do my pleasure on such
wise that thou shouldst not be ware thereof.'

The jealous wretch, who thought to have very adroitly surprised his
wife's secrets, hearing this, avouched himself befooled and without
answering otherwhat, held the lady for virtuous and discreet; and
whenas it behoved him to be jealous, he altogether divested himself of
his jealousy, even as he had put it on, what time he had no need
thereof. Wherefore the discreet lady, being in a manner licensed to do
her pleasures, thenceforward no longer caused her lover to come to her
by the roof, as go the cats, but e'en brought him in at the door, and
dealing advisedly, many a day thereafter gave herself a good time and
led a merry life with him."



THE SIXTH STORY

[Day the Seventh]

     MADAM ISABELLA, BEING IN COMPANY WITH LEONETTO HER LOVER, IS
     VISITED BY ONE MESSER LAMBERTUCCIO, OF WHOM SHE IS BELOVED;
     HER HUSBAND RETURNING, [UNEXPECTED,] SHE SENDETH
     LAMBERTUCCIO FORTH OF THE HOUSE, WHINGER IN HAND, AND THE
     HUSBAND AFTER ESCORTETH LEONETTO HOME


The company were wonder-well pleased with Fiammetta's story, all
affirming that the lady had done excellently well and as it behoved
unto such a brute of a man, and after it was ended, the king bade
Pampinea follow on, who proceeded to say, "There are many who,
speaking ignorantly, avouch that love bereaveth folk of their senses
and causeth whoso loveth to become witless. Meseemeth this is a
foolish opinion, as hath indeed been well enough shown by the things
already related, and I purpose yet again to demonstrate it.

In our city, which aboundeth in all good things, there was once a
young lady both gently born and very fair, who was the wife of a very
worthy and notable gentleman; and as it happeneth often that folk
cannot for ever brook one same food, but desire bytimes to vary their
diet, this lady, her husband not altogether satisfying her, became
enamoured of a young man called Leonetto and very well bred and
agreeable, for all he was of no great extraction. He on like wise fell
in love with her, and as you know that seldom doth that which both
parties desire abide without effect, it was no great while before
accomplishment was given to their loves. Now it chanced that, she
being a fair and engaging lady, a gentleman called Messer
Lambertuccio became sore enamoured of her, whom, for that he seemed
to her a disagreeable man and a tiresome, she could not for aught in
the world bring herself to love. However, after soliciting her amain
with messages and it availing him nought, he sent to her threatening
her, for that he was a notable man, to dishonour her, an she did not
his pleasure; wherefore she, fearful and knowing his character,
submitted herself to do his will.

It chanced one day that the lady, whose name was Madam Isabella, being
gone, as is our custom in summer-time, to abide at a very goodly
estate she had in the country and her husband having ridden
somewhither to pass some days abroad, she sent for Leonetto to come
and be with her, whereat he was mightily rejoiced and betook himself
thither incontinent. Meanwhile Messer Lambertuccio, hearing that her
husband was gone abroad, took horse and repairing, all alone, to her
house, knocked at the door. The lady's waiting-woman, seeing him, came
straight to her mistress, who was closeted with Leonetto, and called
to her, saying, 'Madam, Messer Lambertuccio is below, all alone.' The
lady, hearing this, was the woefullest woman in the world, but, as she
stood in great fear of Messer Lambertuccio, she besought Leonetto not
to take it ill to hide himself awhile behind the curtains of her bed
till such time as the other should be gone. Accordingly, Leonetto, who
feared him no less than did the lady, hid himself there and she bade
the maid go open to Messer Lambertuccio, which being done, he lighted
down in the courtyard and making his palfrey fast to a staple there,
went up into the house. The lady put on a cheerful countenance and
coming to the head of the stair, received him with as good a grace as
she might and asked him what brought him thither; whereupon he caught
her in his arms and clipped her and kissed her, saying, 'My soul, I
understood that your husband was abroad and am come accordingly to be
with you awhile.' After these words, they entered a bedchamber, where
they locked themselves in, and Messer Lambertuccio fell to taking
delight of her.

As they were thus engaged, it befell, altogether out of the lady's
expectation, that her husband returned, whom when the maid saw near
the house, she ran in haste to the lady's chamber and said, 'Madam,
here is my lord come back; methinketh he is already below in the
courtyard.' When the lady heard this, bethinking her that she had two
men in the house and knowing that there was no hiding Messer
Lambertuccio, by reason of his palfrey which was in the courtyard, she
gave herself up for lost. Nevertheless, taking a sudden resolution,
she sprang hastily down from the bed and said to Messer Lambertuccio,
'Sir, an you wish me anywise well and would save me from death, do
that which I shall bid you. Take your hanger naked in your hand and go
down the stair with an angry air and all disordered and begone,
saying, "I vow to God that I will take him elsewhere." And should my
husband offer to detain you or question you of aught, do you say no
otherwhat than that which I have told you, but take horse and look you
abide not with him on any account.' The gentleman answered that he
would well, and accordingly, drawing his hanger, he did as she had
enjoined him, with a face all afire what with the swink he had
furnished and with anger at the husband's return. The latter was by
this dismounted in the courtyard and marvelled to see the palfrey
there; then, offering to go up into the house, he saw Messer
Lambertuccio come down and wondering both at his words and his air,
said, 'What is this, sir?' Messer Lambertuccio putting his foot in the
stirrup and mounting to horse, said nought but, 'Cock's body, I shall
find him again otherwhere,' and made off.

The gentleman, going up, found his wife at the stairhead, all
disordered and fearful, and said to her, 'What is all this? Whom goeth
Messer Lambertuccio threatening thus in such a fury?' The lady,
withdrawing towards the chamber where Leonetto was, so he might hear
her, answered, 'Sir, never had I the like of this fright. There came
fleeing hither but now a young man, whom I know not, followed by
Messer Lambertuccio, hanger in hand, and finding by chance the door of
this chamber open, said to me, all trembling, "For God's sake, madam,
help me, that I be not slain in your arms." I rose to my feet and was
about to question him who he was and what ailed him, when, behold, in
rushed Messer Lambertuccio, saying, "Where art thou, traitor?" I set
myself before the chamber-door and hindered him from entering; and he
was in so far courteous that, after many words, seeing it pleased me
not that he should enter there, he went his way down, as you have
seen.' Quoth the husband, 'Wife, thou didst well, it were too great a
reproach to us, had a man been slain in our house, and Messer
Lambertuccio did exceeding unmannerly to follow a person who had taken
refuge here.'

Then he asked where the young man was, and the lady answered, 'Indeed
sir, I know not where he hath hidden himself.' Then said the husband
'Where art thou? Come forth in safety.' Whereupon Leonetto, who had
heard everything, came forth all trembling for fear, (as indeed he had
had a great fright,) of the place where he had hidden himself, and the
gentleman said to him, 'What hast thou to do with Messer
Lambertuccio?' 'Sir,' answered he, 'I have nothing in the world to do
with him, wherefore methinketh assuredly he is either not in his right
wits or he hath mistaken me for another; for that no sooner did he set
eyes on me in the road not far from this house than he forthright
clapped his hand to his hanger and said, "Traitor, thou art a dead
man!" I stayed not to ask why, but took to my heels as best I might
and made my way hither, where, thanks to God and to this gentlewoman,
I have escaped.' Quoth the husband, 'Go to; have no fears; I will
bring thee to thine own house safe and sound, and thou canst after
seek out what thou hast to do with him.' Accordingly, when they had
supped, he mounted him a-horseback and carrying him back to Florence,
left him in his own house. As for Leonetto, that same evening,
according as he had been lessoned of the lady, he privily bespoke
Messer Lambertuccio and took such order with him, albeit there was
much talk of the matter thereafterward, the husband never for all that
became aware of the cheat that had been put on him by his wife."



THE SEVENTH STORY

[Day the Seventh]

     LODOVICO DISCOVERETH TO MADAM BEATRICE THE LOVE HE BEARETH
     HER, WHEREUPON SHE SENDETH EGANO HER HUSBAND INTO THE
     GARDEN, IN HER OWN FAVOUR, AND LIETH MEANWHILE WITH
     LODOVICO, WHO, PRESENTLY ARISING, GOETH AND CUDGELLETH EGANO
     IN THE GARDEN


Madam Isabella's presence of mind, as related by Pampinea, was held
admirable by all the company; but, whilst they yet marvelled thereat,
Filomena, whom the king had appointed to follow on, said, "Lovesome
ladies, and I mistake not, methinketh I can tell you no less goodly a
story on the same subject, and that forthright.

You must know, then, that there was once in Paris a Florentine
gentleman, who was for poverty turned merchant and had thriven so well
in commerce that he was grown thereby very rich. He had by his lady
one only son, whom he had named Lodovico, and for that he might
concern himself with his father's nobility and not with trade, he had
willed not to place him in any warehouse, but had sent him to be with
other gentlemen in the service of the King of France, where he learned
store of goodly manners and other fine things. During his sojourn
there, it befell that certain gentlemen, who were returned from
visiting the Holy Sepulchre, coming in upon a conversation between
certain young men, of whom Lodovico was one, and hearing them
discourse among themselves of the fair ladies of France and England
and other parts of the world, one of them began to say that assuredly,
in all the lands he had traversed and for all the ladies he had seen,
he had never beheld the like for beauty of Madam Beatrice, the wife of
Messer Egano de' Gulluzzi of Bologna; to which all his companions, who
had with him seen her at Bologna, agreed.

Lodovico, who had never yet been enamoured of any woman, hearkening to
this, was fired with such longing to see her that he could hold his
thought to nothing else and being altogether resolved to journey to
Bologna for that purpose and there, if she pleased him, to abide
awhile, he feigned to his father that he had a mind to go visit the
Holy Sepulchre, the which with great difficulty he obtained of him.
Accordingly, taking the name of Anichino, he set out for Bologna, and
on the day following [his arrival,] as fortune would have it, he saw
the lady in question at an entertainment, where she seemed to him
fairer far than he had imagined her; wherefore, falling most ardently
enamoured of her, he resolved never to depart Bologna till he should
have gained her love. Then, devising in himself what course he should
take to this end, he bethought himself, leaving be all other means,
that, an he might but avail to become one of her husband's servants,
whereof he entertained many, he might peradventure compass that which
he desired. Accordingly, having sold his horses and disposed as best
might be of his servants, bidding them make a show of knowing him not,
he entered into discourse with his host and told him that he would
fain engage for a servant with some gentleman of condition, could
such an one be found. Quoth the host, 'Thou art the right serving-man
to please a gentleman of this city, by name Egano, who keepeth many
and will have them all well looking, as thou art. I will bespeak him
of the matter.' As he said, so he did, and ere he took leave of Egano,
he had brought Anichino to an accord with him, to the exceeding
satisfaction of the latter, who, abiding with Egano and having
abundant opportunity of seeing his lady often, proceeded to serve him
so well and so much to his liking that he set such store by him that
he could do nothing without him and committed to him the governance,
not of himself alone, but of all his affairs.

It chanced one day that, Egano being gone a-fowling and having left
Anichino at home, Madam Beatrice (who was not yet become aware of his
love for her, albeit, considering him and his fashions, she had
ofttimes much commended him to herself and he pleased her,) fell to
playing chess with him and he, desiring to please her, very adroitly
contrived to let himself be beaten, whereat the lady was marvellously
rejoiced. Presently, all her women having gone away from seeing them
play and left them playing alone, Anichino heaved a great sigh,
whereupon she looked at him and said, 'What aileth thee, Anichino?
Doth it irk thee that I should beat thee?' 'Madam,' answered he, 'a
far greater thing than that was the cause of my sighing.' Quoth the
lady, 'Prithee, as thou wishest me well, tell it me.' When Anichino
heard himself conjured, 'as thou wishest me well,' by her whom he
loved over all else, he heaved a sigh yet heavier than the first;
wherefore the lady besought him anew that it would please him tell her
the cause of his sighing. 'Madam,' replied Anichino, 'I am sore
fearful lest it displease you, if I tell it you, and moreover I
misdoubt me you will tell it again to others.' Whereto rejoined she,
'Certes, it will not displease me, and thou mayst be assured that,
whatsoever thou sayest to me I will never tell to any, save whenas it
shall please thee.' Quoth he, 'Since you promise me this, I will e'en
tell it you.' Then, with tears in his eyes, he told her who he was and
what he had heard of her and when and how he was become enamoured of
her and why he had taken service with her husband and after humbly
besought her that it would please her have compassion on him and
comply with him in that his secret and so fervent desire, and in case
she willed not to do this, that she should suffer him to love her,
leaving him be in that his then present guise.

O singular blandness of the Bolognese blood! How art thou still to be
commended in such circumstance! Never wast thou desirous of tears or
sighs; still wast thou compliant unto prayers and amenable unto
amorous desires! Had I words worthy to commend thee, my voice should
never weary of singing thy praises. The gentle lady, what while
Anichino spoke, kept her eyes fixed on him and giving full credence to
his words, received, by the prevalence of his prayers, the love of him
with such might into her heart that she also fell a-sighing and
presently answered, 'Sweet my Anichino, be of good courage; neither
presents nor promises nor solicitations of nobleman or gentleman or
other (for I have been and am yet courted of many) have ever availed
to move my heart to love any one of them; but thou, in this small
space of time that thy words have lasted, hast made me far more thine
than mine own. Methinketh thou hast right well earned my love,
wherefore I give it thee and promise thee that I will cause thee have
enjoyment thereof ere this next night be altogether spent. And that
this may have effect, look thou come to my chamber about midnight. I
will leave the door open; thou knowest which side the bed I lie; do
thou come thither and if I sleep, touch me so I may awake, and I will
ease thee of this so long desire that thou hast had. And that thou
mayst believe this that I say, I will e'en give thee a kiss by way of
arles.' Accordingly, throwing her arms about his neck, she kissed him
amorously and he on like wise kissed her. These things said, he left
her and went to do certain occasions of his, awaiting with the
greatest gladness in the world the coming of the night.

Presently, Egano returned from fowling and being weary, betook himself
to bed, as soon as he had supper, and after him the lady, who left the
chamber-door open, as she had promised. Thither, at the appointed
hour, came Anichino and softly entering the chamber, shut the door
again from within; then, going up to the bed on the side where the
lady lay, he put his hand to her breast and found her awake. As soon
as she felt him come, she took his hand in both her own and held it
fast; then, turning herself about in the bed, she did on such wise
that Egano, who was asleep, awoke; whereupon quoth she to him, 'I
would not say aught to thee yestereve, for that meseemed thou was
weary; but tell me, Egano, so God save thee, whom holdest thou thy
best and trustiest servant and him who most loveth thee of those whom
thou hast in the house?' 'Wife,' answered Egano, 'what is this whereof
thou askest me? Knowest thou it not? I have not nor had aye any in
whom I so trusted and whom I loved as I love and trust in Anichino.
But why dost thou ask me thereof?'

Anichino, seeing Egano awake and hearing talk of himself, was sore
afraid lest the lady had a mind to cozen him and offered again and
again to draw his hand away, so he might begone; but she held it so
fast that he could not win free. Then said she to Egano, 'I will tell
thee. I also believed till to-day that he was even such as thou sayest
and that he was more loyal to thee than any other, but he hath
undeceived me; for that, what while thou wentest a-fowling to-day, he
abode here, and whenas it seemed to him time, he was not ashamed to
solicit me to yield myself to his pleasures, and I, so I might make
thee touch and see this thing and that it might not behove me certify
thee thereof with too many proofs, replied that I would well and that
this very night, after midnight, I would go into our garden and there
await him at the foot of the pine. Now for my part I mean not to go
thither; but thou, an thou have a mind to know thy servant's fidelity,
thou mayst lightly do it by donning a gown and a veil of mine and
going down yonder to wait and see if he will come thither, as I am
assured he will.' Egano hearing this, answered, 'Certes, needs must I
go see,' and rising, donned one of the lady's gowns, as best he knew
in the dark; then, covering his head with a veil, he betook himself to
the garden and proceeded to await Anichino at the foot of the pine.

As for the lady, as soon as she knew him gone forth of the chamber,
she arose and locked the door from within, whilst Anichino, (who had
had the greatest fright he had ever known and had enforced himself as
most he might to escape from the lady's hands, cursing her and her
love and himself who had trusted in her an hundred thousand times,)
seeing this that she had done in the end, was the joyfullest man that
was aye. Then, she having returned to bed, he, at her bidding, put off
his clothes and coming to bed to her, they took delight and pleasure
together a pretty while; after which, herseeming he should not abide
longer, she caused him arise and dress himself and said to him,
'Sweetheart, do thou take a stout cudgel and get thee to the garden
and there, feigning to have solicited me to try me, rate Egano, as he
were I, and ring me a good peal of bells on his back with the cudgel,
for that thereof will ensue to us marvellous pleasance and delight.'
Anichino accordingly repaired to the garden, with a sallow-stick in
his hand, and Egano, seeing him draw near the pine, rose up and came
to meet him, as he would receive him with the utmost joy; whereupon
quoth Anichino, 'Ah, wicked woman, art thou then come hither, and
thinkest thou I would do my lord such a wrong? A thousand times ill
come to thee!' Then, raising the cudgel, he began to lay on to him.

Egano, hearing this and seeing the cudgel, took to his heels, without
saying a word, whilst Anichino still followed after him, saying, 'Go
to, God give thee an ill year, vile woman that thou art! I will
certainly tell it to Egano to-morrow morning.' Egano made his way back
to the chamber as quickliest he might, having gotten sundry good
clouts, and being questioned of the lady if Anichino had come to the
garden, 'Would God he had not!' answered he. 'For that, taking me for
thee, he hath cudgelled me to a mummy and given me the soundest rating
that was aye bestowed upon lewd woman. Certes, I marvelled sore at him
that he should have said these words to thee, with intent to do aught
that might be a shame to me; but, for that he saw thee so blithe and
gamesome, he had a mind to try thee.' Then said the lady, 'Praised be
God that he hath tried me with words and thee with deeds! Methinketh
he may say that I suffered his words more patiently than thou his
deeds. But, since he is so loyal to thee, it behoveth thee hold him
dear and do him honour.' 'Certes,' answered Egano, 'thou sayst sooth';
and reasoning by this, he concluded that he had the truest wife and
the trustiest servant that ever gentleman had; by reason whereof,
albeit both he and the lady made merry more than once with Anichino
over this adventure, the latter and his mistress had leisure enough of
that which belike, but for this, they would not have had, to wit, to
do that which afforded them pleasance and delight, that while it
pleased Anichino abide with Egano in Bologna."



THE EIGHTH STORY

[Day the Seventh]

     A MAN WAXETH JEALOUS OF HIS WIFE, WHO BINDETH A PIECE OF
     PACKTHREAD TO HER GREAT TOE ANIGHTS, SO SHE MAY HAVE NOTICE
     OF HER LOVER'S COMING. ONE NIGHT HER HUSBAND BECOMETH AWARE
     OF THIS DEVICE AND WHAT WHILE HE PURSUETH THE LOVER, THE
     LADY PUTTETH ANOTHER WOMAN TO BED IN HER ROOM. THIS LATTER
     THE HUSBAND BEATETH AND CUTTETH OFF HER HAIR, THEN FETCHETH
     HIS WIFE'S BROTHERS, WHO, FINDING HIS STORY [SEEMINGLY]
     UNTRUE, GIVE HIM HARD WORDS


It seemed to them all that Madam Beatrice had been extraordinarily
ingenious in cozening her husband and all agreed that Anichino's
fright must have been very great, whenas, being the while held fast by
the lady, he heard her say that he had required her of love. But the
king, seeing Filomena silent, turned to Neifile and said to her, "Do
you tell"; whereupon she, smiling first a little, began, "Fair ladies,
I have a hard task before me if I desire to pleasure you with a goodly
story, as those of you have done, who have already told; but, with
God's aid, I trust to discharge myself thereof well enough.

You must know, then, that there was once in our city a very rich
merchant called Arriguccio Berlinghieri, who, foolishly thinking, as
merchants yet do every day, to ennoble himself by marriage, took to
wife a young gentlewoman ill sorting with himself, by name Madam
Sismonda, who, for that he, merchant-like, was much abroad and
sojourned little with her, fell in love with a young man called
Ruberto, who had long courted her, and clapped up a lover's privacy
with him. Using belike over-little discretion in her dealings with her
lover, for that they were supremely delightsome to her, it chanced
that, whether Arriguccio scented aught of the matter or how else
soever it happened, the latter became the most jealous man alive and
leaving be his going about and all his other concerns, applied himself
well nigh altogether to the keeping good watch over his wife; nor
would he ever fall asleep, except he first felt her come into the bed;
by reason whereof the lady suffered the utmost chagrin, for that on no
wise might she avail to be with her Ruberto.

However, after pondering many devices for finding a means to
foregather with him and being to boot continually solicited thereof by
him, it presently occurred to her to do on this wise; to wit, having
many a time observed that Arriguccio tarried long to fall asleep, but
after slept very soundly, she determined to cause Ruberto come about
midnight to the door of the house and to go open to him and abide with
him what while her husband slept fast. And that she might know when he
should be come, she bethought herself to hang a twine out of the
window of her bedchamber, which looked upon the street, on such wise
that none might perceive it, one end whereof should well nigh reach
the ground, whilst she carried the other end along the floor of the
room to the bed and hid it under the clothes, meaning to make it fast
to her great toe, whenas she should be abed. Accordingly, she sent to
acquaint Ruberto with this and charged him, when he came, to pull the
twine, whereupon, if her husband slept, she would let it go and come
to open to him; but, if he slept not, she would hold it fast and draw
it to herself, so he should not wait. The device pleased Ruberto and
going thither frequently, he was whiles able to foregather with her
and whiles not.

On this wise they continued to do till, one night, the lady being
asleep, it chanced that her husband stretched out his foot in bed and
felt the twine, whereupon he put his hand to it and finding it made
fast to his wife's toe, said in himself, 'This should be some trick';
and presently perceiving that the twine led out of window, he held it
for certain. Accordingly, he cut it softly from the lady's toe and
making it fast to his own, abode on the watch to see what this might
mean. He had not waited long before up came Ruberto and pulled at the
twine, as of his wont; whereupon Arriguccio started up; but, he not
having made the twine well fast to his toe and Ruberto pulling hard,
it came loose in the latter's hand, whereby he understood that he was
to wait and did so. As for Arriguccio, he arose in haste and taking
his arms, ran to the door, to see who this might be and do him a
mischief, for, albeit a merchant, he was a stout fellow and a strong.
When he came to the door, he opened it not softly as the lady was used
to do, which when Ruberto, who was await, observed, he guessed how the
case stood, to wit, that it was Arriguccio who opened the door, and
accordingly made off in haste and the other after him. At last, having
fled a great way and Arriguccio stinting not from following him,
Ruberto, being also armed, drew his sword and turned upon his pursuer,
whereupon they fell to blows, the one attacking and the other
defending himself.

Meanwhile, the lady, awaking, as Arriguccio opened the chamber-door,
and finding the twine cut from her toe, knew incontinent that her
device was discovered, whereupon, perceiving that her husband had run
after her lover, she arose in haste and foreseeing what might happen,
called her maid, who knew all, and conjured her to such purpose that
she prevailed with her to take her own place in the bed, beseeching
her patiently to endure, without discovering herself, whatsoever
buffets Arriguccio might deal her, for that she would requite her
therefor on such wise that she should have no cause to complain; after
which she did out the light that burnt in the chamber and going forth
thereof, hid herself in another part of the house and there began to
await what should betide.

Meanwhile, the people of the quarter, aroused by the noise of the
affray between Arriguccio and Ruberto, arose and fell a-railing at
them; whereupon the husband, fearing to be known, let the youth go,
without having availed to learn who he was or to do him any hurt, and
returned to his house, full of rage and despite. There, coming into
the chamber, he cried out angrily, saying, 'Where art thou, vile
woman? Thou hast done out the light, so I may not find thee; but thou
art mistaken.' Then, coming to the bedside, he seized upon the maid,
thinking to take his wife, and laid on to her so lustily with cuffs
and kicks, as long as he could wag his hands and feet, that he bruised
all her face, ending by cutting off her hair, still giving her the
while the hardest words that were ever said to worthless woman. The
maid wept sore, as indeed she had good cause to do, and albeit she
said whiles, 'Alas, mercy, for God's sake!' and 'Oh, no more!' her
voice was so broken with sobs and Arriguccio was so hindered with his
rage that he never discerned it to be that of another woman than his
wife.

Having, then, as we have said, beaten her to good purpose and cut off
her hair, he said to her, 'Wicked woman that thou art, I mean not to
touch thee otherwise, but shall now go fetch thy brothers and acquaint
them with thy fine doings and after bid them come for thee and deal
with thee as they shall deem may do them honour and carry thee away;
for assuredly in this house thou shalt abide no longer.' So saying, he
departed the chamber and locking the door from without, went away all
alone. As soon as Madam Sismonda, who had heard all, was certified of
her husband's departure, she opened the door and rekindling the light,
found her maid all bruised and weeping sore; whereupon she comforted
her as best she might and carried her back to her own chamber, where
she after caused privily tend her and care for her and so rewarded her
of Arriguccio's own monies that she avouched herself content. No
sooner had she done this than she hastened to make the bed in her own
chamber and all restablished it and set it in such order as if none
had lain there that night; after which she dressed and tired herself,
as if she had not yet gone to bed; then, lighting a lamp, she took her
clothes and seated herself at the stairhead, where she proceeded to
sew and await the issue of the affair.

Meanwhile Arriguccio betook himself in all haste to the house of his
wife's brothers and there knocked so long and so loudly that he was
heard and it was opened to him. The lady's three brothers and her
mother, hearing that it was Arriguccio, rose all and letting kindle
lights, came to him and asked what he went seeking at that hour and
alone. Whereupon, beginning from the twine he had found tied to wife's
toe, he recounted to them all that he had discovered and done, and to
give them entire proof of the truth of his story, he put into their
hands the hair he thought to have cut from his wife's head, ending by
requiring them to come for her and do with her that which they should
judge pertinent to their honour, for that he meant to keep her no
longer in his house. The lady's brothers, hearing this and holding it
for certain, were sore incensed against her and letting kindle
torches, set out to accompany Arriguccio to his house, meaning to do
her a mischief; which their mother seeing, she followed after them,
weeping and entreating now the one, now the other not to be in such
haste to believe these things of their sister, without seeing or
knowing more of the matter, for that her husband might have been
angered with her for some other cause and have maltreated her and
might now allege this in his own excuse, adding that she marvelled
exceedingly how this [whereof he accused her] could have happened, for
that she knew her daughter well, as having reared her from a little
child, with many other words to the like purpose.

When they came to Arriguccio's house, they entered and proceeded to
mount the stair, whereupon Madam Sismonda, hearing them come, said,
'Who is there?' To which one of her brothers answered, 'Thou shalt
soon know who it is, vile woman that thou art!' 'God aid us!' cried
she. 'What meaneth this?' Then, rising to her feet, 'Brothers mine,'
quoth she, 'you are welcome; but what go you all three seeking at this
hour?' The brothers,--seeing her seated sewing, with no sign of
beating on her face, whereas Arriguccio avouched that he had beaten
her to a mummy,--began to marvel and curbing the violence of their
anger, demanded of her how that had been whereof Arriguccio accused
her, threatening her sore, and she told them not all. Quoth she, 'I
know not what you would have me say nor of what Arriguccio can have
complained to you of me.' Arriguccio, seeing her thus, eyed her as if
he had lost his wits, remembering that he had dealt her belike a
thousand buffets on the face and scratched her and done her all the
ill in the world, and now he beheld her as if nothing of all this had
been.

Her brothers told her briefly what they had heard from Arriguccio,
twine and beating and all, whereupon she turned to him and said,
'Alack, husband mine, what is this I hear? Why wilt thou make me pass,
to thine own great shame, for an ill woman, where as I am none, and
thyself for a cruel and wicked man, which thou art not? When wast thou
in this house to-night till now, let alone with me? When didst thou
beat me? For my part, I have no remembrance of it.' 'How, vile woman
that thou art!' cried he. 'Did we not go to bed together here? Did I
not return hither, after running after thy lover? Did I not deal thee
a thousand buffets and cut off thy hair?' 'Thou wentest not to bed in
this house to-night,' replied Sismonda. 'But let that pass, for I can
give no proof thereof other than mine own true words, and let us come
to that which thou sayest, to wit, that thou didst beat me and cut off
my hair. Me thou hast never beaten, and do all who are here and thou
thyself take note of me, if I have any mark of beating in any part of
my person. Indeed, I should not counsel thee make so bold as to lay a
hand on me, for, by Christ His Cross, I would mar thy face for thee!
Neither didst thou cut off my hair, for aught that I felt or saw; but
haply thou didst it on such wise that I perceived it not; let me see
if I have it shorn or no.' Then, putting off her veil from her head,
she showed that she had her hair unshorn and whole.

Her mother and brothers, seeing and hearing all this, turned upon her
husband and said to him, 'What meanest thou, Arriguccio? This is not
that so far which thou camest to tell us thou hadst done, and we know
not how thou wilt make good the rest.' Arriguccio stood as one in a
trance and would have spoken; but, seeing that it was not as he
thought he could show, he dared say nothing; whereupon the lady,
turning to her brothers, said to them, 'Brothers mine, I see he hath
gone seeking to have me do what I have never yet chosen to do, to wit,
that I should acquaint you with his lewdness and his vile fashions,
and I will do it. I firmly believe that this he hath told you hath
verily befallen him and that he hath done as he saith; and you shall
hear how. This worthy man, to whom in an ill hour for me you gave me
to wife, who calleth himself a merchant and would be thought a man of
credit, this fellow, forsooth, who should be more temperate than a
monk and chaster than a maid, there be few nights but he goeth
fuddling himself about the taverns, foregathering now with this lewd
woman and now with that and keeping me waiting for him, on such wise
as you find me, half the night and whiles even till morning. I doubt
not but that, having well drunken, he went to bed with some trull of
his and waking, found the twine on her foot and after did all these
his fine feats whereof he telleth, winding up by returning to her and
beating her and cutting off her hair; and not being yet well come to
himself, he fancied (and I doubt not yet fancieth) that he did all
this to me; and if you look him well in the face, you will see he is
yet half fuddled. Algates, whatsoever he may have said of me, I will
not have you take it to yourselves except as a drunken man's talk, and
since I forgive him, do you also pardon him.'

Her mother, hearing this, began to make an outcry and say, 'By Christ
His Cross, daughter mine, it shall not pass thus! Nay, he should
rather be slain for a thankless, ill-conditioned dog, who was never
worthy to have a girl of thy fashion to wife. Marry, a fine thing,
forsooth! He could have used thee no worse, had he picked thee up out
of the dirt! Devil take him if thou shalt abide at the mercy of the
spite of a paltry little merchant of asses' dung! They come to us out
of their pigstyes in the country, clad in homespun frieze, with their
bag-breeches and pen in arse, and as soon as they have gotten a leash
of groats, they must e'en have the daughters of gentlemen and right
ladies to wife and bear arms and say, "I am of such a family" and
"Those of my house did thus and thus." Would God my sons had followed
my counsel in the matter, for that they might have stablished thee so
worshipfully in the family of the Counts Guidi, with a crust of bread
to thy dowry! But they must needs give thee to this fine jewel of
fellow, who, whereas thou art the best girl in Florence and the
modestest, is not ashamed to knock us up in the middle of the night,
to tell us that thou art a strumpet, as if we knew thee not. But, by
God His faith, an they would be ruled by me, he should get such a
trouncing therefor that he should stink for it!' Then, turning to the
lady's brothers, 'My sons,' said she, 'I told you this could not be.
Have you heard how your fine brother-in-law here entreateth your
sister? Four-farthing[353] huckster that he is! Were I in your shoes,
he having said what he hath of her and doing that which he doth, I
would never hold myself content nor appeased till I had rid the earth
of him; and were I a man, as I am a woman, I would trouble none other
than myself to despatch his business. Confound him for a sorry drunken
beast, that hath no shame!'

[Footnote 353: Or, in modern parlance, "twopennny-halfpenny."]

The young men, seeing and hearing all this, turned upon Arriguccio and
gave him the soundest rating ever losel got; and ultimately they said
to him. 'We pardon thee this as to a drunken man; but, as thou
tenderest thy life, look henceforward we hear no more news of this
kind, for, if aught of the like come ever again to our ears, we will
pay thee at once for this and for that.' So saying, they went their
ways, leaving Arriguccio all aghast, as it were he had taken leave of
his wits, unknowing in himself whether that which he had done had
really been or whether he had dreamed it; wherefore he made no more
words thereof, but left his wife in peace. Thus the lady, by her ready
wit, not only escaped the imminent peril [that threatened her,] but
opened herself a way to do her every pleasure in time to come, without
evermore having any fear of her husband."



THE NINTH STORY

[Day the Seventh]

     LYDIA, WIFE OF NICOSTRATUS, LOVETH PYRRHUS, WHO, SO HE MAY
     BELIEVE IT, REQUIRETH OF HER THREE THINGS, ALL WHICH SHE
     DOTH. MOREOVER, SHE SOLACETH HERSELF WITH HIM IN THE
     PRESENCE OF NICOSTRATUS AND MAKETH THE LATTER BELIEVE THAT
     THAT WHICH HE HATH SEEN IS NOT REAL


Neifile's story so pleased the ladies that they could neither give
over to laugh at nor to talk of it, albeit the king, having bidden
Pamfilo tell his story, had several times imposed silence upon them.
However, after they had held their peace, Pamfilo began thus: "I do
not believe, worshipful ladies, that there is anything, how hard and
doubtful soever it be, that whoso loveth passionately will not dare to
do; the which, albeit it hath already been demonstrated in many
stories, methinketh, nevertheless, I shall be able yet more plainly to
show forth to you in one which I purpose to tell you and wherein you
shall hear of a lady, who was in her actions much more favoured of
fortune than well-advised of reason; wherefore I would not counsel any
one to adventure herself in the footsteps of her of whom I am to tell,
for that fortune is not always well disposed nor are all men in the
world equally blind.

In Argos, city of Achia far more famous for its kings of past time
than great in itself, there was once a nobleman called Nicostratus, to
whom, when already neighbouring on old age, fortune awarded a lady of
great family to wife, whose name was Lydia and who was no less
high-spirited than fair. Nicostratus, like a nobleman and a man of
wealth as he was, kept many servants and hounds and hawks and took the
utmost delight in the chase. Among his other servants he had a young
man called Pyrrhus, who was sprightly and well bred and comely of his
person and adroit in all that he had a mind to do, and him he loved
and trusted over all else. Of this Pyrrhus Lydia became so sore
enamoured that neither by day nor by night could she have her thought
otherwhere than with him; but he, whether it was that he perceived not
her liking for him or that he would none of it, appeared to reck
nothing thereof, by reason whereof the lady suffered intolerable
chagrin in herself and being altogether resolved to give him to know
of her passion, called a chamberwoman of hers, Lusca by name, in whom
she much trusted, and said to her, 'Lusca, the favours thou hast had
of me should make thee faithful and obedient; wherefore look thou none
ever know that which I shall presently say to thee, save he to whom I
shall charge thee tell it. As thou seest, Lusca, I am a young and
lusty lady, abundantly endowed with all those things which any woman
can desire; in brief, I can complain of but one thing, to wit, that my
husband's years are overmany, an they be measured by mine own,
wherefore I fare but ill in the matter of that thing wherein young
women take most pleasure, and none the less desiring it, as other
women do, I have this long while determined in myself, since fortune
hath been thus little my friend in giving me so old a husband, that I
will not be so much mine own enemy as not to contrive to find means
for my pleasures and my weal; which that I may have as complete in
this as in other things, I have bethought myself to will that our
Pyrrhus, as being worthier thereof than any other, should furnish them
with his embracements; nay, I have vowed him so great a love that I
never feel myself at ease save whenas I see him or think of him, and
except I foregather with him without delay, methinketh I shall
certainly die thereof. Wherefore, if my life be dear to thee, thou
wilt, on such wise as shall seem best to thee, signify to him any love
and beseech him, on my part, to be pleased to come to me, whenas thou
shalt go for him.'

The chamberwoman replied that she would well and taking Pyrrhus apart,
whenas first it seemed to her time and place, she did her lady's
errand to him as best she knew. Pyrrhus, hearing this, was sore amazed
thereat, as one who had never anywise perceived aught of the matter,
and misdoubted him the lady had let say this to him to try him;
wherefore he answered roughly and hastily, 'Lusca, I cannot believe
that these words come from my lady; wherefore, have a care what thou
sayst; or, if they do indeed come from her, I do not believe that she
caused thee say them with intent, and even if she did so, my lord doth
me more honour than I deserve and I would not for my life do him such
an outrage; wherefore look thou bespeak me no more of such things.'
Lusca, nowise daunted by his austere speech, said to him, 'Pyrrhus, I
will e'en bespeak thee both of this and of everything else wherewithal
my lady shall charge me when and as often as she shall bid me, whether
it cause thee pleasure or annoy; but thou art an ass.' Then, somewhat
despited at his words, she returned to her mistress, who, hearing what
Pyrrhus had said, wished for death, but, some days after, she again
bespoke the chamberwoman of the matter and said to her, 'Lusca, thou
knowest that the oak falleth not for the first stroke; wherefore
meseemeth well that thou return anew to him who so strangely willeth
to abide loyal to my prejudice, and taking a sortable occasion,
throughly discover to him my passion and do thine every endeavour that
the thing may have effect; for that, an it fall through thus, I shall
assuredly die of it. Moreover, he will think to have been befooled,
and whereas we seek to have his love, hate will ensue thereof.'

The maid comforted her and going in quest of Pyrrhus found him merry
and well-disposed and said to him, 'Pyrrhus I showed thee, a few days
agone, in what a fire my lady and thine abideth for the love she
beareth thee, and now anew I certify thee thereof, for that, an thou
persist in the rigour thou showedst the other day, thou mayst be
assured that she will not live long; wherefore I prithee be pleased to
satisfy her of her desire, and if thou yet abide fast in thine
obstinacy, whereas I have still accounted thee mighty discreet, I
shall hold thee a blockhead. What can be a greater glory for thee than
that such a lady, so fair and so noble, should love thee over all
else? Besides, how greatly shouldst thou acknowledge thyself beholden
unto Fortune, seeing that she proffereth thee a thing of such worth
and so conformable to the desires of thy youth and to boot, such a
resource for thy necessities! Which of thy peers knowest thou who
fareth better by way of delight than thou mayst fare, an thou be wise?
What other couldst thou find who may fare so well in the matter of
arms and horses and apparel and monies as thou mayst do, so thou wilt
but vouchsafe thy love to this lady? Open, then, thy mind to my words
and return to thy senses; bethink thee that once, and no oftener, it
is wont to betide that fortune cometh unto a man with smiling face and
open arms, who an he know not then to welcome, if after he find
himself poor and beggarly, he hath himself and not her to blame.
Besides, there is no call to use that loyalty between servants and
masters that behoveth between friends and kinsfolk; nay, servants
should use their masters, in so far as they may, like as themselves
are used of them. Thinkest thou, an thou hadst a fair wife or mother
or daughter or sister, who pleased Nicostratus, that he would go
questing after this loyalty that thou wouldst fain observe towards him
in respect of this lady? Thou are a fool, if thou think thus; for thou
mayst hold it for certain that, if blandishments and prayers sufficed
him not, he would not scruple to use force in the matter, whatsoever
thou mightest deem thereof. Let us, then, entreat them and their
affairs even as they entreat us and ours. Profit by the favour of
fortune and drive her not away, but welcome her with open arms and
meet her halfway, for assuredly, and thou do it not, thou wilt yet
(leave alone the death that will without fail ensue thereof to thy
lady) repent thee thereof so many a time thou wilt be fain to die
therefor.'

Pyrrhus, who had again and again pondered the words that Lusca had
said to him, had determined, and she should return to him, to make her
another guess answer and altogether to submit himself to comply with
the lady's wishes, so but he might be certified that it was not a
trick to try him, and accordingly answered, 'Harkye, Lusca; all that
thou sayst to me I allow to be true; but, on the other hand, I know my
lord for very discreet and well-advised, and as he committeth all his
affairs to my hands, I am sore adread lest Lydia, with his counsel and
by his wish, do this to try me; wherefore, an it please her for mine
assurance do three things that I shall ask, she shall for certain
thereafterward command me nought but I will do it forthright. And the
three things I desire are these: first, that in Nicostratus his
presence she slay his good hawk; secondly, that she send me a lock of
her husband's beard and lastly, one of his best teeth.' These
conditions seemed hard unto Lusca and to the lady harder yet;
however, Love, who is an excellent comforter[354] and a past master in
shifts and devices, made her resolve to do his pleasure and
accordingly she sent him word by her chamberwoman that she would
punctually do what he required and that quickly, and that over and
above this, for that he deemed Nicostratus so well-advised, she would
solace herself with him in her husband's presence and make the latter
believe that it was not true.

[Footnote 354: Syn. encourager, helper, auxiliary (_confortatore_).]

Pyrrhus, accordingly, began to await what the lady should do, and
Nicostratus having, a few days after, made, as he oftentimes used to
do, a great dinner to certain gentlemen, Madam Lydia, whenas the
tables were cleared away, came forth of her chamber, clad in green
samite and richly bedecked, and entered the saloon where the guests
were. There, in the sight of Pyrrhus and of all the rest, she went up
to the perch, whereon was the hawk that Nicostratus held so dear, and
cast it loose, as she would set it on her hand; then, taking it by the
jesses, she dashed it against the wall and killed it; whereupon
Nicostratus cried out at her, saying, 'Alack, wife, what hast thou
done?' She answered him nothing, but, turning to the gentlemen who had
eaten with him, she said to them, 'Gentlemen, I should ill know how to
avenge myself on a king who did me a despite, an I dared not take my
wreak of a hawk. You must know that this bird hath long robbed me of
all the time which should of men be accorded to the pleasuring of the
ladies; for that no sooner is the day risen than Nicostratus is up and
drest and away he goeth a-horseback, with his hawk on his fist, to the
open plains, to see him fly, whilst I, such as you see me, abide in
bed alone and ill-content; wherefore I have many a time had a mind to
do that which I have now done, nor hath aught hindered me therefrom
but that I waited to do it in the presence of gentlemen who would be
just judges in my quarrel, as methinketh you will be.' The gentlemen,
hearing this and believing her affection for Nicostratus to be no
otherwise than as her words denoted, turned all to the latter, who was
angered, and said, laughing, 'Ecod, how well hath the lady done to
avenge herself of her wrong by the death of the hawk!' Then, with
divers of pleasantries upon the subject (the lady being now gone back
to her chamber), they turned Nicostratus his annoy into laughter;
whilst Pyrrhus, seeing all this, said in himself, 'The lady hath given
a noble beginning to my happy loves; God grant she persevere!'

Lydia having thus slain the hawk, not many days were passed when,
being in her chamber with Nicostratus, she fell to toying and
frolicking with him, and he, pulling her somedele by the hair, by way
of sport, gave her occasion to accomplish the second thing required of
her by Pyrrhus. Accordingly, taking him of a sudden by a lock of his
beard, she tugged so hard at it, laughing the while, that she plucked
it clean out of his chin; whereof he complaining, 'How now?' quoth
she. 'What aileth thee to pull such a face? Is it because I have
plucked out maybe half a dozen hairs of thy beard? Thou feltest not
that which I suffered, whenas thou pulledst me now by the hair.' On
this wise continuing their disport from one word to another, she
privily kept the lock of hair that she had plucked from his beard and
sent it that same day to her lover.

Anent the last of the three things required by Pyrrhus she was harder
put to it for a device; nevertheless, being of a surpassing wit and
Love making her yet quicker of invention, she soon bethought herself
what means she should use to give it accomplishment. Nicostratus had
two boys given him of their father, to the intent that, being of
gentle birth, they might learn somewhat of manners and good breeding
in his house, of whom, whenas he was at meat, one carved before him
and the other gave him to drink. Lydia called them both and giving
them to believe that they stank at the mouth, enjoined them that,
whenas they served Nicostratus, they should still hold their heads
backward as most they might nor ever tell this to any. The boys,
believing that which she said, proceeded to do as she had lessoned
them, and she after a while said to her husband one day, 'Hast thou
noted that which yonder boys do, whenas they serve thee?' 'Ay have I,'
replied Nicostratus; 'and indeed I had it in mind to ask them why they
did it.' Quoth the lady, 'Do it not, for I can tell thee the reason;
and I have kept it silent from thee this long while, not to cause thee
annoy; but, now I perceive that others begin to be aware thereof, it
skilleth not to hide it from thee longer. This betideth thee for none
other what than that thou stinkest terribly at the mouth, and I know
not what can be the cause thereof; for that it used not to be thus.
Now this is a very unseemly thing for thee who hast to do with
gentlemen, and needs must we see for a means of curing it.' Whereupon
said he, 'What can this be? Can I have some rotten tooth in my head?'
'Maybe ay,' answered Lydia and carried him to a window, where she made
him open his mouth, and after she had viewed it in every part, 'O
Nicostratus,' cried she, 'how canst thou have put up with it so long?
Thou hast a tooth on this side which meseemth is not only decayed, but
altogether rotten, and assuredly, and thou keep it much longer in thy
mouth, it will mar thee those which be on either side; wherefore I
counsel thee have it drawn, ere the thing go farther.' 'Since it
seemeth good to thee,' answered he, 'I will well; let a surgeon be
sent for without more delay, who shall draw it for me.' 'God forbid,'
rejoined the lady, 'that a surgeon come hither for that! Methinketh it
lieth on such wise that I myself, without any surgeon, can very well
draw it for thee; more by token that these same surgeons are so
barbarous in doing such offices that my heart would on no account
suffer me to see or know thee in the hands of any one of them; for, an
it irk thee overmuch, I will at least loose thee incontinent, which a
surgeon would not do.'

Accordingly, she let fetch the proper instruments and sent every one
forth of the chamber, except only Lusca; after which, locking herself
in, she made Nicostratus lie down on a table and thrusting the pincers
into his mouth, what while the maid held him fast, she pulled out one
of his teeth by main force, albeit he roared out lustily for the pain.
Then, keeping to herself that which she had drawn, she brought out a
frightfully decayed tooth she had ready in her hand and showed it to
her husband, half dead as he was for pain, saying, 'See what thou
hast had in thy mouth all this while.' Nicostratus believed what she
said and now that the tooth was out, for all he had suffered the most
grievous pain and made sore complaint thereof, him seemed he was
cured; and presently, having comforted himself with one thing and
another and the pain being abated, he went forth of the chamber;
whereupon his wife took the tooth and straightway despatched it to her
gallant, who, being now certified of her love, professed himself ready
to do her every pleasure.

The lady, albeit every hour seemed to her a thousand till she should
be with him, desiring to give him farther assurance and wishful to
perform that which she had promised him, made a show one day of being
ailing and being visited after dinner by Nicostratus, with no one in
his company but Pyrrhus, she prayed them, by way of allaying her
unease, to help her go into the garden. Accordingly, Nicostratus
taking her on one side and Pyrrhus on the other, they carried her into
the garden and set her down on a grassplot, at the foot of a fine
pear-tree; where, after they had sat awhile, the lady, who had already
given her gallant to know what he had to do, said, 'Pyrrhus, I have a
great desire to eat of yonder pears; do thou climb up and throw us
down some of them.' Pyrrhus straightway climbed up into the tree and
fell to throwing down of the pears, which as he did, he began to say,
'How now, my lord! What is this you do? And you, madam, are you not
ashamed to suffer it in my presence? Think you I am blind? But now you
were sore disordered; how cometh it you have so quickly recovered that
you do such things? An you have a mind unto this, you have store of
goodly chambers; why go you not do it in one of these? It were more
seemly than in my presence.'

The lady turned to her husband and said, 'What saith Pyrrhus? Doth he
rave?' 'No, madam,' answered the young man, 'I rave not. Think you I
cannot see?' As for Nicostratus, he marvelled sore and said, 'Verily,
Pyrrhus, methinketh thou dreamest.' 'My lord,' replied Pyrrhus, 'I
dream not a jot, neither do you dream; nay, you bestir yourselves on
such wise that were this tree to do likewise, there would not be a
pear left on it.' Quoth the lady, 'What may this be? Can it be that
this he saith appeareth to him to be true? So God save me, and I were
whole as I was aforetime, I would climb up into the tree, to see what
marvels are those which this fellow saith he seeth.' Meanwhile Pyrrhus
from the top of the pear-tree still said the same thing and kept up
the pretence; whereupon Nicostratus bade him come down. Accordingly he
came down and his master said to him, 'Now, what sayst thou thou
sawest?' 'Methinketh,' answered he, 'you take me for a lackwit or a
loggerhead. Since I must needs say it, I saw you a-top of your lady,
and after, as I came down, I saw you arise and seat yourself where you
presently are.' 'Assuredly,' said Nicostratus, 'thou dotest; for we
have not stirred a jot, save as thou seest, since thou climbest up
into the pear-tree.' Whereupon quoth Pyrrhus, 'What booteth it to make
words of the matter? I certainly saw you; and if I did see you, it was
a-top of your own.'

Nicostratus waxed momently more and more astonished, insomuch that he
said, 'Needs must I see if this pear-tree is enchanted and if whoso is
thereon seeth marvels.' Thereupon he climbed up into the tree and no
sooner was he come to the top than the lady and Pyrrhus fell to
solacing themselves together; which when Nicostratus saw, he began to
cry out, saying, 'Ah, vile woman that thou art, what is this thou
dost? And thou, Pyrrhus, in whom I most trusted?' So saying, he
proceeded to descend the tree, whilst the lovers said, 'We are sitting
here'; then, seeing him come down, they reseated themselves whereas he
had left them. As soon as he was down and saw his wife and Pyrrhus
where he had left them, he fell a-railing at them; whereupon quoth
Pyrrhus, 'Now, verily, Nicostratus, I acknowledged that, as you said
before, I must have seen falsely what while I was in the pear-tree,
nor do I know it otherwise than by this, that I see and know yourself
to have seen falsely in the like case. And that I speak the truth
nought else should be needful to certify you but that you have regard
to the circumstances of the case and consider if it be possible that
your lady, who is the most virtuous of women and discreeter than any
other of her sex, could, an she had a mind to outrage you on such
wise, bring herself to do it before your very eyes. I speak not of
myself, who would rather suffer myself to be torn limb-meal than so
much as think of such a thing, much more come to do it in your
presence. Wherefore the fault of this misseeing must needs proceed
from the pear-tree, for that all the world had not made me believe but
that you were in act to have carnal knowledge of your lady here, had I
not heard you say that it appeared to yourself that I did what I know
most certainly I never thought, much less did.'

Thereupon the lady, feigning to be mightily incensed, rose to her feet
and said, 'Ill luck betide thee, dost thou hold me so little of wit
that, an I had a mind to such filthy fashions as thou wouldst have us
believe thou sawest, I should come to do them before thy very eyes?
Thou mayst be assured of this that, if ever the fancy took me thereof,
I should not come hither; marry, methinketh I should have sense enough
to contrive it in one of our chambers, on such wise and after such a
fashion that it would seem to me an extraordinary thing if ever thou
camest to know of it.' Nicostratus, himseeming that what the lady and
Pyrrhus said was true, to wit, that they would never have ventured
upon such an act there before himself, gave over words and reproaches
and fell to discoursing of the strangeness of the fact and the miracle
of the sight, which was thus changed unto whoso climbed up into the
pear-tree. But his wife, feigning herself chagrined for the ill
thought he had shown of her, said, 'Verily, this pear-tree shall never
again, if I can help it, do me nor any other lady the like of this
shame; wherefore do thou run, Pyrrhus, and fetch a hatchet and at one
stroke avenge both thyself and me by cutting it down; albeit it were
better yet lay it about Nicostratus his cosard, who, without any
consideration, suffered the eyes of his understanding to be so quickly
blinded, whenas, however certain that which thou[355] saidst might
seem to those[356] which thou hast in thy head, thou shouldst for
nought in the world in the judgment of thy mind have believed or
allowed that such a thing could be.'

[Footnote 355: This sudden change from the third to the second person,
in speaking of Nicostratus, is a characteristic example of Boccaccio's
constant abuse of the figure enallage in his dialogues.]

[Footnote 356: _i.e._ those eyes.]

Pyrrhus very readily fetched the hatchet and cut down the tree, which
when the lady saw fallen, she said to Nicostratus, 'Since I see the
enemy of mine honour overthrown, my anger is past,' and graciously
forgave her husband, who besought her thereof, charging him that it
should never again happen to him to presume such a thing of her, who
loved him better than herself. Accordingly, the wretched husband, thus
befooled, returned with her and her lover to the palace, where many a
time thereafterward Pyrrhus took delight and pleasance more at ease of
Lydia and she of him. God grant us as much!"



THE TENTH STORY

[Day the Seventh]

     TWO SIENNESE LOVE A LADY, WHO IS GOSSIP TO ONE OF THEM; THE
     LATTER DIETH AND RETURNING TO HIS COMPANION, ACCORDING TO
     PROMISE MADE HIM, RELATETH TO HIM HOW FOLK FARE IN THE OTHER
     WORLD


It now rested only with the king to tell and he accordingly, as soon
as he saw the ladies quieted, who lamented the cutting down of the
unoffending pear-tree, began, "It is a very manifest thing that every
just king should be the first to observe the laws made by him, and an
he do otherwise, he must be adjudged a slave deserving of punishment
and not a king, into which offence and under which reproach I, who am
your king, am in a manner constrained to fall. True it is that
yesterday I laid down the law for to-day's discourses, purposing not
this day to make use of my privilege, but, submitting myself to the
same obligation as you, to discourse of that whereof you have all
discoursed. However, not only hath that story been told which I had
thought to tell, but so many other and far finer things have been said
upon the matter that, for my part, ransack my memory as I will, I can
call nothing to mind and must avouch myself unable to say aught anent
such a subject that may compare with those stories which have already
been told. Wherefore, it behoving me transgress against the law made
by myself, I declare myself in advance ready, as one deserving of
punishment, to submit to any forfeit which may be imposed on me, and
so have recourse to my wonted privilege. Accordingly, dearest ladies,
I say that Elisa's story of Fra Rinaldo and his gossip and eke the
simplicity of the Siennese have such efficacy that they induce me,
letting be the cheats put upon foolish husbands by their wily wives,
to tell you a slight story of them,[357] which though it have in it no
little of that which must not be believed, will natheless in part, at
least, be pleasing to hear.

[Footnote 357: _i.e._ the Siennese.]

There were, then, in Siena two young men of the people, whereof one
was called Tingoccio Mini and the other Meuccio di Tura; they abode at
Porta Salaja and consorted well nigh never save one with the other. To
all appearance they loved each exceedingly and resorting, as men do,
to churches and preachings, they had many a time heard tell of the
happiness and of the misery that are, according to their deserts,
allotted in the next world to the souls of those who die; of which
things desiring to have certain news and finding no way thereto, they
promised one another that whichever of them died first should, an he
might, return to him who abode on life and give him tidings of that
which he would fain know; and this they confirmed with an oath. Having
come to this accord and companying still together, as hath been said,
it chanced that Tingoccio became godfather to a child which one
Ambruogio Anselmini, abiding at Campo Reggi, had had of his wife,
Mistress Mita by name, and from time to time visiting, together with
Meuccio, his gossip who was a very fair and lovesome lady, he became,
notwithstanding the gossipship, enamoured of her. Meuccio, on like
wise, hearing her mightily commended of his friend and being himself
much pleased with her, fell in love with her, and each hid his love
from the other, but not for one same reason. Tingoccio was careful not
to discover it to Meuccio, on account of the naughty deed which
himseemed he did to love his gossip and which he had been ashamed that
any should know. Meuccio, on the other hand, kept himself
therefrom,[358] for that he had already perceived that the lady
pleased Tingoccio; whereupon he said in himself, 'If I discover this
to him, he will wax jealous of me and being able, as her gossip, to
bespeak her at his every pleasure, he will, inasmuch as he may, bring
me in ill savour with her, and so I shall never have of her aught that
may please me.'

[Footnote 358: _i.e._ from discovering to his friend his liking for
the lady.]

Things being at this pass, it befell that Tingoccio, having more
leisure of discovering his every desire to the lady, contrived with
acts and words so to do that he had his will of her, of which Meuccio
soon became aware and albeit it sore misliked him, yet, hoping some
time or other to compass his desire, he feigned ignorance thereof, so
Tingoccio might not have cause or occasion to do him an ill turn or
hinder him in any of his affairs. The two friends loving thus, the one
more happily than the other, it befell that Tingoccio, finding the
soil of his gossip's demesne soft and eath to till, so delved and
laboured there that there overcame him thereof a malady, which after
some days waxed so heavy upon him that, being unable to brook it, he
departed this life. The third day after his death (for that belike he
had not before been able) he came by night, according to the promise
made, into Meuccio's chamber and called the latter, who slept fast.
Meuccio awoke and said, 'Who art thou?' Whereto he answered, 'I am
Tingoccio, who, according to the promise which I made thee, am come
back to thee to give thee news of the other world.'

Meuccio was somewhat affrighted at seeing him; nevertheless, taking
heart, 'Thou art welcome, brother mine,' quoth he, and presently asked
him if he were lost. 'Things are lost that are not to be found,'
replied Tingoccio; 'and how should I be here, if I were lost?'
'Alack,' cried Meuccio, 'I say not so; nay, I ask thee if thou art
among the damned souls in the avenging fire of hell.' Whereto quoth
Tingoccio, 'As for that, no; but I am, notwithstanding, in very
grievous and anguishful torment for the sins committed by me.' Meuccio
then particularly enquired of him what punishments were awarded in the
other world for each of the sins that folk use to commit here below,
and he told him them all. After this Meuccio asked if there were aught
he might do for him in this world, whereto Tingoccio replied that
there was, to wit, that he should let say for him masses and orisons
and do alms in his name, for that these things were mightily
profitable to those who abode yonder. Meuccio said that he would well
and Tingoccio offering to take leave of him, he remembered himself of
the latter's amour with his gossip and raising his head, said, 'Now
that I bethink me, Tingoccio, what punishment is given thee over
yonder anent thy gossip, with whom thou layest, whenas thou wast here
below?' 'Brother mine,' answered Tingoccio, 'whenas I came yonder,
there was one who it seemed knew all my sins by heart and bade me
betake myself to a certain place, where I bemoaned my offences in
exceeding sore punishment and where I found many companions condemned
to the same penance as myself. Being among them and remembering me of
that which I had done whilere with my gossip, I looked for a much
sorer punishment on account thereof than that which had presently been
given me and went all shivering for fear, albeit I was in a great fire
and an exceeding hot; which one who was by my side perceiving, he said
to me, "What aileth thee more than all the others who are here that
thou shiverest, being in the fire?" "Marry," said I, "my friend, I am
sore in fear of the sentence I expect for a grievous sin I wrought
aforetime." The other asked me what sin this was, and I answered, "It
was that I lay with a gossip of mine, and that with such a vengeance
that it cost me my life"; whereupon quoth he, making merry over my
fear, "Go to, fool; have no fear. Here is no manner of account taken
of gossips." Which when I heard, I was altogether reassured.' This
said and the day drawing near, 'Meuccio,' quoth he, 'abide with God,
for I may no longer be with thee,' and was suddenly gone. Meuccio,
hearing that no account was taken of gossips in the world to come,
began to make mock of his own simplicity, for that whiles he had
spared several of them; wherefore, laying by his ignorance, he became
wiser in that respect for the future. Which things if Fra Rinaldo had
known, he had not needed to go a-syllogizing,[359] whenas he converted
his good gossip to his pleasure."

[Footnote 359: Or, in modern parlance, logic-chopping
(_sillogizzando_).]

       *       *       *       *       *

Zephyr was now arisen, for the sun that drew near unto the setting,
when the king, having made an end of his story and there being none
other left to tell, put off the crown from his own head and set it on
that of Lauretta, saying, "Madam, with yourself[360] I crown you
queen of our company; do you then, from this time forth, as sovereign
lady, command that which you may deem shall be for the pleasure and
solacement of all." This said, he reseated himself, whereupon
Lauretta, become queen, let call the seneschal and bade him look that
the tables be set in the pleasant valley somewhat earlier than of
wont, so they might return to the palace at their leisure; after which
she instructed him what he should do what while her sovranty lasted.
Then, turning to the company, she said, "Dioneo willed yesterday that
we should discourse to-day of the tricks that women play their
husbands and but that I am loath to show myself of the tribe of
snappish curs, which are fain incontinent to avenge themselves of any
affront done them, I would say that to-morrow's discourse should be of
the tricks that men play their wives. But, letting that be, I ordain
that each bethink himself to tell OF THE TRICKS THAT ALL DAY LONG
WOMEN PLAY MEN OR MEN WOMEN OR MEN ONE ANOTHER; and I doubt not but
that in this[361] there will be no less of pleasant discourse than
there hath been to-day." So saying, she rose to her feet and dismissed
the company till supper-time.

[Footnote 360: _i.e._ with that whereof you bear the name, _i.e._
laurel (_laurea_).]

[Footnote 361: Or "on this subject" (_in questo_).]

Accordingly, they all, ladies and men alike, arose and some began to
go barefoot through the clear water, whilst others went a-pleasuring
upon the greensward among the straight and goodly trees. Dioneo and
Fiammetta sang together a great while of Arcite and Palemon, and on
this wise, taking various and divers delights, they passed the time
with the utmost satisfaction until the hour of supper; which being
come, they seated themselves at table beside the lakelet and there, to
the song of a thousand birds, still refreshed by a gentle breeze, that
came from the little hills around, and untroubled of any fly, they
supped in peace and cheer. Then, the tables being removed and the sun
being yet half-vespers[362] high, after they had gone awhile round
about the pleasant valley, they wended their way again, even as it
pleased their queen, with slow steps towards their wonted
dwelling-place, and jesting and chattering a thousand things, as well
of those whereof it had been that day discoursed as of others, they
came near upon nightfall to the fair palace, where having with the
coolest of wines and confections done away the fatigues of the little
journey, they presently fell to dancing about the fair fountain,
carolling[363] now to the sound of Tindaro's bagpipe and anon to that
of other instruments. But, after awhile, the queen bade Filomena sing
a song, whereupon she began thus:

[Footnote 362: _Quære_, "half-complines," _i.e._ half-past seven p.m.
"Half-vespers" would be half-past four, which seems too early.]

