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Title: The nights of Straparola, volume 1 [of 2]
Author: Giovanni Francesco Straparola
Illustrator: Edward Robert Hughes
Translator: W. G. Waters
Release date: January 31, 2025 [eBook #75257]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Lawrence and Bullen, 1894
Credits: Richard Tonsing, Tim Lindell, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NIGHTS OF STRAPAROLA, VOLUME 1 [OF 2] ***
STRAPAROLA.
VOLUME I.
_Two hundred and ten copies printed on Japanese Vellum._
_No._ 95
[Illustration: The Siren]
THE NIGHTS
OF
STRAPAROLA
NOW FIRST TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY
W. G. WATERS
ILLUSTRATED BY E. R. HUGHES, A.R.W.S.
VOLUME I
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
LONDON: LAWRENCE AND BULLEN
16, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
MDCCCXCIV
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
Contents.
PAGE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS ix
INTRODUCTION xi
PROEM 1
NIGHT THE FIRST 9
THE FIRST FABLE. Salardo, son of Rainaldo Scaglia, quits Genoa
and goes to Montferrat, where he disobeys certain
injunctions laid upon him by his father’s testament, and is
condemned to death therefor; but, being delivered, he
returns to his own country 11
THE SECOND FABLE. Cassandrino, a noted robber, and a friend of
the prætor of Perugia, steals the prætor’s bed and his horse
Liardo, but afterwards becomes a man of probity and good
repute 20
THE THIRD FABLE. Pre Scarpafico, having been once duped by
three robbers, dupes them thrice in return, and lives
happily the rest of his days 28
THE FOURTH FABLE. Tebaldo, Prince of Salerno, wishes to have
his only daughter Doralice to wife, but she, through her
father’s persecution, flees to England, where she marries
Genese the king, and has by him two children. These, having
been slain by Tebaldo, are avenged by their father King
Genese 35
THE FIFTH FABLE. Dimitrio the chapman, having disguised
himself as a certain Gramottiveggio, surprises his wife
Polissena with a priest, and sends her back to her brothers,
who put her to death, and Dimitrio afterwards marries his
serving-woman 44
NIGHT THE SECOND 55
THE FIRST FABLE. Galeotto, King of Anglia, has a son who is
born in the shape of a pig. This son marries three wives,
and in the end, having thrown off his semblance, becomes a
handsome youth 58
THE SECOND FABLE. Filenio Sisterno, a student of Bologna,
having been tricked by certain ladies, takes his revenge
upon them at a feast to which he has bidden them 66
THE THIRD FABLE. Carlo da Rimini vainly pursues Theodosia with
his love, she having resolved to live a virgin. In striving
to embrace her he meets with divers misadventures, and is
well beaten by his own servants to boot 77
THE FOURTH FABLE. The devil, having heard divers husbands
railing over the humours of their wives, makes trial of
matrimony by espousing Silvia Balastro, and, not being able
to endure his wife for long, enters into the body of the
Duke of Malphi 83
THE FIFTH FABLE. Messer Simplicio di Rossi is enamoured of
Giliola, the wife of Ghirotto Scanferla, a peasant, and
having been caught in her company is ill-handled by her
husband therefor 91
NIGHT THE THIRD 99
THE FIRST FABLE. A simple fellow, named Peter, gets back his
wits by the help of a tunny fish which he spared after
having taken it in his net, and likewise wins for his wife a
king’s daughter 102
THE SECOND FABLE. Dalfreno, King of Tunis, had two sons, one
called Listico and the other Livoretto. The latter
afterwards was known as Porcarollo, and in the end won for
his wife Bellisandra, the daughter of Attarante, King of
Damascus 110
THE THIRD FABLE. Biancabella, the daughter of Lamberico,
Marquis of Monferrato, is sent away by the stepmother of
Ferrandino, King of Naples, in order that she may be put to
death; but the assassins only cut off her hands and put out
her eyes. Afterwards, her hurts having been healed by a
snake, she returns happily to Ferrandino 125
THE FOURTH FABLE. Fortunio, on account of an injury done to
him by his supposed father and mother, leaves them, and
after much wandering, comes to a wood, where he finds three
animals, who do him good service. Afterwards he goes to
Polonia, where he gets to wife Doralice, the king’s
daughter, as a reward for his prowess 140
THE FIFTH FABLE. Isotta, the wife of Lucaferro Albani of
Bergamo, devises how she may trick Travaglino the cowherd of
her brother Emilliano and thereby show him to be a liar, but
she loses her husband’s farm and returns home worsted in her
attempt, and bringing with her a bull’s head with gilded
horns 152
NIGHT THE FOURTH 163
THE FIRST FABLE. Ricardo, King of Thebes, had four daughters,
one of whom, having become a wanderer and altered her name
of Costanza to Costanzo, arrived at the court of Cacco, King
of Bettinia, who took her to wife on account of the many
worthy deeds wrought by her 167
THE SECOND FABLE. Erminione Glaucio, an Athenian, takes to
wife Filenia Centurione, and, having become jealous of her,
accuses her before the tribunal, but by the help of
Hippolito, her lover, she is acquitted and Erminione
punished 179
THE THIRD FABLE. Ancilotto, King of Provino, takes to wife the
daughter of a baker, and has by her three children. These,
after much persecution at the hands of the king’s mother,
are made known to their father through the strange working
of certain water, and of an apple, and of a bird 186
THE FOURTH FABLE. Nerino, the son of Gallese, King of
Portugal, becoming enamoured of Genobbia, wife of Messer
Raimondo Brunello, a physician, has his will of her and
carries her with him to Portugal, while Messer Raimondo dies
of grief 199
THE FIFTH FABLE. Flamminio Veraldo sets out from Ostia in
search of Death, and, not finding it, meets Life instead;
this latter lets him see Fear and make trial of Death 208
NIGHT THE FIFTH 217
THE FIRST FABLE. Guerrino, only son of Filippomaria, King of
Sicily, sets free from his father’s prison a certain savage
man. His mother, through fear of the king, drives her son
into exile, and him the savage man, now humanized, delivers
from many and measureless ills 221
THE SECOND FABLE. Adamantina, the daughter of Bagolana
Savonese, by the working of a certain doll becomes the wife
of Drusiano, King of Bohemia 236
THE THIRD FABLE. Bertholdo of Valsabbia has three sons, all of
them hunchbacks and much alike in seeming. One of them,
called Zambo, goes out into the world to seek his fortune,
and arrives at Rome, where he is killed and thrown into the
Tiber, together with his two brothers 245
THE FOURTH FABLE. Marsilio Vercelese, being enamoured of Thia,
the wife of Cechato Rabboso, is taken by her into her house
during her husband’s absence. He having come back
unexpected, is cozened by Thia, who feigns to work a spell,
during which Marsilio silently takes to flight 259
THE FIFTH FABLE. Madonna Modesta, wife of Messer Tristano
Zanchetto, in her young days gathers together a great number
of shoes, offerings made by her various lovers. Having grown
old, she disposes of the same to divers servants, varlets,
and other folk of mean estate 269
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. I.
_To face
page_
FRONTISPIECE. (THIRD NIGHT, FOURTH FABLE. THE SIREN.)
PROEM. THE PALACE AT MURANO 1
FIRST NIGHT, FOURTH FABLE. DORALICE IN THE KING’S CHAMBER 39
SECOND NIGHT, FIRST FABLE. THE PIG PRINCE 63
SECOND NIGHT, SECOND FABLE. THE SCHOLAR’S VENGEANCE 72
THIRD NIGHT, THIRD FABLE. BIANCABELLA AND THE SERPENT 128
THIRD NIGHT, FIFTH FABLE. ISOTTA AND TRAVAGLINO 156
FOURTH NIGHT, SECOND FABLE. THE TRIAL OF THE SERPENT 184
FIFTH NIGHT, FIRST FABLE. GOLDEN HAIR 234
FIFTH NIGHT, FOURTH FABLE. THE CONJURATION OF THE KITE 266
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
Introduction.
The name of Giovanni Francesco Straparola has been handed down to later
ages as the author of the “Piacevoli Notti,” and on no other account,
for the reason that he is one of those fortunate men of letters
concerning whom next to nothing is known. He writes himself down as “da
Caravaggio;” so it may be reasonably assumed that he first saw the light
in that town, but no investigator has yet succeeded in indicating the
year of his birth, or in bringing to light any circumstances of his
life, other than certain facts connected with the authorship and
publication of his works. The ground has been closely searched more than
once, and in every case the seekers have come back compelled to admit
that they have no story to tell or new fact to add to the scanty stock
which has been already garnered. Straparola as a personage still remains
the shadow he was when La Monnoie summed up the little that was known
about him in the preface to the edition, published in 1725, of the
French translation of the “Notti.”
He was doubtless baptized by the Christian names given above, but it is
scarcely probable that Straparola can ever have been the surname or
style of any family in Caravaggio or elsewhere. More likely than not it
is an instance of the Italian predilection for nicknaming—a coined word
designed to exhibit and perhaps to hold up to ridicule his undue
loquacity; just as the familiar names of Masaccio, and Ghirlandaio, and
Guercino, were tacked on to their illustrious wearers on account of some
personal peculiarity or former calling. Caravaggio is a small town lying
near to Crema, and about half way between Cremona and Bergamo. It
enjoyed in the Middle Ages some fame as a place of pilgrimage on account
of a spring of healing water which gushed forth on a certain occasion
when the Virgin Mary manifested herself. Polidoro Caldara and Michael
Angelo Caravaggio were amongst its famous men, and of these it keeps the
memory, but Straparola is entirely forgotten. Fontanini, in the
“Biblioteca dell’ eloquenza Italiana,” does not name him at all.
Quadrio, “Storia e ragione d’ogni poesia,” mentions him as the author of
the “Piacevoli Notti,” and remarks on his borrowings from Morlini.
Tiraboschi, in the index to the “Storia della letteratura Italiana,”
does not even give his name, and Crescimbeni[1] concerns himself only
with the enigmas which are to be found at the end of the fables. It is
indeed a strange freak of chance that such complete oblivion should have
fallen over the individuality of a writer so widely read and
appreciated.
The first edition of the first part of the “Piacevoli Notti” was
published at Venice in 1550, and of the second part in 1553. It would
appear that the author must have been alive in 1557, because, at the end
of the second part of the edition of that year,[2] there is a paragraph
setting forth the fact that the work was printed and issued “ad instanza
dell’ autore.” Some time before 1553 he seems to have been stung sharply
on account of some charges of plagiarism which were brought against him
by certain detractors, for in all the unmutilated editions of the
“Notti” published after that date there is to be found a short
introduction to the second part, in which he somewhat acrimoniously
throws back these accusations, and calls upon all “gratiose et amorevole
donne” to accept his explanations thereof, admitting at the same time
that these stories are not his own, but a faithful transcript of what he
heard told by the ten damsels in their pleasant assembly. La Monnoie, in
his preface to the French translation (ed. 1726), maintains that this
juggling with words can only be held to be an excuse on his part for
having borrowed the subject-matter for his fables and worked it into
shape after his own taste. “Il declare qu’il ne se les est jamais
attribuées, et se contente du mérite de les avoir fidèlement rapportées
d’après les dix damoiselles. Cela, comme tout bon entendeur le comprend,
ne signifie autre chose sinon qu’il avoit tiré d’ailleurs la matière de
ces Fables, mais qu’il leur avoit donné la forme.”
This contention of La Monnoie seems reasonable enough, but Grimm, in the
notes to “Kinder und Hausmärchen,” has fallen into the strange error of
treating Straparola’s apology as something grave and seriously meant,
and in the same sentence improves on his mistake by asserting that
Straparola took all the fairy tales from the mouths of the ten ladies.
“Von jenem Schmutz sind die Märchen[3] ziemlich frei, wie sie ohnehin
den besten Theil des ganzen Werkes ausmachen. Straparola hat sie, wie es
in der Vorrede zum zweiten Bande (vor der sechsten Nacht) heisst, aus
dem Munde zehn junger Fräulein aufgenommen und ausdrücklich erklärt,
dass sie nicht sein Eigenthum seien.”
The most reasonable explanation of this mistake lies in the assumption
that Grimm never saw the introduction to the second part at all. Indeed,
the fact that he often uses French spelling of the proper names suggests
that he may have worked from the French translation. Straparola makes no
distinction between fairy tales and others. His words are, “che le
piacevoli favole da me scritte, et in questo, et nell’ altro volumetto
raccolte non siano mie, ma da questo, et quello ladronescamente rubbate.
Io a dir il vero, il confesso, che non sono mie, e se altrimente
dicessi, me ne mentirei, ma ben holle fedelmente scritte secondo il modo
che furono da dieci damigelle nel concistorio raccontate.”
Besides the “Notti” only one other work of Straparola’s is known to
exist—a collection of sonnets and other poems published at Venice in
1508, and (according to a citation of Zanetti in the “Novelliero
Italiano,” t. iii., p. xv, Ven. 1754, Bindoni) in 1515 as well.[4] A
comparison of these dates will serve to show that, as he had already
brought out a volume in the first decade of the century, the “Piacevoli
Notti” must have been the work of his maturity or even of his old age.
With this fact the brief catalogue of the known circumstances of his
life comes to an end.
Judging from the rapidity with which the successive editions of the
“Notti” were brought forth from the press after the first issue—sixteen
appeared in the twenty years between 1550 and 1570—we may with reason
assume that it soon took hold of the public favour.[5] Its fame spread
early into France, where in 1560 an edition of the first part,
translated into French by Jean Louveau, appeared at Lyons, to be
followed some thirteen years later by a translation of the second part
by Pierre de la Rivey, who thus completed the book. He likewise revised
and re-wrote certain portions of Louveau’s translation, and in 1725 an
edition was produced at Amsterdam, enriched by a preface by La Monnoie,
and notes by Lainez. There are evidences that a German translation of
the “Notti” was in existence at the beginning of the seventeenth
century, for in the introduction to Fischart’s “Gargantua” (1608) there
is an allusion to the tales of Straparola, brought in by way of an
apology for the appearance of the work, the writer maintaining that, if
the ears of the ladies are not offended by Boccaccio, Straparola, and
other writers of a similar character, there is no reason why they should
be offended by Rabelais. The author of the introduction to a fresh
edition of the same work (1775) remarks that he knows the tales of
Straparola from a later edition published in 1699. Of this translation
no copy is known to exist.
In the “Palace of Pleasure” Painter has given only one of the fables,
the second Fable[6] of the second Night; and in Roscoe’s “Italian
Novelists” another one appears, the fourth Fable of the tenth Night. At
the end of the last century the first Fable of the first Night was
printed separately in London under the title, “Novella cioe copia d’un
Caso notabile intervenuto a un gran gentiluomo Genovese.”[7] A
translation of twenty-four of the fables, prefaced by a lengthy and
verbose disquisition on the author, reputed to be from the pen of
Mazzuchelli, appeared at Vienna in 1791;[8] but Brackelmann, in his
“Inaugural Dissertation” (Gottingen, 1867), has an examination of the
introduction above named, which goes far to prove that Mazzuchelli had
little or nothing to do with it. In 1817 Dr. F. W. V. Schmidt published
at Berlin a translation into German of eighteen fables selected from the
“Notti,” to which he gave the title “Die Märchen des Straparola.” To his
work Dr. Schmidt affixed copious notes, compiled with the greatest care
and learning, thus opening to his successors a rich and valuable
storehouse both of suggestion and of accumulated facts. It is almost
certain that he must have worked from one of the many mutilated or
expurgated editions of the book, for in the complete work there are
several stories unnoticed by him which he would assuredly have included
in his volume had he been aware of their existence.
One of the chief claims of the “Notti” on the consideration of later
times lies in the fact that Straparola was the first writer who gathered
together into one collection the stray fairy tales, for the most part
brought from the East, which had been made known in the Italian
cities—and in Venice more especially—by the mouth of the itinerant
story-teller. These tales, incorporated in the “Notti” with others of a
widely different character, were without doubt the principal source of
the numerous French “Contes des Fées” published in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries. Perrault, Madame D’Aulnoy, and Gueulette took from
them many of their best fables; and these, having spread in various
forms through Northern and Western Europe, helped to tinge with a hue of
Orientalism the popular tales of all countries—tales which had hitherto
been largely the evolution of local myths and traditions.
Four of Straparola’s fables are slightly altered versions of four of the
stories in the “Thousand and One Nights,”[9] which, as it will scarcely
be necessary to remark, were not translated into any European language
till Galland brought out his work at the beginning of the eighteenth
century. One of these, the third Fable of the fourth Night, is
substantially the same as the story of the Princess Parizade and her
envious sisters, given in Galland’s translation. To account for this
close resemblance we may either assume that Galland may have looked at
Straparola’s fable, or that Straparola may have listened to it from the
mouth of some wandering oriental or of some Venetian traveller recently
come back from the East—the tale, as he heard it, having been faithfully
taken from the same written page which Galland afterwards translated.
Another one, the story of the Three Hunchbacks—the third Fable of the
fifth Night—has less likeness to the original, and has been imitated by
Gueulette in his “Contes Tartares.” The treatment of the story of the
Princess Parizade by Straparola furnishes an illustration to prove that,
bad as his style was, he was by no means deficient in literary skill and
taste. He brings into due prominence the wicked midwife, who is
_particeps criminis_ with the queen-mother and the sisters in the
attempted murder of the children, and who has on this account full and
valid motive for acting as she did, seeing that interest and
self-preservation as well would have prompted her to compass their
destruction. On the other hand, in the Arabian tale it is hard to
understand why the female fakir should have been led to persuade the
princess to send her brothers off on their quest. Again, in the fable of
Prince Guerrino[10] Straparola has displayed great ingenuity in weaving
together a good story out of some half dozen of the widely-known fairy
motives, any one of which might well have been fashioned into a story by
itself.
After reading the “Notti” through one can hardly fail to be struck by
the amazing variety of the themes therein handled. Besides the fairy
tales—many of them classic—to which allusion has already been made,
there is the world-famous story of Puss in Boots, an original product of
Straparola’s brain. There are others which may rather be classed as
romances of chivalry, in the elaboration of which a generous amount of
magic and mystery is employed. The residue is made up of stories of
intrigue and buffo tales of popular Italian life, some of which—not a
large number, when one takes into consideration the contemporary
standard of decency in such matters—are certainly unpleasant in subject
and coarse in treatment, but with regard to the majority of these one is
disposed to be lenient, inasmuch as the fun, though somewhat indelicate,
is real fun. When the duped husband, a figure almost as inevitable in
the Italian Novella as in the modern French novel, is brought forward,
he is not always exhibited as the contemptible creature who seems to
have sat for the part in the stories of the better known writers.
Indeed, it sometimes happens that he turns the tables on his betrayers;
and, although Straparola is laudably free from the vice of preaching, he
now and then indulges in a brief homily by way of pointing out the fact
that violators of the Decalogue generally come to a bad end, and that
his own sympathies are all on the side of good manners. It is true that
one misses in the “Notti” those delicious invocations of Boccaccio,
commonly to be found at the end of the more piquant stories, in which he
piously calls on Heaven to grant to himself and to all Christian men
_bonnes fortunes_ equal to those which he has just chronicled.
The scheme of the “Notti” resembles in character that of the Decameron,
of Le Cene, and of other collections of a similar kind. In the Proem to
the work it is set forth how Ottaviano Maria Sforza, the bishop-elect of
Lodi—the same probably who died in 1540, after a life full of
vicissitude—together with his daughter Lucretia, is compelled by the
stress of political events to quit Milan. The Signora Lucretia is
described as the wife of Giovanni Francesco Gonzaga, cousin of Federico,
Marquis of Mantua, but as no mention of this prince is made it may be
assumed that she was already a widow. Seeing that her husband died in
1523, an approximate date may be fixed for the “Piacevoli Notti,” but
historical accuracy in cases of this sort is not to be expected or
desired. After divers wanderings the bishop-elect and his daughter find
a pleasant refuge on the island of Murano, where they gather around them
a company of congenial spirits, consisting of a group of lovely and
accomplished damsels, and divers cavaliers of note. Chief amongst the
latter is the learned Pietro Bembo, the renowned humanist and the most
distinguished man of letters Venice ever produced. With him came his
friend Gregorio Casali, who is described as “Casal Bolognese, a bishop,
and likewise ambassador of the King of England.” Both Gregorio Casali
and his brother Battista were entrusted by Henry VIII. with the conduct
of affairs of state pending between him and the Pope, and the former
certainly visited England more than once. The king showed him many signs
of favour during his stay, and when in 1527 Casali found himself shut up
in Rome by the beleaguering army of the Constable of Bourbon, he was
allowed free exit on the ground of his ambassadorial rank. Bernardo
Cappello, another friend of Bembo, is also of the company, and a certain
Antonio Molino, a poet of repute, who subsequently tells a fable in the
dialect of Bergamo—a feat which leads to a similar display of local
knowledge on the part of Signor Benedetto Trivigiano, who discourses in
Trevisan. It may be remarked, however, that by far the greater number of
the fables are told by the ladies.
But the joyous company assembled in the palace at Murano find divers
other forms of recreation beside story-telling. They dance and they sing
ballads, which are for the most part in praise of the gracious Signora
Lucretia, but the chief byplay of the entertainment consists in the
setting and solving of riddles. As soon as a fable is brought to an end
the narrator is always called upon by the Signora to complete the task
by propounding an enigma. This is then duly set forth in puzzling
verses, put together as a rule in terms obscure enough to baffle
solution, often entirely senseless, and now and again of a character
indecent enough to call down upon the propounder the Signora’s rebuke on
account of the seeming impropriety of the subject. In fact, a certain
number of these enigmas are broad examples of the _double entendre_. The
first reading of them makes one wonder how such matter could ever have
been put in print, and agree fully with the anger of the Signora, but
when the graceful and modest damsel, who may have been the author,
proceeds to give the true explanation of her riddle she never fails to
demonstrate clearly to the gentle company that her enigma, from
beginning to end, is entirely free from all that is unseemly. In “French
and English” Mr. Philip Gilbert Hamerton tells a story illustrating the
late survival of this sort of witticism in France. In the early days of
Louis Philippe, on one occasion when the court was at Eu, the mayor of
the town and certain other local notables were bidden to _déjeuner_ at
the chateau, and after the banquet the mayor, in accordance with an old
French fashion, asked leave to sing a song of his own making. This
composition had two meanings, one lying on the surface and perfectly
innocent, and the other, slightly veiled, which, though not immoral, was
prodigiously indecent. When the true nature of the song was realized,
there was for a second or two silence and confusion amongst the company,
but at last, by good luck, someone laughed. The dangerous point was
safely rounded, and the mayor brought his song to an end amidst loud
applause.
When he published his translation into French of the second part of the
“Notti,” Pierre de la Rivey made alterations in almost all the enigmas
therein contained, and re-wrote many of those which had already been
translated by Louveau, but in neither case did his work tend to make
them more decent. In reading over the enigmas as Straparola left them
one often feels that the line of reticence, recognized by contemporary
decorum, has been crossed, otherwise there would be no need for the
ladies to hide their faces, or for the Signora to visit the culprit for
the time being with her well-deserved rebuke. But Straparola’s untouched
work is almost decent compared with De la Rivey’s emendations.
In spite of the blots above designated, there will be found in the
“Notti” a smaller proportion of stories calculated to outrage modern
canons of taste than in any of the better known collections of Italian
_novelle_. The judgments which have been dealt out to Straparola on the
score of indecency by Landau (“Beiträge,” p. 130), by the writer of the
article in the “Biographie Universelle,” and by Grimm in his notes to
“Kinder und Hausmärchen,” seem to be unduly severe. In certain places he
is no doubt brutally coarse, but the number of fables defaced in this
manner is not large. If one were to take the trouble to compare the
rendering given by Basile in the “Pentamerone,” of stories told also by
Straparola, with the rendering of the same in the “Notti,” the award for
propriety of language would assuredly not always be given to the
Neapolitan, who, it should be remembered, was writing a book for young
children. In few of the collections of a similar character is there to
be found so genuine a vein of comedy, and for the sake of this one may
perhaps be permitted to beg indulgence for occasional lapses—lapses
which are assuredly fewer in number and probably not more heinous in
character than those of novelists of greater fame. Straparola turns
naturally towards the cheerful side of things, the lives of the men and
women he deals with seem to be less oppressed with the _tædium vitæ_
than are the creatures of the Florentine and Sienese and Neapolitan
novel-writers, and the reason of this is not far to seek. Life in
Venice, when once the political constitution was firmly and finally
fixed on an oligarchic basis, was more stable, more secure, more
luxurious than in any of the other ruling cities of Italy. Social and
political convulsion of the sort which vexed the neighbouring states was
almost unknown, and, though the forces of the Republic might
occasionally suffer defeat and disaster in distant seas and in the
Levant, life went on peacefully and pleasantly within the shelter of the
Lagunes. The religious conscience of the people was easy-going,
orthodox, and laudably inclined to listen to the voice of authority;
neither disposed to nourish within the hidden canker of heresy, nor to
let itself be worked up into ecstatic fever by any sudden conviction of
ungodliness such as led to the lighting of the Bonfire of Vanities in
Florence. In a society thus constituted it was inevitable that life
should be easier, more gladsome, and more secure than in Milan, with the
constant struggle of Pope against Emperor, and later on under the
turbulent despotism of the Viscontis and Sforzas; or than in Florence,
with its constant civil broils and licentious public life, which not
even the craft and power of the leaders of the Medici could discipline
into public order; or than in Naples, dominated by the Aragonese kings
and harried by the greedy mercenaries in the royal employ; or than in
Rome itself, vexed continually by intrigue, political and religious, and
by the tumults generated by the violence and ambition of the ruling
families.
A reflection of the gracious and placid life the Venetians led will be
apparent to all who may observe and compare the art of Venice with the
art of Milan, or Florence, or Naples. What a contrast is there between
that charming idyll which Titian has made of the marriage of St.
Catherine,[11] a group full of joy, and beauty, and sunlight, and set in
the midst of one of those delightful sub-alpine landscapes which he
painted with such rare skill and insight, and the many other renderings
of the same subject by Lombard or Tuscan masters, who, almost
invariably, put on the canvas some foreshadowing of the coming tragedy
in the shape of the boding horror of the toothed wheel! The Madonnas of
Carpaccio and Bellini are stately ladies, well nourished, and having
about them that unmistakable air of distinction which grows up with the
daily use and neighbourhood of splendid and luxurious modes of life.
There is no doubt a look of gravity and holiness upon their handsome
faces, but there is no sign, either in the pose or in the glance of
them, that they are conscious of any embarrassment, and it would take a
very keen eye to discern a trace of quasi-divinity, or of any trouble
aroused by the caress of the mysterious child, or of the burden of that
“intolerable honour” which has been thrust upon them unsought—a mood
which latter-day preachers have detected in renderings of the same theme
conceived and executed in the more emotional atmosphere of the Val
d’Arno. Take these Venetian Madonnas out of their pictured environment,
and put on them a gala dress and sumptuous jewels, and one will find a
bevy of comely dames who might well have kept company with the Signora
Lucretia of the “Notti” in the fair garden at Murano, and listened to
some sprightly story from Messer Pietro Bembo or from Messer Antonio
Molino; or they might have gone out with the youths and damsels of whom
Browning sings,
“Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to midday,
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?”
In the pictures he draws Straparola illustrates a life like this, with
now and then a touch of pathos, perhaps undesigned, as in the prologue
to the second Night, where he tells of the laughter of the blithe
company, ringing so loud and so hearty that it seemed to him as if the
sound of their merriment yet lingered in his ears.[12] There was,
therefore, good reason why Straparola’s imaginary exiles from the
turbulent court of Milan should have sought at Murano, under the
sheltering wings of St. Mark’s lion, that ease and gaiety which they
would have looked for in vain at home; there were also reasons equally
valid why he should make the genius of the place inspire with its jocund
spirit the stories with which the gentle company gathered around the
Signora Lucretia wiled away the nights of carnival. In the whole of the
seventy-four fables there are hardly half-a-dozen which can be classed
as tragic in tone, but of these one—the story of Malgherita
Spolatina[13]—is the finest of the whole collection. It is rarely one
meets with anything told with such force and sincerity; yet, in placing
before his readers this vivid picture of volcanic passion and studied
ruthless revenge, Straparola uses the simplest treatment and succeeds _à
merveille_. The fact that this fable and certain others of more than
average merit belong to the category of stories to which no source or
origin in other writings has been assigned, raises a regret that
Straparola did not trust more to his own inventive powers and draw less
freely upon Ser Giovanni and Morlini. Of these creations of his own the
story of Flamminio Veraldo[14] is admirably told and strikingly original
and dramatic in subject; so is that of Maestro Lattantio,[15] and, for a
display of savage cynicism and withering rage, it would be hard to find
anything more powerfully portrayed than the death of Andrigetto.[16]
In the fables of adventure, and in every other case where such treatment
is possible, Straparola deals largely with the supernatural. All the
western versions, except Straparola’s, of the story best known to us as
“Giletta of Narbonne” and as “All’s Well that Ends Well,” are worked out
without calling in auxiliaries of an unearthly character. Boccaccio and
Shakespeare bring together the husband and the forsaken wife by methods
which, if somewhat strained, are quite natural; but Straparola at once
calls for the witch and the magic horse, and whisks Isabella off to
Flanders forthwith.[17] The interest of the reader is kept alive by
accounts of the trials and dangers—a trifle bizarre now and again—which
heroes and heroines are called to undergo, the taste of the age
preferring apparently this stimulant to the intense dramatic power
exhibited in the story of Malgherita, and demanding that the ending
should be a happy one, for the pair of lovers nearly always marry in the
end, and live long and blissful years. In the tales of country life and
character the fun is boisterous and even broad, but it is always real
fun, and the laugh rings true. Straparola is often as coarse as
Bandello, but, unlike Bandello, he never smirches his pages merely for
the sake of setting forth some story of simple brutality, or of leading
up to a climax which is at the same time painfully shocking and
purposeless. Il Lasca in “Le Cene” makes as free use of the _beffe_ and
the _burle_ as Straparola, but the last-named showed in the “Notti” that
he was incomparably the better hand in dealing with his material. Il
Lasca as a rule sets out his subject on the lines of the broadest farce,
but he cannot keep to genuine farce, his natural bent of mind leading
him always to elaborate his theme in some unseemly and offensive
fashion. Very often he is obscene and savage at the same time, and the
abominable practical jokes he makes his characters play the one on the
other must surely have outraged even the coarse feeding taste of the age
in which he wrote. He delights in working up long stories of lust, and
of infidelity, and of vengeance worked on account of these, in a spirit
of heartless cruelty which, more often than not, is horrible without
being in the least impressive, for the reason that, fine stylist as he
was, he lacked the touch of the artist. Masuccio, though his savage
indignation against the vices of the priests and monks occasionally
became mere brutality, sounded now and then the note of real tragedy,
and, inferior as he was to Il Lasca in style, was by far the better
story-teller of the two. Both of these would be commonly set down as
abler writers than Straparola, yet, by some means or other, the latter
could put a touch upon his work which was beyond the power of the
others—something which enables one to read the “Notti” without being
conscious of that unpleasant aftertaste which one almost always feels on
laying down either “Le Cene” or “Il Novellino.”
No other of the Italian novelists used a style as bad as Straparola’s.
Errors in grammar abound, and his bald meagre periods often fail to
express adequately the sense of the idea he manifestly wishes to
portray. His faulty prose did not escape the censure of his
contemporaries, for Messer Orfeo dalla Carta, in his introduction to the
first part of the “Notti” (edition 1554), makes allusion to it, begging
the reader at the same time not to be repelled by what he calls “il
basso et rimesso stilo dello autore;” and La Monnoie, in the preface to
the French translation (edition 1726) writes in a similar strain. Dalla
Carta, probably by way of banter, advances an apology for Straparola’s
slovenly work in terms taken from that introduction to the second part
which has already been cited, explaining that the author did not write
his fables as he would have done, but as they had been told to him by
the ten damsels who were the narrators.
Straparola’s Italian is much more like the Italian of the present day
than the English of Sidney or the German of Hans Sachs is like modern
English or German, but this is not remarkable, considering how much
earlier prose writing as an art came to perfection in Italy than in the
rest of Europe. The impression gained by reading his prose is that he
cared vastly more for subject than for treatment. He laid hold of
whatever themes promised to suit his purpose best as a story-teller,
careless as to whether other craftsmen had used them before or not, and
these he set forth in the simplest manner possible, taking little heed
of his style or even of his grammar. He hardly ever indulges in a
metaphor. One never feels that he has gone searching about fastidiously
for some particular turn of phrase or neatly-fitting adjective; on the
other hand, one is often obliged to pause in the middle of some long
sentence and search for his meaning in the strange mixture of phrases
strung together. Perhaps this spontaneity, this absence of studied
design, may have helped to win for him the wide popularity he enjoyed.
His aim was to lead his readers into some enchanted garden of fairyland;
to thrill them with the woes and perils of his heroes and heroines; to
shake their sides with laughter over the misadventures of some too
amorous monk or lovesick cavalier, rather than to send them into ecstasy
over the measured elegance of his phrases. In many of the later editions
of the “Notti,” the meaning has been further obscured, and the style
rendered more rugged than ever, owing to the frequent and clumsy
excisions made by the censors of morals. The early exclusion of the
fourth Fable of the ninth Night shows that the eye of authority was soon
attracted towards the popular novelist of the age. The motive for this
activity was nominally the care of public morals, and one of the few
extant references to Straparola is with regard to the expurgation of his
works. In “Cremona Illustrata,” by Franciscus Arisius (Cremona, 1741),
we read concerning Caravaggio: “In hoc enim oppido inclytæ stirpis
Sfortiadum antiquo feudo ortum habuit Io. Franciscus Straparola cujus
liber sæpe editus circumfertur italice hoc programmate: ‘Le tredici
piacevolissime notti overo favole ed enimmi.’ Liber vetitus a sacra
indicis congregatione et jure quidem merito cum obscenitates sordidas
contineat moribus plerumque obnoxias et pluribi vulgatas. Optime quippe
animadvertit Possevinus S. J. de cultura ingeniorum cap. 52, quod
expediens esset homines potius nasci mutos et rationis expertes, quam in
propriam et aliorum perniciam divinæ providentiæ dona convertere, imo
ante eum ejusdem sententiæ fuisse M. F. Quintilianum licet gentilem,
ipse Possevinus confirmat.”
On reading even the most severely castrated edition of the “Notti,” one
may be at first a little surprised to find that some of the most
indecent stories (in spite of the care of public morals) have been left
almost untouched, and it is not until one realizes the fact that
expurgation has been held to mean the cutting out of every word
concerning religion and its professors, that one fully understands the
principle upon which “Possevinus S. J.” and his colleagues worked. The
presence of matter injurious to public morals had evidently less to do
with the action of these reformers than certain anecdotes describing the
presence of priests and nuns in certain places where, by every rule of
good manners, they ought not to have been found. In plain words, the
book was prohibited and castrated on account of the ugly picture of
clerical morals which was exhibited in its pages.[18] A glance at any of
the editions issued “con licenza de’ superiori” will show that the
revisers went to their work with set purpose, caring nought as to the
mangled mass of letterpress they might leave behind them. In some fables
bits are cut out so clumsily that the point of the story is entirely
lost; in others the feelings of orthodoxy are spared by changing the
hero of amorous intrigue from a _Prete_ to a _Giovene_. In one a pope is
reduced to a mere initial (of course standing for a layman), and the
famous story of Belphegor is left out altogether. It was surely little
short of impertinent to ask for a condemnation of the “Notti” on the
ground of offence to public decency from a generation which read such
books as “Les facétieuses journées” of Chapuys and “Les contes aux
heures perdues;” which witnessed the issue of Morlini’s novels and of
Cinthio degli Fabritii’s book, “Dell’ origine delli volgari proverbii,”
printed “cum privilegio summi pontificis et sacræ Cæsareæ majestatis;” a
generation for which Poggio’s obscene fables were favourite reading, and
which remembered that Pietro Bembo had been a cardinal and Giovanni di
Medici a pope.
It is impossible to indicate precisely the sources of the fables
seriatim, seeing that in many cases there was available for Straparola a
choice of origins. An approximate reckoning would give fifteen fables to
the novelists who preceded him, twenty-two to Morlini, four to mediæval
and seven to oriental legends, thus leaving twenty-eight to be classed
as original. Towards the close of his work it would appear that his
imagination must have been stricken with sterility, or that he became
indolent, for of the concluding twenty fables nineteen are mere
translations from Morlini. It is not improbable that such wholesale
borrowing as this may have been the cause of the charges of plagiary to
which allusion has already been made. From beginning to end he certainly
made free use of all the storehouses of materials which were available,
selecting therefrom whatever subjects pleased him, and working them up
to the best of his skill. It was unreasonable to censure him on this
score, seeing that in what he did he merely followed the fashion of the
age. If he borrowed from Ser Giovanni, had not Ser Giovanni borrowed
also from the “Directorium” and the “Gesta Romanorum”? Folk-lorists have
discovered for us the fact that all the stories the world ever listened
to may, by proper classification, be shown to be derived from some
half-dozen sources. As the sorting and searching goes on, new facts
constantly come to light, the drift of which tends to prove that the
charge of plagiarism is now almost meaningless. It is hard to say what
new and strange fruits may not be gathered from the wide field now
covered by the folk-lorist. Formerly he hunted only in the East; now we
find him amongst the Lapps and the Zulus—in Labrador, and in the South
Pacific as well. A still more extended search will very likely find a
fresh source for those of the fables in the “Notti” which have
heretofore been classed as the original work of Straparola, and will
discover for us a new and genuine author of “Puss in Boots.”
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=Orfeo dalla Carta to all delightful and lovesome ladies, greeting.=
Considering in my mind, kindly ladies, how many in number and how high
in excellence are those heaven-born and lofty spirits who, in ancient
and in modern times as well, have written down those various fables
which, when you read them, give you no small pleasure, I understand—and
you in like manner will understand—that they were moved thus to write
for no other reason than to give you solace and entertainment. Since I
opine, or rather since I am certain that this is the case, you,
delightful and lovesome ladies as you are, will not be wroth if I, your
good servant, shall publish in your name the Fables and the Enigmas of
the ingenious Messer Gioanfrancesco Straparola da Caravaggio, set forth
by him with no less elegance than learning. And even if the substance of
these should not furnish for your hearing the same pleasure and delight
as you are accustomed to find in certain other writers, do not on this
account contemn him by thrusting him aside and rejecting him altogether,
but rather with joyful faces take him to you as you are accustomed to
take the others; because if you, as you read his pages, will bear in
mind the diversity of events and the subtle wit contained therein, you
will at least derive from them no small instruction.
Besides this, you must not remark too narrowly the poor and negligent
style of the author, for the reason that he wrote his fables, not as he
wished to write them, but as he heard them from the ladies who related
them,[19] adding nought thereunto and taking nought therefrom. And if
you shall find him in any respect wanting, blame not him, who did his
work to the best of his power and knowledge, but blame me who have
published it against his wish. Accept, therefore, with gladsome looks
this little gift from me your servant; who, if it be shown to him (as he
hopes it may) that his offering is pleasing to you, will in the future
do his best to lay before you other things which may prove to be still
more to your pleasure and contentment. Be happy and remember me!
From Venice on the XI. day of January, MDLIIII.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=Proem.=
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=The Fables and Enigmas of Messer Giovanni Francesco Straparola da
Caravaggio.=
=Book the First.=
PROEM.
In Milan, the capital of Lombardy, an ancient city abounding in graceful
ladies, adorned with sumptuous palaces, and rich in all those things
which are fitted to so magnificent a town, there resided Ottaviano Maria
Sforza, Bishop-elect of Lodi, to whom by claim of heredity (Francesco
Sforza, Duke of Milan, being dead) the sovereignty of the state
rightfully belonged. But through the falling in of evil times, through
bitter hatreds, through bloody battles, and through the never-ending
vicissitudes of state affairs, he departed thence and betook himself
secretly to Lodi with his daughter Lucretia, the wife of Giovanni
Francesco Gonzaga, cousin of Federico, Marquis of Mantua, and there they
abode some months. Long time had not passed before his kinsmen
discovered his whereabouts, and began forthwith to annoy him; so the
unhappy prince, finding himself still the object of their ill will, took
with him what jewels and money he had about him, and withdrew with his
daughter, who was already a widow, to Venice, where they found friendly
reception from Ferier Beltramo, a noble gentleman of most benevolent
nature, amiable and graceful, who with great courtesy gave them pressing
invitation to take up their abode in his own house. But to share the
home of another generally begets restraint, so the duke, after mature
deliberation, resolved to depart and to find elsewhere a dwelling of his
own. Wherefore, embarking one day with his daughter in a small vessel,
he went to Morano, and having come there his eyes fell upon a
marvellously beautiful palace which at that time stood empty. He entered
it, and having taken note of its lovely position, its lofty halls, its
superb loggias, its pleasant gardens filled with smiling flowers and
rich in all sorts of fruit and blooming herbs, he found them all highly
to his taste. Then he mounted the marble staircase and surveyed the
magnificent hall, the exquisite chambers, and the balcony built over the
water, which commanded a view of the whole place. The princess,
captivated by the charm of the pleasant spot, besought her father so
strongly with soft and tender speeches, that he to please her fancy
hired the palace for their home. Over this she rejoiced greatly, for
morning and evening she would go upon the balcony to watch the scaly
fish which swam about in numerous shoals through the clear salt water,
and in seeing them dart about now here now there she took the greatest
delight. And because she was now forsaken by the ladies who had formerly
been about her court, she chose in their places ten others as beautiful
as they were good; indeed, time would fail wherein to describe their
virtues and their graces. Of these the first was Lodovica, who had
lovely eyes sparkling like the brightest stars, and everyone who looked
upon her could not but admire her greatly. The next was Vicenza, of
excellent carriage, of fine figure, and of polished manners, whose
lovely and delicate face shone with refreshing beauty upon all who
beheld it. The third was Lionora, who, although by the natural fashion
of her beauty she seemed somewhat haughty, was withal as kindly and
courteous as any lady to be found in all the world. The fourth was
Alteria, with lovely fair hair, who held her womanly devotion ever at
the service of the Signora. The fifth was Lauretta, lovely in person,
but somewhat disdainful, whose clear and languishing glances surely
enslaved any lover who ventured to court them. The sixth was Eritrea,
who, though she was small of stature, yielded to none of the others in
beauty and grace, seeing that she had two brilliant eyes, sparkling even
brighter than the sun’s rays, a small mouth, and a rounded bosom, nor
was there to be found in her anything at all which was not worthy of the
highest praise. The seventh was Cateruzza, surnamed Brunetta, who, all
graceful and amorous as she was, with her sweet and loving words
entangled not only men in her snares, but could even have made descend
from heaven the mighty Jove himself. The eighth was Arianna, who, though
young in years, was grave and sedate in her seeming, gifted with a
fluent tongue, and encompassed with divine virtues, worthy of the
highest praise, which shone like the stars scattered about the heavens.
The ninth was Isabella, a highly-gifted damsel, and one who, on account
of her wit and skilful fence of tongue, commanded the admiration of the
whole company. The last was Fiordiana, a prudent damsel, with a mind
stored with worthy thoughts, and a hand ever prompt to virtuous deeds
beyond any other lady in all the world. These ten charming damsels gave
service to their Lady Lucretia both in a bevy and singly. The Signora,
in addition to these, chose two matrons reverend of aspect, of noble
blood, of mature age, and of sterling worth, to assist her with their
wise counsels, the one to stand at her right hand and the other at her
left. Of these one was the Signora Chiara, wife of Girolamo Guidiccione,
a gentleman of Ferrara; and the other the Signora Veronica, the widow of
Santo Orbat, of one of the oldest houses of Crema. To join this gentle
and honourable company there came many nobles and men of learning,
amongst whom were Casal Bolognese, a bishop, and likewise ambassador of
the King of England, and the learned Pietro Bembo, knight of Rhodes and
preacher to the citizens of Milan, a man of distinguished parts and
standing highest in the Signora’s favour. After these came Bernardo
Capello, counted one of the chief poets of the time, the amiable Antonio
Bembo, Benedetto Trivigiano, a man of jovial easy manners, and Antonio
Molino, surnamed Burchiella, with his pretty wit, Ferier Beltramo, a
courteous gentleman, and many others whom it would be tedious to name in
turn. It was the custom of these, or at any rate of the greater part of
them, to assemble every evening at the palace of the Signora Lucretia,
and to entertain her with graceful dances, and playful discourse, and
music and song, thus graciously beguiling the fleeting hours. Sometimes,
too, certain problems would be propounded, to which the Signora alone
could find solution; but as the days of Carnival drew nigh, days always
vowed to playfulness and riot, the Signora bade them, under pain of her
displeasure, to assemble next evening on purpose to arrange what manner
of feast they themselves should keep. At the dusk of the next evening
they all duly appeared in obedience to her behest, and, having seated
themselves according to their rank, the Signora thus addressed them:
“Honourable gentlemen and you gracious ladies, now that we are come
together according to our wont, it seems well to me that we should order
these pleasant and gentle diversions of ours so as to furnish us with
some jovial pastime for the days of Carnival which are yet to run. Each
one of you therefore will propose what may seem most acceptable, and the
form of diversion which proves to be to the taste of the greatest number
shall—if it be seemly and decorous—be adopted.”
The ladies, and the gentlemen as well, declared with one voice that
everything should be left to the Signora’s decision; and she, when she
perceived their will, turned towards the noble company and said: “Since
it pleases you that I should settle the order of our entertainment, I,
for my part, would counsel that every evening, as long as Carnival
lasts, we should begin with a dance; then that five ladies should sing
some song of their own choosing, and this finished, that these five
ladies, in order to be determined by lot, should tell some story, ending
with an enigma which we will solve, if our wit be sufficient therefor.
At the end of the story-telling we will disperse to our homes for the
night. But if these propositions of mine be not acceptable to you, I
will readily bow to any other which may please you, and now I invite you
to make your wishes known.”
The project set forth by the Signora won the favour of all; wherefore
she commanded a golden vase to be brought forthwith, and into this were
cast papers bearing the names of five of the damsels present. The first
to be drawn forth was that of the fair Lauretta, who, bashful as she
was, blushed softly as the early hues of dawn. Next came the name of
Alteria, then Cateruzza, then Eritrea, and then Arianna. The drawing
over, the Signora caused to be brought in the musical instruments, and
set on the head of Lauretta a wreath of laurel in token that she should
make beginning of their entertainment on the evening following.
It now pleased the Signora that the company should fall to dancing, and
almost before she had signified this wish to Signor Antonio Bembo, that
gallant gentleman took by the hand Fiordiana, with whom he was somewhat
enamoured, and the others of the company followed this example
straightway, and kept up the measure merrily. Loath to forego such
pleasure, they gave over reluctantly, and bandying many soft speeches,
the young men and the damsels withdrew to another apartment, in which
were laid out tables with sweetmeats and rare wines, and there they
spent a pleasant time in jesting one with another. When their merriment
was over, they took leave of the Signora, who gracefully dismissed them
all.
As soon as the company had come together the next evening in the
beautiful palace of the Signora, she signed to the fair Lauretta to
begin her singing, and Lauretta without waiting for farther command
stood up, and, after respectfully saluting the Signora, went up on a
raised platform, upon which was placed a beautiful chair covered with
draperies of rich silk. Then having called her four chosen companions,
they sang in tender angelic cadence the following song in praise of the
Signora:
SONG.
Lady, by your kindly hand,
Which ever waits on love’s behest;
By your voice of sweet command,
That bids us in your presence rest;
You hold in fee your servants’ love,
And rank with spirits blest above.
You quit the city’s din and heat,
And let us in your smile rejoice;
You call us willing to your feet,
To listen to our lady’s voice;
Then let us loudly celebrate
Your dignity and queenly state.
And though upon our charmed sight
Earth’s fairest visions soft may fall;
Your grace, your wit, your beauty bright,
Will blur them and outshine them all.
To laud another should we seek,
Our tongues your praise alone would speak.
When the five damsels gave over singing, in token that their song had
come to an end, the instruments began to sound, and the graceful
Lauretta, upon whom the lot had fallen to tell the first story of the
evening, gave the following fable without waiting for further sign from
the Signora.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=Night the First.=
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=Night the First.=
THE FIRST FABLE.
=Salardo, son of Rainaldo Scaglia, quits Genoa and goes to Montferrat,
where he disobeys certain injunctions laid upon him by his
father’s testament, and is condemned to death therefor; but, being
delivered, he returns to his own country.=
In every work, let it be good or bad, which we undertake, or propose to
undertake, we ought first to consider the issue thereof. Wherefore, as
we are now about to make beginning of our sportive and pleasant
entertainment, I will protest that it would have been vastly more
agreeable to me, had the lot willed it that some other lady should begin
the story-telling; because I do not feel myself in any wise competent
for the undertaking; because I am wanting in that fluency of speech
which is so highly necessary in discourse of this kind, seeing that I
have had scanter usage in the art of elocution than the charming ladies
I see around me. But, since it pleases you, and has been decided by lot
that I should be the first, I will begin—so as not to cause any
inconvenience to this worshipful assemblage—my task of story-telling
with the best of the faculties granted to me by divine providence. I
will moreover leave open for those of my companions who shall come after
me a wide and spacious field so that they may be able to relate their
fables in an easier and more graceful style than I have at command.
Blessed, nay most blessed that son must be held to be who obeys his
father with all due reverence, forasmuch as he thereby carries out the
commands of the Eternal God, and lives long in the land, and prospers in
all his works. And on the other hand he who is disobedient may be
reckoned unhappy, nay most unhappy, seeing that all his undertakings
come to a wretched and ill-starred end, as you will easily understand
from the fable I am about to relate to you.
You must know then, gentle ladies, that at Genoa (a very ancient city,
and as pleasant a one as there is in the world) there lived, not long
ago, a gentleman named Rainaldo Scaglia, a man of great wealth, and
endowed no less generously with wit and knowledge. He had a son called
Salardo, whom he loved beyond all his other possessions, and this youth
he had caused to be educated in every worthy and liberal art, letting
him want nothing which might serve for his training and advancement. It
happened that in his old age a heavy sickness came upon Rainaldo, who,
seeing that his end was near, called for a notary, and made his will,
which gave to Salardo all his goods. Beyond this he begged his son to
honour his memory by keeping certain precepts ever in his mind, and
never to act counter thereto. The first precept was that, no matter how
great might be the love he had for his wife, he should never trust her
with any important secret. The second was that he should never adopt
another man’s child as his own, supposing his marriage to be a fruitless
one. The third was that he should never abide in a state, of which the
chief magistrate wielded powers of life and death unchecked. Having
given to his son these precepts, Rainaldo turned his face to the wall,
and breathed his last.
After his father’s death, Salardo, a young, rich, well-born gallant,
grieved but moderately; and, in lieu of troubling about the
administration of his estates or taking to heart his father’s precepts,
was in hot haste to find a wife, and began to search for one of
sufficiently good descent, and with a person to his taste. Before his
father had been a year dead, he married Theodora, the daughter of Messer
Odescalco Doria, a Genoese noble of the first rank. She was very
beautiful and of virtuous mind, though somewhat haughty, and Salardo was
so deeply enamoured of her that he could not bear, night or day, to let
her go out of his sight. For several years they lived together without a
child being born to them; and then Salardo, yearning for an heir and
disregarding the counsel of his father, determined to adopt a child and
to bring him up as his heir. Having gained his wife’s consent, he lost
no time in carrying out his purpose, and adopted the son of a poor
widow, calling the boy by the name of Postumius, and educating him with
the utmost care.
In the course of time it happened that Salardo grew weary of Genoa, and
determined to seek a home elsewhere, not because he did not find the
city all that was fair and pleasant, but simply because he was infected
with that desire for change which, not seldom, seizes upon those who
live for pleasure alone. Therefore, with great store of money and
jewels, and with sumptuous equipage, he left Genoa with Theodora his
beloved wife, and his adopted son Postumius, and having traversed
Piamonte, made a halt at Montferrat. Here he soon began to make the
acquaintance of divers of the citizens, through going with them to the
chase, and in other social gatherings in which he took great delight;
and, in consequence of his wealth and generosity, he soon achieved a
position of honour and repute.
The rumour of Salardo’s splendid hospitality came before long to the
ears of the ruling prince, the Marquis of Montferrat, who, when he saw
that the newcomer was a handsome young man, well born, rich, of courtly
manners, and ready for any gallant enterprise, took him into high favour
and would seldom let a day pass without seeing him. At last, so great
was the influence of Salardo over the marquis, it fell out that anyone
who wanted a favour done to him by the latter would always manage to let
his petition pass through Salardo’s hands. Wherefore Salardo, mindful of
the favour he enjoyed, was ever eager to devise some new pleasure for
his patron, who, as became a young man, was much given to field sports,
and kept a great number of falcons and hounds for the chase, and all
appurtenances of venery, worthy of his high estate. But he would never
go hunting or hawking save in the company of Salardo.
One day Salardo, being alone, began to consider the great fortune which
had befallen him through the favour of the prince, and by-and-by his
thoughts turned to his son Postumius, how discreet, and dutiful, and
upright, and graceful he was. ‘Ah!’ he said to himself, ‘my poor old
father was indeed sorely in error about these precepts of his. He must,
like many old men, have become imbecile with age; either this cause, or
some frenzy, must have urged him to command me so particularly not to
adopt a strange child as my own, or to become the subject of an absolute
prince. I now see the folly of his precepts, for what son born to a
father could be more sober, courteous, gentle, and obedient, than
Postumius, whom I have adopted, and where should I find greater
affection and more honourable treatment than is given to me by the
marquis, an absolute prince and one knowing no superior? And, exalted as
he is, he pays me so much worship and love that it seems sometimes as if
I stood in the highest place, and he in one beneath me. Of a truth I
know not what to think of it; of a truth it is a common trick of old
people to forget the tastes and inclinations of their youth, and to lay
down for their children rules and regulations, imposing thereby burdens
which they themselves would not touch with the tips of their fingers.
And this they do, moved not by love, but by the craving to keep their
offspring longer in subjection. Now, because I have disburdened myself
of two of the pledges imposed upon me by my father without any evil
consequence, I will quickly get rid of the third; for I am assured that
when I shall be free from it my dear wife will only love me the more.
And she herself, whom I love more than the light of my eyes, will give
ample proof of the imbecility, or even madness, of wretched old age,
which finds its chief joy in imposing, with its dead hand, intolerable
restrictions on the living. Truly my father must have been insane when
he made his will, for to whom is my trust due if not to her who has left
her home and kinsfolk and become of one heart and soul with me. Surely I
may confide to her any secret, however important it may be; so I will
put her fidelity to the test, not on my own account, for I doubt it not,
but to prove her strength, and to give an example to those foolish ones
who rate disobedience to the wishes of dead and gone dotards as an
unpardonable sin.’
In these terms Salardo girded at his father’s wise injunctions, and
deliberated how he might best rid himself of them entirely. After a
little he left his house and went over to the mews at the palace, where
the falcons of the marquis were kept, and of these he took one which was
a great favourite of its owner, and secretly conveyed it to the house of
a friend of his whose name was Francesco. He handed over the bird to his
friend, and begged him, for the sake of the love there was between them,
to hold it for him till the time should come when he might disclose the
object of his request. Then, when he had returned to his home, he took a
falcon of his own, and, having privily killed it, he bore it to his
wife, saying: ‘Theodora, my beloved wife, I, as you well know, find it
hard to get a moment’s rest on account of the many hours I am compelled
to spend in attendance on the marquis, hunting, or fowling, or jousting,
or in some other sport; and sometimes I hardly know whether I am dead or
alive. Wherefore, to keep him from spending all his time over the chase,
I have played him a trick he will relish but little. However, it may
perhaps keep him at home, and give us and others some repose.’ To this
his wife said: ‘And what have you done?’ ‘I have killed his best
falcon,’ Salardo replied, ‘the favourite of all; and when he looks for
it in vain I believe he will die of rage.’ And here he lifted his cloak
and took out the falcon which he had killed, and, having handed it over
to his wife, directed her to have it cooked for supper. When Theodora
heard this speech, and saw the dead falcon, she was deeply moved to
grief, and, turning to Salardo, reproached him severely for his foolish
jest. ‘For what reason have you committed such a grave offence,’ she
said, ‘and put such an insult on the marquis, who holds you so dear, and
heaps such high favour upon you, and sets you above all others? Alas!
Salardo, I fear our ruin is near. If, peradventure, the marquis should
come to know what you have done, you would assuredly be in great danger
of death.’ Salardo answered: ‘But how can he ever know this? The secret
is yours and mine alone, and, by the love you have borne and still bear
me, I pray you be careful not to reveal it, for if he should learn it
our ruin would be complete.’ ‘Have no fear of this,’ said Theodora, ‘I
would rather die than disclose it.’
The falcon was cooked and served at supper, and Salardo and his wife
took their seats, but the lady refused to eat of the bird, though
Salardo, with gentle words, enticed her thereto. At last, as she
remained obstinate, he gave her such a buffet on the face that her cheek
became scarlet from the blow. Wherefore she began to weep and lament
bitterly that he should thus misuse her, and at last rose from the
table, muttering beneath her breath that she would bear in mind that
blow as long as she might live, and that in due time she would repay
him. When morning was come, she stole early from her bed, and hastened
to tell the marquis of the falcon’s death, which news so fired him with
rage that he ordered Salardo to be seized forthwith, and to be hanged
without trial, and all his goods to be divided into three parts, of
which one should be given to his wife as accuser, another to his son,
and the remaining one to the man who should act as hangman.
Now Postumius, who was now a lusty well-grown youth, when he heard his
father’s doom and the disposition of his goods ordered by the marquis,
ran quickly to Theodora and said to her: ‘Mother, would it not be wiser
for me to hang my father myself, thus gaining the third of his goods
which would otherwise pass to a stranger.’ And to this Theodora replied:
‘Truly, my son, you speak well, for if you do this, your father’s riches
will remain with us intact.’ So Postumius went straightway to the
marquis to ask leave to hang his father, and thus earn the hangman’s
share, which boon the marquis graciously allowed.
Now Salardo had confided the whole of his secret to his faithful friend
Francesco, and at the same time had begged him, when the hangman should
be ready to do his work, to go to the marquis and beg him to let Salardo
be brought before him, and graciously to listen to what he might have to
say in his defence, and Francesco was loyal in carrying out this
request. Meantime, the wretched Salardo, loaded with fetters, was
awaiting in prison the hour which should see him led to a disgraceful
death on the scaffold. ‘Now I know,’ he cried, with bitter weeping,
‘that my good old father in his wisdom gave me those precepts for my
profit. He gave me sage counsel, and I, senseless ribald as I am, cast
it aside. He, mindful of my safety, warned me against my domestic
enemies, and I have delivered myself into their hands, and handed over
to them my riches to enjoy. He, well skilled in the disposition of
despots, who in the space of an hour will love and hate, exalt and
abase, counselled me to shun them; but I, as if eager to sacrifice at
once my substance, my honour, and my life, thrust my head into the jaws
of this marquis, and put my faithless wife to the proof. Ah, Salardo,
better had it been for you to follow in your father’s footsteps, and let
others seek the company of princes! Now I see into what strait my
foolish confidence in myself, in my wife, in my wicked son, and, above
all, in this ungrateful marquis, has led me. Now I see the value of the
love of this prince for me. How could he deal more cruelly with me than
by robbing me of my goods, my life, and my honour in one blow, showing
thus how his love has turned to hate? I recognize now the truth of the
proverb which says that a prince is like wine in a flagon, sweet in the
morning and sour at eve. Where is now my nobility and my kinsmen? Is
this the end of my loyalty, uprightness, and courtesy? O my father, I
believe that, dead though you be, when you gaze into the mirror of
eternal goodness, and see me about to be hanged, because, forsooth, I
disbelieved and disregarded your wise and loving counsel, you will pray
to God to have compassion on my youthful errors, and I, your disobedient
and ungrateful son, pray to you also for pardon.’
While the unhappy Salardo was thus communing with himself, Postumius,
with the air of a practised hangman, went with a body of police to the
prison, and, arrogantly presenting himself to Salardo, spake thus: ‘My
father, forasmuch as you are bound to be hanged by the order of the
marquis, and as the third part of your goods is to go to him who ties
the noose, I am sure, for the love you bear me, you will not be wroth at
the part I have chosen to play, seeing that thereby your goods, in lieu
of passing to strangers, will remain with your own family.’
Salardo, after listening attentively to this speech, replied: ‘God bless
you, my son; the course you have chosen pleases me much, and if at first
the thought of death terrified me, I am now content to die after
listening to your words. Do your office, therefore, quickly.’ Postumius
first implored his father’s pardon, and then, having kissed him, put the
halter about his neck, and exhorted him to meet death with patience.
Salardo, when he saw the turn things were taking, stood astonished, and,
after a little, was led out of prison with his arms bound and a halter
round his neck, and, accompanied by the hangman and the officers, was
hurried towards the place of execution. Arrived there, he turned his
back towards the ladder which stood against the gibbet, and in this
attitude he mounted step by step. When he had reached the top he looked
down courageously upon the assembly, and told them at full length the
cause which had brought him there, and with gentle words he implored
pardon for any affront he might have given, and exhorted all young
people to be obedient to their fathers. When the people heard for what
cause Salardo was condemned, there was not one who did not lament his
unhappy fate and pray he might yet be pardoned.
While the events above named were taking place, Francesco betook himself
to the palace, and, having been introduced, thus addressed the marquis:
‘Most worshipful sir, if ever you have been prompted to show pity
towards anyone, you are now doubly bound to deal mercifully with the
case of this friend of yours who is now, for no fault of his, led out to
suffer a shameful death. Consider, my lord, for what reason you
condemned Salardo, who loved you so dearly, and never by thought or deed
wrought an offence against you. Most gracious prince, only suffer your
faithful friend to be brought into your presence, and I will clearly
demonstrate to you his innocence.’ The marquis, with his eyes aflame
with rage at Francesco’s petition, made an effort to thrust him out of
his presence, but the suppliant threw himself down at the feet of the
marquis, and, embracing his knees, cried out with tears: ‘As you are a
just prince, have pity, O noble marquis! and let not the guiltless
Salardo die because of your anger. Calm yourself, and I will prove his
innocence; stay your hand but one hour, for the sake of that justice
which you and your fathers have always reverenced, lest it be said of
you that you put your friend to death without cause.’
The marquis, violently angered against Francesco, now broke silence: ‘I
see you wish to go the way of Salardo. If you go on enraging me thus I
will assuredly have you set by his side.’ ‘My lord,’ Francesco replied,
‘I ask for no greater boon than to be hanged alongside Salardo, if,
after having made inquiry, you do not find him innocent.’ This last
speech moved the marquis somewhat, for he reasoned that Francesco would
never have spoken thus without being assured of Salardo’s innocence,
seeing that he thereby ran the risk of the halter himself. Wherefore he
accorded the hour’s delay, and, having warned Francesco that he must
look to be hanged if he should fail to prove his friend’s innocence, he
sent a messenger straightway to the place of justice with an order to
delay the execution, and to bring Salardo, bound as he was and with the
rope about his neck, and the hangman and officers as well, into his
presence without delay.
Salardo, on being brought before the marquis, noted that his face was
still clouded with anger, and outspake at once with clear voice and
undaunted carriage: ‘My lord, the service I freely gave you, and the
love I bore you, scarcely deserved such a reward as the shame and
indignity you have put upon me in thus condemning me to a disgraceful
death. I admit that my folly, so to call it, deserved your anger; but I
was guilty of no crime heinous enough to warrant you in condemning me
thus hastily and unheard. The falcon, on account of which your anger was
kindled, lives safe and sound. It was never in my mind to kill it or to
insult you. I wanted to use it as a means of trying an experiment, the
nature of which I will now disclose to you.’ Having thus spoken, Salardo
bade Francesco go fetch the falcon and return it to its master; and then
he told the marquis the whole story of the precepts he had received from
his father, and how he had disregarded every one. The marquis, when he
listened to this frank and candid speech, and saw his falcon, handsome
and well nourished as ever, was, for the moment, struck dumb; but when
he had fully realized his error of having condemned a guiltless man to
death unheard, he raised his eyes, which were full of tears, and turned
them on Salardo, saying: ‘Salardo, if you could clearly realize all I
feel at this moment, you would know that the pain you have suffered from
the halter round your neck and the bonds about your arms is as nought
compared with the anguish which now torments me. I can hardly hope ever
to be happy again after having done so grievous an injury to you, who
loved and served me so faithfully. If it were possible that all should
be undone, how gladly would I undo it; but, since this is out of the
question, I will do my utmost to wipe out my offence, and to give you
all the reparation I can.’
Having thus spoken, the marquis with his own hands unfastened the halter
from Salardo’s neck, and loosened his bonds, embracing him the while
with the greatest tenderness; and, having taken him by the right hand
and led him to a seat by his own, he ordered the halter to be put round
the neck of Postumius, and the youth to be led away to execution,
because of his wicked conduct; but this Salardo would not permit.
‘Postumius,’ he said to the wretched youth, ‘what shall I now do with
you, whom, for the love of God, I have nurtured from childhood, only to
be so cruelly deceived? On one side is my past love for you; on the
other, the contempt I feel for the wicked deed you planned to do. One
calls upon my fatherly kindness to forgive you, the other bids me harden
my heart against you. What then shall I do? If I pardon you, men will
jeer at my weakness; if I punish you as you deserve, I shall go counter
to the divine exhortation to forgiveness. But that men may not tax me
either with too great leniency, or too great severity, I will neither
make you suffer in your person, nor will I myself endure the sight of
you any more; and in place of my wealth, which you so greedily desired,
you shall have the halter which you knotted round my neck, and keep it
always as a remembrance of your wicked deed. Now begone, and let me
never see you or hear of you again.’
With these words he drove out the wretched Postumius, of whom nothing
more was ever heard. Theodora, as soon as she was told of Salardo’s
liberation, fled to a certain convent, where she soon ended her days
miserably, and Salardo, when he heard the news of her death, took leave
of the marquis and returned to Genoa, where, after having given away all
the wealth he did not want for his own use, he lived long and happily.
During the telling of Lauretta’s story divers of the hearers were moved
to tears, but when they heard that Salardo had been delivered from the
gibbet, and Postumius ignominiously expelled, and of Theodora’s flight
and ill-starred end, they were heartily glad. The Signora gave the word
to Lauretta to propound her enigma, so that the order of entertainment
agreed upon the previous evening might be observed, and the damsel with
a smiling face gave it in these words:
In a prison pent forlorn,
A tiny son to me was born.
Ah, cruel fate! The savage elf,
Scarce bigger than a mite himself,
Devoured me in his ravenous lust,
And changed me into sordid dust.
A mother fond I was of late,
Now worse e’en than a slave’s my fate.
The fair Lauretta, when she saw that no one was likely to solve her
riddle, said, “This enigma of mine concerns the dry bean which is
imprisoned between two husks; where, later on, she engenders a worm no
bigger than a mite. This worm feeds upon her, and finally consumes her,
so that not only is she destroyed as a mother, but not even the
condition of a servant is possible for her.” All were pleased at
Lauretta’s explanation, and Alteria, who sat next to her, having been
selected as the next speaker, began at once her story without awaiting
the Signora’s command.
THE SECOND FABLE.
=Cassandrino, a noted robber, and a friend of the prætor of Perugia,
steals the prætor’s bed and his horse Liardo, but afterwards
becomes a man of probity and good repute.=
The wit of man, dear ladies, is so keen and subtle, that one would be
hard set to find a task arduous enough to baffle it. There is, indeed, a
familiar saying of the common people, that a man does what he wishes to
do; and this same proverb it is which has suggested to me the tale I am
about to tell you. Although it is somewhat ridiculous, it may yield you
some pleasure, or even instruction, by demonstrating to you the cunning
of those who are thieves by profession.
In Perugia, an ancient and noble city of Romagna, renowned for its
learning and for sumptuous living, there abode, not very long ago, a
handsome young scapegrace named Cassandrino. So ill was his reputation
with the citizens, on account of his many robberies, that frequent and
lengthy complaints thereanent were made to the prætor by men of all
stations in the city; but this latter, though he rated Cassandrino
soundly for his misdeeds, seemed loath to punish him. Now, though
Cassandrino was, past gainsaying, a thievish knave, he had one virtue
which at least got him credit with the prætor, that is, he did not rob
for the mere love of pelf so much as to be able, now and then, to spend
magnificently and to offer handsome gifts to those who favoured him.
Wherefore, and because he was affable, courteous, and witty, the prætor
looked upon him so kindly that he would rarely let pass a day without
seeing him.
