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Title: The Decameron, Vol. II.

Author: Giovanni Boccaccio

Release Date: August 3, 2004 [EBook #13102]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DECAMERON, VOL. II. ***




Produced by Donna Holsten




THE DECAMERON

OF

GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO

Faithfully Translated

By J.M. Rigg

with illustrations by Louis Chalon


VOLUME II


CONTENTS


- FIFTH DAY -

NOVEL I. - Cimon, by loving, waxes wise, wins his wife Iphigenia by
capture on the high seas, and is imprisoned at Rhodes. He is delivered by
Lysimachus; and the twain capture Cassandra and recapture Iphigenia in
the hour of their marriage. They flee with their ladies to Crete, and
having there married them, are brought back to their homes.

NOVEL II. - Gostanza loves Martuccio Gomito, and hearing that he is dead,
gives way to despair, and hies her alone aboard a boat, which is wafted
by the wind to Susa. She finds him alive in Tunis, and makes herself
known to him, who, having by his counsel gained high place in the king's
favour, marries her, and returns with her wealthy to Lipari.

NOVEL III. - Pietro Boccamazza runs away with Agnolella, and encounters a
gang of robbers: the girl takes refuge in a wood, and is guided to a
castle. Pietro is taken, but escapes out of the hands of the robbers, and
after some adventures arrives at the castle where Agnolella is, marries
her, and returns with her to Rome.

NOVEL IV. - Ricciardo Manardi is found by Messer Lizio da Valbona with
his daughter, whom he marries, and remains at peace with her father.

NOVEL V. - Guidotto da Cremona dies leaving a girl to Giacomino da Pavia.
She has two lovers in Faenza, to wit, Giannole di Severino and Minghino
di Mingole, who fight about her. She is discovered to be Giannole's
sister, and is given to Minghino to wife.

NOVEL VI. - Gianni di Procida, being found with a damsel that he loves,
and who had been given to King Frederic, is bound with her to a stake, so
to be burned. He is recognized by Ruggieri dell' Oria, is delivered, and
marries her.

NOVEL VII. - Teodoro, being enamoured of Violante, daughter of Messer
Amerigo, his lord, gets her with child, and is sentenced to the gallows;
but while he is being scourged thither, he is recognized by his father,
and being set at large, takes Violante to wife.

NOVEL VIII. - Nastagio degli Onesti, loving a damsel of the Traversari
family, by lavish expenditure gains not her love. At the instance of his
kinsfolk he hies him to Chiassi, where he sees a knight hunt a damsel and
slay her and cause her to be devoured by two dogs. He bids his kinsfolk
and the lady that he loves to breakfast. During the meal the said damsel
is torn in pieces before the eyes of the lady, who, fearing a like fate,
takes Nastagio to husband.

NOVEL IX. - Federigo degli Alberighi loves and is not loved in return: he
wastes his substance by lavishness until nought is left but a single
falcon, which, his lady being come to see him at his house, he gives her
to eat: she, knowing his case, changes her mind, takes him to husband and
makes him rich.

NOVEL X. - Pietro di Vinciolo goes from home to sup: his wife brings a
boy into the house to bear her company: Pietro returns, and she hides her
gallant under a hen-coop: Pietro explains that in the house of Ercolano,
with whom he was to have supped, there was discovered a young man
bestowed there by Ercolano's wife: the lady thereupon censures Ercolano's
wife: but unluckily an ass treads on the fingers of the boy that is
hidden under the hen-coop, so that he cries for pain: Pietro runs to the
place, sees him, and apprehends the trick played on him by his wife,
which nevertheless he finally condones, for that he is not himself free
from blame.

- SIXTH DAY -

NOVEL I. - A knight offers to carry Madonna Oretta a horseback with a
story, but tells it so ill that she prays him to dismount her.

NOVEL II. - Cisti, a baker, by an apt speech gives Messer Geri Spina to
know that he has by inadvertence asked that of him which he should not.

NOVEL III. - Monna Nonna de' Pulci by a ready retort silences the scarce
seemly jesting of the Bishop of Florence.

NOVEL IV. - Chichibio, cook to Currado Gianfigliazzi, owes his safety to
a ready answer, whereby he converts Currado's wrath into laughter, and
evades the evil fate with which Currado had threatened him.

NOVEL V. - Messer Forese da Rabatta and Master Giotto, the painter,
journeying together from Mugello, deride one another's scurvy appearance.

NOVEL VI. - Michele Scalza proves to certain young men that the Baronci
are the best gentlemen in the world and the Maremma, and wins a supper.

NOVEL VII. - Madonna Filippa, being found by her husband with her lover,
is cited before the court, and by a ready and jocund answer acquits
herself, and brings about an alteration of the statute.

NOVEL VIII. - Fresco admonishes his niece not to look at herself in the
glass, if 'tis, as she says, grievous to her to see nasty folk.

NOVEL IX. - Guido Cavalcanti by a quip meetly rebukes certain Florentine
gentlemen who had taken him at a disadvantage.

NOVEL X. - Fra Cipolla promises to shew certain country-folk a feather of
the Angel Gabriel, in lieu of which he finds coals, which he avers to be
of those with which St. Lawrence was roasted.

- SEVENTH DAY -

NOVEL I. - Gianni Lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door at night: he
awakens his wife, who persuades him that 'tis the bogey, which they fall
to exorcising with a prayer; whereupon the knocking ceases.

NOVEL II. - Her husband returning home, Peronella bestows her lover in a
tun; which, being sold by her husband, she avers to have been already
sold by herself to one that is inside examining it to set if it be sound.
Whereupon the lover jumps out, and causes the husband to scour the tun
for him, and afterwards to carry it to his house.

NOVEL III. - Fra Rinaldo lies with his gossip: her husband finds him in
the room with her; and they make him believe that he was curing his
godson of worms by a charm.

NOVEL IV. - Tofano one night locks his wife out of the house: she,
finding that by no entreaties may she prevail upon him to let her in,
feigns to throw herself into a well, throwing therein a great stone.
Tofano hies him forth of the house, and runs to the spot: she goes into
the house, and locks him out, and hurls abuse at him from within.

NOVEL V. - A jealous husband disguises himself as a priest, and hears his
own wife's confession: she tells him that she loves a priest, who comes
to her every night. The husband posts himself at the door to watch for
the priest, and meanwhile the lady brings her lover in by the roof, and
tarries with him.

NOVEL VI. - Madonna Isabella has with her Leonetto, her accepted lover,
when she is surprised by one Messer Lambertuccio, by whom she is beloved:
her husband coming home about the same time, she sends Messer
Lambertuccio forth of the house drawn sword in hand, and the husband
afterwards escorts Leonetto home.

NOVEL VII. - Lodovico discovers to Madonna Beatrice the love that he
bears her: she sends Egano, her husband, into a garden disguised as
herself, and lies with Lodovico; who thereafter, being risen, hies him to
the garden and cudgels Egano.

 NOVEL VIII. - A husband grows jealous of his wife, and discovers that
she has warning of her lover's approach by a piece of pack-thread, which
she ties to her great toe a nights. While he is pursuing her lover, she
puts another woman in bed in her place. The husband, finding her there,
beats her, and cuts off her hair. He then goes and calls his wife's
brothers, who, holding his accusation to be false, give him a rating.

NOVEL IX. - Lydia, wife of Nicostratus, loves Pyrrhus, who to assure
himself thereof, asks three things of her, all of which she does, and
therewithal enjoys him in presence of Nicostratus, and makes Nicostratus
believe that what he saw was not real.

NOVEL X. - Two Sienese love a lady, one of them being her gossip: the
gossip dies, having promised his comrade to return to him from the other
world; which he does, and tells him what sort of life is led there.

- EIGHTH DAY -

NOVEL I. - Gulfardo borrows moneys of Guasparruolo, which he has agreed
to give Guasparruolo's wife, that he may lie with her. He gives them to
her, and in her presence tells Guasparruolo that he has done so, and she
acknowledges that 'tis true.

NOVEL II. - The priest of Varlungo lies with Monna Belcolore: he leaves
with her his cloak by way of pledge, and receives from her a mortar. He
returns the mortar, and demands of her the cloak that he had left in
pledge, which the good lady returns him with a gibe.

NOVEL III. - Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco go in quest of the
heliotrope beside the Mugnone. Thinking to have found it, Calandrino gets
him home laden with stones. His wife chides him: whereat he waxes wroth,
beats her, and tells his comrades what they know better than he.

NOVEL IV. - The rector of Fiesole loves a widow lady, by whom he is not
loved, and thinking to lie with her, lies with her maid, with whom the
lady's brothers cause him to be found by his Bishop.

NOVEL V. - Three young men pull down the breeches of a judge from the
Marches, while he is administering justice on the bench.

NOVEL VI. - Bruno and Buffalmacco steal a pig from Calandrino, and induce
him to essay its recovery by means of pills of ginger and vernaccia. Of
the said pills they give him two, one after the other, made of dog-ginger
compounded with aloes; and it then appearing as if he had had the pig
himself, they constrain him to buy them off, if he would not have them
tell his wife.

NOVEL VII. - A scholar loves a widow lady, who, being enamoured of
another, causes him to spend a winter's night awaiting her in the snow.
He afterwards by a stratagem causes her to stand for a whole day in July,
naked upon a tower, exposed to the flies, the gadflies, and the sun.

NOVEL VIII. - Two men keep with one another: the one lies with the
other's wife: the other, being ware thereof, manages with the aid of his
wife to have the one locked in a chest, upon which he then lies with the
wife of him that is locked therein.

NOVEL IX. - Bruno and Buffalmacco prevail upon Master Simone, a
physician, to betake him by night to a certain place, there to be
enrolled in a company that go the course. Buffalmacco throws him into a
foul ditch, and there they leave him.

NOVEL X. - A Sicilian woman cunningly conveys from a merchant that which
he has brought to Palermo; he, making a shew of being come back thither
with far greater store of goods than before, borrows money of her, and
leaves her in lieu thereof water and tow.

- NINTH DAY -

NOVEL I. - Madonna Francesca, having two lovers, the one Rinuccio, the
other Alessandro, by name, and loving neither of them, induces the one to
simulate a corpse in a tomb, and the other to enter the tomb to fetch him
out: whereby, neither satisfying her demands, she artfully rids herself
of both.

NOVEL II. - An abbess rises in haste and in the dark, with intent to
surprise an accused nun abed with her lover: thinking to put on her veil,
she puts on instead the breeches of a priest that she has with her: the
nun, espying her headgear, and doing her to wit thereof, is acquitted,
and thenceforth finds it easier to forgather with her lover.

NOVEL III. - Master Simone, at the instance of Bruno and Buffalmacco and
Nello, makes Calandrino believe that he is with child. Calandrino,
accordingly, gives them capons and money for medicines, and is cured
without being delivered.

NOVEL IV. - Cecco, son of Messer Fortarrigo, loses his all at play at
Buonconvento, besides the money of Cecco, son of Messer Angiulieri, whom,
running after him in his shirt and crying out that he has robbed him, he
causes to be taken by peasants: he then puts on his clothes, mounts his
palfrey, and leaves him to follow in his shirt.

NOVEL V. - Calandrino being enamoured of a damsel, Bruno gives him a
scroll, averring that, if he but touch her therewith, she will go with
him: he is found with her by his wife, who subjects him to a most severe
and vexatious examination.

NOVEL VI. - Two young men lodge at an inn, of whom the one lies with the
host's daughter, his wife by inadvertence lying with the other. He that
lay with the daughter afterwards gets into her father's bed and tells him
all, taking him to be his comrade. They bandy words: whereupon the good
woman, apprehending the circumstances, gets her to bed with her daughter,
and by divers apt words re-establishes perfect accord.

NOVEL VII. - Talano di Molese dreams that a wolf tears and rends all the
neck and face of his wife: he gives her warning thereof, which she heeds
not, and the dream comes true.

NOVEL VIII. - Biondello gulls Ciacco in the matter of a breakfast: for
which prank Ciacco is cunningly avenged on Biondello, causing him to be
shamefully beaten.

NOVEL IX. - Two young men ask counsel of Solomon; the one, how he is to
make himself beloved, the other, how he is to reduce an unruly wife to
order. The King bids the one to love, and the other to go to the Bridge
of Geese.

NOVEL X. - Dom Gianni at the instance of his gossip Pietro uses an
enchantment to transform Pietro's wife into a mare; but, when he comes to
attach the tail, Gossip Pietro, by saying that he will have none of the
tail, makes the enchantment of no effect.

- TENTH DAY -

NOVEL I. - A knight in the service of the King of Spain deems himself ill
requited. Wherefore the King, by most cogent proof, shews him that the
blame rests not with him, but with the knight's own evil fortune; after
which, he bestows upon him a noble gift.

NOVEL II. - Ghino di Tacco, captures the Abbot of Cluny, cures him of a
disorder of the stomach, and releases him. The abbot, on his return to
the court of Rome, reconciles Ghino with Pope Boniface, and makes him
prior of the Hospital.

NOVEL III. - Mitridanes, holding Nathan in despite by reason of his
courtesy, journey with intent to kill him, and falling in with him
unawares, is advised by him how to compass his end. Following his advice,
he finds him in a copse, and recognizing him, is shame-stricken, and
becomes his friend.

NOVEL IV. - Messer Gentile de' Carisendi, being come from Modena,
disinters a lady that he loves, who has been buried for dead. She, being
reanimated, gives birth to a male child; and Messer Gentile restores her,
with her son, to Niccoluccio Caccianimico, her husband.

NOVEL V. - Madonna Dianora craves of Messer Ansaldo a garden that shall
be as fair in January as in May. Messer Ansaldo binds himself to a
necromancer, and thereby gives her the garden. Her husband gives her
leave to do Messer Ansaldo's pleasure: he, being apprised of her
husband's liberality, releases her from her promise; and the necromancer
releases Messer Ansaldo from his bond, and will tale nought of his.

NOVEL VI. - King Charles the Old, being conqueror, falls in love with a
young maiden, and afterward growing ashamed of his folly bestows her and
her sister honourably in marriage.

NOVEL VII. - King Pedro, being apprised of the fervent love borne him by
Lisa, who thereof is sick, comforts her, and forthwith gives her in
marriage to a young gentleman, and having kissed her on the brow, ever
after professes himself her knight.

NOVEL VIII. - Sophronia, albeit she deems herself wife to Gisippus, is
wife to Titus Quintius Fulvus, and goes with him to Rome, where Gisippus
arrives in indigence, and deeming himself scorned by Titus, to compass
his own death, avers that he has slain a man. Titus recognizes him, and
to save his life, alleges that 'twas he that slew the man: whereof he
that did the deed being witness, he discovers himself as the murderer.
Whereby it comes to pass that they are all three liberated by Octavianus;
and Titus gives Gisippus his sister to wife, and shares with him all his
substance.

NOVEL IX. - Saladin, in guise of a merchant, is honourably entreated by
Messer Torello. The Crusade ensuing, Messer Torello appoints a date,
after which his wife may marry again: he is taken prisoner, and by
training hawks comes under the Soldan's notice. The Soldan recognizes
him, makes himself known to him, and entreats him with all honour. Messer
Torello falls sick, and by magic arts is transported in a single night to
Pavia, where his wife's second marriage is then to be solemnized, and
being present thereat, is recognized by her, and returns with her to his
house.

NOVEL X. - The Marquis of Saluzzo, overborne by the entreaties of his
vassals, consents to take a wife, but, being minded to please himself in
the choice of her, takes a husbandman's daughter. He has two children by
her, both of whom he makes her believe that he has put to death.
Afterward, feigning to be tired of her, and to have taken another wife,
he turns her out of doors in her shift, and brings his daughter into the
house in guise of his bride; but, finding her patient under it all, he
brings her home again, and shews her her children, now grown up, and
honours her, and causes her to be honoured, as Marchioness.


ILLUSTRATIONS TO THE DECAMERON

VOLUME II

Pietro and Agnolella (fifth day, third story)

Gianni and Restituta (fifth day, sixth story)

Calandrino singing (ninth day, fifth story)

Titus, Gisippus, and Sophronia (tenth day, eighth story)


--
Endeth here the fourth day of the Decameron, beginneth the fifth, in
which under the rule of Fiammetta discourse is had of good fortune
befalling lovers after divers direful or disastrous adventures.
--

All the east was white, nor any part of our hemisphere unillumined by the
rising beams, when the carolling of the birds that in gay chorus saluted
the dawn among the boughs induced Fiammetta to rise and rouse the other
ladies and the three gallants; with whom adown the hill and about the
dewy meads of the broad champaign she sauntered, talking gaily of divers
matters, until the sun had attained some height. Then, feeling his rays
grow somewhat scorching, they retraced their steps, and returned to the
villa; where, having repaired their slight fatigue with excellent wines
and comfits, they took their pastime in the pleasant garden until the
breakfast hour; when, all things being made ready by the discreet
seneschal, they, after singing a stampita,(1) and a balladette or two,
gaily, at the queen's behest, sat them down to eat. Meetly ordered and
gladsome was the meal, which done, heedful of their rule of dancing, they
trod a few short measures with accompaniment of music and song.
Thereupon, being all dismissed by the queen until after the siesta, some
hied them to rest, while others tarried taking their pleasure in the fair
garden. But shortly after none, all, at the queen's behest, reassembled,
according to their wont, by the fountain; and the queen, having seated
herself on her throne, glanced towards Pamfilo, and bade him with a smile
lead off with the stories of good fortune. Whereto Pamfilo gladly
addressed himself, and thus began.

(1) A song accompanied by music, but without dancing.


NOVEL I.

--
Cimon, by loving, waxes wise, wins his wife Iphigenia by capture on the
high seas, and is imprisoned at Rhodes. He is delivered by Lysimachus;
and the twain capture Cassandra and recapture Iphigenia in the hour of
their marriage. They flee with their ladies to Crete, and having there
married them, are brought back to their homes.
--

Many stories, sweet my ladies, occur to me as meet for me to tell by way
of ushering in a day so joyous as this will be: of which one does most
commend itself to my mind, because not only has it, one of those happy
endings of which to-day we are in quest, but 'twill enable you to
understand how holy, how mighty and how salutary are the forces of Love,
which not a few, witting not what they say, do most unjustly reprobate
and revile: which, if I err not, should to you, for that I take you to be
enamoured, be indeed welcome.

Once upon a time, then, as we have read in the ancient histories of the
Cypriotes, there was in the island of Cyprus a very great noble named
Aristippus, a man rich in all worldly goods beyond all other of his
countrymen, and who might have deemed himself incomparably blessed, but
for a single sore affliction that Fortune had allotted him. Which was
that among his sons he had one, the best grown and handsomest of them
all, that was well-nigh a hopeless imbecile. His true name was Galesus;
but, as neither his tutor's pains, nor his father's coaxing or
chastisement, nor any other method had availed to imbue him with any
tincture of letters or manners, but he still remained gruff and savage of
voice, and in his bearing liker to a beast than to a man, all, as in
derision, were wont to call him Cimon, which in their language signifies
the same as "bestione" (brute)(1) in ours. The father, grieved beyond
measure to see his son's life thus blighted, and having abandoned all
hope of his recovery, nor caring to have the cause of his mortification
ever before his eyes, bade him betake him to the farm, and there keep
with his husbandmen. To Cimon the change was very welcome, because the
manners and habits of the uncouth hinds were more to his taste than those
of the citizens. So to the farm Cimon hied him, and addressed himself to
the work thereof; and being thus employed, he chanced one afternoon as he
passed, staff on shoulder, from one domain to another, to enter a
plantation, the like of which for beauty there was not in those parts,
and which was then--for 'twas the month of May--a mass of greenery; and,
as he traversed it, he came, as Fortune was pleased to guide him, to a
meadow girt in with trees exceeding tall, and having in one of its
corners a fountain most fair and cool, beside which he espied a most
beautiful girl lying asleep on the green grass, clad only in a vest of
such fine stuff that it scarce in any measure veiled the whiteness of her
flesh, and below the waist nought but an apron most white and fine of
texture; and likewise at her feet there slept two women and a man, her
slaves. No sooner did Cimon catch sight of her, than, as if he had never
before seen form of woman, he stopped short, and leaning on his cudgel,
regarded her intently, saying never a word, and lost in admiration. And
in his rude soul, which, despite a thousand lessons, had hitherto
remained impervious to every delight that belongs to urbane life, he felt
the awakening of an idea, that bade his gross and coarse mind
acknowledge, that this girl was the fairest creature that had ever been
seen by mortal eye. And thereupon he began to distinguish her several
parts, praising her hair, which shewed to him as gold, her brow, her nose
and mouth, her throat and arms, and above all her bosom, which was as yet
but in bud, and as he gazed, he changed of a sudden from a husbandman
into a judge of beauty, and desired of all things to see her eyes, which
the weight of her deep slumber kept close shut, and many a time he would
fain have awakened her, that he might see them. But so much fairer seemed
she to him than any other woman that he had seen, that he doubted she
must be a goddess; and as he was not so devoid of sense but that he
deemed things divine more worthy of reverence than things mundane, he
forbore, and waited until she should awake of her own accord; and though
he found the delay overlong, yet, enthralled by so unwonted a delight, he
knew not how to be going. However, after he had tarried a long while, it
so befell that Iphigenia--such was the girl's name--her slaves still
sleeping, awoke, and raised her head, and opened her eyes, and seeing
Cimon standing before her, leaning on his staff, was not a little
surprised, and said:--"Cimon, what seekest thou in this wood at this
hour?" For Cimon she knew well, as indeed did almost all the
country-side, by reason alike of his uncouth appearance as of the rank
and wealth of his father. To Iphigenia's question he answered never a
word; but as soon as her eyes were open, nought could he do but intently
regard them, for it seemed to him that a soft influence emanated from
them, which filled his soul with a delight that he had never before
known. Which the girl marking began to misdoubt that by so fixed a
scrutiny his boorish temper might be prompted to some act that should
cause her dishonour: wherefore she roused her women, and got up,
saying:--"Keep thy distance, Cimon, in God's name." Whereto Cimon made
answer:--"I will come with thee." And, albeit the girl refused his
escort, being still in fear of him, she could not get quit of him; but he
attended her home; after which he hied him straight to his father's
house, and announced that he was minded on no account to go back to the
farm: which intelligence was far from welcome to his father and kinsmen;
but nevertheless they suffered him to stay, and waited to see what might
be the reason of his change of mind. So Cimon, whose heart, closed to all
teaching, love's shaft, sped by the beauty of Iphigenia, had penetrated,
did now graduate in wisdom with such celerity as to astonish his father
and kinsmen, and all that knew him. He began by requesting his father to
let him go clad in the like apparel, and with, in all respects, the like
personal equipment as his brothers: which his father very gladly did.
Mixing thus with the gallants, and becoming familiar with the manners
proper to gentlemen, and especially to lovers, he very soon, to the
exceeding great wonder of all, not only acquired the rudiments of
letters, but waxed most eminent among the philosophic wits. After which
(for no other cause than the love he bore to Iphigenia) he not only
modulated his gruff and boorish voice to a degree of smoothness suitable
to urbane life, but made himself accomplished in singing and music; in
riding also and in all matters belonging to war, as well by sea as by
land, he waxed most expert and hardy. And in sum (that I go not about to
enumerate each of his virtues in detail) he had not completed the fourth
year from the day of his first becoming enamoured before he was grown the
most gallant, and courteous, ay, and the most perfect in particular
accomplishments, of the young cavaliers that were in the island of
Cyprus. What then, gracious ladies, are we to say of Cimon? Verily nought
else but that the high faculties, with which Heaven had endowed his noble
soul, invidious Fortune had bound with the strongest of cords, and
circumscribed within a very narrow region of his heart; all which cords
Love, more potent than Fortune, burst and brake in pieces; and then with
the might, wherewith he awakens dormant powers, he brought them forth of
the cruel obfuscation, in which they lay, into clear light, plainly
shewing thereby, whence he may draw, and whither he may guide, by his
beams the souls that are subject to his sway.

Now, albeit by his love for Iphigenia Cimon was betrayed, as young lovers
very frequently are, into some peccadillos, yet Aristippus, reflecting
that it had turned him from a booby into a man, not only bore patiently
with him, but exhorted him with all his heart to continue steadfast in
his love. And Cimon, who still refused to be called Galesus, because
'twas as Cimon that Iphigenia had first addressed him, being desirous to
accomplish his desire by honourable means, did many a time urge his suit
upon her father, Cipseus, that he would give her him to wife: whereto
Cipseus always made the same answer, to wit, that he had promised her to
Pasimondas, a young Rhodian noble, and was not minded to break faith with
him. However, the time appointed for Iphigenia's wedding being come, and
the bridegroom having sent for her, Cimon said to himself:--'Tis now for
me to shew thee, O Iphigenia, how great is my love for thee: 'tis by thee
that I am grown a man, nor doubt I, if I shall have thee, that I shall
wax more glorious than a god, and verily thee will I have, or die. Having
so said, he privily enlisted in his cause certain young nobles that were
his friends, and secretly fitted out a ship with all equipment meet for
combat, and put to sea on the look-out for the ship that was to bear
Iphigenia to Rhodes and her husband. And at length, when her father had
done lavishing honours upon her husband's friends, Iphigenia embarked,
and, the mariners shaping their course for Rhodes, put to sea. Cimon was
on the alert, and overhauled them the very next day, and standing on his
ship's prow shouted amain to those that were aboard Iphigenia's
ship:--"Bring to; strike sails, or look to be conquered and sunk in the
sea." Then, seeing that the enemy had gotten their arms above deck, and
were making ready to make a fight of it, he followed up his words by
casting a grapnel upon the poop of the Rhodians, who were making great
way; and having thus made their poop fast to his prow, he sprang, fierce
as a lion, reckless whether he were followed or no, on to the Rhodians'
ship, making, as it were, no account of them, and animated by love,
hurled himself, sword in hand, with prodigious force among the enemy, and
cutting and thrusting right and left, slaughtered them like sheep;
insomuch that the Rhodians, marking the fury of his onset, threw down
their arms, and as with one voice did all acknowledge themselves his
prisoners. To whom Cimon:--"Gallants," quoth he, "'twas neither lust of
booty nor enmity to you that caused me to put out from Cyprus to attack
you here with force of arms on the high seas. Moved was I thereto by that
which to gain is to me a matter great indeed, which peaceably to yield me
is to you but a slight matter; for 'tis even Iphigenia, whom more than
aught else I love; whom, as I might not have her of her father in
peaceable and friendly sort, Love has constrained me to take from you in
this high-handed fashion and by force of arms; to whom I mean to be even
such as would have been your Pasimondas: wherefore give her to me, and go
your way, and God's grace go with you."

Yielding rather to force than prompted by generosity, the Rhodians
surrendered Iphigenia, all tears, to Cimon; who, marking her tears, said
to her:--"Grieve not, noble lady; thy Cimon am I, who, by my long love,
have established a far better right to thee than Pasimondas by the faith
that was plighted to him." So saying, he sent her aboard his ship,
whither he followed her, touching nought that belonged to the Rhodians,
and suffering them to go their way. To have gotten so dear a prize made
him the happiest man in the world, but for a time 'twas all he could do
to assuage her grief: then, after taking counsel with his comrades, he
deemed it best not to return to Cyprus for the present: and so, by common
consent they shaped their course for Crete, where most of them, and
especially Cimon, had alliances of old or recent date, and friends not a
few, whereby they deemed that there they might tarry with Iphigenia in
security. But Fortune, that had accorded Cimon so gladsome a capture of
the lady, suddenly proved fickle, and converted the boundless joy of the
enamoured gallant into woeful and bitter lamentation. 'Twas not yet full
four hours since Cimon had parted from the Rhodians, when with the
approach of night, that night from which Cimon hoped such joyance as he
had never known, came weather most turbulent and tempestuous, which
wrapped the heavens in cloud, and swept the sea with scathing blasts;
whereby 'twas not possible for any to see how the ship was to be worked
or steered, or to steady himself so as to do any duty upon her deck.
Whereat what grief was Cimon's, it boots not to ask. Indeed it seemed to
him that the gods had granted his heart's desire only that it might be
harder for him to die, which had else been to him but a light matter. Not
less downcast were his comrades; but most of all Iphigenia, who, weeping
bitterly and shuddering at every wave that struck the ship, did cruelly
curse Cimon's love and censure his rashness, averring that this tempest
was come upon them for no other cause than that the gods had decreed,
that, as 'twas in despite of their will that he purposed to espouse her,
he should be frustrate of his presumptuous intent, and having lived to
see her expire, should then himself meet a woeful death.

While thus and yet more bitterly they bewailed them, and the mariners
were at their wits' end, as the gale grew hourly more violent, nor knew
they, nor might conjecture, whither they went, they drew nigh the island
of Rhodes, albeit that Rhodes it was they wist not, and set themselves,
as best and most skilfully they might, to run the ship aground. In which
enterprise Fortune favoured them, bringing them into a little bay, where,
shortly before them, was arrived the Rhodian ship that Cimon had let go.
Nor were they sooner ware that 'twas Rhodes they had made, than day
broke, and, the sky thus brightening a little, they saw that they were
about a bow-shot from the ship that they had released on the preceding
day. Whereupon Cimon, vexed beyond measure, being apprehensive of that
which in fact befell them, bade make every effort to win out of the bay,
and let Fortune carry them whither she would, for nowhere might they be
in worse plight than there. So might and main they strove to bring the
ship out, but all in vain: the violence of the gale thwarted them to such
purpose as not only to preclude their passage out of the bay but to drive
them, willing nilling, ashore. Whither no sooner were they come, than
they were recognized by the Rhodian mariners, who were already landed. Of
whom one ran with all speed to a farm hard by, whither the Rhodian
gallants were gone, and told them that Fortune had brought Cimon and
Iphigenia aboard their ship into the same bay to which she had guided
them. Whereat the gallants were overjoyed, and taking with them not a few
of the farm-servants, hied them in hot haste to the shore, where, Cimon
and his men being already landed with intent to take refuge in a
neighbouring wood, they took them all (with Iphigenia) and brought them
to the farm. Whence, pursuant to an order of the Senate of Rhodes, to
which, so soon as he received the news, Pasimondas made his complaint,
Cimon and his men were all marched off to prison by Lysimachus, chief
magistrate of the Rhodians for that year, who came down from the city for
the purpose with an exceeding great company of men at arms. On such wise
did our hapless and enamoured Cimon lose his so lately won Iphigenia
before he had had of her more than a kiss or two. Iphigenia was
entertained and comforted of the annoy, occasioned as well by her recent
capture as by the fury of the sea, by not a few noble ladies of Rhodes,
with whom she tarried until the day appointed for her marriage. In
recompense of the release of the Rhodian gallants on the preceding day
the lives of Cimon and his men were spared, notwithstanding that
Pasimondas pressed might and main for their execution; and instead they
were condemned to perpetual imprisonment: wherein, as may be supposed,
they abode in dolorous plight, and despaired of ever again knowing
happiness.

However, it so befell that, Pasimondas accelerating his nuptials to the
best of his power, Fortune, as if repenting her that in her haste she had
done Cimon so evil a turn, did now by a fresh disposition of events
compass his deliverance. Pasimondas had a brother, by name Hormisdas, his
equal in all respects save in years, who had long been contract to marry
Cassandra, a fair and noble damsel of Rhodes, of whom Lysimachus was in
the last degree enamoured; but owing to divers accidents the marriage had
been from time to time put off. Now Pasimondas, being about to celebrate
his nuptials with exceeding great pomp, bethought him that he could not
do better than, to avoid a repetition of the pomp and expense, arrange,
if so he might, that his brother should be wedded on the same day with
himself. So, having consulted anew with Cassandra's kinsfolk, and come to
an understanding with them, he and his brother and they conferred
together, and agreed that on the same day that Pasimondas married
Iphigenia, Hormisdas should marry Cassandra. Lysimachus, getting wind of
this arrangement, was mortified beyond measure, seeing himself thereby
deprived of the hope which he cherished of marrying Cassandra himself, if
Hormisdas should not forestall him. But like a wise man he concealed his
chagrin, and cast about how he might frustrate the arrangement: to which
end he saw no other possible means but to carry Cassandra off. It did not
escape him that the office which he held would render this easily
feasible, but he deemed it all the more dishonourable than if he had not
held the office; but, in short, after much pondering, honour yielded
place to love, and he made up his mind that, come what might, he would
carry Cassandra off. Then, as he took thought what company he should take
with him, and how he should go about the affair, he remembered Cimon,
whom he had in prison with his men, and it occurred to him that he could
not possibly have a better or more trusty associate in such an enterprise
than Cimon. Wherefore the same night he caused Cimon to be brought
privily to him in his own room, and thus addressed him:--"Cimon, as the
gods are most generous and liberal to bestow their gifts on men, so are
they also most sagacious to try their virtue; and those whom they find to
be firm and steadfast in all circumstances they honour, as the most
worthy, with the highest rewards. They have been minded to be certified
of thy worth by better proofs than thou couldst afford them, as long as
thy life was bounded by thy father's house amid the superabundant wealth
which I know him to possess: wherefore in the first place they so wrought
upon thee with the shrewd incitements of Love that from an insensate
brute, as I have heard, thou grewest to be a man; since when, it has been
and is their intent to try whether evil fortune and harsh imprisonment
may avail to change thee from the temper that was thine when for a short
while thou hadst joyance of the prize thou hadst won. And so thou prove
the same that thou wast then, they have in store for thee a boon
incomparably greater than aught that they vouchsafed thee before: what
that boon is, to the end thou mayst recover heart and thy wonted
energies, I will now explain to thee. Pasimondas, exultant in thy
misfortune and eager to compass thy death, hastens to the best of his
power his nuptials with thy Iphigenia; that so he may enjoy the prize
that Fortune, erstwhile smiling, gave thee, and forthwith, frowning, reft
from thee. Whereat how sore must be thy grief, if rightly I gauge thy
love, I know by my own case, seeing that his brother Hormisdas addresses
himself to do me on the same day a like wrong in regard of Cassandra,
whom I love more than aught else in the world. Nor see I that Fortune has
left us any way of escape from this her unjust and cruel spite, save what
we may make for ourselves by a resolved spirit and the might of our right
hands: take we then the sword, and therewith make we, each, prize of his
lady, thou for the second, I for the first time: for so thou value the
recovery, I say not of thy liberty, for without thy lady I doubt thou
wouldst hold it cheap, but of thy lady, the gods have placed it in thine
own hands, if thou art but minded to join me in my enterprise."

These words restored to Cimon all that he had lost of heart and hope, nor
pondered he long, before he replied:--"Lysimachus, comrade stouter or
more staunch than I thou mightst not have in such an enterprise, if such
indeed it be as thou sayst: wherefore lay upon me such behest as thou
shalt deem meet, and thou shalt marvel to witness the vigour of my
performance." Whereupon Lysimachus:--"On the third day from now," quoth
he, "their husbands' houses will be newly entered by the brides, and on
the same day at even we too will enter them in arms, thou with thy men,
and I with some of mine, in whom I place great trust, and forcing our way
among the guests and slaughtering all that dare to oppose us, will bear
the ladies off to a ship which I have had privily got ready." Cimon
approved the plan, and kept quiet in prison until the appointed time;
which being come, the nuptials were celebrated with great pomp and
magnificence, that filled the houses of the two brothers with festal
cheer. Then Lysimachus having made ready all things meet, and fired Cimon
and his men and his own friends for the enterprise by a long harangue,
disposed them in due time, all bearing arms under their cloaks, in three
companies; and having privily despatched one company to the port, that,
when the time should come to embark, he might meet with no let, he
marched with the other two companies to the house of Pasimondas, posted
the one company at the gate, that, being entered, they might not be shut
in or debarred their egress, and, with the other company and Cimon,
ascended the stairs, and gained the saloon, where the brides and not a
few other ladies were set at several tables to sup in meet order:
whereupon in they rushed, and overthrew the tables and seized each his
own lady, and placed them in charge of their men, whom they bade bear
them off forthwith to the ship that lay ready to receive them. Whereupon
the brides and the other ladies and the servants with one accord fell a
sobbing and shrieking, insomuch that a confused din and lamentation
filled the whole place. Cimon, Lysimachus and their band, none
withstanding, but all giving way before them, gained the stairs, which
they were already descending when they encountered Pasimondas, who,
carrying a great staff in his hand, was making in the direction of the
noise; but one doughty stroke of Cimon's sword sufficed to cleave his
skull in twain, and lay him dead at Cimon's feet, and another stroke
disposed of hapless Hormisdas, as he came running to his brother's aid.
Some others who ventured to approach them were wounded and beaten off by
the retinue. So forth of the house, that reeked with blood and resounded
with tumult and lamentation and woe, sped Simon and Lysimachus with all
their company, and without any let, in close order, with their fair booty
in their midst, made good their retreat to the ship; whereon with the
ladies they one and all embarked, for the shore was now full of armed men
come to rescue the ladies, and, the oarsmen giving way, put to sea elate.
Arrived at Crete, they met with a hearty welcome on the part of their
many friends and kinsfolk; and, having married their ladies, they made
greatly merry, and had gladsome joyance of their fair booty. Their doings
occasioned, both in Cyprus and in Rhodes, no small stir and commotion,
which lasted for a long while: but in the end, by the good offices of
their friends and kinsfolk in both islands, 'twas so ordered as that
after a certain term of exile Cimon returned with Iphigenia to Cyprus,
and in like manner Lysimachus returned with Cassandra to Rhodes; and long
and blithely thereafter lived they, each well contented with his own wife
in his own land.

(1) One of the augmentative forms of bestia.


NOVEL II.

--
Gostanza loves Martuccio Gomito, and hearing that he is dead, gives way
to despair, and hies her alone aboard a boat, which is wafted by the wind
to Susa. She finds him alive in Tunis, and makes herself known to him,
who, having by his counsel gained high place in the king's favour,
marries her, and returns with her wealthy to Lipari.
--

Pamfilo's story being ended, the queen, after commending it not a little,
called for one to follow from Emilia; who thus began:--

Meet and right it is that one should rejoice when events so fall out that
passion meets with its due reward: and as love merits in the long run
rather joy than suffering, far gladlier obey I the queen's than I did the
king's behest, and address myself to our present theme. You are to know
then, dainty ladies, that not far from Sicily there is an islet called
Lipari, in which, no great while ago, there dwelt a damsel, Gostanza by
name, fair as fair could be, and of one of the most honourable families
in the island. And one Martuccio Gomito, who was also of the island, a
young man most gallant and courteous, and worthy for his condition,
became enamoured of Gostanza; who in like manner grew so afire for him
that she was ever ill at ease, except she saw him. Martuccio, craving her
to wife, asked her of her father, who made answer that, Martuccio being
poor, he was not minded to give her to him. Mortified to be thus rejected
by reason of poverty, Martuccio took an oath in presence of some of his
friends and kinsfolk that Lipari should know him no more, until he was
wealthy. So away he sailed, and took to scouring the seas as a rover on
the coast of Barbary, preying upon all whose force matched not his own.
In which way of life he found Fortune favourable enough, had he but known
how to rest and be thankful: but 'twas not enough that he and his
comrades in no long time waxed very wealthy; their covetousness was
inordinate, and, while they sought to gratify it, they chanced in an
encounter with certain Saracen ships to be taken after a long defence,
and despoiled, and, most part of them, thrown into the sea by their
captors, who, after sinking his ship, took Martuccio with them to Tunis,
and clapped him in prison, and there kept him a long time in a very sad
plight.

Meanwhile, not by one or two, but by divers and not a few persons,
tidings reached Lipari that all that were with Martuccio aboard his bark
had perished in the sea. The damsel, whose grief on Martuccio's departure
had known no bounds, now hearing that he was dead with the rest, wept a
great while, and made up her mind to have done with life; but, lacking
the resolution to lay violent hands upon herself, she bethought her how
she might devote herself to death by some novel expedient. So one night
she stole out of her father's house, and hied her to the port, and there
by chance she found, lying a little apart from the other craft, a fishing
boat, which, as the owners had but just quitted her, was still equipped
with mast and sails and oars. Aboard which boat she forthwith got, and
being, like most of the women of the island, not altogether without
nautical skill, she rowed some distance out to sea, and then hoisted
sail, and cast away oars and tiller, and let the boat drift, deeming that
a boat without lading or steersman would certainly be either capsized by
the wind or dashed against some rock and broken in pieces, so that escape
she could not, even if she would, but must perforce drown. And so, her
head wrapped in a mantle, she stretched herself weeping on the floor of
the boat. But it fell out quite otherwise than she had conjectured: for,
the wind being from the north, and very equable, with next to no sea, the
boat kept an even keel, and next day about vespers bore her to land hard
by a city called Susa, full a hundred miles beyond Tunis. To the damsel
'twas all one whether she were at sea or ashore, for, since she had been
aboard, she had never once raised, nor, come what might, meant she ever
to raise, her head.

Now it so chanced, that, when the boat grounded, there was on the shore a
poor woman that was in the employ of some fishermen, whose nets she was
just taking out of the sunlight. Seeing the boat under full sail, she
marvelled how it should be suffered to drive ashore, and conjectured that
the fishermen on board were asleep. So to the boat she hied her, and
finding therein only the damsel fast asleep, she called her many times,
and at length awakened her; and perceiving by her dress that she was a
Christian, she asked her in Latin how it was that she was come thither
all alone in the boat. Hearing the Latin speech, the damsel wondered
whether the wind had not shifted, and carried her back to Lipari: so up
she started, gazed about her, and finding herself ashore and the aspect
of the country strange, asked the good woman where she was. To which the
good woman made answer:--"My daughter, thou art hard by Susa in Barbary."
Whereupon the damsel, sorrowful that God had not seen fit to accord her
the boon of death, apprehensive of dishonour, and at her wits' end, sat
herself down at the foot of her boat, and burst into tears. Which the
good woman saw not without pity, and persuaded her to come with her into
her hut, and there by coaxing drew from her how she was come thither; and
knowing that she could not but be fasting, she set before her her own
coarse bread and some fish and water, and prevailed upon her to eat a
little. Gostanza thereupon asked her, who she was that thus spoke Latin;
whereto she answered that her name was Carapresa, and that she was from
Trapani, where she had served some Christian fishermen. To the damsel,
sad indeed though she was, this name Carapresa, wherefore she knew not,
seemed to be of happy augury, so that she began to take hope, she knew
not why, and to grow somewhat less fain of death: wherefore without
disclosing who or whence she was, she earnestly besought the good woman
for the love of God to have pity on her youth, and advise her how best to
avoid insult. Whereupon Carapresa, good woman that she was, left her in
her hut, while with all speed she picked up her nets; and on her return
she wrapped her in her own mantle, and led her to Susa. Arrived there,
she said to her:--"Gostanza, I shall bring thee to the house of an
excellent Saracen lady, for whom I frequently do bits of work, as she has
occasion: she is an old lady and compassionate: I will commend thee to
her care as best I may, and I doubt not she will right gladly receive
thee, and entreat thee as her daughter: and thou wilt serve her, and,
while thou art with her, do all thou canst to gain her favour, until such
time as God may send thee better fortune;" and as she said, so she did.

The old lady listened, and then, gazing steadfastly in the damsel's face,
shed tears, and taking her hand, kissed her forehead, and led her into
the house, where she and some other women dwelt quite by themselves,
doing divers kinds of handiwork in silk and palm leaves and leather.
Wherein the damsel in a few days acquired some skill, and thenceforth
wrought together with them; and rose wondrous high in the favour and good
graces of all the ladies, who soon taught her their language.

Now while the damsel, mourned at home as lost and dead, dwelt thus at
Susa, it so befell that, Mariabdela being then King of Tunis, a young
chieftain in Granada, of great power, and backed by mighty allies, gave
out that the realm of Tunis belonged to him, and having gathered a vast
army, made a descent upon Tunis with intent to expel the King from the
realm. Martuccio Gomito, who knew the language of Barbary well, heard the
tidings in prison, and learning that the King of Tunis was mustering a
mighty host for the defence of his kingdom, said to one of the warders
that were in charge of him and his comrades:--"If I might have speech of
the King, I am confident that the advice that I should give him would
secure him the victory." The warder repeated these words to his chief,
who forthwith carried them to the King. Wherefore by the King's command
Martuccio was brought before him, and being asked by him what the advice,
of which he had spoken, might be, answered on this wise:--"Sire, if in
old days, when I was wont to visit this country of yours, I duly observed
the manner in which you order your battle, methinks you place your main
reliance upon archers; and therefore, if you could contrive that your
enemy's supply of arrows should give out and your own continue plentiful,
I apprehend that you would win the battle." "Ay indeed," replied the
King, "I make no doubt that, could I but accomplish that, I should
conquer." "Nay but, Sire," returned Martuccio, "you may do it, if you
will. Listen, and I will tell you how. You must fit the bows of your
archers with strings much finer than those that are in common use, and
match them with arrows, the notches of which will not admit any but these
fine strings; and this you must do so secretly that your enemy may not
know it, else he will find means to be even with you. Which counsel I
give you for the following reason:--When your and your enemy's archers
have expended all their arrows, you wot that the enemy will fall to
picking up the arrows that your men have shot during the battle, and your
men will do the like by the enemy's arrows; but the enemy will not be
able to make use of your men's arrows, by reason that their fine notches
will not suffice to admit the stout strings, whereas your men will be in
the contrary case in regard of the enemy's arrows, for the fine string
will very well receive the large-notched arrow, and so your men will have
an abundant supply of arrows, while the enemy will be at a loss for
them."

The King, who lacked not sagacity, appreciated Martuccio's advice, and
gave full effect to it; whereby he came out of the war a conqueror, and
Martuccio, being raised to the chief place in his favour, waxed rich and
powerful. Which matters being bruited throughout the country, it came to
the ears of Gostanza that Martuccio Gomito, whom she had long supposed to
be dead, was alive; whereby her love for him, some embers of which still
lurked in her heart, burst forth again in sudden flame, and gathered
strength, and revived her dead hope. Wherefore she frankly told all her
case to the good lady with whom she dwelt, saying that she would fain go
to Tunis, that her eyes might have assurance of that which the report
received by her ears had made them yearn to see. The lady fell heartily
in with the girl's desire, and, as if she had been her mother, embarked
with her for Tunis, where on their arrival they were honourably received
in the house of one of her kinswomen. Carapresa, who had attended her,
being sent to discover what she might touching Martuccio, brought back
word that he was alive, and high in honour and place. The gentlewoman was
minded that none but herself should apprise Martuccio of the arrival of
his Gostanza: wherefore she hied her one day to Martuccio, and
said:--"Martuccio, there is come to my house a servant of thine from
Lipari, who would fain speak with thee here privily, and for that he
would not have me trust another, I am come hither myself to deliver his
message." Martuccio thanked her, and forthwith hied him with her to her
house: where no sooner did the girl see him than she all but died for
joy, and carried away by her feelings, fell upon his neck with open arms
and embraced him, and, what with sorrow of his past woes and her present
happiness, said never a word, but softly wept. Martuccio regarded her for
a while in silent wonder; then, heaving a sigh, he said:--"Thou livest
then, my Gostanza? Long since I heard that thou wast lost; nor was aught
known of thee at home." Which said, he tenderly and with tears embraced
her. Gostanza told him all her adventures, and how honourably she had
been entreated by the gentlewoman with whom she had dwelt. And so long
time they conversed, and then Martuccio parted from her, and hied him
back to his lord the King, and told him all, to wit, his own adventures
and those of the girl, adding that with his leave he was minded to marry
her according to our law. Which matters the King found passing strange;
and having called the girl to him, and learned from her that 'twas even
as Martuccio had said:--"Well indeed," quoth he, "hast thou won thy
husband." Then caused he gifts most ample and excellent to be brought
forth, part of which he gave to Gostanza, and part to Martuccio, leaving
them entirely to their own devices in regard of one another. Then
Martuccio, in terms most honourable, bade farewell to the old lady with
whom Gostanza had dwelt, thanking her for the service she had rendered to
Gostanza, and giving her presents suited to her condition, and commending
her to God, while Gostanza shed many a tear: after which, by leave of the
King, they went aboard a light bark, taking with them Carapresa, and,
sped by a prosperous breeze, arrived at Lipari, where they were received
with such cheer as 'twere vain to attempt to describe. There were
Martuccio and Gostanza wedded with all pomp and splendour; and there long
time in easeful peace they had joyance of their love.


NOVEL III.

--
Pietro Boccamazza runs away with Agnolella, and encounters a gang of
robbers: the girl takes refuge in a wood, and is guided to a castle.
Pietro is taken, but escapes out of the hands of the robbers, and after
some adventures arrives at the castle where Agnolella is, marries her,
and returns with her to Rome.
--

Ended Emilia's story, which none of the company spared to commend, the
queen, turning to Elisa, bade her follow suit; and she, with glad
obedience, thus began:--

'Tis a story, sweet ladies, of a woeful night passed by two indiscreet
young lovers that I have in mind; but, as thereon ensued not a few days
of joy, 'tis not inapposite to our argument, and shall be narrated.

'Tis no long time since at Rome, which, albeit now the tail,(1) was of
yore the head, of the world, there dwelt a young man, Pietro Boccamazza
by name, a scion of one of the most illustrious of the Roman houses, who
became enamoured of a damsel exceeding fair, and amorous withal--her name
Agnolella--the daughter of one Gigliuozzo Saullo, a plebeian, but in high
repute among the Romans. Nor, loving thus, did Pietro lack the address to
inspire in Agnolella a love as ardent as his own. Wherefore, overmastered
by his passion, and minded no longer to endure the sore suffering that it
caused him, he asked her in marriage. Whereof his kinsfolk were no sooner
apprised, than with one accord they came to him and strongly urged him to
desist from his purpose: they also gave Gigliuozzo Saullo to understand
that he were best to pay no sort of heed to Pietro's words, for that, if
he so did, they would never acknowledge him as friend or relative. Thus
to see himself debarred of the one way by which he deemed he might attain
to his desire, Pietro was ready to die for grief, and, all his kinsfolk
notwithstanding, he would have married Gigliuozzo's daughter, had but the
father consented. Wherefore at length he made up his mind that, if the
girl were willing, nought should stand in the way; and having through a
common friend sounded the damsel and found her apt, he brought her to
consent to elope with him from Rome. The affair being arranged, Pietro
and she took horse betimes one morning, and sallied forth for Anagni,
where Pietro had certain friends, in whom he placed much trust; and as
they rode, time not serving for full joyance of their love, for they
feared pursuit, they held converse thereof, and from time to time
exchanged a kiss. Now it so befell, that, the way being none too well
known to Pietro, when, perhaps eight miles from Rome, they should have
turned to the right, they took instead a leftward road. Whereon when they
had ridden but little more than two miles, they found themselves close to
a petty castle, whence, so soon as they were observed, there issued some
dozen men at arms; and, as they drew near, the damsel, espying them, gave
a cry, and said:--"We are attacked, Pietro, let us flee;" and guiding her
nag as best she knew towards a great forest, she planted the spurs in his
sides, and so, holding on by the saddle-bow, was borne by the goaded
creature into the forest at a gallop. Pietro, who had been too engrossed
with her face to give due heed to the way, and thus had not been ware, as
soon as she, of the approach of the men at arms, was still looking about
to see whence they were coming, when they came up with him, and took him
prisoner, and forced him to dismount. Then they asked who he was, and,
when he told them, they conferred among themselves, saying:--"This is one
of the friends of our enemies: what else can we do but relieve him of his
nag and of his clothes, and hang him on one of these oaks in scorn of the
Orsini?" To which proposal all agreeing, they bade Pietro strip himself:
but while, already divining his fate, he was so doing, an ambuscade of
full five-and-twenty men at arms fell suddenly upon them,
crying:--"Death, death!" Thus surprised, they let Pietro go, and stood on
the defensive; but, seeing that the enemy greatly outnumbered them, they
took to their heels, the others giving chase. Whereupon Pietro hastily
resumed his clothes, mounted his nag, and fled with all speed in the
direction which he had seen the damsel take. But finding no road or path
through the forest, nor discerning any trace of a horse's hooves, he
was--for that he found not the damsel--albeit he deemed himself safe out
of the clutches of his captors and their assailants, the most wretched
man alive, and fell a weeping and wandering hither and thither about the
forest, uttering Agnolella's name. None answered; but turn back he dared
not: so on he went, not knowing whither he went; besides which, he was in
mortal dread of the wild beasts that infest the forest, as well on
account of himself as of the damsel, whom momently he seemed to see
throttled by some bear or wolf. Thus did our unfortunate Pietro spend the
whole day, wandering about the forest, making it to resound with his
cries of Agnolella's name, and harking at times back, when he thought to
go forward; until at last, what with his cries and his tears and his
fears and his long fasting, he was so spent that he could go no further.
'Twas then nightfall, and, as he knew not what else to do, he dismounted
at the foot of an immense oak, and having tethered his nag to the trunk,
climbed up into the branches, lest he should be devoured by the wild
beasts during the night. Shortly afterwards the moon rose with a very
clear sky, and Pietro, who dared not sleep, lest he should fall, and
indeed, had he been secure from that risk, his misery and his anxiety on
account of the damsel would not have suffered him to sleep, kept watch,
sighing and weeping and cursing his evil luck.