[Footnote 363: _Carolando_, _i.e._ dancing in a round and singing the
while, the original meaning of our word "carol."]

     Alack, my life forlorn!
       Will't ever chance I may once more regain
     Th' estate whence sorry fortune hath me torn?

       Certes, I know not, such a wish of fire
         I carry in my thought
           To find me where, alas! I was whilere.
       O dear my treasure, thou my sole desire,
         That holdst my heart distraught.
           Tell it me, thou; for whom I know nor dare
           To ask it otherwhere.
       Ah, dear my lord, oh, cause me hope again,
     So I may comfort me my spright wayworn.

       What was the charm I cannot rightly tell
         That kindled in me such
           A flame of love that rest nor day nor night
       I find; for, by some strong unwonted spell,
         Hearing and touch
           And seeing each new fires in me did light,
           Wherein I burn outright;
       Nor other than thyself can soothe my pain
     Nor call my senses back, by love o'erborne.

       O tell me if and when, then, it shall be
         That I shall find thee e'er
           Whereas I kissed those eyes that did me slay.
       O dear my good, my soul, ah, tell it me,
         When thou wilt come back there,
           And saying "Quickly," comfort my dismay
           Somedele. Short be the stay
       Until thou come, and long mayst thou remain!
     I'm so love-struck, I reck not of men's scorn.

       If once again I chance to hold thee aye,
         I will not be so fond
           As erst I was to suffer thee to fly;
       Nay, fast I'll hold thee, hap of it what may,
         And having thee in bond,
           Of thy sweet mouth my lust I'll satisfy.
           Now of nought else will I
       Discourse. Quick, to thy bosom come me strain;
     The sheer thought bids me sing like lark at morn.

This song caused all the company conclude that a new and pleasing love
held Filomena in bonds, and as by the words it appeared that she had
tasted more thereof than sight alone, she was envied of this by
certain who were there and who held her therefor so much the happier.
But, after her song was ended, the queen, remembering her that the
ensuing day was Friday, thus graciously bespoke all, "You know, noble
ladies and you also, young men, that to-morrow is the day consecrated
to the passion of our Lord, the which, an you remember aright, what
time Neifile was queen, we celebrated devoutly and therein gave pause
to our delightsome discoursements, and on like wise we did with the
following Saturday. Wherefore, being minded to follow the good example
given us by Neifile, I hold it seemly that to-morrow and the next day
we abstain, even as we did a week agone, from our pleasant
story-telling, recalling to memory that which on those days befell
whilere for the salvation of our souls." The queen's pious speech was
pleasing unto all and a good part of the night being now past, they
all, dismissed by her, betook them to repose.


HERE ENDETH THE SEVENTH DAY
OF THE DECAMERON



_Day the Eighth_

     HERE BEGINNETH THE EIGHTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER
     THE GOVERNANCE OF LAURETTA IS DISCOURSED OF THE TRICKS THAT
     ALL DAY LONG WOMEN PLAY MEN OR MEN WOMEN OR MEN ONE ANOTHER


Already on the Sunday morning the rays of the rising light appeared on
the summits of the higher mountains and every shadow having departed,
things might manifestly be discerned, when the queen, arising with her
company, went wandering first through the dewy grass and after,
towards half-tierce,[364] visiting a little neighboring church, heard
there divine service; then, returning home, they ate with mirth and
joyance and after sang and danced awhile till the queen dismissed
them, so whoso would might go rest himself. But, whenas the sun had
passed the meridian, they all seated themselves, according as it
pleased the queen, near the fair fountain, for the wonted
story-telling, and Neifile, by her commandment, began thus:

[Footnote 364: _i.e._ half-past seven a.m.]



THE FIRST STORY

[Day the Eighth]

     GULFARDO BORROWETH OF GUASPARRUOLO CERTAIN MONIES, FOR WHICH
     HE HATH AGREED WITH HIS WIFE THAT HE SHALL LIE WITH HER, AND
     ACCORDINGLY GIVETH THEM TO HER; THEN, IN HER PRESENCE, HE
     TELLETH GUASPARRUOLO THAT HE GAVE THEM TO HER, AND SHE
     CONFESSETH IT TO BE TRUE


"Since God hath so ordered it that I am to give a beginning to the
present day's discourses, with my story, I am content, and therefore,
lovesome ladies, seeing that much hath been said of the tricks played
by women upon men, it is my pleasure to relate one played by a man
upon a woman, not that I mean therein to blame that which the man did
or to deny that it served the woman aright, nay, rather to commend the
man and blame the woman and to show that men also know how to cozen
those who put faith in them, even as themselves are cozened by those
in whom they believe. Indeed, to speak more precisely, that whereof I
have to tell should not be called cozenage; nay, it should rather be
styled a just requital; for that, albeit a woman should still be
virtuous and guard her chastity as her life nor on any account suffer
herself be persuaded to sully it, yet, seeing that, by reason of our
frailty, this is not always possible as fully as should be, I affirm
that she who consenteth to her own dishonour for a price is worthy of
the fire, whereas she who yieldeth for Love's sake, knowing his
exceeding great puissance, meriteth forgiveness from a judge not too
severe, even as, a few days agone, Filostrato showed it to have been
observed towards Madam Filippa at Prato.

There was, then, aforetime at Milan a German, by name Gulfardo, in the
pay of the state, a stout fellow of his person and very loyal to those
in whose service he engaged himself, which is seldom the case with
Germans; and for that he was a very punctual repayer of such loans as
were made him, he might always find many merchants ready to lend him
any quantity of money at little usance. During his sojourn in Milan,
he set his heart upon a very fair lady called Madam Ambruogia, the
wife of a rich merchant, by name Guasparruolo Cagastraccio, who was
much his acquaintance and friend, and loving her very discreetly, so
that neither her husband nor any other suspected it, he sent one day
to speak with her, praying her that it would please her vouchsafe him
her favours and protesting that he, on his part, was ready to do
whatsoever she should command him. The lady, after many parleys, came
to this conclusion, that she was ready to do that which Gulfardo
wished, provided two things should ensue thereof; one, that this
should never be by him discovered to any and the other, that, as she
had need of two hundred gold florins for some occasion of hers, he,
who was a rich man, should give them to her; after which she would
still be at his service.

Gulfardo, hearing this and indignant at the sordidness of her whom he
had accounted a lady of worth, was like to exchange his fervent love
for hatred and thinking to cheat her, sent back to her, saying that he
would very willingly do this and all else in his power that might
please her and that therefore she should e'en send him word when she
would have him go to her, for that he would carry her the money, nor
should any ever hear aught of the matter, save a comrade of his in
whom he trusted greatly and who still bore him company in whatsoever
he did. The lady, or rather, I should say, the vile woman, hearing
this, was well pleased and sent to him, saying that Guasparruolo her
husband was to go to Genoa for his occasions a few days hence and that
she would presently let him know of this and send for him. Meanwhile,
Gulfardo, taking his opportunity, repaired to Guasparruolo and said to
him, 'I have present occasion for two hundred gold florins, the which
I would have thee lend me at that same usance whereat thou art wont to
lend me other monies.' The other replied that he would well and
straightway counted out to him the money.

A few days thereafterward Guasparruolo went to Genoa, even as the
lady had said, whereupon she sent to Gulfardo to come to her and
bring the two hundred gold florins. Accordingly, he took his comrade
and repaired to the lady's house, where finding her expecting him, the
first thing he did was to put into her hands the two hundred gold
florins, in his friend's presence, saying to her, 'Madam, take these
monies and give them to your husband, whenas he shall be returned.'
The lady took them, never guessing why he said thus, but supposing
that he did it so his comrade should not perceive that he gave them to
her by way of price, and answered, 'With all my heart; but I would
fain see how many they are.' Accordingly, she turned them out upon the
table and finding them full two hundred, laid them up, mighty content
in herself; then, returning to Gulfardo and carrying him into her
chamber, she satisfied him of her person not that night only, but many
others before her husband returned from Genoa.

As soon as the latter came back, Gulfardo, having spied out a time
when he was in company with his wife, betook himself to him, together
with his comrade aforesaid, and said to him, in the lady's presence,
'Guasparruolo, I had no occasion for the monies, to wit, the two
hundred gold florins, thou lentest me the other day, for that I could
not compass the business for which I borrowed them. Accordingly, I
brought them presently back to thy lady here and gave them to her;
wherefore look thou cancel my account.' Guasparruolo, turning to his
wife, asked her if she had the monies, and she, seeing the witness
present, knew not how to deny, but said, 'Ay, I had them and had not
yet remembered me to tell thee.' Whereupon quoth Guasparruolo,
'Gulfardo, I am satisfied; get you gone and God go with you: I will
settle your account aright.' Gulfardo gone, the lady, finding herself
cozened, gave her husband the dishonourable price of her baseness; and
on this wise the crafty lover enjoyed his sordid mistress without
cost."



THE SECOND STORY

[Day the Eighth]

     THE PARISH PRIEST OF VARLUNGO LIETH WITH MISTRESS BELCOLORE
     AND LEAVETH HER A CLOAK OF HIS IN PLEDGE; THEN, BORROWING A
     MORTAR OF HER, HE SENDETH IT BACK TO HER, DEMANDING IN
     RETURN THE CLOAK LEFT BY WAY OF TOKEN, WHICH THE GOOD WOMAN
     GRUDGINGLY GIVETH HIM BACK


Men and ladies alike commended that which Gulfardo had done to the
sordid Milanese lady, and the queen, turning to Pamfilo, smilingly
charged him follow on; whereupon quoth he, "Fair ladies, it occurreth
to me to tell you a little story against those who continually offend
against us, without being open to retaliation on our part, to wit, the
clergy, who have proclaimed a crusade against our wives and who,
whenas they avail to get one of the latter under them, conceive
themselves to have gained forgiveness of fault and pardon of penalty
no otherwise than as they had brought the Soldan bound from
Alexandria to Avignon.[365] Whereof the wretched laymen cannot return
them the like, albeit they wreak their ire upon the priests' mothers
and sisters, doxies and daughters, assailing them with no less ardour
than the former do their wives. Wherefore I purpose to recount to you
a village love-affair, more laughable for its conclusion than long in
words, wherefrom you may yet gather, by way of fruit, that priests are
not always to be believed in everything.

[Footnote 365: Where the papal court then was. See p. 257, note.]

You must know, then, that there was once at Varlungo,--a village very
near here, as each of you ladies either knoweth or may have heard,--a
worthy priest and a lusty of his person in the service of the ladies,
who, albeit he knew not overwell how to read, natheless regaled his
parishioners with store of good and pious saws at the elmfoot on
Sundays and visited their women, whenas they went abroad anywhither,
more diligently than any priest who had been there aforetime, carrying
them fairings and holy water and a stray candle-end or so, whiles even
to their houses. Now it chanced that, among other his she-parishioners
who were most to his liking, one pleased him over all, by name
Mistress Belcolore, the wife of a husbandman who styled himself
Bentivegna del Mazzo, a jolly, buxom country wench, brown-favoured and
tight-made, as apt at turning the mill[366] as any woman alive.
Moreover, it was she who knew how to play the tabret and sing 'The
water runneth to the ravine' and lead up the haye and the round, when
need was, with a fine muckender in her hand and a quaint, better than
any woman of her neighbourhood; by reason of which things my lord
priest became so sore enamoured of her that he was like to lose his
wits therefor and would prowl about all day long to get a sight of
her. Whenas he espied her in church of a Sunday morning, he would say
a Kyrie and a Sanctus, studying to show himself a past master in
descant, that it seemed as it were an ass a-braying; whereas, when he
saw her not there, he passed that part of the service over lightly
enough. But yet he made shift to do on such wise that neither
Bentivegna nor any of his neighbours suspected aught; and the better
to gain Mistress Belcolore's goodwill, he made her presents from time
to time, sending her whiles a clove of garlic, which he had the finest
of all the countryside in a garden he tilled with his own hands, and
otherwhiles a punnet of peascods or a bunch of chives or scallions,
and whenas he saw his opportunity, he would ogle her askance and cast
a friendly gibe at her; but she, putting on the prude, made a show of
not observing it and passed on with a demure air; wherefore my lord
priest could not come by his will of her.

[Footnote 366: Or, as La Fontaine would say, "aussi bien faite pour
armer un lit."]

It chanced one day that as he sauntered about the quarter on the
stroke of noon, he encountered Bentivegna del Mazzo, driving an ass
laden with gear, and accosting him, asked whither he went. 'Faith,
sir,' answered the husbandman, 'to tell you the truth, I am going to
town about a business of mine and am carrying these things to Squire
Bonaccorri da Ginestreto, so he may help me in I know not what whereof
the police-court judge hath summoned me by his proctor for a
peremptory attendance.' The priest was rejoiced to hear this and
said, 'Thou dost well, my son; go now with my benison and return
speedily; and shouldst thou chance to see Lapuccio or Naldino, forget
not to bid them bring me those straps they wot of for my flails.'
Bentivegna answered that it should be done and went his way towards
Florence, whereupon the priest bethought himself that now was his time
to go try his luck with Belcolore. Accordingly, he let not the grass
grow under his feet, but set off forthright and stayed not till he
came to her house and entering in, said, 'God send us all well! Who is
within there?' Belcolore, who was gone up into the hay-loft, hearing
him, said, 'Marry, sir, you are welcome; but what do you gadding it
abroad in this heat?' 'So God give me good luck,' answered he, 'I came
to abide with thee awhile, for that I met thy man going to town.'

Belcolore came down and taking a seat, fell to picking over
cabbage-seed which her husband had threshed out a while before;
whereupon quoth the priest to her, 'Well, Belcolore, wilt thou still
cause me die for thee on this wise?' She laughed and answered, 'What
is it I do to you?' Quoth he, 'Thou dost nought to me, but thou
sufferest me not do to thee that which I would fain do and which God
commandeth.' 'Alack!' cried Belcolore, 'Go to, go to. Do priests do
such things?' 'Ay do we,' replied he, 'as well as other men; and why
not? And I tell thee more, we do far and away better work and knowest
thou why? Because we grind with a full head of water. But in good
sooth it shall be shrewdly to thy profit, an thou wilt but abide quiet
and let me do.' 'And what might this "shrewdly to my profit" be?'
asked she. 'For all you priests are stingier than the devil.' Quoth
he, 'I know not; ask thou. Wilt have a pair of shoes or a head-lace or
a fine stammel waistband or what thou wilt?' 'Pshaw!' cried Belcolore.
'I have enough and to spare of such things; but an you wish me so
well, why do you not render me a service, and I will do what you
will?' Quoth the priest, 'Say what thou wilt have of me, and I will do
it willingly.' Then said she, 'Needs must I go to Florence, come
Saturday, to carry back the wool I have spun and get my spinning-wheel
mended; and an you will lend me five crowns, which I know you have by
you, I can take my watchet gown out of pawn and my Sunday girdle[367]
that I brought my husband, for you see I cannot go to church nor to
any decent place, because I have them not; and after I will still do
what you would have me.' 'So God give me a good year,' replied the
priest, 'I have them not about me; but believe me, ere Saturday come,
I will contrive that thou shalt have them, and that very willingly.'
'Ay,' said Belcolore, 'you are all like this, great promisers, and
after perform nothing to any. Think you to do with me as you did with
Biliuzza, who went off with the ghittern-player?[368] Cock's faith,
then, you shall not, for that she is turned a common drab only for
that. If you have them not about you, go for them.' 'Alack,' cried the
priest, 'put me not upon going all the way home. Thou seest that I
have the luck just now to find thee alone, but maybe, when I return,
there will be some one or other here to hinder us; and I know not when
I shall find so good an opportunity again.' Quoth she, 'It is well; an
you choose to go, go; if not, go without.'

[Footnote 367: Or apron.]

[Footnote 368: _Se n'andò col ceteratojo_; a proverbial expression of
similar meaning to our "was whistled down the wind," _i.e._ was
lightly dismissed without provision, like a cast-off hawk.]

The priest, seeing that she was not in the humour to do his pleasure
without a _salvum me fac_, whereas he would fain have done it _sine
custodiâ_, said, 'Harkye, thou believest not that I will bring thee
the money; but, so thou mayst credit me, I will leave thee this my
blue-cloth cloak.' Belcolore raised her eyes and said, 'Eh what! That
cloak? What is it worth?' 'Worth?' answered the priest. 'I would have
thee know that it is cloth of Douay, nay, Threeay, and there be some
of our folk here who hold it for Fouray.[369] It is scarce a fortnight
since it cost me seven crowns of hard money to Lotto the broker, and
according to what Buglietto telleth me (and thou knowest he is a judge
of this kind of cloth), I had it good five shillings overcheap.'
'Indeed!' quoth Belcolore. 'So God be mine aid, I had never thought
it. But give it me first of all.' My lord priest, who had his arbalest
ready cocked, pulled off the cloak and gave it her; and she, after she
had laid it up, said, 'Come, sir, let us go into the barn, for no one
ever cometh there.' And so they did. There the priest gave her the
heartiest busses in the world and making her sib to God Almighty,[370]
solaced himself with her a great while; after which he took leave of
her and returned to the parsonage in his cassock, as it were he came
from officiating at a wedding.

[Footnote 369: A play of words upon the Italian equivalent of the
French word Douay (_Duagio, i.e. Twoay, Treagio, Quattragio_) invented
by the roguish priest to impose upon the simple goodwife.]

[Footnote 370: Or in modern parlance, "making her a connection by
marriage of etc.," Boccaccio feigning priests to be members of the
Holy Family, by virtue of their office.]

There, bethinking himself that all the candle-ends he got by way of
offertory in all the year were not worth the half of five crowns,
himseemed he had done ill and repenting him of having left the cloak,
he fell to considering how he might have it again without cost. Being
shrewd enough in a small way, he soon hit upon a device and it
succeeded to his wish; for that on the morrow, it being a holiday, he
sent a neighbour's lad of his to Mistress Belcolore's house, with a
message praying her be pleased to lend him her stone mortar, for that
Binguccio dal Poggio and Nuto Buglietti were to dine with him that
morning and he had a mind to make sauce. She sent it to him and
towards dinner-time, the priest, having spied out when Bentivegna and
his wife were at meat together, called his clerk and said to him,
'Carry this mortar back to Belcolore and say to her, 'His reverence
biddeth you gramercy and prayeth you send him back the cloak that the
boy left you by way of token.' The clerk accordingly repaired to her
house and there, finding her at table with Bentivegna, set down the
mortar and did the priest's errand. Belcolore, hearing require the
cloak again, would have answered; but her husband said, with an angry
air, 'Takest thou a pledge of his reverence? I vow to Christ, I have a
mind to give thee a good clout over the head! Go, give it quickly back
to him, pox take thee! And in future, let him ask what he will of
ours, (ay, though he should seek our ass,) look that it be not denied
him.' Belcolore rose, grumbling, and pulling the cloak out of the
chest, gave it to the clerk, saying, 'Tell her reverence from me,
Belcolore saith, she voweth to God you shall never again pound sauce
in her mortar; you have done her no such fine honour of this bout.'

The clerk made off with the cloak and did her message to the priest,
who said, laughing, 'Tell her, when thou seest her, that, an she will
not lend me her mortar, I will not lend her my pestle; and so we shall
be quits.' Bentivegna concluded that his wife had said this, because
he had chidden her, and took no heed thereof; but Belcolore bore the
priest a grudge and held him at arm's length till vintage-time; when,
he having threatened to cause her go into the mouth of Lucifer the
great devil, for very fear she made her peace with him over must and
roast chestnuts and they after made merry together time and again. In
lieu of the five crowns, the priest let put new parchment to her
tabret and string thereto a cast of hawk's bells, and with this she
was fain to be content."



THE THIRD STORY

[Day the Eighth]

     CALANDRINO, BRUNO AND BUFFALMACCO GO COASTING ALONG THE
     MUGNONE IN SEARCH OF THE HELIOTROPE AND CALANDRINO THINKETH
     TO HAVE FOUND IT. ACCORDINGLY HE RETURNETH HOME, LADEN WITH
     STONES, AND HIS WIFE CHIDETH HIM; WHEREUPON, FLYING OUT INTO
     A RAGE, HE BEATETH HER AND RECOUNTETH TO HIS COMPANIONS THAT
     WHICH THEY KNOW BETTER THAN HE


Pamfilo having made an end of his story, at which the ladies had
laughed so much that they laugh yet, the queen bade Elisa follow on,
who, still laughing, began, "I know not, charming ladies, if with a
little story of mine, no less true than pleasant, I shall succeed in
making you laugh as much as Pamfilo hath done with his; but I will do
my endeavor thereof.

In our city, then, which hath ever abounded in various fashions and
strange folk, there was once, no great while since, a painter called
Calandrino, a simple-witted man and of strange usances. He companied
most of his time with other two painters, called the one Bruno and the
other Buffalmacco, both very merry men, but otherwise well-advised and
shrewd, who consorted with Calandrino for that they ofttimes had great
diversion of his fashions and his simplicity. There was then also in
Florence a young man of a mighty pleasant humor and marvellously
adroit in all he had a mind to do, astute and plausible, who was
called Maso del Saggio, and who, hearing certain traits of
Calandrino's simplicity, determined to amuse himself at his expense
by putting off some cheat on him or causing him believe some strange
thing. He chanced one day to come upon him in the church of San
Giovanni and seeing him intent upon the carved work and paintings of
the pyx, which is upon the altar of the said church and which had then
not long been placed there, he judged the place and time opportune for
carrying his intent into execution. Accordingly, acquainting a friend
of his with that which he purposed to do, they both drew near unto the
place where Calandrino sat alone and feigning not to see him, fell
a-discoursing together of the virtues of divers stones, whereof Maso
spoke as authoritatively as if he had been a great and famous
lapidary.

Calandrino gave ear to their talk and presently, seeing that it was no
secret, he rose to his feet and joined himself to them, to the no
small satisfaction of Maso, who, pursuing his discourse, was asked by
Calandrino where these wonder-working stones were to be found. Maso
replied that the most of them were found in Berlinzone, a city of the
Basques, in a country called Bengodi,[371] where the vines are tied up
with sausages and a goose is to be had for a farthing[372] and a
gosling into the bargain, and that there was a mountain all of grated
Parmesan cheese, whereon abode folk who did nothing but make maccaroni
and ravioli[373] and cook them in capon-broth, after which they threw
them down thence and whoso got most thereof had most; and that hard by
ran a rivulet of vernage,[374] the best ever was drunk, without a drop
of water therein. 'Marry,' cried Calandrino, 'that were a fine
country; but tell me, what is done with the capons that they boil for
broth?' Quoth Maso, 'The Basques eat them all.' Then said Calandrino,
'Wast thou ever there?' 'Was I ever there, quotha!' replied Maso. 'If
I have been there once I have been there a thousand times.' 'And how
many miles is it distant hence?' asked Calandrino; and Maso, 'How
many? a million or more; you might count them all night and not know.'
'Then,' said Calandrino, 'it must be farther off than the Abruzzi?'
'Ay, indeed,' answered Maso; 'it is a trifle farther.'

[Footnote 371: _i.e._ Good cheer.]

[Footnote 372: A play upon the double meaning of _a denajo_, which
signifies also "for money."]

[Footnote 373: A kind of rissole made of eggs, sweet herbs and
cheese.]

[Footnote 374: _Vernaccia_, a kind of rich white wine like Malmsey.]

Calandrino, like a simpleton as he was, hearing Maso tell all this
with an assured air and without laughing, gave such credence thereto
as can be given to whatsoever verity is most manifest and so, holding
it for truth, said, 'That is overfar for my money; though, were it
nearer, I tell thee aright I would go thither with thee once upon a
time, if but to see the maccaroni come tumbling headlong down and take
my fill thereof. But tell me, God keep thee merry, is there none of
those wonder-working stones to be found in these parts?' 'Ay is
there,' answered Maso; 'there be two kinds of stones of very great
virtue found here; the first are the grits of Settignano and Montisci,
by virtue whereof, when they are wrought into millstones, flour is
made; wherefore it is said in those parts that grace cometh from God
and millstones from Montisci; but there is such great plenty of these
grits that they are as little prized with us as emeralds with the folk
over yonder, where they have mountains of them bigger than Mount
Morello, which shine in the middle of the night, I warrant thee. And
thou must know that whoso should cause set fine and perfect
millstones, before they are pierced, in rings and carry them to the
Soldan might have for them what he would. The other is what we
lapidaries call Heliotrope, a stone of exceeding great virtue, for
that whoso hath it about him is not seen of any other person whereas
he is not, what while he holdeth it.' Quoth Calandrino, 'These be
indeed great virtues; but where is this second stone found?' To which
Maso replied that it was commonly found in the Mugnone. 'What bigness
is this stone,' asked Calandrino, 'and what is its colour?' Quoth
Maso, 'It is of various sizes, some more and some less; but all are
well nigh black of colour.'

Calandrino noted all this in himself and feigning to have otherwhat to
do, took leave of Maso, inwardly determined to go seek the stone in
question, but bethought himself not to do it without the knowledge of
Bruno and Buffalmacco, whom he most particularly affected. Accordingly
he addressed himself to seek for them, so they might, without delay
and before any else, set about the search, and spent all the rest of
the morning seeking them. At last, when it was past none, he
remembered him that they were awork in the Ladies' Convent at Faenza
and leaving all his other business, he betook himself thither well
nigh at a run, notwithstanding the great heat. As soon as he saw them,
he called them and bespoke them thus: 'Comrades, an you will hearken
to me, we may become the richest men in all Florence, for that I have
learned from a man worthy of belief that in the Mugnone is to be found
a stone, which whoso carrieth about him is not seen of any; wherefore
meseemeth we were best go thither in quest thereof without delay, ere
any forestall us. We shall certainly find it, for that I know it well,
and when we have gotten it, what have we to do but put it in our poke
and getting us to the moneychangers' tables, which you know stand
still laden with groats and florins, take as much as we will thereof?
None will see us, and so may we grow rich of a sudden, without having
to smear walls all day long, snail-fashion.'

Bruno and Buffalmacco, hearing this, fell a-laughing in their sleeves
and eyeing each other askance, made a show of exceeding wonderment and
praised Calandrino's counsel, but Bruno asked how the stone in
question was called. Calandrino, who was a clod-pated fellow, had
already forgotten the name, wherefore quoth he, 'What have we to do
with the name, since we know the virtue of the stone? Meseemeth we
were best go about the quest without more ado.' 'Well, then,' said
Bruno, 'how is it fashioned?' 'It is of all fashions,' replied
Calandrino; 'but all are well nigh black; wherefore meseemeth that
what we have to do is to gather up all the black stones we see, till
we happen upon the right. So let us lose no time, but get us gone.'
Quoth Bruno, 'Wait awhile,' and turning to his comrade, said,
'Methinketh Calandrino saith well; but meseemeth this is no season
for the search, for that the sun is high and shineth full upon the
Mugnone, where it hath dried all the stones, so that certain of those
that be there appear presently white, which of a morning, ere the sun
have dried them, show black; more by token that, to-day being a
working day, there be many folk, on one occasion or another abroad
along the banks, who, seeing us, may guess what we are about and maybe
do likewise, whereby the stone may come to their hands and we shall
have lost the trot for the amble. Meseemeth (an you be of the same way
of thinking) that this is a business to be undertaken of a morning,
whenas the black may be the better known from the white, and of a
holiday, when there will be none there to see us.'

Buffalmacco commended Bruno's counsel and Calandrino fell in
therewith; wherefore they agreed to go seek for the stone all three on
the following Sunday morning, and Calandrino besought them over all
else not to say a word of the matter to any one alive, for that it had
been imparted to him in confidence, and after told them that which he
had heard tell of the land of Bengodi, affirming with an oath that it
was as he said. As soon as he had taken his leave, the two others
agreed with each other what they should do in the matter and
Calandrino impatiently awaited the Sunday morning, which being come,
he arose at break of day and called his friends, with whom he sallied
forth of the city by the San Gallo gate and descending into the bed of
the Mugnone, began to go searching down stream for the stone.
Calandrino, as the eagerest of the three, went on before, skipping
nimbly hither and thither, and whenever he espied any black stone, he
pounced upon it and picking it up, thrust it into his bosom. His
comrades followed after him picking up now one stone and now another;
but Calandrino had not gone far before he had his bosom full of
stones; wherefore, gathering up the skirts of his grown, which was not
cut Flanders fashion,[375] he tucked them well into his surcingle all
round and made an ample lap thereof. However, it was no great while
ere he had filled it, and making a lap on like wise of his mantle,
soon filled this also with stones. Presently, the two others seeing
that he had gotten his load and that dinner-time drew nigh, quoth
Bruno to Buffalmacco, in accordance with the plan concerted between
them, 'Where is Calandrino?' Buffalmacco, who saw him hard by, turned
about and looking now here and now there, answered, 'I know not; but
he was before us but now.' 'But now, quotha!' cried Bruno. 'I warrant
you he is presently at home at dinner and hath left us to play the
fool here, seeking black stones down the Mugnone.' 'Egad,' rejoined
Buffalmacco 'he hath done well to make mock of us and leave us here,
since we were fools enough to credit him. Marry, who but we had been
simple enough to believe that a stone of such virtue was to be found
in the Mugnone?'

[Footnote 375: _i.e._ not strait-cut.]

Calandrino, hearing this, concluded that the heliotrope had fallen
into his hands and that by virtue thereof they saw him not, albeit he
was present with them, and rejoiced beyond measure at such a piece of
good luck, answered them not a word, but determined to return;
wherefore, turning back, he set off homeward. Buffalmacco, seeing
this, said to Bruno, 'What shall we do? Why do we not get us gone?'
Whereto Bruno answered, 'Let us begone; but I vow to God that
Calandrino shall never again serve me thus, and were I presently near
him as I have been all the morning, I would give him such a clout on
the shins with this stone that he should have cause to remember this
trick for maybe a month to come.' To say this and to let fly at
Calandrino's shins with the stone were one and the same thing; and the
latter, feeling the pain, lifted up his leg and began to puff and
blow, but yet held his peace and fared on. Presently Buffalmacco took
one of the flints he had picked up and said to Bruno, 'Look at this
fine flint; here should go for Calandrino's loins!' So saying, he let
fly and dealt him a sore rap in the small of the back with the stone.
Brief, on this wise, now with one word and now with another, they went
pelting him up the Mugnone till they came to the San Gallo gate, where
they threw down the stones they had gathered and halted awhile at the
custom house.

The officers, forewarned by them, feigned not to see Calandrino and
let him pass, laughing heartily at the jest, whilst he, without
stopping, made straight for his house, which was near the Canto alla
Macina, and fortune so far favoured the cheat that none accosted him,
as he came up the stream and after through the city, as, indeed, he
met with few, for that well nigh every one was at dinner. Accordingly,
he reached his house, thus laden, and as chance would have it, his
wife, a fair and virtuous lady, by name Mistress Tessa, was at the
stairhead. Seeing him come and somewhat provoked at his long
tarriance, she began to rail at him, saying, 'Devil take the man! Wilt
thou never think to come home betimes? All the folk have already dined
whenas thou comest back to dinner.' Calandrino, hearing this and
finding that he was seen, was overwhelmed with chagrin and vexation
and cried out, 'Alack, wicked woman that thou art, wast thou there?
Thou hast undone me; but, by God His faith, I will pay thee therefor!'
Therewithal he ran up to a little saloon he had and there disburdened
himself of the mass of stones he had brought home; then, running in a
fury at his wife, he laid hold of her by the hair and throwing her
down at his feet, cuffed and kicked her in every part as long as he
could wag his arms and legs, without leaving a hair on her head or a
bone in her body that was not beaten to a mash, nor did it avail her
aught to cry him mercy with clasped hands.

Meanwhile Bruno and Buffalmacco, after laughing awhile with the
keepers of the gate, proceeded with slow step to follow Calandrino
afar off and presently coming to the door of his house, heard the
cruel beating he was in act to give his wife; whereupon, making a show
of having but then come back, they called Calandrino, who came to the
window, all asweat and red with anger and vexation, and prayed them
come up to him. Accordingly, they went up, making believe to be
somewhat vexed, and seeing the room full of stones and the lady, all
torn and dishevelled and black and blue in the face for bruises,
weeping piteously in one corner of the room, whilst Calandrino sat in
another, untrussed and panting like one forspent, eyed them awhile,
then said, 'What is this, Calandrino? Art thou for building, that we
see all these stones here? And Mistress Tessa, what aileth her? It
seemeth thou hast beaten her. What is all this ado?' Calandrino,
outwearied with the weight of the stones and the fury with which he
had beaten his wife, no less than with chagrin for the luck which
himseemed he had lost, could not muster breath to give them aught but
broken words in reply; wherefore, as he delayed to answer, Buffalmacco
went on, 'Harkye, Calandrino, whatever other cause for anger thou
mightest have had, thou shouldst not have fooled us as thou hast done,
in that, after thou hadst carried us off to seek with thee for the
wonder-working stone, thou leftest us in the Mugnone, like a couple of
gulls, and madest off home, without saying so much as God be with you
or devil; the which we take exceeding ill; but assuredly this shall be
the last trick thou shalt ever play us.'

Therewithal, Calandrino enforcing himself,[376] answered, 'Comrades,
be not angered; the case standeth otherwise than as you deem. I
(unlucky wretch that I am!) had found the stone in question, and you
shall hear if I tell truth. When first you questioned one another of
me, I was less than half a score yards distant from you; but, seeing
that you made off and saw me not, I went on before you and came back
hither, still keeping a little in front of you.' Then, beginning from
the beginning, he recounted to them all that they had said and done,
first and last, and showed them how the stones had served his back and
shins; after which, 'And I may tell you,' continued he, 'that, whenas
I entered in at the gate, with all these stones about me which you see
here, there was nothing said to me, albeit you know how vexatious and
tiresome these gatekeepers use to be in wanting to see everything;
more by token that I met by the way several of my friends and gossips,
who are still wont to accost me and invite me to drink; but none of
them said a word to me, no, nor half a word, as those who saw me not.
At last, being come home hither, this accursed devil of a woman
presented herself before me, for that, as you know, women cause
everything lose its virtue, wherefore I, who might else have called
myself the luckiest man in Florence, am become the most unlucky. For
this I have beaten her as long as I could wag my fists and I know not
what hindereth me from slitting her weasand, accursed be the hour when
first I saw her and when she came to me in this house.' Then, flaming
out into fresh anger, he offered to rise and beat her anew.

[Footnote 376: _Sforzandosi_, _i.e._ recovering his wind with an
effort.]

Bruno and Buffalmacco, hearing all this, made believe to marvel
exceedingly and often confirmed that which Calandrino said, albeit
they had the while so great a mind to laugh that they were like to
burst; but, seeing him start up in a rage to beat his wife again, they
rose upon him and withheld him, avouching that the lady was nowise at
fault, but that he had only himself to blame for that which had
happened, since he knew that women caused things to lose their virtue
and had not bidden her beware of appearing before him that day, and
that God had bereft him of foresight to provide against this, either
for that the adventure was not to be his or because he had had it in
mind to cozen his comrades, to whom he should have discovered the
matter, as soon as he perceived that he had found the stone. Brief,
after many words, they made peace, not without much ado, between him
and the woebegone lady and went their ways, leaving him disconsolate,
with the house full of stones."



THE FOURTH STORY

[Day the Eighth]

     THE RECTOR OF FIESOLE LOVETH A WIDOW LADY, BUT IS NOT LOVED
     BY HER AND THINKING TO LIE WITH HER, LIETH WITH A
     SERVING-WENCH OF HERS, WHILST THE LADY'S BROTHERS CAUSE THE
     BISHOP FIND HIM IN THIS CASE


Elisa being come to the end of her story, which she had related to the
no small pleasure of all the company, the queen turned to Emilia, and
signified to her her wish that she should follow after with her story,
whereupon she promptly began thus: "I have not forgotten, noble
ladies, that it hath already been shown, in sundry of the foregoing
stories, how much we women are exposed to the importunities of the
priests and friars and clergy of every kind; but, seeing that so much
cannot be said thereof but that yet more will remain to say, I
purpose, to boot, to tell you a story of a rector, who, maugre all the
world, would e'en have a gentlewoman wish him well,[377] whether she
would or not; whereupon she, like a very discreet woman as she was,
used him as he deserved.

[Footnote 377: _i.e._ love him, grant him her favours. See ante,
passim.]

As all of you know, Fiesole, whose hill we can see hence, was once a
very great and ancient city, nor, albeit it is nowadays all undone,
hath it ever ceased to be, as it is yet, the seat of a bishop. Near
the cathedral church there a widow lady of noble birth, by name Madam
Piccarda, had an estate, where, for that she was not overwell to do,
she abode the most part of the year in a house of hers that was not
very big, and with her, two brothers of hers, very courteous and
worthy youths. It chanced that, the lady frequenting the cathedral
church and being yet very young and fair and agreeable, the rector of
the church became so sore enamoured of her that he could think of
nothing else, and after awhile, making bold to discover his mind to
her, he prayed her accept of his love and love him as he loved her.
Now he was already old in years, but very young in wit, malapert and
arrogant and presumptuous in the extreme, with manners and fashions
full of conceit and ill grace, and withal so froward and
ill-conditioned that there was none who wished him well; and if any
had scant regard for him, it was the lady in question, who not only
wished him no whit of good, but hated him worse than the megrims;
wherefore, like a discreet woman as she was, she answered him, 'Sir,
that you love me should be mighty pleasing to me, who am bound to love
you and will gladly do so; but between your love and mine nothing
unseemly should ever befall. You are my spiritual father and a priest
and are presently well stricken in years, all which things should make
you both modest and chaste; whilst I, on the other hand, am no girl,
nor do these amorous toys beseem my present condition, for that I am a
widow and you well know what discretion is required in widows;
wherefore I pray you hold me excused, for that I shall never love you
after the fashion whereof you require me; nor do I wish to be thus
loved of you.'

The rector could get of her no other answer for that time, but, nowise
daunted or disheartened by the first rebuff, solicited her again and
again with the most overweening importunity, both by letter and
message, nay, even by word of mouth, whenas he saw her come into the
church. Wherefor, herseeming that this was too great and too grievous
an annoy, she cast about to rid herself of him after such a fashion as
he deserved, since she could no otherwise, but would do nought ere she
had taken counsel with her brothers. Accordingly, she acquainted them
with the rector's behaviour towards her and that which she purposed to
do, and having therein full license from them, went a few days after
to the church, as was her wont. As soon as the rector saw her, he came
up to her and with his usual assurance, accosted her familiarly. The
lady received him with a cheerful countenance and withdrawing apart
with him, after he had said many words to her in his wonted style, she
heaved a great sigh and said, 'Sir, I have heard that there is no
fortalice so strong but that, being every day assaulted, it cometh at
last to be taken, and this I can very well see to have happened to
myself; for that you have so closely beset me with soft words and with
one complaisance and another, that you have made me break my resolve,
and I am now disposed, since I please you thus, to consent to be
yours.' 'Gramercy, madam,' answered the rector, overjoyed, 'to tell
you the truth, I have often wondered how you could hold out so long,
considering that never did the like betide me with any woman; nay, I
have said whiles, "Were women of silver, they would not be worth a
farthing, for that not one of them would stand the hammer." But let
that pass for the present. When and where can we be together?' Whereto
quoth the lady, 'Sweet my lord, as for the when, it may be what time
soever most pleaseth us, for that I have no husband to whom it
behoveth me render an account of my nights; but for the where I know
not how to contrive.' 'How?' cried the priest. 'Why, in your house to
be sure.' 'Sir,' answered the lady, 'you know I have two young
brothers, who come and go about the house with their companions day
and night, and my house is not overbig; wherefore it may not be there,
except one chose to abide there mute-fashion, without saying a word or
making the least sound, and be in the dark, after the manner of the
blind. An you be content to do this, it might be, for they meddle not
with my bedchamber; but their own is so close to mine that one cannot
whisper the least word, without its being heard.' 'Madam,' answered
the rector, 'this shall not hinder us for a night or two, against I
bethink me where we may foregather more at ease.' Quoth she, 'Sir, let
that rest with you; but of one thing I pray you, that this abide
secret, so no word be ever known thereof.' 'Madam,' replied he, 'have
no fear for that; but, an it may be, make shift that we shall
foregather this evening.' 'With all my heart,' said the lady; and
appointing him how and when he should come, she took leave of him and
returned home.

Now she had a serving-wench, who was not overyoung, but had the
foulest and worst-favoured visnomy was ever seen; for she had a nose
flattened sore, a mouth all awry, thick lips and great ill-set teeth;
moreover, she inclined to squint, nor was ever without sore eyes, and
had a green and yellow complexion, which gave her the air of having
passed the summer not at Fiesole, but at Sinigaglia.[378] Besides all
this, she was hipshot and a thought crooked on the right side. Her
name was Ciuta, but, for that she had such a dog's visnomy of her own,
she was called of every one Ciutazza;[379] and for all she was
misshapen of her person, she was not without a spice of roguishness.
The lady called her and said to her, 'Harkye, Ciutazza, an thou wilt
do me a service this night. I will give thee a fine new shift.'
Ciutazza, hearing speak of the shift, answered, 'Madam, so you give me
a shift, I will cast myself into the fire, let alone otherwhat.'
'Well, then,' said her mistress, 'I would have thee lie to-night with
a man in my bed and load him with caresses, but take good care not to
say a word, lest thou be heard by my brothers, who, as thou knowest,
sleep in the next room; and after I will give thee the shift.' Quoth
Ciutazza, 'With all my heart. I will lie with half a dozen men, if
need be, let alone one.' Accordingly, at nightfall, my lord the rector
made his appearance, according to agreement, whilst the two young men,
by the lady's appointment, were in their bedchamber and took good care
to make themselves heard; wherefore he entered the lady's chamber in
silence and darkness and betook himself, as she had bidden him,
straight to the bed, whither on her part came Ciutazza, who had been
well lessoned by the lady of that which she had to do. My lord rector,
thinking he had his mistress beside him, caught Ciutazza in his arms
and fell to kissing her, without saying a word, and she him; whereupon
he proceeded to solace himself with her, taking, as he thought,
possession of the long-desired good.

[Footnote 378: _i.e._ in the malaria district.]

[Footnote 379: _i.e._ great ugly Ciuta.]

The lady, having done this, charged her brothers carry the rest of the
plot into execution, wherefore, stealing softly out of the chamber,
they made for the great square and fortune was more favorable to them
than they themselves asked in that which they had a mind to do,
inasmuch as, the heat being great, the bishop had enquired for the two
young gentlemen, so he might go a-pleasuring to their house and drink
with them. But, seeing them coming, he acquainted them with his wish
and returned with them to their house, where, entering a cool little
courtyard of theirs, in which were many flambeaux alight, he drank
with great pleasure of an excellent wine of theirs. When he had
drunken, the young men said to him, 'My lord, since you have done us
so much favour as to deign to visit this our poor house, whereto we
came to invite you, we would have you be pleased to view a small
matter with which we would fain show you.' The bishop answered that he
would well; whereupon one of the young men, taking a lighted flambeau
in his hand, made for the chamber where my lord rector lay with
Ciutazza, followed by the bishop and all the rest. The rector, to
arrive the quicklier at his journey's end, had hastened to take horse
and had already ridden more than three miles before they came thither;
wherefore, being somewhat weary, he had, notwithstanding the heat,
fallen asleep with Ciutazza in his arms. Accordingly, when the young
man entered the chamber, light in hand, and after him the bishop and
all the others, he was shown to the prelate in this plight; whereupon
he awoke and seeing the light and the folk about him, was sore abashed
and hid his head for fear under the bed-clothes. The bishop gave him a
sound rating and made him put out his head and see with whom he had
lain; whereupon the rector, understanding the trick that had been
played him of the lady, what with this and what with the disgrace
himseemed he had gotten, became of a sudden the woefullest man that
was aye. Then, having, by the bishop's commandment, reclad himself, he
was despatched to his house under good guard, to suffer sore penance
for the sin he had committed. The bishop presently enquiring how it
came to pass that he had gone thither to lie with Ciutazza, the young
men orderly related everything to him, which having heard, he greatly
commended both the lady and her brothers for that, without choosing to
imbrue their hands in the blood of a priest, they had entreated him as
he deserved. As for the rector, he caused him bewail his offence forty
days' space; but love and despite made him rue it for more than
nine-and-forty,[380] more by token that, for a great while after, he
could never go abroad but the children would point at him and say,
'See, there is he who lay with Ciutazza'; the which was so sore an
annoy to him that he was like to go mad therefor. On such wise did the
worthy lady rid herself of the importunity of the malapert rector and
Ciutazza gained the shift and a merry night."

[Footnote 380: _Quarantanove_, a proverbial expression for an
indefinite number.]



THE FIFTH STORY

[Day the Eighth]

     THREE YOUNG MEN PULL THE BREECHES OFF A MARCHEGAN JUDGE IN
     FLORENCE, WHAT WHILE HE IS ON THE BENCH, ADMINISTERING
     JUSTICE


Emilia having made an end of her story and the widow lady having been
commended of all, the queen looked to Filostrato and said, "It is now
thy turn to tell." He answered promptly that he was ready and began,
"Delightsome ladies, the mention by Elisa a little before of a certain
young man, to wit, Maso del Saggio, hath caused me leave a story I
purposed to tell you, so I may relate to you one of him and certain
companions of his, which, if (albeit it is nowise unseemly) it offer
certain expressions which you think shame to use, is natheless so
laughable that I will e'en tell it.

As you may all have heard, there come oftentimes to our city governors
from the Marches of Ancona, who are commonly mean-spirited folk and so
paltry and sordid of life that their every fashion seemeth nought
other than a lousy cadger's trick; and of this innate paltriness and
avarice, they bring with them judges and notaries, who seem men taken
from the plough-tail or the cobbler's stall rather than from the
schools of law. Now, one of these being come hither for Provost, among
the many judges whom he brought with him was one who styled himself
Messer Niccola da San Lepidio and who had more the air of a tinker
than of aught else, and he was set with other judges to hear criminal
causes. As it oft happeneth that, for all the townsfolk have nought in
the world to do at the courts of law, yet bytimes they go thither, it
befell that Maso del Saggio went thither one morning, in quest of a
friend of his, and chancing to cast his eyes whereas this said Messer
Niccola sat, himseemed that here was a rare outlandish kind of wild
fowl. Accordingly, he went on to examine him from head to foot, and
albeit he saw him with the miniver bonnet on his head all black with
smoke and grease and a paltry inkhorn at his girdle, a gown longer
than his mantle and store of other things all foreign to a man of good
breeding and manners, yet of all these the most notable, to his
thinking, was a pair of breeches, the backside whereof, as the judge
sat, with his clothes standing open in front for straitness, he
perceived came halfway down his legs. Thereupon, without tarrying
longer to look upon him, he left him with whom he went seeking and
beginning a new quest, presently found two comrades of his, called one
Ribi and the other Matteuzzo, men much of the same mad humour as
himself, and said to them, 'As you tender me, come with me to the law
courts, for I wish to show you the rarest scarecrow you ever saw.'

Accordingly, carrying them to the court house, he showed them the
aforesaid judge and his breeches, whereat they fell a-laughing, as
soon as they caught sight of him afar off; then, drawing nearer to the
platform whereon my lord judge sat, they saw that one might lightly
pass thereunder and that, moreover, the boards under his feet were so
broken that one might with great ease thrust his hand and arm between
them; whereupon quoth Maso to his comrades, 'Needs must we pull him
off those breeches of his altogether, for that it may very well be
done.' Each of the others had already seen how;[381] wherefore, having
agreed among themselves what they should say and do, they returned
thither next morning, when, the court being very full of folk,
Matteuzzo, without being seen of any, crept under the bench and posted
himself immediately beneath the judge's feet. Meanwhile, Maso came up
to my lord judge on one side and taking him by the skirt of his gown,
whilst Ribi did the like on the other side, began to say, 'My lord,
my lord, I pray you for God's sake, ere yonder scurvy thief on the
other side of you go elsewhere, make him restore me a pair of
saddle-bags whereof he hath saith indeed he did it not; but I saw him,
not a month ago, in act to have them resoled.' Ribi on his side cried
out with all his might, 'Believe him not, my lord; he is an arrant
knave, and for that he knoweth I am come to lay a complaint against
him for a pair of saddle-bags whereof he hath robbed me, he cometh now
with his story of the boothose, which I have had in my house this many
a day. An you believe me not, I can bring you to witness my next-door
neighbor Trecca and Grassa the tripewoman and one who goeth gathering
the sweepings from Santa Masia at Verjaza, who saw him when he came
back from the country.

[Footnote 381: _i.e._ how they might do this.]

Maso on the other hand suffered not Ribi to speak, but bawled his
loudest, whereupon the other but shouted the more. The judge stood up
and leaned towards them, so he might the better apprehend what they
had to say, wherefore Matteuzzo, watching his opportunity, thrust his
hand between the crack of the boards and laying hold of Messer
Niccola's galligaskins by the breech, tugged at them amain. The
breeches came down incontinent, for that the judge was lean and lank
of the crupper; whereupon, feeling this and knowing not what it might
be, he would have sat down again and pulled his skirts forward to
cover himself; but Maso on the one side and Ribi on the other still
held him fast and cried out, 'My lord, you do ill not to do me justice
and to seek to avoid hearing me and get you gone otherwhere; there be
no writs granted in this city for such small matters as this.' So
saying, they held him fast by the clothes on such wise that all who
were in the court perceived that his breeches had been pulled down.
However, Matteuzzo, after he had held them awhile, let them go and
coming forth from under the platform, made off out of the court and
went his way without being seen; whereupon quoth Ribi, himseeming he
had done enough, 'I vow to God I will appeal to the syndicate!' Whilst
Maso, on his part, let go the mantle and said, 'Nay, I will e'en come
hither again and again until such time as I find you not hindered as
you seem to be this morning.' So saying, they both made off as
quickliest they might, each on his own side, whilst my lord judge
pulled up his breeches in every one's presence, as if he were arisen
from sleep; then, perceiving how the case stood, he enquired whither
they were gone who were at difference anent the boothose and the
saddle-bags; but they were not to be found, whereupon he began to
swear by Cock's bowels that need must he know and learn if it were the
wont at Florence to pull down the judges' breeches, whenas they sat on
the judicial bench. The Provost, on his part, hearing of this, made a
great stir; but, his friends having shown him that this had only been
done to give him notice that the Florentines right well understood
how, whereas he should have brought judges, he had brought them sorry
patches, to have them better cheap, he thought it best to hold his
peace, and so the thing went no farther for the nonce."



THE SIXTH STORY

[Day the Eighth]

     BRUNO AND BUFFALMACCO, HAVING STOLEN A PIG FROM CALANDRINO,
     MAKE HIM TRY THE ORDEAL WITH GINGER BOLUSES AND SACK AND
     GIVE HIM (INSTEAD OF THE GINGER) TWO DOG-BALLS COMPOUNDED
     WITH ALOES, WHEREBY IT APPEARETH THAT HE HIMSELF HATH HAD
     THE PIG AND THEY MAKE HIM PAY BLACKMAIL, AN HE WOULD NOT
     HAVE THEM TELL HIS WIFE


No sooner had Filostrato despatched his story, which had given rise to
many a laugh, than the queen bade Filomena follow on, whereupon she
began: "Gracious ladies, even as Filostrato was led by the mention of
Maso to tell the story which you have just heard from him, so neither
more nor less am I moved by that of Calandrino and his friends to tell
you another of them, which methinketh will please you.

Who Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco were I need not explain to you,
for that you have already heard it well enough; wherefore, to proceed
with my story, I must tell you that Calandrino owned a little farm at
no great distance from Florence, that he had had to his wife's dowry.
From this farm, amongst other things that he got thence, he had every
year a pig, and it was his wont still to betake himself thither, he
and his wife, and kill the pig and have it salted on the spot. It
chanced one year that, his wife being somewhat ailing, he went himself
to kill the pig, which Bruno and Buffalmacco hearing and knowing that
his wife was not gone to the farm with him, they repaired to a priest,
very great friend of theirs and a neighbor of Calandrino, to sojourn
some days with him. Now Calandrino had that very morning killed the
pig and seeing them with the priest, called to them saying, 'You are
welcome. I would fain have you see what a good husband[382] I am.'
Then carrying them into the house, he showed them the pig, which they
seeing to be a very fine one and understanding from Calandrino that he
meant to salt it down for his family, 'Good lack,' quoth Bruno to him,
'what a ninny thou art! Sell it and let us make merry with the price,
and tell thy wife that it hath been stolen from thee.' 'Nay, answered
Calandrino, 'she would never believe it and would drive me out of the
house. Spare your pains, for I will never do it.' And many were the
words, but they availed nothing.

[Footnote 382: _i.e._ in the old sense of "manager" (_massajo_).]

Calandrino invited them to supper, but with so ill a grace that they
refused to sup there and took their leave of him; whereupon quoth
Bruno and Buffalmacco, 'What sayest thou to stealing yonder pig from
him to-night?' 'Marry,' replied the other, 'how can we do it?' Quoth
Bruno, 'I can see how well enough, an he remove it not from where it
was but now.' 'Then,' rejoined his companion, 'let us do it. Why
should we not? And after we will make merry over it with the parson
here.' The priest answered that he would well, and Bruno said, 'Here
must some little art be used. Thou knowest, Buffalmacco, how
niggardly Calandrino is and how gladly he drinketh when others pay;
let us go and carry him to the tavern, where the priest shall make
believe to pay the whole scot in our honor nor suffer him to pay
aught. Calandrino will soon grow fuddled and then we can manage it
lightly enough, for that he is alone in the house.' As he said, so
they did and Calandrino seeing that the priest suffered none to pay,
gave himself up to drinking and took in a good load, albeit it needed
no great matter to make him drunk. It was pretty late at night when
they left the tavern and Calandrino, without troubling himself about
supper, went straight home, where, thinking to have shut the door, he
left it open and betook himself to bed. Buffalmacco and Bruno went off
to sup with the priest and after supper repaired quietly to
Calandrino's house, carrying with them certain implements wherewithal
to break in whereas Bruno had appointed it; but, finding the door
open, they entered and unhooking the pig, carried it off to the
priest's house, where they laid it up and betook themselves to sleep.

On the morrow, Calandrino, having slept off the fumes of the wine,
arose in the morning and going down, missed his pig and saw the door
open; whereupon he questioned this one and that if they knew who had
taken it and getting no news of it, began to make a great outcry,
saying, 'Woe is me, miserable wretch that I am!' for that the pig had
been stolen from him. As soon as Bruno and Buffalmacco were risen,
they repaired to Calandrino's house, to hear what he would say anent
the pig, and he no sooner saw them than he called out to them, well
nigh weeping, and said, 'Woe's me, comrades mine; my pig hath been
stolen from me!' Whereupon Bruno came up to him and said softly, 'It
is a marvel that thou hast been wise for once.' 'Alack,' replied
Calandrino, 'indeed I say sooth.' 'That's the thing to say,' quoth
Bruno. 'Make a great outcry, so it may well appear that it is e'en as
thou sayst.' Therewithal Calandrino bawled out yet loudlier, saying,
'Cock's body, I tell thee it hath been stolen from me in good
earnest!' 'Good, good,' replied Bruno; 'that's the way to speak; cry
out lustily, make thyself well heard, so it may seem true.' Quoth
Calandrino, 'Thou wouldst make me give my soul to the Fiend! I tell
thee and thou believest me not. May I be strung up by the neck an it
have not been stolen from me!' 'Good lack!' cried Bruno. 'How can that
be? I saw it here but yesterday. Thinkest thou to make me believe that
it hath flown away?' Quoth Calandrino, 'It is as I tell thee.' 'Good
lack,' repeated Bruno, 'can it be?' 'Certes,' replied Calandrino, 'it
is so, more by token that I am undone and know not how I shall return
home. My wife will never believe me; or even if she do, I shall have
no peace with her this year to come.' Quoth Bruno, 'So God save me,
this is ill done, if it be true; but thou knowest, Calandrino, I
lessoned thee yesterday to say thus and I would not have thee at once
cozen thy wife and us.' Therewithal Calandrino fell to crying out and
saying, 'Alack, why will you drive me to desperation and make me
blaspheme God and the Saints? I tell you the pig was stolen from me
yesternight.'

Then said Buffalmacco, 'If it be so indeed, we must cast about for a
means of having it again, an we may contrive it.' 'But what means,'
asked Calandrino, 'can we find?' Quoth Buffalmacco, 'We may be sure
that there hath come none from the Indies to rob thee of thy pig; the
thief must have been some one of thy neighbors. An thou canst make
shift to assemble them, I know how to work the ordeal by bread and
cheese and we will presently see for certain who hath had it.' 'Ay,'
put in Bruno, 'thou wouldst make a fine thing of bread and cheese with
such gentry as we have about here, for one of them I am certain hath
had the pig, and he would smoke the trap and would not come.' 'How,
then, shall we do?' asked Buffalmacco, and Bruno said, 'We must e'en
do it with ginger boluses and good vernage[383] and invite them to
drink. They will suspect nothing and come, and the ginger boluses can
be blessed even as the bread and cheese.' Quoth Buffalmacco, 'Indeed,
thou sayst sooth. What sayst thou, Calandrino? Shall's do 't?' 'Nay,'
replied the gull, 'I pray you thereof for the love of God; for, did I
but know who hath had it, I should hold myself half consoled.' 'Marry,
then,' said Bruno, 'I am ready to go to Florence, to oblige thee, for
the things aforesaid, so thou wilt give me the money.' Now Calandrino
had maybe forty shillings, which he gave him, and Bruno accordingly
repaired to Florence to a friend of his, a druggist, of whom he bought
a pound of fine ginger boluses and caused compound a couple of
dogballs with fresh confect of hepatic aloes; after which he let cover
these latter with sugar, like the others, and set thereon a privy mark
by which he might very well know them, so he should not mistake them
nor change them. Then, buying a flask of good vernage, he returned to
Calandrino in the country and said to him, 'Do thou to-morrow morning
invite those whom thou suspectest to drink with thee; it is a holiday
and all will willingly come. Meanwhile, Buffalmacco and I will
to-night make the conjuration over the pills and bring them to thee
to-morrow morning at home; and for the love of thee I will administer
them myself and do and say that which is to be said and done.'

[Footnote 383: _i.e._ white wine, see p. 372, note.]

Calandrino did as he said and assembled on the following morning a
goodly company of such young Florentines as were presently about the
village and of husbandmen; whereupon Bruno and Buffalmacco came with a
box of pills and the flask of wine and made the folk stand in a ring.
Then said Bruno, 'Gentlemen, needs must I tell you the reason
wherefore you are here, so that, if aught betide that please you not,
you may have no cause to complain of me. Calandrino here was robbed
yesternight of a fine pig, nor can he find who hath had it; and for
that none other than some one of us who are here can have stolen it
from him, he proffereth each of you, that he may discover who hath had
it, one of these pills to eat and a draught of wine. Now you must know
that he who hath had the pig will not be able to swallow the pill;
nay, it will seem to him more bitter than poison and he will spit it
out; wherefore, rather than that shame be done him in the presence of
so many, he were better tell it to the parson by way of confession and
I will proceed no farther with this matter.'

All who were there declared that they would willingly eat of the
pills, whereupon Bruno ranged them in order and set Calandrino among
them; then, beginning at one end of the line, he proceeded to give
each his bolus, and whenas he came over against Calandrino, he took
one of the dogballs and put it into his hand. Calandrino clapped it
incontinent into his mouth and began to chew it; but no sooner did his
tongue taste the aloes, than he spat it out again, being unable to
brook the bitterness. Meanwhile, each was looking other in the face,
to see who should spit out his bolus, and whilst Bruno, not having
made an end of serving them out, went on to do so, feigning to pay no
heed to Calandrino's doing, he heard say behind him, 'How now,
Calandrino? What meaneth this?' Whereupon he turned suddenly round and
seeing that Calandrino had spat out his bolus, said, 'Stay, maybe
somewhat else hath caused him spit it out. Take another of them.'
Then, taking the other dogball, he thrust it into Calandrino's mouth
and went on to finish giving out the rest. If the first ball seemed
bitter to Calandrino, the second was bitterer yet; but, being ashamed
to spit it out, he kept it awhile in his mouth, chewing it and
shedding tears that seemed hazel-nuts so big they were, till at last,
unable to hold out longer, he cast it forth, like as he had the first.
Meanwhile Buffalmacco and Bruno gave the company to drink, and all,
seeing this, declared that Calandrino had certainly stolen the pig
from himself; nay, there were those there who rated him roundly.

After they were all gone, and the two rogues left alone with
Calandrino, Buffalmacco said to him, 'I still had it for certain that
it was thou tookst the pig thyself and wouldst fain make us believe
that it had been stolen from thee, to escape giving us one poor while
to drink of the monies thou hadst for it.' Calandrino, who was not yet
quit of the bitter taste of the aloes, began to swear that he had not
had it, and Buffalmacco said, 'But in good earnest, comrade, what
gottest thou for it? Was it six florins?' Calandrino, hearing this,
began to wax desperate, and Bruno said, 'Harkye, Calandrino, there was
such an one in the company that ate and drank with us, who told me
that thou hast a wench over yonder, whom thou keepest for thy pleasure
and to whom thou givest whatsoever thou canst scrape together, and
that he held it for certain that thou hadst sent her the pig. Thou
hast learned of late to play pranks of this kind; thou carriedst us
off t'other day down the Mugnone, picking up black stones, and whenas
thou hadst gotten us aboard ship without biscuit,[384] thou madest off
and wouldst after have us believe that thou hadst found the magic
stone; and now on like wise thou thinkest, by dint of oaths, to make
us believe that the pig, which thou hast given away or more like sold,
hath been stolen from thee. But we are used to thy tricks and know
them; thou shalt not avail to play us any more of them, and to be
plain with thee, since we have been at pains to make the conjuration,
we mean that thou shalt give us two pairs of capons; else will we
tell Mistress Tessa everything.' Calandrino, seeing that he was not
believed and himseeming he had had vexation enough, without having his
wife's scolding into the bargain, gave them two pairs of capons, which
they carried off to Florence, after they had salted the pig, leaving
Calandrino to digest the loss and the flouting as best he might."

[Footnote 384: _i.e._ embarked on a bootless quest.]