But since Cassandrino persisted in these more or less reprehensible
courses, the prætor was forced to give ear to the complaints which, with
full justice, were laid against him. Being still reluctant to bring the
culprit to justice, on account of the kindly feeling in his heart, he
summoned Cassandrino one day into an inner chamber, and began to
admonish him with friendly words, and to exhort him to have done with
his evil ways, warning him of the perils he was risking thereby.
Cassandrino listened attentively to the prætor’s words, and spake thus
in reply: ‘Sir, I hear and clearly understand the good counsel which
you, of your great courtesy, have given to me, and I know full well that
it springs from the generous affection in which you hold me, and for
which I am most grateful. I am indeed grieved that we should be plagued
with certain foolish people jealous of others’ well-being, and ever
ready to blast their honour with spiteful words. These busybodies, who
bear such tales about me, would do better to keep their venomous tongues
between their teeth than to let them run on to my hurt.’ The prætor,
swayed by his affection for the speaker, needed very little persuasion
to believe Cassandrino’s story and to turn a deaf ear to the plaints of
his ravages made by the citizens. It chanced soon after that
Cassandrino, being a guest at the prætor’s table, told him of a youth
who was so marvellously light-fingered that he could steal anything he
had a mind to, however carefully guarded and protected it might be. The
prætor, when he heard this, laughed and said: ‘Cassandrino, this youth
can be no other than you yourself, for there cannot be another such a
crafty trickster; but, to put you to the test, I will promise you a
hundred golden florins if you succeed to-night in stealing the bed out
of the chamber in which I sleep.’ Cassandrino seemed somewhat disturbed
at these words, and then answered: ‘Sir, you evidently take me for a
thief; but let me tell you I am not one, nor the son of one. I live by
the sweat of my brow, and by my own industry, such as it is, and do for
myself the best I can. But if it be your will to bring me to the gallows
on this score, I will go there gladly for the sake of the regard I have
ever had, and still have, for you.’ After this speech Cassandrino
withdrew, for he was very anxious to humour the prætor’s whim, and he
went about all day cudgelling his brains to devise how he might steal
the prætor’s bed from under him without betraying himself. At last he
hit on the following scheme. A certain doctor of the city had lately
died, and on that very day had been buried in his family vault. After
midnight Cassandrino stole to the burying-place, and, having opened the
vault, drew therefrom the dead body of the doctor by the feet, and,
after he had stripped it, dressed it again in his own clothes, which
fitted so well that anyone would have taken it for Cassandrino and not
for the doctor. He hoisted the corpse upon his shoulders as well as he
could, and, having made his way safely to the palace, he scaled the
roof, with the doctor’s body on his back, by a ladder which he had
provided, and began noiselessly to remove the tiles with an iron
crowbar, finally making a large hole in the ceiling of the room in which
the prætor was sleeping.
The prætor, who was wide awake, heard distinctly all that was going on,
and laughed to himself, though his roof was being pulled to pieces, for
he expected every moment to see Cassandrino enter the room and attempt
to carry off the bed. ‘Ah! Messer Cassandrino,’ he said to himself, ‘you
will not steal my bed to-night.’ But while he was thus chuckling and
expecting the attempt, Cassandrino let fall the dead body of the doctor
through the breach in the ceiling into the prætor’s room. The noise it
made caused him to jump out of bed and light a candle, and then he saw
what he took to be the body of Cassandrino (because it was dressed in
that worthy’s clothes) lying mangled and huddled together on the floor.
When he recognized the garments, he was profoundly grieved, and cried
out, ‘Ah, what a wretched sight is here! To gratify my silly caprice I
have killed this man. What will men say if it be noised abroad that he
met his end in my house? Of a truth one needs to be careful.’ The
prætor, lamenting thus, went to rouse a faithful servant of his, and
having awakened him, told him of the unhappy mischance, and begged him
go dig a hole in the garden and bury therein the dead body, so as to
prevent scandal. Whilst the prætor and his servant were burying the dead
body in the garden, Cassandrino, who had silently watched the prætor’s
movements, as soon as the coast was clear let himself down by a rope,
and having made a parcel of the bed, carried it away with all possible
haste. After he had buried the body, the prætor returned to his room;
but when he prepared to get into bed, no bed was there. He slept little
that night, wherefore he had plenty of time to ponder over the cunning
and dexterity of his friend Cassandrino.
The next day Cassandrino, according to his wont, went to the palace and
presented himself to the prætor, who, as soon as he had set eyes on him,
said: ‘In truth, Cassandrino, you are the very prince of thieves! who
else would have contrived so cunningly to steal my bed?’ Cassandrino was
silent, feigning the utmost astonishment, as if he had had no part in
the affair. ‘You have played an excellent trick upon me,’ the prætor
went on to say, ‘but I must get you to play me yet another, in order
that I may judge how far your ingenuity can carry you. If you can manage
to-night to steal my horse Liardo—the best I ever had—I will give you
another hundred florins, in addition to the hundred I have already
promised you.’ Cassandrino, when he heard of this fresh task which was
put upon him, feigned to be much troubled, and loudly lamented that the
prætor should hold him in such ill repute, begging him at the same time
not to be his ruin. The prætor, deeming that Cassandrino refused assent
to his request, grew angry, and said, ‘Well, if you will not do as I bid
you, look for no other fate than to hang by a halter from the city
wall.’ Cassandrino, who now saw that his case was dangerous, and in no
small measure,[20] replied: ‘I will do all I can to gratify you in what
you ask, but believe me the task you propose is one beyond my power;’
and with these words he departed.
As soon as he was gone, the prætor, who was resolved this time to put
Cassandrino’s ingenuity to no light trial, called one of his servants
and thus addressed him: ‘Go to the stable, and saddle and bridle my
horse Liardo; then mount him, and keep all night on his back, taking
good heed the while that he be not stolen.’ And he gave orders to
another to see that all the doors of the palace were well secured with
bolts. That night Cassandrino took all his implements, and repaired to
the principal gate of the palace, where he found the porter quietly
dozing; but, because he knew well all the secret issues of the place, he
let the porter sleep on, and, making use of another passage, he gained
the courtyard, and thence passed on to the stables, which he found fast
locked. With very little trouble he unfastened the door, and having
opened this, he perceived, to his amazement, that a man was sitting on
the prætor’s favourite horse, with the reins in his hand, but when he
approached he saw the fellow was sound asleep. The crafty rascal, noting
that the sleeping varlet was senseless as a statue, at once hit upon a
plan, clever beyond belief. He carefully measured the height of the
horse, and then stole away into the garden, from whence he brought back
four stout poles, such as are used in supporting vines on a trellis; and
having sharpened them at the ends, he cunningly cut the reins, which the
sleeping servant held in his hand, and the breast-strap, and the girths,
and the crupper, and every other bond which stood in his way. Then,
having fixed one of the poles in the ground, with the upper end
dexterously inserted under one corner of the saddle, he did exactly the
same on the other side, and repeated the operation at the other two
remaining corners. Next he raised the saddle off the horse’s back (the
servant being sound asleep all the while), and let it rest entirely on
the four poles which were firmly fixed in the ground. Then, there being
no obstacle in his way, he haltered the horse and led it off.
The prætor was astir early the next morning, and repaired forthwith to
the stable, where he expected to find his horse all safe; but the sight
which met his eyes was his servant, still sitting fast asleep on the
saddle propped up by four poles. The prætor, having awakened him, loaded
him with abuse, and, half dazed with what he had seen, quitted the
stable and returned to the palace. At the usual hour in the morning
Cassandrino betook himself to the palace, and gave the prætor a merry
salute when he appeared. ‘Cassandrino,’ said the latter, ‘assuredly you
carry off the palm amongst thieves. I may indeed dub you with the title
of “King of the thieves,” but still should like to ascertain whether you
are a man of wit and cleverness. You know, I think, Messer Severino, the
priest of Sangallo, a village hard by. Well, if you bring him here to me
tied up in a sack, I promise to give you as much money again as you have
already earned; but if you fail in this, be sure that I will hang you up
by the neck.’ This Messer Severino was a man of holy life, and of the
best repute, but in no wise experienced in worldly affairs, seeing that
he cared for nought else but the service of his church. Cassandrino,
perceiving that the prætor had set his mind on working him an injury,
said to himself: ‘This man, I plainly see, is bent on doing me to death;
but in this he will find himself mistaken, for I will execute this task
if it is to be done.’ Cassandrino, being thus anxious to do the prætor’s
bidding, cast about how he might play a trick upon the priest which
would serve the purpose he had in view, and ultimately fixed on the
following stratagem. He borrowed from a friend of his a priest’s alb,
long enough to come down to his heels, and a well-broidered stole, and
these he took home to his lodging. Then he got ready a pair of beautiful
wings, painted in divers colours, which he had fashioned out of
pasteboards, and also a diadem of tinsel, which shone radiantly. At
nightfall he stole out of the town with his gewgaws, and went towards
the village where Messer Severino abode, and there he hid himself in a
thicket of sharp thorns, and lay close till the day began to dawn. Then
Cassandrino put on the alb, and the stole round about his neck, and set
the diadem on his head, and fixed the wings on his shoulders. Having
done this, he hid himself again, and stirred not till the time had come
when the priest should go forth to ring the bell for the Ave Maria.
Scarcely had Cassandrino vested himself, when Messer Severino, with his
acolyte, arrived at the church door, which he left open, and went in to
do his morning office. Cassandrino, who was on the watch, saw that the
door of the church was standing open while the good priest was ringing
the bell, crept out of his hiding-place, stole softly into the church,
and, when he had entered, went up to the altar and stood upright,
holding open a large sack in his hands. Next he cried out in a low
chanting voice: ‘Whoever wishes to enter into the joys of paradise, let
him get into this sack;’ and these words he repeated over and over
again. While he was performing this mummery, the acolyte came out of the
sacristy, and, when he saw the snow-white alb, and the diadem shining
brilliant as the sun, and the wings as gorgeous as a peacock’s—to say
nothing of the words he heard—he was altogether amazed; but when he had
somewhat recovered, he went off to find the priest, and said to him:
‘Sir, sir, I have just seen in the church an angel of heaven, holding a
sack in his hands, who said: “Whoever wishes to enter into the joys of
paradise, let him get into this sack;” and I, for my part, have made up
my mind to do as he bids me.’
The priest, who was not over well furnished in the upper storey, gave
full credence to the acolyte’s tale, and, as soon as he had issued from
the sacristy, saw the angel standing there, clad in celestial garb, as
the acolyte had said. Now Messer Severino was powerfully moved by the
angel’s words, and being mightily anxious to get safe to paradise, and
at the same time somewhat in fear lest the clerk should forestall him by
getting first into the sack, made believe to have left his breviary
behind him at his lodging, and said to the acolyte: ‘Go quickly home and
search my chamber diligently, and bring back my breviary which I have
left somewhere.’
And while the acolyte was gone to search for the breviary the priest
approached the angel, making the while a deep reverence, and crept into
the sack. Cassandrino, who was full of sharp cunning and mischief,
seeing that the game was going as he wished, closed the sack’s mouth at
once and tied it firmly. Then he took off the alb, the diadem, and the
wings, and having made a bundle of these and hoisted it, together with
the sack, on his shoulders, he set out for Perugia, where he arrived as
soon as it was clear daylight, and at the accustomed hour presented
himself before the prætor with the sack on his back. Having untied the
mouth, he lugged out Messer Severino, who, finding himself in the
presence of the prætor, and more dead than alive—conscious likewise that
a fool’s trick had been played with him—made a weighty charge against
Cassandrino, crying out at the top of his voice that he had been robbed
and inveigled by craft into the sack, to his great loss and humiliation,
and begging the prætor to make an example of him, nor to let so great a
crime go without severe punishment, so as to give a clear warning to all
other malefactors. The prætor, who had already fathomed the business
from beginning to end, could not contain his laughter, and turning to
Messer Severino thus addressed him: ‘My good father and my friend, say
not another word and do not distress yourself, for you shall never want
any favour, nor fail to have justice done to you; although, as I see
quite clearly, you have just been made the victim of a joke.’ The prætor
had to say and do his best to pacify the good priest, and, having taken
a little packet wherein were several pieces of gold, he gave it to him
and directed that he should be escorted out of the town. Then, turning
to Cassandrino, he said to him: ‘Cassandrino, Cassandrino, of a truth
your knavish deeds outdo your knavish reputation which is spread abroad.
Wherefore, take these four hundred golden florins which I promised you,
because you have fairly gained them, but take care that you bear
yourself more decently in the future than you have borne yourself in the
past, for if I hear any more complaints of your knavish pranks, you
shall certainly be hanged.’
Cassandrino hereupon took the four hundred golden florins, and having
duly thanked the prætor for them, went his way, and with this money he
traded skilfully and successfully, and in time became a man of business
highly respected by all.
The ladies and gentlemen were much pleased with Alteria’s story, and she
being called upon by the Signora gave her enigma in the following terms:
While I my nightly vigil kept,
A man I spied, who softly crept
Adown the hall, whereon I said,
“To bed, Sir Bernard, get to bed.
Two shall undress you, four with care
Shut fast the doors, and eight up there
Shall watch, and bid the rest beware.”
While these deceiving words I said,
The thievish wight in terror fled.
Alteria, seeing that the hour was late and that no one was likely to
solve her riddle, gave this explanation: “A gentleman had gone into the
country with all his household, and had left in his palace an old woman,
who prudently made a practice of going about the house at nightfall to
see if she might espy any thieves, and one evening it chanced that she
saw a robber on a balcony, who watched her through a hole. The good old
woman refrained from crying out, and wisely made believe that her master
was in the house, and a throng of servants as well. So she said: ‘Go to
bed, Messer Bernardo, and let two servants undress you, and four shut
the doors, while eight go upstairs and guard the house.’ And while the
old woman was giving these orders, the thief, fearing to be discovered,
stole away.” When Alteria’s clever riddle had been solved, Cateruzza,
who was seated next to her, remembered that the third story of this
first night was to be told by her, so with a smiling face she began.
THE THIRD FABLE.
=Pre Scarpafico, having been once duped by three robbers, dupes them
thrice in return, and lives happily the rest of his days.=
The end of Signora Alteria’s story, which she has set forth with so
great skill, supplies me with a theme for my own, which peradventure may
please you no less than hers, though on one point it will show a
variance, inasmuch as she pictured to us Pre Severino neatly entrapped
by Cassandrino; while in the story I am about to tell you, Pre
Scarpafico threw the net no less adroitly over divers knaves who were
trying to get the better of him.
Near to Imola, a city always plagued by factious quarrels and ultimately
destroyed thereby, there lived once upon a time a priest named
Scarpafico, who served the village church of Postema. He was well to do,
but miserly and avaricious beyond measure, and he had for housekeeper a
shrewd and clever woman named Nina, who was so alert and pushing that
she would never scruple to tell any man whatever might come into her
mind. And because she was faithful and prudent in administering his
affairs he held her in high esteem.
Now when good Pre Scarpafico was young he was as jolly a priest as there
was to be met in all the country round; but at this time age had made
walking on foot irksome to him, so the good Nina was always persuading
him to buy a horse, in order that his days might not be shortened
through too great fatigue. At last Scarpafico, overborne by the
persuasions of his servant, went one day to the market, and having seen
there a mule which appeared exactly to suit his need, bought it for
seven golden florins.
It happened that there were three merry fellows at the market that day,
of the sort which liefer lives on the goods of others than on its own
earnings—as sometimes happens even in our own time—and, as soon as they
saw the bargain struck, one said to the others, ‘Comrades, I have a mind
that the mule yonder should belong to us.’ ‘But how can that be
managed?’ said the others. Then the first speaker replied, ‘We must post
ourselves along the road he will take on his journey home, about a
quarter of a mile apart one from another, and as he passes each one must
affirm positively that the mule he has bought is not a mule at all, but
an ass, and if we are brazen enough in our declaration the mule will be
ours.’
Accordingly they started from the market and stationed themselves
separately on the road, as they had appointed, and when Pre Scarpafico
approached the first of the thieves, the fellow, feigning to be on the
road to the market, said, ‘God be with you, sir!’ to which Scarpafico
replied, ‘And welcome to you, my brother.’ ‘Whence come you, sir?’ said
the thief. ‘From the market,’ Scarpafico answered. ‘And what good
bargains have you picked up there?’ asked the thief. ‘This mule,’ said
Scarpafico. ‘Which mule?’ exclaimed the robber. ‘Why, the mule I am
riding,’ returned Scarpafico. ‘Are you speaking in sober truth, or do
you mock me?’ asked the thief; ‘because it seems to me to be an ass, and
not a mule.’ ‘Indeed,’ Scarpafico answered, and without another word he
went his way. Before he had ridden far he met the next robber, who
greeted him, ‘Good morrow, sir, and where may you come from?’ ‘From the
market,’ answered Scarpafico. ‘And was there aught worth buying?’ said
the robber. ‘Yes,’ answered Scarpafico, ‘I bought this mule which you
see.’ ‘How, sir,’ said the robber, ‘do you mean to say you bought that
for a mule, and not for an ass? What rascals must be about, seeing you
have been thus cheated!’ ‘An ass, indeed,’ replied Scarpafico; ‘if
anyone else should tell me this same tale, I will make him a present of
the beast straightway.’ Then going his way, he soon met the third thief,
who said to him, ‘Good morrow, sir. You come mayhap from the market?’ ‘I
do,’ replied Scarpafico. ‘And what may you have bought there?’ asked the
robber. ‘I bought this mule which I am riding,’ said Scarpafico. ‘Mule,’
said the fellow; ‘do you really mean what you say? Surely you must be
joking when you call that beast a mule, while it is really an ass.’
Scarpafico, when he heard this tale, said to the fellow, ‘Two other men
I have met told me the same story, and I did not believe them, but now
it appears certain that the beast is an ass,’ and having dismounted from
the mule, he handed it over to the thief, who, having thanked the priest
for it, went off to join his companions, leaving good Pre Scarpafico to
make his way home on foot.
As soon as he came to his house he told Nina how he had bought a nag at
the market, thinking it to be a mule, but that it had proved to be an
ass; and how, having been told that he had mistaken one beast for the
other by several people he had met on the road home, he had given the
beast to the last of them. ‘Ah, you poor simpleton!’ cried Nina. ‘Cannot
you see they have played you a trick? I thought you were cleverer than
this. In truth, they would not have fooled me thus.’ ‘Well, it is no use
to grieve over it,’ said Scarpafico. ‘They may have played me a trick,
but see if I do not play them two in return. Be sure that these fellows,
after having once fooled me, will not rest content with that, but will
soon be weaving some new plot whereby they may plunder me afresh.’
Not far from Pre Scarpafico’s house there lived a peasant, who had
amongst his goats two which were so much alike that it was impossible to
tell one from the other. These two goats the priest bought, and the next
day ordered Nina to prepare a good dinner for himself and some friends
he proposed to invite—some boiled veal, and roast fowls and meat, and to
make savoury sauces thereto, and a tart of the sort she was accustomed
to serve him with. Then he took one of the goats and tied it to a hedge
in the garden, and having given it some fodder, he put a halter round
the neck of the other and led it off to the market, where he was at once
accosted by the three worthies of the late escapade. ‘Welcome, good sir,
and what may be your business here to-day? You are come, no doubt, to
make another good purchase?’ To which Scarpafico replied, ‘I have come
to buy divers provisions, for some friends are coming to dine with me;
and if you will consent to join our feast it will please me greatly.’
The cunning rascals willingly accepted Scarpafico’s invitation, and he,
when he had bought everything he required, bestowed all his purchases on
the back of the goat, and said to the beast, ‘Now go home and tell Nina
to boil this veal, and to roast the fowls and the meat, and tell her,
moreover, to make savoury sauce with these spices, and a fair tart. Do
you understand? Now go in peace.’ And with these words he drove off the
laden goat, which, being left to go where it would, wandered away, and
what befell it no one knows. Scarpafico and his companions and some
other friends of his strolled about the market-place till the hour of
dinner, and then they all repaired to the priest’s house, where the
first thing they saw on entering the garden was the goat which
Scarpafico had tied to the hedge, calmly ruminating after its meal of
herbage. The three adventurers at once set it down as the goat which Pre
Scarpafico had despatched home with his purchases, being beyond measure
amazed thereat; and when they were all come in, the priest said to Nina,
‘Have you prepared everything as the goat told you?’ and she,
understanding his meaning, replied, ‘Yes, sir, in a few minutes the
roast loin and the fowls and the boiled veal will be ready, and the
sauce made with spices, and the tart likewise; all as the goat told me.’
The three robbers, when they saw set forth the roast and boiled and the
tart, and heard what Nina said, were more astonished than ever, and at
once began to cast about how they might get possession of the goat by
theft; but when the dinner had come to an end, and they found themselves
as far as ever from compassing their felonious purpose, they said to
Scarpafico, ‘Sir, will you do us the favour to sell us that goat of
yours?’ But Scarpafico replied that he had no wish to part with it, for
it was worth more money than the world held; but, after a little, he
consented to oblige them, and to take in exchange for it fifty golden
florins. ‘But,’ he added, ‘take warning, and blame me not afterwards if
the goat does not obey you as it obeys me, for it knows you not or your
ways.’
But the three adventurers heeded not this speech of Scarpafico, and,
without further parley, carried off the goat, rejoicing in their
bargain. When they came to their homes, they said to their wives, ‘See
that you prepare no food to-morrow save that which we shall send home by
the goat.’ On the morrow they went to the piazza, where they purchased
fowls and divers other viands, and these they packed on the goat’s back,
and directed it to go home, and to tell to their wives all they ordered.
The goat, thus laden, when it was set at liberty, ran away into the
country and was never seen again.
When dinner-hour was come the three confederates straightway went home
and demanded of their wives whether the goat had come back safely with
the provisions, and whether they had duly cooked these according to the
directions given. The women, amazed at what they heard, cried out, ‘What
fools and numskulls you must be to suppose that a beast like that would
do your bidding! You surely have been prettily duped. With your cheating
other people every day, it was quite certain you would be caught
yourselves at last.”
As soon as the three robbers saw that Scarpafico had verily made fools
of them, besides having eased their pockets of fifty golden florins,
they were hotly incensed against him, and, having caught up their arms,
they set forth to find him, swearing they would have his life. But the
cunning priest, who fully expected that the robbers would seek vengeance
upon him when they should discover how he had tricked them, had taken
counsel with Nina thereanent. ‘Nina,’ he said, ‘take this bladder, which
you see is full, and wear it under your dress; then, when these robbers
come, I will put all the blame on you, and in my rage will make believe
to stab you; but I will thrust the knife in this bladder, and you must
fall down as if you were dead. The rest you will leave to me.’
Scarcely had Scarpafico finished speaking when the confederates arrived,
and at once made for Scarpafico as if to kill him. ‘Hold, brothers,’ he
cried, ‘what you would bring against me is none of my doing, but the
work of this servant of mine, most likely on account of some affront of
which I know nothing.’ And, turning towards Nina, he struck his knife
into the bladder, which he had previously filled with blood, and she
forthwith feigned to be dead and fell down, while the blood gushed in
streams about where she lay. Then the priest, looking upon his work,
made great show of repentance, and bawled out lustily, ‘Oh, wretched man
that I am! what have I done in thus foolishly slaying this woman who was
the prop of my old age? How shall I manage to live without her?’ But
after a little he fetched a bagpipe, made according to a fancy of his
own, and blew a tune upon it, until at last Nina jumped up safe and
sound, as if recalled to life.
When the robbers saw what happened they forgot their anger in their
astonishment, and, after a little chaffering, they purchased the bagpipe
for two hundred florins, and went highly delighted to their homes. A day
or two after it chanced that one of them fell out with his wife, and,
becoming enraged, stabbed her in the breast with his knife and killed
her. The husband at once took the bagpipe which had been bought of
Scarpafico, and blew into them as Scarpafico had done in hopes of
reviving her; but he spent his wind to no purpose, for the poor woman
had verily passed from this life to the next. When the second thief saw
what his comrade had done, he cried out, ‘What a fool you are! you have
bungled the affair. Wait and see how I do it.’ And with these words he
seized his own wife by the hair, and cut her throat with a razor. Then,
taking the bagpipe, he blew with all his might, but with no better
result than the first. The third fellow, who was standing by, nothing
daunted by the failure of the others, served his own wife in the same
way to no better purpose; so the three were all alike wifeless. With
hotter anger against Scarpafico than ever, they hurried to his house,
resolved that this time they would pay no heed to his plausible tales,
and seized him and thrust him into a sack, purposing to drown him in a
neighbouring river. But as they bore him along something gave them an
alarm, and they ran to hide themselves for a while, leaving Pre
Scarpafico in his sack by the wayside.
They had not been gone many minutes before a shepherd, driving his flock
to pasture, went by; and, as he drew nigh, he heard a plaintive voice
saying, ‘They want me to take her, but I will have none of her; for I am
a priest, and have no concern with such matters.’ The shepherd stopped
short, somewhat frightened, because he could not discover whence came
the voice, which kept repeating the same words over and over again; but,
having looked now here, now there, his eye at last fell on the sack in
which Scarpafico was tied up. The shepherd opened the sack and let the
priest come forth, demanding why he had been thus tied up, and what he
meant by the words he kept uttering. Whereupon Scarpafico declared that
the seigneur of the town insisted on marrying him to one of his
daughters, but that he himself had no stomach for the match, because,
besides being a priest, he was too old to wive. The shepherd, who, like
a simpleton, believed every word the cunning priest told him, at once
cried out, ‘Good father, do you think the seigneur would bestow her upon
me?’ ‘I believe he would,’ said Scarpafico, ‘provided you get into this
sack and let me tie you up.’ The silly shepherd at once crept in, and
Scarpafico, having fastened the sack, got away from the place as quickly
as he could, driving the poor shepherd’s flock before him.
When an hour or so had passed the three thieves returned, and, without
examining the sack, they bore it to the river and threw it in, thus
sending the wretched shepherd to the fate they had destined for Pre
Scarpafico.
They then took their way homewards, and, as they were conversing, they
perceived a flock of sheep grazing hard by, and at once began to scheme
how they might easiest carry off a couple of lambs. But when they drew
anigh, judge their amazement at seeing Pre Scarpafico, whom they
believed to be lying at the bottom of the river, tending the flock as a
shepherd. As soon as they had recovered from their amazement, they
demanded of him how he had managed to get out of the river, and he
straightway answered: ‘Away with you! you have no more sense than so
many jackasses. If you had thrown me a little farther into the stream, I
should have come back with ten times as many sheep as you see here.’
When the robbers heard this they cried out, ‘Ah! Pre Scarpafico, will
you at last do us a good turn? Will you put us into sacks and throw us
into the river? Then, you see, we shall no longer have need to be
footpads and rascals, and will live as honest shepherds.’ ‘Well,’
answered Scarpafico, ‘I will do so much for you; indeed, there is no
favour in the world I would not grant you, on account of the love I bear
you;’ and, having got three good sacks of strong canvas, he tied the
three thieves therein so firmly that there was no chance of their
getting out, and threw them into the river. Thus they went to the place
which was their due, and Scarpafico went back to Nina with good store of
gold and cattle, and lived many years in happiness and prosperity.
Cateruzza’s tale gave great pleasure to all the company, and won high
praise, especially the part of it which dealt with Pre Scarpafico’s
cunning scheme whereby, in exchange for the mule he gave away, he gained
much money and a fine flock of sheep. Cateruzza then set forth her
enigma:
A sturdy blacksmith and his wife,
Who lived a simple honest life,
Sat down to dine; and for their fare
A loaf and a half of bread was there.
But ere they finished came the priest,
And with his sister joined the feast.
The loaf in twain the blacksmith cleft,
So three half loaves for the four were left.
Each ate a half, each was content.
Now say what paradox is meant.
The solution of Cateruzza’s enigma was, that the blacksmith’s wife was
the priest’s sister. When the husband and wife had sat down to their
meal, the priest came in and joined them, and then, apparently, there
were four of them, to wit, the blacksmith and his wife, and the priest
and his sister; but in reality there were but three. As each one had a
third of the bread they were all contented. After Cateruzza had
explained her very ingenious enigma, the Signora gave the signal to
Eritrea to give them her story, and she forthwith began.
THE FOURTH FABLE.
=Tebaldo, Prince of Salerno, wishes to have his only daughter Doralice
to wife, but she, through her father’s persecution, flees to
England, where she marries Genese the king, and has by him two
children. These, having been slain by Tebaldo, are avenged by
their father King Genese.=
I cannot think there is one amongst us who has not realized by his own
experience how great is the power of love, and how sharp are the arrows
he is wont to shoot into our corruptible flesh. He, like a mighty king,
directs and governs his empire without a sword, simply by his individual
will, as you will be able to understand from the tenour of the story
which I am about to tell to you.
You must know, dear ladies, that Tebaldo, Prince of Salerno, according
to the story I have heard repeated many times by my elders, had to wife
a modest and prudent lady of good lineage, and by her he had a daughter
who in beauty and grace outshone all the other ladies of Salerno; but it
would have been well for Tebaldo if she had never seen the light, for in
that case the grave misadventure which befell him would never have
happened. His wife, young in years but of mature wisdom, when she lay
a-dying besought her husband, whom she loved very dearly, never to take
for his wife any woman whose finger would not exactly fit the ring which
she herself wore; and the prince, who loved his wife no less than she
loved him, swore by his head that he would observe her wish.
After the good princess had breathed her last and had been honourably
buried, Tebaldo indulged in the thought of wedding again, but he bore
well in mind the promise he had made to his wife, and was firmly
resolved to keep her saying. However, the report that Tebaldo, Prince of
Salerno, was seeking another mate soon got noised abroad, and came to
the ears of many maidens who, in worth and in estate, were no whit his
inferiors; but Tebaldo, whose first care was to fulfil the wishes of his
wife who was dead, made it a condition that any damsel who might be
offered to him in marriage should first try on her finger his wife’s
ring, to see whether it fitted, and not having found one who fulfilled
this condition—the ring being always found too big for this and too
small for that—he was forced to dismiss them all without further parley.
Now it happened one day that the daughter of Tebaldo, whose name was
Doralice, sat at table with her father; and she, having espied her
mother’s ring lying on the board, slipped it on her finger and cried
out, ‘See, my father, how well my mother’s ring fits me!’ and the
prince, when he saw what she had done, assented.
But not long after this the soul of Tebaldo was assailed by a strange
and diabolical temptation to take to wife his daughter Doralice, and for
many days he lived tossed about between yea and nay. At last, overcome
by the strength of this devilish intent, and fired by the beauty of the
maiden, he one day called her to him and said, ‘Doralice, my daughter,
while your mother was yet alive, but fast nearing the end of her days,
she besought me never to take to wife any woman whose finger would not
fit the ring she herself always wore in her lifetime, and I swore by my
head that I would observe this last request of hers. Wherefore, when I
felt the time was come for me to wed anew, I made trial of many maidens,
but not one could I find who could wear your mother’s ring, except
yourself. Therefore I have decided to take you for my wife, for thus I
shall satisfy my own desire without violating the promise I made to your
mother.’ Doralice, who was as pure as she was beautiful, when she
listened to the evil designs of her wicked father, was deeply troubled
in her heart; but, taking heed of his vile and abominable lust, and
fearing the effects of his rage, she made no answer and went out of his
presence with an untroubled face. As there was no one whom she could
trust so well as her old nurse, she repaired to her at once as the
surest bulwark of her safety, to take counsel as to what she should do.
The nurse, when she had heard the story of the execrable lust of this
wicked father, spake words of comfort to Doralice, for she knew well the
constancy and steadfast nature of the girl, and that she would be ready
to endure any torment rather than accede to her father’s desire, and
promised to aid her in keeping her virginity unsullied by such terrible
disgrace.
After this the nurse thought of nothing else than how she might best
find a way for Doralice out of this strait, planning now this and now
that, but finding no method which gained her entire approval. She would
fain have had Doralice take to flight and put long distance betwixt her
and her father, but she feared the craft of Tebaldo, and lest the girl
should fall into his hands after her flight, feeling certain that in
such event he would put her to death.
So while the faithful nurse was thus taking counsel with herself, she
suddenly hit upon a fresh scheme, which was what I will now tell you. In
the chamber of the dead lady there was a fair cassone, or clothes-chest,
magnificently carved, in which Doralice kept her richest dresses and her
most precious jewels, and this wardrobe the nurse alone could open. So
she removed from it by stealth all the robes and the ornaments that were
therein, and bestowed them elsewhere, placing in it a good store of a
certain liquor which had such great virtue, that whosoever took a
spoonful of it, or even less, could live for a long time without further
nourishment. Then, having called Doralice, she shut her therein, and
bade her remain in hiding until such time as God should send her better
fortune, and her father be delivered from the bestial mood which had
come upon him. The maiden, obedient to the good old woman’s command, did
all that was told her; and the father, still set upon his accursed
design, and making no effort to restrain his unnatural lust, demanded
every day what had become of his daughter; and, neither finding any
trace of her, or knowing aught where she could be, his rage became so
terrible that he threatened to have her killed as soon as he should find
her.
Early one morning it chanced that Tebaldo went into the room where the
chest was, and as soon as his eye fell upon it, he felt, from the
associations connected with it, that he could not any longer endure the
sight of it, so he gave orders that it should straightway be taken out
and placed elsewhere and sold, so that its presence might not be an
offence to him. The servants were prompt to obey their master’s command,
and, having taken the thing on their shoulders, they bore it away to the
market-place. It chanced that there was at that time in the city a rich
dealer from Genoa, who, as soon as he caught sight of the sumptuously
carved cassone, admired it greatly, and settled with himself that he
would not let it go from him, however much he might have to pay for it.
So, having accosted the servant who was charged with the sale of it, and
learnt the price demanded, he bought it forthwith, and gave orders to a
porter to carry it away and place it on board his ship. The nurse, who
was watching the trafficking from a distance, was well pleased with the
issue thereof, though she grieved sore at losing the maiden. Wherefore
she consoled herself by reflecting that when it comes to the choice of
evils it is ever wiser to avoid the greater.
The merchant, having set sail from Salerno with his carven chest and
other valuable wares, voyaged to the island of Britain, known to us
to-day as England, and landed at a port near which the country was
spread out in a vast plain. Before he had been there long, Genese, who
had lately been crowned king of the island, happened to be riding along
the seashore, chasing a fine stag, which, in the end, ran down to the
beach and took to the water. The king, feeling weary and worn with the
long pursuit, was fain to rest awhile, and, having caught sight of the
ship, he sent to ask the master of it to give him something to drink;
and the latter, feigning to be ignorant he was talking to the king,
greeted Genese familiarly, and gave him a hearty welcome, finally
prevailing upon him to go on board his vessel. The king, when he saw the
beautiful clothes-chest so finely carved, was taken with a great longing
to possess it, and grew so impatient to call it his own that every hour
seemed like a thousand till he should be able to claim it. He then asked
the merchant the price he asked for it, and was answered that the price
was a very heavy one. The king, being now more taken than ever with the
beautiful handicraft, would not leave the ship till he had arranged a
price with the merchant, and, having sent for money enough to pay the
price demanded, he took his leave, and straightway ordered the cassone
to be borne to the palace and placed in his chamber.
Genese, being yet over-young to wive, found his chief pleasure in going
every day to the chase. Now that the cassone was transported into his
bedroom, with the maiden Doralice hidden inside, she heard, as was only
natural, all that went on in the king’s chamber, and, in pondering over
her past misfortunes, hoped that a happier future was in store for her.
And as soon as the king had departed for the chase in the morning, and
had left the room clear, Doralice would issue from the clothes-chest,
and would deftly put the chamber in order, and sweep it, and make the
bed. Then she would adjust the bed-curtains, and put on the coverlet
cunningly embroidered with fine pearls, and two beautifully ornamented
pillows thereto. After this, the fair maiden strewed the bed with roses,
violets, and other sweet-smelling flowers, mingled with Cyprian spices
which exhaled a subtle odour and soothed the brain to slumber. Day after
day Doralice continued to compose the king’s chamber in this pleasant
fashion, without being seen of anyone, and thereby gave Genese much
gratification; for every day when he came back from the chase it seemed
to him as if he was greeted by all the perfumes of the East. One day he
questioned the queen his mother, and the ladies who were about her, as
to which of them had so kindly and graciously adorned his room, and
decked the bed with roses and violets and sweet scents. They answered,
one and all, that they had no part in all this, for every morning, when
they went to put the chamber in order, they found the bed strewn with
flowers and perfumes.
[Illustration: Doralice in the King’s Chamber]
Genese, when he heard this, determined to clear up the mystery, and the
next morning gave out that he was going to hunt at a village ten leagues
distant; but, in lieu of going forth, he quietly hid himself in the
room, keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the door, and waiting to see
what might occur. He had not been long on the watch before Doralice,
looking more beautiful than the sun, came out of the cassone and began
to sweep the room, and to straighten the carpets, and to deck the bed,
and diligently to set everything in order, as was her wont. The
beautiful maiden had no sooner done her kindly and considerate office,
than she made as if she would go back to her hiding-place; but the king,
who had keenly taken note of everything, suddenly caught her by the
hand, and, seeing that she was very fair, and fresh as a lily, asked her
who she was; whereupon the trembling girl confessed that she was the
daughter of a prince. She declared, however, that she had forgotten what
was his name, on account of her long imprisonment in the cassone, and
she would say nothing as to the reason why she had been shut therein.
The king, after he had heard her story, fell violently in love with her,
and, with the full consent of his mother, made her his queen, and had by
her two fair children.
In the meantime Tebaldo was still mastered by his wicked and treacherous
passion, and, as he could find no trace of Doralice, search as he would,
he began to believe that she must have been hidden in the coffer which
he had caused to be sold, and that, having escaped his power, she might
be wandering about from place to place. Therefore, with his rage still
burning against her, he set himself to try whether perchance he might
not discover her whereabouts. He attired himself as a merchant, and,
having gathered together a great store of precious stones and jewels,
marvellously wrought in gold, quitted Salerno unknown to anyone, and
scoured all the nations and countries round about, finally meeting by
hazard the trader who had originally purchased the clothes-chest. Of him
he demanded whether he had been satisfied with his bargain, and into
whose hands the chest had fallen, and the trader replied that he had
sold the cassone to the King of England for double the price he had
given for it. Tebaldo, rejoicing at this news, made his way to England,
and when he had landed there and journeyed to the capital, he made a
show of his jewels and golden ornaments, amongst which were some
spindles and distaffs cunningly wrought, crying out the while, ‘Spindles
and distaffs for sale, ladies.’ It chanced that one of the dames of the
court, who was looking out of a window, heard this, and saw the merchant
and his goods; whereupon she ran to the queen and told her there was
below a merchant who had for sale the most beautiful golden spindles and
distaffs that ever were seen. The queen commanded him to be brought into
the palace, and he came up the stairs into her presence, but she did not
recognize him in his merchant’s guise; moreover, she was not thinking
ever to behold her father again; but Tebaldo recognized his daughter at
once.
The queen, when she saw how fair was the work of the spindles and
distaffs, asked of the merchant what price he put upon them. ‘The price
is great,’ he answered, ‘but to you I will give one of them for nothing,
provided you suffer me to gratify a caprice of mine. This is that I may
be permitted to sleep one night in the same room as your children.’ The
good Doralice, in her pure and simple nature, never suspected the
accursed design of the feigned merchant, and, yielding to the persuasion
of her attendants, granted his request.
But before the merchant was led to the sleeping chamber, certain ladies
of the court deemed it wise to offer him a cup of wine well drugged to
make him sleep sound, and when night had come and the merchant seemed
overcome with fatigue, one of the ladies conducted him into the chamber
of the king’s children, where there was prepared for him a sumptuous
couch. Before she left him the lady said, ‘Good man, are you not
thirsty?’ ‘Indeed I am,’ he replied; whereupon she handed him the
drugged wine in a silver cup; but the crafty Tebaldo, while feigning to
drink the wine, spilled it over his garments, and then lay down to rest.
Now there was in the children’s room a side door through which it was
possible to pass into the queen’s apartment. At midnight, when all was
still, Tebaldo stole through this, and, going up to the bed beside which
the queen had left her clothes, he took away a small dagger, which he
had marked the day before hanging from her girdle. Then he returned to
the children’s room and killed them both with the dagger, which he
immediately put back into its scabbard, all bloody as it was, and having
opened a window he let himself down by a cord. As soon as the shopmen of
the city were astir, he went to a barber’s and had his long beard taken
off, for fear he might be recognized, and having put on different
clothes he walked about the city without apprehension.
In the palace the nurses went, as soon as they awakened, to suckle the
children; but when they came to the cradles, they found them both lying
dead. Whereupon they began to scream and to weep bitterly, and to rend
their hair and their garments, thus laying bare their breasts. The
dreadful tidings came quickly to the ears of the king and queen, and
they ran barefooted and in their night-clothes to the spot, and when
they saw the dead bodies of the babes they wept bitterly. Soon the
report of the murder of the two children was spread throughout the city,
and, almost at the same time, it was rumoured that there had just
arrived a famous astrologer, who, by studying the courses of the various
stars, could lay bare the hidden mysteries of the past. When this came
to the ears of the king, he caused the astrologer to be summoned
forthwith, and, when he was come into the royal presence, demanded
whether or not he could tell the name of the murderer of the children.
The astrologer replied that he could, and whispering secretly in the
king’s ear he said, ‘Sire, let all the men and women of your court who
are wont to wear a dagger at their side be summoned before you, and if
amongst these you shall find one whose dagger is befouled with blood in
its scabbard, that same will be the murderer of your children.’
Wherefore the king at once gave command that all his courtiers should
present themselves, and, when they were assembled, he diligently
searched with his own hands to see if any one of them might have a
bloody dagger at his side, but he could find none. Then he returned to
the astrologer—who was no other than Tebaldo himself—and told him how
his quest had been vain, and that all in the palace, save his mother and
the queen, had been searched. To which the astrologer replied, ‘Sire,
search everywhere and respect no one, and then you will surely find the
murderer.’ So the king searched first his mother, and then the queen,
and when he took the dagger which Doralice wore and drew it from the
scabbard, he found it covered with blood. Then the king, convinced by
this proof, turned to the queen and said to her, ‘O, wicked and inhuman
woman, enemy of your own flesh and blood, traitress to your own
children! what desperate madness has led you to dye your hands in the
blood of these babes? I swear that you shall suffer the full penalty
fixed for such a crime.’ But though the king in his rage would fain have
sent her straightway to a shameful death, his desire for vengeance
prompted him to dispose of her so that she might suffer longer and more
cruel torment. Wherefore he commanded that she should be stripped and
thus naked buried up to her chin in the earth, and that she should be
well fed in order that she might linger long and the worms devour her
flesh while she still lived. The queen, seasoned to misfortune in the
past, and conscious of her innocence, contemplated her terrible doom
with calmness and dignity.
Tebaldo, when he learned that the queen had been adjudged guilty and
condemned to a cruel death, rejoiced greatly, and, as soon as he had
taken leave of the king, left England, quite satisfied with his work,
and returned secretly to Salerno. Arrived there he told to the old nurse
the whole story of his adventures, and how Doralice had been sentenced
to death by her husband. As she listened the nurse feigned to be as
pleased as Tebaldo himself, but in her heart she grieved sorely,
overcome by the love which she had always borne towards the princess,
and the next morning she took horse early and rode on day and night
until she came to England. Immediately she repaired to the palace and
went before the king, who was giving public audience in the great hall,
and, having thrown herself at his feet, she demanded an interview on a
matter which concerned the honour of his crown. The king granted her
request, and took her by the hand and bade her rise; then, when the rest
of the company had gone and left them alone, the nurse thus addressed
the king: ‘Sire, know that Doralice, your wife, is my child. She is not,
indeed, the fruit of my womb, but I nourished her at these breasts. She
is innocent of the deed which is laid to her charge, and for which she
is sentenced to a lingering and cruel death. And you, when you shall
have learnt everything, and laid your hands upon the impious murderer,
and understood the reason which moved him to slay your children, you
will assuredly show her mercy and deliver her from these bitter and
cruel torments. And if you find that I speak falsely in this, I offer
myself to suffer the same punishment which the wretched Doralice is now
enduring.’
Then the nurse set forth fully from beginning to end the whole history
of Doralice’s past life; and the king when he heard it doubted not the
truth of it, but forthwith gave orders that the queen, who was now more
dead than alive, should be taken out of the earth; which was done at
once, and Doralice, after careful nursing and ministration by
physicians, was restored to health.
Next King Genese stirred up through all his kingdom mighty preparations
for war, and gathered together a great army, which he despatched to
Salerno. After a short campaign the city was captured, and Tebaldo,
bound hand and foot, taken back to England, where King Genese, wishing
to know the whole sum of his guilt, had him put upon the rack, whereupon
the wretched man made full confession. The next day he was conducted
through the city in a cart drawn by four horses, and then tortured with
red-hot pincers like Gano di Magazza, and after his body had been
quartered his flesh was thrown to be eaten of ravenous dogs.
And this was the end of the impious wretch Tebaldo; and King Genese and
Doralice his queen lived many years happily together, leaving at their
death divers children in their place.
All the listeners were both amazed and moved to pity by this pathetic
story, and when it was finished Eritrea, without waiting for the
Signora’s word, gave her enigma:
I tell you of a heart so vile,
So cruel, and so full of guile,
That with its helpless progeny
It deals as with an enemy.
And when it sees them plump and sleek,
It stabs them with its cruel beak.
For, lean itself, with malice fell,
It fain would make them lean as well.
So they grow thin with wasting pain,
Till nought but plumes and bones remain.
The ladies and gentlemen gave various solutions to this enigma, one
guessing this and another that, but they found it hard to believe there
could be an animal so vile and cruel as thus barbarously to maltreat its
own progeny, but at last the fair Eritrea said with a smile, “What cause
is there for your wonder? Assuredly there are parents who hate their
children as virulently as the rapacious kite hates its young. This bird,
being by nature thin and meagre, when it sees its progeny fat and
seemly—as young birds mostly are—stabs their tender flesh with its hard
beak, until they too become lean like itself.”
This solution of Eritrea’s pointed enigma pleased everybody, and it won
the applause of all. Eritrea, having made due salutation to the Signora,
resumed her seat. Then the latter made a sign to Arianna to follow in
her turn, and she rising from her chair began her fable as follows.
THE FIFTH FABLE.
=Dimitrio the chapman, having disguised himself as a certain
Gramottiveggio, surprises his wife Polissena with a priest, and
sends her back to her brothers, who put her to death, and Dimitrio
afterwards marries his serving-woman.=
We often see, dear ladies, great inequality in the degree of mutual
love. How often will the husband love the wife entirely, and she care
little for him; and, on the other hand, the wife will love the husband
to find nothing but hatred in return. In conditions like these is born
the passion of sudden jealousy, the destroyer of all happiness,
rendering a decent life impossible; likewise dishonourings and unseemly
deaths, which often shed deep disgrace over all our sex. I will say
nothing of the headlong perils, of the numberless ills, into which both
men and women rush on account of this accursed jealousy. It would weary
rather than divert you were I to recount them all to you one by one;
but, as it is my task to bring to an end this evening of pleasant
discourse, I will tell you a story of Gramottiveggio, now told for the
first time, and I believe you will gather therefrom no less pleasure
than edification.
The noble city of Venice, famed for the integrity of its magistrates,
for the justice of its laws, and as being the resort of men from every
nation of the world, is seated on the bosom of the Adriatic sea, and is
named the queen of cities, the refuge of the unhappy, the asylum of the
oppressed. Her walls are the sea and her roof the sky; and, though the
earth produces nought, there is no scarcity of anything that life in a
great city demands.
In this rich and magnificent city there lived in former days a merchant
whose name was Dimitrio, a good and trustworthy man of upright life,
though of low degree. He was possessed with a great desire of offspring,
wherefore he took to wife a fair and graceful girl named Polissena, whom
he loved as dearly as ever man loved woman, letting her clothe herself
so sumptuously that there was no dame in all the city—save amongst the
nobles—who could outvie her in raiment, or in rings, or in pearls of
price. And besides he took care to let her have abundance of delicate
victuals, which, not being suitable to one of her humble degree, gave
her the look of being more pampered and dainty than she should have
been.
It chanced one day that Dimitrio, who on account of his business was
often constrained to travel by sea, determined to take ship with a cargo
of goods for Cyprus, and, when he had got ready his apparel and stocked
the house with provisions and everything that was needful, he left his
dear wife Polissena with a fair and buxom serving-maid to bear her
company, and set sail on his voyage.
After his departure Polissena went on living luxuriously and indulged
herself with every delicacy, and before very long found she was unable
to endure further the pricks of amorous appetite, so she cast her eyes
upon the parish priest and became hotly enamoured of him. The priest on
his part, being young, lively, and well-favoured, came at last to divine
the meaning of the glances Polissena cast towards him out of the corner
of her eye, and, seeing that she was gifted with a lovely face and a
graceful shape, and further endowed with all the charms men desire in a
woman, he soon began to return her amorous looks. Thus love grew up
between them, and many days had not passed before Polissena brought the
young man privily into the house to take her pleasure with him. And
thus, for the course of many months, they secretly enjoyed the delights
of love in close embraces and sweet kisses, letting the poor husband
fare the best he might in the perils of sea and land.
Now when Dimitrio had been some time in Cyprus, and had made there a
reasonable profit on his goods, he sailed back to Venice, and, having
disembarked, he went to his home and to his dear Polissena, who, as soon
as she saw him, burst into tears, and when Dimitrio asked her the reason
of her weeping, she replied, ‘I weep because of some bad news which came
to me of late, and also for the great joy I feel in seeing you again;
for I heard tell by many that all the ships which had sailed for Cyprus
were wrecked, and I feared sorely lest some terrible misadventure should
have overtaken you. But now, seeing you have by God’s mercy returned
safe and sound, I cannot keep back my tears for the joy I feel.’ The
simple Dimitrio, who had returned to Venice to make up—as he thought—to
his wife for the solitary time she had passed during his long absence,
deemed that the tears and sighs of Polissena sprang from her warm and
constant love for him; but the poor dupe never suspected that all the
while she was saying in her heart, ‘Would to Heaven that he had been
drowned at sea! for then I might the more safely and readily take my
pleasure with my lover who loves me so well.’
Before a month had passed Dimitrio was forced to set out on his travels
once more, whereat Polissena was filled with joy greater than can be
imagined, and forthwith sent word to her lover, who showed himself to be
no less on the alert; and, when the settled hour for their foregathering
had come, he went secretly to her. But the comings and goings of the
priest could not be kept secret enough to escape for long the eye of a
certain Manusso, a friend of Dimitrio, who lived just opposite.
Wherefore Manusso, who held Dimitrio in high esteem for that he was a
pleasant companion and one ever ready to do a friendly service, grew
mightily suspicious of his young neighbour, and kept a sharp watch over
her. When he had satisfied himself that, with a given sign at a certain
hour, the door would always be opened to the priest, and that after this
the lovers would disport themselves with less circumspection than
prudence demanded, he determined that the business, which was as yet a
secret, should not be brought to light so as to stir up a scandal, but
to let his project have time to ripen by awaiting the return of
Dimitrio.
When Dimitrio found himself at liberty to return home, he took ship, and
with a favourable breeze sailed back to Venice; and, having disembarked,
went straight to his own house and knocked at the door, thus arousing
the servant, who, when she had looked out of the window and recognized
her master, ran quickly to let him in, weeping with joy the while.
Polissena, when she heard her husband had returned, came downstairs
forthwith, taking him in her arms and embracing and kissing him as if
she had been the most loving wife in the world. And because he was weary
and altogether worn out by the sea voyage, he went to bed without taking
any food, and slept so soundly that the morning came before he had taken
any amorous pleasure with his wife. When the night had passed and full
daylight had come, Dimitrio awoke, and, having left the bed without
bestowing so much as a single kiss upon his wife, took a little box, out
of which he drew a few ornamental trinkets of no small value, which, on
returning to bed, he gave to his wife, who set little store by them,
seeing that her thoughts were running upon another matter. Shortly after
this it happened that Dimitrio had occasion to go into Apulia to
purchase oil and other merchandise, and, having announced this to his
wife, he began to make ready for his journey. She, cunning and full of
mischief, and feigning to be heartbroken at his departure, kissed him
lovingly and besought him to tarry yet a few days longer with her; but
in her heart of hearts she reckoned one day of his presence like a
thousand, since it prevented her from taking her pleasure in the arms of
her lover.
Now Manusso, who had often espied the priest courting Polissena and
doing divers other things which it is not seemly to mention, felt that
he would be working his friend a wrong if he should not now let him know
all that he had seen. Therefore he determined, come what might, to tell
him all. So, having invited him one day to dinner, he said to him as
they sat at table, ‘Dimitrio, my friend, you know, if I am not mistaken,
that I have always held, and shall ever hold you in great affection, so
long as there is breath in my body; nor could you name any task, however
difficult, which I would not undertake for the love I bear you; and, if
you would not take it ill, I could tell you of certain matters which
might annoy you rather than please you, but I fear to speak lest thereby
I should disturb your peace of mind. Nevertheless, if you will take
it—as I hope you will—circumspectly and prudently, you will not let your
anger get the mastery over you, and thus blind your eyes to the truth.’
‘Know you not,’ answered Dimitrio, ‘that you may say to me anything you
please? If you have, by any mischance, killed a man, tell me, and do not
doubt my fidelity.’ Manusso answered, ‘I have killed nobody, but I have
seen another man slay your honour and your good name.’ ‘Speak your
meaning clearly,’ said Dimitrio, ‘and do not beat about the bush with
ambiguous words.’ ‘Do you wish me to tell it you briefly?’ asked
Manusso; ‘then listen and hear patiently what I have to say. Polissena
your wife, whom you hold so dear, all the time you are away sleeps every
night with a priest and takes her pleasure with him.’ ‘How can this be
possible,’ said Dimitrio, ‘seeing that she loves me so tenderly, never
failing when I leave her to shed floods of tears on my bosom and to fill
the air with her sighs? If I were to behold this thing with my own eyes
I would not believe it.’ ‘If you are wise, as I believe you to be,’ said
Manusso, ‘if there is any reason in you, you will not shut your eyes, as
is the way with so many simpletons and fools. I will let you see with
your eyes and touch with your hands all that I have told you; then you
may be convinced.’ ‘Then,’ said Dimitrio, ‘I shall be content to do
whatever you may direct me in order to let you show me all you have
promised.’ Then Manusso replied, ‘But you must take care to keep your
secret and put a good face on the matter, otherwise you will wreck the
whole plot.[21] When next you have to go abroad, make believe to set
sail, but in lieu of quitting Venice come to my lodgings as secretly as
you can, and I will clear up the mystery for you.’
When the day came for Dimitrio to start on his journey he embraced his
wife tenderly, while he bade her take good care of the house, and having
taken leave of her feigned to go on board his ship, but turned and
withdrew secretly to the lodging of Manusso. By chance it happened that,
before two o’clock had struck, a terrible storm came on, with rain so
heavy that it seemed as if the heavens themselves were broken up, and
the rain ceased not all through the night. The priest, who had already
been advertised of the departure of Dimitrio, and cared neither for wind
nor rain, was waiting for the hour of assignation. When he gave the sign
the door was opened to him, and, as soon as he was inside, Polissena
greeted him with sweet and passionate kisses; while the husband, who was
concealed in a passage over the way, saw all that went on, and, being no
longer able to contradict his friend’s assertion, was altogether
overwhelmed, and burst into tears on account of the righteous grief
which possessed him. Then said his friend to him, ‘Now what do you
think? Have you not seen something you would never have believed? But
say not a word and keep yourself cool, for if you listen to what I have
to say, and do exactly what I shall direct you, you shall see something
more. Take off the clothes you are now wearing, and put on some beggar’s
rags, and smear your face and your hands with dirt; then go over to your
own house as a beggar, and in a counterfeited voice ask for a night’s
lodging. Most likely the servant, seeing how bad a night it is, will
take pity on you and take you in; and if you do this, you will probably
see something else you would rather not see.’
Dimitrio, having listened to his friend’s counsel, took off his clothes
and put on instead the rags of a poor man who had come to the house and
asked for lodging in God’s name, and, although it still rained smartly,
he went over to the door of his own house, at which he knocked thrice,
weeping and groaning bitterly the while. The serving-maid having opened
the window, cried out who was there, and Dimitrio, in a broken and
feigned voice, replied that it was a poor old man, almost drowned by the
rain, who begged a night’s lodging. Whereupon the kindly girl, who was
just as tender-hearted towards the poor and wretched as was her mistress
towards the priest, ran to Polissena and begged her to grant the
petition of this poor man who was soaked with rain, and to give him
shelter till he should be warm and dry. ‘He can draw us some water,’ she
went on, ‘and make up the fire, so that the fowls may be the sooner
roasted. Then I can prepare the soup, and get ready the spoons, and do
other chores about the kitchen.’ To this the mistress agreed, and the
girl, having opened the door, let him in and bade him sit by the fire
and turn the spit. It happened that the priest and Polissena, who had in
the meantime been in the chamber, came down into the kitchen holding one
another by the hand, and at once began to make mock of the poor wight
with his dirty face. Going up to him Polissena asked what was his name.
‘I am called Gramottiveggio, signora,’ he replied; and Polissena when
she heard this began to laugh heartily, showing all her teeth so plainly
that a leech might have drawn any one of them. Then she threw her arms
round the priest, crying out, ‘Come, dear heart, and let me kiss you.’
And poor Dimitrio had to look on while they thus kissed and embraced
each other. I leave you to fancy what he felt at seeing his wife kissed
and fondled by a priest in his very presence.
When the time had come for supper, the servant, when the lovers had sat
down, returned to the kitchen and said to the poor man: ‘Well now,
father, I must just tell you that my mistress has for a husband as good
a man as you would find in all Venice, one who lets her want for
nothing, and God only knows where the poor man is in this dreadful
weather, while she, an ungrateful hussy, caring nothing for his person
and less for his honour, has let herself be blinded by this lecherous
passion—always fondling this lover, and shutting the door to everybody
but him alone. But, I pray you, let us go softly to the door of the
chamber; then you will see what they are doing, and how they bear
themselves at table.’ And when they came to the door they espied the two
lovers within, making good play with the viands, and carrying on all
sort of amorous dalliance the while.
When the hour of bedtime came, the two lovers retired to rest, and,
after a little playful pastime, began to sport in good earnest,[22] and
made so much ado that the poor Dimitrio, who was abed in a chamber
adjoining, did not close his eyes all night, and understood completely
what was going on. As soon as morning came he repaired to the lodgings
of Manusso, who, as soon as he saw him, said, laughing, ‘Well, friend,
how is the business going on? Is all you have seen to your taste?’ ‘No,
indeed,’ answered Dimitrio; ‘I would never have believed it had I not
seen it with my own eyes; but, patience! since my ill luck will have it
so.’ Then Manusso, who was a crafty fellow, said, ‘My friend, I would
have you do what I shall tell you. Wash yourself well and put on your
own clothes, and go straightway to your house, and make believe that by
great good luck you had not embarked before the storm broke. Take good
care that the priest steal not away; for, as soon as you enter, he will
assuredly hide himself somewhere, and will lie there till he can make
his retreat safely. Meantime, summon all your wife’s relations to a
banquet at your house, and then, when you have dragged the priest from
his hiding-place in their presence, you can do anything else which may
seem good to you.’
Dimitrio was highly pleased at his friend’s advice, and as soon as he
had stripped himself of his ragged clothes went over to his house and
knocked at the door. The servant, when she saw it was her master, ran
forthwith to Polissena, who was yet in bed with the priest, and said to
her, ‘Signora, my master is come back.’ Her mistress, when she heard
these words, was beside herself with fright, and, getting up with what
despatch she could, she hid the priest, who was in his shirt, in the
coffer where she kept all her choicest raiment, and then ran in her
fur-lined cloak, all shoeless as she was, to open the door to Dimitrio.
‘My dear husband,’ she cried, ‘you are indeed welcome. I have not closed
my eyes for love of you, wondering always how fortune might be using
you, but God be praised for that you have come back safe and sound.’
Dimitrio, as soon as he entered the chamber, said, ‘Polissena, my love,
I scarcely slept a wink last night on account of the bad weather, so
that now I would fain rest a little; and in the meanwhile let the
servant go to your brothers’ house and bid them dine with us to-day.’ To
this Polissena replied, ‘Would it not be better to wait till another
day, seeing that it rains so heavily, and the girl is busy calendering
our body linen and sheets and other napery?’ ‘To-morrow the weather will
mend, and I shall have to set forth,’ said Dimitrio. Polissena then
said, ‘But you might go yourself; or, if you are too weary, go ask your
friend Manusso to do you this service.’ ‘That is a good suggestion,’
said Dimitrio, and, having sent for his friend, he carried the affair
out exactly as it had been settled.
The brothers of Polissena came, and they dined jovially together. When
the table was cleared, Dimitrio cried: ‘Good brothers-in-law of mine, I
have never properly let you see my house, nor the fine apparel which I
have given to Polissena, my wife and your sister, so that you might
judge therefrom how I treat her. Now go, Polissena, my good wife, get up
and show your brothers over the house.’ Dimitrio then rose and showed
them his storehouses full of wheat and timber and oil and other
merchandise, then casks of malvoisie and Greek wine and other
delicacies. Next he said to his wife: ‘Bring out the rings and the
pearls which I have bought for you. Just look at these fine emeralds in
this little casket; the diamonds, the rubies, and other rings of price.
Does it seem to you, my brothers, that your sister is well treated by
me?’ ‘We knew all this well, brother,’ they replied, ‘and if we had not
been satisfied with your worth, we would not have given you our sister
to wife.’
But Dimitrio had not yet finished, for he next directed his wife to open
all her coffers, and to bring out her fair raiment; but Polissena, her
heart sinking with dread, replied, ‘What need can there be to open the
coffers and show my clothes? Do not my brothers know well enough that
you always let me be attired full honourably—more sumptuously indeed
than our station calls for?’ But Dimitrio cried out, ‘Open this coffer,
and that, at once,’ and when they were opened he went on showing all her
wardrobe to her brothers.
Now when they came to the last coffer the key of this was nowhere to be
found, for the good reason that the priest was hidden therein. Dimitrio,
when he saw the key was not forthcoming, took up a hammer and beat the
lock so lustily that it gave way, and then he opened the coffer.
The priest, shaking with fear, could in no way hide himself, or escape
being recognized by all the bystanders. The brothers of Polissena, when
they saw how the matter stood, were so strongly moved by anger that they
were within a little of slaying her and her lover as well on the spot
with the daggers they wore, but the husband was averse to this course,
deeming it shameful to kill a man in his shirt, however stout a fellow
he might be. He spake to the brothers thus: ‘What think ye now of this
trull of a wife of mine?’ Then, turning to Polissena, he said: ‘Have I
deserved such a return as this from you? Wretched woman! who has any
right to keep me back from cutting your throat?’ The poor wretch, who
could in no wise excuse herself, was silent, because her husband told
her to her face all he had seen of her doings the night before so
clearly that she could not find a word to say in her defence. Then,
turning to the priest, who stood with his head bent down, he said: ‘Take
your clothes and go quickly from this place, and bad luck go with you.
Let me never see your face again, for I have no wish to soil my hands in
your accursed blood for the sake of a guilty woman. Now begone; why do
you tarry?’ The priest, without opening his mouth, stole away, fancying
as he went that Dimitrio and his brothers-in-law were close behind him
with their knives. Then Dimitrio, turning to his brothers-in-law, said:
‘Take your sister where you will, for I will not have her before my eyes
any longer.’ And the brothers, inflamed with rage, took her out of the
house and slew her forthwith. When news of this was brought to Dimitrio,
he cast his eyes on the serving-maid, who was indeed a very comely lass,
and he bore in mind, moreover, the kind turn she had done him. So he
made her his wife. He gave her, likewise, all the jewels and raiment of
his first wife, and lived many years with her in joy and peace.
As soon as Arianna had brought her story to an end, the company with one
voice cried out that the worth and the constancy of the unlucky Dimitrio
was most noteworthy, even when he saw before his very eyes the priest
who had wrought him this dishonour, and quite as noteworthy was the
terror of the culprit, who, clad only in his shirt, and seeing the
husband and brothers of his mistress close upon him, trembled like a
leaf shaken by the wind. And then the Signora, perceiving that
discussion on the matter promised to be overmuch, called for silence,
and directed Arianna to give her enigma, whereupon she, with her
gracious manner and pleasant smile, set it forth in these words:
Three jolly friends sat down to eat,
A merrier crew you could not meet.
They tried and emptied every dish,
For better fare they could not wish.
The varlet next before them placed
A dish with three fat pigeons graced.
Each ate his pigeon, bones and all,
But pigeons twain were left withal.
This enigma seemed to the company to be one very difficult to solve, and
finally it was judged to be impossible, for no one saw how, after each
had eaten his pigeon, two out of the three could remain on the board,
but they did not look for the snake which was hidden in the grass. When,
therefore, Arianna saw that the secret of her enigma had not been
grasped, and that the solution was impossible, she turned her fair and
delicate face towards the Signora and said: “It seems, dear lady, that
my enigma is not to be solved, and yet it is not so difficult but that
it may be easily disentangled. The answer is this: Out of the three
jolly friends one bore the name of Each. As they sat together at the
same table they ate as if they had been famished wolves, and when, at
the end of the feast, the varlet brought them three roast pigeons, two
out of the three revellers were so full that they could eat no more, but
the one whose name was Each finished his neatly, so there were two
pigeons left when they rose from the table.”
The solution of this obscure riddle was greeted with great laughter and
applause, for not one of the company could have solved it. Thus, the
last story of this present night having been told, the Signora directed
everyone to go home to rest. And by the flare of torches, which shed
over all the place a white light, the ladies and gentlemen were escorted
to the landing-place.
=The End of the First Night.=
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=Night the Second.=
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=The Fables and Enigmas of Messer Giovanni Francesco Straparola da
Caravaggio.=
=Night the Second.=
Phœbus had already plunged his golden wheels into the salt waves of the
Indian ocean, his rays no longer gave light to the world, his horned
sister now ruled the universe with her mild beams, and the sparkling
stars had spread their fires thickly over the sky, when the courtly and
honourable company met once more at the accustomed spot. And when they
had seated themselves according to their rank, the Signora Lucretia gave
the word that they should observe, this night, the same order in their
entertainment as hitherto. And, seeing that five of the damsels had not
told their stories, the Signora bade the Trevisan to write the names of
these on paper, then to place the billets in a golden vase, and to draw
them out one after another, as they had done last night. The Trevisan
hastened to obey her command, and the first paper which was taken out of
the vase bore the name of Isabella, the second that of Fiordiana, the
third that of Lionora, the fourth that of Lodovica, and the fifth that
of Vicenza. Then the flutes struck up a tune, and they all began to sing
and dance in a circle, Antonio Molino and Lionora leading the revel; and
they all laughed so loud and heartily, that meseems the sound of their
merriment is still to be heard. And when the measure had come to an end
they all sat down, and the damsels sang a fair carol in praise of the
Signora.
SONG.
What once we sang we sing to-day,
And ever will we tune our lay,
To praise thee, lady, as the queen
Of beauty, and of all our bene;
The loftiest theme the poet sings,
The sweetest chord that shakes the strings,
The fairest shape the painter gives,
The peer of all in thee survives.
He who never owns the spell
Which moves us now thy praise to tell,
Wins no kindly word from me.
He the bliss shall never see
That flows on earth from faithful love,
And waits on spirits blest above.
At the close of this pleasant song Isabella, who had been chosen to
begin the entertainment of the second night, began to tell the story
which follows.
THE FIRST FABLE.
=Galeotto, King of Anglia, has a son who is born in the shape of a
pig. This son marries three wives, and in the end, having thrown
off his semblance, becomes a handsome youth.=
Fair ladies, if man were to spend a thousand years in rendering thanks
to his Creator for having made him in the form of a human and not of a
brute beast, he could not speak gratitude enough. This reflection calls
to mind the story of one who was born as a pig, but afterwards became a
comely youth. Nevertheless, to his dying day he was known to the people
over whom he ruled as King Pig.
You must know, dear ladies, that Galeotto, King of Anglia, was a man
highly blest in worldly riches, and in his wife Ersilia, the daughter of
Matthias, King of Hungary, a princess who, in virtue and beauty,
outshone all the other ladies of the time. And Galeotto was a wise king,
ruling his land so that no man could hear complaint against him. Though
they had been several years married they had no child, wherefore they
both of them were much aggrieved. While Ersilia was walking one day in
her garden she felt suddenly weary, and remarking hard by a spot covered
with fresh green turf, she went up to it and sat down thereon, and,
overcome with weariness and soothed by the sweet singing of the birds in
the green foliage, she fell asleep.