Now the damsel, who, as we said before, had fled she knew not whither,
allowing her nag to carry her whithersoever he would, strayed so far into
the forest that she lost sight of the place where she had entered it, and
spent the whole day just as Pietro had done, wandering about the
wilderness, pausing from time to time, and weeping, and uttering his
name, and bewailing her evil fortune. At last, seeing that 'twas now the
vesper hour and Pietro came not, she struck into a path, which the nag
followed, until, after riding some two miles, she espied at some distance
a cottage, for which she made with all speed, and found there a good man,
well stricken in years, with his wife, who was likewise aged. Seeing her
ride up alone, they said:--"Daughter, wherefore ridest thou thus alone at
this hour in these parts?" Weeping, the damsel made answer that she had
lost her companion in the forest, and asked how far might Anagni be from
there? "My daughter," returned the good man, "this is not the road to
Anagni; 'tis more than twelve miles away." "And how far off," inquired
the damsel, "are the nearest houses in which one might find lodging for
the night?" "There are none so near," replied the good man, "that thou
canst reach them to-day." "Then, so please you," said the damsel, "since
go elsewhither I cannot, for God's sake let me pass the night here with
you." Whereto the good man made answer:--"Damsel, welcome art thou to
tarry the night with us; but still thou art to know that these parts are
infested both by day and by night by bands, which, be they friends or be
they foes, are alike ill to meet with, and not seldom do much despite and
mischief, and if by misadventure one of these bands should visit us while
thou wert here, and marking thy youth and beauty should do thee despite
and dishonour, we should be unable to afford thee any succour. This we
would have thee know, that if it should so come to pass, thou mayst not
have cause to reproach us." The damsel heard not the old man's words
without dismay; but, seeing that the hour was now late, she
answered:--"God, if He be so pleased, will save both you and me from such
molestation, and if not, 'tis a much lesser evil to be maltreated by men
than to be torn in pieces by the wild beasts in the forest." So saying,
she dismounted, and entered the cottage, where, having supped with the
poor man and his wife on such humble fare as they had, she laid herself
in her clothes beside them in their bed. She slept not, however; for her
own evil plight and that of Pietro, for whom she knew not how to augur
aught but evil, kept her sighing and weeping all night long. And towards
matins she heard a great noise as of men that marched; so up she got and
hied her into a large courtyard that was in rear of the cottage, and part
of which was covered with a great heap of hay, which she espying, hid
herself therein, that, if the men came there, they might not so readily
find her. Scarce had she done so than the men, who proved to be a strong
company of marauders, were at the door of the cottage, which they forced
open; and having entered, and found the damsel's nag, still saddled, they
asked who was there. The damsel being out of sight, the good man
answered:--"There is none here but my wife and I; but this nag, which has
given some one the slip, found his way hither last night, and we housed
him, lest he should be devoured by the wolves." "So!" said the chief of
the band, "as he has no owner, he will come in very handy for us."

Whereupon, in several parties, they ransacked the cottage from top to
bottom; and one party went out into the courtyard, where, as they threw
aside their lances and targets, it so befell that one of them, not
knowing where else to bestow his lance, tossed it into the hay, and was
within an ace of killing the damsel that lay hid there, as likewise she
of betraying her whereabouts, for the lance all but grazing her left
breast, insomuch that the head tore her apparel, she doubted she was
wounded, and had given a great shriek, but that, remembering where she
was, she refrained for fear. By and by the company cooked them a
breakfast of kid's and other meat, and having eaten and drunken,
dispersed in divers directions, as their affairs required, taking the
girl's nag with them. And when they were gotten some little way off, the
good man asked his wife:--"What became of the damsel, our guest of last
night, that I have not seen her since we rose?" The good woman answered
that she knew not where the damsel was, and went to look for her. The
damsel, discovering that the men were gone, came forth of the hay, and
the good man, seeing her, was overjoyed that she had not fallen into the
hands of the ruffians, and, as day was breaking, said to her:--"Now that
day is at hand, we will, so it like thee, escort thee to a castle, some
five miles hence, where thou wilt be in safety; but thou must needs go
afoot, because these villains, that are but just gone, have taken thy nag
with them." The damsel, resigning herself to her loss, besought them for
God's sake to take her to the castle: whereupon they set forth, and
arrived there about half tierce. Now the castle belonged to one of the
Orsini, Liello di Campo di Fiore by name, whose wife, as it chanced, was
there. A most kindly and good woman she was, and, recognizing the damsel
as soon as she saw her, gave her a hearty welcome and would fain have
from her a particular account of how she came there. So the damsel told
her the whole story. The lady, to whom Pietro was also known, as being a
friend of her husband, was distressed to hear of his misadventure, and
being told where he was taken, gave him up for dead. So she said to the
damsel:--"Since so it is that thou knowest not how Pietro has fared, thou
shalt stay here with me until such time as I may have opportunity to send
thee safely back to Rome."

Meanwhile Pietro, perched on his oak in as woeful a plight as might be,
had espied, when he should have been in his first sleep, a full score of
wolves, that, as they prowled, caught sight of the nag, and straightway
were upon him on all sides. The horse, as soon as he was ware of their
approach, strained on the reins till they snapped, and tried to make good
his escape; but, being hemmed in, was brought to bay, and made a long
fight of it with his teeth and hooves; but in the end they bore him down
and throttled him and forthwith eviscerated him, and, the whole pack
falling upon him, devoured him to the bone before they had done with him.
Whereat Pietro, who felt that in the nag he had lost a companion and a
comfort in his travail, was sorely dismayed, and began to think that he
should never get out of the forest. But towards dawn, he, perched there
in the oak, almost dead with cold, looking around him as he frequently
did, espied about a mile off a huge fire. Wherefore, as soon as 'twas
broad day, he got down, not without trepidation, from the oak, and bent
his steps towards the fire; and being come to it, he found, gathered
about it, a company of shepherds, eating and making merry, who took pity
on him and made him welcome. And when he had broken his fast and warmed
himself, he told them the mishap that had befallen him, and how it was
that he was come there alone, and asked them if there was a farm or
castle in those parts, whither he might betake him. The shepherds said
that about three miles away there was a castle belonging to Liello di
Campo di Fiore, where his lady was then tarrying. Pietro, much comforted,
requested to be guided thither by some of their company; whereupon two of
them right gladly escorted him. So Pietro arrived at the castle, where he
found some that knew him; and while he was endeavouring to set on foot a
search for the damsel in the forest, the lady summoned him to her
presence, and he, forthwith obeying, and seeing Agnolella with her, was
the happiest man that ever was. He yearned till he all but swooned to go
and embrace her, but refrained, for bashfulness, in the lady's presence.
And overjoyed as he was, the joy of the damsel was no less. The lady
received him with great cheer, and though, when she had heard the story
of his adventures from his own lips, she chid him not a little for having
set at nought the wishes of his kinsfolk; yet, seeing that he was still
of the same mind, and that the damsel was also constant, she said to
herself:--To what purpose give I myself all this trouble? they love one
another, they know one another; they love with equal ardour; their love
is honourable, and I doubt not is well pleasing to God, seeing that the
one has escaped the gallows and the other the lance, and both the wild
beasts: wherefore be it as they would have it. Then, turning to them, she
said:--"If 'tis your will to be joined in wedlock as man and wife, mine
jumps with it: here shall your nuptials be solemnized and at Liello's
charges, and for the rest I will see that your peace is made with your
kinsfolk." So in the castle the pair were wedded, Pietro only less blithe
than Agnolella, the lady ordering the nuptials as honourably as might be
in her mountain-home, and there they had most sweet joyance of the first
fruits of their love. So some days they tarried there, and then
accompanied by the lady with a strong escort, they took horse and
returned to Rome, where, very wroth though she found Pietro's kinsfolk
for what he had done, the lady re-established solid peace between him and
them; and so at Rome Pietro and Agnolella lived together to a good old
age in great tranquillity and happiness.

(1) In reference to the forlorn condition of the city while the seat of
the papacy was at Avignon, 1308-1377.


NOVEL IV.

--
Ricciardo Manardi is found by Messer Lizio da Valbona with his daughter,
whom he marries, and remains at peace with her father.
--

In silence Elisa received the praise bestowed on her story by her fair
companions; and then the queen called for a story from Filostrato, who
with a laugh began on this wise:--Chidden have I been so often and by so
many of you for the sore burden, which I laid upon you, of discourse
harsh and meet for tears, that, as some compensation for such annoy, I
deem myself bound to tell you somewhat that may cause you to laugh a
little: wherefore my story, which will be of the briefest, shall be of a
love, the course whereof, save for sighs and a brief passage of fear
mingled with shame, ran smooth to a happy consummation.

Know then, noble ladies, that 'tis no long time since there dwelt in
Romagna a right worthy and courteous knight, Messer Lizio da Valbona by
name, who was already verging upon old age, when, as it happened, there
was born to him of his wife, Madonna Giacomina, a daughter, who, as she
grew up, became the fairest and most debonair of all the girls of those
parts, and, for that she was the only daughter left to them, was most
dearly loved and cherished by her father and mother, who guarded her with
most jealous care, thinking to arrange some great match for her. Now
there was frequently in Messer Lizio's house, and much in his company, a
fine, lusty young man, one Ricciardo de' Manardi da Brettinoro, whom
Messer Lizio and his wife would as little have thought of mistrusting as
if he had been their own son: who, now and again taking note of the
damsel, that she was very fair and graceful, and in bearing and behaviour
most commendable, and of marriageable age, fell vehemently in love with
her, which love he was very careful to conceal. The damsel detected it,
however, and in like manner plunged headlong into love with him, to
Ricciardo's no small satisfaction. Again and again he was on the point of
speaking to her, but refrained for fear; at length, however, he summoned
up his courage, and seizing his opportunity, thus addressed
her:--"Caterina, I implore thee, suffer me not to die for love of thee."
Whereto the damsel forthwith responded:--"Nay, God grant that it be not
rather that I die for love of thee." Greatly exhilarated and encouraged,
Ricciardo made answer:--"'Twill never be by default of mine that thou
lackest aught that may pleasure thee; but it rests with thee to find the
means to save thy life and mine." Then said the damsel:--"Thou seest,
Ricciardo, how closely watched I am, insomuch that I see not how 'twere
possible for thee to come to me; but if thou seest aught that I may do
without dishonour, speak the word, and I will do it." Ricciardo was
silent a while, pondering many matters: then, of a sudden, he
said:--"Sweet my Caterina, there is but one way that I can see, to wit,
that thou shouldst sleep either on or where thou mightst have access to
the terrace by thy father's garden, where, so I but knew that thou
wouldst be there at night, I would without fail contrive to meet thee,
albeit 'tis very high." "As for my sleeping there," replied Caterina, "I
doubt not that it may be managed, if thou art sure that thou canst join
me." Ricciardo answered in the affirmative. Whereupon they exchanged a
furtive kiss, and parted.

On the morrow, it being now towards the close of May, the damsel began
complaining to her mother that by reason of the excessive heat she had
not been able to get any sleep during the night. "Daughter," said the
lady, "what heat was there? Nay, there was no heat at all." "Had you
said, 'to my thinking,' mother," rejoined Caterina, "you would perhaps
have said sooth; but you should bethink you how much more heat girls have
in them than ladies that are advanced in years." "True, my daughter,"
returned the lady, "but I cannot order that it shall be hot and cold, as
thou perchance wouldst like; we must take the weather as we find it, and
as the seasons provide it: perchance to-night it will be cooler, and thou
wilt sleep better." "God grant it be so," said Caterina, "but 'tis not
wonted for the nights to grow cooler as the summer comes on." "What
then," said the lady, "wouldst thou have me do?" "With your leave and my
father's," answered Caterina, "I should like to have a little bed made up
on the terrace by his room and over his garden, where, hearing the
nightingales sing, and being in a much cooler place, I should sleep much
better than in your room." Whereupon:--"Daughter, be of good cheer," said
the mother; "I will speak to thy father, and we will do as he shall
decide." So the lady told Messer Lizio what had passed between her and
the damsel; but he, being old and perhaps for that reason a little
morose, said:--"What nightingale is this, to whose chant she would fain
sleep? I will see to it that the cicalas shall yet lull her to sleep."
Which speech, coming to Caterina's ears, gave her such offence, that for
anger, rather than by reason of the heat, she not only slept not herself
that night, but suffered not her mother to sleep, keeping up a perpetual
complaint of the great heat. Wherefore her mother hied her in the morning
to Messer Lizio, and said to him:--"Sir, you hold your daughter none too
dear; what difference can it make to you that she lie on the terrace? She
has tossed about all night long by reason of the heat; and besides, can
you wonder that she, girl that she is, loves to hear the nightingale
sing? Young folk naturally affect their likes." Whereto Messer Lizio made
answer:--"Go, make her a bed there to your liking, and set a curtain
round it, and let her sleep there, and hear the nightingale sing to her
heart's content." Which the damsel no sooner learned, than she had a bed
made there with intent to sleep there that same night; wherefore she
watched until she saw Ricciardo, whom by a concerted sign she gave to
understand what he was to do. Messer Lizio, as soon as he had heard the
damsel go to bed, locked a door that led from his room to the terrace,
and went to sleep himself. When all was quiet, Ricciardo with the help of
a ladder got upon a wall, and standing thereon laid hold of certain
toothings of another wall, and not without great exertion and risk, had
he fallen, clambered up on to the terrace, where the damsel received him
quietly with the heartiest of cheer. Many a kiss they exchanged; and then
got them to bed, where well-nigh all night long they had solace and
joyance of one another, and made the nightingale sing not a few times.
But, brief being the night and great their pleasure, towards dawn, albeit
they wist it not, they fell asleep, Caterina's right arm encircling
Ricciardo's neck, while with her left hand she held him by that part of
his person which your modesty, my ladies, is most averse to name in the
company of men. So, peacefully they slept, and were still asleep when day
broke and Messer Lizio rose; and calling to mind that his daughter slept
on the terrace, softly opened the door, saying to himself:--Let me see
what sort of night's rest the nightingale has afforded our Caterina? And
having entered, he gently raised the curtain that screened the bed, and
saw Ricciardo asleep with her and in her embrace as described, both being
quite naked and uncovered; and having taken note of Ricciardo, he went
away, and hied him to his lady's room, and called her, saying:--"Up, up,
wife, come and see; for thy daughter has fancied the nightingale to such
purpose that she has caught him, and holds him in her hand." "How can
this be?" said the lady. "Come quickly, and thou shalt see," replied
Messer Lizio. So the lady huddled on her clothes, and silently followed
Messer Lizio, and when they were come to the bed, and had raised the
curtain, Madonna Giacomina saw plainly enough how her daughter had
caught, and did hold the nightingale, whose song she had so longed to
hear. Whereat the lady, deeming that Ricciardo had played her a cruel
trick, would have cried out and upbraided him; but Messer Lizio said to
her:--"Wife, as thou valuest my love, say not a word; for in good sooth,
seeing that she has caught him, he shall be hers. Ricciardo is a
gentleman and wealthy; an alliance with him cannot but be to our
advantage: if he would part from me on good terms, he must first marry
her, so that the nightingale shall prove to have been put in his own cage
and not in that of another." Whereby the lady was reassured, seeing that
her husband took the affair so quietly, and that her daughter had had a
good night, and was rested, and had caught the nightingale. So she kept
silence; nor had they long to wait before Ricciardo awoke; and, seeing
that 'twas broad day, deemed that 'twas as much as his life was worth,
and aroused Caterina, saying:--"Alas! my soul, what shall we do, now that
day has come and surprised me here?" Which question Messer Lizio answered
by coming forward, and saying:--"We shall do well." At sight of him
Ricciardo felt as if his heart were torn out of his body, and sate up in
the bed, and said:--"My lord, I cry you mercy for God's sake. I wot that
my disloyalty and delinquency have merited death; wherefore deal with me
even as it may seem best to you: however, I pray you, if so it may be, to
spare my life, that I die not." "Ricciardo," replied Messer Lizio, "the
love I bore thee, and the faith I reposed in thee, merited a better
return; but still, as so it is, and youth has seduced thee into such a
transgression, redeem thy life, and preserve my honour, by making
Caterina thy lawful spouse, that thine, as she has been for this past
night, she may remain for the rest of her life. In this way thou mayst
secure my peace and thy safety; otherwise commend thy soul to God."
Pending this colloquy, Caterina let go the nightingale, and having
covered herself, began with many a tear to implore her father to forgive
Ricciardo, and Ricciardo to do as Messer Lizio required, that thereby
they might securely count upon a long continuance of such nights of
delight. But there needed not much supplication; for, what with remorse
for the wrong done, and the wish to make amends, and the fear of death,
and the desire to escape it, and above all ardent love, and the craving
to possess the beloved one, Ricciardo lost no time in making frank avowal
of his readiness to do as Messer Lizio would have him. Wherefore Messer
Lizio, having borrowed a ring from Madonna Giacomina, Ricciardo did there
and then in their presence wed Caterina. Which done, Messer Lizio and the
lady took their leave, saying:--"Now rest ye a while; for so perchance
'twere better for you than if ye rose." And so they left the young folks,
who forthwith embraced, and not having travelled more than six miles
during the night, went two miles further before they rose, and so
concluded their first day. When they were risen, Ricciardo and Messer
Lizio discussed the matter with more formality; and some days afterwards
Ricciardo, as was meet, married the damsel anew in presence of their
friends and kinsfolk, and brought her home with great pomp, and
celebrated his nuptials with due dignity and splendour. And so for many a
year thereafter he lived with her in peace and happiness, and snared the
nightingales day and night to his heart's content.


NOVEL V.

--
Guidotto da Cremona dies leaving a girl to Giacomino da Pavia. She has
two lovers in Faenza, to wit, Giannole di Severino and Minghino di
Mingole, who fight about her. She is discovered to be Giannole's sister,
and is given to Minghino to wife.
--

All the ladies laughed so heartily over the story of the nightingale,
that, even when Filostrato had finished, they could not control their
merriment. However, when the laughter was somewhat abated, the queen
said:--"Verily if thou didst yesterday afflict us, to-day thou hast
tickled us to such purpose that none of us may justly complain of thee."
Then, as the turn had now come round to Neifile, she bade her give them a
story. And thus, blithely, Neifile began:--As Filostrato went to Romagna
for the matter of his discourse, I too am fain to make a short journey
through the same country in what I am about to relate to you.

I say, then, that there dwelt of yore in the city of Fano two Lombards,
the one ycleped Guidotto da Cremona and the other Giacomino da Pavia, men
advanced in life, who, being soldiers, had spent the best part of their
youth in feats of arms. Now Guidotto, being at the point of death, and
having no son or any friend or kinsman in whom he placed more trust than
in Giacomino, left him a girl of about ten years, and all that he had in
the world, and so, having given him to know not a little of his affairs,
he died. About the same time the city of Faenza, which had long been at
war and in a most sorry plight, began to recover some measure of
prosperity; and thereupon liberty to return thither on honourable terms
was accorded to all that were so minded. Whither, accordingly, Giacomino,
who had dwelt there aforetime, and liked the place, returned with all his
goods and chattels, taking with him the girl left him by Guidotto, whom
he loved and entreated as his daughter. The girl grew up as beautiful a
maiden as was to be found in the city; and no less debonair and modest
was she than fair. Wherefore she lacked not admirers; but above all two
young men, both very gallant and of equal merit, the one Giannole di
Severino, the other Minghino di Mingole, affected her with so ardent a
passion, that, growing jealous, they came to hate one another with an
inordinate hatred. Right gladly would each have espoused her, she being
now fifteen years old, but that his kinsmen forbade it; wherefore seeing
that neither might have her in an honourable way, each determined to
compass his end as best he might.

Now Giacomino had in his house an ancient maid, and a man, by name
Crivello, a very pleasant and friendly sort of fellow, with whom Giannole
grew familiar, and in due time confided to him all his love, praying him
to further the attainment of his desire, and promising to reward him
handsomely, if he did so. Crivello made answer:--"Thou must know that
there is but one way in which I might be of service to thee in this
affair: I might contrive that thou shouldst be where she is when
Giacomino is gone off to supper; but, were I to presume to say aught to
her on thy behalf, she would never listen to me. This, if it please thee,
I promise to do for thee, and will be as good as my word; and then thou
canst do whatever thou mayst deem most expedient." Giannole said that he
asked no more; and so 'twas arranged.

Meanwhile Minghino on his part had made friends with the maid, on whom he
had so wrought that she had carried several messages to the girl, and had
gone far to kindle her to his love, and furthermore had promised to
contrive that he should meet her when for any cause Giacomino should be
from home in the evening. And so it befell that no long time after these
parleys, Giacomino, by Crivello's management, was to go sup at the house
of a friend, and by preconcert between Crivello and Giannole, upon signal
given, Giannole was to come to Giacomino's house and find the door open.
The maid, on her part, witting nought of the understanding between
Crivello and Giannole, let Minghino know that Giacomino would not sup at
home, and bade him be near the house, so that he might come and enter it
on sight of a signal from her. The evening came; neither of the lovers
knew aught of what the other was about; but, being suspicious of one
another, they came to take possession, each with his own company of armed
friends. Minghino, while awaiting the signal, rested with his company in
the house of one of his friends hard by the girl's house: Giannole with
his company was posted a little farther off. Crivello and the maid, when
Giacomino was gone, did each their endeavour to get the other out of the
way. Crivello said to the maid:--"How is it thou takest not thyself off
to bed, but goest still hither and thither about the house?" And the maid
said to Crivello:--"Nay, but why goest thou not after thy master? Thou
hast supped; what awaitest thou here?" And so, neither being able to make
the other quit the post, Crivello, the hour concerted with Giannole being
come, said to himself:--What care I for her? If she will not keep quiet,
'tis like to be the worse for her. Whereupon he gave the signal, and hied
him to the door, which he had no sooner opened, than Giannole entered
with two of his companions, and finding the girl in the saloon, laid
hands on her with intent to carry her off. The girl struggled, and
shrieked amain, as did also the maid. Minghino, fearing the noise, hasted
to the spot with his companions; and, seeing that the girl was already
being borne across the threshold, they drew their swords, and cried out
in chorus:--"Ah! Traitors that ye are, ye are all dead men! 'Twill go
otherwise than ye think for. What means this force?" Which said, they
fell upon them with their swords, while the neighbours, alarmed by the
noise, came hurrying forth with lights and arms, and protested that 'twas
an outrage, and took Minghino's part. So, after a prolonged struggle,
Minghino wrested the girl from Giannole, and set her again in Giacomino's
house. Nor were the combatants separated before the officers of the
Governor of the city came up and arrested not a few of them; among them
Minghino and Giannole and Crivello, whom they marched off to prison.
However, peace being restored and Giacomino returned, 'twas with no
little chagrin that he heard of the affair; but finding upon
investigation that the girl was in no wise culpable, he was somewhat
reassured; and determined, lest the like should again happen, to bestow
the girl in marriage as soon as might be.

On the morrow the kinsfolk of the two lovers, having learned the truth of
the matter, and knowing what evil might ensue to the captives, if
Giacomino should be minded to take the course which he reasonably might,
came and gave him good words, beseeching him to let the kindly feeling,
the love, which they believed he bore to them, his suppliants, count for
more with him than the wrong that the hare-brained gallants had done him,
and on their part and their own offering to make any amend that he might
require. Giacomino, who had seen many things in his time, and lacked not
sound sense, made answer briefly:--"Gentlemen, were I in my own country,
as I am in yours, I hold myself in such sort your friend that nought
would I do in this matter, or in any other, save what might be agreeable
to you: besides which, I have the more reason to consider your wishes,
because 'tis against you yourselves that you have offended, inasmuch as
this damsel, whatever many folk may suppose, is neither of Cremona nor of
Pavia, but is of Faenza, albeit neither I nor she, nor he from whom I had
her, did ever wot whose daughter she was: wherefore, touching that you
ask of me, I will even do just as you bid me." The worthy men found it
passing strange that the girl should be of Faenza; and having thanked
Giacomino for his handsome answer, they besought him that he would be
pleased to tell them how she had come into his hands, and how he knew
that she was of Faenza. To whom Giacomino replied on this wise:--"A
comrade and friend I had, Guidotto da Cremona, who, being at the point of
death, told me that, when this city of Faenza was taken by the Emperor
Frederic, he and his comrades, entering one of the houses during the
sack, found there good store of booty, and never a soul save this girl,
who, being two years old or thereabouts, greeted him as father as he came
up the stairs; wherefore he took pity on her, and carried her with
whatever else was in the house away with him to Fano; where on his
deathbed he left her to me, charging me in due time to bestow her in
marriage, and give her all his goods and chattels by way of dowry: but,
albeit she is now of marriageable age, I have not been able to provide
her with a husband to my mind; though right glad should I be to do so,
that nought like the event of yesterday may again befall me."

Now among the rest of those present was one Guglielmo da Medicina, who
had been with Guidotto on that occasion, and knew well whose house it was
that Guidotto had sacked; and seeing the owner there among the rest, he
went up to him, and said:--"Dost hear, Bernabuccio, what Giacomino says?"
"Ay," answered Bernabuccio, "and I gave the more heed thereto, for that I
call to mind that during those disorders I lost a little daughter of just
the age that Giacomino speaks of." "'Tis verily she then," said
Guglielmo, "for once when I was with Guidotto I heard him describe what
house it was that he had sacked, and I wist that 'twas thine. Wherefore
search thy memory if there be any sign by which thou thinkest to
recognize her, and let her be examined that thou mayst be assured that
she is thy daughter." So Bernabuccio pondered a while, and then
recollected that she ought to have a scar, shewing like a tiny cross,
above her left ear, being where he had excised a tumour a little while
before that affair: wherefore without delay he went up to Giacomino, who
was still there, and besought him to let him go home with him and see the
damsel. Giacomino gladly did so, and no sooner was the girl brought into
Bernabuccio's presence, than, as he beheld her, 'twas as if he saw the
face of her mother, who was still a beautiful woman. However, he would
not rest there, but besought Giacomino of his grace to permit him to lift
a lock or two of hair above her left ear; whereto Giacomino consented. So
Bernabuccio approached her where she stood somewhat shamefast, and with
his right hand lifted her locks, and, seeing the cross, wist that in very
truth she was his daughter, and tenderly wept and embraced her, albeit
she withstood him; and then, turning to Giacomino, he said:--"My brother,
the girl is my daughter; 'twas my house that Guidotto sacked, and so
sudden was the assault that my wife, her mother, forgot her, and we have
always hitherto supposed, that, my house being burned that same day, she
perished in the flames." Catching his words, and seeing that he was
advanced in years, the girl inclined to believe him, and impelled by some
occult instinct, suffered his embraces, and melting, mingled her tears
with his. Bernabuccio forthwith sent for her mother and her sisters and
other kinswomen and her brothers, and having shewn her to them all, and
told the story, after they had done her great cheer and embraced her a
thousand times, to Giacomino's no small delight, he brought her home with
him. Which coming to the ears of the Governor of the city, the worthy
man, knowing that Giannole, whom he had in ward, was Bernabuccio's son
and the girl's brother, made up his mind to deal leniently with Giannole:
wherefore he took upon himself the part of mediator in the affair, and
having made peace between Bernabuccio and Giacomino and Giannole and
Minghino, gave Agnesa--such was the damsel's name--to Minghino to wife,
to the great delight of all Minghino's kinsfolk, and set at liberty not
only Giannole and Minghino but Crivello, and the others their
confederates in the affair. Whereupon Minghino with the blithest of
hearts wedded Agnesa with all due pomp and circumstance, and brought her
home, where for many a year thereafter he lived with her in peace and
prosperity.


NOVEL VI.

--
Gianni di Procida, being found with a damsel that he loves, and who had
been given to King Frederic, is bound with her to a stake, so to be
burned. He is recognized by Ruggieri dell' Oria, is delivered, and
marries her.
--

Neifile's story, with which the ladies were greatly delighted, being
ended, the queen called for one from Pampinea; who forthwith raised her
noble countenance, and thus began:--Mighty indeed, gracious ladies, are
the forces of Love, and great are the labours and excessive and unthought
of the perils which they induce lovers to brave; as is manifest enough by
what we have heard to-day and on other occasions: howbeit I mean to shew
you the same once more by a story of an enamoured youth.

Hard by Naples is the island of Ischia, in which there dwelt aforetime
with other young damsels one, Restituta by name, daughter of one Marin
Bolgaro, a gentleman of the island. Very fair was she, and blithe of
heart, and by a young gallant, Gianni by name, of the neighbouring islet
of Procida, was beloved more dearly than life, and in like measure
returned his love. Now, not to mention his daily resort to Ischia to see
her, there were times not a few when Gianni, not being able to come by a
boat, would swim across from Procida by night, that he might have sight,
if of nought else, at least of the walls of her house. And while their
love burned thus fervently, it so befell that one summer's day, as the
damsel was all alone on the seashore, picking her way from rock to rock,
detaching, as she went, shells from their beds with a knife, she came to
a recess among the rocks, where for the sake, as well of the shade as of
the comfort afforded by a spring of most cool water that was there, some
Sicilian gallants, that were come from Naples, had put in with their
felucca. Who, having taken note of the damsel, that she was very fair,
and that she was not yet ware of them, and was alone, resolved to capture
her, and carry her away; nor did they fail to give effect to their
resolve; but, albeit she shrieked amain, they laid hands on her, and set
her aboard their boat, and put to sea. Arrived at Calabria, they fell a
wrangling as to whose the damsel should be, and in brief each claimed her
for his own: wherefore, finding no means of coming to an agreement, and
fearing that worse might befall them, and she bring misfortune upon them,
they resolved with one accord to give her to Frederic, King of Sicily,
who was then a young man, and took no small delight in commodities of
that quality; and so, being come to Palermo, they did.

Marking her beauty, the King set great store by her; but as she was
somewhat indisposed, he commanded that, till she was stronger, she should
be lodged and tended in a very pretty villa that was in one of his
gardens, which he called Cuba; and so 'twas done. The purloining of the
damsel caused no small stir in Ischia, more especially because 'twas
impossible to discover by whom she had been carried off. But Gianni, more
concerned than any other, despairing of finding her in Ischia, and being
apprised of the course the felucca had taken, equipped one himself, and
put to sea, and in hot haste scoured the whole coast from Minerva to
Scalea in Calabria, making everywhere diligent search for the damsel, and
in Scalea learned that she had been taken by Sicilian mariners to
Palermo. Whither, accordingly, he hied him with all speed; and there
after long search discovering that she had been given to the King, who
kept her at Cuba, he was sore troubled, insomuch that he now scarce
ventured to hope that he should ever set eyes on her, not to speak of
having her for his own, again. But still, holden by Love, and seeing that
none there knew him, he sent the felucca away, and tarried there, and
frequently passing by Cuba, he chanced one day to catch sight of her at a
window, and was seen of her, to their great mutual satisfaction. And
Gianni, taking note that the place was lonely, made up to her, and had
such speech of her as he might, and being taught by her after what
fashion he must proceed, if he would have further speech of her, he
departed, but not till he had made himself thoroughly acquainted with the
configuration of the place; and having waited until night was come and
indeed far spent, he returned thither, and though the ascent was such
that 'twould scarce have afforded lodgment to a woodpecker, won his way
up and entered the garden, where, finding a pole, he set it against the
window which the damsel had pointed out as hers, and thereby swarmed up
easily enough.

The damsel had aforetime shewn herself somewhat distant towards him,
being careful of her honour, but now deeming it already lost, she had
bethought her that there was none to whom she might more worthily give
herself than to him; and reckoning upon inducing him to carry her off,
she had made up her mind to gratify his every desire; and to that end had
left the window open that his ingress might be unimpeded. So, finding it
open, Gianni softly entered, lay down beside the damsel, who was awake,
and before they went further, opened to him all her mind, beseeching him
most earnestly to take her thence, and carry her off. Gianni replied that
there was nought that would give him so much pleasure, and that without
fail, upon leaving her, he would make all needful arrangements for
bringing her away when he next came. Whereupon with exceeding great
delight they embraced one another, and plucked that boon than which Love
has no greater to bestow; and having so done divers times, they
unwittingly fell asleep in one another's arms.

Now towards daybreak the King, who had been greatly charmed with the
damsel at first sight, happened to call her to mind, and feeling himself
fit, resolved, notwithstanding the hour, to go lie with her a while; and
so, attended by a few of his servants, he hied him privily to Cuba.
Having entered the house, he passed (the door being softly opened) into
the room in which he knew the damsel slept. A great blazing torch was
borne before him, and so, as he bent his glance on the bed, he espied the
damsel and Gianni lying asleep, naked and in one another's arms. Whereat
he was seized with a sudden and vehement passion of wrath, insomuch that,
albeit he said never a word, he could scarce refrain from slaying both of
them there and then with a dagger that he had with him. Then, bethinking
him that 'twere the depth of baseness in any man--not to say a king--to
slay two naked sleepers, he mastered himself, and determined to do them
to death in public and by fire. Wherefore, turning to a single companion
that he had with him, he said:--"What thinkest thou of this base woman,
in whom I had placed my hope?" And then he asked whether he knew the
gallant, that had presumed to enter his house to do him such outrage and
despite. Whereto the other replied that he minded not ever to have seen
him. Thereupon the King hied him out of the room in a rage, and bade take
the two lovers, naked as they were, and bind them, and, as soon as 'twas
broad day, bring them to Palermo, and bind them back to back to a stake
in the piazza, there to remain until tierce, that all might see them,
after which they were to be burned, as they had deserved. And having so
ordered, he went back to Palermo, and shut himself up in his room, very
wroth.

No sooner was he gone than there came unto the two lovers folk not a few,
who, having awakened them, did forthwith ruthlessly take and bind them:
whereat, how they did grieve and tremble for their lives, and weep and
bitterly bewail their fate, may readily be understood.

Pursuant to the King's commandment they were brought to Palermo, and
bound to a stake in the piazza; and before their eyes faggots and fire
were made ready to burn them at the hour appointed by the King. Great was
the concourse of the folk of Palermo, both men and women, that came to
see the two lovers, the men all agog to feast their eyes on the damsel,
whom they lauded for shapeliness and loveliness, and no less did the
women commend the gallant, whom in like manner they crowded to see, for
the same qualities. Meanwhile the two hapless lovers, both exceeding
shamefast, stood with bent heads bitterly bewailing their evil fortune,
and momently expecting their death by the cruel fire. So they awaited the
time appointed by the King; but their offence being bruited abroad, the
tidings reached the ears of Ruggieri dell' Oria, a man of peerless worth,
and at that time the King's admiral, who, being likewise minded to see
them, came to the place where they were bound, and after gazing on the
damsel and finding her very fair, turned to look at the gallant, whom
with little trouble he recognized, and drawing nearer to him, he asked
him if he were Gianni di Procida. Gianni raised his head, and recognizing
the admiral, made answer:--"My lord, he, of whom you speak, I was; but I
am now as good as no more." The admiral then asked him what it was that
had brought him to such a pass. Whereupon:--"Love and the King's wrath,"
quoth Gianni. The admiral induced him to be more explicit, and having
learned from him exactly how it had come about, was turning away, when
Gianni called him back, saying:--"Oh! my lord, if so it may be, procure
me one favour of him by whose behest I thus stand here." "What favour?"
demanded Ruggieri. "I see," returned Gianni, "that die I must, and that
right soon. I crave, then, as a favour, that, whereas this damsel and I,
that have loved one another more dearly than life, are here set back to
back, we may be set face to face, that I may have the consolation of
gazing on her face as I depart." Ruggieri laughed as he replied:--"With
all my heart. I will so order it that thou shalt see enough of her to
tire of her." He then left him and charged the executioners to do nothing
more without further order of the King; and being assured of their
obedience, he hied him forthwith to the King, to whom, albeit he found
him in a wrathful mood, he spared not to speak his mind, saying:--"Sire,
wherein have they wronged thee, those two young folk, whom thou hast
ordered to be burned down there in the piazza?" The King told him.
Whereupon Ruggieri continued:--"Their offence does indeed merit such
punishment, but not at thy hands, and if misdeeds should not go
unpunished, services should not go unrewarded; nay, may warrant
indulgence and mercy. Knowest thou who they are whom thou wouldst have
burned?" The King signified that he did not. Whereupon Ruggieri:--"But
I," quoth he, "am minded that thou shouldst know them, to the end that
thou mayst know with what discretion thou surrenderest thyself to a
transport of rage. The young man is the son of Landolfo di Procida,
brother of Messer Gianni di Procida, to whom thou owest it that thou art
lord and king of this island. The damsel is a daughter of Marin Bolgaro,
whose might alone to-day prevents Ischia from throwing off thy yoke.
Moreover, these young folk have long been lovers, and 'tis for that the
might of Love constrained them, and not that they would do despite to thy
lordship, that they have committed this offence, if indeed 'tis meet to
call that an offence which young folk do for Love's sake. Wherefore,
then, wouldst thou do them to death, when thou shouldst rather do them
all cheer, and honour them with lordly gifts?" The King gave ear to
Ruggieri's words, and being satisfied that he spoke sooth, repented him,
not only of his evil purpose, but of what he had already done, and
forthwith gave order to loose the two young folk from the stake, and
bring them before him; and so 'twas done. And having fully apprised
himself of their case, he saw fit to make them amends of the wrong he had
done them with honours and largess. Wherefore he caused them to be
splendidly arrayed, and being assured that they were both minded to wed,
he himself gave Gianni his bride, and loading them with rich presents,
sent them well content back to Ischia, where they were welcomed with all
festal cheer, and lived long time thereafter to their mutual solace and
delight.


NOVEL VII.

--
Teodoro, being enamoured of Violante, daughter of Messer Amerigo, his
lord, gets her with child, and is sentenced to the gallows; but while he
is being scourged thither, he is recognized by his father, and being set
at large, takes Violante to wife.
--

While they doubted whether the two lovers would be burned, the ladies
were all fear and suspense; but when they heard of their deliverance,
they all with one accord put on a cheerful countenance, praising God. The
story ended, the queen ordained that the next should be told by Lauretta,
who blithely thus began:--

Fairest ladies, what time good King Guglielmo ruled Sicily there dwelt on
the island a gentleman, Messer Amerigo Abate da Trapani by name, who was
well provided, as with other temporal goods, so also with children. For
which cause being in need of servants, he took occasion of the appearance
in Trapani waters of certain Genoese corsairs from the Levant, who,
scouring the coast of Armenia, had captured not a few boys, to purchase
of them some of these youngsters, supposing them to be Turks; among whom,
albeit most shewed as mere shepherd boys, there was one, Teodoro, by
name, whose less rustic mien seemed to betoken gentle blood. Who, though
still treated as a slave, was suffered to grow up in the house with
Messer Amerigo's children, and, nature getting the better of
circumstance, bore himself with such grace and dignity that Messer
Amerigo gladly gave him his freedom, and still deeming him to be a Turk,
had him baptized and named Pietro, and made him his majordomo, and placed
much trust in him. Now among the other children that grew up in Messer
Amerigo's house was his fair and dainty daughter, Violante; and, as her
father was in no hurry to give her in marriage, it so befell that she
became enamoured of Pietro, but, for all her love and the great conceit
she had of his qualities and conduct, she nevertheless was too shamefast
to discover her passion to him. However, Love spared her the pains, for
Pietro had cast many a furtive glance in her direction, and had grown so
enamoured of her that 'twas never well with him except he saw her; but
great was his fear lest any should detect his passion, for he deemed
'twould be the worse for him. The damsel, who was fain indeed of the
sight of him, understood his case; and to encourage him dissembled not
her exceeding great satisfaction. On which footing they remained a great
while, neither venturing to say aught to the other, much as both longed
to do so. But, while they both burned with a mutual flame, Fortune, as if
their entanglement were of her preordaining, found means to banish the
fear and hesitation that kept them tongue-tied.

Messer Amerigo possessed, a mile or so from Trapani, a goodly estate, to
which he was wont not seldom to resort with his daughter and other ladies
by way of recreation; and on one of these days, while there they tarried
with Pietro, whom they had brought with them, suddenly, as will sometimes
happen in summer, the sky became overcast with black clouds, insomuch
that the lady and her companions, lest the storm should surprise them
there, set out on their return to Trapani, making all the haste they
might. But Pietro and the girl being young, and sped perchance by Love no
less than by fear of the storm, completely outstripped her mother and the
other ladies; and when they were gotten so far ahead as to be well-nigh
out of sight of the lady and all the rest, the thunder burst upon them
peal upon peal, hard upon which came a fall of hail very thick and close,
from which the lady sought shelter in the house of a husbandman. Pietro
and the damsel, finding no more convenient refuge, betook them to an old,
and all but ruinous, and now deserted, cottage, which, however, still had
a bit of roof left, whereunder they both took their stand in such close
quarters, owing to the exiguity of the shelter, that they perforce
touched one another. Which contact was the occasion that they gathered
somewhat more courage to disclose their love; and so it was that Pietro
began on this wise:--"Now would to God that this hail might never cease,
that so I might stay here for ever!" "And well content were I," returned
the damsel. And by and by their hands met, not without a tender pressure,
and then they fell to embracing and so to kissing one another, while the
hail continued. And not to dwell on every detail, the sky was not clear
before they had known the last degree of love's felicity, and had taken
thought how they might secretly enjoy one another in the future. The
cottage being close to the city gate, they hied them thither, as soon as
the storm was overpast, and having there awaited the lady, returned home
with her. Nor, using all discretion, did they fail thereafter to meet
from time to time in secret, to their no small solace; and the affair
went so far that the damsel conceived, whereby they were both not a
little disconcerted; insomuch that the damsel employed many artifices to
arrest the course of nature, but to no effect. Wherefore Pietro, being in
fear of his life, saw nothing for it but flight, and told her so.
Whereupon:--"If thou leave me," quoth she, "I shall certainly kill
myself." Much as he loved her, Pietro answered:--"Nay but, my lady,
wherefore wouldst thou have me tarry here? Thy pregnancy will discover
our offence: thou wilt be readily forgiven; but 'twill be my woeful lot
to bear the penalty of thy sin and mine." "Pietro," returned the damsel,
"too well will they wot of my offence, but be sure that, if thou confess
not, none will ever wot of thine." Then quoth he:--"Since thou givest me
this promise, I will stay; but mind thou keep it."

The damsel, who had done her best to keep her condition secret, saw at
length by the increase of her bulk that 'twas impossible: wherefore one
day most piteously bewailing herself, she made her avowal to her mother,
and besought her to shield her from the consequences. Distressed beyond
measure, the lady chid her severely, and then asked her how it had come
to pass. The damsel, to screen Pietro, invented a story by which she put
another complexion on the affair. The lady believed her, and, that her
fall might not be discovered, took her off to one of their estates;
where, the time of her delivery being come, and she, as women do in such
a case, crying out for pain, it so befell that Messer Amerigo, whom the
lady expected not, as indeed he was scarce ever wont, to come there, did
so, having been out a hawking, and passing by the chamber where the
damsel lay, marvelled to hear her cries, and forthwith entered, and asked
what it meant. On sight of whom the lady rose and sorrowfully gave him
her daughter's version of what had befallen her. But he, less credulous
than his wife, averred that it could not be true that she knew not by
whom she was pregnant, and was minded to know the whole truth: let the
damsel confess and she might regain his favour; otherwise she must expect
no mercy and prepare for death.

The lady did all she could to induce her husband to rest satisfied with
what she had told him; but all to no purpose. Mad with rage, he rushed,
drawn sword in hand, to his daughter's bedside (she, pending the parley,
having given birth to a boy) and cried out:--"Declare whose this infant
is, or forthwith thou diest." Overcome by fear of death, the damsel broke
her promise to Pietro, and made a clean breast of all that had passed
between him and her. Whereat the knight, grown fell with rage, could
scarce refrain from slaying her. However, having given vent to his wrath
in such words as it dictated, he remounted his horse and rode to Trapani,
and there before one Messer Currado, the King's lieutenant, laid
information of the wrong done him by Pietro, in consequence whereof
Pietro, who suspected nothing, was forthwith taken, and being put to the
torture, confessed all. Some days later the lieutenant sentenced him to
be scourged through the city, and then hanged by the neck; and Messer
Amerigo, being minded that one and the same hour should rid the earth of
the two lovers and their son (for to have compassed Pietro's death was
not enough to appease his wrath), mingled poison and wine in a goblet,
and gave it to one of his servants with a drawn sword, saying:--"Get thee
with this gear to Violante, and tell her from me to make instant choice
of one of these two deaths, either the poison or the steel; else, I will
have her burned, as she deserves, in view of all the citizens; which
done, thou wilt take the boy that she bore a few days ago, and beat his
brains out against the wall, and cast his body for a prey to the dogs."

Hearing the remorseless doom thus passed by the angry father upon both
his daughter and his grandson, the servant, prompt to do evil rather than
good, hied him thence.

Now, as Pietro in execution of his sentence was being scourged to the
gallows by the serjeants, 'twas so ordered by the leaders of the band
that he passed by an inn, where were three noblemen of Armenia, sent by
the king of that country as ambassadors to Rome, to treat with the Pope
of matters of the highest importance, touching a crusade that was to be;
who, having there alighted to rest and recreate them for some days, had
received not a few tokens of honour from the nobles of Trapani, and most
of all from Messer Amerigo. Hearing the tramp of Pietro's escort, they
came to a window to see what was toward; and one of them, an aged man,
and of great authority, Fineo by name, looking hard at Pietro, who was
stripped from the waist up, and had his hands bound behind his back,
espied on his breast a great spot of scarlet, not laid on by art, but
wrought in the skin by operation of Nature, being such as the ladies here
call a rose. Which he no sooner saw, than he was reminded of a son that
had been stolen from him by corsairs on the coast of Lazistan some
fifteen years before, nor had he since been able to hear tidings of him;
and guessing the age of the poor wretch that was being scourged, he set
it down as about what his son's would be, were he living, and, what with
the mark and the age, he began to suspect that 'twas even his son, and
bethought him that, if so, he would scarce as yet have forgotten his name
or the speech of Armenia. Wherefore, as he was within earshot he called
to him:--"Teodoro!" At the word Pietro raised his head: whereupon Fineo,
speaking in Armenian, asked him:--"Whence and whose son art thou?" The
serjeants, that were leading him, paused in deference to the great man,
and so Pietro answered:--"Of Armenia was I, son of one Fineo, brought
hither by folk I wot not of, when I was but a little child." Then Fineo,
witting that in very truth 'twas the boy that he had lost, came down with
his companions, weeping; and, all the serjeants making way, he ran to
him, and embraced him, and doffing a mantle of richest texture that he
wore, he prayed the captain of the band to be pleased to tarry there
until he should receive orders to go forward, and was answered by the
captain that he would willingly so wait.

Fineo already knew, for 'twas bruited everywhere, the cause for which
Pietro was being led to the gallows; wherefore he straightway hied him
with his companions and their retinue to Messer Currado, and said to
him:--"Sir, this lad, whom you are sending to the gallows like a slave,
is freeborn, and my son, and is ready to take to wife her whom, as 'tis
said, he has deflowered; so please you, therefore, delay the execution
until such time as it may be understood whether she be minded to have him
for husband, lest, should she be so minded, you be found to have broken
the law." Messer Currado marvelled to hear that Pietro was Fineo's son,
and not without shame, albeit 'twas not his but Fortune's fault,
confessed that 'twas even as Fineo said: and having caused Pietro to be
taken home with all speed, and Messer Amerigo to be brought before him,
told him the whole matter. Messer Amerigo, who supposed that by this time
his daughter and grandson must be dead, was the saddest man in the world
to think that 'twas by his deed, witting that, were the damsel still
alive, all might very easily be set right: however, he sent post haste to
his daughter's abode, revoking his orders, if they were not yet carried
out. The servant, whom he had earlier despatched, had laid the sword and
poison before the damsel, and, for that she was in no hurry to make her
choice, was giving her foul words, and endeavouring to constrain her
thereto, when the messenger arrived; but on hearing the injunction laid
upon him by his lord, he desisted, and went back, and told him how things
stood. Whereupon Messer Amerigo, much relieved, hied him to Fineo, and
well-nigh weeping, and excusing himself for what had befallen, as best he
knew how, craved his pardon, and professed himself well content to give
Teodoro, so he were minded to have her, his daughter to wife. Fineo
readily accepted his excuses, and made answer:--"'Tis my will that my son
espouse your daughter, and, so he will not, let thy sentence passed upon
him be carried out."

So Fineo and Messer Amerigo being agreed, while Teodoro still languished
in fear of death, albeit he was glad at heart to have found his father,
they questioned him of his will in regard of this matter.

When he heard that, if he would, he might have Violante to wife,
Teodoro's delight was such that he seemed to leap from hell to paradise,
and said that, if 'twas agreeable to them all, he should deem it the
greatest of favours. So they sent to the damsel to learn her pleasure:
who, having heard how it had fared, and was now like to fare, with
Teodoro, albeit, saddest of women, she looked for nought but death, began
at length to give some credence to their words, and to recover heart a
little, and answered that, were she to follow the bent of her desire,
nought that could happen would delight her more than to be Teodoro's
wife; but nevertheless she would do as her father bade her.

So, all agreeing, the damsel was espoused with all pomp and festal cheer,
to the boundless delight of all the citizens, and was comforted, and
nurtured her little boy, and in no long time waxed more beautiful than
ever before; and, her confinement being ended, she presented herself
before Fineo, who was then about to quit Rome on his homeward journey,
and did him such reverence as is due to a father. Fineo, mighty well
pleased to have so fair a daughter-in-law, caused celebrate her nuptials
most bravely and gaily, and received, and did ever thereafter entreat,
her as his daughter.

And so he took her, not many days after the festivities were ended, with
his son and little grandson, aboard a galley, and brought them to
Lazistan, and there thenceforth the two lovers dwelt with him in easeful
and lifelong peace.


NOVEL VIII.

--
Nastagio degli Onesti, loving a damsel of the Traversari family, by
lavish expenditure gains not her love. At the instance of his kinsfolk he
hies him to Chiassi, where he sees a knight hunt a damsel and slay her
and cause her to be devoured by two dogs. He bids his kinsfolk and the
lady that he loves to breakfast. During the meal the said damsel is torn
in pieces before the eyes of the lady, who, fearing a like fate, takes
Nastagio to husband.
--

Lauretta was no sooner silent than thus at the queen's behest began
Filomena:--Sweet ladies, as in us pity has ever its meed of praise, even
so Divine justice suffers not our cruelty to escape severe chastisement:
the which that I may shew you, and thereby dispose you utterly to banish
that passion from your souls, I am minded to tell you a story no less
touching than delightsome.

In Ravenna, that most ancient city of Romagna, there dwelt of yore
noblemen and gentlemen not a few, among whom was a young man, Nastagio
degli Onesti by name, who by the death of his father and one of his
uncles inherited immense wealth. Being without a wife, Nastagio, as 'tis
the way with young men, became enamoured of a daughter of Messer Paolo
Traversaro, a damsel of much higher birth than his, whose love he hoped
to win by gifts and the like modes of courting, which, albeit they were
excellent and fair and commendable, not only availed him not, but seemed
rather to have the contrary effect, so harsh and ruthless and unrelenting
did the beloved damsel shew herself towards him; for whether it was her
uncommon beauty or her noble lineage that puffed her up, so haughty and
disdainful was she grown that pleasure she had none either in him or in
aught that pleased him. The burden of which disdain Nastagio found so
hard to bear, that many a time, when he had made his moan, he longed to
make away with himself. However he refrained therefrom, and many a time
resolved to give her up altogether, or, if so he might, to hold her in
despite, as she did him: but 'twas all in vain, for it seemed as if, the
more his hope dwindled, the greater grew his love. And, as thus he
continued, loving and spending inordinately, certain of his kinsfolk and
friends, being apprehensive lest he should waste both himself and his
substance, did many a time counsel and beseech him to depart Ravenna, and
go tarry for a time elsewhere, that so he might at once cool his flame
and reduce his charges. For a long while Nastagio answered their
admonitions with banter; but as they continued to ply him with them, he
grew weary of saying no so often, and promised obedience. Whereupon he
equipped himself as if for a journey to France or Spain, or other distant
parts, got on horseback and sallied forth of Ravenna, accompanied by not
a few of his friends, and being come to a place called Chiassi, about
three miles from Ravenna, he halted, and having sent for tents and
pavilions, told his companions that there he meant to stay, and they
might go back to Ravenna. So Nastagio pitched his camp, and there
commenced to live after as fine and lordly a fashion as did ever any man,
bidding divers of his friends from time to time to breakfast or sup with
him, as he had been wont to do. Now it so befell that about the beginning
of May, the season being very fine, he fell a brooding on the cruelty of
his mistress, and, that his meditations might be the less disturbed, he
bade all his servants leave him, and sauntered slowly, wrapt in thought,
as far as the pinewood. Which he had threaded for a good half-mile, when,
the fifth hour of the day being well-nigh past, yet he recking neither of
food nor of aught else, 'twas as if he heard a woman wailing exceedingly
and uttering most piercing shrieks: whereat, the train of his sweet
melancholy being broken, he raised his head to see what was toward, and
wondered to find himself in the pinewood; and saw, moreover, before him
running through a grove, close set with underwood and brambles, towards
the place where he was, a damsel most comely, stark naked, her hair
dishevelled, and her flesh all torn by the briers and brambles, who wept
and cried piteously for mercy; and at her flanks he saw two mastiffs,
exceeding great and fierce, that ran hard upon her track, and not seldom
came up with her and bit her cruelly; and in the rear he saw, riding a
black horse, a knight sadly accoutred, and very wrathful of mien,
carrying a rapier in his hand, and with despiteful, blood-curdling words
threatening her with death. Whereat he was at once amazed and appalled,
and then filled with compassion for the hapless lady, whereof was bred a
desire to deliver her, if so he might, from such anguish and peril of
death. Wherefore, as he was unarmed, he ran and took in lieu of a cudgel
a branch of a tree, with which he prepared to encounter the dogs and the
knight. Which the knight observing, called to him before he was come to
close quarters, saying:--"Hold off, Nastagio, leave the dogs and me alone
to deal with this vile woman as she has deserved." And, even as he spoke,
the dogs gripped the damsel so hard on either flank that they arrested
her flight, and the knight, being come up, dismounted. Whom Nastagio
approached, saying:--"I know not who thou art, that knowest me so well,
but thus much I tell thee: 'tis a gross outrage for an armed knight to go
about to kill a naked woman, and set his dogs upon her as if she were a
wild beast: rest assured that I shall do all I can to protect her."
Whereupon:--"Nastagio," replied the knight, "of the same city as thou was
I, and thou wast yet a little lad when I, Messer Guido degli Anastagi by
name, being far more enamoured of this damsel than thou art now of her of
the Traversari, was by her haughtiness and cruelty brought to so woeful a
pass that one day in a fit of despair I slew myself with this rapier
which thou seest in my hand; for which cause I am condemned to the
eternal pains. Nor was it long after my death that she, who exulted
therein over measure, also died, and for that she repented her not of her
cruelty and the joy she had of my sufferings, for which she took not
blame to herself, but merit, was likewise condemned to the pains of hell.
Nor had she sooner made her descent, than for her pain and mine 'twas
ordained, that she should flee before me, and that I, who so loved her,
should pursue her, not as my beloved lady, but as my mortal enemy, and
so, as often as I come up with her, I slay her with this same rapier with
which I slew myself, and having ripped her up by the back, I take out
that hard and cold heart, to which neither love nor pity had ever access,
and therewith her other inward parts, as thou shalt forthwith see, and
cast them to these dogs to eat. And in no long time, as the just and
mighty God decrees, she rises even as if she had not died, and
recommences her dolorous flight, I and the dogs pursuing her. And it so
falls out that every Friday about this hour I here come up with her, and
slaughter her as thou shalt see; but ween not that we rest on other days;
for there are other places in which I overtake her, places in which she
used, or devised how she might use, me cruelly; on which wise, changed as
thou seest from her lover into her foe, I am to pursue her for years as
many as the months during which she shewed herself harsh to me. Wherefore
leave me to execute the decree of the Divine justice, and presume not to
oppose that which thou mayst not avail to withstand."