THE SEVENTH STORY

[Day the Eighth]

     A SCHOLAR LOVETH A WIDOW LADY, WHO, BEING ENAMOURED OF
     ANOTHER, CAUSETH HIM SPEND ONE WINTER'S NIGHT IN THE SNOW
     AWAITING HER, AND HE AFTER CONTRIVETH, BY HIS SLEIGHT, TO
     HAVE HER ABIDE NAKED, ALL ONE MID-JULY DAY, ON THE SUMMIT OF
     A TOWER, EXPOSED TO FLIES AND GADS AND SUN


The ladies laughed amain at the unhappy Calandrino and would have
laughed yet more, but that it irked them to see him fleeced of the
capons, to boot, by those who had already robbed him of the pig. But,
as soon as the end of the story was come, the queen charged Pampinea
tell hers, and she promptly began thus: "It chanceth oft, dearest
ladies, that craft is put to scorn by craft and it is therefore a sign
of little wit to delight in making mock of others. We have, for
several stories, laughed amain at tricks that have been played upon
folk and whereof no vengeance is recorded to have been taken; but I
purpose now to cause you have some compassion of a just retribution
wreaked upon a townswoman of ours, on whose head her own cheat
recoiled and was retorted well nigh unto death; and the hearing of
this will not be without profit unto you, for that henceforward you
will the better keep yourselves from making mock of others, and in
this you will show great good sense.

Not many years ago there was in Florence, a young lady, by name Elena,
fair of favour and haughty of humour, of very gentle lineage and
endowed with sufficient abundance of the goods of fortune, who, being
widowed of her husband, chose never to marry again, for that she was
enamoured of a handsome and agreeable youth of her own choice, and
with the aid of a maid of hers, in whom she put great trust, being
quit of every other care, she often with marvellous delight gave
herself a good time with him. In these days it chanced that a young
gentleman of our city, by name Rinieri, having long studied in Paris,
not for the sake of after selling his knowledge by retail, as many do,
but to know the nature of things and their causes, the which
excellently becometh a gentleman, returned thence to Florence and
there lived citizen-fashion, much honoured as well for his nobility as
for his learning. But, as it chanceth often that those, who have the
most experience of things profound, are the soonest snared of love,
even so it befell this Rinieri; for, having one day repaired, by way
of diversion, to an entertainment, there presented herself before his
eyes the aforesaid Elena, clad all in black, as our widows go, and
full, to his judgment, of such beauty and pleasantness as himseemed he
had never beheld in any other woman; and in his heart he deemed that
he might call himself blest whom God should vouchsafe to hold her
naked in his arms. Then, furtively considering her once and again and
knowing that great things and precious were not to be acquired without
travail, he altogether determined in himself to devote all his pains
and all his diligence to the pleasing her, to the end that thereby he
might gain her love and so avail to have his fill of her.

The young lady, (who kept not her eyes fixed upon the nether world,
but, conceiting herself as much and more than as much as she was,
moved them artfully hither and thither, gazing all about, and was
quick to note who delighted to look upon her,) soon became aware of
Rinieri and said, laughing, in herself, 'I have not come hither in
vain to-day; for, an I mistake not, I have caught a woodcock by the
bill.' Accordingly, she fell to ogling him from time to time with the
tail of her eye and studied, inasmuch as she might, to let him see
that she took note of him, thinking that the more men she allured and
ensnared with her charms, so much the more of price would her beauty
be, especially to him on whom she had bestowed it, together with her
love. The learned scholar, laying aside philosophical speculations,
turned all his thoughts to her and thinking to please her, enquired
where she lived and proceeded to pass to and fro before her house,
colouring his comings and goings with various pretexts, whilst the
lady, idly glorying in this, for the reason already set out, made
believe to take great pleasure in seeing him. Accordingly, he found
means to clap up an acquaintance with her maid and discovering to her
his love, prayed her make interest for him with her mistress, so he
might avail to have her favour. The maid promised freely and told the
lady, who hearkened with the heartiest laughter in the world and said,
'Seest thou where yonder man cometh to lose the wit he hath brought
back from Paris? Marry, we will give him that which he goeth seeking.
An he bespeak thee again, do thou tell him that I love him far more
than he loveth me; but that it behoveth me look to mine honour, so I
may hold up my head with the other ladies; whereof and he be as wise
as folk say, he will hold me so much the dearer.' Alack, poor silly
soul, she knew not aright, ladies mine, what it is to try conclusions
with scholars. The maid went in search of Rinieri and finding him, did
that which had been enjoined her of her mistress, whereat he was
overjoyed and proceeded to use more urgent entreaties, writing letters
and sending presents, all of which were accepted, but he got nothing
but vague and general answers; and on this wise she held him in play a
great while.

At last, to show her lover, to whom she had discovered everything and
who was whiles somewhat vexed with her for this and had conceived some
jealousy of Rinieri, that he did wrong to suspect her thereof, she
despatched to the scholar, now grown very pressing, her maid, who told
him, on her mistress's part, that she had never yet had an opportunity
to do aught that might pleasure him since he had certified her of his
love, but that on the occasion of the festival of the Nativity she
hoped to be able to be with him; wherefore, an it liked him, he was
on the evening of the feast to come by night to her courtyard, whither
she would go for him as first she might. At this the scholar was the
gladdest man alive and betook himself at the appointed time to his
mistress's house, where he was carried by the maid into a courtyard
and being there locked in, proceeded to wait the lady's coming. The
latter had that evening sent for her lover and after she had supped
merrily with him, she told him that which she purposed to do that
night, adding, 'And thou mayst see for thyself what and how great is
the love I have borne and bear him of whom thou hast taken a
jealousy.' The lover heard these words with great satisfaction and was
impatient to see by the fact that which the lady gave him to
understand with words.

It had by chance snowed hard during the day and everything was covered
with snow, wherefore the scholar had not long abidden in the courtyard
before he began to feel colder than he could have wished; but, looking
to recruit himself speedily, he was fain to endure it with patience.
Presently, the lady said to her lover, 'Let us go look from a lattice
what yonder fellow, of whom thou art waxed jealous, doth and hear what
he shall answer the maid, whom I have sent to parley with him.'
Accordingly, they betook themselves to a lattice and thence, seeing,
without being seen, they heard the maid from another lattice bespeak
the scholar and say, 'Rinieri, my lady is the woefullest woman that
was aye, for that there is one of her brothers come hither to-night,
who hath talked much with her and after must needs sup with her, nor
is yet gone away; but methinketh he will soon be gone; wherefore she
hath not been able to come to thee, but will soon come now and prayeth
thee not to take the waiting in ill part.' Rinieri, believing this to
be true, replied, 'Tell my lady to give herself no concern for me till
such time as she can at her commodity come to me, but bid her do this
as quickliest she may.' The maid turned back into the house and betook
herself to bed, whilst the lady said to her gallant, 'Well, how sayst
thou? Thinkest thou that, an I wished him such weal as thou fearest, I
would suffer him stand a-freezing down yonder?' So saying, she betook
herself to bed with her lover, who was now in part satisfied, and
there they abode a great while in joyance and liesse, laughing and
making mock of the wretched scholar, who fared to and fro the while in
the courtyard, making shift to warm himself with exercise, nor had
whereas he might seat himself or shelter from the night-damp. He
cursed her brother's long stay with the lady and took everything he
heard for the opening of a door to him by her, but hoped in vain.

The lady, having solaced herself with her lover till near upon
midnight, said to him, 'How deemest thou, my soul, of our scholar?
Whether seemeth to thee the greater, his wit or the love I bear him?
Will the cold which I presently cause him suffer do away from thy mind
the doubts which my pleasantries aroused therein the other day?'
Whereto he replied, 'Heart of my body, yes, I know right well that,
like as thou art my good and my peace and my delight and all my hope,
even so am I thine.' 'Then,' rejoined she, 'kiss me a thousand times,
so I may see if thou say sooth.' Whereupon he clipped her fast in his
arms and kissed her not a thousand, but more than an hundred thousand
times. Then, after they had abidden awhile in such discourse, the lady
said, 'Marry, let us arise a little and go see if the fire is anydele
spent, wherein this my new lover wrote me that he burnt all day long.'
Accordingly, they arose and getting them to the accustomed lattice,
looked out into the courtyard, where they saw the scholar dancing a
right merry jig on the snow, so fast and brisk that never had they
seen the like, to the sound of the chattering of the teeth that he
made for excess of cold; whereupon quoth the lady, 'How sayst thou,
sweet my hope? Seemeth to thee that I know how to make folk jig it
without sound of trump or bagpipe?' Whereto he answered, laughing, 'Ay
dost thou, my chief delight.' Quoth the lady, 'I will that we go down
to the door; thou shalt abide quiet, whilst I bespeak him, and we
shall hear what he will say; belike we shall have no less diversion
thereof than we had from seeing him.'

Accordingly, they softly opened the chamber and stole down to the
door, where, without opening it anydele, the lady called to the
scholar in a low voice by a little hole that was there. Rinieri
hearing himself called, praised God, taking it oversoon for granted
that he was to be presently admitted, and coming up to the door, said,
'Here am I, madam; open for God's sake, for I die of cold.' 'O ay,'
replied the lady, 'I know thou art a chilly one; is then the cold so
exceeding great, because, forsooth, there is a little snow about? I
wot the nights are much colder in Paris. I cannot open to thee yet,
for that accursed brother of mine, who came to sup with me to-night,
is not yet gone; but he will soon begone and I will come incontinent
to open to thee. I have but now very hardly stolen away from him, that
I might come to exhort thee not to wax weary of waiting.' 'Alack,
madam,' cried the scholar, 'I pray you for God's sake open to me, so I
may abide within under cover, for that this little while past there is
come on the thickest snow in the world and it yet snoweth, and I will
wait for you as long as it shall please you.' 'Woe's me, sweet my
treasure,' replied the lady, 'that cannot I; for this door maketh so
great a noise, whenas it is opened, that it would lightly be heard of
my brother, if I should open to thee; but I will go bid him begone, so
I may after come back and open to thee.' 'Then go quickly,' rejoined
he; 'and I prithee let make a good fire, so I may warm me as soon as I
come in, for that I am grown so cold I can scarce feel myself.' Quoth
the lady, 'That should not be possible, an that be true which thou
hast many a time written me, to wit, that thou burnest for the love of
me. Now, I must go, wait and be of good heart.' Then, with her lover,
who had heard all this with the utmost pleasure, she went back to bed,
and that night they slept little, nay, they spent it well nigh all in
dalliance and delight and in making mock of Rinieri.

Meanwhile, the unhappy scholar (now well nigh grown a stork, so sore
did his teeth chatter,) perceiving at last that he was befooled,
essayed again and again to open the door and sought an he might not
avail to issue thence by another way; but, finding no means
thereunto, he fell a-ranging to and fro like a lion, cursing the
foulness of the weather and the lady's malignity and the length of the
night, together with his own credulity; wherefore, being sore despited
against his mistress, the long and ardent love he had borne her was
suddenly changed to fierce and bitter hatred and he revolved in
himself many and various things, so he might find a means of revenge,
the which he now desired far more eagerly than he had before desired
to be with the lady. At last, after much long tarriance, the night
drew near unto day and the dawn began to appear; whereupon the maid,
who had been lessoned by the lady, coming down, opened the courtyard
door and feigning to have compassion of Rinieri, said, 'Bad luck may
he have who came hither yestereve! He hath kept us all night upon
thorns and hath caused thee freeze; but knowest thou what? Bear it
with patience, for that which could not be to-night shall be another
time. Indeed, I know nought could have happened that had been so
displeasing to my lady.'

The despiteful scholar, like a wise man as he was, who knew that
threats are but arms for the threatened, locked up in his breast that
which untempered will would fain have vented and said in a low voice,
without anywise showing himself vexed, 'In truth I have had the worst
night I ever had; but I have well apprehended that the lady is nowise
to blame for this, inasmuch as she herself of her compassion for me,
came down hither to excuse herself and to hearten me; and as thou
sayest, that which hath not been to-night shall be another time.
Commend me to her and God be with thee.' Therewithal, well nigh stark
with cold, he made his way, as best he might, back to his house,
where, being drowsed to death, he cast himself upon his bed to sleep
and awoke well nigh crippled of his arms and legs; wherefore, sending
for sundry physicians and acquainting them with the cold he had
suffered, he caused take order for his cure. The leaches, plying him
with prompt and very potent remedies, hardly, after some time, availed
to recover him of the shrinking of the sinews and cause them relax;
and but that he was young and that the warm season came on, he had
overmuch to suffer. However, being restored to health and lustihead,
he kept his hate to himself and feigned himself more than ever
enamoured of his widow.

Now it befell, after a certain space of time, that fortune furnished
him with an occasion of satisfying his desire [for vengeance], for
that the youth beloved of the widow being, without any regard for the
love she bore him, fallen enamoured of another lady, would have nor
little nor much to say to her nor do aught to pleasure her, wherefore
she pined in tears and bitterness. But her maid, who had great
compassion of her, finding no way of rousing her mistress from the
chagrin into which the loss of her lover had cast her and seeing the
scholar pass along the street, after the wonted manner, entered into a
fond conceit, to wit, that the lady's lover might be brought by some
necromantic operation or other to love her as he had been wont to do
and that the scholar should be a past master in this manner of thing,
and told her thought to her mistress. The latter, little wise, without
considering that, had the scholar been acquainted with the black art,
he would have practised it for himself, lent her mind to her maid's
words and bade her forthright learn from him if he would do it and
give him all assurance that, in requital thereof, she would do
whatsoever pleased him. The maid did her errand well and diligently,
which when the scholar heard, he was overjoyed and said in himself,
'Praised be Thou, my God! The time is come when with Thine aid I may
avail to make yonder wicked woman pay the penalty of the harm she did
me in requital of the great love I bore her.' Then to the maid, 'Tell
my lady,' quoth he, 'that she need be in no concern for this, for
that, were her lover in the Indies, I would speedily cause him come to
her and crave pardon of that which he hath done to displeasure her;
but the means she must take to this end I purpose to impart to
herself, when and where it shall most please her. So say to her and
hearten her on my part.'

The maid carried his answer to her mistress and it was agreed that
they should foregather at Santa Lucia del Prato, whither, accordingly,
the lady, and the scholar being come and speaking together alone, she,
remembering her not that she had aforetime brought him well nigh to
death's door, openly discovered to him her case and that which she
desired and besought him to succour her. 'Madam,' answered he, 'it is
true that amongst the other things I learned at Paris was necromancy,
whereof for certain I know that which is extant thereof; but for that
the thing is supremely displeasing unto God, I had sworn never to
practise it either for myself or for others. Nevertheless, the love I
bear you is of such potency that I know not how I may deny you aught
that you would have me do; wherefore, though it should behove me for
this alone go to the devil's stead, I am yet ready to do it, since it
is your pleasure. But I must forewarn you that the thing is more
uneath to do than you perchance imagine, especially whenas a woman
would recall a man to loving her or a man a woman, for that this
cannot be done save by the very person unto whom it pertaineth; and it
behoveth that whoso doth it be of an assured mind, seeing it must be
done anights and in solitary places without company; which things I
know not how you are disposed to do.' The lady, more enamoured than
discreet, replied, 'Love spurreth me on such wise that there is
nothing I would not do to have again him who hath wrongfully forsaken
me. Algates, an it please you, show me in what I must approve myself
assured of mind.' 'Madam,' replied the scholar, who had a patch of ill
hair to his tail,[385] 'I must make an image of pewter in his name
whom you desire to get again, which whenas I shall send you, it will
behove you seven times bathe yourself therewith, all naked, in a
running stream, at the hour of the first sleep, what time the moon is
far on the wane. Thereafter, naked as you are, you must get you up
into a tree or to the top of some uninhabited house and turning to the
north, with the image in your hand, seven times running say certain
words which I shall give you written; which when you shall have done,
there will come to you two of the fairest damsels you ever beheld, who
will salute you and ask you courteously what you would have done. Do
you well and throughly discover to them your desires and look it
betide you not to name one for another. As soon as you have told them,
they will depart and you may then come down to the place where you
shall have left your clothes and re-clothe yourself and return home;
and for certain, ere it be the middle of the ensuing night, your lover
will come, weeping, to crave you pardon and mercy; and know that from
that time forth he will never again leave you for any other.'

[Footnote 385: A proverbial way of saying that he bore malice and was
vindictive.]

The lady, hearing all this and lending entire faith thereto, was half
comforted, herseeming she already had her lover again in her arms, and
said, 'Never fear; I will very well do these things, and I have
therefor the finest commodity in the world; for I have, towards the
upper end of the Val d'Arno, a farm, which is very near the
river-bank, and it is now July, so that bathing will be pleasant; more
by token that I mind me there is, not far from the stream, a little
uninhabited tower, save that the shepherds climb up bytimes, by a
ladder of chestnut-wood that is there, to a sollar at the top, to look
for their strayed beasts: otherwise it is a very solitary
out-of-the-way[386] place. Thither will I betake myself and there I
hope to do that which you shall enjoin me the best in the world.' The
scholar, who very well knew both the place and the tower mentioned by
the lady, was rejoiced to be certified of her intent and said, 'Madam,
I was never in these part and therefore know neither the farm nor the
tower; but, an it be as you say, nothing in the world can be better.
Wherefore, whenas it shall be time, I will send you the image and the
conjuration; but I pray you instantly, whenas you shall have gotten
your desire and shall know I have served you well, that you be mindful
of me and remember to keep your promise to me.' She answered that she
would without fail do it and taking leave of him, returned to her
house; whilst the scholar, rejoiced for that himseemed his desire was
like to have effect, made an image with certain talismanic characters
of his own devising, and wrote a rigmarole of his fashion, by way of
conjuration; the which, whenas it seemed to him time, he despatched to
the lady and sent to tell her that she must that very night, without
more tarriance, do that which he had enjoined her; after which he
secretly betook himself, with a servant of his, to the house of one of
his friends who abode very near the tower, so he might give effect to
his design.

[Footnote 386: Lit. out of hand (_fuor di mano_).]

The lady, on her part, set out with her maid and repaired to her farm,
where, as soon as the night was come, she made a show of going to bed
and sent the maid away to sleep, but towards the hour of the first
sleep, she issued quietly forth of the house and betook herself to the
bank of the Arno hard by the tower, where, looking first well all
about and seeing nor hearing any, she put off her clothes and hiding
them under a bush, bathed seven times with the image; after which,
naked as she was, she made for the tower, image in hand. The scholar,
who had, at the coming on of the night, hidden himself with his
servant among the willows and other trees near the tower and had
witnessed all this, seeing her, as she passed thus naked close to
him, overcome the darkness of the night with the whiteness of her body
and after considering her breast and the other parts of her person and
seeing them fair, bethought himself what they should become in a
little while and felt some compassion of her; whilst, on the other
hand, the pricks of the flesh assailed him of a sudden and caused that
stand on end which erst lay prone, inciting him to issue forth of his
ambush and go take her and do his will of her. Between the one and the
other he was like to be overcome; but, calling to mind who he was and
what the injury he had suffered and wherefore and at whose hands and
he being thereby rekindled in despite and compassion and carnal
appetite banished, he abode firm in his purpose and let her go.

The lady, going up on to the tower and turning to the north, began to
repeat the words given her by the scholar, who, coming quietly into
the tower awhile after, little by little removed the ladder, which led
to the sollar where she was, and after awaited that which she should
do and say. Meanwhile, the lady, having seven times said her
conjuration, began to look for the two damsels and so long was her
waiting (more by token that she felt it cooler than she could have
wished) that she saw the dawn appear; whereupon, woeful that it had
not befallen as the scholar had told her, she said in herself, 'I fear
me yonder man hath had a mind to give me a night such as that which I
gave him; but, an that be his intent, he hath ill known to avenge
himself, for that this night hath not been as long by a third as was
his, forbye that the cold was of anothergates sort.' Then, so the day
might not surprise her there, she proceeded to seek to go down from
the tower, but found the ladder gone; whereupon her courage forsook
her, as it were the world had failed beneath her feet, and she fell
down aswoon upon the platform of the tower. As soon as her sense
returned to her, she fell to weeping piteously and bemoaning herself,
and perceiving but too well that this must have been the scholar's
doing, she went on to blame herself for having affronted others and
after for having overmuch trusted in him whom she had good reason to
believe her enemy; and on this wise she abode a great while. Then,
looking if there were no way of descending and seeing none, she fell
again to her lamentation and gave herself up to bitter thought, saying
in herself, 'Alas, unhappy woman! What will be said of thy brothers
and kinsfolk and neighbours and generally of all the people of
Florence, when it shall be known that thou has been found here naked?
Thy repute, that hath hitherto been so great, will be known to have
been false; and shouldst thou seek to frame lying excuses for thyself,
(if indeed there are any to be found) the accursed scholar, who
knoweth all thine affairs, will not suffer thee lie. Oh wretched
woman, that wilt at one stroke have lost the youth so ill-fatedly
beloved and thine own honour!'

Therewithal she fell into such a passion of woe that she was like to
cast herself down from the tower to the ground; but, the sun being now
risen and she drawing near to one side of the walls of the tower, to
look if any boy should pass with cattle, whom she might send for her
maid, it chanced that the scholar, who had slept awhile at the foot
of a bush, awaking, saw her and she him; whereupon quoth he to her,
'Good day, madam; are the damsels come yet?' The lady, seeing and
hearing him, began afresh to weep sore and besought him to come within
the tower, so she might speak with him. In this he was courteous
enough to comply with her and she laying herself prone on the platform
and showing only her head at the opening, said, weeping, 'Assuredly,
Rinieri, if I gave thee an ill night, thou hast well avenged thyself
of me, for that, albeit it is July, I have thought to freeze this
night, naked as I am, more by token that I have so sore bewept both
the trick I put upon thee and mine own folly in believing thee that it
is a wonder I have any eyes left in my head. Wherefore I entreat thee,
not for the love of me, whom thou hast no call to love, but for the
love of thyself, who are a gentleman, that thou be content, for
vengeance of the injury I did thee, with that which thou hast already
done and cause fetch me my clothes and suffer me come down hence, nor
seek to take from me that which thou couldst not after restore me, an
thou wouldst, to wit, my honour; for, if I took from thee the being
with me that night, I can render thee many nights for that one,
whenassoever it liketh thee. Let this, then, suffice and let it
content thee, as a man of honour, to have availed to avenge thyself
and to have caused me confess it. Seek not to use thy strength against
a woman; no glory is it for an eagle to have overcome a dove,
wherefore, for the love of God and thine own honour, have pity on me.'

The scholar, with stern mind revolving in himself the injury suffered
and seeing her weep and beseech, felt at once both pleasure and annoy;
pleasure in the revenge which he had desired more than aught else, and
annoy he felt, for that his humanity moved him to compassion of the
unhappy woman. However, humanity availing not to overcome the
fierceness of his appetite [for vengeance], 'Madam Elena,' answered
he, 'if my prayers (which, it is true, I knew not to bathe with tears
nor to make honeyed, as thou presently knowest to proffer thine,) had
availed, the night when I was dying of cold in thy snow-filled
courtyard, to procure me to be put of thee but a little under cover,
it were a light matter to me to hearken now unto thine; but, if thou
be presently so much more concerned for thine honour than in the past
and it be grievous to thee to abide up there naked, address these thy
prayers to him in whose arms thou didst not scruple, that night which
thou thyself recallest, to abide naked, hearing me the while go about
thy courtyard, chattering with my teeth and trampling the snow, and
get thee succour of him; cause him fetch thee thy clothes and set thee
the ladder, whereby thou mayest descend, and study to inform him with
tenderness for thine honour, the which thou hast not scrupled both now
and a thousand other times to imperil for him. Why dost thou not call
him to come help thee? To whom pertaineth it more than unto him? Thou
art his; and what should he regard or succour, an he regard not
neither succour thee? Call him, silly woman that thou art, and prove
if the love thou bearest him and thy wits and his together can avail
to deliver thee from my folly, whereof, dallying with him the while,
thou questionedst aforetime whether himseemed the greater, my folly or
the love thou borest him.[387] Thou canst not now be lavish to me of
that which I desire not, nor couldst thou deny it to me, an I desired
it; keep thy nights for thy lover, an it chance that thou come off
hence alive; be they thine and his. I had overmuch of one of them and
it sufficeth me to have been once befooled. Again, using thy craft and
wiliness in speech, thou studiest, by extolling me, to gain my
goodwill and callest me a gentleman and a man of honour, thinking thus
to cajole me into playing the magnanimous and forebearing to punish
thee for thy wickedness; but thy blandishments shall not now darken me
the eyes of the understanding, as did thy disloyal promises whilere. I
know myself, nor did I learn so much of myself what while I sojourned
at Paris as thou taughtest me in one single night of thine. But,
granted I were indeed magnanimous, thou art none of those towards whom
magnanimity should be shown; the issue of punishment, as likewise of
vengeance, in the case of wild beasts such as thou art, behoveth to be
death, whereas for human beings that should suffice whereof thou
speakest. Wherefore, albeit I am no eagle, knowing thee to be no dove,
but a venomous serpent, I mean to pursue thee, as an immemorial enemy,
with every hate and all my might, albeit this that I do to thee can
scarce properly be styled vengeance, but rather chastisement, inasmuch
as vengeance should overpass the offence and this will not attain
thereto; for that, an I sought to avenge myself, considering to what a
pass thou broughtest my soul, thy life, should I take it from thee,
would not suffice me, no, nor the lives of an hundred others such as
thou, since, slaying thee, I should but slay a vile, wicked and
worthless trull of a woman. And what a devil more account (setting
aside this thy scantling of fair favour,[388] which a few years will
mar, filling it with wrinkles,) art thou than whatsoever other sorry
serving-drab? Whereas it was no fault of thine that thou failedst of
causing the death of a man of honour, as thou styledst me but now,
whose life may yet in one day be of more service to the world than an
hundred thousand of thy like could be what while the world endureth. I
will teach thee, then, by means of this annoy that thou sufferest,
what it is to flout men of sense, and particularly scholars, and will
give thee cause never more, an thou comest off alive, to fall into
such a folly. But, an thou have so great a wish to descend, why dost
thou not cast thyself down? On this wise, with God's help, thou wilt,
by breaking thy neck, at once deliver thyself from the torment,
wherein it seemeth to thee thou art, and make me the joyfullest man in
the world. Now, I have no more to say to thee. I knew to contrive on
such wise that I caused thee go up thither; do thou now contrive to
come down thence, even as thou knewest to befool me.'

[Footnote 387: Boccaccio here misquotes himself. See p. 389, where the
lady says to her lover, "Whether seemeth to thee the greater, his wit
or the love I bear him?" This is only one of the numberless instances
of negligence and inconsistency which occur in the Decameron and which
make it evident to the student that it must have passed into the hands
of the public without the final revision and correction by the author,
that _limæ labor_ without which no book is complete and which is
especially necessary in the case of such a work as the present, where
Boccaccio figures as the virtual creator of Italian prose.]

[Footnote 388: Lit. face, aspect (_viso_).]

What while the scholar spoke thus, the wretched lady wept without
ceasing and the time lapsed by, the sun still rising high and higher;
but, when she saw that he was silent, she said, 'Alack, cruel man, if
the accursed night was so grievous to thee and if my default seem to
thee so heinous a thing that neither my young beauty nor my bitter
tears and humble prayers may avail to move thee to any pity, at least
let this act of mine alone some little move thee and abate the rigour
of thy rancour, to wit, that I but now trusted in thee and discovered
to thee mine every secret, opening withal to thy desire a way whereby
thou mightest avail to make me cognizant of my sin; more by token
that, except I had trusted in thee, thou hadst had no means of
availing to take of me that vengeance, which thou seemest to have so
ardently desired. For God's sake, leave thine anger and pardon me
henceforth; I am ready, so thou wilt but forgive me and bring me down
hence, altogether to renounce yonder faithless youth and to have thee
alone to lover and lord, albeit thou decriest my beauty, avouching it
short-lived and little worth; natheless, whatever it be, compared with
that of other women, yet this I know, that, if for nought else, it is
to be prized for that it is the desire and pastime and delight of
men's youth, and thou art not old. And albeit I am cruelly entreated
of thee, I cannot believe withal that thou wouldst fain see me die so
unseemly a death as were the casting myself down from this tower, as
in desperation, before thine eyes, wherein, an thou was not a liar as
thou are since become, I was erst so pleasing. Alack, have ruth on me
for God's sake and pity's! The sun beginneth to wax hot, and like as
the overmuch cold irked me this night, even so doth the heat begin to
do me sore annoy.'

The scholar, who held her in parley for his diversion, answered,
'Madam, thou hast not presently trusted thine honour in my hands for
any love that thou borest me, but to regain him whom thou hast lost,
wherefore it meriteth but greater severity, and if thou think that
this way alone was apt and opportune unto the vengeance desired of me,
thou thinkest foolishly; I had a thousand others; nay, whilst feigning
to love thee, I had spread a thousand snares about thy feet, and it
would not have been long, had this not chanced, ere thou must of
necessity have fallen into one of them, nor couldst thou have fallen
into any but it had caused thee greater torment and shame than this
present, the which I took, not to ease thee, but to be the quicklier
satisfied. And though all else should have failed me, the pen had
still been left me, wherewithal I would have written such and so many
things of thee and after such a fashion that, whenas thou camest (as
thou wouldst have come) to know of them, thou wouldst a thousand times
a day have wished thyself never born. The power of the pen is far
greater than they imagine who have not proved it with experience. I
swear to God (so may He gladden me to the end of this vengeance that I
take of thee, even as He hath made me glad thereof in the beginning!)
that I would have written such things of thee, that, being ashamed,
not to say before other folk, but before thine own self, thou shouldst
have put out thine own eyes, not to see thyself in the glass;
wherefore let not the little rivulet twit the sea with having caused
it wax. Of thy love or that thou be mine, I reck not, as I have
already said, a jot; be thou e'en his, an thou may, whose thou wast
erst and whom, as I once hated, so at this present I love, having
regard unto that which he hath wrought towards thee of late. You women
go falling enamoured of young springalds and covet their love, for
that you see them somewhat fresher of colour and blacker of beard and
they go erect and jaunty and dance and joust, all which things they
have had who are somewhat more in years, ay, and these know that which
those have yet to learn. Moreover, you hold them better cavaliers and
deem that they fare more miles in a day than men of riper age. Certes,
I confess that they jumble a wench's furbelows more briskly; but those
more in years, being men of experience, know better where the fleas
stick, and little meat and savoury is far and away rather to be chosen
than much and insipid, more by token that hard trotting undoth and
wearieth folk, how young soever they be, whereas easy going, though
belike it bring one somewhat later to the inn, at the least carrieth
him thither unfatigued. You women perceive not, animals without
understanding that you are, how much ill lieth hid under this
scantling of fair seeming. Young fellows are not content with one
woman; nay, as many as they see, so many do they covet and of so many
themseemeth they are worthy; wherefore their love cannot be stable,
and of this thou mayst presently of thine own experience bear very
true witness. Themseemeth they are worthy to be worshipped and
caressed of their mistresses and they have no greater glory than to
vaunt them of those whom they have had; the which default of theirs
hath aforetime cast many a woman into the arms of the monks, who tell
no tales. Albeit thou sayst that never did any know of thine amours,
save thy maid and myself, thou knowest it ill and believest awry, an
thou think thus. His[389] quarter talketh well nigh of nothing else,
and thine likewise; but most times the last to whose ears such things
come is he to whom they pertain. Young men, to boot, despoil you,
whereas it is given you[390] of men of riper years. Since, then, thou
hast ill chosen, be thou his to whom thou gavest thyself and leave me,
of whom thou madest mock, to others, for that I have found a mistress
of much more account than thou, who hath been wise enough to know me
better than thou didst. And that thou mayst carry into the other world
greater assurance of the desire of mine eyes than meseemeth thou
gatherest from my words, do but cast thyself down forthright and thy
soul, being, as I doubt not it will be, straightway received into the
arms of the devil, will be able to see if mine eyes be troubled or not
at seeing thee fall headlong. But, as medoubteth thou wilt not consent
to do me so much pleasure, I counsel thee, if the sun begin to scorch
thee, remember thee of the cold thou madest me suffer, which an thou
mingle with the heat aforesaid, thou wilt without fail feel the sun
attempered.'

[Footnote 389: _i.e._ thy lover's.]

[Footnote 390: _V'è donato_, _i.e._ young lovers look to receive gifts
of their mistresses, whilst those of more mature age bestow them.]

The disconsolate lady, seeing that the scholar's words tended to a
cruel end, fell again to weeping and said, 'Harkye, since nothing I
can say availeth to move thee to pity of me, let the love move thee,
which thou bearest that lady whom thou hast found wiser than I and of
whom thou sayst thou art beloved, and for the love of her pardon me
and fetch me my clothes, so I may dress myself, and cause me descend
hence.' Therewith the scholar began to laugh and seeing that tierce
was now passed by a good hour, replied, 'Marry, I know not how to say
thee nay, since thou conjurest me by such a lady; tell me where thy
clothes are and I will go for them and help thee come down from up
yonder.' The lady, believing this, was somewhat comforted and showed
him where she had laid her clothes; whereupon he went forth of the
tower and bidding his servant not depart thence, but abide near at
hand and watch as most he might that none should enter there till such
time as he should return, went off to his friend's house, where he
dined at his ease and after, whenas himseemed time, betook himself to
sleep; whilst the lady, left upon the tower, albeit some little
heartened with fond hope, natheless beyond measure woebegone, sat up
and creeping close to that part of the wall where there was a little
shade, fell a-waiting, in company of very bitter thoughts. There she
abode, now hoping and now despairing of the scholar's return with her
clothes, and passing from one thought to another, she presently fell
asleep, as one who was overcome of dolour and who had slept no whit
the past night.

The sun, which was exceeding hot, being now risen to the meridian,
beat full and straight upon her tender and delicate body and upon her
head, which was all uncovered, with such force that not only did it
burn her flesh, wherever it touched it, but cracked and opened it all
over little by little, and such was the pain of the burning that it
constrained her to awake, albeit she slept fast. Feeling herself on
the roast and moving somewhat, it seemed as if all her scorched skin
cracked and clove asunder for the motion, as we see happen with a
scorched sheepskin, if any stretch it, and to boot her head irked her
so sore that it seemed it would burst, which was no wonder. And the
platform of the tower was so burning hot that she could find no
restingplace there either for her feet or for otherwhat; wherefore,
without standing fast, she still removed now hither and now thither,
weeping. Moreover, there being not a breath of wind, the flies and
gads flocked thither in swarms and settling upon her cracked flesh,
stung her so cruelly that each prick seemed to her a pike-stab;
wherefore she stinted not to fling her hands about, still cursing
herself, her life, her lover and the scholar.

Being thus by the inexpressible heat of the sun, by the flies and the
gads and likewise by hunger, but much more by thirst, and by a
thousand irksome thoughts, to boot, tortured and stung and pierced to
the quick, she started to her feet and addressed herself to look if
she might see or hear any one near at hand, resolved, whatever might
betide thereof, to call him and crave aid. But of this resource also
had her unfriendly fortune deprived her. The husbandmen were all
departed from the fields for the heat, more by token that none had
come that day to work therenigh, they being all engaged in threshing
out their sheaves beside their houses; wherefore she heard nought but
crickets and saw the Arno, which latter sight, provoking in her desire
of its waters, abated not her thirst, but rather increased it. In
several places also she saw thickets and shady places and houses here
and there, which were all alike to her an anguish for desire of them.
What more shall we say of the ill-starred lady? The sun overhead and
the heat of the platform underfoot and the stings of the flies and
gads on every side had so entreated her that, whereas with her
whiteness she had overcome the darkness of the foregoing night, she
was presently grown red as ruddle,[391] and all bescabbed as she was
with blood, had seemed to whoso saw her the foulest thing in the
world.

[Footnote 391: Lit. red as rabies (_rabbia_). Some commentators
suppose that Boccaccio meant to write _robbia_, madder.]

As she abode on this wise, without aught of hope or counsel,[392]
expecting death more than otherwhat, it being now past half none, the
scholar, arising from sleep and remembering him of his mistress,
returned to the tower, to see what was come of her, and sent his
servant, who was yet fasting, to eat. The lady, hearing him, came, all
weak and anguishful as she was for the grievous annoy she had
suffered, overagainst the trap-door and seating herself there, began,
weeping, to say, 'Indeed, Rinieri, thou hast beyond measure avenged
thyself, for, if I made thee freeze in my courtyard by night, thou
hast made me roast, nay burn, on this tower by day and die of hunger
and thirst to boot; wherefore I pray thee by the One only God that
thou come up hither and since my heart suffereth me not give myself
death with mine own hands, give it me thou, for that I desire it more
than aught else, such and so great are the torments I endure. Or, an
thou wilt not do me that favour, let bring me, at the least, a cup of
water, so I may wet my mouth, whereunto my tears suffice not; so sore
is the drouth and the burning that I have therein.'

[Footnote 392: _i.e._ resource (_consiglio_). See ante, passim.]

The scholar knew her weakness by her voice and eke saw, in part, her
body all burnt up of the sun; wherefore and for her humble prayers
there overcame him a little compassion of her; but none the less he
answered, 'Wicked woman, thou shalt not die by my hands; nay, by thine
own shalt thou die, an thou have a mind thereto; and thou shalt have
of me as much water for the allaying of thy heat as I had fire of thee
for the comforting of my cold. This much I sore regret that, whereas
it behoved me heal the infirmity of my cold with the heat of stinking
dung, that of thy heat will be healed with the coolth of odoriferous
rose-water; and whereas I was like to lose both limbs and life, thou,
flayed by this heat, wilt abide fair none otherwise than doth the
snake, casting its old skin.' 'Alack, wretch that I am,' cried the
lady, 'God give beauties on such wise acquired to those who wish me
ill! But thou, that are more cruel than any wild beast, how couldst
thou have the heart to torture me after this fashion? What more could
I expect from thee or any other, if I had done all thy kinsfolk to
death with the cruellest torments? Certes, meknoweth not what greater
cruelty could be wreaked upon a traitor who had brought a whole city
to slaughter than that whereto thou hast exposed me in causing me to
be roasted of the sun and devoured of the flies and withal denying me
a cup of water, whenas to murderers condemned of justice is
oftentimes, as they go to their death, given to drink of wine, so but
they ask it. Nay, since I see thee abide firm in thy savage cruelty
and that my sufferance availeth not anywise to move thee, I will
resign myself with patience to receive death, so God, whom I beseech
to look with equitable eyes upon this thy dealing, may have mercy upon
my soul.'

So saying, she dragged herself painfully to the midward of the
platform, despairing to escape alive from so fierce a heat; and not
once, but a thousand times, over and above her other torments, she
thought to swoon for thirst, still weeping and bemoaning her illhap.
However, it being now vespers and it seeming to the scholar he had
done enough, he caused his servant take up the unhappy lady's clothes
and wrap them in his cloak; then, betaking himself to her house, he
found her maid seated before the door, sad and disconsolate and
unknowing what to do, and said to her, 'Good woman, what is come of
thy mistress?' 'Sir,' replied she, 'I know not. I thought to find her
this morning in the bed whither meseemed I saw her betake herself
yesternight; but I can find her neither there nor otherwhere and know
not what is come of her; wherefore I suffer the utmost concern. But
you, sir, can you not tell me aught of her?' Quoth he, 'Would I had
had thee together with her whereas I have had her, so I might have
punished thee of thy default, like as I have punished her for hers!
But assuredly thou shalt not escape from my hands, ere I have so paid
thee for thy dealings that thou shalt never more make mock of any man,
without remembering thee of me.' Then to his servant, 'Give her the
clothes,' quoth he, 'and bid her go to her mistress, an she will.' The
man did his bidding and gave the clothes to the maid, who, knowing
them and hearing what Rinieri said, was sore afraid lest they should
have slain her mistress and scarce refrained from crying out; then,
the scholar being done, she set out with the clothes for the tower,
weeping the while.

Now it chanced that one of the lady's husbandmen had that day lost two
of his swine and going in search of them, came, a little after the
scholar's departure, to the tower. As he went spying about everywhere
if he should see his hogs, he heard the piteous lamentation made of
the miserable lady and climbing up as most he might, cried out, 'Who
maketh moan there aloft?' The lady knew her husbandman's voice and
calling him by name, said to him, 'For God's sake, fetch me my maid
and contrive so she may come up hither to me.' Whereupon quoth the
man, recognizing her, 'Alack, madam, who hath brought you up yonder?
Your maid hath gone seeking you all day; but who had ever thought you
could be here?' Then, taking the ladder-poles, he set them up in their
place and addressed himself to bind the cross-staves thereto with
withy bands.[393] Meanwhile, up came the maid, who no sooner entered
the tower than, unable any longer to hold her tongue, she fell to
crying out, buffeting herself the while with her hands, 'Alack, sweet
my lady, where are you?' The lady, hearing her, answered as loudliest
she might, 'O sister mine, I am here aloft. Weep not, but fetch me my
clothes quickly.' When the maid heard her speak, she was in a manner
all recomforted and with the husbandman's aid, mounting the ladder,
which was now well nigh repaired, reached the sollar, where, whenas
she saw her lady lying naked on the ground, all forspent and wan, more
as she were a half-burnt log than a human being, she thrust her nails
into her own face and fell a-weeping over her, no otherwise than as
she had been dead.

[Footnote 393: Boccaccio appears to have forgotten to mention that
Rinieri had broken the rounds of the ladder, when he withdrew it (as
stated, p. 394), apparently to place an additional obstacle in the way
of the lady's escape.]

The lady besought her for God's sake be silent and help her dress
herself, and learning from her that none knew where she had been save
those who had carried her the clothes and the husbandman there
present, was somewhat comforted and prayed them for God's sake never
to say aught of the matter to any one. Then, after much parley, the
husbandman, taking the lady in his arms, for that she could not walk,
brought her safely without the tower; but the unlucky maid, who had
remained behind, descending less circumspectly, made a slip of the
foot and falling from the ladder to the ground, broke her thigh,
whereupon she fell a-roaring for the pain, that it seemed a lion. The
husbandman, setting the lady down on a plot of grass, went to see what
ailed the maid and finding her with her thigh broken, carried her also
to the grass-plat and laid her beside her mistress, who, seeing this
befallen in addition to her other troubles and that she had broken her
thigh by whom she looked to have been succoured more than by any else,
was beyond measure woebegone and fell a-weeping afresh and so
piteously that not only could the husbandman not avail to comfort her,
but himself fell a-weeping like wise. But presently, the sun being now
low, he repaired, at the instance of the disconsolate lady, lest the
night should overtake them there, to his own house, and there called
his wife and two brothers of his, who returned to the tower with a
plank and setting the maid thereon, carried her home, whilst he
himself, having comforted the lady with a little cold water and kind
words, took her up in his arms and brought her to her own chamber.

His wife gave her a wine-sop to eat and after, undressing her, put her
to bed; and they contrived that night to have her and her maid carried
to Florence. There, the lady, who had shifts and devices great plenty,
framed a story of her fashion, altogether out of conformity with that
which had passed, and gave her brothers and sisters and every one else
to believe that this had befallen herself and her maid by dint of
diabolical bewitchments. Physicians were quickly at hand, who, not
without putting her to very great anguish and vexation, recovered the
lady of a sore fever, after she had once and again left her skin
sticking to the sheets, and on like wise healed the maid of her broken
thigh. Wherefore, forgetting her lover, from that time forth she
discreetly forbore both from making mock of others and from loving,
whilst the scholar, hearing that the maid had broken her thigh, held
himself fully avenged and passed on, content, without saying otherwhat
thereof. Thus, then, did it befall the foolish young lady of her
pranks, for that she thought to fool it with a scholar as she would
have done with another, unknowing that scholars,--I will not say all,
but the most part of them,--know where the devil keepeth his tail.
Wherefore, ladies, beware of making mock of folk, and especially of
scholars."



THE EIGHTH STORY

[Day the Eighth]

     TWO MEN CONSORTING TOGETHER, ONE LIETH WITH THE WIFE OF HIS
     COMRADE, WHO, BECOMING AWARE THEREOF, DOTH WITH HER ON SUCH
     WISE THAT THE OTHER IS SHUT UP IN A CHEST, UPON WHICH HE
     LIETH WITH HIS WIFE, HE BEING INSIDE THE WHILE


Elena's troubles had been irksome and grievous to the ladies to hear;
natheless, for that they deemed them in part justly befallen her, they
passed them over with more moderate compassion, albeit they held the
scholar to have been terribly stern and obdurate, nay, cruel. But,
Pampinea being now come to the end of her story, the queen charged
Fiammetta follow on, who, nothing loath to obey, said, "Charming
ladies, for that meseemeth the severity of the offended scholar hath
somedele distressed you, I deem it well to solace your ruffled spirits
with somewhat more diverting; wherefore I purpose to tell you a little
story of a young man who received an injury in a milder spirit and
avenged it after a more moderate fashion, by which you may understand
that, whenas a man goeth about to avenge an injury suffered, it should
suffice him to give as good as he hath gotten, without seeking to do
hurt overpassing the behoof of the feud.

You must know, then, that there were once in Siena, as I have
understood aforetime, two young men in easy enough case and of good
city families, whereof one was named Spinelloccio Tanena and the other
Zeppa di Mino, and they were next-door neighbours in Camollia.[394]
These two young men still companied together and loved each other, to
all appearance, as they had been brothers, or better; and each of them
had a very fair wife. It chanced that Spinelloccio, by dint of much
frequenting Zeppa's house, both when the latter was at home and when
he was abroad, grew so private with his wife that he ended by lying
with her, and on this wise they abode a pretty while, before any
became aware thereof. However, at last, one day, Zeppa being at home,
unknown to his wife, Spinelloccio came to call him and the lady said
that he was abroad; whereupon the other came straightway up into the
house and finding her in the saloon and seeing none else there, he
took her in his arms and fell to kissing her and she him. Zeppa, who
saw this, made no sign, but abode hidden to see in what the game
should result and presently saw his wife and Spinelloccio betake
themselves, thus embraced, to a chamber and there lock themselves in;
whereat he was sore angered. But, knowing that his injury would not
become less for making an outcry nor for otherwhat, nay, that shame
would but wax therefor, he set himself to think what revenge he should
take thereof, so his soul might abide content, without the thing being
known all about, and himseeming, after long consideration, he had
found the means, he abode hidden so long as Spinelloccio remained with
his wife.

[Footnote 394: _Quære_, the street of that name?]

As soon as the other was gone away, he entered the chamber and there
finding the lady, who had not yet made an end of adjusting her
head-veils, which Spinelloccio had plucked down in dallying with her,
said to her, 'Wife, what dost thou?' Quoth she, 'Seest thou not?' And
Zeppa answered, 'Ay, indeed, I have seen more than I could wish.' So
saying, he taxed her with that which had passed and she, in sore
affright, confessed to him, after much parley, that which she could
not aptly deny of her familiarity with Spinelloccio. Then she began to
crave him pardon, weeping, and Zeppa said to her, 'Harkye, wife, thou
hast done ill, and if thou wilt have me pardon it to thee, bethink
thee punctually to do that which I shall enjoin thee, which is this; I
will have thee bid Spinelloccio find an occasion to part company with
me to-morrow morning, towards tierce, and come hither to thee. When he
is here I will come back and so soon as thou hearest me, do thou make
him enter this chest here and lock him therein. Then, when thou shalt
have done this, I will tell thee what else thou shalt do; and have
thou no fear of doing this, for that I promise thee I will do him no
manner of hurt.' The lady, to satisfy him, promised to do his bidding,
and so she did.

The morrow come and Zeppa and Spinelloccio being together towards
tierce, the latter, who had promised the lady to be with her at that
hour, said to the former, 'I am to dine this morning with a friend,
whom I would not keep waiting for me; wherefore God be with thee.'
Quoth Zeppa, 'It is not dinner-time yet awhile'; but Spinelloccio
answered, 'No matter; I am to speak with him also of an affair of
mine, so that needs must I be there betimes.' Accordingly, taking
leave of him, he fetched a compass and making for Zeppa's house,
entered a chamber with the latter's wife. He had not been there long
ere Zeppa returned, whom when the lady heard, feigning to be mightily
affrighted, she made him take refuge in the chest, as her husband had
bidden her, and locking him therein, went forth of the chamber. Zeppa,
coming up, said, 'Wife, is it dinner-time?' 'Ay,' answered she,
'forthright.' Quoth he, 'Spinelloccio is gone to dine this morning
with a friend of his and hath left his wife alone; get thee to the
window and call her and bid her come dine with us.' The lady, fearing
for herself and grown therefor mighty obedient, did as he bade her and
Spinelloccio's wife, being much pressed by her and hearing that her
own husband was to dine abroad, came hither.

Zeppa made much of her and whispering his wife begone into the
kitchen, took her familiarly by the hand and carried her into the
chamber, wherein no sooner were they come than, turning back, he
locked the door within. When the lady saw him do this, she said,
'Alack, Zeppa, what meaneth this? Have you then brought me hither for
this? Is this the love you bear Spinelloccio and the loyal
companionship you practise towards him?' Whereupon quoth Zeppa,
drawing near to the chest wherein was her husband locked up and
holding her fast, 'Madam, ere thou complainest, hearken to that which
I have to say to thee. I have loved and love Spinelloccio as a
brother, and yesterday, albeit he knoweth it not, I found that the
trust I had in him was come to this, that he lieth with my wife even
as with thee. Now, for that I love him, I purpose not to take
vengeance of him, save on such wise as the offence hath been; he hath
had my wife and I mean to have thee. An thou wilt not, needs must I
take him here and for that I mean not to let this affront go
unpunished, I will play him such a turn that neither thou nor he shall
ever again be glad.' The lady, hearing this and believing what Zeppa
said, after many affirmations made her of him, replied, 'Zeppa mine,
since this vengeance is to fall on me, I am content, so but thou wilt
contrive, notwithstanding what we are to do, that I may abide at peace
with thy wife, even as I intend to abide with her, notwithstanding
this that she hath done to me.' 'Assuredly,' rejoined Zeppa, 'I will
do it; and to boot, I will give thee a precious and fine jewel as none
other thou hast.' So saying, he embraced her; then, laying her flat on
the chest, there to his heart's content, he solaced himself with her,
and she with him.

Spinelloccio, hearing from within the chest all that Zeppa said his
wife's answer and feeling the morrisdance[395] that was toward over
his head, was at first so sore despited that himseemed he should die;
and but that he stood in fear of Zeppa, he had rated his wife finely,
shut up as he was. However, bethinking himself that the offence had
begun with him and that Zeppa was in his right to do as he did and had
indeed borne himself towards him humanely and like a comrade, he
presently resolved in himself to be, an he would, more than ever his
friend. Zeppa, having been with the lady so long as it pleased him,
dismounted from the chest, and she asking for the promised jewel, he
opened the chamber-door and called his wife, who said nought else than
'Madam, you have given me a loaf for my bannock'; and this she said
laughing. To her quoth Zeppa, 'Open this chest.' Accordingly she
opened it and therein Zeppa showed the lady her husband, saying, 'Here
is the jewel I promised thee.' It were hard to say which was the more
abashed of the twain, Spinelloccio, seeing Zeppa and knowing that he
knew what he had done, or his wife, seeing her husband and knowing
that he had both heard and felt that which she had done over his head.
But Spinelloccio, coming forth of the chest, said, without more
parley, 'Zeppa, we are quits; wherefore it is well, as thou saidst but
now to my wife, that we be still friends as we were, and that, since
there is nothing unshared between us two but our wives, we have these
also in common.' Zeppa was content and they all four dined together in
the utmost possible harmony; and thenceforward each of the two ladies
had two husbands and each of the latter two wives, without ever having
any strife or grudge anent the matter."

[Footnote 395: _Danza trivigiana_, lit. Trevisan dance, O.E. the
shaking of the sheets.]



THE NINTH STORY

[Day the Eighth]

     MASTER SIMONE THE PHYSICIAN, HAVING BEEN INDUCED BY BRUNO
     AND BUFFALMACCO TO REPAIR TO A CERTAIN PLACE BY NIGHT, THERE
     TO BE MADE A MEMBER OF A COMPANY THAT GOETH A-ROVING, IS
     CAST BY BUFFALMACCO INTO A TRENCH FULL OF ORDURE AND THERE
     LEFT


After the ladies had chatted awhile over the community of wives
practised by the two Siennese, the queen, with whom alone it rested to
tell, so she would not do Dioneo an unright, began on this wise:
"Right well, lovesome ladies, did Spinelloccio deserve the cheat put
upon him by Zeppa; wherefore meseemeth he is not severely to be blamed
(as Pampinea sought awhile ago to show), who putteth a cheat on those
who go seeking it or deserve it. Now Spinelloccio deserved it, and I
mean to tell you of one who went seeking it for himself. Those who
tricked him, I hold not to be blameworthy, but rather commendable, and
he to whom it was done was a physician, who, having set out for
Bologna a sheepshead, returned to Florence all covered with
miniver.[396]

[Footnote 396: _i.e._ with the doctor's hood of miniver.]

As we see daily, our townsmen return hither from Bologna, this a
judge, that a physician and a third a notary, tricked out with robes
long and large and scarlets and minivers and store of other fine
paraphernalia, and make a mighty brave show, to which how far the
effects conform we may still see all day long. Among the rest a
certain Master Simone da Villa, richer in inherited goods than in
learning, returned hither, no great while since, a doctor of medicine,
according to his own account, clad all in scarlet[397] and with a
great miniver hood, and took a house in the street which we call
nowadays the Via del Cocomero. This said Master Simone, being thus
newly returned, as hath been said, had, amongst other his notable
customs, a trick of asking whosoever was with him who was no matter
what man he saw pass in the street, and as if of the doings and
fashions of men he should compound the medicines he gave his
patients, he took note of all and laid them all up in his memory.
Amongst others on whom it occurred to him more particularly to cast
his eyes were two painters of whom it hath already twice to-day been
discoursed, namely, Bruno and Buffalmacco, who were neighbours of his
and still went in company. Himseeming they recked less of the world
and lived more merrily than other folk, as was indeed the case, he
questioned divers persons of their condition and hearing from all that
they were poor men and painters, he took it into his head that it
might not be they lived so blithely of their poverty, but concluded,
for that he had heard they were shrewd fellows, that they must needs
derive very great profits from some source unknown to the general;
wherefore he was taken with a desire to clap up an acquaintance, an he
might, with them both, or at least with one of them, and succeeded in
making friends with Bruno. The latter, perceiving, after he had been
with him a few times, that the physician was a very jackass, began to
give himself the finest time in the world with him and to be hugely
diverted with his extraordinary humours, whilst Master Simone in like
manner took a marvellous delight in his company.

[Footnote 397: The colour of the doctors' robes of that time.]

After a while, having sundry times bidden him to dinner and thinking
himself entitled in consequence to discourse familiarly with him, he
discovered to him the wonderment that he felt at him and Buffalmacco,
how, being poor men, they lived so merrily, and besought him to
apprise him how they did. Bruno, hearing this talk from the physician
and himseeing the question was one of his wonted witless
impertinences, fell a-laughing in his sleeve, and bethinking himself
to answer him according as his folly deserved, said, 'Doctor, there
are not many whom I would tell how we do; but you I shall not scruple
to tell, for that you are a friend and I know you will not repeat it
to any. It is true we live, my friend and I, as merrily and as well as
it appeareth to you, nay, more so, albeit neither of our craft nor of
revenues we derive from any possessions might we have enough to pay
for the very water we consume. Yet I would not, for all that, have you
think that we go steal; nay, we go a-roving, and thence, without hurt
unto any, we get us all to which we have a mind or for which we have
occasion; hence the merry life you see us lead.'

The physician, hearing this and believing it, without knowing what it
was, marvelled exceedingly and forthright conceiving an ardent desire
to know what manner of thing this going a-roving might be, besought
him very urgently to tell him, affirming that he would assuredly never
discover it to any. 'Alack, doctor,' cried Bruno, 'what is this you
ask me? This you would know is too great a secret and a thing to undo
me and drive me from the world, nay, to bring me into the mouth of the
Lucifer of San Gallo,[398] should any come to know it. But so great is
the love I bear your right worshipful pumpkinheadship of Legnaja[399]
and the confidence I have in you that I can deny you nothing you
would have; wherefore I will tell it you, on condition that you swear
to me by the cross at Montesone, never, as you have promised, to tell
it to any one.

[Footnote 398: The commentators note here that on the church door of
San Gallo was depicted an especially frightful Lucifer, with many
mouths.]

[Footnote 399: Legnaja is said to be famous for big pumpkins.]

The physician declared that he would never repeat what he should tell
him, and Bruno said, 'You must know, then, honey doctor mine, that not
long since there was in this city a great master in necromancy, who
was called Michael Scott, for that he was of Scotland, and who
received the greatest hospitality from many gentlemen, of whom few are
nowadays alive; wherefore, being minded to depart hence, he left them,
at their instant prayers, two of his ablest disciples, whom he
enjoined still to hold themselves in readiness to satisfy every wish
of the gentlemen who had so worshipfully entertained him. These two,
then, freely served the aforesaid gentlemen in certain amours of
theirs and other small matters, and afterward, the city and the usages
of the folk pleasing them, they determined to abide there always.
Accordingly, they contracted great and strait friendship with certain
of the townfolk, regarding not who they were, whether gentle or
simple, rich or poor, but solely if they were men comfortable to their
own usances; and to pleasure these who were thus become their friends,
they founded a company of maybe five-and-twenty men, who should
foregather twice at the least in the month in some place appointed of
them, where being assembled, each should tell them his desire, which
they would forthright accomplish unto him for that night. Buffalmacco
and I, having an especial friendship and intimacy with these two, were
put of them on the roll of the aforesaid company and are still
thereof. And I may tell you that, what time it chanceth that we
assemble together, it is a marvellous thing to see the hangings about
the saloon where we eat and the tables spread on royal wise and the
multitude of noble and goodly servants, as well female as male, at the
pleasure of each one who is of the company, and the basons and ewers
and flagons and goblets and the vessels of gold and silver, wherein we
eat and drink, more by token of the many and various viands that are
set before us, each in its season, according to that which each one
desireth. I could never avail to set out to you what and how many are
the sweet sounds of innumerable instruments and the songs full of
melody that are heard there; nor might I tell you how much wax is
burned at these suppers nor what and how many are the confections that
are consumed there nor how costly are the wines that are drunken. But
I would not have you believe, good saltless pumpkinhead mine, that we
abide there in this habit and with these clothes that you see us wear
every day; nay, there is none of us of so little account but would
seem to you an emperor, so richly are we adorned with vestments of
price and fine things. But, over all the other pleasures that be there
is that of fair ladies, who, so one but will it, are incontinent
brought thither from the four quarters of the world. There might you
see the Sovereign Lady of the Rascal-Roughs, the Queen of the Basques,
the wife of the Soldan, the Empress of the Usbeg Tartars, the
Driggledraggletail of Norroway, the Moll-a-green of Flapdoodleland and
the Madkate of Woolgathergreen. But why need I enumerate them to you?
There be all the queens in the world, even, I may say, to the
Sirreverence of Prester John, who hath his horns amiddleward his arse;
see you now? There, after we have drunken and eaten confections and
walked a dance or two, each lady betaketh herself to her bedchamber
with him at whose instance she hath been brought thither. And you must
know that these bedchambers are a very paradise to behold, so goodly
they are; ay, and they are no less odoriferous than are the
spice-boxes of your shop, whenas you let bray cummin-seed, and therein
are beds that would seem to you goodlier than that of the Doge of
Venice, and in these they betake themselves to rest. Marry, what a
working of the treadles, what a hauling-to of the battens to make the
cloth close, these weaveresses keep up, I will e'en leave you to
imagine; but of those who fare best, to my seeming, are Buffalmacco
and myself, for that he most times letteth come thither the Queen of
France for himself, whilst I send for her of England, the which are
two of the fairest ladies in the world, and we have known so to do
that they have none other eye in their head than us.[400] Wherefore
you may judge for yourself if we can and should live and go more
merrily than other men, seeing we have the love of two such queens,
more by token that, whenas we would have a thousand or two thousand
florins of them, we get them not. This, then, we commonly style going
a-roving, for that, like as the rovers take every man's good, even so
do we, save that we are in this much different from them that they
never restore that which they take, whereas we return it again, whenas
we have used it. Now, worthy doctor mine, you have heard what it is we
call going a-roving; but how strictly this requireth to be kept secret
you can see for yourself, and therefore I say no more to you nor pray
you thereof.'

[Footnote 400: _i.e._ they think of and cherish us alone, holding us
as dear as their very eyes.]

The physician, whose science reached no farther belike than the curing
children of the scald-head, gave as much credit to Bruno's story as
had been due to the most manifest truth and was inflamed with as great
desire to be received into that company as might be kindled in any for
the most desirable thing in the world; wherefore he made answer to him
that assuredly it was no marvel if they went merry and hardly
constrained himself to defer requesting him to bring him to be there
until such time as, having done him further hospitality, he might with
more confidence proffer his request to him. Accordingly, reserving
this unto a more favourable season, he proceeded to keep straiter
usance with Bruno, having him morning and evening to eat with him and
showing him an inordinate affection; and indeed so great and so
constant was this their commerce that it seemed as if the physician
could not nor knew how to live without the painter. The latter,
finding himself in good case, so he might not appear ungrateful for
the hospitality shown him, had painted Master Simone a picture of Lent
in his saloon, besides an Agnus Dei at the entering in of his chamber
and a chamber-pot over the street-door, so those who had occasion for
his advice might know how to distinguish him from the others; and in
a little gallery he had, he had depictured him the battle of the rats
and the cats, which appeared to the physician a very fine thing.
Moreover, he said whiles to him, whenas he had not supper with him
overnight, 'I was at the society yesternight and being a trifle tired
of the Queen of England, I caused fetch me the Dolladoxy of the Grand
Cham of Tartary.' 'What meaneth Dolladoxy?' asked Master Simone. 'I do
not understand these names.' 'Marry, doctor mine,' replied Bruno, 'I
marvel not thereat, for I have right well heard that Porcograsso and
Vannacena[401] say nought thereof.' Quoth the physician. 'Thou meanest
Ipocrasso and Avicenna.' 'I' faith,' answered Bruno, 'I know not; I
understand your names as ill as you do mine; but Dolladoxy in the
Grand Cham's lingo meaneth as much as to say Empress in our tongue.
Egad, you would think her a plaguy fine woman! I dare well say she
would make you forget your drugs and your clysters and all your
plasters.'

[Footnote 401: _i.e._ Fat-hog and Get-thee-to-supper, burlesque
perversions of the names Ipocrasso (Hippocrates) and Avicenna.]