And it chanced that while she slept there passed by three fairies who
held mankind somewhat in scorn, and these, when they beheld the sleeping
queen, halted, and gazing upon her beauty, took counsel together how
they might protect her and throw a spell upon her. When they were agreed
the first cried out, ‘I will that no man shall be able to harm her, and
that, the next time she lie with her husband, she may be with child and
bear a son who shall not have his equal in all the world for beauty.’
Then said the second, ‘I will that no one shall ever have power to
offend her, and that the prince who shall be born of her shall be gifted
with every virtue under the sun.’ And the third said, ‘And I will that
she shall be the wisest among women, but that the son whom she shall
conceive shall be born in the skin of a pig, with a pig’s ways and
manners, and in this state he shall be constrained to abide till he
shall have three times taken a woman to wife.’
As soon as the three fairies had flown away Ersilia awoke, and
straightway arose and went back to the palace, taking with her the
flowers she had plucked. Not many days had passed before she knew
herself to be with child, and when the time of her delivery was come,
she gave birth to a son with members like those of a pig and not of a
human being. When tidings of this prodigy came to the ears of the king
and queen they lamented sore thereanent, and the king, bearing in mind
how good and wise his queen was, often felt moved to put this offspring
of hers to death and cast it into the sea, in order that she might be
spared the shame of having given birth to him. But when he debated in
his mind and considered that this son, let him be what he might, was of
his own begetting, he put aside the cruel purpose which he had been
harbouring, and, seized with pity and grief, he made up his mind that
the son should be brought up and nurtured like a rational being and not
as a brute beast. The child, therefore, being nursed with the greatest
care, would often be brought to the queen and put his little snout and
his little paws in his mother’s lap, and she, moved by natural
affection, would caress him by stroking his bristly back with her hand,
and embracing and kissing him as if he had been of human form. Then he
would wag his tail and give other signs to show that he was conscious of
his mother’s affection.
The pigling, when he grew older, began to talk like a human being, and
to wander abroad in the city, but whenever he came near to any mud or
dirt he would always wallow therein, after the manner of pigs, and
return all covered with filth. Then, when he approached the king and
queen, he would rub his sides against their fair garments, defiling them
with all manner of dirt, but because he was indeed their own son they
bore it all.
One day he came home covered with mud and filth, as was his wont, and
lay down on his mother’s rich robe, and said in a grunting tone,
‘Mother, I wish to get married.’ When the queen heard this, she replied,
‘Do not talk so foolishly. What maid would ever take you for a husband,
and think you that any noble or knight would give his daughter to one so
dirty and ill-savoured as you?’ But he kept on grunting that he must
have a wife of one sort or another. The queen, not knowing how to manage
him in this matter, asked the king what they should do in their trouble:
‘Our son wishes to marry, but where shall we find anyone who will take
him as a husband?’ Every day the pig would come back to his mother with
the same demand: ‘I must have a wife, and I will never leave you in
peace until you procure for me a certain maiden I have seen to-day, who
pleases me greatly.’
It happened that this maiden was a daughter of a poor woman who had
three daughters, each one of them being very lovely. When the queen
heard this, she had brought before her the poor woman and her eldest
daughter, and said, ‘Good mother, you are poor and burdened with
children. If you will agree to what I shall say to you, you will be
rich. I have this son who is, as you see, in form a pig, and I would
fain marry him to your eldest daughter. Do not consider him, but think
of the king and of me, and remember that your daughter will inherit this
whole kingdom when the king and I shall be dead.’
When the young girl listened to the words of the queen she was greatly
disturbed in her mind and blushed red for shame, and then said that on
no account would she listen to the queen’s proposition; but the poor
mother besought her so pressingly that at last she yielded. When the pig
came home one day, all covered with dirt as usual, his mother said to
him, ‘My son, we have found for you the wife you desire.’ And then she
caused to be brought in the bride, who by this time had been robed in
sumptuous regal attire, and presented her to the pig prince. When he saw
how lovely and desirable she was he was filled with joy, and, all foul
and dirty as he was, jumped round about her, endeavouring by his pawing
and nuzzling to show some sign of his affection. But she, when she found
he was soiling her beautiful dress, thrust him aside; whereupon the pig
said to her, ‘Why do you push me thus? Have I not had these garments
made for you myself?’ Then she answered disdainfully, ‘No, neither you
nor any other of the whole kingdom of hogs has done this thing.’ And
when the time for going to bed was come the young girl said to herself,
‘What am I to do with this foul beast? This very night, while he lies in
his first sleep, I will kill him.’ The pig prince, who was not far off,
heard these words, but said nothing, and when the two retired to their
chamber he got into the bed, stinking and dirty as he was, and defiled
the sumptuous bed with his filthy paws and snout. He lay down by his
spouse, who was not long in falling to sleep, and then he struck her
with his sharp hoofs and drove them into her breast so that he killed
her.
The next morning the queen went to visit her daughter-in-law, and to her
great grief found that the pig had killed her; and when he came back
from wandering about the city he said, in reply to the queen’s bitter
reproaches, that he had only wrought with his wife as she was minded to
deal with him, and then withdrew in an ill humour. Not many days had
passed before the pig prince again began to beseech the queen to allow
him to marry one of the other sisters, and because the queen at first
would not listen to his petition he persisted in his purpose, and
threatened to ruin everything in the place if he could not have her to
wife. The queen, when she heard this, went to the king and told him
everything, and he made answer that perhaps it would be wiser to kill
their ill-fated offspring before he might work some fatal mischief in
the city. But the queen felt all the tenderness of a mother towards him,
and loved him very dearly in spite of his brutal person, and could not
endure the thought of being parted from him; so she summoned once more
to the palace the poor woman, together with her second daughter, and
held a long discourse with her, begging her the while to give her
daughter in marriage. At last the girl assented to take the pig prince
for a husband; but her fate was no happier than her sister’s, for the
bridegroom killed her, as he had killed his other bride, and then fled
headlong from the palace.
When he came back, dirty as usual and smelling so foully that no one
could approach him, the king and queen censured him gravely for the
outrage he had wrought; but again he cried out boldly that if he had not
killed her she would have killed him. As it had happened before, the pig
in a very short time began to importune his mother again to let him have
to wife the youngest sister, who was much more beautiful than either of
the others; and when this request of his was refused steadily, he became
more insistent than ever, and in the end began to threaten the queen’s
life in violent and bloodthirsty words, unless he should have given to
him the young girl for his wife. The queen, when she heard this shameful
and unnatural speech, was wellnigh broken-hearted and like to go out of
her mind; but, putting all other considerations aside, she called for
the poor woman and her third daughter, who was named Meldina, and thus
addressed her: ‘Meldina, my child, I should be greatly pleased if you
would take the pig prince for a husband; pay no regard to him, but to
his father and to me; then, if you will be prudent and bear patiently
with him, you may be the happiest woman in the world.’ To this speech
Meldina answered, with a grateful smile upon her face, that she was
quite content to do as the queen bade her, and thanked her humbly for
deigning to choose her as a daughter-in-law; for, seeing that she
herself had nothing in the world, it was indeed great good fortune that
she, a poor girl, should become the daughter-in-law of a potent
sovereign. The queen, when she heard this modest and amiable reply,
could not keep back her tears for the happiness she felt; but she feared
all the time that the same fate might be in store for Meldina as her
sisters.
When the new bride had been clothed in rich attire and decked with
jewels, and was awaiting the bridegroom, the pig prince came in,
filthier and more muddy than ever; but she spread out her rich gown and
besought him to lie down by her side. Whereupon the queen bade her to
thrust him away, but to this she would not consent, and spoke thus to
the queen: ‘There are three wise sayings, gracious lady, which I
remember to have heard. The first is that it is folly to waste time in
searching for that which cannot be found. The second is that we should
believe nothing we may hear, except those things which bear the marks of
sense and reason. The third is that, when once you have got possession
of some rare and precious treasure, prize it well and keep a firm hold
upon it.’
[Illustration: The Pig Prince]
When the maiden had finished speaking, the pig prince, who had been wide
awake and had heard all that she had said, got up, kissed her on the
face and neck and bosom and shoulders with his tongue, and she was not
backward in returning his caresses; so that he was fired with a warm
love for her. As soon as the time for retiring for the night had come,
the bride went to bed and awaited her unseemly spouse, and, as soon as
he came, she raised the coverlet and bade him lie near to her and put
his head upon the pillow, covering him carefully with the bed-clothes
and drawing the curtains so that he might feel no cold. When morning had
come the pig got up and ranged abroad to pasture, as was his wont, and
very soon after the queen went to the bride’s chamber, expecting to find
that she had met with the same fate as her sisters; but when she saw her
lying in the bed, all defiled with mud as it was, and looking pleased
and contented, she thanked God for this favour, that her son had at last
found a spouse according to his liking.
One day, soon after this, when the pig prince was conversing pleasantly
with his wife, he said to her: ‘Meldina, my beloved wife, if I could be
fully sure that you could keep a secret, I would now tell you one of
mine; something I have kept hidden for many years. I know you to be very
prudent and wise, and that you love me truly; so I wish to make you the
sharer of my secret.’ ‘You may safely tell it to me, if you will,’ said
Meldina, ‘for I promise never to reveal it to anyone without your
consent.’ Whereupon, being now sure of his wife’s discretion and
fidelity, he straightway shook off from his body the foul and dirty skin
of the pig, and stood revealed as a handsome and well-shaped young man,
and all that night rested closely folded in the arms of his beloved
wife. But he charged her solemnly to keep silence about this wonder she
had seen, for the time had not yet come for his complete delivery from
this misery. So when he left the bed he donned the dirty pig’s hide once
more. I leave you to imagine for yourselves how great was the joy of
Meldina when she discovered that, instead of a pig, she had gained a
handsome and gallant young prince for a husband. Not long after this she
proved to be with child, and when the time of her delivery came she gave
birth to a fair and shapely boy. The joy of the king and queen was
unbounded, especially when they found that the new-born child had the
form of a human being and not that of a beast.
But the burden of the strange and weighty secret which her husband had
confided to her pressed heavily upon Meldina, and one day she went to
her mother-in-law and said: ‘Gracious queen, when first I married your
son I believed I was married to a beast, but now I find that you have
given me the comeliest, the worthiest, and the most gallant young man
ever born into the world to be my husband. For know that when he comes
into my chamber to lie by my side, he casts off his dirty hide and
leaves it on the ground, and is changed into a graceful handsome youth.
No one could believe this marvel save they saw it with their own eyes.’
When the queen heard these words she deemed that her daughter-in-law
must be jesting with her, but Meldina still persisted that what she said
was true. And when the queen demanded to know how she might witness with
her own eyes the truth of this thing, Meldina replied: ‘Come to my
chamber to-night, when we shall be in our first sleep; the door will be
open, and you will find that what I tell you is the truth.’
That same night, when the looked-for time had come, and all were gone to
rest, the queen let some torches be kindled and went, accompanied by the
king, to the chamber of her son, and when she had entered she saw the
pig’s skin lying on the floor in the corner of the room, and having gone
to the bedside, found therein a handsome young man in whose arms Meldina
was lying. And when they saw this, the delight of the king and queen was
very great, and the king gave order that before anyone should leave the
chamber the pig’s hide should be torn to shreds. So great was their joy
over the recovery of their son that they wellnigh died thereof.
And King Galeotto, when he saw that he had so fine a son, and a
grandchild likewise, laid aside his diadem and his royal robes, and
advanced to his place his son, whom he let be crowned with the greatest
pomp, and who was ever afterwards known as King Pig. Thus, to the great
contentment of all the people, the young king began his reign, and he
lived long and happily with Meldina his beloved wife.
When Isabella’s story was finished, the whole company broke into
laughter at the notion of the pig prince, all dirty and muddy as he was,
kissing his beloved spouse and lying by her side. “But let us give over
laughter,” cried Signora Lucretia, “in order that Isabella’s enigma may
be given in due course.” And forthwith Isabella, with a smile,
propounded her riddle.
I prithee, sir, to give to me,
What never did belong to thee,
Or ever will, what though thy span
Of life exceed the wont of man.
Dream not this treasure to attain;
Thy longing will be all in vain;
But if you deem me such a prize,
And pine for me with loving eyes,
Give me this boon, my wish fulfil,
For you can grant it if you will.
When Isabella had set forth her cunningly devised enigma, the listeners
were all in a state of bewilderment, for no one could understand how a
man could give what he did not possess or ever could possess. But
Isabella, when she saw that they were troubled overmuch, said, with much
good taste and judgment: “There is no reason for wonder, my good
friends, for a man certainly can give to a woman that which he has not
or ever will have; that is to say, a man has no husband nor ever will
have one, but it is an easy matter for him to give one to a lady.” The
whole company received this solution with much applause, and when
silence had once more been imposed on the assembly, Fiordiana, who sat
next to Isabella, arose from her seat and, smiling merrily, said:
“Signora, and you gentle folks all, does it not seem meet to you that
Signor Molino, our good friend, should enliven this honourable company
with one of his merry conceits; and I say this, not because I want to
escape the task of telling my own story (for I have ready more than
one), but because I feel that a tale, told with all his accustomed
pleasant grace and style, would, just now, give the company the greater
delight. He, as you well know, is ingenious and full of wit, and gifted
with all those good parts which pertain to a man of breeding. And as for
ourselves, dear ladies, it is better that we should ply our needles than
be always telling stories.”
All agreed with these prudent and well-timed words of Fiordiana, and
warmly applauded them, and the Signora, casting her eyes towards Molino,
said: “Come, Signor Antonio, it is now your turn to enliven us with an
example of your graceful wit.” And she signed to him to begin. Molino,
who had not reckoned on being named as a story-teller for this evening,
first gave his thanks to Fiordiana for the flattering words she had
spoken of him, and then in obedience to the Signora’s direction began
his fable.
THE SECOND FABLE.
=Filenio Sisterno, a student of Bologna, having been tricked by
certain ladies, takes his revenge upon them at a feast to which he
has bidden them.=
I should never have believed or imagined that the Signora would have
laid upon me the task of telling a story, seeing that in the due order
of things we should call upon Signora Fiordiana to give us one. But
since it is the pleasure of the company, I will take upon myself to tell
you something which may peradventure fit in with your humour. But if by
chance my narrative (which God forbid) should prove tiresome to you, or
should overstep the bounds of civility, I must crave your indulgence
therefor, and that the blame may be laid on Signora Fiordiana, to whom
it is in fact due.
In Bologna, the chief city of Lombardy, the parent of learning, and a
place furnished with everything needful for its high and flourishing
estate, there lived a young scholar of graceful and amiable parts named
Filenio Sisterno, born in the island of Crete. It chanced one day that a
magnificent feast was given, to which were invited the most beautiful
and distinguished ladies of Bologna, and many gentlemen, and certain of
the scholars, amongst whom was Filenio. After the manner of gallants, he
went dallying now with this and now with that fair dame, and finding no
difficulty in suiting his taste, resolved to lead out one of them for a
dance. His choice fell upon the Signora Emerentiana, the wife of a
certain Messer Lamberto Bentivogli, and she, who was very gracious, and
no less sprightly than beautiful, did not say him nay. During the dance,
which Filenio took care should be very gentle and slow, he wrung her
hand softly, and thus addressed her in a whisper: ‘Ah! Signora, how
great is your beauty; surely it transcends any that has yet met my eye;
surely the lady does not live who could ensnare my heart as you have
ensnared it. If only I might hope you would give me back the like, I
should be the happiest man in the world; but if you should prove cruel,
you will soon see me lying dead at your feet, and know yourself as the
cause of my bane. Seeing that I love you so entirely—and indeed I could
do no other thing—you ought to take me for your servant, disposing both
of my person and of the little I can call mine as if they were your own.
Higher favour from heaven I could not obtain than to find myself subject
to such a mistress, who has taken me in the snare of love as if I had
been a bird.’ Emerentiana, while she listened earnestly to these sweet
and gracious speeches, like a modest gentlewoman made as though she had
no ears, and held her peace. When the measure had come to an end,
Emerentiana sat down, and straightway Filenio led out another lady as
his partner, but the dance had scarcely begun before he began to address
her in like fashion: ‘Of a truth, most gracious Signora, there is no
need for me to waste words in setting forth how deep and ardent is the
love I have for you, and ever shall have, so long as this soul of mine
inhabits and rules my unworthy frame. And I would hold myself blest
indeed if I could possess you as the lady of my heart and my peculiar
mistress. Therefore, loving you as I do, and being wholly yours, as you
may easily understand, I beg you will deign to take me for your most
humble servant, seeing that my life and everything I have to live for
depends on you and on no other.’ The young lady, whose name was
Panthemia, although she understood all this, made no reply, but modestly
went on with the dance, and, when it had come to an end, she sat down
with the other ladies, smiling a little the while.
But short time had passed before the gallant scholar took a third
partner by the hand; this time the most seemly, the most gracious, and
the fairest lady in Bologna, and began to tread a measure with her,
making all those who pressed round to admire her, give way; and before
the dance was ended he thus addressed her: ‘Most estimable lady, perhaps
I shall seem to you out of measure presumptuous to reveal the secret
love which I have borne, and still bear towards you, but for this
offence blame not me, but your own beauty, which raises you high above
all others, and makes me your slave. I speak not now of your delightful
manners, nor of your surpassing virtues, which are great enough and many
enough to bring all the world to your feet. If then your loveliness, the
work of nature, and owing nought to art, fascinates everyone, there is
no wonder that it should constrain me to love you and to guard your
image in my inmost heart. I beseech you then, sweet lady, the one
comfort of my life, to spare some tenderness for one who dies for you a
thousand times a day. If you grant me this grace I shall know I owe my
life to you; so to your kindness I now recommend myself.’
The fair lady, who was called Sinforosia, when she heard the sweet and
loving words which came from Filenio’s ardent bosom, could not forbear
sighing, but taking heed of her honour as a married woman she answered
him nought, and when the dance was come to an end returned to her seat.
It happened that all these three ladies found themselves sitting in a
ring close to one another, and disposed for sprightly talk, when
Emerentiana, the spouse of Messer Lamberto, moved by jocund humour and
not by spite, said to her two companions, ‘Dear friends, I have to tell
you of a diverting adventure which has this evening befallen me.’ ‘And
what is it?’ they inquired. Said Emerentiana, ‘This evening, in the
course of the dancing, I have gotten for myself a cavalier, the
handsomest, the trimmest, the most gracious you could find anywhere, who
protests himself to be so hotly inflamed with my beauty that he can find
no rest day or night.’ And word by word she related all that the scholar
had said to her. As soon as Panthemia and Sinforosia heard her story,
they told her that the same had happened to them, and before they left
the feast they had satisfied themselves that it was the same gallant who
had made love to all three of them. Wherefore they clearly comprehended
that the words of this gallant sprang not from loyal feeling, but from
deceit and feigning of love, and they gave to them no more credence than
one is wont to give to the babblings of a sick man or to the romancer’s
fables, and they did not go from thence before they had agreed, each one
of them, to put a trick upon him such as he would not readily forget;
for ladies, too, may play jokes. Filenio meantime was bent on amorous
design, and went on making love now to one lady now to another. Judging
from their carriage that they looked not unkindly upon him, he set
himself the task, if it were possible, of moving each one of them to
grant him the supremest favour of love, but the issue of the affair was
not according to his desire, for all his schemes went astray.
Emerentiana, who could no longer bear with the mock love-making of the
silly scholar, called to a pretty buxom handmaid of hers, and charged
her to find some excuse for speaking with Filenio, in order to disclose
to him the love which her mistress had conceived for him, and to let him
know that he might whenever he would spend a night with her in her own
house. When Filenio heard this he was much elated, and said to the maid,
‘Hasten home forthwith and commend me to your mistress, and tell her in
my behalf that she may expect me this evening at her house, provided
that her husband be not at home.’ When this word had been brought to
Emerentiana, she straightway caused to be collected a great store of
prickly thorns, and having strewn these under the bed where she lay at
night, she awaited the coming of her gallant. When it had become dusk
the scholar took his sword and stole towards the house of his fancied
mistress, and the door, when he had given the password, was immediately
opened. Then, when the two had held some little converse and supped
daintily, they withdrew into the bedchamber for the night.
Scarcely had Filenio taken off his clothes to go to bed when Messer
Lamberto was heard without, and hereupon the lady, feigning to be at her
wits’ end where she should hide her lover, bade him get under the bed.
Filenio, seeing how great the danger was, both to the lady and to
himself, made haste to betake himself thither, without putting on any
more clothes than the shirt he wore, and was in consequence so
grievously pricked by the thorns prepared for him that there was no part
of his body, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, which
was not running with blood. And the more he essayed in this dark hole to
defend himself from the pricks, the more grievously was he wounded, and
he dared not make a sound lest Messer Lamberto should hear him and slay
him. I leave you to figure in what plight the poor wretch found himself
that night, seeing that he dared not call out, though he was like to
lose a good part of his breech through the torment he was suffering.
When the morning was come, and the husband had left the house, the
wretched scholar clothed himself as best he could, and made his way back
to his lodging, bleeding and in great fear lest he should die. But being
well treated by his physician, he got well and recovered his former
health.
Many days had not passed before Filenio essayed another bout of
love-making, casting amorous eyes on the other two ladies, Panthemia and
Sinforosia, and went so far as to find one evening an occasion to
address Panthemia, to whom he rehearsed his continued woes and torments,
and besought her that she would have pity upon him. Panthemia, who was
full of tricks and mischief, while feigning to compassionate him, made
excuse that it was not in her power to do his will; but at last, as if
vanquished by his tender prayers and ardent sighs, she brought him into
her house. And when he was undressed, and ready to go to bed with her,
she bade him go into a cabinet adjacent, where she kept her orange water
and perfumes, to the intent that he might well perfume his person, and
then get to bed. The scholar, never suspecting the cunning of this
mischief-working dame, entered the cabinet, and, having set his foot
upon a board unnailed from the joist which held it up, he and the board
as well fell down into a warehouse below, in which certain merchants
kept their store of cotton and wool, and although he fell so far he
suffered no ill. The scholar, finding himself in this dark place, began
to search for some ladder or door to serve his exit, but coming upon
none he cursed the hour and the place where he had first set eyes on
Panthemia. The morning dawned at last, and then the unhappy wight began
to realize by degrees the full treachery of Panthemia. He espied on one
side of the storehouse certain outlets in the wall, through which
streamed in a dim light, and, finding the masonry to be old and
moss-grown, he set to work with all his strength to pull out the stones
in the spot which had fallen most to decay, and soon made a gap big
enough to let him out. And, finding himself in an alley, clad only in
his shirt, and stockingless, he stole back to his lodging without being
seen of any.
And next it happened that Sinforosia, having heard of the tricks which
the two others had played the scholar, resolved to treat him with a
third, no less noteworthy; so, the next time she saw him, she began to
ogle him with the tail of her eye, by way of telling him that a passion
for him was burning her up. Filenio, forgetting straightway his former
mishaps, began to walk up and down past her house, and play the lover.
Sinforosia, when she saw from this that he was deeply smitten with love
for her, sent him a letter by an old woman to let him know that he had
so completely captured her fancy by his fine person and gracious manners
that she could find rest neither night nor day, and to beg him that,
whenever it might please him, he would come and hold converse with her,
and give her a pleasure greater than any other. Filenio took the letter,
and having mastered the contents, was at once filled with more glee and
happiness than he had ever known before, clean forgetting all the tricks
and injuries he had suffered hitherto. He took pen and ink, and wrote a
reply, that, though she might be enamoured of him, he, on his part, was
just as much in love with her, or even more, and that at any time she
might appoint he would hold himself at her service and commands. When
she had read this reply, Sinforosia made it her business to find full
soon an opportunity for the scholar to be brought to her house, and
then, after many feigned sighs, she said: ‘O my Filenio, of a truth I
know of no other gallant who could have brought me into such plight, but
you alone; since your comeliness, your grace, and your discourse have
kindled such fire in my heart that I burn like dry wood.’ The scholar,
while he listened, took it for certain that she was melting with love
for him, and, poor simpleton as he was, kept on some time bandying sweet
and loving words with her, till it seemed to him that the time had come
to go to bed and to lie down beside her. Then Sinforosia said: ‘Before
we go to bed it seems meet that we should regale ourselves somewhat.’
And having taken him by the hand, she led him into an adjoining cabinet,
where there was a table spread with sumptuous cakes and wines of the
finest, in which the mischievous dame had caused to be mingled a certain
drug, potent to send her gallant to sleep for a certain time. Filenio
took a cup and filled it with wine, and suspecting no fraud he emptied
it straightway. Enlivened by the banquet, and having washed himself in
orange water and dainty perfumes, he got into bed, and then immediately
the drug began to work, and he slept so sound that even the uproar of
great artillery would scarce have awakened him. Then, when Sinforosia
perceived that he was in a heavy slumber and that the drug was doing its
work well, she called one of her maids, a strong wench whom she had made
privy to the jest, and the two of them took Filenio by the legs and
arms, and, having opened the door softly, they placed him in the street,
about a stone’s cast from the house, and there left him.
It was about an hour before dawn when, the drug having spent its force,
the poor wretch came to himself, and, believing that he had been in bed
with the lady, found himself instead stockingless, and clad only in his
shirt, and half dead with cold through lying on the bare ground. Almost
helpless in his arms and legs, he found it a hard matter to get on his
feet, and, when he had done so much, it was with difficulty that he kept
from falling again; but he managed, as best he could, to regain his
lodging and to care for his health. Had it not been for his lusty youth,
he would surely have been maimed for life; but he regained his former
health, and when he went abroad again he showed no signs of remembering
the injuries and vexations which had been put upon him; but, on the
other hand, he bore himself towards the three ladies as if he loved them
as well as ever, and feigned, now to be enamoured of one, and now of
another. The ladies, never suspecting malice on his part, put a good
face on the matter, and treated him graciously as if they were dealing
with a real lover. Filenio was many times tempted to give his hand free
play, and to mark their faces for them, but he prudently took thought of
the condition of the ladies, and of the shame that would be cast on him
should he offer violence to them, and restrained his wrath. Day and
night he considered how he might best wreak his vengeance on them, and
when he could hit on no plan he was in great perplexity. But in the
course of time he devised a scheme by which he might readily work his
purpose, and fortune aided him to prosecute it as he had designed. He
hired for himself in the city a very fine house, containing a
magnificent hall and many dainty chambers, and in this he purposed to
give a great and sumptuous feast, and to invite thereto a company of
gentlefolk, Emerentiana, and Panthemia, and Sinforosia amongst the rest.
They accepted the scholar’s invitation without demur, suspecting nothing
sinister in the same, and when they were come to the feast the wily
scholar led them with many courteous speeches into a room and begged
them to take some refreshment. As soon as the three ladies—foolish and
imprudent indeed—had entered the room, Filenio locked the door, and,
advancing towards them, said: ‘Now, my pretty ladies, the time is come
for me to take my revenge upon you, and to give you some repayment for
all the ills you put upon me, just because I loved you so well.’ When
they heard these words, they seemed more dead than alive, and began to
repent heartily that they had ever abused him, and at the same time to
curse their own folly in having trusted the word of one they ought to
have treated as a foe. Then the scholar with fierce and threatening
looks commanded them that they should, if they set any store on their
lives, strip themselves naked, and the ladies, when they heard this
speech, exchanged glances one with the other and began to weep, begging
him the while, not only for the sake of love, but also for the sake of
his natural gentleness, that their honour might be left to them.
Filenio, exulting in his deed, was exceedingly polite to them, but at
the same time informed them that he could not suffer them to remain
clothed in his presence. Hereupon the ladies cast themselves down at
Filenio’s feet, and with piteous weeping humbly besought him not to be
the cause of so great shame to them. But he, whose heart was now grown
as hard as a stone, cried out that what he would do to them was in no
sense blameworthy: it was nothing but just revenge; so the ladies were
forced to take off their clothes and to stand as naked as when they were
born, in which condition they appeared fully as fair as when apparelled.
When this had come to pass even Filenio began to feel some pity for
them; but, remembering his recent wrongs, and the mortal perils he had
undergone, he chased away his pitying humour and once more hardened his
heart. He then craftily conveyed all the clothes and linen they had
lately worn into a neighbouring cabinet, and bade them with threatenings
all to get into one bed. The ladies, altogether astounded and shaking
with terror, cried out, ‘Wretched fools that we are! What will our
husbands and our friends say when it shall be told to them that we have
been found here slain in this shameful case?’ The scholar, seeing them
lying one by the other like married folk, took a large sheet of linen,
very white, but not fine enough to suffer their bodies to be seen and
recognized, and covered them therewith from head to foot; then he left
the chamber, locking the door behind him, to go and find the three
husbands, who were dancing in the hall. Their dance being finished,
Filenio led them with him into the chamber where the ladies were lying
in the bed, and said to them: ‘Gentlemen, I have brought you hither for
your diversion, and to show you the prettiest sight you have ever seen;’
and, having led them up to the bed with a torch in his hand, he began
softly to lift up the covering at their feet, and to turn it back so as
to disclose the fair limbs beneath it as far as the knees, thus giving
the three husbands something wondrous fair to look upon. Next he
uncovered them as far as their stomachs, which he then disclosed
entirely by lifting the sheet in the same way. I leave you to imagine
how great was the diversion the three gentlemen got from this jest of
Filenio’s, also in what distressful plight these poor wretched ladies
found themselves when they heard their husbands join in mocking them.
They lay quite still, not daring even to cough, lest they should be
discovered, while their husbands kept urging the scholar to uncover
their faces; but he, wiser in other men’s wrongs than in his own, would
not oblige them so far. Not content with this, he brought forth their
garments, which he showed to their husbands, who, when they looked
thereon, were astonished and somewhat perturbed at heart, and, after
examining them closely, said one to another: ‘Is not this the gown which
I once had made for my wife?’ ‘Is not this the coif which I bought for
her?’ ‘Is not this the pendant that she hangs round her neck? Are not
these the rings she wears on her fingers?’
[Illustration: The Scholar’s Vengeance]
At last Filenio brought the three gentlemen out of the chamber, and bade
them, so as not to break up the company, to remain to supper. The
scholar, learning that the supper was ready and everything set in order
by the majordomo, gave the word for everyone to take his place. And
while the guests were setting their teeth to work, Filenio returned to
the chamber where the three ladies were, and as he uncovered them said:
‘Good evening, fair ladies; did you hear what your husbands were saying?
They are now without, waiting impatiently to see you. Get up; surely you
have slept enough; give over yawning and rubbing your eyes. Take your
clothes and don them without delay, and go into the hall where the other
guests await you.’ With such words as these he mocked them; while they,
disconsolate and despairing, feared lest this adventure might come to
some fatal issue, and wept bitterly. At last, full of anguish and terror
and looking for nothing less than death at his hands, they arose and
turning to the scholar said to him: ‘Filenio, you have taken more than
vengeance upon us. Now nothing remains but for you to draw your sword
and make an end of our lives, for we desire death beyond any other
thing. And if you will not grant us this boon, at least suffer us to
return unobserved to our homes, so that our honour may be saved.’
Filenio, seeing that he had carried the affair far enough, gave them
back their garments, and directed them to clothe themselves quickly, and
when this was done he sent them out of the house by a secret door, and
they went back to their homes. At once they laid aside their fine
clothes, which they had lately worn, and put them away in their presses,
and with great prudence sat down to work instead of going to bed. When
the feast had come to an end, the three husbands thanked the scholar for
the fine entertainment he had given them, and in particular for the
sight of the beauties laid out for their benefit in the chamber,
beauties surpassing the sun himself, and, having taken leave of him,
they returned to their homes, where they found their wives sewing beside
the hearth. Now the sight of the clothes, and the rings, and the jewels,
which the scholar had exhibited to them, had made them somewhat
suspicious; so each one now demanded of his wife where she had spent
that evening, and where her best garments were. To this questioning each
lady replied boldly that she had not left the house that evening, and,
taking the keys of the coffers wherein was disposed her apparel, she
showed this to her husband, with the rings and other jewels which he had
given her. When the husbands saw these they were silent, and knew not
what to say, but after a little they told their wives word by word what
they had seen that evening. The ladies made as if they knew nothing of
it, and, after jesting a little over the matter, they undressed and went
to bed. And in after times Filenio often met the three ladies in the
streets, and would always inquire of them: ‘Which of you was in the
greatest fear? and did I suffer most from your jests, or you from mine?’
But they always held their eyes down on the ground, and said nothing.
And in this fashion the scholar avenged himself as well as he could of
the tricks he had suffered, without violence or outrage.
When they had listened to the story of Molino, the Signora and all the
other ladies declared that the revenge, worked upon the three
gentlewomen by the scholar for the tricks they had played him, was no
less revolting than cowardly; but when they came to consider the severe
punishment which the poor fellow had suffered in couching upon the
thorns, and the danger of breaking his bones he had incurred in falling
down into the warehouse, and the biting cold he had been exposed to when
laid out in the open street to sleep upon the bare earth clad only in
his shirt, they admitted that his vengeance was no heavier than was due.
The Signora, though she had excused Fiordiana from telling her story in
due order, now demanded of her that she should at least give her enigma,
which ought to have some reference to the story of the scholar; and she,
in obedience to this word, said: “Signora, it happens that the enigma
which I have to submit to the company has nothing in keeping with deeds
of grave and terrible vengeance such as the ingenious Signor Antonio has
set forth in his fable, but at the same time it will be one which may be
of interest to every studious youth.” And without further delay she
propounded her enigma:
From two dead blocks a living man
Gave life to one whose spirit ran
To vivify another wight,
Who thus from darkness rose to light.
Two living ones together bide,
The creature by the maker’s side,
And by the creature’s radiance led,
The master communes with the dead.
This subtle riddle of the Signora Fiordiana was interpreted in various
wise, but not one of the company hit upon its exact meaning. And seeing
that Fiordiana kept on shaking her head at the essays made by the
company, Bembo remarked with a quiet smile, “Signora Fiordiana, it seems
to me to be foolishness to waste our time in this fashion. Tell us what
you will, and we shall be contented.” “Since this noble company
decrees,” replied Fiordiana, “that I should be my own interpreter, I
will gladly do this; not because I deem myself in any way competent for
this task, but because I wish to oblige all you here, to whom I am bound
by so many kindnesses. My enigma shows simply a student who rises from
bed early in the morning, and he, a living thing, by the working of two
dead things, the flint and the steel, gives life to the dead tinder, and
this in its turn enlivens the dead candle. Thus the first living one,
the student, by the help of these other two living ones who lately were
dead, sits down to converse with the dead, that is, with the books writ
by learned men of times long past.” The explication of this most
ingenious riddle by Fiordiana pleased the company greatly, and the
Signora directed Lionora to begin her story at once.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
THE THIRD FABLE.
=Carlo da Rimini vainly pursues Theodosia with his love, she having
resolved to live a virgin. In striving to embrace her he meets
with divers misadventures, and is well beaten by his own servants
to boot.=
Dear ladies, the clever story just told to us by Molino has made me give
up all thought of relating to you the one I had in my mind, and to offer
in its place another which, if I am not mistaken, will be equally
pleasing to you ladies as Molino’s was to the gentlemen. Mine will
certainly be shorter than his, and, I think I may say, more decent in
the subject it treats.
I must tell you then that Carlo da Rimini—as I think many of you
know—was a man whose trade was fighting, a despiser of God, a blasphemer
of the saints, brutal and a cutthroat, and at the same time given over
to all kinds of effeminate luxury. So great indeed was his malignity and
the corruption of his nature, that his equal could not be found. Now in
the days when he was a handsome, seemly young man, it chanced that he
became hotly enamoured of a certain maiden, the daughter of a poor
widow, who, though she was very poor and only contrived to find a living
for herself and her child with much difficulty, would rather have died
with hunger than have consented to live on the wages of her daughter’s
sin.
The maiden, whose name was Theodosia, was very fair and graceful in her
person, and no less honest and discreet in her conduct; moreover, she
was of a prudent, sober temper, and had already determined to devote
herself to the religious life and to prayer, holding all worldly things
to be of small account. Carlo, therefore, burning with lascivious
passion, was in the habit of molesting her with his attentions every
day, and on any day when he might not chance to see her he was like to
die of vexation.
With flatteries and gifts and solicitations he made frequent trial to
win the maiden’s consent to his wishes, but all his importunities were
in vain; for, like a wise and good girl, she would have none of his
presents, and every day she prayed to God to turn away from his heart
these dishonest wishes. At last there came a time when he could no
longer hold within bounds his ardent lust and bestial desire, and,
feeling gravely affronted at these continual rebuffs by one whom he
loved more dearly than his own life, he made up his mind to ravish her
and satisfy his lecherous appetite, let the consequence be what it
might. But he feared to stir up a commotion through any public scandal,
lest the people, who held him in great hatred, should rise and slay him.
But at last, being overcome by his unbridled desire, with his mind
distempered with rage as if he had been a mad dog, he made a plan with
two of his underlings—desperate ruffians both of them—to carry her off
and then to ravish her. Therefore one day, when the evening dusk had
fallen, he armed himself and went with the two desperadoes to the young
girl’s dwelling-place, the door of which he found open; but before
entering he charged his men to keep on the alert, and to take care, as
they valued their own lives, that no other person should enter the house
or come out therefrom until he himself should rejoin them. The two
ruffians, who were full willing to obey their leader’s behests, gave
answer that whatever he might command should be carried out.
But Theodosia (by some means unknown to me) had got tidings of Carlo’s
intent, and had shut herself up in a small kitchen, and Carlo, when he
had mounted the staircase of the poor little house, found there the old
mother, who, suspecting nothing of any such surprise, had taken to her
spinning. He demanded forthwith where was her daughter, for whom he had
such great love and desire, and the poor old woman, as soon as she
perceived that the young lecher was fully armed and manifestly more
inclined to evil than to good, was greatly confounded in her mind, and
her face became as white as the face of a corpse, and she was on the
point of screaming aloud; but, perceiving that her outcries would be of
no use, she determined to hold her peace, and put her honour in the
keeping of God, whom she altogether trusted. So, plucking up her
courage, she turned to Carlo and said: ‘Carlo, I know not what humour or
what insolent spirit may have brought you here to defile the soul of
this girl, who desires to live honestly. If by chance you should be come
with righteous intent, then may God grant you fulfilment of every just
and honourable wish; but if it should be otherwise, which God forbid,
you are guilty of a great wickedness in trying to attain by outrage that
which can never be yours. Therefore, cast away and have done with this
unbridled lust, and no longer strive to ravish from my daughter that
which you can never give back to her, to wit, the chastity of her body.
And the more you lust after her, the more she will hate you, seeing that
her mind is firm set to dedicate herself to virginity.’
Carlo, when he heard these moving words spoken by the poor old mother,
instead of being awakened to pity or turned away from his evil intent,
raged like a madman, and began to search for Theodosia in every corner
of the house, without finding any trace of her, until he came to the
little kitchen, where, seeing that the door was fast close, he thought
(and thought rightly) that she must be concealed. Then, spying through a
crack in the door, he perceived Theodosia, who was at her prayers, and
with honeyed words he began to beseech her that she would open to him
the door, addressing her in these terms: ‘Theodosia, life of my life, be
sure that I am not come here to sully your honour, which is more dear to
me than my own self and my own good name, but to take you as my wife,
provided that my offer be acceptable to you and to your good mother.
And, beyond this, I swear I will have the life of anyone who may in any
way affront your honour.’
Theodosia, who listened attentively to Carlo’s speech, answered him
straightway in these terms: ‘Carlo, I beseech you to give over this
obstinate prosecution of your desire. I can never marry you, seeing that
I have offered my virginal service to Him who sees and governs us all.
And if cruel fortune should suffer you to defile violently this body of
mine, at least you will have no power to blacken the purity of my soul,
which from the hour of my birth I have dedicated to my Creator. God has
given you freedom of will so that you may know the evil from the good,
and may do that which seems best to you. Follow, therefore, after the
good, and you will be of good report, and turn aside from evil.’ Carlo,
when he found that his flattery availed him nothing, and that the maiden
refused to have aught to say to him, could no longer keep under the fire
which was burning in his heart, and, more maddened than ever, trusted no
longer to words, but resorted to violence, bursting open by force the
door, which, being none of the strongest, soon gave way as he willed.
When Carlo entered the little kitchen and cast his eyes upon the maiden,
so full of grace and fair beyond belief, his passion grew hotter than
ever, and, thinking only of satisfying to the full his inordinate lust,
he threw himself upon her from behind, just as if he had been an eager
famishing greyhound, and she a timid hare. And the ill-fated Theodosia,
with her golden hair loose over her shoulders, and grasped tightly round
the neck by Carlo, grew pale, and felt so deadly a languor coming over
her that she could scarcely move. Then she commended her soul to heaven
and demanded help of God above, and scarcely had she finished her mental
prayer, when, in miraculous wise, her body seemed to melt away out of
Carlo’s grip; and at the same time God dazzled so completely his
eyesight and understanding that he no longer knew rightly what were the
things around him, and while he deemed he was holding the maid in his
embrace and covering her with kisses and endearments, he was, in sooth,
embracing nothing better than the pots and pans, spits and cauldrons,
and other kitchen gear lying about the place. Though his lust was in
some measure satisfied, he soon felt his wounded heart stirring again,
and again he flew to embrace a huge kettle, fancying all the while that
he held in his arms the fair form of Theodosia. In thus handling the
kettles and cauldrons his hands and face were so besmirched with soot
that he looked less like Carlo da Rimini than the devil. In the end,
feeling that his desire was for the nonce satisfied, and conscious that
it was time to retreat, he made his way out by the staircase all
blackened as he was, but the two ruffians, who were keeping guard near
the door lest anyone should enter or leave the house, when they saw him
thus transformed, with his face all disfigured, and looking more like a
beast than a human being, imagined that he must be some ghost or evil
spirit, and were fain to take to their heels and save themselves from
this monster. But having taken heart to stand up to him, and to look
closely into his face, which seemed to them mightily disfigured and
ugly, they began to drub him with cudgels and with their fists, which
were as hard as iron, so that they mangled cruelly his face and his
shoulders with hearty goodwill, and left not a hair on his head. Not
content with this, they threw him down on the ground, stripping off the
clothes from his back, and dealing him as many kicks and cuffs as he
could endure, and the blows fell so thick and fast that Carlo had no
time allowed him to open his mouth and ask the reason of his cruel
chastisement. Nevertheless, he made shift at last to break away from
their hold, when he ran as for his life, always suspecting, however,
that the ruffians were close behind him.
Thus Carlo, having been soundly beaten[23] by his servants, his eyes
being so discoloured and swollen from their lusty pummelling that he
could scarcely see, ran towards the piazza, clamouring and complaining
loudly of the ill-handling he had got from his own men. The town-guard,
when he heard these shouts and lamentations, went towards him, and,
marking his disfigured state and his face all bedaubed with dirt, took
him for a madman. And since no one recognized him, the whole crowd began
to mock at him, and to cry: ‘Give it to him, give it to him, for he is a
lunatic.’ Then some hustled him, others spat in his face, and others
took dust and cast it in his eyes; and they kept on maltreating him thus
for a good space of time, until the uproar came to the ears of the
prætor, who, having risen from his bed and gone to the window which
overlooked the piazza, demanded what had happened to cause so great a
tumult. One of the guards thereupon answered that there was a madman who
was turning the piazza topsy-turvy, and the prætor gave order that he
should be securely bound and brought before him, which command was
forthwith carried out.
Now Carlo, who up to this time had been the terror of all, finding
himself thus bound and ill-treated and insulted, without a notion as to
the cause of it, was utterly confounded in his mind, and broke out into
so violent a rage that he wellnigh burst the bonds that held him. But as
soon as he was brought before the prætor, the latter recognized him
straightway as Carlo da Rimini, and at once set down the filthy
condition of his prisoner as the work of Theodosia, for he was privy to
the fact that Carlo was inflamed with passion for the girl. Therefore he
at once began to use soft speech and to soothe Carlo, promising to make
smart sharply those who had brought upon him such a shameful mischance.
Carlo, who suspected not that his face was like that of a blackamoor,
could not at first gather the purport of these words, but in the end,
when it had been made known to him how filthy his condition was, how
that he resembled a brute beast rather than a man, he, like the prætor,
attributed his discomfiture to Theodosia, and, letting his rage have
free course, he swore an oath that unless the prætor would punish her he
would take revenge by his own hand. When the morning was come, the
prætor sent for Theodosia, deeming that she had wrought this deed by
magic arts. But she gave good heed to the plight in which she stood, and
completely realized the great danger thereof; so she betook herself to a
convent of nuns of holy life, where she abode secretly, serving God for
the rest of her days with a cheerful heart.
It happened after this that Carlo was sent to lay siege to a strong
place, and, when in the assault he pressed on to a more desperate essay
than he had power to accomplish, he found himself caught like a rat in a
trap; for, as he mounted the walls of the citadel to plant thereon the
banner of the Pope, he was smitten by a great stone, which crushed him
and dashed him to pieces in such manner that no time was allowed to him
to make his peace with heaven. Thus the wicked Carlo made a wretched end
of his days, according to his deserts, without having plucked that fruit
of love he desired so ardently.
Before Lionora had come to the end of her concisely-told fable, all her
good companions began to laugh over the stupidity of Carlo in kissing
and embracing the pots and kettles, thinking all the while that he was
enjoying his beloved Theodosia; nor did they make less merry in the case
of the cuffs and blows he got from the hands of his own men in the rough
handling they gave him. And after a good spell of laughter Lionora,
without waiting for further word from the Signora, set forth her enigma:
I am fine and pure and bright,
At my best am snowy white.
Maid and matron scourge and flout me,
Yet they cannot do without me,
For I serve both young and old,
Shield their bodies from the cold.
A parent mighty mothered me,
Mother of all mothers she.
And, my time of service past,
I’m torn and beaten at the last.
This cleverly-worded enigma won the praise of all the company, but since
it seemed to be beyond the power of anyone to solve it, Lionora was
requested to divulge its meaning; whereupon she said with a smile: “It
is scarcely becoming that one of parts so slender as mine should presume
to teach you, ladies and gentlemen, who are so much better versed in
knowledge. But since this is your will, and since your will to me is
law, I will tell you forthwith what I mean by my enigma. It means
nothing else than linen cloth, fine and white, which is by ladies
pierced by scissors and needles, and beaten. And it serves as a covering
to us all, and comes from the mother of us all, the earth; moreover,
when it grows old we no longer send it to the fuller, but let it be torn
up small and made into paper.”
Everyone was pleased with the interpretation of this clever enigma and
commended it highly. The Signora having already remarked that Lodovica,
who was chosen to tell the next story, was troubled with a bad headache,
turned to the Trevisan and said, “Signor Benedetto, it is indeed the
duty of us ladies to provide the stories to-night; but seeing that
Lodovica is gravely troubled in her head, we beg you to take her place
this evening, and grant you free field to tell whatever may please you
best.” To which speech the Trevisan thus replied: “It happens, Signora,
that I am little skilled in these matters; nevertheless (since your will
commands my entire obedience) I will use my best effort to satisfy you
all, begging you at the same time to hold me excused if I fail therein.”
And having made due salutation, he rose from his seat and began his
story in the following words:
THE FOURTH FABLE.
=The devil, having heard divers husbands railing over the humours of
their wives, makes trial of matrimony by espousing Silvia
Balastro, and, not being able to endure his wife for long, enters
into the body of the Duke of Malphi.=
The frivolity and want of judgment which nowadays is to be found amongst
most women (I speak of those who, without heed, give full licence to
their eyes and fancy in straining to compass their unbridled lust),
offers me occasion to tell to this noble concourse a story which may not
be familiar. And, although you may find it somewhat short, and ill put
together, it may, nevertheless, serve as a wholesome lesson to you wives
to be less irksome and exacting to your husbands than you have been
heretofore. And if I seem to lay on the lash too heavily, blame not me,
who am but the humble servant of all you others, but make your complaint
to the Signora, who, as you have heard, has given me leave to set before
you whatever story might commend itself to my taste.
I will first tell you, gracious ladies, that many years ago the devil,
becoming weary of the unceasing and clamorous accusations made by
husbands against their wives, determined to test the truth of these by
making trial of marriage himself, and, that he might the better compass
this design, he took the shape of a goodly young man of courtly manners,
and well furnished with lands and gold, Pancrazio Stornello by name. As
soon as the bruit of his intention got abroad in the city, divers
matchmakers waited upon him with plentiful choice of comely women, well
dowered, for his wife, and from amongst these he settled upon Silvia
Balastro, a noble maiden. Never before had the city witnessed such
magnificent nuptials and rejoicings. The kinsfolk of the bride came from
far and near, and for the best man the bridegroom chose one Gasparino
Boncio, a townsman of repute. A few days after the marriage the devil
addressed Sylvia, saying, ‘My dear wife, I need scarcely tell you that I
love you better than I love myself, seeing that I have already given you
many tokens of my affection; therefore, for the sake of this love of
mine, I am about to beg of you a favour which will be easy for you to
grant, and most acceptable to me. This favour is nought else than that
you should demand of me all that you want now, and all that you will
ever be likely to want, of raiment, jewellery, pearls, and other things
of the same sort which ladies love; for I have determined, on account of
the great love I have for you, to give you all you may demand, though it
may cost a kingdom. I make but one condition, which is, that you shall
never trouble me about such matters again; so be careful that you get
all you can possibly require for the rest of our married life, and be
careful likewise never to demand aught of me more, for you will ask in
vain.’ Silvia begged for time to consider this proposition, and, having
betaken herself to Signora Anastasia, her mother, a worldly-wise old
lady, she laid bare the offer of her husband, and asked for advice
thereanent. Anastasia, who knew well enough how to play a game of this
sort, took pen and paper and wrote out a list of articles, such as would
need two days to describe by word of mouth, and said to Silvia, ‘Take
this paper, and ask your husband to give you everything that is here
written down. If he agrees, you may be well content with him.’ Hereupon
Silvia departed, and, having found her husband, she asked him to give
her all that was written on the list, and he, when he had carefully read
it over, said, ‘Are you quite sure, dearest Sylvia, that you have put
down here all you want—that there is nothing missing for which at some
future time you may have to ask me? for I warn you that, if this should
be so, neither your prayers nor your sighs nor your tears will avail to
get it for you.’
Silvia could think of nothing else to ask for, and agreed to the
conditions of her husband, who at once commanded to be made vast store
of rich vestments studded with big pearls, and rings and all sorts of
jewels the most sumptuous that were ever seen. And over and above these
he gave her coifs and girdles embroidered with pearls, and all manner of
other dainty baubles which can be better imagined than described. When
Silvia was arrayed in these, and conscious of being the best dressed
woman in the city, she became somewhat saucy. There was nothing else she
could ask her husband for, so well had he cared for her needs.
It chanced, soon after this, that the city was all agog concerning a
great feast to which were bidden all the nobles of the place, and
amongst these was naturally included Silvia, who was amongst the most
beautiful and distinguished ladies in the city. And the more to honour
this festival, the other ladies met and devised all sorts of new
fashions of dress, altering them so much that anyone accoutred in those
in vogue heretofore would hardly have been recognized. There was no
mother’s daughter in the town—just as if it had happened to-day—who was
not bent on mounting the newest fashion to do honour to the festival,
and each one vied to outdo the other in pomp and magnificence.
When there came to Silvia’s ears the news that the fashion of dress was
to be changed, she was at once beset with fear that the store of raiment
she had lately received from her husband would be found of unfashionable
shape and unfit to be worn at the feast, and, in consequence, fell into
a melancholy humour, neither eating nor sleeping, and making the house
resound with her sighs and groans. The devil, who fathomed the trouble
in his wife’s heart, feigned to know nothing of it, and one day
addressed her: ‘What is troubling you, Silvia, that you look so unhappy?
Have you no heart for the coming festival?’ Silvia, seeing her
opportunity, plucked up courage and said: ‘What is the festival to me?
How can I go there in these old-fashioned clothes of mine? I am sure you
will not force me thither to be mocked at by the others.’ Then said
Pancrazio to her: ‘Did I not give you everything you would want for the
rest of your days? How comes it that you now ask me for more after
agreeing to the conditions I then made?’ These words only made Silvia
weep the more, and, bewailing her unhappy fate, cry out that she could
not go to the feast because she had no clothes fit to wear. Then said
the devil, ‘I gave you at first all that was necessary for the rest of
your days, but I will once more gratify your wishes. You may ask of me
for anything you want, and your request shall be granted; but never
again. If, after this, you make a like petition, the issue will be
something you will never forget.’
Silvia straightway put off her peevish humour, and wrote out another
list of braveries as long as the last, which Signor Pancrazio procured
for her without delay. In the course of time the ladies of the city once
more set to work to make another change in the fashion of dress, and
once more Silvia found herself clad in dresses of outworn cut. No other
lady could boast of jewels so costly, or of robes of such rich and
sumptuous web; but this was no solace to her, and she went mourning all
day long, without daring to make another appeal to her husband, who,
marking her tristful face, and knowing well enough what was vexing her,
said, ‘Silvia, my love, why are you so sad?’ Then she took courage and
said, ‘Is there not cause enough for me to be sad, seeing that I have no
raiment in the new fashion, and that I cannot show my face amongst the
other ladies of the city without their making a mock of me, and bringing
reproach upon you as well as upon myself? and the respect and fidelity I
have towards you do not merit such a return of shame and humiliation.’
At these words the devil was terribly wroth and said: ‘What cause have
you for complaint? Have I not twice over given you all you have asked
for? Your desires are insatiable, and beyond my power to satisfy. I will
once more give you everything you may demand, but I will straightway go
away and you will never see my face again.’ The devil was as good as his
word, and, after he had given Silvia a goodly store of new garments, all
after the latest fashion, he left her without taking leave of her, and
went to Malphi, where, for a diversion, he entered into the body of the
duke and tormented him grievously.
Now it chanced that, soon after this, Gasparino Boncio, the gallant who
had acted at Pancrazio’s nuptials as best man, was forced to fly from
his city on account of some offence against good manners. Wherefore he
betook himself to Malphi, where he managed to live by gambling and by a
lot of cunning tricks of which he was master, and rumour would have it
that he was a man of parts, though he was indeed nought but a sorry
knave. One day, when at the cards with some gentlemen of the place, he
went a step too far, and roused their wrath so hotly that, but for fear
of the law, they would certainly have made an end of him. One of these,
smarting under some special wrong, vowed that he would bring Master
Gasparino into such a plight as he would never forget. And forthwith he
betook himself to the duke, and, having made a profound obeisance, he
said: ‘Your excellency, there is in this town a man named Gasparino, who
makes boast that he can cast out evil spirits—whether of this world or
of the nether one—which may have entered the bodies of men; therefore,
methinks, you would do wisely to bid him try his skill to deliver you
from your torment.’ On hearing these words the duke sent forthwith for
Gasparino, who, being summoned, went into the duke’s presence at once.
‘Signor Gasparino,’ said the duke, ‘they tell me you profess to be an
exorcist of evil spirits. I, as no doubt you have heard, am sorely
tormented by one of these, and I pledge my faith to you that, if you
will work your spells upon him and drive him out, I will deal with you
so that you may live for the rest of your days free from care.’
Gasparino was utterly confounded by this speech, and, as soon as the
duke was silent, he began to stammer and to protest loudly that he knew
nought of such matters, and had never boasted of any such power; but the
gentleman, who was standing by, came forward and said: ‘Do you not
remember, Signor Gasparino, that, on a certain day, you told me this and
that?’ Gasparino persisted in denying any such speech, and, while they
were wrangling together, the duke broke in and said: ‘Come, come, hold
your peace, both of you! As for you, Master Gasparino, I give you three
days to work up your charms, and, if you can deliver me from this
misery, I promise you the most beautiful castle in my dominions, and you
may ask of me whatever you will. But, if you fail in this, before eight
days have passed I will have you strangled between two of these
columns.’
Gasparino, when he listened to the duke’s command, was utterly
confounded and filled with grief, and, having withdrawn from the duke’s
presence, began to ruminate day and night as to how he might accomplish
the task laid upon him. On the day fixed for the incantation he went to
the palace, and, having ordered to be spread on the floor a large
carpet, began to conjure the evil spirit to come out, and to cease his
torment. The devil, who was quite at his ease in the duke’s body, did
not reply, but breathed so strong a blast of wind through the duke’s
throat that he was like to choke him. When Gasparino renewed his
conjurations the devil cried out: ‘My friend, you can enjoy your life;
why can’t you leave me at peace here, where I am very comfortable? Your
mummery is all in vain.’ And here the devil began to deride him. But
Gasparino was not to be daunted by this, and for the third time he
called upon the devil to come out, asking him so many questions that at
last he got to know the evil spirit to be no other than his whilom
friend, Pancrazio Stornello. ‘And I know you, too,’ the devil went on;
‘you are Gasparino Boncio, my very dear friend. Don’t you remember those
merry nights we spent together?’ ‘Alas! my friend,’ said Gasparino, ‘why
have you come here to torment this poor man?’ ‘That is my secret,’
answered the devil; ‘why do you refuse to go away and leave me here,
where I am more at my ease than ever I was before?’ But Gasparino went
on with his questioning so long and so adroitly that he induced the
devil at last to tell him the story of his wife’s insatiable greed, of
the violent aversion he had conceived for her thereanent, and how he had
fled from her and taken up his abode in the body of the duke, and that
no consideration would induce him to return to her. Having learnt so
much, Gasparino said: ‘And now, my dear friend, I want you to do me a
favour.’ ‘What may it be?’ the devil inquired. ‘Nothing more than to get
you gone from the body of this poor man.’ ‘Friend Gasparino,’ quoth the
devil, ‘I never set you down as a wise man, but this request of yours
tells me you are a downright fool.’ ‘But I beg you, I implore you for
the sake of the merry bouts we have enjoyed together, to do as I ask,’
said Gasparino. ‘The duke has heard that I have power to cast out
spirits, and has imposed this task upon me. Unless I fulfil it I shall
be hanged, and you will be chargeable with my death.’ ‘Pooh!’ said the
devil, ‘our camaraderie lays no such duties upon me. You may go to the
lowest depths of hell for all I care. Why didn’t you keep your tongue
between your teeth, instead of going about boasting of powers you do not
possess?’ And with this he roared most horribly, and threw the poor duke
into a fit which nearly made an end of him.
But after a little the duke came to himself again, and Gasparino thus
addressed him: ‘My lord, take courage; for I see a way of ridding you of
this evil spirit. I must ask you to command all the players of music in
the city to assemble at the palace to-morrow morning, and at a set
moment to strike their instruments, while the bells all ring loudly, and
the gunners let off their cannon as a sign of rejoicing for victory. The
more noise they make the better for my purpose. The rest you may leave
to me.’
The next morning Gasparino went to the palace, and duly began his
incantations, and, as it had been settled, the trumpets and cymbals and
tambours gave out their music, and the bells and artillery clanged and
roared so loud and long that it seemed as if the uproar would never
cease. At last the devil asked Gasparino, ‘Isn’t there a hideous medley
of sound about the place? What is the meaning of it? Ah, I begin to hear
it plain now!’ ‘Begin to hear it!’ said Gasparino. ‘Surely there has
been clamour enough for the last half-hour to have deafened even you.’
‘I dare say,’ the devil replied; ‘but you must know that the bodies of
you mortals are gross and dull enough to shut out the sound from the
hearing of one in my place; but, tell me, what is the reason of this
noise?’ ‘I’ll tell you in a very few words,’ said Gasparino, ‘if in the
meantime you let the duke have a little ease.’ ‘It shall be as you
wish,’ said the devil. And then Gasparino brought out his story.
‘You must know, my dear friend and former comrade,’ he began, ‘that it
has come to the duke’s ears how you were forced to run away from your
wife on account of the woes you suffered through her greed for attire,
and he has in consequence invited her to Malphi. The noise you hear is
part of the rejoicing of the city over her arrival.’ ‘I see your hand in
this, honest Signor Gasparino,’ said the devil. ‘Well, you have outdone
me in cunning. Was there ever a loyal friend? Was I not right in
belittling the claims of comradeship? However, you have won the game.
The distaste and horror in which I hold my wife are so great that I will
do your bidding and betake myself elsewhere; indeed, rather than set
eyes on her again, I prefer to depart for the nethermost hell. Farewell,
Gasparino, you will never see me or hear of me again.’
Immediately after these words the poor duke began to throttle and choke,
and his eyes rolled about in ghastly wise; but these frightful tokens
only gave warning that the evil spirit had at last taken flight. Nothing
remained to tell of his presence save an appalling smell of sulphur.
Gradually the duke came to himself, and, when he had regained his former
health, he sent for Gasparino, and, to prove his gratitude, gave him a
stately castle, and a great sum of money, and a crowd of retainers to do
him service. Though assailed by the envy of certain of the courtiers,
Gasparino lived happily for many years; but Silvia, when she saw all the
treasures her husband had given her turn to smoke and ashes, lost her
wits, and died miserably.
The Trevisan told his story with great wit, and the men greeted it with
hearty applause and laughter; but the ladies demurred somewhat thereat,
so that the Signora, hearing them murmuring amongst themselves while the
men kept on their merriment, commanded silence and directed the Trevisan
to give his enigma, and he, without excusing himself to the ladies for
the sharp pricks against their sex dealt out in his story, thus began:
In our midst a being proud
Lives, with every sense endowed.
Keen his wit, though brainless he,
Reasoning with deep subtlety.
Headless, handless, tongueless too,
He kens our nature through and through.
Born but once and born for ever,
Death shall touch or mar him never.
The abstruse riddle of the Trevisan was no light task for the wit of the
company, and it was in vain that each one essayed its unravelling. At
last the Trevisan, seeing that their guesses were all wide of the mark,
said: “It does not seem meet for me to perplex any longer the ingenuity
of this honourable company. By your leave I will now unfold its meaning,
unless you had rather wait for some cunning wit to fathom it.” With one
voice they prayed him to unveil its purport, and this he did in these
terms: “My enigma signifies nothing else than the immortal soul of man,
which, being spiritual, has neither head nor hands nor tongue, yet it
makes its working known to all, and, whether it be judged in heaven or
in hell, lives eternally.” This learned unfolding of the Trevisan’s
obscure riddle pleased the company vastly.
Inasmuch as the night was now far spent, and the clamour of the cocks
foretelling the dawn was heard, the Signora made sign to Vicenza, who
was bespoken to tell the finishing story of the second night, to begin
her task. But Vicenza, red in the face through choler at the Trevisan’s
story, and not from bashfulness, cried out: “Signor Benedetto, I looked
for a better turn from you than this, that you would aim at something
higher than the character of a mere railer against women; but since you
take so bitter a tone, meseems you must have been vexed by some lady who
has asked more of you than you could give. Surely you lack justice if
you judge us all alike; your eyes will tell you that some of us, albeit
all of the same flesh and blood, are gentler and more worshipful than
others. If you rate us in such wise, wonder not if some day you find
your beauty marred by some damsel’s finger-nails. Then you will sing
your songs in vain.”
To her the Trevisan replied: “I did not tell my story to hurt the
feelings of anyone, nor for spite of my own; but to give counsel and
warning to those ladies who may be going to marry, to be modest and
reasonable in the calls they make on their husbands.” “I care nought
what may have been your object,” said Vicenza, “nor do these ladies
either; but I will not sit silent and let it be thought I allow these
charges of yours against women to have any worth. I will tell you a
story which you may find to be one for your own edification,” and having
made obeisance she began.
THE FIFTH FABLE.
=Messer Simplicio di Rossi is enamoured of Giliola, the wife of
Ghirotto Scanferla, a peasant, and having been caught in her
company is ill-handled by her husband therefor.=
One cannot deny, dear ladies, the gentle nature of love, but love rarely
accords a happy issue to the enterprises it inflames us to undertake.
And thus it fell out in the case of the lovesick Messer Simplicio di
Rossi, who, when he flattered himself that he was about to enjoy the
person of the woman he desired so ardently, had to fly from her laden
with as many buffets as he well could carry. All this history I will
duly set forth, if, as is your gracious custom, you will lend your ears
to the fable I purpose to relate to you.
In the village of Santa Eufemia, situated just below the plain of San
Pietro, in the territory of the famous and illustrious city of Padua,
there lived, some years ago, one Ghirotto Scanferla, a man rich and
influential enough for a man in his station, but at the same time a
factious, wrangling fellow, and he had for a wife a young woman named
Giliola, who, albeit that she was peasant born, was very fair and
graceful. With her Simplicio di Rossi, a citizen of Padua, fell
violently in love. Now it happened that he had a house which stood not
far removed from that of Ghirotto, and he was accustomed frequently to
roam about the neighbouring fields with his wife, a very beautiful lady,
whom however he held in but little esteem, although she had many good
qualities which ought to have bound him to her. So great was his passion
for Giliola that he got no rest day or night, but he let this passion
lie closely hidden in his heart, partly because he feared lest he might
in any way arouse the husband’s wrath, partly on account of Giliola’s
good name, and partly for fear of giving offence to his own wife. Now
close to Messer Simplicio’s house there was a fountain from which gushed
forth a stream of water, much sought by all the people round, and so
clear and delicious that even a dead man might have been tempted to
drink thereof; and hither every morning and evening Giliola would
repair, with a copper pail, to fetch water for her household needs.
Love, who of a truth spares nobody, spurred on Messer Simplicio in his
passion; but he, knowing what her life was and the good name she bore,
did not venture to manifest his love by any sign, and simply sustained
himself and comforted his heart by gazing now and then upon her beauty.
For her part she knew nothing of all this, nor was she cognizant at all
of his admiration; for, as became a woman of honest life, she gave heed
to nothing else but to her husband and her household affairs.
Now one day it happened that Giliola, when she went according to her
custom to fetch water, met Messer Simplicio, to whom she said, in her
simple, courteous way, as any woman might, ‘Good morrow, Signor,’ and to
this he replied by uttering the word ‘Ticco.’ His thought was to divert
her somewhat by a jest of this sort, and to make her familiar with his
humour. She, however, took no heed thereof, nor said another word, but
went straightway about her business. And as time went on the same thing
happened over and over again, Simplicio always giving back the same word
to Giliola’s greeting. She had no suspicion of Simplicio’s craftiness,
and always went back to her home with her eyes cast down upon the
ground; but after a time she determined that she would tell her husband
what had befallen her. So one day, when they were conversing pleasantly
together, she said to him, ‘Oh! my husband, there is something I should
like to tell you, something that perhaps will make you laugh.’ ‘And what
may this thing be?’ inquired Ghirotto. ‘Every time I go to the well to
draw water,’ said Giliola, ‘I meet Messer Simplicio, and when I give him
the good morning he answers to me “Ticco.” Over and over again I have
pondered over this word, but I cannot get at the meaning thereof.’ ‘And
what answer did you give him?’ said Ghirotto, and Giliola replied that
she had answered him nothing ‘Well,’ said Ghirotto, ‘take care that when
he next says “Ticco” to you you answer him “Tacco.” See that you give
good heed to this thing I tell you, and be sure not to say another word
to him, but come home according to your wont.’ Giliola went at the usual
time to the well to fetch the water, and met Messer Simplicio and gave
him good day, and he, as hitherto, answered her ‘Ticco.’ Then Giliola,
according to her husband’s directions, replied ‘Tacco,’ whereupon Messer
Simplicio, suddenly inflamed, and deeming that he had at last made his
passion known to her, and that he might now have his will of her, took
further courage and said, ‘And when shall I come?’ But Giliola, as her
husband had instructed her, answered nothing, but made her way home
forthwith, and being questioned by him how the affair had gone, she told
him how she had carried out everything he had directed her to do; how
Messer Simplicio had asked her when he might come, and how she had given
him no reply.
Now Ghirotto, though he was only a peasant, was shrewd enough, and at
once grasped the meaning of Messer Simplicio’s watchword, which
perturbed him mightily; for it struck him that this word meant more than
mere trifling.[24] So he said to his wife, ‘If the next time you go to
the well he should ask of you, “When shall I come?” you must answer him,
“This evening.” The rest you can leave to me.’
The next day, when Giliola went according to her wont to draw water at
the well, she found there Messer Simplicio, who was waiting for her with
ardent longing, and greeted him with her accustomed ‘Good morning,
Signor.’ To this the gallant answered ‘Ticco,’ and she followed suit
with ‘Tacco.’ Then he added, ‘When shall I come?’ to which she replied,
‘This evening.’ ‘Let it be so then,’ he said. And when Giliola returned
to her house she said to her husband, ‘I have done everything as you
directed.’ ‘What did he answer?’ said Ghirotto. ‘He said he would come
this evening,’ his wife replied.
