The Decameron Giovanni Boccaccio

The Decameron
Giovanni Boccaccio

PROEM
‛Tis humane to have compassion on the afflicted and as it shews well in
all, so it is especially demanded of those who have had need of comfort
and have found it in others: among whom, if any had ever need thereof
or found it precious or delectable, I may be numbered; seeing that from
my early youth even to the present I was beyond measure aflame with a
most aspiring and noble love1 more perhaps than, were I to enlarge upon
it, would seem to accord with my lowly condition. Whereby, among
people of discernment to whose knowledge it had come, I had much
praise and high esteem, but nevertheless extreme discomfort and
suffering not indeed by reason of cruelty on the part of the beloved lady,
but through superabundant ardour engendered in the soul by ill-bridled
desire; the which, as it allowed me no reasonable period of quiescence,
frequently occasioned me an inordinate distress. In which distress so
much relief was afforded me by the delectable discourse of a friend and
his commendable consolations, that I entertain a very solid conviction
that to them I owe it that I am not dead. But, as it pleased Him, who,
being infinite, has assigned by immutable law an end to all things
mundane, my love, beyond all other fervent, and neither to be broken
nor bent by any force of determination, or counsel of prudence, or fear
of manifest shame or ensuing danger, did nevertheless in course of time
me abate of its own accord, in such wise that it has now left nought of
itself in my mind but that pleasure which it is wont to afford to him who

1 For Fiammetta, i. e. Maria, natural daughter of Robert, King of Naples.

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does not adventure too far out in navigating its deep seas; so that,
whereas it was used to be grievous, now, all discomfort being done away,
I find that which remains to be delightful. But the cessation of the pain
has not banished the memory of the kind offices done me by those who
shared by sympathy the burden of my griefs; nor will it ever, I believe,
pass from me except by death. And as among the virtues, gratitude is in
my judgment most especially to be commended, and ingratitude in
equal measure to be censured, therefore, that I show myself not
ungrateful, I have resolved, now that I may call myself to endeavour, in
return for what I have received, to afford, so far as in me lies, some
solace, if not to those who succoured and who, perchance, by reason of
their good sense or good fortune, need it not, at least to such as may be
apt to receive it.
And though my support or comfort, so to say, may be of little avail to
the needy, nevertheless it seems to me meet to offer it most readily
where the need is most apparent, because it will there be most
serviceable and also most kindly received. Who will deny, that it should
be given, for all that it may be worth, to gentle ladies much rather than
to men? Within their soft bosoms, betwixt fear and shame, they harbour
secret fires of love, and how much of strength concealment adds to
those fires, they know who have proved it. Moreover, restrained by the
will, the caprice, the commandment of fathers, mothers, brothers, and
husbands, confined most part of their time within the narrow compass
of their chambers, they live, so to say, a life of vacant ease, and, yearning
and renouncing in the same moment, meditate divers matters which
cannot all be cheerful. If thereby a melancholy bred of amorous desire
make entrance into their minds, it is like to tarry there to their sore
distress, unless it be dispelled by a change of ideas. Besides which they
have much less power to support such a weight than men. For, when
men are enamoured, their case is very different, as we may readily
perceive. They, if they are afflicted by a melancholy and heaviness of

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mood, have many ways of relief and diversion; they may go where they
will, may hear and see many things, may hawk, hunt, fish, ride, play or
traffic. By which means all are able to compose their minds, either in
whole or in part, and repair the ravage wrought by the dumpish mood, at
least for some space of time; and shortly after, by one way or another,
either solace ensues, or the dumps become less grievous. Wherefore, in
some measure to compensate the injustice of Fortune, which to those
whose strength is least, as we see it to be in the delicate frames of ladies,
has been most niggard of support, I, for the succour and diversion of
such of them as love (for others may find sufficient solace in the needle
and the spindle and the reel), do intend to recount one hundred Novels
or Fables or Parables or Stories, as we may please to call them, which
were recounted in ten days by an honourable company of seven ladies
and three young men in the time of the late mortal pestilence, as also
some canzonets sung by the said ladies for their delectation. In which
pleasant novels will be found some passages of love rudely crossed, with
other courses of events of which the issues are felicitous, in times as well
modern as ancient: from which stories the said ladies, who shall read
them, may derive both pleasure from the entertaining matters set forth
therein, and also good counsel, in that they may learn what to shun, and
likewise what to pursue. Which cannot, I believe, come to pass unless
the dumps be banished by diversion of mind. And if it so happen (as
God grant it may) let them give thanks to Love, who, liberating me from
his fetters, has given me the power to devote myself to their gratification.
— Beginneth here the first day of the Decameron, in which,
when the author has set forth, how it came to pass that the
persons, who appear hereafter met together for interchange of
discourse, they, under the rule of Pampinea, discourse of such
matters as most commend themselves to each in turn. —
As often, most gracious ladies, as I bethink me, how compassionate

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you are by nature one and all, I do not disguise from myself that the
present work must seem to you to have but a heavy and distressful
prelude, in that it bears upon its very front what must needs revive the
sorrowful memory of the late mortal pestilence, the course whereof was
grievous not merely to eye- witnesses but to all who in any other wise
had cognisance of it. But I would have you know, that you need not
therefore be fearful to read further, as if your reading were ever to be
accompanied by sighs and tears. This horrid beginning will be to you
even such as to wayfarers is a steep and rugged mountain, beyond which
stretches a plain most fair and delectable, which the toil of the ascent
and descent does but serve to render more agreeable to them; for, as the
last degree of joy brings with it sorrow, so misery has ever its sequel of
happiness. To this brief exordium of woe—brief, I say, inasmuch as it can
be put within the compass of a few letters—succeed forthwith the sweets
and delights which I have promised you, and which, perhaps, had I not
done so, were not to have been expected from it. In truth, had it been
honestly possible to guide you whither I would bring you by a road less
rough than this will be, I would gladly have so done. But, because
without this review of the past, it would not be in my power to shew how
the matters, of which you will hereafter read, came to pass, I am almost
bound of necessity to enter upon it, if I would write of them at all.
I say, then, that the years of the beatific incarnation of the Son of God
had reached the tale of one thousand three hundred and forty-eight
when in the illustrious city of Florence, the fairest of all the cities of
Italy, there made its appearance that deadly pestilence, which, whether
disseminated by the influence of the celestial bodies, or sent upon us
mortals by God in His just wrath by way of retribution for our iniquities,
had had its origin some years before in the East, whence, after
destroying an innumerable multitude of living beings, it had propagated
itself without respite from place to place, and so, calamitously, had
spread into the West.

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In Florence, despite all that human wisdom and forethought could

devise to avert it, as the cleansing of the city from many impurities by
officials appointed for the purpose, the refusal of entrance to all sick
folk, and the adoption of many precautions for the preservation of
health; despite also humble supplications addressed to God, and often
repeated both in public procession and otherwise, by the devout;
towards the beginning of the spring of the said year the doleful effects of
the pestilence began to be horribly apparent by symptoms that shewed
as if miraculous.
Not such were they as in the East, where an issue of blood from the
nose was a manifest sign of inevitable death; but in men and women
alike it first betrayed itself by the emergence of certain tumours in the
groin or the armpits, some of which grew as large as a common apple,
others as an egg, some more, some less, which the common folk called
gavoccioli. From the two said parts of the body this deadly gavocciolo
soon began to propagate and spread itself in all directions indifferently;
after which the form of the malady began to change, black spots or livid
making their appearance in many cases on the arm or the thigh or
elsewhere, now few and large, now minute and numerous. And as the
gavocciolo had been and still was an infallible token of approaching
death, such also were these spots on whomsoever they shewed
themselves. Which maladies seemed to set entirely at naught both the
art of the physician and the virtues of physic; indeed, whether it was that
the disorder was of a nature to defy such treatment, or that the
physicians were at fault—besides the qualified there was now a
multitude both of men and of women who practised without having
received the slightest tincture of medical science—and, being in
ignorance of its source, failed to apply the proper remedies; in either
case, not merely were those that recovered few, but almost all within
three days from the appearance of the said symptoms, sooner or later,
died, and in most cases without any fever or other attendant malady.

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Moreover, the virulence of the pest was the greater by reason that
intercourse was apt to convey it from the sick to the whole, just as fire
devours things dry or greasy when they are brought close to it. Nay, the
evil went yet further, for not merely by speech or association with the
sick was the malady communicated to the healthy with consequent peril
of common death; but any that touched the cloth of the sick or aught
else that had been touched or used by them, seemed thereby to contract
the disease.
So marvellous sounds that which I have now to relate, that, had not
many, and I among them, observed it with their own eyes, I had hardly
dared to credit it, much less to set it down in writing, though I had had
it from the lips of a credible witness.
I say, then, that such was the energy of the contagion of the said
pestilence, that it was not merely propagated from man to man but,
what is much more startling, it was frequently observed, that things
which had belonged to one sick or dead of the disease, if touched by
some other living creature, not of the human species, were the occasion,
not merely of sickening, but of an almost instantaneous death. Whereof
my own eyes (as I said a little before) had cognisance, one day among
others, by the following experience. The rags of a poor man who had
died of the disease being strewn about the open street, two hogs came
thither, and after, as is their wont, no little trifling with their snouts,
took the rags between their teeth and tossed them to and fro about their
chaps; whereupon, almost immediately, they gave a few turns, and fell
down dead, as if by poison, upon the rags which in an evil hour they had
disturbed.
In which circumstances, not to speak of many others of a similar or
even graver complexion, divers apprehensions and imaginations were
engendered in the minds of such as were left alive, inclining almost all of
them to the same harsh resolution, to wit, to shun and abhor all contact
with the sick and all that belonged to them, thinking thereby to make

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each his own health secure. Among whom there were those who thought
that to live temperately and avoid all excess would count for much as a
preservative against seizures of this kind. Wherefore they banded
together, and, dissociating themselves from all others, formed
communities in houses where there were no sick, and lived a separate
and secluded life, which they regulated with the utmost care, avoiding
every kind of luxury, but eating and drinking very moderately of the
most delicate viands and the finest wines, holding converse with none
but one another, lest tidings of sickness or death should reach them, and
diverting their minds with music and such other delights as they could
devise. Others, the bias of whose minds was in the opposite direction,
maintained, that to drink freely, frequent places of public resort, and
take their pleasure with song and revel, sparing to satisfy no appetite,
and to laugh and mock at no event, was the sovereign remedy for so
great an evil: and that which they affirmed they also put in practice, so
far as they were able, resorting day and night, now to this tavern, now to
that, drinking with an entire disregard of rule or measure, and by
preference making the houses of others, as it were, their inns, if they but
saw in them aught that was particularly to their taste or liking; which
they were readily able to do, because the owners, seeing death
imminent, had become as reckless of their property as of their lives; so
that most of the houses were open to all comers, and no distinction was
observed between the stranger who presented himself and the rightful
lord. Thus, adhering ever to their inhuman determination to shun the
sick, as far as possible, they ordered their life. In this extremity of our
city’s suffering and tribulation the venerable authority of laws, human
and divine, was abased and all but totally dissolved, for lack of those
who should have administered and enforced them, most of whom, like
the rest of the citizens, were either dead or sick, or so hard bested for
servants that they were unable to execute any office; whereby every man
was free to do what was right in his own eyes.

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Not a few there were who belonged to neither of the two said parties,
but kept a middle course between them, neither laying the same
restraint upon their diet as the former, nor allowing themselves the same
license in drinking and other dissipations as the latter, but living with a
degree of freedom sufficient to satisfy their appetites, and not as
recluses. They therefore walked abroad, carrying in their hands flowers
or fragrant herbs or divers sorts of spices, which they frequently raised to
their noses, deeming it an excellent thing thus to comfort the brain with
such perfumes, because the air seemed to be everywhere laden and
reeking with the stench emitted by the dead and the dying and the
odours of drugs.
Some again, the most sound, perhaps, in judgment, as they we also
the most harsh in temper, of all, affirmed that there was no medicine for
the disease superior or equal in efficacy to flight; following which
prescription a multitude of men and women, negligent of all but
themselves, deserted their city, their houses, their estate, their kinsfolk,
their goods, and went into voluntary exile, or migrated to the country
parts, as if God in visiting men with this pestilence in requital of their
iniquities would not pursue them with His wrath, wherever they might
be, but intended the destruction of such alone as remained within the
circuit of the walls of the city; or deeming, perchance, that it was now
time for all to flee from it, and that its last hour was come.
Of the adherents of these divers opinions not all died, neither did all
escape; but rather there were, of each sort and in every place, many that
sickened, and by those who retained their health were treated after the
example which they themselves, while whole, had set, being everywhere
left to languish in almost total neglect. Tedious were it to recount, how
citizen avoided citizen, how among neighbours was scarce found any
that shewed fellow-feeling for another, how kinsfolk held aloof, and
never met, or but rarely; enough that this sore affliction entered so deep
into the minds of men and women, that in the horror thereof brother

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was forsaken by brother, nephew by uncle, brother by sister, and

oftentimes husband by wife; nay, what is more, and scarcely to be
believed, fathers and mothers were found to abandon their own
children, untended, unvisited, to their fate, as if they had been strangers.
Wherefore the sick of both sexes, whose number could not be estimated,
were left without resource but in the charity of friends (and few such
there were), or the interest of servants, who were hardly to be had at
high rates and on unseemly terms, and being, moreover, one and all men
and women of gross understanding, and for the most part unused to
such offices, concerned themselves no farther than to supply the
immediate and expressed wants of the sick, and to watch them die; in
which service they themselves not seldom perished with their gains. In
consequence of which dearth of servants and dereliction of the sick by
neighbours, kinsfolk and friends, it came to pass—a thing, perhaps,
never before heard of that no woman, however dainty, fair or well-born
she might be, shrank, when stricken with the disease, from the
ministrations of a man, no matter whether he were young or no, or
scrupled to expose to him every part of her body, with no more shame
than if he had been a woman, submitting of necessity to that which her
malady required; wherefrom, perchance, there resulted in after time
some loss of modesty in such as recovered. Besides which many
succumbed, who with proper attendance, would, perhaps, have escaped
death; so that, what with the virulence of the plague and the lack of due
tendance of the sick, the multitude of the deaths, that daily and nightly
took place in the city, was such that those who heard the tale—not to say
witnessed the fact—were struck dumb with amazement. Whereby,
practices contrary to the former habits of the citizens could hardly fail to
grow up among the survivors.
It had been, as to-day it still is, the custom for the women that were
neighbours and of kin to the deceased to gather in his house with the
women that were most closely connected with him, to wail with them in

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common, while on the other hand his male kinsfolk and neighbours,
with not a few of the other citizens, and a due proportion of the clergy
according to his quality, assembled without, in front of the house, to
receive the corpse; and so the dead man was borne on the shoulders of
his peers, with funeral pomp of taper and dirge, to the church selected
by him before his death. Which rites, as the pestilence waxed in fury,
were either in whole or in great part disused, and gave way to others of a
novel order. For not only did no crowd of women surround the bed of
the dying, but many passed from this life unregarded, and few indeed
were they to whom were accorded the lamentations and bitter tears of
sorrowing relations; nay, for the most part, their place was taken by the
laugh, the jest, the festal gathering; observances which the women,
domestic piety in large measure set aside, had adopted with very great
advantage to their health. Few also there were whose bodies were
attended to the church by more than ten or twelve of their neighbours,
and those not the honourable and respected citizens; but a sort of
corpse-carriers drawn from the baser ranks who called themselves
becchini2 and performed such offices for hire, would shoulder the bier,
and with hurried steps carry it, not to the church of the dead man’s
choice, but to that which was nearest at hand, with four or six priests in
front and a candle or two, or, perhaps, none; nor did the priests distress
themselves with too long and solemn an office, but with the aid of the
becchini hastily consigned the corpse to the first tomb which they found
untenanted. The condition of lower, and, perhaps, in great measure of
the middle ranks, of the people shewed even worse and more deplorable;
for, deluded by hope or constrained by poverty, they stayed in their
quarters, in their houses, where they sickened by thousands a day, and,
being without service or help of any kind, were, so to speak,
irredeemably devoted to the death which overtook them. Many died

2 Probably from the name of the pronged or hooked implement with which they dragged the corpses out of the
houses.

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daily or nightly in the public streets; of many others, who died at home,
the departure was hardly observed by their neighbours, until the stench
of their putrefying bodies carried the tidings; and what with their
corpses and the corpses of others who died on every hand the whole
place was a sepulchre.
It was the common practice of most of the neighbours, moved no less
by fear of contamination by the putrefying bodies than by charity
towards the deceased, to drag the corpses out of the houses with their
own hands, aided, perhaps, by a porter, if a porter was to be had, and to
lay them in front of the doors, where any one who made the round might
have seen, especially in the morning, more of them than he could count;
afterwards they would have biers brought up, or, in default, planks,
whereon they laid them. Nor was it once or twice only that one and the
same bier carried two or three corpses at once; but quite a considerable
number of such cases occurred, one bier sufficing for husband and wife,
two or three brothers, father and son, and so forth. And times without
number it happened, that, as two priests, bearing the cross, were on
their way to perform the last office for some one, three or four biers were
brought up by the porters in rear of them, so that, whereas the priests
supposed that they had but one corpse to bury, they discovered that
there were six or eight, or sometimes more. Nor, for all their number,
were their obsequies honoured by either tears or lights or crowds of
mourners; rather, it was come to this, that a dead man was then of no
more account than a dead goat would be to-day. From all which it is
abundantly manifest, that that lesson of patient resignation, which the
sages were never able to learn from the slight and infrequent mishaps
which occur in the natural course of events, was now brought home even
to the minds of the simple by the magnitude of their disasters, so that
they became indifferent to them.
As consecrated ground there was not in extent sufficient to provide
tombs for the vast multitude of corpses which day and night, and almost

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every hour, were brought in eager haste to the churches for interment,
least of all, if ancient custom were to be observed and a separate resting-
place assigned to each, they dug, for each graveyard, as soon as it was
full, a huge trench, in which they laid the corpses as they arrived by
hundreds at a time, piling them up as merchandise is stowed in the hold
of a ship, tier upon tier, each covered with a little earth, until the trench
would hold no more. But I spare to rehearse with minute particularity
each of the woes that came upon our city, and say in brief, that, harsh as
was the tenor of her fortunes, the surrounding country knew no
mitigation, for there—not to speak of the castles, each, as it were, a little
city in itself—in sequestered village, or on the open champaign, by the
wayside, on the farm, in the homestead, the poor hapless husbandmen
and their families, forlorn of physicians’ care or servants’ tendance,
perished day and night alike, not as men, but rather as beasts.
Wherefore, they too, like the citizens, abandoned all rule of life, all habit
of industry, all counsel of prudence; nay, one and all, as if expecting each
day to be their last, not merely ceased to aid Nature to yield her fruit in
due season of their beasts and their lands and their past labours, but left
no means unused, which ingenuity could devise, to waste their
accumulated store; denying shelter to their oxen, asses, sheep, goats,
pigs, fowls, nay, even to their dogs, man’s most faithful companions, and
driving them out into the fields to roam at large amid the unsheaved,
nay, unreaped corn. Many of which, as if endowed with reason, took
their fill during the day, and returned home at night without any
guidance of herdsman. But enough of the country! What need we add,
but (reverting to the city) that such and so grievous was the harshness of
heaven, and perhaps in some degree of man, that, what with the fury of
the pestilence, the panic of those whom it spared, and their consequent
neglect or desertion of not a few of the stricken in their need, it is
believed without any manner of doubt, that between March and the
ensuing July upwards of a hundred thousand human beings lost their

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lives within the walls of the city of Florence, which before the deadly
visitation would not have been supposed to contain so many people!
How many grand palaces, how many stately homes, how many splendid
residences, once full of retainers, of lords, of ladies, were now left
desolate of all, even to the meanest servant! How many families of
historic fame, of vast ancestral domains, and wealth proverbial, found
now no scion to continue the succession! How many brave men, how
many fair ladies, how many gallant youths, whom any physician, were he
Galen, Hippocrates, or Aesculapius himself, would have pronounced in
the soundest of health, broke fast with their kinsfolk, comrades and
friends in the morning, and when evening came, supped with their
forefathers in the other world.
Irksome it is to myself to rehearse in detail so sorrowful a history.
Wherefore, being minded to pass over so much thereof as I fairly can, I
say, that our city, being thus well-nigh depopulated, it so happened, as I
afterwards learned from one worthy of credit, that on a Tuesday morning
after Divine Service the venerable church of Santa Maria Novella was
almost deserted save for the presence of seven young ladies habited
sadly in keeping with the season. All were connected either by blood or
at least as friends or neighbours and fair and of good understanding
were they all, as also of noble birth, gentle manners, and a modest
sprightliness. In age none exceeded twenty-eight, or fell short of
eighteen years. Their names I would set down in due form, had I not
good reason to with hold them, being solicitous lest the matters which
here ensue, as told and heard by them, should in after time be occasion
of reproach to any of them, in view of the ample indulgence which was
then, for the reasons heretofore set forth, accorded to the lighter hours
of persons of much riper years than they, but which the manners of to-
day have somewhat restricted; nor would I furnish material to
detractors, ever ready to bestow their bite where praise is due, to cast by
invidious speech the least slur upon the honour of these noble ladies.

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Wherefore, that what each says may be apprehended without confusion,

I intend to give them names more or less appropriate to the character of
each. The first, then, being the eldest of the seven, we will call
Pampinea, the second Fiammetta, the third Filomena, the fourth Emilia,
the fifth we will distinguish as Lauretta, the sixth as Neifile, and the last,
not without reason, shall be named Elisa.
‛Twas not of set purpose but by mere chance that these ladies met in
the same part of the church; but at length grouping themselves into a
sort of circle, after heaving a few sighs, they gave up saying paternosters,
and began to converse (among other topics) on the times.
So they continued for awhile, and then Pampinea, the rest listening
in silent attention, thus began:—‟Dear ladies mine, often have I heard it
said, and you doubtless as well as I, that wrong is done to none by whoso
but honestly uses his reason. And to fortify, preserve, and defend his life
to the utmost of his power is the dictate of natural reason in everyone
that is born. Which right is accorded in such measure that in defence
thereof men have been held blameless in taking life. And if this be
allowed by the laws, albeit on their stringency depends the well-being of
every mortal, how much more exempt from censure should we, and all
other honest folk, be in taking such means as we may for the
preservation of our life? As often as I bethink me how we have been
occupied this morning, and not this morning only, and what has been
the tenor of our conversation, I perceive—and you will readily do the
like—that each of us is apprehensive on her own account; nor thereat do
I marvel, but at this I do marvel greatly, that, though none of us lacks a
woman’s wit, yet none of us has recourse to any means to avert that
which we all justly fear. Here we tarry, as if, methinks, for no other
purpose than to bear witness to the number of the corpses that are
brought hither for interment, or to hearken if the brothers there within,
whose number is now almost reduced to nought, chant their offices at
the canonical hours, or, by our weeds of woe, to obtrude on the attention

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of every one that enters, the nature and degree of our sufferings.
‟And if we quit the church, we see dead or sick folk carried about, or
we see those, who for their crimes were of late condemned to exile by the
outraged majesty of the public laws, but who now, in contempt of those
laws, well knowing that their ministers are a prey to death or disease,
have returned, and traverse the city in packs, making it hideous with
their riotous antics; or else we see the refuse of the people, fostered on
our blood, becchini, as they call themselves, who for our torment go
prancing about here and there and everywhere, making mock of our
miseries in scurrilous songs. Nor hear we aught but:—Such and such are
dead; or, Such and such art dying; and should hear dolorous wailing on
every hand, were there but any to wail. Or go we home, what see we
there? I know not if you are in like case with me; but there, where once
were servants in plenty, I find none left but my maid, and shudder with
terror, and feel the very hairs of my head to stand on end; and turn or
tarry where I may, I encounter the ghosts of the departed, not with their
wonted mien, but with something horrible in their aspect that appals
me. For which reasons church and street and home are alike distressful
to me, and the more so that none, methinks, having means and place of
retirement as we have, abides here save only we; or if any such there be,
they are of those, as my senses too often have borne witness, who make
no distinction between things honourable and their opposites, so they
but answer the cravings of appetite, and, alone or in company, do daily
and nightly what things soever give promise of most gratification. Nor
are these secular persons alone; but such as live recluse in monasteries
break their rule, and give themselves up to carnal pleasures, persuading
themselves that they are permissible to them, and only forbidden to
others, and, thereby thinking to escape, are become unchaste and
dissolute. If such be our circumstances—and such most manifestly they
are—what do we here? what wait we for? what dream we of? why are we
less prompt to provide for our own safety than the rest of the citizens? Is

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life less dear to us than to all other women? or think we that the bond,
which unites soul and body is stronger in us than in others, so that there
is no blow that may light upon it, of which we need be apprehensive? If
so, we err, we are deceived. What insensate folly were it in us so to
believe! We have but to call to mind the number and condition of those,
young as we, and of both sexes, who have succumbed to this cruel
pestilence, to find therein conclusive evidence to the contrary. And lest
from lethargy or indolence we fall into the vain imagination that by
some lucky accident we may in some way or another, when we would,
escape—I know not if your opinion accord with mine—I should deem it
most wise in us, our case being what it is, if, as many others have done
before us, and are still doing, we were to quit this place, and, shunning
like death the evil example of others, betake ourselves to the country,
and there live as honourable women on one of the estates, of which none
of us has any lack, with all cheer of festal gathering and other delights,
so long as in no particular we overstep the bounds of reason. There we
shall hear the chant of birds, have sight of verdant hills and plains, of
cornfields undulating like the sea, of trees of a thousand sorts; there also
we shall have a larger view of the heavens, which, however harsh to
usward yet deny not their eternal beauty; things fairer far for eye to rest
on than the desolate walls of our city. Moreover, we shall there breathe a
fresher air, find ampler store of things meet for such as live in these
times, have fewer causes of annoy. For, though the husbandmen die
there, even as here the citizens, they are dispersed in scattered
homesteads, and ‛tis thus less painful to witness. Nor, so far as I can see,
is there a soul here whom we shall desert; rather we may truly say, that
we are ourselves deserted; for, our kinsfolk being either dead or fled in
fear of death, no more regardful of us than if we were strangers, we are
left alone in our great affliction. No censure, then, can fall on us if we do
as I propose; and otherwise grievous suffering, perhaps death, may
ensue. Wherefore, if you agree, ‛tis my advice, that, attended by our

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maids with all things needful, we sojourn, now on this, now on the other
estate, and in such way of life continue, until we see—if death should
not first overtake us—the end which Heaven reserves for these events.
And I remind you that it will be at least as seemly in us to leave with
honour, as in others, of whom there are not a few, to stay with
dishonour.”
The other ladies praised Pampinea’s plan, and indeed were so prompt
to follow it, that they had already begun to discuss the manner in some
detail, as if they were forthwith to rise from their seats and take the road,
when Filomena, whose judgment was excellent, interposed, saying:
—‟Ladies, though Pampinea has spoken to most excellent effect, yet it
were not well to be so precipitate as you seem disposed to be. Bethink
you that we are all women; nor is there any here so young, but she is of
years to understand how women are minded towards one another, when
they are alone together, and how ill they are able to rule themselves
without the guidance of some man. We are sensitive, perverse,
suspicious, pusillanimous and timid; wherefore I much misdoubt, that,
if we find no other guidance than our own, this company is like to break
up sooner, and with less credit to us, than it should. Against which it
were well to provide at the outset.” Said then Elisa:—‟Without doubt
man is woman’s head, and, without man’s governance, it is seldom that
aught that we do is brought to a commendable conclusion. But how are
we to come by the men? Every one of us here knows that her kinsmen
are for the most part dead, and that the survivors are dispersed, one
here, one there, we know not where, bent each on escaping the same fate
as ourselves; nor were it seemly to seek the aid of strangers; for, as we are
in quest of health, we must find some means so to order matters that,
wherever we seek diversion or repose, trouble and scandal do not follow
us.”
While the ladies were thus conversing, there came into the church
three young men, young, I say, but not so young that the age of the

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youngest was less than twenty-five years; in whom neither the sinister
course of events, nor the loss of friends or kinsfolk, nor fear for their own
safety, had availed to quench, or even temper, the ardour of their love.
The first was called Pamfilo, the second Filostrato, and the third Dioneo.
Very debonair and chivalrous were they all; and in this troublous time
they were seeking if haply, to their exceeding great solace, they might
have sight of their fair friends, all three of whom chanced to be among
the said seven ladies, besides some that were of kin to the young men. At
one and the same moment they recognised the ladies and were
recognised by them: wherefore, with a gracious smile, Pampinea thus
began:—‟Lo, fortune is propitious to our enterprise, having vouchsafed
us the good offices of these young men, who are as gallant as they are
discreet, and will gladly give us their guidance and escort, so we but take
them into our service.” Whereupon Neifile, crimson from brow to neck
with the blush of modesty, being one of those that had a lover among
the young men, said:—‟For God’s sake, Pampinea, have a care what you
say. Well assured am I that nought but good can be said of any of them,
and I deem them fit for office far more onerous than this which you
propose for them, and their good and honourable company worthy of
ladies fairer by far and more tenderly to be cherished than such as we.
But ‛tis no secret that they love some of us here; wherefore I misdoubt
that, if we take them with us, we may thereby give occasion for scandal
and censure merited neither by us nor by them.” ‟That,” said Filomena,
‟is of no consequence; so I but live honestly, my conscience gives me no
disquietude; if others asperse me, God and the truth will take arms in
my defence. Now, should they be disposed to attend us, of a truth we
might say with Pampinea, that fortune favours our enterprise.” The
silence which followed betokened consent on the part of the other
ladies, who then with one accord resolved to call the young men, and
acquaint them with their purpose, and pray them to be of their
company. So without further parley Pampinea, who had a kinsman

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among the young men, rose and approached them where they stood
intently regarding them; and greeting them gaily, she opened to them
their plan, and besought them on the part of herself and her friends to
join their company on terms of honourable and fraternal comradeship.
At first the young men thought she did but trifle with them; but when
they saw that she was in earnest, they answered with alacrity that they
were ready, and promptly, even before they left the church, set matters
in train for their departure. So all things meet being first sent forward in
due order to their intended place of sojourn, the ladies with some of
their maids, and the three young men, each attended by a man-servant,
sallied forth of the city on the morrow, being Wednesday, about
daybreak, and took the road; nor had they journeyed more than two
short miles when they arrived at their destination. The estate 3 lay upon a
little hill some distance from the nearest highway, and, embowered in
shrubberies of divers hues, and other greenery, afforded the eye a
pleasant prospect. On the summit of the hill was a palace with galleries,
halls and chambers, disposed around a fair and spacious court, each very
fair in itself, and the goodlier to see for the gladsome pictures with which
it was adorned; the whole set amidst meads and gardens laid out with
marvellous art, wells of the coolest water, and vaults of the finest wines,
things more suited to dainty drinkers than to sober and honourable
women. On their arrival the company, to their no small delight, found
their beds already made, the rooms well swept and garnished with
flowers of every sort that the season could afford, and the floors
carpeted with rushes. When they were seated, Dioneo, a gallant who had
not his match for courtesy and wit, spoke thus:—‟My ladies, ‛tis not our
forethought so much as your own mother-wit that has guided us hither.
How you mean to dispose of your cares I know not; mine I left behind
me within the city-gate when I issued thence with you a brief while ago.
Wherefore, I pray you, either address yourselves to make merry, to laugh
3 Identified by tradition with the Villa Palmieri (now Crawford) on the slope of Fiesole.

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and sing with me (so far, I mean, as may consist with your dignity), or
give me leave to hie me back to the stricken city, there to abide with my
cares.” To whom blithely Pampinea replied, as if she too had cast off all
her cares:—‟Well sayest thou, Dioneo, excellent well; gaily we mean to
live; ‛twas a refuge from sorrow that here we sought, nor had we other
cause to come hither. But, as no anarchy can long endure, I who initiated
the deliberations of which this fair company is the fruit, do now, to the
end that our joy may be lasting, deem it expedient, that there be one
among us in chief authority, honoured and obeyed by us as our superior,
whose exclusive care it shall be to devise how we may pass our time
blithely. And that each in turn may prove the weight of the care, as well
as enjoy the pleasure, of sovereignty, and, no distinction being made of
sex, envy be felt by none by reason of exclusion from the office; I
propose, that the weight and honour be borne by each one for a day; and
let the first to bear sway be chosen by us all, those that follow to be
appointed towards the vesper hour by him or her who shall have had the
signory for that day; and let each holder of the signory be, for the time,
sole arbiter of the place and manner in which we are to pass our time.”
Pampinea’s speech was received with the utmost applause, and with
one accord she was chosen queen for the first day. Whereupon Filomena
hied her lightly to a bay-tree, having often heard of the great honour in
which its leaves, and such as were deservedly crowned therewith, were
worthy to be holden; and having gathered a few sprays, she made
thereof a goodly wreath of honour, and set it on Pampinea’s head; which
wreath was thenceforth, while their company endured, the visible sign of
the wearer’s sway and sovereignty.
No sooner was Queen Pampinea crowned than she bade all be silent.
She then caused summon to her presence their four maids, and the
servants of the three young men, and, all keeping silence, said to them:
—‟That I may shew you all at once, how, well still giving place to better,
our company may flourish and endure, as long as it shall pleasure us,

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with order meet and assured delight and without reproach, I first of all
constitute Dioneo’s man, Parmeno, my seneschal, and entrust him with
the care and control of all our household, and all that belongs to the
service of the hall. Pamfilo’s man, Sirisco, I appoint treasurer and
chancellor of our exchequer; and be he ever answerable to Parmeno.
While Parmeno and Sirisco are too busy about their duties to serve their
masters, let Filostrato’s man, Tindaro, have charge of the chambers of all
three. My maid, Misia, and Filomena’s maid, Licisca, will keep in the
kitchen, and with all due diligence prepare such dishes as Parmeno shall
bid them. Lauretta’s maid, Chimera, and Fiammetta’s maid, Stratilia we
make answerable for the ladies’ chambers, and wherever we may take up
our quarters, let them see that all is spotless. And now we enjoin you,
one and all alike, as you value our favour, that none of you, go where you
may, return whence you may, hear or see what you may, bring us any
tidings but such as be cheerful.” These orders thus succinctly given were
received with universal approval. Whereupon Pampinea rose, and said
gaily:—‟Here are gardens, meads, and other places delightsome enough,
where you may wander at will, and take your pleasure; but on the stroke
of tierce,4 let all be here to breakfast in the shade.”
Thus dismissed by their new queen the gay company sauntered
gently through a garden, the young men saying sweet things to the fair
ladies, who wove fair garlands of divers sorts of leaves and sang love-
songs.
Having thus spent the time allowed them by the queen, they
returned to the house, where they found that Parmeno had entered on
his office with zeal; for in a hall on the ground-floor they saw tables
covered with the whitest of cloths, and beakers that shone like silver, and
sprays of broom scattered everywhere. So, at the bidding of the queen,
they washed their hands, and all took their places as marshalled by
Parmeno. Dishes, daintily prepared, were served, and the finest wines
4 The canonical hour following prime, roughly speaking about 9 a.m.

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were at hand; the three serving-men did their office noiselessly; in a

word all was fair and ordered in a seemly manner; whereby the spirits of
the company rose, and they seasoned their viands with pleasant jests
and sprightly sallies. Breakfast done, the tables were removed, and the
queen bade fetch instruments of music; for all, ladies and young men
alike, knew how to tread a measure, and some of them played and sang
with great skill: so, at her command, Dioneo having taken a lute, and
Fiammetta a viol, they struck up a dance in sweet concert; and, the
servants being dismissed to their repast, the queen, attended by the
other ladies and the two young men, led off a stately carol; which ended
they fell to singing ditties dainty and gay. Thus they diverted themselves
until the queen, deeming it time to retire to rest, dismissed them all for
the night. So the three young men and the ladies withdrew to their
several quarters, which were in different parts of the palace. There they
found the beds well made, and abundance of flowers, as in the hall; and
so they undressed, and went to bed.
Shortly after none5 the queen rose, and roused the rest of the ladies,
as also the young men, averring that it was injurious to health to sleep
long in the daytime. They therefore hied them to a meadow, where the
grass grew green and luxuriant, being nowhere scorched by the sun, and
a light breeze gently fanned them. So at the queen’s command they all
ranged themselves in a circle on the grass, and hearkened while she thus
spoke:—
‟You mark that the sun is high, the heat intense, and the silence
unbroken save by the cicalas among the olive-trees. It were therefore the
height of folly to quit this spot at present. Here the air is cool and the
prospect fair, and here, observe, are dice and chess. Take, then, your
pleasure as you may be severally minded; but, if you take my advice, you
will find pastime for the hot hours before us, not in play, in which the
loser must needs be vexed, and neither the winner nor the onlooker
5 The canonical hour following sext, i.e. 3 p.m.

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much the better pleased, but in telling of stories, in which the invention
of one may afford solace to all the company of his hearers. You will not
each have told a story before the sun will be low, and the heat abated, so
that we shall be able to go and severally take our pleasure where it may
seem best to each. Wherefore, if my proposal meet with your approval—
for in this I am disposed to consult your pleasure—let us adopt it; if not,
divert yourselves as best you may, until the vesper hour.”
The queen’s proposal being approved by all, ladies and men alike, she
added:—‟So please you, then, I ordain, that, for this first day, we be free
to discourse of such matters as most commend themselves, to each in
turn.” She then addressed Pamfilo, who sat on her right hand, bidding
him with a gracious air to lead off with one of his stories. And prompt at
the word of command, Pamfilo, while all listened intently, thus began:—

FIRST DAY

NOVEL I.

— Ser Ciappelletto cheats a holy friar by a false confession,

and dies; and, having lived as a very bad man, is, on his death,
reputed a saint, and called San Ciappelletto. —
A seemly thing it is, dearest ladies, that whatever we do, it be begun in
the holy and awful name of Him who was the maker of all. Wherefore, as
it falls to me to lead the way in this your enterprise of story telling, I
intend to begin with one of His wondrous works, that, by hearing
thereof, our hopes in Him, in whom is no change, may be established,
and His name be by us forever lauded. ‛Tis manifest that, as things
temporal are all doomed to pass and perish, so within and without they
abound with trouble and anguish and travail, and are subject to infinite

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perils; nor, save for the especial grace of God, should we, whose being is
bound up with and forms part of theirs, have either the strength to
endure or the wisdom to combat their adverse influences. By which
grace we are visited and penetrated (so we must believe) not by reason of
any merit of our own, but solely out of the fulness of God’s own
goodness, and in answer to the prayers of those who, being mortal like
ourselves, did faithfully observe His ordinances during their lives, and
are now become blessed for ever with Him in heaven. To whom, as to
advocates taught by experience all that belongs to our frailty, we, not
daring, perchance, to present our petitions in the presence of so great a
judge, make known our requests for such things as we deem expedient
for us. And of His mercy richly abounding to usward we have further
proof herein, that, no keenness of mortal vision being able in any degree
to penetrate the secret counsels of the Divine mind, it sometimes,
perchance, happens, that, in error of judgment, we make one our
advocate before His Majesty, who is banished from His presence in
eternal exile, and yet He to whom nothing is hidden, having regard
rather to the sincerity of our prayers than to our ignorance or the
banishment of the intercessor, hears us no less than if the intercessor
were in truth one of the blest who enjoy the light of His countenance.
Which the story that I am about to relate may serve to make apparent;
apparent, I mean, according to the standard or the judgment of man,
not of God.
The story goes, then, that Musciatto Franzesi, a great and wealthy
merchant, being made a knight in France, and being to attend Charles
Sansterre, brother of the King of France, when he came into Tuscany at
the instance and with the support of Pope Boniface, found his affairs, as
often happens to merchants, to be much involved in divers quarters, and
neither easily nor suddenly to be adjusted; wherefore he determined to
place them in the hands of commissioners, and found no difficulty
except as to certain credits given to some Burgundians, for the recovery

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of which he doubted whether he could come by a competent agent; for

well he knew that the Burgundians were violent men and ill-conditioned
and faithless; nor could he call to mind any man so bad that he could
with confidence oppose his guile to theirs. After long pondering the
matter, he recollected one Ser Ciapperello da Prato, who much
frequented his house in Paris. Who being short of stature and very
affected, the French who knew not the meaning of Cepparello,6 but
supposed that it meant the same as Cappello, i. e. garland, in their
vernacular, called him not Cappello, but Ciappelletto by reason of his
diminutive size; and as Ciappelletto he was known everywhere, whereas
few people knew him as Ciapperello. Now Ciappelletto’s manner of life
was thus. He was by profession a notary, and his pride was to make false
documents; he would have made them as often as he was asked, and
more readily without fee than another at a great price; few indeed he
made that were not false, and, great was his shame when they were
discovered. False witness he bore, solicited or unsolicited, with
boundless delight; and, as oaths were in those days had in very great
respect in France, he, scrupling not to forswear himself, corruptly
carried the day in every case in which he was summoned faithfully to
attest the truth. He took inordinate delight, and bestirred himself with
great zeal, in fomenting ill-feeling, enmities, dissensions between
friends, kinsfolk and all other folk; and the more calamitous were the
consequences the better he was pleased. Set him on murder, or any other
foul crime, and he never hesitated, but went about it with alacrity; he
had been known on more than one occasion to inflict wounds or death
by preference with his own hands. He was a profuse blasphemer of God
and His saints, and that on the most trifling occasions, being of all men
the most irascible. He was never seen at Church, held all the sacraments
vile things, and derided them in language of horrible ribaldry. On the

6 The diminutive of ceppo, stump or log: more commonly written cepperello (cf. p. 32) or ceppatello. The form
ciapperello seems to be found only here.

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The Decameron Giovanni Boccaccio

other hand he resorted readily to the tavern and other places of evil
repute, and frequented them. He was as fond of women as a dog is of the
stick: in the use against nature he had not his match among the most
abandoned. He would have pilfered and stolen as a matter of conscience,
as a holy man would make an oblation. Most gluttonous he was and
inordinately fond of his cups, whereby he sometimes brought upon
himself both shame and suffering. He was also a practised gamester and
thrower of false dice. But why enlarge so much upon him? Enough that
he was, perhaps, the worst man that ever was born.
The rank and power of Musciatto Franzesi had long been this
reprobate’s mainstay, serving in many instances to secure him
considerate treatment on the part of the private persons whom he
frequently, and the court which he unremittingly, outraged. So
Musciatto, having bethought him of this Ser Cepparello, with whose way
of life he was very well acquainted, judged him to be the very sort of
person to cope with the guile of the Burgundians. He therefore sent for
him, and thus addressed him:—‟Ser Ciappelletto, I am, as thou knowest,
about to leave this place for good; and among those with whom I have to
settle accounts are certain Burgundians, very wily knaves; nor know I the
man whom I could more fitly entrust with the recovery of my money
than thyself. Wherefore, as thou hast nothing to do at present, if thou
wilt undertake this business, I will procure thee the favour of the court,
and give thee a reasonable part of what thou shalt recover.” Ser
Ciappelletto, being out of employment, and by no means in easy
circumstances, and about to lose Musciatto, so long his mainstay and
support, without the least demur, for in truth he had hardly any choice,
made his mind up and answered that he was ready to go. So the bargain
was struck. Armed with the power of attorney and the royal letters
commendatory, Ser Ciappelletto took leave of Messer Musciatto and
hied him to Burgundy, where he was hardly known to a soul. He set
about the business which had brought him thither, the recovery of the

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money, in a manner amicable and considerate, foreign to his nature, as if

he were minded to reserve his severity to the last. While thus occupied,
he was frequently at the house of two Florentine usurers, who treated
him with great distinction out of regard for Messer Musciatto; and there
it so happened that he fell sick. The two brothers forthwith placed
physicians and servants in attendance upon him, and omitted no means
meet and apt for the restoration of his health. But all remedies proved
unavailing; for being now old, and having led, as the physicians
reported, a disorderly life, he went daily from bad to worse like one
stricken with a mortal disease. This greatly disconcerted the two
brothers; and one day, hard by the room in which Ser Ciappelletto lay
sick, they began to talk about him; saying one to the other:— ‟What shall
we do with this man? We are hard bested indeed on his account. If we
turn him out of the house, sick as he is, we shall not only incur grave
censure, but shall evince a signal want of sense; for folk must know the
welcome we gave him in the first instance, the solicitude with which we
have had him treated and tended since his illness, during which time he
could not possibly do aught to displease us, and yet they would see him
suddenly turned out of our house sick unto death. On the other hand he
has been so bad a man that he is sure not to confess or receive any of the
Church’s sacraments; and dying thus unconfessed, he will be denied
burial in church, but will be cast out into some ditch like a dog; nay,
‛twill be all one if he do confess, for such and so horrible have been his
crimes that no friar or priest either will or can absolve him; and so, dying
without absolution, he will still be cast out into the ditch. In which case
the folk of these parts, who reprobate our trade as iniquitous and revile
it all day long, and would fain rob us, will seize their opportunity, and
raise a tumult, and make a raid upon our houses, crying:— ‛Away with
these Lombard whom the Church excludes from her pale;’ and will
certainly strip us of our goods, and perhaps take our lives also; so that in
any case we stand to lose if this man die.”

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Ser Ciappelletto, who, as we said, lay close at hand while they thus
spoke, and whose hearing was sharpened, as is often the case, by his
malady, overheard all that they said about him. So he called them to
him, and said to them:—‟I would not have you disquiet yourselves in
regard of me, or apprehend loss to befall you by my death. I have heard
what you have said of me and have no doubt that ‛twould be as you say, if
matters took the course you anticipate; but I am minded that it shall be
otherwise. I have committed so many offences against God in the course
of my life, that one more in the hour of my death will make no difference
whatever to the account. So seek out and bring hither the worthiest and
most holy friar you can find, and leave me to settle your affairs and mine
upon a sound and solid basis, with which you may rest satisfied.” The
two brothers had not much hope of the result, but yet they went to a
friary and asked for a holy and discreet man to hear the confession of a
Lombard that was sick in their house, and returned with an aged man of
just and holy life, very learned in the Scriptures, and venerable and held
in very great and especial reverence by all the citizens. As soon as he had
entered the room where Ser Ciappelletto was lying, and had taken his
place by his side, he began gently to comfort him: then he asked him
how long it was since he was confessed. Whereto Ser Ciappelletto, who
had never been confessed, answered:—‟Father, it is my constant practice
to be confessed at least once a week, and many a week I am confessed
more often; but true it is, that, since I have been sick, now eight days, I
have made no confession, so sore has been my affliction. ‟Son,” said the
friar, ‟thou hast well done, and well for thee, if so thou continue to do; as
thou dost confess so often, I see that my labour of hearkening and
questioning will be slight.” ‟Nay but, master friar,” said Ser Ciappelletto,
‟I say not so; I have not confessed so often but that I would fain make a
general confession of all my sins that I have committed, so far as I can
recall them, from the day of my birth to the present time; and therefore I
pray you, my good father, to question me precisely in every particular

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just as if I had never been confessed. And spare me not by reason of my

sickness, for I had far rather do despite to my flesh than, sparing it, risk
the perdition of my soul, which my Saviour redeemed with His precious
blood.”
The holy man was mightily delighted with these words, which
seemed to him to betoken a soul in a state of grace. He therefore
signified to Ser Ciappelletto his high approval of this practice; and then
began by asking him whether he had ever sinned carnally with a woman.
Whereto Ser Ciappelletto answered with a sigh:—‟My father, I scruple to
tell you the truth in this matter, fearing lest I sin in vain-glory.” ‟Nay,
but,” said the friar, ‟speak boldly; none ever sinned by telling the truth,
either in confession or otherwise.” ‟Then,” said Ser Ciappelletto, ‟as you
bid me speak boldly, I will tell you the truth of this matter. I am virgin
even as when I issued from my mother’s womb.” ‟Now God’s blessing on
thee,” said the friar, ‟well done; and the greater is thy merit in that, hadst
thou so willed, thou mightest have done otherwise far more readily than
we who are under constraint of rule.” He then proceeded to ask, whether
he had offended God by gluttony. Whereto Ser Ciappelletto, heaving a
heavy sigh, answered that he had so offended for, being wont to fast not
only in Lent like other devout persons, but at least thrice days in every
week, taking nothing but bread and water, he had quaffed the water
with as good a gusto and as much enjoyment, more particularly when
fatigued by devotion or pilgrimage, as great drinkers quaff their wine;
and oftentimes he had felt a craving for such dainty dishes of herbs as
ladies make when they go into the country, and now and again he had
relished his food more than seemed to him meet in one who fasted, as
he did, for devotion. ‟Son,” said the friar, ‟these sins are natural and very
trifling; and therefore I would not have thee burden thy conscience too
much with them. There is no man, however holy he may be, but must
sometimes find it pleasant to eat after a long fast and to drink after
exertion.” ‟O, my father,” said Ser Ciappelletto, ‟say not this to comfort

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me. You know well that I know, that the things which are done in the
service of God ought to be done in perfect purity of an unsullied spirit;
and whoever does otherwise sins.” The friar, well content, replied:
—‟Glad I am that thou dost think so, and I am mightily pleased with thy
pure and good conscience which therein appears; but tell me: hast thou
sinned by avarice, coveting more than was reasonable, or withholding
more than was right? My father,” replied Ser Ciappelletto, ‟I would not
have you disquiet yourself, because I am in the house of these usurers:
no part have I in their concerns; nay, I did but come here to admonish
and reprehend them, and wean them from this abominable traffic; and
so, I believe, I had done, had not God sent me this visitation. But you
must know, that my father left me a fortune, of which I dedicated the
greater part to God; and since then for my own support and the relief of
Christ’s poor I have done a little trading, whereof I have desired to make
gain; and all that I have gotten I have shared with God’s poor, reserving
one half for my own needs and giving the other half to them; and so well
has my Maker prospered me, that I have ever managed my affairs to
better and better account.” ‟Well, done,” said the friar, ‟but how? hast
thou often given way to anger?” ‟Often indeed, I assure you,” said Ser
Ciappelletto. ‟And who could refrain therefrom, seeing men doing
frowardly all day long, breaking the commandments of God and recking
nought of His judgments? Many a time in the course of a single day I
had rather be dead than alive, to see the young men going after vanity,
swearing and forswearing themselves, haunting taverns, avoiding the
churches, and in short walking in the way of the world rather than in
God’s way.” ‟My son,” said the friar, ‟this is a righteous wrath; nor could I
find occasion therein to lay a penance upon thee. But did anger ever by
any chance betray thee into taking human life, or affronting or otherwise
wronging any?” ‟Alas,” replied Ser Ciappelletto, ‟alas, sir, man of God
though you seem to me, how come you to speak after this manner? If I
had had so much as the least thought of doing any of the things of which

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you speak, should I believe, think you, that I had been thus supported of
God? These are the deeds of robbers and such like evil men, to whom I
have ever said, when any I saw:—‛Go, God change your heart.’” Said then
the friar:—‟Now, my son, as thou hopest to be blest of God, tell me, hast
thou never borne false witness against any, or spoken evil of another, or
taken the goods of another without his leave?” ‟Yes, master friar,”
answered Ser Ciappelletto, ‟most true it is that I have spoken evil of
another; for I had once a neighbour who without the least excuse in the
world was ever beating his wife, and so great was my pity of the poor
creature, whom, when he was in his cups, he would thrash as God alone
knows how, that once I spoke evil of him to his wife’s kinsfolk.” ‟Well,
well,” said the friar, ‟thou tellest me thou hast been a merchant; hast
thou ever cheated any, as merchants use to do?” ‟I’faith, yes, master
friar,” said Ser Ciappelletto; ‟but I know not who he was; only that he
brought me some money which he owed me for some cloth that I had
sold him, and I put it in a box without counting it, where a month
afterwards I found four farthings more than there should have been,
which I kept for a year to return to him, but not seeing him again, I
bestowed them in alms for the love of God.” ‟This,” said the friar, ‟was a
small matter; and thou didst well to bestow them as thou didst.” The
holy friar went on to ask him many other questions, to which he made
answer in each case in this sort. Then, as the friar was about to give him
absolution, Ser Ciappelletto interposed:—‟Sir, I have yet a sin to confess.”
‟What?” asked the friar. ‟I remember,” he said, ‟that I once caused my
servant to sweep my house on a Saturday after none; and that my
observance of Sunday was less devout than it should have been.” ‟O, my
son,” said the friar, ‟this is a light matter.” ‟No,” said Ser Ciappelletto, ‟say
not a light matter; for Sunday is the more to be had in honour because
on that day our Lord rose from the dead.” Then said the holy friar:
—‟Now is there aught else that thou hast done?” ‟Yes, master friar,”
replied Ser Ciappelletto, ‟once by inadvertence I spat in the church of

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God.” At this the friar began to smile, and said:—‟My son, this is not a
matter to trouble about; we, who are religious, spit there all day long.”
‟And great impiety it is when you so do,” replied Ser Ciappelletto, ‟for
there is nothing that is so worthy to be kept from all impurity as the holy
temple in which sacrifice is offered to God.” More he said in the same
strain, which I pass over; and then at last he began to sigh, and by and by
to weep bitterly, as he was well able to do when he chose. And the friar
demanding:—‟My son, why weepest thou?” ‟Alas, master friar” answered
Ser Ciappelletto, ‟a sin yet remains, which I have never confessed, such
shame were it to me to tell it; and as often as I call it to mind, I weep as
you now see me weep, being well assured that God will never forgive me
this sin.” Then said the holy friar:—‟Come, come, son, what is this that
thou sayst? If all the sins of all the men, that ever were or ever shall be, as
long as the world shall endure, were concentrated in one man, so great is
the goodness of God that He would freely pardon them all, were he but
penitent and contrite as I see thou art, and confessed them: wherefore
tell me thy sin with a good courage.” Then said Ser Ciappelletto, still
weeping bitterly:—‟Alas, my father, mine is too great a sin, and scarce
can I believe, if your prayers do not co-operate, that God will ever grant
me His pardon thereof.” ‟Tell it with a good courage,” said the friar; ‟I
promise thee to pray God for thee.” Ser Ciappelletto, however, continued
to weep, and would not speak, for all the friar’s encouragement. When
he had kept him for a good while in suspense, he heaved a mighty sigh,
and said:—‟My father, as you promise me to pray God for me, I will tell it
you. Know, then, that once, when I was a little child, I cursed my
mother;” and having so said he began again to weep bitterly. ‟O, my son,”
said the friar, ‟does this seem to thee so great a sin? Men curse God all
day long, and he pardons them freely, if they repent them of having so
done; and thinkest thou he will not pardon thee this? Weep not, be
comforted, for truly, hadst thou been one of them that set Him on the
Cross, with the contrition that I see in thee, thou wouldst not fail of His

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pardon.” ‟Alas! my father,” rejoined Ser Ciappelletto, ‟what is this you

say? To curse my sweet mother that carried me in her womb for nine
months day and night, and afterwards on her shoulder more than a
hundred times! Heinous indeed was my offence; ‛tis too great a sin; nor
will it be pardoned, unless you pray God for me.”
The friar now perceiving that Ser Ciappelletto had nothing more to
say, gave him absolution and his blessing, reputing him for a most holy
man, fully believing that all that he had said was true. And who would
not have so believed, hearing him so speak at the point of death? Then,
when all was done, he said:—‟Ser Ciappelletto, if God so will, you will
soon be well; but should it so come to pass that God call your blessed
soul to Himself in this state of grace, is it well pleasing to you that your
body be buried in our convent?” ‟Yea, verily, master friar,” replied Ser
Ciappelletto; ‟there would I be, and nowhere else, since you have
promised to pray God for me; besides which I have ever had a special
devotion to your order. Wherefore I pray you, that, on your return to
your convent, you cause to be sent me that very Body of Christ, which
you consecrate in the morning on the altar; because (unworthy though I
be) I purpose with your leave to take it, and afterwards the holy and
extreme unction, that, though I have lived as a sinner, I may die at any
rate as a Christian.” The holy man said that he was greatly delighted, that
it was well said of Ser Ciappelletto, and that he would cause the Host to
be forthwith brought to him; and so it was.
The two brothers, who much misdoubted Ser Ciappelletto’s power to
deceive the friar, had taken their stand on the other side of a wooden
partition which divided the room in which Ser Ciappelletto lay from
another, and hearkening there they readily heard and understood what
Ser Ciappelletto said to the friar; and at times could scarce refrain their
laughter as they followed his confession; and now and again they said
one to another:—‟What manner of man is this, whom neither age nor
sickness, nor fear of death, on the threshold of which he now stands, nor

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yet of God, before whose judgment-seat he must soon appear, has been
able to turn from his wicked ways, that he die not even as he has lived?”
But seeing that his confession had secured the interment of his body in
church, they troubled themselves no further. Ser Ciappelletto soon
afterwards communicated, and growing immensely worse, received the
extreme unction, and died shortly after vespers on the same day on
which he had made his good confession. So the two brothers, having
from his own moneys provided the wherewith to procure him
honourable sepulture, and sent word to the friars to come at even to
observe the usual vigil, and in the morning to fetch the corpse, set all
things in order accordingly. The holy friar who had confessed him,
hearing that he was dead, had audience of the prior of the friary; a
chapter was convened and the assembled brothers heard from the
confessor’s own mouth how Ser Ciappelletto had been a holy man, as
had appeared by his confession, and were exhorted to receive the body
with the utmost veneration and pious care, as one by which there was
good hope that God would work many miracles. To this the prior and the
rest of the credulous confraternity assenting, they went in a body in the
evening to the place where the corpse of Ser Ciappelletto lay, and kept a
great and solemn vigil over it; and in the morning they made a
procession habited in their surplices and copes with books in their
hands and crosses in front; and chanting as they went, they fetched the
corpse and brought it back to their church with the utmost pomp and
solemnity, being followed by almost all the folk of the city, men and
women alike. So it was laid in the church, and then the holy friar who
had heard the confession got up in the pulpit and began to preach
marvellous things of Ser Ciapelletto’s life, his fasts, his virginity, his
simplicity and guilelessness and holiness; narrating among the other
matters that of which Ser Ciappelletto had made tearful confession as
his greatest sin, and how he had hardly been able to make him conceive
that God would pardon him; from which he took occasion to reprove his

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hearers; saying:—‟And you, accursed of God, on the least pretext,

blaspheme God and His Mother, and all the celestial court. And much
beside he told of his loyalty and purity; and, in short, so wrought upon
the people by his words, to which they gave entire credence, that they all
conceived a great veneration for Ser Ciappelletto, and at the close of the
office came pressing forward with the utmost vehemence to kiss the feet
and the hands of the corpse, from which they tore off the cerements,
each thinking himself blessed to have but a scrap thereof in his
possession; and so it was arranged that it should be kept there all day
long, so as to be visible and accessible to all. At nightfall it was
honourably interred in a marble tomb in one of the chapels, where on
the morrow, one by one, folk came and lit tapers and prayed and paid
their vows, setting there the waxen images which they had dedicated.
And the fame of Ciappelletto’s holiness and the devotion to him grew in
such measure that scarce any there was that in any adversity would vow
aught to any saint but he, and they called him and still call him San
Ciappelletto affirming that many miracles have been and daily are
wrought by God through him for such as devoutly crave his intercession.
So lived, so died Ser Cepperello da Prato, and came to be reputed a
saint, as you have heard. Nor would I deny that it is possible that he is of
the number of the blessed in the presence of God, seeing that, though
his life was evil and depraved, yet he might in his last moments have
made so complete an act of contrition that perchance God had mercy on
him and received him into His kingdom. But, as this is hidden from us, I
speak according to that which appears, and I say that he ought rather to
be in the hands of the devil in hell than in Paradise. Which, if so it be, is
a manifest token of the superabundance of the goodness of God to
usward, inasmuch as he regards not our error but the sincerity of our
faith, and hearkens unto us when, mistaking one who is at enmity with
Him for a friend, we have recourse to him, as to one holy indeed, as our
intercessor for His grace. Wherefore, that we of this gay company may by

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His grace be preserved safe and sound throughout this time of adversity,
commend we ourselves in our need to Him, whose name we began by
invoking, with lauds and reverent devotion and good confidence that we
shall be heard.
And so he was silent.

NOVEL II.

— Abraham, a Jew, at the instance of Jehannot de Chevigny,

goes to the court of Rome, and having marked the evil life of
the clergy, returns to Paris, and becomes a Christian. —
Pamfilo’s story elicited the mirth of some of the ladies and the hearty
commendation of all, who listened to it with close attention until the
end. Whereupon the queen bade Neifile, who sat next her, to tell a story,
that the commencement thus made of their diversions might have its
sequel. Neifile, whose graces of mind matched the beauty of her person,
consented with a gladsome goodwill, and thus began:—
Pamfilo has shewn by his story that the goodness of God spares to
regard our errors when they result from unavoidable ignorance, and in
mine I mean to shew you how the same goodness, bearing patiently with
the shortcomings of those who should be its faithful witness in deed and
word, draws from them contrariwise evidence of His infallible truth; to
the end that what we believe we may with more assured conviction
follow.
In Paris, gracious ladies, as I have heard tell, there was once a great
merchant, a large dealer in drapery, a good man, most loyal and
righteous, his name Jehannot de Chevigny, between whom and a Jew,
Abraham by name, also a merchant, and a man of great wealth, as also
most loyal and righteous, there subsisted a very close friendship. Now
Jehannot, observing Abraham’s loyalty and rectitude, began to be sorely

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vexed in spirit that the soul of one so worthy and wise and good should
perish for want of faith. Wherefore he began in a friendly manner to
plead with him, that he should leave the errors of the Jewish faith and
turn to the Christian verity, which, being sound and holy, he might see
daily prospering and gaining ground, whereas, on the contrary, his own
religion was dwindling and was almost come to nothing. The Jew replied
that he believed that there was no faith sound and holy except the
Jewish faith, in which he was born, and in which he meant to live and
die; nor would anything ever turn him therefrom. Nothing daunted,
however, Jehannot some days afterwards began again to ply Abraham
with similar arguments, explaining to him in such crude fashion as
merchants use the reasons why our faith is better than the Jewish. And
though the Jew was a great master in the Jewish law, yet, whether it was
by reason of his friendship for Jehannot, or that the Holy Spirit dictated
the words that the simple merchant used, at any rate the Jew began to be
much interested in Jehannot’s arguments, though still too staunch in his
faith to suffer himself to be converted. But Jehannot was no less
assiduous in plying him with argument than he was obstinate in
adhering to his law, insomuch that at length the Jew, overcome by such
incessant appeals, said:—‟Well, well, Jehannot, thou wouldst have me
become a Christian, and I am disposed to do so, provided I first go to
Rome and there see him whom thou callest God’s vicar on earth, and
observe what manner of life he leads and his brother cardinals with him;
and if such it be that thereby, in conjunction with thy words, I may
understand that thy faith is better than mine, as thou hast sought to
shew me, I will do as I have said: otherwise, I will remain as I am a Jew.”
When Jehannot heard this, he was greatly distressed, saying to himself:
—‟I thought to have converted him; but now I see that the pains which I
took for so excellent a purpose are all in vain; for, if he goes to the court
of Rome and sees the iniquitous and foul life which the clergy lead there,
so far from turning Christian, had he been converted already, he would

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without doubt relapse into Judaism.” Then turning to Abraham he said:-

-‟Nay, but, my friend, why wouldst thou be at all this labour and great
expense of travelling from here to Rome? to say nothing of the risks both
by sea and by land which a rich man like thee must needs run. Thinkest
thou not, to find here one that can give thee baptism? And as for any
doubts that thou mayst have touching the faith to which I point thee,
where wilt thou find greater masters and sages therein than here, to
resolve thee of any question thou mayst put to them? Wherefore in my
opinion this journey of thine is superfluous. Think that the prelates
there are such as thou mayst have seen here, nay, as much better as they
are nearer to the Chief Pastor. And so, by my advice thou wilt spare thy
pains until some time of indulgence, when I, perhaps, may be able to
bear thee company.” The Jew replied:—‟Jehannot, I doubt not that so it is
as thou sayst; but once and for all I tell thee that I am minded to go
there, and will never otherwise do that which thou wouldst have me and
hast so earnestly besought me to do.” ‟Go then,” said Jehannot, seeing
that his mind was made up, ‟and good luck go with thee;” and so he gave
up the contest because nothing would be lost, though he felt sure that
he would never become a Christian after seeing the court of Rome. The
Jew took horse, and posted with all possible speed to Rome; where on
his arrival he was honourably received by his fellow Jews. He said
nothing to any one of the purpose for which he had come; but began
circumspectly to acquaint himself with the ways of the Pope and the
cardinals and the other prelates and all the courtiers; and from what he
saw for himself, being a man of great intelligence, or learned from
others, he discovered that without distinction of rank they were all sunk
in the most disgraceful lewdness, sinning not only in the way of nature
but after the manner of the men of Sodom, without any restraint of
remorse or shame, in such sort that, when any great favour was to be
procured, the influence of the courtesans and boys was of no small
moment. Moreover he found them one and all gluttonous, wine-bibbers,

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drunkards, and next after lewdness, most addicted to the shameless

service of the belly, like brute beasts. And, as he probed the matter still
further, he perceived that they were all so greedy and avaricious that
human, nay Christian blood, and things sacred of what kind soever,
spiritualities no less than temporalities, they bought and sold for
money; which traffic was greater and employed more brokers than the
drapery trade and all the other trades of Paris put together; open simony
and gluttonous excess being glosed under such specious terms as
‟arrangement” and ‟moderate use of creature comforts,” as if God could
not penetrate the thoughts of even the most corrupt hearts, to say
nothing of the signification of words, and would suffer Himself to be
misled after the manner of men by the names of things. Which matters,
with many others which are not to be mentioned, our modest and sober-
minded Jew found by no means to his liking, so that, his curiosity being
fully satisfied, he was minded to return to Paris; which accordingly he
did. There, on his arrival, he was met by Jehannot; and the two made
great cheer together. Jehannot expected Abraham’s conversion least of
all things, and allowed him some days of rest before he asked what he
thought of the Holy Father and the cardinals and the other courtiers. To
which the Jew forthwith replied:—‟I think God owes them all an evil
recompense: I tell thee, so far as I was able to carry my investigations,
holiness, devotion, good works or exemplary living in any kind was
nowhere to be found in any clerk; but only lewdness, avarice, gluttony,
and the like, and worse, if worse may be, appeared to be held in such
honour of all, that (to my thinking) the place is a centre of diabolical
rather than of divine activities. To the best of my judgment, your Pastor,
and by consequence all that are about him devote all their zeal and
ingenuity and subtlety to devise how best and most speedily they may
bring the Christian religion to nought and banish it from the world. And
because I see that what they so zealously endeavour does not come to
pass, but that on the contrary your religion continually grows, and shines

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more and more clear, therein I seem to discern a very evident token that
it, rather than any other, as being more true and holy than any other, has
the Holy Spirit for its foundation and support. For which cause, whereas
I met your exhortations in a harsh and obdurate temper, and would not
become a Christian, now I frankly tell you that I would on no account
omit to become such. Go we then to the church, and there according to
the traditional rite of your holy faith let me receive baptism.” Jehannot,
who had anticipated a diametrically opposite conclusion, as soon as he
heard him so speak, was the best pleased man that ever was in the world.
So taking Abraham with him to Notre Dame he prayed the clergy there
to baptise him. When they heard that it was his own wish, they
forthwith did so, and Jehannot raised him from the sacred font, and
named him Jean; and afterwards he caused teachers of great eminence
thoroughly to instruct him in our faith, which he readily learned, and
afterwards practised in a good, a virtuous, nay, a holy life.

NOVEL III.

— Melchisedech, a Jew, by a story of three rings averts a great

danger with which he was menaced by Saladin. —
When Neifile had brought her story to a close amid the commendations
of all the company, Filomena, at the queen’s behest, thus began:—
The story told by Neifile brings to my mind another in which also Jew
appears, but this time as the hero of a perilous adventure; and as enough
has been said of God and of the truth our faith, it will not now be
inopportune if we descend to mundane events and the actions of men.
Wherefore I propose to tell you a story, which will perhaps dispose you
to be more circumspect than you have been wont to be in answering
questions addressed to you. Well ye know, or should know, loving
gossips, that, as it often happens that folk by their own folly forfeit a

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happy estate and are plunged in most grievous misery, so good sense will
extricate the wise from extremity of peril, and establish them in
complete and assured peace. Of the change from good to evil fortune,
which folly may effect, instances abound; indeed, occurring as they do
by the thousand day by day, they are so conspicuous that their recital
would be beside our present purpose. But that good sense may be our
succour in misfortune, I will now, as I promised, make plain to you
within the narrow compass of a little story.
Saladin, who by his great valour had from small beginnings made
himself Soldan of Egypt, and gained many victories over kings both
Christian and Saracen, having in divers wars and by divers lavish displays
of magnificence spent all his treasure, and in order to meet a certain
emergency being in need of a large sum of money, and being at a loss to
raise it with a celerity adequate to his necessity, bethought him of a
wealthy Jew, Melchisedech by name, who lent at usance in Alexandria,
and who, were he but willing, was, as he believed, able to accommodate
him, but was so miserly that he would never do so of his own accord, nor
was Saladin disposed to constrain him thereto. So great, however, was
his necessity that, after pondering every method whereby the Jew might
be induced to be compliant, at last he determined to devise a colourably
reasonable pretext for extorting the money from him. So he sent for him,
received him affably, seated him by his side, and presently said to him:
—‟My good man, I have heard from many people that thou art very wise,
and of great discernment in divine things; wherefore I would gladly
know of thee, which of the three laws thou reputest the true law, the law
of the Jews, the law of the Saracens, or the law of the Christians?” The
Jew, who was indeed a wise man, saw plainly enough that Saladin meant
to entangle him in his speech, that he might have occasion to harass
him, and bethought him that he could not praise any of the three laws
above another without furnishing Saladin with the pretext which he
sought. So, concentrating all the force of his mind to shape such an

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answer as might avoid the snare, he presently lit on what he sought,

saying:—‟My lord, a pretty question indeed is this which you propound,
and fain would I answer it; to which end it is apposite that I tell you a
story, which, if you will hearken, is as follows:—If I mistake not, I
remember to have often heard tell of a great and rich man of old time,
who among other most precious jewels had in his treasury a ring of
extraordinary beauty and value, which by reason of its value and beauty
he was minded to leave to his heirs for ever; for which cause he ordained,
that, whichever of his sons was found in possession of the ring as by his
bequest, should thereby be designate his heir, and be entitled to receive
from the rest the honour and homage due to a superior. The son, to
whom he bequeathed the ring, left it in like manner to his descendants,
making the like ordinance as his predecessor. In short the ring passed
from hand to hand for many generations; and in the end came to the
hands of one who had three sons, goodly and virtuous all, and very
obedient to their father, so that he loved them all indifferently. The rule
touching the descent of the ring was known to the young men, and each
aspiring to hold the place of honour among them did all he could to
persuade his father, who was now old, to leave the ring to him at his
death. The worthy man, who loved them all equally, and knew not how
to choose from among them a sole legatee, promised the ring to each in
turn, and in order to satisfy all three, caused a cunning artificer secretly
to make two other rings, so like the first, that the maker himself could
hardly tell which was the true ring. So, before he died, he disposed of the
rings, giving one privily to each of his sons; whereby it came to pass, that
after his decease each of the sons claimed the inheritance and the place
of honour, and, his claim being disputed by his brothers, produced his
ring in witness of right. And the rings being found so like one to another
that it was impossible to distinguish the true one, the suit to determine
the true heir remained pendent, and still so remains. And so, my lord, to
your question, touching the three laws given to the three peoples by God

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the Father, I answer:—Each of these peoples deems itself to have the

true inheritance, the true law, the true commandments of God; but
which of them is justified in so believing, is a question which, like that
of the rings, remains pendent.” The excellent adroitness with which the
Jew had contrived to evade the snare which he had laid for his feet was
not lost upon Saladin. He therefore determined to let the Jew know his
need, and did so, telling him at the same time what he had intended to
do, in the event of his answering less circumspectly than he had done.
Thereupon the Jew gave the Soldan all the accommodation that he
required, which the Soldan afterwards repaid him in full. He also gave
him most munificent gifts with his lifelong amity and a great and
honourable position near his person.

NOVEL IV.

— A monk lapses into a sin meriting the most severe

punishment, justly censures the same fault in his abbot, and
thus evades the penalty. —
The silence which followed the conclusion of Filomena’s tale was broken
by Dioneo, who sate next her, and without waiting for the queen’s word,
for he knew that by the rule laid down at the commencement it was now
his turn to speak, began on this wise:—Loving ladies, if I have well
understood the intention of you all, we are here to afford entertainment
to one another by story-telling; wherefore, provided only nought is done
that is repugnant to this end, I deem it lawful for each (and so said our
queen a little while ago) to tell whatever story seems to him most likely
to be amusing. Seeing, then, that we have heard how Abraham saved his
soul by the good counsel of Jehannot de Chevigny, and Melchisedech by
his own good sense safe-guarded his wealth against the stratagems of
Saladin, I hope to escape your censure in narrating a brief story of a

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monk, who by his address delivered his body from imminent peril of
most severe chastisement.
In the not very remote district of Lunigiana there flourished formerly
a community of monks more numerous and holy than is there to be
found to-day, among whom was a young brother, whose vigour and
lustihood neither the fasts nor the vigils availed to subdue. One
afternoon, while the rest of the confraternity slept, our young monk took
a stroll around the church, which lay in a very sequestered spot, and
chanced to espy a young and very beautiful girl, a daughter, perhaps, of
one of the husbandmen of those parts, going through the fields and
gathering herbs as she went. No sooner had he seen her than he was
sharply assailed by carnal concupiscence, insomuch that he made up to
and accosted her; and (she hearkening) little by little they came to an
understanding, and unobserved by any entered his cell together. Now it
so chanced that, while they fooled it within somewhat recklessly, he
being overwrought with passion, the abbot awoke and passing slowly by
the young monk’s cell, heard the noise which they made within, and the
better to distinguish the voices, came softly up to the door of the cell,
and listening discovered that beyond all doubt there was a woman
within. His first thought was to force the door open; but, changing his
mind, he returned to his chamber and waited until the monk should
come out.
Delightsome beyond measure though the monk found his
intercourse with the girl, yet was he not altogether without anxiety. He
had heard, as he thought, the sound of footsteps in the dormitory, and
having applied his eye to a convenient aperture had had a good view of
the abbot as he stood by the door listening. He was thus fully aware that
the abbot might have detected the presence of a woman in the cell.
Whereat he was exceedingly distressed, knowing that he had a severe
punishment to expect; but he concealed his vexation from the girl while
he busily cast about in his mind for some way of escape from his

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embarrassment. He thus hit on a novel stratagem which was exactly

suited to his purpose. With the air of one who had had enough of the
girl’s company he said to her:—‟I shall now leave you in order that I may
arrange for your departure hence unobserved. Stay here quietly until I
return.” So out he went, locking the door of the cell, and withdrawing
the key, which he carried straight to the abbot’s chamber and handed to
him, as was the custom when a monk was going out, saying with a
composed air:—‟Sir, I was not able this morning to bring in all the
faggots which I had made ready, so with your leave I will go to the wood
and bring them in.” The abbot, desiring to have better cognisance of the
monk’s offence, and not dreaming that the monk knew that he had been
detected, was pleased with the turn matters had taken, and received the
key gladly, at the same time giving the monk the desired leave. So the
monk withdrew, and the abbot began to consider what course it were
best for him to take, whether to assemble the brotherhood and open the
door in their presence, that, being witnesses of the delinquency, they
might have no cause to murmur against him when he proceeded to
punish the delinquent, or whether it were not better first to learn from
the girl’s own lips how it had come about. And reflecting that she might
be the wife or daughter of some man who would take it ill that she
should be shamed by being exposed to the gaze of all the monks, he
determined first of all to find out who she was, and then to make up his
mind. So he went softly to the cell, opened the door, and, having
entered, closed it behind him. The girl, seeing that her visitor was none
other than the abbot, quite lost her presence of mind, and quaking with
shame began to weep. Master abbot surveyed her from head to foot, and
seeing that she was fresh and comely, fell a prey, old though he was, to
fleshly cravings no less poignant and sudden than those which the
young monk had experienced, and began thus to commune with
himself:—‟Alas! why take I not my pleasure when I may, seeing that I
never need lack for occasions of trouble and vexation of spirit? Here is a

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fair wench, and no one in the world to know. If I can bring her to
pleasure me, I know not why I should not do so. Who will know? No one
will ever know; and sin that is hidden is half forgiven; this chance may
never come again; so, methinks, it were the part of wisdom to take the
boon which God bestows.” So musing, with an altogether different
purpose from that with which he had come, he drew near the girl, and
softly bade her to be comforted, and besought her not to weep; and so
little by little he came at last to show her what he would be at. The girl,
being made neither of iron nor of adamant, was readily induced to
gratify the abbot, who after bestowing upon her many an embrace and
kiss, got upon the monk’s bed, where, being sensible, perhaps, of the
disparity between his reverend portliness and her tender youth, and
fearing to injure her by his excessive weight, he refrained from lying
upon her, but laid her upon him, and in that manner disported himself
with her for a long time. The monk, who had only pretended to go to the
wood, and had concealed himself in the dormitory, no sooner saw the
abbot enter his cell than he was overjoyed to think that his plan would
succeed; and when he saw that he had locked the door, he was well
assured thereof. So he stole out of his hiding-place, and set his eye to an
aperture through which he saw and heard all that the abbot did and
said. At length the abbot, having had enough of dalliance with the girl,
locked her in the cell and returned to his chamber. Catching sight of the
monk soon afterwards, and supposing him to have returned from the
wood, he determined to give him a sharp reprimand and have him
imprisoned, that he might thus secure the prey for himself alone. He
therefore caused him to be summoned, chid him very severely and with
a stern countenance, and ordered him to be put in prison. The monk
replied trippingly:—‟I Sir, I have not been so long in the order of St.
Benedict as to have every particular of the rule by heart; nor did you
teach me before to-day in what posture it behoves the monk to have
intercourse with women, but limited your instruction to such matters as

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fasts and vigils. As, however, you have now given me my lesson, I
promise you, if you also pardon my offence, that I will never repeat it,
but will always follow the example which you have set me.”
The abbot, who was a shrewd man, saw at once that the monk was
not only more knowing than he, but had actually seen what he had
done; nor, conscience-stricken himself, could he for shame mete out to
the monk a measure which he himself merited. So pardon given, with an
injunction to bury what had been seen in silence, they decently
conveyed the young girl out of the monastery, whither, it is to be
believed, they now and again caused her to return.

NOVEL V.

— The Marchioness of Monferrato by a banquet of hens

seasoned with wit checks the mad passion of the King of
France. —
The story told by Dioneo evoked at first some qualms of shame in the
minds of the ladies, as was apparent by the modest blush that tinged
their faces: then exchanging glances, and scarce able to refrain their
mirth, they listened to it with half-suppressed smiles. On its conclusion
they bestowed upon Dioneo a few words of gentle reprehension with
intent to admonish him that such stories were not to be told among
ladies. The queen then turned to Fiammetta, who was seated on the
grass at her side, and bade her follow suit and Fiammetta with a gay and
gracious mien thus began:—
The line upon which our story-telling proceeds, to wit, to shew the
virtue that resides in apt and ready repartees, pleases me well; and as in
affairs of love men and women are in diverse case, for to aspire to the
love of a woman of higher lineage than his own is wisdom in man,
whereas a woman’s good sense is then most conspicuous when she

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knows how to preserve herself from becoming enamoured of a man, her

superior in rank, I am minded, fair my ladies, to shew you by the story
which I am now to tell, how by deed and word a gentlewoman both
defended herself against attack, and weaned her suitor from his love.
The Marquis of Monferrato, a paladin of distinguished prowess, was
gone overseas as gonfalonier of the Church in a general array of the
Christian forces. Whose merits being canvassed at the court of Philippe
le Borgne, on the eve of his departure from France on the same service, a
knight observed, that there was not under the stars a couple comparable
to the Marquis and his lady; in that, while the Marquis was a paragon of
the knightly virtues, his lady for beauty, and honour was without a peer
among all the other ladies of the world. These words made so deep an
impression on the mind of the King of France that, though he had never
seen the lady, he fell ardently in love with her, and, being to join the
armada, resolved that his port of embarcation should be no other than
Genoa, in order that, travelling thither by land, he might find a decent
pretext for visiting the Marchioness, with whom in the absence of the
Marquis he trusted to have the success which he desired; nor did he fail
to put his design in execution. Having sent his main army on before, he
took the road himself with a small company of gentlemen, and, as they
approached the territory of the Marquis, he despatched a courier to the
Marchioness, a day in advance, to let her know that he expected to
breakfast with her the next morning. The lady, who knew her part and
played it well, replied graciously, that he would be indeed welcome, and
that his presence would be the greatest of all favours. She then began to
commune with herself, what this might import, that so great a king
should come to visit her in her husband’s absence, nor was she so
deluded as not to surmise that it was the fame of her beauty that drew
him thither. Nevertheless she made ready to do him honour in a manner
befitting her high degree, summoning to her presence such of the
retainers as remained in the castle, and giving all needful directions with

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their advice, except that the order of the banquet and the choice of the
dishes she reserved entirely to herself. Then, having caused all the hens
that could be found in the country-side to be brought with all speed into
the castle, she bade her cooks furnish forth the royal table with divers
dishes made exclusively of such fare. The King arrived on the appointed
day, and was received by the lady with great and ceremonious cheer. Fair
and noble and gracious seemed she in the eyes of the King beyond all
that he had conceived from the knight’s words, so that he was lost in
admiration and inly extolled her to the skies, his passion being the more
inflamed in proportion as he found the lady surpass the idea which he
had formed of her. A suite of rooms furnished with all the appointments
befitting the reception of so great a king, was placed at his disposal, and
after a little rest, breakfast-time being come, he and the Marchioness
took their places at the same table, while his suite were honourably
entertained at other boards according to their several qualities. Many
courses were served with no lack of excellent and rare wines, whereby
the King was mightily pleased, as also by the extraordinary beauty of the
Marchioness, on whom his eye from time to time rested. However, as
course followed course, the King observed with some surprise, that,
though the dishes were diverse, yet they were all but variations of one
and the same fare, to wit, the pullet. Besides which he knew that the
domain was one which could not but afford plenty of divers sorts of
game, and by forewarning the lady of his approach, he had allowed time
for hunting; yet, for all his surprise, he would not broach the question
more directly with her than by a reference to her hens; so, turning to her
with a smile, he said:—‟Madam, do hens grow in this country without so
much as a single cock?” The Marchioness, who perfectly apprehended
the drift of the question, saw in it an opportunity, sent her by God, of
evincing her virtuous resolution; so casting a haughty glance upon the
King she answered thus:—‟Sire, no; but the women, though they may
differ somewhat from others in dress and rank, are yet of the same

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nature here as elsewhere.” The significance of the banquet of pullets was

made manifest to the King by these words, as also the virtue which they
veiled. He perceived that on a lady of such a temper words would be
wasted, and that force was out of the question. Wherefore, yielding to
the dictates of prudence and honour, he was now as prompt to quench,
as he had been inconsiderate in conceiving, his unfortunate passion for
the lady; and fearing her answers, he refrained from further jesting with
her, and dismissing his hopes devoted himself to his breakfast, which
done, he disarmed suspicion of the dishonourable purpose of his visit by
an early departure, and thanking her for the honour she had conferred
upon him, and commending her to God, took the road to Genoa.

NOVEL VI.

—A worthy man by an apt saying puts to shame the wicked

hypocrisy of the religious.—
When all had commended the virtue of the Marchioness and the
spirited reproof which she administered to the King of France, Emilia,
who sate next to Fiammetta, obeyed the queen’s behest, and with a good
courage thus began:—
My story is also of a reproof, but of one administered by a worthy
man, who lived the secular life, to a greedy religious, by a jibe as merry as
admirable. Know then, dear ladies, that there was in our city, not long
ago, a friar minor, an inquisitor in matters of heresy, who, albeit he
strove might and main to pass himself off as a holy man and tenderly
solicitous for the integrity of the Christian Faith, as they all do, yet he
had as keen a scent for a full purse as for a deficiency of faith. Now it so
chanced that his zeal was rewarded by the discovery of a good man far
better furnished with money than with sense, who in an unguarded
moment, not from defect of faith, but rather, perhaps from excess of

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hilarity, being heated with wine, had happened to say to his boon
companions, that he had a wine good enough for Christ Himself to
drink. Which being reported to the inquisitor, he, knowing the man to
be possessed of large estates and a well-lined purse, set to work in hot
haste, ‟cum gladiis et fustibus,” to bring all the rigour of the law to bear
upon him, designing thereby not to lighten the load of his victim’s
misbelief, but to increase the weight of his own purse by the florins,
which he might, as he did, receive from him. So he cited him to his
presence, and asked him whether what was alleged against him were
true. The good man answered in the affirmative, and told him how it
had happened. ‟Then,” said our most holy and devout inquisitor of St.
John Goldenbeard,7 ‟then hast thou made Christ a wine-bibber, and a
lover of rare vintages, as if he were a sot, a toper and a tavern-haunter
even as one of you. And thinkest thou now by a few words of apology to
pass this off as a light matter? It is no such thing as thou supposest.
Thou hast deserved the fire; and we should but do our duty, did we
inflict it upon thee.” With these and the like words in plenty he
upbraided him, bending on him meanwhile a countenance as stern as if
Epicurus had stood before him denying the immortality of the soul. In
short he so terrified him that the good man was fain to employ certain
intermediaries to anoint his palms with a liberal allowance of St. John
Goldenmouth’s grease, an excellent remedy for the disease of avarice
which spreads like a pestilence among the clergy, and notably among the
friars minors, who dare not touch a coin, that he might deal gently with
him. And great being the virtue of this ointment, albeit no mention is
made thereof by Galen in any part of his Medicines, it had so gracious an
effect that the threatened fire gave place to a cross, which he was to wear
as if he were bound for the emprise over seas; and to make the ensign
more handsome the inquisitor ordered that it should be yellow upon a
black ground. Besides which, after pocketing the coin, he kept him
7 The fiorino d’oro bore the effigy of St. John.

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dangling about him for some days, bidding him by way of penance hear
mass every morning at Santa Croce, and afterwards wait upon him at the
breakfast-hour, after which he was free to do as he pleased for the rest of
the day. All which he most carefully observed; and so it fell out that one
of these mornings there were chanted at the mass at which he assisted
the following words of the Gospel:—You shall receive an hundredfold
and shall possess eternal life. With these words deeply graven in his
memory, he presented himself, as he was bidden, before the inquisitor,
where he sate taking his breakfast, and being asked whether he had
heard mass that morning, he promptly answered:—‟Yes, sir.” And being
further asked:—‟Heardest thou aught therein, as to which thou art in
doubt, or hast thou any question to propound?” the good man
responded:—‟Nay indeed, doubt have I none of aught that I heard; but
rather assured faith in the verity of all. One thing, however, I heard,
which caused me to commiserate you and the rest of you friars very
heartily, in regard of the evil plight in which you must find yourselves in
the other world.” ‟And what,” said the inquisitor, ‟was the passage that so
moved thee to commiserate us?” ‟Sir,” rejoined the good man, ‟it was
that passage in the Gospel which says:—‟You shall receive an
hundredfold.” ‟You heard aright,” said the inquisitor; ‟but why did the
passage so affect you?” ‟Sir,” replied the good man, ‟I will tell you. Since I
have been in attendance here, I have seen a crowd of poor folk receive a
daily dole, now of one, now of two, huge tureens of swill, being the
refuse from your table, and that of the brothers of this convent; whereof
if you are to receive an hundredfold in the other world, you will have so
much that it will go hard but you are all drowned therein.” This raised a
general laugh among those who sat at the inquisitor’s table, whereat the
inquisitor, feeling that their gluttony and hypocrisy had received a
home-thrust, was very wroth, and, but that what he had already done
had not escaped censure, would have instituted fresh proceedings
against him in revenge for the pleasantry with which he had rebuked the

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baseness of himself and his brother friars; so in impotent wrath he bade

him go about his business and shew himself there no more.

NOVEL VII.

— Bergamino, with a story of Primasso and the Abbot of

Cluny, finely censures a sudden access of avarice in Messer
Cane della Scala. —
Emilia’s charming manner and her story drew laughter and
commendation from the queen and all the company, who were much
tickled by her new type of crusader. When the laughter had subsided,
and all were again silent, Filostrato, on whom the narration now fell,
began on this wise:—
A fine thing it is, noble ladies, to hit a fixed mark; but if, on the
sudden appearance of some strange object, it be forthwith hit by the
bowman, ‛tis little short of a miracle. The corrupt and filthy life of the
clergy offers on many sides a fixed mark of iniquity at which, whoever is
so minded, may let fly, with little doubt that they will reach it, the
winged words of reproof and reprehension. Wherefore, though the
worthy man did well to censure in the person of the inquisitor the
pretended charity of the friars who give to the poor what they ought
rather to give to the pigs or throw away, higher indeed is the praise which
I accord to him, of whom, taking my cue from the last story, I mean to
speak; seeing that by a clever apologue he rebuked a sudden and
unwonted access of avarice in Messer Cane della Scala, conveying in a
figure what he had at heart to say touching Messer Cane and himself;
which apologue is to follow.
Far and wide, almost to the ends of the earth, is borne the most
illustrious renown of Messer Cane della Scala, in many ways the
favoured child of fortune, a lord almost without a peer among the

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notables and magnificoes of Italy since the time of the Emperor Frederic
II. Now Messer Cane, being minded to hold high festival at Verona,
whereof fame should speak marvellous things, and many folk from
divers parts, of whom the greater number were jesters of every order,
being already arrived, Messer Cane did suddenly (for some cause or
another) abandon his design, and dismissed them with a partial
recompense. One only, Bergamino by name, a speaker ready and
polished in a degree credible only to such as heard him, remained,
having received no recompense or conge, still cherishing the hope that
this omission might yet turn out to his advantage. But Messer Cane was
possessed with the idea that whatever he might give Bergamino would
be far more completely thrown away than if he had tossed it into the
fire; so never a word of the sort said he or sent he to him. A few days thus
passed, and then Bergamino, seeing that he was in no demand or
request for aught that belonged to his office, and being also at heavy
charges at his inn for the keep of his horses and servants, fell into a sort
of melancholy; but still he waited a while, not deeming it expedient to
leave. He had brought with him three rich and goodly robes, given him
by other lords, that he might make a brave show at the festival, and when
his host began to press for payment he gave him one of the robes;
afterwards, there being still much outstanding against him, he must
needs, if he would tarry longer at the inn, give the host the second robe;
after which he began to live on the third, being minded remain there, as
long as it would hold out, in expectation of better luck, and then to take
his departure. Now, while he was thus living on the third robe, it
chanced that Messer Cane encountered him one day as he sate at
breakfast with a very melancholy visage. Which Messer Cane observing,
said, rather to tease him than expecting to elicit from him any pleasant
retort:—‟What ails thee, Bergamino, that thou art still so melancholy?
Let me know the reason why.” Whereupon Bergamino, without a
moment’s reflection, told the following story, which could not have

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fitted his own case more exactly if it had been long premeditated.
My lord, you must know that Primasso was a grammarian of great
eminence, and excellent and quick beyond all others in versifying;
whereby he waxed so notable and famous that, albeit he was not
everywhere known by sight, yet there were scarce any that did not at
least by name and report know who Primasso was. Now it so happened
that, being once at Paris in straitened circumstances, as it was his lot to
be most of his time by reason that virtue is little appreciated by the
powerful, he heard speak of the Abbot of Cluny, who, except the Pope, is
supposed to be the richest prelate, in regard of his vast revenues, that
the Church of God can shew; and marvellous and magnificent things
were told him of the perpetual court which the abbot kept, and how,
wherever he was, he denied not to any that came there either meat or
drink, so only that he preferred his request while the abbot was at table.
Which when Primasso heard, he determined to go and see for himself
what magnificent state this abbot kept, for he was one that took great
delight in observing the ways of powerful and lordly men; wherefore he
asked how far from Paris was the abbot then sojourning. He was
informed that the abbot was then at one of his places distant perhaps six
miles; which Primasso concluded he could reach in time for breakfast, if
he started early in the morning. When he had learned the way, he found
that no one else was travelling by it, and fearing lest by mischance he
should lose it, and so find himself where it would not be easy for him to
get food, he determined to obviate so disagreeable a contingency by
taking with him three loaves of bread—as for drink, water, though not
much to his taste, was, he supposed, to be found everywhere. So, having
disposed the loaves in the fold of his tunic, he took the road and made
such progress that he reached the abbot’s place of sojourn before the
breakfast-hour. Having entered, he made the circuit of the entire place,
observing everything, the vast array of tables, and the vast kitchen well-
appointed with all things needful for the preparation and service of the

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breakfast, and saying to himself:—‟In very truth this man is even such a
magnifico as he is reported to be.” While his attention was thus
occupied, the abbot’s seneschal, it being now breakfast-time, gave order
to serve water for the hands, which being washen, they sat them all
down to breakfast. Now it so happened that Primasso was placed
immediately in front of the door by which the abbot must pass from his
chamber, into the hall, in which, according to rule of his court, neither
wine, nor bread, nor aught else drinkable or eatable was ever set on the
tables before he made his appearance and was seated. The seneschal,
therefore, having set the tables, sent word to the abbot, that all was now
ready, and they waited only his pleasure. So the abbot gave the word, the
door of his chamber was thrown open, and he took a step or two forward
towards the hall, gazing straight in front of him as he went. Thus it fell
out that the first man on whom he set eyes was Primasso, who was in
very sorry trim. The abbot, who knew him not by sight, no sooner saw
him, than, surprised by a churlish mood to which he had hitherto been
an entire stranger, he said to himself:—‟So it is to such as this man that I
give my hospitality;” and going back into the chamber he bade lock the
door, and asked of his attendants whether the vile fellow that sate at
table directly opposite the door was known to any of them, who, one and
all, answered in the negative. Primasso waited a little, but he was not
used to fast, and his journey had whetted his appetite. So, as the abbot
did not return, he drew out one of the loaves which he had brought with
him, and began to eat. The abbot, after a while, bade one of his servants
go see whether Primasso were gone. The servant returned with the
answer:—‟No, sir, and (what is more) he is eating a loaf of bread, which
he seems to have brought with him.” ‟Be it so then,” said the abbot, who
was vexed that he was not gone of his own accord, but was not disposed
to turn him out; ‟let him eat his own bread, if he have any, for he shall
have none of ours today.” By and by Primasso, having finished his first
loaf, began, as the abbot did not make his appearance, to eat the second;

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which was likewise reported to the abbot, who had again sent to see if he
were gone. Finally, as the abbot still delayed his coming, Primasso,
having finished the second loaf, began upon the third; whereof, once
more, word was carried to the abbot, who now began to commune with
himself and say:—‟Alas! my soul, what unwonted mood harbourest thou
to-day? What avarice? what scorn? and of whom? I have given my
hospitality, now for many a year, to whoso craved it, without looking to
see whether he were gentle or churl, poor or rich, merchant or cheat, and
mine eyes have seen it squandered on vile fellows without number; and
nought of that which I feel towards this man ever entered my mind.
Assuredly it cannot be that he is a man of no consequence, who is the
occasion of this access of avarice in me. Though he seem to me a vile
fellow, he must be some great man, that my mind is thus obstinately
averse to do him honour.” Of which musings the upshot was that he sent
to inquire who the vile fellow was, and learning that he was Primasso,
come to see if what he had heard of his magnificent state were true, he
was stricken with shame, having heard of old Primasso’s fame, and
knowing him to be a great man. Wherefore, being zealous to make him
the amend, he studied to do him honour in many ways; and after
breakfast, that his garb might accord with his native dignity, he caused
him to be nobly arrayed, and setting him upon a palfrey and filling his
purse, left it to his own choice, whether to go or to stay. So Primasso,
with a full heart, thanked him for his courtesy in terms the amplest that
he could command, and, having left Paris afoot, returned thither on
horseback.”
Messer Cane was shrewd enough to apprehend Bergamino’s meaning
perfectly well without a gloss, and said with a smile:—‟Bergamino, thy
parable is apt, and declares to me very plainly thy losses, my avarice, and
what thou desirest of me. And in good sooth this access of avarice, of
which thou art the occasion, is the first that I have experienced. But I
will expel the intruder with the baton which thou thyself hast

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furnished.” So he paid Bergamino’s reckoning, habited him nobly in one

of his own robes, gave him money and a palfrey, and left it for the time at
his discretion, whether to go or to stay.

NOVEL VIII.

—Guglielmo Borsiere by a neat retort sharply censures avarice

in Messer Ermino de’ Grimaldi.—
Next Filostrato was seated Lauretta, who, when the praises bestowed on
Bergamino’s address had ceased, knowing that it was now her turn to
speak, waited not for the word of command, but with a charming
graciousness thus began:—
The last novel, dear gossips, prompts me to relate how a worthy man,
likewise a jester, reprehended not without success the greed of a very
wealthy merchant; and, though the burden of my story is not unlike the
last, yet, perchance, it may not on that account be the less appreciated
by you, because it has a happy termination.
Know then that in Genoa there dwelt long ago a gentleman, who was
known as Messer Ermino de’ Grimaldi, and whose wealth, both in lands
and money, was generally supposed to be far in excess of that of any
other burgher then in Italy, and as in wealth he was without a rival in
Italy, so in meanness and avarice there was not any in the entire world,
however richly endowed with those qualities, whom he did not
immeasurably surpass, insomuch that, not only did he keep a tight grip
upon his purse when honour was to be done to another, but in his
personal expenditure, even upon things meet and proper, contrary to the
general custom of the Genoese, whose wont is to array themselves nobly,
he was extremely penurious, as also in his outlay upon his table.
Wherefore, not without just cause, folk had dropped his surname de’
Grimaldi, and called him instead Messer Ermino Avarizia. While thus by

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thrift his wealth waxed greater and greater, it so chanced that there came
to Genoa a jester of good parts, a man debonair and ready of speech, his
name Guglielmo Borsiere, whose like is not to be found to-day when
jesters (to the great reproach be it spoken of those that claim the name
and reputation of gentlemen) are rather to be called asses, being without
courtly breeding, and formed after the coarse pattern of the basest of
churls. And whereas in the days of which I speak they made it their
business, they spared no pains, to compose quarrels, to allay heart-
burnings, between gentlemen, or arrange marriages, or leagues of amity,
ministering meanwhile relief to jaded minds and solace to courts by the
sprightly sallies of their wit, and with keen sarcasm, like fathers,
censuring churlish manners, being also satisfied with very trifling
guerdons; nowadays all their care is to spend their time in scandal-
mongering, in sowing discord, in saying, and (what is worse) in doing in
the presence of company things churlish and flagitious, in bringing
accusations, true or false, of wicked, shameful or flagitious conduct
against one another; and in drawing gentlemen into base and nefarious
practices by sinister and insidious arts. And by these wretched and
depraved lords he is held most dear and best rewarded whose words and
deeds are the most atrocious, to the great reproach and scandal of the
world of to-day; whereby it is abundantly manifest that virtue has
departed from the earth, leaving a degenerate generation to wallow in
the lowest depths of vice.
But reverting to the point at which I started, wherefrom under stress
of just indignation I have deviated somewhat further than I intended, I
say that the said Guglielmo was had in honour, and was well received by
all the gentlemen of Genoa; and tarrying some days in the city, heard
much of the meanness and avarice of Messer Ermino, and was curious to
see him. Now Messer Ermino had heard that this Guglielmo Borsiere
was a man of good parts, and, notwithstanding his avarice, having in
him some sparks of good breeding, received him with words of hearty

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greeting and a gladsome mien, and conversed freely with him and of
divers matters, and so conversing, took him with other Genoese that
were of his company to a new and very beautiful house which he had
built, and after shewing him over the whole of it, said to him:—‟Now,
Messer Guglielmo, you have seen and heard many things; could you
suggest to me something, the like of which has not hitherto been seen,
which I might have painted here in the saloon of this house?” To which
ill-judged question Guglielmo replied:—‟Sir, it would not, I think, be in
my power to suggest anything the like of which has never been seen,
unless it were a sneeze or something similar; but if it so please you, I
have something to suggest, which, I think, you have never seen.”
‟Prithee, what may that be?” said Messer Ermino, not expecting to get
the answer which he got. For Guglielmo replied forthwith:—‟Paint
Courtesy here;” which Messer Ermino had no sooner heard, than he was
so stricken with shame that his disposition underwent a complete
change, and he said:—‟Messer, Guglielmo, I will see to it that Courtesy is
here painted in such wise that neither you nor any one else shall ever
again have reason to tell me that I have not seen or known that virtue.”
And henceforward (so enduring was the change wrought by Guglielmo’s
words) there was not in Genoa, while he lived, any gentleman so liberal
and so gracious and so lavish of honour both to strangers and to his
fellow-citizens as Messer Ermino de’ Grimaldi.

NOVEL IX.

— The censure of a Gascon lady converts the King of Cyprus

from a churlish to an honourable temper. —
Except Elisa none now remained to answer the call of the queen, and she
without waiting for it, with gladsome alacrity thus began:—
Bethink you, damsels, how often it has happened that men who have

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been obdurate to censures and chastisements have been reclaimed by

some unpremeditated casual word. This is plainly manifest by the story
told by Lauretta; and by mine, which will be of the briefest, I mean
further to illustrate it; seeing that, good stories, being always
pleasurable, are worth listening to with attention, no matter by whom
they may be told.
‛Twas, then, in the time of the first king of Cyprus, after the conquest
made of the Holy Land by Godfrey de Bouillon, that a lady of Gascony
made a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre, and on her way home, having
landed at Cyprus, met with brutal outrage at the hands of certain
ruffians. Broken-hearted and disconsolate she determined to make her
complaint to the king; but she was told that it would be all in vain,
because so spiritless and faineant was he that he not only neglected to
avenge affronts put upon others, but endured with a reprehensible
tameness those which were offered to himself, insomuch that whoso had
any ill-humour to vent, took occasion to vex or mortify him. The lady,
hearing this report, despaired of redress, and by way of alleviation of her
grief determined to make the king sensible of his baseness. So in tears
she presented herself before him and said:—‟Sire, it is not to seek
redress of the wrong done me that I come here before you: but only that,
so please you, I may learn of you how it is that you suffer patiently the
wrongs which, as I understand, are done you; that thus schooled by you
in patience I may endure my own, which, God knows, I would gladly,
were it possible, transfer to you, seeing that you are so well fitted to bear
them.” These words aroused the hitherto sluggish and apathetic king as
it were from sleep. He redressed the lady’s wrong, and having thus made
a beginning, thenceforth meted out the most rigorous justice to all that
in any wise offended against the majesty of his crown.

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NOVEL X.

— Master Alberto da Bologna honourably puts to shame a

lady who sought occasion to put him to shame in that he was
in love with her. —
After Elisa had done, it only remained for the queen to conclude the
day’s story-telling, and thus with manner debonair did she begin:—
As stars in the serene expanse of heaven, as in spring-time flowers in
the green pastures, so, honourable damsels, in the hour of rare and
excellent converse is wit with its bright sallies. Which, being brief, are
much more proper for ladies than for men, seeing that prolixity of
speech, when brevity is possible, is much less allowable to them; albeit
(shame be to us all and all our generation) few ladies or none are left to-
day who understand aught that is wittily said, or understanding are able
to answer it. For the place of those graces of the spirit which
distinguished the ladies of the past has now been usurped by
adornments of the person; and she whose dress is most richly and
variously and curiously dight, accounts herself more worthy to be had in
honour, forgetting, that, were one but so to array him, an ass would carry
a far greater load of finery than any of them, and for all that be not a
whit the more deserving of honour. I blush to say this, for in censuring
others I condemn myself. Tricked out, bedecked, bedizened thus, we are
either silent and impassive as statues, or, if we answer aught that is said
to us, much better were it we had held our peace. And we make believe,
forsooth, that our failure to acquit ourselves in converse with our equals
of either sex does but proceed from guilelessness; dignifying stupidity by
the name of modesty, as if no lady could be modest and converse with
other folk than her maid or laundress or bake-house woman; which if
Nature had intended, as we feign she did, she would have set other limits
to our garrulousness. True it is that in this, as in other matters, time and

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place and person are to be regarded; because it sometimes happens that

a lady or gentleman thinking by some sally of wit to put another to
shame, has rather been put to shame by that other, having failed duly to
estimate their relative powers. Wherefore, that you may be on your
guard against such error, and, further, that in you be not exemplified the
common proverb, to wit, that women do ever and on all occasions
choose the worst, I trust that this last of to-day’s stories, which falls to
me to tell, may serve you as a lesson; that, as you are distinguished from
others by nobility of nature, so you may also shew yourselves separate
from them by excellence of manners.
There lived not many years ago, perhaps yet lives, in Bologna, a very
great physician, so great that the fame of his skill was noised abroad
throughout almost the entire world.
Now Master Alberto (such was his name) was of so noble a temper
that, being now nigh upon seventy years of age, and all but devoid of
natural heat of body, he was yet receptive of the flames of love; and
having at an assembly seen a very beautiful widow lady, Madonna
Malgherida de’ Ghisolieri, as some say, and being charmed with her
beyond measure, was, notwithstanding his age, no less ardently
enamoured than a young man, insomuch that he was not well able to
sleep at night, unless during the day he had seen the fair lady’s lovely
and delicate features. Wherefore he began to frequent the vicinity of her
house, passing to and fro in front of it, now on foot now on horseback,
as occasion best served. Which she and many other ladies perceiving,
made merry together more than once, to see a man of his years and
discretion in love, as if they deemed that this most delightful passion of
love were only fit for empty-headed youths, and could not in men be
either harboured or engendered. Master Alberto thus continuing to
haunt the front of the house, it so happened that one feast-day the lady
with other ladies was seated before her door, and Master Alberto’s
approach being thus observed by them for some time before he arrived,

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they complotted to receive him and shew him honour, and then to rally
him on his love; and so they did, rising with one accord to receive him,
bidding him welcome, and ushering him into a cool courtyard, where
they regaled him with the finest wines and comfits; which done, in a
tone of refined and sprightly banter they asked him how it came about
that he was enamoured of this fair lady, seeing that she was beloved of
many a fine gentleman of youth and spirit. Master Alberto, being thus
courteously assailed, put a blithe face on it, and answered:—‟Madam,
my love for you need surprise none that is conversant with such matters,
and least of all you that are worthy of it. And though old men, of course,
have lost the strength which love demands for its full fruition, yet are
they not therefore without the good intent and just appreciation of what
beseems the accepted lover, but indeed understand it far better than
young men, by reason that they have more experience. My hope in thus
old aspiring to love you, who are loved by so many young men, is
founded on what I have frequently observed of ladies’ ways at lunch,
when they trifle with the lupin and the leek. In the leek no part is good,
but the head is at any rate not so bad as the rest, and indeed not
unpalatable; you, however, for the most part, following a depraved taste,
hold it in your hand and munch the leaves, which are not only of no
account but actually distasteful. How am I to know, madam, that in your
selection of lovers, you are not equally eccentric? In which case I should
be the man of your choice, and the rest would be cast aside.” Whereto
the gentle lady, somewhat shame-stricken, as were also her fair friends,
thus made answer:—‟Master Alberto, our presumption has received
from you a most just and no less courteous reproof; but your love is dear
to me, as should ever be that of a wise and worthy man. And therefore,
saving my honour, I am yours, entirely and devotedly at your pleasure
and command.” This speech brought Master Alberto to his feet, and the
others also rising, he thanked the lady for her courtesy, bade her a gay
and smiling adieu, and so left the house. Thus the lady, not considering

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on whom she exercised her wit, thinking to conquer was conquered

herself—against which mishap you, if you are discreet, will ever be most
strictly on your guard.
As the young ladies and the three young men finished their
storytelling the sun was westering and the heat of the day in great
measure abated. Which their queen observing, debonairly thus she
spoke:—‟Now, dear gossips, my day of sovereignty draws to a close, and
nought remains for me to do but to give you a new queen, by whom on
the morrow our common life may be ordered as she may deem best in a
course of seemly pleasure; and though there seems to be still some
interval between day and night, yet, as whoso does not in some degree
anticipate the course of time, cannot well provide for the future; and in
order that what the new queen shall decide to be meet for the morrow
may be made ready beforehand, I decree that from this time forth the
days begin at this hour. And so in reverent submission to Him in whom
is the life of all beings, for our comfort and solace we commit the
governance of our realm for the morrow into the hands of Queen
Filomena, most discreet of damsels.” So saying she arose, took the laurel
wreath from her brow, and with a gesture of reverence set it on the brow
of Filomena, whom she then, and after her all the other ladies and the
young men, saluted as queen, doing her due and graceful homage.
Queen Filomena modestly blushed a little to find herself thus
invested with the sovereignty; but, being put on her mettle by
Pampinea’s recent admonitions, she was minded not to seem awkward,
and soon recovered her composure. She then began by confirming all
the appointments made by Pampinea, and making all needful
arrangements for the following morning and evening, which they were
to pass where they then were. Whereupon she thus spoke:—‟Dearest
gossips, though, thanks rather to Pampinea’s courtesy than to merit of
mine, I am made queen of you all, yet I am not on that account minded
to have respect merely to my own judgment in the governance of our life,

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but to unite your wisdom with mine; and that you may understand what
I think of doing, and by consequence may be able to amplify or curtail it
at your pleasure, I will in few words make known to you my purpose. The
course observed by Pampinea to-day, if I have judged aright, seems to be
alike commendable and delectable; wherefore, until by lapse of time, or
for some other cause, it grow tedious, I purpose not to alter it. So when
we have arranged for what we have already taken in hand, we will go
hence and enjoy a short walk; at sundown we will sup in the cool; and we
will then sing a few songs and otherwise divert ourselves, until it is time
to go to sleep. To-morrow we will rise in the cool of the morning, and
after enjoying another walk, each at his or her sweet will, we will return,
as to-day, and in due time break our fast, dance, sleep, and having risen,
will here resume our story-telling, wherein, methinks, pleasure and
profit unite in superabundant measure. True it is that Pampinea, by
reason of her late election to the sovereignty, neglected one matter,
which I mean to introduce, to wit, the circumscription of the topic of
our story-telling, and its preassignment, that each may be able to
premeditate some apt story bearing upon the theme; and seeing that
from the beginning of the world Fortune has made men the sport of
divers accidents, and so it will continue until the end, the theme, so
please you, shall in each case be the same; to wit, the fortune of such as
after divers adventures have at last attained a goal of unexpected felicity.
The ladies and the young men alike commended the rule thus laid
down, and agreed to follow it. Dioneo, however, when the rest had done
speaking, said:—‟Madam, as all the rest have said, so say I, briefly, that
the rule prescribed by you is commendable and delectable; but of your
especial grace I crave a favour, which, I trust, may be granted and
continued to me, so long as our company shall endure; which favour is
this: that I be not bound by the assigned theme if I am not so minded,
but that I have leave to choose such topic as best shall please me. And
lest any suppose that I crave this grace as one that has not stories ready

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to hand, I am henceforth content that mine be always the last.” The

queen, knowing him to be a merry and facetious fellow, and feeling sure
that he only craved this favour in order that, if the company were jaded,
he might have an opportunity to recreate them by some amusing story,
gladly, with the consent of the rest, granted his petition. She then rose,
and attended by the rest sauntered towards a stream, which, issuing
clear as crystal from a neighbouring hill, precipitated itself into a valley
shaded by trees close set amid living rock and fresh green herbage. Bare
of foot and arm they entered the stream, and roving hither and thither
amused themselves in divers ways till in due time they returned to the
palace, and gaily supped. Supper ended, the queen sent for instruments
of music, and bade Lauretta lead a dance, while Emilia was to sing a
song accompanied by Dioneo on the lute.
Accordingly Lauretta led a dance, while Emilia with passion sang the
following song:
So fain I am of my own loveliness,
I hope, nor think not e’er
The weight to feel of other amorousness.

When in the mirror I my face behold,

That see I there which doth my mind content,
Nor any present hap or memory old
May me deprive of such sweet ravishment.
Where else, then, should I find such blandishment
Of sight and sense that e’er
My heart should know another amorousness?

Nor need I fear lest the fair thing retreat,

When fain I am my solace to renew;
Rather, I know, ‛twill me advance to meet,
To pleasure me, and shew so sweet a view

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That speech or thought of none its semblance true

Paint or conceive may e’er,
Unless he burn with ev’n such amorousness.

Thereon as more intent I gaze, the fire

Waxeth within me hourly, more and more,
Myself I yield thereto, myself entire,
And foretaste have of what it hath in store,
And hope of greater joyance than before,
Nay, such as ne’er
None knew; for ne’er was felt such amorousness.
This ballade, to which all heartily responded, albeit its words
furnished much matter of thought to some, was followed by some other
dances, and part of the brief night being thus spent, the queen
proclaimed the first day ended, and bade light the torches that all might
go to rest until the following morning; and so, seeking their several
chambers, to rest they went.
— Endeth here the first day of the Decameron; beginneth the
second, in which, under the rule of Filomena, they discourse of
the fortunes of such as after divers misadventures have at last
attained a goal of unexpected felicity. —
The sun was already trailing the new day in his wake of light, and the
birds, blithely chanting their lays among the green boughs, carried the
tidings to the ear, when with one accord all the ladies and the three
young men arose, and entered the gardens, where for no little time they
found their delight in sauntering about the dewy meads, straying hither
and thither, culling flowers, and weaving them into fair garlands. The
day passed like its predecessor; they breakfasted in the shade, and
danced and slept until noon, when they rose, and, at their queen’s
behest, assembled in the cool meadow, and sat them down in a circle

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about her. Fair and very debonair she shewed, crowned with her laurel
wreath, as for a brief space she scanned the company, and then bade
Neifile shew others the way with a story. Neifile made no excuse, and
gaily thus began.

SECOND DAY

NOVEL I.

— Martellino pretends to be a paralytic, and makes it appear

as if he were cured by being placed upon the body of St. Arrigo.
His trick is detected; he is beaten and arrested, and is in peril
of hanging, but finally escapes. —
Often has it happened, dearest ladies, that one who has studied to raise
a laugh at others’ expense, especially in regard of things worthy to be
had in reverence, has found the laugh turn against himself, and
sometimes to his loss: as, in obedience to the queen’s command, and by
way of introducing our theme, I am about to shew you, by the narrative
of an adventure which befell one of our own citizens, and after a course
of evil fortune had an entirely unexpected and very felicitous issue.
Not long ago there was at Treviso a German, named Arrigo, a poor
man who got his living as a common hired porter, but though of so
humble a condition, was respected by all, being accounted not only an
honest but a most holy man; insomuch that, whether truly or falsely I
know not, the Trevisans affirm, that on his decease all the bells of the
cathedral of Treviso began to toll of their own accord. Which being
accounted a miracle, this Arrigo was generally reputed a saint; and all
the people of the city gathered before the house where his body lay, and
bore it, with a saint’s honours, into the cathedral, and brought thither

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the halt and paralytic and blind, and others afflicted with disease or
bodily defects, as hoping that by contact with this holy body they would
all be healed. The people thus tumultuously thronging the church, it so
chanced that there arrived in Treviso three of our own citizens, of whom
one was named Stecchi, another Martellino, and the third Marchese; all
three being men whose habit it was to frequent the courts of the nobles
and afford spectators amusement by assuming disguises and
personating other men. Being entire strangers to the place, and seeing
everybody running to and fro, they were much astonished, and having
learned the why and wherefore, were curious to go see what was to be
seen. So at the inn, where they put up, Marchese began:—‟We would
fain go see this saint; but for my part I know not how we are to reach the
spot, for I hear the piazza is full of Germans and other armed men,
posted there by the Lord who rules here to prevent an uproar, and
moreover the church, so far as one may learn, is so full of folk that scarce
another soul may enter it.” Whereupon Martellino, who was bent on
seeing what was to be seen, said:—‟Let not this deter us; I will assuredly
find a way of getting to the saint’s body.” ‟How?” rejoined Marchese. ‟I
will tell you,” replied Martellino; ‟I will counterfeit a paralytic, and thou
wilt support me on one side and Stecchi on the other, as if I were not
able to go alone, and so you will enter the church, making it appear as if
you were leading me up to the body of the saint that he may heal me,
and all that see will make way and give us free passage.” Marchese and
Stecchi approved the plan; so all three forthwith left the inn and
repaired to a lonely place, where Martellino distorted his hands, his
fingers, his arms, his legs, and also his mouth and eyes and his entire
face in a manner horrible to contemplate; so that no stranger that saw
him could have doubted that he was impotent and paralysed in every
part of his body. In this guise Marchese and Stecchi laid hold of him,
and led him towards the church, assuming a most piteous air, and
humbly beseeching everybody for God’s sake to make way for them.

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Their request was readily granted; and, in short, observed by all, and
crying out at almost every step, ‟make way, make way,” they reached the
place where St. Arrigo’s body was laid. Whereupon some gentlemen who
stood by, hoisted Martellino on to the saint’s body, that thereby he might
receive the boon of health. There he lay still for a while, the eyes of all in
the church being riveted upon him in expectation of the result; then,
being a very practised performer, he stretched, first, one of his fingers,
next a hand, afterwards an arm, and so forth, making as if he gradually
recovered the use of all his natural powers. Which the people observing
raised such a clamour in honour of St. Arrigo that even thunder would
have been inaudible. Now it chanced that hard by stood a Florentine,
who knew Martellino well, though he had failed to recognise him, when,
in such strange guise, he was led into the church; but now, seeing him
resume his natural shape, the Florentine recognised him, and at once
said with a laugh°‟God’s curse upon him. Who that saw him come but
would have believed that he was really paralysed?” These words were
overheard by some of the Trevisans, who began forthwith to question
the Florentine. ‟How?” said they; ‟was he then not paralysed? No, by
God returned the Florentine he has always been as straight as any of us;
he has merely shewn you that he knows better than any man alive how
to play this trick of putting on any counterfeit semblance that he
chooses.” Thereupon the Trevisans, without further parley, made a rush,
clearing the way and crying out as they went:—‟Seize this traitor who
mocks at God and His saints; who, being no paralytic, has come hither
in the guise of a paralytic to deride our patron saint and us.” So saying,
they laid hands on him, dragged him down from where he stood, seized
him by the hair, tore the clothes from his back, and fell to beating and
kicking him, so that it seemed to him as if all the world were upon him.
He cried out:—‟Pity, for God’s sake,” and defended himself as best he
could: all in vain, however; the press became thicker and thicker
moment by moment. Which Stecchi and Marchese observing began to

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say one to the other that ‛twas a bad business; yet, being apprehensive on
their own account, they did not venture to come to his assistance, but
cried out with the rest that he ought to die, at the same time, however,
casting about how they might find the means to rescue him from the
hands of the people, who would certainly have killed him, but for a
diversion which Marchese hastily effected. The entire posse of the
signory being just outside, he ran off at full speed to the Podesta’s
lieutenant, and said to him:—‟Help, for God’s sake; there is a villain here
that has cut my purse with full a hundred florins of gold in it; prithee
have him arrested that I may have my own again.” Whereupon, twelve
sergeants or more ran forthwith to the place where hapless Martellino
was being carded without a comb, and, forcing their way with the
utmost difficulty through the throng, rescued him all bruised and
battered from their hands, and led him to the palace; whither he was
followed by many who, resenting what he had done, and hearing that he
was arrested as a cutpurse, and lacking better pretext for harassing him,
began one and all to charge him with having cut their purses. All which
the deputy of the Podesta had no sooner heard, than, being a harsh
man, he straightway took Martellino aside and began to examine him.
Martellino answered his questions in a bantering tone, making light of
the arrest; whereat the deputy, losing patience, had him bound to the
strappado, and caused him to receive a few hints of the cord with intent
to extort from him a confession of his guilt, by way of preliminary to
hanging him. Taken down from the strappado, and questioned by the
deputy if what his accusers said were true, Martellino, as nothing was to
be gained by denial, answered:—‟My lord, I am ready to confess the
truth; let but my accusers say, each of them, when and where I cut his
purse, and I will tell you what I have and what I have not done.” ‟So be
it,” said the deputy, and caused a few of them to be summoned.
Whereupon Martellino, being charged with having cut this, that or the
other man’s purse eight, six or four days ago, while others averred that he

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had cut their purses that very day, answered thus:— ‟My lord, these men
lie in the throat, and for token that I speak true, I tell you that, so far
from having been here as long as they make out, it is but very lately that
I came into these parts, where I never was before; and no sooner was I
come, than, as my ill-luck would have it, I went to see the body of this
saint, and so have been carded as you see; and that what I say is true, his
Lordship’s intendant of arrivals, and his book, and also my host may
certify. Wherefore, if you find that even so it is as I say, hearken not to
these wicked men, and spare me the torture and death which they would
have you inflict.” In this posture of affairs Marchese and Stecchi,
learning that the Podesta’s deputy was dealing rigorously with
Martellino, and had already put him to the strappado, grew mightily
alarmed. ‟We have made a mess of it,” they said to themselves; ‟we have
only taken him out of the frying-pan to toss him into the fire.” So,
hurrying hither and thither with the utmost zeal, they made diligent
search until they found their host, and told him how matters stood. The
host had his laugh over the affair, and then brought them to one Sandro
Agolanti, who dwelt in Treviso and had great interest with the Lord of
the place. The host laid the whole matter before Sandro, and, backed by
Marchese and Stecchi, besought him to undertake Martellino’s cause.
Sandro, after many a hearty laugh, hied him to the Lord, who at his
instance sent for Martellino. The messengers found Martellino still in his
shirt before the deputy, at his wits’ end, and all but beside himself with
fear, because the deputy would hear nothing that he said in his defence.
Indeed, the deputy, having a spite against Florentines, had quite made
up his mind to have him hanged; he was therefore in the last degree
reluctant to surrender him to the Lord, and only did so upon
compulsion. Brought at length before the Lord, Martellino detailed to
him the whole affair, and prayed him as the greatest of favours to let him
depart in peace. The Lord had a hearty laugh over the adventure, and
bestowed a tunic on each of the three. So, congratulating themselves on

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their unexpected deliverance from so great a peril, they returned home

safe and sound.

NOVEL II.

— Rinaldo d’Asti is robbed, arrives at Castel Guglielmo, and is

entertained by a widow lady; his property is restored to him,
and he returns home safe and sound. —
The ladies and the young men, especially Filostrato, laughed
inordinately at Neifile’s narrative of Martellino’s misadventures. Then
Filostrato, who sate next Neifile, received the queen’s command to
follow her, and promptly thus began:—
Fair ladies, ‛tis on my mind to tell you a story in which are mingled
things sacred and passages of adverse fortune and love, which to hear
will perchance be not unprofitable, more especially to travellers in love’s
treacherous lands; of whom if any fail to say St. Julian’s paternoster, it
often happens that, though he may have a good bed, he is ill lodged.
Know, then, that in the time of the Marquis Azzo da Ferrara, a
merchant, Rinaldo d’Asti by name, having disposed of certain affairs
which had brought him to Bologna, set his face homeward, and having
left Ferrara behind him was on his way to Verona, when he fell in with
some men that looked like merchants, but were in truth robbers and
men of evil life and condition, whose company he imprudently joined,
riding and conversing with them. They, perceiving that he was a
merchant, and judging that he must have money about him, complotted
to rob him on the first opportunity; and to obviate suspicion they played
the part of worthy and reputable men, their discourse of nought but
what was seemly and honourable and leal, their demeanour at once as
respectful and as cordial as they could make it; so that he deemed
himself very lucky to have met with them, being otherwise alone save for

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a single mounted servant. Journeying thus, they conversed after the

desultory manner of travellers, of divers matters, until at last they fell a
talking of the prayers which men address to God, and one of the robbers
—there were three of them—said to Rinaldo:—‟And you, gentle sir, what
is your wonted orison when you are on your travels?” Rinaldo answered:
—‟Why, to tell the truth, I am a man unskilled, unlearned in such
matters, and few prayers have I at my command, being one that lives in
the good old way and lets two soldi count for twenty-four deniers;
nevertheless it has always been my custom in journeying to say of a
morning, as I leave the inn, a paternoster and an avemaria for the souls
of the father and mother of St. Julian, after which I pray God and St.
Julian to provide me with a good inn for the night. And many a time in
the course of my life have I met with great perils by the way, and evading
them all have found comfortable quarters for the night: whereby my
faith is assured, that St. Julian, in whose honour I say my paternoster,
has gotten me this favour of God; nor should I look for a prosperous
journey and a safe arrival at night, if I had not said it in the morning.”
Then said his interrogator:—‟And did you say it this morning?” Whereto
Rinaldo answered, ‟Troth, did I,” which caused the other, who by this
time knew what course matters would take, to say to himself:—”‛Twill
prove to have been said in the nick of time; for if we do not miscarry, I
take it thou wilt have but a sorry lodging.” Then turning to Rinaldo he
said:—‟I also have travelled much, and never a prayer have I said though
I have heard them much, commended by many, nor has it ever been my
lot to find other than good quarters for the night; it may be that this very
evening you will be able to determine which of us has the better lodging,
you that have said the paternoster, or I that have not said it. True,
however, it is that in its stead I am accustomed to say the ‛Dirupisti,’ or
the ‛Intemerata,’ or the ‛De profundis,’ which, if what my grandmother
used to say is to be believed, are of the greatest efficacy.” So, talking of
divers matters, and ever on the look-out for time and place suited to

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their evil purpose, they continued their journey, until towards evening,
some distance from Castel Guglielmo, as they were about to ford a
stream, these three ruffians, profiting by the lateness of the hour, and
the loneliness and straitness of the place, set upon Rinaldo and robbed
him, and leaving him afoot and in his shirt, said by way of adieu:—‟Go
now, and see if thy St. Julian will provide thee with good lodging to-
night; our saint, we doubt not, will do as much by us;” and so crossing
the stream, they went their way. Rinaldo’s servant, coward that he was,
did nothing to help his master when he saw him attacked, but turned his
horse’s head, and was off at a smart pace; nor did he draw rein until he
was come to Castel Guglielmo; where, it being now evening, he put up at
an inn and gave himself no further trouble. Rinaldo, left barefoot, and
stripped to his shirt, while the night closed in very cold and snowy, was
at his wits’ end, and shivering so that his teeth chattered in his head,
began to peer about, if haply he might find some shelter for the night,
that so he might not perish with the cold; but, seeing none (for during a
recent war the whole country had been wasted by fire), he set off for
Castel Guglielmo, quickening his pace by reason of the cold. Whether
his servant had taken refuge in Castel Guglielmo or elsewhere, he knew
not, but he thought that, could he but enter the town, God would surely
send him some succour. However, dark night overtook him while he was
still about a mile from the castle; so that on his arrival he found the gates
already locked and the bridges raised, and he could not pass in. Sick at
heart, disconsolate and bewailing his evil fortune, he looked about for
some place where he might ensconce himself, and at any rate find shelter
from the snow. And by good luck he espied a house, built with a balcony
a little above the castle-wall, under which balcony he purposed to shelter
himself until daybreak. Arrived at the spot, he found beneath the
balcony a postern, which, however, was locked; and having gathered
some bits of straw that lay about, he placed them in front of the postern,
and there in sad and sorrowful plight took up his quarters, with many a

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piteous appeal to St. Julian, whom he reproached for not better

rewarding the faith which he reposed in him. St. Julian, however, had
not abandoned him, and in due time provided him with a good lodging.
There was in the castle a widow lady of extraordinary beauty (none
fairer) whom Marquis Azzo loved as his own life, and kept there for his
pleasure. She lived in the very same house beneath the balcony of which
Rinaldo had posted himself. Now it chanced that that very day the
Marquis had come to Castel Guglielmo to pass the night with her, and
had privily caused a bath to be made ready, and a supper suited to his
rank, in the lady’s own house. The arrangements were complete; and
only the Marquis was stayed for, when a servant happened to present
himself at the castle-gate, bringing tidings for the Marquis which
obliged him suddenly to take horse. He therefore sent word to the lady
that she must not wait for him, and forthwith took his departure. The
lady, somewhat disconsolate, found nothing better to do than to get into
the bath which had been intended for the Marquis, sup and go to bed: so
into the bath she went. The bath was close to the postern on the other
side of which hapless Rinaldo had ensconced himself, and, thus the
mournful and quavering music which Rinaldo made as he shuddered in
the cold, and which seemed rather to proceed from a stork’s beak than
from the mouth of a human being, was audible to the lady in the bath.
She therefore called her maid, and said to her:— ‟Go up and look out
over the wall and down at the postern, and mark who is there, and what
he is, and what he does there.” The maid obeyed, and, the night being
fine, had no difficulty in making out Rinaldo as he sate there, barefoot,
as I have, said, and in his shirt, and trembling in every limb. So she
called out to him, to know who he was. Rinaldo, who could scarcely
articulate for shivering, told as briefly as he could, who he was, and how
and why he came to be there; which done, he began piteously to,
beseech her not, if she could avoid it, to leave him there all night to
perish of cold. The maid went back to her mistress full of pity for

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Rinaldo, and told her all she had seen and heard. The lady felt no less
pity for Rinaldo; and bethinking her that she had the key of the postern
by which the Marquis sometimes entered when he paid her a secret visit,
she said to the maid:—‟Go, and let him in softly; here is this supper, and
there will be none to eat it; and we can very well put him up for the
night.” Cordially commending her mistress’s humanity, the maid went
and let Rinaldo in, and brought him to the lady, who, seeing that he was
all but dead with cold, said to him:—‟Quick, good man, get into that
bath, which is still warm.” Gladly he did so, awaiting no second
invitation, and was so much comforted by its warmth that he seemed to
have passed from death to life. The lady provided him with a suit of
clothes, which had been worn by her husband shortly before his death,
and which, when he had them on, looked as if they had been made for
him. So he recovered heart, and, while he awaited the lady’s commands,
gave thanks to God and St. Julian for delivering him from a woful night
and conducting him, as it seemed, to comfortable quarters.
The lady meanwhile took a little rest, after which she had a roaring
fire put in one of her large rooms, whither presently she came, and asked
her maid how the good man did. The maid replied:—‟Madam, he has
put on the clothes, in which he shews to advantage, having a handsome
person, and seeming to be a worthy man, and well-bred.” ‟Go, call him
then,” said the lady, ‟tell him to come hither to the fire, and we will sup;
for I know that he has not supped.” Rinaldo, on entering the room and
seeing the lady, took her to be of no small consequence. He therefore
made her a low bow, and did his utmost to thank her worthily for the
service she had rendered him. His words pleased her no less than his
person, which accorded with what the maid had said: so she made him
heartily welcome, installed him at his ease by her side before the fire,
and questioned him of the adventure which had brought him thither.
Rinaldo detailed all the circumstances, of which the lady had heard
somewhat when Rinaldo’s servant made his appearance at the castle. She

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therefore gave entire credence to what he said, and told him what she
knew about his servant, and how he might easily find him on the
morrow. She then bade set the table, which done, Rinaldo and she
washed their hands and sate down together to sup. Tall he was and
comely of form and feature, debonair and gracious of mien and manner,
and in his lusty prime. The lady had eyed him again and again to her no
small satisfaction, and, her wantonness being already kindled for the
Marquis, who was to have come to lie with her, she had let Rinaldo take
the vacant place in her mind. So when supper was done, and they were
risen from the table, she conferred with her maid, whether, after the
cruel trick played upon her by the Marquis, it were not well to take the
good gift which Fortune had sent her. The maid knowing the bent of her
mistress’s desire, left no word unsaid that might encourage her to follow
it. Wherefore the lady, turning towards Rinaldo, who was standing
where she had left him by the fire, began thus:—‟So! Rinaldo, why still
so pensive? Will nothing console you for the loss of a horse and a few
clothes? Take heart, put a blithe face on it, you are at home; nay more,
let me tell you that, seeing you in those clothes which my late husband
used to wear, and taking you for him, I have felt, not once or twice, but
perhaps a hundred times this evening, a longing to throw my arms
round you and kiss you; and, in faith, I had so done, but that I feared it
might displease you.” Rinaldo, hearing these words, and marking the
flame which shot from the lady’s eyes, and being no laggard, came
forward with open arms, and confronted her and said:—‟Madam, I am
not unmindful that I must ever acknowledge that to you I owe my life, in
regard of the peril whence you rescued me. If then there be any way in
which I may pleasure you, churlish indeed were I not to devise it. So you
may even embrace and kiss me to your heart’s content, and I will
embrace and kiss you with the best of good wills.” There needed no
further parley. The lady, all aflame with amorous desire, forthwith threw
herself into his arms, and straining him to her bosom with a thousand

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passionate embraces, gave and received a thousand kisses before they

sought her chamber. There with all speed they went to bed, nor did day
surprise them until again and again and in full measure they had
satisfied their desire. With the first streaks of dawn they rose, for the
lady was minded that none should surmise aught of the affair. So, having
meanly habited Rinaldo, and replenished his purse, she enjoined him to
keep the secret, shewed him the way to the castle, where he was to find
his servant, and let him out by the same postern by which he had
entered. When it was broad day the gates were opened, and Rinaldo,
passing himself off as a traveller from distant parts, entered the castle,
and found his servant. Having put on the spare suit which was in his
valise, he was about to mount the servant’s horse, when, as if by miracle,
there were brought into the castle the three gentlemen of the road who
had robbed him the evening before, having been taken a little while after
for another offence. Upon their confession Rinaldo’s horse was restored
to him, as were also his clothes and money; so that he lost nothing
except a pair of garters, of which the robbers knew not where they had
bestowed them. Wherefore Rinaldo, giving thanks to God and St. Julian,
mounted his horse, and returned home safe and sound, and on the
morrow the three robbers kicked heels in the wind.

NOVEL III.

— Three young men squander their substance and are reduced

to poverty. Their nephew, returning home a desperate man,
falls in with an abbot, in whom he discovers the daughter of
the King of England. She marries him, and he retrieves the
losses and reestablishes the fortune of his uncles. —
The ladies marvelled to hear the adventures of Rinaldo d’Asti, praised
his devotion, and gave thanks to God and St. Julian for the succour lent

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him in his extreme need. Nor, though the verdict was hardly outspoken,
was the lady deemed unwise to take the boon which God had sent her.
So they tittered and talked of her night of delight, while Pampinea,
being seated by Filostrato, and surmising that her turn would, as it did,
come next, was lost in meditation on what she was to say. Roused from
her reverie by the word of the queen, she put on a cheerful courage, and
thus began:—
Noble ladies, discourse as we may of Fortune’s handiwork, much still
remains to be said if we but scan events aright, nor need we marvel
thereat, if we but duly consider that all matters, which we foolishly call
our own, are in her hands and therefore subject, at her inscrutable will,
to every variety of chance and change without any order therein by us
discernible. Which is indeed signally manifest everywhere and all day
long; yet, as ‛tis our queen’s will that we speak thereof, perhaps ‛twill not
be unprofitable to you, if, notwithstanding it has been the theme of
some of the foregoing stories, I add to them another, which, I believe,
should give you pleasure.
There was formerly in our city a knight, by name Messer Tedaldo, of
the Lamberti, according to some, or, as others say, of the Agolanti family,
perhaps for no better reason than that the occupation of his sons was
similar to that which always was and is the occupation of the Agolanti.
However, without professing to determine which of the two houses he
belonged to, I say, that he was in his day a very wealthy knight, and had
three sons, the eldest being by name Lamberto, the second Tedaldo, and
the third Agolante. Fine, spirited young men were they all, though the
eldest was not yet eighteen years old when their father, Messer Tedaldo,
died very rich, leaving to them as his lawful heirs the whole of his
property both movable and immovable. Finding themselves thus
possessed of great wealth, both in money and in lands and chattels, they
fell to spending without stint or restraint, indulging their every desire,
maintaining a great establishment, and a large and well-filled stable,

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besides dogs and hawks, keeping ever open house, scattering largesses,
jousting, and, not content with these and the like pastimes proper to
their condition, indulging every appetite natural to their youth. They
had not long followed this course of life before the cash left them by
their father was exhausted; and, their rents not sufficing to defray their
expenditure, they began to sell and pledge their property, and disposing
of it by degrees, one item to-day and another to-morrow, they hardly
perceived that they were approaching the verge of ruin, until poverty
opened the eyes which wealth had fast sealed. So one day Lamberto
called his brothers to him, reminded them of the position of wealth and
dignity which had been theirs and their father’s before them, and
shewed them the poverty to which their extravagance had reduced
them, and adjured them most earnestly that, before their destitution
was yet further manifest, they should all three sell what little remained
to them and depart thence; which accordingly they did. Without leave-
taking, or any ceremony, they quitted Florence; nor did they rest until
they had arrived in England and established themselves in a small house
in London, where, by living with extreme parsimony and lending at
exorbitant usances, they prospered so well that in the course of a few
years they amassed a fortune; and so, one by one, they returned to
Florence, purchased not a few of their former estates besides many
others, and married. The management of their affairs in England, where
they continued their business of usurers, they left to a young nephew,
Alessandro by name, while, heedless alike of the teaching of experience
and of marital and parental duty, they all three launched out at Florence
into more extravagant expenditure than before, and contracted debts on
all hands and to large amounts. This expenditure they were enabled for
some years to support by the remittances made by Alessandro, who, to
his great profit, had lent money to the barons on the security of their
castles and rents.
While the three brothers thus continued to spend freely, and, when

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short of money, to borrow it, never doubting of help from England, it so

happened that, to the surprise of everybody, there broke out in England
a war between the King and his son, by which the whole island was
divided into two camps; whereby Alessandro lost all his mortgages, of
the baronial castles and every other source of income whatsoever.
However, in the daily expectation that peace would be concluded
between the King and his son, Alessandro, hoping that in that event all
would be restored to him, principal and interest, tarried in the island;
and the three brothers at Florence in no degree retrenched their
extravagant expenditure, but went on borrowing from day to day. Several
years thus passed; and, their hopes being frustrated, the three brothers
not only lost credit, but, being pressed for payment by their creditors,
were suddenly arrested, and, their property proving deficient, were kept
in prison for the balance, while their wives and little children went into
the country parts, or elsewhere, wretchedly equipped, and with no other
prospect than to pass the rest of their days in destitution. Alessandro,
meanwhile, seeing that the peace, which he had for several years awaited
in England, did not come, and deeming that he would hazard his life to
no purpose by tarrying longer in the country, made up his mind to
return to Italy. He travelled at first altogether alone; but it so chanced
that he left Bruges at the same time with an abbot, habited in white,
attended by a numerous retinue, and preceded by a goodly baggage-
train. Behind the abbot rode two greybeard knights, kinsmen of the
King, in whom Alessandro recognised acquaintances, and, making
himself known to them, was readily received into their company. As thus
they journeyed together, Alessandro softly asked them who the monks
were that rode in front with so great a train, and whither they were
bound. ‟The foremost rider,” replied one of the knights, ‟is a young
kinsman of ours, the newly-elected abbot of one of the greatest abbeys
of England,; and as he is not of legal age for such a dignity, we are going
with him to Rome to obtain the Holy Father’s dispensation and his

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confirmation in the office; but this is not a matter for common talk.”
Now the new abbot, as lords are wont to do when they travel, was
sometimes in front, sometimes in rear of his train; and thus it happened
that, as he passed, he set eyes on Alessandro, who was still quite young,
and very shapely and well-favoured, and as courteous, gracious and
debonair as e’er another. The abbot was marvellously taken with him at
first sight, having never seen aught that pleased him so much, called
him to his side, addressed him graciously, and asked him who he was,
whence he came, and whither he was bound. Alessandro frankly told all
about himself, and having thus answered the abbot’s questions, placed
himself at his service as far as his small ability might extend. The abbot
was struck by his easy flow of apt speech, and observing his bearing
more closely, he made up his mind that , albeit his occupation was base,
he was nevertheless of gentle blood, which added no little to his interest
in him; and being moved to compassion by his misfortunes, he gave him
friendly consolation, bidding him be of good hope, that if he lived a
worthy life, God would yet set him in a place no less or even more
exalted than that whence Fortune had cast him down, and prayed him to
be of his company as far as Tuscany, as both were going the same way.
Alessandro thanked him for his words of comfort, and professed himself
ready to obey his every command.
So fared on the abbot, his mind full of new ideas begotten by the
sight of Alessandro, until some days later they came to a town which was
none too well provided with inns; and, as the abbot must needs put up
there, Alessandro, who was well acquainted with one of the innkeepers,
arranged that the abbot should alight at his house, and procured him
the least discomfortable quarters which it could afford. He thus became
for the nonce the abbot’s seneschal, and being very expert for such
office, managed excellently, quartering the retinue in divers parts of the
town. So the abbot supped, and, the night being far spent, all went to
bed except Alessandro, who then asked the host where he might find

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quarters for the night. ‟In good sooth, I know not,” replied the host;
‟thou seest that every place is occupied, and that I and my household
must lie on the benches. However, in the abbot’s chamber there are
some corn-sacks. I can shew thee the way thither, and lay a bit of a bed
upon them, and there, an it like thee, thou mayst pass the night very
well.” ‟How sayst thou?” said Alessandro; ‟in the abbot’s chamber, which
thou knowest is small, so that there was not room for any of the monks
to sleep there? Had I understood this when the curtains were drawn, I
would have quartered his monks on the corn-sacks, and slept myself
where the monks sleep.” ”‛Tis even so, however,” replied the host, ‟and
thou canst, if thou wilt, find excellent quarters there: the abbot sleeps,
the curtains are close drawn; I will go in softly and lay a small bed there,
on which thou canst sleep.” Alessandro, satisfied that it might be
managed without disturbing the abbot, accepted the offer, and made his
arrangements for passing the night as quietly as he could.
The abbot was not asleep; his mind being far too overwrought by
certain newly-awakened desires. He had heard what had passed
between Alessandro and the host, he had marked the place where
Alessandro had lain down, and in the great gladness of his heart had
begun thus to commune with himself:—‟God has sent me the
opportunity of gratifying my desire; if I let it pass, perchance it will be
long before another such opportunity occurs.” So, being minded by no
means to let it slip, when all was quiet in the inn, he softly called
Alessandro, and bade him lie down by his side. Alessandro made many
excuses, but ended by undressing and obeying whereupon the abbot laid
a hand on Alessandro’s breast, and began to caress him just as amorous
girls do their lovers; whereat Alessandro marvelled greatly, doubting the
abbot was prompted to such caresses by a shameful love. Which the
abbot speedily divined, or else surmised from some movement on
Alessandro’s part, and, laughing, threw off a chemise which she had
upon her, and taking Alessandro’s hand, laid it on her bosom, saying:

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—‟Alessandro, dismiss thy foolish thought, feel here, and learn what I
conceal.” Alessandro obeyed, laying a hand upon the abbot’s bosom,
where he encountered two little teats, round, firm and delicate, as they
had been of ivory; whereby he at once knew that ‛twas a woman, and
without awaiting further encouragement forthwith embraced her, and
would have kissed her, when she said:—‟Before thou art more familiar
with me hearken to what I have to say to thee. As thou mayst perceive, I
am no man, but a woman. Virgin I left my home, and was going to the
Pope to obtain his sanction for my marriage, when, as Fortune willed,
whether for thy gain or my loss, no sooner had I seen thee the other day,
than I burned for thee with such a flame of love as never yet had lady for
any man. Wherefore I am minded to have thee for my husband rather
than any other; so, if thou wilt not have me to wife, depart at once, and
return to thine own place.” Albeit he knew not who she was, Alessandro
by the retinue which attended her conjectured that she must be noble
and wealthy, and he saw that she was very fair; so it was not long before
he answered that, if such were her pleasure, it was very much to his
liking. Whereupon she sate up, set a ring on his finger, and espoused
him before a tiny picture of our Lord; after which they embraced, and to
their no small mutual satisfaction solaced themselves for the rest of the
night. At daybreak Alessandro rose, and by preconcert with the lady, left
the chamber as he had entered it, so that none knew where he had
passed the night: then, blithe at heart beyond measure, he rejoined the
abbot and his train, and so, resuming their journey, they after many days
arrived at Rome. They had not been there more than a few days, when
the abbot, attended by the two knights and Alessandro, waited on the
Pope, whom, after making the due obeisance, he thus addressed:— ‟Holy
Father, as you must know better than any other, whoso intends to lead a
true and honourable life ought, as far as may be, to shun all occasion of
error; for which cause I, having a mind to live honourably, did, the better
to accomplish my purpose, assume the habit in which you see me, and

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depart by stealth from the court of my father, the King of England, who
was minded to marry me, young as you see me to be, to the aged King of
Scotland; and, carrying with me not a little of his treasure, set my face
hitherward that your Holiness might bestow me in marriage. Nor was it
the age of the King of Scotland that moved me to flee so much as fear
lest the frailty of my youth should, were I married to him, betray me to
commit some breach of divine law, and sully the honour of my father’s
royal blood. And as in this frame of mind I journeyed, God, who knows
best what is meet for every one, did, as I believe, of His mercy shew me
him whom He is pleased to appoint me for my husband, even this young
man” (pointing to Alessandro) ‟whom you see by my side, who for
nobility of nature and bearing is a match for any great lady, though the
strain of his blood, perhaps, be not of royal purity. Him, therefore, have I
chosen. Him will I have, and no other, no matter what my father or any
one else may think. And albeit the main purpose with which I started is
fulfilled, yet I have thought good to continue my journey, that I may visit
the holy and venerable places which abound in this city, and your
Holiness, and that so in your presence, and by consequence in the
presence of others, I may renew my marriage-vow with Alessandro,
whereof God alone was witness. Wherefore I humbly pray you that God’s
will and mine may be also yours, and that you pronounce your benison
thereon, that therewith, having the more firm assurance of the favour of
Him, whose vicar you are, we may both live together, and, when the time
comes, die to God’s glory and yours.”
Alessandro was filled with wonder and secret delight, when he heard
that his wife was the daughter of the King of England; but greater still
was the wonder of the two knights, and such their wrath that, had they
been anywhere else than in the Pope’s presence, they would not have
spared to affront Alessandro, and perhaps the lady too. The Pope, on his
part, found matter enough for wonder as well in the lady’s habit as in her
choice; but, knowing that he could not refuse, he consented to grant her

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request.
He therefore began by smoothing the ruffled tempers of the knights,
and having reconciled them with the lady and Alessandro, proceeded to
put matters in train for the marriage. When the day appointed was
come, he gave a great reception, at which were assembled all the
cardinals and many other great lords; to whom he presented the lady
royally robed, and looking so fair and so gracious that she won, as she
deserved, the praise of all, and likewise Alessandro, splendidly arrayed,
and bearing himself not a whit like the young usurer but rather as one of
royal blood, for which cause he received due honour from the knights.
There, before the Pope himself, the marriage-vows were solemnly
renewed; and afterwards the marriage, which was accompanied by every
circumstance that could add grace and splendour to the ceremony,
received the sanction of his benediction. Alessandro and the lady on
leaving Rome saw fit to visit Florence, whither fame had already wafted
the news, so that they were received by the citizens with every token of
honour. The lady set the three brothers at liberty, paying all their
creditors, and reinstated them and their wives in their several properties.
So, leaving gracious memories behind them, Alessandro and his lady,
accompanied by Agolante, quitted Florence, and arriving at Paris were
honourably received by the King. The two knights went before them to
England, and by their influence induced the King to restore the lady to
his favour, and receive her and his son-in-law with every circumstance of
joy and honour. Alessandro he soon afterwards knighted with unwonted
ceremony, and bestowed on him the earldom of Cornwall. And such was
the Earl’s consequence and influence at court that he restored peace
between father and son, thereby conferring a great boon on the island
and gaining the love and esteem of all the people. Agolante, whom he
knighted, recovered all the outstanding debts in full, and returned to
Florence immensely rich. The Earl passed the rest of his days with his
lady in great renown. Indeed there are those who say, that with the help

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of his father-in-law he effected by his policy and valour the conquest of

Scotland, and was crowned king of that country.

NOVEL IV.

— Landolfo Ruffolo is reduced to poverty, turns corsair, is

captured by Genoese, is shipwrecked, escapes on a chest full of
jewels, and, being cast ashore at Corfu, is hospitably
entertained by a woman, and returns home wealthy. —
When Pampinea had brought her story to this glorious conclusion,
Lauretta, who sate next her, delayed not, but thus began:—
Most gracious ladies, the potency of Fortune is never, methinks, more
conspicuous than when she raises one, as in Pampinea’s story we have
seen her raise Alessandro, from abject misery to regal state. And such
being the limits which our theme henceforth imposes on our invention,
I shall feel no shame to tell a story wherein reverses yet greater are
compensated by a sequel somewhat less dazzling. Well I know that my
story, being compared with its predecessor, will therefore be followed
with the less interest; but, failing of necessity, I shall be excused.
Scarce any part of Italy is reputed so delectable as the sea-coast
between Reggio and Gaeta; and in particular the slope which overlooks
the sea by Salerno, and which the dwellers there call the Slope of Amalfi,
is studded with little towns, gardens and fountains, and peopled by men
as wealthy and enterprising in mercantile affairs as are anywhere to be
found; in one of which towns, to wit, Ravello, rich as its inhabitants are
to-day, there was formerly a merchant, who surpassed them all in
wealth, Landolfo Ruffolo by name, who yet, not content with his wealth,
but desiring to double it, came nigh to lose it all and his own life to boot.
Know, then, that this man, having made his calculations, as merchants
are wont, bought a great ship, which, entirely at his own expense, he

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loaded with divers sorts of merchandise, and sailed to Cyprus. There he

found several other ships, each laden with just such a cargo as his own,
and was therefore fain to dispose of his goods at a very cheap rate,
insomuch that he might almost as well have thrown them away, and was
brought to the verge of ruin. Mortified beyond measure to find himself
thus reduced in a short space of time from opulence to something like
poverty, he was at his wits’ end, and rather than go home poor, having
left home rich, he was minded to retrieve his losses by piracy or die in
the attempt. So he sold his great ship, and with the price and the
proceeds of the sale of his merchandise bought a light bark such as
corsairs use, and having excellently well equipped her with the
armament and all things else meet for such service, took to scouring the
seas as a rover, preying upon all folk alike, but more particularly upon
the Turk.
In this enterprise he was more favoured by Fortune than in his
trading adventures. A year had scarce gone by before he had taken so
many ships from the Turk that not only had he recovered the fortune
which he had lost in trade, but was well on the way to doubling it. The
bitter memory of his late losses taught him sobriety; he estimated his
gains and found them ample; and lest he should have a second fall, he
schooled himself to rest content with them, and made up his mind to
return home without attempting to add to them. Shy of adventuring
once more in trade, he refrained from investing them in any way, but
shaped his course for home, carrying them with him in the very same
bark in which he had gotten them. He had already entered the
Archipelago when one evening a contrary wind sprang up from the
south-east, bringing with it a very heavy sea, in which his bark could not
well have lived. He therefore steered her into a bay under the lee of one
of the islets, and there determined to await better weather. As he lay
there two great carracks of Genoa, homeward-bound from
Constantinople, found, not without difficulty, shelter from the tempest

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in the same bay. The masters of the carracks espied the bark, and found
out to whom she belonged: the fame of Landolfo and his vast wealth had
already reached them, and had excited their natural cupidity and
rapacity. They therefore determined to capture the bark, which lay
without means of escape. Part of their men, well armed with cross-bows
and other weapons, they accordingly sent ashore, so posting them that
no one could leave the bark without being exposed to the bolts; the rest
took to their boats, and rowed up to the side of Landolfo’s little craft,
which in a little time, with little trouble and no loss or risk, they
captured with all aboard her. They then cleared the bark of all she
contained, allowing Landolfo, whom they set aboard one of the carracks,
only a pitiful doublet, and sunk her. Next day the wind shifted, and the
carracks set sail on a westerly course, which they kept prosperously
enough throughout the day; but towards evening a tempest arose, and
the sea became very boisterous, so that the two ships were parted one
from the other. And such was the fury of the gale that the ship, aboard
which was poor, hapless Landolfo, was driven with prodigious force
upon a shoal off the island of Cephalonia, and broke up and went to
pieces like so much glass dashed against a wall. Wherefore the
unfortunate wretches that were aboard her, launched amid the floating
merchandise and chests and planks with which the sea was strewn, did
as men commonly do in such a case; and, though the night was of the
murkiest and the sea rose and fell in mountainous surges, such as could
swim sought to catch hold of whatever chance brought in their way.
Among whom hapless Landolfo, who only the day before had again and
again prayed for death, rather than he should return home in such
poverty, now, seeing death imminent, was afraid; and, like the rest, laid
hold of the first plank that came to hand, in the hope that, if he could
but avoid immediate drowning, God would in some way aid his escape.
Gripping the beam with his legs as best he might, while wind and wave
tossed him hither and thither, he contrived to keep himself afloat until

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broad day: when, looking around him, he discerned nothing but clouds
and sea and a chest, which, borne by the wave, from time to time drew
nigh him to his extreme terror, for he apprehended it might strike
against the plank, and do him a mischief; and ever, as it came near him,
he pushed it off with all the little force he had in his hand. But, as it
happened, a sudden gust of wind swept down upon the sea, and struck
the chest with such force that it was driven against the plank on which
Landolfo was, and upset it, and Landolfo went under the waves.
Swimming with an energy begotten rather of fear than of strength, he
rose to the surface only to see the plank so far from him that, doubting
he could not reach it, he made for the chest, which was close at hand;
and resting his breast upon the lid, he did what he could to keep it
straight with his arms. In this manner, tossed to and fro by the sea,
without tasting food, for not a morsel had he with him, and drinking
more than he cared for, knowing not where he was, and seeing nothing
but the sea, he remained all that day, and the following night. The next
day, as the will of God, or the force of the wind so ordered, more like a
sponge than aught else, but still with both hands holding fast by the
edges of the chest, as we see those do that clutch aught to save
themselves from drowning, he was at length borne to the coast of the
island of Corfu, where by chance a poor woman was just then scrubbing
her kitchen-ware with sand and salt-water to make it shine. The woman
caught sight of him as he drifted shorewards, but making out only a
shapeless mass, was at first startled, and shrieked and drew back.
Landolfo was scarce able to see, and uttered no sound, for his power of
speech was gone. However, when the sea brought him close to the shore,
she distinguished the shape of the chest, and gazing more intently, she
first made out the arms strained over the chest, and then discerned the
face and divined the truth. So, prompted by pity, she went out a little
way into the sea, which was then calm, took him by the hair of the head,
and drew him to land, chest and all. Then, not without difficulty she

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disengaged his hands from the chest, which she set on the head of a
little girl, her daughter, that was with her, carried him home like a little
child, and set him in a bath, where she chafed and laved him with warm
water, until, the vital heat and some part of the strength which he had
lost being restored, she saw fit to take him out and regale him with some
good wine and comfits. Thus for some days she tended him as best she
could, until he recovered his strength, and knew where he was. Then, in
due time, the good woman, who had kept his chest safe, gave it back to
him, and bade him try his fortune.
Landolfo could not recall the chest, but took it when she brought it to
him, thinking that, however slight its value, it must suffice for a few
days’ charges. He found it very light, and quite lost hope; but when the
good woman was out of doors, he opened it to see what was inside, and
found there a great number of precious stones, some set, others unset.
Having some knowledge of such matters, he saw at a glance that the
stones were of great value; wherefore, feeling that he was still not
forsaken by God, he praised His name, and quite recovered heart. But,
having in a brief space of time been twice shrewdly hit by the bolts of
Fortune, he was apprehensive of a third blow, and deemed it meet to use
much circumspection in conveying his treasure home; so he wrapped it
up in rags as best he could, telling the good woman that he had no more
use for the chest, but she might keep it if she wished, and give him a sack
in exchange. This the good woman readily did; and he, thanking her as
heartily as he could for the service she had rendered him, threw his sack
over his shoulders, and, taking ship, crossed to Brindisi. Thence he made
his way by the coast as far as Trani, where he found some of his
townsfolk that were drapers, to whom he narrated all his adventures
except that of the chest. They in charity gave him a suit of clothes, and
lent him a horse and their escort as far as Ravello, whither, he said, he
was minded to return. There, thanking God for bringing him safe home,
he opened his sack, and examining its contents with more care than

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before, found the number, and fashion of the stones to be such that the
sale of them at a moderate price, or even less, would leave him twice as
rich as when he left Ravello. So, having disposed of his stones, he sent a
large sum of money to Corfu in recompense of the service done him by
the good woman who had rescued him from the sea, and also to his
friends at Trani who had furnished him with the clothes; the residue he
retained, and, making no more ventures in trade, lived and died in
honourable estate.

NOVEL V.