On this wise he bespoke him at one time and another, to enkindle him
the more, till one night, what while it chanced my lord doctor held
the light to Bruno, who was in act to paint the battle of the rats and
the cats, the former, himseeming he had now well taken him with his
hospitalities, determined to open his mind to him, and accordingly,
they being alone together, he said to him, 'God knoweth, Bruno, there
is no one alive for whom I would do everything as I would for thee;
indeed, shouldst thou bid me go hence to Peretola, methinketh it would
take little to make me go thither; wherefore I would not have thee
marvel if I require thee of somewhat familiarly and with confidence.
As thou knowest, it is no great while since thou bespokest me of the
fashions of your merry company, wherefore so great a longing hath
taken me to be one of you that never did I desire aught so much. Nor
is this my desire without cause, as thou shalt see, if ever it chance
that I be of your company; for I give thee leave to make mock of me an
I cause not come thither the finest serving-wench thou ever setst eyes
on. I saw her but last year at Cacavincigli and wish her all my
weal;[402] and by the body of Christ, I had e'en given her half a
score Bolognese groats, so she would but have consented to me; but she
would not. Wherefore, as most I may, I prithee teach me what I must do
to avail to be of your company and do thou also do and contrive so I
may be thereof. Indeed, you will have in me a good and loyal comrade,
ay, and a worshipful. Thou seest, to begin with, what a fine man I am
and how well I am set up on my legs. Ay, and I have a face as it were
a rose, more by token that I am a doctor of medicine, such as I
believe you have none among you. Moreover, I know many fine things and
goodly canzonets; marry, I will sing you one.' And incontinent he fell
a-singing.

[Footnote 402: _i.e._ love her beyond anything in the world. For
former instances of this idiomatic expression, see ante, passim.]

Bruno had so great a mind to laugh that he was like to burst; however
he contained himself and the physician, having made an end of his
song, said, 'How deemedst thou thereof?' 'Certes,' answered Bruno,
'there's no Jew's harp but would lose with you, so archigothically do
you caterwarble it.' Quoth Master Simone, 'I tell thee thou wouldst
never have believed it, hadst thou not heard me.' 'Certes,' replied
Bruno, 'you say sooth!' and the physician went on, 'I know store of
others; but let that be for the present. Such as thou seest me, my
father was a gentleman, albeit he abode in the country, and I myself
come by my mother of the Vallecchio family. Moreover, as thou mayst
have seen, I have the finest books and gowns of any physician in
Florence. Cock's faith, I have a gown that stood me, all reckoned, in
nigh upon an hundred pounds of doits, more than half a score years
ago; wherefore I pray thee as most I may, to bring me to be of your
company, and by Cock's faith, an thou do it, thou mayst be as ill as
thou wilt, for I will never take a farthing of thee for my services.'

Bruno, hearing this and the physician seeming to him a greater
numskull than ever, said, 'Doctor, hold the light a thought more this
way and take patience till I have made these rats their tails, and
after I will answer you.' The tails being finished, Bruno made believe
that the physician's request was exceeding irksome to him and said,
'Doctor mine, these be great things you would do for me and I
acknowledge it; nevertheless, that which you ask of me, little as it
may be for the greatness of your brain, is yet to me a very grave
matter, nor know I any one in the world for whom, it being in my
power, I would do it, an I did it not for you, both because I love you
as it behoveth and on account of your words, which are seasoned with
so much wit that they would draw the straps out of a pair of boots,
much more me from my purpose; for the more I consort with you, the
wiser you appear to me. And I may tell you this, to boot, that, though
I had none other reason, yet do I wish you well, for that I see you
enamoured of so fair a creature as is she of whom you speak. But this
much I will say to you; I have no such power in this matter as you
suppose and cannot therefore do for you that which were behoving;
however, an you will promise me, upon your solemn and surbated[403]
faith, to keep it me secret, I will tell you the means you must use
and meseemeth certain that, with such fine books and other gear as you
tell me you have, you will gain your end.'

[Footnote 403: Syn. cauterized (_calterita_), a nonsensical word
employed by Bruno for the purpose of mystifying the credulous
physician.]

Quoth the doctor, 'Say on in all assurance; I see thou art not yet
well acquainted with me and knowest not how I can keep a secret. There
be few things indeed that Messer Guasparruolo da Saliceto did, whenas
he was judge of the Provostry at Forlimpopoli, but he sent to tell me,
for that he found me so good a secret-keeper.[404] And wilt thou judge
an I say sooth? I was the first man whom he told that he was to marry
Bergamina: seest thou now?' 'Marry, then,' rejoined Bruno, 'all is
well; if such a man trusted in you, I may well do so. The course you
must take is on this wise. You must know that we still have to this
our company a captain and two counsellors, who are changed from six
months to six months, and without fail, at the first of the month,
Buffalmacco will be captain and I shall be counsellor; for so it is
settled. Now whoso is captain can do much by way of procuring
whomsoever he will to be admitted into the company; wherefore
meseemeth you should seek, inasmuch as you may, to gain Buffalmacco's
friendship and do him honour. He is a man, seeing you so wise, to fall
in love with you incontinent, and whenas with your wit and with these
fine things you have you shall have somedele ingratiated yourself with
him, you can make your request to him; he will not know how to say you
nay. I have already bespoken him of you and he wisheth you all the
weal in the world; and whenas you shall have done this, leave me do
with him.' Quoth the physician, 'That which thou counsellest liketh me
well. Indeed, an he be a man who delighteth in men of learning and
talketh but with me a little, I will engage to make him go still
seeking my company, for that, as for wit, I have so much thereof that
I could stock a city withal and yet abide exceeding wise.'

[Footnote 404: Syn. secretary, confidant (_segretaro_).]

This being settled, Bruno imparted the whole matter to Buffalmacco,
wherefore it seemed to the latter a thousand years till they should
come to do that which this arch-zany went seeking. The physician, who
longed beyond measure to go a-roving, rested not till he made friends
with Buffalmacco, which he easily succeeded in doing, and therewithal
he fell to giving him, and Bruno with him, the finest suppers and
dinners in the world. The two painters, like the accommodating
gentlemen they were, were nothing loath to engage with him and having
once tasted the excellent wines and fat capons and other good things
galore, with which he plied them, stuck very close to him and ended by
quartering themselves upon him, without awaiting overmuch invitation,
still declaring that they would not do this for another. Presently,
whenas it seemed to him time, the physician made the same request to
Buffalmacco as he had made Bruno aforetime; whereupon Buffalmacco
feigned himself sore chagrined and made a great outcry against Bruno,
saying, 'I vow to the High God of Pasignano that I can scarce withhold
myself from giving thee such a clout over the head as should cause thy
nose drop to thy heels, traitor that thou art; for none other than
thou hath discovered these matters to the doctor.'

Master Simone did his utmost to excuse Bruno, saying and swearing that
he had learned the thing from another quarter, and after many of his
wise words, he succeeded in pacifying Buffalmacco; whereupon the
latter turned to him and said, 'Doctor mine, it is very evident that
you have been at Bologna and have brought back a close mouth to these
parts; and I tell you moreover that you have not learnt your A B C on
the apple as many blockheads are fain to do; nay, you have learned it
aright on the pumpkin, that is so long;[405] and if I mistake not,
you were baptized on a Sunday.[406] And albeit Bruno hath told me
that you told me that you studied medicine there, meseemeth you
studied rather to learn to catch men, the which you, with your wit and
your fine talk, know better to do than any man I ever set eyes on.'
Here the physician took the words out of his mouth and breaking in,
said to Bruno, 'What a thing it is to talk and consort with learned
men! Who would so have quickly apprehended every particular of my
intelligence as hath this worthy man? Thou didst not half so speedily
become aware of my value as he; but, at the least, that which I told
thee, whenas thou saidst to me that Buffalmacco delighted in learned
men, seemeth it to thee I have done it?' 'Ay hast thou,' replied
Bruno, 'and better.'

[Footnote 405: A play of words upon _mela_ (apple) and _mellone_
(pumpkin). _Mellone_ is strictly a water-melon; but I have rendered it
"pumpkin," to preserve the English idiom, "pumpkinhead" being our
equivalent for the Italian "melon," used in the sense of dullard,
noodle.]

[Footnote 406: According to the commentators, "baptized on a Sunday"
anciently signified a simpleton, because salt (which is constantly
used by the Italian classical writers as a synonym for wit or sense)
was not sold on Sundays.]

Then said the doctor to Buffalmacco, 'Thou wouldst have told another
tale, hadst thou seen me at Bologna, where there was none, great or
small, doctor or scholar, but wished me all the weal in the world, so
well did I know to content them all with my discourse and my wit. And
what is more, I never said a word there, but I made every one laugh,
so hugely did I please them; and whenas I departed thence, they all
set up the greatest lament in the world and would all have had me
remain there; nay, to such a pass came it for that I should abide
there, that they would have left it to me alone to lecture on medicine
to as many students as were there; but I would not, for that I was
e'en minded to come hither to certain very great heritages which I
have here and which have still been in my family; and so I did.' Quoth
Bruno to Buffalmacco, 'How deemest thou? Thou believedst me not,
whenas I told it thee. By the Evangels, there is not a leach in these
parts who is versed in asses' water to compare with this one, and
assuredly thou wouldst not find another of him from here to Paris
gates. Marry, hold yourself henceforth [if you can,] from doing that
which he will.' Quoth Master Simone, 'Bruno saith sooth; but I am not
understood here. You Florentines are somewhat dull of wit; but I would
have you see me among the doctors, as I am used to be.' 'Verily,
doctor,' said Buffalmacco, 'you are far wiser than I could ever have
believed; wherefore to speak to you as it should be spoken to scholars
such as you are, I tell you, cut-and-slash fashion,[407] I will
without fail procure you to be of our company.'

[Footnote 407: Syn. confusedly (_frastagliatamente_).]

After this promise the physician redoubled in his hospitalities to the
two rogues, who enjoyed themselves [at his expense,] what while they
crammed him with the greatest extravagances in the world and fooled
him to the top of his bent, promising him to give him to mistress the
Countess of Jakes,[408]who was the fairest creature to be found in
all the back-settlements of the human generation. The physician
enquired who this countess was, whereto quoth Buffalmacco, 'Good my
seed-pumpkin, she is a very great lady and there be few houses in the
world wherein she hath not some jurisdiction. To say nothing of
others, the Minor Friars themselves render her tribute, to the sound
of kettle-drums.[409] And I can assure you that, whenas she goeth
abroad, she maketh herself well felt,[410] albeit she abideth for the
most part shut up. Natheless, it is no great while since she passed by
your door, one night that she repaired to the Arno, to wash her feet
and take the air a little; but her most continual abiding-place is in
Draughthouseland.[411] There go ofttimes about store of her serjeants,
who all in token of her supremacy, bear the staff and the plummet, and
of her barons many are everywhere to be seen, such as Sirreverence of
the Gate, Goodman Turd, Hardcake,[412] Squitterbreech and others, who
methinketh are your familiars, albeit you call them not presently to
mind. In the soft arms, then, of this great lady, leaving be her of
Cacavincigli, we will, an expectation cheat us not, bestow you.'

[Footnote 408: _La Contessa di Civillari_, _i.e._ the public sewers.
Civillari, according to the commentators, was the name of an alley in
Florence, where all the ordure and filth of the neighbourhood was
deposited and stored in trenches for manure.]

[Footnote 409: _Nacchere_, syn. a loud crack of wind.]

[Footnote 410: Syn. smelt (_sentito_).]

[Footnote 411: _Laterina_, _i.e._ Latrina.]

[Footnote 412: Lit. Broom-handle (_Manico della Scopa_).]

The physician, who had been born and bred at Bologna, understood not
their canting terms and accordingly avouched himself well pleased with
the lady in question. Not long after this talk, the painters brought
him news that he was accepted to member of the company and the day
being come before the night appointed for their assembly, he had them
both to dinner. When they had dined, he asked them what means it
behoved him take to come thither; whereupon quoth Buffalmacco, 'Look
you, doctor, it behoveth you have plenty of assurance; for that, an
you be not mighty resolute, you may chance to suffer hindrance and do
us very great hurt; and in what it behoveth you to approve yourself
very stout-hearted you shall hear. You must find means to be this
evening, at the season of the first sleep, on one of the raised tombs
which have been lately made without Santa Maria Novella, with one of
your finest gowns on your back, so you may make an honourable figure
for your first appearance before the company and also because,
according to what was told us (we were not there after) the Countess
is minded, for that you are a man of gentle birth, to make you a
Knight of the Bath at her own proper costs and charges; and there you
must wait till there cometh for you he whom we shall send. And so you
may be apprised of everything, there will come for you a black horned
beast, not overbig, which will go capering about the piazza before you
and making a great whistling and bounding, to terrify you; but, when
he seeth that you are not to be daunted, he will come up to you
quietly. Then do you, without any fear, come down from the tomb and
mount the beast, naming neither God nor the Saints; and as soon as you
are settled on his back, you must cross your hands upon your breast,
in the attitude of obeisance, and touch him no more. He will then set
off softly and bring you to us; but if you call upon God or the
Saints or show fear, I must tell you that he may chance to cast you
off or strike you into some place where you are like to stink for it;
wherefore, an your heart misgive you and unless you can make sure of
being mighty resolute, come not thither, for you would but do us a
mischief, without doing yourself any good.'[413]

[Footnote 413: Lit. "do _yourself_ a mischief, without doing _us_ any
good"; but the sequel shows that the contrary is meant, as in the
text.]

Quoth the physician, 'I see you know me not yet; maybe you judge of me
by my gloves and long gown. If you knew what I did aforetimes at
Bologna anights, when I went a-wenching whiles with my comrades, you
would marvel. Cock's faith, there was such and such a night when, one
of them refusing to come with us, (more by token that she was a scurvy
little baggage, no higher than my fist,) I dealt her, to begin with,
good store of cuffs, then, taking her up bodily, I dare say I carried
her a crossbowshot and wrought so that needs must she come with us.
Another time I remember me that, without any other in my company than
a serving-man of mine, I passed yonder alongside the Cemetery of the
Minor Friars, a little after the Ave Maria, albeit there had been a
woman buried there that very day, and felt no whit of fear; wherefore
misdoubt you not of this, for I am but too stout of heart and lusty.
Moreover, I tell you that, to do you credit at my coming thither, I
will don my gown of scarlet, wherein I was admitted doctor, and we
shall see if the company rejoice not at my sight and an I be not made
captain out of hand. You shall e'en see how the thing will go, once I
am there, since, without having yet set eyes on me, this countess hath
fallen so enamoured of me that she is minded to make me a Knight of
the Bath. It may be knighthood will not sit so ill on me nor shall I
be at a loss to carry it off with worship! Marry, only leave me do.'
'You say very well,' answered Buffalmacco; 'but look you leave us not
in the lurch and not come or not be found at the trysting-place,
whenas we shall send for you; and this I say for that the weather is
cold and you gentlemen doctors are very careful of yourselves
thereanent.' 'God forbid!' cried Master Simone. 'I am none of your
chilly ones. I reck not of the cold; seldom or never, whenas I rise of
a night for my bodily occasions, as a man will bytimes, do I put me on
more than my fur gown over my doublet. Wherefore I will certainly be
there.'

Thereupon they took leave of him and whenas it began to grow towards
night, Master Simone contrived to make some excuse or other to his
wife and secretly got out his fine gown; then, whenas it seemed to him
time, he donned it and betook himself to Santa Maria Novella, where he
mounted one of the aforesaid tombs and huddling himself up on the
marble, for that the cold was great, he proceeded to wait the coming
of the beast. Meanwhile Buffalmacco, who was tall and robust of his
person, made shift to have one of those masks that were wont to be
used for certain games which are not held nowadays, and donning a
black fur pelisse, inside out, arrayed himself therein on such wise
that he seemed a very bear, save that his mask had a devil's face and
was horned. Thus accoutred, he betook himself to the new Piazza of
Santa Maria, Bruno following him to see how the thing should go. As
soon as he perceived that the physician was there, he fell a-capering
and caracoling and made a terrible great blustering about the piazza,
whistling and howling and bellowing as he were possessed of the devil.
When Master Simone, who was more fearful than a woman, heard and saw
this, every hair of his body stood on end and he fell a-trembling all
over, and it was now he had liefer been at home than there.
Nevertheless, since he was e'en there, he enforced himself to take
heart, so overcome was he with desire to see the marvels whereof the
painters had told him.

After Buffalmacco had raged about awhile, as hath been said, he made a
show of growing pacified and coming up to the tomb whereon was the
physician, stood stock-still. Master Simone, who was all a-tremble for
fear, knew not what to do, whether to mount or abide where he was.
However, at last, fearing that the beast should do him a mischief, an
he mounted him not, he did away the first fear with the second and
coming down from the tomb, mounted on his back, saying softly, 'God
aid me!' Then he settled himself as best he might and still trembling
in every limb, crossed his hands upon his breast, as it had been
enjoined him; whereupon Buffalmacco set off at an amble towards Santa
Maria della Scala and going on all fours, brought him hard by the
Nunnery of Ripole. In those days there were dykes in that quarter,
wherein the tillers of the neighbouring lands let empty the jakes, to
manure their fields withal; whereto whenas Buffalmacco came nigh, he
went up to the brink of one of them and taking the opportunity, laid
hold of one of the physician's legs and jerking him off his back,
pitched him clean in, head foremost. Then he fell a-snorting and
snarling and capering and raged about awhile; after which he made off
alongside Santa Maria della Scala till he came to Allhallows Fields.
There he found Bruno, who had taken to flight, for that he was unable
to restrain his laughter; and with him, after they had made merry
together at Master Simone's expense, he addressed himself to see from
afar what the bemoiled physician should do.

My lord leech, finding himself in that abominable place, struggled to
arise and strove as best he might to win forth thereof; and after
falling in again and again, now here and now there, and swallowing
some drachms of the filth, he at last succeeded in making his way out
of the dyke, in the woefullest of plights, bewrayed from head to foot
and leaving his bonnet behind him. Then, having wiped himself as best
he might with his hands and knowing not what other course to take, he
returned home and knocked till it was opened to him. Hardly was he
entered, stinking as he did, and the door shut again ere up came Bruno
and Buffalmacco, to hear how he should be received of his wife, and
standing hearkening, they heard the lady give him the foulest rating
was ever given poor devil, saying, 'Good lack, what a pickle thou art
in! Thou hast been gallanting it to some other woman and must needs
seek to cut a figure with thy gown of scarlet! What, was not I enough
for thee? Why, man alive, I could suffice to a whole people, let alone
thee. Would God they had choked thee, like as they cast thee whereas
thou deservedst to be thrown! Here's a fine physician for you, to have
a wife of his own and go a-gadding anights after other folk's
womankind!' And with these and many other words of the same fashion
she gave not over tormenting him till midnight, what while the
physician let wash himself from head to foot.

Next morning up came Bruno and Buffalmacco, who had painted all their
flesh under their clothes with livid blotches, such as beatings use to
make, and entering the physician's house, found him already arisen.
Accordingly they went in to him and found the whole place full of
stench, for that they had not yet been able so to clean everything
that it should not stink there. Master Simone, seeing them enter, came
to meet them and bade God give them good day; whereto the two rogues,
as they had agreed beforehand, replied with an angry air, saying,
'That say we not to you; nay, rather, we pray God give you so many ill
years that you may die a dog's death, as the most disloyal man and the
vilest traitor alive; for it was no thanks to you that, whereas we
studied to do you pleasure and worship, we were not slain like dogs.
As it is, thanks to your disloyalty, we have gotten so many buffets
this past night that an ass would go to Rome for less, without
reckoning that we have gone in danger of being expelled the company
into which we had taken order for having you received. An you believe
us not, look at our bodies and see how they have fared.' Then, opening
their clothes in front, they showed him, by an uncertain light, their
breasts all painted and covered them up again in haste.

The physician would have excused himself and told of his mishaps and
how and where he had been cast; but Buffalmacco said, 'Would he had
thrown you off the bridge into the Arno! Why did you call on God and
the Saints? Were you not forewarned of this?' 'By God His faith,'
replied the physician, 'I did it not.' 'How?' cried Buffalmacco. 'You
did not call on them? Egad, you did it again and again; for our
messenger told us that you shook like a reed and knew not where you
were. Marry, for the nonce you have befooled us finely; but never
again shall any one serve us thus, and we will yet do you such honour
thereof as you merit.' The physician fell to craving pardon and
conjuring them for God's sake not to dishonour him and studied to
appease them with the best words he could command. And if aforetime he
had entreated them with honour, from that time forth he honoured them
yet more and made much of them, entertaining them with banquets and
otherwhat, for fear lest they should publish his shame. Thus, then, as
you have heard, is sense taught to whoso hath learned no great store
thereof at Bologna."



THE TENTH STORY

[Day the Eighth]

     A CERTAIN WOMAN OF SICILY ARTFULLY DESPOILETH A MERCHANT OF
     THAT WHICH HE HAD BROUGHT TO PALERMO; BUT HE, MAKING BELIEVE
     TO HAVE RETURNED THITHER WITH MUCH GREATER PLENTY OF
     MERCHANDISE THAN BEFORE, BORROWETH MONEY OF HER AND LEAVETH
     HER WATER AND TOW IN PAYMENT


How much the queen's story in divers places made the ladies laugh, it
needed not to ask; suffice it to say that there was none of them to
whose eyes the tears had not come a dozen times for excess of
laughter: but, after it had an end, Dioneo, knowing that it was come
to his turn to tell, said, "Gracious ladies, it is a manifest thing
that sleights and devices are the more pleasing, the subtler the
trickster who is thereby artfully outwitted. Wherefore, albeit you
have related very fine stories, I mean to tell you one, which should
please you more than any other that hath been told upon the same
subject, inasmuch as she who was cheated was a greater mistress of the
art of cheating others than was any of the men or women who were
cozened by those of whom you have told.

There used to be, and belike is yet, a custom, in all maritime places
which have a port, that all merchants who come thither with
merchandise, having unloaded it, should carry it all into a warehouse,
which is in many places called a customhouse, kept by the commonality
or by the lord of the place. There they give unto those who are
deputed to that end a note in writing of all their merchandise and the
value thereof, and they thereupon make over to each merchant a
storehouse, wherein he layeth up his goods under lock and key.
Moreover, the said officers enter in the book of the Customs, to each
merchant's credit, all his merchandise, causing themselves after he
paid their dues of the merchants, whether for all his said merchandise
or for such part thereof as he withdraweth from the customhouse. By
this book of the Customs the brokers mostly inform themselves of the
quality and the quantity of the goods that are in bond there and also
who are the merchants that own them; and with these latter, as
occasion serveth them, they treat of exchanges and barters and sales
and other transactions. This usance, amongst many other places, was
current at Palermo in Sicily, where likewise there were and are yet
many women, very fair of their person, but sworn enemies to honesty,
who would be and are by those who know them not held great ladies and
passing virtuous and who, being given not to shave, but altogether to
flay men, no sooner espy a merchant there than they inform themselves
by the book of the Customs of that which he hath there and how much he
can do;[414] after which by their lovesome and engaging fashions and
with the most dulcet words, they study to allure the said merchants
and draw them into the snare of their love; and many an one have they
aforetime lured thereinto, from whom they have wiled great part of
their merchandise; nay, many have they despoiled of all, and of these
there be some who have left goods and ship and flesh and bones in
their hands, so sweetly hath the barberess known to ply the razor.

[Footnote 414: _i.e._ what he is worth.]

It chanced, not long since, that there came thither, sent by his
masters, one of our young Florentines, by name Niccolo da Cignano,
though more commonly called Salabaetto, with as many woollen cloths,
left on his hands from the Salerno fair, as might be worth some five
hundred gold florins, which having given the customhouse officers the
invoice thereof, he laid up in a magazine and began, without showing
overmuch haste to dispose of them, to go bytimes a-pleasuring about
the city. He being of a fair complexion and yellow-haired and withal
very sprightly and personable, it chanced that one of these same
barberesses, who styled herself Madam Biancofiore, having heard
somewhat of his affairs, cast her eyes on him; which he perceiving and
taking her for some great lady, concluded that he pleased her for his
good looks and bethought himself to order this amour with the utmost
secrecy; wherefore, without saying aught thereof to any, he fell to
passing and repassing before her house. She, noting this, after she
had for some days well enkindled him with her eyes, making believe to
languish for him, privily despatched to him one of her women, who was
a past mistress in the procuring art and who, after much parley, told
him, well nigh with tears in her eyes, that he had so taken her
mistress with his comeliness and his pleasing fashions that she could
find no rest day or night; wherefore, whenas it pleased him, she
desired, more than aught else, to avail to foregather with him privily
in a bagnio; then, pulling a ring from her pouch, she gave it to him
on the part of her mistress. Salabaetto, hearing this, was the
joyfullest man that was aye and taking the ring, rubbed it against his
eyes and kissed it; after which he set it on his finger and replied to
the good woman that, if Madam Biancofiore loved him, she was well
requited it, for that he loved her more than his proper life and was
ready to go whereassoever it should please her and at any hour. The
messenger returned to her mistress with this answer and it was
appointed Salabaetto out of hand at what bagnio he should expect her
on the ensuing day after vespers.

Accordingly, without saying aught of the matter to any, he punctually
repaired thither at the hour appointed him and found the bagnio taken
by the lady; nor had he waited long ere there came two slave-girls
laden with gear and bearing on their heads, the one a fine large
mattress of cotton wool and the other a great basket full of gear. The
mattress they set on a bedstead in one of the chambers of the bagnio
and spread thereon a pair of very fine sheets, laced with silk,
together with a counterpane of snow-white Cyprus buckram[415] and two
pillows wonder-curiously wrought.[416] Then, putting off their clothes
they entered the bath and swept it all and washed it excellent well.
Nor was it long ere the lady herself came thither, with other two
slave-girls, and accosted Salabaetto with the utmost joy; then, as
first she had commodity, after she had both clipped and kissed him
amain, heaving the heaviest sighs in the world, she said to him, 'I
know not who could have brought me to this pass, other than thou; thou
hast kindled a fire in my vitals, little dog of a Tuscan!' Then, at
her instance, they entered the bath, both naked, and with them two of
the slave-girls; and there, without letting any else lay a finger on
him, she with her own hands washed Salabaetto all wonder-well with
musk and clove-scented soap; after which she let herself be washed and
rubbed of the slave-girls. This done, the latter brought two very
white and fine sheets, whence came so great a scent of roses that
everything there seemed roses, in one of which they wrapped Salabaetto
and in the other the lady and taking them in their arms, carried them
both to the bed prepared for them. There, whenas they had left
sweating, the slave-girls did them loose from the sheets wherein they
were wrapped and they abode naked in the others, whilst the girls
brought out of the basket wonder-goodly casting-bottles of silver,
full of sweet waters, rose and jessamine and orange and citron-flower
scented, and sprinkled them all therewith; after which boxes of
succades and wines of great price were produced and they refreshed
themselves awhile.

[Footnote 415: _Bucherame._ The word "buckram" was anciently applied
to the finest linen cloth, as is apparently the case here; see
Ducange, voce _Boquerannus_, and Florio, voce _Bucherame_.]

[Footnote 416: _i.e._ in needlework.]

It seemed to Salabaetto as he were in Paradise and he cast a thousand
glances at the lady, who was certes very handsome, himseeming each
hour was an hundred years till the slave-girls should begone and he
should find himself in her arms. Presently, at her commandment, the
girls departed the chamber, leaving a flambeau alight there; whereupon
she embraced Salabaetto and he her, and they abode together a great
while, to the exceeding pleasure of the Florentine, to whom it seemed
she was all afire for love of him. Whenas it seemed to her time to
rise, she called the slave-girls and they clad themselves; then they
recruited themselves somedele with a second collation of wine and
sweetmeats and washed their hands and faces with odoriferous waters;
after which, being about to depart, the lady said to Salabaetto, 'So
it be agreeable to thee, it were doing me a very great favour an thou
camest this evening to sup and lie the night with me.' Salabaetto, who
was by this time altogether captivated by her beauty and the artful
pleasantness of her fashions and firmly believed himself to be loved
of her as he were the heart out of her body, replied, 'Madam, your
every pleasure is supremely agreeable to me, wherefore both to-night
and at all times I mean to do that which shall please you and that
which shall be commanded me of you.'

Accordingly the lady returned to her house, where she caused well
bedeck her bedchamber with her dresses and gear and letting make ready
a splendid supper, awaited Salabaetto, who, as soon as it was grown
somewhat dark, betook himself thither and being received with open
arms, supped with all cheer and commodity of service. Thereafter they
betook themselves into the bedchamber, where he smelt a marvellous
fragrance of aloes-wood and saw the bed very richly adorned with
Cyprian singing-birds[417] and store of fine dresses upon the pegs,
all which things together and each of itself made him conclude that
this must be some great and rich lady. And although he had heard some
whispers to the contrary anent her manner of life, he would not
anywise believe it; or, if he e'en gave so much credit thereto as to
allow that she might erst have cozened others, for nothing in the
world could he have believed that this might possibly happen to
himself. He lay that night with her in the utmost delight, still
waxing more enamoured, and in the morning she girt him on a quaint and
goodly girdle of silver, with a fine purse thereto, saying, 'Sweet my
Salabaetto, I commend myself to thy remembrance, and like as my person
is at thy pleasure, even so is all that is here and all that dependeth
upon me at thy service and commandment.' Salabaetto, rejoiced,
embraced and kissed her; then, going forth of her house, he betook
himself whereas the other merchants were used to resort.

[Footnote 417: "It was the custom in those days to attach to the
bedposts sundry small instruments in the form of birds, which, by
means of certain mechanical devices, gave forth sounds modulated like
the song of actual birds."--_Fanfani._]

On this wise consorting with her at one time and another, without its
costing him aught in the world, and growing every hour more entangled,
it befell that he sold his stuffs for ready money and made a good
profit thereby; of which the lady incontinent heard, not from him, but
from others, and Salabaetto being come one night to visit her, she
fell to prattling and wantoning with him, kissing and clipping him and
feigning herself so enamoured of him that it seemed she must die of
love in his arms. Moreover, she would fain have given him two very
fine hanaps of silver that she had; but he would not take them, for
that he had had of her, at one time and another, what was worth a good
thirty gold florins, without availing to have her take of him so much
as a groat's worth. At last, whenas she had well enkindled him by
showing herself so enamoured and freehanded, one of her slave-girls
called her, as she had ordained beforehand; whereupon she left the
chamber and coming back, after awhile, in tears cast herself face
downward on the bed and fell to making the woefullest lamentation ever
woman made. Salabaetto, marvelling at this, caught her in his arms and
fell a-weeping with her and saying, 'Alack, heart of my body, what
aileth thee thus suddenly? What is the cause of this grief? For God's
sake, tell it me, my soul.' The lady, after letting herself be long
entreated, answered, 'Woe's me, sweet my lord, I know not what to say
or to do; I have but now received letters from Messina and my brother
writeth me that, should I sell or pawn all that is here,[418] I must
without fail send him a thousand gold florins within eight days from
this time, else will his head be cut off; and I know not how I shall
do to get this sum so suddenly. Had I but fifteen days' grace, I would
find a means of procuring it from a certain quarter whence I am to
have much more, or I would sell one of our farms; but, as this may not
be, I had liefer be dead than that this ill news should have come to
me.'

[Footnote 418: Syn. that which belongeth to us (_ciò che ci è_,) _ci_,
as I have before noted, signifying both "here" and "us," dative and
accusative.]

So saying, she made a show of being sore afflicted and stinted not
from weeping; whereupon quoth Salabaetto, whom the flames of love had
bereft of great part of his wonted good sense, so that he believed
her tears to be true and her words truer yet, 'Madam, I cannot oblige
you with a thousand florins, but five hundred I can very well advance
you, since you believe you will be able to return them to me within a
fortnight from this time; and this is of your good fortune that I
chanced but yesterday to sell my stuffs; for, had it not been so, I
could not have lent you a groat.' 'Alack,' cried the lady, 'hast thou
then been straitened for lack of money? Marry, why didst thou not
require me thereof? Though I have not a thousand, I had an hundred and
even two hundred to give thee. Thou hast deprived me of all heart to
accept of thee the service thou profferest me.' Salabaetto was more
than ever taken with these words and said, 'Madam, I would not have
you refrain on that account, for, had I had such an occasion therefor
as you presently have, I would assuredly have asked you.' 'Alack,
Salabaetto mine,' replied the lady, 'now know I aright that thine is a
true and perfect love for me, since, without waiting to be required,
thou freely succoureth me, in such a strait, with so great a sum of
money. Certes, I was all thine without this, but with this I shall be
far more so; nor shall I ever forget that I owe thee my brother's
life. But God knoweth I take it sore unwillingly, seeing that thou art
a merchant and that with money merchants transact all their affairs;
however, since need constraineth me, and I have certain assurance of
speedily restoring it to thee, I will e'en take it; and for the rest,
an I find no readier means, I will pawn all these my possessions.' So
saying, she let herself fall, weeping, on Salabaetto's neck. He fell
to comforting her and after abiding the night with her, he, next
morning, to approve himself her most liberal servant, without waiting
to be asked by her, carried her five hundred right gold florins, which
she received with tears in her eyes, but laughter in her heart,
Salabaetto contenting himself with her simple promise.

As soon as the lady had the money, the signs began to change, and
whereas before he had free access to her whenassoever it pleased him,
reasons now began to crop up, whereby it betided him not to win
admission there once out of seven times, nor was he received with the
same countenance nor the same caresses and rejoicings as before. And
the term at which he was to have had his monies again being, not to
say come, but past by a month or two and he requiring them, words were
given him in payment. Thereupon his eyes were opened to the wicked
woman's arts and his own lack of wit, wherefore, feeling that he could
say nought of her beyond that which might please her concerning the
matter, since he had neither script nor other evidence thereof, and
being ashamed to complain to any, as well for that he had been
forewarned thereof as for fear of the scoffs which he might reasonably
expect for his folly, he was beyond measure woeful and inwardly
bewailed his credulity.

At last, having had divers letters from his masters, requiring him to
change[419] the monies in question and remit them to them, he
determined to depart, lest, an he did it not, his default should be
discovered there, and accordingly, going aboard a little ship, he
betook himself, not to Pisa, as he should have done, but to Naples.
There at that time was our gossip Pietro dello Canigiano, treasurer to
the Empress of Constantinople, a man of great understanding and subtle
wit and a fast friend of Salabaetto and his family; and to him, as to
a very discreet man, the disconsolate Florentine recounted that which
he had done and the mischance that had befallen him, requiring him of
aid and counsel, so he might contrive to gain his living there, and
avouching his intention nevermore to return to Florence. Canigiano was
concerned for this and said, 'Ill hast thou done and ill hast thou
carried thyself; thou hast disobeyed thy masters and hast, at one
cast, spent a great sum of money in wantonness; but, since it is done,
we must look for otherwhat.'[420] Accordingly, like a shrewd man as he
was, he speedily bethought himself what was to be done and told it to
Salabaetto, who was pleased with the device and set about putting it
in execution. He had some money and Canigiano having lent him other
some, he made up a number of bales well packed and corded; then,
buying a score of oil-casks and filling them, he embarked the whole
and returned to Palermo, where, having given the customhouse officers
the bill of lading and the value of the casks and let enter everything
to his account, he laid the whole up in the magazines, saying that he
meant not to touch them till such time as certain other merchandise
which he expected should be come.

[Footnote 419: _i.e._ procure bills of exchange for.]

[Footnote 420: _i.e._ we must see what is to be done.]

Biancofiore, getting wind of this and hearing that the merchandise he
had presently brought with him was worth good two thousand florins,
without reckoning what he looked for, which was valued at more than
three thousand, bethought herself that she had flown at too small game
and determined to restore him the five hundred florins, so she might
avail to have the greater part of the five thousand. Accordingly, she
sent for him and Salabaetto, grown cunning, went to her; whereupon,
making believe to know nothing of that which he had brought with him,
she received him with a great show of fondness and said to him,
'Harkye, if thou wast vexed with me, for that I repaid thee not thy
monies on the very day....' Salabaetto fell a-laughing and answered;
'In truth, madam, it did somewhat displease me, seeing I would have
torn out my very heart to give it you, an I thought to pleasure you
withal; but I will have you hear how I am vexed with you. Such and so
great is the love I bear you, that I have sold the most part of my
possessions and have presently brought hither merchandise to the value
of more than two thousand florins and expect from the westward as much
more as will be worth over three thousand, with which I mean to stock
me a warehouse in this city and take up my sojourn here, so I may
still be near you, meseeming I fare better of your love than ever
lover of his lady.'

'Look you, Salabaetto,' answered the lady, 'every commodity of thine
is mighty pleasing to me, as that of him whom I love more than my
life, and it pleaseth me amain that thou art returned hither with
intent to sojourn here, for that I hope yet to have good time galore
with thee; but I would fain excuse myself somedele to thee for that,
whenas thou wast about to depart, thou wouldst bytimes have come
hither and couldst not, and whiles thou camest and wast not so gladly
seen as thou wast used to be, more by token that I returned thee not
thy monies at the time promised. Thou must know that I was then in
very great concern and sore affliction, and whoso is in such case, how
much soever he may love another, cannot always show him so cheerful a
countenance or pay him such attention as he might wish. Moreover, thou
must know that it is mighty uneasy for a woman to avail to find a
thousand gold florins; all day long we are put off with lies and that
which is promised us is not performed unto us; wherefore needs must we
in our turn lie unto others. Hence cometh it, and not of my default,
that I gave thee not back thy monies. However, I had them a little
after thy departure, and had I known whither to send them, thou mayst
be assured that I would have remitted them to thee; but, not knowing
this, I kept them for thee.' Then, letting fetch a purse wherein were
the very monies he had brought her, she put it into his hand, saying,
'Count them if there be five hundred.' Never was Salabaetto so glad;
he counted them and finding them five hundred, put them up and said,
'Madam, I am assured that you say sooth; but you have done enough [to
convince me of your love for me,] and I tell you that, for this and
for the love I bear you, you could never require me, for any your
occasion, of whatsoever sum I might command, but I would oblige you
therewith; and whenas I am established here, you may put this to the
proof.'

Having again on this wise renewed his loves with her in words, he fell
again to using amically with her, whilst she made much of him and
showed him the greatest goodwill and honour in the world, feigning the
utmost love for him. But he, having a mind to return her cheat for
cheat, being one day sent for by her to sup and sleep with her, went
thither so chapfallen and so woebegone that it seemed as he would die.
Biancofiore, embracing him and kissing him, began to question him of
what ailed him to be thus melancholy, and he, after letting himself be
importuned a good while, answered, 'I am a ruined man, for that the
ship, wherein is the merchandise I expected, hath been taken by the
corsairs of Monaco and held to ransom in ten thousand gold florins,
whereof it falleth to me to pay a thousand, and I have not a farthing,
for that the five hundred pieces thou returnedst to me I sent
incontinent to Naples to lay out in cloths to be brought hither; and
should I go about at this present to sell the merchandise I have here,
I should scarce get a penny for two pennyworth, for that it is no time
for selling. Nor am I yet so well known that I could find any here to
help me to this, wherefore I know not what to do or to say; for, if I
send not the monies speedily, the merchandise will be carried off to
Monaco and I shall never again have aught thereof.'

The lady was mightily concerned at this, fearing to lose him
altogether, and considering how she should do, so he might not go to
Monaco, said, 'God knoweth I am sore concerned for the love of thee;
but what availeth it to afflict oneself thus? If I had the monies, God
knoweth I would lend them to thee incontinent; but I have them not.
True, there is a certain person here who obliged me the other day
with the five hundred florins that I lacked; but he will have heavy
usance for his monies; nay, he requireth no less than thirty in the
hundred, and if thou wilt borrow of him, needs must he be made secure
with a good pledge. For my part, I am ready to engage for thee all
these my goods and my person, to boot, for as much as he will lend
thereon; but how wilt thou assure him of the rest?' Salabaetto readily
apprehended the reason that moved her to do him this service and
divined that it was she herself who was to lend him the money;
wherewith he was well pleased and thanking her, answered that he would
not be put off for exorbitant usance, need constraining him. Moreover,
he said that he would give assurance of the merchandise he had in the
customhouse, letting inscribe it to him who should lend him the money;
but that needs must be kept the key of the magazines, as well that he
might be able to show his wares, an it were required of him, as that
nothing might be touched or changed or tampered withal.

The lady answered that it was well said and that this was good enough
assurance; wherefore, as soon as the day was come, she sent for a
broker, in whom she trusted greatly, and taking order with him of the
matter, gave him a thousand gold florins, which he lent to Salabaetto,
letting inscribe in his own name at the customhouse that which the
latter had there; then, having made their writings and counter-writings
together and being come to an accord,[421] they occupied themselves
with their other affairs. Salabaetto, as soonest he might, embarked,
with the fifteen hundred gold florins, on board a little ship and
returned to Pietro dello Canigiano at Naples, whence he remitted to
his masters, who had despatched him with the stuffs, a good and entire
account thereof. Then, having repaid Pietro and every other to whom he
owed aught, he made merry several days with Canigiano over the cheat
he had put upon the Sicilian trickstress; after which, resolved to be
no more a merchant, he betook himself to Ferrara.

[Footnote 421: _i.e._ having executed and exchanged the necessary
legal documents for the proper carrying out of the transaction and
completed the matter to their mutual satisfaction.]

Meanwhile, Biancofiore, finding that Salabaetto had left Palermo,
began to marvel and wax misdoubtful and after having awaited him good
two months, seeing that he came not, she caused the broker force open
the magazines. Trying first the casks, which she believed to be filled
with oil, she found them full of seawater, save that there was in each
maybe a runlet of oil at the top near the bunghole. Then, undoing the
bales, she found them all full of tow, with the exception of two,
which were stuffs; and in brief, with all that was there, there was
not more than two hundred florins' worth. Wherefore Biancofiore,
confessing herself outwitted, long lamented the five hundred florins
repaid and yet more the thousand lent, saying often, 'Who with a
Tuscan hath to do, Must nor be blind nor see askew.' On this wise,
having gotten nothing for her pains but loss and scorn, she found, to
her cost, that some folk know as much as others."

       *       *       *       *       *

No sooner had Dioneo made an end of his story than Lauretta, knowing
the term to be come beyond which she was not to reign and having
commended Canigiano's counsel (which was approved good by its effect)
and Salabaetto's shrewdness (which was no less commendable) in
carrying it into execution, lifted the laurel from her own head and
set it on that of Emilia, saying, with womanly grace, "Madam, I know
not how pleasant a queen we shall have of you; but, at the least, we
shall have a fair one. Look, then, that your actions be conformable to
your beauties." So saying, she returned to her seat, whilst Emilia, a
thought abashed, not so much at being made queen as to see herself
publicly commended of that which women use most to covet, waxed such
in face as are the new-blown roses in the dawning. However, after she
had kept her eyes awhile lowered, till the redness had given place,
she took order with the seneschal of that which concerned the general
entertainment and presently said, "Delightsome ladies, it is common,
after oxen have toiled some part of the day, confined under the yoke,
to see them loosed and eased thereof and freely suffered to go
a-pasturing, where most it liketh them, about the woods; and it is
manifest also that leafy gardens, embowered with various plants, are
not less, but much more fair than groves wherein one seeth only oaks.
Wherefore, seeing how many days we have discoursed, under the
restraint of a fixed law, I opine that, as well unto us as to those
whom need constraineth to labour for their daily bread, it is not only
useful, but necessary, to play the truant awhile and wandering thus
afield, to regain strength to enter anew under the yoke. Wherefore,
for that which is to be related to-morrow, ensuing your delectable
usance of discourse, I purpose not to restrict you to any special
subject, but will have each discourse according as it pleaseth him,
holding it for certain that the variety of the things which will be
said will afford us no less entertainment than to have discoursed of
one alone; and having done thus, whoso shall come after me in the
sovranty may, as stronger than I, avail with greater assurance to
restrict us within the limits of the wonted laws." So saying, she set
every one at liberty till supper-time.

All commended the queen of that which she had said, holding it sagely
spoken, and rising to their feet, addressed themselves, this to one
kind of diversion and that to another, the ladies to weaving garlands
and to gambolling and the young men to gaming and singing. On this
wise they passed the time until the supper-hour, which being come,
they supped with mirth and good cheer about the fair fountain and
after diverted themselves with singing and dancing according to the
wonted usance. At last, the queen, to ensue the fashion of her
predecessors, commanded Pamfilo to sing a song, notwithstanding those
which sundry of the company had already sung of their freewill; and he
readily began thus:

         Such is thy pleasure, Love
     And such the allegresse I feel thereby
     That happy, burning in thy fire, am I.

     The abounding gladness in my heart that glows,
       For the high joy and dear
         Whereto thou hast me led,
     Unable to contain there, overflows
       And in my face's cheer
         Displays my happihead;
         For being enamouréd
     In such a worship-worthy place and high
     Makes eath to me the burning I aby.

     I cannot with my finger what I feel
       Limn, Love, nor do I know
         My bliss in song to vent;
     Nay, though I knew it, needs must I conceal,
       For, once divulged, I trow
         'Twould turn to dreariment.
         Yet am I so content,
     All speech were halt and feeble, did I try
     The least thereof with words to signify.

     Who might conceive it that these arms of mine
       Should anywise attain
         Whereas I've held them aye,
     Or that my face should reach so fair a shrine
       As that, of favour fain
         And grace, I've won to? Nay,
         Such fortune ne'er a day
     Believed me were; whence all afire am I,
     Hiding the source of my liesse thereby.

This was the end of Pamfilo's song, whereto albeit it had been
completely responded of all, there was none but noted the words
thereof with more attent solicitude than pertained unto him, studying
to divine that which, as he sang, it behoved him to keep hidden from
them; and although sundry went imagining various things, nevertheless
none happened upon the truth of the case.[422] But the queen, seeing
that the song was ended and that both young ladies and men would
gladly rest themselves, commanded that all should betake themselves to
bed.

[Footnote 422: The song sung by Pamfilo (under which name, as I have
before pointed out, the author appears to represent himself)
apparently alludes to Boccaccio's amours with the Princess Maria of
Naples (Fiammetta), by whom his passion was returned in kind.]


HERE ENDETH THE EIGHTH DAY
OF THE DECAMERON



_Day the Ninth_

     HERE BEGINNETH THE NINTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER
     THE GOVERNANCE OF EMILIA EACH DISCOURSETH ACCORDING AS IT
     PLEASETH HIM AND OF THAT WHICH IS MOST TO HIS LIKING


The light, from whose resplendence the night fleeth, had already
changed all the eighth heaven[423] from azure to watchet-colour[424]
and the flowerets began to lift their heads along the meads, when
Emilia, uprising, let call the ladies her comrades and on like wise
the young men, who, being come, fared forth, ensuing the slow steps of
the queen, and betook themselves to a coppice but little distant from
the palace. Therein entering, they saw the animals, wild goats and
deer and others, as if assured of security from the hunters by reason
of the prevailing pestilence, stand awaiting them no otherwise than as
they were grown without fear or tame, and diverted themselves awhile
with them, drawing near, now to this one and now to that, as if they
would fain lay hands on them, and making them run and skip. But, the
sun now waxing high, they deemed it well to turn back. They were all
garlanded with oak leaves, with their hands full of flowers and
sweet-scented herbs, and whoso encountered them had said no otherwhat
than "Or these shall not be overcome of death or it will slay them
merry." On this wise, then, they fared on, step by step, singing and
chatting and laughing, till they came to the palace, where they found
everything orderly disposed and their servants full of mirth and
joyous cheer. There having rested awhile, they went not to dinner till
half a dozen canzonets, each merrier than other, had been carolled by
the young men and the ladies; then, water being given to their hands,
the seneschal seated them all at table, according to the queen's
pleasure, and the viands being brought, they all ate blithely. Rising
thence, they gave themselves awhile to dancing and music-making, and
after, by the queen's commandment, whoso would betook himself to rest.
But presently, the wonted hour being come, all in the accustomed place
assembled to discourse, whereupon the queen, looking at Filomena, bade
her give commencement to the stories of that day, and she, smiling,
began on this wise:

[Footnote 423: According to the Ptolemaic system, the earth is
encompassed by eight celestial zones or heavens; the first or highest,
above which is the empyrean, (otherwise called the ninth heaven,) is
that of the Moon, the second that of Mercury, the third that of Venus,
the fourth that of the Sun, the fifth that of Mars, the sixth that of
Jupiter, the seventh that of Saturn and the eighth or lowest that of
the fixed stars and of the Earth.]

[Footnote 424: _D'azzurrino in color cilestro._ This is one of the
many passages in which Boccaccio has imitated Dante (cf. Purgatorio,
c. xxvi. II. 4-6, "... il sole.... Che già, raggiando, tutto
l'occidente Mutava in bianco aspetto di cilestro,") and also one of
the innumerable instances in which former translators (who all agree
in making the advent of the light change the colour of the sky from
azure to a darker colour, instead of, as Boccaccio intended, to
watchet, _i.e._ a paler or greyish blue,) have misrendered the text,
for sheer ignorance of the author's meaning.]



THE FIRST STORY

[Day the Ninth]

     MADAM FRANCESCA, BEING COURTED BY ONE RINUCCIO PALERMINI AND
     ONE ALESSANDRO CHIARMONTESI AND LOVING NEITHER THE ONE NOR
     THE OTHER, ADROITLY RIDDETH HERSELF OF BOTH BY CAUSING ONE
     ENTER FOR DEAD INTO A SEPULCHRE AND THE OTHER BRING HIM
     FORTH THEREOF FOR DEAD, ON SUCH WISE THAT THEY CANNOT AVAIL
     TO ACCOMPLISH THE CONDITION IMPOSED


"Since it is your pleasure, madam, I am well pleased to be she who
shall run the first ring in this open and free field of story-telling,
wherein your magnificence hath set us; the which an I do well, I doubt
not but that those who shall come after will do well and better. Many
a time, charming ladies, hath it been shown in our discourses what
and how great is the power of love; natheless, for that medeemeth not
it hath been fully spoken thereof (no, nor would be, though we should
speak of nothing else for a year to come,) and that not only doth love
bring lovers into divers dangers of death, but causeth them even to
enter for dead into the abiding-places of the dead, it is my pleasure
to relate to you a story thereof, over and above those which have been
told, whereby not only will you apprehend the puissance of love, but
will know the wit used by a worthy lady in ridding herself of two who
loved her against her will.

You must know, then, that there was once in the city of Pistoia a very
fair widow lady, of whom two of our townsmen, called the one Rinuccio
Palermini and the other Alessandro Chiarmontesi, there abiding by
reason of banishment from Florence, were, without knowing one of
other, passionately enamoured, having by chance fallen in love with
her and doing privily each his utmost endeavour to win her favour. The
gentlewoman in question, whose name was Madam Francesca de' Lazzari,
being still importuned of the one and the other with messages and
entreaties, to which she had whiles somewhat unwisely given ear, and
desiring, but in vain, discreetly to retract, bethought herself how
she might avail to rid herself of their importunity by requiring them
of a service, which, albeit it was possible, she conceived that
neither of them would render her, to the intent that, they not doing
that which she required, she might have a fair and colourable occasion
of refusing to hearken more to their messages; and the device which
occurred to her was on this wise.

There had died that very day at Pistoia, one, who, albeit his
ancestors were gentlemen, was reputed the worst man that was, not only
in Pistoia, but in all the world; more by token that he was in his
lifetime so misshapen and of so monstrous a favour that whoso knew him
not, seeing him for the first time, had been affeared of him; and he
had been buried in a tomb without the church of the Minor Friars. This
circumstance she bethought herself would in part be very apt to her
purpose and accordingly she said to a maid of hers, 'Thou knowest the
annoy and the vexation I suffer all day long by the messages of yonder
two Florentines, Rinuccio and Alessandro. Now I am not disposed to
gratify [either of] them with my love, and to rid myself of them, I
have bethought myself, for the great proffers that they make, to seek
to make proof of them in somewhat which I am certain they will not do;
so shall I do away from me this their importunity, and thou shalt see
how. Thou knowest that Scannadio,[425] for so was the wicked man
called of whom we have already spoken, 'was this morning buried in the
burial-place of the Minor Brethren, Scannadio, of whom, whenas they
saw him alive, let alone dead, the doughtiest men of this city went in
fear; wherefore go thou privily first to Alessandro and bespeak him,
saying, "Madam Francesca giveth thee to know that now is the time
come whenas thou mayst have her love, which thou hast so much
desired, and be with her, an thou wilt, on this wise. This night, for
a reason which thou shalt know after, the body of Scannadio, who was
this morning buried, is to be brought to her house by a kinsman of
hers, and she, being in great fear of him, dead though he be, would
fain not have him there; wherefore she prayeth thee that it please
thee, by way of doing her a great service, go this evening, at the
time of the first sleep, to the tomb wherein he is buried, and donning
the dead man's clothes, abide as thou wert he until such time as they
shall come for thee. Then, without moving or speaking, thou must
suffer thyself be taken up out of the tomb and carried to her house,
where she will receive thee, and thou mayst after abide with her and
depart at thy leisure, leaving to her the care of the rest." An he say
that he will do it, well and good; but, should he refuse, bid him on
my part, never more show himself whereas I may be and look, as he
valueth his life, that he send me no more letters or messages. Then
shalt thou betake thee to Rinuccio Palermini and say to him, "Madam
Francesca saith that she is ready to do thine every pleasure, an thou
wilt render her a great service, to wit, that to-night, towards the
middle hour, thou get thee to the tomb wherein Scannadio was this
morning buried and take him up softly thence and bring him to her at
her house, without saying a word of aught thou mayst hear or feel.
There shalt thou learn what she would with him and have of her thy
pleasure; but, an it please thee not to do this, she chargeth thee
never more send her writ nor message."'

[Footnote 425: _Scannadio_ signifies "Murder-God" and was no doubt a
nickname bestowed upon the dead man, on account of his wicked and
reprobate way of life.]

The maid betook herself to the two lovers and did her errand
punctually to each, saying as it had been enjoined her; whereto each
made answer that, an it pleased her, they would go, not only into a
tomb, but into hell itself. The maid carried their reply to the lady
and she waited to see if they would be mad enough to do it. The night
come, whenas it was the season of the first sleep, Alessandro
Chiarmontesi, having stripped himself to his doublet, went forth of
his house to take Scannadio's place in the tomb; but, by the way,
there came a very frightful thought into his head and he fell a-saying
in himself, 'Good lack, what a fool I am! Whither go I? How know I but
yonder woman's kinsfolk, having maybe perceived that I love her and
believing that which is not, have caused me do this, so they may
slaughter me in yonder tomb? An it should happen thus, I should suffer
for it nor would aught in the world be ever known thereof to their
detriment. Or what know I but maybe some enemy of mine hath procured
me this, whom she belike loveth and seeketh to oblige therein?' Then
said he, 'But, grant that neither of these things be and that her
kinsfolk are e'en for carrying me to her house, I must believe that
they want not Scannadio's body to hold it in their arms or to put it
in hers; nay, it is rather to be conceived that they mean to do it
some mischief, as the body of one who maybe disobliged them in
somewhat aforetime. She saith that I am not to say a word for aught
that I may feel. But, should they put out mine eyes or draw my teeth
or lop off my hands or play me any other such trick, how shall I do?
How could I abide quiet? And if I speak, they will know me and mayhap
do me a mischief, or, though they do me no hurt, yet shall I have
accomplished nothing, for that they will not leave me with the lady;
whereupon she will say that I have broken her commandment and will
never do aught to pleasure me.' So saying, he had well nigh returned
home; but, nevertheless, his great love urged him on with counter
arguments of such potency that they brought him to the tomb, which he
opened and entering therein, stripped Scannadio of his clothes; then,
donning them and shutting the tomb upon himself, he laid himself in
the dead man's place. Thereupon he began to call to mind what manner
of man the latter had been and remembering him of all the things
whereof he had aforetime heard tell as having befallen by night, not
to say in the sepulchres of the dead, but even otherwhere, his every
hair began to stand on end and himseemed each moment as if Scannadio
should rise upright and butcher him then and there. However, aided by
his ardent love, he got the better of these and the other fearful
thoughts that beset him and abiding as he were the dead man, he fell
to awaiting that which should betide him.

Meanwhile, Rinuccio, midnight being now at hand, departed his house,
to do that which had been enjoined him of his mistress, and as he
went, he entered into many and various thoughts of the things which
might possibly betide him; as, to wit, that he might fall into the
hands of the police, with Scannadio's body on his shoulders, and be
doomed to the fire as a sorcerer, and that he should, an the thing
came to be known, incur the ill-will of his kinsfolk, and other like
thoughts, whereby he was like to have been deterred. But after,
bethinking himself again, 'Alack,' quoth he, 'shall I deny this
gentlewoman, whom I have so loved and love, the first thing she
requireth of me, especially as I am thereby to gain her favour? God
forbid, though I were certainly to die thereof, but I should set
myself to do that which I have promised!' Accordingly, he went on and
presently coming to the sepulchre, opened it easily; which Alessandro
hearing, abode still, albeit he was in great fear. Rinuccio, entering
in and thinking to take Scannadio's body, laid hold of Alessandro's
feet and drew him forth of the tomb; then, hoisting him on his
shoulders, he made off towards the lady's house.

Going thus and taking no manner of heed to his burden, he jolted it
many a time now against one corner and now another of certain benches
that were beside the way, more by token that the night was so cloudy
and so dark he could not see whither he went. He was already well nigh
at the door of the gentlewoman, who had posted herself at the window
with her maid, to see if he would bring Alessandro, and was ready
armed with an excuse to send them both away, when it chanced that the
officers of the watch, who were ambushed in the street and abode
silently on the watch to lay hands upon a certain outlaw, hearing the
scuffling that Rinuccio made with his feet, suddenly put out a light,
to see what was to do and whither to go, and rattled their targets and
halberds, crying, 'Who goeth there?' Rinuccio, seeing this and having
scant time for deliberation, let fall his burden and made off as fast
as his legs would carry him; whereupon Alessandro arose in haste and
made off in his turn, for all he was hampered with the dead man's
clothes, which were very long. The lady, by the light of the lantern
put out by the police, had plainly recognized Rinuccio, with
Alessandro on his shoulders, and perceiving the latter to be clad in
Scannadio's clothes, marvelled amain at the exceeding hardihood of
both; but, for all her wonderment, she laughed heartily to see
Alessandro cast down on the ground and to see him after take to
flight. Then, rejoiced at this accident and praising God that He had
rid her of the annoy of these twain, she turned back into the house
and betook herself to her chamber, avouching to her maid that without
doubt they both loved her greatly, since, as it appeared, they had
done that which she had enjoined them.

Meanwhile Rinuccio, woeful and cursing his ill fortune, for all that
returned not home, but, as soon as the watch had departed the
neighbourhood, he came back whereas he had dropped Alessandro and
groped about, to see if he could find him again, so he might make an
end of his service; but, finding him not and concluding that the
police had carried him off, he returned to his own house, woebegone,
whilst Alessandro, unknowing what else to do, made off home on like
wise, chagrined at such a misadventure and without having recognized
him who had borne him thither. On the morrow, Scannadio's tomb being
found open and his body not to be seen, for that Alessandro had rolled
it to the bottom of the vault, all Pistoia was busy with various
conjectures anent the matter, and the simpler sort concluded that he
had been carried off by the devils. Nevertheless, each of the two
lovers signified to the lady that which he had done and what had
befallen and excusing himself withal for not having full accomplished
her commandment, claimed her favour and her love; but she, making
believe to credit neither of this, rid herself of them with a curt
response to the effect that she would never consent to do aught for
them, since they had not done that which she had required of them."



THE SECOND STORY

[Day the Ninth]

     AN ABBESS, ARISING IN HASTE AND IN THE DARK TO FIND ONE OF
     HER NUNS, WHO HAD BEEN DENOUNCED TO HER, IN BED WITH HER
     LOVER AND THINKING TO COVER HER HEAD WITH HER COIF, DONNETH
     INSTEAD THEREOF THE BREECHES OF A PRIEST WHO IS ABED WITH
     HER; THE WHICH THE ACCUSED NUN OBSERVING AND MAKING HER
     AWARE THEREOF, SHE IS ACQUITTED AND HATH LEISURE TO BE WITH
     HER LOVER


Filomena was now silent and the lady's address in ridding herself of
those whom she chose not to love having been commended of all, whilst,
on the other hand, the presumptuous hardihood of the two gallants was
held of them to be not love, but madness, the queen said gaily to
Elisa, "Elisa, follow on." Accordingly, she promptly began,
"Adroitly, indeed, dearest ladies, did Madam Francesca contrive to rid
herself of her annoy, as hath been told; but a young nun, fortune
aiding her, delivered herself with an apt speech from an imminent
peril. As you know, there be many very dull folk, who set up for
teachers and censors of others, but whom, as you may apprehend from my
story, fortune bytimes deservedly putteth to shame, as befell the
abbess, under whose governance was the nun of whom I have to tell.

You must know, then, that there was once in Lombardy a convent, very
famous for sanctity and religion, wherein, amongst the other nuns who
were there, was a young lady of noble birth and gifted with marvellous
beauty, who was called Isabetta and who, coming one day to the grate
to speak with a kinsman of hers, fell in love with a handsome young
man who accompanied him. The latter, seeing her very fair and divining
her wishes with his eyes, became on like wise enamoured of her, and
this love they suffered a great while without fruit, to the no small
unease of each. At last, each being solicited by a like desire, the
young man hit upon a means of coming at his nun in all secrecy, and
she consenting thereto, he visited her, not once, but many times, to
the great contentment of both. But, this continuing, it chanced one
night that he was, without the knowledge of himself or his mistress,
seen of one of the ladies of the convent to take leave of Isabetta and
go his ways. The nun communicated her discovery to divers others and
they were minded at first to denounce Isabetta to the abbess, who was
called Madam Usimbalda and who, in the opinion of the nuns and of
whosoever knew her, was a good and pious lady; but, on consideration,
they bethought themselves to seek to have the abbess take her with the
young man, so there might be no room for denial. Accordingly, they
held their peace and kept watch by turns in secret to surprise her.