Now Ghirotto, who by this time had got a bellyful of something else
besides vermicelli and maccaroni, spake thus to his wife: ‘Giliola, let
us go now and measure a dozen sacks of oats, for I will make believe
that I am going to the mill, and when Messer Simplicio shall come, you
must make him welcome and give him honourable reception. But before
this, have ready an empty sack beside those which will be full of oats,
and as soon as you hear me come into the house make him hide himself in
the sack thus prepared, and leave the rest to me.’ ‘But,’ said Giliola,
‘we have not in the house enough sacks to carry out the plan you
propose.’ ‘Then send our neighbour Cia,’ said the husband, ‘to Messer
Simplicio to beg him to lend us two, and she can also let it be known
that I have business at the mill this evening.’ And all these directions
were diligently carried out. Messer Simplicio, who had given good heed
to Giliola’s words, and had marked, moreover, that she had sent to
borrow two of his sacks, believed of a truth that the husband would be
going to the mill in the evening, and found himself at the highest pitch
of felicity and the happiest man in the world, fancying the while that
Giliola was as hotly inflamed with love for him as he was for her; but
the poor wight had no inkling of the conspiracy which was being hatched
for his undoing, otherwise he would assuredly have gone to work with
greater caution than he used.
Messer Simplicio had in his poultry yard good store of capons, and he
took two of the best of these and sent them by his body-servant to
Giliola, enjoining her to let them be ready cooked by the time when he
should be with her according to their agreement. And when night had come
he stole secretly out and betook himself to Ghirotto’s house, where
Giliola gave him a most gracious reception. But when he saw the
oat-sacks standing there he was somewhat surprised, for he expected that
the husband would have taken them to the mill; so he said to Giliola,
‘Where is Ghirotto? I thought he had gone to the mill, but I see the
sacks are still here; so I hardly know what to think.’ Then Giliola
replied, ‘Do not murmur, Messer Simplicio, or have any fear. Everything
will go well. You must know that, just at vesper-time, my husband’s
brother-in-law came to the house and brought word that his sister was
lying gravely ill of a persistent fever, and was not like to see another
day. Wherefore he mounted his horse and rode away to see her before she
dies.’ Messer Simplicio, who was indeed as simple as his name imports,
took all this for the truth and said no more.
Whilst Giliola was busy cooking the capons and getting ready the table,
lo and behold! Ghirotto her husband appeared in the courtyard, and
Giliola, as soon as she saw him, feigned to be grief-stricken and
terrified, and cried out, ‘Woe to us, wretches that we are! We are as
good as dead, both of us;’ and without a moment’s hesitation she ordered
Messer Simplicio to get into the empty sack which was lying there; and
when he had got in—and he was mightily unwilling to enter it—she set the
sack with Messer Simplicio inside it behind the others which were full
of oats, and waited till her husband should come in. And when Ghirotto
entered and saw the table duly set and the capons cooking in the pot, he
said to his wife: ‘What is the meaning of this sumptuous supper which
you have prepared for me?’ and Giliola made answer: ‘I thought that you
must needs come back weary and worn out at midnight, and, in order that
you might fortify and refresh yourself somewhat after the fatigues you
so constantly have to undergo, I wished to let you have something
succulent for your meal.’ ‘By my faith,’ said Ghirotto, ‘you have done
well, for I am somewhat sick and can hardly wait to take my supper
before I go to bed,’ and moreover I want to be astir in good time
to-morrow morning to go to the mill. But before we sit down to supper I
want to see whether the sacks we got ready for the mill are all in order
and of just weight.’ And with these words he went up to the sacks and
began to count them, and, finding there were thirteen, he feigned to
have made a miscount of them, and began to count them over again, and
still he found there were thirteen of them; so he said to his wife:
‘Giliola, what is the meaning of this? How is it that I find here
thirteen sacks while we only got ready twelve? Where does the odd one
come from?’ And Giliola answered: ‘Yes, of a certainty, when we put the
oats into the sacks there were only twelve, and how this one comes to be
here I cannot tell.’
Inside the sack, meantime, Messer Simplicio, who knew well enough that
there were thirteen sacks on account of his being there, kept silent as
a mouse and went on muttering paternosters beneath his breath, at the
same time cursing Giliola, and his passion for her, and his own folly in
having put faith in her. If he could have cleared himself from his
present trouble by flight, he would have readily taken to his heels, for
he feared the shame that might arise thereanent, rather than the loss.
But Ghirotto, who knew well enough what was inside the sack, took hold
of it and dragged it outside the door, which he had by design left open,
in order that the poor wretch inside the sack, after he should have been
well drubbed, might get out of the sack and have free field to go
whithersoever he listed. Then Ghirotto, having caught up a knotty stick
which he had duly prepared for the purpose, began to belabour him so
soundly that there was not a square inch of his carcass which was not
thrashed and beaten; indeed, a little more would have made an end of
Messer Simplicio. And if it had not happened that the wife, moved by
pity or by fear lest her husband should have the sin of murder on his
soul, wrenched the cudgel out of Ghirotto’s hand, homicide might well
have been the issue.
At last, when Ghirotto had given over his work and had gone away, Messer
Simplicio slunk out of his sack, and, aching from head to foot, made his
way home, half dreading the while that Ghirotto with his stick was close
behind him; and in the meantime Ghirotto and his wife, after eating a
good supper at Messer Simplicio’s cost, went to bed. And after a few
days had passed, Giliola, when she went to the well, saw Simplicio, who
was walking up and down the terrace in his garden, and with a merry
glance greeted him, saying, ‘Ticco, Messer Simplicio;’ but he, who still
felt the pain of the bruises he had gotten on account of this word, only
replied:
Neither for your good morning, nor for your tic nor your tac,
Will you catch me again, my lady, inside your sack.
When Giliola heard this she was struck silent, and went back to her
house with her face red for shame, and Messer Simplicio, after the sorry
usage he had received, changed his humour and gave the fullest and most
loving service to his own wife, whom he had hitherto disliked, keeping
his eyes and his hands off other men’s goods, so that he might not again
be treated to a like experience.
When Vicenza had made an end of her story, all the ladies cried out with
one voice: “If the Trevisan treated badly the women he dealt with in his
fable, Vicenza has in hers given the men yet worse measure in letting
Messer Simplicio be thus beaten and mauled in the mishandling he got.”
And while they were all laughing, one at this thing and another at that,
the Signora made a sign for silence in order that Vicenza might duly
propound her enigma; and the latter, feeling that she had more than
avenged the insult put upon her sex by the Trevisan, gave her enigma in
these terms:
I blush to tell my name aright,
Rough to touch, and rude to sight.
Wide and toothless is my mouth,
Red of hue my lips uncouth;
Black all round, and from below
Ardour oft will make me glow;
Rouse my passion closely pent,
Make me foam till I am spent.
A scullion base may e’en abuse me,
And all men at their pleasure use me.
The men were hard pressed to keep from laughing when they saw the ladies
cast down their eyes into their laps, smiling somewhat the while. But
the Signora, to whom modest speech was more pleasing than aught that
savoured of ribaldry, bent a stern and troubled glance upon Vicenza and
thus addressed her: “If I had not too much respect for these gentlemen,
I would tell you to your face what really is the meaning of this lewd
and immodest riddle of yours; but I will forgive you this once, only
take good heed that you offend not again in such fashion; for, if you
should, I will let you feel and know what my power over you really is.”
Then Vicenza, blushing like a morning rosebud at hearing herself thus
shamefully reproved, plucked up her courage and gave answer in these
terms: “Signora, if I have uttered a single word which has offended your
ears, or the ears of any of the modest gentlewomen I see around me, I
should assuredly deserve not only your reproof, but severe chastisement
to boot. But, seeing that my words were in themselves simple and
blameless, they scarcely merited so bitter a censure; for the
interpretation of my riddle, which has been apprehended by you in a
mistaken sense, will show my words to be true and prove my innocence at
the same time. The thing which my enigma describes is a stockpot, which
is black all round, and when fiercely heated by the fire boils over and
scatters foam on all sides. It has a wide mouth and no teeth, and takes
everything that may be thrown into it, and any scullion may take out
what he will when the dinner is being prepared for his master.”
When they heard from Vicenza this modest solution of her riddle, all the
listeners, men as well as women, gave her hearty praise, deeming the
while that she had been wrongfully reproved by the Signora. And now,
because the hour was late, and the rosy tints of morning already visible
in the sky, the Signora, without excusing herself in any way for the
scolding she had given Vicenza, dismissed the company, bidding them all
under pain of her displeasure to assemble in good time the following
evening.
=The End of the Second Night.=
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=Night the Third.=
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=The Fables and Enigmas of Messer Giovanni Francesco Straparola da
Caravaggio.=
=Night the Third.=
Already the sister of the sun had begun her reign in the sky over the
forests and the gloomy gorges of the hills, and showed her golden circle
over the half of heaven; already the car of Phœbus had sunk beneath the
western wave, the moving stars had lighted their lamps, and the pretty
birds, ceasing their pleasant songs and bickerings, sought repose in
their nests set amongst the green boughs, when the ladies and the
gallant youths as well met on the third evening in the accustomed spot
to renew their story-telling. And as soon as they were all seated
according to their rank, the Signora Lucretia commanded that the vase
should be brought forth as before, and in it she caused to be placed the
names of five damsels, who, according to the order determined by lot,
should that evening tell in turn their stories. The first name which was
drawn from the vase was that of Cateruzza, the second that of Arianna,
the third that of Lauretta, the fourth that of Alteria, and the fifth
that of Eritrea. Then the Signora gave the word for the Trevisan to take
his lute, and Molino his viol, and for all the rest to tread a measure
to Bembo’s leading. And when the dance had come to an end, and the sweet
lyre and the divine strings of the hollow lute were silent, the Signora
directed Lauretta to begin her song, and she, anxious to obey the
Signora in everything, took hands with her companions, and having made
respectful salutation, sang in clear and mellow tone the following song:
SONG.
Lady, while thy face I scan,
Where love smiling holds his court,
Lo! from out your beauteous eyes
Light so radiant doth arise,
That it shows us Paradise.
All my sighs and all my tears,
Which I foolish shed in vain;
All the anguish of my heart,
All my hidden woe and smart,
With my faint desire have part.
Then to love’s last mood I fly,
Recking nought that earth and sky
Stand beneath me and above;
So my soul is drawn by love
To the heights of passion free,
And I learn that fate’s decree
Binds me, whatsoe’er betide,
Dead or living, to thy side.
After Lauretta and her companions had given sign by their silence that
their song had come to an end, the Signora, bending her gaze upon the
fair and open countenance of Cateruzza, said that the task of making a
beginning of the story-telling of that third evening fell upon her, and
Cateruzza, with a becoming blush upon her cheek and laughing lightly,
began in these terms.
THE FIRST FABLE.
=A simple fellow, named Peter, gets back his wits by the help of a
tunny fish which he spared after having taken it in his net, and
likewise wins for his wife a king’s daughter.=
There is proof enough, dear ladies, both in the chronicles of the past
and in the doings of our own day, that a fool, whether by lucky accident
or by sheer force of blundering, may sometimes score a success where a
wise man might fail. Therefore it has come into my mind to tell you the
story of one of these fools, who, through the issue of a very foolish
deed, got for his wife the daughter of a king and became a wise man
himself into the bargain.
In the Ligurian Sea there is an island called Capraia, which, at the
time I am describing, was ruled by King Luciano. Amongst his subjects
was a poor widow named Isotta, who lived with her only son Peter, a
fisher-lad, but from Peter’s fishing she would scarce have kept body and
soul together, for he was a poor silly creature known to all the
neighbours as Peter the Fool. Though he went fishing every day he never
caught anything, but in spite of his ill-success he would always come up
from his boat shouting and bellowing so that all the town might hear
him: ‘Mother, mother, bring out your tubs and your buckets and your
pails; bring them out all, great and small, for Peter has caught a
boatful of fish.’ The poor woman soon got to know the value of Peter’s
bragging, but in spite of this she always prepared the vessels, only to
find herself jeered at by the silly youth, who, as soon as he came near,
would thrust out his long tongue in ridicule, and otherwise mock at her.
Now it chanced that the widow’s cottage stood just opposite to the
palace of King Luciano, who had only one child, a pretty graceful girl
about ten years old, Luciana by name. She, it happened, was looking out
of the window of the palace one day when Peter came back from fishing,
crying out to his mother to bring out her tubs and her buckets and her
pails to hold the fish with which he was laden, and so much was she
diverted at the silly antics of the fool, that it seemed likely she
would die with laughing. Peter, when he saw that he was made sport of,
grew very angry, and threw some ugly words at her, but the more he raged
the more she—after the manner of wilful children—laughed and made mock
at him. Peter, however, went on with his fishing day after day, and
played the same trick on his mother every evening on his return; but at
last fortune favoured him, and he caught a fine tunny, very big and fat.
Overjoyed at his good luck, he began to shout and cry out over and over
again, ‘Mother and I will have a good supper to-night,’ when, to his
amazement, he heard the tunny which he had just caught begin to speak:
‘Ah! my dear brother, I pray you of your courtesy to give me my life.
When once you have eaten me, what farther benefit do you think you will
get from me? but if you will let me live there is no telling what
service I may not render you.’ But Peter, whose thoughts just then were
set only on his supper, hoisted the fish on his shoulders and set off
homewards; but the tunny still kept on beseeching his captor to spare
his life, promising him first as many fish as he could want, and finally
to do him any favour he might demand. Peter was not hardhearted, and,
though a fool, fancied he might profit by sparing the fish, so he
listened to the tunny’s petition and threw him back into the sea. The
fish, sensible of Peter’s kindness, and not wishing to seem ungrateful,
told Peter to get into his boat again and tilt it over so that the water
could run in. This advice Peter at once followed, and, having leant over
on one side, he let the boat be half filled with water, which brought in
with it such a huge quantity of fish that the boat was in danger of
sinking. Peter was wellnigh beside himself with joy when he saw what had
happened, and, when he had taken as many fish as he could carry, he
betook himself homewards, crying out, as was his wont, when he drew near
to the cottage: ‘Mother, mother, bring out your tubs and your buckets
and your pails; bring out them all, great and small, for Peter has
caught a boatful of fish.’ At first poor Isotta, thinking that he was
only playing his old fool’s game, took no heed; but at last, hearing him
cry out louder than ever, and fearing that he might commit some greater
folly if he should not find the vessels prepared as usual, got them all
ready. What was her surprise to see her simpleton of a son at last
coming back with a brave spoil! The Princess Luciana was at the palace
window, and hearing Peter bellowing louder than ever, she laughed louder
than ever, so that Peter was almost mad with rage, and having left his
fish, he rushed back to the seashore, and called aloud on the tunny to
come and help him. The fish, hearing Peter’s voice, came to the marge of
the shore, and putting his nose up out of the waves, asked what service
was required of him. ‘What service!’ cried Peter. ‘Why I would that
Luciana, that saucy minx, the daughter of our king, should find herself
with child at once.’
What followed was a proof that the tunny had not made an empty promise
to Peter, for before many days had passed the figure of the young girl,
who was not twelve years old, began to show signs of maternity. Her
mother, when she marked this, fell into great trouble, but she could not
believe that a child of eleven could be pregnant, and rather set down
the swelling to the working of an incurable disease; so she brought
Luciana to be examined by some women expert in such cases, and these, as
soon as they saw the girl, declared that she was certainly with child.
The queen, overwhelmed by this terrible news, told it also to the king,
and he, when he heard it, cried aloud for death rather than such
ignominy. Strict inquisition was made to discover who could have
violated the child, but nothing was found out; so Luciano, to hide her
dire disgrace, determined to have his daughter secretly killed.
The queen, on hearing this, begged her husband to spare the unfortunate
Luciana till the child should be born, and then do with her what he
would. The king, moved with compassion for his only daughter, gave way
so far; and in due time Luciana was delivered of a boy so fine and
beautiful that the king could no longer harbour the thought of putting
them away, but, on the other hand, gave order to the queen that the boy
should be well tended till he was a year old. When this time was
completed the child had become beautiful beyond compare, and then it
came into the king’s mind that he would again make a trial to find out
who the father might be. He issued a proclamation that every man in the
city who had passed fourteen years should, under pain of losing his
head, present himself at the palace bearing in his hand some fruit or
flower which might attract the child’s attention. On the appointed day,
in obedience to the proclamation, all those summoned came to the palace,
bearing, this man one thing and that man another, and, having passed
before the king, sat down according to their rank.
Now it happened that a certain young man as he was betaking himself to
the palace met Peter, and said to him, ‘Peter, why are you not going to
the palace like all the others to obey the order of the king?’ ‘What
should I do in such a crowd as that?’ said Peter. ‘Cannot you see I am a
poor naked fellow, and have hardly a rag to my back, and yet you ask me
to push myself in amongst all those gentlemen and courtiers? No.’ Then
the young man, laughing at him, said, ‘Come with me, and I will give you
a coat. Who knows whether the child may not turn out to be yours?’ In
the end Peter let himself be persuaded to go to the young man’s house,
and having put on a decent coat, they went together to the palace; but
when they arrived there Peter’s heart again failed him, and he hid
himself behind a door. By this time all the men had presented themselves
to the king, and were seated in the hall. Then Luciano commanded the
nurse to bring in the child, thinking that if the father should be there
the sense of paternity would make him give some sign. As the nurse
carried the child down the hall everyone, as he passed, began to caress
him and to give him, this one a fruit and that one a flower; but the
infant, with a wave of his hand, refused them all. When the nurse passed
by the entrance door the child began to laugh and crow, and threw
himself forward so lustily that he almost jumped out of the woman’s
arms, but she, not knowing that anyone was there, walked on down the
hall. When she came back to the same place, the child was more delighted
than ever, laughing and pointing with his finger to the door; so that
the king, who had already noticed the child’s actions, called to the
nurse, and asked her who was behind the door. The nurse, being somewhat
confused, said that surely some beggar must be hidden there. By the
king’s command Peter was at once haled forth, and everybody recognized
the town fool; but the child, who was close to him, stretched out his
arms and clasped Peter round the neck, and kissed him lovingly. The
king, recognizing the sign, was stricken to the heart with grief, and
having discharged the assembly, commanded that Peter and Luciana and the
child should be put to death forthwith.
The queen, though assenting to this doom, was fearful lest the public
execution of the victims might draw down upon the king the anger of the
people; so she persuaded him to have made a huge cask into which the
three might be put and cast into the sea to drift at random; then, at
least, no one might witness their dying agony. This the king agreed to;
and when the cask was made, the condemned ones were put therein, with a
basket of bread and a flask of wine, and a drum of figs for the child,
and thrust out into the rough sea, with the expectation that the waves
would soon dash it to pieces against the rocks; but this was not to be
their fate.
Peter’s poor old mother, when she heard of her son’s misfortune, died of
grief in a few days; and the unhappy Luciana, tossed about by the cruel
waves, and seeing neither sun nor moon, would have welcomed a similar
fate. The child, since she had no milk to give it, had to be soothed to
sleep with now and then a fig; but Peter seemed to care for nothing, and
ate the bread and drank the wine steadily, laughing the while. ‘Alas!
alas!’ cried Luciana in despair, ‘you care nothing for this evil which
you have brought upon me, a poor innocent girl. You eat and drink and
laugh without a thought of the danger around us.’ ‘Why,’ replied Peter,
‘this misfortune is more your own fault than mine. If you had not mocked
me so, it would never have happened; but do not lose heart, our troubles
will soon be over,’ ‘I believe that,’ cried Luciana, ‘for the cask will
soon be split on a rock, and then we must all be drowned.’ ‘No, no,’
said Peter, ‘calm yourself. I have a secret, and were you to know what
it is, you would be vastly surprised and vastly delighted too, I
believe.’ ‘What secret can you know,’ said Luciana, ‘which will avail us
in such danger as this?’ ‘I will soon tell you,’ Peter replied. ‘I have
a faithful servant, a great fish, who will do me any service I ask of
him, and there is nothing he cannot do. I may as well tell you it was
through his working that you became with child.’ ‘That I cannot
believe,’ said Luciana; ‘and what may this fish of yours be called?’
‘His name is Signor Tunny,’ replied Peter. ‘Then,’ said Luciana, ‘to put
your fish to the test, I will ask you to transfer to me the power you
exercise over him, and to command him to do my bidding instead of
yours.’ ‘Be it as you will,’ said Peter; and without more ado he called
the tunny, who at once rose up near the cask, whereupon Peter commanded
him to do everything that Luciana might require of him. She at once
exercised her power over the fish by ordering him to make the waves cast
the cask ashore in a fair safe cleft in the rocks on an island, a short
sail from her father’s kingdom. As soon as the fish had worked her will
so far, she laid other and much harder tasks upon him: one was to change
Peter from the ugly fool he was into a clever, handsome gallant; another
was, to have built for her forthwith a rich and sumptuous palace, with
lofty halls and chambers, and girt with carven terraces. Within the
court there was to be laid out a beautiful garden, full of trees which
should bear, instead of fruit, pearls and precious stones, and in the
midst of it two fountains, one of the freshest water and the other of
the finest wine. All these wonders were wrought by the fish almost as
soon as Luciana had spoken.
Now all this time the king and the queen were in deep misery in thinking
of the cruel death they had contrived for Luciana and her child, how
they had given their own flesh and blood to be eaten by the fishes;
therefore, to find some solace in their woe, they determined to go to
Jerusalem and to visit the Holy Land. So they ordered a ship to be put
in order for them, and furnished with all things suited to their state.
They set sail with a favouring wind, and before they had gone a hundred
miles they came in sight of an island upon which they could see a
stately palace, built a little above the level of the sea. Seeing that
this palace was so fair and sumptuous, and standing, moreover, within
Luciano’s kingdom, they were seized with a longing to view it more
closely; so, having put into a haven, they landed on the island. Before
they had come to the palace Luciana and Peter saw and recognized them,
and, having gone forth to meet them, greeted them with a cordial
welcome, but the king and queen did not know their hosts for the great
change which had come over them. The guests were taken first into the
palace, which they examined in every part, praising loudly its great
beauty, and then they were led by a secret staircase into the garden,
the splendour of which pleased them so amazingly that they swore they
had never at any time before looked upon a place so delightful. In the
centre of this garden there stood a noble tree, which bore on one of its
branches three golden apples. These the keeper of the garden was charged
to guard jealously against robbers, and now, by some secret working
which I cannot unravel, the finest of these apples was transported into
the folds of the king’s robe about his bosom, and there hidden. Luciano
and the queen were about to take their leave when the keeper approached
and said to Luciana, ‘Madam, the most beautiful of the three golden
apples is missing, and I can find no trace of the thief.’
Luciana forthwith gave orders that the whole household should be
searched, one by one, for such a loss as this was no light matter. The
keeper, after he had searched thoroughly everyone, came back and told
Luciana that the apple was nowhere to be found. At these words Luciana
fell into great confusion, and, turning to the king, said: ‘Your majesty
must not be wroth with me if I ask that even you allow yourself to be
searched, for I prize the golden apple that is lost almost as highly as
my life.’ The king, unsuspicious of any trick, and sure of his
innocence, straightway loosened his robe, and lo! the golden apple fell
from it to the ground.
The king stood as one dazed, ignorant as to how the golden apple could
have come into his robe, and Luciana spoke: ‘Sire, we have welcomed you
to our house with all the worship fitting to your rank, and now, as a
recompense, you would privily rob our garden of its finest fruit.
Meseems you have proved yourself very ungrateful.’ The king, in his
innocence, attempted to prove to her that he could not have taken the
apple, and Luciana, seeing his confusion, knew that the time had come
for her to speak, and reveal herself to her father. ‘My lord,’ she said,
with the tears in her eyes, ‘I am Luciana, your hapless daughter, whom
you sentenced to a cruel death along with my child and Peter the
fisher-boy. Though I bore a child, I was never unchaste. Here is the
boy, and here is he whom men were wont to call Peter the Fool. You
wonder at this change. It has all been brought about by the power of a
marvellous fish whose life Peter spared when he had caught it in his
net. By this power Peter has been turned into the wisest of men, and the
palace you see has been built. In the same way I became pregnant without
knowledge of a man, and the golden apple was conveyed into the folds of
your robe. I am as innocent of unchastity as you are of theft.’
When the king heard these words his eyes were opened, and he knew his
child. Then, weeping with joy, they embraced each other, and all were
glad and happy. After spending a few days on the island, they all
embarked and returned together to Capraia, where with sumptuous
feastings and rejoicings Peter was duly married to Luciana, and lived
with her in great honour and contentment, until Luciano died, and then
he became king in his stead.
The story of Cateruzza had at one time moved the ladies to tears; but,
when its happy issue was made known to them, they rejoiced and thanked
God therefor. Then the Signora, when Cateruzza had ended, commanded her
to continue in the order they had followed hitherto, and she, not
willing to hold in suspense the attention of her hearers, smilingly
proposed to them the following enigma:
Sir Redman stands behind a tree,
Now hidden, now in sight is he.
To him four runners speed along,
Bearing a warrior huge and strong.
Two darts into the trunk he wings,
And Redman from his lair upsprings,
And smites him from behind with skill;
Thus ten little men one giant kill.
Now he who shall this speech unfold,
Shall be a witty rogue and bold.
Cateruzza’s graceful and ingenious enigma was received by the whole
company with applause. Many interpretations were put forth; but none
came so near the mark as Lauretta: “Our sister’s enigma can have but one
meaning—the wild bull of the forest,’ she said. ‘He has four runners to
carry his huge bulk. The sight of a red rag maddens him, and thinking to
rend it, he strikes his horns into the tree. Straightway the huntsman,
who was hidden behind the trunk, comes forth and kills him with a dart
sped by ten little men, that is, the ten fingers of his two hands.”
This speedy solution of her riddle raised an angry humour in Cateruzza’s
heart, for she had hoped it might prove beyond the wit of any; but she
had not reckoned for Lauretta’s quickness. The Signora, who perceived
that the two were fain to wrangle, called for silence, and gave the word
to Arianna to begin a story which should please them all, and the
damsel, somewhat bashful, began as follows.
THE SECOND FABLE.
=Dalfreno, King of Tunis had two sons, one called Listico and the
other Livoretto. The latter afterwards was known as Porcarollo,
and in the end won for his wife Bellisandra, the daughter of
Attarante, King of Damacus.=
It is no light matter for the steersman, let him be ever so watchful, to
bring his tempest-strained bark safely into a sheltered port when he may
be vexed by envious and contrary fortune, and tossed about amongst the
hard and ragged rocks. And so it happened to Livoretto, son of the great
King of Tunis, who, after many dangers hardly to be believed, heavy
afflictions, and lengthened fatigues, succeeded at last, through the
valour of his spirit, in trampling under foot his wretched fortune, and
in the end reigned peacefully over his kingdom in Cairo. All this I
shall make abundantly clear in the fable I am about to relate to you.
In Tunis, a stately city on the coast of Africa, there reigned, not long
ago, a famous and powerful king named Dalfreno. He had to wife a
beautiful and wise lady, and by her begot two sons, modest, well-doing
and obedient in everything to their father, the elder being called
Listico, and the younger Livoretto. Now it happened that by royal
decree, as well as by the approved usage of the state, these youths were
barred in the succession to their father’s throne, which ran entirely in
the female line. Wherefore the king, when he saw that he was by evil
fortune deprived of female issue, and was assured by knowledge of
himself that he was come to an age when he could hardly expect any
further progeny, was sorely troubled, and felt his heart wrung
thereanent with unbounded grief. And his sorrow was all the heavier
because he was haunted by the dread that after his death his sons might
be looked at askance, and evilly treated, and driven with ignominy from
his kingdom.
The unhappy king, infected by these dolorous humours, and knowing not
where might lie any remedy therefor, turned to the queen, whom he loved
very dearly, and thus addressed her: ‘Madam, what shall we do with these
sons of ours, seeing that we are bereft of all power to leave them heirs
to our kingdom both by the law and by the ancient custom of the land?’
The sagacious queen at once made answer to him in these words: ‘Sire, it
seems to me that, as you have a greater store of riches than any other
king in the world, you should send them away into some foreign country
where no man would know them, giving them first a great quantity of
money and jewels. In such case they may well find favour in the sight of
some well-disposed sovereign, who will see that no ill befall them. And
if (which may God forbid) they should happen to come to want, no one
will know whose sons they are. They are young, fair to look upon, of
good address, high-spirited, and on the alert for every honourable and
knightly enterprise, and let them go where they will they will scarcely
find any king or prince or great lord who will not love them and set
great store upon them for the sake of the rich gifts which nature has
lavished upon them.’ This answer of the prudent queen accorded fully
with the humour of King Dalfreno, and having summoned into his presence
his sons Listico and Livoretto, he said to them: ‘My well-beloved sons,
you must by this time know that, after I am dead, you will have no
chance of succeeding to the sovereignty of this my kingdom; not, indeed,
on account of your vices or from your ill manner of living, but because
it has been thus determined by law and by the ancient custom of the
country. You being men, created by mother nature and ourselves, and not
women, are barred from all claim. Wherefore your mother and I, for the
benefit and advantage of you both, have determined to let you voyage
into some strange land, taking with you jewels and gems and money in
plenty; so that whenever you may light upon some honourable position you
may gain your living in honourable wise, and do credit to us at the same
time. And for this reason I look that you shall show yourselves obedient
to our wishes.’
Listico and Livoretto were as much pleased at this proposition as the
king and the queen themselves had been, because both one and other of
the young men desired ardently to see new lands and to taste the
pleasures of the world. It happened that the queen (as is not seldom the
way with mothers) loved the younger son more tenderly than she loved the
elder, and before they took their departure she called him aside and
gave him a prancing high-mettled horse, flecked with spots, with a small
shapely head, and high courage shining in its eye. Moreover, in addition
to all these good qualities with which it was endowed, it was gifted
with magic powers, but this last fact the queen told only to Livoretto,
her younger son.
As soon, then, as the two sons had received their parents’ benediction,
and secured the treasure prepared for them, they departed secretly
together; and after they had ridden for many days without lighting upon
any spot which pleased them, they began to be sorely troubled at their
fate. Then Livoretto spoke and addressed his brother: ‘We have all this
time ridden in one another’s company, and narrowly searched the country
without having wrought any deed which could add aught to our repute.
Wherefore it seems to me wiser (supposing what I propose contents you
also) that we should separate one from the other, and that each one
should go in search of adventures for himself.’
Listico, having taken thought of his brother’s proposition, agreed
thereto, and then, after they had warmly embraced and kissed each other,
they bade farewell and went their several ways. Listico, of whom nothing
more was ever heard, took his way towards the West, while Livoretto
journeyed into the East. And it happened that, after he had consumed a
great space of time in going from one place to another, and seen almost
every country under the sun, and spent all the jewels and the money and
the other treasures his good father had given him, save and except the
magic horse, Livoretto found himself at last in Cairo, the royal city of
Egypt, which was at that time under the rule of a sultan whose name was
Danebruno, a man wise in all the secrets of statecraft, and powerful
through his riches and his high estate, but now heavily stricken in
years. But, notwithstanding his advanced age, he was inflamed with the
most ardent love for Bellisandra, the youthful daughter of Attarante,
the King of Damascus, against which city he had at this time sent a
powerful army with orders to camp round about it, and to lay siege to
it, and to take it by storm, in order that, either by love or by force,
he might win for himself the princess to wife. But Bellisandra, who had
already a certain foreknowledge that the Sultan of Cairo was both old
and ugly, had made up her mind once for all that, rather than be forced
to become the wife of such a man, she would die by her own hand.
As soon as Livoretto had arrived at Cairo, and had gone into the city,
and wandered into every part thereof, and marvelled at all he saw, he
felt this was a place to his taste, and seeing that he had by this time
lavished all his substance in paying for his maintenance, he determined
that he would not depart thence until he should have taken service with
some master or other. And one day, when he found himself by the palace
of the sultan, he espied in the court thereof a great number of guards
and mamelukes and slaves, and he questioned some of these as to whether
there was in the court of the sultan lack of servants of any sort, and
they answered him there was none. But, after a little, one of these,
calling to mind that there was room in the household for a man to tend
the pigs, shouted after him, and questioned him whether he would be
willing to be a swineherd, and Livoretto answered ‘Yes.’ Then the man
bade him get off his horse, and took him to the pigsties, asking at the
same time what was his name. Livoretto told him, but hereafter men
always called him Porcarollo, the name they gave him.
And thus it happened that Livoretto, now known by the name of
Porcarollo, settled himself in the court of the sultan, and had no other
employ than to let fatten the pigs, and in this duty he showed such
great care and diligence that he brought to an end easily in two months
tasks which would have taken any other man six months to accomplish.
When, therefore, the guards and the mamelukes and the slaves perceived
what a serviceable fellow he was, they persuaded the sultan that it
would be well to provide some other employment for him, because his
diligence and cleverness deserved some better office than the low one he
now held. Wherefore, by the decree of the sultan, he was put in charge
of all the horses in the royal stables, with a large augmentation of his
salary, a promotion which pleased him mightily, because he deemed that,
when he should be the master of all the other horses, he would be the
better able to see well to his own. And when he got to work in his new
office he cleaned and trimmed the horses so thoroughly, and made such
good use of the currycomb, that their skins shone like satin.
Now, amongst the other horses there was an exceedingly beautiful
high-spirited young palfrey, to which, on account of its good looks, he
paid special attention in order to train it perfectly, and he trained it
so well that the palfrey, besides going anywhere he might be told to go,
would curve his neck, and dance, and stand at his whole height on his
hind legs and paw the air so rapidly that every motion seemed like the
flight of a bolt from a crossbow. The mamelukes and slaves, when they
saw what Livoretto had taught the palfrey to do by his training, were
thunderstruck with amazement, for it seemed to them that such things
could hardly ensue in the course of nature. Wherefore they determined to
tell the whole matter to the sultan, in order that he might take
pleasure in witnessing the marvellous skill of Porcarollo.
The sultan, who always wore an appearance of great melancholy, whether
from the torture of his amorous passion or by reason of his great age,
cared little or nothing for recreation of any sort; but, weighed down by
his troublesome humours, would pass the time in thinking of nothing else
besides his beloved mistress. However, the mamelukes and the slaves made
so much ado about the matter, that before long the sultan was moved to
take his stand at the window one morning, and there to witness all the
various wonderful and dexterous feats of horsemanship which Porcarollo
performed with his trained palfrey, and, seeing what a good-looking
youth he was, and how well formed in his person, and finding, moreover,
that what he had seen was even more attractive than he had been led to
expect, he came to the conclusion that it was mighty ill management
(which now he began greatly to regret) to have sent so accomplished a
youth to no better office than the feeding and tending of beasts.
Wherefore, having turned the matter over in his mind, and considered it
in every light, he realized to the full the eminent qualities, hitherto
concealed, of the graceful young man, and found there was nothing
lacking in him. So he resolved at once to remove him from the office he
now filled, and to place him in one of higher consideration; so, having
caused Porcarollo to be summoned into his presence, he thus addressed
him: ‘Porcarollo, it is my will that you do service no longer in the
stables, as heretofore, but that you attend me at my own table and do
the office of cupbearer, and taste everything that may be put before me,
as a guarantee that I may eat thereof without hurt.’
The young man, after he had duly entered upon the office of cupbearer to
the sultan, discharged his duties with so great art and skilfulness that
he won the approbation, not only of the sultan, but of all those about
the court. But amongst the mamelukes and slaves there arose against him
such a bitter hatred and envy on account of the great favour done to him
by the sultan that they could scarce bear the sight of him, and, had
they not been kept back by the fear of their master, they would
assuredly have taken his life. Therefore, in order to deprive the
unfortunate youth of the favour of the sultan, and to let him either be
slain or driven into perpetual exile, they devised a most cunning and
ingenious plot for the furtherance of their design. They made beginning
in this wise. One morning a slave named Chebur, who had been sent in his
turn to do service to the sultan, said, ‘My lord, I have some good news
to give you.’ ‘And what may this be?’ inquired the sultan. ‘It is,’
replied the slave, ‘that Porcarollo, who bears by right the name of
Livoretto, has been boasting that he would be able to accomplish for you
even so heavy a task as to give into your keeping the daughter of
Attarante, King of Damascus.’ ‘And how can such a thing as this be
possible?’ asked the sultan. To whom Chebur replied, ‘It is indeed
possible, O my lord! but if you will not put faith in my words, inquire
of the mamelukes and of the other slaves, in whose presence he has
boasted more than once of his power to do this thing, and then you will
easily know whether the tale I am telling you be false or true.’ After
the sultan had duly assured himself that what the slave had told to him
was just, he summoned Livoretto into his presence, and demanded of him
whether this saying concerning him which was openly bruited about the
court, was true. Then the young man, who knew nothing of what had gone
before, gave a stout denial, and spake so bluntly that the sultan, with
his rage and animosity fully aroused, thus addressed him: ‘Get you hence
straightway, and if within the space of thirty days you have not brought
into my power the Princess Bellisandra, the daughter of Attarante, King
of Damascus, I will have your head taken off your shoulders.’ The young
man, when he heard this cruel speech of the sultan, withdrew from the
presence overwhelmed with grief and confusion, and betook himself to the
stables.
As soon as he had entered, the fairy horse, who remarked at once the sad
looks of his master and the scalding tears which fell so plentifully
from his eyes, turned to him and said: ‘Alas! my master, why do I see
you so deeply agitated and so full of grief?’ The young man, weeping and
sighing deeply the while, told him from beginning to end all that the
sultan had required him to perform. Whereupon the horse, tossing his
head and making signs as if he were laughing, managed to comfort him
somewhat, and went on to bid him be of good heart and fear not, for all
his affairs would come to a prosperous issue in the end. Then he said to
his master: ‘Go back to the sultan and beg him to give you a letter
patent addressed to the captain-general of his army who is now laying
siege to Damascus, in which letter he shall write to the general an
express command that, as soon as he shall have seen and read the letter
patent sealed with the sultan’s great seal, he shall forthwith raise the
siege of the city, and give to you money and fine clothing and arms in
order that you may be able to prosecute with vigour and spirit the great
enterprise which lies before you. And if peradventure it should happen,
during your voyage thitherward, that any person or any animal of
whatever sort or condition should entreat you to do them service of any
kind, take heed that you perform the favour which may be required of
you, nor, as you hold your life dear to you, refuse to do the service
asked for. And if you should meet with any man who is anxious to
purchase me of you, tell him that you are willing to sell me, but at the
same time demand for me a price so extravagant that he shall give up all
thought of the bargain. But if at any time a woman should wish to buy
me, bear yourself gently towards her, and do her every possible
courtesy, giving her full liberty to stroke my head, my forehead, my
eyes and ears, and my loins, and to do anything else she may have a mind
to, for I will let them handle me as they will without doing them the
least mischief or hurt of any kind.’
When he heard these words the young man, full of hope and spirit, went
back to the sultan and made a request to him for the letter patent and
for everything else that the fairy horse had named to him. And when he
had procured all these from the sultan, he straightway mounted the horse
and took the road which led to Damascus, giving by his departure great
delight to all the mamelukes and slaves, who, on account of the burning
envy and unspeakable hate they harboured against him, held it for
certain that he would never again come back alive to Cairo. Now it
happened that, when Livoretto had been a long time on his journey, he
came one day to a pool, and he marked, as he passed by the end thereof,
that the shore gave forth a very offensive smell, the cause of which I
cannot tell, so that one could hardly go near to the place, and there
upon the shore he saw lying a fish half dead. The fish, when it saw
Livoretto approaching, cried out: ‘Alas! kind gentleman, I beseech you
of your courtesy to set me free from this foul-smelling mud, for I am,
as you may see, wellnigh dead on account of it. The young man, taking
good heed of all that the fairy horse had told him, forthwith got down
from his saddle and drew the fish out of the ill-smelling water, and
washed it clean with his own hands. Then the fish, after it had returned
due thanks to Livoretto for the kindness he had done for it, said to
him: ‘Take from my back the three biggest scales you can find, and keep
them carefully by you; and if at any time it shall happen that you are
in need of succour, put down the scales by the bank of the river, and I
will come to you straightway and will give you instant help.’
Livoretto accordingly took the three scales, and, having thrown the
fish, which was now quite clean and shining, into the clear water,
remounted his horse and rode on until he came to a certain place where
he found a peregrine falcon which had been frozen into a sheet of ice as
far as the middle of its body, and could not get free. The falcon, when
it saw the young man, cried out: ‘Alas! fair youth, take pity on me, and
release me from this ice in which, as you see, I am imprisoned, and I
promise, if you will deliver me from this great misfortune, I will lend
you my aid if at any time you should chance to stand in need thereof.’
The young man, overcome by compassion and pity, went kindly to the
succour of the bird, and having drawn a knife which he carried attached
to the scabbard of his sword, he beat and pierced with the point thereof
the hard ice round about the bird so that he brake it, and then he took
out the falcon and cherished it in his bosom in order to bring back,
somewhat of warmth to its body. The falcon, when it had recovered its
strength and was itself again, thanked the young man profusely for his
kindness, and as a recompense for the great service he had wrought, it
gave him two feathers which he would find growing under its left wing,
begging him at the same time to guard and preserve them most carefully
for the sake of the love it bore him; for if in the future he should
chance to stand in need of any succour, he might take the two feathers
to the river and stick them in the bank there, and then immediately it
would come to his assistance. And having thus spoken the bird flew away.
After Livoretto had continued his journey for some days he came to the
sultan’s army encamped before the city, and there he found the
captain-general, who was vexing the place with fierce assaults. Having
been brought into the general’s presence, he drew forth the sultan’s
letter patent, and the general, as soon as he had mastered the contents
thereof, immediately gave orders that the siege should be raised, and
this having been done he marched back to Cairo with his whole army.
Livoretto, after watching the departure of the captain-general, made his
way the next morning into the city of Damascus by himself, and having
taken up his quarters at an inn, he attired himself in a very fair and
rich garment, all covered with most rare and precious gems, which shone
bright enough to make the sun envious, and mounted his fairy horse, and
rode into the piazza in front of the royal palace, where he made the
horse go through all the exercises he had taught it with so great
readiness and dexterity, that everyone who beheld him stood still in
amazement and could look at nought beside.
Now it happened that the noise made by the tumultuous crowd in the
piazza below roused from sleep the Princess Bellisandra, and she
forthwith arose from her bed. Having gone out upon a balcony, which
commanded a view of all the square beneath, she saw there a very
handsome youth; but what she marked especially was the beauty and
vivacity of the gallant and high-mettled horse on which he sat. In
short, she was seized with a desire to get this horse for her own, just
as keen as the passion of an amorous youth for the fair maiden on whom
he has set his heart. So she went at once to her father and besought him
most urgently to buy the horse for her, because ever since she had
looked upon his beauty and grace she had come to feel that she could not
live without him. Then the king, for the gratification of the fancy of
his daughter, whom he loved very tenderly, sent out one of his chief
nobles to ask Livoretto whether he would be willing to sell his horse
for any reasonable price, because the only daughter of the king was
taken with the keenest desire to possess it. On hearing this Livoretto
answered that there was nothing on earth precious and excellent enough
to be accounted as a price for the horse, and demanded therefor a
greater sum of money than there was in all the dominions which the king
had inherited from his fathers. When the king heard the enormous price
asked by Livoretto, he called his daughter and said to her: ‘My
daughter, I cannot bring myself to lavish the value of my whole kingdom
in purchasing for you this horse and in satisfying your desire.
Wherefore have a little patience, and live happy and contented, for I
will make search and buy you another horse even better and more
beautiful than this.’
But the effect of these words of the king was to inflame Bellisandra
with yet more ardent longing to possess the horse, and she besought her
father more insistently than ever to buy it for her, no matter how great
might be the price he had to pay for it. Then the maiden, after much
praying and intercession, found that her entreaties had no avail with
her father, so she left him, and betook herself to her mother, and
feigning to be half dead and prostrate with despair, fell into her arms.
The mother, filled with pity, and seeing her child so deeply
grief-stricken and pale, gave her what gentle consolation she could, and
begged her to moderate her grief, and suggested that, as soon as the
king should be out of the way, they two should seek out the young man
and should bargain with him for the purchase of the horse, and then
perhaps (because they were women) he would let them have it at a more
reasonable price. The maiden, when she heard these kindly words of her
beloved mother, was somewhat comforted, and as soon as the king was gone
elsewhere the queen straightway despatched a messenger to Livoretto,
bidding him to come at once to the palace and to bring his horse with
him; and he, when he heard the message thus delivered to him, rejoiced
greatly, and at once betook himself to the court. When he was come into
the queen’s presence, she forthwith asked him what price he demanded for
the horse which her daughter so much desired to possess, and he answered
her in these words: ‘Madam, if you were to offer to give me all you
possess in the world for my horse it could never become your daughter’s
as a purchase, but if it should please her to accept it as a gift, she
can have it for nothing. Before she takes it as a present, however, I
had rather that she should make trial of it, for it is so gentle and
well-trained that it will allow anybody to mount it without difficulty.’
With these words he got down from the saddle and helped the princess to
mount therein; whereupon she, holding the reins in her hand, made it go
here and there and managed it perfectly. But after a little, when the
princess had gone on the horse about a stone’s throw distant from her
mother, Livoretto sprang suddenly upon the crupper of the horse, and
struck his spurs deep into the flanks of the beast, and pricked it so
sharply that it went as quickly as if it had been a bird flying through
the air. The maiden, bewildered at this strange conduit, began to cry
out: ‘You wicked and disloyal traitor! Whither are you carrying me, you
dog, and son of a dog?’ However, all her cries and reproaches were to no
purpose, for there was no one near to give her aid or even to comfort
her with a word.
It happened as they rode along that they came to the bank of a river,
and in passing this the maiden drew off from her finger a very beautiful
ring which she wore thereon, and cast it secretly into the water. And
after they had been for many days on their journey, they arrived at last
at Cairo, and as soon as Livoretto had come to the palace he immediately
took the princess and presented her to the sultan, who, when he saw how
lovely and graceful and pure she was, rejoiced greatly, and bade her
welcome with all sorts of kindly speeches. And after a while, when the
hour for retiring to rest had come, and the sultan had retired with the
princess to a chamber as richly adorned as it was beautiful in itself,
the princess spake thus to the sultan: ‘Sire, do not dream that I will
ever yield to your amorous wishes unless you first command that wicked
and rascally servant of yours to find my ring which fell into the river
as we journeyed hither. When he shall have recovered it and brought it
back to me you will see that I shall be ready to comply with your
desire.’ The sultan, who was by this time all on fire with love for the
deeply injured princess, could deny her nothing which might please her;
so he turned to Livoretto and bade him straightway set forth in quest of
the ring, threatening him that if he should fail in his task he should
be immediately put to death.
Livoretto, as soon as he heard the words of the sultan, perceived that
these were orders which must be carried out at once, and that he would
put himself in great danger by running counter to his master’s wishes;
so he went out of his presence deeply troubled, and betook himself to
the stables, where he wept long and bitterly, for he was altogether
without hope that he would ever be able to recover the princess’s ring.
The fairy horse, when he saw his master thus heavily stricken with grief
and weeping so piteously, asked him what evil could have come to him to
make him shed such bitter tears; and after Livoretto had told him the
cause thereof, the horse thus addressed his master: ‘Ah, my poor master!
cease, I pray you, to talk in this strain. Remember the words that the
fish spake to you, and open your ears to hear what I shall say, and take
good heed to carry out everything as I shall direct you. Go back to the
sultan and ask him for all you may need for your enterprise, and then
set about it with a confident spirit, and have no doubts.’ Livoretto
therefore did exactly what the horse commanded him to do, no more and no
less; and, after having travelled for some time, came at last to that
particular spot where he had crossed the river with the princess, and
there he laid the three scales of the fish on the green turf of the
bank. Whereupon the fish, gliding through the bright and limpid stream,
leaping now to this side and now to that, swam up to where Livoretto
stood with every manifestation of joy and gladness, and, having brought
out of his mouth the rare and precious ring, he delivered it into
Livoretto’s hand, and when he had taken back his three scales he plunged
beneath the water and disappeared.
As soon as Livoretto had got the ring safely back, all his sorrow at
once gave place to gladness, and without any delay he took his way home
to Cairo, and when he had come into the sultan’s presence and had made
formal obeisance to him, he presented the ring to the princess. The
sultan, as soon as he saw that her wishes had been fulfilled by the
restoration of the precious ring she had desired so ardently, began to
court her with the most tender and amorous caresses and flattering
speeches, hoping thereby to induce her to lie with him that night; but
all his supplications and wooings were in vain, for the princess said to
him: ‘Sir, do not think to deceive me with your fine words and false
speeches. I swear to you that you shall never take your pleasure of me
until that ruffian, that false rascal who entrapped me with his horse
and conveyed me hither, shall have brought me some of the water of
life.’ The sultan, who was anxious not to cross or contradict in any way
this lady of whom he was so much enamoured, but did all in his power to
please her, straightway summoned Livoretto, and bade him in a severe
tone to go forth and to bring back with him some of the water of life,
or to lose his head.
Livoretto, when he heard the impossible demand that was made upon him,
was terribly overcome with grief; moreover, the wrath which was kindled
in his heart burst out into a flame, and he complained bitterly that the
sultan should offer him so wretched a return as this for all the
faithful service he had given, and for all the heavy and prolonged
fatigue he had undergone, putting his own life the while in the most
imminent danger. But the sultan, burning with love, was in no mind to
set aside the purpose he had formed for satisfying the wishes of the
lady he loved so much, and let it be known that he would have the water
of life found for her at any cost. So when Livoretto went out of his
master’s presence he betook himself, as was his wont, to the stables,
cursing his evil fortune and weeping bitterly all the while. The horse,
when he saw the heavy grief in which his master was, and listened to his
bitter lamentations, spake to him thus: ‘O my master! why do you torment
yourself in this fashion? Tell me if any fresh ill has happened to you.
Calm yourself as well as you can, and remember that a remedy is to be
found for every evil under the sun, except for death.’ And when the
horse had heard the reason of Livoretto’s bitter weeping, it comforted
him with gentle words, bidding him recall to memory what had been spoken
to him by the falcon which he had delivered from its frozen bonds of
ice, and the valuable gift of the two feathers. Whereupon the unhappy
Livoretto, having taken heed of all the horse said to him, mounted it
and rode away. He carried with him a small phial of glass, well sealed
at the mouth, and this he made fast to his girdle. Then he rode onward
and onward till he came to the spot where he had set the falcon at
liberty, and there he planted the two feathers in the bank of the river
according to the direction he had received, and suddenly the falcon
appeared in the air and asked him what his need might be. To this
Livoretto answered that he wanted some of the water of life; and the
falcon, when he heard these words, cried out, ‘Alas, alas, gentle
knight! the thing you seek is impossible. You will never get it by your
own power, because the fountain from which it springs is always guarded
and narrowly watched by two savage lions and by two dragons, who roar
horribly day and night without ceasing, and mangle miserably and devour
all those who would approach the fountain to take of the water. But now,
as a recompense for the great service you once rendered me, take the
phial which hangs at your side, and fasten it under my right wing, and
see that you depart not from this place until I shall have returned.’
When Livoretto had done all this as the falcon had ordered, the bird
rose up from the earth with the phial attached to its wing, and flew
away to the region where was the fountain of the water of life, and,
having secretly filled the phial with the water, returned to the place
where Livoretto was, and gave to him the phial. Then he took up his two
feathers and flew away out of sight.
Livoretto, in great joy that he had indeed procured some of the precious
water, without making any more delay returned to Cairo in haste, and,
having arrived there, he presented himself to the sultan, who was
passing the time in pleasant converse with Bellisandra, his beloved
lady. The sultan took the water of life, and in high glee gave it to the
princess, and, as soon as she could call this precious fluid her own, he
recommenced his entreaties that she would, according to her promise,
yield herself to his pleasure. But she, firm as a strong tower beaten
about by the raging winds, declared that she would never consent to
gratify his desire unless he should first cut off with his own hands the
head of that Livoretto who had been to her the cause of so great shame
and disaster. When the sultan heard this savage demand of the cruel
princess, he was in no degree moved to comply with it, because it seemed
to him a most shameful thing that, as a recompense for all the great
labours he had accomplished, Livoretto should be thus cruelly bereft of
life. But the treacherous and wicked princess, resolutely determined to
work her nefarious purpose, snatched up a naked dagger, and with all the
daring and violence of a man struck the youth in the throat while the
sultan was standing by, and, because there was no one present with
courage enough to give succour to the unhappy Livoretto, he fell dead.
And not content with this cruel outrage, the bloody-minded girl hewed
off his head from his shoulders, and, having chopped his flesh into
small pieces, and torn up his nerves, and broken his hard bones and
ground them to a fine powder, she took a large bowl of copper, and
little by little she threw therein the pounded and cut-up flesh,
compounding it with the bones and the nerves as women of a household are
wont to do when they make a great pasty with a leavened crust thereto.
And after all was well kneaded, and the cut-up flesh thoroughly blended
with the powdered bones and the nerves, the princess fashioned out of
the mixed-up mass the fine and shapely image of a man, and this she
sprinkled with the water of life out of the phial, and straightway the
young man was restored to life from death more handsome and more
graceful than he had ever been before.
The sultan, who felt the weight of his years heavy upon him, no sooner
saw this amazing feat and the great miracle which was wrought, than he
was struck with astonishment and stood as one confounded. Then he felt a
great longing to be made again a youth, so he begged Bellisandra to
treat him in the same way as she had treated Livoretto. Then the
princess, who tarried not a moment to obey this command of the sultan,
took up the sharp knife which was still wet with Livoretto’s blood, and,
having seized him by the throat with her left hand, held him fast while
she dealt him a mortal blow in the breast. Then she commanded the slaves
to throw the body of the sultan out of the window into the deep ditch
which ran round the walls of the palace, and thus, instead of being
restored to youth as was Livoretto, he became food for dogs after the
miserable end he made.
After she had wrought this terrible deed the Princess Bellisandra was
greatly feared and reverenced by all in the city on account of the
strange and marvellous power that was in her, and when the news was
brought to her that the young man was a son of Dalfreno, King of Tunis,
and that his rightful name was Livoretto, she wrote a letter to the old
father, giving him therein a full account of all the amazing accidents
which had befallen his son, and begging him most urgently to come at
once to Cairo in order that he might be present at the nuptials of
herself and Livoretto. And King Dalfreno, when he heard this good news
about his son—of whom no word had been brought since he left Tunis with
his brother—rejoiced greatly, and, having put all his affairs in good
order, betook himself to Cairo and was welcomed by the whole city with
the most distinguished marks of honour. After the space of a few days
Bellisandra and Livoretto were married amidst the rejoicings of the
whole people, and thus with the princess as his lawful spouse, with
sumptuous triumphs and feastings, and with the happiest omens, Livoretto
was made the Sultan of Cairo, where for many years he governed his realm
in peace and lived a life of pleasure and tranquillity. Dalfreno tarried
in Cairo a few days after the nuptials, and then took leave of his son
and daughter-in-law and returned to Tunis safe and sound.
As soon as Arianna had come to the end of her interesting story, she
propounded her enigma forthwith, in order that the rule which governed
the entertainment might be strictly kept:
Small what though my compass be,
A mighty furnace gendered me.
The covering which round me clings,
Is what from marshy plain upsprings.
My soul, which should be free as air,
Is doomed a prisoner close to fare.
It is a liquor bland and sweet.
No jest is this which I repeat:
All silken are my festal clothes,
And man will put me to his nose,
To make me all my charms disclose.
All those assembled listened with the keenest attention to the ingenious
enigma set forth by Arianna, and they made her repeat it over and over
again, but not one of the whole company proved to have wit sharp enough
for the disentangling thereof. At last the fair Arianna gave the
solution in these words: “Ladies and gentlemen, my enigma is supposed to
describe a little flask of rose water, which has a body of glass born in
a fiery furnace. Its covering comes from the marshes, for it is made of
straw, and the soul which is contained within is the rose water. The
gown or robe with which it is surrounded is the vessel, and whosoever
sees it puts it under his nose to enjoy the odour thereof.”
As soon as Arianna had given the solution of her enigma, Lauretta, who
was seated next to her, remembered that it was her turn to speak.
Wherefore without waiting for any further command from the Signora she
thus began.
THE THIRD FABLE.
=Biancabella, the daughter of Lamberico, Marquis of Monferrato, is
sent away by the stepmother of Ferrandino, King of Naples, in
order that she may be put to death; but the assassins only cut off
her hands and put out her eyes. Afterwards she, her hurts having
been healed by a snake, returns happily to Ferrandino.=
It is praiseworthy, or even absolutely necessary, that a woman, of
whatever state or condition she may be, should bear herself with
prudence in each and every undertaking she may essay, for without
prudence nothing will bring itself to a commendable issue. And if a
certain stepmother, of whom I am about to tell you, had used it with due
moderation when she plotted wickedly to take another’s life, she would
not herself have been cut off by divine judgment in such fashion as I
will now relate to you.
Once upon a time, now many years ago, there reigned in Monferrato a
marquis called Lamberico, very puissant, both on account of his
lordships and his great wealth, but wanting in children to carry on his
name. He was, forsooth, mighty anxious for progeny, but this bounty of
heaven was denied to him. Now one day it chanced that the marchioness
his wife was walking for her pleasure in the palace garden, and, being
suddenly overcome by sleep, she sat down at the foot of a tree and
slumber fell upon her. While she slept gently there crept up to her side
a very small snake, which, having passed stealthily under her clothes
without arousing her by its presence, made its way into her body, and by
subtle windings penetrated even into her womb, and there lay quiet.
Before long time had elapsed the marchioness, with no small pleasure to
herself, and with the highest delight of all the state, proved to be
with child, and, when the season of her lying-in came, she was delivered
of a female child, round the neck of which there was coiled three times
something in the similitude of a serpent. When the midwives, who were in
attendance upon the marchioness, saw this, they were much affrighted;
but the snake, without causing any hurt whatsoever, untwined itself from
the infant’s neck, and, winding itself along the floor and stretching
itself out, made its way into the garden.
Now when the child had been duly cared for and clothed, the nurses
having washed it clean in a bath of clear water and swathed it in
snow-white linen, they began to see, little by little, that round about
its neck was a collar of gold, fashioned with the most subtle handiwork.
So fine was it, and so lovely, that it seemed to shed its lustre from
between the skin and the flesh, just as the most precious jewels are
wont to shine out from a closure of transparent crystal, and, moreover,
it encircled the neck of the infant just as many times as the little
serpent had cast its folds thereabout. The little girl, to whom, on
account of her exceeding loveliness, the name of Biancabella was given,
grew up in such goodliness and beauty that it seemed as if she must be
sprung from divine and not from human stock. When she had come to the
age of ten years it chanced that one day she went with her nurse upon a
terrace, from whence she observed a fair garden full of roses and all
manner of other lovely flowers. Then, turning towards the nurse who had
her in charge, she demanded of her what garden that was which she had
never seen before. To this the nurse replied that it was a place which
her mother called her own garden, and one, moreover, in which she was
wont often to take her recreation. Then said the child to her: ‘I have
never seen anything so fair before, and I had fain go into it and walk
there.’ Then the nurse, taking Biancabella by the hand, led her into the
garden, and, having suffered the child to go a little distance apart
from her, she sat down under the shade of a leafy beech-tree and settled
herself to sleep, letting the little girl take her pleasure the while in
roaming about the garden. Biancabella, who was altogether charmed with
the loveliness of the place, ran about, now here and now there,
gathering flowers, and, at last, when she felt somewhat tired, she sat
down under the shadow of a tree. Now scarcely had the child seated
herself upon the ground when there appeared a little snake, which crept
up close to her side. Biancabella, as soon as she saw the beast, was
mightily alarmed, and was about to cry out, when the snake thus
addressed her: ‘Cry not, I beg you, neither disturb yourself, nor have
any fear, for know that I am your sister, born on the same day as
yourself and at the same birth, and that Samaritana is my name. And I
now tell you that, if you will be obedient to what I shall command you,
I will make you happy in your life; but if, on the other hand, you
disobey me, you will come to be the most luckless, the most wretched
woman the world has ever yet seen. Wherefore, go your way now, without
fear of any sort, and to-morrow cause to be brought into this garden two
vessels, of which let one be filled with pure milk, and the other with
the finest water of roses. Then you must come to me by yourself without
companions.’
When the serpent was gone the little girl rose up from her seat and went
back to seek her nurse, whom she found still sleeping, and, having
aroused her, she returned with her to the palace without saying aught of
what had befallen her. And when the morrow had come Biancabella chanced
to be with her mother alone in the chamber, and the mother remarked that
the child bore upon her face a melancholy look. Whereupon she said:
‘Biancabella, what ails you that you put on so discontented a face? You
are wont to be lively and merry enough, but now you seem all sad and
woebegone.’ To this Biancabella replied: ‘There is nothing amiss with
me; it is only that I want to have taken into the garden two vessels, of
which one shall be filled with pure milk and the other of the finest
water of roses.’ The mother answered: ‘And why do you let yourself be
troubled by so small a matter as this, my child? Do you not know that
everything here belongs to you?’ Then the marchioness caused to be
brought to her two vessels, large and beautiful, filled, the one with
milk and the other with rose water, and had them carried into the
garden.
When the hour appointed by the serpent had come, Biancabella, without
taking any other damsel to bear her company, repaired to the garden,
and, having opened the door thereof, she went in and made fast the
entrance, and then seated herself upon the ground at the spot where the
two vessels had been placed. Almost as soon as she had sat down the
serpent appeared and came near her, and straightway commanded her to
strip off all her clothes, and then, naked as she was, to step into the
vessel which was filled with milk. When she had done this, the serpent
twined itself about her, thus bathing her body in every part with the
white milk and licking her all over with its tongue, rendering her pure
and perfect in every part where, peradventure, aught that was faulty
might have been found. Next, having bid her come out of the vessel of
milk, the serpent made her enter the one which was filled with rose
water, whereupon all her limbs were scented with odours so sweet and
restorative that she felt as if she were filled with fresh life. Then
the serpent bade her put on her clothes once more, giving her at the
same time express command that she should hold her peace as to what had
befallen her, and to speak no word thereanent even to her father and
mother. For the serpent willed that no other woman in all the world
should be found to equal Biancabella in beauty or in grace. And finally,
after she had bestowed upon her every good quality, the serpent crept
away to its hiding-place.
[Illustration: Biancabella and the Serpent]
When this was done Biancabella left the garden and returned to the
palace. Her mother, when she perceived how her daughter had become more
lovely and gracious than ever, and fairer than any other damsel in the
world, was astonished beyond measure and knew not what to say. Wherefore
she questioned the young girl as to what she had done to indue herself
with such surpassing loveliness; but Biancabella had no answer to give
her. Hereupon the marchioness took a comb and began to comb and dress
her daughter’s fair locks, and forthwith from the girl’s hair there fell
down pearls and all manner of precious stones, and when Biancabella went
to wash her hands roses and violets and lovely flowers of all sorts
sprang up around them, and the odours which arose from these were so
sweet that it seemed as if the place had indeed become an earthly
paradise. Her mother, when she saw this marvel, ran to find Lamberico
her husband, and, full of maternal pride, thus addressed him: ‘My lord,
heaven has bestowed upon us a daughter who is the sweetest, the
loveliest, and the most exquisite work nature ever produced. For besides
the divine beauty and grace in her, which is manifest to all eyes,
pearls and gems and all other kinds of precious stones fall from her
hair, and—to name something yet more marvellous—round about her white
hands spring up roses and violets and all manner of flowers which give
out the sweetest odours to all those who may come near her to wonder at
the sight. All this I tell to you I assuredly would never have believed
had I not looked thereon with my own eyes.’
Her husband, who was of an unbelieving nature, was at first disinclined
to put faith in his wife’s words, and treated her speech as a subject
for laughter and ridicule, but she went on plying him without ceasing
with accounts of what she had witnessed, so that he determined to see
for himself how the matter really stood. Then, having made them bring
his daughter into his presence, he found about her even more marvellous
things than his wife had described, and on account of what he saw he
rejoiced exceedingly, and in his pride swore a great oath that there was
in the whole world no man worthy to be united to her in wedlock.
Very soon the fame and glory of the supreme and immortal beauty of
Biancabella began to spread itself through the whole world, and many
kings and princes and nobles came together from all parts in order to
win her love and favour and have her to wife, but not one of all these
suitors was counted worthy to enjoy her, inasmuch as each one of them
proved to be lacking in respect of one thing or another. But at last one
day there came a-wooing Ferrandino, King of Naples, who by his prowess
and by his illustrious name blazed out resplendent like the sun in the
midst of the smaller luminaries, and, having presented himself to the
marquis, demanded of him the hand of his daughter in marriage. The
marquis, seeing that the suitor was seemly of countenance, and well knit
in person, and full of grace, besides being a prince of great power and
possessions and wealth, gave his consent to the nuptials at once, and,
having summoned his daughter, without further parleying the two were
betrothed by joining of hands and by kissing one another.
Scarcely were the rites of betrothal completed, when Biancabella called
back to mind the words which her sister Samaritana had so lovingly
spoken to her, wherefore she withdrew herself from the presence of her
spouse under the pretext that she had certain business of her own to see
to, and, having gone to her own chamber, made fast the door thereof from
within, and then passed by a secret thoroughfare into the garden. When
she had come into the garden, she began to call upon Samaritana in a low
voice. But the serpent no more manifested herself as heretofore, and
Biancabella, when she perceived this, was mightily astonished, and,
after she had searched through every part of the garden without finding
a trace of Samaritana, a deep grief fell upon her, for she knew that
this thing had happened to her because she had not given due attention
and obedience to the commands which her sister had laid upon her.
Wherefore, grieving and bewailing heavily on account of the mischance
that had befallen her, she returned into her chamber, and having opened
the door, she went to rejoin her spouse, who had been waiting a long
time for her, and sat down beside him. When the marriage ceremonies were
completed, Ferrandino led his bride away with him to Naples, where, with
sumptuous state and magnificent festivities and the sound of trumpets,
they were welcomed by the whole city with the highest honour.
It happened that there was living at Naples Ferrandino’s stepmother, who
had two daughters of her own, both of them deformed and ugly; but,
notwithstanding this, she had set her heart on marrying one of them to
the king. But now, when all hope was taken from her of ever
accomplishing this design of hers, her rage and anger against
Biancabella became so savage that she could scarcely endure to look upon
her. But she was careful to conceal her animosity, feigning the while to
hold Biancabella in all love and affection. Now by a certain freak of
fortune the King of Tunis at this time began to set in array a mighty
force of armed men for service by land and likewise on sea, in order
that he might incite Ferrandino to make war (whether he did this because
Ferrandino had won Biancabella to wife, or for some other reason I know
not), and at the head of a very powerful army he had already passed the
bounds of the kingdom of Naples. On this account it was necessary that
Ferrandino should straightway take up arms for the defence of his realm,
and hurry to the field to confront his foe. Therefore, having settled
his affairs, and made provision of all things necessary for Biancabella
(she being now with child), he gave her over to the care of his
stepmother and set forth with his army.
Ferrandino had not long departed when this malevolent and froward-minded
woman made a wicked design on Biancabella’s life, and, having summoned
into her presence certain retainers who were entirely devoted to her,
she charged them to conduct Biancabella with them to some place or
other—feigning that what they were doing was done for her recreation—and
that they should not leave her until they had taken her life. Moreover,
in order that she might be fully assured that they had discharged their
duty, they were to bring back to her some sign of Biancabella’s death.
These ruffians, prompt for any sort of ill-doing, at once prepared to
carry out the commands of their mistress, and making pretence of
conducting Biancabella to some place where she might recreate herself,
they carried her away into a wood, and forthwith began to make
preparation to kill her. But when they perceived how lovely she was, and
gracious, they were moved to pity and had not the heart to take her
life. So they cut off both her hands and tore her eyes out of her head,
and these they carried back to the stepmother as certain proofs that
Biancabella had been killed by them. When this impious and cruel woman
saw what they brought in their hands, her joy and satisfaction were
unbounded, and, scheming still in her wicked heart to carry out her
nefarious designs, she spread through all the kingdom a report that both
her own daughters were dead, the one of a continued fever, and the other
of an imposthume of the heart, which had caused her death by
suffocation. Moreover, she went on to declare that Biancabella,
disordered by grief at the king’s departure, had miscarried of a child,
and had likewise been seized with a tertian fever which had wasted her
so cruelly that there was more cause to fear her death than to hope for
her recovery. But the scheme of this wicked cunning woman was to keep
one of her own daughters in the king’s bed, maintaining the while that
she was Biancabella, shrunken and distempered by the fever.