Affrighted by the knight's words, insomuch that there was scarce a hair
on his head but stood on end, Nastagio shrank back, still gazing on the
hapless damsel, and waited all a tremble to see what the knight would do.
Nor had he long to wait; for the knight, as soon as he had done speaking,
sprang, rapier in hand, like a mad dog upon the damsel, who, kneeling,
while the two mastiffs gripped her tightly, cried him mercy; but the
knight, thrusting with all his force, struck her between the breasts, and
ran her clean through the body. Thus stricken, the damsel fell forthwith
prone on the ground sobbing and shrieking: whereupon the knight drew
forth a knife, and having therewith opened her in the back, took out the
heart and all the circumjacent parts, and threw them to the two mastiffs,
who, being famished, forthwith devoured them. And in no long time the
damsel, as if nought thereof had happened, started to her feet, and took
to flight towards the sea, pursued, and ever and anon bitten, by the
dogs, while the knight, having gotten him to horse again, followed them
as before, rapier in hand; and so fast sped they that they were quickly
lost to Nastagio's sight.

Long time he stood musing on what he had seen, divided between pity and
terror, and then it occurred to him that, as this passed every Friday, it
might avail him not a little. So, having marked the place, he rejoined
his servants, and in due time thereafter sent for some of his kinsfolk
and friends, and said to them:--"'Tis now a long while that you urge me
to give up loving this lady that is no friend to me, and therewith make
an end of my extravagant way of living; and I am now ready so to do,
provided you procure me one favour, to wit, that next Friday Messer Paolo
Traversaro, and his wife and daughter, and all the ladies, their
kinswomen, and as many other ladies as you may be pleased to bid, come
hither to breakfast with me: when you will see for yourselves the reason
why I so desire." A small matter this seemed to them; and so, on their
return to Ravenna, they lost no time in conveying Nastagio's message to
his intended guests: and, albeit she was hardly persuaded, yet in the end
the damsel that Nastagio loved came with the rest.

Nastagio caused a lordly breakfast to be prepared, and had the tables set
under the pines about the place where he had witnessed the slaughter of
the cruel lady; and in ranging the ladies and gentlemen at table he so
ordered it, that the damsel whom he loved was placed opposite the spot
where it should be enacted. The last course was just served, when the
despairing cries of the hunted damsel became audible to all, to their no
small amazement; and each asking, and none knowing, what it might import,
up they all started intent to see what was toward; and perceived the
suffering damsel, and the knight and the dogs, who in a trice were in
their midst. They hollaed amain to dogs and knight, and not a few
advanced to succour the damsel: but the words of the knight, which were
such as he had used to Nastagio, caused them to fall back,
terror-stricken and lost in amazement. And when the knight proceeded to
do as he had done before, all the ladies that were there, many of whom
were of kin to the suffering damsel and to the knight, and called to mind
his love and death, wept as bitterly as if 'twere their own case.

When 'twas all over, and the lady and the knight had disappeared, the
strange scene set those that witnessed it pondering many and divers
matters: but among them all none was so appalled as the cruel damsel that
Nastagio loved, who, having clearly seen and heard all that had passed,
and being ware that it touched her more nearly than any other by reason
of the harshness that she had ever shewn to Nastagio, seemed already to
be fleeing from her angered lover, and to have the mastiffs on her
flanks. And so great was her terror that, lest a like fate should befall
her, she converted her aversion into affection, and as soon as occasion
served, which was that very night, sent a trusty chambermaid privily to
Nastagio with a request that he would be pleased to come to her, for that
she was ready in all respects to pleasure him to the full. Nastagio made
answer that he was greatly flattered, but that he was minded with her
consent to have his pleasure of her in an honourable way, to wit, by
marrying her. The damsel, who knew that none but herself was to blame
that she was not already Nastagio's wife, made answer that she consented.
Wherefore by her own mouth she acquainted her father and mother that she
agreed to marry Nastagio; and, they heartily approving her choice,
Nastagio wedded her on the ensuing Sunday, and lived happily with her
many a year. Nor was it in her instance alone that this terror was
productive of good: on the contrary, it so wrought among the ladies of
Ravenna that they all became, and have ever since been, much more
compliant with men's desires than they had been wont to be.


NOVEL IX.

--
Federigo degli Alberighi loves and is not loved in return: he wastes his
substance by lavishness until nought is left but a single falcon, which,
his lady being come to see him at his house, he gives her to eat: she,
knowing his case, changes her mind, takes him to husband and makes him
rich.
--

So ended Filomena; and the queen, being ware that besides herself only
Dioneo (by virtue of his privilege) was left to speak, said with gladsome
mien:--'Tis now for me to take up my parable; which, dearest ladies, I
will do with a story like in some degree to the foregoing, and that, not
only that you may know how potent are your charms to sway the gentle
heart, but that you may also learn how upon fitting occasions to make
bestowal of your guerdons of your own accord, instead of always waiting
for the guidance of Fortune, which most times, not wisely, but without
rule or measure, scatters her gifts.

You are then to know, that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi, a man that in our
day was, and perchance still is, had in respect and great reverence in
our city, being not only by reason of his noble lineage, but, and yet
more, for manners and merit most illustrious and worthy of eternal
renown, was in his old age not seldom wont to amuse himself by
discoursing of things past with his neighbours and other folk; wherein he
had not his match for accuracy and compass of memory and concinnity of
speech. Among other good stories, he would tell, how that there was of
yore in Florence a gallant named Federigo di Messer Filippo Alberighi,
who for feats of arms and courtesy had not his peer in Tuscany; who, as
is the common lot of gentlemen, became enamoured of a lady named Monna
Giovanna, who in her day held rank among the fairest and most elegant
ladies of Florence; to gain whose love he jousted, tilted, gave
entertainments, scattered largess, and in short set no bounds to his
expenditure. However the lady, no less virtuous than fair, cared not a
jot for what he did for her sake, nor yet for him.

Spending thus greatly beyond his means, and making nothing, Federigo
could hardly fail to come to lack, and was at length reduced to such
poverty that he had nothing left but a little estate, on the rents of
which he lived very straitly, and a single falcon, the best in the world.
The estate was at Campi, and thither, deeming it no longer possible for
him to live in the city as he desired, he repaired, more in love than
ever before; and there, in complete seclusion, diverting himself with
hawking, he bore his poverty as patiently as he might.

Now, Federigo being thus reduced to extreme poverty, it so happened that
one day Monna Giovanna's husband, who was very rich, fell ill, and,
seeing that he was nearing his end, made his will, whereby he left his
estate to his son, who was now growing up, and in the event of his death
without lawful heir named Monna Giovanna, whom he dearly loved, heir in
his stead; and having made these dispositions he died.

Monna Giovanna, being thus left a widow, did as our ladies are wont, and
repaired in the summer to one of her estates in the country which lay
very near to that of Federigo. And so it befell that the urchin began to
make friends with Federigo, and to shew a fondness for hawks and dogs,
and having seen Federigo's falcon fly not a few times, took a singular
fancy to him, and greatly longed to have him for his own, but still did
not dare to ask him of Federigo, knowing that Federigo prized him so
much. So the matter stood when by chance the boy fell sick; whereby the
mother was sore distressed, for he was her only son, and she loved him as
much as might be, insomuch that all day long she was beside him, and
ceased not to comfort him, and again and again asked him if there were
aught that he wished for, imploring him to say the word, and, if it might
by any means be had, she would assuredly do her utmost to procure it for
him. Thus repeatedly exhorted, the boy said:--"Mother mine, do but get me
Federigo's falcon, and I doubt not I shall soon be well." Whereupon the
lady was silent a while, bethinking her what she should do. She knew that
Federigo had long loved her, and had never had so much as a single kind
look from her: wherefore she said to herself:--How can I send or go to
beg of him this falcon, which by what I hear is the best that ever flew,
and moreover is his sole comfort? And how could I be so unfeeling as to
seek to deprive a gentleman of the one solace that is now left him? And
so, albeit she very well knew that she might have the falcon for the
asking, she was perplexed, and knew not what to say, and gave her son no
answer. At length, however, the love she bore the boy carried the day,
and she made up her mind, for his contentment, come what might, not to
send, but to go herself and fetch him the falcon. So:--"Be of good cheer,
my son," she said, "and doubt not thou wilt soon be well; for I promise
thee that the very first thing that I shall do tomorrow morning will be
to go and fetch thee the falcon." Whereat the child was so pleased that
he began to mend that very day.

On the morrow the lady, as if for pleasure, hied her with another lady to
Federigo's little house, and asked to see him. 'Twas still, as for some
days past, no weather for hawking, and Federigo was in his garden, busy
about some small matters which needed to be set right there. When he
heard that Monna Giovanna was at the door, asking to see him, he was not
a little surprised and pleased, and hied him to her with all speed. As
soon as she saw him, she came forward to meet him with womanly grace, and
having received his respectful salutation, said to him:--"Good morrow,
Federigo," and continued:--"I am come to requite thee for what thou hast
lost by loving me more than thou shouldst: which compensation is this,
that I and this lady that accompanies me will breakfast with thee without
ceremony this morning." "Madam," Federigo replied with all humility, "I
mind not ever to have lost aught by loving you, but rather to have been
so much profited that, if I ever deserved well in aught, 'twas to your
merit that I owed it, and to the love that I bore you. And of a surety
had I still as much to spend as I have spent in the past, I should not
prize it so much as this visit you so frankly pay me, come as you are to
one who can afford you but a sorry sort of hospitality." Which said, with
some confusion, he bade her welcome to his house, and then led her into
his garden, where, having none else to present to her by way of
companion, he said:--"Madam, as there is none other here, this good
woman, wife of this husbandman, will bear you company, while I go to have
the table set." Now, albeit his poverty was extreme, yet he had not known
as yet how sore was the need to which his extravagance had reduced him;
but this morning 'twas brought home to him, for that he could find nought
wherewith to do honour to the lady, for love of whom he had done the
honours of his house to men without number: wherefore, distressed beyond
measure, and inwardly cursing his evil fortune, he sped hither and
thither like one beside himself, but never a coin found he, nor yet aught
to pledge. Meanwhile it grew late, and sorely he longed that the lady
might not leave his house altogether unhonoured, and yet to crave help of
his own husbandman was more than his pride could brook. In these
desperate straits his glance happened to fall on his brave falcon on his
perch in his little parlour. And so, as a last resource, he took him, and
finding him plump, deemed that he would make a dish meet for such a lady.
Wherefore, without thinking twice about it, he wrung the bird's neck, and
caused his maid forthwith pluck him and set him on a spit, and roast him
carefully; and having still some spotless table linen, he had the table
laid therewith, and with a cheerful countenance hied him back to his lady
in the garden, and told her that such breakfast as he could give her was
ready. So the lady and her companion rose and came to table, and there,
with Federigo, who waited on them most faithfully, ate the brave falcon,
knowing not what they ate.

When they were risen from table, and had dallied a while in gay converse
with him, the lady deemed it time to tell the reason of her visit:
wherefore, graciously addressing Federigo, thus began she:--"Federigo, by
what thou rememberest of thy past life and my virtue, which, perchance,
thou hast deemed harshness and cruelty, I doubt not thou must marvel at
my presumption, when thou hearest the main purpose of my visit; but if
thou hadst sons, or hadst had them, so that thou mightest know the full
force of the love that is borne them, I should make no doubt that thou
wouldst hold me in part excused. Nor, having a son, may I, for that thou
hast none, claim exemption from the laws to which all other mothers are
subject, and, being thus bound to own their sway, I must, though fain
were I not, and though 'tis neither meet nor right, crave of thee that
which I know thou dost of all things and with justice prize most highly,
seeing that this extremity of thy adverse fortune has left thee nought
else wherewith to delight, divert and console thee; which gift is no
other than thy falcon, on which my boy has so set his heart that, if I
bring him it not, I fear lest he grow so much worse of the malady that he
has, that thereby it may come to pass that I lose him. And so, not for
the love which thou dost bear me, and which may nowise bind thee, but for
that nobleness of temper, whereof in courtesy more conspicuously than in
aught else thou hast given proof, I implore thee that thou be pleased to
give me the bird, that thereby I may say that I have kept my son alive,
and thus made him for aye thy debtor."

No sooner had Federigo apprehended what the lady wanted, than, for grief
that 'twas not in his power to serve her, because he had given her the
falcon to eat, he fell a weeping in her presence, before he could so much
as utter a word. At first the lady supposed that 'twas only because he
was loath to part with the brave falcon that he wept, and as good as made
up her mind that he would refuse her: however, she awaited with patience
Federigo's answer, which was on this wise:--"Madam, since it pleased God
that I should set my affections upon you there have been matters not a
few, in which to my sorrow I have deemed Fortune adverse to me; but they
have all been trifles in comparison of the trick that she now plays me:
the which I shall never forgive her, seeing that you are come here to my
poor house, where, while I was rich, you deigned not to come, and ask a
trifling favour of me, which she has put it out of my power to grant: how
'tis so, I will briefly tell you. When I learned that you, of your grace,
were minded to breakfast with me, having respect to your high dignity and
desert, I deemed it due and seemly that in your honour I should regale
you, to the best of my power, with fare of a more excellent quality than
is commonly set before others; and, calling to mind the falcon which you
now ask of me, and his excellence, I judged him meet food for you, and so
you have had him roasted on the trencher this morning; and well indeed I
thought I had bestowed him; but, as now I see that you would fain have
had him in another guise, so mortified am I that I am not able to serve
you, that I doubt I shall never know peace of mind more." In witness
whereof he had the feathers and feet and beak of the bird brought in and
laid before her.

The first thing the lady did, when she had heard Federigo's story, and
seen the relics of the bird, was to chide him that he had killed so fine
a falcon to furnish a woman with a breakfast; after which the magnanimity
of her host, which poverty had been and was powerless to impair, elicited
no small share of inward commendation. Then, frustrate of her hope of
possessing the falcon, and doubting of her son's recovery, she took her
leave with the heaviest of hearts, and hied her back to the boy: who,
whether for fretting, that he might not have the falcon, or by the
unaided energy of his disorder, departed this life not many days after,
to the exceeding great grief of his mother. For a while she would do
nought but weep and bitterly bewail herself; but being still young, and
left very wealthy, she was often urged by her brothers to marry again,
and though she would rather have not done so, yet being importuned, and
remembering Federigo's high desert, and the magnificent generosity with
which he had finally killed his falcon to do her honour, she said to her
brothers:--"Gladly, with your consent, would I remain a widow, but if you
will not be satisfied except I take a husband, rest assured that none
other will I ever take save Federigo degli Alberighi." Whereupon her
brothers derided her, saying:--"Foolish woman, what is't thou sayst? How
shouldst thou want Federigo, who has not a thing in the world?" To whom
she answered:--"My brothers, well wot I that 'tis as you say; but I had
rather have a man without wealth than wealth without a man." The
brothers, perceiving that her mind was made up, and knowing Federigo for
a good man and true, poor though he was, gave her to him with all her
wealth. And so Federigo, being mated with such a wife, and one that he
had so much loved, and being very wealthy to boot, lived happily, keeping
more exact accounts, to the end of his days.


NOVEL X.

--
Pietro di Vinciolo goes from home to sup: his wife brings a boy into the
house to bear her company: Pietro returns, and she hides her gallant
under a hen-coop: Pietro explains that in the house of Ercolano, with
whom he was to have supped, there was discovered a young man bestowed
there by Ercolano's wife: the lady thereupon censures Ercolano's wife:
but unluckily an ass treads on the fingers of the boy that is hidden
under the hen-coop, so that he cries for pain: Pietro runs to the place,
sees him, and apprehends the trick played on him by his wife, which
nevertheless he finally condones, for that he is not himself free from
blame.
--

When the queen had done speaking, and all had praised God that He had
worthily rewarded Federigo, Dioneo, who never waited to be bidden, thus
began:--I know not whether I am to term it a vice accidental and
superinduced by bad habits in us mortals, or whether it be a fault seated
in nature, that we are more prone to laugh at things dishonourable than
at good deeds, and that more especially when they concern not ourselves.
However, as the sole scope of all my efforts has been and still shall be
to dispel your melancholy, and in lieu thereof to minister to you
laughter and jollity; therefore, enamoured my damsels, albeit the ensuing
story is not altogether free from matter that is scarce seemly, yet, as
it may afford you pleasure, I shall not fail to relate it; premonishing
you my hearers, that you take it with the like discretion as when, going
into your gardens, you stretch forth your delicate hands and cull the
roses, leaving the thorns alone: which, being interpreted, means that you
will leave the caitiff husband to abide in sorry plight with his
dishonour, and will gaily laugh at the amorous wiles or his wife, and
commiserate her unfortunate gallant, when occasion requires.

'Tis no great while since there dwelt at Perugia a rich man named Pietro
di Vinciolo, who rather, perchance, to blind others and mitigate the evil
repute in which he was held by the citizens of Perugia, than for any
desire to wed, took a wife: and such being his motive, Fortune provided
him with just such a spouse as he merited. For the wife of his choice was
a stout, red-haired young woman, and so hot-blooded that two husbands
would have been more to her mind than one, whereas one fell to her lot
that gave her only a subordinate place in his regard. Which she
perceiving, while she knew herself to be fair and lusty, and felt herself
to be gamesome and fit, waxed very wroth, and now and again had high
words with her husband, and led but a sorry life with him at most times.
Then, seeing that thereby she was more like to fret herself than to
dispose her husband to conduct less base, she said to herself:--This poor
creature deserts me to go walk in pattens in the dry; wherefore it shall
go hard but I will bring another aboard the ship for the wet weather. I
married him, and brought him a great and goodly dowry, knowing that he
was a man, and supposing him to have the desires which men have and ought
to have; and had I not deemed him to be a man, I should never have
married him. He knew me to be a woman: why then took he me to wife, if
women were not to his mind? 'Tis not to be endured. Had I not been minded
to live in the world, I had become a nun; and being minded there to live,
as I am, if I am to wait until I have pleasure or solace of him, I shall
wait perchance until I am old; and then, too late, I shall bethink me to
my sorrow that I have wasted my youth; and as to the way in which I
should seek its proper solace I need no better teacher and guide than
him, who finds his delight where I should find mine, and finds it to his
own condemnation, whereas in me 'twere commendable. 'Tis but the laws
that I shall set at nought, whereas he sets both them and Nature herself
at nought.

So the good lady reasoned, and peradventure more than once; and then,
casting about how she might privily compass her end, she made friends
with an old beldam, that shewed as a veritable Santa Verdiana,
foster-mother of vipers, who was ever to be seen going to pardonings with
a parcel of paternosters in her hand, and talked of nothing but the lives
of the holy Fathers, and the wounds of St. Francis, and was generally
reputed a saint; to whom in due time she opened her whole mind. "My
daughter," replied the beldam, "God, who knows all things, knows that
thou wilt do very rightly indeed: were it for no other reason, 'twould be
meet for thee and every other young woman so to do, that the heyday of
youth be not wasted; for there is no grief like that of knowing that it
has been wasted. And what the devil are we women fit for when we are old
except to pore over the cinders on the hearth? The which if any know, and
may attest it, 'tis I, who, now that I am old, call to mind the time that
I let slip from me, not without most sore and bitter and fruitless
regret: and albeit 'twas not all wasted, for I would not have thee think
that I was entirely without sense, yet I did not make the best use of it:
whereof when I bethink me, and that I am now, even as thou seest me, such
a hag that never a spark of fire may I hope to get from any, God knows
how I rue it. Now with men 'tis otherwise: they are born meet for a
thousand uses, not for this alone; and the more part of them are of much
greater consequence in old age than in youth: but women are fit for
nought but this, and 'tis but for that they bear children that they are
cherished. Whereof, if not otherwise, thou mayst assure thyself, if thou
do but consider that we are ever ready for it; which is not the case with
men; besides which, one woman will tire out many men without being
herself tired out. Seeing then that 'tis for this we are born, I tell
thee again that thou wilt do very rightly to give thy husband thy loaf
for his cake, that in thy old age thy soul may have no cause of complaint
against thy flesh. Every one has just as much of this life as he
appropriates: and this is especially true of women, whom therefore it
behoves, much more than men, to seize the moment as it flies: indeed, as
thou mayst see for thyself, when we grow old neither husband, nor any
other man will spare us a glance; but, on the contrary, they banish us to
the kitchen, there to tell stories to the cat, and to count the pots and
pans; or, worse, they make rhymes about us:--'To the damsel dainty bits;
to the beldam ague-fits;' and such-like catches. But to make no more
words about it, I tell thee at once that there is no person in the world
to whom thou couldst open thy mind with more advantage than to me; for
there is no gentleman so fine but I dare speak my mind to him, nor any so
harsh and forbidding but I know well how to soften him and fashion him to
my will. Tell me only what thou wouldst have, and leave the rest to me:
but one word more: I pray thee to have me in kindly remembrance, for that
I am poor; and thou shalt henceforth go shares with me in all my
indulgences and every paternoster that I say, that God may make thereof
light and tapers for thy dead:" wherewith she ended.

So the lady came to an understanding with the beldam, that, as soon as
she set eyes on a boy that often came along that street, and of whom the
lady gave her a particular description, she would know what she was to
do: and thereupon the lady gave her a chunk of salt meat, and bade her
God-speed. The beldam before long smuggled into the lady's chamber the
boy of whom she had spoken, and not long after another, such being the
humour of the lady, who, standing in perpetual dread of her husband, was
disposed, in this particular, to make the most of her opportunities. And
one of these days, her husband being to sup in the evening with a friend
named Ercolano, the lady bade the beldam bring her a boy as pretty and
dainty as was to be found in Perugia; and so the beldam forthwith did.
But the lady and the boy being set at table to sup, lo, Pietro's voice
was heard at the door, bidding open to him. Whereupon the lady gave
herself up for dead; but being fain, if she might, to screen the boy, and
knowing not where else to convey or conceal him, bestowed him under a
hen-coop that stood in a veranda hard by the chamber in which they were
supping, and threw over it a sorry mattress that she had that day emptied
of its straw; which done she hastened to open the door to her husband;
saying to him as he entered:--"You have gulped your supper mighty quickly
to-night." Whereto Pietro replied:--"We have not so much as tasted it."
"How so?" enquired the lady. "I will tell thee," said Pietro. "No sooner
were we set at table, Ercolano, his wife, and I, than we heard a sneeze
close to us, to which, though 'twas repeated, we paid no heed; but as the
sneezer continued to sneeze a third, a fourth, a fifth, and many another
time to boot, we all began to wonder, and Ercolano, who was somewhat out
of humour with his wife, because she had kept us a long time at the door
before she opened it, burst out in a sort of rage with:--'What means
this? Who is't that thus sneezes?' and made off to a stair hard by,
beneath which and close to its foot was a wooden closet, of the sort
which, when folk are furnishing their houses, they commonly cause to be
placed there, to stow things in upon occasion. And as it seemed to him
that the sneezing proceeded thence, he undid the wicket, and no sooner
had he opened it than out flew never so strong a stench of brimstone;
albeit we had already been saluted by a whiff of it, and complained
thereof, but had been put off by the lady with:--''Tis but that a while
ago I bleached my veils with brimstone, having sprinkled it on a dish,
that they might catch its fumes, which dish I then placed under the
stair, so that it still smells a little.'

"However the door being now, as I have said, open, and the smoke somewhat
less dense, Ercolano, peering in, espied the fellow that had sneezed, and
who still kept sneezing, being thereto constrained by the pungency of the
brimstone. And for all he sneezed, yet was he by this time so well-nigh
choked with the brimstone that he was like neither to sneeze nor to do
aught else again. As soon as he caught sight of him, Ercolano bawled
out:--'Now see I, Madam, why it was that a while ago, when we came here,
we were kept waiting so long at the gate before 'twas opened; but woe
betide me for the rest of my days, if I pay you not out.' Whereupon the
lady, perceiving that her offence was discovered, ventured no excuse, but
fled from the table, whither I know not. Ercolano, ignoring his wife's
flight, bade the sneezer again and again to come forth; but he, being by
this time fairly spent, budged not an inch for aught that Ercolano said.
Wherefore Ercolano caught him by one of his feet, and dragged him forth,
and ran off for a knife with intent to kill him; but I, standing in fear
of the Signory on my own account, got up and would not suffer him to kill
the fellow or do him any hurt, and for his better protection raised the
alarm, whereby some of the neighbours came up and took the lad, more dead
than alive, and bore him off, I know not whither. However, our supper
being thus rudely interrupted, not only have not gulped it, but I have
not so much as tasted it, as I said before!"

Her husband's story shewed his wife that there were other ladies as
knowing as she, albeit misfortune might sometimes overtake them and
gladly would she have spoken out in defence of Ercolano's wife, but,
thinking that, by censuring another's sin, she would secure more scope
for her own, she launched out on this wise:--"Fine doings indeed, a right
virtuous and saintly lady she must be: here is the loyalty of an honest
woman, and one to whom I had lief have confessed, so spiritual I deemed
her; and the worst of it is that, being no longer young, she sets a rare
example to those that are so. Curses on the hour that she came into the
world: curses upon her that she make not away with herself, basest, most
faithless of women that she must needs be, the reproach of her sex, the
opprobrium of all the ladies of this city, to cast aside all regard for
her honour, her marriage vow, her reputation before the world, and, lost
to all sense of shame, to scruple not to bring disgrace upon a man so
worthy, a citizen so honourable, a husband by whom she was so well
treated, ay, and upon herself to boot! By my hope of salvation no mercy
should be shewn to such women; they should pay the penalty with their
lives; to the fire with them while they yet live, and let them be burned
to ashes." Then, calling to mind the lover that she had close at hand in
the hen-coop, she fell to coaxing Pietro to get him to bed, for the hour
grew late. Pietro, who was more set on eating than sleeping, only asked
whether there was aught he might have by way of supper. "Supper,
forsooth!" replied the lady. "Ay, of course 'tis our way to make much of
supper when thou art not at home. As if I were Ercolano's wife! Now,
wherefore tarry longer? Go, get thy night's rest: 'twere far better for
thee."

Now so it was that some of Pietro's husbandmen had come to the house that
evening with divers things from the farm, and had put up their asses in a
stable that adjoined the veranda, but had neglected to water them; and
one of the asses being exceeding thirsty, got his head out of the halter
and broke loose from the stable, and went about nosing everything, if
haply he might come by water: whereby he came upon the hen-coop, beneath
which was the boy; who, being constrained to stand on all fours, had the
fingers of one hand somewhat protruding from under the hen-coop; and so
as luck or rather ill-luck would have it, the ass trod on them; whereat,
being sorely hurt, he set up a great howling, much to the surprise of
Pietro, who perceived that 'twas within his house. So forth he came, and
hearing the boy still moaning and groaning, for the ass still kept his
hoof hard down on the fingers, called out:--"Who is there?" and ran to
the hen-coop and raised it, and espied the fellow, who, besides the pain
that the crushing of his fingers by the ass's hoof occasioned him,
trembled in every limb for fear that Pietro should do him a mischief. He
was one that Pietro had long been after for his foul purposes: so Pietro,
recognizing him, asked him:--"What dost thou here?" The boy making no
answer, save to beseech him for the love of God to do him no hurt, Pietro
continued:--"Get up, have no fear that I shall hurt thee; but tell
me:--How, and for what cause comest thou to be here?" The boy then
confessed everything. Whereupon Pietro, as elated by the discovery as his
wife was distressed, took him by the hand; and led him into the room
where the lady in the extremity of terror awaited him; and, having seated
himself directly in front of her, said:--"'Twas but a moment ago that
thou didst curse Ercolano's wife, and averred that she ought to be
burned, and that she was the reproach of your sex: why saidst thou not,
of thyself? Or, if thou wast not minded to accuse thyself, how hadst thou
the effrontery to censure her, knowing that thou hadst done even as she?
Verily 'twas for no other reason than that ye are all fashioned thus, and
study to cover your own misdeeds with the delinquencies of others: would
that fire might fall from heaven and burn you all, brood of iniquity that
ye are!"

The lady, marking that in the first flush of his wrath he had given her
nothing worse than hard words, and discerning, as she thought, that he
was secretly overjoyed to hold so beautiful a boy by the hand, took heart
of grace and said:--"I doubt not indeed that thou wouldst be well pleased
that fire should fall from heaven and devour us all, seeing that thou art
as fond of us as a dog is of the stick, though by the Holy Rood thou wilt
be disappointed; but I would fain have a little argument with thee, to
know whereof thou complainest. Well indeed were it with me, didst thou
but place me on an equality with Ercolano's wife, who is an old
sanctimonious hypocrite, and has of him all that she wants, and is
cherished by him as a wife should be: but that is not my case. For,
granted that thou givest me garments and shoes to my mind, thou knowest
how otherwise ill bested I am, and how long it is since last thou didst
lie with me; and far liefer had I go barefoot and in rags, and have thy
benevolence abed, than have all that I have, and be treated as thou dost
treat me. Understand me, Pietro, be reasonable; consider that I am a
woman like other women, with the like craving; whereof if thou deny me
the gratification, 'tis no blame to me that I seek it elsewhere; and at
least I do thee so much honour as not forgather with stable-boys or
scurvy knaves."

Pietro perceived that she was like to continue in this vein the whole
night: wherefore, indifferent as he was to her, he said:--"Now, Madam, no
more of this; in the matter of which thou speakest I will content thee;
but of thy great courtesy let us have something to eat by way of supper;
for, methinks, the boy, as well as I, has not yet supped." "Ay, true
enough," said the lady, "he has not supped; for we were but just sitting
down to table to sup, when, beshrew thee, thou madest thy appearance."
"Go then," said Pietro, "get us some supper; and by and by I will arrange
this affair in such a way that thou shalt have no more cause of
complaint." The lady, perceiving that her husband was now tranquil, rose,
and soon had the table laid again and spread with the supper which she
had ready; and so they made a jolly meal of it, the caitiff husband, the
lady and the boy. What after supper Pietro devised for their mutual
satisfaction has slipped from my memory. But so much as this I know, that
on the morrow as he wended his way to the piazza, the boy would have been
puzzled to say, whether of the twain, the wife or the husband, had had
the most of his company during the night. But this I would say to you,
dear my ladies, that whoso gives you tit, why, just give him tat; and if
you cannot do it at once, why, bear it in mind until you can, that even
as the ass gives, so he may receive.

Dioneo's story, whereat the ladies laughed the less for shamefastness
rather than for disrelish, being ended, the queen, taking note that the
term of her sovereignty was come, rose to her feet, and took off the
laurel wreath and set it graciously upon Elisa's head, saying:--"Madam,
'tis now your turn to bear sway." The dignity accepted, Elisa followed in
all respects the example of her predecessors: she first conferred with
the seneschal, and directed him how meetly to order all things during the
time of her sovereignty; which done to the satisfaction of the
company:--"Ofttimes," quoth she, "have we heard how with bright sallies,
and ready retorts, and sudden devices, not a few have known how to repugn
with apt checks the bites of others, or to avert imminent perils; and
because 'tis an excellent argument, and may be profitable, I ordain that
to-morrow, God helping us, the following be the rule of our discourse; to
wit, that it be of such as by some sprightly sally have repulsed an
attack, or by some ready retort or device have avoided loss, peril or
scorn." The rule being heartily approved by all, the queen rose and
dismissed them till supper-time. So the honourable company, seeing the
queen risen, rose all likewise, and as their wont was, betook them to
their diversions as to each seemed best. But when the cicalas had hushed
their chirping, all were mustered again for supper; and having blithely
feasted, they all addressed them to song and dance. And the queen, while
Emilia led a dance, called for a song from Dioneo, who at once came out
with:--'Monna Aldruda, come perk up thy mood, a piece of glad tidings I
bring thee.' Whereat all the ladies fell a laughing, and most of all the
queen, who bade him give them no more of that, but sing another. Quoth
Dioneo:--"Madam, had I a tabret, I would sing:--'Up with your smock,
Monna Lapa!' or:--'Oh! the greensward under the olive!' Or perchance you
had liefer I should give you:--'Woe is me, the wave of the sea!' But no
tabret have I: wherefore choose which of these others you will have.
Perchance you would like:--'Now hie thee to us forth, that so it may be
cut, as May the fields about.'" "No," returned the queen, "give us
another." "Then," said Dioneo, "I will sing:--'Monna Simona, embarrel,
embarrel. Why, 'tis not the month of October.'"(1) "Now a plague upon
thee," said the queen, with a laugh; "give us a proper song, wilt thou?
for we will have none of these." "Never fear, Madam," replied Dioneo;
"only say which you prefer. I have more than a thousand songs by heart.
Perhaps you would like:--'This my little covert, make I ne'er it overt';
or:--'Gently, gently, husband mine'; or:--'A hundred pounds were none too
high a price for me a cock to buy.'" The queen now shewed some offence,
though the other ladies laughed, and:--"A truce to thy jesting, Dioneo,"
said she, "and give us a proper song: else thou mayst prove the quality
of my ire." Whereupon Dioneo forthwith ceased his fooling, and sang on
this wise:--

So ravishing a light
  Doth from the fair eyes of my mistress move
  As keeps me slave to her and thee, O Love.

A beam from those bright orbs did radiate
  That flame that through mine own eyes to my breast
  Did whilom entrance gain.
  Thy majesty, O Love, thy might, how great
  They be, 'twas her fair face did manifest:
  Whereon to brood still fain,
  I felt thee take and chain
  Each sense, my soul enthralling on such wise
  That she alone henceforth evokes my sighs.

Wherefore, O dear my Lord, myself I own
  Thy slave, and, all obedience, wait and yearn,
  Till thy might me console.
  Yet wot I not if it be throughly known
  How noble is the flame wherewith I burn,
  My loyalty how whole
  To her that doth control
  Ev'n in such sort my mind that shall I none,
  Nor would I, peace receive, save hers alone.

And so I pray thee, sweet my Lord, that thou
  Give her to feel thy fire, and shew her plain
  How grievous my disease.
  This service deign to render; for that now
  Thou seest me waste for love, and in the pain
  Dissolve me by degrees:
  And then the apt moment seize
  My cause to plead with her, as is but due
  From thee to me, who fain with thee would sue.

When Dioneo's silence shewed that his song was ended, the queen accorded
it no stinted meed of praise; after which she caused not a few other
songs to be sung. Thus passed some part of the night; and then the queen,
taking note that its freshness had vanquished the heat of the day, bade
all go rest them, if they would, till the morning.

(1) The song is evidently amoebean.


--
Endeth here the fifth day of the Decameron, beginneth the sixth, wherein,
under the rule of Elisa, discourse is had of such as by some sprightly
sally have repulsed an attack, or by some ready retort or device have
avoided loss, peril or scorn.
--

Still in mid heaven, the moon had lost her radiance, nor was any part of
our world unillumined by the fresh splendour of the dawn, when, the queen
being risen and having mustered her company, they hied them, gently
sauntering, across the dewy mead some distance from the beautiful hill,
conversing now of this, now of the other matter, canvassing the stories,
their greater or less degree of beauty, and laughing afresh at divers of
their incidents, until, the sun being now in his higher ascendant, they
began to feel his heat, and turning back by common consent, retraced
their steps to the palace, where, the tables being already set, and
fragrant herbs and fair flowers strewn all about, they by the queen's
command, before it should grow hotter, addressed themselves to their
meal. So, having blithely breakfasted, they first of all sang some dainty
and jocund ditties, and then, as they were severally minded, composed
them to sleep or sat them down to chess or dice, while Dioneo and
Lauretta fell a singing of Troilus and Cressida.

The hour of session being come, they took their places, at the queen's
summons, in their wonted order by the fountain; but, when the queen was
about to call for the first story, that happened which had not happened
before; to wit, there being a great uproar in the kitchen among the maids
and men, the sound thereof reached the ears of the queen and all the
company. Whereupon the queen called the seneschal and asked him who
bawled so loud, and what was the occasion of the uproar. The seneschal
made answer that 'twas some contention between Licisca and Tindaro; but
the occasion he knew not, having but just come to quiet them, when he
received her summons. The queen then bade him cause Licisca and Tindaro
to come thither forthwith: so they came, and the queen enquired of them
the cause of the uproar. Tindaro was about to make answer, when Licisca,
who was somewhat advanced in years, and disposed to give herself airs,
and heated to the strife of words, turned to Tindaro, and scowling upon
him said:--"Unmannerly varlet that makest bold to speak before me; leave
me to tell the story." Then, turning to the queen, she said:--"Madam,
this fellow would fain instruct me as to Sicofante's wife, and--neither
more or less--as if I had not known her well--would have me believe that,
the first night that Sicofante lay with her, 'twas by force and not
without effusion of blood that Master Yard made his way into Dusky Hill;
which I deny, averring that he met with no resistance, but, on the
contrary, with a hearty welcome on the part of the garrison. And such a
numskull is he as fondly to believe that the girls are so simple as to
let slip their opportunities, while they wait on the caprice of father or
brothers, who six times out of seven delay to marry them for three or
four years after they should. Ay, ay indeed, doubtless they were well
advised to tarry so long! Christ's faith! I should know the truth of what
I swear; there is never a woman in my neighbourhood whose husband had her
virginity; and well I know how many and what manner of tricks our married
dames play their husbands; and yet this booby would fain teach me to know
women as if I were but born yesterday."

While Licisca thus spoke, the ladies laughed till all their teeth were
ready to start from their heads. Six times at least the queen bade her be
silent: but all in vain; she halted not till she had said all that she
had a mind to. When she had done, the queen turned with a smile to Dioneo
saying:--"This is a question for thee to deal with, Dioneo; so hold
thyself in readiness to give final judgment upon it, when our stories are
ended." "Madam," replied Dioneo forthwith, "I give judgment without more
ado: I say that Licisca is in the right; I believe that 'tis even as she
says, and that Tindaro is a fool." Whereupon Licisca burst out laughing,
and turning to Tindaro:--"Now did I not tell thee so?" quoth she. "Begone
in God's name: dost think to know more than I, thou that art but a
sucking babe? Thank God, I have not lived for nothing, not I." And had
not the queen sternly bade her be silent, and make no more disturbance,
unless she had a mind to be whipped, and sent both her and Tindaro back
to the kitchen, the whole day would have been spent in nought but
listening to her. So Licisca and Tindaro having withdrawn, the queen
charged Filomena to tell the first story: and gaily thus Filomena began.


NOVEL I.

--
A knight offers to carry Madonna Oretta a horseback with a story, but
tells it so ill that she prays him to dismount her.
--

As stars are set for an ornament in the serene expanse of heaven, and
likewise in springtime flowers and leafy shrubs in the green meadows, so,
damsels, in the hour of rare and excellent discourse, is wit with its
bright sallies. Which, being brief, are much more proper for ladies than
for men, seeing that prolixity of speech, where brevity is possible, is
much less allowable to them. But for whatever cause, be it the sorry
quality of our understanding, or some especial enmity that heaven bears
to our generation, few ladies or none are left to-day that, when occasion
prompts, are able to meet it with apt speech, ay, or if aught of the kind
they hear, can understand it aright: to our common shame be it spoken!
But as, touching this matter, enough has already been said by
Pampinea,(1) I purpose not to enlarge thereon; but, that you may know
what excellence resides in speech apt for the occasion, I am minded to
tell you after how courteous a fashion a lady imposed silence upon a
gentleman.

'Tis no long time since there dwelt in our city a lady, noble, debonair
and of excellent discourse, whom not a few of you may have seen or heard
of, whose name--for such high qualities merit not oblivion--was Madonna
Oretta, her husband being Messer Geri Spina. Now this lady, happening to
be, as we are, in the country, moving from place to place for pleasure
with a company of ladies and gentlemen, whom she had entertained the day
before at breakfast at her house, and the place of their next sojourn,
whither they were to go afoot, being some considerable distance off, one
of the gentlemen of the company said to her:--"Madonna Oretta, so please
you, I will carry you great part of the way a horseback with one of the
finest stories in the world." "Indeed, Sir," replied the lady, "I pray
you do so; and I shall deem it the greatest of favours." Whereupon the
gentleman, who perhaps was no better master of his weapon than of his
story, began a tale, which in itself was indeed excellent, but which, by
repeating the same word three, four or six times, and now and again
harking back, and saying:--"I said not well"; and erring not seldom in
the names, setting one in place of another, he utterly spoiled; besides
which, his mode of delivery accorded very ill with the character of the
persons and incidents: insomuch that Madonna Oretta, as she listened, did
oft sweat, and was like to faint, as if she were ill and at the point of
death. And being at length able to bear no more of it, witting that the
gentleman had got into a mess and was not like to get out of it, she said
pleasantly to him:--"Sir, this horse of yours trots too hard; I pray you
be pleased to set me down." The gentleman, being perchance more quick of
apprehension than he was skilful in narration, missed not the meaning of
her sally, and took it in all good and gay humour. So, leaving unfinished
the tale which he had begun, and so mishandled, he addressed himself to
tell her other stories.

(1) Cf. First Day, Novel X.


NOVEL II.

--
Cisti, a baker, by an apt speech gives Messer Geri Spina to know that he
has by inadvertence asked that of him which he should not.
--

All the ladies and the men alike having greatly commended Madonna
Oretta's apt saying, the queen bade Pampinea follow suit, and thus she
began:--

Fair ladies, I cannot myself determine whether Nature or Fortune be the
more at fault, the one in furnishing a noble soul with a vile body, or
the other in allotting a base occupation to a body endowed with a noble
soul, whereof we may have seen an example, among others, in our
fellow-citizen, Cisti; whom, furnished though he was with a most lofty
soul, Fortune made a baker. And verily I should curse Nature and Fortune
alike, did I not know that Nature is most discreet, and that Fortune,
albeit the foolish imagine her blind, has a thousand eyes. For 'tis, I
suppose, that, being wise above a little, they do as mortals ofttimes do,
who, being uncertain as to their future, provide against contingencies by
burying their most precious treasures in the basest places in their
houses, as being the least likely to be suspected; whence, in the hour of
their greatest need, they bring them forth, the base place having kept
them more safe than the dainty chamber would have done. And so these two
arbitresses of the world not seldom hide their most precious commodities
in the obscurity of the crafts that are reputed most base, that thence
being brought to light they may shine with a brighter splendour. Whereof
how in a trifling matter Cisti, the baker, gave proof, restoring the eyes
of the mind to Messer Geri Spina, whom the story of his wife, Madonna
Oretta, has brought to my recollection, I am minded to shew you in a
narrative which shall be of the briefest.

I say then that Pope Boniface, with whom Messer Geri Spina stood very
high in favour and honour, having sent divers of his courtiers to
Florence as ambassadors to treat of certain matters of great moment, and
they being lodged in Messer Geri's house, where he treated with them of
the said affairs of the Pope, 'twas, for some reason or another, the wont
of Messer Geri and the ambassadors of the Pope to pass almost every
morning by Santa Maria Ughi, where Cisti, the baker, had his bakehouse,
and plied his craft in person. Now, albeit Fortune had allotted him a
very humble occupation, she had nevertheless prospered him therein to
such a degree that he was grown most wealthy, and without ever aspiring
to change it for another, lived in most magnificent style, having among
his other good things a cellar of the best wines, white and red, that
were to be found in Florence, or the country parts; and marking Messer
Geri and the ambassadors of the Pope pass every morning by his door, he
bethought him that, as 'twas very hot, 'twould be a very courteous thing
to give them to drink of his good wine; but comparing his rank with that
of Messer Geri, he deemed it unseemly to presume to invite him, and cast
about how he might lead Messer Geri to invite himself. So, wearing always
the whitest of doublets and a spotless apron, that denoted rather the
miller, than the baker, he let bring, every morning about the hour that
he expected Messer Geri and the ambassadors to pass by his door, a
spick-and-span bucket of fresh and cool spring water, and a small
Bolognese flagon of his good white wine, and two beakers that shone like
silver, so bright were they: and there down he sat him, as they came by,
and after hawking once or twice, fell a drinking his wine with such gusto
that 'twould have raised a thirst in a corpse. Which Messer Geri having
observed on two successive mornings, said on the third:--"What is't,
Cisti? Is't good?" Whereupon Cisti jumped up, and answered:--"Ay, Sir,
good it is; but in what degree I might by no means make you understand,
unless you tasted it." Messer Geri, in whom either the heat of the
weather, or unwonted fatigue, or, perchance, the gusto with which he had
seen Cisti drink, had bred a thirst, turned to the ambassadors and said
with a smile:--"Gentlemen, 'twere well to test the quality of this worthy
man's wine: it may be such that we shall not repent us." And so in a body
they came up to where Cisti stood; who, having caused a goodly bench to
be brought out of the bakehouse, bade them be seated, and to their
servants, who were now coming forward to wash the beakers, said:--"Stand
back, comrades, and leave this office to me, for I know as well how to
serve wine as to bake bread; and expect not to taste a drop yourselves."
Which said, he washed four fine new beakers with his own hands, and
having sent for a small flagon of his good wine, he heedfully filled the
beakers, and presented them to Messer Geri and his companions; who deemed
the wine the best that they had drunk for a great while. So Messer Geri,
having praised the wine not a little, came there to drink every morning
with the ambassadors as long as they tarried with him.

Now when the ambassadors had received their conge, and were about to
depart, Messer Geri gave a grand banquet, to which he bade some of the
most honourable of the citizens, and also Cisti, who could by no means be
induced to come. However, Messer Geri bade one of his servants go fetch a
flask of Cisti's wine, and serve half a beaker thereof to each guest at
the first course. The servant, somewhat offended, perhaps, that he had
not been suffered to taste any of the wine, took with him a large flask,
which Cisti no sooner saw, than:--"Son," quoth he, "Messer Geri does not
send thee to me": and often as the servant affirmed that he did, he could
get no other answer: wherewith he was fain at last to return to Messer
Geri. "Go, get thee back, said Messer Geri, and tell him that I do send
thee to him, and if he answers thee so again, ask him, to whom then I
send thee." So the servant came back, and said:--"Cisti, Messer Geri
does, for sure, send me to thee." "Son," answered Cisti, "Messer Geri
does, for sure, not send thee to me." "To whom then," said the servant,
"does he send me?" "To Arno," returned Cisti. Which being reported by the
servant to Messer Geri, the eyes of his mind were straightway opened,
and:--"Let me see," quoth he to the servant, "what flask it is thou
takest there." And when he had seen it:--"Cisti says sooth," he added;
and having sharply chidden him, he caused him take with him a suitable
flask, which when Cisti saw:--"Now know I," quoth he, "that 'tis indeed
Messer Geri that sends thee to me," and blithely filled it. And having
replenished the rundlet that same day with wine of the same quality, he
had it carried with due care to Messer Geri's house, and followed after
himself; where finding Messer Geri he said:--"I would not have you think,
Sir, that I was appalled by the great flask your servant brought me this
morning; 'twas but that I thought you had forgotten that which by my
little beakers I gave you to understand, when you were with me of late;
to wit, that this is no table wine; and so wished this morning to refresh
your memory. Now, however, being minded to keep the wine no longer, I
have sent you all I have of it, to be henceforth entirely at your
disposal." Messer Geri set great store by Cisti's gift, and thanked him
accordingly, and ever made much of him and entreated him as his friend.


NOVEL III.

--
Monna Nonna de' Pulci by a ready retort silences the scarce seemly
jesting of the Bishop of Florence.
--

Pampinea's story ended, and praise not a little bestowed on Cisti alike
for his apt speech and for his handsome present, the queen was pleased to
call forthwith for a story from Lauretta, who blithely thus began:--

Debonair my ladies, the excellency of wit, and our lack thereof, have
been noted with no small truth first by Pampinea and after her by
Filomena. To which topic 'twere bootless to return: wherefore to that
which has been said touching the nature of wit I purpose but to add one
word, to remind you that its bite should be as a sheep's bite and not as
a dog's; for if it bite like a dog, 'tis no longer wit but discourtesy.
With which maxim the words of Madonna Oretta, and the apt reply of Cisti,
accorded excellently. True indeed it is that if 'tis by way of retort,
and one that has received a dog's bite gives the biter a like bite in
return, it does not seem to be reprehensible, as otherwise it would have
been. Wherefore one must consider how and when and on whom and likewise
where one exercises one's wit. By ill observing which matters one of our
prelates did once upon a time receive no less shrewd a bite than he gave;
as I will shew you in a short story.

While Messer Antonio d'Orso, a prelate both worthy and wise, was Bishop
of Florence, there came thither a Catalan gentleman, Messer Dego della
Ratta by name, being King Ruberto's marshal. Now Dego being very goodly
of person, and inordinately fond of women, it so befell that of the
ladies of Florence she that he regarded with especial favour was the very
beautiful niece of a brother of the said bishop. And having learned that
her husband, though of good family, was but a caitiff, and avaricious in
the last degree, he struck a bargain with him that he should lie one
night with the lady for five hundred florins of gold: whereupon he had
the same number of popolins(1) of silver, which were then current,
gilded, and having lain with the lady, albeit against her will, gave them
to her husband. Which coming to be generally known, the caitiff husband
was left with the loss and the laugh against him; and the bishop, like a
wise man, feigned to know nought of the affair. And so the bishop and the
marshal being much together, it befell that on St. John's day, as they
rode side by side down the street whence they start to run the palio,(2)
and took note of the ladies, the bishop espied a young gentlewoman, whom
this present pestilence has reft from us, Monna Nonna de' Pulci by name,
a cousin of Messer Alesso Rinucci, whom you all must know; whom, for that
she was lusty and fair, and of excellent discourse and a good courage,
and but just settled with her husband in Porta San Piero, the bishop
presented to the marshal; and then, being close beside her, he laid his
hand on the marshal's shoulder and said to her:--"Nonna, what thinkest
thou of this gentleman? That thou mightst make a conquest of him?" Which
words the lady resented as a jibe at her honour, and like to tarnish it
in the eyes of those, who were not a few, in whose hearing they were
spoken. Wherefore without bestowing a thought upon the vindication of her
honour, but being minded to return blow for blow, she retorted
hastily:--"Perchance, Sir, he might not make a conquest of me; but if he
did so, I should want good money." The answer stung both the marshal and
the bishop to the quick, the one as contriver of the scurvy trick played
upon the bishop's brother in regard of his niece, the other as thereby
outraged in the person of his brother's niece; insomuch that they dared
not look one another in the face, but took themselves off in shame and
silence, and said never a word more to her that day.

In such a case, then, the lady having received a bite, 'twas allowable in
her wittily to return it.

(1) A coin of the same size and design as the fiorino d'oro, but worth
only two soldi.

(2) A sort of horse-race still in vogue at Siena.


NOVEL IV.

--
Chichibio, cook to Currado Gianfigliazzi, owes his safety to a ready
answer, whereby he converts Currado's wrath into laughter, and evades the
evil fate with which Currado had threatened him.
--

Lauretta being now silent, all lauded Nonna to the skies; after which
Neifile received the queen's command to follow suit, and thus began:--

Albeit, loving ladies, ready wit not seldom ministers words apt and
excellent and congruous with the circumstances of the speakers, 'tis also
true that Fortune at times comes to the aid of the timid, and
unexpectedly sets words upon the tongue, which in a quiet hour the
speaker could never have found for himself: the which 'tis my purpose to
shew you by my story.

Currado Gianfigliazzi, as the eyes and ears of each of you may bear
witness, has ever been a noble citizen of our city, open-handed and
magnificent, and one that lived as a gentleman should with hounds and
hawks, in which, to say nothing at present of more important matters, he
found unfailing delight. Now, having one day hard by Peretola despatched
a crane with one of his falcons, finding it young and plump, he sent it
to his excellent cook, a Venetian, Chichibio by name, bidding him roast
it for supper and make a dainty dish of it. Chichibio, who looked, as he
was, a very green-head, had dressed the crane, and set it to the fire and
was cooking it carefully, when, the bird being all but roasted, and the
fumes of the cooking very strong, it so chanced that a girl, Brunetta by
name, that lived in the same street, and of whom Chichibio was greatly
enamoured, came into the kitchen, and perceiving the smell and seeing the
bird, began coaxing Chichibio to give her a thigh. By way of answer
Chichibio fell a singing:--"You get it not from me, Madam Brunetta, you
get it not from me." Whereat Madam Brunetta was offended, and said to
him:--"By God, if thou givest it me not, thou shalt never have aught from
me to pleasure thee." In short there was not a little altercation; and in
the end Chichibio, fain not to vex his mistress, cut off one of the
crane's thighs, and gave it to her. So the bird was set before Currado
and some strangers that he had at table with him, and Currado, observing
that it had but one thigh, was surprised, and sent for Chichibio, and
demanded of him what was become of the missing thigh. Whereto the
mendacious Venetian answered readily:--"The crane, Sir, has but one thigh
and one leg." "What the devil?" rejoined Currado in a rage: "so the crane
has but one thigh and one leg? thinkst thou I never saw crane before
this?" But Chichibio continued:--"'Tis even so as I say, Sir; and, so
please you, I will shew you that so it is in the living bird." Currado
had too much respect for his guests to pursue the topic; he only
said:--"Since thou promisest to shew me in the living bird what I have
never seen or heard tell of, I bid thee do so to-morrow, and I shall be
satisfied, but if thou fail, I swear to thee by the body of Christ that I
will serve thee so that thou shalt ruefully remember my name for the rest
of thy days."