Now it chanced that Isabetta, suspecting nothing of this nor being on
her guard, caused her lover come thither one night, which was
forthright known to those who were on the watch for this and who,
whenas it seemed to them time, a good part of the night being spent,
divided themselves into two parties, whereof one abode on guard at the
door of her cell, whilst the other ran to the abbess's chamber and
knocking at the door, till she answered, said to her, 'Up, madam;
arise quickly, for we have discovered that Isabetta hath a young man
in her cell.' Now the abbess was that night in company with a priest,
whom she ofttimes let come to her in a chest; but, hearing the nuns'
outcry and fearing lest, of their overhaste and eagerness, they should
push open the door, she hurriedly arose and dressed herself as best
she might in the dark. Thinking to take certain plaited veils, which
nuns wear on their heads and call a psalter, she caught up by chance
the priest's breeches, and such was her haste that, without remarking
what she did, she threw them over her head, in lieu of the psalter,
and going forth, hurriedly locked the door after her, saying, 'Where
is this accursed one of God?' Then, in company with the others, who
were so ardent and so intent upon having Isabetta taken in default
that they noted not that which the abbess had on her head, she came
to the cell-door and breaking it open, with the aid of the others,
entered and found the two lovers abed in each other's arms, who, all
confounded at such a surprise, abode fast, unknowing what to do.

The young lady was incontinent seized by the other nuns and haled off,
by command of the abbess, to the chapter-house, whilst her gallant
dressed himself and abode await to see what should be the issue of the
adventure, resolved, if any hurt were offered to his mistress, to do a
mischief to as many nuns as he could come at and carry her off. The
abbess, sitting in chapter, proceeded, in the presence of all the
nuns, who had no eyes but for the culprit, to give the latter the
foulest rating that ever woman had, as having by her lewd and filthy
practices (an the thing should come to be known without the walls)
sullied the sanctity, the honour and the fair fame of the convent; and
to this she added very grievous menaces. The young lady, shamefast and
fearful, as feeling herself guilty, knew not what to answer and
keeping silence, possessed the other nuns with compassion for her.
However, after a while, the abbess multiplying words, she chanced to
raise her eyes and espied that which the former had on her head and
the hose-points that hung down therefrom on either side; whereupon,
guessing how the matter stood, she was all reassured and said, 'Madam,
God aid you, tie up your coif and after say what you will to me.'

The abbess, taking not her meaning, answered, 'What coif, vile woman
that thou art? Hast thou the face to bandy pleasantries at such a
time? Thinkest thou this that thou hast done is a jesting matter?'
'Prithee, madam,' answered Isabetta, 'tie up your coif and after say
what you will to me.' Thereupon many of the nuns raised their eyes to
the abbess's head and she also, putting her hand thereto, perceived,
as did the others, why Isabetta spoke thus; wherefore the abbess,
becoming aware of her own default and perceiving that it was seen of
all, past hope of recoverance, changed her note and proceeding to
speak after a fashion altogether different from her beginning, came to
the conclusion that it is impossible to withstand the pricks of the
flesh, wherefore she said that each should, whenas she might, privily
give herself a good time, even as it had been done until that day.
Accordingly, setting the young lady free, she went back to sleep with
her priest and Isabetta returned to her lover, whom many a time
thereafter she let come thither, in despite of those who envied her,
whilst those of the others who were loverless pushed their fortunes in
secret, as best they knew."



THE THIRD STORY

[Day the Ninth]

     MASTER SIMONE, AT THE INSTANCE OF BRUNO AND BUFFALMACCO AND
     NELLO, MAKETH CALANDRINO BELIEVE THAT HE IS WITH CHILD;
     WHEREFORE HE GIVETH THEM CAPONS AND MONEY FOR MEDICINES AND
     RECOVERETH WITHOUT BRINGING FORTH


After Elisa had finished her story and all the ladies had returned
thanks to God, who had with a happy issue delivered the young nun from
the claws of her envious companions, the queen bade Filostrato follow
on, and he, without awaiting further commandment, began, "Fairest
ladies, the unmannerly lout of a Marchegan judge, of whom I told you
yesterday, took out of my mouth a story of Calandrino and his
companions, which I was about to relate; and for that, albeit it hath
been much discoursed of him and them, aught that is told of him cannot
do otherwise than add to our merriment, I will e'en tell you that
which I had then in mind.

It hath already been clearly enough shown who Calandrino was and who
were the others of whom I am to speak in this story, wherefore,
without further preface, I shall tell you that an aunt of his chanced
to die and left him two hundred crowns in small coin; whereupon he
fell a-talking of wishing to buy an estate and entered into treaty
with all the brokers in Florence, as if he had ten thousand gold
florins to expend; but the matter still fell through, when they came
to the price of the estate in question. Bruno and Buffalmacco, knowing
all this, had told him once and again that he were better spend the
money in making merry together with them than go buy land, as if he
had had to make pellets;[426] but, far from this, they had never even
availed to bring him to give them once to eat. One day, as they were
complaining of this, there came up a comrade of theirs, a painter by
name Nello, and they all three took counsel together how they might
find a means of greasing their gullets at Calandrino's expense;
wherefore, without more delay, having agreed among themselves of that
which was to do, they watched next morning for his coming forth of his
house, nor had he gone far when Nello accosted him, saying, 'Good-day,
Calandrino.' Calandrino answered God give him good day and good year,
and Nello, halting awhile, fell to looking him in the face; whereupon
Calandrino asked him, 'At what lookest thou?' Quoth the painter, 'Hath
aught ailed thee this night? Meseemeth thou are not thyself this
morning.' Calandrino incontinent began to quake and said, 'Alack, how
so? What deemest thou aileth me?' 'Egad,' answered Nello, 'as for that
I can't say; but thou seemest to me all changed; belike it is
nothing.' So saying, he let him pass, and Calandrino fared on, all
misdoubtful, albeit he felt no whit ailing; but Buffalmacco, who was
not far off, seeing him quit of Nello, made for him and saluting him,
enquired if aught ailed him. Quoth Calandrino, 'I know not; nay, Nello
told me but now that I seemed to him all changed. Can it be that aught
aileth me?' 'Ay,' rejoined Buffalmacco, 'there must e'en be something
or other amiss with thee, for thou appearest half dead.'

[Footnote 426: _i.e._ balls for a pellet bow, usually made out of
clay. Bruno and Buffalmacco were punning upon the double meaning, land
and earth (or clay), of the word _terra_.]

By this time it seemed to Calandrino that he had the fevers, when, lo,
up came Bruno and the first thing he said was, 'Calandrino, what
manner of face is this?' Calandrino, hearing them all in the same
tale, held it for certain that he was in an ill way and asked them,
all aghast, 'what shall I do?' Quoth Bruno, 'Methinketh thou wert best
return home and get thee to bed and cover thyself well and send thy
water to Master Simone the doctor, who is, as thou knowest, as our
very creature and will tell thee incontinent what thou must do. We
will go with thee and if it behoveth to do aught, we will do it.'
Accordingly, Nello having joined himself to them, they returned home
with Calandrino, who betook himself, all dejected, into the bedchamber
and said to his wife, 'Come, cover me well, for I feel myself sore
disordered.' Then, laying himself down, he despatched his water by a
little maid to Master Simone, who then kept shop in the Old Market, at
the sign of the Pumpkin, whilst Bruno said to his comrades, 'Abide you
here with him, whilst I go hear what the doctor saith and bring him
hither, if need be.' 'Ay, for God's sake, comrade mine,' cried
Calandrino, 'go thither and bring me back word how the case standeth,
for I feel I know not what within me.'

Accordingly, Bruno posted off to Master Simone and coming thither
before the girl who brought the water, acquainted him with the case;
wherefore, the maid being come and the physician, having seen the
water, he said to her, 'Begone and bid Calandrino keep himself well
warm, and I will come to him incontinent and tell him that which
aileth him and what he must do.' The maid reported this to her master
nor was it long before the physician and Bruno came, whereupon the
former, seating himself beside Calandrino, fell to feeling his pulse
and presently, the patient's wife being there present, he said,
'Harkye, Calandrino, to speak to thee as a friend, there aileth thee
nought but that thou art with child.' When Calandrino heard this, he
fell a-roaring for dolour and said, 'Woe's me! Tessa, this is thy
doing, for that thou wilt still be uppermost; I told thee how it would
be.' The lady, who was a very modest person, hearing her husband speak
thus, blushed all red for shamefastness and hanging her head, went out
of the room, without answering a word; whilst Calandrino, pursuing his
complaint, said, 'Alack, wretch that I am! How shall I do? How shall I
bring forth this child? Whence shall he issue? I see plainly I am a
dead man, through the mad lust of yonder wife of mine, whom God make
as woeful as I would fain be glad! Were I as well as I am not, I would
arise and deal her so many and such buffets that I would break every
bone in her body; albeit it e'en serveth me right, for that I should
never have suffered her get the upper hand; but, for certain, an I
come off alive this time, she may die of desire ere she do it again.'

Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello were like to burst with laughter,
hearing Calandrino's words; however, they contained themselves, but
Doctor Simple-Simon[427] laughed so immoderately that you might have
drawn every tooth in his head. Finally, Calandrino commending himself
to the physician and praying him give him aid and counsel in this his
strait, the latter said to him, 'Calandrino, I will not have thee lose
heart; for, praised be God, we have taken the case so betimes that, in
a few days and with a little trouble, I will deliver thee thereof; but
it will cost thee some little expense.' 'Alack, doctor mine,' cried
Calandrino, 'ay, for the love of God, do it! I have here two hundred
crowns, wherewith I was minded to buy me an estate; take them all, if
need be, so I be not brought to bed; for I know not how I should do,
seeing I hear women make such a terrible outcry, whereas they are
about to bear child, for all they have ample commodity therefor, that
methinketh, if I had that pain to suffer, I should die ere I came to
the bringing forth.' Quoth the doctor, 'Have no fear of that; I will
let make thee a certain ptisan of distilled waters, very good and
pleasant to drink, which will in three mornings' time carry off
everything and leave thee sounder than a fish; but look thou be more
discreet for the future and suffer not thyself fall again into these
follies. Now for this water it behoveth us have three pairs of fine
fat capons, and for other things that are required thereanent, do thou
give one of these (thy comrades) five silver crowns, so he may buy
them, and let carry everything to my shop; and to-morrow, in God's
name, I will send thee the distilled water aforesaid, whereof thou
shalt proceed to drink a good beakerful at a time.' 'Doctor mine,'
replied Calandrino, 'I put myself in your hands'; and giving Bruno
five crowns and money for three pairs of capons, he besought him to
oblige him by taking the pains to buy these things.

[Footnote 427: _Scimmione_ (lit. ape), a contemptuous distortion of
_Simone_.]

The physician then took his leave and letting make a little
clary,[428] despatched it to Calandrino, whilst Bruno, buying the
capons and other things necessary for making good cheer, ate them in
company with his comrades and Master Simone. Calandrino drank of his
clary three mornings, after which the doctor came to him, together
with his comrades, and feeling his pulse, said to him, 'Calandrino,
thou art certainly cured; wherefore henceforth thou mayst safely go
about thine every business nor abide longer at home for this.'
Accordingly, Calandrino arose, overjoyed, and went about his
occasions, mightily extolling, as often as he happened to speak with
any one, the fine cure that Master Simone had wrought of him, in that
he had unbegotten him with child in three days' time, without any
pain; whilst Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello abode well pleased at
having contrived with this device to overreach his niggardliness,
albeit Dame Tessa, smoking the cheat, rated her husband amain
thereanent."

[Footnote 428: _Chiarea._ According to the commentators, the
composition of this drink is unknown, but that of clary, a sort of
hippocras or spiced wine _clear-strained_ (whence the name), offers no
difficulty to the student of old English literature.]



THE FOURTH STORY

[Day the Ninth]

     CECCO FORTARRIGO GAMETH AWAY AT BUONCONVENTO ALL HIS GOOD
     AND THE MONIES OF CECCO ANGIOLIERI [HIS MASTER;] MOREOVER,
     RUNNING AFTER THE LATTER, IN HIS SHIRT, AND AVOUCHING THAT
     HE HATH ROBBED HIM, HE CAUSETH HIM BE TAKEN OF THE
     COUNTRYFOLK; THEN, DONNING ANGIOLIERI'S CLOTHES AND MOUNTING
     HIS PALFREY, HE MAKETH OFF AND LEAVETH THE OTHER IN HIS
     SHIRT


Calandrino's speech concerning his wife had been hearkened of all the
company with the utmost laughter; then, Filostrato being silent,
Neifile, as the queen willed it, began, "Noble ladies, were it not
uneather for men to show forth unto others their wit and their worth
than it is for them to exhibit their folly and their vice, many would
weary themselves in vain to put a bridle on their tongues; and this
hath right well been made manifest to you by the folly of Calandrino,
who had no call, in seeking to be made whole of the ailment in which
his simplicity caused him believe, to publish the privy diversions of
his wife; and this hath brought to my mind somewhat of contrary
purport to itself, to wit, a story of how one man's knavery got the
better of another's wit, to the grievous hurt and confusion of the
over-reached one, the which it pleaseth me to relate to you.

There were, then, in Siena, not many years ago, two (as far as age
went) full-grown men, each of whom was called Cecco. One was the son
of Messer Angiolieri and the other of Messer Fortarrigo, and albeit in
most other things they sorted ill of fashions one with the other, they
were natheless so far of accord in one particular, to wit, that they
were both hated of their fathers, that they were by reason thereof
grown friends and companied often together. After awhile, Angiolieri,
who was both a handsome man and a well-mannered, himseeming he could
ill live at Siena of the provision assigned him of his father and
hearing that a certain cardinal, a great patron of his, was come into
the Marches of Ancona as the Pope's Legate, determined to betake
himself to him, thinking thus to better his condition. Accordingly,
acquainting his father with his purpose, he took order with him to
have at once that which he was to give him in six months, so he might
clothe and horse himself and make an honourable figure. As he went
seeking some one whom he might carry with him for his service, the
thing came to Fortarrigo's knowledge, whereupon he presently repaired
to Angiolieri and besought him, as best he knew, to carry him with
him, offering himself to be to him lackey and serving-man and all,
without any wage beyond his expenses paid. Angiolieri answered that he
would nowise take him, not but he knew him to be right well sufficient
unto every manner of service, but for that he was a gambler and
bytimes a drunkard, to boot. But the other replied that he would
without fail keep himself from both of these defaults and affirmed it
unto him with oaths galore, adding so many prayers that Angiolieri was
prevailed upon and said that he was content.

Accordingly, they both set out one morning and went to dine at
Buonconvento, where, after dinner, the heat being great, Angiolieri
let make ready a bed at the inn and undressing himself, with
Fortarrigo's aid, went to sleep, charging the latter call him at the
stroke of none. As soon as his master was asleep, Fortarrigo betook
himself to the tavern and there, after drinking awhile, he fell to
gaming with certain men, who in a trice won of him some money he had
and after, the very clothes he had on his back; whereupon, desirous of
retrieving himself, he repaired, in his shirt as he was, to
Angiolieri's chamber and seeing him fast asleep, took from his purse
what monies he had and returning to play, lost these as he had lost
the others. Presently, Angiolieri awoke and arising, dressed himself
and enquired for Fortarrigo. The latter was not to be found and
Angiolieri, concluding him to be asleep, drunken, somewhere, as was
bytimes his wont, determined to leave him be and get himself another
servant at Corsignano. Accordingly, he caused put his saddle and his
valise on a palfrey he had and thinking to pay the reckoning, so he
might get him gone, found himself without a penny; whereupon great was
the outcry and all the hostelry was in an uproar, Angiolieri declaring
that he had been robbed there and threatening to have the host and all
his household carried prisoners to Siena.

At this moment up came Fortarrigo in his shirt, thinking to take his
master's clothes, as he had taken his money, and seeing the latter
ready to mount, said, 'What is this, Angiolieri? Must we needs be gone
already? Good lack, wait awhile; there will be one here forthwith who
hath my doublet in pawn for eight-and-thirty shillings; and I am
certain that he will render it up for five-and-thirty, money down.' As
he spoke, there came one who certified Angiolieri that it was
Fortarrigo who had robbed him of his monies, by showing him the sum of
those which the latter had lost at play; wherefore he was sore
incensed and loaded Fortarrigo with reproaches; and had he not feared
others more than he feared God, he had done him a mischief; then,
threatening to have him strung up by the neck or outlawed from Siena,
he mounted to horse. Fortarrigo, as if he spoke not to him, but to
another, said, 'Good lack, Angiolieri, let be for the nonce this talk
that skilleth not a straw, and have regard unto this; by redeeming
it[429] forthright, we may have it again for five-and-thirty
shillings; whereas, if we tarry but till to-morrow, he will not take
less than the eight-and-thirty he lent me thereon; and this favour he
doth me for that I staked it after his counsel. Marry, why should we
not better ourselves by these three shillings?'

[Footnote 429: _i.e._ the doublet.]

Angiolieri, hearing him talk thus, lost all patience (more by token
that he saw himself eyed askance by the bystanders, who manifestly
believed, not that Fortarrigo had gamed away his monies, but that he
had yet monies of Fortarrigo's in hand) and said to him, 'What have I
to do with thy doublet? Mayst thou be strung up by the neck, since not
only hast thou robbed me and gambled away my money, but hinderest me
to boot in my journey, and now thou makest mock of me.' However,
Fortarrigo still stood to it, as it were not spoken to him and said,
'Ecod, why wilt thou not better me these three shillings? Thinkest
thou I shall not be able to oblige thee therewith another time?
Prithee, do it, an thou have any regard for me. Why all this haste? We
shall yet reach Torrenieri betimes this evening. Come, find the purse;
thou knowest I might ransack all Siena and not find a doublet to suit
me so well as this; and to think I should let yonder fellow have it
for eight-and-thirty shillings! It is worth yet forty shillings or
more, so that thou wouldst worsen me in two ways.'[430]

[Footnote 430: _i.e._ do me a double injury.]

Angiolieri, beyond measure exasperated to see himself first robbed and
now held in parley after this fashion, made him no further answer,
but, turning his palfrey's head, took the road to Torrenieri, whilst
Fortarrigo, bethinking himself of a subtle piece of knavery, proceeded
to trot after him in his shirt good two miles, still requiring him of
his doublet. Presently, Angiolieri pricking on amain, to rid his ears
of the annoy, Fortarrigo espied some husbandmen in a field, adjoining
the highway in advance of him, and cried out to them, saying, 'Stop
him, stop him!' Accordingly, they ran up, some with spades and others
with mattocks, and presenting themselves in the road before
Angiolieri, concluding that he had robbed him who came crying after
him in his shirt, stopped and took him. It availed him little to tell
them who he was and how the case stood, and Fortarrigo, coming up,
said with an angry air, 'I know not what hindereth me from slaying
thee, disloyal thief that thou wast to make off with my gear!' Then,
turning to the countrymen, 'See, gentlemen,' quoth he, 'in what a
plight he left me at the inn, having first gamed away all his own! I
may well say by God and by you have I gotten back this much, and
thereof I shall still be beholden to you.'

Angiolieri told them his own story, but his words were not heeded;
nay, Fortarrigo, with the aid of the countrymen, pulled him off his
palfrey and stripping him, clad himself in his clothes; then, mounting
to horse, he left him in his shirt and barefoot and returned to Siena,
avouching everywhere that he had won the horse and clothes of
Angiolieri, whilst the latter, who had thought to go, as a rich man,
to the cardinal in the Marches, returned to Buonconvento, poor and in
his shirt, nor dared for shamefastness go straight back to Siena, but,
some clothes being lent him, he mounted the rouncey that Fortarrigo
had ridden and betook himself to his kinsfolk at Corsignano, with whom
he abode till such time as he was furnished anew by his father. On
this wise Fortarrigo's knavery baffled Angiolieri's fair
advisement,[431] albeit his villainy was not left by the latter
unpunished in due time and place."

[Footnote 431: Syn. goodly design of foresight (_buono avviso_).]



THE FIFTH STORY

[Day the Ninth]

     CALANDRINO FALLETH IN LOVE WITH A WENCH AND BRUNO WRITETH
     HIM A TALISMAN, WHEREWITH WHEN HE TOUCHETH HER, SHE GOETH
     WITH HIM; AND HIS WIFE FINDING THEM TOGETHER, THERE BETIDETH
     HIM GRIEVOUS TROUBLE AND ANNOY


Neifile's short story being finished and the company having passed it
over without overmuch talk or laughter, the queen turned to Fiammetta
and bade her follow on, to which she replied all blithely that she
would well and began, "Gentlest ladies, there is, as methinketh you
may know, nothing, how much soever it may have been talked thereof,
but will still please, provided whoso is minded to speak of it know
duly to choose the time and the place that befit it. Wherefore, having
regard to our intent in being here (for that we are here to make merry
and divert ourselves and not for otherwhat), meseemeth that everything
which may afford mirth and pleasance hath here both due place and due
time; and albeit it may have been a thousand times discoursed thereof,
it should natheless be none the less pleasing, though one speak of it
as much again. Wherefore, notwithstanding it hath been many times
spoken among us of the sayings and doings of Calandrino, I will make
bold, considering, as Filostrato said awhile ago, that these are all
diverting, to tell you yet another story thereof, wherein were I
minded to swerve from the fact, I had very well known to disguise and
recount it under other names; but, for that, in the telling of a
story, to depart from the truth of things betided detracteth greatly
from the listener's pleasure, I will e'en tell it you in its true
shape, moved by the reason aforesaid.

Niccolo Cornacchini was a townsman of ours and a rich man and had,
among his other possessions, a fine estate at Camerata, whereon he let
build a magnificent mansion and agreed with Bruno and Buffalmacco to
paint it all for him; and they, for that the work was great, joined to
themselves Nello and Calandrino and fell to work. Thither, for that
there was none of the family in the house, although there were one or
two chambers furnished with beds and other things needful and an old
serving-woman abode there, as guardian of the place, a son of the said
Niccolo, by name Filippo, being young and without a wife, was wont
bytimes to bring some wench or other for his diversion and keep her
there a day or two and after send her away. It chanced once, among
other times, that he brought thither one called Niccolosa, whom a lewd
fellow, by name Mangione, kept at his disposal in a house at Camaldoli
and let out on hire. She was a woman of a fine person and well clad
and for her kind well enough mannered and spoken.

One day at noontide, she having come forth her chamber in a white
petticoat, with her hair twisted about her head, and being in act to
wash her hands and face at a well that was in the courtyard of the
mansion, it chanced that Calandrino came thither for water and saluted
her familiarly. She returned him his greeting and fell to eying him,
more because he seemed to her an odd sort of fellow than for any fancy
she had for him; whereupon he likewise fell a-considering her and
himseeming she was handsome, he began to find his occasions for
abiding there and returned not to his comrades with the water, but,
knowing her not, dared not say aught to her. She, who had noted his
looking, glanced at him from time to time, to make game of him,
heaving some small matter of sighs the while; wherefore Calandrino
fell suddenly over head and ears in love with her and left not the
courtyard till she was recalled by Filippo into the chamber.
Therewithal he returned to work, but did nought but sigh, which Bruno,
who had still an eye to his doings, for that he took great delight in
his fashions, remarking, 'What a devil aileth thee, friend
Calandrino?' quoth he. 'Thou dost nought but sigh.' 'Comrade,'
answered Calandrino, 'had I but some one to help me, I should fare
well.' 'How so?' enquired Bruno; and Calandrino replied, 'It must not
be told to any; but there is a lass down yonder, fairer than a fairy,
who hath fallen so mightily in love with me that 'twould seem to thee
a grave matter. I noted it but now, whenas I went for the water.'
'Ecod,' cried Bruno, 'look she be not Filippo's wife.' Quoth
Calandrino, 'Methinketh it is she, for that he called her and she went
to him in the chamber; but what of that? In matters of this kind I
would jockey Christ himself, let alone Filippo; and to tell thee the
truth, comrade, she pleaseth me more than I can tell thee.' 'Comrade,'
answered Bruno, 'I will spy thee out who she is, and if she be
Filippo's wife, I will order thine affairs for thee in a brace of
words, for she is a great friend of mine. But how shall we do, so
Buffalmacco may not know? I can never get a word with her, but he is
with me.' Quoth Calandrino, 'Of Buffalmacco I reck not; but we must
beware of Nello, for that he is Tessa's kinsman and would mar us
everything.' And Bruno said, 'True.'

Now he knew very well who the wench was, for that he had seen her come
and moreover Filippo had told him. Accordingly, Calandrino having left
work awhile and gone to get a sight of her, Bruno told Nello and
Buffalmacco everything and they took order together in secret what
they should do with him in the matter of this his enamourment. When he
came back, Bruno said to him softly, 'Hast seen her?' 'Alack, yes,'
replied Calandrino; 'she hath slain me.' Quoth Bruno, 'I must go see
an it be she I suppose; and if it be so, leave me do.' Accordingly, he
went down into the courtyard and finding Filippo and Niccolosa there,
told them precisely what manner of man Calandrino was and took order
with them of that which each of them should do and say, so they might
divert themselves with the lovesick gull and make merry over his
passion. Then, returning to Calandrino, he said, 'It is indeed she;
wherefore needs must the thing be very discreetly managed, for, should
Filippo get wind of it, all the water in the Arno would not wash us.
But what wouldst thou have me say to her on thy part, if I should
chance to get speech of her?' 'Faith,' answered Calandrino, 'thou
shalt tell her, to begin with, that I will her a thousand measures of
that good stuff that getteth with child, and after, that I am her
servant and if she would have aught.... Thou takest me?' 'Ay,' said
Bruno, 'leave me do.'

Presently, supper-time being come, the painters left work and went
down into the courtyard, where they found Filippo and Niccolosa and
tarried there awhile, to oblige Calandrino. The latter fell to ogling
Niccolosa and making the oddest grimaces in the world, such and so
many that a blind man would have remarked them. She on her side did
everything that she thought apt to inflame him, and Filippo, in
accordance with the instructions he had of Bruno, made believe to talk
with Buffalmacco and the others and to have no heed of this, whilst
taking the utmost diversion in Calandrino's fashions. However, after a
while, to the latter's exceeding chagrin, they took their leave and as
they returned to Florence, Bruno said to Calandrino, 'I can tell thee
thou makest her melt like ice in the sun. Cock's body, wert thou to
fetch thy rebeck and warble thereto some of those amorous ditties of
thine, thou wouldst cause her cast herself out of window to come to
thee.' Quoth Calandrino, 'Deemest thou, gossip? Deemest thou I should
do well to fetch it?' 'Ay, do I,' answered Bruno; and Calandrino went
on, 'Thou wouldst not credit me this morning, whenas I told it thee;
but, for certain, gossip, methinketh I know better than any man alive
to do what I will. Who, other than I, had known to make such a lady so
quickly in love with me? Not your trumpeting young braggarts,[432] I
warrant you, who are up and down all day long and could not make
shift, in a thousand years, to get together three handsful of cherry
stones. I would fain have thee see me with the rebeck; 'twould be fine
sport for thee. I will have thee to understand once for all that I am
no dotard, as thou deemest me, and this she hath right well perceived,
she; but I will make her feel it othergates fashion, so once I get my
claw into her back; by the very body of Christ, I will lead her such a
dance that she will run after me, as the madwoman after her child.'
'Ay,' rejoined Bruno, 'I warrant me thou wilt rummage her; methinketh
I see thee, with those teeth of thine that were made for virginal
jacks,[433] bite that little vermeil mouth of hers and those her
cheeks, that show like two roses, and after eat her all up.'

[Footnote 432: _Giovani di tromba marina._ The sense seems as above;
the commentators say that _giovani di tromba marina_ is a name given
to those youths who go trumpeting about everywhere the favours
accorded them by women; but the _tromba marina_ is a _stringed_ (not a
wind) _instrument_, a sort of primitive violoncello with one string.]

[Footnote 433: "Your teeth did dance like virginal jacks."--_Ben
Jonson._]

Calandrino, hearing this, fancied himself already at it and went
singing and skipping, so overjoyed that he was like to jump out of his
skin. On the morrow, having brought the rebeck, he, to the great
diversion of all the company, sang sundry songs thereto; and in brief,
he was taken with such an itch for the frequent seeing of her that he
wrought not a whit, but ran a thousand times a day, now to the window,
now to the door and anon into the courtyard, to get a look at her,
whereof she, adroitly carrying out Bruno's instructions, afforded him
ample occasion. Bruno, on his side, answered his messages in her name
and bytimes brought him others as from her; and whenas she was not
there, which was mostly the case, he carried him letters from her,
wherein she gave him great hopes of compassing his desire, feigning
herself at home with her kinsfolk, where he might not presently see
her. On this wise, Bruno, with the aid of Buffalmacco, who had a hand
in the matter, kept the game afoot and had the greatest sport in the
world with Calandrino's antics, causing him give them bytimes, as at
his mistress's request, now an ivory comb, now a purse and anon a
knife and such like toys, for which they brought him in return divers
paltry counterfeit rings of no value, with which he was vastly
delighted; and to boot, they had of him, for their pains, store of
dainty collations and other small matters of entertainment, so they
might be diligent about his affairs.

On this wise they kept him in play good two months, without getting a
step farther, at the end of which time, seeing the work draw to an end
and bethinking himself that, an he brought not his amours to an issue
in the meantime, he might never have another chance thereof, he began
to urge and importune Bruno amain; wherefore, when next the girl came
to the mansion, Bruno, having first taken order with her and Filippo
of what was to be done, said to Calandrino, 'Harkye, gossip, yonder
lady hath promised me a good thousand times to do that which thou
wouldst have and yet doth nought thereof, and meseemeth she leadeth
thee by the nose; wherefore, since she doth it not as she promiseth,
we will an it like thee, make her do it, will she, nill she.' 'Ecod,
ay!' answered Calandrino. 'For the love of God let it be done
speedily.' Quoth Bruno, 'Will thy heart serve thee to touch her with a
script I shall give thee?' 'Ay, sure,' replied Calandrino; and the
other, 'Then do thou make shift to bring me a piece of virgin
parchment and a live bat, together with three grains of frankincense
and a candle that hath been blessed by the priest, and leave me do.'
Accordingly, Calandrino lay in wait all the next night with his
engines to catch a bat and having at last taken one, carried it to
Bruno, with the other things required; whereupon the latter,
withdrawing to a chamber, scribbled divers toys of his fashion upon
the parchment, in characters of his own devising, and brought it to
him, saying, 'Know, Calandrino, that, if thou touch her with this
script, she will incontinent follow thee and do what thou wilt.
Wherefore, if Filippo should go abroad anywhither to-day, do thou
contrive to accost her on some pretext or other and touch her; then
betake thyself to the barn yonder, which is the best place here for
thy purpose, for that no one ever frequenteth there. Thou wilt find
she will come thither, and when she is there, thou knowest well what
thou hast to do.' Calandrino was the joyfullest man alive and took the
script, saying, 'Gossip, leave me do.'

Now Nello, whom Calandrino mistrusted, had as much diversion of the
matter as the others and bore a hand with them in making sport of him:
wherefore, of accord with Bruno, he betook himself to Florence to
Calandrino's wife and said to her, 'Tessa, thou knowest what a
beating Calandrino gave thee without cause the day he came back, laden
with stones from the Mugnone; wherefore I mean to have thee avenge
thyself on him; and if thou do it not, hold me no more for kinsman or
for friend. He hath fallen in love with a woman over yonder, and she
is lewd enough to go very often closeting herself with him. A little
while agone, they appointed each other to foregather together this
very day; wherefore I would have thee come thither and lie in wait for
him and chastise him well.' When the lady heard this, it seemed to her
no jesting matter, but, starting to her feet, she fell a-saying,
'Alack, common thief that thou art, is it thus that thou usest me? By
Christ His Cross, it shall not pass thus, but I will pay thee
therefor!' Then, taking her mantle and a little maid to bear her
company, she started off at a good round pace for the mansion,
together with Nello.

As soon as Bruno saw the latter afar off, he said to Filippo, 'Here
cometh our friend'; whereupon the latter, betaking himself whereas
Calandrino and the others were at work, said, 'Masters, needs must I
go presently to Florence; work with a will.' Then, going away, he hid
himself in a place when he could, without being seen, see what
Calandrino should do. The latter, as soon as he deemed Filippo
somewhat removed, came down into the courtyard and finding Niccolosa
there alone, entered into talk with her, whilst she, who knew well
enough what she had to do, drew near him and entreated him somewhat
more familiarly than of wont. Thereupon he touched her with the script
and no sooner had he done so than he turned, without saying a word,
and made for the barn, whither she followed him. As soon as she was
within, she shut the door and taking him in her arms, threw him down
on the straw that was on the floor; then, mounting astride of him and
holding him with her hands on his shoulders, without letting him draw
near her face, she gazed at him, as he were her utmost desire, and
said, 'O sweet my Calandrino, heart of my body, my soul, my treasure,
my comfort, how long have I desired to have thee and to be able to
hold thee at my wish! Thou hast drawn all the thread out of my shift
with thy gentilesse; thou hast tickled my heart with thy rebeck. Can
it be true that I hold thee?' Calandrino, who could scarce stir, said,
'For God's sake, sweet my soul, let me buss thee.' 'Marry,' answered
she, 'thou art in a mighty hurry. Let me first take my fill of looking
upon thee; let me sate mine eyes with that sweet face of thine.'

Now Bruno and Buffalmacco were come to join Filippo and all three
heard and saw all this. As Calandrino was now offering to kiss
Niccolosa perforce, up came Nello with Dame Tessa and said, as soon as
he reached the place, 'I vow to God they are together.' Then, coming
up to the door of the barn, the lady, who was all a-fume with rage,
dealt it such a push with her hands that she sent it flying, and
entering, saw Niccolosa astride of Calandrino. The former, seeing the
lady, started up in haste and taking to flight, made off to join
Filippo, whilst Dame Tessa fell tooth and nail upon Calandrino, who
was still on his back, and clawed all his face; then, clutching him
by the hair and haling him hither and thither, 'Thou sorry shitten
cur,' quoth she, 'dost thou then use me thus? Besotted dotard that
thou art, accursed be the weal I have willed thee! Marry, seemeth it
to thee thou hast not enough to do at home, that thou must go
wantoning it in other folk's preserves? A fine gallant, i'faith! Dost
thou not know thyself, losel that thou art? Dost thou not know
thyself, good for nought? Wert thou to be squeezed dry, there would
not come as much juice from thee as might suffice for a sauce. Cock's
faith, thou canst not say it was Tessa that was presently in act to
get thee with child, God make her sorry, who ever she is, for a scurvy
trull as she must be to have a mind to so fine a jewel as thou!'

Calandrino, seeing his wife come, abode neither dead nor alive and had
not the hardihood to make any defence against her; but, rising, all
scratched and flayed and baffled as he was, and picking up his bonnet,
he fell to humbly beseeching her leave crying out, an she would not
have him cut in pieces, for that she who had been with him was the
wife of the master of the house; whereupon quoth she, 'So be it, God
give her an ill year.' At this moment, Bruno and Buffalmacco, having
laughed their fill at all this, in company with Filippo and Niccolosa,
came up, feigning to be attracted by the clamour, and having with no
little ado appeased the lady, counselled Calandrino betake himself to
Florence and return thither no more, lest Filippo should get wind of
the matter and do him a mischief. Accordingly he returned to Florence,
chapfallen and woebegone, all flayed and scratched, and never ventured
to go thither again; but, being plagued and harassed night and day
with his wife's reproaches, he made an end of his fervent love, having
given much cause for laughter to his companions, no less than to
Niccolosa and Filippo."



THE SIXTH STORY

[Day the Ninth]

     TWO YOUNG GENTLEMEN LODGE THE NIGHT WITH AN INNKEEPER,
     WHEREOF ONE GOETH TO LIE WITH THE HOST'S DAUGHTER, WHILST
     HIS WIFE UNWITTINGLY COUCHETH WITH THE OTHER; AFTER WHICH HE
     WHO LAY WITH THE GIRL GETTETH HIM TO BED WITH HER FATHER AND
     TELLETH HIM ALL, THINKING TO BESPEAK HIS COMRADE.
     THEREWITHAL THEY COME TO WORDS, BUT THE WIFE, PERCEIVING HER
     MISTAKE, ENTERETH HER DAUGHTER'S BED AND THENCE WITH CERTAIN
     WORDS APPEASETH EVERYTHING


Calandrino, who had otherwhiles afforded the company matter for
laughter, made them laugh this time also, and whenas the ladies had
left devising of his fashions, the queen bade Pamfilo tell, whereupon
quoth he, "Laudable ladies, the name of Niccolosa, Calandrino's
mistress, hath brought me back to mind a story of another Niccolosa,
which it pleaseth me to tell you, for that therein you shall see how a
goodwife's ready wit did away a great scandal.

In the plain of Mugnone there was not long since a good man who gave
wayfarers to eat and drink for their money, and although he was poor
and had but a small house, he bytimes at a pinch gave, not every one,
but sundry acquaintances, a night's lodging. He had a wife, a very
handsome woman, by whom he had two children, whereof one was a fine
buxom lass of some fifteen or sixteen years of age, who was not yet
married, and the other a little child, not yet a year old, whom his
mother herself suckled. Now a young gentleman of our city, a sprightly
and pleasant youth, who was often in those parts, had cast his eyes on
the girl and loved her ardently; and she, who gloried greatly in being
beloved of a youth of his quality, whilst studying with pleasing
fashions to maintain him in her love, became no less enamoured of him,
and more than once, by mutual accord, this their love had had the
desired effect, but that Pinuccio (for such was the young man's name)
feared to bring reproach upon his mistress and himself. However, his
ardour waxing from day to day, he could no longer master his desire to
foregather with her and bethought himself to find a means of
harbouring with her father, doubting not, from his acquaintance with
the ordinance of the latter's house, but he might in that event
contrive to pass the night in her company, without any being the
wiser; and no sooner had he conceived this design than he proceeded
without delay to carry it into execution.

Accordingly, in company with a trusty friend of his called Adriano,
who knew his love, he late one evening hired a couple of hackneys and
set thereon two pairs of saddle-bags, filled belike with straw, with
which they set out from Florence and fetching a compass, rode till
they came overagainst the plain of Mugnone, it being by this night;
then, turning about, as they were on their way back from Romagna, they
made for the good man's house and knocked at the door. The host, being
very familiar with both of them, promptly opened the door and Pinuccio
said to him, 'Look you, thou must needs harbour us this night. We
thought to reach Florence before dark, but have not availed to make
such haste but that we find ourselves here, as thou seest at this
hour.' 'Pinuccio,' answered the host, 'thou well knowest how little
commodity I have to lodge such men as you are; however, since the
night hath e'en overtaken you here and there is no time for you to go
otherwhere, I will gladly harbour you as I may.' The two young men
accordingly alighted and entered the inn, where they first eased[434]
their hackneys and after supper with the host, having taken good care
to bring provision with them.

[Footnote 434: _Adagiarono_, _i.e._ unsaddled and stabled and fed
them.]

Now the good man had but one very small bedchamber, wherein were three
pallet-beds set as best he knew, two at one end of the room and the
third overagainst them at the other end; nor for all that was there so
much space left that one could go there otherwise than straitly. The
least ill of the three the host let make ready for the two friends and
put them to lie there; then, after a while neither of the gentlemen
being asleep, though both made a show thereof, he caused his daughter
betake herself to bed in one of the two others and lay down himself
in the third, with his wife, who set by the bedside the cradle wherein
she had her little son. Things being ordered after this fashion and
Pinuccio having seen everything, after a while, himseeming that every
one was asleep, he arose softly and going to the bed where slept the
girl beloved of him, laid himself beside the latter, by whom, for all
she did it timorously, he was joyfully received, and with her he
proceeded to take of that pleasure which both most desired. Whilst
Pinuccio abode thus with his mistress, it chanced that a cat caused
certain things fall, which the good wife, awaking, heard; whereupon,
fearing lest it were otherwhat, she arose, as she was, in the dark and
betook herself whereas she had heard the noise.

Meanwhile, Adriano, without intent aforethought, arose by chance for
some natural occasion and going to despatch this, came upon the
cradle, whereas it had been set by the good wife, and unable to pass
without moving it, took it up and set it down beside his own bed;
then, having accomplished that for which he had arisen, he returned
and betook himself to bed again, without recking of the cradle. The
good wife, having searched and found the thing which had fallen was
not what she thought, never troubled herself to kindle a light, to see
it, but, chiding the cat, returned to the chamber and groped her way
to the bed where her husband lay. Finding the cradle not there, 'Mercy
o' me!' quoth she in herself. 'See what I was about to do! As I am a
Christian, I had well nigh gone straight to our guest's bed.' Then,
going a little farther and finding the cradle, she entered the bed
whereby it stood and laid herself down beside Adriano, thinking to
couch with her husband. Adriano, who was not yet asleep, feeling this,
received her well and joyously and laying her aboard in a trice,
clapped on all sail, to the no small contentment of the lady.

Meanwhile, Pinuccio, fearing lest sleep should surprise him with his
lass and having taken of her his fill of pleasure, arose from her, to
return to his own bed, to sleep, and finding the cradle in his way,
took the adjoining bed for that of his host; wherefore, going a little
farther, he lay down with the latter, who awoke at his coming.
Pinuccio, deeming himself beside Adriano, said, 'I tell thee there
never was so sweet a creature as is Niccolosa. Cock's body, I have had
with her the rarest sport ever man had with woman, more by token that
I have gone upwards of six times into the country, since I left thee.'
The host, hearing this talk and being not overwell pleased therewith,
said first in himself, 'What a devil doth this fellow here?' Then,
more angered than well-advised, 'Pinuccio,' quoth he, 'this hath been
a great piece of villainy of thine, and I know not why thou shouldst
have used me thus; but, by the body of God, I will pay thee for it!!'
Pinuccio, who was not the wisest lad in the world, seeing his mistake,
addressed not himself to mend it as best he might, but said, 'Of what
wilt thou pay me? What canst thou do to me?' Therewithal the hostess,
who thought herself with her husband, said to Adriano, 'Good lack,
hark to our guests how they are at I know not what words together!'
Quoth Adriano, laughing, 'Leave them do, God land them in an ill
year! They drank overmuch yesternight.'

The good wife, herseeming she had heard her husband scold and hearing
Adriano speak, incontinent perceived where and with whom she had been;
whereupon, like a wise woman as she was, she arose forthright, without
saying a word, and taking her little son's cradle, carried it at a
guess, for that there was no jot of light to be seen in the chamber,
to the side of the bed where her daughter slept and lay down with the
latter; then, as if she had been aroused by her husband's clamour, she
called him and enquired what was to do between himself and Pinuccio.
He answered, 'Hearest thou not what he saith he hath done this night
unto Niccolosa?' 'Marry,' quoth she, 'he lieth in his throat, for he
was never abed with Niccolosa, seeing that I have lain here all night;
more by token that I have not been able to sleep a wink; and thou art
an ass to believe him. You men drink so much of an evening that you do
nothing but dream all night and fare hither and thither, without
knowing it, and fancy you do wonders. 'Tis a thousand pities you don't
break your necks. But what doth Pinuccio yonder? Why bideth he not in
his own bed?' Adriano, on his part, seeing how adroitly the good wife
went about to cover her own shame and that of her daughter, chimed in
with, 'Pinuccio, I have told thee an hundred times not to go abroad,
for that this thy trick of arising in thy sleep and telling for true
the extravagances thou dreamest will bring thee into trouble some day
or other. Come back here, God give thee an ill night!'

The host, hearing what his wife and Adriano said, began to believe in
good earnest that Pinuccio was dreaming; and accordingly, taking him
by the shoulders, he fell to shaking and calling him, saying,
'Pinuccio, awake; return to thine own bed.' Pinuccio having
apprehended all that had been said began to wander off into other
extravagances, after the fashion of a man a-dream; whereat the host
set up the heartiest laughter in the world. At last, he made believe
to awake for stress of shaking, and calling to Adriano, said, 'Is it
already day, that thou callest me?' 'Ay,' answered the other, 'come
hither.' Accordingly, Pinuccio, dissembling and making a show of being
sleepy-eyed, arose at last from beside the host and went back to bed
with Adriano. The day come and they being risen, the host fell to
laughing and mocking at Pinuccio and his dreams; and so they passed
from one jest to another, till the young men, having saddled their
rounceys and strapped on their valises and drunken with the host,
remounted to horse and rode away to Florence, no less content with the
manner in which the thing had betided than with the effect itself
thereof. Thereafter Pinuccio found other means of foregathering with
Niccolosa, who vowed to her mother that he had certainly dreamt the
thing; wherefore the goodwife, remembering her of Adriano's
embracements, inwardly avouched herself alone to have waked."



THE SEVENTH STORY

[Day the Ninth]

     TALANO DI MOLESE DREAMETH THAT A WOLF MANGLETH ALL HIS
     WIFE'S NECK AND FACE AND BIDDETH HER BEWARE THEREOF; BUT SHE
     PAYETH NO HEED TO HIS WARNING AND IT BEFALLETH HER EVEN AS
     HE HAD DREAMED


Pamfilo's story being ended and the goodwife's presence of mind having
been commended of all, the queen bade Pampinea tell hers and she
thereupon began, "It hath been otherwhile discoursed among us,
charming ladies, of the truths foreshown by dreams, the which many of
our sex scoff at; wherefore, notwithstanding that which hath been said
thereof, I shall not scruple to tell you, in a very few words, that
which no great while ago befell a she-neighbour of mine for not giving
credit to a dream of herself seen by her husband.

I know not if you were acquainted with Talano di Molese, a very
worshipful man, who took to wife a young lady called Margarita, fair
over all others, but so humoursome, ill-conditioned and froward that
she would do nought of other folk's judgment, nor could others do
aught to her liking; the which, irksome as it was to Talano to endure,
natheless, as he could no otherwise, needs must he put up with. It
chanced one night that, being with this Margarita of his at an estate
he had in the country, himseemed in his sleep he saw his wife go
walking in a very fair wood which they had not far from their house,
and as she went, himseemed there came forth of a thicket a great and
fierce wolf, which sprang straight at her throat and pulling her to
the ground, enforced himself to carry her off, whilst she screamed for
aid; and after, she winning free of his fangs, it seemed he had marred
all her throat and face. Accordingly, when he arose in the morning, he
said to the lady, 'Wife, albeit thy frowardness hath never suffered me
to have a good day with thee, yet it would grieve me should ill betide
thee; wherefore, an thou wilt hearken to my counsel, thou wilt not go
forth the house to-day'; and being asked of her why, he orderly
recounted to her his dream.

The lady shook her head and said, 'Who willeth thee ill, dreameth thee
ill. Thou feignest thyself mighty careful of me; but thou dreamest of
me that which thou wouldst fain see come to pass; and thou mayst be
assured that I will be careful both to-day and always not to gladden
thee with this or other mischance of mine.' Quoth Talano, 'I knew thou
wouldst say thus; for that such thanks still hath he who combeth a
scald-head; but, believe as thou listeth, I for my part tell it to
thee for good, and once more I counsel thee abide at home to-day or at
least beware of going into our wood.' 'Good,' answered the lady, 'I
will do it'; and after fell a-saying to herself, 'Sawest thou how
artfully yonder man thinketh to have feared me from going to our wood
to-day? Doubtless he hath given some trull or other tryst there and
would not have me find him with her. Marry, it were fine eating for
him with blind folk and I should be a right simpleton an I saw not his
drift and if I believed him! But certes he shall not have his will;
nay, though I abide there all day, needs must I see what traffic is
this that he hath in hand to-day.'

Accordingly, her husband being gone out at one door, she went out at
the other and betook herself as most secretly she might straight to
the wood and hid herself in the thickest part thereof, standing attent
and looking now here and now there, an she should see any one come. As
she abode on this wise, without any thought of danger, behold, there
sallied forth of a thick coppice hard by a terrible great wolf, and
scarce could she say, 'Lord, aid me!' when it flew at her throat and
laying fast hold of her, proceeded to carry her off, as she were a
lambkin. She could neither cry nor aid herself on other wise, so sore
was her gullet straitened; wherefore the wolf, carrying her off, would
assuredly have throttled her, had he not encountered certain
shepherds, who shouted at him and constrained him to loose her. The
shepherds knew her and carried her home, in a piteous plight, where,
after long tending by the physicians, she was healed, yet not so
wholly but she had all her throat and a part of her face marred on
such wise that, whereas before she was fair, she ever after appeared
misfeatured and very foul of favour; wherefore, being ashamed to
appear whereas she might be seen, she many a time bitterly repented
her of her frowardness and her perverse denial to put faith, in a
matter which cost her nothing, in her husband's true dream."



THE EIGHTH STORY

[Day the Ninth]

     BIONDELLO CHEATETH CIACCO OF A DINNER, WHEREOF THE OTHER
     CRAFTILY AVENGETH HIMSELF, PROCURING HIM TO BE SHAMEFULLY
     BEATEN


The merry company with one accord avouched that which Talano had seen
in sleep to have been no dream, but a vision, so punctually, without
there failing aught thereof, had it come to pass. But, all being
silent the queen charged Lauretta follow on, who said, "Like as those,
most discreet ladies, who have to-day foregone me in speech, have been
well nigh all moved to discourse by something already said, even so
the stern vengeance wreaked by the scholar, of whom Pampinea told us
yesterday, moveth me to tell of a piece of revenge, which, without
being so barbarous as the former, was nevertheless grievous unto him
who brooked it.

I must tell you, then, that there was once in Florence a man whom all
called Ciacco,[435] as great a glutton as ever lived. His means
sufficing him not to support the expense that his gluttony required
and he being, for the rest, a very well-mannered man and full of
goodly and pleasant sayings, he addressed himself to be, not
altogether a buffoon, but a spunger[436] and to company with those
who were rich and delighted to eat of good things; and with these he
went often to dine and sup, albeit he was not always bidden. There was
likewise at Florence, in those days, a man called Biondello, a little
dapper fellow of his person, very quaint of his dress and sprucer than
a fly, with his coif on his head and his yellow periwig still drest to
a nicety, without a hair awry, who plied the same trade as Ciacco.
Going one morning in Lent whereas they sell the fish and cheapening
two very fine lampreys for Messer Vieri de' Cerchj, he was seen by
Ciacco, who accosted him and said, 'What meaneth this?' Whereto
Biondello made answer, 'Yestereve there were sent unto Messer Corso
Donati three lampreys, much finer than these, and a sturgeon; to which
sufficing him not for a dinner he is minded to give certain gentlemen,
he would have me buy these other two. Wilt thou not come thither,
thou?' Quoth Ciacco, 'Thou knowest well that I shall be there.'

[Footnote 435: _i.e._ hog.]

[Footnote 436: Lit. a backbiter (_morditore_).]

Accordingly, whenas it seemed to him time, he betook himself to Messer
Corso's house, where he found him with sundry neighbours of his, not
yet gone to dinner, and being asked of him what he went doing,
answered, 'Sir, I am come to dine with you and your company.' Quoth
Messer Corso, 'Thou art welcome; and as it is time, let us to table.'
Thereupon they seated themselves at table and had, to begin with,
chickpease and pickled tunny, and after a dish of fried fish from the
Arno, and no more, Ciacco, perceiving the cheat that Biondello had put
upon him, was inwardly no little angered thereat and resolved to pay
him for it; nor had many days passed ere he again encountered the
other, who had by this time made many folk merry with the trick he had
played him. Biondello, seeing him, saluted him and asked him,
laughing, how he had found Messer Corso's lampreys; to which Ciacco
answered, 'That shalt thou know much better than I, ere eight days be
past.'

Then, without wasting time over the matter, he took leave of Biondello
and agreeing for a price with a shrewd huckster, carried him near to
the Cavicciuoli Gallery and showing him a gentleman there, called
Messer Filippo Argenti, a big burly rawboned fellow and the most
despiteful, choleric and humoursome man alive, gave him a great glass
flagon and said to him, 'Go to yonder gentleman with this flask in
hand and say to him, "Sir Biondello sendeth me to you and prayeth you
be pleased to rubify him this flask with your good red wine, for that
he would fain make merry somedele with his minions." But take good
care he lay not his hands on thee; else will he give thee an ill
morrow and thou wilt have marred my plans.' 'Have I aught else to
say,' asked the huckster; and Ciacco answered, 'No; do but go and say
this and after come back to me here with the flask and I will pay
thee.' The huckster accordingly set off and did his errand to Messer
Filippo, who, hearing the message and being lightly ruffled, concluded
that Biondello, whom he knew, had a mind to make mock of him, and
waxing all red in the face, said, 'What "rubify me" and what "minions"
be these? God land thee and him an ill year!' Then, starting to his
feet, he put out his hand to lay hold of the huckster; but the latter,
who was on his guard, promptly took to his heels and returning by
another way to Ciacco, who had seen all that had passed, told him what
Messer Filippo had said to him. Ciacco, well pleased, paid him and
rested not till he found Biondello, to whom quoth he, 'Hast thou been
late at the Cavicciuoli Gallery?' 'Nay,' answered the other. 'Why dost
thou ask me?' 'Because,' replied Ciacco, 'I must tell thee that Messer
Filippo enquireth for thee; I know not what he would have.' 'Good,'
rejoined Biondello; 'I am going that way and will speak with him.'
Accordingly, he made off, and Ciacco followed him, to see how the
thing should pass.

Meanwhile Messer Filippo, having failed to come at the huckster, abode
sore disordered and was inwardly all a-fume with rage, being unable to
make anything in the world of the huckster's words, if not that
Biondello, at whosesoever instance, was minded to make mock of him. As
he fretted himself thus, up came Biondello, whom no sooner did he espy
than he made for him and dealt him a sore buffet in the face. 'Alack,
sir,' cried Biondello, 'what is this?' Whereupon Messer Filippo,
clutching him by the hair and tearing his coif, cast his bonnet to the
ground and said, laying on to him amain the while, 'Knave that thou
art, thou shalt soon see what it is! What is this thou sendest to say
to me with thy "rubify me" and thy "minions"? Deemest thou me a child,
to be flouted on this wise?' So saying, he battered his whole face
with his fists, which were like very iron, nor left him a hair on his
head unruffled; then, rolling him in the mire, he tore all the clothes
off his back; and to this he applied himself with such a will that
Biondello could not avail to say a word to him nor ask why he served
him thus. He had heard him indeed speak of 'rubify me' and 'minions,'
but knew not what this meant.

At last, Messer Filippo having beaten him soundly, the bystanders,
whereof many had by this time gathered about them, dragged him, with
the utmost difficulty, out of the other's clutches, all bruised and
battered as he was, and told him why the gentleman had done this,
blaming him for that which he had sent to say to him and telling him
that he should by that time have known Messer Filippo better and that
he was not a man to jest withal. Biondello, all in tears protested his
innocence, declaring that he had never sent to Messer Filippo for
wine, and as soon as he was somewhat recovered, he returned home, sick
and sorry, divining that this must have been Ciacco's doing. When,
after many days, the bruises being gone, he began to go abroad again,
it chanced that Ciacco encountered him and asked him, laughing,
'Harkye, Biondello, how deemest thou of Messer Filippo's wine?' 'Even
as thou of Messer Corso's lampreys,' replied the other; and Ciacco
said, 'The thing resteth with thee henceforth. Whenever thou goest
about to give me to eat as thou didst, I will give thee in return to
drink after t'other day's fashion.' Biondello, knowing full well that
it was easier to wish Ciacco ill than to put it in practise, besought
God of his peace[437] and thenceforth was careful to affront him no
more."

[Footnote 437: _i.e._ conjured him by God to make peace with him.]



THE NINTH STORY

[Day the Ninth]

     TWO YOUNG MEN SEEK COUNSEL OF SOLOMON, ONE HOW HE MAY BE
     LOVED AND THE OTHER HOW HE MAY AMEND HIS FROWARD WIFE, AND
     IN ANSWER HE BIDDETH THE ONE LOVE AND THE OTHER GET HIM TO
     GOOSEBRIDGE


None other than the queen remaining to tell, so she would maintain
Dioneo his privilege, she, after the ladies had laughed at the unlucky
Biondello, began blithely to speak thus: "Lovesome ladies, if the
ordinance of created things be considered with a whole mind, it will
lightly enough be seen that the general multitude of women are by
nature, by custom and by law subjected unto men and that it behoveth
them order and govern themselves according to the discretion of these
latter; wherefore each woman, who would have quiet and ease and solace
with those men to whom she pertaineth, should be humble, patient and
obedient, besides being virtuous, which latter is the supreme and
especial treasure of every wise woman. Nay, though the laws, which in
all things regard the general weal, and usance or (let us say) custom,
whose puissance is both great and worship-worth, taught us not this,
nature very manifestly showeth it unto us, inasmuch as she hath made
us women tender and delicate of body and timid and fearful of spirit
and hath given us little bodily strength, sweet voices and soft and
graceful movements, all things testifying that we have need of the
governance of others. Now, those who have need to be helped and
governed, all reason requireth that they be obedient and submissive
and reverent to their governors; and whom have we to governors and
helpers, if not men? To men, therefore, it behoveth us submit
ourselves, honouring them supremely; and whoso departeth from this, I
hold her deserving, not only of grave reprehension, but of severe
punishment. To these considerations I was lead, though not for the
first time, by that which Pampinea told us a while ago of Talano's
froward wife, upon whom God sent that chastisement which her husband
had not known to give her; wherefore, as I have already said, all
those women who depart from being loving, compliant and amenable, as
nature, usance and law will it, are, in my judgment, worthy of stern
and severe chastisement. It pleaseth me, therefore, to recount to you
a counsel given by Solomon, as a salutary medicine for curing women
who are thus made of that malady; which counsel let none, who meriteth
not such treatment, repute to have been said for her, albeit men have
a byword which saith, 'Good horse and bad horse both the spur need
still, And women need the stick, both good and ill.' Which words, an
one seek to interpret them by way of pleasantry, all women will
lightly allow to be true; nay, but considering them morally,[438] I
say that the same must be conceded of them; for that women are all
naturally unstable and prone [to frailty,] wherefore, to correct the
iniquity of those who allow themselves too far to overpass the limits
appointed them, there needeth the stick which punisheth them, and to
support the virtue of others who suffer not themselves to transgress,
there needeth the stick which sustaineth and affeareth them. But, to
leave be preaching for the nonce and come to that which I have it in
mind to tell.

[Footnote 438: _i.e._ from a serious or moral point of view.]

You must know that, the high renown of Solomon's miraculous wisdom
being bruited abroad well nigh throughout the whole world, no less
than the liberality with which he dispensed it unto whoso would fain
be certified thereof by experience, there flocked many to him from
divers parts of the world for counsel in their straitest and most
urgent occasions. Amongst others who thus resorted to him was a young
man, Melisso by name, a gentleman of noble birth and great wealth, who
set out from the city of Lajazzo,[439] whence he was and where he
dwelt; and as he journeyed towards Jerusalem, it chanced that, coming
forth of Antioch, he rode for some distance with a young man called
Giosefo, who held the same course as himself. As the custom is of
wayfarers, he entered into discourse with him and having learned from
him what and whence he was, he asked him whither he went and upon what
occasion; to which Giosefo replied that he was on his way to Solomon,
to have counsel of him what course he should take with a wife he had,
the most froward and perverse woman alive, whom neither with prayers
nor with blandishments nor on any other wise could he avail to correct
of her waywardness. Then he in his turn questioned Melisso whence he
was and whither he went and on what errand, and he answered, 'I am of
Lajazzo, and like as thou hast a grievance, even so have I one; I am
young and rich and spend my substance in keeping open house and
entertaining my fellow-townsmen, and yet, strange to say, I cannot for
all that find one who wisheth me well; wherefore I go whither thou
goest, to have counsel how I may win to be beloved.'

[Footnote 439: Apparently Laodicea (_hod._ Eskihissar) in Anatolia,
from which a traveller, taking the direct land route, would
necessarily pass Antioch (_hod._ Antakhia) on his way to Jerusalem.]

Accordingly, they joined company and journeyed till they came to
Jerusalem, where, by the introduction of one of Solomon's barons, they
were admitted to the presence of the king, to whom Melisso briefly set
forth his occasion. Solomon answered him, 'Love'; and this said,
Melisso was straightway put forth and Giosefo told that for which he
was there. Solomon made him no other answer than 'Get thee to
Goosebridge'; which said, Giosefo was on like wise removed, without
delay, from the king's presence and finding Melisso awaiting him
without, told him that which he had had for answer. Thereupon,
pondering Solomon's words and availing to apprehend therefrom neither
significance nor profit whatsoever for their occasions, they set out
to return home, as deeming themselves flouted. After journeying for
some days, they came to a river, over which was a fine bridge, and a
caravan of pack-mules and sumpter-horses being in act to pass, it
behoved them tarry till such time as these should be crossed over.
Presently, the beasts having well nigh all crossed, it chanced that
one of the mules took umbrage, as oftentimes we see them do, and
would by no means pass on; whereupon a muleteer, taking a stick, began
to beat it at first moderately enough to make it go on; but the mule
shied now to this and now to that side of the road and whiles turned
back altogether, but would on no wise pass on; whereupon the man,
incensed beyond measure, fell to dealing it with the stick the
heaviest blows in the world, now on the head, now on the flanks and
anon on the crupper, but all to no purpose.

Melisso and Giosefo stood watching this and said often to the
muleteer, 'Alack, wretch that thou art, what dost thou? Wilt thou kill
the beast? Why studiest thou not to manage him by fair means and
gentle dealing? He will come quicklier than for cudgeling him as thou
dost.' To which the man answered, 'You know your horses and I know my
mule; leave me do with him.' So saying, he fell again to cudgelling
him and belaboured him to such purpose on one side and on the other,
that the mule passed on and the muleteer won the bout. Then, the two
young men being now about to depart, Giosefo asked a poor man, who sat
at the bridge-head, how the place was called, and he answered, 'Sir,
this is called Goosebridge.' When Giosefo heard this, he straightway
called to mind Solomon's words and said to Melisso, 'Marry, I tell
thee, comrade, that the counsel given me by Solomon may well prove
good and true, for I perceive very plainly that I knew not how to beat
my wife; but this muleteer hath shown me what I have to do.'

Accordingly, they fared on and came, after some days, to Antioch,
where Giosefo kept Melisso with him, that he might rest himself a day
or two, and being scurvily enough received of his wife, he bade her
prepare supper according as Melisso should ordain; whereof the latter,
seeing that it was his friend's pleasure, acquitted himself in a few
words. The lady, as her usance had been in the past, did not as
Melisso had ordained, but well nigh altogether the contrary; which
Giosefo seeing, he was vexed and said, 'Was it not told thee on what
wise thou shouldst prepare the supper?' The lady, turning round
haughtily, answered, 'What meaneth this? Good lack, why dost thou not
sup, an thou have a mind to sup? An if it were told me otherwise, it
seemed good to me to do thus. If it please thee, so be it; if not,
leave it be.' Melisso marvelled at the lady's answer and blamed her
exceedingly; whilst Giosefo, hearing this, said, 'Wife, thou art still
what thou wast wont to be; but, trust me, I will make thee change thy
fashion.' Then turning to Melisso, 'Friend,' said he, 'we shall soon
see what manner of counsel was Solomon's; but I prithee let it not irk
thee to stand to see it and hold that which I shall do for a sport.
And that thou mayest not hinder me, bethink thee of the answer the
muleteer made us, when we pitied his mule.' Quoth Melisso, 'I am in
thy house, where I purpose not to depart from thy good pleasure.'