Ferrandino, after he had attacked and put to rout the army of his foe,
marched homeward in all the triumph of victory, hoping to find his
beloved Biancabella full of joy and happiness, but in lieu of this he
found her (as he believed) lying in bed shrivelled, pale, and
disfigured. Then he went up to the bed and gazed closely at her face,
and was overcome with astonishment when he looked upon the wreck she had
become, and could hardly persuade himself that the woman he saw there
could really be Biancabella. Afterwards he bade her attendants comb her
hair, and, in place of the gems and the precious jewels which were wont
to fall from the fair locks of his wife, there came forth great worms
which had been feeding on the wretched woman’s flesh, and from the hands
there came forth, not the roses and the sweet-smelling flowers which
ever sprang up around Biancabella’s, but a foulness and filth which
caused a nauseous sickness to all who came near her. But the wicked old
stepmother kept on speaking words of consolation to him, declaring that
all this distemper sprang from nothing else than the lengthened course
of the ailment which possessed her.
In the meantime the ill-fated Biancabella, bereft of her hands and blind
in both her eyes, was left alone in that solitary place, and, finding
herself in such cruel affliction, she called over and over again upon
her sister Samaritana, beseeching her to come to her rescue; but no
answer came to her except from the resounding voice of Echo, who cried
aloud through all the place. And while the unhappy Biancabella was left
in the agony of despair, conscious that she was cut off from all human
aid, there came into the wood a venerable old man, kindly of aspect and
no less kindly in his heart. And he, when he listened to the sad and
mournful voice which smote upon his hearing, made his way step by step
towards the place whence it came, and stopped when he found there a
blind lady with her hands cut off who was bitterly mourning the sad fate
which had overtaken her. When the good old man looked upon her, and saw
how sad was her condition, he could not bear to leave her thus in this
wilderness of broken trees and thorns and brambles, but, overcome by the
fatherly pity within him, he led her home with him to his house, and
gave her into the charge of his wife, commanding her very strictly to
take good care of the sufferer. Then he turned towards his three
daughters, who verily were as beautiful as three of the brightest stars
of heaven, and exhorted them earnestly to keep her company, and to
render to her continually any loving service she might require, and to
take care that she wanted for nothing. But the wife, who had a hard
heart, and none of the old man’s pity, was violently moved to anger by
these words of her husband, and, turning towards him, cried out:
‘Husband, what is this you would have us do with this woman, all blind
and maimed as she is? Doubtless she has been thus treated as a
punishment for her sins, and for no good behaviour.’ In reply to this
speech the old man spake in an angry tone: ‘You will carry out all the
commands I give you. If you should do aught else, you need not look to
see me here again.’
It happened that while the unhappy Biancabella was left in charge of the
wife and the three daughters, conversing with them of various things,
and meditating over her own great misfortunes, she besought one of the
maidens to do her a favour and comb her hair a little. But when the
mother heard this she was much angered, forasmuch as she would not allow
either of her children to minister in any way to the unfortunate
sufferer. But the daughter’s heart was more given to pity than was her
mother’s, and moreover she called to mind what her father’s commands had
been, and was conscious of some subtle air of dignity and high breeding
which seemed to emanate from Biancabella as a token of her lofty estate.
So she straightway unfastened the apron from her waist, and, having
spread it on the floor beside Biancabella, began to comb her hair softly
and carefully. Scarcely had she passed the comb thrice through the blond
tresses before there fell out of them pearls and rubies and diamonds and
all sorts of precious stones. Now the mother, when she saw what had
happened, was seized with dread, and stood as one struck with amazement;
moreover, the great dislike which at first she had harboured towards
Biancabella, now gave way to a feeling of kindly affection. And when the
old man had come back to the house they all ran to embrace him,
rejoicing with him greatly over the stroke of good fortune which had
come to deliver them from the bitter poverty which had hitherto
oppressed them. Then Biancabella asked them to bring her a bucket of
clear water, and bade them wash therewith her face and her maimed arms,
and from these, while all were standing by, roses and violets and other
flowers in great plenty fell down; whereupon they all deemed she must be
some divine personage, and no mortal woman.
Now after a season it came to pass that Biancabella felt a desire to
return to the spot where first the old man had found her. But he and his
wife and his daughters, seeing how great were the benefits they gathered
from her presence, loaded her with endearments, and besought her very
earnestly that she would on no account depart from them, bringing
forward many reasons why she should not carry out her wish. But she,
having resolutely made up her mind on this point, determined at all
hazards to go away, promising at the same time to return to them
hereafter. The old man, when he saw how firmly she was set on her
departure, took her with him without any further delay back to the place
where he had come upon her. And when they had reached this spot she gave
directions to the old man that he should depart and leave her, bidding
him also to come back there when evening should have fallen, in order
that she might return with him to his house.
As soon as the old man had gone his way the ill-fated Biancabella began
to wander up and down the gloomy wood, calling loudly upon Samaritana,
so that her cries and lamentations rose up even to the high heavens. But
Samaritana, though she was all the while nigh to her sister, and had
never for one moment abandoned her, refused as yet to answer to her
call. Whereupon the wretched Biancabella, deeming that she was
scattering her words upon the heedless winds, cried out, ‘Alas! what
further concern have I in this world, seeing that I have been bereft of
my eyes and of my hands, and now at last all human help is denied to
me.’ And as she thus spoke there came upon her a sort of frenzy, which
took away from her all hope of deliverance from her present evil case,
and urged her, in despair, to lay hands upon her own life. But because
there was at hand no means by which she could put an end to her
miserable being, she found her way to a pool of water, which lay not far
distant, in the mind there to drown herself. But when she had come to
the shore of the pool, and stood thereon ready to cast herself down into
the water, there sounded in her ears a voice like thunder, saying:
‘Alas, alas, wretched one! keep back from self-murder, nor desire to
take your own life, which you ought to preserve for some better end.’
Whereupon Biancabella, alarmed by this mighty voice, felt as it were
every one of her hairs standing erect on her head, but after a moment it
seemed to her that she knew the voice; so, having plucked up a little
courage, she said: ‘Who are you who wander about these woods,
proclaiming your presence to me by your kindly and pitiful words?’ Then
the same voice replied: ‘I am Samaritana, your sister, for whom you have
been calling so long and painfully.’ And Biancabella, when she listened
to these words, answered in a voice all broken by agonized sobs, and
said: ‘Alas, my sister! come to my aid, I beseech you; and if at any
past time I have shown myself disregardful of your counsel, I pray you
to pardon me. Indeed I have erred, and I confess my fault, but my
misdeed was the fruit of my ignorance, and not of my wickedness; for be
sure, if it had come from wickedness, divine justice would not have
suffered me, as the author of it, so long to cumber the earth.’
Samaritana, when she heard her sister’s woes set forth in this pitiful
story, and witnessed the cruel wrongs that had been done her, spake some
comforting words, and then, having gathered divers medicinal herbs of
wonderful power and virtue, she spread these over the places where
Biancabella’s eyes had been. Then she brought to her sister two hands,
and having joined these on to the wounded wrists, at once made them
whole and sound again. And when she had wrought this marvellous feat
Samaritana threw off from herself the scaly skin of the serpent, and
stood revealed as a maiden of lovely aspect.
The sun had already begun to veil its glittering rays, and the evening
shadows were creeping around, when the old man with anxious hasty steps
returned to the wood, where he found Biancabella sitting beside a maiden
wellnigh as lovely as herself. And he gazed steadily into her beauteous
face, standing the while like to a man struck with wonder, and could
scarcely believe it was Biancabella he looked upon. But when he was sure
it was really she, he cried: ‘My daughter, were you not this morning
blind and bereft of your hands? How comes it that you have been thus
speedily made whole again?’ Biancabella answered him: ‘My cure has been
worked, not by anything I myself have done, but by the virtue and the
kind ministering of this my dear sister who sits here beside me.’
Whereupon both the sisters arose from the place where they were seated,
and rejoicing greatly they went together with the old man to his house,
where the wife and the three daughters gave them a most loving and
hospitable welcome.
It came to pass after the lapse of many days that Samaritana and
Biancabella, and the old man with his wife and his three daughters, left
their cottage and betook themselves to the city of Naples, purposing to
dwell there, and, when they had entered the city, they chanced to come
upon a vacant space hard by the palace of the king, where they
determined to make their resting-place. And when the dark night had
fallen around them, Samaritana took in her hand a twig of laurel and
thrice struck the earth therewith, uttering certain mystic words the
while, and almost before the sound of these words had ceased there
sprang up forthwith before them a palace, the most beautiful and
sumptuous that ever was seen. The next morning Ferrandino the king went
early to look out of the window, and when he beheld the rich and
marvellous palace standing where there had been nothing the night
before, he was altogether overcome with amazement, and called his wife
and his stepmother to come and see it; but these were greatly disturbed
in mind at the sight thereof, for a boding came upon them that some ill
was about to befall them.
While Ferrandino was standing, scanning closely the palace before him,
and examining it in all parts, he lifted his eyes to a certain window,
and there, in the chamber inside, he beheld two ladies of a beauty more
rich and dazzling than the sun. And no sooner had his eyes fallen upon
them than he felt a tempest of passion rising in his heart, for he
assuredly recognized in one of them some similitude of that loveliness
which had once been Biancabella’s. And when he asked who they were, and
from what land they had come, the answer which was given him was that
they were two ladies who had been exiled from their home, and that they
had journeyed from Persia, with all their possessions, to take up their
abode in the noble city of Naples. When he heard this, Ferrandino sent a
messenger to inquire whether he would be doing them any pleasure in
waiting upon them, accompanied by the ladies of his court, to pay them a
visit of welcome, and to this gracious message they sent an answer,
saying that it would indeed be a very precious honour to be thus visited
by him, but that it would be more decorous and respectful if they, as
subjects, should pay this duty to him, than that he, as lord and king,
should visit them.
Hereupon Ferrandino bade them summon the queen and the other ladies of
the court, and with these (although at first they refused to go, being
so greatly in fear of their impending ruin) he betook himself to the
palace of the two ladies, who, with all friendly signs of welcome and
with modest bearing, gave him the reception due to a highly honoured
guest, showing him the wide loggias, and the roomy halls, and the richly
ornamented chambers, the walls of which were lined with alabaster and
fine porphyry, while about them were to be seen on all sides carven
figures which looked like life. And when they had exhibited to the king
all parts of the sumptuous palace, the two fair young women approached
Ferrandino and besought him most gracefully that he would deign to come
one day with his queen and dine at their table. The king, whose heart
was not hard enough to remain unaffected by all he had seen, and who was
gifted moreover with a magnanimous and liberal spirit, graciously
accepted the invitation. And when he had tendered his thanks to the two
ladies for the noble welcome they had given him, he and the queen
departed together and returned to their own palace. When the day fixed
for the banquet had come, the king and the queen and the stepmother,
clad in their royal robes and accompanied by some of the ladies of the
court, went to do honour to the magnificent feast set out in the most
sumptuous fashion. And after he had given them water to wash their
hands, the seneschal bade them conduct the king and the queen to a table
apart, set somewhat higher, but at the same time near to the others, and
having done this, he caused all the rest of the guests to seat
themselves according to their rank, and in this fashion they all feasted
merrily and joyfully together.
When the stately feast had come to an end and the tables had been
cleared, Samaritana rose from her seat, and turning towards the king and
the queen, spake thus: ‘Your majesties, in order that the time may not
be irksome to us, as it may if we sit here idle, let one or other of us
propose something in the way of diversion which will let us pass the day
pleasantly.’ And when the guests heard what Samaritana said, they all
agreed that she had spoken well, but yet there was found no one bold
enough to make such a proposition as she had called for. Whereupon
Samaritana, when she perceived they were all silent, went on: ‘Since it
appears that no one of this company is prepared to put forward anything,
I, with your majesty’s leave, will bid come hither one of our own
maidens, whose singing perchance will give you no little pleasure.’ And
having summoned the damsel, whose name was Silveria, into the
banqueting-room, Samaritana commanded her to take a lyre in her hand and
to sing thereto something in honour of the king which should be worthy
of their praise. And the damsel, obedient to her lady’s command, took
her lyre, and, having placed herself before the king, sang in a soft and
pleasant voice while she touched the resounding strings with the
plectrum, telling in her chant the story of Biancabella from beginning
to end, but not mentioning her by name. When the whole of the story had
been set forth, Samaritana again rose to her feet, and demanded of the
king what would be the fitting punishment, what torture would be cruel
enough for those who had put their hands to such an execrable crime.
Then the stepmother, who deemed that she might perchance get a release
for her misdeeds by a prompt and ready reply, did not wait for the king
to give his answer, but cried out in a bold and confident tone, ‘Surely
to be cast into a furnace heated red hot would be but a light punishment
for the offences of such a one.’ Then Samaritana, with her countenance
all afire with vengeance and anger, made answer to her: ‘Thou thyself
art the very same guilty and barbarous woman, through whose nefarious
working all these cruel wrongs have been done; and thou, wicked and
accursed one, hast condemned thyself to a righteous penalty out of thine
own mouth.’ Then Samaritana, turning towards the king with a look of joy
upon her face, said to him, ‘Behold! this is your Biancabella, this is
the wife you loved so dearly, this is she without whom you could not
live.’ Then, to prove the truth of her words, Samaritana gave the word
to the three daughters of the old man that they should forthwith, in the
presence of the king, begin to comb Biancabella’s fair and wavy hair,
and scarcely had they begun when (as has been told before) there fell
out of her tresses many very precious and exquisite jewels, and from her
hands came forth roses exhaling the sweet scents of morning, and all
manner of odoriferous flowers. And for yet greater certainty she pointed
out to the king how the snow-white neck of Biancabella was encircled by
a fine chain of the most delicately wrought gold, which grew naturally
between the skin and the flesh, and shone out as through the clearest
crystal.
When the king perceived by these manifest and convincing signs that she
was indeed his own Biancabella, he began to weep for the joy he felt,
and to embrace her tenderly. But before he left that place he caused to
be heated hot a furnace, and into this he bade them cast the stepmother
and her two daughters. Thus their repentance for their crimes came too
late, and they made a miserable end to their lives. And after this the
three daughters of the old man were given honourably in marriage, and
the King Ferrandino with Biancabella and Samaritana lived long and
happily, and when Ferrandino died his son succeeded to his kingdom.
During the telling of Lauretta’s story divers of the listeners were
several times moved to tears, and, when she had brought it to an end,
the Signora bade her follow the example of those who had gone before
her, and set forth her enigma. Therefore she, not waiting for any
further command, gave it in the following words:
A proud and cruel maid I spied,
As through the flowery meads she hied.
Behind her trailed a lengthy train,
Upreared her head in high disdain.
And swiftly on her way she took,
And sharp her touch, and eke her look.
What though her tongue moves all around,
She utters neither voice nor sound.
She is long, and thin, and wise,
He can tell her name who tries.
All the company listened attentively to the enigma which Lauretta gave
to them in her sportive way, and she, when she saw there was little
likelihood that anyone would find the solution thereof, spake thus:
“Dear ladies, so as not to keep you any longer in suspense, or to weary
yet more your minds, which must needs be somewhat harassed on account of
the pathetic story I have just told you, I will tell you the answer
straightway, if such be your pleasure. The damsel I described therein is
nothing else than the serpent which, when it goes through the flowery
meadows, keeps its head erect and its tail trailing on the ground behind
it, and frightens with its sharp eye everyone who may happen to behold
it.”
As soon as Lauretta had finished her speech everyone was much astonished
that the solution of the riddle had not been guessed by some one or
other. And when she had resumed her seat the Signora made a sign to
Alteria that she should tell them her fable, and she, having risen and
made obeisance to the Signora, began it forthwith.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
THE FOURTH FABLE.
=Fortunio, on account of an injury done to him by his supposed father
and mother, leaves them, and after much wandering, comes to a
wood, where he finds three animals, who do him good service.
Afterwards he goes to Polonia, where he gets to wife Doralice, the
king’s daughter, as a reward for his prowess.=
There is a saying, very frequent in the mouths of common people, that it
is not seemly to jest at affliction nor to make a mock at the truth;
forasmuch as he who keeps his eyes and ears open, and holds his tongue,
is not likely to injure his fellows, and may hope himself to live in
peace.
Once upon a time there lived in one of the remoter districts of Lombardy
a man called Bernio, who, although he was not over well endowed with the
gifts of fortune, was held to be in no way wanting with respect to good
qualities of head and heart. This man took to wife a worthy and amiable
woman named Alchia, who, though she chanced to be of low origin, was
nevertheless of good parts and exemplary conduct, and loved her husband
as dearly as any woman could. This married pair greatly desired to have
children, but such a gift of God was not granted to them, peradventure
for the reason that man often, in his ignorance, asks for those things
which would not be to his advantage. Now, forasmuch as this desire for
offspring still continued to possess them, and as fortune obstinately
refused to grant their prayer, they determined at last to adopt a child
whom they would nurture and treat in every way as if he were their own
legitimate son. So one morning early they betook themselves to a certain
spot where young children who had been cast off by their parents were
often left, and, having seen there one who appeared to them more seemly
and attractive than the rest, they took him home with them, and brought
him up with the utmost care and good governance. Now after a time it
came to pass (according to the good pleasure of Him who rules the
universe and tempers and modifies everything according to His will) that
Alchia became with child, and when her time of delivery was come, was
brought to bed with a boy who resembled his father exactly. On this
account both father and mother rejoiced exceedingly, and called their
son by the name of Valentino.
The infant was well nurtured, and grew up strong and healthy and
well-mannered; moreover, he loved so dearly his brother—to whom the name
of Fortunio had been given—that he was inclined almost to fret himself
to death whenever they chanced to be separated the one from the other.
But the genius of discord, the foe of everything that is good, becoming
aware of their warm and loving friendship, and being able no longer to
suffer their good understanding to continue, one day interposed between
them, and worked her evil will so effectively that before long the two
friends began to taste her bitter fruits. Wherefore as they were
sporting together one day (after the manner of boys) they grew somewhat
excited over their game, and Valentino, who could not bear that Fortunio
should get any advantage over him in their play, became inflamed with
violent anger, and more than once called his companion a bastard and the
son of a vile woman. Fortunio, when he heard these words, was much
astonished, and perturbed as well, and turning to Valentino, he said to
him, ‘And why am I a bastard?’ In reply, Valentino, muttering angrily
between his teeth, repeated what he had already said, and even more.
Whereupon Fortunio, greatly grieved and disturbed in mind, gave over
playing and went forthwith to his so-called mother, and asked her
whether he was in sooth the son of Bernio and herself. Alchia answered
that he was, and, having learned that Fortunio had been insulted by
Valentino, she rated the latter soundly, and declared that she would
give him heavy chastisement if he should repeat his offence. But the
words which Alchia had spoken roused fresh suspicion in Fortunio, and
made him wellnigh certain that he was not her legitimate son; indeed,
there often came upon him the desire to put her to the test, to see
whether she really was his mother or not, and thus discover the truth.
In the end he questioned and importuned her so closely that she
acknowledged he was not born of her, but that he had been adopted and
brought up in their house for the love of God and for the alleviation of
the misfortune which had been sent upon herself and her husband. These
words were as so many dagger-thrusts in the young man’s heart, piling up
one sorrow upon another, and at last his grief grew beyond endurance;
but, seeing that he could not bring himself to seek refuge from his
trouble by a violent death, he determined to depart from Bernio’s roof,
and, in wandering up and down the world, to seek a better fortune.
Alchia, when she perceived that Fortunio’s desire to quit the house grew
stronger every day, was greatly incensed against him, and, as she found
herself powerless to dissuade him from his purpose, she heaped all sorts
of curses upon him, praying that if ever he should venture upon the sea
he might be engulfed in the waves and swallowed up by the sirens, as
ships are often swallowed up by storms. Fortunio, driven on by a
headlong access of rage, took no heed of Alchia’s malediction, and,
without saying any further words of farewell, either to her or to
Bernio, departed, and took his way towards the east. He journeyed on,
passing by marshes, by valleys, by rocks, and all kinds of wild and
desert spots, and at last, one day between sext and none, he came upon a
thick and densely-tangled forest, in the midst of which, by strange
chance, he found a wolf and an eagle and an ant, who were engaged in a
long and sharp contention over the body of a stag which they had lately
captured, without being able to agree as to how the venison should be
divided amongst themselves. When Fortunio came upon the three animals
they were in the midst of their stubborn dispute, and not one was
disposed in any way to yield to the others; but after a while they
agreed that this young man, who had thus unexpectedly come amongst them,
should adjudicate the matter in question, and assign to each one of them
such part of the spoil as he might deem most fitting. Then, when they
had assented to these preliminaries, and had promised that they would be
satisfied with and observe the terms of any award he might make, even
though it might seem to be unjust, Fortunio readily undertook the task,
and after he had carefully considered the case, he divided the prey
amongst them in the following manner. To the wolf, as to a voracious
animal and one very handy with his sharp teeth, he gave, as the guerdon
of his toil in the chase, all the bones of the deer and all the lean
flesh. To the eagle, a rapacious fowl, but furnished with no teeth, he
gave the entrails, and all the fat lying round the lean parts and the
bones. To the provident and industrious ant, which had none of that
strength which nature had bestowed upon the wolf and the eagle, he gave
the soft brains as her share of reward for the labour she had undergone.
When the three animals understood the terms of this just and
carefully-considered decision, they were fully satisfied, and thanked
Fortunio as well as they could for the courtesy he had shown them.
Now these three animals held—and with justice—that, of all the vices,
ingratitude was the most reprehensible; so with one accord they insisted
that the young man should not depart until they should have fully
rewarded him for the great service he had done them. Wherefore the wolf,
speaking first, said: ‘My brother, I give you the power, if at any time
the desire should come upon you to be a wolf instead of a man, to become
one forthwith, merely by saying the words, “Would that I were a wolf!”
At the same time you will be able to return to your former shape
whenever you may desire.’ And in like manner both the eagle and the ant
endowed him with power to take upon him their form and similitude.
Then Fortunio, rejoicing greatly at the potent virtues thus given to
him, and rendering to all three of the animals the warmest gratitude for
their boon, took his leave and wandered far abroad, until at last he
came to Polonia, a populous city of great renown, which was at that time
under the rule of Odescalco, a powerful and valorous sovereign, who had
but one child, a daughter called Doralice. Now the king was ambitious to
find a noble mate for this princess, and it chanced that, at the time
when Fortunio arrived in Polonia, he had proclaimed throughout his
kingdom that a grand tournament should be held in the city, and that the
Princess Doralice should be given in marriage to the man who should be
the victor in the jousts. And already many dukes and marquises and other
powerful nobles had come together from all parts to contend for this
noble prize, and on the first day of the tournament, which had already
passed, the honours of the tilting were borne off by a foul Saracen of
hideous aspect and ungainly form, and with a face as black as pitch. The
king’s daughter, when she viewed the deformed and unseemly figure of the
conqueror of the day, was overwhelmed with grief that fate should have
awarded to such a one the victory in the joust, and, burying her face,
which was crimson with shame, in her tender delicate hands, she wept and
lamented sore, execrating her cruel and malignant destiny, and begging
that death might take her rather than that she should become the wife of
this misshapen barbarian. Fortunio, when he entered the city gate, noted
the festal array on all sides and the great concourse of people about
the streets, and when he learned the cause of all this magnificent
display he was straightway possessed with an ardent desire to prove his
valour by contending in the tournament, but when he came to consider
that he was lacking in all the apparel needful in such honourable
contests, his heart fell and heavy sorrow came over him. While he was in
this doleful mood it chanced that his steps led him past the palace of
the king, and raising his eyes from the ground he espied Doralice, the
daughter of the king, who was leaning out of one of the windows of her
apartment. She was surrounded by a group of lovely and highborn dames
and maidens, but she shone out amongst them all on account of her
beauty, as the radiant glorious sun shines out amidst the lesser lights
of heaven.
By-and-by, when the dark night had fallen, and all the ladies of the
court had retired to their apartments, Doralice, restless and sad at
heart, betook herself alone to a small and exquisitely ornamented
chamber and gazed once more out into the night, and there below, as luck
would have it, was Fortunio. When the youth saw her standing solitary at
the open window, he was so overcome by the charms of her beauty that he
forthwith whispered to himself in an amorous sigh: ‘Ah! wherefore am I
not an eagle?’ Scarcely had these words issued from his lips when he
found himself transformed into an eagle, whereupon he flew at once into
the window of the chamber, and, having willed to become a man again, was
restored to his own shape. He went forward with a light and joyful air
to greet the princess, but she, as soon as she saw him, was filled with
terror and began to cry out in a loud voice, just as if she were being
attacked and torn by savage dogs. The king, who happened to be in an
apartment not far distant from his daughter’s, heard her cries of alarm
and ran immediately to seek the cause thereof, and, having heard from
her that there was a young man in the room, he at once ordered it to be
searched in every part. But nothing of the sort was found, because
Fortunio had once more changed himself into an eagle and had flown out
of the window. Hardly, however, had the father gone back to his chamber
when the maiden began to cry aloud just the same as before, because,
forsooth, Fortunio had once more come into her presence.
But Fortunio, when he again heard the terrified cries of the maiden,
began to fear for his life, and straightway changed himself into an ant,
and crept into hiding beneath the blond tresses of the lovely damsel’s
hair. Odescalco, hearing the loud outcries of his daughter, ran to her
succour, but when he found nothing more this second time than he had
found before, he was greatly incensed against her, and threatened her
harshly that if she should cry out again and disturb him he would play
her some trick which would not please her, and thus he left her with
angry words, suspecting that what had caused her trouble was some vision
of one or other of the youths who for love of her had met their deaths
in the tournament. Fortunio listened attentively to what the king said
to his daughter, and, as soon as he had left the apartment, once more
put off the shape of an ant and stood revealed in his own form.
Doralice, who in the meanwhile had gone to bed, was so terror-stricken
when she saw him that she tried to spring from her couch and to give the
alarm, but she was not able to do this, because Fortunio placed one of
his hands on her lips, and thus spake: ‘Signora, fear not that I have
come here to despoil you of your honour, or to steal aught that belongs
to you. I am come rather to succour you to the best of my power, and to
proclaim myself your most humble servant. If you cry out, one or other
of two misfortunes will befall us, either your honour and fair name will
be tarnished, or you will be the cause of your death and of my own.
Therefore, dear lady of my heart, take care lest at the same time you
cast a stain upon your reputation and imperil the lives of us both.’
While Fortunio was thus speaking, Doralice was weeping bitterly, her
presence of mind being completely overthrown by this unexpected
declaration on his part, and the young man, when he perceived how
powerfully agitated she was, went on addressing her in words gentle and
persuasive enough to have melted the heart of a stone. At last,
conquered by his words and tender manner, she softened towards him, and
consented to let him make his peace with her. And after a little, when
she saw how handsome the youth was in face, and how strong and well knit
in body and limb, she fell a-thinking about the ugliness and deformity
of the Saracen, who, as the conqueror in the jousts, must before long be
the master of her person. While these thoughts were passing through her
mind the young man said to her: ‘Dear lady, if I had the fitting
equipment, how willingly would I enter the jousts to tilt on your
behalf, and my heart tells me that, were I to contend, I should surely
conquer.’ Whereupon the damsel in reply said: ‘If this, indeed, were to
come to pass, if you should prove victorious in the lists, I would give
myself to you alone.’ And when she saw what a well-disposed youth he
was, and how ardent in her cause, she brought forth a great quantity of
gems and a heavy purse of gold, and bade him take them. Fortunio
accepted them with his heart full of joy, and inquired of her what garb
she wished him to wear in the lists to-morrow. And she bade him array
himself in white satin, and in this matter he did as she commanded him.
On the following day Fortunio, encased in polished armour, over which he
wore a surcoat of white satin richly embroidered with the finest gold,
and studded with jewels most delicately carven, rode into the piazza
unknown to anybody there present. He was mounted on a powerful and fiery
charger, which was caparisoned and decked in the same colours as its
rider. The crowd, which had already come together to witness the grand
spectacle of the tournament, no sooner caught sight of the gallant
unknown champion, with lance in hand all ready for the fray, than every
person was lost in wonderment at so brave a sight, and each one, gazing
fixedly at Fortunio, and astonished at his grace, began to inquire of
his neighbour: ‘Ah! who can this knight be who rides so gallantly and
splendidly arrayed into the lists? Know you not what is his name?’ In
the meantime Fortunio, having entered the lists, called upon some rival
to advance, and for the first course the Saracen presented himself,
whereupon the two champions, keeping low the points of their trusty
lances, rushed one upon the other like two lions loosened from their
bonds, and so shrewd was the stroke dealt by Fortunio upon the head of
the Saracen, that the latter was driven right over the crupper of his
horse, and fell dead upon the bare earth, mangled and broken up as a
fragile glass is broken when it is thrown against a wall. And Fortunio
ran his course just as victoriously in encountering every other champion
who ventured to oppose him in the lists. The damsel, when she saw how
the fortune of the day was going, was greatly rejoiced, and kept her
eyes steadily fixed on Fortunio in deepest admiration, and, thanking God
in her heart for having thus graciously delivered her from the bondage
of the Saracen, prayed to Him that this brave youth might be the final
victor.
When the night had come they bade Doralice come to supper with the rest
of the court; but to this bidding she made demur, and commanded them
bring her certain rich viands and delicate wines to her chamber,
feigning that she had not yet any desire for food, but would eat,
perchance, later on if any appetite should come upon her. Then, having
locked herself in her chamber and opened the window thereof, she watched
with ardent desire for the coming of her lover, and when he had gained
admittance to the chamber by the same means as he had used the previous
day, they supped joyfully together. Then Fortunio demanded of her in
what fashion she would that he should array himself for the morrow, and
she made answer that he must bear a badge of green satin all embroidered
with the finest thread of silver and gold, and that his horse should be
caparisoned in like manner. On the following morning Fortunio appeared,
attired as Doralice had directed, and, having duly presented himself in
the piazza at the appointed time, he entered the lists and proved
himself again as valiant a champion as he had proved to be on the day
before. So great was the admiration of the people of his prowess, that
the shout went up with one voice that he had worthily won the gracious
princess for his bride.
On the evening of that day the princess, full of merriment and happiness
and joyous expectations, made the same pretext for absenting herself
from supper as she had made the day before, and, having locked the door
of her chamber, awaited there the coming of her lover, and supped
pleasantly with him. And when he asked her once more with what vestments
he should clothe himself on the following day, she answered that she
wished him to wear a surcoat of crimson satin, all worked and
embroidered with gold and pearls, and to see that the trappings of his
horse were made in the same fashion; adding that she herself would, on
the morrow, be clad in similar wise. ‘Lady,’ replied Fortunio, ‘if by
any chance I should tarry somewhat in making my entry into the lists, be
not astonished, for I shall not be late without good cause.’
When the morning of the third day had come, the spectators awaited the
issue of the momentous strife with the most earnest expectation, but, on
account of the inexhaustible valour of the gallant unknown champion,
there was no opponent found who dared to enter the lists against him,
and he himself for some hidden reason did not appear. After a time the
spectators began to grow impatient at his non-appearance, and injurious
words were dropped. Even Doralice herself was assailed by suspicions as
to his worth, although she had been warned by Fortunio himself that
probably his coming would be delayed; so, overcome by this hidden
trouble of hers—concerning which no one else knew anything—she wellnigh
swooned with grief. At last, when it was told to her that the unknown
knight was advancing into the piazza, her failing senses began to
revive. Fortunio was clad in a rich and sumptuous dress, and the
trappings of his horse were of the finest cloth of gold, all embroidered
with shining rubies and emeralds and sapphires and great pearls. When
the people saw these they affirmed that the price of them would be equal
to a great kingdom, and when Fortunio came into the piazza, every one
cried out in a loud voice: ‘Long live the unknown knight!’ and after
this they all applauded vigorously and clapped their hands. Then the
jousting began, and Fortunio once more carried himself so valiantly that
he bore to earth all those who dared to oppose him, and in the end was
hailed as the victor in the tournament. And when he had dismounted from
his noble horse, the chief magnates and the wealthy citizens of the town
bore him aloft on their shoulders, and to the sound of trumpets and all
other kinds of musical instruments, and with loud shouts which went up
to the heavens, they carried him into the presence of the king. When
they had taken off his helmet and his shining armour the king perceived
what a seemly graceful youth he was, and, having called his daughter
into his presence, he betrothed them forthwith, and celebrated the
nuptials with the greatest pomp, keeping open table at the court for the
space of a month.
After Fortunio had lived for a certain space of time in loving dalliance
with his fair wife, he was seized one day with the thought that he was
playing the part of an unworthy sluggard in thus passing the days in
indolence, merely counting the hours as they sped by, after the manner
of foolish folk, and of those who consider not the duties of a man.
Wherefore he made up his mind to go afield into certain regions, where
there might be found due scope and recognition for his valour and
enterprise; so, having got ready a galley and taken a large treasure
which his father-in-law had given him, he embarked after taking leave of
his wife and of King Odescalco. He sailed away, wafted on by gentle and
favourable breezes, until he came into the Atlantic Ocean, but before he
had gone more than ten miles thereon, there arose from the waves the
most beautiful Siren that ever was seen, and singing softly, she began
to swim towards the ship. Fortunio, who was reclining by the side of the
galley, bent his head low down over the water to listen to her song, and
straightway fell asleep, and, while he thus slept, the Siren drew him
gently from where he lay, and, bearing him in her arms, sank with him
headlong into the depths of the sea. The mariners, after having vainly
essayed to save him, broke out into loud lamentations over his sad fate,
and, weeping and mourning, they decked the galley with black ensigns of
grief, and returned to the unfortunate Odescalco to tell him of the
terrible mischance which had befallen them during their voyage. The king
and Doralice, when the sad news was brought to them, were overwhelmed
with the deepest grief—as indeed was everyone else in the city—and all
put on garments of mourning black.
Now at the time of Fortunio’s departure Doralice was with child, and
when the season of her delivery had come she gave birth to a beautiful
boy, who was delicately and carefully nurtured until he came to be two
years of age. At this time the sad and despairing Doralice, who had
always brooded over her unhappy fate in losing the company of her
beloved husband, began to abandon all hope of ever seeing him again; so
she, like a brave and great-souled woman, resolved to put her fortune to
the test and go to seek for him upon the deep, even though the king her
father should not consent to let her depart. So she caused to be set in
order for her voyage an armed galley, well fitted for such a purpose,
and she took with her three apples, each one a masterpiece of
handicraft, of which one was fashioned out of golden bronze, another of
silver, and the last of the finest gold. Then, having taken leave of her
father the king, she embarked with her child on board the galley, and
sailed away before a prosperous wind into the open sea.
After the sad and woe-stricken lady had sailed a certain time over the
calm sea, she bade the sailors steer the ship forthwith towards the spot
where her husband had been carried off by the Siren, and this command
they immediately obeyed. And when the vessel had been brought to the
aforesaid spot, the child began to cry fretfully, and would in no wise
be pacified by his mother’s endearments; so she gave him the apple which
was made of golden bronze to appease him. While the child was thus
sporting with the apple, he was espied by the Siren, who, having come
near to the galley and lifted her head a little space out of the foaming
waves, thus spake to Doralice: ‘Lady, give me that apple, for I desire
greatly to have it.’ But the princess answered her that this thing could
not be done, inasmuch as the apple was her child’s plaything. ‘If you
will consent to give it to me,’ the Siren went on, ‘I will show you the
husband you have lost as far as his breast.’ Doralice, when she heard
these words, at once took the apple from the child and handed it
courteously to the Siren, for she longed above all things else to get
sight of her beloved husband. The Siren was faithful to her promise, and
after a little time brought Fortunio to the surface of the sea and
showed him as far as the breast to Doralice, as a reward for the gift of
the apple, and then plunged with him once more into the depths of the
ocean, and disappeared from sight.
Doralice, who had naturally feasted her eyes upon the form of her
husband what time he was above the water, only felt the desire to see
him once more grow stronger after he was gone under again, and, not
knowing what to do or to say, she sought comfort in the caresses of her
child, and when the little one began to cry once more, the mother gave
to it the silver apple to soothe its fancy. Again the Siren was on the
watch and espied the silver apple in the child’s hand, and having raised
her head above the waves, begged Doralice to give her the apple, but the
latter, shrugging her shoulders, said that the apple served to divert
the child, and could not be spared. Whereupon the Siren said: ‘If only
you will give me this apple, which is far more beautiful than the other,
I promise I will show you your husband as far as his knees.’ Poor
Doralice, who was now consumed with desire to see her beloved husband
again, put aside the satisfaction of the child’s fancy, and, having
taken away from him the silver apple, handed it eagerly to the Siren,
who, after she had once more brought Fortunio to the surface and
exhibited him to Doralice as far as his knees (according to her
promise), plunged again beneath the waves.
For a while the princess sat brooding in silent grief and suspense,
trying in vain to hit upon some plan by which she might rescue her
husband from his piteous fate, and at last she caught up her child in
her arms and tried to comfort herself with him and to still his weeping.
The child, mindful of the fair apple he had been playing with, continued
to cry; so the mother, to appease him, gave him at last the apple of
fine gold. When the covetous Siren, who was still watching the galley,
saw this apple, and perceived that it was much fairer than either of the
others, she at once demanded it as a gift from Doralice, and she begged
so long and persistently, and at last made a promise to the princess
that, in return for the gift of this apple, she would bring Fortunio
once more into the light, and show him from head to foot; so Doralice
took the apple from the boy, in spite of his chiding, and gave it to the
Siren. Whereupon the latter, in order to carry out her promise, came
quite close to the galley, bearing Fortunio upon her back, and having
raised herself somewhat above the surface of the water, showed the
person of Fortunio from head to foot. Now, as soon as Fortunio felt that
he was quite clear of the water, and resting free upon the back of the
Siren, he was filled with great joy in his heart, and, without
hesitating for a moment, he cried out, ‘Ah! would that I were an eagle,’
and scarcely had he ceased speaking when he was forthwith transformed
into an eagle, and, having poised himself for flight, he flew high above
the sail yards of the galley, from whence—all the shipmen looking on the
while in wonder—he descended into the ship and returned to his proper
shape, and kissed and embraced his wife and his child and all the
sailors on the galley.
Then, all of them rejoicing at the rescue of Fortunio, they sailed back
to King Odescalco’s kingdom, and as soon as they entered the port they
began to play upon the trumpets and tabors and drums and all the other
musical instruments they had with them, so that the king, when he heard
the sound of these, was much astonished, and in the greatest suspense
waited to learn what might be the meaning thereof. And before very long
time had elapsed the herald came before him, and announced to the king
how his dear daughter, having rescued her husband from the Siren, had
come back. When they were disembarked from the galley, they all repaired
to the royal palace, where their return was celebrated by sumptuous
banquets and rejoicings. But after some days had passed, Fortunio betook
himself for a while to his old home, and there, after having transformed
himself into a wolf, he devoured Alchia, his adoptive mother, and
Valentino her son, in revenge for the injuries they had worked him.
Then, after he had returned to his rightful shape, he mounted his horse
and rode back to his father-in-law’s kingdom, where, with Doralice his
dear wife, he lived in peace for many years to the great delight of both
of them.
As soon as Alteria had brought to an end her long and interesting story
the Signora bade her at once to set forth her enigma, and she, smiling
pleasantly, obeyed the command.
Far from this our land doth dwell
One who by turns is fair or fell;
Springing from a twofold root,
One part woman, one part brute.
Now like beauty’s fairest jewel,
Now a monster fierce and cruel.
Sweetest song on vocal breath,
To lead men down to shameful death.
Alteria’s most fitting and noteworthy enigma was answered in divers
fashion by the listeners, some giving one interpretation of it and some
another, but not one of them came upon its exact meaning. Therefore,
when the fair Alteria saw there was little chance of anyone finding the
true answer, she said: “Ladies and gentlemen, the real subject of my
enigma is the fascinating Siren who is fabled to dwell in the deep sea.
She is very fair to look upon, for her head and breast and body and arms
are those of a beautiful damsel, but all the rest of her form is scaly
like a fish, and in her nature she is cunning and cruel. She sings so
sweetly that the mariners, when they hear her song, are soothed to
slumber, and while they sleep she drowns them in the sea.” When the
listeners heard this clever and subtle solution given by Alteria, they
praised it warmly with one accord, declaring the while that it was most
ingenious. And she, smiling with pleasure and gratitude, rose from her
chair and thanked them for their kindness in thus lending their
attention to her story. As soon as she had taken her seat, the Signora
made a sign to Eritrea to follow in the due order with her story, and
she, blushing like a morning rose, began it in these words.
THE FIFTH FABLE.
Isotta, the wife of Lucaferro Albani of Bergamo, devises how she may
trick Travaglino the cowherd of her brother Emilliano and thereby
show him to be a liar, but she loses her husband’s farm and
returns home worsted in her attempt, and bringing with her a
bull’s head with gilded horns.
So great is the strength of truth, our infallible guide, that, according
to the testimony of Holy Writ, it would be easier for heaven and earth
to pass away than for truth to fail. And so far-reaching a charter has
truth, as is written by all the wise men of the world, that she is ever
the victor of time, and time never victor over her. Like as oil, if it
be poured in a vessel together with water, will always rise to the top,
so will truth always assert herself over falsehood. Wherefore on this
account let no one be amazed over this prologue of mine, seeing that I
have set it down, moved thereto by the malignity of a wicked woman, who,
deeming that she might, by the means of her false allurements, lead on a
young fellow to tell a lie, only induced him to speak the plain truth to
her own confusion, the which, wicked woman as she was, she well merited.
All this I propose to set before you in this story of mine, which I
hope, both as to time and place, will prove more profitable than hurtful
to all of you.
I will first tell my worthy hearers that in Bergamo, an ancient city of
Lombardy, there lived not a great time ago a man of wealth and standing
whose name was Pietromaria di Albani. To this man were born two sons, of
whom one was called Emilliano, and the other Lucaferro. He possessed
also two farms in a township not far removed, one of them known by the
name of Ghorem, and the other by that of Pedrench. The two brothers,
that is to say, Emilliano and Lucaferro, divided the farms between them
by lot after the death of Pietromaria their father, and Pedrench fell to
the share of Emilliano, and Ghorem to Lucaferro. Now Emilliano owned a
very fine flock of sheep, and a herd of lusty young bullocks, and
likewise a second herd of productive cows, and over the whole of these
cattle one Travaglino had charge as herdsman, a man of the most approved
truth and loyalty, who, however dear he held his life, would not have
told a lie to save it, and who, moreover, as a herdsman had not his
equal in all the world. With his herd of cows Travaglino kept several
very fine bulls, amongst which there was one especially beautiful in
appearance, and so great a favourite was this bull with Emilliano that
he caused its horns to be gilded over with the finest gold. And as often
as Travaglino might go to Bergamo after his affairs, Emilliano would
never fail to question him as to the welfare of his favourite bull with
the gilded horns.
It happened one day that while Emilliano was entertaining and holding
converse with his brother Lucaferro and with divers other of his
friends, Travaglino came anigh the company and made a sign to Emilliano
his master that he wanted to speak with him. Whereupon the latter
forthwith withdrew from the presence of his brother and his friends,
and, having gone apart with Travaglino, held him there some long time in
conversation. And after this it would happen full often that Emilliano
would do the like, and leave his friends and family who might be about
him, and betake himself aside to confer with his herdsman; so that at
last Lucaferro, his brother, lost patience at such doings, and could
endure them no longer. On one occasion, therefore, hot with wrath and
indignation, he spake to Emilliano in these words: ‘Emilliano, I am
astonished beyond measure at your behaviour, that you make more account
of this rascally cowherd of yours than you make of your own brother and
of your many trusted friends; because, forsooth, not once, but a
thousand times, if I may so express myself, you have gone away from us
when we were together in the piazza, or over our games, as if we had
been so many beasts only fit to be driven to the shambles, to go and
foregather with this lubberly ruffian of a Travaglino, your hireling,
and to have long converse with him, making believe that the affairs you
had to discuss with him were of the highest importance, while in fact
nothing you talked about mattered a single straw.’ To this Emilliano
made answer: ‘Lucaferro, my good brother, there is surely no need for
you to fly into so hot a passion with me, while you heap all these
injurious words upon poor Travaglino, who, after all, is a very worthy
young fellow, and one on whom I set great store, both on account of his
efficiency in his calling and for his staunch loyalty towards myself;
moreover, he has yet another and special good quality, inasmuch as he
would not, to gain all the wealth there is in the world, speak a word
which was not the truth. And furthermore he has many other excellent
traits on account of which I hold him in high esteem; therefore there is
no reason why you should be astonished at my fondness for him, or that I
should treat him kindly.’
This answer given by Emilliano only served to stir yet deeper his
brother’s bile, and they straightway began to bandy angry words from one
to the other, so that they narrowly escaped coming to blows. In the end
Lucaferro, on account of the high commendation pronounced by Emilliano
over Travaglino’s good qualities—the which is written above—thus spake:
‘You speak loud enough to-day of the efficiency, and the good faith, and
the truthfulness of this cowherd of yours, but I tell you that he is the
most bungling, the most disloyal loon in the world, as well as the
biggest liar that nature ever made. And moreover I will pledge myself to
bring all this to your notice, and to let you hear him tell a falsehood
before your very face.’ After they had spent much time in wrangling,
they ended by wagering their respective farms over the question,
settling the affair in this fashion, namely, that if Travaglino should
be proved to be a liar, the farm of Emilliano should pass to Lucaferro;
but if, on the other hand, he should be found truthful, Emilliano should
become the owner of Lucaferro’s. And over this matter, having called in
a notary, they caused to be drawn up a legal instrument ratified by all
the forms which are required in such cases.
After the brothers had parted one from the other, and after their wrath
and indignation had gone down somewhat, Lucaferro began to be sore
repentant of the wager he had made, and of the legal instrument he had
requested to be enacted under the seal of the notary. Wherefore he found
himself mightily troubled over the affair, and haunted by the fear lest
at the end of it he might find himself deprived of his farm, out of
which alone he had to find sustenance for himself and for his family.
One day, when he was in his house, his wife, whose name was Isotta,
remarked that he was in a very melancholy mood, and, not knowing the
reason thereof, she said to him: ‘Heigho, my good husband! what can be
the matter with you that you are so dismal and woebegone?’ And Lucaferro
made answer to her: ‘Wife, hold your tongue, for goodness sake, and do
not heap any fresh trouble upon me in addition to what I am plagued with
already.’ Whereupon Isotta began to be very curious to know what this
trouble might be, and she plied her husband so skilfully with questions
that in the end he told her everything. Then she said to him, with her
face all radiant with joy and satisfaction: ‘And is it really on account
of this apprehension that you have got into such a taking of fear and
agitation? Keep up a good heart, for you will see that I have wit enough
in me to make this lout Travaglino tell to his master’s face, not one
lie, but a thousand.’ And Lucaferro, when he heard these words, was much
comforted.
Isotta, knowing perfectly well that the beautiful bull with the gilded
horns was an especial favourite of Emilliano, her brother-in-law,
determined, first of all, to lay out her lures in that direction. So,
having dressed herself after a fashion calculated to kindle a man’s
desire, and daintily painted her face, she took her way by herself out
of Bergamo and went to Pedrench, where was situated the farm of
Emilliano, and, having gone into the farmhouse, she found therein
Travaglino, who was busy making cheese and curds of butter-milk, and
greeted him, saying: ‘Travaglino, my good fellow, you see I am come to
pay you a visit, to take a draught of milk and to eat some of your fine
curds.’ ‘Indeed, I am very glad to see you, my mistress,’ Travaglino
replied, and, having made her sit down, he began to get ready the table,
and to place thereon his cheese of ewe’s milk and divers other good
cheer, to do the lady honour. And after a while the youth, seeing her
there all alone and very fair to look upon, was somewhat taken aback,
forasmuch as it was in no way her wont thus to visit him, and could
hardly persuade himself that she could be in truth Isotta, the wife of
his master’s brother. However, because he had often before seen her, he
did his best to please her and to pay her such honour as would have been
due to any lady, let her be whosoever she might.
After the meal was despatched and the table cleared, Isotta, observing
that Travaglino was about to go to his cheese-making and to strain his
whey, said to him: ‘Travaglino, my good fellow, I would fain lend you a
hand in making your cheese.’ And he answered her: ‘Yes, if it would
please you, signora.’ Then, without saying another word, she tucked up
her sleeves as far as her elbows, thus laying bare her fair, wanton,
well-rounded arms, which shone out as white as snow, and set to work
with a will to help Travaglino to make his cheese, letting him now and
again get a peep at her swelling bosom, where he might also see her
breasts, which seemed as round and firm as two fair globes. And, besides
this, she artfully brought her own rosy cheek mighty close to
Travaglino’s face, so that occasionally one touched the other. Now
Travaglino, notwithstanding that he was only a simple countryman and a
cowherd, was by no means wanting in wit, and, although he understood
well enough from the looks and the demeanour of the lady that she was
fired by lecherous passion, he did nothing more in the way of a return
than beguile her by ordinary speech and glances, making believe the
while to wot nothing of making love. But Isotta, who began to persuade
herself that the young man was all on fire with love for her, felt
herself straightway so mightily inflamed with amorous desire towards him
that she could with difficulty hold herself within bounds. Although
Travaglino perceived well enough what was the drift of the lady’s
lascivious wishes, he did not dare to say a word to her thereanent,
fearing lest he might unduly trouble her and perhaps give offence.
Wherefore the lovesick dame, by way of making an end of Travaglino’s
bashful dallying, said to him: ‘Travaglino, what is the reason that you
stand there so mum and thoughtful, and do not venture to say a word to
me? Peradventure there has come into your head the wish to ask some
favour of me. Take good care and do not keep your desire a secret,
whatever it may be, since by so doing you will work an injury to
yourself, and not me, seeing that I am completely at your pleasure and
wish.’ Travaglino, when he heard these words, put on a more sprightly
manner and made a pretence of being greatly wishful to enjoy her. The
besotted dame, when she saw that the young man at last gave signs of
being moved to amorous intent, determined that the time had come to set
about the business on which she was bent, so she spake to him thus:
‘Travaglino, I am going to ask you to do me a great favour, and, if you
should be churlish enough to refuse to grant it, I tell you plainly that
it will look as if you held very light the love I bear you; moreover,
your refusal will perchance be the cause of my ruin, or even of my
death.’
[Illustration: Isotta and Travaglino]
To this speech Travaglino answered: ‘Signora, for the love I have for
you I am ready to devote my life and all I possess in the world to your
service, and if it should chance that you demand of me to carry out some
enterprise of great difficulty, nevertheless, on account of my own love
and of the love which you have shown for me, I will easily accomplish
it.’ Then Isotta, taking courage from these words of Travaglino, said:
‘If indeed you are my friend, as I well believe you to be, I shall know
full soon.’ ‘Lay what command on me you will, signora,’ replied
Travaglino, ‘and you will see clearly enough whether I am your friend or
not.’ ‘All that I want of you,’ said Isotta, ‘is the head of that bull
of yours which has his horns gilded. Give me this, and you may do with
me what you please.’ Travaglino, when he heard this request, was
wellnigh overcome with amazement; but, inflamed by the pricks of fleshly
desire, and by the allurements of the lustful woman before him, he made
answer to her: ‘Signora, can it be that this is all you want of me? You
shall have, not only the head of the bull, but the body as well; nay, I
will hand over my own self into your keeping.’ And after he had thus
spoken, Travaglino plucked up heart and folded the lady in his arms, and
they together took part in the sweetest delights of love. When this was
done, Travaglino cut off the bull’s head, and, having put it in a sack,
handed it over to Isotta, who, well satisfied that she had accomplished
her purpose and got much pleasure and delight besides, made her way back
to her house, bearing with her more horns than farms in her sack.
Now Travaglino, as soon as the lady had taken her departure, began to
feel somewhat troubled in mind and to cast about for some excuse which
he might bring forward to his master when he should be called upon to
account for the death of the bull with the gilded horns, which was so
greatly beloved by Emilliano. While the wretched Travaglino was held by
these torments of his mind, knowing neither what to say or to do, it
came into his head at last to take a branch of one of the pruned trees
which grew about, and to dress this up with some of his own poor
garments, and to make believe that it was Emilliano. Then, standing
before this scarecrow, he proposed to make trial of what he should do
and say when he should be brought face to face with his master.
Wherefore, after he had set up the tree branch thus bedizened in a
chamber of the house with his own cap on its head and with certain of
his garments upon its back, Travaglino went out from the chamber for a
short space of time, and then came back and entered, saluting the branch
as he went in, and saying, ‘Good day, my master!’ and then, making
answer out of his own mouth, he replied, ‘I am glad to see you,
Travaglino. How do you find yourself, and how are things going on at the
farm? It is a long time since I have seen anything of you.’ ‘I am very
well,’ replied Travaglino, ‘but I have been so busy of late that I have
not been able to find time to come and see you.’ ‘How did you leave the
bull with the gilded horns?’ asked Emilliano, and then Travaglino made
as if he would answer: ‘Master, I have to tell you that your favourite
bull has been eaten of wolves while he was straying in the woods.’ ‘Then
where are his skin and his gilded horns?’ Emilliano inquired. And when
he had come to this point poor Travaglino could not hit upon any answer
he could possibly give; so, wellnigh overcome with grief, he left the
chamber. After a little he came in again and recommenced his discourse
by saying, ‘God keep us all, good master!’ ‘And you also, Travaglino,’
said Emilliano, ‘and how prosper things at the farm? how is the bull
with the gilded horns?’ ‘I am very well,’ said Travaglino, ‘but one day
lately the bull broke out of the yard, and having fallen a-fighting with
some of the other bulls, was so heavily mauled by them that he died of
his injuries straightway.’ ‘Then where are his skin and his gilded
horns?’ asked Emilliano. Whereupon Travaglino knew no better what answer
he should give to this question than before. Finally, having gone
through the same discourse several times, he had to give up the matter
in despair, through not being able to devise any reply which sounded at
all reasonable.
Now Isotta, as soon as she had returned to her house, said to her
husband: ‘What will that poor lout Travaglino do when he shall set about
excusing himself to Emilliano with regard to the death of that bull with
the gilded horns which was such a pet with his master? How will he clear
himself of such a trouble as this without telling a lie or two? See,
here is the head of the bull, which I have brought back with me to use
as a testimony against him when he shall begin with his false tales.’
But the dame said not a word to her husband as to how she had made for
his own benefit two fine horns, bigger than those of a hart royal.
Lucaferro, when he saw the bull’s head, was overjoyed and could hardly
contain himself for glee, making sure that he would now win his wager,
but the issue of the affair fell out in mighty different fashion, as you
will learn later on.
Travaglino, after he had essayed divers bouts of questions and answers
with his scarecrow man, discoursing just as if he were in conversation
with the master himself, and finding in the end that they none of them
would serve the end he had in view, made up his mind without further ado
to go and seek his master forthwith, no matter what might happen.
Wherefore, having set forth towards Bergamo, he presented himself before
his master, to whom he gave a hearty salute. Emilliano, after he had
greeted his herdsman in return, said to him, ‘And what business has been
taking up all your time and thoughts of late, Travaglino, that you have
let so many days pass without coming here or without letting us have any
news of you?’ Travaglino replied, ‘Master, the many jobs I have had in
hand have kept me fully occupied.’ Then said Emilliano, ‘And how goes on
my bull with the gilded horns?’
When he heard these words, poor Travaglino was overcome with the direst
confusion, and his face flushed with shame as red as a burning furnace,
and he was fain to find some excuse for his fault and to hide the truth.
But in the end the fear of saying aught which might sully his honour
stood him in good stead, and made him take heart of grace and tell his
master the whole story from beginning to end: how Isotta had beguiled
him, and how his dealings with her had ensued in the death of the bull.
Emilliano was amazed beyond measure as he listened to this story, which,
however great his fault might have been, at least proved Travaglino to
be a truthful fellow and one of good character. So in the end Emilliano
won the wager with regard to the farm, and Lucaferro gained nothing but
a pair of horns for his own head, while his good-for-nothing wife
Isotta, in trying to dupe another, was finely duped herself, and got
nothing but shame for her trouble.
When this instructive fable was finished, every one of the worthy
company of listeners was loud in blame of the dissolute Isotta, and
equally loud in commendation of Travaglino, holding up to ridicule the
silly loose-minded woman, who had in such vile manner given herself away
to a herdsman, of which ill-doing the real cause was her innate and
pestilential avarice. And seeing that Eritrea had not as yet propounded
her enigma, the Signora, glancing at her, made a sign that she must not
interrupt the procedure they had followed so far. Whereupon Eritrea,
without any farther delay, gave her enigma:
I saw one day in fine spring weather,
A head and a breech full close together.
Another breech I likewise found
Squatting at ease upon the ground.
And one, as strong as any mule,
Stood quiet, subject to the rule
Of two, who in the head shone bright,
And looked with pleasure on the sight.
Meantime the head pressed closer still,
And ten there were who worked with will,
With dexterous grasp, now up, now down.
No prettier sight in all the town.
Though the ladies made merry enough over the fable, they held the enigma
to be no less of a jest. And, because there was not one of them who
seemed likely to be able to solve it, Eritrea spake as follows: “My
enigma, ladies and gentlemen, is intended to describe one who sits down
under a cow and sets to work to milk her. And for the same reason he who
milks the cow must keep his head close to the cow’s breech, and the
milker, for his good convenience, sits with his breech on the ground.
She is very patient, and is kept in restraint by one, namely, he who
milks her, and is watched by two eyes, and is stroked by two hands and
the ten fingers, which draw from her the milk.” This very clever enigma
pleased them all mightily, as well as the interpretation thereof; but,
seeing that every star had now disappeared from the heaven, save only a
certain one which still shone in the whitening dawn, the Signora gave
order that every one of the company should depart whithersoever he
would, and take rest until the coming evening, commanding at the same
time that each one should duly appear again at the appointed place under
pain of her displeasure.
=The End of the Third Night=
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=Night the Fourth.=
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=The Fables and Enigmas of Messer Giovanni Francesco Straparola da
Caravaggio.=
=Night the Fourth.=
Already the golden-haired Apollo in his radiant chariot had sped away
from this hemisphere of ours, and, having sunk beyond the distant line
of sea, had betaken himself to the antipodes, and all those who had been
labouring in the fields, now weary with their hard toil, felt no desire
for aught save to repose quietly in their beds, when the worshipful and
highborn company assembled themselves joyfully once more in the
accustomed spot. And after the ladies and gentlemen had spent a short
time in mirthful converse, the Signora Lucretia, when silence had been
restored, bade them bring forth the golden vase. Then, having written
with her own hand the names of five of the ladies and cast them into the
vase, she called to the Signor Vangelista and directed him to draw out
of the vase the names one by one, in order that they might clearly know
to which of their companions the duty of story-telling on that same
night would be assigned. Then Signor Vangelista, rising from his seat
and breaking off the pleasant discourse he was holding with Lodovica,
went obediently towards the Signora, and, having sunk down upon his
knees reverently at her feet, he put his hand in the vase and drew out
first the name of Fiordiana, then that of Vicenza, then that of
Lodovica, next that of Isabella, and last the name of Lionora. But
before they made a beginning of their story-telling the Signora gave the
word to Molino and to the Trevisan that they should take their lutes and
sing a ballad. The two gentlemen did not wait for any further command,
but forthwith tuned their instruments and sang to a joyous strain the
following verse:
SONG.
There is a face which is my sun of love,
In whose kind warmth I breathe and move,
Or faint beneath its scorching ray;
And when it shines amongst the fairest fair,
My lady reigns beyond compare,
And all around her bend beneath her sway.
Happy, thrice happy, is that favoured one,
Who sees no face but hers alone,
And passion’s nectar eager sips,
Who listens to the music of her tongue,
More sweet than lay by seraphs sung,
In words that fall like jewels from her lips.
But happier still were I if she benign
Would place her lily hand in mine,
And mark me worthy such a prize to claim.
Dull clod of earth although I be,
Then should I full fruition see
Of every hope, and end of every aim.
The song was attentively listened to and warmly commended by every one
of the company. And when the Signora saw that it had come to an end she
directed Fiordiana, to whom had been assigned the first turn of
story-telling on this the fourth night, that she should begin hers
straightway, and follow the order which had been observed since the
beginning of their entertainment; and the damsel, who was no less eager
to speak than the rest of the company were to listen, thus began her
fable.
THE FIRST FABLE.
=Ricardo, King of Thebes, had four daughters, one of whom, having
become a wanderer and altered her name of Costanza to Costanzo,
arrived at the court of Cacco, King of Bettinia, who took her to
wife on account of the many worthy deeds wrought by her.=
I must first tell you, fair and gracious ladies, that the fable which
Eritrea told to us on the evening last past has brought me into so
bashful a mood that I feel but little in the humour to act the
story-teller to-night. Nevertheless, the sense of obedience I have for
every command of the Signora, and the respect I feel for the whole of
this honourable and gracious company, compels and encourages me to make
trial with a certain story which, though it assuredly will not be found
as pleasing as the one recently related by Eritrea, I will give you for
what it is worth. You shall hear how a certain damsel, endowed with a
noble soul and high courage, one who in the course of her noteworthy
adventures was far better served by fortune than by reason, held it
preferable to become a servant than to fall into a base manner of life;
how, after enduring servitude for some time, she became the wife of King
Cacco, and lived content with her reward. All this will be set forth to
you in the story I am about to tell you.
In Egypt is situated the great and splendid city of Thebes, a place
richly ornamented with noble buildings, public as well as private,
situated in a country rich in cornfields growing white for the sickle,
and favoured with fresh water in abundance; abounding, moreover, in all
those things which go to make up a glorious city. In times long past
this city was under the rule of a king called by name Ricardo, a man
profoundly wise, of great knowledge, and of the highest valour. Now this
monarch, desiring greatly to have an heir to his kingdom, took to wife
Valeriana, the daughter of Marliano, King of Scotland, a lady who was,
in truth, perfection itself, very fair to look upon, and exceedingly
gracious. Of her he begot three daughters, who were gentle in their
manners, full of grace, and fair as rosebuds in the morning. Of these
one was called Valentia, another Dorothea, and the third Spinella. In
the course of time it became manifest to Ricardo that Valeriana his wife
had come to that season of life when women commonly cease from
child-bearing, and that his three daughters were all of them ripe for
marriage, wherefore he determined forthwith to dispose of the three
princesses in honourable wedlock, and at the same time to divide his
kingdom into three parts, whereof he proposed to give one to each of his
daughters, only keeping for himself so much as he judged would suffice
for the entertainment of himself, and of his family, and of his court.
And all these plans he carried out as he had deliberated with himself,
so that the result of his project proved to be exactly what he had
wished it to be.
In due time the three maidens were given in marriage to three powerful
kings, one to the King of Scardona, another to the King of the Goths,
and the third to the King of Scythia; and to each one of them was
assigned, by way of dowry, a third part of their father’s kingdom,
Ricardo himself keeping back only a very small portion thereof to serve
to satisfy his vital needs. And thus the good king, with Valeriana, his
well-beloved wife, lived righteously in peace and comfort. But it
happened, after a few years had passed, that the queen, of whom the king
expected no further offspring, proved to be with child, and at the end
of her time was brought to bed with a very beautiful little girl, whom
the king welcomed with affection and caresses as warm as he had given to
the other three children. But the queen was not so well pleased with
this last infant, not, however, on account of any dislike for the child
herself, but because, seeing that the kingdom was now divided into three
parts and given away, she feared that there would be no chance of
furnishing this daughter with a dowry sufficient to win her a marriage
worthy of their state. She desired at the same time that the child
should receive the share due to a daughter of hers. But, having handed
over the child to the care of a very competent nurse, she gave strict
command to her to use the greatest care in her charge, to give the child
good instruction, and to train her in the gentle and praiseworthy
manners and carriage which become a fair and graceful maiden. The child,
to whom the name of Costanza was given, grew day by day more lovely and
her manners more engaging, nor could any subject from the most learned
masters be brought forward which she would not at once apprehend most
readily. By the time Costanza was twelve years of age she had already
learned to embroider, to sing, to dance, to play the lute, and to do
every one of those feats which are rightly held to mark a princess of
rank. But, not content with these graces, she gave herself also to the
study of polite letters, which proved to be to her so great a source of
pleasure and delight that she would spend over them not merely the day,
but the night as well, striving always to find out the exquisite
beauties of the books she studied. And over and above all these
excellencies she mastered completely the art of war in learning how to
gentle horses, and to handle arms, and to run in the lists as if she had
been a strong and well-trained man-at-arms and not a damsel. In
jousting, indeed, she was so skilled that she ofttimes came out of the
contest victorious, just as if she had been one of those valorous
knights who are held worthy of the highest honour. Wherefore, on account
of all these virtues, and on her own account as well, Costanza was
greatly loved by the king and the queen and by all those around them, so
that there seemed to be no limit to their affection.
When Costanza had come to a marriageable age, the king her father,
finding that he had now neither the state nor the gold required to
secure for her a match with some potent sovereign equal to her merits,
was greatly troubled thereanent, and often took counsel with the queen
concerning the matter; but the prudent Valeriana, in whose sight the
good qualities of their child appeared to be so many and so great that
no other lady in the land could in any way be put on a level with her,
was not disquieted at all, and consoled the king with gentle and loving
words, bidding him keep a light heart, and not to doubt at all but that
in the end some powerful sovereign, fired with love by the many virtues
of their daughter, would not disdain to take her to wife, even though
they might not be able to give her a dowry.
Before many months had passed the damsel was sought in marriage by
divers gallant gentlemen, amongst whom was Brunello, the son of the
Marquis of Vivien, whereupon the king and the queen called their
daughter to them into their chamber, and when they were all seated, the
king spake thus: ‘Costanza, my well-beloved child, the time is now come
when it is meet that you should be married, and we have found for you as
a husband a youth who ought to please your taste. He is no other than
the son of the Marquis of Vivien, our good friend and neighbour; his
name is Brunello, and he is a graceful seemly youth, the report of his
valorous deeds having spread already throughout the world. And moreover
he asks of us nought besides our own goodwill and your fair sweet self,
upon which I put a value exceeding that of all the pomp and treasure of
the world. You must know that, though you are the daughter of a king,
yet I cannot, on account of my poverty, find for you a more exalted
alliance. Wherefore you must be content with this establishment and
conform to our wishes.’ The damsel, who was very prudent and conscious
that she was sprung from high lineage, listened attentively to her
father’s words, and, without wasting any time over the matter, answered
him as follows: ‘Sacred majesty, there is no need that I should spend
many words in replying to your honourable proposal, but simply that I
should speak as the question between us demands. And first I desire to
testify to you my gratitude, the warmest I can express, for all the
affection and benevolence you exhibit towards me in seeking to provide
me with a husband without any request from me. Next—speaking with all
submission and reverence—I do not purpose to let myself fall below the
race of my ancestors, who from all time have been famous and
illustrious, nor do I wish to debase the crown you wear by taking for a
husband one who is our inferior. You, my beloved father, have begotten
four daughters, of whom you have married three in the most honourable
fashion to three mighty kings, giving with them great store of gold and
wide domains, but you wish to dispose of me, who have ever been obedient
to you and observant of your precepts, in an ignoble alliance. Wherefore
I tell you, to end my speech, that I will never take a husband unless I
can be mated, like my three sisters, to a king of a rank that is my
due.’ Shortly after this, Costanza, shedding many tears the while, took
leave of the king and queen, and, having mounted a gallant horse, set
forth from Thebes alone, and determined to follow whatever road fortune
might lay open to her feet.
While she was thus journeying at hazard she deemed it wise to change her
name, so in lieu of Costanza she called herself Costanzo, and donned a
man’s attire. She passed over many mountain ranges, and lakes, and
marshes, and saw many lands, and heard the tongues and took heed of the
ways and manners of certain races who live their lives after the fashion
of brutes rather than of men. At last, one day at the set of sun, she
arrived at a famed and celebrated city called Costanza, the capital of
all the country round, and at that time under the rule of Cacco, King of
Bettinia. And, having entered therein, she forthwith began to admire the
superb palaces, the straight roomy streets, the running water, the broad
rivers, and the clear, soft, trickling fountains. Then, when she had
come near to the piazza, she saw the spacious and lofty palace of the
king, adorned with columns of the finest marble and porphyry, and,
having raised her eyes somewhat, she saw the king, who was standing upon
a gallery which commanded a view of the whole piazza, and taking off her
cap from her head she made him a profound reverence. The king, when he
perceived the fair and graceful youth down below, had him called and
brought into his presence, and as soon as Costanzo stood before him he
demanded from what country he had come, and by what name he was called.