No more was said of the matter that evening, but on the morrow, at
daybreak, Currado, who had by no means slept off his wrath, got up still
swelling therewith, and ordered his horses, mounted Chichibio on a
hackney, and saying to him:--"We shall soon see which of us lied
yesternight, thou or I," set off with him for a place where there was
much water, beside which there were always cranes to be seen about dawn.
Chichibio, observing that Currado's ire was unabated, and knowing not how
to bolster up his lie, rode by Currado's side in a state of the utmost
trepidation, and would gladly, had he been able, have taken to flight;
but, as he might not, he glanced, now ahead, now aback, now aside, and
saw everywhere nought but cranes standing on two feet. However, as they
approached the river, the very first thing they saw upon the bank was a
round dozen of cranes standing each and all on one foot, as is their
wont, when asleep. Which Chichibio presently pointed out to Currado,
saying:--"Now may you see well enough, Sir, that 'tis true as I said
yesternight, that the crane has but one thigh and one leg; mark but how
they stand over there." Whereupon Currado:--"Wait," quoth he, "and I will
shew thee that they have each thighs and legs twain." So, having drawn a
little nigher to them, he ejaculated, "Oho!" Which caused the cranes to
bring each the other foot to the ground, and, after hopping a step or
two, to take to flight. Currado then turned to Chichibio, saying:--"How
now, rogue? art satisfied that the bird has thighs and legs twain?"
Whereto Chichibio, all but beside himself with fear, made answer:--"Ay,
Sir; but you cried not, oho! to our crane of yestereve: had you done so,
it would have popped its other thigh and foot forth, as these have done."
Which answer Currado so much relished, that, all his wrath changed to
jollity and laughter:--"Chichibio," quoth he, "thou art right, indeed I
ought to have so done."

Thus did Chichibio by his ready and jocund retort arrest impending evil,
and make his peace with his master.


NOVEL V.

--
Messer Forese da Rabatta and Master Giotto, the painter, journeying
together from Mugello, deride one another's scurvy appearance.
--

Neifile being silent, and the ladies having made very merry over
Chichibio's retort, Pamfilo at the queen's command thus spoke:--Dearest
ladies, if Fortune, as Pampinea has shewn us, does sometimes bide
treasures most rich of native worth in the obscurity of base occupations,
so in like manner 'tis not seldom found that Nature has enshrined
prodigies of wit in the most ignoble of human forms. Whereof a notable
example is afforded by two of our citizens, of whom I purpose for a brief
while to discourse. The one, Messer Forese da Rabatta by name, was short
and deformed of person and withal flat-cheeked and flat-nosed, insomuch
that never a Baroncio(1) had a visage so misshapen but his would have
shewed as hideous beside it; yet so conversant was this man with the
laws, that by not a few of those well able to form an opinion he was
reputed a veritable storehouse of civil jurisprudence. The other, whose
name was Giotto, was of so excellent a wit that, let Nature, mother of
all, operant ever by continual revolution of the heavens, fashion what
she would, he with his style and pen and pencil would depict its like on
such wise that it shewed not as its like, but rather as the thing itself,
insomuch that the visual sense of men did often err in regard thereof,
mistaking for real that which was but painted. Wherefore, having brought
back to light that art which had for many ages lain buried beneath the
blunders of those who painted rather to delight the eyes of the ignorant
than to satisfy the intelligence of the wise, he may deservedly be called
one of the lights that compose the glory of Florence, and the more so,
the more lowly was the spirit in which he won that glory, who, albeit he
was, while he yet lived, the master of others, yet did ever refuse to be
called their master. And this title that he rejected adorned him with a
lustre the more splendid in proportion to the avidity with which it was
usurped by those who were less knowing than he, or were his pupils. But
for all the exceeding greatness of his art, yet in no particular had he
the advantage of Messer Forese either in form or in feature. But to come
to the story:--'Twas in Mugello that Messer Forese, as likewise Giotto,
had his country-seat, whence returning from a sojourn that he had made
there during the summer vacation of the courts, and being, as it chanced,
mounted on a poor jade of a draught horse, he fell in with the said
Giotto, who was also on his way back to Florence after a like sojourn on
his own estate, and was neither better mounted, nor in any other wise
better equipped, than Messer Forese. And so, being both old men, they
jogged on together at a slow pace: and being surprised by a sudden
shower, such as we frequently see fall in summer, they presently sought
shelter in the house of a husbandman that was known to each of them, and
was their friend. But after a while, as the rain gave no sign of ceasing,
and they had a mind to be at Florence that same day, they borrowed of the
husbandman two old cloaks of Romagnole cloth, and two hats much the worse
for age (there being no better to be had), and resumed their journey.
Whereon they had not proceeded far, when, taking note that they were
soaked through and through, and liberally splashed with the mud cast up
by their nags' hooves (circumstances which are not of a kind to add to
one's dignity), they, after long silence, the sky beginning to brighten a
little, began to converse. And Messer Forese, as he rode and hearkened to
Giotto, who was an excellent talker, surveyed him sideways, and from head
to foot, and all over, and seeing him in all points in so sorry and
scurvy a trim, and recking nought of his own appearance, broke into a
laugh and said:--"Giotto, would e'er a stranger that met us, and had not
seen thee before, believe, thinkst thou, that thou wert, as thou art,
the greatest painter in the world." Whereto Giotto answered
promptly:--"Methinks, Sir, he might, if, scanning you, he gave you credit
for knowing the A B C." Which hearing, Messer Forese recognized his
error, and perceived that he had gotten as good as he brought.

(1) The name of a Florentine family famous for the extraordinary ugliness
of its men: whereby it came to pass that any grotesque or extremely ugly
man was called a Baroncio. Fanfani, Vocab. della Lingua Italiana, 1891.


NOVEL VI.

--
Michele Scalza proves to certain young men that the Baronci are the best
gentlemen in the world and the Maremma, and wins a supper.
--

The ladies were still laughing over Giotto's ready retort, when the queen
charged Fiammetta to follow suit; wherefore thus Fiammetta
began:--Pamfilo's mention of the Baronci, who to you, Damsels, are
perchance not so well known as to him, has brought to my mind a story in
which 'tis shewn how great is their nobility; and, for that it involves
no deviation from our rule of discourse, I am minded to tell it you.

'Tis no long time since there dwelt in our city a young man, Michele
Scalza by name, the pleasantest and merriest fellow in the world, and the
best furnished with quaint stories: for which reason the Florentine youth
set great store on having him with them when they forgathered in company.
Now it so befell that one day, he being with a party of them at Mont'
Ughi, they fell a disputing together on this wise; to wit, who were the
best gentlemen and of the longest descent in Florence. One said, the
Uberti, another, the Lamberti, or some other family, according to the
predilection of the speaker. Whereat Scalza began to smile, and
said:--"Now out upon you, out upon you, blockheads that ye are: ye know
not what ye say. The best gentlemen and of longest descent in all the
world and the Maremma (let alone Florence) are the Baronci by the common
consent of all phisopholers,(1) and all that know them as I do; and lest
you should otherwise conceive me, I say that 'tis of your neighbours the
Baronci(2) of Santa Maria Maggiore that I speak." Whereupon the young
men, who had looked for somewhat else from him, said derisively:--"Thou
dost but jest with us; as if we did not know the Baronci as well as
thou!" Quoth Scalza:--"By the Gospels I jest not, but speak sooth; and if
there is any of you will wager a supper to be given to the winner and six
good fellows whom he shall choose, I will gladly do the like, and--what
is more--I will abide by the decision of such one of you as you may
choose." Then said one of them whose name was Neri Mannini:--"I am ready
to adventure this supper;" and so they agreed together that Piero di
Fiorentino, in whose house they were, should be judge, and hied them to
him followed by all the rest, eager to see Scalza lose, and triumph in
his discomfiture, and told Piero all that had been said. Piero, who was a
young man of sound sense, heard what Neri had to say; and then turning to
Scalza:--"And how," quoth he, "mayst thou make good what thou averrest?"
"I will demonstrate it," returned Scalza, "by reasoning so cogent that
not only you, but he that denies it shall acknowledge that I say sooth.
You know, and so they were saying but now, that the longer men's descent,
the better is their gentility, and I say that the Baronci are of longer
descent, and thus better gentlemen than any other men. If, then, I prove
to you that they are of longer descent than any other men, without a
doubt the victory in this dispute will rest with me. Now you must know
that when God made the Baronci, He was but a novice in His art, of which,
when He made the rest of mankind, He was already master. And to assure
yourself that herein I say sooth, you have but to consider the Baronci,
how they differ from the rest of mankind, who all have faces well
composed and duly proportioned, whereas of the Baronci you will see one
with a face very long and narrow, another with a face inordinately broad,
one with a very long nose, another with a short one, one with a
protruding and upturned chin, and great jaws like an ass's; and again
there will be one that has one eye larger than its fellow, or set on a
lower plane; so that their faces resemble those that children make when
they begin to learn to draw. Whereby, as I said, 'tis plainly manifest
that, when God made them, He was but novice in His art; and so they are
of longer descent than the rest of mankind, and by consequence better
gentlemen." By which entertaining argument Piero, the judge, and Neri who
had wagered the supper, and all the rest, calling to mind the Baronci's
ugliness, were so tickled, that they fell a laughing, and averred that
Scalza was in the right, and that he had won the wager, and that without
a doubt the Baronci were the best gentlemen, and of the longest descent,
not merely in Florence, but in the world and the Maremma to boot.
Wherefore 'twas not without reason that Pamfilo, being minded to declare
Messer Forese's ill-favouredness, said that he would have been hideous
beside a Baroncio.

(1) In the Italian fisofoli: an evidently intentional distortion.

(2) Villani, Istorie Fiorentine, iv. cap. ix., and Dante, Paradiso, xvi.
104, spell the name Barucci.


NOVEL VII.

--
Madonna Filippa, being found by her husband with her lover, is cited
before the court, and by a ready and jocund answer acquits herself, and
brings about an alteration of the statute.
--

Fiammetta had been silent some time, but Scalza's novel argument to prove
the pre-eminent nobility of the Baronci kept all still laughing, when the
queen called for a story from Filostrato, who thus began:--Noble ladies,
an excellent thing is apt speech on all occasions, but to be proficient
therein I deem then most excellent when the occasion does most
imperatively demand it. As was the case with a gentlewoman, of whom I
purpose to speak to you, who not only ministered gaiety and merriment to
her hearers, but extricated herself, as you shall hear, from the toils of
an ignominious death.

There was aforetime in the city of Prato a statute no less censurable
than harsh, which, making no distinction between the wife whom her
husband took in adultery with her lover, and the woman found pleasuring a
stranger for money, condemned both alike to be burned. While this statute
was in force, it befell that a gentlewoman, fair and beyond measure
enamoured, Madonna Filippa by name, was by her husband, Rinaldo de'
Pugliesi, found in her own chamber one night in the arms of Lazzarino de'
Guazzagliotri, a handsome young noble of the same city, whom she loved
even as herself. Whereat Rinaldo, very wroth, scarce refrained from
falling upon them and killing them on the spot; and indeed, but that he
doubted how he should afterwards fare himself, he had given way to the
vehemence of his anger, and so done. Nor, though he so far mastered
himself, could he forbear recourse to the statute, thereby to compass
that which he might not otherwise lawfully compass, to wit, the death of
his lady. Wherefore, having all the evidence needful to prove her guilt,
he took no further counsel; but, as soon as 'twas day, he charged the
lady and had her summoned. Like most ladies that are veritably enamoured,
the lady was of a high courage; and, though not a few of her friends and
kinsfolk sought to dissuade her, she resolved to appear to the summons,
having liefer die bravely confessing the truth than basely flee and for
defiance of the law live in exile, and shew herself unworthy of such a
lover as had had her in his arms that night. And so, attended by many
ladies and gentlemen, who all exhorted her to deny the charge, she came
before the Podesta, and with a composed air and unfaltering voice asked
whereof he would interrogate her. The Podesta, surveying her, and taking
note of her extraordinary beauty, and exquisite manners, and the high
courage that her words evinced, was touched with compassion for her,
fearing she might make some admission, by reason whereof, to save his
honour, he must needs do her to death. But still, as he could not refrain
from examining her of that which was laid to her charge, he
said:--"Madam, here, as you see, is your husband, Rinaldo, who prefers a
charge against you, alleging that he has taken you in adultery, and so he
demands that, pursuant to a statute which is in force here, I punish you
with death: but this I may not do, except you confess; wherefore be very
careful what you answer, and tell me if what your husband alleges against
you be true." The lady, no wise dismayed, and in a tone not a little
jocund, thus made answer:--"True it is, Sir, that Rinaldo is my husband,
and that last night he found me in the arms of Lazzarino, in whose arms
for the whole-hearted love that I bear him I have ofttimes lain; nor
shall I ever deny it; but, as well I wot you know, the laws ought to be
common and enacted with the common consent of all that they affect; which
conditions are wanting to this law, inasmuch as it binds only us poor
women, in whom to be liberal is much less reprehensible than it were in
men; and furthermore the consent of no woman was--I say not had, but--so
much as asked before 'twas made; for which reasons it justly deserves to
be called a bad law. However, if in scathe of my body and your own soul,
you are minded to put it in force, 'tis your affair; but, I pray you, go
not on to try this matter in any wise, until you have granted me this
trifling grace, to wit, to ask my husband if I ever gainsaid him, but did
not rather accord him, when and so often as he craved it, complete
enjoyment of myself." Whereto Rinaldo, without awaiting the Podesta's
question, forthwith answered, that assuredly the lady had ever granted
him all that he had asked of her for his gratification. "Then," promptly
continued the lady, "if he has ever had of me as much as sufficed for his
solace, what was I or am I to do with the surplus? Am I to cast it to the
dogs? Is it not much better to bestow it on a gentleman that loves me
more dearly than himself, than to suffer it to come to nought or worse?"
Which jocund question being heard by well-nigh all the folk of Prato, who
had flocked thither all agog to see a dame so fair and of such quality on
her trial for such an offence, they laughed loud and long, and then all
with one accord, and as with one voice, exclaimed that the lady was in
the right and said well; nor left they the court until in concert with
the Podesta they had so altered the harsh statute as that thenceforth
only such women as should wrong their husbands for money should be within
its purview.

Wherefore Rinaldo left the court, discomfited of his foolish enterprise;
and the lady blithe and free, as if rendered back to life from the
burning, went home triumphant.


NOVEL VIII.

--
Fresco admonishes his niece not to look at herself in the glass, if 'tis,
as she says, grievous to her to see nasty folk.
--

'Twas not at first without some flutterings of shame, evinced by the
modest blush mantling on their cheeks, that the ladies heard Filostrato's
story; but afterwards, exchanging glances, they could scarce forbear to
laugh, and hearkened tittering. However, when he had done, the queen
turning to Emilia bade her follow suit. Whereupon Emilia, fetching a deep
breath as if she were roused from sleep, thus began:--Loving ladies,
brooding thought has kept my spirit for so long time remote from here
that perchance I may make a shift to satisfy our queen with a much
shorter story than would have been forthcoming but for my absence of
mind, wherein I purpose to tell you how a young woman's folly was
corrected by her uncle with a pleasant jest, had she but had the sense to
apprehend it. My story, then, is of one, Fresco da Celatico by name, that
had a niece, Ciesca, as she was playfully called, who, being fair of face
and person, albeit she had none of those angelical charms that we
ofttimes see, had so superlative a conceit of herself, that she had
contracted a habit of disparaging both men and women and all that she
saw, entirely regardless of her own defects, though for odiousness,
tiresomeness, and petulance she had not her match among women, insomuch
that there was nought that could be done to her mind: besides which, such
was her pride that had she been of the blood royal of France, 'twould
have been inordinate. And when she walked abroad, so fastidious was her
humour, she was ever averting her head, as if there was never a soul she
saw or met but reeked with a foul smell. Now one day--not to speak of
other odious and tiresome ways that she had--it so befell that being come
home, where Fresco was, she sat herself down beside him with a most
languishing air, and did nought but fume and chafe. Whereupon:--"Ciesca,"
quoth he, "what means this, that, though 'tis a feast-day, yet thou art
come back so soon?" She, all but dissolved with her vapourish humours,
made answer:--"Why, the truth is, that I am come back early because
never, I believe, were there such odious and tiresome men and women in
this city as there are to-day. I cannot pass a soul in the street that I
loathe not like ill-luck; and I believe there is not a woman in the world
that is so distressed by the sight of odious people as I am; and so I am
come home thus soon to avoid the sight of them." Whereupon Fresco, to,
whom his niece's bad manners were distasteful in the
extreme:--"Daughter," quoth he, "if thou loathe odious folk as much as
thou sayest, thou wert best, so thou wouldst live happy, never to look at
thyself in the glass." But she, empty as a reed, albeit in her own
conceit a match for Solomon in wisdom, was as far as any sheep from
apprehending the true sense of her uncle's jest; but answered that on the
contrary she was minded to look at herself in the glass like other women.
And so she remained, and yet remains, hidebound in her folly.


NOVEL IX.

--
Guido Cavalcanti by a quip meetly rebukes certain Florentine gentlemen
who had taken him at a disadvantage.
--

The queen, perceiving that Emilia had finished her story, and that none
but she, and he who had the privilege of speaking last, now remained to
tell, began on this wise:--Albeit, debonair my ladies, you have
forestalled me to-day of more than two of the stories, of which I had
thought to tell one, yet one is still left me to recount, which carries
at the close of it a quip of such a sort, that perhaps we have as yet
heard nought so pregnant.

You are to know, then, that in former times there obtained in our city
customs excellent and commendable not a few, whereof today not one is
left to us, thanks to the greed which, growing with the wealth of our
folk, has banished them all from among us. One of which customs was that
in divers quarters of Florence the gentlemen that there resided would
assemble together in companies of a limited number, taking care to
include therein only such as might conveniently bear the expenses, and
to-day one, another to-morrow, each in his turn for a day, would
entertain the rest of the company; and so they would not seldom do honour
to gentlemen from distant parts when they visited the city, and also to
their fellow-citizens; and in like manner they would meet together at
least once a year all in the same trim, and on the most notable days
would ride together through the city, and now and again they would tilt
together, more especially on the greater feasts, or when the city was
rejoiced by tidings of victory or some other glad event. Among which
companies was one of which Messer Betto Brunelleschi was the leading
spirit, into which Messer Betto and his comrades had striven hard to
bring Guido, son of Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti, and not without reason,
inasmuch as, besides being one of the best logicians in the world, and an
excellent natural philosopher (qualities of which the company made no
great account), he was without a peer for gallantry and courtesy and
excellence of discourse and aptitude for all matters which he might set
his mind to, and that belonged to a gentleman; and therewithal he was
very rich, and, when he deemed any worthy of honour, knew how to bestow
it to the uttermost. But, as Messer Betto had never been able to gain him
over, he and his comrades supposed that 'twas because Guido, being
addicted to speculation, was thereby estranged from men. And, for that he
was somewhat inclined to the opinion of the Epicureans, the vulgar
averred that these speculations of his had no other scope than to prove
that God did not exist. Now one day it so befell that, Guido being come,
as was not seldom his wont, from Or San Michele by the Corso degli
Adimari as far as San Giovanni, around which were then the great tombs of
marble that are to-day in Santa Reparata, besides other tombs not a few,
and Guido being between the columns of porphyry, that are there, and the
tombs and the door of San Giovanni, which was locked, Messer Betto and
his company came riding on to the piazza of Santa Reparata, and seeing
him among the tombs, said:--"Go we and flout him." So they set spurs to
their horses, and making a mock onset, were upon him almost before he saw
them. Whereupon:--"Guido," they began, "thou wilt be none of our company;
but, lo now, when thou hast proved that God does not exist, what wilt
thou have achieved?" Guido, seeing that he was surrounded, presently
answered:--"Gentlemen, you may say to me what you please in your own
house." Thereupon he laid his hand on one of the great tombs, and being
very nimble, vaulted over it, and so evaded them, and went his way, while
they remained gazing in one another's faces, and some said that he had
taken leave of his wits, and that his answer was but nought, seeing that
the ground on which they stood was common to them with the rest of the
citizens, and among them Guido himself. But Messer Betto, turning to
them:--"Nay but," quoth he, "'tis ye that have taken leave of your wits,
if ye have not understood him; for meetly and in few words he has given
us never so shrewd a reprimand; seeing that, if you consider it well,
these tombs are the houses of the dead, that are laid and tarry therein;
which he calls our house, to shew us that we, and all other simple,
unlettered men, are, in comparison of him and the rest of the learned, in
sorrier case than dead men, and so being here, we are in our own house."
Then none was there but understood Guido's meaning and was abashed,
insomuch that they flouted him no more, and thenceforth reputed Messer
Betto a gentleman of a subtle and discerning wit.


NOVEL X.

--
Fra Cipolla promises to shew certain country-folk a feather of the Angel
Gabriel, in lieu of which he finds coals, which he avers to be of those
with which St. Lawrence was roasted.
--

All the company save Dioneo being delivered of their several stories, he
wist that 'twas his turn to speak. Wherefore, without awaiting any very
express command, he enjoined silence on those that were commending
Guido's pithy quip, and thus began:--Sweet my ladies, albeit 'tis my
privilege to speak of what likes me most, I purpose not to-day to deviate
from that theme whereon you have all discoursed most appositely; but,
following in your footsteps, I am minded to shew you with what adroitness
and readiness of resource one of the Friars of St. Antony avoided a
pickle that two young men had in readiness for him. Nor, if, in order to
do the story full justice, I be somewhat prolix of speech, should it be
burdensome to you, if you will but glance at the sun, which is yet in
mid-heaven.

Certaldo, as perchance you may have heard, is a town of Val d'Elsa within
our country-side, which, small though it is, had in it aforetime people
of rank and wealth. Thither, for that there he found good pasture, 'twas
long the wont of one of the Friars of St. Antony to resort once every
year, to collect the alms that fools gave them. Fra Cipolla(1)--so hight
the friar--met with a hearty welcome, no less, perchance, by reason of
his name than for other cause, the onions produced in that district being
famous throughout Tuscany. He was little of person, red-haired,
jolly-visaged, and the very best of good fellows; and therewithal, though
learning he had none, he was so excellent and ready a speaker that whoso
knew him not would not only have esteemed him a great rhetorician, but
would have pronounced him Tully himself or, perchance, Quintilian; and in
all the country-side there was scarce a soul to whom he was not either
gossip or friend or lover. Being thus wont from time to time to visit
Certaldo, the friar came there once upon a time in the month of August,
and on a Sunday morning, all the good folk of the neighbouring farms
being come to mass in the parish church, he took occasion to come forward
and say:--"Ladies and gentlemen, you wot 'tis your custom to send year by
year to the poor of Baron Master St. Antony somewhat of your wheat and
oats, more or less, according to the ability and the devoutness of each,
that blessed St. Antony may save your oxen and asses and pigs and sheep
from harm; and you are also accustomed, and especially those whose names
are on the books of our confraternity, to pay your trifling annual dues.
To collect which offerings, I am hither sent by my superior, to wit,
Master Abbot; wherefore, with the blessing of God, after none, when you
hear the bells ring, you will come out of the church to the place where
in the usual way I shall deliver you my sermon, and you will kiss the
cross; and therewithal, knowing, as I do, that you are one and all most
devoted to Baron Master St. Antony, I will by way of especial grace shew
you a most holy and goodly relic, which I brought myself from the Holy
Land overseas, which is none other than one of the feathers of the Angel
Gabriel, which he left behind him in the room of the Virgin Mary, when he
came to make her the annunciation in Nazareth." And having said thus
much, he ceased, and went on with the mass. Now among the many that were
in the church, while Fra Cipolla made this speech, were two very wily
young wags, the one Giovanni del Bragoniera by name, the other Biagio
Pizzini; who, albeit they were on the best of terms with Fra Cipolla and
much in his company, had a sly laugh together over the relic, and
resolved to make game of him and his feather. So, having learned that Fra
Cipolla was to breakfast that morning in the town with one of his
friends, as soon as they knew that he was at table, down they hied them
into the street, and to the inn where the friar lodged, having complotted
that Biagio should keep the friar's servant in play, while Giovanni made
search among the friar's goods and chattels for this feather, whatever it
might be, to carry it off, that they might see how the friar would
afterwards explain the matter to the people. Now Fra Cipolla had for
servant one Guccio,(2) whom some called by way of addition Balena,(3)
others Imbratta,(4) others again Porco,(5) and who was such a rascallion
that sure it is that Lippo Topo(6) himself never painted his like.
Concerning whom Fra Cipolla would ofttimes make merry with his familiars,
saying:--"My servant has nine qualities, any one of which in Solomon,
Aristotle, or Seneca, would have been enough to spoil all their virtue,
wisdom and holiness. Consider, then, what sort of a man he must be that
has these nine qualities, and yet never a spark of either virtue or
wisdom or holiness." And being asked upon divers occasions what these
nine qualities might be, he strung them together in rhyme, and
answered:--"I will tell you. Lazy and uncleanly and a liar he is,
Negligent, disobedient and foulmouthed, iwis, And reckless and witless
and mannerless: and therewithal he has some other petty vices, which
'twere best to pass over. And the most amusing thing about him is, that,
wherever he goes, he is for taking a wife and renting a house, and on the
strength of a big, black, greasy beard he deems himself so very handsome
a fellow and seductive, that he takes all the women that see him to be in
love with him, and, if he were left alone, he would slip his girdle and
run after them all. True it is that he is of great use to me, for that,
be any minded to speak with me never so secretly, he must still have his
share of the audience; and, if perchance aught is demanded of me, such is
his fear lest I should be at a loss what answer to make, that he
presently replies, ay or no, as he deems meet."

Now, when he left this knave at the inn, Fra Cipolla had strictly
enjoined him on no account to suffer any one to touch aught of his, and
least of all his wallet, because it contained the holy things. But Guccio
Imbratta, who was fonder of the kitchen than any nightingale of the green
boughs, and most particularly if he espied there a maid, and in the
host's kitchen had caught sight of a coarse fat woman, short and
misshapen, with a pair of breasts that shewed as two buckets of muck and
a face that might have belonged to one of the Baronci, all reeking with
sweat and grease and smoke, left Fra Cipolla's room and all his things to
take care of themselves, and like a vulture swooping down upon the
carrion, was in the kitchen in a trice. Where, though 'twas August, he
sat him down by the fire, and fell a gossiping with Nuta--such was the
maid's name--and told her that he was a gentleman by procuration,(7) and
had more florins than could be reckoned, besides those that he had to
give away, which were rather more than less, and that he could do and say
such things as never were or might be seen or heard forever, good Lord!
and a day. And all heedless of his cowl, which had as much grease upon it
as would have furnished forth the caldron of Altopascio,(8) and of his
rent and patched doublet, inlaid with filth about the neck and under the
armpits, and so stained that it shewed hues more various than ever did
silk from Tartary or the Indies, and of his shoes that were all to
pieces, and of his hose that were all in tatters, he told her in a tone
that would have become the Sieur de Chatillon, that he was minded to
rehabit her and put her in trim, and raise her from her abject condition,
and place her where, though she would not have much to call her own, at
any rate she would have hope of better things, with much more to the like
effect; which professions, though made with every appearance of good
will, proved, like most of his schemes, insubstantial as air, and came to
nothing.

Finding Guccio Porco thus occupied with Nuta, the two young men gleefully
accounted their work half done, and, none gainsaying them, entered Fra
Cipolla's room, which was open, and lit at once upon the wallet, in which
was the feather. The wallet opened, they found, wrapt up in many folds of
taffeta, a little casket, on opening which they discovered one of the
tail-feathers of a parrot, which they deemed must be that which the friar
had promised to shew the good folk of Certaldo. And in sooth he might
well have so imposed upon them, for in those days the luxuries of Egypt
had scarce been introduced into Tuscany, though they have since been
brought over in prodigious abundance, to the grave hurt of all Italy. And
though some conversance with them there was, yet in those parts folk knew
next to nothing of them; but, adhering to the honest, simple ways of
their forefathers, had not seen, nay for the most part had not so much as
heard tell of, a parrot.

So the young men, having found the feather, took it out with great glee;
and looking around for something to replace it, they espied in a corner
of the room some pieces of coal, wherewith they filled the casket; which
they then closed, and having set the room in order exactly as they had
found it, they quitted it unperceived, and hied them merrily off with the
feather, and posted themselves where they might hear what Fra Cipolla
would say when he found the coals in its stead. Mass said, the simple
folk that were in the church went home with the tidings that the feather
of the Angel Gabriel was to be seen after none; and this goodman telling
his neighbour, and that goodwife her gossip, by the time every one had
breakfasted, the town could scarce hold the multitude of men and women
that flocked thither all agog to see this feather.

Fra Cipolla, having made a hearty breakfast and had a little nap, got up
shortly after none, and marking the great concourse of country-folk that
were come to see the feather, sent word to Guccio Imbratta to go up there
with the bells, and bring with him the wallet. Guccio, though 'twas with
difficulty that he tore himself away from the kitchen and Nuta, hied him
up with the things required; and though, when he got up, he was winded,
for he was corpulent with drinking nought but water, he did Fra Cipolla's
bidding by going to the church door and ringing the bells amain. When all
the people were gathered about the door, Fra Cipolla, all unwitting that
aught of his was missing, began his sermon, and after much said in
glorification of himself, caused the confiteor to be recited with great
solemnity, and two torches to be lit by way of preliminary to the shewing
of the feather of the Angel Gabriel: he then bared his head, carefully
unfolded the taffeta, and took out the casket, which, after a few
prefatory words in praise and laudation of the Angel Gabriel and his
relic, he opened. When he saw that it contained nought but coals, he did
not suspect Guccio Balena of playing the trick, for he knew that he was
not clever enough, nor did he curse him, that his carelessness had
allowed another to play it, but he inly imprecated himself, that he had
committed his things to the keeping of one whom he knew to be "negligent
and disobedient, reckless and witless." Nevertheless, he changed not
colour, but with face and hands upturned to heaven, he said in a voice
that all might hear:--"O God, blessed be Thy might for ever and ever."
Then, closing the casket, and turning to the people:--"Ladies and
gentlemen," he said, "you are to know, that when I was yet a very young
man, I was sent by my superior into those parts where the sun rises, and
I was expressly bidden to search until I should find the Privileges of
Porcellana, which, though they cost nothing to seal, are of much more use
to others than to us. On which errand I set forth, taking my departure
from Venice, and traversing the Borgo de' Greci,(9) and thence on
horseback the realm of Algarve,(10) and so by Baldacca(11) I came to
Parione,(12) whence, somewhat athirst, I after a while got on to
Sardinia.(13) But wherefore go I about to enumerate all the lands in
which I pursued my quest? Having passed the straits of San Giorgio, I
arrived at Truffia(14) and Buffia,(15) countries thickly populated and
with great nations, whence I pursued my journey to Menzogna,(16) where I
met with many of our own brethren, and of other religious not a few,
intent one and all on eschewing hardship for the love of God, making
little account of others! toil, so they might ensue their own advantage,
and paying in nought but unminted coin(17) throughout the length and
breadth of the country; and so I came to the land of Abruzzi, where the
men and women go in pattens on the mountains, and clothe the hogs with
their own entrails;(18) and a little further on I found folk that carried
bread in staves and wine in sacks.(19) And leaving them, I arrived at the
mountains of the Bachi,(20) where all the waters run downwards. In short
I penetrated so far that I came at last to India Pastinaca,(21) where I
swear to you by the habit that I wear, that I saw pruning-hooks(22) fly:
a thing that none would believe that had not seen it. Whereof be my
witness that I lie not Maso del Saggio, that great merchant, whom I found
there cracking nuts, and selling the shells by retail! However, not being
able to find that whereof I was in quest, because from thence one must
travel by water, I turned back, and so came at length to the Holy Land,
where in summer cold bread costs four deniers, and hot bread is to be had
for nothing. And there I found the venerable father
Nonmiblasmetesevoipiace,(23) the most worshipful Patriarch of Jerusalem;
who out of respect for the habit that I have ever worn, to wit, that of
Baron Master St. Antony, was pleased to let me see all the holy relics
that he had by him, which were so many, that, were I to enumerate them
all, I should not come to the end of them in some miles. However, not to
disappoint you, I will tell you a few of them. In the first place, then,
he shewed me the finger of the Holy Spirit, as whole and entire as it
ever was, and the tuft of the Seraph that appeared to St. Francis, and
one of the nails of the Cherubim, and one of the ribs of the Verbum Caro
hie thee to the casement,(24) and some of the vestments of the Holy
Catholic Faith, and some of the rays of the star that appeared to the
Magi in the East, and a phial of the sweat of St. Michael a battling with
the Devil and the jaws of death of St. Lazarus, and other relics. And for
that I gave him a liberal supply of the acclivities(25) of Monte Morello
in the vulgar and some chapters of Caprezio, of which he had long been in
quest, he was pleased to let me participate in his holy relics, and gave
me one of the teeth of the Holy Cross, and in a small phial a bit of the
sound of the bells of Solomon's temple, and this feather of the Angel
Gabriel, whereof I have told you, and one of the pattens of San Gherardo
da Villa Magna, which, not long ago, I gave at Florence to Gherardo di
Bonsi, who holds him in prodigious veneration. He also gave me some of
the coals with which the most blessed martyr, St. Lawrence, was roasted.
All which things I devoutly brought thence, and have them all safe. True
it is that my superior has not hitherto permitted me to shew them, until
he should be certified that they are genuine. However, now that this is
avouched by certain miracles wrought by them, of which we have tidings by
letter from the Patriarch, he has given me leave to shew them. But,
fearing to trust them to another, I always carry them with me; and to
tell you the truth I carry the feather of the Angel Gabriel, lest it
should get spoiled, in a casket, and the coals, with which St. Lawrence
was roasted, in another casket; which caskets are so like the one to the
other, that not seldom I mistake one for the other, which has befallen me
on this occasion; for, whereas I thought to have brought with me the
casket wherein is the feather, I have brought instead that which contains
the coals. Nor deem I this a mischance; nay, methinks, 'tis by
interposition, of God, and that He Himself put the casket of coals in my
hand, for I mind me that the feast of St. Lawrence falls but two days
hence. Wherefore God, being minded that by shewing you the coals, with
which he was roasted, I should rekindle in your souls the devotion that
you ought to feel towards him, guided my hand, not to the feather which I
meant to take, but to the blessed coals that were extinguished by the
humours that exuded from that most holy body. And so, blessed children,
bare your heads and devoutly draw nigh to see them. But first of all I
would have you know, that whoso has the sign of the cross made upon him
with these coals, may live secure for the whole of the ensuing year, that
fire shall not touch him, that he feel it not."

Having so said, the friar, chanting a hymn in praise of St. Lawrence,
opened the casket, and shewed the coals. Whereon the foolish crowd gazed
a while in awe and reverent wonder, and then came pressing forward in a
mighty throng about Fra Cipolla with offerings beyond their wont, each
and all praying him to touch them with the coals. Wherefore Fra Cipolla
took the coals in his hand, and set about making on their white blouses,
and on their doublets, and on the veils of the women crosses as big as
might be, averring the while that whatever the coals might thus lose
would be made good to them again in the casket, as he had often proved.
On this wise, to his exceeding great profit, he marked all the folk of
Certaldo with the cross, and, thanks to his ready wit and resource, had
his laugh at those, who by robbing him of the feather thought to make a
laughing-stock of him. They, indeed, being among his hearers, and marking
his novel expedient, and how voluble he was, and what a long story he
made of it, laughed till they thought their jaws would break; and, when
the congregation was dispersed, they went up to him, and never so merrily
told him what they had done, and returned him his feather; which next
year proved no less lucrative to him than that day the coals had been.

(1) Onion.

(2) Diminutive of Arriguccio.

(3) Whale.

(4) Filth.

(5) Hog.

(6) The works of this painter seem to be lost.

(7) One of the humorous ineptitudes of which Boccaccio is fond.

(8) An abbey near Lucca famous for its doles of broth.

(9) Perhaps part of the "sesto" of Florence known as the Borgo, as the
tradition of the commentators that the friar's itinerary is wholly
Florentine is not to be lightly set aside.

(10) Il Garbo, a quarter or street in Florence, doubtless so called
because the wares of Algarve were there sold. Rer. Ital. Script.
(Muratori: Suppl. Tartini) ii. 119. Villani, Istorie Fiorentine, iv. 12,
xii. 18.

(11) A famous tavern in Florence. Florio, Vocab. Ital. e Ingl., ed
Torriano, 1659.

(12) A "borgo" in Florence. Villani, Istorie Fiorentine, iv. 7.

(13) A suburb of Florence on the Arno, ib. ix. 256.

(14) The land of Cajolery.

(15) The land of Drollery.

(16) The land of Lies.

(17) I.e. in false promises: suggested by Dante's Pagando di moneta senza
conio. Parad. xxix. 126.

(18) A reference to sausage-making.

(19) I.e. cakes fashioned in a hollow ring, and wines in leathern
bottles.

(20) Grubs.

(21) In allusion to the shapeless fish, so called, which was proverbially
taken as a type of the outlandish.

(22) A jeu de mots, "pennati," pruning-hooks, signifying also feathered,
though "pennuti" is more common in that sense.

(23) Takemenottotaskanitlikeyou.

(24) Fatti alle finestre, a subterfuge for factum est.

(25) Piagge, jocularly for pagine: doubtless some mighty tome of school
divinity is meant.

Immense was the delight and diversion which this story afforded to all
the company alike, and great and general was the laughter over Fra
Cipolla, and more especially at his pilgrimage, and the relics, as well
those that he had but seen as those that he had brought back with him.
Which being ended, the queen, taking note that therewith the close of her
sovereignty was come, stood up, took off the crown, and set it on
Dioneo's head, saying with a laugh:--"'Tis time, Dioneo, that thou prove
the weight of the burden of having ladies to govern and guide. Be thou
king then; and let thy rule be such that, when 'tis ended, we may have
cause to commend it." Dioneo took the crown, and laughingly
answered:--"Kings worthier far than I you may well have seen many a time
ere now--I speak of the kings in chess; but let me have of you that
obedience which is due to a true king, and of a surety I will give you to
taste of that solace, without which perfection of joy there may not be in
any festivity. But enough of this: I will govern as best I may." Then, as
was the wont, he sent for the seneschal, and gave him particular
instruction how to order matters during the term of his sovereignty;
which done, he said:--"Noble ladies, such and so diverse has been our
discourse of the ways of men and their various fortunes, that but for the
visit that we had a while ago from Madam Licisca, who by what she said
has furnished me with matter of discourse for to-morrow, I doubt I had
been not a little put to it to find a theme. You heard how she said that
there was not a woman in her neighbourhood whose husband had her
virginity; adding that well she knew how many and what manner of tricks
they, after marriage, played their husbands. The first count we may well
leave to the girls whom it concerns; the second, methinks, should prove a
diverting topic: wherefore I ordain that, taking our cue from Madam
Licisca, we discourse to-morrow of the tricks that, either for love or
for their deliverance from peril, ladies have heretofore played their
husbands, and whether they were by the said husbands detected or no." To
discourse of such a topic some of the ladies deemed unmeet for them, and
besought the king to find another theme. But the king made
answer:--"Ladies, what manner of theme I have prescribed I know as well
as you, nor was I to be diverted from prescribing it by that which you
now think to declare unto me, for I wot the times are such that, so only
men and women have a care to do nought that is unseemly, 'tis allowable
to them to discourse of what they please. For in sooth, as you must know,
so out of joint are the times that the judges have deserted the
judgment-seat, the laws are silent, and ample licence to preserve his
life as best he may is accorded to each and all. Wherefore, if you are
somewhat less strict of speech than is your wont, not that aught unseemly
in act may follow, but that you may afford solace to yourselves and
others, I see not how you can be open to reasonable censure on the part
of any. Furthermore, nought that has been said from the first day to the
present moment has, methinks, in any degree sullied the immaculate honour
of your company, nor, God helping us, shall aught ever sully it. Besides,
who is there that knows not the quality of your honour? which were proof,
I make no doubt, against not only the seductive influence of diverting
discourse, but even the terror of death. And, to tell you the truth,
whoso wist that you refused to discourse of these light matters for a
while, would be apt to suspect that 'twas but for that you had yourselves
erred in like sort. And truly a goodly honour would you confer upon me,
obedient as I have ever been to you, if after making me your king and
your lawgiver, you were to refuse to discourse of the theme which I
prescribe. Away, then, with this scruple fitter for low minds than yours,
and let each study how she may give us a goodly story, and Fortune
prosper her therein."

So spake the king, and the ladies, hearkening, said that, even as he
would, so it should be: whereupon he gave all leave to do as they might
be severally minded until the supper-hour. The sun was still quite high
in the heaven, for they had not enlarged in their discourse: wherefore,
Dioneo with the other gallants being set to play at dice, Elisa called
the other ladies apart, and said:--"There is a nook hard by this place,
where I think none of you has ever been: 'tis called the Ladies' Vale:
whither, ever since we have been here, I have desired to take you, but
time meet I have not found until today, when the sun is still so high:
if, then, you are minded to visit it, I have no manner of doubt that,
when you are there, you will be very glad you came." The ladies answered
that they were ready, and so, saying nought to the young men, they
summoned one of their maids, and set forth; nor had they gone much more
than a mile, when they arrived at the Vale of Ladies. They entered it by
a very strait gorge, through which there issued a rivulet, clear as
crystal, and a sight, than which nought more fair and pleasant,
especially at that time when the heat was great, could be imagined, met
their eyes. Within the valley, as one of them afterwards told me, was a
plain about half-a-mile in circumference, and so exactly circular that it
might have been fashioned according to the compass, though it seemed a
work of Nature's art, not man's: 'twas girdled about by six hills of no
great height, each crowned with a palace that shewed as a goodly little
castle. The slopes of the hills were graduated from summit to base after
the manner of the successive tiers, ever abridging their circle, that we
see in our theatres; and as many as fronted the southern rays were all
planted so close with vines, olives, almond-trees, cherry-trees,
fig-trees and other fruitbearing trees not a few, that there was not a
hand's-breadth of vacant space. Those that fronted the north were in like
manner covered with copses of oak saplings, ashes and other trees, as
green and straight as might be. Besides which, the plain, which was shut
in on all sides save that on which the ladies had entered, was full of
firs, cypresses, and bay-trees, with here and there a pine, in order and
symmetry so meet and excellent as had they been planted by an artist, the
best that might be found in that kind; wherethrough, even when the sun
was in the zenith, scarce a ray of light might reach the ground, which
was all one lawn of the finest turf, pranked with the hyacinth and divers
other flowers. Add to which--nor was there aught there more
delightsome--a rivulet that, issuing from one of the gorges between two
of the hills, descended over ledges of living rock, making, as it fell, a
murmur most gratifying to the ear, and, seen from a distance, shewed as a
spray of finest, powdered quick-silver, and no sooner reached the little
plain, than 'twas gathered into a tiny channel, by which it sped with
great velocity to the middle of the plain, where it formed a diminutive
lake, like the fishponds that townsfolk sometimes make in their gardens,
when they have occasion for them. The lake was not so deep but that a man
might stand therein with his breast above the water; and so clear, so
pellucid was the water that the bottom, which was of the finest gravel,
shewed so distinct, that one, had he wished, who had nought better to do,
might have counted the stones. Nor was it only the bottom that was to be
seen, but such a multitude of fishes, glancing to and fro, as was at once
a delight and a marvel to behold. Bank it had none, but its margin was
the lawn, to which it imparted a goodlier freshness. So much of the water
as it might not contain was received by another tiny channel, through
which, issuing from the vale, it glided swiftly to the plain below.

To which pleasaunce the damsels being come surveyed it with roving
glance, and finding it commendable, and marking the lake in front of
them, did, as 'twas very hot, and they deemed themselves secure from
observation, resolve to take a bath. So, having bidden their maid wait
and keep watch over the access to the vale, and give them warning, if
haply any should approach it, they all seven undressed and got into the
water, which to the whiteness of their flesh was even such a veil as fine
glass is to the vermeil of the rose. They, being thus in the water, the
clearness of which was thereby in no wise affected, did presently begin
to go hither and thither after the fish, which had much ado where to
bestow themselves so as to escape out of their hands. In which diversion
they spent some time, and caught a few, and then they hied them out of
the water and dressed them again, and bethinking them that 'twas time to
return to the palace, they began slowly sauntering thither, dilating much
as they went upon the beauty of the place, albeit they could not extol it
more than they had already done. 'Twas still quite early when they
reached the palace, so that they found the gallants yet at play where
they had left them. To whom quoth Pampinea with a smile:--"We have stolen
a march upon you to-day." "So," replied Dioneo, "'tis with you do first
and say after?" "Ay, my lord," returned Pampinea, and told him at large
whence they came, and what the place was like, and how far 'twas off, and
what they had done. What she said of the beauty of the spot begat in the
king a desire to see it: wherefore he straightway ordered supper, whereof
when all had gaily partaken, the three gallants parted from the ladies
and hied them with their servants to the vale, where none of them had
ever been before, and, having marked all its beauties, extolled it as
scarce to be matched in all the world. Then, as the hour was very late,
they did but bathe, and as soon as they had resumed their clothes,
returned to the ladies, whom they found dancing a carol to an air that
Fiammetta sang, which done, they conversed of the Ladies' Vale, waxing
eloquent in praise thereof: insomuch that the king called the seneschal,
and bade him have some beds made ready and carried thither on the morrow,
that any that were so minded might there take their siesta. He then had
lights and wine and comfits brought; and when they had taken a slight
refection, he bade all address them to the dance. So at his behest
Pamfilo led a dance, and then the king, turning with gracious mien to
Elisa:--"Fair damsel," quoth he, "'twas thou to-day didst me this honour
of the crown; and 'tis my will that thine to-night be the honour of the
song; wherefore sing us whatsoever thou hast most lief." "That gladly
will I," replied Elisa smiling; and thus with dulcet voice began:--

If of thy talons, Love, be quit I may,
  I deem it scarce can be
  But other fangs I may elude for aye.

Service I took with thee, a tender maid,
  In thy war thinking perfect peace to find,
  And all my arms upon the ground I laid,
  Yielding myself to thee with trustful mind:
  Thou, harpy-tyrant, whom no faith may bind,
  Eftsoons didst swoop on me,
  And with thy cruel claws mad'st me thy prey.

Then thy poor captive, bound with many a chain,
  Thou tookst, and gav'st to him, whom fate did call
  Hither my death to be; for that in pain
  And bitter tears I waste away, his thrall:
  Nor heave I e'er a sigh, or tear let fall,
  So harsh a lord is he,
  That him inclines a jot my grief to allay.

My prayers upon the idle air are spent:
  He hears not, will not hear; wherefore in vain
  The more each hour my soul doth her torment;
  Nor may I die, albeit to die were gain.
  Ah! Lord, have pity of my bitter pain!
  Help have I none but thee;
  Then take and bind and at my feet him lay.

But if thou wilt not, do my soul but loose
  From hope, that her still binds with triple chain.
  Sure, O my Lord, this prayer thou'lt not refuse:
  The which so thou to grant me do but deign,
  I look my wonted beauty to regain,
  And banish misery
  With roses white and red bedecked and gay.

So with a most piteous sigh ended Elisa her song, whereat all wondered
exceedingly, nor might any conjecture wherefore she so sang. But the
king, who was in a jolly humour, sent for Tindaro, and bade him out with
his cornemuse, and caused them tread many a measure thereto, until, no
small part of the night being thus spent, he gave leave to all to betake
them to rest.


--
Endeth here the sixth day of the Decameron, beginneth the seventh, in
which, under the rule of Dioneo, discourse is had of the tricks which,
either for love or for their deliverance from peril, ladies have
heretofore played their husbands, and whether they were by the said
husbands detected, or no.
--

Fled was now each star from the eastern sky, save only that which we call
Lucifer, which still glowed in the whitening dawn, when uprose the
seneschal, and with a goodly baggage-train hied him to the Ladies' Vale,
there to make all things ready according to the ordinance and commandment
of the king. Nor was it long after his departure that the king rose,
being awaked by the stir and bustle that the servants made in lading the
horses, and being risen he likewise roused all the ladies and the other
gallants; and so, when as yet 'twas scarce clear daybreak, they all took
the road; nor seemed it to them that the nightingales and the other birds
had ever chanted so blithely as that morning. By which choir they were
attended to the Ladies' Vale, where they were greeted by other warblers
not a few, that seemed rejoiced at their arrival. Roving about the vale,
and surveying its beauties afresh, they rated them higher than on the
previous day, as indeed the hour was more apt to shew them forth. Then
with good wine and comfits they broke their fast, and, that they might
not lag behind the songsters, they fell a singing, whereto the vale
responded, ever echoing their strains; nor did the birds, as minded not
to be beaten, fail to swell the chorus with notes of unwonted sweetness.
However, breakfast-time came, and then, the tables being laid under a
living canopy of trees, and beside other goodly trees that fringed the
little lake, they sat them down in order as to the king seemed meet. So
they took their meal, glancing from time to time at the lake, where the
fish darted to and fro in multitudinous shoals, which afforded not only
delight to their eyes but matter for converse. Breakfast ended, and the
tables removed, they fell a singing again more blithely than before.
After which, there being set, in divers places about the little vale,
beds which the discreet seneschal had duly furnished and equipped within
and without with store of French coverlets, and other bedgear, all, that
were so minded, had leave of the king to go to sleep, and those that
cared not to sleep might betake them, as each might choose, to any of
their wonted diversions. But, all at length being risen, and the time for
addressing them to the story-telling being come, the king had carpets
spread on the sward no great way from the place where they had
breakfasted; and, all having sat them down beside the lake, he bade
Emilia begin; which, blithe and smiling, Emilia did on this wise.


NOVEL I.

--
Gianni Lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door at night: he awakens his
wife, who persuades him that 'tis the bogey, which they fall to
exorcising with a prayer; whereupon the knocking ceases.
--

My lord, glad indeed had I been, that, saving your good pleasure, some
other than I had had precedence of discourse upon so goodly a theme as
this of which we are to speak--I doubt I am but chosen to teach others
confidence; but, such being your will, I will gladly obey it. And my
endeavour shall be, dearest ladies, to tell you somewhat that may be
serviceable to you in the future: for, if you are, as I am, timorous, and
that most especially of the bogey, which, God wot, I know not what manner
of thing it may be, nor yet have found any that knew, albeit we are all
alike afraid of it, you may learn from this my story how to put it to
flight, should it intrude upon you, with a holy, salutary and most
efficacious orison.

There dwelt of yore at Florence, in the quarter of San Pancrazio, a
master-spinner, Gianni Lotteringhi by name, one that had prospered in his
business, but had little understanding of aught else; insomuch that being
somewhat of a simpleton, he had many a time been chosen leader of the
band of laud-singers of Santa Maria Novella, and had charge of their
school; and not a few like offices had he often served, upon which he
greatly plumed himself. Howbeit, 'twas all for no other reason than that,
being a man of substance, he gave liberal doles to the friars; who, for
that they got thereof, this one hose, another a cloak, and a third a
hood, would teach him good orisons, or give him the paternoster in the
vernacular, or the chant of St. Alexis, or the lament of St. Bernard, or
the laud of Lady Matilda, or the like sorry stuff, which he greatly
prized, and guarded with jealous care, deeming them all most conducive to
the salvation of his soul.

Now our simple master-spinner had a most beautiful wife, and amorous
withal, her name Monna Tessa. Daughter she was of Mannuccio dalla
Cuculla, and not a little knowing and keen-witted; and being enamoured of
Federigo di Neri Pegolotti, a handsome and lusty gallant, as he also of
her, she, knowing her husband's simplicity, took counsel with her maid,
and arranged that Federigo should come to chat with her at a right goodly
pleasure-house that the said Gianni had at Camerata, where she was wont
to pass the summer, Gianni coming now and again to sup and sleep, and
going back in the morning to his shop, or, maybe, to his laud-singers.
Federigo, who desired nothing better, went up there punctually on the
appointed day about vespers, and as the evening passed without Gianni
making his appearance, did most comfortably, and to his no small
satisfaction, sup and sleep with the lady, who lying in his arms taught
him that night some six of her husband's lauds. But, as neither she nor
Federigo was minded that this beginning should also be the end of their
intercourse, and that it might not be needful for the maid to go each
time to make the assignation with him, they came to the following
understanding; to wit, that as often as he came and went between the
house and an estate that he had a little higher up, he should keep an eye
on a vineyard that was beside the house, where he would see an ass's head
stuck on one of the poles of the vineyard, and as often as he observed
the muzzle turned towards Florence, he might visit her without any sort
of misgiving; and if he found not the door open, he was to tap it thrice,
and she would open it; and when he saw the muzzle of the ass's head
turned towards Fiesole, he was to keep away, for then Gianni would be
there. Following which plan, they forgathered not seldom: but on one of
these evenings, when Federigo was to sup with Monna Tessa on two fat
capons that she bad boiled, it so chanced that Gianni arrived there
unexpectedly and very late, much to the lady's chagrin: so she had a
little salt meat boiled apart, on which she supped with her husband; and
the maid by her orders carried the two boiled capons laid in a spotless
napkin with plenty of fresh eggs and a bottle of good wine into the
garden, to which there was access otherwise than from the house, and
where she was wont at times to sup with Federigo; and there the maid set
them down at the foot of a peach-tree, that grew beside a lawn. But in
her vexation she forgot to tell the maid to wait till Federigo should
come, and let him know that Gianni was there, and he must take his supper
in the garden: and she and Gianni and the maid were scarce gone to bed,
when Federigo came and tapped once at the door, which being hard by the
bedroom, Gianni heard the tap, as did also the lady, albeit, that Gianni
might have no reason to suspect her, she feigned to be asleep. Federigo
waited a little, and then gave a second tap; whereupon, wondering what it
might mean, Gianni nudged his wife, saying:--"Tessa, dost hear what I
hear? Methinks some one has tapped at our door." The lady, who had heard
the noise much better than he, feigned to wake up, and:--"How? what sayst
thou?" quoth she. "I say," replied Gianni, "that, meseems, some one has
tapped at our door." "Tapped at it?" quoth the lady. "Alas, my Gianni,
wottest thou not what that is? 'Tis the bogey, which for some nights past
has so terrified me as never was, insomuch that I never hear it but I pop
my head under the clothes and venture not to put it out again until 'tis
broad day." "Come, come, wife," quoth Gianni, "if such it is, be not
alarmed; for before we got into bed I repeated the Te lucis, the
Intemerata, and divers other good orisons, besides which I made the sign
of the cross in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit at each
corner of the bed; wherefore we need have no fear that it may avail to
hurt us, whatever be its power." The lady, lest Federigo, perchance
suspecting a rival, should take offence, resolved to get up, and let him
understand that Gianni was there: so she said to her husband:--"Well
well; so sayst thou; but I for my part shall never deem myself safe and
secure, unless we exorcise it, seeing that thou art here." "Oh!" said
Gianni, "and how does one exorcise it?" "That," quoth the lady, "I know
right well; for t'other day, when I went to Fiesole for the pardoning,
one of those anchoresses, the saintliest creature, my Gianni, God be my
witness, knowing how much afraid I am of the bogey, taught me a holy and
salutary orison, which she said she had tried many a time before she was
turned anchoress, and always with success. God wot, I should never have
had courage to try it alone; but as thou art here, I propose that we go
exorcise it together." Gianni made answer that he was quite of the same
mind; so up they got, and stole to the door, on the outside of which
Federigo, now suspicious, was still waiting. And as soon as they were
there:--"Now," quoth the lady to Gianni, "thou wilt spit, when I tell
thee." "Good," said Gianni. Whereupon the lady began her orison,
saying:--

  "Bogey, bogey that goest by night,
  Tail erect, thou cam'st, tail erect, take thy flight
  Hie thee to the garden, and the great peach before,
  Grease upon grease, and droppings five score
  Of my hen shalt thou find:
  Set the flask thy lips to,
  Then away like the wind,
  And no scathe unto me or my Gianni do."