Giosefo then took a round stick, made of a young oak, and repaired a
chamber, whither the lady, having arisen from table for despite, had
betaken herself, grumbling; then, laying hold of her by the hair, he
threw her down at his feet and proceeded to give her a sore beating
with the stick. The lady at first cried out and after fell to
threats; but, seeing that Giosefo for all that stinted not and being
by this time all bruised, she began to cry him mercy for God's sake
and besought him not to kill her, declaring that she would never more
depart from his pleasure. Nevertheless, he held not his hand; nay, he
continued to baste her more furiously than ever on all her seams,
belabouring her amain now on the ribs, now on the haunches and now
about the shoulder, nor stinted till he was weary and there was not a
place left unbruised on the good lady's back. This done, he returned
to his friend and said to him, 'To-morrow we shall see what will be
the issue of the counsel to go to Goosebridge.' Then, after he had
rested awhile and they had washed their hands, he supped with Melisso
and in due season they betook themselves to bed.

Meanwhile the wretched lady arose with great pain from the ground and
casting herself on the bed, there rested as best she might until the
morning, when she arose betimes and let ask Giosefo what he would have
dressed for dinner. The latter, making merry over this with Melisso,
appointed it in due course, and after, whenas it was time, returning,
they found everything excellently well done and in accordance with the
ordinance given; wherefore they mightily commended the counsel at
first so ill apprehended of them. After some days, Melisso took leave
of Giosefo and returning to his own house, told one, who was a man of
understanding, the answer he had had from Solomon; whereupon quoth the
other, 'He could have given thee no truer nor better counsel. Thou
knowest thou lovest no one, and the honours and services thou
renderest others, thou dost not for love that thou bearest them, but
for pomp and ostentation. Love, then, as Solomon bade thee, and thou
shalt be loved.' On this wise, then, was the froward wife corrected
and the young man, loving, was beloved."



THE TENTH STORY

[Day the Ninth]

     DOM GIANNI, AT THE INSTANCE OF HIS GOSSIP PIETRO, PERFORMETH
     A CONJURATION FOR THE PURPOSE OF CAUSING THE LATTER'S WIFE
     TO BECOME A MARE; BUT, WHENAS HE COMETH TO PUT ON THE TAIL,
     PIETRO MARRETH THE WHOLE CONJURATION, SAYING THAT HE WILL
     NOT HAVE A TAIL


The queen's story made the young men laugh and gave rise to some
murmurs on the part of the ladies; then, as soon as the latter were
quiet, Dioneo began to speak thus, "Sprightly ladies, a black crow
amongst a multitude of white doves addeth more beauty than would a
snow-white swan, and in like manner among many sages one less wise is
not only an augmentation of splendour and goodliness to their
maturity, but eke a source of diversion and solace. Wherefore, you
ladies being all exceeding discreet and modest, I, who savour somewhat
of the scatterbrain, should be dearer to you, causing, as I do, your
worth to shine the brightlier for my default, than if with my greater
merit I made this of yours wax dimmer; and consequently, I should have
larger license to show you myself such as I am and should more
patiently be suffered of you, in saying that which I shall say, than
if I were wiser. I will, therefore, tell you a story not overlong,
whereby you may apprehend how diligently it behoveth to observe the
conditions imposed by those who do aught by means of enchantment and
how slight a default thereof sufficeth to mar everything done by the
magician.

A year or two agone there was at Barletta a priest called Dom Gianni
di Barolo, who, for that he had but a poor cure, took to eking out his
livelihood by hawking merchandise hither and thither about the fairs
of Apulia with a mare of his and buying and selling. In the course of
his travels he contracted a strait friendship with one who styled
himself Pietro da Tresanti and plied the same trade with the aid of an
ass he had. In token of friendship and affection, he called him still
Gossip Pietro, after the Apulian fashion, and whenassoever he visited
Barletta, he carried him to his parsonage and there lodged him with
himself and entertained him to the best of his power. Gossip Pietro,
on his part, albeit he was very poor and had but a sorry little house
at Tresanti, scarce sufficing for himself and a young and buxom wife
he had and his ass, as often as Dom Gianni came to Tresanti, carried
him home with him and entertained him as best he might, in requital of
the hospitality received from him at Barletta. Nevertheless, in the
matter of lodging, having but one sorry little bed, in which he slept
with his handsome wife, he could not entertain him as he would, but,
Dom Gianni's mare being lodged with Pietro's ass in a little stable he
had, needs must the priest himself lie by her side on a truss of
straw.

The goodwife, knowing the hospitality which the latter did her husband
at Barletta, would more than once, whenas the priest came thither,
have gone to lie with a neighbor of hers, by name Zita Caraprese,
[daughter] of Giudice Leo, so he might sleep in the bed with her
husband, and had many a time proposed it to Dom Gianni, but he would
never hear of it; and once, amongst other times, he said to her,
'Gossip Gemmata, fret not thyself for me; I fare very well, for that,
whenas it pleaseth me, I cause this mare of mine become a handsome
wench and couch with her, and after, when I will, I change her into a
mare again; wherefore I care not to part from her.'

The young woman marvelled, but believed his tale and told her husband,
saying, 'If he is so much thy friend as thou sayest, why dost thou not
make him teach thee his charm, so thou mayst avail to make of me a
mare and do thine affairs with the ass and the mare? So should we gain
two for one; and when we were back at home, thou couldst make me a
woman again, as I am.' Pietro, who was somewhat dull of wit, believed
what she said and falling in with her counsel, began, as best he knew,
to importune Dom Gianni to teach him the trick. The latter did his
best to cure him of that folly, but availing not thereto, he said,
'Harkye, since you will e'en have it so, we will arise to-morrow
morning before day, as of our wont, and I will show you how it is
done. To tell thee the truth, the uneathest part of the matter is the
putting on of the tail, as thou shalt see.'

Accordingly, whenas it drew near unto day, Goodman Pietro and Gossip
Gemmata, who had scarce slept that night, with such impatience did
they await the accomplishment of the matter, arose and called Dom
Gianni, who, arising in his shirt, betook himself to Pietro's little
chamber and said to him, 'I know none in the world, except you, for
whom I would do this; wherefore since it pleaseth you, I will e'en do
it; but needs must you do as I shall bid you, an you would have the
thing succeed.' They answered that they would do that which he should
say; whereupon, taking the light, he put it into Pietro's hand and
said to him, 'Mark how I shall do and keep well in mind that which I
shall say. Above all, have a care, an thou wouldst not mar everything,
that, whatsoever thou hearest or seest, thou say not a single word,
and pray God that the tail may stick fast.' Pietro took the light,
promising to do exactly as he said, whereupon Dom Gianni let strip
Gemmata naked as she was born and caused her stand on all fours,
mare-fashion, enjoining herself likewise not to utter a word for aught
that should betide. Then, passing his hand over her face and her head,
he proceeded to say, 'Be this a fine mare's head,' and touching her
hair, said, 'Be this a fine mare's mane'; after which he touched her
arms, saying, 'Be these fine mare's legs and feet,' and coming
presently to her breast and finding it round and firm, such an one
awoke that was not called and started up on end,[440] whereupon quoth
he, 'Be this a fine mare's chest.' And on like wise he did with her
back and belly and crupper and thighs and legs. Ultimately, nothing
remaining to do but the tail, he pulled up his shirt and taking the
dibble with which he planted men, he thrust it hastily into the furrow
made therefor and said, 'And be this a fine mare's tail.'

[Footnote 440: _i.e._ arrectus est penis ejus.]

Pietro, who had thitherto watched everything intently, seeing this
last proceeding and himseeming it was ill done, said, 'Ho there, Dom
Gianni, I won't have a tail there, I won't have a tail there!' The
radical moisture, wherewith all plants are made fast, was by this
come, and Dom Gianni drew it forth, saying, 'Alack, gossip Pietro,
what hast thou done? Did I not bid thee say not a word for aught that
thou shouldst see? The mare was all made; but thou hast marred
everything by talking, nor is there any means of doing it over again
henceforth.' Quoth Pietro, 'Marry, I did not want that tail there. Why
did you not say to me, "Make it thou"? More by token that you were for
setting it too low.' 'Because,' answered Dom Gianni, 'thou hadst not
known for the first time to set it on so well as I.' The young woman,
hearing all this, stood up and said to her husband, in all good faith,
'Dolt that thou art, why hast thou marred thine affairs and mine? What
mare sawest thou ever without a tail? So God aid me, thou art poor,
but it would serve thee right, wert thou much poorer.' Then, there
being now, by reason of the words that Pietro had spoken, no longer
any means of making a mare of the young woman, she donned her clothes,
woebegone and disconsolate, and Pietro, continuing to ply his old
trade with an ass, as he was used, betook himself, in company with Dom
Gianni, to the Bitonto fair, nor ever again required him of such a
service."

       *       *       *       *       *

How much the company laughed at this story, which was better
understood of the ladies than Dioneo willed, let her who shall yet
laugh thereat imagine for herself. But, the day's stories being now
ended and the sun beginning to abate of its heat, the queen, knowing
the end of her seignory to be come, rose to her feet and putting off
the crown, set it on the head of Pamfilo, whom alone it remained to
honour after such a fashion, and said, smiling, "My lord, there
devolveth on thee a great burden, inasmuch as with thee it resteth,
thou being the last, to make amends for my default and that of those
who have foregone me in the dignity which thou presently holdest;
whereof God lend thee grace, even as He hath vouchsafed it unto me to
make thee king." Pamfilo blithely received the honour done him and
answered, "Your merit and that of my other subjects will do on such
wise that I shall be adjudged deserving of commendation, even as the
others have been." Then, having, according to the usance of his
predecessors, taken order with the seneschal of the things that were
needful, he turned to the expectant ladies and said to them, "Lovesome
ladies, it was the pleasure of Emilia, who hath this day been our
queen, to give you, for the purpose of affording some rest to your
powers, license to discourse of that which should most please you;
wherefore, you being now rested, I hold it well to return to the
wonted ordinance, and accordingly I will that each of you bethink
herself to discourse to-morrow of this, to wit, OF WHOSO HATH ANYWISE
WROUGHT GENEROUSLY OR MAGNIFICENTLY IN MATTERS OF LOVE OR OTHERWHAT.
The telling and doing of these things will doubtless fire your
well-disposed minds to do worthily; so will our life, which may not be
other than brief in this mortal body, be made perpetual in laudatory
renown; a thing which all, who serve not the belly only, as do the
beasts, should not only desire, but with all diligence seek and
endeavour after."

The theme pleased the joyous company, who having all, with the new
king's license, arisen from session, gave themselves to their wonted
diversions, according to that unto which each was most drawn by
desire; and on this wise they did until the hour of supper, whereunto
they came joyously and were served with diligence and fair ordinance.
Supper at an end, they arose to the wonted dances, and after they had
sung a thousand canzonets, more diverting of words than masterly of
music, the king bade Neifile sing one in her own name; whereupon, with
clear and blithesome voice, she cheerfully and without delay began
thus:

       A youngling maid am I and full of glee,
         Am fain to carol in the new-blown May,
       Love and sweet thoughts-a-mercy, blithe and free.

       I go about the meads, considering
           The vermeil flowers and golden and the white,
           Roses thorn-set and lilies snowy-bright,
         And one and all I fare a-likening
         Unto his face who hath with love-liking
       Ta'en and will hold me ever, having aye
     None other wish than as his pleasures be;

       Whereof when one I find me that doth show,
           Unto my seeming, likest him, full fain
           I cull and kiss and talk with it amain
         And all my heart to it, as best I know,
         Discover, with its store of wish and woe,
       Then it with others in a wreath I lay,
     Bound with my hair so golden-bright of blee.

       Ay, and that pleasure which the eye doth prove,
           By nature, of the flower's view, like delight
           Doth give me as I saw the very wight
         Who hath inflamed me of his dulcet love,
         And what its scent thereover and above
       Worketh in me, no words indeed can say;
     But sighs thereof bear witness true for me,

       The which from out my bosom day nor night
           Ne'er, as with other ladies, fierce and wild,
           Storm up; nay, thence they issue warm and mild
         And straight betake them to my loved one's sight,
         Who, hearing, moveth of himself, delight
       To give me; ay, and when I'm like to say
     "Ah come, lest I despair," still cometh he.

Neifile's canzonet was much commended both of the king and of the
other ladies; after which, for that a great part of the night was now
spent, the king commanded that all should betake themselves to rest
until the day.


HERE ENDETH THE NINTH DAY
OF THE DECAMERON



_Day the Tenth_

     HERE BEGINNETH THE TENTH AND LAST DAY OF THE DECAMERON
     WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF PAMFILO IS DISCOURSED OF
     WHOSO HATH ANYWISE WROUGHT GENEROUSLY OR MAGNIFICENTLY IN
     MATTERS OF LOVE OR OTHERWHAT


Certain cloudlets in the West were yet vermeil, what time those of the
East were already at their marges grown lucent like unto very gold,
when Pamfilo, arising, let call his comrades and the ladies, who being
all come, he took counsel with them of whither they should go for
their diversion and fared forth with slow step, accompanied by
Filomena and Fiammetta, whilst all the others followed after. On this
wise, devising and telling and answering many things of their future
life together, they went a great while a-pleasuring; then, having made
a pretty long circuit and the sun beginning to wax overhot, they
returned to the palace. There they let rinse the beakers in the clear
fountain and whoso would drank somewhat; after which they went
frolicking among the pleasant shades of the garden until the
eating-hour. Then, having eaten and slept, as of their wont, they
assembled whereas it pleased the king and there he called upon Neifile
for the first discourse, who blithely began thus:



THE FIRST STORY

[Day the Tenth]

     A KNIGHT IN THE KING'S SERVICE OF SPAIN THINKING HIMSELF ILL
     GUERDONED, THE KING BY VERY CERTAIN PROOF SHOWETH HIM THAT
     THIS IS NOT HIS FAULT, BUT THAT OF HIS OWN PERVERSE FORTUNE,
     AND AFTER LARGESSETH HIM MAGNIFICENTLY


"Needs, honourable ladies, must I repute it a singular favour to
myself that our king hath preferred me unto such an honour as it is to
be the first to tell of magnificence, the which, even as the sun is
the glory and adornment of all the heaven, is the light and lustre of
every other virtue. I will, therefore, tell you a little story
thereof, quaint and pleasant enough to my thinking, which to recall
can certes be none other than useful.

You must know, then, that, among the other gallant gentlemen who have
from time immemorial graced our city, there was one (and maybe the
most of worth) by name Messer Ruggieri de' Figiovanni, who, being both
rich and high-spirited and seeing that, in view of the way of living
and of the usages of Tuscany, he might, if he tarried there, avail to
display little or nothing of his merit, resolved to seek service
awhile with Alfonso, King of Spain, the renown of whose valiance
transcended that of every other prince of his time; wherefore he
betook himself, very honourably furnished with arms and horses and
followers, to Alfonso in Spain and was by him graciously received.
Accordingly, he took up his abode there and living splendidly and
doing marvellous deeds of arms, he very soon made himself known for a
man of worth and valour.

When he had sojourned there a pretty while and had taken particular
note of the king's fashions, himseemed he bestowed castles and cities
and baronies now upon one and now upon another with little enough
discretion, as giving them to those who were unworthy thereof, and for
that to him, who held himself for that which he was, nothing was
given, he conceived that his repute would be much abated by reason
thereof; wherefore he determined to depart and craved leave of the
king. The latter granted him the leave he sought and gave him one of
the best and finest mules that ever was ridden, the which, for the
long journey he had to make, was very acceptable to Messer Ruggieri.
Moreover, he charged a discreet servant of his that he should study,
by such means as seemed to him best, to ride with Messer Ruggieri on
such wise that he should not appear to have been sent by the king, and
note everything he should say of him, so as he might avail to repeat
it to him, and that on the ensuing morning he should command him
return to the court. Accordingly, the servant, lying in wait for
Messer Ruggieri's departure, accosted him, as he came forth the city,
and very aptly joined company with him, giving him to understand that
he also was bound for Italy. Messer Ruggieri, then, fared on, riding
the mule given him by the king and devising of one thing and another
with the latter's servant, till hard upon tierce, when he said,
'Methinketh it were well done to let our beasts stale.' Accordingly,
they put them up in a stable and they all staled, except the mule;
then they rode on again, whilst the squire still took note of the
gentleman's words, and came presently to a river, where, as they
watered their cattle, the mule staled in the stream; which Messer
Ruggieri seeing, 'Marry,' quoth he, 'God confound thee, beast, for
that thou art made after the same fashion as the prince who gave thee
to me!' The squire noted these words and albeit he took store of many
others, as he journeyed with him all that day, he heard him say nought
else but what was to the highest praise of the king.

Next morning, they being mounted and Ruggieri offering to ride towards
Tuscany, the squire imparted to him the king's commandment, whereupon
he incontinent turned back. When he arrived at court, the king,
learning what he had said of the mule, let call him to himself and
receiving him with a cheerful favour, asked him why he had likened him
to his mule, or rather why he had likened the mule to him. 'My lord,'
replied Ruggieri frankly, 'I likened her to you for that, like as you
give whereas it behoveth not and give not whereas it behoveth, even so
she staled not whereas it behoved, but staled whereas it behoved not.'
Then said the king, 'Messer Ruggieri, if I have not given to you, as I
have given unto many who are of no account in comparison with you, it
happened not because I knew you not for a most valiant cavalier and
worthy of every great gift; nay, but it is your fortune, which hath
not suffered me guerdon you according to your deserts, that hath
sinned in this, and not I; and that I may say sooth I will manifestly
prove to you.' 'My lord,' replied Ruggieri, 'I was not chagrined
because I have gotten no largesse of you, for that I desire not to be
richer than I am, but because you have on no wise borne witness to my
merit. Natheless, I hold your excuse for good and honourable and am
ready to see that which it shall please you show me, albeit I believe
you without proof.' The king then carried him into a great hall of
his, where, as he had ordered it beforehand, were two great locked
coffers, and said to him, in presence of many, 'Messer Ruggieri, in
one of these coffers is my crown, the royal sceptre and the orb,
together with many goodly girdles and ouches and rings of mine, and in
fine every precious jewel I have; and the other is full of earth.
Take, then, one and be that which you shall take yours; and you may
thus see whether of the twain hath been ungrateful to your worth,
myself of your ill fortune.'

Messer Ruggieri, seeing that it was the king's pleasure, took one of
the coffers, which, being opened by Alfonso's commandment, was found
to be that which was full of earth; whereupon quoth the king,
laughing, 'Now can you see, Messer Ruggieri, that this that I tell you
of your fortune is true; but certes your worth meriteth that I should
oppose myself to her might. I know you have no mind to turn Spaniard
and therefore I will bestow upon you neither castle nor city in these
parts; but this coffer, of which fortune deprived you, I will in her
despite shall be yours, so you may carry it off to your own country
and justly glorify yourself of your worth in the sight of your
countrymen by the witness of my gifts.' Messer Ruggieri accordingly
took the coffer and having rendered the king those thanks which sorted
with such a gift, joyfully returned therewith to Tuscany."



THE SECOND STORY

[Day the Tenth]

     GHINO DI TACCO TAKETH THE ABBOT OF CLUNY AND HAVING CURED
     HIM OF THE STOMACH-COMPLAINT, LETTETH HIM GO; WHEREUPON THE
     ABBOT, RETURNING TO THE COURT OF ROME, RECONCILETH HIM WITH
     POPE BONIFACE AND MAKETH HIM A PRIOR OF THE HOSPITALLERS


The magnificence shown by King Alfonso to the Florentine cavalier
having been duly commended, the king, who had been mightily pleased
therewith, enjoined Elisa to follow on, and she straightway began
thus: "Dainty dames, it cannot be denied that for a king to be
munificent and to have shown his munificence to him who had served him
is a great and a praiseworthy thing; but what shall we say if a
churchman be related to have practised marvellous magnanimity towards
one, whom if he had used as an enemy, he had of none been blamed
therefor? Certes, we can say none otherwise than that the king's
magnificence was a virtue, whilst that of the churchman was a miracle,
inasmuch as the clergy are all exceeding niggardly, nay, far more so
than women, and sworn enemies of all manner of liberality; and albeit
all men naturally hunger after vengeance for affronts received, we see
churchmen, for all they preach patience and especially commend the
remission of offences, pursue it more eagerly than other folk. This,
then, to wit, how a churchman was magnanimous, you may manifestly
learn from the following story of mine.

Ghino di Tacco, a man very famous for his cruelty and his robberies,
being expelled [Transcriber's Note: missing 'from'] Siena and at feud
with the Counts of Santa Fiore, raised Radicofani against the Church
of Rome and taking up his sojourn there, caused his swashbucklers
despoil whosoever passed through the surrounding country. Now,
Boniface the Eighth being pope in Rome, there came to court the Abbot
of Cluny, who is believed to be one of the richest prelates in the
world, and having there marred his stomach, he was advised by the
physicians to repair to the baths of Siena and he would without fail
be cured. Accordingly, having gotten the pope's leave, he set out on
his way thither in great pomp of gear and baggage and horses and
servitors, unrecking of Ghino's [ill] report. The latter, hearing of
his coming, spread his nets and hemmed him and all his household and
gear about in a strait place, without letting a single footboy escape.
This done, he despatched to the abbot one, the most sufficient, of his
men, well accompanied, who in his name very lovingly prayed him be
pleased to light down and sojourn with the aforesaid Ghino in his
castle. The abbot, hearing this, answered furiously that he would
nowise do it, having nought to do with Ghino, but that he would fare
on and would fain see who should forbid his passage. Whereto quoth the
messenger on humble wise, 'Sir, you are come into parts where, barring
God His might, there is nothing to fear for us and where
excommunications and interdicts are all excommunicated; wherefore, may
it please you, you were best comply with Ghino in this.'

During this parley, the whole place had been encompassed about with
men-at-arms; wherefore the abbot, seeing himself taken with his men,
betook himself, sore against his will, to the castle, in company with
the ambassador, and with him all his household and gear, and alighting
there, was, by Ghino's orders, lodged all alone in a very dark and
mean little chamber in one of the pavilions, whilst every one else was
well enough accommodated, according to his quality, about the castle
and the horses and all the gear put in safety, without aught thereof
being touched. This done, Ghino betook himself to the abbot and said
to him, 'Sir, Ghino, whose guest you are, sendeth to you, praying you
acquaint him whither you are bound and on what occasion.' The abbot,
like a wise man, had by this laid by his pride and told him whither he
went and why. Ghino, hearing this, took his leave and bethought
himself to go about to cure him without baths. Accordingly, he let
keep a great fire still burning in the little room and causing guard
the place well, returned not to the abbot till the following morning,
when he brought him, in a very white napkin, two slices of toasted
bread and a great beaker of his own Corniglia vernage[441] and
bespoke him thus, 'Sir, when Ghino was young, he studied medicine and
saith that he learned there was no better remedy for the
stomach-complaint than that which he purposeth to apply to you and of
which these things that I bring you are the beginning; wherefore do
you take them and refresh yourself.'

[Footnote 441: See p. 372, note.]

The abbot, whose hunger was greater than his desire to bandy words,
ate the bread and drank the wine, though he did it with an ill will,
and after made many haughty speeches, asking and counselling of many
things and demanding in particular to see Ghino. The latter, hearing
this talk, let part of it pass as idle and answered the rest very
courteously, avouching that Ghino would visit him as quickliest he
might. This said, he took his leave of him and returned not until the
ensuing day, when he brought him as much toasted bread and as much
malmsey; and so he kept him several days, till such time as he
perceived that he had eaten some dried beans, which he had of intent
aforethought brought secretly thither and left there; whereupon he
asked him, on Ghino's part, how he found himself about the stomach.
The abbot answered, 'Meseemeth I should fare well, were I but out of
his hands; and after that, I have no greater desire than to eat, so
well have his remedies cured me.' Thereupon Ghino caused the abbot's
own people array him a goodly chamber with his own gear and let make
ready a magnificent banquet, to which he bade the prelate's whole
household, together with many folk of the burgh. Next morning, he
betook himself to the abbot and said to him, 'Sir, since you feel
yourself well, it is time to leave the infirmary.' Then, taking him by
the hand, he brought him to the chamber prepared for him and leaving
him there in company of his own people, occupied himself with caring
that the banquet should be a magnificent one.

The abbot solaced himself awhile with his men and told them what his
life had been since his capture, whilst they, on the other hand,
avouched themselves all to have been wonder-well entreated of Ghino.
The eating-hour come, the abbot and the rest were well and orderly
served with goodly viands and fine wines, without Ghino yet letting
himself be known of the prelate; but, after the latter had abidden
some days on this wise, the outlaw, having let bring all his gear into
one saloon and all his horses, down to the sorriest rouncey, into a
courtyard that was under the windows thereof, betook himself to him
and asked him how he did and if he deemed himself strong enough to
take horse. The abbot answered that he was strong enough and quite
recovered of his stomach-complaint and that he should fare perfectly
well, once he should be out of Ghino's hands. Ghino then brought him
into the saloon, wherein was his gear and all his train, and carrying
him to a window, whence he might see all his horses, said, 'My lord
abbot, you must know that it was the being a gentleman and expelled
from his house and poor and having many and puissant enemies, and not
evilness of mind, that brought Ghino di Tacco (who is none other than
myself) to be, for the defence of his life and his nobility, a
highway-robber and an enemy of the court of Rome. Nevertheless, for
that you seem to me a worthy gentleman, I purpose not, now that I have
cured you of your stomach-complaint, to use you as I would another,
from whom, he being in my hands as you are, I would take for myself
such part of his goods as seemed well to me; nay, it is my intent that
you, having regard to my need, shall appoint to me such part of your
good as you yourself will. It is all here before you in its entirety
and your horses you may from this window see in the courtyard; take,
therefore, both part and all, as it pleaseth you, and from this time
forth be it at your pleasure to go or to stay.'

The abbot marvelled to hear such generous words from a highway-robber
and was exceeding well pleased therewith, insomuch that, his anger and
despite being of a sudden fallen, nay, changed into goodwill, he
became Ghino's hearty friend and ran to embrace him, saying, 'I vow to
God that, to gain the friendship of a man such as I presently judge
thee to be, I would gladly consent to suffer a far greater affront
than that which meseemed but now thou hadst done me. Accursed be
fortune that constrained thee to so damnable a trade!' Then, letting
take of his many goods but a very few necessary things, and the like
of his horses, he left all the rest to Ghino and returned to Rome. The
pope had had news of the taking of the abbot and albeit it had given
him sore concern, he asked him, when he saw him, how the baths had
profited him; whereto he replied, smiling, 'Holy Father, I found a
worthy physician nearer than at the baths, who hath excellently well
cured me'; and told him how, whereat the pope laughed, and the abbot,
following on his speech and moved by a magnanimous spirit, craved a
boon of him. The pope, thinking he would demand otherwhat, freely
offered to do that which he should ask; and the abbot said, 'Holy
Father, that which I mean to ask of you is that you restore your
favour to Ghino di Tacco, my physician, for that, of all the men of
worth and high account whom I ever knew, he is certes one of the most
deserving; and for this ill that he doth, I hold it much more
fortune's fault than his; the which[442] if you change by bestowing on
him somewhat whereby he may live according to his condition, I doubt
not anywise but you will, in brief space of time, deem of him even as
I do.' The pope, who was great of soul and a lover of men of worth,
hearing this, replied that he would gladly do it, an Ghino were indeed
of such account as the abbot avouched, and bade the latter cause him
come thither in all security. Accordingly, Ghino, at the abbot's
instance, came to court, upon that assurance, nor had he been long
about the pope's person ere the latter reputed him a man of worth and
taking him into favour, bestowed on him a grand priory of those of the
Hospitallers, having first let make him a knight of that order; which
office he held whilst he lived, still approving himself a loyal friend
and servant of Holy Church and of the Abbot of Cluny."

[Footnote 442: _i.e._ fortune.]



THE THIRD STORY

[Day the Tenth]

     MITHRIDANES, ENVYING NATHAN HIS HOSPITALITY AND GENEROSITY
     AND GOING TO KILL HIM, FALLETH IN WITH HIMSELF, WITHOUT
     KNOWING HIM, AND IS BY HIM INSTRUCTED OF THE COURSE HE SHALL
     TAKE TO ACCOMPLISH HIS PURPOSE; BY MEANS WHEREOF HE FINDETH
     HIM, AS HE HIMSELF HAD ORDERED IT, IN A COPPICE AND
     RECOGNIZING HIM, IS ASHAMED AND BECOMETH HIS FRIEND


Themseemed all they had heard what was like unto a miracle, to wit,
that a churchman should have wrought anywhat magnificently; but, as
soon as the ladies had left discoursing thereof, the king bade
Filostrato proceed, who forthright began, "Noble ladies, great was the
magnificence of the King of Spain and that of the Abbot of Cluny a
thing belike never yet heard of; but maybe it will seem to you no less
marvellous a thing to hear how a man, that he might do generosity to
another who thirsted for his blood, nay, for the very breath of his
nostrils, privily bethought himself to give them to him, ay, and would
have done it, had the other willed to take them, even as I purpose to
show you in a little story of mine.

It is a very certain thing (if credit may be given to the report of
divers Genoese and others who have been in those countries) that there
was aforetime in the parts of Cattajo[443] a man of noble lineage and
rich beyond compare, called Nathan, who, having an estate adjoining a
highway whereby as of necessity passed all who sought to go from the
Ponant to the Levant or from the Levant to the Ponant, and being a man
of great and generous soul and desirous that it should be known by his
works, assembled a great multitude of artificers and let build there,
in a little space of time, one of the fairest and greatest and richest
palaces that had ever been seen, the which he caused excellently well
furnished with all that was apt unto the reception and entertainment
of gentlemen. Then, having a great and goodly household, he there
received and honourably entertained, with joyance and good cheer,
whosoever came and went; and in this praiseworthy usance he persevered
insomuch that not only the Levant, but well nigh all the Ponant, knew
him by report. He was already full of years nor was therefore grown
weary of the practice of hospitality, when it chanced that his fame
reached the ears of a young man of a country not far from his own, by
name Mithridanes, who, knowing himself no less rich than Nathan and
waxing envious of his renown and his virtues, bethought himself to
eclipse or shadow them with greater liberality. Accordingly, letting
build a palace like unto that of Nathan, he proceeded to do the most
unbounded courtesies[444] that ever any did whosoever came or went
about those parts, and in a short time he became without doubt very
famous.

[Footnote 443: _Cattajo._ This word is usually translated Cathay,
_i.e._ China; but _semble_ Boccaccio meant rather the Dalmatian
province of Cattaro, which would better answer the description in the
text, Nathan's estate being described as adjoining a highway leading
from the Ponant (or Western shores of the Mediterranean) to the Levant
(or Eastern shores), _e.g._ the road from Cattaro on the Adriatic to
Salonica on the Ægean. Cathay (China) seems, from the circumstances of
the case, out of the question, as is also the Italian town called
Cattaio, near Padua.]

[Footnote 444: _i.e._ to show the most extravagant hospitality.]

It chanced one day that, as he abode all alone in the midcourt of his
palace, there came in, by one of the gates, a poor woman, who sought
of him an alms and had it; then, coming in again to him by the second,
she had of him another alms, and so on for twelve times in succession;
but, whenas she returned for the thirteenth time, he said to her,
'Good woman, thou art very diligent in this thine asking,' and
natheless gave her an alms. The old crone, hearing these words,
exclaimed, 'O liberality of Nathan, how marvellous art thou! For that,
entering in by each of the two-and-thirty gates which his palace hath,
and asking of him an alms, never, for all that he showed, was I
recognized of him, and still I had it; whilst here, having as yet come
in but at thirteen gates, I have been both recognized and chidden.' So
saying, she went her ways and returned thither no more. Mithridanes,
hearing the old woman's words, flamed up into a furious rage, as he
who held that which he heard of Nathan's fame a diminishment of his
own, and fell to saying, 'Alack, woe is me! When shall I attain to
Nathan's liberality in great things, let alone overpass it, as I seek
to do, seeing that I cannot approach him in the smallest? Verily, I
weary myself in vain, an I remove him not from the earth; wherefore,
since eld carrieth him not off, needs must I with mine own hands do it
without delay.'

Accordingly, rising upon that motion, he took horse with a small
company, without communicating his design to any, and came after three
days whereas Nathan abode. He arrived there at eventide and bidding
his followers make a show of not being with him and provide themselves
with lodging, against they should hear farther from him, abode alone
at no great distance from the fair palace, where he found Nathan all
unattended, as he went walking for his diversion, without any pomp of
apparel, and knowing him not, asked him if he could inform him where
Nathan dwelt. 'My son,' answered the latter cheerfully, 'there is none
in these parts who is better able than I to show thee that; wherefore,
whenas it pleaseth thee, I will carry thee thither.' Mithridanes
rejoined that this would be very acceptable to him, but that, an it
might be, he would fain be neither seen nor known of Nathan; and the
latter said, 'That also will I do, since it pleaseth thee.'
Mithridanes accordingly dismounted and repaired to the goodly palace,
in company with Nathan, who quickly engaged him in most pleasant
discourse. There he caused one of his servants take the young man's
horse and putting his mouth to his ear, charged him take order with
all those of the house, so none should tell the youth that he was
Nathan; and so was it done. Moreover, he lodged him in a very goodly
chamber, where none saw him, save those whom he had deputed to this
service, and let entertain him with the utmost honour, himself bearing
him company.

After Mithridanes had abidden with him awhile on this wise, he asked
him (albeit he held him in reverence as a father) who he was; to which
Nathan answered, 'I am an unworthy servant of Nathan, who have grown
old with him from my childhood, nor hath he ever advanced me to
otherwhat than that which thou seest me; wherefore, albeit every one
else is mighty well pleased with him, I for my part have little cause
to thank him.' These words afforded Mithridanes some hope of availing
with more certitude and more safety to give effect to his perverse
design, and Nathan very courteously asking him who he was and what
occasion brought him into those parts and proffering him his advice
and assistance insomuch as lay in his power, he hesitated awhile to
reply, but, presently, resolving to trust himself to him, he with a
long circuit of words[445] required him first of secrecy and after of
aid and counsel and entirely discovered to him who he was and
wherefore and on what motion he came. Nathan, hearing his discourse
and his cruel design, was inwardly all disordered; but nevertheless,
without much hesitation, he answered him with an undaunted mind and a
firm countenance, saying, 'Mithridanes, thy father was a noble man and
thou showest thyself minded not to degenerate from him, in having
entered upon so high an emprise as this thou hast undertaken, to wit,
to be liberal unto all; and greatly do I commend the jealousy thou
bearest unto Nathan's virtues, for that, were there many such,[446]
the world, that is most wretched, would soon become good. The design
that thou hast discovered to me I will without fail keep secret; but
for the accomplishment thereof I can rather give thee useful counsel
than great help; the which is this. Thou mayst from here see a
coppice, maybe half a mile hence, wherein Nathan well nigh every
morning walketh all alone, taking his pleasure there a pretty long
while; and there it will be a light matter to thee to find him and do
thy will of him. If thou slay him, thou must, so thou mayst return
home without hindrance, get thee gone, not by that way thou camest,
but by that which thou wilt see issue forth of the coppice on the left
hand, for that, albeit it is somewhat wilder, it is nearer to thy
country and safer for thee.'

[Footnote 445: Or as we should say, "After much beating about the
bush."]

[Footnote 446: _i.e._ jealousies.]

Mithridanes, having received this information and Nathan having taken
leave of him, privily let his companions, who had, like himself, taken
up their sojourn in the palace, know where they should look for him on
the morrow; and the new day came, Nathan, whose intent was nowise at
variance with the counsel he had given Mithridanes nor was anywise
changed, betook himself alone to the coppice, there to die. Meanwhile,
Mithridanes arose and taking his bow and his sword, for other arms he
had not, mounted to horse and made for the coppice, where he saw
Nathan from afar go walking all alone. Being resolved, ere he attacked
him, to seek to see him and hear him speak, he ran towards him and
seizing him by the fillet he had about his head, said, 'Old man, thou
art dead.' Whereto Nathan answered no otherwhat than, 'Then have I
merited it.' Mithridanes, hearing his voice and looking him in the
face, knew him forthright for him who had so lovingly received him
and familiarly companied with him and faithfully counselled him;
whereupon his fury incontinent subsided and his rage was changed into
shame. Accordingly, casting away the sword, which he had already
pulled out to smite him, and lighting down from his horse, he ran,
weeping, to throw himself at Nathan's feet and said to him, 'Now,
dearest father, do I manifestly recognize your liberality, considering
with what secrecy you are come hither to give me your life, whereof,
without any reason, I showed myself desirous, and that to yourself;
but God, more careful of mine honour than I myself, hath, in the
extremest hour of need, opened the eyes of my understanding, which
vile envy had closed. Wherefore, the readier you have been to comply
with me, so much the more do I confess myself beholden to do penance
for my default. Take, then, of me the vengeance which you deem
conformable to my sin.'

Nathan raised Mithridanes to his feet and tenderly embraced and kissed
him, saying, 'My son, it needeth not that thou shouldst ask nor that I
should grant forgiveness of thine emprise, whatever thou choosest to
style it, whether wicked or otherwise; for that thou pursuedst it, not
of hatred, but to win to be held better. Live, then, secure from me
and be assured that there is no man alive who loveth thee as I do,
having regard to the loftiness of thy soul, which hath given itself,
not to the amassing of monies, as do the covetous, but to the
expenditure of those that have been amassed. Neither be thou ashamed
of having sought to slay me, so though mightest become famous, nor
think that I marvel thereat. The greatest emperors and the most
illustrious kings have, with well nigh none other art than that of
slaying, not one man, as thou wouldst have done, but an infinite
multitude of men, and burning countries and razing cities, enlarged
their realms and consequently their fame; wherefore, an thou wouldst,
to make thyself more famous, have slain me only, thou diddest no new
nor extraordinary thing, but one much used.'

Mithridanes, without holding himself excused of his perverse design,
commended the honourable excuse found by Nathan and came, in course of
converse with him, to say that he marvelled beyond measure how he
could have brought himself to meet his death and have gone so far as
even to give him means and counsel to that end; whereto quoth Nathan,
'Mithridanes, I would not have thee marvel at my resolution nor at the
counsel I gave thee, for that, since I have been mine own master and
have addressed myself to do that same thing which thou hast undertaken
to do, there came never any to my house but I contented him, so far as
in me lay, of that which was required of me by him. Thou camest
hither, desirous of my life; wherefore, learning that thou soughtest
it, I straightway determined to give it thee, so thou mightest not be
the only one to depart hence without his wish; and in order that thou
mightest have thy desire, I gave thee such counsel as I thought apt to
enable thee to have my life and not lose thine own; and therefore I
tell thee once more and pray thee, an it please thee, take it and
satisfy thyself thereof. I know not how I may better bestow it. These
fourscore years have I occupied it and used it about my pleasures and
my diversions, and I know that in the course of nature, according as
it fareth with other men and with things in general, it can now be
left me but a little while longer; wherefore I hold it far better to
bestow it by way of gift, like as I have still given and expended my
[other] treasures, than to seek to keep it until such times as it
shall be taken from me by nature against my will. To give an hundred
years is no great boon; how much less, then, is it to give the six or
eight I have yet to abide here? Take it, then, an it like thee.
Prithee, then, take it, an thou have a mind thereto; for that never
yet, what while I have lived here, have I found any who hath desired
it, nor know I when I may find any such, an thou, who demandest it,
take it not. And even should I chance to find any one, I know that,
the longer I keep it, the less worth will it be; therefore, ere it wax
sorrier, take it, I beseech thee.'

Mithridanes was sore abashed and replied, 'God forbid I should, let
alone take and sever from you a thing of such price as your life, but
even desire to do so, as but late I did,--your life, whose years far
from seeking to lessen, I would willingly add thereto of mine own!'
Whereto Nathan straightway rejoined, 'And art thou indeed willing, it
being in thy power to do it, to add of thy years unto mine and in so
doing, to cause me do for thee that which I never yet did for any man,
to wit, take of thy good, I who never yet took aught of others?' 'Ay
am I,' answered Mithridanes in haste. 'Then,' said Nathan, 'thou must
do as I shall bid thee. Thou shalt take up thine abode, young as thou
art, here in my house and bear the name of Nathan, whilst I will
betake myself to thy house and let still call myself Mithridanes.'
Quoth Mithridanes, 'An I knew how to do as well as you have done and
do, I would, without hesitation, take that which you proffer me; but,
since meseemeth very certain that my actions would be a diminishment
of Nathan's fame and as I purpose not to mar in another that which I
know not how to order in myself, I will not take it.' These and many
other courteous discourses having passed between them, they returned,
at Nathan's instance, to the latter's palace, where he entertained
Mithridanes with the utmost honour sundry days, heartening him in his
great and noble purpose with all manner of wit and wisdom. Then,
Mithridanes desiring to return to his own house with his company, he
dismissed him, having throughly given him to know that he might never
avail to outdo him in liberality."



THE FOURTH STORY

[Day the Tenth]

     MESSER GENTILE DE' CARISENDI, COMING FROM MODONA, TAKETH
     FORTH OF THE SEPULCHRE A LADY WHOM HE LOVETH AND WHO HATH
     BEEN BURIED FOR DEAD. THE LADY, RESTORED TO LIFE, BEARETH A
     MALE CHILD AND MESSER GENTILE RESTORETH HER AND HER SON TO
     NICCOLUCCIO CACCIANIMICO, HER HUSBAND


It seemed to all a marvellous thing that a man should be lavish of his
own blood and they declared Nathan's liberality to have verily
transcended that of the King of Spain and the Abbot of Cluny. But,
after enough to one and the other effect had been said thereof, the
king, looking towards Lauretta, signed to her that he would have her
tell, whereupon she straightway began, "Young ladies, magnificent and
goodly are the things that have been recounted, nor meseemeth is there
aught left unto us who have yet to tell, wherethrough we may range a
story-telling, so throughly have they all[447] been occupied with the
loftiness of the magnificences related, except we have recourse to the
affairs of love, which latter afford a great abundance of matter for
discourse on every subject; wherefore, at once on this account and for
that the theme is one to which our age must needs especially incline
us, it pleaseth me to relate to you an act of magnanimity done by a
lover, which, all things considered, will peradventure appear to you
nowise inferior to any of those already set forth, if it be true that
treasures are lavished, enmities forgotten and life itself, nay, what
is far more, honour and renown, exposed to a thousand perils, so we
may avail to possess the thing beloved.

[Footnote 447: _i.e._ all sections of the given theme.]

There was, then, in Bologna, a very noble city of Lombardy, a
gentleman very notable for virtue and nobility of blood, called Messer
Gentile Carisendi, who, being young, became enamoured of a noble lady
called Madam Catalina, the wife of one Niccoluccio Caccianimico; and
for that he was ill repaid of his love by the lady, being named
provost of Modona, he betook himself thither, as in despair of her.
Meanwhile, Niccoluccio being absent from Bologna and the lady having,
for that she was with child, gone to abide at a country house she had
maybe three miles distant from the city, she was suddenly seized with
a grievous fit of sickness,[448] which overcame her with such violence
that it extinguished in her all sign of life, so that she was even
adjudged dead of divers physicians; and for that her nearest kinswomen
declared themselves to have had it from herself that she had not been
so long pregnant that the child could be fully formed, without giving
themselves farther concern, they buried her, such as she was, after
much lamentation, in one of the vaults of a neighbouring church.

[Footnote 448: Lit. accident (_accidente_).]

The thing was forthright signified by a friend of his to Messer
Gentile, who, poor as he had still been of her favour, grieved sore
therefor and ultimately said in himself, 'Harkye, Madam Catalina, thou
art dead, thou of whom, what while thou livedst, I could never avail
to have so much as a look; wherefore, now thou canst not defend
thyself, needs must I take of thee a kiss or two, all dead as thou
art.' This said, he took order so his going should be secret and it
being presently night, he mounted to horse with one of his servants
and rode, without halting, till he came whereas the lady was buried
and opened the sepulchre with all despatch. Then, entering therein, he
laid himself beside her and putting his face to hers, kissed her again
and again with many tears. But presently,--as we see men's appetites
never abide content within any limit, but still desire farther, and
especially those of lovers,--having bethought himself to tarry there
no longer, he said, 'Marry, now that I am here, why should I not touch
her somedele on the breast? I may never touch her more, nor have I
ever yet done so.' Accordingly, overcome with this desire, he put his
hand into her bosom and holding it there awhile, himseemed he felt her
heart beat somewhat. Thereupon, putting aside all fear, he sought more
diligently and found that she was certainly not dead, scant and feeble
as he deemed the life [that lingered in her;] wherefore, with the help
of his servant, he brought her forth of the tomb, as softliest he
might, and setting her before him on his horse, carried her privily to
his house in Bologna.

There was his mother, a worthy and discreet gentlewoman, and she,
after she had heard everything at large from her son, moved to
compassion, quietly addressed herself by means of hot baths and great
fires to recall the strayed life to the lady, who, coming presently to
herself, heaved a great sigh and said, 'Ah me, where am I?' To which
the good lady replied, 'Be of good comfort; thou art in safety.' Madam
Catalina, collecting herself, looked about her and knew not aright
where she was; but, seeing Messer Gentile before her, she was filled
with wonderment and besought his mother to tell her how she came
thither; whereupon Messer Gentile related to her everything in order.
At this she was sore afflicted, but presently rendered him such thanks
as she might and after conjured him, by the love he had erst borne her
and of his courtesy, that she might not in his house suffer at his
hands aught that should be anywise contrary to her honour and that of
her husband and that, as soon as the day should be come, he would
suffer her return to her own house. 'Madam,' answered Messer Gentile,
'whatsoever may have been my desire of time past, I purpose not,
either at this present or ever henceforth, (since God hath vouchsafed
me this grace that He hath restored you to me from death to life, and
that by means of the love I have hitherto borne you,) to use you
either here or elsewhere otherwise than as a dear sister; but this my
service that I have done you to-night meriteth some recompense;
wherefore I would have you deny me not a favour that I shall ask you.'

The lady very graciously replied that she was ready to do his desire,
so but she might and it were honourable. Then said he, 'Madam, your
kinsfolk and all the Bolognese believe and hold you for certain to be
dead, wherefore there is no one who looketh for you more at home, and
therefore I would have you of your favour be pleased to abide quietly
here with my mother till such time as I shall return from Modona,
which will be soon. And the reason for which I require you of this is
that I purpose to make a dear and solemn present of you to your
husband in the presence of the most notable citizens of this place.'
The lady, confessing herself beholden to the gentleman and that his
request was an honourable one, determined to do as he asked, how much
soever she desired to gladden her kinsfolk of her life,[449] and so
she promised it to him upon her faith. Hardly had she made an end of
her reply, when she felt the time of her delivery to be come and not
long after, being lovingly tended of Messer Gentile's mother, she gave
birth to a goodly male child, which manifold redoubled his gladness
and her own. Messer Gentile took order that all things needful should
be forthcoming and that she should be tended as she were his proper
wife and presently returned in secret to Modona. There, having served
the term of his office and being about to return to Bologna, he took
order for the holding of a great and goodly banquet at his house on
the morning he was to enter the city, and thereto he bade many
gentlemen of the place, amongst whom was Niccoluccio Caccianimico.
Accordingly, when he returned and dismounted, he found them all
awaiting him, as likewise the lady, fairer and sounder than ever, and
her little son in good case, and with inexpressible joy seating his
guests at table, he let serve them magnificently with various meats.

[Footnote 449: _i.e._ with news of her life.]

Whenas the repast was near its end, having first told the lady what he
meant to do and taken order with her of the course that she should
hold, he began to speak thus: 'Gentlemen, I remember to have heard
whiles that there is in Persia a custom and to my thinking a pleasant
one, to wit, that, whenas any is minded supremely to honour a friend
of his, he biddeth him to his house and there showeth him the thing,
be it wife or mistress or daughter or whatsoever else, he holdeth most
dear, avouching that, like as he showeth him this, even so, an he
might, would he yet more willingly show him his very heart; which
custom I purpose to observe in Bologna. You, of your favour, have
honoured my banquet with your presence, and I in turn mean to honour
you, after the Persian fashion, by showing you the most precious thing
I have or may ever have in the world. But, ere I proceed to do this, I
pray you tell me what you deem of a doubt[450] which I shall broach to
you and which is this. A certain person hath in his house a very
faithful and good servant, who falleth grievously sick, whereupon the
former, without awaiting the sick man's end, letteth carry him into
the middle street and hath no more heed of him. Cometh a stranger,
who, moved to compassion of the sick man, carrieth him off to his own
house and with great diligence and expense bringeth him again to his
former health. Now I would fain know whether, if he keep him and make
use of his services, his former master can in equity complain of or
blame the second, if, he demanding him again, the latter refuse to
restore him.'

[Footnote 450: _Dubbio_, _i.e._ a doubtful case or question.]

The gentlemen, after various discourse among themselves, concurring
all in one opinion, committed the response to Niccoluccio
Caccianimico, for that he was a goodly and eloquent speaker; whereupon
the latter, having first commended the Persian usage, declared that he
and all the rest were of opinion that the first master had no longer
any right in his servant, since he had, in such a circumstance, not
only abandoned him, but cast him away, and that, for the kind offices
done him by the second, themseemed the servant was justly become his;
wherefore, in keeping him, he did the first no hurt, no violence, no
unright whatsoever. The other guests at table (and there were men
there of worth and worship) said all of one accord that they held to
that which had been answered by Niccoluccio; and Messer Gentile, well
pleased with this response and that Niccoluccio had made it, avouched
himself also to be of the same opinion. Then said he, 'It is now time
that I honour you according to promise,' and calling two of his
servants, despatched them to the lady, whom he had let magnificently
dress and adorn, praying her be pleased to come gladden the company
with her presence. Accordingly, she took her little son, who was very
handsome, in her arms and coming into the banqueting-hall, attended by
two serving-men seated herself, as Messer Gentile willed it, by the
side of a gentleman of high standing. Then said he, 'Gentlemen, this
is the thing which I hold and purpose to hold dearer than any other;
look if it seem to you that I have reason to do so.'

The guests, having paid her the utmost honour, commending her amain
and declaring to Messer Gentile that he might well hold her dear, fell
to looking upon her; and there were many there who had avouched her to
be herself,[451] had they not held her for dead. But Niccoluccio gazed
upon her above all and unable to contain himself, asked her, (Messer
Gentile having withdrawn awhile,) as one who burned to know who she
was, if she were a Bolognese lady or a foreigner. The lady, seeing
herself questioned of her husband, hardly restrained herself from
answering; but yet, to observe the appointed ordinance, she held her
peace. Another asked her if the child was hers and a third if she were
Messer Gentile's wife or anywise akin to him; but she made them no
reply. Presently, Messer Gentile coming up, one of his guests said to
him, 'Sir, this is a fair creature of yours, but she seemeth to us
mute; is she so?' 'Gentlemen,' replied he, 'her not having spoken at
this present is no small proof of her virtue.' And the other said,
'Tell us, then, who she is.' Quoth Messer Gentile, 'That will I
gladly, so but you will promise me that none, for aught that I shall
say, will budge from his place till such time as I shall have made an
end of my story.'

[Footnote 451: _i.e._ who would have recognized her as Madam
Catalina.]

All promised this and the tables being presently removed, Messer
Gentile, seating himself beside the lady, said, 'Gentlemen, this lady
is that loyal and faithful servant, of whom I questioned you awhile
agone and who, being held little dear of her folk and so, as a thing
without worth and no longer useful, cast out into the midward of the
street, was by me taken up; yea, by my solicitude and of my handiwork
I brought her forth of the jaws of death, and God, having regard to my
good intent, hath caused her, by my means, from a frightful corpse
become thus beautiful. But, that you may more manifestly apprehend how
this betided me, I will briefly declare it to you.' Then, beginning
from his falling enamoured of her, he particularly related to them
that which had passed until that time, to the great wonderment of the
hearers, and added, 'By reason of which things, an you, and especially
Niccoluccio, have not changed counsel since awhile ago, the lady is
fairly mine, nor can any with just title demand her again of me.' To
this none made answer; nay, all awaited that which he should say
farther; whilst Niccoluccio and the lady and certain of the others
who were there wept for compassion.[452]

[Footnote 452: _Compassione_, _i.e._ emotion.]

Then Messer Gentile, rising to his feet and taking the little child in
his arms and the lady by the hand, made for Niccoluccio and said to
him, 'Rise up, gossip; I do not restore thee thy wife, whom thy
kinsfolk and hers cast away; nay, but I will well bestow on thee this
lady my gossip, with this her little son, who I am assured, was
begotten of thee and whom I held at baptism and named Gentile; and I
pray thee that she be none the less dear to thee for that she hath
abidden near upon three months in my house; for I swear to thee,--by
that God who belike caused me aforetime fall in love with her, to the
intent that my love might be, as in effect it hath been, the occasion
of her deliverance,--that never, whether with father or mother or with
thee, hath she lived more chastely than she hath done with my mother
in my house.' So saying, he turned to the lady and said to her,
'Madam, from this time forth I absolve you of every promise made me
and leave you free [to return] to Niccoluccio.'[453] Then, giving the
lady and the child into Niccoluccio's arms, he returned to his seat.
Niccoluccio received them with the utmost eagerness, so much the more
rejoiced as he was the farther removed from hope thereof, and thanked
Messer Gentile, as best he might and knew; whilst the others, who all
wept for compassion, commended the latter amain of this; yea, and he
was commended of whosoever heard it. The lady was received in her
house with marvellous rejoicing and long beheld with amazement by the
Bolognese, as one raised from the dead; whilst Messer Gentile ever
after abode a friend of Niccoluccio and of his kinsfolk and those of
the lady.

[Footnote 453: Lit. I leave you free _of_ Niccoluccio (_libera vi
lascio di Niccoluccio_).]

What, then, gentle ladies, will you say [of this case]? Is, think you,
a king's having given away his sceptre and his crown or an abbot's
having, without cost to himself, reconciled an evildoer with the pope
or an old man's having proffered his weasand to the enemy's knife to
be evened with this deed of Messer Gentile, who, being young and
ardent and himseeming he had a just title to that which the
heedlessness of others had cast away and he of his good fortune had
taken up, not only honourably tempered his ardour, but, having in his
possession that which he was still wont with all his thoughts to covet
and to seek to steal away, freely restored it [to its owner]? Certes,
meseemeth none of the magnificences already recounted can compare with
this."



THE FIFTH STORY

[Day the Tenth]

     MADAM DIANORA REQUIRETH OF MESSER ANSALDO A GARDEN AS FAIR
     IN JANUARY AS IN MAY, AND HE BY BINDING HIMSELF [TO PAY A
     GREAT SUM OF MONEY] TO A NIGROMANCER, GIVETH IT TO HER. HER
     HUSBAND GRANTETH HER LEAVE TO DO MESSER ANSALDO'S PLEASURE,
     BUT HE, HEARING OF THE FORMER'S GENEROSITY, ABSOLVETH HER OF
     HER PROMISE, WHEREUPON THE NIGROMANCER, IN HIS TURN,
     ACQUITTETH MESSER ANSALDO OF HIS BOND, WITHOUT WILLING AUGHT
     OF HIS


Messer Gentile having by each of the merry company been extolled to
the very skies with the highest praise, the king charged Emilia follow
on, who confidently, as if eager to speak, began as follows: "Dainty
dames, none can with reason deny that Messer Gentile wrought
magnificently; but, if it be sought to say that his magnanimity might
not be overpassed, it will not belike be uneath to show that more is
possible, as I purpose to set out to you in a little story of mine.

In Friuli, a country, though cold, glad with goodly mountains and
store of rivers and clear springs, is a city called Udine, wherein was
aforetime a fair and noble lady called Madam Dianora, the wife of a
wealthy gentleman named Gilberto, who was very debonair and easy of
composition. The lady's charm procured her to be passionately loved of
a noble and great baron by name Messer Ansaldo Gradense, a man of high
condition and everywhere renowned for prowess and courtesy. He loved
her fervently and did all that lay in his power to be beloved of her,
to which end he frequently solicited her with messages, but wearied
himself in vain. At last, his importunities being irksome to the lady
and she seeing that, for all she denied him everything he sought of
her, he stinted not therefor to love and solicit her, she determined
to seek to rid herself of him by means of an extraordinary and in her
judgment an impossible demand; wherefore she said one day to a woman,
who came often to her on his part, 'Good woman, thou hast many times
avouched to me that Messer Ansaldo loveth me over all things and hast
proffered me marvellous great gifts on his part, which I would have
him keep to himself, seeing that never thereby might I be prevailed
upon to love him or comply with his wishes; but, an I could be
certified that he loveth me in very deed as much as thou sayest, I
might doubtless bring myself to love him and do that which he willeth;
wherefore, an he choose to certify me of this with that which I shall
require of him, I shall be ready to do his commandments.' Quoth the
good woman, 'And what is that, madam, which you would have him do?'
'That which I desire,' replied the lady, 'is this; I will have, for
this coming month of January, a garden, near this city, full of green
grass and flowers and trees in full leaf, no otherwise than as it were
May; the which if he contrive not, let him never more send me thee nor
any other, for that, an he importune me more, so surely as I have
hitherto kept his pursuit hidden from my husband and my kinsfolk, I
will study to rid myself of him by complaining to them.'

The gentleman, hearing the demand and the offer of his mistress, for
all it seemed to him a hard thing and in a manner impossible to do and
he knew it to be required of the lady for none otherwhat than to
bereave him of all hope, determined nevertheless to essay whatsoever
might be done thereof and sent into various parts about the world,
enquiring if there were any to be found who would give him aid and
counsel in the matter. At last, he happened upon one who offered, so
he were well guerdoned, to do the thing by nigromantic art, and having
agreed with him for a great sum of money, he joyfully awaited the
appointed time, which come and the cold being extreme and everything
full of snow and ice, the learned man, the night before the calends of
January, so wrought by his arts in a very goodly meadow adjoining the
city, that it appeared in the morning (according to the testimony of
those who saw it) one of the goodliest gardens was ever seen of any,
with grass and trees and fruits of every kind. Messer Ansaldo, after
viewing this with the utmost gladness, let cull of the finest fruits
and the fairest flowers that were there and caused privily present
them to his mistress, bidding her come and see the garden required by
her, so thereby she might know how he loved her and after, remembering
her of the promise made him and sealed with an oath, bethink herself,
as a loyal lady, to accomplish it to him.

The lady, seeing the fruits and flowers and having already from many
heard tell of the miraculous garden, began to repent of her promise.
Natheless, curious, for all her repentance, of seeing strange things,
she went with many other ladies of the city to view the garden and
having with no little wonderment commended it amain, returned home,
the woefullest woman alive, bethinking her of that to which she was
bounden thereby. Such was her chagrin that she availed not so well to
dissemble it but needs must it appear, and her husband, perceiving it,
was urgent to know the reason. The lady, for shamefastness, kept
silence thereof a great while; but at last, constrained to speak, she
orderly discovered to him everything; which Gilberto, hearing, was at
the first sore incensed, but presently, considering the purity of the
lady's intent and chasing away anger with better counsel, he said,
'Dianora, it is not the part of a discreet nor of a virtuous woman to
give ear unto any message of this sort nor to compound with any for
her chastity under whatsoever condition. Words received into the heart
by the channel of the ears have more potency than many conceive and
well nigh every thing becometh possible to lovers. Thou didst ill,
then, first to hearken and after to enter into terms of composition;
but, for that I know the purity of thine intent, I will, to absolve
thee of the bond of the promise, concede thee that which peradventure
none other would do, being thereto the more induced by fear of the
nigromancer, whom Messer Ansaldo, an thou cheat him, will maybe cause
make us woeful. I will, then, that thou go to him and study to have
thyself absolved of this thy promise, preserving thy chastity, if thou
mayst anywise contrive it; but, an it may not be otherwise, thou
shalt, for this once, yield him thy body, but not thy soul.'

The lady, hearing her husband's speech, wept and denied herself
willing to receive such a favour from him; but, for all her much
denial, he would e'en have it be so. Accordingly, next morning, at
daybreak, the lady, without overmuch adorning herself, repaired to
Messer Ansaldo's house, with two of her serving-men before and a
chamberwoman after her. Ansaldo, hearing that his mistress was come to
him, marvelled sore and letting call the nigromancer, said to him, 'I
will have thee see what a treasure thy skill hath gotten me.' Then,
going to meet her, he received her with decency and reverence, without
ensuing any disorderly appetite, and they entered all[454] into a
goodly chamber, wherein was a great fire. There he caused set her a
seat and said, 'Madam, I prithee, if the long love I have borne you
merit any recompense, let it not irk you to discover to me the true
cause which hath brought you hither at such an hour and in such
company.' The lady, shamefast and well nigh with tears in her eyes,
answered, 'Sir, neither love that I bear you nor plighted faith
bringeth me hither, but the commandment of my husband, who, having
more regard to the travails of your disorderly passion than to his
honour and mine own, hath caused me come hither; and by his behest I
am for this once disposed to do your every pleasure.' If Messer
Ansaldo had marvelled at the sight of the lady, far more did he
marvel, when he heard her words, and moved by Gilberto's generosity,
his heat began to change to compassion and he said, 'God forbid,
madam, an it be as you say, that I should be a marrer of his honour
who hath compassion of my love; wherefore you shall, what while it is
your pleasure to abide here, be no otherwise entreated than as you
were my sister; and whenas it shall be agreeable to you, you are free
to depart, so but you will render your husband, on my part, those
thanks which you shall deem befitting unto courtesy such as his hath
been and have me ever, in time to come, for brother and for servant.'

[Footnote 454: _i.e._ Ansaldo, Dianora and the nigromancer.]