— Andreuccio da Perugia comes to Naples to buy horses,

meets with three serious adventures in one night, comes safe
out of them all, and returns home with a ruby. —
Landolfo’s find of stones, began Fiammetta, on whom the narration now
fell, has brought to my mind a story in which there are scarce fewer
perilous scapes than in Lauretta’s story, but with this difference: that,
instead of a course of perhaps several years, a single night, as you shall
hear, sufficed for their occurrence.
In Perugia, by what I once gathered, there lived a young man,
Andreuccio di Pietro by name, a horse-dealer, who, having learnt that
horses were to be had cheap at Naples, put five hundred florins of gold
in his purse, and in company with some other merchants went thither,
never having been away from home before. On his arrival at Naples,
which was on a Sunday evening, about vespers, he learnt from his host
that the fair would be held on the following morning. Thither
accordingly he then repaired, and looked at many horses which pleased
him much, and cheapening them more and more, and failing to strike a
bargain with any one, he from time to time, being raw and unwary, drew
out his purse of florins in view of all that came and went, to shew that he

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meant business.
While he was thus chaffering, and after he had shewn his purse, there
chanced to come by a Sicilian girl, fair as fair could be, but ready to
pleasure any man for a small consideration. He did not see her, but she
saw him and his purse, and forthwith said to herself:—‟Who would be in
better luck than I if all those florins were mine?” and so she passed on.
With the girl was an old woman, also a Sicilian, who, when she saw
Andreuccio, dropped behind the girl, and ran towards him, making as if
she would tenderly embrace him. The girl observing this said nothing,
but stopped and waited a little way off for the old woman to rejoin her.
Andreuccio turned as the old woman came up, recognised her, and
greeted her very cordially; but time and place not permitting much
converse, she left him, promising to visit him at his inn; and he resumed
his chaffering, but bought nothing that morning.
Her old woman’s intimate acquaintance with Andreuccio had no
more escaped the girl’s notice than the contents of Andreuccio’s purse;
and with the view of devising, if possible, some way to make the money,
either in whole or in part, her own, she began cautiously to ask the old
woman, who and whence he was, what he did there, and how she came
to know him. The old woman gave her almost as much and as
circumstantial information touching Andreuccio and his affairs as he
might have done himself, for she had lived a great while with his father,
first in Sicily, and afterwards at Perugia. She likewise told the girl the
name of his inn, and the purpose with which he had come to Naples.
Thus fully armed with the names and all else that it was needful for her
to know touching Andreuccio’s kith and kin, the girl founded thereon
her hopes of gratifying her cupidity, and forthwith devised a cunning
stratagem to effect her purpose. Home she went, and gave the old
woman work enough to occupy her all day, that she might not be able to
visit Andreuccio; then, summoning to her aid a little girl whom she had
well trained for such services, she sent her about vespers to the inn

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where Andreuccio lodged. Arrived there, the little girl asked for
Andreuccio of Andreuccio himself, who chanced to be just outside the
gate. On his answering that he was the man, she took him aside, and
said:—‟Sir, a lady of this country, so please you, would fain speak with
you.” Whereto he listened with all his ears, and having a great conceit of
his person, made up his mind that the lady was in love with him, as if
there were ne’er another handsome fellow in Naples but himself; so
forthwith he replied, that he would wait on the lady, and asked where
and when it would be her pleasure to speak with him. ‟Sir,” replied the
little girl, ‟she expects you in her own house, if you be pleased to come.”
‟Lead on then, I follow thee,” said Andreuccio promptly, vouchsafing
never a word to any in the inn. So the little girl guided him to her
mistress’s house, which was situated in a quarter the character of which
may be inferred from its name, Evil Hole. Of this, however, he neither
knew nor suspected aught, but, supposing that the quarter was perfectly
reputable and that he was going to see a sweet lady, strode carelessly
behind the little girl into the house of her mistress, whom she
summoned by calling out, ‟Andreuccio is here;” and Andreuccio then
saw her advance to the head of the stairs to await his ascent. She was tall,
still in the freshness of her youth, very fair of face, and very richly and
nobly clad. As Andreuccio approached, she descended three steps to
meet him with open arms, and clasped him round the neck, but for a
while stood silent as if from excess of tenderness; then, bursting into a
flood of tears, she kissed his brow, and in slightly broken accents said:
—‟O Andreuccio, welcome, welcome, my Andreuccio.” Quite lost in
wonder to be the recipient of such caresses, Andreuccio could only
answer:—‟Madam, well met.” Whereupon she took him by the hand, led
him up into her saloon, and thence without another word into her
chamber, which exhaled throughout the blended fragrance of roses,
orange-blossoms and other perfumes. He observed a handsome
curtained bed, dresses in plenty hanging, as is customary in that

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country, on pegs, and other appointments very fair and sumptuous;

which sights, being strange to him, confirmed his belief that he was in
the house of no other than a great lady. They sate down side by side on a
chest at the foot of the bed, and thus she began to speak:—‟Andreuccio,
I cannot doubt that thou dost marvel both at the caresses which I
bestow upon thee, and at my tears, seeing that thou knowest me not,
and, maybe, hast never so much as heard my name; wait but a moment
and thou shalt learn what perhaps will cause thee to marvel still, more to
wit, that I am thy sister; and I tell thee, that, since of God’s especial grace
it is granted me to see one, albeit I would fain see all, of my brothers
before I die, I shall not meet death, when the hour comes, without
consolation; but thou, perchance, hast never heard aught of this;
wherefore listen to what I shall say to thee. Pietro, my father and thine,
as I suppose thou mayst have heard, dwelt a long while at Palermo,
where his good heart and gracious bearing caused him to be (as he still
is) much beloved by all that knew him; but by none was he loved so
much as by a gentlewoman, afterwards my mother, then a widow, who,
casting aside all respect for her father and brothers, ay, and her honour,
grew so intimate with him that a child was born, which child am I thy
sister, whom thou seest before thee. Shortly after my birth it so befell
that Pietro must needs leave Palermo and return to Perugia, and I, his
little daughter, was left behind with my mother at Palermo; nor, so far as
I have been able to learn, did he ever again bestow a thought upon either
of us. Wherefore—to say nothing of the love which he should have
borne me, his daughter by no servant or woman of low degree—I
should, were he not my father, gravely censure the ingratitude which he
shewed towards my mother, who, prompted by a most loyal love,
committed her fortune and herself to his keeping, without so much as
knowing who he was. But to what end? The wrongs of long-ago are
much more easily censured than redressed; enough that so it was. He left
me a little girl at Palermo, where, when I was grown to be almost as thou

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seest me, my mother, who was a rich lady, gave me in marriage to an

honest gentleman of the Girgenti family, who for love of my mother and
myself settled in Palermo, and there, being a staunch Guelf, entered into
correspondence with our King Charles;8 which being discovered by King
Frederic9 before the time was ripe for action, we had perforce to flee
from Sicily just when I was expecting to become the greatest lady that
ever was in the island. So, taking with us such few things as we could,
few, I say, in comparison of the abundance which we possessed, we bade
adieu to our estates and palaces, and found a refuge in this country, and
such favour with King Charles that, in partial compensation for the
losses which we had sustained on his account, he has granted us estates
and houses and an ample pension, which he regularly pays to my
husband and thy brother-in-law, as thou mayst yet see. In this manner I
live here but that I am blest with the sight of thee, I ascribe entirely to
the mercy of God; and no thanks to thee, my sweet brother.” So saying
she embraced him again, and melting anew into tears kissed his brow.
This story, so congruous, so consistent in every detail, came
trippingly and without the least hesitancy from her tongue. Andreuccio
remembered that his father had indeed lived at Palermo; he knew by his
own experience the ways of young folk, how prone they are to love; he
saw her melt into tears, he felt her embraces and sisterly kisses; and he
took all she said for gospel. So, when she had done, he answered:
—‟Madam, it should not surprise you that I marvel, seeing that, in
sooth, my father, for whatever cause, said never a word of you and your
mother, or, if he did so, it came not to my knowledge, so that I knew no
more of you than if you had not been; wherefore, the lonelier I am here,
and the less hope I had of such good luck, the better pleased I am to
have found here my sister. And indeed, I know not any man, however
exalted his station, who ought not to be well pleased to have such a

8 Charles II. of Naples, son of Charles of Anjou.

9 Frederic II. of Sicily, younger son of Peter III. of Arragon.

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sister; much more, then, I, who am but a petty merchant; but, I pray you,
resolve me of one thing: how came you to know that I was here?” Then
answered she:—”‛Twas told me this morning by a poor woman who is
much about the house, because, as she tells me, she was long in the
service of our father both at Palermo and at Perugia, and, but that it
seemed more fitting that thou shouldst come to see me at home than
that I should visit thee at an inn, I had long ago sought thee out.” She
then began to inquire particularly after all his kinsfolk by name, and
Andreuccio, becoming ever more firmly persuaded of that which it was
least for his good to believe, answered all her questions. Their
conversation being thus prolonged and the heat great, she had Greek
wine and sweetmeats brought in, and gave Andreuccio to drink; and
when towards supper-time he made as if he would leave, she would in
no wise suffer it; but, feigning to be very much vexed, she embraced him,
saying:—‟Alas! now ‛tis plain how little thou carest for me: to think that
thou art with thy sister, whom thou seest for the first time, and in her
own house, where thou shouldst have alighted on thine arrival, and thou
wouldst fain depart hence to go sup at an inn! Nay but, for certain, thou
shalt sup with me; and albeit, to my great regret, my husband is not
here, thou shalt see that I can do a lady’s part in shewing thee honour.”
Andreuccio, not knowing what else to say, replied:—‟Sister, I care for you
with all a brother’s affection; but if I go not, supper will await me all the
evening at the inn, and I shall justly be taxed with discourtesy.” Then
said she:—‟Blessed be God, there is even now in the house one by whom
I can send word that they are not to expect thee at the inn, albeit thou
wouldst far better discharge the debt of courtesy by sending word to thy
friends, that they come here to sup; and then, if go thou must, you might
all go in a body.” Andreuccio replied, that he would have none of his
friends that evening, but since she would have him stay, he would even
do her the pleasure. She then made a shew of sending word to the inn
that they should not expect him at dinner. Much more talk followed; and

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then they sate down to a supper of many courses splendidly served,

which she cunningly protracted until nightfall; nor, when they were
risen from table, and Andreuccio was about to take his departure, would
she by any means suffer it, saying that Naples was no place to walk about
in after dark, least of all for a stranger, and that, as she had sent word to
the inn that they were not to expect him at supper, so she had done the
like in regard of his bed. Believing what she said, and being (in his false
confidence) overjoyed to be with her, he stayed. After supper there was
matter enough for talk both various and prolonged; and, when the night
was in a measure spent, she gave up her own chamber to Andreuccio,
leaving him with a small boy to shew him aught that he might have need
of, while she retired with her women to another chamber.
It was a very hot night , so, no sooner was Andreuccio alone than he
stripped himself to his doublet, and drew off his stockings and laid them
on the bed’s head; and nature demanding a discharge of the surplus
weight which he carried within him, he asked the lad where this might
be done, and was shewn a door in a corner of the room, and told to go in
there. Andreuccio, nothing doubting, did so, but, by ill luck, set his foot
on a plank which was detached from the joist at the further end,
whereby down it went, and he with it. By God’s grace he took no hurt by
the fall, though it was from some height, beyond sousing himself from
head to foot in the ordure which filled the whole place, which, that you
may the better understand what has been said, and that which is to
follow, I will describe to you. A narrow and blind alley, such as we
commonly see between two houses, was spanned by planks supported
by joists on either side, and on the planks was the stool; of which planks
that which fell with Andreuccio was one. Now Andreuccio, finding
himself down there in the alley, fell to calling on the lad, who, as soon as
he heard him fall, had run off, and promptly let the lady know what had
happened. She hied forthwith to her chamber, and after a hasty search
found Andreuccio’s clothes and the money in them, for he foolishly

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thought to secure himself against risk by carrying it always on his

person, and thus being possessed of the prize for which she had played
her ruse, passing herself off as the sister of a man of Perugia, whereas
she was really of Palermo, she concerned herself no further with
Andreuccio except to close with all speed the door by which he had gone
out when he fell. As the lad did not answer, Andreuccio began to shout
more loudly; but all to no purpose. Whereby his suspicions were
aroused, and he began at last to perceive the trick that had been played
upon him; so he climbed over a low wall that divided the alley from the
street, and hied him to the door of the house, which he knew very well.
There for a long while he stood shouting and battering the door till it
shook on its hinges; but all again to no purpose. No doubt of his
misadventure now lurking in his mind, he fell to bewailing himself,
saying:—‟Alas! in how brief a time have I lost five hundred florins and a
sister!” with much more of the like sort. Then he recommenced
battering the door and shouting, to such a tune that not a few of the
neighbours were roused, and finding the nuisance intolerable, got up;
and one of the lady’s servant-girls presented herself at the window with
a very sleepy air, and said angrily:—‟Who knocks below there?” ‟Oh!”
said Andreuccio, ‟dost not know me? I am Andreuccio, Madam
Fiordaliso’s brother.” ‟Good man,” she rejoined, ‟if thou hast had too
much to drink, go, sleep it off, and come back to-morrow. I know not
Andreuccio, nor aught of the fantastic stuff thou pratest; prithee begone
and be so good as to let us sleep in peace.” ‟How?” said Andreuccio, ‟dost
not understand what I say? For sure thou dost understand; but if Sicilian
kinships are of such a sort that folk forget them so soon, at least return
me my clothes, which I left within, and right glad shall I be to be off.”
Half laughing, she rejoined:— ‟Good man, methinks thou dost dream;”
and, so saying, she withdrew and closed the window. Andreuccio by this
time needed no further evidence of his wrongs; his wrath knew no
bounds, and mortification well-nigh converted it into frenzy; he was

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minded to exact by force what he had failed to obtain by entreaties; and

so, arming himself with a large stone, he renewed his attack upon the
door with fury, dealing much heavier blows than at first. Wherefore, not
a few of the neighbours, whom he had already roused from their beds,
set him down as an ill-conditioned rogue, and his story as a mere fiction
intended to annoy the good woman,10 and resenting the din which he
now made, came to their windows, just as, when a stranger dog makes
his appearance, all the dogs of the quarter will run to bark at him, and
called out in chorus:—”‛Tis a gross affront to come at this time of night
to the house of the good woman with this silly story. Prithee, good man,
let us sleep in peace; begone in God’s name; and if thou hast a score to
settle with her, come to-morrow, but a truce to thy pestering to-night.”
Emboldened, perhaps, by these words, a man who lurked within the
house, the good woman’s bully, whom Andreuccio had as yet neither
seen nor heard, shewed himself at the window, and said in a gruff voice
and savage, menacing tone:—‟Who is below there?” Andreuccio looked
up in the direction of the voice, and saw standing at the window,
yawning and rubbing his eyes as if he had just been roused from his bed,
or at any rate from deep sleep, a fellow with a black and matted beard,
who, as far as Andreuccio’s means of judging went, bade fair to prove a
most redoubtable champion. It was not without fear, therefore, that he
replied:—‟I am a brother of the lady who is within.” The bully did not
wait for him to finish his sentence, but, addressing him in a much
sterner tone than before, called out:—‟I know not why I come not down
and give thee play with my cudgel, whilst thou givest me sign of life, ass,
tedious driveller that thou must needs be, and drunken sot, thus to
disturb our night’s rest.” Which said, he withdrew, and closed the
window. Some of the neighbours who best knew the bully’s quality gave
Andreuccio fair words. ‟For God’s sake,” said they, ‟good man, take
thyself off, stay not here to be murdered. ‛Twere best for thee to go.”
10 I. e. the bawd.

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These counsels, which seemed to be dictated by charity, reinforced the

fear which the voice and aspect of the bully had inspired in Andreuccio,
who, thus despairing of recovering his money and in the deepest of
dumps, set his face towards the quarter whence in the daytime he had
blindly followed the little girl, and began to make his way back to the
inn. But so noisome was the stench which he emitted that he resolved to
turn aside and take a bath in the sea. So he bore leftward up a street
called Ruga Catalana, and was on his way towards the steep of the city,
when by chance he saw two men coming towards him, bearing a lantern,
and fearing that they might be patrols or other men who might do him a
mischief, he stole away and hid himself in a dismantled house to avoid
them. The house, however, was presently entered by the two men, just as
if they had been guided thither; and one of them having disburdened
himself of some iron tools which he carried on his shoulder, they both
began to examine them, passing meanwhile divers comments upon
them. While they were thus occupied, ‟What,” said one, means this?
Such a stench as never before did I smell the like. ‟So saying, he raised
the lantern a little; whereby they had a view of hapless Andreuccio, and
asked in amazement:—‟Who is there?” Whereupon Andreuccio was at
first silent, but when they flashed the light close upon him, and asked
him what he did there in such a filthy state, he told them all that had
befallen him. Casting about to fix the place where it occurred, they said
one to another:—‟Of a surety ‛twas in the house of Scarabone
Buttafuoco.” Then said one, turning to Andreuccio:—‟Good man, albeit
thou hast lost thy money, thou hast cause enough to praise God that
thou hadst the luck to fall; for hadst thou not fallen, be sure that, no
sooner wert thou asleep, than thou hadst been knocked on the head,
and lost not only thy money but thy life. But what boots it now to bewail
thee? Thou mightest as soon pluck a star from the firmament as recover
a single denier; nay, ‛tis as much as thy life is worth if he do but hear that
thou breathest a word of the affair.”

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The two men then held a short consultation, at the close of which
they said:—‟Lo now; we are sorry for thee, and so we make thee a fair
offer. If thou wilt join with us in a little matter which we have in hand,
we doubt not but thy share of the gain will greatly exceed what thou hast
lost.” Andreuccio, being now desperate, answered that he was ready to
join them. Now Messer Filippo Minutolo, Archbishop of Naples, had
that day been buried with a ruby on his finger, worth over five hundred
florins of gold, besides other ornaments of extreme value. The two men
were minded to despoil the Archbishop of his fine trappings, and
imparted their design to Andreuccio, who, cupidity getting the better of
caution, approved it; and so they all three set forth. But as they were on
their way to the cathedral, Andreuccio gave out so rank an odour that
one said to the other:—‟Can we not contrive that he somehow wash
himself a little, that he stink not so shrewdly?” ‟Why yes,” said the other,
‟we are now close to a well, which is never without the pulley and a large
bucket; ‛tis but a step thither, and we will wash him out of hand.” Arrived
at the well, they found that the rope was still there, but the bucket had
been removed; so they determined to attach him to the rope, and lower
him into the well, there to wash himself, which done, he was to jerk the
rope, and they would draw him up. Lowered accordingly he was; but just
as, now washen, he jerked the rope, it so happened that a company of
patrols, being thirsty because ‛twas a hot night and some rogue had led
them a pretty dance, came to the well to drink. The two men fled,
unobserved, as soon as they caught sight of the newcomers, who,
parched with thirst, laid aside their bucklers, arms and surcoats, and fell
to hauling on the rope, that it bore the bucket, full of water. When,
therefore, they saw Andreuccio, as he neared the brink of the well, loose
the rope and clutch the brink with his hands, they were stricken with a
sudden terror, and without uttering a word let go the rope, and took to
flight with all the speed they could make. Whereat Andreuccio
marvelled mightily, and had he not kept a tight grip on the brink of the

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well, he would certainly have gone back to the bottom and hardly have
escaped grievous hurt, or death. Still greater was his astonishment,
when, fairly landed on terra firma, he found the patrols’ arms lying
there, which he knew had not been carried by his comrades. He felt a
vague dread, he knew not why; he bewailed once more his evil fortune;
and without venturing to touch the arms, he left the well and wandered
he knew not whither. As he went, however, he fell in with his two
comrades, now returning to draw him out of the well; who no sooner saw
him than in utter amazement they demanded who had hauled him up.
Andreuccio answered that he knew not, and then told them in detail
how it had come about, and what he had found beside the well. They
laughed as they apprehended the circumstances, and told him why they
had fled, and who they were that had hauled him up. Then without
further parley, for it was now midnight, they hied them to the cathedral.
They had no difficulty in entering and finding the tomb, which was a
magnificent structure of marble, and with their iron implements they
raised the lid, albeit it was very heavy, to a height sufficient to allow a
man to enter, and propped it up. This done, a dialogue ensued. ‟Who
shall go in?” said one. ‟Not I,” said the other. ‟Nor I,” rejoined his
companion; ‟let Andreuccio go in.” ‟That will not I,” said Andreuccio.
Whereupon both turned upon him and said:—‟How? thou wilt not go
in? By God, if thou goest not in, we will give thee that over the pate with
one of these iron crowbars that thou shalt drop down dead.” Terror-
stricken, into the tomb Andreuccio went, saying to himself as he did so:
—‟These men will have me go in, that they may play a trick upon me:
when I have handed everything up to them, and am sweating myself to
get out of the tomb, they will be off about their business, and I shall be
left, with nothing for my pains.” So he determined to make sure of his
own part first; and bethinking him of the precious ring of which he had
heard them speak, as soon as he had completed the descent, he drew the
ring off the Archbishop’s finger, and put it on his own: he then handed

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up one by one the crosier, mitre and gloves, and other of the
Archbishop’s trappings, stripping him to his shirt; which done, he told
his comrades that there was nothing more. They insisted that the ring
must be there, and bade him search everywhere. This he feigned to do,
ejaculating from time to time that he found it not; and thus he kept
them a little while in suspense. But they, who, were in their way as
cunning as he, kept on exhorting him to make a careful search, and,
seizing their opportunity, withdrew the prop that supported the lid of
the tomb, and took to their heels, leaving him there a close prisoner. You
will readily conceive how Andreuccio behaved when he understood his
situation. More than once he applied his head and shoulders to the lid
and sought with might and main to heave it up; but all his efforts were
fruitless; so that at last, overwhelmed with anguish he fell in a swoon on
the corpse of the Archbishop, and whether of the twain were the more
lifeless, Andreuccio or the Archbishop, ‛twould have puzzled an observer
to determine.
When he came to himself he burst into a torrent of tears, seeing now
nothing in store for him but either to perish there of hunger and fetid
odours beside the corpse and among the worms, or, should the tomb be
earlier opened, to be taken and hanged as a thief. These most lugubrious
meditations were interrupted by a sound of persons walking and talking
in the church. They were evidently a numerous company, and their
purpose, as Andreuccio surmised, was the very same with which he and
his comrades had come thither: whereby his terror was mightily
increased. Presently the folk opened the tomb, and propped up the lid,
and then fell to disputing as to who should go in. None was willing, and
the contention was protracted; but at length one— ‛twas a priest—said:
—‟Of what are ye afeared? Think ye to be eaten by him? Nay, the dead
eat not the living. I will go in myself.” So saying he propped his breast
upon the edge of the lid, threw his head back, and thrust his legs within,
that he might go down feet foremost. On sight whereof Andreuccio

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started to his feet, and seizing hold of one of the priest’s legs, made as if
he would drag him down; which caused the priest to utter a prodigious
yell, and bundle himself out of the tomb with no small celerity. The rest
took to flight in a panic, as if a hundred thousand devils were at their
heels. The tomb being thus left open, Andreuccio, the ring still on his
finger, spring out. The way by which he had entered the church served
him for egress, and roaming at random, he arrived towards daybreak at
the coast. Diverging thence he came by chance upon his inn, where he
found that his host and his comrades had been anxious about him all
night. When he told them all that had befallen him, they joined with the
host in advising him to leave Naples at once. He accordingly did so, and
returned to Perugia, having invested in a ring the money with which he
had intended to buy horses.

NOVEL VI.

— Madam Beritola loses two sons, is found with two kids on

an island, goes thence to Lunigiana, where one of her sons
takes service with her master, and lies with his daughter, for
which he is put in prison. Sicily rebels against King Charles,
the son is recognised by the mother, marries the master’s
daughter, and, his brother being discovered, is reinstated in
great honour. —
The ladies and the young men alike had many a hearty laugh over
Fiammetta’s narrative of Andreuccio’s adventures, which ended, Emilia,
at the queen’s command, thus began:—
Grave and grievous are the vicissitudes with which Fortune makes us
acquainted, and as discourse of such matter serves to awaken our minds,
which are so readily lulled to sleep by her flatteries, I deem it worthy of
attentive hearing by all, whether they enjoy her favour or endure her

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frown, in that it ministers counsel to the one sort and consolation to the
other. Wherefore, albeit great matters have preceded it, I mean to tell
you a story, not less true than touching, of adventures whereof the issue
was indeed felicitous, but the antecedent bitterness so long drawn out
that scarce can I believe that it was ever sweetened by ensuing
happiness.
Dearest ladies, you must know that after the death of the Emperor
Frederic II. the crown of Sicily passed to Manfred; whose favour was
enjoyed in the highest degree by a gentleman of Naples, Arrighetto
Capece by name, who had to wife Madonna Beritola Caracciola, a fair
and gracious lady, likewise a Neapolitan. Now when Manfred was
conquered and slain by King Charles I. at Benevento, and the whole
realm transferred its allegiance to the conqueror, Arrighetto, who was
then governor of Sicily, no sooner received the tidings than he prepared
for instant flight, knowing that little reliance was to be placed on the
fleeting faith of the Sicilians, and not being minded to become a subject
of his master’s enemy. But the Sicilians having intelligence of his plans,
he and many other friends and servants of King Manfred were surprised,
taken prisoners and delivered over to King Charles, to whom the whole
island was soon afterwards surrendered. In this signal reversal of the
wonted course of things Madam Beritola, knowing not what was become
of Arrighetto, and from the past ever auguring future evil, lest she
should suffer foul dishonour, abandoned all that she possessed, and with
a son of, perhaps, eight years, Giusfredi by name, being also pregnant,
fled in a boat to Lipari, where she gave birth to another male child,
whom she named Outcast. Then with her sons and a hired nurse she
took ship for Naples, intending there to rejoin her family. Events,
however, fell out otherwise than she expected; for by stress of weather
the ship was carried out of her course to the desert island of Ponza, 11
where they put in to a little bay until such time as they might safely
11 The largest, now inhabited, of a group of islets in the Gulf of Gaeta.

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continue their voyage. Madam Beritola landed with the rest on the
island, and, leaving them all, sought out a lonely and secluded spot, and
there abandoned herself to melancholy brooding on the loss of her dear
Arrighetto. While thus she spent her days in solitary preoccupation with
her grief it chanced that a galley of corsairs swooped down upon the
island, and, before either the mariners or any other folk were aware of
their peril, made an easy capture of them all and sailed away; so that,
when Madam Beritola, her wailing for that day ended, returned, as was
her wont, to the shore to solace herself with the sight of her sons, she
found none there. At first she was lost in wonder, then with a sudden
suspicion of the truth she bent her eyes seaward, and there saw the
galley still at no great distance, towing the ship in her wake. Thus
apprehending beyond all manner of doubt that she had lost her sons as
well as her husband, and that, alone, desolate and destitute, she might
not hope, that any of her lost ones would ever be restored to her, she fell
down on the shore in a swoon with the names of her husband and sons
upon her lips. None was there to administer cold water or aught else that
might recall her truant powers; her animal spirits might even wander
whithersoever they would at their sweet will: strength, however, did at
last return to her poor exhausted frame, and therewith tears and
lamentations, as, plaintively repeating her sons’ names, she roamed in
quest of them from cavern to cavern. Long time she sought them thus;
but when she saw that her labour was in vain, and that night was closing
in, hope, she knew not why, began to return, and with it some degree of
anxiety on her own account. Wherefore she left the shore and returned
to the cavern where she had been wont to indulge her plaintive mood.
She passed the night in no small fear and indescribable anguish; the new
day came, and, as she had not supped, she was fain after tierce to
appease her hunger, as best she could, by a breakfast of herbs: this done,
she wept and began to ruminate on her future way of life. While thus
engaged, she observed a she-goat come by and go into an adjacent

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cavern, and after a while come forth again and go into the wood: thus
roused from her reverie she got up, went into the cavern from which the
she-goat had issued, and there saw two kids, which might have been
born that very day, and seemed to her the sweetest and the most
delicious things in the world: and, having, by reason of her recent
delivery, milk still within her, she took them up tenderly, and set them to
her breast. They, nothing loath, sucked at her teats as if she had been
their own dam; and thenceforth made no distinction between her and
the dam. Which caused the lady to feel that she had found company in
the desert; and so, living on herbs and water, weeping as often as she
bethought her of her husband and sons and her past life, she disposed
herself to live and die there, and became no less familiar with the she-
goat than with her young.
The gentle lady thus leading the life of a wild creature, it chanced
that after some months stress of weather brought a Pisan ship to the very
same bay in which she had landed. The ship lay there for several days,
having on board a gentleman, Currado de’ Malespini by name (of the
same family as the Marquis), who with his noble and most devout lady
was returning home from a pilgrimage, having visited all the holy places
in the realm of Apulia. To beguile the tedium of the sojourn Currado
with his lady, some servants and his dogs, set forth one day upon a tour
through the island. As they neared the place where Madam Beritola
dwelt, Currado’s dogs on view of the two kids, which, now of a fair size,
were grazing, gave chase. The kids, pursued by the dogs, made straight
for Madam Beritola’s cavern. She, seeing what was toward, started to her
feet, caught up a stick, and drove the dogs back. Currado and his lady
coming up after the dogs, gazed on Madam Beritola, now tanned and
lean and hairy, with wonder, which she more than reciprocated. At her
request Currado called off the dogs; and then he and his lady besought
her again and again to say who she was and what she did there. So she
told them all about herself, her rank, her misfortunes, and the savage life

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which she was minded to lead. Currado, who had known Arrighetto
Capece very well, was moved to tears by compassion, and exhausted all
his eloquence to induce her to change her mind, offering to escort her
home, or to take her to live with him in honourable estate as his sister
until God should vouchsafe her kindlier fortune. The lady, declining all
his offers, Currado left her with his wife, whom he bade see that food
was brought thither, and let Madam Beritola, who was all in rags, have
one of her own dresses to wear, and do all that she could to persuade her
to go with them. So the gentle lady stayed with Madam Beritola, and
after condoling with her at large on her misfortunes had food and
clothing brought to her, and with the greatest difficulty in the world
prevailed upon her to eat and dress herself. At last, after much
beseeching, she induced her to depart from her oft-declared intention
never to go where she might meet any that knew her, and accompany
them to Lunigiana, taking with her the two kids and the dam, which
latter had in the meantime returned, and to the gentle lady’s great
surprise had greeted Madam Beritola with the utmost affection. So with
the return of fair weather Madam Beritola, taking with her the dam and
the two kids, embarked with Currado and his lady on their ship, being
called by them—for her true name was not to be known of all—
Cavriuola;12 and the wind holding fair, they speedily reached the mouth
of the Magra,13 and landing hied them to Currado’s castle where Madam
Beritola abode with Currado’s lady in the quality of her maid, serving her
well and faithfully, wearing widow’s weeds, and feeding and tending her
kids with assiduous and loving care.
The corsairs, who, not espying Madam Beritola, had left her at Ponza
when they took the ship on which she had come thither, had made a
course to Genoa, taking with them all the other folk. On their arrival the
owners of the galley shared the booty, and so it happened that as part

12 I.e. she-goat.
13 Between Liguria and Tuscany.

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thereof Madam Beritola’s nurse and her two boys fell to the lot of one
Messer Guasparrino d’Oria, who sent all three to his house, being
minded to keep them there as domestic slaves. The nurse, beside herself
with grief at the loss of her mistress and the woful plight in which she
found herself and her two charges, shed many a bitter tear. But, seeing
that they were unavailing, and that she and the boys were slaves
together, she, having, for all her low estate, her share of wit and good
sense, made it her first care to comfort them; then, regardful of the
condition to which they were reduced, she bethought her, that, if the
lads were recognised, ‛twould very likely be injurious to them. So, still
hoping that some time or another Fortune would change her mood, and
they be able, if living, to regain their lost estate, she resolved to let none
know who they were, until she saw a fitting occasion; and accordingly,
whenever she was questioned thereof by any, she gave them out as her
own children. The name of the elder she changed from Giusfredi to
Giannotto di Procida; the name of the younger she did not think it worth
while to change. She spared no pains to make Giusfredi understand the
reason why she had changed his name, and, the risk which he might run
if he were recognised. This she impressed upon him not once only but
many times; and the boy, who was apt to learn, followed the instructions
of the wise nurse with perfect exactitude.
So the two boys, ill clad and worse shod, continued with the nurse in
Messer Guasparrino’s house for two years, patiently performing all kinds
of menial offices. But Giannotto, being now sixteen years old, and of a
spirit that consorted ill with servitude, brooked not the baseness of his
lot, and dismissed himself from Messer Guasparrino’s service by getting
aboard a galley bound for Alexandria, and travelled far and wide, and
fared never the better. In the course of his wanderings he learned that
his father, whom he had supposed to be dead, was still living, but kept in
prison under watch and ward by King Charles. He was grown a tall
handsome young man, when, perhaps three or four years after he had

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given Messer Guasparrino the slip, weary of roaming and all but
despairing of his fortune, he came to Lunigiana, and by chance took
service with Currado Malespini, who found him handy, and was well-
pleased with him. His mother, who was in attendance on Currado’s lady,
he seldom saw, and never recognised her, nor she him; so much had
time changed both from their former aspect since they last met. While
Giannotto was thus in the service of Currado, it fell out by the death of
Niccolo da Grignano that his widow, Spina, Currado’s daughter, returned
to her father’s house. Very fair she was and loveable, her age not more
than sixteen years, and so it was that she saw Giannotto with favour, and
he her, and both fell ardently in love with one another. Their passion was
early gratified; but several months elapsed before any detected its
existence. Wherefore, growing overbold, they began to dispense with the
precautions which such an affair demanded. So one day, as they walked
with others through a wood, where the trees grew fair and close, the girl
and Giannotto left the rest of the company some distance behind, and,
thinking that they were well in advance, found a fair pleasaunce girt in
with trees and carpeted with abundance of grass and flowers, and fell to
solacing themselves after the manner of lovers. Long time they thus
dallied, though such was their delight that all too brief it seemed to
them, and so it befell that they were surprised first by the girl’s mother
and then by Currado. Pained beyond measure by what he had seen,
Currado, without assigning any cause, had them both arrested by three
of his servants and taken in chains to one of his castles; where in a frenzy
of passionate wrath he left them, resolved to put them to an
ignominious death. The girl’s mother was also very angry, and deemed
her daughter’s fall deserving of the most rigorous chastisement, but,
when by one of Currado’s chance words she divined the doom which he
destined for the guilty pair, she could not reconcile herself to it, and
hasted to intercede with her angry husband, beseeching him to refrain
the impetuous wrath which would hurry him in his old age to murder

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his daughter and imbrue his hands in the blood of his servant, and vent
it in some other way, as by close confinement and duress, whereby the
culprits should be brought to repent them of their fault in tears. Thus,
and with much more to the like effect, the devout lady urged her suit,
and at length prevailed upon her husband to abandon his murderous
design. Wherefore, he commanded that the pair should be confined in
separate prisons, and closely guarded, and kept short of food and in sore
discomfort, until further order; which was accordingly done; and the life
which the captives led, their endless tears, their fasts of inordinate
duration, may be readily imagined.
Giannotto and Spina had languished in this sorry plight for full a
year, entirely ignored by Currado, when in concert with Messer Gian di
Procida, King Peter of Arragon raised a rebellion 14 in the island of Sicily,
and wrested it from King Charles, whereat Currado, being a Ghibelline,
was overjoyed. Hearing the tidings from one of his warders, Giannotto
heaved a great sigh, and said:—‟Alas, fourteen years have I been a
wanderer upon the face of the earth, looking for no other than this very
event; and now, that my hopes of happiness may be for ever frustrate, it
has come to pass only to find me in prison, whence I may never think to
issue alive.” ‟How?” said the warder; ‟what signify to thee these doings of
these mighty monarchs? What part hadst thou in Sicily?” Giannotto
answered:—”‛Tis as if my heart were breaking when I bethink me of my
father and what part he had in Sicily. I was but a little lad when I fled the
island, but yet I remember him as its governor in the time of King
Manfred.” ‟And who then was thy father?” demanded the warder. ‟His
name,” rejoined Giannotto, ‟I need no longer scruple to disclose, seeing
that I find myself in the very strait which I hoped to avoid by concealing
it. He was and still is, if he live, Arrighetto Capece; and my name is not
Giannotto but Giusfredi; and I doubt not but, were I once free, and back
in Sicily, I might yet hold a very honourable position in the island.”
14 The Sicilian Vespers, Easter, 1282.

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The worthy man asked no more questions, but, as soon as he found

opportunity, told what he had learned to Currado, who, albeit he made
light of it in the warder’s presence, repaired to Madam Beritola, and
asked her in a pleasant manner, whether she had had by Arrighetto a son
named Giusfredi. The lady answered, in tears, that, if the elder of her
two sons were living, such would be his name, and his age twenty-two
years. This inclined Currado to think that Giannotto and Giusfredi were
indeed one and the same; and it occurred to him, that, if so it were, he
might at once shew himself most merciful and blot out his daughter’s
shame and his own by giving her to him in marriage; wherefore he sent
for Giannotto privily, and questioned him in detail touching his past life.
And finding by indubitable evidence that he was indeed Giusfredi, son
of Arrighetto Capece, he said to him:—‟Giannotto, thou knowest the
wrong which thou hast done me in the person of my daughter, what and
how great it is, seeing that I used thee well and kindly, and thou
shouldst therefore, like a good servant, have shewn thyself jealous of my
honour, and zealous in my interest; and many there are who, hadst thou
treated them as thou hast treated me, would have caused thee to die an
ignominious death; which my clemency would not brook. But now, as it
is even so as thou sayst, and thou art of gentle blood by both thy parents,
I am minded to put an end to thy sufferings as soon as thou wilt,
releasing thee from the captivity in which thou languishest, and setting
thee in a happy place, and reinstating at once thy honour and my own.
Thy intimacy with Spina—albeit, shameful to both—was yet prompted
by love. Spina, as thou knowest, is a widow, and her dower is ample and
secure. What her breeding is, and her father’s and her mother’s, thou
knowest: of thy present condition I say nought. Wherefore, when thou
wilt, I am consenting, that, having been with dishonour thy friend, she
become with honour thy wife, and that, so long as it seem good to thee,
thou tarry here with her and me as my son.”
Captivity had wasted Giannotto’s flesh, but had in no degree

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impaired the generosity of spirit which he derived from his ancestry, or

the whole-hearted love which he bore his lady. So, albeit he ardently
desired that which Currado offered, and knew that he was in Currado’s
power, yet, even as his magnanimity prompted, so, unswervingly, he
made answer:— ‟Currado, neither ambition nor cupidity nor aught else
did ever beguile me to any treacherous machination against either thy
person or thy property. Thy daughter I loved, and love and shall ever
love, because I deem her worthy of my love, and, if I dealt with her after
a fashion which to the mechanic mind seems hardly honourable, I did
but commit that fault which is ever congenial to youth, which can never
be eradicated so long as youth continues, and which, if the aged would
but remember that they were once young and would measure the
delinquencies of others by their own and their own by those of others,
would not be deemed so grave as thou and many others depict it; and
what I did, I did as a friend, not as an enemy. That which thou offerest I
have ever desired and should long ago have sought, had I supposed that
thou wouldst grant it, and ‛twill be the more grateful to me in
proportion to the depth of my despair. But if thy intent be not such, as
thy words import, feed me not with vain hopes, but send me back to
prison there to suffer whatever thou mayst be pleased to inflict; nor
doubt that even as I love Spina, so for love of her shall I ever love thee,
though thou do thy worst, and still hold thee in reverent regard.
Currado marvelled to hear him thus speak, and being assured of his
magnanimity and the fervour of his love, held him the more dear;
wherefore he rose, embraced and kissed him, and without further delay
bade privily bring thither Spina, who left her prison wasted and wan and
weak, and so changed that she seemed almost another woman than of
yore, even as Giannotto was scarce his former self. Then and there in
Currado’s presence they plighted their troth according to our custom of
espousals; and some days afterwards Currado, having in the meantime
provided all things meet for their convenience and solace, yet so as that

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none should surmise what had happened, deemed it now time to

gladden their mothers with the news. So he sent for his lady and
Cavriuola, and thus, addressing Cavriuola, he spoke:— ‟What would you
say, madam, were I to restore you your elder son as the husband of one of
my daughters?” Cavriuola answered:—‟I should say, that, were it
possible for you to strengthen the bond which attaches me to you, then
assuredly you had so done, in that you restored to me that which I
cherish more tenderly than myself, and in such a guise as in some
measure to renew within me the hope which I had lost: more I could not
say.” And so, weeping, she was silent. Then, turning to his lady, Currado
said:—‟And thou, madam, what wouldst thou think if I were to present
thee with such a son-in-law?” ‟A son-in-law,” she answered, ‟that was not
of gentle blood, but a mere churl, so he pleased you, would well content
me.” ‟So!” returned Currado; ‟I hope within a few days to gladden the
hearts of both of you.”
He waited only until the two young folk had recovered their wonted
mien, and were clad in a manner befitting their rank. Then, addressing
Giusfredi, he said:—‟Would it not add to thy joy to see thy mother
here?” ‟I dare not hope,” returned Giusfredi,” that she has survived
calamities and sufferings such as hers; but were it so, great indeed would
be my joy, and none the less that by her counsel I might be aided to the
recovery (in great measure) of my lost heritage in Sicily.” Whereupon
Currado caused both the ladies to come thither, and presented to them
the bride. The gladness with which they both greeted her was a wonder
to behold, and no less great was their wonder at the benign inspiration
that had prompted Currado to unite her in wedlock with Giannotto,
whom Currado’s words caused Madam Beritola to survey with some
attention. A hidden spring of memory was thus touched; she recognised
in the man the lineaments of her boy, and awaiting no further evidence
she ran with open arms and threw herself upon his neck. No word did
she utter, for very excess of maternal tenderness and joy; but, every

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avenue of sense closed, she fell as if bereft of life within her son’s
embrace. Giannotto, who had often seen her in the castle and never
recognised her, marvelled not a little, but nevertheless it at once flashed
upon him that ‛twas his mother, and blaming himself for his past
inadvertence he took her in his arms and wept and tenderly kissed her.
With gentle solicitude Currado’s lady and Spina came to her aid, and
restored her suspended animation with cold water and other remedies.
She then with many tender and endearing words kissed him a thousand
times or more, which tokens of her love he received with a look of
reverential acknowledgment. Thrice, nay a fourth time were these glad
and gracious greetings exchanged, and joyful indeed were they that
witnessed them, and hearkened while mother and son compared their
past adventures. Then Currado, who had already announced his new
alliance to his friends, and received their felicitations proceeded to give
order for the celebration of the event with all becoming gaiety and
splendour. As he did so, Giusfredi said to him:—‟Currado, you have long
given my mother honourable entertainment, and on me you have
conferred many boons; wherefore, that you may fill up the measure of
your kindness, ‛tis now my prayer that you be pleased to gladden my
mother and my marriage feast and me with the presence of my brother,
now in servitude in the house of Messer Guasparrino d’Oria, who, as I
have already told you, made prize of both him and me; and that then
you send some one to Sicily, who shall make himself thoroughly
acquainted with the circumstances and condition of the country, and
find out how it has fared with my father Arrighetto, whether he be alive
or dead, and if alive, in what circumstances, and being thus fully
informed, return to us with the tidings.” Currado assented, and
forthwith sent most trusty agents both to Genoa and to Sicily. So in due
time an envoy arrived at Genoa, and made instant suit to Guasparrino on
Currado’s part for the surrender of Outcast and the nurse, setting forth
in detail all that had passed between Currado and Giusfredi and his

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mother. Whereat Messer Guasparrino was mightily astonished, and said:

—‟Of a surety there is nought that, being able, I would not do to
pleasure Currado; and, true it is that I have had in my house for these
fourteen years the boy whom thou dost now demand of me, and his
mother, and gladly will I surrender them; but tell Currado from me to
beware of excessive credulity, and to put no faith in the idle tales of
Giannotto, or Giusfredi, as thou sayst he calls himself, who is by no
means so guileless as he supposes.”
Then, having provided for the honourable entertainment of the
worthy envoy, he sent privily for the nurse, and cautiously sounded her
as to the affair. The nurse had heard of the revolt of Sicily, and had
learned that Arrighetto was still alive. She therefore banished fear, and
told Messer Guasparrino the whole story, and explained to him the
reasons why she had acted as she had done. Finding that what she said
accorded very well with what he had learned from Currado’s envoy, he
inclined to credit the story, and most astutely probing the matter in
divers ways, and always finding fresh grounds for confidence, he
reproached himself for the sorry manner in which he had treated the
boy, and by way of amends gave him one of his own daughters, a
beautiful girl of eleven years, to wife with a dowry suited to Arrighetto’s
rank, and celebrated their nuptials with great festivity, He then brought
the boy and girl, Currado’s envoy, and the nurse in a well-armed galliot
to Lerici, being there met by Currado, who had a castle not far off, where
great preparations had been made for their entertainment: and thither
accordingly he went with his whole company. What cheer the mother
had of her son, the brothers of one another, and all the three of the
faithful nurse; what cheer Messer Guasparrino and his daughter had of
all, and all of them, and what cheer all had of Currado and his lady and
their sons and their friends, words may not describe; wherefore, my
ladies, I leave it to your imagination. And that their joy might be full,
God, who, when He gives, gives most abundantly, added the glad tidings

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that Arrighetto Capece was alive and prosperous. For, when in the best
of spirits the ladies and gentlemen had sat them down to feast, and they
were yet at the first course, the envoy from Sicily arrived, and among
other matters reported, that, no sooner had the insurrection broken out
in the island than the people hied them in hot haste to the prison where
Arrighetto was kept in confinement by King Charles, and despatching
the guards, brought him forth, and knowing him to be a capital enemy
to King Charles made him their captain, and under his command fell
upon and massacred the French. Whereby he had won the highest place
in the favour of King Peter, who had granted him restitution of all his
estates and honours, so that he was now both prosperous and mighty.
The envoy added that Arrighetto had received him with every token of
honour, had manifested the utmost delight on hearing of his lady and
son, of whom no tidings had reached him since his arrest, and had sent,
to bring them home, a brigantine with some gentlemen aboard, whose
arrival might hourly be expected.
The envoy, and the good news which he brought, were heartily
welcome; and presently Currado, with some of his friends, encountered
the gentlemen who came for Madam Beritola and Giusfredi, and
saluting them cordially invited them to his feast, which was not yet half
done. Joy unheard of was depicted on the faces of the lady, of Giusfredi,
and of all the rest as they greeted them; nor did they on their part take
their places at the table before, as best they might, they had conveyed to
Currado and his lady Arrighetto’s greetings and grateful
acknowledgments of the honour which they had conferred upon his lady
and his son, and had placed Arrighetto, to the uttermost of his power,
entirely at their service. Then, turning to Messer Guasparrino, of whose
kindness Arrighetto surmised nothing, they said that they were very sure
that, when he learned the boon which Outcast had received at his
hands, he would pay him the like and an even greater tribute of
gratitude. This speech ended, they feasted most joyously with the brides

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and bridegrooms. So passed the day, the first of many which Currado
devoted to honouring his son-in-law and his other intimates, both
kinsfolk and friends. The time of festivity ended, Madam Beritola and
Giusfredi and the rest felt that they must leave: so, taking Spina with
them, they parted, not without many tears, from Currado and his lady
and Guasparrino, and went aboard the brigantine, which, wafted by a
prosperous wind, soon brought them to Sicily. At Palermo they were met
by Arrighetto, who received them all, ladies and sons alike, with such
cheer as it were vain to attempt to describe. There it is believed that they
all lived long and happily and in amity with God, being not unmindful
of the blessings which He had conferred upon them.

NOVEL VII.

— The Soldan of Babylon sends one of his daughters overseas,

designing to marry her to the King of Algarve. By divers
adventures she comes in the space of four years into the hands
of nine men in divers places. At last she is restored to her
father, whom she quits again in the guise of a virgin, and, as
was at first intended, is married to the King of Algarve. —
Had Emilia’s story but lasted a little longer, the young ladies would
perhaps have been moved to tears, so great was the sympathy which they
felt for Madam Beritola in her various fortunes. But now that it was
ended, the Queen bade Pamfilo follow suit; and he, than whom none
was more obedient, thus began:—
Hardly, gracious ladies, is it given to us to know that which makes for
our good; insomuch that, as has been observable in a multitude of
instances, many, deeming that the acquisition of great riches would
ensure them an easy and tranquil existence, have not only besought
them of God in prayer, but have sought them with such ardour that they

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have spared no pains and shrunk from no danger in the quest, and have
attained their end only to lose, at the hands of some one covetous of
their vast inheritance, a life with which before the days of their
prosperity they were well content. Others, whose course, perilous with a
thousand battles, stained with the blood of their brothers and their
friends, has raised them from base to regal estate, have found in place of
the felicity they expected an infinity of cares and fears, and have proved
by experience that a chalice may be poisoned, though it be of gold, and
set on the table of a king. Many have most ardently desired beauty and
strength and other advantages of person, and have only been taught
their error by the death or dolorous life which these very advantages
entailed upon them. And so, not to instance each particular human
desire, I say, in sum, that there is none of, them that men may indulge in
full confidence as exempt from the chances and changes of fortune;
wherefore, if we would act rightly, we ought to school ourselves to take
and be content with that which He gives us, who alone knows and can
afford us that of which we have need. But, divers as are the aberrations of
desire to which men are prone, so, gracious ladies, there is one to which
you are especially liable, in that you are unduly solicitous of beauty,
insomuch, that, not content with the charms which nature has allotted
you, you endeavour to enhance them with wondrous ingenuity of art;
wherefore I am minded to make you acquainted with the coil of
misadventures in which her beauty involved a fair Saracen, who in the
course of, perhaps, four years was wedded nine several times.
There was of yore a Soldan of Babylon,15 by name of Beminedab, who
in his day had cause enough to be well content with his luck. Many
children male and female had he, and among them a daughter, Alatiel
by name, who by common consent of all that saw her was the most
beautiful woman then to be found in the world. Now the Soldan, having

15 I.e. according to medieval usage, Egypt.

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been signally aided by the King of Algarve16 in inflicting a great defeat

upon a host of Arabs that had attacked him, had at his instance and by
way of special favour given Alatiel to the King to wife; wherefore, with an
honourable escort of gentlemen and ladies most nobly and richly
equipped, he placed her aboard a well-armed, well-furnished ship, and,
commending her to God, sped her on her journey. The mariners, as soon
as the weather was favourable, hoisted sail, and for some days after their
departure from Alexandria had a prosperous voyage; but when they had
passed Sardinia, and were beginning to think that they were nearing
their journey’s end, they were caught one day between divers cross
winds, each blowing with extreme fury, whereby the ship laboured so
sorely that not only the lady but the seamen from time to time gave
themselves up for lost. But still, most manfully and skilfully they
struggled might and main with the tempest, which, ever waxing rather
than waning, buffeted them for two days with immense unintermittent
surges; and being not far from the island of Majorca, as the third night
began to close in, wrapt in clouds and mist and thick darkness, so that
they saw neither the sky nor aught else, nor by any nautical skill might
conjecture where they were, they felt the ship’s timbers part. Wherefore,
seeing no way to save the ship, each thought only how best to save
himself, and, a boat being thrown out, the masters first, and then the
men, one by one, though the first-comers sought with knives in their
hands to bar the passage of the rest, all, rather than remain in the leaky
ship, crowded into it, and there found the death which they hoped to
escape. For the boat, being in such stress of weather, and with such a
burden quite unmanageable, went under, and all aboard her perished;
whereas the ship, leaky though she was, and all but full of water, yet,
driven by the fury of the tempest, was hurled with prodigious velocity
upon the shore of the island of Majorca, and struck it with such force as
to embed herself in the sand, perhaps a stone’s throw from terra firma,
16 I.e. Garbo, the coast of Africa opposite Andalusia and Granada.

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where she remained all night beaten and washed by the sea, but no more
to be moved by the utmost violence of the gale. None had remained
aboard her but the lady and her women, whom the malice of the
elements and their fears had brought to the verge of death. When it was
broad day and the storm was somewhat abated, the lady, half dead,
raised her head, and in faltering accents began to call first one and then
another of her servants. She called in vain, however; for those whom she
called were too far off to hear. Great indeed was her wonder and fear to
find herself thus without sight of human face or sound of other voice
than her own; but, struggling to her feet as best she might, she looked
about her, and saw the ladies that were of her escort, and the other
women, all prostrate on the deck; so, after calling them one by one, she
began at length to touch them, and finding few that shewed sign of life,
for indeed, between grievous sea-sickness and fear, they had little life
left, she grew more terrified than before. However, being in sore need of
counsel, all alone as she was, and without knowledge or means of
learning where she was, she at last induced such as had life in them to
get upon their feet, with whom, as none knew where the men were gone,
and the ship was now full of water and visibly breaking up, she
abandoned herself to piteous lamentations.
It was already none before they descried any one on the shore or
elsewhere to whom they could make appeal for help; but shortly after
none it so chanced that a gentleman, Pericone da Visalgo by name, being
on his return from one of his estates, passed that way with some
mounted servants. Catching sight of the ship, he apprehended the
circumstances at a glance, and bade one of his servants try to get aboard
her, and let him know the result. The servant with some difficulty
succeeded in boarding the vessel, and found the gentle lady with her few
companions ensconced under shelter of the prow, and shrinking timidly
from observation. At the first sight of him they wept, and again and
again implored him to have pity on them; but finding that he did not

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understand them, nor they him, they sought by gestures to make him
apprehend their forlorn condition.
With these tidings the servant, after making such survey of the ship
as he could, returned to Pericone, who forthwith caused the ladies, and
all articles of value which were in the ship and could be removed, to be
brought off her, and took them with him to one of his castles. The ladies’
powers were soon in a measure restored by food and rest, and by the
honour which was paid to Alatiel, and Alatiel alone by all the rest, as
well as by the richness of her dress, Pericone perceived that she must be
some great lady. Nor, though she was still pale, and her person bore
evident marks of the sea’s rough usage, did he fail to note that it was cast
in a mould of extraordinary beauty. Wherefore his mind was soon made
up that, if she lacked a husband, he would take her to wife and that, if he
could not have her to wife, then he would make her his mistress. So this
ardent lover, who was a man of powerful frame and haughty mien,
devoted himself for several days to the service of the lady with excellent
effect, for the lady completely recovered her strength and spirits, so that
her beauty far exceeded Pericone’s most sanguine conjectures. Great
therefore beyond measure was his sorrow that he understood not her
speech, nor she his, so that neither could know who the other was; but
being inordinately enamoured of her beauty, he sought by such mute
blandishments as he could devise to declare his love, and bring her of
her own accord to gratify his desire. All in vain, however; she repulsed
his advances point blank; whereby his passion only grew the stronger. So
some days passed; and the lady perceiving Pericone’s constancy, and
bethinking her that sooner or later she must yield either to force or to
love, and gratify his passion, and judging by what she observed of the
customs of the people that she was amongst Christians, and in a part
where, were she able to speak their language, she would gain little by
making herself known, determined with a lofty courage to stand firm
and immovable in this extremity of her misfortunes. Wherefore she

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bade the three women, who were all that were left to her, on no account
to let any know who they were, unless they were so circumstanced that
they might safely count on assistance in effecting their escape: she also
exhorted them most earnestly to preserve their chastity, averring that
she was firmly resolved that none but her husband should enjoy her. The
women heartily assented, and promised that her injunctions should be
obeyed to the utmost of their power.
Day by day Pericone’s passion waxed more ardent, being fomented by
the proximity and contrariety of its object. Wherefore seeing that
blandishment availed nothing, he was minded to have recourse to wiles
and stratagems, and in the last resort to force. The lady, debarred by her
law from the use of wine, found it, perhaps, on that account all the more
palatable, which Pericone observing determined to enlist Bacchus in the
service of Venus. So, ignoring her coyness, he provided one evening a
supper, which was ordered with all possible pomp and beauty, and
graced by the presence of the lady. No lack was there of incentives to
hilarity; and Pericone directed the servant who waited on Alatiel to ply
her with divers sorts of blended wines; which command the man
faithfully executed. She, suspecting nothing, and seduced by the
delicious flavour of the liquor, drank somewhat more freely than was
seemly, and forgetting her past woes, became frolicsome, and incited by
some women who trod some measures in the Majorcan style, she
shewed the company how they footed it in Alexandria. This novel
demeanour was by no means lost on Pericone, who saw in it a good
omen of his speedy success; so, with profuse relays of food and wine he
prolonged the supper far into the night.
When the guests were at length gone, he attended the lady alone to
her chamber, where, the heat of the wine overpowering the cold
counsels of modesty, she made no more account of Pericone’s presence
than if he had been one of her women, and forthwith undressed and
went to bed. Pericone was not slow to follow her, and as soon as the light

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was out lay down by her side, and taking her in his arms, without the
least demur on her part, began, to solace himself with her after the
manner of lovers; which experience—she knew not till then with what
horn men butt—caused her to repent that she had not yielded to his
blandishments; nor did she thereafter wait to be invited to such nights
of delight, but many a time declared her readiness, not by words, for she
had none to convey her meaning, but by gestures.
But this great felicity which she now shared with Pericone was not to
last: for not content with making her, instead of the consort of a king,
the mistress of a castellan, Fortune had now in store for her a harsher
experience, though of an amorous character. Pericone had a brother,
twenty-five years of age, fair and fresh as a rose, his name Marato. On
sight of Alatiel Marato had been mightily taken with her; he inferred
from her bearing that he stood high in her good graces; he believed that
nothing stood between him and the gratification of his passion but the
jealous vigilance with which Pericone guarded her. So musing, he hit
upon a ruthless expedient, which had effect in action as hasty as
heinous.
It so chanced that there then lay in the port of the city a ship,
commanded by two Genoese, bound with a cargo of merchandise for
Klarenza in the Morea: her sails were already hoist; and she tarried only
for a favourable breeze. Marato approached the masters and arranged
with them to take himself and the lady aboard on the following night.
This done he concerted further action with some of his most trusty
friends, who readily lent him their aid to carry his design into execution.
So on the following evening towards nightfall, the conspirators stole
unobserved into Pericone’s house, which was entirely unguarded, and
there hid themselves, as pre-arranged. Then, as the night wore on,
Marato shewed them where Pericone and the lady slept, and they
entered the room, and slew Pericone. The lady thus rudely roused wept;
but silencing her by menaces of death they carried her off with the best

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part of Pericone’s treasure, and hied them unobserved to the coast,

where Marato parted from his companions, and forthwith took the lady
aboard the ship. The wind was now fair and fresh, the mariners spread
the canvas, and the vessel sped on her course.
This new misadventure, following so hard upon the former, caused
the lady no small chagrin; but Marato, with the aid, of the good St.
Crescent-in-hand that God has given us, found means to afford her such
consolation that she was already grown so familiar with him as entirely
to forget Pericone, when Fortune, not content with her former caprices,
added a new dispensation of woe; for what with. the beauty of her
person, which, as we have often said, was extra ordinary, and the
exquisite charm of her manners the two young men, who commanded
the ship, fell so desperately in love with her that they thought of nothing
but how they might best serve and please her, so only that Marato
should not discover the reason of their assiduous attentions. And
neither being ignorant of the other’s love, they held secret counsel
together, and resolved to make conquest of the lady on joint account: as
if love admitted of being held in partnership like merchandise or money.
Which design being thwarted by the jealousy with which Alatiel was
guarded by Marato, they chose a day and hour, when the ship was
speeding amain under canvas, and Marato was on the poop looking out
over the sea and quite off his guard; and going stealthily up behind him,
they suddenly laid hands on him, and threw him into the sea, and were
already more than a mile on their course before any perceived that
Marato was overboard. Which when the lady learned, and knew that he
was irretrievably lost, she relapsed into her former plaintive mood. But
the twain were forthwith by her side with soft speeches and profuse
promises, which, however ill she understood them, were not altogether
inapt to allay a grief which had in it more of concern for her own hapless
self than of sorrow for her lost lover. So, in course of time, the lady
beginning visibly to recover heart, they began privily to debate which of

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them should first take her to bed with him; and neither being willing to
give way to the other, and no compromise being discoverable, high
words passed between them, and the dispute grew so hot, that they both
waxed very wroth, drew their knives, and rushed madly at one another,
and before they could be parted by their men, several stabs had been
given and received on either side, whereby the one fell dead on the spot,
and the other was severely wounded in divers parts of the body. The lady
was much disconcerted to find herself thus alone with none to afford her
either succour or counsel, and was mightily afraid lest the wrath of the
kinsfolk and friends of the twain should vent itself upon her. From this
mortal peril she was, however, delivered by the intercessions of the
wounded man and their speedy arrival at Klarenza.
As there she tarried at the same inn with her wounded lover, the fame
of her great beauty was speedily bruited abroad, and reached the ears of
the Prince of the Morea, who was then staying there. The Prince was
curious to see her, and having so done, pronounced her even more
beautiful than rumour had reported her; nay, he fell in love with her in
such a degree that he could think of nought else; and having heard in
what guise she had come thither, he deemed that he might have her.
While he was casting about how to compass his end, the kinsfolk of the
wounded man, being apprised of the fact, forthwith sent her to him to
the boundless delight, as well of the lady, who saw therein her
deliverance from a great peril, as of the Prince. The royal bearing, which
enhanced the lady’s charms, did not escape the Prince, who, being
unable to discover her true rank, set her down as at any rate of noble
lineage; wherefore he loved her as much again as before, and shewed her
no small honour, treating her not as his mistress but as his wife. So the
lady, contrasting her present happy estate with her past woes, was
comforted; and, as her gaiety revived, her beauty waxed in such a degree
that all the Morea talked of it and of little else: insomuch that the
Prince’s friend and kinsman, the young, handsome and gallant Duke of

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Athens, was smitten with a desire to see her, and taking occasion to pay
the Prince a visit, as he was now and again wont to do, came to Klarenza
with a goodly company of honourable gentlemen. The Prince received
him with all distinction and made him heartily welcome, but did not at
first shew him the lady. By and by, however, their conversation began to
turn upon her and her charms, and the Duke asked if she were really so
marvellous a creature as folk said. The Prince replied:—‟Nay, but even
more so; and thereof thou shalt have better assurance than my words, to
wit, the witness of thine own eyes.” So, without delay, for the Duke was
now all impatience, they waited on the lady, who was prepared for their
visit, and received them very courteously and graciously. They seated her
between them, and being debarred from the pleasure of conversing with
her, for of their speech she understood little or nothing, they both, and
especially the Duke, who was scarce able to believe that she was of
mortal mould, gazed upon her in mute admiration; whereby the Duke,
cheating himself with the idea that he was but gratifying his curiosity,
drank with his eyes, unawares, deep draughts of the poisoned chalice of
love, and, to his own lamentable hurt, fell a prey to a most ardent
passion. His first thought, when they had left her, and he had time for
reflection, was that the Prince was the luckiest man in the world to have
a creature so fair to solace him; and swayed by his passion, his mind
soon inclined to divers other and less honourable meditations, whereof
the issue was that, come what might, he would despoil the Prince of his
felicity, and, if possible, make it his own. This resolution was no sooner
taken than, being of a hasty temperament, he cast to the winds all
considerations of honour and justice, and studied only how to compass
his end by craft. So, one day, as the first step towards the
accomplishment of his evil purpose, he arranged with the Prince’s most
trusted chamberlain, one Ciuriaci, that his horses and all other his
personal effects should, with the utmost secrecy, be got ready against a
possible sudden departure: and then at nightfall, attended by a single

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comrade (both carrying arms), he was privily admitted by Ciuriaci into

the Prince’s chamber. It was a hot night, and the Prince had risen
without disturbing the lady, and was standing bare to the skin at an open
window fronting the sea, to enjoy a light breeze that blew thence. So, by
preconcert with his comrade, the Duke stole up to the window, and in a
trice ran the Prince through the body, and caught him up, and threw
him out of the window. The palace was close by the sea, but at a
considerable altitude above it, and the window, through which the
Prince’s body was thrown, looked over some houses, which, being
sapped by the sea, had become ruinous, and were rarely or never visited
by a soul; whereby, as the Duke had foreseen, the fall of the Prince’s body
passed, as indeed it could not but pass, unobserved. Thereupon the
Duke’s accomplice whipped out a halter, which he had brought with him
for the purpose, and, making as if he were but in play, threw it round
Ciuriaci’s neck, drew it so tight that he could not utter a sound, and
then, with the Duke’s aid, strangled him, and sent him after his master.
All this was accomplished, as the Duke knew full well, without
awakening any in the palace, not even the lady, whom he now
approached with a light, and holding it over the bed gently uncovered
her person, as she lay fast asleep, and surveyed her from head to foot to
his no small satisfaction; for fair as she had seemed to him dressed, he
found her unadorned charms incomparably greater. As he gazed, his
passion waxed beyond measure, and, reckless of his recent crime, and of
the blood which still stained his hands, he got forthwith into the bed;
and she, being too sound asleep to distinguish between him and the
Prince, suffered him to lie with her.
But, boundless as was his delight, it brooked no long continuance, so,
rising, he called to him some of his comrades, by whom he had the lady
secured in such manner that she could utter no sound, and borne out of
the palace by the same secret door by which he had gained entrance; he
then set her on horseback and in dead silence put his troop in motion,

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taking the road to Athens. He did not, however, venture to take the lady
to Athens, where she would have encountered his Duchess—for he was
married—but lodged her in a very beautiful villa which he had hard by
the city overlooking the sea, where, most forlorn of ladies, she lived
secluded, but with no lack of meet and respectful service.
On the following morning the Prince’s courtiers awaited his rising
until none, but perceiving no sign of it, opened the doors, which had not
been secured, and entered his bedroom. Finding it vacant, they
supposed that the Prince was gone off privily somewhere to have a few
days of unbroken delight with his fair lady; and so they gave themselves
no further trouble. But the next day it so chanced that an idiot, roaming
about the ruins where lay the corpses of the Prince and Ciuriaci, drew
the latter out by the halter and went off dragging it after him. The corpse
was soon recognised by not a few, who, at first struck dumb with
amazement, soon recovered sense enough to cajole the idiot into
retracing his steps and shewing them the spot where he had found it;
and having thus, to the immeasurable grief of all the citizens, discovered
the Prince’s body, they buried it with all honour. Needless to say that no
pains were spared to trace the perpetrators of so heinous a crime, and
that the absence and evidently furtive departure of the Duke of Athens
caused him to be suspected both of the murder and of the abduction of
the lady. So the citizens were instant with one accord that the Prince’s
brother, whom they chose as his successor, should exact the debt of
vengeance; and he, having satisfied himself by further investigation that
their suspicion was well founded, summoned to his aid his kinsfolk,
friends and divers vassals, and speedily gathered a large, powerful and
well-equipped army, with intent to make war upon the Duke of Athens.
The Duke, being informed of his movements, made ready likewise to
defend himself with all his power; nor had he any lack of allies, among
whom the Emperor of Constantinople sent his son, Constantine, and his
nephew, Manuel, with a great and goodly force. The two young men were

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honourably received by the Duke, and still more so by the Duchess, who
was Constantine’s sister.
Day by day war grew more imminent, and at last the Duchess took
occasion to call Constantine and Manuel into her private chamber, and
with many tears told them the whole story at large, explaining the casus
belli, dilating on the indignity which she suffered at the hands of the
Duke if as was believed, he really kept a mistress in secret, and
beseeching them in most piteous accents to do the best they could to
devise some expedient whereby the Duke’s honour might be cleared, and
her own peace of mind assured. The young men knew exactly how
matters stood; and so, without wearying the Duchess with many
questions, they did their best to console her, and succeeded in raising
her hopes. Before taking their leave they learned from her where the
lady was, whose marvellous beauty they had heard lauded so often; and
being eager to see her, they besought the Duke to afford them an
opportunity. Forgetful of what a like complaisance had cost the Prince,
he consented, and next morning brought them to the villa where the
lady lived, and with her and a few of his boon companions regaled them
with a lordly breakfast, which was served in a most lovely garden.
Constantine had no sooner seated himself and surveyed the lady, than
he was lost in admiration, inly affirming that he had never seen so
beautiful a creature, and that for such a prize the Duke, or any other
man, might well be pardoned treachery or any other crime: he scanned
her again and again, and ever with more and more admiration; where-by
it fared with him even as it had fared with the Duke. He went away hotly
in love with her, and dismissing all thought of the war, cast about for
some method by which, without betraying his passion to any, he might
devise some means of wresting the lady from the Duke.
As he thus burned and brooded, the Prince drew dangerously near
the Duke’s dominions; wherefore order was given for an advance, and
the Duke, with Constantine and the rest, marshalled his forces and led

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them forth from Athens to bar the Prince’s passage of the frontier at
certain points. Some days thus passed, during which Constantine, whose
mind and soul were entirely absorbed by his passion for the lady,
bethought him, that, as the Duke was no longer in her neighbourhood,
he might readily compass his end. He therefore feigned to be seriously
unwell, and, having by this pretext obtained the Duke’s leave, he ceded
his command to Manuel, and returned to his sister at Athens. He had
not been there many days before the Duchess recurred to the dishonour
which the Duke did her by keeping the lady; whereupon he said that of
that, if she approved, he would certainly relieve her by seeing that the
lady was removed from the villa to some distant place. The Duchess,
supposing that Constantine was prompted not by jealousy of the Duke
but by jealousy for her honour, gave her hearty consent to his plan,
provided he so contrived that the Duke should never know that she had
been privy to it; on which point Constantine gave her ample assurance.
So, being authorised by the Duchess to act as he might deem best, he
secretly equipped a light bark and manned her with some of his men, to
whom he confided his plan, bidding them lie to off the garden of the
lady’s villa; and so, having sent the bark forward, he hied him with other
of his men to the villa. He gained ready admission of the servants, and
was made heartily welcome by the lady, who, at his desire, attended by
some of her servants, walked with him and some of his comrades in the
garden. By and by, feigning that he had a message for her from the Duke,
he drew her aside towards a gate that led down to the sea, and which one
of his confederates had already opened. A concerted signal brought the
bark alongside, and to seize the lady and set her aboard the bark was but
the work of an instant. Her retinue hung back as they heard Constantine
menace with death whoso but stirred or spoke, and suffered him,
protesting that what he did was done not to wrong the Duke, but solely
to vindicate his sister’s honour, to embark with his men. The lady wept,
of course, but Constantine was at her side, the rowers gave way, and the

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bark, speeding like a thing of life over the waves, made Egina shortly
after dawn. There Constantine and the lady landed, she still lamenting
her fatal beauty, and took a little rest and pleasure. Then, re-embarking,
they continued their voyage, and in the course of a few days reached
Chios, which Constantine, fearing paternal censure, and that he might
be deprived of his fair booty, deemed a safe place of sojourn. So, after
some days of repose the lady ceased to bewail her harsh destiny, and
suffering Constantine to console her as his predecessors had done,
began once more to enjoy the good gifts which Fortune sent her.
Now while they thus dallied, Osbech, King of the Turks, who was
perennially at war with the Emperor, came by chance to Smyrna; and
there learning, that Constantine was wantoning in careless ease at Chios
with a lady of whom he had made prize, he made a descent by night
upon the island with an armed flotilla. Landing his men in dead silence,
he made captives of not a few of the Chians whom he surprised in their
beds; others, who took the alarm and rushed to arms, he slew; and
having wasted the whole island with fire, he shipped the booty and the
prisoners, and sailed back to Smyrna. As there he overhauled the booty,
he lit upon the fair lady, and knew her for the same that had been taken
in bed and fast asleep with Constantine: whereat, being a young man, he
was delighted beyond measure, and made her his wife out of hand with
all due form and ceremony. And so for several months he enjoyed her.
Now there had been for some time and still was a treaty pending
between the Emperor and Basano, King of Cappadocia, whereby Basano
with his forces was to fall on Osbech on one side while the Emperor
attacked him on the other. Some demands made by Basano, which the
Emperor deemed unreasonable, had so far retarded the conclusion of
the treaty; but no sooner had the Emperor learned the fate of his son
than, distraught with grief, he forthwith conceded the King of
Cappadocia’s demands, and was instant with him to fall at once upon
Osbech while he made ready to attack him on the other side. Getting

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wind of the Emperor’s design, Osbech collected his forces, and, lest he
should be caught and crushed between the convergent armies of two
most mighty potentates, advanced against the King of Cappadocia. The
fair lady he left at Smyrna in the care of a faithful dependant and friend,
and after a while joined battle with the King of Cappadocia, in which
battle he was slain, and his army defeated and dispersed. Wherefore
Basano with his victorious host advanced, carrying everything before
him, upon Smyrna, and receiving everywhere the submission due to a
conqueror.
Meanwhile Osbech’s dependant, by name Antioco, who had charge of
the fair lady, was so smitten with her charms that, albeit he was
somewhat advanced in years, he broke faith with his friend and lord, and
allowed himself to become enamoured of her. He had the advantage of
knowing her language, which counted for much with one who for some
years had been, as it were, compelled to live the life of a deaf mute,
finding none whom she could understand or by whom she might be
understood; and goaded by passion, he in the course of a few days
established such a degree of intimacy with her that in no long time it
passed from friendship into love, so that their lord, far away amid the
clash of arms and the tumult of the battle, was forgotten, and
marvellous pleasure had they of one another between the sheets.
However, news came at last of Osbech’s defeat and death, and the
victorious and unchecked advance of Basano, whose advent they were by
no means minded to await. Wherefore, taking with them the best part of
the treasure that Osbech had left there, they hied them with all possible
secrecy to Rhodes. There they had not along abode before Antioco fell ill
of a mortal disease. He had then with him a Cypriote merchant, an
intimate and very dear friend, to whom, as he felt his end approach, he
resolved to leave all that he possessed, including his dear lady. So, when
he felt death imminent, he called them to him and said:—”‛Tis now
quite evident to me that my life is fast ebbing away; and sorely do I

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regret it, for never had I so much pleasure of life as now. Well content
indeed I am in one respect, in that, as die I must, I at least die in the
arms of the two persons whom I love more than any other in the world,
to wit, in thine arms, dearest friend, and those of this lady, whom, since I
have known her, I have loved more than myself. But yet ‛tis grievous to
me to know that I must leave her here in a strange land with none to
afford her either protection or counsel; and but that I leave her with
thee, who, I doubt not, wilt have for my sake no less care of her than
thou wouldst have had of me, ‛twould grieve me still more; wherefore
with all my heart and soul I pray thee, that, if I die, thou take her with all
else that belongs to me into thy charge, and so acquit thyself of thy trust
as thou mayst deem conducive to the peace of my soul. And of thee,
dearest lady, I entreat one favour, that I be not forgotten of, thee, after
my death, so that there whither I go it may still be my boast to be
beloved here of the most beautiful lady that nature ever formed. Let me
but die with these two hopes assured, and without doubt I shall depart
in peace.”
Both the merchant and the lady wept to hear him thus speak, and,
when he had done, comforted him, and promised faithfully, in the event
of his death, to do even as he besought them. He died almost
immediately afterwards, and was honourably buried by them. A few days
sufficed the merchant to wind up all his affairs in Rhodes and being
minded to return to Cyprus aboard a Catalan boat that was there, he
asked the fair lady what she purposed to do if he went back to Cyprus.
The lady answered, that, if it were agreeable to him, she would gladly
accompany him, hoping that for love of Antioco, he would treat and
regard her as his sister. The merchant replied, that it would afford him
all the pleasure in the world; and, to protect her from insult until their
arrival in Cyprus, he gave her out as his wife, and, suiting action to word,
slept with her on the boat in an alcove in a little cabin in the poop.
Whereby that happened which on neither side was intended when they

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left Rhodes, to wit, that the darkness and the comfort and the warmth of
the bed, forces of no mean efficacy, did so prevail with them that dead
Antioco was forgotten alike as lover and as friend, and by a common
impulse they began to wanton together, insomuch that before they were
arrived at Baffa, where the Cypriote resided, they were indeed man and
wife. At Baffa the lady tarried with the merchant a good while, during
which it so befell that a gentleman, Antigono by name, a man of ripe age
and riper wisdom but no great wealth, being one that had had vast and
various experience of affairs in the service of the King of Cyprus but had
found fortune adverse to him, came to Baffa on business; and passing
one day by the house where the fair lady was then living by herself, for
the Cypriote merchant was gone to Armenia with some of his wares, he
chanced to catch sight of the lady at one of the windows, and, being
struck by her extraordinary beauty, regarded her attentively, and began
to have some vague recollection of having seen her before, but could by
no means remember where. The fair lady, however, so long the sport of
Fortune, but now nearing the term of her woes, no sooner saw Antigono
than she remembered to have seen him in her father’s service, and in no
mean capacity, at Alexandria. Wherefore she forthwith sent for him,
hoping that by his counsel she might elude her merchant and be
reinstated in her true character and dignity of princess. When he
presented himself, she asked him with some embarrassment whether he
were, as she took him to be, Antigono of Famagosta. He answered in the
affirmative, adding:—‟And of you, madam, I have a sort of recollection,
though I cannot say where I have seen you; wherefore so it irk you not,
bring, I pray you, yourself to my remembrance.” Satisfied that it was
Antigono himself, the lady in a flood of tears threw herself upon him to
his no small amazement, and embraced his neck: then, after a little
while, she asked him whether he had never see her in Alexandria. The
question awakened Antigono’s memory; he at once recognised Alatiel,
the Soldan’s daughter, whom he had though to have been drowned at

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sea, and would have paid her due homage; but she would not suffer it,
and bade him be seated with her for a while. Being seated, he
respectfully asked her, how, and when and whence she had come thither,
seeing that all Egypt believed for certain that she had been drowned at
sea some years before. ‟And would that so it had been,” said the lady,
‟rather than I should have led the life that I have led; and so doubtless
will my father say, if he shall ever come to know of it.” And so saying, she
burst into such a flood of tears that ‛twas a wonder to see. Wherefore
Antigono said to her:—‟Nay but, madam, be not distressed before the
occasion arises. I pray you, tell me the story of your adventures, and
what has been the tenor of your life; perchance ‛twill prove to be no such
matter but, God helping us, we may set it all straight.” ‟Antigono,” said
the fair lady, ‟when I saw thee, ‛twas as if I saw my father, and ‛twas the
tender love by which I am holden to him that prompted me to make
myself known to thee, though I might have kept my secret; and few
indeed there are, whom to have met would have afforded me such
pleasure as this which I have in meeting and recognising thee before all
others; wherefore I will now make known to thee as to my father that
which in my evil fortune I have ever kept close. If, when thou hast heard
my story, thou seest any means whereby I may be reinstated in my
former honour, I pray thee use it. If not, disclose to none that thou hast
seen me or heard aught of me.”
Then, weeping between every word, she told him her whole story
from the day of the shipwreck at Majorca to that hour. Antigono wept in
sympathy, and then said:—‟Madam, as throughout this train of
misfortunes you have happily escaped recognition, I undertake to
restore you to your father in such sort that you shall be dearer to him
than ever before, and be afterwards married to the King of Algarve.
‟How?” she asked. Whereupon he explained to her in detail how he
meant to proceed; and, lest delay should give occasion to another to
interfere, he went back at once to Famagosta, and having obtained

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audience of the King, thus he spoke:—‟Sire, so please you, you have it in

your power at little cost to yourself to do a thing, which will at once
redound most signally to your honour and confer a great boon on me,
who have grown poor in your service.” ‟How?” asked the King. Then said
Antigono:—‟At Baffa is of late arrived a fair damsel, daughter of the
Soldan, long thought to be drowned, who to preserve her chastity has
suffered long and severe hardship. She is now reduced to poverty, and is
desirous of returning to her father. If you should be pleased to send her
back to him under my escort, your honour and my interest would be
served in high and equal measure; nor do I think that such a service
would ever be forgotten by the Soldan.”
With true royal generosity the King forthwith signified his approval,
and had Alatiel brought under honourable escort to Famagosta, where,
attended by his Queen, he received her with every circumstance of festal
pomp and courtly magnificence. Schooled by Antigono, she gave the
King and Queen such a version of her adventures as satisfied their
inquiries in every particular. So, after a few days, the King sent her back
to the Soldan under escort of Antigono, attended by a goodly company
of honourable men and women; and of the cheer which the Soldan
made her, and not her only but Antigono and all his company, it boots
not to ask. When she was somewhat rested, the Soldan inquired how it
was that she was yet alive, and where she had been go long without
letting him know how it fared with her. Whereupon the lady, who had
got Antigono’s lesson by heart, answered thus:—‟My father, ‛twas
perhaps the twentieth night after my departure from you when our ship
parted her timbers in a terrible storm and went ashore nigh a place
called Aguamorta, away there in the West: what was the fate of the men
that were aboard our ship I know not, nor knew I ever; I remember only,
that, when day came, and I returned, as it were, from death to life, the
wreck, having been sighted, was boarded by folk from all the country-
side, intent on plunder; and I and two of my women were taken ashore,

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where the women were forthwith parted from me by the young men, nor
did I ever learn their fate. Now hear my own. Struggling might and
main, I was seized by two young men, who dragged me, weeping bitterly,
by the hair of the head, towards a great forest; but, on sight of four men
who were then passing that way on horseback, they forthwith loosed me
and took to flight. Whereupon the four men, who struck me as persons
of great authority, ran up to me; and much they questioned me, and
much I said to them; but neither did they understand me, nor I them.
So, after long time conferring together, they set me on one of their
horses and brought me to a house, where dwelt a community of ladies,
religious according to their law; and what the men may have said I know
not, but there I was kindly received and ever honourably entreated by
all; and with them I did afterwards most reverentially pay my devotions
to St. Crescent-in-Hollow, who is held in great honour by the women of
that country. When I had been some time with them, and had learned
something of their language, they asked me who and whence I was:
whereto I, knowing that I was in a convent, and fearing to be cast out as
a foe to their law if I told the truth, answered that I was the daughter of a
great gentleman of Cyprus, who had intended to marry me to a
gentleman of Crete; but that on the voyage we had been driven out of
our course and wrecked at Aguamorta. And so I continued, as occasion
required, observing their usages with much assiduity, lest worse should
befall me; but being one day asked by their superior, whom they call
abbess, whether I was minded to go back to Cyprus, I answered that,
there was nought that I desired so much. However, so solicitous for my
honour was the abbess, that there was none going to Cyprus to whom
she would entrust me, until, two months or so ago, there arrived some
worthy men from France, of whom one was a kinsman of the abbess,
with their wives. They were on their way to visit the sepulchre where He
whom they hold to be God was buried after He had suffered death at the
hands of the Jews; and the abbess, learning their destination, prayed

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them to take charge of me, and restore me to my father in Cyprus. With

what cheer, with what honour, these gentlemen and their wives
entertained me, ‛twere long to tell. But, in brief, we embarked, and in
the course of a few days arrived at Baffa, where it was so ordered by the
providence of God, who perchance took pity on me, that in the very hour
of our disembarkation I, not knowing a soul and being at a loss how to
answer the gentlemen, who would fain have discharged the trust laid
upon them by the reverend abbess and restored me to my father, fell in,
on the shore, with Antigono, whom I forthwith called, and in our
language, that I might be understood neither of the gentlemen nor of
their wives, bade him acknowledge me as his daughter. He understood
my case at once, made much of me, and to the utmost of his slender
power honourably requited the gentlemen. He then brought me to the
King of Cyprus, who accorded me welcome there and conduct hither so
honourable as words of mine can never describe. If aught remains to tell,
you had best learn it from the lips of Antigono, who has often heard my
story.”
Then Antigono, addressing the Soldan, said:—‟Sire, what she has told
you accords with what she has often told me, and, with what I have
learned from the gentlemen and ladies who accompanied her. One
thing, however, she has omitted, because, I suppose, it hardly becomes
her to tell it; to wit, all that the gentlemen and ladies, who accompanied
her, said of the virtuous and gracious and noble life which she led with
the devout ladies, and of the tears and wailings of both the ladies and
the gentlemen, when they parted with her to me. But were I to essay to
repeat all that they said to me, the day that now is, and the night that is
to follow, were all too short: suffice it to say so much as this, that, by
what I gathered from their words and have been able to see for myself,
you may make it your boast, that among all the daughters of all your
peers that wear the crown none can be matched with yours for virtue
and true worth.”

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By all which the Soldan was so overjoyed that ‛twas a wonder to see.
Again and again he made supplication to God, that of His grace power
might be vouchsafed him adequately to recompense all who had done
honour to his daughter, and most especially the King of Cyprus, for the
honourable escort under which he had sent her thither; for Antigono he
provided a magnificent guerdon, and some days later gave him his conge
to return to Cyprus, at the same time by a special ambassage conveying
to the King his grateful acknowledgments of the manner in which he
had treated his daughter. Then, being minded that his first intent, to
wit, that his daughter should be the bride of the King of Algarve, should
not be frustrate, he wrote to the King, telling him all, and adding that, if
he were still minded to have her, he might send for her. The King was
overjoyed by these tidings, and having sent for her with great pomp, gave
her on her arrival a hearty welcome. So she, who had lain with eight
men, in all, perhaps, ten thousand times, was bedded with him as a
virgin, and made him believe that a virgin she was, and lived long and
happily with him as his queen: wherefore ‛twas said:—‟Mouth, for kisses,
was never the worse: like as the moon reneweth her course.”

NOVEL VIII.

— The Count of Antwerp, labouring under a false accusation

goes into exile. He leaves his two children in different places in
England, and takes service in Ireland. Returning to England an
unknown man, he finds his sons prosperous. He serves as a
groom in the army of the King of France; his innocence is
established and he is restored to his former honours. —
The ladies heaved many sighs over the various fortunes of the fair lady:
but what prompted those sighs who shall say? With some, perchance,
‛twas as much envy as pity of one to whose lot fell so many nights of

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delight. But, however this may be, when Pamfilo’s story was ended, and
the laughter which greeted his last words had subsided, the queen
turned to Elisa, and bade her follow suit with one of her stories. So Elisa
with a cheerful courage thus began:—
Vast indeed is the field that lies before us, wherein to roam at large;
‛twould readily afford each of us not one course but ten, so richly has
Fortune diversified it with episodes both strange and sombre; wherefore
selecting one such from this infinite store, I say:—That, after the
transference of the Roman Empire from the Franks to the Germans, the
greatest enmity prevailed between the two nations, with warfare
perpetual and relentless: wherefore, deeming that the offensive would
be their best defence, the King of France and his son mustered all the
forces they could raise from their own dominions and those of their
kinsmen and allies, and arrayed a grand army for the subjugation of their
enemies. Before they took the field, as they could not leave the realm
without a governor, they chose for that office Gautier, Count of Antwerp,
a true knight and sage counsellor, and their very loyal ally and vassal,
choosing him the rather, because, albeit he was a thorough master of the
art of war, yet they deemed him less apt to support its hardships than for
the conduct of affairs of a delicate nature. Him, therefore, they set in
their place as their vicar-general and regent of the whole realm of
France, and having so done, they took the field.
Count Gautier ordered his administration wisely and in a regular
course, discussing all matters with the queen and her daughter-in-law;
whom, albeit they were left under his charge and jurisdiction, he
nevertheless treated as his ladies paramount. The Count was about forty
years of age, and the very mould of manly beauty; in bearing as
courteous and chivalrous as ever a gentleman might be, and withal so
debonair and dainty, so feat and trim of person that he had not his peer,
among the gallants of that day. His wife was dead, leaving him two
children and no more, to wit, a boy and a girl, still quite young. Now the

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King and his son being thus away at the war, and the Count frequenting
the court of the two said ladies, and consulting with them upon affairs of
state, it so befell, that the Prince’s lady regarded him with no small
favour, being very sensible alike of the advantages of his person and the
nobility of his bearing; whereby she conceived for him a passion which
was all the more ardent because it was secret. And, as he was without a
wife, and she was still in the freshness of her youth, she saw not why she
should not readily be gratified; but supposing that nothing stood in the
way but her own shamefastness, she resolved to be rid of that, and
disclose her mind to him without any reserve. So one day, when she was
alone, she seized her opportunity, and sent for him, as if she were
desirous to converse with him on indifferent topics. The Count, his mind
entirely aloof from the lady’s purpose, presented himself forthwith, and
at her invitation sate down by her side on a settee. They were quite alone
in the room; but the Count had twice asked her the reason why she had
so honoured him, before, overcome by passion, she broke silence, and
crimson from neck with shame, half sobbing, trembling in every limb,
and at every word, she thus spoke:—‟Dearest friend and sweet my lord,
sagacity such as yours cannot but be apt to perceive how great is the
frailty of men and women, and how, for divers reasons, it varies in
different persons in such a degree that no just judge would mete out the
same measure to each indifferently, though the fault were apparently the
same. Who would not acknowledge that a poor man or woman, fain to
earn daily bread by the sweat of the brow, is far more reprehensible in
yielding to the solicitations of love, than a rich lady, whose life is lapped
in ease and unrestricted luxury? Not a soul, I am persuaded, but would
so acknowledge! Wherefore I deem that the possession of these boons of
fortune should go far indeed to acquit the possessor, if she, perchance,
indulge an errant love; and, for the rest, that, if she have chosen a wise
and worthy lover, she should be entirely exonerated. And as I think I
may fairly claim the benefit of both these pleas, and of others beside, to

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wit, my youth and my husband’s absence, which naturally incline me to

love, ‛tis meet that I now urge them in your presence in defence of my
passion; and if they have the weight with you which they should have
with the wise, I pray you to afford me your help and counsel in the
matter wherein I shall demand it. I avow that in the absence of my
husband I have been unable to withstand the promptings of the flesh
and the power of love, forces of such potency that even the strongest
men—not to speak of delicate women—have not seldom been, nay daily
are, overcome by them; and so, living thus, as you see me, in ease and
luxury, I have allowed the allurements of love to draw me on until at last
I find myself a prey to passion. Wherein were I discovered, I were, I
confess, dishonoured; but discovery being avoided, I count the
dishonour all but nought. Moreover, love has been so gracious to me
that not only has he spared to blind me in the choice of my lover, but he
has even lent me his most effective aid, pointing me to one well worthy
of the love of a lady such as I, even to yourself; whom, if I misread not
my mind, I deem the most handsome and courteous and debonair, and
therewithal the sagest cavalier that the realm of France may shew. And
as you are without a wife, so may I say that I find myself without a
husband. Wherefore in return for this great love I bear you, deny me not,
I pray you, yours; but have pity on my youth, which wastes away for you
like ice before the fire.”
These words were followed by such a flood of tears, that, albeit she
had intended yet further to press her suit, speech failed her; her eyes
drooped, and, almost swooning with emotion, she let her head fall upon
the Count’s breast. The Count, who was the most loyal of knights, began
with all severity to chide her mad passion and to thrust her from him—
for she was now making as if she would throw her arms around his neck
—and to asseverate with oaths that he would rather be hewn in pieces
than either commit, or abet another in committing such an offence
against the honour of his lord; when the lady, catching his drift, and

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forgetting all her love in a sudden frenzy of rage, cried out:—‟So!

unknightly knight, is it thus you flout my love? Now Heaven forbid, but,
as you would be the death of me, I either do you to death or drive you
from the world!” So saying, she dishevelled and tore her hair and rent
her garments to shreds about her bosom. Which done, she began
shrieking at the top of her voice:—‟Help! help! The Count of Antwerp
threatens to violate me!” Whereupon the Count, who knew that a clear
conscience was no protection against the envy of courtiers, and doubted
that his innocence would prove scarce a match for the cunning of the
lady, started to his feet, and hied him with all speed out of the room, out
of the palace, and back to his own house. Counsel of none he sought;
but forthwith set his children on horseback, and taking horse himself,
departed post haste for Calais. The lady’s cries brought not a few to her
aid, who, observing her plight, not only gave entire credence to her story,
but improved upon it, alleging that the debonair and accomplished
Count had long employed all the arts of seduction to compass his end.
So they rushed in hot haste to the Count’s house, with intent to arrest
him, and not finding him, sacked it and razed it to the ground. The
news, as glosed and garbled, being carried to the King and Prince in the
field, they were mightily incensed, and offered a great reward for the
Count, dead or alive, and condemned him and his posterity to perpetual
banishment.
Meanwhile the Count, sorely troubled that by his flight his innocence
shewed as guilt, pursued his journey, and concealing his identity, and
being recognised by none, arrived with his two children at Calais.
Thence he forthwith crossed to England, and, meanly clad, fared on for
London, taking care as he went to school his children in all that
belonged to their new way of life, and especially in two main articles: to
wit, that they should bear with resignation the poverty to which, by no
fault of theirs, but solely by one of Fortune’s caprices, they and he were
reduced, and that they should be most sedulously on their guard to

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betray to none, as they valued their lives, whence they were, or who their
father was. The son, Louis by name, was perhaps nine, and the daughter,
Violante, perhaps seven years of age. For years so tender they proved apt
pupils, and afterwards shewed by their conduct that they had well
learned their father’s lesson. He deemed it expedient to change their
names, and accordingly called the boy Perrot and the girl Jeannette. So,
meanly clad, the Count and his two children arrived at London, and
there made shift to get a living by going about soliciting alms in the guise
of French mendicants.
Now, as for this purpose they waited one morning outside a church, it
so befell that a great lady, the wife of one of the marshals of the King of
England, observed them, as she left the church, asking alms, and
demanded of the Count whence he was, and whether the children were
his. He answered that he was from Picardy, that the children were his,
and that he had been fain to leave Picardy by reason of the misconduct
of their reprobate elder brother. The lady looked at the girl, who being
fair, and of gentle and winning mien and manners, found much favour
in her eyes. So the kind-hearted lady said to the Count:—‟My good man,
if thou art willing to leave thy little daughter with me, I like her looks so
well that I will gladly take her; and if she grow up a good woman, I will
see that she is suitably married when the right time comes.” The Count
was much gratified by the proposal, which he forthwith accepted, and
parted with the girl, charging the lady with tears to take every care of
her.
Having thus placed the girl with one in whom he felt sure that he
might trust, he determined to tarry no longer in London; wherefore,
taking Perrot with him and begging as he went, he made his way to
Wales, not without great suffering, being unused to go afoot. Now in
Wales another of the King’s marshals had his court, maintaining great
state and a large number of retainers; to which court, the Count and his
son frequently repaired, there to get food; and there Perrot, finding the

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marshal’s son and other gentlemen’s sons vying with one another in
boyish exercises, as running and leaping, little by little joined their
company, and shewed himself a match or more for them all in all their
contests. The marshal’s attention being thus drawn to him, he was well
pleased with the boy’s mien and bearing, and asked who he was. He was
told that he was the son of a poor man who sometimes came there to
solicit alms. Whereupon he asked the Count to let him have the boy, and
the Count, to whom God could have granted no greater boon, readily
consented, albeit he was very loath to part with Perrot.
Having thus provided for his son and daughter, the Count resolved to
quit the island; and did so, making his way as best he could to Stamford,
in Ireland, where he obtained a menial’s place in the service of a knight,
retainer to one of the earls of that Country, and so abode there a long
while, doing all the irksome and wearisome drudgery of a lackey or
groom.
Meanwhile under the care of the gentle lady at London Violante or
Jeannette increased, as in years and stature so also in beauty, and in such
favour with the lady and her husband and every other member of the
household and all who knew her that ‛twas a wonder to see; nor was
there any that, observing her bearing and manners, would not have said
that estate or dignity there was none so high or honourable but she was
worthy of it. So the lady, who, since she had received her from her father,
had been unable to learn aught else about him than what he had himself
told, was minded to marry her honourably according to what she
deemed to be her rank. But God, who justly apportions reward according
to merit, having regard to her noble birth, her innocence, and the load
of suffering which the sin of another had laid upon her, ordered
otherwise; and in His good providence, lest the young gentlewoman
should be mated with a churl, permitted, we must believe, events to take
the course they did.
The gentle lady with whom Jeannette lived had an only son, whom

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she and her husband loved most dearly, as well because he was a son as
for his rare and noble qualities, for in truth there were few that could
compare with him in courtesy and courage and personal beauty. Now
the young man marked the extraordinary beauty and grace of Jeannette,
who was about six years his junior, and fell so desperately in love with
her that he had no eyes for any other maiden; but, deeming her to be of
low degree, he not only hesitated to ask her of his parents in marriage,
but, fearing to incur reproof for indulging a passion for an inferior, he
did his utmost to conceal his love. Whereby it gave him far more
disquietude than if he had avowed it; insomuch that—so extreme waxed
his suffering—he fell ill, and that seriously. Divers physicians were called
in, but, for all their scrutiny of his symptoms, they could not determine
the nature of his malady, and one and all gave him up for lost. Nothing
could exceed the sorrow and dejection of his father and mother, who
again and again piteously implored him to discover to them the cause of
his malady, and received no other answer than sighs or complaints that
he seemed to be wasting away. Now it so happened that one day,
Jeannette, who from regard for his mother was sedulous in waiting upon
him, for some reason or another came into the room where he lay, while
a very young but very skilful physician sate by him and held his pulse.
The young man gave her not a word or other sign of recognition; but his
passion waxed, his heart smote him, and the acceleration of his pulse at
once betrayed his inward commotion to the physician, who, albeit
surprised, remained quietly attentive to see how long it would last, and
observing that it ceased when Jeannette left the room, conjectured that
he was on the way to explain the young man’s malady. So, after a while,
still holding the young man’s pulse, he sent for Jeannette, as if he had
something to ask of her. She returned forthwith; the young man’s pulse
mounted as soon as she entered the room, and fell again as soon as she
left it. Wherefore the physician no longer hesitated, but rose, and taking
the young man’s father and mother aside, said to them:—‟The

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restoration of your son’s health rests not with medical skill, but solely
with Jeannette, whom, as by unmistakable signs I have discovered, he
ardently loves, though, so far I can see, she is not aware of it. So you
know what you have to do, if you value his life.” The prospect thus
afforded of their son’s deliverance from death reassured the gentleman
and his lady, albeit they were troubled, misdoubting it must be by his
marriage with Jeannette. So, when the physician was gone, they went to
the sick lad, and the lady thus spoke:—‟My son, never would I have
believed that thou wouldst have concealed from me any desire of thine,
least of all if such it were that privation should cause thee to languish;
for well assured thou shouldst have been and shouldst be, that I hold
thee dear as my very self, and that whatever may be for thy contentment,
even though it were scarce seemly, I would do it for thee; but, for all thou
hast so done, God has shewn Himself more merciful to theeward than
thyself, and, lest thou die of this malady, has given me to know its cause,
which is nothing else than the excessive love which thou bearest to a
young woman, be she who she may. Which love in good sooth thou
needest not have been ashamed to declare; for it is but natural at thy
age; and hadst thou not loved, I should have deemed thee of very little
worth. So, my son, be not shy of me, but frankly discover to me thy
whole heart; and away with this gloom and melancholy whereof thy
sickness is engendered, and be comforted, and assure thyself that there
is nought that thou mayst require of me which I will not do to give thee
ease, so far as my powers may reach, seeing that thou art dearer to me
than my own life. Away with thy shamefastness and fears, and tell me if
there is aught wherein I may be helpful to thee in the matter of thy love;
and if I bestir not myself and bring it to pass, account me the most harsh
mother that ever bore son.”
The young man was at first somewhat shamefast to hear his mother
thus speak, but, reflecting that none could do more for his happiness
than she, he took courage, and thus spoke:—‟Madam, my sole reason for

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concealing my love from you was that I have observed that old people for
the most part forget that they once were young; but, as I see that no such
unreasonableness is to be apprehended in you, I not only acknowledge
the truth of what you say that you have discerned, but I will also disclose
to you the object of my passion, on the understanding that your promise
shall to the best of your power be performed, as it must be, if I am to be
restored to you in sound health.” Whereupon the lady, making too sure
of that which was destined to fall out otherwise than she expected, gave
him every encouragement to discover all his heart, and promised to lose
no time and spare no pains in endeavouring to compass his gratification.
‟Madam,” said then the young man, ‟the rare beauty and exquisite
manners of our Jeannette, my powerlessness to make her understand—I
do not say commiserate—my love, and my reluctance to disclose it to
any, have brought me to the condition in which you see me; and if your
promise be not in one way or another performed, be sure that my life
will be brief.” The lady, deeming that the occasion called rather for
comfort than for admonition, replied with a smile:—‟Ah! my son, was
this then of all things the secret of thy suffering? Be of good cheer, and
leave me to arrange the affair, when you are recovered.” So, animated by a
cheerful hope, the young man speedily gave sign of a most marked
improvement, which the lady observed with great satisfaction, and then
began to cast about how she might keep her promise. So one day she
sent for Jeannette, and in a tone of gentle raillery asked her if she had a
lover. Jeannette turned very red as she answered:—‟Madam, ‛twould
scarce, nay, ‛twould ill become a damsel such as I, poor, outcast from
home, and in the service of another, to occupy herself with thoughts of
love.” Whereto the lady answered:—‟So you have none, we will give you
one, who will brighten all your life and give you more joy of your beauty;
for it is not right that so fair a damsel as you remain without a lover.”
‟Madam,” rejoined Jeannette, ‟you found me living in poverty with my
father, you adopted me, you have brought me up as your daughter;

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wherefore I should, if possible, comply with your every wish; but in this
matter I will render you no compliance, nor do I doubt that I do well. So
you will give me a husband, I will love him, but no other will I love; for,
as patrimony I now have none save my honour, that I am minded to
guard and preserve while my life shall last.” Serious though the obstacle
was which these words opposed to the plan by which the lady had
intended to keep her promise to her son, her sound judgment could not
but secretly acknowledge that the spirit which they evinced was much to
be commended in the damsel. Wherefore she said:—‟Nay but, Jeannette;
suppose that our Lord the King, who is a young knight as thou art a most
fair damsel, craved some indulgence of thy love, wouldst thou deny
him?” ‟The King,” returned Jeannette without the least hesitation,
‟might constrain me, but with my consent he should never have aught of
me that was not honourable.” Whereto the lady made no answer, for she
now understood the girl’s temper; but, being minded to put her to the
proof, she told her son that, as soon as he was recovered, she would
arrange that he should be closeted with her in the same room, and be
thus able to use all his arts to bring her to his will, saying that it ill
became her to play the part of procuress and urge her son’s suit upon her
own maid. But as the young man, by no means approving this idea,
suddenly grew worse, the lady at length opened her mind to Jeannette,
whom she found in the same frame as before, and indeed even more
resolute. Wherefore she told her husband all that she had done; and as
both preferred that their son should marry beneath him, and live, than
that he should remain single and die, they resolved, albeit much
disconcerted, to give Jeannette to him to wife; and so after long debate
they did. Whereat Jeannette was overjoyed, and with devout heart gave
thanks to God that He had not forgotten her; nevertheless she still gave
no other account of herself than that she was the daughter of a Picard.
So the young man recovered, and blithe at heart as ne’er another, was
married, and began to speed the time gaily with his bride.

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Meanwhile Perrot, left in Wales with the marshal of the King of

England, had likewise with increase of years increase of favour with his
master, and grew up most shapely and well-favoured, and of such
prowess that in all the island at tourney or joust or any other passage of
arms he had not his peer; being everywhere known and renowned as
Perrot the Picard. And as God had not forgotten Jeannette, so likewise
He made manifest by what follows that He had not forgotten Perrot.
Well-nigh half the population of those parts being swept off by a sudden
visitation of deadly pestilence, most of the survivors fled therefrom in a
panic, so that the country was, to all appearance, entirely deserted.
Among those that died of the pest were the marshal, his lady, and his
son, besides brothers and nephews and kinsfolk in great number;
whereby of his entire household there were left only one of his
daughters, now marriageable, and a few servants, among them Perrot.
Now Perrot being a man of such notable prowess, the damsel, soon after
the pestilence had spent itself, took him, with the approval and by the
advice of the few folk that survived, to be her husband, and made him
lord of all that fell to her by inheritance. Nor was it long before the King
of England, learning that the marshal was dead, made Perrot the Picard,
to whose merit he was no stranger, marshal in the dead man’s room.
Such, in brief, was the history of the two innocent children, with whom
the Count of Antwerp had parted, never expecting to see them again.
‛Twas now the eighteenth year since the Count of Antwerp had taken
flight from Paris, when, being still in Ireland, where he had led a very
sorry and suffering sort of life, and feeling that age was now come upon
him, he felt a longing to learn, if possible, what was become of his
children. The fashion of his outward man was now completely changed;
for long hardship had (as he well knew) given to his age a vigour which
his youth, lapped in ease, had lacked. So he hesitated not to take his
leave of the knight with whom he had so long resided, and poor and in
sorry trim he crossed to England, and made his way to the place where

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he had left Perrot—to find him a great lord and marshal of the King, and
in good health, and withal a hardy man and very handsome. All which
was very grateful to the old man; but yet he would not make himself
known to his son, until he had learned the fate of Jeannette. So forth he
fared again, nor did he halt until he was come to London, where,
cautiously questing about for news of the lady with whom he had left his
daughter, and how it fared with her, he learned that Jeannette was
married to the lady’s son. Whereat, in the great gladness of his heart, he
counted all his past adversity but a light matter, since he had found his
children alive and prosperous. But sore he yearned to see Jeannette.
Wherefore he took to loitering, as poor folk are wont, in the
neighbourhood of the house. And so one day Jacques Lamiens—such
was the name of Jeannette’s husband— saw him and had pity on him,
observing that he was poor and aged, and bade one of his servants take
him indoors, and for God’s sake give him something to eat; and nothing
loath the servant did so. Now Jeannette had borne Jacques several
children, the finest and the most winsome children in the world, the
eldest no more than eight years old; who gathered about the Count as he
ate, and, as if by instinct divining that he was their grandfather, began to
make friends with him. He, knowing them for his grandchildren, could
not conceal his love, and repaid them with caresses; insomuch that they
would not hearken to their governor when he called them, but remained
with the Count. Which being reported to Jeannette, she came out of her
room, crossed to where the Count was sitting with the children, and
bade them do as their master told them, or she would certainly have
them whipped. The children began to cry, and to say that they would
rather stay with the worthy man, whom they liked much better than
their master; whereat both the lady and the Count laughed in sympathy.
The Count had risen, with no other intention—for he was not minded to
disclose his paternity—than to pay his daughter the respect due from his
poverty to her rank, and the sight of her had thrilled his soul with a

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wondrous delight. By her he was and remained unrecognised; utterly

changed as he was from his former self; aged, grey-haired, bearded, lean
and tanned—in short to all appearance another man than the Count.
However, seeing that the children were unwilling to leave him, but
wept when she made as if she would constrain them, she bade the
master let them be for a time. So the children remained with the worthy
man, until by chance Jacques’ father came home, and learned from the
master what had happened. Whereupon, having a grudge against
Jeannette, he said:—‟Let them be; and God give them the ill luck which
He owes them: whence they sprang, thither they must needs return; they
descend from a vagabond on the mother’s side, and so ‛tis no wonder
that they consort readily with vagabonds.” The Count caught these
words and was sorely pained, but, shrugging his shoulders, bore the
affront silently as he had borne many another. Jacques, who had noted
his children’s fondness for the worthy man, to wit, the Count, was
displeased; but nevertheless, such was the love he bore them, that,
rather than see them weep, he gave order that, if the worthy man cared
to stay there in his service, he should be received. The Count answered
that he would gladly do so, but that he was fit for nothing except to look
after horses, to which he had been used all his life. So a horse was
assigned him, and when he had groomed him, he occupied himself in
playing with the children.
While Fortune thus shaped the destinies of the Count of Antwerp
and his children, it so befell that after a long series of truces made with
the Germans the King of France died, and his crown passed to his son,
whose wife had been the occasion of the Count’s banishment. The new
king, as soon as the last truce with the Germans was run out, renewed
hostilities with extraordinary vigour, being aided by his brother of
England with a large army under the command of his marshal, Perrot,
and his other marshal’s son, Jacques Lamiens. With them went the
worthy man, that is to say, the Count, who, unrecognised by any, served

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for a long while in the army in the capacity of groom, and acquitted
himself both in counsel and in arms with a wisdom and valour
unwonted in one of his supposed rank. The war was still raging when the
Queen of France fell seriously ill, and, as she felt her end approach,
made a humble and contrite confession of all her sins to the Archbishop
of Rouen, who was universally reputed a good and most holy man.
Among her other sins she confessed the great wrong that she had done
to the Count of Antwerp; nor was she satisfied to confide it to the
Archbishop, but recounted the whole affair, as it had passed, to not a few
other worthy men, whom she besought to use their influence with the
King to procure the restitution of the Count, if he were still alive, and if
not, of his children, to honour and estate. And so, dying shortly
afterwards, she was honourably buried. The Queen’s confession wrung
from the King a sigh or two of compunction for a brave man cruelly
wronged; after which he caused proclamation to be made throughout
the army and in many other parts, that whoso should bring him tidings
of the Count of Antwerp, or his children, should receive from him such a
guerdon for each of them as should justly be matter of marvel; seeing
that he held him acquitted, by confession of the Queen, of the crime for
which he had been banished, and was therefore now minded to grant
him not only restitution but increase of honour and estate.
Now the Count, being still with the army in his character of groom,
heard the proclamation, which he did not doubt was made in good faith.
Wherefore he hied him forthwith to Jacques, and begged a private
interview with him and Perrot, that he might discover to them that
whereof the King was in quest. So the meeting was had; and Perrot was
on the point of declaring himself, when the Count anticipated him:
—‟Perrot,” he said, ‟Jacques here has thy sister to wife, but never a dowry
had he with her. Wherefore that thy sister be not dowerless, ‛tis my will
that he, and no other, have this great reward which the King offers for
thee, son, as he shall certify, of the Count of Antwerp, and for his wife

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and thy sister, Violante, and for me, Count of Antwerp, thy father.” So
hearing, Perrot scanned the Count closely, and forthwith recognising
him, burst into tears, and throwing himself at his feet embraced him,
saying:—‟My father, welcome, welcome indeed art thou.” Whereupon,
between what he had heard from the Count and what he had witnessed
on the part of Perrot, Jacques was so overcome with wonder and delight,
that at first he was at a loss to know how to act. However, giving entire
credence to what he had heard, and recalling insulting language which
he had used towards the quondam groom, the Count, he was sore
stricken with shame, and wept, and fell at the Count’s feet, and humbly
craved his pardon for all past offences; which the Count, raising him to
his feet, most graciously granted him. So with many a tear and many a
hearty laugh the three men compared their several fortunes; which
done, Perrot and Jacques would have arrayed the Count in manner
befitting his rank, but he would by no means suffer it, being minded
that Jacques, so soon as he was well assured that the guerdon was
forthcoming, should present him to the King in his garb of groom, that
thereby the King might be the more shamed. So Jacques, with the Count
and Perrot, went presently to the King and offered to present to him the
Count and his children, provided the guerdon were forthcoming
according to the proclamation. Jacques wondered not a little as
forthwith at a word from the King a guerdon was produced ample for all
three, and he was bidden take it away with him, so only that he should in
very truth produce, as he had promised, the Count and his children in
the royal presence. Then, withdrawing a little and causing his quondam
groom, now Count, to come forward with Perrot, he said:—‟Sire, father
and son are before you; the daughter, my wife, is not here, but, God
willing, you shall soon see her.” So hearing, the King surveyed the Count,
whom, notwithstanding his greatly changed appearance, he at length
recognised, and well-nigh moved to tears, he raised him from his knees
to his feet, and kissed and embraced him. He also gave a kindly welcome

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to Perrot, and bade forthwith furnish the Count with apparel, servants
and horses, suited to his rank; all which was no sooner said than done.
Moreover the King shewed Jacques no little honour, and particularly
questioned him of all his past adventures.
As Jacques was about to take the noble guerdons assigned him for the
discovery of the Count and his children, the Count said to him:—‟Take
these tokens of the magnificence of our Lord the King, and forget not to
tell thy father that ‛tis from no vagabond that thy children, his and my
grandchildren, descend on the mother’s side.” So Jacques took the
guerdons, and sent for his wife and mother to join him at Paris. Thither
also came Perrot’s wife: and there with all magnificence they were
entertained by the Count, to whom the King had not only restored all
his former estates and honours, but added thereto others, whereby he
was now become a greater man than he had ever been before. Then with
the Count’s leave they all returned to their several houses. The Count
himself spent the rest of his days at Paris in greater glory than ever.

NOVEL IX.

— Bernabo of Genoa, deceived by Ambrogiuolo, loses his

money and commands his innocent wife to be put to death.
She escapes, habits herself as a man, and serves the Soldan.
She discovers the deceiver, and brings Bernabo to Alexandria,
where the deceiver is punished. She then resumes the garb of a
woman, and with her husband returns wealthy to Genoa. —
When Elisa had performed her part, and brought her touching story to a
close, Queen Philomena, a damsel no less stately than fair of person,
and of a surpassingly sweet and smiling mien, having composed herself
to speak, thus began:—
Our engagements with Dioneo shall be faithfully observed;

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wherefore, as he and I alone remain to complete the day’s narration, I

will tell my story first, and he shall have the grace he craved, and be the
last to speak. After which prelude she thus began her story:— ‛Tis a
proverb current among the vulgar that the deceived has the better of the
deceiver; a proverb which, were it not exemplified by events, might
hardly in any manner be justified. Wherefore, while adhering to our
theme, I am minded at the same time dearest ladies to shew you that
there is truth in this proverb; the proof whereof should be none the less
welcome to you that it may put you on your guard against deceivers.
Know then that certain very great merchants of Italy, being met, as
merchants use, for divers reasons proper to each, at a hostelry in Paris,
and having one evening jovially supped together, fell a talking of divers
matters, and so, passing from one topic to another, they came at last to
discuss the ladies whom they had left at home, and one jocosely said:
—‟I cannot answer for my wife; but for myself I own, that, whenever a
girl that is to my mind comes in my way, I give the go-by to the love that
I bear my wife, and take my pleasure of the new-comer to the best of my
power.” ‟And so do I,” said another, ‟because I know that, whether I
suspect her or no, my wife tries her fortune, and so ‛tis do as you are
done by; the ass and the wall are quits.” A third added his testimony to
the same effect; and in short all seemed to concur in the opinion that the
ladies they had left behind them were not likely to neglect their
opportunities, when one, a Genoese, Bernabo Lomellin by name,
dissociated himself from the rest, affirming that by especial grace of God
he was blessed with a wife who was, perhaps, the most perfect paragon
to be found in Italy of all the virtues proper to a lady, ay, and in great
measure, to a knight or squire; inasmuch as she was fair, still quite
young, handy, hardy, and clever beyond all other women in embroidery
work and all other forms of lady’s handicraft. Moreover so well-
mannered, discreet and sensible was she that she was as fit to wait at a
lord’s table as any squire or manservant or such like, the best and most

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adroit that could be found. To which encomium he added that she knew
how to manage a horse, fly a hawk, read, write and cast up accounts
better than as if she were a merchant; and after much more in the same
strain of commendation he came at length to the topic of their
conversation, asseverating with an oath that ‛twas not possible to find a
woman more honest, more chaste than she: nay, he verily believed that,
if he remained from home for ten years, or indeed for the rest of his
days, she would never think of any of these casual amours with any other
man.
Among the merchants who thus gossiped was a young man,
Ambrogiuolo da Piacenza, by name, who, when Bernabo thus concluded
his eulogy of his wife, broke out into a mighty laugh, and asked him with
a leer, whether he of all men had this privilege by special patent of the
Emperor. Bernabo replied, somewhat angrily, that ‛twas a boon
conferred upon him by God, who was rather more powerful than the
Emperor. To which Ambrogiuolo rejoined:—‟I make no doubt, Bernabo,
that thou believest that what thou sayst is true; but, methinks, thou hast
been but a careless observer of the nature of things; otherwise, I do not
take thee to be of so gross understanding but that thou must have
discerned therein reasons for speaking more judiciously of this matter.
And that thou mayst not think that we, who have spoken with much
freedom about our wives, deem them to be of another nature and mould
than thine, but mayst know that we have but uttered what common
sense dictates, I am minded to go a little further into this matter with
thee. I have always understood, that of all mortal beings created by God
man is the most noble, and next after him woman: man, then, being, as
is universally believed, and is indeed apparent by his works, more
perfect than woman, must without doubt be endowed with more
firmness and constancy, women being one and all more mobile, for
reasons not a few and founded in nature, which I might adduce, but
mean for the present to pass over. And yet, for all his greater firmness,

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man cannot withstand—I do not say a woman’s supplications, but—the

mere lust of the eye which she unwittingly excites, and that in such sort
that he will do all that is in his power to induce her to pleasure him, not
once, perhaps, in the course of a month, but a thousand times a day.
How, then, shouldst thou expect a woman, mobile by nature, to resist
the supplications, the flatteries, the gifts, and all the other modes of
attack that an accomplished seducer will employ? Thou thinkest that
she may hold out! Nay verily, affirm it as thou mayst, I doubt thou dost
not really so think. Thou dost not deny that thy wife is a woman, a
creature of flesh and blood like the rest; and if so, she must have the
same cravings, the same natural propensities as they, and no more force
to withstand them; wherefore ‛tis at least possible, that, however honest
she be, she will do as others do; and nought that is possible admits such
peremptory denial or affirmation of its contrary as this of thine.”
Whereto Bernabo returned—‟I am a merchant and no philosopher,
and I will give thee a merchant’s answer. I acknowledge that what thou
sayst is true of vain and foolish women who have no modesty, but such
as are discreet are so sensitive in regard of their honour that they
become better able to preserve it than men, who have no such solicitude;
and my wife is one of this sort.” ‟Doubtless,” observed Ambrogiuolo, ‟few
would be found to indulge in these casual amours, if every time they did
so a horn grew out on the brow to attest the fact; but not only does no
horn make its appearance but not so much as a trace or vestige of a horn,
so only they be but prudent; and the shame and dishonour consist only
in the discovery: wherefore, if they can do it secretly, they do it, or are
fools to refrain. Hold it for certain that she alone is chaste who either
had never suit made to her, or, suing herself, was repulsed. And albeit I
know that for reasons true and founded in nature this must needs be, yet
I should not speak so positively thereof as I do, had I not many a time
with many a woman verified it by experience. And I assure thee that,
had I but access to this most saintly wife of thine, I should confidently

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expect very soon to have the same success with her as with others.” Then
Bernabo angrily:—”‛Twere long and tedious to continue this discussion. I
should have my say, and thou thine, and in the end ‛twould come to
nothing. But, as thou sayst that they are all so compliant, and that thou
art so accomplished a seducer, I give thee this pledge of the honour of
my wife: I consent to forfeit my head, if thou shouldst succeed in
bringing her to pleasure thee in such a sort; and shouldst thou fail, thou
shalt forfeit to me no more than one thousand florins of gold.”
Elated by this unexpected offer, Ambrogiuolo replied:—‟I know not
what I should do with thy blood, Bernabo, if I won the wager; but, if
thou wouldst have proof of what I have told thee, lay five thousand
florins of gold, which must be worth less to thee than thy head, against a
thousand of mine, and, whereas thou makest no stipulation as to time, I
will bind myself to go to Genoa, and within three months from my
departure hence to have had my pleasure of thy wife, and in witness
thereof to bring back with me, of the things which she prizes most
dearly, evidence of her compliance so weighty and conclusive that thou
thyself shalt admit the fact; nor do I require ought of thee but that thou
pledge thy faith neither to come to Genoa nor to write word to her of this
matter during the said three months.” Bernabo professed himself well
content; and though the rest of the company, seeing that the compact
might well have very evil consequences, did all that they could to
frustrate it, yet the two men were now so heated that, against the will of
the others, they set it down fairly in writing, and signed it each with his
own hand. This done, Ambrogiuolo, leaving Bernabo at Paris, posted
with all speed for Genoa. Arrived there, he set to work with great
caution; and having found out the quarter in which the lady resided, he
learned in the course of a few days enough about her habits of life and
her character to know that what Bernabo had told him was rather less
than the truth. So, recognising that his enterprise was hopeless, he cast
about for some device whereby he might cover his defeat; and having got

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speech of a poor woman, who was much in the lady’s house, as also in
her favour, he bribed her (other means failing) to convey him in a chest,
which he had had made for the purpose, not only into the house but
into the bedroom of the lady, whom the good woman, following
Bernabo’s instructions, induced to take charge of it for some days,
during which, she said, she would be away.
So the lady suffered the chest to remain in the room; and when the
night was so far spent that Bernabo thought she must be asleep, he
opened it with some tools with which he had provided himself, and stole
softly out. There was a light in the room, so that he was able to form an
idea of its situation, to take note of the pictures and everything else of
consequence that it contained, and to commit the whole to memory.
This done, he approached the bed; and observing that the lady, and a
little girl that was with her, were fast asleep, he gently uncovered her,
and saw that nude she was not a whit less lovely than when dressed: he
looked about for some mark that might serve him as evidence that he
had seen her in this state, but found nothing except a mole, which she
had under the left breast, and which was fringed with a few fair hairs
that shone like gold. So beautiful was she that he was tempted at the
hazard of his life to take his place by her side in the bed; but,
remembering what he had heard of her inflexible obduracy in such
affairs, he did not venture; but quietly replaced the bedclothes; and
having passed the best part of the night very much at his ease in her
room, he took from one of the lady’s boxes a purse, a gown, a ring and a
girdle, and with these tokens returned to the chest, and locked himself
in as before. In this manner he passed two nights, nor did the lady in the
least suspect his presence. On the third day the good woman came by
preconcert to fetch her chest, and took it back to the place whence she
had brought it. So Ambrogiuolo got out, paid her the stipulated sum,
and hied him back with all speed to Paris, where he arrived within the
appointed time. Then, in presence of the merchants who were witnesses

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of his altercation with Bernabo, and the wager to which it had given
occasion, he told Bernabo that he had won the bet, having done what he
had boasted that he would do; and in proof thereof he first of all
described the appearance of the room and the pictures, and then
displayed the articles belonging to the lady which he had brought away
with him, averring that she had given them to him. Bernabo
acknowledged the accuracy of his description of the room, and that the
articles did really belong to his wife, but objected that Ambrogiuolo
might have learned characteristic features of the room from one of the
servants, and have come by the things in a similar way, and therefore,
unless he had something more to say, he could not justly claim to have
won the bet. ‟Verily,” rejoined Ambrogiuolo, ‟this should suffice; but, as
thou requirest that I say somewhat further, I will satisfy thee. I say, then,
that Madam Zinevra, thy wife, has under her left breast a mole of some
size, around which are, perhaps, six hairs of a golden hue.” As Bernabo
heard this, it was as if a knife pierced his heart, so poignant was his
suffering; and, though no word escaped him, the complete alteration of
his mien bore unmistakable witness to the truth of Ambrogiuolo’s
words. After a while he said:—‟Gentlemen, ‛tis even as Ambrogiuolo
says; he has won the bet; he has but to come when he will, and he shall
be paid.” And so the very next day Ambrogiuolo was paid in full, and
Bernabo, intent on wreaking vengeance on his wife, left Paris and set his
face towards Genoa. He had no mind, however, to go home, and
accordingly halted at an estate which he had some twenty miles from the
city, whither he sent forward a servant, in whom he reposed much trust,
with two horses and a letter advising the lady of his return, and bidding
her come out to meet him. At the same time he gave the servant secret
instructions to choose some convenient place, and ruthlessly put the
lady to death, and so return to him. On his arrival at Genoa the servant
delivered his message and the letter to the lady, who received him with
great cheer, and next morning got on horseback and set forth with him

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for her husband’s estate. So they rode on, talking of divers matters, until
they came to a deep gorge, very lonely, and shut in by high rocks and
trees. The servant, deeming this just the place in which he might
without risk of discovery fulfil his lord’s behest, whipped out a knife, and
seizing the lady by the arm, said:—‟Madam, commend your soul to God,
for here must end at once your journey and your life.” Terror-stricken by
what she saw and heard, the lady cried out:—‟Mercy for God’s sake;
before thou slay me, tell me at least wherein I have wronged thee, that
thou art thus minded to put me to death.” ‟Madam,” said the servant,
‟me you have in no wise wronged; but your husband—how you may have
wronged him I know not—charged me shew you no mercy, but to slay
you on this journey, and threatened to have me hanged by the neck,
should I not do so. You know well how bound I am to him, and that I
may not disobey any of his commands: God knows I pity you, but yet I
can no otherwise.” Whereat the lady burst into tears, saying:— ‟Mercy for
God’s sake; make not thyself the murderer of one that has done thee no
wrong, at the behest of another. The all-seeing God knows that I never
did aught to merit such requital at my husband’s hands. But enough of
this for the present: there is a way in which thou canst serve at once God
and thy master and myself, if thou wilt do as I bid thee: take, then, these
clothes of mine and give me in exchange just thy doublet and a hood;
and carry the clothes with thee to my lord and thine, and tell him that
thou hast slain me; and I swear to thee by the life which I shall have
received at thy hands, that I will get me gone, and there abide whence
news of me shall never reach either him or thee or these parts.” The
servant, being loath to put her to death, soon yielded to pity; and so he
took her clothes, allowing her to retain a little money that she had, and
gave her one of his worser doublets and a hood; then, praying her to
depart the country, he left her afoot in the gorge, and returned to his
master, whom he gave to understand that he had not only carried out his
orders but had left the lady’s body a prey to wolves. Bernabo after a while

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returned to Genoa, where, the supposed murder being bruited abroad,

he was severely censured.
Alone and disconsolate, the lady, as night fell, disguised herself as
best she could, and hied her to a neighbouring village, where, having
procured what was needful from an old woman, she shortened the
doublet and fitted it to her figure, converted her chemise into a pair of
breeches, cut her hair close, and, in short, completely disguised herself
as a sailor. She then made her way to the coast, where by chance she
encountered a Catalan gentleman, by name Segner Encararch, who had
landed from one of his ships, which lay in the offing, to recreate himself
at Alba, where there was a fountain. So she made overture to him of her
services, was engaged and taken aboard the ship, assuming the name
Sicurano da Finale. The gentleman put her in better trim as to clothes,
and found her so apt and handy at service that he was exceeding well
pleased with her.
Not long afterwards the Catalan sailed one of his carracks to
Alexandria. He took with him some peregrine falcons, which he
presented to the Soldan, who feasted him once or twice; and noting with
approbation the behaviour of Sicurano, who always attended his master,
he craved him of the Catalan, which request the Catalan reluctantly
granted. Sicurano proved so apt for his new service that he was soon as
high in grace and favour with the Soldan as he had been with the
Catalan. Wherefore, when the time of year came at which there was
wont to be held at Acre, then under the Soldan’s sway, a great fair, much
frequented by merchants, Christian and Saracen alike, and to which, for
the security of the merchants and their goods, the Soldan always sent
one of his great officers of state with other officers and a guard to attend
upon them, he determined to send Sicurano, who by this time knew the
language very well. So Sicurano was sent to Acre as governor and captain
of the guard for the protection of the merchants and merchandise.
Arrived there, he bestirred himself with great zeal in all matters

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appertaining to his office; and as he went his rounds of inspection, he

espied among the merchants not a few from Italy, Sicilians, Pisans,
Genoese, Venetians, and so forth, with whom he consorted the more
readily because they reminded him of his native land. And so it befell
that, alighting once at a shop belonging to some Venetian merchants, he
saw there among other trinkets a purse and a girdle, which he forthwith
recognised as having once been his own. Concealing his surprise, he
blandly asked whose they were, and if they were for sale. He was
answered by Ambrogiuolo da Piacenza, who had come thither with
much merchandise aboard a Venetian ship, and hearing that the captain
of the guard was asking about the ownership of the purse and girdle,
came forward, and said with a smile:—‟The things are mine, Sir, and I
am not disposed to sell them, but, if they take your fancy, I will gladly
give them to you.” Observing the smile, Sicurano misdoubted that
something had escaped him by which Ambrogiuolo had recognised him;
but he answered with a composed air:—‟Thou dost smile, perchance, to
see me, a soldier, come asking about this woman’s gear?” ‟Not so, Sir,”
returned Ambrogiuolo; ‟I smile to think of the manner in which I came
by it.” ‟And pray,” said Sicurano, ‟if thou hast no reason to conceal it, tell
me, in God’s name, how thou didst come by the things.” ” Why, Sir,” said
Ambrogiuolo, ‟they were given me by a Genoese lady, with whom I once
spent a night, Madam Zinevra by name, wife of Bernabo Lomellin, who
prayed me to keep them as a token of her love. I smiled just now to think
of the folly of Bernabo, who was so mad as to stake five thousand florins
of gold, against my thousand that I could not bring his wife to surrender
to me; which I did. I won the bet; and he, who should rather have been
punished for his insensate folly, than she for doing what all women do,
had her put to death, as I afterwards gathered, on his way back from
Paris to Genoa.”
Ambrogiuolo had not done speaking before Sicurano had discerned
in him the evident cause of her husband’s animosity against her, and all

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her woe, and had made up her mind that he should not escape with
impunity. She therefore feigned to be much interested by this story,
consorted frequently and very familiarly with Ambrogiuolo, and
insidiously captured his confidence, insomuch that at her suggestion,
when the fair was done, he, taking with him all his wares, accompanied
her to Alexandria, where she provided him with a shop, and put no little
of her own money in his hands; so that he, finding it very profitable, was
glad enough to stay. Anxious to make her innocence manifest to
Bernabo, Sicurano did not rest until, with the help of some great
Genoese merchants that were in Alexandria, she had devised an
expedient to draw him thither. Her plan succeeded; Bernabo arrived;
and, as he was now very poor, she privily arranged that he should be
entertained by one of her friends until occasion should serve to carry out
her design. She had already induced Ambrogiuolo to tell his story to the
Soldan, and the Soldan to interest himself in the matter. So Bernabo
being come, and further delay inexpedient, she seized her opportunity,
and persuaded the Soldan to cite Ambrogiuolo and Bernabo before him,
that in Bernabo’s presence Ambrogiuolo might be examined of his boast
touching Bernabo’s wife, and the truth hereof, if not to be had from him
by gentle means, be elicited by torture. So the Soldan, having
Ambrogiuolo and Bernabo before him, amid a great concourse of his
people questioned Ambrogiuolo of the five thousand florins of gold that
he had won from Bernabo, and sternly bade him tell the truth. Still more
harsh was the aspect of Sicurano, in whom Ambrogiuolo had placed his
chief reliance, but who now threatened him with the direst torments if
the truth were not forthcoming. Thus hard bested on this side and on
that, and in a manner coerced, Ambrogiuolo, thinking he had but to
refund, in presence of Bernabo and many others accurately recounted
the affair as it had happened. When he had done, Sicurano, as minister
of the Soldan for the time being, turned to Bernabo and said:—‟And thy
wife, thus falsely accused, what treatment did she meet with at thy

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hands?” ‟Mortified,” said Bernabo, ‟by the loss of my money, and the
dishonour which I deemed to have been done me by my wife, I was so
overcome by wrath that I had her put to death by one of my servants,
who brought me word that her corpse had been instantly devoured by a
pack of wolves.”
Albeit the Soldan had heard and understood all that had passed, yet
he did not as yet apprehend the object for which Sicurano had pursued
the investigation. Wherefore Sicurano thus addressed him:—‟My lord,
what cause this good lady has to boast of her lover and her husband you
have now abundant means of judging; seeing that the lover at one and
the same time despoils her of her honour, blasting her fair fame with
slanderous accusations, and ruins her husband; who, more prompt to
trust the falsehood of another than the verity of which his own long
experience should have assured him, devotes her to death and the
devouring wolves; and, moreover, such is the regard, such the love which
both bear her that, though both tarry a long time with her, neither
recognises her. However, that you may know full well what
chastisements they have severally deserved, I will now cause her to
appear in your presence and theirs, provided you, of your especial grace,
be pleased to punish the deceiver and pardon the deceived.” The Soldan,
being minded in this matter to defer entirely to Sicurano, answered that
he was well content, and bade produce the lady. Bernabo, who had
firmly believed that she was dead, was lost in wonder; likewise
Ambrogiuolo, who now divined his evil plight, and dreading something
worse than the disbursement of money, knew not whether to expect the
lady’s advent with fear or with hope. His suspense was not of long
duration; for, as soon as the Soldan signified his assent, Sicurano,
weeping, threw herself on her knees at his feet, and discarding the
tones, as she would fain have divested herself of the outward semblance,
of a man, said:—‟My lord, that forlorn, hapless Zinevra am I, falsely and
foully slandered by this traitor Ambrogiuolo, and by my cruel and unjust

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husband delivered over to his servant to slaughter and cast out as a prey
to the wolves; for which cause I have now for six years been a wanderer
on the face of the earth in the guise of a man.” Then rending her robes in
front and baring her breast, she made it manifest to the Soldan and all
others who were present, that she was indeed a woman; then turning to
Ambrogiuolo she haughtily challenged him to say when she had ever
lain with him, as he had boasted. Ambrogiuolo said never a word, for he
now recognised her, and it was as if shame had reft from him the power
of speech. The Soldan, who had never doubted that Sicurano was a man,
was so wonder-struck by what he saw and heard that at times he thought
it must be all a dream. But, as wonder gave place to conviction of the
truth, he extolled in the amplest terms the constancy and virtue and
seemliness with which Zinevra, erstwhile Sicurano, had ordered her life.
He then directed that she should be most nobly arrayed in the garb of
her sex and surrounded by a bevy of ladies. Mindful of her intercession,
he granted to Bernabo the life which he had forfeited; and she, when
Bernabo threw himself at her feet and wept and craved her pardon,
raised him, unworthy though he was, to his feet and generously forgave
him, and tenderly embraced him as her husband. Ambrogiuolo the
Soldan commanded to be bound to a stake, that his bare flesh, anointed
with honey, might be exposed to the sun on one of the heights of the
city, there to remain until it should fall to pieces of its own accord: and
so ‛twas done. He then decreed that the lady should have the traitor’s
estate, which was worth not less but rather more than ten thousand
doubloons; whereto he added, in jewels and vessels of gold and silver
and in money, the equivalent of upwards of other ten thousand
doubloons, having first entertained her and her husband with most
magnificent and ceremonious cheer, accordant with the lady’s worth.
Which done, he placed a ship at their disposal, and gave them leave to
return to Genoa at their pleasure. So to Genoa they returned very rich
and happy, and were received with all honour, especially Madam

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Zinevra, whom all the citizens had believed to be dead, and whom
thenceforth, so long as she lived, they held of great consequence and
excellency. As for Ambrogiuolo, the very same day that he was bound to
the stake, the honey with which his body was anointed attracted such
swarms of flies, wasps and gadflies, wherewith that country abounds,
that not only was his life sucked from him but his very bones were
completely denuded of flesh; in which state, hanging by the sinews, they
remained a long time undisturbed, for a sign and a testimony of his
baseness to all that passed by. And so the deceived had the better of the
deceiver.

NOVEL X.

— Paganino da Monaco carries off the wife of Messer

Ricciardo di Chinzica, who, having learned where she is, goes
to Paganino and in a friendly manner asks him to restore her.
He consents, provided she be willing. She refuses to go back
with her husband. Messer Ricciardo dies, and she marries
Paganino. —
Their queen’s story, by its beauty, elicited hearty commendation from all
the honourable company, and most especially from Dioneo, with whom
it now rested to conclude the day’s narration. Again and again he
renewed his eulogy of the queen’s story; and then began on this wise:—
Fair ladies, there is that in the queen’s story which has caused me to
change my purpose, and substitute another story for that which I had
meant to tell: I refer to the insensate folly of Bernabo (well though it was
with him in the end) and of all others who delude themselves, as he
seemed to do, with the vain imagination that, while they go about the
world, taking their pleasure now of this, now of the other woman, their
wives, left at home, suffer not their hands to stray from their girdles; as if

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we who are born of them and bred among them, could be ignorant of
the bent of their desires. Wherefore, by my story I purpose at one and
the same time to shew you how great is the folly of all such, and how
much greater is the folly of those who, deeming themselves mightier
than nature, think by sophistical arguments to bring that to pass which
is beyond their power, and strive might and main to conform others to
their own pattern, however little the nature of the latter may brook such
treatment. Know then that there was in Pisa a judge, better endowed
with mental than with physical vigour, by name Messer Ricciardo di
Chinzica, who, being minded to take a wife, and thinking, perhaps, to
satisfy her by the same resources which served him for his studies, was
to be suited with none that had not both youth and beauty, qualities
which he would rather have eschewed, if he had known how to give
himself as good counsel as he gave to others. However, being very rich,
he had his desire. Messer Lotto Gualandi gave him in marriage one of his
daughters, Bartolomea by name, a maid as fair and fit for amorous
dalliance as any in Pisa, though few maids be there that do not shew as
spotted lizards. The judge brought her home with all pomp and
ceremony, and had a brave and lordly wedding; but in the essay which he
made the very first night to serve her so as to consummate the marriage
he made a false move, and drew the game much to his own
disadvantage; for next morning his lean, withered and scarce animate
frame was only to be re-quickened by draughts of vernaccia, 17 artificial
restoratives and the like remedies. So, taking a more sober estimate of
his powers than he had been wont, the worthy judge began to give his
wife lessons from a calendar, which might have served as a horn-book,
and perhaps had been put together at Ravenna18 inasmuch as, according
to his shewing, there was not a day in the year but was sacred, not to one
saint only, but to many; in honour of whom for divers reasons it behoved

17 A strong white wine.

18 The saying went, that owing to the multitude of churches at Ravenna every day was there a saint’s day.

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men and women to abstain from carnal intercourse; whereto he added

fast-days, Ember-days, vigils of Apostles and other saints, Friday,
Saturday, Sunday, the whole of Lent, certain lunar mansions, and many
other exceptions, arguing perchance, that the practice of men with
women abed should have its times of vacation no less than the
administration of the law. In this method, which caused the lady
grievous dumps, he long persisted, hardly touching her once a month,
and observing her closely, lest another should give her to know working-
days, as he had taught her holidays.
Now it so befell that, one hot season, Messer Ricciardo thought he
would like to visit a very beautiful estate which he had near Monte Nero,
there to take the air and recreate himself for some days, and thither
accordingly he went with his fair lady. While there, to amuse her, he
arranged for a day’s fishing; and so, he in one boat with the fishermen,
and she in another with other ladies, they put out to watch the sport,
which they found so delightsome, that almost before they knew where
they were they were some miles out to sea. And while they were thus
engrossed with the sport, a galliot of Paganino da Mare, a very famous
corsair of those days, hove in sight and bore down upon the boats, and,
for all the speed they made, came up with that in which were the ladies;
and on sight of the fair lady Paganino, regardless of all else, bore her off
to his galliot before the very eyes of Messer Ricciardo, who was by this
time ashore, and forthwith was gone. The chagrin of the judge, who was
jealous of the very air, may readily be imagined. But ‛twas to no purpose
that, both at Pisa and elsewhere, he moaned and groaned over the
wickedness of the corsairs, for he knew neither by whom his wife had
been abducted, nor whither she had been taken. Paganino, meanwhile,
deemed himself lucky to have gotten so beautiful a prize; and being
unmarried, he was minded never to part with her, and addressed himself
by soft words to soothe the sorrow which kept her in a flood of tears.
Finding words of little avail, he at night passed—the more readily that

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the calendar had slipped from his girdle, and all feasts and holidays from
his mind—to acts of love, and on this wise administered consolation so
effective that before they were come to Monaco she had completely
forgotten the judge and his canons, and had begun to live with Paganino
as merrily as might be. So he brought her to Monaco, where, besides the
daily and nightly solace which he gave her, he honourably entreated her
as his wife.
Not long afterwards Messer Ricciardo coming to know where his wife
was, and being most ardently desirous to have her back, and thinking
none but he would understand exactly what to do in the circumstances,
determined to go and fetch her himself, being prepared to spend any
sum of money that might be demanded by way of ransom. So he took
ship, and being come to Monaco, he both saw her and was seen by her;
which news she communicated to Paganino in the evening, and told him
how she was minded to behave. Next morning Messer Ricciardo,
encountering Paganino, made up to him; and soon assumed a very
familiar and friendly air, while Paganino pretended not to know him,
being on his guard to see what he would be at. So Messer Ricciardo, as
soon as he deemed the time ripe, as best and most delicately he was
able, disclosed to Paganino the business on which he had come, praying
him to take whatever in the way of ransom he chose and restore him the
lady. Paganino replied cheerily:—‟Right glad I am to see you here, Sir;
and briefly thus I answer you:—True it is that I have here a young
woman; whether she be your wife or another man’s, I know not, for you
are none of my acquaintance, nor is she, except for the short time that
she has been with me. If, as you say, you are her husband, why, as you
seem to me to be a pleasant gentleman, I will even take you to her, and I
doubt not she will know you well; if she says that it is even as you say,
and is minded to go with you, you shall give me just what you like by way
of ransom, so pleasant have I found you; otherwise ‛twill be churlish in
you to think of taking her from me, who am a young man, and as fit to

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keep a woman as another, and moreover never knew any woman so

agreeable.” ‟My wife,” said Ricciardo, ‟she is beyond all manner of doubt,
as thou shalt see; for so soon as thou bringest me to her, she will throw
her arms about my neck; wherefore as thou art minded, even so be it; I
ask no more.” ‟Go we then,” said Paganino; and forthwith they went into
the house, and Paganino sent for the lady while they waited in one of the
halls. By and by she entered from one of the adjoining rooms all trim
and tricked out, and advanced to the place where Paganino and Messer
Ricciardo were standing, but never a word did she vouchsafe to her
husband, any more than if he had been some stranger whom Paganino
had brought into the house. Whereat the judge was mightily amazed,
having expected to be greeted by her with the heartiest of cheer, and
began to ruminate thus:—Perhaps I am so changed by the melancholy
and prolonged heartache, to which I have been a prey since I lost her,
that she does not recognise me. Wherefore he said:— ‟Madam, cause
enough have I to rue it that I took thee a fishing, for never yet was
known such grief as has been mine since I lost thee; and now it seems as
if thou dost not recognise me, so scant of courtesy is thy greeting. Seest
thou not that I am thy Messer Ricciardo, come hither prepared to pay
whatever this gentleman, in whose house we are, may demand, that I
may have thee back and take thee away with me: and he is so good as to
surrender thee on my own terms?” The lady turned to him with a slight
smile, and said:—‟Is it to me you speak, Sir? Bethink you that you may
have mistaken me for another, for I, for my part, do not remember ever
to have seen you.” ‟Nay,” said Messer Ricciardo, ‟but bethink thee what
thou sayst; scan me closely; and if thou wilt but search thy memory,
thou wilt find that I am thy Ricciardo di Chinzica.” ‟Your pardon, Sir,”
answered the lady, ”‛tis not, perhaps, as seemly for me, as you imagine,
to gaze long upon you; but I have gazed long enough to know that I
never saw you before.” Messer Ricciardo supposed that she so spoke for
fear of Paganino, in whose presence she durst not acknowledge that she

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knew him: so, after a while, he craved as a favour of Paganino that he

might speak with her in a room alone. Which request Paganino granted,
so only that he did not kiss her against her will. He then bade the lady go
with Messer Ricciardo into a room apart, and hear what he had to say,
and give him such answer as she deemed meet. So the lady and Messer
Ricciardo went together into a room alone, and sate down, and Messer
Ricciardo began on this wise:—‟Ah! dear heart of me, sweet soul of me,
hope of me, dost not recognise thy Ricciardo that loves thee better than
himself? how comes it thus to pass? am I then so changed? Ah! goodly
eye of me, do but look on me a little.” Whereat the lady burst into a
laugh, and interrupting him, said:—‟Rest assured that my memory is
not so short but that I know you for what you are, my husband, Messer
Ricciardo di Chinzica; but far enough you shewed yourself to be, while I
was with you, from knowing me for what I was, young, lusty, lively;
which, had you been the wise man you would fain be reputed, you would
not have ignored, nor by consequence that which, besides food and
clothing, it behoves men to give young ladies, albeit for shame they
demand it not; which in what sort you gave, you know. You should not
have taken a wife if she was to be less to you than the study of the law,
albeit ‛twas never as a judge that I regarded you, but rather as a bellman
of encaenia and saints’ days, so well you knew them all, and fasts and
vigils. And I tell you that, had you imposed the observance of as many
saints’ days on the labourers that till your lands as on yourself who had
but my little plot to till, you would never have harvested a single grain of
corn. God in His mercy, having regard unto my youth, has caused me to
fall in with this gentleman, with whom I am much closeted in this room,
where nought is known of feasts, such feasts, I mean, as you, more
devoted to the service of God than to the service of ladies, were wont to
observe in such profusion; nor was this threshold ever crossed by
Saturday or Friday or vigil or Ember-days or Lent, that is so long; rather
here we are at work day and night, threshing the wool, and well I know

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how featly it went when the matin bell last sounded. Wherefore with
him I mean to stay, and to work while I am young, and postpone the
observance of feasts and times of indulgence and fasts until I am old: so
get you hence, and good luck go with you, but depart with what speed
you may, and observe as many feasts as you like, so I be not with you.”
The pain with which Messer Ricciardo followed this outburst was
more than he could bear, and when she had done, he exclaimed:— ‟Ah!
sweet soul of me, what words are these that thou utterest? Hast thou no
care for thy parents’ honour and thine own? Wilt thou remain here to be
this man’s harlot, and to live in mortal sin, rather than live with me at
Pisa as my wife? Why, when he is tired of thee, he will cast thee out to
thy most grievous dishonour. I will ever cherish thee, and ever, will I nill
I, thou wilt be the mistress of my house. Wouldst thou, to gratify this
unbridled and unseemly passion, part at once with thy honour and with
me, who love thee more dearly than my very life? Ah! cherished hope of
me, say not so again: make up thy mind to come with me. As I now know
thy bent, I will henceforth constrain myself to pleasure thee: wherefore,
sweet my treasure, think better of it, and come with me, who have never
known a happy hour since thou wert reft from me.” The lady answered:
—‟I expect not, nor is it possible, that another should be more tender of
my honour than I am myself. Were my parents so, when they gave me to
you? I trow not; nor mean I to be more tender of their honour now than
they were then of mine. And if now I live in mortar sin, I will ever abide
there until it be pestle sin:19 concern yourself no further on my account.
Moreover, let me tell you, that, whereas at Pisa ‛twas as if I were your
harlot, seeing that the planets in conjunction according to lunar
mansion and geometric square intervened between you and me, here
with Paganino I deem myself a wife, for he holds me in his arms all night
long and hugs and bites me, and how he serves me, God be my witness.
Ah! but you say you will constrain yourself to serve me: to what end? to
19 A poor jeu de mots, mortaio, mortar, being substituted for mortale.

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do it on the third essay, and raise it by stroke of baton? I doubt not you
are become a perfect knight since last I saw you. Begone, and constrain
yourself to live; for here, methinks, your tenure is but precarious, so
hectic and wasted is your appearance. Nay more; I tell you this, that,
should Paganino desert me (which he does not seem disposed to do so
long as I am willing to stay with him), never will I return to your house,
where for one while I staid to my most grievous loss and prejudice, but
will seek my commodity elsewhere, than with one from whose whole
body I could not wring a single cupful of sap. So, again, I tell you that
here is neither feast nor vigil; wherefore here I mean to abide; and you,
get you gone, in God’s name with what speed you may, lest I raise the cry
that you threaten to violate me.”
Messer Ricciardo felt himself hard bested, but he could not but
recognise that, worn out as he was, he had been foolish to take a young
wife; so sad and woebegone he quitted the room, and, after expending
on Paganino a wealth of words which signified nothing, he at last gave
up his bootless enterprise, and leaving the lady to her own devices,
returned to Pisa; where for very grief he lapsed into such utter imbecility
that, when he was met by any with greeting or question in the street, he
made no other answer than ‟the evil hole brooks no holiday,” and soon
afterwards died. Which when Paganino learned, being well assured of
the love the lady bore him, he made her his lawful wife; and so, keeping
neither feast nor vigil nor Lent, they worked as hard as their legs
permitted, and had a good time. Wherefore, dear my ladies, I am of
opinion that Messer Bernabo in his altercation with Ambrogiuolo rode
the goat downhill.20
This story provoked so much laughter that the jaws of every one in
the company ached; and all the ladies by common consent
acknowledged that Dioneo was right, and pronounced Bernabo a
blockhead. But when the story was ended and the laughter had
20 I.e. argued preposterously, the goat being the last animal to carry a rider comfortably downhill.

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subsided, the queen, observing that the hour was now late, and that
with the completion of the day’s story-telling the end of her sovereignty
was come, followed the example of her predecessor, and took off her
wreath and set it on Neifile’s brow, saying with gladsome mien, ‟Now,
dear gossip, thine be the sovereignty of this little people;” and so she
resumed her seat. Neifile coloured somewhat to receive such honour,
shewing of aspect even as the fresh-blown rose of April or May in the
radiance of the dawn, her eyes rather downcast, and glowing with love’s
fire like the morning-star. But when the respectful murmur, by which
the rest of the company gave blithe token of the favour in which they
held their queen, was hushed, and her courage revived, she raised
herself somewhat more in her seat than she was wont, and thus spoke:
—‟As so it is that I am your queen, I purpose not to depart from the
usage observed by my predecessors, whose rule has commanded not
only your obedience but your approbation. I will therefore in few words
explain to you the course which, if it commend itself to your wisdom, we
will follow. To-morrow, you know, is Friday, and the next day Saturday,
days which most folk find somewhat wearisome by reason of the viands
which are then customary, to say nothing of the reverence in which
Friday is meet to be held, seeing that ‛twas on that day that He who died
for us bore His passion; wherefore ‛twould be in my judgment both right
and very seemly, if, in honour of God, we then bade story-telling give
place to prayer. On Saturday ladies are wont to wash the head, and rid
their persons of whatever of dust or other soilure they may have
gathered by the labours of the past week; not a few, likewise, are wont to
practise abstinence for devotion to the Virgin Mother of the Son of God,
and to honour the approaching Sunday by an entire surcease from work.
Wherefore, as we cannot then completely carry out our plan of life, we
shall, I think, do well to intermit our story-telling on that day also. We
shall then have been here four days; and lest we should be surprised by
new-comers, I deem it expedient that we shift our quarters, and I have

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already taken thought for our next place of sojourn. Where, being
arrived on Sunday, we will assemble after our sleep; and, whereas to-day
our discourse has had an ample field to range in, I propose, both
because you will thereby have more time for thought, and it will be best
to set some limits to the license of our story-telling, that of the many
diversities of Fortune’s handiwork we make one our theme, whereof I
have also made choice, to wit, the luck of such as have painfully acquired
some much-coveted thing, or having lost, have recovered it. Whereon let
each meditate some matter, which to tell may be profitable or at least
delectable to the company, saving always Dioneo’s privilege.” All
applauded the queen’s speech and plan, to which, therefore, it was
decided to give effect. Thereupon the queen called her seneschal, told
him where to place the tables that evening, and then explained to him all
that he had to do during the time of her sovereignty. This done, she rose
with her train, and gave leave to all to take their pleasure as to each
might seem best. So the ladies and the men hied them away to a little
garden, where they diverted themselves a while; then supper-time being
come, they supped with all gay and festal cheer. When they were risen
from the table, Emilia, at the queen’s command, led the dance, while
Pampinea, the other ladies responding, sang the ensuing song.
Shall any lady sing, if I not sing,
I to whom Love did full contentment bring?

Come hither, Love, thou cause of all my joy,

Of all my hope, and all its sequel blest,
And with me tune the lay,
No more to sighs and bitter past annoy,
That now but serve to lend thy bliss more zest;
But to that fire’s clear ray,
Wherewith enwrapt I blithely live and gay,
Thee as my God for ever worshipping.

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‛Twas thou, O Love, didst set before mine eyes,

When first thy fire my soul did penetrate,
A youth to be my fere,
So fair, so fit for deeds of high emprise,
That ne’er another shall be found more great,
Nay, nor, I ween, his peer:
Such flame he kindled that my heart’s full cheer
I now pour out in chant with thee, my King.

And that wherein I most delight is this,

That as I love him, so he loveth me:
So thank thee, Love, I must.
For whatsoe’er this world can yield of bliss
Is mine, and in the next at peace to be
I hope through that full trust
I place in him. And thou, O God, that dost
It see, wilt grant of joy thy plenishing.
Some other songs and dances followed, to the accompaniment of
divers sorts of music; after which, the queen deeming it time to go to
rest, all, following in the wake of the torches, sought their several
chambers. The next two days they devoted to the duties to which the
queen had adverted, looking forward to the Sunday with eager
expectancy.
— Endeth here the second day of the Decameron, beginneth
the third, in which, under the rule of Neifile, discourse is had of
the fortune of such as have painfully acquired some much-
coveted thing, or, having lost, have recovered it. —
The dawn of Sunday was already changing from vermilion to orange,
as the sun hasted to the horizon, when the queen rose and roused all the
company. The seneschal had early sent forward to their next place of

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sojourn ample store of things meet with folk to make all things ready,
and now seeing the queen on the road, and the decampment, as it were,
begun, he hastily completed the equipment of the baggage-train, and set
off therewith, attended by the rest of the servants, in rear of the ladies
and gentlemen. So, to the chant of, perhaps, a score of nightingales and
other birds, the queen, her ladies and the three young men trooping
beside or after her, paced leisurely westward by a path little frequented
and overgrown with herbage and flowers, which, as they caught the
sunlight, began one and all to unfold their petals. So fared she on with
her train, while the quirk and the jest and the laugh passed from mouth
to mouth; nor had they completed more than two thousand paces when,
well before half tierce,21 they arrived at a palace most fair and
sumptuous, which stood out somewhat from the plain, being situate
upon a low eminence. On entering, they first traversed its great halls and
dainty chambers furnished throughout with all brave and meet
appointments; and finding all most commendable, they reputed its lord
a magnifico. Then descending, they surveyed its spacious and cheerful
court, its vaults of excellent wines and copious springs of most cool
water, and found it still more commendable. After which, being fain of
rest, they sat them down in a gallery which commanded the court, and
was close imbosked with leafage and such flowers as the season
afforded, and thither the discreet seneschal brought comfits and wines
most choice and excellent, wherewith they were refreshed. Whereupon
they hied them to a walled garden adjoining the palace; which, the gate
being opened, they entered, and wonder-struck by the beauty of the
whole passed on to examine more attentively the several parts. It was
bordered and traversed in many parts by alleys, each very wide and
straight as an arrow and roofed in with trellis of vines, which gave good
promise of bearing clusters that year, and, being all in flower, dispersed
such fragrance throughout the garden as blended with that exhaled by
21 I.e. midway between prime and tierce, about 7:30 a.m.

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many another plant that grew therein made the garden seem redolent of
all the spices that ever grew in the East. The sides of the alleys were all,
as it were, walled in with roses white and red and jasmine; insomuch
that there was no part of the garden but one might walk there not
merely in the morning but at high noon in grateful shade and fragrance,
completely screened from the sun. As for the plants that were in the
garden, ‛twere long to enumerate them, to specify their sorts, to describe
the order of their arrangement; enough, in brief, that there was
abundance of every rarer species that our climate allows. In the middle
of the garden, a thing not less but much more to be commended than
aught else, was a lawn of the finest turf, and so green that it seemed
almost black, pranked with flowers of, perhaps, a thousand sorts, and
girt about with the richest living verdure of orange-trees and cedars,
which shewed not only flowers but fruits both new and old, and were no
less grateful to the smell by their fragrance than to the eye by their
shade. In the middle of the lawn was a basin of whitest marble, graven
with marvellous art; in the centre whereof—whether the spring were
natural or artificial I know not—rose a column supporting a figure
which sent forth a jet of water of such volume and to such an altitude
that it fell, not without a delicious plash, into the basin in quantity
amply sufficient to turn a mill-wheel. The overflow was carried away
from the lawn by a hidden conduit, and then, reemerging, was
distributed through tiny channels, very fair and cunningly contrived, in
such sort as to flow round the entire lawn, and by similar derivative
channels to penetrate almost every part of the fair garden, until, re-
uniting at a certain point, it issued thence, and, clear as crystal, slid
down towards the plain, turning by the way two mill-wheels with
extreme velocity to the no small profit of the lord. The aspect of this
garden, its fair order, the plants and the fountain and the rivulets that
flowed from it, so charmed the ladies and the three young men that with
one accord they affirmed that they knew not how it could receive any

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accession of beauty, or what other form could be given to Paradise, if it

were to be planted on earth. So, excellently well pleased, they roved
about it, plucking sprays from the trees, and weaving them into the
fairest of garlands, while songsters of, perhaps, a score of different sorts
warbled as if in mutual emulation, when suddenly a sight as fair and
delightsome as novel, which, engrossed by the other beauties of the
place, they had hitherto overlooked, met their eyes. For the garden, they
now saw, was peopled with a host of living creatures, fair and of,
perhaps, a hundred sorts; and they pointed out to one another how here
emerged a cony, or there scampered a hare, or couched a goat, or grazed
a fawn, or many another harmless, all but domesticated, creature roved
carelessly seeking his pleasure at his own sweet will. All which served
immensely to reinforce their already abundant delight. At length,
however, they had enough of wandering about the garden and observing
this thing and that: wherefore they repaired to the beautiful fountain,
around which were ranged the tables, and there, after they had sung
half-a-dozen songs and trod some measures, they sat them down, at the
queen’s command, to breakfast, which was served with all celerity and in
fair and orderly manner, the viands being both good and delicate;
whereby their spirits rose, and up they got, and betook themselves again
to music and song and dance, and so sped the hours, until, as the heat
increased, the queen deemed it time that whoso was so minded should
go to sleep. Some there were that did so; others were too charmed by the
beauty of the place to think of leaving it; but tarried there, and, while
the rest slept, amused themselves with reading romances or playing at
chess or dice. However, after none, there was a general levee; and, with
faces laved and refreshed with cold water, they gathered by the queen’s
command upon the lawn, and, having sat them down in their wonted
order by the fountain, waited for the story-telling to begin upon the
theme assigned by the queen. With this duty the queen first charged
Filostrato, who began on this wise.

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THIRD DAY

NOVEL I.

— Masetto da Lamporecchio feigns to be dumb, and obtains a

gardener’s place at a convent of women, who with one accord
make haste to lie with him. —
Fairest ladies, not a few there are both of men and of women, who are so
foolish as blindly to believe that, so soon as a young woman has been
veiled in white and cowled in black, she ceases to be a woman, and is no
more subject to the cravings proper to her sex, than if, in assuming the
garb and profession of a nun, she had put on the nature of a stone: and
if, perchance, they hear of aught that is counter to this their faith, they
are no less vehement in their censure than if some most heinous and
unnatural crime had been committed; neither bethinking them of
themselves, whom unrestricted liberty avails not to satisfy, nor making
due allowance for the prepotent forces of idleness and solitude. And
likewise not a few there are that blindly believe that, what with the hoe
and the spade and coarse fare and hardship, the carnal propensities are
utterly eradicated from the tillers of the soil, and therewith all
nimbleness of wit and understanding. But how gross is the error of such
as so suppose, I, on whom the queen has laid her commands, am
minded, without deviating from the theme prescribed by her, to make
manifest to you by a little story.
In this very country-side of ours there was and yet is a convent of
women of great repute for sanctity—name it I will not, lest I should in
some measure diminish its repute—the nuns being at the time of which
I speak but nine in number, including the abbess, and all young women.
Their very beautiful garden was in charge of a foolish fellow, who, not

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being content with his wage, squared accounts with their steward and
hied him back to Lamporecchio, whence he came. Among others who
welcomed him home was a young husbandman, Masetto by name, a
stout and hardy fellow, and handsome for a contadino, who asked him
where he had been so long. Nuto, as our good friend was called, told
him. Masetto then asked how he had been employed at the convent, and
Nuto answered:—‟I kept their large and beautiful garden in good trim,
and, besides, I sometimes went to the wood to fetch the faggots, I drew
water, and did some other trifling services; but the ladies gave so little
wage that it scarce kept me in shoes. And moreover they are all young,
and, I think, they are one and all possessed of the devil, for ‛tis
impossible to do anything to their mind; indeed, when I would be at
work in the kitchen-garden, ‛put this here,’ would say one, ‛put that
here,’ would say another, and a third would snatch the hoe from my
hand, and say, ‛that is not as it should be’; and so they would worry me
until I would give up working and go out of the garden; so that, what
with this thing and that, I was minded to stay there no more, and so I
am come hither. The steward asked me before I left to send him any one
whom on my return I might find fit for the work, and I promised; but
God bless his loins, I shall be at no pains to find out and send him any
one.”
As Nuto thus ran on, Masetto was seized by such a desire to be with
these nuns that he quite pined, as he gathered from what Nuto said that
his desire might be gratified. And as that could not be, if he said nothing
to Nuto, he remarked:—‟Ah! ‛twas well done of thee to come hither. A
man to live with women! he might as well live with so many devils: six
times out of seven they know not themselves what they want.” There the
conversation ended; but Masetto began to cast about how he should
proceed to get permission to live with them. He knew that he was quite
competent for the services of which Nuto spoke, and had therefore no
fear of failing on that score; but he doubted he should not be received,

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because he was too young and well-favoured. So, after much pondering,
he fell into the following train of thought:—The place is a long way off,
and no one there knows me; if I make believe that I am dumb, doubtless
I shall be admitted. Whereupon he made his mind up, laid a hatchet
across his shoulder, and saying not a word to any of his destination, set
forth, intending to present himself at the convent in the character of a
destitute man. Arrived there, he had no sooner entered than he chanced
to encounter the steward in the courtyard, and making signs to him as
dumb folk do, he let him know that of his charity he craved something
to eat, and that, if need were, he would split firewood. The steward
promptly gave him to eat, and then set before him some logs which Nuto
had not been able to split, all which Masetto, who was very strong, split
in a very short time. The steward, having occasion to go to the wood,
took him with him, and there set him at work on the lopping; which
done he placed the ass in front of him, and by signs made him
understand that he was to take the loppings back to the convent. This he
did so well that the steward kept him for some days to do one or two odd
jobs. Whereby it so befell that one day the abbess saw him, and asked
the steward who he was. ‟Madam,” replied the steward, ”‛tis a poor deaf
mute that came here a day or two ago craving alms, so I have treated him
kindly, and have let him make himself useful in many ways. If he knew
how to do the work of the kitchen-garden and would stay with us, I
doubt not we should be well served; for we have need of him, and he is
strong, and would be able for whatever he might turn his hand to;
besides which you would have no cause to be apprehensive lest he
should be cracking his jokes with your young women.” ‟As I trust in
God,” said the abbess, ‟thou sayst sooth; find out if he can do the garden
work, and if he can, do all thou canst to keep him with us; give him a
pair of shoes, an old hood, and speak him well, make much of him, and
let him be well fed.” All which the steward promised to do.
Masetto, meanwhile, was close at hand, making as if he were

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sweeping the courtyard, and heard all that passed between the abbess
and the steward, whereat he gleefully communed with himself on this
wise:—Put me once within there, and you will see that I will do the work
of the kitchen-garden as it never was done before. So the steward set
him to work in the kitchen-garden, and finding that he knew his
business excellently well, made signs to him to know whether he would
stay, and he made answer by signs that he was ready to do whatever the
steward wished. The steward then signified that he was engaged, told
him to take charge of the kitchen-garden, and shewed him what he had
to do there. Then, having other matters to attend to, he went away, and
left him there. Now, as Masetto worked there day by day, the nuns began
to tease him, and make him their butt (as it commonly happens that folk
serve the dumb) and used bad language to him, the worst they could
think of, supposing that he could not understand them, all which passed
scarce heeded by the abbess, who perhaps deemed him as destitute of
virility as of speech. Now it so befell that after a hard day’s work he was
taking a little rest, when two young nuns, who were walking in the
garden, approached the spot where he lay, and stopped to look at him,
while he pretended to be asleep. And so the bolder of the two said to the
other:—‟If I thought thou wouldst keep the secret, I would tell thee
what I have sometimes meditated, and which thou perhaps mightest
also find agreeable.” The other replied:—‟Speak thy mind freely and be
sure that I will never tell a soul.” Whereupon the bold one began:— ‟I
know not if thou hast ever considered how close we are kept here, and
that within these precincts dare never enter any man, unless it be the old
steward or this mute: and I have often heard from ladies that have come
hither, that all the other sweets that the world has to offer signify not a
jot in comparison of the pleasure that a woman has in connexion with a
man. Whereof I have more than once been minded to make experiment
with this mute, no other man being available. Nor, indeed, could one
find any man in the whole world so meet therefor; seeing that he could

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not blab if he would; thou seest that he is but a dull clownish lad, whose
size has increased out of all proportion to his sense; wherefore I would
fain hear what thou hast to say to it.” ‟Alas!” said the other, ‟what is’t
thou sayst? Knowest thou not that we have vowed our virginity to God?”
‟Oh,” rejoined the first, ‟think but how many vows are made to Him all
day long, and never a one performed: and so, for our vow, let Him find
another or others to perform it.” ‟But,” said her companion, ‟suppose
that we conceived, how then?” ‟Nay but,” protested the first, ‟thou goest
about to imagine evil before it befalls, thee: time enough to think of that
when it comes to pass; there will be a thousand ways to prevent its ever
being known, so only we do not publish it ourselves.” Thus reassured,
the other was now the more eager of the two to test the quality of the
male human animal. ‟Well then,” she said, ‟how shall we go about it?”
and was answered:—‟Thou seest ‛tis past none; I make no doubt but all
the sisters are asleep, except ourselves; search we through the kitchen-
garden, to see if there be any there, and if there be none, we have but to
take him by the hand and lead him hither to the hut where he takes
shelter from the rain; and then one shall mount guard while the other
has him with her inside. He is such a simpleton that he will do just
whatever we bid him.” No word of this conversation escaped Masetto,
who, being disposed to obey, hoped for nothing so much as that one of
them should take him by the hand. They, meanwhile, looked carefully
all about them, and satisfied themselves that they were secure from
observation: then she that had broached the subject came close up to
Masetto, and shook him; whereupon he started to his feet. So she took
him by the hand with a blandishing air, to which he replied with some
clownish grins. And then she led him into the hut, where he needed no
pressing to do what she desired of him. Which done, she changed places
with the other, as loyal comradeship required; and Masetto, still keeping
up the pretence of simplicity, did their pleasure. Wherefore before they
left, each must needs make another assay of the mute’s powers of riding;

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and afterwards, talking the matter over many times, they agreed that it
was in truth not less but even more delightful than they had been given
to understand; and so, as they found convenient opportunity, they
continued to go and disport themselves with the mute.
Now it so chanced that one of their gossips, looking out of the
window of her cell, saw what they did, and imparted it to two others.
The three held counsel together whether they should not denounce the
offenders to the abbess, but soon changed their mind, and came to an
understanding with them, whereby they became partners in Masetto.
And in course of time by divers chances the remaining three nuns also
entered the partnership. Last of all the abbess, still witting nought of
these doings, happened one very hot day, as she walked by herself
through the garden, to find Masetto, who now rode so much by night
that he could stand very little fatigue by day, stretched at full length
asleep under the shade of an almond-tree, his person quite exposed in
front by reason that the wind had disarranged his clothes. Which the
lady observing, and knowing that she was alone, fell a prey to the same
appetite to which her nuns had yielded: she aroused Masetto, and took
him with her to her chamber, where, for some days, though the nuns
loudly complained that the gardener no longer came to work in the
kitchen-garden, she kept him, tasting and re-tasting the sweetness of
that indulgence which she was wont to be the first to censure in others.
And when at last she had sent him back from her chamber to his room,
she must needs send for him again and again, and made such exorbitant
demands upon him, that Masetto, not being able to satisfy so many
women, bethought him that his part of mute, should he persist in it,
might entail disastrous consequences. So one night, when he was with
the abbess, he cut the tongue-string, and thus broke silence:—‟Madam,
I have understood that a cock may very well serve ten hens, but that ten
men are sorely tasked to satisfy a single woman; and here am I expected
to serve nine, a burden quite beyond my power to bear; nay, by what I

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have already undergone I am now so reduced that my strength is quite

spent; wherefore either bid me Godspeed, or find some means to make
matters tolerable.” Wonder-struck to hear the supposed mute thus
speak, the lady exclaimed:—‟What means this? I took thee to be dumb.”
‟And in sooth, Madam, so was I,” said Masetto, ‟not indeed from my
birth, but through an illness which took from me the power of speech,
which only this very night have I recovered; and so I praise God with all
my heart.” The lady believed him; and asked him what he meant by
saying that he had nine to serve. Masetto told her how things stood;
whereby she perceived that of all her nuns there was not any but was
much wiser than she; and lest, if Masetto were sent away, he should give
the convent a bad name, she discreetly determined to arrange matters
with the nuns in such sort that he might remain there. So, the steward
having died within the last few days, she assembled all the nuns; and
their and her own past errors being fully avowed, they by common
consent, and with Masetto’s concurrence, resolved that the neighbours
should be given to understand that by their prayers and the merits of
their patron saint, Masetto, long mute, had recovered the power of
speech; after which they made him steward, and so ordered matters
among themselves that he was able to endure the burden of their
service. In the course of which, though he procreated not a few little
monastics, yet ‛twas all managed so discreetly that no breath of scandal
stirred, until after the abbess’s death, by which time Masetto was
advanced in years and minded to return home with the wealth that he
had gotten; which he was suffered to do, as soon as he made his desire
known. And so Masetto, who had left Lamporecchio with a hatchet on
his shoulder, returned thither in his old age rich and a father, having by
the wisdom with which he employed his youth, spared himself the pains
and expense of rearing children, and averring that such was the measure
that Christ meted out to the man that set horns on his cap.