And when she had done:--"Now, Gianni," quoth she, "spit": and Gianni
spat.

There was no more room for jealousy in Federigo's mind as he heard all
this from without; nay, for all his disappointment, he was like to burst
with suppressed laughter, and when Gianni spat, he muttered under his
breath:--"Now out with thy teeth." The lady, having after this fashion
thrice exorcised the bogey, went back to bed with her husband. Federigo,
disappointed of the supper that he was to have had with her, and
apprehending the words of the orison aright, hied him to the garden, and
having found the two capons and the wine and the eggs at the foot of the
peach-tree, took them home with him, and supped very comfortably. And
many a hearty laugh had he and the lady over the exorcism during their
subsequent intercourse.

Now, true it is that some say that the lady had in fact turned the ass's
head towards Fiesole, but that a husbandman, passing through the
vineyard, had given it a blow with his stick, whereby it had swung round,
and remained fronting Florence, and so it was that Federigo thought that
he was invited, and came to the house, and that the lady's orison was on
this wise:--

  "Bogey, a God's name, away thee hie,
  For whoe'er turned the ass's head, 'twas not I:
  Another it was, foul fall his eyne;
  And here am I with Gianni mine."

Wherefore Federigo was fain to take himself off, having neither slept nor
supped.

But a neighbour of mine, a lady well advanced in years, tells me that, by
what she heard when she was a girl, both stories are true; but that the
latter concerned not Gianni Lotteringhi but one Gianni di Nello, that
lived at Porta San Piero, and was no less a numskull than Gianni
Lotteringhi. Wherefore, dear my ladies, you are at liberty to choose
which exorcism you prefer, or take both if you like. They are both of
extraordinary and approved virtue in such cases, as you have heard: get
them by heart, therefore, and they may yet stand you in good stead.


NOVEL II.

--
Her husband returning home, Peronella bestows her lover in a tun; which,
being sold by her husband, she avers to have been already sold by herself
to one that is inside examining it to see if it be sound. Whereupon the
lover jumps out, and causes the husband to scour the tun for him, and
afterwards to carry it to his house.
--

Great indeed was the laughter with which Emilia's story was received;
which being ended, and her orison commended by all as good and salutary,
the king bade Filostrato follow suit; and thus Filostrato began:--Dearest
my ladies, so many are the tricks that men play you, and most of all your
husbands, that, when from time to time it so befalls that some lady plays
her husband a trick, the circumstance, whether it come within your own
cognizance or be told you by another, should not only give you joy but
should incite you to publish it on all hands, that men may be ware, that,
knowing as they are, their ladies also, on their part, know somewhat:
which cannot but be serviceable to you, for that one does not rashly
essay to take another with guile whom one wots not to lack that quality.
Can we doubt, then, that, should but the converse that we shall hold
to-day touching this matter come to be bruited among men, 'twould serve
to put a most notable check upon the tricks they play you, by doing them
to wit of the tricks, which you, in like manner, when you are so minded,
may play them? Wherefore 'tis my intention to tell you in what manner a
young girl, albeit she was but of low rank, did, on the spur of the
moment, beguile her husband to her own deliverance.

'Tis no long time since at Naples a poor man, a mason by craft, took to
wife a fair and amorous maiden--Peronella was her name--who eked out by
spinning what her husband made by his craft; and so the pair managed as
best they might on very slender means. And as chance would have it, one
of the gallants of the city, taking note of this Peronella one day, and
being mightily pleased with her, fell in love with her, and by this means
and that so prevailed that he won her to accord him her intimacy. Their
times of forgathering they concerted as follows:--to wit, that, her
husband being wont to rise betimes of a morning to go to work or seek for
work, the gallant was to be where he might see him go forth, and, the
street where she dwelt, which is called Avorio, being scarce inhabited,
was to come into the house as soon as her husband was well out of it; and
so times not a few they did. But on one of these occasions it befell
that, the good man being gone forth, and Giannello Sirignario--such was
the gallant's name--being come into the house, and being with Peronella,
after a while, back came the good man, though 'twas not his wont to
return until the day was done; and finding the door locked, he knocked,
and after knocking, he fell a saying to himself:--O God, praised be Thy
name forever; for that, albeit Thou hast ordained that I be poor, at
least Thou hast accorded me the consolation of a good and honest girl for
wife. Mark what haste she made to shut the door when I was gone forth,
that none else might enter to give her trouble.

Now Peronella knew by his knock that 'twas her husband;
wherefore:--"Alas, Giannello mine," quoth she, "I am a dead woman, for
lo, here is my husband, foul fall him! come back! What it may import, I
know not, for he is never wont to come back at this hour; perchance he
caught sight of thee as thou camest in. However, for the love of God, be
it as it may, get thee into this tun that thou seest here, and I will go
open to him, and we shall see what is the occasion of this sudden return
this morning." So Giannello forthwith got into the tun, and Peronella
went to the door, and let in her husband, and gave him black looks,
saying:--"This is indeed a surprise that thou art back so soon this
morning! By what I see thou hast a mind to make this a holiday, that thou
returnest tools in hand; if so, what are we to live on? whence shall we
get bread to eat? Thinkest thou I will let thee pawn my gown and other
bits of clothes? Day and night I do nought else but spin, insomuch that
the flesh is fallen away from my nails, that at least I may have oil
enough to keep our lamp alight. Husband, husband, there is never a woman
in the neighbourhood but marvels and mocks at me, that I am at such
labour and pains; and thou comest home to me with thy hands hanging idle,
when thou shouldst be at work." Which said, she fell a weeping and
repeating:--"Alas, alas, woe 's me, in what evil hour was I born? in what
luckless moment came I hither, I, that might have had so goodly a young
man, and I would not, to take up with one that bestows never a thought on
her whom he has made his wife? Other women have a good time with their
lovers, and never a one have we here but has two or three; they take
their pleasure, and make their husbands believe that the moon is the sun;
and I, alas! for that I am an honest woman, and have no such casual
amours, I suffer, and am hard bested. I know not why I provide not myself
with one of these lovers, as others do. Give good heed, husband, to what
I say: were I disposed to dishonour thee, I were at no loss to find the
man: for here are gallants enough, that love me, and court me, and have
sent me many an offer of money--no stint--or dresses or jewels, should I
prefer them; but my pride would never suffer it, because I was not born
of a woman of that sort: and now thou comest home to me when thou
oughtest to be at work."

Whereto the husband:--"Wife, wife, for God's sake distress not thyself:
thou shouldst give me credit for knowing what manner of woman thou art,
as indeed I have partly seen this morning. True it is that I went out to
work; but 'tis plain that thou knowest not, as indeed I knew not, that
to-day 'tis the feast of San Galeone, and a holiday, and that is why I am
come home at this hour; but nevertheless I have found means to provide us
with bread for more than a month; for I have sold to this gentleman, whom
thou seest with me, the tun, thou wottest of, seeing that it has
encumbered the house so long, and he will give me five gigliats for it."
Quoth then Peronella:--"And all this but adds to my trouble: thou, that
art a man, and goest abroad, and shouldst know affairs, hast sold for
five gigliats a tun, which I, that am but a woman, and was scarce ever
out of doors, have, for that it took up so much room in the house, sold
for seven gigliats to a good man, that but now, as thou cam'st back, got
therein, to see if 'twere sound." So hearing, the husband was overjoyed,
and said to the man that was come to take it away:--"Good man, I wish
thee Godspeed; for, as thou hearest, my wife has sold the tun for seven
gigliats, whereas thou gavest me only five." Whereupon:--"So be it," said
the good man, and took himself off. Then said Peronella to her
husband:--"Now, as thou art here, come up, and arrange the matter with
the good man."

Now Giannello, who, meanwhile, had been all on the alert to discover if
there were aught he had to fear or be on his guard against, no sooner
heard Peronella's last words, than he sprang out of the tun, and feigning
to know nought of her husband's return, began thus:--"Where art thou,
good dame?" Whereto the husband, coming up, answered:--"Here am I: what
wouldst thou of me?" Quoth Giannello:--"And who art thou? I would speak
with the lady with whom I struck the bargain for this tun." Then said the
good man:--"Have no fear, you can deal with me; for I am her husband."
Quoth then Giannello:--"The tun seems to me sound enough; but I think you
must have let the lees remain in it; for 'tis all encrusted with I know
not what that is so dry, that I cannot raise it with the nail; wherefore
I am not minded to take it unless I first see it scoured." Whereupon
Peronella:--"To be sure: that shall not hinder the bargain; my husband
will scour it clean." And:--"Well and good," said the husband.

So he laid down his tools, stripped himself to his vest, sent for a light
and a rasp, and was in the tun, and scraping away, in a trice. Whereupon
Peronella, as if she were curious to see what he did, thrust her head
into the vent of the tun, which was of no great size, and therewithal one
of her arms up to the shoulder, and fell a saying:--"Scrape here, and
here, and there too, and look, there is a bit left here." So, she being
in this posture, directing and admonishing her husband, Giannello, who
had not, that morning, fully satisfied his desire, when the husband
arrived, now seeing that as he would, he might not, brought his mind to
his circumstances, and resolved to take his pleasure as he might:
wherefore he made up to the lady, who completely blocked the vent of the
tun; and even on such wise as on the open champaign the wild and lusty
horses do amorously assail the mares of Parthia, he sated his youthful
appetite; and so it was that almost at the same moment that he did so,
and was off, the tun was scoured, the husband came forth of it, and
Peronella withdrew her head from the vent, and turning to Giannello,
said:--"Take this light, good man, and see if 'tis scoured to thy mind."
Whereupon Giannello, looking into the tun, said that 'twas in good trim,
and that he was well content, and paid the husband the seven gigliats,
and caused him carry the tun to his house.


NOVEL III.

--
Fra Rinaldo lies with his gossip: her husband finds him in the room with
her; and they make him believe that he was curing his godson of worms by
a charm.
--

Filostrato knew not how so to veil what he said touching the mares of
Parthia, but that the keen-witted ladies laughed thereat, making as if
'twas at somewhat else. However, his story being ended, the king called
for one from Elisa, who, all obedience, thus began:--Debonair my ladies,
we heard from Emilia how the bogey is exorcised, and it brought to my
mind a story of another incantation: 'tis not indeed so good a story as
hers; but, as no other, germane to our theme, occurs to me at present, I
will relate it.

You are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at Siena a young man,
right gallant and of honourable family, his name Rinaldo; who, being in
the last degree enamoured of one of his neighbours, a most beautiful
gentlewoman and the wife of a rich man, was not without hopes that, if he
could but find means to speak with her privately, he might have of her
all that he desired; but seeing no way, and the lady being pregnant, he
cast about how he might become her child's godfather. Wherefore, having
ingratiated himself with her husband, he broached the matter to him in as
graceful a manner as he might; and 'twas arranged. So Rinaldo, being now
godfather to Madonna Agnesa's child, and having a more colourable pretext
for speaking to her, took courage, and told her in words that message of
his heart which she had long before read in his eyes; but though 'twas
not displeasing to the lady to hear, it availed him but little.

Now not long afterwards it so befell that, whatever may have been his
reason, Rinaldo betook him to friarage; and whether it was that he found
good pasture therein, or what not, he persevered in that way of life. And
though for a while after he was turned friar, he laid aside the love he
bore his gossip, and certain other vanities, yet in course of time,
without putting off the habit, he resumed them, and began to take a pride
in his appearance, and to go dressed in fine clothes, and to be quite the
trim gallant, and to compose songs and sonnets and ballades, and to sing
them, and to make a brave shew in all else that pertained to his new
character. But why enlarge upon our Fra Rinaldo, of whom we speak? what
friars are there that do not the like? Ah! opprobrium of a corrupt world!
Sleek-faced and sanguine, daintily clad, dainty in all their accessories,
they ruffle it shamelessly before the eyes of all, shewing not as doves
but as insolent cocks with raised crest and swelling bosom, and, what is
worse (to say nought of the vases full of electuaries and unguents, the
boxes packed with divers comfits, the pitchers and phials of artificial
waters, and oils, the flagons brimming with Malmsey and Greek and other
wines of finest quality, with which their cells are so packed that they
shew not as the cells of friars, but rather as apothecaries' or
perfumers' shops), they blush not to be known to be gouty, flattering
themselves that other folk wot not that long fasts and many of them, and
coarse fare and little of it, and sober living, make men lean and thin
and for the most part healthy; or if any malady come thereof, at any rate
'tis not the gout, the wonted remedy for which is chastity and all beside
that belongs to the regimen of a humble friar. They flatter themselves,
too, that others wot not that over and above the meagre diet, long vigils
and orisons and strict discipline ought to mortify men and make them
pale, and that neither St. Dominic nor St. Francis went clad in stuff
dyed in grain or any other goodly garb, but in coarse woollen habits
innocent of the dyer's art, made to keep out the cold, and not for shew.
To which matters 'twere well God had a care, no less than to the souls of
the simple folk by whom our friars are nourished.

Fra Rinaldo, then, being come back to his first affections, took to
visiting his gossip very frequently; and gaining confidence, began with
more insistence than before to solicit her to that which he craved of
her. So, being much urged, the good lady, to whom Fra Rinaldo, perhaps,
seemed now more handsome than of yore, had recourse one day, when she
felt herself unusually hard pressed by him, to the common expedient of
all that would fain concede what is asked of them, and said:--"Oh! but
Fra Rinaldo, do friars then do this sort of thing?" "Madam," replied Fra
Rinaldo, "when I divest myself of this habit, which I shall do easily
enough, you will see that I am a man furnished as other men, and no
friar." Whereto with a truly comical air the lady made answer:--"Alas!
woe's me! you are my child's godfather: how might it be? nay, but 'twere
a very great mischief; and many a time I have heard that 'tis a most
heinous sin; and without a doubt, were it not so, I would do as you
wish." "If," said Fra Rinaldo, "you forego it for such a scruple as this,
you are a fool for your pains. I say not that 'tis no sin; but there is
no sin so great but God pardons it, if one repent. Now tell me: whether
is more truly father to your son, I that held him at the font, or your
husband that begot him?" "My husband," replied the lady. "Sooth say you,"
returned the friar, "and does not your husband lie with you?" "Why, yes,"
said the lady. "Then," rejoined the friar, "I that am less truly your
son's father than your husband, ought also to lie with you, as does your
husband." The lady was no logician, and needed little to sway her: she
therefore believed or feigned to believe that what the friar said was
true. So:-- "Who might avail to answer your words of wisdom?" quoth she;
and presently forgot the godfather in the lover, and complied with his
desires. Nor had they begun their course to end it forthwith: but under
cover of the friar's sponsorship, which set them more at ease, as it
rendered them less open to suspicion, they forgathered again and again.

But on one of these occasions it so befell that Fra Rinaldo, being come
to the lady's house, where he espied none else save a very pretty and
dainty little maid that waited on the lady, sent his companion away with
her into the pigeon-house, there to teach her the paternoster, while he
and the lady, holding her little boy by the hand, went into the bedroom,
locked themselves in, got them on to a divan that was there, and began to
disport them. And while thus they sped the time, it chanced that the
father returned, and, before any was ware of him, was at the bedroom
door, and knocked, and called the lady by her name. Whereupon:--"'Tis as
much as my life is worth," quoth Madonna Agnesa; "lo, here is my husband;
and the occasion of our intimacy cannot but be now apparent to him."
"Sooth say you," returned Fra Rinaldo, who was undressed, that is to say,
had thrown off his habit and hood, and was in his tunic; "if I had but my
habit and hood on me in any sort, 'twould be another matter; but if you
let him in, and he find me thus, 'twill not be possible to put any face
on it." But with an inspiration as happy as sudden:--"Now get them on
you," quoth the lady; "and when you have them on, take your godson in
your arms, and give good heed to what I shall say to him, that your words
may accord with mine; and leave the rest to me."

The good man was still knocking, when his wife made answer:-- "Coming,
coming." And so up she got, and put on a cheerful countenance and hied
her to the door, and opened it and said:--"Husband mine: well indeed was
it for us that in came Fra Rinaldo, our sponsor; 'twas God that sent him
to us; for in sooth, but for that, we had to-day lost our boy." Which the
poor simpleton almost swooned to hear; and:--"How so?" quoth he. "O
husband mine," replied the lady, "he was taken but now, all of a sudden,
with a fainting fit, so that I thought he was dead: and what to do or say
I knew not, had not Fra Rinaldo, our sponsor, come just in the nick of
time, and set him on his shoulder, and said:--'Gossip, 'tis that he has
worms in his body, and getting, as they do, about the heart, they might
only too readily be the death of him; but fear not; I will say a charm
that will kill them all; and before I take my leave, you will see your
boy as whole as you ever saw him.' And because to say certain of the
prayers thou shouldst have been with us, and the maid knew not where to
find thee, he caused his companion to say them at the top of the house,
and he and I came in here. And for that 'tis not meet for any but the
boy's mother to assist at such a service, that we might not be troubled
with any one else, we locked the door; and he yet has him in his arms;
and I doubt not that he only waits till his companion have said his
prayers, and then the charm will be complete; for the boy is already
quite himself again."

The good simple soul, taking all this for sooth, and overwrought by the
love he bore his son, was entirely without suspicion of the trick his
wife was playing him, and heaving a great sigh, said:--"I will go look
for him." "Nay," replied the wife, "go not: thou wouldst spoil the
efficacy of the charm: wait here; I will go see if thou mayst safely go;
and will call thee."

Whereupon Fra Rinaldo, who had heard all that passed, and was in his
canonicals, and quite at his ease, and had the boy in his arms, having
made sure that all was as it should be, cried out:--"Gossip, do I not
hear the father's voice out there?" "Ay indeed, Sir," replied the
simpleton. "Come in then," said Fra Rinaldo. So in came the simpleton.
Whereupon quoth Fra Rinaldo:--"I restore to you your boy made whole by
the grace of God, whom but now I scarce thought you would see alive at
vespers. You will do well to have his image fashioned in wax, not less
than life-size, and set it for a thanksgiving to God, before the statue
of Master St. Ambrose, by whose merits you have this favour of God."

The boy, catching sight of his father, ran to him with joyous greetings,
as little children are wont; and the father, taking him in his arms, and
weeping as if he were restored to him from the grave, fell by turns a
kissing him and thanking his godfather, that he had cured him. Fra
Rinaldo's companion, who had taught the maid not one paternoster only,
but peradventure four or more, and by giving her a little purse of white
thread that a nun had given him, had made her his devotee, no sooner
heard Fra Rinaldo call the simpleton into his wife's room, than he
stealthily got him to a place whence he might see and hear what was going
on. Observing that the affair was now excellently arranged, he came down,
and entered the chamber, saying:--"Fra Rinaldo, those four prayers that
you bade me say, I have said them all." "Then well done, my brother,"
quoth Fra Rinaldo, "well-breathed must thou be. For my part, I had but
said two, when my gossip came in; but what with thy travail and mine, God
of His grace has vouchsafed-us the healing or the boy." The simpleton
then had good wine and comfits brought in, and did the honours to the
godfather and his companion in such sort as their occasions did most
demand. He then ushered them forth of the house, commending them to God;
and without delay had the waxen image made, and directed it to be set up
with the others in front of the statue of St. Ambrose, not, be it
understood, St. Ambrose of Milan.(1)

(1) The statue would doubtless be that of St. Ambrose of Siena, of the
Dominican Order.


NOVEL IV.

--
Tofano one night locks his wife out of the house: she, finding that by no
entreaties may she prevail upon him to let her in, feigns to throw
herself into a well, throwing therein a great stone. Tofano hies him
forth of the house, and runs to the spot: she goes into the house, and
locks him out, and hurls abuse at him from within.
--

The king no sooner wist that Elisa's story was ended, than, turning to
Lauretta, he signified his will that she should tell somewhat: wherefore
without delay she began:--O Love, how great and signal is thy potency!
how notable thy stratagems, thy devices! Was there ever, shall there ever
be, philosopher or adept competent to inspire, counsel and teach in such
sort as thou by thine unpremeditated art dost tutor those that follow thy
lead? Verily laggard teachers are they all in comparison of thee, as by
the matters heretofore set forth may very well be understood. To which
store I will add, loving ladies, a stratagem used by a woman of quite
ordinary understanding, and of such a sort that I know not by whom she
could have been taught it save by Love.

Know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at Arezzo a rich man, Tofano by
name, who took to wife Monna Ghita, a lady exceeding fair, of whom, for
what cause he knew not, he presently grew jealous. Whereof the lady being
ware, waxed resentful, and having on divers occasions demanded of him the
reason of his jealousy, and gotten from him nought precise, but only
generalities and trivialities, resolved at last to give him cause enough
to die of that evil which without cause he so much dreaded. And being
ware that a gallant, whom she deemed well worthy of her, was enamoured of
her, she, using due discretion, came to an understanding with him; which
being brought to the point that it only remained to give effect to their
words in act, the lady cast about to devise how this might be. And
witting that, among other bad habits that her husband had, he was too
fond of his cups, she would not only commend indulgence, but cunningly
and not seldom incite him thereto; insomuch that, well-nigh as often as
she was so minded, she led him to drink to excess; and when she saw that
he was well drunken, she would put him to bed; and so not once only but
divers times without any manner of risk she forgathered with her lover;
nay, presuming upon her husband's intoxication, she grew so bold that,
not content with bringing her lover into her house, she would at times go
spend a great part of the night with him at his house, which was not far
off.

Now such being the enamoured lady's constant practice, it so befell that
the dishonoured husband took note that, while she egged him on to drink,
she herself drank never a drop; whereby he came to suspect the truth, to
wit, that the lady was making him drunk, that afterwards she might take
her pleasure while he slept. And being minded to put his surmise to the
proof, one evening, having drunken nought all day, he mimicked never so
drunken a sot both in speech and in carriage. The lady, deeming him to be
really as he appeared, and that 'twas needless to ply him with liquor,
presently put him to bed. Which done, she, as she at times was wont, hied
her forth to her lover's house, where she tarried until midnight. Tofano
no sooner perceived that his wife was gone, than up he got, hied him to
the door, locked it, and then posted himself at the window to observe her
return, and let her know that he was ware of her misconduct. So there he
stood until the lady returned, and finding herself locked out, was
annoyed beyond measure, and sought to force the door open. Tofano let her
try her strength upon it a while, and then:--"Madam," quoth he, "'tis all
to no purpose: thou canst not get in. Go get thee back thither where thou
hast tarried all this while, and rest assured that thou shalt never
recross this threshold, until I have done thee such honour as is meet for
thee in the presence of thy kinsfolk and neighbours." Thereupon the lady
fell entreating him to be pleased to open to her for the love of God, for
that she was not come whence he supposed, but had only been passing the
time with one of her gossips, because the nights were long, and she could
not spend the whole time either in sleep or in solitary watching. But her
supplications availed her nothing, for the fool was determined that all
Arezzo should know their shame, whereof as yet none wist aught. So as
'twas idle to entreat, the lady assumed a menacing tone, saying:--"So
thou open not to me, I will make thee the saddest man alive." Whereto
Tofano made answer:--"And what then canst thou do?" The lady, her wits
sharpened by Love, rejoined:--"Rather than endure the indignity to which
thou wouldst unjustly subject me, I will cast myself into the well hard
by here, and when I am found dead there, all the world will believe that
'twas thou that didst it in thy cups, and so thou wilt either have to
flee and lose all that thou hast and be outlawed, or forfeit thy head as
guilty of my death, as indeed thou wilt be." But, for all she said,
Tofano wavered not a jot in his foolish purpose. So at last:--"Lo, now,"
quoth the lady, "I can no more abide thy surly humour: God forgive thee:
I leave thee my distaff here, which be careful to bestow in a safe
place." So saying, away she hied her to the well, and, the night being so
dark that wayfarers could scarce see one another as they passed, she took
up a huge stone that was by the well, and ejaculating, "God forgive me!"
dropped it therein. Tofano, hearing the mighty splash that the stone made
as it struck the water, never doubted that she had cast herself in: so,
bucket and rope in hand, he flung himself out of the house, and came
running to the well to her rescue. The lady had meanwhile hidden herself
hard by the door, and seeing him make for the well, was in the house in a
trice, and having locked the door, hied her to the window, and greeted
him with:--"'Tis while thou art drinking, not now, when the night is far
spent, that thou shouldst temper thy wine with water." Thus derided,
Tofano came back to the door, and finding his ingress barred, began
adjuring her to let him in. Whereupon, changing the low tone she had
hitherto used for one so shrill that 'twas well-nigh a shriek, she broke
out with:--"By the Holy Rood, tedious drunken sot that thou art, thou
gettest no admittance here to-night; thy ways are more than I can endure:
'tis time I let all the world know what manner of man thou art, and at
what hour of the night thou comest home." Tofano, on his part, now grew
angry, and began loudly to upbraid her; insomuch that the neighbours,
aroused by the noise, got up, men and women alike, and looked out of the
windows, and asked what was the matter. Whereupon the lady fell a weeping
and saying:--"'Tis this wicked man, who comes home drunk at even, or
falls asleep in some tavern, and then returns at this hour. Long and to
no purpose have I borne with him; but 'tis now past endurance, and I have
done him this indignity of locking him out of the house in the hope that
perchance it may cause him to mend his ways."

Tofano, on his part, told, dolt that he was, just what had happened, and
was mighty menacing. Whereupon:--"Now mark," quoth the lady to the
neighbours, "the sort of man he is! What would you say if I were, as he
is, in the street, and he were in the house, as I am? God's faith, I
doubt you would believe what he said. Hereby you may gauge his sense. He
tells you that I have done just what, I doubt not, he has done himself.
He thought to terrify me by throwing I know not what into the well,
wherein would to God he had thrown himself indeed, and drowned himself,
whereby the wine of which he has taken more than enough, had been watered
to some purpose!" The neighbours, men and women alike, now with one
accord gave tongue, censuring Tofano, throwing all the blame upon him,
and answering what he alleged against the lady with loud recrimination;
and in short the bruit, passing from neighbour to neighbour, reached at
last the ears of the lady's kinsfolk; who hied them to the spot, and
being apprised of the affair from this, that and the other of the
neighbours, laid hands on Tofano, and beat him till he was black and blue
from head to foot. Which done, they entered his house, stripped it of all
that belonged to the lady, and took her home with them, bidding Tofano
look for worse to come. Thus hard bested, and ruing the plight in which
his jealousy had landed him, Tofano, who loved his wife with all his
heart, set some friends to work to patch matters up, whereby he did in
fact induce his lady to forgive him and live with him again, albeit he
was fain to promise her never again to be jealous, and to give her leave
to amuse herself to her heart's content, provided she used such
discretion that he should not be ware of it. On such wise, like the churl
and booby that he was, being despoiled, he made terms. Now long live
Love, and perish war, and all that wage it!


NOVEL V.

--
A jealous husband disguises himself as a priest, and hears his own wife's
confession: she tells him that she loves a priest, who comes to her every
night. The husband posts himself at the door to watch for the priest, and
meanwhile the lady brings her lover in by the roof, and tarries with him.
--

When Lauretta had done speaking, and all had commended the lady, for that
she had done well, and treated her caitiff husband as he had deserved,
the king, not to lose time, turned to Fiammetta, and graciously bade her
take up her parable; which she did on this wise:--Most noble ladies, the
foregoing story prompts me likewise to discourse of one of these jealous
husbands, deeming that they are justly requited by their wives, more
especially when they grow jealous without due cause. And had our
legislators taken account of everything, I am of opinion that they would
have visited ladies in such a case with no other penalty than such as
they provide for those that offend in self-defence, seeing that a jealous
husband does cunningly practise against the life of his lady, and most
assiduously machinate her death. All the week the wife stays at home,
occupied with her domestic duties; after which, on the day that is sacred
to joy, she, like every one else, craves some solace, some peace, some
recreation, not unreasonably, for she craves but what the husbandmen take
in the fields, the craftsmen in the city, the magistrates in the courts,
nay what God Himself took, when He rested from all His labours on the
seventh day, and which laws human and Divine, mindful alike of the honour
of God and the common well-being, have ordained, appropriating certain
days to work, and others to repose. To which ordinance these jealous
husbands will in no wise conform; on the contrary by then most sedulously
secluding their wives, they make those days which to all other women are
gladsome, to them most grievous and dolorous. And what an affliction it
is to the poor creatures, they alone know, who have proved it; for which
reason, to sum up, I say that a wife is rather to be commended than
censured, if she take her revenge upon a husband that is jealous without
cause.

Know then that at Rimini there dwelt a merchant, a man of great substance
in lands and goods and money, who, having a most beautiful woman to wife,
waxed inordinately jealous of her, and that for no better reason than
that, loving her greatly, and esteeming her exceeding fair, and knowing
that she did her utmost endeavour to pleasure him, he must needs suppose
that every man loved her, and esteemed her fair, and that she, moreover,
was as zealous to stand well with every other man as with himself;
whereby you may see that he was a poor creature, and of little sense.
Being thus so deeply infected with jealousy, he kept so strict and close
watch over her, that some, maybe, have lain under sentence of death and
been less rigorously confined by their warders. 'Twas not merely that the
lady might not go to a wedding, or a festal gathering, or even to church,
or indeed set foot out of doors in any sort; but she dared not so much as
shew herself at a window, or cast a glance outside the house, no matter
for what purpose. Wherefore she led a most woeful life of it, and found
it all the harder to bear because she knew herself to be innocent.
Accordingly, seeing herself evilly entreated by her husband without good
cause, she cast about how for her own consolation she might devise means
to justify his usage of her. And for that, as she might not shew herself
at the window, there could be no interchange of amorous glances between
her and any man that passed along the street, but she wist that in the
next house there was a goodly and debonair gallant, she bethought her,
that, if there were but a hole in the wall that divided the two houses,
she might watch thereat, until she should have sight of the gallant on
such wise that she might speak to him, and give him her love, if he cared
to have it, and, if so it might be contrived, forgather with him now and
again, and after this fashion relieve the burden of her woeful life,
until such time as the evil spirit should depart from her husband. So
peering about, now here, now there, when her husband was away, she found
in a very remote part of the house a place, where, by chance, the wall
had a little chink in it. Peering through which, she made out, though not
without great difficulty, that on the other side was a room, and said to
herself:--If this were Filippo's room--Filippo was the name of the
gallant, her neighbour--I should be already halfway to my goal. So
cautiously, through her maid, who was grieved to see her thus languish,
she made quest, and discovered that it was indeed the gallant's room,
where he slept quite alone. Wherefore she now betook her frequently to
the aperture, and whenever she was ware that the gallant was in the room,
she would let fall a pebble or the like trifle; whereby at length she
brought the gallant to the other side of the aperture to see what the
matter was. Whereupon she softly called him, and he knowing her voice,
answered; and so, having now the opportunity she had sought, she in few
words opened to him all her mind. The gallant, being overjoyed, wrought
at the aperture on such wise that albeit none might be ware thereof, he
enlarged it; and there many a time they held converse together, and
touched hands, though further they might not go by reason of the
assiduous watch that the jealous husband kept.

Now towards Christmas the lady told her husband that, if he approved, she
would fain go on Christmas morning to church, and confess and
communicate, like other Christians. "And what sins," quoth he, "hast thou
committed, that wouldst be shriven?" "How?" returned the lady; "dost thou
take me for a saint? For all thou keepest me so close, thou must know
very well that I am like all other mortals. However, I am not minded to
confess to thee, for that thou art no priest." Her husband, whose
suspicions were excited by what she had said, cast about how he might
discover these sins of hers, and having bethought him of what seemed an
apt expedient, made answer that she had his consent, but he would not
have her go to any church but their own chapel, where she might hie her
betimes in the morning, and confess either to their own chaplain or some
other priest that the chaplain might assign her, but to none other, and
presently return to the house. The lady thought she half understood him,
but she answered only that she would do as he required. Christmas morning
came, and with the dawn the lady rose, dressed herself, and hied her to
the church appointed by her husband, who also rose, and hied him to the
same church, where he arrived before her; and having already concerted
matters with the priest that was in charge, he forthwith put on one of
the priest's robes with a great hood, overshadowing the face, such as we
see priests wear, and which he pulled somewhat forward; and so disguised
he seated himself in the choir.

On entering the church the lady asked for the priest, who came, and
learning that she was minded to confess, said that he could not hear her
himself, but would send her one of his brethren; so away he hied him and
sent her, in an evil hour for him, her husband. For though he wore an air
of great solemnity, and 'twas not yet broad day, and he had pulled the
hood well over his eyes, yet all did not avail, but that his lady
forthwith recognized him, and said to herself:--God be praised! why, the
jealous rogue is turned priest: but leave it me to give him that whereof
he is in quest. So she feigned not to know him, and seated herself at his
feet. (I should tell you that he had put some pebbles in his mouth, that
his speech, being impeded, might not betray him to his wife, and in all
other respects he deemed himself so thoroughly disguised that there was
nought whereby she might recognize him.) Now, to come to the confession,
the lady, after informing him that she was married, told him among other
matters that she was enamoured of a priest, who came every night to lie
with her. Which to hear was to her husband as if he were stricken through
the heart with a knife; and had it not been that he was bent on knowing
more, he would have forthwith given over the confession, and taken
himself off. However he kept his place, and:--"How?" said he to the lady,
"does not your husband lie with you?" The lady replied in the
affirmative. "How, then," quoth the husband, "can the priest also lie
with you?" "Sir," replied she, "what art the priest employs I know not;
but door there is none, however well locked, in the house, that comes not
open at his touch; and he tells me that, being come to the door of my
room, before he opens it, he says certain words, whereby my husband
forthwith falls asleep; whereupon he opens the door, and enters the room,
and lies with me; and so 'tis always, without fail." "Then 'tis very
wrong, Madam, and you must give it up altogether," said the husband.
"That, Sir," returned the lady, "I doubt I can never do; for I love him
too much." "In that case," quoth the husband, "I cannot give you
absolution." "The pity of it!" ejaculated the lady; "I came not hither to
tell you falsehoods: if I could give it up, I would." "Madam," replied
the husband, "indeed I am sorry for you; for I see that you are in a fair
way to lose your soul. However, this I will do for you; I will make
special supplication to God on your behalf; and perchance you may be
profited thereby. And from time to time I will send you one of my young
clerks; and you will tell him whether my prayers have been of any help to
you, or no, and if they have been so, I shall know what to do next."
"Nay, Sir," quoth the lady, "do not so; send no man to me at home; for,
should my husband come to know it, he is so jealous that nothing in the
world would ever disabuse him of the idea that he came but for an evil
purpose, and so I should have no peace with him all the year long."
Madam, returned the husband, "have no fear; rest assured that I will so
order matters that you shall never hear a word about it from him." "If
you can make sure of that," quoth the lady, "I have no more to say." And
so, her confession ended, and her penance enjoined, she rose, and went to
mass, while the luckless husband, fuming and fretting, hasted to divest
himself of his priest's trappings, and then went home bent upon devising
some means to bring the priest and his wife together, and take his
revenge upon them both.

When the lady came home from church she read in her husband's face that
she had spoiled his Christmas for him, albeit he dissembled to the
uttermost, lest she should discover what he had done, and supposed
himself to have learned. His mind was made up to keep watch for the
priest that very night by his own front door. So to the lady he said:--"I
have to go out to-night to sup and sleep; so thou wilt take care that the
front door, and the mid-stair door, and the bedroom door are well locked;
and for the rest thou mayst go to bed, at thine own time." "Well and
good," replied the lady: and as soon as she was able, off she hied her to
the aperture, and gave the wonted signal, which Filippo no sooner heard,
than he was at the spot. The lady then told him what she had done in the
morning, and what her husband had said to her after breakfast,
adding:--"Sure I am that he will not stir out of the house, but will keep
watch beside the door; wherefore contrive to come in to-night by the
roof, that we may be together." "Madam," replied the gallant, nothing
loath, "trust me for that."

Night came, the husband armed, and noiselessly hid himself in a room on
the ground floor: the lady locked all the doors, being especially careful
to secure the mid-stair door, to bar her husband's ascent; and in due
time the gallant, having found his way cautiously enough over the roof,
they got them to bed, and there had solace of one another and a good
time; and at daybreak the gallant hied him back to his house. Meanwhile
the husband, rueful and supperless, half dead with cold, kept his armed
watch beside his door, momently expecting the priest, for the best part
of the night; but towards daybreak, his powers failing him, he lay down
and slept in the ground-floor room. 'Twas hard upon tierce when he awoke,
and the front door was then open; so, making as if he had just come in,
he went upstairs and breakfasted. Not long afterwards he sent to his wife
a young fellow, disguised as the priest's underling, who asked her if he
of whom she wist had been with her again. The lady, who quite understood
what that meant, made answer that he had not come that night, and that,
if he continued to neglect her so, 'twas possible he might be forgotten,
though she had no mind to forget him.

Now, to make a long story short, the husband passed many a night in the
same way, hoping to catch the priest as he came in, the lady and her
gallant meanwhile having a good time. But at last the husband, being able
to stand it no longer, sternly demanded of his wife what she had said to
the priest the morning when she was confessed. The lady answered that she
was not minded to tell him, for that 'twas not seemly or proper so to do.
Whereupon:--"Sinful woman," quoth the husband, "in thy despite I know
what thou saidst to him, and know I must and will who this priest is, of
whom thou art enamoured, and who by dint of his incantations lies with
thee a nights, or I will sluice thy veins for thee." "'Tis not true,"
replied the lady, "that I am enamoured of a priest." "How?" quoth the
husband, "saidst thou not as much to the priest that confessed thee?"
"Thou canst not have had it from him," rejoined the lady. "Wast thou then
present thyself? For sure I never told him so." "Then tell me," quoth the
husband, "who this priest is; and lose no time about it." Whereat the
lady began to smile, and:--"I find it not a little diverting," quoth she,
"that a wise man should suffer himself to be led by a simple woman as a
ram is led by the horns to the shambles; albeit no wise man art thou: not
since that fatal hour when thou gavest harbourage in thy breast, thou
wist not why, to the evil spirit of jealousy; and the more foolish and
insensate thou art, the less glory have I. Deemest thou, my husband, that
I am as blind of the bodily eye as thou art of the mind's eye? Nay, but
for sure I am not so. I knew at a glance the priest that confessed me,
and that 'twas even thyself. But I was minded to give thee that of which
thou wast in quest, and I gave it thee. Howbeit, if thou hadst been the
wise man thou takest thyself to be, thou wouldst not have chosen such a
way as that to worm out thy good lady's secrets, nor wouldst thou have
fallen a prey to a baseless suspicion, but wouldst have understood that
what she confessed was true, and she all the while guiltless. I told thee
that I loved a priest; and wast not thou, whom I love, though ill enough
dost thou deserve it, turned priest? I told thee that there was no door
in my house but would open when he was minded to lie with me: and when
thou wouldst fain have access to me, what door was ever closed against
thee? I told thee that the priest lay nightly with me: and what night was
there that thou didst not lie with me? Thou sentest thy young clerk to
me: and thou knowest that, as often as thou hadst not been with me, I
sent word that the priest had not been with me. Who but thou, that hast
suffered jealousy to blind thee, would have been so witless as not to
read such a riddle? But thou must needs mount guard at night beside the
door, and think to make me believe that thou hadst gone out to sup and
sleep. Consider thy ways, and court not the mockery of those that know
them as I do, but turn a man again as thou wast wont to be: and let there
be no more of this strict restraint in which thou keepest me; for I swear
to thee by God that, if I were minded to set horns on thy brow, I should
not fail so to take my pastime that thou wouldst never find it out,
though thou hadst a hundred eyes, as thou hast but two."

Thus admonished, the jealous caitiff, who had flattered himself that he
had very cunningly discovered his wife's secret, was ashamed, and made no
answer save to commend his wife's wit and honour; and thus, having cause
for jealousy, he discarded it, as he had erstwhile been jealous without
cause. And so the adroit lady had, as it were, a charter of indulgence,
and needed no more to contrive for her lover to come to her over the roof
like a cat, but admitted him by the door, and using due discretion, had
many a good time with him, and sped her life gaily.


NOVEL VI.

--
Madonna Isabella has with her Leonetto, her accepted lover, when she is
surprised by one Messer Lambertuccio, by whom she is beloved: her husband
coming home about the same time, she sends Messer Lambertuccio forth of
the house drawn sword in hand, and the husband afterwards escorts
Leonetto home.
--

Wondrous was the delight that all the company had of Fiammetta's story,
nor was there any but affirmed that the lady had done excellent well, and
dealt with her insensate husband as he deserved. However, it being ended,
the king bade Pampinea follow suit; which she did on this wise:--Not a
few there are that in their simplicity aver that Love deranges the mind,
insomuch that whoso loves becomes as it were witless: the folly of which
opinion, albeit I doubt it not, and deem it abundantly proven by what has
been already said, I purpose once again to demonstrate.

In our city, rich in all manner of good things, there dwelt a young
gentlewoman, fair exceedingly, and wedded to a most worthy and excellent
gentleman. And as it not seldom happens that one cannot keep ever to the
same diet, but would fain at times vary it, so this lady, finding her
husband not altogether to her mind, became enamoured of a gallant,
Leonetto by name, who, though of no high rank, was not a little debonair
and courteous, and he in like manner fell in love with her; and (as you
know that 'tis seldom that what is mutually desired fails to come about)
'twas not long before they had fruition of their love. Now the lady
being, as I said, fair and winsome, it so befell that a gentleman, Messer
Lambertuccio by name, grew mightily enamoured of her, but so tiresome and
odious did she find him, that for the world she could not bring herself
to love him. So, growing tired of fruitlessly soliciting her favour by
ambassage, Messer Lambertuccio, who was a powerful signior, sent her at
last another sort of message in which he threatened to defame her if she
complied not with his wishes. Wherefore the lady, knowing her man, was
terrified, and disposed herself to pleasure him.

Now it so chanced that Madonna Isabella, for such was the lady's name,
being gone, as is our Florentine custom in the summer, to spend some time
on a very goodly estate that she had in the contado, one morning finding
herself alone, for her husband had ridden off to tarry some days
elsewhere, she sent for Leonetto to come and keep her company; and
Leonetto came forthwith in high glee. But while they were together,
Messer Lambertuccio, who, having got wind that the husband was away, had
mounted his horse and ridden thither quite alone, knocked at the door.
Whereupon the lady's maid hied her forthwith to her mistress, who was
alone with Leonetto, and called her, saying:--"Madam, Messer Lambertuccio
is here below, quite alone." Whereat the lady was vexed beyond measure;
and being also not a little dismayed, she said to Leonetto:--"Prithee,
let it not irk thee to withdraw behind the curtain, and there keep close
until Messer Lambertuccio be gone." Leonetto, who stood in no less fear
of Messer Lambertuccio than did the lady, got into his hiding-place; and
the lady bade the maid go open to Messer Lambertuccio: she did so; and
having dismounted and fastened his palfrey to a pin, he ascended the
stairs; at the head of which the lady received him with a smile and as
gladsome a greeting as she could find words for, and asked him on what
errand he was come. The gentleman embraced and kissed her, saying:--"My
soul, I am informed that your husband is not here, and therefore I am
come to stay a while with you." Which said, they went into the room, and
locked them in, and Messer Lambertuccio fell a toying with her.

Now, while thus he sped the time with her, it befell that the lady's
husband, albeit she nowise expected him, came home, and, as he drew nigh
the palace, was observed by the maid, who forthwith ran to the lady's
chamber, and said:--"Madam, the master will be here anon; I doubt he is
already in the courtyard." Whereupon, for that she had two men in the
house, and the knight's palfrey, that was in the courtyard, made it
impossible to hide him, the lady gave herself up for dead. Nevertheless
she made up her mind on the spur of the moment, and springing out of bed
"Sir," quoth she to Messer Lambertuccio, "if you have any regard for me,
and would save my life, you will do as I bid you: that is to say, you
will draw your blade, and put on a fell and wrathful countenance, and hie
you downstairs, saying:--'By God, he shall not escape me elsewhere.' And
if my husband would stop you, or ask you aught, say nought but what I
have told you, and get you on horseback and tarry with him on no
account." "To hear is to obey," quoth Messer Lambertuccio, who, with the
flush of his recent exertion and the rage that he felt at the husband's
return still on his face, and drawn sword in hand, did as she bade him.
The lady's husband, being now dismounted in the courtyard, and not a
little surprised to see the palfrey there, was about to go up the stairs,
when he saw Messer Lambertuccio coming down them, and marvelling both at
his words and at his mien:--"What means this, Sir?" quoth he. But Messer
Lambertuccio clapped foot in stirrup, and mounted, saying nought
but:--"Zounds, but I will meet him elsewhere;" and so he rode off.

The gentleman then ascended the stairs, at the head of which he found his
lady distraught with terror, to whom he said:--"What manner of thing is
this? After whom goes Messer Lambertuccio, so wrathful and menacing?"
Whereto the lady, drawing nigher the room, that Leonetto might hear her,
made answer:--"Never, Sir, had I such a fright as this. There came
running in here a young man, who to me is quite a stranger, and at his
heels Messer Lambertuccio with a drawn sword in his hand; and as it
happened the young man found the door of this room open, and trembling in
every limb, cried out:--'Madam, your succour, for God's sake, that I die
not in your arms.' So up I got, and would have asked him who he was, and
how bested, when up came Messer Lambertuccio, exclaiming:--'Where art
thou, traitor?' I planted myself in the doorway, and kept him from
entering, and seeing that I was not minded to give him admittance, he was
courteous enough, after not a little parley, to take himself off, as you
saw." Whereupon:--"Wife," quoth the husband, "thou didst very right.
Great indeed had been the scandal, had some one been slain here, and
'twas a gross affront on Messer Lambertuccio's part to pursue a fugitive
within the house." He then asked where the young man was. Whereto the
lady answered:--"Nay, where he may be hiding, Sir, I wot not."
So:--"Where art thou?" quoth the knight. "Fear not to shew thyself." Then
forth of his hiding-place, all of a tremble, for in truth he had been
thoroughly terrified, crept Leonetto, who had heard all that had passed.
To whom:--"What hast thou to do with Messer Lambertuccio?" quoth the
knight. "Nothing in the world," replied the young man: "wherefore, I
doubt he must either be out of his mind, or have mistaken me for another;
for no sooner had he sight of me in the street hard by the palace, than
he laid his hand on his sword, and exclaimed:--'Traitor, thou art a dead
man.' Whereupon I sought not to know why, but fled with all speed, and
got me here, and so, thanks to God and this gentlewoman, I escaped his
hands." "Now away with thy fears," quoth the knight; "I will see thee
home safe and sound; and then 'twill be for thee to determine how thou
shalt deal with him." And so, when they had supped, he set him on
horseback, and escorted him to Florence, and left him not until he was
safe in his own house. And the very same evening, following the lady's
instructions, Leonetto spoke privily with Messer Lambertuccio, and so
composed the affair with him, that, though it occasioned not a little
talk, the knight never wist how he had been tricked by his wife.


NOVEL VII.

--
Lodovico discovers to Madonna Beatrice the love that he bears her: she
sends Egano, her husband, into a garden disguised as herself, and lies
with Lodovico; who thereafter, being risen, hies him to the garden and
cudgels Egano.
--

This device of Madonna Isabella, thus recounted by Pampinea, was held
nothing short of marvellous by all the company. But, being bidden by the
king to tell the next story, thus spake Filomena:--Loving ladies, if I
mistake not, the device, of which you shall presently hear from me, will
prove to be no less excellent than the last.

You are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at Paris a Florentine
gentleman, who, being by reason of poverty turned merchant, had prospered
so well in his affairs that he was become very wealthy; and having by his
lady an only son, Lodovico by name, whose nobility disrelished trade, he
would not put him in any shop; but that he might be with other gentlemen,
he caused him to enter the service of the King of France, whereby he
acquired very fine manners and other accomplishments. Being in this
service, Lodovico was one day with some other young gallants that talked
of the fair ladies of France, and England, and other parts of the world,
when they were joined by certain knights that were returned from the Holy
Sepulchre; and hearing their discourse, one of the knights fell a saying,
that of a surety in the whole world, so far as he had explored it, there
was not any lady, of all that he had ever seen, that might compare for
beauty with Madonna Beatrice, the wife of Egano de' Galluzzi, of Bologna:
wherein all his companions, who in common with him had seen the lady at
Bologna, concurred. Which report Lodovico, who was as yet fancy-free, no
sooner heard, than he burned with such a yearning to see the lady that he
was able to think of nought else: insomuch that he made up his mind to
betake him to Bologna to see her, and if she pleased him, to remain
there; to which end he gave his father to understand that he would fain
visit the Holy Sepulchre, whereto his father after no little demur
consented.

So to Bologna Anichino--for so he now called himself--came; and, as
Fortune would have it, the very next day, he saw the lady at a festal
gathering, and deemed her vastly more beautiful than he had expected:
wherefore he waxed most ardently enamoured of her, and resolved never to
quit Bologna, until he had gained her love. So, casting about how he
should proceed, he could devise no other way but to enter her husband's
service, which was the more easy that he kept not a few retainers: on
this wise Lodovico surmised that, peradventure, he might compass his end.
He therefore sold his horses and meetly bestowed his servants, bidding
them make as if they knew him not; and being pretty familiar with his
host, he told him that he was minded to take service with some worthy
lord, it any such he might find. "Thou wouldst make," quoth the host,
"the very sort of retainer to suit a gentleman of this city, Egano by
name, who keeps not a few of them, and will have all of them presentable
like thee: I will mention the matter to him." And so he accordingly did,
and before he took leave of Egano had placed Anichino with him, to
Egano's complete satisfaction.

Being thus resident with Egano, and having abundant opportunities of
seeing the fair lady, Anichino set himself to serve Egano with no little
zeal; wherein he succeeded so well, that Egano was more than satisfied,
insomuch that by and by there was nought he could do without his advice,
and he entrusted to him the guidance not only of himself, but of all his
affairs. Now it so befell that one day when Egano was gone a hawking,
having left Anichino at home, Madonna Beatrice, who as yet wist not of
his love, albeit she had from time to time taken note of him and his
manners, and had not a little approved and commended them, sat herself
down with him to a game of chess, which, to please her, Anichino most
dexterously contrived to lose, to the lady's prodigious delight. After a
while, the lady's women, one and all, gave over watching their play, and
left them to it; whereupon Anichino heaved a mighty sigh. The lady,
looking hard at him, said:--"What ails thee, Anichino? Is it, then, such
a mortification to thee to be conquered by me?" "Nay, Madam," replied
Anichino, "my sigh was prompted by a much graver matter." "Then, if thou
hast any regard for me," quoth the lady, "tell me what it is." Hearing
himself thus adjured by "any regard" he had for her whom he loved more
than aught else, Anichino heaved a yet mightier sigh, which caused the
lady to renew her request that he would be pleased to tell her the
occasion of his sighs. Whereupon:--"Madam," said Anichino, "I greatly
fear me, that, were I to tell it you, 'twould but vex you; and, moreover,
I doubt you might repeat it to some one else." "Rest assured," returned
the lady, "that I shall neither be annoyed, nor, without thy leave, ever
repeat to any other soul aught that thou mayst say." "Then," said
Anichino, "having this pledge from you, I will tell it you." And, while
the tears all but stood in his eyes, he told her, who he was, the report
he had heard of her, and where and how he had become enamoured of her,
and with what intent he had taken service with her husband: after which,
he humbly besought her, that, if it might be, she would have pity on him,
and gratify this his secret and ardent desire; and that, if she were not
minded so to do, she would suffer him to retain his place there, and love
her. Ah! Bologna! how sweetly mixed are the elements in thy women! How
commendable in such a case are they all! No delight have they in sighs
and tears, but are ever inclinable to prayers, and ready to yield to the
solicitations of Love. Had I but words apt to praise them as they
deserve, my eloquence were inexhaustible.