The lady, hearing these words, was the joyfullest woman in the world
and answered, saying, 'Nothing, having regard to your fashions, could
ever make me believe that aught should ensue to me of my coming other
than this that I see you do in the matter; whereof I shall still be
beholden to you.' Then, taking leave, she returned, under honourable
escort, to Messer Gilberto and told him that which had passed, of
which there came about a very strait and loyal friendship between him
and Messer Ansaldo. Moreover, the nigromancer, to whom the gentleman
was for giving the promised guerdon, seeing Gilberto's generosity
towards his wife's lover and that of the latter towards the lady,
said, 'God forbid, since I have seen Gilberto liberal of his honour
and you of your love, that I should not on like wise be liberal of my
hire; wherefore, knowing it[455] will stand you in good stead, I
intend that it shall be yours.' At this the gentleman was ashamed and
studied to make him take or all or part; but, seeing that he wearied
himself in vain and it pleasing the nigromancer (who had, after three
days, done away his garden) to depart, he commended him to God and
having extinguished from his heart his lustful love for the lady, he
abode fired with honourable affection for her. How say you now,
lovesome ladies? Shall we prefer [Gentile's resignation of] the in a
manner dead lady and of his love already cooled for hope forspent,
before the generosity of Messer Ansaldo, whose love was more ardent
than ever and who was in a manner fired with new hope, holding in his
hands the prey so long pursued? Meseemeth it were folly to pretend
that this generosity can be evened with that."

[Footnote 455: _i.e._ the money promised him by way of recompense.]



THE SIXTH STORY

[Day the Tenth]

     KING CHARLES THE OLD, THE VICTORIOUS, FALLETH ENAMOURED OF A
     YOUNG GIRL, BUT AFTER, ASHAMED OF HIS FOND THOUGHT,
     HONOURABLY MARRIETH BOTH HER AND HER SISTER


It were over longsome fully to recount the various discourse that had
place among the ladies of who used the greatest generosity, Gilberto
or Messer Ansaldo or the nigromancer, in Madam Dianora's affairs; but,
after the king had suffered them debate awhile, he looked at Fiammetta
and bade her, telling a story, put an end to their contention;
whereupon she, without hesitation, began as follows: "Illustrious
ladies, I was ever of opinion that, in companies such as ours, it
should still be discoursed so much at large that the overstraitness[456]
of intent of the things said be not unto any matter for debate, the
which is far more sortable among students in the schools than among us
[women,] who scarce suffice unto the distaff and the spindle.
Wherefore, seeing that you are presently at cross-purposes by reason
of the things already said, I, who had in mind a thing maybe somewhat
doubtful [of meaning,] will leave that be and tell you a story,
treating nowise of a man of little account, but of a valiant king, who
therein wrought knightly, in nothing attainting his honour.

[Footnote 456: _i.e._, nicety, minuteness (_strettezza_).]

Each one of you must many a time have heard tell of King Charles the
Old or First, by whose magnanimous emprise, and after by the glorious
victory gained by him over King Manfred, the Ghibellines were expelled
from Florence and the Guelphs returned thither. In consequence of this
a certain gentleman, called Messer Neri degli Uberti, departing the
city with all his household and much monies and being minded to take
refuge no otherwhere than under the hand of King Charles, betook
himself to Castellamare di Stabia.[457] There, belike a crossbowshot
removed from the other habitations of the place, among olive-trees
and walnuts and chestnuts, wherewith the country aboundeth, he bought
him an estate and built thereon a goodly and commodious
dwelling-house, with a delightsome garden thereby, amiddleward which,
having great plenty of running water, he made, after our country
fashion, a goodly and clear fishpond and lightly filled it with good
store of fish. Whilst he concerned himself to make his garden goodlier
every day, it befell that King Charles repaired to Castellamare, to
rest himself awhile in the hot season, and there hearing tell of the
beauty of Messer Neri's garden, he desired to behold it. Hearing,
moreover, to whom it belonged, he bethought himself that, as the
gentleman was of the party adverse to his own, it behoved to deal the
more familiarly with him, and accordingly sent to him to say that he
purposed to sup with him privily in his garden that evening, he and
four companions. This was very agreeable to Messer Neri, and having
made magnificent preparation and taken order with his household of
that which was to do, he received the king in his fair garden as
gladliest he might and knew. The latter, after having viewed and
commended all the garden and Messer Neri's house and washed, seated
himself at one of the tables, which were set beside the fishpond, and
seating Count Guy de Montfort, who was of his company, on one side of
him and Messer Neri on the other, commanded other three, who were come
thither with them, to serve according to the order appointed of his
host. Thereupon there came dainty meats and there were wines of the
best and costliest and the ordinance was exceeding goodly and
praiseworthy, without noise or annoy whatsoever, the which the king
much commended.

[Footnote 457: A town on the Bay of Naples, near the ruins of
Pompeii.]

Presently, as he sat blithely at meat, enjoying the solitary place,
there entered the garden two young damsels of maybe fifteen years of
age, with hair like threads of gold, all ringleted and hanging loose,
whereon was a light chaplet of pervinck-blossoms. Their faces bespoke
them rather angels than otherwhat, so delicately fair they were, and
they were clad each upon her skin in a garment of the finest linen and
white as snow, the which from the waist upward was very strait and
thence hung down in ample folds, pavilionwise, to the feet. She who
came first bore on her left shoulder a pair of hand-nets and in her
right hand a long pole, and the other had on her left shoulder a
frying-pan and under the same arm a faggot of wood, whilst in her left
hand she held a trivet and in the other a flask of oil and a lighted
flambeau. The king, seeing them, marvelled and in suspense awaited
what this should mean. The damsels came forward modestly and
blushingly did obeisance to him, then, betaking themselves whereas one
went down into the fishpond, she who bore the frying-pan set it down
and the other things by it and taking the pole that the other carried,
they both entered the water, which came up to their breasts.
Meanwhile, one of Messer Neri's servants deftly kindled fire under the
trivet and setting the pan thereon, poured therein oil and waited for
the damsels to throw him fish. The latter, the one groping with the
pole in those parts whereas she knew the fish lay hid and the other
standing ready with the net, in a short space of time took fish
galore, to the exceeding pleasure of the king, who eyed them attently;
then, throwing some thereof to the servant, who put them in the pan,
well nigh alive, they proceeded, as they had been lessoned, to take of
the finest and cast them on the table before the king and his
table-fellows. The fish wriggled about the table, to the marvellous
diversion of the king, who took of them in his turn and sportively
cast them back to the damsels; and on this wise they frolicked awhile,
till such time as the servant had cooked the fish which had been given
him and which, Messer Neri having so ordered it, were now set before
the king, more as a relish than as any very rare and delectable dish.

The damsels, seeing the fish cooked and having taken enough, came
forth of the water, their thin white garments all clinging to their
skins and hiding well nigh nought of their delicate bodies, and
passing shamefastly before the king, returned to the house. The latter
and the count and the others who served had well considered the
damsels and each inwardly greatly commended them for fair and well
shapen, no less than for agreeable and well mannered. But above all
they pleased the king, who had so intently eyed every part of their
bodies, as they came forth of the water, that, had any then pricked
him, he would not have felt it, and as he called them more
particularly to mind, unknowing who they were, he felt a very fervent
desire awaken in his heart to please them, whereby he right well
perceived himself to be in danger of becoming enamoured, an he took no
heed to himself thereagainst; nor knew he indeed whether of the twain
it was the more pleased him, so like in all things was the one to the
other. After he had abidden awhile in this thought, he turned to
Messer Neri and asked him who were the two damsels, to which the
gentleman answered, 'My lord, these are my daughters born at a birth,
whereof the one is called Ginevra the Fair and the other Isotta the
Blonde.' The king commended them greatly and exhorted him to marry
them, whereof Messer Neri excused himself, for that he was no more
able thereunto. Meanwhile, nothing now remaining to be served of the
supper but the fruits, there came the two damsels in very goodly gowns
of sendal, with two great silver platters in their hands, full of
various fruits, such as the season afforded, and these they set on the
table before the king; which done, they withdrew a little apart and
fell to singing a canzonet, whereof the words began thus:

       Whereas I'm come, O Love,
     It might not be, indeed, at length recounted, etc.

This song they carolled on such dulcet wise and so delightsomely that
to the king, who beheld and hearkened to them with ravishment, it
seemed as if all the hierarchies of the angels were lighted there to
sing. The song sung, they fell on their knees and respectfully craved
of him leave to depart, who, albeit their departure was grievous to
him, yet with a show of blitheness accorded it to them. The supper
being now at an end, the king remounted to horse with his company and
leaving Messer Neri, returned to the royal lodging, devising of one
thing and another. There, holding his passion hidden, but availing
not, for whatsoever great affair might supervene, to forget the beauty
and grace of Ginevra the Fair, (for love of whom he loved her sister
also, who was like unto her,) he became so fast entangled in the
amorous snares that he could think of well nigh nought else and
feigning other occasions, kept a strait intimacy with Messer Neri and
very often visited his fair garden, to see Ginevra.

At last, unable to endure longer and bethinking himself, in default of
other means of compassing his desire, to take not one alone, but both
of the damsels from their father, he discovered both his passion and
his intent to Count Guy, who, for that he was an honourable man, said
to him, 'My lord, I marvel greatly at that which you tell me, and that
more than would another, inasmuch as meseemeth I have from your
childhood to this day known your fashions better than any other;
wherefore, meseeming never to have known such a passion in your youth,
wherein Love might lightlier have fixed his talons, and seeing you
presently hard upon old age, it is so new and so strange to me that
you should love by way of enamourment[458] that it seemeth to me well
nigh a miracle, and were it my office to reprove you thereof, I know
well that which I should say to you thereanent, having in regard that
you are yet with your harness on your back in a kingdom newly gained,
amidst a people unknown and full of wiles and treasons, and are all
occupied with very grave cares and matters of high moment, nor have
you yet availed to seat yourself [in security;] and yet, among such
and so many affairs, you have made place for the allurements of love.
This is not the fashion of a magnanimous king; nay, but rather that of
a pusillanimous boy. Moreover, what is far worse, you say that you are
resolved to take his two daughters from a gentleman who hath
entertained you in his house beyond his means and who, to do you the
more honour, hath shown you these twain in a manner naked, thereby
attesting how great is the faith he hath in you and that he firmly
believeth you to be a king and not a ravening wolf. Again, hath it so
soon dropped your memory that it was the violences done of Manfred to
women that opened you the entry into this kingdom? What treason was
ever wroughten more deserving of eternal punishment than this would
be, that you should take from him who hospitably entreateth you his
honour and hope and comfort? What would be said of you, an you should
do it? You think, maybe, it were a sufficient excuse to say, "I did it
for that he is a Ghibelline." Is this of the justice of kings, that
they who resort on such wise to their arms should be entreated after
such a fashion, be they who they may? Let me tell you, king, that it
was an exceedingly great glory to you to have overcome Manfred, but a
far greater one it is to overcome one's self; wherefore do you, who
have to correct others, conquer yourself and curb this appetite, nor
offer with such a blot to mar that which you have so gloriously
gained.'

[Footnote 458: _Per amore amiate_ (Fr. aimiez par amour).]

These words stung the king's conscience to the quick and afflicted him
the more inasmuch as he knew them for true; wherefore, after sundry
heavy sighs, he said, 'Certes, Count, I hold every other enemy,
however strong, weak and eath enough to the well-lessoned warrior to
overcome in comparison with his own appetites; natheless, great as is
the travail and inexpressible as is the might it requireth, your words
have so stirred me that needs must I, ere many days be past, cause you
see by deed that, like as I know how to conquer others, even so do I
know how to overcome myself.' Nor had many days passed after this
discourse when the king, having returned to Naples, determined, as
well to deprive himself of occasion to do dishonourably as to requite
the gentleman the hospitality received from him, to go about (grievous
as it was to him to make others possessors of that which he coveted
over all for himself) to marry the two young ladies, and that not as
Messer Neri's daughters, but as his own. Accordingly, with Messer
Neri's accord, he dowered them magnificently and gave Ginevra the Fair
to Messer Maffeo da Palizzi and Isotta the Blonde to Messer Guglielmo
della Magna, both noble cavaliers and great barons, to whom with
inexpressible chagrin consigning them, he betook himself into Apulia,
where with continual fatigues he so mortified the fierceness of his
appetite that, having burst and broken the chains of love, he abode
free of such passion for the rest of his life. There are some belike
who will say that it was a little thing for a king to have married two
young ladies, and that I will allow; but a great and a very great
thing I call it, if we consider that it was a king enamoured who did
this and who married to another her whom he loved, without having
gotten or taking of his love leaf or flower or fruit. On this wise,
then, did this magnanimous king, at once magnificently guerdoning the
noble gentleman, laudably honouring the young ladies whom he loved and
bravely overcoming himself."



THE SEVENTH STORY

[Day the Tenth]

     KING PEDRO OF ARRAGON, COMING TO KNOW THE FERVENT LOVE BORNE
     HIM BY LISA, COMFORTETH THE LOVE-SICK MAID AND PRESENTLY
     MARRIETH HER TO A NOBLE YOUNG GENTLEMAN; THEN, KISSING HER
     ON THE BROW, HE EVER AFTER AVOUCHETH HIMSELF HER KNIGHT


Fiammetta having made an end of her story and the manful magnanimity of
King Charles having been much commended, albeit there was one lady
there who, being a Ghibelline, was loath to praise him, Pampinea, by
the king's commandment, began thus, "There is no one of understanding,
worshipful ladies, but would say that which you say of good King
Charles, except she bear him ill-will for otherwhat; but, for that
there occurreth to my memory a thing, belike no less commendable than
this, done of one his adversary to one of our Florentine damsels, it
pleaseth me to relate it to you.

At the time of the expulsion of the French from Sicily, one of our
Florentines was an apothecary at Palermo, a very rich man called
Bernardo Puccini, who had by his wife an only daughter, a very fair
damsel and already apt for marriage. Now King Pedro of Arragon, become
lord of the island, held high festival with his barons at Palermo,
wherein he tilting after the Catalan fashion, it chanced that
Bernardo's daughter, whose name was Lisa, saw him running [at the
ring] from a window where she was with other ladies, and he so
marvellously pleased her that, looking upon him once and again, she
fell passionately in love with him; and the festival ended and she
abiding in her father's house, she could think of nothing but of this
her illustrious and exalted love. And what most irked her in this was
the consciousness of her own mean condition, which scarce suffered her
to cherish any hope of a happy issue; natheless, she could not
therefor bring herself to leave loving the king, albeit, for fear of
greater annoy, she dared not discover her passion. The king had not
perceived this thing and recked not of her, wherefor she suffered
intolerable chagrin, past all that can be imagined. Thus it befell
that, love still waxing in her and melancholy redoubling upon
melancholy, the fair maid, unable to endure more, fell sick and wasted
visibly away from day to day, like snow in the sun. Her father and
mother, sore concerned for this that befell her, studied with
assiduous tenderness to hearten her and succoured her in as much as
might be with physicians and medicines, but it availed nothing, for
that, despairing of her love, she had elected to live no longer.

It chanced one day that, her father offering to do her every pleasure,
she bethought herself, and she might aptly, to seek, before she died,
to make the king acquainted with her love and her intent, and
accordingly she prayed him bring her Minuccio d'Arezzo. Now this
Minuccio was in those days held a very quaint and subtle singer and
player and was gladly seen of the king; and Bernardo concluded that
Lisa had a mind to hear him sing and play awhile. Accordingly, he sent
to tell him, and Minuccio, who was a man of a debonair humour,
incontinent came to her and having somedele comforted her with kindly
speech, softly played her a fit or two on a viol he had with him and
after sang her sundry songs, the which were fire and flame unto the
damsel's passion, whereas he thought to solace her. Presently she told
him that she would fain speak some words with him alone, wherefore,
all else having withdrawn, she said to him, 'Minuccio, I have chosen
thee to keep me very faithfully a secret of mine, hoping in the first
place that thou wilt never discover it to any one, save to him of whom
I shall tell thee, and after that thou wilt help me in that which
lieth in thy power; and of this I pray thee Thou must know, then,
Minuccio mine, that the day our lord King Pedro held the great
festival in honour of his exaltation to the throne, it befell me, as
he tilted, to espy him at so dour a point[459] that for the love of
him there was kindled in my heart a fire that hath brought me to this
pass wherein thou seest me, and knowing how ill my love beseemeth to a
king, yet availing not, let alone to drive it away, but even to abate
it, and it being beyond measure grievous to me to bear, I have as a
lesser evil elected to die, as I shall do. True it is that I should
begone hence cruelly disconsolate, an he first knew it not; wherefore,
unknowing by whom I could more aptly acquaint him with this my
resolution than by thyself, I desire to commit it to thee and pray
thee that thou refuse not to do it, and whenas thou shalt have done
it, that thou give me to know thereof, so that, dying comforted, I may
be assoiled of these my pains.' And this said, she stinted, weeping.

[Footnote 459: _In si forte punto_, or, in modern parlance, at so
critical or ill-starred a moment.]

Minuccio marvelled at the greatness of the damsel's soul and at her
cruel resolve and was sore concerned for her; then, it suddenly
occurring to his mind how he might honourably oblige her, he said to
her, 'Lisa, I pledge thee my faith, whereof thou mayst live assured
that thou wilt never find thyself deceived, and after, commending thee
of so high an emprise as it is to have set thy mind upon so great a
king, I proffer thee mine aid, by means whereof I hope, an thou wilt
but take comfort, so to do that, ere three days be past, I doubt not
to bring thee news that will be exceeding grateful to thee; and to
lose no time, I mean to go about it forthright.' Lisa, having anew
besought him amain thereof and promised him to take comfort, bade him
God speed; whereupon Minuccio, taking his leave, betook himself to one
Mico da Siena, a mighty good rhymer of those days, and constrained him
with prayers to make the following canzonet:

     Bestir thee, Love, and get thee to my Sire
       And tell him all the torments I aby;
       Tell him I'm like to die,
     For fearfulness concealing my desire.

     Love, with clasped hands I cry thee mercy, so
       Thou mayst betake thee where my lord doth dwell.
     Say that I love and long for him, for lo,
       My heart he hath inflamed so sadly well;
     Yea, for the fire wherewith I'm all aglow,
       I fear to die nor yet the hour can tell
       When I shall part from pain so fierce and fell
         As that which, longing, for his sake I dree
         In shame and fear; ah me,
     For God's sake, cause him know my torment dire.

     Since first enamoured, Love, of him I grew,
       Thou hast not given me the heart to dare
     So much as one poor once my lord unto
       My love and longing plainly to declare,
     My lord who maketh me so sore to rue;
       Death, dying thus, were hard to me to bear.
       Belike, indeed, for he is debonair,
         'Twould not displease him, did he know what pain
         I feel and didst thou deign
     Me daring to make known to him my fire.

     Yet, since 'twas not thy pleasure to impart,
       Love, such assurance to me that by glance
     Or sign or writ I might make known my heart
       Unto my lord, for my deliverance
     I prithee, sweet my master, of thine art
       Get thee to him and give him souvenance
       Of that fair day I saw him shield and lance
         Bear with the other knights and looking more,
         Enamoured fell so sore
     My heart thereof doth perish and expire.

These words Minuccio forthwith set to a soft and plaintive air, such
as the matter thereof required, and on the third day he betook himself
to court, where, King Pedro being yet at meat, he was bidden by him
sing somewhat to his viol. Thereupon he fell to singing the song
aforesaid on such dulcet wise that all who were in the royal hall
appeared men astonied, so still and attent stood they all to hearken,
and the king maybe more than the others. Minuccio having made an end
of his singing, the king enquired whence came this song that himseemed
he had never before heard. 'My lord,' replied the minstrel, 'it is not
yet three days since the words were made and the air.' The king asked
for whom it had been made; and Minuccio answered, 'I dare not discover
it save to you alone.' The king, desirous to hear it, as soon as the
tables were removed, sent for Minuccio into his chamber and the latter
orderly recounted to him all that he had heard from Lisa; wherewith
Don Pedro was exceeding well pleased and much commended the damsel,
avouching himself resolved to have compassion of so worthful a young
lady and bidding him therefore go comfort her on his part and tell her
that he would without fail come to visit her that day towards vespers.
Minuccio, overjoyed to be the bearer of such pleasing news, betook
himself incontinent, viol and all, to the damsel and bespeaking her in
private, recounted to her all that had passed and after sang her the
song to his viol; whereat she was so rejoiced and so content that she
straightway showed manifest signs of great amendment and longingly
awaited the hour of vespers, whenas her lord should come, without any
of the household knowing or guessing how the case stood.

Meanwhile, the king, who was a debonair and generous prince, having
sundry times taken thought to the things heard from Minuccio and very
well knowing the damsel and her beauty, waxed yet more pitiful over
her and mounting to horse towards vespers, under colour of going
abroad for his diversion, betook himself to the apothecary's house,
where, having required a very goodly garden which he had to be opened
to him, he alighted therein and presently asked Bernardo what was come
of his daughter and if he had yet married her. 'My lord,' replied the
apothecary, 'she is not married; nay, she hath been and is yet very
sick; albeit it is true that since none she hath mended marvellously.'
The king readily apprehended what this amendment meant and said, 'In
good sooth, 'twere pity so fair a creature should be yet taken from
the world. We would fain go visit her.' Accordingly, a little after,
he betook himself with Bernardo and two companions only to her chamber
and going up to the bed where the damsel, somedele upraised,[460]
awaited him with impatience, took her by the hand and said to her,
'What meaneth this, my mistress? You are young and should comfort
other women; yet you suffer yourself to be sick. We would beseech you
be pleased, for the love of us, to hearten yourself on such wise that
you may speedily be whole again.' The damsel, feeling herself touched
of his hands whom she loved over all else, albeit she was somewhat
shamefast, felt yet such gladness in her heart as she were in Paradise
and answered him, as best she might, saying, 'My lord, my having
willed to subject my little strength unto very grievous burdens hath
been the cause to me of this mine infirmity, whereof, thanks to your
goodness, you shall soon see me quit.' The king alone understood the
damsel's covert speech and held her momently of more account; nay,
sundry whiles he inwardly cursed fortune, who had made her daughter
unto such a man; then, after he had tarried with her awhile and
comforted her yet more, he took his leave.

[Footnote 460: _Sollevata_, syn. solaced, relieved or (3) agitated,
troubled.]

This humanity of the king was greatly commended and attributed for
great honour to the apothecary and his daughter, which latter abode as
well pleased as ever was woman of her lover, and sustained of better
hope, in a few days recovered and became fairer than ever. When she
was whole again, the king, having taken counsel with the queen of what
return he should make her for so much love, mounting one day to horse
with many of his barons, repaired to the apothecary's house and
entering the garden, let call Master Bernardo and his daughter; then,
the queen presently coming thither with many ladies and having
received Lisa among them, they fell to making wonder-merry. After a
while, the king and queen called Lisa to them and the former said to
her, 'Noble damsel, the much love you have borne us hath gotten you a
great honour from us, wherewith we would have you for the love of us
be content; to wit, that, since you are apt for marriage, we would
have you take him to husband whom we shall bestow on you, purposing,
notwithstanding this, to call ourselves still your knight, without
desiring aught from you of so much love but one sole kiss.' The
damsel, grown all vermeil in the face for shamefastness, making the
king's pleasure hers, replied in a low voice on this wise, 'My lord, I
am well assured that, were it known that I had fallen enamoured of
you, most folk would account me mad therefor, thinking belike that I
had forgotten myself and knew not mine own condition nor yet yours;
but God, who alone seeth the hearts of mortals, knoweth that, in that
same hour whenas first you pleased me, I knew you for a king and
myself for the daughter of Bernardo the apothecary and that it ill
beseemed me to address the ardour of my soul unto so high a place.
But, as you know far better than I, none here below falleth in love
according to fitness of election, but according to appetite and
inclination, against which law I once and again strove with all my
might, till, availing no farther, I loved and love and shall ever
love you. But, since first I felt myself taken with love of you, I
determined still to make your will mine; wherefore, not only will I
gladly obey you in this matter of taking a husband at your hands and
holding him dear whom it shall please you to bestow on me, since that
will be mine honour and estate, but, should you bid me abide in the
fire, it were a delight to me, an I thought thereby to pleasure you.
To have you, a king, to knight, you know how far it befitteth me,
wherefore to that I make no farther answer; nor shall the kiss be
vouchsafed you, which alone of my love you would have, without leave
of my lady the queen. Natheless, of such graciousness as hath been
yours towards me and that of our lady the queen here God render you
for me both thanks and recompense, for I have not the wherewithal.'
And with that she was silent.

Her answer much pleased the queen and she seemed to her as discreet as
the king had reported her. Don Pedro then let call the girl's father
and mother and finding that they were well pleased with that which he
purposed to do, summoned a young man, by name Perdicone, who was of
gentle birth, but poor, and giving certain rings into his hand,
married him, nothing loath, to Lisa; which done, he then and there,
over and above many and precious jewels bestowed by the queen and
himself upon the damsel, gave him Ceffalu and Calatabellotta, two very
rich and goodly fiefs, and said to him, 'These we give thee to the
lady's dowry. That which we purpose to do for thyself, thou shalt see
in time to come.' This said, he turned to the damsel and saying, 'Now
will we take that fruit which we are to have of your love,' took her
head in his hands and kissed her on the brow. Perdicone and Lisa's
father and mother, well pleased, (as indeed was she herself,) held
high festival and joyous nuptials; and according as many avouch, the
king very faithfully kept his covenant with the damsel, for that,
whilst she lived, he still styled himself her knight nor ever went
about any deed of arms but he wore none other favour than that which
was sent him of her. It is by doing, then, on this wise that subjects'
hearts are gained, that others are incited to do well and that eternal
renown is acquired; but this is a mark at which few or none nowadays
bend the bow of their understanding, most princes being presently
grown cruel and tyrannical."



THE EIGHTH STORY

[Day the Tenth]

     SOPHRONIA, THINKING TO MARRY GISIPPUS, BECOMETH THE WIFE OF
     TITUS QUINTIUS FULVUS AND WITH HIM BETAKETH HERSELF TO ROME,
     WHITHER GISIPPUS COMETH IN POOR CASE AND CONCEIVING HIMSELF
     SLIGHTED OF TITUS, DECLARETH, SO HE MAY DIE, TO HAVE SLAIN A
     MAN. TITUS, RECOGNIZING HIM, TO SAVE HIM, AVOUCHETH HIMSELF
     TO HAVE DONE THE DEED, AND THE TRUE MURDERER, SEEING THIS,
     DISCOVERETH HIMSELF; WHEREUPON THEY ARE ALL THREE LIBERATED
     BY OCTAVIANUS AND TITUS, GIVING GISIPPUS HIS SISTER TO WIFE,
     HATH ALL HIS GOOD IN COMMON WITH HIM


Pampinea having left speaking and all having commended King Pedro, the
Ghibelline lady more than the rest, Fiammetta, by the king's
commandment, began thus, "Illustrious ladies, who is there knoweth not
that kings, when they will, can do everything great and that it is, to
boot, especially required of them that they be magnificent? Whoso,
then, having the power, doth that which pertaineth unto him, doth
well; but folk should not so much marvel thereat nor exalt him to such
a height with supreme praise as it would behove them do with another,
of whom, for lack of means, less were required. Wherefore, if you with
such words extol the actions of kings and they seem to you fair, I
doubt not anywise but those of our peers, whenas they are like unto or
greater than those of kings, will please you yet more and be yet
highlier commended of you, and I purpose accordingly to recount to
you, in a story, the praiseworthy and magnanimous dealings of two
citizens and friends with each other.

You must know, then, that at the time when Octavianus Cæsar (not yet
styled Augustus) ruled the Roman empire in the office called
Triumvirate, there was in Rome a gentleman called Publius Quintius
Fulvus,[461] who, having a son of marvellous understanding, by name
Titus Quintius Fulvus, sent him to Athens to study philosophy and
commended him as most he might to a nobleman there called Chremes, his
very old friend, by whom Titus was lodged in his own house, in company
of a son of his called Gisippus, and set to study with the latter,
under the governance of a philosopher named Aristippus. The two young
men, coming to consort together, found each other's usances so
conformable that there was born thereof a brotherhood between them and
a friendship so great that it was never sundered by other accident
than death, and neither of them knew weal nor peace save in so much as
they were together. Entering upon their studies and being each alike
endowed with the highest understanding, they ascended with equal step
and marvellous commendation to the glorious altitudes of philosophy;
and in this way of life they continued good three years, to the
exceeding contentment of Chremes, who in a manner looked upon the one
as no more his son than the other. At the end of this time it befell,
even as it befalleth of all things, that Chremes, now an old man,
departed this life, whereof the two young men suffered a like sorrow,
as for a common father, nor could his friends and kinsfolk discern
which of the twain was the more in need of consolation for that which
had betided them.

[Footnote 461: Sic, _Publio Quinzio Fulvo_; but _quære_ should it not
rather be _Publio Quinto Fulvio_, _i.e._ Publius Quintus Fulvius, a
form of the name which seems more in accordance with the genius of the
Latin language?]

It came to pass, after some months, that the friends and kinsfolk of
Gisippus resorted to him and together with Titus exhorted him to take
a wife, to which he consenting, they found him a young Athenian lady
of marvellous beauty and very noble parentage, whose name was
Sophronia and who was maybe fifteen years old. The term of the future
nuptials drawing nigh, Gisippus one day besought Titus to go visit her
with him, for that he had not yet seen her. Accordingly, they being
come into her house and she seated between the twain, Titus proceeded
to consider her with the utmost attention, as if to judge of the
beauty of his friend's bride, and every part of her pleasing him
beyond measure, what while he inwardly commended her charms to the
utmost, he fell, without showing any sign thereof, as passionately
enamoured of her as ever yet man of woman. After they had been with
her awhile, they took their leave and returned home, where Titus,
betaking himself alone into his chamber, fell a-thinking of the
charming damsel and grew the more enkindled the more he enlarged upon
her in thought; which, perceiving, he fell to saying in himself, after
many ardent sighs, 'Alack, the wretchedness of thy life, Titus! Where
and on what settest thou thy mind and thy love and thy hope? Knowest
thou not that it behoveth thee, as well for the kindness received from
Chremes and his family as for the entire friendship that is between
thee and Gisippus, whose bride she is, to have yonder damsel in such
respect as a sister? Whom, then, lovest thou? Whither lettest thou
thyself be carried away by delusive love, whither by fallacious hope?
Open the eyes of thine understanding and recollect thyself, wretch
that thou art; give place to reason, curb thy carnal appetite, temper
thine unhallowed desires and direct thy thoughts unto otherwhat;
gainstand thy lust in this its beginning and conquer thyself, whilst
it is yet time. This thou wouldst have is unseemly, nay, it is
dishonourable; this thou art minded to ensue it behoveth thee, even
wert thou assured (which thou art not) of obtaining it, to flee from,
an thou have regard unto that which true friendship requireth and that
which thou oughtest. What, then, wilt thou do, Titus? Thou wilt leave
this unseemly love, an thou wouldst do that which behoveth.'

Then, remembering him of Sophronia and going over to the contrary, he
denounced all that he had said, saying, 'The laws of love are of
greater puissance than any others; they annul even the Divine laws,
let alone those of friendship; how often aforetime hath father loved
daughter, brother sister, stepmother stepson, things more monstrous
than for one friend to love the other's wife, the which hath already a
thousand times befallen! Moreover, I am young and youth is altogether
subject to the laws of Love; wherefor that which pleaseth Him, needs
must it please me. Things honourable pertain unto maturer folk; I can
will nought save that which Love willeth. The beauty of yonder damsel
deserveth to be loved of all, and if I love her, who am young, who can
justly blame me therefor? I love her not because she is Gisippus's;
nay, I love her for that I should love her, whosesoever she was. In
this fortune sinneth that hath allotted her to Gisippus my friend,
rather than to another; and if she must be loved, (as she must, and
deservedly, for her beauty,) Gisippus, an he came to know it, should
be better pleased that I should love her, I, than another.' Then, from
that reasoning he reverted again to the contrary, making mock of
himself, and wasted not only that day and the ensuing night in passing
from this to that and back again, but many others, insomuch that,
losing appetite and sleep therefor, he was constrained for weakness to
take to his bed.

Gisippus, having beheld him several days full of melancholy thought
and seeing him presently sick, was sore concerned and with every art
and all solicitude studied to comfort him, never leaving him and
questioning him often and instantly of the cause of his melancholy and
his sickness. Titus, after having once and again given him idle tales,
which Gisippus knew to be such, by way of answer, finding himself e'en
constrained thereunto, with tears and sighs replied to him on this
wise, 'Gisippus, had it pleased the Gods, death were far more a-gree
to me than to live longer, considering that fortune hath brought me to
a pass whereas it behoved me make proof of my virtue and that I have,
to my exceeding shame, found this latter overcome; but certes I look
thereof to have ere long the reward that befitteth me, to wit, death,
and this will be more pleasing to me than to live in remembrance of my
baseness, which latter, for that I cannot nor should hide aught from
thee, I will, not without sore blushing, discover to thee.' Then,
beginning from the beginning, he discovered to him the cause of his
melancholy and the conflict of his thoughts and ultimately gave him to
know which had gotten the victory and confessed himself perishing for
love of Sophronia, declaring that, knowing how much this misbeseemed
him, he had for penance thereof resolved himself to die, whereof he
trusted speedily to make an end.

Gisippus, hearing this and seeing his tears, abode awhile irresolute,
as one who, though more moderately, was himself taken with the charms
of the fair damsel, but speedily bethought himself that his friend's
life should be dearer to him than Sophronia. Accordingly, solicited to
tears by those of his friend, he answered him, weeping, 'Titus, wert
thou not in need as thou art of comfort, I should complain of thee to
thyself, as of one who hath transgressed against our friendship in
having so long kept thy most grievous passion hidden from me; since,
albeit it appeared not to thee honourable, nevertheless dishonourable
things should not, more than honourable, be hidden from a friend; for
that a friend, like as he rejoiceth with his friend in honourable
things, even so he studieth to do away the dishonourable from his
friend's mind; but for the present I will refrain therefrom and come
to that which I perceive to be of greater urgency. That thou lovest
Sophronia, who is betrothed to me, I marvel not: nay, I should
marvel, indeed, if it were not so, knowing her beauty and the nobility
of thy mind, so much the more susceptible of passion as the thing that
pleaseth hath the more excellence. And the more reason thou hast to
love Sophronia, so much the more unjustly dost thou complain of
fortune (albeit thou expressest this not in so many words) in that it
hath awarded her to me, it seeming to thee that thy love for her had
been honourable, were she other than mine; but tell me, if thou be as
well advised as thou usest to be, to whom could fortune have awarded
her, whereof thou shouldst have more cause to render it thanks, than
of having awarded her to me? Whoso else had had her, how honourable
soever thy love had been, had liefer loved her for himself[462] than
for thee,[463] a thing which thou shouldst not fear[464] from me, an
thou hold me a friend such as I am to thee, for that I mind me not,
since we have been friends, to have ever had aught that was not as
much thine as mine. Now, were the matter so far advanced that it might
not be otherwise, I would do with her as I have done with my other
possessions;[465] but it is yet at such a point that I can make her
thine alone; and I will do so, for that I know not why my friendship
should be dear to thee, if, in respect of a thing that may honourably
be done, I knew not of a desire of mine to make thine. True it is that
Sophronia is my promised bride and that I loved her much and looked
with great joyance for my nuptials with her; but, since thou, being
far more understanding than I, with more ardour desirest so dear a
thing as she is, live assured that she shall enter my chamber, not as
my wife, but as thine. Wherefore leave thought-taking, put away
melancholy, call back thy lost health and comfort and allegresse and
from this time forth expect with blitheness the reward of thy love,
far worthier than was mine.'

[Footnote 462: Or "his" (_a sè_).]

[Footnote 463: Or "thine" (_a te_).]

[Footnote 464: Lit. "hope" (_sperare_). See note, p. 5.]

[Footnote 465: _i.e._ I would have her in common with thee.]

When Titus heard Gisippus speak thus, the more the flattering hopes
given him of the latter afforded him pleasure, so much the more did
just reason inform him with shame, showing him that, the greater was
Gisippus his liberality, the more unworthy it appeared of himself to
use it; wherefore, without giving over weeping, he with difficulty
replied to him thus, 'Gisippus, thy generous and true friendship very
plainly showeth me that which it pertaineth unto mine to do. God
forfend that her, whom He hath bestowed upon thee as upon the
worthier, I should receive from thee for mine! Had He judged it
fitting that she should be mine, nor thou nor others can believe that
He would ever have bestowed her on thee. Use, therefore, joyfully,
thine election and discreet counsel and His gifts, and leave me to
languish in the tears, which, as to one undeserving of such a
treasure, He hath prepared unto me and which I will either overcome,
and that will be dear to thee, or they will overcome me and I shall be
out of pain.' 'Titus,' rejoined Gisippus, 'an our friendship might
accord me such license that I should enforce thee to ensue a desire of
mine and if it may avail to induce thee to do so, it is in this case
that I mean to use it to the utmost, and if thou yield not to my
prayers with a good grace, I will, with such violence as it behoveth
us use for the weal of our friends, procure that Sophronia shall be
thine. I know how great is the might of love and that, not once, but
many a time, it hath brought lovers to a miserable death; nay, unto
this I see thee so near that thou canst neither turn back nor avail to
master thy tears, but, proceeding thus, wouldst pine and die;
whereupon I, without any doubt, should speedily follow after. If,
then, I loved thee not for otherwhat, thy life is dear to me, so I
myself may live. Sophronia, therefore, shall be thine, for that thou
couldst not lightly find another woman who would so please thee, and
as I shall easily turn my love unto another, I shall thus have
contented both thyself and me. I should not, peradventure, be so free
to do this, were wives as scarce and as uneath to find as friends;
however, as I can very easily find me another wife, but not another
friend, I had liefer (I will not say _lose_ her, for that I shall not
lose her, giving her to thee, but shall transfer her to another and a
better self, but) transfer her than lose thee. Wherefore, if my
prayers avail aught with thee, I beseech thee put away from thee this
affliction and comforting at once thyself and me, address thee with
good hope to take that joyance which thy fervent love desireth of the
thing beloved.'

Although Titus was ashamed to consent to this, namely, that Sophronia
should become his wife, and on this account held out yet awhile,
nevertheless, love on the one hand drawing him and Gisippus his
exhortations on the other urging him, he said, 'Look you, Gisippus, I
know not which I can say I do most, my pleasure or thine, in doing
that whereof thou prayest me and which thou tellest me is so pleasing
to thee, and since thy generosity is such that it overcometh my just
shame, I will e'en do it; but of this thou mayst be assured that I do
it as one who knoweth himself to receive of thee, not only the beloved
lady, but with her his life. The Gods grant, an it be possible, that I
may yet be able to show thee, for thine honour and thy weal, how
grateful to me is that which thou, more pitiful for me than I for
myself, dost for me!' These things said, 'Titus,' quoth Gisippus, 'in
this matter, an we would have it take effect, meseemeth this course is
to be held. As thou knowest, Sophronia, after long treaty between my
kinsfolk and hers, is become my affianced bride; wherefore, should I
now go about to say that I will not have her to wife, a sore scandal
would ensue thereof and I should anger both her kinsfolk and mine own.
Of this, indeed, I should reck nothing, an I saw that she was thereby
to become thine; but I misdoubt me that, an I renounce her at this
point, her kinsfolk will straightway give her to another, who belike
will not be thyself, and so wilt thou have lost that which I shall not
have gained. Wherefore meseemeth well, an thou be content, that I
follow on with that which I have begun and bring her home as mine and
hold the nuptials, and thou mayst after, as we shall know how to
contrive, privily lie with her as with thy wife. Then, in due place
and season, we will make manifest the fact, which, if it please them
not, will still be done and they must perforce be content, being
unable to go back upon it.'

The device pleased Titus; wherefore Gisippus received the lady into
his house, as his, (Titus being by this recovered and in good case,)
and after holding high festival, the night being come, the ladies left
the new-married wife in her husband's bed and went their ways. Now
Titus his chamber adjoined that of Gisippus and one might go from the
one room into the other; wherefore Gisippus, being in his chamber and
having put out all the lights, betook himself stealthily to his friend
and bade him go couch with his mistress. Titus, seeing this, was
overcome with shame and would fain have repented and refused to go;
but Gisippus, who with his whole heart, no less than in words, was
minded to do his friend's pleasure, sent him thither, after long
contention. Whenas he came into the bed, he took the damsel in his
arms and asked her softly, as if in sport, if she chose to be his
wife. She, thinking him to be Gisippus, answered, 'Yes'; whereupon he
set a goodly and rich ring on her finger, saying, 'And I choose to be
thy husband.' Then, the marriage consummated, he took long and amorous
pleasance of her, without her or others anywise perceiving that other
than Gisippus lay with her.

The marriage of Sophronia and Titus being at this pass, Publius his
father departed this life, wherefore it was written him that he should
without delay return to Rome, to look to his affairs, and he
accordingly took counsel with Gisippus to betake himself thither and
carry Sophronia with him; which might not nor should aptly be done
without discovering to her how the case stood. Accordingly, one day,
calling her into the chamber, they thoroughly discovered to her the
fact and thereof Titus certified her by many particulars of that which
had passed between them twain. Sophronia, after eying the one and the
other somewhat despitefully, fell a-weeping bitterly, complaining of
Gisippus his deceit; then, rather than make any words of this in his
house, she repaired to that of her father and there acquainted him and
her mother with the cheat that had been put upon her and them by
Gisippus, avouching herself to be the wife of Titus and not of
Gisippus, as they believed. This was exceeding grievous to Sophronia's
father, who made long and sore complaint thereof to her kinsfolk and
those of Gisippus, and much and great was the talk and the clamour by
reason thereof. Gisippus was held in despite both by his own kindred
and those of Sophronia and every one declared him worthy not only of
blame, but of severe chastisement; whilst he, on the contrary,
avouched himself to have done an honourable thing and one for which
thanks should be rendered him by Sophronia's kinsfolk, having married
her to a better than himself.

Titus, on his part, heard and suffered everything with no little annoy
and knowing it to be the usance of the Greeks to press on with
clamours and menaces, till such times as they found who should answer
them, and then to become not only humble, but abject, he bethought
himself that their clamour was no longer to be brooked without reply
and having a Roman spirit and an Athenian wit, he adroitly contrived
to assemble Gisippus his kinsfolk and those of Sophronia in a temple,
wherein entering, accompanied by Gisippus alone, he thus bespoke the
expectant folk: 'It is the belief of many philosophers that the
actions of mortals are determined and foreordained of the immortal
Gods, wherefore some will have it that all that is or shall ever be
done is of necessity, albeit there be others who attribute this
necessity to that only which is already done. If these opinions be
considered with any diligence, it will very manifestly be seen that to
blame a thing which cannot be undone is to do no otherwhat than to
seek to show oneself wiser than the Gods, who, we must e'en believe,
dispose of and govern us and our affairs with unfailing wisdom and
without any error; wherefore you may very easily see what fond and
brutish overweening it is to presume to find fault with their
operations and eke how many and what chains they merit who suffer
themselves be so far carried away by hardihood as to do this. Of whom,
to my thinking, you are all, if that be true which I understand you
have said and still say for that Sophronia is become my wife, whereas
you had given her to Gisippus, never considering that it was
foreordained from all eternity that she should become not his, but
mine, as by the issue is known at this present. But, for that to speak
of the secret foreordinance and intention of the Gods appeareth unto
many a hard thing and a grievous to apprehend, I am willing to suppose
that they concern not themselves with aught of our affairs and to
condescend to the counsels[466] of mankind, in speaking whereof, it
will behove me to do two things, both very contrary to my usances, the
one, somedele to commend myself, and the other, in some measure to
blame or disparage others; but, for that I purpose, neither in the one
nor in the other, to depart from the truth and that the present matter
requireth it, I will e'en do it.

[Footnote 466: Or "arguments" (_consigli_).]

Your complainings, dictated more by rage than by reason, upbraid,
revile and condemn Gisippus with continual murmurs or rather clamours,
for that, of his counsel, he hath given me to wife her whom you of
yours[467] had given him; whereas I hold that he is supremely to be
commended therefor, and that for two reasons, the one, for that he
hath done that which a friend should do, and the other, for that he
hath in this wrought more discreetly than did you. That which the
sacred laws of friendship will that one friend should do for the
other, it is not my intention at this present to expound, being
content to have recalled to you this much only thereof, to wit, that
the bonds of friendship are far more stringent than those of blood or
of kindred, seeing that the friends we have are such as we choose for
ourselves and our kinsfolk such as fortune giveth us; wherefore, if
Gisippus loved my life more than your goodwill, I being his friend, as
I hold myself, none should marvel thereat. But to come to the second
reason, whereanent it more instantly behoveth to show you that he hath
been wiser than yourselves, since meseemeth you reck nothing of the
foreordinance of the Gods and know yet less of the effects of
friendship:--I say, then, that you of your judgment, of your counsel
and of your deliberation, gave Sophronia to Gisippus, a young man and
a philosopher; Gisippus of his gave her to a young man and a
philosopher; your counsel gave her to an Athenian and that of Gisippus
to a Roman; your counsel gave her to a youth of noble birth and his to
one yet nobler; yours to a rich youth, his to a very rich; yours to a
youth who not only loved her not, but scarce knew her, his to one who
loved her over his every happiness and more than his very life. And to
show you that this I say is true and that Gisippus his action is more
commendable than yours, let us consider it, part by part. That I, like
Gisippus, am a young man and a philosopher, my favour and my studies
may declare, without more discourse thereof. One same age is his and
mine and still with equal step have we proceeded studying. True, he is
an Athenian and I am a Roman. If it be disputed of the glory of our
native cities, I say that I am a citizen of a free city and he of a
tributary one; I am of a city mistress of the whole world and he of a
city obedient unto mine; I am of a city most illustrious in arms, in
empery and in letters, whereas he can only commend his own for
letters. Moreover, albeit you see me here on lowly wise enough a
student, I am not born of the dregs of the Roman populace; my houses
and the public places of Rome are full of antique images of my
ancestors and the Roman annals will be found full of many a triumph
led by the Quintii up to the Roman Capitol; nor is the glory of our
name fallen for age into decay, nay, it presently flourisheth more
splendidly than ever. I speak not, for shamefastness, of my riches,
bearing in mind that honourable poverty hath ever been the ancient and
most ample patrimony of the noble citizens of Rome; but, if this be
condemned of the opinion of the vulgar and treasures commended, I am
abundantly provided with these latter, not as one covetous, but as
beloved of fortune.[468] I know very well that it was and should have
been and should be dear unto you to have Gisippus here in Athens to
kinsman; but I ought not for any reason to be less dear to you at
Rome, considering that in me you would have there an excellent host
and an useful and diligent and powerful patron, no less in public
occasions than in matters of private need.

[Footnote 467: _i.e._ of your counsel.]

[Footnote 468: _i.e._ my riches are not the result of covetous
amassing, but of the favours of fortune.]

Who then, letting be wilfulness and considering with reason, will
commend your counsels above those of my Gisippus? Certes, none.
Sophronia, then, is well and duly married to Titus Quintius Fulvus, a
noble, rich and long-descended citizen of Rome and a friend of
Gisippus; wherefore whoso complaineth or maketh moan of this doth not
that which he ought neither knoweth that which he doth. Some perchance
will say that they complain not of Sophronia being the wife of Titus,
but of the manner wherein she became his wife, to wit, in secret and
by stealth, without friend or kinsman knowing aught thereof; but this
is no marvel nor thing that betideth newly. I willingly leave be those
who have aforetime taken husbands against their parents' will and
those who have fled with their lovers and have been mistresses before
they were wives and those who have discovered themselves to be married
rather by pregnancy or child-bearing than with the tongue, yet hath
necessity commended it to their kinsfolk; nothing of which hath
happened in Sophronia's case; nay, she hath orderly, discreetly and
honourably been given by Gisippus to Titus. Others will say that he
gave her in marriage to whom it appertained not to do so; but these be
all foolish and womanish complaints and proceed from lack of
advisement. This is not the first time that fortune hath made use of
various means and strange instruments to bring matters to foreordained
issues. What have I to care if it be a cordwainer rather than a
philosopher, that hath, according to his judgment, despatched an
affair of mine, and whether in secret or openly, provided the issue be
good? If the cordwainer be indiscreet, all I have to do is to look
well that he have no more to do with my affairs and thank him for that
which is done. If Gisippus hath married Sophronia well, it is a
superfluous folly to go complaining of the manner and of him. If you
have no confidence in his judgment, look he have no more of your
daughters to marry and thank him for this one.

Nevertheless I would have you to know that I sought not, either by art
or by fraud, to impose any stain upon the honour and illustriousness
of your blood in the person of Sophronia, and that, albeit I took her
secretly to wife, I came not as a ravisher to rob her of her
maidenhead nor sought, after the manner of an enemy, whilst shunning
your alliance, to have her otherwise than honourably; but, being
ardently enkindled by her lovesome beauty and by her worth and knowing
that, had I sought her with that ordinance which you will maybe say I
should have used, I should not (she being much beloved of you) have
had her, for fear lest I should carry her off to Rome, I used the
occult means that may now be discovered to you and caused Gisippus, in
my person, consent unto that which he himself was not disposed to do.
Moreover, ardently as I loved her, I sought her embraces not as a
lover, but as a husband, nor, as she herself can truly testify, did I
draw near to her till I had first both with the due words and with the
ring espoused her, asking her if she would have me for husband, to
which she answered ay. If it appear to her that she hath been
deceived, it is not I who am to blame therefor, but she, who asked me
not who I was. This, then, is the great misdeed, the grievous crime,
the sore default committed by Gisippus as a friend and by myself as a
lover, to wit, that Sophronia hath secretly become the wife of Titus
Quintius, and this it is for which you defame and menace and plot
against him. What more could you do, had he bestowed her upon a churl,
a losel or a slave? What chains, what prison, what gibbets had
sufficed thereunto?

But let that be for the present; the time is come which I looked not
for yet, to wit, my father is dead and it behoveth me return to Rome;
wherefore, meaning to carry Sophronia with me, I have discovered to
you that which I should otherwise belike have yet kept hidden from you
and with which, an you be wise, you will cheerfully put up, for that,
had I wished to cheat or outrage you, I might have left her to you,
scorned and dishonored; but God forfend that such a baseness should
ever avail to harbour in a Roman breast! She, then, namely Sophronia,
by the consent of the Gods and the operation of the laws of mankind,
no less than by the admirable contrivance of my Gisippus and mine own
amorous astuteness, is become mine, and this it seemeth that you,
holding yourselves belike wiser than the Gods and than the rest of
mankind, brutishly condemn, showing your disapproval in two ways both
exceedingly noyous to myself, first by detaining Sophronia, over whom
you have no right, save in so far as it pleaseth me to allow it, and
secondly, by entreating Gisippus, to whom you are justly beholden, as
an enemy. How foolishly you do in both which things I purpose not at
this present to make farther manifest to you, but will only counsel
you, as a friend, to lay by your despites and altogether leaving your
resentments and the rancours that you have conceived, to restore
Sophronia to me, so I may joyfully depart your kinsman and live your
friend; for of this, whether that which is done please you or please
you not, you may be assured that, if you offer to do otherwise, I will
take Gisippus from you and if I win to Rome, I will without fail,
however ill you may take it, have her again who is justly mine and
ever after showing myself your enemy, will cause you know by
experience that whereof the despite of Roman souls is capable.'

Titus, having thus spoken, rose to his feet, with a countenance all
disordered for anger, and taking Gisippus by the hand, went forth of
the temple, shaking his head threateningly and showing that he recked
little of as many as were there. The latter, in part reconciled by his
reasonings to the alliance and desirous of his friendship and in part
terrified by his last words, of one accord determined that it was
better to have him for a kinsman, since Gisippus had not willed it,
than to have lost the latter to kinsman and gotten the former for an
enemy. Accordingly, going in quest of Titus, they told him that they
were willing that Sophronia should be his and to have him for a dear
kinsman and Gisippus for a dear friend; then, having mutually done
each other such honours and courtesies as beseem between kinsmen and
friends, they took their leaves and sent Sophronia back to him. She,
like a wise woman, making a virtue of necessity, readily transferred
to Titus the affection she bore Gisippus and repaired with him to
Rome, where she was received with great honour.

Meanwhile, Gisippus abode in Athens, held in little esteem of well
nigh all, and no great while after, through certain intestine
troubles, was, with all those of his house, expelled from Athens, in
poverty and misery, and condemned to perpetual exile. Finding himself
in this case and being grown not only poor, but beggarly, he betook
himself, as least ill he might, to Rome, to essay if Titus should
remember him. There, learning that the latter was alive and high in
favour with all the Romans and enquiring for his dwelling-place, he
stationed himself before the door and there abode till such time as
Titus came, to whom, by reason of the wretched plight wherein he was,
he dared not say a word, but studied to cause himself be seen of him,
so he might recognize him and let call him to himself; wherefore
Titus passed on, [without noting him,] and Gisippus, conceiving that
he had seen and shunned him and remembering him of that which himself
had done for him aforetime, departed, despiteful and despairing. It
being by this night and he fasting and penniless, he wandered on,
unknowing whither and more desirous of death than of otherwhat, and
presently happened upon a very desert part of the city, where seeing a
great cavern, he addressed himself to abide the night there and
presently, forspent with long weeping, he fell asleep on the naked
earth and ill in case. To this cavern two, who had gone a-thieving
together that night, came towards morning, with the booty they had
gotten, and falling out over the division, one, who was the stronger,
slew the other and went away. Gisippus had seen and heard this and
himseemed he had found a way to the death so sore desired of him,
without slaying himself; wherefore he abode without stirring, till
such time as the Serjeants of the watch, who had by this gotten wind
of the deed, came thither and laying furious hands of him, carried him
off prisoner. Gisippus, being examined, confessed that he had murdered
the man nor had since availed to depart the cavern; whereupon the
prætor, who was called Marcus Varro, commanded that he should be put
to death upon the cross, as the usance then was.

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

Gisippus looked and seeing that it was Titus, perceived full well that
he did this to save him, as grateful for the service aforetime
received from him; wherefore, weeping for pity, 'Varro,' quoth he,
'indeed it was I slew him and Titus his solicitude for my safety is
now too late.' Titus on the other hand, said, 'Prætor, do as thou
seest, this man is a stranger and was found without arms beside the
murdered man, and thou mayst see that his wretchedness giveth him
occasion to wish to die; wherefore do thou release him and punish me,
who have deserved it.' Varro marvelled at the insistence of these two
and beginning now to presume that neither of them might be guilty, was
casting about for a means of acquitting them, when, behold, up came a
youth called Publius Ambustus, a man of notorious ill life and known
to all the Romans for an arrant rogue, who had actually done the
murder and knowing neither of the twain to be guilty of that whereof
each accused himself, such was the pity that overcame his heart for
the innocence of the two friends that, moved by supreme compassion, he
came before Varro and said, 'Prætor, my fates impel me to solve the
grievous contention of these twain and I know not what God within me
spurreth and importuneth me to discover to thee my sin. Know, then,
that neither of these men is guilty of that whereof each accuseth
himself. I am verily he who slew yonder man this morning towards
daybreak and I saw this poor wretch asleep there, what while I was in
act to divide the booty gotten with him whom I slew. There is no need
for me to excuse Titus; his renown is everywhere manifest and every
one knoweth him to be no man of such a condition. Release him,
therefore, and take of me that forfeit which the laws impose on me.'

By this Octavianus had notice of the matter and causing all three be
brought before him, desired to hear what cause had moved each of them
to seek to be the condemned man. Accordingly, each related his own
story, whereupon Octavianus released the two friends, for that they
were innocent, and pardoned the other for the love of them. Thereupon
Titus took his Gisippus and first reproaching him sore for
lukewarmness[469] and diffidence, rejoiced in him with marvellous
great joy and carried him to his house, where Sophronia with tears of
compassion received him as a brother. Then, having awhile recruited
him with rest and refreshment and reclothed him and restored him to
such a habit as sorted with his worth and quality, he first shared all
his treasures and estates in common with him and after gave him to
wife a young sister of his, called Fulvia, saying, 'Gisippus,
henceforth it resteth with thee whether thou wilt abide here with me
or return with everything I have given thee into Achaia.' Gisippus,
constrained on the one hand by his banishment from his native land and
on the other by the love which he justly bore to the cherished
friendship of Titus, consented to become a Roman and accordingly took
up his abode in the city, where he with his Fulvia and Titus with his
Sophronia lived long and happily, still abiding in one house and
waxing more friends (an more they might be) every day.

[Footnote 469: Sic (_tiepidezza_); but _semble_ "timidity" or
"distrustfulness" is meant.]

A most sacred thing, then, is friendship and worthy not only of
especial reverence, but to be commended with perpetual praise, as the
most discreet mother of magnanimity and honour, the sister of
gratitude and charity and the enemy of hatred and avarice, still,
without waiting to be entreated, ready virtuously to do unto others
that which it would have done to itself. Nowadays its divine effects
are very rarely to be seen in any twain, by the fault and to the shame
of the wretched cupidity of mankind, which, regarding only its own
profit, hath relegated it to perpetual exile, beyond the extremest
limits of the earth. What love, what riches, what kinship, what,
except friendship, could have made Gisippus feel in his heart the
ardour, the tears and the sighs of Titus with such efficacy as to
cause him yield up to his friend his betrothed bride, fair and gentle
and beloved of him? What laws, what menaces, what fears could have
enforced the young arms of Gisippus to abstain, in solitary places and
in dark, nay, in his very bed, from the embraces of the fair damsel,
she mayhap bytimes inviting him, had friendship not done it? What
honours, what rewards, what advancements, what, indeed, but
friendship, could have made Gisippus reck not of losing his own
kinsfolk and those of Sophronia nor of the unmannerly clamours of the
populace nor of scoffs and insults, so that he might pleasure his
friend? On the other hand, what, but friendship, could have prompted
Titus, whenas he might fairly have feigned not to see, unhesitatingly
to compass his own death, that he might deliver Gisippus from the
cross to which he had of his own motion procured himself to be
condemned? What else could have made Titus, without the least demur,
so liberal in sharing his most ample patrimony with Gisippus, whom
fortune had bereft of his own? What else could have made him so
forward to vouchsafe his sister to his friend, albeit he saw him very
poor and reduced to the extreme of misery? Let men, then, covet a
multitude of comrades, troops of brethren and children galore and add,
by dint of monies, to the number of their servitors, considering not
that every one of these, who and whatsoever he may be, is more fearful
of every least danger of his own than careful to do away the
great[470] from father or brother or master, whereas we see a friend
do altogether the contrary."

[Footnote 470: _i.e._ perils.]



THE NINTH STORY

[Day the Tenth]

     SALADIN, IN THE DISGUISE OF A MERCHANT, IS HONOURABLY
     ENTERTAINED BY MESSER TORELLO D'ISTRIA, WHO, PRESENTLY
     UNDERTAKING THE [THIRD] CRUSADE, APPOINTETH HIS WIFE A TERM
     FOR HER MARRYING AGAIN. HE IS TAKEN [BY THE SARACENS] AND
     COMETH, BY HIS SKILL IN TRAINING HAWKS, UNDER THE NOTICE OF
     THE SOLDAN, WHO KNOWETH HIM AGAIN AND DISCOVERING HIMSELF TO
     HIM, ENTREATETH HIM WITH THE UTMOST HONOUR. THEN, TORELLO
     FALLING SICK FOR LANGUISHMENT, HE IS BY MAGICAL ART
     TRANSPORTED IN ONE NIGHT [FROM ALEXANDRIA] TO PAVIA, WHERE,
     BEING RECOGNIZED BY HIS WIFE AT THE BRIDE-FEAST HELD FOR HER
     MARRYING AGAIN, HE RETURNETH WITH HER TO HIS OWN HOUSE


Filomena having made an end of her discourse and the magnificent
gratitude of Titus having been of all alike commended, the king,
reserving the last place unto Dioneo, proceeded to speak thus:
"Assuredly, lovesome ladies, Filomena speaketh sooth in that which she
saith of friendship and with reason complaineth, in concluding her
discourse, of its being so little in favour with mankind. If we were
here for the purpose of correcting the defaults of the age or even of
reprehending them, I might ensue her words with a discourse at large
upon the subject; but, for that we aim at otherwhat, it hath occurred
to my mind to set forth to you, in a story belike somewhat overlong,
but withal altogether pleasing, one of the magnificences of Saladin,
to the end that, if, by reason of our defaults, the friendship of any
one may not be throughly acquired, we may, at the least, be led, by
the things which you shall hear in my story, to take delight in doing
service, in the hope that, whenassoever it may be, reward will ensue
to us thereof.

I must tell you, then, that, according to that which divers folk
affirm, a general crusade was, in the days of the Emperor Frederick
the First, undertaken by the Christians for the recovery of the Holy
Land, whereof Saladin, a very noble and valiant prince, who was then
Soldan of Babylon, having notice awhile beforehand, he bethought
himself to seek in his own person to see the preparations of the
Christian princes for the undertaking in question, so he might the
better avail to provide himself. Accordingly, having ordered all his
affairs in Egypt, he made a show of going a pilgrimage and set out in
the disguise of a merchant, attended by two only of his chiefest and
sagest officers and three serving-men. After he had visited many
Christian countries, it chanced that, as they rode through Lombardy,
thinking to pass beyond the mountains,[471] they encountered, about
vespers, on the road from Milan to Pavia, a gentleman of the latter
place, by name Messer Torello d'Istria, who was on his way, with his
servants and dogs and falcons, to sojourn at a goodly country seat he
had upon the Tesino, and no sooner set eyes on Saladin and his company
than he knew them for gentlemen and strangers; wherefore, the Soldan
enquiring of one of his servants how far they were yet distant from
Pavia and if he might win thither in time to enter the city, he
suffered not the man to reply, but himself answered, 'Gentlemen, you
cannot reach Pavia in time to enter therein.' 'Then,' said Saladin,
'may it please you acquaint us (for that we are strangers) where we
may best lodge the night.' Quoth Messer Torello, 'That will I
willingly do. I had it presently in mind to dispatch one of my men
here to the neighborhood of Pavia for somewhat: I will send him with
you and he shall bring you to a place where you may lodge conveniently
enough.' Then, turning to the discreetest of his men he [privily]
enjoined him what he should do and sent him with them, whilst he
himself, making for his country house, let order, as best he might, a
goodly supper and set the tables in the garden; which done, he posted
himself at the door to await his guests.