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NOVEL II.

— A groom lies with the wife of King Agilulf, who learns the
fact, keeps his own counsel, finds out the groom and shears
him. The shorn shears all his fellows, and so comes safe out of
the scrape. —
Filostrato’s story, which the ladies had received now with blushes now
with laughter, being ended, the queen bade Pampinea follow suit.
Which behest Pampinea smilingly obeyed, and thus began:—
Some there are whose indiscretion is such that they must needs
evince that they are fully cognizant of that which it were best they
should not know, and censuring the covert misdeeds of others, augment
beyond measure the disgrace which they would fain diminish. The truth
whereof, fair ladies, I mean to shew you in the contrary case, wherein
appears the astuteness of one that held, perhaps, an even lower place
than would have been Masetto’s in the esteem of a doughty king.
Agilulf, King of the Lombards, who like his predecessors made the
city of Pavia in Lombardy the seat of his government, took to wife
Theodelinde, the widow of Authari, likewise King of the Lombards, a
lady very fair, wise and virtuous, but who was unfortunate in her lover.
For while the Lombards prospered in peace under the wise and firm rule
of King Agilulf, it so befell that one of the Queen’s grooms, a man born
to very low estate, but in native worth far above his mean office, and
moreover not a whit less tall and goodly of person than the King,
became inordinately enamoured of her. And as, for all his base condition
he had sense enough to recognize that his love was in the last degree
presumptuous, he disclosed it to none, nay, he did not even venture to
tell her the tale by the mute eloquence of his eyes. And albeit he lived
without hope that he should ever be able to win her favour, yet he
inwardly gloried that he had fixed his affections in so high a place; and

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being all aflame with passion, he shewed himself zealous beyond any of
his comrades to do whatever he thought was likely to please the Queen.
Whereby it came about, that, when the Queen had to take horse, she
would mount the palfrey that he groomed rather than any other; and
when she did so, he deemed himself most highly favoured, and never
quitted her stirrup, esteeming himself happy if he might but touch her
clothes. But as ‛tis frequently observed that love waxes as hope wanes, so
was it with this poor groom, insomuch that the burden of this great
hidden passion, alleviated by no hope, was most grievous to bear, and
from time to time, not being able to shake it off, he purposed to die. And
meditating on the mode, he was minded that it should be of a kind to
make it manifest that he died for the love which he had borne and bore
to the Queen, and also to afford him an opportunity of trying his fortune
whether his desire might in whole or in part be gratified. He had no
thought of speaking to the Queen, nor yet of declaring his love to her by
letter, for he knew that ‛twould be vain either to speak or to write; but he
resolved to try to devise some means whereby he might lie with the
Queen; which end might in no other way be compassed than by
contriving to get access to her in her bedroom; which could only be by
passing himself off as the King, who, as he knew, did not always lie with
her. Wherefore, that he might observe the carriage and dress of the King
as he passed to her room, he contrived to conceal himself for several
nights in a great hall of the King’s palace which separated the King’s
room from that of the Queen: and on one of these nights he saw the
King issue from his room, wrapped in a great mantle, with a lighted
torch in one hand and a wand in the other, and cross the hall, and,
saying nothing, tap the door of the Queen’s room with the wand once or
twice; whereupon the door was at once opened and the torch taken from
his hand. Having observed the King thus go and return, and being bent
on doing likewise, he found means to come by a mantle like that which
he had seen the King wear, and also a torch and a wand: he then took a

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warm bath, and having thoroughly cleansed himself, that the smell of
the foul straw might not offend the lady, or discover to her the deceit, he
in this guise concealed himself as he was wont in the great hall. He
waited only until all were asleep, and then, deeming the time come to
accomplish his purpose, or by his presumption clear a way to the death
which he coveted, he struck a light with the flint and steel which he had
brought with him; and having kindled his torch and wrapped himself
close in his mantle, he went to the door of the Queen’s room, and
tapped on it twice with his wand. The door was opened by a very drowsy
chambermaid, who took the torch and put it out of sight; whereupon
without a word he passed within the curtain, laid aside the mantle, and
got into the bed where the Queen lay asleep. Then, taking her in his
arms and straining her to him with ardour, making as if he were moody,
because he knew that, when the King was in such a frame, he would
never hear aught, in such wise, without word said either on his part or
on hers, he had more than once carnal cognizance of the Queen. Loath
indeed was he to leave her, but, fearing lest by too long tarrying his
achieved delight might be converted into woe, he rose, resumed the
mantle and the light, and leaving the room without a word, returned
with all speed to his bed. He was hardly there when the King got up and
entered the Queen’s room; whereat she wondered not a little; but,
reassured by the gladsome greeting which he gave her as he got into bed,
she said:—‟My lord, what a surprise is this to-night! ‛Twas but now you
left me after an unwonted measure of enjoyment, and do you now return
so soon? consider what you do.” From these words the King at once
inferred that the Queen had been deceived by some one that had
counterfeited his person and carriage; but, at the same time, bethinking
himself that, as neither the Queen nor any other had detected the cheat,
‛twas best to leave her in ignorance, he wisely kept silence. Which many
a fool would not have done, but would have said:—‟Nay, ‛twas not I that
was here. Who was it that was here? How came it to pass? Who came

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hither?” Whereby in the sequel he might have caused the lady needless
chagrin, and given her occasion to desire another such experience as she
had had, and so have brought disgrace upon himself by uttering that,
from which, unuttered, no shame could have resulted. Wherefore,
betraying little, either by his mien or by his words, of the disquietude
which he felt, the King replied:—‟Madam, seem I such to you that you
cannot suppose that I should have been with you once, and returned to
you immediately afterwards?” ‟Nay, not so, my lord,” returned the lady,
‟but none the less I pray you to look to your health.” Then said the King:
—‟And I am minded to take your advice; wherefore, without giving you
further trouble I will leave you.” So, angered and incensed beyond
measure by the trick which, he saw, had been played upon him, he
resumed his mantle and quitted the room with the intention of privily
detecting the offender, deeming that he must belong to the palace, and
that, whoever he might be, he could not have quitted it. So, taking with
him a small lantern which shewed only a glimmer of light, he went into
the dormitory which was over the palace-stables and was of great length,
insomuch that well-nigh all the men-servants slept there in divers beds,
and arguing that, by whomsoever that of which the Queen spoke was
done, his heart and pulse could not after such a strain as yet have ceased
to throb, he began cautiously with one of the head-grooms, and so went
from bed to bed feeling at the heart of each man to see if it was
thumping. All were asleep, save only he that had been with the Queen,
who, seeing the King come, and guessing what he sought to discover,
began to be mightily afraid, insomuch that to the agitation which his
late exertion had communicated to his heart, terror now added one yet
more violent; nor did he doubt that, should the King perceive it, he
would kill him. Divers alternatives of action thronged his mind; but at
last, observing that the King was unarmed, he resolved to make as if he
were asleep, and wait to see what the King would do. So, having tried
many and found none that he deemed the culprit, the King came at last

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to the culprit himself, and marking the thumping of his heart, said to
himself:—This is he. But being minded to afford no clue to his ulterior
purpose, he did no more than with a pair of scissors which he had
brought with him shear away on one side of the man’s head a portion of
his locks, which, as was then the fashion, he wore very long, that by this
token he might recognize him on the morrow; and having so done, he
departed and returned to his room. The groom, who was fully sensible of
what the King had done, and being a shrewd fellow understood very well
to what end he was so marked, got up without a moment’s delay; and,
having found a pair of scissors—for, as it chanced, there were several
pairs there belonging to the stables for use in grooming the horse— he
went quietly through the dormitory and in like manner sheared the
locks of each of the sleepers just above the ear; which done without
disturbing any, he went back to bed.
On the morrow, as soon as the King was risen, and before the gates of
the palace were opened, he summoned all his men-servants to his
presence, and, as they stood bareheaded before him, scanned them
closely to see whether the one whom he had sheared was there; and
observing with surprise that the more part of them were all sheared in
the same manner, said to himself:—Of a surety this fellow, whom I go
about to detect, evinces, for all his base condition, a high degree of
sense. Then, recognising that he could not compass his end without
causing a bruit, and not being minded to brave so great a dishonour in
order to be avenged upon so petty an offender, he was content by a single
word of admonition to shew him that his offence had not escaped
notice. Wherefore turning to them all, he said:—‟He that did it, let him
do it no more, and get you hence in God’s peace.” Another would have
put them to the strappado, the question, the torture, and thereby have
brought to light that which one should rather be sedulous to cloak; and
having so brought it to light, would, however complete the retribution
which he exacted, have not lessened but vastly augmented his disgrace,

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and sullied the fair fame of his lady. Those who heard the King’s parting
admonition wondered, and made much question with one another, what
the King might have meant to convey by it; but ‛twas understood by
none but him to whom it referred: who was discreet enough never to
reveal the secret as long as the King lived, or again to stake his life on
such a venture.

NOVEL III.

— Under cloak of confession and a most spotless conscience, a

lady, enamoured of a young man, induces a booby friar
unwittingly to provide a means to the entire gratification of
her passion. —
When Pampinea had done, and several of the company had commended
the hardihood and wariness of the groom, as also the wisdom of the
King, the queen, turning to Filomena, bade her follow suit: wherefore
with manner debonair Filomena thus began:—
The story which I shall tell you is of a trick which was actually played
by a fair lady upon a booby religious, and which every layman should
find the more diverting that these religious, being, for the most part,
great blockheads and men of odd manners and habits, do nevertheless
credit themselves with more ability and knowledge in all kinds than fall
to the lot of the rest of the world; whereas, in truth, they are far inferior,
and so, not being able, like others, to provide their own sustenance, are
prompted by sheer baseness to fly thither for refuge where they may find
provender, like pigs. Which story, sweet my ladies, I shall tell you, not
merely that thereby I may continue the sequence in obedience to the
queen’s behest, but also to the end that I may let you see that even the
religious, in whom we in our boundless credulity repose exorbitant faith,
may be, and sometimes are, made—not to say by men—even by some of

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us women the sport of their sly wit.

In our city, where wiles do more abound than either love or faith,
there dwelt, not many years ago, a gentlewoman richly endowed (none
more so) by nature with physical charms, as also with gracious manners,
high spirit and fine discernment. Her name I know, but will not disclose
it, nor yet that of any other who figures in this story, because there yet
live those who might take offence thereat, though after all it might well
be passed off with a laugh. High-born and married to an artificer of
woollen fabrics, she could not rid her mind of the disdain with which, by
reason of his occupation, she regarded her husband; for no man,
however wealthy, so he were of low condition, seemed to her worthy to
have a gentlewoman to wife; and seeing that for all his wealth he was fit
for nothing better than to devise a blend, set up a warp, or higgle about
yarn with a spinster, she determined to dispense with his embraces, save
so far as she might find it impossible to refuse them; and to find her
satisfaction elsewhere with one that seemed to her more meet to afford
it than her artificer of woollens. In this frame of mind she became
enamoured of a man well worthy of her love and not yet past middle age,
insomuch that, if she saw him not in the day, she must needs pass an
unquiet night. The gallant, meanwhile, remained fancy-free, for he
knew nought of the lady’s case; and she, being apprehensive of possible
perils to ensue, was far too circumspect to make it known to him either
by writing or by word of mouth of any of her female friends. Then she
learned that he had much to do with a religious, a simple, clownish
fellow, but nevertheless, as being a man of most holy life, reputed by
almost everybody a most worthy friar, and decided that she could not
find a better intermediary between herself and her lover than this same
friar. So, having matured her plan, she hied her at a convenient time to
the convent where the friar abode and sent for him, saying, that, if he so
pleased, she would be confessed by him. The friar, who saw at a glance
that she was a gentlewoman, gladly heard her confession; which done,

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she said:—‟My father, I have yet a matter to confide to you, in which I

must crave your aid and counsel. Who my kinsfolk and husband are, I
wot you know, for I have myself told you. My husband loves me more
dearly than his life, and being very wealthy, he can well and does
forthwith afford me whatever I desire. Wherefore, as he loves me, even
so I love him more dearly than myself; nor was there ever yet wicked
woman that deserved the fire so richly as should I, were I guilty—I speak
not of acts, but of so much as a single thought of crossing his will or
tarnishing his honour. Now a man there is—his name, indeed, I know
not, but he seems to me to be a gentleman, and, if I mistake not, he is
much with you—a fine man and tall, his garb dun and very decent, who,
the bent of my mind being, belike, quite unknown to him, would seem
to have laid siege to me, insomuch that I cannot shew myself at door or
casement, or quit the house, but forthwith he presents himself before
me; indeed I find it passing strange that he is not here now; whereat I
am sorely troubled, because, when men so act, unmerited reproach will
often thereby be cast upon honest women. At times I have been minded
to inform my brothers of the matter; but then I have bethought me that
men sometimes frame messages in such a way as to evoke untoward
answers, whence follow high words; and so they proceed to rash acts:
wherefore, to obviate trouble and scandal, I have kept silence, and by
preference have made you my confidant, both because you are the
gentleman’s friend, and because it befits your office to censure such
behaviour not only in friends but in strangers. And so I beseech you for
the love of our only Lord God to make him sensible of his fault, and pray
him to offend no more in such sort. Other ladies there are in plenty, who
may, perchance, be disposed to welcome such advances, and be flattered
to attract his fond and assiduous regard, which to me, who am in no wise
inclined to encourage it, is but a most grievous molestation.”
Having thus spoken, the lady bowed her head as if she were ready to
weep. The holy friar was at no loss to apprehend who it was of whom she

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spoke; he commended her virtuous frame, firmly believing that what she
said was true, and promised to take such action that she should not
again suffer the like annoyance; nor, knowing that she was very wealthy,
did he omit to extol works of charity and almsgiving, at the same time
opening to her his own needs. ‟I make my suit to you,” said she, ‟for the
love of God; and if your friend should deny what I have told you, tell him
roundly that ‛twas from me you had it, and that I made complaint to you
thereof.” So, her confession ended and penance imposed, bethinking her
of the hints which the friar had dropped touching almsgiving, she
slipped into his hand as many coins as it would hold, praying him to say
masses for the souls of her dead. She then rose and went home.
Not long afterwards the gallant paid one of his wonted visits to the
holy friar. They conversed for a while of divers topics, and then the friar
took him aside, and very courteously reproved him for so haunting and
pursuing the lady with his gaze, as from what she had given him to
understand, he supposed was his wont. The gallant, who had never
regarded her with any attention, and very rarely passed her house, was
amazed, and was about to clear himself, when the friar closed his
mouth, saying:—‟Now away with this pretence of amazement, and waste
not words in denial, for ‛twill not avail thee. I have it not from the
neighbours; she herself, bitterly complaining of thy conduct, told it me.
I say not how ill this levity beseems thee; but of her I tell thee so much
as this, that, if I ever knew woman averse to such idle philandering, she
is so; and therefore for thy honour’s sake, and that she be no more vexed,
I pray thee refrain therefrom, and let her be in peace.” The gallant,
having rather more insight than the holy friar, was not slow to penetrate
the lady’s finesse; he therefore made as if he were rather shame-stricken,
promised to go no further with the matter, and hied him straight from
the friar to the lady’s house, where she was always posted at a little
casement to see if he were passing by. As she saw him come, she shewed
him so gay and gracious a mien that he could no longer harbour any

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doubt that he had put the true construction upon what he had heard
from the friar; and thenceforth, to his own satisfaction and the immense
delight and solace of the lady, he omitted not daily to pass that way,
being careful to make it appear as if he came upon other business. ‛Twas
thus not long before the lady understood that she met with no less
favour in his eyes than he in hers; and being desirous to add fuel to his
flame, and to assure him of the love she bore him, as soon as time and
occasion served, she returned to the holy friar, and having sat herself
down at his feet in the church, fell a weeping. The friar asked her in a
soothing tone what her new trouble might be. Whereto the lady
answered:—‟My father, ‛tis still that accursed friend of thine, of whom I
made complaint to you some days ago, and who would now seem to have
been born for my most grievous torment, and to cause me to do that by
reason whereof I shall never be glad again, nor venture to place myself at
your feet.” ‟How?” said the friar; ‟has he not forborne to annoy thee?”
‟Not he, indeed,” said the lady; ‟on the contrary, ‛tis my belief that, since
I complained to you of him, he has, as if in despite, being offended,
belike, that I did so, passed my house seven times for once that he did so
before. Nay, would to God he were content to pass and fix me with his
eyes; but he is waxed so bold and unabashed that only yesterday he sent
a woman to me at home with his compliments and cajoleries, and, as if I
had not purses and girdles enough, he sent me a purse and a girdle;
whereat I was, as I still am, so wroth, that, had not conscience first, and
then regard for you, weighed with me, I had flown into a frenzy of rage.
However, I restrained myself, and resolved neither to do nor to say aught
without first letting you know it. Nor only so; but, lest the woman who
brought the purse and girdle, and to whom I at first returned them,
shortly bidding her begone and take them back to the sender, should
keep them and tell him that I had accepted them, as I believe they
sometimes do, I recalled her and had them back, albeit ‛twas in no
friendly spirit that I received them from her hand; and I have brought

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them to you, that you may return them to him and tell him that I stand
in no need of such gifts from him, because, thanks be to God and my
husband, I have purses and girdles enough to smother him in. And if
after this he leave me not alone, I pray you as my father to hold me
excused if, come what may, I tell it to my husband and brothers; for
much liefer had I that he suffer indignity, if so it must be, than that my
fair fame should be sullied on his account: that holds good, friar.”
Weeping bitterly as she thus ended, she drew from under her robe a
purse of very fine and ornate workmanship and a dainty and costly little
girdle, and threw them into the lap of the friar, who, fully believing what
she said, manifested the utmost indignation as he took them, and said:
—‟Daughter, that by these advances thou shouldst be moved to anger, I
deem neither strange nor censurable; but I am instant with thee to
follow my advice in the matter. I chid him some days ago, and ill has he
kept the promise that he made me; for which cause and this last feat of
his I will surely make his ears so tingle that he will give thee no more
trouble; wherefore, for God’s sake, let not thyself be so overcome by
wrath as to tell it to any of thy kinsfolk; which might bring upon him a
retribution greater than he deserves. Nor fear lest thereby thy fair fame
should suffer; for I shall ever be thy most sure witness before God and
men that thou art innocent.” The lady made a shew of being somewhat
comforted: then, after a pause—for well she knew the greed of him and
his likes—she said:—‟Of late, Sir, by night, the spirits of divers of my
kinsfolk have appeared to me in my sleep, and methinks they are in most
grievous torment; alms, alms, they crave, nought else, especially my
mother, who seems to be in so woful and abject a plight that ‛tis pitiful to
see. Methinks ‛tis a most grievous torment to her to see the tribulation
which this enemy of God has brought upon me. I would therefore have
you say for their souls the forty masses of St. Gregory and some of your
prayers, that God may deliver them from this purging fire.” So saying she
slipped a florin into the hand of the holy friar, who took it gleefully, and

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having with edifying words and many examples fortified her in her
devotion, gave her his benediction, and suffered her to depart.
The lady gone, the friar, who had still no idea of the trick that had
been played upon him, sent for his friend; who was no sooner come than
he gathered from the friar’s troubled air that he had news of the lady,
and waited to hear what he would say. The friar repeated what he had
said before, and then broke out into violent and heated objurgation on
the score of the lady’s latest imputation. The gallant, who did not as yet
apprehend the friar’s drift, gave but a very faint denial to the charge of
sending the purse and girdle, in order that he might not discredit the
lady with the friar, if, perchance, she had given him the purse and girdle.
Whereupon the friar exclaimed with great heat:—‟How canst thou deny
it, thou wicked man? Why, here they are; she brought them to me in
tears with her own hand. Look at them, and say if thou knowest them
not.” The gallant now feigned to be much ashamed, and said:— ‟Why,
yes, indeed, I do know them; I confess that I did wrong; and I swear to
you that, now I know her character, you shall never hear word more of
this matter.” Many words followed; and then the blockheadly friar gave
the purse and girdle to his friend, after which he read him a long lecture,
besought him to meddle no more with such matters, and on his
promising obedience dismissed him.
Elated beyond measure by the assurance which he now had of the
lady’s love, and the beautiful present, the gallant, on leaving the friar,
hied him straight to a spot whence he stealthily gave the lady to see that
he had both her gifts: whereat the lady was well content, the more so as
her intrigue seemed ever to prosper more and more. She waited now
only for her husband’s departure from home to crown her enterprise
with success. Nor was it long before occasion required that her husband
should go to Genoa. The very morning that he took horse and rode away
she hied her to the holy friar, and after many a lamentation she said to
him betwixt her sobs:—‟My father, now at last I tell you out and out that

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I can bear my suffering no longer. I promised you some days ago to do

nought in this matter without first letting you know it; I am now come
to crave release from that promise; and that you may believe that my
lamentations and complaints are not groundless, I will tell you how this
friend of yours, who should rather be called a devil let loose from hell,
treated me only this very morning, a little before matins. As ill-luck
would have it, he learned, I know not how, that yesterday morning my
husband went to Genoa, and so this morning at the said hour he came
into my garden, and got up by a tree to the window of my bedroom,
which looks out over the garden, and had already opened the casement,
and was about to enter the room, when I suddenly awoke, and got up
and uttered a cry, and should have continued to cry out, had not he, who
was still outside, implored my mercy for God’s sake and yours, telling me
who he was. So, for love of you I was silent, and naked as I was born, ran
and shut the window in his face, and he—bad luck to him—made off, I
suppose, for I saw him no more. Consider now if such behaviour be
seemly and tolerable: I for my part am minded to put up with no more of
it; indeed I have endured too much already for love of you.”
Wroth beyond measure was the friar, as he heard her thus speak, nor
knew he what to say, except that he several times asked her if she were
quite certain that it was no other than he. ‟Holy name of God!” replied
the lady, ‟as if I did not yet know him from another! He it was, I tell you;
and do you give no credence to his denial.” ‟Daughter,” said then the
friar, ‟there is here nought else to say but that this is a monstrous
presumption and a most heinous offence; and thou didst well to send
him away as thou didst. But seeing that God has preserved thee from
shame, I would implore thee that as thou hast twice followed my advice,
thou do so likewise on this occasion, and making no complaint to any of
thy kinsfolk, leave it to me to try if I can control this devil that has slipt
his chain, whom I supposed to be a saint; and if I succeed in weaning
him from this insensate folly, well and good; and if I fail, thenceforth I

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give thee leave, with my blessing, to do whatsoever may commend itself

to thy own judgment.” ‟Lo now,” answered the lady, ‟once again I will not
vex or disobey you; but be sure that you so order matters that he refrain
from further annoyance, as I give you my word that never will I have
recourse to you again touching this matter.” Then, without another
word, and with a troubled air, she took leave of him. Scarcely was she out
of the church when the gallant came up. The friar called him, took him
aside, and gave him the affront in such sort as ‛twas never before given to
any man reviling him as a disloyal and perjured traitor. The gallant, who
by his two previous lessons had been taught how to value the friar’s
censures, listened attentively, and sought to draw him out by ambiguous
answers. ‟Wherefore this wrath, Sir?” he began. ‟Have I crucified
Christ?” ‟Ay, mark the fellow’s effrontery!” retorted the friar: ‟list to what
he says! He talks, forsooth, as if ‛twere a year or so since, and his villanies
and lewdnesses were clean gone from his memory for lapse of time.
Between matins and now hast thou forgotten this morning’s outrage?
Where wast thou this morning shortly before daybreak?” ‟Where was I?”
rejoined the gallant; ‟that know not I. ‛Tis indeed betimes that the news
has reached you.” ‟True indeed it is,” said the friar, ‟that the news has
reached me: I suppose that, because the husband was not there, thou
never doubtedst that thou wouldst forthwith be received by the lady
with open arms. Ah! the gay gallant! the honourable gentleman! he is
now turned prowler by night, and breaks into gardens, and climbs trees!
Dost thou think by sheer importunity to vanquish the virtue of this lady,
that thou escaladest her windows at night by the trees? She dislikes thee
of all things in the world, and yet thou must still persist. Well indeed
hast thou laid my admonitions to heart, to say nothing of the many
proofs which she has given thee of her disdain! But I have yet a word for
thee: hitherto, not that she bears thee any love, but that she has yielded
to my urgent prayers, she has kept silence as to thy misdeeds: she will do
so no more: I have given her leave to act as she may think fit, if thou

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givest her any further annoyance. And what wilt thou do if she informs
her brothers?” The gallant, now fully apprised of what it imported him
to know, was profuse in promises, whereby as best he might he reassured
the friar, and so left him. The very next night, as soon as the matin hour
was come, he entered the garden, climbed up the tree, found the
window open, entered the chamber, and in a trice was in the embrace of
his fair lady. Anxiously had she expected him, and blithely did she now
greet him, saying:—‟All thanks to master friar that he so well taught
thee the way hither.” Then, with many a jest and laugh at the simplicity
of the asinine friar, and many a flout at distaff-fuls and combs and cards,
they solaced themselves with one another to their no small delight. Nor
did they omit so to arrange matters that they were well able to dispense
with master friar, and yet pass many another night together with no less
satisfaction: to which goal I pray that I, and all other Christian souls that
are so minded, may be speedily guided of God in His holy mercy.

NOVEL IV.

— Dom Felice instructs Fra Puccio how to attain blessedness

by doing a penance. Fra Puccio does the penance, and
meanwhile Dom Felice has a good time with Fra Puccio’s wife.
—
When Filomena, having concluded her story, was silent, and Dioneo had
added a few honeyed phrases in praise of the lady’s wit and Filomena’s
closing prayer, the queen glanced with a smile to Pamfilo, and said:
—‟Now, Pamfilo, give us some pleasant trifle to speed our delight.” ‟That
gladly will I,” returned forthwith Pamfilo, and then:—‟Madam,” he
began, ‟not a few there are that, while they use their best endeavours to
get themselves places in Paradise, do, by inadvertence, send others
thither: as did, not long ago, betide a fair neighbour of ours, as you shall

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hear.
Hard by San Pancrazio there used to live, as I have heard tell, a
worthy man and wealthy, Puccio di Rinieri by name, who in later life,
under an overpowering sense of religion, became a tertiary of the order
of St. Francis, and was thus known as Fra Puccio. In which spiritual life
he was the better able to persevere that his household consisted but of a
wife and a maid, and having no need to occupy himself with any craft,
he spent no small part of his time at church; where, being a simple soul
and slow of wit, he said his paternosters, heard sermons, assisted at the
mass, never missed lauds (i. e. when chanted by the seculars), fasted and
mortified his flesh; nay—so ‛twas whispered—he was of the Flagellants.
His wife, Monna Isabetta by name, a woman of from twenty-eight to
thirty summers, still young for her age, lusty, comely and plump as a
casolan22 apple, had not unfrequently, by reason of her husband’s
devoutness, if not also of his age, more than she cared for, of abstinence;
and when she was sleepy, or, maybe, riggish, he would repeat to her the
life of Christ, and the sermons of Fra Nastagio, or the lament of the
Magdalen, or the like. Now, while such was the tenor of her life, there
returned from Paris a young monk, by name Dom Felice, of the convent
of San Pancrazio, a well-favoured man and keen-witted, and profoundly
learned, with whom Fra Puccio became very intimate; and as there was
no question which he could put to him but Dom Felice could answer it,
and moreover he made great shew of holiness, for well he knew Fra
Puccio’s bent, Fra Puccio took to bringing him home and entertaining
him at breakfast and supper, as occasion served; and for love of her
husband the lady also grew familiar with Dom Felice, and was zealous to
do him honour. So the monk, being a constant visitor at Fra Puccio’s
house, and seeing the lady so lusty and plump, surmised that of which
she must have most lack, and made up his mind to afford, if he could, at
once relief to Fra Puccio and contentment to the lady. So cautiously, now
22 Perhaps from Casoli, near Naples.

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and again, he cast an admiring glance in her direction with such effect
that he kindled in her the same desire with which he burned, and
marking his success, took the first opportunity to declare his passion to
her. He found her fully disposed to gratify it; but how this might be, he
was at a loss to discover, for she would not trust herself with him in any
place whatever except her own house, and there it could not be, because
Fra Puccio never travelled; whereby the monk was greatly dejected. Long
he pondered the matter, and at length thought of an expedient, whereby
he might be with the lady in her own house without incurring suspicion,
notwithstanding that Fra Puccio was there. So, being with Fra Puccio
one day, he said to him:— ‟Reasons many have I to know, Fra Puccio,
that all thy desire is to become a saint; but it seems to me that thou
farest by a circuitous route, whereas there is one very direct, which the
Pope and the greater prelates that are about him know and use, but will
have it remain a secret, because otherwise the clergy, who for the most
part live by alms, and could not then expect alms or aught else from the
laity, would be speedily ruined. However, as thou art my friend, and hast
shewn me much honour, I would teach thee that way, if I were assured
that thou wouldst follow it without letting another soul in the world
hear of it.” Fra Puccio was now all agog to hear more of the matter, and
began most earnestly entreating Dom Felice to teach him the way,
swearing that without Dom Felice’s leave none should ever hear of it
from him, and averring that, if he found it practicable, he would
certainly follow it. ‟I am satisfied with thy promises,” said the monk,
‟and I will shew thee the way. Know then that the holy doctors hold that
whoso would achieve blessedness must do the penance of which I shall
tell thee; but see thou take me judiciously. I do not say that after the
penance thou wilt not be a sinner, as thou art; but the effect will be that
the sins which thou hast committed up to the very hour of the penance
will all be purged away and thereby remitted to thee, and the sins which
thou shalt commit thereafter will not be written against thee to thy

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damnation, but will be quit by holy water, like venial sins. First of all
then the penitent must with great exactitude confess his sins when he
comes to begin the penance. Then follows a period of fasting and very
strict abstinence which must last for forty days, during which time he is
to touch no woman whomsoever, not even his wife. Moreover, thou must
have in thy house some place whence thou mayst see the sky by night,
whither thou must resort at compline; and there thou must have a beam,
very broad, and placed in such a way, that, standing, thou canst rest thy
nether part upon it, and so, not raising thy feet from the ground, thou
must extend thy arms, so as to make a sort of crucifix, and if thou
wouldst have pegs to rest them on thou mayst; and on this manner, thy
gaze fixed on the sky, and never moving a jot, thou must stand until
matins. And wert thou lettered, it were proper for thee to say meanwhile
certain prayers that I would give thee; but as thou art not so, thou must
say three hundred paternosters and as many avemarias in honour of the
Trinity; and thus contemplating the sky, be ever mindful that God was
the creator of the heaven and the earth, and being set even as Christ was
upon the cross, meditate on His passion. Then, when the matin-bell
sounds, thou mayst, if thou please, go to bed—but see that thou undress
not—and sleep; but in the morning thou must go to church, and hear at
least three masses, and say fifty paternosters and as many avemarias;
after which thou mayst with a pure heart do aught that thou hast to do,
and breakfast; but at vespers thou must be again at church, and say there
certain prayers, which I shall give thee in writing and which are
indispensable, and after compline thou must repeat thy former exercise.
Do this, and I, who have done it before thee, have good hope that even
before thou shalt have reached the end of the penance, thou wilt, if thou
shalt do it in a devout spirit, have already a marvellous foretaste of the
eternal blessedness.” ‟This,” said Fra Puccio, ‟is neither a very severe nor
a very long penance, and can be very easily managed: wherefore in God’s
name I will begin on Sunday.” And so he took his leave of Dom Felice,

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and went home, and, by Dom Felice’s permission, informed his wife of
every particular of his intended penance.
The lady understood very well what the monk meant by enjoining
him not to stir from his post until matins; and deeming it an excellent
device, she said that she was well content that he should do this or aught
else that he thought good for his soul; and to the end that his penance
might be blest of, she would herself fast with him, though she would go
no further. So they did as they had agreed: when Sunday came Fra
Puccio began his penance, and master monk, by understanding with the
lady, came most evenings, at the hour when he was secure from
discovery, to sup with her, always bringing with him abundance both of
meat and of drink, and after slept with her till the matin hour, when he
got up and left her, and Fra Puccio went to bed. The place which Fra
Puccio had chosen for his penance was close to the room in which the
lady slept, and only separated from it by the thinnest of partitions; so
that, the monk and the lady disporting themselves with one another
without stint or restraint, Fra Puccio thought he felt the floor of the
house shake a little, and pausing at his hundredth paternoster, but
without leaving his post, called out to the lady to know what she was
about. The lady, who dearly loved a jest, and was just then riding the
horse of St. Benedict or St. John Gualbert, answered:—‟I’faith, husband,
I am as restless as may be.” ‟Restless,” said Fra Puccio, ‟how so? What
means this restlessness?” Whereto with a hearty laugh, for which she
doubtless had good occasion, the bonny lady replied:—‟What means it?
How should you ask such a question? Why, I have heard you say a
thousand times:—‛Who fasting goes to bed, uneasy lies his head.’” Fra
Puccio, supposing that her wakefulness and restlessness abed was due to
want of food, said in good faith:—‟Wife, I told thee I would have thee
not fast; but as thou hast chosen to fast, think not of it, but think how
thou mayst compose thyself to sleep; thou tossest about the bed in such
sort that the shaking is felt here.” ‟That need cause thee no alarm,”

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rejoined the lady. ‟I know what I am about; I will manage as well as I can,
and do thou likewise.” So Fra Puccio said no more to her, but resumed
his paternosters; and thenceforth every night, while Fra Puccio’s
penance lasted, the lady and master monk, having had a bed made up
for them in another part of the house, did there wanton it most
gamesomely, the monk departing and the lady going back to her bed at
one and the same time, being shortly before Fra Puccio’s return from his
nightly vigil. The friar thus persisting in his penance while the lady took
her fill of pleasure with the monk, she would from time to time say
jestingly to him:—‟Thou layest a penance upon Fra Puccio whereby we
are rewarded with Paradise.” So well indeed did she relish the dainties
with which the monk regaled her, the more so by contrast with the
abstemious life to which her husband had long accustomed her, that,
when Fra Puccio’s penance was done, she found means to enjoy them
elsewhere, and ordered her indulgence with such discretion as to ensure
its long continuance. Whereby (that my story may end as it began) it
came to pass that Fra Puccio, hoping by his penance to win a place for
himself in Paradise, did in fact translate thither the monk who had
shewn him the way, and the wife who lived with him in great dearth of
that of which the monk in his charity gave her superabundant largess.

NOVEL V.

— Zima gives a palfrey to Messer Francesco Vergellesi, who in

return suffers him to speak with his wife. She keeping silence,
he answers in her stead, and the sequel is in accordance with
his answer. —
When Pamfilo had brought the story of Fra Puccio to a close amid the
laughter of the ladies, the queen debonairly bade Elisa follow suit; and
she, whose manner had in it a slight touch of severity, which betokened

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not despite, but was habitual to her, thus began:—

Many there are that, being very knowing, think that others are quite
the reverse; and so, many a time, thinking to beguile others, are
themselves beguiled; wherefore I deem it the height of folly for any one
wantonly to challenge another to a contest of wit. But, as, perchance, all
may not be of the same opinion, I am minded, without deviating from
the prescribed order, to acquaint you with that which thereby befell a
certain knight of Pistoia. Know then that at Pistoia there lived a knight,
Messer Francesco, by name, of the Vergellesi family, a man of much
wealth and good parts, being both wise and clever, but withal niggardly
beyond measure. Which Messer Francesco, having to go to Milan in the
capacity of podesta, had provided himself with all that was meet for the
honourable support of such a dignity, save only a palfrey handsome
enough for him; and not being able to come by any such, he felt himself
at a loss. Now there was then in Pistoia a young man, Ricciardo by name,
of low origin but great wealth, who went always so trim and fine and
foppish of person, that folk had bestowed upon him the name of Zima, 23
by which he was generally known. Zima had long and to no purpose
burned and yearned for love of Messer Francesco’s very fair and no less
virtuous wife. His passion was matter of common notoriety; and so it
befell that some one told Messer Francesco that he had but to ask Zima,
who was the possessor of one of the handsomest palfreys in Tuscany,
which on that account he greatly prized, and he would not hesitate to
give him the horse for the love which he bore his wife. So our niggardly
knight sent for Zima, and offered to buy the horse of him, hoping
thereby to get him from Zima as a gift. Zima heard the knight gladly, and
thus made answer:—‟Sell you my horse, Sir, I would not, though you
gave me all that you have in the world; but I shall be happy to give him to
you, when you will, on this condition, that, before he pass into your

23 From the Low Latin aczima, explained by Du Cange as ‟tonture de draps,” the process of dressing cloth so as to
give it an even nap. Zima is thus equivalent to ‟nitidus.” Cf. Vocab. degli Accademici della Crusca, ‟Azzimare.”

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hands, I may by your leave and in your presence say a few words to your
wife so privately that I may be heard by her alone.” Thinking at once to
gratify his cupidity and to outwit Zima, the knight answered that he was
content that it should be even as Zima wished. Then, leaving him in the
hall of the palace, he went to his lady’s chamber, and told her the easy
terms on which he might acquire the palfrey, bidding her give Zima his
audience, but on no account to vouchsafe him a word of reply. This the
lady found by no means to her mind, but, as she must needs obey her
husband’s commands, she promised compliance, and followed him into
the hall to hear what Zima might have to say. Zima then renewed his
contract with the knight in due form; whereupon, the lady being seated
in a part of the hall where she was quite by herself, he sate down by her
side, and thus began:—‟Noble lady, I have too much respect for your
understanding to doubt that you have long been well aware of the
extremity of passion whereto I have been brought by your beauty, which
certainly exceeds that of any other lady that I have ever seen, to say
nothing of your exquisite manners and incomparable virtues, which
might well serve to captivate every soaring spirit that is in the world;
wherefore there need no words of mine to assure you that I love you with
a love greater and more ardent than any that man yet bore to woman,
and so without doubt I shall do, as long as my woful life shall hold this
frame together; nay, longer yet, for, if love there be in the next world as
in this, I shall love you evermore. And so you may make your mind
secure that there is nothing that is yours, be it precious or be it common,
which you may count as in such and so sure a sort your own as me, for all
that I am and have. And that thereof you may not lack evidence of
infallible cogency, I tell you, that I should deem myself more highly
favoured, if I might at your command do somewhat to pleasure you, than
if at my command the whole world were forthwith to yield me
obedience. And as ‛tis even in such sort that I am yours, ‛tis not
unworthily that I make bold to offer my petitions to Your Highness, as

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being to me the sole, exclusive source of all peace, of all bliss, of all
health. Wherefore, as your most lowly vassal, I pray you, dear my bliss,
my soul’s one hope, wherein she nourishes herself in love’s devouring
flame, that in your great benignity you deign so far to mitigate the
harshness which in the past you have shewn towards me, yours though I
am, that, consoled by your compassion, I may say, that, as ‛twas by your
beauty that I was smitten with love, so ‛tis to your pity that I owe my life,
which, if in your haughtiness you lend not ear unto my prayers, will
assuredly fail, so that I shall die, and, it may be, ‛twill be said that you
slew me. ‛Twould not redound to your honour that I died for love of you;
but let that pass; I cannot but think, however, that you would sometimes
feel a touch of remorse, and would grieve that ‛twas your doing, and that
now and again, relenting, you would say to yourself:—‛Ah! how wrong it
was of me that I had not pity on my Zima;’ by which too late repentance
you would but enhance your grief. Wherefore, that this come not to pass,
repent you while it is in your power to give me ease, and shew pity on me
before I die, seeing that with you it rests to make me either the gladdest
or the saddest man that lives. My trust is in your generosity, that ‛twill
not brook that a love so great and of such a sort as mine should receive
death for guerdon, and that by a gladsome and gracious answer you will
repair my shattered spirits, which are all a-tremble in your presence for
very fear.” When he had done, he heaved several very deep sighs, and a
few tears started from his eyes, while he awaited the lady’s answer.
Long time he had wooed her with his eyes, had tilted in her honour,
had greeted her rising with music; and against these and all like modes
of attack she had been proof; but the heartfelt words of her most ardent
lover were not without their effect, and she now began to understand
what she had never till then understood, to wit, what love really means.
So, albeit she obeyed her lord’s behest, and kept silence, yet she could
not but betray by a slight sigh that which, if she might have given Zima
his answer, she would readily have avowed. After waiting a while, Zima

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found it strange that no answer was forthcoming; and he then began to

perceive the trick which the knight had played him. However, he kept
his eyes fixed on the lady, and observing that her eyes glowed now and
again, as they met his, and noting the partially suppressed sighs which
escaped her, he gathered a little hope, which gave him courage to try a
novel plan of attack. So, while the lady listened, he began to make
answer for her to himself on this wise:—‟Zima mine, true indeed it is
that long since I discerned that thou didst love me with a love exceeding
great and whole-hearted, whereof I have now yet ampler assurance by
thine own words, and well content I am therewith, as indeed I ought to
be. And however harsh and cruel I may have seemed to thee, I would by
no means have thee believe, that I have been such at heart as I have
seemed in aspect; rather, be assured that I have ever loved thee and held
thee dear above all other men; the mien which I have worn was but
prescribed by fear of another and solicitude for my fair fame. But a time
will soon come when I shall be able to give thee plain proof of my love,
and to accord the love which thou hast borne and dost bear me its due
guerdon. Wherefore be comforted and of good hope; for, Messer
Francesco is to go in a few days’ time to Milan as podesta, as thou well
knowest, seeing that for love of me thou hast given him thy fine palfrey;
and I vow to thee upon my faith, upon the true love which I bear thee,
that without fail, within a few days thereafter thou shalt be with me, and
we will give our love complete and gladsome consummation. And that I
may have no more occasion to speak to thee of this matter, be it
understood between us that henceforth when thou shalt observe two
towels disposed at the window of my room which overlooks the garden,
thou shalt come to me after nightfall of that same day by the garden door
(and look well to it that thou be not seen), and thou shalt find me
waiting for thee, and we will have our fill of mutual cheer and solace all
night long.”
Having thus answered for the lady, Zima resumed his own person and

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thus replied to the lady:—‟Dearest madam, your boon response so

overpowers my every faculty that scarce can I frame words to render you
due thanks; and, were I able to utter all I feel, time, however long, would
fail me fully to thank you as I would fain and as I ought: wherefore I
must even leave it to your sage judgment to divine that which I yearn in
vain to put in words. Let this one word suffice, that as you bid me, so I
shall not fail to do; and then, having, perchance, firmer assurance of the
great boon which you have granted me, I will do my best endeavour to
thank you in terms the amplest that I may command. For the present
there is no more to say; and so, dearest my lady, I commend you to God;
and may He grant you your heart’s content of joy and bliss.” To all which
the lady returned never a word: wherefore Zima rose and turned to
rejoin the knight, who, seeing him on his feet, came towards him, and
said with a laugh:—‟How sayst thou? Have I faithfully kept my promise
to thee?” ‟Not so, Sir,” replied Zima; ‟for by thy word I was to have
spoken with thy wife, and by thy deed I have spoken to a statue of
marble.” Which remark was much relished by the knight, who, well as he
had thought of his wife, thought now even better of her, and said:— ‟So
thy palfrey, that was, is now mine out and out.” ”‛Tis even so, Sir,” replied
Zima; ‟but had I thought to have gotten such fruit as I have from this
favour of yours, I would not have craved it, but would have let you have
the palfrey as a free gift: and would to God I had done so, for, as it is, you
have bought the palfrey and I have not sold him.” This drew a laugh from
the knight, who within a few days thereafter mounted the palfrey which
he had gotten, and took the road for Milan, there to enter on his
podestate. The lady, now mistress of herself, bethought her of Zima’s
words, and the love which he bore her, and for which he had parted with
his palfrey; and observing that he frequently passed her house, said to
herself:—‟What am I about? Why throw I my youth away? My husband
is gone to Milan, and will not return for six months, and when can he
ever restore them to me? When I am old! And besides, shall I ever find

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another such lover as Zima? I am quite by myself. There is none to fear, I

know not why I take not my good time while I may: I shall not always
have the like opportunity as at present: no one will ever know; and if it
should get known, ‛tis better to do and repent than to forbear and
repent.” Of which meditations the issue was that one day she set two
towels in the window overlooking the garden, according to Zima’s word,
and Zima having marked them with much exultation, stole at nightfall
alone to the door of the lady’s garden, and finding it open, crossed to
another door that led into the house, where he found the lady awaiting
him. On sight of him she rose to meet him, and gave him the heartiest of
welcomes. A hundred thousand times he embraced and kissed her, as he
followed her upstairs: then without delay they hied them to bed, and
knew love’s furthest bourne. And so far was the first time from being in
this case the last, that, while the knight was at Milan, and indeed after
his return, there were seasons not a few at which Zima resorted thither
to the immense delight of both parties.

NOVEL VI.

— Ricciardo Minutolo loves the wife of Filippello Fighinolfi,

and knowing her to be jealous, makes her believe that his own
wife is to meet Filippello at a bagnio on the ensuing day;
whereby she is induced to go thither, where, thinking to have
been with her husband, she discovers that she has tarried with
Ricciardo. —
When Elisa had quite done, the queen, after some commendation of
Zima’s sagacity, bade Fiammetta follow with a story. Whereto
Fiammetta, all smiles, responded:—‟Madam, with all my heart;” and
thus began:—
Richly though our city abounds, as in all things else, so also in

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instances to suit every topic, yet I am minded to journey some distance

thence, and, like Elisa, to tell you something of what goes on in other
parts of the world: wherefore pass we to Naples, where you shall hear
how one of these sanctified that shew themselves so shy of love, was by
the subtlety of her lover brought to taste of the fruit before she had
known the flowers of love; whereby at one and the same time you may
derive from the past counsel of prudence for the future, and present
delectation.
In the very ancient city of Naples, which for loveliness has not its
superior or perhaps its equal in Italy, there once lived a young man,
renowned alike for noble blood and the splendour of his vast wealth, his
name Ricciardo Minutolo. He was mated with a very fair and loving wife;
but nevertheless he became enamoured of a lady who in the general
opinion vastly surpassed in beauty every other lady in Naples. Catella—
such was the lady’s name—was married to a young man, likewise of
gentle blood, Filippello Fighinolfi by name, whom she, most virtuous of
ladies, loved and held dear above all else in the world. Being thus
enamoured of Catella, Ricciardo Minutolo left none of those means
untried whereby a lady’s favour and love are wont to be gained, but for
all that he made no way towards the attainment of his heart’s desire:
whereby he fell into a sort of despair, and witless and powerless to loose
himself from his love, found life scarce tolerable, and yet knew not how
to die. While in this frame he languished, it befell one day that some
ladies that were of kin to him counselled him earnestly to be quit of such
a love, whereby he could but fret himself to no purpose, seeing that
Catella cared for nought in the world save Filippello, and lived in such a
state of jealousy on his account that never a bird flew but she feared lest
it should snatch him from her. So soon as Ricciardo heard of Catella’s
jealousy, he forthwith began to ponder how he might make it subserve
his end. He feigned to have given up his love for Catella as hopeless, and
to have transferred it to another lady, in whose honour he accordingly

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began to tilt and joust and do all that he had been wont to do in honour
of Catella. Nor was it long before well-nigh all the Neapolitans,
including Catella herself, began to think that he had forgotten Catella,
and was to the last degree enamoured of the other lady. In this course he
persisted, until the opinion was so firmly rooted in the minds of all that
even Catella laid aside a certain reserve which she had used towards him
while she deemed him her lover, and, coming and going, greeted him in
friendly, neighbourly fashion, like the rest. Now it so befell that during
the hot season, when, according to the custom of the Neapolitans, many
companies of ladies and gentlemen went down to the sea-coast to
recreate themselves and breakfast and sup, Ricciardo, knowing that
Catella was gone thither with her company, went likewise with his, but,
making as if he were not minded to stay there, he received several
invitations from the ladies of Catella’s company before he accepted any.
When the ladies received him, they all with one accord, including
Catella, began to rally him on his new love, and he furnished them with
more matter for talk by feigning a most ardent passion. At length most
of the ladies being gone off, one hither, another thither, as they do in
such places, leaving Catella and a few others with Ricciardo, he tossed at
Catella a light allusion to a certain love of her husband Filippello, which
threw her at once into such a fit of jealousy, that she inly burned with a
vehement desire to know what Ricciardo meant. For a while she kept her
own counsel; then, brooking no more suspense, she adjured Ricciardo,
by the love he bore the lady whom most he loved, to expound to her
what he had said touching Filippello. He answered thus:—‟You have
adjured me by her to whom I dare not deny aught that you may ask of
me; my riddle therefore I will presently read you, provided you promise
me that neither to him nor to any one else will you impart aught of what
I shall relate to you, until you shall have ocular evidence of its truth;
which, so you desire it, I will teach you how you may obtain.” The lady
accepted his terms, which rather confirmed her belief in his veracity,

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and swore that she would not tell a soul. They then drew a little apart,
that they might not be overheard by the rest, and Ricciardo thus began:
—‟Madam, did I love you, as I once did, I should not dare to tell you
aught that I thought might cause you pain; but, now that that love is
past, I shall have the less hesitation in telling you the truth. Whether
Filippello ever resented the love which I bore you, or deemed that it was
returned by you, I know not: whether it were so or no, he certainly never
shewed any such feeling to me; but so it is that now, having waited,
perhaps, until, as he supposes, I am less likely to be on my guard, he
shews a disposition to serve me as I doubt he suspects that I served him;
that is to say, he would fain have his pleasure of my wife, whom for some
time past he has, as I discover, plied with messages through most secret
channels. She has told me all, and has answered him according to my
instructions: but only this morning, just before I came hither, I found a
woman in close parley with her in the house, whose true character and
purpose I forthwith divined; so I called my wife, and asked what the
woman wanted. Whereto she answered:—’‛Tis this persecution by
Filippello which thou hast brought upon me by the encouraging answers
that thou wouldst have me give him: he now tells me that he is most
earnestly desirous to know my intentions, and that, should I be so
minded, he would contrive that I should have secret access to a bagnio in
this city, and he is most urgent and instant that I should consent. And
hadst thou not, wherefore I know not, bidden me keep the affair afoot, I
would have dismissed him in such a sort that my movements would have
been exempt from his prying observation for ever.’ Upon this I saw that
the affair was going too far; I determined to have no more of it, and to let
you know it, that you may understand how he requites your whole-
hearted faith, which brought me of late to the verge of death. And that
you may not suppose that these are but empty words and idle tales, but
may be able, should you so desire, to verify them by sight and touch, I
caused my wife to tell the woman who still waited her answer, that she

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would be at the bagnio to-morrow about none, during the siesta: with
which answer the woman went away well content. Now you do not, I
suppose, imagine that I would send her thither; but if I were in your
place, he should find me there instead of her whom he thinks to find
there; and when I had been some little time with him, I would give him
to understand with whom he had been, and he should have of me such
honour as he deserved. Whereby, I doubt not, he would be put to such
shame as would at one and the same time avenge both the wrong which
he has done to you and that which he plots against me.”
Catella, as is the wont of the jealous, hearkened to Ricciardo’s words
without so much as giving a thought to the speaker or his wiles, inclined
at once to credit his story, and began to twist certain antecedent matters
into accord with it; then, suddenly kindling with wrath, she answered
that to the bagnio she would certainly go; ‛twould cause her no great
inconvenience, and if he should come, she would so shame him that he
should never again set eyes on woman but his ears would tingle.
Satisfied by what he heard, that his stratagem was well conceived, and
success sure, Ricciardo added much in corroboration of his story, and
having thus confirmed her belief in it, besought her to keep it always
close, whereto she pledged her faith.
Next morning Ricciardo hied him to the good woman that kept the
bagnio to which he had directed Catella, told her the enterprise which
he had in hand, and prayed her to aid him therein so far as she might be
able. The good woman, who was much beholden to him, assured him
that she would gladly do so, and concerted with him all that was to be
said and done. She had in the bagnio a room which was very dark, being
without any window to admit the light. This room, by Ricciardo’s
direction, she set in order, and made up a bed there as well as she could,
into which bed Ricciardo got, as soon as he had breakfasted, and there
awaited Catella’s coming.
Now Catella, still giving more credence to Ricciardo’s story than it

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merited, had gone home in the evening in a most resentful mood, and
Filippello, returning home the same evening with a mind greatly
preoccupied, was scarce as familiar with her as he was wont to be. Which
she marking, grew yet more suspicious than before, and said to herself:
—‟Doubtless he is thinking of the lady of whom he expects to take his
pleasure to-morrow, as most assuredly he shall not;” and so, musing and
meditating what she should say to him after their rencounter at the
bagnio, she spent the best part of the night. But—to shorten my story—
upon the stroke of none Catella, taking with her a single attendant, but
otherwise adhering to her original intention, hied her to the bagnio
which Ricciardo had indicated; and finding the good woman there,
asked her whether Filippello had been there that day. Primed by
Ricciardo, the good woman asked her, whether she were the lady that
was to come to speak with him; to which she answered in the
affirmative. ‟Go to him, then,” said the good woman. And so Catella, in
quest of that which she would gladly not have found, was shewn to the
chamber where Ricciardo was, and having entered without uncovering
her head, closed the door behind her. Overjoyed to see her, Ricciardo
sprang out of bed, took her in his arms, and said caressingly:
—‟Welcome, my soul.” Catella, dissembling, for she was minded at first
to counterfeit another woman, returned his embrace, kissed him, and
lavished endearments upon him; saying, the while, not a word, lest her
speech should betray her. The darkness of the room, which was
profound, was equally welcome to both; nor were they there long
enough for their eyes to recover power. Ricciardo helped Catella on to
the bed, where, with no word said on either side in a voice that might be
recognized, they lay a long while, much more to the solace and
satisfaction of the one than of the other party. Then, Catella, deeming it
high time to vent her harboured resentment, burst forth in a blaze of
wrath on this wise:—‟Alas! how wretched is the lot of women, how
misplaced of not a few the love they bear their husbands! Ah, woe is me!

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for eight years have I loved thee more dearly than my life; and now I find
that thou, base miscreant that thou art, dost nought but burn and
languish for love of another woman! Here thou hast been—with whom,
thinkest thou? Even with her whom thou hast too long deluded with thy
false blandishments, making pretence to love her while thou art
enamoured of another. ‛Tis I, Catella, not the wife of Ricciardo, false
traitor that thou art; list if thou knowest my voice; ‛tis I indeed! Ah!
would we were but in the light!— it seems to me a thousand years till
then—that I might shame thee as thou deservest, vile, pestilent dog that
thou art! Alas! woe is me! such love as I have borne so many years—to
whom? To this faithless dog, that, thinking to have a strange woman in
his embrace, has in the brief while that I have been with him here
lavished upon me more caresses and endearments than during all the
forepast time that I have been his! A lively spark indeed art thou to-day,
renegade dog, that shewest thyself so limp and enervate and impotent at
home! But, God be praised, thou hast tilled thine own plot, and not
another’s, as thou didst believe. No wonder that last night thou heldest
aloof from me; thou wast thinking of scattering thy seed elsewhere, and
wast minded to shew thyself a lusty knight when thou shouldst join
battle. But praise be to God and my sagacity, the water has nevertheless
taken its proper course. Where is thy answer, culprit? Hast thou nought
to say? Have my words struck thee dumb? God’s faith I know not why I
forbear to pluck thine eyes out with my fingers. Thou thoughtest to
perpetrate this treason with no small secrecy; but, by God, one is as
knowing as another; thy plot has failed; I had better hounds on thy trail
than thou didst think for.” Ricciardo, inly delighted by her words, made
no answer, but embraced and kissed her more than ever, and
overwhelmed her with his endearments. So she continued her
reproaches, saying:—‟Ay, thou thinkest to cajole me with thy feigned
caresses, wearisome dog that thou art, and so to pacify and mollify me;
but thou art mistaken. I shall never be mollified, until I have covered

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thee with infamy in the presence of all our kinsfolk and friends and
neighbours. Am I not, miscreant, as fair as the wife of Ricciardo
Minutolo? Am I not as good a lady as she? Why dost not answer, vile
dog? Wherein has she the advantage of me? Away with thee! touch me
not; thou hast done feats of arms more than enough for to-day. Well I
know that, now that thou knowest who I am, thou wilt wreak thy will on
me by force: but by God’s grace I will yet disappoint thee. I know not
why I forbear to send for Ricciardo, who loved me more than himself
and yet was never able to boast that he had a single glance from me; nor
know I why ‛twere wrong to do so. Thou thoughtest to have his wife here,
and ‛tis no fault of thine that thou hadst her not: so, if I had him, thou
couldst not justly blame me.”
Enough had now been said: the lady’s mortification was extreme;
and, as she ended, Ricciardo bethought him that, if he suffered her, thus
deluded, to depart, much evil might ensue. He therefore resolved to
make himself known, and disabuse her of her error. So, taking her in his
arms, and clipping her so close that she could not get loose, he said:
—‟Sweet my soul, be not wroth: that which, while artlessly I loved, I
might not have, Love has taught me to compass by guile: know that I am
thy Ricciardo.”
At these words and the voice, which she recognized, Catella started,
and would have sprung out of the bed; which being impossible, she
essayed a cry; but Ricciardo laid a hand upon her mouth, and closed it,
saying:—‟Madam, that which is done can never be undone, though you
should cry out for the rest of your days, and should you in such or any
other wise publish this matter to any, two consequences will ensue. In
the first place (and this is a point which touches you very nearly) your
honour and fair fame will be blasted; for, however you may say that I
lured you hither by guile, I shall deny it, and affirm, on the contrary, that
I induced you to come hither by promises of money and gifts, and that
‛tis but because you are vexed that what I gave you did not altogether

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come up to your expectations, that you make such a cry and clamour;
and you know that folk are more prone to believe evil than good, and
therefore I am no less likely to be believed than you. The further
consequence will be mortal enmity between your husband and me, and
the event were as like to be that I killed him as that he killed me: which
if I did, you would never more know joy or peace. Wherefore, heart of
my body, do not at one and the same time bring dishonour upon
yourself and set your husband and me at strife and in jeopardy of our
lives. You are not the first, nor will you be the last to be beguiled; nor
have I beguiled you to rob you of aught, but for excess of love that I bear,
and shall ever bear, you, being your most lowly vassal. And though it is
now a great while that I, and what I have and can and am worth, are
yours, yet I am minded that so it shall be henceforth more than ever
before. Your discretion in other matters is not unknown to me, and I
doubt not ‛twill be equally manifest in this.”
Ricciardo’s admonitions were received by Catella with many a bitter
tear; but though she was very wroth and very sad at heart, yet Ricciardo’s
true words so far commanded the assent of her reason, that she
acknowledged that ‛twas possible they might be verified by the event.
Wherefore she made answer:-‟Ricciardo, I know not how God will grant
me patience to bear the villainy and knavery which thou hast practised
upon me; and though in this place, to which simplicity and excess of
jealousy guided my steps, I raise no cry, rest assured that I shall never be
happy, until in one way or another I know myself avenged of that which
thou hast done to me. Wherefore unhand me, let me go: thou hast had
thy desire of me, and hast tormented me to thy heart’s content: ‛tis time
to release me; let me go, I pray thee.” But Ricciardo, seeing that she was
still much ruffled in spirit, was resolved not to let her go, until he had
made his peace with her. So he addressed himself to soothe her; and by
dint of most dulcet phrases and entreaties and adjurations he did at last
prevail with her to give him her pardon; nay, by joint consent, they

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tarried there a great while to the exceeding great delight of both. Indeed
the lady, finding her lover’s kisses smack much better than those of her
husband, converted her asperity into sweetness, and from that day forth
cherished a most tender love for Ricciardo; whereof, using all
circumspection, they many a time had solace. God grant us solace of
ours.

NOVEL VII.

— Tedaldo, being in disfavour with his lady, departs from

Florence. He returns thither after a while in the guise of a
pilgrim, has speech of his lady, and makes her sensible of her
fault. Her husband, convicted of slaying him, he delivers from
peril of death, reconciles him with his brothers, and thereafter
discreetly enjoys his lady. —
So ceased Fiammetta; and, when all had bestowed on her their meed of
praise, the queen—to lose no time—forthwith bade Emilia resume the
narration. So thus Emilia began:—
I am minded to return to our city, whence my two last predecessors
saw fit to depart, and to shew you how one of our citizens recovered the
lady he had lost. Know then that there was in Florence a young noble,
his name Tedaldo Elisei, who being beyond measure enamoured of a
lady hight Monna Ermellina, wife of one Aldobrandino Palermini, and
by reason of his admirable qualities richly deserving to have his desire,
found Fortune nevertheless adverse, as she is wont to be to the
prosperous. Inasmuch as, for some reason or another, the lady, having
shewn herself gracious towards Tedaldo for a while, completely altered
her mien, and not only shewed him no further favour, but would not so
much as receive a message from him or suffer him to see her face;
whereby he fell a prey to a grievous and distressful melancholy; but so

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well had he concealed his love that the cause of his melancholy was
surmised by none. He tried hard in divers ways to recover the love which
he deemed himself to have lost for no fault of his, and finding all his
efforts unavailing, he resolved to bid the world adieu, that he might not
afford her who was the cause of his distress the satisfaction of seeing
him languish. So he got together as much money as he might, and
secretly, no word said to friend or kinsman except only a familiar gossip,
who knew all, he took his departure for Ancona. Arrived there, he
assumed the name of Filippo Santodeccio, and having forgathered with
a rich merchant, entered his service. The merchant took him with him
to Cyprus aboard one of his ships, and was so well pleased with his
bearing and behaviour that he not only gave him a handsome salary but
made him in a sort his companion, and entrusted him with the
management of no small part of his affairs: wherein he proved himself so
apt and assiduous, that in the course of a few years he was himself
established in credit and wealth and great repute as a merchant. Seven
years thus passed, during which, albeit his thoughts frequently reverted
to his cruel mistress, and sorely love smote him, and much he yearned to
see her again, yet such was his firmness that he came off conqueror, until
one day in Cyprus it so befell that there was sung in his hearing a song
that he had himself composed, and of which the theme was the mutual
love that was between his lady and him, and the delight that he had of
her; which as he heard, he found it incredible that she should have
forgotten him, and burned with such a desire to see her once more, that,
being able to hold out no longer, he made up his mind to return to
Florence. So, having set all his affairs in order, he betook him, attended
only by a single servant, to Ancona; whence he sent all his effects, as they
arrived, forward to Florence, consigning them to a friend of his
Ancontan partner, and followed with his servant in the disguise of a
pilgrim returned from the Holy Sepulchre. Arrived at Florence, he put
up at a little hostelry kept by two brothers hard by his lady’s house,

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whither he forthwith hied him, hoping that, perchance, he might have

sight of her from the street; but, finding all barred and bolted, doors,
windows and all else, he doubted much, she must be dead, or have
removed thence. So, with a very heavy heart, he returned to the house of
the two brothers, and to his great surprise found his own four brothers
standing in front of it, all in black. He knew that he was so changed from
his former semblance, both in dress and in person, that he might not
readily be recognized, and he had therefore no hesitation in going up to
a shoemaker and asking him why these men were all dressed in black.
The shoemaker answered:—”‛Tis because ‛tis not fifteen days since a
brother of theirs, Tedaldo by name, that had been long abroad, was
slain; and I understand that they have proved in court that one
Aldobrandino Palermini, who is under arrest, did the deed, because
Tedaldo, who loved his wife, was come back to Florence incognito to
forgather with her.” Tedaldo found it passing strange that there should
be any one so like him as to be mistaken for him, and deplored
Aldobrandino’s evil plight. He had learned, however, that the lady was
alive and well. So, as ‛twas now night, he hied him, much perplexed in
mind, into the inn, and supped with his servant. The bedroom assigned
him was almost at the top of the house, and the bed was none of the
best. Thoughts many and disquieting haunted his mind, and his supper
had been but light. Whereby it befell that midnight came and went, and
Tedaldo was still awake. As thus he watched, he heard shortly after
midnight, a noise as of persons descending from the roof into the house,
and then through the chinks of the door of his room he caught the
flicker of an ascending light. Wherefore he stole softly to the door, and
peeping through a chink to make out what was afoot, he saw a very fine
young woman bearing a light, and three men making towards her, being
evidently those that had descended from the roof. The men exchanged
friendly greetings with the young woman, and then one said to her:
—‟Now, God be praised, we may make our minds easy, for we are well

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assured that judgment for the death of Tedaldo Elisei is gotten by his
brothers against Aldobrandino Palermini, and he has confessed, and the
sentence is already drawn up; but still it behoves us to hold our peace;
for, should it ever get abroad that we were guilty, we shall stand in the
like jeopardy as Aldobrandino.” So saying, they took leave of the woman,
who seemed much cheered, and went to bed. What he had heard set
Tedaldo musing on the number and variety of the errors to which men
are liable: as, first, how his brothers had mourned and interred a
stranger in his stead, and then charged an innocent man upon false
suspicion, and by false witness brought him into imminent peril of
death: from which he passed to ponder the blind severity of laws and
magistrates, who from misguided zeal to elicit the truth not
unfrequently become ruthless, and, adjudging that which is false, forfeit
the title which they claim of ministers of God and justice, and do but
execute the mandates of iniquity and the Evil One. And so he came at
last to consider the possibility of saving Aldobrandino, and formed a
plan for the purpose. Accordingly, on the morrow, when he was risen, he
left his servant at the inn, and hied him alone, at what he deemed a
convenient time, to his lady’s house, where, finding, by chance, the door
open, he entered, and saw his lady sitting, all tears and lamentations, in
a little parlour on the ground-floor. Whereat he all but wept for
sympathy; and drawing near her, he said:—‟Madam, be not troubled in
spirit: your peace is nigh you.” Whereupon the lady raised her head, and
said between her sobs:—‟Good man, what dost thou, a pilgrim, if I
mistake not, from distant parts, know either of my peace or of my
affliction?” ‟Madam,” returned the pilgrim, ‟I am of Constantinople, and
am but now come hither, at God’s behest, that I may give you laughter
for tears, and deliver your husband from death.” ‟But,” said the lady, ‟if
thou art of Constantinople, and but now arrived, how is’t that thou
knowest either who my husband is, or who I am?” Whereupon the
pilgrim gave her the whole narrative, from the very beginning, of

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Aldobrandino’s sufferings; he also told her, who she was, how long she
had been married, and much besides that was known to him of her
affairs: whereat the lady was lost in wonder, and, taking him to be a
prophet, threw herself on her knees at his feet, and besought him for
God’s sake, if he were come to save Aldobrandino, to lose no time, for the
matter brooked no delay. Thus adjured, the pilgrim assumed an air of
great sanctity, as he said:—‟Arise, Madam, weep not, but hearken
diligently to what I shall say to you, and look to it that you impart it to
none. I have it by revelation of God that the tribulation wherein you
stand is come upon you in requital of a sin which you did once commit,
of which God is minded that this suffering be a partial purgation, and
that you make reparation in full, if you would not find yourself in a far
more grievous plight.” ‟Sir,” replied the lady, ‟many sins have I
committed, nor know I how among them all to single out that whereof,
more than another, God requires reparation at my hands—wherefore, if
you know it, tell it me, and what by way of reparation I may do, that will
I do.” ‟Madam,” returned the pilgrim, ‟well wot I what it is, nor shall I
question you thereof for my better instruction, but that the rehearsal
may give you increase of remorse therefor. But pass we now to fact. Tell
me, mind you ever to have had a lover?” Whereat the lady heaved a deep
sigh; then, marvelling not a little, for she had thought ‛twas known to
none, albeit on the day when the man was slain, who was afterwards
buried as Tedaldo, there had been some buzz about it, occasioned by
some indiscreet words dropped by Tedaldo’s gossip and confidant, she
made answer:—‟I see that there is nought that men keep secret but God
reveals it to you; wherefore I shall not endeavour to hide my secrets from
you. True it is that in my youth I was beyond measure enamoured of the
unfortunate young man whose death is imputed to my husband; whom I
mourned with grief unfeigned, for, albeit I shewed myself harsh and
cruel towards him before his departure, yet neither thereby, nor by his
long absence, nor yet by his calamitous death was my heart estranged

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from him.” Then said the pilgrim:—”‛Twas not the unfortunate young
man now dead that you did love, but Tedaldo Elisei. But let that pass;
now tell me: wherefore lost he your good graces? Did he ever offend
you?” ‟Nay verily,” answered the lady, ‟he never offended me at all. My
harshness was prompted by an accursed friar, to whom I once confessed,
and who, when I told him of the love I bore Tedaldo, and my intimacy
with him, made my ears so tingle and sing that I still shudder to think of
it, warning me that, if I gave it not up, I should fall into the jaws of the
Devil in the abyss of hell, and be cast into the avenging fire. Whereby I
was so terrified that I quite made my mind up to discontinue my
intimacy with him, and, to trench the matter, I would thenceforth have
none of his letters or messages; and so, I suppose, he went away in
despair, though I doubt not, had he persevered a while longer, I should
not have seen him wasting away like snow in sunshine without relenting
of my harsh resolve; for in sooth there was nothing in the world I would
so gladly have done.” Then said the pilgrim:—‟Madam, ‛tis this sin, and
this only, that has brought upon you your present tribulation. I know
positively that Tedaldo did never put force upon you: ‛twas of your own
free will, and for that he pleased you, that you became enamoured of
him, your constant visitor, your intimate friend he became, because you
yourself would have it so; and in the course of your intimacy you shewed
him such favour by word and deed that, if he loved you first, you
multiplied his love full a thousandfold. And if so it was, and well I know
it was so, what justification had you for thus harshly severing yourself
from him? You should have considered the whole matter before the die
was cast, and not have entered upon it, if you deemed you might have
cause to repent you of it as a sin. As soon as he became yours, you
became his. Had he not been yours, you might have acted as you had
thought fit, at your own unfettered discretion, but, as you were his, ‛twas
robbery, ‛twas conduct most disgraceful, to sever yourself from him
against his will. Now you must know that I am a friar; and therefore all

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the ways of friars are familiar to me; nor does it misbecome me, as it
might another, to speak for your behoof somewhat freely of them; as I
am minded to do that you may have better understanding of them in the
future than you would seem to have had in the past. Time was when the
friars were most holy and worthy men, but those who to-day take the
name and claim the reputation of friars have nought of the friar save
only the habit: nay, they have not even that: for, whereas their founders
ordained that their habits should be strait, of a sorry sort, and of coarse
stuff, apt symbols of a soul that in arraying the body in so mean a garb
did despite to all things temporal, our modern friars will have them full,
and double, and resplendent, and of the finest stuff, and of a fashion
goodly and pontifical, wherein without shame they flaunt it like
peacocks in the church, in the piazza, even as do the laity in their robes.
And as the fisherman casts his net into the stream with intent to take
many fish at one throw: so ‛tis the main solicitude and study, art and
craft of these friars to embrace and entangle within the ample folds of
their vast swelling skirts beguines, widows and other foolish women, ay,
and men likewise in great number. Wherefore, to speak with more
exactitude, the friars of to-day have nought of the habit of the friar save
only the colour thereof. And, whereas the friars of old time sought to win
men to their salvation, those of to-day seek to win their women and their
wealth; wherefore they have made it and make it their sole concern by
declamation and imagery to strike terror into the souls of fools, and to
make believe that sins are purged by alms and masses; to the end that
they, base wretches that have fled to friarage not to ensue holiness but to
escape hardship, may receive from this man bread, from that man wine,
and from the other man a donation for masses for the souls of his dead.
True indeed it is that sins are purged by almsgiving and prayer; but, did
they who give the alms know, did they but understand to whom they
give them, they would be more apt to keep them to themselves, or throw
them to so many pigs. And, knowing that the fewer be they that share

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great riches, the greater their ease, ‛tis the study of each how best by
declamation and intimidation to oust others from that whereof he
would fain be the sole owner. They censure lust in men, that, they
turning therefrom, the sole use of their women may remain to the
censors: they condemn usury and unlawful gains, that, being entrusted
with the restitution thereof, they may be able to enlarge their habits, and
to purchase bishoprics and other great preferments with the very money
which they have made believe must bring its possessor to perdition. And
when they are taxed with these and many other discreditable practices,
they deem that there is no censure, however grave, of which they may
not be quit by their glib formula:—‛Follow our precepts, not our
practice:’ as if ‛twere possible that the sheep should be of a more austere
and rigid virtue than the shepherds. And how many of these, whom they
put off with this formula, understand it not in the way in which they
enunciate it, not a few of them know. The friars of to-day would have
you follow their precepts, that is to say, they would have you fill their
purses with coin, confide to them your secrets, practise continence, be
longsuffering, forgive those that trespass against you, keep yourselves
from evil speaking; all which things are good, seemly, holy. But to what
end? To the end that they may be able to do that which, if the laity do it,
they will not be able to do. Who knows not that idleness cannot subsist
without money? Spend thy money on thy pleasures, and the friar will
not be able to live in sloth in his order. Go after women, and there will be
no place for the friar. Be not longsuffering, pardon not the wrong-doer,
and the friar will not dare to cross thy threshold to corrupt thy family.
But wherefore pursue I the topic through every detail? They accuse
themselves as often as they so excuse themselves in the hearing of all
that have understanding. Why seclude they not themselves, if they
misdoubt their power to lead continent and holy lives? Or if they must
needs not live as recluses, why follow they not that other holy text of the

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Gospel:—Christ began to do and to teach?24 Let them practise first, and

school us with their precepts afterwards. A thousand such have I seen in
my day, admirers, lovers, philanderers, not of ladies of the world alone,
but of nuns; ay, and they too such as made the most noise in the pulpits.
Is it such as they that we are to follow? He that does so, pleases himself;
but God knows if he do wisely. But assume that herein we must allow
that your censor, the friar, spoke truth, to wit, that none may break the
marriage-vow without very grave sin. What then? to rob a man, to slay
him, to make of him an exile and a wanderer on the face of the earth, are
not these yet greater sins? None will deny that so they are. A woman that
indulges herself in the intimate use with a man commits but a sin of
nature; but if she rob him, or slay him, or drive him out into exile, her sin
proceeds from depravity of spirit. That you did rob Tedaldo, I have
already shewn you, in that, having of your own free will become his, you
reft you from him. I now go further and say that, so far as in you lay, you
slew him, seeing that, shewing yourself ever more and more cruel, you
did your utmost to drive him to take his own life; and in the law’s intent
he that is the cause that wrong is done is as culpable as he that does it.
Nor is it deniable that you were the cause that for seven years he has
been an exile and a wanderer upon the face of the earth. Wherefore
upon each of the said three articles you are found guilty of a greater
crime than you committed by your intimacy with him. But consider we
the matter more closely: perchance Tedaldo merited such treatment:
nay, but assuredly ‛twas not so. You have yourself so confessed: besides
which I know that he loves you more dearly than himself. He would
laud, he would extol, he would magnify you above all other ladies so as
never was heard the like, wheresoever ‛twas seemly for him to speak of
you, and it might be done without exciting suspicion. All his bliss, all his
honour, all his liberty he avowed was entirely in your disposal. Was he

24 As pointed out by Mr. Payne, these words are not from any of the Gospels, but from the first verse of the Acts of
the Apostles. Boccaccio doubtless used ‟Evangelio” in a large sense for the whole of the New Testament.

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not of noble birth? And for beauty might he not compare with the rest of
his townsfolk? Did he not excel in all the exercises and accomplishments
proper to youth? Was he not beloved, held dear, well seen of all men?
You will not deny it. How then could you at the behest of a paltry friar,
silly, brutish and envious, bring yourself to deal with him in any harsh
sort? I cannot estimate the error of those ladies who look askance on
men and hold them cheap; whereas, bethinking them of what they are
themselves, and what and how great is the nobility with which God has
endowed man above all the other animals, they ought rather to glory in
the love which men give them, and hold them most dear, and with all
zeal study to please them, that so their love may never fail. In what sort
you did so, instigated by the chatter of a friar, some broth-guzzling,
pastry-gorging knave without a doubt, you know; and peradventure his
purpose was but to instal himself in the place whence he sought to oust
another. This then is the sin which the Divine justice, which, ever
operative, suffers no perturbation of its even balance, or arrest of
judgment, has decreed not to leave unpunished: wherefore, as without
due cause you devised how you might despoil Tedaldo of yourself, so
without due cause your husband has been placed and is in jeopardy of
his life on Tedaldo’s account, and to your sore affliction. Wherefrom if
you would be delivered, there is that which you must promise, ay, and
(much more) which you must perform: to wit, that, should it ever betide
that Tedaldo return hither from his long exile, you will restore to him
your favour, your love, your tender regard, your intimacy, and reinstate
him in the position which he held before you foolishly hearkened to the
halfwitted friar.”
Thus ended the pilgrim; and the lady, who had followed him with the
closest attention, deeming all that he advanced very sound, and
doubting not that her tribulation was, as he said, in requital of her sin,
spoke thus:— ‟Friend of God, well I wot that the matters which you
discourse are true, and, thanks to your delineation, I now in great

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measure know what manner of men are the friars, whom I have hitherto
regarded as all alike holy; nor doubt I that great was my fault in the
course which I pursued towards Tedaldo; and gladly, were it in my
power, would I make reparation in the manner which you have
indicated. But how is this feasible? Tedaldo can never return to us. He is
dead. Wherefore I know not why I must needs give you a promise which
cannot be performed.” ‟Madam,” returned the pilgrim, ”‛tis revealed to
me by God that Tedaldo is by no means dead, but alive and well and
happy, so only he enjoyed your favour.” ‟Nay, but,” said the lady, ‟speak
advisedly; I saw his body done to death by more than one knife-wound; I
folded it in these arms, and drenched the dead face with many a tear;
whereby, perchance, I gave occasion for the bruit that has been made to
my disadvantage.” ‟Say what you may, Madam,” rejoined the pilgrim,” I
assure you that Tedaldo lives, and if you will but give the promise, then,
for its fulfilment, I have good hope that you will soon see him.”
Whereupon: ‟I give the promise,” said the lady, ‟and right gladly will I
make it good; nor is there aught that might happen that would yield me
such delight as to see my husband free and scatheless, and Tedaldo
alive.” Tedaldo now deemed it wise to make himself known, and
establish the lady in a more sure hope of her husband’s safety.
Wherefore he said:—‟Madam, to set your mind at ease in regard of your
husband, I must first impart to you a secret, which be mindful to
disclose to none so long as you live.” Then—for such was the confidence
which the lady reposed in the pilgrim’s apparent sanctity that they were
by themselves in a place remote from observation—Tedaldo drew forth a
ring which he had guarded with the most jealous care, since it had been
given him by the lady on the last night when they were together, and
said, as he shewed it to her:—‟Madam, know you this?” The lady
recognized it forthwith, and answered:—‟I do, Sir; I gave it long ago to
Tedaldo.” Then the pilgrim, rising and throwing off his sclavine 25 and
25 Schiavina, Low Lat. sclavina, the long coarse frock worn, among others, by palmers.

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hat, said with the Florentine accent:—‟And know you me?” The lady
recognizing forthwith the form and semblance of Tedaldo, was struck
dumb with wonder and fear as of a corpse that is seen to go about as if
alive, and was much rather disposed to turn and flee from Tedaldo
returned from the tomb than to come forward and welcome Tedaldo
arrived from Cyprus. But when Tedaldo said to her:—‟Fear not, Madam,
your Tedaldo am I, alive and well, nor was I ever dead, whatever you and
my brothers may think,” the lady, partly awed, partly reassured by his
voice, regarded him with rather more attention, and inly affirming that
‛twas in very truth Tedaldo, threw herself upon his neck, and wept, and
kissed him, saying:—‟Sweet my Tedaldo, welcome home.” ‟Madam,”
replied Tedaldo after he had kissed and embraced her, ‟time serves not
now for greetings more intimate. ‛Tis for me to be up and doing, that
Aldobrandino may be restored to you safe and sound; touching which
matter you will, I trust, before to-morrow at even hear tidings that will
gladden your heart; indeed I expect to have good news to-night, and, if
so, will come and tell it you, when I shall be less straitened than I am at
present.” He then resumed his sclavine and hat, and having kissed the
lady again, and bade her be of good cheer, took his leave, and hied him
to the prison, where Aldobrandino lay more occupied with apprehension
of imminent death than hope of deliverance to come. As ministrant of
consolation, he gained ready admittance of the warders, and, seating
himself by Aldobrandino’s side, he said:—‟Aldobrandino, in me thou
seest a friend sent thee by God, who is touched with pity of thee by
reason of thy innocence; wherefore, if in reverent submission to Him
thou wilt grant me a slight favour that I shall ask of thee, without fail,
before to-morrow at even, thou shalt, in lieu of the doom of death that
thou awaitest, hear thy acquittal pronounced.” ‟Worthy man,” replied
Aldobrandino, ‟I know thee not, nor mind I ever to have seen thee;
wherefore, as thou shewest thyself solicitous for my safety, my friend
indeed thou must needs be, even as thou sayst. And in sooth the crime,

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for which they say I ought to be doomed to death, I never committed,

though others enough I have committed, which perchance have brought
me to this extremity. However, if so be that God has now pity on me, this
I tell thee in reverent submission to Him, that, whereas ‛tis but a little
thing that thou cravest of me, there is nought, however great, but I
would not only promise but gladly do it; wherefore, even ask what thou
wilt, and, if so be that I escape, I will without fail keep my word to the
letter.” ‟Nay,” returned the pilgrim, ‟I ask but this of thee, that thou
pardon Tedaldo’s four brothers, that in the belief that thou wast guilty of
their brother’s death they brought thee to this strait, and, so they ask thy
forgiveness, account them as thy brothers and friends.” ‟How sweet,”
replied Aldobrandino, ‟is the savour, how ardent the desire, of
vengeance, none knows but he that is wronged; but yet, so God may take
thought for my deliverance, I will gladly pardon, nay, I do now pardon
them, and if I go hence alive and free, I will thenceforth have them in
such regard as shall content thee.” Satisfied with this answer, the
pilgrim, without further parley, heartily exhorted Aldobrandino to be of
good cheer; assuring him that, before the next day was done, he should
be certified beyond all manner of doubt of his deliverance; and so he left
him.
On quitting the prison the pilgrim hied him forthwith to the signory,
and being closeted with a knight that was in charge, thus spoke:—‟My
lord, ‛tis the duty of all, and most especially of those who hold your
place, zealously to bestir themselves that the truth be brought to light,
in order as well that those bear not the penalty who have not committed
the crime, as that the guilty be punished. And that this may come to pass
to your honour and the undoing of the delinquent, I am come hither to
you. You wot that you have dealt rigorously with Aldobrandino
Palermini, and have found, as you think, that ‛twas he that slew Tedaldo
Elisei, and you are about to condemn him; wherein you are most
certainly in error, as I doubt not before midnight to prove to you,

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delivering the murderers into your hands.” The worthy knight, who was
not without pity for Aldobrandino, readily gave ear to the pilgrim’s
words. He conversed at large with him, and availing himself of his
guidance, made an easy capture of the two brothers that kept the inn
and their servant in their first sleep. He was about to put them the
torture, to elicit the true state of the case, when, their courage failing,
they confessed without the least reserve, severally at first, and then
jointly, that ‛twas they that had slain Tedaldo Elisei, not knowing who he
was. Asked for why, they answered that ‛twas because he had sorely
harassed the wife of one of them, and would have constrained her to do
his pleasure, while they were out of doors. Whereof the pilgrim was no
sooner apprised, than by leave of the knight he withdrew, and hied him
privily to the house of Madonna Ermellina, whom (the rest of the
household being gone to bed) he found awaiting him alone, and equally
anxious for good news of her husband and a complete reconciliation
with her Tedaldo. On entering, he blithely exclaimed:—‟Rejoice, dearest
my lady, for thou mayst rest assured that to-morrow thou shalt have thy
Aldobrandino back here safe and sound;” and to confirm her faith in his
words, he told her all that he had done. Greater joy was never woman’s
than hers of two such glad surprises; to wit, to have Tedaldo with her
alive again, whom she had wailed for verily dead, and to know
Aldobrandino, whom she had thought in no long time to wail for dead,
now out of jeopardy. Wherefore, when she had affectionately embraced
and kissed her Tedaldo, they hied them to bed together, and with hearty
goodwill made gracious and gladsome consummation of their peace by
interchange of sweet solace.
With the approach of day Tedaldo rose, and having first apprised the
lady of his purpose and enjoined her, as before, to keep it most secret,
resumed his pilgrim’s habit, and sallied forth of her house, to be ready,
as occasion should serve, to act in Aldobrandino’s interest. As soon as
‛twas day, the signory, deeming themselves amply conversant with the

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affair, set Aldobrandino at large; and a few days later they caused the
malefactors to be beheaded in the place where they had done the
murder.
Great was Aldobrandino’s joy to find himself free, not less great was
that of his lady and all his friends and kinsfolk; and as ‛twas through the
pilgrim that it had come about, they brought him to their house, there
to reside as long as he cared to tarry in the city; nor could they do him
honour and cheer enough, and most of all the lady, who knew her man.
But after awhile, seeing that his brothers were not only become a
common laughing-stock by reason of Aldobrandino’s acquittal, but had
armed themselves for very fear, he felt that their reconciliation with him
brooked no delay, and accordingly craved of him performance of his
promise. Aldobrandino replied handsomely that it should be had at
once. The pilgrim then bade him arrange for the following day a grand
banquet, at which he and his kinsfolk and their ladies were to entertain
the four brothers and their ladies, adding that he would himself go
forthwith as Aldobrandino’s envoy, and bid them welcome to his peace
and banquet. All which being approved by Aldobrandino, the pilgrim
hied him with all speed to the four brothers, whom by ample, apt and
unanswerable argument he readily induced to reinstate themselves in
Aldobrandino’s friendship by suing for his forgiveness: which done, he
bade them and their ladies to breakfast with Aldobrandino on the
morrow, and they, being assured of his good faith, were consenting to
come. So, on the morrow, at the breakfast hour, Tedaldo’s four brothers,
still wearing their black, came with certain of their friends to
Aldobrandino’s house, where he awaited them; and, in presence of the
company that had been bidden to meet them, laid down their arms, and
made surrender to Aldobrandino, asking his pardon of that which they
had done against him. Aldobrandino received them compassionately,
wept, kissed each on the mouth, and let few words suffice to remit each
offence. After them came their sisters and their wives, all habited sadly,

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and were graciously received by Madonna Ermellina and the other

ladies. The guests, men and women alike, found all things ordered at the
banquet with magnificence, nor aught unmeet for commendation save
the restraint which the yet recent grief, betokened by the sombre garb of
Tedaldo’s kinsfolk, laid upon speech (wherein some had found matter to
except against the banquet and the pilgrim for devising it, as he well
knew), but, as he had premeditated, in due time, he stood up, the others
being occupied with their dessert, and spoke thus:—‟Nothing is wanting
to complete the gaiety of this banquet except the presence of Tedaldo;
whom, as you have been long time with him and have not known him, I
will point out to you.” So, having divested himself of his sclavine and
whatever else in his garb denoted the pilgrim, he remained habited in a
tunic of green taffeta, in which guise, so great was the wonder with
which all regarded him that, though they recognized him, ‛twas long
before any dared to believe that ‛twas actually Tedaldo. Marking their
surprise, Tedaldo told them not a little about themselves, their family
connexions, their recent history, and his own adventures. Whereat his
brothers and the rest of the men, all weeping for joy, hasted to embrace
him, followed by the women, as well those that were not, as those that
were, of kin to him, save only Madonna Ermellina. Which Aldobrandino
observing, said:—‟What is this, Ermellina? How comes it that, unlike
the other ladies, thou alone dost Tedaldo no cheer?” ‟Cheer,” replied the
lady in the hearing of all, ‟would I gladly do him such as no other woman
has done or could do, seeing that I am more beholden to him than any
other woman, in that to him I owe it that I have thee with me again; ‛tis
but the words spoken to my disadvantage, while we mourned him that
we deemed Tedaldo, that give me pause.” ‟Now out upon thee,” said
Aldobrandino, ‟thinkest thou that I heed the yelping of these curs? His
zeal for my deliverance has abundantly disproved it, besides which I
never believed it. Quick, get thee up, and go and embrace him.” The lady,
who desired nothing better, was in this not slow to obey her husband;

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she rose forthwith, and embraced Tedaldo as the other ladies had done,
and did him gladsome cheer. Tedaldo’s brothers and all the company,
men and women alike, heartily approved Aldobrandino’s handsomeness;
and so whatever of despite the rumour had engendered in the minds of
any was done away. And, now that all had done him cheer, Tedaldo with
his own hands rent his brothers’ suits of black upon their backs, as also
the sad-hued garments which his sisters and sisters-in-law wore, and
bade bring other apparel. Which when they had donned, there was no
lack of singing, dancing and other sorts of merry-making; whereby the
banquet, for all its subdued beginning, had a sonorous close. Then, just
as they were, in the blithest of spirits, they hied them all to Tedaldo’s
house, where in the evening they supped; and in this manner they held
festival for several days.
‛Twas some time before the Florentines ceased to look on Tedaldo as a
portent, as if he were risen from the dead; and a shadow of doubt
whether he were really Tedaldo or no continued to lurk in the minds of
not a few, including even his brothers: they had no assured belief; and in
that frame had perchance long continued, but for a casual occurrence
that shewed them who the murdered man was. It so befell that one day
some men-at-arms from Lunigiana passed by their house, and seeing
Tedaldo accosted him, saying:— ‟Good-morrow to thee, Faziuolo.” To
whom Tedaldo, in the presence of his brothers, answered:— ‟You take
me for another.” Whereat they were abashed, and asked his pardon,
saying:—‟Sooth to tell, you are liker than we ever knew any man like to
another to a comrade of ours, Faziuolo da Pontremoli by name, who
came hither a fortnight ago, or perhaps a little more, since when we have
not been able to learn what became of him. Most true it is that your
dress surprised us, because he, like ourselves, was a soldier.” Whereupon
Tedaldo’s eldest brother came forward, and asked how their comrade
had been accoutred. They told him, and ‛twas found to have been exactly
as they said: by which and other evidence ‛twas established that ‛twas

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Faziuolo that had been murdered, and not Tedaldo; of whom

thenceforth no suspicion lurked in the minds of his brothers or any one
else.
So, then, Tedaldo returned home very rich, and remained constant in
his love; nor did the lady again treat him harshly; but, using discretion,
they long had mutual solace of their love. God grant us solace of ours.

NOVEL VIII.

— Ferondo, having taken a certain powder, is interred for dead;

is disinterred by the abbot, who enjoys his wife; is put in prison
and taught to believe that he is in purgatory; is then
resuscitated, and rears as his own a boy begotten by the abbot
upon his wife. —
Ended Emilia’s long story, which to none was the less pleasing for its
length, but was deemed of all the ladies brief in regard of the number
and variety of the events therein recounted, a gesture of the queen
sufficed to convey her behest to Lauretta, and cause her thus to begin:
—‟Dearest ladies, I have it in mind to tell you a true story, which wears
far more of the aspect of a lie than of that which it really was: ‛tis
brought to my recollection by that which we have heard of one being
bewailed and buried in lieu of another. My story then is of one that,
living, was buried for dead, and after believed with many others that he
came out of the tomb not as one that had not died but as one risen from
the dead; whereby he was venerated as a saint who ought rather to have
been condemned as a criminal.”
Know then that there was and still is in Tuscany an abbey, situate, as
we see not a few, in a somewhat solitary spot, wherein the office of abbot
was held by a monk, who in all other matters ordered his life with great
sanctity, save only in the commerce with women, and therein knew so

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well how to cloak his indulgence, that scarce any there were that so
much as suspected—not to say detected it—so holy and just was he
reputed in all matters. Now the abbot consorted much with a very
wealthy contadino, Ferondo by name, a man coarse and gross beyond
measure, whose friendship the abbot only cared for because of the
opportunities which it afforded of deriving amusement from his
simplicity; and during their intercourse the abbot discovered that
Ferondo had a most beautiful wife of whom he became so hotly
enamoured that he could think of nought else either by day or by night.
But learning that, however simple and inept in all other matters,
Ferondo shewed excellent good sense in cherishing and watching over
this wife of his, he almost despaired. However, being very astute, he
prevailed so far with Ferondo, that he would sometimes bring his wife
with him to take a little recreation in the abbey-garden, where he
discoursed to them with all lowliness of the blessedness of life eternal,
and the most pious works of many men and women of times past,
insomuch that the lady conceived a desire to confess to him, and craved
and had Ferondo’s leave therefor. So, to the abbot’s boundless delight,
the lady came and seated herself at his feet to make her confession,
whereto she prefixed the following exordium:—‟If God, Sir, had given
me a husband, or had not permitted me to have one, perchance ‛twould
be easy for me, under your guidance, to enter the way, of which you have
spoken, that leads to life eternal. But, considering what manner of man
Ferondo is, and his stupidity, I may call myself a widow, while yet I am
married in that, so long as he lives, I may have no other husband; and
he, fool that he is, is without the least cause so inordinately jealous of
me that ‛tis not possible but that my life with him be one of perpetual
tribulation and woe. Wherefore before I address myself to make further
confession, I in all humility beseech you to be pleased to give me some
counsel of this matter, for here or nowhere is to be found the source of
the amelioration of my life, and if it be not found, neither confession nor

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any other good work will be of any avail.” The abbot was overjoyed to
hear her thus speak, deeming that Fortune had opened a way to the
fulfilment of his hearts desire. Wherefore he said:—‟My daughter, I
doubt not that ‛tis a great affliction to a lady, fair and delicate as you are,
to have a fool for a husband, and still more so he should be jealous: and
as your husband is both the one and the other, I readily credit what you
say of your tribulation. But, to come to the point, I see no resource or
remedy in this case, save this only, that Ferondo be cured of his jealousy.
The medicine that shall cure him I know very well how to devise, but it
behoves you to keep secret what I am about to tell you.” ‟Doubt not of it,
my father,” said the lady; ‟for I had rather suffer death than tell any aught
that you forbade me to tell. But the medicine, how is it to be devised?”
‟If we would have him cured,” replied the abbot, ‟it can only be by his
going to purgatory.” ‟And how may that be?” returned the lady; ‟can he
go thither while he yet lives?” ‟He must die,” answered the abbot; ‟and so
he will go thither; and when he has suffered pain enough to be cured of
his jealousy, we have certain prayers with which we will supplicate God
to restore him to life, and He will do so.” ‟Then,” said the lady; ‟am I to
remain a widow?” ‟Yes,” replied the abbot, ‟for a certain time, during
which you must be very careful not to let yourself be married to another,
because ‛twould offend God, and when Ferondo was restored to life, you
would have to go back to him, and he would be more jealous than ever.”
‟Be it so then,” said the lady; ‟if he be but cured of his jealousy, and so I
be not doomed to pass the rest of my days in prison, I shall be content:
do as you think best.” ‟And so will I,” said the abbot; ‟but what reward
shall I have for such a service?” ‟My father,” said the lady, ‟what you
please; so only it be in my power. But what may the like of me do that
may be acceptable to a man such as you?” ‟Madam,” replied the abbot,
”‛tis in your power to do no less for me than I am about to do for you: as
that which I am minded to do will ensure your comfort and consolation,
so there is that which you may do which will be the deliverance and

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salvation of my life.” ‟If so it be,” said the lady, ‟I shall not be found
wanting.” ‟In that case,” said the abbot, ‟you will give me your love, and
gratify my passion for you, with which I am all afire and wasting away.”
Whereto the lady, all consternation, replied:— ‟Alas! my father, what is
this you crave? I took you for a holy man; now does it beseem holy men
to make such overtures to ladies that come to them for counsel?” ‟Marvel
not, fair my soul,” returned the abbot; ‟hereby is my holiness in no wise
diminished, for holiness resides in the soul, and this which I ask of you is
but a sin of the flesh. But, however it may be, such is the might of your
bewitching beauty, that love constrains me thus to act. And, let me tell
you, good cause have you to vaunt you of your beauty more than other
women, in that it delights the saints, who are used to contemplate
celestial beauties; whereto I may add that, albeit I am an abbot, yet I am
a man even as others, and, as you see, not yet old. Nor need this matter
seem formidable to you, but rather to be anticipated with pleasure, for,
while Ferondo is in purgatory, I shall be your nightly companion, and
will give you such solace as he should have given you; nor will it ever be
discovered by any, for all think of me even as you did a while ago, or even
more so. Reject not the grace that God accords you; for ‛tis in your power
to have, and, if you are wise and follow my advice, you shall have that
which women not a few desire in vain to have. And moreover I have
jewels fair and rare, which I am minded shall be yours and none other’s.
Wherefore, sweet my hope, deny me not due guerdon of the service
which I gladly render you.”
The lady, her eyes still downcast, knew not how to deny him, and yet
scrupled to gratify him: wherefore the abbot, seeing that she had
hearkened and hesitated to answer, deemed that she was already half
won, and following up what he had said with much more to the like
effect, did not rest until he had persuaded her that she would do well to
comply: and so with some confusion she told him that she was ready to
obey his every behest; but it might not be until Ferondo was in

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purgatory. The abbot, well content, replied:—‟And we will send him

thither forthwith: do but arrange that he come hither to stay with me to-
morrow or the day after.” Which said, he slipped a most beautiful ring on
her finger, and dismissed her. Pleased with the gift, and expecting more
to come, the lady rejoined her attendants, with whom she forthwith fell
a talking marvellous things of the abbot’s sanctity, and so went home
with them.
Some few days after, Ferondo being come to the abbey, the abbot no
sooner saw him than he resolved to send him to purgatory. So he
selected from among his drugs a powder of marvellous virtue, which he
had gotten in the Levant from a great prince, who averred that ‛twas
wont to be used by the Old Man of the Mountain, when he would send
any one to or bring him from his paradise, and that, without doing the
recipient any harm, ‛twould induce in him, according to the quantity of
the dose, a sleep of such duration and quality that, while the efficacy of
the powder lasted, none would deem him to be alive.26 Whereof he took
enough to cause a three days’ sleep, and gave it to Ferondo in his cell in a
beaker that had still some wine in it, so that he drank it unwittingly:
after which he took Ferondo to the cloister, and there with some of his
monks fell to making merry with him and his ineptitudes. In no long
time, however, the powder so wrought, that Ferondo was seized in the
head with a fit of somnolence so sudden and violent that he slept as he
stood, and sleeping fell to the ground. The abbot put on an agitated air,
caused him to be untrussed, sent for cold water, and had it sprinkled on
his face, and applied such other remedies as if he would fain call back
life and sense banished by vapours of the stomach, or some other
intrusive force; but, as, for all that he and his monks did, Ferondo did
not revive, they, after feeling his pulse and finding there no sign of life,
one and all pronounced him certainly dead. Wherefore they sent word to

26 By the Old Man of the Mountain is meant the head of the confraternity of hashish-eaters (Assassins), whose
chief stronghold was at Alamut in Persia (1090-1256). Cf. Marco Polo, ed. Yule, I. cap. xxiii.

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his wife and kinsfolk, who came forthwith, and mourned a while; after
which Ferondo in his clothes was by the abbot’s order laid in a tomb. The
lady went home, saying that nothing should ever part her from a little
son that she had borne Ferondo; and so she occupied herself with the
care of her son and Ferondo’s estate. At night the abbot rose noiselessly,
and with the help of a Bolognese monk, in whom he reposed much
trust, and who was that very day arrived from Bologna, got Ferondo out
of the tomb, and bore him to a vault, which admitted no light, having
been made to serve as a prison for delinquent monks; and having
stripped him of his clothes, and habited him as a monk, they laid him
on a truss of straw, and left him there until he should revive. Expecting
which event, and instructed by the abbot how he was then to act, the
Bolognese monk (none else knowing aught of what was afoot) kept
watch by the tomb.
The day after, the abbot with some of his monks paid a pastoral visit
to the lady’s house, where he found her in mourning weeds and sad at
heart; and, after administering a little consolation, he gently asked her to
redeem her promise. Free as she now felt herself, and hampered neither
by Ferondo nor by any other, the lady, who had noticed another
beautiful ring on the abbot’s finger, promised immediate compliance,
and arranged with the abbot that he should visit her the very next night.
So, at nightfall, the abbot donned Ferondo’s clothes, and, attended by
his monk, paid his visit, and lay with her until matins to his immense
delight and solace, and so returned to the abbey; and many visits he paid
her on the same errand; whereby some that met him, coming or going
that way, supposed that ‛twas Ferondo perambulating those parts by way
of penance; and fables not a few passed from mouth to mouth of the
foolish rustics, and sometimes reached the ears of the lady, who was at
no loss to account for them.
As for Ferondo, when he revived, ‛twas only to find himself he knew
not where, while the Bolognese monk entered the tomb, gibbering

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horribly, and armed with a rod, wherewith, having laid hold of Ferondo,
he gave him a severe thrashing. Blubbering and bellowing for pain,
Ferondo could only ejaculate:—‟Where am I?” ‟In purgatory,” replied the
monk. ‟How?” returned Ferondo, ‟am I dead then?” and the monk
assuring him that ‛twas even so, he fell a bewailing his own and his lady’s
and his son’s fate, after the most ridiculous fashion in the world. The
monk brought him somewhat to eat and drink. Of which when Ferondo
caught sight, ‟Oh!” said he, ‟dead folk eat then, do they?” ‟They do,”
replied the monk, ‟And this, which I bring thee, is what the lady that
was thy wife sent this morning to the church by way of alms for masses
for thy soul; and God is minded that it be assigned to thee.” ‟Now God
grant her a happy year,” said Ferondo; ‟dearly I loved her while I yet
lived, and would hold her all night long in my arms, and cease not to
kiss her, ay, and would do yet more to her, when I was so minded.”
Whereupon he fell to eating and drinking with great avidity, and finding
the wine not much to his taste, he said:—‟Now God do her a mischief!
Why gave she not the priest of the wine that is in the cask by the wall?”
When he had done eating, the monk laid hold of him again, and gave
him another sound thrashing with the rod. Ferondo bellowed mightily,
and then cried out:— ‟Alas! why servest thou me so?” ‟God,” answered
the monk, ‟has decreed that thou be so served twice a day.” ‟For why?”
said Ferondo. ‟Because,” returned the monk, ‟thou wast jealous,
notwithstanding thou hadst to wife a woman that has not her peer in thy
countryside.” ‟Alas,” said Ferondo, ‟she was indeed all that thou sayst, ay,
and the sweetest creature too,—no comfit so honeyed—but I knew not
that God took it amiss that a man should be jealous, or I had not been
so.” ‟Of that,” replied the monk, ‟thou shouldst have bethought thee
while thou wast there, and have amended thy ways; and should it fall to
thy lot ever to return thither, be sure that thou so lay to heart the lesson
that I now give thee, that thou be no more jealous.” ‟Oh!” said Ferondo;
‟dead folk sometimes return to earth, do they?” ‟They do,” replied the

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monk; ‟if God so will.” ‟Oh!” said Ferondo; ‟if I ever return, I will be the
best husband in the world; never will I beat her or scold her, save for the
wine that she has sent me this morning, and also for sending me never a
candle, so that I have had perforce to eat in the dark.” ‟Nay,” said the
monk, ‟she sent them, but they were burned at the masses.” ‟Oh!” said
Ferondo, ‟I doubt not you say true; and, of a surety, if I ever return, I will
let her do just as she likes. But tell me, who art thou that entreatest me
thus?” ‟Late of Sardinia I,” answered the monk, ‟dead too; and, for that I
gave my lord much countenance in his jealousy, doomed by God for my
proper penance to entreat thee thus with food and drink and thrashings,
until such time as He may ordain otherwise touching thee and me.” ‟And
are we two the only folk here?” inquired Ferondo. ‟Nay, there are
thousands beside,” answered the monk; ‟but thou canst neither see nor
hear them, nor they thee.” ‟And how far,” said Ferondo, ‟may we be from
our country?” ‟Oh! ho!” returned the monk, ‟why, ‛tis some miles clean
out of shitrange.” ‟I’faith,” said Ferondo, ‟that is far indeed: methinks we
must be out of the world.”
In such a course, alternately beaten, fed and amused with idle tales,
was Ferondo kept for ten months, while the abbot, to his great felicity,
paid many a visit to the fair lady, and had the jolliest time in the world
with her. But, as misfortunes will happen, the lady conceived, which
fact, as soon as she was aware of it, she imparted to the abbot;
whereupon both agreed that Ferondo must without delay be brought
back from purgatory to earth and her, and be given to understand that
she was with child of him. So the very next night the abbot went to the
prison, and in a disguised voice pronounced Ferondo’s name, and said to
him:—‟Ferondo, be of good cheer, for God is minded that thou return to
earth; and on thy return thou shalt have a son by thy lady, and thou shalt
call him Benedetto; because ‛tis in answer to the prayers of thy holy
abbot and thy lady, and for love of St. Benedict, that God accords thee
this grace.” Whereat Ferondo was overjoyed, and said:- -‟It likes me well.

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God give a good year to Master Lord God, and the abbot, and St.
Benedict, and my cheese-powdered, honey-sweet wife.” Then, in the
wine that he sent him, the abbot administered enough of the powder to
cause him to sleep for four hours; and so, with the aid of the monk,
having first habited him in his proper clothes, he privily conveyed him
back to the tomb in which he had been buried. On the morrow at
daybreak Ferondo revived, and perceiving through a chink in the tomb a
glimmer of light, to which he had been a stranger for full ten months, he
knew that he was alive, and began to bellow:—‟Let me out, let me out:”
then, setting his head to the lid of the tomb, he heaved amain; whereby
the lid, being insecure, started; and he was already thrusting it aside,
when the monks, matins being now ended, ran to the spot and
recognized Ferondo’s voice, and saw him issue from the tomb; by which
unwonted event they were all so affrighted that they took to flight, and
hied them to the abbot: who, rising as if from prayer, said:—‟Sons, be
not afraid; take the cross and the holy water, and follow me, and let us
see what sign of His might God will vouchsafe us.” And so he led the way
to the tomb; beside which they found Ferondo, standing, deathly pale by
reason of his long estrangement from the light. On sight of the abbot he
ran and threw himself at his feet, saying:—‟My father, it has been
revealed to me that ‛tis to your prayers and those of St. Benedict and my
lady that I owe my release from purgatorial pain, and restoration to life;
wherefore ‛tis my prayer that God give you a good year and good calends,
to-day and all days.” ‟Laud we the power of God!” said the abbot. ‟Go
then, son, as God has restored thee to earth, comfort thy wife, who, since
thou didst depart this life, has been ever in tears, and mayst thou live
henceforth in the love and service of God.” ‟Sir,” answered Ferondo, ”‛tis
well said; and, for the doing, trust me that, as soon as I find her, I shall
kiss her, such is the love I bear her.” So saying, he went his way; and the
abbot, left alone with his monks, made as if he marvelled greatly at the
affair, and caused devoutly chant the Miserere. So Ferondo returned to

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his hamlet, where all that saw him fleeing, as folk are wont to flee from
spectacles of horror, he called them back, asseverating that he was risen
from the tomb. His wife at first was no less timorous: but, as folk began
to take heart of grace, perceiving that he was alive, they plied him with
many questions, all which he answered as one that had returned with
ripe experience, and gave them tidings of the souls of their kinsfolk, and
told of his own invention the prettiest fables of the purgatorial state, and
in full folkmoot recounted the revelation vouchsafed him by the mouth
of Ragnolo Braghiello27 before his resuscitation.
Thus was Ferondo reinstated in his property and reunited to his wife,
who, being pregnant, as he thought, by himself, chanced by the time of
her delivery to countenance the vulgar error that the woman must bear
the infant in the womb for exactly nine months, and gave birth to a male
child, who was named Benedetto Ferondi. Ferondo’s return from
purgatory, and the report he brought thence, immeasurably enhanced
the fame of the abbot’s holiness. So Ferondo, cured of his jealousy by the
thrashings which he had gotten for it, verified the abbot’s prediction,
and never offended the lady again in that sort. Wherefore she lived with
him, as before, in all outward seemliness; albeit she failed not, as
occasion served, to forgather with the holy abbot, who had so well and
sedulously served her in her especial need.

27 Derisively for Agnolo Gabriello (the h having merely the effect of preserving the hardness of the g before i), i. e.
Angel Gabriel.

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NOVEL IX.

— Gillette of Narbonne cures the King of France of a fistula,

craves for spouse Bertrand de Roussillon, who marries her
against his will, and hies him in despite to Florence, where, as
he courts a young woman, Gillette lies with him in her stead,
and has two sons by him; for which cause he afterwards takes
her into favour and entreats her as his wife. —
Lauretta’s story being ended, and the queen being minded not to break
her engagement with Dioneo, ‛twas now her turn to speak. Wherefore
without awaiting the call of her subjects, thus with mien most gracious
she began:— Now that we have heard Lauretta’s story, who shall tell any
to compare with it for beauty? Lucky indeed was it that she was not the
first; for few that followed would have pleased; and so, I misdoubt me,
‛twill fare ill with those that remain to complete the day’s narration.
However, for what it may be worth, I will tell you a story which seems to
me germane to our theme.
Know, then, that in the realm of France there was a gentleman,
Isnard, Comte de Roussillon, by name, who, being in ill-health, kept ever
in attendance on him a physician, one Master Gerard of Narbonne. The
said Count had an only son named Bertrand, a very fine and winsome
little lad; with whom were brought up other children of his own age,
among them the said physician’s little daughter Gillette; who with a love
boundless and ardent out of all keeping with her tender years became
enamoured of this Bertrand. And so, when the Count died, and his son,
being left a ward of the King, must needs go to Paris, the girl remained
beside herself with grief, and, her father dying soon after, would gladly
have gone to Paris to see Bertrand, might she but have found a fair
excuse; but no decent pretext could she come by, being left a great and
sole heiress and very closely guarded. So being come of marriageable

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age, still cherishing Bertrand’s memory, she rejected not a few suitors, to
whom her kinsfolk would fain have married her, without assigning any
reason.
Now her passion waxing ever more ardent for Bertrand, as she
learned that he was grown a most goodly gallant, tidings reached her
that the King of France, in consequence of a tumour which he had had
in the breast, and which had been ill tended, was now troubled with a
fistula, which occasioned him extreme distress and suffering; nor had he
as yet come by a physician that was able, though many had essayed, to
cure him, but had rather grown worse under their hands; wherefore in
despair he was minded no more to have recourse to any for counsel or
aid. Whereat the damsel was overjoyed, deeming not only that she might
find therein lawful occasion to go to Paris, but, that, if the disease was
what she took it to be, it might well betide that she should be wedded to
Bertrand. So—for not a little knowledge had she gotten from her father
—she prepared a powder from certain herbs serviceable in the treatment
of the supposed disease, and straightway took horse, and hied her to
Paris. Arrived there she made it her first concern to have sight of
Bertrand; and then, having obtained access to the King, she besought
him of his grace to shew her his disease. The King knew not how to
refuse so young, fair and winsome a damsel, and let her see the place.
Whereupon, no longer doubting that she should cure him, she said:
—‟Sire, so please you, I hope in God to cure you of this malady within
eight days without causing you the least distress or discomfort.” The
King inly scoffed at her words, saying to himself:—‟How should a damsel
have come by a knowledge and skill that the greatest physicians in the
world do not possess?” He therefore graciously acknowledged her good
intention, and answered that he had resolved no more to follow advice
of physician. ‟Sire,” said the damsel, ‟you disdain my art, because I am
young and a woman; but I bid you bear in mind that I rely not on my
own skill, but on the help of God, and the skill of Master Gerard of

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Narbonne, my father, and a famous physician in his day.” Whereupon

the King said to himself:—‟Perchance she is sent me by God; why put I
not her skill to the proof, seeing that she says that she can cure me in a
short time, and cause me no distress?” And being minded to make the
experiment, he said:—‟Damsel, and if, having caused me to cancel my
resolve, you should fail to cure me, what are you content should ensue?”
‟Sire,” answered the damsel, ‟set a guard upon me; and if within eight
days I cure you not, have me burned; but if I cure you, what shall be my
guerdon?” ‟You seem,” said the King, ‟to be yet unmarried; if you shall
effect the cure, we will marry you well and in high place.” ‟Sire,” returned
the damsel, ‟well content indeed am I that you should marry me, so it be
to such a husband as I shall ask of you, save that I may not ask any of
your sons or any other member of the royal house.” Whereto the King
forthwith consented, and the damsel, thereupon applying her
treatment, restored him to health before the period assigned.
Wherefore, as soon as the King knew that he was cured:—‟Damsel,” said
he, ‟well have you won your husband.” She, answered:—‟In that case,
Sire, I have won Bertrand de Roussillon, of whom, while yet a child, I was
enamoured, and whom I have ever since most ardently loved.” To give
her Bertrand seemed to the King no small matter; but, having pledged
his word, he would not break it: so he sent for Bertrand, and said to him:
—‟Bertrand, you are now come to man’s estate, and fully equipped to
enter on it; ‛tis therefore our will that you go back and assume the
governance of your county, and that you take with you a damsel, whom
we have given you to wife.” ‟And who is the damsel, Sire?” said Bertrand.
‟She it is,” answered the King, ‟that has restored us to health by her
physic.” Now Bertrand, knowing Gillette, and that her lineage was not
such as matched his nobility, albeit, seeing her, he had found her very
fair, was overcome with disdain, and answered:—‟So, Sire, you would
fain give me a she-doctor to wife. Now God forbid that I should ever
marry any such woman.” ‟Then,” said the King, ‟you would have us fail of

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the faith which we pledged to the damsel, who asked you in marriage by
way of guerdon for our restoration to health.” ‟Sire,” said Bertrand, ‟you
may take from me all that I possess, and give me as your man to
whomsoever you may be minded; but rest assured that I shall never be
satisfied with such a match.” ‟Nay, but you will,” replied the King; ‟for
the damsel is fair and discreet, and loves you well; wherefore we
anticipate that you will live far more happily with her than with a dame
of much higher lineage.” Bertrand was silent; and the King made great
preparations for the celebration of the nuptials. The appointed day
came, and Bertrand, albeit reluctantly, nevertheless complied, and in the
presence of the King was wedded to the damsel, who loved him more
dearly than herself. Which done, Bertrand, who had already taken his
resolution, said that he was minded to go down to his county, there to
consummate the marriage; and so, having craved and had leave of
absence of the King, he took horse, but instead of returning to his
county he hied him to Tuscany; where, finding the Florentines at war
with the Sienese, he determined to take service with the Florentines,
and being made heartily and honourably welcome, was appointed to the
command of part of their forces, at a liberal stipend, and so remained in
their service for a long while. Distressed by this turn of fortune, and
hoping by her wise management to bring Bertrand back to his county,
the bride hied her to Roussillon, where she was received by all the
tenants as their liege lady. She found that, during the long absence of the
lord, everything had fallen into decay and disorder; which, being a
capable woman, she rectified with great and sedulous care, to the great
joy of the tenants, who held her in great esteem and love, and severely
censured the Count, that he was not satisfied with her. When the lady
had duly ordered all things in the county, she despatched two knights to
the Count with the intelligence, praying him, that, if ‛twas on her
account that he came not home, he would so inform her; in which case
she would gratify him by departing. To whom with all harshness he

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replied:—‟She may even please herself in the matter. For my part I will
go home and live with her, when she has this ring on her finger and a son
gotten of me upon her arm.” The ring was one which he greatly prized,
and never removed from his finger, by reason of a virtue which he had
been given to understand that it possessed. The knights appreciated the
harshness of a condition which contained two articles, both of which
were all but impossible; and, seeing that by no words of theirs could they
alter his resolve, they returned to the lady, and delivered his message.
Sorely distressed, the lady after long pondering determined to try how
and where the two conditions might be satisfied, that so her husband
might be hers again. Having formed her plan, she assembled certain of
the more considerable and notable men of the county, to whom she gave
a consecutive and most touching narrative of all that she had done for
love of the Count, with the result; concluding by saying that she was not
minded to tarry there to the Count’s perpetual exile, but to pass the rest
of her days in pilgrimages and pious works for the good of her soul:
wherefore she prayed them to undertake the defence and governance of
the county, and to inform the Count that she had made entire and
absolute cession of it to him, and was gone away with the intention of
never more returning to Roussillon. As she spoke, tears not a few
coursed down the cheeks of the honest men, and again and again they
besought her to change her mind, and stay. All in vain, however; she
commended them to God, and, accompanied only by one of her male
cousins and a chambermaid (all three habited as pilgrims and amply
provided with money and precious jewels), she took the road, nor
tarried until she was arrived at Florence. There she lodged in a little inn
kept by a good woman that was a widow, bearing herself lowly as a poor
pilgrim, and eagerly expectant of news of her lord.
Now it so befell that the very next day she saw Bertrand pass in front
of the inn on horseback at the head of his company; and though she
knew him very well, nevertheless she asked the good woman of the inn

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who he was. The hostess replied:—”‛Tis a foreign gentleman—Count

Bertrand they call him—a very pleasant gentleman, and courteous, and
much beloved in this city; and he is in the last degree enamoured of one
of our neighbours here, who is a gentlewoman, but in poor
circumstances. A very virtuous damsel she is too, and, being as yet
unmarried by reason of her poverty, she lives with her mother, who is an
excellent and most discreet lady, but for whom, perchance, she would
before now have yielded and gratified the Count’s desire.” No word of
this was lost on the lady; she pondered and meditated every detail with
the closest attention, and having laid it all to heart, took her resolution:
she ascertained the names and abode of the lady and her daughter that
the Count loved, and hied her one day privily, wearing her pilgrim’s
weeds, to their house, where she found the lady and her daughter in very
evident poverty, and after greeting them, told the lady that, if it were
agreeable to her, she would speak with her. The gentlewoman rose and
signified her willingness to listen to what she had to say; so they went
into a room by themselves and sate down, and then the Countess began
thus:—‟Madam, methinks you are, as I am, under Fortune’s frown; but
perchance you have it in your power, if you are so minded, to afford
solace to both of us.” The lady answered that, so she might honourably
find it, solace indeed was what she craved most of all things in the
world. Whereupon the Countess continued:—‟I must first be assured of
your faith, wherein if I confide and am deceived, the interests of both of
us will suffer.” ‟Have no fear,” said the gentlewoman, ‟speak your whole
mind without reserve, for you will find that there is no deceit in me.” So
the Countess told who she was, and the whole course of her love affair,
from its commencement to that hour, on such wise that the
gentlewoman, believing her story the more readily that she had already
heard it in part from others, was touched with compassion for her. The
narrative of her woes complete, the Countess added:—‟Now that you
have heard my misfortunes, you know the two conditions that I must

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fulfil, if I would come by my husband; nor know I any other person than
you, that may enable me to fulfil them; but so you may, if this which I
hear is true, to wit, that my husband is in the last degree enamoured of
your daughter.” ‟Madam,” replied the gentlewoman, ‟I know not if the
Count loves my daughter, but true it is that he makes great shew of
loving her; but how may this enable me to do aught for you in the matter
that you have at heart?” ‟The how, madam,” returned the Countess, ‟I
will shortly explain to you; but you shall first hear what I intend shall
ensue, if you serve me. Your daughter, I see, is fair and of marriageable
age, and, by what I have learned and may well understand, ‛tis because
you have not the wherewith to marry her that you keep her at home.
Now, in recompense of the service that you shall do me, I mean to
provide her forthwith from my own moneys with such a dowry as you
yourself shall deem adequate for her marriage.” The lady was too needy
not to be gratified by the proposal; but, nevertheless, with the true spirit
of the gentlewoman, she answered:—‟Nay but, madam, tell me that
which I may do for you, and if it shall be such as I may honourably do,
gladly will I do it, and then you shall do as you may be minded.” Said
then the Countess:—‟I require of you, that through some one in whom
you trust you send word to the Count, my husband, that your daughter is
ready to yield herself entirely to his will, so she may be sure that he loves
her even as he professes; whereof she will never be convinced, until he
send her the ring which he wears on his finger, and which, she
understands, he prizes so much: which, being sent, you shall give to me,
and shall then send him word that your daughter is ready to do his
pleasure, and, having brought him hither secretly, you shall contrive that
I lie by his side instead of your daughter. Perchance, by God’s grace I
shall conceive, and so, having his ring on my finger, and a son gotten of
him on my arm, shall have him for my own again, and live with him even
as a wife should live with her husband, and owe it all to you.”
The lady felt that ‛twas not a little that the Countess craved of her, for

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she feared lest it should bring reproach upon her daughter: but she
reflected that to aid the good lady to recover her husband was an
honourable enterprise, and that in undertaking it she would be
subserving a like end; and so, trusting in the good and virtuous
disposition of the Countess, she not only promised to do as she was
required, but in no long time, proceeding with caution and secrecy, as
she had been bidden, she both had the ring from the Count, loath
though he was to part with it, and cunningly contrived that the Countess
should lie with him in place of her daughter. In which first commingling,
so ardently sought by the Count, it so pleased God that the lady was
gotten, as in due time her delivery made manifest, with two sons. Nor
once only, but many times did the lady gratify the Countess with the
embraces of her husband, using such secrecy that no word thereof ever
got wind, the Count all the while supposing that he lay, not with his
wife, but with her that he loved, and being wont to give her, as he left her
in the morning, some fair and rare jewel, which she jealously guarded.
When she perceived that she was with child, the Countess, being
minded no more to burden the lady with such service, said to her:
—‟Madam, thanks be to God and to you, I now have that which I
desired, and therefore ‛tis time that I make you grateful requital, and
take my leave of you.” The lady answered that she was glad if the
Countess had gotten aught that gave her joy; but that ‛twas not as
hoping to have guerdon thereof that she had done her part, but simply
because she deemed it meet and her duty so to do. ‟Well said, madam,”
returned the Countess, ‟and in like manner that which you shall ask of
me I shall not give you by way of guerdon, but because I deem it meet
and my duty to give it.” Whereupon the lady, yielding to necessity, and
abashed beyond measure, asked of her a hundred pounds wherewith to
marry her daughter. The Countess, marking her embarrassment, and the
modesty of her request, gave her five hundred pounds besides jewels fair
and rare, worth, perhaps, no less; and having thus much more than

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contented her, and received her superabundant thanks, she took leave of
her and returned to the inn. The lady, to render purposeless further
visits or messages on Bertrand’s part, withdrew with her daughter to the
house of her kinsfolk in the country; nor was it long before Bertrand, on
the urgent entreaty of his vassals and intelligence of the departure of his
wife, quitted Florence and returned home. Greatly elated by this
intelligence, the Countess tarried awhile in Florence, and was there
delivered of two sons as like as possible to their father, whom she
nurtured with sedulous care. But by and by she saw fit to take the road,
and being come, unrecognized by any, to Montpellier, rested there a few
days; and being on the alert for news of the Count and where he was, she
learned that on All Saints’ day he was to hold a great reception of ladies
and gentlemen at Roussillon. Whither, retaining her now wonted
pilgrim’s weeds, she hied her, and finding that the ladies and gentlemen
were all gathered in the Count’s palace and on the point of going to
table, she tarried not to change her dress, but went up into the hall,
bearing her little ones in her arms, and threading her way through the
throng to the place where she saw the Count stand, she threw herself at
his feet, and sobbing, said to him:—‟My lord, thy hapless bride am I,
who to ensure thy homecoming and abidance in peace have long time
been a wanderer, and now demand of thee observance of the condition
whereof word was brought me by the two knights whom I sent to thee.
Lo in my arms not one son only but twain, gotten of thee, and on my
finger thy ring. ‛Tis time, then, that I be received of thee as thy wife
according to thy word.” Whereat the Count was all dumfounded,
recognizing the ring and his own lineaments in the children, so like were
they to him; but saying to himself nevertheless:— ‟How can it have
come about?” So the Countess, while the Count and all that were present
marvelled exceedingly, told what had happened, and the manner of it, in
precise detail. Wherefore the Count, perceiving that she spoke truth,
and having regard to her perseverance and address and her two fine

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boys, and the wishes of all his vassals and the ladies, who with one
accord besought him to own and honour her thenceforth as his lawful
bride, laid aside his harsh obduracy, and raised the Countess to her feet,
and embraced and kissed her, and acknowledged her for his lawful wife,
and the children for his own. Then, having caused her to be rearrayed in
garments befitting her rank, he, to the boundless delight of as many as
were there, and of all other his vassals, gave up that day and some that
followed to feasting and merrymaking; and did ever thenceforth honour,
love and most tenderly cherish her as his bride and wife.

NOVEL X.

— Alibech turns hermit, and is taught by Rustico, a monk,

how the Devil is put in hell. She is afterwards conveyed thence,
and becomes the wife of Neerbale. —
Dioneo, observing that the queen’s story, which he had followed with
the closest attention, was now ended, and that it only remained for him
to speak, waited not to be bidden, but smilingly thus began:—
Gracious ladies, perchance you have not yet heard how the Devil is
put in hell; wherefore, without deviating far from the topic of which you
have discoursed throughout the day, I will tell you how ‛tis done; it may
be the lesson will prove inspiring; besides which, you may learn
therefrom that, albeit Love prefers the gay palace and the dainty
chamber to the rude cabin, yet, for all that, he may at times manifest his
might in wilds matted with forests, rugged with alps, and desolate with
caverns: whereby it may be understood that all things are subject to his
sway. But—to come to my story—I say that in the city of Capsa28 in
Barbary there was once a very rich man, who with other children had a
fair and dainty little daughter, Alibech by name. Now Alibech, not being

28 Now Gafsa, in Tunis.

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a Christian, and hearing many Christians, that were in the city, speak
much in praise of the Christian Faith and the service of God, did one day
inquire of one of them after what fashion it were possible to serve God
with as few impediments as might be, and was informed that they
served God best who most completely renounced the world and its
affairs; like those who had fixed their abode in the wilds of the Thebaid
desert. Whereupon, actuated by no sober predilection, but by childish
impulse, the girl, who was very simple and about fourteen years of age,
said never a word more of the matter, but stole away on the morrow, and
quite alone set out to walk to the Thebaid desert; and, by force of
resolution, albeit with no small suffering, she after some days reached
those wilds; where, espying a cabin a great way off, she hied her thither,
and found a holy man by the door, who, marvelling to see her there,
asked her what she came there to seek. She answered that, guided by the
spirit of God, she was come thither, seeking, if haply she might serve
Him, and also find some one that might teach her how He ought to be
served. Marking her youth and great beauty, the worthy man, fearing
lest, if he suffered her to remain with him, he should be ensnared by the
Devil, commended her good intention, set before her a frugal repast of
roots of herbs, crab-apples and dates, with a little water to wash them
down, and said to her:—‟My daughter, there is a holy man not far from
here, who is much better able to teach thee that of which thou art in
quest than I am; go to him, therefore;” and he shewed her the way. But
when she was come whither she was directed, she met with the same
answer as before, and so, setting forth again, she came at length to the
cell of a young hermit, a worthy man and very devout— his name
Rustico—whom she interrogated as she had the others. Rustico, being
minded to make severe trial of his constancy, did not send her away, as
the others had done, but kept her with him in his cell, and when night
came, made her a little bed of palm-leaves; whereon he bade her
compose herself to sleep. Hardly had she done so before the solicitations

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of the flesh joined battle with the powers of Rustico’s spirit, and he,
finding himself left in the lurch by the latter, endured not many assaults
before he beat a retreat, and surrendered at discretion: wherefore he
bade adieu to holy meditation and prayer and discipline, and fell a
musing on the youth and beauty of his companion, and also how he
might so order his conversation with her, that without seeming to her to
be a libertine he might yet compass that which he craved of her. So,
probing her by certain questions, he discovered that she was as yet
entirely without cognizance of man, and as simple as she seemed:
wherefore he excogitated a plan for bringing her to pleasure him under
colour of serving God. He began by giving her a long lecture on the great
enmity that subsists between God and the Devil; after which he gave her
to understand that, God having condemned the Devil to hell, to put him
there was of all services the most acceptable to God. The girl asking him
how it might be done, Rustico answered:—‟Thou shalt know it in a trice;
thou hast but to do that which thou seest me do.” Then, having divested
himself of his scanty clothing, he threw himself stark naked on his
knees, as if he would pray; whereby he caused the girl, who followed his
example, to confront him in the same posture. Whereupon Rustico,
seeing her so fair, felt an accession of desire, and therewith came an
insurgence of the flesh, which Alibech marking with surprise, said:
—‟Rustico, what is this, which I see thee have, that so protrudes, and
which I have not?” ‟Oh! my daughter,” said Rustico, ”‛tis the Devil of
whom I have told thee: and, seest thou? he is now tormenting me most
grievously, insomuch that I am scarce able to hold out.” Then:—‟Praise
be to God,” said the girl, ‟I see that I am in better case than thou, for no
such Devil have I.” ‟Sooth sayst thou,” returned Rustico; ‟but instead of
him thou hast somewhat else that I have not.” ‟Oh!” said Alibech, ‟what
may that be?” ‟Hell,” answered Rustico: ‟and I tell thee, that ‛tis my
belief that God has sent thee hither for the salvation of my soul; seeing
that, if this Devil shall continue to plague me thus, then, so thou wilt

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have compassion on me and permit me to put him in hell, thou wilt both
afford me great and exceeding great solace, and render to God an
exceeding most acceptable service, if, as thou sayst, thou art come into
these parts for such a purpose.” In good faith the girl made answer:— ‟As
I have hell to match your Devil, be it, my father, as and when you will.”
Whereupon:—‟Bless thee, my daughter,” said Rustico, ‟go we then, and
put him there, that he leave me henceforth in peace.” Which said, he
took the girl to one of the beds and taught her the posture in which she
must lie in order to incarcerate this spirit accursed of God. The girl,
having never before put any devil in hell, felt on this first occasion a
twinge of pain: wherefore she said to Rustico:—‟Of a surety, my father,
he must be a wicked fellow, this devil, and in very truth a foe to God; for
there is sorrow even in hell—not to speak of other places—when he is
put there.” ‟Daughter,” said Rustico, ”‛twill not be always so.” And for
better assurance thereof they put him there six times before they quitted
the bed; whereby they so thoroughly abased his pride that he was fain to
be quiet. However, the proud fit returning upon him from time to time,
and the girl addressing herself always obediently to its reduction, it so
befell that she began to find the game agreeable, and would say to
Rustico:—‟Now see I plainly that ‛twas true, what the worthy men said at
Capsa, of the service of God being so delightful: indeed I cannot
remember that in aught that ever I did I had so much pleasure, so much
solace, as in putting the Devil in hell; for which cause I deem it insensate
folly on the part of any one to have a care to aught else than the service
of God.” Wherefore many a time she would come to Rustico, and say to
him:—‟My father, ‛twas to serve God that I came hither, and not to pass
my days in idleness: go we then, and put the Devil in hell.” And while
they did so, she would now and again say:—‟I know not, Rustico, why
the Devil should escape from hell; were he but as ready to stay there as
hell is to receive and retain him, he would never come out of it.” So, the
girl thus frequently inviting and exhorting Rustico to the service of God,

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there came at length a time when she had so thoroughly lightened his
doublet that he shivered when another would have sweated; wherefore
he began to instruct her that the Devil was not to be corrected and put
in hell, save when his head was exalted with pride; adding, ‟and we by
God’s grace have brought him to so sober a mind that he prays God he
may be left in peace;” by which means he for a time kept the girl quiet.
But when she saw that Rustico had no more occasion for her to put the
Devil in hell, she said to him one day:—‟Rustico, if thy Devil is
chastened and gives thee no more trouble, my hell, on the other hand,
gives me no peace; wherefore, I with my hell have holpen thee to abase
the pride of thy Devil, so thou wouldst do well to lend me the aid of thy
Devil to allay the fervent heat of my hell.” Rustico, whose diet was roots
of herbs and water, was scarce able to respond to her demands: he told
her that ‛twould require not a few devils to allay the heat of hell; but that
he would do what might be in his power; and so now and again he
satisfied her; but so seldom that ‛twas as if he had tossed a bean into the
jaws of a lion. Whereat the girl, being fain of more of the service of God
than she had, did somewhat repine. However, the case standing thus
(deficiency of power against superfluity of desire) between Rustico’s
Devil and Alibech’s hell, it chanced that a fire broke out in Capsa,
whereby the house of Alibech’s father was burned, and he and all his
sons and the rest of his household perished; so that Alibech was left sole
heiress of all his estate. And a young gallant, Neerbale by name, who by
reckless munificence had wasted all his substance, having discovered
that she was alive, addressed himself to the pursuit of her, and, having
found her in time to prevent the confiscation of her father’s estate as an
escheat for failure of heirs, took her, much to Rustico’s relief and against
her own will, back to Capsa, and made her his wife, and shared with her
her vast patrimony. But before he had lain with her, she was questioned
by the ladies of the manner in which she had served God in the desert;
whereto she answered, that she had been wont to serve Him by putting

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the Devil in hell, and that Neerbale had committed a great sin, when he
took her out of such service. The ladies being curious to know how the
Devil was put in hell, the girl satisfied them, partly by words, partly by
signs. Whereat they laughed exorbitantly (and still laugh) and said to
her:—‟Be not down-hearted, daughter; ‛tis done here too; Neerbale will
know well how to serve God with you in that way.” And so the story
passing from mouth to mouth throughout the city, it came at last to be a
common proverb, that the most acceptable service that can be rendered
to God is to put the Devil in hell; which proverb, having travelled hither
across the sea, is still current. Wherefore, young ladies, you that have
need of the grace of God, see to it that you learn how to put the Devil in
hell, because ‛tis mightily pleasing to God, and of great solace to both
the parties, and much good may thereby be engendered and ensue.
A thousand times or more had Dioneo’s story brought the laugh to
the lips of the honourable ladies, so quaint and curiously entertaining
found they the fashion of it. And now at its close the queen, seeing the
term of her sovereignty come, took the laurel wreath from her head, and
with mien most debonair, set it on the brow of Filostrato, saying:—‟We
shall soon see whether the wolf will know better how to guide the sheep
than the sheep have yet succeeded in guiding the wolves.” Whereat
Filostrato said with a laugh:- -‟Had I been hearkened to, the wolves
would have taught the sheep to put the Devil in hell even as Rustico
taught Alibech. Wherefore call us not wolves, seeing that you have not
shewn yourselves sheep: however, as best I may be able, I will govern the
kingdom committed to my charge.” Whereupon Neifile took him up:
‟Hark ye, Filostrato,” she said, ‟while you thought to teach us, you might
have learnt a lesson from us, as did Masetto da Lamporecchio from the
nuns, and have recovered your speech when the bones had learned to
whistle without a master.”29 Filostrato, perceiving that there was a scythe
for each of his arrows, gave up jesting, and addressed himself to the
29 I.e. when you were so emaciated that your bones made music like a skeleton in the wind.

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governance of his kingdom. He called the seneschal, and held him

strictly to account in every particular; he then judiciously ordered all
matters as he deemed would be best and most to the satisfaction of the
company, while his sovereignty should last; and having so done, he
turned to the ladies, and said:—‟Loving ladies, as my ill luck would have
it, since I have had wit to tell good from evil, the charms of one or other
of you have kept me ever a slave to Love: and for all I shewed myself
humble and obedient and conformable, so far as I knew how, to all his
ways, my fate has been still the same, to be discarded for another, and go
ever from bad to worse; and so, I suppose, ‛twill be with me to the hour
of my death. Wherefore I am minded that to-morrow our discourse be of
no other topic than that which is most germane to my condition, to wit,
of those whose loves had a disastrous close: because mine, I expect, will
in the long run be most disastrous; nor for other cause was the name, by
which you address me, given me by one that well knew its signification.”
Which said, he arose, and dismissed them all until supper-time.
So fair and delightsome was the garden that none saw fit to quit it,
and seek diversion elsewhere. Rather—for the sun now shone with a
tempered radiance that caused no discomfort—some of the ladies gave
chase to the kids and conies and other creatures that haunted it, and,
scampering to and fro among them as they sate, had caused them a
hundred times, or so, some slight embarrassment. Dioneo and
Fiammetta fell a singing of Messer Guglielmo and the lady of Vergiu. 30
Filomena and Pamfilo sat them down to a game of chess; and, as thus
they pursued each their several diversions, time sped so swiftly that the
supper-hour stole upon them almost unawares: whereupon they ranged
the tables round the beautiful fountain, and supped with all glad and
festal cheer.
When the tables were removed, Filostrato, being minded to follow in
30 Evidently some version of the tragical conte ‟de la Chastelaine de Vergi, qui mori por laialment amer son ami.”
See ‟Fabliaux et Contes,” ed. Barbazan, iv. 296: and cf. Bandello, Pt. iv. Nov. v, and Heptameron, Journee vii.
Nouvelle lxx.

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the footsteps of his fair predecessors in sway, bade Lauretta lead a dance
and sing a song. She answered:—‟My lord, songs of others know I none,
nor does my memory furnish me with any of mine own that seems meet
for so gay a company; but, if you will be content with what I have, gladly
will I give you thereof.” ‟Nought of thine,” returned the king, ‟could be
other than goodly and delectable. Wherefore give us even what thou
hast.” So encouraged, Lauretta, with dulcet voice, but manner somewhat
languishing, raised the ensuing strain, to which the other ladies
responded:—
What dame disconsolate
May so lament as I,
That vainly sigh, to Love still dedicate?

He that the heaven and every orb doth move

Formed me for His delight
Fair, debonair and gracious, apt for love;
That here on earth each soaring spirit might
Have foretaste how, above,
That beauty shews that standeth in His sight.
Ah! but dull wit and slight,
For that it judgeth ill,
Liketh me not, nay, doth me vilely rate.

There was who loved me, and my maiden grace

Did fondly clip and strain,
As in his arms, so in his soul’s embrace,
And from mine eyes Love’s fire did drink amain,
And time that glides apace
In nought but courting me to spend was fain
Whom courteous I did deign
Ev’n as my peer to entreat;

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But am of him bereft! Ah! dolorous fate!

Came to me next a gallant swol’n with pride,

Brave, in his own conceit,
And no less noble eke. Whom woe betide
That he me took, and holds in all unmeet
Suspicion, jealous-eyed!
And I, who wot that me the world should greet
As the predestined sweet
Of many men, well-nigh
Despair, to be to one thus subjugate.

Ah! woe is me! cursed be the luckless day,

When, a new gown to wear,
I said the fatal ay; for blithe and gay
In that plain gown I lived, no whit less fair;
While in this rich array
A sad and far less honoured life I bear!
Would I had died, or e’er
Sounded those notes of joy
(Ah! dolorous cheer!) my woe to celebrate!

So list my supplication, lover dear,

Of whom such joyance I,
As ne’er another, had. Thou that in clear
Light of the Maker’s presence art, deny
Not pity to thy fere,
Who thee may ne’er forget; but let one sigh
Breathe tidings that on high
Thou burnest still for me;
And sue of God that He me there translate.

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So ended Lauretta her song, to which all hearkened attentively,

though not all interpreted it alike. Some were inclined to give it a moral
after the Milanese fashion, to wit, that a good porker was better than a
pretty quean. Others construed it in a higher, better and truer sense,
which ‛tis not to the present purpose to unfold. Some more songs
followed by command of the king, who caused torches not a few to be
lighted and ranged about the flowery mead; and so the night was
prolonged until the last star that had risen had begun to set. Then,
bethinking him that ‛twas time for slumber, the king bade all good-
night, and dismissed them to their several chambers.
— Endeth here the third day of the Decameron, beginneth the
fourth, in which, under the rule of Filostrato, discourse is had
of those whose loves had a disastrous close. —
Dearest ladies, as well from what I heard in converse with the wise, as
from matters that not seldom fell within my own observation and
reading, I formed the opinion that the vehement and scorching blast of
envy was apt to vent itself only upon lofty towers or the highest tree-
tops: but therein I find that I misjudged; for, whereas I ever sought and
studied how best to elude the buffetings of that furious hurricane, and
to that end kept a course not merely on the plain, but, by preference, in
the depth of the valley; as should be abundantly clear to whoso looks at
these little stories, written as they are not only in the vulgar Florentine,
and in prose, and without dedicatory flourish, but also in as homely and
simple a style as may be; nevertheless all this has not stood me in such
stead but that I have been shrewdly shaken, nay, all but uprooted by the
blast, and altogether lacerated by the bite of this same envy. Whereby I
may very well understand that ‛tis true, what the sages aver, that only
misery is exempt from envy in the present life. Know then, discreet my
ladies, that some there are, who, reading these little stories, have alleged
that I am too fond of you, and that ‛tis not a seemly thing that I should

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take so much pleasure in ministering to your gratification and solace;

and some have found more fault with me for praising you as I do.
Others, affecting to deliver a more considered judgment, have said that
it ill befits my time of life to ensue such matters, to wit, the discoursing
of women, or endeavouring to pleasure them. And not a few, feigning a
mighty tender regard to my fame, aver that I should do more wisely to
keep ever with the Muses on Parnassus, than to forgather with you in
such vain dalliance. Those again there are, who, evincing less wisdom
than despite, have told me that I should shew sounder sense if I
bethought me how to get my daily bread, than, going after these idle
toys, to nourish myself upon the wind; while certain others, in
disparagement of my work, strive might and main to make it appear that
the matters which I relate fell out otherwise than as I set them forth.
Such then, noble ladies, are the blasts, such the sharp and cruel fangs, by
which, while I champion your cause, I am assailed, harassed and well-
nigh pierced through and through. Which censures I hear and mark,
God knows, with equal mind: and, though to you belongs all my
defence, yet I mean not to be niggard of my own powers, but rather,
without dealing out to them the castigation they deserve, to give them
such slight answer as may secure my ears some respite of their clamour;
and that without delay; seeing that, if already, though I have not
completed the third part of my work, they are not a few and very
presumptuous, I deem it possible, that before I have reached the end,
should they receive no check, they may have grown so numerous, that
‛twould scarce tax their powers to sink me; and that your forces, great
though they be, would not suffice to withstand them. However I am
minded to answer none of them, until I have related in my behoof, not
indeed an entire story, for I would not seem to foist my stories in among
those of so honourable a company as that with which I have made you
acquainted, but a part of one, that its very incompleteness may shew
that it is not one of them: wherefore, addressing my assailants, I say:—

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That in our city there was in old time a citizen named Filippo Balducci, a
man of quite low origin, but of good substance and well versed and
expert in matters belonging to his condition, who had a wife that he
most dearly loved, as did she him, so that their life passed in peace and
concord, nor there was aught they studied so much as how to please
each other perfectly. Now it came to pass, as it does to every one, that the
good lady departed this life, leaving Filippo nought of hers but an only
son, that she had had by him, and who was then about two years old. His
wife’s death left Filippo as disconsolate as ever was any man for the loss
of a loved one: and sorely missing the companionship that was most
dear to him, he resolved to have done with the world, and devote himself
and his little son to the service of God. Wherefore, having dedicated all
his goods to charitable uses, he forthwith betook him to the summit of
Monte Asinaio, where he installed himself with his son in a little cell,
and living on alms, passed his days in fasting and prayer, being careful
above all things to say nothing to the boy of any temporal matters, nor to
let him see aught of the kind, lest they should distract his mind from his
religious exercises, but discoursing with him continually of the glory of
the life eternal and of God and the saints, and teaching him nought else
but holy orisons: in which way of life he kept him not a few years, never
suffering him to quit the cell or see aught but himself. From time to time
the worthy man would go Florence, where divers of the faithful would
afford him relief according to his needs, and so he would return to his
cell. And thus it fell out that one day Filippo, now an aged man, being
asked by the boy, who was about eighteen years old, whither he went,
told him. Whereupon:—‟Father,” said the boy, ‟you are now old, and
scarce able to support fatigue; why take you me not with you for once to
Florence, and give me to know devout friends of God and you, so that I,
who am young and fitter for such exertion than you, may thereafter go to
Florence for our supplies at your pleasure, and you remain here?”
The worthy man, bethinking him that his son was now grown up, and

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so habituated to the service of God as hardly to be seduced by the things

of the world, said to himself:—‟He says well.” And so, as he must needs
go to Florence, he took the boy with him. Where, seeing the palaces, the
houses, the churches, and all matters else with which the city abounds,
and of which he had no more recollection than if he had never seen
them, the boy found all passing strange, and questioned his father of not
a few of them, what they were and how they were named; his curiosity
being no sooner satisfied in one particular than he plied his father with a
further question. And so it befell that, while son and father were thus
occupied in asking and answering questions, they encountered a bevy of
damsels, fair and richly arrayed, being on their return from a wedding;
whom the young man no sooner saw, than he asked his father what they
might be. ‟My son,” answered the father, ‟fix thy gaze on the ground,
regard them not at all, for naughty things are they.” ‟Oh!” said the son,
‟and what is their name?” The father, fearing to awaken some
mischievous craving of concupiscence in the young man, would not
denote them truly, to wit, as women, but said:—‟They are called
goslings.” Whereupon, wonderful to tell! the lad who had never before
set eyes on any woman, thought no more of the palaces, the oxen, the
horses, the asses, the money, or aught else that he had seen, but
exclaimed:—‟Prithee, father, let me have one of those goslings.” ‟Alas,
my son,” replied the father, ‟speak not of them; they are naughty things.”
‟Oh!” questioned the son; ‟but are naughty things made like that?” ‟Ay,”
returned the father. Whereupon the son:—‟I know not,” he said, ‟what
you say, nor why they should be naughty things: for my part I have as yet
seen nought that seemed to me so fair and delectable. They are fairer
than the painted angels that you have so often shewn me. Oh! if you love
me, do but let us take one of these goslings up there, and I will see that
she have whereon to bill.” ‟Nay,” said the father, ‟that will not I. Thou
knowest not whereon they bill;” and straightway, being ware that nature
was more potent than his art, he repented him that he had brought the

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boy to Florence.
But enough of this story: ‛tis time for me to cut it short, and return to
those, for whose instruction ‛tis told. They say then, some of these my
censors, that I am too fond of you, young ladies, and am at too great
pains to pleasure you. Now that I am fond of you, and am at pains to
pleasure you, I do most frankly and fully confess; and I ask them
whether, considering only all that it means to have had, and to have
continually, before one’s eyes your debonair demeanour, your bewitching
beauty and exquisite grace, and therewithal your modest womanliness,
not to speak of having known the amorous kisses, the caressing
embraces, the voluptuous comminglings, whereof our intercourse with
you, ladies most sweet, not seldom is productive, they do verily marvel
that I am fond of you, seeing that one who was nurtured, reared, and
brought up on a savage and solitary mountain, within the narrow circuit
of a cell, without other companion than his father, had no sooner seen
you than ‛twas you alone that he desired, that he demanded, that he
sought with ardour? Will they tear, will they lacerate me with their
censures, if I, whose body Heaven fashioned all apt for love, whose soul
from very boyhood was dedicate to you, am not insensible to the power
of the light of your eyes, to the sweetness of your honeyed words, to the
flame that is kindled by your gentle sighs, but am fond of you and
sedulous to pleasure you; you, again I bid them remember, in whom a
hermit, a rude, witless lad, liker to an animal than to a human being,
found more to delight him than in aught else that he saw? Of a truth
whoso taxes me thus must be one that, feeling, knowing nought of the
pleasure and power of natural affection, loves you not, nor craves your
love; and such an one I hold in light esteem. And as for those that go
about to find ground of exception in my age, they do but shew that they
ill understand that the leek, albeit its head is white, has a green tail. But
jesting apart, thus I answer them, that never to the end of my life shall I
deem it shameful to me to pleasure those to whom Guido Cavalcanti and

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Dante Alighieri in their old age, and Messer Cino da Pistoia in extreme
old age, accounted it an honour and found it a delight to minister
gratification. And but that ‛twere a deviation from the use and wont of
discourse, I would call history to my aid, and shew it to abound with
stories of noble men of old time, who in their ripest age studied above all
things else to pleasure the ladies; whereof if they be ignorant, go they
and get them to school. To keep with the Muses on Parnassus is counsel
I approve; but tarry with them always we cannot, nor they with us, nor is
a man blameworthy, if, when he happen to part from them, he find his
delight in those that resemble them. The Muses are ladies, and albeit
ladies are not the peers of the Muses, yet they have their outward
semblance; for which cause, if for no other, ‛tis reasonable that I should
be fond of them. Besides which, ladies have been to me the occasion of
composing some thousand verses, but of never a verse that I made were
the Muses the occasion. Howbeit ‛twas with their aid, ‛twas under their
influence that I composed those thousand verses, and perchance they
have sometimes visited me to encourage me in my present task, humble
indeed though it be, doing honour and paying, as it were, tribute, to the
likeness which the ladies have to them; wherefore, while I weave these
stories, I stray not so far from Mount Parnassus and the Muses as not a
few perchance suppose. But what shall we say to those, in whom my
hunger excites such commiseration that they bid me get me bread?
Verily I know not, save this:— Suppose that in my need I were to beg
bread of them, what would be their answer? I doubt not they would say:
—‟Go seek it among the fables.” And in sooth the poets have found more
bread among their fables than many rich men among their treasures.
And many that have gone after fables have crowned their days with
splendour, while, on the other hand, not a few, in the endeavour to get
them more bread than they needed, have perished miserably. But why
waste more words on them? Let them send me packing, when I ask
bread of them; not that, thank God, I have yet need of it, and should I

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ever come to be in need of it, I know, like the Apostle, how to abound
and to be in want, and so am minded to be beholden to none but myself.
As for those who say that these matters fell out otherwise than as I relate
them, I should account it no small favour, if they would produce the
originals, and should what I write not accord with them, I would
acknowledge the justice of their censure, and study to amend my ways;
but, until better evidence is forthcoming than their words, I shall adhere
to my own opinion without seeking to deprive them of theirs, and give
them tit for tat. And being minded that for this while this answer suffice,
I say that with God and you, in whom I trust, most gentle ladies, to aid
and protect me, and patience for my stay, I shall go forward with my
work, turning my back on this tempest, however it may rage; for I see
not that I can fare worse than the fine dust, which the blast of the
whirlwind either leaves where it lies, or bears aloft, not seldom over the
heads of men, over the crowns of kings, of emperors, and sometimes
suffers to settle on the roofs of lofty palaces, and the summits of the
tallest towers, whence if it fall, it cannot sink lower than the level from
which it was raised. And if I ever devoted myself and all my powers to
minister in any wise to your gratification, I am now minded more than
ever so to do, because I know that there is nought that any can justly say
in regard thereof, but that I, and others who love you, follow the
promptings of nature, whose laws whoso would withstand, has need of
powers pre-eminent, and, even so, will oft-times labour not merely in
vain but to his own most grievous disadvantage. Such powers I own that
I neither have, nor, to such end, desire to have; and had I them, I would
rather leave them to another than use them myself. Wherefore let my
detractors hold their peace, and if they cannot get heat, why, let them
shiver their life away; and, while they remain addicted to their delights,
or rather corrupt tastes, let them leave me to follow my own bent during
the brief life that is accorded us. But this has been a long digression, fair
ladies, and ‛tis time to retrace our steps to the point where we deviated,

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and continue in the course on which we started.

The sun had chased every star from the sky, and lifted the dank murk
of night from the earth, when, Filostrato being risen, and having roused
all his company, they hied them to the fair garden, and there fell to
disporting themselves: the time for breakfast being come, they took it
where they had supped on the preceding evening, and after they had
slept they rose, when the sun was in his zenith, and seated themselves in
their wonted manner by the beautiful fountain; where Fiammetta, being
bidden by Filostrato to lead off the story-telling, awaited no second
command, but debonairly thus began.

FOURTH DAY

NOVEL I.

— Tancred, Prince of Salerno, slays his daughter’s lover, and

sends her his heart in a golden cup: she pours upon it a
poisonous distillation, which she drinks and dies. —
A direful theme has our king allotted us for to-day’s discourse seeing
that, whereas we are here met for our common delectation, needs must
we now tell of others’ tears, whereby, whether telling or hearing, we
cannot but be moved to pity. Perchance ‛twas to temper in some degree
the gaiety of the past days that he so ordained, but, whatever may have
been his intent, his will must be to me immutable law; wherefore I will
narrate to you a matter that befell piteously, nay woefully, and so as you
may well weep thereat.
Tancred, Prince of Salerno, a lord most humane and kind of heart,
but that in his old age he imbrued his hands in the blood of a lover, had
in the whole course of his life but one daughter; and had he not had her,

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he had been more fortunate.

Never was daughter more tenderly beloved of father than she of the
Prince, who, for that cause not knowing how to part with her, kept her
unmarried for many a year after she had come of marriageable age: then
at last he gave her to a son of the Duke of Capua, with whom she had
lived but a short while, when he died and she returned to her father.
Most lovely was she of form and feature (never woman more so), and
young and light of heart, and more knowing, perchance, than beseemed
a woman. Dwelling thus with her loving father, as a great lady, in no
small luxury, nor failing to see that the Prince, for the great love he bore
her, was at no pains to provide her with another husband, and deeming
it unseemly on her part to ask one of him, she cast about how she might
come by a gallant to be her secret lover. And seeing at her father’s court
not a few men, both gentle and simple, that resorted thither, as we know
men use to frequent courts, and closely scanning their mien and
manners, she preferred before all others the Prince’s page, Guiscardo by
name, a man of very humble origin, but pre-eminent for native worth
and noble bearing; of whom, seeing him frequently, she became hotly
enamoured, hourly extolling his qualities more and more highly. The
young man, who for all his youth by no means lacked shrewdness, read
her heart, and gave her his own on such wise that his love for her
engrossed his mind to the exclusion of almost everything else. While
thus they burned in secret for one another, the lady, desiring of all things
a meeting with Guiscardo, but being shy of making any her confidant,
hit upon a novel expedient to concert the affair with him. She wrote him
a letter containing her commands for the ensuing day, and thrust it into
a cane in the space between two of the knots, which cane she gave to
Guiscardo, saying:—‟Thou canst let thy servant have it for a bellows to
blow thy fire up to night.” Guiscardo took it, and feeling sure that ‛twas
not unadvisedly that she made him such a present, accompanied with
such words, hied him straight home, where, carefully examining the

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cane, he observed that it was cleft, and, opening it, found the letter;
which he had no sooner read, and learned what he was to do, than,
pleased as ne’er another, he fell to devising how to set all in order that he
might not fail to meet the lady on the following day, after the manner
she had prescribed.
Now hard by the Prince’s palace was a grotto, hewn in days of old in
the solid rock, and now long disused, so that an artificial orifice, by
which it received a little light, was all but choked with brambles and
plants that grew about and overspread it. From one of the ground-floor
rooms of the palace, which room was part of the lady’s suite, a secret
stair led to the grotto, though the entrance was barred by a very strong
door. This stair, having been from time immemorial disused, had passed
out of mind so completely that there was scarce any that remembered
that it was there: but Love, whose eyes nothing, however secret, may
escape, had brought it to the mind of the enamoured lady. For many a
day, using all secrecy, that none should discover her, she had wrought
with her tools, until she had succeeded in opening the door; which
done, she had gone down into the grotto alone, and having observed the
orifice, had by her letter apprised Guiscardo of its apparent height above
the floor of the grotto, and bidden him contrive some means of
descending thereby. Eager to carry the affair through, Guiscardo lost no
time in rigging up a ladder of ropes, whereby he might ascend and
descend; and having put on a suit of leather to protect him from the
brambles, he hied him the following night (keeping the affair close from
all) to the orifice, made the ladder fast by one of its ends to a massive
trunk that was rooted in the mouth of the orifice, climbed down the
ladder, and awaited the lady. On the morrow, making as if she would
fain sleep, the lady dismissed her damsels, and locked herself into her
room: she then opened the door of the grotto, hied her down, and met
Guiscardo, to their marvellous mutual satisfaction. The lovers then
repaired to her room, where in exceeding great joyance they spent no

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small part of the day. Nor were they neglectful of the precautions
needful to prevent discovery of their amour; but in due time Guiscardo
returned to the grotto; whereupon the lady locked the door and rejoined
her damsels. At nightfall Guiscardo reascended his ladder, and, issuing
forth of the orifice, hied him home; nor, knowing now the way, did he
fail to revisit the grotto many a time thereafter.
But Fortune, noting with envious eye a happiness of such degree and
duration, gave to events a dolorous turn, whereby the joy of the two
lovers was converted into bitter lamentation. ‛Twas Tancred’s custom to
come from time to time quite alone to his daughter’s room, and tarry
talking with her a while. Whereby it so befell that he came down there
one day after breakfast, while Ghismonda—such was the lady’s name—
was in her garden with her damsels; so that none saw or heard him
enter; nor would he call his daughter, for he was minded that she should
not forgo her pleasure. But, finding the windows closed and the bed-
curtains drawn down, he seated himself on a divan that stood at one of
the corners of the bed, rested his head on the bed, drew the curtain over
him, and thus, hidden as if of set purpose, fell asleep. As he slept
Ghismonda, who, as it happened, had caused Guiscardo to come that
day, left her damsels in the garden, softly entered the room, and having
locked herself in, unwitting that there was another in the room, opened
the door to Guiscardo, who was in waiting. Straightway they got them to
bed, as was their wont; and, while they there solaced and disported them
together, it so befell that Tancred awoke, and heard and saw what they
did: whereat he was troubled beyond measure, and at first was minded
to upbraid them; but on second thoughts he deemed it best to hold his
peace, and avoid discovery, if so he might with greater stealth and less
dishonour carry out the design which was already in his mind. The two
lovers continued long together, as they were wont, all unwitting of
Tancred; but at length they saw fit to get out of bed, when Guiscardo
went back to the grotto, and the lady hied her forth of the room.