The gentlewoman's gaze was fixed on Anichino as he spoke; she made no
doubt that all he said was true, and yielding to his appeal, she
entertained his love within her heart in such measure that she too began
to sigh, and after a sigh or two made answer:--"Sweet my Anichino, be of
good cheer; neither presents nor promises, nor any courting by gentleman,
or lord, or whoso else (for I have been and am still courted by not a
few) was ever able to sway my soul to love any of them: but thou, by the
few words that thou hast said, hast so wrought with me that, brief though
the time has been, I am already in far greater measure thine than mine.
My love I deem thee to have won right worthily; and so I give it thee,
and vow to give thee joyance thereof before the coming night be past. To
which end thou wilt come to my room about midnight; I will leave the door
open; thou knowest the side of the bed on which I sleep; thou wilt come
there; should I be asleep, thou hast but to touch me, and I shall awake,
and give thee solace of thy long-pent desire. In earnest whereof I will
even give thee a kiss." So saying, she threw her arms about his neck, and
lovingly kissed him, as Anichino her.

Their colloquy thus ended, Anichino betook him elsewhere about some
matters which he had to attend to, looking forward to midnight with
boundless exultation. Egano came in from his hawking; and after supper,
being weary, went straight to bed, whither the lady soon followed him,
leaving, as she had promised, the door of the chamber open. Thither
accordingly, at the appointed hour, came Anichino, and having softly
entered the chamber, and closed the door behind him, stole up to where
the lady lay, and laying his hand upon her breast, found that she was
awake. Now, as soon as she wist that Anichino was come, she took his hand
in both her own; and keeping fast hold of him, she turned about in the
bed, until she awoke Egano; whereupon:--"Husband," quoth she, "I would
not say aught of this to thee, yestereve, because I judged thou wast
weary; but tell me, upon thy hope of salvation, Egano, whom deemest thou
thy best and most loyal retainer, and the most attached to thee, of all
that thou hast in the house?" "What a question is this, wife?" returned
Egano. "Dost not know him? Retainer I have none, nor ever had, so
trusted, or loved, as Anichino. But wherefore put such a question?"

Now, when Anichino wist that Egano was awake, and heard them talk of
himself, he more than once tried to withdraw his hand, being mightily
afraid lest the lady meant to play him false; but she held it so tightly
that he might not get free, while thus she made answer to Egano:--"I will
tell thee what he is. I thought that he was all thou sayst, and that none
was so loyal to thee as he, but he has undeceived me, for that yesterday,
when thou wast out a hawking, he, being here, chose his time, and had the
shamelessness to crave of me compliance with his wanton desires: and I,
that I might not need other evidence than that of thine own senses to
prove his guilt to thee, I made answer, that I was well content, and that
to-night, after midnight, I would get me into the garden, and await him
there at the foot of the pine. Now go thither I shall certainly not; but,
if thou wouldst prove the loyalty of thy retainer, thou canst readily do
so, if thou but slip on one of my loose robes, and cover thy face with a
veil, and go down and attend his coming, for come, I doubt not, he will."
Whereto Egano:--"Meet indeed it is," quoth he, "that I should go see;"
and straightway up he got, and, as best he might in the dark, he put on
one of the lady's loose robes and veiled his face, and then hied him to
the garden, and sate down at the foot of the pine to await Anichino. The
lady no sooner wist that he was out of the room, than she rose, and
locked the door. Anichino, who had never been so terrified in all his
life, and had struggled with all his might to disengage his hand from the
lady's clasp, and had inwardly cursed her and his love, and himself for
trusting her, a hundred thousand times, was overjoyed beyond measure at
this last turn that she had given the affair. And so, the lady having got
her to bed again, and he, at her bidding, having stripped and laid him
down beside her, they had solace and joyance of one another for a good
while. Then, the lady, deeming it unmeet for Anichino to tarry longer
with her, caused him to get up and resume his clothes, saying to
him:--"Sweet my mouth, thou wilt take a stout cudgel, and get thee to the
garden, and making as if I were there, and thy suit to me had been but to
try me, thou wilt give Egano a sound rating with thy tongue and a sound
belabouring with thy cudgel, the sequel whereof will be wondrously
gladsome and delightful." Whereupon Anichino hied him off to the garden,
armed with a staff of wild willow; and as he drew nigh the pine, Egano
saw him, and rose and came forward to meet him as if he would receive him
with the heartiest of cheer. But:--"Ah! wicked woman!" quoth Anichino;
"so thou art come! Thou didst verily believe, then, that I was, that I
am, minded thus to wrong my lord? Foul fall thee a thousand times!" And
therewith he raised his cudgel, and began to lay about him. Egano,
however, had heard and seen enough, and without a word took to flight,
while Anichino pursued him, crying out:--"Away with thee! God send thee a
bad year, lewd woman that thou art; nor doubt that Egano shall hear of
this to-morrow." Egano, having received sundry round knocks, got him back
to his chamber with what speed he might; and being asked by the lady,
whether Anichino had come into the garden:--"Would to God he had not!"
quoth he, "for that, taking me for thee, he has beaten me black and blue
with his cudgel, and rated me like the vilest woman that ever was:
passing strange, indeed, it had seemed to me that he should have said
those words to thee with intent to dishonour me; and now 'tis plain that
'twas but that, seeing thee so blithe and frolicsome, he was minded to
prove thee." Whereto:--"God be praised," returned the lady, "that he
proved me by words, as thee by acts: and I doubt not he may say that I
bear his words with more patience than thou his acts. But since he is so
loyal to thee, we must make much of him and do him honour." "Ay, indeed,"
quoth Egano, "thou sayst sooth."

Thus was Egano fortified in the belief that never had any gentleman wife
so true, or retainer so loyal, as he; and many a hearty laugh had he with
Anichino and his lady over this affair, which to them was the occasion
that, with far less let than might else have been, they were able to have
solace and joyance of one another, so long as it pleased Anichino to
tarry at Bologna.


NOVEL VIII.

--
A husband grows jealous of his wife, and discovers that she has warning
of her lover's approach by a piece of pack-thread, which she ties to her
great toe a nights. While he is pursuing her lover, she puts another
woman in bed in her place. The husband, finding her there, beats her, and
cuts off her hair. He then goes and calls his wife's brothers, who,
holding his accusation to be false, give him a rating.
--

Rare indeed was deemed by common consent the subtlety shewn by Madonna
Beatrice in the beguilement of her husband, and all affirmed that the
terror of Anichino must have been prodigious, when, the lady still
keeping fast hold of him, he had heard her say that he had made suit of
love to her. However, Filomena being silent, the king turned to Neifile,
saying:--"'Tis now for you to tell." Whereupon Neifile, while a slight
smile died away upon her lips, thus began:--Fair ladies, to entertain you
with a goodly story, such as those which my predecessors have delighted
you withal, is indeed a heavy burden, but, God helping me, I trust fairly
well to acquit myself thereof.

You are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime in our city a most
wealthy merchant, Arriguccio Berlinghieri by name, who foolishly, as we
wot by daily experience is the way of merchants, thinking to compass
gentility by matrimony, took to wife a young gentlewoman, by no means
suited to him, whose name was Monna Sismonda. Now Monna Sismonda, seeing
that her husband was much abroad, and gave her little of his company,
became enamoured of a young gallant, Ruberto by name, who had long
courted her: and she being grown pretty familiar with him, and using,
perchance, too little discretion, for she affected him extremely, it so
befell that Arriguccio, whether it was that he detected somewhat, or
howsoever, waxed of all men the most jealous, and gave up going abroad,
and changed his way of life altogether, and made it his sole care to
watch over his wife, insomuch that he never allowed himself a wink of
sleep until he had seen her to bed: which occasioned the lady the most
grievous dumps, because 'twas on no wise possible for her to be with her
Ruberto. So, casting about in many ways how she might contrive to meet
him, and being thereto not a little plied by Ruberto himself, she
bethought her at last of the following expedient: to wit, her room
fronting the street, and Arriguccio, as she had often observed, being
very hard put to it to get him to sleep, but thereafter sleeping very
soundly, she resolved to arrange with Ruberto that he should come to the
front door about midnight, whereupon she would get her down, and open the
door, and stay some time with him while her husband was in his deep
sleep. And that she might have tidings of his arrival, yet so as that
none else might wot aught thereof, she adopted the device of lowering a
pack-thread from the bedroom window on such wise that, while with one end
it should all but touch the ground, it should traverse the floor of the
room, until it reached the bed, and then be brought under the clothes, so
that, when she was abed, she might attach it to her great toe. Having so
done, she sent word to Ruberto, that when he came, he must be sure to
jerk the pack-thread, and, if her husband were asleep, she would loose
it, and go open to him; but, if he were awake, she would hold it taut and
draw it to herself, to let him know that he must not expect her. Ruberto
fell in with the idea, came there many times, and now forgathered with
her and again did not. But at last, they still using this cunning
practice, it so befell that one night, while the lady slept, Arriguccio,
letting his foot stray more than he was wont about the bed, came upon the
pack-thread, and laying his hand upon it, found that it was attached to
his lady's great toe, and said to himself:--This must be some trick: and
afterwards discovering that the thread passed out of the window, was
confirmed in his surmise. Wherefore, he softly severed it from the lady's
toe, and affixed it to his own; and waited, all attention, to learn the
result of his experiment. Nor had he long to wait before Ruberto came,
and Arriguccio felt him jerk the thread according to his wont: and as
Arriguccio had not known how to attach the thread securely, and Ruberto
jerked it with some force, it gave way, whereby he understood that he was
to wait, and did so. Arriguccio straightway arose, caught up his arms,
and hasted to the door to see who might be there, intent to do him a
mischief. Now Arriguccio, for all he was a merchant, was a man of spirit,
and of thews and sinews; and being come to the door, he opened it by no
means gingerly, as the lady was wont; whereby Ruberto, who was in
waiting, surmised the truth, to wit, that 'twas Arriguccio by whom the
door was opened. Wherefore he forthwith took to flight, followed by
Arriguccio. But at length, when he had run a long way, as Arriguccio gave
not up the pursuit, he being also armed, drew his sword, and faced about;
and so they fell to, Arriguccio attacking, and Ruberto defending himself.

Now when Arriguccio undid the bedroom door, the lady awoke, and finding
the pack-thread cut loose from her toe, saw at a glance that her trick
was discovered; and hearing Arriguccio running after Ruberto, she
forthwith got up, foreboding what the result was like to be, and called
her maid, who was entirely in her confidence: whom she so plied with her
obsecrations that at last she got her into bed in her room, beseeching
her not to say who she was, but to bear patiently all the blows that
Arriguccio might give her; and she would so reward her that she should
have no reason to complain. Then, extinguishing the light that was in the
room, forth she hied her, and having found a convenient hiding-place in
the house, awaited the turn of events. Now Arriguccio and Ruberto being
hotly engaged in the street, the neighbours, roused by the din of the
combat, got up and launched their curses upon them. Wherefore Arriguccio,
fearing lest he should be recognized, drew off before he had so much as
discovered who the young gallant was, or done him any scathe, and in a
fell and wrathful mood betook him home. Stumbling into the bedroom, he
cried out angrily:--"Where art thou, lewd woman? Thou hast put out the
light, that I may not be able to find thee; but thou hast miscalculated."
And going to the bedside, he laid hold of the maid, taking her to be his
wife, and fell a pummelling and kicking her with all the strength he had
in his hands and feet, insomuch that he pounded her face well-nigh to
pulp, rating her the while like the vilest woman that ever was; and last
of all he cut off her hair. The maid wept bitterly, as indeed she well
might; and though from time to time she ejaculated an "Alas! Mercy, for
God's sake!" or "Spare me, spare me;" yet her voice was so broken by her
sobs, and Arriguccio's hearing so dulled by his wrath, that he was not
able to discern that 'twas not his wife's voice but that of another
woman. So, having soundly thrashed her, and cut off her hair, as we
said:--"Wicked woman," quoth he, "I touch thee no more; but I go to find
thy brothers, and shall do them to wit of thy good works; and then they
may come here, and deal with thee as they may deem their honour demands,
and take thee hence, for be sure thou shalt no more abide in this house."
With this he was gone, locking the door of the room behind him, and
quitted the house alone.

Now no sooner did Monna Sismonda, who had heard all that passed, perceive
that her husband was gone, than she opened the door of the bedroom,
rekindled the light, and finding her maid all bruises and tears, did what
she could to comfort her, and carried her back to her own room, where,
causing her to be privily waited on and tended, she helped her so
liberally from Arriguccio's own store, that she confessed herself
content. The maid thus bestowed in her room, the lady presently hied her
back to her own, which she set all in neat and trim order, remaking the
bed, so that it might appear as if it had not been slept in, relighting
the lamp, and dressing and tiring herself, until she looked as if she had
not been abed that night; then, taking with her a lighted lamp and some
work, she sat her down at the head of the stairs, and began sewing, while
she waited to see how the affair would end.

Arriguccio meanwhile had hied him with all speed straight from the house
to that of his wife's brothers, where by dint of much knocking he made
himself heard, and was admitted. The lady's three brothers, and her
mother, being informed that 'twas Arriguccio, got up, and having set
lights a burning, came to him and asked him on what errand he was come
there at that hour, and alone. Whereupon Arriguccio, beginning with the
discovery of the pack-thread attached to his lady's great toe, gave them
the whole narrative of his discoveries and doings down to the very end;
and to clinch the whole matter, he put in their hands the locks which he
had cut, as he believed, from his wife's head, adding that 'twas now for
them to come for her and deal with her on such wise as they might deem
their honour required, seeing that he would nevermore have her in his
house. Firmly believing what he told them, the lady's brothers were very
wroth with her, and having provided themselves with lighted torches, set
out with Arriguccio, and hied them to his house with intent to scorn her,
while their mother followed, weeping and beseeching now one, now another,
not to credit these matters so hastily, until they had seen or heard
somewhat more thereof; for that the husband might have some other reason
to be wroth with her, and having ill-treated her, might have trumped up
this charge by way of exculpation, adding that, if true, 'twas passing
strange, for well she knew her daughter, whom she had brought up from her
tenderest years, and much more to the like effect.

However, being come to Arriguccio's house, they entered, and were
mounting the stairs, when Monna Sismonda, hearing them, called out:--"Who
is there?" Whereto one of the brothers responded:--"Lewd woman, thou
shalt soon have cause enough to know who it is." "Now Lord love us!"
quoth Monna Sismonda, "what would he be at?" Then, rising, she greeted
them with:--"Welcome, my brothers but what seek ye abroad at this hour,
all three of you?" They had seen her sitting and sewing with never a sign
of a blow on her face, whereas Arriguccio had averred that he had
pummelled her all over: wherefore their first impression was one of
wonder, and refraining the vehemence of their wrath, they asked her what
might be the truth of the matter which Arriguccio laid to her charge, and
threatened her with direful consequences, if she should conceal aught.
Whereto the lady:--"What you would have me tell you," quoth she, "or what
Arriguccio may have laid to my charge, that know not I." Arriguccio could
but gaze upon her, as one that had taken leave of his wits, calling to
mind how he had pummelled her about the face times without number, and
scratched it for her, and mishandled her in all manner of ways, and there
he now saw her with no trace of aught of it all upon her. However, to
make a long story short, the lady's brothers told her what Arriguccio had
told them touching the pack-thread and the beating and all the rest of
it. Whereupon the lady turned to him with:--"Alas, my husband, what is
this that I hear? Why givest thou me, to thy own great shame, the
reputation of a lewd woman, when such I am not, and thyself the
reputation of a wicked and cruel man, which thou art not? Wast thou ever
to-night, I say not in my company, but so much as in the house until now?
Or when didst thou beat me? For my part I mind me not of it." Arriguccio
began:--"How sayst thou, lewd woman? Did we not go to bed together? Did I
not come back, after chasing thy lover? Did I not give thee bruises not a
few, and cut thy hair for thee?" But the lady interrupted him,
saying:--"Nay, thou didst not lie here to-night. But leave we this, of
which my true words are my sole witness, and pass we to this of the
beating thou sayst thou gavest me, and how thou didst cut my hair. Never
a beating had I from thee, and I bid all that are here, and thee among
them, look at me, and say if I have any trace of a beating on my person;
nor should I advise thee to dare lay hand upon me; for, by the Holy Rood,
I would spoil thy beauty for thee. Nor didst thou cut my hair, for aught
that I saw or felt: however, thou didst it, perchance, on such wise that
I was not ware thereof: so let me see whether 'tis cut or no." Then,
unveiling herself, she shewed that her hair was uncut and entire.
Wherefore her brothers and mother now turned to Arriguccio with:--"What
means this, Arriguccio? This accords not with what thou gavest us to
understand thou hadst done; nor know we how thou wilt prove the residue."

Arriguccio was lost, as it were, in a dream, and yet he would fain have
spoken; but, seeing that what he had thought to prove was otherwise, he
essayed no reply. So the lady turning to her brothers:--"I see," quoth
she, "what he would have: he will not be satisfied unless I do what I
never would otherwise have done, to wit, give you to know what a pitiful
caitiff he is; as now I shall not fail to do. I make no manner of doubt
that, as he has said, even so it befell, and so he did. How, you shall
hear. This worthy man, to whom, worse luck! you gave me to wife, a
merchant, as he calls himself, and as such would fain have credit, and
who ought to be more temperate than a religious, and more continent than
a girl, lets scarce an evening pass but he goes a boozing in the taverns,
and consorting with this or the other woman of the town; and 'tis for me
to await his return until midnight or sometimes until matins, even as you
now find me. I doubt not that, being thoroughly well drunk, he got him to
bed with one of these wantons, and, awaking, found the pack-thread on her
foot, and afterwards did actually perform all these brave exploits of
which he speaks, and in the end came back to her, and beat her, and cut
her hair off, and being not yet quite recovered from his debauch,
believed, and, I doubt not, still believes, that 'twas I that he thus
treated; and if you will but scan his face closely, you will see that he
is still half drunk. But, whatever he may have said about me, I would
have you account it as nothing more than the disordered speech of a tipsy
man; and forgive him as I do." Whereupon the lady's mother raised no
small outcry, saying:--"By the Holy Rood, my daughter, this may not be! A
daughter, such as thou, to be mated with one so unworthy of thee! The
pestilent, insensate cur should be slain on the spot! A pretty state of
things, indeed! Why, he might have picked thee up from the gutter! Now
foul fall him! but thou shalt no more be vexed with the tedious drivel of
a petty dealer in ass's dung, some blackguard, belike, that came hither
from the country because he was dismissed the service of some petty
squire, clad in romagnole, with belfry-breeches, and a pen in his arse,
and for that he has a few pence, must needs have a gentleman's daughter
and a fine lady to wife, and set up a coat of arms, and say:--'I am of
the such and such,' and 'my ancestors did thus and thus.' Ah! had my sons
but followed my advice! Thy honour were safe in the house of the Counts
Guidi, where they might have bestowed thee, though thou hadst but a
morsel of bread to thy dowry: but they must needs give thee to this rare
treasure, who, though better daughter and more chaste there is none than
thou in Florence, has not blushed this very midnight and in our presence
to call thee a strumpet, as if we knew thee not. God's faith! so I were
hearkened to, he should shrewdly smart for it." Then, turning to her
sons, she said:--"My sons, I told you plainly enough that this ought not
to be. Now, have you heard how your worthy brother-in-law treats your
sister? Petty twopenny trader that he is: were it for me to act, as it is
for you, after what he has said of her and done to her, nought would
satisfy or appease me, till I had rid the earth of him. And were I a man,
who am but a woman, none, other but myself should meddle with the affair.
God's curse upon him, the woeful, shameless sot!" Whereupon the young
men, incensed by what they had seen and heard, turned to Arriguccio, and
after giving him the soundest rating that ever was bestowed upon caitiff,
concluded as follows:--"This once we pardon thee, witting thee to be a
drunken knave--but as thou holdest thy life dear, have a care that
henceforth we hear no such tales of thee; for rest assured that if aught
of the kind do reach our ears, we will requite thee for both turns."
Which said, they departed. Arriguccio, standing there like one dazed, not
witting whether his late doings were actual fact or but a dream, made no
more words about the matter, but left his wife in peace. Thus did she by
her address not only escape imminent peril, but open a way whereby in
time to come she was able to gratify her passion to the full without any
farther fear of her husband.


NOVEL IX.

--
Lydia, wife of Nicostratus, loves Pyrrhus, who to assure himself thereof,
asks three things of her, all of which she does, and therewithal enjoys
him in presence of Nicostratus, and makes Nicostratus believe that what
he saw was not real.
--

So diverting did the ladies find Neifile's story that it kept them still
laughing and talking, though the king, having bidden Pamfilo tell his
story, had several times enjoined silence upon them. However, as soon as
they had done, Pamfilo thus began:--Methinks, worshipful ladies, there is
no venture, though fraught with gravest peril, that whoso loves ardently
will not make: of which truth, exemplified though it has been in stories
not a few, I purpose to afford you yet more signal proof in one which I
shall tell you; wherein you will hear of a lady who in her enterprises
owed far more to the favour of Fortune than to the guidance of reason:
wherefore I should not advise any of you rashly to follow in her
footsteps, seeing that Fortune is not always in a kindly mood, nor are
the eyes of all men equally holden.

In Argos, that most ancient city of Achaia, the fame of whose kings of
old time is out of all proportion to its size, there dwelt of yore
Nicostratus, a nobleman, to whom, when he was already verging on old age,
Fortune gave to wife a great lady, Lydia by name, whose courage matched
her charms. Nicostratus, as suited with his rank and wealth, kept not a
few retainers and hounds and hawks, and was mightily addicted to the
chase. Among his dependants was a young man named Pyrrhus, a gallant of
no mean accomplishment, and goodly of person and beloved and trusted by
Nicostratus above all other. Of whom Lydia grew mighty enamoured,
insomuch that neither by day nor by night might her thoughts stray from
him: but, whether it was that Pyrrhus wist not her love, or would have
none of it, he gave no sign of recognition; whereby the lady's suffering
waxing more than she could bear, she made up her mind to declare her love
to him; and having a chambermaid, Lusca by name, in whom she placed great
trust, she called her, and said:--"Lusca, tokens thou hast had from me of
my regard that should ensure thy obedience and loyalty; wherefore have a
care that what I shall now tell thee reach the ears of none but him to
whom I shall bid thee impart it. Thou seest, Lusca, that I am in the
prime of my youth and lustihead, and have neither lack nor stint of all
such things as folk desire, save only, to be brief, that I have one cause
to repine, to wit, that my husband's years so far outnumber my own.
Wherefore with that wherein young ladies take most pleasure I am but ill
provided, and, as my desire is no less than theirs, 'tis now some while
since I determined that, if Fortune has shewn herself so little friendly
to me by giving me a husband so advanced in years, at least I will not be
mine own enemy by sparing to devise the means whereby my happiness and
health may be assured; and that herein, as in all other matters, my joy
may be complete, I have chosen, thereto to minister by his embraces, our
Pyrrhus, deeming him more worthy than any other man, and have so set my
heart upon him that I am ever ill at ease save when he is present either
to my sight or to my mind, insomuch that, unless I forgather with him
without delay, I doubt not that 'twill be the death of me. And so, if
thou holdest my life dear, thou wilt shew him my love on such wise as
thou mayst deem best, and make my suit to him that he be pleased to come
to me, when thou shalt go to fetch him." "That gladly will I," replied
the chambermaid; and as soon as she found convenient time and place, she
drew Pyrrhus apart, and, as best she knew how, conveyed her lady's
message to him. Which Pyrrhus found passing strange to hear, for 'twas in
truth a complete surprise to him, and he doubted the lady did but mean to
try him. Wherefore he presently, and with some asperity, answered
thus:--"Lusca, believe I cannot that this message comes from my lady:
have a care, therefore, what thou sayst, and if, perchance, it does come
from her, I doubt she does not mean it; and if perchance, she does mean
it, why, then I am honoured by my lord above what I deserve, and I would
not for my life do him such a wrong: so have a care never to speak of
such matters to me again." Lusca, nowise disconcerted by his uncompliant
tone, rejoined:--"I shall speak to thee, Pyrrhus, of these and all other
matters, wherewith I may be commissioned by my lady, as often as she
shall bid me, whether it pleases or irks thee; but thou art a blockhead."

So, somewhat chafed, Lusca bore Pyrrhus' answer back to her lady, who
would fain have died, when she heard it, and some days afterwards resumed
the topic, saying:--"Thou knowest, Lusca, that 'tis not the first stroke
that fells the oak; wherefore, methinks, thou wert best go back to this
strange man, who is minded to evince his loyalty at my expense, and
choosing a convenient time, declare to him all my passion, and do thy
best endeavour that the affair be carried through; for if it should thus
lapse, 'twould be the death of me; besides which, he would think we had
but trifled with him, and, whereas 'tis his love we would have, we should
earn his hatred." So, after comforting the lady, the maid hied her in
quest of Pyrrhus, whom she found in a gladsome and propitious mood, and
thus addressed:--"'Tis not many days, Pyrrhus, since I declared to thee
how ardent is the flame with which thy lady and mine is consumed for love
of thee, and now again I do thee to wit thereof, and that, if thou shalt
not relent of the harshness that thou didst manifest the other day, thou
mayst rest assured that her life will be short: wherefore I pray thee to
be pleased to give her solace of her desire, and shouldst thou persist in
thy obduracy, I, that gave thee credit for not a little sense, shall deem
thee a great fool. How flattered thou shouldst be to know thyself beloved
above all else by a lady so beauteous and high-born! And how indebted
shouldst thou feel thyself to Fortune, seeing that she has in store for
thee a boon so great and so suited to the cravings of thy youth, ay, and
so like to be of service to thee upon occasion of need! Bethink thee, if
there be any of thine equals whose life is ordered more agreeably than
thine will be if thou but be wise. Which of them wilt thou find so well
furnished with arms and horses, clothes and money as thou shalt be, if
thou but give my lady thy love? Receive, then, my words with open mind;
be thyself again; bethink thee that 'tis Fortune's way to confront a man
but once with smiling mien and open lap, and, if he then accept not her
bounty, he has but himself to blame, if afterward he find himself in
want, in beggary. Besides which, no such loyalty is demanded between
servants and their masters as between friends and kinsfolk; rather 'tis
for servants, so far as they may, to behave towards their masters as
their masters behave towards them. Thinkest thou, that, if thou hadst a
fair wife or mother or daughter or sister that found favour in
Nicostratus' eyes, he would be so scrupulous on the point of loyalty as
thou art disposed to be in regard of his lady? Thou art a fool, if so
thou dost believe. Hold it for certain, that, if blandishments and
supplications did not suffice, he would, whatever thou mightest think of
it, have recourse to force. Observe we, then, towards them and theirs the
same rule which they observe towards us and ours. Take the boon that
Fortune offers thee; repulse her not; rather go thou to meet her, and
hail her advance; for be sure that, if thou do not so, to say nought of
thy lady's death, which will certainly ensue, thou thyself wilt repent
thee thereof so often that thou wilt be fain of death."

Since he had last seen Lusca, Pyrrhus had repeatedly pondered what she
had said to him, and had made his mind up that, should she come again, he
would answer her in another sort, and comply in all respects with the
lady's desires, provided he might be assured that she was not merely
putting him to the proof; wherefore he now made answer:--"Lo, now, Lusca,
I acknowledge the truth of all that thou sayst; but, on the other hand, I
know that my lord is not a little wise and wary, and, as he has committed
all his affairs to my charge, I sorely misdoubt me that 'tis with his
approbation, and by his advice, and but to prove me, that Lydia does
this: wherefore let her do three things which I shall demand of her for
my assurance, and then there is nought that she shall crave of me, but I
will certainly render her prompt obedience. Which three things are
these:--first, let her in Nicostratus' presence kill his fine
sparrow-hawk: then she must send me a lock of Nicostratus' beard, and
lastly one of his best teeth." Hard seemed these terms to Lusca, and hard
beyond measure to the lady, but Love, that great fautor of enterprise,
and master of stratagem, gave her resolution to address herself to their
performance: wherefore through the chambermaid she sent him word that
what he required of her she would do, and that without either reservation
or delay; and therewithal she told him, that, as he deemed Nicostratus so
wise, she would contrive that they should enjoy one another in
Nicostratus' presence, and that Nicostratus should believe that 'twas a
mere show. Pyrrhus, therefore, anxiously expected what the lady would do.
Some days thus passed, and then Nicostratus gave a great breakfast, as
was his frequent wont, to certain gentlemen, and when the tables were
removed, the lady, robed in green samite, and richly adorned, came forth
of her chamber into the hall wherein they sate, and before the eyes of
Pyrrhus and all the rest of the company hied her to the perch, on which
stood the sparrow-hawk that Nicostratus so much prized, and loosed him,
and, as if she were minded to carry him on her hand, took him by the
jesses and dashed him against the wall so that he died.
Whereupon:--"Alas! my lady, what hast thou done?" exclaimed Nicostratus:
but she vouchsafed no answer, save that, turning to the gentlemen that
had sate at meat with him, she said:--"My lords, ill fitted were I to
take vengeance on a king that had done me despite, if I lacked the
courage to be avenged on a sparrow-hawk. You are to know that by this
bird I have long been cheated of all the time that ought to be devoted by
gentlemen to pleasuring their ladies; for with the first streaks of dawn
Nicostratus has been up and got him to horse, and hawk on hand hied him
to the champaign to see him fly, leaving me, such as you see me, alone
and ill content abed. For which cause I have oftentimes been minded to do
that which I have now done, and have only refrained therefrom, that,
biding my time, I might do it in the presence of men that should judge my
cause justly, as I trust you will do." Which hearing, the gentlemen, who
deemed her affections no less fixed on Nicostratus than her words
imported, broke with one accord into a laugh, and turning to Nicostratus,
who was sore displeased, fell a saying:--"Now well done of the lady to
avenge her wrongs by the death of the sparrow-hawk!" and so, the lady
being withdrawn to her chamber, they passed the affair off with divers
pleasantries, turning the wrath of Nicostratus to laughter.

Pyrrhus, who had witnessed what had passed, said to himself:--Nobly
indeed has my lady begun, and on such wise as promises well for the
felicity of my love. God grant that she so continue. And even so Lydia
did: for not many days after she had killed the sparrow-hawk, she, being
with Nicostratus in her chamber, from caressing passed to toying and
trifling with him, and he, sportively pulling her by the hair, gave her
occasion to fulfil the second of Pyrrhus' demands; which she did by
nimbly laying hold of one of the lesser tufts of his beard, and, laughing
the while, plucking it so hard that she tore it out of his chin. Which
Nicostratus somewhat resenting:--"Now what cause hast thou," quoth she,
"to make such a wry face? 'Tis but that I have plucked some half-dozen
hairs from thy beard. Thou didst not feel it as much as did I but now thy
tugging of my hair." And so they continued jesting and sporting with one
another, the lady jealously guarding the tuft that she had torn from the
beard, which the very same day she sent to her cherished lover. The third
demand caused the lady more thought; but, being amply endowed with wit,
and powerfully, seconded by Love, she failed not to hit upon an apt
expedient.

Nicostratus had in his service two lads, who, being of gentle birth, had
been placed with him by their kinsfolk, that they might learn manners,
one of whom, when Nicostratus sate at meat, carved before him, while the
other gave him to drink. Both lads Lydia called to her, and gave them to
understand that their breath smelt, and admonished them that, when they
waited on Nicostratus, they should hold their heads as far back as
possible, saying never a word of the matter to any. The lads believing
her, did as she bade them. Whereupon she took occasion to say to
Nicostratus:--"Hast thou marked what these lads do when they wait upon
thee?" "Troth, that have I," replied Nicostratus; "indeed I have often
had it in mind to ask them why they do so." "Nay," rejoined the lady,
"spare thyself the pains; for I can tell thee the reason, which I have
for some time kept close, lest it should vex thee; but as I now see that
others begin to be ware of it, it need no longer be withheld from thee.
'Tis for that thy breath stinks shrewdly that they thus avert their heads
from thee: 'twas not wont to be so, nor know I why it should be so; and
'tis most offensive when thou art in converse with gentlemen; and
therefore 'twould be well to find some way of curing it." "I wonder what
it could be," returned Nicostratus; "is it perchance that I have a
decayed tooth in my jaw?" "That may well be," quoth Lydia: and taking him
to a window, she caused him open his mouth, and after regarding it on
this side and that:--"Oh! Nicostratus," quoth she, "how couldst thou have
endured it so long? Thou hast a tooth here, which, by what I see, is not
only decayed, but actually rotten throughout; and beyond all manner of
doubt, if thou let it remain long in thy head, 'twill infect its
neighbours; so 'tis my advice that thou out with it before the matter
grows worse." "My judgment jumps with thine," quoth Nicostratus;
"wherefore send without delay for a chirurgeon to draw it." "God forbid,"
returned the lady, "that chirurgeon come hither for such a purpose;
methinks, the case is such that I can very well dispense with him, and
draw the tooth myself. Besides which, these chirurgeons do these things
in such a cruel way, that I could never endure to see thee or know thee
under the hands of any of them: wherefore my mind is quite made up to do
it myself, that, at least, if thou shalt suffer too much, I may give it
over at once, as a chirurgeon would not do." And so she caused the
instruments that are used on such occasions to be brought her, and having
dismissed all other attendants save Lusca from the chamber, and locked
the door, made Nicostratus lie down on a table, set the pincers in his
mouth, and clapped them on one of his teeth, which, while Lusca held him,
so that, albeit he roared for pain, he might not move, she wrenched by
main force from his jaw, and keeping it close, took from Lusca's hand
another and horribly decayed tooth, which she shewed him, suffering and
half dead as he was, saying:--"See what thou hadst in thy jaw; mark how
far gone it is." Believing what she said, and deeming that, now the tooth
was out, his breath would no more be offensive, and being somewhat eased
of the pain, which had been extreme, and still remained, so that he
murmured not little, by divers comforting applications, he quitted the
chamber: whereupon the lady forthwith sent the tooth to her lover, who,
having now full assurance of her love, placed himself entirely at her
service. But the lady being minded to make his assurance yet more sure,
and deeming each hour a thousand till she might be with him, now saw fit,
for the more ready performance of the promise she had given him, to feign
sickness; and Nicostratus, coming to see her one day after breakfast,
attended only by Pyrrhus, she besought him for her better solacement, to
help her down to the garden. Wherefore Nicostratus on one side, and
Pyrrhus on the other, took her and bore her down to the garden, and set
her on a lawn at the foot of a beautiful pear-tree: and after they had
sate there a while, the lady, who had already given Pyrrhus to understand
what he must do, said to him:--"Pyrrhus, I should greatly like to have
some of those pears; get thee up the tree, and shake some of them down."
Pyrrhus climbed the tree in a trice, and began to shake down the pears,
and while he did so:--"Fie! Sir," quoth he, "what is this you do? And
you, Madam, have you no shame, that you suffer him to do so in my
presence? Think you that I am blind? 'Twas but now that you were gravely
indisposed. Your cure has been speedy indeed to permit of your so
behaving: and as for such a purpose you have so many goodly chambers, why
betake you not yourselves to one of them, if you must needs so disport
yourselves? 'Twould be much more decent than to do so in my presence."
Whereupon the lady, turning to her husband:--"Now what can Pyrrhus mean?"
said she. "Is he mad?" "Nay, Madam," quoth Pyrrhus; "mad am not I. Think
you I see you not?" Whereat Nicostratus marvelled not a little;
and:--"Pyrrhus," quoth he, "I verily believe thou dreamest." "Nay, my
lord," replied Pyrrhus, "not a whit do I dream; neither do you; rather
you wag it with such vigour, that, if this pear-tree did the like, there
would be never a pear left on it." Then the lady:--"What can this mean?"
quoth she: "can it be that it really seems to him to be as he says? Upon
my hope of salvation, were I but in my former health, I would get me up
there to judge for myself what these wonders are which he professes to
see." Whereupon, as Pyrrhus in the pear-tree continued talking in the
same strange strain:--"Come down," quoth Nicostratus; and when he was
down:--"Now what," said Nicostratus, "is it thou sayst thou seest up
there?" "I suppose," replied Pyrrhus, "that you take me to be deluded or
dreaming: but as I must needs tell you the truth, I saw you lying upon
your wife, and then, when I came down, I saw you get up and sit you down
here where you now are." "Therein," said Nicostratus, "thou wast
certainly deluded, for, since thou clombest the pear-tree, we have not
budged a jot, save as thou seest." Then said Pyrrhus:--"Why make more
words about the matter? See you I certainly did; and, seeing you, I saw
you lying upon your own." Nicostratus' wonder now waxed momently,
insomuch that he said:--"I am minded to see if this pear-tree be
enchanted, so that whoso is in it sees marvels;" and so he got him up
into it. Whereupon the lady and Pyrrhus fell to disporting them, and
Nicostratus, seeing what they were about, exclaimed:--"Ah! lewd woman,
what is this thou doest? And thou, Pyrrhus, in whom I so much trusted!"
And so saying, he began to climb down. Meanwhile the lady and Pyrrhus had
made answer:--"We are sitting here:" and seeing him descending, they
placed themselves as they had been when he had left them, whom
Nicostratus, being come down, no sooner saw, than he fell a rating them.
Then quoth Pyrrhus:--"Verily, Nicostratus, I now acknowledge, that, as
you said a while ago, what I saw when I was in the pear-tree was but a
false show, albeit I had never understood that so it was but that I now
see and know that thou hast also seen a false show. And that I speak
truth, you may sufficiently assure yourself, if you but reflect whether
'tis likely that your wife, who for virtue and discretion has not her
peer among women, would, if she were minded so to dishonour you, see fit
to do so before your very eyes. Of myself I say nought, albeit I had
liefer be hewn in pieces than that I should so much as think of such a
thing, much less do it in your presence. Wherefore 'tis evident that 'tis
some illusion of sight that is propagated from the pear-tree; for nought
in the world would have made me believe that I saw not you lying there in
carnal intercourse with your wife, had I not heard you say that you saw
me doing that which most assuredly, so far from doing, I never so much as
thought of." The lady then started up with a most resentful mien, and
burst out with:--"Foul fall thee, if thou knowest so little of me as to
suppose that, if I were minded to do thee such foul dishonour as thou
sayst thou didst see me do, I would come hither to do it before thine
eyes! Rest assured that for such a purpose, were it ever mine, I should
deem one of our chambers more meet, and it should go hard but I would so
order the matter that thou shouldst never know aught of it." Nicostratus,
having heard both, and deeming that what they both averred must be true,
to wit, that they would never have ventured upon such an act in his
presence, passed from chiding to talk of the singularity of the thing,
and how marvellous it was that the vision should reshape itself for every
one that clomb the tree. The lady, however, made a show of being
distressed that Nicostratus should so have thought of her,
and:--"Verily," quoth she, "no woman, neither I nor another, shall again
suffer loss of honour by this pear-tree: run, Pyrrhus, and bring hither
an axe, and at one and the same time vindicate thy honour and mine by
felling it, albeit 'twere better far Nicostratus' skull should feel the
weight of the axe, seeing that in utter heedlessness he so readily
suffered the eyes of his mind to be blinded; for, albeit this vision was
seen by the bodily eye, yet ought the understanding by no means to have
entertained and affirmed it as real."

So Pyrrhus presently hied him to fetch the axe, and returning therewith
felled the pear; whereupon the lady, turning towards Nicostratus:--"Now
that this foe of my honour is fallen," quoth she, "my wrath is gone from
me." Nicostratus then craving her pardon, she graciously granted it him,
bidding him never again to suffer himself to be betrayed into thinking
such a thing of her, who loved him more dearly than herself. So the poor
duped husband went back with her and her lover to the palace, where not
seldom in time to come Pyrrhus and Lydia took their pastime together more
at ease. God grant us the like.


NOVEL X.

--
Two Sienese love a lady, one of them being her gossip: the gossip dies,
having promised his comrade to return to him from the other world; which
he does, and tells him what sort of life is led there.
--

None now was left to tell, save the king, who, as soon as the ladies had
ceased mourning over the fall of the pear-tree, that had done no wrong,
and were silent, began thus:--Most manifest it is that 'tis the prime
duty of a just king to observe the laws that he has made; and, if he do
not so, he is to be esteemed no king, but a slave that has merited
punishment, into which fault, and under which condemnation, I, your king,
must, as of necessity, fall. For, indeed, when yesterday I made the law
which governs our discourse of to-day, I thought not to-day to avail
myself of my privilege, but to submit to the law, no less than you, and
to discourse of the same topic whereof you all have discoursed; but not
only has the very story been told which I had intended to tell, but
therewithal so many things else, and so very much goodlier have been
said, that, search my memory as I may, I cannot mind me of aught, nor wot
I that touching such a matter there is indeed aught, for me to say, that
would be comparable with what has been said; wherefore, as infringe I
must the law that I myself have made, I confess myself worthy of
punishment, and instantly declaring my readiness to pay any forfeit that
may be demanded of me, am minded to have recourse to my wonted privilege.
And such, dearest ladies, is the potency of Elisa's story of the
godfather and his gossip, and therewith of the simplicity of the Sienese,
that I am prompted thereby to pass from this topic of the beguilement of
foolish husbands by their cunning wives to a little story touching these
same Sienese, which, albeit there is not a little therein which you were
best not to believe, may yet be in some degree entertaining to hear.

Know, then, that at Siena there dwelt in Porta Salaia two young men of
the people, named, the one, Tingoccio Mini, the other Meuccio di Tura,
who, by what appeared, loved one another not a little, for they were
scarce ever out of one another's company; and being wont, like other
folk, to go to church and listen to sermons, they heard from time to time
of the glory and the woe, which in the other world are allotted,
according to merit, to the souls of the dead. Of which matters craving,
but being unable to come by, more certain assurance, they agreed together
that, whichever of them should die first, should, if he might, return to
the survivor, and certify him of that which he would fain know; and this
agreement they confirmed with an oath. Now, after they had made this
engagement, and while they were still constantly together, Tingoccio
chanced to become sponsor to one Ambruogio Anselmini, that dwelt in Campo
Reggi, who had had a son by his wife, Monna Mita. The lady was exceeding
fair, and amorous withal, and Tingoccio being wont sometimes to visit her
as his gossip, and to take Meuccio with him, he, notwithstanding his
sponsorship, grew enamoured of her, as did also Meuccio, for she pleased
him not a little, and he heard her much commended by Tingoccio. Which
love each concealed from the other; but not for the same reason.
Tingoccio was averse to discover it to Meuccio, for that he deemed it an
ignominious thing to love his gossip, and was ashamed to let any one know
it. Meuccio was on his guard for a very different reason, to wit, that he
was already ware that the lady was in Tingoccio's good graces. Wherefore
he said to himself:--If I avow my love to him, he will be jealous of me,
and as, being her gossip, he can speak with her as often as he pleases,
he will do all he can to make her hate me, and so I shall never have any
favour of her.

Now, the two young men being thus, as I have said, on terms of most
familiar friendship, it befell that Tingoccio, being the better able to
open his heart to the lady, did so order his demeanour and discourse that
he had from her all that he desired. Nor was his friend's success hidden
from Meuccio; though, much as it vexed him, yet still cherishing the hope
of eventually attaining his end, and fearing to give Tingoccio occasion
to baulk or hamper him in some way, he feigned to know nought of the
matter. So Tingoccio, more fortunate than his comrade, and rival in love,
did with such assiduity till his gossip's good land that he got thereby a
malady, which in the course of some days waxed so grievous that he
succumbed thereto, and departed this life. And on the night of the third
day after his decease (perchance because earlier he might not) he made
his appearance, according to his promise, in Meuccio's chamber, and
called Meuccio, who was fast asleep, by his name. Whereupon:--"Who art
thou?" quoth Meuccio, as he awoke. "'Tis I, Tingoccio," replied he, "come
back, in fulfilment of the pledge I gave thee, to give thee tidings of
the other world." For a while Meuccio saw him not without terror: then,
his courage reviving:--"Welcome, my brother," quoth he: and proceeded to
ask him if he were lost. "Nought is lost but what is irrecoverable,"
replied Tingoccio: "how then should I be here, if I were lost?" "Nay,"
quoth then Meuccio; "I mean it not so: I would know of thee, whether thou
art of the number of the souls that are condemned to the penal fire of
hell." "Why no," returned Tingoccio, "not just that; but still for the
sins that I did I am in most sore and grievous torment." Meuccio then
questioned Tingoccio in detail of the pains there meted out for each of
the sins done here; and Tingoccio enumerated them all. Whereupon Meuccio
asked if there were aught he might do for him here on earth. Tingoccio
answered in the affirmative; to wit, that he might have masses and
prayers said and alms-deeds done for him, for that such things were of
great service to the souls there. "That gladly will I," replied Meuccio;
and then, as Tingoccio was about to take his leave, he bethought him of
the gossip, and raising his head a little, he said:--"I mind me,
Tingoccio, of the gossip, with whom thou wast wont to lie when thou wast
here. Now what is thy punishment for that?" "My brother," returned
Tingoccio, "as soon as I got down there, I met one that seemed to know
all my sins by heart, who bade me betake me to a place, where, while in
direst torment I bewept my sins, I found comrades not a few condemned to
the same pains; and so, standing there among them, and calling to mind
what I had done with the gossip, and foreboding in requital thereof a
much greater torment than had yet been allotted me, albeit I was in a
great and most vehement flame, I quaked for fear in every part of me.
Which one that was beside me observing:--'What,' quoth he, 'hast thou
done more than the rest of us that are here, that thou quakest thus as
thou standest in the fire?' 'My friend,' quoth I, 'I am in mortal fear of
the doom that I expect for a great sin that I once committed.' He then
asked what sin it might be. ''Twas on this wise,' replied I: 'I lay with
my gossip, and that so much that I died thereof.' Whereat, he did but
laugh, saying:--'Go to, fool, make thy mind easy; for here there is no
account taken of gossips.' Which completely revived my drooping spirits."

'Twas now near daybreak: wherefore:--"Adieu! Meuccio," quoth his friend:
"for longer tarry with thee I may not;" and so he vanished. As for
Meuccio, having learned that no account was taken of gossips in the other
world, he began to laugh at his own folly in that he had already spared
divers such; and so, being quit of his ignorance, he in that respect in
course of time waxed wise. Which matters had Fra Rinaldo but known, he
would not have needed to go about syllogizing in order to bring his fair
gossip to pleasure him.

The sun was westering, and a light breeze blew, when the king, his story
ended, and none else being left to speak, arose, and taking off the
crown, set it on Lauretta's head, saying:--"Madam, I crown you with
yourself(1) queen of our company: 'tis now for you, as our sovereign
lady, to make such ordinances as you shall deem meet for our common
solace and delectation;" and having so said, he sat him down again. Queen
Lauretta sent for the seneschal, and bade him have a care that the tables
should be set in the pleasant vale somewhat earlier than had been their
wont, that their return to the palace might be more leisurely; after
which she gave him to know what else he had to do during her sovereignty.
Then turning to the company:--"Yesterday," quoth she, "Dioneo would have
it that to-day we should discourse of the tricks that wives play their
husbands; and but that I am minded not to shew as of the breed of yelping
curs, that are ever prompt to retaliate, I would ordain that to-morrow we
discourse of the tricks that husbands play their wives. However, in lieu
thereof, I will have every one take thought to tell of those tricks that,
daily, woman plays man, or man woman, or one man another; wherein, I
doubt not, there will be matter of discourse no less agreeable than has
been that of to-day." So saying, she rose and dismissed the company until
supper-time. So the ladies and the men being risen, some bared their feet
and betook them to the clear water, there to disport them, while others
took their pleasure upon the green lawn amid the trees that there grew
goodly and straight. For no brief while Dioneo and Fiammetta sang in
concert of Arcite and Palamon. And so, each and all taking their several
pastimes, they sped the hours with exceeding great delight until
supper-time. Which being come, they sat them down at table beside the
little lake, and there, while a thousand songsters charmed their ears,
and a gentle breeze, that blew from the environing hills, fanned them,
and never a fly annoyed them, reposefully and joyously they supped. The
tables removed, they roved a while about the pleasant vale, and then, the
sun being still high, for 'twas but half vespers, the queen gave the
word, and they wended their way back to their wonted abode, and going
slowly, and beguiling the way with quips and quirks without number upon
divers matters, nor those alone of which they had that day discoursed,
they arrived, hard upon nightfall, at the goodly palace. There, the short
walk's fatigue dispelled by wines most cool and comfits, they presently
gathered for the dance about the fair fountain, and now they footed it to
the strains of Tindaro's cornemuse, and now to other music. Which done,
the queen bade Filomena give them a song; and thus Filomena sang:--

Ah! woe is me, my soul!
  Ah! shall I ever thither fare again
  Whence I was parted to my grievous dole?

Full sure I know not; but within my breast
  Throbs ever the same fire
  Of yearning there where erst I was to be.
  O thou in whom is all my weal, my rest,
  Lord of my heart's desire,
  Ah! tell me thou! for none to ask save thee
  Neither dare I, nor see.
  Ah! dear my Lord, this wasted heart disdain
  Thou wilt not, but with hope at length console.

Kindled the flame I know not what delight,
  Which me doth so devour,
  That day and night alike I find no ease;
  For whether it was by hearing, touch, or sight,
  Unwonted was the power,
  And fresh the fire that me each way did seize;
  Wherein without release
  I languish still, and of thee, Lord, am fain,
  For thou alone canst comfort and make whole.

Ah! tell me if it shall be, and how soon,
  That I again thee meet
  Where those death-dealing eyes I kissed. Thou, chief
  Weal of my soul, my very soul, this boon
  Deny not; say that fleet
  Thou hiest hither: comfort thus my grief.
  Ah! let the time be brief
  Till thou art here, and then long time remain;
  For I, Love-stricken, crave but Love's control.

Let me but once again mine own thee call,
  No more so indiscreet
  As erst, I'll be, to let thee from me part:
  Nay, I'll still hold thee, let what may befall,
  And of thy mouth so sweet
  Such solace take as may content my heart
  So this be all my art,
  Thee to entice, me with thine arms to enchain:
  Whereon but musing inly chants my soul.

This song set all the company conjecturing what new and delightsome love
might now hold Filomena in its sway; and as its words imported that she
had had more joyance thereof than sight alone might yield, some that were
there grew envious of her excess of happiness. However, the song being
ended, the queen, bethinking her that the morrow was Friday, thus
graciously addressed them all:--"Ye wot, noble ladies, and ye also, my
gallants, that to-morrow is the day that is sacred to the passion of our
Lord, which, if ye remember, we kept devoutly when Neifile was queen,
intermitting delectable discourse, as we did also on the ensuing
Saturday. Wherefore, being minded to follow Neifile's excellent example,
I deem that now, as then, 'twere a seemly thing to surcease from this our
pastime of story-telling for those two days, and compose our minds to
meditation on what was at that season accomplished for the weal of our
souls." All the company having approved their queen's devout speech, she,
as the night was now far spent, dismissed them; and so they all betook
them to slumber.

(1) A play upon laurea (laurel wreath) and Lauretta.


--
Endeth here the seventh day of the Decameron, beginneth the eighth, in
which, under the rule of Lauretta, discourse is had of those tricks that,
daily, woman plays man, or man woman, or one man another.
--

The summits of the loftiest mountains were already illumined by the rays
of the rising sun, the shades of night were fled, and all things plainly
visible, when the queen and her company arose, and hied them first to the
dewy mead, where for a while they walked: then, about half tierce, they
wended their way to a little church that was hard by, where they heard
Divine service; after which, they returned to the palace, and having
breakfasted with gay and gladsome cheer, and sung and danced a while,
were dismissed by the queen, to rest them as to each might seem good. But
when the sun was past the meridian, the queen mustered them again for
their wonted pastime; and, all being seated by the fair fountain, thus,
at her command, Neifile began.


NOVEL I.

--
Gulfardo borrows moneys of Guasparruolo, which he has agreed to give
Guasparruolo's wife, that he may lie with her. He gives them to her, and
in her presence tells Guasparruolo that he has done so, and she
acknowledges that 'tis true.
--

Sith God has ordained that 'tis for me to take the lead to-day with my
story, well pleased am I. And for that, loving ladies, much has been said
touching the tricks that women play men, I am minded to tell you of one
that a man played a woman, not because I would censure what the man did,
or say that 'twas not merited by the woman, but rather to commend the man
and censure the woman, and to shew that men may beguile those that think
to beguile them, as well as be beguiled by those they think to beguile;
for peradventure what I am about to relate should in strictness of speech
not be termed beguilement, but rather retaliation; for, as it behoves
woman to be most strictly virtuous, and to guard her chastity as her very
life, nor on any account to allow herself to sully it, which
notwithstanding, 'tis not possible by reason of our frailty that there
should be as perfect an observance of this law as were meet, I affirm,
that she that allows herself to infringe it for money merits the fire;
whereas she that so offends under the prepotent stress of Love will
receive pardon from any judge that knows how to temper justice with
mercy: witness what but the other day we heard from Filostrato touching
Madonna Filippa at Prato.(1)

Know, then, that there was once at Milan a German mercenary, Gulfardo by
name, a doughty man, and very loyal to those with whom he took service; a
quality most uncommon in Germans. And as he was wont to be most faithful
in repaying whatever moneys he borrowed, he would have had no difficulty
in finding a merchant to advance him any amount of money at a low rate of
interest. Now, tarrying thus at Milan, Gulfardo fixed his affection on a
very fine woman, named Madonna Ambruogia, the wife of a wealthy merchant,
one Guasparruolo Cagastraccio, with whom he was well acquainted and on
friendly terms: which amour he managed with such discretion that neither
the husband nor any one else wist aught of it. So one day he sent her a
message, beseeching her of her courtesy to gratify his passion, and
assuring her that he on his part was ready to obey her every behest.