[Footnote 471: _i.e._ to cross the Alps into France.]

Meanwhile, the servant, devising with the gentlemen of one thing and
another, led them about by certain by-roads and brought them, without
their suspecting it, to his lord's residence, where, whenas Messer
Torello saw them, he came to meet them afoot and said, smiling,
'Gentlemen, you are very welcome.' Saladin, who was very quick of
apprehension, understood that the gentleman had misdoubted him they
would not have accepted his invitation, had he bidden them whenas he
fell in with them, and had, therefore, brought them by practice to his
house, so they might not avail to refuse to pass the night with him,
and accordingly, returning his greeting, he said, 'Sir, an one could
complain of men of courtesy, we might complain of you, for that
(letting be that you have somewhat hindered us from our road) you
have, without our having merited your goodwill otherwise than by a
mere salutation, constrained us to accept of such noble hospitality as
is this of yours.' 'Gentlemen,' answered Messer Torello, who was a
discreet and well-spoken man, 'it is but a sorry hospitality that you
will receive from us, regard had to that which should behove unto you,
an I may judge by that which I apprehend from your carriage and that
of your companions; but in truth you could nowhere out of Pavia have
found any decent place of entertainment; wherefore, let it not irk you
to have gone somedele beside your way, to have a little less unease.'
Meanwhile, his servants came round about the travellers and helping
them to dismount, eased[472] their horses.

[Footnote 472: _Adagiarono_; see p. 447, note.]

Messer Torello then brought the three stranger gentlemen to the
chambers prepared for them, where he let unboot them and refresh them
somewhat with very cool wines and entertained them in agreeable
discourse till such time as they might sup. Saladin and his companions
and servants all knew Latin, wherefore they understood very well and
were understood, and it seemed to each of them that this gentleman was
the most pleasant and well-mannered man they had ever seen, ay, and
the best spoken. It appeared to Messer Torello, on the other hand,
that they were men of magnificent fashions and much more of account
than he had at first conceived, wherefore he was inwardly chagrined
that he could not honour them that evening with companions and with a
more considerable entertainment. But for this he bethought himself to
make them amends on the morrow, and accordingly, having instructed one
of his servants of that which he would have done, he despatched him to
Pavia, which was very near at hand and where no gate was ever locked,
to his lady, who was exceeding discreet and great-hearted. Then,
carrying the gentlemen into the garden, he courteously asked them who
they were, to which Saladin answered, 'We are merchants from Cyprus
and are bound to Paris on our occasions.' 'Would to God,' cried Messer
Torello, 'that this our country produced gentlemen of such a fashion
as I see Cyprus doth merchants!' In these and other discourses they
abode till it was time to sup, whereupon he left it to them to honour
themselves at table,[473] and there, for an improvised supper, they
were very well and orderly served; nor had they abidden long after the
tables were removed, when Messer Torello, judging them to be weary,
put them to sleep in very goodly beds and himself a little after in
like manner betook himself to rest.

[Footnote 473: _i.e._ to place themselves according to their several
ranks, which were unknown to Torello.]

Meanwhile the servant sent to Pavia did his errand to the lady, who,
with no womanly, but with a royal spirit, let call in haste a great
number of the friends and servants of Messer Torello and made ready
all that behoved unto a magnificent banquet. Moreover, she let bid by
torchlight many of the noblest of the townfolk to the banquet and
bringing out cloths and silks and furs, caused throughly order that
which her husband had sent to bid her do. The day come, Saladin and
his companions arose, whereupon Messer Torello took horse with them
and sending for his falcons, carried them to a neighbouring ford and
there showed them how the latter flew; then, Saladin enquiring for
some one who should bring him to Pavia and to the best inn, his host
said, 'I will be your guide, for that it behoveth me go thither.' The
others, believing this, were content and set out in company with him
for the city, which they reached about tierce and thinking to be on
their way to the best inn, were carried by Messer Torello to his own
house, where a good half-hundred of the most considerable citizens
were already come to receive the stranger gentlemen and were
straightway about their bridles and stirrups. Saladin and his
companions, seeing this, understood but too well what was forward and
said, 'Messer Torello, this is not what we asked of you; you have done
enough for us this past night, ay, and far more than we are worth;
wherefore you might now fitly suffer us fare on our way.' 'Gentlemen,'
replied Messer Torello, 'for my yesternight's dealing with you I am
more indebted to fortune than to you, which took you on the road at an
hour when it behoved you come to my poor house; but of your this
morning's visit I shall be beholden to yourselves, and with me all
these gentlemen who are about you and to whom an it seem to you
courteous to refuse to dine with them, you can do so, if you will.'

Saladin and his companions, overcome, dismounted and being joyfully
received by the assembled company, were carried to chambers which had
been most sumptuously arrayed for them, where having put off their
travelling gear and somewhat refreshed themselves, they repaired to
the saloon, where the banquet was splendidly prepared. Water having
been given to the hands, they were seated at table with the goodliest
and most orderly observance and magnificently served with many viands,
insomuch that, were the emperor himself come thither, it had been
impossible to do him more honour, and albeit Saladin and his
companions were great lords and used to see very great things,
natheless, they were mightily wondered at this and it seemed to them
of the greatest, having regard to the quality of the gentleman, whom
they knew to be only a citizen and not a lord. Dinner ended and the
tables removed, they conversed awhile of divers things; then, at
Messer Torello's instance, the heat being great, the gentlemen of
Pavia all betook themselves to repose, whilst he himself, abiding
alone with his three guests, carried them into a chamber and (that no
precious thing of his should remain unseen of them) let call thither
his noble lady. Accordingly, the latter, who was very fair and tall of
her person, came in to them, arrayed in rich apparel and flanked by
two little sons of hers, as they were two angels, and saluted them
courteously. The strangers, seeing her, rose to their feet and
receiving her with worship, caused her sit among them and made much of
her two fair children. Therewithal she entered into pleasant discourse
with them and presently, Messer Torello having gone out awhile, she
asked them courteously whence they were and whither they went; to
which they made answer even as they had done to her husband; whereupon
quoth she, with a blithe air, 'Then see I that my womanly advisement
will be useful; wherefore I pray you, of your especial favour, refuse
me not neither disdain a slight present, which I shall cause bring
you, but accept it, considering that women, of their little heart,
give little things and regarding more the goodwill of the giver than
the value of the gift.' Then, letting fetch them each two gowns, one
lined with silk and the other with miniver, no wise citizens' clothes
nor merchants, but fit for great lords to wear, and three doublets of
sendal and linen breeches to match, she said, 'Take these; I have clad
my lord in gowns of the like fashion, and the other things, for all
they are little worth, may be acceptable to you, considering that you
are far from your ladies and the length of the way you have travelled
and that which is yet to travel and that merchants are proper men and
nice of their persons.'

The Saracens marvelled and manifestly perceived that Messer Torello
was minded to leave no particular of hospitality undone them; nay,
seeing the magnificence of the unmerchantlike gowns, they misdoubted
them they had been recognized of him. However, one of them made answer
to the lady, saying, 'Madam, these are very great matters and such as
should not lightly be accepted, an your prayers, to which it is
impossible to say no, constrained us not thereto.' This done and
Messer Torello being now returned, the lady, commending them to God,
took leave of them and let furnish their servants with like things
such as sorted with their condition. Messer Torello with many prayers
prevailed upon them to abide with him all that day; wherefore, after
they had slept awhile, they donned their gowns and rode with him
somedele about the city; then, the supper-hour come, they supped
magnificently with many worshipful companions and in due time betook
themselves to rest. On the morrow they arose with day and found, in
place of their tired hackneys, three stout and good palfreys, and on
likewise fresh and strong horses for their servants, which when
Saladin saw, he turned to his companions and said, 'I vow to God that
never was there a more accomplished gentleman nor a more courteous and
apprehensive than this one, and if the kings of the Christians are
kings of such a fashion as this is a gentleman, the Soldan of Babylon
can never hope to stand against a single one of them, not to speak of
the many whom we see make ready to fall upon him.' Then, knowing that
it were in vain to seek to refuse this new gift, they very courteously
thanked him therefor and mounted to horse.

Messer Torello, with many companions, brought them a great way without
the city, till, grievous as it was to Saladin to part from him, (so
much was he by this grown enamoured of him,) natheless, need
constraining him to press on, he presently besought him to turn back;
whereupon, loath as he was to leave them, 'Gentlemen,' quoth he,
'since it pleaseth you, I will do it; but one thing I will e'en say to
you; I know not who you are nor do I ask to know more thereof than it
pleaseth you to tell me; but, be you who you may, you will never make
me believe that you are merchants, and so I commend you to God.'
Saladin, having by this taken leave of all Messer Torello's
companions, replied to him, saying, 'Sir, we may yet chance to let you
see somewhat of our merchandise, whereby we may confirm your
belief;[474] meantime, God be with you.' Thereupon he departed with
his followers, firmly resolved, if life should endure to him and the
war he looked for undo him not, to do Messer Torello no less honour
than that which he had done him, and much did he discourse with his
companions of him and of his lady and all his affairs and fashions and
dealings, mightily commending everything. Then, after he had, with no
little fatigue, visited all the West, he took ship with his companions
and returned to Alexandria, where, being now fully informed, he
addressed himself to his defence. As for Messer Torello, he returned
to Pavia and went long in thought who these might be, but never hit
upon the truth, no, nor came near it.

[Footnote 474: Sic (_la vostra credenza raffermeremo_); but the
meaning is, "whereby we may amend your unbelief and give you cause to
credit our assertion that we are merchants."]

The time being now come for the crusade and great preparations made
everywhere, Messer Torello, notwithstanding the tears and entreaties
of his wife, was altogether resolved to go thereon and having made his
every provision and being about to take horse, he said to his lady,
whom he loved over all, 'Wife, as thou seest, I go on this crusade, as
well for the honour of my body as for the health of my soul. I commend
to thee our affairs and our honour, and for that I am certain of the
going, but of the returning, for a thousand chances that may betide, I
have no assurance, I will have thee do me a favour, to wit, that
whatever befall of me, an thou have not certain news of my life, thou
shalt await me a year and a month and a day, ere thou marry again,
beginning from this the day of my departure.' The lady, who wept sore,
answered, 'Messer Torello, I know not how I shall endure the chagrin
wherein you leave me by your departure; but, an my life prove stronger
than my grief and aught befall you, you may live and die assured that
I shall live and die the wife of Messer Torello and of his memory.'
'Wife,' rejoined Messer Torello, 'I am very certain that, inasmuch as
in thee lieth, this that thou promisest me will come to pass; but thou
art a young woman and fair and of high family and thy worth is great
and everywhere known; wherefore I doubt not but many great and noble
gentlemen will, should aught be misdoubted of me,[475] demand thee of
thy brethren and kinsfolk; from whose importunities, how much soever
thou mightest wish, thou wilt not be able to defend thyself and it
will behove thee perforce comply with their wishes; and this is why I
ask of thee this term and not a greater one.' Quoth the lady, 'I will
do what I may of that which I have told you, and should it
nevertheless behove me to do otherwise, I will assuredly obey you in
this that you enjoin me; but I pray God that He bring nor you nor me
to such an extremity in these days.' This said, she embraced him,
weeping, and drawing a ring from her finger, gave it to him, saying,
'And it chance that I die ere I see you again, remember me when you
look upon this ring.'

[Footnote 475: _i.e._ should any rumour get wind of death.]

Torello took the ring and mounted to horse; then, bidding all his
people adieu, he set out on his journey and came presently with his
company to Genoa. There he embarked on board a galleon and coming in a
little while to Acre, joined himself to the other army[476] of the
Christians, wherein, well nigh out of hand, there began a sore
sickness and mortality. During this, whether by Saladin's skill or of
his good fortune, well nigh all the remnant of the Christians who had
escaped alive were taken by him, without blow stricken, and divided
among many cities and imprisoned. Messer Torello was one of those
taken and was carried prisoner to Alexandria, where, being unknown and
fearing to make himself known, he addressed himself, of necessity
constrained, to the training of hawks, of which he was a great master,
and by this he came under the notice of Saladin, who took him out of
prison and entertained him for his falconer. Messer Torello, who was
called by the Soldan by none other name than the Christian, recognized
him not nor did Saladin recognize him; nay, all his thoughts were in
Pavia and he had more than once essayed to flee, but without avail;
wherefore, certain Genoese coming ambassadors to Saladin, to treat for
the ransom of sundry of their townsmen, and being about to depart, he
bethought himself to write to his lady, giving her to know that he was
alive and would return to her as quickliest he might and bidding her
await him. Accordingly, he wrote letters to this effect and instantly
besought one of the ambassadors, whom he knew, to cause them come to
the hands of the Abbot of San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro, who was his uncle.

[Footnote 476: Sic (_all' altro esercito_). The meaning of this does
not appear, as no mention has yet been made of two Christian armies.
Perhaps we should translate "the rest of the army," _i.e._ such part
of the remnant of the Christian host as fled to Acre and shut
themselves up there after the disastrous day of Hittin (23 June,
1187). Acre fell on the 29th July, 1187.]

Things being at this pass with him, it befell one day that, as Saladin
was devising with him of his hawks, Messer Torello chanced to smile
and made a motion with his mouth, which the former had much noted,
what while he was in his house at Pavia. This brought the gentleman to
his mind and looking steadfastly upon him, himseemed it was himself;
wherefore, leaving the former discourse, 'Harkye, Christian, said he,
'What countryman art thou of the West?' 'My lord,' replied Torello, 'I
am a Lombard of a city called Pavia, a poor man and of mean
condition.' Saladin, hearing this, was in a manner certified of the
truth of his suspicion and said joyfully in himself, 'God hath
vouchsafed me an opportunity of showing this man how grateful his
courtesy was to me.' Accordingly, without saying otherwhat, he let
lay out all his apparel in a chamber and carrying him thither, said to
him, 'Look, Christian, if there be any among these gowns that thou
hast ever seen.' Torello looked and saw those which his lady had given
Saladin; but, natheless, conceiving not that they could possibly be
the same, he answered, 'My lord, I know none of them; albeit, in good
sooth, these twain do favour certain gowns wherewithal I, together
with three merchants who came to my house, was invested aforetime.'
Thereupon Saladin, unable to contain himself farther, embraced him
tenderly, saying, 'You are Messer Torello d'Istria and I am one of the
three merchants to whom your lady gave these gowns; and now is the
time come to certify you what manner merchandise mine is, even as I
told you, at my parting from you, might chance to betide.' Messer
Torello, hearing this, was at once rejoiced and ashamed; rejoiced to
have had such a guest and ashamed for that himseemed he had
entertained him but scurvily. Then said Saladin, 'Messer Torello,
since God hath sent you hither to me, henceforth consider that not I,
but you are master here.' Accordingly, after they had mightily
rejoiced in each other, he clad him in royal apparel and carrying him
into the presence of all his chief barons, commanded, after saying
many things in praise of his worth, that he should of all who held his
favour dear be honoured as himself, which was thenceforward done of
all, but above all of the two gentlemen who had been Saladin's
companions in his house.

The sudden height of glory to which Messer Torello thus found himself
advanced put his Lombardy affairs somedele out of his mind, more by
token that he had good reason to hope that his letters were by this
come to his uncle's hands. Now there had died and been buried in the
camp or rather in the host, of the Christians, the day they were taken
by Saladin, a Provençal gentleman of little account, by name Messer
Torello de Dignes, by reason whereof, Messer Torello d'Istria being
renowned throughout the army for his magnificence, whosoever heard
say, 'Messer Torello is dead,' believed it of Messer Torello d'Istria,
not of him of Dignes. The hazard of the capture that ensued thereupon
suffered not those who had been thus misled to be undeceived;
wherefore many Italians returned with this news, amongst whom were
some who scrupled not to avouch that they had seen him dead and had
been at the burial. This, coming to be known of his wife and kinsfolk,
was the cause of grievous and inexpressible sorrow, not only to them,
but to all who had known him. It were longsome to set forth what and
how great was the grief and sorrow and lamentation of his lady; but,
after having bemoaned herself some months in continual affliction,
coming to sorrow less and being sought in marriage with the chiefest
men in Lombardy, she began to be presently importuned by her brothers
and other her kinsfolk to marry again. After having again and again
refused with many tears, needs must she at the last consent perforce
to do her kinsfolk's will, on condition that she should abide, without
going to a husband, so long as she had promised Messer Torello.

The lady's affairs at Pavia being at this pass and there lacking maybe
eight days of the term appointed for her going to her new husband, it
chanced that Messer Torello espied one day in Alexandria one whom he
had seen embark with the Genoese ambassadors on board the galley that
was to carry them back to Genoa, and calling him, asked him what
manner voyage they had had and when they had reached Genoa; whereto
the other replied, 'Sir, the galleon (as I heard in Crete, where I
remained,) made an ill voyage; for that, as she drew near unto Sicily,
there arose a furious northerly wind, which drove her on to the
Barbary quicksands, nor was any one saved; and amongst the rest two
brothers of mine perished there.' Messer Torello, giving credit to his
words, which were indeed but too true, and remembering him that the
term required by him of his wife ended a few days thence, concluded
that nothing could be known at Pavia of his condition and held it for
certain that the lady must have married again; wherefore he fell into
such a chagrin that he lost [sleep and] appetite and taking to his
bed, determined to die. When Saladin, who loved him above all, heard
of this, he came to him and having, by dint of many and urgent
prayers, learned the cause of his grief and his sickness, upbraided
him sore for that he had not before told it to him and after besought
him to be comforted, assuring him that, if he would but take heart, he
would so contrive that he should be in Pavia at the appointed term and
told him how. Messer Torello, putting faith in Saladin's words and
having many a time heard say that this was possible and had indeed
been often enough done, began to take comfort and pressed Saladin to
despatch. The Soldan accordingly charged a nigromancer of his, of
whose skill he had aforetime made proof, to cast about for a means
whereby Messer Torello should be in one night transported upon a bed
to Pavia, to which the magician replied that it should be done, but
that, for the gentleman's own weal, he must put him to sleep.

This done, Saladin returned to Messer Torello and finding him
altogether resolved to seek at any hazard to be in Pavia at the term
appointed, if it were possible, and in default thereof, to die,
bespoke him thus; 'Messer Torello, God knoweth that I neither will nor
can anywise blame you if you tenderly love your lady and are fearful
of her becoming another's, for that, of all the women I ever saw, she
it is whose manners, whose fashions and whose demeanour, (leaving be
her beauty, which is but a short-lived flower,) appear to me most
worthy to be commended and held dear. It had been very grateful to me,
since fortune hath sent you hither, that we should have passed
together, as equal masters in the governance of this my realm, such
time as you and I have to live, and if this was not to be vouchsafed
me of God, it being fated that you should take it to heart to seek
either to die or to find yourself in Pavia at the appointed term, I
should above all have desired to know it in time, that I might have
you transported to your house with such honour, such magnificence and
in such company as your worth meriteth. However, since this hath not
been vouchsafed and you desire to be presently there, I will e'en, as
I may, despatch you thither after the fashion whereof I have bespoken
you.' 'My lord,' replied Messer Torello, 'your acts, without your
words, have given me sufficient proof of your favour, which I have
never merited in such supreme degree, and of that which you say,
though you had not said it, I shall live and die most assured; but,
since I have taken this resolve, I pray you that that which you tell
me you will do may be done speedily, for that to-morrow is the last
day I am to be looked for.'

Saladin answered that this should without fail be accomplished and
accordingly, on the morrow, meaning to send him away that same night,
he let make, in a great hall of his palace, a very goodly and rich bed
of mattresses, all, according to their usance, of velvet and cloth of
gold and caused lay thereon a counterpoint curiously wrought in
various figures with great pearls and jewels of great price (the which
here in Italy was after esteemed an inestimable treasure) and two
pillows such as sorted with a bed of that fashion. This done, he bade
invest Messer Torello, who was presently well and strong again, in a
gown of the Saracen fashion, the richest and goodliest thing that had
ever been seen of any, and wind about his head, after their guise, one
of his longest turban-cloths.[477] Then, it growing late, he betook
himself with many of his barons to the chamber where Messer Torello
was and seating himself, well nigh weeping, by his side, bespoke him
thus; 'Messer Torello, the hour draweth near that is to sunder me from
you, and since I may not bear you company nor cause you to be
accompanied, by reason of the nature of the journey you have to make,
which suffereth it not, needs must I take leave of you here in this
chamber, to which end I am come hither. Wherefore, ere I commend you
to God, I conjure you, by that love and that friendship that is
between us, that you remember you of me and if it be possible, ere our
times come to an end, that, whenas you have ordered your affairs in
Lombardy, you come at the least once to see me, to the end that, what
while I am cheered by your sight, I may then supply the default which
needs must I presently commit by reason of your haste; and against
that betide, let it not irk you to visit me with letters and require
me of such things as shall please you; for that of a surety I will
more gladly do them for you than for any man alive.'

[Footnote 477: It may be well to remind the European reader that the
turban consists of two parts, _i.e._ a skull-cap and a linen cloth,
which is wound round it in various folds and shapes, to form the
well-known Eastern head-dress.]

As for Messer Torello, he could not contain his tears; wherefore,
being hindered thereby, he answered, in a few words, that it was
impossible his benefits and his nobility should ever escape his mind
and that he would without fail do that which he enjoined him, whenas
occasion should be afforded him; whereupon Saladin, having tenderly
embraced him and kissed him, bade him with many tears God speed and
departed the chamber. The other barons then all took leave of him and
followed the Soldan into the hall where he had caused make ready the
bed. Meanwhile, it waxing late and the nigromant awaiting and pressing
for despatch, there came a physician to Messer Torello with a draught
and making him believe that he gave it him to fortify him, caused him
drink it; nor was it long ere he fell asleep and so, by Saladin's
commandment, was carried into the hall and laid upon the bed
aforesaid, whereon the Soldan placed a great and goodly crown of great
price and inscribed it on such wise that it was after manifestly
understood to be sent by him to Messer Torello's lady; after which he
put on Torello's finger a ring, wherein was a carbuncle enchased, so
resplendent that it seemed a lighted flambeau, the value whereof could
scarce be reckoned, and girt him with a sword, whose garniture might
not lightly be appraised. Moreover, he let hang a fermail on his
breast, wherein were pearls whose like were never seen, together with
other precious stones galore, and on his either side he caused set two
great basins of gold, full of doubloons, and many strings of pearls
and rings and girdles and other things, which it were tedious to
recount, round about him. This done, he kissed him once more and bade
the nigromant despatch, whereupon, in his presence, the bed was
incontinent taken away, Messer Torello and all, and Saladin abode
devising of him with his barons.

Meanwhile, Messer Torello had been set down, even as he had requested,
in the church of San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro at Pavia, with all the
jewels and ornaments aforesaid, and yet slept when, matins having
sounded, the sacristan of the church entered, with a light in his
hand, and chancing suddenly to espy the rich bed, not only marvelled,
but, seized with a terrible fright, turned and fled. The abbot and the
monks, seeing him flee, marvelled and questioned him of the cause,
which he told them; whereupon quoth the abbot, 'Marry, thou art no
child nor art thou new to the church that thou shouldst thus lightly
take fright; let us go see who hath played the bugbear with thee.'
Accordingly, kindling several lights, the abbot and all his monks
entered the church and saw that wonder-rich and goodly bed and thereon
the gentleman asleep; and what while, misdoubting and fearful, they
gazed upon the noble jewels, without drawing anywise near to the bed,
it befell that, the virtue of the draught being spent, Messer Torello
awoke and heaved a great sigh, which when the monks saw and heard,
they took to flight, abbot and all, affrighted and crying, 'Lord aid
us!' Messer Torello opened his eyes and looking about him, plainly
perceived himself to be whereas he had asked Saladin to have him
carried, at which he was mightily content. Then, sitting up, he
particularly examined that which he had about him, and for all he had
before known of the magnificence of Saladin, it seemed to him now
greater and he knew it more. Nevertheless, without moving farther,
seeing the monks flee and divining why, he proceeded to call the abbot
by name, praying him be not afraid, for that he was Torello his
nephew. The abbot, hearing this, waxed yet more fearful, as holding
him as dead many months before; but, after awhile, taking assurance by
true arguments and hearing himself called, he made the sign of the
cross and went up to him; whereupon quoth Messer Torello, 'How now,
father mine, of what are you adread? Godamercy, I am alive and
returned hither from beyond seas.'

The abbot, for all he had a great beard and was clad after the Saracen
fashion, presently recognized him and altogether reassured, took him
by the hand, saying, 'My son, thou art welcome back.' Then he
continued, 'Thou must not marvel at our affright, for that there is
not a man in these parts but firmly believeth thee to be dead,
insomuch that I must tell thee that Madam Adalieta thy wife,
overmastered by the prayers and threats of her kinsfolk and against
her own will, is married again and is this morning to go to her new
husband; ay, and the bride-feast and all that pertaineth unto the
nuptial festivities is prepared.' Therewithal Messer Torello arose
from off the rich bed and greeting the abbot and the monks with
marvellous joyance, prayed them all to speak with none of that his
return, against he should have despatched an occasion of his; after
which, having caused lay up the costly jewels in safety, he recounted
to his uncle all that had befallen him up to that moment. The abbot
rejoiced in his happy fortunes and together with him, rendered thanks
to God, after which Messer Torello asked him who was his lady's new
husband. The abbot told him and Torello said, 'I have a mind, ere folk
know of my return, to see what manner countenance is that of my wife
in these nuptials; wherefore, albeit it is not the usance of men of
your habit to go to entertainments of this kind, I would have you
contrive, for the love of me, that we may go thither, you and I.' The
abbot replied that he would well and accordingly, as soon as it was
day, he sent to the new bridegroom, saying that he would fain be at
his nuptials with a friend of his, whereto the gentleman answered that
it liked him passing well.

Accordingly, eating-time come, Messer Torello, clad as he was,
repaired with his uncle to the bridegroom's house, beheld with
wonderment of all who saw him, but recognized of none; and the abbot
told every one that he was a Saracen sent ambassador from the Soldan
to the King of France. He was, therefore, seated at a table right
overagainst his lady, whom he beheld with the utmost pleasure, and
himseemed she was troubled in countenance at these new nuptials. She,
in her turn, looked whiles upon him, but not of any cognizance that
she had of him, for that his great beard and outlandish habit and the
firm assurance she had that he was dead hindered her thereof.
Presently, whenas it seemed to him time to essay if she remembered her
of him, he took the ring she had given him at his parting and calling
a lad who served before her, said to him, 'Say to the bride, on my
part, that it is the usance in my country, whenas any stranger, such
as I am here, eateth at the bride-feast of any new-married lady, like
herself, that she, in token that she holdeth him welcome at her table,
send him the cup, wherein she drinketh, full of wine, whereof after
the stranger hath drunken what he will, the cup being covered again,
the bride drinketh the rest.'

The page did his errand to the lady, who, like a well-bred and
discreet woman as she was, believing him to be some great gentleman,
commanded, to show him that she had his coming in gree, that a great
gilded cup, which stood before her, should be washed and filled with
wine and carried to the gentleman; and so it was done. Messer Torello,
taking her ring in his mouth, contrived in drinking to drop it, unseen
of any, into the cup, wherein having left but a little wine, he
covered it again and despatched it to the lady. Madam Adalieta, taking
the cup and uncovering it, that she might accomplish his usance, set
it to her mouth and seeing the ring, considered it awhile, without
saying aught; then, knowing it for that which she had given to Messer
Torello at parting, she took it up and looking fixedly upon him whom
she deemed a stranger, presently recognized him; whereupon, as she
were waxen mad, she overthrew the table she had before her and cried
out, saying, 'It is my lord, it is indeed Messer Torello!' Then,
running to the place where he sat, she cast herself as far forward as
she might, without taking thought to her clothes or to aught that was
on the table, and clipped him close in her arms nor could, for word or
deed of any there, be loosed from his neck till she was bidden of
Messer Torello contain herself somewhat, for that time enough would
yet be afforded her to embrace him. She accordingly having arisen and
the nuptials being by this all troubled, albeit in part more joyous
than ever for the recovery of such a gentleman, every one, at Messer
Torello's request, abode quiet; whereupon he related to them all that
had betided him from the day of his departure up to that moment,
concluding that the gentleman, who, deeming him dead, had taken his
lady to wife, must not hold it ill if he, being alive, took her again
unto himself.

The bridegroom, though somewhat mortified, answered frankly and as a
friend that it rested with himself to do what most pleased him of his
own. Accordingly, the lady put off the ring and crown had of her new
groom and donned the ring which she had taken from the cup and the
crown sent her by the Soldan; then, issuing forth of the house where
they were, they betook themselves, with all the nuptial train, to
Messer Torello's house and there recomforted his disconsolate friends
and kindred and all the townsfolk, who regarded his return as well
nigh a miracle, with long and joyous festival. As for Messer Torello,
after imparting of his precious jewels to him who had had the expense
of the nuptials, as well as to the abbot and many others, and
signifying his happy repatriation by more than one message to Saladin,
whose friend and servant he still professed himself, he lived many
years thereafterward with his noble lady and thenceforth, used more
hospitality and courtesy than ever. Such then was the issue of the
troubles of Messer Torello and his beloved lady and the recompense of
their cheerful and ready hospitalities, the which many study to
practise, who, albeit they have the wherewithal, do yet so ill
contrive it that they make those on whom they bestow their courtesies
buy them, ere they have done with them, for more than their worth;
wherefore, if no reward ensue to them thereof, neither themselves nor
others should marvel thereat."



THE TENTH STORY

[Day the Tenth]

     THE MARQUESS OF SALUZZO, CONSTRAINED BY THE PRAYERS OF HIS
     VASSALS TO MARRY, BUT DETERMINED TO DO IT AFTER HIS OWN
     FASHION, TAKETH TO WIFE THE DAUGHTER OF A PEASANT AND HATH
     OF HER TWO CHILDREN, WHOM HE MAKETH BELIEVE TO HER TO PUT TO
     DEATH; AFTER WHICH, FEIGNING TO BE GROWN WEARY OF HER AND TO
     HAVE TAKEN ANOTHER WIFE, HE LETTETH BRING HIS OWN DAUGHTER
     HOME TO HIS HOUSE, AS SHE WERE HIS NEW BRIDE, AND TURNETH
     HIS WIFE AWAY IN HER SHIFT; BUT, FINDING HER PATIENT UNDER
     EVERYTHING, HE FETCHETH HER HOME AGAIN, DEARER THAN EVER,
     AND SHOWING HER HER CHILDREN GROWN GREAT, HONOURETH AND
     LETTETH HONOUR HER AS MARCHIONESS


The king's long story being ended and having, to all appearance, much
pleased all, Dioneo said, laughing, "The good man,[478] who looked
that night to abase the phantom's tail upright,[479] had not given a
brace of farthings of all the praises that you bestow on Messer
Torello." Then, knowing that it rested with him alone to tell, he
proceeded: "Gentle ladies mine, it appeareth to me that this day hath
been given up to Kings and Soldans and the like folk; wherefore, that
I may not remove overfar from you, I purpose to relate to you of a
marquess, not an act of magnificence, but a monstrous folly, which,
albeit good ensued to him thereof in the end, I counsel not any to
imitate, for it was a thousand pities that weal betided him thereof.

[Footnote 478: _i.e._ he who was to have married Madam Adalieta.]

[Footnote 479: See p. 325.]

It is now a great while agone since the chief of the house among the
Marquesses of Saluzzo was a youth called Gualtieri, who, having
neither wife nor children, spent his time in nought but hunting and
hawking nor had any thought of taking a wife nor of having children;
wherein he deserved to be reputed very wise. The thing, however, not
pleasing his vassals, they besought him many times to take a wife, so
he might not abide without an heir nor they without a lord, and
offered themselves to find him one of such a fashion and born of such
parents that good hopes might be had of her and he be well content
with her; whereto he answered, 'My friends, you constrain me unto that
which I was altogether resolved never to do, considering how hard a
thing it is to find a wife whose fashions sort well within one's own
humour and how great an abundance there is of the contrary sort and
how dour a life is his who happeneth upon a woman not well suited unto
him. To say that you think, by the manners and fashions of the
parents, to know the daughters, wherefrom you argue to give me a wife
such as will please me, is a folly, since I know not whence you may
avail to know their fathers nor yet the secrets of their mothers; and
even did you know them, daughters are often unlike their parents.
However, since it e'en pleaseth you to bind me in these chains, I am
content to do your desire; but, that I may not have occasion to
complain of other than myself, if it prove ill done, I mean to find a
wife for myself, certifying you that, whomsoever I may take me, if she
be not honoured of you as your lady and mistress, you shall prove, to
your cost, how much it irketh me to have at your entreaty taken a wife
against mine own will.'

The good honest men replied that they were content, so he would but
bring himself to take a wife. Now the fashions of a poor girl, who was
of a village near to his house, had long pleased Gualtieri, and
himseeming she was fair enough, he judged that he might lead a very
comfortable life with her; wherefore, without seeking farther, he
determined to marry her and sending for her father, who was a very
poor man, agreed with him to take her to wife. This done, he assembled
all his friends of the country round and said to them, 'My friends, it
hath pleased and pleaseth you that I should dispose me to take a wife
and I have resigned myself thereto, more to complease you than of any
desire I have for marriage. You know what you promised me, to wit,
that you would be content with and honour as your lady and mistress
her whom I should take, whosoever she might be; wherefore the time is
come when I am to keep my promise to you and when I would have you
keep yours to me. I have found a damsel after mine own heart and
purpose within some few days hence to marry her and bring her home to
my house; wherefore do you bethink yourselves how the bride-feast may
be a goodly one and how you may receive her with honour, on such wise
that I may avouch myself contented of your promise, even as you will
have cause to be of mine.' The good folk all answered joyfully that
this liked them well and that, be she who he would, they would hold
her for lady and mistress and honour her as such in all things; after
which they all addressed themselves to hold fair and high and glad
festival and on like wise did Gualtieri, who let make ready very great
and goodly nuptials and bade thereto many his friends and kinsfolk and
great gentlemen and others of the neighbourhood. Moreover, he let cut
and fashion store of rich and goodly apparel, after the measure of a
damsel who seemed to him like of her person to the young woman he was
purposed to marry, and provided also rings and girdles and a rich and
goodly crown and all that behoveth unto a bride.

The day come that he had appointed for the nuptials, Gualtieri towards
half tierce mounted to horse, he and all those who were come to do him
honour, and having ordered everything needful. 'Gentlemen,' quoth he,
'it is time to go fetch the bride.' Then, setting out with all his
company, he rode to the village and betaking himself to the house of
the girl's father, found her returning in great haste with water from
the spring, so she might after go with other women to see Gualtieri's
bride come. When the marquess saw her, he called her by name, to wit,
Griselda, and asked her where her father was; to which she answered
bashfully, 'My lord, he is within the house.' Thereupon Gualtieri
dismounted and bidding all await him, entered the poor house alone,
where he found her father, whose name was Giannucolo, and said to him,
'I am come to marry Griselda, but first I would fain know of her
somewhat in thy presence.' Accordingly, he asked her if, an he took
her to wife, she would still study to please him, nor take umbrage at
aught that he should do or say, and if she would be obedient, and many
other like things, to all of which she answered ay; whereupon
Gualtieri, taking her by the hand, led her forth and in the presence
of all his company and of every one else, let strip her naked. Then,
sending for the garments which he had let make, he caused forthright
clothe and shoe her and would have her set the crown on her hair, all
tumbled as it was; after which, all marvelling at this, he said,
'Gentlemen, this is she who I purpose shall be my wife, an she will
have me to husband.' Then, turning to her, where she stood, all
shamefast and confounded, he said to her, 'Griselda, wilt thou have me
to thy husband?' To which she answered, 'Ay, my lord.' Quoth he, 'And
I will have thee to my wife'; and espoused her in the presence of all.
Then, mounting her on a palfrey, he carried her, honourably
accompanied, to his mansion, where the nuptials were celebrated with
the utmost splendour and rejoicing, no otherwise than as he had taken
to wife the king's daughter of France.

The young wife seemed to have, together with her clothes, changed her
mind and her manners. She was, as we have already said, goodly of
person and countenance, and even as she was fair, on like wise she
became so engaging, so pleasant and so well-mannered that she seemed
rather to have been the child of some noble gentleman than the
daughter of Giannucolo and a tender of sheep; whereof she made every
one marvel who had known her aforetime. Moreover, she was so obedient
to her husband and so diligent in his service that he accounted
himself the happiest and best contented man in the world; and on like
wise she bore herself with such graciousness and such loving kindness
towards her husband's subjects that there was none of them but loved
and honoured her with his whole heart, praying all for her welfare and
prosperity and advancement; and whereas they were used to say that
Gualtieri had done as one of little wit to take her to wife, they now
with one accord declared that he was the sagest and best-advised man
alive, for that none other than he might ever have availed to know her
high worth, hidden as it was under poor clothes and a rustic habit.
Brief, it was no great while ere she knew so to do that, not only in
her husband's marquisate, but everywhere else, she made folk talk of
her virtues and her well-doing and turned to the contrary whatsoever
had been said against her husband on her account, whenas he married
her.

She had not long abidden with Gualtieri ere she conceived with child
and in due time bore a daughter, whereat he rejoiced greatly. But, a
little after, a new[480] thought having entered his mind, to wit, to
seek, by dint of long tribulation and things unendurable, to make
trial of her patience, he first goaded her with words, feigning
himself troubled and saying that his vassals were exceeding ill
content with her, by reason of her mean extraction, especially since
they saw that she bore children, and that they did nothing but
murmur, being sore chagrined for the birth of her daughter. The lady,
hearing this, replied, without anywise changing countenance or showing
the least distemperature, 'My lord, do with me that which thou deemest
will be most for thine honour and solace, for that I shall be content
with all, knowing, as I do, that I am of less account than they[481]
and that I was unworthy of this dignity to which thou hast advanced me
of thy courtesy.' This reply was mighty agreeable to Gualtieri, for
that he saw she was not uplifted into aught of pridefulness for any
honour that himself or others had done her; but, a little after,
having in general terms told her that his vassals could not brook this
girl that had been born of her, he sent to her a serving-man of his,
whom he had lessoned and who said to her with a very woeful
countenance, 'Madam, an I would not die, needs must I do that which my
lord commandeth me. He hath bidden me take this your daughter and....'
And said no more. The lady, hearing this and seeing the servant's
aspect and remembering her of her husband's words, concluded that he
had enjoined him put the child to death; whereupon, without changing
countenance, albeit she felt a sore anguish at heart, she straightway
took her from the cradle and having kissed and blessed her, laid her
in the servant's arms, saying, 'Take her and punctually do that which
thy lord hath enjoined thee; but leave her not to be devoured of the
beasts and the birds, except he command it thee.' The servant took the
child and reported that which the lady had said to Gualtieri, who
marvelled at her constancy and despatched him with the child to a
kinswoman of his at Bologna, praying her to bring her up and rear her
diligently, without ever saying whose daughter she was.

[Footnote 480: Or "strange" (_nuovo_); see ante, passim.]

[Footnote 481: _i.e._ his vassals.]

In course of time the lady again conceived and in due season bore a
male child, to her husband's great joy; but, that which he had already
done sufficing him not, he addressed himself to probe her to the quick
with a yet sorer stroke and accordingly said to her one day with a
troubled air, 'Wife, since thou hast borne this male child, I have
nowise been able to live in peace with these my people, so sore do
they murmur that a grandson of Giannucolo should become their lord
after me; wherefore I misdoubt me, an I would not be driven forth of
my domains, it will behove me do in this case that which I did
otherwhen and ultimately put thee away and take another wife.' The
lady gave ear to him with a patient mind nor answered otherwhat then,
'My lord, study to content thyself and to satisfy thy pleasure and
have no thought of me, for that nothing is dear to me save in so much
as I see it please thee.' Not many days after, Gualtieri sent for the
son, even as he had sent for the daughter, and making a like show of
having him put to death, despatched him to Bologna, there to be
brought up, even as he had done with the girl; but the lady made no
other countenance nor other words thereof than she had done of the
girl; whereat Gualtieri marvelled sore and affirmed in himself that no
other woman could have availed to do this that she did; and had he not
seen her tender her children with the utmost fondness, what while it
pleased him, he had believed that she did this because she recked no
more of them; whereas in effect he knew that she did it of her
discretion. His vassals, believing that he had caused put the children
to death, blamed him sore, accounting him a barbarous man, and had the
utmost compassion of his wife, who never answered otherwhat to the
ladies who condoled with her for her children thus slain, than that
that which pleased him thereof who had begotten them, pleased her
also.

At last, several years being passed since the birth of the girl,
Gualtieri, deeming it time to make the supreme trial of her endurance,
declared, in the presence of his people, that he could no longer
endure to have Griselda to wife and that he perceived that he had done
ill and boyishly in taking her, wherefore he purposed, as far as in
him lay, to make interest with the Pope to grant him a dispensation,
so he might put her away and take another wife. For this he was
roundly taken to task by many men of worth, but answered them nothing
save that needs must it be so. The lady, hearing these things and
herseeming she must look to return to her father's house and maybe
tend sheep again as she had done aforetime, what while she saw another
woman in possession of him to whom she willed all her weal, sorrowed
sore in herself; but yet, even as she had borne the other affronts of
fortune, so with a firm countenance she addressed herself to bear this
also. Gualtieri no great while after let come to him from Rome
counterfeit letters of dispensation and gave his vassals to believe
that the Pope had thereby licensed him to take another wife and leave
Griselda; then, sending for the latter, he said to her, in presence of
many, 'Wife, by concession made me of the Pope, I am free to take
another wife and put thee away, and accordingly, for that mine
ancestors have been great gentlemen and lords of this country, whilst
thine have still been husbandmen, I mean that thou be no more my wife,
but that thou return to Giannucolo his house with the dowry which thou
broughtest me, and I will after bring hither another wife, for that I
have found one more sorted to myself.'

The lady, hearing this, contained her tears, contrary to the nature of
woman, though not without great unease, and answered, 'My lord, I ever
knew my mean estate to be nowise sortable with your nobility, and for
that which I have been with you I have still confessed myself indebted
to you and to God, nor have I ever made nor held it mine, as given to
me, but have still accounted it but as a loan. It pleaseth you to
require it again and it must and doth please me to restore it to you.
Here is your ring wherewith you espoused me; take it. You bid me carry
away with me that dowry which I brought hither, which to do you will
need no paymaster and I neither purse nor packhorse, for I have not
forgotten that you had me naked, and if you account it seemly that
this my body, wherein I have carried children begotten of you, be seen
of all, I will begone naked; but I pray you, in requital of my
maidenhead, which I brought hither and bear not hence with me, that it
please you I may carry away at the least one sole shift over and above
my dowry.' Gualtieri, who had more mind to weep than to otherwhat,
natheless kept a stern countenance and said, 'So be it; carry away a
shift.' As many as stood around besought him to give her a gown, so
that she who had been thirteen years and more his wife should not be
seen go forth of his house on such mean and shameful wise as it was to
depart in her shift; but their prayers all went for nothing; wherefore
the lady, having commended them to God, went forth his house in her
shift, barefoot and nothing on her head, and returned to her father,
followed by the tears and lamentations of all who saw her. Giannucolo,
who had never been able to believe it true that Gualtieri should
entertain his daughter to wife and went in daily expectation of this
event, had kept her the clothes which she had put off the morning that
Gualtieri had married her and now brought them to her; whereupon she
donned them and addressed herself, as she had been wont to do, to the
little offices of her father's house, enduring the cruel onslaught of
hostile fortune with a stout heart.

Gualtieri, having done this, gave out to his people that he had chosen
a daughter of one of the Counts of Panago and letting make great
preparations for the nuptials, sent for Griselda to come to him and
said to her, 'I am about to bring home this lady, whom I have newly
taken to wife, and mean, at this her first coming, to do her honour.
Thou knowest I have no women about me who know how to array me the
rooms nor to do a multitude of things that behove unto such a
festival; wherefore do thou, who art better versed than any else in
these household matters, order that which is to do here and let bid
such ladies as it seemeth good to thee and receive them as thou wert
mistress here; then, when the nuptials are ended, thou mayst begone
back to thy house.' Albeit these words were all daggers to Griselda's
heart, who had been unable to lay down the love she bore him as she
had laid down her fair fortune, she replied, 'My lord, I am ready and
willing.' Then, in her coarse homespun clothes, entering the house,
whence she had a little before departed in her shift, she fell to
sweeping and ordering the chambers and letting place hangings and
cover-cloths about the saloons and make ready the viands, putting her
hand to everything, as she were some paltry serving-wench of the
house, nor ever gave over till she had arrayed and ordered everything
as it behoved. Thereafter, having let invite all the ladies of the
country on Gualtieri's part, she awaited the day of the festival,
which being come, with a cheerful countenance and the spirit and
bearing of a lady of high degree, for all she had mean clothes on her
back, she received all the ladies who came thither.

Meanwhile, Gualtieri, who had caused the two children be diligently
reared in Bologna by his kinswoman, (who was married to a gentleman of
the Panago family,) the girl being now twelve years old and the
fairest creature that ever was seen and the boy six, had sent to his
kinsman[482] at Bologna, praying him be pleased to come to Saluzzo
with his son and daughter and take order to bring with him a goodly
and honourable company and bidding him tell every one that he was
carrying him the young lady to his wife, without otherwise discovering
to any aught of who she was. The gentleman did as the marquess prayed
him and setting out, with the girl and boy and a goodly company of
gentlefolk, after some days' journey, arrived, about dinner-time, at
Saluzzo, where he found all the countryfolk and many others of the
neighbourhood awaiting Gualtieri's new bride. The latter, being
received by the ladies and come into the saloon where the tables were
laid, Griselda came to meet her, clad as she was, and accosted her
blithely, saying, 'Welcome and fair welcome to my lady.' Thereupon the
ladies (who had urgently, but in vain, besought Gualtieri to suffer
Griselda to abide in a chamber or lend her one of the gowns that had
been hers, so that she might not go thus before his guests) were
seated at table and it was proceeded to serve them. The girl was eyed
by every one and all declared that Gualtieri had made a good exchange;
and among the rest Griselda commended her amain, both her and her
young brother.

[Footnote 482: _i.e._ the husband of his kinswoman aforesaid.]

Gualtieri perceiving that the strangeness of the case in no wise
changed her and being assured that this proceeded not from lack of
understanding, for that he knew her to be very quick of wit, himseemed
he had now seen fully as much as he desired of his lady's patience and
he judged it time to deliver her from the bitterness which he doubted
not she kept hidden under her constant countenance; wherefore, calling
her to himself, he said to her, smiling, in the presence of every one,
'How deemest thou of our bride?' 'My lord,' answered she, 'I deem
exceeding well of her, and if, as I believe, she is as discreet as she
is fair, I doubt not a whit but you will live the happiest gentleman
in the world with her; but I beseech you, as most I may, that you
inflict not on her those pangs which you inflicted whilere on her who
was sometime yours; for methinketh she might scarce avail to endure
them, both because she is younger and because she hath been delicately
reared, whereas the other had been in continual fatigues from a little
child.' Thereupon, Gualtieri, seeing she firmly believed that the
young lady was to be his wife nor therefore spoke anywise less than
well, seated her by his side and said to her, 'Griselda, it is now
time that thou reap the fruits of thy long patience and that those who
have reputed me cruel and unjust and brutish should know that this
which I have done I wrought to an end aforeseen, willing to teach thee
to be a wife and to show them how to take and use one and at the same
time to beget myself perpetual quiet, what while I had to live with
thee; the which, whenas I came to take a wife, I was sore afraid might
not betide me, and therefore, to make proof thereof, I probed and
afflicted thee after such kind as thou knowest. And meseeming, for
that I have never perceived that either in word or in deed hast thou
departed from my pleasure, that I have of thee that solace which I
desired, I purpose presently to restore thee, at one stroke, that
which I took from thee at many and to requite thee with a supreme
delight the pangs I have inflicted on thee. Wherefore with a joyful
heart take this whom thou deemest my bride and her brother for thy
children and mine; for these be they whom thou and many others have
long accounted me to have barbarously let put to death; and I am thy
husband, who loveth thee over all else, believing I may vaunt me that
there is none else who can be so content of his wife as can I.'

So saying, he embraced her and kissed her; then, rising up, he betook
himself with Griselda, who wept for joy, whereas the daughter, hearing
these things, sat all stupefied, and tenderly embracing her and her
brother, undeceived her and many others who were there. Thereupon the
ladies arose from table, overjoyed, and withdrew with Griselda into a
chamber, where, with happier augury, pulling off her mean attire, they
clad her anew in a magnificent dress of her own and brought her again
to the saloon, as a gentlewoman, which indeed she appeared, even in
rags. There she rejoiced in her children with wonder-great joy, and
all being overjoyed at this happy issue, they redoubled in feasting
and merrymaking and prolonged the festivities several days, accounting
Gualtieri a very wise man, albeit they held the trials which he had
made of his lady overharsh, nay, intolerable; but over all they held
Griselda most sage. The Count of Panago returned, after some days, to
Bologna, and Gualtieri, taking Giannucolo from his labour, placed him
in such estate as befitted his father-in-law, so that he lived in
honour and great solace and so ended his days; whilst he himself,
having nobly married his daughter, lived long and happily with
Griselda, honouring her as most might be. What more can here be said
save that even in poor cottages there rain down divine spirits from
heaven, like as in princely palaces there be those who were worthier
to tend swine than to have lordship over men? Who but Griselda could,
with a countenance, not only dry,[483] but cheerful, have endured the
barbarous and unheard proofs made by Gualtieri? Which latter had not
belike been ill requited, had he happened upon one who, when he turned
her out of doors in her shift, had let jumble her furbelows of another
to such purpose that a fine gown had come of it."

[Footnote 483: _i.e._ unwetted with tears.]

       *       *       *       *       *

Dioneo's story being finished and the ladies having discoursed amain
thereof, some inclining to one side and some to another, this blaming
one thing and that commending it, the king, lifting his eyes to heaven
and seeing that the sun was now low and the hour of vespers at hand,
proceeded, without arising from session, to speak thus, "Charming
ladies, as I doubt not you know, the understanding of mortals
consisteth not only in having in memory things past and taking
cognizance of things present; but in knowing, by means of the one and
the other of these, to forecast things future is reputed by men of
mark to consist the greatest wisdom. To-morrow, as you know, it will
be fifteen days since we departed Florence, to take some diversion for
the preservation of our health and of our lives, eschewing the woes
and dolours and miseries which, since this pestilential season began,
are continually to be seen about our city. This, to my judgment, we
have well and honourably done; for that, an I have known to see
aright, albeit merry stories and belike incentive to concupiscence
have been told here and we have continually eaten and drunken well and
danced and sung and made music, all things apt to incite weak minds to
things less seemly, I have noted no act, no word, in fine nothing
blameworthy, either on your part or on that of us men; nay, meseemeth
I have seen and felt here a continual decency, an unbroken concord and
a constant fraternal familiarity; the which, at once for your honour
and service and for mine own, is, certes, most pleasing to me. Lest,
however, for overlong usance aught should grow thereof that might
issue in tediousness, and that none may avail to cavil at our overlong
tarriance,--each of us, moreover, having had his or her share of the
honour that yet resideth in myself,--I hold it meet, an it be your
pleasure, that we now return whence we came; more by token that, if
you consider aright, our company, already known to several others of
the neighbourhood, may multiply after a fashion that will deprive us
of our every commodity. Wherefore, if you approve my counsel, I will
retain the crown conferred on me until our departure, which I purpose
shall be to-morrow morning; but, should you determine otherwise, I
have already in mind whom I shall invest withal for the ensuing day."

Much was the debate between the ladies and the young men; but
ultimately they all took the king's counsel for useful and seemly and
determined to do as he proposed; whereupon, calling the seneschal, he
bespoke him of the manner which he should hold on the ensuing morning
and after, having dismissed the company until supper-time, he rose to
his feet. The ladies and the young men, following his example, gave
themselves, this to one kind of diversion and that to another, no
otherwise than of their wont; and supper-time come, they betook
themselves to table with the utmost pleasure and after fell to singing
and carolling and making music. Presently, Lauretta leading up a
dance, the king bade Fiammetta sing a song, whereupon she very
blithely proceeded to sing thus:

       If love came but withouten jealousy,
         I know no lady born
       So blithe as I were, whosoe'er she be.
       If gladsome youthfulness
         In a fair lover might content a maid,
           Virtue and worth discreet,
       Valiance or gentilesse,
         Wit and sweet speech and fashions all arrayed
           In pleasantness complete,
           Certes, I'm she for whose behoof these meet
       In one; for, love-o'erborne,
     All these in him who is my hope I see.

       But for that I perceive
         That other women are as wise as I,
           I tremble for affright
       And tending to believe
         The worst, in others the desire espy
           Of him who steals my spright;
           Thus this that is my good and chief delight
       Enforceth me, forlorn,
     Sigh sore and live in dole and misery.

       If I knew fealty such
         In him my lord as I know merit there,
           I were not jealous, I;
       But here is seen so much
         Lovers to tempt, how true they be soe'er,
           I hold all false; whereby
           I'm all disconsolate and fain would die,
       Of each with doubting torn
     Who eyes him, lest she bear him off from me.

       Be, then, each lady prayed
         By God that she in this be not intent
           'Gainst me to do amiss;
       For, sure, if any maid
         Should or with words or becks or blandishment
           My detriment in this
           Seek or procure and if I know't, ywis,
       Be all my charms forsworn
     But I will make her rue it bitterly.

No sooner had Fiammetta made an end of her song than Dioneo, who was
beside her, said, laughing, "Madam, you would do a great courtesy to
let all the ladies know who he is, lest you be ousted of his
possession through ignorance, since you would be so sore incensed
thereat." After this divers other songs were sung and the night being
now well nigh half spent, they all, by the king's commandment, betook
themselves to repose. As the new day appeared, they arose and the
seneschal having already despatched all their gear in advance, they
returned, under the guidance of their discreet king, to Florence,
where the three young men took leave of the seven ladies and leaving
them in Santa Maria Novella, whence they had set out with them, went
about their other pleasures, whilst the ladies, whenas it seemed to
them time, returned to their houses.


HERE ENDETH THE TENTH AND LAST DAY
OF THE DECAMERON



_Conclusion of the Author_


Most noble damsels, for whose solace I have addressed myself to so
long a labour, I have now, methinketh, with the aid of the Divine
favour, (vouchsafed me, as I deem, for your pious prayers and not for
my proper merits,) throughly accomplished that which I engaged, at the
beginning of this present work, to do; wherefore, returning thanks
first to God and after to you, it behoveth to give rest to my pen and
to my tired hand. Which ere I accord them, I purpose briefly to reply,
as to objections tacitly broached, to certain small matters that may
peradventure be alleged by some one of you or by others, since
meseemeth very certain that these stories have no especial privilege
more than other things; nay, I mind me to have shown, at the beginning
of the fourth day, that they have none such. There are, peradventure,
some of you who will say that I have used overmuch license in
inditing these stories, as well as in making ladies whiles say and
very often hearken to things not very seemly either to be said or
heard of modest women. This I deny, for that there is nothing so
unseemly as to be forbidden unto any one, so but he express it in
seemly terms, as meseemeth indeed I have here very aptly done. But let
us suppose that it is so (for that I mean not to plead with you, who
would overcome me,) I say that many reasons very readily offer
themselves in answer why I have done this. Firstly, if there be aught
thereof[484] in any of them, the nature of the stories required it,
the which, an they be considered with the rational eye of a person of
understanding, it will be abundantly manifest that I could not have
otherwise recounted, an I would not altogether disfeature them. And if
perchance there be therein some tittle, some wordlet or two freer,
maybe, than liketh your squeamish hypocritical prudes, who weigh words
rather than deeds and study more to appear, than to be, good, I say
that it should no more be forbidden me to write them than it is
commonly forbidden unto men and women to say all day long _hole_ and
_peg_ and _mortar_ and _pestle_ and _sausage_ and _polony_ and all
manner like things; without reckoning that no less liberty should be
accorded to my pen than is conceded to the brush of the limner, who,
without any (or, at the least, any just) reprehension, maketh--let be
St. Michael smite the serpent with sword or spear and St. George the
dragon, whereas it pleaseth them--but Adam male and Eve female and
affixeth to the cross, whiles with one nail and whiles with two, the
feet of Him Himself who willed for the salvation of the human race to
die upon the rood. Moreover, it is eath enough to see that these
things are spoken, not in the church, of the affairs whereof it
behoveth to speak with a mind and in terms alike of the chastest
(albeit among its histories there are tales enough to be found of
anothergates fashion than those written by me), nor yet in the schools
of philosophy, where decency is no less required than otherwhere, nor
among churchmen or philosophers anywhere, but amidst gardens, in a
place of pleasance and diversion and among men and women, though
young, yet of mature wit and not to be led astray by stories, at a
time when it was not forbidden to the most virtuous to go, for their
own preservation, with their breeches on their heads. Again, such as
they are, these stories, like everything else, can both harm and
profit, according to the disposition of the listener. Who knoweth not
that wine, though, according to Cinciglione and Scolajo[485] and many
others, an excellent thing for people in health,[486] is hurtful unto
whoso hath the fever? Shall we say, then, because it harmeth the
fevered, that it is naught? Who knoweth not that fire is most useful,
nay, necessary to mortals? Shall we say, because it burneth houses and
villages and cities, that it is naught? Arms on like wise assure the
welfare of those who desire to live in peace and yet oftentimes slay
men, not of any malice of their own, but of the perversity of those
who use them wrongfully. Corrupt mind never understood word healthily,
and even as seemly words profit not depraved minds, so those which are
not altogether seemly avail not to contaminate the well-disposed, any
more than mire can sully the rays of the sun or earthly foulness the
beauties of the sky. What books, what words, what letters are holier,
worthier, more venerable than those of the Divine Scriptures? Yet many
there be, who, interpreting them perversely, have brought themselves
and others to perdition. Everything in itself is good unto somewhat
and ill used, may be in many things harmful; and so say I of my
stories. If any be minded to draw therefrom ill counsel or ill
practice, they will nowise forbid it him, if perchance they have it in
them or be strained and twisted into having it; and who so will have
profit and utility thereof, they will not deny it him, nor will they
be ever styled or accounted other than useful and seemly, if they be
read at those times and to those persons for which and for whom they
have been recounted. Whoso hath to say paternosters or to make tarts
and puddings for her spiritual director, let her leave them be; they
will not run after any to make her read them; albeit your she-saints
themselves now and again say and even do fine things.

[Footnote 484: _i.e._ of overmuch licence.]

[Footnote 485: Two noted wine-bidders of the time.]

[Footnote 486: Lit. living folk (_viventi_).]

There be some ladies also who will say that there are some stories
here, which had been better away. Granted; but I could not nor should
write aught save those actually related, wherefore those who told them
should have told them goodly and I would have written them goodly.
But, if folk will e'en pretend that I am both the inventor and writer
thereof (which I am not), I say that I should not take shame to myself
that they were not all alike goodly, for that there is no craftsman
living (barring God) who doth everything alike well and completely;
witness Charlemagne, who was the first maker of the Paladins, but knew
not to make so many thereof that he might avail to form an army of
them alone. In the multitude of things, needs must divers qualities
thereof be found. No field was ever so well tilled but therein or
nettles or thistles or somewhat of briers or other weeds might be
found mingled with the better herbs. Besides, having to speak to
simple lasses, such as you are for the most part, it had been folly to
go seeking and wearying myself to find very choice and exquisite
matters, and to use great pains to speak very measuredly. Algates,
whoso goeth reading among these, let him leave those which offend and
read those which divert. They all, not to lead any one into error,
bear branded upon the forefront that which they hold hidden within
their bosoms.

Again, I doubt not but there be those who will say that some of them
are overlong; to whom I say again that whoso hath overwhat to do doth
folly to read these stories, even though they were brief. And albeit a
great while is passed from the time when I began to write to this
present hour whenas I come to the end of my toils, it hath not
therefor escaped my memory that I proffered this my travail to idle
women and not to others, and unto whoso readeth to pass away the time,
nothing can be overlong, so but it do that for which he useth it.
Things brief are far better suited unto students, who study, not to
pass away, but usefully to employ time, than to you ladies, who have
on your hands all the time that you spend not in the pleasures of
love; more by token that, as none of you goeth to Athens or Bologna or
Paris to study, it behoveth to speak to you more at large than to
those who have had their wits whetted by study. Again, I doubt not a
jot but there be yet some of you who will say that the things
aforesaid are full of quips and cranks and quodlibets and that it ill
beseemeth a man of weight and gravity to have written thus. To these I
am bound to render and do render thanks, for that, moved by a virtuous
jealousy, they are so tender of my fame; but to their objection I
reply on this wise; I confess to being a man of weight and to have
been often weighed in my time, wherefore, speaking to those ladies who
have not weighed me, I declare that I am not heavy; nay, I am so light
that I abide like a nutgall in water, and considering that the
preachments made of friars, to rebuke men of their sins, are nowadays
for the most part seen full of quips and cranks and gibes, I conceived
that these latter would not sit amiss in my stories written to ease
women of melancholy. Algates, an they should laugh overmuch on that
account, the Lamentations of Jeremiah, the Passion of our Saviour and
the Complaint of Mary Magdalen will lightly avail to cure them
thereof.

Again, who can doubt but there will to boot be found some to say that
I have an ill tongue and a venomous, for that I have in sundry places
written the truth anent the friars? To those who shall say thus it
must be forgiven, since it is not credible that they are moved by
other than just cause, for that the friars are a good sort of folk,
who eschew unease for the love of God and who grind with a full head
of water and tell no tales, and but that they all savour somewhat of
the buck-goat, their commerce would be far more agreeable. Natheless,
I confess that the things of this world have no stability and are
still on the change, and so may it have befallen of my tongue, the
which, not to trust to mine own judgment, (which I eschew as most I
may in my affairs,) a she-neighbour of mine told me, not long since,
was the best and sweetest in the world; and in good sooth, were this
the case, there had been few of the foregoing stories to write. But,
for that those who say thus speak despitefully, I will have that which
hath been said suffice them for a reply; wherefore, leaving each of
you henceforth to say and believe as seemeth good to her, it is time
for me to make an end of words, humbly thanking Him who hath, after so
long a labour, brought us with His help to the desired end. And you,
charming ladies, abide you in peace with His favour, remembering you
of me, if perchance it profit any of you aught to have read these
stories.


HERE ENDETH THE BOOK CALLED DECAMERON
AND SURNAMED PRINCE GALAHALT





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