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Whereupon Tancred, old though he was, got out at one of the windows,
clambered down into the garden, and, seen by none, returned sorely
troubled to his room. By his command two men took Guiscardo early
that same night, as he issued forth of the orifice accoutred in his suit of
leather, and brought him privily to Tancred; who, as he saw him, all but
wept, and said:—‟Guiscardo, my kindness to thee is ill requited by the
outrage and dishonour which thou hast done me in the person of my
daughter, as to-day I have seen with my own eyes.” To whom Guiscardo
could answer nought but:—‟Love is more potent than either, you or I.”
Tancred then gave order to keep him privily under watch and ward in a
room within the palace; and so ‛twas done. Next day, while Ghismonda
wotted nought of these matters, Tancred, after pondering divers novel
expedients, hied him after breakfast, according to his wont, to his
daughter’s room, where, having called her to him and locked himself in
with her, he began, not without tears, to speak on this wise:
—‟Ghismonda, conceiving that I knew thy virtue and honour, never,
though it had been reported to me, would I have credited, had I not seen
with my own eyes, that thou wouldst so much as in idea, not to say fact,
have ever yielded thyself to any man but thy husband: wherefore, for the
brief residue of life that my age has in store for me, the memory of thy
fall will ever be grievous to me. And would to God, as thou must needs
demean thyself to such dishonour, thou hadst taken a man that matched
thy nobility; but of all the men that frequent my court; thou must needs
choose Guiscardo, a young man of the lowest condition, a fellow whom
we brought up in charity from his tender years; for whose sake thou hast
plunged me into the abyss of mental tribulation, insomuch that I know
not what course to take in regard of thee. As to Guiscardo, whom I
caused to be arrested last night as he issued from the orifice, and keep in
durance, my course is already taken, but how I am to deal with thee, God
knows, I know not. I am distraught between the love which I have ever
borne thee, love such as no father ever bare to daughter, and the most

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just indignation evoked in me by thy signal folly; my love prompts me to

pardon thee, my indignation bids me harden my heart against thee,
though I do violence to my nature. But before I decide upon my course, I
would fain hear what thou hast to say to this.” So saying, he bent his
head, and wept as bitterly as any child that had been soundly thrashed.
Her father’s words, and the tidings they conveyed that not only was
her secret passion discovered, but Guiscardo taken, caused Ghismonda
immeasurable grief, which she was again and again on the point of
evincing, as most women do, by cries and tears; but her high spirit
triumphed over this weakness; by a prodigious effort she composed her
countenance, and taking it for granted that her Guiscardo was no more,
she inly devoted herself to death rather than a single prayer for herself
should escape her lips. Wherefore, not as a woman stricken with grief or
chidden for a fault, but unconcerned and unabashed, with tearless eyes,
and frank and utterly dauntless mien, thus answered she her father:
—‟Tancred, your accusation I shall not deny, neither will I cry you
mercy, for nought should I gain by denial, nor aught would I gain by
supplication: nay more; there is nought I will do to conciliate thy
humanity and love; my only care is to confess the truth, to defend my
honour by words of sound reason, and then by deeds most resolute to
give effect to the promptings of my high soul. True it is that I have loved
and love Guiscardo, and during the brief while I have yet to live shall
love him, nor after death, so there be then love, shall I cease to love him;
but that I love him, is not imputable to my womanly frailty so much as to
the little zeal thou shewedst for my bestowal in marriage, and to
Guiscardo’s own worth. It should not have escaped thee, Tancred,
creature of flesh and blood as thou art, that thy daughter was also a
creature of flesh and blood, and not of stone or iron; it was, and is, thy
duty to bear in mind (old though thou art) the nature and the might of
the laws to which youth is subject; and, though thou hast spent part of
thy best years in martial exercises, thou shouldst nevertheless have not

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been ignorant how potent is the influence even upon the aged—to say
nothing of the young—of ease and luxury. And not only am I, as being
thy daughter, a creature of flesh and blood, but my life is not so far spent
but that I am still young, and thus doubly fraught with fleshly appetite,
the vehemence whereof is marvellously enhanced by reason that, having
been married, I have known the pleasure that ensues upon the
satisfaction of such desire. Which forces being powerless to withstand, I
did but act as was natural in a young woman, when I gave way to them,
and yielded myself to love. Nor in sooth did I fail to the utmost of my
power so to order the indulgence of my natural propensity that my sin
should bring shame neither upon thee nor upon me. To which end Love
in his pity, and Fortune in a friendly mood, found and discovered to me a
secret way, whereby, none witting, I attained my desire: this, from
whomsoever thou hast learned it, howsoever thou comest to know it, I
deny not. ‛Twas not at random, as many women do, that I loved
Guiscardo; but by deliberate choice I preferred him before all other men,
and of determinate forethought I lured him to my love, whereof,
through his and my discretion and constancy, I have long had joyance.
Wherein ‛twould seem that thou, following rather the opinion of the
vulgar than the dictates of truth, find cause to chide me more severely
than in my sinful love, for, as if thou wouldst not have been vexed, had
my choice fallen on a nobleman, thou complainest that I have
forgathered with a man of low condition; and dost not see that therein
thou censurest not my fault but that of Fortune, which not seldom raises
the unworthy to high place and leaves the worthiest in low estate. But
leave we this: consider a little the principles of things: thou seest that in
regard of our flesh we are all moulded of the same substance, and that
all souls are endowed by one and the same Creator with equal faculties,
equal powers, equal virtues. ‛Twas merit that made the first distinction
between us, born as we were, nay, as we are, all equal, and those whose
merits were and were approved in act the greatest were called noble, and

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the rest were not so denoted. Which law, albeit overlaid by the contrary
usage of after times, is not yet abrogated, nor so impaired but that it is
still traceable in nature and good manners; for which cause whoso with
merit acts, does plainly shew himself a gentleman; and if any denote him
otherwise, the default is his own and not his whom he so denotes. Pass
in review all thy nobles, weigh their merits, their manners and bearing,
and then compare Guiscardo’s qualities with theirs: if thou wilt judge
without prejudice, thou wilt pronounce him noble in the highest degree,
and thy nobles one and all churls. As to Guiscardo’s merits and worth I
did but trust the verdict which thou thyself didst utter in words, and
which mine own eyes confirmed. Of whom had he such commendation
as of thee for all those excellences whereby a good man and true merits
commendation? And in sooth thou didst him but justice; for, unless
mine eyes have played me false, there was nought for which thou didst
commend him but I had seen him practise it, and that more admirably
than words of thine might express; and had I been at all deceived in this
matter, ‛twould have been by thee. Wilt thou say then that I have
forgathered with a man of low condition? If so, thou wilt not say true.
Didst thou say with a poor man, the impeachment might be allowed, to
thy shame, that thou so ill hast known how to requite a good man and
true that is thy servant; but poverty, though it take away all else, deprives
no man of gentilesse. Many kings, many great princes, were once poor,
and many a ditcher or herdsman has been and is very wealthy. As for thy
last perpended doubt, to wit, how thou shouldst deal with me, banish it
utterly from thy thoughts. If in thy extreme old age thou art minded to
manifest a harshness unwonted in thy youth, wreak thy harshness on
me, resolved as I am to cry thee no mercy, prime cause as I am that this
sin, if sin it be, has been committed; for of this I warrant thee, that as
thou mayst have done or shalt do to Guiscardo, if to me thou do not the
like, I with my own hands will do it. Now get thee gone to shed thy tears
with the women, and when thy melting mood is over, ruthlessly destroy

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Guiscardo and me, if such thou deem our merited doom, by one and the
same blow.”
The loftiness of his daughter’s spirit was not unknown to the Prince;
but still he did not credit her with a resolve quite as firmly fixed as her
words implied, to carry their purport into effect. So, parting from her
without the least intention of using harshness towards her in her own
person, he determined to quench the heat of her love by wreaking his
vengeance on her lover, and bade the two men that had charge of
Guiscardo to strangle him noiselessly that same night, take the heart out
of the body, and send it to him. The men did his bidding: and on the
morrow the Prince had a large and beautiful cup of gold brought to him,
and having put Guiscardo’s heart therein, sent it by the hand of one of
his most trusted servants to his daughter, charging the servant to say, as
he gave it to her:—‟Thy father sends thee this to give thee joy of that
which thou lovest best, even as thou hast given him joy of that which he
loved best.”
Now when her father had left her, Ghismonda, wavering not a jot in
her stern resolve, had sent for poisonous herbs and roots, and therefrom
had distilled a water, to have it ready for use, if that which she
apprehended should come to pass. And when the servant appeared with
the Prince’s present and message, she took the cup unblenchingly, and
having lifted the lid, and seen the heart, and apprehended the meaning
of the words, and that the heart was beyond a doubt Guiscardo’s, she
raised her head, and looking straight at the servant, said:— ‟Sepulture
less honourable than of gold had ill befitted heart such as this: herein
has my father done wisely.” Which said, she raised it to her lips, and
kissed it, saying:—‟In all things and at all times, even to this last hour of
my life, have I found my father most tender in his love, but now more so
than ever before; wherefore I now render him the last thanks which will
ever be due from me to him for this goodly present.” So she spoke, and
straining the cup to her, bowed her head over it, and gazing at the heart,

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said:—‟Ah! sojourn most sweet of all my joys, accursed be he by whose

ruthless act I see thee with the bodily eye: ‛twas enough that to the
mind’s eye thou wert hourly present. Thou hast run thy course; thou
hast closed the span that Fortune allotted thee; thou hast reached the
goal of all; thou hast left behind thee the woes and weariness of the
world; and thy enemy has himself granted thee sepulture accordant with
thy deserts. No circumstance was wanting to duly celebrate thy
obsequies, save the tears of her whom, while thou livedst, thou didst so
dearly love; which that thou shouldst not lack, my remorseless father
was prompted of God to send thee to me, and, albeit my resolve was
fixed to die with eyes unmoistened and front all unperturbed by fear, yet
will I accord thee my tears; which done, my care shall be forthwith by
thy means to join my soul to that most precious soul which thou didst
once enshrine. And is there other company than hers, in which with
more of joy and peace I might fare to the abodes unknown? She is yet
here within, I doubt not, contemplating the abodes of her and my
delights, and—for sure I am that she loves me—awaiting my soul that
loves her before all else.”
Having thus spoken, she bowed herself low over the cup; and, while
no womanish cry escaped her, ‛twas as if a fountain of water were
unloosed within her head, so wondrous a flood of tears gushed from her
eyes, while times without number she kissed the dead heart. Her
damsels that stood around her knew not whose the heart might be or
what her words might mean, but melting in sympathy, they all wept, and
compassionately, as vainly, enquired the cause of her lamentation, and
in many other ways sought to comfort her to the best of their
understanding and power. When she had wept her fill, she raised her
head, and dried her eyes. Then:—‟O heart,” said she, ‟much cherished
heart, discharged is my every duty towards thee; nought now remains for
me to do but to come and unite my soul with thine.” So saying, she sent
for the vase that held the water which the day before she had distilled,

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and emptied it into the cup where lay the heart bathed in her tears;
then, nowise afraid, she set her mouth to the cup, and drained it dry, and
so with the cup in her hand she got her upon her bed, and having there
disposed her person in guise as seemly as she might, laid her dead lover’s
heart upon her own, and silently awaited death. Meanwhile the damsels,
seeing and hearing what passed, but knowing not what the water was
that she had drunk, had sent word of each particular to Tancred; who,
apprehensive of that which came to pass, came down with all haste to his
daughter’s room, where he arrived just as she got her upon her bed, and,
now too late, addressed himself to comfort her with soft words, and
seeing in what plight she was, burst into a flood of bitter tears. To whom
the lady:— ‟Reserve thy tears, Tancred, till Fortune send thee hap less
longed for than this: waste them not on me who care not for them.
Whoever yet saw any but thee bewail the consummation of his desire?
But, if of the love thou once didst bear me any spark still lives in thee, be
it thy parting grace to me, that, as thou brookedst not that I should live
with Guiscardo in privity and seclusion, so wherever thou mayst have
caused Guiscardo’s body to be cast, mine may be united with it in the
common view of all.” The Prince replied not for excess of grief; and the
lady, feeling that her end was come, strained the dead heart to her
bosom, saying:—‟Fare ye well; I take my leave of you;” and with eyelids
drooped and every sense evanished departed this life of woe. Such was
the lamentable end of the loves of Guiscardo and Ghismonda; whom
Tancred, tardily repentant of his harshness, mourned not a little, as did
also all the folk of Salerno, and had honourably interred side by side in
the same tomb.

NOVEL II.

— Fra Alberto gives a lady to understand that she is beloved of

the Angel Gabriel, in whose shape he lies with her sundry

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times; afterward, for fear of her kinsmen, he flings himself

forth of her house, and finds shelter in the house of a poor
man, who on the morrow leads him in the guise of a wild man
into the piazza, where, being recognized, he is apprehended by
his brethren and imprisoned. —
More than once had Fiammetta’s story brought tears to the eyes of her
fair companions; but now that it was ended the king said with an austere
air:—‟I should esteem my life but a paltry price to pay for half the
delight that Ghismonda had with Guiscardo: whereat no lady of you all
should marvel, seeing that each hour that I live I die a thousand deaths;
nor is there so much as a particle of compensating joy allotted me. But a
truce to my own concerns: I ordain that Pampinea do next ensue our
direful argument, wherewith the tenor of my life in part accords, and if
she follow in Fiammetta’s footsteps, I doubt not I shall presently feel
some drops of dew distill upon my fire.” Pampinea received the king’s
command in a spirit more accordant with what from her own bent she
divined to be the wishes of her fair gossips than with the king’s words;
wherefore, being minded rather to afford them some diversion, than,
save as in duty bound, to satisfy the king, she made choice of a story
which, without deviating from the prescribed theme, should move a
laugh, and thus began:—
‛Tis a proverb current among the vulgar, that:—‟Whoso, being
wicked, is righteous reputed, May sin as he will, and ‛twill ne’er be
imputed.” Which proverb furnishes me with abundant matter of
discourse, germane to our theme, besides occasion to exhibit the quality
and degree of the hypocrisy of the religious, who flaunt it in ample
flowing robes, and, with faces made pallid by art, with voices low and
gentle to beg alms, most loud and haughty to reprove in others their
own sins, would make believe that their way of salvation lies in taking
from us and ours in giving to them; nay, more, as if they had not like us

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Paradise to win, but were already its lords and masters, assign therein to
each that dies a place more or less exalted according to the amount of
the money that he has bequeathed to them; which if they believe, ‛tis by
dint of self-delusion, and to the effect of deluding all that put faith in
their words. Of whose guile were it lawful for me to make as full
exposure as were fitting, not a few simple folk should soon be
enlightened as to what they cloak within the folds of their voluminous
habits. But would to God all might have the like reward of their lies as a
certain friar minor, no novice, but one that was reputed among their
greatest31 at Venice; whose story, rather than aught else, I am minded to
tell you, if so I may, perchance, by laughter and jollity relieve in some
degree your souls that are heavy laden with pity for the death of
Ghismonda.
Know then, noble ladies, that there was in Imola a man of evil and
corrupt life, Berto della Massa by name, whose pestilent practices came
at length to be so well known to the good folk of Imola that ‛twas all one
whether he lied or spoke the truth, for there was not a soul in Imola that
believed a word he said: wherefore, seeing that his tricks would pass no
longer there, he removed, as in despair, to Venice, that common sink of
all abominations, thinking there to find other means than he had found
elsewhere to the prosecution of his nefarious designs. And, as if
conscience-stricken for his past misdeeds, he assumed an air of the
deepest humility, turned the best Catholic of them all, and went and
made himself a friar minor, taking the name of Fra Alberto da Imola.
With his habit he put on a shew of austerity, highly commending
penitence and abstinence, and eating or drinking no sort of meat or wine
but such as was to his taste. And scarce a soul was there that wist that
the thief, the pimp, the cheat, the assassin, had not been suddenly
converted into a great preacher without continuing in the practice of the

31 de’ maggior cassesi. No such word as cassesi is known to the lexicographers or commentators; and no plausible
emendation has yet been suggested.

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said iniquities, whensoever the same was privily possible. And withal,
having got himself made priest, as often as he celebrated at the altar, he
would weep over the passion of our Lord, so there were folk in plenty to
see, for tears cost him little enough, when he had a mind to shed them.
In short, what with his sermons and his tears, he duped the folk of
Venice to such a tune that scarce a will was there made but he was its
executor and depositary; nay, not a few made him trustee of their
moneys, and most, or well-nigh most, men and women alike, their
confessor and counsellor: in short, he had put off the wolf and put on
the shepherd, and the fame of his holiness was such in those parts that
St. Francis himself had never the like at Assisi.
Now it so befell that among the ladies that came to confess to this
holy friar was one Monna Lisetta of Ca’ Quirino, the young, silly, empty-
headed wife of a great merchant, who was gone with the galleys to
Flanders. Like a Venetian—for unstable are they all—though she placed
herself at his feet, she told him but a part of her sins, and when Fra
Alberto asked her whether she had a lover, she replied with black looks:
—‟How now, master friar? have you not eyes in your head? See you no
difference between my charms and those of other women? Lovers in
plenty might I have, so I would: but charms such as mine must not be
cheapened: ‛tis not every man that might presume to love me. How
many ladies have you seen whose beauty is comparable to mine? I
should adorn Paradise itself.” Whereto she added so much more in
praise of her beauty that the friar could scarce hear her with patience.
Howbeit, discerning at a glance that she was none too well furnished
with sense, he deemed the soil meet for his plough, and fell forthwith
inordinately in love with her, though he deferred his blandishments to a
more convenient season, and by way of supporting his character for
holiness began instead to chide her, telling her (among other novelties)
that this was vainglory: whereto the lady retorted that he was a
blockhead, and could not distinguish one degree of beauty from

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another. Wherefore Fra Alberto, lest he should occasion her too much
chagrin, cut short the confession, and suffered her to depart with the
other ladies. Some days after, accompanied by a single trusty friend, he
hied him to Monna Lisetta’s house, and having withdrawn with her
alone into a saloon, where they were safe from observation, he fell on his
knees at her feet, and said:—‟Madam, for the love of God I crave your
pardon of that which I said to you on Sunday, when you spoke to me of
your beauty, for so grievously was I chastised therefor that very night,
that ‛tis but to-day that I have been able to quit my bed.” ‟And by whom,”
quoth my Lady Battledore, ‟were you so chastised?” ‟I will tell you,”
returned Fra Alberto. ‟That night I was, as is ever my wont, at my
orisons, when suddenly a great light shone in my cell, and before I could
turn me to see what it was, I saw standing over me a right goodly youth
with a stout cudgel in his hand, who seized me by the habit and threw
me at his feet and belaboured me till I was bruised from head to foot.
And when I asked him why he used me thus, he answered:—’‛Tis
because thou didst to-day presume to speak slightingly of the celestial
charms of Monna Lisetta, whom I love next to God Himself.’ Whereupon
I asked:—‛And who are you?’ And he made answer that he was the Angel
Gabriel. Then said I:—‛O my lord, I pray you pardon me.’ Whereto he
answered:—‛I pardon thee on condition that thou go to her, with what
speed thou mayst, and obtain her pardon, which if she accord thee not, I
shall come back hither and give thee belabourings enough with my
cudgel to make thee a sad man for the rest of thy days.’ What more he
said, I dare not tell you, unless you first pardon me.” Whereat our flimsy
pumpion-pated Lady Lackbrain was overjoyed, taking all the friar’s
words for gospel. So after a while she said:—‟And did I not tell you, Fra
Alberto, that my charms were celestial? But, so help me God, I am
moved to pity of you, and forthwith I pardon you, lest worse should
befall you, so only you tell me what more the Angel said.” ‟So will I
gladly, Madam,” returned Fra Alberto, ‟now that I have your pardon; this

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only I bid you bear in mind, that you have a care that never a soul in the
world hear from you a single word of what I shall say to you, if you would
not spoil your good fortune, wherein there is not to-day in the whole
world a lady that may compare with you. Know then that the Angel
Gabriel bade me tell you that you stand so high in his favour that again
and again he would have come to pass the night with you, but that he
doubted he should affright you. So now he sends you word through me
that he would fain come one night, and stay a while with you; and seeing
that, being an angel, if he should visit you in his angelic shape, he might
not be touched by you, he would, to pleasure you, present himself in
human shape; and so he bids you send him word, when you would have
him come, and in whose shape, and he will come; for which cause you
may deem yourself more blessed than any other lady that lives.” My Lady
Vanity then said that she was highly flattered to be beloved of the Angel
Gabriel; whom she herself loved so well that she had never grudged four
soldi to burn a candle before his picture, wherever she saw it, and that he
was welcome to visit her as often as he liked, and would always find her
alone in her room; on the understanding, however, that he should not
desert her for the Virgin Mary, whom she had heard he did mightily
affect, and indeed ‛twould so appear, for, wherever she saw him, he was
always on his knees at her feet: for the rest he might even come in what
shape he pleased, so that it was not such as to terrify her. Then said Fra
Alberto:—‟Madam, ‛tis wisely spoken; and I will arrange it all with him
just as you say. But ‛tis in your power to do me a great favour, which will
cost you nothing; and this favour is that you be consenting that he visit
you in my shape. Now hear wherein you will confer this favour: thus will
it be: he will disembody my soul, and set it in Paradise, entering himself
into my body; and, as long as he shall be with you, my soul will be in
Paradise.” Whereto my Lady Slenderwit:—‟So be it,” she said; ‟I am well
pleased that you have this solace to salve the bruises that he gives you on
my account.” ‟Good,” said Fra Alberto; ‟then you will see to it that to-

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night he find, when he comes, your outer door unlatched, that he may
have ingress; for, coming, as he will, in human shape, he will not be able
to enter save by the door.” ‟It shall be done,” replied the lady. Whereupon
Fra Alberto took his leave, and the lady remained in such a state of
exaltation that her nether end knew not her chemise, and it seemed to
her a thousand years until the Angel Gabriel should come to visit her. Fra
Alberto, bethinking him that ‛twas not as an angel, but as a cavalier that
he must acquit himself that night, fell to fortifying himself with comfits
and other dainties, that he might not lose his saddle for slight cause.
Then, leave of absence gotten, he betook him at nightfall, with a single
companion, to the house of a woman that was his friend, which house
had served on former occasions as his base when he went a chasing the
fillies; and having there disguised himself, he hied him, when he
deemed ‛twas time, to the house of the lady, where, donning the
gewgaws he had brought with him, he transformed himself into an
angel, and going up, entered the lady’s chamber. No sooner saw she this
dazzling apparition than she fell on her knees before the Angel, who
gave her his blessing, raised her to her feet, and motioned her to go to
bed. She, nothing loath, obeyed forthwith, and the Angel lay down
beside his devotee. Now, Fra Alberto was a stout, handsome fellow,
whose legs bore themselves right bravely; and being bedded with Monna
Lisetta, who was lusty and delicate, he covered her after another fashion
than her husband had been wont, and took many a flight that night
without wings, so that she heartily cried him content; and not a little
therewithal did he tell her of the glory celestial. Then towards daybreak,
all being ready for his return, he hied him forth, and repaired,
caparisoned as he was, to his friend, whom, lest he should be affrighted,
sleeping alone, the good woman of the house had solaced with her
company. The lady, so soon as she had breakfasted, betook her to Fra
Alberto, and reported the Angel Gabriel’s visit, and what he had told her
of the glory of the life eternal, describing his appearance, not without

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some added marvels of her own invention. Whereto Fra Alberto replied:
—‟Madam, I know not how you fared with him; but this I know, that last
night he came to me, and for that I had done his errand with you, he
suddenly transported my soul among such a multitude of flowers and
roses as was never seen here below, and my soul—what became of my
body I know not—tarried in one of the most delightful places that ever
was from that hour until matins.” ‟As for your body,” said the lady, ‟do I
not tell you whose it was? It lay all night long with the Angel Gabriel in
my arms; and if you believe me not, you have but to took under your left
pap, where I gave the Angel a mighty kiss, of which the mark will last for
some days.” ‟Why then,” said Fra Alberto, ‟I will even do to-day what ‛tis
long since I did, to wit, undress, that I may see if you say sooth.” So they
fooled it a long while, and then the lady went home, where Fra Alberto
afterwards paid her many a visit without any let. However, one day it so
befell that while Monna Lisetta was with one of her gossips canvassing
beauties, she, being minded to exalt her own charms above all others,
and having, as we know, none too much wit in her pumpion-pate,
observed:—‟Did you but know by whom my charms are prized, then, for
sure, you would have nought to say of the rest.” Her gossip, all agog to
hear, for well she knew her foible, answered:—‟Madam, it may be as you
say, but still, while one knows not who he may be, one cannot alter one’s
mind so rapidly.” Whereupon my Lady Featherbrain:— ‟Gossip,” said she,
”‛tis not for common talk, but he that I wot of is the Angel Gabriel, who
loves me more dearly than himself, for that I am, so he tells me, the
fairest lady in all the world, ay, and in the Maremma to boot.” 32 Whereat
her gossip would fain have laughed, but held herself in, being minded to
hear more from her. Wherefore she said:—‟God’s faith, Madam, if ‛tis
the Angel Gabriel, and he tells you so, why, so of course it must needs be;
but I wist not the angels meddled with such matters.” ‟There you erred,
gossip,” said the lady: ‟zounds, he does it better than my husband, and
32 With this ineptitude cf. the friar’s ‟flowers and roses ” on the preceding page.

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he tells me they do it above there too, but, as he rates my charms above

any that are in heaven, he is enamoured of me, and not seldom visits me:
so now dost see?” So away went the gossip so agog to tell the story, that it
seemed to her a thousand years till she was where it might be done; and
being met for recreation with a great company of ladies, she narrated it
all in detail: whereby it passed to the ladies’ husbands, and to other
ladies, and from them to yet other ladies, so that in less than two days all
Venice was full of it. But among others, whose ears it reached, were
Monna Lisetta’s brothers-in-law, who, keeping their own counsel,
resolved to find this angel and make out whether he knew how to fly; to
which end they kept watch for some nights. Whereof no hint, as it
happened, reached Fra Alberto’s ears; and so, one night when he was
come to enjoy the lady once more, he was scarce undressed when her
brothers-in-law, who had seen him come, were at the door of the room
and already opening it, when Fra Alberto, hearing the noise and
apprehending the danger, started up, and having no other resource,
threw open a window that looked on to the Grand Canal, and plunged
into the water. The depth was great, and he was an expert swimmer; so
that he took no hurt, but, having reached the other bank, found a house
open, and forthwith entered it, praying the good man that was within,
for God’s sake to save his life, and trumping up a story to account for his
being there at so late an hour, and stripped to the skin. The good man
took pity on him, and having occasion to go out, he put him in his own
bed, bidding him stay there until his return; and so, having locked him
in, he went about his business.
Now when the lady’s brothers-in-law entered the room, and found
that the Angel Gabriel had taken flight, leaving his wings behind him,
being baulked of their prey, they roundly rated the lady, and then,
leaving her disconsolate, betook themselves home with the Angel’s
spoils. Whereby it befell, that, when ‛twas broad day, the good man,
being on the Rialto, heard tell how the Angel Gabriel had come to pass

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the night with Monna Lisetta, and, being surprised by her brothers-in-
law, had taken fright, and thrown himself into the Canal, and none
knew what was become of him. The good man guessed in a trice that the
said Angel was no other than the man he had at home, whom on his
return he recognized, and, after much chaffering, brought him to
promise him fifty ducats that he might not be given up to the lady’s
brothers-in-law. The bargain struck, Fra Alberto signified a desire to be
going. Whereupon:—‟There is no way,” said the good man, ‟but one, if
you are minded to take it. To-day we hold a revel, wherein folk lead
others about in various disguises; as, one man will present a bear,
another a wild man, and so forth; and then in the piazza of San Marco
there is a hunt, which done, the revel is ended; and then away they hie
them, whither they will, each with the man he has led about. If you are
willing to be led by me in one or another of these disguises, before it can
get wind that you are here, I can bring you whither you would go;
otherwise I see not how you are to quit this place without being known;
and the lady’s brothers-in-law, reckoning that you must be lurking
somewhere in this quarter, have set guards all about to take you.” Loath
indeed was Fra Alberto to go in such a guise, but such was his fear of the
lady’s relations that he consented, and told the good man whither he
desired to be taken, and that he was content to leave the choice of the
disguise to him. The good man then smeared him all over with honey,
and covered him with down, set a chain on his neck and a vizard on his
face, gave him a stout cudgel to carry in one hand, and two huge dogs,
which he had brought from the shambles, to lead with the other, and
sent a man to the Rialto to announce that whoso would see the Angel
Gabriel should hie him to the piazza of San Marco; in all which he acted
as a leal Venetian. And so, after a while, he led him forth, and then,
making him go before, held him by the chain behind, and through a
great throng that clamoured:—‟What manner of thing is this? what
manner of thing is this?” he brought him to the piazza, where, what with

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those that followed them, and those that had come from the Rialto on
hearing the announcement, there were folk without end. Arrived at the
piazza, he fastened his wild man to a column in a high and exposed
place, making as if he were minded to wait till the hunt should begin;
whereby the flies and gadflies, attracted by the honey with which he was
smeared, caused him most grievous distress. However, the good man
waited only until the piazza was thronged, and then, making as if he
would unchain his wild man, he tore the vizard from Fra Alberto’s face,
saying:—‟Gentlemen, as the boar comes not to the hunt, and the hunt
does not take place, that it be not for nothing that you are come hither, I
am minded to give you a view of the Angel Gabriel, who comes down
from heaven to earth by night to solace the ladies of Venice.” The vizard
was no sooner withdrawn than all recognized Fra Alberto, and greeted
him with hootings, rating him in language as offensive and opprobrious
as ever rogue was abused withal, and pelting him in the face with every
sort of filth that came to hand: in which plight they kept him an
exceeding great while, until by chance the bruit thereof reached his
brethren, of whom some six thereupon put themselves in motion, and,
arrived at the piazza, clapped a habit on his back, and unchained him,
and amid an immense uproar led him off to their convent, where, after
languishing a while in prison, ‛tis believed that he died.
So this man, by reason that, being reputed righteous, he did evil, and
‛twas not imputed to him, presumed to counterfeit the Angel Gabriel,
and, being transformed into a wild man, was in the end put to shame, as
he deserved, and vainly bewailed his misdeeds. God grant that so it may
betide all his likes.

NOVEL III.

— Three young men love three sisters, and flee with them to
Crete. The eldest of the sisters slays her lover for jealousy. The

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second saves the life of the first by yielding herself to the Duke
of Crete. Her lover slays her, and makes off with the first: the
third sister and her lover are charged with the murder, are
arrested and confess the crime. They escape death by bribing
the guards, flee destitute to Rhodes, and there in destitution
die. —
Pampinea’s story ended, Filostrato mused a while, and then said to her:
—‟A little good matter there was that pleased me at the close of your
story, but, before ‛twas reached, there was far too much to laugh at,
which I could have wished had not been there.” Then, turning to
Lauretta, he said:— ‟Madam, give us something better to follow, if so it
may be.” Lauretta replied with a laugh:—‟Harsh beyond measure are you
to the lovers, to desire that their end be always evil; but, as in duty
bound, I will tell a story of three, who all alike came to a bad end, having
had little joyance of their loves;” and so saying, she began.
Well may ye wot, young ladies, for ‛tis abundantly manifest, that
there is no vice but most grievous disaster may ensue thereon to him
that practises it, and not seldom to others; and of all the vices that which
hurries us into peril with loosest rein is, methinks, anger; which is
nought but a rash and hasty impulse, prompted by a feeling of pain,
which banishes reason, shrouds the eyes of the mind in thick darkness,
and sets the soul ablaze with a fierce frenzy. Which, though it not
seldom befall men, and one rather than another, has nevertheless been
observed to be fraught in women with more disastrous consequences,
inasmuch as in them the flame is both more readily kindled, and burns
more brightly, and with less impediment to its vehemence. Wherein is
no cause to marvel, for, if we consider it, we shall see that ‛tis of the
nature of fire to lay hold more readily of things light and delicate than of
matters of firmer and more solid substance; and sure it is that we
(without offence to the men be it spoken) are more delicate than they,

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and much more mobile. Wherefore, seeing how prone we are thereto by
nature, and considering also our gentleness and tenderness, how
soothing and consolatory they are to the men with whom we consort,
and that thus this madness of wrath is fraught with grievous annoy and
peril; therefore, that with stouter heart we may defend ourselves against
it, I purpose by my story to shew you, how the loves of three young men,
and as many ladies, as I said before, were by the anger of one of the
ladies changed from a happy to a most woeful complexion.
Marseilles, as you know, is situate on the coast of Provence, a city
ancient and most famous, and in old time the seat of many more rich
men and great merchants than are to be seen there to-day, among whom
was one Narnald Cluada by name, a man of the lowest origin, but a
merchant of unsullied probity and integrity, and boundless wealth in
lands and goods and money, who had by his lady several children, three
of them being daughters, older, each of them, than the other children,
who were sons. Two of the daughters, who were twins, were, when my
story begins, fifteen years old, and the third was but a year younger, so
that in order to their marriage their kinsfolk awaited nothing but the
return of Narnald from Spain, whither he was gone with his
merchandise. One of the twins was called Ninette, the other Madeleine;
the third daughter’s name was Bertelle. A young man, Restagnon by
name, who, though poor, was of gentle blood, was in the last degree
enamoured of Ninette, and she of him; and so discreetly had they
managed the affair, that, never another soul in the world witting aught
of it, they had had joyance of their love, and that for a good while, when
it so befell that two young friends of theirs, the one Foulques, the other
Hugues by name, whom their fathers, recently dead, had left very
wealthy, fell in love, the one with Madeleine, the other with Bertelle.
Whereof Restagnon being apprised by Ninette bethought him that in
their love he might find a means to the relief of his necessities. He
accordingly consorted freely and familiarly with them, accompanying,

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now one, now the other, and sometimes both of them, when they went
to visit their ladies and his; and when he judged that he had made his
footing as friendly and familiar as need was, he bade them one day to his
house, and said:—‟Comrades most dear, our friendship, perchance, may
not have left you without assurance of the great love I bear you, and that
for you I would do even as much as for myself: wherefore, loving you
thus much, I purpose to impart to you that which is in my mind, that in
regard thereof, you and I together may then resolve in such sort as to you
shall seem the best. You, if I may trust your words, as also what I seem to
have gathered from your demeanour by day and by night, burn with an
exceeding great love for the two ladies whom you affect, as I for their
sister. For the assuagement whereof, I have good hope that, if you will
unite with me, I shall find means most sweet and delightsome; to wit, on
this wise. You possess, as I do not, great wealth: now if you are willing to
make of your wealth a common stock with me as third partner therein,
and to choose some part of the world where we may live in careless ease
upon our substance, without any manner of doubt I trust so to prevail
that the three sisters with great part of their father’s substance shall
come to live with us, wherever we shall see fit to go; whereby, each with
his own lady, we shall live as three brethren, the happiest men in the
world. ‛Tis now for you to determine whether you will embrace this
proffered solace, or let it slip from you.” The two young men, whose love
was beyond all measure fervent, spared themselves the trouble of
deliberation: ‛twas enough that they heard that they were to have their
ladies: wherefore they answered, that, so this should ensue, they were
ready to do as he proposed. Having thus their answer, Restagnon a few
days later was closeted with Ninette, to whom ‛twas a matter of no small
difficulty for him to get access. Nor had he been long with her before he
adverted to what had passed between him and the young men, and
sought to commend the project to her for reasons not a few. Little need,
however, had he to urge her: for to live their life openly together was the

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very thing she desired, far more than he: wherefore she frankly answered
that she would have it so, that her sisters would do, more especially in
this matter, just as she wished, and that he should lose no time in
making all the needful arrangements. So Restagnon returned to the two
young men, who were most urgent that it should be done even as he
said, and told them that on the part of the ladies the matter was
concluded. And so, having fixed upon Crete for their destination, and
sold some estates that they had, giving out that they were minded to go a
trading with the proceeds, they converted all else that they possessed
into money, and bought a brigantine, which with all secrecy they
handsomely equipped, anxiously expecting the time of their departure,
while Ninette on her part, knowing well how her sisters were affected,
did so by sweet converse foment their desire that, till it should be
accomplished, they accounted their life as nought. The night of their
embarcation being come, the three sisters opened a great chest that
belonged to their father, and took out therefrom a vast quantity of
money and jewels, with which they all three issued forth of the house in
dead silence, as they had been charged, and found their three lovers
awaiting them; who, having forthwith brought them aboard the
brigantine, bade the rowers give way, and, tarrying nowhere, arrived the
next evening at Genoa, where the new lovers had for the first time
joyance and solace of their love.
Having taken what they needed of refreshment, they resumed their
course, touching at this port and that, and in less than eight days,
speeding without impediment, were come to Crete. There they bought
them domains both beautiful and broad, whereon, hard by Candia they
built them mansions most goodly and delightsome, wherein they lived
as barons, keeping a crowd of retainers, with dogs, hawks and horses,
and speeding the time with their ladies in feasting and revelling and
merrymaking, none so light-hearted as they. Such being the tenor of
their life, it so befell that (as ‛tis matter of daily experience that, however

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delightsome a thing may be, superabundance thereof will breed disgust)

Restagnon, much as he had loved Ninette, being now able to have his
joyance of her without stint or restraint, began to weary of her, and by
consequence to abate somewhat of his love for her. And being mightily
pleased with a fair gentlewoman of the country, whom he met at a
merrymaking, he set his whole heart upon her, and began to shew
himself marvellously courteous and gallant towards her; which Ninette
perceiving grew so jealous that he might not go a step but she knew of it,
and resented it to his torment and her own with high words. But as,
while superfluity engenders disgust, appetite is but whetted when fruit
is forbidden, so Ninette’s wrath added fuel to the flame of Restagnon’s
new love. And whichever was the event, whether in course of time
Restagnon had the lady’s favour or had it not, Ninette, whoever may
have brought her the tidings, firmly believed that he had it; whereby
from the depths of distress she passed into a towering passion, and thus
was transported into such a frenzy of rage that all the love she bore to
Restagnon was converted into bitter hatred, and, blinded by her wrath,
she made up her mind to avenge by Restagnon’s death the dishonour
which she deemed that he had done her. So she had recourse to an old
Greek woman, that was very skilful in compounding poisons, whom by
promises and gifts she induced to distill a deadly water, which, keeping
her own counsel, she herself gave Restagnon to drink one evening, when
he was somewhat heated and quite off his guard: whereby—such was the
efficacy of the water—she despatched Restagnon before matins. On
learning his death Foulques and Hugues and their ladies, who knew not
that he had been poisoned, united their bitter with Ninette’s feigned
lamentations, and gave him honourable sepulture. But so it befell that,
not many days after, the old woman, that had compounded the poison
for Ninette, was taken for another crime; and, being put to the torture,
confessed the compounding of the poison among other of her misdeeds,
and fully declared what had thereby come to pass. Wherefore the Duke

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of Crete, breathing no word of his intent, came privily by night, and set a
guard around Foulques’ palace, where Ninette then was, and quietly, and
quite unopposed, took and carried her off; and without putting her to
the torture, learned from her in a trice all that he sought to know
touching the death of Restagnon. Foulques and Hugues had learned
privily of the Duke, and their ladies of them, for what cause Ninette was
taken; and, being mightily distressed thereby, bestirred themselves with
all zeal to save Ninette from the fire, to which they apprehended she
would be condemned, as having indeed richly deserved it; but all their
endeavours seemed to avail nothing, for the Duke was unwaveringly
resolved that justice should be done. Madeleine, Foulques’ fair wife, who
had long been courted by the Duke, but had never deigned to shew him
the least favour, thinking that by yielding herself to his will she might
redeem her sister from the fire, despatched a trusty envoy to him with
the intimation that she was entirely at his disposal upon the twofold
condition, that in the first place her sister should be restored to her free
and scatheless, and, in the second place, the affair should be kept secret.
Albeit gratified by this overture, the Duke was long in doubt whether he
should accept it; in the end, however, he made up his mind to do so, and
signified his approval to the envoy. Then with the lady’s consent he put
Foulques and Hugues under arrest for a night, as if he were minded to
examine them of the affair, and meanwhile quartered himself privily
with Madeleine. Ninette, who, he had made believe, had been set in a
sack, and was to be sunk in the sea that same night, he took with him,
and presented her to her sister in requital of the night’s joyance, which,
as he parted from her on the morrow, he prayed her might not be the
last, as it was the first, fruit of their love, at the same time enjoining her
to send the guilty lady away that she might not bring reproach upon
him, nor he be compelled to deal rigorously with her again. Released the
same morning, and told that Ninette had been cast into the sea,
Foulques and Hugues, fully believing that so it was, came home,

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thinking how they should console their ladies for the death of their
sister; but, though Madeleine was at great pains to conceal Ninette,
Foulques nevertheless, to his no small amazement, discovered that she
was there; which at once excited his suspicion, for he knew that the
Duke had been enamoured of Madeleine; and he asked how it was that
Ninette was there. Madeleine made up a long story by way of
explanation, to which his sagacity gave little credit, and in the end after
long parley he constrained her to tell the truth. Whereupon, overcome
with grief, and transported with rage, he drew his sword, and, deaf to her
appeals for mercy, slew her. Then, fearing the vengeful justice of the
Duke, he left the dead body in the room, and hied him to Ninette, and
with a counterfeit gladsome mien said to her:—‟Go we without delay
whither thy sister has appointed that I escort thee, that thou fall not
again into the hands of the Duke.” Ninette believed him, and being fain
to go for very fear, she forewent further leave-taking of her sister, more
particularly as it was now night, and set out with Foulques, who took
with him such little money as he could lay his hands upon; and so they
made their way to the coast, where they got aboard a bark, but none ever
knew where their voyage ended.
Madeleine’s dead body being discovered next day, certain evil-
disposed folk, that bore a grudge to Hugues, forthwith apprised the
Duke of the fact; which brought the Duke—for much he loved
Madeleine—in hot haste to the house, where he arrested Hugues and his
lady, who as yet knew nothing of the departure of Foulques and Ninette,
and extorted from them a confession that they and Foulques were jointly
answerable for Madeleine’s death. For which cause being justly
apprehensive of death, they with great address corrupted the guards that
had charge of them, giving them a sum of money which they kept
concealed in their house against occasions of need; and together with
the guards fled with all speed, leaving all that they possessed behind
them, and took ship by night for Rhodes, where, being arrived, they

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lived in great poverty and misery no long time. Such then was the issue,
to which Restagnon, by his foolish love, and Ninette by her wrath
brought themselves and others.

NOVEL IV.

— Gerbino, in breach of the plighted faith of his grandfather,

King Guglielmo, attacks a ship of the King of Tunis to rescue
thence his daughter. She being slain by those aboard the ship,
he slays them, and afterwards he is beheaded. —
Lauretta, her story ended, kept silence; and the king brooded as in deep
thought, while one or another of the company deplored the sad fate of
this or the other of the lovers, or censured Ninette’s wrath, or made some
other comment. At length, however, the king roused himself, and raising
his head, made sign to Elisa that ‛twas now for her to speak. So,
modestly, Elisa thus began:—Gracious ladies, not a few there are that
believe that Love looses no shafts save when he is kindled by the eyes,
contemning their opinion that hold that passion may be engendered by
words; whose error will be abundantly manifest in a story which I
purpose to tell you; wherein you may see how mere rumour not only
wrought mutual love in those that had never seen one another, but also
brought both to a miserable death.
Guglielmo, the Second,33 as the Sicilians compute, King of Sicily, had
two children, a son named Ruggieri, and a daughter named Gostanza.
Ruggieri died before his father, and left a son named Gerbino; who,
being carefully trained by his grandfather, grew up a most goodly gallant,
and of great renown in court and camp, and that not only within the
borders of Sicily, but in divers other parts of the world, among them
Barbary, then tributary to the King of Sicily. And among others, to whose

33 First, according to the now accepted reckoning. He reigned from 1154 to 1166.

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ears was wafted the bruit of Gerbino’s magnificent prowess and courtesy,
was a daughter of the King of Tunis, who, by averment of all that had
seen her, was a creature as fair and debonair, and of as great and noble a
spirit as Nature ever formed. To hear tell of brave men was her delight,
and what she heard, now from one, now from another, of the brave
deeds of Gerbino she treasured in her mind so sedulously, and pondered
them with such pleasure, rehearsing them to herself in imagination,
that she became hotly enamoured of him, and there was none of whom
she talked, or heard others talk, so gladly. Nor, on the other hand, had
the fame of her incomparable beauty and other excellences failed to
travel, as to other lands, so also to Sicily, where, falling on Gerbino’s ears,
it gave him no small delight, to such effect that he burned for the lady no
less vehemently than she for him. Wherefore, until such time as he
might, upon some worthy occasion, have his grandfather’s leave to go to
Tunis, yearning beyond measure to see her, he charged every friend of
his, that went thither, to give her to know, as best he might, his great and
secret love for her, and to bring him tidings of her. Which office one of
the said friends discharged with no small address; for, having obtained
access to her, after the manner of merchants, by bringing jewels for her
to look at, he fully apprised her of Gerbino’s passion, and placed him,
and all that he possessed, entirely at her disposal. The lady received both
messenger and message with gladsome mien, made answer that she
loved with equal ardour, and in token thereof sent Gerbino one of her
most precious jewels. Gerbino received the jewel with extreme delight,
and sent her many a letter and many a most precious gift by the hand of
the same messenger; and ‛twas well understood between them that,
should Fortune accord him opportunity, he should see and know her.
On this footing the affair remained somewhat longer than was
expedient; and so, while Gerbino and the lady burned with mutual love,
it befell that the King of Tunis gave her in marriage to the King of

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Granada;34 whereat she was wroth beyond measure, for that she was not
only going into a country remote from her lover, but, as she deemed, was
severed from him altogether; and so this might not come to pass, gladly,
could she but have seen how, would she have left her father and fled to
Gerbino. In like manner, Gerbino, on learning of the marriage, was
vexed beyond measure, and was oft times minded, could he but find
means to win to her husband by sea, to wrest her from him by force.
Some rumour of Gerbino’s love and of his intent, reached the King of
Tunis, who, knowing his prowess and power, took alarm, and as the time
drew nigh for conveying the lady to Granada, sent word of his purpose to
King Guglielmo, and craved his assurance that it might be carried into
effect without let or hindrance on the part of Gerbino, or any one else.
The old King had heard nothing of Gerbino’s love affair, and never
dreaming that ‛twas on such account that the assurance was craved,
granted it without demur, and in pledge thereof sent the King of Tunis
his glove. Which received, the King made ready a great and goodly ship
in the port of Carthage, and equipped her with all things meet for those
that were to man her, and with all appointments apt and seemly for the
reception of his daughter, and awaited only fair weather to send her
therein to Granada. All which the young lady seeing and marking, sent
one of her servants privily to Palermo, bidding him greet the illustrious
Gerbino on her part, and tell him that a few days would see her on her
way to Granada; wherefore ‛twould now appear whether, or no, he were
really as doughty a man as he was reputed, and loved her as much as he
had so often protested. The servant did not fail to deliver her message
exactly, and returned to Tunis, leaving Gerbino, who knew that his
grandfather, King Guglielmo, had given the King of Tunis the desired
assurance, at a loss how to act. But prompted by love, and goaded by the
lady’s words and loath to seem a craven, he hied him to Messina; and
having there armed two light galleys, and manned them with good men
34 An anachronism; the Moorish kingdom of Granada not having been founded until 1238.

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and true, he put to sea, and stood for Sardinia, deeming that the lady’s
ship must pass that way. Nor was he far out in his reckoning; for he had
not been there many days, when the ship, sped by a light breeze, hove in
sight not far from the place where he lay in wait for her. Whereupon
Gerbino said to his comrades:—‟Gentlemen, if you be as good men and
true as I deem you, there is none of you but must have felt, if he feel not
now, the might of love; for without love I deem no mortal capable of true
worth or aught that is good; and if you are or have been in love, ‛twill be
easy for you to understand that which I desire. I love, and ‛tis because I
love that I have laid this travail upon you; and that which I love is in the
ship that you see before you, which is fraught not only with my beloved,
but with immense treasures, which, if you are good men and true, we, so
we but play the man in fight, may with little trouble make our own; nor
for my share of the spoils of the victory demand I aught but a lady,
whose love it is that prompts me to take arms: all else I freely cede to you
from this very hour. Forward, then; attack we this ship; success should
be ours, for God favours our enterprise, nor lends her wind to evade us.”
Fewer words might have sufficed the illustrious Gerbino; for the
rapacious Messinese that were with him were already bent heart and
soul upon that to which by his harangue he sought to animate them. So,
when he had done, they raised a mighty shout, so that ‛twas as if
trumpets did blare, and caught up their arms, and smiting the water
with their oars, overhauled the ship. The advancing galleys were
observed while they were yet a great way off by the ship’s crew, who, not
being able to avoid the combat, put themselves in a posture of defence.
Arrived at close quarters, the illustrious Gerbino bade send the ship’s
masters aboard the galleys, unless they were minded to do battle.
Certified of the challenge, and who they were that made it, the Saracens
answered that ‛twas in breach of the faith plighted to them by their
assailants’ king that they were thus attacked, and in token thereof
displayed King Guglielmo’s glove, averring in set terms that there should

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be no surrender either of themselves or of aught that was aboard the

ship without battle. Gerbino, who had observed the lady standing on the
ship’s poop, and seen that she was far more beautiful than he had
imagined, burned with a yet fiercer flame than before, and to the display
of the glove made answer, that, as he had no falcons there just then, the
glove booted him not; wherefore, so they were not minded to surrender
the lady, let them prepare to receive battle. Whereupon, without further
delay, the battle began on both sides with a furious discharge of arrows
and stones; on which wise it was long protracted to their common loss;
until at last Gerbino, seeing that he gained little advantage, took a light
bark which they had brought from Sardinia, and having fired her, bore
down with her, and both the galleys, upon the ship. Whereupon the
Saracens, seeing that they must perforce surrender the ship or die,
caused the King’s daughter, who lay beneath the deck weeping, to come
up on deck, and led her to the prow, and shouting to Gerbino, while the
lady shrieked alternately ‟mercy” and ‟succour,” opened her veins before
his eyes, and cast her into the sea, saying:—‟Take her; we give her to thee
on such wise as we can, and as thy faith has merited.” Maddened to
witness this deed of barbarism, Gerbino, as if courting death, recked no
more of the arrows and the stones, but drew alongside the ship, and,
despite the resistance of her crew, boarded her; and as a famished lion
ravens amongst a herd of oxen, and tearing and rending, now one, now
another, gluts his wrath before he appeases his hunger, so Gerbino,
sword in hand, hacking and hewing on all sides among the Saracens, did
ruthlessly slaughter not a few of them; till, as the burning ship began to
blaze more fiercely, he bade the seamen take thereout all that they might
by way of guerdon, which done, he quitted her, having gained but a
rueful victory over his adversaries. His next care was to recover from the
sea the body of the fair lady, whom long and with many a tear he
mourned: and so he returned to Sicily, and gave the body honourable
sepulture in Ustica, an islet that faces, as it were, Trapani, and went

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home the saddest man alive.

When these tidings reached the King of Tunis, he sent to King
Guglielmo ambassadors, habited in black, who made complaint of the
breach of faith and recited the manner of its occurrence. Which caused
King Guglielmo no small chagrin; and seeing not how he might refuse
the justice they demanded, he had Gerbino arrested, and he himself,
none of his barons being able by any entreaty to turn him from his
purpose, sentenced him to forfeit his head, and had it severed from his
body in his presence, preferring to suffer the loss of his only grandson
than to gain the reputation of a faithless king. And so, miserably, within
the compass of a few brief days, died the two lovers by woeful deaths, as
I have told you, and without having known any joyance of their love.

NOVEL V.

— Lisabetta’s brothers slay her lover: he appears to her in a

dream, and shews her where he is buried: she privily disinters
the head, and sets it in a pot of basil, whereon she daily weeps
a great while. The pot being taken from her by her brothers,
she dies, not long after. —
Elisa’s story ended, the king bestowed a few words of praise upon it, and
then laid the burden of discourse upon Filomena, who, full of
compassion for the woes of Gerbino and his lady, heaved a piteous sigh,
and thus began:—My story, gracious ladies, will not be of folk of so high
a rank as those of whom Elisa has told us, but perchance ‛twill not be
less touching. ‛Tis brought to my mind by the recent mention of
Messina, where the matter befell.
Know then that there were at Messina three young men, that were
brothers and merchants, who were left very rich on the death of their
father, who was of San Gimignano; and they had a sister, Lisabetta by

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name, a girl fair enough, and no less debonair, but whom, for some
reason or another, they had not as yet bestowed in marriage. The three
brothers had also in their shop a young Pisan, Lorenzo by name, who
managed all their affairs, and who was so goodly of person and gallant,
that Lisabetta bestowed many a glance upon him, and began to regard
him with extraordinary favour; which Lorenzo marking from time to
time, gave up all his other amours, and in like manner began to affect
her, and so, their loves being equal, ‛twas not long before they took heart
of grace, and did that which each most desired. Wherein continuing to
their no small mutual solace and delight, they neglected to order it with
due secrecy, whereby one night as Lisabetta was going to Lorenzo’s
room, she, all unwitting, was observed by the eldest of the brothers,
who, albeit much distressed by what he had learnt, yet, being a young
man of discretion, was swayed by considerations more seemly, and,
allowing no word to escape him, spent the night in turning the affair
over in his mind in divers ways. On the morrow he told his brothers that
which, touching Lisabetta and Lorenzo, he had observed in the night,
which, that no shame might thence ensue either to them or to their
sister, they after long consultation determined to pass over in silence,
making as if they had seen or heard nought thereof, until such time as
they in a safe and convenient manner might banish this disgrace from
their sight before it could go further. Adhering to which purpose, they
jested and laughed with Lorenzo as they had been wont; and after a
while pretending that they were all three going forth of the city on
pleasure, they took Lorenzo with them; and being come to a remote and
very lonely spot, seeing that ‛twas apt for their design, they took
Lorenzo, who was completely off his guard, and slew him, and buried
him on such wise that none was ware of it. On their return to Messina
they gave out that they had sent him away on business; which was
readily believed, because ‛twas what they had been frequently used to
do. But as Lorenzo did not return, and Lisabetta questioned the brothers

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about him with great frequency and urgency, being sorely grieved by his
long absence, it so befell that one day, when she was very pressing in her
enquiries, one of the brothers said:—‟What means this? What hast thou
to do with Lorenzo, that thou shouldst ask about him so often? Ask us
no more, or we will give thee such answer as thou deservest.” So the girl,
sick at heart and sorrowful, fearing she knew not what, asked no
questions; but many a time at night she called piteously to him, and
besought him to come to her, and bewailed his long tarrying with many
a tear, and ever yearning for his return, languished in total dejection.
But so it was that one night, when, after long weeping that her
Lorenzo came not back, she had at last fallen asleep, Lorenzo appeared
to her in a dream, wan and in utter disarray, his clothes torn to shreds
and sodden; and thus, as she thought, he spoke:—‟Lisabetta, thou dost
nought but call me, and vex thyself for my long tarrying, and bitterly
upbraid me with thy tears; wherefore be it known to thee that return to
thee I may not, because the last day that thou didst see me thy brothers
slew me.” After which, he described the place where they had buried
him, told her to call and expect him no more, and vanished. The girl
then awoke, and doubting not that the vision was true, wept bitterly.
And when morning came, and she was risen, not daring to say aught to
her brothers, she resolved to go to the place indicated in the vision, and
see if what she had dreamed were even as it had appeared to her. So,
having leave to go a little way out of the city for recreation in company
with a maid that had at one time lived with them and knew all that she
did, she hied her thither with all speed; and having removed the dry
leaves that were strewn about the place, she began to dig where the earth
seemed least hard. Nor had she dug long, before she found the body of
her hapless lover, whereon as yet there was no trace of corruption or
decay; and thus she saw without any manner of doubt that her vision
was true. And so, saddest of women, knowing that she might not bewail
him there, she would gladly, if she could, have carried away the body and

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given it more honourable sepulture elsewhere; but as she might not so

do, she took a knife, and, as best she could, severed the head from the
trunk, and wrapped it in a napkin and laid it in the lap of her maid; and
having covered the rest of the corpse with earth, she left the spot, having
been seen by none, and went home. There she shut herself up in her
room with the head, and kissed it a thousand times in every part, and
wept long and bitterly over it, till she had bathed it in her tears. She then
wrapped it in a piece of fine cloth, and set it in a large and beautiful pot
of the sort in which marjoram or basil is planted, and covered it with
earth, and therein planted some roots of the goodliest basil of Salerno,
and drenched them only with her tears, or water perfumed with roses or
orange-blossoms. And ‛twas her wont ever to sit beside this pot, and, all
her soul one yearning, to pore upon it, as that which enshrined her
Lorenzo, and when long time she had so done, she would bend over it,
and weep a great while, until the basil was quite bathed in her tears.
Fostered with such constant, unremitting care, and nourished by the
richness given to the soil by the decaying head that lay therein, the basil
burgeoned out in exceeding great beauty and fragrance. And, the girl
persevering ever in this way of life, the neighbours from time to time
took note of it, and when her brothers marvelled to see her beauty
ruined, and her eyes as it were evanished from her head, they told them
of it, saying:—‟We have observed that such is her daily wont.”
Whereupon the brothers, marking her behaviour, chid her therefore
once or twice, and as she heeded them not, caused the pot to be taken
privily from her. Which, so soon as she missed it, she demanded with
the utmost instance and insistence, and, as they gave it not back to her,
ceased not to wail and weep, insomuch that she fell sick; nor in her
sickness craved she aught but the pot of basil. Whereat the young men,
marvelling mightily, resolved to see what the pot might contain; and
having removed the earth they espied the cloth, and therein the head,
which was not yet so decayed, but that by the curled locks they knew it

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for Lorenzo’s head. Passing strange they found it, and fearing lest it
should be bruited abroad, they buried the head, and, with as little said
as might be, took order for their privy departure from Messina, and hied
them thence to Naples. The girl ceased not to weep and crave her pot,
and, so weeping, died. Such was the end of her disastrous love; but not a
few in course of time coming to know the truth of the affair, there was
one that made the song that is still sung: to wit:—
A thief he was, I swear,
A sorry Christian he,
That took my basil of Salerno fair,
That flourished mightily.
Planted by mine own hands with loving care
What time they revelled free:
To spoil another’s goods is churlish spite.

To spoil another’s goods is churlish spite,

Ay, and most heinous sin.
A basil had I (alas! luckless wight!),
The fairest plant: within
Its shade I slept: ‛twas grown to such a height.
But some folk for chagrin
‛Reft me thereof, ay, and before my door.

‛Reft me thereof, ay, and before my door.

Ah! dolorous day and drear!
Ah! woe is me! Would God I were no more!
My purchase was so dear!
Ah! why that day did I to watch give o’er?
For him my cherished fere
With marjoram I bordered it about.

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With marjoram I bordered it about

In May-time fresh and fair,
And watered it thrice ere each week was out,
And marked it grow full yare:
But now ‛tis stolen. Ah! too well ‛tis known!35

But now ‛tis stolen. Ah! too well ‛tis known!

That no more may I hide:
But had to me a while before been shewn
What then should me betide,
At night before my door I had laid me down
To watch my plant beside.
Yet God Almighty sure me succour might.

Ay, God Almighty sure me succour might,

So were it but His will,
‛Gainst him that me hath done so foul despite,
That in dire torment still
I languish, since the thief reft from my sight
My plant that did me thrill,
And to my inmost Soul such comfort lent!

And to my inmost soul such comfort lent!

So fresh its fragrance blew,
That when, what time the sun uprose, I went
My watering to do,
I’d hear the people all in wonderment
Say, whence this perfume new?
And I for love of it of grief shall die.

35 This stanza is defective in the original.

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And I for love of it of grief shall die,

Of my fair plant for dole.
Would one but shew me how I might it buy!
Ah! how ‛twould me console!
Ounces36 an hundred of fine gold have I:
Him would I give the whole,
Ay, and a kiss to boot, so he were fain.

NOVEL VI.

— Andreuola loves Gabriotto: she tells him a dream that she

has had; he tells her a dream of his own, and dies suddenly in
her arms. While she and her maid are carrying his corpse to
his house, they are taken by the Signory. She tells how the
matter stands, is threatened with violence by the Podesta, but
will not brook it. Her father hears how she is bested; and, her
innocence being established, causes her to be set at large; but
she, being minded to tarry no longer in the world, becomes a
nun. —
Glad indeed were the ladies to have heard Filomena’s story, for that,
often though they had heard the song sung, they had never yet, for all
their enquiries, been able to learn the occasion upon which it was made.
When ‛twas ended, Pamfilo received the king’s command to follow suit,
and thus spoke:—By the dream told in the foregoing story I am
prompted to relate one in which two dreams are told, dreams of that
which was to come, as Lisabetta’s was of that which had been, and which
were both fulfilled almost as soon as they were told by those that had
dreamed them. Wherefore, loving ladies, you must know that ‛tis the
common experience of mankind to have divers visions during sleep; and
36 The ‟oncia” was a Sicilian gold coin worth rather more than a zecchino.

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albeit the sleeper, while he sleeps, deems all alike most true, but, being
awake, judges some of them to be true, others to be probable, and others
again to be quite devoid of truth, yet not a few are found to have come to
pass. For which cause many are as sure of every dream as of aught that
they see in their waking hours, and so, as their dreams engender in them
fear or hope, are sorrowful or joyous. And on the other hand there are
those that credit no dream, until they see themselves fallen into the very
peril whereof they were forewarned. Of whom I approve neither sort, for
in sooth neither are all dreams true, nor all alike false. That they are not
all true, there is none of us but may many a time have proved; and that
they are not all alike false has already been shewn in Filomena’s story,
and shall also, as I said before, be shewn in mine. Wherefore I deem that
in a virtuous course of life and conduct there is no need to fear aught by
reason of any dream that is contrary thereto, or on that account to give
up any just design; and as for crooked and sinister enterprises, however
dreams may seem to favour them, and flatter the hopes of the dreamer
with auspicious omens, none should trust them: rather should all give
full credence to such as run counter thereto. But come we to the story.
In the city of Brescia there lived of yore a gentleman named Messer
Negro da Ponte Carraro, who with other children had a very fair
daughter, Andreuola by name, who, being unmarried, chanced to fall in
love with a neighbour, one Gabriotto, a man of low degree, but goodly of
person and debonair, and endowed with all admirable qualities; and
aided and abetted by the housemaid, the girl not only brought it to pass
that Gabriotto knew that he was beloved of her, but that many a time to
their mutual delight he came to see her in a fair garden belonging to her
father. And that nought but death might avail to sever them from this
their gladsome love, they became privily man and wife; and, while thus
they continued their clandestine intercourse, it happened that one
night, while the girl slept, she saw herself in a dream in her garden with
Gabriotto, who to the exceeding great delight of both held her in his

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arms; and while thus they lay, she saw issue from his body somewhat
dark and frightful, the shape whereof she might not discern; which, as
she thought, laid hold of Gabriotto, and in her despite with prodigious
force reft him from her embrace, and bore him with it underground, so
that both were lost to her sight for evermore: whereby stricken with sore
and inexpressible grief, she awoke; and albeit she was overjoyed to find
that ‛twas not as she had dreamed, yet a haunting dread of what she had
seen in her vision entered her soul. Wherefore, Gabriotto being minded
to visit her on the ensuing night, she did her best endeavour to dissuade
him from coming; but seeing that he was bent upon it, lest he should
suspect somewhat, she received him in her garden, where, having culled
roses many, white and red—for ‛twas summer—she sat herself down
with him at the base of a most fair and lucent fountain. There long and
joyously they dallied, and then Gabriotto asked her wherefore she had
that day forbade his coming. Whereupon the lady told him her dream of
the night before, and the doubt and fear which it had engendered in her
mind. Whereat Gabriotto laughed, and said that ‛twas the height of folly
to put any faith in dreams, for that they were occasioned by too much or
too little food, and were daily seen to be, one and all, things of nought,
adding:—‟Were I minded to give heed to dreams, I should not be here
now, for I, too, had a dream last night, which was on this wise:—
Methought I was in a fair and pleasant wood, and there, a hunting,
caught a she-goat as beautiful and loveable as any that ever was seen,
and, as it seemed to me, whiter than snow, which in a little while grew so
tame and friendly that she never stirred from my side. All the same so
jealous was I lest she should leave me, that, meseemed, I had set a collar
of gold around her neck, and held her by a golden chain. And presently
meseemed that, while the she-goat lay at rest with her head in my lap,
there came forth, I knew not whence, a greyhound bitch, black as coal,
famished, and most fearsome to look upon; which made straight for me,
and for, meseemed, I offered no resistance, set her muzzle to my breast

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on the left side and gnawed through to the heart, which, meseemed, she
tore out to carry away with her. Whereupon ensued so sore a pain that it
brake my sleep, and as I awoke I laid my hand to my side to feel if aught
were amiss there; but finding nothing I laughed at myself that I had
searched. But what signifies it all? Visions of the like sort, ay, and far
more appalling, have I had in plenty, and nought whatever, great or
small, has come of any of them. So let it pass, and think we how we may
speed the time merrily.”
What she heard immensely enhanced the already great dread which
her own dream had inspired in the girl; but, not to vex Gabriotto, she
dissembled her terror as best she might. But, though she made great
cheer, embracing and kissing him, and receiving his embraces and
kisses, yet she felt a doubt, she knew not why, and many a time, more
than her wont, she would gaze upon his face, and ever and anon her
glance would stray through the garden to see if any black creature were
coming from any quarter. While thus they passed the time, of a sudden
Gabriotto heaved a great sigh, and embracing her, said:—‟Alas! my soul,
thy succour! for I die.” And so saying, he fell down upon the grassy mead.
Whereupon the girl drew him to her, and laid him on her lap, and all but
wept, and said:—‟O sweet my lord, what is’t that ails thee?” But
Gabriotto was silent, and gasping sore for breath, and bathed in sweat,
in no long time departed this life.
How grievous was the distress of the girl, who loved him more than
herself, you, my ladies, may well imagine. With many a tear she
mourned him, and many times she vainly called him by his name; but
when, having felt his body all over, and found it cold in every part, she
could no longer doubt that he was dead, knowing not what to say or do,
she went, tearful and woebegone, to call the maid, to whom she had
confided her love, and shewed her the woeful calamity that had befallen
her. Piteously a while they wept together over the dead face of Gabriotto,
and then the girl said to the maid:—‟Now that God has reft him from

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me, I have no mind to linger in this life; but before I slay myself, I would
we might find apt means to preserve my honour, and the secret of our
love, and to bury the body from which the sweet soul has fled.” ‟My
daughter,” said the maid, ‟speak not of slaying thyself, for so wouldst
thou lose in the other world, also, him that thou hast lost here; seeing
that thou wouldst go to hell, whither, sure I am, his soul is not gone, for a
good youth he was; far better were it to put on a cheerful courage, and
bethink thee to succour his soul with thy prayers or pious works, if
perchance he have need thereof by reason of any sin that he may have
committed. We can bury him readily enough in this garden, nor will any
one ever know; for none knows that he ever came hither; and if thou wilt
not have it so, we can bear him forth of the garden, and leave him there;
and on the morrow he will be found, and carried home, and buried by
his kinsfolk.” The girl, heavy-laden though she was with anguish, and
still weeping, yet gave ear to the counsels of her maid, and rejecting the
former alternative, made answer to the latter on this wise:— ‟Now God
forbid that a youth so dear, whom I have so loved and made my
husband, should with my consent be buried like a dog, or left out there
in the street. He has had my tears, and so far as I may avail, he shall have
the tears of his kinsfolk, and already wot I what we must do.” And
forthwith she sent the maid for a piece of silken cloth, which she had in
one of her boxes; and when the maid returned with it, they spread it on
the ground, and laid Gabriotto’s body thereon, resting the head upon a
pillow. She then closed the eyes and mouth, shedding the while many a
tear, wove for him a wreath of roses, and strewed upon him all the roses
that he and she had gathered; which done, she said to the maid:—” ‛Tis
but a short way hence to the door of his house; so thither we will bear
him, thou and I, thus as we have dight him, and will lay him at the door.
Day will soon dawn, and they will take him up; and, though ‛twill be no
consolation to them, I, in whose arms he died, shall be glad of it.” So
saying, she burst once more into a torrent of tears, and fell with her face

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upon the face of the dead, and so long time she wept. Then, yielding at
last to the urgency of her maid, for day was drawing nigh, she arose,
drew from her finger the ring with which she had been wedded to
Gabriotto, and set it on his finger, saying with tears:—‟Dear my lord, if
thy soul be witness of my tears, or if, when the spirit is fled, aught of
intelligence or sense still lurk in the body, graciously receive the last gift
of her whom in life thou didst so dearly love.” Which said, she swooned,
and fell upon the corpse; but, coming after a while to herself, she arose;
and then she and her maid took the cloth whereon the body lay, and so
bearing it, quitted the garden, and bent their steps towards the dead
man’s house. As thus they went, it chanced that certain of the Podesta’s
guard, that for some reason or another were abroad at that hour, met
them, and arrested them with the corpse. Andreuola, to whom death
was more welcome than life, no sooner knew them for the officers of the
Signory than she frankly said:—‟I know you, who you are, and that flight
would avail me nothing: I am ready to come with you before the Signory,
and to tell all there is to tell; but let none of you presume to touch me, so
long as I obey you, or to take away aught that is on this body, if he would
not that I accuse him.” And so, none venturing to lay hand upon either
her person or the corpse, she entered the palace.
So soon as the Podesta was apprised of the affair, he arose, had her
brought into his room, and there made himself conversant with the
circumstances: and certain physicians being charged to inquire whether
the good man had met his death by poison or otherwise, all with one
accord averred that ‛twas not by poison, but that he was choked by the
bursting of an imposthume near the heart. Which when the Podesta
heard, perceiving that the girl’s guilt could but be slight, he sought to
make a pretence of giving what it was not lawful for him to sell her, and
told her that he would set her at liberty, so she were consenting to
pleasure him; but finding that he did but waste his words he cast aside
all decency, and would have used force. Whereupon Andreuola, kindling

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with scorn, waxed exceeding brave, and defended herself with a virile
energy, and with high and contumelious words drove him from her.
When ‛twas broad day, the affair reached the ears of Messer Negro,
who, half dead with grief, hied him with not a few of his friends to the
palace; where, having heard all that the Podesta had to say, he required
him peremptorily to give him back his daughter. The Podesta, being
minded rather to be his own accuser, than that he should be accused by
the girl of the violence that he had meditated towards her, began by
praising her and her constancy, and in proof thereof went on to tell what
he had done; he ended by saying, that, marking her admirable firmness,
he had fallen mightily in love with her, and so, notwithstanding she had
been wedded to a man of low degree, he would, if ‛twere agreeable to her
and to her father, Messer Negro, gladly make her his wife. While they
thus spoke, Andreuola made her appearance, and, weeping, threw
herself at her father’s feet, saying:—‟My father, I wot I need not tell you
the story of my presumption, and the calamity that has befallen me, for
sure I am that you have heard it and know it; wherefore, with all possible
humility I crave your pardon of my fault, to wit, that without your
knowledge I took for my husband him that pleased me best. And this I
crave, not that my life may be spared, but that I may die as your daughter
and not as your enemy;” and so, weeping, she fell at his feet. Messer
Negro, now an old man, and naturally kindly and affectionate, heard her
not without tears, and weeping raised her tenderly to her feet, saying:
—‟Daughter mine, I had much liefer had it that thou hadst had a
husband that I deemed a match for thee; and in that thou hadst taken
one that pleased thee I too had been pleased; but thy concealing thy
choice from me is grievous to me by reason of thy distrust of me, and yet
more so, seeing that thou hast lost him before I have known him. But as
‛tis even so, to his remains be paid the honour which, while he lived for
thy contentment, I had gladly done him as my son-in-law.” Then,
turning to his sons and kinsmen, he bade them order Gabriotto’s

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obsequies with all pomp and honourable circumstance.

Meanwhile the young man’s kinsmen and kinswomen, having heard
the news, had flocked thither, bringing with them almost all the rest of
the folk, men and women alike, that were in the city. And so his body,
resting on Andreuola’s cloth, and covered with her roses, was laid out in
the middle of the courtyard, and there was mourned not by her and his
kinsfolk alone, but publicly by well-nigh all the women of the city, and
not a few men; and shouldered by some of the noblest of the citizens, as
it had been the remains of no plebeian but of a noble, was borne from
the public courtyard to the tomb with exceeding great pomp.
Some days afterwards, as the Podesta continued to urge his suit,
Messer Negro would have discussed the matter with his daughter; but,
as she would hear none of it, and he was minded in this matter to defer
to her wishes, she and her maid entered a religious house of great repute
for sanctity, where in just esteem they lived long time thereafter.

NOVEL VII.

— Simona loves Pasquino; they are together in a garden;

Pasquino rubs a leaf of sage against his teeth, and dies;
Simona is arrested, and, with intent to shew the judge how
Pasquino died, rubs one of the leaves of the same plant against
her teeth, and likewise dies. —
When Pamfilo had done with his story, the king, betraying no
compassion for Andreuola, glancing at Emilia, signified to her his desire
that she should now continue the sequence of narration. Emilia made no
demur, and thus began:—
Dear gossips, Pamfilo’s story puts me upon telling you another in no
wise like thereto, save in this, that as Andreuola lost her lover in a
garden, so also did she of whom I am to speak, and, being arrested like

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Andreuola, did also deliver herself from the court, albeit ‛twas not by any
vigour or firmness of mind, but by a sudden death. And, as ‛twas said
among us a while ago, albeit Love affects the mansions of the noble, he
does not, therefore, disdain the dominion of the dwellings of the poor,
nay, does there at times give proof of his might no less signal than when
he makes him feared of the wealthiest as a most potent lord. Which,
though not fully, will in some degree appear in my story, wherewith I am
minded to return to our city, from which to-day’s discourse, roving from
matter to matter, and one part of the world to another, has carried us so
far.
Know then that no great while ago there dwelt in Florence a maid
most fair, and, for her rank, debonair—she was but a poor man’s
daughter—whose name was Simona; and though she must needs win
with her own hands the bread she ate, and maintain herself by spinning
wool; yet was she not, therefore, of so poor a spirit, but that she dared to
give harbourage in her mind to Love, who for some time had sought to
gain entrance there by means of the gracious deeds and words of a young
man of her own order that went about distributing wool to spin for his
master, a wool-monger. Love being thus, with the pleasant image of her
beloved Pasquino, admitted into her soul, mightily did she yearn, albeit
she hazarded no advance, and heaved a thousand sighs fiercer than fire
with every skein of yarn that she wound upon her spindle, while she
called to mind who he was that had given her that wool to spin.
Pasquino on his part became, meanwhile, very anxious that his master’s
wool should be well spun, and most particularly about that which
Simona span, as if, indeed, it and it alone was to furnish forth the whole
of the cloth. And so, what with the anxiety which the one evinced, and
the gratification that it afforded to the other, it befell that, the one
waxing unusually bold, and the other casting off not a little of her
wonted shyness and reserve, they came to an understanding for their
mutual solace; which proved so delightful to both, that neither waited to

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be bidden by the other, but ‛twas rather which should be the first to
make the overture.
While thus they sped their days in an even tenor of delight, and ever
grew more ardently enamoured of one another, Pasquino chanced to say
to Simona that he wished of all things she would contrive how she might
betake her to a garden, whither he would bring her, that there they
might be more at their ease, and in greater security. Simona said that she
was agreeable; and, having given her father to understand that she was
minded to go to San Gallo for the pardoning, she hied her with one of
her gossips, Lagina by name, to the garden of which Pasquino had told
her. Here she found Pasquino awaiting her with a friend, one Puccino,
otherwise Stramba; and Stramba and Lagina falling at once to love-
making, Pasquino and Simona left a part of the garden to them, and
withdrew to another part for their own solace.
Now there was in their part of the garden a very fine and lovely sage-
bush, at foot of which they sat them down and made merry together a
great while, and talked much of a junketing they meant to have in the
garden quite at their ease. By and by Pasquino, turning to the great sage-
bush, plucked therefrom a leaf, and fell to rubbing his teeth and gums
therewith, saying that sage was an excellent detergent of aught that
remained upon them after a meal. Having done so, he returned to the
topic of the junketing of which he had spoken before. But he had not
pursued it far before his countenance entirely changed, and forthwith he
lost sight and speech, and shortly after died. Whereupon Simona fell a
weeping and shrieking and calling Stramba and Lagina; who,
notwithstanding they came up with all speed, found Pasquino not only
dead but already swollen from head to foot, and covered with black
spots both on the face and on the body; whereupon Stramba broke forth
with:- -‟Ah! wicked woman! thou hast poisoned him;” and made such a
din that ‛twas heard by not a few that dwelt hard by the garden; who also
hasted to the spot, and seeing Pasquino dead and swollen, and hearing

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Stramba bewail himself and accuse Simona of having maliciously

poisoned him, while she, all but beside herself for grief to be thus
suddenly bereft of her lover, knew not how to defend herself, did all with
one accord surmise that ‛twas even as Stramba said. Wherefore they laid
hands on her, and brought her, still weeping bitterly, to the palace of the
Podesta: where at the instant suit of Stramba, backed by Atticciato and
Malagevole, two other newly-arrived friends of Pasquino, a judge
forthwith addressed himself to question her of the matter; and being
unable to discover that she had used any wicked practice, or was guilty,
he resolved to take her with him and go see the corpse, and the place,
and the manner of the death, as she had recounted it to him; for by her
words he could not well understand it. So, taking care that there should
be no disturbance, he had her brought to the place where Pasquino’s
corpse lay swollen like a tun, whither he himself presently came, and
marvelling as he examined the corpse, asked her how the death had
come about. Whereupon, standing by the sagebush, she told him all that
had happened, and that he might perfectly apprehend the occasion of
the death, she did as Pasquino had done, plucked one of the leaves from
the bush, and rubbed her teeth with it. Whereupon Stramba and
Atticciato, and the rest of the friends and comrades of Pasquino, making
in the presence of the judge open mock of what she did, as an idle and
vain thing, and being more than ever instant to affirm her guilt, and to
demand the fire as the sole condign penalty, the poor creature, that,
between grief for her lost lover and dread of the doom demanded by
Stramba, stood mute and helpless, was stricken no less suddenly, and in
the same manner, and for the same cause (to wit, that she had rubbed
her teeth with the sage leaf ) as Pasquino, to the no small amazement of
all that were present.
Oh! happy souls for whom one and the same day was the term of
ardent love and earthly life! Happier still, if to the same bourn ye fared!
Ay, and even yet more happy, if love there be in the other world, and

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there, even as here, ye love! But happiest above all Simona, so far as we,
whom she has left behind, may judge, in that Fortune brooked not that
the witness of Stramba, Atticciato and Malagevole, carders, perchance,
or yet viler fellows, should bear down her innocence, but found a more
seemly issue, and, appointing her a like lot with her lover, gave her at
once to clear herself from their foul accusation, and to follow whither
the soul, that she so loved, of her Pasquino had preceded her!
The judge, and all else that witnessed the event, remained long time
in a sort of stupefaction, knowing not what to say of it; but at length
recovering his wits, the judge said:—”‛Twould seem that this sage is
poisonous, which the sage is not used to be. Let it be cut down to the
roots and burned, lest another suffer by it in like sort.” Which the
gardener proceeding to do in the judge’s presence, no sooner had he
brought the great bush down, than the cause of the deaths of the two
lovers plainly appeared: for underneath it was a toad of prodigious
dimensions, from whose venomous breath, as they conjectured, the
whole of the bush had contracted a poisonous quality. Around which
toad, none venturing to approach it, they set a stout ring-fence of
faggots, and burned it together with the sage. So ended Master judge’s
inquest on the death of hapless Pasquino, who with his Simona, swollen
as they were, were buried by Stramba, Atticciato, Guccio Imbratta, and
Malagevole in the church of San Paolo, of which, as it so happened, they
were parishioners.

NOVEL VIII.

— Girolamo loves Salvestra: yielding to his mother’s prayers he

goes to Paris; he returns to find Salvestra married; he enters
her house by stealth, lays himself by her side, and dies; he is
borne to the church, where Salvestra lays herself by his side,
and dies. —

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When Emilia’s story was done, Neifile at a word from the king thus
began:—Some there are, noble ladies, who, methinks, deem themselves
to be wiser than the rest of the world, and are in fact less so; and by
consequence presume to measure their wit against not only the counsels
of men but the nature of things; which presumption has from time to
time been the occasion of most grievous mishaps; but nought of good
was ever seen to betide thereof. And as there is nought in nature that
brooks to be schooled or thwarted so ill as love, the quality of which is
such that it is more likely to die out of its own accord than to be done
away of set purpose, I am minded to tell you a story of a lady, who, while
she sought to be more wise than became her, and than she was, and
indeed than the nature of the matter, wherein she studied to shew her
wisdom, allowed, thinking to unseat Love from the heart that he had
occupied, and wherein perchance the stars had established him, did in
the end banish at one and the same time Love and life from the frame of
her son.
Know, then, that, as ‛tis related by them of old time, there was once in
our city a very great and wealthy merchant, Leonardo Sighieri by name,
who had by his lady a son named Girolamo, after whose birth he
departed this life, leaving his affairs in meet and due order; and well and
faithfully were they afterwards administered in the interest of the boy by
his mother and guardians. As he grew up, consorting more frequently
with the neighbours’ children than any others of the quarter, he made
friends with a girl of his own age that was the daughter of a tailor; and in
course of time this friendship ripened into a love so great and vehement,
that Girolamo was ever ill at ease when he saw her not; nor was her love
for him a whit less strong than his for her. Which his mother perceiving
would not seldom chide him therefor and chastise him. And as Girolamo
could not give it up, she confided her distress to his guardians, speaking
—for by reason of her boy’s great wealth she thought to make, as it were,
an orange-tree out of a bramble—on this wise:—‟This boy of ours, who

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is now scarce fourteen years old, is so in love with a daughter of one of

our neighbours, a tailor— Salvestra is the girl’s name—that, if we part
them not, he will, peradventure, none else witting, take her to wife some
day, and I shall never be happy again; or, if he see her married to
another, he will pine away; to prevent which, methinks, you would do
well to send him away to distant parts on the affairs of the shop; for so,
being out of sight she will come at length to be out of mind, and then we
can give him some well-born girl to wife.” Whereto the guardians
answered, that ‛twas well said, and that it should be so done to the best
of their power: so they called the boy into the shop, and one of them
began talking to him very affectionately on this wise:—‟My son, thou art
now almost grown up; ‛twere well thou shouldst now begin to learn
something for thyself of thy own affairs: wherefore we should be very
well pleased if thou wert to go stay at Paris a while, where thou wilt see
how we trade with not a little of thy wealth, besides which thou wilt
there become a much better, finer, and more complete gentleman than
thou couldst here, and when thou hast seen the lords and barons and
seigneurs that are there in plenty, and hast acquired their manners, thou
canst return hither.” The boy listened attentively, and then answered
shortly that he would have none of it, for he supposed he might remain
at Florence as well as another. Whereupon the worthy men plied him
with fresh argument, but were unable to elicit other answer from him,
and told his mother so. Whereat she was mightily incensed, and gave
him a great scolding, not for his refusing to go to Paris, but for his love;
which done, she plied him with soft, wheedling words, and endearing
expressions and gentle entreaties that he would be pleased to do as his
guardians would have him; whereby at length she prevailed so far, that
he consented to go to Paris for a year and no more; and so ‛twas
arranged. To Paris accordingly our ardent lover went, and there under
one pretext or another was kept for two years. He returned more in love
than ever, to find his Salvestra married to a good youth that was a tent-

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maker; whereat his mortification knew no bounds. But, seeing that what
must be must be, he sought to compose his mind; and, having got to
know where she lived, he took to crossing her path, according to the
wont of young men in love, thinking that she could no more have
forgotten him than he her. ‛Twas otherwise, however; she remembered
him no more than if she had never seen him; or, if she had any
recollection of him, she dissembled it: whereof the young man was very
soon ware, to his extreme sorrow. Nevertheless he did all that he could
to recall himself to her mind; but, as thereby he seemed to be nothing
advantaged, he made up his mind, though he should die for it, to speak
to her himself. So, being instructed as to her house by a neighbour, he
entered it privily one evening when she and her husband were gone to
spend the earlier hours with some neighbours, and hid himself in her
room behind some tent-cloths that were stretched there, and waited till
they were come back, and gone to bed, and he knew the husband to be
asleep. Whereupon he got him to the place where he had seen Salvestra
lie down, and said as he gently laid his hand upon her bosom:— ‟O my
soul, art thou yet asleep?” The girl was awake, and was on the point of
uttering a cry, when he forestalled her, saying:—‟Hush! for God’s sake. I
am thy Girolamo.” Whereupon she, trembling in every limb:—‟Nay, but
for God’s sake, Girolamo, begone: ‛tis past, the time of our childhood,
when our love was excusable. Thou seest I am married; wherefore ‛tis no
longer seemly that I should care for any other man than my husband,
and so by the one God, I pray thee, begone; for, if my husband were to
know that thou art here, the least evil that could ensue would be that I
should never more be able to live with him in peace or comfort, whereas,
having his love, I now pass my days with him in tranquil happiness.”
Which speech caused the young man grievous distress; but ‛twas in vain
that he reminded her of the past, and of his love that distance had not
impaired, and therewith mingled many a prayer and the mightiest
protestations. Wherefore, yearning for death, he besought her at last

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that she would suffer him to lie a while beside her till he got some heat,
for he was chilled through and through, waiting for her, and promised
her that he would say never a word to her, nor touch her, and that as
soon as he was a little warmed he would go away. On which terms
Salvestra, being not without pity for him, granted his request. So the
young man lay down beside her, and touched her not; but, gathering up
into one thought the love he had so long borne her, the harshness with
which she now requited it, and his ruined hopes, resolved to live no
longer, and in a convulsion, without a word, and with fists clenched,
expired by her side.
After a while the girl, marvelling at his continence, and fearing lest
her husband should awake, broke silence, saying:—‟Nay, but, Girolamo,
why goest thou not?” But, receiving no answer, she supposed that he
slept. Wherefore, reaching forth her hand to arouse him, she touched
him and found him to her great surprise cold as ice; and touching him
again and again somewhat rudely, and still finding that he did not stir,
she knew that he was dead. Her grief was boundless, and ‛twas long
before she could bethink her how to act. But at last she resolved to
sound her husband’s mind as to what should be done in such a case
without disclosing that ‛twas his own. So she awakened him, and told
him how he was then bested, as if it were the affair of another, and then
asked him, if such a thing happened to her, what course he would take.
The good man answered that he should deem it best to take the dead
man privily home, and there leave him, bearing no grudge against the
lady, who seemed to have done no wrong. ‟And even so,” said his wife, ‟it
is for us to do;” and taking his hand, she laid it on the corpse. Whereat
he started up in consternation, and struck a light, and with out further
parley with his wife, clapped the dead man’s clothes upon him, and
forthwith (confident in his own innocence) raised him on his shoulders,
and bore him to the door of his house, where he set him down and left
him.

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Day came, and the dead man being found before his own door, there
was a great stir made, particularly by his mother; the body was examined
with all care from head to foot, and, no wound or trace of violence being
found on it, the physicians were on the whole of opinion that, as the fact
was, the man had died of grief. So the corpse was borne to a church, and
thither came the sorrowing mother and other ladies, her kinswomen
and neighbours, and began to wail and mourn over it without restraint
after our Florentine fashion. And when the wailing had reached its
height, the good man, in whose house the death had occurred, said to
Salvestra:—‟Go wrap a mantle about thy head, and hie thee to the
church, whither Girolamo has been taken, and go about among the
women and list what they say of this matter, and I will do the like among
the men, that we may hear if aught be said to our disadvantage.” The girl
assented, for with tardy tenderness she now yearned to look on him
dead, whom living she would not solace with a single kiss, and so to the
church she went. Ah! how marvellous to whoso ponders it, is the might
of Love, and how unsearchable his ways! That heart, which, while
Fortune smiled on Girolamo, had remained sealed to him, opened to
him now that he was fordone, and, kindling anew with all its old flame,
melted with such compassion that no sooner saw she his dead face, as
there she stood wrapped in her mantle, than, edging her way forward
through the crowd of women, she stayed not till she was beside the
corpse; and there, uttering a piercing shriek, she threw herself upon the
dead youth, and as her face met his, and before she might drench it with
her tears, grief that had reft life from him had even so reft it from her.
The women strove to comfort her, and bade her raise herself a little,
for as yet they knew her not; then, as she did not arise, they would have
helped her, but found her stiff and stark, and so, raising her up, they in
one and the same moment saw her to be Salvestra and dead. Whereat all
the women that were there, overborne by a redoubled pity, broke forth
in wailing new and louder far than before. From the church the bruit

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spread itself among the men, and reached the ears of Salvestra’s
husband, who, deaf to all that offered comfort or consolation, wept a
long while; after which he told to not a few that were there what had
passed in the night between the youth and his wife; and so ‛twas known
of all how they came to die, to the common sorrow of all. So they took
the dead girl, and arrayed her as they are wont to array the dead, and laid
her on the same bed beside the youth, and long time they mourned her:
then were they both buried in the same tomb, and thus those, whom
love had not been able to wed in life, were wedded by death in
indissoluble union.

NOVEL IX.

— Sieur Guillaume de Roussillon slays his wife’s paramour,

Sieur Guillaume de Cabestaing, and gives her his heart to eat.
She, coming to wit thereof, throws herself from a high window
to the ground, and dies, and is buried with her lover. —
Neifile’s story, which had not failed to move her gossips to no little pity,
being ended, none now remained to speak but the king and Dioneo,
whose privilege the king was minded not to infringe: wherefore he thus
began:—I propose, compassionate my ladies, to tell you a story, which,
seeing that you so commiserate ill-starred loves, may claim no less a
share of your pity than the last, inasmuch as they were greater folk of
whom I shall speak, and that which befell them was more direful.
You are to know, then, that, as the Provencals relate, there were once
in Provence two noble knights, each having castles and vassals under
him, the one yclept Sieur Guillaume de Roussillon, and the other Sieur
Guillaume de Cabestaing;37 and being both most doughty warriors, they
were as brothers, and went ever together, and bearing the same device,

37 Boccaccio writes Guardastagno, but the troubadour, Cabestaing, or Cabestany, is the hero of the story.

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to tournament or joust, or other passage of arms. And, albeit each dwelt

in his own castle, and the castles were ten good miles apart, it
nevertheless came to pass that, Sieur Guillaume de Roussillon having a
most lovely lady, and amorous withal, to wife, Sieur Guillaume de
Cabestaing, for all they were such friends and comrades, became
inordinately enamoured of the lady, who, by this, that, and the other
sign that he gave, discovered his passion, and knowing him for a most
complete knight, was flattered, and returned it, insomuch that she
yearned and burned for him above all else in the world, and waited only
till he should make his suit to her, as before long he did; and so they met
from time to time, and great was their love. Which intercourse they
ordered with so little discretion that ‛twas discovered by the husband,
who was very wroth, insomuch that the great love which he bore to
Cabestaing was changed into mortal enmity; and, dissembling it better
than the lovers their love, he made his mind up to kill Cabestaing. Now
it came to pass that, while Roussillon was in this frame, a great tourney
was proclaimed in France, whereof Roussillon forthwith sent word to
Cabestaing, and bade him to his castle, so he were minded to come, that
there they might discuss whether (or no) to go to the tourney, and how.
Cabestaing was overjoyed, and made answer that he would come to sup
with him next day without fail. Which message being delivered,
Roussillon wist that the time was come to slay Cabestaing. So next day
he armed himself, and, attended by a few servants, took horse, and
about a mile from his castle lay in ambush in a wood through which
Cabestaing must needs pass. He waited some time, and then he saw
Cabestaing approach unarmed with two servants behind, also unarmed,
for he was without thought of peril on Roussillon’s part. So Cabestaing
came on to the place of Roussillon’s choice, and then, fell and vengeful,
Roussillon leapt forth lance in hand, and fell upon him, exclaiming:
—‟Thou art a dead man!” and the words were no sooner spoken than the
lance was through Cabestaing’s breast. Powerless either to defend

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himself or even utter a cry, Cabestaing fell to the ground, and soon
expired. His servants waited not to see who had done the deed, but
turned their horses’ heads and fled with all speed to their lord’s castle.
Roussillon dismounted, opened Cabestaing’s breast with a knife, and
took out the heart with his own hands, wrapped it up in a banderole,
and gave it to one of his servants to carry: he then bade none make bold
to breathe a word of the affair, mounted his horse and rode back—‛twas
now night—to his castle. The lady, who had been told that Cabestaing
was to come to supper that evening, and was all impatience till he should
come, was greatly surprised to see her husband arrive without him.
Wherefore:—‟How is this, my lord?” said she. ‟Why tarries Cabestaing?”
‟Madam,” answered her husband, ‟I have tidings from him that he
cannot be here until to-morrow:” whereat the lady was somewhat
disconcerted.
Having dismounted, Roussillon called the cook, and said to him:
—‟Here is a boar’s heart; take it, and make thereof the daintiest and
most delicious dish thou canst, and when I am set at table serve it in a
silver porringer.” So the cook took the heart, and expended all his skill
and pains upon it, mincing it and mixing with it plenty of good
seasoning, and made thereof an excellent ragout; and in due time Sieur
Guillaume and his lady sat them down to table. The meat was served,
but Sieur Guillaume, his mind engrossed with his crime, ate but little.
The cook set the ragout before him, but he, feigning that he cared to eat
no more that evening, had it passed on to the lady, and highly
commended it. The lady, nothing loath, took some of it, and found it so
good that she ended by eating the whole. Whereupon:— ‟Madam,” quoth
the knight, ‟how liked you this dish?” ‟In good faith, my lord,” replied
the lady, ‟not a little.” ‟So help me, God,” returned the knight, ‟I dare be
sworn you did; ‛tis no wonder that you should enjoy that dead, which
living you enjoyed more than aught else in the world.” For a while the
lady was silent; then:—‟How say you?” said she; ‟what is this you have

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caused me to eat?” ‟That which you have eaten,” replied the knight, ‟was
in good sooth the heart of Sieur Guillaume de Cabestaing, whom you,
disloyal woman that you are, did so much love: for assurance whereof I
tell you that but a short while before I came back, I plucked it from his
breast with my own hands.” It boots not to ask if the lady was sorrow-
stricken to receive such tidings of her best beloved. But after a while she
said:—”‛Twas the deed of a disloyal and recreant knight; for if I,
unconstrained by him, made him lord of my love, and thereby did you
wrong, ‛twas I, not he, should have borne the penalty. But God forbid
that fare of such high excellence as the heart of a knight so true and
courteous as Sieur Guillaume de Cabestaing be followed by aught else.”
So saying she started to her feet, and stepping back to a window that was
behind her, without a moment’s hesitation let herself drop backwards
therefrom. The window was at a great height from the ground, so that
the lady was not only killed by the fall, but almost reduced to atoms.
Stunned and conscience-stricken by the spectacle, and fearing the
vengeance of the country folk, and the Count of Provence, Sieur
Guillaume had his horses saddled and rode away. On the morrow the
whole countryside knew how the affair had come about; wherefore folk
from both of the castles took the two bodies, and bore them with grief
and lamentation exceeding great to the church in the lady’s castle, and
laid them in the same tomb, and caused verses to be inscribed thereon
signifying who they were that were there interred, and the manner and
occasion of their death.

NOVEL X.

— The wife of a leech, deeming her lover, who has taken an

opiate, to be dead, puts him in a chest, which, with him
therein, two usurers carry off to their house. He comes to
himself, and is taken for a thief; but, the lady’s maid giving the

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Signory to understand that she had put him in the chest which
the usurers stole, he escapes the gallows, and the usurers are
mulcted in moneys for the theft of the chest. —
Now that the king had told his tale, it only remained for Dioneo to do
his part, which he witting, and being thereto bidden by the king, thus
began:— Sore have I—to say nought of you, my ladies—been of eyne
and heart to hear the woeful histories of ill-starred love, insomuch that I
have desired of all things that they might have an end. Wherefore, now
that, thank God, ended they are, unless indeed I were minded, which
God forbid, to add to such pernicious stuff a supplement of the like evil
quality, no such dolorous theme do I purpose to ensue, but to make a
fresh start with somewhat of a better and more cheerful sort, which
perchance may serve to suggest to-morrow’s argument.
You are to know, then, fairest my damsels, that ‛tis not long since
there dwelt at Salerno a leech most eminent in surgery, his name, Master
Mazzeo della Montagna, who in his extreme old age took to wife a fair
damsel of the same city, whom he kept in nobler and richer array of
dresses and jewels, and all other finery that the sex affects, than any
other lady in Salerno. Howbeit, she was none too warm most of her
time, being ill covered abed by the doctor; who gave her to understand
—even as Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica, of whom we spoke a while since,
taught his lady the feasts—that for once that a man lay with a woman he
needed I know not how many days to recover, and the like nonsense:
whereby she lived as ill content as might be; and, lacking neither sense
nor spirit, she determined to economize at home, and taking to the
street, to live at others’ expense. So, having passed in review divers
young men, she at last found one that was to her mind, on whom she set
all her heart and hopes of happiness. Which the gallant perceiving was
mightily flattered, and in like manner gave her all his love. Ruggieri da
Jeroli—such was the gallant’s name—was of noble birth, but of life, and

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conversation so evil and reprehensible that kinsman or friend he had

none left that wished him well, or cared to see him; and all Salerno knew
him for a common thief and rogue of the vilest character. Whereof the
lady took little heed, having a mind to him for another reason; and so
with the help of her maid she arranged a meeting with him. But after
they had solaced themselves a while, the lady began to censure his past
life, and to implore him for love of her to depart from such evil ways; and
to afford him the means thereto, she from time to time furnished him
with money. While thus with all discretion they continued their
intercourse, it chanced that a man halt of one of his legs was placed
under the leech’s care. The leech saw what was amiss with him, and told
his kinsfolk, that, unless a gangrened bone that he had in his leg were
taken out, he must die, or have the whole leg amputated; that if the
bone were removed he might recover; but that otherwise he would not
answer for his life: whereupon the relatives assented that the bone
should be removed, and left the patient in the hands of the leech; who,
deeming that by reason of the pain ‛twas not possible for him to endure
the treatment without an opiate, caused to be distilled in the morning a
certain water of his own concoction, whereby the patient, drinking it,
might be ensured sleep during such time as he deemed the operation,
which he meant to perform about vespers, would occupy. In the
meantime he had the water brought into his house, and set it in the
window of his room, telling no one what it was. But when the vesper
hour was come, and the leech was about to visit his patient, a messenger
arrived from some very great friends of his at Amalfi, bearing tidings of a
great riot there had been there, in which not a few had been wounded,
and bidding him on no account omit to hie him thither forthwith.
Wherefore the leech put off the treatment of the leg to the morrow, and
took boat to Amalfi; and the lady, knowing that he would not return
home that night, did as she was wont in such a case, to wit, brought
Ruggieri in privily, and locked him in her chamber until certain other

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folk that were in the house were gone to sleep. Ruggieri, then, being thus
in the chamber, awaiting the lady, and having— whether it were that he
had had a fatiguing day, or eaten something salt, or, perchance, that
‛twas his habit of body—a mighty thirst, glancing at the window, caught
sight of the bottle containing the water which the leech had prepared for
the patient, and taking it to be drinking water, set it to his lips and drank
it all, and in no long time fell into a deep sleep.
So soon as she was able the lady hied her to the room, and there
finding Ruggieri asleep, touched him and softly told him to get up: to no
purpose, however; he neither answered nor stirred a limb. Wherefore
the lady, rather losing patience, applied somewhat more force, and gave
him a push, saying:— ‟Get up, sleepy-head; if thou hadst a mind to
sleep, thou shouldst have gone home, and not have come hither.” Thus
pushed Ruggieri fell down from a box on which he lay, and, falling,
shewed no more sign of animation than if he had been a corpse. The
lady, now somewhat alarmed, essayed to lift him, and shook him
roughly, and took him by the nose, and pulled him by the beard; again to
no purpose: he had tethered his ass to a stout pin. So the lady began to
fear he must be dead: however, she went on to pinch him shrewdly, and
singe him with the flame of a candle; but when these methods also
failed she, being, for all she was a leech’s wife, no leech herself, believed
for sure that he was dead; and as there was nought in the world that she
loved so much, it boots not to ask if she was sore distressed; wherefore
silently, for she dared not lament aloud, she began to weep over him and
bewail such a misadventure. But, after a while, fearing lest her loss
should not be without a sequel of shame, she bethought her that she
must contrive without delay to get the body out of the house; and
standing in need of another’s advice, she quietly summoned her maid,
shewed her the mishap that had befallen her, and craved her counsel.
Whereat the maid marvelled not a little; and she too fell to pulling
Ruggieri this way and that, and pinching him, and, as she found no sign

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of life in him, concurred with her mistress that he was verily dead, and
advised her to remove him from the house. ‟And where,” said the lady,
‟shall we put him, that to-morrow, when he is discovered, it be not
suspected that ‛twas hence he was carried?” ‟Madam,” answered the
maid, ‟late last evening I marked in front of our neighbour the
carpenter’s shop a chest, not too large, which, if he have not put it back
in the house, will come in very handy for our purpose, for we will put
him inside, and give him two or three cuts with a knife, and so leave him.
When he is found, I know not why it should be thought that ‛twas from
this house rather than from any other that he was put there; nay, as he
was an evil- liver, ‛twill more likely be supposed, that, as he hied him on
some evil errand, some enemy slew him, and then put him in the chest.”
The lady said there was nought in the world she might so ill brook as
that Ruggieri should receive any wound; but with that exception she
approved her maid’s proposal, and sent her to see if the chest were still
where she had seen it. The maid, returning, reported that there it was,
and, being young and strong, got Ruggieri, with the lady’s help, upon her
shoulders; and so the lady, going before to espy if any folk came that way,
and the maid following, they came to the chest, and having laid Ruggieri
therein, closed it and left him there.
Now a few days before, two young men, that were usurers, had taken
up their quarters in a house a little further on: they had seen the chest
during the day, and being short of furniture, and having a mind to make
great gain with little expenditure, they had resolved that, if it were still
there at night, they would take it home with them. So at midnight forth
they hied them, and finding the chest, were at no pains to examine it
closely, but forthwith, though it seemed somewhat heavy, bore it off to
their house, and set it down beside a room in which their women slept;
and without being at pains to adjust it too securely they left it there for
the time, and went to bed.
Towards matins Ruggieri, having had a long sleep and digested the

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draught and exhausted its efficacy, awoke, but albeit his slumber was
broken, and his senses had recovered their powers, yet his brain
remained in a sort of torpor which kept him bemused for some days; and
when he opened his eyes and saw nothing, and stretched his hands
hither and thither and found himself in the chest, it was with difficulty
that he collected his thoughts. ‟How is this?” he said to himself. ‟Where
am I? Do I sleep or wake? I remember coming this evening to my lady’s
chamber; and now it seems I am in a chest. What means it? Can the
leech have returned, or somewhat else have happened that caused the
lady, while I slept, to hide me here? That was it, I suppose. Without a
doubt it must have been so.” And having come to this conclusion, he
composed himself to listen, if haply he might hear something, and being
somewhat ill at ease in the chest, which was none too large, and the side
on which he lay paining him, he must needs turn over to the other, and
did so with such adroitness that, bringing his loins smartly against one
of the sides of the chest, which was set on an uneven floor, he caused it
to tilt and then fall; and such was the noise that it made as it fell that the
women that slept there awoke, albeit for fear they kept silence. Ruggieri
was not a little disconcerted by the fall, but, finding that thereby the
chest was come open, he judged that, happen what might, he would be
better out of it than in it; and not knowing where he was, and being
otherwise at his wits’ end, he began to grope about the house, if haply he
might find a stair or door whereby he might take himself off. Hearing
him thus groping his way, the alarmed women gave tongue with:—‟Who
is there?” Ruggieri, not knowing the voice, made no answer: wherefore
the women fell to calling the two young men, who, having had a long
day, were fast asleep, and heard nought of what went on. Which served
to increase the fright of the women, who rose and got them to divers
windows, and raised the cry:—‟Take thief, take thief!” At which
summons there came running from divers quarters not a few of the
neighbours, who got into the house by the roof or otherwise as each best

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might: likewise the young men, aroused by the din, got up; and, Ruggieri
being now all but beside himself for sheer amazement, and knowing not
whither to turn him to escape them, they took him and delivered him to
the officers of the Governor of the city, who, hearing the uproar, had
hasted to the spot. And so he was brought before the Governor, who,
knowing him to be held of all a most arrant evil-doer, put him forthwith
to the torture, and, upon his confessing that he had entered the house of
the usurers with intent to rob, was minded to make short work of it, and
have him hanged by the neck.
In the morning ‛twas bruited throughout all Salerno that Ruggieri
had been taken a thieving in the house of the usurers. Whereat the lady
and her maid were all amazement and bewilderment, insomuch that
they were within an ace of persuading themselves that what they had
done the night before they had not done, but had only dreamed it;
besides which, the peril in which Ruggieri stood caused the lady such
anxiety as brought her to the verge of madness. Shortly after half tierce
the leech, being returned from Amalfi, and minded now to treat his
patient, called for his water, and finding the bottle empty made a great
commotion, protesting that nought in his house could be let alone. The
lady, having other cause of annoy, lost temper, and said:—‟What would
you say, Master, of an important matter, when you raise such a din
because a bottle of water has been upset? Is there never another to be
found in the world?” ‟Madam,” replied the leech, ‟thou takest this to
have been mere water. ‛Twas no such thing, but an artificial water of a
soporiferous virtue;” and he told her for what purpose he had made it.
Which the lady no sooner heard, than, guessing that Ruggieri had drunk
it, and so had seemed to them to be dead, she said:—‟Master, we knew it
not; wherefore make you another.” And so the leech, seeing that there
was no help for it, had another made. Not long after, the maid, who by
the lady’s command had gone to find out what folk said of Ruggieri,
returned, saying:—‟Madam, of Ruggieri they say nought but evil, nor, by

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what I have been able to discover, has he friend or kinsman that has or
will come to his aid; and ‛tis held for certain that to-morrow the Stadic 38
will have him hanged. Besides which, I have that to tell you which will
surprise you; for, methinks, I have found out how he came into the
usurers’ house. List, then, how it was: you know the carpenter in front of
whose shop stood the chest we put Ruggieri into: he had to-day the most
violent altercation in the world with one to whom it would seem the
chest belongs, by whom he was required to make good the value of the
chest, to which he made answer that he had not sold it, but that it had
been stolen from him in the night. ‛Not so,’ said the other; ‛thou soldst it
to the two young usurers, as they themselves told me last night, when I
saw it in their house at the time Ruggieri was taken.’ ‛They lie,’ replied
the carpenter. ‛I never sold it them, but they must have stolen it from me
last night; go we to them.’ So with one accord off they went to the
usurers’ house, and I came back here. And so, you see, I make out that
‛twas on such wise that Ruggieri was brought where he was found; but
how he came to life again, I am at a loss to conjecture.” The lady now
understood exactly how things were, and accordingly told the maid what
she had learned from the leech, and besought her to aid her to get
Ruggieri off, for so she might, if she would, and at the same time
preserve her honour. ‟Madam,” said the maid, ‟do but shew me how; and
glad shall I be to do just as you wish.” Whereupon the lady, to whom
necessity taught invention, formed her plan on the spur of the moment,
and expounded it in detail to the maid; who (as the first step) hied her
to the leech, and, weeping, thus addressed him:—‟Sir, it behoves me to
ask your pardon of a great wrong that I have done you.” ‟And what may
that be?” inquired the leech. ‟Sir,” said the maid, who ceased not to
weep, ‟you know what manner of man is Ruggieri da Jeroli. Now he took
a fancy to me, and partly for fear, partly for love, I this year agreed to be
his mistress; and knowing yestereve that you were from home, he coaxed
38 The Neapolitan term for the chief of police.

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me into bringing him into your house to sleep with me in my room. Now
he was athirst, and I, having no mind to be seen by your lady, who was in
the hall, and knowing not whither I might sooner betake me for wine or
water, bethought me that I had seen a bottle of water in your room, and
ran and fetched it, and gave it him to drink, and then put the bottle back
in the place whence I had taken it; touching which I find that you have
made a great stir in the house. Verily I confess that I did wrong; but who
is there that does not wrong sometimes? Sorry indeed am I to have so
done, but ‛tis not for such a cause and that which ensued thereon that
Ruggieri should lose his life. Wherefore, I do most earnestly beseech
you, pardon me, and suffer me to go help him as best I may be able.”
Wroth though he was at what he heard, the leech replied in a bantering
tone:—‟Thy pardon thou hast by thine own deed; for, whereas thou
didst last night think to have with thee a gallant that would thoroughly
dust thy pelisse for thee, he was but a sleepy head; wherefore get thee
gone, and do what thou mayst for the deliverance of thy lover, and for
the future look thou bring him not into the house; else I will pay thee for
that turn and this to boot.” The maid, deeming that she had come off
well in the first brush, hied her with all speed to the prison where
Ruggieri lay, and by her cajoleries prevailed upon the warders to let her
speak with him; and having told him how he must answer the Stadic if
he would get off, she succeeded in obtaining preaudience of the Stadic;
who, seeing that the baggage was lusty and mettlesome, was minded
before he heard her to grapple her with the hook, to which she was by no
means averse, knowing that such a preliminary would secure her a better
hearing. When she had undergone the operation and was risen:— ‟Sir,”
said she, ‟you have here Ruggieri da Jeroli, apprehended on a charge of
theft; which charge is false.” Whereupon she told him the whole story
from beginning to end, how she, being Ruggieri’s mistress, had brought
him into the leech’s house and had given him the opiate, not knowing it
for such, and taking him to be dead, had put him in the chest; and then

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recounting what she had heard pass between the carpenter and the
owner of the chest, she shewed him how Ruggieri came into the house
of the usurers. Seeing that ‛twas easy enough to find out whether the
story were true, the Stadic began by questioning the leech as to the
water, and found that ‛twas as she had said: he then summoned the
carpenter, the owner of the chest and the usurers, and after much
further parley ascertained that the usurers had stolen the chest during
the night, and brought it into their house: finally he sent for Ruggieri,
and asked him where he had lodged that night, to which Ruggieri
answered that where he had lodged he knew not, but he well
remembered going to pass the night with Master Mazzeo’s maid, in
whose room he had drunk some water by reason of a great thirst that he
had; but what happened to him afterwards, except that, when he awoke,
he found himself in a chest in the house of the usurers, he knew not. All
which matters the Stadic heard with great interest, and caused the maid
and Ruggieri and the carpenter and the usurers to rehearse them several
times. In the end, seeing that Ruggieri was innocent, he released him,
and mulcted the usurers in fifteen ounces for the theft of the chest. How
glad Ruggieri was thus to escape, it boots not to ask; and glad beyond
measure was his lady. And so, many a time did they laugh and make
merry together over the affair, she and he and the dear maid that had
proposed to give him a taste of the knife; and remaining constant in
their love, they had ever better and better solace thereof. The like
whereof befall me, sans the being put in the chest.
Heartsore as the gentle ladies had been made by the preceding
stories, this last of Dioneo provoked them to such merriment, more
especially the passage about the Stadic and the hook, that they lacked
not relief of the piteous mood engendered by the others. But the king
observing that the sun was now taking a yellowish tinge, and that the
end of his sovereignty was come, in terms most courtly made his excuse
to the fair ladies, that he had made so direful a theme as lovers’ infelicity

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the topic of their discourse; after which, he rose, took the laurel wreath
from his head, and, while the ladies watched to see to whom he would
give it, set it graciously upon the blond head of Fiammetta, saying:
—‟Herewith I crown thee, as deeming that thou, better than any other,
wilt know how to make to-morrow console our fair companions for the
rude trials of to-day.” Fiammetta, whose wavy tresses fell in a flood of
gold over her white and delicate shoulders, whose softly rounded face
was all radiant with the very tints of the white lily blended with the red
of the rose, who carried two eyes in her head that matched those of a
peregrine falcon, while her tiny sweet mouth shewed a pair of lips that
shone as rubies, replied with a smile:—‟And gladly take I the wreath,
Filostrato, and that thou mayst more truly understand what thou hast
done, ‛tis my present will and pleasure that each make ready to discourse
to-morrow of good fortune befalling lovers after divers direful or
disastrous adventures.” The theme propounded was approved by all;
whereupon the queen called the seneschal, and having made with him
all meet arrangements, rose and gaily dismissed all the company until
the supper hour; wherefore, some straying about the garden, the
beauties of which were not such as soon to pall, others bending their
steps towards the mills that were grinding without, each, as and where it
seemed best, they took meanwhile their several pleasures. The supper
hour come, they all gathered, in their wonted order, by the fair fountain,
and in the gayest of spirits and well served they supped. Then rising they
addressed them, as was their wont, to dance and song, and while
Filomena led the dance:—‟Filostrato,” said the queen, ‟being minded to
follow in the footsteps of our predecessors, and that, as by their, so by
our command a song be sung; and well witting that thy songs are even as
thy stories, to the end that no day but this be vexed with thy
misfortunes, we ordain that thou give us one of them, whichever thou
mayst prefer.” Filostrato answered that he would gladly do so; and
without delay began to sing on this wise:—

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Full well my tears attest,

O traitor Love, with what just cause the heart,
With which thou once hast broken faith, doth smart.

Love, when thou first didst in my heart enshrine

Her for whom still I sigh, alas! in vain,
Nor any hope do know,
A damsel so complete thou didst me shew,
That light as air I counted every pain,
Wherewith behest of thine
Condemned my soul to pine.
Ah! but I gravely erred; the which to know
Too late, alas! doth but enhance my woe.

The cheat I knew not ere she did me leave,

She, she, in whom alone my hopes were placed:
For ‛twas when I did most
Flatter myself with hope, and proudly boast
Myself her vassal lowliest and most graced,
Nor thought Love might bereave,
Nor dreamed he e’er might grieve,
‛Twas then I found that she another’s worth
Into her heart had ta’en and me cast forth.

A plant of pain, alas! my heart did bear,

What time my hapless self cast forth I knew;
And there it doth remain;
And day and hour I curse and curse again,
When first that front of love shone on my view
That front so queenly fair,
And bright beyond compare!

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Wherefore at once my faith, my hope, my fire

My soul doth imprecate, ere she expire.

My lord, thou knowest how comfortless my woe,

Thou, Love, my lord, whom thus I supplicate
With many a piteous moan,
Telling thee how in anguish sore I groan,
Yearning for death my pain to mitigate.
Come death, and with one blow
Cut short my span, and so
With my curst life me of my frenzy ease;
For wheresoe’er I go, ‛twill sure decrease.

Save death no way of comfort doth remain:

No anodyne beside for this sore smart.
The boon, then, Love bestow;
And presently by death annul my woe,
And from this abject life release my heart.
Since from me joy is ta’en,
And every solace, deign
My prayer to grant, and let my death the cheer
Complete, that she now hath of her new fere.

Song, it may be that no one shall thee learn:

Nor do I care; for none I wot, so well
As I may chant thee; so,
This one behest I lay upon thee, go
Hie thee to Love, and him in secret tell,
How I my life do spurn,
My bitter life, and yearn,
That to a better harbourage he bring

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Me, of all might and grace that own him king.

Full well my tears attest, etc.

Filostrato’s mood and its cause were made abundantly manifest by
the words of this song; and perchance they had been made still more so
by the looks of a lady that was among the dancers, had not the shades of
night, which had now overtaken them, concealed the blush that
suffused her face. Other songs followed until the hour for slumber
arrived: whereupon at the behest of the queen all the ladies sought their
several chambers.
— Endeth here the fourth day of the Decameron, beginneth the
fifth, in which under the rule of Fiammetta discourse is had of
good fortune befalling lovers after divers direful or disastrous
adventures. —
All the east was white, nor any part of our hemisphere unillumined by
the rising beams, when the carolling of the birds that in gay chorus
saluted the dawn among the boughs induced Fiammetta to rise and
rouse the other ladies and the three gallants; with whom adown the hill
and about the dewy meads of the broad champaign she sauntered,
talking gaily of divers matters, until the sun had attained some height.
Then, feeling his rays grow somewhat scorching, they retraced their
steps, and returned to the villa; where, having repaired their slight
fatigue with excellent wines and comfits, they took their pastime in the
pleasant garden until the breakfast hour; when, all things being made
ready by the discreet seneschal, they, after singing a stampita, 39 and a
balladette or two, gaily, at the queen’s behest, sat them down to eat.
Meetly ordered and gladsome was the meal, which done, heedful of their
rule of dancing, they trod a few short measures with accompaniment of
music and song. Thereupon, being all dismissed by the queen until after
39 A song accompanied by music, but without dancing.

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the siesta, some hied them to rest, while others tarried taking their
pleasure in the fair garden. But shortly after none, all, at the queen’s
behest, reassembled, according to their wont, by the fountain; and the
queen, having seated herself on her throne, glanced towards Pamfilo,
and bade him with a smile lead off with the stories of good fortune.
Whereto Pamfilo gladly addressed himself, and thus began.

FIFTH DAY

NOVEL I.

— Cimon, by loving, waxes wise, wins his wife Iphigenia by

capture on the high seas, and is imprisoned at Rhodes. He is
delivered by Lysimachus; and the twain capture Cassandra and
recapture Iphigenia in the hour of their marriage. They flee
with their ladies to Crete, and having there married them, are
brought back to their homes. —
Many stories, sweet my ladies, occur to me as meet for me to tell by way
of ushering in a day so joyous as this will be: of which one does most
commend itself to my mind, because not only has it, one of those happy
endings of which to-day we are in quest, but ‛twill enable you to
understand how holy, how mighty and how salutary are the forces of
Love, which not a few, witting not what they say, do most unjustly
reprobate and revile: which, if I err not, should to you, for that I take you
to be enamoured, be indeed welcome.
Once upon a time, then, as we have read in the ancient histories of
the Cypriotes, there was in the island of Cyprus a very great noble
named Aristippus, a man rich in all worldly goods beyond all other of his
countrymen, and who might have deemed himself incomparably

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blessed, but for a single sore affliction that Fortune had allotted him.
Which was that among his sons he had one, the best grown and
handsomest of them all, that was well-nigh a hopeless imbecile. His true
name was Galesus; but, as neither his tutor’s pains, nor his father’s
coaxing or chastisement, nor any other method had availed to imbue
him with any tincture of letters or manners, but he still remained gruff
and savage of voice, and in his bearing liker to a beast than to a man, all,
as in derision, were wont to call him Cimon, which in their language
signifies the same as ‟bestione” (brute)40 in ours. The father, grieved
beyond measure to see his son’s life thus blighted, and having
abandoned all hope of his recovery, nor caring to have the cause of his
mortification ever before his eyes, bade him betake him to the farm, and
there keep with his husbandmen. To Cimon the change was very
welcome, because the manners and habits of the uncouth hinds were
more to his taste than those of the citizens. So to the farm Cimon hied
him, and addressed himself to the work thereof; and being thus
employed, he chanced one afternoon as he passed, staff on shoulder,
from one domain to another, to enter a plantation, the like of which for
beauty there was not in those parts, and which was then—for ‛twas the
month of May—a mass of greenery; and, as he traversed it, he came, as
Fortune was pleased to guide him, to a meadow girt in with trees
exceeding tall, and having in one of its corners a fountain most fair and
cool, beside which he espied a most beautiful girl lying asleep on the
green grass, clad only in a vest of such fine stuff that it scarce in any
measure veiled the whiteness of her flesh, and below the waist nought
but an apron most white and fine of texture; and likewise at her feet
there slept two women and a man, her slaves. No sooner did Cimon
catch sight of her, than, as if he had never before seen form of woman,
he stopped short, and leaning on his cudgel, regarded her intently,
saying never a word, and lost in admiration. And in his rude soul, which,
40 One of the augmentative forms of bestia.

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despite a thousand lessons, had hitherto remained impervious to every

delight that belongs to urbane life, he felt the awakening of an idea, that
bade his gross and coarse mind acknowledge, that this girl was the
fairest creature that had ever been seen by mortal eye. And thereupon he
began to distinguish her several parts, praising her hair, which shewed to
him as gold, her brow, her nose and mouth, her throat and arms, and
above all her bosom, which was as yet but in bud, and as he gazed, he
changed of a sudden from a husbandman into a judge of beauty, and
desired of all things to see her eyes, which the weight of her deep
slumber kept close shut, and many a time he would fain have awakened
her, that he might see them. But so much fairer seemed she to him than
any other woman that he had seen, that he doubted she must be a
goddess; and as he was not so devoid of sense but that he deemed things
divine more worthy of reverence than things mundane, he forbore, and
waited until she should awake of her own accord; and though he found
the delay overlong, yet, enthralled by so unwonted a delight, he knew
not how to be going. However, after he had tarried a long while, it so
befell that Iphigenia—such was the girl’s name—her slaves still sleeping,
awoke, and raised her head, and opened her eyes, and seeing Cimon
standing before her, leaning on his staff, was not a little surprised, and
said:—‟Cimon, what seekest thou in this wood at this hour?” For Cimon
she knew well, as indeed did almost all the country-side, by reason alike
of his uncouth appearance as of the rank and wealth of his father. To
Iphigenia’s question he answered never a word; but as soon as her eyes
were open, nought could he do but intently regard them, for it seemed
to him that a soft influence emanated from them, which filled his soul
with a delight that he had never before known. Which the girl marking
began to misdoubt that by so fixed a scrutiny his boorish temper might
be prompted to some act that should cause her dishonour: wherefore she
roused her women, and got up, saying:—‟Keep thy distance, Cimon, in
God’s name.” Whereto Cimon made answer:—‟I will come with thee.”

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And, albeit the girl refused his escort, being still in fear of him, she could
not get quit of him; but he attended her home; after which he hied him
straight to his father’s house, and announced that he was minded on no
account to go back to the farm: which intelligence was far from welcome
to his father and kinsmen; but nevertheless they suffered him to stay,
and waited to see what might be the reason of his change of mind. So
Cimon, whose heart, closed to all teaching, love’s shaft, sped by the
beauty of Iphigenia, had penetrated, did now graduate in wisdom with
such celerity as to astonish his father and kinsmen, and all that knew
him. He began by requesting his father to let him go clad in the like
apparel, and with, in all respects, the like personal equipment as his
brothers: which his father very gladly did. Mixing thus with the gallants,
and becoming familiar with the manners proper to gentlemen, and
especially to lovers, he very soon, to the exceeding great wonder of all,
not only acquired the rudiments of letters, but waxed most eminent
among the philosophic wits. After which (for no other cause than the
love he bore to Iphigenia) he not only modulated his gruff and boorish
voice to a degree of smoothness suitable to urbane life, but made himself
accomplished in singing and music; in riding also and in all matters
belonging to war, as well by sea as by land, he waxed most expert and
hardy. And in sum (that I go not about to enumerate each of his virtues
in detail) he had not completed the fourth year from the day of his first
becoming enamoured before he was grown the most gallant, and
courteous, ay, and the most perfect in particular accomplishments, of
the young cavaliers that were in the island of Cyprus. What then,
gracious ladies, are we to say of Cimon? Verily nought else but that the
high faculties, with which Heaven had endowed his noble soul,
invidious Fortune had bound with the strongest of cords, and
circumscribed within a very narrow region of his heart; all which cords
Love, more potent than Fortune, burst and brake in pieces; and then
with the might, wherewith he awakens dormant powers, he brought

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them forth of the cruel obfuscation, in which they lay, into clear light,
plainly shewing thereby, whence he may draw, and whither he may
guide, by his beams the souls that are subject to his sway.
Now, albeit by his love for Iphigenia Cimon was betrayed, as young
lovers very frequently are, into some peccadillos, yet Aristippus,
reflecting that it had turned him from a booby into a man, not only bore
patiently with him, but exhorted him with all his heart to continue
steadfast in his love. And Cimon, who still refused to be called Galesus,
because ‛twas as Cimon that Iphigenia had first addressed him, being
desirous to accomplish his desire by honourable means, did many a time
urge his suit upon her father, Cipseus, that he would give her him to
wife: whereto Cipseus always made the same answer, to wit, that he had
promised her to Pasimondas, a young Rhodian noble, and was not
minded to break faith with him. However, the time appointed for
Iphigenia’s wedding being come, and the bridegroom having sent for
her, Cimon said to himself:—‛Tis now for me to shew thee, O Iphigenia,
how great is my love for thee: ‛tis by thee that I am grown a man, nor
doubt I, if I shall have thee, that I shall wax more glorious than a god,
and verily thee will I have, or die. Having so said, he privily enlisted in
his cause certain young nobles that were his friends, and secretly fitted
out a ship with all equipment meet for combat, and put to sea on the
look-out for the ship that was to bear Iphigenia to Rhodes and her
husband. And at length, when her father had done lavishing honours
upon her husband’s friends, Iphigenia embarked, and, the mariners
shaping their course for Rhodes, put to sea. Cimon was on the alert, and
overhauled them the very next day, and standing on his ship’s prow
shouted amain to those that were aboard Iphigenia’s ship:—‟Bring to;
strike sails, or look to be conquered and sunk in the sea.” Then, seeing
that the enemy had gotten their arms above deck, and were making
ready to make a fight of it, he followed up his words by casting a grapnel
upon the poop of the Rhodians, who were making great way; and having

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thus made their poop fast to his prow, he sprang, fierce as a lion, reckless
whether he were followed or no, on to the Rhodians’ ship, making, as it
were, no account of them, and animated by love, hurled himself, sword
in hand, with prodigious force among the enemy, and cutting and
thrusting right and left, slaughtered them like sheep; insomuch that the
Rhodians, marking the fury of his onset, threw down their arms, and as
with one voice did all acknowledge themselves his prisoners. To whom
Cimon:—‟Gallants,” quoth he, ”‛twas neither lust of booty nor enmity to
you that caused me to put out from Cyprus to attack you here with force
of arms on the high seas. Moved was I thereto by that which to gain is to
me a matter great indeed, which peaceably to yield me is to you but a
slight matter; for ‛tis even Iphigenia, whom more than aught else I love;
whom, as I might not have her of her father in peaceable and friendly
sort, Love has constrained me to take from you in this high-handed
fashion and by force of arms; to whom I mean to be even such as would
have been your Pasimondas: wherefore give her to me, and go your way,
and God’s grace go with you.”
Yielding rather to force than prompted by generosity, the Rhodians
surrendered Iphigenia, all tears, to Cimon; who, marking her tears, said
to her:—‟Grieve not, noble lady; thy Cimon am I, who, by my long love,
have established a far better right to thee than Pasimondas by the faith
that was plighted to him.” So saying, he sent her aboard his ship, whither
he followed her, touching nought that belonged to the Rhodians, and
suffering them to go their way. To have gotten so dear a prize made him
the happiest man in the world, but for a time ‛twas all he could do to
assuage her grief: then, after taking counsel with his comrades, he
deemed it best not to return to Cyprus for the present: and so, by
common consent they shaped their course for Crete, where most of
them, and especially Cimon, had alliances of old or recent date, and
friends not a few, whereby they deemed that there they might tarry with
Iphigenia in security. But Fortune, that had accorded Cimon so

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gladsome a capture of the lady, suddenly proved fickle, and converted

the boundless joy of the enamoured gallant into woeful and bitter
lamentation. ‛Twas not yet full four hours since Cimon had parted from
the Rhodians, when with the approach of night, that night from which
Cimon hoped such joyance as he had never known, came weather most
turbulent and tempestuous, which wrapped the heavens in cloud, and
swept the sea with scathing blasts; whereby ‛twas not possible for any to
see how the ship was to be worked or steered, or to steady himself so as
to do any duty upon her deck. Whereat what grief was Cimon’s, it boots
not to ask. Indeed it seemed to him that the gods had granted his heart’s
desire only that it might be harder for him to die, which had else been to
him but a light matter. Not less downcast were his comrades; but most of
all Iphigenia, who, weeping bitterly and shuddering at every wave that
struck the ship, did cruelly curse Cimon’s love and censure his rashness,
averring that this tempest was come upon them for no other cause than
that the gods had decreed, that, as ‛twas in despite of their will that he
purposed to espouse her, he should be frustrate of his presumptuous
intent, and having lived to see her expire, should then himself meet a
woeful death.
While thus and yet more bitterly they bewailed them, and the
mariners were at their wits’ end, as the gale grew hourly more violent,
nor knew they, nor might conjecture, whither they went, they drew nigh
the island of Rhodes, albeit that Rhodes it was they wist not, and set
themselves, as best and most skilfully they might, to run the ship
aground. In which enterprise Fortune favoured them, bringing them
into a little bay, where, shortly before them, was arrived the Rhodian
ship that Cimon had let go. Nor were they sooner ware that ‛twas Rhodes
they had made, than day broke, and, the sky thus brightening a little,
they saw that they were about a bow-shot from the ship that they had
released on the preceding day. Whereupon Cimon, vexed beyond
measure, being apprehensive of that which in fact befell them, bade

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make every effort to win out of the bay, and let Fortune carry them
whither she would, for nowhere might they be in worse plight than
there. So might and main they strove to bring the ship out, but all in
vain: the violence of the gale thwarted them to such purpose as not only
to preclude their passage out of the bay but to drive them, willing nilling,
ashore. Whither no sooner were they come, than they were recognized
by the Rhodian mariners, who were already landed. Of whom one ran
with all speed to a farm hard by, whither the Rhodian gallants were gone,
and told them that Fortune had brought Cimon and Iphigenia aboard
their ship into the same bay to which she had guided them. Whereat the
gallants were overjoyed, and taking with them not a few of the farm-
servants, hied them in hot haste to the shore, where, Cimon and his
men being already landed with intent to take refuge in a neighbouring
wood, they took them all (with Iphigenia) and brought them to the
farm. Whence, pursuant to an order of the Senate of Rhodes, to which,
so soon as he received the news, Pasimondas made his complaint,
Cimon and his men were all marched off to prison by Lysimachus, chief
magistrate of the Rhodians for that year, who came down from the city
for the purpose with an exceeding great company of men at arms. On
such wise did our hapless and enamoured Cimon lose his so lately won
Iphigenia before he had had of her more than a kiss or two. Iphigenia
was entertained and comforted of the annoy, occasioned as well by her
recent capture as by the fury of the sea, by not a few noble ladies of
Rhodes, with whom she tarried until the day appointed for her marriage.
In recompense of the release of the Rhodian gallants on the preceding
day the lives of Cimon and his men were spared, notwithstanding that
Pasimondas pressed might and main for their execution; and instead
they were condemned to perpetual imprisonment: wherein, as may be
supposed, they abode in dolorous plight, and despaired of ever again
knowing happiness.
However, it so befell that, Pasimondas accelerating his nuptials to the

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best of his power, Fortune, as if repenting her that in her haste she had
done Cimon so evil a turn, did now by a fresh disposition of events
compass his deliverance. Pasimondas had a brother, by name
Hormisdas, his equal in all respects save in years, who had long been
contract to marry Cassandra, a fair and noble damsel of Rhodes, of
whom Lysimachus was in the last degree enamoured; but owing to
divers accidents the marriage had been from time to time put off. Now
Pasimondas, being about to celebrate his nuptials with exceeding great
pomp, bethought him that he could not do better than, to avoid a
repetition of the pomp and expense, arrange, if so he might, that his
brother should be wedded on the same day with himself. So, having
consulted anew with Cassandra’s kinsfolk, and come to an
understanding with them, he and his brother and they conferred
together, and agreed that on the same day that Pasimondas married
Iphigenia, Hormisdas should marry Cassandra. Lysimachus, getting
wind of this arrangement, was mortified beyond measure, seeing
himself thereby deprived of the hope which he cherished of marrying
Cassandra himself, if Hormisdas should not forestall him. But like a wise
man he concealed his chagrin, and cast about how he might frustrate the
arrangement: to which end he saw no other possible means but to carry
Cassandra off. It did not escape him that the office which he held would
render this easily feasible, but he deemed it all the more dishonourable
than if he had not held the office; but, in short, after much pondering,
honour yielded place to love, and he made up his mind that, come what
might, he would carry Cassandra off. Then, as he took thought what
company he should take with him, and how he should go about the
affair, he remembered Cimon, whom he had in prison with his men, and
it occurred to him that he could not possibly have a better or more trusty
associate in such an enterprise than Cimon. Wherefore the same night
he caused Cimon to be brought privily to him in his own room, and thus
addressed him:—‟Cimon, as the gods are most generous and liberal to

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bestow their gifts on men, so are they also most sagacious to try their
virtue; and those whom they find to be firm and steadfast in all
circumstances they honour, as the most worthy, with the highest
rewards. They have been minded to be certified of thy worth by better
proofs than thou couldst afford them, as long as thy life was bounded by
thy father’s house amid the superabundant wealth which I know him to
possess: wherefore in the first place they so wrought upon thee with the
shrewd incitements of Love that from an insensate brute, as I have
heard, thou grewest to be a man; since when, it has been and is their
intent to try whether evil fortune and harsh imprisonment may avail to
change thee from the temper that was thine when for a short while thou
hadst joyance of the prize thou hadst won. And so thou prove the same
that thou wast then, they have in store for thee a boon incomparably
greater than aught that they vouchsafed thee before: what that boon is,
to the end thou mayst recover heart and thy wonted energies, I will now
explain to thee. Pasimondas, exultant in thy misfortune and eager to
compass thy death, hastens to the best of his power his nuptials with thy
Iphigenia; that so he may enjoy the prize that Fortune, erstwhile smiling,
gave thee, and forthwith, frowning, reft from thee. Whereat how sore
must be thy grief, if rightly I gauge thy love, I know by my own case,
seeing that his brother Hormisdas addresses himself to do me on the
same day a like wrong in regard of Cassandra, whom I love more than
aught else in the world. Nor see I that Fortune has left us any way of
escape from this her unjust and cruel spite, save what we may make for
ourselves by a resolved spirit and the might of our right hands: take we
then the sword, and therewith make we, each, prize of his lady, thou for
the second, I for the first time: for so thou value the recovery, I say not of
thy liberty, for without thy lady I doubt thou wouldst hold it cheap, but
of thy lady, the gods have placed it in thine own hands, if thou art but
minded to join me in my enterprise.”
These words restored to Cimon all that he had lost of heart and hope,

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nor pondered he long, before he replied:—‟Lysimachus, comrade stouter

or more staunch than I thou mightst not have in such an enterprise, if
such indeed it be as thou sayst: wherefore lay upon me such behest as
thou shalt deem meet, and thou shalt marvel to witness the vigour of my
performance.” Whereupon Lysimachus:—‟On the third day from now,”
quoth he, ‟their husbands’ houses will be newly entered by the brides,
and on the same day at even we too will enter them in arms, thou with
thy men, and I with some of mine, in whom I place great trust, and
forcing our way among the guests and slaughtering all that dare to
oppose us, will bear the ladies off to a ship which I have had privily got
ready.” Cimon approved the plan, and kept quiet in prison until the
appointed time; which being come, the nuptials were celebrated with
great pomp and magnificence, that filled the houses of the two brothers
with festal cheer. Then Lysimachus having made ready all things meet,
and fired Cimon and his men and his own friends for the enterprise by a
long harangue, disposed them in due time, all bearing arms under their
cloaks, in three companies; and having privily despatched one company
to the port, that, when the time should come to embark, he might meet
with no let, he marched with the other two companies to the house of
Pasimondas, posted the one company at the gate, that, being entered,
they might not be shut in or debarred their egress, and, with the other
company and Cimon, ascended the stairs, and gained the saloon, where
the brides and not a few other ladies were set at several tables to sup in
meet order: whereupon in they rushed, and overthrew the tables and
seized each his own lady, and placed them in charge of their men, whom
they bade bear them off forthwith to the ship that lay ready to receive
them. Whereupon the brides and the other ladies and the servants with
one accord fell a sobbing and shrieking, insomuch that a confused din
and lamentation filled the whole place. Cimon, Lysimachus and their
band, none withstanding, but all giving way before them, gained the
stairs, which they were already descending when they encountered

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Pasimondas, who, carrying a great staff in his hand, was making in the
direction of the noise; but one doughty stroke of Cimon’s sword sufficed
to cleave his skull in twain, and lay him dead at Cimon’s feet, and
another stroke disposed of hapless Hormisdas, as he came running to
his brother’s aid. Some others who ventured to approach them were
wounded and beaten off by the retinue. So forth of the house, that
reeked with blood and resounded with tumult and lamentation and
woe, sped Simon and Lysimachus with all their company, and without
any let, in close order, with their fair booty in their midst, made good
their retreat to the ship; whereon with the ladies they one and all
embarked, for the shore was now full of armed men come to rescue the
ladies, and, the oarsmen giving way, put to sea elate. Arrived at Crete,
they met with a hearty welcome on the part of their many friends and
kinsfolk; and, having married their ladies, they made greatly merry, and
had gladsome joyance of their fair booty. Their doings occasioned, both
in Cyprus and in Rhodes, no small stir and commotion, which lasted for
a long while: but in the end, by the good offices of their friends and
kinsfolk in both islands, ‛twas so ordered as that after a certain term of
exile Cimon returned with Iphigenia to Cyprus, and in like manner
Lysimachus returned with Cassandra to Rhodes; and long and blithely
thereafter lived they, each well contented with his own wife in his own
land.

NOVEL II.

— Gostanza loves Martuccio Gomito, and hearing that he is

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

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

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departure had known no bounds, now hearing that he was dead with the
rest, wept a great while, and made up her mind to have done with life;
but, lacking the resolution to lay violent hands upon herself, she
bethought her how she might devote herself to death by some novel
expedient. So one night she stole out of her father’s house, and hied her
to the port, and there by chance she found, lying a little apart from the
other craft, a fishing boat, which, as the owners had but just quitted her,
was still equipped with mast and sails and oars. Aboard which boat she
forthwith got, and being, like most of the women of the island, not
altogether without nautical skill, she rowed some distance out to sea,
and then hoisted sail, and cast away oars and tiller, and let the boat drift,
deeming that a boat without lading or steersman would certainly be
either capsized by the wind or dashed against some rock and broken in
pieces, so that escape she could not, even if she would, but must
perforce drown. And so, her head wrapped in a mantle, she stretched
herself weeping on the floor of the boat. But it fell out quite otherwise
than she had conjectured: for, the wind being from the north, and very
equable, with next to no sea, the boat kept an even keel, and next day
about vespers bore her to land hard by a city called Susa, full a hundred
miles beyond Tunis. To the damsel ‛twas all one whether she were at sea
or ashore, for, since she had been aboard, she had never once raised, nor,
come what might, meant she ever to raise, her head.
Now it so chanced, that, when the boat grounded, there was on the
shore a poor woman that was in the employ of some fishermen, whose
nets she was just taking out of the sunlight. Seeing the boat under full
sail, she marvelled how it should be suffered to drive ashore, and
conjectured that the fishermen on board were asleep. So to the boat she
hied her, and finding therein only the damsel fast asleep, she called her
many times, and at length awakened her; and perceiving by her dress
that she was a Christian, she asked her in Latin how it was that she was
come thither all alone in the boat. Hearing the Latin speech, the damsel

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wondered whether the wind had not shifted, and carried her back to
Lipari: so up she started, gazed about her, and finding herself ashore and
the aspect of the country strange, asked the good woman where she was.
To which the good woman made answer:—‟My daughter, thou art hard
by Susa in Barbary.” Whereupon the damsel, sorrowful that God had not
seen fit to accord her the boon of death, apprehensive of dishonour, and
at her wits’ end, sat herself down at the foot of her boat, and burst into
tears. Which the good woman saw not without pity, and persuaded her
to come with her into her hut, and there by coaxing drew from her how
she was come thither; and knowing that she could not but be fasting,
she set before her her own coarse bread and some fish and water, and
prevailed upon her to eat a little. Gostanza thereupon asked her, who she
was that thus spoke Latin; whereto she answered that her name was
Carapresa, and that she was from Trapani, where she had served some
Christian fishermen. To the damsel, sad indeed though she was, this
name Carapresa, wherefore she knew not, seemed to be of happy augury,
so that she began to take hope, she knew not why, and to grow
somewhat less fain of death: wherefore without disclosing who or
whence she was, she earnestly besought the good woman for the love of
God to have pity on her youth, and advise her how best to avoid insult.
Whereupon Carapresa, good woman that she was, left her in her hut,
while with all speed she picked up her nets; and on her return she
wrapped her in her own mantle, and led her to Susa. Arrived there, she
said to her:—‟Gostanza, I shall bring thee to the house of an excellent
Saracen lady, for whom I frequently do bits of work, as she has occasion:
she is an old lady and compassionate: I will commend thee to her care as
best I may, and I doubt not she will right gladly receive thee, and entreat
thee as her daughter: and thou wilt serve her, and, while thou art with
her, do all thou canst to gain her favour, until such time as God may send
thee better fortune;” and as she said, so she did.
The old lady listened, and then, gazing steadfastly in the damsel’s

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face, shed tears, and taking her hand, kissed her forehead, and led her
into the house, where she and some other women dwelt quite by
themselves, doing divers kinds of handiwork in silk and palm leaves and
leather. Wherein the damsel in a few days acquired some skill, and
thenceforth wrought together with them; and rose wondrous high in the
favour and good graces of all the ladies, who soon taught her their
language.
Now while the damsel, mourned at home as lost and dead, dwelt thus
at Susa, it so befell that, Mariabdela being then King of Tunis, a young
chieftain in Granada, of great power, and backed by mighty allies, gave
out that the realm of Tunis belonged to him, and having gathered a vast
army, made a descent upon Tunis with intent to expel the King from the
realm. Martuccio Gomito, who knew the language of Barbary well, heard
the tidings in prison, and learning that the King of Tunis was mustering
a mighty host for the defence of his kingdom, said to one of the warders
that were in charge of him and his comrades:—‟If I might have speech of
the King, I am confident that the advice that I should give him would
secure him the victory.” The warder repeated these words to his chief,
who forthwith carried them to the King. Wherefore by the King’s
command Martuccio was brought before him, and being asked by him
what the advice, of which he had spoken, might be, answered on this
wise:—‟Sire, if in old days, when I was wont to visit this country of yours,
I duly observed the manner in which you order your battle, methinks
you place your main reliance upon archers; and therefore, if you could
contrive that your enemy’s supply of arrows should give out and your
own continue plentiful, I apprehend that you would win the battle.” ‟Ay
indeed,” replied the King, ‟I make no doubt that, could I but accomplish
that, I should conquer.” ‟Nay but, Sire,” returned Martuccio, ‟you may do
it, if you will. Listen, and I will tell you how. You must fit the bows of
your archers with strings much finer than those that are in common use,
and match them with arrows, the notches of which will not admit any

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but these fine strings; and this you must do so secretly that your enemy
may not know it, else he will find means to be even with you. Which
counsel I give you for the following reason:—When your and your
enemy’s archers have expended all their arrows, you wot that the enemy
will fall to picking up the arrows that your men have shot during the
battle, and your men will do the like by the enemy’s arrows; but the
enemy will not be able to make use of your men’s arrows, by reason that
their fine notches will not suffice to admit the stout strings, whereas
your men will be in the contrary case in regard of the enemy’s arrows, for
the fine string will very well receive the large-notched arrow, and so your
men will have an abundant supply of arrows, while the enemy will be at a
loss for them.”
The King, who lacked not sagacity, appreciated Martuccio’s advice,
and gave full effect to it; whereby he came out of the war a conqueror,
and Martuccio, being raised to the chief place in his favour, waxed rich
and powerful. Which matters being bruited throughout the country, it
came to the ears of Gostanza that Martuccio Gomito, whom she had
long supposed to be dead, was alive; whereby her love for him, some
embers of which still lurked in her heart, burst forth again in sudden
flame, and gathered strength, and revived her dead hope. Wherefore she
frankly told all her case to the good lady with whom she dwelt, saying
that she would fain go to Tunis, that her eyes might have assurance of
that which the report received by her ears had made them yearn to see.
The lady fell heartily in with the girl’s desire, and, as if she had been her
mother, embarked with her for Tunis, where on their arrival they were
honourably received in the house of one of her kinswomen. Carapresa,
who had attended her, being sent to discover what she might touching
Martuccio, brought back word that he was alive, and high in honour and
place. The gentlewoman was minded that none but herself should
apprise Martuccio of the arrival of his Gostanza: wherefore she hied her
one day to Martuccio, and said:—‟Martuccio, there is come to my house

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a servant of thine from Lipari, who would fain speak with thee here
privily, and for that he would not have me trust another, I am come
hither myself to deliver his message.” Martuccio thanked her, and
forthwith hied him with her to her house: where no sooner did the girl
see him than she all but died for joy, and carried away by her feelings,
fell upon his neck with open arms and embraced him, and, what with
sorrow of his past woes and her present happiness, said never a word,
but softly wept. Martuccio regarded her for a while in silent wonder;
then, heaving a sigh, he said:—‟Thou livest then, my Gostanza? Long
since I heard that thou wast lost; nor was aught known of thee at home.”
Which said, he tenderly and with tears embraced her. Gostanza told him
all her adventures, and how honourably she had been entreated by the
gentlewoman with whom she had dwelt. And so long time they
conversed, and then Martuccio parted from her, and hied him back to
his lord the King, and told him all, to wit, his own adventures and those
of the girl, adding that with his leave he was minded to marry her
according to our law. Which matters the King found passing strange;
and having called the girl to him, and learned from her that ‛twas even
as Martuccio had said:—‟Well indeed,” quoth he, ‟hast thou won thy
husband.” Then caused he gifts most ample and excellent to be brought
forth, part of which he gave to Gostanza, and part to Martuccio, leaving
them entirely to their own devices in regard of one another. Then
Martuccio, in terms most honourable, bade farewell to the old lady with
whom Gostanza had dwelt, thanking her for the service she had
rendered to Gostanza, and giving her presents suited to her condition,
and commending her to God, while Gostanza shed many a tear: after
which, by leave of the King, they went aboard a light bark, taking with
them Carapresa, and, sped by a prosperous breeze, arrived at Lipari,
where they were received with such cheer as ‛twere vain to attempt to
describe. There were Martuccio and Gostanza wedded with all pomp
and splendour; and there long time in easeful peace they had joyance of

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their love.

NOVEL III.

— Pietro Boccamazza runs away with Agnolella, and

encounters a gang of robbers: the girl takes refuge in a wood,
and is guided to a castle. Pietro is taken, but escapes out of the
hands of the robbers, and after some adventures arrives at the
castle where Agnolella is, marries her, and returns with her to
Rome. —
Ended Emilia’s story, which none of the company spared to commend,
the queen, turning to Elisa, bade her follow suit; and she, with glad
obedience, thus began:—
‛Tis a story, sweet ladies, of a woeful night passed by two indiscreet
young lovers that I have in mind; but, as thereon ensued not a few days
of joy, ‛tis not inapposite to our argument, and shall be narrated.
‛Tis no long time since at Rome, which, albeit now the tail, 41 was of
yore the head, of the world, there dwelt a young man, Pietro Boccamazza
by name, a scion of one of the most illustrious of the Roman houses,
who became enamoured of a damsel exceeding fair, and amorous withal
—her name Agnolella—the daughter of one Gigliuozzo Saullo, a
plebeian, but in high repute among the Romans. Nor, loving thus, did
Pietro lack the address to inspire in Agnolella a love as ardent as his own.
Wherefore, overmastered by his passion, and minded no longer to
endure the sore suffering that it caused him, he asked her in marriage.
Whereof his kinsfolk were no sooner apprised, than with one accord
they came to him and strongly urged him to desist from his purpose:
they also gave Gigliuozzo Saullo to understand that he were best to pay
no sort of heed to Pietro’s words, for that, if he so did, they would never

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

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acknowledge him as friend or relative. Thus to see himself debarred of

the one way by which he deemed he might attain to his desire, Pietro
was ready to die for grief, and, all his kinsfolk notwithstanding, he would
have married Gigliuozzo’s daughter, had but the father consented.
Wherefore at length he made up his mind that, if the girl were willing,
nought should stand in the way; and having through a common friend
sounded the damsel and found her apt, he brought her to consent to
elope with him from Rome. The affair being arranged, Pietro and she
took horse betimes one morning, and sallied forth for Anagni, where
Pietro had certain friends, in whom he placed much trust; and as they
rode, time not serving for full joyance of their love, for they feared
pursuit, they held converse thereof, and from time to time exchanged a
kiss. Now it so befell, that, the way being none too well known to Pietro,
when, perhaps eight miles from Rome, they should have turned to the
right, they took instead a leftward road. Whereon when they had ridden
but little more than two miles, they found themselves close to a petty
castle, whence, so soon as they were observed, there issued some dozen
men at arms; and, as they drew near, the damsel, espying them, gave a
cry, and said:—‟We are attacked, Pietro, let us flee;” and guiding her nag
as best she knew towards a great forest, she planted the spurs in his
sides, and so, holding on by the saddle-bow, was borne by the goaded
creature into the forest at a gallop. Pietro, who had been too engrossed
with her face to give due heed to the way, and thus had not been ware, as
soon as she, of the approach of the men at arms, was still looking about
to see whence they were coming, when they came up with him, and took
him prisoner, and forced him to dismount. Then they asked who he was,
and, when he told them, they conferred among themselves, saying:
—‟This is one of the friends of our enemies: what else can we do but
relieve him of his nag and of his clothes, and hang him on one of these
oaks in scorn of the Orsini?” To which proposal all agreeing, they bade
Pietro strip himself: but while, already divining his fate, he was so doing,

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an ambuscade of full five-and-twenty men at arms fell suddenly upon

them, crying:—‟Death, death!” Thus surprised, they let Pietro go, and
stood on the defensive; but, seeing that the enemy greatly outnumbered
them, they took to their heels, the others giving chase. Whereupon
Pietro hastily resumed his clothes, mounted his nag, and fled with all
speed in the direction which he had seen the damsel take. But finding
no road or path through the forest, nor discerning any trace of a horse’s
hooves, he was—for that he found not the damsel—albeit he deemed
himself safe out of the clutches of his captors and their assailants, the
most wretched man alive, and fell a weeping and wandering hither and
thither about the forest, uttering Agnolella’s name. None answered; but
turn back he dared not: so on he went, not knowing whither he went;
besides which, he was in mortal dread of the wild beasts that infest the
forest, as well on account of himself as of the damsel, whom momently
he seemed to see throttled by some bear or wolf. Thus did our
unfortunate Pietro spend the whole day, wandering about the forest,
making it to resound with his cries of Agnolella’s name, and harking at
times back, when he thought to go forward; until at last, what with his
cries and his tears and his fears and his long fasting, he was so spent that
he could go no further. ‛Twas then nightfall, and, as he knew not what
else to do, he dismounted at the foot of an immense oak, and having
tethered his nag to the trunk, climbed up into the branches, lest he
should be devoured by the wild beasts during the night. Shortly
afterwards the moon rose with a very clear sky, and Pietro, who dared
not sleep, lest he should fall, and indeed, had he been secure from that
risk, his misery and his anxiety on account of the damsel would not have
suffered him to sleep, kept watch, sighing and weeping and cursing his
evil luck.
Now the damsel, who, as we said before, had fled she knew not
whither, allowing her nag to carry her whithersoever he would, strayed
so far into the forest that she lost sight of the place where she had

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entered it, and spent the whole day just as Pietro had done, wandering
about the wilderness, pausing from time to time, and weeping, and
uttering his name, and bewailing her evil fortune. At last, seeing that
‛twas now the vesper hour and Pietro came not, she struck into a path,
which the nag followed, until, after riding some two miles, she espied at
some distance a cottage, for which she made with all speed, and found
there a good man, well stricken in years, with his wife, who was likewise
aged. Seeing her ride up alone, they said:—‟Daughter, wherefore ridest
thou thus alone at this hour in these parts?” Weeping, the damsel made
answer that she had lost her companion in the forest, and asked how far
might Anagni be from there? ‟My daughter,” returned the good man,
‟this is not the road to Anagni; ‛tis more than twelve miles away.” ‟And
how far off,” inquired the damsel, ‟are the nearest houses in which one
might find lodging for the night?” ‟There are none so near,” replied the
good man, ‟that thou canst reach them to-day.” ‟Then, so please you,”
said the damsel, ‟since go elsewhither I cannot, for God’s sake let me
pass the night here with you.” Whereto the good man made answer:
—‟Damsel, welcome art thou to tarry the night with us; but still thou art
to know that these parts are infested both by day and by night by bands,
which, be they friends or be they foes, are alike ill to meet with, and not
seldom do much despite and mischief, and if by misadventure one of
these bands should visit us while thou wert here, and marking thy youth
and beauty should do thee despite and dishonour, we should be unable
to afford thee any succour. This we would have thee know, that if it
should so come to pass, thou mayst not have cause to reproach us.” The
damsel heard not the old man’s words without dismay; but, seeing that
the hour was now late, she answered:—‟God, if He be so pleased, will
save both you and me from such molestation, and if not, ‛tis a much
lesser evil to be maltreated by men than to be torn in pieces by the wild
beasts in the forest.” So saying, she dismounted, and entered the cottage,
where, having supped with the poor man and his wife on such humble

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fare as they had, she laid herself in her clothes beside them in their bed.
She slept not, however; for her own evil plight and that of Pietro, for
whom she knew not how to augur aught but evil, kept her sighing and
weeping all night long. And towards matins she heard a great noise as of
men that marched; so up she got and hied her into a large courtyard that
was in rear of the cottage, and part of which was covered with a great
heap of hay, which she espying, hid herself therein, that, if the men
came there, they might not so readily find her. Scarce had she done so
than the men, who proved to be a strong company of marauders, were at
the door of the cottage, which they forced open; and having entered, and
found the damsel’s nag, still saddled, they asked who was there. The
damsel being out of sight, the good man answered:—‟There is none here
but my wife and I; but this nag, which has given some one the slip, found
his way hither last night, and we housed him, lest he should be devoured
by the wolves.” ‟So!” said the chief of the band, ‟as he has no owner, he
will come in very handy for us.”
Whereupon, in several parties, they ransacked the cottage from top
to bottom; and one party went out into the courtyard, where, as they
threw aside their lances and targets, it so befell that one of them, not
knowing where else to bestow his lance, tossed it into the hay, and was
within an ace of killing the damsel that lay hid there, as likewise she of
betraying her whereabouts, for the lance all but grazing her left breast,
insomuch that the head tore her apparel, she doubted she was wounded,
and had given a great shriek, but that, remembering where she was, she
refrained for fear. By and by the company cooked them a breakfast of
kid’s and other meat, and having eaten and drunken, dispersed in divers
directions, as their affairs required, taking the girl’s nag with them. And
when they were gotten some little way off, the good man asked his wife:
—‟What became of the damsel, our guest of last night, that I have not
seen her since we rose?” The good woman answered that she knew not
where the damsel was, and went to look for her. The damsel, discovering

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that the men were gone, came forth of the hay, and the good man, seeing
her, was overjoyed that she had not fallen into the hands of the ruffians,
and, as day was breaking, said to her:—‟Now that day is at hand, we will,
so it like thee, escort thee to a castle, some five miles hence, where thou
wilt be in safety; but thou must needs go afoot, because these villains,
that are but just gone, have taken thy nag with them.” The damsel,
resigning herself to her loss, besought them for God’s sake to take her to
the castle: whereupon they set forth, and arrived there about half tierce.
Now the castle belonged to one of the Orsini, Liello di Campo di Fiore
by name, whose wife, as it chanced, was there. A most kindly and good
woman she was, and, recognizing the damsel as soon as she saw her,
gave her a hearty welcome and would fain have from her a particular
account of how she came there. So the damsel told her the whole story.
The lady, to whom Pietro was also known, as being a friend of her
husband, was distressed to hear of his misadventure, and being told
where he was taken, gave him up for dead. So she said to the damsel:
—‟Since so it is that thou knowest not how Pietro has fared, thou shalt
stay here with me until such time as I may have opportunity to send thee
safely back to Rome.”
Meanwhile Pietro, perched on his oak in as woeful a plight as might
be, had espied, when he should have been in his first sleep, a full score of
wolves, that, as they prowled, caught sight of the nag, and straightway
were upon him on all sides. The horse, as soon as he was ware of their
approach, strained on the reins till they snapped, and tried to make
good his escape; but, being hemmed in, was brought to bay, and made a
long fight of it with his teeth and hooves; but in the end they bore him
down and throttled him and forthwith eviscerated him, and, the whole
pack falling upon him, devoured him to the bone before they had done
with him. Whereat Pietro, who felt that in the nag he had lost a
companion and a comfort in his travail, was sorely dismayed, and began
to think that he should never get out of the forest. But towards dawn, he,

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perched there in the oak, almost dead with cold, looking around him as
he frequently did, espied about a mile off a huge fire. Wherefore, as soon
as ‛twas broad day, he got down, not without trepidation, from the oak,
and bent his steps towards the fire; and being come to it, he found,
gathered about it, a company of shepherds, eating and making merry,
who took pity on him and made him welcome. And when he had broken
his fast and warmed himself, he told them the mishap that had befallen
him, and how it was that he was come there alone, and asked them if
there was a farm or castle in those parts, whither he might betake him.
The shepherds said that about three miles away there was a castle
belonging to Liello di Campo di Fiore, where his lady was then tarrying.
Pietro, much comforted, requested to be guided thither by some of their
company; whereupon two of them right gladly escorted him. So Pietro
arrived at the castle, where he found some that knew him; and while he
was endeavouring to set on foot a search for the damsel in the forest, the
lady summoned him to her presence, and he, forthwith obeying, and
seeing Agnolella with her, was the happiest man that ever was. He
yearned till he all but swooned to go and embrace her, but refrained, for
bashfulness, in the lady’s presence. And overjoyed as he was, the joy of
the damsel was no less. The lady received him with great cheer, and
though, when she had heard the story of his adventures from his own
lips, she chid him not a little for having set at nought the wishes of his
kinsfolk; yet, seeing that he was still of the same mind, and that the
damsel was also constant, she said to herself:—To what purpose give I
myself all this trouble? they love one another, they know one another;
they love with equal ardour; their love is honourable, and I doubt not is
well pleasing to God, seeing that the one has escaped the gallows and
the other the lance, and both the wild beasts: wherefore be it as they
would have it. Then, turning to them, she said:—‟If ‛tis your will to be
joined in wedlock as man and wife, mine jumps with it: here shall your
nuptials be solemnized and at Liello’s charges, and for the rest I will see

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that your peace is made with your kinsfolk.” So in the castle the pair were
wedded, Pietro only less blithe than Agnolella, the lady ordering the
nuptials as honourably as might be in her mountain-home, and there
they had most sweet joyance of the first fruits of their love. So some days
they tarried there, and then accompanied by the lady with a strong
escort, they took horse and returned to Rome, where, very wroth though
she found Pietro’s kinsfolk for what he had done, the lady re-established
solid peace between him and them; and so at Rome Pietro and Agnolella
lived together to a good old age in great tranquillity and happiness.

NOVEL IV.

— Ricciardo Manardi is found by Messer Lizio da Valbona

with his daughter, whom he marries, and remains at peace
with her father. —
In silence Elisa received the praise bestowed on her story by her fair
companions; and then the queen called for a story from Filostrato, who
with a laugh began on this wise:—Chidden have I been so often and by
so many of you for the sore burden, which I laid upon you, of discourse
harsh and meet for tears, that, as some compensation for such annoy, I
deem myself bound to tell you somewhat that may cause you to laugh a
little: wherefore my story, which will be of the briefest, shall be of a love,
the course whereof, save for sighs and a brief passage of fear mingled
with shame, ran smooth to a happy consummation.
Know then, noble ladies, that ‛tis no long time since there dwelt in
Romagna a right worthy and courteous knight, Messer Lizio da Valbona
by name, who was already verging upon old age, when, as it happened,
there was born to him of his wife, Madonna Giacomina, a daughter, who,
as she grew up, became the fairest and most debonair of all the girls of
those parts, and, for that she was the only daughter left to them, was

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

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On the morrow, it being now towards the close of May, the damsel
began complaining to her mother that by reason of the excessive heat
she had not been able to get any sleep during the night. ‟Daughter,” said
the lady, ‟what heat was there? Nay, there was no heat at all.” ‟Had you
said, ‛to my thinking,’ mother,” rejoined Caterina, ‟you would perhaps
have said sooth; but you should bethink you how much more heat girls
have in them than ladies that are advanced in years.” ‟True, my
daughter,” returned the lady, ‟but I cannot order that it shall be hot and
cold, as thou perchance wouldst like; we must take the weather as we
find it, and as the seasons provide it: perchance to-night it will be cooler,
and thou wilt sleep better.” ‟God grant it be so,” said Caterina, ‟but ‛tis
not wonted for the nights to grow cooler as the summer comes on.”
‟What then,” said the lady, ‟wouldst thou have me do?” ‟With your leave
and my father’s,” answered Caterina, ‟I should like to have a little bed
made up on the terrace by his room and over his garden, where, hearing
the nightingales sing, and being in a much cooler place, I should sleep
much better than in your room.” Whereupon:—‟Daughter, be of good
cheer,” said the mother; ‟I will speak to thy father, and we will do as he
shall decide.” So the lady told Messer Lizio what had passed between her
and the damsel; but he, being old and perhaps for that reason a little
morose, said:—‟What nightingale is this, to whose chant she would fain
sleep? I will see to it that the cicalas shall yet lull her to sleep.” Which
speech, coming to Caterina’s ears, gave her such offence, that for anger,
rather than by reason of the heat, she not only slept not herself that
night, but suffered not her mother to sleep, keeping up a perpetual
complaint of the great heat. Wherefore her mother hied her in the
morning to Messer Lizio, and said to him:—‟Sir, you hold your daughter
none too dear; what difference can it make to you that she lie on the
terrace? She has tossed about all night long by reason of the heat; and
besides, can you wonder that she, girl that she is, loves to hear the
nightingale sing? Young folk naturally affect their likes.” Whereto Messer

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Lizio made answer:—‟Go, make her a bed there to your liking, and set a
curtain round it, and let her sleep there, and hear the nightingale sing to
her heart’s content.” Which the damsel no sooner learned, than she had
a bed made there with intent to sleep there that same night; wherefore
she watched until she saw Ricciardo, whom by a concerted sign she gave
to understand what he was to do. Messer Lizio, as soon as he had heard
the damsel go to bed, locked a door that led from his room to the
terrace, and went to sleep himself. When all was quiet, Ricciardo with
the help of a ladder got upon a wall, and standing thereon laid hold of
certain toothings of another wall, and not without great exertion and
risk, had he fallen, clambered up on to the terrace, where the damsel
received him quietly with the heartiest of cheer. Many a kiss they
exchanged; and then got them to bed, where well-nigh all night long
they had solace and joyance of one another, and made the nightingale
sing not a few times. But, brief being the night and great their pleasure,
towards dawn, albeit they wist it not, they fell asleep, Caterina’s right
arm encircling Ricciardo’s neck, while with her left hand she held him by
that part of his person which your modesty, my ladies, is most averse to
name in the company of men. So, peacefully they slept, and were still
asleep when day broke and Messer Lizio rose; and calling to mind that
his daughter slept on the terrace, softly opened the door, saying to
himself:—Let me see what sort of night’s rest the nightingale has
afforded our Caterina? And having entered, he gently raised the curtain
that screened the bed, and saw Ricciardo asleep with her and in her
embrace as described, both being quite naked and uncovered; and
having taken note of Ricciardo, he went away, and hied him to his lady’s
room, and called her, saying:—‟Up, up, wife, come and see; for thy
daughter has fancied the nightingale to such purpose that she has
caught him, and holds him in her hand.” ‟How can this be?” said the
lady. ‟Come quickly, and thou shalt see,” replied Messer Lizio. So the
lady huddled on her clothes, and silently followed Messer Lizio, and

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when they were come to the bed, and had raised the curtain, Madonna
Giacomina saw plainly enough how her daughter had caught, and did
hold the nightingale, whose song she had so longed to hear. Whereat the
lady, deeming that Ricciardo had played her a cruel trick, would have
cried out and upbraided him; but Messer Lizio said to her:— ‟Wife, as
thou valuest my love, say not a word; for in good sooth, seeing that she
has caught him, he shall be hers. Ricciardo is a gentleman and wealthy;
an alliance with him cannot but be to our advantage: if he would part
from me on good terms, he must first marry her, so that the nightingale
shall prove to have been put in his own cage and not in that of another.”
Whereby the lady was reassured, seeing that her husband took the affair
so quietly, and that her daughter had had a good night, and was rested,
and had caught the nightingale. So she kept silence; nor had they long
to wait before Ricciardo awoke; and, seeing that ‛twas broad day, deemed
that ‛twas as much as his life was worth, and aroused Caterina, saying:
—‟Alas! my soul, what shall we do, now that day has come and surprised
me here?” Which question Messer Lizio answered by coming forward,
and saying:—‟We shall do well.” At sight of him Ricciardo felt as if his
heart were torn out of his body, and sate up in the bed, and said:— ‟My
lord, I cry you mercy for God’s sake. I wot that my disloyalty and
delinquency have merited death; wherefore deal with me even as it may
seem best to you: however, I pray you, if so it may be, to spare my life,
that I die not.” ‟Ricciardo,” replied Messer Lizio, ‟the love I bore thee,
and the faith I reposed in thee, merited a better return; but still, as so it
is, and youth has seduced thee into such a transgression, redeem thy life,
and preserve my honour, by making Caterina thy lawful spouse, that
thine, as she has been for this past night, she may remain for the rest of
her life. In this way thou mayst secure my peace and thy safety;
otherwise commend thy soul to God.” Pending this colloquy, Caterina let
go the nightingale, and having covered herself, began with many a tear
to implore her father to forgive Ricciardo, and Ricciardo to do as Messer

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Lizio required, that thereby they might securely count upon a long
continuance of such nights of delight. But there needed not much
supplication; for, what with remorse for the wrong done, and the wish to
make amends, and the fear of death, and the desire to escape it, and
above all ardent love, and the craving to possess the beloved one,
Ricciardo lost no time in making frank avowal of his readiness to do as
Messer Lizio would have him. Wherefore Messer Lizio, having borrowed
a ring from Madonna Giacomina, Ricciardo did there and then in their
presence wed Caterina. Which done, Messer Lizio and the lady took
their leave, saying:—‟Now rest ye a while; for so perchance ‛twere better
for you than if ye rose.” And so they left the young folks, who forthwith
embraced, and not having travelled more than six miles during the
night, went two miles further before they rose, and so concluded their
first day. When they were risen, Ricciardo and Messer Lizio discussed
the matter with more formality; and some days afterwards Ricciardo, as
was meet, married the damsel anew in presence of their friends and
kinsfolk, and brought her home with great pomp, and celebrated his
nuptials with due dignity and splendour. And so for many a year
thereafter he lived with her in peace and happiness, and snared the
nightingales day and night to his heart’s content.