The youth, with a smiling face, gave answer that he had journeyed from
Thebes, driven thence by envious and deceitful fortune, and that
Costanzo was his name. He declared, moreover, that he desired greatly to
attach himself to the service of some gentleman of worth, pledging
himself to serve any such lord with all the faith and affection that
good service merited. The king, who meantime was mightily pleased with
the appearance of the youth, said to him: ‘Seeing that you bear the name
of this my city, it is my pleasure that you tarry here in my court with
no other duty laid upon you than to attend to my person.’ The youth, who
desired no better office than this, first rendered to the king his
gratitude, and then joyfully accepted service under him as lord,
offering at the same time to hold himself ready to discharge any duty
which might be assigned to him.
So Costanza, in the guise of a man, entered into the service of the
king, and served him so well and gracefully that every one who came near
him was astonished beyond measure at his talents. And it chanced that
the queen, when she had well observed and considered the graceful
bearing, the pleasant manners, and the discreet behaviour of Costanzo,
began to cast her eyes more diligently upon him, until at last, so hotly
did she grow inflamed with love of him, neither by day nor by night did
she turn her thoughts upon any other. And so soft and so loving were the
glances that she would continually dart towards him, that not only a
youth, but even the hardest rock, or the unyielding diamond even, might
well have been softened. Wherefore the queen, being thus consumed with
passion for Costanzo, yearned for nothing else than that she might some
day find occasion to foregather with him alone. And before long it came
to pass that chance gave her the opportunity of conversing with him, so
she straightway inquired of him whether it would be agreeable to him to
enter into her service, making it known to him likewise that by serving
her he would gain, over and above the guerdon which she would give him,
the approbation or even the reverence and respect of all the court.
Costanzo perceived clearly enough that these words which came out of the
queen’s mouth sprang from no goodwill of hers for his advancement, but
from amorous passion. Knowing moreover that, being a woman like herself,
he could in no way satisfy the hot unbridled lust which prompted them,
with unclouded face he humbly made answer to her in these words:
‘Signora, so strong is the obligation of service which binds me to my
lord your husband, that it seems to me I should be working him a base
injury were I to withdraw myself from my obedience to his will.
Therefore I pray you to hold me excused, and to pardon me that I am not
ready and willing at once to take service with you, and to accept, as
the reason of this my refusal of your gracious offer, my resolve to
serve my lord even unto death, provided that it pleases him to retain me
as his man.’ And, having taken leave of the queen, he withdrew from her
presence. The queen, who was well aware that men do not fell to earth a
hard oak-tree with a single stroke, many and many a time after this made
trial, with the deepest cunning and art, to entice the youth to take
service under her, but he, as constant and as strong as a lofty tower
beaten by the winds, was not to be moved. As soon as the queen became
conscious of this, the ardent burning love in her was turned to mortal
bitter hatred, so that she could no longer bear the sight of him. And,
having now grown anxious to work his destruction, she pondered day and
night how she might best set to work to clear him out of her path, but
she was in great dread of the king, for that he continued to hold the
youth in high favour.
In a certain district of the province of Bettinia there was to be found
a strange race of beings, in whom one half of the body, that is to say,
the upper part, was made after the fashion of a man, though they had
ears like those of animals, and horns as well. But in their lower parts
they had members resembling those of a rough shaggy goat, with a little
tail, twisted and curling, of the sort one sees upon a pig. These
creatures were called satyrs, and by their depredations they caused
great loss and damage to the villages and the farms and the people
living in the country thereabout. Wherefore the king desired greatly to
have one of these satyrs taken alive and delivered over into his
keeping, but there was found no one about the court with heart stout
enough to undertake this adventure and capture a satyr for the king. By
sending him on an errand of this sort the queen hoped to work Costanzo’s
destruction, but the issue of the matter was not at all what she
desired, for in this case, as in many others, the would-be deceiver, by
the workings of divine providence and supreme justice, was cast under
the feet of the one she purposed to beguile.
The treacherous queen, being well aware of the king’s longing, happened
to be one day in converse with him concerning divers matters, and, while
they were thus debating, she said to him: ‘My lord, have you never
considered that Costanzo, your faithful and devoted servant, is strong
and vigorous enough in body, and daring and courageous enough in soul,
to go and capture for you one of these satyrs, and to bring him back to
you alive, without calling on anyone else to aid him. If the matter
should fall out in this wise, as I believe it would, you might easily
make trial of it, and in the course of an hour attain the wish of your
heart, and Costanzo, as a brave and valiant knight, would enjoy the
honour of the deed, which would be accounted to him for glory for ever.’
This speech of the cunning queen pleased the king greatly, and he
straightway bade them summon Costanzo into his presence. When the youth
appeared the king thus addressed him: ‘Costanzo, if indeed you love me,
as you make show of doing, and as all people believe, you will now carry
out fully the wish I have in my heart, and you yourself shall possess
the glory of the fulfilling thereof. You are surely aware that what I
desire more than aught else in the world is to have a satyr alive in my
own keeping. Wherefore, seeing how strong and active you are, I reckon
there is no other man in all my kingdom so well fitted to work my will
in this affair as you; so, loving me as you do, you will not refuse to
carry out my will.’ The youth, who suspected not that this demand sprang
from aught else than the king’s desire, was anxious to give no cause of
vexation to the king, and with a cheerful and amiable face thus made
answer: ‘My lord, in this and in everything else you may command me.
However weak and imperfect my faculties may be, I will on no account
draw back from striving to fulfil your wishes, even though in the task I
should meet with my death. But, before I commit myself to this perilous
adventure, I beg you, my lord, that you will cause to be taken into the
wood where the satyrs abide a large vessel with a wide mouth of the same
size as those which the servants use in dressing smooth the shifts and
other kinds of body linen. And besides this I would have taken thither a
large cask of good white wine, the best that can be had and the
strongest, together with two bags full of the finest white bread.’ The
king forthwith bade them get in readiness everything which Costanzo had
described, and Costanzo then journeyed towards the wood in question.
Having arrived there he took a copper bucket and began to fill it with
white wine drawn from the cask, and this he poured into the other vessel
which stood near by. Next he took some of the bread, and, having broken
it in pieces, he put these into the vessel full of wine. This being done
he climbed up into a thick-leaved tree which stood hard by, and waited
to see what might happen next.
Costanzo had not been long up in the tree before the satyrs, who had
smelt the odour of the fragrant wine, began to draw near to the vessel,
and having come close to it, each one swilled therefrom a good bellyful
of wine, greedy as the hungry wolves when they fall upon a fold of young
lambs. And after they had filled their stomachs and had taken enough,
they lay down to sleep, and so sound and deep was their slumber that all
the noise in the world would not have roused them. Then Costanzo, seeing
that the time for action had come, descended from the tree and went
softly up to one of the satyrs, whose hands and feet he bound fast with
a cord he had brought with him. Next, without making any noise, he laid
him upon his horse and carried him off. And while Costanzo was on his
way back, with the satyr tightly bound behind him, they came at the
vesper hour to a village not far from the city, and the creature, who by
this time had recovered from the effects of the wine, woke up and began
to yawn as if he were rising from his bed. Looking around him he
perceived the father of a family, who with a crowd around him was going
to bury a dead child, weeping bitterly the while, and the priest, who
conduced the service, was singing. When he looked upon this spectacle
the satyr began to laugh mightily. Afterwards, when they had entered the
city and were come to the piazza, the satyr beheld a great crowd of
people who were staring open-mouthed at a poor lad who had just mounted
the gallows to be hanged by the executioner, and the satyr laughed
thereat even louder than he had laughed before. And afterwards, when
they were come to the palace, a great joy seized upon the people
standing by, and they all cried out ‘Costanzo! Costanzo!’ And the satyr,
when he heard this shouting, laughed louder than ever.
When Costanzo was conduced into the presence of the king and of the
queen and her ladies, he presented to the king the satyr, who thereupon
laughed again, and so loud and long was his laughter that all those that
were there present were not a little astonished. After this the king,
seeing with what diligence Costanzo had fulfilled his dearest wish, held
him in as high affection and esteem as ever lord extended to servant,
but this humour of his only added fresh griefs to the load which already
lay upon the queen’s heart; for that, having schemed to ruin Costanzo,
she had done nothing but exalt him to yet greater honour. Wherefore the
wicked queen, not being able to endure the sight of such great
prosperity as had come to Costanzo, devised yet another snare for him,
which was this. She knew that the king was wont to go every morning to
the cell where the satyr was kept in hold, and for his diversion would
essay to make the creature talk, but as yet he had in no wise succeeded
in his efforts. Wherefore, having sought out the king, she said to him:
‘Sire, you have betaken yourself over and over again to the satyr’s
cell, and you have wearied yourself in your endeavours to induce him to
talk with you in order that you might take diversion therefrom, but the
creature still shows no sign of speaking a word. Why, therefore, should
you further worry your brains over this affair, for you may take it for
certain that, if Costanzo were only willing, he could easily make the
satyr converse and answer questions.’
The king, when he listened to these words, straightway bade them summon
Costanzo into his presence, and when he came the king thus addressed
him: ‘Costanzo, I am well assured that you know how great is the
pleasure I get from the satyr you captured for me; nevertheless it irks
me greatly to find that he is dumb, and will never make any answer to
the words I say to him and the questions I put. If you would only do all
that you might, I am sure that you would be able to make him speak.’
‘Sire,’ Costanzo replied, ‘that the satyr is dumb is no fault of mine;
it is not the office of a mortal, like me, to make him speak, but of a
god. But if the reason of his muteness comes not from any natural or
accidental defect, but from stubborn resolve to keep silence, I will do
all that lies in my power to make him open his mouth in speech.’ Then,
having gone together to the satyr’s prison, they gave him some dainty
food, and some wine still better, and called out to him, ‘Eat,
Chiappino’ (for this was the name they had given to the satyr). But the
creature only stared at them without uttering a word. Then they went on:
‘Come, Chiappino, tell us whether that capon and that wine are to your
taste;’ but still he was silent. Costanzo, perceiving how obstinate the
humour of the creature was, said, ‘So you will not answer me, Chiappino.
Let me tell you you are doing a very foolish thing, seeing that I can if
I will let you die of hunger here in prison.’ And at these words the
satyr shot a side-glance at Costanzo. After a little Costanzo went on:
‘Answer me, Chiappino; for if you speak to me (as I hope you will) I
will liberate you from this place.’ Then Chiappino, who had listened
with eagerness to all that had been said, answered, as soon as he heard
speak of liberation, ‘What will you of me?’ Costanzo then said, ‘Tell
me, have you eaten and drunk well?’ ‘Yes,’ said Chiappino. ‘Now I want
you, of your courtesy, to tell me,’ said Costanzo, ‘what thing it was
that moved you to laughter in the village street when we met with the
body of the child on its way to be buried?’ To this Chiappino answered,
‘I laughed, indeed, not at the dead child, but at the so-called father,
to whom the child in the coffin was in fact no kin at all, and I laughed
at the priest singing the office, who was the real father,’ by which
speech the satyr would have them understand that the mother of the child
had carried on an intrigue with the priest. Then said Costanzo, ‘And now
I want to know, my Chiappino, what it was that made you laugh yet louder
when we were come into the piazza?’ ‘I laughed then,’ replied Chiappino,
‘to see a thousand or more thieves, who had robbed the public purse of
crowns by the million, who deserved a thousand gibbets, standing in the
piazza to feast their eyes on the sight of a poor wretch led to the
gallows, who, perchance, had merely pilfered ten florins wherewith to
buy bread for himself and his poor children. That was why I laughed.’
Then said Costanzo, ‘And besides this, I beg you to tell me how it was
that, when we were come into the palace, you laughed longer and louder
than ever?’ ‘Ah, I beg you will not trouble me more at present,’ said
Chiappino, ‘but go your way and come back to-morrow, and then I will
answer you and tell you certain things of which perchance you have no
inkling.’ When Costanzo heard this, he said to the king, ‘Let us depart
and come back to-morrow, and hear what this thing may be.’ Whereupon the
king and Costanzo took their leave, and gave orders that Chiappino
should be given to eat and drink of the best, and that he should be
allowed to chatter as he would.
When the next day had come they both went to see Chiappino, and they
found him puffing and blowing like a great pig, and, having gone close
to him, cried out to him several times in a loud voice. But Chiappino,
who had well filled his belly, answered nought. Then Costanzo gave him a
sharp prick with a dart which he had with him, whereupon the satyr awoke
and stood up and demanded who was there. ‘Now get up, Chiappino,’ said
Costanzo, ‘and tell us that thing which yesterday you promised we should
hear, and say why you laughed so loud when we came to the palace?’ To
which question Chiappino made this reply: ‘For a reason which you ought
to understand better than I. It was, forsooth, at hearing them all
shouting “Costanzo! Costanzo!” while all the time you are Costanza.’ The
king when he heard this could in no wise comprehend what this saying of
Chiappino’s might mean; but Costanzo, who immediately recognized its
import, in order to keep him from speaking more, at once stopped the way
for him[25] by saying: ‘And when you had been brought into the very
presence of the king and queen, what made you laugh then as if nothing
could stop you?’ To this Chiappino made answer: ‘I laughed then so
outrageously because the king, and you as well, believed that the
maidens who were in service on the queen were really maidens, whereas
the greater part of them were young men.’ And then he was silent.
When the king heard these words he knew not what to think, but he said
nothing; and, having left the wild satyr, he went out with Costanzo,
wishing to learn clearly what might be the meaning of what he had heard.
And after he had made due inquiry he found that Costanzo was in truth a
woman, and not a youth, and that the supposed damsels about the queen
were sprightly young men, as Chiappino had said. And straightway the
king bade them light a great fire in the middle of the piazza, and into
it, in the presence of all the people, he caused to be cast the queen
and all her paramours. And, bearing in mind the praiseworthy loyalty and
the open faithfulness of Costanza, and marking moreover her exceeding
beauty, the king made her his wife in the presence of all his barons and
knights. When he knew who her parents were, he greatly rejoiced, and
forthwith despatched ambassadors to King Ricardo and to Valeriana his
wife, and to the three sisters of Costanza, to tell them how she was now
the wife of a king; whereupon they all felt the joy due to such good
news. Thus the noble Costanza, in recompense for the faithful service
she rendered, became a queen and lived long with Cacco her husband.
When Fiordiana had brought her fable to an end, the Signora made a sign
to her to give her enigma. The damsel, who was somewhat haughty, rather
by chance than by nature, set it forth in the following words:
Over savage lions twain
A spirit soft and mild doth reign.
By her side four damsels move,
Prudence, Valour, Faith, and Love.
She bears a sword in her right hand;
Before it calm the righteous stand,
But wicked men and souls unjust
It smites and lays them in the dust.
Discord nor wrong with her may rest,
And he who loves her wins the best.
This clever enigma set forth by Fiordiana, who indeed was a damsel of
subtle mind, won the praise of all, and some found its meaning to be one
thing, and some another. But there was no one of all the company who
rightly divined it, seeing that all their solutions were far wide of the
true one. When Fiordiana saw this she said in a lively tone, “Ladies and
gentlemen, I see you are troubling yourselves in vain, seeing that my
enigma means nothing else than that infinite and equal justice which
like a gentle spirit rules and restrains both the hungry, savage lions,
and likewise the proud, unconquerable spirit of man. More than that,
justice makes steadfast her faith, holding in her right hand a sharp
sword, and accompanied always by four virgins, Prudence, Charity,
Fortitude, and Faith. She is gentle and kind to the good, and severe and
bitter to the perverse and bad.” When Fiordiana ceased speaking, the
listeners were greatly pleased with the interpretation of her enigma.
Then the Signora bade the gracious Vicenza to follow in her turn with a
fable, and she, eager to obey this command, spake as follows.
THE SECOND FABLE.
=Erminione Glaucio, an Athenian, takes to wife Filenia Centurione,
and, having become jealous of her, accuses her before the
tribunal, but by the help of Hippolito, her lover, she is
acquitted and Erminione punished.=
Of a truth, gracious ladies, there would be in all the world no
condition more sweet, more delightful, or more happy than the service of
love, were it not for that bitter fruit which springs from sudden
jealousy, the foe which drives away gentle Cupid, the betrayer of kindly
ladies, the foe who day and night tries to compass their death.
Wherefore there comes into my recollection a fable which ought to be
received by you with some satisfaction, seeing that from it you will be
able readily to understand the hard and piteous fate which befell a
gentleman of Athens, who, because of his impotent jealousy, sought the
taking off of his wife by the sword of justice, but was instead
condemned himself, and met his death thereby. Which judgment ought to
please you, because, if I am not greatly in error, you are yourselves
all of you more or less in love.
In Athens, the most ancient city of Greece, and one which was in times
past the veritable home and resort of all learning, though now, through
her flighty vanity, entirely ruined and overthrown, there resided once
upon a time a gentleman named Messer Erminione Glaucio, a man of much
consideration and repute in the city, rich in purse, but at the same
time of mean intelligence. Now it chanced that when he was an old man,
finding himself without progeny, he made up his mind to marry, and took
to wife a damsel named Filenia, daughter of Messer Cesarino Centurione,
of noble descent and gifted with marvellous beauty and with good
qualities out of number. In short, there was in all the city no other
maiden who was her equal. And, forasmuch as he was greatly in fear lest
his wife, on account of her marvellous beauty, should be courted by
divers of the gallants of the city, and perhaps give occasion for some
disgraceful scandal, through which the finger of scorn might be pointed
at him, he resolved to restrain her in a certain lofty tower of his
palace, out of sight of all passers-by. And before long it happened that
the wretched old dotard, without knowing why, let his jealousy rise to
such a pitch that he mistrusted even himself.
There was residing in the city at this time a certain scholar of Crete,
young in years, but very discreet, and greatly loved and esteemed by all
who knew him on account of his amiability and grace. The name of this
youth was Hippolito, and before Filenia was married he had paid suit to
her, and, besides this, he was on intimate terms with Messer Erminione,
who held him as dear as if he had been his own son. At a certain time
during his scholar’s course he found himself somewhat disinclined for
study; so, desiring to recruit his spirits, he took his departure from
Athens, and having gone into Crete, he sojourned there for a time, to
discover on his return that Filenia was married. On this account he fell
into an access of melancholy, and he grieved the more because he was now
deprived of all hope of seeing her at his pleasure, nor could he endure
to remember that a maiden so lovely and graceful should be bound in
marriage to a toothless, slobbering old man.
Wherefore the love-stricken Hippolito, finding himself no longer able to
endure the burning pricks and the sharp arrows of love, set himself to
find out some method, some hidden way by which he might enjoy the
fulfilment of his desires. And after he had well considered the many
schemes which presented themselves to him, he fixed at last upon a
certain one which appeared to him the most fitting. To put this in
execution he first betook himself to the shop of a carpenter, his
neighbour, where he ordered to be made two chests of the same length and
breadth and width, and of the same measure and quality, so that no one
would be able to distinguish the one from the other. This done, he
repaired to Messer Erminione’s house, and, making pretence of wanting
something of him, spake in cunning wise the following words: ‘Messer
Erminione, you know well enough that I love and reverence you as if you
were my own father, and for my part if I were not well convinced of your
affection for myself, I would never dare, with such assurance as I now
use, to beg any favour of you; but, seeing that I have ever found you
well disposed to me, I am wellnigh certain that I shall now get from you
that service which my heart so greatly desires. It happens that I am
constrained to leave Athens and to go to the city of Frenna to expedite
some very important matters of business, and I must remain there until
such time as these shall be completed. And because I have no one about
me whom I can fully trust, seeing that I am served only by menials and
hirelings, of whom I am in no way well assured, I would fain that you
hold in charge for me—provided that it be your pleasure so to do—a
certain chest of mine full of articles of value which I happen to
possess.’ Messer Erminione, suspecting nought of the craft of the young
scholar, made answer to him that he was well content to grant this
favour, and that for greater security the chest should be deposited and
kept in the same chamber in which he slept. On hearing this reply the
scholar returned to Messer Erminione his thanks, the warmest he knew how
to render, promising the while to keep in mind the memory of this great
favour done to him as long as he should live. Then he begged the old man
to do him the honour to go with him as far as his own dwelling, in order
that he might exhibit to him the various articles which he had stored in
the chest. Wherefore the two, having gone together to the house of
Hippolito, the latter pointed out a chest filled with rich garments and
jewels and necklaces of no small value, and then, having summoned a
certain one of his servants and presented him to Messer Erminione, he
said: ‘If at any time, Messer Erminione, this my servant should be
seeing after the removal of my chest, you can trust him to the full as
if he were my own self.’ And when Messer Erminione had taken his
departure Hippolito hid himself in the other chest, which was exactly
like the one filled with garments and jewels, and having fastened it
from the inside, he bade his servant carry it to a certain place he knew
of. The servant, who was privy to the affair, obedient to his master’s
order called a porter, and having lifted the burden on the man’s back,
ordered him to bear it to the tower in which was situated the chamber
where Messer Erminione slept every night with his young wife.
Messer Erminione, being one of the chiefs of the city and a man of
wealth and influence, it fell to his lot, on account of the worshipful
state he filled, to go for a certain space of time to a place called
Porto Pireo, distant about twenty stadi from the city of Athens, and
there to compose certain suits and strifes which had arisen between the
townsmen and the peasants round about—albeit he found this errand but
little to his taste. Wherefore, when Messer Erminione had gone his way,
tormented as ever by the jealousy which day and night weighed upon him,
the youth, shut up in the chest which now stood in Madonna Filenia’s
bedroom, was waiting for the favourable moment. More than once had he
heard the fair dame weeping and sighing as she bemoaned her hard lot,
and the place and the hour which had seen her given in marriage to a
miserable old man who had proved to be the ruin of her life. And when it
seemed to him that she was in her first sleep, he got out of the chest,
and, having gone to the bedside, said in a soft voice: ‘Awake, my soul!
for I, your Hippolito, am here.’ And when she was fully aroused, and saw
him and knew who he was (for there was a candle burning in the chamber),
she was inclined to cry out; but the young man, putting his hand upon
her lips, would not allow this, and thus addressed her in a voice full
of agitation: ‘Be silent, heart of mine! do you not see that I am
Hippolito, your faithful lover? Of a truth I cannot live apart from
you.’ The fair young woman was somewhat comforted by these words, and by
the time she had found the opportunity for comparing the worth of her
old husband with the youthful Hippolito, she was by no means
ill-satisfied with the turn things had taken, and lay all night with her
lover, spending the time in loving conversation and railing at the
impotent ways of her doltish husband. Before they parted they agreed
together to meet again in like manner, and when the morning began to
dawn the youth got back into his chest, and every evening would issue
therefrom and spend the night with the lady.
Now, after a good many days had elapsed, Messer Erminione, giving the
business good speed both on account of the discomfort he himself
suffered and of the rabid jealousy which never ceased to torment him,
put an end to all the disputes he had been called upon to settle, and
went back to his home. The servant of Hippolito, as soon as he heard the
news of Messer Erminione’s return, went without losing time to his
house, and, according to the agreement which had been settled, demanded
of him in the name of his master Hippolito the return of the chest, and
this Messer Erminione gave up to him without a word of demur. Wherefore,
having summoned a porter, the servant caused the chest to be conveyed
home. Then Hippolito, having come out of his hiding-place, went
forthwith to the piazza, where he met with Messer Erminione, and after
he had embraced him, he thanked him most courteously in the warmest
terms he could find for the great kindness he had received, and at the
same time declared that he himself and all that he possessed should ever
be ready at Messer Erminione’s service.
It chanced that on a certain morning Messer Erminione remained in bed
with his wife somewhat later than was his wont, and, lifting up his
eyes, he remarked upon the wall and high above his head certain stains
which looked as if they had been caused by someone spitting thereon.
Wherefore his inveterate jealousy began once more to trouble him, and he
was mightily amazed at what he saw, and began to turn it over in his
mind in such wise that, after he had well considered the matter, he
could not bring himself to believe that the marks on the wall in
question were any work of his. Then, with strong apprehension as to
their meaning, he turned to his wife and with an angry troubled face
demanded of her: ‘What have you to say about those spit marks high up on
the wall there? I am well assured they were never made by me, for I
never spat up there in my life. I strongly suspect that you have
betrayed my honour.’ Filenia, laughing the while at this speech, thus
answered him: ‘Is there no other charge you would like to bring against
me?’ Messer Erminione, when he saw her begin to laugh, grew more
infuriated than ever, and said: ‘Ah, you laugh, do you, wicked woman
that you are? Now, tell me quickly what it is that makes you laugh.’ ‘I
am laughing,’ answered Filenia, ‘at your own foolishness.’ At these
words Messer Erminione began to chafe with rage,[26] and, being anxious
to make trial of his own powers and to see whether he could spit so
high, with much coughing and gasping he strained with all his might to
reach the mark on the wall by his spitting, but he wearied himself in
vain, for the spittle always fell down again and lighted upon his
visage, plastering him thickly with filth. And after the wretched old
man had made this trial many times, he found that he only got in worse
case every turn. So, by the light of this experience, he persuaded
himself that his wife had assuredly played him false, and, turning to
her, he began to assail her with the most rascally words that could be
applied to a guilty woman, and, if he had not been in fear of the law
and of his own neck, he would surely have slain her then and there with
his own hands, but he managed to restrain himself, deeming it better to
deal with her by legal process than to stain his hands in her blood. Not
satisfied with the rating he had already given her, he betook himself,
full of wrath and anger, to the tribunal, where he preferred before the
judge a charge of adultery against his wife. But, seeing that it lay not
within the power of the judge to pronounce condemnation upon her unless
the legal statutes should have been duly observed, he ordered Filenia to
be brought before him in order that he might narrowly examine her.
Now, there was in Athens a law, which was held in the highest reverence,
providing that any woman who might be charged by her husband with
adultery should be placed at the foot of a certain red column, round
which was entwined a serpent, and there make oath whether or not the
accusation of adultery brought against her were true. And after she had
taken the oath she was required forthwith to put her hand in the
serpent’s mouth, and then, if she should have sworn falsely, the serpent
would at once bite off her hand; otherwise, she received no injury.
Hippolito, who had already heard rumours of this charge before the
tribunal, and that the judge had sent to fetch Filenia to put her on her
defence, being a youth of resource at once took action to see that she
should not run into the snares of ignominious death. By way of rescuing
her from condemnation he first of all stripped off all his clothes and
donned in their stead some rags befitting a madman, and then, without
being seen by anyone, he left his own lodging and ran straight to the
tribunal as if he had been someone out of his mind, acting well the part
of a crazy man as he went along the streets.
Now it chanced that while the officers of the court were haling along
the poor lady towards the tribunal, all the people of the city gathered
themselves together to take note as to how the cause would end, and in
the midst of the crowd the pretended madman, forcing his way now here,
now there, worked himself so well to the front that he found opportunity
to cast his arms round the neck of the woeful lady, and to press a kiss
upon her lips, which caress she, seeing that her arms were bound behind
her back, could in no wise escape. When the young woman had been brought
into the presence of the tribunal the judge addressed her in these
words: ‘As you may see, Filenia, your husband Messer Erminione is here
to lay complaint against you that you have committed adultery, and
furthermore prays that I should deal out to you the due penalty
according to the statute; wherefore you must now make oath and say
whether or not the charge which your husband brings against you is
true.’ Then the young woman, who was very wary and keen of intellect,
swore with confidence that no man had ever touched her save her husband
and the madman who was now present before them all. Then, after she had
sworn, the underlings of the court led her to the place where was the
serpent, which, after Filenia’s hand had been placed in its mouth, did
her no harm whatever, inasmuch as what she had sworn was really the
truth, namely, that no man had ever given her caress of any sort except
her husband and the so-called madman.
[Illustration: The Trial of the Serpent]
When they perceived this, the crowd, and all her kinsfolk, who had come
thither to see the solemn and terrible sight, at once set her down as
innocent and wrongfully accused, and cried out that Messer Erminione
deserved the same death which was the penalty of the crime imputed to
his wife. But, for the reason that he was a noble, a man of high
lineage, and one of the chiefs of the city, the president would not
permit him to be publicly burned (for so much power the law gave him),
but, in order that he might duly discharge his office, he sentenced
Erminione to be thrown into prison, where, after a short space of time,
he expired. This is the wretched end which Messer Erminione put to his
senseless jealousy, and by these means the young wife was delivered from
an ignominious death. Before great length of time had passed Hippolito
made her his lawful wife, and they lived many years happily together.
When the story told by the discreet and modest Vicenza had come to an
end—a story which pleased all the ladies mightily—the Signora bade her
to propound her enigma in due course, and she, raising her pretty
smiling face, instead of one of her songs gave the following riddle:
When hope and love and strong desire
Are born to set the world on fire,
That self-same hour a beast is born,
All savage, meagre, and forlorn.
Sometimes, with seeming soft and kind,
Like ivy round an elm-tree twined,
It clips us close with bine and leaf,
But feeds on heartache, woe, and grief.
Ever in mourning garb it goes,
In anguish lives, in sorrow grows.
And worse than worst the fate of him
Who falls beneath its talons grim.
Here Vicenza brought her enigma to an end. The interpretations of its
meaning were diverse, and no one of the company was found clever enough
to fathom its true import. When Vicenza saw this, she sighed a little
impatiently, and then, with a smiling face, spake as follows: “The
enigma I have set you to guess means nothing else than chilling
jealousy, which, all lean and faded, is born at the same birth with love
itself, and winds itself round men and women as well, just as the
gently-creeping ivy embraces the trunk so dear to it. This jealousy
feeds on heartache, seeing that a jealous one always lives in anguish
and moves about in sombre garb on account of the continual melancholy
that torments him.” This explication of the enigma gave great pleasure
to all, and especially to Signora Chiara, whose husband had a temper
somewhat jealous. But, to let no one say to himself that Vicenza’s
enigma had been framed to fit his case, the Signora bade them at once
put a stop to their laughter, and signed to Lodovica, whose turn it was
to tell the next story, that she should forthwith begin, and the damsel
opened her fable in the following words.
THE THIRD FABLE.
=Ancilotto, King of Provino, takes to wife the daughter of a baker,
and has by her three children. These, after much persecution at
the hands of the king’s mother, are made known to their father
through the strange working of certain water, and of an apple, and
of a bird.=
I have always understood, lovesome and gracious ladies, that man is the
noblest and most capable of the living creatures fashioned by nature,
seeing that God made him in His own image and similitude, and willed
that he should rule and not be ruled. And on this account it is said
that man is the perfect animal, and of greater excellence than any of
the others, because all these, not even excepting woman, are subject to
him. Therefore, those who by deceit and cunning compass the death of so
noble a creature commit a foul crime. And there is no wonder if
sometimes those who work for the bane of others run heedlessly into
destruction themselves, as did four women I have to tell of, who, in
trying to destroy others, were themselves cut off and made a wretched
end. All this you will readily understand from the fable I purpose to
tell you.
In Provino, a very famous and royal city, there lived in ancient times
three sisters, fair of person, gracious in manners, and courteous in
bearing, but of base lineage, being the daughters of a certain Messer
Rigo, a baker who baked bread for other folk in his oven. Of these one
was named Brunora, another Lionella, and another Chiaretta. It happened
one day when the three sisters were in their garden, and there taking
much delight, that Ancilotto the king, who was going to enjoy the
diversion of hunting with a great company, passed that way. Brunora, the
eldest sister, when she looked upon the fair and noble assemblage, said
to her sisters Lionella and Chiaretta, ‘If I had for my husband the
king’s majordomo, I flatter myself that I would quench the thirst of all
the court with one glass of wine.’ ‘And I,’ said Lionella, ‘flatter
myself that, if the king’s private chamberlain were my husband, I would
pledge myself to make enough linen from a spindle of my yarn to provide
shifts of the strongest and finest make for all the court.’ Then said
Chiaretta, ‘And I, if I had the king himself for my husband, I flatter
myself that I would give him three children at one birth, two sons and a
daughter. And each of these should have long hair braided below the
shoulders, and intermingled with threads of the finest gold, and a
golden necklace round the throat, and a star on the forehead of each.’
Now it chanced that these sayings were overheard by one of the
courtiers, who hastened to the king and told him of the young girls’
discourse, and the king, when he heard the tenour thereof, at once
commanded that they should be brought before him, and this done, he
examined them one by one as to what they had said in the garden.
Whereupon each one, with the most respectful words, told the king what
she had spoken, and he was much pleased thereat. So then and there he
wedded Brunora to the majordomo and Lionella to the chamberlain, while
he himself took Chiaretta to wife. There was no hunting that day, for
the whole company returned to the city, where the marriages were
celebrated with the greatest pomp. But the mother of Ancilotto was
greatly wroth at his marriage, for however fair Chiaretta might be in
face and figure, and graceful in her person, and sweet and modest in her
conversation, the queen-mother held it to be a slight to the royal
dignity that her daughter-in-law should be of vile and common descent,
nor could she endure it that the majordomo and the chamberlain should be
brothers-in-law of the king her son. These things kindled so hotly the
rage of the queen-mother against Chiaretta that she could scarce endure
her presence; nevertheless she hid her wrath so as not to offend her
son. In due time (by the good pleasure of Him who rules over all),
Chiaretta became with child, to the great joy of the king, whose fancy
at once busied itself with the prospect of the lovely progeny he had
been promised.
Just at the time when Chiaretta was expecting to be brought to bed,
Ancilotto was forced to make a journey to a distant country and to abide
there some days, and he directed that, during his absence, his mother
should see to the welfare of the queen and of the children who, he
hoped, would soon be born. The queen-mother, though she hated her
daughter-in-law, let not the king see this, and assured him that she
would take the greatest care of them all, while he might be away, and
before the king had been gone many days (as Chiaretta when she was a
virgin had pledged) three lovely children, two boys and a girl, were
born. Likewise their hair was braided below their shoulders, and they
bore golden chains on their necks and golden stars on their foreheads.
The queen-mother, whose hatred against Chiaretta burned as malignantly
as ever, no sooner cast her eyes upon the innocent children than she
determined to have them put away privily, so that no one might know they
had even been, and that Chiaretta might be disgraced in the sight of the
king. And besides this, Brunora and Lionella had grown to regard their
sister with violent hate and jealousy since she had become their
sovereign, and lost no chance to aggravate, by all sorts of cunning
wiles, the spite of the queen-mother against Chiaretta.
On the very same day that the queen was delivered, it chanced that there
were born in the stable-yard three black mongrel pups, two dogs and a
bitch, which, by some strange freak, had white stars on their foreheads
and bore round their necks traces of a gorget. This coming to the
knowledge of the two sisters, they took the pups away from the dam and
brought them to the queen-mother, and with humble salutations said to
her: ‘We know, madam, that your highness has little love for our sister,
and quite justly; for she is of humble stock, and it is not seemly that
your son and our king should have mated with such an one. Hence, knowing
the mind you have towards her, we have brought you here three mongrel
pups, which, as you will see, were born with a star on their foreheads,
and you can deal with them as you list.’ At these words the queen-mother
was much pleased, divining well their evil intent, and she contrived to
bring to her daughter-in-law, who as yet had not seen the children she
had borne, the three whelps, telling her at the same time they were her
own offspring. And for the better hiding of this trick the wicked old
woman bade the midwife to tell the same story to the queen. So when she
herself and the two sisters and the midwife returned to the chamber,
they presented to the queen the three mongrel whelps, saying, ‘See, O
queen, the fruit of your womb! Cherish it well, so that the king, when
he comes back, may rejoice in the fair gift you have made him.’ And with
these words the midwife put the mongrels by her side, consoling her and
telling her that such mischances as hers happened now and then to
persons of high estate.
These wicked women having carried out this barbarous work, it only
remained for them to contrive a cruel death for the three lovely
children of the queen. But God mercifully held them back from soiling
their hands with the blood of their kin. They made a box, which they
waxed within, and, having put the children therein, they closed it and
cast it into the river to be borne away by the stream. But God in His
justice would not allow these innocents to suffer. As the box floated
along it was espied by a certain miller named Marmiato, who haled it out
and opened it, and found within three smiling children. Seeing how fair
and graceful they were, he deemed them to be the children of some noble
lady who, to hide her shame, had committed this crime. Having taken home
the box he said to his wife, who was called Gordiana, ‘See here, wife,
what I have found in the river; it is a present for you.’ Gordiana
received the children joyfully, and brought them up as if they had been
her own, giving to one the name of Acquirino, to another Fluvio—as they
had been found in the river—and to the girl that of Serena.
Ancilotto, when he came back from his journey, was in high spirits, for
he fully expected to find on his return that Chiaretta had fulfilled her
pledge and given him the three fair children as she had promised; but
the issue was not what he hoped, for the cunning queen-mother, when she
saw her son drawing near, went to meet him, and told him that the wife
he prized so highly had given him, instead of three children, three
mongrel dogs. And having brought him into the chamber of the unfortunate
Chiaretta, she showed him the pups which were lying beside her. The
queen began to weep bitterly and to deny that the dogs were her
offspring, but her wicked sisters came and declared that everything the
old mother had said was the truth. The king when he heard this was
greatly disturbed, and fell to the ground grief-stricken. After he had
come to himself he could scarce believe such thing could be; but at last
he gave ear to his mother’s false tale. But Chiaretta’s dignity and
sweetness, and the patience with which she bore the insults of the
courtiers, won him over to spare her life, and to sentence her to be
kept in a cell under the place where the cooking pots and pans were
washed, and to be fed on the garbage which was swept off the dirty sink.
While the unhappy queen passed her life in this filthy wise, feeding
upon carrion, Gordiana, the wife of the miller Marmiato, gave birth to a
son who was christened Borghino and brought up with the three
foundlings. When Gordiana went to cut the hair of these there often fell
out of it many precious stones and great white pearls; so with these
riches Marmiato was able to give over the humble calling of a miller,
and to live with his wife and the four children a life of ease and
delicacy. But when the three foundlings had come to years of discretion
they learned by chance that they were not the children of Marmiato and
Gordiana, but had been found floating in a box on the river. As soon as
they knew this they became very unhappy, and resolved to go their way
and try their fortune elsewhere, much to the chagrin of their
foster-parents, who saw they would no longer enjoy the rich harvest of
jewels which was wont to fall from the children’s locks and starry
foreheads. The brothers and their sister having left Marmiato the miller
and Gordiana, they all wandered about for some days, and at last came by
chance to Provino, the city of Ancilotto their father, where they hired
a house and lived together, maintaining themselves by selling the jewels
which still fell out of their hair. One day the king, who was riding
into the country with some of his courtiers, chanced to pass the house
where the three were living, and they, as soon as they heard the king
was coming, ran down the steps and stood bareheaded to give him a
respectful salutation. They had never seen Ancilotto, so his face was
unknown to them. The king, whose eyes were as keen as a hawk’s, looked
at them steadily, and remarked that on their foreheads there was
something like a golden star, and immediately his heart was filled with
strong passion, and he felt that they might prove to be his children. He
stopped and said to them: ‘Who are you, and from whence do you come?’
And they answered humbly, ‘We are poor strangers who have come to dwell
in this your city.’ Then said Ancilotto, ‘I am greatly pleased; and what
are you called?’ Whereupon they replied that one was named Acquirino,
and the other Fluvio, and the sister, Serena. The king then bade them to
dinner with him next day; and the young people, though they were almost
overcome by his gracious invitation, did not venture to decline it. When
Ancilotto returned to the palace he said to his mother: ‘Madam, when I
was abroad to-day I came by chance upon two handsome youths and a lovely
maiden, who, as they had golden stars on their foreheads, must be I
think the children promised to me by Queen Chiaretta.’
The wicked old woman smiled at the king’s words, making believe they
were but fancy, but within she felt as if a dagger had smitten her
heart. Then she bade them summon the midwife who had been present at the
birth, and said to her in private, ‘Good gossip, do you not know that
the king’s children, so far from being dead as we hoped, are alive, and
are grown up as beautiful as the day?’ ‘How can this be?’ replied the
woman; ‘were they not drowned in the river? Who has told you this?’ The
queen-mother answered: ‘From what I gather from the words of the king I
am almost sure they are alive. We must be up and doing at once, for we
are in great danger.’ ‘Do not be alarmed, madam,’ said the midwife, ‘I
have in mind a plan by which we can now assuredly compass the
destruction of all the three.’
The midwife went out, and immediately found her way to the house of the
king’s children, and, finding Serena alone, she saluted her and talked
of many things. After she had held a long discourse with her, she said,
‘My daughter, I am curious to know if you have in your house any water
which can dance.’ Serena, somewhat surprised at this question, answered
that she had not any. ‘Ah, my daughter,’ said the gossip, ‘what delights
you would enjoy if you had some of it! and if you could bathe your face
in it you would become more beautiful even than you are now.’ Said the
girl, with her curiosity aroused, ‘And how can I get it?’ ‘Have you not
brothers?’ the gossip asked. ‘Send them to fetch it; they will easily
find it, for it is to be had not far from these parts.’ And with these
words she departed. After a little Acquirino and Fluvio came back, and
at once Serena began to beseech them that they would do their best, for
the love they bore her, to get for her some of the wonderful dancing
water; but they laughed at her request as a silly fancy, and refused to
go on a fool’s errand, seeing that no one could say where it was to be
found. However, persuaded at last by the petition of their sister, whom
they loved very dearly, they departed together to do her bidding, taking
with them a phial to hold the precious water. When they had gone several
miles they came to a fountain out of which a snow-white dove was
drinking, and they were amazed when the bird spoke to them these words:
‘What seek ye, young men?’ To this Fluvio answered, ‘We seek the
precious dancing water.’ ‘Wretched youths,’ said the dove, ‘who sends
you on such a quest as this?’ ‘We want it for our sister,’ said Fluvio.
‘Then you will surely meet your deaths,’ said the dove, ‘for the water
you are in search of is guarded by many fierce beasts and poisonous
dragons, who will certainly devour you; but if you must needs have some
of it, leave the task to me, for I will surely bring it back to you;’
and having taken the phial the dove flew away out of sight.
Acquirino and Fluvio awaited her return with the greatest anxiety, and
at last she came in sight, bearing the phial filled with the magic
water. They took it from her, and, having thanked her for the great
service she had rendered them, returned to their sister and gave her the
water, exhorting her never to impose such another task upon them,
because they had nearly met their deaths in attempting it. A short time
after this the king again met the two brothers and said to them: ‘Why
did you not come to dine with me after accepting my invitation?’
‘Gracious majesty,’ they answered with profound respect, ‘a pressing
errand called us away from home.’ Then said the king, ‘To-morrow I shall
expect to see you without fail.’ The youths having made their apology,
the king returned to the palace, where he met his mother and told her he
had once more seen the youths with the stars on their foreheads. Again
the queen-mother was greatly perplexed, and again she bade them summon
the midwife, to whom she secretly told all she had heard, and at the
same time begged her to find a way out of the danger. The gossip bade
her take courage, for she would so plan this time that they would be
seen no more. The midwife went again to seek Serena, whom she found
alone, and asked her whether she had got any of the dancing water. ‘I
have it,’ the girl replied, ‘but the winning of it nearly caused the
death of my brothers.’ ‘The water is fair enough,’ said the woman, ‘but
you ought to have likewise the singing apple. You never saw fruit so
fair to look upon, or listened to music so sweet as that which it
discourses.’ ‘But how shall I get it?’ said Serena; ‘for my brothers
will never go in search of it, seeing that in their last venture they
were more in peril of death than in hope of life.’ ‘But they won the
dancing water for you,’ said the woman, ‘and they are still alive; they
will get for you the singing apple just as harmlessly;’ and, having
spoken, she went her way.
Scarcely had the midwife gone when Acquirino and Fluvio came in, and
again Serena cried out to them: ‘Oh, my brothers! I hear now of another
wonder, more beautiful far than the dancing water. It is the singing
apple, and if I cannot have it I shall die of vexation.’ When Acquirino
and Fluvio heard these words they chid her sharply, affirming that for
her sake they were reluctant to brave again the risk of death. But she
did not cease her prayers, and she wept and sobbed so sorely that the
brothers, seeing that this new desire of hers came from her inmost soul,
again gave way and agreed to satisfy it at whatever risk. They mounted
and rode on till they came to an inn, and demanded of the host whether
he could let them know where was to be found the apple which sang so
sweetly. He told them he knew thereof, and warned them of the perils
which lay in the path of anyone bold enough to seek to pluck it. ‘It
grows,’ he said, ‘in the midst of a fair garden, and is watched day and
night by a poisonous beast which kills without fail all those who come
nigh to the tree.’ ‘What then would you counsel us to do?’ said the
youths; ‘for we are set upon plucking the apple at all cost.’ ‘If you
will carry out my behests,’ said the host, ‘you may pluck the apple
without fear of the poisonous beast or of death. You must take this
robe, which, as you see, is all covered with mirrors, and one of you
must put it on, and thus attired enter the garden, the door of which
will be found unfastened; but the other must bide without and be careful
not to let himself be seen. And the beast forthwith will make for the
one who enters, and, seeing an exact similitude of himself reflected by
the mirrors, will fall down to the ground, and then the adventurer may
go quickly up to the tree and pluck tenderly the singing apple and
without once looking behind him quit the garden.’ The young men thanked
their host courteously, and observed all his directions so faithfully
that they won the apple without mischance, and carried it back to
Serena, and again besought her no more to compel them to run into such
danger. Thus for a second time they failed to keep their engagement with
the king, who, meeting them again a few days afterwards, said: ‘For what
reason have you once more disobeyed my commands and failed to come and
dine with me?’ Fluvio answered as before that some weighty matters of
business had intervened and kept them from doing themselves the great
honour the king had proposed for them. Then said the king, ‘You must
come to-morrow, and see that you fail not.’ Acquirino promised
obedience, and the king returned to his palace, where he met his mother
and told her he had again seen the two youths, that he was more firmly
persuaded than ever that they must be the children promised him by
Chiaretta, and that he would feel no rest till they should have eaten at
his table. The queen-mother when she heard that they yet lived was in
sore terror, doubting not that her fraud had been discovered, and thus,
struck with grief and terror, she sent for the midwife and said to her:
‘I surely thought the children were dead by this time, and that we
should hear no more of them; but they are alive, and we stand in peril
of death. Look therefore to our affair; otherwise we shall be lost.’
‘Noble lady,’ said the midwife, ‘take heart. This time I will work their
bane without fail, and you will bless me therefor, seeing that they will
trouble you no longer;’ and the woman, full of rage at her failure,
again repaired to the house of Serena, where she found the girl alone.
With crafty speech she inquired of Serena whether she had indeed got the
singing apple, and the girl made answer that she had. Then said the
cunning woman: ‘Ah, my daughter, you must think that you have nothing at
all if you do not get one thing more, the most beautiful, the most
graceful thing in the world.’ ‘Good mother, what may this fair thing
be?’ said the girl. The old woman replied: ‘It is the beautiful green
bird, my child, which talks night and day, and speaks words of
marvellous wisdom. If you had it in your keeping you might indeed call
yourself happy;’ and, having thus spoken, she went her way.
Acquirino and Fluvio came in almost directly after she was gone, and
Serena forthwith began to beg them to do her one last favour, whereupon
they asked her what might be this boon which she desired. She answered
that she wanted the beautiful green bird. Fluvio, who had plucked the
apple guarded by the venomous beast, was still haunted by the peril of
his adventure, and refused to go in quest of the bird. Acquirino, though
for a long time he too turned a deaf ear, was finally moved by the
brotherly love he felt and by the hot tears of grief which Serena shed,
and determined to satisfy her wish. Fluvio also agreed to accompany him,
and, having mounted their horses, they rode for several days, until at
last they came into a flowery green meadow, in the midst of which stood
a lofty tree surrounded with marble statues which mocked life by their
marvellous workmanship. Through the meadow there ran a little stream,
and up in the tall tree lived the beautiful green bird, which hopped
about from bough to bough in lively fashion, uttering the while words
which seemed rather divine than human. The young men dismounted from
their palfreys, which they left to graze at will, and went close to the
marble statues to examine them; but, as soon as they touched these, they
themselves were turned into marble as they stood.
Now Serena, when for several months she had anxiously looked for the
return of her dear brothers Acquirino and Fluvio, began to despair and
to fear she would never see them more, and, overcome with grief at their
unhappy fate, she resolved to try her own fortune. So she mounted a
mettlesome horse, and rode on and on till she came to the fair meadow
where the green bird was hopping about on the tall tree and softly
talking. There the first things she saw were her brothers’ horses, which
were grazing on the turf, and, casting her eyes upon the statues, she
saw that two of them must be Acquirino and Fluvio, for the unhappy
youths, though turned into marble, retained their features exactly as in
life. Serena dismounted, and going softly up to the tree she laid hands
on the green bird from behind, and he, finding himself a prisoner,
besought her to let him go, and promised that at the right time and
place he would remember her. But Serena answered that first of all he
must restore her brothers to their former state, upon which the bird
replied: ‘Look then under my left wing, and there you will find a
feather much greener than any of the others and marked with yellow.
Pluck it out and touch with it the eyes of the statues, and then your
brothers will return to flesh and blood.’ Serena raised the wing and
found the feather, and did as the bird had directed, and the statues of
Acquirino and Fluvio at once became living men and embraced their sister
joyfully.
This wonder being accomplished, the bird again besought Serena to give
him his liberty, promising that if she would grant his prayer he would
come to her aid whenever she might call upon him; but Serena was not to
be thus cajoled, and declared that before she would let him go free he
must help them to find their father and mother, and that until he had
accomplished this task he must be her prisoner.
There had already arisen some dispute amongst the three as to who should
have the bird in keeping, but in the end they settled that it should be
left in charge of Serena, who tended it with great care and watched over
it. The affair having come to this happy issue, they mounted their
horses and rode home. Meantime Ancilotto had often passed by their
house, and finding it empty was much astonished, and inquired of the
neighbours what had become of them; but all he could learn was that
nothing had been seen of them for many days. They had not been back long
before the king again rode by, and, catching sight of them, asked how it
was that nothing had been seen of them for so long, and why they had
disregarded his commands so often. Acquirino answered with deep respect
that some amazing troubles and adventures had befallen them, and that if
they had not presented themselves at the palace before his majesty as he
had desired it was through no want of reverence. They were all anxious
to amend their conduct in the future.
The king, when he heard they had been in tribulation, was moved to pity,
and bade them all accompany him back to the palace to dinner; but before
they set forth Acquirino filled secretly a phial with the dancing water,
Fluvio took the singing apple, and Serena the talking bird, and they
rode back with the king and joyously entered the palace with him and sat
down at the royal table. It chanced that the queen-mother and also the
two sisters of Chiaretta marked them as they passed, and observing the
beauty of the maiden and the handsome bright-eyed youths, they were
filled with dread and suspicion as to who they might be. When the royal
banquet had come to an end, Acquirino said to the king: ‘May it please
your majesty that, before we take our leave, we should show your majesty
some marvels which may delight you;’ and with these words he poured into
a silver tazza some of the dancing water, while Fluvio put his hand into
his bosom and drew therefrom the singing apple, which he placed beside
the water. Serena also brought out the talking bird, and set it on the
table. Immediately the apple began to sing most sweetly, and the
wonderful water to dance, so that the king and all the courtiers were
delighted and laughed aloud with pleasure; but the queen-mother and the
wicked sisters were smitten with dire dismay, for they felt that their
doom was near.
At last, when the apple and the water had ceased to sing and dance, the
bird opened its mouth and said: ‘O sacred majesty! what doom should be
dealt to those who once plotted death against two brothers and a
sister?’ Then the cunning queen-mother, scheming to excuse herself,
cried out: ‘No lighter doom than death by burning;’ and in this
condemnation all those who were present agreed. To answer her the
singing apple and the dancing water said straightway: ‘Ah, false and
cruel woman! your own tongue has doomed yourself, and those wicked and
envious sisters of the queen, and the vile midwife, to this horrible
death.’
When the king heard these words his heart grew cold with terror; but
before he could speak the talking bird began and said: ‘O sacred
majesty! these are the three children you longed for, your children who
bear the star on their foreheads; and their innocent mother, is she not
to this day kept a prisoner under the filthy scullery?’ Then the king
saw clearly how he had been tricked, and gave order that the unhappy
Chiaretta should be taken out of her noisome prison and robed once more
in her royal garments, and, as soon as this had been done, she was
brought into the presence of the king and of his court. And though she
had for so long time suffered such cruel usage, she retained all her
former loveliness. Then the talking bird related the strange history
from beginning to end, and the king, when he knew it all, embraced
tenderly Chiaretta and their three children; but the dancing water and
the singing apple and the talking bird, having been set at liberty,
disappeared straightway.
The next day the king commanded to be lighted in the centre of the
market a huge fire, into which he caused to be thrown, without pity, his
mother and the two sisters of Chiaretta and the midwife, so that in the
presence of everybody they might be burnt to death. And Ancilotto lived
happily many years with his beloved wife and his beautiful children,
and, having chosen for Serena an honourable husband, he left his two
sons the heirs of his kingdom.
Lodovica’s story gave great delight to all the ladies, and the Signora,
having commanded her to supplement it in due order, she propounded the
following enigma:
When Sol pours down his fiercest heat,
High on Gheraldo’s lofty seat,
A wight I marked, with roguish eye,
Shut fast within a closure high.
All through the day he prates and talks,
And clad in robes of emerald walks.
I’ve told you all except his name,
And that from your own wit I claim.
Many were the interpretations put upon this enigma, but no one came near
to the mark save the charming Isabella, who, greatly pleased with
herself, said in a merry tone: “There is no other possible signification
of Lodovica’s enigma except to name the parroquet, which lives within a
cage, the closure, and has plumage green as emerald, and talks all day
long.” The clever solution of the riddle pleased everybody except
Lodovica, who had flattered herself that no one would be clever enough
to solve it, and who now became almost dumb with vexation. A little
later, when the flush of anger had faded somewhat from her cheek, she
turned to Isabella, whose turn it was to tell the fourth story, and
said: “I am vexed, Isabella, not from envy of you, as the teller of the
next story, but because I feel myself inferior to those other companions
of yours who have had to give the solution of their riddles, the company
not being able to solve them; whereas mine was guessed at once. Be
assured, however, that if I can give you a Roland for your Oliver, I
will not be caught napping.”[27] Isabella answered quickly, “You will do
well, Signora Lodovica, but—” Here the Signora, who saw that the
contention was like to grow warm between the two, commanded Isabella to
go on at once with her story, which, with a smile, she began to tell as
follows.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
THE FOURTH FABLE.
=Nerino, the son of Gallese, King of Portugal, becoming enamoured of
Genobbia, wife of Messer Raimondo Brunello, a physician, has his
will of her and carries her with him to Portugal, while Messer
Raimondo dies of grief.=
I must tell you, charming ladies, that there are very many men who,
because they have consumed a great part of their time over the study of
letters, are persuaded that they are mighty wise, whereas in truth they
know little or nothing. And while men of this sort think they are
marking their foreheads with lines of wisdom, they too often only scoop
out their own eyes,[28] which thing happened to a certain physician,
greatly skilled in his calling, for he, while he deemed he was about to
put a cheat upon another, was himself most ignominiously duped, to his
own great injury, all of which you will learn from the fable which I
will presently tell you.
Gallese, King of Portugal, had a son whose name was Nerino, and in the
bringing up of this boy he followed such a course that up to the time
when he reached his eighteenth year Nerino had never once cast eyes upon
a woman except his mother and the nurse who had the care of him.
Wherefore when he had come to full age the king determined to send him
to pursue his studies in the university of Padua, so that he might get a
knowledge of Latin letters and of the tongue and manners of the Italians
as well. And the plan which he had devised he duly carried out. When the
young Nerino had come to Padua, he soon acquired the friendship of many
of the scholars, and every day these would come to pay their respects to
him, one of the above named being a certain Messer Raimondo Brunello, a
physician. It chanced one day, as Nerino and this friend of his were
conversing now about this thing and now about that, they engaged (as is
the manner of sprightly youths) in a discourse anent the beauty of
women, and on this subject the former took one view and the latter
another. But Nerino, though he had never in times past cast eyes upon
any woman save his mother and his nurse, declared with some heat that in
his reckoning there could not be found in all the world any lady who
should be more beautiful, more graceful, and more exquisite than was his
own mother. And when, by way of putting this speech of his to the test,
they brought divers ladies to his notice, he still declared that in
comparison to his mother they were little better than carrion.
Now Messer Raimondo had to wife a lady who was one of the fairest nature
ever created, and when he listened to this chattering he settled his
gorget and said: ‘Signor Nerino, I happen to have seen a certain lady
who is of such great loveliness that when you shall have beheld her I
think it probable you will judge her to be not less but more beautiful
than your mother.’ To this speech Nerino made answer that he could not
believe there could be any woman more lovely than his mother, but at the
same time it would give him great pleasure to look upon this one.
Whereupon Messer Raimondo said: ‘Whenever it shall please you to behold
her I will gladly point her out to you.’ Nerino replied: ‘I am much
pleased at what you propose, and I shall ever be obliged to you.’ Then
Messer Raimondo said at once: ‘Since it will give you pleasure to see
her, take care to be present in the Church of the Duomo to-morrow
morning, for there I promise you that you shall have sight of her.’
When he had returned to his house, Messer Raimondo said to his wife:
‘To-morrow morning see that you rise betimes, and deck carefully your
head, and make yourself seem as fair as you can, and put on the most
sumptuous raiment you possess, for I have a mind that you should go to
the Duomo at the hour of high mass to hear the office.’ Genobbia (for
this was the name of Messer Raimondo’s wife), not being in the habit of
going now hither now thither, but rather to pass all her time at home
over her sewing and broidery work, was much astonished at these words;
but, seeing that her husband’s command fell in well with her own desire,
she did all she was directed to do, and set herself so well in order and
decked herself so featly that she looked more like a goddess than like a
mortal woman. And when Genobbia, following the command which her husband
had laid upon her, had entered into the holy fane, there came thither
likewise Nerino, the son of the king, and when he had looked upon her he
found that she was exceedingly fair. When the lady had gone her way,
Messer Raimondo came upon the scene, and having gone up to Nerino spake
thus: ‘Now how does that lady who is just gone out of the church please
you? Does she seem to you to be one who ought to be compared with any
other? Say, is she not more beautiful than your mother?’ ‘Of a truth,’
replied Nerino, ‘she is fair, and nature could not possibly make aught
that is fairer; but tell me of your courtesy of whom is she the wife,
and where does she dwell?’ But to this query Messer Raimondo did not
answer so as to humour Nerino’s wish, forasmuch as he had no mind to
give him the clue he sought. Then said Nerino, ‘My good Messer Raimondo,
though you may not be willing to tell me who she is and where she
dwells, at least you might do me such good office as to let me see her
once more.’ ‘This I will do willingly,’ answered Messer Raimondo.
‘To-morrow come here again into the church, and I will so bring it to
pass that you shall see her as you have seen her to-day.’
When Messer Raimondo had gone back to his house, he said to his wife,
‘Genobbia, see that you attire yourself to-morrow; for I wish that you
should go to the mass in the Duomo, and if hitherto you have ever made
yourself look beautiful or have arrayed yourself sumptuously, see that
you do the same to-morrow.’ When she heard this, Genobbia (as on the
former occasion) was greatly astonished, but since the command of her
husband pointed to this matter, she did everything even as he had
ordered. When the morrow came, Genobbia, sumptuously clothed and adorned
more richly than was her wont, betook herself to the church, and in a
very short time Nerino came likewise. He, when he saw how very fair she
was, was inflamed by love of her more ardently than ever man had burned
for woman before, and, when Messer Raimondo arrived, begged him to tell
straightway what might be the name of this lady who seemed in his eyes
to be so marvellously beautiful. But Messer Raimondo, making excuse that
he was greatly pressed for time to give to his own affairs, was in no
humour to thus inform Nerino on the spot, and was rather disposed to
leave the galliard to stew for a time in his own fat; so he went his way
in high spirits. Whereupon Nerino, with his temper somewhat ruffled by
the mean account in which Messer Raimondo seemed to hold him, spake thus
to himself: ‘Aha! you are not willing that I should have an inkling as
to who she is and where she lives, but I will know what I want to know
in spite of you.’
After he had left the church, Nerino waited outside until such time as
the fair dame should likewise issue forth, and then, having given her a
modest obeisance with a smiling countenance, he went with her as far as
her home. Now, as soon as Nerino had got to know clearly the house where
she dwelt, he began to cast amorous eyes upon her, and never a day
passed on which he would not pass up and down ten times in front of her
window. Wherefore, having a great desire to hold converse with her, he
set about considering what course he should follow in order to keep
unsullied the honour of the lady, and at the same time to attain his own
end. But, having pondered over the affair, and looked at it on every
side without lighting upon any course which seemed to promise security,
he at last, after a mighty amount of imagining, determined to make the
acquaintance of an old woman who lived in a house opposite to that
occupied by Genobbia. After having sent to her certain presents, and
settled and confirmed the compact between them, he went secretly into
the old woman’s lodging, in which there was a certain window overlooking
the hall of Genobbia’s house, where he might stand and gaze at his good
convenience at the lady as she went up and down about the house; at the
same time, he had no wish to divulge himself, and thereby give her any
pretext for withdrawing herself from his sight. Nerino, having spent one
day after another in these amorous glances, at last found himself no
longer able to resist the burning desire within him which consumed his
very heart; so he made up his mind to write a letter and to throw it
down into her lodging at a certain time when he should judge her husband
to be away from home. And several times he wrote letters as he had
planned and threw them down to her.
But Genobbia, without reading the billet she picked up, cast it into the
fire, and it was burnt. After she had done this several times, on a
certain day it came into her mind to break open one of the notes and see
what might be written therein. When she had broken the seal and marked
that the writer was no other than Nerino, the son of the King of
Portugal, who declared thereby his fervent love of her, she was at first
wellnigh confounded, but after a little, when she had called to mind the
poor cheer she enjoyed in her husband’s house, she plucked up heart and
began to look kindly upon Nerino. At last, having come to an agreement
with him, she found means to bring him into the house, when the youth
laid before her the story of the ardent love he bore her, and of the
torments he endured every day on her account, and in like manner the way
by which his passion for her had been kindled. Wherefore the lady, who
was alike lovely and kindly-hearted and complaisant, felt herself in no
humour to reject his suit. And while the two thus foregathered, happy in
the consciousness of mutual love and indulging in amorous discourse, lo
and behold! Messer Raimondo knocked suddenly at the door. When Genobbia
heard this she bade Nerino go straightway and lie down on the bed, and
to let down the curtains, and to remain there until such time as her
husband should be once more gone out. The husband came in, and having
taken divers trifles of which he had need, went away without giving heed
to aught besides, and a little later Nerino followed him.
On the following day, when it happened that Nerino was walking up and
down the piazza, Messer Raimondo by chance went that way, to whom Nerino
make known by sign that he wanted to have a word with him. Wherefore,
having approached him, he spake thus: ‘Signor, have I not a good bit of
news to tell you?’ ‘And what may it be?’ replied Messer Raimondo. ‘Do I
not know,’ said Nerino, ‘the house where dwells that beautiful lady? and
have I not had some delightful intercourse with her? But because her
husband came home unexpectedly she hid me in the bed, and drew the
curtains for fear that he should see me; however, he soon went out
again.’ ‘Is it possible?’ said Messer Raimondo. ‘Possible!’ answered
Nerino, ‘it is more than possible—it is a fact. Never in all my life
have I seen so delightful, so sweet a lady as she. If by any chance,
signor, you should meet her, I beg you to speak a good word on my
behalf, and to entreat her to keep me in her good graces.’ Messer
Raimondo, having promised to do what the youth asked him, went his way
with ill will in his heart. But before he left Nerino he said, ‘And do
you propose to go in search of your good fortune again?’ To this Nerino
replied, ‘Return! what should one do in such case?’ Then Messer Raimondo
went back to his house, and was careful to let drop no word in his
wife’s presence, but to wait for the time when she and Nerino should
again come together.
When the next day had come Nerino once more stole to a meeting with
Genobbia, and while they were in the midst of their amorous delights and
pleasant converse the husband came back to the house, but the lady
quickly hid Nerino in a chest in front of which she heaped a lot of
clothes from which she had been ripping the wadding to keep them from
destruction by insects. The husband, making believe to search for
certain things, turned the house upside down, and pried even into the
bed, but, finding nothing of the sort he looked for, went about his
business with his mind more at ease.
Very soon Nerino also departed, and afterwards, chancing to meet Messer
Raimondo, he thus addressed him: ‘Signor doctor, what would you say if
you heard I had paid another visit to my charming lady, and that envious
fortune broke in upon our pleasure, seeing that the husband again
arrived and spoilt all our sport?’ ‘And what did you then?’ said Messer
Raimondo. ‘She straightway opened a chest,’ said Nerino, ‘and put me
therein, and in front of the chest she piled up a heap of clothes which
she was working at in order to preserve them from moth, and after he had
turned the bed upside down more than once without finding aught, he went
away.’ What tortures Messer Raimondo must have suffered when he listened
to these words I leave to the judgment of any who may know the humours
of love.
Now Nerino had given to Genobbia a very fine and precious diamond,
within the golden setting of which was engraved his name and his
likeness. The very next day, when Messer Raimondo had gone to see to his
affairs, the lady once more let Nerino into the house, and while they
were taking their pleasure and talking pleasantly together, behold! the
husband again came back to the house. But the crafty Genobbia, as soon
as she remarked his coming, immediately opened a large wardrobe which
stood in her chamber, and hid Nerino therein. Almost immediately Messer
Raimondo entered the chamber, pretending as before that he was in search
of certain things he wanted, and in quest thereof he turned the room
upside down. But, finding nothing either in the bed or in the chest,
like a man out of his wits he took fire and strewed it in the four
corners of the chamber, with the intention of burning the place and all
that it contained.
Now the party walls and the wooden framing of the apartment soon caught
fire, whereupon Genobbia, turning to her husband, said: ‘What is this
you are doing, husband? Surely you must be gone mad. Still, if you wish
to burn up the room, burn it as you will, but by my faith I will not
have you burn this wardrobe, wherein are all the papers relating to my
dowry.’ So, having summoned four strong porters, she bade them carry the
wardrobe out of the house and bear it into the neighbouring house which
belonged to the old woman. Then she opened the wardrobe secretly when no
one was by and returned to her own house. Messer Raimondo, now like one
out of his mind, still kept a sharp watch to see whether anybody who
ought not to have been there might be driven out of hiding by the
conflagration, but he met with nothing save the smoke, which was
becoming insufferable, and the fierce flames which were consuming the
house. And by this time all the neighbours had gathered together to put
out the fire, and so well and heartily did they work that in time it was
extinguished.
On the following day, as Nerino was sallying forth towards the fields in
the valley, he met Messer Raimondo, and after giving him a salute, said
to him: ‘Aha, my gentleman! I have got a piece of news to tell you which
ought to please you mightily.’ ‘And what may this news be?’ said Messer
Raimondo. ‘I have just made my escape,’ said Nerino, ‘from the most
frightful peril that ever man came out of without loss of his life. I
had gone to the house of my lovely mistress, and while I was spending
the time with her in all manner of delightful dallying her husband once
more broke in upon our content, and after he had turned the house upside
down, lighted some fire, and this he scattered about in the four corners
of the room and burnt up all the chattels there were about.’ ‘And you,’
said Messer Raimondo, ‘where were you the while?’ Then answered Nerino,
‘I was hidden in a wardrobe which she caused to be taken out of the
house.’ And when Messer Raimondo heard this, and clearly understood all
which Nerino told him to be the truth, he was like to die of grief and
passion. Nevertheless, he did not dare to let his secret be known,
because he was determined still to catch him in the act. Wherefore he
said to him, ‘And are you bent upon going thither again, Signor Nerino?’
to which Nerino made answer, ‘Seeing that I have come safely out of the
fire, what else is there for me to fear?’ And, letting pass any further
remarks of this sort, Messer Raimondo begged Nerino that he would do him
the honour of dining with him on the morrow; which civility the young
man willingly accepted.
When the next day had come, Messer Raimondo bade assemble at his house
all his own relations and his wife’s as well, and prepared for their
entertainment a rich and magnificent repast—not in the house which had
been half consumed by fire, but in another. He gave directions to his
wife, moreover, that she also should be present, not to sit at table as
a guest, but to keep herself out of sight, and see to the ordering of
aught which might be required for the banquet. As soon as all the
kinsfolk had assembled, and the young Nerino as well, they were bidden
take their places at the board, and as the feast went on Messer Raimondo
tried his best with his charlatan science to make Nerino drunk, in order
to be able to work his will upon him. Having several times handed to the
youth a glass of malvoisie wine, which he never failed to empty, Messer
Raimondo said to him: ‘Now, Signor Nerino, cannot you tell to these
kinsfolk of mine some little jest which may make them laugh?’ The
luckless Nerino, who had no inkling that Genobbia was Messer Raimondo’s
wife, began to tell the story of his adventures, keeping back, however,
the names of all concerned.