The lady made a great many words about the affair, the upshot of which
was that she would do as Gulfardo desired upon the following terms: to
wit, that, in the first place, he should never discover the matter to a
soul, and, secondly, that, as for some purpose or another she required
two hundred florins of gold, he out of his abundance should supply her
necessity; these conditions being satisfied she would be ever at his
service. Offended by such base sordidness in one whom he had supposed to
be an honourable woman, Gulfardo passed from ardent love to something
very like hatred, and cast about how he might flout her. So he sent her
word that he would right gladly pleasure her in this and in any other
matter that might be in his power; let her but say when he was to come to
see her, and he would bring the moneys with him, and none should know of
the matter except a comrade of his, in whom he placed much trust, and who
was privy to all that he did. The lady, if she should not rather be
called the punk, gleefully made answer that in the course of a few days
her husband, Guasparruolo, was to go to Genoa on business, and that, when
he was gone, she would let Gulfardo know, and appoint a time for him to
visit her. Gulfardo thereupon chose a convenient time, and hied him to
Guasparruolo, to whom:--"I am come," quoth he, "about a little matter of
business which I have on hand, for which I require two hundred florins of
gold, and I should be glad if thou wouldst lend them me at the rate of
interest which thou art wont to charge me." "That gladly will I," replied
Guasparruolo, and told out the money at once. A few days later
Guasparruolo being gone to Genoa, as the lady had said, she sent word to
Gulfardo that he should bring her the two hundred florins of gold. So
Gulfardo hied him with his comrade to the lady's house, where he found
her expecting him, and lost no time in handing her the two hundred
florins of gold in his comrade's presence, saying:--"You will keep the
money, Madam, and give it to your husband when he returns." Witting not
why Gulfardo so said, but thinking that 'twas but to conceal from his
comrade that it was given by way of price, the lady made answer:--"That
will I gladly; but I must first see whether the amount is right;"
whereupon she told the florins out upon a table, and when she found that
the two hundred were there, she put them away in high glee, and turning
to Gulfardo, took him into her chamber, where, not on that night only but
on many another night, while her husband was away, he had of her all that
he craved. On Guasparruolo's return Gulfardo presently paid him a visit,
having first made sure that the lady would be with him, and so in her
presence:--"Guasparruolo," quoth he, "I had after all no occasion for the
money, to wit, the two hundred florins of gold that thou didst lend me
the other day, being unable to carry through the transaction for which I
borrowed them, and so I took an early opportunity of bringing them to thy
wife, and gave them to her: thou wilt therefore cancel the account."
Whereupon Guasparruolo turned to the lady, and asked her if she had had
them. She, not daring to deny the fact in presence of the witness,
answered:--"Why, yes, I had them, and quite forgot to tell thee." "Good,"
quoth then Guasparruolo, "we are quits, Gulfardo; make thy mind easy; I
will see that thy account is set right." Gulfardo then withdrew, leaving
the flouted lady to hand over her ill-gotten gains to her husband; and so
the astute lover had his pleasure of his greedy mistress for nothing.

(1) Cf. Sixth Day, Novel VII.


NOVEL II.

--
The priest of Varlungo lies with Monna Belcolore: he leaves with her his
cloak by way of pledge, and receives from her a mortar. He returns the
mortar, and demands of her the cloak that he had left in pledge, which
the good lady returns him with a gibe.
--

Ladies and men alike commended Gulfardo for the check that he gave to the
greed of the Milanese lady; but before they had done, the queen turned to
Pamfilo, and with a smile bade him follow suit: wherefore thus Pamfilo
began:--Fair my ladies, it occurs to me to tell you a short story, which
reflects no credit on those by whom we are continually wronged without
being able to retaliate, to wit, the priests, who have instituted a
crusade against our wives, and deem that, when they have made conquest of
one of them, they have done a work every whit as worthy of recompense by
remission of sin and punishment as if they had brought the Soldan in
chains to Avignon: in which respect 'tis not possible for the hapless
laity to be even with them: howbeit they are as hot to make reprisals on
the priests' mothers, sisters, mistresses, and daughters as the priests
to attack their wives. Wherefore I am minded to give you, as I may do in
few words, the history of a rustic amour, the conclusion whereof was not
a little laughable, nor barren of moral, for you may also gather
therefrom, that 'tis not always well to believe everything that a priest
says.

I say then, that at Varlungo, a village hard by here, as all of you, my
ladies, should wot either of your own knowledge or by report, there dwelt
a worthy priest, and doughty of body in the service of the ladies: who,
albeit he was none too quick at his book, had no lack of precious and
blessed solecisms to edify his flock withal of a Sunday under the elm.
And when the men were out of doors, he would visit their wives as never a
priest had done before him, bringing them feast-day gowns and holy water,
and now and again a bit of candle, and giving them his blessing. Now it
so befell that among those of his fair parishioners whom he most affected
the first place was at length taken by one Monna Belcolore, the wife of a
husbandman that called himself Bentivegna del Mazzo. And in good sooth
she was a winsome and lusty country lass, brown as a berry and buxom
enough, and fitter than e'er another for his mill. Moreover she had not
her match in playing the tabret and singing:--The borage is full
sappy,(1) and in leading a brawl or a breakdown, no matter who might be
next her, with a fair and dainty kerchief in her hand. Which spells so
wrought upon Master Priest, that for love of her he grew distracted, and
did nought all day long but loiter about the village on the chance of
catching sight of her. And if of a Sunday morning he espied her in
church, he strove might and main to acquit himself of his Kyrie and
Sanctus in the style of a great singer, albeit his performance was liker
to the braying of an ass: whereas, if he saw her not, he scarce exerted
himself at all. However, he managed with such discretion that neither
Bentivegna del Mazzo nor any of the neighbours wist aught of his love.
And hoping thereby to ingratiate himself with Monna Belcolore, he from
time to time would send her presents, now a clove of fresh garlic, the
best in all the country-side, from his own garden, which he tilled with
his own hands, and anon a basket of beans or a bunch of chives or
shallots; and, when he thought it might serve his turn, he would give her
a sly glance, and follow it up with a little amorous mocking and mowing,
which she, with rustic awkwardness, feigned not to understand, and ever
maintained her reserve, so that Master Priest made no headway.

Now it so befell that one day, when the priest at high noon was aimlessly
gadding about the village, he encountered Bentivegna del Mazzo at the
tail of a well laden ass; and greeted him, asking him whither he was
going. "I'faith, Sir," quoth Bentivegna, "for sure 'tis to town I go,
having an affair or two to attend to there; and I am taking these things
to Ser Buonaccorri da Ginestreto, to get him to stand by me in I wot not
what matter, whereof the justice o' th' coram has by his provoker served
me with a pertrumpery summons to appear before him." Whereupon:--"'Tis
well, my son," quoth the priest, overjoyed, "my blessing go with thee:
good luck to thee and a speedy return; and harkye, shouldst thou see
Lapuccio or Naldino, do not forget to tell them to send me those thongs
for my flails." "It shall be done," quoth Bentivegna, and jogged on
towards Florence, while the priest, thinking that now was his time to hie
him to Belcolore and try his fortune, put his best leg forward, and
stayed not till he was at the house, which entering, he said:--"God be
gracious to us! Who is within?" Belcolore, who was up in the loft, made
answer:--"Welcome, Sir; but what dost thou, gadding about in the heat?"
"Why, as I hope for God's blessing," quoth he, "I am just come to stay
with thee a while, having met thy husband on his way to town." Whereupon
down came Belcolore, took a seat, and began sifting cabbage-seed that her
husband had lately threshed. By and by the priest began:--"So, Belcolore,
wilt thou keep me ever a dying thus?" Whereat Belcolore tittered, and
said:--"Why, what is't I do to you?" "Truly, nothing at all," replied the
priest: "but thou sufferest me not to do to thee that which I had lief,
and which God commands." "Now away with you!" returned Belcolore, "do
priests do that sort of thing?" "Indeed we do," quoth the priest, "and to
better purpose than others: why not? I tell you our grinding is far
better; and wouldst thou know why? 'tis because 'tis intermittent. And in
truth 'twill be well worth thy while to keep thine own counsel, and let
me do it." "Worth my while!" ejaculated Belcolore. "How may that be?
There is never a one of you but would overreach the very Devil." "'Tis
not for me to say," returned the priest; "say but what thou wouldst have:
shall it be a pair of dainty shoes? Or wouldst thou prefer a fillet? Or
perchance a gay riband? What's thy will?" "Marry, no lack have I," quoth
Belcolore, "of such things as these. But, if you wish me so well, why do
me not a service? and I would then be at your command." "Name but the
service," returned the priest, "and gladly will I do it." Quoth then
Belcolore:--"On Saturday I have to go to Florence to deliver some wool
that I have spun, and to get my spinning-wheel put in order: lend me but
five pounds--I know you have them--and I will redeem my perse petticoat
from the pawnshop, and also the girdle that I wear on saints' days, and
that I had when I was married--you see that without them I cannot go to
church or anywhere else, and then I will do just as you wish thenceforth
and forever." Whereupon:--"So God give me a good year," quoth he, "as I
have not the money with me: but never fear that I will see that thou hast
it before Saturday with all the pleasure in life." "Ay, ay," rejoined
Belcolore, "you all make great promises, but then you never keep them.
Think you to serve me as you served Biliuzza, whom you left in the lurch
at last? God's faith, you do not so. To think that she turned woman of
the world just for that! If you have not the money with you, why, go and
get it." "Prithee," returned the priest, "send me not home just now. For,
seest thou, 'tis the very nick of time with me, and the coast is clear,
and perchance it might not be so on my return, and in short I know not
when it would be likely to go so well as now." Whereto she did but
rejoin:--"Good; if you are minded to go, get you gone; if not, stay where
you are." The priest, therefore, seeing that she was not disposed to give
him what he wanted, as he was fain, to wit, on his own terms, but was
bent upon having a quid pro quo, changed his tone; and:--"Lo, now," quoth
he, "thou doubtest I will not bring thee the money; so to set thy mind at
rest, I will leave thee this cloak--thou seest 'tis good sky-blue
silk--in pledge." So raising her head and glancing at the cloak:--"And
what may the cloak be worth?" quoth Belcolore. "Worth!" ejaculated the
priest: "I would have thee know that 'tis all Douai, not to say Trouai,
make: nay, there are some of our folk here that say 'tis Quadrouai; and
'tis not a fortnight since I bought it of Lotto, the secondhand dealer,
for seven good pounds, and then had it five good soldi under value, by
what I hear from Buglietto, who, thou knowest, is an excellent judge of
these articles." "Oh! say you so?" exclaimed Belcolore. "So help me God,
I should not have thought it; however, let me look at it." So Master
Priest, being ready for action, doffed the cloak and handed it to her.
And she, having put it in a safe place, said to him:--"Now, Sir, we will
away to the hut; there is never a soul goes there;" and so they did. And
there Master Priest, giving her many a mighty buss and straining her to
his sacred person, solaced himself with her no little while.

Which done, he hied him away in his cassock, as if he were come from
officiating at a wedding; but, when he was back in his holy quarters, he
bethought him that not all the candles that he received by way of
offering in the course of an entire year would amount to the half of five
pounds, and saw that he had made a bad bargain, and repented him that he
had left the cloak in pledge, and cast about how he might recover it
without paying anything. And as he did not lack cunning, he hit upon an
excellent expedient, by which he compassed his end. So on the morrow,
being a saint's day, he sent a neighbour's lad to Monna Belcolore with a
request that she would be so good as to lend him her stone mortar, for
that Binguccio dal Poggio and Nuto Buglietti were to breakfast with him
that morning, and he therefore wished to make a sauce. Belcolore having
sent the mortar, the priest, about breakfast time, reckoning that
Bentivegna del Mazzo and Belcolore would be at their meal, called his
clerk, and said to him:--"Take the mortar back to Belcolore, and
say:--'My master thanks you very kindly, and bids you return the cloak
that the lad left with you in pledge.'" The clerk took the mortar to
Belcolore's house, where, finding her at table with Bentivegna, he set
the mortar down and delivered the priest's message. Whereto Belcolore
would fain have demurred; but Bentivegna gave her a threatening glance,
saying:--"So, then, thou takest a pledge from Master Priest? By Christ, I
vow, I have half a mind to give thee a great clout o' the chin. Go, give
it back at once, a murrain on thee! And look to it that whatever he may
have a mind to, were it our very ass, he be never denied." So, with a
very bad grace, Belcolore got up, and went to the wardrobe, and took out
the cloak, and gave it to the clerk, saying:--"Tell thy master from
me:--Would to God he may never ply pestle in my mortar again, such honour
has he done me for this turn!" So the clerk returned with the cloak, and
delivered the message to Master Priest; who, laughing, made
answer:--"Tell her, when thou next seest her, that, so she lend us not
the mortar, I will not lend her the pestle: be it tit for tat."

Bentivegna made no account of his wife's words, deeming that 'twas but
his chiding that had provoked them. But Belcolore was not a little
displeased with Master Priest, and had never a word to say to him till
the vintage; after which, what with the salutary fear in which she stood
of the mouth of Lucifer the Great, to which he threatened to consign her,
and the must and roast chestnuts that he sent her, she made it up with
him, and many a jolly time they had together. And though she got not the
five pounds from him, he put a new skin on her tabret, and fitted it with
a little bell, wherewith she was satisfied.

(1) For this folk-song see Cantilene e Ballate, Strambotti e Madrigali,
ed. Carducci (1871), p. 60. The fragment there printed maybe freely
rendered as follows:--

The borage is full sappy,
  And clusters red we see,
And my love would make me happy;
  So that maiden give to me.

Ill set I find this dance,
  And better might it be:
So, comrade mine, advance,
  And, changing place with me,
Stand thou thy love beside.


NOVEL III.

--
Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco go in quest of the heliotrope beside
the Mugnone. Thinking to have found it, Calandrino gets him home laden
with stones. His wife chides him: whereat he waxes wroth, beats her, and
tells his comrades what they know better than he.
--

Ended Pamfilo's story, which moved the ladies to inextinguishable
laughter, the queen bade Elisa follow suit: whereupon, laughing, she thus
began:--I know not, debonair my ladies, whether with my little story,
which is no less true than entertaining, I shall give you occasion to
laugh as much as Pamfilo has done with his, but I will do my best.

In our city, where there has never been lack of odd humours and queer
folk, there dwelt, no long time ago, a painter named Calandrino, a simple
soul, of uncouth manners, that spent most of his time with two other
painters, the one Bruno, the other Buffalmacco, by name, pleasant fellows
enough, but not without their full share of sound and shrewd sense, and
who kept with Calandrino for that they not seldom found his singular ways
and his simplicity very diverting. There was also at the same time at
Florence one Maso del Saggio, a fellow marvellously entertaining by his
cleverness, dexterity and unfailing resource; who having heard somewhat
touching Calandrino's simplicity, resolved to make fun of him by playing
him a trick, and inducing him to believe some prodigy. And happening one
day to come upon Calandrino in the church of San Giovanni, where he sate
intently regarding the paintings and intaglios of the tabernacle above
the altar, which had then but lately been set there, he deemed time and
place convenient for the execution of his design; which he accordingly
imparted to one of his comrades: whereupon the two men drew nigh the
place where Calandrino sate alone, and feigning not to see him fell a
talking of the virtues of divers stones, of which Maso spoke as aptly and
pertinently as if he had been a great and learned lapidary. Calandrino
heard what passed between them, and witting that 'twas no secret, after a
while got up, and joined them, to Maso's no small delight. He therefore
continued his discourse, and being asked by Calandrino, where these
stones of such rare virtues were to be found, made answer:--"Chiefly in
Berlinzone, in the land of the Basques. The district is called Bengodi,
and there they bind the vines with sausages, and a denier will buy a
goose and a gosling into the bargain; and on a mountain, all of grated
Parmesan cheese, dwell folk that do nought else but make macaroni and
raviuoli,(1) and boil them in capon's broth, and then throw them down to
be scrambled for; and hard by flows a rivulet of Vernaccia, the best that
ever was drunk, and never a drop of water therein." "Ah! 'tis a sweet
country!" quoth Calandrino; "but tell me, what becomes of the capons that
they boil?" "They are all eaten by the Basques," replied Maso.
Then:--"Wast thou ever there?" quoth Calandrino. Whereupon:--"Was I ever
there, sayst thou?" replied Maso. "Why, if I have been there once, I have
been there a thousand times." "And how many miles is't from here?" quoth
Calandrino. "Oh!" returned Maso, "more than thou couldst number in a
night without slumber." "Farther off, then, than the Abruzzi?" said
Calandrino. "Why, yes, 'tis a bit farther," replied Maso.

Now Calandrino, like the simple soul that he was, marking the composed
and grave countenance with which Maso spoke, could not have believed him
more thoroughly, if he had uttered the most patent truth, and thus taking
his words for gospel:--"'Tis a trifle too far for my purse," quoth he;
"were it nigher, I warrant thee, I would go with thee thither one while,
just to see the macaroni come tumbling down, and take my fill thereof.
But tell me, so good luck befall thee, are none of these stones, that
have these rare virtues, to be found in these regions?" "Ay," replied
Maso, "two sorts of stone are found there, both of virtues extraordinary.
The one sort are the sandstones of Settignano and Montisci, which being
made into millstones, by virtue thereof flour is made; wherefore 'tis a
common saying in those countries that blessings come from God and
millstones from Montisci: but, for that these sandstones are in great
plenty, they are held cheap by us, just as by them are emeralds, whereof
they have mountains, bigger than Monte Morello, that shine at midnight, a
God's name! And know this, that whoso should make a goodly pair of
millstones, and connect them with a ring before ever a hole was drilled
in them, and take them to the Soldan, should get all he would have
thereby. The other sort of stone is the heliotrope, as we lapidaries call
it, a stone of very great virtue, inasmuch as whoso carries it on his
person is seen, so long as he keep it, by never another soul, where he is
not." "These be virtues great indeed," quoth Calandrino; "but where is
this second stone to be found?" Whereto Maso made answer that there were
usually some to be found in the Mugnone. "And what are its size and
colour?" quoth Calandrino. "The size varies," replied Maso, "for some are
bigger and some smaller than others; but all are of the same colour,
being nearly black." All these matters duly marked and fixed in his
memory, Calandrino made as if he had other things to attend to, and took
his leave of Maso with the intention of going in quest of the stone, but
not until he had let his especial friends, Bruno and Buffalmacco, know of
his project. So, that no time might be lost, but, postponing everything
else, they might begin the quest at once, he set about looking for them,
and spent the whole morning in the search. At length, when 'twas already
past none, he called to mind that they would be at work in the Faentine
women's convent, and though 'twas excessively hot, he let nothing stand
in his way, but at a pace that was more like a run than a walk, hied him
thither; and so soon as he had made them ware of his presence, thus he
spoke:--"Comrades, so you are but minded to hearken to me, 'tis in our
power to become the richest men in Florence; for I am informed by one
that may be trusted that there is a kind of stone in the Mugnone which
renders whoso carries it invisible to every other soul in the world.
Wherefore, methinks, we were wise to let none have the start of us, but
go search for this stone without any delay. We shall find it without a
doubt, for I know what 'tis like, and when we have found it, we have but
to put it in the purse, and get us to the moneychangers, whose counters,
as you know, are always laden with groats and florins, and help ourselves
to as many as we have a mind to. No one will see us, and so, hey presto!
we shall be rich folk in the twinkling of an eye, and have no more need
to go besmearing the walls all day long like so many snails." Whereat
Bruno and Buffalmacco began only to laugh, and exchanging glances, made
as if they marvelled exceedingly, and expressed approval of Calandrino's
project. Then Buffalmacco asked, what might be the name of the stone.
Calandrino, like the numskull that he was, had already forgotten the
name: so he made answer:--"Why need we concern ourselves with the name,
since we know the stone's virtue? methinks, we were best to go look for
it, and waste no more time." "Well, well," said Bruno, "but what are the
size and shape of the stone?" "They are of all sizes and shapes," said
Calandrino, "but they are all pretty nearly black; wherefore, methinks,
we were best to collect all the black stones that we see until we hit
upon it: and so, let us be off, and lose no more time." "Nay, but," said
Bruno, "wait a bit." And turning to Buffalmacco:--"Methinks," quoth he,
"that Calandrino says well: but I doubt this is not the time for such
work, seeing that the sun is high, and his rays so flood the Mugnone as
to dry all the stones; insomuch that stones will now shew as white that
in the morning, before the sun had dried them, would shew as black:
besides which, to-day being a working-day, there will be for one cause or
another folk not a few about the Mugnone, who, seeing us, might guess
what we were come for, and peradventure do the like themselves; whereby
it might well be that they found the stone, and we might miss the trot by
trying after the amble. Wherefore, so you agree, methinks we were best to
go about it in the morning, when we shall be better able to distinguish
the black stones from the white, and on a holiday, when there will be
none to see us."

Buffalmacco's advice being approved by Bruno, Calandrino chimed in; and
so 'twas arranged that they should all three go in quest of the stone on
the following Sunday. So Calandrino, having besought his companions above
all things to let never a soul in the world hear aught of the matter, for
that it had been imparted to him in strict confidence, and having told
them what he had heard touching the land of Bengodi, the truth of which
he affirmed with oaths, took leave of them; and they concerted their
plan, while Calandrino impatiently expected the Sunday morning. Whereon,
about dawn, he arose, and called them; and forth they issued by the Porta
a San Gallo, and hied them to the Mugnone, and following its course,
began their quest of the stone, Calandrino, as was natural, leading the
way, and jumping lightly from rock to rock, and wherever he espied a
black stone, stooping down, picking it up and putting it in the fold of
his tunic, while his comrades followed, picking up a stone here and a
stone there. Thus it was that Calandrino had not gone far, before,
finding that there was no more room in his tunic, he lifted the skirts of
his gown, which was not cut after the fashion of Hainault, and gathering
them under his leathern girdle and making them fast on every side, thus
furnished himself with a fresh and capacious lap, which, however, taking
no long time to fill, he made another lap out of his cloak, which in like
manner he soon filled with stones. Wherefore, Bruno and Buffalmacco
seeing that Calandrino was well laden, and that 'twas nigh upon
breakfast-time, and the moment for action come:--"Where is Calandrino?"
quoth Bruno to Buffalmacco. Whereto Buffalmacco, who had Calandrino full
in view, having first turned about and looked here, there and everywhere,
made answer:--"That wot not I; but not so long ago he was just in front
of us." "Not so long ago, forsooth," returned Bruno; "'tis my firm belief
that at this very moment he is at breakfast at home, having left to us
this wild-goose chase of black stones in the Mugnone." "Marry," quoth
Buffalmacco, "he did but serve us right so to trick us and leave, seeing
that we were so silly as to believe him. Why, who could have thought that
any but we would have been so foolish as to believe that a stone of such
rare virtue was to be found in the Mugnone?" Calandrino, hearing their
colloquy, forthwith imagined that he had the stone in his hand, and by
its virtue, though present, was invisible to them; and overjoyed by such
good fortune, would not say a word to undeceive them, but determined to
hie him home, and accordingly faced about, and put himself in motion.
Whereupon:--"Ay!" quoth Buffalmacco to Bruno, "what are we about that we
go not back too?" "Go we then," said Bruno; "but by God I swear that
Calandrino shall never play me another such trick; and as to this, were I
nigh him, as I have been all the morning, I would teach him to remember
it for a month or so, such a reminder would I give him in the heel with
this stone." And even as he spoke he threw back his arm, and launched the
stone against Calandrino's heel. Galled by the blow, Calandrino gave a
great hop and a slight gasp, but said nothing, and halted not. Then,
picking out one of the stones that he had collected:--"Bruno," quoth
Buffalmacco, "see what a goodly stone I have here, would it might but
catch Calandrino in the back;" and forthwith he discharged it with main
force upon the said back. And in short, suiting action to word, now in
this way, now in that, they stoned him all the way up the Mugnone as far
as the Porta a San Gallo. There they threw away the stones they had
picked up, and tarried a while with the customs' officers, who, being
primed by them, had let Calandrino pass unchallenged, while their
laughter knew no bounds.

So Calandrino, halting nowhere, betook him to his house, which was hard
by the corner of the Macina. And so well did Fortune prosper the trick,
that all the way by the stream and across the city there was never a soul
that said a word to Calandrino, and indeed he encountered but few, for
most folk were at breakfast. But no sooner was Calandrino thus gotten
home with his stones, than it so happened that his good lady, Monna
Tessa, shewed her fair face at the stair's head, and catching sight of
him, and being somewhat annoyed by his long delay, chid him,
saying:--"What the Devil brings thee here so late? Must breakfast wait
thee until all other folk have had it?" Calandrino caught the words, and
angered and mortified to find that he was not invisible, broke out
with:--"Alas! curst woman! so 'twas thou! Thou hast undone me: but, God's
faith, I will pay thee out." Whereupon he was upstairs in a trice, and
having discharged his great load of stones in a parlour, rushed with fell
intent upon his wife, and laid hold of her by the hair, and threw her
down at his feet, and beat and kicked her in every part of her person
with all the force he had in his arms and legs, insomuch that he left
never a hair of her head or bone of her body unscathed, and 'twas all in
vain that she laid her palms together and crossed her fingers and cried
for mercy.

Now Buffalmacco and Bruno, after making merry a while with the warders of
the gate, had set off again at a leisurely pace, keeping some distance
behind Calandrino. Arrived at his door, they heard the noise of the sound
thrashing that he was giving his wife; and making as if they were but
that very instant come upon the scene, they called him. Calandrino,
flushed, all of a sweat, and out of breath, shewed himself at the window,
and bade them come up. They, putting on a somewhat angry air, did so; and
espied Calandrino sitting in the parlour, amid the stones which lay all
about, untrussed, and puffing with the air of a man spent with exertion,
while his lady lay in one of the corners, weeping bitterly, her hair all
dishevelled, her clothes torn to shreds, and her face livid, bruised and
battered. So after surveying the room a while:--"What means this,
Calandrino?" quoth they. "Art thou minded to build thee a wall, that we
see so many stones about?" And then, as they received no answer, they
continued:--"And how's this? How comes Monna Tessa in this plight?
'Twould seem thou hast given her a beating! What unheard-of doings are
these?" What with the weight of the stones that he had carried, and the
fury with which he had beaten his wife, and the mortification that he
felt at the miscarriage of his enterprise, Calandrino was too spent to
utter a word by way of reply. Wherefore in a menacing tone Buffalmacco
began again:--"However out of sorts thou mayst have been, Calandrino,
thou shouldst not have played us so scurvy a trick as thou hast. To take
us with thee to the Mugnone in quest of this stone of rare virtue, and
then, without so much as saying either God-speed or Devil-speed, to be
off, and leave us there like a couple of gowks! We take it not a little
unkindly: and rest assured that thou shalt never so fool us again."
Whereto with an effort Calandrino replied:--"Comrades, be not wroth with
me: 'tis not as you think. I, luckless wight! found the stone: listen,
and you will no longer doubt that I say sooth. When you began saying one
to the other:--'Where is Calandrino?' I was within ten paces of you, and
marking that you came by without seeing me, I went before, and so,
keeping ever a little ahead of you, I came hither." And then he told them
the whole story of what they had said and done from beginning to end, and
shewed them his back and heel, how they had been mauled by the stones;
after which:--"And I tell you," he went on, "that, laden though I was
with all these stones, that you see here, never a word was said to me by
the warders of the gate as I passed in, though you know how vexatious and
grievous these warders are wont to make themselves in their determination
to see everything: and moreover I met by the way several of my gossips
and friends that are ever wont to greet me, and ask me to drink, and
never a word said any of them to me, no, nor half a word either; but they
passed me by as men that saw me not. But at last, being come home, I was
met and seen by this devil of a woman, curses upon her, forasmuch as all
things, as you know, lose their virtue in the presence of a woman;
whereby I from being the most lucky am become the most luckless man in
Florence: and therefore I thrashed her as long as I could stir a hand,
nor know I wherefore I forbear to sluice her veins for her, cursed be the
hour that first I saw her, cursed be the hour that I brought her into the
house!" And so, kindling with fresh wrath, he was about to start up and
give her another thrashing; when Buffalmacco and Bruno, who had listened
to his story with an air of great surprise, and affirmed its truth again
and again, while they all but burst with suppressed laughter, seeing him
now frantic to renew his assault upon his wife, got up and withstood and
held him back, averring that the lady was in no wise to blame for what
had happened, but only he, who, witting that things lost their virtue in
the presence of women, had not bidden her keep aloof from him that day;
which precaution God had not suffered him to take, either because the
luck was not to be his, or because he was minded to cheat his comrades,
to whom he should have shewn the stone as soon as he found it. And so,
with many words they hardly prevailed upon him to forgive his injured
wife, and leaving him to rue the ill-luck that had filled his house with
stones, went their way.

(1) A sort of rissole.


NOVEL IV.

--
The rector of Fiesole loves a widow lady, by whom he is not loved, and
thinking to lie with her, lies with her maid, with whom the lady's
brothers cause him to be found by his Bishop.
--

Elisa being come to the end of her story, which in the telling had
yielded no small delight to all the company, the queen, turning to
Emilia, signified her will, that her story should ensue at once upon that
of Elisa. And thus with alacrity Emilia began:--Noble ladies, how we are
teased and tormented by these priests and friars, and indeed by clergy of
all sorts, I mind me to have been set forth in more than one of the
stories that have been told; but as 'twere not possible to say so much
thereof but that more would yet remain to say, I purpose to supplement
them with the story of a rector, who, in defiance of all the world, was
bent upon having the favour of a gentlewoman, whether she would or no.
Which gentlewoman, being discreet above a little, treated him as he
deserved.

Fiesole, whose hill is here within sight, is, as each of you knows, a
city of immense antiquity, and was aforetime great, though now 'tis
fallen into complete decay; which notwithstanding, it always was, and
still is the see of a bishop. Now there was once a gentlewoman, Monna
Piccarda by name, a widow, that had an estate at Fiesole, hard by the
cathedral, on which, for that she was not in the easiest circumstances,
she lived most part of the year, and with her her two brothers, very
worthy and courteous young men, both of them. And the lady being wont
frequently to resort to the cathedral, and being still quite young and
fair and debonair withal, it so befell that the rector grew in the last
degree enamoured of her, and waxed at length so bold, that he himself
avowed his passion to the lady, praying her to entertain his love, and
requite it in like measure. The rector was advanced in years, but
otherwise the veriest springald, being bold and of a high spirit, of a
boundless conceit of himself, and of mien and manners most affected and
in the worst taste, and withal so tiresome and insufferable that he was
on bad terms with everybody, and, if with one person more than another,
with this lady, who not only cared not a jot for him, but had liefer have
had a headache than his company. Wherefore the lady discreetly made
answer:--"I may well prize your love, Sir, and love you I should and will
right gladly; but such love as yours and mine may never admit of aught
that is not honourable. You are my spiritual father and a priest, and now
verging towards old age, circumstances which should ensure your honour
and chastity; and I, on my part, am no longer a girl, such as these love
affairs might beseem, but a widow, and well you wot how it behoves widows
to be chaste. Wherefore I pray you to have me excused; for, after the
sort you crave, you shall never have my love, nor would I in such sort be
loved by you." With this answer the rector was for the nonce fain to be
content; but he was not the man to be dismayed and routed by a first
repulse; and with his wonted temerity and effrontery he plied her again
and again with letters and ambassages, and also by word of mouth, when he
espied her entering the church. Wherefore the lady finding this
persecution more grievous and harassing than she could well bear, cast
about how she might be quit thereof in such fashion as he deserved,
seeing that he left her no choice; howbeit she would do nought in the
matter until she had conferred with her brothers. She therefore told them
how the rector pursued her, and how she meant to foil him; and, with
their full concurrence, some few days afterwards she went, as she was
wont, to church. The rector no sooner saw her, than he approached and
accosted her, as he was wont, in a tone of easy familiarity. The lady
greeted him, as he came up, with a glance of gladsome recognition; and
when he had treated her to not a little of his wonted eloquence, she drew
him aside, and heaving a great sigh, said:--"I have oftentimes heard it
said, Sir, that there is no castle so strong, but that, if the siege be
continued day by day, it will sooner or later be taken; which I now
plainly perceive is my own case. For so fairly have you hemmed me in with
this, that, and the other pretty speech or the like blandishments, that
you have constrained me to make nought of my former resolve, and, seeing
that I find such favour with you, to surrender myself unto you." Whereto,
overjoyed, the rector made answer:--"Madam, I am greatly honoured; and,
sooth to say, I marvelled not a little how you should hold out so long,
seeing that I have never had the like experience with any other woman,
insomuch that I have at times said:--'Were women of silver, they would
not be worth a denier, for there is none but would give under the
hammer!' But no more of this: when and where may we come together?"
"Sweet my lord," replied the lady, "for the when, 'tis just as we may
think best, for I have no husband to whom to render account of my nights,
but the where passes my wit to conjecture." "How so?" quoth the rector.
"Why not in your own house?" "Sir," replied the lady, "you know that I
have two brothers, both young men, who day and night bring their comrades
into the house, which is none too large: for which reason it might not be
done there, unless we were minded to make ourselves, as it were, dumb and
blind, uttering never a word, not so much as a monosyllable, and abiding
in the dark: in such sort indeed it might be, because they do not intrude
upon my chamber; but theirs is so near to mine that the very least
whisper could not but be heard." "Nay but, Madam," returned the rector,
"let not this stand in our way for a night or two, until I may bethink me
where else we might be more at our ease." "Be that as you will, Sir,"
quoth the lady, "I do but entreat that the affair be kept close, so that
never a word of it get wind." "Have no fear on that score, Madam,"
replied the priest; "and if so it may be, let us forgather to-night."
"With pleasure," returned the lady; and having appointed him how and when
to come, she left him and went home.

Now the lady had a maid, that was none too young, and had a countenance
the ugliest and most misshapen that ever was seen; for indeed she was
flat-nosed, wry-mouthed, and thick-lipped, with huge, ill-set teeth, eyes
that squinted and were ever bleared, and a complexion betwixt green and
yellow, that shewed as if she had spent the summer not at Fiesole but at
Sinigaglia: besides which she was hip-shot and somewhat halting on the
right side. Her name was Ciuta, but, for that she was such a scurvy bitch
to look upon, she was called by all folk Ciutazza.(1) And being thus
misshapen of body, she was also not without her share of guile. So the
lady called her and said:--"Ciutazza, so thou wilt do me a service
to-night, I will give thee a fine new shift." At the mention of the shift
Ciutazza made answer:--"So you give me a shift, Madam, I will throw
myself into the very fire." "Good," said the lady; "then I would have
thee lie to-night in my bed with a man, whom thou wilt caress; but look
thou say never a word, that my brothers, who, as thou knowest, sleep in
the next room, hear thee not; and afterwards I will give thee the shift."
"Sleep with a man!" quoth Ciutazza: "why, if need be, I will sleep with
six." So in the evening Master Rector came, as he had been bidden; and
the two young men, as the lady had arranged, being in their room, and
making themselves very audible, he stole noiselessly, and in the dark,
into the lady's room, and got him on to the bed, which Ciutazza, well
advised by the lady how to behave, mounted from the other side. Whereupon
Master Rector, thinking to have the lady by his side, took Ciutazza in
his arms, and fell a kissing her, saying never a word the while, and
Ciutazza did the like; and so he enjoyed her, plucking the boon which he
had so long desired.

The rector and Ciutazza thus closeted, the lady charged her brothers to
execute the rest of her plan. They accordingly stole quietly out of their
room, and hied them to the piazza, where Fortune proved propitious beyond
what they had craved of her; for, it being a very hot night, the bishop
had been seeking them, purposing to go home with them, and solace himself
with their society, and quench his thirst. With which desire he
acquainted them, as soon as he espied them coming into the piazza; and so
they escorted him to their house, and there in the cool of their little
courtyard, which was bright with many a lamp, he took, to his no small
comfort, a draught of their good wine. Which done:--"Sir," said the young
men, "since of your great courtesy you have deigned to visit our poor
house, to which we were but now about to invite you, we should be
gratified if you would be pleased to give a look at somewhat, a mere
trifle though it be, which we have here to shew you." The bishop replied
that he would do so with pleasure. Whereupon one of the young men took a
lighted torch and led the way, the bishop and the rest following, to the
chamber where Master Rector lay with Ciutazza.

Now the rector, being in hot haste, had ridden hard, insomuch that he was
already gotten above three miles on his way when they arrived; and so,
being somewhat tired, he was resting, but, hot though the night was, he
still held Ciutazza in his arms. In which posture he was shewn to the
bishop, when, preceded by the young man bearing the light, and followed
by the others, he entered the chamber. And being roused, and observing
the light and the folk that stood about him, Master Rector was mighty
ashamed and affrighted, and popped his head under the clothes. But the
bishop, reprimanding him severely, constrained him to thrust his head out
again, and take a view of his bed-fellow. Thus made aware of the trick
which the lady had played him, the rector was now, both on that score and
by reason of his signal disgrace, the saddest man that ever was; and his
discomfiture was complete, when, having donned his clothes, he was
committed by the bishop's command to close custody and sent to prison,
there to expiate his offence by a rigorous penance.

The bishop was then fain to know how it had come about that he had
forgathered there with Ciutazza. Whereupon the young men related the
whole story; which ended, the bishop commended both the lady and the
young men not a little, for that they had taken condign vengeance upon
him without imbruing their hands in the blood of a priest. The bishop
caused him to bewail his transgression forty days; but what with his
love, and the scornful requital which it had received, he bewailed it
more than forty and nine days, not to mention that for a great while he
could not shew himself in the street but the boys would point the finger
at him and say:--"There goes he that lay with Ciutazza." Which was such
an affliction to him that he was like to go mad. On this wise the worthy
lady rid herself of the rector's vexatious importunity, and Ciutazza had
a jolly night and earned her shift.

(1) An augmentative form, with a suggestion of cagnazza, bitch-like.


NOVEL V.

--
Three young men pull down the breeches of a judge from the Marches, while
he is administering justice on the bench.
--

So ended Emilia her story; and when all had commended the widow
lady:--"'Tis now thy turn to speak," quoth the queen, fixing her gaze
upon Filostrato, who answered that he was ready, and forthwith thus
began:--Sweet my ladies, by what I remember of that young man, to wit,
Maso del Saggio, whom Elisa named a while ago, I am prompted to lay aside
a story that I had meant to tell you, and to tell you another, touching
him and some of his comrades, which, notwithstanding there are in it
certain words (albeit 'tis not unseemly) which your modesty forbears to
use, is yet so laughable that I shall relate it.

As you all may well have heard, there come not seldom to our city
magistrates from the Marches, who for the most part are men of a mean
spirit, and in circumstances so reduced and beggarly, that their whole
life seems to be but a petty-foggery; and by reason of this their inbred
sordidness and avarice they bring with them judges and notaries that have
rather the air of men taken from the plough or the last than trained in
the schools of law.(1) Now one of these Marchers, being come hither as
Podesta, brought with him judges not a few, and among them one that
called himself Messer Niccola da San Lepidio, and looked liker to a
locksmith than aught else. However, this fellow was assigned with the
rest of the judges to hear criminal causes. And as folk will often go to
the court, though they have no concern whatever there, it so befell that
Maso del Saggio went thither one morning in quest of one of his friends,
and there chancing to set eyes on this Messer Niccola, where he sate,
deemed him a fowl of no common feather, and surveyed him from head to
foot, observing that the vair which he wore on his head was all begrimed,
that he carried an ink-horn at his girdle, that his gown was longer than
his robe, and many another detail quite foreign to the appearance of a
man of birth and breeding, of which that which he deemed most notable was
a pair of breeches, which, as he saw (for the judge's outer garments
being none too ample were open in front, as he sate), reached half-way
down his legs. By which sight his mind was presently diverted from the
friend whom he came there to seek; and forth he hied him in quest of
other two of his comrades, the one Ribi, the other Matteuzzo by name,
fellows both of them not a whit less jolly than Maso himself; and having
found them, he said to them:--"An you love me, come with me to the court,
and I will shew you the queerest scarecrow that ever you saw." So the two
men hied them with him to the court; and there he pointed out to them the
judge and his breeches. What they saw from a distance served to set them
laughing: then drawing nearer to the dais on which Master Judge was
seated, they observed that 'twas easy enough to get under the dais, and
moreover that the plank, on which the judge's feet rested, was broken, so
that there was plenty of room for the passage of a hand and arm.
Whereupon quoth Maso to his comrades:--"'Twere a very easy matter to pull
these breeches right down: wherefore I propose that we do so." Each of
the men had marked how it might be done; and so, having concerted both
what they should do and what they should say, they came to the court
again next morning; and, the court being crowded, Matteuzzo, observed by
never a soul, slipped beneath the dais, and posted himself right under
the spot where the judge's feet rested, while the other two men took
their stand on either side of the judge, each laying hold of the hem of
his robe. Then:--"Sir, sir, I pray you for God's sake," began Maso,
"that, before the pilfering rascal that is there beside you can make off,
you constrain him to give me back a pair of jack boots that he has stolen
from me, which theft he still denies, though 'tis not a month since I saw
him getting them resoled." Meanwhile Ribi, at the top of his voice,
shouted:--"Believe him not, Sir, the scurvy knave! 'Tis but that he knows
that I am come to demand restitution of a valise that he has stolen from
me that he now for the first time trumps up this story about a pair of
jack boots that I have had in my house down to the last day or two; and
if you doubt what I say, I can bring as witness Trecca, my neighbour, and
Grassa, the tripe-woman, and one that goes about gathering the sweepings
of Santa Maria a Verzaia, who saw him when he was on his way back from
the farm." But shout as he might, Maso was still even with him, nor for
all that did Ribi bate a jot of his clamour. And while the judge stood,
bending now towards the one, now towards the other, the better to hear
them, Matteuzzo seized his opportunity, and thrusting his hand through
the hole in the plank caught hold of the judge's breeches, and tugged at
them amain. Whereby down they came straightway, for the judge was a lean
man, and shrunk in the buttocks. The judge, being aware of the accident,
but knowing not how it had come about, would have gathered his outer
garments together in front, so as to cover the defect, but Maso on the
one side, and Ribi on the other, held him fast, shouting amain and in
chorus:--"You do me a grievous wrong, Sir, thus to deny me justice, nay,
even a hearing, and to think of quitting the court: there needs no writ
in this city for such a trifling matter as this." And thus they held him
by the clothes and in parley, until all that were in the court perceived
that he had lost his breeches. However, after a while, Matteuzzo dropped
the breeches, and slipped off, and out of the court, without being
observed, and Ribi, deeming that the joke had gone far enough,
exclaimed:--"By God, I vow, I will appeal to the Syndics;" while Maso, on
the other side, let go the robe, saying:--"Nay, but for my part, I will
come here again and again and again, until I find you less embarrassed
than you seem to be to-day." And so the one this way, the other that way,
they made off with all speed. Whereupon Master Judge, disbreeched before
all the world, was as one that awakens from sleep, albeit he was ware of
his forlorn condition, and asked whither the parties in the case touching
the jack boots and the valise were gone. However, as they were not to be
found, he fell a swearing by the bowels of God, that 'twas meet and
proper that he should know and wit, whether 'twas the custom at Florence
to disbreech judges sitting in the seat of justice.

When the affair reached the ears of the Podesta, he made no little stir
about it; but, being informed by some of his friends, that 'twould not
have happened, but that the Florentines were minded to shew him, that, in
place of the judges he should have brought with him, he had brought but
gowks, to save expense, he deemed it best to say no more about it, and so
for that while the matter went no further.

(1) It was owing to their internal dissensions that the Florentines were
from time to time fain to introduce these stranger Podestas.


NOVEL VI.

--
Bruno and Buffalmacco steal a pig from Calandrino, and induce him to
essay its recovery by means of pills of ginger and vernaccia. Of the said
pills they give him two, one after the other, made of dog-ginger
compounded with aloes; and it then appearing as if he had had the pig
himself, they constrain him to buy them off, if he would not have them
tell his wife.
--

Filostrato's story, which elicited not a little laughter, was no sooner
ended, than the queen bade Filomena follow suit. Wherefore thus Filomena
began:--As, gracious ladies, 'twas the name of Maso del Saggio that
prompted Filostrato to tell the story that you have but now heard, even
so 'tis with me in regard of Calandrino and his comrades, of whom I am
minded to tell you another story, which you will, I think, find
entertaining. Who Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco were, I need not
explain; you know them well enough from the former story; and therefore I
will tarry no longer than to say that Calandrino had a little estate not
far from Florence, which his wife had brought him by way of dowry, and
which yielded them yearly, among other matters, a pig; and 'twas his
custom every year in the month of December to resort to the farm with his
wife, there to see to the killing and salting of the said pig. Now, one
of these years it so happened that his wife being unwell, Calandrino went
thither alone to kill the pig. And Bruno and Buffalmacco learning that he
was gone to the farm, and that his wife was not with him, betook them to
the house of a priest that was their especial friend and a neighbour of
Calandrino, there to tarry a while. Upon their arrival Calandrino, who
had that very morning killed the pig, met them with the priest, and
accosted them, saying:--"A hearty welcome to you. I should like you to
see what an excellent manager I am;" and so he took them into his house,
and shewed them the pig. They observed that 'twas a very fine pig; and
learned from Calandrino that he was minded to salt it for household
consumption. "Then thou art but a fool," quoth Bruno. "Sell it, man, and
let us have a jolly time with the money; and tell thy wife that 'twas
stolen." "Not I," replied Calandrino: "she would never believe me, and
would drive me out of the house. Urge me no further, for I will never do
it." The others said a great deal more, but to no purpose; and Calandrino
bade them to supper, but so coldly that they declined, and left him.

Presently:--"Should we not steal this pig from him to-night?" quoth Bruno
to Buffalmacco. "Could we so?" returned Buffalmacco. "How?" "Why, as to
that," rejoined Bruno, "I have already marked how it may be done, if he
bestow not the pig elsewhere." "So be it, then," said Buffalmacco: "we
will steal it; and then, perchance, our good host, Master Priest, will
join us in doing honour to such good cheer?" "That right gladly will I,"
quoth the priest. Whereupon:--"Some address, though," quoth Bruno, "will
be needful: thou knowest, Buffalmacco, what a niggardly fellow Calandrino
is, and how greedily he drinks at other folk's expense. Go we, therefore,
and take him to the tavern, and there let the priest make as if, to do us
honour, he would pay the whole score, and suffer Calandrino to pay never
a soldo, and he will grow tipsy, and then we shall speed excellent well,
because he is alone in the house."

As Bruno proposed, so they did: and Calandrino, finding that the priest
would not suffer him to pay, drank amain, and took a great deal more
aboard than he had need of; and the night being far spent when he left
the tavern, he dispensed with supper, and went home, and thinking to have
shut the door, got him to bed, leaving it open. Buffalmacco and Bruno
went to sup with the priest; and after supper, taking with them certain
implements with which to enter Calandrino's house, where Bruno thought it
most feasible, they stealthily approached it; but finding the door open,
they entered, and took down the pig, and carried it away to the priest's
house, and having there bestowed it safely, went to bed. In the morning
when Calandrino, his head at length quit of the fumes of the wine, got
up, and came downstairs and found that his pig was nowhere to be seen,
and that the door was open, he asked this, that, and the other man,
whether they wist who had taken the pig away, and getting no answer, he
began to make a great outcry:--"Alas, alas! luckless man that I am, that
my pig should have been stolen from me!" Meanwhile Bruno and Buffalmacco,
being also risen, made up to him, to hear what he would say touching the
pig. Whom he no sooner saw, than well-nigh weeping he called them,
saying:--"Alas! my friends! my pig is stolen from me." Bruno stepped up
to him and said in a low tone:--"'Tis passing strange if thou art in the
right for once." "Alas!" returned Calandrino, "what I say is but too
true." "Why, then, out with it, man," quoth Bruno, "cry aloud, that all
folk may know that 'tis so." Calandrino then raised his voice and
said:--"By the body o' God I say of a truth that my pig has been stolen
from me." "So!" quoth Bruno, "but publish it, man, publish it; lift up
thy voice, make thyself well heard, that all may believe thy report."
"Thou art enough to make me give my soul to the Enemy," replied
Calandrino. "I say--dost not believe me?--that hang me by the neck if the
pig is not stolen from me!" "Nay, but," quoth Bruno, "how can it be? I
saw it here but yesterday. Dost think to make me believe that it has
taken to itself wings and flown away?" "All the same 'tis as I tell
thee," returned Calandrino. "Is it possible?" quoth Bruno. "Ay indeed,"
replied Calandrino; "'tis even so: and I am undone, and know not how to
go home. Never will my wife believe me; or if she do so, I shall know no
peace this year." "Upon my hope of salvation," quoth Bruno, "'tis indeed
a bad business, if so it really is. But thou knowest, Calandrino, that
'twas but yesterday I counselled thee to make believe that 'twas so. I
should be sorry to think thou didst befool thy wife and us at the same
time." "Ah!" vociferated Calandrino, "wilt thou drive me to despair and
provoke me to blaspheme God and the saints and all the company of heaven?
I tell thee that the pig has been stolen from me in the night."
Whereupon:--"If so it be," quoth Buffalmacco, "we must find a way, if we
can, to recover it." "Find a way?" said Calandrino: "how can we compass
that?" "Why," replied Buffalmacco, "'tis certain that no one has come
from India to steal thy pig: it must have been one of thy neighbours, and
if thou couldst bring them together, I warrant thee, I know how to make
the assay with bread and cheese, and we will find out in a trice who has
had the pig." "Ay," struck in Bruno, "make thy assay with bread and
cheese in the presence of these gentry hereabout, one of whom I am sure
has had the pig! why, the thing would be seen through: and they would not
come." "What shall we do, then?" said Buffalmacco. Whereto Bruno made
answer:--"It must be done with good pills of ginger and good vernaccia;
and they must be bidden come drink with us. They will suspect nothing,
and will come; and pills of ginger can be blessed just as well as bread
and cheese." "Beyond a doubt, thou art right," quoth Buffalmacco; "and
thou Calandrino, what sayst thou? Shall we do as Bruno says?" "Nay, I
entreat you for the love of God," quoth Calandrino, "do even so: for if I
knew but who had had the pig, I should feel myself half consoled for my
loss." "Go to, now," quoth Bruno, "I am willing to do thy errand to
Florence for these commodities, if thou givest me the money."

Calandrino had some forty soldi upon him, which he gave to Bruno, who
thereupon hied him to Florence to a friend of his that was an apothecary,
and bought a pound of good pills of ginger, two of which, being of
dog-ginger, he caused to be compounded with fresh hepatic aloes, and then
to be coated with sugar like the others; and lest they should be lost, or
any of the others mistaken for them, he had a slight mark set upon them
by which he might readily recognize them. He also bought a flask of good
vernaccia, and, thus laden, returned to the farm, and said to
Calandrino:--"To-morrow morning thou wilt bid those whom thou suspectest
come hither to drink with thee: as 'twill be a saint's day, they will all
come readily enough; and to-night I and Buffalmacco will say the
incantation over the pills, which in the morning I will bring to thee
here, and for our friendship's sake will administer them myself, and do
and say all that needs to be said and done." So Calandrino did as Bruno
advised, and on the morrow a goodly company, as well of young men from
Florence, that happened to be in the village, as of husbandmen, being
assembled in front of the church around the elm, Bruno and Buffalmacco
came, bearing a box containing the ginger, and the flask of wine, and
ranged the folk in a circle. Whereupon: "Gentlemen," said Bruno, "'tis
meet I tell you the reason why you are gathered here, that if aught
unpleasant to you should befall, you may have no ground for complaint
against me. Calandrino here was the night before last robbed of a fine
pig, and cannot discover who has had it; and, for that it must have been
stolen by some one of us here, he would have each of you take and eat one
of these pills and drink of this vernaccia. Wherefore I forthwith do you
to wit, that whoso has had the pig will not be able to swallow the pill,
but will find it more bitter than poison, and will spit it out; and so,
rather, than he should suffer this shame in presence of so many, 'twere
perhaps best that he that has had the pig should confess the fact to the
priest, and I will wash my hands of the affair."

All professed themselves ready enough to eat the pills; and so, having
set them in a row with Calandrino among them, Bruno, beginning at one
end, proceeded to give each a pill, and when he came to Calandrino he
chose one of the pills of dog-ginger and put it in his hand. Calandrino
thrust it forthwith between his teeth and began to chew it; but no sooner
was his tongue acquainted with the aloes, than, finding the bitterness
intolerable, he spat it out. Now, the eyes of all the company being fixed
on one another to see who should spit out his pill, Bruno, who, not
having finished the distribution, feigned to be concerned with nought
else, heard some one in his rear say:--"Ha! Calandrino, what means this?"
and at once turning round, and marking that Calandrino had spit out his
pill:--"Wait a while," quoth he, "perchance 'twas somewhat else that
caused thee to spit: take another;" and thereupon whipping out the other
pill of dog-ginger, he set it between Calandrino's teeth, and finished
the distribution. Bitter as Calandrino had found the former pill, he
found this tenfold more so; but being ashamed to spit it out, he kept it
a while in his mouth and chewed it, and, as he did so, tears stood in his
eyes that shewed as large as filberts, and at length, being unable to
bear it any longer, he spat it out, as he had its predecessor. Which
being observed by Buffalmacco and Bruno, who were then administering the
wine, and by all the company, 'twas averred by common consent that
Calandrino had committed the theft himself; for which cause certain of
them took him severely to task.

However, the company being dispersed, and Bruno and Buffalmacco left
alone with Calandrino, Buffalmacco began on this wise:--"I never doubted
but that thou hadst had it thyself, and wast minded to make us believe
that it had been stolen from thee, that we might not have of thee so much
as a single drink out of the price which thou gottest for it."
Calandrino, with the bitterness of the aloes still on his tongue, fell a
swearing that he had not had it. Whereupon:--"Nay, but, comrade," quoth
Buffalmacco, "upon thy honour, what did it fetch? Six florins?" Whereto,
Calandrino being now on the verge of desperation, Bruno added:--"Now be
reasonable, Calandrino; among the company that ate and drank with us
there was one that told me that thou hadst up there a girl that thou
didst keep for thy pleasure, giving her what by hook or by crook thou
couldst get together, and that he held it for certain that thou hadst
sent her this pig. And thou art grown expert in this sort of cozenage.
Thou tookest us one while adown the Mugnone a gathering black stones, and
having thus started us on a wild-goose chase, thou madest off; and then
wouldst fain have us believe that thou hadst found the stone: and now, in
like manner, thou thinkest by thine oaths to persuade us that this pig
which thou hast given away or sold, has been stolen from thee. But we
know thy tricks of old; never another couldst thou play us; and, to be
round with thee, this spell has cost us some trouble: wherefore we mean
that thou shalt give us two pair of capons, or we will let Monna Tessa
know all." Seeing that he was not believed, and deeming his mortification
ample without the addition of his wife's resentment, Calandrino gave them
the two pair of capons, with which, when the pig was salted, they
returned to Florence, leaving Calandrino with the loss and the laugh
against him.