NOVEL V.

— Guidotto da Cremona dies leaving a girl to Giacomino da

Pavia. She has two lovers in Faenza, to wit, Giannole di
Severino and Minghino di Mingole, who fight about her. She is
discovered to be Giannole’s sister, and is given to Minghino to
wife. —
All the ladies laughed so heartily over the story of the nightingale, that,
even when Filostrato had finished, they could not control their

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merriment. However, when the laughter was somewhat abated, the

queen said:—‟Verily if thou didst yesterday afflict us, to-day thou hast
tickled us to such purpose that none of us may justly complain of thee.”
Then, as the turn had now come round to Neifile, she bade her give
them a story. And thus, blithely, Neifile began:—As Filostrato went to
Romagna for the matter of his discourse, I too am fain to make a short
journey through the same country in what I am about to relate to you.
I say, then, that there dwelt of yore in the city of Fano two Lombards,
the one ycleped Guidotto da Cremona and the other Giacomino da
Pavia, men advanced in life, who, being soldiers, had spent the best part
of their youth in feats of arms. Now Guidotto, being at the point of
death, and having no son or any friend or kinsman in whom he placed
more trust than in Giacomino, left him a girl of about ten years, and all
that he had in the world, and so, having given him to know not a little of
his affairs, he died. About the same time the city of Faenza, which had
long been at war and in a most sorry plight, began to recover some
measure of prosperity; and thereupon liberty to return thither on
honourable terms was accorded to all that were so minded. Whither,
accordingly, Giacomino, who had dwelt there aforetime, and liked the
place, returned with all his goods and chattels, taking with him the girl
left him by Guidotto, whom he loved and entreated as his daughter. The
girl grew up as beautiful a maiden as was to be found in the city; and no
less debonair and modest was she than fair. Wherefore she lacked not
admirers; but above all two young men, both very gallant and of equal
merit, the one Giannole di Severino, the other Minghino di Mingole,
affected her with so ardent a passion, that, growing jealous, they came to
hate one another with an inordinate hatred. Right gladly would each
have espoused her, she being now fifteen years old, but that his kinsmen
forbade it; wherefore seeing that neither might have her in an
honourable way, each determined to compass his end as best he might.
Now Giacomino had in his house an ancient maid, and a man, by

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name Crivello, a very pleasant and friendly sort of fellow, with whom
Giannole grew familiar, and in due time confided to him all his love,
praying him to further the attainment of his desire, and promising to
reward him handsomely, if he did so. Crivello made answer:— ‟Thou
must know that there is but one way in which I might be of service to
thee in this affair: I might contrive that thou shouldst be where she is
when Giacomino is gone off to supper; but, were I to presume to say
aught to her on thy behalf, she would never listen to me. This, if it please
thee, I promise to do for thee, and will be as good as my word; and then
thou canst do whatever thou mayst deem most expedient.” Giannole said
that he asked no more; and so ‛twas arranged.
Meanwhile Minghino on his part had made friends with the maid, on
whom he had so wrought that she had carried several messages to the
girl, and had gone far to kindle her to his love, and furthermore had
promised to contrive that he should meet her when for any cause
Giacomino should be from home in the evening. And so it befell that no
long time after these parleys, Giacomino, by Crivello’s management, was
to go sup at the house of a friend, and by preconcert between Crivello
and Giannole, upon signal given, Giannole was to come to Giacomino’s
house and find the door open. The maid, on her part, witting nought of
the understanding between Crivello and Giannole, let Minghino know
that Giacomino would not sup at home, and bade him be near the
house, so that he might come and enter it on sight of a signal from her.
The evening came; neither of the lovers knew aught of what the other
was about; but, being suspicious of one another, they came to take
possession, each with his own company of armed friends. Minghino,
while awaiting the signal, rested with his company in the house of one of
his friends hard by the girl’s house: Giannole with his company was
posted a little farther off. Crivello and the maid, when Giacomino was
gone, did each their endeavour to get the other out of the way. Crivello
said to the maid:—‟How is it thou takest not thyself off to bed, but goest

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still hither and thither about the house?” And the maid said to Crivello:
—‟Nay, but why goest thou not after thy master? Thou hast supped;
what awaitest thou here?” And so, neither being able to make the other
quit the post, Crivello, the hour concerted with Giannole being come,
said to himself:—What care I for her? If she will not keep quiet, ‛tis like
to be the worse for her. Whereupon he gave the signal, and hied him to
the door, which he had no sooner opened, than Giannole entered with
two of his companions, and finding the girl in the saloon, laid hands on
her with intent to carry her off. The girl struggled, and shrieked amain,
as did also the maid. Minghino, fearing the noise, hasted to the spot
with his companions; and, seeing that the girl was already being borne
across the threshold, they drew their swords, and cried out in chorus:
—‟Ah! Traitors that ye are, ye are all dead men! ‛Twill go otherwise than
ye think for. What means this force?” Which said, they fell upon them
with their swords, while the neighbours, alarmed by the noise, came
hurrying forth with lights and arms, and protested that ‛twas an outrage,
and took Minghino’s part. So, after a prolonged struggle, Minghino
wrested the girl from Giannole, and set her again in Giacomino’s house.
Nor were the combatants separated before the officers of the Governor
of the city came up and arrested not a few of them; among them
Minghino and Giannole and Crivello, whom they marched off to prison.
However, peace being restored and Giacomino returned, ‛twas with no
little chagrin that he heard of the affair; but finding upon investigation
that the girl was in no wise culpable, he was somewhat reassured; and
determined, lest the like should again happen, to bestow the girl in
marriage as soon as might be.
On the morrow the kinsfolk of the two lovers, having learned the
truth of the matter, and knowing what evil might ensue to the captives,
if Giacomino should be minded to take the course which he reasonably
might, came and gave him good words, beseeching him to let the kindly
feeling, the love, which they believed he bore to them, his suppliants,

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

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whose house it was that Guidotto had sacked; and seeing the owner
there among the rest, he went up to him, and said:—‟Dost hear,
Bernabuccio, what Giacomino says?” ‟Ay,” answered Bernabuccio, ‟and I
gave the more heed thereto, for that I call to mind that during those
disorders I lost a little daughter of just the age that Giacomino speaks of.”
”‛Tis verily she then,” said Guglielmo, ‟for once when I was with Guidotto
I heard him describe what house it was that he had sacked, and I wist
that ‛twas thine. Wherefore search thy memory if there be any sign by
which thou thinkest to recognize her, and let her be examined that thou
mayst be assured that she is thy daughter.” So Bernabuccio pondered a
while, and then recollected that she ought to have a scar, shewing like a
tiny cross, above her left ear, being where he had excised a tumour a
little while before that affair: wherefore without delay he went up to
Giacomino, who was still there, and besought him to let him go home
with him and see the damsel. Giacomino gladly did so, and no sooner
was the girl brought into Bernabuccio’s presence, than, as he beheld her,
‛twas as if he saw the face of her mother, who was still a beautiful
woman. However, he would not rest there, but besought Giacomino of
his grace to permit him to lift a lock or two of hair above her left ear;
whereto Giacomino consented. So Bernabuccio approached her where
she stood somewhat shamefast, and with his right hand lifted her locks,
and, seeing the cross, wist that in very truth she was his daughter, and
tenderly wept and embraced her, albeit she withstood him; and then,
turning to Giacomino, he said:—‟My brother, the girl is my daughter;
‛twas my house that Guidotto sacked, and so sudden was the assault that
my wife, her mother, forgot her, and we have always hitherto supposed,
that, my house being burned that same day, she perished in the flames.”
Catching his words, and seeing that he was advanced in years, the girl
inclined to believe him, and impelled by some occult instinct, suffered
his embraces, and melting, mingled her tears with his. Bernabuccio
forthwith sent for her mother and her sisters and other kinswomen and

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her brothers, and having shewn her to them all, and told the story, after
they had done her great cheer and embraced her a thousand times, to
Giacomino’s no small delight, he brought her home with him. Which
coming to the ears of the Governor of the city, the worthy man, knowing
that Giannole, whom he had in ward, was Bernabuccio’s son and the
girl’s brother, made up his mind to deal leniently with Giannole:
wherefore he took upon himself the part of mediator in the affair, and
having made peace between Bernabuccio and Giacomino and Giannole
and Minghino, gave Agnesa—such was the damsel’s name—to Minghino
to wife, to the great delight of all Minghino’s kinsfolk, and set at liberty
not only Giannole and Minghino but Crivello, and the others their
confederates in the affair. Whereupon Minghino with the blithest of
hearts wedded Agnesa with all due pomp and circumstance, and
brought her home, where for many a year thereafter he lived with her in
peace and prosperity.

NOVEL VI.

— Gianni di Procida, being found with a damsel that he loves,

and who had been given to King Frederic, is bound with her to
a stake, so to be burned. He is recognized by Ruggieri dell’
Oria, is delivered, and marries her. —
Neifile’s story, with which the ladies were greatly delighted, being ended,
the queen called for one from Pampinea; who forthwith raised her noble
countenance, and thus began:—Mighty indeed, gracious ladies, are the
forces of Love, and great are the labours and excessive and unthought of
the perils which they induce lovers to brave; as is manifest enough by
what we have heard to-day and on other occasions: howbeit I mean to
shew you the same once more by a story of an enamoured youth.
Hard by Naples is the island of Ischia, in which there dwelt aforetime

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with other young damsels one, Restituta by name, daughter of one

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

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impossible to discover by whom she had been carried off. But Gianni,
more concerned than any other, despairing of finding her in Ischia, and
being apprised of the course the felucca had taken, equipped one
himself, and put to sea, and in hot haste scoured the whole coast from
Minerva to Scalea in Calabria, making everywhere diligent search for the
damsel, and in Scalea learned that she had been taken by Sicilian
mariners to Palermo. Whither, accordingly, he hied him with all speed;
and there after long search discovering that she had been given to the
King, who kept her at Cuba, he was sore troubled, insomuch that he now
scarce ventured to hope that he should ever set eyes on her, not to speak
of having her for his own, again. But still, holden by Love, and seeing
that none there knew him, he sent the felucca away, and tarried there,
and frequently passing by Cuba, he chanced one day to catch sight of her
at a window, and was seen of her, to their great mutual satisfaction. And
Gianni, taking note that the place was lonely, made up to her, and had
such speech of her as he might, and being taught by her after what
fashion he must proceed, if he would have further speech of her, he
departed, but not till he had made himself thoroughly acquainted with
the configuration of the place; and having waited until night was come
and indeed far spent, he returned thither, and though the ascent was
such that ‛twould scarce have afforded lodgment to a woodpecker, won
his way up and entered the garden, where, finding a pole, he set it
against the window which the damsel had pointed out as hers, and
thereby swarmed up easily enough.
The damsel had aforetime shewn herself somewhat distant towards
him, being careful of her honour, but now deeming it already lost, she
had bethought her that there was none to whom she might more
worthily give herself than to him; and reckoning upon inducing him to
carry her off, she had made up her mind to gratify his every desire; and
to that end had left the window open that his ingress might be
unimpeded. So, finding it open, Gianni softly entered, lay down beside

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the damsel, who was awake, and before they went further, opened to
him all her mind, beseeching him most earnestly to take her thence, and
carry her off. Gianni replied that there was nought that would give him
so much pleasure, and that without fail, upon leaving her, he would
make all needful arrangements for bringing her away when he next
came. Whereupon with exceeding great delight they embraced one
another, and plucked that boon than which Love has no greater to
bestow; and having so done divers times, they unwittingly fell asleep in
one another’s arms.
Now towards daybreak the King, who had been greatly charmed with
the damsel at first sight, happened to call her to mind, and feeling
himself fit, resolved, notwithstanding the hour, to go lie with her a
while; and so, attended by a few of his servants, he hied him privily to
Cuba. Having entered the house, he passed (the door being softly
opened) into the room in which he knew the damsel slept. A great
blazing torch was borne before him, and so, as he bent his glance on the
bed, he espied the damsel and Gianni lying asleep, naked and in one
another’s arms. Whereat he was seized with a sudden and vehement
passion of wrath, insomuch that, albeit he said never a word, he could
scarce refrain from slaying both of them there and then with a dagger
that he had with him. Then, bethinking him that ‛twere the depth of
baseness in any man—not to say a king—to slay two naked sleepers, he
mastered himself, and determined to do them to death in public and by
fire. Wherefore, turning to a single companion that he had with him, he
said:—‟What thinkest thou of this base woman, in whom I had placed
my hope?” And then he asked whether he knew the gallant, that had
presumed to enter his house to do him such outrage and despite.
Whereto the other replied that he minded not ever to have seen him.
Thereupon the King hied him out of the room in a rage, and bade take
the two lovers, naked as they were, and bind them, and, as soon as ‛twas
broad day, bring them to Palermo, and bind them back to back to a stake

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in the piazza, there to remain until tierce, that all might see them, after
which they were to be burned, as they had deserved. And having so
ordered, he went back to Palermo, and shut himself up in his room, very
wroth.
No sooner was he gone than there came unto the two lovers folk not a
few, who, having awakened them, did forthwith ruthlessly take and bind
them: whereat, how they did grieve and tremble for their lives, and weep
and bitterly bewail their fate, may readily be understood.
Pursuant to the King’s commandment they were brought to Palermo,
and bound to a stake in the piazza; and before their eyes faggots and fire
were made ready to burn them at the hour appointed by the King. Great
was the concourse of the folk of Palermo, both men and women, that
came to see the two lovers, the men all agog to feast their eyes on the
damsel, whom they lauded for shapeliness and loveliness, and no less
did the women commend the gallant, whom in like manner they
crowded to see, for the same qualities. Meanwhile the two hapless lovers,
both exceeding shamefast, stood with bent heads bitterly bewailing their
evil fortune, and momently expecting their death by the cruel fire. So
they awaited the time appointed by the King; but their offence being
bruited abroad, the tidings reached the ears of Ruggieri dell’ Oria, a man
of peerless worth, and at that time the King’s admiral, who, being
likewise minded to see them, came to the place where they were bound,
and after gazing on the damsel and finding her very fair, turned to look
at the gallant, whom with little trouble he recognized, and drawing
nearer to him, he asked him if he were Gianni di Procida. Gianni raised
his head, and recognizing the admiral, made answer:— ‟My lord, he, of
whom you speak, I was; but I am now as good as no more.” The admiral
then asked him what it was that had brought him to such a pass.
Whereupon:—‟Love and the King’s wrath,” quoth Gianni. The admiral
induced him to be more explicit, and having learned from him exactly
how it had come about, was turning away, when Gianni called him back,

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saying:—‟Oh! my lord, if so it may be, procure me one favour of him by

whose behest I thus stand here.” ‟What favour?” demanded Ruggieri. ‟I
see,” returned Gianni, ‟that die I must, and that right soon. I crave, then,
as a favour, that, whereas this damsel and I, that have loved one another
more dearly than life, are here set back to back, we may be set face to
face, that I may have the consolation of gazing on her face as I depart.”
Ruggieri laughed as he replied:—‟With all my heart. I will so order it
that thou shalt see enough of her to tire of her.” He then left him and
charged the executioners to do nothing more without further order of
the King; and being assured of their obedience, he hied him forthwith to
the King, to whom, albeit he found him in a wrathful mood, he spared
not to speak his mind, saying:—‟Sire, wherein have they wronged thee,
those two young folk, whom thou hast ordered to be burned down there
in the piazza?” The King told him. Whereupon Ruggieri continued:
—‟Their offence does indeed merit such punishment, but not at thy
hands, and if misdeeds should not go unpunished, services should not
go unrewarded; nay, may warrant indulgence and mercy. Knowest thou
who they are whom thou wouldst have burned?” The King signified that
he did not. Whereupon Ruggieri:—‟But I,” quoth he, ‟am minded that
thou shouldst know them, to the end that thou mayst know with what
discretion thou surrenderest thyself to a transport of rage. The young
man is the son of Landolfo di Procida, brother of Messer Gianni di
Procida, to whom thou owest it that thou art lord and king of this island.
The damsel is a daughter of Marin Bolgaro, whose might alone to-day
prevents Ischia from throwing off thy yoke. Moreover, these young folk
have long been lovers, and ‛tis for that the might of Love constrained
them, and not that they would do despite to thy lordship, that they have
committed this offence, if indeed ‛tis meet to call that an offence which
young folk do for Love’s sake. Wherefore, then, wouldst thou do them to
death, when thou shouldst rather do them all cheer, and honour them
with lordly gifts?” The King gave ear to Ruggieri’s words, and being

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satisfied that he spoke sooth, repented him, not only of his evil purpose,
but of what he had already done, and forthwith gave order to loose the
two young folk from the stake, and bring them before him; and so ‛twas
done. And having fully apprised himself of their case, he saw fit to make
them amends of the wrong he had done them with honours and largess.
Wherefore he caused them to be splendidly arrayed, and being assured
that they were both minded to wed, he himself gave Gianni his bride,
and loading them with rich presents, sent them well content back to
Ischia, where they were welcomed with all festal cheer, and lived long
time thereafter to their mutual solace and delight.

NOVEL VII.

— Teodoro, being enamoured of Violante, daughter of Messer

Amerigo, his lord, gets her with child, and is sentenced to the
gallows; but while he is being scourged thither, he is
recognized by his father, and being set at large, takes Violante
to wife. —
While they doubted whether the two lovers would be burned, the ladies
were all fear and suspense; but when they heard of their deliverance,
they all with one accord put on a cheerful countenance, praising God.
The story ended, the queen ordained that the next should be told by
Lauretta, who blithely thus began:—
Fairest ladies, what time good King Guglielmo ruled Sicily there
dwelt on the island a gentleman, Messer Amerigo Abate da Trapani by
name, who was well provided, as with other temporal goods, so also with
children. For which cause being in need of servants, he took occasion of
the appearance in Trapani waters of certain Genoese corsairs from the
Levant, who, scouring the coast of Armenia, had captured not a few
boys, to purchase of them some of these youngsters, supposing them to

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be Turks; among whom, albeit most shewed as mere shepherd boys,

there was one, Teodoro, by name, whose less rustic mien seemed to
betoken gentle blood. Who, though still treated as a slave, was suffered
to grow up in the house with Messer Amerigo’s children, and, nature
getting the better of circumstance, bore himself with such grace and
dignity that Messer Amerigo gladly gave him his freedom, and still
deeming him to be a Turk, had him baptized and named Pietro, and
made him his majordomo, and placed much trust in him. Now among
the other children that grew up in Messer Amerigo’s house was his fair
and dainty daughter, Violante; and, as her father was in no hurry to give
her in marriage, it so befell that she became enamoured of Pietro, but,
for all her love and the great conceit she had of his qualities and
conduct, she nevertheless was too shamefast to discover her passion to
him. However, Love spared her the pains, for Pietro had cast many a
furtive glance in her direction, and had grown so enamoured of her that
‛twas never well with him except he saw her; but great was his fear lest
any should detect his passion, for he deemed ‛twould be the worse for
him. The damsel, who was fain indeed of the sight of him, understood
his case; and to encourage him dissembled not her exceeding great
satisfaction. On which footing they remained a great while, neither
venturing to say aught to the other, much as both longed to do so. But,
while they both burned with a mutual flame, Fortune, as if their
entanglement were of her preordaining, found means to banish the fear
and hesitation that kept them tongue-tied.
Messer Amerigo possessed, a mile or so from Trapani, a goodly estate,
to which he was wont not seldom to resort with his daughter and other
ladies by way of recreation; and on one of these days, while there they
tarried with Pietro, whom they had brought with them, suddenly, as will
sometimes happen in summer, the sky became overcast with black
clouds, insomuch that the lady and her companions, lest the storm
should surprise them there, set out on their return to Trapani, making

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all the haste they might. But Pietro and the girl being young, and sped
perchance by Love no less than by fear of the storm, completely
outstripped her mother and the other ladies; and when they were gotten
so far ahead as to be well-nigh out of sight of the lady and all the rest, the
thunder burst upon them peal upon peal, hard upon which came a fall
of hail very thick and close, from which the lady sought shelter in the
house of a husbandman. Pietro and the damsel, finding no more
convenient refuge, betook them to an old, and all but ruinous, and now
deserted, cottage, which, however, still had a bit of roof left, whereunder
they both took their stand in such close quarters, owing to the exiguity
of the shelter, that they perforce touched one another. Which contact
was the occasion that they gathered somewhat more courage to disclose
their love; and so it was that Pietro began on this wise:—‟Now would to
God that this hail might never cease, that so I might stay here for ever!”
‟And well content were I,” returned the damsel. And by and by their
hands met, not without a tender pressure, and then they fell to
embracing and so to kissing one another, while the hail continued. And
not to dwell on every detail, the sky was not clear before they had known
the last degree of love’s felicity, and had taken thought how they might
secretly enjoy one another in the future. The cottage being close to the
city gate, they hied them thither, as soon as the storm was overpast, and
having there awaited the lady, returned home with her. Nor, using all
discretion, did they fail thereafter to meet from time to time in secret, to
their no small solace; and the affair went so far that the damsel
conceived, whereby they were both not a little disconcerted; insomuch
that the damsel employed many artifices to arrest the course of nature,
but to no effect. Wherefore Pietro, being in fear of his life, saw nothing
for it but flight, and told her so. Whereupon:—‟If thou leave me,” quoth
she, ‟I shall certainly kill myself.” Much as he loved her, Pietro answered:
—‟Nay but, my lady, wherefore wouldst thou have me tarry here? Thy
pregnancy will discover our offence: thou wilt be readily forgiven; but

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‛twill be my woeful lot to bear the penalty of thy sin and mine.” ‟Pietro,”
returned the damsel, ‟too well will they wot of my offence, but be sure
that, if thou confess not, none will ever wot of thine.” Then quoth he:
—‟Since thou givest me this promise, I will stay; but mind thou keep it.”
The damsel, who had done her best to keep her condition secret, saw
at length by the increase of her bulk that ‛twas impossible: wherefore
one day most piteously bewailing herself, she made her avowal to her
mother, and besought her to shield her from the consequences.
Distressed beyond measure, the lady chid her severely, and then asked
her how it had come to pass. The damsel, to screen Pietro, invented a
story by which she put another complexion on the affair. The lady
believed her, and, that her fall might not be discovered, took her off to
one of their estates; where, the time of her delivery being come, and she,
as women do in such a case, crying out for pain, it so befell that Messer
Amerigo, whom the lady expected not, as indeed he was scarce ever
wont, to come there, did so, having been out a hawking, and passing by
the chamber where the damsel lay, marvelled to hear her cries, and
forthwith entered, and asked what it meant. On sight of whom the lady
rose and sorrowfully gave him her daughter’s version of what had
befallen her. But he, less credulous than his wife, averred that it could
not be true that she knew not by whom she was pregnant, and was
minded to know the whole truth: let the damsel confess and she might
regain his favour; otherwise she must expect no mercy and prepare for
death.
The lady did all she could to induce her husband to rest satisfied with
what she had told him; but all to no purpose. Mad with rage, he rushed,
drawn sword in hand, to his daughter’s bedside (she, pending the parley,
having given birth to a boy) and cried out:—‟Declare whose this infant
is, or forthwith thou diest.” Overcome by fear of death, the damsel broke
her promise to Pietro, and made a clean breast of all that had passed
between him and her. Whereat the knight, grown fell with rage, could

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scarce refrain from slaying her. However, having given vent to his wrath
in such words as it dictated, he remounted his horse and rode to
Trapani, and there before one Messer Currado, the King’s lieutenant,
laid information of the wrong done him by Pietro, in consequence
whereof Pietro, who suspected nothing, was forthwith taken, and being
put to the torture, confessed all. Some days later the lieutenant
sentenced him to be scourged through the city, and then hanged by the
neck; and Messer Amerigo, being minded that one and the same hour
should rid the earth of the two lovers and their son (for to have
compassed Pietro’s death was not enough to appease his wrath),
mingled poison and wine in a goblet, and gave it to one of his servants
with a drawn sword, saying:—‟Get thee with this gear to Violante, and
tell her from me to make instant choice of one of these two deaths,
either the poison or the steel; else, I will have her burned, as she
deserves, in view of all the citizens; which done, thou wilt take the boy
that she bore a few days ago, and beat his brains out against the wall, and
cast his body for a prey to the dogs.”
Hearing the remorseless doom thus passed by the angry father upon
both his daughter and his grandson, the servant, prompt to do evil
rather than good, hied him thence.
Now, as Pietro in execution of his sentence was being scourged to the
gallows by the serjeants, ‛twas so ordered by the leaders of the band that
he passed by an inn, where were three noblemen of Armenia, sent by the
king of that country as ambassadors to Rome, to treat with the Pope of
matters of the highest importance, touching a crusade that was to be;
who, having there alighted to rest and recreate them for some days, had
received not a few tokens of honour from the nobles of Trapani, and
most of all from Messer Amerigo. Hearing the tramp of Pietro’s escort,
they came to a window to see what was toward; and one of them, an aged
man, and of great authority, Fineo by name, looking hard at Pietro, who
was stripped from the waist up, and had his hands bound behind his

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back, espied on his breast a great spot of scarlet, not laid on by art, but
wrought in the skin by operation of Nature, being such as the ladies here
call a rose. Which he no sooner saw, than he was reminded of a son that
had been stolen from him by corsairs on the coast of Lazistan some
fifteen years before, nor had he since been able to hear tidings of him;
and guessing the age of the poor wretch that was being scourged, he set
it down as about what his son’s would be, were he living, and, what with
the mark and the age, he began to suspect that ‛twas even his son, and
bethought him that, if so, he would scarce as yet have forgotten his name
or the speech of Armenia. Wherefore, as he was within earshot he called
to him:—‟Teodoro!” At the word Pietro raised his head: whereupon
Fineo, speaking in Armenian, asked him:—‟Whence and whose son art
thou?” The serjeants, that were leading him, paused in deference to the
great man, and so Pietro answered:—‟Of Armenia was I, son of one
Fineo, brought hither by folk I wot not of, when I was but a little child.”
Then Fineo, witting that in very truth ‛twas the boy that he had lost,
came down with his companions, weeping; and, all the serjeants making
way, he ran to him, and embraced him, and doffing a mantle of richest
texture that he wore, he prayed the captain of the band to be pleased to
tarry there until he should receive orders to go forward, and was
answered by the captain that he would willingly so wait.
Fineo already knew, for ‛twas bruited everywhere, the cause for which
Pietro was being led to the gallows; wherefore he straightway hied him
with his companions and their retinue to Messer Currado, and said to
him:—‟Sir, this lad, whom you are sending to the gallows like a slave, is
freeborn, and my son, and is ready to take to wife her whom, as ‛tis said,
he has deflowered; so please you, therefore, delay the execution until
such time as it may be understood whether she be minded to have him
for husband, lest, should she be so minded, you be found to have broken
the law.” Messer Currado marvelled to hear that Pietro was Fineo’s son,
and not without shame, albeit ‛twas not his but Fortune’s fault,

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confessed that ‛twas even as Fineo said: and having caused Pietro to be
taken home with all speed, and Messer Amerigo to be brought before
him, told him the whole matter. Messer Amerigo, who supposed that by
this time his daughter and grandson must be dead, was the saddest man
in the world to think that ‛twas by his deed, witting that, were the
damsel still alive, all might very easily be set right: however, he sent post
haste to his daughter’s abode, revoking his orders, if they were not yet
carried out. The servant, whom he had earlier despatched, had laid the
sword and poison before the damsel, and, for that she was in no hurry to
make her choice, was giving her foul words, and endeavouring to
constrain her thereto, when the messenger arrived; but on hearing the
injunction laid upon him by his lord, he desisted, and went back, and
told him how things stood. Whereupon Messer Amerigo, much relieved,
hied him to Fineo, and well-nigh weeping, and excusing himself for what
had befallen, as best he knew how, craved his pardon, and professed
himself well content to give Teodoro, so he were minded to have her, his
daughter to wife. Fineo readily accepted his excuses, and made answer:
—”‛Tis my will that my son espouse your daughter, and, so he will not,
let thy sentence passed upon him be carried out.”
So Fineo and Messer Amerigo being agreed, while Teodoro still
languished in fear of death, albeit he was glad at heart to have found his
father, they questioned him of his will in regard of this matter.
When he heard that, if he would, he might have Violante to wife,
Teodoro’s delight was such that he seemed to leap from hell to paradise,
and said that, if ‛twas agreeable to them all, he should deem it the
greatest of favours. So they sent to the damsel to learn her pleasure: who,
having heard how it had fared, and was now like to fare, with Teodoro,
albeit, saddest of women, she looked for nought but death, began at
length to give some credence to their words, and to recover heart a little,
and answered that, were she to follow the bent of her desire, nought that
could happen would delight her more than to be Teodoro’s wife; but

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nevertheless she would do as her father bade her.

So, all agreeing, the damsel was espoused with all pomp and festal
cheer, to the boundless delight of all the citizens, and was comforted,
and nurtured her little boy, and in no long time waxed more beautiful
than ever before; and, her confinement being ended, she presented
herself before Fineo, who was then about to quit Rome on his homeward
journey, and did him such reverence as is due to a father. Fineo, mighty
well pleased to have so fair a daughter-in-law, caused celebrate her
nuptials most bravely and gaily, and received, and did ever thereafter
entreat, her as his daughter.
And so he took her, not many days after the festivities were ended,
with his son and little grandson, aboard a galley, and brought them to
Lazistan, and there thenceforth the two lovers dwelt with him in easeful
and lifelong peace.

NOVEL VIII.

— Nastagio degli Onesti, loving a damsel of the Traversari

family, by lavish expenditure gains not her love. At the
instance of his kinsfolk he hies him to Chiassi, where he sees a
knight hunt a damsel and slay her and cause her to be
devoured by two dogs. He bids his kinsfolk and the lady that he
loves to breakfast. During the meal the said damsel is torn in
pieces before the eyes of the lady, who, fearing a like fate, takes
Nastagio to husband. —
Lauretta was no sooner silent than thus at the queen’s behest began
Filomena:—Sweet ladies, as in us pity has ever its meed of praise, even
so Divine justice suffers not our cruelty to escape severe chastisement:
the which that I may shew you, and thereby dispose you utterly to banish
that passion from your souls, I am minded to tell you a story no less

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touching than delightsome.

In Ravenna, that most ancient city of Romagna, there dwelt of yore
noblemen and gentlemen not a few, among whom was a young man,
Nastagio degli Onesti by name, who by the death of his father and one
of his uncles inherited immense wealth. Being without a wife, Nastagio,
as ‛tis the way with young men, became enamoured of a daughter of
Messer Paolo Traversaro, a damsel of much higher birth than his, whose
love he hoped to win by gifts and the like modes of courting, which,
albeit they were excellent and fair and commendable, not only availed
him not, but seemed rather to have the contrary effect, so harsh and
ruthless and unrelenting did the beloved damsel shew herself towards
him; for whether it was her uncommon beauty or her noble lineage that
puffed her up, so haughty and disdainful was she grown that pleasure
she had none either in him or in aught that pleased him. The burden of
which disdain Nastagio found so hard to bear, that many a time, when
he had made his moan, he longed to make away with himself. However
he refrained therefrom, and many a time resolved to give her up
altogether, or, if so he might, to hold her in despite, as she did him: but
‛twas all in vain, for it seemed as if, the more his hope dwindled, the
greater grew his love. And, as thus he continued, loving and spending
inordinately, certain of his kinsfolk and friends, being apprehensive lest
he should waste both himself and his substance, did many a time
counsel and beseech him to depart Ravenna, and go tarry for a time
elsewhere, that so he might at once cool his flame and reduce his
charges. For a long while Nastagio answered their admonitions with
banter; but as they continued to ply him with them, he grew weary of
saying no so often, and promised obedience. Whereupon he equipped
himself as if for a journey to France or Spain, or other distant parts, got
on horseback and sallied forth of Ravenna, accompanied by not a few of
his friends, and being come to a place called Chiassi, about three miles
from Ravenna, he halted, and having sent for tents and pavilions, told

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his companions that there he meant to stay, and they might go back to
Ravenna. So Nastagio pitched his camp, and there commenced to live
after as fine and lordly a fashion as did ever any man, bidding divers of
his friends from time to time to breakfast or sup with him, as he had
been wont to do. Now it so befell that about the beginning of May, the
season being very fine, he fell a brooding on the cruelty of his mistress,
and, that his meditations might be the less disturbed, he bade all his
servants leave him, and sauntered slowly, wrapt in thought, as far as the
pinewood. Which he had threaded for a good half-mile, when, the fifth
hour of the day being well-nigh past, yet he recking neither of food nor
of aught else, ‛twas as if he heard a woman wailing exceedingly and
uttering most piercing shrieks: whereat, the train of his sweet
melancholy being broken, he raised his head to see what was toward,
and wondered to find himself in the pinewood; and saw, moreover,
before him running through a grove, close set with underwood and
brambles, towards the place where he was, a damsel most comely, stark
naked, her hair dishevelled, and her flesh all torn by the briers and
brambles, who wept and cried piteously for mercy; and at her flanks he
saw two mastiffs, exceeding great and fierce, that ran hard upon her
track, and not seldom came up with her and bit her cruelly; and in the
rear he saw, riding a black horse, a knight sadly accoutred, and very
wrathful of mien, carrying a rapier in his hand, and with despiteful,
blood-curdling words threatening her with death. Whereat he was at
once amazed and appalled, and then filled with compassion for the
hapless lady, whereof was bred a desire to deliver her, if so he might,
from such anguish and peril of death. Wherefore, as he was unarmed, he
ran and took in lieu of a cudgel a branch of a tree, with which he
prepared to encounter the dogs and the knight. Which the knight
observing, called to him before he was come to close quarters, saying:
—‟Hold off, Nastagio, leave the dogs and me alone to deal with this vile
woman as she has deserved.” And, even as he spoke, the dogs gripped the

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damsel so hard on either flank that they arrested her flight, and the
knight, being come up, dismounted. Whom Nastagio approached,
saying:—‟I know not who thou art, that knowest me so well, but thus
much I tell thee: ‛tis a gross outrage for an armed knight to go about to
kill a naked woman, and set his dogs upon her as if she were a wild
beast: rest assured that I shall do all I can to protect her.” Whereupon:
—‟Nastagio,” replied the knight, ‟of the same city as thou was I, and
thou wast yet a little lad when I, Messer Guido degli Anastagi by name,
being far more enamoured of this damsel than thou art now of her of the
Traversari, was by her haughtiness and cruelty brought to so woeful a
pass that one day in a fit of despair I slew myself with this rapier which
thou seest in my hand; for which cause I am condemned to the eternal
pains. Nor was it long after my death that she, who exulted therein over
measure, also died, and for that she repented her not of her cruelty and
the joy she had of my sufferings, for which she took not blame to herself,
but merit, was likewise condemned to the pains of hell. Nor had she
sooner made her descent, than for her pain and mine ‛twas ordained,
that she should flee before me, and that I, who so loved her, should
pursue her, not as my beloved lady, but as my mortal enemy, and so, as
often as I come up with her, I slay her with this same rapier with which I
slew myself, and having ripped her up by the back, I take out that hard
and cold heart, to which neither love nor pity had ever access, and
therewith her other inward parts, as thou shalt forthwith see, and cast
them to these dogs to eat. And in no long time, as the just and mighty
God decrees, she rises even as if she had not died, and recommences her
dolorous flight, I and the dogs pursuing her. And it so falls out that every
Friday about this hour I here come up with her, and slaughter her as
thou shalt see; but ween not that we rest on other days; for there are
other places in which I overtake her, places in which she used, or devised
how she might use, me cruelly; on which wise, changed as thou seest
from her lover into her foe, I am to pursue her for years as many as the

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months during which she shewed herself harsh to me. Wherefore leave
me to execute the decree of the Divine justice, and presume not to
oppose that which thou mayst not avail to withstand.”
Affrighted by the knight’s words, insomuch that there was scarce a
hair on his head but stood on end, Nastagio shrank back, still gazing on
the hapless damsel, and waited all a tremble to see what the knight
would do. Nor had he long to wait; for the knight, as soon as he had
done speaking, sprang, rapier in hand, like a mad dog upon the damsel,
who, kneeling, while the two mastiffs gripped her tightly, cried him
mercy; but the knight, thrusting with all his force, struck her between
the breasts, and ran her clean through the body. Thus stricken, the
damsel fell forthwith prone on the ground sobbing and shrieking:
whereupon the knight drew forth a knife, and having therewith opened
her in the back, took out the heart and all the circumjacent parts, and
threw them to the two mastiffs, who, being famished, forthwith
devoured them. And in no long time the damsel, as if nought thereof
had happened, started to her feet, and took to flight towards the sea,
pursued, and ever and anon bitten, by the dogs, while the knight, having
gotten him to horse again, followed them as before, rapier in hand; and
so fast sped they that they were quickly lost to Nastagio’s sight.
Long time he stood musing on what he had seen, divided between
pity and terror, and then it occurred to him that, as this passed every
Friday, it might avail him not a little. So, having marked the place, he
rejoined his servants, and in due time thereafter sent for some of his
kinsfolk and friends, and said to them:—”‛Tis now a long while that you
urge me to give up loving this lady that is no friend to me, and therewith
make an end of my extravagant way of living; and I am now ready so to
do, provided you procure me one favour, to wit, that next Friday Messer
Paolo Traversaro, and his wife and daughter, and all the ladies, their
kinswomen, and as many other ladies as you may be pleased to bid,
come hither to breakfast with me: when you will see for yourselves the

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reason why I so desire.” A small matter this seemed to them; and so, on
their return to Ravenna, they lost no time in conveying Nastagio’s
message to his intended guests: and, albeit she was hardly persuaded,
yet in the end the damsel that Nastagio loved came with the rest.
Nastagio caused a lordly breakfast to be prepared, and had the tables
set under the pines about the place where he had witnessed the
slaughter of the cruel lady; and in ranging the ladies and gentlemen at
table he so ordered it, that the damsel whom he loved was placed
opposite the spot where it should be enacted. The last course was just
served, when the despairing cries of the hunted damsel became audible
to all, to their no small amazement; and each asking, and none knowing,
what it might import, up they all started intent to see what was toward;
and perceived the suffering damsel, and the knight and the dogs, who in
a trice were in their midst. They hollaed amain to dogs and knight, and
not a few advanced to succour the damsel: but the words of the knight,
which were such as he had used to Nastagio, caused them to fall back,
terror-stricken and lost in amazement. And when the knight proceeded
to do as he had done before, all the ladies that were there, many of
whom were of kin to the suffering damsel and to the knight, and called
to mind his love and death, wept as bitterly as if ‛twere their own case.
When ‛twas all over, and the lady and the knight had disappeared,
the strange scene set those that witnessed it pondering many and divers
matters: but among them all none was so appalled as the cruel damsel
that Nastagio loved, who, having clearly seen and heard all that had
passed, and being ware that it touched her more nearly than any other
by reason of the harshness that she had ever shewn to Nastagio, seemed
already to be fleeing from her angered lover, and to have the mastiffs on
her flanks. And so great was her terror that, lest a like fate should befall
her, she converted her aversion into affection, and as soon as occasion
served, which was that very night, sent a trusty chambermaid privily to
Nastagio with a request that he would be pleased to come to her, for that

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she was ready in all respects to pleasure him to the full. Nastagio made
answer that he was greatly flattered, but that he was minded with her
consent to have his pleasure of her in an honourable way, to wit, by
marrying her. The damsel, who knew that none but herself was to blame
that she was not already Nastagio’s wife, made answer that she
consented. Wherefore by her own mouth she acquainted her father and
mother that she agreed to marry Nastagio; and, they heartily approving
her choice, Nastagio wedded her on the ensuing Sunday, and lived
happily with her many a year. Nor was it in her instance alone that this
terror was productive of good: on the contrary, it so wrought among the
ladies of Ravenna that they all became, and have ever since been, much
more compliant with men’s desires than they had been wont to be.

NOVEL IX.

— Federigo degli Alberighi loves and is not loved in return: he

wastes his substance by lavishness until nought is left but a
single falcon, which, his lady being come to see him at his
house, he gives her to eat: she, knowing his case, changes her
mind, takes him to husband and makes him rich. —
So ended Filomena; and the queen, being ware that besides herself only
Dioneo (by virtue of his privilege) was left to speak, said with gladsome
mien:—‛Tis now for me to take up my parable; which, dearest ladies, I
will do with a story like in some degree to the foregoing, and that, not
only that you may know how potent are your charms to sway the gentle
heart, but that you may also learn how upon fitting occasions to make
bestowal of your guerdons of your own accord, instead of always waiting
for the guidance of Fortune, which most times, not wisely, but without
rule or measure, scatters her gifts.
You are then to know, that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi, a man that

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in our day was, and perchance still is, had in respect and great reverence
in our city, being not only by reason of his noble lineage, but, and yet
more, for manners and merit most illustrious and worthy of eternal
renown, was in his old age not seldom wont to amuse himself by
discoursing of things past with his neighbours and other folk; wherein
he had not his match for accuracy and compass of memory and
concinnity of speech. Among other good stories, he would tell, how that
there was of yore in Florence a gallant named Federigo di Messer Filippo
Alberighi, who for feats of arms and courtesy had not his peer in
Tuscany; who, as is the common lot of gentlemen, became enamoured of
a lady named Monna Giovanna, who in her day held rank among the
fairest and most elegant ladies of Florence; to gain whose love he
jousted, tilted, gave entertainments, scattered largess, and in short set
no bounds to his expenditure. However the lady, no less virtuous than
fair, cared not a jot for what he did for her sake, nor yet for him.
Spending thus greatly beyond his means, and making nothing,
Federigo could hardly fail to come to lack, and was at length reduced to
such poverty that he had nothing left but a little estate, on the rents of
which he lived very straitly, and a single falcon, the best in the world.
The estate was at Campi, and thither, deeming it no longer possible for
him to live in the city as he desired, he repaired, more in love than ever
before; and there, in complete seclusion, diverting himself with
hawking, he bore his poverty as patiently as he might.
Now, Federigo being thus reduced to extreme poverty, it so happened
that one day Monna Giovanna’s husband, who was very rich, fell ill, and,
seeing that he was nearing his end, made his will, whereby he left his
estate to his son, who was now growing up, and in the event of his death
without lawful heir named Monna Giovanna, whom he dearly loved,
heir in his stead; and having made these dispositions he died.
Monna Giovanna, being thus left a widow, did as our ladies are wont,
and repaired in the summer to one of her estates in the country which

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

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about some small matters which needed to be set right there. When he
heard that Monna Giovanna was at the door, asking to see him, he was
not a little surprised and pleased, and hied him to her with all speed. As
soon as she saw him, she came forward to meet him with womanly grace,
and having received his respectful salutation, said to him:—‟Good
morrow, Federigo,” and continued:—‟I am come to requite thee for what
thou hast lost by loving me more than thou shouldst: which
compensation is this, that I and this lady that accompanies me will
breakfast with thee without ceremony this morning.” ‟Madam,” Federigo
replied with all humility, ‟I mind not ever to have lost aught by loving
you, but rather to have been so much profited that, if I ever deserved
well in aught, ‛twas to your merit that I owed it, and to the love that I
bore you. And of a surety had I still as much to spend as I have spent in
the past, I should not prize it so much as this visit you so frankly pay me,
come as you are to one who can afford you but a sorry sort of hospitality.”
Which said, with some confusion, he bade her welcome to his house,
and then led her into his garden, where, having none else to present to
her by way of companion, he said:—‟Madam, as there is none other
here, this good woman, wife of this husbandman, will bear you
company, while I go to have the table set.” Now, albeit his poverty was
extreme, yet he had not known as yet how sore was the need to which
his extravagance had reduced him; but this morning ‛twas brought
home to him, for that he could find nought wherewith to do honour to
the lady, for love of whom he had done the honours of his house to men
without number: wherefore, distressed beyond measure, and inwardly
cursing his evil fortune, he sped hither and thither like one beside
himself, but never a coin found he, nor yet aught to pledge. Meanwhile it
grew late, and sorely he longed that the lady might not leave his house
altogether unhonoured, and yet to crave help of his own husbandman
was more than his pride could brook. In these desperate straits his
glance happened to fall on his brave falcon on his perch in his little

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parlour. And so, as a last resource, he took him, and finding him plump,
deemed that he would make a dish meet for such a lady. Wherefore,
without thinking twice about it, he wrung the bird’s neck, and caused
his maid forthwith pluck him and set him on a spit, and roast him
carefully; and having still some spotless table linen, he had the table laid
therewith, and with a cheerful countenance hied him back to his lady in
the garden, and told her that such breakfast as he could give her was
ready. So the lady and her companion rose and came to table, and there,
with Federigo, who waited on them most faithfully, ate the brave falcon,
knowing not what they ate.
When they were risen from table, and had dallied a while in gay
converse with him, the lady deemed it time to tell the reason of her visit:
wherefore, graciously addressing Federigo, thus began she:—‟Federigo,
by what thou rememberest of thy past life and my virtue, which,
perchance, thou hast deemed harshness and cruelty, I doubt not thou
must marvel at my presumption, when thou hearest the main purpose of
my visit; but if thou hadst sons, or hadst had them, so that thou
mightest know the full force of the love that is borne them, I should
make no doubt that thou wouldst hold me in part excused. Nor, having a
son, may I, for that thou hast none, claim exemption from the laws to
which all other mothers are subject, and, being thus bound to own their
sway, I must, though fain were I not, and though ‛tis neither meet nor
right, crave of thee that which I know thou dost of all things and with
justice prize most highly, seeing that this extremity of thy adverse
fortune has left thee nought else wherewith to delight, divert and
console thee; which gift is no other than thy falcon, on which my boy has
so set his heart that, if I bring him it not, I fear lest he grow so much
worse of the malady that he has, that thereby it may come to pass that I
lose him. And so, not for the love which thou dost bear me, and which
may nowise bind thee, but for that nobleness of temper, whereof in
courtesy more conspicuously than in aught else thou hast given proof, I

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

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elicited no small share of inward commendation. Then, frustrate of her

hope of possessing the falcon, and doubting of her son’s recovery, she
took her leave with the heaviest of hearts, and hied her back to the boy:
who, whether for fretting, that he might not have the falcon, or by the
unaided energy of his disorder, departed this life not many days after, to
the exceeding great grief of his mother. For a while she would do nought
but weep and bitterly bewail herself; but being still young, and left very
wealthy, she was often urged by her brothers to marry again, and though
she would rather have not done so, yet being importuned, and
remembering Federigo’s high desert, and the magnificent generosity
with which he had finally killed his falcon to do her honour, she said to
her brothers:—‟Gladly, with your consent, would I remain a widow, but
if you will not be satisfied except I take a husband, rest assured that
none other will I ever take save Federigo degli Alberighi.” Whereupon
her brothers derided her, saying:—‟Foolish woman, what is’t thou sayst?
How shouldst thou want Federigo, who has not a thing in the world?” To
whom she answered:—‟My brothers, well wot I that ‛tis as you say; but I
had rather have a man without wealth than wealth without a man.” The
brothers, perceiving that her mind was made up, and knowing Federigo
for a good man and true, poor though he was, gave her to him with all
her wealth. And so Federigo, being mated with such a wife, and one that
he had so much loved, and being very wealthy to boot, lived happily,
keeping more exact accounts, to the end of his days.

NOVEL X.

— Pietro di Vinciolo goes from home to sup: his wife brings a

boy into the house to bear her company: Pietro returns, and
she hides her gallant under a hen-coop: Pietro explains that in
the house of Ercolano, with whom he was to have supped,
there was discovered a young man bestowed there by

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Ercolano’s wife: the lady thereupon censures Ercolano’s wife:

but unluckily an ass treads on the fingers of the boy that is
hidden under the hen-coop, so that he cries for pain: Pietro
runs to the place, sees him, and apprehends the trick played on
him by his wife, which nevertheless he finally condones, for
that he is not himself free from blame. —
When the queen had done speaking, and all had praised God that He
had worthily rewarded Federigo, Dioneo, who never waited to be
bidden, thus began:—I know not whether I am to term it a vice
accidental and superinduced by bad habits in us mortals, or whether it
be a fault seated in nature, that we are more prone to laugh at things
dishonourable than at good deeds, and that more especially when they
concern not ourselves. However, as the sole scope of all my efforts has
been and still shall be to dispel your melancholy, and in lieu thereof to
minister to you laughter and jollity; therefore, enamoured my damsels,
albeit the ensuing story is not altogether free from matter that is scarce
seemly, yet, as it may afford you pleasure, I shall not fail to relate it;
premonishing you my hearers, that you take it with the like discretion as
when, going into your gardens, you stretch forth your delicate hands and
cull the roses, leaving the thorns alone: which, being interpreted, means
that you will leave the caitiff husband to abide in sorry plight with his
dishonour, and will gaily laugh at the amorous wiles or his wife, and
commiserate her unfortunate gallant, when occasion requires.
‛Tis no great while since there dwelt at Perugia a rich man named
Pietro di Vinciolo, who rather, perchance, to blind others and mitigate
the evil repute in which he was held by the citizens of Perugia, than for
any desire to wed, took a wife: and such being his motive, Fortune
provided him with just such a spouse as he merited. For the wife of his
choice was a stout, red-haired young woman, and so hot-blooded that
two husbands would have been more to her mind than one, whereas one

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fell to her lot that gave her only a subordinate place in his regard. Which
she perceiving, while she knew herself to be fair and lusty, and felt
herself to be gamesome and fit, waxed very wroth, and now and again
had high words with her husband, and led but a sorry life with him at
most times. Then, seeing that thereby she was more like to fret herself
than to dispose her husband to conduct less base, she said to herself:—
This poor creature deserts me to go walk in pattens in the dry; wherefore
it shall go hard but I will bring another aboard the ship for the wet
weather. I married him, and brought him a great and goodly dowry,
knowing that he was a man, and supposing him to have the desires
which men have and ought to have; and had I not deemed him to be a
man, I should never have married him. He knew me to be a woman: why
then took he me to wife, if women were not to his mind? ‛Tis not to be
endured. Had I not been minded to live in the world, I had become a
nun; and being minded there to live, as I am, if I am to wait until I have
pleasure or solace of him, I shall wait perchance until I am old; and then,
too late, I shall bethink me to my sorrow that I have wasted my youth;
and as to the way in which I should seek its proper solace I need no
better teacher and guide than him, who finds his delight where I should
find mine, and finds it to his own condemnation, whereas in me ‛twere
commendable. ‛Tis but the laws that I shall set at nought, whereas he
sets both them and Nature herself at nought.
So the good lady reasoned, and peradventure more than once; and
then, casting about how she might privily compass her end, she made
friends with an old beldam, that shewed as a veritable Santa Verdiana,
foster-mother of vipers, who was ever to be seen going to pardonings
with a parcel of paternosters in her hand, and talked of nothing but the
lives of the holy Fathers, and the wounds of St. Francis, and was
generally reputed a saint; to whom in due time she opened her whole
mind. ‟My daughter,” replied the beldam, ‟God, who knows all things,
knows that thou wilt do very rightly indeed: were it for no other reason,

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‛twould be meet for thee and every other young woman so to do, that the
heyday of youth be not wasted; for there is no grief like that of knowing
that it has been wasted. And what the devil are we women fit for when
we are old except to pore over the cinders on the hearth? The which if
any know, and may attest it, ‛tis I, who, now that I am old, call to mind
the time that I let slip from me, not without most sore and bitter and
fruitless regret: and albeit ‛twas not all wasted, for I would not have thee
think that I was entirely without sense, yet I did not make the best use of
it: whereof when I bethink me, and that I am now, even as thou seest
me, such a hag that never a spark of fire may I hope to get from any, God
knows how I rue it. Now with men ‛tis otherwise: they are born meet for
a thousand uses, not for this alone; and the more part of them are of
much greater consequence in old age than in youth: but women are fit
for nought but this, and ‛tis but for that they bear children that they are
cherished. Whereof, if not otherwise, thou mayst assure thyself, if thou
do but consider that we are ever ready for it; which is not the case with
men; besides which, one woman will tire out many men without being
herself tired out. Seeing then that ‛tis for this we are born, I tell thee
again that thou wilt do very rightly to give thy husband thy loaf for his
cake, that in thy old age thy soul may have no cause of complaint against
thy flesh. Every one has just as much of this life as he appropriates: and
this is especially true of women, whom therefore it behoves, much more
than men, to seize the moment as it flies: indeed, as thou mayst see for
thyself, when we grow old neither husband, nor any other man will spare
us a glance; but, on the contrary, they banish us to the kitchen, there to
tell stories to the cat, and to count the pots and pans; or, worse, they
make rhymes about us:—‛To the damsel dainty bits; to the beldam ague-
fits;’ and such-like catches. But to make no more words about it, I tell
thee at once that there is no person in the world to whom thou couldst
open thy mind with more advantage than to me; for there is no
gentleman so fine but I dare speak my mind to him, nor any so harsh

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and forbidding but I know well how to soften him and fashion him to
my will. Tell me only what thou wouldst have, and leave the rest to me:
but one word more: I pray thee to have me in kindly remembrance, for
that I am poor; and thou shalt henceforth go shares with me in all my
indulgences and every paternoster that I say, that God may make thereof
light and tapers for thy dead:” wherewith she ended.
So the lady came to an understanding with the beldam, that, as soon
as she set eyes on a boy that often came along that street, and of whom
the lady gave her a particular description, she would know what she was
to do: and thereupon the lady gave her a chunk of salt meat, and bade
her God-speed. The beldam before long smuggled into the lady’s
chamber the boy of whom she had spoken, and not long after another,
such being the humour of the lady, who, standing in perpetual dread of
her husband, was disposed, in this particular, to make the most of her
opportunities. And one of these days, her husband being to sup in the
evening with a friend named Ercolano, the lady bade the beldam bring
her a boy as pretty and dainty as was to be found in Perugia; and so the
beldam forthwith did. But the lady and the boy being set at table to sup,
lo, Pietro’s voice was heard at the door, bidding open to him.
Whereupon the lady gave herself up for dead; but being fain, if she
might, to screen the boy, and knowing not where else to convey or
conceal him, bestowed him under a hen-coop that stood in a veranda
hard by the chamber in which they were supping, and threw over it a
sorry mattress that she had that day emptied of its straw; which done
she hastened to open the door to her husband; saying to him as he
entered:—‟You have gulped your supper mighty quickly to-night.”
Whereto Pietro replied:—‟We have not so much as tasted it.” ‟How so?”
enquired the lady. ‟I will tell thee,” said Pietro. ‟No sooner were we set at
table, Ercolano, his wife, and I, than we heard a sneeze close to us, to
which, though ‛twas repeated, we paid no heed; but as the sneezer
continued to sneeze a third, a fourth, a fifth, and many another time to

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boot, we all began to wonder, and Ercolano, who was somewhat out of
humour with his wife, because she had kept us a long time at the door
before she opened it, burst out in a sort of rage with:—‛What means
this? Who is’t that thus sneezes?’ and made off to a stair hard by,
beneath which and close to its foot was a wooden closet, of the sort
which, when folk are furnishing their houses, they commonly cause to
be placed there, to stow things in upon occasion. And as it seemed to
him that the sneezing proceeded thence, he undid the wicket, and no
sooner had he opened it than out flew never so strong a stench of
brimstone; albeit we had already been saluted by a whiff of it, and
complained thereof, but had been put off by the lady with:—’ ‛Tis but
that a while ago I bleached my veils with brimstone, having sprinkled it
on a dish, that they might catch its fumes, which dish I then placed
under the stair, so that it still smells a little.’
‟However the door being now, as I have said, open, and the smoke
somewhat less dense, Ercolano, peering in, espied the fellow that had
sneezed, and who still kept sneezing, being thereto constrained by the
pungency of the brimstone. And for all he sneezed, yet was he by this
time so well-nigh choked with the brimstone that he was like neither to
sneeze nor to do aught else again. As soon as he caught sight of him,
Ercolano bawled out:—‛Now see I, Madam, why it was that a while ago,
when we came here, we were kept waiting so long at the gate before
‛twas opened; but woe betide me for the rest of my days, if I pay you not
out.’ Whereupon the lady, perceiving that her offence was discovered,
ventured no excuse, but fled from the table, whither I know not.
Ercolano, ignoring his wife’s flight, bade the sneezer again and again to
come forth; but he, being by this time fairly spent, budged not an inch
for aught that Ercolano said. Wherefore Ercolano caught him by one of
his feet, and dragged him forth, and ran off for a knife with intent to kill
him; but I, standing in fear of the Signory on my own account, got up
and would not suffer him to kill the fellow or do him any hurt, and for

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

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Now so it was that some of Pietro’s husbandmen had come to the

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

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delinquencies of others: would that fire might fall from heaven and burn
you all, brood of iniquity that ye are!”
The lady, marking that in the first flush of his wrath he had given her
nothing worse than hard words, and discerning, as she thought, that he
was secretly overjoyed to hold so beautiful a boy by the hand, took heart
of grace and said:—‟I doubt not indeed that thou wouldst be well
pleased that fire should fall from heaven and devour us all, seeing that
thou art as fond of us as a dog is of the stick, though by the Holy Rood
thou wilt be disappointed; but I would fain have a little argument with
thee, to know whereof thou complainest. Well indeed were it with me,
didst thou but place me on an equality with Ercolano’s wife, who is an
old sanctimonious hypocrite, and has of him all that she wants, and is
cherished by him as a wife should be: but that is not my case. For,
granted that thou givest me garments and shoes to my mind, thou
knowest how otherwise ill bested I am, and how long it is since last thou
didst lie with me; and far liefer had I go barefoot and in rags, and have
thy benevolence abed, than have all that I have, and be treated as thou
dost treat me. Understand me, Pietro, be reasonable; consider that I am
a woman like other women, with the like craving; whereof if thou deny
me the gratification, ‛tis no blame to me that I seek it elsewhere; and at
least I do thee so much honour as not forgather with stable-boys or
scurvy knaves.”
Pietro perceived that she was like to continue in this vein the whole
night: wherefore, indifferent as he was to her, he said:—‟Now, Madam,
no more of this; in the matter of which thou speakest I will content thee;
but of thy great courtesy let us have something to eat by way of supper;
for, methinks, the boy, as well as I, has not yet supped.” ‟Ay, true
enough,” said the lady, ‟he has not supped; for we were but just sitting
down to table to sup, when, beshrew thee, thou madest thy appearance.”
‟Go then,” said Pietro, ‟get us some supper; and by and by I will arrange
this affair in such a way that thou shalt have no more cause of

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complaint.” The lady, perceiving that her husband was now tranquil,
rose, and soon had the table laid again and spread with the supper
which she had ready; and so they made a jolly meal of it, the caitiff
husband, the lady and the boy. What after supper Pietro devised for their
mutual satisfaction has slipped from my memory. But so much as this I
know, that on the morrow as he wended his way to the piazza, the boy
would have been puzzled to say, whether of the twain, the wife or the
husband, had had the most of his company during the night. But this I
would say to you, dear my ladies, that whoso gives you tit, why, just give
him tat; and if you cannot do it at once, why, bear it in mind until you
can, that even as the ass gives, so he may receive.
Dioneo’s story, whereat the ladies laughed the less for shamefastness
rather than for disrelish, being ended, the queen, taking note that the
term of her sovereignty was come, rose to her feet, and took off the
laurel wreath and set it graciously upon Elisa’s head, saying:—‟Madam,
‛tis now your turn to bear sway.” The dignity accepted, Elisa followed in
all respects the example of her predecessors: she first conferred with the
seneschal, and directed him how meetly to order all things during the
time of her sovereignty; which done to the satisfaction of the company:
—‟Ofttimes,” quoth she, ‟have we heard how with bright sallies, and
ready retorts, and sudden devices, not a few have known how to repugn
with apt checks the bites of others, or to avert imminent perils; and
because ‛tis an excellent argument, and may be profitable, I ordain that
to-morrow, God helping us, the following be the rule of our discourse; to
wit, that it be of such as by some sprightly sally have repulsed an attack,
or by some ready retort or device have avoided loss, peril or scorn.” The
rule being heartily approved by all, the queen rose and dismissed them
till supper-time. So the honourable company, seeing the queen risen,
rose all likewise, and as their wont was, betook them to their diversions
as to each seemed best. But when the cicalas had hushed their chirping,
all were mustered again for supper; and having blithely feasted, they all

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addressed them to song and dance. And the queen, while Emilia led a
dance, called for a song from Dioneo, who at once came out with:
—‛Monna Aldruda, come perk up thy mood, a piece of glad tidings I
bring thee.’ Whereat all the ladies fell a laughing, and most of all the
queen, who bade him give them no more of that, but sing another.
Quoth Dioneo:—‟Madam, had I a tabret, I would sing:—‛Up with your
smock, Monna Lapa!’ or:—‛Oh! the greensward under the olive!’ Or
perchance you had liefer I should give you:—‛Woe is me, the wave of the
sea!’ But no tabret have I: wherefore choose which of these others you
will have. Perchance you would like:—‛Now hie thee to us forth, that so
it may be cut, as May the fields about.’” ‟No,” returned the queen, ‟give us
another.” ‟Then,” said Dioneo, ‟I will sing:—‛Monna Simona, embarrel,
embarrel. Why, ‛tis not the month of October.’”42 ‟Now a plague upon
thee,” said the queen, with a laugh; ‟give us a proper song, wilt thou? for
we will have none of these.” ‟Never fear, Madam,” replied Dioneo; ‟only
say which you prefer. I have more than a thousand songs by heart.
Perhaps you would like:—‛This my little covert, make I ne’er it overt’; or:
—‛Gently, gently, husband mine’; or:—‛A hundred pounds were none too
high a price for me a cock to buy.’” The queen now shewed some offence,
though the other ladies laughed, and:—‟A truce to thy jesting, Dioneo,”
said she, ‟and give us a proper song: else thou mayst prove the quality of
my ire.” Whereupon Dioneo forthwith ceased his fooling, and sang on
this wise:—
So ravishing a light
Doth from the fair eyes of my mistress move
As keeps me slave to her and thee, O Love.

A beam from those bright orbs did radiate

That flame that through mine own eyes to my breast
Did whilom entrance gain.
42 The song is evidently amoebean.

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Thy majesty, O Love, thy might, how great

They be, ‛twas her fair face did manifest:
Whereon to brood still fain,
I felt thee take and chain
Each sense, my soul enthralling on such wise
That she alone henceforth evokes my sighs.

Wherefore, O dear my Lord, myself I own

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

And so I pray thee, sweet my Lord, that thou

Give her to feel thy fire, and shew her plain
How grievous my disease.
This service deign to render; for that now
Thou seest me waste for love, and in the pain
Dissolve me by degrees:
And then the apt moment seize
My cause to plead with her, as is but due
From thee to me, who fain with thee would sue.
When Dioneo’s silence shewed that his song was ended, the queen
accorded it no stinted meed of praise; after which she caused not a few
other songs to be sung. Thus passed some part of the night; and then the
queen, taking note that its freshness had vanquished the heat of the day,
bade all go rest them, if they would, till the morning.

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— Endeth here the fifth day of the Decameron, beginneth the

sixth, wherein, under the rule of Elisa, discourse is had of such
as by some sprightly sally have repulsed an attack, or by some
ready retort or device have avoided loss, peril or scorn. —
Still in mid heaven, the moon had lost her radiance, nor was any part
of our world unillumined by the fresh splendour of the dawn, when, the
queen being risen and having mustered her company, they hied them,
gently sauntering, across the dewy mead some distance from the
beautiful hill, conversing now of this, now of the other matter,
canvassing the stories, their greater or less degree of beauty, and
laughing afresh at divers of their incidents, until, the sun being now in
his higher ascendant, they began to feel his heat, and turning back by
common consent, retraced their steps to the palace, where, the tables
being already set, and fragrant herbs and fair flowers strewn all about,
they by the queen’s command, before it should grow hotter, addressed
themselves to their meal. So, having blithely breakfasted, they first of all
sang some dainty and jocund ditties, and then, as they were severally
minded, composed them to sleep or sat them down to chess or dice,
while Dioneo and Lauretta fell a singing of Troilus and Cressida.
The hour of session being come, they took their places, at the queen’s
summons, in their wonted order by the fountain; but, when the queen
was about to call for the first story, that happened which had not
happened before; to wit, there being a great uproar in the kitchen
among the maids and men, the sound thereof reached the ears of the
queen and all the company. Whereupon the queen called the seneschal
and asked him who bawled so loud, and what was the occasion of the
uproar. The seneschal made answer that ‛twas some contention between
Licisca and Tindaro; but the occasion he knew not, having but just come
to quiet them, when he received her summons. The queen then bade
him cause Licisca and Tindaro to come thither forthwith: so they came,

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and the queen enquired of them the cause of the uproar. Tindaro was
about to make answer, when Licisca, who was somewhat advanced in
years, and disposed to give herself airs, and heated to the strife of words,
turned to Tindaro, and scowling upon him said:—‟Unmannerly varlet
that makest bold to speak before me; leave me to tell the story.” Then,
turning to the queen, she said:—‟Madam, this fellow would fain instruct
me as to Sicofante’s wife, and—neither more or less—as if I had not
known her well—would have me believe that, the first night that
Sicofante lay with her, ‛twas by force and not without effusion of blood
that Master Yard made his way into Dusky Hill; which I deny, averring
that he met with no resistance, but, on the contrary, with a hearty
welcome on the part of the garrison. And such a numskull is he as fondly
to believe that the girls are so simple as to let slip their opportunities,
while they wait on the caprice of father or brothers, who six times out of
seven delay to marry them for three or four years after they should. Ay, ay
indeed, doubtless they were well advised to tarry so long! Christ’s faith! I
should know the truth of what I swear; there is never a woman in my
neighbourhood whose husband had her virginity; and well I know how
many and what manner of tricks our married dames play their
husbands; and yet this booby would fain teach me to know women as if I
were but born yesterday.”
While Licisca thus spoke, the ladies laughed till all their teeth were
ready to start from their heads. Six times at least the queen bade her be
silent: but all in vain; she halted not till she had said all that she had a
mind to. When she had done, the queen turned with a smile to Dioneo
saying:—‟This is a question for thee to deal with, Dioneo; so hold thyself
in readiness to give final judgment upon it, when our stories are ended.”
‟Madam,” replied Dioneo forthwith, ‟I give judgment without more ado:
I say that Licisca is in the right; I believe that ‛tis even as she says, and
that Tindaro is a fool.” Whereupon Licisca burst out laughing, and
turning to Tindaro:—‟Now did I not tell thee so?” quoth she. ‟Begone in

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God’s name: dost think to know more than I, thou that art but a sucking
babe? Thank God, I have not lived for nothing, not I.” And had not the
queen sternly bade her be silent, and make no more disturbance, unless
she had a mind to be whipped, and sent both her and Tindaro back to
the kitchen, the whole day would have been spent in nought but
listening to her. So Licisca and Tindaro having withdrawn, the queen
charged Filomena to tell the first story: and gaily thus Filomena began.

SIXTH DAY

NOVEL I.

— A knight offers to carry Madonna Oretta a horseback with a

story, but tells it so ill that she prays him to dismount her. —
As stars are set for an ornament in the serene expanse of heaven, and
likewise in springtime flowers and leafy shrubs in the green meadows,
so, damsels, in the hour of rare and excellent discourse, is wit with its
bright sallies. Which, being brief, are much more proper for ladies than
for men, seeing that prolixity of speech, where brevity is possible, is
much less allowable to them. But for whatever cause, be it the sorry
quality of our understanding, or some especial enmity that heaven bears
to our generation, few ladies or none are left to-day that, when occasion
prompts, are able to meet it with apt speech, ay, or if aught of the kind
they hear, can understand it aright: to our common shame be it spoken!
But as, touching this matter, enough has already been said by
Pampinea,43 I purpose not to enlarge thereon; but, that you may know
what excellence resides in speech apt for the occasion, I am minded to
tell you after how courteous a fashion a lady imposed silence upon a
43 Cf. First Day, Novel X.

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

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NOVEL II.

— Cisti, a baker, by an apt speech gives Messer Geri Spina to

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

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very high in favour and honour, having sent divers of his courtiers to
Florence as ambassadors to treat of certain matters of great moment,
and they being lodged in Messer Geri’s house, where he treated with
them of the said affairs of the Pope, ‛twas, for some reason or another,
the wont of Messer Geri and the ambassadors of the Pope to pass almost
every morning by Santa Maria Ughi, where Cisti, the baker, had his
bakehouse, and plied his craft in person. Now, albeit Fortune had
allotted him a very humble occupation, she had nevertheless prospered
him therein to such a degree that he was grown most wealthy, and
without ever aspiring to change it for another, lived in most magnificent
style, having among his other good things a cellar of the best wines,
white and red, that were to be found in Florence, or the country parts;
and marking Messer Geri and the ambassadors of the Pope pass every
morning by his door, he bethought him that, as ‛twas very hot, ‛twould
be a very courteous thing to give them to drink of his good wine; but
comparing his rank with that of Messer Geri, he deemed it unseemly to
presume to invite him, and cast about how he might lead Messer Geri to
invite himself. So, wearing always the whitest of doublets and a spotless
apron, that denoted rather the miller, than the baker, he let bring, every
morning about the hour that he expected Messer Geri and the
ambassadors to pass by his door, a spick-and-span bucket of fresh and
cool spring water, and a small Bolognese flagon of his good white wine,
and two beakers that shone like silver, so bright were they: and there
down he sat him, as they came by, and after hawking once or twice, fell a
drinking his wine with such gusto that ‛twould have raised a thirst in a
corpse. Which Messer Geri having observed on two successive
mornings, said on the third:—‟What is’t, Cisti? Is’t good?” Whereupon
Cisti jumped up, and answered:—‟Ay, Sir, good it is; but in what degree I
might by no means make you understand, unless you tasted it.” Messer
Geri, in whom either the heat of the weather, or unwonted fatigue, or,
perchance, the gusto with which he had seen Cisti drink, had bred a

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thirst, turned to the ambassadors and said with a smile:— ‟Gentlemen,

‛twere well to test the quality of this worthy man’s wine: it may be such
that we shall not repent us.” And so in a body they came up to where
Cisti stood; who, having caused a goodly bench to be brought out of the
bakehouse, bade them be seated, and to their servants, who were now
coming forward to wash the beakers, said:—‟Stand back, comrades, and
leave this office to me, for I know as well how to serve wine as to bake
bread; and expect not to taste a drop yourselves.” Which said, he washed
four fine new beakers with his own hands, and having sent for a small
flagon of his good wine, he heedfully filled the beakers, and presented
them to Messer Geri and his companions; who deemed the wine the best
that they had drunk for a great while. So Messer Geri, having praised the
wine not a little, came there to drink every morning with the
ambassadors as long as they tarried with him.
Now when the ambassadors had received their conge, and were about
to depart, Messer Geri gave a grand banquet, to which he bade some of
the most honourable of the citizens, and also Cisti, who could by no
means be induced to come. However, Messer Geri bade one of his
servants go fetch a flask of Cisti’s wine, and serve half a beaker thereof to
each guest at the first course. The servant, somewhat offended, perhaps,
that he had not been suffered to taste any of the wine, took with him a
large flask, which Cisti no sooner saw, than:—‟Son,” quoth he, ‟Messer
Geri does not send thee to me”: and often as the servant affirmed that he
did, he could get no other answer: wherewith he was fain at last to return
to Messer Geri. ‟Go, get thee back, said Messer Geri, and tell him that I
do send thee to him, and if he answers thee so again, ask him, to whom
then I send thee.” So the servant came back, and said:—‟Cisti, Messer
Geri does, for sure, send me to thee.” ‟Son,” answered Cisti, ‟Messer Geri
does, for sure, not send thee to me.” ‟To whom then,” said the servant,
‟does he send me?” ‟To Arno,” returned Cisti. Which being reported by
the servant to Messer Geri, the eyes of his mind were straightway

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opened, and:—‟Let me see,” quoth he to the servant, ‟what flask it is

thou takest there.” And when he had seen it:—‟Cisti says sooth,” he
added; and having sharply chidden him, he caused him take with him a
suitable flask, which when Cisti saw:—‟Now know I,” quoth he, ‟that ‛tis
indeed Messer Geri that sends thee to me,” and blithely filled it. And
having replenished the rundlet that same day with wine of the same
quality, he had it carried with due care to Messer Geri’s house, and
followed after himself; where finding Messer Geri he said:— ‟I would not
have you think, Sir, that I was appalled by the great flask your servant
brought me this morning; ‛twas but that I thought you had forgotten
that which by my little beakers I gave you to understand, when you were
with me of late; to wit, that this is no table wine; and so wished this
morning to refresh your memory. Now, however, being minded to keep
the wine no longer, I have sent you all I have of it, to be henceforth
entirely at your disposal.” Messer Geri set great store by Cisti’s gift, and
thanked him accordingly, and ever made much of him and entreated
him as his friend.

NOVEL III.

— Monna Nonna de’ Pulci by a ready retort silences the scarce

seemly jesting of the Bishop of Florence. —
Pampinea’s story ended, and praise not a little bestowed on Cisti alike for
his apt speech and for his handsome present, the queen was pleased to
call forthwith for a story from Lauretta, who blithely thus began:—
Debonair my ladies, the excellency of wit, and our lack thereof, have
been noted with no small truth first by Pampinea and after her by
Filomena. To which topic ‛twere bootless to return: wherefore to that
which has been said touching the nature of wit I purpose but to add one
word, to remind you that its bite should be as a sheep’s bite and not as a

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dog’s; for if it bite like a dog, ‛tis no longer wit but discourtesy. With
which maxim the words of Madonna Oretta, and the apt reply of Cisti,
accorded excellently. True indeed it is that if ‛tis by way of retort, and
one that has received a dog’s bite gives the biter a like bite in return, it
does not seem to be reprehensible, as otherwise it would have been.
Wherefore one must consider how and when and on whom and likewise
where one exercises one’s wit. By ill observing which matters one of our
prelates did once upon a time receive no less shrewd a bite than he gave;
as I will shew you in a short story.
While Messer Antonio d’Orso, a prelate both worthy and wise, was
Bishop of Florence, there came thither a Catalan gentleman, Messer
Dego della Ratta by name, being King Ruberto’s marshal. Now Dego
being very goodly of person, and inordinately fond of women, it so befell
that of the ladies of Florence she that he regarded with especial favour
was the very beautiful niece of a brother of the said bishop. And having
learned that her husband, though of good family, was but a caitiff, and
avaricious in the last degree, he struck a bargain with him that he should
lie one night with the lady for five hundred florins of gold: whereupon
he had the same number of popolins44 of silver, which were then current,
gilded, and having lain with the lady, albeit against her will, gave them to
her husband. Which coming to be generally known, the caitiff husband
was left with the loss and the laugh against him; and the bishop, like a
wise man, feigned to know nought of the affair. And so the bishop and
the marshal being much together, it befell that on St. John’s day, as they
rode side by side down the street whence they start to run the palio, 45
and took note of the ladies, the bishop espied a young gentlewoman,
whom this present pestilence has reft from us, Monna Nonna de’ Pulci
by name, a cousin of Messer Alesso Rinucci, whom you all must know;
whom, for that she was lusty and fair, and of excellent discourse and a

44 A coin of the same size and design as the fiorino d’oro, but worth only two soldi.
45 A sort of horse-race still in vogue at Siena.

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good courage, and but just settled with her husband in Porta San Piero,
the bishop presented to the marshal; and then, being close beside her,
he laid his hand on the marshal’s shoulder and said to her:— ‟Nonna,
what thinkest thou of this gentleman? That thou mightst make a
conquest of him?” Which words the lady resented as a jibe at her
honour, and like to tarnish it in the eyes of those, who were not a few, in
whose hearing they were spoken. Wherefore without bestowing a
thought upon the vindication of her honour, but being minded to return
blow for blow, she retorted hastily:—‟Perchance, Sir, he might not make
a conquest of me; but if he did so, I should want good money.” The
answer stung both the marshal and the bishop to the quick, the one as
contriver of the scurvy trick played upon the bishop’s brother in regard
of his niece, the other as thereby outraged in the person of his brother’s
niece; insomuch that they dared not look one another in the face, but
took themselves off in shame and silence, and said never a word more to
her that day.
In such a case, then, the lady having received a bite, ‛twas allowable
in her wittily to return it.

NOVEL IV.

— Chichibio, cook to Currado Gianfigliazzi, owes his safety to

a ready answer, whereby he converts Currado’s wrath into
laughter, and evades the evil fate with which Currado had
threatened him. —
Lauretta being now silent, all lauded Nonna to the skies; after which
Neifile received the queen’s command to follow suit, and thus began:—
Albeit, loving ladies, ready wit not seldom ministers words apt and
excellent and congruous with the circumstances of the speakers, ‛tis also
true that Fortune at times comes to the aid of the timid, and

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unexpectedly sets words upon the tongue, which in a quiet hour the
speaker could never have found for himself: the which ‛tis my purpose to
shew you by my story.
Currado Gianfigliazzi, as the eyes and ears of each of you may bear
witness, has ever been a noble citizen of our city, open-handed and
magnificent, and one that lived as a gentleman should with hounds and
hawks, in which, to say nothing at present of more important matters,
he found unfailing delight. Now, having one day hard by Peretola
despatched a crane with one of his falcons, finding it young and plump,
he sent it to his excellent cook, a Venetian, Chichibio by name, bidding
him roast it for supper and make a dainty dish of it. Chichibio, who
looked, as he was, a very green-head, had dressed the crane, and set it to
the fire and was cooking it carefully, when, the bird being all but
roasted, and the fumes of the cooking very strong, it so chanced that a
girl, Brunetta by name, that lived in the same street, and of whom
Chichibio was greatly enamoured, came into the kitchen, and perceiving
the smell and seeing the bird, began coaxing Chichibio to give her a
thigh. By way of answer Chichibio fell a singing:—‟You get it not from
me, Madam Brunetta, you get it not from me.” Whereat Madam
Brunetta was offended, and said to him:—‟By God, if thou givest it me
not, thou shalt never have aught from me to pleasure thee.” In short
there was not a little altercation; and in the end Chichibio, fain not to
vex his mistress, cut off one of the crane’s thighs, and gave it to her. So
the bird was set before Currado and some strangers that he had at table
with him, and Currado, observing that it had but one thigh, was
surprised, and sent for Chichibio, and demanded of him what was
become of the missing thigh. Whereto the mendacious Venetian
answered readily:—‟The crane, Sir, has but one thigh and one leg.”
‟What the devil?” rejoined Currado in a rage: ‟so the crane has but one
thigh and one leg? thinkst thou I never saw crane before this?” But
Chichibio continued:—”‛Tis even so as I say, Sir; and, so please you, I will

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shew you that so it is in the living bird.” Currado had too much respect
for his guests to pursue the topic; he only said:—‟Since thou promisest
to shew me in the living bird what I have never seen or heard tell of, I
bid thee do so to-morrow, and I shall be satisfied, but if thou fail, I swear
to thee by the body of Christ that I will serve thee so that thou shalt
ruefully remember my name for the rest of thy days.”
No more was said of the matter that evening, but on the morrow, at
daybreak, Currado, who had by no means slept off his wrath, got up still
swelling therewith, and ordered his horses, mounted Chichibio on a
hackney, and saying to him:—‟We shall soon see which of us lied
yesternight, thou or I,” set off with him for a place where there was much
water, beside which there were always cranes to be seen about dawn.
Chichibio, observing that Currado’s ire was unabated, and knowing not
how to bolster up his lie, rode by Currado’s side in a state of the utmost
trepidation, and would gladly, had he been able, have taken to flight;
but, as he might not, he glanced, now ahead, now aback, now aside, and
saw everywhere nought but cranes standing on two feet. However, as
they approached the river, the very first thing they saw upon the bank
was a round dozen of cranes standing each and all on one foot, as is their
wont, when asleep. Which Chichibio presently pointed out to Currado,
saying:—‟Now may you see well enough, Sir, that ‛tis true as I said
yesternight, that the crane has but one thigh and one leg; mark but how
they stand over there.” Whereupon Currado:—‟Wait,” quoth he, ‟and I
will shew thee that they have each thighs and legs twain.” So, having
drawn a little nigher to them, he ejaculated, ‟Oho!” Which caused the
cranes to bring each the other foot to the ground, and, after hopping a
step or two, to take to flight. Currado then turned to Chichibio, saying:
—‟How now, rogue? art satisfied that the bird has thighs and legs
twain?” Whereto Chichibio, all but beside himself with fear, made
answer:—‟Ay, Sir; but you cried not, oho! to our crane of yestereve: had
you done so, it would have popped its other thigh and foot forth, as

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these have done.” Which answer Currado so much relished, that, all his
wrath changed to jollity and laughter:—‟Chichibio,” quoth he, ‟thou art
right, indeed I ought to have so done.”
Thus did Chichibio by his ready and jocund retort arrest impending
evil, and make his peace with his master.

NOVEL V.

— Messer Forese da Rabatta and Master Giotto, the painter,

journeying together from Mugello, deride one another’s scurvy
appearance. —
Neifile being silent, and the ladies having made very merry over
Chichibio’s retort, Pamfilo at the queen’s command thus spoke:—
Dearest ladies, if Fortune, as Pampinea has shewn us, does sometimes
bide treasures most rich of native worth in the obscurity of base
occupations, so in like manner ‛tis not seldom found that Nature has
enshrined prodigies of wit in the most ignoble of human forms.
Whereof a notable example is afforded by two of our citizens, of whom I
purpose for a brief while to discourse. The one, Messer Forese da Rabatta
by name, was short and deformed of person and withal flat-cheeked and
flat-nosed, insomuch that never a Baroncio46 had a visage so misshapen
but his would have shewed as hideous beside it; yet so conversant was
this man with the laws, that by not a few of those well able to form an
opinion he was reputed a veritable storehouse of civil jurisprudence. The
other, whose name was Giotto, was of so excellent a wit that, let Nature,
mother of all, operant ever by continual revolution of the heavens,
fashion what she would, he with his style and pen and pencil would
depict its like on such wise that it shewed not as its like, but rather as the
thing itself, insomuch that the visual sense of men did often err in
46 The name of a Florentine family famous for the extraordinary ugliness of its men: whereby it came to pass that
any grotesque or extremely ugly man was called a Baroncio. Fanfani, Vocab. della Lingua Italiana, 1891.

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regard thereof, mistaking for real that which was but painted.
Wherefore, having brought back to light that art which had for many
ages lain buried beneath the blunders of those who painted rather to
delight the eyes of the ignorant than to satisfy the intelligence of the
wise, he may deservedly be called one of the lights that compose the
glory of Florence, and the more so, the more lowly was the spirit in
which he won that glory, who, albeit he was, while he yet lived, the
master of others, yet did ever refuse to be called their master. And this
title that he rejected adorned him with a lustre the more splendid in
proportion to the avidity with which it was usurped by those who were
less knowing than he, or were his pupils. But for all the exceeding
greatness of his art, yet in no particular had he the advantage of Messer
Forese either in form or in feature. But to come to the story:—‛Twas in
Mugello that Messer Forese, as likewise Giotto, had his country-seat,
whence returning from a sojourn that he had made there during the
summer vacation of the courts, and being, as it chanced, mounted on a
poor jade of a draught horse, he fell in with the said Giotto, who was also
on his way back to Florence after a like sojourn on his own estate, and
was neither better mounted, nor in any other wise better equipped, than
Messer Forese. And so, being both old men, they jogged on together at a
slow pace: and being surprised by a sudden shower, such as we
frequently see fall in summer, they presently sought shelter in the house
of a husbandman that was known to each of them, and was their friend.
But after a while, as the rain gave no sign of ceasing, and they had a mind
to be at Florence that same day, they borrowed of the husbandman two
old cloaks of Romagnole cloth, and two hats much the worse for age
(there being no better to be had), and resumed their journey. Whereon
they had not proceeded far, when, taking note that they were soaked
through and through, and liberally splashed with the mud cast up by
their nags’ hooves (circumstances which are not of a kind to add to one’s
dignity), they, after long silence, the sky beginning to brighten a little,

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began to converse. And Messer Forese, as he rode and hearkened to

Giotto, who was an excellent talker, surveyed him sideways, and from
head to foot, and all over, and seeing him in all points in so sorry and
scurvy a trim, and recking nought of his own appearance, broke into a
laugh and said:—‟Giotto, would e’er a stranger that met us, and had not
seen thee before, believe, thinkst thou, that thou wert, as thou art, the
greatest painter in the world.” Whereto Giotto answered promptly:
—‟Methinks, Sir, he might, if, scanning you, he gave you credit for
knowing the A B C.” Which hearing, Messer Forese recognized his error,
and perceived that he had gotten as good as he brought.

NOVEL VI.

— Michele Scalza proves to certain young men that the

Baronci are the best gentlemen in the world and the
Maremma, and wins a supper. —
The ladies were still laughing over Giotto’s ready retort, when the queen
charged Fiammetta to follow suit; wherefore thus Fiammetta began:—
Pamfilo’s mention of the Baronci, who to you, Damsels, are perchance
not so well known as to him, has brought to my mind a story in which
‛tis shewn how great is their nobility; and, for that it involves no
deviation from our rule of discourse, I am minded to tell it you.
‛Tis no long time since there dwelt in our city a young man, Michele
Scalza by name, the pleasantest and merriest fellow in the world, and
the best furnished with quaint stories: for which reason the Florentine
youth set great store on having him with them when they forgathered in
company. Now it so befell that one day, he being with a party of them at
Mont’ Ughi, they fell a disputing together on this wise; to wit, who were
the best gentlemen and of the longest descent in Florence. One said, the
Uberti, another, the Lamberti, or some other family, according to the

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predilection of the speaker. Whereat Scalza began to smile, and said:

—‟Now out upon you, out upon you, blockheads that ye are: ye know not
what ye say. The best gentlemen and of longest descent in all the world
and the Maremma (let alone Florence) are the Baronci by the common
consent of all phisopholers,47 and all that know them as I do; and lest
you should otherwise conceive me, I say that ‛tis of your neighbours the
Baronci48 of Santa Maria Maggiore that I speak.” Whereupon the young
men, who had looked for somewhat else from him, said derisively:
—‟Thou dost but jest with us; as if we did not know the Baronci as well
as thou!” Quoth Scalza:—‟By the Gospels I jest not, but speak sooth; and
if there is any of you will wager a supper to be given to the winner and six
good fellows whom he shall choose, I will gladly do the like, and—what
is more—I will abide by the decision of such one of you as you may
choose.” Then said one of them whose name was Neri Mannini:— ‟I am
ready to adventure this supper;” and so they agreed together that Piero
di Fiorentino, in whose house they were, should be judge, and hied them
to him followed by all the rest, eager to see Scalza lose, and triumph in
his discomfiture, and told Piero all that had been said. Piero, who was a
young man of sound sense, heard what Neri had to say; and then
turning to Scalza:—‟And how,” quoth he, ‟mayst thou make good what
thou averrest?” ‟I will demonstrate it,” returned Scalza, ‟by reasoning so
cogent that not only you, but he that denies it shall acknowledge that I
say sooth. You know, and so they were saying but now, that the longer
men’s descent, the better is their gentility, and I say that the Baronci are
of longer descent, and thus better gentlemen than any other men. If,
then, I prove to you that they are of longer descent than any other men,
without a doubt the victory in this dispute will rest with me. Now you
must know that when God made the Baronci, He was but a novice in His
art, of which, when He made the rest of mankind, He was already

47 In the Italian fisofoli: an evidently intentional distortion.

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

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master. And to assure yourself that herein I say sooth, you have but to
consider the Baronci, how they differ from the rest of mankind, who all
have faces well composed and duly proportioned, whereas of the Baronci
you will see one with a face very long and narrow, another with a face
inordinately broad, one with a very long nose, another with a short one,
one with a protruding and upturned chin, and great jaws like an ass’s;
and again there will be one that has one eye larger than its fellow, or set
on a lower plane; so that their faces resemble those that children make
when they begin to learn to draw. Whereby, as I said, ‛tis plainly manifest
that, when God made them, He was but novice in His art; and so they
are of longer descent than the rest of mankind, and by consequence
better gentlemen.” By which entertaining argument Piero, the judge, and
Neri who had wagered the supper, and all the rest, calling to mind the
Baronci’s ugliness, were so tickled, that they fell a laughing, and averred
that Scalza was in the right, and that he had won the wager, and that
without a doubt the Baronci were the best gentlemen, and of the longest
descent, not merely in Florence, but in the world and the Maremma to
boot. Wherefore ‛twas not without reason that Pamfilo, being minded to
declare Messer Forese’s ill-favouredness, said that he would have been
hideous beside a Baroncio.

NOVEL VII.

— Madonna Filippa, being found by her husband with her

lover, is cited before the court, and by a ready and jocund
answer acquits herself, and brings about an alteration of the
statute. —
Fiammetta had been silent some time, but Scalza’s novel argument to
prove the pre-eminent nobility of the Baronci kept all still laughing,
when the queen called for a story from Filostrato, who thus began:—

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Noble ladies, an excellent thing is apt speech on all occasions, but to be

proficient therein I deem then most excellent when the occasion does
most imperatively demand it. As was the case with a gentlewoman, of
whom I purpose to speak to you, who not only ministered gaiety and
merriment to her hearers, but extricated herself, as you shall hear, from
the toils of an ignominious death.
There was aforetime in the city of Prato a statute no less censurable
than harsh, which, making no distinction between the wife whom her
husband took in adultery with her lover, and the woman found
pleasuring a stranger for money, condemned both alike to be burned.
While this statute was in force, it befell that a gentlewoman, fair and
beyond measure enamoured, Madonna Filippa by name, was by her
husband, Rinaldo de’ Pugliesi, found in her own chamber one night in
the arms of Lazzarino de’ Guazzagliotri, a handsome young noble of the
same city, whom she loved even as herself. Whereat Rinaldo, very wroth,
scarce refrained from falling upon them and killing them on the spot;
and indeed, but that he doubted how he should afterwards fare himself,
he had given way to the vehemence of his anger, and so done. Nor,
though he so far mastered himself, could he forbear recourse to the
statute, thereby to compass that which he might not otherwise lawfully
compass, to wit, the death of his lady. Wherefore, having all the evidence
needful to prove her guilt, he took no further counsel; but, as soon as
‛twas day, he charged the lady and had her summoned. Like most ladies
that are veritably enamoured, the lady was of a high courage; and,
though not a few of her friends and kinsfolk sought to dissuade her, she
resolved to appear to the summons, having liefer die bravely confessing
the truth than basely flee and for defiance of the law live in exile, and
shew herself unworthy of such a lover as had had her in his arms that
night. And so, attended by many ladies and gentlemen, who all exhorted
her to deny the charge, she came before the Podesta, and with a
composed air and unfaltering voice asked whereof he would interrogate

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her. The Podesta, surveying her, and taking note of her extraordinary
beauty, and exquisite manners, and the high courage that her words
evinced, was touched with compassion for her, fearing she might make
some admission, by reason whereof, to save his honour, he must needs
do her to death. But still, as he could not refrain from examining her of
that which was laid to her charge, he said:—‟Madam, here, as you see, is
your husband, Rinaldo, who prefers a charge against you, alleging that
he has taken you in adultery, and so he demands that, pursuant to a
statute which is in force here, I punish you with death: but this I may not
do, except you confess; wherefore be very careful what you answer, and
tell me if what your husband alleges against you be true.” The lady, no
wise dismayed, and in a tone not a little jocund, thus made answer:
—‟True it is, Sir, that Rinaldo is my husband, and that last night he
found me in the arms of Lazzarino, in whose arms for the whole-hearted
love that I bear him I have ofttimes lain; nor shall I ever deny it; but, as
well I wot you know, the laws ought to be common and enacted with the
common consent of all that they affect; which conditions are wanting to
this law, inasmuch as it binds only us poor women, in whom to be liberal
is much less reprehensible than it were in men; and furthermore the
consent of no woman was—I say not had, but—so much as asked before
‛twas made; for which reasons it justly deserves to be called a bad law.
However, if in scathe of my body and your own soul, you are minded to
put it in force, ‛tis your affair; but, I pray you, go not on to try this matter
in any wise, until you have granted me this trifling grace, to wit, to ask
my husband if I ever gainsaid him, but did not rather accord him, when
and so often as he craved it, complete enjoyment of myself.” Whereto
Rinaldo, without awaiting the Podesta’s question, forthwith answered,
that assuredly the lady had ever granted him all that he had asked of her
for his gratification. ‟Then,” promptly continued the lady, ‟if he has ever
had of me as much as sufficed for his solace, what was I or am I to do
with the surplus? Am I to cast it to the dogs? Is it not much better to

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bestow it on a gentleman that loves me more dearly than himself, than

to suffer it to come to nought or worse?” Which jocund question being
heard by well-nigh all the folk of Prato, who had flocked thither all agog
to see a dame so fair and of such quality on her trial for such an offence,
they laughed loud and long, and then all with one accord, and as with
one voice, exclaimed that the lady was in the right and said well; nor left
they the court until in concert with the Podesta they had so altered the
harsh statute as that thenceforth only such women as should wrong
their husbands for money should be within its purview.
Wherefore Rinaldo left the court, discomfited of his foolish
enterprise; and the lady blithe and free, as if rendered back to life from
the burning, went home triumphant.

NOVEL VIII.

— Fresco admonishes his niece not to look at herself in the

glass, if ‛tis, as she says, grievous to her to see nasty folk. —
‛Twas not at first without some flutterings of shame, evinced by the
modest blush mantling on their cheeks, that the ladies heard Filostrato’s
story; but afterwards, exchanging glances, they could scarce forbear to
laugh, and hearkened tittering. However, when he had done, the queen
turning to Emilia bade her follow suit. Whereupon Emilia, fetching a
deep breath as if she were roused from sleep, thus began:—Loving
ladies, brooding thought has kept my spirit for so long time remote from
here that perchance I may make a shift to satisfy our queen with a much
shorter story than would have been forthcoming but for my absence of
mind, wherein I purpose to tell you how a young woman’s folly was
corrected by her uncle with a pleasant jest, had she but had the sense to
apprehend it. My story, then, is of one, Fresco da Celatico by name, that
had a niece, Ciesca, as she was playfully called, who, being fair of face

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and person, albeit she had none of those angelical charms that we
ofttimes see, had so superlative a conceit of herself, that she had
contracted a habit of disparaging both men and women and all that she
saw, entirely regardless of her own defects, though for odiousness,
tiresomeness, and petulance she had not her match among women,
insomuch that there was nought that could be done to her mind: besides
which, such was her pride that had she been of the blood royal of
France, ‛twould have been inordinate. And when she walked abroad, so
fastidious was her humour, she was ever averting her head, as if there
was never a soul she saw or met but reeked with a foul smell. Now one
day—not to speak of other odious and tiresome ways that she had—it so
befell that being come home, where Fresco was, she sat herself down
beside him with a most languishing air, and did nought but fume and
chafe. Whereupon:—‟Ciesca,” quoth he, ‟what means this, that, though
‛tis a feast-day, yet thou art come back so soon?” She, all but dissolved
with her vapourish humours, made answer:—‟Why, the truth is, that I
am come back early because never, I believe, were there such odious and
tiresome men and women in this city as there are to-day. I cannot pass a
soul in the street that I loathe not like ill-luck; and I believe there is not
a woman in the world that is so distressed by the sight of odious people
as I am; and so I am come home thus soon to avoid the sight of them.”
Whereupon Fresco, to, whom his niece’s bad manners were distasteful in
the extreme:—‟Daughter,” quoth he, ‟if thou loathe odious folk as much
as thou sayest, thou wert best, so thou wouldst live happy, never to look
at thyself in the glass.” But she, empty as a reed, albeit in her own conceit
a match for Solomon in wisdom, was as far as any sheep from
apprehending the true sense of her uncle’s jest; but answered that on the
contrary she was minded to look at herself in the glass like other women.
And so she remained, and yet remains, hidebound in her folly.

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NOVEL IX.

— Guido Cavalcanti by a quip meetly rebukes certain

Florentine gentlemen who had taken him at a disadvantage. —
The queen, perceiving that Emilia had finished her story, and that none
but she, and he who had the privilege of speaking last, now remained to
tell, began on this wise:—Albeit, debonair my ladies, you have
forestalled me to-day of more than two of the stories, of which I had
thought to tell one, yet one is still left me to recount, which carries at the
close of it a quip of such a sort, that perhaps we have as yet heard nought
so pregnant.
You are to know, then, that in former times there obtained in our city
customs excellent and commendable not a few, whereof today not one is
left to us, thanks to the greed which, growing with the wealth of our folk,
has banished them all from among us. One of which customs was that in
divers quarters of Florence the gentlemen that there resided would
assemble together in companies of a limited number, taking care to
include therein only such as might conveniently bear the expenses, and
to-day one, another to-morrow, each in his turn for a day, would
entertain the rest of the company; and so they would not seldom do
honour to gentlemen from distant parts when they visited the city, and
also to their fellow-citizens; and in like manner they would meet
together at least once a year all in the same trim, and on the most
notable days would ride together through the city, and now and again
they would tilt together, more especially on the greater feasts, or when
the city was rejoiced by tidings of victory or some other glad event.
Among which companies was one of which Messer Betto Brunelleschi
was the leading spirit, into which Messer Betto and his comrades had
striven hard to bring Guido, son of Cavalcante de’ Cavalcanti, and not
without reason, inasmuch as, besides being one of the best logicians in

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the world, and an excellent natural philosopher (qualities of which the

company made no great account), he was without a peer for gallantry
and courtesy and excellence of discourse and aptitude for all matters
which he might set his mind to, and that belonged to a gentleman; and
therewithal he was very rich, and, when he deemed any worthy of
honour, knew how to bestow it to the uttermost. But, as Messer Betto
had never been able to gain him over, he and his comrades supposed
that ‛twas because Guido, being addicted to speculation, was thereby
estranged from men. And, for that he was somewhat inclined to the
opinion of the Epicureans, the vulgar averred that these speculations of
his had no other scope than to prove that God did not exist. Now one
day it so befell that, Guido being come, as was not seldom his wont,
from Or San Michele by the Corso degli Adimari as far as San Giovanni,
around which were then the great tombs of marble that are to-day in
Santa Reparata, besides other tombs not a few, and Guido being between
the columns of porphyry, that are there, and the tombs and the door of
San Giovanni, which was locked, Messer Betto and his company came
riding on to the piazza of Santa Reparata, and seeing him among the
tombs, said:—‟Go we and flout him.” So they set spurs to their horses,
and making a mock onset, were upon him almost before he saw them.
Whereupon:—‟Guido,” they began, ‟thou wilt be none of our company;
but, lo now, when thou hast proved that God does not exist, what wilt
thou have achieved?” Guido, seeing that he was surrounded, presently
answered:—‟Gentlemen, you may say to me what you please in your own
house.” Thereupon he laid his hand on one of the great tombs, and being
very nimble, vaulted over it, and so evaded them, and went his way,
while they remained gazing in one another’s faces, and some said that he
had taken leave of his wits, and that his answer was but nought, seeing
that the ground on which they stood was common to them with the rest
of the citizens, and among them Guido himself. But Messer Betto,
turning to them:—‟Nay but,” quoth he, ”‛tis ye that have taken leave of

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your wits, if ye have not understood him; for meetly and in few words he
has given us never so shrewd a reprimand; seeing that, if you consider it
well, these tombs are the houses of the dead, that are laid and tarry
therein; which he calls our house, to shew us that we, and all other
simple, unlettered men, are, in comparison of him and the rest of the
learned, in sorrier case than dead men, and so being here, we are in our
own house.” Then none was there but understood Guido’s meaning and
was abashed, insomuch that they flouted him no more, and thenceforth
reputed Messer Betto a gentleman of a subtle and discerning wit.

NOVEL X.

— Fra Cipolla promises to shew certain country-folk a feather

of the Angel Gabriel, in lieu of which he finds coals, which he
avers to be of those with which St. Lawrence was roasted. —
All the company save Dioneo being delivered of their several stories, he
wist that ‛twas his turn to speak. Wherefore, without awaiting any very
express command, he enjoined silence on those that were commending
Guido’s pithy quip, and thus began:—Sweet my ladies, albeit ‛tis my
privilege to speak of what likes me most, I purpose not to-day to deviate
from that theme whereon you have all discoursed most appositely; but,
following in your footsteps, I am minded to shew you with what
adroitness and readiness of resource one of the Friars of St. Antony
avoided a pickle that two young men had in readiness for him. Nor, if, in
order to do the story full justice, I be somewhat prolix of speech, should
it be burdensome to you, if you will but glance at the sun, which is yet in
mid-heaven.
Certaldo, as perchance you may have heard, is a town of Val d’Elsa
within our country-side, which, small though it is, had in it aforetime
people of rank and wealth. Thither, for that there he found good pasture,

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‛twas long the wont of one of the Friars of St. Antony to resort once every
year, to collect the alms that fools gave them. Fra Cipolla 49—so hight the
friar—met with a hearty welcome, no less, perchance, by reason of his
name than for other cause, the onions produced in that district being
famous throughout Tuscany. He was little of person, red-haired, jolly-
visaged, and the very best of good fellows; and therewithal, though
learning he had none, he was so excellent and ready a speaker that
whoso knew him not would not only have esteemed him a great
rhetorician, but would have pronounced him Tully himself or,
perchance, Quintilian; and in all the country-side there was scarce a soul
to whom he was not either gossip or friend or lover. Being thus wont
from time to time to visit Certaldo, the friar came there once upon a time
in the month of August, and on a Sunday morning, all the good folk of
the neighbouring farms being come to mass in the parish church, he
took occasion to come forward and say:—‟Ladies and gentlemen, you
wot ‛tis your custom to send year by year to the poor of Baron Master St.
Antony somewhat of your wheat and oats, more or less, according to the
ability and the devoutness of each, that blessed St. Antony may save your
oxen and asses and pigs and sheep from harm; and you are also
accustomed, and especially those whose names are on the books of our
confraternity, to pay your trifling annual dues. To collect which offerings,
I am hither sent by my superior, to wit, Master Abbot; wherefore, with
the blessing of God, after none, when you hear the bells ring, you will
come out of the church to the place where in the usual way I shall deliver
you my sermon, and you will kiss the cross; and therewithal, knowing, as
I do, that you are one and all most devoted to Baron Master St. Antony, I
will by way of especial grace shew you a most holy and goodly relic,
which I brought myself from the Holy Land overseas, which is none
other than one of the feathers of the Angel Gabriel, which he left behind
him in the room of the Virgin Mary, when he came to make her the
49 Onion.

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annunciation in Nazareth.” And having said thus much, he ceased, and

went on with the mass. Now among the many that were in the church,
while Fra Cipolla made this speech, were two very wily young wags, the
one Giovanni del Bragoniera by name, the other Biagio Pizzini; who,
albeit they were on the best of terms with Fra Cipolla and much in his
company, had a sly laugh together over the relic, and resolved to make
game of him and his feather. So, having learned that Fra Cipolla was to
breakfast that morning in the town with one of his friends, as soon as
they knew that he was at table, down they hied them into the street, and
to the inn where the friar lodged, having complotted that Biagio should
keep the friar’s servant in play, while Giovanni made search among the
friar’s goods and chattels for this feather, whatever it might be, to carry it
off, that they might see how the friar would afterwards explain the
matter to the people. Now Fra Cipolla had for servant one Guccio, 50
whom some called by way of addition Balena,51 others Imbratta,52 others
again Porco,53 and who was such a rascallion that sure it is that Lippo
Topo54 himself never painted his like. Concerning whom Fra Cipolla
would ofttimes make merry with his familiars, saying:—‟My servant has
nine qualities, any one of which in Solomon, Aristotle, or Seneca, would
have been enough to spoil all their virtue, wisdom and holiness.
Consider, then, what sort of a man he must be that has these nine
qualities, and yet never a spark of either virtue or wisdom or holiness.”
And being asked upon divers occasions what these nine qualities might
be, he strung them together in rhyme, and answered:—‟I will tell you.
Lazy and uncleanly and a liar he is, Negligent, disobedient and
foulmouthed, iwis, And reckless and witless and mannerless: and
therewithal he has some other petty vices, which ‛twere best to pass over.

50 Diminutive of Arriguccio.
51 Whale.
52 Filth.
53 Hog.
54 The works of this painter seem to be lost.

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And the most amusing thing about him is, that, wherever he goes, he is
for taking a wife and renting a house, and on the strength of a big, black,
greasy beard he deems himself so very handsome a fellow and seductive,
that he takes all the women that see him to be in love with him, and, if
he were left alone, he would slip his girdle and run after them all. True it
is that he is of great use to me, for that, be any minded to speak with me
never so secretly, he must still have his share of the audience; and, if
perchance aught is demanded of me, such is his fear lest I should be at a
loss what answer to make, that he presently replies, ay or no, as he deems
meet.”
Now, when he left this knave at the inn, Fra Cipolla had strictly
enjoined him on no account to suffer any one to touch aught of his, and
least of all his wallet, because it contained the holy things. But Guccio
Imbratta, who was fonder of the kitchen than any nightingale of the
green boughs, and most particularly if he espied there a maid, and in the
host’s kitchen had caught sight of a coarse fat woman, short and
misshapen, with a pair of breasts that shewed as two buckets of muck
and a face that might have belonged to one of the Baronci, all reeking
with sweat and grease and smoke, left Fra Cipolla’s room and all his
things to take care of themselves, and like a vulture swooping down
upon the carrion, was in the kitchen in a trice. Where, though ‛twas
August, he sat him down by the fire, and fell a gossiping with Nuta—
such was the maid’s name—and told her that he was a gentleman by
procuration,55 and had more florins than could be reckoned, besides
those that he had to give away, which were rather more than less, and
that he could do and say such things as never were or might be seen or
heard forever, good Lord! and a day. And all heedless of his cowl, which
had as much grease upon it as would have furnished forth the caldron of
Altopascio,56 and of his rent and patched doublet, inlaid with filth about

55 One of the humorous ineptitudes of which Boccaccio is fond.

56 An abbey near Lucca famous for its doles of broth.

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the neck and under the armpits, and so stained that it shewed hues
more various than ever did silk from Tartary or the Indies, and of his
shoes that were all to pieces, and of his hose that were all in tatters, he
told her in a tone that would have become the Sieur de Chatillon, that he
was minded to rehabit her and put her in trim, and raise her from her
abject condition, and place her where, though she would not have much
to call her own, at any rate she would have hope of better things, with
much more to the like effect; which professions, though made with every
appearance of good will, proved, like most of his schemes, insubstantial
as air, and came to nothing.
Finding Guccio Porco thus occupied with Nuta, the two young men
gleefully accounted their work half done, and, none gainsaying them,
entered Fra Cipolla’s room, which was open, and lit at once upon the
wallet, in which was the feather. The wallet opened, they found, wrapt
up in many folds of taffeta, a little casket, on opening which they
discovered one of the tail-feathers of a parrot, which they deemed must
be that which the friar had promised to shew the good folk of Certaldo.
And in sooth he might well have so imposed upon them, for in those
days the luxuries of Egypt had scarce been introduced into Tuscany,
though they have since been brought over in prodigious abundance, to
the grave hurt of all Italy. And though some conversance with them there
was, yet in those parts folk knew next to nothing of them; but, adhering
to the honest, simple ways of their forefathers, had not seen, nay for the
most part had not so much as heard tell of, a parrot.
So the young men, having found the feather, took it out with great
glee; and looking around for something to replace it, they espied in a
corner of the room some pieces of coal, wherewith they filled the casket;
which they then closed, and having set the room in order exactly as they
had found it, they quitted it unperceived, and hied them merrily off with
the feather, and posted themselves where they might hear what Fra
Cipolla would say when he found the coals in its stead. Mass said, the

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simple folk that were in the church went home with the tidings that the
feather of the Angel Gabriel was to be seen after none; and this goodman
telling his neighbour, and that goodwife her gossip, by the time every
one had breakfasted, the town could scarce hold the multitude of men
and women that flocked thither all agog to see this feather.
Fra Cipolla, having made a hearty breakfast and had a little nap, got
up shortly after none, and marking the great concourse of country-folk
that were come to see the feather, sent word to Guccio Imbratta to go up
there with the bells, and bring with him the wallet. Guccio, though ‛twas
with difficulty that he tore himself away from the kitchen and Nuta,
hied him up with the things required; and though, when he got up, he
was winded, for he was corpulent with drinking nought but water, he did
Fra Cipolla’s bidding by going to the church door and ringing the bells
amain. When all the people were gathered about the door, Fra Cipolla,
all unwitting that aught of his was missing, began his sermon, and after
much said in glorification of himself, caused the confiteor to be recited
with great solemnity, and two torches to be lit by way of preliminary to
the shewing of the feather of the Angel Gabriel: he then bared his head,
carefully unfolded the taffeta, and took out the casket, which, after a few
prefatory words in praise and laudation of the Angel Gabriel and his
relic, he opened. When he saw that it contained nought but coals, he did
not suspect Guccio Balena of playing the trick, for he knew that he was
not clever enough, nor did he curse him, that his carelessness had
allowed another to play it, but he inly imprecated himself, that he had
committed his things to the keeping of one whom he knew to be
‟negligent and disobedient, reckless and witless.” Nevertheless, he
changed not colour, but with face and hands upturned to heaven, he
said in a voice that all might hear:—‟O God, blessed be Thy might for
ever and ever.” Then, closing the casket, and turning to the people:
—‟Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, ‟you are to know, that when I was yet
a very young man, I was sent by my superior into those parts where the

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sun rises, and I was expressly bidden to search until I should find the
Privileges of Porcellana, which, though they cost nothing to seal, are of
much more use to others than to us. On which errand I set forth, taking
my departure from Venice, and traversing the Borgo de’ Greci, 57 and
thence on horseback the realm of Algarve, 58 and so by Baldacca59 I came
to Parione,60 whence, somewhat athirst, I after a while got on to
Sardinia.61 But wherefore go I about to enumerate all the lands in which I
pursued my quest? Having passed the straits of San Giorgio, I arrived at
Truffia62 and Buffia,63 countries thickly populated and with great
nations, whence I pursued my journey to Menzogna,64 where I met with
many of our own brethren, and of other religious not a few, intent one
and all on eschewing hardship for the love of God, making little account
of others! toil, so they might ensue their own advantage, and paying in
nought but unminted coin65 throughout the length and breadth of the
country; and so I came to the land of Abruzzi, where the men and
women go in pattens on the mountains, and clothe the hogs with their
own entrails;66 and a little further on I found folk that carried bread in
staves and wine in sacks.67 And leaving them, I arrived at the mountains
of the Bachi,68 where all the waters run downwards. In short I penetrated
so far that I came at last to India Pastinaca, 69 where I swear to you by the
habit that I wear, that I saw pruning-hooks70 fly: a thing that none would
57 Perhaps part of the ‟sesto” of Florence known as the Borgo, as the tradition of the commentators that the friar’s
itinerary is wholly Florentine is not to be lightly set aside.
58 Il Garbo, a quarter or street in Florence, doubtless so called because the wares of Algarve were there sold. Rer.
Ital. Script. (Muratori: Suppl. Tartini) ii. 119. Villani, Istorie Fiorentine, iv. 12, xii. 18.
59 A famous tavern in Florence. Florio, Vocab. Ital. e Ingl., ed Torriano, 1659.
60 A ‟borgo” in Florence. Villani, Istorie Fiorentine, iv. 7.
61 A suburb of Florence on the Arno, ib. ix. 256.
62 The land of Cajolery.
63 The land of Drollery.
64 The land of Lies.
65 I.e. in false promises: suggested by Dante’s Pagando di moneta senza conio. Parad. xxix. 126.
66 A reference to sausage-making.
67 I.e. cakes fashioned in a hollow ring, and wines in leathern bottles.
68 Grubs.
69 In allusion to the shapeless fish, so called, which was proverbially taken as a type of the outlandish.
70 A jeu de mots, ‟pennati,” pruning-hooks, signifying also feathered, though ‟pennuti” is more common in that

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believe that had not seen it. Whereof be my witness that I lie not Maso
del Saggio, that great merchant, whom I found there cracking nuts, and
selling the shells by retail! However, not being able to find that whereof I
was in quest, because from thence one must travel by water, I turned
back, and so came at length to the Holy Land, where in summer cold
bread costs four deniers, and hot bread is to be had for nothing. And
there I found the venerable father Nonmiblasmetesevoipiace, 71 the most
worshipful Patriarch of Jerusalem; who out of respect for the habit that I
have ever worn, to wit, that of Baron Master St. Antony, was pleased to
let me see all the holy relics that he had by him, which were so many,
that, were I to enumerate them all, I should not come to the end of them
in some miles. However, not to disappoint you, I will tell you a few of
them. In the first place, then, he shewed me the finger of the Holy Spirit,
as whole and entire as it ever was, and the tuft of the Seraph that
appeared to St. Francis, and one of the nails of the Cherubim, and one of
the ribs of the Verbum Caro hie thee to the casement,72 and some of the
vestments of the Holy Catholic Faith, and some of the rays of the star
that appeared to the Magi in the East, and a phial of the sweat of St.
Michael a battling with the Devil and the jaws of death of St. Lazarus,
and other relics. And for that I gave him a liberal supply of the
acclivities73 of Monte Morello in the vulgar and some chapters of
Caprezio, of which he had long been in quest, he was pleased to let me
participate in his holy relics, and gave me one of the teeth of the Holy
Cross, and in a small phial a bit of the sound of the bells of Solomon’s
temple, and this feather of the Angel Gabriel, whereof I have told you,
and one of the pattens of San Gherardo da Villa Magna, which, not long
ago, I gave at Florence to Gherardo di Bonsi, who holds him in
prodigious veneration. He also gave me some of the coals with which the
sense.
71 Takemenottotaskanitlikeyou.
72 Fatti alle finestre, a subterfuge for factum est.
73 Piagge, jocularly for pagine: doubtless some mighty tome of school divinity is meant.

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most blessed martyr, St. Lawrence, was roasted. All which things I
devoutly brought thence, and have them all safe. True it is that my
superior has not hitherto permitted me to shew them, until he should be
certified that they are genuine. However, now that this is avouched by
certain miracles wrought by them, of which we have tidings by letter
from the Patriarch, he has given me leave to shew them. But, fearing to
trust them to another, I always carry them with me; and to tell you the
truth I carry the feather of the Angel Gabriel, lest it should get spoiled,
in a casket, and the coals, with which St. Lawrence was roasted, in
another casket; which caskets are so like the one to the other, that not
seldom I mistake one for the other, which has befallen me on this
occasion; for, whereas I thought to have brought with me the casket
wherein is the feather, I have brought instead that which contains the
coals. Nor deem I this a mischance; nay, methinks, ‛tis by interposition,
of God, and that He Himself put the casket of coals in my hand, for I
mind me that the feast of St. Lawrence falls but two days hence.
Wherefore God, being minded that by shewing you the coals, with
which he was roasted, I should rekindle in your souls the devotion that
you ought to feel towards him, guided my hand, not to the feather which
I meant to take, but to the blessed coals that were extinguished by the
humours that exuded from that most holy body. And so, blessed
children, bare your heads and devoutly draw nigh to see them. But first
of all I would have you know, that whoso has the sign of the cross made
upon him with these coals, may live secure for the whole of the ensuing
year, that fire shall not touch him, that he feel it not.”
Having so said, the friar, chanting a hymn in praise of St. Lawrence,
opened the casket, and shewed the coals. Whereon the foolish crowd
gazed a while in awe and reverent wonder, and then came pressing
forward in a mighty throng about Fra Cipolla with offerings beyond their
wont, each and all praying him to touch them with the coals. Wherefore
Fra Cipolla took the coals in his hand, and set about making on their

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white blouses, and on their doublets, and on the veils of the women
crosses as big as might be, averring the while that whatever the coals
might thus lose would be made good to them again in the casket, as he
had often proved. On this wise, to his exceeding great profit, he marked
all the folk of Certaldo with the cross, and, thanks to his ready wit and
resource, had his laugh at those, who by robbing him of the feather
thought to make a laughing-stock of him. They, indeed, being among
his hearers, and marking his novel expedient, and how voluble he was,
and what a long story he made of it, laughed till they thought their jaws
would break; and, when the congregation was dispersed, they went up to
him, and never so merrily told him what they had done, and returned
him his feather; which next year proved no less lucrative to him than
that day the coals had been.
Immense was the delight and diversion which this story afforded to
all the company alike, and great and general was the laughter over Fra
Cipolla, and more especially at his pilgrimage, and the relics, as well
those that he had but seen as those that he had brought back with him.
Which being ended, the queen, taking note that therewith the close of
her sovereignty was come, stood up, took off the crown, and set it on
Dioneo’s head, saying with a laugh:—”‛Tis time, Dioneo, that thou prove
the weight of the burden of having ladies to govern and guide. Be thou
king then; and let thy rule be such that, when ‛tis ended, we may have
cause to commend it.” Dioneo took the crown, and laughingly answered:
—‟Kings worthier far than I you may well have seen many a time ere now
—I speak of the kings in chess; but let me have of you that obedience
which is due to a true king, and of a surety I will give you to taste of that
solace, without which perfection of joy there may not be in any festivity.
But enough of this: I will govern as best I may.” Then, as was the wont, he
sent for the seneschal, and gave him particular instruction how to order
matters during the term of his sovereignty; which done, he said:
—‟Noble ladies, such and so diverse has been our discourse of the ways

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of men and their various fortunes, that but for the visit that we had a
while ago from Madam Licisca, who by what she said has furnished me
with matter of discourse for to-morrow, I doubt I had been not a little
put to it to find a theme. You heard how she said that there was not a
woman in her neighbourhood whose husband had her virginity; adding
that well she knew how many and what manner of tricks they, after
marriage, played their husbands. The first count we may well leave to the
girls whom it concerns; the second, methinks, should prove a diverting
topic: wherefore I ordain that, taking our cue from Madam Licisca, we
discourse to-morrow of the tricks that, either for love or for their
deliverance from peril, ladies have heretofore played their husbands, and
whether they were by the said husbands detected or no.” To discourse of
such a topic some of the ladies deemed unmeet for them, and besought
the king to find another theme. But the king made answer:— ‟Ladies,
what manner of theme I have prescribed I know as well as you, nor was I
to be diverted from prescribing it by that which you now think to declare
unto me, for I wot the times are such that, so only men and women have
a care to do nought that is unseemly, ‛tis allowable to them to discourse
of what they please. For in sooth, as you must know, so out of joint are
the times that the judges have deserted the judgment-seat, the laws are
silent, and ample licence to preserve his life as best he may is accorded to
each and all. Wherefore, if you are somewhat less strict of speech than is
your wont, not that aught unseemly in act may follow, but that you may
afford solace to yourselves and others, I see not how you can be open to
reasonable censure on the part of any. Furthermore, nought that has
been said from the first day to the present moment has, methinks, in any
degree sullied the immaculate honour of your company, nor, God
helping us, shall aught ever sully it. Besides, who is there that knows not
the quality of your honour? which were proof, I make no doubt, against
not only the seductive influence of diverting discourse, but even the
terror of death. And, to tell you the truth, whoso wist that you refused to

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discourse of these light matters for a while, would be apt to suspect that
‛twas but for that you had yourselves erred in like sort. And truly a
goodly honour would you confer upon me, obedient as I have ever been
to you, if after making me your king and your lawgiver, you were to
refuse to discourse of the theme which I prescribe. Away, then, with this
scruple fitter for low minds than yours, and let each study how she may
give us a goodly story, and Fortune prosper her therein.”
So spake the king, and the ladies, hearkening, said that, even as he
would, so it should be: whereupon he gave all leave to do as they might
be severally minded until the supper-hour. The sun was still quite high
in the heaven, for they had not enlarged in their discourse: wherefore,
Dioneo with the other gallants being set to play at dice, Elisa called the
other ladies apart, and said:—‟There is a nook hard by this place, where
I think none of you has ever been: ‛tis called the Ladies’ Vale: whither,
ever since we have been here, I have desired to take you, but time meet I
have not found until today, when the sun is still so high: if, then, you are
minded to visit it, I have no manner of doubt that, when you are there,
you will be very glad you came.” The ladies answered that they were
ready, and so, saying nought to the young men, they summoned one of
their maids, and set forth; nor had they gone much more than a mile,
when they arrived at the Vale of Ladies. They entered it by a very strait
gorge, through which there issued a rivulet, clear as crystal, and a sight,
than which nought more fair and pleasant, especially at that time when
the heat was great, could be imagined, met their eyes. Within the valley,
as one of them afterwards told me, was a plain about half-a-mile in
circumference, and so exactly circular that it might have been fashioned
according to the compass, though it seemed a work of Nature’s art, not
man’s: ‛twas girdled about by six hills of no great height, each crowned
with a palace that shewed as a goodly little castle. The slopes of the hills
were graduated from summit to base after the manner of the successive
tiers, ever abridging their circle, that we see in our theatres; and as many

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as fronted the southern rays were all planted so close with vines, olives,
almond-trees, cherry-trees, fig-trees and other fruitbearing trees not a
few, that there was not a hand’s-breadth of vacant space. Those that
fronted the north were in like manner covered with copses of oak
saplings, ashes and other trees, as green and straight as might be.
Besides which, the plain, which was shut in on all sides save that on
which the ladies had entered, was full of firs, cypresses, and bay-trees,
with here and there a pine, in order and symmetry so meet and excellent
as had they been planted by an artist, the best that might be found in
that kind; wherethrough, even when the sun was in the zenith, scarce a
ray of light might reach the ground, which was all one lawn of the finest
turf, pranked with the hyacinth and divers other flowers. Add to which
—nor was there aught there more delightsome—a rivulet that, issuing
from one of the gorges between two of the hills, descended over ledges
of living rock, making, as it fell, a murmur most gratifying to the ear,
and, seen from a distance, shewed as a spray of finest, powdered quick-
silver, and no sooner reached the little plain, than ‛twas gathered into a
tiny channel, by which it sped with great velocity to the middle of the
plain, where it formed a diminutive lake, like the fishponds that
townsfolk sometimes make in their gardens, when they have occasion
for them. The lake was not so deep but that a man might stand therein
with his breast above the water; and so clear, so pellucid was the water
that the bottom, which was of the finest gravel, shewed so distinct, that
one, had he wished, who had nought better to do, might have counted
the stones. Nor was it only the bottom that was to be seen, but such a
multitude of fishes, glancing to and fro, as was at once a delight and a
marvel to behold. Bank it had none, but its margin was the lawn, to
which it imparted a goodlier freshness. So much of the water as it might
not contain was received by another tiny channel, through which,
issuing from the vale, it glided swiftly to the plain below.
To which pleasaunce the damsels being come surveyed it with roving

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glance, and finding it commendable, and marking the lake in front of

them, did, as ‛twas very hot, and they deemed themselves secure from
observation, resolve to take a bath. So, having bidden their maid wait
and keep watch over the access to the vale, and give them warning, if
haply any should approach it, they all seven undressed and got into the
water, which to the whiteness of their flesh was even such a veil as fine
glass is to the vermeil of the rose. They, being thus in the water, the
clearness of which was thereby in no wise affected, did presently begin
to go hither and thither after the fish, which had much ado where to
bestow themselves so as to escape out of their hands. In which diversion
they spent some time, and caught a few, and then they hied them out of
the water and dressed them again, and bethinking them that ‛twas time
to return to the palace, they began slowly sauntering thither, dilating
much as they went upon the beauty of the place, albeit they could not
extol it more than they had already done. ‛Twas still quite early when
they reached the palace, so that they found the gallants yet at play where
they had left them. To whom quoth Pampinea with a smile:—‟We have
stolen a march upon you to-day.” ‟So,” replied Dioneo, ”‛tis with you do
first and say after?” ‟Ay, my lord,” returned Pampinea, and told him at
large whence they came, and what the place was like, and how far ‛twas
off, and what they had done. What she said of the beauty of the spot
begat in the king a desire to see it: wherefore he straightway ordered
supper, whereof when all had gaily partaken, the three gallants parted
from the ladies and hied them with their servants to the vale, where
none of them had ever been before, and, having marked all its beauties,
extolled it as scarce to be matched in all the world. Then, as the hour was
very late, they did but bathe, and as soon as they had resumed their
clothes, returned to the ladies, whom they found dancing a carol to an
air that Fiammetta sang, which done, they conversed of the Ladies’ Vale,
waxing eloquent in praise thereof: insomuch that the king called the
seneschal, and bade him have some beds made ready and carried thither

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on the morrow, that any that were so minded might there take their
siesta. He then had lights and wine and comfits brought; and when they
had taken a slight refection, he bade all address them to the dance. So at
his behest Pamfilo led a dance, and then the king, turning with gracious
mien to Elisa:—‟Fair damsel,” quoth he, ”‛twas thou to-day didst me this
honour of the crown; and ‛tis my will that thine to-night be the honour
of the song; wherefore sing us whatsoever thou hast most lief.” ‟That
gladly will I,” replied Elisa smiling; and thus with dulcet voice began:—
If of thy talons, Love, be quit I may,
I deem it scarce can be
But other fangs I may elude for aye.

Service I took with thee, a tender maid,

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

Then thy poor captive, bound with many a chain,

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

My prayers upon the idle air are spent:

He hears not, will not hear; wherefore in vain
The more each hour my soul doth her torment;

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Nor may I die, albeit to die were gain.

Ah! Lord, have pity of my bitter pain!
Help have I none but thee;
Then take and bind and at my feet him lay.

But if thou wilt not, do my soul but loose

From hope, that her still binds with triple chain.
Sure, O my Lord, this prayer thou’lt not refuse:
The which so thou to grant me do but deign,
I look my wonted beauty to regain,
And banish misery
With roses white and red bedecked and gay.
So with a most piteous sigh ended Elisa her song, whereat all
wondered exceedingly, nor might any conjecture wherefore she so sang.
But the king, who was in a jolly humour, sent for Tindaro, and bade him
out with his cornemuse, and caused them tread many a measure thereto,
until, no small part of the night being thus spent, he gave leave to all to
betake them to rest.
— Endeth here the sixth day of the Decameron, beginneth the
seventh, in which, under the rule of Dioneo, discourse is had of
the tricks which, either for love or for their deliverance from
peril, ladies have heretofore played their husbands, and
whether they were by the said husbands detected, or no. —
Fled was now each star from the eastern sky, save only that which we
call Lucifer, which still glowed in the whitening dawn, when uprose the
seneschal, and with a goodly baggage-train hied him to the Ladies’ Vale,
there to make all things ready according to the ordinance and
commandment of the king. Nor was it long after his departure that the
king rose, being awaked by the stir and bustle that the servants made in
lading the horses, and being risen he likewise roused all the ladies and

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

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SEVENTH DAY

NOVEL I.

— Gianni Lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door at night: he

awakens his wife, who persuades him that ‛tis the bogey, which
they fall to exorcising with a prayer; whereupon the knocking
ceases. —
My lord, glad indeed had I been, that, saving your good pleasure, some
other than I had had precedence of discourse upon so goodly a theme as
this of which we are to speak—I doubt I am but chosen to teach others
confidence; but, such being your will, I will gladly obey it. And my
endeavour shall be, dearest ladies, to tell you somewhat that may be
serviceable to you in the future: for, if you are, as I am, timorous, and
that most especially of the bogey, which, God wot, I know not what
manner of thing it may be, nor yet have found any that knew, albeit we
are all alike afraid of it, you may learn from this my story how to put it to
flight, should it intrude upon you, with a holy, salutary and most
efficacious orison.
There dwelt of yore at Florence, in the quarter of San Pancrazio, a
master-spinner, Gianni Lotteringhi by name, one that had prospered in
his business, but had little understanding of aught else; insomuch that
being somewhat of a simpleton, he had many a time been chosen leader
of the band of laud-singers of Santa Maria Novella, and had charge of
their school; and not a few like offices had he often served, upon which
he greatly plumed himself. Howbeit, ‛twas all for no other reason than
that, being a man of substance, he gave liberal doles to the friars; who,
for that they got thereof, this one hose, another a cloak, and a third a
hood, would teach him good orisons, or give him the paternoster in the

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vernacular, or the chant of St. Alexis, or the lament of St. Bernard, or the
laud of Lady Matilda, or the like sorry stuff, which he greatly prized, and
guarded with jealous care, deeming them all most conducive to the
salvation of his soul.
Now our simple master-spinner had a most beautiful wife, and
amorous withal, her name Monna Tessa. Daughter she was of
Mannuccio dalla Cuculla, and not a little knowing and keen-witted; and
being enamoured of Federigo di Neri Pegolotti, a handsome and lusty
gallant, as he also of her, she, knowing her husband’s simplicity, took
counsel with her maid, and arranged that Federigo should come to chat
with her at a right goodly pleasure-house that the said Gianni had at
Camerata, where she was wont to pass the summer, Gianni coming now
and again to sup and sleep, and going back in the morning to his shop,
or, maybe, to his laud-singers. Federigo, who desired nothing better,
went up there punctually on the appointed day about vespers, and as the
evening passed without Gianni making his appearance, did most
comfortably, and to his no small satisfaction, sup and sleep with the
lady, who lying in his arms taught him that night some six of her
husband’s lauds. But, as neither she nor Federigo was minded that this
beginning should also be the end of their intercourse, and that it might
not be needful for the maid to go each time to make the assignation with
him, they came to the following understanding; to wit, that as often as
he came and went between the house and an estate that he had a little
higher up, he should keep an eye on a vineyard that was beside the
house, where he would see an ass’s head stuck on one of the poles of the
vineyard, and as often as he observed the muzzle turned towards
Florence, he might visit her without any sort of misgiving; and if he
found not the door open, he was to tap it thrice, and she would open it;
and when he saw the muzzle of the ass’s head turned towards Fiesole, he
was to keep away, for then Gianni would be there. Following which plan,
they forgathered not seldom: but on one of these evenings, when

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Federigo was to sup with Monna Tessa on two fat capons that she bad
boiled, it so chanced that Gianni arrived there unexpectedly and very
late, much to the lady’s chagrin: so she had a little salt meat boiled apart,
on which she supped with her husband; and the maid by her orders
carried the two boiled capons laid in a spotless napkin with plenty of
fresh eggs and a bottle of good wine into the garden, to which there was
access otherwise than from the house, and where she was wont at times
to sup with Federigo; and there the maid set them down at the foot of a
peach-tree, that grew beside a lawn. But in her vexation she forgot to tell
the maid to wait till Federigo should come, and let him know that
Gianni was there, and he must take his supper in the garden: and she
and Gianni and the maid were scarce gone to bed, when Federigo came
and tapped once at the door, which being hard by the bedroom, Gianni
heard the tap, as did also the lady, albeit, that Gianni might have no
reason to suspect her, she feigned to be asleep. Federigo waited a little,
and then gave a second tap; whereupon, wondering what it might mean,
Gianni nudged his wife, saying:—‟Tessa, dost hear what I hear?
Methinks some one has tapped at our door.” The lady, who had heard the
noise much better than he, feigned to wake up, and:—‟How? what sayst
thou?” quoth she. ‟I say,” replied Gianni, ‟that, meseems, some one has
tapped at our door.” ‟Tapped at it?” quoth the lady. ‟Alas, my Gianni,
wottest thou not what that is? ‛Tis the bogey, which for some nights past
has so terrified me as never was, insomuch that I never hear it but I pop
my head under the clothes and venture not to put it out again until ‛tis
broad day.” ‟Come, come, wife,” quoth Gianni, ‟if such it is, be not
alarmed; for before we got into bed I repeated the Te lucis, the
Intemerata, and divers other good orisons, besides which I made the
sign of the cross in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit at each
corner of the bed; wherefore we need have no fear that it may avail to
hurt us, whatever be its power.” The lady, lest Federigo, perchance
suspecting a rival, should take offence, resolved to get up, and let him

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understand that Gianni was there: so she said to her husband:— ‟Well
well; so sayst thou; but I for my part shall never deem myself safe and
secure, unless we exorcise it, seeing that thou art here.” ‟Oh!” said
Gianni, ‟and how does one exorcise it?” ‟That,” quoth the lady, ‟I know
right well; for t’other day, when I went to Fiesole for the pardoning, one
of those anchoresses, the saintliest creature, my Gianni, God be my
witness, knowing how much afraid I am of the bogey, taught me a holy
and salutary orison, which she said she had tried many a time before she
was turned anchoress, and always with success. God wot, I should never
have had courage to try it alone; but as thou art here, I propose that we
go exorcise it together.” Gianni made answer that he was quite of the
same mind; so up they got, and stole to the door, on the outside of which
Federigo, now suspicious, was still waiting. And as soon as they were
there:—‟Now,” quoth the lady to Gianni, ‟thou wilt spit, when I tell
thee.” ‟Good,” said Gianni. Whereupon the lady began her orison,
saying:—
‟Bogey, bogey that goest by night,
Tail erect, thou cam’st, tail erect, take thy flight
Hie thee to the garden, and the great peach before,
Grease upon grease, and droppings five score
Of my hen shalt thou find:
Set the flask thy lips to,
Then away like the wind,
And no scathe unto me or my Gianni do.”
And when she had done:—‟Now, Gianni,” quoth she, ‟spit”: and
Gianni spat.
There was no more room for jealousy in Federigo’s mind as he heard
all this from without; nay, for all his disappointment, he was like to burst
with suppressed laughter, and when Gianni spat, he muttered under his
breath:—‟Now out with thy teeth.” The lady, having after this fashion

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thrice exorcised the bogey, went back to bed with her husband.
Federigo, disappointed of the supper that he was to have had with her,
and apprehending the words of the orison aright, hied him to the
garden, and having found the two capons and the wine and the eggs at
the foot of the peach-tree, took them home with him, and supped very
comfortably. And many a hearty laugh had he and the lady over the
exorcism during their subsequent intercourse.
Now, true it is that some say that the lady had in fact turned the ass’s
head towards Fiesole, but that a husbandman, passing through the
vineyard, had given it a blow with his stick, whereby it had swung round,
and remained fronting Florence, and so it was that Federigo thought
that he was invited, and came to the house, and that the lady’s orison
was on this wise:—
‟Bogey, a God’s name, away thee hie,
For whoe’er turned the ass’s head, ‛twas not I:
Another it was, foul fall his eyne;
And here am I with Gianni mine.”
Wherefore Federigo was fain to take himself off, having neither slept
nor supped.
But a neighbour of mine, a lady well advanced in years, tells me that,
by what she heard when she was a girl, both stories are true; but that the
latter concerned not Gianni Lotteringhi but one Gianni di Nello, that
lived at Porta San Piero, and was no less a numskull than Gianni
Lotteringhi. Wherefore, dear my ladies, you are at liberty to choose
which exorcism you prefer, or take both if you like. They are both of
extraordinary and approved virtue in such cases, as you have heard: get
them by heart, therefore, and they may yet stand you in good stead.

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NOVEL II.

— Her husband returning home, Peronella bestows her lover

in a tun; which, being sold by her husband, she avers to have
been already sold by herself to one that is inside examining it
to see if it be sound. Whereupon the lover jumps out, and
causes the husband to scour the tun for him, and afterwards to
carry it to his house. —
Great indeed was the laughter with which Emilia’s story was received;
which being ended, and her orison commended by all as good and
salutary, the king bade Filostrato follow suit; and thus Filostrato began:
—Dearest my ladies, so many are the tricks that men play you, and most
of all your husbands, that, when from time to time it so befalls that some
lady plays her husband a trick, the circumstance, whether it come within
your own cognizance or be told you by another, should not only give you
joy but should incite you to publish it on all hands, that men may be
ware, that, knowing as they are, their ladies also, on their part, know
somewhat: which cannot but be serviceable to you, for that one does not
rashly essay to take another with guile whom one wots not to lack that
quality. Can we doubt, then, that, should but the converse that we shall
hold to-day touching this matter come to be bruited among men,
‛twould serve to put a most notable check upon the tricks they play you,
by doing them to wit of the tricks, which you, in like manner, when you
are so minded, may play them? Wherefore ‛tis my intention to tell you in
what manner a young girl, albeit she was but of low rank, did, on the
spur of the moment, beguile her husband to her own deliverance.
‛Tis no long time since at Naples a poor man, a mason by craft, took
to wife a fair and amorous maiden—Peronella was her name—who eked
out by spinning what her husband made by his craft; and so the pair
managed as best they might on very slender means. And as chance

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would have it, one of the gallants of the city, taking note of this
Peronella one day, and being mightily pleased with her, fell in love with
her, and by this means and that so prevailed that he won her to accord
him her intimacy. Their times of forgathering they concerted as follows:
—to wit, that, her husband being wont to rise betimes of a morning to
go to work or seek for work, the gallant was to be where he might see
him go forth, and, the street where she dwelt, which is called Avorio,
being scarce inhabited, was to come into the house as soon as her
husband was well out of it; and so times not a few they did. But on one
of these occasions it befell that, the good man being gone forth, and
Giannello Sirignario—such was the gallant’s name—being come into the
house, and being with Peronella, after a while, back came the good man,
though ‛twas not his wont to return until the day was done; and finding
the door locked, he knocked, and after knocking, he fell a saying to
himself:—O God, praised be Thy name forever; for that, albeit Thou
hast ordained that I be poor, at least Thou hast accorded me the
consolation of a good and honest girl for wife. Mark what haste she
made to shut the door when I was gone forth, that none else might enter
to give her trouble.
Now Peronella knew by his knock that ‛twas her husband; wherefore:
—‟Alas, Giannello mine,” quoth she, ‟I am a dead woman, for lo, here is
my husband, foul fall him! come back! What it may import, I know not,
for he is never wont to come back at this hour; perchance he caught sight
of thee as thou camest in. However, for the love of God, be it as it may,
get thee into this tun that thou seest here, and I will go open to him, and
we shall see what is the occasion of this sudden return this morning.” So
Giannello forthwith got into the tun, and Peronella went to the door, and
let in her husband, and gave him black looks, saying:— ‟This is indeed a
surprise that thou art back so soon this morning! By what I see thou hast
a mind to make this a holiday, that thou returnest tools in hand; if so,
what are we to live on? whence shall we get bread to eat? Thinkest thou I

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will let thee pawn my gown and other bits of clothes? Day and night I do
nought else but spin, insomuch that the flesh is fallen away from my
nails, that at least I may have oil enough to keep our lamp alight.
Husband, husband, there is never a woman in the neighbourhood but
marvels and mocks at me, that I am at such labour and pains; and thou
comest home to me with thy hands hanging idle, when thou shouldst be
at work.” Which said, she fell a weeping and repeating:— ‟Alas, alas, woe
‛s me, in what evil hour was I born? in what luckless moment came I
hither, I, that might have had so goodly a young man, and I would not,
to take up with one that bestows never a thought on her whom he has
made his wife? Other women have a good time with their lovers, and
never a one have we here but has two or three; they take their pleasure,
and make their husbands believe that the moon is the sun; and I, alas!
for that I am an honest woman, and have no such casual amours, I suffer,
and am hard bested. I know not why I provide not myself with one of
these lovers, as others do. Give good heed, husband, to what I say: were I
disposed to dishonour thee, I were at no loss to find the man: for here
are gallants enough, that love me, and court me, and have sent me many
an offer of money—no stint—or dresses or jewels, should I prefer them;
but my pride would never suffer it, because I was not born of a woman of
that sort: and now thou comest home to me when thou oughtest to be at
work.”
Whereto the husband:—‟Wife, wife, for God’s sake distress not
thyself: thou shouldst give me credit for knowing what manner of
woman thou art, as indeed I have partly seen this morning. True it is that
I went out to work; but ‛tis plain that thou knowest not, as indeed I knew
not, that to-day ‛tis the feast of San Galeone, and a holiday, and that is
why I am come home at this hour; but nevertheless I have found means
to provide us with bread for more than a month; for I have sold to this
gentleman, whom thou seest with me, the tun, thou wottest of, seeing
that it has encumbered the house so long, and he will give me five

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gigliats for it.” Quoth then Peronella:—‟And all this but adds to my
trouble: thou, that art a man, and goest abroad, and shouldst know
affairs, hast sold for five gigliats a tun, which I, that am but a woman,
and was scarce ever out of doors, have, for that it took up so much room
in the house, sold for seven gigliats to a good man, that but now, as thou
cam’st back, got therein, to see if ‛twere sound.” So hearing, the husband
was overjoyed, and said to the man that was come to take it away:
—‟Good man, I wish thee Godspeed; for, as thou hearest, my wife has
sold the tun for seven gigliats, whereas thou gavest me only five.”
Whereupon:—‟So be it,” said the good man, and took himself off. Then
said Peronella to her husband:—‟Now, as thou art here, come up, and
arrange the matter with the good man.”
Now Giannello, who, meanwhile, had been all on the alert to discover
if there were aught he had to fear or be on his guard against, no sooner
heard Peronella’s last words, than he sprang out of the tun, and feigning
to know nought of her husband’s return, began thus:—‟Where art thou,
good dame?” Whereto the husband, coming up, answered:—‟Here am I:
what wouldst thou of me?” Quoth Giannello:—‟And who art thou? I
would speak with the lady with whom I struck the bargain for this tun.”
Then said the good man:—‟Have no fear, you can deal with me; for I am
her husband.” Quoth then Giannello:—‟The tun seems to me sound
enough; but I think you must have let the lees remain in it; for ‛tis all
encrusted with I know not what that is so dry, that I cannot raise it with
the nail; wherefore I am not minded to take it unless I first see it
scoured.” Whereupon Peronella:—‟To be sure: that shall not hinder the
bargain; my husband will scour it clean.” And:—‟Well and good,” said
the husband.
So he laid down his tools, stripped himself to his vest, sent for a light
and a rasp, and was in the tun, and scraping away, in a trice. Whereupon
Peronella, as if she were curious to see what he did, thrust her head into
the vent of the tun, which was of no great size, and therewithal one of

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her arms up to the shoulder, and fell a saying:—‟Scrape here, and here,
and there too, and look, there is a bit left here.” So, she being in this
posture, directing and admonishing her husband, Giannello, who had
not, that morning, fully satisfied his desire, when the husband arrived,
now seeing that as he would, he might not, brought his mind to his
circumstances, and resolved to take his pleasure as he might: wherefore
he made up to the lady, who completely blocked the vent of the tun; and
even on such wise as on the open champaign the wild and lusty horses
do amorously assail the mares of Parthia, he sated his youthful appetite;
and so it was that almost at the same moment that he did so, and was
off, the tun was scoured, the husband came forth of it, and Peronella
withdrew her head from the vent, and turning to Giannello, said:— ‟Take
this light, good man, and see if ‛tis scoured to thy mind.” Whereupon
Giannello, looking into the tun, said that ‛twas in good trim, and that he
was well content, and paid the husband the seven gigliats, and caused
him carry the tun to his house.

NOVEL III.

— Fra Rinaldo lies with his gossip: her husband finds him in
the room with her; and they make him believe that he was
curing his godson of worms by a charm. —
Filostrato knew not how so to veil what he said touching the mares of
Parthia, but that the keen-witted ladies laughed thereat, making as if
‛twas at somewhat else. However, his story being ended, the king called
for one from Elisa, who, all obedience, thus began:—Debonair my ladies,
we heard from Emilia how the bogey is exorcised, and it brought to my
mind a story of another incantation: ‛tis not indeed so good a story as
hers; but, as no other, germane to our theme, occurs to me at present, I
will relate it.

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You are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at Siena a young
man, right gallant and of honourable family, his name Rinaldo; who,
being in the last degree enamoured of one of his neighbours, a most
beautiful gentlewoman and the wife of a rich man, was not without
hopes that, if he could but find means to speak with her privately, he
might have of her all that he desired; but seeing no way, and the lady
being pregnant, he cast about how he might become her child’s
godfather. Wherefore, having ingratiated himself with her husband, he
broached the matter to him in as graceful a manner as he might; and
‛twas arranged. So Rinaldo, being now godfather to Madonna Agnesa’s
child, and having a more colourable pretext for speaking to her, took
courage, and told her in words that message of his heart which she had
long before read in his eyes; but though ‛twas not displeasing to the lady
to hear, it availed him but little.
Now not long afterwards it so befell that, whatever may have been his
reason, Rinaldo betook him to friarage; and whether it was that he found
good pasture therein, or what not, he persevered in that way of life. And
though for a while after he was turned friar, he laid aside the love he bore
his gossip, and certain other vanities, yet in course of time, without
putting off the habit, he resumed them, and began to take a pride in his
appearance, and to go dressed in fine clothes, and to be quite the trim
gallant, and to compose songs and sonnets and ballades, and to sing
them, and to make a brave shew in all else that pertained to his new
character. But why enlarge upon our Fra Rinaldo, of whom we speak?
what friars are there that do not the like? Ah! opprobrium of a corrupt
world! Sleek-faced and sanguine, daintily clad, dainty in all their
accessories, they ruffle it shamelessly before the eyes of all, shewing not
as doves but as insolent cocks with raised crest and swelling bosom, and,
what is worse (to say nought of the vases full of electuaries and
unguents, the boxes packed with divers comfits, the pitchers and phials
of artificial waters, and oils, the flagons brimming with Malmsey and

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Greek and other wines of finest quality, with which their cells are so
packed that they shew not as the cells of friars, but rather as
apothecaries’ or perfumers’ shops), they blush not to be known to be
gouty, flattering themselves that other folk wot not that long fasts and
many of them, and coarse fare and little of it, and sober living, make
men lean and thin and for the most part healthy; or if any malady come
thereof, at any rate ‛tis not the gout, the wonted remedy for which is
chastity and all beside that belongs to the regimen of a humble friar.
They flatter themselves, too, that others wot not that over and above the
meagre diet, long vigils and orisons and strict discipline ought to mortify
men and make them pale, and that neither St. Dominic nor St. Francis
went clad in stuff dyed in grain or any other goodly garb, but in coarse
woollen habits innocent of the dyer’s art, made to keep out the cold, and
not for shew. To which matters ‛twere well God had a care, no less than
to the souls of the simple folk by whom our friars are nourished.
Fra Rinaldo, then, being come back to his first affections, took to
visiting his gossip very frequently; and gaining confidence, began with
more insistence than before to solicit her to that which he craved of her.
So, being much urged, the good lady, to whom Fra Rinaldo, perhaps,
seemed now more handsome than of yore, had recourse one day, when
she felt herself unusually hard pressed by him, to the common expedient
of all that would fain concede what is asked of them, and said:— ‟Oh!
but Fra Rinaldo, do friars then do this sort of thing?” ‟Madam,” replied
Fra Rinaldo, ‟when I divest myself of this habit, which I shall do easily
enough, you will see that I am a man furnished as other men, and no
friar.” Whereto with a truly comical air the lady made answer:—‟Alas!
woe’s me! you are my child’s godfather: how might it be? nay, but ‛twere
a very great mischief; and many a time I have heard that ‛tis a most
heinous sin; and without a doubt, were it not so, I would do as you wish.”
‟If,” said Fra Rinaldo, ‟you forego it for such a scruple as this, you are a
fool for your pains. I say not that ‛tis no sin; but there is no sin so great

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but God pardons it, if one repent. Now tell me: whether is more truly
father to your son, I that held him at the font, or your husband that
begot him?” ‟My husband,” replied the lady. ‟Sooth say you,” returned
the friar, ‟and does not your husband lie with you?” ‟Why, yes,” said the
lady. ‟Then,” rejoined the friar, ‟I that am less truly your son’s father than
your husband, ought also to lie with you, as does your husband.” The
lady was no logician, and needed little to sway her: she therefore
believed or feigned to believe that what the friar said was true. So:—
‟Who might avail to answer your words of wisdom?” quoth she; and
presently forgot the godfather in the lover, and complied with his
desires. Nor had they begun their course to end it forthwith: but under
cover of the friar’s sponsorship, which set them more at ease, as it
rendered them less open to suspicion, they forgathered again and again.
But on one of these occasions it so befell that Fra Rinaldo, being
come to the lady’s house, where he espied none else save a very pretty
and dainty little maid that waited on the lady, sent his companion away
with her into the pigeon-house, there to teach her the paternoster, while
he and the lady, holding her little boy by the hand, went into the
bedroom, locked themselves in, got them on to a divan that was there,
and began to disport them. And while thus they sped the time, it
chanced that the father returned, and, before any was ware of him, was
at the bedroom door, and knocked, and called the lady by her name.
Whereupon:—”‛Tis as much as my life is worth,” quoth Madonna
Agnesa; ‟lo, here is my husband; and the occasion of our intimacy
cannot but be now apparent to him.” ‟Sooth say you,” returned Fra
Rinaldo, who was undressed, that is to say, had thrown off his habit and
hood, and was in his tunic; ‟if I had but my habit and hood on me in any
sort, ‛twould be another matter; but if you let him in, and he find me
thus, ‛twill not be possible to put any face on it.” But with an inspiration
as happy as sudden:—‟Now get them on you,” quoth the lady; ‟and when
you have them on, take your godson in your arms, and give good heed to

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what I shall say to him, that your words may accord with mine; and leave
the rest to me.”
The good man was still knocking, when his wife made answer:—
‟Coming, coming.” And so up she got, and put on a cheerful countenance
and hied her to the door, and opened it and said:—‟Husband mine: well
indeed was it for us that in came Fra Rinaldo, our sponsor; ‛twas God
that sent him to us; for in sooth, but for that, we had to-day lost our boy.”
Which the poor simpleton almost swooned to hear; and:—‟How so?”
quoth he. ‟O husband mine,” replied the lady, ‟he was taken but now, all
of a sudden, with a fainting fit, so that I thought he was dead: and what
to do or say I knew not, had not Fra Rinaldo, our sponsor, come just in
the nick of time, and set him on his shoulder, and said:—‛Gossip, ‛tis
that he has worms in his body, and getting, as they do, about the heart,
they might only too readily be the death of him; but fear not; I will say a
charm that will kill them all; and before I take my leave, you will see your
boy as whole as you ever saw him.’ And because to say certain of the
prayers thou shouldst have been with us, and the maid knew not where
to find thee, he caused his companion to say them at the top of the
house, and he and I came in here. And for that ‛tis not meet for any but
the boy’s mother to assist at such a service, that we might not be
troubled with any one else, we locked the door; and he yet has him in his
arms; and I doubt not that he only waits till his companion have said his
prayers, and then the charm will be complete; for the boy is already quite
himself again.”
The good simple soul, taking all this for sooth, and overwrought by
the love he bore his son, was entirely without suspicion of the trick his
wife was playing him, and heaving a great sigh, said:—‟I will go look for
him.” ‟Nay,” replied the wife, ‟go not: thou wouldst spoil the efficacy of
the charm: wait here; I will go see if thou mayst safely go; and will call
thee.”
Whereupon Fra Rinaldo, who had heard all that passed, and was in

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his canonicals, and quite at his ease, and had the boy in his arms, having
made sure that all was as it should be, cried out:—‟Gossip, do I not hear
the father’s voice out there?” ‟Ay indeed, Sir,” replied the simpleton.
‟Come in then,” said Fra Rinaldo. So in came the simpleton. Whereupon
quoth Fra Rinaldo:—‟I restore to you your boy made whole by the grace
of God, whom but now I scarce thought you would see alive at vespers.
You will do well to have his image fashioned in wax, not less than life-
size, and set it for a thanksgiving to God, before the statue of Master St.
Ambrose, by whose merits you have this favour of God.”
The boy, catching sight of his father, ran to him with joyous greetings,
as little children are wont; and the father, taking him in his arms, and
weeping as if he were restored to him from the grave, fell by turns a
kissing him and thanking his godfather, that he had cured him. Fra
Rinaldo’s companion, who had taught the maid not one paternoster
only, but peradventure four or more, and by giving her a little purse of
white thread that a nun had given him, had made her his devotee, no
sooner heard Fra Rinaldo call the simpleton into his wife’s room, than he
stealthily got him to a place whence he might see and hear what was
going on. Observing that the affair was now excellently arranged, he
came down, and entered the chamber, saying:—‟Fra Rinaldo, those four
prayers that you bade me say, I have said them all.” ‟Then well done, my
brother,” quoth Fra Rinaldo, ‟well-breathed must thou be. For my part, I
had but said two, when my gossip came in; but what with thy travail and
mine, God of His grace has vouchsafed-us the healing or the boy.” The
simpleton then had good wine and comfits brought in, and did the
honours to the godfather and his companion in such sort as their
occasions did most demand. He then ushered them forth of the house,
commending them to God; and without delay had the waxen image
made, and directed it to be set up with the others in front of the statue
of St. Ambrose, not, be it understood, St. Ambrose of Milan. 74
74 The statue would doubtless be that of St. Ambrose of Siena, of the Dominican Order.

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NOVEL IV.

— Tofano one night locks his wife out of the house: she,
finding that by no entreaties may she prevail upon him to let
her in, feigns to throw herself into a well, throwing therein a
great stone. Tofano hies him forth of the house, and runs to
the spot: she goes into the house, and locks him out, and hurls
abuse at him from within. —
The king no sooner wist that Elisa’s story was ended, than, turning to
Lauretta, he signified his will that she should tell somewhat: wherefore
without delay she began:—O Love, how great and signal is thy potency!
how notable thy stratagems, thy devices! Was there ever, shall there ever
be, philosopher or adept competent to inspire, counsel and teach in such
sort as thou by thine unpremeditated art dost tutor those that follow thy
lead? Verily laggard teachers are they all in comparison of thee, as by the
matters heretofore set forth may very well be understood. To which store
I will add, loving ladies, a stratagem used by a woman of quite ordinary
understanding, and of such a sort that I know not by whom she could
have been taught it save by Love.
Know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at Arezzo a rich man, Tofano
by name, who took to wife Monna Ghita, a lady exceeding fair, of whom,
for what cause he knew not, he presently grew jealous. Whereof the lady
being ware, waxed resentful, and having on divers occasions demanded
of him the reason of his jealousy, and gotten from him nought precise,
but only generalities and trivialities, resolved at last to give him cause
enough to die of that evil which without cause he so much dreaded. And
being ware that a gallant, whom she deemed well worthy of her, was
enamoured of her, she, using due discretion, came to an understanding
with him; which being brought to the point that it only remained to give
effect to their words in act, the lady cast about to devise how this might

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be. And witting that, among other bad habits that her husband had, he
was too fond of his cups, she would not only commend indulgence, but
cunningly and not seldom incite him thereto; insomuch that, well-nigh
as often as she was so minded, she led him to drink to excess; and when
she saw that he was well drunken, she would put him to bed; and so not
once only but divers times without any manner of risk she forgathered
with her lover; nay, presuming upon her husband’s intoxication, she
grew so bold that, not content with bringing her lover into her house,
she would at times go spend a great part of the night with him at his
house, which was not far off.
Now such being the enamoured lady’s constant practice, it so befell
that the dishonoured husband took note that, while she egged him on to
drink, she herself drank never a drop; whereby he came to suspect the
truth, to wit, that the lady was making him drunk, that afterwards she
might take her pleasure while he slept. And being minded to put his
surmise to the proof, one evening, having drunken nought all day, he
mimicked never so drunken a sot both in speech and in carriage. The
lady, deeming him to be really as he appeared, and that ‛twas needless to
ply him with liquor, presently put him to bed. Which done, she, as she at
times was wont, hied her forth to her lover’s house, where she tarried
until midnight. Tofano no sooner perceived that his wife was gone, than
up he got, hied him to the door, locked it, and then posted himself at the
window to observe her return, and let her know that he was ware of her
misconduct. So there he stood until the lady returned, and finding
herself locked out, was annoyed beyond measure, and sought to force
the door open. Tofano let her try her strength upon it a while, and then:
—‟Madam,” quoth he, ”‛tis all to no purpose: thou canst not get in. Go
get thee back thither where thou hast tarried all this while, and rest
assured that thou shalt never recross this threshold, until I have done
thee such honour as is meet for thee in the presence of thy kinsfolk and
neighbours.” Thereupon the lady fell entreating him to be pleased to

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open to her for the love of God, for that she was not come whence he
supposed, but had only been passing the time with one of her gossips,
because the nights were long, and she could not spend the whole time
either in sleep or in solitary watching. But her supplications availed her
nothing, for the fool was determined that all Arezzo should know their
shame, whereof as yet none wist aught. So as ‛twas idle to entreat, the
lady assumed a menacing tone, saying:—‟So thou open not to me, I will
make thee the saddest man alive.” Whereto Tofano made answer:—‟And
what then canst thou do?” The lady, her wits sharpened by Love,
rejoined:—‟Rather than endure the indignity to which thou wouldst
unjustly subject me, I will cast myself into the well hard by here, and
when I am found dead there, all the world will believe that ‛twas thou
that didst it in thy cups, and so thou wilt either have to flee and lose all
that thou hast and be outlawed, or forfeit thy head as guilty of my death,
as indeed thou wilt be.” But, for all she said, Tofano wavered not a jot in
his foolish purpose. So at last:—‟Lo, now,” quoth the lady, ‟I can no more
abide thy surly humour: God forgive thee: I leave thee my distaff here,
which be careful to bestow in a safe place.” So saying, away she hied her
to the well, and, the night being so dark that wayfarers could scarce see
one another as they passed, she took up a huge stone that was by the
well, and ejaculating, ‟God forgive me!” dropped it therein. Tofano,
hearing the mighty splash that the stone made as it struck the water,
never doubted that she had cast herself in: so, bucket and rope in hand,
he flung himself out of the house, and came running to the well to her
rescue. The lady had meanwhile hidden herself hard by the door, and
seeing him make for the well, was in the house in a trice, and having
locked the door, hied her to the window, and greeted him with:—” ‛Tis
while thou art drinking, not now, when the night is far spent, that thou
shouldst temper thy wine with water.” Thus derided, Tofano came back
to the door, and finding his ingress barred, began adjuring her to let him
in. Whereupon, changing the low tone she had hitherto used for one so

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shrill that ‛twas well-nigh a shriek, she broke out with:—‟By the Holy
Rood, tedious drunken sot that thou art, thou gettest no admittance
here to-night; thy ways are more than I can endure: ‛tis time I let all the
world know what manner of man thou art, and at what hour of the night
thou comest home.” Tofano, on his part, now grew angry, and began
loudly to upbraid her; insomuch that the neighbours, aroused by the
noise, got up, men and women alike, and looked out of the windows,
and asked what was the matter. Whereupon the lady fell a weeping and
saying:—”‛Tis this wicked man, who comes home drunk at even, or falls
asleep in some tavern, and then returns at this hour. Long and to no
purpose have I borne with him; but ‛tis now past endurance, and I have
done him this indignity of locking him out of the house in the hope that
perchance it may cause him to mend his ways.”
Tofano, on his part, told, dolt that he was, just what had happened,
and was mighty menacing. Whereupon:—‟Now mark,” quoth the lady to
the neighbours, ‟the sort of man he is! What would you say if I were, as
he is, in the street, and he were in the house, as I am? God’s faith, I
doubt you would believe what he said. Hereby you may gauge his sense.
He tells you that I have done just what, I doubt not, he has done himself.
He thought to terrify me by throwing I know not what into the well,
wherein would to God he had thrown himself indeed, and drowned
himself, whereby the wine of which he has taken more than enough, had
been watered to some purpose!” The neighbours, men and women alike,
now with one accord gave tongue, censuring Tofano, throwing all the
blame upon him, and answering what he alleged against the lady with
loud recrimination; and in short the bruit, passing from neighbour to
neighbour, reached at last the ears of the lady’s kinsfolk; who hied them
to the spot, and being apprised of the affair from this, that and the other
of the neighbours, laid hands on Tofano, and beat him till he was black
and blue from head to foot. Which done, they entered his house,
stripped it of all that belonged to the lady, and took her home with

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them, bidding Tofano look for worse to come. Thus hard bested, and
ruing the plight in which his jealousy had landed him, Tofano, who
loved his wife with all his heart, set some friends to work to patch
matters up, whereby he did in fact induce his lady to forgive him and live
with him again, albeit he was fain to promise her never again to be
jealous, and to give her leave to amuse herself to her heart’s content,
provided she used such discretion that he should not be ware of it. On
such wise, like the churl and booby that he was, being despoiled, he
made terms. Now long live Love, and perish war, and all that wage it!

NOVEL V.