It chanced at this moment that one of the servants went into the room
apart where Genobbia was, and said to her: ‘Madonna, if only you were
now hidden in some corner of the feasting-room, you would hear told the
finest story you ever heard in your life. I pray you go in quick.’ And,
having stolen into a corner, she knew that the voice of the story-teller
belonged to Nerino her lover, and that the tale he was giving to the
company concerned himself and her as well. Whereupon this prudent and
sharp-witted dame took the diamond which Nerino had given her, and,
having placed it in a cup filled with a very dainty drink, she said to a
servant, ‘Take this cup and give it to Signor Nerino, and tell him to
drink it off forthwith, that he may tell his story the better.’ The
servant took the cup and placed it on the table, whereupon Nerino gave
sign that he wished to drink therefrom; so the servant said to him,
‘Take this cup, signor, so that you may tell your story the better.’
Nerino took the cup and forthwith drank all the wine therein, when,
seeing and recognizing the diamond which lay at the bottom, he let it
pass into his mouth. Then making pretence of rinsing his teeth, he drew
forth the ring and put it on his finger. As soon as he was well assured
that the fair lady about whom he was telling his story was the wife of
Messer Raimondo, he had no mind to say more, and when Messer Raimondo
and his kinsfolk began to urge him to bring the tale which he had begun
to an end, he replied, ‘And then and there the cock crowed and the day
broke, so I awoke from my sleep and heard nothing more.’ Messer
Raimondo’s kinsmen, having listened to Nerino’s story, and up to this
time believed all he had said about the lady to be the truth, now
imagined that both their host and the young man were drunk.
After several days had passed it happened that Nerino met Messer
Raimondo, and feigning not to know that he was the husband of Genobbia,
told him that within the space of two days he would take his departure,
because his father had written to him to bid him without fail to return
to his own country. Whereupon Messer Raimondo wished him good speed for
his journey. Nerino, having come to a private understanding with
Genobbia, carried her off with him and fled to Portugal, where they long
lived a gay life together; but Messer Raimondo, when he went back to his
house and found that his wife was gone, was stricken with despair, and
died in the course of a few days.
Isabella’s fable pleased the ladies and gentlemen equally well, and they
rejoiced especially that Messer Raimondo himself proved to be the cause
of his own misfortune, and that the thing which he had courted had
really fallen upon him. And when the Signora marked that this discourse
was come to an end, she gave the sign to Isabella to finish her task in
due order, and she, in no wise neglectful of the Signora’s command, gave
the enigma which follows:
In the middle of the night,
Rises one with beard bedight.
Though no astrologer he be,
He marks the hours which pass and flee.
He wears a crown, although no king;
No priest, yet he the hour doth sing.
Though spurred at heel he is no knight;
No wife he calls his own by right,
Yet children many round him dwell.
Sharp wits you need this thing to tell.
Here the cleverly-devised enigma of Isabella came to an end, and
although the various listeners went casting about in various directions,
no one hit upon the exact truth except the somewhat haughty Lodovica,
who, mindful of the slight which had of late been put upon her, rose to
her feet and spake thus: “The enigma which our sister has set us to
guess means nothing else than the cock, which is on the alert to crow
while it is yet night; which wears a beard and has knowledge of the
passage of time, although he is no astrologer. He bears a crest instead
of a crown, and is no king; he sings the hours, yet is no priest.
Besides this, he wears spurs on his heels; he has no wife, and brings up
the children of others, that is to say, the young chickens.”
All the listeners commended this solution of Isabella’s skilful enigma,
especially Capello, who said: “Signora Isabella, Lodovica has given you
back bread for your bannock,[29] seeing that a short time ago you very
cleverly declared the meaning of her enigma and now she has mastered
yours; but for this reason you must not harbour malice one against
another.” Then Lodovica answered promptly, “Signor Bernardo, when the
night time is come, I will pay you back yea for yea.”[30]
But in order to keep the discourse within limits, the Signora imposed
silence upon all, and, turning her face towards Lionora, whose turn it
was to tell the last story of the night, directed her to begin, with due
courtesy, her fable, and the damsel, with the best grace in the world,
thus began.
THE FIFTH FABLE.
=Flamminio Veraldo sets out from Ostia in search of Death, and, not
finding it, meets Life instead; this latter lets him see Fear and
make trial of Death.=
Many are the men who with all care and diligence go searching narrowly
for certain things, which, when they have gained them, they find of no
value, and would gladly forego, fleeing therefrom with all speed, just
as the devil flies from holy water. This was the case of Flamminio, who,
when he went seeking Death, found Life, who made him see Fear and make
trial of Death. All of which you will find clearly set forth in this
fable.
In Ostia, an ancient city situated no great distance from Rome, there
lived in former days, according to the common report, a young man of a
nature rather weak and errant than stable and prudent, whose name was
Flamminio Veraldo. He had heard it said over and over again that there
was in all the world nothing more terrible and frightful than Death, the
dark and inevitable one, seeing that he shows pity to none, having
respect to no man, however poor or rich he may be. Wherefore, being
filled with wonder at what he had heard, he determined by himself to
find and to see with his own eyes what manner of thing this might be
which men called Death. And having attired himself in coarse garments,
and taken in hand a staff of strong cornel-wood well shod with iron, he
set forth from Ostia. Flamminio, when he had travelled over many miles
of road, came one day into a certain street, in the midst of which he
espied, sitting in his stall, a cobbler making shoes and gaiters, and
this cobbler, although there was lying about a great quantity of his
finished work, kept on steadily at his task of making yet more.
Flamminio, going up to the cobbler, said to him, ‘God be with you, good
master!’ and to this the cobbler replied, ‘You are right welcome here,
my son.’ Then said Flamminio, ‘What is this task you labour at?’ ‘I
labour indeed,’ replied the cobbler, ‘and toil hard that I may not
languish in want.[31] Nevertheless, I am in want, and I weary myself
over making shoes.’ ‘Why do you thus,’ said Flamminio, ‘seeing that you
have so many pairs made already? What is the good of making more?’ ‘I
make them,’ said the cobbler, ‘to wear myself, to sell for my own
sustenance and for the sustenance of my little household, and in order
that when I become an old man I may be able to live on the money I have
made by my handicraft.’ ‘And what will you do next?’ asked Flamminio.
‘After this,’ said the cobbler, ‘I shall die.’ ‘You will die!’ cried
Flamminio in reply. ‘Yes,’ said the cobbler. Then cried Flamminio, ‘Oh,
my good master! can you of your own knowledge tell me what may be this
thing they call Death?’ The cobbler answered, ‘Of a truth I cannot.’
‘What, have you never seen him?’ said Flamminio. To this master cobbler
made answer, ‘I have never seen him, nor have I any wish to see him now,
or to taste his quality. Moreover, all men say that he is the strangest
and most terrible monster the world holds.’ Then Flamminio said, ‘At
least you will be able of your knowledge to teach me and tell me where
he abides, because day and night I wander over mountains and through
valleys and swamps seeking him without ever hearing tidings as to where
he may be found?’ The cobbler answered, ‘I know nothing as to where
Death may dwell, nor where he is to be found, nor what he is made of;
but if you go on with your journey somewhat farther, peradventure you
will find him.’
Whereupon Flamminio, having taken his leave, parted from the cobbler,
and betook himself onwards to a spot where he came upon a dense and
shadowy forest, and entered therein. In a certain place he saw a
peasant, who, though he had already cut a vast pile of wood for burning,
went on cutting more with all his might. And when they had exchanged
greetings one with another, Flamminio said to him, ‘My brother, what are
you going to do with so vast a heap of wood as this?’ And to this the
peasant made answer, ‘I am preparing it to kindle fire therewith in the
winter that is coming, when we shall have snow and ice and villainous
mist, so that I may be able to keep warm myself and my children, and to
sell whatsoever may be to spare, and to buy with the profit thereof
bread and wine and clothing, and all other things which may be necessary
for our daily sustenance, and thus to pass our lives until Death comes
to fetch us.’ ‘Now, by your courtesy,’ said Flamminio, ‘could you tell
me where this same Death is to be found?’ ‘Of a surety I cannot,’ the
peasant replied, ‘seeing that I have never once seen him, nor do I know
where he abides. I am here in this wood all the day long taking heed to
my own affairs. Very few wayfarers come into these parts, and I know
none of those who pass by.’ ‘What then shall I do to find him?’ demanded
Flamminio; and to this the peasant made answer, ‘As to myself, I know
not at all what to say to you nor how to direct you. I can only bid you
to travel yet farther onward, and then peradventure you may meet with
him.’
Having taken leave of the peasant, Flamminio departed and walked and
walked until he came to a certain place where dwelt a tailor, who had a
vast store of clothes upon the pegs, and a warehouse filled with all
kinds of the finest garments. Said Flamminio to him, ‘God be with you,
my good master!’ and the tailor replied, ‘And the same good wish to
you.’ ‘What are you going to do with all this store of fair and
sumptuous raiment, and all the noble garments I see here? Do they all
belong to you?’ Then the master tailor made answer, ‘Certain of them are
my own, some belong to the merchants, some to the gentlefolk, and some
to various people who have dealings with me.’ ‘But what use can they
find for so many?’ asked Flamminio. ‘They wear them in the different
seasons of the year,’ the tailor answered, and showing them all to
Flamminio, he went on, ‘These they wear in the summer and these in the
winter, and these others in the seasons which come between, clothing
themselves sometimes in one fashion and sometimes in another.’ ‘And in
the end what do they do?’ asked Flamminio. The tailor answered, ‘They go
on in this course until the day of their death.’ Flamminio hearing the
tailor speak of Death said, ‘Oh, my good master! could you tell me where
I may find this Death you tell of?’ The tailor, speaking as if he were
inflamed with anger and perturbed in spirit, said: ‘My son, you go about
asking questions which are indeed strange. I surely cannot tell you nor
direct you where he may abide, for I never let my thoughts turn to him,
and it is an occasion of great offence to me when anyone begins to talk
of him. Wherefore I bid you either to discourse of some other matter or
to go your way, for all such talk as this displeases me vastly.’ And
Flamminio, having taken leave of the tailor, departed on his journey.
It came to pass that Flamminio, after he had traversed many lands, came
at last to a desert and solitary place, where he found a hermit with his
beard all matted with dirt, and his body worn away by the passage of the
years and by fasting, letting his mind concern itself only in
contemplation. Whereupon, thinking that assuredly he had at last found
Death, Flamminio thus addressed him: ‘Of a truth, I am very glad to meet
with you, holy father.’ ‘The sight of you is welcome to me, my son,’ the
hermit replied. ‘My good father,’ said Flamminio, ‘what do you here in
this rough and uninhabitable spot, cut off from all pleasure and from
all human society?’ ‘I pass my time,’ answered the hermit, ‘in prayers
and in fastings and in contemplation.’ Then Flamminio inquired, ‘And for
what reason do you follow this life?’ ‘Why, my son,’ exclaimed the
hermit, ‘I do all this to serve God, to mortify this wretched flesh of
mine, to do penance for all the offences I have wrought in the sight of
the eternal and immortal God and of the true son of Mary, and in the end
to get salvation for my sinful soul, so that when the hour of my death
shall come I may render it up pure of all stain, and in the awful day of
judgment, by the grace of my redeemer and by no merit of my own, may
make myself worthy of that happy and glorious home where I may taste the
joys of eternal life, to which blessedness God lead us!’ Then said
Flamminio, ‘Oh, my dear father! spare a few words to tell me—if it be
not an offence to you—what manner of thing is this Death, and after what
fashion is it made?’ The holy father answered, ‘Oh, my son! trouble not
yourself to gain knowledge of this thing you seek; for Death is a very
terrible and a fearful being, and is called by wise men the final end of
all our sufferings, a misery to the happy, a happiness to the miserable,
and the term and limit of all worldly things. It severs friend from
friend; it separates the father from the son, and the son from the
father, the mother from the daughter, and the daughter from the mother.
It cuts the marriage bond, and finally disunites the soul and the body,
so that the body, severed from the soul, loses all its power and becomes
so putrid and of so evil a savour that all men flee therefrom and
abandon it as a thing abominable.’ ‘And have you never set eyes on him,
my father?’ asked Flamminio. ‘Of a certainty I have never seen him,’
answered the hermit. ‘But can you tell me what I should do in order to
see him?’ asked Flamminio. ‘Ah, my son!’ said the hermit, ‘if you are
indeed so keenly set on finding him, you have only to keep going further
and further on; because man, the longer the way he has journeyed through
this world, the nearer he is to Death.’ The young man having thanked the
holy father, and received his benediction, went his way.
Then Flamminio, continuing his journey, traversed a great number of deep
valleys and craggy mountains and inhospitable forests, seeing by the way
many sorts of fearsome beasts, and questioning each one of these whether
he was the thing called Death, and always getting in return the answer
‘No.’ At last, after he had passed through many lands and seen many
strange things, he came to a mountain of no little magnitude, and having
climbed over this, he began to descend into a gloomy and very deep
valley, closed in on all sides by profound caverns. Here he saw a
strange and monstrous wild beast, which made all the valley re-echo with
its roaring. ‘Who are you?’ said Flamminio. ‘Ho! is it possible that you
may be Death?’ To which the wild beast made answer, ‘I am not Death; but
pursue your way, and soon you will find him.’
Flamminio, when he heard the answer he had so long desired to hear, felt
his heart grow lighter. The wretched youth, now worn out by fatigue and
half dead by reason of the long weariness and the heavy toil he had
undergone, was almost sunk in despair, when he found himself on the
borders of a wide and spacious plain. Having climbed to the summit of a
little hill of no great height, delightful, and covered with flowers, he
looked round about him, now here, now there, and espied the lofty walls
of a magnificent city not far from the spot where he stood. Whereupon he
began to walk more rapidly with nimble steps, and when the shadows of
evening were falling he came to one of the city gates, which was adorned
with the finest white marble. And when he had entered therein, with the
leave of the keeper of the gate, the first person he met was a very old
woman, full of years, with a face like that of a corpse, and a body so
meagre and thin that, through her leanness, it would have been easy to
count one by one every bone in her body. Her forehead was thickly marked
with wrinkles, her eyes were squinting, watery, and red, as if they had
been dyed in purple, her cheeks all puckered, her lips turned inside
out, her hands rough and callous; her head was palsied, and she trembled
in every limb; she was bent almost double in her gait, and she was clad
in rough and dusky clothes. Over and above this she bore by her left
side a keen-edged sword, and carried in her right hand a weighty cudgel,
at the end of which was wrought a point of iron made in the shape of a
triangle, and upon this staff she would now and then lean as if to rest
herself. On her shoulders also she carried a large wallet, in which she
kept a great store of phials and pots and bottles all filled with divers
sorts of liquors and unguents and plasters fitted for the remedying of
various human ailments and accidents. As soon as Flamminio’s eye fell
upon this toothless ugly old harridan he was seized with the thought
that peradventure she might prove to be that Death to find whom he was
going wandering about the world; so having approached her he said, ‘Ah,
my good mother, may God keep and preserve you!’ In a husky voice the old
woman made answer to him, ‘And may God keep and preserve you, my son!’
‘Tell me, my mother,’ Flamminio went on, ‘whether perchance you may be
the thing men call Death?’ The old woman replied, ‘No, I am not. On the
other hand, I am Life; and know, moreover, that I happen to have with me
here in this wallet which I carry behind my back certain liquors and
unguents by the working of which I am able with ease to purify and to
cure the mortal body of man of all the heavy diseases which afflict him,
and in the short space of a single hour to relieve him in like manner
from the torture of any pain he may feel.’ Then said Flamminio, ‘Ah, my
good mother! can you not let me know where Death is to be found?’ ‘And
who may you be,’ asked the old woman, ‘who make this demand of me with
so great persistence?’ Flamminio answered, ‘I am a youth who has already
spent many days and months and years wandering about in search of Death,
and never yet have I been able to find in any land a man who could tell
me aught concerning him. Wherefore, if you should happen to possess this
knowledge, I beseech you of your courtesy to let me share it, because I
am possessed by so keen a desire to look upon him and to know what he is
like, in order that I may be certain whether he really is the hideous
and the dreadful thing which all men hold him to be.’
The old woman, when she heard the foolish request of the young man,
spake thus to him: ‘My son, when would it please you that I let you see
Death, and judge how hideous he is, and when would you make trial of his
terrors?’ To this Flamminio replied: ‘Ah, my mother! keep me no longer
in suspense I beg you, but let me see him now, at this present moment.’
Thereupon the old woman, to satisfy his desire, made him strip himself
quite naked, and, while he was taking off his garments, she worked up
together certain of her drugs useful in the cure of divers diseases, and
when the thing was ready, she said to him: ‘Bend yourself down here, my
son.’ And he, in obedience to her direction, bent down. ‘Now bow your
head and close your eyes;’ and Flamminio did as she bade him. Scarcely
had the old woman finished her speech than she took the sharp blade
which she wore by her side and with one blow struck off his head from
his shoulders. Then she quickly took up the head, and, having replaced
it upon the bust, she smeared it well with the plaster which she had
prepared, and thereby the wound was quickly healed. But how the thing
which now happened was caused I cannot say, whether it arose through the
over-quickness of the old hag in putting back the head upon the
shoulders, or whether she herself brought it to pass through her own
craft. The head when it was joined once more to the body was put on hind
part forward. Wherefore Flamminio, when he looked down upon his
shoulders, his loins, and his big buttocks standing out (all of which
things he had never seen hitherto), fell into such a fit of terror and
dismay that, not being able to think of any place where he might be
suffered to hide himself, he cried out to the old woman in a trembling
dolorous voice: ‘Alas, alas, my good mother! bring me back once more to
my old shape; bring me back, for the love of God, for by my faith I have
never seen anything more frightful and more hideous than what I now
behold. Alas! deliver me from this miserable state in which I now find
myself fixed. Alas! alas! do not delay your help, my sweet good mother.
Lend me your aid, for I am sure you can help me easily if you will.’ The
cunning old woman still kept silence feigning all the while to know
nothing of the mischance that had been wrought, and letting the wretched
fellow work himself into an agony and stew in his own fat;[32] but at
last, after having kept him in this plight for the space of two hours,
she agreed to work the remedy he sought. So, having made him bend
himself down as before, she put her hand to her sharp-cutting sword and
struck off his head from his shoulders. Then she took the head in her
hand, and, having placed it upon the trunk and smeared it well with her
ointment, brought Flamminio back to his former condition.
The youth, when he perceived that he had once more become his old self,
put on his clothes; and now, having seen what a terrible thing, and by
his own experience proved what a hideous and ugly thing Death was, he
made his way back to Ostia by the shortest and the quickest way he knew
without saying any more farewell words to the old woman, occupying
himself for the future in reaching after Life and flying from Death,
devoting himself more diligently to the consideration of those matters
which he had hitherto neglected.
It now only remained that Lionora should propose her enigma, so she gave
out the following one in merry wise:
About a meadow fair and wide,
Gay decked with flowers on every side,
Three nymphs on task divine intent,
Pass to and fro, and firmly bent
To speed their work, nor night nor day
Take pause, nor rest upon their way.
One in her left the distaff plies,
Between another’s feet swift flies
The spindle, and last one doth stand
With keen-edged weapon in her hand,
And cuts in twain the fragile strand.
This enigma was very easily understood by all the company, because it
was clear that the fine and spacious meadow must be this world in which
all men dwell. The three nymphs are the three sisters, Clotho, Lachesis,
and Atropos, who by the fancy of the poets are held to represent the
beginning, the middle, and the end of our lives. Clotho, who holds the
rock, shows forth our birth; Lachesis, who spins it, the season of our
existence, and Atropos, who severs the thread just spun by Lachesis,
inevitable Death.
Already the watchful cock, bird sacred to Mercury, had given signal by
his crowing of the approaching dawn, when the Signora brought to an end
the story-telling for the night, and all the guests departed to their
own homes, pledged, however, to return on the following evening under
whatever penalty the Signora might deem fitting to inflict.
=The End of the Fourth Night.=
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=Night the Fifth.=
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
=The Fables and Enigmas of Messer Giovanni Francesco Straparola da
Caravaggio.=
=Night the Fifth.=
The sun, the glory of the smiling firmament, the measurer of our
fleeting time, and the true eye of the universe, from whom likewise the
horned moon and all the stars receive their radiance, had at last hidden
his red and burning rays beneath the waters of the sea, and the chaste
daughter of Latona, circled around by bright and beaming stars, was
already lighting up the clustering shadows of the obscure night, and the
shepherds, quitting the wide and open fields and the fresh herbage and
the cool and limpid streams, had taken their way back with their flocks
to their wonted folds, and, worn out and weary as they were, had sunk
into deep slumber on the beds of soft and yielding rushes, when the fair
and noble troop of companions, letting go thought of everything else,
hastened to the place of meeting. And when it had been signified to the
Signora that all had come, and that it was now time to recommence the
story-telling, she, escorted in courteous and reverent wise by the other
ladies, went joyful and smiling with soft and measured step to the hall
of meeting. Then having graciously greeted the company of friends with
gladsome face, she ordered them to bring out the vase of gold. In this
were put the names of five ladies, and of these the first to come out
was that of Eritrea, the second that of Alteria, the third that of
Lauretta, the fourth that of Arianna, and the last that of Cateruzza.
When this was done they all began to dance to the music of the flutes,
and to pass from one to another pleasant and loving words. Immediately
after the end of the dance, three damsels, by the leave of the Signora,
began the following song.
SONG.
Madonna, when the springs of passion rise,
And through thy fair sweet bosom surge and swell;
And in those lucent sacred eyes,
Which tell me I may live, and eke my death may tell;
From those gracious looks and kind,
A gracious hope my longings find.
Now calm, and now spurred on by rage,
With hope and fear a fight I wage;
Eftsoons my hope the vantage gains,
And I am rid of all my pains,
And know no stroke of fate can lure,
Or drive me from my course secure.
Wherefore I bless the passing days;
Great nature, and the stars I praise,
That thy fair self my passion fired,
Thy service sweet my song inspired.
As soon as the three damsels had brought to an end their amorous
canzonet, which seemed to break up the air around into sighs of passion,
the Signora made a sign to Eritrea, who had been chosen for the first
place this evening, that she should make a beginning of her
story-telling. The damsel, seeing that she could in no wise excuse
herself, put aside all bashfulness, and began to speak in turn that the
order which had hitherto prevailed might not be disturbed.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
THE FIRST FABLE.
=Guerrino, only son of Filippomaria, King of Sicily, sets free from
his father’s prison a certain savage man. His mother, through fear
of the king, drives her son into exile, and him the savage man,
now humanized, delivers from many and measureless ills.=
I have heard by report, and likewise gathered from my own experience,
most gracious and pleasure-loving ladies, that a kindly service done to
another (although at the time the one served may seem in no sense
grateful for the boon conferred) will more often than not come back to
the doer thereof with abundant usury of benefit. Which thing happened to
the son of a king who, having liberated from one of his father’s prisons
a wild man of the woods, was more than once rescued from a violent death
by the captive he had freed. This you will easily understand from the
fable which I intend to relate to you, and for the love I bear to all of
you I will exhort you never to be backward in aiding others; because,
even though you be not repaid by those in whose behalf you have wrought,
God Himself, the rewarder of all, will assuredly never leave your good
deed unrecompensed; nay, on the contrary, He will make you partakers
with Him of His divine grace.
Sicily, my dear ladies (as must be well known to all of you), is an
island very fertile and complete in itself, and in antiquity surpassing
all the others of which we have knowledge, abounding in towns and
villages which render it still more beautiful. In past times the lord of
this island was a certain king named Filippomaria, a man wise and
amiable and of rare virtue, who had to wife a courteous, winsome, and
lovely lady, the mother of his only son, who was called Guerrino. The
king took greater delight in following the chase than any other man in
the country, and, for the reason that he was of a strong and robust
habit of body, this diversion was well suited to him.
Now it happened one day that, as he was coming back from hunting in
company with divers of his barons and huntsmen, he saw, coming out of a
thick wood, a wild man, tall and big and so deformed and ugly that they
all looked upon him with amazement. In strength of body he seemed no
whit inferior to any of them; wherefore the king, having put himself in
fighting trim, together with two of the most valiant of his barons,
attacked him boldly, and after a long and doughty struggle overcame him
and took him a prisoner with his own hands. Then, having bound him, they
conveyed him back to the palace, and selected for him a safe lodging,
fitted for the purpose, into which they cast him, and there under strong
locks he was kept by the king’s command closely confined and guarded.
And seeing that the king set high store upon his captive, he ordained
that the keys of the prison should be held in charge by the queen, and
never a day passed when he would not for pastime go to visit him.
Before many days had gone by the king once more put himself in array for
the chase, and, having furnished himself with all the various things
which are necessary thereto, he set forth with a gallant company of
courtiers, but before he left he gave into the queen’s care the keys of
the prison. And during the time that the king was absent on his hunting
a great longing came over Guerrino, who was at that season a young lad,
to see the wild man of the woods; so having betaken himself all alone,
carrying his bow, in which he delighted greatly, to the prison grating,
the creature saw him and straightway began to converse with him in
decent orderly fashion. And while they talked thus, the wild man, who
was caressing the boy, dexterously snatched out of his hand the arrow,
which was richly ornamented. Whereupon the boy began to weep, and could
not keep back his tears, crying out that the savage ought to give him
back his arrow. But the wild man said to him: ‘If you will open the door
and let me go free from this prison I will give you back your arrow, but
if you refuse I will not let you have it.’ The boy answered, ‘How would
you that I should open the door for you and set you free, seeing that I
have not the means therefor.’ Then said the wild man, ‘If indeed you
were in the mood to release me and to let me out of this narrow cell, I
would soon teach you the way in which it might be done.’ ‘But how?’
replied Guerrino; ‘tell me the way.’ To which the wild man made answer:
‘Go to the chamber of the queen your mother, and when you see that she
is taking her midday sleep, put your hand softly under the pillow upon
which she is resting, and take therefrom the keys of the prison in such
wise that she shall not notice the theft, and bring them here and open
my prison door. When you shall have done this I will give you back your
arrow forthwith, and peradventure at some future time I may be able to
make you a return for your kindness.’
Guerrino, wishing beyond everything to get back his gilded dart, did
everything that the wild man had told him, and found the keys exactly as
he had said, and with these in his hand he returned to the prison, and
said to him: ‘Behold! here are the keys; but if I let you out of this
place you must go so far from hence that not even the scent of you may
be known, for if my father, who is a great huntsman, should find you and
capture you again, he would of a surety kill you out of hand.’ ‘Let not
that trouble you, my child,’ said the captive, ‘for as soon as ever you
shall open the prison and see me a free man, I will give you back your
arrow and will get me away into such distant parts that neither your
father nor any other man shall ever find me.’ Guerrino, who had all the
strength of a man, worked away at the door, and finally threw open the
prison, when the wild man, having given back to him his arrow and
thanked him heartily, went his way.
Now this wild man had been formerly a very handsome youth, who, through
despair at his inability to win the favour of the lady he ardently
loved, let go all dreams of love and urbane pursuits, and took up his
dwelling amongst beasts of the forest, abiding always in the gloomy
woods and bosky thickets, eating grass and drinking water after the
fashion of a brute. On this account the wretched man had become covered
with a great fell of hair; his skin was hard, his beard thick and
tangled and very long, and, through eating herbs and grass, his beard,
his hairy covering, and the hair of his head had become so green that
they were quite monstrous to behold.
As soon as ever the queen awoke from her slumbers she thrust her hand
under her pillow to seek for the keys she had put there, and, when she
found they were gone, she was terrified amain, and having turned the bed
upside down without meeting with any trace of them, she ran straightway
like one bereft of wit to the prison, which was standing open. When on
searching further she found no sign of the wild man, she was so sore
stricken with grief and fear that she was like to die, and, having
returned to the palace, she made diligent search in every corner
thereof, questioning the while now this courtier and now that as to who
the presumptuous and insolent varlet was who had been brazen enough to
lay hands upon the keys of the prison without her knowledge. To this
questioning they one and all declared that they knew nought of the
matter which thus disturbed her. And when Guerrino met his mother, and
remarked that she was almost beside herself in a fit of passion, he said
to her: ‘Mother, see that you cast no blame on any of these in respect
to the opening of the prison door, because if punishment is due to any
thereanent it is due to me, for I, and I alone, unlocked it.’ The queen,
when she heard these words, was plunged in deeper sorrow than ever,
fearing lest the king, when he should come back from his hunting, might
kill his son through sheer anger at the fault he had committed, seeing
that he had given into her charge the keys, to guard them as preciously
as her own person. Wherefore the queen in her desire to escape the
consequences of a venial mistake fell into another error far more
weighty, for without the shortest delay she summoned two of her most
trusty servants, and her son as well, and, having given to them a great
quantity of jewels and much money and divers fine horses, sent him forth
to seek his fortune, at the same time begging the servants most
earnestly to take the greatest care of Guerrino.
A very short time after the son had departed from the presence of his
mother, the king came back to the palace from following the chase, and
as soon as he had alighted from his horse he betook himself straightway
to the prison to go and see the wild man, and when he found the door
wide open and the captive gone, and no trace of him left behind, he was
forthwith inflamed with such violent anger that he determined in his
mind to cause to be slain without fail the person who had wrought such a
flagrant misdeed. And, having sought out the queen, who was sitting
overcome with grief in her chamber, he commanded her to tell him what
might be the name of the impudent, rash, and presumptuous varlet who had
been bold enough of heart to open the doors of the prison and thereby
give opportunity to the wild man of the woods to make his escape.
Whereupon the queen, in a meek and trembling voice, made answer to him:
‘O sire! be not troubled on account of this thing, for Guerrino our son
(as he himself has made confession to me) admits that he has done this.’
And then she told to the king everything that Guerrino had said to her,
and he, when he heard her story, was greatly incensed with rage. Next
she told him that, on account of the fear she felt lest he should slay
his son, she had sent the youth away into a far distant country,
accompanied by two of their most faithful servants, and carrying with
him rich store of jewels and of money sufficient to serve their needs.
The king, when he listened to this speech of the queen, felt one sorrow
heaping itself upon another, and he came within an ace of falling to the
ground or of losing his wits, and, if it had not been for the courtiers
who fell upon him and held him back, he would assuredly have slain his
unhappy queen on the spot.
Now when the poor king had in some measure recovered his composure and
calmed the fit of unbridled rage which had possessed him, he said to the
queen: ‘Alas, my wife! what fancy was this of yours which induced you to
send away into some unknown land our son, the fruit of our mutual love?
Is it possible that you imagined I should hold this wild man of greater
value than one who was my own flesh and blood?’ And without awaiting any
reply to these remarks of his, he bade a great troop of soldiers mount
their horses forthwith, and, after having divided themselves into four
companies, to make a close search and endeavour to find the prince. But
all their inquest was in vain, seeing that Guerrino and his attendants
had made their journey secretly, and had let no one know who they might
be.
Guerrino, after he had ridden far and traversed divers valleys and
mountains and rivers, making a halt now in one spot and now in another,
attained at last his sixteenth year, and so fair a youth was he by this
time that he resembled nothing so much as a fresh morning rose. But
after a short time had passed, the servants who accompanied him were
seized with the devilish thought of killing him, and then taking the
store of jewels and money and parting it amongst themselves. This wicked
plot, however, came to nought, because by the working of divine justice
they were not able to agree amongst themselves. For by good fortune it
happened that, one day while they were devising this wickedness, there
rode by a very fair and graceful youth, mounted upon a superb steed, and
accoutred with the utmost magnificence. This youth bowed and graciously
saluted Guerrino, and thus addressed him: ‘Most gracious sir, if it
should not prove distasteful to you, I would fain make my journey in
your company.’ And to this Guerrino replied: ‘Your courtesy in making
your request will not permit me to refuse it and the pleasure of your
company. Therefore I give you cordial thanks, and I beg you as a special
favour that you will accompany us on our road. We are strangers in this
country and know but little of its highways, and you may be able of your
kindness to direct our paths therein. Moreover, as we ride on together
we can discuss the various chances which have befallen us, and thus our
journey will be less irksome.’
Now this young man was no other than the wild man whom Guerrino had set
free from the prison of King Filippomaria his father. This youth, after
wandering through various countries and strange lands, met one day by
chance a very lovely and benignant fairy, who was at that time suffering
from a certain distemper. She, when she looked upon him and saw how
misshapen and hideous he was, laughed so violently at the sight of his
ugliness that she caused to burst an imposthume which had formed in the
vicinity of her heart—an ailment which might well have caused her death
by suffocation. And at that very moment she was delivered from all pain
and trouble of this infirmity, as if she had never been afflicted
therewith in the past, and restored to health. Wherefore the good fairy,
in recompense for so great a favour done to her, said to him, not
wishing to appear ungrateful to him: ‘O thou creature, who art now so
deformed and filthy, since thou hast been the means of restoring to me
my health which I so greatly desired, go thy ways, and be thou changed
from what thou art into the fairest, the wisest, and the most graceful
youth that may anywhere be found. And, besides this, I make you the
sharer with me of all the power and authority conferred upon me by
nature, whereby you will be able to do and to undo whatsoever you will
according to your desire.’ And having presented to him a noble horse
endowed with magic powers, she gave him leave to go whithersoever he
would.
Thus as Guerrino journeyed along with the young man, knowing nothing as
to who he might be, but well known of him the while, they came at last
to a mighty and strong city called Irlanda, over which at that time
ruled King Zifroi. This King Zifroi was the father of two daughters,
graceful to look upon, of modest manners, and in beauty surpassing Venus
herself, one of them named Potentiana and the other Eleuteria. They were
held so dear by the king their father that he could see by no other eyes
than theirs. As soon as Guerrino entered the city of Irlanda with the
unknown youth and with his train of servants, he hired a lodging of a
certain householder who was the wittiest fellow in the whole of Irlanda,
and who treated his guests with cheer of the best. And on the day
following, the unknown youth made believe that he must needs depart and
travel into another country, and went to take leave of Guerrino,
thanking him in hearty wise for the boon of his company and good usage,
but Guerrino, who had conceived the strongest love and friendship for
him, would on no account let him go, and showed him such strong evidence
of his good feeling that in the end the young man agreed to tarry with
him.
In the country round about Irlanda there lived at this time two very
fearful and savage animals, one of which was a wild horse, and the other
a mare of like nature, and so ferocious and cruel were these beasts that
they not only ravaged and devastated all the fair cultivated fields, but
likewise killed all the animals and the men and women dwelling therein.
And through the ruin wrought by these beasts the country had come to
such piteous condition that no one was found willing to abide there, so
that the peasants abandoned their farms and the homes which were dear to
them and betook themselves to find dwelling-places in another land. And
there was nowhere to be found any man strong and bold enough to face
them, much less to fight with them and slay them. Wherefore the king,
seeing that the whole country was being made desolate of all victuals,
and of cattle, and of human creatures, and not knowing how to devise any
remedy for this wretched pass, gave way to dolorous lamentations, and
cursed the hard and evil fortune which had befallen him. The two
servants of Guerrino, who during the journey had not been able to carry
out their wicked intent through want of concord between themselves, and
on account of the arrival of the unknown youth, now deliberated how they
might compass Guerrino’s death and remain possessors of the money and
jewels, and said one to the other: ‘Let us now see and take counsel
together how we may easiest take the life of our master.’ But not being
able to find any means thereto which seemed fitting, seeing that they
would stand in peril of losing their own lives by the law if they should
kill him, they decided to speak privily with their host and to tell him
that Guerrino was a youth of great prowess and valour; furthermore, that
he had often boasted in their presence that he would be ready to slay
this wild horse without incurring any danger to himself. Thus they
reasoned with themselves: ‘Now this saying may easily come to the ears
of the king, who, being so keenly set on the destruction of these two
animals and on safeguarding the welfare of his country, will straightway
command them to bring Guerrino before him, and will then inquire of the
youth in what manner he means to accomplish this feat. Then Guerrino,
knowing nothing what to say or to do, will at once be put to death by
the king, and we shall remain sole masters of the jewels and the money.’
And they forthwith set to work to put this wicked plan of theirs into
action.
The host, when he listened to this speech, rejoiced amain, and was as
glad as any man in all the world, and without losing a moment of time he
ran swiftly to the palace, and having knelt down before the king and
made due reverence, he said to him secretly, ‘Gracious king, I have come
to tell you that there is at present sojourning in my hostel a fair and
gallant knight errant, who is called by name Guerrino. Now whilst I was
confabulating about divers matters with his servants they told me,
amongst other things, how their master was a man of great prowess and
well skilled in the use and practice of arms, and that in this our time
one might search in vain to find another who could be compared with him.
Moreover, they had many and many a time heard him boast that of his
strength and valour he could without difficulty overcome and slay the
wild horse which is working such dire loss and damage to your kingdom.’
When King Zifroi heard these words he immediately gave command that
Guerrino should be brought before him. Whereupon the innkeeper, obedient
to the word of the king, returned at once to his inn and said to
Guerrino that he was to betake himself alone into the presence of the
king, who greatly desired to speak with him. When Guerrino heard this he
went straightway to the palace and presented himself to the king, and
after saluting him with becoming reverence begged to be told for what
reason he had been honoured with the royal commands. To this Zifroi the
king made answer: ‘Guerrino, the reason which has induced me to send for
you is that I have heard you are a knight of great valour, and one
excelling all the other knights now alive in the world. They tell me,
too, that you have many and many a time declared that you are strong and
valorous enough to overcome and slay the wild horse which is working
such cruel ruin and devastation to this my kingdom, without risk of hurt
to yourself or to others. If you can pluck up courage enough to make
trial of an emprise so full of honour as this, and prove yourself a
conqueror, I promise you by this head of mine to bestow upon you a gift
which will make you a happy man for the rest of your days.’
Guerrino, when he heard this proposition of the king, so grave and
weighty, was mightily amazed, and at once denied that he had ever spoken
such words as had been attributed to him. The king, who was greatly
disconcerted at this answer of Guerrino, thus addressed him: ‘Guerrino,
it is my will that you should without delay undertake this task, and be
sure if you refuse and fail to comply with my wishes I will take away
your life.’ The king, having thus spoken, dismissed from his presence
Guerrino, who returned to his inn overwhelmed with deep sorrow, which he
did not dare to disclose to anyone. Whereupon the unknown youth, marking
that Guerrino, contrary to his wont, was plunged in melancholy, inquired
the reason why he was so sad and full of grief. Then Guerrino, on
account of the brotherly love subsisting between them, and finding
himself unable to refuse this just and kindly request, told him word for
word everything that had happened to him. As soon as the unknown youth
heard this, he said, ‘Be of good cheer, and put aside all doubts and
fears, for I will point out to you a way by which you will save your
life, and be a conqueror in your enterprise, and fulfil the wishes of
the king. Return, therefore, to the king, and beg of him to grant you
the services of a skilful blacksmith. Then order this smith to make for
you four horseshoes, which must be thicker and broader by the breadth of
two fingers than the ordinary measure of horseshoes, well roughed, and
each one to be fitted behind with two spikes of a finger’s length and
sharpened to a point. And when these shoes are prepared, you must have
my horse, which is enchanted, shod therewith, and then you need have no
further fear of anything.’
Guerrino, after he had heard these words, returned to the presence of
the king, and told him everything as the young man had directed him. The
king then caused to be brought before him a well-skilled marshal smith,
to whom he gave orders that he should carry out whatever work Guerrino
might require of him. When they had gone to the smith’s forge, Guerrino
instructed him how to make the four horseshoes according to the words of
the young stranger, but when the smith understood in what fashion he was
required to make these shoes, he mocked at Guerrino, and treated him
like a madman, for this way of making shoes was quite strange and
unknown to him. When Guerrino saw that the marshal smith was inclined to
mock him, and unwilling to serve him as he had been ordered, he went
once more to the king, and complained that the smith would not carry out
his directions. Wherefore the king bade them bring the marshal before
him, and gave him express command that, under pain of his highest
displeasure, he should at once carry out the duties which had been
imposed upon him, or, failing this, he himself should forthwith make
ready to carry out the perilous task which had been assigned to
Guerrino. The smith, thus hard pressed by the orders of the king, made
the horseshoes in the way described by Guerrino, and shod the horse
therewith.
When the horse was thus shod and well-accoutred with everything that was
necessary for the enterprise, the young stranger addressed Guerrino in
these words: ‘Now mount quickly this my horse, and go in peace, and as
soon as you shall hear the neighing of the wild horse dismount at once,
and, having taken off from him his saddle and his bridle, let him range
at will. You yourself climb up into a high tree, and there await the
issue of the enterprise.’ Guerrino, having been fully instructed by his
dear companion in all that he ought to do, took his leave, and departed
with a light heart.
Already the glorious news had been spread abroad through all the parts
of Irlanda how a valiant and handsome young knight had undertaken to
subjugate and capture the wild horse and to present him to the king, and
for this reason everyone in the city, men and women alike, all flew to
their windows to see him go by on his perilous errand. When they marked
how handsome and young and gallant he was, their hearts were moved to
pity on his account, and they said one to another, ‘Ah, the poor youth!
with what a willing spirit he goes to his death. Of a surety it is a
piteous thing that so valiant a youth should thus wretchedly perish.’
And they could none of them keep back their tears on account of the
compassion they felt.
But Guerrino, full of manly boldness, went on his way blithely, and when
he had come to the spot where the wild horse was wont to abide, and
heard the sound of his neigh, he got down from his own horse, and having
taken the saddle and bridle therefrom he let him go free, and himself
climbed up into the branches of a great oak, and there awaited the
fierce and bloody contest.
Scarcely had Guerrino climbed up into the tree when the wild horse
appeared and forthwith attacked the fairy horse, and then the two beasts
engaged in the fiercest struggle that the world had ever seen, for they
rushed at one another as if they had been two unchained lions, and they
foamed at the mouth as if they had been bristly wildboars pursued by
savage and eager hounds. Then, after they had fought for some time with
the greatest fury, the fairy horse dealt the wild horse two kicks full
on the jaw, which was put out of joint thereby; wherefore the wild horse
was at once disabled, and could no longer either fight or defend
himself. When Guerrino saw this he rejoiced greatly, and having come
down from the oak, he took a halter which he had brought with him and
secured the wild horse therewith, and led him with his dislocated jaw
back to the city, where he was welcomed by all the people with the
greatest joy. According to his promise he presented the horse to the
king, who, together with all the inhabitants of the city, held high
festival, and rejoiced amain over the gallant deed wrought by Guerrino.
But the servants of Guerrino were greatly overcome with grief and
confusion, inasmuch as their evil designs had miscarried; wherefore,
inflamed with rage and hatred, they once more let it come to the hearing
of King Zifroi that Guerrino had vaunted that he could with the greatest
ease kill the wild mare also whenever it might please him. When the king
heard this he laid exactly the same commands on Guerrino as he had done
in the matter of the horse, and because the youth refused to undertake
this task, which appeared to him impossible, the king threatened to have
him hung up by one foot as a rebel against his crown. After Guerrino had
returned to his inn, he told everything to his unknown companion, who
smilingly said: ‘My good brother, fret not yourself because of this, but
go and find the marshal smith, and command him to make for you four more
horseshoes, as big again as the last, and see that they are duly
furnished with good sharp spikes. Then you must follow exactly the same
course as you took with the horse, and you will return here covered with
greater honour than ever.’ When therefore he had commanded to be made
the sharply-spiked horseshoes, and had caused the valiant fairy horse to
be shod therewith, he set forth on his gallant enterprise.
As soon as Guerrino had come to the spot where the wild mare was wont to
graze, and heard her neighing, he did everything exactly in the same
manner as before, and when he had set free the fairy horse, the mare
came towards it and attacked it with such fierce and terrible biting
that it could with difficulty defend itself against such an attack. But
it bore the assault valiantly, and at last succeeded in planting so
sharp and dexterous a kick on the mare that she was lamed in her right
leg, whereupon Guerrino came down from the high tree into which he had
climbed, and having captured her, bound her securely. Then he mounted
his own horse and rode back to the palace, where he presented the wild
mare to the king, amidst the rejoicings and acclamations of all the
people. And everyone, attracted by wonderment and curiosity, ran to see
this wild beast, which, on account of the grave injuries she had
received in the fight, soon died. And by these means the country was
freed from the great plague which had for so long a time vexed it.
Now when Guerrino had returned to his hostel, and had betaken himself to
repose somewhat on account of the weariness which had come over him, he
found that he was unable to get any sleep by reason of a strange noise
which he heard somewhere in the chamber. Wherefore, having risen from
his couch, he perceived that there was something, I know not what,
beating about inside a pot of honey, and not able to get out. So
Guerrino opened the honey-pot, and saw within a large hornet, which was
struggling with its wings without being able to free itself from the
honey around it. Moved by pity, he took hold of the insect and let it go
free.
Now Zifroi the king had as yet given to Guerrino no reward for the two
valiant deeds which he had wrought, but he was conscious in his heart
that he would be acting in a very base fashion were he to leave such
great valour without a rich guerdon, so he caused Guerrino to be called
into his presence, and thus addressed him: ‘Guerrino, by your noble
deeds the whole of my kingdom is now free from the scourge, therefore I
intend to reward you for the great benefits you have wrought in our
behalf; but as I can conceive of no other gift which would be worthy and
sufficient for your merits, I have determined to give you one of my two
daughters to wife. But you must know that of these two sisters one is
called Potentiana, and she has hair braided in such marvellous wise that
it shines like golden coils. The other is called Eleuteria, and her
tresses are of such texture that they flash brightly like the finest
silver. Now if you can guess—the maidens being closely veiled the
while—which is she of the golden tresses, I will give her to you as your
wife, together with a mighty dowry of money; but if you fail in this, I
will have your head struck off your shoulders.’
Guerrino, when he heard this cruel ordeal which was proposed by Zifroi
the king, was mightily amazed, and turning to him spake thus: ‘O
gracious sovereign! Is this a worthy guerdon for all the perils and
fatigues I have undergone? Is this a reward for the strength I have
spent on your behalf? Is this the gratitude you give me for having
delivered your country from the scourge by which it was of late laid
desolate? Alas! I did not merit this return, which of a truth is not a
deed worthy of such a mighty king as yourself. But since this is your
pleasure and I am helpless in your hands, you must do with me what
pleases you best.’ ‘Now go,’ said Zifroi, ‘and tarry no longer in my
presence. I give you till to-morrow to come to a decision.’
When Guerrino went out of the king’s presence full of sadness, he sought
his dear companion, and repeated to him everything that the king had
said. The unknown youth when he heard this seemed but little troubled
thereanent, and said: ‘Guerrino, be of good cheer, and do not despair,
for I will deliver you from this great danger. Remember how a few days
ago you set free the hornet which you found with its wings entangled in
the honey. Now this same hornet will be the means of saving you, for
to-morrow, after the dinner at the palace, when you are put to the test,
it will fly three times buzzing and humming round the head of her with
the golden hair, and she with her white hands will drive it away. And
you, when you shall have marked her do this action three times, may know
for certain that this is she who is to be your wife.’ ‘Ah me!’ cried
Guerrino to his companion, ‘when will the time come when I shall be able
to make you some repayment for all the kind offices you have done me?
Certes, were I to live for a thousand years, I should never have it in
my power to recompense you the very smallest portion thereof. But that
one, who is the rewarder of all, will in this matter make up for me in
that respect in which I am wanting.’ To this speech of Guerrino his
companion made answer: ‘Guerrino, my brother, there is in sooth no need
for you to trouble yourself about making any return to me for the
services I may have wrought you, but assuredly it is now full time that
I should reveal to you, and that you should know clearly who I am. For
in the same fashion as you delivered me from death, I on my part have
desired to render to you the recompense you deserve so highly at my
hands. Know, then, that I am the wild man of the woods whom you, with
such loving compassion, set free from the prison-house of the king your
father, and that I am called by name Rubinetto.’ And then he went on to
tell Guerrino by what means the fairy had brought him back into his
former state of a fair young man. Guerrino, when he heard these words,
stood like one bemused, and out of the great tenderness and pity he had
in his heart he embraced Rubinetto, weeping the while, and kissed him,
and claimed him as his own brother.
And forasmuch as the day was now approaching for Guerrino to solve the
question to be set to him by King Zifroi, the two repaired to the
palace, whereupon the king gave order that his two beloved daughters,
Potentiana and Eleuteria, should be brought into the presence of
Guerrino covered from head to foot with white veils, and this was
straightway done. When the two daughters had come in so much alike in
seeming that it was impossible to tell the one from the other, the king
said: ‘Now which of these two, Guerrino, do you will that I should give
you to wife?’ But Guerrino stood still in a state of doubt and
hesitation, and answered nothing, but the king, who was mightily curious
to see how the matter would end, pressed him amain to speak, crying out
that time was flying, and that it behoved him to give his answer at
once. To this Guerrino made answer: ‘Most sacred majesty, time forsooth
may be flying, but the end is not yet come to this day, which is the
limit you have given me for my decision.’ And all those standing by
affirmed that Guerrino only claimed his right.
When, therefore, the king and Guerrino and all the others had stood for
a long time in expectation, behold! there suddenly appeared a hornet,
which at once began to fly and buzz round the head and the fair face of
Potentiana of the golden hair. And she, as if she were afeared of the
thing, raised her hand to drive it away, and when she had done this
three times the hornet flew away out of sight. But even after this sign
Guerrino remained uncertain for a short time, although he had full faith
in the words of Rubinetto, his well-beloved companion. Then said the
king, ‘How now, Guerrino, what do you say? The time has now come when
you must put an end to this delay, and make up your mind.’ And Guerrino,
having looked well first at one and then at the other of the maidens,
put his hand on the head of Potentiana, who had been pointed out to him
by the hornet, and said, ‘Gracious king, this one is your daughter of
the golden tresses.’ And when the maiden had raised her veil it was
clearly proved that it was indeed she, greatly to the joy of all those
who were present, and to the satisfaction of the people of the city. And
Zifroi the king gave her to Guerrino as his wife, and they did not
depart thence until Rubinetto had wedded the other sister. After this
Guerrino declared himself to be the son of Filippomaria, King of Sicily,
hearing which Zifroi was greatly rejoiced, and caused the marriages to
be celebrated with the greatest pomp and magnificence.
[Illustration: Golden Hair]
When this news came to the father and the mother of Guerrino they felt
the greatest joy and contentment, seeing that they had by this time
given up their son as lost. When he returned to Sicily with his dear
wife and his well-loved brother and sister-in-law, they all received a
gracious and loving welcome from his father and mother, and they lived a
long time in peace and happiness, and he left behind him fair children
as the heirs to his kingdom.
This touching story told by Eritrea won the highest praise of all the
hearers, and she, when she saw that all were silent, proposed her enigma
in the following words:
A cruel beast of nature dread
From out a tiny germ is bred.
In hate all beings else it holds,
And each one trembles who beholds
Its form of fear. Death all around
It spreads, and oft itself is found
The victim of its fatal rage,
And war on all the world will wage.
Beneath its breath the trees decay,
The living plants will fade away.
A beast more cruel, fierce, and fell,
Ne’er rose from out the pit of hell.
When the enigma set to the worshipful company by the clever damsel had
been considered and highly praised by everyone, some found one solution
therefor and some another, but not one of them gave the one which
rightly explained its meaning. Wherefore Eritrea, seeing that her riddle
had not been understood, said, “It seems to me that the cruel animal I
have described cannot be anything else than the basilisk, which hates
all other living beasts in the world, and slays them with its sharp and
piercing glances. And if peradventure it should chance to see its own
form mirrored anywhere, it straightway dies.” When Eritrea had come to
the end of the interpretation of her enigma, the Signor Evangelist,[33]
who sat by her side, said to her smiling: “Of a truth you yourself are
this basilisk, signora, for with your beautiful eyes you bring soft
death to all those who gaze upon you.” But Eritrea, with her cheeks
suffused with the lovely tint of nature, answered nought. Alteria sat
near by, and, as soon as she perceived that the enigma was now
completed, having been highly praised by all, she called to mind that it
was now her turn to tell a story according to the Signora’s pleasure, so
she began in the following wise a fable which proved in the end to be
fully as mirthful as it was commendable.
THE SECOND FABLE.
=Adamantina, the daughter of Bagolana Savonese, by working of a
certain doll becomes the wife of Drusiano, King of Bohemia.=
So powerful, so commanding, so subtle is the wit of man that without
doubt it may be held to overtop and to exceed every other human force to
be found in the world; wherefore it has been said, not without just
cause, that the wise man is the governor of the stars. This saying
recalls to my memory a fable, by the telling of which I hope to make
quite clear to you how a young girl, of mean estate and very poor, was
succoured by fortune, and in the end became the wife of a mighty king.
Although my fable will be very short, it may, if I mistake not, be found
to be none the less pleasing and diverting on that account. I beg you
therefore to lend me your ears attentively, and listen to me, as
hitherto you have listened to our very worthy associates, who, of a
surety, have merited from you praise rather than blame.
In the country of Bohemia, dear ladies, there lived not a long time ago
a little old woman known by the name of Bagolana Savonese, miserably
poor in her way of life, and the mother of two daughters, one of whom
was called Cassandra and the other Adamantina. Now this woman, though
she had scarce anything to call her own, was anxious to set her affairs
in order, so that she might die in peace, and as the whole of the wealth
that she had to dispose of in her house and out of it consisted of a
small coffer filled with tow, she made her will and gave this coffer and
what it contained to her two daughters, begging them at the same time to
live peacefully together after she should be dead.
These two sisters, though they were very poor in any of the endowments
of fortune, were by no means wanting in mental gifts, so that in all
virtues and in righteous behaviour they were no whit inferior to other
women. After the old woman was dead and her body had been buried,
Cassandra, who was the elder sister of the two, took a pound of the tow
and sat down and began to spin the same with great care, and, as soon as
she had spun it, she gave the thread she had made to Adamantina, her
younger sister, bidding her to take it out into the piazza and to sell
it, and with the proceeds of the sale to purchase some bread wherewith
they might keep themselves alive. Thereupon Adamantina took the thread,
and, having put it under her arm, she went her way into the piazza to
sell her wares, according to the commandment of her sister Cassandra;
but, as chance would have it, what she did ran entirely counter to her
own wishes and to those of her sister, for as she was walking in the
piazza she happened to meet there an old woman who was carrying in her
apron the most beautiful and most perfectly made doll that had ever been
seen. So much indeed was Adamantina’s fancy taken by the doll that,
after she had looked at it and feasted her eyes upon it, her thoughts
were more occupied in considering how she might become the owner
thereof, than how she should dispose of her yarn. Therefore Adamantina,
letting her thoughts run on in this wise, and not knowing how to get
possession of the doll by anything she might say or do, made up her mind
at last to tempt fortune and to see whether she could not obtain the
doll through exchange. So having gone up to the old woman she spake
thus: ‘Good mother, if it seem a fair thing to you, I will gladly give
you this thread of mine in barter for your doll.’ The old woman, when
she saw that this fine handsome young girl was so eager to have the doll
for her own, was not disposed to baulk her fancy; so, having taken the
thread, she handed the doll over to Adamantina.
As soon as the girl could call the doll her own, she went back to her
home as joyous and content as anyone in all the world, and her sister
Cassandra, when she saw her, at once inquired of her whether she had
sold the yarn. To this Adamantina replied that she had sold it. ‘But
where is the bread which you have bought with the price you got for the
thread?’ inquired Cassandra. Then Adamantina opened wide the apron she
was wearing and showed Cassandra the doll which she had got by barter of
her own ware. Cassandra, who was sorely hungry and eager for the bread,
when she saw the doll was filled with such violent anger and indignation
that she seized Adamantina by the hair of her head, and belaboured her
so grievously with cuffs and blows that the unfortunate girl could
scarcely move. Adamantina took the blows with patience, and, without
making any attempt to defend herself, she went away and hid herself in
another room, taking her doll with her.
When the evening had come Adamantina, according to the habit of young
girls, sat down by the fireside, and, having taken some oil out of the
lamp, she anointed therewith the doll’s stomach and loins. Then she
wrapped the doll carefully in some bits of tattered cloth, and placed it
in her own bed, and a very short time afterwards she went to bed herself
and lay down beside the doll. Scarcely had Adamantina fallen into her
first sleep when the doll began to cry out: ‘The stool, mother, the
stool.’ Whereupon Adamantina, wakening from her sleep, said: ‘What is
the matter with you, my daughter?’ and to this the doll replied in the
same words as before. Then Adamantina said: ‘Wait a little, my
daughter;’ and she straightway arose and ministered to the doll as if it
had been a young child, and to her amazement she found that the doll
filled the stool with a great quantity of coins of all sorts.
As soon as Adamantina saw what had happened she straightway awakened her
sister Cassandra and showed her the money which had come to her in this
strange fashion. Cassandra, when she marked what a great sum of money
was there, stood as one stricken with wonder, and rendered hearty thanks
to God for sending them such welcome succour in their want and misery,
and, turning to Adamantina, she begged pardon of her for the blows which
she had so cruelly and unjustly given to her, and she took the doll and
caressed it tenderly and kissed it, holding it closely in her arms. And
when the next day had come, the two sisters took of the money and
purchased therewith bread and wine and oil and wood, and all other sorts
of provisions which are suitable to a well-ordered house, taking care
every evening to anoint the stomach of the doll with oil, and to wrap it
in a piece of the finest linen, and the doll on its part never failed to
supply them with money in abundance whenever they had need thereof.
It chanced on a certain day that one of their neighbours, having gone
into the house of the two sisters, remarked that their home was well
furnished with all the necessaries of life in great abundance, and on
this account began to wonder how it was that they could have become rich
in so short a time, remembering, moreover, how miserably poor they had
been hitherto, and knowing full well that no one could say otherwise
than that they were honest and upright in all their ways. Wherefore the
neighbour, having given the matter due consideration, determined to find
out the source from which they might have gathered such gain; so having
betaken herself once more to the house of the two sisters, she thus
addressed them: ‘My daughters, I beg you to tell me by what means you
have been able to furnish your house so plentifully, seeing that but
yesterday you were in sore poverty.’ To this question Cassandra, the
elder sister, made reply: ‘Good neighbour, we have done all this by the
means of a single pound of flaxen yarn, which we gave in exchange for a
doll, and this doll gives us money in abundance, and supplies us with
everything we need.’ The neighbour, when she heard these words, was
greatly disturbed in her mind, and was so filled with envy of the good
fortune which had befallen the girls that she determined to steal the
doll. As soon as she returned to her house, she told her husband how the
two sisters had a certain doll which every night was accustomed to give
them great store of gold and silver, and that she had made up her mind
to steal the doll from them come what might.
Now although the husband made mock of his wife’s words at first, she
went on telling her story with such a show of reason that in the end she
convinced him that it was nought but the truth. But he said to his wife:
‘And how do you mean to steal it?’ To this the good woman made answer:
‘To-night you must feign to be drunk, and, having caught up your sword,
you must run after me threatening to take my life, but at the same time
only striking the wall. And I, pretending to be in great terror of you,
will run out of the house into the street, and the two sisters, who are
kindly and compassionate by nature, will assuredly open their door to
me, and take me in and shelter me. I will stay there for the night, and
will do the best I can for the furtherance of my plan.’
And when the evening had come, the husband of this good dame took a
rusty old sword of his, and, laying about with it now against this wall
and now against that, ran after his wife, who, screaming and crying with
a loud voice, fled out of the house. The two sisters, when they heard
this hurlyburly, ran to look out into the street to see what might be
the cause thereof, whereupon they recognized the voice of their
neighbour, who was screaming lustily. They at once rushed away from the
window, and ran down to the door giving on to the street, and having
opened this they pulled her into the house. The good woman, when she had
been questioned by them for what reason her husband had pursued and
assaulted her with such anger, thus made reply: ‘This evening he came
home so dazed with wine-bibbing that he wots not anything that he does.
And only for the reason that I reproved him on account of his
drunkenness, he seized his sword and ran after me threatening to kill
me; but as I am more nimble and swift of foot than he, I was only too
ready to get out of his way, so as to keep him from working some
scandalous deed, and here I am in your charge.’ When they heard these
words both the sisters said: ‘You did well, my mother, and you must
assuredly bide this night with us, lest you should fall into some fresh
danger of your life, and in the meantime your husband’s drunken humour
will dissipate itself.’ And when they had prepared the supper they all
sat down together.
Adamantina, when she went to bed, anointed the doll according to her
wont, and afterwards at the same hour of the night the doll cried out as
before, and Adamantina, when she had attended to its wants, found that a
large quantity of money had come from the doll in the same marvellous
wise as before. The good woman who had sought refuge with the sisters
was mightily astonished at what she saw, and every hour which must pass
until she could steal the doll, and work this miracle for her own
benefit, seemed a thousand years.
When the morning had come the good woman rose secretly from her bed,
leaving the two sisters still sleeping, and stole the doll from
Adamantina’s side without letting the girl know aught of the theft. Then
having aroused the girls she begged leave of them to return to her home,
affirming that by this time her husband would doubtlessly have got rid
of the fumes of the wine with which he had so inordinately filled
himself. Therefore, when she had returned to her home, she said to her
husband, with a joyful face: ‘My husband, we have at last alighted upon
our good fortune, for see, here is the doll I told you about, which can
work such wonders.’ And one hour seemed a thousand years till the night
should come, and she should be able to work the charm that would make
her a rich woman. And when the night had fallen the woman took the doll,
and, having lighted a good fire in her chamber, she anointed with oil
the stomach and loins of the doll, and wrapped it carefully in child’s
clouts. Then, having taken off her own clothes, she got into bed and
placed it by her side.
After the first sleep of the night was over the doll woke up and cried
out: ‘The stool, madonna, the stool!’ (it did not call her mother,
inasmuch as it did not know who she was), and the good woman, who was
anxiously awaiting the result which was to follow, rose from her bed and
attended to the doll as if it had been a young child; but this time it
happened that, in lieu of coins of gold and silver, the doll filled the
chamber with so offensive a smell that the good woman was fain to get as
far away from it as she could. The husband, when he perceived what had
happened, said to her: ‘See, fool that you are, what a pretty trick this
doll has played you, and I myself am just as big a fool for having lent
an ear to such crazy trash.’ But the wife, waxing angry with her husband
on account of these reproaches, affirmed with many an oath that she had
seen with her own eyes the vast quantity of money that the doll had
given to the two sisters. However, seeing that she was mightily anxious
to make a fresh experiment on the following night, the husband, who was
in no humour to face again the discomfort he had lately felt, began to
abuse her roundly, and launched against her the most opprobrious
speeches that ever man applied to woman. Not content with this, he
seized the doll in his hand, and having opened the window, he hurled it
out into the street, letting it fall upon a heap of sweepings which lay
below. Soon after he had done this, it happened that some peasants who
tilled the ground outside the city loaded on their cart this heap of
refuse, and without knowing what they did loaded up the doll likewise,
and when they had filled their cart they returned to the country, and
spread the load of sweepings over their fields in order to enrich the
soil.
Not many days after this, it chanced that Drusiano the king, who had
gone out into the country to seek diversion in the chase, was seized
with a sharp pain of his intestines, and forthwith sought relief of the
same by the remedy of nature, but not having upon him wherewith to
accommodate himself afterwards, he called to him one of his servants and
charged him to go search for something which might serve his ends.
Whereupon the servant went towards the manure heap which the peasants
aforesaid had collected, to see whether he might be able to find
anything which would be suitable for the purpose, and, looking now on
this side and now on that, his eye fell upon the doll, and having picked
it up, he bore it at once to the king, who, without any fear or
suspicion, took hold of it and proceeded to apply it to the use for
which he wanted it. But the next moment the king broke out into loud
cries and bellowings of pain, for the doll had seized upon his hinder
parts with its teeth, and held on thereto with so tight a grip that he
screamed out with agony at the top of his voice. And when those of his
train heard these terrible cries, they forthwith all ran towards the
king to lend him their aid. Seeing him lying on the ground more dead
than alive, they were hugely astonished to find that he was suffering
pain on account of the doll which had fastened on to him, and they began
at once with their united strength to try to disengage it from his
hinder parts; but all their strivings were in vain, for the more
violently they tugged to get the thing away, the greater torment it
inflicted on the poor king, and there was not one of them who could
disturb its hold, much less make it let go. And now and again the doll
would claw him with its sharp fingers so grievously that he seemed to
see all the stars of the firmament, although it was yet high noon.
When the unfortunate king had returned to his palace with the doll still
hanging on to him, and was still unable to find any means of getting rid
of his plague, he caused to be put forth a proclamation declaring that
any man, no matter what his condition might be, who should have the wit
and courage to remove the doll should be rewarded by a gift of one third
part of the king’s dominions, and if it should chance that any maiden
might be found able to perform this work he would take her for his
beloved wife. And in addition to this King Drusiano swore by his crown,
and bound himself by the most solemn oaths to keep every promise he had
made in the proclamation above named. As soon as the king’s proclamation
was made public, a vast crowd of people repaired to the palace in the
hope of obtaining the promised reward, but to not one of them was
granted the good fortune of being able to rid the king of his trouble;
on the contrary, as soon as anyone chanced to come near the king the
doll tormented him more grievously than ever, so the wretched Drusiano,
thus cruelly vexed and tortured, and unable to light upon any remedy for
his strange and incomprehensible affliction, lay there almost as if he
were a dead man.
Cassandra and Adamantina, who in the meantime had shed many tears over
the loss of their doll, as soon as they heard the terms of the
proclamation which had been issued, went straightway to the palace and
presented themselves before the king. Then Cassandra, who was the elder
of the two, began at once to fondle and caress the doll with signs of
the greatest affection, but thereupon, so far from loosening its hold,
it only vexed the poor king yet more sorely with its teeth and claws.
Then Adamantina, who stood somewhat apart from the others, now came
forward and said: ‘Gracious king! I beg you that you will now suffer me
to try my fortune in ridding you of this ill,’ and, having gone close to
the doll, she spake thus: ‘Ah, my child! leave my lord the king in peace
now, and do not torment him any longer.’ And with these words she took
hold of it by its clothes, and began to fondle and caress it. The doll,
as soon as it recognized its own little mother, who had been in the
habit of tending and caring for it, at once let go its hold on the
king’s person and sprang into Adamantina’s arms. And when Drusiano
perceived what was done, he was utterly astonished and amazed, and
forthwith lay down to get some repose, for during many and many nights
and days he had not been able to find either rest or peace on account of
the sharp agony he had undergone.
When King Drusiano was at length healed of the ills that had befallen
him on account of the biting of the doll, in order that he might not
fail in the fulfilment of the promise he had made, he caused Adamantina
to be brought into his presence, and, seeing that she was a fair and
graceful young maiden, he married her in the presence of all his people.
A short time afterwards he honourably bestowed her elder sister
Cassandra in marriage with sumptuous feastings and triumphs, and they
all lived long together in peace and happiness.
The doll, when it saw how both of the sisters had been so honourably and
richly married, and how everything had come to a happy issue, suddenly
disappeared, and whither it went and what became of it no man ever knew.
But in my opinion it merely disappeared after the common fashion of
phantoms.
The fable told by Alteria, which here came to an end, gave great
pleasure to all the company, and the laughter was loud and long as they
recalled to mind the beneficent ways and habits of the doll, and in what
fashion the thing hung with its teeth and its claws upon the hinder
parts of the king. And when the laughter had somewhat abated, the
Signora at once gave the word to Alteria to follow the customary rule
and propound her enigma, which the damsel gave in the following words,
smiling pleasantly the while:
Just a span in length is he,
And plump in form in due degree.
Full of eagerness and pride,
And ready aye with men to bide.
Very fair his seeming shows;
Capote red he wears and hose;
Bells also. A thing of pleasure
To those who love him in due measure.
As soon as Alteria had spoken the last word of her gracefully turned and
difficult enigma, the Signora, who by this time had put off her kindly
mood and was casting angry looks upon the damsel, cried out that it was
most unseemly to speak such immodest words to the ears of honest women
in her presence, and that for the future she must be careful not to
trespass in like manner. Whereupon Alteria, blushing somewhat, rose from
her seat, and having turned her bright face towards the Signora, spake
thus: “Signora, of a truth the enigma which I have just proposed is not
in any way immodest as you seem to believe, and this I shall make quite
clear to you by giving you the real interpretation thereof, which I will
straightway make known to you and to the rest of my gracious hearers.
For be it understood my enigma signifies nothing else except the falcon,
which is a bird at once tractable and bold, and comes readily to the
falconer’s call. It wears on its feet jesses and bells, and it will give
great pleasure and diversion to anyone who goes out fowling therewith.”