NOVEL VII.

--
A scholar loves a widow lady, who, being enamoured of another, causes him
to spend a winter's night awaiting her in the snow. He afterwards by a
stratagem causes her to stand for a whole day in July, naked upon a
tower, exposed to the flies, the gadflies, and the sun.
--

Over the woes of poor Calandrino the ladies laughed not a little, and had
laughed yet more, but that it irked them that those that had robbed him
of the pig should also take from him the capons. However, the story being
ended, the queen bade Pampinea give them hers: and thus forthwith
Pampinea began:--Dearest ladies, it happens oftentimes that the artful
scorner meets his match; wherefore 'tis only little wits that delight to
scorn. In a series of stories we have heard tell of tricks played without
aught in the way of reprisals following: by mine I purpose in some degree
to excite your compassion for a gentlewoman of our city (albeit the
retribution that came upon her was but just) whose flout was returned in
the like sort, and to such effect that she well-nigh died thereof. The
which to hear will not be unprofitable to you, for thereby you will learn
to be more careful how you flout others, and therein you will do very
wisely.

'Tis not many years since there dwelt at Florence a lady young and fair,
and of a high spirit, as also of right gentle lineage, and tolerably well
endowed with temporal goods. Now Elena--such was the lady's name--being
left a widow, was minded never to marry again, being enamoured of a
handsome young gallant of her own choosing, with whom she, recking nought
of any other lover, did, by the help of a maid in whom she placed much
trust, not seldom speed the time gaily and with marvellous delight.
Meanwhile it so befell that a young nobleman of our city, Rinieri by
name, who had spent much time in study at Paris, not that he might
thereafter sell his knowledge by retail, but that he might learn the
reasons and causes of things, which accomplishment shews to most
excellent advantage in a gentleman, returned to Florence, and there lived
as a citizen in no small honour with his fellows, both by reason of his
rank and of his learning. But as it is often the case that those who are
most versed in deep matters are the soonest mastered by Love, so was it
with Rinieri. For at a festal gathering, to which one day he went, there
appeared before his eyes this Elena, of whom we spoke, clad in black, as
is the wont of our Florentine widows, and shewing to his mind so much
fairer and more debonair than any other woman that he had ever seen, that
happy indeed he deemed the man might call himself, to whom God in His
goodness should grant the right to hold her naked in his arms. So now and
again he eyed her stealthily, and knowing that boons goodly and precious
are not to be gotten without trouble, he made up his mind to study and
labour with all assiduity how best to please her, that so he might win
her love, and thereby the enjoyment of her.

The young gentlewoman was not used to keep her eyes bent ever towards the
infernal regions; but, rating herself at no less, if not more, than her
deserts, she was dexterous to move them to and fro, and thus busily
scanning her company, soon detected the men who regarded her with
pleasure. By which means having discovered Rinieri's passion, she inly
laughed, and said:--'Twill turn out that 'twas not for nothing that I
came here to-day, for, if I mistake not, I have caught a gander by the
bill. So she gave him an occasional sidelong glance, and sought as best
she might to make him believe that she was not indifferent to him,
deeming that the more men she might captivate by her charms, the higher
those charms would be rated, and most especially by him whom she had made
lord of them and her love. The erudite scholar bade adieu to
philosophical meditation, for the lady entirely engrossed his mind; and,
having discovered her house, he, thinking to please her, found divers
pretexts for frequently passing by it. Whereon the lady, her vanity
flattered for the reason aforesaid, plumed herself not a little, and
shewed herself pleased to see him. Thus encouraged, the scholar found
means to make friends with her maid, to whom he discovered his love,
praying her to do her endeavour with her mistress, that he might have her
favour. The maid was profuse of promises, and gave her mistress his
message, which she no sooner heard, than she was convulsed with laughter,
and replied:--"He brought sense enough hither from Paris: knowest thou
where he has since been to lose it? Go to, now; let us give him that
which he seeks. Tell him, when he next speaks to you of the matter, that
I love him vastly more than he loves me, but that I must have regard to
my reputation, so that I may be able to hold my head up among other
ladies; which, if he is really the wise man they say, will cause him to
affect me much more." Ah! poor woman! poor woman! she little knew, my
ladies, how rash it is to try conclusions with scholars.

The maid found the scholar, and did her mistress's errand. The scholar,
overjoyed, proceeded to urge his suit with more ardour, to indite
letters, and send presents. The lady received all that he sent her, but
vouchsafed no answers save such as were couched in general terms: and on
this wise she kept him dangling a long while. At last, having disclosed
the whole affair to her lover, who evinced some resentment and jealousy,
she, to convince him that his suspicions were groundless, and for that
she was much importuned by the scholar, sent word to him by her maid,
that never since he had assured her of his love, had occasion served her
to do him pleasure, but that next Christmastide she hoped to be with him;
wherefore, if he were minded to await her in the courtyard of her house
on the night of the day next following the feast, she would meet him
there as soon as she could. Elated as ne'er another, the scholar hied him
at the appointed time to the lady's house, and being ushered into a
courtyard by the maid, who forthwith turned the key upon him, addressed
himself there to await the lady's coming.

Now the lady's lover, by her appointment, was with her that evening; and,
when they had gaily supped, she told him what she had in hand that night,
adding:--"And so thou wilt be able to gauge the love which I have borne
and bear this scholar, whom thou hast foolishly regarded as a rival." The
lover heard the lady's words with no small delight, and waited in eager
expectancy to see her make them good. The scholar, hanging about there in
the courtyard, began to find it somewhat chillier than he would have
liked, for it had snowed hard all day long, so that the snow lay
everywhere thick on the ground; however, he bore it patiently, expecting
to be recompensed by and by. After a while the lady said to her
lover:--"Go we to the chamber and take a peep through a lattice at him of
whom thou art turned jealous, and mark what he does, and how he will
answer the maid, whom I have bidden go speak with him." So the pair hied
them to a lattice, wherethrough they could see without being seen, and
heard the maid call from another lattice to the scholar,
saying:--"Rinieri, my lady is distressed as never woman was, for that one
of her brothers is come here to-night, and after talking a long while
with her, must needs sup with her, and is not yet gone, but, I think, he
will soon be off; and that is the reason why she has not been able to
come to thee, but she will come soon now. She trusts it does not irk thee
to wait so long." Whereto the scholar, supposing that 'twas true, made
answer:--"Tell my lady to give herself no anxiety on my account, until
she can conveniently come to me, but to do so as soon as she may."
Whereupon the maid withdrew from the window, and went to bed; while the
lady said to her lover:--"Now, what sayst thou? Thinkst thou that, if I
had that regard for him, which thou fearest, I would suffer him to tarry
below there to get frozen?" Which said, the lady and her now partly
reassured lover got them to bed, where for a great while they disported
them right gamesomely, laughing together and making merry over the
luckless scholar.

The scholar, meanwhile, paced up and down the courtyard to keep himself
warm, nor indeed had he where to sit, or take shelter: in this plight he
bestowed many a curse upon the lady's brother for his long tarrying, and
never a sound did he hear but he thought that 'twas the lady opening the
door. But vain indeed were his hopes: the lady, having solaced herself
with her lover until hard upon midnight, then said to him:--"How ratest
thou our scholar, my soul? whether is the greater his wit, or the love I
bear him, thinkst thou? Will the cold, that, of my ordaining, he now
suffers, banish from thy breast the suspicion which my light words the
other day implanted there?" "Ay, indeed, heart of my body!" replied the
lover, "well wot I now that even as thou art to me, my weal, my
consolation, my bliss, so am I to thee." "So:" quoth the lady, "then I
must have full a thousand kisses from thee, to prove that thou sayst
sooth." The lover's answer was to strain her to his heart, and give her
not merely a thousand but a hundred thousand kisses. In such converse
they dallied a while longer, and then:--"Get we up, now," quoth the lady,
"that we may go see if 'tis quite spent, that fire, with which, as he
wrote to me daily, this new lover of mine used to burn." So up they got
and hied them to the lattice which they had used before, and peering out
into the courtyard, saw the scholar dancing a hornpipe to the music that
his own teeth made, a chattering for extremity of cold; nor had they ever
seen it footed so nimbly and at such a pace. Whereupon:--"How sayst thou,
sweet my hope?" quoth the lady. "Know I not how to make men dance without
the aid of either trumpet or cornemuse?" "Indeed thou dost my heart's
delight," replied the lover. Quoth then the lady:--"I have a mind that we
go down to the door. Thou wilt keep quiet, and I will speak to him, and
we shall hear what he says, which, peradventure, we shall find no less
diverting than the sight of him."

So they stole softly out of the chamber and down to the door, which
leaving fast closed, the lady set her lips to a little hole that was
there, and with a low voice called the scholar, who, hearing her call
him, praised God, making too sure that he was to be admitted, and being
come to the door, said:--"Here am I, Madam; open for God's sake; let me
in, for I die of cold." "Oh! ay," replied the lady, "I know thou hast a
chill, and of course, there being a little snow about, 'tis mighty cold;
but well I wot the nights are colder far at Paris. I cannot let thee in
as yet, because my accursed brother, that came to sup here this evening,
is still with me; but he will soon take himself off, and then I will let
thee in without a moment's delay. I have but now with no small difficulty
given him the slip, to come and give thee heart that the waiting irk thee
not." "Nay but, Madam," replied the scholar, "for the love of God, I
entreat you, let me in, that I may have a roof over my head, because for
some time past there has been never so thick a fall of snow, and 'tis yet
snowing; and then I will wait as long as you please." "Alas! sweet my
love," quoth the lady, "that I may not, for this door makes such a din,
when one opens it, that my brother would be sure to hear, were I to let
thee in; but I will go tell him to get him gone, and so come back and
admit thee." "Go at once, then," returned the scholar, "and prithee, see
that a good fire be kindled, that, when I get in, I may warm myself, for
I am now so chilled through and through that I have scarce any feeling
left." "That can scarce be," rejoined the lady, "if it be true, what thou
hast so protested in thy letters, that thou art all afire for love of me:
'tis plain to me now that thou didst but mock me. I now take my leave of
thee: wait and be of good cheer."

So the lady and her lover, who, to his immense delight, had heard all
that passed, betook them to bed; however, little sleep had they that
night, but spent the best part of it in disporting themselves and making
merry over the unfortunate scholar, who, his teeth now chattering to such
a tune that he seemed to have been metamorphosed into a stork, perceived
that he had been befooled, and after making divers fruitless attempts to
open the door and seeking means of egress to no better purpose, paced to
and fro like a lion, cursing the villainous weather, the long night, his
simplicity, and the perversity of the lady, against whom (the vehemence
of his wrath suddenly converting the love he had so long borne her to
bitter and remorseless enmity) he now plotted within himself divers and
grand schemes of revenge, on which he was far more bent than ever he had
been on forgathering with her.

Slowly the night wore away, and with the first streaks of dawn the maid,
by her mistress's direction, came down, opened the door of the courtyard,
and putting on a compassionate air, greeted Rinieri with:--"Foul fall him
that came here yestereve; he has afflicted us with his presence all night
long, and has kept thee a freezing out here: but harkye, take it not
amiss; that which might not be to-night shall be another time: well wot I
that nought could have befallen that my lady could so ill brook." For all
his wrath, the scholar, witting, like the wise man he was, that menaces
serve but to put the menaced on his guard, kept pent within his breast
that which unbridled resentment would have uttered, and said quietly, and
without betraying the least trace of anger:--"In truth 'twas the worst
night I ever spent, but I understood quite well that the lady was in no
wise to blame, for that she herself, being moved to pity of me, came down
here to make her excuses, and to comfort me; and, as thou sayst, what has
not been to-night will be another time: wherefore commend me to her, and
so, adieu!" Then, well-nigh paralysed for cold, he got him, as best he
might, home, where, weary and fit to die for drowsiness, he threw himself
on his bed, and fell into a deep sleep, from which he awoke to find that
he had all but lost the use of his arms and legs. He therefore sent for
some physicians, and having told them what a chill he had gotten, caused
them have a care to his health. But, though they treated him with active
and most drastic remedies, it cost them some time and no little trouble
to restore to the cramped muscles their wonted pliancy, and, indeed, but
for his youth and the milder weather that was at hand, 'twould have gone
very hard with him.

However, recover he did his health and lustihood, and nursing his enmity,
feigned to be vastly more enamoured of his widow than ever before. And so
it was that after a while Fortune furnished him with an opportunity of
satisfying his resentment, for the gallant of whom the widow was
enamoured, utterly regardless of the love she bore him, grew enamoured of
another lady, and was minded no more to pleasure the widow in aught
either by word or by deed; wherefore she now pined in tears and
bitterness of spirit. However, her maid, who commiserated her not a
little, and knew not how to dispel the dumps that the loss of her lover
had caused her, espying the scholar pass along the street, as he had been
wont, conceived the silly idea that the lady's lover might be induced to
return to his old love by some practice of a necromantic order, wherein
she doubted not that the scholar must be a thorough adept; which idea she
imparted to her mistress. The lady, being none too well furnished with
sense, never thinking that, if the scholar had been an adept in
necromancy, he would have made use of it in his own behoof, gave heed to
what her maid said, and forthwith bade her learn of the scholar whether
he would place his skill at her service, and assure him that, if he so
did, she, in guerdon thereof, would do his pleasure. The maid did her
mistress's errand well and faithfully. The scholar no sooner heard the
message, than he said to himself:--Praised be Thy name, O God, that the
time is now come, when with Thy help I may be avenged upon this wicked
woman of the wrong she did me in requital of the great love I bore her.
Then, turning to the maid, he said:--"Tell my lady to set her mind at
ease touching this matter; for that, were her lover in India, I would
forthwith bring him hither to crave her pardon of that wherein he has
offended her. As to the course she should take in the matter, I tarry but
her pleasure to make it known to her, when and where she may think fit:
tell her so, and bid her from me to be of good cheer." The maid carried
his answer to her mistress, and arranged that they should meet in the
church of Santa Lucia of Prato. Thither accordingly they came, the lady
and the scholar, and conversed apart, and the lady, quite oblivious of
the ill-usage by which she had well-nigh done him to death, opened all
her mind to him, and besought him, if he had any regard to her welfare,
to aid her to the attainment of her desire. "Madam," replied the scholar,
"true it is that among other lore that I acquired at Paris was this of
necromancy, whereof, indeed, I know all that may be known; but, as 'tis
in the last degree displeasing to God, I had sworn never to practise it
either for my own or for any other's behoof. 'Tis also true that the love
I bear you is such that I know not how to refuse you aught that you would
have me do for you; and so, were this single essay enough to consign me
to hell, I would adventure it to pleasure you. But I mind me that 'tis a
matter scarce so easy of performance as, perchance, you suppose, most
especially when a woman would fain recover the love of a man, or a man
that of a woman, for then it must be done by the postulant in proper
person, and at night, and in lonely places, and unattended, so that it
needs a stout heart; nor know I whether you are disposed to comply with
these conditions." The lady, too enamoured to be discreet, made
answer:--"So shrewdly does Love goad me, that there is nought I would not
do to bring him back to me who wrongfully has deserted me; but tell me,
prithee, wherein it is that I have need of this stout heart." "Madam,"
returned the despiteful scholar, "'twill be my part to fashion in tin an
image of him you would fain lure back to you: and when I have sent you
the image, 'twill be for you, when the moon is well on the wane, to dip
yourself, being stark naked, and the image, seven times in a flowing
stream, and this you must do quite alone about the hour of first sleep,
and afterwards, still naked, you must get you upon some tree or some
deserted house, and facing the North, with the image in your hand, say
certain words that I shall give you in writing seven times; which, when
you have done, there will come to you two damsels, the fairest you ever
saw, who will greet you graciously, and ask of you what you would fain
have; to whom you will disclose frankly and fully all that you crave; and
see to it that you make no mistake in the name; and when you have said
all, they will depart, and you may then descend and return to the spot
where you left your clothes, and resume them and go home. And rest
assured, that before the ensuing midnight your lover will come to you in
tears, and crave your pardon and mercy, and that thenceforth he will
never again desert you for any other woman."

The lady gave entire credence to the scholar's words, and deeming her
lover as good as in her arms again, recovered half her wonted spirits:
wherefore:--"Make no doubt," quoth she, "that I shall do as thou biddest;
and indeed I am most favoured by circumstance; for in upper Val d'Arno I
have an estate adjoining the river, and 'tis now July, so that to bathe
will be delightful. Ay, and now I mind me that at no great distance from
the river there is a little tower, which is deserted, save that now and
again the shepherds will get them up by the chestnut-wood ladder to the
roof, thence to look out for their strayed sheep; 'tis a place lonely
indeed, and quite out of ken; and when I have clomb it, as climb it I
will, I doubt not 'twill be the best place in all the world to give
effect to your instructions."

Well pleased to be certified of the lady's intention, the scholar, to
whom her estate and the tower were very well known, made answer:--"I was
never in those parts, Madam, and therefore know neither your estate nor
the tower, but, if 'tis as you say, 'twill certainly be the best place in
the world for your purpose. So, when time shall serve, I will send you
the image and the orison. But I pray you, when you shall have your
heart's desire, and know that I have done you good service, do not forget
me, but keep your promise to me." "That will I without fail," quoth the
lady; and so she bade him farewell, and went home. The scholar, gleefully
anticipating the success of his enterprise, fashioned an image, and
inscribed it with certain magical signs, and wrote some gibberish by way
of orison, which in due time he sent to the lady, bidding her the very
next night do as he had prescribed: and thereupon he hied him privily
with one of his servants to the house of a friend hard by the tower,
there to carry his purpose into effect. The lady, on her part, set out
with her maid, and betook her to her estate, and, night being come, sent
the maid to bed, as if she were minded to go to rest herself; and about
the hour of first sleep stole out of the house and down to the tower,
beside the Arno; and when, having carefully looked about her, she was
satisfied that never a soul was to be seen or heard, she took off her
clothes and hid them under a bush; then, with the image in her hand, she
dipped herself seven times in the river; which done, she hied her with
the image to the tower. The scholar, having at nightfall couched himself
with his servant among the willows and other trees that fringed the bank,
marked all that she did, and how, as she passed by him, the whiteness of
her flesh dispelled the shades of night, and scanning attentively her
bosom and every other part of her body, and finding them very fair, felt,
as he bethought him what would shortly befall them, some pity of her;
while, on the other hand, he was suddenly assailed by the solicitations
of the flesh which caused that to stand which had been inert, and
prompted him to sally forth of his ambush and take her by force, and have
his pleasure of her. And, what with his compassion and passion, he was
like to be worsted; but then as he bethought him who he was, and what a
grievous wrong had been done him, and for what cause, and by whom, his
wrath, thus rekindled, got the better of the other affections, so that he
swerved not from his resolve, but suffered her to go her way.

The lady ascended the tower, and standing with her face to the North,
began to recite the scholar's orison, while he, having stolen into the
tower but a little behind her, cautiously shifted the ladder that led up
to the roof on which the lady stood, and waited to observe what she would
say and do. Seven times the lady said the orison, and then awaited the
appearance of the two damsels; and so long had she to wait--not to
mention that the night was a good deal cooler than she would have
liked--that she saw day break; whereupon, disconcerted that it had not
fallen out as the scholar had promised, she said to herself:--I misdoubt
me he was minded to give me such a night as I gave him; but if such was
his intent, he is but maladroit in his revenge, for this night is not as
long by a third as his was, besides which, the cold is of another
quality. And that day might not overtake her there, she began to think of
descending, but, finding that the ladder was removed, she felt as if the
world had come to nought beneath her feet, her senses reeled, and she
fell in a swoon upon the floor of the roof. When she came to herself, she
burst into tears and piteous lamentations, and witting now very well that
'twas the doing of the scholar, she began to repent her that she had
first offended him, and then trusted him unduly, having such good cause
to reckon upon his enmity; in which frame she abode long time. Then,
searching if haply she might find some means of descent, and finding
none, she fell a weeping again, and bitterly to herself she said:--Alas
for thee, wretched woman! what will thy brothers, thy kinsmen, thy
neighbours, nay, what will all Florence say of thee, when 'tis known that
thou hast been found here naked? Thy honour, hitherto unsuspect, will be
known to have been but a shew, and shouldst thou seek thy defence in
lying excuses, if any such may be fashioned, the accursed scholar, who
knows all thy doings, will not suffer it. Ah! poor wretch! that at one
and the same time hast lost thy too dearly cherished gallant and thine
own honour! And therewith she was taken with such a transport of grief,
that she was like to cast herself from the tower to the ground. Then,
bethinking her that if she might espy some lad making towards the tower
with his sheep, she might send him for her maid, for the sun was now
risen, she approached one of the parapets of the tower, and looked out,
and so it befell that the scholar, awakening from a slumber, in which he
had lain a while at the foot of a bush, espied her, and she him.
Whereupon:--"Good-day, Madam," quoth he:--"are the damsels yet come?" The
lady saw and heard him not without bursting afresh into a flood of tears,
and besought him to come into the tower, that she might speak with him: a
request which the scholar very courteously granted. The lady then threw
herself prone on the floor of the roof; and, only her head being visible
through the aperture, thus through her sobs she spoke:--"Verily, Rinieri,
if I gave thee a bad night, thou art well avenged on me, for, though it
be July, meseemed I was sore a cold last night, standing here with never
a thread upon me, and, besides, I have so bitterly bewept both the trick
I played thee and my own folly in trusting thee, that I marvel that I
have still eyes in my head. Wherefore I implore thee, not for love of me,
whom thou hast no cause to love, but for the respect thou hast for
thyself as a gentleman, that thou let that which thou hast already done
suffice thee to avenge the wrong I did thee, and bring me my clothes,
that I may be able to get me down from here, and spare to take from me
that which, however thou mightst hereafter wish, thou couldst not restore
to me, to wit, my honour; whereas, if I deprived thee of that one night
with me, 'tis in my power to give thee many another night in recompense
thereof, and thou hast but to choose thine own times. Let this, then,
suffice, and like a worthy gentleman be satisfied to have taken thy
revenge, and to have let me know it: put not forth thy might against a
woman: 'tis no glory to the eagle to have vanquished a dove; wherefore
for God's and thine own honour's sake have mercy on me."

The scholar, albeit his haughty spirit still brooded on her evil
entreatment of him, yet saw her not weep and supplicate without a certain
compunction mingling with his exultation; but vengeance he had desired
above all things, to have wreaked it was indeed sweet, and albeit his
humanity prompted him to have compassion on the hapless woman, yet it
availed not to subdue the fierceness of his resentment; wherefore thus he
made answer:--"Madam Elena, had my prayers (albeit art I had none to
mingle with them tears and honeyed words as thou dost with thine)
inclined thee that night, when I stood perishing with cold amid the snow
that filled thy courtyard, to accord me the very least shelter, 'twere
but a light matter for me to hearken now to thine; but, if thou art now
so much more careful of thy honour than thou wast wont to be, and it irks
thee to tarry there naked, address thy prayers to him in whose arms it
irked thee not naked to pass that night thou mindest thee of, albeit thou
wist that I with hasty foot was beating time upon the snow in thy
courtyard to the accompaniment of chattering teeth: 'tis he that thou
shouldst call to succour thee, to fetch thy clothes, to adjust the ladder
for thy descent; 'tis he in whom thou shouldst labour to inspire this
tenderness thou now shewest for thy honour, that honour which for his
sake thou hast not scrupled to jeopardize both now and on a thousand
other occasions. Why, then, call'st thou not him to come to thy succour?
To whom pertains it rather than to him? Thou art his. And of whom will he
have a care, whom will he succour, if not thee? Thou askedst him that
night, when thou wast wantoning with him, whether seemed to him the
greater, my folly or the love thou didst bear him: call him now, foolish
woman, and see if the love thou bearest him, and thy wit and his, may
avail to deliver thee from my folly. 'Tis now no longer in thy power to
shew me courtesy of that which I no more desire, nor yet to refuse it,
did I desire it. Reserve thy nights for thy lover, if so be thou go hence
alive. Be they all thine and his. One of them was more than I cared for;
'tis enough for me to have been flouted once. Ay, and by thy cunning of
speech thou strivest might and main to conciliate my good-will, calling
me worthy gentleman, by which insinuation thou wouldst fain induce me
magnanimously to desist from further chastisement of thy baseness. But
thy cajoleries shall not now cloud the eyes of my mind, as did once thy
false promises. I know myself, and better now for thy one night's
instruction than for all the time I spent at Paris. But, granted that I
were disposed to be magnanimous, thou art not of those to whom 'tis meet
to shew magnanimity. A wild beast such as thou, having merited vengeance,
can claim no relief from suffering save death, though in the case of a
human being 'twould suffice to temper vengeance with mercy, as thou
saidst. Wherefore I, albeit no eagle, witting thee to be no dove, but a
venomous serpent, mankind's most ancient enemy, am minded, bating no jot
of malice or of might, to harry thee to the bitter end: natheless this
which I do is not properly to be called vengeance but rather just
retribution; seeing that vengeance should be in excess of the offence,
and this my chastisement of thee will fall short of it; for, were I
minded to be avenged on thee, considering what account thou madest of my
heart and soul, 'twould not suffice me to take thy life, no, nor the
lives of a hundred others such as thee; for I should but slay a vile and
base and wicked woman. And what the Devil art thou more than any other
pitiful baggage, that I should spare thy little store of beauty, which a
few years will ruin, covering thy face with wrinkles? And yet 'twas not
for want of will that thou didst fail to do to death a worthy gentleman,
as thou but now didst call me, of whom in a single day of his life the
world may well have more profit than of a hundred thousand like thee
while the world shall last. Wherefore by this rude discipline I will
teach thee what it is to flout men of spirit, and more especially what it
is to flout scholars, that if thou escape with thy life thou mayst have
good cause ever hereafter to shun such folly. But if thou art so fain to
make the descent, why cast not thyself down, whereby, God helping, thou
wouldst at once break thy neck, be quit of the torment thou endurest, and
make me the happiest man alive? I have no more to say to thee. 'Twas my
art and craft thus caused thee climb; be it thine to find the way down:
thou hadst cunning enough, when thou wast minded to flout me."

While the scholar thus spoke, the hapless lady wept incessantly, and
before he had done, to aggravate her misery, the sun was high in the
heaven. However, when he was silent, thus she made answer:--"Ah! ruthless
man, if that accursed night has so rankled with thee, and thou deemest my
fault so grave that neither my youth and beauty, nor my bitter tears, nor
yet my humble supplications may move thee to pity, let this at least move
thee, and abate somewhat of thy remorseless severity, that 'twas my act
alone, in that of late I trusted thee, and discovered to thee all my
secret, that did open the way to compass thy end, and make me cognizant
of my guilt, seeing that, had I not confided in thee, on no wise mightst
thou have been avenged on me; which thou wouldst seem so ardently to have
desired. Turn thee, then, turn thee, I pray thee, from thy wrath, and
pardon me. So thou wilt pardon me, and get me down hence, right gladly
will I give up for ever my faithless gallant, and thou shalt be my sole
lover and lord, albeit thou sayst hard things of my beauty, slight and
shortlived as thou wouldst have it to be, which, however it may compare
with others, is, I wot, to be prized, if for no other reason, yet for
this, that 'tis the admiration and solace and delight of young men, and
thou art not yet old. And albeit I have been harshly treated by thee, yet
believe I cannot that thou wouldst have me do myself so shamefully to
death as to cast me down, like some abandoned wretch, before thine eyes,
in which, unless thou wast then, as thou hast since shewn thyself, a
liar, I found such favour. Ah! have pity on me for God's and mercy's
sake! The sun waxes exceeding hot, and having suffered not a little by
the cold of last night, I now begin to be sorely afflicted by the heat."

"Madam," rejoined the scholar, who held her in parley with no small
delight, "'twas not for any love that thou didst bear me that thou
trustedst me, but that thou mightst recover that which thou hadst lost,
for which cause thou meritest but the greater punishment; and foolish
indeed art thou if thou supposest that such was the sole means available
for my revenge. I had a thousand others, and, while I feigned to love
thee, I had laid a thousand gins for thy feet, into one or other of which
in no long time, though this had not occurred, thou must needs have
fallen, and that too to thy more grievous suffering and shame; nor was it
to spare thee, but that I might be the sooner rejoiced by thy
discomfiture that I took my present course. And though all other means
had failed me, I had still the pen, with which I would have written of
thee such matters and in such a sort, that when thou wist them, as thou
shouldst have done, thou wouldst have regretted a thousand times that
thou hadst ever been born. The might of the pen is greater far than they
suppose, who have not proved it by experience. By God I swear, so may He,
who has prospered me thus far in this my revenge, prosper me to the end!
that I would have written of thee things that would have so shamed thee
in thine own--not to speak of others'--sight that thou hadst put out
thine eyes that thou mightst no more see thyself; wherefore chide not the
sea, for that it has sent forth a tiny rivulet. For thy love, or whether
thou be mine or no, nought care I. Be thou still his, whose thou hast
been, if thou canst. Hate him as I once did, I now love him, by reason of
his present entreatment of thee. Ye go getting you enamoured, ye women,
and nought will satisfy you but young gallants, because ye mark that
their flesh is ruddier, and their beards are blacker, than other folk's,
and that they carry themselves well, and foot it featly in the dance, and
joust; but those that are now more mature were even as they, and possess
a knowledge which they have yet to acquire. And therewithal ye deem that
they ride better, and cover more miles in a day, than men of riper age.
Now that they dust the pelisse with more vigour I certainly allow, but
their seniors, being more experienced, know better the places where the
fleas lurk; and spare and dainty diet is preferable to abundance without
savour: moreover hard trotting will gall and jade even the youngest,
whereas an easy pace, though it bring one somewhat later to the inn, at
any rate brings one thither fresh. Ye discern not, witless creatures that
ye are, how much of evil this little shew of bravery serves to hide. Your
young gallant is never content with one woman, but lusts after as many as
he sets eyes on; nor is there any but he deems himself worthy of her:
wherefore 'tis not possible that their love should be lasting, as thou
hast but now proved and mayst only too truly witness. Moreover to be
worshipped, to be caressed by their ladies they deem but their due; nor
is there aught whereon they plume and boast them so proudly as their
conquests: which impertinence has caused not a few women to surrender to
the friars, who keep their own counsel. Peradventure thou wilt say that
never a soul save thy maid, and I wist aught of thy loves; but, if so,
thou hast been misinformed, and if thou so believest, thou dost
misbelieve. Scarce aught else is talked of either in his quarter or in
thine; but most often 'tis those most concerned whose ears such matters
reach last. Moreover, they rob you, these young gallants, whereas the
others make you presents. So, then, having made a bad choice, be thou
still his to whom thou hast given thyself, and leave me, whom thou didst
flout, to another, for I have found a lady of much greater charms than
thine, and that has understood me better than thou didst. And that thou
mayst get thee to the other world better certified of the desire of my
eyes than thou wouldst seem to be here by my words, delay no more, but
cast thyself down, whereby thy soul, taken forthwith, as I doubt not she
will be, into the embrace of the Devil, may see whether thy headlong fall
afflicts mine eyes, or no. But, for that I doubt thou meanest not thus to
gladden me, I bid thee, if thou findest the sun begin to scorch thee,
remember the cold thou didst cause me to endure, wherewith, by admixture,
thou mayst readily temper the sun's heat."

The hapless lady, seeing that the scholar's words were ever to the same
ruthless effect, burst afresh into tears, and said:--"Lo, now, since
nought that pertains to me may move thee, be thou at least moved by the
love thou bearest this lady of whom thou speakest, who, thou sayst, is
wiser than I, and loves thee, and for love of her pardon me, and fetch me
my clothes, that I may resume them, and get me down hence." Whereat the
scholar fell a laughing, and seeing that 'twas not a little past tierce,
made answer:--"Lo, now, I know not how to deny thee, adjuring me as thou
dost by such a lady: tell me, then, where thy clothes are, and I will go
fetch them, and bring thee down." The lady, believing him, was somewhat
comforted, and told him where she had laid her clothes. The scholar then
quitted the tower, bidding his servant on no account to stir from his
post, but to keep close by, and, as best he might, bar the tower against
all comers until his return: which said, he betook him to the house of
his friend, where he breakfasted much at his ease, and thereafter went to
sleep. Left alone upon the tower, the lady, somewhat cheered by her fond
hope, but still exceeding sorrowful, drew nigh to a part of the wall
where there was a little shade, and there sate down to wait. And now lost
in most melancholy brooding, now dissolved in tears, now plunged in
despair of ever seeing the scholar return with her clothes, but never
more than a brief while in any one mood, spent with grief and the night's
vigil, she by and by fell asleep. The sun was now in the zenith, and
smote with extreme fervour full and unmitigated upon her tender and
delicate frame, and upon her bare head, insomuch that his rays did not
only scorch but bit by bit excoriate every part of her flesh that was
exposed to them, and so shrewdly burn her that, albeit she was in a deep
sleep, the pain awoke her. And as by reason thereof she writhed a little,
she felt the scorched skin part in sunder and shed itself, as will happen
when one tugs at a parchment that has been singed by the fire, while her
head ached so sore that it seemed like to split, and no wonder. Nor might
she find place either to lie or to stand on the floor of the roof, but
ever went to and fro, weeping. Besides which there stirred not the least
breath of wind, and flies and gadflies did swarm in prodigious quantity,
which, settling upon her excoriate flesh, stung her so shrewdly that
'twas as if she received so many stabs with a javelin, and she was ever
restlessly feeling her sores with her hands, and cursing herself, her
life, her lover, and the scholar.

Thus by the exorbitant heat of the sun, by the flies and gadflies,
harassed, goaded, and lacerated, tormented also by hunger, and yet more
by thirst, and, thereto by a thousand distressful thoughts, she panted
herself erect on her feet, and looked about her, if haply she might see
or hear any one, with intent, come what might, to call to him and crave
his succour. But even this hostile Fortune had disallowed her. The
husbandmen were all gone from the fields by reason of the heat, and
indeed there had come none to work that day in the neighbourhood of the
tower, for that all were employed in threshing their corn beside their
cottages: wherefore she heard but the cicalas, while Arno, tantalizing
her with the sight of his waters, increased rather than diminished her
thirst. Ay, and in like manner, wherever she espied a copse, or a patch
of shade, or a house, 'twas a torment to her, for the longing she had for
it. What more is to be said of this hapless woman? Only this: that what
with the heat of the sun above and the floor beneath her, and the
scarification of her flesh in every part by the flies and gadflies, that
flesh, which in the night had dispelled the gloom by its whiteness, was
now become red as madder, and so besprent with clots of blood, that whoso
had seen her would have deemed her the most hideous object in the world.

Thus resourceless and hopeless, she passed the long hours, expecting
death rather than aught else, until half none was come and gone; when,
his siesta ended, the scholar bethought him of his lady, and being minded
to see how she fared, hied him back to the tower, and sent his servant
away to break his fast. As soon as the lady espied him, she came, spent
and crushed by her sore affliction, to the aperture, and thus addressed
him:--"Rinieri, the cup of thy vengeance is full to overflowing: for if I
gave thee a night of freezing in my courtyard, thou hast given me upon
this tower a day of scorching, nay, of burning, and therewithal of
perishing of hunger and thirst: wherefore by God I entreat thee to come
up hither, and as my heart fails me to take my life, take it thou, for
'tis death I desire of all things, such and so grievous is my suffering.
But if this grace thou wilt not grant, at least bring me a cup of water
wherewith to lave my mouth, for which my tears do not suffice, so parched
and torrid is it within." Well wist the scholar by her voice how spent
she was; he also saw a part of her body burned through and through by the
sun; whereby, and by reason of the lowliness of her entreaties, he felt
some little pity for her; but all the same he made answer:--"Nay, wicked
woman, 'tis not by my hands thou shalt die; thou canst die by thine own
whenever thou art so minded; and to temper thy heat thou shalt have just
as much water from me as I had fire from thee to mitigate my cold. I only
regret that for the cure of my chill the physicians were fain to use
foul-smelling muck, whereas thy burns can be treated with fragrant
rose-water; and that, whereas I was like to lose my muscles and the use
of my limbs, thou, for all thy excoriation by the heat, wilt yet be fair
again, like a snake that has sloughed off the old skin." "Alas! woe's
me!" replied the lady, "for charms acquired at such a cost, God grant
them to those that hate me. But thou, most fell of all wild beasts, how
hast thou borne thus to torture me? What more had I to expect of thee or
any other, had I done all thy kith and kin to death with direst torments?
Verily, I know not what more cruel suffering thou couldst have inflicted
on a traitor that had put a whole city to the slaughter than this which
thou hast allotted to me, to be thus roasted, and devoured of the flies,
and therewithal to refuse me even a cup of water, though the very
murderers condemned to death by the law, as they go to execution, not
seldom are allowed wine to drink, so they but ask it. Lo now, I see that
thou art inexorable in thy ruthlessness, and on no wise to be moved by my
suffering: wherefore with resignation I will compose me to await death,
that God may have mercy on my soul. And may this that thou doest escape
not the searching glance of His just eyes." Which said, she dragged
herself, sore suffering, toward the middle of the floor, despairing of
ever escaping from her fiery torment, besides which, not once only, but a
thousand times she thought to choke for thirst, and ever she wept
bitterly and bewailed her evil fate. But at length the day wore to
vespers, and the scholar, being sated with his revenge, caused his
servant to take her clothes and wrap them in his cloak, and hied him with
the servant to the hapless lady's house, where, finding her maid sitting
disconsolate and woebegone and resourceless at the door:--"Good woman,"
quoth he, "what has befallen thy mistress?" Whereto:--"Sir, I know not,"
replied the maid. "I looked to find her this morning abed, for methought
she went to bed last night, but neither there nor anywhere else could I
find her, nor know I what is become of her; wherefore exceeding great is
my distress; but have you, Sir, nought to say of the matter?" "Only
this," returned the scholar, "that I would I had had thee with her there
where I have had her, that I might have requited thee of thy offence,
even as I have requited her of hers. But be assured that thou shalt not
escape my hands, until thou hast from me such wage of thy labour that
thou shalt never flout man more, but thou shalt mind thee of me." Then,
turning to his servant, he said:--"Give her these clothes, and tell her
that she may go bring her mistress away, if she will." The servant did
his bidding; and the maid, what with the message and her recognition of
the clothes, was mightily afraid, lest they had slain the lady, and
scarce suppressing a shriek, took the clothes, and, bursting into tears,
set off, as soon as the scholar was gone, at a run for the tower.

Now one of the lady's husbandmen had had the misfortune to lose two of
his hogs that day, and, seeking them, came to the tower not long after
the scholar had gone thence, and peering about in all quarters, if haply
he might have sight of his hogs, heard the woeful lamentation that the
hapless lady made, and got him up into the tower, and called out as loud
as he might:--"Who wails up there?" The lady recognized her husbandman's
voice, and called him by name, saying:--"Prithee, go fetch my maid, and
cause her come up hither to me." The husbandman, knowing her by her
voice, replied:--"Alas! Madam, who set you there? Your maid has been
seeking you all day long: but who would ever have supposed that you were
there?" Whereupon he took the props of the ladder, and set them in
position, and proceeded to secure the rounds to them with withies. Thus
engaged he was found by the maid, who, as she entered the tower, beat her
face and breast, and unable longer to keep silence, cried out:--"Alas,
sweet my lady, where are you?" Whereto the lady made answer as loud as
she might:--"O my sister, here above am I, weep not, but fetch me my
clothes forthwith." Well-nigh restored to heart, to hear her mistress's
voice, the maid, assisted by the husbandman, ascended the ladder, which
he had now all but set in order, and gaining the roof, and seeing her
lady lie there naked, spent and fordone, and liker to a half-burned stump
than to a human being, she planted her nails in her face and fell a
weeping over her, as if she were a corpse. However, the lady bade her for
God's sake be silent, and help her to dress, and having learned from her
that none knew where she had been, save those that had brought her her
clothes and the husbandman that was there present, was somewhat consoled,
and besought her for God's sake to say nought of the matter to any. Thus
long time they conversed, and then the husbandman took the lady on his
shoulders, for walk she could not, and bore her safely out of the tower.
The unfortunate maid, following after with somewhat less caution,
slipped, and falling from the ladder to the ground, broke her thigh, and
roared for pain like any lion. So the husbandman set the lady down upon a
grassy mead, while he went to see what had befallen the maid, whom,
finding her thigh broken, he brought, and laid beside the lady: who,
seeing her woes completed by this last misfortune, and that she of whom,
most of all, she had expected succour, was lamed of a thigh, was
distressed beyond measure, and wept again so piteously that not only was
the husbandman powerless to comfort her, but was himself fain to weep.
However, as the sun was now low, that they might not be there surprised
by night, he, with the disconsolate lady's approval, hied him home, and
called to his aid two of his brothers and his wife, who returned with
him, bearing a plank, whereon they laid the maid, and so they carried her
to the lady's house. There, by dint of cold water and words of cheer,
they restored some heart to the lady, whom the husbandman then took upon
his shoulders, and bore to her chamber. The husbandman's wife fed her
with sops of bread, and then undressed her, and put her to bed. They also
provided the means to carry her and the maid to Florence; and so 'twas
done. There the lady, who was very fertile in artifices, invented an
entirely fictitious story of what had happened as well in regard of her
maid as of herself, whereby she persuaded both her brothers and her
sisters and every one else, that 'twas all due to the enchantments of
evil spirits. The physicians lost no time, and, albeit the lady's
suffering and mortification were extreme, for she left more than one skin
sticking to the sheets, they cured her of a high fever, and certain
attendant maladies; as also the maid of her fractured thigh. The end of
all which was that the lady forgot her lover, and having learned
discretion, was thenceforth careful neither to love nor to flout; and the
scholar, learning that the maid had broken her thigh, deemed his
vengeance complete, and was satisfied to say never a word more of the
affair. Such then were the consequences of her flouts to this foolish
young woman, who deemed that she might trifle with a scholar with the
like impunity as with others, not duly understanding that they--I say not
all, but the more part--know where the Devil keeps his tail.(1)
Wherefore, my ladies, have a care how you flout men, and more especially
scholars.

(1) I.e. are a match for the Devil himself in cunning.


NOVEL VIII.

--
Two men keep with one another: the one lies with the other's wife: the
other, being ware thereof, manages with the aid of his wife to have the
one locked in a chest, upon which he then lies with the wife of him that
is locked therein.
--

Grievous and distressful was it to the ladies to hear how it fared with
Elena; but as they accounted the retribution in a measure righteous, they
were satisfied to expend upon her but a moderate degree of compassion,
albeit they censured the scholar as severe, intemperately relentless, and
indeed ruthless, in his vengeance. However, Pampinea having brought the
story to a close, the queen bade Fiammetta follow suit; and prompt to
obey, Fiammetta thus spoke:--Debonair my ladies, as, methinks, your
feelings must have been somewhat harrowed by the severity of the
resentful scholar, I deem it meet to soothe your vexed spirits with
something of a more cheerful order. Wherefore I am minded to tell you a
little story of a young man who bore an affront in a milder temper, and
avenged himself with more moderation. Whereby you may understand that one
should be satisfied if the ass and the wall are quits, nor by indulging a
vindictive spirit to excess turn the requital of a wrong into an occasion
of wrong-doing. You are to know, then, that at Siena, as I have heard
tell, there dwelt two young men of good substance, and, for plebeians, of
good family, the one Spinelloccio Tanena, the other Zeppa di Mino, by
name; who, their houses being contiguous in the Camollia,(1) kept ever
together, and, by what appeared, loved each other as brothers, or even
more so, and had each a very fine woman to wife. Now it so befell that
Spinelloccio, being much in Zeppa's house, as well when Zeppa was not, as
when he was there, grew so familiar with Zeppa's wife, that he sometimes
lay with her; and on this wise they continued to forgather a great while
before any one was ware of it. However, one of these days Zeppa being at
home, though the lady wist it not, Spinelloccio came in quest of him;
and, the lady sending word that he was not at home, he forthwith went
upstairs and found the lady in the saloon, and seeing none else there,
kissed her, as did she him.

Zeppa saw all that passed, but said nothing and kept close, being minded
to see how the game would end, and soon saw his wife and Spinelloccio,
still in one another's arms, hie them to her chamber and lock themselves
in: whereat he was mightily incensed. But, witting that to make a noise,
or do aught else overt, would not lessen but rather increase his
dishonour, he cast about how he might be avenged on such wise that,
without the affair getting wind, he might content his soul; and having,
after long pondering, hit, as he thought, upon the expedient, he budged
not from his retreat, until Spinelloccio had parted from the lady.
Whereupon he hied him into the chamber, and there finding the lady with
her head-gear, which Spinelloccio in toying with her had disarranged,
scarce yet readjusted:--"Madam, what dost thou?" quoth he.
Whereto:--"Why, dost not see?" returned the lady. "Troth do I," rejoined
he, "and somewhat else have I seen that I would I had not." And so he
questioned her of what had passed, and she, being mightily afraid, did
after long parley confess that which she might not plausibly deny, to
wit, her intimacy with Spinelloccio, and fell a beseeching him with tears
to pardon her. "Lo, now, wife," quoth Zeppa, "thou hast done wrong, and,
so thou wouldst have me pardon thee, have a care to do exactly as I shall
bid thee; to wit, on this wise: thou must tell Spinelloccio, to find some
occasion to part from me to-morrow morning about tierce, and come hither
to thee; and while he is here I will come back, and when thou hearest me
coming, thou wilt get him into this chest, and lock him in there; which
when thou hast done, I will tell thee what else thou hast to do, which
thou mayst do without the least misgiving, for I promise thee I will do
him no harm." The lady, to content him, promised to do as he bade, and
she kept her word.

The morrow came, and Zeppa and Spinelloccio being together about tierce,
Spinelloccio, having promised the lady to come to see her at that hour,
said to Zeppa:--"I must go breakfast with a friend, whom I had lief not
keep in waiting; therefore, adieu!" "Nay, but," quoth Zeppa, "'tis not
yet breakfast-time." "No matter," returned Spinelloccio, "I have business
on which I must speak with him; so I must be in good time." Whereupon
Spinelloccio took his leave of Zeppa, and having reached Zeppa's house by
a slightly circuitous route, and finding his wife there, was taken by her
into the chamber, where they had not been long together when Zeppa
returned. Hearing him come, the lady, feigning no small alarm, bundled
Spinelloccio into the chest, as her husband had bidden her, and having
locked him in, left him there. As Zeppa came upstairs:--"Wife," quoth he,
"is it breakfast time?" "Ay, husband, 'tis so," replied the lady.
Whereupon:--"Spinelloccio is gone to breakfast with a friend to-day,"
quoth Zeppa, "leaving his wife at home: get thee to the window, and call
her, and bid her come and breakfast with us." The lady, whose fear for
herself made her mighty obedient, did as her husband bade her; and after
much pressing Spinelloccio's wife came to breakfast with them, though she
was given to understand that her husband would not be of the company. So,
she being come, Zeppa received her most affectionately, and taking her
familiarly by the hand, bade his wife, in an undertone, get her to the
kitchen; he then led Spinelloccio's wife into the chamber, and locked the
door. Hearing the key turn in the lock:--"Alas!" quoth the lady, "what
means this, Zeppa? Is't for this you have brought me here? Is this the
love you bear Spinelloccio? Is this your loyalty to him as your friend
and comrade?" By the time she had done speaking, Zeppa, still keeping
fast hold of her, was beside the chest, in which her husband was locked.
Wherefore:--"Madam," quoth he, "spare me thy reproaches, until thou hast
heard what I have to say to thee. I have loved, I yet love, Spinelloccio
as a brother; and yesterday, though he knew it not, I discovered that the
trust I reposed in him has for its guerdon that he lies with my wife, as
with thee. Now, for that I love him, I purpose not to be avenged upon him
save in the sort in which he offended. He has had my wife, and I intend
to have thee. So thou wilt not grant me what I crave of thee, be sure I
shall not fail to take it; and having no mind to let this affront pass
unavenged, will make such play with him that neither thou nor he shall
ever be happy again." The lady hearkening, and by dint of his repeated
asseverations coming at length to believe him:--"Zeppa mine," quoth she,
"as this thy vengeance is to light upon me, well content am I; so only
thou let not this which we are to do embroil me with thy wife, with whom,
notwithstanding the evil turn she has done me, I am minded to remain at
peace." "Have no fear on that score," replied Zeppa; "nay, I will give
thee into the bargain a jewel so rare and fair that thou hast not the
like." Which said, he took her in his arms and fell a kissing her, and
having laid her on the chest, in which her husband was safe under lock
and key, did there disport himself with her to his heart's content, as
she with him.

Spinelloccio in the chest heard all that Zeppa had said, and how he was
answered by the lady, and the Trevisan dance that afterwards went on over
his head; whereat his mortification was such that for a great while he
scarce hoped to live through it; and, but for the fear he had of Zeppa,
he would have given his wife a sound rating, close prisoner though he
was. But, as he bethought him that 'twas he that had given the first
affront, and that Zeppa had good cause for acting as he did, and that he
had dealt with him considerately and as a good fellow should, he resolved
that if it were agreeable to Zeppa, they should be faster friends than
ever before. However, Zeppa, having had his pleasure with the lady, got
down from the chest, and being reminded by the lady of his promise of the
jewel, opened the door of the chamber and brought his wife in. Quoth she
with a laugh:--"Madam, you have given me tit for tat," and never a word
more. Whereupon:--"Open the chest," quoth Zeppa; and she obeying, he
shewed the lady her Spinelloccio lying therein. 'Twould be hard to say
whether of the twain was the more shame-stricken, Spinelloccio to be
confronted with Zeppa, knowing that Zeppa wist what he had done, or the
lady to meet her husband's eyes, knowing that he had heard what went on
above his head. "Lo, here is the jewel I give thee," quoth Zeppa to her,
pointing to Spinelloccio, who, as he came forth of the chest, blurted
out:--"Zeppa, we are quits, and so 'twere best, as thou saidst a while
ago to my wife, that we still be friends as we were wont, and as we had
nought separate, save our wives, that henceforth we have them also in
common." "Content," quoth Zeppa; and so in perfect peace and accord they
all four breakfasted together. And thenceforth each of the ladies had two
husbands, and each of the husbands two wives; nor was there ever the
least dispute or contention between them on that score.

(1) A suburb of Siena.


NOVEL IX.

--
Bruno and Buffalmacco prevail upon Master Simone, a physician, to betake
him by night to a certain place, there to be enrolled in a company that
go the course. Buffalmacco throws him into a foul ditch, and there they
leave him.
--

When the ladies had made merry a while over the partnership in wives
established by the two Sienese, the queen, who now, unless she were
minded to infringe Dioneo's privilege, alone remained to tell, began on
this wise:--Fairly earned indeed, loving ladies, was the flout that
Spinelloccio got from Zeppa. Wherefore my judgment jumps with that which
Pampinea expressed a while ago, to wit, that he is not severely to be
censured who bestows a flout on one that provokes it or deserves it; and
as Spinelloccio deserved it, so 'tis my purpose to tell you of one that
provoked it, for I deem that those from whom he received it, were rather
to be commended than condemned. The man that got it was a physician, who,
albeit he was but a blockhead, returned from Bologna to Florence in
mantle and hood of vair.

'Tis matter of daily experience that our citizens come back to us from
Bologna, this man a judge, that a physician, and the other a notary,
flaunting it in ample flowing robes, and adorned with the scarlet and the
vair and other array most goodly to see; and how far their doings
correspond with this fair seeming, is also matter of daily experience.
Among whom 'tis not long since Master Simone da Villa, one whose
patrimony was more ample than his knowledge, came back wearing the
scarlet and a broad stripe(1) on the shoulder, and a doctor, as he called
himself, and took a house in the street that we now call Via del
Cocomero. Now this Master Simone, being thus, as we said, come back, had
this among other singular habits, that he could never see a soul pass
along the street, but he must needs ask any that was by, who that man
was; and he was as observant of all the doings of men, and as sedulous to
store his memory with such matters, as if they were to serve him to
compound the drugs that he was to give his patients. Now, of all that he
saw, those that he eyed most observantly were two painters, of whom here
to-day mention has twice been made, Bruno, to wit, and Buffalmacco, who
were ever together, and were his neighbours. And as it struck him that
they daffed the world aside and lived more lightheartedly than any others
that he knew, as indeed they did, he enquired of not a few folk as to
their rank. And learning on all hands that they were poor men and
painters, he could not conceive it possible that they should live thus
contentedly in poverty, but made his mind up that, being, as he was
informed, clever fellows, they must have some secret source from which
they drew immense gains; for which reason he grew all agog to get on
friendly terms with them, or any rate with one of them, and did succeed
in making friends with Bruno.

Bruno, who had not needed to be much with him in order to discover that
this physician was but a dolt, had never such a jolly time in palming off
his strange stories upon him, while the physician, on his part, was
marvellously delighted with Bruno; to whom, having bidden him to
breakfast, and thinking that for that reason he might talk familiarly
with him, he expressed the amazement with which he regarded both him and
Buffalmacco, for that, being but poor men, they lived so lightheartedly,
and asked him to tell him how they managed. At which fresh proof of the
doctor's simplicity and fatuity Bruno was inclined to laugh; but,
bethinking him that 'twere best to answer him according to his folly, he
said:--"Master, there are not many persons to whom I would disclose our
manner of life, but, as you are my friend, and I know you will not let it
go further, I do not mind telling you. The fact is that my comrade and I
live not only as lightheartedly and jovially as you see, but much more
so; and yet neither our art, nor any property that we possess, yields us
enough to keep us in water: not that I would have you suppose that we go
a thieving: no, 'tis that we go the course, and thereby without the least
harm done to a soul we get all that we need, nay, all that we desire; and
thus it is that we live so lightheartedly as you see." Which explanation
the doctor believing none the less readily that he knew not what it
meant, was lost in wonder, and forthwith burned with a most vehement
desire to know what going the course might be, and was instant with Bruno
to expound it, assuring him that he would never tell a soul. "Alas!
Master," said Bruno, "what is this you ask of me? 'Tis a mighty great
secret you would