— A jealous husband disguises himself as a priest, and hears

his own wife’s confession: she tells him that she loves a priest,
who comes to her every night. The husband posts himself at
the door to watch for the priest, and meanwhile the lady brings
her lover in by the roof, and tarries with him. —
When Lauretta had done speaking, and all had commended the lady, for
that she had done well, and treated her caitiff husband as he had
deserved, the king, not to lose time, turned to Fiammetta, and
graciously bade her take up her parable; which she did on this wise:—
Most noble ladies, the foregoing story prompts me likewise to discourse
of one of these jealous husbands, deeming that they are justly requited
by their wives, more especially when they grow jealous without due
cause. And had our legislators taken account of everything, I am of
opinion that they would have visited ladies in such a case with no other
penalty than such as they provide for those that offend in self-defence,
seeing that a jealous husband does cunningly practise against the life of
his lady, and most assiduously machinate her death. All the week the
wife stays at home, occupied with her domestic duties; after which, on

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the day that is sacred to joy, she, like every one else, craves some solace,
some peace, some recreation, not unreasonably, for she craves but what
the husbandmen take in the fields, the craftsmen in the city, the
magistrates in the courts, nay what God Himself took, when He rested
from all His labours on the seventh day, and which laws human and
Divine, mindful alike of the honour of God and the common well-being,
have ordained, appropriating certain days to work, and others to repose.
To which ordinance these jealous husbands will in no wise conform; on
the contrary by then most sedulously secluding their wives, they make
those days which to all other women are gladsome, to them most
grievous and dolorous. And what an affliction it is to the poor creatures,
they alone know, who have proved it; for which reason, to sum up, I say
that a wife is rather to be commended than censured, if she take her
revenge upon a husband that is jealous without cause.
Know then that at Rimini there dwelt a merchant, a man of great
substance in lands and goods and money, who, having a most beautiful
woman to wife, waxed inordinately jealous of her, and that for no better
reason than that, loving her greatly, and esteeming her exceeding fair,
and knowing that she did her utmost endeavour to pleasure him, he
must needs suppose that every man loved her, and esteemed her fair,
and that she, moreover, was as zealous to stand well with every other
man as with himself; whereby you may see that he was a poor creature,
and of little sense. Being thus so deeply infected with jealousy, he kept
so strict and close watch over her, that some, maybe, have lain under
sentence of death and been less rigorously confined by their warders.
‛Twas not merely that the lady might not go to a wedding, or a festal
gathering, or even to church, or indeed set foot out of doors in any sort;
but she dared not so much as shew herself at a window, or cast a glance
outside the house, no matter for what purpose. Wherefore she led a
most woeful life of it, and found it all the harder to bear because she
knew herself to be innocent. Accordingly, seeing herself evilly entreated

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by her husband without good cause, she cast about how for her own
consolation she might devise means to justify his usage of her. And for
that, as she might not shew herself at the window, there could be no
interchange of amorous glances between her and any man that passed
along the street, but she wist that in the next house there was a goodly
and debonair gallant, she bethought her, that, if there were but a hole in
the wall that divided the two houses, she might watch thereat, until she
should have sight of the gallant on such wise that she might speak to
him, and give him her love, if he cared to have it, and, if so it might be
contrived, forgather with him now and again, and after this fashion
relieve the burden of her woeful life, until such time as the evil spirit
should depart from her husband. So peering about, now here, now
there, when her husband was away, she found in a very remote part of
the house a place, where, by chance, the wall had a little chink in it.
Peering through which, she made out, though not without great
difficulty, that on the other side was a room, and said to herself:—If this
were Filippo’s room—Filippo was the name of the gallant, her neighbour
—I should be already halfway to my goal. So cautiously, through her
maid, who was grieved to see her thus languish, she made quest, and
discovered that it was indeed the gallant’s room, where he slept quite
alone. Wherefore she now betook her frequently to the aperture, and
whenever she was ware that the gallant was in the room, she would let
fall a pebble or the like trifle; whereby at length she brought the gallant
to the other side of the aperture to see what the matter was. Whereupon
she softly called him, and he knowing her voice, answered; and so,
having now the opportunity she had sought, she in few words opened to
him all her mind. The gallant, being overjoyed, wrought at the aperture
on such wise that albeit none might be ware thereof, he enlarged it; and
there many a time they held converse together, and touched hands,
though further they might not go by reason of the assiduous watch that
the jealous husband kept.

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Now towards Christmas the lady told her husband that, if he

approved, she would fain go on Christmas morning to church, and
confess and communicate, like other Christians. ‟And what sins,” quoth
he, ‟hast thou committed, that wouldst be shriven?” ‟How?” returned
the lady; ‟dost thou take me for a saint? For all thou keepest me so close,
thou must know very well that I am like all other mortals. However, I am
not minded to confess to thee, for that thou art no priest.” Her husband,
whose suspicions were excited by what she had said, cast about how he
might discover these sins of hers, and having bethought him of what
seemed an apt expedient, made answer that she had his consent, but he
would not have her go to any church but their own chapel, where she
might hie her betimes in the morning, and confess either to their own
chaplain or some other priest that the chaplain might assign her, but to
none other, and presently return to the house. The lady thought she half
understood him, but she answered only that she would do as he
required. Christmas morning came, and with the dawn the lady rose,
dressed herself, and hied her to the church appointed by her husband,
who also rose, and hied him to the same church, where he arrived before
her; and having already concerted matters with the priest that was in
charge, he forthwith put on one of the priest’s robes with a great hood,
overshadowing the face, such as we see priests wear, and which he pulled
somewhat forward; and so disguised he seated himself in the choir.
On entering the church the lady asked for the priest, who came, and
learning that she was minded to confess, said that he could not hear her
himself, but would send her one of his brethren; so away he hied him
and sent her, in an evil hour for him, her husband. For though he wore
an air of great solemnity, and ‛twas not yet broad day, and he had pulled
the hood well over his eyes, yet all did not avail, but that his lady
forthwith recognized him, and said to herself:—God be praised! why, the
jealous rogue is turned priest: but leave it me to give him that whereof
he is in quest. So she feigned not to know him, and seated herself at his

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feet. (I should tell you that he had put some pebbles in his mouth, that
his speech, being impeded, might not betray him to his wife, and in all
other respects he deemed himself so thoroughly disguised that there
was nought whereby she might recognize him.) Now, to come to the
confession, the lady, after informing him that she was married, told him
among other matters that she was enamoured of a priest, who came
every night to lie with her. Which to hear was to her husband as if he
were stricken through the heart with a knife; and had it not been that he
was bent on knowing more, he would have forthwith given over the
confession, and taken himself off. However he kept his place, and:
—‟How?” said he to the lady, ‟does not your husband lie with you?” The
lady replied in the affirmative. ‟How, then,” quoth the husband, ‟can the
priest also lie with you?” ‟Sir,” replied she, ‟what art the priest employs I
know not; but door there is none, however well locked, in the house,
that comes not open at his touch; and he tells me that, being come to
the door of my room, before he opens it, he says certain words, whereby
my husband forthwith falls asleep; whereupon he opens the door, and
enters the room, and lies with me; and so ‛tis always, without fail.” ‟Then
‛tis very wrong, Madam, and you must give it up altogether,” said the
husband. ‟That, Sir,” returned the lady, ‟I doubt I can never do; for I love
him too much.” ‟In that case,” quoth the husband, ‟I cannot give you
absolution.” ‟The pity of it!” ejaculated the lady; ‟I came not hither to tell
you falsehoods: if I could give it up, I would.” ‟Madam,” replied the
husband, ‟indeed I am sorry for you; for I see that you are in a fair way to
lose your soul. However, this I will do for you; I will make special
supplication to God on your behalf; and perchance you may be profited
thereby. And from time to time I will send you one of my young clerks;
and you will tell him whether my prayers have been of any help to you,
or no, and if they have been so, I shall know what to do next.” ‟Nay, Sir,”
quoth the lady, ‟do not so; send no man to me at home; for, should my
husband come to know it, he is so jealous that nothing in the world

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would ever disabuse him of the idea that he came but for an evil
purpose, and so I should have no peace with him all the year long.”
Madam, returned the husband, ‟have no fear; rest assured that I will so
order matters that you shall never hear a word about it from him.” ‟If you
can make sure of that,” quoth the lady, ‟I have no more to say.” And so,
her confession ended, and her penance enjoined, she rose, and went to
mass, while the luckless husband, fuming and fretting, hasted to divest
himself of his priest’s trappings, and then went home bent upon
devising some means to bring the priest and his wife together, and take
his revenge upon them both.
When the lady came home from church she read in her husband’s
face that she had spoiled his Christmas for him, albeit he dissembled to
the uttermost, lest she should discover what he had done, and supposed
himself to have learned. His mind was made up to keep watch for the
priest that very night by his own front door. So to the lady he said:—‟I
have to go out to-night to sup and sleep; so thou wilt take care that the
front door, and the mid-stair door, and the bedroom door are well
locked; and for the rest thou mayst go to bed, at thine own time.” ‟Well
and good,” replied the lady: and as soon as she was able, off she hied her
to the aperture, and gave the wonted signal, which Filippo no sooner
heard, than he was at the spot. The lady then told him what she had
done in the morning, and what her husband had said to her after
breakfast, adding:—‟Sure I am that he will not stir out of the house, but
will keep watch beside the door; wherefore contrive to come in to-night
by the roof, that we may be together.” ‟Madam,” replied the gallant,
nothing loath, ‟trust me for that.”
Night came, the husband armed, and noiselessly hid himself in a
room on the ground floor: the lady locked all the doors, being especially
careful to secure the mid-stair door, to bar her husband’s ascent; and in
due time the gallant, having found his way cautiously enough over the
roof, they got them to bed, and there had solace of one another and a

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good time; and at daybreak the gallant hied him back to his house.
Meanwhile the husband, rueful and supperless, half dead with cold, kept
his armed watch beside his door, momently expecting the priest, for the
best part of the night; but towards daybreak, his powers failing him, he
lay down and slept in the ground-floor room. ‛Twas hard upon tierce
when he awoke, and the front door was then open; so, making as if he
had just come in, he went upstairs and breakfasted. Not long afterwards
he sent to his wife a young fellow, disguised as the priest’s underling,
who asked her if he of whom she wist had been with her again. The lady,
who quite understood what that meant, made answer that he had not
come that night, and that, if he continued to neglect her so, ‛twas
possible he might be forgotten, though she had no mind to forget him.
Now, to make a long story short, the husband passed many a night in
the same way, hoping to catch the priest as he came in, the lady and her
gallant meanwhile having a good time. But at last the husband, being
able to stand it no longer, sternly demanded of his wife what she had
said to the priest the morning when she was confessed. The lady
answered that she was not minded to tell him, for that ‛twas not seemly
or proper so to do. Whereupon:—‟Sinful woman,” quoth the husband,
‟in thy despite I know what thou saidst to him, and know I must and will
who this priest is, of whom thou art enamoured, and who by dint of his
incantations lies with thee a nights, or I will sluice thy veins for thee.”
”‛Tis not true,” replied the lady, ‟that I am enamoured of a priest.”
‟How?” quoth the husband, ‟saidst thou not as much to the priest that
confessed thee?” ‟Thou canst not have had it from him,” rejoined the
lady. ‟Wast thou then present thyself? For sure I never told him so.”
‟Then tell me,” quoth the husband, ‟who this priest is; and lose no time
about it.” Whereat the lady began to smile, and:—‟I find it not a little
diverting,” quoth she, ‟that a wise man should suffer himself to be led by
a simple woman as a ram is led by the horns to the shambles; albeit no
wise man art thou: not since that fatal hour when thou gavest

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harbourage in thy breast, thou wist not why, to the evil spirit of jealousy;
and the more foolish and insensate thou art, the less glory have I.
Deemest thou, my husband, that I am as blind of the bodily eye as thou
art of the mind’s eye? Nay, but for sure I am not so. I knew at a glance the
priest that confessed me, and that ‛twas even thyself. But I was minded
to give thee that of which thou wast in quest, and I gave it thee.
Howbeit, if thou hadst been the wise man thou takest thyself to be, thou
wouldst not have chosen such a way as that to worm out thy good lady’s
secrets, nor wouldst thou have fallen a prey to a baseless suspicion, but
wouldst have understood that what she confessed was true, and she all
the while guiltless. I told thee that I loved a priest; and wast not thou,
whom I love, though ill enough dost thou deserve it, turned priest? I
told thee that there was no door in my house but would open when he
was minded to lie with me: and when thou wouldst fain have access to
me, what door was ever closed against thee? I told thee that the priest
lay nightly with me: and what night was there that thou didst not lie
with me? Thou sentest thy young clerk to me: and thou knowest that, as
often as thou hadst not been with me, I sent word that the priest had not
been with me. Who but thou, that hast suffered jealousy to blind thee,
would have been so witless as not to read such a riddle? But thou must
needs mount guard at night beside the door, and think to make me
believe that thou hadst gone out to sup and sleep. Consider thy ways,
and court not the mockery of those that know them as I do, but turn a
man again as thou wast wont to be: and let there be no more of this
strict restraint in which thou keepest me; for I swear to thee by God that,
if I were minded to set horns on thy brow, I should not fail so to take my
pastime that thou wouldst never find it out, though thou hadst a
hundred eyes, as thou hast but two.”
Thus admonished, the jealous caitiff, who had flattered himself that
he had very cunningly discovered his wife’s secret, was ashamed, and
made no answer save to commend his wife’s wit and honour; and thus,

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having cause for jealousy, he discarded it, as he had erstwhile been

jealous without cause. And so the adroit lady had, as it were, a charter of
indulgence, and needed no more to contrive for her lover to come to her
over the roof like a cat, but admitted him by the door, and using due
discretion, had many a good time with him, and sped her life gaily.

NOVEL VI.

— Madonna Isabella has with her Leonetto, her accepted lover,

when she is surprised by one Messer Lambertuccio, by whom
she is beloved: her husband coming home about the same
time, she sends Messer Lambertuccio forth of the house drawn
sword in hand, and the husband afterwards escorts Leonetto
home. —
Wondrous was the delight that all the company had of Fiammetta’s
story, nor was there any but affirmed that the lady had done excellent
well, and dealt with her insensate husband as he deserved. However, it
being ended, the king bade Pampinea follow suit; which she did on this
wise:—Not a few there are that in their simplicity aver that Love
deranges the mind, insomuch that whoso loves becomes as it were
witless: the folly of which opinion, albeit I doubt it not, and deem it
abundantly proven by what has been already said, I purpose once again
to demonstrate.
In our city, rich in all manner of good things, there dwelt a young
gentlewoman, fair exceedingly, and wedded to a most worthy and
excellent gentleman. And as it not seldom happens that one cannot keep
ever to the same diet, but would fain at times vary it, so this lady, finding
her husband not altogether to her mind, became enamoured of a
gallant, Leonetto by name, who, though of no high rank, was not a little
debonair and courteous, and he in like manner fell in love with her; and

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(as you know that ‛tis seldom that what is mutually desired fails to come
about) ‛twas not long before they had fruition of their love. Now the lady
being, as I said, fair and winsome, it so befell that a gentleman, Messer
Lambertuccio by name, grew mightily enamoured of her, but so
tiresome and odious did she find him, that for the world she could not
bring herself to love him. So, growing tired of fruitlessly soliciting her
favour by ambassage, Messer Lambertuccio, who was a powerful signior,
sent her at last another sort of message in which he threatened to
defame her if she complied not with his wishes. Wherefore the lady,
knowing her man, was terrified, and disposed herself to pleasure him.
Now it so chanced that Madonna Isabella, for such was the lady’s
name, being gone, as is our Florentine custom in the summer, to spend
some time on a very goodly estate that she had in the contado, one
morning finding herself alone, for her husband had ridden off to tarry
some days elsewhere, she sent for Leonetto to come and keep her
company; and Leonetto came forthwith in high glee. But while they were
together, Messer Lambertuccio, who, having got wind that the husband
was away, had mounted his horse and ridden thither quite alone,
knocked at the door. Whereupon the lady’s maid hied her forthwith to
her mistress, who was alone with Leonetto, and called her, saying:
—‟Madam, Messer Lambertuccio is here below, quite alone.” Whereat
the lady was vexed beyond measure; and being also not a little dismayed,
she said to Leonetto:—‟Prithee, let it not irk thee to withdraw behind
the curtain, and there keep close until Messer Lambertuccio be gone.”
Leonetto, who stood in no less fear of Messer Lambertuccio than did the
lady, got into his hiding-place; and the lady bade the maid go open to
Messer Lambertuccio: she did so; and having dismounted and fastened
his palfrey to a pin, he ascended the stairs; at the head of which the lady
received him with a smile and as gladsome a greeting as she could find
words for, and asked him on what errand he was come. The gentleman
embraced and kissed her, saying:—‟My soul, I am informed that your

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

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

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Leonetto spoke privily with Messer Lambertuccio, and so composed the

affair with him, that, though it occasioned not a little talk, the knight
never wist how he had been tricked by his wife.

NOVEL VII.

— Lodovico discovers to Madonna Beatrice the love that he

bears her: she sends Egano, her husband, into a garden
disguised as herself, and lies with Lodovico; who thereafter,
being risen, hies him to the garden and cudgels Egano. —
This device of Madonna Isabella, thus recounted by Pampinea, was held
nothing short of marvellous by all the company. But, being bidden by
the king to tell the next story, thus spake Filomena:—Loving ladies, if I
mistake not, the device, of which you shall presently hear from me, will
prove to be no less excellent than the last.
You are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at Paris a Florentine
gentleman, who, being by reason of poverty turned merchant, had
prospered so well in his affairs that he was become very wealthy; and
having by his lady an only son, Lodovico by name, whose nobility
disrelished trade, he would not put him in any shop; but that he might
be with other gentlemen, he caused him to enter the service of the King
of France, whereby he acquired very fine manners and other
accomplishments. Being in this service, Lodovico was one day with some
other young gallants that talked of the fair ladies of France, and
England, and other parts of the world, when they were joined by certain
knights that were returned from the Holy Sepulchre; and hearing their
discourse, one of the knights fell a saying, that of a surety in the whole
world, so far as he had explored it, there was not any lady, of all that he
had ever seen, that might compare for beauty with Madonna Beatrice,
the wife of Egano de’ Galluzzi, of Bologna: wherein all his companions,

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who in common with him had seen the lady at Bologna, concurred.
Which report Lodovico, who was as yet fancy-free, no sooner heard,
than he burned with such a yearning to see the lady that he was able to
think of nought else: insomuch that he made up his mind to betake him
to Bologna to see her, and if she pleased him, to remain there; to which
end he gave his father to understand that he would fain visit the Holy
Sepulchre, whereto his father after no little demur consented.
So to Bologna Anichino—for so he now called himself—came; and, as
Fortune would have it, the very next day, he saw the lady at a festal
gathering, and deemed her vastly more beautiful than he had expected:
wherefore he waxed most ardently enamoured of her, and resolved never
to quit Bologna, until he had gained her love. So, casting about how he
should proceed, he could devise no other way but to enter her husband’s
service, which was the more easy that he kept not a few retainers: on this
wise Lodovico surmised that, peradventure, he might compass his end.
He therefore sold his horses and meetly bestowed his servants, bidding
them make as if they knew him not; and being pretty familiar with his
host, he told him that he was minded to take service with some worthy
lord, it any such he might find. ‟Thou wouldst make,” quoth the host,
‟the very sort of retainer to suit a gentleman of this city, Egano by name,
who keeps not a few of them, and will have all of them presentable like
thee: I will mention the matter to him.” And so he accordingly did, and
before he took leave of Egano had placed Anichino with him, to Egano’s
complete satisfaction.
Being thus resident with Egano, and having abundant opportunities
of seeing the fair lady, Anichino set himself to serve Egano with no little
zeal; wherein he succeeded so well, that Egano was more than satisfied,
insomuch that by and by there was nought he could do without his
advice, and he entrusted to him the guidance not only of himself, but of
all his affairs. Now it so befell that one day when Egano was gone a
hawking, having left Anichino at home, Madonna Beatrice, who as yet

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

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no doubt that all he said was true, and yielding to his appeal, she
entertained his love within her heart in such measure that she too began
to sigh, and after a sigh or two made answer:—‟Sweet my Anichino, be of
good cheer; neither presents nor promises, nor any courting by
gentleman, or lord, or whoso else (for I have been and am still courted by
not a few) was ever able to sway my soul to love any of them: but thou,
by the few words that thou hast said, hast so wrought with me that, brief
though the time has been, I am already in far greater measure thine than
mine. My love I deem thee to have won right worthily; and so I give it
thee, and vow to give thee joyance thereof before the coming night be
past. To which end thou wilt come to my room about midnight; I will
leave the door open; thou knowest the side of the bed on which I sleep;
thou wilt come there; should I be asleep, thou hast but to touch me, and
I shall awake, and give thee solace of thy long-pent desire. In earnest
whereof I will even give thee a kiss.” So saying, she threw her arms about
his neck, and lovingly kissed him, as Anichino her.
Their colloquy thus ended, Anichino betook him elsewhere about
some matters which he had to attend to, looking forward to midnight
with boundless exultation. Egano came in from his hawking; and after
supper, being weary, went straight to bed, whither the lady soon
followed him, leaving, as she had promised, the door of the chamber
open. Thither accordingly, at the appointed hour, came Anichino, and
having softly entered the chamber, and closed the door behind him,
stole up to where the lady lay, and laying his hand upon her breast,
found that she was awake. Now, as soon as she wist that Anichino was
come, she took his hand in both her own; and keeping fast hold of him,
she turned about in the bed, until she awoke Egano; whereupon:
—‟Husband,” quoth she, ‟I would not say aught of this to thee, yestereve,
because I judged thou wast weary; but tell me, upon thy hope of
salvation, Egano, whom deemest thou thy best and most loyal retainer,
and the most attached to thee, of all that thou hast in the house?” ‟What

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a question is this, wife?” returned Egano. ‟Dost not know him? Retainer
I have none, nor ever had, so trusted, or loved, as Anichino. But
wherefore put such a question?”
Now, when Anichino wist that Egano was awake, and heard them talk
of himself, he more than once tried to withdraw his hand, being
mightily afraid lest the lady meant to play him false; but she held it so
tightly that he might not get free, while thus she made answer to Egano:
—‟I will tell thee what he is. I thought that he was all thou sayst, and
that none was so loyal to thee as he, but he has undeceived me, for that
yesterday, when thou wast out a hawking, he, being here, chose his time,
and had the shamelessness to crave of me compliance with his wanton
desires: and I, that I might not need other evidence than that of thine
own senses to prove his guilt to thee, I made answer, that I was well
content, and that to-night, after midnight, I would get me into the
garden, and await him there at the foot of the pine. Now go thither I
shall certainly not; but, if thou wouldst prove the loyalty of thy retainer,
thou canst readily do so, if thou but slip on one of my loose robes, and
cover thy face with a veil, and go down and attend his coming, for come,
I doubt not, he will.” Whereto Egano:—‟Meet indeed it is,” quoth he,
‟that I should go see;” and straightway up he got, and, as best he might
in the dark, he put on one of the lady’s loose robes and veiled his face,
and then hied him to the garden, and sate down at the foot of the pine to
await Anichino. The lady no sooner wist that he was out of the room,
than she rose, and locked the door. Anichino, who had never been so
terrified in all his life, and had struggled with all his might to disengage
his hand from the lady’s clasp, and had inwardly cursed her and his love,
and himself for trusting her, a hundred thousand times, was overjoyed
beyond measure at this last turn that she had given the affair. And so,
the lady having got her to bed again, and he, at her bidding, having
stripped and laid him down beside her, they had solace and joyance of
one another for a good while. Then, the lady, deeming it unmeet for

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Anichino to tarry longer with her, caused him to get up and resume his
clothes, saying to him:—‟Sweet my mouth, thou wilt take a stout cudgel,
and get thee to the garden, and making as if I were there, and thy suit to
me had been but to try me, thou wilt give Egano a sound rating with thy
tongue and a sound belabouring with thy cudgel, the sequel whereof will
be wondrously gladsome and delightful.” Whereupon Anichino hied him
off to the garden, armed with a staff of wild willow; and as he drew nigh
the pine, Egano saw him, and rose and came forward to meet him as if
he would receive him with the heartiest of cheer. But:— ‟Ah! wicked
woman!” quoth Anichino; ‟so thou art come! Thou didst verily believe,
then, that I was, that I am, minded thus to wrong my lord? Foul fall thee
a thousand times!” And therewith he raised his cudgel, and began to lay
about him. Egano, however, had heard and seen enough, and without a
word took to flight, while Anichino pursued him, crying out:— ‟Away
with thee! God send thee a bad year, lewd woman that thou art; nor
doubt that Egano shall hear of this to-morrow.” Egano, having received
sundry round knocks, got him back to his chamber with what speed he
might; and being asked by the lady, whether Anichino had come into the
garden:—‟Would to God he had not!” quoth he, ‟for that, taking me for
thee, he has beaten me black and blue with his cudgel, and rated me like
the vilest woman that ever was: passing strange, indeed, it had seemed
to me that he should have said those words to thee with intent to
dishonour me; and now ‛tis plain that ‛twas but that, seeing thee so
blithe and frolicsome, he was minded to prove thee.” Whereto:— ‟God be
praised,” returned the lady, ‟that he proved me by words, as thee by acts:
and I doubt not he may say that I bear his words with more patience
than thou his acts. But since he is so loyal to thee, we must make much
of him and do him honour.” ‟Ay, indeed,” quoth Egano, ‟thou sayst
sooth.”
Thus was Egano fortified in the belief that never had any gentleman
wife so true, or retainer so loyal, as he; and many a hearty laugh had he

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with Anichino and his lady over this affair, which to them was the
occasion that, with far less let than might else have been, they were able
to have solace and joyance of one another, so long as it pleased Anichino
to tarry at Bologna.

NOVEL VIII.

— A husband grows jealous of his wife, and discovers that she

has warning of her lover’s approach by a piece of pack-thread,
which she ties to her great toe a nights. While he is pursuing
her lover, she puts another woman in bed in her place. The
husband, finding her there, beats her, and cuts off her hair. He
then goes and calls his wife’s brothers, who, holding his
accusation to be false, give him a rating. —
Rare indeed was deemed by common consent the subtlety shewn by
Madonna Beatrice in the beguilement of her husband, and all affirmed
that the terror of Anichino must have been prodigious, when, the lady
still keeping fast hold of him, he had heard her say that he had made
suit of love to her. However, Filomena being silent, the king turned to
Neifile, saying:—”‛Tis now for you to tell.” Whereupon Neifile, while a
slight smile died away upon her lips, thus began:—Fair ladies, to
entertain you with a goodly story, such as those which my predecessors
have delighted you withal, is indeed a heavy burden, but, God helping
me, I trust fairly well to acquit myself thereof.
You are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime in our city a most
wealthy merchant, Arriguccio Berlinghieri by name, who foolishly, as we
wot by daily experience is the way of merchants, thinking to compass
gentility by matrimony, took to wife a young gentlewoman, by no means
suited to him, whose name was Monna Sismonda. Now Monna
Sismonda, seeing that her husband was much abroad, and gave her little

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of his company, became enamoured of a young gallant, Ruberto by

name, who had long courted her: and she being grown pretty familiar
with him, and using, perchance, too little discretion, for she affected
him extremely, it so befell that Arriguccio, whether it was that he
detected somewhat, or howsoever, waxed of all men the most jealous,
and gave up going abroad, and changed his way of life altogether, and
made it his sole care to watch over his wife, insomuch that he never
allowed himself a wink of sleep until he had seen her to bed: which
occasioned the lady the most grievous dumps, because ‛twas on no wise
possible for her to be with her Ruberto. So, casting about in many ways
how she might contrive to meet him, and being thereto not a little plied
by Ruberto himself, she bethought her at last of the following expedient:
to wit, her room fronting the street, and Arriguccio, as she had often
observed, being very hard put to it to get him to sleep, but thereafter
sleeping very soundly, she resolved to arrange with Ruberto that he
should come to the front door about midnight, whereupon she would
get her down, and open the door, and stay some time with him while her
husband was in his deep sleep. And that she might have tidings of his
arrival, yet so as that none else might wot aught thereof, she adopted the
device of lowering a pack-thread from the bedroom window on such
wise that, while with one end it should all but touch the ground, it
should traverse the floor of the room, until it reached the bed, and then
be brought under the clothes, so that, when she was abed, she might
attach it to her great toe. Having so done, she sent word to Ruberto, that
when he came, he must be sure to jerk the pack-thread, and, if her
husband were asleep, she would loose it, and go open to him; but, if he
were awake, she would hold it taut and draw it to herself, to let him
know that he must not expect her. Ruberto fell in with the idea, came
there many times, and now forgathered with her and again did not. But
at last, they still using this cunning practice, it so befell that one night,
while the lady slept, Arriguccio, letting his foot stray more than he was

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wont about the bed, came upon the pack-thread, and laying his hand
upon it, found that it was attached to his lady’s great toe, and said to
himself:—This must be some trick: and afterwards discovering that the
thread passed out of the window, was confirmed in his surmise.
Wherefore, he softly severed it from the lady’s toe, and affixed it to his
own; and waited, all attention, to learn the result of his experiment. Nor
had he long to wait before Ruberto came, and Arriguccio felt him jerk
the thread according to his wont: and as Arriguccio had not known how
to attach the thread securely, and Ruberto jerked it with some force, it
gave way, whereby he understood that he was to wait, and did so.
Arriguccio straightway arose, caught up his arms, and hasted to the door
to see who might be there, intent to do him a mischief. Now Arriguccio,
for all he was a merchant, was a man of spirit, and of thews and sinews;
and being come to the door, he opened it by no means gingerly, as the
lady was wont; whereby Ruberto, who was in waiting, surmised the
truth, to wit, that ‛twas Arriguccio by whom the door was opened.
Wherefore he forthwith took to flight, followed by Arriguccio. But at
length, when he had run a long way, as Arriguccio gave not up the
pursuit, he being also armed, drew his sword, and faced about; and so
they fell to, Arriguccio attacking, and Ruberto defending himself.
Now when Arriguccio undid the bedroom door, the lady awoke, and
finding the pack-thread cut loose from her toe, saw at a glance that her
trick was discovered; and hearing Arriguccio running after Ruberto, she
forthwith got up, foreboding what the result was like to be, and called
her maid, who was entirely in her confidence: whom she so plied with
her obsecrations that at last she got her into bed in her room,
beseeching her not to say who she was, but to bear patiently all the
blows that Arriguccio might give her; and she would so reward her that
she should have no reason to complain. Then, extinguishing the light
that was in the room, forth she hied her, and having found a convenient
hiding-place in the house, awaited the turn of events. Now Arriguccio

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and Ruberto being hotly engaged in the street, the neighbours, roused
by the din of the combat, got up and launched their curses upon them.
Wherefore Arriguccio, fearing lest he should be recognized, drew off
before he had so much as discovered who the young gallant was, or done
him any scathe, and in a fell and wrathful mood betook him home.
Stumbling into the bedroom, he cried out angrily:—‟Where art thou,
lewd woman? Thou hast put out the light, that I may not be able to find
thee; but thou hast miscalculated.” And going to the bedside, he laid
hold of the maid, taking her to be his wife, and fell a pummelling and
kicking her with all the strength he had in his hands and feet, insomuch
that he pounded her face well-nigh to pulp, rating her the while like the
vilest woman that ever was; and last of all he cut off her hair. The maid
wept bitterly, as indeed she well might; and though from time to time
she ejaculated an ‟Alas! Mercy, for God’s sake!” or ‟Spare me, spare me;”
yet her voice was so broken by her sobs, and Arriguccio’s hearing so
dulled by his wrath, that he was not able to discern that ‛twas not his
wife’s voice but that of another woman. So, having soundly thrashed her,
and cut off her hair, as we said:—‟Wicked woman,” quoth he, ‟I touch
thee no more; but I go to find thy brothers, and shall do them to wit of
thy good works; and then they may come here, and deal with thee as
they may deem their honour demands, and take thee hence, for be sure
thou shalt no more abide in this house.” With this he was gone, locking
the door of the room behind him, and quitted the house alone.
Now no sooner did Monna Sismonda, who had heard all that passed,
perceive that her husband was gone, than she opened the door of the
bedroom, rekindled the light, and finding her maid all bruises and tears,
did what she could to comfort her, and carried her back to her own
room, where, causing her to be privily waited on and tended, she helped
her so liberally from Arriguccio’s own store, that she confessed herself
content. The maid thus bestowed in her room, the lady presently hied
her back to her own, which she set all in neat and trim order, remaking

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the bed, so that it might appear as if it had not been slept in, relighting
the lamp, and dressing and tiring herself, until she looked as if she had
not been abed that night; then, taking with her a lighted lamp and some
work, she sat her down at the head of the stairs, and began sewing, while
she waited to see how the affair would end.
Arriguccio meanwhile had hied him with all speed straight from the
house to that of his wife’s brothers, where by dint of much knocking he
made himself heard, and was admitted. The lady’s three brothers, and
her mother, being informed that ‛twas Arriguccio, got up, and having set
lights a burning, came to him and asked him on what errand he was
come there at that hour, and alone. Whereupon Arriguccio, beginning
with the discovery of the pack-thread attached to his lady’s great toe,
gave them the whole narrative of his discoveries and doings down to the
very end; and to clinch the whole matter, he put in their hands the locks
which he had cut, as he believed, from his wife’s head, adding that ‛twas
now for them to come for her and deal with her on such wise as they
might deem their honour required, seeing that he would nevermore
have her in his house. Firmly believing what he told them, the lady’s
brothers were very wroth with her, and having provided themselves with
lighted torches, set out with Arriguccio, and hied them to his house with
intent to scorn her, while their mother followed, weeping and
beseeching now one, now another, not to credit these matters so hastily,
until they had seen or heard somewhat more thereof; for that the
husband might have some other reason to be wroth with her, and having
ill-treated her, might have trumped up this charge by way of exculpation,
adding that, if true, ‛twas passing strange, for well she knew her
daughter, whom she had brought up from her tenderest years, and much
more to the like effect.
However, being come to Arriguccio’s house, they entered, and were
mounting the stairs, when Monna Sismonda, hearing them, called out:
—‟Who is there?” Whereto one of the brothers responded:—‟Lewd

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woman, thou shalt soon have cause enough to know who it is.” ‟Now
Lord love us!” quoth Monna Sismonda, ‟what would he be at?” Then,
rising, she greeted them with:—‟Welcome, my brothers but what seek ye
abroad at this hour, all three of you?” They had seen her sitting and
sewing with never a sign of a blow on her face, whereas Arriguccio had
averred that he had pummelled her all over: wherefore their first
impression was one of wonder, and refraining the vehemence of their
wrath, they asked her what might be the truth of the matter which
Arriguccio laid to her charge, and threatened her with direful
consequences, if she should conceal aught. Whereto the lady:— ‟What
you would have me tell you,” quoth she, ‟or what Arriguccio may have
laid to my charge, that know not I.” Arriguccio could but gaze upon her,
as one that had taken leave of his wits, calling to mind how he had
pummelled her about the face times without number, and scratched it
for her, and mishandled her in all manner of ways, and there he now saw
her with no trace of aught of it all upon her. However, to make a long
story short, the lady’s brothers told her what Arriguccio had told them
touching the pack-thread and the beating and all the rest of it.
Whereupon the lady turned to him with:—‟Alas, my husband, what is
this that I hear? Why givest thou me, to thy own great shame, the
reputation of a lewd woman, when such I am not, and thyself the
reputation of a wicked and cruel man, which thou art not? Wast thou
ever to-night, I say not in my company, but so much as in the house until
now? Or when didst thou beat me? For my part I mind me not of it.”
Arriguccio began:—‟How sayst thou, lewd woman? Did we not go to bed
together? Did I not come back, after chasing thy lover? Did I not give
thee bruises not a few, and cut thy hair for thee?” But the lady
interrupted him, saying:—‟Nay, thou didst not lie here to-night. But
leave we this, of which my true words are my sole witness, and pass we to
this of the beating thou sayst thou gavest me, and how thou didst cut my
hair. Never a beating had I from thee, and I bid all that are here, and

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thee among them, look at me, and say if I have any trace of a beating on
my person; nor should I advise thee to dare lay hand upon me; for, by
the Holy Rood, I would spoil thy beauty for thee. Nor didst thou cut my
hair, for aught that I saw or felt: however, thou didst it, perchance, on
such wise that I was not ware thereof: so let me see whether ‛tis cut or
no.” Then, unveiling herself, she shewed that her hair was uncut and
entire. Wherefore her brothers and mother now turned to Arriguccio
with:—‟What means this, Arriguccio? This accords not with what thou
gavest us to understand thou hadst done; nor know we how thou wilt
prove the residue.”
Arriguccio was lost, as it were, in a dream, and yet he would fain have
spoken; but, seeing that what he had thought to prove was otherwise, he
essayed no reply. So the lady turning to her brothers:—‟I see,” quoth she,
‟what he would have: he will not be satisfied unless I do what I never
would otherwise have done, to wit, give you to know what a pitiful caitiff
he is; as now I shall not fail to do. I make no manner of doubt that, as he
has said, even so it befell, and so he did. How, you shall hear. This worthy
man, to whom, worse luck! you gave me to wife, a merchant, as he calls
himself, and as such would fain have credit, and who ought to be more
temperate than a religious, and more continent than a girl, lets scarce an
evening pass but he goes a boozing in the taverns, and consorting with
this or the other woman of the town; and ‛tis for me to await his return
until midnight or sometimes until matins, even as you now find me. I
doubt not that, being thoroughly well drunk, he got him to bed with one
of these wantons, and, awaking, found the pack-thread on her foot, and
afterwards did actually perform all these brave exploits of which he
speaks, and in the end came back to her, and beat her, and cut her hair
off, and being not yet quite recovered from his debauch, believed, and, I
doubt not, still believes, that ‛twas I that he thus treated; and if you will
but scan his face closely, you will see that he is still half drunk. But,
whatever he may have said about me, I would have you account it as

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nothing more than the disordered speech of a tipsy man; and forgive
him as I do.” Whereupon the lady’s mother raised no small outcry,
saying:—‟By the Holy Rood, my daughter, this may not be! A daughter,
such as thou, to be mated with one so unworthy of thee! The pestilent,
insensate cur should be slain on the spot! A pretty state of things,
indeed! Why, he might have picked thee up from the gutter! Now foul
fall him! but thou shalt no more be vexed with the tedious drivel of a
petty dealer in ass’s dung, some blackguard, belike, that came hither
from the country because he was dismissed the service of some petty
squire, clad in romagnole, with belfry-breeches, and a pen in his arse,
and for that he has a few pence, must needs have a gentleman’s daughter
and a fine lady to wife, and set up a coat of arms, and say:—‛I am of the
such and such,’ and ‛my ancestors did thus and thus.’ Ah! had my sons
but followed my advice! Thy honour were safe in the house of the Counts
Guidi, where they might have bestowed thee, though thou hadst but a
morsel of bread to thy dowry: but they must needs give thee to this rare
treasure, who, though better daughter and more chaste there is none
than thou in Florence, has not blushed this very midnight and in our
presence to call thee a strumpet, as if we knew thee not. God’s faith! so I
were hearkened to, he should shrewdly smart for it.” Then, turning to
her sons, she said:—‟My sons, I told you plainly enough that this ought
not to be. Now, have you heard how your worthy brother-in-law treats
your sister? Petty twopenny trader that he is: were it for me to act, as it is
for you, after what he has said of her and done to her, nought would
satisfy or appease me, till I had rid the earth of him. And were I a man,
who am but a woman, none, other but myself should meddle with the
affair. God’s curse upon him, the woeful, shameless sot!” Whereupon the
young men, incensed by what they had seen and heard, turned to
Arriguccio, and after giving him the soundest rating that ever was
bestowed upon caitiff, concluded as follows:—‟This once we pardon
thee, witting thee to be a drunken knave—but as thou holdest thy life

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dear, have a care that henceforth we hear no such tales of thee; for rest
assured that if aught of the kind do reach our ears, we will requite thee
for both turns.” Which said, they departed. Arriguccio, standing there
like one dazed, not witting whether his late doings were actual fact or
but a dream, made no more words about the matter, but left his wife in
peace. Thus did she by her address not only escape imminent peril, but
open a way whereby in time to come she was able to gratify her passion
to the full without any farther fear of her husband.

NOVEL IX.

— Lydia, wife of Nicostratus, loves Pyrrhus, who to assure

himself thereof, asks three things of her, all of which she does,
and therewithal enjoys him in presence of Nicostratus, and
makes Nicostratus believe that what he saw was not real. —
So diverting did the ladies find Neifile’s story that it kept them still
laughing and talking, though the king, having bidden Pamfilo tell his
story, had several times enjoined silence upon them. However, as soon as
they had done, Pamfilo thus began:—Methinks, worshipful ladies, there
is no venture, though fraught with gravest peril, that whoso loves
ardently will not make: of which truth, exemplified though it has been
in stories not a few, I purpose to afford you yet more signal proof in one
which I shall tell you; wherein you will hear of a lady who in her
enterprises owed far more to the favour of Fortune than to the guidance
of reason: wherefore I should not advise any of you rashly to follow in
her footsteps, seeing that Fortune is not always in a kindly mood, nor are
the eyes of all men equally holden.
In Argos, that most ancient city of Achaia, the fame of whose kings of
old time is out of all proportion to its size, there dwelt of yore
Nicostratus, a nobleman, to whom, when he was already verging on old

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age, Fortune gave to wife a great lady, Lydia by name, whose courage
matched her charms. Nicostratus, as suited with his rank and wealth,
kept not a few retainers and hounds and hawks, and was mightily
addicted to the chase. Among his dependants was a young man named
Pyrrhus, a gallant of no mean accomplishment, and goodly of person
and beloved and trusted by Nicostratus above all other. Of whom Lydia
grew mighty enamoured, insomuch that neither by day nor by night
might her thoughts stray from him: but, whether it was that Pyrrhus wist
not her love, or would have none of it, he gave no sign of recognition;
whereby the lady’s suffering waxing more than she could bear, she made
up her mind to declare her love to him; and having a chambermaid,
Lusca by name, in whom she placed great trust, she called her, and said:
—‟Lusca, tokens thou hast had from me of my regard that should ensure
thy obedience and loyalty; wherefore have a care that what I shall now
tell thee reach the ears of none but him to whom I shall bid thee impart
it. Thou seest, Lusca, that I am in the prime of my youth and lustihead,
and have neither lack nor stint of all such things as folk desire, save only,
to be brief, that I have one cause to repine, to wit, that my husband’s
years so far outnumber my own. Wherefore with that wherein young
ladies take most pleasure I am but ill provided, and, as my desire is no
less than theirs, ‛tis now some while since I determined that, if Fortune
has shewn herself so little friendly to me by giving me a husband so
advanced in years, at least I will not be mine own enemy by sparing to
devise the means whereby my happiness and health may be assured; and
that herein, as in all other matters, my joy may be complete, I have
chosen, thereto to minister by his embraces, our Pyrrhus, deeming him
more worthy than any other man, and have so set my heart upon him
that I am ever ill at ease save when he is present either to my sight or to
my mind, insomuch that, unless I forgather with him without delay, I
doubt not that ‛twill be the death of me. And so, if thou holdest my life
dear, thou wilt shew him my love on such wise as thou mayst deem best,

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and make my suit to him that he be pleased to come to me, when thou
shalt go to fetch him.” ‟That gladly will I,” replied the chambermaid; and
as soon as she found convenient time and place, she drew Pyrrhus apart,
and, as best she knew how, conveyed her lady’s message to him. Which
Pyrrhus found passing strange to hear, for ‛twas in truth a complete
surprise to him, and he doubted the lady did but mean to try him.
Wherefore he presently, and with some asperity, answered thus:
—‟Lusca, believe I cannot that this message comes from my lady: have a
care, therefore, what thou sayst, and if, perchance, it does come from
her, I doubt she does not mean it; and if perchance, she does mean it,
why, then I am honoured by my lord above what I deserve, and I would
not for my life do him such a wrong: so have a care never to speak of
such matters to me again.” Lusca, nowise disconcerted by his
uncompliant tone, rejoined:—‟I shall speak to thee, Pyrrhus, of these
and all other matters, wherewith I may be commissioned by my lady, as
often as she shall bid me, whether it pleases or irks thee; but thou art a
blockhead.”
So, somewhat chafed, Lusca bore Pyrrhus’ answer back to her lady,
who would fain have died, when she heard it, and some days afterwards
resumed the topic, saying:—‟Thou knowest, Lusca, that ‛tis not the first
stroke that fells the oak; wherefore, methinks, thou wert best go back to
this strange man, who is minded to evince his loyalty at my expense, and
choosing a convenient time, declare to him all my passion, and do thy
best endeavour that the affair be carried through; for if it should thus
lapse, ‛twould be the death of me; besides which, he would think we had
but trifled with him, and, whereas ‛tis his love we would have, we should
earn his hatred.” So, after comforting the lady, the maid hied her in quest
of Pyrrhus, whom she found in a gladsome and propitious mood, and
thus addressed:—”‛Tis not many days, Pyrrhus, since I declared to thee
how ardent is the flame with which thy lady and mine is consumed for
love of thee, and now again I do thee to wit thereof, and that, if thou

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shalt not relent of the harshness that thou didst manifest the other day,
thou mayst rest assured that her life will be short: wherefore I pray thee
to be pleased to give her solace of her desire, and shouldst thou persist in
thy obduracy, I, that gave thee credit for not a little sense, shall deem
thee a great fool. How flattered thou shouldst be to know thyself
beloved above all else by a lady so beauteous and high-born! And how
indebted shouldst thou feel thyself to Fortune, seeing that she has in
store for thee a boon so great and so suited to the cravings of thy youth,
ay, and so like to be of service to thee upon occasion of need! Bethink
thee, if there be any of thine equals whose life is ordered more agreeably
than thine will be if thou but be wise. Which of them wilt thou find so
well furnished with arms and horses, clothes and money as thou shalt
be, if thou but give my lady thy love? Receive, then, my words with open
mind; be thyself again; bethink thee that ‛tis Fortune’s way to confront a
man but once with smiling mien and open lap, and, if he then accept not
her bounty, he has but himself to blame, if afterward he find himself in
want, in beggary. Besides which, no such loyalty is demanded between
servants and their masters as between friends and kinsfolk; rather ‛tis for
servants, so far as they may, to behave towards their masters as their
masters behave towards them. Thinkest thou, that, if thou hadst a fair
wife or mother or daughter or sister that found favour in Nicostratus’
eyes, he would be so scrupulous on the point of loyalty as thou art
disposed to be in regard of his lady? Thou art a fool, if so thou dost
believe. Hold it for certain, that, if blandishments and supplications did
not suffice, he would, whatever thou mightest think of it, have recourse
to force. Observe we, then, towards them and theirs the same rule which
they observe towards us and ours. Take the boon that Fortune offers
thee; repulse her not; rather go thou to meet her, and hail her advance;
for be sure that, if thou do not so, to say nought of thy lady’s death,
which will certainly ensue, thou thyself wilt repent thee thereof so often
that thou wilt be fain of death.”

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Since he had last seen Lusca, Pyrrhus had repeatedly pondered what
she had said to him, and had made his mind up that, should she come
again, he would answer her in another sort, and comply in all respects
with the lady’s desires, provided he might be assured that she was not
merely putting him to the proof; wherefore he now made answer:—‟Lo,
now, Lusca, I acknowledge the truth of all that thou sayst; but, on the
other hand, I know that my lord is not a little wise and wary, and, as he
has committed all his affairs to my charge, I sorely misdoubt me that ‛tis
with his approbation, and by his advice, and but to prove me, that Lydia
does this: wherefore let her do three things which I shall demand of her
for my assurance, and then there is nought that she shall crave of me,
but I will certainly render her prompt obedience. Which three things are
these:—first, let her in Nicostratus’ presence kill his fine sparrow-hawk:
then she must send me a lock of Nicostratus’ beard, and lastly one of his
best teeth.” Hard seemed these terms to Lusca, and hard beyond
measure to the lady, but Love, that great fautor of enterprise, and master
of stratagem, gave her resolution to address herself to their performance:
wherefore through the chambermaid she sent him word that what he
required of her she would do, and that without either reservation or
delay; and therewithal she told him, that, as he deemed Nicostratus so
wise, she would contrive that they should enjoy one another in
Nicostratus’ presence, and that Nicostratus should believe that ‛twas a
mere show. Pyrrhus, therefore, anxiously expected what the lady would
do. Some days thus passed, and then Nicostratus gave a great breakfast,
as was his frequent wont, to certain gentlemen, and when the tables
were removed, the lady, robed in green samite, and richly adorned, came
forth of her chamber into the hall wherein they sate, and before the eyes
of Pyrrhus and all the rest of the company hied her to the perch, on
which stood the sparrow-hawk that Nicostratus so much prized, and
loosed him, and, as if she were minded to carry him on her hand, took
him by the jesses and dashed him against the wall so that he died.

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Whereupon:—‟Alas! my lady, what hast thou done?” exclaimed

Nicostratus: but she vouchsafed no answer, save that, turning to the
gentlemen that had sate at meat with him, she said:—‟My lords, ill fitted
were I to take vengeance on a king that had done me despite, if I lacked
the courage to be avenged on a sparrow-hawk. You are to know that by
this bird I have long been cheated of all the time that ought to be
devoted by gentlemen to pleasuring their ladies; for with the first streaks
of dawn Nicostratus has been up and got him to horse, and hawk on
hand hied him to the champaign to see him fly, leaving me, such as you
see me, alone and ill content abed. For which cause I have oftentimes
been minded to do that which I have now done, and have only refrained
therefrom, that, biding my time, I might do it in the presence of men
that should judge my cause justly, as I trust you will do.” Which hearing,
the gentlemen, who deemed her affections no less fixed on Nicostratus
than her words imported, broke with one accord into a laugh, and
turning to Nicostratus, who was sore displeased, fell a saying:—‟Now
well done of the lady to avenge her wrongs by the death of the sparrow-
hawk!” and so, the lady being withdrawn to her chamber, they passed
the affair off with divers pleasantries, turning the wrath of Nicostratus to
laughter.
Pyrrhus, who had witnessed what had passed, said to himself:—
Nobly indeed has my lady begun, and on such wise as promises well for
the felicity of my love. God grant that she so continue. And even so Lydia
did: for not many days after she had killed the sparrow-hawk, she, being
with Nicostratus in her chamber, from caressing passed to toying and
trifling with him, and he, sportively pulling her by the hair, gave her
occasion to fulfil the second of Pyrrhus’ demands; which she did by
nimbly laying hold of one of the lesser tufts of his beard, and, laughing
the while, plucking it so hard that she tore it out of his chin. Which
Nicostratus somewhat resenting:—‟Now what cause hast thou,” quoth
she, ‟to make such a wry face? ‛Tis but that I have plucked some half-

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dozen hairs from thy beard. Thou didst not feel it as much as did I but
now thy tugging of my hair.” And so they continued jesting and sporting
with one another, the lady jealously guarding the tuft that she had torn
from the beard, which the very same day she sent to her cherished lover.
The third demand caused the lady more thought; but, being amply
endowed with wit, and powerfully, seconded by Love, she failed not to
hit upon an apt expedient.
Nicostratus had in his service two lads, who, being of gentle birth,
had been placed with him by their kinsfolk, that they might learn
manners, one of whom, when Nicostratus sate at meat, carved before
him, while the other gave him to drink. Both lads Lydia called to her, and
gave them to understand that their breath smelt, and admonished them
that, when they waited on Nicostratus, they should hold their heads as
far back as possible, saying never a word of the matter to any. The lads
believing her, did as she bade them. Whereupon she took occasion to say
to Nicostratus:—‟Hast thou marked what these lads do when they wait
upon thee?” ‟Troth, that have I,” replied Nicostratus; ‟indeed I have often
had it in mind to ask them why they do so.” ‟Nay,” rejoined the lady,
‟spare thyself the pains; for I can tell thee the reason, which I have for
some time kept close, lest it should vex thee; but as I now see that others
begin to be ware of it, it need no longer be withheld from thee. ‛Tis for
that thy breath stinks shrewdly that they thus avert their heads from
thee: ‛twas not wont to be so, nor know I why it should be so; and ‛tis
most offensive when thou art in converse with gentlemen; and therefore
‛twould be well to find some way of curing it.” ‟I wonder what it could
be,” returned Nicostratus; ‟is it perchance that I have a decayed tooth in
my jaw?” ‟That may well be,” quoth Lydia: and taking him to a window,
she caused him open his mouth, and after regarding it on this side and
that:—‟Oh! Nicostratus,” quoth she, ‟how couldst thou have endured it
so long? Thou hast a tooth here, which, by what I see, is not only
decayed, but actually rotten throughout; and beyond all manner of

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doubt, if thou let it remain long in thy head, ‛twill infect its neighbours;
so ‛tis my advice that thou out with it before the matter grows worse.”
‟My judgment jumps with thine,” quoth Nicostratus; ‟wherefore send
without delay for a chirurgeon to draw it.” ‟God forbid,” returned the
lady, ‟that chirurgeon come hither for such a purpose; methinks, the
case is such that I can very well dispense with him, and draw the tooth
myself. Besides which, these chirurgeons do these things in such a cruel
way, that I could never endure to see thee or know thee under the hands
of any of them: wherefore my mind is quite made up to do it myself,
that, at least, if thou shalt suffer too much, I may give it over at once, as a
chirurgeon would not do.” And so she caused the instruments that are
used on such occasions to be brought her, and having dismissed all other
attendants save Lusca from the chamber, and locked the door, made
Nicostratus lie down on a table, set the pincers in his mouth, and
clapped them on one of his teeth, which, while Lusca held him, so that,
albeit he roared for pain, he might not move, she wrenched by main
force from his jaw, and keeping it close, took from Lusca’s hand another
and horribly decayed tooth, which she shewed him, suffering and half
dead as he was, saying:—‟See what thou hadst in thy jaw; mark how far
gone it is.” Believing what she said, and deeming that, now the tooth was
out, his breath would no more be offensive, and being somewhat eased
of the pain, which had been extreme, and still remained, so that he
murmured not little, by divers comforting applications, he quitted the
chamber: whereupon the lady forthwith sent the tooth to her lover, who,
having now full assurance of her love, placed himself entirely at her
service. But the lady being minded to make his assurance yet more sure,
and deeming each hour a thousand till she might be with him, now saw
fit, for the more ready performance of the promise she had given him, to
feign sickness; and Nicostratus, coming to see her one day after
breakfast, attended only by Pyrrhus, she besought him for her better
solacement, to help her down to the garden. Wherefore Nicostratus on

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one side, and Pyrrhus on the other, took her and bore her down to the
garden, and set her on a lawn at the foot of a beautiful pear-tree: and
after they had sate there a while, the lady, who had already given Pyrrhus
to understand what he must do, said to him:—‟Pyrrhus, I should greatly
like to have some of those pears; get thee up the tree, and shake some of
them down.” Pyrrhus climbed the tree in a trice, and began to shake
down the pears, and while he did so:—‟Fie! Sir,” quoth he, ‟what is this
you do? And you, Madam, have you no shame, that you suffer him to do
so in my presence? Think you that I am blind? ‛Twas but now that you
were gravely indisposed. Your cure has been speedy indeed to permit of
your so behaving: and as for such a purpose you have so many goodly
chambers, why betake you not yourselves to one of them, if you must
needs so disport yourselves? ‛Twould be much more decent than to do so
in my presence.” Whereupon the lady, turning to her husband:—‟Now
what can Pyrrhus mean?” said she. ‟Is he mad?” ‟Nay, Madam,” quoth
Pyrrhus; ‟mad am not I. Think you I see you not?” Whereat Nicostratus
marvelled not a little; and:—‟Pyrrhus,” quoth he, ‟I verily believe thou
dreamest.” ‟Nay, my lord,” replied Pyrrhus, ‟not a whit do I dream;
neither do you; rather you wag it with such vigour, that, if this pear-tree
did the like, there would be never a pear left on it.” Then the lady:
—‟What can this mean?” quoth she: ‟can it be that it really seems to him
to be as he says? Upon my hope of salvation, were I but in my former
health, I would get me up there to judge for myself what these wonders
are which he professes to see.” Whereupon, as Pyrrhus in the pear-tree
continued talking in the same strange strain:—‟Come down,” quoth
Nicostratus; and when he was down:—‟Now what,” said Nicostratus, ‟is
it thou sayst thou seest up there?” ‟I suppose,” replied Pyrrhus, ‟that you
take me to be deluded or dreaming: but as I must needs tell you the
truth, I saw you lying upon your wife, and then, when I came down, I
saw you get up and sit you down here where you now are.” ‟Therein,” said
Nicostratus, ‟thou wast certainly deluded, for, since thou clombest the

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pear-tree, we have not budged a jot, save as thou seest.” Then said
Pyrrhus:—‟Why make more words about the matter? See you I certainly
did; and, seeing you, I saw you lying upon your own.” Nicostratus’
wonder now waxed momently, insomuch that he said:—‟I am minded to
see if this pear-tree be enchanted, so that whoso is in it sees marvels;”
and so he got him up into it. Whereupon the lady and Pyrrhus fell to
disporting them, and Nicostratus, seeing what they were about,
exclaimed:—‟Ah! lewd woman, what is this thou doest? And thou,
Pyrrhus, in whom I so much trusted!” And so saying, he began to climb
down. Meanwhile the lady and Pyrrhus had made answer:—‟We are
sitting here:” and seeing him descending, they placed themselves as they
had been when he had left them, whom Nicostratus, being come down,
no sooner saw, than he fell a rating them. Then quoth Pyrrhus:—‟Verily,
Nicostratus, I now acknowledge, that, as you said a while ago, what I saw
when I was in the pear-tree was but a false show, albeit I had never
understood that so it was but that I now see and know that thou hast
also seen a false show. And that I speak truth, you may sufficiently assure
yourself, if you but reflect whether ‛tis likely that your wife, who for
virtue and discretion has not her peer among women, would, if she were
minded so to dishonour you, see fit to do so before your very eyes. Of
myself I say nought, albeit I had liefer be hewn in pieces than that I
should so much as think of such a thing, much less do it in your
presence. Wherefore ‛tis evident that ‛tis some illusion of sight that is
propagated from the pear-tree; for nought in the world would have
made me believe that I saw not you lying there in carnal intercourse with
your wife, had I not heard you say that you saw me doing that which
most assuredly, so far from doing, I never so much as thought of.” The
lady then started up with a most resentful mien, and burst out with:
—‟Foul fall thee, if thou knowest so little of me as to suppose that, if I
were minded to do thee such foul dishonour as thou sayst thou didst see
me do, I would come hither to do it before thine eyes! Rest assured that

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for such a purpose, were it ever mine, I should deem one of our
chambers more meet, and it should go hard but I would so order the
matter that thou shouldst never know aught of it.” Nicostratus, having
heard both, and deeming that what they both averred must be true, to
wit, that they would never have ventured upon such an act in his
presence, passed from chiding to talk of the singularity of the thing, and
how marvellous it was that the vision should reshape itself for every one
that clomb the tree. The lady, however, made a show of being distressed
that Nicostratus should so have thought of her, and:—‟Verily,” quoth
she, ‟no woman, neither I nor another, shall again suffer loss of honour
by this pear-tree: run, Pyrrhus, and bring hither an axe, and at one and
the same time vindicate thy honour and mine by felling it, albeit ‛twere
better far Nicostratus’ skull should feel the weight of the axe, seeing that
in utter heedlessness he so readily suffered the eyes of his mind to be
blinded; for, albeit this vision was seen by the bodily eye, yet ought the
understanding by no means to have entertained and affirmed it as real.”
So Pyrrhus presently hied him to fetch the axe, and returning
therewith felled the pear; whereupon the lady, turning towards
Nicostratus:—‟Now that this foe of my honour is fallen,” quoth she, ‟my
wrath is gone from me.” Nicostratus then craving her pardon, she
graciously granted it him, bidding him never again to suffer himself to
be betrayed into thinking such a thing of her, who loved him more
dearly than herself. So the poor duped husband went back with her and
her lover to the palace, where not seldom in time to come Pyrrhus and
Lydia took their pastime together more at ease. God grant us the like.

NOVEL X.

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

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life is led there. —

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

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to time of the glory and the woe, which in the other world are allotted,
according to merit, to the souls of the dead. Of which matters craving,
but being unable to come by, more certain assurance, they agreed
together that, whichever of them should die first, should, if he might,
return to the survivor, and certify him of that which he would fain know;
and this agreement they confirmed with an oath. Now, after they had
made this engagement, and while they were still constantly together,
Tingoccio chanced to become sponsor to one Ambruogio Anselmini,
that dwelt in Campo Reggi, who had had a son by his wife, Monna Mita.
The lady was exceeding fair, and amorous withal, and Tingoccio being
wont sometimes to visit her as his gossip, and to take Meuccio with him,
he, notwithstanding his sponsorship, grew enamoured of her, as did also
Meuccio, for she pleased him not a little, and he heard her much
commended by Tingoccio. Which love each concealed from the other;
but not for the same reason. Tingoccio was averse to discover it to
Meuccio, for that he deemed it an ignominious thing to love his gossip,
and was ashamed to let any one know it. Meuccio was on his guard for a
very different reason, to wit, that he was already ware that the lady was
in Tingoccio’s good graces. Wherefore he said to himself:—If I avow my
love to him, he will be jealous of me, and as, being her gossip, he can
speak with her as often as he pleases, he will do all he can to make her
hate me, and so I shall never have any favour of her.
Now, the two young men being thus, as I have said, on terms of most
familiar friendship, it befell that Tingoccio, being the better able to open
his heart to the lady, did so order his demeanour and discourse that he
had from her all that he desired. Nor was his friend’s success hidden
from Meuccio; though, much as it vexed him, yet still cherishing the
hope of eventually attaining his end, and fearing to give Tingoccio
occasion to baulk or hamper him in some way, he feigned to know
nought of the matter. So Tingoccio, more fortunate than his comrade,
and rival in love, did with such assiduity till his gossip’s good land that

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he got thereby a malady, which in the course of some days waxed so

grievous that he succumbed thereto, and departed this life. And on the
night of the third day after his decease (perchance because earlier he
might not) he made his appearance, according to his promise, in
Meuccio’s chamber, and called Meuccio, who was fast asleep, by his
name. Whereupon:—‟Who art thou?” quoth Meuccio, as he awoke. ”‛Tis
I, Tingoccio,” replied he, ‟come back, in fulfilment of the pledge I gave
thee, to give thee tidings of the other world.” For a while Meuccio saw
him not without terror: then, his courage reviving:—‟Welcome, my
brother,” quoth he: and proceeded to ask him if he were lost. ‟Nought is
lost but what is irrecoverable,” replied Tingoccio: ‟how then should I be
here, if I were lost?” ‟Nay,” quoth then Meuccio; ‟I mean it not so: I
would know of thee, whether thou art of the number of the souls that
are condemned to the penal fire of hell.” ‟Why no,” returned Tingoccio,
‟not just that; but still for the sins that I did I am in most sore and
grievous torment.” Meuccio then questioned Tingoccio in detail of the
pains there meted out for each of the sins done here; and Tingoccio
enumerated them all. Whereupon Meuccio asked if there were aught he
might do for him here on earth. Tingoccio answered in the affirmative;
to wit, that he might have masses and prayers said and alms-deeds done
for him, for that such things were of great service to the souls there.
‟That gladly will I,” replied Meuccio; and then, as Tingoccio was about to
take his leave, he bethought him of the gossip, and raising his head a
little, he said:—‟I mind me, Tingoccio, of the gossip, with whom thou
wast wont to lie when thou wast here. Now what is thy punishment for
that?” ‟My brother,” returned Tingoccio, ‟as soon as I got down there, I
met one that seemed to know all my sins by heart, who bade me betake
me to a place, where, while in direst torment I bewept my sins, I found
comrades not a few condemned to the same pains; and so, standing
there among them, and calling to mind what I had done with the gossip,
and foreboding in requital thereof a much greater torment than had yet

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been allotted me, albeit I was in a great and most vehement flame, I
quaked for fear in every part of me. Which one that was beside me
observing:—‛What,’ quoth he, ‛hast thou done more than the rest of us
that are here, that thou quakest thus as thou standest in the fire?’ ‛My
friend,’ quoth I, ‛I am in mortal fear of the doom that I expect for a great
sin that I once committed.’ He then asked what sin it might be. ’‛Twas on
this wise,’ replied I: ‛I lay with my gossip, and that so much that I died
thereof.’ Whereat, he did but laugh, saying:—‛Go to, fool, make thy mind
easy; for here there is no account taken of gossips.’ Which completely
revived my drooping spirits.”
‛Twas now near daybreak: wherefore:—‟Adieu! Meuccio,” quoth his
friend: ‟for longer tarry with thee I may not;” and so he vanished. As for
Meuccio, having learned that no account was taken of gossips in the
other world, he began to laugh at his own folly in that he had already
spared divers such; and so, being quit of his ignorance, he in that respect
in course of time waxed wise. Which matters had Fra Rinaldo but
known, he would not have needed to go about syllogizing in order to
bring his fair gossip to pleasure him.
The sun was westering, and a light breeze blew, when the king, his
story ended, and none else being left to speak, arose, and taking off the
crown, set it on Lauretta’s head, saying:—‟Madam, I crown you with
yourself75 queen of our company: ‛tis now for you, as our sovereign lady,
to make such ordinances as you shall deem meet for our common solace
and delectation;” and having so said, he sat him down again. Queen
Lauretta sent for the seneschal, and bade him have a care that the tables
should be set in the pleasant vale somewhat earlier than had been their
wont, that their return to the palace might be more leisurely; after which
she gave him to know what else he had to do during her sovereignty.
Then turning to the company:—‟Yesterday,” quoth she, ‟Dioneo would
have it that to-day we should discourse of the tricks that wives play their
75 A play upon laurea (laurel wreath) and Lauretta.

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husbands; and but that I am minded not to shew as of the breed of

yelping curs, that are ever prompt to retaliate, I would ordain that to-
morrow we discourse of the tricks that husbands play their wives.
However, in lieu thereof, I will have every one take thought to tell of
those tricks that, daily, woman plays man, or man woman, or one man
another; wherein, I doubt not, there will be matter of discourse no less
agreeable than has been that of to-day.” So saying, she rose and
dismissed the company until supper-time. So the ladies and the men
being risen, some bared their feet and betook them to the clear water,
there to disport them, while others took their pleasure upon the green
lawn amid the trees that there grew goodly and straight. For no brief
while Dioneo and Fiammetta sang in concert of Arcite and Palamon.
And so, each and all taking their several pastimes, they sped the hours
with exceeding great delight until supper-time. Which being come, they
sat them down at table beside the little lake, and there, while a thousand
songsters charmed their ears, and a gentle breeze, that blew from the
environing hills, fanned them, and never a fly annoyed them, reposefully
and joyously they supped. The tables removed, they roved a while about
the pleasant vale, and then, the sun being still high, for ‛twas but half
vespers, the queen gave the word, and they wended their way back to
their wonted abode, and going slowly, and beguiling the way with quips
and quirks without number upon divers matters, nor those alone of
which they had that day discoursed, they arrived, hard upon nightfall, at
the goodly palace. There, the short walk’s fatigue dispelled by wines
most cool and comfits, they presently gathered for the dance about the
fair fountain, and now they footed it to the strains of Tindaro’s
cornemuse, and now to other music. Which done, the queen bade
Filomena give them a song; and thus Filomena sang:—
Ah! woe is me, my soul!
Ah! shall I ever thither fare again

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Whence I was parted to my grievous dole?

Full sure I know not; but within my breast

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

Kindled the flame I know not what delight,

Which me doth so devour,
That day and night alike I find no ease;
For whether it was by hearing, touch, or sight,
Unwonted was the power,
And fresh the fire that me each way did seize;
Wherein without release
I languish still, and of thee, Lord, am fain,
For thou alone canst comfort and make whole.

Ah! tell me if it shall be, and how soon,

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

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Let me but once again mine own thee call,

No more so indiscreet
As erst, I’ll be, to let thee from me part:
Nay, I’ll still hold thee, let what may befall,
And of thy mouth so sweet
Such solace take as may content my heart
So this be all my art,
Thee to entice, me with thine arms to enchain:
Whereon but musing inly chants my soul.
This song set all the company conjecturing what new and
delightsome love might now hold Filomena in its sway; and as its words
imported that she had had more joyance thereof than sight alone might
yield, some that were there grew envious of her excess of happiness.
However, the song being ended, the queen, bethinking her that the
morrow was Friday, thus graciously addressed them all:—‟Ye wot, noble
ladies, and ye also, my gallants, that to-morrow is the day that is sacred
to the passion of our Lord, which, if ye remember, we kept devoutly
when Neifile was queen, intermitting delectable discourse, as we did also
on the ensuing Saturday. Wherefore, being minded to follow Neifile’s
excellent example, I deem that now, as then, ‛twere a seemly thing to
surcease from this our pastime of story-telling for those two days, and
compose our minds to meditation on what was at that season
accomplished for the weal of our souls.” All the company having
approved their queen’s devout speech, she, as the night was now far
spent, dismissed them; and so they all betook them to slumber.
— Endeth here the seventh day of the Decameron, beginneth
the eighth, in which, under the rule of Lauretta, discourse is
had of those tricks that, daily, woman plays man, or man
woman, or one man another. —
The summits of the loftiest mountains were already illumined by the

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

EIGHTH DAY

NOVEL I.

— Gulfardo borrows moneys of Guasparruolo, which he has

agreed to give Guasparruolo’s wife, that he may lie with her. He
gives them to her, and in her presence tells Guasparruolo that
he has done so, and she acknowledges that ‛tis true. —
Sith God has ordained that ‛tis for me to take the lead to-day with my
story, well pleased am I. And for that, loving ladies, much has been said
touching the tricks that women play men, I am minded to tell you of one
that a man played a woman, not because I would censure what the man
did, or say that ‛twas not merited by the woman, but rather to commend
the man and censure the woman, and to shew that men may beguile
those that think to beguile them, as well as be beguiled by those they
think to beguile; for peradventure what I am about to relate should in
strictness of speech not be termed beguilement, but rather retaliation;
for, as it behoves woman to be most strictly virtuous, and to guard her

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chastity as her very life, nor on any account to allow herself to sully it,
which notwithstanding, ‛tis not possible by reason of our frailty that
there should be as perfect an observance of this law as were meet, I
affirm, that she that allows herself to infringe it for money merits the
fire; whereas she that so offends under the prepotent stress of Love will
receive pardon from any judge that knows how to temper justice with
mercy: witness what but the other day we heard from Filostrato touching
Madonna Filippa at Prato.76
Know, then, that there was once at Milan a German mercenary,
Gulfardo by name, a doughty man, and very loyal to those with whom he
took service; a quality most uncommon in Germans. And as he was wont
to be most faithful in repaying whatever moneys he borrowed, he would
have had no difficulty in finding a merchant to advance him any amount
of money at a low rate of interest. Now, tarrying thus at Milan, Gulfardo
fixed his affection on a very fine woman, named Madonna Ambruogia,
the wife of a wealthy merchant, one Guasparruolo Cagastraccio, with
whom he was well acquainted and on friendly terms: which amour he
managed with such discretion that neither the husband nor any one else
wist aught of it. So one day he sent her a message, beseeching her of her
courtesy to gratify his passion, and assuring her that he on his part was
ready to obey her every behest.
The lady made a great many words about the affair, the upshot of
which was that she would do as Gulfardo desired upon the following
terms: to wit, that, in the first place, he should never discover the matter
to a soul, and, secondly, that, as for some purpose or another she
required two hundred florins of gold, he out of his abundance should
supply her necessity; these conditions being satisfied she would be ever
at his service. Offended by such base sordidness in one whom he had
supposed to be an honourable woman, Gulfardo passed from ardent love
to something very like hatred, and cast about how he might flout her. So
76 Cf. Sixth Day, Novel VII.

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he sent her word that he would right gladly pleasure her in this and in
any other matter that might be in his power; let her but say when he was
to come to see her, and he would bring the moneys with him, and none
should know of the matter except a comrade of his, in whom he placed
much trust, and who was privy to all that he did. The lady, if she should
not rather be called the punk, gleefully made answer that in the course
of a few days her husband, Guasparruolo, was to go to Genoa on
business, and that, when he was gone, she would let Gulfardo know, and
appoint a time for him to visit her. Gulfardo thereupon chose a
convenient time, and hied him to Guasparruolo, to whom:—‟I am
come,” quoth he, ‟about a little matter of business which I have on hand,
for which I require two hundred florins of gold, and I should be glad if
thou wouldst lend them me at the rate of interest which thou art wont to
charge me.” ‟That gladly will I,” replied Guasparruolo, and told out the
money at once. A few days later Guasparruolo being gone to Genoa, as
the lady had said, she sent word to Gulfardo that he should bring her the
two hundred florins of gold. So Gulfardo hied him with his comrade to
the lady’s house, where he found her expecting him, and lost no time in
handing her the two hundred florins of gold in his comrade’s presence,
saying:—‟You will keep the money, Madam, and give it to your husband
when he returns.” Witting not why Gulfardo so said, but thinking that
‛twas but to conceal from his comrade that it was given by way of price,
the lady made answer:—‟That will I gladly; but I must first see whether
the amount is right;” whereupon she told the florins out upon a table,
and when she found that the two hundred were there, she put them
away in high glee, and turning to Gulfardo, took him into her chamber,
where, not on that night only but on many another night, while her
husband was away, he had of her all that he craved. On Guasparruolo’s
return Gulfardo presently paid him a visit, having first made sure that
the lady would be with him, and so in her presence:—‟Guasparruolo,”
quoth he, ‟I had after all no occasion for the money, to wit, the two

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hundred florins of gold that thou didst lend me the other day, being
unable to carry through the transaction for which I borrowed them, and
so I took an early opportunity of bringing them to thy wife, and gave
them to her: thou wilt therefore cancel the account.” Whereupon
Guasparruolo turned to the lady, and asked her if she had had them.
She, not daring to deny the fact in presence of the witness, answered:
—‟Why, yes, I had them, and quite forgot to tell thee.” ‟Good,” quoth
then Guasparruolo, ‟we are quits, Gulfardo; make thy mind easy; I will
see that thy account is set right.” Gulfardo then withdrew, leaving the
flouted lady to hand over her ill-gotten gains to her husband; and so the
astute lover had his pleasure of his greedy mistress for nothing.

NOVEL II.

— The priest of Varlungo lies with Monna Belcolore: he leaves

with her his cloak by way of pledge, and receives from her a
mortar. He returns the mortar, and demands of her the cloak
that he had left in pledge, which the good lady returns him
with a gibe. —
Ladies and men alike commended Gulfardo for the check that he gave to
the greed of the Milanese lady; but before they had done, the queen
turned to Pamfilo, and with a smile bade him follow suit: wherefore thus
Pamfilo began:—Fair my ladies, it occurs to me to tell you a short story,
which reflects no credit on those by whom we are continually wronged
without being able to retaliate, to wit, the priests, who have instituted a
crusade against our wives, and deem that, when they have made
conquest of one of them, they have done a work every whit as worthy of
recompense by remission of sin and punishment as if they had brought
the Soldan in chains to Avignon: in which respect ‛tis not possible for the
hapless laity to be even with them: howbeit they are as hot to make

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reprisals on the priests’ mothers, sisters, mistresses, and daughters as

the priests to attack their wives. Wherefore I am minded to give you, as I
may do in few words, the history of a rustic amour, the conclusion
whereof was not a little laughable, nor barren of moral, for you may also
gather therefrom, that ‛tis not always well to believe everything that a
priest says.
I say then, that at Varlungo, a village hard by here, as all of you, my
ladies, should wot either of your own knowledge or by report, there
dwelt a worthy priest, and doughty of body in the service of the ladies:
who, albeit he was none too quick at his book, had no lack of precious
and blessed solecisms to edify his flock withal of a Sunday under the
elm. And when the men were out of doors, he would visit their wives as
never a priest had done before him, bringing them feast-day gowns and
holy water, and now and again a bit of candle, and giving them his
blessing. Now it so befell that among those of his fair parishioners whom
he most affected the first place was at length taken by one Monna
Belcolore, the wife of a husbandman that called himself Bentivegna del
Mazzo. And in good sooth she was a winsome and lusty country lass,
brown as a berry and buxom enough, and fitter than e’er another for his
mill. Moreover she had not her match in playing the tabret and singing:
—The borage is full sappy,77 and in leading a brawl or a breakdown, no
matter who might be next her, with a fair and dainty kerchief in her
hand. Which spells so wrought upon Master Priest, that for love of her
he grew distracted, and did nought all day long but loiter about the
77 For this folk-song see Cantilene e Ballate, Strambotti e Madrigali, ed. Carducci (1871), p. 60. The fragment there
printed maybe freely rendered as follows:—
The borage is full sappy,
And clusters red we see,
And my love would make me happy;
So that maiden give to me.
Ill set I find this dance,
And better might it be:
So, comrade mine, advance,
And, changing place with me,
Stand thou thy love beside.

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village on the chance of catching sight of her. And if of a Sunday

morning he espied her in church, he strove might and main to acquit
himself of his Kyrie and Sanctus in the style of a great singer, albeit his
performance was liker to the braying of an ass: whereas, if he saw her
not, he scarce exerted himself at all. However, he managed with such
discretion that neither Bentivegna del Mazzo nor any of the neighbours
wist aught of his love. And hoping thereby to ingratiate himself with
Monna Belcolore, he from time to time would send her presents, now a
clove of fresh garlic, the best in all the country-side, from his own
garden, which he tilled with his own hands, and anon a basket of beans
or a bunch of chives or shallots; and, when he thought it might serve his
turn, he would give her a sly glance, and follow it up with a little
amorous mocking and mowing, which she, with rustic awkwardness,
feigned not to understand, and ever maintained her reserve, so that
Master Priest made no headway.
Now it so befell that one day, when the priest at high noon was
aimlessly gadding about the village, he encountered Bentivegna del
Mazzo at the tail of a well laden ass; and greeted him, asking him
whither he was going. ‟I’faith, Sir,” quoth Bentivegna, ‟for sure ‛tis to
town I go, having an affair or two to attend to there; and I am taking
these things to Ser Buonaccorri da Ginestreto, to get him to stand by me
in I wot not what matter, whereof the justice o’ th’ coram has by his
provoker served me with a pertrumpery summons to appear before him.”
Whereupon:—”‛Tis well, my son,” quoth the priest, overjoyed, ‟my
blessing go with thee: good luck to thee and a speedy return; and harkye,
shouldst thou see Lapuccio or Naldino, do not forget to tell them to send
me those thongs for my flails.” ‟It shall be done,” quoth Bentivegna, and
jogged on towards Florence, while the priest, thinking that now was his
time to hie him to Belcolore and try his fortune, put his best leg forward,
and stayed not till he was at the house, which entering, he said:—‟God
be gracious to us! Who is within?” Belcolore, who was up in the loft,

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made answer:—‟Welcome, Sir; but what dost thou, gadding about in the
heat?” ‟Why, as I hope for God’s blessing,” quoth he, ‟I am just come to
stay with thee a while, having met thy husband on his way to town.”
Whereupon down came Belcolore, took a seat, and began sifting
cabbage-seed that her husband had lately threshed. By and by the priest
began:—‟So, Belcolore, wilt thou keep me ever a dying thus?” Whereat
Belcolore tittered, and said:—‟Why, what is’t I do to you?” ‟Truly,
nothing at all,” replied the priest: ‟but thou sufferest me not to do to thee
that which I had lief, and which God commands.” ‟Now away with you!”
returned Belcolore, ‟do priests do that sort of thing?” ‟Indeed we do,”
quoth the priest, ‟and to better purpose than others: why not? I tell you
our grinding is far better; and wouldst thou know why? ‛tis because ‛tis
intermittent. And in truth ‛twill be well worth thy while to keep thine
own counsel, and let me do it.” ‟Worth my while!” ejaculated Belcolore.
‟How may that be? There is never a one of you but would overreach the
very Devil.” ”‛Tis not for me to say,” returned the priest; ‟say but what
thou wouldst have: shall it be a pair of dainty shoes? Or wouldst thou
prefer a fillet? Or perchance a gay riband? What’s thy will?” ‟Marry, no
lack have I,” quoth Belcolore, ‟of such things as these. But, if you wish
me so well, why do me not a service? and I would then be at your
command.” ‟Name but the service,” returned the priest, ‟and gladly will I
do it.” Quoth then Belcolore:—‟On Saturday I have to go to Florence to
deliver some wool that I have spun, and to get my spinning-wheel put in
order: lend me but five pounds—I know you have them—and I will
redeem my perse petticoat from the pawnshop, and also the girdle that I
wear on saints’ days, and that I had when I was married—you see that
without them I cannot go to church or anywhere else, and then I will do
just as you wish thenceforth and forever.” Whereupon:—‟So God give me
a good year,” quoth he, ‟as I have not the money with me: but never fear
that I will see that thou hast it before Saturday with all the pleasure in
life.” ‟Ay, ay,” rejoined Belcolore, ‟you all make great promises, but then

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you never keep them. Think you to serve me as you served Biliuzza,
whom you left in the lurch at last? God’s faith, you do not so. To think
that she turned woman of the world just for that! If you have not the
money with you, why, go and get it.” ‟Prithee,” returned the priest, ‟send
me not home just now. For, seest thou, ‛tis the very nick of time with me,
and the coast is clear, and perchance it might not be so on my return,
and in short I know not when it would be likely to go so well as now.”
Whereto she did but rejoin:—‟Good; if you are minded to go, get you
gone; if not, stay where you are.” The priest, therefore, seeing that she
was not disposed to give him what he wanted, as he was fain, to wit, on
his own terms, but was bent upon having a quid pro quo, changed his
tone; and:—‟Lo, now,” quoth he, ‟thou doubtest I will not bring thee the
money; so to set thy mind at rest, I will leave thee this cloak—thou seest
‛tis good sky-blue silk—in pledge.” So raising her head and glancing at
the cloak:—‟And what may the cloak be worth?” quoth Belcolore.
‟Worth!” ejaculated the priest: ‟I would have thee know that ‛tis all
Douai, not to say Trouai, make: nay, there are some of our folk here that
say ‛tis Quadrouai; and ‛tis not a fortnight since I bought it of Lotto, the
secondhand dealer, for seven good pounds, and then had it five good
soldi under value, by what I hear from Buglietto, who, thou knowest, is
an excellent judge of these articles.” ‟Oh! say you so?” exclaimed
Belcolore. ‟So help me God, I should not have thought it; however, let
me look at it.” So Master Priest, being ready for action, doffed the cloak
and handed it to her. And she, having put it in a safe place, said to him:
—‟Now, Sir, we will away to the hut; there is never a soul goes there;” and
so they did. And there Master Priest, giving her many a mighty buss and
straining her to his sacred person, solaced himself with her no little
while.
Which done, he hied him away in his cassock, as if he were come
from officiating at a wedding; but, when he was back in his holy
quarters, he bethought him that not all the candles that he received by

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way of offering in the course of an entire year would amount to the half
of five pounds, and saw that he had made a bad bargain, and repented
him that he had left the cloak in pledge, and cast about how he might
recover it without paying anything. And as he did not lack cunning, he
hit upon an excellent expedient, by which he compassed his end. So on
the morrow, being a saint’s day, he sent a neighbour’s lad to Monna
Belcolore with a request that she would be so good as to lend him her
stone mortar, for that Binguccio dal Poggio and Nuto Buglietti were to
breakfast with him that morning, and he therefore wished to make a
sauce. Belcolore having sent the mortar, the priest, about breakfast time,
reckoning that Bentivegna del Mazzo and Belcolore would be at their
meal, called his clerk, and said to him:—‟Take the mortar back to
Belcolore, and say:—‛My master thanks you very kindly, and bids you
return the cloak that the lad left with you in pledge.’” The clerk took the
mortar to Belcolore’s house, where, finding her at table with Bentivegna,
he set the mortar down and delivered the priest’s message. Whereto
Belcolore would fain have demurred; but Bentivegna gave her a
threatening glance, saying:—‟So, then, thou takest a pledge from Master
Priest? By Christ, I vow, I have half a mind to give thee a great clout o’
the chin. Go, give it back at once, a murrain on thee! And look to it that
whatever he may have a mind to, were it our very ass, he be never
denied.” So, with a very bad grace, Belcolore got up, and went to the
wardrobe, and took out the cloak, and gave it to the clerk, saying:— ‟Tell
thy master from me:—Would to God he may never ply pestle in my
mortar again, such honour has he done me for this turn!” So the clerk
returned with the cloak, and delivered the message to Master Priest;
who, laughing, made answer:—‟Tell her, when thou next seest her, that,
so she lend us not the mortar, I will not lend her the pestle: be it tit for
tat.”
Bentivegna made no account of his wife’s words, deeming that ‛twas
but his chiding that had provoked them. But Belcolore was not a little

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displeased with Master Priest, and had never a word to say to him till the
vintage; after which, what with the salutary fear in which she stood of
the mouth of Lucifer the Great, to which he threatened to consign her,
and the must and roast chestnuts that he sent her, she made it up with
him, and many a jolly time they had together. And though she got not
the five pounds from him, he put a new skin on her tabret, and fitted it
with a little bell, wherewith she was satisfied.

NOVEL III.

— Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco go in quest of the

heliotrope beside the Mugnone. Thinking to have found it,
Calandrino gets him home laden with stones. His wife chides
him: whereat he waxes wroth, beats her, and tells his comrades
what they know better than he. —
Ended Pamfilo’s story, which moved the ladies to inextinguishable
laughter, the queen bade Elisa follow suit: whereupon, laughing, she
thus began:—I know not, debonair my ladies, whether with my little
story, which is no less true than entertaining, I shall give you occasion to
laugh as much as Pamfilo has done with his, but I will do my best.
In our city, where there has never been lack of odd humours and
queer folk, there dwelt, no long time ago, a painter named Calandrino, a
simple soul, of uncouth manners, that spent most of his time with two
other painters, the one Bruno, the other Buffalmacco, by name, pleasant
fellows enough, but not without their full share of sound and shrewd
sense, and who kept with Calandrino for that they not seldom found his
singular ways and his simplicity very diverting. There was also at the
same time at Florence one Maso del Saggio, a fellow marvellously
entertaining by his cleverness, dexterity and unfailing resource; who
having heard somewhat touching Calandrino’s simplicity, resolved to

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make fun of him by playing him a trick, and inducing him to believe
some prodigy. And happening one day to come upon Calandrino in the
church of San Giovanni, where he sate intently regarding the paintings
and intaglios of the tabernacle above the altar, which had then but lately
been set there, he deemed time and place convenient for the execution
of his design; which he accordingly imparted to one of his comrades:
whereupon the two men drew nigh the place where Calandrino sate
alone, and feigning not to see him fell a talking of the virtues of divers
stones, of which Maso spoke as aptly and pertinently as if he had been a
great and learned lapidary. Calandrino heard what passed between
them, and witting that ‛twas no secret, after a while got up, and joined
them, to Maso’s no small delight. He therefore continued his discourse,
and being asked by Calandrino, where these stones of such rare virtues
were to be found, made answer:—‟Chiefly in Berlinzone, in the land of
the Basques. The district is called Bengodi, and there they bind the vines
with sausages, and a denier will buy a goose and a gosling into the
bargain; and on a mountain, all of grated Parmesan cheese, dwell folk
that do nought else but make macaroni and raviuoli, 78 and boil them in
capon’s broth, and then throw them down to be scrambled for; and hard
by flows a rivulet of Vernaccia, the best that ever was drunk, and never a
drop of water therein.” ‟Ah! ‛tis a sweet country!” quoth Calandrino; ‟but
tell me, what becomes of the capons that they boil?” ‟They are all eaten
by the Basques,” replied Maso. Then:—‟Wast thou ever there?” quoth
Calandrino. Whereupon:—‟Was I ever there, sayst thou?” replied Maso.
‟Why, if I have been there once, I have been there a thousand times.”
‟And how many miles is’t from here?” quoth Calandrino. ‟Oh!” returned
Maso, ‟more than thou couldst number in a night without slumber.”
‟Farther off, then, than the Abruzzi?” said Calandrino. ‟Why, yes, ‛tis a
bit farther,” replied Maso.
Now Calandrino, like the simple soul that he was, marking the
78 A sort of rissole.

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composed and grave countenance with which Maso spoke, could not
have believed him more thoroughly, if he had uttered the most patent
truth, and thus taking his words for gospel:—”‛Tis a trifle too far for my
purse,” quoth he; ‟were it nigher, I warrant thee, I would go with thee
thither one while, just to see the macaroni come tumbling down, and
take my fill thereof. But tell me, so good luck befall thee, are none of
these stones, that have these rare virtues, to be found in these regions?”
‟Ay,” replied Maso, ‟two sorts of stone are found there, both of virtues
extraordinary. The one sort are the sandstones of Settignano and
Montisci, which being made into millstones, by virtue thereof flour is
made; wherefore ‛tis a common saying in those countries that blessings
come from God and millstones from Montisci: but, for that these
sandstones are in great plenty, they are held cheap by us, just as by them
are emeralds, whereof they have mountains, bigger than Monte Morello,
that shine at midnight, a God’s name! And know this, that whoso should
make a goodly pair of millstones, and connect them with a ring before
ever a hole was drilled in them, and take them to the Soldan, should get
all he would have thereby. The other sort of stone is the heliotrope, as we
lapidaries call it, a stone of very great virtue, inasmuch as whoso carries
it on his person is seen, so long as he keep it, by never another soul,
where he is not.” ‟These be virtues great indeed,” quoth Calandrino; ‟but
where is this second stone to be found?” Whereto Maso made answer
that there were usually some to be found in the Mugnone. ‟And what are
its size and colour?” quoth Calandrino. ‟The size varies,” replied Maso,
‟for some are bigger and some smaller than others; but all are of the
same colour, being nearly black.” All these matters duly marked and
fixed in his memory, Calandrino made as if he had other things to attend
to, and took his leave of Maso with the intention of going in quest of the
stone, but not until he had let his especial friends, Bruno and
Buffalmacco, know of his project. So, that no time might be lost, but,
postponing everything else, they might begin the quest at once, he set

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about looking for them, and spent the whole morning in the search. At
length, when ‛twas already past none, he called to mind that they would
be at work in the Faentine women’s convent, and though ‛twas
excessively hot, he let nothing stand in his way, but at a pace that was
more like a run than a walk, hied him thither; and so soon as he had
made them ware of his presence, thus he spoke:—‟Comrades, so you are
but minded to hearken to me, ‛tis in our power to become the richest
men in Florence; for I am informed by one that may be trusted that
there is a kind of stone in the Mugnone which renders whoso carries it
invisible to every other soul in the world. Wherefore, methinks, we were
wise to let none have the start of us, but go search for this stone without
any delay. We shall find it without a doubt, for I know what ‛tis like, and
when we have found it, we have but to put it in the purse, and get us to
the moneychangers, whose counters, as you know, are always laden with
groats and florins, and help ourselves to as many as we have a mind to.
No one will see us, and so, hey presto! we shall be rich folk in the
twinkling of an eye, and have no more need to go besmearing the walls
all day long like so many snails.” Whereat Bruno and Buffalmacco began
only to laugh, and exchanging glances, made as if they marvelled
exceedingly, and expressed approval of Calandrino’s project. Then
Buffalmacco asked, what might be the name of the stone. Calandrino,
like the numskull that he was, had already forgotten the name: so he
made answer:—‟Why need we concern ourselves with the name, since
we know the stone’s virtue? methinks, we were best to go look for it, and
waste no more time.” ‟Well, well,” said Bruno, ‟but what are the size and
shape of the stone?” ‟They are of all sizes and shapes,” said Calandrino,
‟but they are all pretty nearly black; wherefore, methinks, we were best
to collect all the black stones that we see until we hit upon it: and so, let
us be off, and lose no more time.” ‟Nay, but,” said Bruno, ‟wait a bit.” And
turning to Buffalmacco:—‟Methinks,” quoth he, ‟that Calandrino says
well: but I doubt this is not the time for such work, seeing that the sun is

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high, and his rays so flood the Mugnone as to dry all the stones;
insomuch that stones will now shew as white that in the morning, before
the sun had dried them, would shew as black: besides which, to-day
being a working-day, there will be for one cause or another folk not a few
about the Mugnone, who, seeing us, might guess what we were come for,
and peradventure do the like themselves; whereby it might well be that
they found the stone, and we might miss the trot by trying after the
amble. Wherefore, so you agree, methinks we were best to go about it in
the morning, when we shall be better able to distinguish the black
stones from the white, and on a holiday, when there will be none to see
us.”
Buffalmacco’s advice being approved by Bruno, Calandrino chimed
in; and so ‛twas arranged that they should all three go in quest of the
stone on the following Sunday. So Calandrino, having besought his
companions above all things to let never a soul in the world hear aught
of the matter, for that it had been imparted to him in strict confidence,
and having told them what he had heard touching the land of Bengodi,
the truth of which he affirmed with oaths, took leave of them; and they
concerted their plan, while Calandrino impatiently expected the Sunday
morning. Whereon, about dawn, he arose, and called them; and forth
they issued by the Porta a San Gallo, and hied them to the Mugnone,
and following its course, began their quest of the stone, Calandrino, as
was natural, leading the way, and jumping lightly from rock to rock, and
wherever he espied a black stone, stooping down, picking it up and
putting it in the fold of his tunic, while his comrades followed, picking
up a stone here and a stone there. Thus it was that Calandrino had not
gone far, before, finding that there was no more room in his tunic, he
lifted the skirts of his gown, which was not cut after the fashion of
Hainault, and gathering them under his leathern girdle and making
them fast on every side, thus furnished himself with a fresh and
capacious lap, which, however, taking no long time to fill, he made

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another lap out of his cloak, which in like manner he soon filled with
stones. Wherefore, Bruno and Buffalmacco seeing that Calandrino was
well laden, and that ‛twas nigh upon breakfast-time, and the moment
for action come:—‟Where is Calandrino?” quoth Bruno to Buffalmacco.
Whereto Buffalmacco, who had Calandrino full in view, having first
turned about and looked here, there and everywhere, made answer:
—‟That wot not I; but not so long ago he was just in front of us.” ‟Not so
long ago, forsooth,” returned Bruno; ”‛tis my firm belief that at this very
moment he is at breakfast at home, having left to us this wild-goose
chase of black stones in the Mugnone.” ‟Marry,” quoth Buffalmacco, ‟he
did but serve us right so to trick us and leave, seeing that we were so silly
as to believe him. Why, who could have thought that any but we would
have been so foolish as to believe that a stone of such rare virtue was to
be found in the Mugnone?” Calandrino, hearing their colloquy,
forthwith imagined that he had the stone in his hand, and by its virtue,
though present, was invisible to them; and overjoyed by such good
fortune, would not say a word to undeceive them, but determined to hie
him home, and accordingly faced about, and put himself in motion.
Whereupon:—‟Ay!” quoth Buffalmacco to Bruno, ‟what are we about
that we go not back too?” ‟Go we then,” said Bruno; ‟but by God I swear
that Calandrino shall never play me another such trick; and as to this,
were I nigh him, as I have been all the morning, I would teach him to
remember it for a month or so, such a reminder would I give him in the
heel with this stone.” And even as he spoke he threw back his arm, and
launched the stone against Calandrino’s heel. Galled by the blow,
Calandrino gave a great hop and a slight gasp, but said nothing, and
halted not. Then, picking out one of the stones that he had collected:
—‟Bruno,” quoth Buffalmacco, ‟see what a goodly stone I have here,
would it might but catch Calandrino in the back;” and forthwith he
discharged it with main force upon the said back. And in short, suiting
action to word, now in this way, now in that, they stoned him all the way

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up the Mugnone as far as the Porta a San Gallo. There they threw away
the stones they had picked up, and tarried a while with the customs’
officers, who, being primed by them, had let Calandrino pass
unchallenged, while their laughter knew no bounds.
So Calandrino, halting nowhere, betook him to his house, which was
hard by the corner of the Macina. And so well did Fortune prosper the
trick, that all the way by the stream and across the city there was never a
soul that said a word to Calandrino, and indeed he encountered but few,
for most folk were at breakfast. But no sooner was Calandrino thus
gotten home with his stones, than it so happened that his good lady,
Monna Tessa, shewed her fair face at the stair’s head, and catching sight
of him, and being somewhat annoyed by his long delay, chid him,
saying:—‟What the Devil brings thee here so late? Must breakfast wait
thee until all other folk have had it?” Calandrino caught the words, and
angered and mortified to find that he was not invisible, broke out with:
—‟Alas! curst woman! so ‛twas thou! Thou hast undone me: but, God’s
faith, I will pay thee out.” Whereupon he was upstairs in a trice, and
having discharged his great load of stones in a parlour, rushed with fell
intent upon his wife, and laid hold of her by the hair, and threw her
down at his feet, and beat and kicked her in every part of her person
with all the force he had in his arms and legs, insomuch that he left
never a hair of her head or bone of her body unscathed, and ‛twas all in
vain that she laid her palms together and crossed her fingers and cried
for mercy.
Now Buffalmacco and Bruno, after making merry a while with the
warders of the gate, had set off again at a leisurely pace, keeping some
distance behind Calandrino. Arrived at his door, they heard the noise of
the sound thrashing that he was giving his wife; and making as if they
were but that very instant come upon the scene, they called him.
Calandrino, flushed, all of a sweat, and out of breath, shewed himself at
the window, and bade them come up. They, putting on a somewhat

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angry air, did so; and espied Calandrino sitting in the parlour, amid the
stones which lay all about, untrussed, and puffing with the air of a man
spent with exertion, while his lady lay in one of the corners, weeping
bitterly, her hair all dishevelled, her clothes torn to shreds, and her face
livid, bruised and battered. So after surveying the room a while:— ‟What
means this, Calandrino?” quoth they. ‟Art thou minded to build thee a
wall, that we see so many stones about?” And then, as they received no
answer, they continued:—‟And how’s this? How comes Monna Tessa in
this plight? ‛Twould seem thou hast given her a beating! What unheard-
of doings are these?” What with the weight of the stones that he had
carried, and the fury with which he had beaten his wife, and the
mortification that he felt at the miscarriage of his enterprise, Calandrino
was too spent to utter a word by way of reply. Wherefore in a menacing
tone Buffalmacco began again:—‟However out of sorts thou mayst have
been, Calandrino, thou shouldst not have played us so scurvy a trick as
thou hast. To take us with thee to the Mugnone in quest of this stone of
rare virtue, and then, without so much as saying either God-speed or
Devil-speed, to be off, and leave us there like a couple of gowks! We take
it not a little unkindly: and rest assured that thou shalt never so fool us
again.” Whereto with an effort Calandrino replied:—‟Comrades, be not
wroth with me: ‛tis not as you think. I, luckless wight! found the stone:
listen, and you will no longer doubt that I say sooth. When you began
saying one to the other:—‛Where is Calandrino?’ I was within ten paces
of you, and marking that you came by without seeing me, I went before,
and so, keeping ever a little ahead of you, I came hither.” And then he
told them the whole story of what they had said and done from
beginning to end, and shewed them his back and heel, how they had
been mauled by the stones; after which:—‟And I tell you,” he went on,
‟that, laden though I was with all these stones, that you see here, never a
word was said to me by the warders of the gate as I passed in, though
you know how vexatious and grievous these warders are wont to make

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themselves in their determination to see everything: and moreover I met

by the way several of my gossips and friends that are ever wont to greet
me, and ask me to drink, and never a word said any of them to me, no,
nor half a word either; but they passed me by as men that saw me not.
But at last, being come home, I was met and seen by this devil of a
woman, curses upon her, forasmuch as all things, as you know, lose their
virtue in the presence of a woman; whereby I from being the most lucky
am become the most luckless man in Florence: and therefore I thrashed
her as long as I could stir a hand, nor know I wherefore I forbear to sluice
her veins for her, cursed be the hour that first I saw her, cursed be the
hour that I brought her into the house!” And so, kindling with fresh
wrath, he was about to start up and give her another thrashing; when
Buffalmacco and Bruno, who had listened to his story with an air of great
surprise, and affirmed its truth again and again, while they all but burst
with suppressed laughter, seeing him now frantic to renew his assault
upon his wife, got up and withstood and held him back, averring that
the lady was in no wise to blame for what had happened, but only he,
who, witting that things lost their virtue in the presence of women, had
not bidden her keep aloof from him that day; which precaution God had
not suffered him to take, either because the luck was not to be his, or
because he was minded to cheat his comrades, to whom he should have
shewn the stone as soon as he found it. And so, with many words they
hardly prevailed upon him to forgive his injured wife, and leaving him to
rue the ill-luck that had filled his house with stones, went their way.

NOVEL IV.

— The rector of Fiesole loves a widow lady, by whom he is not

loved, and thinking to lie with her, lies with her maid, with
whom the lady’s brothers cause him to be found by his Bishop.
—

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Elisa being come to the end of her story, which in the telling had yielded
no small delight to all the company, the queen, turning to Emilia,
signified her will, that her story should ensue at once upon that of Elisa.
And thus with alacrity Emilia began:—Noble ladies, how we are teased
and tormented by these priests and friars, and indeed by clergy of all
sorts, I mind me to have been set forth in more than one of the stories
that have been told; but as ‛twere not possible to say so much thereof but
that more would yet remain to say, I purpose to supplement them with
the story of a rector, who, in defiance of all the world, was bent upon
having the favour of a gentlewoman, whether she would or no. Which
gentlewoman, being discreet above a little, treated him as he deserved.
Fiesole, whose hill is here within sight, is, as each of you knows, a city
of immense antiquity, and was aforetime great, though now ‛tis fallen
into complete decay; which notwithstanding, it always was, and still is
the see of a bishop. Now there was once a gentlewoman, Monna Piccarda
by name, a widow, that had an estate at Fiesole, hard by the cathedral,
on which, for that she was not in the easiest circumstances, she lived
most part of the year, and with her her two brothers, very worthy and
courteous young men, both of them. And the lady being wont frequently
to resort to the cathedral, and being still quite young and fair and
debonair withal, it so befell that the rector grew in the last degree
enamoured of her, and waxed at length so bold, that he himself avowed
his passion to the lady, praying her to entertain his love, and requite it in
like measure. The rector was advanced in years, but otherwise the veriest
springald, being bold and of a high spirit, of a boundless conceit of
himself, and of mien and manners most affected and in the worst taste,
and withal so tiresome and insufferable that he was on bad terms with
everybody, and, if with one person more than another, with this lady,
who not only cared not a jot for him, but had liefer have had a headache
than his company. Wherefore the lady discreetly made answer:— ‟I may
well prize your love, Sir, and love you I should and will right gladly; but

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such love as yours and mine may never admit of aught that is not
honourable. You are my spiritual father and a priest, and now verging
towards old age, circumstances which should ensure your honour and
chastity; and I, on my part, am no longer a girl, such as these love affairs
might beseem, but a widow, and well you wot how it behoves widows to
be chaste. Wherefore I pray you to have me excused; for, after the sort
you crave, you shall never have my love, nor would I in such sort be loved
by you.” With this answer the rector was for the nonce fain to be content;
but he was not the man to be dismayed and routed by a first repulse; and
with his wonted temerity and effrontery he plied her again and again
with letters and ambassages, and also by word of mouth, when he espied
her entering the church. Wherefore the lady finding this persecution
more grievous and harassing than she could well bear, cast about how
she might be quit thereof in such fashion as he deserved, seeing that he
left her no choice; howbeit she would do nought in the matter until she
had conferred with her brothers. She therefore told them how the rector
pursued her, and how she meant to foil him; and, with their full
concurrence, some few days afterwards she went, as she was wont, to
church. The rector no sooner saw her, than he approached and accosted
her, as he was wont, in a tone of easy familiarity. The lady greeted him, as
he came up, with a glance of gladsome recognition; and when he had
treated her to not a little of his wonted eloquence, she drew him aside,
and heaving a great sigh, said:—‟I have oftentimes heard it said, Sir, that
there is no castle so strong, but that, if the siege be continued day by day,
it will sooner or later be taken; which I now plainly perceive is my own
case. For so fairly have you hemmed me in with this, that, and the other
pretty speech or the like blandishments, that you have constrained me to
make nought of my former resolve, and, seeing that I find such favour
with you, to surrender myself unto you.” Whereto, overjoyed, the rector
made answer:—‟Madam, I am greatly honoured; and, sooth to say, I
marvelled not a little how you should hold out so long, seeing that I have

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never had the like experience with any other woman, insomuch that I
have at times said:—‛Were women of silver, they would not be worth a
denier, for there is none but would give under the hammer!’ But no more
of this: when and where may we come together?” ‟Sweet my lord,”
replied the lady, ‟for the when, ‛tis just as we may think best, for I have
no husband to whom to render account of my nights, but the where
passes my wit to conjecture.” ‟How so?” quoth the rector. ‟Why not in
your own house?” ‟Sir,” replied the lady, ‟you know that I have two
brothers, both young men, who day and night bring their comrades into
the house, which is none too large: for which reason it might not be
done there, unless we were minded to make ourselves, as it were, dumb
and blind, uttering never a word, not so much as a monosyllable, and
abiding in the dark: in such sort indeed it might be, because they do not
intrude upon my chamber; but theirs is so near to mine that the very
least whisper could not but be heard.” ‟Nay but, Madam,” returned the
rector, ‟let not this stand in our way for a night or two, until I may
bethink me where else we might be more at our ease.” ‟Be that as you
will, Sir,” quoth the lady, ‟I do but entreat that the affair be kept close, so
that never a word of it get wind.” ‟Have no fear on that score, Madam,”
replied the priest; ‟and if so it may be, let us forgather to-night.” ‟With
pleasure,” returned the lady; and having appointed him how and when
to come, she left him and went home.
Now the lady had a maid, that was none too young, and had a
countenance the ugliest and most misshapen that ever was seen; for
indeed she was flat-nosed, wry-mouthed, and thick-lipped, with huge,
ill-set teeth, eyes that squinted and were ever bleared, and a complexion
betwixt green and yellow, that shewed as if she had spent the summer
not at Fiesole but at Sinigaglia: besides which she was hip-shot and
somewhat halting on the right side. Her name was Ciuta, but, for that
she was such a scurvy bitch to look upon, she was called by all folk

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Ciutazza.79 And being thus misshapen of body, she was also not without
her share of guile. So the lady called her and said:—‟Ciutazza, so thou
wilt do me a service to-night, I will give thee a fine new shift.” At the
mention of the shift Ciutazza made answer:—‟So you give me a shift,
Madam, I will throw myself into the very fire.” ‟Good,” said the lady;
‟then I would have thee lie to-night in my bed with a man, whom thou
wilt caress; but look thou say never a word, that my brothers, who, as
thou knowest, sleep in the next room, hear thee not; and afterwards I
will give thee the shift.” ‟Sleep with a man!” quoth Ciutazza: ‟why, if
need be, I will sleep with six.” So in the evening Master Rector came, as
he had been bidden; and the two young men, as the lady had arranged,
being in their room, and making themselves very audible, he stole
noiselessly, and in the dark, into the lady’s room, and got him on to the
bed, which Ciutazza, well advised by the lady how to behave, mounted
from the other side. Whereupon Master Rector, thinking to have the
lady by his side, took Ciutazza in his arms, and fell a kissing her, saying
never a word the while, and Ciutazza did the like; and so he enjoyed her,
plucking the boon which he had so long desired.
The rector and Ciutazza thus closeted, the lady charged her brothers
to execute the rest of her plan. They accordingly stole quietly out of their
room, and hied them to the piazza, where Fortune proved propitious
beyond what they had craved of her; for, it being a very hot night, the
bishop had been seeking them, purposing to go home with them, and
solace himself with their society, and quench his thirst. With which
desire he acquainted them, as soon as he espied them coming into the
piazza; and so they escorted him to their house, and there in the cool of
their little courtyard, which was bright with many a lamp, he took, to his
no small comfort, a draught of their good wine. Which done:—‟Sir,” said
the young men, ‟since of your great courtesy you have deigned to visit
our poor house, to which we were but now about to invite you, we should
79 An augmentative form, with a suggestion of cagnazza, bitch-like.

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be gratified if you would be pleased to give a look at somewhat, a mere

trifle though it be, which we have here to shew you.” The bishop replied
that he would do so with pleasure. Whereupon one of the young men
took a lighted torch and led the way, the bishop and the rest following,
to the chamber where Master Rector lay with Ciutazza.
Now the rector, being in hot haste, had ridden hard, insomuch that
he was already gotten above three miles on his way when they arrived;
and so, being somewhat tired, he was resting, but, hot though the night
was, he still held Ciutazza in his arms. In which posture he was shewn to
the bishop, when, preceded by the young man bearing the light, and
followed by the others, he entered the chamber. And being roused, and
observing the light and the folk that stood about him, Master Rector was
mighty ashamed and affrighted, and popped his head under the clothes.
But the bishop, reprimanding him severely, constrained him to thrust
his head out again, and take a view of his bed-fellow. Thus made aware
of the trick which the lady had played him, the rector was now, both on
that score and by reason of his signal disgrace, the saddest man that ever
was; and his discomfiture was complete, when, having donned his
clothes, he was committed by the bishop’s command to close custody
and sent to prison, there to expiate his offence by a rigorous penance.
The bishop was then fain to know how it had come about that he had
forgathered there with Ciutazza. Whereupon the young men related the
whole story; which ended, the bishop commended both the lady and the
young men not a little, for that they had taken condign vengeance upon
him without imbruing their hands in the blood of a priest. The bishop
caused him to bewail his transgression forty days; but what with his
love, and the scornful requital which it had received, he bewailed it
more than forty and nine days, not to mention that for a great while he
could not shew himself in the street but the boys would point the finger
at him and say:—‟There goes he that lay with Ciutazza.” Which was such
an affliction to him that he was like to go mad. On this wise the worthy

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lady rid herself of the rector’s vexatious importunity, and Ciutazza had a
jolly night and earned her shift.

NOVEL V.

— Three young men pull down the breeches of a judge from

the Marches, while he is administering justice on the bench. —
So ended Emilia her story; and when all had commended the widow
lady:—”‛Tis now thy turn to speak,” quoth the queen, fixing her gaze
upon Filostrato, who answered that he was ready, and forthwith thus
began:—Sweet my ladies, by what I remember of that young man, to wit,
Maso del Saggio, whom Elisa named a while ago, I am prompted to lay
aside a story that I had meant to tell you, and to tell you another,
touching him and some of his comrades, which, notwithstanding there
are in it certain words (albeit ‛tis not unseemly) which your modesty
forbears to use, is yet so laughable that I shall relate it.
As you all may well have heard, there come not seldom to our city
magistrates from the Marches, who for the most part are men of a mean
spirit, and in circumstances so reduced and beggarly, that their whole
life seems to be but a petty-foggery; and by reason of this their inbred
sordidness and avarice they bring with them judges and notaries that
have rather the air of men taken from the plough or the last than trained
in the schools of law.80 Now one of these Marchers, being come hither as
Podesta, brought with him judges not a few, and among them one that
called himself Messer Niccola da San Lepidio, and looked liker to a
locksmith than aught else. However, this fellow was assigned with the
rest of the judges to hear criminal causes. And as folk will often go to the
court, though they have no concern whatever there, it so befell that
Maso del Saggio went thither one morning in quest of one of his friends,
80 It was owing to their internal dissensions that the Florentines were from time to time fain to introduce these
stranger Podestas.

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and there chancing to set eyes on this Messer Niccola, where he sate,
deemed him a fowl of no common feather, and surveyed him from head
to foot, observing that the vair which he wore on his head was all
begrimed, that he carried an ink-horn at his girdle, that his gown was
longer than his robe, and many another detail quite foreign to the
appearance of a man of birth and breeding, of which that which he
deemed most notable was a pair of breeches, which, as he saw (for the
judge’s outer garments being none too ample were open in front, as he
sate), reached half-way down his legs. By which sight his mind was
presently diverted from the friend whom he came there to seek; and
forth he hied him in quest of other two of his comrades, the one Ribi,
the other Matteuzzo by name, fellows both of them not a whit less jolly
than Maso himself; and having found them, he said to them:— ‟An you
love me, come with me to the court, and I will shew you the queerest
scarecrow that ever you saw.” So the two men hied them with him to the
court; and there he pointed out to them the judge and his breeches.
What they saw from a distance served to set them laughing: then
drawing nearer to the dais on which Master Judge was seated, they
observed that ‛twas easy enough to get under the dais, and moreover
that the plank, on which the judge’s feet rested, was broken, so that
there was plenty of room for the passage of a hand and arm. Whereupon
quoth Maso to his comrades:—”‛Twere a very easy matter to pull these
breeches right down: wherefore I propose that we do so.” Each of the
men had marked how it might be done; and so, having concerted both
what they should do and what they should say, they came to the court
again next morning; and, the court being crowded, Matteuzzo, observed
by never a soul, slipped beneath the dais, and posted himself right under
the spot where the judge’s feet rested, while the other two men took
their stand on either side of the judge, each laying hold of the hem of his
robe. Then:—‟Sir, sir, I pray you for God’s sake,” began Maso, ‟that,
before the pilfering rascal that is there beside you can make off, you

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constrain him to give me back a pair of jack boots that he has stolen
from me, which theft he still denies, though ‛tis not a month since I saw
him getting them resoled.” Meanwhile Ribi, at the top of his voice,
shouted:—‟Believe him not, Sir, the scurvy knave! ‛Tis but that he knows
that I am come to demand restitution of a valise that he has stolen from
me that he now for the first time trumps up this story about a pair of
jack boots that I have had in my house down to the last day or two; and
if you doubt what I say, I can bring as witness Trecca, my neighbour, and
Grassa, the tripe-woman, and one that goes about gathering the
sweepings of Santa Maria a Verzaia, who saw him when he was on his
way back from the farm.” But shout as he might, Maso was still even with
him, nor for all that did Ribi bate a jot of his clamour. And while the
judge stood, bending now towards the one, now towards the other, the
better to hear them, Matteuzzo seized his opportunity, and thrusting his
hand through the hole in the plank caught hold of the judge’s breeches,
and tugged at them amain. Whereby down they came straightway, for
the judge was a lean man, and shrunk in the buttocks. The judge, being
aware of the accident, but knowing not how it had come about, would
have gathered his outer garments together in front, so as to cover the
defect, but Maso on the one side, and Ribi on the other, held him fast,
shouting amain and in chorus:—‟You do me a grievous wrong, Sir, thus
to deny me justice, nay, even a hearing, and to think of quitting the
court: there needs no writ in this city for such a trifling matter as this.”
And thus they held him by the clothes and in parley, until all that were
in the court perceived that he had lost his breeches. However, after a
while, Matteuzzo dropped the breeches, and slipped off, and out of the
court, without being observed, and Ribi, deeming that the joke had gone
far enough, exclaimed:—‟By God, I vow, I will appeal to the Syndics;”
while Maso, on the other side, let go the robe, saying:—‟Nay, but for my
part, I will come here again and again and again, until I find you less
embarrassed than you seem to be to-day.” And so the one this way, the

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other that way, they made off with all speed. Whereupon Master Judge,
disbreeched before all the world, was as one that awakens from sleep,
albeit he was ware of his forlorn condition, and asked whither the parties
in the case touching the jack boots and the valise were gone. However, as
they were not to be found, he fell a swearing by the bowels of God, that
‛twas meet and proper that he should know and wit, whether ‛twas the
custom at Florence to disbreech judges sitting in the seat of justice.
When the affair reached the ears of the Podesta, he made no little stir
about it; but, being informed by some of his friends, that ‛twould not
have happened, but that the Florentines were minded to shew him, that,
in place of the judges he should have brought with him, he had brought
but gowks, to save expense, he deemed it best to say no more about it,
and so for that while the matter went no further.

NOVEL VI.

— Bruno and Buffalmacco steal a pig from Calandrino, and

induce him to essay its recovery by means of pills of ginger and
vernaccia. Of the said pills they give him two, one after the
other, made of dog-ginger compounded with aloes; and it then
appearing as if he had had the pig himself, they constrain him
to buy them off, if he would not have them tell his wife. —
Filostrato’s story, which elicited not a little laughter, was no sooner
ended, than the queen bade Filomena follow suit. Wherefore thus
Filomena began:—As, gracious ladies, ‛twas the name of Maso del
Saggio that prompted Filostrato to tell the story that you have but now
heard, even so ‛tis with me in regard of Calandrino and his comrades, of
whom I am minded to tell you another story, which you will, I think,
find entertaining. Who Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco were, I need
not explain; you know them well enough from the former story; and

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therefore I will tarry no longer than to say that Calandrino had a little
estate not far from Florence, which his wife had brought him by way of
dowry, and which yielded them yearly, among other matters, a pig; and
‛twas his custom every year in the month of December to resort to the
farm with his wife, there to see to the killing and salting of the said pig.
Now, one of these years it so happened that his wife being unwell,
Calandrino went thither alone to kill the pig. And Bruno and
Buffalmacco learning that he was gone to the farm, and that his wife was
not with him, betook them to the house of a priest that was their
especial friend and a neighbour of Calandrino, there to tarry a while.
Upon their arrival Calandrino, who had that very morning killed the pig,
met them with the priest, and accosted them, saying:—‟A hearty
welcome to you. I should like you to see what an excellent manager I
am;” and so he took them into his house, and shewed them the pig. They
observed that ‛twas a very fine pig; and learned from Calandrino that he
was minded to salt it for household consumption. ‟Then thou art but a
fool,” quoth Bruno. ‟Sell it, man, and let us have a jolly time with the
money; and tell thy wife that ‛twas stolen.” ‟Not I,” replied Calandrino:
‟she would never believe me, and would drive me out of the house. Urge
me no further, for I will never do it.” The others said a great deal more,
but to no purpose; and Calandrino bade them to supper, but so coldly
that they declined, and left him.
Presently:—‟Should we not steal this pig from him to-night?” quoth
Bruno to Buffalmacco. ‟Could we so?” returned Buffalmacco. ‟How?”
‟Why, as to that,” rejoined Bruno, ‟I have already marked how it may be
done, if he bestow not the pig elsewhere.” ‟So be it, then,” said
Buffalmacco: ‟we will steal it; and then, perchance, our good host,
Master Priest, will join us in doing honour to such good cheer?” ‟That
right gladly will I,” quoth the priest. Whereupon:—‟Some address,
though,” quoth Bruno, ‟will be needful: thou knowest, Buffalmacco,
what a niggardly fellow Calandrino is, and how greedily he drinks at

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other folk’s expense. Go we, therefore, and take him to the tavern, and
there let the priest make as if, to do us honour, he would pay the whole
score, and suffer Calandrino to pay never a soldo, and he will grow tipsy,
and then we shall speed excellent well, because he is alone in the house.”
As Bruno proposed, so they did: and Calandrino, finding that the
priest would not suffer him to pay, drank amain, and took a great deal
more aboard than he had need of; and the night being far spent when he
left the tavern, he dispensed with supper, and went home, and thinking
to have shut the door, got him to bed, leaving it open. Buffalmacco and
Bruno went to sup with the priest; and after supper, taking with them
certain implements with which to enter Calandrino’s house, where
Bruno thought it most feasible, they stealthily approached it; but
finding the door open, they entered, and took down the pig, and carried
it away to the priest’s house, and having there bestowed it safely, went to
bed. In the morning when Calandrino, his head at length quit of the
fumes of the wine, got up, and came downstairs and found that his pig
was nowhere to be seen, and that the door was open, he asked this, that,
and the other man, whether they wist who had taken the pig away, and
getting no answer, he began to make a great outcry:—‟Alas, alas! luckless
man that I am, that my pig should have been stolen from me!”
Meanwhile Bruno and Buffalmacco, being also risen, made up to him, to
hear what he would say touching the pig. Whom he no sooner saw, than
well-nigh weeping he called them, saying:—‟Alas! my friends! my pig is
stolen from me.” Bruno stepped up to him and said in a low tone:—”‛Tis
passing strange if thou art in the right for once.” ‟Alas!” returned
Calandrino, ‟what I say is but too true.” ‟Why, then, out with it, man,”
quoth Bruno, ‟cry aloud, that all folk may know that ‛tis so.” Calandrino
then raised his voice and said:—‟By the body o’ God I say of a truth that
my pig has been stolen from me.” ‟So!” quoth Bruno, ‟but publish it,
man, publish it; lift up thy voice, make thyself well heard, that all may
believe thy report.” ‟Thou art enough to make me give my soul to the

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Enemy,” replied Calandrino. ‟I say—dost not believe me?—that hang me

by the neck if the pig is not stolen from me!” ‟Nay, but,” quoth Bruno,
‟how can it be? I saw it here but yesterday. Dost think to make me
believe that it has taken to itself wings and flown away?” ‟All the same
‛tis as I tell thee,” returned Calandrino. ‟Is it possible?” quoth Bruno. ‟Ay
indeed,” replied Calandrino; ”‛tis even so: and I am undone, and know
not how to go home. Never will my wife believe me; or if she do so, I
shall know no peace this year.” ‟Upon my hope of salvation,” quoth
Bruno, ”‛tis indeed a bad business, if so it really is. But thou knowest,
Calandrino, that ‛twas but yesterday I counselled thee to make believe
that ‛twas so. I should be sorry to think thou didst befool thy wife and us
at the same time.” ‟Ah!” vociferated Calandrino, ‟wilt thou drive me to
despair and provoke me to blaspheme God and the saints and all the
company of heaven? I tell thee that the pig has been stolen from me in
the night.” Whereupon:—‟If so it be,” quoth Buffalmacco, ‟we must find
a way, if we can, to recover it.” ‟Find a way?” said Calandrino: ‟how can
we compass that?” ‟Why,” replied Buffalmacco, ”‛tis certain that no one
has come from India to steal thy pig: it must have been one of thy
neighbours, and if thou couldst bring them together, I warrant thee, I
know how to make the assay with bread and cheese, and we will find out
in a trice who has had the pig.” ‟Ay,” struck in Bruno, ‟make thy assay
with bread and cheese in the presence of these gentry hereabout, one of
whom I am sure has had the pig! why, the thing would be seen through:
and they would not come.” ‟What shall we do, then?” said Buffalmacco.
Whereto Bruno made answer:—‟It must be done with good pills of
ginger and good vernaccia; and they must be bidden come drink with us.
They will suspect nothing, and will come; and pills of ginger can be
blessed just as well as bread and cheese.” ‟Beyond a doubt, thou art
right,” quoth Buffalmacco; ‟and thou Calandrino, what sayst thou? Shall
we do as Bruno says?” ‟Nay, I entreat you for the love of God,” quoth
Calandrino, ‟do even so: for if I knew but who had had the pig, I should

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

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presence of so many, ‛twere perhaps best that he that has had the pig
should confess the fact to the priest, and I will wash my hands of the
affair.”
All professed themselves ready enough to eat the pills; and so, having
set them in a row with Calandrino among them, Bruno, beginning at one
end, proceeded to give each a pill, and when he came to Calandrino he
chose one of the pills of dog-ginger and put it in his hand. Calandrino
thrust it forthwith between his teeth and began to chew it; but no
sooner was his tongue acquainted with the aloes, than, finding the
bitterness intolerable, he spat it out. Now, the eyes of all the company
being fixed on one another to see who should spit out his pill, Bruno,
who, not having finished the distribution, feigned to be concerned with
nought else, heard some one in his rear say:—‟Ha! Calandrino, what
means this?” and at once turning round, and marking that Calandrino
had spit out his pill:—‟Wait a while,” quoth he, ‟perchance ‛twas
somewhat else that caused thee to spit: take another;” and thereupon
whipping out the other pill of dog-ginger, he set it between Calandrino’s
teeth, and finished the distribution. Bitter as Calandrino had found the
former pill, he found this tenfold more so; but being ashamed to spit it
out, he kept it a while in his mouth and chewed it, and, as he did so,
tears stood in his eyes that shewed as large as filberts, and at length,
being unable to bear it any longer, he spat it out, as he had its
predecessor. Which being observed by Buffalmacco and Bruno, who
were then administering the wine, and by all the company, ‛twas averred
by common consent that Calandrino had committed the theft himself;
for which cause certain of them took him severely to task.
However, the company being dispersed, and Bruno and Buffalmacco
left alone with Calandrino, Buffalmacco began on this wise:—‟I never
doubted but that thou hadst had it thyself, and wast minded to make us
believe that it had been stolen from thee, that we might not have of thee
so much as a single drink out of the price which thou gottest for it.”

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

NOVEL VII.

— A scholar loves a widow lady, who, being enamoured of

another, causes him to spend a winter’s night awaiting her in
the snow. He afterwards by a stratagem causes her to stand for
a whole day in July, naked upon a tower, exposed to the flies,
the gadflies, and the sun. —

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Over the woes of poor Calandrino the ladies laughed not a little, and had
laughed yet more, but that it irked them that those that had robbed him
of the pig should also take from him the capons. However, the story
being ended, the queen bade Pampinea give them hers: and thus
forthwith Pampinea began:—Dearest ladies, it happens oftentimes that
the artful scorner meets his match; wherefore ‛tis only little wits that
delight to scorn. In a series of stories we have heard tell of tricks played
without aught in the way of reprisals following: by mine I purpose in
some degree to excite your compassion for a gentlewoman of our city
(albeit the retribution that came upon her was but just) whose flout was
returned in the like sort, and to such effect that she well-nigh died
thereof. The which to hear will not be unprofitable to you, for thereby
you will learn to be more careful how you flout others, and therein you
will do very wisely.
‛Tis not many years since there dwelt at Florence a lady young and
fair, and of a high spirit, as also of right gentle lineage, and tolerably well
endowed with temporal goods. Now Elena—such was the lady’s name—
being left a widow, was minded never to marry again, being enamoured
of a handsome young gallant of her own choosing, with whom she,
recking nought of any other lover, did, by the help of a maid in whom
she placed much trust, not seldom speed the time gaily and with
marvellous delight. Meanwhile it so befell that a young nobleman of our
city, Rinieri by name, who had spent much time in study at Paris, not
that he might thereafter sell his knowledge by retail, but that he might
learn the reasons and causes of things, which accomplishment shews to
most excellent advantage in a gentleman, returned to Florence, and
there lived as a citizen in no small honour with his fellows, both by
reason of his rank and of his learning. But as it is often the case that
those who are most versed in deep matters are the soonest mastered by
Love, so was it with Rinieri. For at a festal gathering, to which one day he
went, there appeared before his eyes this Elena, of whom we spoke, clad

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in black, as is the wont of our Florentine widows, and shewing to his

mind so much fairer and more debonair than any other woman that he
had ever seen, that happy indeed he deemed the man might call himself,
to whom God in His goodness should grant the right to hold her naked
in his arms. So now and again he eyed her stealthily, and knowing that
boons goodly and precious are not to be gotten without trouble, he made
up his mind to study and labour with all assiduity how best to please her,
that so he might win her love, and thereby the enjoyment of her.
The young gentlewoman was not used to keep her eyes bent ever
towards the infernal regions; but, rating herself at no less, if not more,
than her deserts, she was dexterous to move them to and fro, and thus
busily scanning her company, soon detected the men who regarded her
with pleasure. By which means having discovered Rinieri’s passion, she
inly laughed, and said:—‛Twill turn out that ‛twas not for nothing that I
came here to-day, for, if I mistake not, I have caught a gander by the bill.
So she gave him an occasional sidelong glance, and sought as best she
might to make him believe that she was not indifferent to him, deeming
that the more men she might captivate by her charms, the higher those
charms would be rated, and most especially by him whom she had made
lord of them and her love. The erudite scholar bade adieu to
philosophical meditation, for the lady entirely engrossed his mind; and,
having discovered her house, he, thinking to please her, found divers
pretexts for frequently passing by it. Whereon the lady, her vanity
flattered for the reason aforesaid, plumed herself not a little, and
shewed herself pleased to see him. Thus encouraged, the scholar found
means to make friends with her maid, to whom he discovered his love,
praying her to do her endeavour with her mistress, that he might have
her favour. The maid was profuse of promises, and gave her mistress his
message, which she no sooner heard, than she was convulsed with
laughter, and replied:—‟He brought sense enough hither from Paris:
knowest thou where he has since been to lose it? Go to, now; let us give

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him that which he seeks. Tell him, when he next speaks to you of the
matter, that I love him vastly more than he loves me, but that I must
have regard to my reputation, so that I may be able to hold my head up
among other ladies; which, if he is really the wise man they say, will
cause him to affect me much more.” Ah! poor woman! poor woman! she
little knew, my ladies, how rash it is to try conclusions with scholars.
The maid found the scholar, and did her mistress’s errand. The
scholar, overjoyed, proceeded to urge his suit with more ardour, to indite
letters, and send presents. The lady received all that he sent her, but
vouchsafed no answers save such as were couched in general terms: and
on this wise she kept him dangling a long while. At last, having disclosed
the whole affair to her lover, who evinced some resentment and jealousy,
she, to convince him that his suspicions were groundless, and for that
she was much importuned by the scholar, sent word to him by her maid,
that never since he had assured her of his love, had occasion served her
to do him pleasure, but that next Christmastide she hoped to be with
him; wherefore, if he were minded to await her in the courtyard of her
house on the night of the day next following the feast, she would meet
him there as soon as she could. Elated as ne’er another, the scholar hied
him at the appointed time to the lady’s house, and being ushered into a
courtyard by the maid, who forthwith turned the key upon him,
addressed himself there to await the lady’s coming.
Now the lady’s lover, by her appointment, was with her that evening;
and, when they had gaily supped, she told him what she had in hand
that night, adding:—‟And so thou wilt be able to gauge the love which I
have borne and bear this scholar, whom thou hast foolishly regarded as a
rival.” The lover heard the lady’s words with no small delight, and waited
in eager expectancy to see her make them good. The scholar, hanging
about there in the courtyard, began to find it somewhat chillier than he
would have liked, for it had snowed hard all day long, so that the snow
lay everywhere thick on the ground; however, he bore it patiently,

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expecting to be recompensed by and by. After a while the lady said to her
lover:—‟Go we to the chamber and take a peep through a lattice at him
of whom thou art turned jealous, and mark what he does, and how he
will answer the maid, whom I have bidden go speak with him.” So the
pair hied them to a lattice, wherethrough they could see without being
seen, and heard the maid call from another lattice to the scholar, saying:
—‟Rinieri, my lady is distressed as never woman was, for that one of her
brothers is come here to-night, and after talking a long while with her,
must needs sup with her, and is not yet gone, but, I think, he will soon
be off; and that is the reason why she has not been able to come to thee,
but she will come soon now. She trusts it does not irk thee to wait so
long.” Whereto the scholar, supposing that ‛twas true, made answer:
—‟Tell my lady to give herself no anxiety on my account, until she can
conveniently come to me, but to do so as soon as she may.” Whereupon
the maid withdrew from the window, and went to bed; while the lady
said to her lover:—‟Now, what sayst thou? Thinkst thou that, if I had
that regard for him, which thou fearest, I would suffer him to tarry
below there to get frozen?” Which said, the lady and her now partly
reassured lover got them to bed, where for a great while they disported
them right gamesomely, laughing together and making merry over the
luckless scholar.
The scholar, meanwhile, paced up and down the courtyard to keep
himself warm, nor indeed had he where to sit, or take shelter: in this
plight he bestowed many a curse upon the lady’s brother for his long
tarrying, and never a sound did he hear but he thought that ‛twas the
lady opening the door. But vain indeed were his hopes: the lady, having
solaced herself with her lover until hard upon midnight, then said to
him:—‟How ratest thou our scholar, my soul? whether is the greater his
wit, or the love I bear him, thinkst thou? Will the cold, that, of my
ordaining, he now suffers, banish from thy breast the suspicion which
my light words the other day implanted there?” ‟Ay, indeed, heart of my

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body!” replied the lover, ‟well wot I now that even as thou art to me, my
weal, my consolation, my bliss, so am I to thee.” ‟So:” quoth the lady,
‟then I must have full a thousand kisses from thee, to prove that thou
sayst sooth.” The lover’s answer was to strain her to his heart, and give
her not merely a thousand but a hundred thousand kisses. In such
converse they dallied a while longer, and then:— ‟Get we up, now,” quoth
the lady, ‟that we may go see if ‛tis quite spent, that fire, with which, as
he wrote to me daily, this new lover of mine used to burn.” So up they got
and hied them to the lattice which they had used before, and peering
out into the courtyard, saw the scholar dancing a hornpipe to the music
that his own teeth made, a chattering for extremity of cold; nor had they
ever seen it footed so nimbly and at such a pace. Whereupon:—‟How
sayst thou, sweet my hope?” quoth the lady. ‟Know I not how to make
men dance without the aid of either trumpet or cornemuse?” ‟Indeed
thou dost my heart’s delight,” replied the lover. Quoth then the lady:— ‟I
have a mind that we go down to the door. Thou wilt keep quiet, and I will
speak to him, and we shall hear what he says, which, peradventure, we
shall find no less diverting than the sight of him.”
So they stole softly out of the chamber and down to the door, which
leaving fast closed, the lady set her lips to a little hole that was there, and
with a low voice called the scholar, who, hearing her call him, praised
God, making too sure that he was to be admitted, and being come to the
door, said:—‟Here am I, Madam; open for God’s sake; let me in, for I die
of cold.” ‟Oh! ay,” replied the lady, ‟I know thou hast a chill, and of
course, there being a little snow about, ‛tis mighty cold; but well I wot
the nights are colder far at Paris. I cannot let thee in as yet, because my
accursed brother, that came to sup here this evening, is still with me; but
he will soon take himself off, and then I will let thee in without a
moment’s delay. I have but now with no small difficulty given him the
slip, to come and give thee heart that the waiting irk thee not.” ‟Nay but,
Madam,” replied the scholar, ‟for the love of God, I entreat you, let me

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in, that I may have a roof over my head, because for some time past there
has been never so thick a fall of snow, and ‛tis yet snowing; and then I
will wait as long as you please.” ‟Alas! sweet my love,” quoth the lady,
‟that I may not, for this door makes such a din, when one opens it, that
my brother would be sure to hear, were I to let thee in; but I will go tell
him to get him gone, and so come back and admit thee.” ‟Go at once,
then,” returned the scholar, ‟and prithee, see that a good fire be kindled,
that, when I get in, I may warm myself, for I am now so chilled through
and through that I have scarce any feeling left.” ‟That can scarce be,”
rejoined the lady, ‟if it be true, what thou hast so protested in thy letters,
that thou art all afire for love of me: ‛tis plain to me now that thou didst
but mock me. I now take my leave of thee: wait and be of good cheer.”
So the lady and her lover, who, to his immense delight, had heard all
that passed, betook them to bed; however, little sleep had they that
night, but spent the best part of it in disporting themselves and making
merry over the unfortunate scholar, who, his teeth now chattering to
such a tune that he seemed to have been metamorphosed into a stork,
perceived that he had been befooled, and after making divers fruitless
attempts to open the door and seeking means of egress to no better
purpose, paced to and fro like a lion, cursing the villainous weather, the
long night, his simplicity, and the perversity of the lady, against whom
(the vehemence of his wrath suddenly converting the love he had so long
borne her to bitter and remorseless enmity) he now plotted within
himself divers and grand schemes of revenge, on which he was far more
bent than ever he had been on forgathering with her.
Slowly the night wore away, and with the first streaks of dawn the
maid, by her mistress’s direction, came down, opened the door of the
courtyard, and putting on a compassionate air, greeted Rinieri with:
—‟Foul fall him that came here yestereve; he has afflicted us with his
presence all night long, and has kept thee a freezing out here: but
harkye, take it not amiss; that which might not be to-night shall be

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another time: well wot I that nought could have befallen that my lady
could so ill brook.” For all his wrath, the scholar, witting, like the wise
man he was, that menaces serve but to put the menaced on his guard,
kept pent within his breast that which unbridled resentment would have
uttered, and said quietly, and without betraying the least trace of anger:
—‟In truth ‛twas the worst night I ever spent, but I understood quite
well that the lady was in no wise to blame, for that she herself, being
moved to pity of me, came down here to make her excuses, and to
comfort me; and, as thou sayst, what has not been to-night will be
another time: wherefore commend me to her, and so, adieu!” Then, well-
nigh paralysed for cold, he got him, as best he might, home, where,
weary and fit to die for drowsiness, he threw himself on his bed, and fell
into a deep sleep, from which he awoke to find that he had all but lost
the use of his arms and legs. He therefore sent for some physicians, and
having told them what a chill he had gotten, caused them have a care to
his health. But, though they treated him with active and most drastic
remedies, it cost them some time and no little trouble to restore to the
cramped muscles their wonted pliancy, and, indeed, but for his youth
and the milder weather that was at hand, ‛twould have gone very hard
with him.
However, recover he did his health and lustihood, and nursing his
enmity, feigned to be vastly more enamoured of his widow than ever
before. And so it was that after a while Fortune furnished him with an
opportunity of satisfying his resentment, for the gallant of whom the
widow was enamoured, utterly regardless of the love she bore him, grew
enamoured of another lady, and was minded no more to pleasure the
widow in aught either by word or by deed; wherefore she now pined in
tears and bitterness of spirit. However, her maid, who commiserated her
not a little, and knew not how to dispel the dumps that the loss of her
lover had caused her, espying the scholar pass along the street, as he had
been wont, conceived the silly idea that the lady’s lover might be

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induced to return to his old love by some practice of a necromantic

order, wherein she doubted not that the scholar must be a thorough
adept; which idea she imparted to her mistress. The lady, being none too
well furnished with sense, never thinking that, if the scholar had been
an adept in necromancy, he would have made use of it in his own
behoof, gave heed to what her maid said, and forthwith bade her learn of
the scholar whether he would place his skill at her service, and assure
him that, if he so did, she, in guerdon thereof, would do his pleasure.
The maid did her mistress’s errand well and faithfully. The scholar no
sooner heard the message, than he said to himself:—Praised be Thy
name, O God, that the time is now come, when with Thy help I may be
avenged upon this wicked woman of the wrong she did me in requital of
the great love I bore her. Then, turning to the maid, he said:—‟Tell my
lady to set her mind at ease touching this matter; for that, were her lover
in India, I would forthwith bring him hither to crave her pardon of that
wherein he has offended her. As to the course she should take in the
matter, I tarry but her pleasure to make it known to her, when and where
she may think fit: tell her so, and bid her from me to be of good cheer.”
The maid carried his answer to her mistress, and arranged that they
should meet in the church of Santa Lucia of Prato. Thither accordingly
they came, the lady and the scholar, and conversed apart, and the lady,
quite oblivious of the ill-usage by which she had well-nigh done him to
death, opened all her mind to him, and besought him, if he had any
regard to her welfare, to aid her to the attainment of her desire.
‟Madam,” replied the scholar, ‟true it is that among other lore that I
acquired at Paris was this of necromancy, whereof, indeed, I know all
that may be known; but, as ‛tis in the last degree displeasing to God, I
had sworn never to practise it either for my own or for any other’s
behoof. ‛Tis also true that the love I bear you is such that I know not how
to refuse you aught that you would have me do for you; and so, were this
single essay enough to consign me to hell, I would adventure it to

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pleasure you. But I mind me that ‛tis a matter scarce so easy of

performance as, perchance, you suppose, most especially when a woman
would fain recover the love of a man, or a man that of a woman, for then
it must be done by the postulant in proper person, and at night, and in
lonely places, and unattended, so that it needs a stout heart; nor know I
whether you are disposed to comply with these conditions.” The lady, too
enamoured to be discreet, made answer:—‟So shrewdly does Love goad
me, that there is nought I would not do to bring him back to me who
wrongfully has deserted me; but tell me, prithee, wherein it is that I have
need of this stout heart.” ‟Madam,” returned the despiteful scholar,
”‛twill be my part to fashion in tin an image of him you would fain lure
back to you: and when I have sent you the image, ‛twill be for you, when
the moon is well on the wane, to dip yourself, being stark naked, and the
image, seven times in a flowing stream, and this you must do quite alone
about the hour of first sleep, and afterwards, still naked, you must get
you upon some tree or some deserted house, and facing the North, with
the image in your hand, say certain words that I shall give you in writing
seven times; which, when you have done, there will come to you two
damsels, the fairest you ever saw, who will greet you graciously, and ask
of you what you would fain have; to whom you will disclose frankly and
fully all that you crave; and see to it that you make no mistake in the
name; and when you have said all, they will depart, and you may then
descend and return to the spot where you left your clothes, and resume
them and go home. And rest assured, that before the ensuing midnight
your lover will come to you in tears, and crave your pardon and mercy,
and that thenceforth he will never again desert you for any other
woman.”
The lady gave entire credence to the scholar’s words, and deeming
her lover as good as in her arms again, recovered half her wonted spirits:
wherefore:—‟Make no doubt,” quoth she, ‟that I shall do as thou
biddest; and indeed I am most favoured by circumstance; for in upper

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Val d’Arno I have an estate adjoining the river, and ‛tis now July, so that
to bathe will be delightful. Ay, and now I mind me that at no great
distance from the river there is a little tower, which is deserted, save that
now and again the shepherds will get them up by the chestnut-wood
ladder to the roof, thence to look out for their strayed sheep; ‛tis a place
lonely indeed, and quite out of ken; and when I have clomb it, as climb it
I will, I doubt not ‛twill be the best place in all the world to give effect to
your instructions.”
Well pleased to be certified of the lady’s intention, the scholar, to
whom her estate and the tower were very well known, made answer:— ‟I
was never in those parts, Madam, and therefore know neither your
estate nor the tower, but, if ‛tis as you say, ‛twill certainly be the best
place in the world for your purpose. So, when time shall serve, I will send
you the image and the orison. But I pray you, when you shall have your
heart’s desire, and know that I have done you good service, do not forget
me, but keep your promise to me.” ‟That will I without fail,” quoth the
lady; and so she bade him farewell, and went home. The scholar,
gleefully anticipating the success of his enterprise, fashioned an image,
and inscribed it with certain magical signs, and wrote some gibberish by
way of orison, which in due time he sent to the lady, bidding her the very
next night do as he had prescribed: and thereupon he hied him privily
with one of his servants to the house of a friend hard by the tower, there
to carry his purpose into effect. The lady, on her part, set out with her
maid, and betook her to her estate, and, night being come, sent the
maid to bed, as if she were minded to go to rest herself; and about the
hour of first sleep stole out of the house and down to the tower, beside
the Arno; and when, having carefully looked about her, she was satisfied
that never a soul was to be seen or heard, she took off her clothes and
hid them under a bush; then, with the image in her hand, she dipped
herself seven times in the river; which done, she hied her with the image
to the tower. The scholar, having at nightfall couched himself with his

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servant among the willows and other trees that fringed the bank,
marked all that she did, and how, as she passed by him, the whiteness of
her flesh dispelled the shades of night, and scanning attentively her
bosom and every other part of her body, and finding them very fair, felt,
as he bethought him what would shortly befall them, some pity of her;
while, on the other hand, he was suddenly assailed by the solicitations of
the flesh which caused that to stand which had been inert, and
prompted him to sally forth of his ambush and take her by force, and
have his pleasure of her. And, what with his compassion and passion, he
was like to be worsted; but then as he bethought him who he was, and
what a grievous wrong had been done him, and for what cause, and by
whom, his wrath, thus rekindled, got the better of the other affections,
so that he swerved not from his resolve, but suffered her to go her way.
The lady ascended the tower, and standing with her face to the North,
began to recite the scholar’s orison, while he, having stolen into the
tower but a little behind her, cautiously shifted the ladder that led up to
the roof on which the lady stood, and waited to observe what she would
say and do. Seven times the lady said the orison, and then awaited the
appearance of the two damsels; and so long had she to wait—not to
mention that the night was a good deal cooler than she would have liked
—that she saw day break; whereupon, disconcerted that it had not fallen
out as the scholar had promised, she said to herself:—I misdoubt me he
was minded to give me such a night as I gave him; but if such was his
intent, he is but maladroit in his revenge, for this night is not as long by
a third as his was, besides which, the cold is of another quality. And that
day might not overtake her there, she began to think of descending, but,
finding that the ladder was removed, she felt as if the world had come to
nought beneath her feet, her senses reeled, and she fell in a swoon upon
the floor of the roof. When she came to herself, she burst into tears and
piteous lamentations, and witting now very well that ‛twas the doing of
the scholar, she began to repent her that she had first offended him, and

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then trusted him unduly, having such good cause to reckon upon his
enmity; in which frame she abode long time. Then, searching if haply
she might find some means of descent, and finding none, she fell a
weeping again, and bitterly to herself she said:—Alas for thee, wretched
woman! what will thy brothers, thy kinsmen, thy neighbours, nay, what
will all Florence say of thee, when ‛tis known that thou hast been found
here naked? Thy honour, hitherto unsuspect, will be known to have
been but a shew, and shouldst thou seek thy defence in lying excuses, if
any such may be fashioned, the accursed scholar, who knows all thy
doings, will not suffer it. Ah! poor wretch! that at one and the same time
hast lost thy too dearly cherished gallant and thine own honour! And
therewith she was taken with such a transport of grief, that she was like
to cast herself from the tower to the ground. Then, bethinking her that if
she might espy some lad making towards the tower with his sheep, she
might send him for her maid, for the sun was now risen, she approached
one of the parapets of the tower, and looked out, and so it befell that the
scholar, awakening from a slumber, in which he had lain a while at the
foot of a bush, espied her, and she him. Whereupon:—‟Good-day,
Madam,” quoth he:—‟are the damsels yet come?” The lady saw and
heard him not without bursting afresh into a flood of tears, and
besought him to come into the tower, that she might speak with him: a
request which the scholar very courteously granted. The lady then threw
herself prone on the floor of the roof; and, only her head being visible
through the aperture, thus through her sobs she spoke:—‟Verily, Rinieri,
if I gave thee a bad night, thou art well avenged on me, for, though it be
July, meseemed I was sore a cold last night, standing here with never a
thread upon me, and, besides, I have so bitterly bewept both the trick I
played thee and my own folly in trusting thee, that I marvel that I have
still eyes in my head. Wherefore I implore thee, not for love of me,
whom thou hast no cause to love, but for the respect thou hast for
thyself as a gentleman, that thou let that which thou hast already done

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suffice thee to avenge the wrong I did thee, and bring me my clothes,
that I may be able to get me down from here, and spare to take from me
that which, however thou mightst hereafter wish, thou couldst not
restore to me, to wit, my honour; whereas, if I deprived thee of that one
night with me, ‛tis in my power to give thee many another night in
recompense thereof, and thou hast but to choose thine own times. Let
this, then, suffice, and like a worthy gentleman be satisfied to have taken
thy revenge, and to have let me know it: put not forth thy might against
a woman: ‛tis no glory to the eagle to have vanquished a dove; wherefore
for God’s and thine own honour’s sake have mercy on me.”
The scholar, albeit his haughty spirit still brooded on her evil
entreatment of him, yet saw her not weep and supplicate without a
certain compunction mingling with his exultation; but vengeance he
had desired above all things, to have wreaked it was indeed sweet, and
albeit his humanity prompted him to have compassion on the hapless
woman, yet it availed not to subdue the fierceness of his resentment;
wherefore thus he made answer:—‟Madam Elena, had my prayers (albeit
art I had none to mingle with them tears and honeyed words as thou
dost with thine) inclined thee that night, when I stood perishing with
cold amid the snow that filled thy courtyard, to accord me the very least
shelter, ‛twere but a light matter for me to hearken now to thine; but, if
thou art now so much more careful of thy honour than thou wast wont
to be, and it irks thee to tarry there naked, address thy prayers to him in
whose arms it irked thee not naked to pass that night thou mindest thee
of, albeit thou wist that I with hasty foot was beating time upon the
snow in thy courtyard to the accompaniment of chattering teeth: ‛tis he
that thou shouldst call to succour thee, to fetch thy clothes, to adjust the
ladder for thy descent; ‛tis he in whom thou shouldst labour to inspire
this tenderness thou now shewest for thy honour, that honour which for
his sake thou hast not scrupled to jeopardize both now and on a
thousand other occasions. Why, then, call’st thou not him to come to thy

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succour? To whom pertains it rather than to him? Thou art his. And of
whom will he have a care, whom will he succour, if not thee? Thou
askedst him that night, when thou wast wantoning with him, whether
seemed to him the greater, my folly or the love thou didst bear him: call
him now, foolish woman, and see if the love thou bearest him, and thy
wit and his, may avail to deliver thee from my folly. ‛Tis now no longer in
thy power to shew me courtesy of that which I no more desire, nor yet to
refuse it, did I desire it. Reserve thy nights for thy lover, if so be thou go
hence alive. Be they all thine and his. One of them was more than I
cared for; ‛tis enough for me to have been flouted once. Ay, and by thy
cunning of speech thou strivest might and main to conciliate my good-
will, calling me worthy gentleman, by which insinuation thou wouldst
fain induce me magnanimously to desist from further chastisement of
thy baseness. But thy cajoleries shall not now cloud the eyes of my mind,
as did once thy false promises. I know myself, and better now for thy one
night’s instruction than for all the time I spent at Paris. But, granted that
I were disposed to be magnanimous, thou art not of those to whom ‛tis
meet to shew magnanimity. A wild beast such as thou, having merited
vengeance, can claim no relief from suffering save death, though in the
case of a human being ‛twould suffice to temper vengeance with mercy,
as thou saidst. Wherefore I, albeit no eagle, witting thee to be no dove,
but a venomous serpent, mankind’s most ancient enemy, am minded,
bating no jot of malice or of might, to harry thee to the bitter end:
natheless this which I do is not properly to be called vengeance but
rather just retribution; seeing that vengeance should be in excess of the
offence, and this my chastisement of thee will fall short of it; for, were I
minded to be avenged on thee, considering what account thou madest of
my heart and soul, ‛twould not suffice me to take thy life, no, nor the
lives of a hundred others such as thee; for I should but slay a vile and
base and wicked woman. And what the Devil art thou more than any
other pitiful baggage, that I should spare thy little store of beauty, which

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a few years will ruin, covering thy face with wrinkles? And yet ‛twas not
for want of will that thou didst fail to do to death a worthy gentleman, as
thou but now didst call me, of whom in a single day of his life the world
may well have more profit than of a hundred thousand like thee while
the world shall last. Wherefore by this rude discipline I will teach thee
what it is to flout men of spirit, and more especially what it is to flout
scholars, that if thou escape with thy life thou mayst have good cause
ever hereafter to shun such folly. But if thou art so fain to make the
descent, why cast not thyself down, whereby, God helping, thou wouldst
at once break thy neck, be quit of the torment thou endurest, and make
me the happiest man alive? I have no more to say to thee. ‛Twas my art
and craft thus caused thee climb; be it thine to find the way down: thou
hadst cunning enough, when thou wast minded to flout me.”
While the scholar thus spoke, the hapless lady wept incessantly, and
before he had done, to aggravate her misery, the sun was high in the
heaven. However, when he was silent, thus she made answer:—‟Ah!
ruthless man, if that accursed night has so rankled with thee, and thou
deemest my fault so grave that neither my youth and beauty, nor my
bitter tears, nor yet my humble supplications may move thee to pity, let
this at least move thee, and abate somewhat of thy remorseless severity,
that ‛twas my act alone, in that of late I trusted thee, and discovered to
thee all my secret, that did open the way to compass thy end, and make
me cognizant of my guilt, seeing that, had I not confided in thee, on no
wise mightst thou have been avenged on me; which thou wouldst seem
so ardently to have desired. Turn thee, then, turn thee, I pray thee, from
thy wrath, and pardon me. So thou wilt pardon me, and get me down
hence, right gladly will I give up for ever my faithless gallant, and thou
shalt be my sole lover and lord, albeit thou sayst hard things of my
beauty, slight and shortlived as thou wouldst have it to be, which,
however it may compare with others, is, I wot, to be prized, if for no
other reason, yet for this, that ‛tis the admiration and solace and delight

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of young men, and thou art not yet old. And albeit I have been harshly
treated by thee, yet believe I cannot that thou wouldst have me do
myself so shamefully to death as to cast me down, like some abandoned
wretch, before thine eyes, in which, unless thou wast then, as thou hast
since shewn thyself, a liar, I found such favour. Ah! have pity on me for
God’s and mercy’s sake! The sun waxes exceeding hot, and having
suffered not a little by the cold of last night, I now begin to be sorely
afflicted by the heat.”
‟Madam,” rejoined the scholar, who held her in parley with no small
delight, ”‛twas not for any love that thou didst bear me that thou
trustedst me, but that thou mightst recover that which thou hadst lost,
for which cause thou meritest but the greater punishment; and foolish
indeed art thou if thou supposest that such was the sole means available
for my revenge. I had a thousand others, and, while I feigned to love
thee, I had laid a thousand gins for thy feet, into one or other of which in
no long time, though this had not occurred, thou must needs have
fallen, and that too to thy more grievous suffering and shame; nor was it
to spare thee, but that I might be the sooner rejoiced by thy discomfiture
that I took my present course. And though all other means had failed
me, I had still the pen, with which I would have written of thee such
matters and in such a sort, that when thou wist them, as thou shouldst
have done, thou wouldst have regretted a thousand times that thou
hadst ever been born. The might of the pen is greater far than they
suppose, who have not proved it by experience. By God I swear, so may
He, who has prospered me thus far in this my revenge, prosper me to the
end! that I would have written of thee things that would have so shamed
thee in thine own—not to speak of others’—sight that thou hadst put
out thine eyes that thou mightst no more see thyself; wherefore chide
not the sea, for that it has sent forth a tiny rivulet. For thy love, or
whether thou be mine or no, nought care I. Be thou still his, whose thou
hast been, if thou canst. Hate him as I once did, I now love him, by

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reason of his present entreatment of thee. Ye go getting you enamoured,

ye women, and nought will satisfy you but young gallants, because ye
mark that their flesh is ruddier, and their beards are blacker, than other
folk’s, and that they carry themselves well, and foot it featly in the dance,
and joust; but those that are now more mature were even as they, and
possess a knowledge which they have yet to acquire. And therewithal ye
deem that they ride better, and cover more miles in a day, than men of
riper age. Now that they dust the pelisse with more vigour I certainly
allow, but their seniors, being more experienced, know better the places
where the fleas lurk; and spare and dainty diet is preferable to
abundance without savour: moreover hard trotting will gall and jade
even the youngest, whereas an easy pace, though it bring one somewhat
later to the inn, at any rate brings one thither fresh. Ye discern not,
witless creatures that ye are, how much of evil this little shew of bravery
serves to hide. Your young gallant is never content with one woman, but
lusts after as many as he sets eyes on; nor is there any but he deems
himself worthy of her: wherefore ‛tis not possible that their love should
be lasting, as thou hast but now proved and mayst only too truly witness.
Moreover to be worshipped, to be caressed by their ladies they deem but
their due; nor is there aught whereon they plume and boast them so
proudly as their conquests: which impertinence has caused not a few
women to surrender to the friars, who keep their own counsel.
Peradventure thou wilt say that never a soul save thy maid, and I wist
aught of thy loves; but, if so, thou hast been misinformed, and if thou so
believest, thou dost misbelieve. Scarce aught else is talked of either in
his quarter or in thine; but most often ‛tis those most concerned whose
ears such matters reach last. Moreover, they rob you, these young
gallants, whereas the others make you presents. So, then, having made a
bad choice, be thou still his to whom thou hast given thyself, and leave
me, whom thou didst flout, to another, for I have found a lady of much
greater charms than thine, and that has understood me better than thou

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didst. And that thou mayst get thee to the other world better certified of
the desire of my eyes than thou wouldst seem to be here by my words,
delay no more, but cast thyself down, whereby thy soul, taken forthwith,
as I doubt not she will be, into the embrace of the Devil, may see
whether thy headlong fall afflicts mine eyes, or no. But, for that I doubt
thou meanest not thus to gladden me, I bid thee, if thou findest the sun
begin to scorch thee, remember the cold thou didst cause me to endure,
wherewith, by admixture, thou mayst readily temper the sun’s heat.”
The hapless lady, seeing that the scholar’s words were ever to the
same ruthless effect, burst afresh into tears, and said:—‟Lo, now, since
nought that pertains to me may move thee, be thou at least moved by
the love thou bearest this lady of whom thou speakest, who, thou sayst,
is wiser than I, and loves thee, and for love of her pardon me, and fetch
me my clothes, that I may resume them, and get me down hence.”
Whereat the scholar fell a laughing, and seeing that ‛twas not a little past
tierce, made answer:—‟Lo, now, I know not how to deny thee, adjuring
me as thou dost by such a lady: tell me, then, where thy clothes are, and
I will go fetch them, and bring thee down.” The lady, believing him, was
somewhat comforted, and told him where she had laid her clothes. The
scholar then quitted the tower, bidding his servant on no account to stir
from his post, but to keep close by, and, as best he might, bar the tower
against all comers until his return: which said, he betook him to the
house of his friend, where he breakfasted much at his ease, and
thereafter went to sleep. Left alone upon the tower, the lady, somewhat
cheered by her fond hope, but still exceeding sorrowful, drew nigh to a
part of the wall where there was a little shade, and there sate down to
wait. And now lost in most melancholy brooding, now dissolved in tears,
now plunged in despair of ever seeing the scholar return with her
clothes, but never more than a brief while in any one mood, spent with
grief and the night’s vigil, she by and by fell asleep. The sun was now in
the zenith, and smote with extreme fervour full and unmitigated upon

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her tender and delicate frame, and upon her bare head, insomuch that
his rays did not only scorch but bit by bit excoriate every part of her flesh
that was exposed to them, and so shrewdly burn her that, albeit she was
in a deep sleep, the pain awoke her. And as by reason thereof she writhed
a little, she felt the scorched skin part in sunder and shed itself, as will
happen when one tugs at a parchment that has been singed by the fire,
while her head ached so sore that it seemed like to split, and no wonder.
Nor might she find place either to lie or to stand on the floor of the roof,
but ever went to and fro, weeping. Besides which there stirred not the
least breath of wind, and flies and gadflies did swarm in prodigious
quantity, which, settling upon her excoriate flesh, stung her so shrewdly
that ‛twas as if she received so many stabs with a javelin, and she was
ever restlessly feeling her sores with her hands, and cursing herself, her
life, her lover, and the scholar.
Thus by the exorbitant heat of the sun, by the flies and gadflies,
harassed, goaded, and lacerated, tormented also by hunger, and yet
more by thirst, and, thereto by a thousand distressful thoughts, she
panted herself erect on her feet, and looked about her, if haply she
might see or hear any one, with intent, come what might, to call to him
and crave his succour. But even this hostile Fortune had disallowed her.
The husbandmen were all gone from the fields by reason of the heat,
and indeed there had come none to work that day in the neighbourhood
of the tower, for that all were employed in threshing their corn beside
their cottages: wherefore she heard but the cicalas, while Arno,
tantalizing her with the sight of his waters, increased rather than
diminished her thirst. Ay, and in like manner, wherever she espied a
copse, or a patch of shade, or a house, ‛twas a torment to her, for the
longing she had for it. What more is to be said of this hapless woman?
Only this: that what with the heat of the sun above and the floor
beneath her, and the scarification of her flesh in every part by the flies
and gadflies, that flesh, which in the night had dispelled the gloom by

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its whiteness, was now become red as madder, and so besprent with
clots of blood, that whoso had seen her would have deemed her the
most hideous object in the world.
Thus resourceless and hopeless, she passed the long hours, expecting
death rather than aught else, until half none was come and gone; when,
his siesta ended, the scholar bethought him of his lady, and being
minded to see how she fared, hied him back to the tower, and sent his
servant away to break his fast. As soon as the lady espied him, she came,
spent and crushed by her sore affliction, to the aperture, and thus
addressed him:—‟Rinieri, the cup of thy vengeance is full to
overflowing: for if I gave thee a night of freezing in my courtyard, thou
hast given me upon this tower a day of scorching, nay, of burning, and
therewithal of perishing of hunger and thirst: wherefore by God I
entreat thee to come up hither, and as my heart fails me to take my life,
take it thou, for ‛tis death I desire of all things, such and so grievous is
my suffering. But if this grace thou wilt not grant, at least bring me a cup
of water wherewith to lave my mouth, for which my tears do not suffice,
so parched and torrid is it within.” Well wist the scholar by her voice how
spent she was; he also saw a part of her body burned through and
through by the sun; whereby, and by reason of the lowliness of her
entreaties, he felt some little pity for her; but all the same he made
answer:—‟Nay, wicked woman, ‛tis not by my hands thou shalt die; thou
canst die by thine own whenever thou art so minded; and to temper thy
heat thou shalt have just as much water from me as I had fire from thee
to mitigate my cold. I only regret that for the cure of my chill the
physicians were fain to use foul-smelling muck, whereas thy burns can
be treated with fragrant rose-water; and that, whereas I was like to lose
my muscles and the use of my limbs, thou, for all thy excoriation by the
heat, wilt yet be fair again, like a snake that has sloughed off the old
skin.” ‟Alas! woe’s me!” replied the lady, ‟for charms acquired at such a
cost, God grant them to those that hate me. But thou, most fell of all

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wild beasts, how hast thou borne thus to torture me? What more had I
to expect of thee or any other, had I done all thy kith and kin to death
with direst torments? Verily, I know not what more cruel suffering thou
couldst have inflicted on a traitor that had put a whole city to the
slaughter than this which thou hast allotted to me, to be thus roasted,
and devoured of the flies, and therewithal to refuse me even a cup of
water, though the very murderers condemned to death by the law, as
they go to execution, not seldom are allowed wine to drink, so they but
ask it. Lo now, I see that thou art inexorable in thy ruthlessness, and on
no wise to be moved by my suffering: wherefore with resignation I will
compose me to await death, that God may have mercy on my soul. And
may this that thou doest escape not the searching glance of His just
eyes.” Which said, she dragged herself, sore suffering, toward the middle
of the floor, despairing of ever escaping from her fiery torment, besides
which, not once only, but a thousand times she thought to choke for
thirst, and ever she wept bitterly and bewailed her evil fate. But at length
the day wore to vespers, and the scholar, being sated with his revenge,
caused his servant to take her clothes and wrap them in his cloak, and
hied him with the servant to the hapless lady’s house, where, finding her
maid sitting disconsolate and woebegone and resourceless at the door:
—‟Good woman,” quoth he, ‟what has befallen thy mistress?” Whereto:
—‟Sir, I know not,” replied the maid. ‟I looked to find her this morning
abed, for methought she went to bed last night, but neither there nor
anywhere else could I find her, nor know I what is become of her;
wherefore exceeding great is my distress; but have you, Sir, nought to say
of the matter?” ‟Only this,” returned the scholar, ‟that I would I had had
thee with her there where I have had her, that I might have requited thee
of thy offence, even as I have requited her of hers. But be assured that
thou shalt not escape my hands, until thou hast from me such wage of
thy labour that thou shalt never flout man more, but thou shalt mind
thee of me.” Then, turning to his servant, he said:—‟Give her these

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clothes, and tell her that she may go bring her mistress away, if she will.”
The servant did his bidding; and the maid, what with the message and
her recognition of the clothes, was mightily afraid, lest they had slain the
lady, and scarce suppressing a shriek, took the clothes, and, bursting
into tears, set off, as soon as the scholar was gone, at a run for the tower.
Now one of the lady’s husbandmen had had the misfortune to lose
two of his hogs that day, and, seeking them, came to the tower not long
after the scholar had gone thence, and peering about in all quarters, if
haply he might have sight of his hogs, heard the woeful lamentation that
the hapless lady made, and got him up into the tower, and called out as
loud as he might:—‟Who wails up there?” The lady recognized her
husbandman’s voice, and called him by name, saying:—‟Prithee, go
fetch my maid, and cause her come up hither to me.” The husbandman,
knowing her by her voice, replied:—‟Alas! Madam, who set you there?
Your maid has been seeking you all day long: but who would ever have
supposed that you were there?” Whereupon he took the props of the
ladder, and set them in position, and proceeded to secure the rounds to
them with withies. Thus engaged he was found by the maid, who, as she
entered the tower, beat her face and breast, and unable longer to keep
silence, cried out:—‟Alas, sweet my lady, where are you?” Whereto the
lady made answer as loud as she might:—‟O my sister, here above am I,
weep not, but fetch me my clothes forthwith.” Well-nigh restored to
heart, to hear her mistress’s voice, the maid, assisted by the
husbandman, ascended the ladder, which he had now all but set in
order, and gaining the roof, and seeing her lady lie there naked, spent
and fordone, and liker to a half-burned stump than to a human being,
she planted her nails in her face and fell a weeping over her, as if she
were a corpse. However, the lady bade her for God’s sake be silent, and
help her to dress, and having learned from her that none knew where
she had been, save those that had brought her her clothes and the
husbandman that was there present, was somewhat consoled, and

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besought her for God’s sake to say nought of the matter to any. Thus long
time they conversed, and then the husbandman took the lady on his
shoulders, for walk she could not, and bore her safely out of the tower.
The unfortunate maid, following after with somewhat less caution,
slipped, and falling from the ladder to the ground, broke her thigh, and
roared for pain like any lion. So the husbandman set the lady down upon
a grassy mead, while he went to see what had befallen the maid, whom,
finding her thigh broken, he brought, and laid beside the lady: who,
seeing her woes completed by this last misfortune, and that she of
whom, most of all, she had expected succour, was lamed of a thigh, was
distressed beyond measure, and wept again so piteously that not only
was the husbandman powerless to comfort her, but was himself fain to
weep. However, as the sun was now low, that they might not be there
surprised by night, he, with the disconsolate lady’s approval, hied him
home, and called to his aid two of his brothers and his wife, who
returned with him, bearing a plank, whereon they laid the maid, and so
they carried her to the lady’s house. There, by dint of cold water and
words of cheer, they restored some heart to the lady, whom the
husbandman then took upon his shoulders, and bore to her chamber.
The husbandman’s wife fed her with sops of bread, and then undressed
her, and put her to bed. They also provided the means to carry her and
the maid to Florence; and so ‛twas done. There the lady, who was very
fertile in artifices, invented an entirely fictitious story of what had
happened as well in regard of her maid as of herself, whereby she
persuaded both her brothers and her sisters and every one else, that
‛twas all due to the enchantments of evil spirits. The physicians lost no
time, and, albeit the lady’s suffering and mortification were extreme, for
she left more than one skin sticking to the sheets, they cured her of a
high fever, and certain attendant maladies; as also the maid of her
fractured thigh. The end of all which was that the lady forgot her lover,
and having learned discretion, was thenceforth careful neither to love

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nor to flout; and the scholar, learning that the maid had broken her
thigh, deemed his vengeance complete, and was satisfied to say never a
word more of the affair. Such then were the consequences of her flouts
to this foolish young woman, who deemed that she might trifle with a
scholar with the like impunity as with others, not duly understanding
that they—I say not all, but the more part—know where the Devil keeps
his tail.81 Wherefore, my ladies, have a care how you flout men, and more
especially scholars.