When the real interpretation of this clever riddle, which had been set
down by the Signora as being unseemly, had been given, all the listeners
praised it heartily, and the Signora, having by this time laid aside
every sinister imagining she had harboured concerning Alteria’s riddle,
turned her face towards Lauretta and made a sign to her that she should
approach her, and the damsel at once came in obedience to the command.
And because Lauretta stood next in turn to follow with her fable, the
Signora thus addressed her: “It is my wish that you refrain for a while
from telling us your story, and that you should instead listen to that
which the others may say. It is not because I hold you in light esteem
that I speak thus to you, or rate your powers less than those of your
companions, but in order that we may be entertained this evening in a
fashion that is beyond our wont.” To this Lauretta made reply: “Signora,
any word of yours is to me as a command,” and having made a profound
obeisance to the Signora she went back to her place.
Then the Signora, turning an earnest gaze upon Molino’s face, made a
sign to him thus with her hand to bid him come to her, whereupon he got
up quickly from his seat and went most respectfully towards her. To him
she spake in these words: “Signor Antonio, this last evening of the week
is for us a special time, a season of privilege for anyone to say
whatsoever he may wish to say, so for my own pleasure and for the
pleasure of this honourable company, I would that you yourself should
relate to us a fable in your best and happiest vein and manner, and I
further beg you that you will tell us this story in the speech of
Bergamo. And if—as I hope you will—you grant us this favour, we shall
all of us be held by a lasting obligation to you.” Molino, when he
rightly understood the Signora’s speech, stood at first as one
confounded, but when he realized that he had sailed up to a point he
could not weather, he said: “Signora, it is for you to command and for
us to obey, but I would warn you not to expect from me aught that shall
give you any great pleasure, seeing that the illustrious damsels I see
around me have brought the art of story-telling to such a high pitch of
excellence that there is little or no chance for one like me to
contribute aught to our diversion. Nevertheless, such as I am, I will do
my best to give you satisfaction, not, indeed, so great as you wish, or
as I would, but according to the measure of my humble powers.” And
having thus spoken, Molino went back to his seat and began his story in
the following words.
THE THIRD FABLE.
=Bertholdo of Valsabbia has three sons, all of them hunchbacks and
much alike in seeming. One of them, called Zambo, goes out into
the world to seek his fortune, and arrives at Rome, where he is
killed and thrown into the Tiber, together with his two
brothers.[34]=
It is indeed hard, sweet ladies and gracious Signora! hard, indeed, I
say it is, to kick against the pricks, for the kick of an ass is a cruel
thing; but still more cruel is the kick of a horse, and for this reason,
since fortune has willed it that I should undertake to tell a tale, I
had best obey; for patience beatifies us, but obstinacy damns us, and,
should we prove obstinate, we go straight to the devil. So if it should
chance that I tell you something which may prove in no wise to your
taste, do not give the blame to me, but to the Signora over yonder who
has thus willed it.
It often happens that a man goes a-seeking that which he had better
leave alone, and in consequence not seldom lights upon certain things
which he never looked to find, and in the end will be left with his hand
full of flies.[35] Thus, indeed, it happened some time ago to Zambo, the
son of Bertholdo of Valsabbia, who sought to dupe two of his brothers,
but by his brothers was himself duped. True it is that in the end they
all three died miserably, as you will hear if you will lend me your
ears, and with your minds and your understandings listen to the story
which I am now about to relate.
I must tell you, therefore, that Bertholdo of Valsabbia, in the province
of Bergamo, had three sons, all three hunchbacks, and all resembling
each other so closely that it was impossible to tell the one from the
other; they might, indeed, have been likened to three shrivelled
pumpkins.[36] One of these sons was called Zambo, another Bertaz, and
the third Santì; and Zambo, who was the eldest, had not yet attained his
sixteenth year. It came one day to Zambo’s ears that Bertholdo his
father, by reason of the great dearth there was in the parts round about
and in all the rest of the land besides, wished to sell for the sake of
his family the small property which was his patrimony (in sooth, there
were few or none to be found in that country who had any belongings of
their own); wherefore Zambo, addressing himself to Bertaz and Santì, his
younger brothers, spoke to them as an elder brother in the following
words: ‘It would surely be a wiser plan, my dear brothers, that our
father should retain the little bit of property which we happen to have,
so that after his death we may have something whereby to gain a
sustenance, and that you should go out into the world and try to earn
something upon which we may keep up our house. I, in the meantime, will
remain at home with the old man, taking good care of him, and thus we
shall have no need to waste our substance, and by such management may be
able to tide over the season of scarcity.’
Bertaz and Santì, the younger brothers, who were no less crafty and
cunning than Zambo, at once made answer to their brother: ‘Zambo, dear
brother that you are, you spring a surprise upon us somewhat suddenly,
and question us in such wise that we scarcely know how to answer you.
Give us thinking time for this one night; then we will consider the
matter, and to-morrow will let you have our reply.’
The two brothers, Bertaz and Santì, had been brought forth at one birth,
and between these two there was a greater sympathy than between either
of them and Zambo. And if Zambo were to be reckoned a rascal of
twenty-two carats, Bertaz and Santì were rascals of twenty-six; for it
not seldom happens that, where nature fails, ingenuity and malice supply
the want.
When the following morning had come, Bertaz, by agreement with Santì his
brother, went to find Zambo, and opened discourse with him in these
words: ‘Zambo, my dear brother, we have well thought over and considered
the case in which we stand, and, seeing that you are (as you will not
deny) the elder brother, we think it would be more seemly for you to go
first into the world, and that we who are younger should stop here to
look after our father. And we would counsel you that if, in the
meantime, you should come across any good fortune for yourself and for
us, you should write to us here, and we would come at once to join you.’
Zambo, who had hoped to get the better of Bertaz and Santì, was greatly
disconcerted when he heard this answer, and, muttering to himself, he
said: ‘These two are more cunning and malicious loons than I had
imagined.’ For he had hoped to be rid of his two brothers, and himself
be left master of all their property, trusting that they might both of
them die of hunger by reason of the dearth prevailing in the land;
moreover, their father was not long for this world, and had already one
foot in the grave. But the issue of this affair proved to be vastly
different from anything Zambo had expected. When, therefore, Zambo heard
the answer given to him by Bertaz and Santì, he made a small bundle of
the few rags he possessed, and, having filled a pouch with some bread
and cheese and a small flask of wine, he put on his feet a pair of shoes
of red pigskin, and departed thence and went towards Brescia. But not
finding anything to suit him there, he went on to Verona, where he came
across a master cap-maker, who asked him whether he knew how to make
caps, to which question he answered no; and, seeing that there was
nothing for him to do there, he left Verona, and, having passed through
Vicenza, he came to Padua, where certain doctors saw him and asked him
whether he knew how to take care of mules, and he answered them no, but
that he could till the land and tend vines; but, as he could not come to
any understanding with them, he went on his way to Venice.
Zambo had wandered about the city for a long time without lighting on
any employ to his taste, and, seeing that he had about him neither a
coin, nor anything to eat, he felt that he was indeed in evil case. But
after he had walked a long distance, he was brought by God’s pleasure to
the port, but because he was penniless no one would assist him.
Wherefore the poor fellow knew not which way he should turn, but having
remarked that the ragged wastrels who turned the machines for drawing
boats ashore gained a few pence by this labour, he took up this calling
himself. But Fortune, who always persecutes the poor, the slothful, and
the wretched, willed that one day when he was working one of these
machines the leather strap should break. This in untwining caught a
spar, which hit him in the chest and felled him to the ground, where for
a time he lay as one lifeless. Indeed, had it not been for the timely
aid given to him by some kind-hearted fellows, who haled him into their
boat by his legs and arms and rowed him back to Venice, he assuredly
would have died.
When Zambo had recovered from the ill effects of this mischance he went
in search of someone who might give him employment, and as he passed by
a grocer’s shop he was remarked by the master thereof, who was pounding
in a mortar almonds wherewith to make marzapan. Whereupon the grocer
asked him whether he was minded to come and serve in the shop, and Zambo
replied that he was; so, having entered, he was at once set to work by
the grocer at dressing certain comfits, and instructed how to separate
the black from the white, working the while beside another apprentice.
This fellow and Zambo (greedy gluttons, forsooth), in the course of
their task of comfit dressing, set to work in such a manner that they
stripped off and used the outer rind of the sweet almonds and ate the
kernels themselves. The grocer, when he saw what was going on, took a
stick in his hand and gave each of them a sound beating, saying: ‘If you
are set on plunder, you thievish knaves, I would that you pilfered your
own stores and not mine,’ and having thus spoken he belaboured them
still more and bade them go to the devil.
Zambo, smarting from the blows dealt him by the grocer, took his
departure and went to St. Mark’s Place, and as he passed by the spot
where herbs and vegetables are set out for sale, he met by good luck a
herbalist from Chiozza, Vivia Vianel by name, who straightway demanded
of him whether he would be willing to enter his service, where he would
get good food and good treatment as well. Zambo, who at this time wore
the armorial bearings of Siena[37] on his back, and was longing for a
good meal, replied that he was; so, when Vianel had sold his few last
bunches of herbs, they took a boat and returned to Chiozza, where Zambo
was at once set to work in the garden and bidden to tend the vines.
Now Zambo, after he had gone up and down in Chiozza for a certain time,
became acquainted with divers of his master’s friends, and when the
season for the first ripe figs had come, Vivia took the three finest he
could pluck from his garden, and, having put them on a platter, sent
them as a present to a friend of his in Chiozza whose name was Peder. He
called Zambo and gave him the three figs, and said to him: ‘Zambo, take
these three figs and carry them to my friend Ser Peder, and ask him to
accept them for love of me.’ Zambo in obedience to Vivia’s command
replied: ‘With pleasure, my master,’ and taking the figs he merrily went
his way. But it chanced by ill luck that as Zambo was going along the
street a greedy humour took possession of him, and having looked at the
figs over and over again he thus addressed gluttony: ‘What shall I do?
shall I eat or shall I refrain?’ To this gluttony replied: ‘A starving
man observes no law; wherefore eat.’ And for the reason that Zambo was
greedy by nature and very hungry to boot, he listened to these counsels
of gluttony, and having taken in his hands one of the figs, he began to
rend the skin from the neck thereof. Then he took a bite here and a bite
there, saying the while, ‘It is good; it is not good;’ and so he went on
till he had consumed it all in tasting, and nought but the skin
remained.
When Zambo had eaten the fig he began to wonder whether, perchance, he
might not have transgressed somewhat, but for the reason that gluttony
still urged him on, he did not stand long in balancing chances, but took
the second fig in his hand and treated it as he had treated the first.
After the greedy fellow had made an end of the second fig he was again
assailed by fears, and hardly knew whether, on account of his fault, he
should go on or turn back; but after a short term of indecision he took
courage and determined to go on. As soon as he had come to Ser Peder’s
door he knocked thereat, and as he was well known there the door was
quickly opened. Having entered he went to find Ser Peder, who was
walking up and down, and when he saw him the good man thus addressed
him: ‘What has Zambo come to tell me? What good news does he bring?’
‘Good morrow, good morrow,’ answered Zambo; ‘my master gave me three
figs to bring to you, but of these three I have eaten two.’ ‘But how
could you do such a thing as this?’ said Ser Peder. ‘I did it in this
fashion,’ said Zambo, and with these words he took the last fig and ate
it deliberately, and so it fell out that all three of the figs found
their way into Zambo’s belly. When Ser Peder saw this saucy jest he said
to Zambo: ‘My son, tell your master that I thank him, but that in future
he need not trouble himself to send me presents of this sort.’ Zambo
answered, ‘No, no, Messer Peder, say not so, for I shall never weary of
such errands,’ and with these words he left Messer Peder and went home.
When the report of Zambo’s smart trick came to Vivia’s ears, and when he
learned furthermore how finely lazy he was and a glutton as well,
guzzling when he was hungry till he was ready to burst, and how he would
never work save when he was driven thereto, the good man chased the
hunchback out of his house. So Zambo, poor devil, when he found himself
driven out of his employ, knew not whither to turn; thus after a little
he determined to go to Rome in the hope that he might there find better
fortune than he had hitherto come across, and this plan of his he duly
carried out.
Zambo, when he had arrived in Rome, went about seeking here and there a
master, and at last met a certain merchant who was called Messer Ambros
dal Mul, who kept a great shop full of cloth goods. With him Zambo took
service, and was set to mind the shop, and seeing that he had suffered
much in the past, he made up his mind to learn the trade and to live a
decent life for the future. Though he was deformed and ugly, he was
nevertheless very shrewd, and in a short time he made himself so useful
in the shop that his master seemed to take no more trouble himself about
buying or selling, but trusted everything to him and made use of him for
service of all kinds. Now it chanced that one day Messer Ambros had
occasion to go to the fair of Recanati with a stock of cloth, but
perceiving that Zambo had made himself so competent in the business and
had proved himself worthy of trust, he determined to send Zambo to the
fair, and bide at home himself and mind the shop.
After Zambo’s departure it happened by ill fortune that Messer Ambros
was seized with so grave and insidious an illness that after the lapse
of a few days he died. When his wife, who was called Madonna Felicetta,
found that she was a widow, she wellnigh died herself, of grief[38] for
the loss of her husband, and of anxiety on account of the breaking up of
her business. As soon as Zambo heard of the sad news of his master’s
death, he returned straightway and bore himself as a godly youth should,
and diligently went about the affairs of the shop. Madonna Felicetta, as
time went on, remarked that Zambo behaved himself well and uprightly,
and was diligent over the business. She considered, likewise, that a
year had now rolled away since the death of Messer Ambros her husband,
and, as she feared to lose Zambo some day, together with divers of the
customers of her shop, she took counsel with some of her gossips whether
she should marry or not, and in case she should resolve to marry,
whether it would be well for her to take for a husband Zambo the factor
of her business, who had been for a long time in the service of her
first husband, and had gathered much experience in the conduct of her
affairs. These worthy gossips deeming her proposition a wise one,
counselled her to marry Zambo; and between the word and the deed but
little time[39] intervened, for the nuptials were celebrated at once,
and Madonna Felicetta became the wife of Ser Zambo and Ser Zambo the
husband of Madonna Felicetta.
When Ser Zambo perceived himself raised to this high estate, how he had
a wife of his own and a fine shop well stocked with all manner of cloth
goods, he wrote to his father, telling him he was now in Rome, and of
the great stroke of luck which had befallen him. The father, who since
the day of Zambo’s departure had heard no tidings of his son, nor had
ever received a written word from him, now gave up the ghost from sheer
joy, but Bertaz and Santì were mightily pleased and consoled with the
news.
One day it chanced that Madonna Felicetta found herself in need of a new
pair of stockings, because the ones she wore were rent and torn,
wherefore she said to Ser Zambo her husband that he must have made for
her another pair. To this Zambo replied that he had other business to
do, and that if her stockings were torn, she had better go and mend them
and patch them and put new heels thereto. Madonna Felicetta, who had
been greatly pampered by her late husband, replied that it had never
been her wont to go shod in hose which had been mended and heeled, and
that she must have a new pair. Then answered Ser Zambo that in his
country customs were different, and that she must do without. Thus the
bout of wrangling began, and, flying from one angry word to another, it
came to pass in the end that Ser Zambo lifted his hand and cuffed her
over the head so heavily that she fell to the ground.[40] Madonna
Felicetta, planning the while how she might give back these blows of Ser
Zambo, was little disposed to come to terms with him or to pacify him in
any way, so she began to hurl foul words at him. Ser Zambo, feeling that
his honour was impugned thereby, belaboured her so soundly with his
fists that the poor woman was constrained to hold her peace.
When the summer had passed, and the cold weather had set in, Madonna
Felicetta asked Ser Zambo to let her have a silken lining wherewith to
repair her pelisse, which was in very bad condition, and in order that
he might be assured that she spoke the truth she brought it to him to
see; but Ser Zambo did not trouble to cast his eye over it, but simply
said that she must mend it and wear it as it was, for that in his
country people were not used to so much pomp. Madonna Felicetta, when
she heard these words, was mightily wroth, and affirmed that she must
have granted to her what she asked at any cost. Ser Zambo, however,
answered that she must hold her peace and be careful not to arouse his
anger, otherwise it would be the worse for her. But Madonna Felicetta
went on insisting that she must have it, and they one and the other
worked themselves up into such a fury that they were well nigh blinded
with rage. Whereupon Ser Zambo, according to his wont, began to thump
her with his stick, and gave her as shrewd a jacketting of blows as she
could bear, and she lay half dead.[41] When Madonna Felicetta saw how
hugely Zambo’s humour towards herself had changed, she began to
blaspheme and to curse the day and the hour when she had first spoken to
him, nor did she forget those who had advised her to take him for a
husband. ‘Is this the way you treat me,’ she cried, ‘you poltroon, you
ungrateful rascal, hangman, Goth, and villainous scoundrel? Is this the
reward you return to me for the many benefits you have received? for,
from the base hireling you formerly were, have I not made you the master
not only of my wealth but of my person as well? And yet you deal with me
in this wise. Hold your peace, traitor, for I will make you pay smartly
for this.’ Ser Zambo, hearing how his wife waxed more and more wroth,
and poured out her abuse of him more copiously than ever, made farther
shrewd play upon her back with his cudgel to give her a finishing touch,
whereupon Madonna Felicetta was reduced to such a state of fear, that
when she heard the sound of Zambo’s voice or footstep, she trembled like
a leaf in the wind, and became all wet with terror.
When the winter had passed and the summer was coming on, it chanced that
Ser Zambo had need to go to Bologna on account of business, and to
collect certain sums of money due to him. As this journey would occupy
some days, he said to Madonna Felicetta: ‘Wife, I would have you know
that I have two brothers, who are both hunchbacks as I am myself, and so
closely do we all resemble one another that if anyone should see us all
three together he would never know which was which. Now I bid you watch
well lest they come here and attempt to lodge with us. See that you do
not let them come over the threshold on any account, for they are
wicked, deceitful, and crafty knaves, and would assuredly play you some
evil trick. Then they would go to the devil and leave you with your
hands full of flies.[42] If I should learn that you have harboured them
in this house I will make you the most wretched woman in the world.’ And
having said these words he departed.
A few days after Zambo’s departure the brothers Bertaz and Santì
arrived, and went about asking for Ser Zambo’s shop, which was pointed
out to them. When the two rascals saw the fine shop, furnished richly
with all manner of cloth goods, they were astounded, and marvelled amain
how it was that he could have gathered together all this wealth in so
short a time. And, lost in wonderment, they went to the shop and said
they desired to have speech with Ser Zambo, but were told that he was
gone into the country; if, however, they had need of aught they could
ask for it. Whereupon Bertaz said they much wished to speak with him,
but as he was not at home they would speak with his wife, so they bade
the servant call Madonna Felicetta, and when she came into the shop she
knew at once that the men before her were her brothers-in-law. Bertaz,
when he saw her, straightway inquired of her, ‘Madonna, are you the wife
of Zambo?’ And she made answer that she was. Then said Bertaz: ‘Madonna,
shake hands, for we are the brothers of your husband, and therefore your
brothers-in-law.’ Madonna Felicetta, who well remembered the words of
Ser Zambo as well as the belabouring he had given her, refused to touch
their hands, but they went on plying her with so many affectionate words
and gestures that in the end she shook hands with them. As soon as she
had thus greeted them, Bertaz cried out: ‘Oh, my dear sister-in-law!
give us somewhat to eat, for we are half famished.’ But this she refused
to do. The rogues, however, knew so well how to use the trick of
flattery, and begged so persistently, that Madonna Felicetta was moved
to pity, and took them into the house and gave them food and drink in
plenty, and even allowed them to sleep in a certain corner. Scarcely had
three days passed since Bertaz and Santì had come to Madonna Felicetta’s
house when Ser Zambo returned. His wife, as soon as she heard of this,
was almost beside herself with terror, and she hardly knew what to do so
as to keep the brothers out of Ser Zambo’s sight, and as she could hit
upon no better plan she made them go into the kitchen, where was a
trough in which they were accustomed to scald pigs, and in this she bade
them conceal themselves.
When Ser Zambo entered the house and marked how dishevelled and worried
his wife seemed to be, he was mightily upset in his mind and said: ‘Why
do you look so frightened? What ails you? I suppose there is no gallant
hidden anywhere in the house?’ But she replied in a faint voice that
there was nought the matter with her. Ser Zambo, who was regarding her
sharply the while, said: ‘Certes, there is something the matter with
you. Are those brothers of mine by any chance in the house?’ But she
answered boldly that they were not; whereupon he began to give her a
taste of the stick, according to his custom. Bertaz and Santì, who were
under the pig-trough, could hear all the hurlyburly, and, so terrified
were they, that they wet their breeches like children in a fright, and
did not venture to move. Ser Zambo, when he at last put down his stick,
began to search the house in every corner to see whether he could find
anyone hidden, but finding nought he calmed himself somewhat and went
about the ordering of certain of his affairs, and so long was he
occupied thereanent (thus keeping his luckless brothers in their
hiding-place) that Bertaz and Santì, either through fear, or through the
great heat, or on account of the foul stench of the pig-trough,
straightway gave up the ghost.
When the hour had come at which Ser Zambo was wont to repair to the
piazza, there to transact business with the other merchants, he went out
of the house, and as soon as he had taken his departure Madonna
Felicetta went to the pig-trough to devise some scheme for getting rid
of her brothers-in-law, so that Ser Zambo might have no suspicion that
she had given them shelter. But when she uncovered the trough she found
them lying there both stark dead, and looking exactly like two pigs. The
poor woman, when she saw what had happened, fell into a terrible taking
of grief and despair, and, in order that her husband might be kept
altogether in ignorance of what had occurred, she spent all her force in
trying to throw them out of the house, so that the mishap might be
hidden from Ser Zambo, and from all the rest of the city as well.
I have heard people say that in Rome there is a certain custom according
to which, should the dead body of any stranger or pilgrim be found in
the public streets or in any man’s house, it is straightway taken up by
certain scavengers[43] appointed for this purpose and carried by them
outside the walls of the city and then cast into the Tiber, so that of
such unfortunates nothing more is ever heard or seen. Now Madonna
Felicetta, having gone to look out of the window to see whether by
chance any friends of hers might be passing by who would lend aid in
getting rid of the two dead bodies, by good luck espied one of these
corpse-bearers, and called to him to come in, telling him that she had a
corpse in the house, and that she wanted him to take it away at once and
cast it into the Tiber, according to the custom of the place. Already
Madonna Felicetta had pulled out one of the corpses from under the cover
of the trough, and had left it lying on the floor near thereto; so, when
the corpse-bearer had come upstairs, she helped him to load the dead
body on his shoulders, and bade him come back to the house after he had
thrown it into the river, when she would pay him for his services.
Whereupon the corpse-bearer went outside the city wall and threw the
body into the Tiber, and, having done his work, he returned to Madonna
Felicetta and asked her to give him a florin, which was the customary
guerdon. But while the corpse-bearer was engaged in carrying off the
first body, Madonna Felicetta, who was a crafty dame, drew out from the
trough the other body and disposed it at the foot of the trough in
exactly the same place where the first had lain, and when the
corpse-bearer came back to Madonna Felicetta for his payment, she said
to him: ‘Did you indeed carry the corpse I gave you to the Tiber?’ And
to this the fellow replied, ‘I did, madonna.’ ‘Did you throw it into the
river?’ said the dame; and he answered: ‘Did I throw it in? indeed I
did, and in my best manner.’ At this speech Madonna Felicetta said: ‘How
could you have thrown it in, as you say you have? Just look and see
whether it be not still here.’ And when the corpse-bearer saw the second
dead body, he really thought it must be the one he had carried away, and
was covered with dismay and confusion; and, cursing and swearing the
while, he hoisted it upon his shoulders, and, having carried it off, he
cast it into the Tiber, and stood for a while to watch it as it floated
down the stream.[44] And whilst he was once more returning to Madonna
Felicetta’s house to receive his payment, it chanced that he met Ser
Zambo, who was on his way home, and when the corpse-bearer espied the
man who bore so strong a likeness to the two other hunchbacks whom he
had carried to the Tiber, he flew into such a violent fit of rage that
he seemed, as it were, to spit forth fire and flames on all sides and
gave a free rein to his passion. For in truth he deemed the fellow
before him to be no other than the one whom he had already twice cast
into the river, and that he must be some evil spirit who was returning
to his own place; so he stole softly behind Ser Zambo and dealt him a
grievous blow on the head with an iron winch which he carried in his
hand, saying: ‘Ah! you cowardly, villainous loon, do you think that I
want to spend the rest of my days in haling you to the river?’ and as he
thus railed he mishandled him so violently that poor Zambo, on account
of the cudgelling he got, was soon a dead man and went to talk to
Pilate.[45]
When the corpse-bearer had got upon his shoulders the third corpse,
which was still warm, he bore it away and threw it into the Tiber after
the two others, and thus Zambo and Bertaz and Santì miserably ended
their lives. Madonna Felicetta, when she heard the news of this, was
greatly delighted thereat, and felt no small content that she was freed
from all her hardships and might again enjoy her former liberty.
Molino’s fable here came to an end. It had pleased the ladies so
mightily that they could not forbear from laughing thereat and talking
it over. And although the Signora more than once bade them be silent,
she found it no easy matter to put an end to their merry laughter. At
last, in order to bring the company once more into a sedater mood, she
commanded Molino to set them to guess an enigma in the same dialect, and
he, ever ready to obey her, gave his riddle in the following words:
Out of their prison grave so dark
Arise the bones of dead men stark,
And ’twixt the hours of tierce and sext,
By signs will tell to mortals vext
What chance’s smiles or frowns of fate
May bless or ban till time grows late.
Savage and deep the misers curse,
Marking the signs of chance averse;
But he, untouched by lust of gold,
Unmoved will fortune’s freaks behold.
Next one with beard of flesh upsprings,
And beak of bone, and warning sings
To bid the watchers bury deep
Their bodies in a downy sleep,
And lie, poor fools by care unstirred,
On welcome boon of foolish bird.
Though Molino’s fable forsooth pleased the company much, this ingenious
but somewhat gruesome enigma diverted them yet more; but forasmuch as no
one had gathered any inkling of its meaning, the ladies with one voice
begged him earnestly that he should give the solution thereof in the
same dialect he had used in his narration. Molino, when he perceived
that this was the general wish of the company, in order that he might
not appear to be niggard of his gifts, solved the enigma in the
following terms: “My enigma, dear ladies, signifies the game of hazard,
and the bones of the dead which leave their graves are the dice which
fall out of the dice-box, and when they mark tray, deuce, and ace, these
are the points which show good luck, and will not such points as these
put spirit into the play and money into the purse of the man who often
wins the throw thereby? Does the loser ever like to go away a loser, and
does not all this come by the change and variations of fortune? The
avaricious player who always seeks to win will now and again curse and
swear so fiercely that I cannot think why the earth does not open and
swallow him up. And, at such times as the game goes on all through the
night, the cock, who has a beard of flesh and a beak of bone, will get
up and crow ‘Cock-a-doodle-do,’ thus letting the gamesters know that it
is past midnight and they ought to repair to their beds of goose down.
When they lie in these is it not like sinking into a deep grave? Are you
all content with this my explanation?”
The explanation of this subtle enigma was received by the whole company
with great laughter; so hearty was it in sooth that they could scarce
forbear from rolling about on their seats. And after the Signora had
commanded everyone to keep silent, she turned towards Molino and said:
“Signor Antonio, as the fair orb of Dian outshines all other stars, so
the fable just told to us by you, together with your enigma, bears off
the palm from all others which we have hitherto heard.” Molino answered:
“The praise you give me, Signora, cannot surely be due on account of my
skill; it comes rather from the great courtesy which always abides in
you. But if it should happen that the Trevisan were willing to tell you
a story in the dialect of his country, I am sure you would listen to
this with still greater pleasure.” The Signora, who desired greatly to
hear a story told in this fashion, said: “Signor Benedetto, do you hear
what our Molino says? Certainly you would do him a great wrong were you
to make false these words of his. Put, therefore, your hand in your
pouch and draw therefrom some peasant story to enliven us all.” The
Trevisan, to whom it appeared unseemly that he should occupy the place
of Arianna, whose turn came next, at first excused himself, but seeing
that he could not weather[46] this point, began his fable in the
following words.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
THE FOURTH FABLE.
=Marsilio Vercelese, being enamoured of Thia, the wife of Cechato
Rabboso, is taken by her into her house during her husband’s
absence. He having come back unexpected, is cozened by Thia, who
feigns to work a spell, during which Marsilio silently takes to
flight.[47]=
In good sooth, what more would you have, my lady mistress and fair
damsels all? Has not Messer Antonio acquitted himself well? Has he not
told you an excellent story? But, by the blood of a dog, I will do my
best to match him, and to gather the best credit I may.
We villagers have always heard tell, that amongst gentlemen of the
world, one man will manage his affairs in this way, and another in that.
But I, who am an ignorant loon, and who know nothing of letters, tell
you what I have always heard said by our elders, namely, that he who
dances badly raises the loudest laugh;[48] so if you will have patience,
I will do my best to amuse you. But do not think that I say these words
because I wish to escape the trouble of telling you a tale, for I am not
in the least fearful on this score. And, over and beyond this, I would
have you understand that the story which Messer Antonio has told you,
with so good a grace that it would be hard to beat, has fired me with so
much courage that now, when I see I am indeed launched on my task, it
seems to me a thousand years until I shall be able to begin. Perhaps
indeed this fable of mine will be no less pleasing and laughable than
Messer Antonio’s, especially as I purpose to tell you of the ingenuity
of a peasant woman who played a trick upon her fool of a husband;
wherefore, if you will listen to me and give me your kind attention, I
will tell it to you as well as I can.
Above the domain of Piove de Sacco, which is, as I need hardly tell you,
a territory of Padua, seeing that this must be well known to all of you,
is situated a village called Salmazza, wherein there lived, a very long
time since, a peasant called Cechato Rabboso, who, although he was a
fellow with a big head and body, was nevertheless a poor fool and
over-trustful of his own powers. This Cechato Rabboso had to wife the
daughter of a farmer called Gagiardi, who lived in a village called
Campelongo, and she was a wily, crafty, and mischievous young woman,
called by the name of Thia. Besides being so shrewd, she was in her
person a stout wench and handsome of face, so that it was commonly said
there was not another peasant woman for miles round who could be
compared with her. And because she was so sprightly and nimble at
country dances, the young gallants who saw her would not seldom lose
their hearts to her straightway. Now it happened that a certain young
man, who was himself handsome and of a sturdy figure, a prosperous
citizen of Padua, by name Marsilio Vercelese, became enamoured of this
Thia, and so ardently was he consumed by the flame of his love that
whenever she went to a village dance this youth would be sure to follow
her thither, and for the greater part of the time he would dance with
her, devoting himself entirely to her and never dancing with any other
woman. But although this young gallant was so fiercely enamoured of her,
he kept his love a secret as well as he could, so as not to let it be
known to anybody, nor to become a matter of common gossip to all the
neighbours round about.
Marsilio, knowing quite well that Cechato, Thia’s husband, was a poor
man, supporting his house by the work of his hands, and from the early
morning till late at night labouring hard, now at this, now at that
work, began to prowl about Thia’s house, and, by constantly plying her
with soft glances, he soon found an opportunity of addressing her. Now,
although Marsilio had determined in his mind to disclose the love which
he bore her, still he doubted whether she might not be angered and
refuse to see him again in case he should declare his passion, for it
did not seem to him that she looked upon him so kindly as he deserved,
seeing how great was the love he had for her. And, besides this, he was
afraid of being discovered by some malicious person who would caution
Cechato her husband, who on this account might very likely do him some
evil turn; for Cechato, although he was such a numskull, was sharp
enough to be jealous.
Marsilio, therefore, spent his days in assiduously haunting the house
where Thia lived, and he would gaze at her so long and so intently that
at last she could not fail to be aware that he was enamoured of her.
But, for certain reasons best known to herself, she forbore to look
favourably upon him, or show that she was in any way inclined to return
his passion, and although she was in her secret mind quite willing to
meet his wishes, she feigned to be indifferent to him, and turned her
back upon him.
One day it chanced that Thia was sitting all alone on a wooden bench
placed near the outer door of the house, and holding under her arm the
distaff on which some flax was wound—she was, indeed, busy doing some
spinning for her landlady—when Marsilio, who had taken a little heart of
grace, came forward and said to her: ‘God be with you, my friend Thia!’
And Thia answered: ‘Welcome, young gentleman!’ ‘How is it that you do
not know,’ said Marsilio, ‘that I am consumed of love for you, and am
like to die, and you on your part make no account of it, and care not in
the least about my cruel sufferings?’ To this Thia answered: ‘How should
I know whether you love me or not?’ Said Marsilio: ‘If you never knew it
before, I will now let you know that such is my case, for I am consumed
with all the grief and passion that a man can feel.’ And Thia answered
him: ‘Well, of a surety you have let me know it now.’ Then Marsilio
said, ‘And you? Ah, tell me the truth, by the faith you have! Do you
love me too?’ Thia, with a smile, answered, ‘Perhaps I love you a
little.’ Then said Marsilio, ‘Heaven help you, tell me how much?’ ‘I
love you very much,’ answered Thia. Then Marsilio cried, ‘Alas, Thia! if
you really loved me as much as you say, you would show it to me by some
sign, but I cannot believe that you love me at all.’ Thia answered,
‘Well, and what sign would you have me give you?’ ‘Oh, Thia!’ said
Marsilio, ‘you know very well what is in my mind without my telling
you.’ ‘No, I cannot possibly know it unless you tell me,’ said Thia.
Then Marsilio replied, ‘I will tell you if you will listen to me, and
not be angered.’ Thia then answered, ‘Say on, sir, for I promise you on
my soul that, if it is a good thing and not against my honour, I will
not be angered with you.’ Then Marsilio said, ‘Then, my love, when will
you give me the chance of holding you in my arms in lover’s fashion?’ ‘I
now see clearly enough,’ said Thia, ‘that you are only deceiving me, and
making a mock of me. How can I be fitted for you, who are a gentleman
and a citizen of Padua, whilst I am a peasant of the village? You are
rich, and I am poor; you are a signor, and I am a working woman; you can
have fine ladies to your taste, and I am of low condition. You are wont
to walk gaily with your embroidered surcoat, and your bright-coloured
hose, all worked with wool and silk, and I, as you see, have nought but
a dimity petticoat, old, torn, and mended. I have nothing better when I
go to dances than this old garment and this linen head-cloth. You eat
wheaten loaves, and I rye-bread and beans and polenta, and even then I
have often not enough to satisfy my hunger. I have no pelisse for the
cold winter, poor wretch that I am! nor do I know which way to turn to
get one, for I have neither money nor goods to sell that will enable me
to buy the few necessaries that I want. We have not enough corn to eat
to keep us alive till Easter, and I know not what we shall do during the
great dearth. And besides all this, there are the forced dues that we
have to pay to Padua every day. Oh, we poor peasants! what pleasure have
we in life? We toil hard to till the earth and to sow our wheat, which
you fine folk consume, whilst we poor people have to make the best shift
we can with rye-bread. We tend the vines and make the wine, of which you
drink the best, and we have to be satisfied with wine lees or water.’
In answer to Thia’s speech Marsilio said: ‘Do not distress yourself on
account of this, for if you will grant me the favour I desire I will see
that you want for nothing that can give you delight.’ Thia replied: ‘Ah!
this is what you cavaliers always say until we have done your pleasure;
then you go away and we never see any more of you, and, fools as we are,
are left in the lurch, deceived and duped and shamed in the world’s
esteem. You, meantime, go your ways, bragging of your good fortune and
washing out your mouths, as far as concerns us and all that belongs to
us,[49] treating us as if we were carrion only fit to be cast out on the
dunghill. I know full well the tricks you worthy citizens of Padua can
play.’ Then said Marsilio: ‘Enough, now let us have done with words for
good and all. I ask you once more whether you will grant me the favour I
desire?’ ‘Go away, for the love of God, I pray you,’ cried Thia, ‘before
my husband comes back, for nightfall is drawing near and he will
certainly be here in a few minutes. Come back some time to-morrow, and
we will talk as long as you will, for in sooth I love you well.’ But
Marsilio, who was indeed passionately in love with her, was loath to
leave off this pleasant conversation, and still remained by her side; so
she said once more, ‘Go away immediately, I beg you, and do not stay
here any longer.’ When Marsilio saw that Thia was thus strongly moved,
he cried out, ‘God be with you, Thia, my sweet soul! I recommend my
heart to you, for it is surely in your keeping.’ ‘May God go with you,
dearest hope of my life!’ said Thia, ‘I commend you to His care.’ ‘By
His good help,’ said Marsilio, ‘we will meet again to-morrow.’ ‘Very
well, let it be so,’ said Thia; and with these words Marsilio took his
leave.
When the morrow had come Marsilio, to whom the time until he should once
more repair to Thia’s house seemed a thousand years, went thither
forthwith and found her busy in the garden digging and mulching round
about certain vines which grew therein, and as soon as they saw one
another they exchanged greetings and began to talk lovingly together.
And when this conversation had gone on for some time Thia said to
Marsilio: ‘Dear heart of mine, to-morrow morning early Cechato my
husband will have occasion to go to the mill, and he will not return
hither until the next day; wherefore, if it should be your pleasure, you
may come here late in the evening. I will be on the watch for you; only
be sure that you come without fail, and do not deceive me.’ When
Marsilio heard this good news, there was no man in all the world so
happy as he was; he jumped and danced about for very gladness, and took
leave of Thia, half out of his wits for joy.
As soon as Cechato had come home, the crafty Thia went up to him and
said, ‘Cechato, my good man, you must needs go to the mill straightway,
for we have nothing more in the house to eat.’ ‘Very well, very well, I
will see about it,’ answered Cechato. ‘I tell you that you must go
to-morrow, whatever happens,’ said Thia. ‘Very well, then,’ replied
Cechato, ‘to-morrow morning before I go I will borrow a cart with two
oxen from the people for whom I work, then I will come back to load it,
and go off to the mill at once.’
In the meantime Thia went to prepare the corn and to put it into sacks,
so that on the morrow Cechato should have nothing to do but to load his
cart therewith, and to go on his way singing. On the following morning
Cechato took the corn which his wife had put into sacks the night
before, and loaded it on the cart and went on his way towards the mill.
And seeing that it was now the season of short days and long nights, and
that the roads were broken up and in bad condition, and that the weather
was foul with rain and ice and intense cold, poor Cechato found himself
obliged to remain that night at the mill, and this in sooth fell in most
opportunely with the plans that Thia and Marsilio had devised for their
own satisfaction.
As soon as the dark night had fallen, Marsilio, according to the
agreement he had made with Thia, took a pair of fine well-cooked capons
and some white bread and wine unspoilt by any drop of water therein, all
of which he had carefully prepared before he left his home, and stole
secretly across the fields to Thia’s house. Then, having opened the
door, he found her sitting by the fireside winding thread. After
greeting one another they spread the table and both sat down to eat, and
after they had made an excellent meal off Marsilio’s good cheer, they
went to lie down in the bed; thus, whilst that poor fool of a Cechato
was having his corn ground at the mill, in his bed at home Marsilio was
sifting flour.
When the time of sunrise was near, and the day was beginning to break,
the two lovers awoke and rose from their bed, fearing lest Cechato might
return and find them there together; but while they were still amorously
talking, Cechato drew near to the house, whistling aloud the while, and
calling upon Thia, saying: ‘Oh, my Thia! make up a good fire, I pray
you, for I am more than half dead with cold.’ Thia, who was a clever,
artful minx, was somewhat frightened when she heard her husband’s voice,
and feared amain lest some evil should befall Marsilio, and injury and
shame be put upon herself; so she quickly opened the door, managing the
while to allow Marsilio to hide himself behind it; then with a merry
face she ran to meet her husband, and began to embrace him. And after
Cechato had come into the courtyard, he cried out once more to his wife:
‘Make a fire at once, good Thia, for I am wellnigh frozen to death. By
the blood of St. Quintin, I was almost starved to death by cold last
night up at that mill; so cold was it, indeed, that I was not able to
sleep a wink or even to close an eye.’ Whereupon Thia went without delay
to the wood-house, and having taken therefrom a good armful of billets
she lighted a fire whereat Cechato might warm himself, herself occupying
craftily that spot by the hearth from whence Marsilio might perchance be
seen by Cechato.
Then Thia, chatting with her husband of this and of that, said: ‘Ah!
Cechato, my good man, I have a fine bit of news to give you.’ ‘What has
happened?’ inquired Cechato. To this Thia replied, ‘Whilst you were away
at the mill a poor old man came to the house begging alms of me for the
love of God, and as a recompense for some bread I gave him to eat and a
small cup of wine, he taught me an incantation wherewith to throw a
spell over that greedy kite which often comes hereabouts, and never in
my life have I heard anything more beautiful than his words, which I
have learnt well by heart.’ ‘What is this thing you are telling me?’
said Cechato; ‘is it really the truth?’ Thia replied, ‘It is true, by my
faith, and I can tell you that I set great store by it.’ ‘Then tell it
to me at once,’ said Cechato, ‘and do not hold me longer in suspense.’
Whereupon Thia said to her husband, ‘You must lie down flat on the
ground stretched out your full length, just as if you were dead (which
thing may God avert!), and having done this you must turn your head and
your shoulders towards the door, and your knees and feet towards the
stove, and then I must spread a white cloth over your face, and put our
corn measure over your head.’
‘But I am quite sure,’ said Cechato, ‘that my head will never go into
our corn measure.’ ‘I am sure it will,’ replied Thia; ‘just look here!’
And with these words she took the measure, which happened to be close at
hand, and put it over his head, saying, ‘Nothing in God’s world could be
a better fit than this. And now you must keep yourself quite still,
neither moving a limb nor saying a word, otherwise we shall be able to
do nothing. Then I will take our tamis sieve in my hand, and will begin
to jump and dance around you, and whilst I am thus dancing I will speak
the incantation which the old man taught me. And in this fashion the
spell may be well and truly worked. But again I tell you that you must
on no account stir a finger until I shall have repeated the incantation
thrice, for it must be said three times over you in order that it may
have any effect. After this we shall see whether the kite gives us any
more trouble, or comes to steal our chicken.’ To this Cechato replied:
‘Would to God that what you say might be true, so that we might have a
little rest and breathing space. You know well enough how hard we find
it to bring up any chicken at all, on account of that fiend of a kite
which devours every one we hatch. Never have we been able to rear enough
chicken to sell, and with the money gained thereby to pay our landlord
and the tax-gatherer, and to buy oil and salt and any other stores we
may want for housekeeping.’
‘Let us begin quickly then,’ said Thia, ‘for in this fashion we shall be
able to do ourselves a good turn. Now, Cechato, lie down quickly.’ And
Cechato straightway laid himself down on the floor. ‘Now stretch
yourself out well to your full length,’ said Thia. And Cechato at once
did his best to stretch himself out as far as ever he could. ‘That is
right,’ said Thia, and hereupon she took a cloth of thick white linen
and shrouded his face therewith. Next she took the corn measure and
rammed it down on his head, and then caught up the tamis sieve and began
to dance and skip around him and to repeat in the following wise the
incantation which she said had been taught her by the old beggar:
Thievish bird, I charge you well,
Hearken to my mystic spell.
While I dance and wave my sieve,
All my tender chicks shall live.
Not a bird from all my hatch,
Thievish rascal, shall you snatch.
Wolf nor rat his prey shall seek,
Nor bird with sharp and crooked beak.
Thieves who stand behind the door,
Hearken, fly, and come no more.
If my speech you cannot read,
Surely you are fools indeed.
When Thia had come to the end of her mummery she still went on dancing
round Cechato, keeping her eyes fixed upon the outer door the while, and
making signs to Marsilio, who was there concealed, that he had better
run away at once. But Marsilio, who was neither nimble-minded nor quick
to catch her meaning, failed to comprehend what might be the purport of
the gestures she was making or what she meant by going through these
rites of exorcism; so he kept still in his hiding-place and did not
budge an inch. Meantime Cechato, being now half stifled and mightily
weary of lying stretched out on the floor, was anxious to get up, and
spake thus to Thia: ‘Well, is it all over now?’ But Thia, who had not
been able to induce Marsilio to move from his place behind the door,
answered Cechato in these words: ‘Stay where you are, for heaven’s sake,
and move not at your peril. Did I not tell you that I should have to
repeat the incantation three times? I hope you may not have wrecked
everything, as it is, by wanting to get up.’ ‘No, no, surely not,’ said
Cechato. And Thia made him lie down stretched out as he was before, and
began to chant her incantation anew.
[Illustration: The Conjuration of the Kite]
Now by this time Marsilio had at last come to understand how matters
really stood, and what was the meaning of Thia’s mummery, so he seized
the opportunity to slip out from his hiding-place, and to run away as
fast as his legs could carry him. Thia, when she saw Marsilio take to
his heels and run out of the courtyard, finished her form of exorcism
against the kite, and when she had brought it to an end she suffered her
cuckoldly fool of a husband to get up from the ground. Then with Thia’s
help he began forthwith to unload the flour which he had brought back
from the mill. Now Thia when she went with Cechato outside into the
courtyard to help unload the flour, saw Marsilio in the distance
hurrying away at the top of his speed, whereupon she began to shout
after him in a lusty voice: ‘Ah, ah! what a wicked bird! Ah, ah! begone,
get away! For, by my faith, I will send you packing with your tail
between your legs if ever you show yourself here again. Away then, I
tell you! Is not he a greedy wretch? Do you not see that the wicked
beast was bent on coming back? Heaven give him a bad year!’
And in this fashion it happened, that every time the kite came and flew
down into the courtyard to carry away a chick or two, he would first
have a bout with the hen herself,[50] who would afterwards set to work
with her conjuration as before. Then he would take to flight with his
tail down, but all the while the fowls belonging to Cechato and Thia
suffered no damage at all from his harrying.
This fable, given by the Trevisan, was found to be so mirthful and
amusing that the ladies, and the gentlemen as well, almost split their
sides with laughter; so well did he mock the rustic speech that there
was no one of the company who would not have judged him to be a peasant
of Treviso. And when the merriment had abated somewhat, the Signora
turned her fair face towards the Trevisan and spake to him thus: “In
truth, Signor Benedetto, you have this evening diverted us in such
featly wise that with one voice we declare your fable may deservedly be
held to be the equal of Molino’s in merit. But to fill up the measure of
my content and that of this honourable company, I entreat you—an it
displease you not—that you will set forth to us an enigma which shall be
as graceful in form as amusing in matter.” The Trevisan, when he saw how
the Signora was inclined, was unwilling to disappoint her; so, standing
up, with a clear voice and with no hesitation of any sort, he began his
riddle in the following words:
Sir Yoke goes up and down the field,
To every tug is forced to yield.
One on the left, one on the right
Plods on, and next there comes a wight,
A cunning rascal who with power
Beats one who goes on carriers four.
Now if an answer you can give,
Good friends, we will for ever live.
When the Trevisan, with the true manner and bearing of a peasant, had
finished his enigma, which was comprehended by few or none of the
company, he thus gave the interpretation thereof in peasant dialect in
order that its meaning might be made clear to them all: “I must not keep
this gentle company waiting any longer. Tell me, do you understand the
meaning of my enigma? If you do not know, I will tell you. Sir Yoke goes
to and fro, that is to say, the yoke, to which the oxen are attached,
goes up and down the fields and roads, and is dragged hither and thither
by them. Those who fare, the one on this side and the other on that side
of it, are the oxen. He who beats one who stands on four, means that the
ploughman who walks behind lashes the bull, who has four legs, with his
leathern whip. And to end my explanation, I tell you once more that the
answer to my riddle is the yoke, and I hope you will all understand it.”
Everyone was greatly interested over this riddle dealing with country
life, and, laughing heartily thereat, they praised it highly. But the
Trevisan, remembering that only one more story remained to be told this
night, to wit, that of the charming Cateruzza, turned with a smiling
face towards the Signora and spake thus: “Signora, it is not for the
reason that I wish to disturb the settled order of this our
entertainment, or to dictate to your highness, my mistress and sovereign
lady, but merely to satisfy the desire of this devoted company, that I
beg your excellency to make us the sharers of some fair fancies of your
own, by telling us, for our delight and recreation, a story with your
wonted grace. And if I peradventure have been more presumptuous (which
God forbid) in making this request than is suitable to my humble estate,
I beg you will forgive me, seeing that the love I bear towards this
gracious assembly has been the chief cause why I have been led to prefer
it.”
The Signora, when she heard the courteous petition of the Trevisan, at
first cast her eyes down upon the ground; not, however, for any fear or
shame that she felt, but because she deemed that, for divers reasons, it
was more seemly for her to listen than to discourse. But after a time,
with a gracious and smiling look, as if her humour were a merry one, she
turned her bright face towards the Trevisan and said: “Signor Benedetto,
what though your request is a pleasant and seemly one, it appears to me
that you are somewhat too insistent a beggar, forasmuch as the duty of
story-telling pertains rather to these young damsels round about than to
me; therefore you must hold me excused if I decline to give way at once
to your demand, and bid Cateruzza, who has been chosen by lot to tell
the fifth story of this evening, to favour you with her discourse.” The
merry listeners, who were mightily eager to hear the Signora tell her
story, forthwith all rose to their feet and began to support the request
of the Trevisan, begging her most earnestly that she would in this
matter favour them with her courtesy and kindness, and not stand too
severely by the exalted dignity of her position, for time and place will
allow anyone, however high in rank, to speak freely whatever thing may
be pleasing. The Signora, when she heard the gentle loving terms of this
petition, in order that she might not seem ungracious in her bearing,
smilingly replied: “Since this is the wish of all of you, and your
pleasure withal, that I should conclude this evening with some little
story of my own, I will gladly grant your wish.” And without further
demur she blithely began to tell her fable.
THE FIFTH FABLE.
=Madonna Modesta, wife of Messer Tristano Zanchetto, in her young days
gathers together a great number of shoes, offerings made by her
various lovers. Having grown old, she disposes of the same to
divers servants, varlets, and other folk of mean estate.=
It commonly happens that ill-gotten wealth, and indeed all riches which
have been acquired by evil ways, are scattered abroad and dissipated in
brief space of time, for by the divine will it has been decreed that,
quickly as such riches come, quickly they shall depart. This, indeed,
proved to be the case with a certain woman of Pistoia, who, had she been
honest and wise in the same degree as she was dissolute and foolish,
would never have given occasion for the story which I am now about to
tell to you. And although perhaps this fable of mine is one hardly
suitable for your ears, forasmuch as it comes to an end in a picture of
shame and dishonour, which obscures and tarnishes the fame of those who
live honest lives, nevertheless I will not hesitate to relate it to you,
for at the right time and place it may serve (I speak here to those to
whom it may apply) as a useful incentive for all to pursue the ways of
uprightness and well-doing, and to eschew all wicked courses and lewd
inclinations.
I must first tell this worshipful company that, not far from these our
days, there lived in Pistoia, an ancient city of Tuscany, a young woman
called by name Madonna Modesta, but this name, on account of her
reprehensible manner of life and the shameful courses she followed, was
one in no wise befitting her. In person, indeed, this woman was very
lovely and graceful, though she was of mean condition.
She had a husband called Tristano Zanchetto[51] (a name as well suited
to him as his wife’s was unfitting to her), a good-tempered fellow,
given to merry company, and thinking of little else save of his business
of buying and selling, whereby he gained a good living for himself.
Madonna Modesta, who was by nature of a lecherous temper, and inclined
for nought else but amorous sport, when she saw that her husband was
given up heart and soul to commerce, and careful only about the matters
appertaining thereto, took it into her head that she too would embark in
merchandise and set up a new trade, concerning which her husband, Messer
Tristano, should know nothing.
Wherefore every day she was wont to go out upon the balcony for her
amusement, now on one side, now on the other, and throw glances at any
gallant who might be passing in the street, and when her eye might
chance to fall upon anyone whose appearance pleased her, she would
strive by divers suggestive signs and gestures to arouse his curiosity
and desire, and to lure him to her. And in the course of time it proved
that Madonna Modesta had no mean skill in the art of traffic; indeed, so
diligent was she in the display of her merchandise, and so carefully did
she attend to the needs of her customers, that there was to be found in
all the city no one, rich or poor, noble or plebeian, who was not
anxious to take and taste of her goods. When, therefore, Madonna Modesta
had attained a position of great notoriety in her calling, and had
gathered together much wealth thereby, she made up her mind to exact
only a very small guerdon from anyone who might come to her as a
claimant for her favours. That is to say, she made it her custom to
demand from her lovers no greater reward than a pair of shoes,
stipulating, however, that each one should give shoes of a sort such as
he might in an ordinary way wear himself. Thus, if the lover who had
been with her happened to be a noble, she would expect from him a pair
of velvet shoes; if a burgher, she would ask for a pair of shoes made of
fine cloth; if a mechanic, a pair made of leather. So great a concourse
of clients flocked to this good woman’s place of business that it was
rarely or never empty, and seeing that she was young and beautiful and
of fine figure, seeing likewise that the price which she demanded for
her favours was such a modest one, all the men of Pistoia freely
repaired to her house and took their pleasure therein. At the time of
which I am writing, Madonna Modesta had already filled a very large
storehouse with shoes, the wealth she had gathered together in her
tender amorous calling, and so mighty was the tale of shoes of every
sort and quality, that if any man here in Venice had searched diligently
every shop in the city he would not have found a third part of the
number of shoes which Madonna Modesta had heaped up in her storehouse.
It happened one day that Messer Tristano her husband had need to use
this same storehouse for the stowing away of certain chattels and
merchandise which by chance had been consigned to him at the same time
from divers parts of the world; so, having called Madonna Modesta his
beloved wife, he asked her to hand over to him the keys of the
warehouse. And she, like the crafty jade that she was, presented them to
him without excuse of any sort; and the husband, when he opened the
storehouse, which he expected would be empty, found it quite full of
shoes (as has already been told) of divers qualities. When he saw this
he was mightily astonished thereat, and could in no wise understand
whence had come this great quantity of shoes of all sorts; so, having
called his wife, he put a question to her as to where these shoes with
which his warehouse was filled had come from. To this the astute Madonna
Modesta answered in these words: ‘What think you of this, good Messer
Tristano my husband? Did you in sooth set yourself down as the only
merchant in this city? Certes, if you did, you were hugely mistaken, for
be sure that we women likewise know somewhat concerning the art of
traffic; and, although you may be a great merchant, accustomed to
concern yourself with many and weighty ventures, I content myself with
commerce on a smaller scale. Wherefore I have stored my merchandise in
this warehouse, and put it safely under lock and key in order that it
may be kept secure. So I beg you to keep your care and watchfulness for
the benefit of your own goods and your own traffic, and I will do the
same with regard to mine.’ Messer Tristano, who knew nothing more than
what his wife told him, and asked no further questions, was gratified
amain with the exceeding ingenuity and great foresight of his clever and
far-seeing wife, and besought her to prosecute with diligence the
enterprise she had undertaken. Madonna Modesta therefore continued in
secret to carry on her amorous trade, and, as in the exercise thereof
she prospered mightily, she gathered together so vast a store of shoes
that she could have easily supplied the wants not only of Pistoia, but
of any other great city as well.
Thus whilst Madonna Modesta remained young and full of grace and beauty
her trade showed no sign of falling off. But in the process of years
cruel Time, the master of all things and all men, who fixes ever a
beginning, a middle, and an end for all, so dealt with Madonna Modesta,
who had been heretofore fresh and plump and lovely, that he changed the
semblance of her face, and of her hair[52] likewise—leaving her desire
unsubdued the while—and traced many wrinkles upon her forehead, and
disfigured her countenance. Her eyes became rheumy and her breasts all
dry and empty as shrivelled bladders, and whenever she happened to smile
the skin of her face became so puckered that anyone who looked at her
was fain to laugh and hold her in ridicule. And when the time came that
Madonna Modesta was grown old and grey-headed, and lovers no longer
sought her to pay court to her as formerly, she found that she added no
more shoes to her store, and she lamented bitterly in her heart
thereanent. From the first years of her youth until the present hour she
had given herself over entirely to the vice of luxury, the destructive
enemy of the body and of the purse as well, and she had likewise become
more accustomed to dainty living and libidinous life than any other
woman in the world, therefore she could find no method or means by which
she might withdraw herself from these noxious ways. And although in her
body, from day to day, the vital fluid, through which all plants and
living things take root and grow, failed more and more, nevertheless the
desire of satisfying her wicked and unrestrained appetite was as violent
as ever. Therefore Madonna Modesta, seeing that she was entirely bereft
of youthful beauty, and was no longer one to be flattered and caressed
by handsome young gallants as in former days, made up her mind to order
her plans anew. For the furtherance of these she once more went out upon
the balcony, and began to ogle and to spread her lures to catch any
varlets or porters or peasants or chimney-sweepers or idle fellows of
any sort, who might be passing by, and any of these whom she might
attract she would entice into her house for her own purposes, and with
them take such pleasure as she had hitherto been wont to take. And as in
times past she had always demanded from each one of her lovers a pair of
shoes of a quality according with the donor’s condition as the reward
for her favours granted, now, on the other hand, she found herself
obliged to give a pair of shoes from her stock to anyone who would come
to her. Madonna Modesta had now sunk into such a shameful state that all
the lowest ruffians of Pistoia would betake themselves to her dwelling,
some to have their pleasure of her, others to make mock of her and to
befool her, and others to receive the disgraceful guerdon which she was
wont to give.
In this manner of life pursued by Madonna Modesta, it came to pass that
the storehouse, which had once been crammed full of shoes, became
wellnigh void. Messer Tristano one day, having a mind to go by stealth
and see how his wife was prospering in her commerce, and whether her
store of merchandise was increasing, took the key of the warehouse
without his wife’s knowledge and opened the door, only to find, when he
looked in, that nearly all the shoes were gone. Wherefore Messer
Tristano was beyond measure amazed, for he could not understand how his
wife could have disposed of the many pairs of shoes he had formerly seen
there. On this account he began to fancy that by this time his wife
must, as it were, be made of gold by reason of her prosperous traffic,
and he felt himself mightily consoled at the thought; for he deemed that
he might hereafter be a sharer in her wealth. So he straightway called
her to him and thus addressed her: ‘Modesta, I have always rated you as
a wise and prudent woman, but this day I chanced to open your
storehouse, wishing to see how your commerce was thriving, and deeming
that by this time your stock of shoes must have greatly increased, but I
found, instead of any increase, that your wares had nearly all
disappeared. At first I was mightily astonished thereat, but afterwards
it came into my mind that you must have trafficked them away and
received therefor a great sum of money, whereupon I was greatly
reassured, and if this notion of mine should prove to be correct I shall
hold that you have traded at great profit.’
Madonna Modesta, when her husband had finished his speech, heaved a deep
sigh and thus made answer to him: ‘Messer Tristano, my husband, do not
be amazed at what you have lately seen, for I must tell you that all
those shoes you saw some long time ago in my warehouse, have walked away
in the same fashion in which they came to me. And over and above this
let me tell you that those things which are ill got will, for the most
part, ill go in a very brief space of time. Therefore I bid you once
more not to wonder or be surprised at what you have seen.’ Messer
Tristano, who did not in any way fathom the meaning of his wife’s words,
fell into a great state of fright and confusion, fearing hugely lest a
similar mischance might befall the goods and merchandise he himself had
collected. However, he forbore to discuss the matter with her farther,
but bestirred himself anxiously to see that his own merchandise might
not vanish as his wife’s had vanished.
Madonna Modesta finding herself now slighted by men of all sorts and
conditions, and entirely beggared of all the shoes she had gained in the
course of her lecherous youth, fell into a grave malady, and in a very
brief space of time died miserably of consumption. And in this manner
Madonna Modesta, who took so little heed for the future, made a shameful
end of her life and also of the possessions she had gathered together,
leaving nothing behind her to serve as an example to the rest of the
world, but rather a disgraceful memory.
When the Signora had ended her short fable all the company began to
laugh aloud, and heaped abundant blame upon Madonna Modesta, who lived
moderately enough in all things save only in the matter of lecherous
indulgence. And again they could not help laughing when they recalled to
mind the story of the shoes which were so easily got and so easily
spent. But because it was on Cateruzza’s account that the Trevisan had
urged the Signora to tell this fable, the latter now began to spur on
the damsel with words which, though gently spoken, had a sting therein,
and afterwards, as a penalty for having failed to tell her fable,
expressly commanded Cateruzza to propound an enigma which should not be
irrelevant to the subject of the fable they had just heard. Whereupon
Cateruzza, when she heard the command of the Signora, rose from her
seat, and turning herself towards her spake thus: “Dear Signora, the
biting rebukes which you have just addressed to me are not in any way
displeasing to me; on the contrary, I gladly take them home to myself
with my whole heart. But the task of making my enigma agree in some
measure with the fable you have just told us is no light one, seeing
that I am entirely unprepared. Since, however, it pleases you to punish
in this fashion my fault, if indeed it be a fault, I, as an obedient
girl and your most complaisant handmaiden, will begin at once.
My lady seats her in a chair,
And raises then her skirt with care;
And as I know she waits for me,
I bring her what she fain would see.
Then soft I lift her dainty leg,
Whereon she cries, ‘Hold, hold, I beg!
It is too strait, and eke too small;
Be gentle, or you’ll ruin all.’
And so to give her smallest pain,
I try once more, and eke again.”
The enigma told by Cateruzza provoked as great laughter as the ingenious
fable which the Signora had recently given; but, for the reason that
certain of the listeners put thereupon a somewhat lewd interpretation,
she set herself at once to make the honesty of her intent clear to them
in as civil terms as she could use: “Noble ladies, the real subject of
my enigma is nothing greater or less than a tight shoe; for when the
lady has sat down, the shoemaker, with the shoe in his hand, raises her
foot, whereupon she tells him to put the shoe on gently, as it is too
tight, and causes her much pain. Then he takes it off and puts it on
again and again till it fits her well, and she is content therewith.”
When the explication of Cateruzza’s enigma had been brought to an end
and highly praised by the whole company, the Signora, seeing that the
hour was now late, gave order that under pain of her displeasure no one
should leave the place, and, having bidden them summon into her presence
the trusty steward of the household, she directed him to set out the
tables in the great hall. And while the feast was in course of
preparation she proposed that the ladies and gentlemen should divert
themselves with the dance, and, after the dancing was finished, they
sang two songs. Then the Signora rose to her feet and went into the
supper room, having the Signor Ambassador on one hand and Messer Pietro
Bembo on the other, the rest of the company following in their due
order. And when they had all washed their hands, each one sat down
according to his rank at the table, which was richly spread with rare
and delicate dishes and new wines. When this merry feast had come to end
amidst the loving discourse of the guests, each one being in blither
mood than ever, they rose from the board and forthwith began to sing and
dance in a circle. But forasmuch as the rosy light of dawn was now
beginning to appear, the Signora bade the servants to kindle the torches
and go in attendance on the Signor Ambassador as far as the steps,
having first begged him and all the others to return to the
meeting-place at the appointed hour.
=The End of the Fifth Night.=
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]
-----
Footnote 1:
“Istoria della volgar poesia” (Ven. 1731).
Footnote 2:
In 1556 the two parts were first issued bearing the same date, but
with a different title-page.
Footnote 3:
To add to the confusion, the English translator of Grimm gives
“stories” as the equivalent for “Märchen.”
Footnote 4:
M. Jannet in his preface to the “Facétieuses Nuits de Straparole”
(Paris, 1857), says he has not been able to find a copy of this work
in any library. There is one in the British Museum, under the title,
“Opera nova da Zoan Francesco Streparola da Caravazo novamēte stampata
Sonetti CXV., Strabotti XXXV., Epistole VII., Capitoli XII.” (Ven.
1508, per Georgio de Ruschoni).
Footnote 5:
The “Decameron” did not reach its sixteenth edition till fifty years
after its first publication.
Footnote 6:
In his introduction to the recent edition of Painter, Mr. Joseph
Jacobs cites the presence of this fable as an argument that Painter
must occasionally have translated directly from the Italian. There is
no reason, however, why he should not have used Louveau’s work.
Footnote 7:
It was published with seven other stories in a volume, “Novelle otto
rarissime stampate a spese de Signor Giacomo conte de Clambrassil, J.
Stanley, et Wogan Browne. Londra, Giacomo Edwards, 1790.”
Footnote 8:
Brackelmann says that it was a selection from the first six nights,
while Grimm maintains that it contains the whole of these, and Grimm’s
English translator says that it “only contains six stories.” In fact,
it is made up chiefly of the contents of the first six nights, but in
addition to these it contains fables from Nights VII., VIII., and
XIII. It would appear that neither Dunlop nor Schmidt knew of the
existence of this work.
Footnote 9:
Night IV., Fable I.; Night IV., Fable III.; Night V., Fable III., and
Night XII., Fable III.
Footnote 10:
Night V., Fable I.
Footnote 11:
In the National Gallery.
Footnote 12:
_Di che le donne, et parimente gli huomini fecero si gran risa che
ancora ridono._
Footnote 13:
Night VII., Fable II.
Footnote 14:
Night IV., Fable V.
Footnote 15:
Night VIII., Fable V.
Footnote 16:
Night X., Fable IV.
Footnote 17:
Night VII., Fable I.
Footnote 18:
“Die XIII. nächtlichen Erzählungen sammt den Logogryphen welche
Argellati, ‘ingeniosissime conflata quamvis parum pudice,’ nennt
wurden zu Rom durch das Decret vom 16ten Dec. 1605, einigen darin
enthaltenen unzüchtigen Stellen wegen verbothen” (preface to Vienna
translation, 1791). The book must have been condemned by the index
some time before this, as the issue of 1604, Ven., “con licenza de’
Superiori” is rigorously castrated.
Footnote 19:
“Ma ben holle fedelmente scritte secondo il modo, che furono da dieci
damigelle nel concistorio raccontate.”—STRAPAROLA, _Introduction to
Book II_.
Footnote 20:
Orig., _ed importar altro, che finocchi_.
Footnote 21:
Orig., _altrimenti si guasterebbe la coda al fasiano_.
Footnote 22:
Orig., _cominciorono macinare à raccolta_.
Footnote 23:
Orig., _essendo da suoi servi senza pettine oltra modo carminato_.
Footnote 24:
Orig., _infilzar perle al scuro_.
Footnote 25:
Orig., _gli troncò la strada_.
Footnote 26:
Orig., _tra se stesso se radeva_.
Footnote 27:
Orig., _che se io potrò rendervi il contra cambio non starò a
dormire_.
Footnote 28:
Orig., _credonsi signare il fronte à se stessi cavano gli occhi_.
Footnote 29:
Orig., _pane per schiacciata_.
Footnote 30:
Orig., _le renderò gnanf per gnaf_.
Footnote 31:
Orig., _stento per non stentare_.
Footnote 32:
Orig., _cuocersi nel suo unto_.
Footnote 33:
Pietro Bembo.
Footnote 34:
Told in the dialect of Bergamo.
Footnote 35:
Orig., _e ixi romà co li ma pieni de moschi_.
Footnote 36:
Orig., _con sarevef à di tre penduletti sgonfi de dre_.
Footnote 37:
_i.e._, a famished wolf.
Footnote 38:
Orig., _anch ella no tira le calzi_.
Footnote 39:
Orig., _e dal dichg al fahg se fe le nozzi_.
Footnote 40:
Orig., _una mostazzada si fatta in sol mostaz, che la fe andà
d’inturem_.
Footnote 41:
Orig., _e fag una pellizza de tanti bastonadi, quanti la ne pos mai
portà, e la lassà quasi per morta_.
Footnote 42:
Orig., _che ti romagnis con le ma pieni de moschi_.
Footnote 43:
Orig., _picegamort_.
Footnote 44:
Orig., _anda a segonda_.
Footnote 45:
Orig., _se n’anda a parla a Pilat_.
Footnote 46:
Orig., _schiffare tal scoglio_.
Footnote 47:
Told in the dialect of Treviso.
Footnote 48:
Orig., _chi mal balla, ben solazza_.
Footnote 49:
Orig., _V’ande laldando, e lavando la bocca di fatti nuostri_,.
Footnote 50:
Orig., _in prima el se spellatava con la chiozza_.
Footnote 51:
_Zanchetto_, _zannetto_, a buffoon, a zany.
Footnote 52:
Orig., _e mutò le usate penne_. The use of _penne_ or _piume_ for
_capelli_ is not uncommon. Thus in Dante, “Che riavesse le maschile
penne” (_Inferno_, xx.); “Movendo quell’ oneste piume” (_Purgatorio_,
i.).
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last
chapter.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=.
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