NOVEL VIII.

— Two men keep with one another: the one lies with the
other’s wife: the other, being ware thereof, manages with the
aid of his wife to have the one locked in a chest, upon which he
then lies with the wife of him that is locked therein. —
Grievous and distressful was it to the ladies to hear how it fared with
Elena; but as they accounted the retribution in a measure righteous,
they were satisfied to expend upon her but a moderate degree of
compassion, albeit they censured the scholar as severe, intemperately
relentless, and indeed ruthless, in his vengeance. However, Pampinea
having brought the story to a close, the queen bade Fiammetta follow
suit; and prompt to obey, Fiammetta thus spoke:—Debonair my ladies,
as, methinks, your feelings must have been somewhat harrowed by the
severity of the resentful scholar, I deem it meet to soothe your vexed
spirits with something of a more cheerful order. Wherefore I am minded
to tell you a little story of a young man who bore an affront in a milder
temper, and avenged himself with more moderation. Whereby you may
understand that one should be satisfied if the ass and the wall are quits,
nor by indulging a vindictive spirit to excess turn the requital of a wrong

81 I.e. are a match for the Devil himself in cunning.

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into an occasion of wrong-doing. You are to know, then, that at Siena, as

I have heard tell, there dwelt two young men of good substance, and, for
plebeians, of good family, the one Spinelloccio Tanena, the other Zeppa
di Mino, by name; who, their houses being contiguous in the Camollia, 82
kept ever together, and, by what appeared, loved each other as brothers,
or even more so, and had each a very fine woman to wife. Now it so befell
that Spinelloccio, being much in Zeppa’s house, as well when Zeppa was
not, as when he was there, grew so familiar with Zeppa’s wife, that he
sometimes lay with her; and on this wise they continued to forgather a
great while before any one was ware of it. However, one of these days
Zeppa being at home, though the lady wist it not, Spinelloccio came in
quest of him; and, the lady sending word that he was not at home, he
forthwith went upstairs and found the lady in the saloon, and seeing
none else there, kissed her, as did she him.
Zeppa saw all that passed, but said nothing and kept close, being
minded to see how the game would end, and soon saw his wife and
Spinelloccio, still in one another’s arms, hie them to her chamber and
lock themselves in: whereat he was mightily incensed. But, witting that
to make a noise, or do aught else overt, would not lessen but rather
increase his dishonour, he cast about how he might be avenged on such
wise that, without the affair getting wind, he might content his soul; and
having, after long pondering, hit, as he thought, upon the expedient, he
budged not from his retreat, until Spinelloccio had parted from the lady.
Whereupon he hied him into the chamber, and there finding the lady
with her head-gear, which Spinelloccio in toying with her had
disarranged, scarce yet readjusted:—‟Madam, what dost thou?” quoth
he. Whereto:—‟Why, dost not see?” returned the lady. ‟Troth do I,”
rejoined he, ‟and somewhat else have I seen that I would I had not.” And
so he questioned her of what had passed, and she, being mightily afraid,
did after long parley confess that which she might not plausibly deny, to
82 A suburb of Siena.

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wit, her intimacy with Spinelloccio, and fell a beseeching him with tears
to pardon her. ‟Lo, now, wife,” quoth Zeppa, ‟thou hast done wrong, and,
so thou wouldst have me pardon thee, have a care to do exactly as I shall
bid thee; to wit, on this wise: thou must tell Spinelloccio, to find some
occasion to part from me to-morrow morning about tierce, and come
hither to thee; and while he is here I will come back, and when thou
hearest me coming, thou wilt get him into this chest, and lock him in
there; which when thou hast done, I will tell thee what else thou hast to
do, which thou mayst do without the least misgiving, for I promise thee I
will do him no harm.” The lady, to content him, promised to do as he
bade, and she kept her word.
The morrow came, and Zeppa and Spinelloccio being together about
tierce, Spinelloccio, having promised the lady to come to see her at that
hour, said to Zeppa:—‟I must go breakfast with a friend, whom I had lief
not keep in waiting; therefore, adieu!” ‟Nay, but,” quoth Zeppa, ”‛tis not
yet breakfast-time.” ‟No matter,” returned Spinelloccio, ‟I have business
on which I must speak with him; so I must be in good time.” Whereupon
Spinelloccio took his leave of Zeppa, and having reached Zeppa’s house
by a slightly circuitous route, and finding his wife there, was taken by
her into the chamber, where they had not been long together when
Zeppa returned. Hearing him come, the lady, feigning no small alarm,
bundled Spinelloccio into the chest, as her husband had bidden her, and
having locked him in, left him there. As Zeppa came upstairs:— ‟Wife,”
quoth he, ‟is it breakfast time?” ‟Ay, husband, ‛tis so,” replied the lady.
Whereupon:—‟Spinelloccio is gone to breakfast with a friend to-day,”
quoth Zeppa, ‟leaving his wife at home: get thee to the window, and call
her, and bid her come and breakfast with us.” The lady, whose fear for
herself made her mighty obedient, did as her husband bade her; and
after much pressing Spinelloccio’s wife came to breakfast with them,
though she was given to understand that her husband would not be of
the company. So, she being come, Zeppa received her most

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affectionately, and taking her familiarly by the hand, bade his wife, in an
undertone, get her to the kitchen; he then led Spinelloccio’s wife into the
chamber, and locked the door. Hearing the key turn in the lock:—‟Alas!”
quoth the lady, ‟what means this, Zeppa? Is’t for this you have brought
me here? Is this the love you bear Spinelloccio? Is this your loyalty to
him as your friend and comrade?” By the time she had done speaking,
Zeppa, still keeping fast hold of her, was beside the chest, in which her
husband was locked. Wherefore:—‟Madam,” quoth he, ‟spare me thy
reproaches, until thou hast heard what I have to say to thee. I have
loved, I yet love, Spinelloccio as a brother; and yesterday, though he
knew it not, I discovered that the trust I reposed in him has for its
guerdon that he lies with my wife, as with thee. Now, for that I love him,
I purpose not to be avenged upon him save in the sort in which he
offended. He has had my wife, and I intend to have thee. So thou wilt
not grant me what I crave of thee, be sure I shall not fail to take it; and
having no mind to let this affront pass unavenged, will make such play
with him that neither thou nor he shall ever be happy again.” The lady
hearkening, and by dint of his repeated asseverations coming at length
to believe him:—‟Zeppa mine,” quoth she, ‟as this thy vengeance is to
light upon me, well content am I; so only thou let not this which we are
to do embroil me with thy wife, with whom, notwithstanding the evil
turn she has done me, I am minded to remain at peace.” ‟Have no fear on
that score,” replied Zeppa; ‟nay, I will give thee into the bargain a jewel
so rare and fair that thou hast not the like.” Which said, he took her in
his arms and fell a kissing her, and having laid her on the chest, in which
her husband was safe under lock and key, did there disport himself with
her to his heart’s content, as she with him.
Spinelloccio in the chest heard all that Zeppa had said, and how he
was answered by the lady, and the Trevisan dance that afterwards went
on over his head; whereat his mortification was such that for a great
while he scarce hoped to live through it; and, but for the fear he had of

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

NOVEL IX.

— Bruno and Buffalmacco prevail upon Master Simone, a

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

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When the ladies had made merry a while over the partnership in wives
established by the two Sienese, the queen, who now, unless she were
minded to infringe Dioneo’s privilege, alone remained to tell, began on
this wise:—Fairly earned indeed, loving ladies, was the flout that
Spinelloccio got from Zeppa. Wherefore my judgment jumps with that
which Pampinea expressed a while ago, to wit, that he is not severely to
be censured who bestows a flout on one that provokes it or deserves it;
and as Spinelloccio deserved it, so ‛tis my purpose to tell you of one that
provoked it, for I deem that those from whom he received it, were rather
to be commended than condemned. The man that got it was a physician,
who, albeit he was but a blockhead, returned from Bologna to Florence
in mantle and hood of vair.
‛Tis matter of daily experience that our citizens come back to us from
Bologna, this man a judge, that a physician, and the other a notary,
flaunting it in ample flowing robes, and adorned with the scarlet and
the vair and other array most goodly to see; and how far their doings
correspond with this fair seeming, is also matter of daily experience.
Among whom ‛tis not long since Master Simone da Villa, one whose
patrimony was more ample than his knowledge, came back wearing the
scarlet and a broad stripe83 on the shoulder, and a doctor, as he called
himself, and took a house in the street that we now call Via del
Cocomero. Now this Master Simone, being thus, as we said, come back,
had this among other singular habits, that he could never see a soul pass
along the street, but he must needs ask any that was by, who that man
was; and he was as observant of all the doings of men, and as sedulous to
store his memory with such matters, as if they were to serve him to
compound the drugs that he was to give his patients. Now, of all that he
saw, those that he eyed most observantly were two painters, of whom
here to-day mention has twice been made, Bruno, to wit, and
Buffalmacco, who were ever together, and were his neighbours. And as it
83 The distinguishing mark of a doctor in those days. Fanfani, Vocab. della Lingua Italiana, 1891, ‟Batolo.”

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struck him that they daffed the world aside and lived more
lightheartedly than any others that he knew, as indeed they did, he
enquired of not a few folk as to their rank. And learning on all hands
that they were poor men and painters, he could not conceive it possible
that they should live thus contentedly in poverty, but made his mind up
that, being, as he was informed, clever fellows, they must have some
secret source from which they drew immense gains; for which reason he
grew all agog to get on friendly terms with them, or any rate with one of
them, and did succeed in making friends with Bruno.
Bruno, who had not needed to be much with him in order to discover
that this physician was but a dolt, had never such a jolly time in palming
off his strange stories upon him, while the physician, on his part, was
marvellously delighted with Bruno; to whom, having bidden him to
breakfast, and thinking that for that reason he might talk familiarly with
him, he expressed the amazement with which he regarded both him and
Buffalmacco, for that, being but poor men, they lived so lightheartedly,
and asked him to tell him how they managed. At which fresh proof of
the doctor’s simplicity and fatuity Bruno was inclined to laugh; but,
bethinking him that ‛twere best to answer him according to his folly, he
said:—‟Master, there are not many persons to whom I would disclose
our manner of life, but, as you are my friend, and I know you will not let
it go further, I do not mind telling you. The fact is that my comrade and I
live not only as lightheartedly and jovially as you see, but much more so;
and yet neither our art, nor any property that we possess, yields us
enough to keep us in water: not that I would have you suppose that we
go a thieving: no, ‛tis that we go the course, and thereby without the
least harm done to a soul we get all that we need, nay, all that we desire;
and thus it is that we live so lightheartedly as you see.” Which
explanation the doctor believing none the less readily that he knew not
what it meant, was lost in wonder, and forthwith burned with a most
vehement desire to know what going the course might be, and was

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instant with Bruno to expound it, assuring him that he would never tell
a soul. ‟Alas! Master,” said Bruno, ‟what is this you ask of me? ‛Tis a
mighty great secret you would have me impart to you: ‛twould be enough
to undo me, to send me packing out of the world, nay, into the very jaws
of Lucifer of San Gallo,84 if it came to be known. But such is the respect
in which I hold your quiditative pumpionship of Legnaia, and the trust I
repose in you, that I am not able to deny you aught you ask of me; and so
I will tell it you, on condition that you swear by the cross at Montesone
that you will keep your promise, and never repeat it to a soul.”
The Master gave the required assurance. Whereupon:—‟You are then
to know,” quoth Bruno, ‟sweet my Master, that ‛tis not long since there
was in this city a great master in necromancy, hight Michael Scott, for
that he was of Scotland, and great indeed was the honour in which he
was held by not a few gentlemen, most of whom are now dead; and
when the time came that he must needs depart from Florence, he at
their instant entreaty left behind him two pupils, adepts both, whom he
bade hold themselves ever ready to pleasure those gentlemen who had
done him honour. And very handsomely they did serve the said
gentlemen in certain of their love affairs and other little matters; and
finding the city and the manners of the citizens agreeable to them, they
made up their minds to stay here always, and grew friendly and very
intimate with some of the citizens, making no distinction between
gentle and simple, rich or poor, so only they were such as were
conformable to their ways. And to gratify these their friends they formed
a company of perhaps twenty-five men, to meet together at least twice a
month in a place appointed by them; where, when they are met, each
utters his desire, and forthwith that same night they accomplish it. Now
Buffalmacco and I, being extraordinarily great and close friends with
these two adepts, were by them enrolled in this company, and are still
members of it. And I assure you that, as often as we are assembled
84 Perhaps an allusion to some frightful picture.

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together, the adornments of the saloon in which we eat are a marvel to

see, ay, and the tables laid as for kings, and the multitudes of stately and
handsome servants, as well women as men, at the beck and call of every
member of the company, and the basins, and the ewers, the flasks and
the cups, and all else that is there for our service in eating and drinking,
of nought but gold and silver, and therewithal the abundance and
variety of the viands, suited to the taste of each, that are set before us,
each in due course, these too be marvels. ‛Twere vain for me to seek to
describe to you the sweet concord that is there of innumerable
instruments of music, and the tuneful songs that salute our ears; nor
might I hope to tell you how much wax is burned at these banquets, or
compute the quantity of the comfits that are eaten, or the value of the
wines that are drunk. Nor, my pumpkin o’ wit, would I have you suppose
that, when we are there, we wear our common clothes, such as you now
see me wear; nay, there is none there so humble but he shews as an
emperor, so sumptuous are our garments, so splendid our trappings. But
among all the delights of the place none may compare with the fair
ladies, who, so one do but wish, are brought thither from every part of
the world. Why, you might see there My Lady of the Barbanichs, the
Queen of the Basques, the Consort of the Soldan, the Empress of
Osbech, the Ciancianfera of Nornieca, the Semistante of Berlinzone, and
the Scalpedra of Narsia. But why seek to enumerate them all? They
include all the queens in the world, ay, even to the Schinchimurra of
Prester John, who has the horns sprouting out of her nether end: so
there’s for you. Now when these ladies have done with the wine and the
comfits, they tread a measure or two, each with the man at whose behest
she is come, and then all go with their gallants to their chambers. And
know that each of these chambers shews as a very Paradise, so fair is it,
ay, and no less fragrant than the cases of aromatics in your shop when
you are pounding the cumin: and therein are beds that you would find
more goodly than that of the Doge of Venice, and ‛tis in them we take

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our rest; and how busily they ply the treadle, and how lustily they tug at
the frame to make the stuff close and compact, I leave you to imagine.
However, among the luckiest of all I reckon Buffalmacco and myself; for
that Buffalmacco for the most part fetches him the Queen of France, and
I do the like with the Queen of England, who are just the finest women
in the world, and we have known how to carry it with them so that we
are the very eyes of their heads. So I leave it to your own judgment to
determine whether we have not good cause to live and bear ourselves
with a lighter heart than others, seeing that we are beloved of two such
great queens, to say nothing of the thousand or two thousand florins
that we have of them whenever we are so minded. Now this in the vulgar
we call going the course, because, as the corsairs prey upon all the world,
so do we; albeit with this difference, that, whereas they never restore
their spoil, we do so as soon as we have done with it. So now, my worthy
Master, you understand what we mean by going the course; but how
close it behoves you to keep such a secret, you may see for yourself; so I
spare you any further exhortations.”
The Master, whose skill did not reach, perhaps, beyond the treatment
of children for the scurf, took all that Bruno said for gospel, and burned
with so vehement a desire to be admitted into this company, that he
could not have longed for the summum bonum itself with more ardour.
So, after telling Bruno that indeed ‛twas no wonder they bore them
lightheartedly, he could scarce refrain from asking him there and then to
have him enrolled, albeit he deemed it more prudent to defer his suit,
until by lavishing honour upon him he had gained a right to urge it with
more confidence. He therefore made more and more of him, had him to
breakfast and sup with him, and treated him with extraordinary respect.
In short, such and so constant was their intercourse that it seemed as
though the Master wist not how to live without Bruno. As it went so well
with him, Bruno, to mark his sense of the honour done him by the
doctor, painted in his saloon a picture symbolical of Lent, and an Agnus

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Dei at the entrance of his chamber, and an alembic over his front door,
that those who would fain consult him might know him from other
physicians, besides a battle of rats and mice in his little gallery, which
the doctor thought an extremely fine piece. And from time to time,
when he had not supped with the Master, he would say to him:—‟Last
night I was with the company, and being a little tired of the Queen of
England, I fetched me the Gumedra of the great Can of Tarisi.”
‟Gumedra,” quoth the Master; ‟what is she? I know not the meaning of
these words.” ‟Thereat, Master,” replied Bruno, ‟I marvel not; for I have
heard tell that neither Porcograsso nor Vannacena say aught thereof.”
‟Thou wouldst say Ippocrasso and Avicenna,” returned the Master.
‟I’faith I know not,” quoth Bruno. ‟I as ill know the meaning of your
words as you of mine. But Gumedra in the speech of the great Can
signifies the same as Empress in ours. Ah! a fine woman you would find
her, and plenty of her! I warrant she would make you forget your drugs
and prescriptions and plasters.” And so, Bruno from time to time
whetting the Master’s appetite, and the Master at length thinking that
by his honourable entreatment of him he had fairly made a conquest of
Bruno, it befell that one evening, while he held the light for Bruno, who
was at work on the battle of rats and mice, he determined to discover to
him his desire; and as they were alone, thus he spoke:—‟God knows,
Bruno, that there lives not the man, for whom I would do as much as for
thee: why, if thou wast to bid me go all the way from here to Peretola,85 I
almost think I would do so; wherefore I trust thou wilt not deem it
strange if I talk to thee as an intimate friend and in confidence. Thou
knowest ‛tis not long since thou didst enlarge with me on thy gay
company and their doings, which has engendered in me such a desire as
never was to know more thereof. Nor without reason, as thou wilt
discover, should I ever become a member of the said company, for I
straightway give thee leave to make game of me, should I not then fetch
85 About four miles from Florence.

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me the fairest maid thou hast seen this many a day, whom I saw last year
at Cacavincigli, and to whom I am entirely devoted; and by the body of
Christ I offered her ten Bolognese groats, that she should pleasure me,
and she would not. Wherefore I do most earnestly entreat thee to
instruct me what I must do to fit myself for membership in the
company; and never doubt that in me you will have a true and loyal
comrade, and one that will do you honour. And above all thou seest how
goodly I am of my person, and how well furnished with legs, and of face
as fresh as a rose; and therewithal I am a doctor of medicine, and I scarce
think you have any such among you; and not a little excellent lore I have,
and many a good song by heart, of which I will sing thee one;” and
forthwith he fell a singing.
Bruno had such a mind to laugh, that he could scarce contain
himself; but still he kept a grave countenance; and, when the Master had
ended his song, and said:—‟How likes it thee?” he answered:— ‟Verily,
no lyre of straw could vie with you, so artargutically86 you refine your
strain.” ‟I warrant thee,” returned the Master, ‟thou hadst never believed
it, hadst thou not heard me.” ‟Ay, indeed, sooth sayst thou,” quoth
Bruno. ‟And I have other songs to boot,” said the Master; ‟but enough of
this at present. Thou must know that I, such as thou seest me, am a
gentleman’s son, albeit my father lived in the contado; and on my
mother’s side I come of the Vallecchio family. And as thou mayst have
observed I have quite the finest library and wardrobe of all the
physicians in Florence. God’s faith! I have a robe that cost, all told, close
upon a hundred pounds in bagattines87 more than ten years ago.
Wherefore I make most instant suit to thee that thou get me enrolled,
which if thou do, God’s faith! be thou never so ill, thou shalt pay me not
a stiver for my tendance of thee.” Whereupon Bruno, repeating to
himself, as he had done many a time before, that the doctor was a very

86 In the Italian ‟artagoticamente,” a word of Boccaccio’s own minting.

87 A Venetian coin of extremely low value, being reckoned as 1/4 of the Florentine quattrino.

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numskull:—‟Master,” quoth he, ‟shew a little more light here, and have
patience until I have put the finishing touches to the tails of these rats,
and then I will answer you.” So he finished the tails, and then, putting on
an air as if he were not a little embarrassed by the request:— ‟Master
mine,” quoth he, ‟I should have great things to expect from you; that I
know: but yet what you ask of me, albeit to your great mind it seems but
a little thing, is a weighty matter indeed for me; nor know I a soul in the
world, to whom, though well able, I would grant such a request, save to
you alone: and this I say not for friendship’s sake alone, albeit I love you
as I ought, but for that your discourse is so fraught with wisdom, that ‛tis
enough to make a beguine start out of her boots, much more, then, to
incline me to change my purpose; and the more I have of your company,
the wiser I repute you. Whereto I may add, that, if for no other cause, I
should still be well disposed towards you for the love I see you bear to
that fair piece of flesh of which you spoke but now. But this I must tell
you: ‛tis not in my power to do as you would have me in this matter; but,
though I cannot myself do the needful in your behalf, if you will pledge
your faith, whole and solid as may be, to keep my secret, I will shew you
how to go about it for yourself, and I make no doubt that, having this
fine library and the other matters you spoke of a while ago, you will
compass your end.” Quoth then the Master:—‟Nay, but speak freely; I
see thou dost yet scarce know me, and how well I can keep a secret.
There were few things that Messer Guasparruolo da Saliceto did, when
he was Podesta of Forlinpopoli, that he did not confide to me, so safe he
knew they would be in my keeping: and wouldst thou be satisfied that I
say sooth? I assure you I was the first man whom he told that he was
about to marry Bergamina: so there’s for thee.” ‟Well and good,” said
Bruno, ‟if such as he confided in you, well indeed may I do the like.
Know, then, that you will have to proceed on this wise:—Our company is
governed by a captain and a council of two, who are changed every six
months: and on the calends without fail Buffalmacco will be captain,

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and I councillor: ‛tis so fixed: and the captain has not a little power to
promote the admission and enrolment of whomsoever he will:
wherefore, methinks, you would do well to make friends with
Buffalmacco and honourably entreat him: he is one that, marking your
great wisdom, will take a mighty liking to you forthwith; and when you
have just a little dazzled him with your wisdom and these fine things of
yours, you may make your request to him; and he will not know how to
say no—I have already talked with him of you, and he is as well disposed
to you as may be—and having so done you will leave the rest to me.”
Whereupon:—‟Thy words are to me for an exceeding great joy,” quoth
the Master: ‟and if he be one that loves to converse with sages, he has
but to exchange a word or two with me, and I will answer for it that he
will be ever coming to see me; for so fraught with wisdom am I, that I
could furnish a whole city therewith, and still remain a great sage.”
Having thus set matters in train, Bruno related the whole affair, point
by point, to Buffalmacco, to whom it seemed a thousand years till he
should be able to give Master Noodle that of which he was in quest. The
doctor, now all agog to go the course, lost no time, and found no
difficulty, in making friends with Buffalmacco, and fell to entertaining
him, and Bruno likewise, at breakfast and supper in most magnificent
style; while they fooled him to the top of his bent; for, being gentlemen
that appreciated excellent wines and fat capons, besides other good
cheer in plenty, they were inclined to be very neighbourly, and needed
no second bidding, but, always letting him understand that there was
none other whose company they relished so much, kept ever with him.
However, in due time the Master asked of Buffalmacco that which he
had before asked of Bruno. Whereat Buffalmacco feigned to be not a
little agitated, and turning angrily to Bruno, made a great pother about
his ears, saying:—‟By the Most High God of Pasignano I vow I can scarce
forbear to give thee that over the head that should make thy nose fall
about thy heels, traitor that thou art, for ‛tis thou alone that canst have

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discovered these secrets to the Master.” Whereupon the Master

interposed with no little vigour, averring with oaths that ‛twas from
another source that he had gotten his knowledge; and Buffalmacco at
length allowed himself to be pacified by the sage’s words. So turning to
him:—‟Master,” quoth he, ”‛tis evident indeed that you have been at
Bologna, and have come back hither with a mouth that blabs not, and
that ‛twas on no pippin, as many a dolt does, but on the good long
pumpkin that you learned your A B C; and, if I mistake not, you were
baptized on a Sunday;88 and though Bruno has told me that ‛twas
medicine you studied there, ‛tis my opinion that you there studied the
art of catching men, of which, what with your wisdom and your startling
revelations, you are the greatest master that ever I knew.” He would have
said more, but the doctor, turning to Bruno, broke in with:—‟Ah! what it
is to consort and converse with the wise! Who but this worthy man
would thus have read my mind through and through? Less quick by far
to rate me at my true worth wast thou. But what said I when thou toldst
me that Buffalmacco delighted to converse with sages? Confess now;
have I not kept my word?” ‟Verily,” quoth Bruno, ‟you have more than
kept it.” Then, addressing Buffalmacco:—‟Ah!” cried the Master, ‟what
hadst thou said, hadst thou seen me at Bologna, where there was none,
great or small, doctor or scholar, but was devoted to me, so well wist I
how to entertain them with my words of wisdom. Nay more; let me tell
thee that there was never a word I spoke but set every one a laughing, so
great was the pleasure it gave them. And at my departure they all
deplored it most bitterly, and would have had me remain, and by way of
inducement went so far as to propose that I should be sole lecturer to all
the students in medicine that were there; which offer I declined, for that
I was minded to return hither, having vast estates here, that have ever
belonged to my family; which, accordingly, I did.” Quoth then Bruno to
Buffalmacco:—‟How shews it, now, man? Thou didst not believe me
88 I.e. without salt, that Florentine symbol of wit, not being so readily procurable on a holiday as on working-days.

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when I told thee what he was. By the Gospels there is never a physician
in this city that has the lore of ass’s urine by heart as he has: verily, thou
wouldst not find his like between here and the gates of Paris. Now see if
thou canst help doing as he would have thee.” ” ‛Tis even as Bruno says,”
observed the doctor, ‟but I am not understood here. You Florentines are
somewhat slow of wit. Would you could see me in my proper element,
among a company of doctors!” Whereupon:—‟Of a truth, Master,” quoth
Buffalmacco, ‟your lore far exceeds any I should ever have imputed to
you; wherefore, addressing you as ‛tis meet to address a man of your
wisdom, I give you disjointedly to understand that without fail I will
procure your enrolment in our company.”
After this promise the honours lavished by the doctor upon the two
men grew and multiplied; in return for which they diverted themselves
by setting him a prancing upon every wildest chimera in the world; and
promised, among other matters, to give him by way of mistress, the
Countess of Civillari,89 whom they averred to be the goodliest creature to
be found in all the Netherlands of the human race; and the doctor
asking who this Countess might be:—‟Mature my gherkin,” quoth
Buffalmacco, ‟she is indeed a very great lady, and few houses are there in
the world in which she has not some jurisdiction; nay, the very Friars
Minors, to say nought of other folk, pay her tribute to the sound of the
kettle-drum. And I may tell you that, when she goes abroad, she makes
her presence very sensibly felt, albeit for the most part she keeps herself
close: however, ‛tis no great while since she passed by your door one
night on her way to the Arno to bathe her feet and get a breath of air; but
most of her time she abides at Laterina.90 Serjeants has she not a few
that go their rounds at short intervals, bearing, one and all, the rod and
the bucket in token of her sovereignty, and barons in plenty in all parts,

89 A public sink at Florence.

90 In the contado of Arezzo: the equivoque is tolerably obvious.

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as Tamagnino della Porta,91 Don Meta,92 Manico di Scopa,93 Squacchera,94

and others, with whom I doubt not you are intimately acquainted,
though you may not just now bear them in mind. Such, then, is the great
lady, in whose soft arms we, if we delude not ourselves, will certainly
place you, in which case you may well dispense with her of Cacavincigli.”
The doctor, who had been born and bred at Bologna, and understood
not their words, found the lady quite to his mind; and shortly afterwards
the painters brought him tidings of his election into the company. Then
came the day of the nocturnal gathering, and the doctor had the two
men to breakfast; and when they had breakfasted, he asked them after
what manner he was to join the company. Whereupon:— ‟Lo, now,
Master,” quoth Buffalmacco, ‟you have need of a stout heart; otherwise
you may meet with some let, to our most grievous hurt; and for what
cause you have need of this stout heart, you shall hear. You must
contrive to be to-night about the hour of first sleep on one of the raised
tombs that have been lately placed outside of Santa Maria Novella; and
mind that you wear one of your best gowns, that your first appearance
may impress the company with a proper sense of your dignity, and also
because, as we are informed, for we were not present at the time, the
Countess, by reason that you are a gentleman, is minded to make you a
Knight of the Bath at her own charges. So you will wait there, until one,
whom we shall send, come for you: who, that you may know exactly what
you have to expect, will be a beast black and horned, of no great size;
and he will go snorting and bounding amain about the piazza in front of
you, with intent to terrify you; but, when he perceives that you are not
afraid, he will draw nigh you quietly, and when he is close by you, then
get you down from the tomb, fearing nothing; and, minding you neither
of God nor of the saints, mount him, and when you are well set on his
91 Slang for an ill-kept jakes.
92 Also slang: signifying a pyramidal pile of ordure.
93 Broom-handle.
94 The meaning of this term may perhaps be divined from the sound.

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back, then fold your arms upon your breast, as in submission, and touch
him no more. Then, going gently, he will bear you to us; but once mind
you of God, or the saints, or give way to fear, and I warn you, he might
give you a fall, or dash you against something that you would find scarce
pleasant; wherefore, if your heart misgives you, you were best not to
come, for you would assuredly do yourself a mischief, and us no good at
all.” Quoth then the doctor:—‟You know me not as yet; ‛tis perchance
because I wear the gloves and the long robe that you misdoubt me. Ah!
did you but know what feats I have done in times past at Bologna, when
I used to go after the women with my comrades, you would be lost in
amazement. God’s faith! on one of those nights there was one of them, a
poor sickly creature she was too, and stood not a cubit in height, who
would not come with us; so first I treated her to many a good cuff, and
then I took her up by main force, and carried her well-nigh as far as a
cross-bow will send a bolt, and so caused her, willy-nilly, come with us.
And on another occasion I mind me that, having none other with me
but my servant, a little after the hour of Ave Maria, I passed beside the
cemetery of the Friars Minors, and, though that very day a woman had
been there interred, I had no fear at all. So on this score you may make
your minds easy; for indeed I am a man of exceeding great courage and
prowess. And to appear before you with due dignity, I will don my scarlet
gown, in which I took my doctor’s degree, and it remains to be seen if
the company will not give me a hearty welcome, and make me captain
out of hand. Let me once be there, and you will see how things will go;
else how is it that this countess, that has not yet seen me, is already so
enamoured of me that she is minded to make me a Knight of the Bath?
And whether I shall find knighthood agreeable, or know how to support
the dignity well or ill, leave that to me.” Whereupon:— ‟Well said,
excellent well said,” quoth Buffalmacco: ‟but look to it you disappoint us
not, either by not coming or by not being found, when we send for you;
and this I say, because ‛tis cold weather, and you medical gentlemen take

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great care of your health.” ‟God forbid,” replied the doctor, ‟I am none of
your chilly folk; I fear not the cold: ‛tis seldom indeed, when I leave my
bed a nights, to answer the call of nature, as one must at times, that I do
more than throw a pelisse over my doublet; so rest assured that I shall be
there.”
So they parted; and towards nightfall the Master found a pretext for
leaving his wife, and privily got out his fine gown, which in due time he
donned, and so hied him to the tombs, and having perched himself on
one of them, huddled himself together, for ‛twas mighty cold, to await
the coming of the beast. Meanwhile Buffalmacco, who was a tall man
and strong, provided himself with one of those dominos that were wont
to be worn in certain revels which are now gone out of fashion; and
enveloped in a black pelisse turned inside out, shewed like a bear, save
that the domino had the face of a devil, and was furnished with horns: in
which guise, Bruno following close behind to see the sport, he hied him
to the piazza of Santa Maria Novella. And no sooner wist he that the
Master was on the tomb, than he fell a careering in a most wild and
furious manner to and fro the piazza, and snorting and bellowing and
gibbering like one demented, insomuch that, as soon as the Master was
ware of him, each several hair on his head stood on end, and he fell a
trembling in every limb, being in sooth more timid than a woman, and
wished himself safe at home: but as there he was, he strove might and
main to keep his spirits up, so overmastering was his desire to see the
marvels of which Bruno and Buffalmacco had told him. However, after a
while Buffalmacco allowed his fury to abate, and came quietly up to the
tomb on which the Master was, and stood still. The Master, still all of a
tremble with fear, could not at first make up his mind, whether to get on
the beast’s back, or no; but at length, doubting it might be the worse for
him if he did not mount the beast, he overcame the one dread by the aid
of the other, got down from the tomb, saying under his breath:—‟God
help me!” and seated himself very comfortably on the beast’s back; and

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then, still quaking in every limb, he folded his arms as he had been
bidden.
Buffalmacco now started, going on all-fours, at a very slow pace, in
the direction of Santa Maria della Scala, and so brought the Master
within a short distance of the Convent of the Ladies of Ripoli. Now, in
that quarter there were divers trenches, into which the husbandmen of
those parts were wont to discharge the Countess of Civillari, that she
might afterwards serve them to manure their land. Of one of which
trenches, as he came by, Buffalmacco skirted the edge, and seizing his
opportunity, raised a hand, and caught the doctor by one of his feet, and
threw him off his back and headforemost right into the trench, and
then, making a terrific noise and frantic gestures as before, went
bounding off by Santa Maria della Scala towards the field of Ognissanti,
where he found Bruno, who had betaken him thither that he might
laugh at his ease; and there the two men in high glee took their stand to
observe from a distance how the bemired doctor would behave. Finding
himself in so loathsome a place, the Master struggled might and main to
raise himself and get out; and though again and again he slipped back,
and swallowed some drams of the ordure, yet, bemired from head to
foot, woebegone and crestfallen, he did at last get out, leaving his hood
behind him. Then, removing as much of the filth as he might with his
hands, knowing not what else to do, he got him home, where, by dint of
much knocking, he at last gained admittance; and scarce was the door
closed behind the malodorous Master, when Bruno and Buffalmacco
were at it, all agog to hear after what manner he would be received by his
wife. They were rewarded by hearing her give him the soundest rating
that ever bad husband got. ‟Ah!” quoth she, ‟fine doings, these! Thou
hast been with some other woman, and wast minded to make a brave
shew in thy scarlet gown. So I was not enough for thee! not enough for
thee forsooth, I that might content a crowd! Would they had choked
thee with the filth in which they have soused thee; ‛twas thy fit resting-

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place. Now, to think that a physician of repute, and a married man,

should go by night after strange women!” Thus, and with much more to
the like effect, while the doctor was busy washing himself, she ceased
not to torment him until midnight.
On the morrow, Bruno and Buffalmacco, having painted their bodies
all over with livid patches to give them the appearance of having been
thrashed, came to the doctor’s house, and finding that he was already
risen, went in, being saluted on all hands by a foul smell, for time had
not yet served thoroughly to cleanse the house. The doctor, being
informed that they were come to see him, advanced to meet them, and
bade them good morning. Whereto Bruno and Buffalmacco, having
prepared their answer, replied:—‟No good morning shall you have from
us: rather we pray God to give you bad years enough to make an end of
you, seeing that there lives no more arrant and faithless traitor. ‛Tis no
fault of yours, if we, that did our best to honour and pleasure you, have
not come by a dog’s death; your faithlessness has cost us to-night as
many sound blows as would more than suffice to keep an ass a trotting
all the way from here to Rome; besides which, we have been in peril of
expulsion from the company in which we arranged for your enrolment. If
you doubt our words, look but at our bodies, what a state they are in.”
And so, baring their breasts they gave him a glimpse of the patches they
had painted there, and forthwith covered them up again. The doctor
would have made them his excuses, and recounted his misfortunes, and
how he had been thrown into the trench. But Buffalmacco broke in with:
—‟Would he had thrown you from the bridge into the Arno! Why must
you needs mind you of God and the saints? Did we not forewarn you?”
‟God’s faith,” returned the doctor, ‟that did I not.” ‟How?” quoth
Buffalmacco, ‟you did not? You do so above a little; for he that we sent
for you told us that you trembled like an aspen, and knew not where you
were. You have played us a sorry trick; but never another shall do so; and
as for you, we will give you such requital thereof as you deserve.” The

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doctor now began to crave their pardon, and to implore them for God’s
sake not to expose him to shame, and used all the eloquence at his
command to make his peace with them. And if he had honourably
entreated them before, he thenceforth, for fear they should publish his
disgrace, did so much more abundantly, and courted them both by
entertaining them at his table and in other ways. And so you have heard
how wisdom is imparted to those that get it not at Bologna.

NOVEL X.

— A Sicilian woman cunningly conveys from a merchant that

which he has brought to Palermo; he, making a shew of being
come back thither with far greater store of goods than before,
borrows money of her, and leaves her in lieu thereof water and
tow. —
How much in divers passages the queen’s story moved the ladies to
laughter, it boots not to ask: none was there in whose eyes the tears
stood not full a dozen times for excess of merriment. However, it being
ended, and Dioneo witting that ‛twas now his turn, thus spake he:—
Gracious ladies, ‛tis patent to all that wiles are diverting in the degree of
the wiliness of him that is by them beguiled. Wherefore, albeit stories
most goodly have been told by you all, I purpose to relate one which
should afford you more pleasure than any that has been told, seeing that
she that was beguiled was far more cunning in beguiling others than any
of the beguiled of whom you have spoken.
There was, and perhaps still is, a custom in all maritime countries
that have ports, that all merchants arriving there with merchandise,
should, on discharging, bring all their goods into a warehouse, called in
many places ‟dogana,” and maintained by the state, or the lord of the
land; where those that are assigned to that office allot to each merchant,

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on receipt of an invoice of all his goods and the value thereof, a room in
which he stores his goods under lock and key; whereupon the said
officers of the dogana enter all the merchant’s goods to his credit in the
book of the dogana, and afterwards make him pay duty thereon, or on
such part as he withdraws from the warehouse. By which book of the
dogana the brokers not seldom find out the sorts and quantities of the
merchandise that is there, and also who are the owners thereof, with
whom, as occasion serves, they afterwards treat of exchanges, barters,
sales and other modes of disposing of the goods. Which custom
obtained, as in many other places, so also at Palermo in Sicily, where in
like manner there were and are not a few women, fair as fair can be, but
foes to virtue, who by whoso knows them not would be reputed great
and most virtuous ladies. And being given not merely to fleece but
utterly to flay men, they no sooner espy a foreign merchant in the city,
than they find out from the book of the dogana how much he has there
and what he is good for; and then by caressing and amorous looks and
gestures, and words of honeyed sweetness, they strive to entice and
allure the merchant to their love, and not seldom have they succeeded,
and wrested from him great part or the whole of his merchandise; and of
some they have gotten goods and ship and flesh and bones, so
delightsomely have they known how to ply the shears.
Now ‛tis not long since one of our young Florentines, Niccolo da
Cignano by name, albeit he was called Salabaetto, arrived there, being
sent by his masters with all the woollen stuffs that he had not been able
to dispose of at Salerno fair, which might perhaps be worth five hundred
florins of gold; and having given the invoice to the officers of the dogana
and stored the goods, Salabaetto was in no hurry to get them out of
bond, but took a stroll or two about the city for his diversion. And as he
was fresh-complexioned and fair and not a little debonair, it so befell
that one of these ladies that plied the shears, and called herself
Jancofiore, began to ogle him. Whereof he taking note, and deeming

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that she was a great lady, supposed that she was taken by his good looks,
and cast about how he might manage this amour with all due discretion;
wherefore, saying nought to a soul, he began to pass to and fro before
her house. Which she observing, occupied herself for a few days in
inflaming his passion, and then affecting to be dying of love for him,
sent privily to him a woman that she had in her service, and who was an
adept in the arts of the procuress. She, after not a little palaver, told him,
while the tears all but stood in her eyes, that for his handsome person
and winsome air her mistress was so enamoured of him, that she found
no peace by day or by night; and therefore, if ‛twere agreeable to him,
there was nought she desired so much as to meet him privily at a bagnio:
whereupon she drew a ring from her purse, and gave it him by way of
token from her mistress. Overjoyed as ne’er another to hear such good
news, Salabaetto took the ring, and, after drawing it across his eyes and
kissing it, put it on his finger, and told the good woman that, if
Madonna Jancofiore loved him, she was well requited, for that he loved
her more dearly than himself, and that he was ready to meet her
wherever and whenever she might see fit. With which answer the
procuress hied her back to her mistress, and shortly afterwards
Salabaetto was informed that he was to meet the lady at a certain bagnio
at vespers of the ensuing day.
So, saying nought to a soul of the matter, he hied him punctually at
the appointed hour to the bagnio, and found that it had been taken by
the lady; nor had he long to wait before two female slaves made their
appearance, bearing on their heads, the one a great and goodly mattress
of wadding, and the other a huge and well-filled basket; and having laid
the mattress on a bedstead in one of the rooms of the bagnio, they
covered it with a pair of sheets of the finest fabric, bordered with silk,
and a quilt of the whitest Cyprus buckram, with two daintily-
embroidered pillows. The slaves then undressed and got into the bath,
which they thoroughly washed and scrubbed: whither soon afterwards

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the lady, attended by other two female slaves, came, and made haste to
greet Salabaetto with the heartiest of cheer; and when, after heaving
many a mighty sigh, she had embraced and kissed him:—‟I know not,”
quoth she, ‟who but thou could have brought me to this, such a fire hast
thou kindled in my soul, little dog of a Tuscan!” Whereupon she was
pleased that they should undress, and get into the bath, and two of the
slaves with them; which, accordingly, they did; and she herself, suffering
none other to lay a hand upon him, did with wondrous care wash
Salabaetto from head to foot with soap perfumed with musk and cloves;
after which she let the slaves wash and shampoo herself. The slaves then
brought two spotless sheets of finest texture, which emitted such a scent
of roses, that ‛twas as if there was nought there but roses, in one of
which having wrapped Salabaetto, and in the other the lady, they bore
them both to bed, where, the sheets in which they were enfolded being
withdrawn by the slaves as soon as they had done sweating, they
remained stark naked in the others. The slaves then took from the
basket cruets of silver most goodly, and full, this of rose-water, that of
water of orange-blossom, a third of water of jasmine-blossom, and a
fourth of nanfa95 water, wherewith they sprinkled them: after which,
boxes of comfits and the finest wines being brought forth, they regaled
them a while. To Salabaetto ‛twas as if he were in Paradise; a thousand
times he scanned the lady, who was indeed most beautiful; and he
counted each hour as a hundred years until the slaves should get them
gone, and he find himself in the lady’s arms.
At length, by the lady’s command, the slaves departed, leaving a
lighted torch in the room, and then the lady and Salabaetto embraced,
and to Salabaetto’s prodigious delight, for it seemed to him that she was
all but dissolved for love of him, tarried there a good while. However, the
time came when the lady must needs rise: so she called the slaves, with

95 Neither the Vocab. degli Accad. della Crusca nor the Ricchezze attempts to define the precise nature of this scent,
which Fanfani identifies with that of the orange-blossom.

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whose help they dressed, regaled them again for a while with wine and
comfits, and washed their faces and hands with the odoriferous waters.
Then as they were going, quoth the lady to Salabaetto:— ‟If it be
agreeable to thee, I should deem it a very great favour if thou wouldst
come to-night to sup and sleep with me.” Salabaetto, who, captivated by
her beauty and her studied graciousness, never doubted but he was dear
to her as her very heart, made answer:—‟Madam, there is nought you
can desire but is in the last degree agreeable to me; wherefore to-night
and ever ‛tis my purpose to do whatsoever you may be pleased to
command.” So home the lady hied her, and having caused a brave shew
to be made in her chamber with her dresses and other paraphernalia,
and a grand supper to be prepared, awaited Salabaetto; who, being come
there as soon as ‛twas dark, had of her a gladsome welcome, and was
regaled with an excellent and well-served supper. After which, they
repaired to the chamber, where he was saluted by a wondrous sweet
odour of aloe-wood, and observed that the bed was profusely furnished
with birds,96 after the fashion of Cyprus, and that not a few fine dresses
were hanging upon the pegs. Which circumstances did, one and all,
beget in him the belief that this must be a great and wealthy lady; and,
though he had heard a hint or two to the contrary touching her life, he
would by no means credit them; nor, supposing that she had perchance
taken another with guile, would he believe that the same thing might
befall him. So to his exceeding great solace, he lay with her that night,
and ever grew more afire for her. On the morrow, as she was investing
him with a fair and dainty girdle of silver, with a goodly purse attached:
—‟Sweet my Salabaetto,” quoth she, ‟prithee forget me not; even as my
person, so is all that I have at thy pleasure, and all that I can at thy
command.”
Salabaetto then embraced and kissed her, and so bade her adieu, and
betook him to the place where the merchants were wont to congregate.
96 I.e. with a sort of musical boxes in the shape of birds.

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And so it befell that he, continuing to consort with her from time to
time, and being never a denier the poorer thereby, disposed of his
merchandise for ready money and at no small profit; whereof not by him
but by another the lady was forthwith advised. And Salabaetto being
come to see her one evening, she greeted him gaily and gamesomely, and
fell a kissing and hugging him, and made as if she were so afire for love
of him that she was like to die thereof in his arms; and offered to give
him two most goodly silver cups that she had, which Salabaetto would
not accept, having already had from her (taking one time with another)
fully thirty florins of gold, while he had not been able to induce her to
touch so much as a groat of his money. But when by this shew of passion
and generosity she had thoroughly kindled his flame, in came, as she
had arranged, one of her slaves, and spoke to her; whereupon out of the
room she went, and after a while came back in tears, and threw herself
prone on the bed, and set up the most dolorous lamentation that ever
woman made. Whereat Salabaetto wondering, took her in his arms, and
mingled his tears with hers, and said:—‟Alas! heart of my body! what
ails thee thus of a sudden? Wherefore art thou so distressed? Ah! tell me
the reason, my soul.” The lady allowed him to run on in this strain for a
good while, and then:—‟Alas! sweet my lord,” quoth she, ‟I know not
either what to do or what to say. I have but now received a letter from
Messina, in which my brother bids me sell, if need be, all that I have
here, and send him without fail within eight days a thousand florins of
gold: otherwise he will forfeit his head. I know not how to come by them
so soon: had I but fifteen days, I would make a shift to raise them in a
quarter where I might raise a much larger sum, or I would sell one of our
estates; but, as this may not be, would I had been dead or e’er this bad
news had reached me!” Which said, affecting to be utterly broken-
hearted, she ceased not to weep.
Salabaetto, the ardour of whose passion had in great measure
deprived him of the sagacity which the circumstances demanded,

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supposed that the tears were genuine enough, and the words even more
so. Wherefore:—‟Madam,” quoth he, ‟I could not furnish you with a
thousand, but if five hundred florins of gold would suffice, they are at
your service, if you think you could repay them within fifteen days; and
you may deem yourself in luck’s way, for ‛twas only yesterday that I sold
my woollens, which had I not done, I could not have lent you a groat.”
‟Alas” returned the lady, ‟then thou hast been in straits for money? Oh!
why didst thou not apply to me? Though I have not a thousand at my
command, I could have given thee quite a hundred, nay indeed two
hundred florins. By what thou hast said thou hast made me hesitate to
accept the service that thou proposest to render me.” Which words fairly
delivered Salabaetto into the lady’s hands, insomuch that:— ‟Madam,”
quoth he, ‟I would not have you decline my help for such a scruple; for
had my need been as great as yours, I should certainly have applied to
you.” Quoth then the lady:—‟Ah! Salabaetto mine, well I wot that the
love thou bearest me is a true and perfect love, seeing that, without
waiting to be asked, thou dost so handsomely come to my aid with so
large a sum of money. And albeit I was thine without this token of thy
love, yet, assuredly, it has made me thine in an even greater degree; nor
shall I ever forget that ‛tis to thee I owe my brother’s life. But God knows
I take thy money from thee reluctantly, seeing that thou art a merchant,
and ‛tis by means of money that merchants conduct all their affairs; but,
as necessity constrains me, and I have good hope of speedily repaying
thee, I will even take it, and by way of security, if I should find no readier
method, I will pawn all that I have here.” Which said, she burst into
tears, and fell upon Salabaetto, pressing her cheek upon his.
Salabaetto tried to comfort her; and having spent the night with her,
on the morrow, being minded to shew himself her most devoted
servant, brought her, without awaiting any reminder, five hundred fine
florins of gold: which she, laughing at heart while the tears streamed
from her eyes, took, Salabaetto trusting her mere promise of repayment.

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Now that the lady had gotten the money, the complexion of affairs began
to alter; and whereas Salabaetto had been wont to have free access to
her, whenever he was so minded, now for one reason or another he was
denied admittance six times out of seven; nor did she greet him with the
same smile, or shower on him the same caresses, or do him the same
cheer as of yore. So a month, two months, passed beyond the time when
he was to have been repaid his money; and when he demanded it, he
was put off with words. Whereby Salabaetto, being now ware of the
cheat which his slender wit had suffered the evil-disposed woman to put
upon him, and also that, having neither writing nor witness against her,
he was entirely at her mercy in regard of his claim, and being, moreover,
ashamed to lodge any complaint with any one, as well because he had
been forewarned of her character, as because he dreaded the ridicule to
which his folly justly exposed him, was chagrined beyond measure, and
inly bewailed his simplicity. And his masters having written to him,
bidding him change the money and remit it to them, he, being
apprehensive that, making default as he must, he should, if he remained
there, be detected, resolved to depart; and having taken ship, he
repaired, not, as he should have done, to Pisa, but to Naples; where at
that time resided our gossip, Pietro dello Canigiano, treasurer of the
Empress of Constantinople, a man of great sagacity and acuteness, and a
very great friend of Salabaetto and his kinsfolk; to whom trusting in his
great discretion, Salabaetto after a while discovered his distress, telling
him what he had done, and the sorry plight in which by consequence he
stood, and craving his aid and counsel, that he might the more readily
find means of livelihood there, for that he was minded never to go back
to Florence. Impatient to hear of such folly:—”‛Twas ill done of thee,”
quoth Canigiano, ‟thou hast misbehaved thyself, wronged thy masters,
and squandered an exorbitant sum in lewdness; however, ‛tis done, and
we must consider of the remedy.” And indeed, like the shrewd man that
he was, he had already bethought him what was best to be done; and

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forthwith he imparted it to Salabaetto. Which expedient Salabaetto

approving, resolved to make the adventure; and having still a little
money, and being furnished with a loan by Canigiano, he provided
himself with not a few bales well and closely corded, and bought some
twenty oil-casks, which he filled, and having put all on shipboard,
returned to Palermo. There he gave the invoice of the bales, as also of the
oil-casks, to the officers of the dogana, and having them all entered to
his credit, laid them up in the store-rooms, saying that he purposed to
leave them there until the arrival of other merchandise that he expected.
Which Jancofiore learning, and being informed that the
merchandise, that he had brought with him, was worth fully two
thousand florins of gold, or even more, besides that which he expected,
which was valued at more than three thousand florins of gold,
bethought her that she had not aimed high enough, and that ‛twere well
to refund him the five hundred, if so she might make the greater part of
the five thousand florins her own. Wherefore she sent for him, and
Salabaetto, having learned his lesson of cunning, waited on her.
Feigning to know nought of the cargo he had brought with him, she
received him with marvellous cheer, and began:— ‟Lo, now, if thou wast
angry with me because I did not repay thee thy money in due time:” but
Salabaetto interrupted her, saying with a laugh:—‟Madam ‛tis true I was
a little vexed, seeing that I would have plucked out my heart to pleasure
you; but listen, and you shall learn the quality of my displeasure. Such
and so great is the love I bear you, that I have sold the best part of all
that I possess, whereby I have already in this port merchandise to the
value of more than two thousand florins, and expect from the Levant
other goods to the value of above three thousand florins, and mean to
set up a warehouse in this city, and live here, to be ever near you, for that
I deem myself more blessed in your love than any other lover that lives.”
Whereupon:—‟Harkye, Salabaetto,” quoth the lady, ‟whatever
advantages thee is mighty grateful to me, seeing that I love thee more

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than my very life, and right glad am I that thou art come back with
intent to stay, for I hope to have many a good time with thee; but
something I must say to thee by way of excuse, for that, whilst thou wast
thinking of taking thy departure, there were times when thou wast
disappointed of seeing me, and others when thou hadst not as gladsome
a welcome as thou wast wont to have, and therewithal I kept not the
time promised for the repayment of thy money. Thou must know that I
was then in exceeding great trouble and tribulation, and whoso is thus
bested, love he another never so much, cannot greet him with as
gladsome a mien, or be as attentive to him, as he had lief; and thou must
further know that ‛tis by no means an easy matter for a lady to come by a
thousand florins of gold: why, ‛tis every day a fresh lie, and never a
promise kept; and so we in our turn must needs lie to others; and ‛twas
for this cause, and not for any fault of mine, that I did not repay thee thy
money; however, I had it but a little while after thy departure, and had I
known whither to send it, be sure I would have remitted it to thee; but,
as that I wist not, I have kept it safe for thee.” She then produced a purse,
in which were the very same coins that he had brought her, and placed it
in his hand, saying:—‟Count and see if there are five hundred there.”
‛Twas the happiest moment Salabaetto had yet known, as, having told
them out, and found the sum exact, he made answer:—‟Madam, I know
that you say sooth, and what you have done abundantly proves it;
wherefore, and for the love I bear you, I warrant you there is no sum you
might ask of me on any occasion of need, with which, if ‛twere in my
power, I would not accommodate you; whereof, when I am settled here,
you will be able to assure yourself.”
Having thus in words reinstated himself as her lover, he proceeded to
treat her as his mistress, whereto she responded, doing all that was in
her power to pleasure and honour him, and feigning to be in the last
degree enamoured of him. But Salabaetto, being minded to requite her
guile with his own, went to her one evening, being bidden to sup and

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sleep with her, with an aspect so melancholy and dolorous, that he

shewed as he had lief give up the ghost. Jancofiore, as she embraced and
kissed him, demanded of him the occasion of his melancholy. Whereto
he, having let her be instant with him a good while, made answer:— ‟I
am undone, for that the ship, having aboard her the goods that I
expected, has been taken by the corsairs of Monaco, and held to ransom
in ten thousand florins of gold, of which it falls to me to pay one
thousand, and I have not a denier, for the five hundred thou repaidst me
I sent forthwith to Naples to buy stuffs for this market, and were I to sell
the merchandise I have here, as ‛tis not now the right time to sell, I
should scarce get half the value; nor am I as yet so well known here as to
come by any to help me at this juncture, and so what to do or what to say
I know not; but this I know that, if I send not the money without delay,
my merchandise will be taken to Monaco, and I shall never touch aught
of it again.” Whereat the lady was mightily annoyed, being apprehensive
of losing all, and bethought her how she might prevent the goods going
to Monaco: wherefore:—‟God knows,” quoth she, ‟that for the love I bear
thee I am not a little sorry for thee: but what boots it idly to distress
oneself? Had I the money, God knows I would lend it thee forthwith,
but I have it not. One, indeed, there is that accommodated me a day or
two ago with five hundred florins that I stood in need of, but he requires
a heavy usance, not less than thirty on the hundred, and if thou shouldst
have recourse to him, good security must be forthcoming. Now for my
part I am ready, so I may serve thee, to pledge all these dresses, and my
person to boot, for as much as he will tend thee thereon; but how wilt
thou secure the balance?”
Salabaetto divined the motive that prompted her thus to
accommodate him, and that she was to lend the money herself; which
suiting his purpose well, he first of all thanked her, and then said that,
being constrained by necessity, he would not stand out against
exorbitant terms, adding that, as to the balance, he would secure it upon

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the merchandise that he had at the dogana by causing it to be entered in

the name of the lender; but that he must keep the key of the storerooms,
as well that he might be able to shew the goods, if requested, as to make
sure that none of them should be tampered with or changed or
exchanged. The lady said that this was reasonable, and that ‛twas
excellent security. So, betimes on the morrow, the lady sent for a broker,
in whom she reposed much trust, and having talked the matter over
with him, gave him a thousand florins of gold, which the broker took to
Salabaetto, and thereupon had all that Salabaetto had at the dogana
entered in his name; they then had the script and counterscript made
out, and, the arrangement thus concluded, went about their respective
affairs. Salabaetto lost no time in getting aboard a bark with his five
hundred florins of gold, and being come to Naples, sent thence a
remittance which fully discharged his obligation to his masters that had
entrusted him with the stuffs: he also paid all that he owed to Pietro
dello Canigiano and all his other creditors, and made not a little merry
with Canigiano over the trick he had played the Sicilian lady. He then
departed from Naples, and being minded to have done with mercantile
affairs, betook him to Ferrara.
Jancofiore, surprised at first by Salabaetto’s disappearance from
Palermo, waxed after a while suspicious; and, when she had waited fully
two months, seeing that he did not return, she caused the broker to
break open the store-rooms. And trying first of all the casks, she found
them full of sea-water, save that in each there was perhaps a hog’s-head
of oil floating on the surface. Then undoing the bales, she found them
all, save two that contained stuffs, full of tow, and in short their whole
contents put together were not worth more than two hundred florins.
Wherefore Jancofiore, knowing herself to have been outdone, regretted
long and bitterly the five hundred florins of gold that she had refunded,
and still more the thousand that she had lent, repeating many a time to
herself:—Who with a Tuscan has to do, Had need of eyesight quick and

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true. Thus, left with the loss and the laugh against her, she discovered
that there were others as knowing as she.
No sooner was Dioneo’s story ended, than Lauretta, witting that
therewith the end of her sovereignty was come, bestowed her meed of
praise on Pietro Canigiano for his good counsel, and also on Salabaetto
for the equal sagacity which he displayed in carrying it out, and then,
taking off the laurel wreath, set it on the head of Emilia, saying
graciously:—‟I know not, Madam, how debonair a queen you may prove,
but at least we shall have in you a fair one. Be it your care, then, that you
exercise your authority in a manner answerable to your charms.” Which
said, she resumed her seat.
Not so much to receive the crown, as to be thus commended to her
face and before the company for that which ladies are wont to covet the
most, Emilia was a little shamefast; a tint like that of the newly-blown
rose overspread her face, and a while she stood silent with downcast
eyes: then, as the blush faded away, she raised them; and having given
her seneschal her commands touching all matters pertaining to the
company, thus she spake:—‟Sweet my ladies, ‛tis matter of common
experience that, when the oxen have swunken a part of the day under the
coercive yoke, they are relieved thereof and loosed, and suffered to go
seek their pasture at their own sweet will in the woods; nor can we fail to
observe that gardens luxuriant with diversity of leafage are not less, but
far more fair to see, than woods wherein is nought but oaks. Wherefore I
deem that, as for so many days our discourse has been confined within
the bounds of certain laws, ‛twill be not only meet but profitable for us,
being in need of relaxation, to roam a while, and so recruit our strength
to undergo the yoke once more. And therefore I am minded that to-
morrow the sweet tenor of your discourse be not confined to any
particular theme, but that you be at liberty to discourse on such wise as
to each may seem best; for well assured am I that thus to speak of divers
matters will be no less pleasurable than to limit ourselves to one topic;

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and by reason of this enlargement my successor in the sovereignty will

find you more vigorous, and be therefore all the more forward to
reimpose upon you the wonted restraint of our laws.” Having so said, she
dismissed all the company until supper-time.
All approved the wisdom of what the queen had said; and being risen
betook them to their several diversions, the ladies to weave garlands and
otherwise disport them, the young men to play and sing; and so they
whiled away the hours until supper-time; which being come, they
gathered about the fair fountain, and took their meal with gay and festal
cheer. Supper ended, they addressed them to their wonted pastime of
song and dance. At the close of which the queen, notwithstanding the
songs which divers of the company had already gladly accorded them,
called for another from Pamfilo, who without the least demur thus sang:
—
So great, O Love, the bliss
Through thee I prove, so jocund my estate,
That in thy flame to burn I bless my fate!

Such plenitude of joy my heart doth know

Of that high joy and rare,
Wherewith thou hast me blest,
As, bounds disdaining, still doth overflow,
And by my radiant air
My blitheness manifest;
For by thee thus possessed
With love, where meeter ‛twere to venerate,
I still consume within thy flame elate.

Well wot I, Love, no song may e’er reveal,

Nor any sign declare
What in my heart is pent

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Nay, might they so, that were I best conceal,

Whereof were others ware,
‛Twould serve but to torment
Me, whose is such content,
That weak were words and all inadequate
A tittle of my bliss to adumbrate.

Who would have dreamed that e’er in mine embrace

Her I should clip and fold
Whom there I still do feel,
Or as ‛gainst her face e’er to lay my face
Attain such grace untold,
And unimagined weal?
Wherefore my bliss I seal
Of mine own heart within the circuit strait,
And still in thy sweet flame luxuriate.
So ended Pamfilo his song: whereto all the company responded in
full chorus; nor was there any but gave to its words an inordinate degree
of attention, endeavouring by conjecture to penetrate that which he
intimated that ‛twas meet he should keep secret. Divers were the
interpretations hazarded, but all were wide of the mark. At length,
however, the queen, seeing that ladies and men alike were fain of rest,
bade all betake them to bed.
— Endeth here the eighth day of the Decameron, beginneth the
ninth, in which, under the rule of Emilia, discourse is had, at
the discretion of each, of such matters as most commend
themselves to each in turn. —
The luminary, before whose splendour the night takes wing, had

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already changed the eighth heaven97 from azure to the lighter blue,98 and
in the meads the flowerets were beginning to lift their heads, when
Emilia, being risen, roused her fair gossips, and, likewise, the young
men. And so the queen leading the way at an easy pace, and the rest of
the company following, they hied them to a copse at no great distance
from the palace. Where, being entered, they saw the goats and stags and
other wild creatures, as if witting that in this time of pestilence they had
nought to fear from the hunter, stand awaiting them with no more sign
of fear than if they had been tamed: and so, making now towards this,
now towards the other of them as if to touch them, they diverted
themselves for a while by making them skip and run. But, as soon as the
sun was in the ascendant, by common consent they turned back, and
whoso met them, garlanded as they were with oak-leaves, and carrying
store of fragrant herbs or flowers in their hands might well have said:
—‟Either shall death not vanquish these, or they will meet it with a light
heart.” So, slowly wended they their way, now singing, now bandying
quips and merry jests, to the palace, where they found all things in order
meet, and their servants in blithe and merry cheer. A while they rested,
nor went they to table until six ditties, each gayer than that which went
before, had been sung by the young men and the ladies; which done,
they washed their hands, and all by the queen’s command were ranged
by the seneschal at the table; and, the viands being served, they cheerily
took their meal: wherefrom being risen, they trod some measures to the
accompaniment of music; and then, by the queen’s command, whoso
would betook him to rest. However, the accustomed hour being come,
they all gathered at the wonted spot for their discoursing, and the queen,
bending her regard upon Filomena, bade her make a beginning of the
day’s story-telling, which she with a smile did on this wise:—

97 I.e. in the Ptolemaic system, the region of the fixed stars.

98 Cilestro: a word for which we have no exact equivalent, the dominant note of the Italian sky, when the sun is well
up, being its intense luminosity.

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NINTH DAY

NOVEL I.

— Madonna Francesca, having two lovers, the one Rinuccio,

the other Alessandro, by name, and loving neither of them,
induces the one to simulate a corpse in a tomb, and the other
to enter the tomb to fetch him out: whereby, neither satisfying
her demands, she artfully rids herself of both. —
Madam, since so it pleases you, well pleased am I that in this vast, this
boundless field of discourse, which you, our Lady Bountiful, have
furnished us withal, ‛tis mine to run the first course; wherein if I do well,
I doubt not that those, who shall follow me, will do not only well but
better. Such, sweet my ladies, has been the tenor of our discourse, that
times not a few the might of Love, how great and singular it is, has been
set forth, but yet I doubt the topic is not exhausted, nor would it be so,
though we should continue to speak of nought else for the space of a full
year. And as Love not only leads lovers to debate with themselves
whether they were not best to die, but also draws them into the houses
of the dead in quest of the dead, I am minded in this regard to tell you a
story, wherein you will not only discern the power of Love, but will also
learn how the ready wit of a worthy lady enabled her to disembarrass
herself of two lovers, whose love was displeasing to her.
Know, then, that there dwelt aforetime in the city of Pistoia a most
beauteous widow lady, of whom it so befell that two of our citizens, the
one Rinuccio Palermini, the other Alessandro Chiarmontesi, by name,
tarrying at Pistoia, for that they were banished from Florence, became,
neither witting how it stood with the other, in the last degree
enamoured. Wherefore each used all his arts to win the love of Madonna

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Francesca de’ Lazzari—such was the lady’s name—and she, being thus
continually plied with ambassages and entreaties on the part of both,
and having indiscreetly lent ear to them from time to time, found it no
easy matter discreetly to extricate herself, when she was minded to be
rid of their pestering, until it occurred to her to adopt the following
expedient, to wit, to require of each a service, such as, though not
impracticable, she deemed none would actually perform, to the end
that, they making default, she might have a decent and colourable
pretext for refusing any longer to receive their ambassages. Which
expedient was on this wise. One day there died in Pistoia, and was
buried in a tomb outside the church of the Friars Minors, a man, who,
though his forbears had been gentlefolk, was reputed the very worst
man, not in Pistoia only, but in all the world, and therewithal he was of
form and feature so preternaturally hideous that whoso knew him not
could scarce see him for the first time without a shudder. Now, the lady
pondering her design on the day of this man’s death, it occurred to her
that he might in a measure subserve its accomplishment: wherefore she
said to her maid:—‟Thou knowest to what worry and annoyance I am
daily put by the ambassages of these two Florentines, Rinuccio, and
Alessandro. Now I am not disposed to gratify either of them with my
love, and therefore, to shake them off, I am minded, as they make such
great protestations, to put them to the proof by requiring of each
something which I am sure he will not perform, and thus to rid myself of
their pestering: so list what I mean to do. Thou knowest that this
morning there was interred in the ground of the Friars Minors this
Scannadio (such was the name of the bad man of whom we spoke but
now) whose aspect, while he yet lived, appalled even the bravest among
us. Thou wilt therefore go privily, to Alessandro, and say to him:
—‛Madonna Francesca sends thee word by me that the time is now come
when thou mayst win that which thou hast so much desired, to wit, her
love and joyance thereof, if thou be so minded, on the following terms.

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For a reason, which thou shalt learn hereafter, one of her kinsmen is to
bring home to her to-night the corpse of Scannadio, who was buried this
morning; and she, standing in mortal dread of this dead man, would
fain not see him; wherefore she prays thee to do her a great service, and
be so good as to get thee this evening at the hour of first sleep to the
tomb wherein Scannadio is buried, and go in, and having wrapped
thyself in his grave-clothes, lie there, as thou wert Scannadio, himself,
until one come for thee, when thou must say never a word, but let him
carry thee forth, and bear thee to Madonna Francesca’s house, where she
will give thee welcome, and let thee stay with her, until thou art minded
to depart, and, for the rest, thou wilt leave it to her.’ And if he says that
he will gladly do so, well and good; if not, then thou wilt tell him from
me, never more to shew himself where I am, and, as he values his life, to
have a care to send me no more ambassages. Which done, thou wilt go to
Rinuccio Palermini, and wilt say to him:—‛Madonna Francesca lets thee
know that she is ready in all respects to comply with thy wishes, so thou
wilt do her a great service, which is on this wise: to-night, about
midnight, thou must go to the tomb wherein was this morning interred
Scannadio, and saying never a word, whatever thou mayst hear or
otherwise be ware of, bear him gently forth to Madonna Francesca’s
house, where thou shalt learn wherefore she requires this of thee, and
shalt have thy solace of her; and if thou art not minded to obey her in
this, see that thou never more send her ambassage.’”
The maid did her mistress’s errand, omitting nothing, to both the
men, and received from each the same answer, to wit, that to pleasure
the lady, he would adventure a journey to hell, to say nothing of entering
a tomb. With which answer the maid returned to the lady, who waited to
see if they would be such fools as to make it good. Night came, and at
the hour of first sleep Alessandro Chiarmontesi, stripped to his doublet,
quitted his house, and bent his steps towards Scannadio’s tomb, with
intent there to take the dead man’s place. As he walked, there came upon

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him a great fear, and he fell a saying to himself:—Ah! what a fool am I!

Whither go I? How know I that her kinsmen, having detected my love,
and surmising that which is not, have not put her upon requiring this of
me, in order that they may slay me in the tomb? In which event I alone
should be the loser, for nought would ever be heard of it, so that they
would escape scot-free. Or how know I but that ‛tis some machination of
one of my ill-wishers, whom perchance she loves, and is therefore
minded to abet? And again quoth he to himself:—But allowing that ‛tis
neither the one nor the other, and that her kinsmen are really to carry
me to her house, I scarce believe that ‛tis either that they would fain
embrace Scannadio’s corpse themselves, or let her do so: rather it must
be that they have a mind to perpetrate some outrage upon it, for that,
perchance, he once did them an evil turn. She bids me say never a word,
no matter what I may hear or be otherwise ware of. Suppose they were to
pluck out my eyes, or my teeth, or cut off my hands, or treat me to some
other horse-play of the like sort, how then? how could I keep quiet? And
if I open my mouth, they will either recognize me, and perchance do me
a mischief, or, if they spare me, I shall have been at pains for nought, for
they will not leave me with the lady, and she will say that I disobeyed her
command, and I shall never have aught of her favours.
As thus he communed with himself, he was on the point of turning
back; but his overmastering love plied him with opposing arguments of
such force that he kept on his way, and reached the tomb; which having
opened, he entered, and after stripping Scannadio, and wrapping
himself in the grave-clothes, closed it, and laid himself down in
Scannadio’s place. He then fell a thinking of the dead man, and his
manner of life, and the things which he had heard tell of as happening
by night, and in other less appalling places than the houses of the dead;
whereby all the hairs of his head stood on end, and he momently
expected Scannadio to rise and cut his throat. However, the ardour of his
love so fortified him that he overcame these and all other timorous

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apprehensions, and lay as if he were dead, awaiting what should betide

him.
Towards midnight Rinuccio, bent likewise upon fulfilling his lady’s
behest, sallied forth of his house, revolving as he went divers
forebodings of possible contingencies, as that, having Scannadio’s corpse
upon his shoulders, he might fall into the hands of the Signory, and be
condemned to the fire as a wizard, or that, should the affair get wind, it
might embroil him with his kinsfolk, or the like, which gave him pause.
But then with a revulsion of feeling:— Shall I, quoth he to himself, deny
this lady, whom I so much have loved and love, the very first thing that
she asks of me? And that too when I am thereby to win her favour? No,
though ‛twere as much as my life is worth, far be it from me to fail of
keeping my word. So on he fared, and arrived at the tomb, which he had
no difficulty in opening, and being entered, laid hold of Alessandro,
who, though in mortal fear, had given no sign of life, by the feet, and
dragged him forth, and having hoisted him on to his shoulders, bent his
steps towards the lady’s house. And as he went, being none too careful of
Alessandro, he swung him from time to time against one or other of the
angles of certain benches that were by the wayside; and indeed the night
was so dark and murky that he could not see where he was going. And
when he was all but on the threshold of the lady’s house (she standing
within at a window with her maid, to mark if Rinuccio would bring
Alessandro, and being already provided with an excuse for sending them
both away), it so befell that the patrol of the Signory, who were posted in
the street in dead silence, being on the look-out for a certain bandit,
hearing the tramp of Rinuccio’s feet, suddenly shewed a light, the better
to know what was toward, and whither to go, and advancing targes and
lances, cried out:—‟Who goes there?” Whereupon Rinuccio, having little
leisure for deliberation, let Alessandro fall, and took to flight as fast as
his legs might carry him. Alessandro, albeit encumbered by the
graveclothes, which were very long, also jumped up and made off. By the

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light shewn by the patrol the lady had very plainly perceived Rinuccio,
with Alessandro on his back, as also that Alessandro had the grave-
clothes upon him; and much did she marvel at the daring of both, but,
for all that, she laughed heartily to see Rinuccio drop Alessandro, and
Alessandro run away. Overjoyed at the turn the affair had taken, and
praising God that He had rid her of their harass, she withdrew from the
window, and betook her to her chamber, averring to her maid that for
certain they must both be mightily in love with her, seeing that ‛twas
plain they had both done her bidding.
Crestfallen and cursing his evil fortune, Rinuccio nevertheless went
not home, but, as soon as the street was clear of the patrol, came back to
the spot where he had dropped Alessandro, and stooped down and
began feeling about, if haply he might find him, and so do his devoir to
the lady; but, as he found him not, he supposed the patrol must have
borne him thence, and so at last home he went; as did also Alessandro,
knowing not what else to do, and deploring his mishap. On the morrow,
Scannadio’s tomb being found open and empty, for Alessandro had
thrown the corpse into the vault below, all Pistoia debated of the matter
with no small diversity of opinion, the fools believing that Scannadio
had been carried off by devils. Neither of the lovers, however, forbore to
make suit to the lady for her favour and love, telling her what he had
done, and what had happened, and praying her to have him excused
that he had not perfectly carried out her instructions. But she, feigning
to believe neither of them, disposed of each with the same curt answer,
to wit, that, as he had not done her bidding, she would never do aught
for him.

NOVEL II.

— An abbess rises in haste and in the dark, with intent to

surprise an accused nun abed with her lover: thinking to put

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on her veil, she puts on instead the breeches of a priest that

she has with her: the nun, espying her headgear, and doing her
to wit thereof, is acquitted, and thenceforth finds it easier to
forgather with her lover. —
So ended Filomena; and when all had commended the address shewn by
the lady in ridding herself of the two lovers that she affected not, and
contrariwise had censured the hardihood of the two lovers as not love
but madness, the queen turned to Elisa, and with a charming air:
—‟Now, Elisa, follow,” quoth she: whereupon Elisa began on this wise:—
Dearest ladies, ‛twas cleverly done of Madonna Francesca, to
disembarrass herself in the way we have heard: but I have to tell of a
young nun, who by a happy retort, and the favour of Fortune, delivered
herself from imminent peril. And as you know that there are not a few
most foolish folk, who, notwithstanding their folly, take upon
themselves the governance and correction of others; so you may learn
from my story that Fortune at times justly puts them to shame; which
befell the abbess, who was the superior of the nun of whom I am about
to speak.
You are to know, then, that in a convent in Lombardy of very great
repute for strict and holy living there was, among other ladies that there
wore the veil, a young woman of noble family, and extraordinary beauty.
Now Isabetta—for such was her name—having speech one day of one of
her kinsmen at the grate, became enamoured of a fine young gallant that
was with him; who, seeing her to be very fair, and reading her passion in
her eyes, was kindled with a like flame for her: which mutual and
unsolaced love they bore a great while not without great suffering to
both. But at length, both being intent thereon, the gallant discovered a
way by which he might with all secrecy visit his nun; and she approving,
he paid her not one visit only, but many, to their no small mutual solace.
But, while thus they continued their intercourse, it so befell that one

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night one of the sisters observed him take his leave of Isabetta and
depart, albeit neither he nor she was ware that they had thus been
discovered. The sister imparted what she had seen to several others. At
first they were minded to denounce her to the abbess, one Madonna
Usimbalda, who was reputed by the nuns, and indeed by all that knew
her, to be a good and holy woman; but on second thoughts they deemed
it expedient, that there might be no room for denial, to cause the abbess
to take her and the gallant in the act. So they held their peace, and
arranged between them to keep her in watch and close espial, that they
might catch her unawares. Of which practice Isabetta recking, witting
nought, it so befell that one night, when she had her lover to see her, the
sisters that were on the watch were soon ware of it, and at what they
deemed the nick of time parted into two companies of which one
mounted guard at the threshold of Isabetta’s cell, while the other hasted
to the abbess’s chamber, and knocking at the door, roused her, and as
soon as they heard her voice, said:—‟Up, Madam, without delay: we have
discovered that Isabetta has a young man with her in her cell.”
Now that night the abbess had with her a priest whom she used not
seldom to have conveyed to her in a chest; and the report of the sisters
making her apprehensive lest for excess of zeal and hurry they should
force the door open, she rose in a trice; and huddling on her clothes as
best she might in the dark, instead of the veil that they wear, which they
call the psalter, she caught up the priest’s breeches, and having clapped
them on her head, hied her forth, and locked the door behind her,
saying:—‟Where is this woman accursed of God?” And so, guided by the
sisters, all so agog to catch Isabetta a sinning that they perceived not
what manner of headgear the abbess wore, she made her way to the cell,
and with their aid broke open the door; and entering they found the two
lovers abed in one another’s arms; who, as it were, thunderstruck to be
thus surprised, lay there, witting not what to do. The sisters took the
young nun forthwith, and by command of the abbess brought her to the

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chapter-house. The gallant, left behind in the cell, put on his clothes and
waited to see how the affair would end, being minded to make as many
nuns as he might come at pay dearly for any despite that might be done
his mistress, and to bring her off with him. The abbess, seated in the
chapter-house with all her nuns about her, and all eyes bent upon the
culprit, began giving her the severest reprimand that ever woman got,
for that by her disgraceful and abominable conduct, should it get wind,
she had sullied the fair fame of the convent; whereto she added menaces
most dire. Shamefast and timorous, the culprit essayed no defence, and
her silence begat pity of her in the rest; but, while the abbess waxed
more and more voluble, it chanced that the girl raised her head and
espied the abbess’s headgear, and the points that hung down on this side
and that. The significance whereof being by no means lost upon her, she
quite plucked up heart, and:—‟Madam,” quoth she, ‟so help you God, tie
up your coif, and then you may say what you will to me.” Whereto the
abbess, not understanding her, replied:—‟What coif, lewd woman? So
thou hast the effrontery to jest! Think’st thou that what thou hast done
is a matter meet for jests?” Whereupon:—‟Madam,” quoth the girl again,
‟I pray you, tie up your coif, and then you may say to me whatever you
please.” Which occasioned not a few of the nuns to look up at the
abbess’s head, and the abbess herself to raise her hands thereto, and so
she and they at one and the same time apprehended Isabetta’s meaning.
Wherefore the abbess, finding herself detected by all in the same sin,
and that no disguise was possible, changed her tone, and held quite
another sort of language than before, the upshot of which was that ‛twas
impossible to withstand the assaults of the flesh, and that, accordingly,
observing due secrecy as theretofore, all might give themselves a good
time, as they had opportunity. So, having dismissed Isabetta to rejoin
her lover in her cell, she herself returned to lie with her priest. And
many a time thereafter, in spite of the envious, Isabetta had her gallant
to see her, the others, that lacked lovers, doing in secret the best they

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might to push their fortunes.

NOVEL III.

— Master Simone, at the instance of Bruno and Buffalmacco

and Nello, makes Calandrino believe that he is with child.
Calandrino, accordingly, gives them capons and money for
medicines, and is cured without being delivered. —
When Elisa had ended her story, and all had given thanks to God that
He had vouchsafed the young nun a happy escape from the fangs of her
envious companions, the queen bade Filostrato follow suit; and without
expecting a second command, thus Filostrato began:—Fairest my ladies,
the uncouth judge from the Marches, of whom I told you yesterday, took
from the tip of my tongue a story of Calandrino, which I was on the
point of narrating: and as nought can be said of him without mightily
enhancing our jollity, albeit not a little has already been said touching
him and his comrades, I will now give you the story which I had meant
yesterday to give you. Who they were, this Calandrino and the others
that I am to tell of in this story, has already been sufficiently explained;
wherefore, without more ado, I say that one of Calandrino’s aunts having
died, leaving him two hundred pounds in petty cash, Calandrino gave
out that he was minded to purchase an estate, and, as if he had had ten
thousand florins of gold to invest, engaged every broker in Florence to
treat for him, the negotiation always falling through, as soon as the price
was named. Bruno and Buffalmacco, knowing what was afoot, told him
again and again that he had better give himself a jolly time with them
than go about buying earth as if he must needs make pellets; 99 but so far
were they from effecting their purpose, that they could not even prevail
upon him to give them a single meal. Whereat as one day they grumbled,

99 I.e. bolts of clay for the cross-bow.

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being joined by a comrade of theirs, one Nello, also a painter, they all
three took counsel how they might wet their whistle at Calandrino’s
expense; and, their plan being soon concerted, the next morning
Calandrino was scarce gone out, when Nello met him, saying:—‟Good
day, Calandrino:” whereto Calandrino replied:—‟God give thee a good
day and a good year.” Nello then drew back a little, and looked him
steadily in the face, until:—‟What seest thou to stare at?” quoth
Calandrino. ‟Hadst thou no pain in the night?” returned Nello; ‟thou
seemest not thyself to me.” Which Calandrino no sooner heard, than he
began to be disquieted, and:—‟Alas! How sayst thou?” quoth he. ‟What
tak’st thou to be the matter with me?” ‟Why, as to that I have nothing to
say,” returned Nello; ‟but thou seemest to be quite changed: perchance
‛tis not what I suppose;” and with that he left him.
Calandrino, anxious, though he could not in the least have said why,
went on; and soon Buffalmacco, who was not far off, and had observed
him part from Nello, made up to him, and greeted him, asking him if he
was not in pain. ‟I cannot say,” replied Calandrino; ”‛twas but now that
Nello told me that I looked quite changed: can it be that there is aught
the matter with me?” ‟Aught?” quoth Buffalmacco, ‟ay, indeed, there
might be a trifle the matter with thee. Thou look’st to be half dead,
man.” Calandrino now began to think he must have a fever. And then up
came Bruno; and the first thing he said was:—‟Why, Calandrino, how ill
thou look’st! thy appearance is that of a corpse. How dost thou feel?” To
be thus accosted by all three left no doubt in Calandrino’s mind that he
was ill, and so:—‟What shall I do?” quoth he, in a great fright. ‟My
advice,” replied Bruno, ‟is that thou go home and get thee to bed and
cover thee well up, and send thy water to Master Simone, who, as thou
knowest, is such a friend of ours. He will tell thee at once what thou
must do; and we will come to see thee, and will do aught that may be
needful.” And Nello then joining them, they all three went home with
Calandrino, who, now quite spent, went straight to his room, and said to

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his wife:—‟Come now, wrap me well up; I feel very ill.” And so he laid
himself on the bed, and sent a maid with his water to Master Simone,
who had then his shop in the Mercato Vecchio, at the sign of the
pumpkin. Whereupon quoth Bruno to his comrades:—‟You will stay
here with him, and I will go hear what the doctor has to say, and if need
be, will bring him hither.” ‟Prithee, do so, my friend,” quoth Calandrino,
‟and bring me word how it is with me, for I feel as how I cannot say in
my inside.” So Bruno hied him to Master Simone, and before the maid
arrived with the water, told him what was afoot. The Master, thus
primed, inspected the water, and then said to the maid:— ‟Go tell
Calandrino to keep himself very warm, and I will come at once, and let
him know what is the matter with him, and what he must do.” With
which message the maid was scarce returned, when the Master and
Bruno arrived, and the Master, having seated himself beside Calandrino,
felt his pulse, and by and by, in the presence of his wife, said:— ‟Harkye,
Calandrino, I speak to thee as a friend, and I tell thee that what is amiss
with thee is just that thou art with child.” Whereupon Calandrino cried
out querulously:—‟Woe’s me! ‛Tis thy doing, Tessa, for that thou must
needs be uppermost: I told thee plainly what would come of it,” Whereat
the lady, being not a little modest, coloured from brow to neck, and with
downcast eyes, withdrew from the room, saying never a word by way of
answer. Calandrino ran on in the same plaintive strain:—‟Alas! woe’s me!
What shall I do? How shall I be delivered of this child? What passage
can it find? Ah! I see only too plainly that the lasciviousness of this wife
of mine has been the death of me: God make her as wretched as I would
fain be happy! Were I as well as I am not, I would get me up and thrash
her, till I left not a whole bone in her body, albeit it does but serve me
right for letting her get the upper place; but if I do win through this, she
shall never have it again; verily she might pine to death for it, but she
should not have it.”
Which to hear, Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello were like to burst

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with suppressed laughter, and Master Scimmione 100 laughed so

frantically, that all his teeth were ready to start from his jaws. However,
at length, in answer to Calandrino’s appeals and entreaties for counsel
and succour:—‟Calandrino,” quoth the Master, ‟thou mayst dismiss thy
fears, for, God be praised, we were apprised of thy state in such good
time that with but little trouble, in the course of a few days, I shall set
thee right; but ‛twill cost a little.” ‟Woe’s me,” returned Calandrino, ‟be it
so, Master, for the love of God: I have here two hundred pounds, with
which I had thoughts of buying an estate: take them all, all, if you must
have all, so only I may escape being delivered, for I know not how I
should manage it, seeing that women, albeit ‛tis much easier for them,
do make such a noise in the hour of their labour, that I misdoubt me, if I
suffered so, I should die before I was delivered.” ‟Disquiet not thyself,”
said the doctor: ‟I will have a potion distilled for thee; of rare virtue it is,
and not a little palatable, and in the course of three days ‛twill purge thee
of all, and leave thee in better fettle than a fish; but thou wilt do well to
be careful thereafter, and commit no such indiscretions again. Now to
make this potion we must have three pair of good fat capons, and, for
divers other ingredients, thou wilt give one of thy friends here five
pounds in small change to purchase them, and thou wilt have everything
sent to my shop, and so, please God, I will send thee this distilled potion
to-morrow morning, and thou wilt take a good beakerful each time.”
Whereupon:—‟Be it as you bid, Master mine,” quoth Calandrino, and
handing Bruno five pounds, and money enough to purchase three pair of
capons, he begged him, if it were not too much trouble, to do him the
service to buy these things for him. So away went the doctor, and made a
little decoction by way of draught, and sent it him. Bruno bought the
capons and all else that was needed to furnish forth the feast, with which
he and his comrades and the doctor regaled them. Calandrino drank of
the decoction for three mornings, after which he had a visit from his
100I.e. great ape: with a play on Simone.

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The Decameron Giovanni Boccaccio

friends and the doctor, who felt his pulse, and then:— ‟Beyond a doubt,
Calandrino,” quoth he, ‟thou art cured, and so thou hast no more
occasion to keep indoors, but needst have no fear to do whatever thou
hast a mind to.” Much relieved, Calandrino got up, and resumed his
accustomed way of life, and, wherever he found any one to talk to, was
loud in praise of Master Simone for the excellent manner in which he
had cured him, causing him in three days without the least suffering to
be quit of his pregnancy. And Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello were
not a little pleased with themselves that they had so cleverly got the
better of Calandrino’s niggardliness, albeit Monna Tessa, who was not
deceived, murmured not a little against her husband.

NOVEL IV.

— Cecco, son of Messer Fortarrigo, loses his all at play at

Buonconvento, besides the money of Cecco, son of Messer
Angiulieri; whom, running after him in his shirt and crying out
that he has robbed him, he causes to be taken by peasants: he
then puts on his clothes, mounts his palfrey, and leaves him to
follow in his shirt. —
All the company laughed beyond measure to hear what Calandrino said
touching his wife: but, when Filostrato had done, Neifile, being bidden
by the queen, thus began:—Noble ladies, were it not more difficult for
men to evince their good sense and virtue than their folly and their vice,
many would labour in vain to set bounds to their flow of words: whereof
you have had a most conspicuous example in poor blundering
Calandrino, who, for the better cure of that with which in his simplicity
he supposed himself to be afflicted, had no sort of need to discover in
public his wife’s secret pleasures. Which affair has brought to my mind
one that fell out contrariwise, inasmuch as the guile of one discomfited

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the good sense of another to the grievous loss and shame of the
discomfited: the manner whereof I am minded to relate to you.
‛Tis not many years since there were in Siena two young men, both of
age, and both alike named Cecco, the one being son of Messer
Angiulieri, the other of Messer Fortarrigo. Who, albeit in many other
respects their dispositions accorded ill, agreed so well in one, to wit, that
they both hated their fathers, that they became friends, and kept much
together. Now Angiulieri, being a pretty fellow, and well-mannered,
could not brook to live at Siena on the allowance made him by his father,
and learning that there was come into the March of Ancona, as legate of
the Pope, a cardinal, to whom he was much bounden, resolved to resort
to him there, thinking thereby to improve his circumstances. So, having
acquainted his father with his purpose, he prevailed upon him to give
him there and then all that he would have given him during the next six
months, that he might have the wherewith to furnish himself with
apparel and a good mount, so as to travel in a becoming manner. And as
he was looking out for some one to attend him as his servant, Fortarrigo,
hearing of it, came presently to him and besought him with all
earnestness to take him with him as his groom, or servant, or what he
would, and he would be satisfied with his keep, without any salary
whatsoever. Whereto Angiulieri made answer that he was not disposed
to take him, not but that he well knew that he was competent for any
service that might be required of him, but because he was given to play,
and therewithal would at times get drunk. Fortarrigo assured him with
many an oath that he would be on his guard to commit neither fault, and
added thereto such instant entreaties, that Angiulieri was, as it were,
vanquished, and consented. So one morning they took the road for
Buonconvento, being minded there to breakfast. Now when Angiulieri
had breakfasted, as ‛twas a very hot day, he had a bed made in the inn,
and having undressed with Fortarrigo’s help, he composed himself to
sleep, telling Fortarrigo to call him on the stroke of none. Angiulieri thus

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sleeping, Fortarrigo repaired to the tavern, where, having slaked his

thirst, he sate down to a game with some that were there, who speedily
won from him all his money, and thereafter in like manner all the
clothes he had on his back: wherefore he, being anxious to retrieve his
losses, went, stripped as he was to his shirt, to the room where lay
Angiulieri; and seeing that he was sound asleep, he took from his purse
all the money that he had, and so went back to the gaming-table, and
staked it, and lost it all, as he had his own.
By and by Angiulieri awoke, and got up, and dressed, and called for
Fortarrigo; and as Fortarrigo answered not, he supposed that he must
have had too much to drink, and be sleeping it off somewhere, as was his
wont. He accordingly determined to leave him alone; and doubting not
to find a better servant at Corsignano, he let saddle his palfrey and
attach the valise; but when, being about to depart, he would have paid
the host, never a coin could he come by. Whereat there was no small stir,
so that all the inn was in an uproar, Angiulieri averring that he had been
robbed in the house, and threatening to have them all arrested and
taken to Siena; when, lo, who should make his appearance but Fortarrigo
in his shirt, intent now to steal the clothes, as he had stolen the moneys,
of Angiulieri? And marking that Angiulieri was accoutred for the road:
—‟How is this, Angiulieri?” quoth he. ‟Are we to start so soon? Nay, but
wait a little. One will be here presently that has my doublet in pawn for
thirty-eight soldi; I doubt not he will return it me for thirty-five soldi, if I
pay money down.” And while they were yet talking, in came one that
made it plain to Angiulieri that ‛twas Fortarrigo that had robbed him of
his money, for he told him the amount that Fortarrigo had lost. Whereat
Angiulieri, in a towering passion, rated Fortarrigo right soundly, and, but
that he stood more in fear of man than of God, would have suited action
to word; and so, threatening to have him hanged by the neck and
proclaimed an outlaw at the gallows-tree of Siena, he mounted his
horse.

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Fortarrigo, making as if ‛twas not to him, but to another, that

Angiulieri thus spoke, made answer:—‟Come now, Angiulieri, we were
best have done with all this idle talk, and consider the matter of
substance: we can redeem for thirty-five soldi, if we pay forthwith, but if
we wait till to-morrow, we shall not get off with less than thirty-eight,
the full amount of the loan; and ‛tis because I staked by his advice that
he will make me this allowance. Now why should not we save these three
soldi?” Whereat Angiulieri waxed well-nigh desperate, more particularly
that he marked that the bystanders were scanning him suspiciously, as
if, so far from understanding that Fortarrigo had staked and lost his,
Angiulieri’s money, they gave him credit for still being in funds: so he
cried out:—‟What have I to do with thy doublet? ‛Tis high time thou
wast hanged by the neck, that, not content with robbing me and
gambling away my money, thou must needs also keep me in parley here
and make mock of me, when I would fain be gone.” Fortarrigo, however,
still persisted in making believe that Angiulieri did not mean this for
him, and only said:—‟Nay, but why wilt not thou save me these three
soldi? Think’st thou I can be of no more use to thee? Prithee, an thou
lov’st me, do me this turn. Wherefore in such a hurry? We have time
enough to get to Torrenieri this evening. Come now, out with thy purse.
Thou knowest I might search Siena through, and not find a doublet that
would suit me so well as this: and for all I let him have it for thirty-eight
soldi, ‛tis worth forty or more; so thou wilt wrong me twice over.” Vexed
beyond measure that, after robbing him, Fortarrigo should now keep
him clavering about the matter, Angiulieri made no answer, but turned
his horse’s head, and took the road for Torrenieri. But Fortarrigo with
cunning malice trotted after him in his shirt, and ‛twas still his doublet,
his doublet, that he would have of him: and when they had thus ridden
two good miles, and Angiulieri was forcing the pace to get out of earshot
of his pestering, Fortarrigo espied some husbandmen in a field beside
the road a little ahead of Angiulieri, and fell a shouting to them amain:

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—‟Take thief! take thief!” Whereupon they came up with their spades
and their mattocks, and barred Angiulieri’s way, supposing that he must
have robbed the man that came shouting after him in his shirt, and
stopped him and apprehended him; and little indeed did it avail him to
tell them who he was, and how the matter stood. For up came Fortarrigo
with a wrathful air, and:—‟I know not,” quoth he, ‟why I spare to kill
thee on the spot, traitor, thief that thou art, thus to despoil me and give
me the slip!” And then, turning to the peasants:—‟You see, gentlemen,”
quoth he, ‟in what a trim he left me in the inn, after gambling away all
that he had with him and on him. Well indeed may I say that under God
‛tis to you I owe it that I have thus come by my own again: for which
cause I shall ever be beholden to you.” Angiulieri also had his say; but his
words passed unheeded. Fortarrigo with the help of the peasants
compelled him to dismount; and having stripped him, donned his
clothes, mounted his horse, and leaving him barefoot and in his shirt,
rode back to Siena, giving out on all hands that he had won the palfrey
and the clothes from Angiulieri. So Angiulieri, having thought to
present himself to the cardinal in the March a wealthy man, returned to
Buonconvento poor and in his shirt; and being ashamed for the time to
shew himself in Siena, pledged the nag that Fortarrigo had ridden for a
suit of clothes, and betook him to his kinsfolk at Corsignano, where he
tarried, until he received a fresh supply of money from his father. Thus,
then, Fortarrigo’s guile disconcerted Angiulieri’s judicious purpose,
albeit when time and occasion served, it was not left unrequited.

NOVEL V.

— Calandrino being enamoured of a damsel, Bruno gives him

a scroll, averring that, if he but touch her therewith, she will go
with him: he is found with her by his wife who subjects him to
a most severe and vexatious examination. —

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So, at no great length, ended Neifile her story, which the company
allowed to pass with none too much laughter or remark: whereupon the
queen, turning to Fiammetta, bade her follow suit. Fiammetta, with
mien most gladsome, made answer that she willingly obeyed, and thus
began:—As I doubt not, ye know, ladies most debonair, be the topic of
discourse never so well worn, it will still continue to please, if the
speaker knows how to make due choice of time and occasion meet.
Wherefore, considering the reason for which we are here (how that ‛tis
to make merry and speed the time gaily, and that merely), I deem that
there is nought that may afford us mirth and solace but here may find
time and occasion meet, and, after serving a thousand turns of
discourse, should still prove not unpleasing for another thousand.
Wherefore, notwithstanding that of Calandrino and his doings not a
little has from time to time been said among us, yet, considering that, as
a while ago Filostrato observed, there is nought that concerns him that is
not entertaining, I will make bold to add to the preceding stories
another, which I might well, had I been minded to deviate from the
truth, have disguised, and so recounted it to you, under other names;
but as whoso in telling a story diverges from the truth does thereby in no
small measure diminish the delight of his hearers, I purpose for the
reason aforesaid to give you the narrative in proper form.
Niccolo Cornacchini, one of our citizens, and a man of wealth, had
among other estates a fine one at Camerata, on which he had a grand
house built, and engaged Bruno and Buffalmacco to paint it throughout;
in which task, for that ‛twas by no means light, they associated with
them Nello and Calandrino, and so set to work. There were a few rooms
in the house provided with beds and other furniture, and an old female
servant lived there as caretaker, but otherwise the house was
unoccupied, for which cause Niccolo’s son, Filippo, being a young man
and a bachelor, was wont sometimes to bring thither a woman for his
pleasure, and after keeping her there for a few days to escort her thence

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again. Now on one of these occasions it befell that he brought thither

one Niccolosa, whom a vile fellow, named Mangione, kept in a house at
Camaldoli as a common prostitute. And a fine piece of flesh she was,
and wore fine clothes, and for one of her sort, knew how to comport
herself becomingly and talk agreeably.
Now one day at high noon forth tripped the damsel from her
chamber in a white gown, her locks braided about her head, to wash her
hands and face at a well that was in the courtyard of the house, and,
while she was so engaged, it befell that Calandrino came there for water,
and greeted her familiarly. Having returned his salutation, she, rather
because Calandrino struck her as something out of the common, than
for any other interest she felt in him, regarded him attentively.
Calandrino did the like by her, and being smitten by her beauty, found
reasons enough why he should not go back to his comrades with the
water; but, as he knew not who she was, he made not bold to address
her. She, upon whom his gaze was not lost, being minded to amuse
herself at his expense, let her glance from time to time rest upon him,
while she heaved a slight sigh or two. Whereby Calandrino was forthwith
captivated, and tarried in the courtyard, until Filippo called her back
into the chamber. Returned to his work, Calandrino sighed like a
furnace: which Bruno, who was ever regardful of his doings for the
diversion they afforded him, failed not to mark, and by and by:—‟What
the Devil is amiss with thee, comrade Calandrino?” quoth he. ‟Thou dost
nought but puff and blow.” ‟Comrade,” replied Calandrino, ‟I should be
in luck, had I but one to help me.” ‟How so?” quoth Bruno. ‟Why,”
returned Calandrino, ”‛tis not to go farther, but there is a damsel below,
fairer than a lamia, and so mightily in love with me that ‛twould astonish
thee. I observed it but now, when I went to fetch the water.” ‟Nay, but,
Calandrino, make sure she be not Filippo’s wife,” quoth Bruno. ‟I doubt
‛tis even so,” replied Calandrino, ‟for he called her and she joined him in
the chamber; but what signifies it? I would circumvent Christ Himself in

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such case, not to say Filippo. Of a truth, comrade, I tell thee she pleases
me I could not say how.” ‟Comrade,” returned Bruno, ‟I will find out for
thee who she is, and if she be Filippo’s wife, two words from me will
make it all straight for thee, for she is much my friend. But how shall we
prevent Buffalmacco knowing it? I can never have a word with her but he
is with me.” ‟As to Buffalmacco,” replied Calandrino: ‟I care not if he do
know it; but let us make sure that it come not to Nello’s ears, for he is of
kin to Monna Tessa, and would spoil it all.” Whereto:—‟Thou art in the
right,” returned Bruno.
Now Bruno knew what the damsel was, for he had seen her arrive,
and moreover Filippo had told him. So, Calandrino having given over
working for a while, and betaken him to her, Bruno acquainted Nello
and Buffalmacco with the whole story; and thereupon they privily
concerted how to entreat him in regard of this love affair. Wherefore,
upon his return, quoth Bruno softly:—‟Didst see her?” ‟Ay, woe’s me!”
replied Calandrino: ‟she has stricken me to the death.” Quoth Bruno:— ‟I
will go see if she be the lady I take her to be, and if I find that ‛tis so,
leave the rest to me.” Whereupon down went Bruno, and found Filippo
and the damsel, and fully apprised them what sort of fellow Calandrino
was, and what he had told them, and concerted with them what each
should do and say, that they might have a merry time together over
Calandrino’s love affair. He then rejoined Calandrino, saying:—” ‛Tis the
very same; and therefore the affair needs very delicate handling, for, if
Filippo were but ware thereof, not all Arno’s waters would suffice to
cleanse us. However, what should I say to her from thee, if by chance I
should get speech of her?” ‟I’faith,” replied Calandrino, ‟why, first, first
of all, thou wilt tell her that I wish her a thousand bushels of the good
seed of generation, and then that I am her servant, and if she is fain of—
aught—thou tak’st me?” ‟Ay,” quoth Bruno, ‟leave it to me.”
Supper-time came; and, the day’s work done, they went down into
the courtyard, Filippo and Niccolosa being there, and there they tarried

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a while to advance Calandrino’s suit. Calandrino’s gaze was soon riveted

on Niccolosa, and such and so strange and startling were the gestures
that he made that they would have given sight to the blind. She on her
part used all her arts to inflame his passion, primed as she had been by
Bruno, and diverted beyond measure as she was by Calandrino’s antics,
while Filippo, Buffalmacco and the rest feigned to be occupied in
converse, and to see nought of what passed. However, after a while, to
Calandrino’s extreme disgust, they took their leave; and as they bent
their steps towards Florence:—‟I warrant thee,” quoth Bruno to
Calandrino, ‟she wastes away for thee like ice in the sunlight; by the
body o’ God, if thou wert to bring thy rebeck, and sing her one or two of
thy love-songs, she’d throw herself out of window to be with thee.”
Quoth Calandrino:—‟Think’st thou, comrade, think’st thou, ‛twere well I
brought it?” ‟Ay, indeed,” returned Bruno. Whereupon:—‟Ah! comrade,”
quoth Calandrino, ‟so thou wouldst not believe me when I told thee to-
day? Of a truth I perceive there’s ne’er another knows so well what he
would be at as I. Who but I would have known how so soon to win the
love of a lady like that? Lucky indeed might they deem themselves, if
they did it, those young gallants that go about, day and night, up and
down, a strumming on the one-stringed viol, and would not know how
to gather a handful of nuts once in a millennium. Mayst thou be by to
see when I bring her the rebeck! thou wilt see fine sport. List well what I
say: I am not so old as I look; and she knows it right well: ay, and anyhow
I will soon let her know it, when I come to grapple her. By the very body
of Christ I will have such sport with her, that she will follow me as any
love-sick maid follows her swain.” ‟Oh!” quoth Bruno, ‟I doubt not thou
wilt make her thy prey: and I seem to see thee bite her dainty vermeil
mouth and her cheeks, that shew as twin roses, with thy teeth, that are
as so many lute-pegs, and afterwards devour her bodily.” So encouraged,
Calandrino fancied himself already in action, and went about singing
and capering in such high glee that ‛twas as if he would burst his skin.

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And so next day he brought the rebeck, and to the no small amusement
of all the company sang several songs to her. And, in short, by frequently
seeing her, he waxed so mad with passion that he gave over working; and
a thousand times a day he would run now to the window, now to the
door, and anon to the courtyard on the chance of catching sight of her;
nor did she, astutely following Bruno’s instructions, fail to afford him
abundance of opportunity. Bruno played the go-between, bearing him
her answers to all his messages, and sometimes bringing him messages
from her. When she was not at home, which was most frequently the
case, he would send him letters from her, in which she gave great
encouragement to his hopes, at the same time giving him to understand
that she was at the house of her kinsfolk, where as yet he might not visit
her.
On this wise Bruno and Buffalmacco so managed the affair as to
divert themselves inordinately, causing him to send her, as at her
request, now an ivory comb, now a purse, now a little knife, and other
such dainty trifles; in return for which they brought him, now and again,
a counterfeit ring of no value, with which Calandrino was marvellously
pleased. And Calandrino, to stimulate their zeal in his interest, would
entertain them hospitably at table, and otherwise flatter them. Now,
when they had thus kept him in play for two good months, and the affair
was just where it had been, Calandrino, seeing that the work was coming
to an end, and bethinking him that, if it did so before he had brought his
love affair to a successful issue, he must give up all hopes of ever so
doing, began to be very instant and importunate with Bruno. So, in the
presence of the damsel, and by preconcert with her and Filippo, quoth
Bruno to Calandrino:—‟Harkye, comrade, this lady has vowed to me a
thousand times that she will do as thou wouldst have her, and as, for all
that, she does nought to pleasure thee, I am of opinion that she leads
thee by the nose: wherefore, as she keeps not her promises, we will make
her do so, willy-nilly, if thou art so minded.” ‟Nay, but, for the love of

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God, so be it,” replied Calandrino, ‟and that speedily.” ‟Darest thou touch
her, then, with a scroll that I shall give thee?” quoth Bruno. ‟I dare,”
replied Calandrino. ‟Fetch me, then,” quoth Bruno, ‟a bit of the skin of
an unborn lamb, a live bat, three grains of incense, and a blessed candle;
and leave the rest to me.” To catch the bat taxed all Calandrino’s art and
craft for the whole of the evening; but having at length taken him, he
brought him with the other matters to Bruno: who, having withdrawn
into a room by himself, wrote on the skin some cabalistic jargon, and
handed it to him, saying:—‟Know, Calandrino, that, if thou touch her
with this scroll, she will follow thee forthwith, and do whatever thou
shalt wish. Wherefore, should Filippo go abroad to-day, get thee
somehow up to her, and touch her; and then go into the barn that is
hereby—‛tis the best place we have, for never a soul goes there—and
thou wilt see that she will come there too. When she is there, thou
wottest well what to do.” Calandrino, overjoyed as ne’er another, took the
scroll, saying only:—‟Comrade, leave that to me.”
Now Nello, whom Calandrino mistrusted, entered with no less zest
than the others into the affair, and was their confederate for Calandrino’s
discomfiture; accordingly by Bruno’s direction he hied to Florence, and
finding Monna Tessa:—‟Thou hast scarce forgotten, Tessa,” quoth he,
‟what a beating Calandrino gave thee, without the least cause, that day
when he came home with the stones from Mugnone; for which I would
have thee be avenged, and, so thou wilt not, call me no more kinsman or
friend. He is fallen in love with a lady up there, who is abandoned
enough to go closeting herself not seldom with him, and ‛tis but a short
while since they made assignation to forgather forthwith: so I would
have thee go there, and surprise him in the act, and give him a sound
trouncing.” Which when the lady heard, she deemed it no laughing
matter; but started up and broke out with:—‟Alas, the arrant knave! is’t
thus he treats me? By the Holy Rood, never fear but I will pay him out!”
And wrapping herself in her cloak, and taking a young woman with her

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for companion, she sped more at a run than at a walk, escorted by Nello,
up to Camerata. Bruno, espying her from afar, said to Filippo:—‟Lo, here
comes our friend.” Whereupon Filippo went to the place where
Calandrino and the others were at work, and said:—‟My masters, I must
needs go at once to Florence; slacken not on that account.” And so off he
went, and hid himself where, unobserved, he might see what Calandrino
would do. Calandrino waited only until he saw that Filippo was at some
distance, and then he went down into the courtyard, where he found
Niccolosa alone, and fell a talking with her. She, knowing well what she
had to do, drew close to him, and shewed him a little more familiarity
than she was wont: whereupon Calandrino touched her with the scroll,
and having so done, saying never a word, bent his steps towards the
barn, whither Niccolosa followed him, and being entered, shut the door,
and forthwith embraced him, threw him down on the straw that lay
there, and got astride of him, and holding him fast by the arms about
the shoulders, suffered him not to approach his face to hers, but gazing
upon him, as if he were the delight of her heart:—‟O Calandrino, sweet
my Calandrino,” quoth she, ‟heart of my body, my very soul, my bliss, my
consolation, ah! how long have I yearned to hold thee in my arms and
have thee all my own! Thy endearing ways have utterly disarmed me;
thou hast made prize of my heart with thy rebeck. Do I indeed hold thee
in mine embrace?” Calandrino, scarce able to move, murmured:— ‟Ah!
sweet my soul, suffer me to kiss thee.” Whereto:—‟Nay, but thou art too
hasty,” replied Niccolosa. ‟Let me first feast mine eyes on thee; let me
but sate them with this sweet face of thine.”
Meanwhile Bruno and Buffalmacco had joined Filippo, so that what
passed was seen and heard by all three. And while Calandrino was thus
intent to kiss Niccolosa, lo, up came Nello with Monna Tessa. ‟By God, I
swear they are both there,” ejaculated Nello, as they entered the
doorway; but the lady, now fairly furious, laid hold of him and thrust
him aside, and rushing in, espied Niccolosa astride of Calandrino.

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Niccolosa no sooner caught sight of the lady, than up she jumped, and in
a trice was beside Filippo. Monna Tessa fell upon Calandrino, who was
still on the floor, planted her nails in his face, and scratched it all over:
she then seized him by the hair, and hauling him to and fro about the
barn:—‟Foul, pestilent cur,” quoth she, ‟is this the way thou treatest me?
Thou old fool! A murrain on the love I have borne thee! Hast thou not
enough to do at home, that thou must needs go falling in love with
strange women? And a fine lover thou wouldst make! Dost not know
thyself, knave? Dost not know thyself, wretch? Thou, from whose whole
body ‛twere not possible to wring enough sap for a sauce! God’s faith,
‛twas not Tessa that got thee with child: God’s curse on her, whoever she
was: verily she must be a poor creature to be enamoured of a jewel of thy
rare quality.” At sight of his wife, Calandrino, suspended, as it were,
between life and death, ventured no defence; but, his face torn to shreds,
his hair and clothes all disordered, fumbled about for his capuche, which
having found, up he got, and humbly besought his wife not to publish
the matter, unless she were minded that he should be cut to pieces, for
that she that was with him was the wife of the master of the house.
‟Then God give her a bad year,” replied the lady. Whereupon Bruno and
Buffalmacco, who by this time had laughed their fill with Filippo and
Niccolosa, came up as if attracted by the noise; and after not a little ado
pacified the lady, and counselled Calandrino to go back to Florence, and
stay there, lest Filippo should get wind of the affair, and do him a
mischief. So Calandrino, crestfallen and woebegone, got him back to
Florence with his face torn to shreds; where, daring not to shew himself
at Camerata again, he endured day and night the grievous torment of his
wife’s vituperation. Such was the issue, to which, after ministering not a
little mirth to his comrades, as also to Niccolosa and Filippo, this ardent
lover brought his amour.

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NOVEL VI.

— Two young men lodge at an inn, of whom the one lies with
the host’s daughter, his wife by inadvertence lying with the
other. He that lay with the daughter afterwards gets into her
father’s bed and tells him all, taking him to be his comrade.
They bandy words: whereupon the good woman, apprehending
the circumstances, gets her to bed with her daughter, and by
divers apt words re-establishes perfect accord. —
Calandrino as on former occasions, so also on this, moved the company
to laughter. However, when the ladies had done talking of his doings, the
queen called for a story from Pamfilo, who thus spoke:—Worshipful
ladies, this Niccolosa, that Calandrino loved, has brought to my mind a
story of another Niccolosa; which I am minded to tell you, because ‛twill
shew you how a good woman by her quick apprehension avoided a great
scandal.
In the plain of Mugnone there was not long ago a good man that
furnished travellers with meat and drink for money, and, for that he was
in poor circumstances, and had but a little house, gave not lodging to
every comer, but only to a few that he knew, and if they were hard
bested. Now the good man had to wife a very fine woman, and by her
had two children, to wit, a pretty and winsome girl of some fifteen or
sixteen summers, as yet unmarried, and a little boy, not yet one year old,
whom the mother suckled at her own breast. The girl had found favour
in the eyes of a goodly and mannerly young gentleman of our city, who
was not seldom in those parts, and loved her to the point of passion.
And she, being mightily flattered to be loved by such a gallant, studied
how to comport herself so debonairly as to retain his regard, and while
she did so, grew likewise enamoured of him; and divers times, by
consent of both their love had had its fruition, but that Pinuccio—such

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was the gallant’s name—shrank from the disgrace that ‛twould bring
upon the girl and himself alike. But, as his passion daily waxed apace,
Pinuccio, yearning to find himself abed with her, bethought him that he
were best contrive to lodge with her father, deeming, from what he knew
of her father’s economy, that, if he did so, he might effect his purpose,
and never a soul be the wiser: which idea no sooner struck him, than he
set about carrying it into effect.
So, late one evening Pinuccio and a trusty comrade, Adriano by
name, to whom he had confided his love, hired two nags, and having set
upon them two valises, filled with straw or such-like stuff, sallied forth
of Florence, and rode by a circuitous route to the plain of Mugnone,
which they reached after nightfall; and having fetched a compass, so that
it might seem as if they were coming from Romagna, they rode up to the
good man’s house, and knocked at the door. The good man, knowing
them both very well, opened to them forthwith: whereupon:— ‟Thou
must even put us up to-night,” quoth Pinuccio; ‟we thought to get into
Florence, but, for all the speed we could make, we are but arrived here,
as thou seest, at this hour.” ‟Pinuccio,” replied the host, ‟thou well
knowest that I can but make a sorry shift to lodge gentlemen like you;
but yet, as night has overtaken you here, and time serves not to betake
you elsewhere, I will gladly give you such accommodation as I may.” The
two gallants then dismounted and entered the inn, and having first
looked to their horses, brought out some supper that they had carried
with them, and supped with the host.
Now the host had but one little bedroom, in which were three beds,
set, as conveniently as he could contrive, two on one side of the room,
and the third on the opposite side, but, for all that, there was scarce
room enough to pass through. The host had the least discomfortable of
the three beds made up for the two friends; and having quartered them
there, some little while afterwards, both being awake, but feigning to be
asleep, he caused his daughter to get into one of the other two beds,

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while he and his wife took their places in the third, the good woman
setting the cradle, in which was her little boy, beside the bed. Such,
then, being the partition made of the beds, Pinuccio, who had taken
exact note thereof, waited only until he deemed all but himself to be
asleep, and then got softly up and stole to the bed in which lay his
beloved, and laid himself beside her; and she according him albeit a
timorous yet a gladsome welcome, he stayed there, taking with her that
solace of which both were most fain.
Pinuccio being thus with the girl, it chanced that certain things,
being overset by a cat, fell with a noise that aroused the good woman,
who, fearing that it might be a matter of more consequence, got up as
best she might in the dark, and betook her to the place whence the noise
seemed to proceed. At the same time Adriano, not by reason of the
noise, which he heeded not, but perchance to answer the call of nature,
also got up, and questing about for a convenient place, came upon the
cradle beside the good woman’s bed; and not being able otherwise to go
by, took it up, and set it beside his own bed, and when he had
accomplished his purpose, went back, and giving never a thought to the
cradle got him to bed. The good woman searched until she found that
the accident was no such matter as she had supposed; so without
troubling to strike a light to investigate it further, she reproved the cat,
and returned to the room, and groped her way straight to the bed in
which her husband lay asleep; but not finding the cradle there, quoth
she to herself:—Alas! blunderer that I am, what was I about? God’s faith!
I was going straight to the guests’ bed; and proceeding a little further,
she found the cradle, and laid herself down by Adriano in the bed that
was beside it, taking Adriano for her husband; and Adriano, who was
still awake, received her with all due benignity, and tackled her more
than once to her no small delight.
Meanwhile Pinuccio fearing lest sleep should overtake him while he
was yet with his mistress, and having satisfied his desire, got up and left

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her, to return to his bed; but when he got there, coming upon the cradle,
he supposed that ‛twas the host’s bed; and so going a little further, he
laid him down beside the host, who thereupon awoke. Supposing that
he had Adriano beside him:—‟I warrant thee,” quoth Pinuccio to the
host, ‟there was never so sweet a piece of flesh as Niccolosa: by the body
of God, such delight have I had of her as never had man of woman; and,
mark me, since I left thee, I have gotten me up to the farm some six
times.” Which tidings the host being none too well pleased to learn, said
first of all to himself:—What the Devil does this fellow here? Then, his
resentment getting the better of his prudence:—”‛Tis a gross affront thou
hast put upon me, Pinuccio,” quoth he; ‟nor know I what occasion thou
hast to do me such a wrong; but by the body of God I will pay thee out.”
Pinuccio, who was not the most discreet of gallants, albeit he was now
apprised of his error, instead of doing his best to repair it, retorted:
—‟And how wilt thou pay me out? What canst thou do?” ‟Hark what
high words our guests are at together!” quoth meanwhile the host’s wife
to Adriano, deeming that she spoke to her husband. ‟Let them be,”
replied Adriano with a laugh:—‟God give them a bad year: they drank
too much yestereve.” The good woman had already half recognized her
husband’s angry tones, and now that she heard Adriano’s voice, she at
once knew where she was and with whom. Accordingly, being a discreet
woman, she started up, and saying never a word, took her child’s cradle,
and, though there was not a ray of light in the room, bore it, divining
rather than feeling her way, to the side of the bed in which her daughter
slept; and then, as if aroused by the noise made by her husband, she
called him, and asked what he and Pinuccio were bandying words about.
‟Hearest thou not,” replied the husband, ‟what he says he has this very
night done to Niccolosa?” ‟Tush! he lies in the throat,” returned the good
woman: ‟he has not lain with Niccolosa; for what time he might have
done so, I laid me beside her myself, and I have been wide awake ever
since; and thou art a fool to believe him. You men take so many cups

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before going to bed that then you dream, and walk in your sleep, and
imagine wonders. ‛Tis a great pity you do not break your necks. What
does Pinuccio there? Why keeps he not in his own bed?”
Whereupon Adriano, in his turn, seeing how adroitly the good
woman cloaked her own and her daughter’s shame:—‟Pinuccio,” quoth
he, ‟I have told thee a hundred times, that thou shouldst not walk about
at night; for this thy bad habit of getting up in thy dreams and relating
thy dreams for truth will get thee into a scrape some time or another:
come back, and God send thee a bad night.” Hearing Adriano thus
confirm what his wife had said, the host began to think that Pinuccio
must be really dreaming; so he took him by the shoulder, and fell a
shaking him, and calling him by his name, saying:—‟Pinuccio, wake up,
and go back to thy bed.” Pinuccio, taking his cue from what he had
heard, began as a dreamer would be like to do, to talk wanderingly;
whereat the host laughed amain. Then, feigning to be aroused by the
shaking, Pinuccio uttered Adriano’s name, saying:—‟Is’t already day, that
thou callest me?” ‟Ay, ‛tis so,” quoth Adriano: ‟come hither.” Whereupon
Pinuccio, making as if he were mighty drowsy, got him up from beside
the host, and back to bed with Adriano. On the morrow, when they were
risen, the host fell a laughing and making merry touching Pinuccio and
his dreams. And so the jest passed from mouth to mouth, while the
gallants’ horses were groomed and saddled, and their valises adjusted:
which done, they drank with the host, mounted and rode to Florence,
no less pleased with the manner than with the matter of the night’s
adventure. Nor, afterwards, did Pinuccio fail to find other means of
meeting Niccolosa, who assured her mother that he had unquestionably
dreamed. For which cause the good woman, calling to mind Adriano’s
embrace, accounted herself the only one that had watched.

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NOVEL VII.

— Talano di Molese dreams that a wolf tears and rends all the
neck and face of his wife: he gives her warning thereof, which
she heeds not, and the dream comes true. —
When Pamfilo had brought his story to a close, and all had commended
the good woman’s quick perception, the queen bade Pampinea tell hers;
and thus Pampinea began:—A while ago, debonair my ladies, we held
discourse of the truths that dreams shew forth, which not a few of us
deride; for which cause, albeit the topic has been handled before, I shall
not spare to tell you that which not long ago befell a neighbour of mine,
for that she disbelieved a dream that her husband had.
I wot not if you knew Talano di Molese, a man right worthy to be had
in honour; who, having married a young wife—Margarita by name—fair
as e’er another, but without her match for whimsical, fractious, and
perverse humours, insomuch that there was nought she would do at the
instance of another, either for his or her own good, found her behaviour
most grievous to bear, but was fain to endure what he might not cure.
Now it so befell that Talano and Margarita being together at an estate
that Talano had in the contado, he, sleeping, saw in a dream a very
beautiful wood that was on the estate at no great distance from the
house, and his lady there walking. And as she went, there leapt forth
upon her a huge and fierce wolf that griped her by the throat, and bore
her down to the ground, and (she shrieking the while for succour) would
have carried her off by main force; but she got quit of his jaws, albeit her
neck and face shewed as quite disfigured. On the morrow, as soon as he
was risen, Talano said to his wife:—‟Albeit for thy perversity I have not
yet known a single good day with thee, yet I should be sorry, wife, that
harm should befall thee; and therefore, if thou take my advice, thou wilt
not stir out of doors to-day.” ‟Wherefore?” quoth the lady; and

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thereupon he recounted to her all his dream.

The lady shook her head, saying:—‟Who means ill, dreams ill. Thou
makest as if thou wast mighty tender of me, but thou bodest of me in
thy dream that which thou wouldst fain see betide me. I warrant thee
that to-day and all days I will have a care to avoid this or any other
calamity that might gladden thy heart.” Whereupon:—‟Well wist I,”
replied Talano, ‟that thou wouldst so say, for such is ever the requital of
those that comb scurfy heads; but whatever thou mayst be pleased to
believe, I for my part speak to thee for thy good, and again I advise thee
to keep indoors to-day, or at least not to walk in the wood.” ‟Good,”
returned the lady, ‟I will look to it,” and then she began communing
with herself on this wise:—Didst mark how artfully he thinks to have
scared me from going into the wood to-day? Doubtless ‛tis that he has
an assignation there with some light o’ love, with whom he had rather I
did not find him. Ah! he would sup well with the blind, and what a fool
were I to believe him! But I warrant he will be disappointed, and needs
must I, though I stay there all day long, see what commerce it is that he
will adventure in to-day.
Having so said, she quitted the house on one side, while her husband
did so on the other; and forthwith, shunning observation as best she
might, she hied her to the wood, and hid her where ‛twas most dense,
and there waited on the alert, and glancing, now this way and now that,
to see if any were coming. And while thus she stood, nor ever a thought
of a wolf crossed her mind, lo, forth of a close covert hard by came a wolf
of monstrous size and appalling aspect, and scarce had she time to say,
God help me! before he sprang upon her and griped her by the throat so
tightly that she might not utter a cry, but, passive as any lambkin, was
borne off by him, and had certainly been strangled, had he not
encountered some shepherds, who with shouts compelled him to let her
go. The shepherds recognized the poor hapless woman, and bore her
home, where the physicians by dint of long and careful treatment cured

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her; howbeit the whole of her throat and part of her face remained so
disfigured that, fair as she had been before, she was ever thereafter most
foul and hideous to look upon. Wherefore, being ashamed to shew her
face, she did many a time bitterly deplore her perversity, in that, when it
would have cost her nothing, she would nevertheless pay no heed to the
true dream of her husband.

NOVEL VIII.

— Biondello gulls Ciacco in the matter of a breakfast: for

which prank Ciacco is cunningly avenged on Biondello,
causing him to be shamefully
beaten. —
All the company by common consent pronounced it no dream but a
vision that Talano had had in his sleep, so exactly, no circumstance
lacking, had it fallen out according as he had seen it. However, as soon as
all had done speaking, the queen bade Lauretta follow suit; which
Lauretta did on this wise:—As, most discreet my ladies, those that have
preceded me to-day have almost all taken their cue from somewhat that
has been said before, so, prompted by the stern vengeance taken by the
scholar in Pampinea’s narrative of yesterday, I am minded to tell you of a
vengeance that was indeed less savage, but for all that grievous enough
to him on whom it was wreaked.
Wherefore I say that there was once at Florence one that all folk
called Ciacco, a man second to none that ever lived for inordinate
gluttony, who, lacking the means to support the expenditure which his
gluttony demanded, and being, for the rest, well-mannered and well
furnished with excellent and merry jests, did, without turning exactly
court jester, cultivate a somewhat biting wit, and loved to frequent the
houses of the rich, and such as kept good tables; whither, bidden or

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unbidden, he not seldom resorted for breakfast or supper. There was also
in those days at Florence one that was called Biondello, a man very short
of stature, and not a little debonair, more trim than any fly, with his
blond locks surmounted by a coif, and never a hair out of place; and he
and Ciacco were two of a trade.
Now one morning in Lent Biondello, being in the fish-market
purchasing two mighty fat lampreys for Messer Vieri de’ Cerchi, was
observed thus engaged by Ciacco, who came up to him, and:—‟What
means this?” quoth he. ‟Why,” replied Biondello, ”‛tis that yestereve
Messer Corso Donati had three lampreys much finer than these and a
sturgeon sent to his house, but as they did not suffice for a breakfast that
he is to give certain gentlemen, he has commissioned me to buy him
these two beside. Wilt thou not be there?” ‟Ay, marry, that will I,”
returned Ciacco. And in what he deemed due time he hied him to
Messer Corso Donati’s house, where he found him with some of his
neighbours not yet gone to breakfast. And being asked by Messer Corso
with what intent he was come, he answered:—‟I am come, Sir, to
breakfast with you and your company.” ‟And welcome art thou,” returned
Messer Corso, ‟go we then to breakfast, for ‛tis now the time.” So to table
they went, where nought was set before them but pease and the inward
part of the tunny salted, and afterwards the common fish of the Arno
fried. Wherefore Ciacco, not a little wroth at the trick that he perceived
Biondello had played him, resolved to pay him out. And not many days
after Biondello, who had meanwhile had many a laugh with his friends
over Ciacco’s discomfiture, met him, and after greeting him, asked him
with a laugh what Messer Corso’s lampreys had been like. ‟That
question,” replied Ciacco, ‟thou wilt be able to answer much better than
I before eight days are gone by.” And parting from Biondello upon the
word, he went forthwith and hired a cozening rogue, and having thrust a
glass bottle into his hand, brought him within sight of the Loggia de’
Cavicciuli; and there, pointing to a knight, one Messer Filippo Argenti, a

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tall man and stout, and of a high courage, and haughty, choleric and
cross-grained as ne’er another, he said to him:—‟Thou wilt go, flask in
hand, to Messer Filippo, and wilt say to him:—‛I am sent to you, Sir, by
Biondello, who entreats you to be pleased to colour this flask for him
with some of your good red wine, for that he is minded to have a good
time with his catamites.’ And of all things have a care that he lay not
hands upon thee, for he would make thee rue the day, and would spoil
my sport.” ‟Have I aught else to say?” enquired the rogue. ‟Nothing
more,” returned Ciacco: ‟and now get thee gone, and when thou hast
delivered the message, bring me back the flask, and I will pay thee.”
So away went the rogue, and did the errand to Messer Filippo, who
forthwith, being a hasty man, jumped to the conclusion that Biondello,
whom he knew, was making mock of him, and while an angry flush
overspread his face:—‟Colour the flask, forsooth!” quoth he, ‟and
‛Catamites!’ God send thee and him a bad year!” and therewith up he
started, and reached forward to lay hold of the rogue, who, being on the
alert, gave him the slip and was off, and reported Messer Filippo’s answer
to Ciacco, who had observed what had passed. Having paid the rogue,
Ciacco rested not until he had found Biondello, to whom:—‟Wast thou
but now,” quoth he, ‟at the Loggia de’ Cavicciuli?” ‟Indeed no,” replied
Biondello: ‟wherefore such a question?” ‟Because,” returned Ciacco, ‟I
may tell thee that thou art sought for by Messer Filippo, for what cause I
know not.” ‟Good,” quoth Biondello, ‟I will go thither and speak with
him.” So away went Biondello, and Ciacco followed him to see what
course the affair would take.
Now having failed to catch the rogue, Messer Filippo was still very
wroth, and inly fumed and fretted, being unable to make out aught from
what the rogue had said save that Biondello was set on by some one or
another to flout him. And while thus he vexed his spirit, up came
Biondello; whom he no sooner espied than he made for him, and dealt
him a mighty blow in the face, and tore his hair and coif, and cast his

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capuche on the ground, and to his ‟Alas, Sir, what means this?” still
beating him amain:—‟Traitor,” cried he; ‟I will give thee to know what it
means to send me such a message. ‛Colour the flask,’ forsooth, and
‛Catamites!’ Dost take me for a stripling, to be befooled by thee?” And
therewith he pummelled Biondello’s face all over with a pair of fists that
were liker to iron than aught else, until it was but a mass of bruises; he
also tore and dishevelled all his hair, tumbled him in the mud, rent all
his clothes upon his back, and that without allowing him breathing-
space to ask why he thus used him, or so much as utter a word. ‟Colour
me the flask!” and ‟Catamites!” rang in his ears; but what the words
signified he knew not. In the end very badly beaten, and in very sorry
and ragged trim, many folk having gathered around them, they, albeit
not without the utmost difficulty, rescued him from Messer Filippo’s
hands, and told him why Messer Filippo had thus used him, censuring
him for sending him such a message, and adding that thenceforth he
would know Messer Filippo better, and that he was not a man to be
trifled with. Biondello told them in tearful exculpation that he had
never sent for wine to Messer Filippo: then, when they had put him in a
little better trim, crestfallen and woebegone, he went home imputing his
misadventure to Ciacco. And when, many days afterwards, the marks of
his ill-usage being gone from his face, he began to go abroad again, it
chanced that Ciacco met him, and with a laugh:—‟Biondello,” quoth he,
‟how didst thou relish Messer Filippo’s wine?” ‟Why, as to that,” replied
Biondello, ‟would thou hadst relished the lampreys of Messer Corso as
much!” ‟So!” returned Ciacco, ‟such meat as thou then gavest me, thou
mayst henceforth give me, as often as thou art so minded; and I will give
thee even such drink as I have given thee.” So Biondello, witting that
against Ciacco his might was not equal to his spite, prayed God for his
peace, and was careful never to flout him again.

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NOVEL IX.

— Two young men ask counsel of Solomon; the one, how he is

to make himself beloved, the other, how he is to reduce an
unruly wife to order. The King bids the one to love, and the
other to go to the Bridge of Geese. —
None now remained to tell save the queen, unless she were minded to
infringe Dioneo’s privilege. Wherefore, when the ladies had laughed
their fill over the misfortunes of Biondello, thus gaily the queen began:
—Observe we, lovesome ladies, the order of things with a sound mind,
and we shall readily perceive that we women are one and all subjected by
Nature and custom and law unto man, by him to be ruled and governed
at his discretion; wherefore she, that would fain enjoy quietude and
solace and comfort with the man to whom she belongs, ought not only
to be chaste but lowly, patient and obedient: the which is the discreet
wife’s chief and most precious possession. And if the laws, which in all
matters have regard unto the common weal, and use and wont or custom
(call it what you will), a power very great and to be had in awe, should
not suffice to school us thereto; yet abundantly clear is the witness of
Nature, which has fashioned our frames delicate and sensitive, and our
spirits timorous and fearful, and has decreed that our bodily strength
shall be slight, our voices tunable, and our movements graceful; which
qualities do all avouch that we have need of others’ governance. And
whoso has need of succour and governance ought in all reason to be
obedient and submissive and reverent towards his governor. And whom
have we to govern and succour us save men? ‛Tis then our bounden duty
to give men all honour and submit ourselves unto them: from which rule
if any deviate, I deem her most deserving not only of grave censure but
of severe chastisement. Which reflections, albeit they are not new to me,
I am now led to make by what but a little while ago Pampinea told us

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touching the perverse wife of Talano, on whom God bestowed that

chastisement which the husband had omitted; and accordingly it jumps
with my judgment that all such women as deviate from the graciousness,
kindliness and compliancy, which Nature and custom and law prescribe,
merit, as I said, stern and severe chastisement. Wherefore, as a salutary
medicine for the healing of those of us who may be afflicted with this
disease, I am minded to relate to you that which was once delivered by
Solomon by way of counsel in such a case. Which let none that stands
not in need of such physic deem to be meant for her, albeit a proverb is
current among men; to wit:—
Good steed, bad steed, alike need the rowel’s prick,
Good wife, bad wife, alike demand the stick.
Which whoso should construe as a merry conceit would find you all
ready enough to acknowledge its truth. But even in its moral significance
I say that it ought to command assent. For women are all by nature apt
to be swayed and to fall; and therefore, for the correction of the wrong-
doing of such as transgress the bounds assigned to them, there is need
of the stick punitive; and also for the maintenance of virtue in others,
that they transgress not these appointed bounds, there is need of the
stick auxiliary and deterrent. However, to cut short this preachment, and
to come to that which I purpose to tell you, I say:
That the bruit of the incomparable renown of the prodigious wisdom
of Solomon, as also of the exceeding great liberality with which he
accorded proof thereof to all that craved such assurance, being gone
forth over well-nigh all the earth, many from divers parts were wont to
resort to him for counsel in matters of most pressing and arduous
importance; among whom was a young man, Melisso by name, a very
wealthy nobleman, who was, as had been his fathers before him, of
Lazistan, and there dwelt. And as Melisso fared toward Jerusalem, on his
departure from Antioch he fell in with another young man, Giosefo by

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name, who was going the same way, and with whom, after the manner of
travellers, he entered into converse. Melisso, having learned from
Giosefo, who and whence he was, asked him whither he went, and on
what errand: whereupon Giosefo made an answer that he was going to
seek counsel of Solomon, how he should deal with his wife, who had not
her match among women for unruliness and perversity, insomuch that
neither entreaties nor blandishments nor aught else availed him to bring
her to a better frame. And thereupon he in like manner asked Melisso
whence he was, and whither he was bound, and on what errand:
whereto:—‟Of Lazistan, I,” replied Melisso, ‟and like thyself in evil
plight; for albeit I am wealthy and spend my substance freely in
hospitably entertaining and honourably entreating my fellow-citizens,
yet for all that, passing strange though it be to think upon, I find never a
soul to love me; and therefore I am bound to the self-same place as thou,
to be advised how it may come to pass that I be beloved.”
So the two men fared on together, and being arrived at Jerusalem,
were, by the good offices of one of Solomon’s barons, ushered into his
presence, and Melisso having briefly laid his case before the King, was
answered in one word:—‟Love.” Which said, Melisso was forthwith
dismissed, and Giosefo discovered the reason of his coming. To whom
Solomon made no answer but:—‟Get thee to the Bridge of Geese.”
Whereupon Giosefo was likewise promptly ushered out of the King’s
presence, and finding Melisso awaiting him, told him what manner of
answer he had gotten. Which utterances of the King the two men
pondered, but finding therein nought that was helpful or relevant to
their need, they doubted the King had but mocked them, and set forth
upon their homeward journey.
Now when they had been some days on the road, they came to a river,
which was spanned by a fine bridge, and a great caravan of sumpter
mules and horses being about to cross, they must needs tarry, until the
caravan had passed by. The more part of which had done so, when it

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chanced that a mule turned sulky, as we know they will not seldom do,
and stood stock still; wherefore a muleteer took a stick and fell a beating
the mule therewith, albeit at first with no great vigour, to urge the mule
forward. The mule, however, swerving, now to this, now to the other side
of the bridge, and sometimes facing about, utterly refused to go forward.
Whereat the muleteer, wroth beyond measure, fell a belabouring him
with the stick now on the head, now on the flanks, and anon on the
croup, never so lustily, but all to no purpose. Which caused Melisso and
Giosefo ofttimes to say to him:—‟How now, caitiff? What is this thou
doest? Wouldst kill the beast? Why not try if thou canst not manage
him kindly and gently? He would start sooner so than for this cudgelling
of thine.” To whom:—‟You know your horses,” replied the muleteer, ‟and
I know my mule: leave me to deal with him.” Which said, he resumed his
cudgelling of the mule, and laid about him on this side and on that to
such purpose that he started him; and so the honours of the day rested
with the muleteer. Now, as the two young men were leaving the bridge
behind them, Giosefo asked a good man that sate at its head what the
bridge was called, and was answered:—‟Sir, ‛tis called the Bridge of
Geese.” Which Giosefo no sooner heard than he called to mind
Solomon’s words, and turning to Melisso:—‟Now, comrade, I warrant
thee I may yet find Solomon’s counsel sound and good, for that I knew
not how to beat my wife is abundantly clear to me; and this muleteer has
shewn me what I have to do.”
Now some days afterwards they arrived at Antioch, where Giosefo
prevailed upon Melisso to tarry with him and rest a day or two; and
meeting with but a sorry welcome on the part of his wife, he told her to
take her orders as to supper from Melisso, who, seeing that such was
Giosefo’s will, briefly gave her his instructions; which the lady, as had
been her wont, not only did not obey, but contravened in almost every
particular. Which Giosefo marking:—‟Wast thou not told,” quoth he
angrily, ‟after what fashion thou wast to order the supper?” Whereto:

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—‟So!” replied the lady haughtily: ‟what means this? If thou hast a mind
to sup, why take not thy supper? No matter what I was told, ‛tis thus I
saw fit to order it. If it like thee, so be it: if not, ‛tis thine affair.” Melisso
heard the lady with surprise and inward disapprobation: Giosefo
retorted:—‟Ay wife, thou art still as thou wast used to be; but I will make
thee mend thy manners.” Then, turning to Melisso:—‟Friend,” quoth he,
‟thou wilt soon prove the worth of Solomon’s counsel: but, prithee, let it
not irk thee to look on, and deem that what I shall do is but done in
sport; and if thou shouldst be disposed to stand in my way, bear in mind
how we were answered by the muleteer, when we pitied his mule.” ‟I am
in thy house,” replied Melisso, ‟and thy pleasure is to me law.”
Thereupon Giosefo took a stout cudgel cut from an oak sapling, and
hied him into the room whither the lady had withdrawn from the table
in high dudgeon, seized her by the hair, threw her on to the floor at his
feet, and fell a beating her amain with the cudgel. The lady at first
uttered a shriek or two, from which she passed to threats; but seeing
that, for all that, Giosefo slackened not, by the time she was thoroughly
well thrashed, she began to cry him mercy, imploring him not to kill her,
and adding that henceforth his will should be to her for law. But still
Giosefo gave not over, but with ever fresh fury dealt her mighty
swingeing blows, now about the ribs, now on the haunches, now over
the shoulders; nor had he done with the fair lady, until, in short, he had
left never a bone or other part of her person whole, and he was fairly
spent. Then, returning to Melisso:—‟To-morrow,” quoth he, ‟we shall see
whether ‛Get thee to the Bridge of Geese’ will prove to have been sound
advice or no.” And so, having rested a while, and then washed his hands,
he supped with Melisso. With great pain the poor lady got upon her feet
and laid herself on her bed, and having there taken such rest as she
might, rose betimes on the morrow, and craved to know of Giosefo what
he was minded to have to breakfast. Giosefo, laughing with Melisso over
the message, gave her his directions, and when in due time they came to

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breakfast, they found everything excellently ordered according as it had

been commanded: for which cause the counsel, which they had at first
failed to understand, now received their highest commendation.
Some few days later Melisso, having taken leave of Giosefo, went
home, and told a wise man the counsel he had gotten from Solomon.
Whereupon:—‟And no truer or sounder advice could he have given
thee,” quoth the sage: ‟thou knowest that thou lovest never a soul, and
that the honours thou payest and the services thou renderest to others
are not prompted by love of them, but by love of display. Love, then, as
Solomon bade thee, and thou shalt be loved.” On such wise was the
unruly chastised; and the young man, learning to love, was beloved.

NOVEL X.

— Dom Gianni at the instance of his gossip Pietro uses an

enchantment to transform Pietro’s wife into a mare; but, when
he comes to attach the tail, Gossip Pietro, by saying that he
will have none of the tail, makes the enchantment of no effect.
—
The queen’s story evoked some murmurs from the ladies and some
laughter from the young men; however, when they were silent, Dioneo
thus began:—Dainty my ladies, a black crow among a flock of white
doves enhances their beauty more than would a white swan; and so,
when many sages are met together, their ripe wisdom not only shews the
brighter and goodlier for the presence of one that is not so wise, but may
even derive pleasure and diversion therefrom. Wherefore as you, my
ladies, are one and all most discreet and judicious, I, who know myself to
be somewhat scant of sense, should, for that by my demerit I make your
merit shew the more glorious, be more dear to you, than if by my greater
merit I eclipsed yours, and by consequence should have more ample

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license to reveal myself to you as I am; and therefore have more patient
sufferance on your part than would be due to me, were I more discreet,
in the relation of the tale which I am about to tell you. ‛Twill be, then, a
story none too long, wherefrom you may gather with what exactitude it
behoves folk to observe the injunctions of those that for any purpose use
an enchantment, and how slight an error committed therein make bring
to nought all the work of the enchanter.
A year or so ago there was at Barletta a priest named Dom Gianni di
Barolo, who, to eke out the scanty pittance his church afforded him, set a
pack-saddle upon his mare, and took to going the round of the fairs of
Apulia, buying and selling merchandise. And so it befell that he clapped
up a close acquaintance with one Pietro da Tresanti, who plied the same
trade as he, albeit instead of a mare he had but an ass; whom in token of
friendship and good-fellowship Dom Gianni after the Apulian fashion
called ever Gossip Pietro, and had him to his house and there lodged
and honourably entreated him as often as he came to Barletta. Gossip
Pietro on his part, albeit he was very poor and had but a little cot at
Tresanti, that scarce sufficed for himself, his fair, young wife, and their
ass, nevertheless, whenever Dom Gianni arrived at Tresanti, made him
welcome, and did him the honours of his house as best he might, in
requital of the hospitality which he received at Barletta. However, as
Gossip Pietro had but one little bed, in which he slept with his fair wife,
‛twas not in his power to lodge Dom Gianni as comfortably as he would
have liked; but the priest’s mare being quartered beside the ass in a little
stable, the priest himself must needs lie beside her on the straw. Many a
time when the priest came, the wife, knowing how honourably he
entreated her husband at Barletta, would fain have gone to sleep with a
neighbour, one Zita Carapresa di Giudice Leo, that the priest might
share the bed with her husband, and many a time had she told the priest
so howbeit he would never agree to it, and on one occasion:—‟Gossip
Gemmata,” quoth he, ‟trouble not thyself about me; I am well lodged;

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for, when I am so minded, I turn the mare into a fine lass and dally with
her, and then, when I would, I turn her back into a mare; wherefore I
could ill brook to part from her.” The young woman, wondering but
believing, told her husband what the priest had said, adding:— ‟If he is
even such a friend as thou sayst, why dost thou not get him to teach thee
the enchantment, so that thou mayst turn me into a mare, and have
both ass and mare for thine occasions? We should then make twice as
much gain as we do, and thou couldst turn me back into a woman when
we came home at night.”
Gossip Pietro, whose wit was somewhat blunt, believed that ‛twas as
she said, approved her counsel, and began adjuring Dom Gianni, as
persuasively as he might, to teach him the incantation. Dom Gianni did
his best to wean him of his folly; but as all was in vain:—‟Lo, now,” quoth
he, ‟as you are both bent on it, we will be up, as is our wont, before the
sun to-morrow morning, and I will shew you how ‛tis done. The truth is
that ‛tis in the attachment of the tail that the great difficulty lies, as thou
wilt see.” Scarce a wink of sleep had either Gossip Pietro or Gossip
Gemmata that night, so great was their anxiety; and towards daybreak
up they got, and called Dom Gianni; who, being risen, came in his shirt
into Gossip Pietro’s little bedroom, and:—‟I know not,” quoth he, ‟that
there is another soul in the world for whom I would do this, save you, my
gossips; however, as you will have it so, I will do it, but it behoves you to
do exactly as I bid you, if you would have the enchantment work.” They
promised obedience, and Dom Gianni thereupon took a light, which he
handed to Gossip Pietro, saying:—‟Let nought that I shall do or say
escape thee; and have a care, so thou wouldst not ruin all, to say never a
word, whatever thou mayst see or hear; and pray God that the tail may
be securely attached.” So Gossip Pietro took the light, and again
promised obedience; Dom Gianni caused Gossip Gemmata to strip
herself stark naked, and stand on all fours like a mare, at the same time
strictly charging her that, whatever might happen, she must utter no

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word. Then, touching her head and face:—‟Be this a fine head of a
mare,” quoth he; in like manner touching her hair, he said:—‟Be this a
fine mane of a mare;” touching her arms:—‟Be these fine legs and fine
hooves of a mare;” then, as he touched her breast and felt its firm
roundness, and there awoke and arose one that was not called:—‟And be
this a fine breast of a mare,” quoth he; and in like manner he dealt with
her back, belly, croup, thighs, and legs. Last of all, the work being
complete save for the tail, he lifted his shirt and took in his hand the tool
with which he was used to plant men, and forthwith thrust it into the
furrow made for it, saying:—‟And be this a fine tail of a mare.” Whereat
Gossip Pietro, who had followed everything very heedfully to that point,
disapproving that last particular, exclaimed:—‟No! Dom Gianni, I’ll have
no tail, I’ll have no tail.” The essential juice, by which all plants are
propagated, was already discharged, when Dom Gianni withdrew the
tool, saying:—‟Alas! Gossip Pietro, what hast thou done? Did I not tell
thee to say never a word, no matter what thou mightst see? The mare
was all but made; but by speaking thou hast spoiled all; and ‛tis not
possible to repeat the enchantment.” ‟Well and good,” replied Gossip
Pietro, ‟I would have none of that tail. Why saidst thou not to me:
—‛Make it thou’? And besides, thou wast attaching it too low.” ”‛Twas
because,” returned Dom Gianni, ‟thou wouldst not have known, on the
first essay, how to attach it so well as I.” Whereupon the young woman
stood up, and in all good faith said to her husband:—‟Fool that thou art,
wherefore hast thou brought to nought what had been for the good of us
both? When didst thou ever see mare without a tail? So help me God,
poor as thou art, thou deservest to be poorer still.” So, after Gossip
Pietro’s ill-timed speech, there being no way left of turning the young
woman into a mare, downcast and melancholy she resumed her clothes;
and Gossip Pietro plied his old trade with his ass, and went with Dom
Gianni to the fair of Bitonto, and never asked him so to serve him again.
What laughter this story drew from the ladies, who understood it

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better than Dioneo had wished, may be left to the imagination of the fair
one that now laughs thereat. However, as the stories were ended, and the
sun now shone with a tempered radiance, the queen, witting that the
end of her sovereignty was come, stood up and took off the crown, and
set it on the head of Pamfilo, whom alone it now remained thus to
honour; and said with a smile:—‟My lord, ‛tis a great burden that falls
upon thee, seeing that thou, coming last, art bound to make good my
shortcomings and those of my predecessors; which God give thee grace
to accomplish, even as He has given me grace to make thee king.” With
gladsome acknowledgment of the honour:—‟I doubt not,” replied
Pamfilo, ‟that, thanks to your noble qualities and those of my other
subjects, I shall win even such praise as those that have borne sway
before me.” Then, following the example of his predecessors, he made all
meet arrangements in concert with the seneschal: after which, he turned
to the expectant ladies, and thus spoke:—‟Enamoured my ladies, Emilia,
our queen of to-day, deeming it proper to allow you an interval of rest to
recruit your powers, gave you license to discourse of such matters as
should most commend themselves to each in turn; and as thereby you
are now rested, I judge that ‛tis meet to revert to our accustomed rule.
Wherefore I ordain that for to-morrow you do each of you take thought
how you may discourse of the ensuing theme: to wit, of such as in
matters of love, or otherwise, have done something with liberality or
magnificence. By the telling, and (still more) by the doing of such
things, your spirits will assuredly be duly attuned and animated to
emprise high and noble; whereby our life, which cannot but be brief,
seeing that ‛tis enshrined in a mortal body, fame shall perpetuate in
glory; which whoso serves not the belly, as do the beasts, must not only
covet, but with all zeal seek after and labour to attain.”
The gay company having, one and all, approved the theme, rose at a
word from their new king, and betook them to their wonted pastimes,
and so, according as they severally had most lief, diverted them, until

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they blithely reunited for supper, which being served with all due care
and despatched, they rose up to dance, as they were wont, and when
they had sung, perhaps, a thousand ditties, fitter to please by their words
than by any excellence of musical art, the king bade Neifile sing one on
her own account. And promptly and graciously, with voice clear and
blithe, thus Neifile sang:—
In prime of maidenhood, and fair and feat
‛Mid spring’s fresh foison chant I merrily:
Thanks be to Love and to my fancies sweet.

As o’er the grassy mead I, glancing, fare,

I mark it white and yellow and vermeil dight
With flowers, the thorny rose, the lily white:
And all alike to his face I compare,
Who, loving, hath me ta’en, and me shall e’er
Hold bounden to his will, sith I am she
That in his will findeth her joy complete.

Whereof if so it be that I do find

Any that I most like to him approve,
That pluck I straight and kiss with words of love,
Discovering all, as, best I may, my mind;
Yea, all my heart’s desire; and then entwined
I set it in the chaplet daintily,
And with my yellow tresses bind and pleat.

And as mine eyes do drink in the delight

Which the flower yields them, even so my mind,
Fired with his sweet love, doth such solace find,
As he himself were present to the sight:
But never word of mine discover might

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That which the flower’s sweet smell awakes in me:

Witness the true tale that my sighs repeat.

For from my bosom gentle and hot they fly,

Not like the gusty sighs that others heave,
Whenas they languish and do sorely grieve;
And to my love incontinent they hie:
Whereof when he is ware, he, by and by,
To meward hasting, cometh suddenly,
When:—‟Lest I faint,” I cry, ‟come, I entreat.”
The king and all the ladies did not a little commend Neifile’s song;
after which, as the night was far spent, the king bade all go to rest until
the morrow.
— Endeth here the ninth day of the Decameron, and beginneth
the tenth, in which, under the rule of Pamfilo, discourse is had
of such as in matters of love, or otherwise, have done
something with liberality or magnificence. —
Some cloudlets in the West still shewed a vermeil flush, albeit those
of the eastern sky, as the sun’s rays smote them anear, were already
fringed as with most lucent gold, when uprose Pamfilo, and roused the
ladies and his comrades. And all the company being assembled, and
choice made of the place whither they should betake them for their
diversion, he, accompanied by Filomena and Fiammetta, led the way at a
slow pace, followed by all the rest. So fared they no little space, beguiling
the time with talk of their future way of life, whereof there was much to
tell and much to answer, until, as the sun gained strength, they
returned, having made quite a long round, to the palace; and being
gathered about the fountain, such as were so minded drank somewhat
from beakers rinsed in its pure waters; and then in the delicious shade of
the garden they hied them hither and thither, taking their pleasure until

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breakfast-time. Their meal taken, they slept as they were wont; and
then, at a spot chosen by the king, they reassembled, where Neifile,
having received his command to lead the way, blithely thus began.

TENTH DAY

NOVEL I.

— A knight in the service of the King of Spain deems himself ill

requited. Wherefore the King, by most cogent proof, shews him
that the blame rests not with him, but with the knight’s own
evil fortune; after which, he bestows upon him a noble gift. —
Highly graced, indeed, do I deem myself, honourable my ladies, that our
king should have given to me the precedence in a matter so arduous to
tell of as magnificence: for, as the sun irradiates all the heaven with his
glory and beauty, even so does magnificence enhance the purity and the
splendour of every other virtue. I shall therefore tell you a story, which,
to my thinking, is not a little pretty; and which, assuredly, it must be
profitable to call to mind.
You are to know, then, that, among other honourable knights that
from days of old even until now have dwelt in our city, one, and
perchance the worthiest of all, was Messer Ruggieri de’ Figiovanni. Who,
being wealthy and magnanimous, reflecting on the customs and manner
of life of Tuscany, perceived that by tarrying there he was like to find
little or no occasion of shewing his mettle, and accordingly resolved to
pass some time at the court of Alfonso, King of Spain, who for the fame
of his high qualities was without a peer among the potentates of his age.
So, being well provided with arms and horses and retinue suitable to his
rank, he hied him to Spain, where he was graciously received by the

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King. There tarrying accordingly, Messer Ruggieri very soon, as well by

the splendid style in which he lived as by the prodigious feats of arms
that he did, gave folk to know his high desert.
Now, having tarried there some while, and observed the King’s ways
with much care, and how he would grant castles, cities, or baronies, to
this, that, or the other of his subjects, he deemed that the King shewed
therein but little judgment, seeing that he would give them to men that
merited them not. And for that nought was given to him, he, knowing
his merit, deemed himself gravely injured in reputation; wherefore he
made up his mind to depart the realm, and to that end craved license of
the King; which the King granted him, and therewith gave him one of
the best and finest mules that was ever ridden, a gift which Messer
Ruggieri, as he had a long journey to make, did not a little appreciate.
The King then bade one of his discreet domestics contrive, as best he
might, to ride with Messer Ruggieri on such wise that it might not
appear that he did so by the King’s command, and charge his memory
with whatever Messer Ruggieri might say of him, so that he might be
able to repeat it; which done, he was on the very next morning to bid
Ruggieri return to the King forthwith. The King’s agent was on the alert,
and no sooner was Ruggieri out of the city, than without any manner of
difficulty he joined his company, giving out that he was going towards
Italy. As thus they rode, talking of divers matters, Messer Ruggieri being
mounted on the mule given him by the King:—‟Methinks,” quoth the
other, it being then hard upon tierce, ‟that ‛twere well to give the beasts
a voidance;” and by and by, being come to a convenient place, they
voided all the beasts save the mule. Then, as they continued their
journey, the squire hearkening attentively to the knight’s words, they
came to a river, and while there they watered the beasts, the mule made
a voidance in the stream. Whereat:—‟Ah, foul fall thee, beast,” quoth
Messer Ruggieri, ‟that art even as thy master, that gave thee to me!”
Which remark, as also many another that fell from Ruggieri as they rode

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together throughout the day, the squire stored in his memory; but never
another word did he hear Ruggieri say touching the King, that was not
laudatory to the last degree.
On the morrow, when they were gotten to horse, and had set their
faces towards Tuscany, the squire apprised Ruggieri of the King’s
command, and thereupon Ruggieri turned back. On his arrival the King,
having already heard what he had said touching the mule, gave him
gladsome greeting, and asked him wherefore he had likened him to the
mule, or rather the mule to him. Whereto Messer Ruggieri answered
frankly:—‟My lord, I likened you to the mule, for that, as you bestow
your gifts where ‛tis not meet, and where meet it were, bestow them not,
so the mule where ‛twas meet, voided not, and where ‛twas not meet,
voided.” ‟Messer Ruggieri,” replied the King, ”‛tis not because I have not
discerned in you a knight most good and true, for whose desert no gift
were too great, that I have not bestowed on you such gifts as I have
bestowed upon many others, who in comparison of you are nothing
worth: the fault is none of mine but solely of your fortune, which would
not suffer me; and that this which I say is true, I will make abundantly
plain to you.” ‟My lord,” returned Messer Ruggieri, ‟mortified am I, not
that you gave me no gift, for thereof I had no desire, being too rich, but
that you made no sign of recognition of my desert; however, I deem your
explanation sound and honourable, and whatever you shall be pleased
that I should see, that gladly will I, albeit I believe you without
attestation.”
The King then led him into one of the great halls, in which, by his
preordinance, were two chests closed under lock and key, and, not a few
others being present, said to him:—‟Messer Ruggieri, one these chests
contains my crown, sceptre and orb, with many a fine girdle, buckle,
ring, and whatever else of jewellery I possess; the other is full of earth:
choose then, and whichever you shall choose, be it yours; thereby you
will discover whether ‛tis due to me or to your fortune that your deserts

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have lacked requital.” Such being the King’s pleasure, Messer Ruggieri
chose one of the chests, which at the King’s command being opened and
found to be that which contained the earth:—‟Now, Messer Ruggieri,”
quoth the King with a laugh, ‟your own eyes may warrant you of the
truth of what I say touching Fortune; but verily your merit demands that
I take arms against her in your cause. I know that you are not minded to
become a Spaniard, and therefore I shall give you neither castle nor city;
but that chest, which Fortune denied you, I bestow on you in her
despite, that you may take it with you to your own country, and there
with your neighbours justly vaunt yourself of your deserts, attested by
my gifts.” Messer Ruggieri took the chest, and having thanked the King
in a manner befitting such a gift, returned therewith, well pleased, to
Tuscany.

NOVEL II.

— Ghino di Tacco captures the Abbot of Cluny, cures him of a

disorder of the stomach, and releases him. The abbot, on his
return to the court of Rome, reconciles Ghino with Pope
Boniface, and makes him prior of the Hospital. —
When an end was made of extolling the magnificence shewn by King
Alfonso towards the Florentine knight, the king, who had listened to the
story with no small pleasure, bade Elisa follow suit; and forthwith Elisa
began:—Dainty my ladies, undeniable it is that for a king to be
magnificent, and to entreat magnificently one that has done him service,
is a great matter, and meet for commendation. What then shall we say
when the tale is of a dignitary of the Church that shewed wondrous
magnificence towards one whom he might well have entreated as an
enemy, and not have been blamed by a soul? Assuredly nought else than
that what in the king was virtue was in the prelate nothing less than a

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miracle, seeing that for superlative greed the clergy, one and all, outdo
us women, and wage war to the knife upon every form of liberality. And
albeit all men are by nature prone to avenge their wrongs, ‛tis notorious
that the clergy, however they may preach longsuffering, and commend
of all things the forgiving of trespasses, are more quick and hot to be
avenged than the rest of mankind. Now this, to wit, after what manner a
prelate shewed magnificence, will be made manifest to you in my story.
Ghino di Tacco, a man redoubtable by reason of his truculence and
his high-handed deeds, being banished from Siena, and at enmity with
the Counts of Santa Fiore, raised Radicofani in revolt against the Church
of Rome, and there abiding, harried all the surrounding country with his
soldiers, plundering all wayfarers. Now Pope Boniface VIII. being at
Rome, there came to court the Abbot of Cluny, who is reputed one of the
wealthiest prelates in the world; and having there gotten a disorder of
the stomach, he was advised by the physicians to go to the baths of
Siena, where (they averred) he would certainly be cured. So, having
obtained the Pope’s leave, reckless of the bruit of Ghino’s exploits, he
took the road, being attended by a great and well-equipped train of
sumpter-horses and servants. Ghino di Tacco, getting wind of his
approach, spread his nets to such purpose as without the loss of so much
as a boy to surround the abbot, with all his servants and effects, in a
strait pass, from which there was no exit. Which done, he sent one of his
men, the cunningest of them all, with a sufficient retinue to the abbot,
who most lovingly on Ghino’s part besought the abbot to come and visit
Ghino at the castle. Whereto the abbot, very wroth, made answer that he
would none of it, for that nought had he to do with Ghino; but that he
purposed to continue his journey, and would fain see who would hinder
him. ‟Sir,” returned the envoy, assuming a humble tone, ‟you are come to
a part of the country where we have no fear of aught save the might of
God, and where excommunications and interdicts are one and all under
the ban; wherefore you were best be pleased to shew yourself agreeable

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to Ghino in this particular.” As they thus spoke, Ghino’s soldiers shewed

themselves on every side, and it being thus manifest to the abbot that he
and his company were taken prisoners, he, albeit mightily incensed,
suffered himself with all his train and effects to be conducted by the
envoy to the castle; where the abbot, being alighted, was lodged in a
small and very dark and discomfortable room, while his retinue,
according to their several conditions, were provided with comfortable
quarters in divers parts of the castle, the horses well stabled and all the
effects secured, none being in any wise tampered with. Which done,
Ghino hied him to the abbot, and:—‟Sir,” quoth he, ‟Ghino, whose guest
you are, sends me to entreat you to be pleased to inform him of your
destination, and the purpose of your journey.” The abbot, vailing his
pride like a wise man, told whither he was bound and for what purpose.
Whereupon Ghino left him, casting about how he might cure him
without a bath. To which end he kept a great fire ever burning in the
little chamber, and had it closely guarded, and returned not to the abbot
until the ensuing morning, when he brought him in a spotless napkin
two slices of toast and a great beaker of vernaccia of Corniglia, being of
the abbot’s own vintage; and:—‟Sir,” quoth he to the abbot, ‟Ghino, as a
young man, made his studies in medicine, and avers that he then
learned that there is no better treatment for disorder of the stomach
than that which he will afford you, whereof the matters that I bring you
are the beginning; wherefore take them and be of good cheer.”
The abbot, being far too hungry to make many words about the
matter, ate (albeit in high dudgeon) the toast, and drank the vernaccia;
which done, he enlarged on his wrongs in a high tone, with much
questioning and perpending; and above all he demanded to see Ghino.
Part of what the abbot said Ghino disregarded as of no substance, to
other part he replied courteously enough; and having assured him that
Ghino would visit him as soon as might be, he took his leave of him; nor
did he return until the morrow, when he brought him toast and

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vernaccia in the same quantity as before; and so he kept him several

days: then, having marked that the abbot had eaten some dried beans
that he had secretly brought and left there of set purpose, he asked him
in Ghino’s name how he felt in the stomach. ‟Were I but out of Ghino’s
hands,” replied the abbot, ‟I should feel myself well, indeed: next to
which, I desire most of all a good breakfast, so excellent a cure have his
medicines wrought on me.” Whereupon Ghino caused the abbot’s
servants to furnish a goodly chamber with the abbot’s own effects, and
there on the morrow make ready a grand banquet, at which all the
abbot’s suite and not a few of the garrison being assembled, he hied him
to the abbot, and:—‟Sir,” quoth he, ”‛tis time you left the infirmary,
seeing that you now feel yourself well;” and so saying, he took him by the
hand, and led him into the chamber made ready for him, and having left
him there with his own people, made it his chief concern that the
banquet should be magnificent. The abbot’s spirits revived as he found
himself again among his men, with whom he talked a while, telling
them how he had been entreated, wherewith they contrasted the signal
honour which they, on the other hand, had, one and all, received from
Ghino.
Breakfast-time came, and with order meet the abbot and the rest
were regaled with good viands and good wines, Ghino still suffering not
the abbot to know who he was. But when the abbot had thus passed
several days, Ghino, having first had all his effects collected in a saloon,
and all his horses, to the poorest jade, in the courtyard below, hied him
to the abbot and asked him how he felt, and if he deemed himself strong
enough to ride. The abbot replied that he was quite strong enough, and
that ‛twould be well indeed with him, were he once out of Ghino’s hands.
Ghino then led him into the saloon in which were his effects and all his
retinue, and having brought him to a window, whence he might see all
his horses:—‟Sir Abbot,” quoth he, ‟you must know that ‛tis not for that
he has an evil heart, but because, being a gentleman, he is banished

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from his home, and reduced to poverty, and has not a few powerful
enemies, that in defence of his life and honour, Ghino di Tacco, whom
you see before you, has become a robber of highways and an enemy to
the court of Rome. But such as I am, I have cured you of your malady of
the stomach, and taking you to be a worthy lord, I purpose not to treat
you as I would another, from whom, were he in my hands, as you are, I
should take such part of his goods as I should think fit; but I shall leave
it to you, upon consideration of my need, to assign to me such portion of
your goods as you yourself shall determine. Here are they before you
undiminished and unimpaired, and from this window you may see your
horses below in the courtyard; wherefore take the part or take the whole,
as you may see fit, and be it at your option to tarry here, or go hence,
from this hour forth.”
The abbot marvelled to hear a highway robber speak thus liberally,
and such was his gratification that his wrath and fierce resentment
departed from him, nay, were transformed into kindness, insomuch that
in all cordial amity he hasted to embrace Ghino, saying:—‟By God I
swear, that to gain the friendship of a man such I now deem thee to be, I
would be content to suffer much greater wrong than that which until
now, meseemed, thou hadst done me. Cursed be Fortune that constrains
thee to ply so censurable a trade.” Which said, he selected a very few
things, and none superfluous, from his ample store, and having done
likewise with the horses, ceded all else to Ghino, and hied him back to
Rome; where, seeing him, the Pope, who to his great grief had heard of
his capture, asked him what benefit he had gotten from the baths.
Whereto the abbot made answer with a smile:—‟Holy Father, I found
nearer here than the baths a worthy physician who has wrought a most
excellent cure on me:” he then recounted all the circumstances, whereat
the Pope laughed. Afterwards, still pursuing the topic, the abbot,
yielding to the promptings of magnificence, asked a favour of the Pope;
who, expecting that he would ask somewhat else than he did, liberally

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promised to give him whatever he should demand. Whereupon:— ‟Holy

Father,” quoth the abbot, ‟that which I would crave of you is that you
restore Ghino di Tacco, my physician, to your favour; seeing that among
the good men and true and meritorious that I have known, he is by no
means of the least account. And for the evil life that he leads, I impute it
to Fortune rather than to him: change then his fortune, by giving him
the means whereby he may live in manner befitting his rank, and I
doubt not that in a little while your judgment of him will jump with
mine.” Whereto the Pope, being magnanimous, and an admirer of good
men and true, made answer that so he would gladly do, if Ghino should
prove to be such as the abbot said; and that he would have him brought
under safe conduct to Rome. Thither accordingly under safe conduct
came Ghino, to the abbot’s great delight; nor had he been long at court
before the Pope approved his worth, and restored him to his favour,
granting him a great office, to wit, that of prior of the Hospital, whereof
he made him knight. Which office he held for the rest of his life, being
ever a friend and vassal of Holy Church and the Abbot of Cluny.

NOVEL III.

— Mitridanes, holding Nathan in despite by reason of his

courtesy, journeys with intent to kill him, and falling in with
him unawares, is advised by him how to compass his end.
Following his advice, he finds him in a copse, and recognizing
him, is shame-stricken, and becomes his friend. —
Verily like to a miracle seemed it to all to hear that a prelate had done
aught with magnificence; but when the ladies had made an end of their
remarks, the king bade Filostrato follow suit; and forthwith Filostrato
began:—Noble ladies, great was the magnificence of the King of Spain,
and perchance a thing unheard-of the magnificence of the Abbot of

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Cluny; but peradventure ‛twill seem not a whit less marvellous to you to
hear of one who, to shew liberality towards another, did resolve artfully
to yield to him his blood, nay, his very life, for which the other thirsted,
and had so done, had the other chosen to take them, as I shall shew you
in a little story.
Beyond all question, if we may believe the report of certain Genoese,
and other folk that have been in those regions, there dwelt of yore in the
parts of Cathay one Nathan, a man of noble lineage and incomparable
wealth. Who, having a seat hard by a road, by which whoso would travel
from the West eastward, or from the East westward, must needs pass,
and being magnanimous and liberal, and zealous to approve himself
such in act, did set on work cunning artificers not a few, and cause one
of the finest and largest and most luxurious palaces that ever were seen,
to be there builded and furnished in the goodliest manner with all
things meet for the reception and honourable entertainment of
gentlemen. And so, keeping a great array of excellent servants, he
courteously and hospitably did the honours of his house to whoso came
and went: in which laudable way of life he persevered, until not only the
East, but well-nigh all the West had heard his fame; which thus, what
time he was well-stricken in years, albeit not for that cause grown weary
of shewing courtesy, reached the ears of one Mitridanes, a young man of
a country not far distant. Who, knowing himself to be no less wealthy
than Nathan, grew envious of the renown that he had of his good deeds,
and resolved to obliterate, or at least to obscure it, by a yet greater
liberality. So he had built for himself a palace like that of Nathan, of
which he did the honours with a lavish courtesy that none had ever
equalled, to whoso came or went that way; and verily in a short while he
became famous enough.
Now it so befell that on a day when the young man was all alone in
the courtyard of the palace, there came in by one of the gates a poor
woman, who asked of him an alms, and had it; but, not content

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therewith, came again to him by the second gate, and asked another
alms, and had it, and after the like sort did even unto the twelfth time;
but, she returning for the thirteenth time:—‟My good woman,” quoth
Mitridanes, ‟thou art not a little pertinacious in thy begging:” howbeit
he gave her an alms. Whereupon:—‟Ah! the wondrous liberality of
Nathan!” quoth the beldam:—‟thirty-two gates are there to his palace,
by every one of which I have entered, and asking alms of him, was never
—for aught he shewed—recognized, or refused, and here, though I have
entered as yet by but thirteen gates, I am recognized and reprimanded.”
And therewith she departed, and returned no more. Mitridanes, who
accounted the mention of Nathan’s fame an abatement of his own, was
kindled by her words with a frenzy of wrath, and began thus to
commune with himself:—Alas! when shall I attain to the grandeur of
Nathan’s liberality, to say nought of transcending it, as I would fain,
seeing that in the veriest trifles I cannot approach him? Of a surety my
labour is in vain, if I rid not the earth of him: which, since old age
relieves me not of him, I must forthwith do with mine own hands. And
in the flush of his despite up he started, and giving none to know of his
purpose, got to horse with a small company, and after three days arrived
at the place where Nathan abode; and having enjoined his comrades to
make as if they were none of his, and knew him not, and to go quarter
themselves as best they might until they had his further orders, he,
being thus alone, towards evening came upon Nathan, also alone, at no
great distance from his splendid palace. Nathan was recreating himself
by a walk, and was very simply clad; so that Mitridanes, knowing him
not, asked him if he could shew him where Nathan dwelt. ‟My son,”
replied Nathan gladsomely, ‟that can none in these parts better than I;
wherefore, so it please thee, I will bring thee thither.” The young man
replied that ‛twould be mighty agreeable to him, but that, if so it might
be, he had a mind to be neither known nor seen by Nathan. ‟And herein
also,” returned Nathan, ‟since ‛tis thy pleasure, I will gratify thee.”

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Whereupon Mitridanes dismounted, and with Nathan, who soon

engaged him in delightsome discourse, walked to the goodly palace.
Arrived there Nathan caused one of his servants take the young man’s
horse, and drawing close to him, bade him in a whisper to see to it
without delay that none in the house should tell the young man that he
was Nathan: and so ‛twas done.
Being come into the palace, Nathan quartered Mitridanes in a most
goodly chamber, where none saw him but those whom he had appointed
to wait upon him; and he himself kept him company, doing him all
possible honour. Of whom Mitridanes, albeit he reverenced him as a
father, yet, being thus with him, forbore not to ask who he was. Whereto
Nathan made answer:—‟I am a petty servant of Nathan: old as I am, I
have been with him since my childhood, and never has he advanced me
to higher office than this wherein thou seest me: wherefore, howsoever
other folk may praise him, little cause have I to do so.” Which words
afforded Mitridanes some hope of carrying his wicked purpose into
effect with more of plan and less of risk than had otherwise been
possible. By and by Nathan very courteously asked him who he was, and
what business brought him thither; offering him such counsel and aid as
he might be able to afford him. Mitridanes hesitated a while to reply: but
at last he resolved to trust him, and when with no little circumlocution
he had demanded of him fidelity, counsel and aid, he fully discovered to
him who he was, and the purpose and motive of his coming thither.
Now, albeit to hear Mitridanes thus unfold his horrid design caused
Nathan no small inward commotion, yet ‛twas not long before
courageously and composedly he thus made answer:—‟Noble was thy
father, Mitridanes, and thou art minded to shew thyself not unworthy of
him by this lofty emprise of thine, to wit, of being liberal to all comers:
and for that thou art envious of Nathan’s merit I greatly commend thee;
for were many envious for a like cause, the world, from being a most
wretched, would soon become a happy place. Doubt not that I shall keep

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secret the design which thou hast confided to me, for the furtherance
whereof ‛tis good advice rather than substantial aid that I have to offer
thee. Which advice is this. Hence, perhaps half a mile off, thou mayst see
a copse, in which almost every morning Nathan is wont to walk, taking
his pleasure, for quite a long while: ‛twill be an easy matter for thee to
find him there, and deal with him as thou mayst be minded. Now,
shouldst thou slay him, thou wilt get thee home with less risk of let, if
thou take not the path by which thou camest hither, but that which thou
seest issue from the copse on the left, for, though ‛tis somewhat more
rough, it leads more directly to thy house, and will be safer for thee.”
Possessed of this information, Mitridanes, when Nathan had left
him, privily apprised his comrades, who were likewise lodged in the
palace, of the place where they were to await him on the ensuing day;
which being come, Nathan, inflexibly determined to act in all respects
according to the advice which he had given Mitridanes, hied him forth
to the copse unattended, to meet his death. Mitridanes, being risen,
took his bow and sword, for other arms he had none with him, mounted
his horse, and rode to the copse, through which, while he was yet some
way off, he saw Nathan passing, quite alone. And being minded, before
he fell upon him, to see his face and hear the sound of his voice, as,
riding at a smart pace, he came up with him, he laid hold of him by his
head-gear, exclaiming:—‟Greybeard, thou art a dead man.” Whereto
Nathan answered nought but:—‟Then ‛tis but my desert.” But
Mitridanes, hearing the voice, and scanning the face, forthwith knew
him for the same man that had welcomed him heartily, consorted with
him familiarly, and counselled him faithfully; whereby his wrath
presently subsided, and gave place to shame. Wherefore, casting away
the sword that he held drawn in act to strike, he sprang from his horse,
and weeping, threw himself at Nathan’s feet, saying:—‟Your liberality,
dearest father, I acknowledge to be beyond all question, seeing with
what craft you did plot your coming hither to yield me your life, for

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which, by mine own avowal, you knew that I, albeit cause I had none,
did thirst. But God, more regardful of my duty than I myself, has now, in
this moment of supreme stress, opened the eyes of my mind, that
wretched envy had fast sealed. The prompter was your compliance, the
greater is the debt of penitence that I owe you for my fault; wherefore
wreak even such vengeance upon me as you may deem answerable to my
transgression.” But Nathan raised Mitridanes to his feet, and tenderly
embraced him, saying:—‟My son, thy enterprise, howsoever thou mayst
denote it, whether evil or otherwise, was not such that thou shouldst
crave, or I give, pardon thereof; for ‛twas not in malice but in that thou
wouldst fain have been reputed better than I that thou ensuedst it.
Doubt then no more of me; nay, rest assured that none that lives bears
thee such love as I, who know the loftiness of thy spirit, bent not to heap
up wealth, as do the caitiffs, but to dispense in bounty thine
accumulated store. Think it no shame that to enhance thy reputation
thou wouldst have slain me; nor deem that I marvel thereat. To slay not
one man, as thou wast minded, but countless multitudes, to waste whole
countries with fire, and to raze cities to the ground has been well-nigh
the sole art, by which the mightiest emperors and the greatest kings
have extended their dominions, and by consequence their fame.
Wherefore, if thou, to increase thy fame, wouldst fain have slain me,
‛twas nothing marvellous or strange, but wonted.”
Whereto Mitridanes made answer, not to excuse his wicked design,
but to commend the seemly excuse found for it by Nathan, whom at
length he told how beyond measure he marvelled that Nathan had not
only been consenting to the enterprise, but had aided him therein by his
counsel. But Nathan answered:—‟Liefer had I, Mitridanes, that thou
didst not marvel either at my consent or at my counsel, for that, since I
was my own master and of a mind to that emprise whereon thou art also
bent, never a soul came to my house, but, so far as in me lay, I gave him
all that he asked of me. Thou camest, lusting for my life; and so, when I

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heard thee crave it of me, I forthwith, that thou mightst not be the only
guest to depart hence ill content, resolved to give it thee; and to that end
I gave thee such counsel as I deemed would serve thee both to the taking
of my life and the preservation of thine own. Wherefore yet again I bid
thee, nay, I entreat thee, if so thou art minded, to take it for thy
satisfaction: I know not how I could better bestow it. I have had the use
of it now for some eighty years, and pleasure and solace thereof; and I
know that, by the course of Nature and the common lot of man and all
things mundane, it can continue to be mine for but a little while; and so
I deem that ‛twere much better to bestow it, as I have ever bestowed and
dispensed my wealth, than to keep it, until, against my will, it be reft
from me by Nature. ‛Twere but a trifle, though ‛twere a hundred years:
how insignificant, then, the six or eight years that are all I have to give!
Take it, then, if thou hadst lief, take it, I pray thee; for, long as I have
lived here, none have I found but thee to desire it; nor know I when I
may find another, if thou take it not, to demand it of me. And if,
peradventure, I should find one such, yet I know that the longer I keep
it, the less its worth will be; wherefore, ere it be thus cheapened, take it,
I implore thee.”
Sore shame-stricken, Mitridanes made answer:—‟Now God forefend
that I should so much as harbour, as but now I did, such a thought, not
to say do such a deed, as to wrest from you a thing so precious as your
life, the years whereof, so far from abridging, I would gladly supplement
with mine own.” ‟So then,” rejoined Nathan promptly, ‟thou wouldst, if
thou couldst, add thy years to mine, and cause me to serve thee as I
never yet served any man, to wit, to take from thee that which is thine, I
that never took aught from a soul!” ‟Ay, that would I,” returned
Mitridanes. ‟Then,” quoth Nathan, ‟do as I shall bid thee. Thou art
young: tarry here in my house, and call thyself Nathan; and I will get me
to thy house, and ever call myself Mitridanes.” Whereto Mitridanes
made answer:—‟Were I but able to discharge this trust, as you have been

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and are, scarce would I hesitate to accept your offer; but, as too sure am I
that aught that I might do would but serve to lower Nathan’s fame, and I
am not minded to mar that in another which I cannot mend in myself,
accept it I will not.”
After which and the like interchange of delectable discourse, Nathan
and Mitridanes, by Nathan’s desire, returned to the palace; where
Nathan for some days honourably entreated Mitridanes, and by his sage
counsel confirmed and encouraged him in his high and noble resolve;
after which, Mitridanes, being minded to return home with his
company, took his leave of Nathan, fully persuaded that ‛twas not
possible to surpass him in liberality.

NOVEL IV.

— Messer Gentile de’ Carisendi, being come from Modena,

disinters a lady that he loves, who has been buried for dead.
She, being reanimated, gives birth to a male child; and Messer
Gentile restores her, with her son, to Niccoluccio
Caccianimico, her husband. —
A thing marvellous seemed it to all that for liberality a man should be
ready to sacrifice his own life; and herein they averred that Nathan had
without doubt left the King of Spain and the Abbot of Cluny behind.
However, when they had discussed the matter diversely and at large, the
king, bending his regard on Lauretta, signified to her his will that she
should tell; and forthwith, accordingly, Lauretta began:—Goodly
matters are they and magnificent that have been recounted to you,
young ladies; nay, so much of our field of discourse is already filled by
their grandeur, that for us that are yet to tell, there is, methinks, no room
left, unless we seek our topic there where matter of discourse germane to
every theme does most richly abound, to wit, in the affairs of love. For

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which cause, as also for that our time of life cannot but make us
especially inclinable thereto, I am minded that my story shall be of a feat
of magnificence done by a lover: which, all things considered, will,
peradventure, seem to you inferior to none that have been shewn you; so
it be true that to possess the beloved one, men will part with their
treasures, forget their enmities, and jeopardize their own lives, their
honour and their reputation, in a thousand ways.
Know, then, that at Bologna, that most famous city of Lombardy,
there dwelt a knight, Messer Gentile Carisendi by name, worshipful alike
for his noble lineage and his native worth: who in his youth, being
enamoured of a young gentlewoman named Madonna Catalina, wife of
one Niccoluccio Caccianimico, and well-nigh despairing, for that the
lady gave him but a sorry requital of his love, betook him to Modena,
being called thither as Podesta. Now what time he was there,
Niccoluccio being also away from Bologna, and his lady gone, for that
she was with child, to lie in at a house she had some three miles or so
from the city, it befell that she was suddenly smitten with a sore malady
of such and so virulent a quality that it left no sign of life in her, so that
the very physicians pronounced her dead. And for that the women that
were nearest of kin to her professed to have been told by her, that she
was not so far gone in pregnancy that the child could be perfectly
formed, they, without more ado, laid her in a tomb in a neighbouring
church, and after long lamentation closed it upon her.
Whereof Messer Gentile being forthwith apprised by one of his
friends, did, for all she had been most niggardly to him of her favour,
grieve not a little, and at length fell a communing with himself on this
wise:—So, Madonna Catalina, thou art dead! While thou livedst, never a
glance of thine might I have; wherefore, now that thou art dead, ‛tis but
right that I go take a kiss from thee. ‛Twas night while he thus mused;
and forthwith, observing strict secrecy in his departure, he got him to
horse with a single servant, and halted not until he was come to the

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place where the lady was interred; and having opened the tomb he
cautiously entered it. Then, having lain down beside her, he set his face
against hers; and again and again, weeping profusely the while, he
kissed it. But as ‛tis matter of common knowledge that the desires of
men, and more especially of lovers, know no bounds, but crave ever an
ampler satisfaction; even so Messer Gentile, albeit he had been minded
to tarry there no longer, now said to himself:—Wherefore touch I not
her bosom a while? I have never yet touched it, nor shall I ever touch it
again. Obeying which impulse, he laid his hand on her bosom, and
keeping it there some time, felt, as he thought, her heart faintly beating.
Whereupon, banishing all fear, and examining the body with closer
attention, he discovered that life was not extinct, though he judged it
but scant and flickering: and so, aided by his servant, he bore her, as
gently as he might, out of the tomb; and set her before him upon his
horse, and brought her privily to his house at Bologna, where dwelt his
wise and worthy mother, who, being fully apprised by him of the
circumstances, took pity on the lady, and had a huge fire kindled, and a
bath made ready, whereby she restored her to life. Whereof the first sign
she gave was to heave a great sigh, and murmur:—‟Alas! where am I?” To
which the worthy lady made answer:—‟Be of good cheer; thou art well
lodged.” By and by the lady, coming to herself, looked about her; and
finding herself she knew not where, and seeing Messer Gentile before
her, was filled with wonder, and besought his mother to tell her how she
came to be there.
Messer Gentile thereupon told her all. Sore distressed thereat, the
lady, after a while, thanked him as best she might; after which she
besought him by the love that he had borne her, and of his courtesy, that
she might, while she tarried in his house, be spared aught that could
impair her honour and her husband’s; and that at daybreak he would
suffer her to return home. ‟Madam,” replied Messer Gentile, ‟however I
did affect you in time past, since God in His goodness has, by means of

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the love I bore you, restored you to me alive, I mean not now, or at any
time hereafter, to entreat you either here or elsewhere, save as a dear
sister; but yet the service I have to-night rendered you merits some
guerdon, and therefore lief had I that you deny me not a favour which I
shall ask of you.” Whereto the lady graciously made answer that she
would be prompt to grant it, so only it were in her power, and consonant
with her honour. Said then Messer Gentile:—‟Your kinsfolk, Madam,
one and all, nay, all the folk in Bologna are fully persuaded that you are
dead: there is therefore none to expect you at home: wherefore the
favour I crave of you is this, that you will be pleased to tarry privily here
with my mother, until such time—which will be speedily—as I return
from Modena. And ‛tis for that I purpose to make solemn and joyous
donation of you to your husband in presence of the most honourable
folk of this city that I ask of you this grace.” Mindful of what she owed
the knight, and witting that what he craved was seemly, the lady, albeit
she yearned not a little to gladden her kinsfolk with the sight of her in
the flesh, consented to do as Messer Gentile besought her, and thereto
pledged him her faith. And scarce had she done so, when she felt that
the hour of her travail was come; and so, tenderly succoured by Messer
Gentile’s mother, she not long after gave birth to a fine boy. Which event
did mightily enhance her own and Messer Gentile’s happiness. Then,
having made all meet provision for her, and left word that she was to be
tended as if she were his own wife, Messer Gentile, observing strict
secrecy, returned to Modena.
His time of office there ended, in anticipation of his return to
Bologna, he appointed for the morning of his arrival in the city a great
and goodly banquet at his house, whereto were bidden not a few of the
gentlemen of Bologna, and among them Niccoluccio Caccianimico.
Whom, when he was returned and dismounted, he found awaiting him,
as also the lady, fairer and more healthful than ever, and her little son
doing well; and so with a gladness beyond compare he ranged his guests

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at table, and regaled them with many a course magnificently served.

And towards the close of the feast, having premonished the lady of his
intention, and concerted with her how she should behave, thus he
spoke:—‟Gentlemen, I mind me to have once heard tell of (as I deem it)
a delightsome custom which they have in Persia; to wit, that, when one
would do his friend especial honour, he bids him to his house, and there
shews him that treasure, be it wife, or mistress, or daughter, or what not,
that he holds most dear; assuring him that yet more gladly, were it
possible, he would shew him his heart. Which custom I am minded to
observe here in Bologna. You, of your courtesy, have honoured my feast
with your presence, and I propose to do you honour in the Persian
fashion, by shewing you that which in all the world I do, and must ever,
hold most dear. But before I do so, tell me, I pray you, how you conceive
of a nice question that I shall lay before you. Suppose that one has in his
house a good and most faithful servant, who falls sick of a grievous
disorder; and that the master tarries not for the death of the servant, but
has him borne out into the open street, and concerns himself no more
with him: that then a stranger comes by, is moved to pity of the sick
man, and takes him to his house, and by careful tendance and at no
small cost restores him to his wonted health. Now I would fain know
whether the first master has in equity any just cause to complain of or be
aggrieved with the second master, if he retain the servant in his employ,
and refuse to restore him, when so required.”
The gentlemen discussed the matter after divers fashions, and all
agreed in one sentence, which they committed to Niccoluccio
Caccianimico, for that he was an eloquent and accomplished speaker, to
deliver on the part of them all. Niccoluccio began by commending the
Persian custom: after which he said that he and the others were all of the
same opinion, to wit, that the first master had no longer any right in his
servant, since he had not only abandoned but cast him forth; and that
by virtue of the second master’s kind usage of him he must be deemed to

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have become his servant; wherefore, by keeping him, he did the first
master no mischief, no violence, no wrong. Whereupon the rest that
were at the table said, one and all, being worthy men, that their
judgment jumped with Niccoluccio’s answer. The knight, well pleased
with the answer, and that ‛twas Niccoluccio that gave it, affirmed that he
was of the same opinion; adding:—”‛Tis now time that I shew you that
honour which I promised you.” He then called two of his servants, and
sent them to the lady, whom he had caused to be apparelled and
adorned with splendour, charging them to pray her to be pleased to
come and gladden the gentlemen with her presence. So she, bearing in
her arms her most lovely little son, came, attended by the two servants,
into the saloon, and by the knight’s direction, took a seat beside a worthy
gentleman: whereupon:—‟Gentlemen,” quoth the knight, ‟this is the
treasure that I hold, and mean ever to hold, more dear than aught else.
Behold, and judge whether I have good cause.”
The gentlemen said not a little in her honour and praise, averring
that the knight ought indeed to hold her dear: then, as they regarded her
more attentively, there were not a few that would have pronounced her
to be the very woman that she was, had they not believed that woman to
be dead. But none scanned her so closely as Niccoluccio, who, the knight
being withdrawn a little space, could no longer refrain his eager desire to
know who she might be, but asked her whether she were of Bologna, or
from other parts. The lady, hearing her husband’s voice, could scarce
forbear to answer; but yet, not to disconcert the knight’s plan, she kept
silence. Another asked her if that was her little boy; and yet another, if
she were Messer Gentile’s wife, or in any other wise his connection. To
none of whom she vouchsafed an answer. Then, Messer Gentile coming
up:—‟Sir,” quoth one of the guests, ‟this treasure of yours is goodly
indeed; but she seems to be dumb: is she so?” ‟Gentlemen,” quoth
Messer Gentile, ‟that she has not as yet spoken is no small evidence of
her virtue.” ‟Then tell us, you, who she is,” returned the other. ‟That,”

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quoth the knight, ‟will I right gladly, so you but promise me, that, no
matter what I may say, none of you will stir from his place, until I have
ended my story.” All gave the required promise, and when the tables had
been cleared, Messer Gentile, being seated beside the lady, thus spoke:
—‟Gentlemen, this lady is that loyal and faithful servant, touching
whom a brief while ago I propounded to you my question, whom her
own folk held none too dear, but cast out into the open street as a thing
vile and no longer good for aught, but I took thence, and by my careful
tendance wrested from the clutch of death; whom God, regardful of my
good will, has changed from the appalling aspect of a corpse to the thing
of beauty that you see before you. But for your fuller understanding of
this occurrence, I will briefly explain it to you.” He then recounted to
them in detail all that had happened from his first becoming
enamoured of the lady to that very hour whereto they hearkened with
no small wonder; after which:—‟And so,” he added, ‟unless you, and
more especially Niccoluccio, are now of another opinion than you were a
brief while ago, the lady rightly belongs to me, nor can any man lawfully
reclaim her of me.”
None answered, for all were intent to hear what more he would say.
But, while Niccoluccio, and some others that were there, wept for
sympathy, Messer Gentile stood up, and took the little boy in his arms
and the lady by the hand, and approached Niccoluccio, saying:— ‟Rise,
my gossip: I do not, indeed, restore thee thy wife, whom thy kinsfolk and
hers cast forth; but I am minded to give thee this lady, my gossip, with
this her little boy, whom I know well to be thy son, and whom I held at
the font, and named Gentile: and I pray thee that she be not the less
dear to thee for that she has tarried three months in my house; for I
swear to thee by that God, who, peradventure, ordained that I should be
enamoured of her, to the end that my love might be, as it has been, the
occasion of her restoration to life, that never with her father, or her
mother, or with thee, did she live more virtuously than with my mother

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in my house.” Which said, he turned to the lady, saying:—‟Madam, I

now release you from all promises made to me, and so deliver you to
Niccoluccio.” Then, leaving the lady and the child in Niccoluccio’s
embrace, he returned to his seat.
Thus to receive his wife and son was to Niccoluccio a delight great in
the measure of its remoteness from his hope. Wherefore in the most
honourable terms at his command he thanked the knight, whom all the
rest, weeping for sympathy, greatly commended for what he had done, as
did also all that heard thereof. The lady, welcomed home with wondrous
cheer, was long a portent to the Bolognese, who gazed on her as on one
raised from the dead. Messer Gentile lived ever after as the friend of
Niccoluccio, and his and the lady’s kinsfolk.
Now what shall be your verdict, gracious ladies? A king’s largess,
though it was of his sceptre and crown, an abbot’s reconciliation, at no
cost to himself, of a malefactor with the Pope, or an old man’s
submission of his throat to the knife of his enemy—will you adjudge that
such acts as these are comparable to the deed of Messer Gentile? Who,
though young, and burning with passion, and deeming himself justly
entitled to that which the heedlessness of another had discarded, and he
by good fortune had recovered, not only tempered his ardour with
honour, but having that which with his whole soul he had long been
bent on wresting from another, did with liberality restore it. Assuredly
none of the feats aforesaid seem to me like unto this.

NOVEL V.

— Madonna Dianora craves of Messer Ansaldo a garden that

shall be as fair in January as in May. Messer Ansaldo binds
himself to a necromancer, and thereby gives her the garden.
Her husband gives her leave to do Messer Ansaldo’s pleasure:
he, being apprised of her husband’s liberality, releases her from

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her promise; and the necromancer releases Messer Ansaldo

from his bond, and will take nought of his. —
Each of the gay company had with superlative commendation extolled
Messer Gentile to the skies, when the king bade Emilia follow suit; and
with a good courage, as burning to speak, thus Emilia began:—Delicate
my ladies, none can justly say that ‛twas not magnificently done of
Messer Gentile; but if it be alleged that ‛twas the last degree of
magnificence, ‛twill perchance not be difficult to shew that more was
possible, as is my purpose in the little story that I shall tell you.
In Friuli, a country which, though its air is shrewd, is pleasantly
diversified by fine mountains and not a few rivers and clear fountains, is
a city called Udine, where dwelt of yore a fair and noble lady, Madonna
Dianora by name, wife of a wealthy grandee named Giliberto, a very
pleasant gentleman, and debonair. Now this lady, for her high qualities,
was in the last degree beloved by a great and noble baron, Messer
Ansaldo Gradense by name, a man of no little consequence, and whose
fame for feats of arms and courtesy was spread far and wide. But, though
with all a lover’s ardour he left nought undone that he might do to win
her love, and to that end frequently plied her with his ambassages, ‛twas
all in vain. And the lady being distressed by his importunity, and that,
refuse as she might all that he asked of her, he none the less continued
to love her and press his suit upon her, bethought her how she might rid
herself of him by requiring of him an extraordinary and, as she deemed,
impossible feat. So one day, a woman that came oftentimes from him to
her being with her:—‟Good woman,” quoth she, ‟thou hast many a time
affirmed that Messer Ansaldo loves me above all else; and thou hast
made proffer to me on his part of wondrous rich gifts which I am
minded he keep to himself, for that I could never bring myself to love
him or pleasure him for their sake; but, if I might be certified that he
loves me as much as thou sayst, then without a doubt I should not fail to

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love him, and do his pleasure; wherefore, so he give me the assurance

that I shall require, I shall be at his command.” ‟What is it, Madam,”
returned the good woman, ‟that you would have him do?” ‟This,” replied
the lady; ‟I would have this next ensuing January, hard by this city, a
garden full of green grass and flowers and flowering trees, just as if it
were May; and if he cannot provide me with this garden, bid him never
again send either thee or any other to me, for that, should he harass me
any further, I shall no longer keep silence, as I have hitherto done, but
shall make my complaint to my husband and all my kinsmen, and it
shall go hard but I will be quit of him.”
The gentleman being apprised of his lady’s stipulation and promise,
notwithstanding that he deemed it no easy matter, nay, a thing almost
impossible, to satisfy her, and knew besides that ‛twas but to deprive
him of all hope that she made the demand, did nevertheless resolve to
do his endeavour to comply with it, and causing search to be made in
divers parts of the world, if any he might find to afford him counsel or
aid, he lit upon one, who for a substantial reward offered to do the thing
by necromancy. So Messer Ansaldo, having struck the bargain with him
for an exceeding great sum of money, gleefully expected the appointed
time. Which being come with extreme cold, insomuch that there was
nought but snow and ice, the adept on the night before the calends of
January wrought with his spells to such purpose that on the morrow, as
was averred by eye-witnesses, there appeared in a meadow hard by the
city one of the most beautiful gardens that was ever seen, with no lack of
grass and trees and fruits of all sorts. At sight whereof Messer Ansaldo
was overjoyed, and caused some of the finest fruits and flowers that it
contained to be gathered, and privily presented to his lady, whom he
bade come and see the garden that she had craved, that thereby she
might have assurance of his love, and mind her of the promise that she
had given him and confirmed with an oath, and, as a loyal lady, take
thought for its performance. When she saw the flowers and fruits, the

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lady, who had already heard not a few folk speak of the wondrous
garden, began to repent her of her promise. But for all that, being fond
of strange sights, she hied her with many other ladies of the city to see
the garden, and having gazed on it with wonderment, and commended
it not a little, she went home the saddest woman alive, bethinking her to
what it bound her: and so great was her distress that she might not well
conceal it; but, being written on her face, ‛twas marked by her husband,
who was minded by all means to know the cause thereof.
The lady long time kept silence: but at last she yielded to his urgency,
and discovered to him the whole matter from first to last. Whereat
Giliberto was at first very wroth; but on second thoughts, considering
the purity of the lady’s purpose, he was better advised, and dismissing
his anger:—‟Dianora,” quoth he, ”‛tis not the act of a discreet or virtuous
lady to give ear to messages of such a sort, nor to enter into any compact
touching her chastity with any man on any terms. Words that the ears
convey to the heart have a potency greater than is commonly supposed,
and there is scarce aught that lovers will not find possible. ‛Twas then ill
done of thee in the first instance to hearken, as afterwards to make the
compact; but, for that I know the purity of thy soul, that thou mayst be
quit of thy promise, I will grant thee that which, perchance, no other
man would grant, being also swayed thereto by fear of the necromancer,
whom Messer Ansaldo, shouldst thou play him false, might,
peradventure, cause to do us a mischief. I am minded, then, that thou go
to him, and contrive, if on any wise thou canst, to get thee quit of this
promise without loss of virtue; but if otherwise it may not be, then for
the nonce thou mayst yield him thy body, but not thy soul.” Whereat the
lady, weeping, would none of such a favour at her husband’s hands. But
Giliberto, for all the lady’s protestations, was minded that so it should
be.
Accordingly, on the morrow about dawn, apparelled none too
ornately, preceded by two servants and followed by a chambermaid, the

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lady hied her to Messer Ansaldo’s house. Apprised that his lady was
come to see him, Messer Ansaldo, marvelling not a little, rose, and
having called the necromancer:—‟I am minded,” quoth he, ‟that thou
see what goodly gain I have gotten by thine art.” And the twain having
met the lady, Ansaldo gave way to no unruly appetite, but received her
with a seemly obeisance; and then the three repaired to a goodly
chamber, where there was a great fire, and having caused the lady to be
seated, thus spoke Ansaldo:—‟Madam, if the love that I have so long
borne you merit any guerdon, I pray you that it be not grievous to you to
discover to me the true occasion of your coming to me at this hour, and
thus accompanied.” Shamefast, and the tears all but standing in her eyes,
the lady made answer:—‟Sir ‛tis neither love that I bear you, nor pledged
you, that brings me hither, but the command of my husband, who,
regarding rather the pains you have had of your unbridled passion than
his own or my honour, has sent me hither; and for that he commands it,
I, for the nonce, am entirely at your pleasure.”
If Messer Ansaldo had marvelled to hear of the lady’s coming, he now
marvelled much more, and touched by Giliberto’s liberality, and passing
from passion to compassion:—‟Now, God forbid, Madam,” quoth he,
‟that, it being as you say, I should wound the honour of him that has
compassion on my love; wherefore, no otherwise than as if you were my
sister shall you abide here, while you are so minded, and be free to
depart at your pleasure; nor crave I aught of you but that you shall
convey from me to your husband such thanks as you shall deem meet for
courtesy such as his has been, and entreat me ever henceforth as your
brother and servant.” Whereat overjoyed in the last degree:— ‟Nought,”
quoth the lady, ‟by what I noted of your behaviour, could ever have
caused me to anticipate other sequel of my coming hither than this
which I see is your will, and for which I shall ever be your debtor.” She
then took her leave, and, attended by a guard of honour, returned to
Giliberto, and told him what had passed; between whom and Messer

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Ansaldo there was thenceforth a most close and loyal friendship.

Now the liberality shewn by Giliberto towards Messer Ansaldo, and
by Messer Ansaldo towards the lady, having been marked by the
necromancer, when Messer Ansaldo made ready to give him the
promised reward:—‟Now God forbid,” quoth he, ‟that, as I have seen
Giliberto liberal in regard of his honour, and you liberal in regard of your
love, I be not in like manner liberal in regard of my reward, which
accordingly, witting that ‛tis in good hands, I am minded that you keep.”
The knight was abashed, and strove hard to induce him to take, if not
the whole, at least a part of the money; but finding that his labour was in
vain, and that the necromancer, having caused his garden to vanish after
the third day, was minded to depart, he bade him adieu. And the carnal
love he had borne the lady being spent, he burned for her thereafter
with a flame of honourable affection. Now what shall be our verdict in
this case, lovesome ladies? A lady, as it were dead, and a love grown
lukewarm for utter hopelessness! Shall we set a liberality shewn in such a
case above this liberality of Messer Ansaldo, loving yet as ardently, and
hoping, perchance, yet more ardently than ever, and holding in his
hands the prize that he had so long pursued? Folly indeed should I deem
it to compare that liberality with this.

NOVEL VI.

— King Charles the Old, being conqueror, falls in love with a

young maiden, and afterward growing ashamed of his folly
bestows her and her sister honourably in marriage. —
Who might fully recount with what diversity of argument the ladies
debated which of the three, Giliberto, or Messer Ansaldo, or the
necromancer, behaved with the most liberality in the affair of Madonna
Dianora? Too long were it to tell. However, when the king had allowed

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them to dispute a while, he, with a glance at Fiammetta, bade her rescue
them from their wrangling by telling her story. Fiammetta made no
demur, but thus began:—Illustrious my ladies, I have ever been of
opinion that in companies like ours one should speak so explicitly that
the import of what is said should never by excessive circumscription
afford matter for disputation; which is much more in place among
students in the schools, than among us, whose powers are scarce
adequate to the management of the distaff and the spindle. Wherefore I,
that had in mind a matter of, perchance, some nicety, now that I see you
all at variance touching the matters last mooted, am minded to lay it
aside, and tell you somewhat else, which concerns a man by no means of
slight account, but a valiant king, being a chivalrous action that he did,
albeit in no wise thereto actuated by his honour.
There is none of you but may not seldom have heard tell of King
Charles the Old, or the First, by whose magnificent emprise, and the
ensuing victory gained over King Manfred, the Ghibellines were driven
forth of Florence, and the Guelfs returned thither. For which cause a
knight, Messer Neri degli Uberti by name, departing Florence with his
household and not a little money, resolved to fix his abode under no
other sway than that of King Charles. And being fain of a lonely place in
which to end his days in peace, he betook him to Castello da Mare di
Stabia; and there, perchance a cross-bow-shot from the other houses of
the place, amid the olives and hazels and chestnuts that abound in those
parts, he bought an estate, on which he built a goodly house and
commodious, with a pleasant garden beside it, in the midst of which,
having no lack of running water, he set, after our Florentine fashion, a
pond fair and clear, and speedily filled it with fish. And while thus he
lived, daily occupying himself with nought else but how to make his
garden more fair, it befell that King Charles in the hot season betook
him to Castello da Mare to refresh himself a while, and hearing of the
beauty of Messer Neri’s garden, was desirous to view it. And having

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learned to whom it belonged, he bethought him that, as the knight was

an adherent of the party opposed to him, he would use more familiarity
towards him than he would otherwise have done; and so he sent him
word that he and four comrades would sup privily with him in his
garden on the ensuing evening. Messer Neri felt himself much
honoured; and having made his preparations with magnificence, and
arranged the order of the ceremonies with his household, did all he
could and knew to make the King cordially welcome to his fair garden.
When the King had viewed the garden throughout, as also Messer
Neri’s house, and commended them, he washed, and seated himself at
one of the tables, which were set beside the pond, and bade Count Guy
de Montfort, who was one of his companions, sit on one side of him, and
Messer Neri on the other, and the other three to serve, as they should be
directed by Messer Neri. The dishes that were set before them were
dainty, the wines excellent and rare, the order of the repast very fair and
commendable, without the least noise or aught else that might distress;
whereon the King bestowed no stinted praise. As thus he gaily supped,
well-pleased with the lovely spot, there came into the garden two young
maidens, each perhaps fifteen years old, blonde both, their golden
tresses falling all in ringlets about them, and crowned with a dainty
garland of periwinkle-flowers; and so delicate and fair of face were they
that they shewed liker to angels than aught else, each clad in a robe of
finest linen, white as snow upon their flesh, close-fitting as might be
from the waist up, but below the waist ample, like a pavilion to the feet.
She that was foremost bore on her shoulders a pair of nets, which she
held with her left hand, carrying in her right a long pole. Her companion
followed, bearing on her left shoulder a frying-pan, under her left arm a
bundle of faggots, and in her left hand a tripod, while in the other hand
she carried a cruse of oil and a lighted taper. At sight of whom the King
marvelled, and gazed intent to learn what it might import. The two
young maidens came forward with becoming modesty, and did

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obeisance to the King; which done they hied them to the place of ingress
to the pond, and she that had the frying-pan having set it down, and
afterward the other things, took the pole that the other carried, and so
they both went down into the pond, being covered by its waters to their
breasts. Whereupon one of Messer Neri’s servants, having forthwith lit a
fire, and set the tripod on the faggots and oil therein, addressed himself
to wait, until some fish should be thrown to him by the girls. Who, the
one searching with the pole in those parts where she knew the fish lay
hid, while the other made ready the nets, did in a brief space of time, to
the exceeding great delight of the King, who watched them attentively,
catch fish not a few, which they tossed to the servant, who set them,
before the life was well out of them, in the frying-pan. After which, the
maidens, as pre-arranged, addressed them to catch some of the finest
fish, and cast them on to the table before the King, and Count Guy, and
their father. The fish wriggled about the table to the prodigious delight
of the King, who in like manner took some of them, and courteously
returned them to the girls; with which sport they diverted them, until
the servant had cooked the fish that had been given him: which, by
Messer Neri’s command, were set before the King rather as a side-dish
than as aught very rare or delicious.
When the girls saw that all the fish were cooked, and that there was
no occasion for them to catch any more, they came forth of the pond,
their fine white garments cleaving everywhere close to their flesh so as
to hide scarce any part of their delicate persons, took up again the things
that they had brought, and passing modestly before the King, returned
to the house. The King, and the Count, and the other gentlemen that
waited, had regarded the maidens with no little attention, and had, one
and all, inly bestowed on them no little praise, as being fair and shapely,
and therewithal sweet and debonair; but ‛twas in the King’s eyes that
they especially found favour. Indeed, as they came forth of the water, the
King had scanned each part of their bodies so intently that, had one

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then pricked him, he would not have felt it, and his thoughts afterwards
dwelling upon them, though he knew not who they were, nor how they
came to be there, he felt stir within his heart a most ardent desire to
pleasure them, whereby he knew very well that, if he took not care, he
would grow enamoured; howbeit he knew not whether of the twain
pleased him the more, so like was each to the other. Having thus
brooded a while, he turned to Messer Neri, and asked who the two
damsels were. Whereto:—‟Sire,” replied Messer Neri, ‟they are my twin
daughters, and they are called, the one, Ginevra the Fair, and the other,
Isotta the Blonde.” Whereupon the King was loud in praise of them, and
exhorted Messer Neri to bestow them in marriage. To which Messer Neri
demurred, for that he no longer had the means. And nought of the
supper now remaining to serve, save the fruit, in came the two young
damsels in gowns of taffeta very fine, bearing in their hands two vast
silver salvers full of divers fruits, such as the season yielded, and set
them on the table before the King. Which done, they withdrew a little
space and fell a singing to music a ditty, of which the opening words
were as follows:—
Love, many words would not suffice
There where I am come to tell.
And so dulcet and delightsome was the strain that to the King, his
eyes and ears alike charmed, it seemed as if all the nine orders of angels
were descended there to sing. The song ended, they knelt and
respectfully craved the King’s leave to depart; which, though sorely
against his will, he gave them with a forced gaiety.
Supper ended, the King and his companions, having remounted their
horses, took leave of Messer Neri, and conversing of divers matters,
returned to the royal quarters; where the King, still harbouring his secret
passion, nor, despite affairs of state that supervened, being able to forget
the beauty and sweetness of Ginevra the Fair, for whose sake he likewise

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loved her twin sister, was so limed by Love that he could scarce think of
aught else. So, feigning other reasons, he consorted familiarly with
Messer Neri, and did much frequent his garden, that he might see
Ginevra. And at length, being unable to endure his suffering any longer,
and being minded, for that he could devise no other expedient, to
despoil their father not only of the one but of the other damsel also, he
discovered both his love and his project to Count Guy; who, being a
good man and true, thus made answer:—‟Sire, your tale causes me not a
little astonishment, and that more especially because of your
conversation from your childhood to this very day, I have, methinks,
known more than any other man. And as no such passion did I ever
mark in you, even in your youth, when Love should more readily have
fixed you with his fangs, as now I discern, when you are already on the
verge of old age, ‛tis to me so strange, so surprising that you should
veritably love, that I deem it little short of a miracle. And were it meet
for me to reprove you, well wot I the language I should hold to you,
considering that you are yet in arms in a realm but lately won, among a
people as yet unknown to you, and wily and treacherous in the extreme,
and that the gravest anxieties and matters of high policy engross your
mind, so that you are not as yet able to sit you down, and nevertheless
amid all these weighty concerns you have given harbourage to false,
flattering Love. This is not the wisdom of a great king, but the folly of a
feather-pated boy. And moreover, what is far worse, you say that you are
resolved to despoil this poor knight of his two daughters, whom,
entertaining you in his house, and honouring you to the best of his
power, he brought into your presence all but naked, testifying thereby,
how great is his faith in you, and how assured he is that you are a king,
and not a devouring wolf. Have you so soon forgotten that ‛twas
Manfred’s outrageous usage of his subjects that opened you the way into
this realm? What treachery was he ever guilty of that better merited
eternal torment, than ‛twould be in you to wrest from one that

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honourably entreats you at once his hope and his consolation? What
would be said of you if so you should do? Perchance you deem that
‛twould suffice to say:—‛I did it because he is a Ghibelline.’ Is it then
consistent with the justice of a king that those, be they who they may,
who seek his protection, as this man has sought yours, should be
entreated after this sort? King, I bid you remember that exceeding great
as is your glory to have vanquished Manfred, yet to conquer oneself is a
still greater glory: wherefore you, to whom belongs the correction of
others, see to it that you conquer yourself, and refrain this unruly
passion; and let not such a blot mar the splendour of your
achievements.”
Sore stricken at heart by the Count’s words, and the more mortified
that he acknowledged their truth, the King heaved a fervent sigh or two,
and then:—‟Count,” quoth he, ‟that enemy there is none, however
mighty, but to the practised warrior is weak enough and easy to conquer
in comparison of his own appetite, I make no doubt, but, great though
the struggle will be and immeasurable the force that it demands, so
shrewdly galled am I by your words, that not many days will have gone
by before I shall without fail have done enough to shew you that I, that
am the conqueror of others, am no less able to gain the victory over
myself.” And indeed but a few days thereafter, the King, on his return to
Naples, being minded at once to leave himself no excuse for
dishonourable conduct, and to recompense the knight for his
honourable entreatment of him, did, albeit ‛twas hard for him to endow
another with that which he had most ardently desired for himself, none
the less resolve to bestow the two damsels in marriage, and that not as
Messer Neri’s daughters, but as his own. Wherefore, Messer Neri
consenting, he provided both with magnificent dowries, and gave
Ginevra the Fair to Messer Maffeo da Palizzi, and Isotta the Blonde to
Messer Guglielmo della Magna, noble knights and great barons both;
which done, sad at heart beyond measure, he betook him to Apulia, and

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by incessant travail did so mortify his vehement appetite that he

snapped and broke in pieces the fetters of Love, and for the rest of his
days was no more vexed by such passion.
Perchance there will be those who say that ‛tis but a trifle for a king to
bestow two girls in marriage; nor shall I dispute it: but say we that a king
in love bestowed in marriage her whom he loved, neither having taken
nor taking, of his love, leaf or flower or fruit; then this I say was a feat
great indeed, nay, as great as might be.
After such a sort then did this magnificent King, at once generously
rewarding the noble knight, commendably honouring the damsels that
he loved, and stoutly subduing himself.

NOVEL VII.

— King Pedro, being apprised of the fervent love borne him by

Lisa, who thereof is sick, comforts her, and forthwith gives her
in marriage to a young gentleman, and having kissed her on
the brow, ever after professes himself her knight. —
When Fiammetta was come to the end of her story, and not a little praise
had been accorded to the virile magnificence of King Charles, albeit one
there was of the ladies, who, being a Ghibelline, joined not therein,
Pampinea, having received the king’s command, thus began:—None is
there of discernment, worshipful my ladies, that would say otherwise
than you have said touching good King Charles, unless for some other
cause she bear him a grudge; however, for that there comes to my mind
the, perchance no less honourable, entreatment of one of our Florentine
girls by one of his adversaries, I am minded to recount the same to you.
What time the French were driven forth of Sicily there dwelt at
Palermo one of our Florentines, that was an apothecary, Bernardo
Puccini by name, a man of great wealth, that by his lady had an only and

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exceeding fair daughter, then of marriageable age. Now King Pedro of

Arragon, being instated in the sovereignty of the island, did at Palermo
make with his barons marvellous celebration thereof; during which, as
he tilted after the Catalan fashion, it befell that Bernardo’s daughter, Lisa
by name, being with other ladies at a window, did thence espy him in the
course, whereat being prodigiously delighted, she regarded him again
and again, and grew fervently enamoured of him; nor yet, when the
festivities were ended, and she was at home with her father, was there
aught she could think of but this her exalted and aspiring love. In regard
whereof that which most irked her was her sense of her low rank, which
scarce permitted her any hope of a happy issue; but, for all that, give over
her love for the King she would not; nor yet, for fear of worse to come,
dared she discover it. The King, meanwhile, recking, witting nothing of
the matter, her suffering waxed immeasurable, intolerable; and her love
ever growing with ever fresh accessions of melancholy, the fair maiden,
overborne at last, fell sick, and visibly day by day wasted like snow in
sunlight. Distraught with grief thereat, her father and mother afforded
her such succour as they might with words of good cheer, and counsel of
physicians, and physic; but all to no purpose; for that she in despair of
her love was resolved no more to live.
Now her father assuring her that there was no whim of hers but
should be gratified, the fancy took her that, if she might find apt means,
she would, before she died, make her love and her resolve known to the
King: wherefore one day she besought her father to cause Minuccio
d’Arezzo, to come to her; which Minuccio, was a singer and musician of
those days, reputed most skilful, and well seen of King Pedro. Bernardo,
deeming that Lisa desired but to hear him play and sing a while,
conveyed her message to him; and he, being an agreeable fellow, came to
her forthwith, and after giving her some words of loving cheer, sweetly
discoursed some airs upon his viol, and then sang her some songs;
whereby, while he thought to comfort her, he did but add fire and flame

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to her love. Presently the girl said that she would fain say a few words to
him in private, and when all else were withdrawn from the chamber:
—‟Minuccio,” quoth she, ‟thee have I chosen, deeming thee most trusty,
to be the keeper of my secret, relying upon thee in the first place never
to betray it to a soul, and next to lend me in regard thereof such aid as
thou mayst be able; and so I pray thee to do. Thou must know, then,
Minuccio mine, that on the day when our lord King Pedro held the great
festival in celebration of his triumph, I, seeing him tilt, was so smitten
with love of him that thereof was kindled within my soul the fire which
has brought me, as thou seest, to this pass; and knowing how ill it
beseems me to love a king, and being unable, I say not to banish it from
my heart, but so much as to bring it within bounds, and finding it
exceeding grievous to bear, I have made choice of death as the lesser
pain; and die I shall. But should he wot not of my love before I die, sore
disconsolate should I depart; and knowing not by whom more aptly
than by thee I might give him to know this my frame, I am minded to
entrust the communication thereof to thee; which office I entreat thee
not to refuse, and having discharged it, to let me know, that dying thus
consoled, I may depart this pain.” Which said, she silently wept.
Marvelling at the loftiness of the girl’s spirit and her desperate
determination, Minuccio commiserated her not a little; and presently it
occurred to him that there was a way in which he might honourably
serve her: wherefore:—‟Lisa,” quoth he, ‟my faith I plight thee, wherein
thou mayst place sure confidence that I shall never play thee false, and
lauding thy high emprise, to wit, the setting thine affections upon so
great a king, I proffer thee mine aid, whereby, so thou wilt be of good
cheer, I hope, and believe, that, before thou shalt see the third day from
now go by, I shall have brought thee tidings which will be to thee for an
exceeding great joy; and, not to lose time, I will set to work at once.” And
so Lisa, assuring him that she would be of good cheer, and plying him
afresh with instant obsecrations, bade him Godspeed; and Minuccio,

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having taken leave of her, hied him to one Mico da Siena, a very expert
rhymester of those days, who at his instant request made the ensuing
song:—
Hence hie thee, Love; and hasting to my King,
Give him to know what torment dire I bear,
How that to death I fare,
Still close, for fear, my passion harbouring.

Lo, Love, to thee with clasped hands I turn,

And pray thee seek him where he tarrieth,
And tell him how I oft for him do yearn,
So sweetly he my heart enamoureth;
And of the fire, wherewith I throughly burn,
I think to die, but may the hour uneath
Say, when my grievous pain shall with my breath
Surcease; till when, neither may fear nor shame
The least abate the flame.
Ah! to his ears my woeful story bring.

Since of him I was first enamoured,

Never hast thou, O Love, my fearful heart
With any such fond hope encouraged,
As e’er its message to him to impart,
To him, my lord, that me so sore bested
Holds: dying thus, ‛twere grievous to depart:
Perchance, were he to know my cruel smart,
‛Twould not displease him; might I but make bold
My soul to him to unfold,
And shew him all my woeful languishing.

Love, since ‛twas not thy will me to accord

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Such boldness as that e’er unto my King

I may discover my sad heart’s full hoard,
Or any word or sign thereof him bring:
This all my prayer to thee, O sweet my Lord:
Hie thee to him, and so him whispering
Mind of the day I saw him tourneying
With all his paladins environed,
And grew enamoured
Ev’n to my very heart’s disrupturing.
Which words Minuccio forthwith set to music after a soft and
plaintive fashion befitting their sense; and on the third day thereafter
hied him to court, while King Pedro was yet at breakfast. And being
bidden by the King to sing something to the accompaniment of his viol,
he gave them this song with such sweet concord of words and music that
all the folk that were in the King’s hall seemed, as it were, entranced, so
intent and absorbed stood they to listen, and the King rather more than
the rest. And when Minuccio had done singing, the King asked whence
the song came, that, as far as he knew, he had never heard it before.
‟Sire,” replied Minuccio, ”‛tis not yet three days since ‛twas made, words
and music alike.” And being asked by the King in regard of whom ‛twas
made:—‟I dare not,” quoth he, ‟discover such a secret save to you alone.”
Bent on hearing the story, the King, when the tables were cleared, took
Minuccio into his privy chamber; and there Minuccio told him
everything exactly as he had heard it from Lisa’s lips. Whereby the King
was much gratified, and lauded the maiden not a little, and said that a
girl of such high spirit merited considerate treatment, and bade
Minuccio be his envoy to her, and comfort her, and tell her that without
fail that very day at vespers he would come to visit her. Overjoyed to bear
the girl such gladsome tidings, Minuccio tarried not, but hied him back
to the girl with his viol, and being closeted with her, told her all that had

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passed, and then sang the song to the accompaniment of his viol.
Whereby the girl was so cheered and delighted that forthwith there
appeared most marked and manifest signs of the amendment of her
health, while with passionate longing (albeit none in the house knew or
divined it) she awaited the vesper hour, when she was to see her lord.
Knowing the girl very well, and how fair she was, and pondering
divers times on what Minuccio had told him, the King, being a prince of
a liberal and kindly disposition, grew ever more compassionate. So,
about vespers, he mounted his horse, and rode forth, as if for mere
pleasure, and being come to the apothecary’s house, demanded access to
a very goodly garden that the apothecary had, and having dismounted,
after a while enquired of Bernardo touching his daughter, and whether
he had yet bestowed her in marriage. ‟Sire,” replied Bernardo, ‟she is not
yet married; and indeed she has been and still is very ill howbeit since
none she is wonderfully amended.” The significance of which
amendment being forthwith apprehended by the King:—‟In good faith,”
quoth he, ”‛twere a pity so fair a creature were reft from the world so
early; we would go in and visit her.” And presently, attended only by two
of his lords and Bernardo, he betook him to her chamber, where being
entered, he drew nigh the bed, whereon the girl half reclined, half sate
in eager expectation of his coming; and taking her by the hand:
—‟Madonna,” quoth he, ‟what means this? A maiden like you should be
the comfort of others, and you suffer yourself to languish. We would
entreat you that for love of us you be of good cheer, so as speedily to
recover your health.” To feel the touch of his hand whom she loved above
all else, the girl, albeit somewhat shamefast, was so enraptured that
‛twas as if she was in Paradise; and as soon as she was able:— ‟My lord,”
she said, ”‛twas the endeavour, weak as I am, to sustain a most grievous
burden that brought this sickness upon me; but ‛twill not be long ere
you will see me quit thereof, thanks to your courtesy.” The hidden
meaning of which words was apprehended only by the King, who

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momently made more account of the girl, and again and again inly
cursed Fortune, that had decreed that she should be the daughter of
such a man. And yet a while he tarried with her, and comforted her, and
so took his leave. Which gracious behaviour of the King was not a little
commended, and accounted a signal honour to the apothecary and his
daughter.
The girl, glad at heart as was ever lady of her lover, mended with
reviving hope, and in a few days recovered her health, and therewith
more than all her wonted beauty. Whereupon the King, having taken
counsel with the Queen how to reward so great a love, got him one day
to horse with a great company of his barons, and hied him to the
apothecary’s house; and being come into the garden, he sent for the
apothecary and his daughter; and there, being joined by the Queen with
not a few ladies, who received the girl into their company, they made
such cheer as ‛twas a wonder to see. And after a while the King and
Queen having called Lisa to them, quoth the King:—‟Honourable
damsel, by the great love that you have borne us we are moved greatly to
honour you; and we trust that, for love of us, the honour that we design
for you will be acceptable to you. Now ‛tis thus we would honour you: to
wit, that, seeing that you are of marriageable age, we would have you
take for husband him that we shall give you; albeit ‛tis none the less our
purpose ever to call ourself your knight, demanding no other tribute of
all your love but one sole kiss.” Scarlet from brow to neck, the girl,
making the King’s pleasure her own, thus with a low voice replied:—‟My
lord, very sure am I that, should it come to be known that I was grown
enamoured of you, most folk would hold me for a fool, deeming,
perchance, that I was out of my mind, and witless alike of my own rank
and yours; but God, who alone reads the hearts of us mortals, knows
that even then, when first I did affect you, I wist that you were the King,
and I but the daughter of Bernardo the apothecary, and that to suffer my
passion to soar so high did ill become me; but, as you know far better

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than I, none loves of set and discreet purpose, but only according to the
dictates of impulse and fancy; which law my forces, albeit not seldom
opposed, being powerless to withstand, I loved and still love and shall
ever love you. But as no sooner knew I myself subjugated to your love,
than I vowed to have ever no will but yours; therefore not only am I
compliant to take right gladly him whom you shall be pleased to give me
for husband, thereby conferring upon me great honour and dignity; but
if you should bid me tarry in the fire, delighted were I to obey, so thereby
I might pleasure you. How far it beseems me to have you, my King, for
my knight, you best know; and therefore I say nought thereof; nor will
the kiss which you crave as your sole tribute of my love be granted you
save by leave of my Lady the Queen. Natheless, may you have of this
great graciousness that you and my Lady the Queen have shewn me, and
which I may not requite, abundant recompense in the blessing and
favour of God;” and so she was silent.
The Queen was mightily delighted with the girl’s answer, and deemed
her as discreet as the King had said. The King then sent for the girl’s
father and mother, and being assured that his intention had their
approval, summoned to his presence a young man, Perdicone by name,
that was of gentle birth, but in poor circumstances, and put certain rings
into his hand, and (he nowise gainsaying) wedded him to Lisa. Which
done, besides jewels many and precious that he and the Queen gave the
girl, he forthwith bestowed upon Perdicone two domains, right goodly
and of ample revenues, to wit, Ceffalu and Calatabellotta, saying:— ‟We
give them to thee for thy wife’s dowry; what we have in store for thee
thou wilt learn hereafter.” Which said, he turned to the girl, and:
—‟Now,” quoth he, ‟we are minded to cull that fruit which is due to us of
thy love;” and so, taking her head between both his hands, he kissed her
brow. Wherefore, great was the joy of Perdicone, and the father and
mother of Lisa, and Lisa herself, and mighty the cheer they made, and
gaily did they celebrate the nuptials. And, as many affirm, right well did

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the King keep his promise to the girl; for that ever, while he lived, he
called himself her knight, nor went to any passage of arms bearing other
device than that which he had from her.
Now ‛tis by doing after this sort that sovereigns win the hearts of their
subjects, give others occasion of well-doing, and gain for themselves an
imperishable renown. At which mark few or none in our times have bent
the bow of their understanding, the more part of the princes having
become but cruel tyrants.

NOVEL VIII.

— Sophronia, albeit she deems herself wife to Gisippus, is wife

to Titus Quintius Fulvus, and goes with him to Rome, where
Gisippus arrives in indigence, and deeming himself scorned by
Titus, to compass his own death, avers that he has slain a
man. Titus recognizes him, and to save his life, alleges that
‛twas he that slew the man: whereof he that did the deed being
witness, he discovers himself as the murderer. Whereby it
comes to pass that they are all three liberated by Octavianus;
and Titus gives Gisippus his sister to wife, and shares with him
all his substance. —
So ceased Pampinea; and when all the ladies, and most of all the
Ghibelline, had commended King Pedro, Filomena by command of the
king thus began:—Magnificent my ladies, who wots not that there is
nought so great but kings, when they have a mind, may accomplish it?
As also that ‛tis of them that magnificence is most especially demanded?
Now whoso, being powerful, does that which it appertains to him to do,
does well; but therein is no such matter of marvel, or occasion of
extolling him to the skies, as in his deed, of whom, for that his power is
slight, less is demanded. Wherefore, as you are so profuse of your words

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in exaltation of the fine deeds, as you deem them, of monarchs, I make

no manner of doubt, but that the doings of our peers must seem to you
yet more delectable and commendable, when they equal or surpass
those of kings. Accordingly ‛tis a transaction, laudable and magnificent,
that passed between two citizens, who were friends, that I purpose to
recount to you in my story.
I say, then, that what time Octavianus Caesar, not as yet hight
Augustus, but being in the office called Triumvirate, swayed the empire
of Rome, there dwelt at Rome a gentleman, Publius Quintius Fulvus by
name, who, having a son, Titus Quintius Fulvus, that was a very prodigy
of wit, sent him to Athens to study philosophy, and to the best of his
power commended him to a nobleman of that city, Chremes by name,
who was his very old friend. Chremes lodged Titus in his own house with
his son Gisippus, and placed both Titus and Gisippus under a
philosopher named Aristippus, to learn of him his doctrine. And the two
youths, thus keeping together, found each the other’s conversation so
congruous with his own, that there grew up between them a friendship
so close and brotherly that ‛twas never broken by aught but death; nor
knew either rest or solace save when he was with the other. So, gifted
alike with pre-eminent subtlety of wit, they entered on their studies, and
with even pace and prodigious applause scaled together the glorious
heights of philosophy. In which way of life, to the exceeding great delight
of Chremes, who entreated Titus as no less his son than Gisippus, they
continued for full three years. At the end whereof, it befell (after the
common course of things mundane) that Chremes (being now aged)
departed this life. Whom with equal grief they mourned as a common
father; and the friends and kinsfolk of Chremes were alike at a loss to
determine whether of the twain stood in need of the more consolation
upon the bereavement.
Some months afterward the friends and kinsfolk of Gisippus came to
him and exhorted him, as did also Titus, to take a wife, and found him a

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maiden, wondrous fair, of one of the most noble houses of Athens, her
name Sophronia, and her age about fifteen years. So a time was
appointed for their nuptials, and one day, when ‛twas near at hand,
Gisippus bade Titus come see the maiden, whom as yet he had not seen;
and they being come into her house, and she sitting betwixt them, Titus,
as he were fain to observe with care the several charms of his friend’s
wife that was to be, surveyed her with the closest attention, and being
delighted beyond measure with all that he saw, grew, as inly he extolled
her charms to the skies, enamoured of her with a love as ardent, albeit he
gave no sign of it, as ever lover bore to lady. However, after they had
tarried a while with her, they took their leave, and went home, where
Titus repaired to his chamber, and there gave himself over to solitary
musing on the damsel’s charms, and the longer he brooded, the more he
burned for her. Whereon as he reflected, having heaved many a fervent
sigh, thus he began to commune with himself:—Ah! woe worth thy life,
Titus! Whom makest thou the mistress of thy soul, thy love, thy hope?
Knowest thou not that by reason as well of thy honourable entreatment
by Chremes and his kin as of the wholehearted friendship that is
between thee and Gisippus, it behoves thee to have his betrothed in
even such pious regard as if she were thy sister? Whither art thou
suffering beguiling love, delusive hope, to hurry thee? Open the eyes of
thine understanding, and see thyself, wretched man, as thou art; obey
the dictates of thy reason, refrain thy carnal appetite, control thine
inordinate desires, and give thy thoughts another bent; join battle with
thy lust at the outset, and conquer thyself while there is yet time. This
which thou wouldst have is not meet, is not seemly: this which thou art
minded to ensue, thou wouldst rather, though thou wert, as thou art
not, sure of its attainment, eschew, hadst thou but the respect thou
shouldst have, for the claims of true friendship. So, then, Titus, what wilt
thou do? What but abandon this unseemly love, if thou wouldst do as it
behoves thee?

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But then, as he remembered Sophronia, his thoughts took the

contrary direction, and he recanted all he had said, musing on this wise:
—The laws of Love are of force above all others; they abrogate not only
the law of human friendship, but the law Divine itself. How many times
ere now has father loved daughter, brother sister, step-mother step-son?
aberrations far more notable than that a friend should love his friend’s
wife, which has happened a thousand times. Besides which, I am young,
and youth is altogether subject to the laws of Love. Love’s pleasure, then,
should be mine. The seemly is for folk of riper years. ‛Tis not in my
power to will aught save that which Love wills. So beauteous is this
damsel that there is none but should love her; and if I love her, who am
young, who can justly censure me? I love her not because she is the
affianced of Gisippus; no matter whose she was, I should love her all the
same. Herein is Fortune to blame, that gave her to my friend, Gisippus,
rather than to another. And if she is worthy of love, as for beauty she is,
Gisippus, if he should come to know that I love her, ought to be less
jealous than another.
Then, scorning himself that he should indulge such thoughts, he
relapsed into the opposing mood, albeit not to abide there, but ever
veering to and fro, he spent not only the whole of that day and the
ensuing night, but many others; insomuch that, being able neither to
eat nor to sleep, he grew so weak that he was fain to take to his bed.
Gisippus, who had marked his moodiness for some days, and now saw
that he was fairly sick, was much distressed; and with sedulous care,
never quitting his side, he tended, and strove as best he might to
comfort, him, not seldom and most earnestly demanding to know of
him the cause of his melancholy and his sickness. Many were the
subterfuges to which Titus resorted; but, as Gisippus was not to be put
off with his fables, finding himself hard pressed by him, with sighs and
sobs he made answer on this wise:—‟Gisippus, had such been the will of
the Gods, I were fain rather to die than to live, seeing that Fortune has

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brought me to a strait in which needs must my virtue be put to the

ordeal, and, to my most grievous shame, ‛tis found wanting: whereof I
confidently expect my due reward, to wit, death, which will be more
welcome to me than to live, haunted ever by the memory of my
baseness, which, as there is nought that from thee I either should or can
conceal, I, not without burning shame, will discover to thee.” And so he
recounted the whole story from first to last, the occasion of his
melancholy, its several moods, their conflict, and with which of them
the victory rested, averring that he was dying of love for Sophronia, and
that, knowing how ill such love beseemed him, he had, for penance,
elected to die, and deemed the end was now not far off. Gisippus,
hearing his words and seeing his tears, for a while knew not what to say,
being himself smitten with the damsel’s charms, albeit in a less degree
than Titus; but ere long he made up his mind that Sophronia must be
less dear to him than his friend’s life.
And so, moved to tears by his friend’s tears:—‟Titus,” quoth he
between his sobs, ‟but that thou art in need of comfort, I should
reproach thee, that thou hast offended against our friendship in that
thou hast so long kept close from me this most distressful passion; and
albeit thou didst deem it unseemly, yet unseemly things should no more
than things seemly be withheld from a friend, for that, as a friend
rejoices with his friend in things seemly, so he does his endeavour to
wean his friend from things unseemly: but enough of this for the nonce:
I pass to that which, I wot, is of greater moment. If thou ardently lovest
Sophronia, my affianced, so far from marvelling thereat, I should greatly
marvel were it not so, knowing how fair she is, and how noble is thy
soul, and thus the apter to be swayed by passion, the more excelling is
she by whom thou art charmed. And the juster the cause thou hast to
love Sophronia, the greater is the injustice with which thou complainest
of Fortune (albeit thou dost it not in so many words) for giving her to
me, as if thy love of her had been seemly, had she belonged to any other

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but me; whereas, if thou art still the wise man thou wast wont to be,
thou must know that to none could Fortune have assigned her, with
such good cause for thee to thank her, as to me. Had any other had her,
albeit thy love had been seemly, he had loved her as his own, rather than
as thine; which, if thou deem me even such a friend to thee as I am, thou
wilt not apprehend from me, seeing that I mind me not that, since we
were friends, I had ever aught that was not as much thine as mine. And
so should I entreat thee herein as in all other matters, were the affair
gone so far that nought else were possible; but as it is, I can make thee
sole possessor of her; and so I mean to do; for I know not what cause
thou shouldst have to prize my friendship, if, where in seemly sort it
might be done, I knew not how to surrender my will to thine. ‛Tis true
that Sophronia is my betrothed, and that I loved her much, and had
great cheer in expectation of the nuptials: but as thou, being much more
discerning than I, dost more fervently affect this rare prize, rest assured
that she will enter my chamber not mine but thine. Wherefore, away
with thy moodiness, banish thy melancholy, recover thy lost health, thy
heartiness and jollity, and gladsomely, even from this very hour,
anticipate the guerdon of thy love, a love worthier far than mine.”
Delightful as was the prospect with which hope flattered Titus, as he
heard Gisippus thus speak, no less was the shame with which right
reason affected him, admonishing him that the greater was the liberality
of Gisippus, the less it would become him to profit thereby. Wherefore,
still weeping, he thus constrained himself to make answer:— ‟Gisippus,
thy generous and true friendship leaves me in no doubt as to the manner
in which it becomes me to act. God forefend that her, whom, as to the
more worthy, He has given to thee, I should ever accept of thee for mine.
Had He seen fit that she should be mine, far be it from thee or any other
to suppose that He would ever have awarded her to thee. Renounce not,
then, that which thy choice and wise counsel and His gift have made
thine, and leave me, to whom, as unworthy, He has appointed no such

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happiness, to waste my life in tears; for either I shall conquer my grief,

which will be grateful to thee, or it will conquer me, and so I shall be
quit of my pain.” Quoth then Gisippus:—‟If our friendship, Titus, is of
such a sort as may entitle me to enforce thee to ensue behests of mine, or
as may induce thee of thine own free will to ensue the same, such is the
use to which, most of all, I am minded to put it; and if thou lend not
considerate ear unto my prayers, I shall by force, that force which is
lawful in the interest of a friend, make Sophronia thine. I know the
might of Love, how redoubtable it is, and how, not once only, but
oftentimes, it has brought ill-starred lovers to a miserable death; and
thee I see so hard bested that turn back thou mightst not, nor get the
better of thy grief, but holding on thy course, must succumb, and perish,
and without doubt I should speedily follow thee. And so, had I no other
cause to love thee, thy life is precious to me in that my own is bound up
with it. Sophronia, then, shall be thine; for thou wouldst not lightly find
another so much to thy mind, and I shall readily find another to love,
and so shall content both thee and me. In which matter, peradventure, I
might not be so liberal, were wives so scarce or hard to find as are
friends; wherefore, as ‛tis so easy a matter for me to find another wife, I
had liefer—I say not lose her, for in giving her to thee lose her I shall
not, but only transfer her to one that is my alter ego, and that to her
advantage—I had liefer, I say, transfer her to thee than lose thee. And so,
if aught my prayers avail with thee, I entreat thee extricate thyself from
this thy woeful plight, and comfort at once thyself and me, and in good
hope, address thyself to pluck that boon which thy fervent love craves of
her for whom thou yearnest.”
Still scrupling, for shame, to consent that Sophronia should become
his wife, Titus remained yet a while inexorable; but, yielding at last to
the solicitations of Love, reinforced by the exhortations of Gisippus,
thus he made answer:—‟Lo now, Gisippus, I know not how to call it,
whether ‛tis more thy pleasure than mine, this which I do, seeing that ‛tis

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as thy pleasure that thou so earnestly entreatest me to do it; but, as thy

liberality is such that my shame, though becoming, may not withstand
it, I will even do it. But of this rest assured, that I do so, witting well that
I receive from thee, not only the lady I love, but with her my very life.
And, Fate permitting, may the Gods grant me to make thee such
honourable and goodly requital as may shew thee how sensible I am of
the boon, which thou, more compassionate of me than I am of myself,
conferrest on me.” Quoth then Gisippus:—‟Now, for the giving effect to
our purpose, methinks, Titus, we should proceed on this wise. Thou
knowest that Sophronia, by treaty at length concluded between my
family and hers, is become my betrothed: were I now to say that she
should not be my wife, great indeed were the scandal that would come
thereof, and I should affront both her family and mine own; whereof,
indeed, I should make no account, so it gave me to see her become
thine; but I fear that, were I to give her up at this juncture, her family
would forthwith bestow her upon another, perchance, than thee, and so
we should both be losers. Wherefore methinks that, so thou approve, I
were best to complete what I have begun, bring her home as my wife,
and celebrate the nuptials, and thereafter we can arrange that thou lie
with her, privily, as thy wife. Then, time and occasion serving, we will
disclose the whole affair, and if they are satisfied, well and good; if not,
‛twill be done all the same, and as it cannot be undone, they must
perforce make the best of it.”
Which counsel being approved by Titus, Gisippus brought the lady
home as his wife, Titus being now recovered, and quite himself again;
and when they had made great cheer, and night was come, the ladies,
having bedded the bride, took their departure. Now the chambers of
Titus and Gisippus were contiguous, and one might pass from one into
the other: Gisippus, therefore, being come into his room, extinguished
every ray of light, and stole into that of Titus, and bade him go get him
to bed with his lady. Whereat Titus gave way to shame, and would have

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changed his mind, and refused to go in; but Gisippus, no less zealous at
heart than in words to serve his friend, after no small contention
prevailed on him to go thither. Now no sooner was Titus abed with the
lady, than, taking her in his arms, he, as if jestingly, asked in a low tone
whether she were minded to be his wife. She, taking him to be Gisippus,
answered, yes; whereupon he set a fair and costly ring on her finger,
saying:—‟And I am minded to be thy husband.” And having presently
consummated the marriage, he long and amorously disported him with
her, neither she, nor any other, being ever aware that another than
Gisippus lay with her.
Now Titus and Sophronia being after this sort wedded, Publius, the
father of Titus, departed this life. For which cause Titus was bidden by
letter to return forthwith to Rome to see to his affairs; wherefore he took
counsel with Gisippus how he might take Sophronia thither with him;
which might not well be done without giving her to know how matters
stood. Whereof, accordingly, one day, having called her into the
chamber, they fully apprised her, Titus for her better assurance bringing
to her recollection not a little of what had passed between them.
Whereat she, after glancing from one to the other somewhat
disdainfully, burst into a flood of tears, and reproached Gisippus that he
had so deluded her; and forthwith, saying nought of the matter to any
there, she hied her forth of Gisippus’ house and home to her father, to
whom and her mother she recounted the deceit which Gisippus had
practised upon them as upon her, averring that she was the wife not of
Gisippus, as they supposed, but of Titus. Whereby her father was
aggrieved exceedingly, and prolonged and grave complaint was made
thereof by him and his own and Gisippus’ families, and there was not a
little parleying, and a world of pother. Gisippus earned the hatred of
both his own and Sophronia’s kin, and all agreed that he merited not
only censure but severe punishment. He, however, averred that he had
done a thing seemly, and that Sophronia’s kinsfolk owed him thanks for

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giving her in marriage to one better than himself.

All which Titus witnessed with great suffering, and witting that ‛twas
the way of the Greeks to launch forth in high words and menaces, and
refrain not until they should meet with one that answered them,
whereupon they were wont to grow not only humble but even abject,
was at length minded that their clavers should no longer pass
unanswered; and, as with his Roman temper he united Athenian
subtlety, he cleverly contrived to bring the kinsfolk, as well of Gisippus
as of Sophronia, together in a temple, where, being entered, attended
only by Gisippus, thus (they being intent to hear) he harangued them:
—”‛Tis the opinion of not a few philosophers that whatsoever mortals do
is ordained by the providence of the immortal Gods; for which cause
some would have it that nought either is, or ever shall be, done, save of
necessity, albeit others there are that restrict this necessity to that which
is already done. Regard we but these opinions with some little attention,
and we shall very plainly perceive that to censure that which cannot be
undone is nought else but to be minded to shew oneself wiser than the
Gods; by whom we must suppose that we and our affairs are swayed and
governed with uniform and unerring wisdom. Whereby you may very
readily understand how vain and foolish a presumption it is to pass
judgment on their doings, and what manner and might of chains they
need who suffer themselves to be transported to such excess of daring.
Among whom, in my judgment, you must one and all be numbered, if
‛tis true, what I hear, to wit, that you have complained and do continue
to complain that Sophronia, albeit you gave her to Gisippus, is,
nevertheless, become my wife; not considering that ‛twas ordained from
all eternity that she should become, not the wife of Gisippus, but mine,
as the fact does now declare.
‟But, for that discourse of the secret providence and purposes of the
Gods seems to many a matter hard and scarce to be understood, I am
willing to assume that they meddle in no wise with our concerns, and to

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descend to the region of human counsels; in speaking whereof I must

needs do two things quite at variance with my wont, to wit, in some
degree praise myself and censure or vilify another. But, as in either case I
mean not to deviate from the truth, and ‛tis what the occasion demands,
I shall not fail so to do. With bitter upbraidings, animated rather by rage
than by reason, you cease not to murmur, nay, to cry out, against
Gisippus, and to harass him with your abuse, and hold him condemned,
for that her, whom you saw fit to give him, he has seen fit to give me, to
wife; wherein I deem him worthy of the highest commendation, and
that for two reasons, first, because he has done the office of a friend, and
secondly, because he has done more wisely than you did. After what sort
the sacred laws of friendship prescribe that friend shall entreat friend,
‛tis not to my present purpose to declare; ‛twill suffice to remind you that
the tie of friendship should be more binding than that of blood, or
kinship; seeing that our friends are of our own choosing, whereas our
kinsfolk are appointed us by Fortune; wherefore, if my life was more to
Gisippus than your goodwill, since I am, as I hold myself, his friend, can
any wonder thereat?
‟But pass we to my second reason; in the exposition whereof I must
needs with yet more cogency prove to you that he has been wiser than
you, seeing that, methinks, you wot nought of the providence of the
Gods, and still less of the consequences of friendship. I say then, that, as
‛twas your premeditated and deliberate choice that gave Sophronia to
this young philosopher Gisippus, so ‛twas his that gave her to another
young philosopher. ‛Twas your counsel that gave her to an Athenian;
‛twas his that gave her to a Roman: ‛twas your counsel that gave her to a
man of gentle birth; ‛twas his that gave her to one of birth yet gentler:
wealthy was he to whom your counsel gave her, most wealthy he to
whom his counsel gave her. Not only did he to whom your counsel gave
her, love her not, but he scarce knew her, whereas ‛twas to one that loved
her beyond all other blessings, nay, more dearly than his own life, that

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his counsel gave her. And to the end that it may appear more plainly that
‛tis even as I say, and Gisippus’ counsel more to be commended than
yours, let us examine it point by point. That I, like Gisippus, am young
and a philosopher, my countenance and my pursuits may, without
making more words about the matter, sufficiently attest. We are also of
the same age, and have ever kept pace together in our studies. Now true
it is that he is an Athenian, and I am a Roman. But, as touching the
comparative glory of the cities, should the matter be mooted, I say that I
am of a free city, and he of a city tributary; that I am of a city that is
mistress of all the world, and he of one that is subject to mine; that I am
of a city that flourishes mightily in arms, in empire, and in arts; whereas
he cannot boast his city as famous save in arts.
‟Moreover, albeit you see me here in the guise of a most humble
scholar, I am not born of the dregs of the populace of Rome. My halls
and the public places of Rome are full of the antique effigies of my
forefathers, and the annals of Rome abound with the records of
triumphs led by the Quintii to the Roman Capitol; and so far from age
having withered it, to-day, yet more abundantly than ever of yore,
flourishes the glory of our name. Of my wealth I forbear, for shame, to
speak, being mindful that honest poverty is the time-honoured and
richest inheritance of the noble citizens of Rome; but, allowing for the
nonce the opinion of the vulgar, which holds poverty in disrepute, and
highly appraises wealth, I, albeit I never sought it, yet, as the favoured of
Fortune, have abundant store thereof. Now well I wot that, Gisippus
being of your own city, you justly prized and prize an alliance with him;
but not a whit less should you prize an alliance with me at Rome,
considering that there you will have in me an excellent host, and a
patron apt, zealous and potent to serve you as well in matters of public
interest as in your private concerns. Who, then, dismissing all bias from
his mind, and judging with impartial reason, would deem your counsel
more commendable than that of Gisippus? Assuredly none. Sophronia,

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then, being married to Titus Quintius Fulvus, a citizen of Rome, of an

ancient and illustrious house, and wealthy, and a friend of Gisippus,
whoso takes umbrage or offence thereat, does that which it behoves him
not to do, and knows not what he does.
‟Perchance some will say that their complaint is not that Sophronia is
the wife of Titus, but that she became his wife after such a sort, to wit,
privily, by theft, neither friend nor any of her kin witting aught thereof;
but herein is no matter of marvel, no prodigy as yet unheard-of. I need
not instance those who before now have taken to them husbands in
defiance of their fathers’ will, or have eloped with their lovers and been
their mistresses before they were their wives, or of whose marriages no
word has been spoken, until their pregnancy or parturition published
them to the world, and necessity sanctioned the fact: nought of this has
happened in the case of Sophronia; on the contrary, ‛twas in proper
form, and in meet and seemly sort, that Gisippus gave her to Titus. And
others, peradventure, will say that ‛twas by one to whom such office
belonged not that she was bestowed in marriage. Nay, but this is but
vain and womanish querulousness, and comes of scant consideration.
Know we not, then, that Fortune varies according to circumstances her
methods and her means of disposing events to their predetermined
ends? What matters it to me, if it be a cobbler, rather than a philosopher,
that Fortune has ordained to compass something for me, whether privily
or overtly, so only the result is as it should be? I ought, indeed, to take
order, if the cobbler be indiscreet, that he meddle no more in affairs of
mine, but, at the same time, I ought to thank him for what he has done.
If Gisippus has duly bestowed Sophronia in marriage, it is gratuitous
folly to find fault with the manner and the person. If you mistrust his
judgment, have a care that it be not in his power to do the like again, but
thank him for this turn.
‟Natheless, you are to know that I used no cunning practice or deceit
to sully in any degree the fair fame of your house in the person of

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Sophronia; and, albeit I took her privily to wife, I came not as a ravisher
to despoil her of her virginity, nor in any hostile sort was I minded to
make her mine on dishonourable terms, and spurn your alliance; but,
being fervently enamoured of her bewitching beauty and her noble
qualities, I wist well that, should I make suit for her with those
formalities which you, perchance, will say were due, then, for the great
love you bear her, and for fear lest I should take her away with me to
Rome, I might not hope to have her. Accordingly I made use of the secret
practice which is now manifest to you, and brought Gisippus to consent
in my interest to that whereto he was averse; and thereafter, ardently
though I loved her, I sought not to commingle with her as a lover, but as
a husband, nor closed with her, until, as she herself by her true witness
may assure you, I had with apt words and with the ring made her my
lawful wife, asking her if she would have me to husband, whereto she
answered, yes. Wherein if she seem to have been tricked, ‛tis not I that
am to blame, but she, for that she asked me not who I was.
‟This, then, is the great wrong, sin, crime, whereof for love and
friendship’s sake Gisippus and I are guilty, that Sophronia is privily
become the wife of Titus Quintius: ‛tis for this that you harass him with
your menaces and hostile machinations. What more would you do, had
he given her to a villein, to a caitiff, to a slave? Where would you find
fetters, dungeons, crosses adequate to your vengeance? But enough of
this at present: an event, which I did not expect, has now happened; my
father is dead; and I must needs return to Rome; wherefore, being fain
to take Sophronia with me, I have discovered to you that which
otherwise I had, perchance, still kept close. Whereto, if you are wise, you
will gladly reconcile yourselves; for that, if I had been minded to play
you false, or put an affront upon you, I might have scornfully abandoned
her to you; but God forefend that such baseness be ever harboured in a
Roman breast. Sophronia, then, by the will of the Gods, by force of law,
and by my own love-taught astuteness, is mine. The which it would

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seem that you, deeming yourselves, peradventure, wiser than the Gods,
or the rest of mankind, do foolishly set at nought, and that in two ways
alike most offensive to me; inasmuch as you both withhold from me
Sophronia, in whom right, as against me, you have none, and also
entreat as your enemy Gisippus, to whom you are rightfully bounden.
The folly whereof I purpose not at present fully to expound to you, but in
friendly sort to counsel you to abate your wrath and abandon all your
schemes of vengeance, and restore Sophronia to me, that I may part
from you on terms of amity and alliance, and so abide: but of this rest
assured, that whether this, which is done, like you or not, if you are
minded to contravene it, I shall take Gisippus hence with me, and once
arrived in Rome, shall in your despite find means to recover her who is
lawfully mine, and pursuing you with unremitting enmity, will apprise
you by experience of the full measure and effect of a Roman’s wrath.”
Having so said, Titus started to his feet, his countenance distorted by
anger, and took Gisippus by the hand, and with manifest contempt for
all the rest, shaking his head at them and threatening them, led him out
of the temple. They that remained in the temple, being partly persuaded
by his arguments to accept his alliance and friendship, partly terrified by
his last words, resolved by common consent that ‛twas better to have the
alliance of Titus, as they had lost that of Gisippus, than to add to that
loss the enmity of Titus. Wherefore they followed Titus, and having
come up with him, told him that they were well pleased that Sophronia
should be his, and that they should prize his alliance and the friendship
of dear Gisippus; and having ratified this treaty of amity and alliance
with mutual cheer, they departed and sent Sophronia to Titus.
Sophronia, discreetly making a virtue of necessity, transferred forthwith
to Titus the love she had borne Gisippus, and being come with Titus to
Rome, was there received with no small honour. Gisippus tarried in
Athens, held in little account by well-nigh all the citizens, and being
involved in certain of their broils, was, not long afterwards, with all his

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household, banished the city, poor, nay, destitute, and condemned to

perpetual exile. Thus hard bested, and at length reduced to mendicancy,
he made his way, so as least discomfortably he might, to Rome, being
minded to see whether Titus would remember him: and there, learning
that Titus lived, and was much affected by all the Romans, and having
found out his house, he took his stand in front of it, and watched until
Titus came by; to whom, for shame of the sorry trim that he was in, he
ventured no word, but did his endeavour that he might be seen of him,
hoping that Titus might recognize him, and call him by his name: but
Titus passing on, Gisippus deeming that he had seen and avoided him,
and calling to mind that which aforetime he had done for him, went
away wroth and desperate. And fasting and penniless, and—for ‛twas
now night—knowing not whither he went, and yearning above all for
death, he wandered by chance to a spot, which, albeit ‛twas within the
city, had much of the aspect of a wilderness, and espying a spacious
grotto, he took shelter there for the night; and worn out at last with grief,
on the bare ground, wretchedly clad as he was, he fell asleep.
Now two men that had that night gone out a thieving, having
committed the theft, came towards morning to the grotto, and there
quarrelled, and the stronger slew the other, and took himself off.
Aroused by the noise, Gisippus witnessed the murder, and deeming that
he had now the means of compassing, without suicide, the death for
which he so much longed, budged not a jot, but stayed there, until the
serjeants of the court, which had already got wind of the affair, came on
the scene, and laid violent hands upon him, and led him away. Being
examined, he confessed that he had slain the man, and had then been
unable to make his escape from the grotto. Wherefore the praetor,
Marcus Varro by name, sentenced him to death by crucifixion, as was
then the custom. But Titus, who happened at that moment to come into
the praetorium, being told the crime for which he was condemned, and
scanning the poor wretch’s face, presently recognized him for Gisippus,

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and marvelled how he should come to be there, and in such a woeful

plight. And most ardently desiring to succour him, nor seeing other way
to save his life except to exonerate him by accusing himself, he
straightway stepped forward, and said with a loud voice:—‟Marcus
Varro, call back the poor man on whom thou hast passed sentence, for
he is innocent. ‛Tis enough that I have incurred the wrath of the Gods by
one deed of violence, to wit, the murder of him whom your serjeants
found dead this morning, without aggravating my offence by the death
of another innocent man.” Perplexed, and vexed that he should have
been heard by all in the praetorium, but unable honourably to avoid
compliance with that which the laws enjoined, Varro had Gisippus
brought back, and in presence of Titus said to him:—‟How camest thou
to be so mad as, though no constraint was put upon thee, to confess a
deed thou never didst, thy life being at stake? Thou saidst that ‛twas
thou by whom the man was slain last night, and now comes this other,
and says that ‛twas not thou but he that slew him.” Gisippus looked, and
seeing Titus, wist well that, being grateful for the service rendered by
him in the past, Titus was now minded to save his life at the cost of his
own: wherefore, affected to tears, he said:—‟Nay but, Varro, in very
sooth I slew him, and ‛tis now too late, this tender solicitude of Titus for
my deliverance.” But on his part:—‟Praetor,” quoth Titus, ‟thou seest this
man is a stranger, and was found unarmed beside the murdered man;
thou canst not doubt that he was fain of death for very wretchedness:
wherefore discharge him, and let punishment light on me who have
merited it.”
Marvelling at the importunity of both, Varro readily surmised that
neither was guilty. And while he was casting about how he might acquit
them, lo, in came a young man, one Publius Ambustus, a desperate
character, and known to all the Romans for an arrant thief. He it was that
had verily committed the murder, and witting both the men to be
innocent of that of which each accused himself, so sore at heart was he

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by reason of their innocence, that, overborne by an exceeding great

compassion, he presented himself before Varro, and:—‟Praetor,” quoth
he, ”‛tis destiny draws me hither to loose the knot of these men’s
contention; and some God within me leaves me no peace of his whips
and stings, until I discover my offence: wherefore know that neither of
these men is guilty of that of which each accuses himself. ‛Tis verily I
that slew the man this morning about daybreak; and before I slew him,
while I was sharing our plunder with him, I espied this poor fellow
asleep there. Nought need I say to clear Titus: the general bruit of his
illustrious renown attests that he is not a man of such a sort. Discharge
him, therefore, and exact from me the penalty prescribed by the laws.”
The affair had by this time come to the ears of Octavianus, who
caused all three to be brought before him, and demanded to know the
causes by which they had been severally moved to accuse themselves;
and, each having told his story, Octavianus released the two by reason of
their innocence, and the third for love of them. Titus took Gisippus
home, having first chidden him not a little for his faint-heartedness and
diffidence, and there, Sophronia receiving him as a brother, did him
marvellous cheer; and having comforted him a while, and arrayed him in
apparel befitting his worth and birth, he first shared with him all his
substance, and then gave him his sister, a young damsel named Fulvia,
to wife, and said to him:—‟Choose now, Gisippus, whether thou wilt
tarry here with me, or go back to Achaia with all that I have given thee.”
Partly perforce of his banishment from his city, partly for that the
sweet friendship of Titus was justly dear to him, Gisippus consented to
become a Roman. And so, long and happily they lived together at Rome,
Gisippus with his Fulvia, and Titus with his Sophronia, in the same
house, growing, if possible, greater friends day by day.
Exceeding sacred then, is friendship, and worthy not only to be had
in veneration, but to be extolled with never-ending praise, as the most
dutiful mother of magnificence and seemliness, sister of gratitude and

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charity, and foe to enmity and avarice; ever, without waiting to be asked,
ready to do as generously by another as she would be done by herself.
Rarely indeed is it to-day that twain are found, in whom her most holy
fruits are manifest; for which is most shamefully answerable the
covetousness of mankind, which, regarding only private interest, has
banished friendship beyond earth’s farthest bourne, there to abide in
perpetual exile. How should love, or wealth, or kinship, how should
aught but friendship have so quickened the soul of Gisippus that the
tears and sighs of Titus should incline his heart to cede to him the fair
and gracious lady that was his betrothed and his beloved? Laws,
menaces, terror! How should these, how should aught but friendship,
have withheld Gisippus, in lonely places, in hidden retreats, in his own
bed, from enfolding (not perchance unsolicited by her) the fair damsel
within his youthful embrace? Honours, rewards, gains! Would Gisippus
for these, would he for aught but friendship, have made nothing of the
loss of kindred—his own and Sophronia’s—have made nothing of the
injurious murmurs of the populace, have made nothing of mocks and
scorns, so only he might content his friend? And on the other hand, for
what other cause than friendship had Titus, when he might decently
have feigned not to see, have striven with the utmost zeal to compass his
own death, and set himself upon the cross in Gisippus’ stead? And what
but friendship had left no place for suspicion in the soul of Titus, and
filled it with a most fervent desire to give his sister to Gisippus, albeit he
saw him to be reduced to extreme penury and destitution? But so it is
that men covet hosts of acquaintance, troops of kinsfolk, offspring in
plenty; and the number of their dependants increases with their wealth;
and they reflect not that there is none of these, be he who he may, but
will be more apprehensive of the least peril threatening himself than
cumbered to avert a great peril from his lord or kinsman, whereas
between friends we know ‛tis quite contrariwise.

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NOVEL IX.

— Saladin, in guise of a merchant, is honourably entreated by

Messer Torello. The Crusade ensuing, Messer Torello appoints
a date, after which his wife may marry again: he is taken
prisoner, and by training hawks comes under the Soldan’s
notice. The Soldan recognizes him, makes himself known to
him, and entreats him with all honour. Messer Torello falls
sick, and by magic arts is transported in a single night to
Pavia, where his wife’s second marriage is then to be
solemnized, and being present thereat, is recognized by her,
and returns with her to his house. —
So ended Filomena her story, and when all alike had commended the
magnificence shewn by Titus in his gratitude, the king, reserving the last
place for Dioneo, thus began:—Lovesome my ladies, true beyond all
question is what Filomena reports of friendship, and with justice did she
deplore in her closing words the little account in which ‛tis held to-day
among mortals. And were we here for the purpose of correcting, or even
of censuring, the vices of the age, I should add a copious sequel to her
discourse; but as we have another end in view, it has occurred to me to
set before you in a narrative, which will be of considerable length, but
entertaining throughout, an instance of Saladin’s magnificence, to the
end that, albeit, by reason of our vices, it may not be possible for us to
gain to the full the friendship of any, yet by the matters whereof you
shall hear in my story we may at least be incited to take delight in doing
good offices, in the hope that sooner or later we may come by our reward
thereof.
I say, then, that in the time of the Emperor Frederic I., as certain
writers affirm, the Christians made common emprise for the recovery of
the Holy Land. Whereof that most valiant prince, Saladin, then Soldan

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of Babylonia, being in good time apprised, resolved to see for himself

the preparations made by the Christian potentates for the said emprise,
that he might put himself in better trim to meet them. So, having
ordered all things to his mind in Egypt, he made as if he were bound on
a pilgrimage, and attended only by two of his chiefest and sagest lords,
and three servants, took the road in the guise of a merchant. And having
surveyed many provinces of Christendom, as they rode through
Lombardy with intent to cross the Alps, they chanced, between Milan
and Pavia, to fall in with a gentleman, one Messer Torello d’Istria da
Pavia, who with his servants and his dogs and falcons was betaking him
to a fine estate that he had on the Ticino, there to tarry a while. Now
Messer Torello no sooner espied Saladin and his lords than he guessed
them to be gentlemen and foreigners; and, being zealous to do them
honour, when Saladin asked one of his servants how far off Pavia might
still be, and if he might win there in time to enter the town, he suffered
not the servant to make answer, but:—‟No, gentlemen,” quoth he, ‟by
the time you reach Pavia ‛twill be too late for you to enter.” ‟So!” replied
Saladin, ‟then might you be pleased to direct us, as we are strangers,
where we may best be lodged?” ‟That gladly will I,” returned Messer
Torello. ‟I was but now thinking to send one of these my men on an
errand to Pavia; I will send him with you, and he will guide you to a place
where you will find very comfortable quarters.” Then, turning to one of
his most trusty servants, he gave him his instructions, and despatched
him with them: after which, he repaired to his estate, and forthwith, as
best he might, caused a goodly supper to be made ready, and the tables
set in his garden; which done, he stationed himself at the gate on the
look-out for his guests.
The servant, conversing with the gentlemen of divers matters,
brought them by devious roads to his lord’s estate without their being
ware of it. Whom as soon as Messer Torello espied, he came forth afoot
to meet them, and said with a smile:—‟A hearty welcome to you,

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gentlemen.” Now Saladin, being very quick of apprehension, perceived

that the knight had doubted, when he met them, that, were he to bid
them to his house, they might not accept his hospitality; and
accordingly, that it might not be in their power to decline it, had brought
them to his house by a ruse. And so, returning his greeting:—‟Sir,” quoth
he, ‟were it meet to find fault with those that shew courtesy, we should
have a grievance against you, for that, to say nought of somewhat
delaying our journey, you have in guerdon of a single greeting
constrained us to accept so noble a courtesy as yours.” Whereto the
knight, who was of good understanding and well-spoken, made answer:
—‟Gentlemen, such courtesy as we shew you will, in comparison of that
which, by what I gather from your aspect, were meet for you, prove but a
sorry thing; but in sooth this side of Pavia you might not anywhere have
been well lodged; wherefore take it not amiss that you have come
somewhat out of your way to find less discomfortable quarters.” And as
he spoke, about them flocked the servants, who, having helped them to
dismount, saw to their horses; whereupon Messer Torello conducted
them to the chambers that were made ready for them, where, having
caused them to be relieved of their boots, and refreshed with the coolest
of wines, he held pleasant converse with them until supper-time.
Saladin and his lords and servants all knew Latin, so that they both
understood and made themselves understood very well, and there was
none of them but adjudged this knight to be the most agreeable and
debonair man, and therewithal the best talker, that he had ever seen;
while to Messer Torello, on the other hand, they shewed as far greater
magnificoes than he had at first supposed, whereby he was inly vexed
that he had not been able that evening to do them the honours of
company, and a more ceremonious banquet. For which default he
resolved to make amends on the ensuing morning: wherefore, having
imparted to one of his servants that which he would have done, he sent
him to his most judicious and highminded lady at Pavia, which was close

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by, and where never a gate was locked. Which done, he brought the
gentlemen into the garden, and courteously asked them who they were.
‟We are Cypriote merchants,” replied Saladin, ‟and ‛tis from Cyprus we
come, and we are on our way to Paris on business.” Quoth then Messer
Torello:—‟Would to God that our country bred gentlemen of such a
quality as are the merchants that I see Cyprus breeds!” From which they
passed to discourse of other matters, until, supper-time being come, he
besought them to seat them at table; whereat, considering that the
supper was but improvised, their entertainment was excellent and well-
ordered.
The tables being cleared, Messer Torello, surmising that they must be
weary, kept them no long time from their rest, but bestowed them in
most comfortable beds, and soon after went to rest himself. Meanwhile
the servant that he had sent to Pavia did his lord’s errand to the lady,
who, in the style rather of a queen than of a housewife, forthwith
assembled not a few of Messer Torello’s friends and vassals, and caused
all meet preparation to be made for a magnificent banquet, and by
messengers bearing torches bade not a few of the noblest of the citizens
thereto; and had store of silken and other fabrics and vair brought in,
and all set in order in every point as her husband had directed. Day
came, and the gentlemen being risen, Messer Torello got him to horse
with them, and having sent for his hawks, brought them to a ford, and
shewed them how the hawks flew. By and by, Saladin requesting of him
a guide to the best inn at Pavia:—‟I myself will be your guide,” returned
Messer Torello, ‟for I have occasion to go thither.” Which offer they,
nothing doubting, did gladly accept, and so with him they set forth; and
about tierce, being come to the city, and expecting to be directed to the
best inn, they were brought by Messer Torello, to his own house, where
they were forthwith surrounded by full fifty of the greatest folk of the
city, gathered there to give the gentlemen a welcome; and ‛twas who
should hold a bridle or a stirrup, while they dismounted. Whereby

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Saladin and his lords more than guessing the truth:—‟Messer Torello,”
quoth they, ”‛twas not this that we craved of you. Honour enough had we
from you last night, and far in excess of our desires; wherefore thou
mightst very well have left us to go our own road.” Whereto:
—‟Gentlemen,” replied Messer Torello, ‟for that which was done
yestereve I have to thank Fortune rather than you: seeing that Fortune
surprised you on the road at an hour when you must needs repair to my
little house: for that which shall be done this morning I shall be
beholden to you, as will also these gentlemen that surround you, with
whom, if you deem it courteous so to do, you may refuse to breakfast, if
you like.”
Fairly conquered, Saladin and his lords dismounted, and heartily
welcomed by the gentlemen, were conducted to the chambers which
had been most sumptuously adorned for their use; and having laid aside
their riding dress, and taken some refreshment, repaired to the saloon,
where all had been made ready with splendour. There, having washed
their hands, they sat them down to table, and were regaled with a
magnificent repast of many courses, served with all stately and fair
ceremony, insomuch that, had the Emperor himself been there, ‛twould
not have been possible to do him more honour. And albeit Saladin and
his lords were grandees and used to exceeding great displays of pomp
and state, nevertheless this shewed to them as not a little marvellous,
and one of the greatest they had ever seen, having regard to the quality
of their host, whom they knew to be but a citizen, and no lord. Breakfast
done, and the tables cleared, they conversed a while of high matters, and
then, as ‛twas very hot, all the gentlemen of Pavia—so it pleased Messer
Torello—retired for their siesta, while he remained with his three guests;
with whom he presently withdrew into a chamber, whither, that there
might be nought that he held dear which they had not seen, he called
his noble lady. And so the dame, exceeding fair and stately of person,
and arrayed in rich apparel, with her two little boys, that shewed as two

735
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angels, on either hand, presented herself before them, and graciously

greeted them. Whereupon they rose, and returned her salutation with
reverence, and caused her to sit down among them, and made much of
her two little boys. But after some interchange of gracious discourse,
Messer Torello being withdrawn somewhat apart, she asked them
courteously, whence they came and whither they were bound, and had
of them the same answer that Messer Torello had received. ‟So!” quoth
the lady with a joyful air, ‟then I see that my woman’s wit will be of
service to you; wherefore I pray you as a special favour neither to reject
nor to despise the little gift that I am about to present to you; but
reflecting that, as women have but small minds, so they make but small
gifts, accept it, having regard rather to the good will of the giver than the
magnitude of the gift.” She then caused bring forth for each of them two
pair of robes, lined the one with silk, the other with vair, no such robes
as citizens or merchants, but such as lords, use to wear, and three vests
of taffeta, besides linen clothes, and:—‟Take them,” quoth she. ‟The
robes I give you are even such as I have arrayed my lord withal: the other
things, considering that you are far from your wives, and have come a
long way, and have yet a long way to go, and that merchants love to be
neat and trim, may, albeit they are of no great value, be yet acceptable to
you.”
Wondering, the gentlemen acknowledged without reserve that there
was no point of courtesy wherein Messer Torello was not minded to
acquit himself towards them. And noting the lordly fashion of the robes,
unsuited to the quality of merchants, they misdoubted that Messer
Torello had recognized them. However, quoth one of them to the lady:
—‟Gifts great indeed are these, Madam, nor such as lightly to accept,
were it not that thereto we are constrained by your prayers, to which we
may on no account say, no.” Whereupon, Messer Torello being now come
back, the lady bade them adieu, and took her leave of them; and in like
manner did she cause their servants to be supplied with equipment

736
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suitable to them. The gentlemen, being much importuned thereto by

Messer Torello, consented to tarry the rest of the day with him; and so,
having slept, they donned their robes, and rode a while with him about
the city; and supper-time being come, they feasted magnificently, and
with a numerous and honourable company. And so in due time they
betook them to rest; and at daybreak, being risen, they found, in lieu of
their jaded nags, three stout and excellent palfreys, and in like manner
fresh and goodly mounts for their servants. Which Saladin marking
turned to his lords, and:—‟By God,” quoth he, ‟never was gentleman
more complete and courteous and considerate than this Messer Torello,
and if the Christian kings are as kingly as he is knightly, there is none of
them whose onset the Soldan of Babylon might well abide, to say nought
of so many as we see making ready to fall upon him.” However, knowing
that ‛twas not permissible to refuse, he very courteously thanked Messer
Torello: and so they got them to horse. Messer Torello with a numerous
company escorted them far beyond the gate of the city, until, loath
though Saladin was to part from him, so greatly did he now affect him,
yet as he must needs speed on, he besought him to turn back.
Whereupon, albeit it irked him to take leave of them:—‟Gentlemen,”
quoth Messer Torello, ‟since such is your pleasure, I obey; but this I must
say to you. Who you are I know not, nor would I know more than you are
pleased to impart; but whoever you may be, you will not make me
believe that you are merchants this while; and so adieu!” To whom
Saladin, having already taken leave of all his company, thus made
answer:—‟Peradventure, Sir, we shall one day give you to see somewhat
of our merchandise, and thereby confirm your belief: and so adieu!”
Thus parted Saladin and his company from Messer Torello, Saladin
burning with an exceeding great desire, if life should be continued to
him, and the war, which he anticipated, should not undo him, to shew
Messer Torello no less honour than he had received at his hands, and
conversing not a little with his lords both of Messer Torello himself and

737
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of his lady, and all that he did and that in any wise concerned him, ever
more highly commending them. However, having with much diligence
spied out all the West, he put to sea, and returned with his company to
Alexandria; and having now all needful information, he put himself in a
posture of defence. Messer Torello, his mind full of his late guests,
returned to Pavia; but, though he long pondered who they might be, he
came never at or anywhere near the truth.
Then with great and general mustering of forces came the time for
embarking on the emprise, and Messer Torello, heeding not the tearful
entreaties of his wife, resolved to join therein. So, being fully equipped
and about to take horse, he said to his lady, whom he most dearly loved:
—‟Wife, for honour’s sake and for the weal of my soul, I go, as thou
seest, on this emprise: our substance and our honour I commend to thy
care. Certain I am of my departure, but, for the thousand accidents that
may ensue, certitude have I none of my return: wherefore I would have
thee do me this grace, that, whatever be my fate, shouldst thou lack
certain intelligence that I live, thou wilt expect me a year and a month
and a day from this my departure, before thou marry again.” Whereto
the lady, weeping bitterly, made answer:—‟Messer Torello, I know not
how I shall support the distress in which, thus departing, you leave me;
but should my life not fail beneath it, and aught befall thee, live and die
secure that I shall live and die the wife of Messer Torello, and of his
memory.” Whereupon:—‟Wife,” returned Messer Torello, ‟well assured I
am that, so far as in thee shall lie, this promise of thine will be kept; but
thou art young, and fair, and of a great family, and thy virtue is rare and
generally known: wherefore I make no doubt that, should there be any
suspicion of my death, thou wilt be asked of thy brothers and kinsmen
by many a great gentleman: against whose attacks, though thou desire it
never so, thou wilt not be able to hold out, but wilt perforce be fain to
gratify one or other of them; for which cause it is that I ask thee to wait
just so long and no longer.” ‟As I have said,” replied the lady, ‟so, in so far

738
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as I may, I shall do; and if I must needs do otherwise, rest assured that of
this your behest I shall render you obedience. But I pray God that He
bring neither you nor me to such a strait yet a while.” Which said, the
lady wept, and having embraced Messer Torello, drew from her finger a
ring, and gave it to him, saying:—‟Should it betide that I die before I see
you again, mind you of me, when you look upon it.”
Messer Torello took the ring, and got him to horse, and having
bidden all adieu, fared forth on his journey; and being arrived with his
company at Genoa, he embarked on a galley, and having departed
thence, in no long time arrived at Acre, and joined the main Christian
host; wherein there by and by broke out an exceeding great and mortal
sickness; during which, whether owing to Saladin’s strategy, or his good
fortune, he made an easy capture of well-nigh all the remnant of the
Christians that were escaped, and quartered them in divers prisons in
many cities; of which captives Messer Torello being one, was brought to
Alexandria and there confined. Where, not being known, and fearing to
make himself known, he, under constraint of necessity, applied him to
the training of hawks, whereof he was a very great master; and thereby
he fell under the notice of Saladin, who took him out of the prison, and
made him his falconer. The Soldan called him by no other name than
‟Christian,” and neither recognized, nor was recognized by, him, who,
his whole soul ever in Pavia, essayed many a time to escape, that he
might return thither, but still without success: wherefore, certain
Genoese, that were come to Alexandria as ambassadors to the Soldan for
the redemption of some of their townsfolk, being about to return, he
resolved to write to his lady, how that he lived, and would come back to
her, as soon as he might, and that she should expect his return; and
having so done, he earnestly besought one of the ambassadors, whom he
knew, to see that the letter reached the hands of the Abbot of San Pietro
in Ciel d’Oro, who was his uncle.
Now, such being the posture of Messer Torello’s affairs, it befell one

739
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day that, while he talked with Saladin of his hawks, he smiled; whereby
his mouth shaped itself in a fashion, of which Saladin had taken
particular note, while he was at Pavia. And so, recalling Messer Torello to
mind, he fixed his gaze upon him, and it seemed to him that ‛twas
indeed Messer Torello; wherefore, leaving the matter of which they were
conversing:—‟Tell me, Christian,” quoth he, ‟of what country art thou in
the West?” ‟My lord,” replied Messer Torello, ‟I am a Lombard, of a city
called Pavia, a poor man, and of humble condition.” Which when he
heard, Saladin, well-nigh resolved of his doubt, said joyfully to himself:
—‟God has provided me with occasion meet to prove to this man what
store I set by his courtesy;” and without another word he brought him
into a room where he kept all his wearing apparel, and said:—‟Look,
Christian, if among these robes there be any that thou hast ever seen
before.” So Messer Torello examined the robes, and espied those which
his lady had given to Saladin; but, deeming they could not be the same,
he replied:—‟My lord, there is no robe here that I recognize, albeit ‛tis
true that those two robes are such as I once wore myself, in company
with three merchants that came to my house.” Whereupon Saladin could
refrain himself no longer; but, tenderly embracing him:—‟You,” quoth
he, ‟are Messer Torello d’Istria, and I am one of those three merchants to
whom your lady gave these robes; and now is the time to warrant you of
the quality of my merchandise, as, when I parted from you, I told you
might come to pass.” Which to hear, Messer Torello was at once
overjoyed and abashed, overjoyed to have entertained so illustrious a
guest, and abashed, for that it seemed to him that he had given him but
a sorry entertainment. To whom:—‟Messer Torello,” quoth Saladin,
‟since hither has God sent you to me, deem that ‛tis no more I that am
lord here, but you.” And so they made great cheer together; and then
Saladin caused Messer Torello to be royally arrayed; and presented him
to all his greatest lords, and having extolled his merit in no stinted
measure, bade all, as they hoped for grace from him, honour Messer

740
The Decameron Giovanni Boccaccio

Torello even as himself. And so from that hour did they all; but most
especially the two lords that had been with Saladin at Messer Torello’s
house.
The glory, to which Messer Torello thus suddenly found himself
raised, somewhat diverted his mind from the affairs of Lombardy, and
the more so, for that he entertained no doubt that his letter had reached
his uncle’s hands. But for that in the camp, or rather army, of the
Christians, on the day when they were taken by Saladin, there died and
was buried one Messer Torello de Dignes, an obscure knight of Provence,
whereas Messer Torello d’Istria was known to all the host for a right
noble gentleman, whoso heard tell that Messer Torello was dead,
supposed that ‛twas Messer Torello d’Istria, and not Messer Torello de
Dignes; nor did what happened after, to wit, the capture, avail to
undeceive them; for not a few Italians had carried the report home with
them; among whom there were some who made bold to say that they
had seen Messer Torello d’Istria’s dead body, and had been present at its
interment. Which rumour coming to the ears of his lady and his
kinsfolk, great indeed, nay, immeasurable was the distress that it
occasioned not only to them, but to all that had known him. The mode
and measure of his lady’s grief, her mourning, her lamentation, ‛twere
tedious to describe. Enough that, after some months spent in almost
unmitigated tribulation, her sorrow shewed signs of abatement;
whereupon, suit being made for her hand by some of the greatest men of
Lombardy, her brothers and other kinsfolk began to importune her to
marry again. Times not a few, and with floods of tears, she refused; but,
overborne at last, she consented to do as they would have her, upon the
understanding that she was to remain unmarried until the term for
which she had bound herself to Messer Torello was fulfilled.
Now the lady’s affairs being in this posture at Pavia, it befell that
some eight days or so before the time appointed for her marriage, Messer
Torello one day espied in Alexandria one that he had observed go with

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the Genoese ambassadors aboard the galley that took them to Genoa;
wherefore he called him, and asked him what sort of a voyage they had
had, and when they had reached Genoa. ‟My lord,” replied the other,
‟the galley made but a sorry voyage of it, as I learned in Crete, where I
remained; for that, while she was nearing Sicily, there arose a terrible
gale from the North that drove her on to the shoals of Barbary, and never
a soul escaped, and among the rest my two brothers were lost.” Which
report believing—and ‛twas indeed most true—and calling to mind that
in a few days the term that he had asked of his wife would be fulfilled,
and surmising that there could be no tidings of him at Pavia, Messer
Torello made no question but that the lady was provided with another
husband; whereby he sank into such a depth of woe that he lost all
power to eat, and betook him to his bed and resigned himself to die.
Which when Saladin, by whom he was most dearly beloved, learned, he
came to him, and having plied him with many and most instant
entreaties, learned at length the cause of his distress and sickness; and,
having chidden him not a little that he had not sooner apprised him
thereof, he besought him to put on a cheerful courage, assuring him,
that, if so he did, he would bring it to pass that he should be in Pavia at
the time appointed, and told him how. Believing Saladin’s words the
more readily that he had many times heard that ‛twas possible, and had
not seldom been done, Messer Torello recovered heart, and was instant
with Saladin that he should make all haste.
Accordingly Saladin bade one of his necromancers, of whose skill he
had already had proof, to devise a method whereby Messer Torello
should be transported abed in a single night to Pavia: the necromancer
made answer that it should be done, but that ‛twere best he put Messer
Torello to sleep. The matter being thus arranged, Saladin hied him back
to Messer Torello, and finding him most earnestly desirous to be in Pavia
at the time appointed, if so it might be, and if not, to die:— ‟Messer
Torello,” quoth he, ‟if you dearly love your lady, and misdoubt that she

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may become the bride of another, no wise, God wot, do I censure you,
for that, of all the ladies that ever I saw, she, for bearing, manners, and
address—to say nought of beauty, which is but the flower that perishes
—seems to me the most worthy to be lauded and cherished. Much had I
been gratified, since Fortune has sent you hither to me, that, while you
and I yet live, we had exercised equal lordship in the governance of this
my realm, and, if such was not God’s will, and this must needs come
upon you, that you are fain either to be at Pavia at the time appointed or
to die, I had desired of all things to have been apprised thereof at such a
time that I might have sent you home with such honourable
circumstance and state and escort as befit your high desert; which not
being vouchsafed me, and as nought will content you but to be there
forthwith, I do what I can, and speed you thither on such wise as I have
told you.” ‟My lord,” replied Messer Torello, ‟had you said nought, you
have already done enough to prove your goodwill towards me, and that
in so high a degree as is quite beyond my deserts, and most assured of
the truth of what you say shall I live and die, and so had done, had you
not said it; but, seeing that my resolve is taken, I pray you that that,
which you promise to do, be done speedily, for that after to-morrow I
may no longer count on being expected.”
Saladin assured him that ‛twas so ordered that he should not be
disappointed. And on the morrow, it being his purpose to speed him on
his journey that same night, he caused to be set up in one of his great
halls a most goodly and sumptuous bed composed of mattresses, all, as
was their wont, of velvet and cloth of gold, and had it covered with a
quilt, adorned at certain intervals with enormous pearls, and most rare
precious stones, insomuch that ‛twas in after time accounted a priceless
treasure, and furnished with two pillows to match it. Which done, he
bade array Messer Torello, who was now quite recovered, in a robe after
the Saracenic fashion, the richest and goodliest thing of the kind that
was ever seen, and wrap about his head, according to their wont, one of

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their huge turbans. Then, at a late hour, Saladin, attended by certain of

his lords, entered the chamber where Messer Torello was, and seating
himself beside him, all but wept as thus he began:— ‟Messer Torello, the
time is nigh at hand when you and I must part; wherefore, since I may
neither give you my own, nor others’ company (the journey that you are
about to make not permitting it), I am come here, as ‛tis fitting, in this
chamber to take my leave of you. Wherefore, before I bid you adieu, I
entreat you, by that friendship, that love, which is between us, that you
forget me not, and that, if it be possible, when you have settled your
affairs in Lombardy, you come at least once, before our days are ended,
to visit me, that thereby I may both have the delight of seeing you again,
and make good that omission which, by reason of your haste, I must
needs now make; and that in the meanwhile it irk thee not to visit me by
letter, and to ask of me whatever you shall have a mind to, and be sure
that there lives not the man whom I shall content more gladly than you.”
Messer Torello could not refrain his tears, and so, with words few, and
broken by his sobs, he answered that ‛twas impossible that the Soldan’s
generous deeds and chivalrous character should ever be forgotten by
him, and that without fail he would do as he bade him, so soon as
occasion should serve him. Whereupon Saladin tenderly embraced and
kissed him, and with many a tear bade him adieu, and quitted the
chamber. His lords then took leave of Messer Torello, and followed
Saladin into the hall, where he had had the bed made ready.
‛Twas now late, and the necromancer being intent to hasten Messer
Torello’s transit, a physician brought him a potion, and having first
shewn him what he was to give him by way of viaticum, caused him to
drink it; and not long after he fell asleep. In which state he was carried
by Saladin’s command, and laid on the goodly bed, whereon he set a
large and fair and most sumptuous crown, marking it in such sort that
there could be no mistake that it was sent by Saladin to Messer Torello’s
wife. He next placed on Messer Torello’s finger a ring, in which was set a

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carbuncle of such brilliance that it shewed as a lighted torch, and of

well-nigh inestimable value. After which he girded on him a sword, the
appointments of which might not readily be appraised. And therewithal
he adorned him in front with a pendant, wherein were pearls, the like of
which had never been seen, and not a few other rare jewels. And,
moreover, on either side of him he set two vast basins of gold full of
pistoles; and strings of pearls not a few, and rings and girdles, and other
things, which ‛twere tedious to enumerate, he disposed around him.
Which done, he kissed Messer Torello again, and bade the necromancer
speed him on his journey. Whereupon, forthwith, the bed, with Messer
Torello thereon, was borne away from before Saladin’s eyes, and he and
his barons remained conversing thereof.
The bed, as Messer Torello had requested, had already been
deposited in the church of San Piero in Ciel d’Oro at Pavia, and Messer
Torello, with all the aforesaid jewels and ornaments upon and about
him, was lying thereon, and still slept, when, upon the stroke of matins,
the sacristan came into the church, light in hand, and presently setting
eyes on the sumptuous bed, was not only amazed, but mightily terrified,
insomuch that he turned back, and took to flight. Which the abbot and
monks observing with no small surprise, asked wherefore he fled and he
told them. Whereupon:—‟Oh,” quoth the abbot, ‟thou art no longer a
child, nor yet so new to this church, that thou shouldst so lightly be
appalled: go we now, and see who it is that has given thee this childish
fright.” So, with a blaze of torches, the abbot, attended by his monks,
entered the church, and espied this wondrous costly bed whereon the
knight slept, and while, hesitant and fearful, daring not to approach the
bed, they scanned the rare and splendid jewels, it befell that, the efficacy
of the potion being exhausted, Messer Torello awoke and heaved a great
sigh. Whereat the monks and the abbot quaking and crying out:— ‟Lord,
help us!” one and all took to flight. Messer Torello, opening his eyes and
looking about him, saw, to his no small satisfaction, that without a

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doubt he was in the very place where he had craved of Saladin to be; so
up he sate, and taking particular note of the matters with which he was
surrounded, accounted the magnificence of Saladin to exceed even the
measure, great though it was, that he already knew. However, he still
kept quiet, save that, perceiving the monks in flight, and surmising the
reason, he began to call the abbot by name, bidding him be of good
courage, for that he was his nephew, Torello. Whereat the abbot did but
wax more terrified, for that he deemed Torello had been many a month
dead; but, after a while, as he heard himself still called, sound judgment
got the better of his fears, and making the sign of the cross, he drew nigh
Torello; who said to him:—‟Father, what is’t you fear? By God’s grace I
live, and hither am come back from overseas.” Whom, for all he had
grown a long beard and was dressed in the Saracenic fashion, the abbot
after a while recognized, and now, quite reassured, took by the hand,
saying:—‟Son, welcome home:” then:—‟No cause hast thou to marvel at
our fears,” he went on, ‟seeing that there is never a soul in these parts
but firmly believes thee to be dead, insomuch that I may tell thee that
Madonna Adalieta, thy wife, overborne by the entreaties and menaces of
her kinsfolk, and against her will, is provided with another husband, to
whom she is this morning to go, and all is made ready for the nuptials
and the attendant festivities.”
Whereupon Messer Torello, being risen from the sumptuous bed, did
the abbot and the monks wondrous cheer, and besought them, one and
all, to tell never a soul of his return, until he had completed something
that he had on hand. After which, having put the costly jewels in safe
keeping, he recounted to the abbot all the story of his adventures to that
very hour. The abbot, rejoicing in his good fortune, joined with him in
offering thanks to God. Messer Torello then asked him who might be his
wife’s new husband, and the abbot told him. Quoth then Messer Torello:
—‟Before my return be known, I purpose to see how my wife will
comport herself at the nuptials: wherefore, though ‛tis not the wont of

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men of religion to go to such gatherings, I had lief that for love of me

you arranged for us to go thither together.” The abbot answered that, he
would gladly do so, and as soon as ‛twas day, he sent word to the
bridegroom that he had thoughts of being present at his nuptials,
accompanied by a friend; whereto the gentleman made answer that he
was much gratified. So, at the breakfast hour Messer Torello, dressed as
he was, hied him with the abbot to the bridegroom’s house, as many as
saw them gazing on him with wonder, but none recognizing him, and
the abbot giving all to understand that he was a Saracen sent by the
Soldan as ambassador to the King of France. Messer Torello was
accordingly seated at a table directly opposite that of his lady, whom he
eyed with exceeding great delight, the more so that he saw that in her
face which shewed him that she was chagrined by the nuptials. She in
like manner from time to time bent her regard on him; howbeit, what
with his long beard, and his foreign garb, and her firm persuasion that
he was dead, she had still no sort of recollection of him. However,
Messer Torello at length deemed it time to make trial of her, whether she
would remember him; wherefore he took the ring that the lady had
given, him on his departure, and keeping it close in the palm of his
hand, he called to him a page that waited upon her, and said to him:
—‟Tell the bride from me that ‛tis the custom in my country, that, when
a stranger, such as I, eats with a bride, like herself, at her wedding-feast,
she, in token that he is welcome to her board, sends him the cup from
which she herself drinks, full of wine; and when the stranger has drunk
his fill, he closes the cup, and the bride drinks what is left therein.”
The page carried the message to the lady, who, being of good
understanding and manners, and supposing him to be some very great
man, by way of shewing that she was gratified by his presence,
commanded that a gilt cup, that was on the table before her, should be
rinsed, and filled with wine, and borne to the gentleman. Which being
done, Messer Torello, having privily conveyed her ring into his mouth,

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let it fall (while he drank) into the cup on such wise that none wist
thereof; and leaving but a little wine at the bottom, closed the cup and
returned it to the lady; who, having taken it, that she might do full
honour to the custom of her guest’s country, lifted the lid, and set the
cup to her mouth; whereby espying the ring, she thereon mutely gazed a
while, and recognizing it for that which she had given Messer Torello on
his departure, she steadfastly regarded the supposed stranger, whom
now she also recognized. Whereupon well-nigh distracted, oversetting
the table in front of her, she exclaimed:—”‛Tis my lord, ‛tis verily Messer
Torello;” and rushing to the table at which he sate, giving never a
thought to her apparel, or aught that was on the table, she flung herself
upon it; and reaching forward as far as she could, she threw her arms
about him, and hugged him; nor, for aught that any said or did, could
she be induced to release his neck, until Messer Torello himself bade her
forbear a while, for that she would have time enough to kiss him
thereafter. The lady then stood up, and for a while all was disorder, albeit
the feast was yet more gladsome than before by reason of the recovery of
so honourable a knight: then, at Messer Torello’s entreaty, all were silent,
while he recounted to them the story of his adventures from the day of
his departure to that hour, concluding by saying that the gentleman
who, deeming him to be dead, had taken his lady to wife, ought not to
be affronted, if he, being alive, reclaimed her. The bridegroom, albeit he
was somewhat crestfallen, made answer in frank and friendly sort, that
‛twas for Messer Torello to do what he liked with his own. The lady
resigned the ring and the crown that her new spouse had given her, and
put on the ring she had taken from the cup, and likewise the crown sent
her by the Soldan; and so, forth they hied them, and with full nuptial
pomp wended their way to Messer Torello’s house; and there for a great
while they made merry with his late disconsolate friends and kinsfolk
and all the citizens, who accounted his restoration as little short of a
miracle.

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Messer Torello, having bestowed part of his rare jewels upon him who
had borne the cost of the wedding-feast, and part on the abbot, and
many other folk; and having by more than one messenger sent word of
his safe home-coming and prosperous estate to Saladin, acknowledging
himself ever his friend and vassal, lived many years thereafter with his
worthy lady, acquitting himself yet more courteously than of yore. Such,
then, was the end of the troubles of Messer Torello and his dear lady, and
such the reward of their cheerful and ready courtesies.
Now some there are that strive to do offices of courtesy, and have the
means, but do them with so ill a grace, that, ere they are done, they have
in effect sold them at a price above their worth: wherefore, if no reward
ensue to them thereof, neither they nor other folk have cause to marvel.

NOVEL X.

— The Marquis of Saluzzo, overborne by the entreaties of his

vassals, consents to take a wife, but, being minded to please
himself in the choice of her, takes a husbandman’s daughter.
He has two children by her, both of whom he makes her believe
that he has put to death. Afterward, feigning to be tired of her,
and to have taken another wife, he turns her out of doors in
her shift, and brings his daughter into the house in guise of his
bride; but, finding her patient under it all, he brings her home
again, and shews her her children, now grown up, and honours
her, and causes her to be honoured, as Marchioness. —
Ended the king’s long story, with which all seemed to be very well
pleased, quoth Dioneo with a laugh:—‟The good man that looked that
night to cause the bogey’s tail to droop, would scarce have contributed
two pennyworth of all the praise you bestow on Messer Torello:” then,
witting that it now only remained for him to tell, thus he began:—

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Gentle my ladies, this day, meseems, is dedicate to Kings and Soldans

and folk of the like quality; wherefore, that I stray not too far from you, I
am minded to tell you somewhat of a Marquis; certes, nought
magnificent, but a piece of mad folly, albeit there came good thereof to
him in the end. The which I counsel none to copy, for that great pity
‛twas that it turned out well with him.
There was in olden days a certain Marquis of Saluzzo, Gualtieri by
name, a young man, but head of the house, who, having neither wife nor
child, passed his time in nought else but in hawking and hunting, and of
taking a wife and begetting children had no thought; wherein he should
have been accounted very wise: but his vassals, brooking it ill, did
oftentimes entreat him to take a wife, that he might not die without an
heir, and they be left without a lord; offering to find him one of such a
pattern, and of such parentage, that he might marry with good hope,
and be well content with the sequel. To whom:—‟My friends,” replied
Gualtieri, ‟you enforce me to that which I had resolved never to do,
seeing how hard it is to find a wife, whose ways accord well with one’s
own, and how plentiful is the supply of such as run counter thereto, and
how grievous a life he leads who chances upon a lady that matches ill
with him. And to say that you think to know the daughters by the
qualities of their fathers and mothers, and thereby—so you would argue
—to provide me with a wife to my liking, is but folly; for I wot not how
you may penetrate the secrets of their mothers so as to know their
fathers; and granted that you do know them, daughters oftentimes
resemble neither of their parents. However, as you are minded to rivet
these fetters upon me, I am content that so it be; and that I may have no
cause to reproach any but myself, should it turn out ill, I am resolved
that my wife shall be of my own choosing; but of this rest assured, that,
no matter whom I choose, if she receive not from you the honour due to
a lady, you shall prove to your great cost, how sorely I resent being thus
constrained by your importunity to take a wife against my will.”

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The worthy men replied that they were well content, so only he would
marry without more ado. And Gualtieri, who had long noted with
approval the mien of a poor girl that dwelt on a farm hard by his house,
and found her fair enough, deemed that with her he might pass a
tolerably happy life. Wherefore he sought no further, but forthwith
resolved to marry her; and having sent for her father, who was a very
poor man, he contracted with him to take her to wife. Which done,
Gualtieri assembled all the friends he had in those parts, and:— ‟My
friends,” quoth he, ‟you were and are minded that I should take a wife,
and rather to comply with your wishes, than for any desire that I had to
marry, I have made up my mind to do so. You remember the promise you
gave me, to wit, that, whomsoever I should take, you would pay her the
honour due to a lady. Which promise I now require you to keep, the time
being come when I am to keep mine. I have found hard by here a maiden
after mine own heart, whom I purpose to take to wife, and to bring
hither to my house in the course of a few days. Wherefore bethink you,
how you may make the nuptial feast splendid, and welcome her with all
honour; that I may confess myself satisfied with your observance of your
promise, as you will be with my observance of mine.” The worthy men,
one and all, answered with alacrity that they were well content, and that,
whoever she might be, they would entreat her as a lady, and pay her all
due honour as such. After which, they all addressed them to make
goodly and grand and gladsome celebration of the event, as did also
Gualtieri. He arranged for a wedding most stately and fair, and bade
thereto a goodly number of his friends and kinsfolk, and great
gentlemen, and others, of the neighbourhood; and therewithal he
caused many a fine and costly robe to be cut and fashioned to the figure
of a girl who seemed to him of the like proportions as the girl that he
purposed to wed; and laid in store, besides, of girdles and rings, with a
costly and beautiful crown, and all the other paraphernalia of a bride.
The day that he had appointed for the wedding being come, about

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half tierce he got him to horse with as many as had come to do him
honour, and having made all needful dispositions:— ‟Gentlemen,” quoth
he, ”‛tis time to go bring home the bride.” And so away he rode with his
company to the village; where, being come to the house of the girl’s
father, they found her returning from the spring with a bucket of water,
making all the haste she could, that she might afterwards go with the
other women to see Gualtieri’s bride come by. Whom Gualtieri no
sooner saw, than he called her by her name, to wit, Griselda, and asked
her where her father was. To whom she modestly made answer:—‟My
lord, he is in the house.” Whereupon Gualtieri dismounted, and having
bidden the rest await him without, entered the cottage alone; and
meeting her father, whose name was Giannucolo:—‟I am come,” quoth
he, ‟to wed Griselda, but first of all there are some matters I would learn
from her own lips in thy presence.” He then asked her, whether, if he
took her to wife, she would study to comply with his wishes, and be not
wroth, no matter what he might say or do, and be obedient, with not a
few other questions of a like sort: to all which she answered, ay.
Whereupon Gualtieri took her by the hand, led her forth, and before the
eyes of all his company, and as many other folk as were there, caused her
to strip naked, and let bring the garments that he had had fashioned for
her, and had her forthwith arrayed therein, and upon her unkempt head
let set a crown; and then, while all wondered:—‟Gentlemen,” quoth he,
‟this is she whom I purpose to make my wife, so she be minded to have
me for husband.” Then, she standing abashed and astonied, he turned to
her, saying:—‟Griselda, wilt thou have me for thy husband?” To whom:
—‟Ay, my lord,” answered she. ‟And I will have thee to wife,” said he, and
married her before them all. And having set her upon a palfrey, he
brought her home with pomp.
The wedding was fair and stately, and had he married a daughter of
the King of France, the feast could not have been more splendid. It
seemed as if, with the change of her garb, the bride had acquired a new

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dignity of mind and mien. She was, as we have said, fair of form and
feature; and therewithal she was now grown so engaging and gracious
and debonair, that she shewed no longer as the shepherdess, and the
daughter of Giannucolo, but as the daughter of some noble lord,
insomuch that she caused as many as had known her before to marvel.
Moreover, she was so obedient and devoted to her husband, that he
deemed himself the happiest and luckiest man in the world. And
likewise so gracious and kindly was she to her husband’s vassals, that
there was none of them but loved her more dearly than himself, and was
zealous to do her honour, and prayed for her welfare and prosperity and
aggrandisement, and instead of, as erstwhile, saying that Gualtieri had
done foolishly to take her to wife, now averred that he had not his like in
the world for wisdom and discernment, for that, save to him, her noble
qualities would ever have remained hidden under her sorry apparel and
the garb of the peasant girl. And in short she so comported herself as in
no long time to bring it to pass that, not only in the marquisate, but far
and wide besides, her virtues and her admirable conversation were
matter of common talk, and, if aught had been said to the disadvantage
of her husband, when he married her, the judgment was now altogether
to the contrary effect.
She had not been long with Gualtieri before she conceived; and in
due time she was delivered of a girl; whereat Gualtieri made great cheer.
But, soon after, a strange humour took possession of him, to wit, to put
her patience to the proof by prolonged and intolerable hard usage;
wherefore he began by afflicting her with his gibes, putting on a vexed
air, and telling her that his vassals were most sorely dissatisfied with her
by reason of her base condition, and all the more so since they saw that
she was a mother, and that they did nought but most ruefully murmur at
the birth of a daughter. Whereto Griselda, without the least change of
countenance or sign of discomposure, made answer:—‟My lord, do with
me as thou mayst deem best for thine own honour and comfort, for well

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I wot that I am of less account than they, and unworthy of this

honourable estate to which of thy courtesy thou hast advanced me.” By
which answer Gualtieri was well pleased, witting that she was in no
degree puffed up with pride by his, or any other’s, honourable
entreatment of her. A while afterwards, having in general terms given his
wife to understand that the vassals could not endure her daughter, he
sent her a message by a servant. So the servant came, and:— ‟Madam,”
quoth he with a most dolorous mien, ‟so I value my life, I must needs do
my lord’s bidding. He has bidden me take your daughter and…” He said
no more, but the lady by what she heard, and read in his face, and
remembered of her husband’s words, understood that he was bidden to
put the child to death. Whereupon she presently took the child from the
cradle, and having kissed and blessed her, albeit she was very sore at
heart, she changed not countenance, but placed it in the servant’s arms,
saying:—‟See that thou leave nought undone that my lord and thine has
charged thee to do, but leave her not so that the beasts and the birds
devour her, unless he have so bidden thee.” So the servant took the child,
and told Gualtieri what the lady had said; and Gualtieri, marvelling at
her constancy, sent him with the child to Bologna, to one of his
kinswomen, whom he besought to rear and educate the child with all
care, but never to let it be known whose child she was.
Soon after it befell that the lady again conceived, and in due time was
delivered of a son, whereat Gualtieri was overjoyed. But, not content
with what he had done, he now even more poignantly afflicted the lady;
and one day with a ruffled mien:—‟Wife,” quoth he, ‟since thou gavest
birth to this boy, I may on no wise live in peace with my vassals, so
bitterly do they reproach me that a grandson of Giannucolo is to succeed
me as their lord; and therefore I fear that, so I be not minded to be sent a
packing hence, I must even do herein as I did before, and in the end put
thee away, and take another wife.” The lady heard him patiently, and
answered only:—‟My lord, study how thou mayst content thee and best

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please thyself, and waste no thought upon me, for there is nought I
desire save in so far as I know that ‛tis thy pleasure.” Not many days after,
Gualtieri, in like manner as he had sent for the daughter, sent for the
son, and having made a shew of putting him to death, provided for his,
as for the girl’s, nurture at Bologna. Whereat the lady shewed no more
discomposure of countenance or speech than at the loss of her daughter:
which Gualtieri found passing strange, and inly affirmed that there was
never another woman in the world that would have so done. And but
that he had marked that she was most tenderly affectionate towards her
children, while ‛twas well pleasing to him, he had supposed that she was
tired of them, whereas he knew that ‛twas of her discretion that she so
did. His vassals, who believed that he had put the children to death, held
him mightily to blame for his cruelty, and felt the utmost compassion for
the lady. She, however, said never aught to the ladies that condoled with
her on the death of her children, but that the pleasure of him that had
begotten them was her pleasure likewise.
Years not a few had passed since the girl’s birth, when Gualtieri at
length deemed the time come to put his wife’s patience to the final
proof. Accordingly, in the presence of a great company of his vassals he
declared that on no wise might he longer brook to have Griselda to wife,
that he confessed that in taking her he had done a sorry thing and the
act of a stripling, and that he therefore meant to do what he could to
procure the Pope’s dispensation to put Griselda away, and take another
wife: for which cause being much upbraided by many worthy men, he
made no other answer but only that needs must it so be. Whereof the
lady being apprised, and now deeming that she must look to go back to
her father’s house, and perchance tend the sheep, as she had aforetime,
and see him, to whom she was utterly devoted, engrossed by another
woman, did inly bewail herself right sorely: but still with the same
composed mien with which she had borne Fortune’s former buffets, she
set herself to endure this last outrage. Nor was it long before Gualtieri by

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counterfeit letters, which he caused to be sent to him from Rome, made

his vassals believe that the Pope had thereby given him a dispensation to
put Griselda away, and take another wife. Wherefore, having caused her
to be brought before him, he said to her in the presence of not a few:
—‟Wife, by license granted me by the Pope, I am now free to put thee
away, and take another wife; and, for that my forbears have always been
great gentlemen and lords of these parts, whereas thine have ever been
husbandmen, I purpose that thou go back to Giannucolo’s house with
the dowry that thou broughtest me; whereupon I shall bring home a
lady that I have found, and who is meet to be my wife.”
‛Twas not without travail most grievous that the lady, as she heard
this announcement, got the better of her woman’s nature, and
suppressing her tears, made answer:—‟My lord, I ever knew that my low
degree was on no wise congruous with your nobility, and acknowledged
that the rank I had with you was of your and God’s bestowal, nor did I
ever make as if it were mine by gift, or so esteem it, but still accounted it
as a loan. ‛Tis your pleasure to recall it, and therefore it should be, and is,
my pleasure to render it up to you. So, here is your ring, with which you
espoused me; take it back. You bid me take with me the dowry that I
brought you; which to do will require neither paymaster on your part nor
purse nor packhorse on mine; for I am not unmindful that naked was I
when you first had me. And if you deem it seemly that that body in
which I have borne children, by you begotten, be beheld of all, naked
will I depart; but yet, I pray you, be pleased, in guerdon of the virginity
that I brought you and take not away, to suffer me to bear hence upon
my back a single shift—I crave no more—besides my dowry.” There was
nought of which Gualtieri was so fain as to weep; but yet, setting his face
as a flint, he made answer:—‟I allow thee a shift to thy back; so get thee
hence.” All that stood by besought him to give her a robe, that she, who
had been his wife for thirteen years and more, might not be seen to quit
his house in so sorry and shameful a plight, having nought on her but a

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shift. But their entreaties went for nothing: the lady in her shift, and
barefoot and bareheaded, having bade them adieu, departed the house,
and went back to her father amid the tears and lamentations of all that
saw her. Giannucolo, who had ever deemed it a thing incredible that
Gualtieri should keep his daughter to wife, and had looked for this to
happen every day, and had kept the clothes that she had put off on the
morning that Gualtieri had wedded her, now brought them to her; and
she, having resumed them, applied herself to the petty drudgery of her
father’s house, as she had been wont, enduring with fortitude this cruel
visitation of adverse Fortune.
Now no sooner had Gualtieri dismissed Griselda, than he gave his
vassals to understand that he had taken to wife a daughter of one of the
Counts of Panago. He accordingly made great preparations as for the
nuptials, during which he sent for Griselda. To whom, being come,
quoth he:—‟I am bringing hither my new bride, and in this her first
home-coming I purpose to shew her honour; and thou knowest that
women I have none in the house that know how to set chambers in due
order, or attend to the many other matters that so joyful an event
requires; wherefore do thou, that understandest these things better than
another, see to all that needs be done, and bid hither such ladies as thou
mayst see fit, and receive them, as if thou wert the lady of the house, and
then, when the nuptials are ended, thou mayst go back to thy cottage.”
Albeit each of these words pierced Griselda’s heart like a knife, for that,
in resigning her good fortune, she had not been able to renounce the
love she bore Gualtieri, nevertheless:—‟My lord,” she made answer, ‟I am
ready and prompt to do your pleasure.” And so, clad in her sorry
garments of coarse romagnole, she entered the house, which, but a little
before, she had quitted in her shift, and addressed her to sweep the
chambers, and arrange arras and cushions in the halls, and make ready
the kitchen, and set her hand to everything, as if she had been a paltry
serving-wench: nor did she rest until she had brought all into such meet

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and seemly trim as the occasion demanded. This done, she invited in
Gualtieri’s name all the ladies of those parts to be present at his nuptials,
and awaited the event. The day being come, still wearing her sorry
weeds, but in heart and soul and mien the lady, she received the ladies as
they came, and gave each a gladsome greeting.
Now Gualtieri, as we said, had caused his children to be carefully
nurtured and brought up by a kinswoman of his at Bologna, which
kinswoman was married into the family of the Counts of Panago; and,
the girl being now twelve years old, and the loveliest creature that ever
was seen, and the boy being about six years old, he had sent word to his
kinswoman’s husband at Bologna, praying him to be pleased to come
with this girl and boy of his to Saluzzo, and to see that he brought a
goodly and honourable company with him, and to give all to understand
that he brought the girl to him to wife, and on no wise to disclose to any,
who she really was. The gentleman did as the Marquis bade him, and
within a few days of his setting forth arrived at Saluzzo about breakfast-
time with the girl, and her brother, and a noble company, and found all
the folk of those parts, and much people besides, gathered there in
expectation of Gualtieri’s new bride. Who, being received by the ladies,
was no sooner come into the hall, where the tables were set, than
Griselda advanced to meet her, saying with hearty cheer:—‟Welcome,
my lady.” So the ladies, who had with much instance, but in vain,
besought Gualtieri, either to let Griselda keep in another room, or at any
rate to furnish her with one of the robes that had been hers, that she
might not present herself in such a sorry guise before the strangers, sate
down to table; and the service being begun, the eyes of all were set on
the girl, and every one said that Gualtieri had made a good exchange,
and Griselda joined with the rest in greatly commending her, and also
her little brother. And now Gualtieri, sated at last with all that he had
seen of his wife’s patience, marking that this new and strange turn made
not the least alteration in her demeanour, and being well assured that

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‛twas not due to apathy, for he knew her to be of excellent

understanding, deemed it time to relieve her of the suffering which he
judged her to dissemble under a resolute front; and so, having called her
to him in presence of them all, he said with a smile:—‟And what thinkst
thou of our bride?” ‟My lord,” replied Griselda, ‟I think mighty well of
her; and if she be but as discreet as she is fair—and so I deem her—I
make no doubt but you may reckon to lead with her a life of
incomparable felicity; but with all earnestness I entreat you, that you
spare her those tribulations which you did once inflict upon another
that was yours, for I scarce think she would be able to bear them, as well
because she is younger, as for that she has been delicately nurtured,
whereas that other had known no respite of hardship since she was but a
little child.” Marking that she made no doubt but that the girl was to be
his wife, and yet spoke never a whit the less sweetly, Gualtieri caused her
to sit down beside him, and:—‟Griselda,” said he, ”‛tis now time that
thou see the reward of thy long patience, and that those, who have
deemed me cruel and unjust and insensate, should know that what I did
was done of purpose aforethought, for that I was minded to give both
thee and them a lesson, that thou mightst learn to be a wife, and they in
like manner might learn how to take and keep a wife, and that I might
beget me perpetual peace with thee for the rest of my life; whereof being
in great fear, when I came to take a wife, lest I should be disappointed, I
therefore, to put the matter to the proof, did, and how sorely thou
knowest, harass and afflict thee. And since I never knew thee either by
deed or by word to deviate from my will, I now, deeming myself to have
of thee that assurance of happiness which I desired, am minded to
restore to thee at once all that, step by step, I took from thee, and by
extremity of joy to compensate the tribulations that I inflicted on thee.
Receive, then, this girl, whom thou supposest to be my bride, and her
brother, with glad heart, as thy children and mine. These are they, whom
by thee and many another it has long been supposed that I did

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ruthlessly to death, and I am thy husband, that loves thee more dearly
than aught else, deeming that other there is none that has the like good
cause to be well content with his wife.”
Which said, he embraced and kissed her; and then, while she wept
for joy, they rose and hied them there where sate the daughter, all
astonied to hear the news, whom, as also her brother, they tenderly
embraced, and explained to them, and many others that stood by, the
whole mystery. Whereat the ladies, transported with delight, rose from
table and betook them with Griselda to a chamber, and, with better
omen, divested her of her sorry garb, and arrayed her in one of her own
robes of state; and so, in guise of a lady (howbeit in her rags she had
shewed as no less) they led her back into the hall. Wondrous was the
cheer which there they made with the children; and, all overjoyed at the
event, they revelled and made merry amain, and prolonged the
festivities for several days; and very discreet they pronounced Gualtieri,
albeit they censured as intolerably harsh the probation to which he had
subjected Griselda, and most discreet beyond all compare they
accounted Griselda.
Some days after, the Count of Panago returned to Bologna, and
Gualtieri took Giannucolo from his husbandry, and established him in
honour as his father-in-law, wherein to his great solace he lived for the
rest of his days. Gualtieri himself, having mated his daughter with a
husband of high degree, lived long and happily thereafter with Griselda,
to whom he ever paid all honour.
Now what shall we say in this case but that even into the cots of the
poor the heavens let fall at times spirits divine, as into the palaces of
kings souls that are fitter to tend hogs than to exercise lordship over
men? Who but Griselda had been able, with a countenance not only
tearless, but cheerful, to endure the hard and unheard-of trials to which
Gualtieri subjected her? Who perhaps might have deemed himself to
have made no bad investment, had he chanced upon one, who, having

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been turned out of his house in her shift, had found means so to dust
the pelisse of another as to get herself thereby a fine robe.
So ended Dioneo’s story, whereof the ladies, diversely inclining, one
to censure where another found matter for commendation, had
discoursed not a little, when the king, having glanced at the sky, and
marked that the sun was now low, insomuch that ‛twas nigh the vesper
hour, still keeping his seat, thus began:—‟Exquisite my ladies, as,
methinks, you wot, ‛tis not only in minding them of the past and
apprehending the present that the wit of mortals consists; but by one
means or the other to be able to foresee the future is by the sages
accounted the height of wisdom. Now, to-morrow, as you know, ‛twill be
fifteen days since, in quest of recreation and for the conservation of our
health and life, we, shunning the dismal and dolorous and afflicting
spectacles that have ceased not in our city since this season of pestilence
began, took our departure from Florence. Wherein, to my thinking, we
have done nought that was not seemly; for, if I have duly used my powers
of observation, albeit some gay stories, and of a kind to stimulate
concupiscence, have here been told, and we have daily known no lack of
dainty dishes and good wine, nor yet of music and song, things, one and
all, apt to incite weak minds to that which is not seemly, neither on your
part, nor on ours, have I marked deed or word, or aught of any kind, that
called for reprehension; but, by what I have seen and heard, seemliness
and the sweet intimacy of brothers and sisters have ever reigned among
us. Which, assuredly, for the honour and advantage which you and I
have had thereof, is most grateful to me. Wherefore, lest too long
continuance in this way of life might beget some occasion of weariness,
and that no man may be able to misconstrue our too long abidance here,
and as we have all of us had our day’s share of the honour which still
remains in me, I should deem it meet, so you be of like mind, that we
now go back whence we came: and that the rather that our company, the
bruit whereof has already reached divers others that are in our

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neighbourhood, might be so increased that all our pleasure would be

destroyed. And so, if my counsel meet with your approval, I will keep the
crown I have received of you until our departure, which, I purpose, shall
be tomorrow morning. Should you decide otherwise, I have already
determined whom to crown for the ensuing day.”
Much debate ensued among the ladies and young men; but in the
end they approved the king’s proposal as expedient and seemly; and
resolved to do even as he had said. The king therefore summoned the
seneschal; and having conferred with him of the order he was to observe
on the morrow, he dismissed the company until supper-time. So, the
king being risen, the ladies and the rest likewise rose, and betook them,
as they were wont, to their several diversions. Supper-time being come,
they supped with exceeding great delight. Which done, they addressed
them to song and music and dancing; and, while Lauretta was leading a
dance, the king bade Fiammetta give them a song; whereupon
Fiammetta right debonairly sang on this wise:—
So came but Love, and brought no jealousy,
So blithe, I wot, as I,
Dame were there none, be she whoe’er she be.

If youth’s fresh, lusty pride

May lady of her lover well content,
Or valour’s just renown,
Hardihood, prowess tried,
Wit, noble mien, discourse most excellent,
And of all grace the crown;
That she am I, who, fain for love to swoun,
There where my hope doth lie
These several virtues all conjoined do see.

But, for that I less wise

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Than me no whit do other dames discern,

Trembling with sore dismay,
I still the worst surmise,
Deeming their hearts with the same flame to burn
That of mine maketh prey:
Wherefore of him that is my hope’s one stay
Disconsolate I sigh,
Yea mightily, and daily do me dree.

If but my lord as true

As worthy to be loved I might approve,
I were not jealous then:
But, for that charmer new
Doth all too often gallant lure to love,
Forsworn I hold all men,
And sick at heart I am, of death full fain;
Nor lady doth him eye,
But I do quake, lest she him wrest from me.

‛Fore God, then, let each she

List to my prayer, nor e’er in my despite
Such grievous wrong essay;
For should there any be
That by or speech or mien’s allurements light
Of him to rob me may
Study or plot, I, witting, shall find way,
My beauty it aby!
To cause her sore lament such frenesie.
As soon as Fiammetta had ended her song, Dioneo, who was beside
her, said with a laugh:—‟Madam, ‛twould be a great courtesy on your
part to do all ladies to wit, who he is, that he be not stolen from you in

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ignorance, seeing that you threaten such dire resentment.” Several other
songs followed; and it being then nigh upon midnight, all, as the king
was pleased to order, betook them to rest. With the first light of the new
day they rose, and, the seneschal having already conveyed thence all
their chattels, they, following the lead of their discreet king, hied them
back to Florence; and in Santa Maria Novella, whence they had set forth,
the three young men took leave of the seven ladies, and departed to find
other diversions elsewhere, while the ladies in due time repaired to their
homes.

THE AUTHOR’S EPILOGUE.

Most noble damsels, for whose solace I addressed me to this long and
toilsome task, meseems that, aided by the Divine grace, the bestowal
whereof I impute to the efficacy of your pious prayers, and in no wise to
merits of mine, I have now brought this work to the full and perfect
consummation which in the outset thereof I promised you. Wherefore,
it but remains for me to render, first to God, and then to you, my thanks,
and so to give a rest to my pen and weary hand. But this I purpose not to
allow them, until, briefly, as to questions tacitly mooted—for well
assured I am that these stories have no especial privilege above any
others, nay, I forget not that at the beginning of the Fourth Day I have
made the same plain—I shall have answered certain trifling objections
that one of you, maybe, or some other, might advance. Peradventure,
then, some of you will be found to say that I have used excessive license
in the writing of these stories, in that I have caused ladies at times to tell,
and oftentimes to list, matters that, whether to tell or to list, do not well
beseem virtuous women. The which I deny, for that there is none of
these stories so unseemly, but that it may without offence be told by any
one, if but seemly words be used; which rule, methinks, has here been
very well observed. But assume we that ‛tis even so (for with you I am not

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minded to engage in argument, witting that you would vanquish me),

then, I say that for answer why I have so done, reasons many come very
readily to hand. In the first place, if aught of the kind in any of these
stories there be, ‛twas but such as was demanded by the character of the
stories, which let but any person of sound judgment scan with the eye of
reason, and ‛twill be abundantly manifest that, unless I had been
minded to deform them, they could not have been otherwise recounted.
And if, perchance, they do, after all, contain here and there a trifling
indiscretion of speech, such as might ill sort with one of your precious
prudes, who weigh words rather than deeds, and are more concerned to
appear, than to be, good, I say that so to write was as permissible to me,
as ‛tis to men and women at large in their converse to make use of such
terms as hole, and pin, and mortar, and pestle, and sausage, and polony,
and plenty more besides of a like sort. And therewithal privilege no less
should be allowed to my pen than to the pencil of the painter, who
without incurring any, or at least any just, censure, not only will depict
St. Michael smiting the serpent, or St. George the dragon, with sword or
lance at his discretion; but male he paints us Christ, and female Eve, and
His feet that for the salvation of our race willed to die upon the cross he
fastens thereto, now with one, now with two nails.
Moreover, ‛tis patent to all that ‛twas not in the Church, of matters
whereto pertaining ‛tis meet we speak with all purity of heart and
seemliness of phrase, albeit among her histories there are to be found
not a few that will ill compare with my writings; nor yet in the schools of
the philosophers, where, as much as anywhere, seemliness is demanded,
nor in any place where clergy or philosophers congregate, but in
gardens, in pleasaunces, and among folk, young indeed, but not so
young as to be seducible by stories, and at a time when, if so one might
save one’s life, the most sedate might without disgrace walk abroad with
his breeches for headgear, that these stories were told. Which stories,
such as they are, may, like all things else, be baneful or profitable

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according to the quality of the hearer. Who knows not that wine is, as
Cinciglione and Scolaio101 and many another aver, an excellent thing for
the living creature, and yet noxious to the fevered patient? Are we, for
the mischief it does to the fever-stricken, to say that ‛tis a bad thing?
Who knows not that fire is most serviceable, nay, necessary, to mortals?
Are we to say that, because it burns houses and villages and cities, it is a
bad thing? Arms, in like manner, are the safeguard of those that desire
to live in peace, and also by them are men not seldom maliciously slain,
albeit the malice is not in them, but in those that use them for a
malicious purpose. Corrupt mind did never yet understand any word in
a wholesome sense; and as such a mind has no profit of seemly words, so
such as are scarce seemly may as little avail to contaminate a healthy
mind as mud the radiance of the sun, or the deformities of earth the
splendours of the heavens. What books, what words, what letters, are
more sacred, more excellent, more venerable, than those of Holy Writ?
And yet there have been not a few that, perversely construing them,
have brought themselves and others to perdition. Everything is in itself
good for somewhat, and being put to a bad purpose, may work manifold
mischief. And so, I say, it is with my stories. If any man shall be minded
to draw from them matters of evil tendency or consequence, they will
not gainsay him, if, perchance, such matters there be in them, nor will
such matters fail to be found in them, if they be wrested and distorted.
Nor, if any shall seek profit and reward in them, will they deny him the
same; and censured or accounted as less than profitable and seemly they
can never be, if the times or the persons when and by whom they are
read be such as when they were recounted. If any lady must needs say
paternosters or make cakes or tarts for her holy father, let her leave them
alone; there is none after whom they will run a begging to be read:
howbeit, there are little matters that even the beguines tell, ay, and do,
now and again.
101 Noted topers of the day.

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In like manner there will be some who will say that there are stories
here which ‛twere better far had been omitted. Granted; but ‛twas
neither in my power, nor did it behove me, to write any but such stories
as were narrated; wherefore, ‛twas for those by whom they were told to
have a care that they were proper; in which case they would have been
no less so as I wrote them. But, assuming that I not only wrote but
invented the stories, as I did not, I say that I should take no shame to
myself that they were not all proper; seeing that artist there is none to be
found, save God, that does all things well and perfectly. And
Charlemagne, albeit he created the Paladins, wist not how to make them
in such numbers as to form an army of them alone. It must needs be that
in the multitude of things there be found diversities of quality. No field
was ever so well tilled but that here and there nettle, or thistle, or brier
would be found in it amid the goodlier growths. Whereto I may add
that, having to address me to young and unlearned ladies, as you for the
most part are, I should have done foolishly, had I gone about searching
and swinking to find matters very exquisite, and been sedulous to speak
with great precision. However, whoso goes a reading among these
stories, let him pass over those that vex him, and read those that please
him. That none may be misled, each bears on its brow the epitome of
that which it hides within its bosom.
Again, I doubt not there will be such as will say that some of the
stories are too long. To whom, once more, I answer, that whoso has
aught else to do would be foolish to read them, albeit they were short.
And though, now that I approach the end of my labours, ‛tis long since I
began to write, I am not, therefore, oblivious that ‛twas to none but
leisured ladies that I made proffer of my pains; nor can aught be long to
him that reads but to pass the time, so only he thereby accomplish his
purpose. Succinctness were rather to be desired by students, who are at
pains not merely to pass, but usefully to employ, their time, than by you,
who have as much time at your disposal as you spend not in amorous

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delights. Besides which, as none of you goes either to Athens, or to

Bologna, or to Paris to study, ‛tis meet that what is meant for you should
be more diffuse than what is to be read by those whose minds have been
refined by scholarly pursuits.
Nor make I any doubt but there are yet others who will say that the
said stories are too full of jests and merry conceits, and that it ill
beseems a man of weight and gravity to have written on such wise. To
these I am bound to render, and do render, my thanks, for that,
prompted by well-meant zeal, they have so tender a regard to my
reputation. But to that, which they urge against me, I reply after this
sort:—That I am of weight I acknowledge, having been often weighed in
my time; wherefore, in answer to the fair that have not weighed me, I
affirm that I am not of gravity; on the contrary I am so light that I float
on the surface of the water; and considering that the sermons which the
friars make, when they would chide folk for their sins, are to-day, for the
most part, full of jests and merry conceits, and drolleries, I deemed that
the like stuff would not ill beseem my stories, written, as they were, to
banish women’s dumps. However, if thereby they should laugh too
much, they may be readily cured thereof by the Lament of Jeremiah, the
Passion of the Saviour, or the Complaint of the Magdalen.
And who shall question but that yet others there are who will say that
I have an evil tongue and venomous, because here and there I tell the
truth about the friars? Now for them that so say there is forgiveness, for
that ‛tis not to be believed but that they have just cause; seeing that the
friars are good folk, and eschew hardship for the love of God, and grind
intermittently, and never blab; and, were they not all a trifle
malodorous, intercourse with them would be much more agreeable.
Nevertheless, I acknowledge that the things of this world have no
stability, but are ever undergoing change; and this may have befallen my
tongue, albeit, no great while ago, one of my fair neighbours—for in
what pertains to myself I trust not my own judgment, but forgo it to the

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best of my power—told me ‛twas the goodliest and sweetest tongue in

the world; and in sooth, when this occurred, few of the said stories were
yet to write; nor, for that those who so tax me do it despitefully, am I
minded to vouchsafe them any further answer.
So, then, be every lady at liberty to say and believe whatever she may
think fit: but ‛tis now time for me to bring these remarks to a close, with
humble thanks to Him, by whose help and guidance I, after so long
travail, have been brought to the desired goal. And may you, sweet my
ladies, rest ever in His grace and peace; and be not unmindful of me, if,
peradventure, any of you may, in any measure, have been profited by
reading these stories.
— Endeth here the tenth and last day of the book called
Decameron, otherwise Prince Galeotto. —

THE END.

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